Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  “Why you lil’ bastard...” Nelson’s fists came up and he took a step forward, only to find the much larger profile of McTeague blocking his path.

  “That’s bloody well enough! We’re about to step into Hell and save our mates. Both of you let it be, or I’ll give you two the drubbing of your lives.”

  Nelson and McTeague stood toe to toe for a long moment, each man tensed and ready to unleash violence with their bare hands. While the Scotsman was clearly the larger of the two men, and a formidable pugilist, Nelson was no weakling, easily the second strongest man in the unit, with a nasty reputation for fighting dirty.

  Finally the moment passed, and Nelson seemed to deflate just a little. With a grunt and a nod, he took half a step back. “No worries. Sergeant. Just a bit of nerves. I’ll double check me charges and fuses, make sure we’re ready to make some fireworks.”

  “Good lad. Everyone is on edge, Harry. We just need to point it at the bloody Germans.” McTeague gave Nelson a friendly punch in the shoulder, a blow that would have knocked a smaller man sprawling. Nelson returned to his gear, wiping the edge of his sleeve across his damp forehead. The exertion of stalking through the city for several hours was causing his leg considerable pain, and he knew the night’s work was just beginning.

  The men took a few minutes to check their gear and prepare their weapons. Needing all the ordnance they could carry, the Commandos brought along some of the partisan’s cache of weapons and munitions, most of it captured from the Germans. Instead of the Bren gun, Harris and Miller brought with them the MG-34 machine gun taken from the roadblock, along with a spare barrel and several belts of ammunition carried in 75-round belt drums. Not wanting to give up its firepower, McTeague took over the Bren, stuffing his ammunition pouches and his backpack with its 30-round magazines. Thatcher served as McTeague’s loader, carrying the “wallet” for the Bren, as well as a spare barrel and even more magazines.

  In turn, McTeague had given his Thompson and its magazines to Thatcher, and Miller carried Lynch’s own Thompson, left inside the Kübelwagen last night. Chenot carried his Erma machine pistol, while Édouard carried an MP-38. The young Frenchman knew almost nothing of how to use the weapon, but he was instructed to stick with Chenot and do exactly as he was told, which mostly involved keeping out of the Commandos’ way and behind cover. Bowen, Johnson, and Marie were the only members of the party to carry bolt-action rifles, but their job was still to only engage the Germans at a distance, to provide covering fire while the assault party moved into and out of the objective.

  Their kit inspection completed, everyone was about to get two hours’ rest when the sound of a dim, muffled explosion reached them from the direction of the hotel.

  “That was...” Bowen said.

  “A bleedin’ stick grenade,” Nelson replied. “There’s only one reason for that.”

  The two men nodded to each other, all animosity forgotten.

  “They’re making a break for it!” Bowen exclaimed.

  McTeague reached down, picked up the Bren by its carrying handle, and began striding towards the apartment’s door. He looked back over his shoulder.

  “Whenever you ladies are ready, let’s go slaughter some bloody Huns.”

  Chapter 20

  The Ruins Of Calais

  0030 Hours

  Lynch and Price rounded the corner of the alley and saw a pair of SS sentries standing thirty feet away. Just then, the unmistakable crump of the grenade going off within the hotel came from behind them, and the two sentries spun around, only to see another pair of Germans running towards them.

  “Was war das?” one of them shouted at the newcomers.

  The answer was a double-burst of machine pistol fire, tearing into the sentries and knocking them off their feet. Lynch ran up to the still-twitching men lying on the ground and drew his German combat knife, using the blade to slash through the tough straps of the Germans’ web gear as he relieved them of their ammunition and grenades.

  “Come on, they’ll be onto us any second!” Price exclaimed.

  “We’ll need every bloody bullet if we’re to get out of the city,” Lynch muttered, throwing Price one set of web gear while he hung the second set around his shoulders. One of the Germans had carried an MP-40, while the other had a Kar 98K. Price picked the rifle up and slung it over his shoulder along with its ammunition pouches

  The two men peered around the corner of the alley. In the dim moonlight, they could see another pair of Germans running in their direction, coming from a roadblock a hundred metres away. Lynch took a knee and brought up his MP-40, sighting down the weapon and tucking the stock into his shoulder. He fired a half dozen aimed shots, and was rewarded with cries of pain as the two men tumbled to the ground.

  The two Commandos crossed the street at a crouch, but there was a shout from the end of the block, and rifle fire began to snap bullets in their direction. Price dropped prone and fired a couple of short bursts, hoping to keep the Germans’ heads down. Lynch glanced back down the other end of the street.

  “If we keep moving this way, we’ll soon lose all sense of where to go. We need to shift in that direction,” he said, gesturing east towards where the German roadblock was set up.

  “Then let’s not waste any more time deliberating,” Price replied, getting to his feet.

  They ran in a crouch, hugging the shadows of the building next to them. The Germans kept up a steady stream of rifle fire, but in the darkness, they couldn’t clearly see where the British were, and all their shots went wide. Rather than return fire and give away their position, Price and Lynch kept low and out of sight, bounding forward a few feet at a time, one after the other.

  Roughly fifty feet from the German roadblock, Price and Lynch prepared to charge the position. Suddenly, a great fusillade of fire erupted from their right, out of sight and further up the block, coming down from the intersecting street. The two remaining soldiers manning the roadblock were cut down in an instant. Lynch and Price looked at each other, dumbfounded for a moment, before they heard the pounding of feet and voices shouting to each other in English.

  The two men looked at each other. “No, it can’t be...?” Price said.

  “Onward, you lazy bastards!” The voice of Sergeant McTeague was unmistakable.

  Lynch stifled a laugh and the two men began jogging towards the intersection, hoping to link up with the rest of the Commandos. Peering around the corner of the building, the two men saw a group of shadowy figures running up the opposite side of the street.

  “Teapot!” Lynch called out from the corner.

  The running figures came to a halt, and Lynch cringed back and took cover, fearing a reflexive shot from one of his friends seeing a German helmet and weapon silhouetted in the moonlight. A couple of tense seconds passed.

  “Milk Bottle!” came the reply.

  “We’re coming across, hold your bloody fire!” Lynch called out.

  Running at a crouch, Lynch and Price crossed the street, where they were welcomed with broad grins and hearty slaps on the back from their comrades. McTeague looked at the two of them, and an expression of concern crossed his features.

  “Pritchard?” he asked Price.

  The lieutenant shook his head. “He didn’t make it.”

  McTeague grunted. “Can you two move quickly?” he asked, seeing the battered faces of both men.

  Lynch and Price nodded. They were bruised and sore, but the prospect of freedom had given them both a powerful surge of energy.

  “Well Lieutenant,” the Scotsman said, “let’s get the hell out of Calais.”

  The sentiment wasn’t a moment too soon. Shouts and running could be heard coming from the direction of the hotel. The SS were mobilizing, pouring out of the building like angry wasps emerging from their nest. Hidden in the shadows, the Commandos weren’t seen yet, but it was only a matter of seconds before that would change.

  “All right Nelson,” Price said. “Slow them down with something from your ba
g of tricks. Sergeant McTeague, you’re leading the MG section, I’ll take the rest. We’ll fall back block by block, displacing by sections while laying down cover fire.”

  Nelson unslung a large canvas pouch from his shoulder and flipped away the cover. Inside, there were a number of metal cylinders, looking like canned foodstuffs. Opening one of them, he removed a glass-bodied M76 incendiary grenade. The weapon had been originally designed for use by the Home Guard against German armour, but after hearing of the grenade’s capabilities, Nelson had “acquired” a few before going on this mission. The grenades’ combination of smoke and incendiary effects would serve them well tonight.

  Price signalled the rest of the men, and McTeague, Miller, Thatcher, and Harris fell back at a run, while the rest took a knee and waited behind what cover they could find. They all knew every second that passed before the Germans opened fire let the machine gun section gain more distance and time to set up and cover their retreat.

  All too quickly there was a shout, as the first SS reached the roadblock and discovered their dead comrades. Seconds later shots rang out, as the SS guessed the direction of the attackers. Soon, rifle and machine pistol slugs were cracking through the air around them, glancing and skipping off the street and the sides of buildings.

  Not missing a beat, Bowen, Johnson, and Marie began to fire, dropping the first few SS by aiming at their muzzle flashes. Price, Lynch, Nelson, Édouard and Chenot, armed with submachine guns, held their fire, knowing how quickly they’d burn through ammunition and wanting to catch the Germans a little closer.

  A shout from McTeague announced the MG section’s readiness, and Price signalled for his section to displace. Everyone began running to the south, and after the first dozen feet, Nelson turned and hurled the grenade behind him, the glass missile exploding in a gout of flame, spreading petrol ignited by the burning phosphorous and creating a wall of smoke. In the dark city street, the smoke cloud completely obscured the Commandos from the encroaching SS.

  Still, hidden or not, they were taking fire. The retreating section ran up one side of the street, keeping the middle clear. The MG teams had set up prone on the opposite side, and McTeague fired off two magazines in a series of short, sweeping bursts, while the MG-34 ripped through a 75-round drum in a similar manner, running dry seconds before Price’s section reached their position.

  “Go!” Price yelled at them, and the MG teams snatched up their weapons and began to sprint down the street. Turning, Price and the others saw the first of the SS break through the grenade’s smoke cloud.

  “Cut them down!” Price shouted.

  Everyone got into cover and began firing. Thompsons and German machine pistols rattled out measured three-round bursts, while the rifles cracked again and again. But the SS, despite suffering casualties, never slowed. The well-trained and incredibly disciplined German infantry bounded forward as well, taking cover in doorways and behind brick steps to fire up the street while their comrades sprinted forward low and fast, and the process repeated every dozen metres or so.

  “A right lot of stone-cold bastards!” Nelson hollered over the sound of his roaring Thompson.

  “They’ll die from a bullet like any man,” Lynch replied, swapping out magazines.

  There was another holler from McTeague, and the machine guns began firing again, covering the rest of the squad’s retreat. As they sprinted through the intersection at the end of the block a bullet ricocheted off the street a few feet in front of Lynch. He realized it came from the street to his left, and turning, he saw a squad of infantry running towards them at the double.

  “Bloody hell!” he yelled, turning and burning through half of his weapon’s 32-round magazine. A few of the Germans ducked and scattered, but they kept coming on.

  “We’re going to draw every sodding Jerry in Calais!” Nelson shouted.

  “There’s no helping it,” Price gasped, already beginning to feel winded. “We just need to keep going and hope to lose them!”

  They reached the MG teams and Lynch warned McTeague to be wary of German patrols flanking them from the side streets. The Scotsman nodded and heaved up his Bren.

  “C’mon, Harris! Let’s move!” he growled.

  Harris stood and reached for the MG-34, only to grunt and pitch over onto the weapon at his feet, shot through the body by a German rifle bullet. Miller cried out, rolling his gunner over and off the weapon. Harris wheezed and coughed up a wad of bloody froth.

  “I’m done for! Go on, leg it!” he choked out.

  “Grab the bloody gun!” McTeague shouted at Miller. “I’ll get him!”

  Displaying his incredible strength, McTeague picked up Harris - one of the bigger men in the squad - and slung him over a shoulder like a sack of flour. Grabbing the Bren with his free hand, McTeague took off at a run with Thatcher and Miller, while the rest of the Commandos and partisans laid down cover fire.

  “We’re not going to bloody make it,” Lynch said to Price, as he stitched a line of slugs across an advancing SS rifleman.

  “Quitting the field already?” Price asked, slapping home a fresh magazine and drawing back the bolt of his MP-28.

  “Just stating the obvious, so I am,” Lynch replied.

  “Save your breath for the running,” Price answered, ripping out a long burst of slugs at the tide of feldgrau-clothed figures closing in.

  The MG section began to fire again, and the other Commandos displaced once more. Glancing behind them, Lynch saw the SS were gaining ground, and their shots were getting more accurate. A nine-millimetre slug tore a hole through his cartridge pouch, and another skipped off the road an inch from his boot.

  “Harry, another grenade!” he shouted.

  Nelson pulled another smoke grenade from his satchel. He spun, still moving, and flung the glass missile behind him as hard as he could. It shattered in the street and the shouts of the Germans on the other side of the smoke could be clearly heard. Lynch skidded to a stop for a second and pulled his last stick grenade from his belt. Arming it, he wound his arm back and threw it, watching the grenade spin high through the air, arcing through the top of the smoke cloud. He took off at a run, barely registering the explosion behind him.

  The squad formed up again with the machine gunners, and McTeague stopped firing the Bren and bent to pick up Harris.

  “I’m slowing everyone down, Sergeant,” Harris mumbled between bloody teeth. “I don’t want anyone else to die. Leave me and save yourselves.”

  “Shut your fucking gob, Harris,” McTeague replied, getting ahold of Harris’ battledress and bracing to lift him.

  Harris shook his head, and before McTeague could stop him, the wounded Commando pulled his Colt automatic from its holster and pressed the muzzle to his ear.

  “HARRIS!” McTeague screamed, lunging for the man’s gun, but it was too late. The pistol cracked, and Harris’ head snapped to the side, a fist-sized hole where his left ear had been.

  Harris’ act of sacrifice had a paralyzing effect on everyone for several long seconds. Miller just stood immobile, his eyes wide, mouth opening and closing without making any sound. McTeague, on the other hand, went berserk. Covered in a spray of Harris’ blood and brains, the Scotsman let out a terrifyingly primal roar. He snatched up the Bren and began walking towards the advancing Germans, firing the machine gun from the hip and bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  “You bastards! You lot of bloody sodding savages! I’ll kill every last one of you! I’ll beat you to death with your own bleedin’ legs!”

  Price ran after him as bullets snapped and ricocheted all around them. “Sergeant McTeague! Fall back in formation! Fall back in bloody formation!”

  McTeague’s Bren ran dry and he tore the empty magazine away, flinging it to the side with a snarl and pulling a fresh one from a pouch. “I’ll kill ‘em all! I’ll wipe them off the face of the bloody earth! Too many dead! Too many good lads who never make it home! I’ll end the war right fucking here!”

  The crazed Sc
otsman opened fire again, the Bren tucked under his shoulder, the muzzle flash giving his features a demonic cast. The .303 calibre slugs clawed at the stone and brickwork facades of the buildings and tore into the bodies of the advancing SS, killing or wounding a half dozen men and sending the rest diving for cover.

  Price caught up to him and grabbed McTeague’s webbing with a firm hand, but trying to stop the Scotsman’s march was like trying to restrain a runaway locomotive. Nevertheless, Price planted his feet and braced, heaving back with all the strength he could muster.

  “Sergeant McTeague, you still have men who need you! Fall back in formation and help me get them home!” he pleaded.

  McTeague slowed as the Bren ran dry, and he quickly changed magazines, snapping back the bolt to chamber a round. His chest heaved, breath rasping through lips pulled back into a feral snarl. Finally he stopped and turned, giving Price a terrifying glimpse into the soul of a man teetering on the edge of bloodthirsty madness.

  “Get your bloody hands off me,” McTeague growled.

  “Fall back in formation, Dougal. That’s an order,” Price answered, letting go of McTeague’s webbing.

  McTeague glanced back down the street. More and more SS were advancing through the smoke cloud, and although the other Commandos and partisans behind them were laying down cover fire, the Germans were getting dangerously close.

  Finally, Price saw the madness dim in McTeague’s eyes, and the sergeant rolled his shoulders and turned, jogging back to his men without a word.

  Price followed, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

  Chapter 21

  The Ruins Of Calais

  0045 Hours

  Minutes later, the Commandos were crouched in the hollow ruin of a townhouse, staring at what could be an end to their escape. An ancient city, Calais was cut into two parts. The inner, older section of the city was known as Calais-Nord, and was separated from the rest of the city by an artificial canal. There were a number of narrow bridges, radiating out from the older center of Calais like the spokes of a wheel, linking the two sections of the city together. Because of the curfew and the perimeter roadblocks, the Germans hadn’t bothered to set up checkpoints on the bridges, but now the Commandos could see they’d been outflanked and cut off by a ten-man squad of Wehrmacht troops, who’d guessed where the running gun battle was leading and advanced at the double to the closest bridge.