Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  Miller nodded, his eyes starting to wander as he died. With supreme effort, he let go of Lynch’s hand and reached over, fingers catching the sling of the Thompson next to him. He dragged the weapon a few inches towards Lynch before his hand spasmed and finally grew still. Picking up the weapon, Lynch recognized it as his own Thompson, noticing a few distinct nicks and dings in the woodwork. He fished in Miller’s pouches and drew out the three remaining 20-round magazines, then stood up and got back into the fight, handing Price his last MP-40 magazine. Tucking his old weapon into his shoulder, Lynch began firing short, deliberate bursts, trying to conserve what little ammunition he had left.

  Miller’s death had a strange effect on the Commandos and partisans. A weaker breed of soldier might despair and grow timid at the reflection of their imminent demise, knowing they would be joining him shortly. But for those defending the church, seeing Miller’s last act as one of a fighting man, urging another to take his place in the battle, each of them made the decision to fight all the harder, to use every second they had left to do as their commanding officer had ordered.

  They fought to kill as many enemies as they could, and they would hold until they were dead.

  But more Wehrmacht and SS were arriving by the moment, and the volume of fire directed against the church steadily increased. MG-34s poured streams of bullets into the windows to the point where the defenders had to simply hold their weapons up over the window sills and fire blindly at the enemy. The Commandos knew that as soon as they were effectively pinned down, the Germans would storm the church, and that would be the end.

  In the ruined bell tower, Bowen and Marie fired as fast as they could work the bolts of their rifles. The tiny slit windows in the tower offered much better cover, and since Johnson couldn’t effectively spot, his role became that of loader. As either Bowen or Marie ran dry, they would hand their rifle off to Johnson, who would reload their weapon while they used his SMLE. The tactic allowed the two snipers to lay down a steady rain of accurate fire on the Germans below, and although they didn’t score many kills, the natural fear any soldier has of attracting a sniper’s deliberate aim helped keep the Germans from stepping out into the open.

  Along the longer, street-side wall of the church, McTeague fitted the last 30-round magazine into the receiver of his Bren gun. The machine gun’s spare barrel was getting dangerously hot, the muzzle glowing a dull cherry red. He was destroying the barrel, no doubt about that, but he knew it could hang on through this last magazine. Bringing the weapon to bear, McTeague squeezed off several short bursts, funneling fire into the shadows where he saw muzzle flashes winking at him. His fire was answered by an enemy MG-34, and before he could duck away from the window, the top of the Bren’s magazine disappeared in a spray of sheet metal and spring wire. He jerked back from the window, but more slugs tore the weapon out of his hands.

  Without missing a beat, McTeague drew his Webley revolver. Thumbing back the hammer, he took several deep breaths, then eased just enough of his arm and face around the window sill to see his enemies. Running across the street, a pair of SS riflemen were closing the distance with grenades in hand, pulling the priming cords before throwing. Taking careful aim, McTeague dropped the first runner with a .455 calibre bullet in the belly, and two more shots brought down the second. A moment later, both dying men expired as their grenades blew, scattering body parts across the street.

  “My Thompson’s had it!” Nelson shouted next to him, tossing aside the empty weapon.

  “Use your pistol, and make them bloody count!” McTeague roared.

  At that moment, Lynch saw a trio of stick grenades tumbling through the air, all of them landing within a few feet of the church’s double doors. He shouted a warning, but it was lost in the quick series of explosions that blew the ruined doors off their hinges, sending dangerous splinters of wood and metal slashing through the air. Lynch saw Chenot stumble with a finger-long splinter of wood sticking out of his calf, and his eyes went wide as he saw Price slump to the ground, clutching his chest.

  “Price!” he shouted at his lieutenant. “Price!”

  Lynch took a step towards him, but Price waved him away. Taking his hand from his bloody chest, Price saw he’d been struck by a palm-sized chunk of wrought iron from one of the door’s hinges. The missile had tumbled through the air and hit him almost flat, causing a nasty, jagged, but superficial wound. If the fragment had hit him edgewise, it’d have torn through his chest like a meat cleaver.

  A grenade flew through the open doorway. Lynch was only a few feet away, and he kicked the grenade back out the door, throwing himself to the side an instant before it exploded. Another grenade tumbled through a window, landing between two pews next to Thatcher. Seeing Lynch’s quick thinking, the grim-faced Commando reached down, hoping to grab the grenade and hurl it back through the window.

  He didn’t make it. The wily SS soldier who’d thrown the grenade had let it “cook” in his hand, and just as the tips of Thatcher’s fingers brushed the grenade’s wooden handle, the deadly missile exploded. The blast, channeled up between the two heavy wooden pews, blew Thatcher apart. Limbs, bone fragments, and bits of clothing and entrails went flying through the air. Only a pair of shredded legs remained of the man.

  Lynch looked at Price, and the two of them nodded in silent agreement.

  This was the end.

  Both men noticed movement at the back of the church, and they swung their weapons about, fearing the Germans had found another way in. But it was the young Frenchman, Édouard, emerging through the partially collapsed doorway at the back of the church.

  “Viens avec moi si vous voulez vivre!” Édouard cried, gesturing frantically behind him.

  “What did he say?” Price shouted to Chenot.

  “He says, ‘Come with me if you want to live’.”

  Chapter 23

  The Ruins Of Calais

  0130 Hours

  The next few moments were pure chaos. Any Commando with an automatic weapon still functioning blazed away through the entrance to the church. They emptied their last magazines, driving back an assault team of SS storm troopers as they tried to gain a foothold through the open doors, piling up bodies across the threshold. As they all retreated towards the back of the church, Nelson threw the last Model 76 grenade, one he’d kept in reserve just in case, and it filled the front of the church with smoke and flames. The other Commandos drew pistols and threw grenades as they fell back, pulling the pins with their teeth while firing shots out the windows as Germans began to try climbing into the church. Marie, Bowen, and Johnson ran from the bell tower, the partisan woman firing a pistol in each hand, rifle slung across her back, while the two Commandos emptied their pistols behind them out the front door.

  The last Commando made it through the sagging doorway at the back of the church just as several grenades flew into the nave, blowing pews and rubble around the room in a lethal storm of wood, stone, and shrapnel. Inside the doorway, there was a small room, some kind of waiting area, and a second, intact door stood open, revealing a set of stone steps descending underground. Édouard was halfway down the stairs, beckoning them to follow him.

  The others wasted no time, and soon found themselves in a low-ceilinged crypt, centuries old, with niches all around them carved out of the solid rock below the church. Ancient coffins and caskets were tucked into the spaces, sometimes one on top of the other, and in other niches only shroud-wrapped skeletal remains could be seen. Édouard held a burning torch in his hand, taken from a bracket bolted to the wall by the crypt’s entrance. The flickering firelight did not make their surroundings any less unsettling.

  “What the hell,” Nelson muttered. “At least they won’t have far to carry us, eh?”

  Édouard urged them on. The narrow passage took several turns, and in a few moments they realized that the crypt extended beyond the footprint of the church above. Moving fast, the Commandos soon found themselves at a dead end, facing a section of blank wall built o
f mortared bricks.

  “So much for a daring escape,” Bowen muttered.

  Édouard pointed at the wall and spoke to Chenot and Marie in rapid French. Without hesitation, the partisan woman slipped the rifle from her shoulder, and holding it two-handed, she slammed the rifle butt into the bricks. Although none of them broke, everyone in the tunnel could hear the hollow sound the impact made.

  “Bloody brilliant!” Nelson exclaimed.

  Price wasted no time. “Dougal, take her rifle. Tommy, take Rhys’. The two of you and Johnny knock through that wall with the rifles. The rest of us, back up the tunnel. We need to slow down the Germans.”

  With a strength born from their rekindled hope, the three men attacked the wall, rifle butts driven into the bricks time and time again with bone-crushing force. Bit by bit, the mortar began to crack, and bricks began to fall away. A noisome stench seeped into the crypt, one they all immediately recognized.

  “We’re at the bloody sewers!” Johnson gagged.

  Lynch wondered for a moment, then realized that at some point, the work to extend the church’s crypt had encountered one of the city’s ancient sewer lines. The tunnel had been bricked up and left forgotten, up until now. The misfortune of the church’s diggers may prove to be their survival.

  Back up the tunnel, the firefight continued. The Germans had discovered the stairwell and they tossed grenades down into the crypt. The Commandos suffered through the concussive blasts while hiding around a corner, hands clamped over ears and mouths opened wide to help alleviate the effects of the overpressure. Then a squad of Germans descended, weapons at the ready, only to fall victim to one of their own hand grenades, flung around the corner by Chenot. The few who survived the blast were stunned nearly senseless, so Édouard leaned past the older partisan and around the corner to empty his MP-38 into the wounded Germans. His machine pistol tore into the dead and dying SS, but one of them managed to raise his rifle and fire a single shot before he collapsed, the bullet catching the young Frenchman low in the gut and bringing him immediately to his knees with a scream of agony.

  Chenot let out a string of curses in French and pulled the boy back, as Price stood guard at the turn in the tunnel with his pistol in hand. He looked down at the boy and up into Chenot’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he simply said.

  “Sir!” Nelson exclaimed, shrugging off his pack and digging out a heavy, canvas satchel. “I think I have our ticket home!”

  It was the heavy demolition charge Nelson had prepared for the SS hotel. Price’s mind raced. “What’s the shortest safe time you can give us?” He asked Nelson.

  “Sixty seconds, give or take a couple,” Nelson replied.

  Just then, Lynch rounded the corner. “We’ve broken through. C’mon!”

  Price nodded, his mind made up. “I’ll light the charge and hold the Germans back. The rest of you, move as fast as you can.”

  “Sir!” Nelson exclaimed. “You’ll be bloody vaporized!”

  “I can’t risk one of the Germans finding it and pulling the fuse before it detonates. Someone has to hold them here.” Price bent down and reached for Édouard’s MP-38, the only machine pistol left with any ammunition.

  But the wounded boy clutched the gun to his chest and shook his head. Price pulled at it, but the boy refused to give up his weapon.

  “Tell him I need it to hold off the Germans,” Price said to Chenot.

  Édouard looked up at Chenot and whispered something. Chenot nodded.

  “He says, there is no hope for him. This is his city. He will stay and see to the Germans who defile his home.”

  Shouts were heard from the stairwell. The beam of an electric torch swept around the bodies at the base of the stairs. The Germans were getting ready to send down another wave of men.

  Price finally nodded to Édouard. “Bonne chance,” he said. “Harry, light the fuse.”

  Chenot changed magazines for Édouard while Nelson lit the fuse. Before following the rest, Marie bent down and kissed Édouard on the cheek. The young man managed a weak smile before gesturing back down the tunnel.

  As the last of the Commandos and partisans climbed into the sewers of Calais, they heard the chatter of a machine pistol firing for several long seconds.

  Then the sewer tunnel roared and shook like a mountain coming apart.

  Chapter 24

  The Ruins Of Calais

  0600 Hours

  Faust stepped over another shattered block of stone and surveyed the devastation around him. A sizable portion of the church had been blown all over the streets, the remainder tumbling down to form a man-high pile of rubble where the church once stood. Mangled bodies clad in field-grey were everywhere, and Faust could see severed limbs, crushed skulls, and bits of blasted clothing and equipment covered with blood and unrecognizable bits of flesh.

  To a man who’d survived the horrors of the Great War, the sights around him were unremarkable. Instead, Faust felt a hollow sense of injustice, stemming as much from the deaths of so many men as the lost chance to make the British pay for what they had done that night.

  Faust turned to Ritter. “How many were inside the church when the British blew themselves up?”

  “One of the survivors said a squad had gone down into the crypts and contact had been lost. Another squad was going in, while a third policed the church itself.”

  “An entire platoon,” Faust said, drawing his lips into a thin line. “And how many before?”

  “A score of casualties around the church,” Ritter replied. “We’re still getting reports from the Wehrmacht. It is too early to get a butcher’s bill for the whole evening. And of course, there were Klaus and Dieter. Pity…they were good men.”

  “Indeed they were. Very good,” Faust said. “What does the Wehrmacht have to say about this?”

  Ritter looked away. “They are...less than pleased.”

  “No doubt,” Faust said. He gestured to the rubble. “I want this excavated. I don’t care how long it takes, I want to know how many of them we killed.”

  “Survivors who had been in the church said they’d seen at least one body, maybe two,” Ritter replied. “At least one other Englishman was found dead a number of blocks from the hotel, on the Northern side of the canal. It looked like he committed suicide to keep from slowing down the others.”

  Faust grunted, removing his peaked cap and rubbing his hand across the top of his head, scrubbing gloved fingers through his short grey hair.

  “At the end, they were surprisingly brave men,” Ritter said.

  Faust gave the rubble one last look before turning away and walking back to his Kübelwagen. He spoke to Ritter over his shoulder.

  “Bravery is a label often given to dead men who do stupid things.”

  Chapter 25

  The Partisans’ Cave

  July 13th, 2100 Hours

  Lance Corporal White thumbed off the safety of his Thompson submachine gun and peered into the darkness. He was hunkered down behind a thick tree trunk along the edge of the woods surrounding the hill, standing watch while Hall and the Frenchmen slept inside the cave. He’d just heard the unmistakable clink of metal against metal, and he saw a shadowy, almost imperceptible movement inside the drainage ditch they’d first used to approach the hill.

  White felt a flutter of hope, however unlikely, that the movement signalled the return of his fellow Commandos. He and Hall had discussed their circumstances at length that evening over supper. White had argued they give the others another day to return, while Hall expressed concern over Bouchard’s condition. Although the Frenchman still appeared healthy, Hall worried that without proper food, shelter, and medical attention, the chance of infection and a deadly fever remained.

  In the end, Bouchard had interjected that he supported waiting one more night before departing, regardless of the risks to his health. So they would wait until the morning to send word to England, then leave and make for the coast at sundown. It would be a stretch, but Bouchar
d insisted he could make it. And so, they waited.

  The sounds of movement drew closer, and White could eventually make out eight figures, ragged and limping, as they emerged from the dark shadows of the drainage ditch and into the moonlight. All of them were covered in filth and blood from head to toe, and several leaned on their comrades to keep from falling over.

  “Sweet bloody Jesus...” White muttered.

  “The proper challenge,” Price croaked, his throat parched and raw, “is Teapot.”

  Author’s Note

  I hope you’ve enjoyed reading Operation Bedlam, the second installment in the Commando series. Both novels, and the short story, The Train to Calais, have been a great pleasure to write. The “men on a mission” archetype has always been a staple of action-adventure fiction, and nowhere does it work better than in a wartime story focusing on a tight-knit group of tough fighting men, risking it all “for King and Country”, as Smythe would say.

  But the truth of the matter is, this kind of story works best when the characters aren’t just fighting for some national ideal or abstract ideology, but instead fighting for each other. One reader commented in a review of Operation Arrowhead that he felt the story wasn’t grim and brutal enough to properly represent the horrors of World War II, and although I’d written the first novel to be somewhat intentionally light-hearted, I agreed with his sentiment. So, in writing Operation Bedlam, I decided to go for a grimmer story, one where mistakes are made that cost lives, and the heroes don’t win in the end...they merely survive.

  In writing this tale, I kept Sam Peckinpah’s masterpiece The Wild Bunch in mind. Astute readers who’ve seen the movie may catch a couple of references to this film, and I put them in to pay homage to one of the greatest “men on a mission” stories of all time, in part because The Wild Bunch is about the bonds between fighting men who’ll gladly go out in a blaze of bullets and bloodshed to save one another. If you’ve never seen The Wild Bunch, consider it required reading for a fan of this series.