by Conor Bender
Cutter walked over to a cabinet and grabbed the tea tin. “Just that bulge in your lower back. Walther?”
“Sauer 38H.”
“Small, easy to hide. Preferred for assassinations.”
Talia’s face remained expressionless.
“Did you start carrying that after we ambushed that supply convoy or is that more recent?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it does. Has Amsel been bothering you more?”
“It’s not for Amsel.”
“Who is it for then?”
“You,” she said matter-of-factly, her voice betraying nothing. “If there’s one thing you taught me before you left, it’s that when it comes down to your survival, you will do anything. Therefore, you can’t be trusted.”
Cutter eyed her warily. His stomach tightened and he struggled to keep his face blank. He knew it was unlikely, but in his heart he had hoped their reunion would be a little more amicable. The sanitized disinterest Talia exuded toward him was like a dagger to his heart. All those months trying to keep her at arms length. Cutter had realized it may have been the safe play for Olivier Deschamps, but it was tearing him apart. “Well, I hope to change that quickly.”
CHAPTER 12
Bedlam
Parker checked his watch, the luminous tritium on the hands showing it was 11:30 at night. Carver was late for the rendezvous. If he didn’t show up soon, Parker would have to move without him. The lads were anxious; Parker could feel it in the air. This was the fifth night exercise in as many days, and every time Lord Lovat had thrown a surprise into the exercise for them to react to. Was Carver’s tardiness the wrinkle?
Parker scanned the woods they occupied, his eyes darting back and forth, using his periphery vision to watch for movement. He had thirty minutes to seize the objective.
First Sergeant Adams crouched next to him. “Fox Troop is late, sir.” he said, his Southern drawl smushing the words together, in a sharp contrast to the British accents of the fellow members of Baker Troop.
“I know. We need to make a move.”
“What’re you thinking?”
Parker looked around. They sat at the edge of the woods. Right in front of them was a clearing that led up to a farmer’s house. He had studied the map of the area extensively prior to the exercise and knew that on the opposite side of the field from where they were was a cottage and a barn. Their objective was an individual inside the house.
“We’ve been here nearly an hour, and we’re almost out of time.” Parker bit his lip as his mind raced. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“What part? The fact that our target is in a large, open area, or the fact that we have seen no indication of activity around it?”
“Both.” Parker toyed with the shoulder strap of his Thompson submachine gun, a nervous tic he had developed since Saint-Nazaire. “Screw it. It’s a new moon; no one will be able to see us without firing off a flare. Hold here with Carter’s and Murray’s teams to provide machine gun and sniper cover as required. I’ll take Tarbor’s, Ferguson’s, and Callum’s teams. If we take contact, light them up and we’ll pull back.”
“Will do, sir.”
“We’ll move in five. Go.” Parker duckwalked toward Callum, Ferguson, and Tarbor. “Your teams on me. We’re going in to seize the objective. Ferguson, you will be our base. Halfway to the objective, deploy your team to provide cover. Watch the tree line. Tarbor you will be the support team. Deploy your team fifteen meters before the objective, cover the assault team’s entry. Callum, your team is with me. We’ll seize the objective. Questions?”
As expected, there were none. They had practiced this sort of exercise dozens of times both at night and during the day. They could do this sort of thing in their sleep.
“Step off in three from right here. Go.”
The three team leaders dispersed to go brief their teams. Parker checked his watch. They had twenty minutes to seize the objective. Where the hell was Carver? He was late, but it didn’t matter. Part of being a ranger was being able to improvise; that’s what he was doing.
He scanned the darkness one last time, the hairs on his neck standing on end.
The three teams converged on him and each team leader confirmed they were ready. First Sergeant Adams quickly moved up to Parker. “Ready when you are, sir.”
“Alright. We go now, just like we’ve practiced.” Parker clucked his tongue softly and the assault team moved out.
They moved quietly and deliberately. Parker was in no hurry to make a mistake. He reasoned twenty minutes was plenty of time to seize the house. He continued to scan the field as he moved.
Their pace was slower than a tortoise’s. The assault team was patient; better to be precise and direct than move fast and make a mistake. When they finally reached the halfway mark between the farm and the wood, Ferguson’s team spread out and dropped to the ground and covered Parker and the assault team.
Parker slowly moved, planting his feet deliberately and testing his footing before putting his weight down. They had learned weeks before about the dangers of moving fast at night. Lord Lovat had rigged a number of booby traps during a previous night’s exercise, and Parker’s troop had paid dearly for their mistakes. The morning after they had been forced to endure the punishment of moving fast by having to bear crawl around the parade deck for an hour. It was a mistake Parker refused to make a second time. He inched closer and closer to the cottage.
As they neared the cottage, Tarbor’s team split off and dropped to the ground like Ferguson’s team, laying fields of fire to provide support to Parker and Callum if required.
They were in the home stretch, Parker thought. It took every ounce of discipline for him to not speed up their movement toward the cottage.
They moved up along the wall and it took a minute for Parker to find the door. When he finally found it, he took a moment and strained his ear to listen. He couldn't hear anything inside, but that didn’t mean it was empty. Callum moved up next to Parker and motioned to one of his team members, Corporal Devon, to open the door. The rest of the team set up near the door and prepared to move in.
Corporal Devon quietly worked the door to the cottage; it resisted and creaked slightly but made little noise.
This is it, Parker thought as he moved through the doorway, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He paused a moment and strained his ears. The room was empty.
Callum moved silently past him into the room and paused a moment longer as he listened for a noise. “There’s no one here.”
Parker chewed his lip in silence for a moment as his mind raced. “To hell with it. Fall back to Tarbor’s team. We’ll push back to the treeline. I—”
BANG!
Before he could say any more he was cut off by an explosion. An audible pop emanated from the woods to their right. Parker and Callum exited the house just as a streak of light raced up into the sky from the edge of the woods. It was a flare.
“Contact right!” Devon screamed as the assault team sprawled out in the grass, using whatever uneven terrain they could find for cover.
Parker ducked back behind the door. “We’re gonna catch hell for this, sir,” Callum grunted as he leaned against the wall in a low crouch.
“End of exercise!” a voice called from the wood.
Parker instantly recognized the voice. It was Major Rackham, Lord Lovat’s executive officer.
“Bugger, sir, that’s the exec.” Callum stood up and shouldered his Sten. “You think the old man is with him?”
“Lord Lovat isn’t one to miss an opportunity to observe his commandos at work.” Parker slung his Thompson over his shoulder and walked out of the cottage.
The flare was slowly burning out, but Parker could see Rackham along with Lord Lovat and Carver making their way toward the cottage. Parker turned away from them and
spotted Tarbor and his team moving toward them.
“Tarbor, get the rest of troop over here, please.”
“Right away, sir!” Tarbor turned back toward where the rest of Baker Troop was. “Baker! Rally on the cottage!”
“Good evening, Captain.”
“Good evening, sir. I suppose we weren’t as nimble moving through that field as we thought.”
Lord Lovat shook his head, his face shadowed by the dying light of the flare. “On the contrary, you did well.”
Parker looked at him in confusion.
“The flare was to be fired for two different reasons: conclusion of the exercise at midnight or if we thought the objective was being raided. We had no idea you were conducting the raid,” Major Rackham explained.
“So we didn’t complete the raid in time?” Parker looked over his shoulder and spotted First Sergeant Adams and the rest of Baker Troop standing off at a distance from the four officers, but well within earshot.
“Not necessarily.” Lord Lovat walked over to the cottage and lit a lantern hanging near the door. “You failed to rendezvous with Captain Carver.”
“Yes, sir, Fox Troop failed to meet us at the designated rendezvous point at the appointed time.”
“So you decided to seize the objective on your own?” Lord Lovat demanded, his tone much harsher.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
Parker looked at Carver, his face betrayed nothing. “The mission wasn’t to rendezvous with Fox Troop, it was to seize the cottage. Not having them with us didn’t change the mission.”
Lord Lovat nodded in satisfaction and turned to Major Rackham. “I told you they could handle a wrinkle in the plan.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“I ordered Captain Carver not to rendezvous with you. I wanted to see how your team responded to adversity. And you didn’t disappoint. You made the best of the situation and you accomplished the mission.”
Parker looked at Carver in confusion.
Carver shrugged but gave a weak smile.
“Gentlemen, I've kept my reasons as to why I did this to myself this whole time. Now I will tell you why.” Lord Lovat motioned to First Sergeant Adams and the rest of Baker Troop to come closer.
The troop shuffled up next to Parker and stood silently waiting for Lord Lovat to explain.
Lord Lovat directed his gaze toward the whole troop when he spoke, “The primary mission of commandos as well as rangers is to sabotage, raid, and disrupt enemy operations. This almost always involves us operating alone and deep in enemy territory. Mission success is dependent on a number of things, but the one thing that can determine mission success or mission failure is communication.” Lord Lovat spotted Corporal Tarbor and motioned him forward. “Corporal Tarbor.”
“Yes, sir?” Corporal Tarbor’s eyebrows shot up in surprise that Lord Lovat knew his name.
Parker couldn’t help but suspect that Lord Lovat knew every one of his commando’s names and at least a few details about them.
“Step forward, lad, I’m not the King,” Lord Lovat chuckled in good humor and continued his inquiry. “During your raid on the cottage, what was your team to do if Captain Parker was ambushed?”
Corporal Tarbor stepped forward and hesitated, not keen about being called out and being asked a question by the Lieutenant Colonel. “Sir, if we were ambushed I would lay down cover fire and cover Captain Parker’s and Sergeant Callum’s teams.
“Would you have immediately started firing or would you have waited for orders from Captain Parker?”
Corporal Tarbor balked, “No, sir. I would have started shooting immediately.”
“Why?”
“It’s what needed to be done, sir.”
“Exactly!” Lord Lovat smacked his hands together for emphasis. “It is what needed to be done. Thank you, Corporal Tarbor, that is all. You seem keen to get away from me and back to your mates. I’ll try not to take it personally.”
Tarbor smiled sheepishly and retreated to the safety of his team as a rumble of chuckles swept through the troop.
“Corporal Tarbor is exactly right, he would return fire because that was what needed to be done. He understood that if he didn’t return fire, Captain Parker wouldn’t be able to finish the raid and therefore the mission would be a failure. Here in No. 4 Commandos I don’t need some slack-jawed fool who can follow orders. I need critical thinkers who can both understand verbal orders and the intent of what we’re doing.” Lord Lovat pointed at Captain Parker. “Fox Troop failed to rendezvous, so Captain Parker, knowing that the mission was the seizure of the cottage, improvised and accomplished the mission anyway. In other words, communication failed but he was able to operate alone.” Lord Lovat turned back to the Troop. “Why do you think I’m putting such emphasis on this?”
“Because in combat things never go according to plan, sir,” Sergeant Callum announced.
Lord Lovat flashed a grin that glowed yellow in the lantern light. “Sergeant Callum is absolutely right! He took part in the Saint-Nazaire raid; he knows exactly what happens when things don’t go according to plan.” He pointed at the troop. “Some of you have conducted raids, others haven’t. In the end, raids can go horribly wrong. Things get confusing, leaders are killed, the enemy does something we didn’t want them to, but one thing is constant . . . ,” he paused for effect, “that you are all commandos and the bedlam of a raid is your bread and butter.” A cacophony of satisfied chuckles echoed through the commandos as Lord Lovat said this.
“You all know we have a mission coming, we just don’t know where. What I can tell you is that it’s soon, and I am confident that with the intensity of training you have undergone, we will succeed wherever Command sends us.” Lord Lovat turned to Parker. “Well done, Captain. Get the lads home. We will finish the debrief in the morning.”
“We doing bear crawls tomorrow, sir?” a commando called from the darkness.
“I think you’ve earned the morning off.”
Parker grinned as the rest of his troop let out a roar of approval. He couldn’t help but feel that whatever their mission was it wouldn’t be a repeat of Saint-Nazaire. His boys were trained and professional. Whatever Command had in store for them, No. 4 Commandos would excel past expectations.
***
Squadron Leader Faraday killed the power to his engine and started to climb out of the cockpit of his Spitfire. Both Sergeant Roland and Flying Lieutenant Chris Vance, Faraday’s executive officer, stood next to his wing waiting for him.
“Oh joy, if it isn't the Angel of Death and Satan himself.”
“I’ll assume Sergeant Roland is Satan,” Vance chuckled. “How was the flight?”
“Didn’t see a thing.” Faraday looked across the runway at another Spitfire that was shutting down.
“Any issue, sir?” Roland asked. “If so, I could always make them worse. After all, I am Lucifer.”
“No, she flew great. And I’ll keep that in the back of my mind from now on, thank you.” He started to walk toward the other Spitfire.
Vance followed after Faraday. “Sir, I have a few fuel requests and ammunition requests I need you to sign when you get a chance.”
“Will do, Vance,” Faraday said, not entirely listening. He was hyperfocused on the pilot hopping out of the Spitfire.
Vance noticed where Faraday was focusing his attention. “Who is that? O’Brien?”
“No, he knows better. One of our new blokes. Chapman.”
“Oh, I see.” Vance smirked. “Well, don’t kill him, sir. We are short of pilots, after all.”
“I’ll see you in the shack.”
Vance nodded and walked off.
Chapman hopped down off the wing. He was the latest addition to 71 Squadron and barely looked older than twenty. A youthful grin covered his face, no doubt due to the exhilaration after doi
ng a barrel roll over the runway on his approach.
“You stupid bastard!” Faraday roared as he got closer.
Chapman’s grin evaporated.
“How many damn times have I said we don’t do victory rolls over the bloody runway?” Chapman wasn’t the only one witnessing Faraday’s wrath. The majority of the squadron was lingering on the lawn next to the runway on standby. A few snickers could be heard among them, as well as a few groans as one or two recalled getting their ass chewed by Faraday as well.
“I—” Chapman started to speak but was cut down by Faraday.
“No! You don’t talk, you listen! If I ever see you do another feckless act like that again in my aircraft, I’ll make sure you never fly again. Understand.”
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”
“It better not. Go debrief, then you will assist Sergeant Roland’s mechanics with a full inspection of your aircraft to ensure that nothing was broken from your little maneuver.”
“Right away, sir,” Chapman barked, the look on his face a combination of embarrassment and fear.
Faraday looked at him for a moment and softened his tone. “I don’t have time for fools. I need competent pilots. You have the makings of one, but you aren’t there yet.” He jerked his head toward the ready room. “Go debrief, then get back out here.”
“Right away, sir,” Chapman repeated and took off. As he passed the lawn he received a handful of catcalls from the rest of the squadron.
Faraday shook his head and made his way back to his office where Vance was waiting for him.
“Is Chapman still in a flight status?”
“For now, yes.” Faraday unzipped his Mae West and hung it on the coat rack in his office. He took off his bomber jacket and hung it as well and sat down. “What am I signing?”
“Ammunition requests for our guns.”
“How many rounds?”
“One hundred thousand.”
Faraday grunted, “That should hold us over for a month.” He signed at the bottom of the request and handed it back to Vance who gave him another request.
“This is for fuel.”
