Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  “You mean,” Price interjected, “he’s a smuggler.”

  Abercrombie nodded. “Precisely. He was involved in the black market long before the war started, and he’s no doubt making the most of it - we guess he’s got a tidy business in trafficking stolen British military goods. This base sees food, petrol, and even light munitions disappear with some regularity. It is, of course, the cost of operating out of an area such as this, with a poor indigenous population that’ll steal the shoes off your feet if you don’t nap with one eye open.”

  “So you’ve known about him?” Eldred asked.

  “We knew he was a smuggler, yes,” Abercrombie replied. “In these parts, it’s practically a legitimate enterprise. However, we’ve only kept a light touch on him these past few months. You never know when someone with underworld connections such as Haddad’s might come in handy.”

  “It appears the Germans agreed with you,” Price said. “The question is, what do we do about him, now that we know the truth?”

  “Word of the shooting will have already reached Haddad,” Abercrombie said with a shrug. “It’s truly remarkable how fast news can travel beyond the perimeter of the base. What we don’t know, is whether Haddad will understand the incident for what it was, and if he’ll learn we have one of his men.”

  Lynch and Nelson had been held at bayonet-point for some time, while the officer commanding the watch arrived on the scene to take statements. Dressed as regular Eighth Army soldiers, and not wanting to give away any details of who they were or why they were in Mersa Matruh, the two Commandos remained silent. Bowen, hidden in the shadows across the street, had seen his two squadmates get caught. The sniper took off at a dead run back across the airfield, to alert one of the Commando officers of what had happened. By the time everything was sorted out, the scene of the shootout had attracted quite a crowd, both British and Egyptian. There was little doubt in anyone’s mind that someone in the crowd was working for Haddad and the Germans.

  “And if he figures out that we’re aware of his espionage activities?” Price asked.

  “Then he’ll shut his operation down, destroy all the evidence of his collusion, and plead ignorance. We might disrupt his smuggling operations for a short while, but soon enough it’ll be business as usual,” Abercrombie replied.

  Captain Eldred shook his head. “Unacceptable. Regardless of all that, he’s certainly going to let the Germans know that something here on this base is afoot. Even if he doesn’t have all the details, giving Jerry any advance warning compromises the security of our operation. If he’s passing them information, Haddad clearly has the means to regularly get word to the Germans. Does he have a wireless?”

  Abercrombie thought for a moment. “He very well might. He lives in a large walled compound to the northeast of the city along the beach. It’s big enough to conceal a sizable wireless hut, and if they are clever enough to disguise their messages and keep them short, we’d not pick it up for some time. And that’s in addition to whatever couriers or other, more traditional methods he has at his disposal.”

  Sergeant McTeague cleared his throat. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sirs. But the lads and I could hit this bloke fast and hard, be over the walls and knockin’ him in the gob before he’s even out of bed.”

  Price and Eldred exchanged looks. The older officer turned to the three corporals standing next to McTeague. “Well lads, care for another late-night adventure?”

  Lynch, Nelson, and Bowen all snapped up straight and saluted.

  “Sneaking about in the middle of the night through a blacked-out city to kick some dirty bastard right in the bollocks? Old hat for us now, Captain,” Nelson replied with a nod.

  Price looked at Abercrombie with a smile. “We have done this kind of thing a time or two, Captain.”

  Abercrombie clapped his hands together, a broad grin splitting his features. “Splendid! I do believe this calls for a drink.”

  Chapter 9

  The Outskirts Of Mersa Matruh

  October 28th, 2345 Hours

  Lynch winced and muttered a curse as the Bedford jolted and rattled its way along the darkened streets of Mersa Matruh, sending dogs, cats, and several Egyptians scurrying out of the way. With headlights doused and blackout conditions in effect, the driver was navigating solely by moonlight. It was a perilous situation given that, as far as Lynch could tell, the driver’s feet were apparently made of lead, and the dirt roads throughout the city were no doubt planned and laid by a committee of blind drunkards.

  The first lorry was followed by two more driving in dangerously close formation, the bumper of the second Bedford so close, Lynch imagined he could reach out and touch the bonnet. In the back of each Bedford there were eight men, all Commandos armed to the teeth. The canvas covers over the lorries’ cargo beds were down to prevent peering eyes from seeing the Commandos, although the flap across the back of each bed was rolled up just enough to let a little moonlight inside.

  Captain Eldred had given Price command of this operation, assigning one of the two other Commando squads to accompany Price and his eleven men. The lieutenant, Lynch, and six other men rode in the first lorry, while another eight-man assault element, led by Sergeant Donovan, rode in the second. Bowen and Johnson, as well as McTeague and a new squadmate by the name of Higgins, rode in the third lorry along with two more two-man Bren teams, pulled from the other two squads.

  Higgins was one of the four new men assigned to Price after the casualties taken in Calais. Lynch found him to be a friendly, jovial fellow who was quick to laugh and - best of all - always offered to pick up the first round of pints. Higgins was quickly accepted into the squad, especially after he agreed to take on the role of Bren gunner. In each of the last two missions, the squad’s Bren gunner had been killed, and the men - Lynch included - who’d survived both Merlimont and Calais looked at the job as just a wee bit cursed. But Higgins volunteered for the position, considering it an honor to fill the role held by two other well-regarded soldiers. Tonight Higgins would work directly with McTeague, the sergeant serving as both Higgins’ loader and the section leader. The three Bren teams and the sniper team were going to serve as perimeter security for the assault on Haddad’s compound, their firepower ensuring that no one escaped to warn the Germans of the attack.

  In Lynch’s lorry, Price rode in the back with his men, sitting across from Lynch with his face covered in black cork soot, a Thompson standing on its buttstock between his knees. Nelson was there as well, along with Hall, their medic, White, the squad’s signals expert, and the rest of their new squad-mates: Herring, Brooks, and Stilwell. Lynch hadn’t spent that much time getting to know Brooks and Stilwell, other than the fact that both men were solid, competent professionals who could shoot fast and straight and carry a ruck without complaining.

  Herring, on the other hand, gave Lynch pause. Short and wiry, built much like Bowen, Herring was from the slummier parts of London and had joined the army after the Dunkirk retreat. Lynch found this odd, because Price's unit was always formed from men who’d seen combat in France with the British Expeditionary Force. Herring was the first, and only, man in the squad to have never faced off against the Germans. But when Lynch had brought his concerns to McTeague, the Scotsman had become irritable, and told Lynch in no uncertain terms to keep his nose out of the business of officers and who they picked for their squads.

  “If Lieutenant Price finds the man fit to fight alongside the likes of ye,” McTeague had growled, “then he’s bloody well fit and that’s the last of it, d’ye hear me?”

  To complicate matters further, as they were boarding the lorries, Price assigned Lynch the role of mother-hen to Herring during the mission, just as Nelson and Hall would look after Brooks and Stilwell. Lynch had checked over Herring’s kit, finding everything satisfactory, but noticing that in addition to his Fairbairn-Sykes knife, Herring also carried the sword-bayonet for his Lee Enfield.

  “Lieutenant Price doesn’t want us carrying bayonets, Herring,”
Lynch had told the man. “They’re too long and cumbersome, either on our rifles or worn on our kit. We’ve got our pistols and F-S knives for the close-in work.”

  Herring had just shrugged. “I don’t mind carrying both, Corporal. Long bit ‘o steel in the hand makes up for being a short fellow like meself.”

  They were an unconventional unit within an unconventional unit, so instead of making an issue of it, Lynch dropped the matter. Price hadn’t exactly forbidden them from carrying bayonets; he believed that they didn’t have a role to play given the way the unit fought, and unlike the other Commandos, Price made sure every one of his men carried a sidearm in addition to his primary weapon.

  But now, sitting in the cargo bed of the lorry as it jostled and bounced towards their target, Lynch frowned as he saw Herring produce something metallic from his thigh picket. With a soft snick sound, a five-inch blade was suddenly gleaming in his hand.

  “Bloody hell, Herring!” Nelson said, jerking in his seat. “Put that bloody toy away before we hit another damn bump and you stick someone in the leg!”

  Herring merely shrugged. He spun and rolled the weapon between his fingers for a few seconds before folding the blade back into the switch-knife with a smooth motion that suggested he’d done it thousands of times before. He tucked the knife back into his pocket, making eye contact with Lynch as he did so. The hairs on the back of Lynch’s neck stood up, and for a moment he wondered if Price knew something very particular about Herring the rest of them weren’t privileged to know.

  Suddenly the sound of three hard thumps came from the Bedford’s cab. “One minute lads, look alive now,” Price informed them.

  Lynch ran his hands over his kit one last time. They were travelling light on this mission, weapons and ammunition only. He carried his Thompson submachine gun and a dozen spare 20-round magazines, as well as his Colt .45 automatic and its two spare magazines, four fragmentation grenades, and his own F-S knife. Price, White, and Nelson carried a similar combat load, although Nelson also wore a light pack containing a number of different demolition charges. Hall, Herring, Brooks, and Stilwell carried Lee-Enfield rifles instead of Thompsons, and Hall carried a pack containing potentially life-saving medical supplies. Lynch reflected that this might be the first time he felt Hall’s skills could be used to their full potential. In Mersa Matruh, there was a full-fledged military hospital close enough that even a serious wound could be survivable as long as Hall could stabilize the casualty and get them to a surgeon, a journey of minutes instead of days.

  The Bedford lurched to a halt, and without hesitation, Lynch jumped clear of the tailgate and landed on his feet, Thompson up and at the ready. All of his stray thoughts were banished by the reality of impending battle.

  “Herring, on me. Head up, eyes moving. Let’s go,” Lynch ordered.

  With the dexterity of a cat, Herring was over the tailgate and next to Lynch in a second, his rifle butt tucked into his shoulder, eyes looking over the weapon’s sights. Disturbing or not, the lad was fast and handled his weapons with considerable skill.

  The Bedfords were parked down a wide side-street between a number of multi-story residences, a hundred yards from where the city of Mersa Matruh ostensibly ended and the open expanse of desert beachfront began. Any closer, and they risked the engines being heard inside Haddad’s compound.

  Lynch and Herring provided cover at the front of the first Bedford, while the rest of the teams assembled behind them. McTeague and Bowen quickly departed with the other six men of their section, moving at the double out of the alley and towards the edge of the city. Bowen would no doubt find a suitable rooftop that gave him a good view of the compound, while the Bren gunners would set up overlapping fields of fire that would give them coverage across the grounds outside the compound walls. Unlike Bowen, who would be shooting in support of the assault itself, the Bren teams would work to secure the grounds outside. Given the low light and distances involved, it was best to keep their muzzles pointing away from where the Commandos would be operating to avoid any friendly fire incidents.

  Once the fire support section departed, the two assault teams moved out, slipping from shadow to shadow as they stalked towards the outskirts of the city. Although there was a blackout order in effect, moving among the homes Lynch could see, here and there, a flicker of lamplight peeking through a window’s threadbare curtain. Although the Commandos were maintaining a commendable degree of silence, the Bedfords had caused a considerable racket, and more than a few curtains and window shutters moved back into place as the Commandos passed.

  Although Egypt was a war zone, Mersa Matruh was still nearly a hundred miles from the front lines, and no city-wide alarm had been raised. The Egyptians living here had seen enough British soldiers to tell the difference between Tommies and their enemies, and so Lynch felt that most would just stay away from the windows and hope that, whoever the soldiers were after, they lived far enough away that stray bullets wouldn’t pose an immediate danger.

  Within minutes, the two assault teams had reached the point where the city ended and the long expanse of white desert beach began, sloping gently several hundred yards down to the dark line of the Mediterranean. Looking back behind them, Lynch could see the moon rising above Mersa Matruh, lending the city a sinister aspect. To the east and west along the beach Lynch could see, off in the distance, a number of large residences, all of them surrounded by white stone walls. This was where the city’s wealthy lived, out in the open, with the cool sea breezes keeping the stink of the city away. Even in the moonlight the view was, in a word, breathtaking; the stars reflected off the dark, shimmering water, and the rippling foam at the edge of the surf glowed with a dim phosphorescence, while the white beach sand was turned nearly silver in the moonlight. Lynch imagined how beautiful it must appear during a bright, cloudless day, the water a rippling azure plain. A pang of jealousy struck him in the gut, the reaction of a poor Irish orphan to the privilege of the rich and powerful.

  Lynch felt a presence next to him. Turning, he looked down at Herring, who looked at the beachfront homes with a sneer of contempt.

  “All of it earned with someone else’s blood and sweat. Worthless bastards, the lot o’ them,” Herring muttered.

  “In a few minutes,” Lynch replied, “we’ll give one of them a little payback.”

  Price stepped up next to Lynch on his right and motioned for the men to gather around. The Commandos all crouched down, and Price pointed towards the compound ahead and to their right.

  “Alright lads, that’s Haddad’s residence. Six foot walls, armed guards patrolling inside them. Four buildings inside the walls: the main residence, a servants’ quarters, a garage, and a fourth building which we think is some kind of storehouse for Haddad’s more expensive goods.

  “Tommy, you and Herring are going to go over the wall on the east, while Nelson and Brooks take the west. Silence any guards you see and give the all clear. I’ll lead the four of us in this section over the wall, and we’ll secure the compound here,” Price pointed to the southwest corner of the compound, near the garage.

  “At that point, Sergeant Donovan, you’ll lead your section over the wall, and the two sections will begin to assault the buildings. Donovan’s men will split into two four-man teams, each clearing the servant’s quarters and the storehouse. At the same time, I’ll lead my section in an assault on the main residence itself. Once Donovan’s teams have secured their buildings and the main residence has been cleared, we’ll use a torch to flash the support section the all-clear. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  Moving low and slow, Lynch and Herring began to cross the beach towards their side of the compound. Here and there, clumps of brush and weeds sprouted from the white sand, and they used this meager cover when they could. Although the compound lacked guard towers, the storehouse and main residence were both two-story buildings, with windows that looked out onto their approach. Lynch silently prayed that those inside were either asleep
or preoccupied with something else.

  Like warning Jerry that we’ve captured one of their spies, he mused.

  They reached the base of the wall without incident. Immediately, Herring slung his rifle, and Lynch interlocked his fingers, offering the smaller man a boost up to the top of the wall. With a grunt, Lynch raised Herring up, and the Commando grasped at the top of the wall. Herring jerked and let out a hiss of pain.

  “There’s broken glass set into the top of the bloody wall, Corporal,” he whispered down to Lynch.

  “Can you make it up?” Lynch whispered back.

  “Aye, but be careful. I cut myself already.”

  Herring finally managed to get into a crouch at the top of the wall, and offered Lynch a hand, pulling the bigger man up and pointing out where to hold in order to avoid getting sliced by the glass. Not wishing to silhouette themselves any longer than necessary, the two Commandos dropped down onto the ground inside the compound.

  Lynch looked around them, scanning the shadows. There didn’t seem to be any immediate threat, but the smell of cheap tobacco smoke wafted towards them, and both men saw the glow of lit cigarettes as a pair of sentries slowly approached.

  The two men were Egyptian, dressed in light-colored paramilitary uniforms. Their rifles were in their hands, but not at the ready, fingers well away from the triggers. Neither of the men appeared particularly alert; the two were engaged in a whispered debate. Looking around, Lynch saw there was little to conceal them from the sentries, and he knew they’d be spotted before long. Using hand gestures, Lynch signalled to Herring they would crawl across the open ground to the corner of the garage ten yards away.

  Holding their weapons in their hands, the two Commandos quickly crawled across the sandy ground. Lynch was sure they must be obvious to the sentries, and feared at any second a shout followed by the impact of a bullet, but they made it to cover without being noticed.