Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  “Open fire,” he replied.

  Bowen’s sights settled on a man and without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger. His rifle bucked and the sight picture jumped, but when Bowen worked the bolt and brought the scope back down, his man was on the ground, unmoving. A second later, Marie’s rifle cracked and another German jerked and spun about, dropping face-first into the street.

  For the next few seconds, Bowen and Marie fired as fast as they acquired targets. Several other Germans ran out of the hotel or used the doorway for cover, firing at the Blitz as it raced down the street in their direction. The Germans didn’t seem to realize they were under sniper fire, instead attributing their casualties to the hail of lead coming from the back of the fleeing Blitz.

  “They’re getting close,” Johnson said over the sound of the snipers’ gunfire. “We need to get moving, Rhys.”

  Bowen fired a last shot, winging a German about to take aim with his Mauser rifle. He scooted back on his stomach for a few inches, then stood and brushed the dust off himself.

  “All right then, downstairs on the double!”

  They snatched up what few possessions they’d brought into the apartment building and quickly descended the back stairwell, exiting into the narrow alleyway they’d come from. Bowen edged to the corner of the building and looked out towards the direction of the hotel, rifle at the ready.

  The Blitz was nearly at the intersection. Bowen was just about to signal the rest of his team to move into the street, when suddenly he heard a shout in German. A five-man patrol emerged from a side street and formed up in the intersection. Bowen watched as their section leader put up his hands, signalling that the vehicle halt, but the driver refused to stop, and a figure leaned out the passenger door firing an automatic weapon. Bullets whined and cracked off the pavement, glancing from the nearby buildings, and one of the men cried out, falling to the ground clutching his leg. The rest of the patrol leveled their weapons and opened fire on the vehicle bearing down on them.

  Johnson peered around Bowen and into the street. “Blimey, that’s not good at all.”

  Bowen could only nod as the fusillade shattered the lorry’s windshield. The vehicle lurched to the left, then to the right, careening past the patrol. With a great cacophony of noise it plowed straight into the corner of a building, directly across the street from where Bowen and the others were hiding. Bricks and mortar flew through the air, and the Blitz shuddered and twisted from the impact, its momentum causing it to roll to the left, out into the street.

  Johnson gripped Bowen’s shoulder. “Corporal, those are our lads...”

  Bowen shook his head as he watched the Germans approach the wreck, weapons raised. Bowen saw one man crawl out of the shattered windshield of the cab on his hands and knees, but in the dim light he couldn’t make out who it was. One of the Germans stepped up and reversed his rifle, bringing the butt of his Mauser down on the man’s back and knocking him flat into the street. The section leader gestured into the cargo bed with the muzzle of his machine pistol, and two men slung their rifles while a third man covered them. The two ducked into the back of the overturned vehicle, and soon emerged dragging a second passenger between them. Shortly thereafter, another man was dragged from the cab of the lorry, his body handled in such a way that Bowen thought the man must be dead.

  Bowen felt another hand touch his shoulder. He turned and looked at Marie.

  “Did you see, if any of the men...?” she asked.

  Bowen shook his head. “Sorry miss, can’t tell if any of them is René. But the plan was for him to stick with Bouchard, and I don’t see him, so I think your man escaped.”

  He saw the relief flash across her face, before she carefully concealed her expression, realizing that although Chenot had escaped capture or death, three of the Commandos hadn’t been so lucky.

  “What are we to do now?” Marie asked.

  Bowen gave one final glance around the corner of the building. He saw a number of figures running down the street towards them, coming from the direction of the Hotel, and the growl of a diesel engine reached his ears.

  “I think we’d best go back upstairs and hide, miss. We’re not leaving Calais any time soon.”

  Chapter 12

  The Outskirts Of Calais

  0500 Hours

  The Feldwebel in charge of the roadblock leading into Calais from the southwest replaced the handset of the field-telephone in the makeshift guard’s shack and stepped outside. He checked that a pair of Stielhandgranaten were securely tucked into his web belt, and that the bolt of his MP-38 was drawn back, the breech clear of obstructions, the magazine locked in tight.

  “Was that about the gunfire we’ve been hearing?” his Gefreiter asked.

  “Ja. A firefight at the SS headquarters. There might be vehicles trying to get out of the city. We’re to stop them.”

  The Gefreiter nodded. “Your orders?”

  The German sergeant looked over his command. “Wheel the anti-tank gun into the road and get it ready. Then, get that machine gun turned around. If we stop a vehicle, I want to be able to hose it down with-”

  The two men suddenly stopped and turned, looking in the direction of the city. The sounds of engines straining with speed reached their ears, and two pairs of slitted headlights were bobbing down the road towards their position.

  The Feldwebel pointed at the Pak 36 anti-tank gun and gestured frantically down the road towards the oncoming vehicles. “Mach schnell! Mach schnell!”

  The gun crew reached for their cannon, and died where they stood. A stream of .303 calibre slugs lashed at them from the pre-dawn darkness, shredding the three men in as many heartbeats. The German sergeant whirled around, the machine pistol in his hands coming up, his eyes searching for a target. He saw the tongue of flame shooting from the muzzle of the machine gun killing his men, but before he could fire, there was a tremendous blow to the small of his back, and the next thing he knew, his face was digging into the gravel of the roadbed.

  All around him, there were the sounds of rifle shots, the crack of an exploding grenade, and the cries of dying men. The Feldwebel tried to move, but found his legs uncooperative. His hands searched the ground around him and closed on the wire stock of his MP-38, but before he could drag it towards him, he felt a booted foot kick the weapon away. He let out a curse and began to drag himself towards the weapon, but a hand grabbed the shoulder of his tunic and flipped him over onto his back.

  The German looked up at a dim figure standing over him, a broad-shouldered giant of a man in the khaki of a British Tommy. In one hand the man carried an American-made machine pistol. The other hand drew a large, heavy-barreled revolver from its holster.

  “Sorry Fritz, we cannae take prisoners tonight,” the man said.

  The muzzle of the revolver grew larger and larger, seemingly blocking out the stars. There was a double click as the hammer drew back, and then...

  Sergeant Dougal McTeague dragged the top of his foot across the trouser leg of the dead German. A spatter of gore had flicked across his boot, and they were hard enough to keep polished without getting blood and brains out of the leather. There was another pistol shot, and then a third, as a couple of the other Commandos finished off wounded Germans. Although their comrades may have found them before their wounds became fatal, McTeague and his men weren’t feeling particularly charitable that night.

  Holstering his Webley and slinging his Thompson, McTeague saw Harris and Miller emerge from the darkness, the taller man carrying his Bren gun at the ready, his diminutive loader following at the double, like a terrier at the heels of his master. McTeague chuckled despite himself. Both of the lads were good soldiers, and despite the comical aspect of their partnership, they’d become a well-oiled machine, capable of getting the best possible use out of the squad’s light machine gun. The duo passed him and set up the Bren to cover the road to the north, towards Calais.

  McTeague ran over to the checkpoint’s roadblock and gestured for Lance Corp
oral White to give him a hand pushing the barrier out of the way. The squad’s signals expert holstered his Colt automatic and with McTeague’s assistance, they quickly rolled the contraption away from the road just as the Kübelwagen slewed to a halt next to them in a spray of gravel. Corporal Nelson stuck his head out the window.

  “Best we leg it, Sergeant! The Jerries are after us!”

  “Aye, you idiot, we could hear it from here. What happened?”

  Nelson shook his head. “Bloody bad bit of luck. Soddin’ Jerries were up and about before any respectable man should be out of bed. Then it got loud.”

  “You mean,” Hall said from the driver’s seat, “you started shooting.”

  “Well I didn’t have much of a bleedin’ choice now, did I?” Nelson retorted.

  “Both of you! Shut your gobs! Now, where’s the Lieutenant?”

  “Lieutenant Price and Tommy were in the second lorry with Pritchard,” Nelson replied.

  McTeague looked back up the road. There was no sign of a third vehicle approaching the roadblock.

  “How far behind were they?” he asked.

  Nelson shook his head. “Shouldn’t have been more than a few seconds at the most.”

  McTeague turned to Harris and Miller, setting up the Bren along the road. “Get yourself and the other lads aboard the lorry. Grab any grenades and let’s see if we can’t make off with that MG-34, it might come in handy.”

  “Yes Sergeant,” Harris replied, “but what about the others? They were supposed to pick up Rhys and his lot.”

  “We cannae afford to wait forever,” McTeague replied. “Get aboard that lorry. Perhaps they’re just running late. Nelson?”

  “Sergeant?” the Commando replied.

  “Out of the car with you. I need something to delay the Jerries when, not if, they follow us. And make it quick.”

  Nelson gave McTeague a quick salute as he climbed from the Kübelwagen. “Happy to oblige, Sergeant!”

  There was the growl of an approaching heavy vehicle from down the road, and the Commandos turned, expecting to see the dimly-lit shape of a canvas-topped Opel Blitz. Instead, they saw the angular, predatory outline of an SdKfz 222 four-wheeled armoured car bearing down on them.

  “Shite! Nelson, White, with me! The rest of you lot, get on that lorry and get off the road!”

  McTeague and the two other men ran to the 37mm anti-tank gun and began to move it from its sandbagged position. Without any prompting, Nelson grabbed a crate containing several shells while McTeague and White put their backs into maneuvering the gun around to face back down the road.

  “Anyone know how to fire this bloody monster?” McTeague asked.

  “I’ll take a crack at it!” Nelson replied. He fiddled with the breech block for a moment before he got it open, then he slammed home a 37mm shell, closed the block, locked it and peered into the weapon’s sight.

  “Shift me slightly to the right!” he said.

  The other two Commandos grunted with effort as they pulled the trail of the gun around a few inches. Looking through the weapon’s sight, Nelson saw the turret of the armoured car swivel slightly.

  “Take cover!” he shouted.

  A hail of 7.92mm slugs raked across the road, several of them clanging from the cannon’s gun shield. The other Commandos scattered, diving behind whatever shelter they could find, but Nelson hunkered down behind the weapon’s armour plating. The machine gun fire stopped, and Nelson was about to raise his head, when there was a series of slower, far more powerful reports, and a foot from Nelson’s face, a fist-size hole suddenly appeared in the gun’s shield, and several tiny fragments of shattered steel plate left bloody streaks across his features. The car was firing its 20mm cannon, and another shot tore through the gun’s left wheel, ripping away a foot-long strip of rubber. Several shells struck the roadbed nearby, blasting craters in the gravel surface as big as melons. Despite the lethal barrage, Nelson held his fire for several long, anxious seconds until he was sure the car was squarely in his sights.

  “Fire in the hole!” he shouted, and triggered the gun.

  Luck was with Corporal Nelson at that moment, because his first shot with a German anti-tank gun also resulted in his first armoured car kill. The 37mm armour-piercing shell impacted on the turret collar and tore through it, killing the car’s commander in a horrifyingly spectacular manner and jamming the mechanism that rotated the car’s turret. Without waiting to see what happened next, Nelson hefted another 37mm shell, rammed it home in the gun’s breech, closed the block, sighted the weapon, and fired.

  This time, the shot was lower, and although the car’s hull was sloped to provide more protection from incoming fire, the shell struck a handhold, the angle just perpendicular enough to prevent a ricochet. The shot punched through the hull and crossed through the crew compartment, miraculously avoiding the radio operator but destroying his equipment. The shell also blasted through the engine compartment and did considerable damage to the car’s fuel lines. A few seconds after the shell’s impact, flames began to lick out of the back of the car, and the vehicle rolled to a stop as the driver and the radio operator bailed out, only to be cut down by bursts of Bren fire as Harris put his weapon to good use, firing from the back of the Blitz.

  “Nicely done, Corporal!” McTeague shouted, tossing Nelson a German stick grenade. “Now, spike that gun and rig your present for the next set of Fritzes, and let’s get moving.”

  Nelson gave a worried glance back down the road, past the burning car. “What about the others? Can’t we wait a little while longer?”

  McTeague followed Nelson’s gaze, then he turned and looked his corporal in the eye. “I’m sorry lad, but they’re not bloody coming. Now move.”

  Chapter 13

  Hotel Du Chevalier

  0600 Hours

  “How many of my men are dead?”

  “Fourteen, and five wounded,” Faust’s adjutant replied. “The Wehrmacht lost eight men at the roadblock, plus the three man crew in the armoured car, and the one man wounded in the patrol.”

  “And not a single enemy casualty?” Faust asked.

  “Nein. At least as far as we can tell. The other vehicles made a clean getaway.”

  Faust stood in the lobby of the Hotel du Chevalier amid the aftermath of this morning’s catastrophe. A line of blanket-wrapped corpses was arrayed along one wall, while a makeshift field hospital was set up on the other side of the lobby. As each corpse was examined, and notes about their injuries jotted down for the record of their deaths, the bodies were carried outside and laid along the side of the road in front of the hotel. With each dead soldier carried out, Faust became more and more enraged.

  Fighting to remain calm, he turned back to his adjutant, Hauptsturmführer Ritter. One of the glorious breed of young, dedicated, capable, and utterly ruthless men who’d led the Third Reich forward to victory after victory in the last two years, Ritter was the perfect SS field officer. Tall and handsome, with blond hair, blue eyes, and good bone structure – the sort of face destined for a political campaign poster after the war was over. His combat skills were without peer and his ability to remain calm and collected under fire, ordering his men with an air of assuredness and professionalism, brought out the best in soldiers. His men understood at some unspoken level that Ritter was there fighting with them, caring for their lives even as he spent them in battle, and they trusted him as he trusted them to do their duty. Faust knew without a shadow of a doubt that it would be men like Ritter who would carry on the glorious deeds of this revitalized Germany when Faust and his generation were dead.

  But as he watched other brave, capable young men carried out of the building wrapped in blood-soaked blankets, Faust felt his anger return, icy cold and sharp as a razor blade.

  “Where are the prisoners now?” he asked Ritter.

  “We’ve taken them to the basement. There’s an unused storage room down there, with a water spigot and a drain,” Ritter replied, adding the last two details
with the prisoners’ eventual fate in mind.

  Faust nodded and looked at his watch. “I shall see them now.”

  The two officers, accompanied by Klaus and Dieter, left the hotel lobby and strode into the back of the hotel. There they entered the service staircase, and proceeded into the basement. The lighting was much scarcer down here, and the stonework was cold and clammy with moisture. They walked down a short hallway, turned, and continued down another passage for a few metres. A pair of SS guards stood in full combat kit, machine pistols at the ready. Both men saluted Faust and Ritter as they came around the corner.

  “Open it,” Faust ordered.

  One of the men produced a key and opened the room. Inside, three unconscious men sat bound in wooden chairs, forming a shallow V in the center of the room. Everything else had been cleared out, but there was a drain in the middle of the floor, and over in one corner a water pipe ended in a spigot. A rusty bucket filled with water sat next to the spigot, which dripped slowly onto the stone floor. A zig-zagging channel of water was making its way from the corner of the room towards the drain. The room’s only illumination came from a single electric bulb suspended from a cord in the center of the room. In Faust’s mind, the room would do very nicely for what he had in mind.

  Faust gestured towards the bucket. “Wake them up,” he said.

  Dieter slung his weapon and picked up the bucket. One by one, he sloshed cold water over each man’s head, causing them to jerk awake, sputtering. The last man to come to, a few years younger than the others, had been the driver. A bullet had clipped the top of his shoulder when the Wehrmacht patrol fired on the Blitz, and he’d taken some hard knocks when it crashed. The man was bandaged and pumped full of painkillers, and he lolled his head from side the side and let out a groan. One of Faust’s field medics had told him the young man suffered several broken ribs and a fractured collarbone. In addition to his more obvious wounds, he might have sustained internal injuries as well. At the time, Faust had simply shrugged. The man’s condition did not concern him.