THE ADVENTURES OF
KAT’S COMMANDOS
The Declassified History of World War II
Kat’s Rats
BOOK 2
Copyright 2018 © Michael Beals
Cover Art
By Michael Beals
All pictures contained herein are public domain, courtesy of either the Imperial War Museum (UK) or the Bundesarchiv (Germany).
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously or are just the fevered products of the author’s twisted imagination.
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
Kat and the Desert Eagle
Acronyms/ Slang/ Terminology
CHAPTER 1
El Alamein
Afrika Korps Forward Command Post, 1942
“I’m telling you, something’s off. This is just too easy.” Kat whisper-growled over her shoulder, both hands busy guiding the limp sack in her arms to the ground without a jingle.
A few feet away, Sergeant Dore’s blade bounced off his target’s rib instead of piercing straight into the lungs. He compensated by snaking a hairy paw around the German Feldwebel’s windpipe and clamping down. Hefting the gurgling man off his steel seat with one arm, Dore pile-drove the NAZI’s nose into the open breach of the 88mm antiaircraft gun.
“Easy? We’ve been dodging patrols all night just to creep this close. And from what I can tell, we’ve still got at least two more layers of defenses to go. What would you call hard?”
“How about having to do this again?” On the other side of the gun, Captain Stewart snapped off hand signals to several of his Long Range Desert Group Commandos. Leaning over the barrel, he jabbed his dripping knife towards the far-eastern horizon where the never-ending fireworks show from several artillery regiments blasting at once lit up the night better than a full moon.
“I reckon that slaughter over there must have moved two to three klicks east since nightfall. If it’s true that this Rommel guy always leads from the front, he’ll probably be moving out soon. No chance to call in the airstrike. Time for Plan B.”
Kat flashed her pearly whites in the darkness, but Colonel Trufflefoot tiptoed over a twitching German and cut her off. He raised his binoculars over the sandbags and harrumphed at the Arab village about five hundred meters away. Not a single local could be seen as scores of Germans buzzed about. More than a dozen hasty bunkers ringed the village, striving to blend in with rubble piles and small outbuildings.
The crude shelters were little more than large holes in the sand cut by bulldozers, with a shipping container shoved inside, its roof covered by a half meter of sand—more than enough camouflage and protection to ward off airstrikes, of course.
But gift-wrapped targets for a ground-assault team.
Colonel Trufflefoot scratched his cockeyed nose, his thrice-broken snout giving the glorified history professor a rugged new flair. “We still don’t know which one the Field Marshal uses for his headquarters. That courier we caught only knew which village he’s held up in. At least let the RAF pound the General area before we run in there like it’s happy hour at the OK Corral.”
Over the rumble of artillery, several German Command Cars and half-tracks cranked up in the village. Kat and her team were way too far out to see details, but a cluster of gray-suited men marched out of the largest bunker. A half-dozen vehicles clustered around them as one of the Officers in the half-tracks jumped down, snapping off a parade-ground perfect salute at a man in the middle of the group.
“Too late, boss. Maybe you should have stayed in the intel office.” Kat balanced her machine gun on the sandbags, gilding it with several extra belts of gleaming bronze jewelry as the rest of the men fanned out.
Trufflefoot flashed a grin and hefted up an armor-piercing 88mm round. “What, and let you kids have all the fun? Sergeant Dore, do you know how to work this bloody thing? Captain Stewart, we’ll pin them down. Think you and your boys can finish the job?”
“Roger that. Let’s get this party started.” Stewart dived over the sandbags and charged down the backside of the hill, blowing a quick whistle. Six shadows waiting below cranked up and roared over.
Sergeant Dore hollered at the crew of the last truck. “Capson, Atkins! Quit playing cowboys and Injuns. Give us a hand.”
A shiny new buck Sergeant hopped off the truck’s machine guns and bunny-hopped over. His voice cracked as he tried to bark like Dore over his shoulder. “Move it, Corporal! You wanna live forever?”
Trailing well behind Sergeant Capson, Corporal Atkins shuffled up, growling under his breath. “That’s the plan! You blasted, walking, talking recruitment poster!” Atkins cussed as he cranked the 88’s barrel away from the sky. “That’s why I still tag along with you war junkies.”
Dore slammed the breach and clapped Capson on the back as the younger man fine-tuned the gunner’s sight. Trufflefoot hovered behind them, a fresh cannon shell in each hand. While the men readied their toy and waited for the signal, Kat peered around the sandbags into the darkness a few hundred meters to their right. A single red-lens flashlight blinked twice.
“All right. Stewart and his boys are in place. Let’s ring the doorbell—”
Kat dropped the hammer, finishing her thought with a fountain of flames in the darkness. Downrange, Rommel levitated out of his half-track as the armor-piercing shell careened through the back ramp. Shards of steel and bone sprayed out of the open-top track as the round shredded everything in its way and ricocheted off the engine block a millisecond later.
“High Explosives up!” Trufflefoot rammed a fresh round in the smoking breach before the sound of the blast washed over them. Capson sighted in on another target before Dore could even close and prime the gun. With Kat spraying ten-round bursts from her MG42, their gun nest wasn’t quiet for a single moment.
Atkins shouted something over the roar as Capson fired the mammoth AAA gun again. Another half-track 500 yards away cartwheeled several times before impaling a five-ton supply truck nearby—one way overloaded with boom-boom gear.
Kat popped the latch on top and threaded a fresh 100-round belt of ammo into her gun while the blast hid all her targets. Not that the shooting ever stopped. A line of muzzle flashes rolled across the village outskirts as soon as her gun went silent. She whipped up her binoculars and caught the last of the LRDG trucks slipping inside a narrow alley.
With a horde of Chevy-driving Mongols barreling downtown, a gaggle of rear-echelon support troops tossed up hasty barricades in the street. The Germans even had the nerve to squirt off a few shots from their spotlessly clean rifles.
“Get some!” Kat joined in the game, spraying long-distance bursts, but the LRDG’s return fire cut down half the defenders before she found the range. Stewart waved his team forward from the lead truck and without pause, his driver crashed through the roadblock, sending a dozen or so stunned Krauts shuffling around, their hands held high.
“Shift fire left! Our guys are on the target
!”
While the massive cannon barrel behind her clanked a few degrees, Kat slapped her binoculars against the MG42’s stock. Keeping both eyes open, she peered through the binoculars with her left pupil while never taking the right off her gun sights.
Stewart’s truck cleared the alley and raced into the open town square, fifty meters away from Rommel’s bunker.
Instead of giving a whoop, Kat dropped her binoculars and gun as the earth jumped up and swallowed the entire east side of the village. A whole block full of screaming civilians and confused Germans simply evaporated, as well as the rest of Ghost Patrol.
“Call off the airstrike! Friendlies in the blast zone!” Kat screeched over the shockwave and flapped her arms.
Dore peeked over the 88’s breach. “What? There’s no air cover?”
“Get down!”
Atkins leaped over the gun and tackled both Dore and Capson into the dirt. Kat opened her mouth to holler, but the 88 splitting into flaming halves cut her off. Scorching shrapnel sliced her a hundred ways. She ripped off her dented helmet and spat out the dust. Kat saw the incoming shell wasn’t from the village.
In the dark, something big clanked their way a few hundred yards behind the gun pit.
Kat quit searching for her missing machine gun and sprinted through the sandstorm. She made it halfway to their jeep, eyes locked on the bazooka tube jutting out the back when another giant tracer flicked by and ripped the jeep into aluminum confetti.
“Run!” Kat yelled from where she lay on the ground, tugging out her sidearm. Trufflefoot shuffled towards her instead of escaping, both hands reaching for the sky.
Behind him, a squad of well-armed Germans shoved Capson and Atkins out of the smoking gun pit. Dore needed a buttstock to the solar plexus before he saw the light and acquiesced. Kat sprang to her feet and turned her back on the spectacle.
“Oh, hell no. We’re not doing this again!” She leveled her 9mm at the hulking panzer grinding to a stop feet away.
Instead of a flash from the swiveling bow machine gun, the turret hatch cracked open. She snapped off a quick shot at the snickering shadow popping out.
The tank Commander chuckled even louder as a pair of Krauts swooped out of the dark and tackled her from behind. Crawling out of his armored cocoon, the Captain perched on the turret’s edge and grinned down at his catch. Kat spat bloody sand from her swollen lips and snarled at the twin lightning bolts flashing on his collar when he lit a cigarette.
“Careful with her. This has to be the redhead the Oberführer wants so badly. Can you believe they attacked exactly like he said? I tell you, the man’s a mind reader.”
Kat’s rage flickered off for a moment when the SS marched her team back to the village and corralled her with the other prisoners—the few still breathing.
“My God…Captain, I’m sorry. This was all my idea!”
Captain Stewart shook his head. Both hands busy pumping away on his driver’s chest. He pinched the kid’s nose and gave his cold lips another pointless breath. Kat pried the Captain back and wrapped an arm around him. With the other, she closed the driver’s eyelids and muttered a prayer—in German, the best way to catch God’s attention.
She didn’t get past “Our father” before the laughter cut her off. At least twenty SS men circled Kat and the dozen other survivors. None moved to help, even the two with red crosses on their helmets.
“You sons of—” Kat lunged at the closest medic. A pair of hairy arms caught her in midair, patting her head while dragging her away from the sub-machine guns tracking her face.
“Easy, Lass. Save it. Don’t forget what we came here for…” He nodded past the SS guards at a cluster of pissed-off Wehrmacht Officers marching their way.
Kat locked eyes with the oldest of the bunch and relaxed. For all of two seconds. The same Captain from the tank snapped a radio mic back in place on his radio operator’s back, spun on the prisoners and pointed a thin finger at Kat, then Trufflefoot.
“Oberführer Pernass will be here in a few minutes. He wants to chat with the girl and the old man here. As for the rest…”
The circle of SS troops coalesced into a firing line in seconds, every muzzle flicking up, every safety off at the same time.
“We all know the Fuhrer’s General orders about captured Commandos, execute on sight.”
Kat howled and spread out her arms, doing her best to stand in front of all the men at the same time.
The Captain chuckled. “Shoot for her knees if she’s in your line of fire. I’m sure the Oberführer would understand.”
While Kat spread herself wide, Dore kicked her in the lower back, knocking the girl face-first into the sand. He drew himself upright and growled. “What are you lazy cunts waiting on? Let’s see if you bas’s can shoot straight, for once.”
“Halt!”
Even Kat froze at the iron in that Command. An unimposing Wehrmacht General, sporting dirty tanker goggles around his neck, strolled up to the firing line. He never raised his voice as he grunted in German. His beady fox eyes slapped every SS man backward.
“Just what is going on here, Captain Sparmann?”
“Ah, just some of those Long Range Desert Group Commandos trying to take you out, sir. Not to worry, though. We’ve been waiting since yesterday to close the trap.”
Rommel furrowed his leathery, sun-scarred brow. “The Aussies and New Zealanders? My, my. Now that’s the only thing about tonight that makes any sense. You mean to tell me you knew they were coming? Why wasn’t my staff informed?”
The Field Marshal tapped his foot gently against the sand as his huddled staffers gasped at the Prussian equivalent of throwing a temper tantrum. Captain Sparmann beamed and kept running his mouth.
“It’s all right, sir. I have everything in hand. I won’t bore you with the details. I’m sure you understand that secrecy was necessary. Now we just have to process the prisoners, as the Fuhrer commands…”
Sparmann cleared his throat and raised a finger. General Rommel clasped his hands behind his back, the field marshal’s version of blowing his top. The soldiers nearby squirmed and slid away as a platoon of regular German infantry charged forward with their weapons high and circled the field marshal, leaving the frowning SS Captain on the outside.
“Did I ask for the Fuhrer’s opinion? Let alone yours? The Geneva Conventions apply to all prisoners of war taken under my Command.”
The Captain cleared his throat. “Sir, with all due respect, I have orders from Oberführer Pernass himself. The Gestapo is independent and in charge of prisoner processing—”
“My apologies, Captain. Did I phrase that as a question?”
Sparmann hyperventilated as the Desert Fox gave the young man his full attention. After three false starts, he managed to croak at his Stormtroopers. “Stand dow…down!”
The Field Marshal never moved a muscle, not letting up the barrage in his glare as the Captain wilted and took a step back.
“I really don’t like repeating myself. Why was I not informed of a Gestapo operation under my very nose? Especially one using my own men as bait? There was no need for all this killing. We could have done this like gentlemen—surprised these Commandos with overwhelming force on their approach and then sent out emissaries to take them all without a shot fired. Instead, look how many of my boys you’ve pissed away just for fun. So what shall I do about that? Give me one reason why you shouldn’t join these people in a prisoner camp.”
“I…uh…sir, I’m just following orders. Please understand, these aren’t run-of-the-mill raiders. This Trufflefoot character is a big shot in the Brit’s intel section. And the girl is an assassin. Probably MI6 or SIS. This was all
Oberführer Pernass’s idea. He leaked the location of your headquarters to draw these rats out.”
Rommel froze and raised his voice ever so slightly—a full-throated scream, by his standards.
“Interesting. Some might call that treason. Are you a traitor too, Captain?”
“Ah…um…sir, I’m—please wait a few more minutes for the Oberführer. He can brief you on everything.”
Rommel shoved his hands in his pockets and worked his jaw. “Indeed. I’m sure he’ll talk my ear off. Maybe even whine to Hitler himself… I have no time to bother with the damn Gestapo and your psychotic games.”
He sniffed at the artillery rumbling in the distance. Switching to English, Rommel waved Colonel Trufflefoot over.
“Please come here, sir.” The Field Marshal grinned at the fire in Kat’s eyes as she stalked forward as well. “Ah, ah. Not you, Fraulein. I may be soft-hearted, but I’m not suicidal. You keep those pretty coiled muscles of yours far away from me.”
Trufflefoot pushed his bent spectacles back up his nose and snapped off a stiff salute. Rommel returned the courtesy. “So, Colonel. I recognize a fellow gentleman when I see one. I just saved the lives of your people. Would you like to help me save more?” He flicked his wrist, and a staffer shoved a map in his hand, already folded to display the battlefront ahead.
“Perhaps in return for my leniency, you could do me the professional courtesy of pointing out where your 8th Army’s reserves are massed? With a quick, clean victory, think about how many lives on both sides, we could spare. As you can see, your prisoners will be treated humanely. It’s just a war, after all. Nothing personal. No reason to act like barbarians.”
Trufflefoot hung his head and took a deep breath. “Well, when you put it that way, I suppose there is one thing you could do.”
While Kat cackled and whistled, the stodgy old professor snagged the map from Rommel’s hand and shoved it down the back of his pants. He flung the crinkled mess back in the field marshal’s face and saluted again — this time with only one finger.
Kat's Rats Page 1
