Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  But the sounds of movement and orders shouted in German were not far behind them, with more patrols drawing closer by the minute. After Harris’ death they’d managed to sprint hard, giving up their leapfrogging retreat tactics for several blocks in favor of covering as much distance as possible, flinging grenades back behind them every so often to slow the German’s pursuit. However, if they were to survive, they had to cross the bridge and get to the other side of the city in the next couple of minutes.

  “We could try to swim across,” Miller wondered aloud.

  Price shook his head. “Too slow. They’d turn us into fish food before we made it halfway.”

  “We storm the bridge, everything fully automatic, and to hell with the consequences,” McTeague growled.

  “If anyone made it through, we’d be too few to get out of the city alive,” Lynch replied.

  “Better than dying here trapped like rats,” McTeague fired back.

  “Rats are actually good swimmers,” Miller said.

  McTeague turned on him. “Bloody well shut your gob about rats!”

  “One thing about rats,” Price muttered, “they are right cunning creatures.”

  “Eh?” Lynch looked at him, puzzled.

  Price reached over and tapped a finger against the rim of Lynch’s coal-scuttle helmet.

  “Come with me, Herr Lynch.”

  Nelson went goggle-eyed. “Sir, you can’t be bleedin’ serious!”

  “It’s our only chance,” Price said. “The rest of you, be ready, and please don’t forget who the real Nazis are when the shooting starts.”

  Price and Lynch stood up, tidied their uniforms and loaded fresh magazines into their weapons. Then they strode out of the shadows, standing upright with their machine pistols held casually in their hands, walking as if they naturally belonged.

  There was a shout from the Germans at the bridge, and every gun turned and trained on them, but the Commandos’ nonchalance caused the soldiers to hesitate, and one of them called out a challenge. Lynch just gave them a wave, while Price replied.

  "Nicht schiessen, wir sind es!" he shouted. It was almost all the German he knew.

  The Germans lowered their guns a bit and looked at each other as Lynch and Price closed the distance. One of them, a non-commissioned officer, took a step forward.

  "Haben Sie die Engländer gesehen?” the man asked.

  All Lynch could make out of the question was “Engländer”, so he took a guess and shook his head.

  “Nein,” he replied.

  “Wie weit ist die SS?” another soldier asked.

  Price looked at Lynch, who gave the smallest of shrugs.

  “Ja, SS” Price said.

  It was the Germans’ turn to look at each other with confusion for a moment, and the Commandos saw a dozen pairs of eyes go wide at the same time.

  Three rifle shots cracked out in quick succession. Two of the Wehrmacht died with portions of their brains decorating the bridge behind them, while a third spun to the ground with a bullet through his heart. As one, Lynch and Price brought their machine pistols up and pulled the triggers, sweeping the roaring, bucking weapons back and forth like fire hoses. From inside the ruined building, the Bren stuttered out short, chopping bursts, walking rounds from the outside in, careful to not come too close to the two Commandos.

  The Germans were torn apart. Several of the closest were hit half a dozen times apiece by Lynch and Price’s withering fire, nine-millimetre slugs punching through bodies and limbs with ease, sometimes with enough force to wound another victim. Helmets rang with the impact of bullets, rifle barrels sparked with ricochets, and the air filled with the stink of cordite and blood. In seconds, it was over. Although several of the Germans managed to discharge their weapons, both Commandos survived the point-blank firefight miraculously unscathed.

  No sooner had the last German body hit the ground bleeding than the rest of the Commandos were running for the bridge. Lynch reloaded his MP-40, and both men took the opportunity to loot the closest corpses of grenades and ammunition. Price’s MP-28 was on its last magazine, so he dropped the rifle and the ammunition he’d been carrying for it, and took the machine pistol from the dead Feldwebel, slinging the weapon and magazine pouches over his shoulder. The rest of the men crossed over the bridge, grabbing what they could along the way. Their own grenade count was growing dangerously low, although Nelson took a moment to pull a pin on a Mills Bomb and tuck the grenade carefully under the body of the Feldwebel, in such a way that turning the body over would cause the grenade to arm and detonate.

  “Much obliged, Fritz,” Nelson muttered, patting the dead man on the shoulder as he stood back up and made for the bridge.

  The Commandos reached the other side of the canal and looked ahead. In the distance, they could make out movement in the streets both to their front and to the left. The right was clear, but they were unsure if that would keep them moving in the right direction.

  Price turned to Chenot. The partisan fighter had done his fair share of shooting during the running battle, sticking as close as possible to Marie and doing his best to keep Édouard out of the line of fire.

  “Ask the boy if he can think of the best route to the outskirts of the city,” Price asked.

  Chenot turned and spoke to Édouard in rapid French. The boy nodded and replied, pointing in several different directions.

  “He says if we go right, to the west, we can make it out of the city in perhaps another two kilometres. But it is likely we’ll run into more Germans,” Chenot said.

  “We’ll have to take the chance,” Price replied. “Nelson, do you have anything that could crack that bridge?”

  Nelson nodded. “I’ve got the demo charge I prepared for the hotel, Lieutenant. Twelve pounds of plastic explosive. But without getting under the bridge, even that might not do any more than blow those stone railings away and scuff up the surface. A curved bridge like that, most of the blast will go up and out, and whatever pushes down, well, a bridge is strongest when pushed on from above.”

  Price grimaced. “Any more smoke?” he asked.

  Nelson nodded. “Two bottles.”

  “Use one on this side of the bridge,” Price ordered. “The rest of you, form up and get ready to run.”

  Within seconds, a cloud of white phosphorous smoke was billowing across the bridge, and no sooner had the Commandos taken the corner than German bullets were cutting through the smoke, raking the street on the other side of the bridge.

  Their respite was, however, short lived. Two blocks from the bridge, the Commandos ran into another German patrol head-on. A bloody firefight ensued, this one much more ragged than the surprise attack on the bridge. Lynch earned a bloody groove across his thigh from a 7.92mm spitzer round, before bringing up his MP-40 and sawing open his attacker from navel to brow with a line of slugs. McTeague swung his Bren around, cutting down two Germans at point-blank range before he took a rifle butt to the side of his head from a German Feldwebel nearly the Scotsman’s equal in size and strength. McTeague’s head swam for a moment as he dropped the Bren, barely able to stay on his feet as he grappled with the bearlike German. With a burst of strength, he was able to free a hand, snatch the foot-long Scottish dirk from his belt, and drive it to the hilt in the German’s ribs. He stabbed the man three more times before the brute finally sagged to the ground, gasping out curses as blood sprayed from his lips.

  “On your feet, Sergeant,” Price wheezed, standing almost doubled over, his hands on his thighs. The fight was over, but the Commandos had won more from luck and firepower than anything else.

  Price didn’t want to admit it, but after the beating he’d taken at the hands of the SS, his reserves of energy were now nearly spent. He worried if he’d be able to make it out of the city without slowing the rest down to the point where he was a liability.

  If that happens, he thought, there’s always Harris’ way out.

  The Commandos stumbled on, all of them showing signs of fatigu
e and exhaustion. Nelson was moving with a distinct hobble in his step, his wounded leg in agony from all the running and crouching. Bowen and Johnson, who had some of the lightest kit during the operation, had taken to carrying spare German ammunition and grenades for the others. But despite Bowen’s strong, wiry frame, even he was flagging.

  Lynch decided to say something. “Lieutenant, maybe we should try to break contact with the Jerries and hold up for the day? Perhaps we could find a cellar or a blown-out building and burrow in. The more we stay on the streets, the easier it is for them to find us.”

  Price shook his head. “They know where we are, at least within a few blocks’ radius. Soon every German in the city will be on top of us. They’ll sweep through here with a fine-toothed comb, and they won’t stop until they’ve rooted us out. We need to keep moving.”

  They began to run again, driven on by the occasional glimpse of movement down side streets. They dashed through intersections without any pretense of stealth, and the occasional rifle bullet slapped into the side of a nearby building or skipped off the street, as the Germans caught sight of them and took potshots. No one bothered to fire back, preferring to keep moving and not give away an exact position with a muzzle flash, or waste precious ammunition. One by one, they all came to the same conclusion.

  Their luck was quickly running out.

  Chapter 22

  The Ruins Of Calais

  0115 Hours

  Five blocks from their last firefight, the Commandos were finally caught. Preparing to cross an intersection, they saw patrols moving at the double, closing in from both side streets. Ahead of them they heard the sounds of boots thumping on cobblestones and equipment rattling.

  “Can we break through one of these patrols?” Lynch asked no one in particular.

  Price shook his head, looking exhausted and leaning one-handed against a crooked street lamp. “I think your earlier idea might work. Go to ground, perhaps just long enough for them to come together and disperse. Maybe we can slink past them after they head back the way we came.”

  The Commandos looked around. There were several buildings nearby, apartment buildings mostly, but on the opposite side of the street there was a badly-damaged church, a large structure built from heavy granite blocks but with only half a bell tower. The church looked like it had been hit by several artillery shells, its roof caved in, several large cracks running through the walls. It had probably been abandoned and unused since the city’s siege, avoided by those who feared it would collapse on them at any moment.

  But with its thick walls and numerous fire points, it was a strong, defensible position. Price ordered everyone inside at the double. The doors were closed, but cracked and splintered, left unlocked because a good shove would complete their collapse. Price closed the door behind him and peeked out a broken stained-glass window seconds before one of the approaching patrols came into view.

  No one spoke. Without need for instruction, the Commandos dispersed throughout the building, distributing their coverage so that every side of the church had at least one man posted. Several of them took the opportunity to sip from a canteen or take a bite from a bar of chocolate. Others counted their ammunition, placing full magazines so they were more easily reached. Those with more grenades or ammunition selflessly redistributed their supplies to those who were running low.

  Lynch finished checking the two remaining magazines for his MP-40 and glanced around the church. The devastation was extensive. The altar was shattered, the large oak cross at the back of the apse reduced to kindling. Every window in the building had been blasted open by the concussion, and ragged edges of coloured glass were all that was left of no doubt beautiful artwork. The wooden pews were scattered about the nave as if thrown into the church through the enormous hole in the roof, discarded by some giant’s hand. Near the front door, an open archway led to a stone spiral staircase, now half-filled with rubble from the obliterated top of the bell tower. Bowen, Johnson, and Marie had moved into the stairwell, each of them taking up an elevated position, peering through the narrow, slit-like windows in the tower stairs. To the side of the apse, next to the altar rail, there was a doorway half collapsed by a shattered interior wall that seemed to lead into the back of the church.

  Lynch took a step, thinking to investigate the doorway, when Price softly hissed at him from the window. Watching where he stepped to avoid the crunch of broken glass, Lynch crossed over to him.

  “We’re in trouble,” Price whispered.

  Several German patrols, Wehrmacht and SS, had come together and their leaders were clearly arguing as to where the Commandos must have gone, pointing in several different directions. It was obvious that they felt they’d been given the slip, and were arguing where to look first. Lynch caught everyone’s attention with a wave, and signalled they should be at the ready.

  Price clutched wordlessly at Lynch’s sleeve, and looking out the window, he saw a trio of Germans turn and begin walking towards the doors of the church. The two men turned to look at each other and shrugged.

  The Germans were sent sprawling by a long, sweeping burst of nine-millimetre slugs from Lynch’s MP-40. At the same moment, one of the Feldwebel squad leaders was taken off his feet by a single rifle shot punching through his helmet. Another German, carrying an MP-34 propped across his broad shoulders, let out a shout of surprise as the weapon was knocked away by a bullet hammering into its receiver. Lynch saw the shot and wondered if disabling the gun had been deliberate, or just a lucky miss.

  A heartbeat later, the Germans returned fire. Dozens of bullets tore into the wooden doors and knocked fragments of glass from around the broken window panes, the slugs glancing and ricocheting around inside the church. One of the Germans pulled and armed a stick grenade from his belt and threw it, aiming for an open window, but the throw was off by a few inches and the grenade glanced off the edge of the window, falling to the ground in front of the wall where it exploded harmlessly. The soldiers displaced from the front of the church, immediately dispersing along the flanks and finding cover or concealment where they could.

  For perhaps a minute, the battle remained a stalemate. The Germans fired at any muzzle flashes they could see in the windows of the church, while the Commandos kept themselves out of sight as much as possible and moved from window to window, never firing from the same position twice. At least half a dozen Germans were hit, most while they were moving from one point of cover to another. Unlike the Commandos, the Germans had to move while exposed, and they paid for that disadvantage in blood.

  With a soft pop, a smoking missile arced into the sky, and suddenly the intersection was bathed in a hellish crimson glow.

  “Signal flare!” McTeague hollered over the din of battle. “They’re calling in reinforcements!”

  “Their whole bleedin’ army is gonna get stuck in with us!” Nelson shouted as he snapped a fresh magazine into the receiver of his smoking Thompson.

  Lynch turned to Price, the two men defending one half of the church’s front wall. There was a look of resignation in the lieutenant’s eyes.

  “This just became a last stand,” Lynch said.

  Price nodded. He looked around the church, seeing the mark of worry on the faces of his men illuminated by the blood-red light of the signal flare. Very soon, he knew, it wouldn’t be the flare bathing them in blood. None of them were leaving the church alive.

  So be it.

  Price emptied the rest of his magazine in a scything burst across the street, then stepped back from the window as a barrage of answering fire glanced off the stonework, sending slivers of broken glass spinning through the air. Price dropped his empty MP-28 onto the floor and unslung the MP-40 from across his back, stepping into the center of the church.

  “Sons of Britain and citizens of France!” he shouted over the roar of battle. “Now is the time to fight without fear! Now is the time to fight with all the fire in your hearts! Every bastard son of the Reich we kill today is one less bloodthirsty sava
ge threatening our sovereign shores or treading unbidden on the soil of our homeland! We will pile their bodies so high they have to climb over their dead to get at us!

  Price checked the seating of his weapon’s magazine. He drew back the bolt and locked it, ready to fire.

  “I would give the order to hold until relieved,” he exclaimed. “But there will be no relief for us! So we will simply hold, and take as many Jerries to hell with us as we can!”

  A moment later, Miller was mortally wounded.

  At the beginning of the fight, he’d quickly used up the last of their captured MG-34 ammunition, so he’d switched to using the Thompson slung across his back. Firing the weapon dry, he’d waited a moment too long before stepping back from the window. A Mauser bullet took him in the throat, tearing out his larynx and severing the blood vessels in his neck. He staggered back from the window, both hands clamped around his throat, and tripped over a broken pew, pitching backwards onto the rubble behind him.

  Lynch saw him go down out of the corner of his eye. Crouching low, he crossed the church and dropped to his knees by Miller, who was gurgling and coughing up blood, wide-eyed and trembling. Acting on instinct and training, Lynch tore a dressing from Miller’s kit, and moved to press it against the wound. But the dying man reached up and stopped Lynch, his head moving slightly side-to-side. He knew he was a dead man, and didn’t want Lynch to waste his efforts.

  Lynch clasped Miller’s blood-soaked hand. “We’ll make ‘em pay for this, boyo. We’ll not let you down.”