Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  Underestimating the enemy wasn’t going to happen again.

  Steiner looked up as Feldwebel Arno Bauer, the Brandenburger who’d masqueraded as “Archie” when they’d ambushed the British convoy, walked over carrying a mess tin and a cup of coffee.

  “You look like you could use some breakfast, Hauptmann,” Bauer said, glancing at the large bullet holes in the Autoblindas’ armour plate.

  “What I could use,” Steiner replied, “would be the rest of my armoured car squadron. But since I doubt that’s on the menu this morning, purloined British rations and some bad coffee will have to do.”

  “Sir, I am offended!” Bauer said with a tone of humor in his voice. “My coffee might not be up to the standards of the officers’ mess, but you’ve never called it bad before.”

  Steiner smiled. “I’m just being a bit contrary this morning, Arno. Sleeping in the command seat of an armoured car during a sandstorm will do that. How did everyone fare here, by the way?”

  Bauer shrugged. “The British were less than enthused. We tied them up in the back of two transports so they weren’t so exposed, but I’m sure it was a rough night nonetheless. For the rest, the Italians and our boys handled it as good soldiers would, with little compliant. The men are busy tending to the vehicles and weapons now. I imagine in an hour, we’ll be ready for anything.”

  Steiner nodded and took the coffee cup from Bauer. He drank half of its steaming contents in one gulp, wincing as the hot liquid passed down his throat. He handed the cup back and took the offered plate, occasionally spooning beans and beef into his mouth as the two men discussed the details of his failed attack.

  Finishing his breakfast and looking around, Steiner saw the Bersaglieri clearing sand from the engines of their remaining vehicles, while Italians and Germans worked together to make sure the cannons, machine guns, and mortars were ready for battle. The British prisoners had been transferred back to their holding area, and several Italians were serving them breakfast and water rations, all under the watchful eyes of guards carrying Beretta machine pistols.

  Although national pride would never let Steiner admit the crack Italian infantry were the equal of Heer troops, he had to admit they were the finest non-German infantry he’d ever seen in action. Rommel had performed quite the feat of political acrobatics in order to get these men assigned to his command, and their experience in the desert more than made up for any possible deficiencies they might have as soldiers.

  Approaching the British prisoners, Steiner’s gaze sought out their officer, Lewis. The man stood, unfed, watching the Italians and making sure every one of his men was taken care of before he took his morning meal. Steiner nodded to himself; Lewis was a good officer, for an Englander. Steiner hoped Lewis wouldn’t do anything stupid, and that one day, after the war was over, they could meet again as friends.

  Lewis saw Steiner approaching. Looking past the German, Lewis noticed there were only three Autoblindas. A faint smile graced his lips.

  “It appears you ran into a spot of trouble, Captain,” Lewis said. “And your uniform needs a bit of a scrub.”

  Steiner looked down at his clothes. After escaping the ambush, he’d used sand to scour most of the blood and gore from his uniform, but it was still stained with the remains of his gunner. He’d also torn away his left pant leg at the knee in order to clean and bandage the wound in his calf. Not exactly ready for the parade grounds, Steiner thought to himself.

  “Yes, make your jokes,” he replied to Lewis. “Ten good soldiers are dead or captured, thanks to your comrades in the so-called Desert Group.”

  The flicker of a frown crossed Lewis’ features. It was all the confirmation Steiner needed. “So, that was not the Desert Group we encountered. They must have sent someone else - perhaps a force of your Commando raiders? We are aware of them, of course. If that is the case, the next few days will be more interesting than anything we’ve experienced out here so far. I have been hoping to do battle against England’s finest.”

  Lewis merely shrugged. “Can’t rightly say, Captain. Seems you’ve come to your own conclusions.”

  “You’re a good soldier, Herr Lewis,” Steiner said, turning and walking away. “But try not to get too clever.”

  Steiner walked back to Bauer, who was talking with their radio operator a respectful distance away. Steiner handed Bauer his empty plate and took the cup of coffee, finishing it in a couple of swallows. The coffee had cooled to a more comfortable temperature. The radioman saluted and handed Steiner a folded, decoded message. Steiner took a minute to read and digest its contents.

  Station MM compromised local assets captured before sterilization could be completed brothers lost to enemy strike force be prepared for attack on your location most likely British commando troops and motorized assets use best judgement in holding or falling back from current position Heil Hitler long live the glorious Third Reich

  Steiner pointed to the radioman’s uniform blouse pocket and the man produced a cigarette lighter. Steiner took it and set fire to the message, which flared to ashes in seconds. He handed the lighter back to the radioman and dismissed him with a salute. As the man walked away, Steiner turned to his Feldwebel.

  “We’ve lost our intelligence assets in Mersa Matruh,” he told Bauer, “and our infiltration team there has been killed. The British have sent a special unit against us. Commando raiders.”

  “What are you going to do?” Bauer asked.

  “I made a mistake yesterday, and paid for it dearly. They ambushed us with anti-tank rifles and a light cannon. The storm no doubt concealed our tyre tracks, but it is possible they’ll find us eventually. We need to be ready when they come for us.”

  “Do you think they’ll have armour?” Bauer asked.

  “It’s not armour I’m worried about,” Steiner replied.

  “What then? Artillery? The RAF?”

  “No, we can deal with those in one fashion or another,” Steiner said a little too quickly. He turned and looked back out over the desert to the east, squinting into the rising sun.

  “What concerns me most,” Steiner finally answered, “are men who aren’t afraid of the dark.”

  Chapter 19

  Five Miles East Of The Outpost

  October 31st, 1500 Hours

  “Got you, you blighters.”

  Lynch turned and looked at Jack Lawless as the New Zealander handed him the field glasses.

  “A few points to the left, that low hill,” Lawless said.

  The two men lay against the eastern edge of a small sand dune. Several hundred yards behind them, the rest of the convoy had stopped, and other men with field glasses - the three captains and several others - were prone behind other low sand mounds, looking out across the desert towards their target. Bowen and the men in the scout car had spotted the fortress an hour ago, and had waited for the rest of the convoy to arrive, waving them to a halt a mile away so they could approach slowly and reduce their dust plume.

  Lynch brought the glasses to his eyes, and in a few seconds, he found their target. The hill was miles away, and if Lawless hadn’t given him some idea of where to look, he might have missed the fortress, but the artificial structure was just barely visible; a rectangular bump on the top of a shallow, rocky hill. Between the fortress and their location there were a few small dunes, but nothing large enough to conceal the approach of almost twenty vehicles.

  “If they’ve got a light field gun or some heavy mortars,” Lynch muttered, “we’ll be bracketed and smashed to pieces before we get within range of anything we’re carrying ourselves. And they’ll be seeing us long before we’re even in range of their guns.”

  Lawless nodded. “A mug’s game for sure. If we had a squadron of A-9s or Crusaders, this might be different. But our girls and your great bloody lumbering oxen would get chopped into buzzard bait by a couple of spandaus, never mind anything heavier. And you bloody well know they’ve got more than a couple of spandaus up there.”

  “Three armour
ed cars, to be sure,” Lynch replied. “And this time, we won’t be so lucky. Couldn’a get within a thousand yards with those Boys rifles, and at that range, might as well be shooting at those cars with my bloody Thompson.”

  Both men heard movement and rolled over to see several men from Lynch’s squad approaching. Price, McTeague, Nelson, and Bowen walked over to the base of the dune. As the others used their field glasses, Bowen unslung his rifle and climbed up the dune, laying down next to Lynch and peering through the optics of his Lee-Enfield. Although his sniper scope had lower magnification than Lawless’ field glasses, it took Bowen only a moment to grunt in satisfaction as he spotted the enemy base.

  “Put me at the top of that fort,” he said to no one in particular, “and no one could get within a thousand yards without a bullet in ‘em.”

  “Do you think the Germans have someone with your degree of skill, Corporal?” Price asked mildly.

  Bowen shrugged, his eye still peering through the scope. “They don’t need a me, they just need a good mortar or MG team. There’s a mile-wide kill zone around that hill flat as my mother’s frying pan. And you know they’ve got range stakes posted, interlocking fields of fire, beaten zones all mapped out. Jerry is a particularly methodical animal when given a bit of time to dig in, sir.”

  A meeting between all the officers and their NCOs was held immediately. Clarke, Moody, and Eldred debated strategies for attacking the enemy fort, while Price, along with the Commando, armoured car, and New Zealander non-commissioned officers, mostly listened on, only speaking when asked questions about their men or war gear. Moody favored a swift armoured assault, using the Autoblinda and the two Morris cars to spearhead an attack with the LRDG Chevrolets sweeping in along the flanks, laying down covering fire. Eldred preferred a more infantry-based approach, setting up a base of fire at the extreme range of their support weapons, while working men forward in ones and twos, giving the Germans no easy targets, until they were able to bring the men together for one final assault. Clarke, whose force was trained for reconnaissance rather than combat, advocated a more long-sighted approach. He thought perhaps encircling the fort and radioing for reinforcements, while at the same time preventing a breakout, might be the better bet.

  Time passed, and the sun continued to slide towards the western horizon. Finally, when the debate had reached a lull, Price cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the three superior officers.

  “No need to be so coy, David,” Eldred said. “We’re clearly not getting anywhere. Out with it.”

  “I want to meet him,” Price replied.

  Moody frowned. “Who?”

  Price tipped his head to the west. “Their commanding officer. I want to meet him. We don’t know anything about these Germans; we don’t know their full strength, or how well-provisioned they are. We don’t know if their commanding officer is an unimaginative ass, or if he’s going to be a crafty little fox and give us nothing but trouble. We need to know who we’re dealing with.”

  “He’s a Brandenburg officer,” Eldred replied. “He’s not going to be a lock-step Jerry or a bloodthirsty SS dropout. He’s going to be a clever bastard, make no mistake.”

  “I still say we make contact. If he’s got half a brain, he’ll know we’re already out here, somewhere,” Price said.

  “And you want to confirm his suspicions? You’re giving up any element of surprise,” Clarke pointed out.

  “I think it’s worth the risk,” Price answered.

  The three captains remained silent for a moment. Finally, Eldred let out a short laugh and shook his head. “Durnford-Slater warned me about you, David. Fine, take two men. We’re clearly scratching our heads trying to think of anything better to do and failing. If you ask Captain Clarke here nicely, maybe he’ll give you the keys to his scout car.”

  Price turned to look at the New Zealander captain. Clarke rolled his eyes and pointed over his shoulder towards the car with his thumb. “Not so much as a scratch, y’hear mate? Scratch it, and you better not bother coming back.”

  Price shot him a salute. “Yes, Captain!”

  A few feet away, Lynch leaned over to Bowen. “Don’t see this turning out very well, so I don’t.”

  Price overheard, and turned to look at the two men. “For your sake, Corporal, I hope you’re wrong. Because you’re the two chaps I’m bringing with me. Prepare your kit, we’re leaving in five minutes.”

  Half an hour later, the three Commandos sat in the scout car, baking in the late afternoon sun as it beat down on their bodies with a fury that seemed to only increase as the minutes ticked away, and Lynch suspected it was the desert’s way of telling them this was a bad idea.

  “This was a bad idea,” Bowen said. He peered at the fortress through a pair of field glasses, the structure only half a mile away. “We’re well within range of a German medium mortar, and practically point-blank range for a light howitzer. One hit and we’ll be nothing but scrap metal and rendered meat.”

  Price had insisted on getting dangerously near to the enemy; he wanted the sniper’s keen eye poring over every visible inch of the base while they could get this close. Lynch sat in the driver’s seat, his Thompson locked and loaded at his feet. They’d stripped the Lewis gun from its pintle mount as a sign of good faith, replacing it with a large white towel on a spare wireless antenna. Price merely sat in the front passenger seat, his feet propped on the car’s dash, and sipped lukewarm tea from his canteen, officer’s cap pulled down low over his eyes.

  “A bit too late to be second-guessing your superior officer, don’t you think?” Price asked Bowen.

  “I think you’re right, because here they come,” Bowen announced.

  A few moments later, a dust plume could be seen, growing in size and coming their way. A small vehicle was traveling towards them at high speed, and as the seconds passed, they could see the familiar shape of a German Kübelwagen.

  “Did you stop and think now, about the last time we spoke to a Nazi officer?” Lynch asked.

  “You mean Faust?” Price replied.

  “Aye.”

  “I think of that moment every day. Don’t you?”

  “Aye, that I do. And not fondly, either.”

  “Do you expect things to go the same way right now?”

  “Lieutenant, I’ve learned to expect nothing, and prepare for everything. That’s why I’ve got a loaded Thompson at my feet and a cocked pistol in my hand.”

  “Well then,” Price replied with a smile. “I’ve nothing to worry about. Look alive now, our guests have arrived.”

  The Kübelwagen rolled to a stop fifty yards away. They could see three men in the vehicle, and two of them climbed out. One of them was dressed as an Afrika Korps officer, while the other was his sergeant. Both of them wore sidearms, but neither had a weapon at hand.

  Price swung his feet down off the dash and began to climb out of the car. “Corporal Bowen, wish us luck, and make sure there’s a round in the chamber of your rifle.”

  Bowen reached over and patted his Lee-Enfield, sitting on the seat next to him. “I’ve checked three times, sir. Good luck.”

  “And don’t bloody miss, Rhys,” Lynch added.

  “Do I ever?” Bowen asked.

  “Don’t start now,” Lynch replied.

  Lynch stepped out of the car and casually tucked his .45 automatic into the small of his back. He also had a grenade clipped to his belt, just in case. He and Price fell in step together as they approached the Germans, who were also walking forward to meet them halfway. With a sidelong glance, Lynch noted that Price had the flap of his pistol holster undone.

  “Do you have a round chambered, sir?” Lynch asked.

  “Do you even have to ask?” Price replied.

  Ten feet apart, the two parties stopped. Lynch saw the two men were lean and sun-burnt, appearing much like the men of the Desert Group. Both had the look of veteran fighting men, but while they appeared cautious, neither had the look of disdain or smugness he’d se
en so many times in the faces of German soldiers.

  Price saluted the German. “Lieutenant David Price, Three Commando.”

  The German returned Price’s salute. “Hauptmann Karl Steiner, Regiment Brandenburg.”

  A long moment passed in silence, and then Steiner cleared his throat. “I must apologize,” he said.

  “For what?” Price asked.

  “For underestimating you yesterday. That was very foolish of me, and it cost me the lives of ten men, as well as three vehicles.”

  “Two of your men survived the attack.”

  “You have them under guard?”

  “We do. They are being treated fairly. They comported themselves with great discipline, and only admitted to having knowledge of your British prisoners of war after we found the purloined field glasses.”

  Steiner nodded. “Ah, yes. Lieutenant Lewis. He and his men are well, if a bit more brown than the last time Englishmen laid eyes on them. But their needs are being met. I do not believe in mistreating prisoners.”

  “I appreciate that. I have had dealings, in the past, with German officers who weren’t so professional.”

  “That is unfortunate. I would apologize for their behavior as well, but if I continue, soon you would have me apologizing for the entire war.”

  “So, you condone Hitler’s actions?”

  Steiner glanced down at the dust on his boots. “It is not for a simple soldier such as myself to judge the policies and decisions of my superiors. I will leave it at that.”

  “Understood.”

  “Now then,” Steiner looked up and met Price’s eyes. “I hope you do not insult me by offering terms.”

  Price shook his head. “I think that would be a little premature. Your position appears quite defensible.”