Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  Moody and Clarke glanced at each other, then looked back at Eldred, nodding. “It’s your operation, mate,” Clarke answered. “We’re just along for the ride.”

  Lynch studied the Bersaglieri prisoners. They were both tall and lean, their skin burned dark by the sun. The men wore long, well-groomed mustaches, and their uniforms, although soaked in blood and crusted with sweat stains, were neatly maintained. Both men stood proud, and showed no sign of fear or concern for their lives while surrounded by men who were doing their best to kill them a few minutes ago. Lynch didn’t know anything about these Italians other than what Clarke had said, but he could tell with just a look that they were a definite cut above the common soldier.

  Just then, Peabody and the rest of his Commandos returned from searching the Autoblinda, and the sergeant’s face was grim. They carried several Italian small arms as well as a couple of other items, one of which was a leather case of the type used to protect field glasses. Peabody walked over to Moody and handed him the case.

  “Sir, look at the bottom,” Peabody said.

  Moody did so, and in an instant his face turned scarlet as his features twisted in rage. His hand dropped to his holster, and he drew his Enfield in a flash, pointing it at the two Italians.

  “What have you done with my mates, you filthy bastards? What’ve you done with them?” Moody screamed at the prisoners.

  Immediately, Clarke clamped his hand around Moody’s wrist, and with some effort he lowered the pistol until it was pointing in a less dangerous direction. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  The armoured car captain handed Clarke the leather case, and Clarke turned it over to look at the underside. From where he stood, Lynch could see there was something stamped into the leather.

  “Lt. James Lewis, 11th Hussars,” Clarke read aloud. He turned to the Commando who spoke Italian. “Son, ask them the meaning of this. How’d this case come into their possession?”

  The trooper repeated the question to the Italians. One of them seemed like he didn’t want to reveal anything to his enemies, but the other man, clearly shaken by having Moody’s revolver waved in his direction, seemed insistent. Finally the more stubborn Italian capitulated, and the two took turns speaking quickly to the Commando interpreter, who had to slow them down as their story unfolded.

  Finally the trooper turned to the officers. “Sirs, they say that a few days ago, they captured a supply convoy headed for Jerabub. They insist none of our boys was hurt or killed. Instead, they have ‘em under guard back at their base. The Jerry captain gave those glasses to the car’s commander because they were better’n the Eyetie’s own pair. Guess they took ‘em as spoils of war, or sommat.”

  The three captains looked at each other in alarm. “Strewth!” Clarke exclaimed. “I think this just became a rescue mission!”

  Eldred turned to their translator. “See if Captain Moody’s brandishing of a revolver has changed their opinion on giving up the location of their base.”

  The trooper asked repeatedly, but the Italians had regained their composure, and refused to give up any more information. Despite his earlier agreement, Moody clearly wasn’t happy with Eldred’s decision regarding the handling of the prisoners. “Regardless of whether we clobber them or not, the fact remains that we have no bloody idea where these blokes are hiding. Trust me, William - it’s a bleedin’ big desert. We’ve been out here for a year now, and we’ve not the vaguest notion of where Jerry and his Eyetie friends might be based.”

  “I might have found a solution to that,” Peabody announced. He was digging through an Italian pack, and he held up a leather map case. He handed the case over to Eldred, who opened it up and pulled out a well-worn map.

  Lynch glanced over the Commando captain’s shoulder and saw that the map showed an area about two hundred miles to a side, centered along the Libya/Egypt border, with the Mediterranean coastline along the top. There were a few pencil marks here and there, mostly pointing out Allied encampments, but the Libyan side looked frustratingly blank. The Italians, it appeared, were being careful to hide their own operational details in the event the map fell into enemy hands.

  Eldred let out a curse. “So much for ‘X marks the spot’. There’s terrain details, but no sign of their base of operations.”

  Clarke held out his hand. “May I?” he asked.

  Eldred handed over the map. Clarke unfolded the whole map, and then carefully holding the edges, he lifted the map up into the air and towards the sun. A smile crossed his face.

  “Clever blokes, but not clever enough. Someone got a little careless using their calipers,” Clarke said.

  Lynch and several others leaned in close, and after a moment, he saw it; a tiny pinprick of bright sunlight coming through the paper, about thirty miles over the border into Libya.

  “Might not be an X,” Eldred remarked, “but it’s good enough. Time to mount up, lads, and pay Jerry a visit.”

  Chapter 17

  Libyan/Egyptian Border

  October 30th, 1700 Hours

  Four hours after the battle against the Italian armoured car squadron, the convoy reached The Wire. It was, Lynch decided, more impressive than he’d originally expected. The barrier stretched to the north and south as far as the eye could see, a wall of iron stakes and barbed wire almost six feet high and several yards deep, made up of multiple layers of fencing with added barbed wire strands linking the layers together. Without wire cutters, it would be almost impossible to navigate through, and even with a set of cutters it would take a man considerable time to clear a path. The LRDG men with Lynch had explained, as they approached the border, that the Germans and Italians regularly patrolled The Wire, and made repairs almost as fast as the British could cut their way through.

  “We’ve made our way through The Wire a few times,” Lawless had said, “and on our return trip several days later, discovered that the Jerries or the Eyeties had come along and tidied up our breach before we returned, so we’d have to cut our way through again. Bloody inconsiderate of them! I’d think they’d be happy to let us go home.”

  They’d followed the tyre tracks of the retreating Autoblindas to within sight of The Wire, but Clarke had worried that the enemy had booby-trapped their passage across the border, so the convoy had driven a half mile to the north before finding a suitable place to cross. Now, with over fifty men on hand, the job of getting through the barbed wire barrier was accomplished in record time. The Commando squads had brought a half-dozen wire cutters, and each LRDG vehicle carried two. Within ten minutes, a path wide enough to easily accommodate one of the Bedfords was cleared, and five minutes later, the convoy was motoring into Libyan territory.

  Lynch noted with some satisfaction that their convoy had grown by one vehicle; the Autoblinda crewed by the men they’d taken prisoner. Although the front driver and commander had been killed by shots from the Boys rifles, the vehicle itself was fully operational, albeit perforated in a dozen places with .55 inch bullet holes. When the vehicle’s condition was confirmed, Moody immediately insisted that it be cleaned up and brought along with them. Under the guard of two Commandos, the Bersaglieri scrubbed the blood and flesh from the inside of the car using handfuls of sand and a couple of rags wetted with petrol. The stink of death lingered in the vehicle despite the cleaning, and it would no doubt become worse as the sun baked what gore remained in the car’s nooks and crannies. But Moody was steadfast on bringing the car with them; its heavier armour and formidable firepower made it worth more than his two Morris armoured cars combined.

  Furthermore, the first car to be killed by the LRDG’s 37mm cannon had smoldered for a time, but the vehicle never caught fire, and the Commandos were able to strip it of anything valuable, including its radio and both of the 8mm Breda M38 machine guns and their ammunition. Although the Bredas were magazine-fed like the Bren, and lacked buttstocks and bipods, they were operational and no one wanted to leave the extra firepower behind. The heavy clips of 20mm ammunition
left in that vehicle had also been taken and loaded aboard the repurposed Autoblinda. Moody had assigned one of his Morris crew members to drive the Italian car, and he took command of the vehicle himself, with one of the Commandos from Donovan’s squad assigned as Moody’s gunner. It was all very ad-hoc in Lynch’s mind, but he was quickly realizing that warfare out here in the desert was just as much about improvisation and ingenuity as any Commando operation, if not more so, given the far harsher conditions.

  An hour after crossing the border, Lynch found himself squinting against the setting sun. Budgie, scanning the western horizon with his field glasses, informed Lynch and the others in the Chevrolet that the scout car was returning at speed.

  “Do you see a dust plume?” asked Lynch. “Is it another patrol?”

  Budgie worked the focus wheel on his field glasses, peering off into the sunset past the scout car. After a few seconds, he let out a scorching curse. “Stop the bloody car, Jack!” he exclaimed.

  “What’s the matter, old son?” Lawless asked, downshifting and bringing the Chevrolet to a halt.

  Budgie pointed towards the horizon. “You should just be able to make it out now.”

  Lawless and Nichols stared towards where Budgie was pointing, and both men made sounds that indicated they saw what Budgie had spotted. Lynch shaded his eyes from the sun and tried to see what they were concerned about, but he didn’t notice anything but a faint haze along the horizon.

  “We’re in for it now,” Nichols muttered, shaking his head.

  “Oi, lads!” Lynch said, exasperated. “What’s all this now?”

  Lawless turned around in his seat and gave Lynch a mirthless smile.

  “You’re about to get a real crash course in desert survival, mate.” he said. “That’s a bloody great sandstorm, and it’s coming our way.”

  That night, they experienced what could only be described as an arid desert’s form of hell on earth. The vehicles formed a circle and the men of the Desert Group, having more experience in such matters, gave orders to prepare for the arrival of the sandstorm. Exposed mechanisms and weapons were covered, equipment was tied down, and every man fashioned scarves to protect their faces from the blowing dust. As many men as could fit sought shelter inside the three armoured cars, and three men apiece sheltered in the enclosed cabs of the Bedfords. It was decided that as many men as possible, mostly the Commandos, would shelter in the covered cargo beds of the Bedfords. Those who couldn’t fit into an enclosed vehicle - mostly volunteers from the Desert Group - constructed shelters made from canvas, staked down and protecting the men hiding along the leeward side of the LRDG’s vehicles.

  As Lawless and his teammates prepared their shelter, Lynch felt a pang of shame. He found Price directing his squad’s preparations.

  “Lieutenant,” Lynch asked, “permission to seek shelter with the Kiwis.”

  Price looked at him sharply. “What’s the matter?”

  Lynch glanced towards Lawless and the other New Zealanders. “I don’t want to lose face in front of them. They’re a proper bunch of fighting men, so they are, and I don’t want to look like a coward by hiding in a lorry while they’re out here in the sand.”

  Price gave Lynch an exasperated look. “Corporal, three dozen Commandos are going to shelter in these Bedfords. They’re all brave men. Captain Clarke and his lads understand they’re better trained to handle this than we are. You’re not going to lose face to anyone.”

  Lynch nodded, but his face must have given away his reluctance. With a sigh and a wave of his hand, Price dismissed him. Lynch hurried over to where Lawless, Budgie, and Nichols were finishing their preparations.

  “Mind if I bivouac with you lads?” Lynch asked.

  The three Desert Group men looked at each other, and Nichols gave Lynch a hearty clap on the back.

  “Sure thing, mate! Hope you don’t mind, but it’ll be a bit cozy under the tarp. Keep your goggles on and your scarf tight over your face and ears. I didn’t keep my ears covered once, and I was knockin’ sand outta ‘em for a week after.”

  Just before he climbed into the sand shelter, Lynch saw Nelson about to step aboard his lorry. The big Englishman saw Lynch looking at him, and shot him a grin and a rude two-fingered gesture. Lynch grinned back and returned the gesture, then climbed inside the shelter.

  Minutes later, the leading edge of the sandstorm hit. There was a loud hissing sound, as the blowing sand sheeted across the desert floor and scoured the metal of the vehicles. Puffs of sand and dust made their way underneath the Chevrolet as the men leaned their backs against the vehicle, and the flaps along the side of their shelter let in spurts of dust along the edges. Lynch shifted his backside in the sand and tried to get more comfortable, making sure the cloth he’d wrapped his Thompson in was secure, especially around the muzzle and the bolt.

  “Don’t fret over it too much, boyo,” Lawless told him. “No matter what you do, sand will still get in. Just strip it and clean it once this is over.”

  The wind soon picked up some more, and after an hour Lynch wondered whether deafness or insanity would take him first. The stakes holding down the shelter grew loose as the wind whipped at the canvas, and so the men had to use their heels to hold the shelter down, their legs cramping with the strain of digging their heels into the dirt hard enough to keep the canvas from tearing free. The sand caused nighttime to come early, blotting out the setting sun and turning the inside of their shelter pitch black. Finding they couldn’t handle the strain of holding down the shelter any longer, Lawless crawled around their feet in the dark, tying the canvas to their boots.

  Far worse than the darkness or the rasping dust was the ceaseless howling of the wind and the hissing of the sand. Despite being shoulder to shoulder with Budgie and Nichols, Lynch could barely hear the men when one or the other shouted in his ear; the wind was like the roar of an artillery barrage coming down right on top of them, only the storm never let up, never paused for even an instant. Lynch started to imagine the storm was an unending freight train, roaring over and around them for hours, and only through sheer physical and psychological exhaustion did Lynch finally drift into some kind of fitful sleep.

  It was the absence of sound more than the weak sunlight filtering through the canvas tarp that finally woke him. He pulled the goggles from his face, feeling the rim of sand and dust they left on his features, and looked down at himself. An inch-thick layer of sand completely covered him, filling the spaces between him and the two other Desert Group men. There was a moment of irrational panic when Lynch imagined he was trapped under the sand, unable to move, but then he twitched a leg, wiggled his toes, and the small hill of sand covering his legs fell away to reveal the tips of his boots.

  Slowly, like the survivors of an avalanche, men emerged from the sand. They stumbled around, looking like pale desert ghosts, dazed and scarcely believing it was over. But the early-morning desert sky was as clear as they’d ever seen it, as if the storm had scoured away any trace of impurity in the atmosphere. The air seemed cleaner as well, purified by the fury of the storm. It was, Lynch reflected, the most beautiful morning he’d yet seen during his brief time in North Africa.

  And yet, with that beauty came a terrible price. The three captains did a head count of their men, and with dismay they realized one of the Desert Group men was gone. The two others who’d been with him had no recollection of the man leaving their shelter, but his place was half-filled with sand, meaning he’d gone out into the storm at some point during the night. The squads spread out and swept through the surrounding desert for half an hour, before Clarke and Eldred finally called off the search.

  “Poor blighter,” Bowen muttered to Lynch as they walked back to their encampment. “Probably thought he could nip out to take a piss, got turned around, and just...wandered off.”

  “Either that, or he went bloody well insane, listening to that cursed howling wind all night long. Nearly drove me mad too, so it did,” Lynch replied.

  “About
that,” Bowen said. “Why did you decide to wait it out with the New Zealanders? They seem like a bunch of good mates, but that couldn’t have been much of a picnic.”

  Lynch gave one final look around them, searching in vain for a man he’d never even spoken to, just one more name on the butcher’s bill. At last, he shook his head, and gestured towards their camp.

  “It doesn’t really matter anymore, does it now? Let’s get back and have a cup of char before it’s all gone.”

  Somewhere in that vast expanse of desert, perhaps even right under their feet, a good soldier of the Commonwealth would rest, undisturbed, until the end of time.

  Chapter 18

  The Brandenburger-Bersaglieri Outpost

  October 31st, 0700 Hours

  The three Autoblindas rolled to a stop, and Steiner was the first man to step foot out of the cars. Stretching, he knuckled his back and twisted his torso from side to side a couple of times to work out the kinks in his spine. When the sandstorm struck, the three cars simply pulled alongside each other, buttoned up, and waited. Some sand made it through the edges of vision ports, and an hours’ work was necessary to make sure the engine and weapons were clear of any sand, but the crews’ only hardship was a long night sleeping in their seats as the wind howled and the sand hissed against the cars’ hulls. Steiner noticed with a frown that the paint had been scoured from several exposed areas along the hull of his car; that’d need attending to, because the bare steel could cause reflections that might give them away to a pair of keen eyes.

  Steiner realized he should be more upset about their losses against the British, but he refused to give in to such childish impulses. He’d been careless, allowed himself to be drawn into a well-prepared ambush by a simple ruse. If one of his officers had suffered such a defeat, Steiner knew he’d be tempted to strip them of rank as punishment for their stupidity. Warfare in the desert left no room for mistakes, and frankly, he was lucky they’d escaped at all; if the British had possessed more cannons, if they’d had something more potent than a bunch of obsolete anti-tank rifles, they’d probably have lost the entire squadron due to his poor judgment.