The Steel Fist

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Ten commandos, each consisting of ten troops comprising three officers and fifty N.C.Os and privates, were to be formed.

  The only way to identify these paragons was to call for volunteers; but without revealing any military secrets.

  Each Army Command was instructed to seek volunteers for “special service of a hazardous nature”.

  Taggart, seeing an announcement in unit Orders, applied for an interview with his Colonel.

  “I’ll be sorry to lose you, Rodney; but I think you’re exactly the sort of chap they’re looking for. I’ll forward your application with a strong recommendation. All I can tell you is that the C.Os for the new units are being chosen by War Office from officer volunteers under the age of forty. They’ll have the rank of lieutenant-colonel. They in turn will choose their subordinate commanders. Good luck, dear boy.”

  Taggart was astonished to be summoned to an interview on the following day. He was confronted by a hard-looking man with a blue chin and angry dark eyes who said “My name’s Beauchamp-Ballantrae. Sit down. I see your Colonel has recommended you for an M.C. I gather you’re familiar with the Thompson submachine-gun? Tell me about your experience of patrolling in front of The Maginot Line... and about your actions on the way to Dunkirk.”

  Later, the newly-promoted lieutenant-colonel said “We’re forming each commando on the basis of personal responsibility. As C.O., I’m picking my two-i-c, a major, and ten troop leaders; captains. Each troop leader will select his own two subalterns: they, together, will select fifty N.C.Os and troops.

  “I’m afraid I can’t offer you command of a troop: you’re not senior enough and you’re still rather young. But I’d like to see you in One Hundred Commando and I’ll make a recommendation to my troop leaders to regard you as a good candidate.”

  The first troop commander who interviewed Taggart was tall, thin and lantern-jawed, with a long nose that had evidently been broken, for it had a deviation to the right — suggesting a right-handed punch from someone at some time — and a high bump on the bridge. His hair was fair and had not been subjected to a strictly military cut. His blue-green eyes did not appear to take life seriously.

  “Abberley,” he said. “I was in Norway with the Colonel. You’ve been having rather an undue share of action in France, I hear?”

  “No more than most people, I think.”

  “I don’t think most people had the chance to take fighting patrols out between The Maginot Line and the Boche frontier. Isn’t that what one calls them, or is it too frightfully nineteen-fourteen?”

  “Boches?”

  “Yes.”

  “Officers who were in the last show often do. I think they’re Jerries to most of us. ‘Old Jerry’, in a kind of reproachful disparagement, to the squaddies, as a rule.”

  “Well, anyway, you’ve seen a fair amount of Jerry in action and you’re used to night patrols and that sort of thing... stealth, what? And, by all accounts, you know the Tommy gun and you throw a pretty grenade.”

  Amused, Taggart grinned.

  “I suppose that’s a fair summary.”

  “Good. One does try to be fair.” Abberley hoisted an eyebrow. “Be glad to have you in the troop. Dart off back to your unit, will you, and fetch your kit. By the time you’re back I’ll have found the other half— your opposite number — and the three of us can pick the N.C.Os and troops.

  “By the way, I don’t know if the Colonel told you, but any officer or O.R. can resign from the Commandos at any time without giving a reason. We don’t want anyone who isn’t a total enthusiast. And the worst punishment a Commando can be given is to be chucked out. That is the ultimate disciplinary measure; apart, of course, from weeding out any feeble brethren who come to light as we get to know each other better. Also, Commando troops won’t live in barracks. Each man gets six and eight a day on which to find his own billet and food. If he likes, he can sleep rough instead of in lodgings; as long as he’s smart and clean at all times. If he’s told to report at some place, say a hundred miles away, by a certain time that day or the next, he has to make his own way. Everyone must be able to act independently and with initiative. We, of course, will mess together, but we make our own sleeping arrangements.” He grinned. “That covers a wide field.”

  “Yes. I can see quite a lot of people managing to find free accommodation.”

  Abberley sighed.

  “Alas, the lowering of moral standards among a hero-worshipping female population is notorious in wartime. I’m happy to say.”

  When Taggart returned to the battalion he found a long-faced Udall haunting his quarters.

  “You didn’t say nothing, sir.”

  “What about?”

  “Volunteering for this new special force, sir.”

  Taggart did not bother to ask how his batman had found out where he had been. There was nothing the troops, especially those as astute as Udall, could not worm out of some Orderly Room clerk.

  “It’s up to everyone to make up his own mind. I don’t want to influence anyone.”

  “Well, I wanted to put me name down right away, sir. Didn’t, because I didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “What I do has nothing to do with what decisions you make, Udall.”

  “No, sir. But I have put me name down now.”

  “Well done. Do you really want to join? Do you know all that it entails?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Can you swim?”

  “I can do the bleedin’ lot, except ride a camel, sir.” Taggart laughed.

  “The selection system is different from the method in any other unit, in an ordinary regiment. If you’re really sure you want to join, I’ll see what I can do to help you.”

  A broad smile from Udall.

  “In your lot, sir?”

  “It’ll have to be. Officers find their own men.”

  “Can I come with you, sir, when you leave this evening?”

  “Not practicable. But I’ll see you’re sent for an interview tomorrow.”

  When Taggart reported to No. 100 Commando a few hours later, Aberley said “You’ll call me Hugh. And this is Bill Gowland, our other subaltern.”

  Taggart shook hands with a thickset man who looked to be about twenty-four or -five and spoke with a discernible Yorkshire accent. He had a moustache, and a jaw with a cleft which a romantic girl might have described as a dimple; but on that rugged face looked more like a slash from a bayonet.

  “And,” Abberley added, “We’re in luck. We’re going on a raid in two weeks from now: on the night of the 23rd.”

  “Quite a month, June. Dunkirk... The Derby... and now a Commando raid,” Taggart murmured.

  Abberley looked at him with approval.

  * * *

  Lieutenant-Colonel Beauchamp-Ballantrae stood with his back to the empty fireplace in the mess ante-room: formerly the drawing-room of a country mansion, now requisitioned. His second-in-Command, Adjutant, and the five troop commanders and ten lieutenants who had so far been admitted to No 100 Commando sat attentively in comfortable chairs.

  “Gentlemen, there are a few problems. To begin with, the total stock of Tommy guns in the British Army at the present time is... forty! We are being issued with twenty for this operation. The total strength of the force will be a hundred and eighty; which means that we’ll have to select from each of the five troops which have been partly formed to date. That’s no bad thing, though, because it means that after the raid there’ll be a leavening of experienced people we can spread throughout the commando. We’re limited in numbers by the availability of craft to take us there and back. As it is, the Navy can’t provide them: so the naval officer responsible for the boats has done very well by borrowing six air-sea rescue high speed launches from the R.A.F. And the R.A.F. have been very generous in releasing them. God knows, they need all the rescue boats they have, to pick their chaps out of the water, these days.

  “I’ll give you the details later. All I can say for now is that we’ll be sa
iling from three points: Folkestone, Dover and Newhaven; and we’ll be ashore three hours.”

  Later, over a drink, Abberley said “Thirty of us on an H.S.L. in addition to the crew, is going to be hellish crowded. If chaps are seasick, it’s going to be very messy.”

  Taggart looked at Gowland. “Know anything about boats, Bill?”

  “Not much.”

  “I don’t know anything at all.”

  Gowland nodded towards their troops commander. “Hugh’s an expert.”

  They both turned their attention on Abberley.

  “I’ve mucked about in boats a bit; like Mole and Ratty... purely for recreation, not professionally.”

  “He’s sailed the Atlantic and been all round the Mediterranean,” Gowland said. “How big is your yacht, Hugh?”

  “She’s a forty-footer. Anyway, having done a spot of sailing isn’t going to be of much use on this party: except that I do know I shan’t be seasick, however rough it is. How about you, Rodney?”

  “I nearly puked coming back from Dunkirk: but that was probably funk more than rough water.”

  “Were you bombed all the way?”

  “Only for the first few miles; but it seemed a long way.”

  “How about you, Bill?”

  Gowland set his jaw. He looked as though he would dare his intestines to revolt.

  “Just have to wait and see. I’ve been from Newcastle to Bergen and back without throwing up.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose: except that heavy weather in the Channel in a small boat isn’t quite like being on board a large steamer. But of course we’ll expect fine weather at this time of year.”

  Taggart was wondering what Abberley had done in civilian life. He had something of the cut of a horseman about him and of a cavalry officer.

  It was Gowland who enlightened him as they left the mess to walk to their lodgings in the village.

  “Hugh’s a champion bloke, you know, behind all that airy-fairy style of his. Never had to work for a living, that’s his trouble. His father made a pile in the art trade: you know, rare paintings and picking out up-and-coming new painters. Left Hugh a small fortune. He joined the Yeomanry, because he liked playing polo and hunting. He’s a hell of a good skier; that’s why he was chosen for Norway.”

  “Were you there?”

  “No, worse luck. I was selected, but I was in a car crash; lorry, actually. I was sitting in the back with my platoon, the day before embarkation, when another lorry hit us. Broke my ankle. No, I haven’t had the chance to see action yet. Reckon I was damn lucky to get in the Commandos.”

  “You’re a skier?”

  “Aye. And born and bred in Yorkshire. Even went to public school in Yorkshire.” The fact that he found it necessary to mention that it was a public school told Taggart that the tough-looking Gowland had a weak spot: social uncertainty. “I used to go to Norway and Switzerland for the skiing. With the family.”

  Taggart thought that he ought to take a friendly interest in his new comrade.

  “Yorkshire: wool?”

  “Aye, we’ve a mill. And you’re a makee-learn lawyer?” “That’s right. Is the Colonel a regular?”

  “Yes. But he’s not one of the died-in-the-wool diehard type. Chaps like that wouldn’t fit in with the Commando idea... the attitude, at all. He’s bright, is the Colonel. Been to Staff College. He’ll be a general before he’s done.”

  Taggart, after only Territorial soldiering, was impressed at being under the command of a professional, and a Staff College graduate at that. It also gave him a feeling of security. He respected his old Colonel; but he also had a deep respect for all professionals, whatever their trade. He was grateful that his life, so far as it was not in his own hands, was in those of someone manifestly so competent.

  * * *

  Two days later, Private Udall was admitted to No 100 Commando and promoted to lance-corporal.

  He had one question to ask his troop commander.

  “Can I carry on batting for Mister Tagart, sir?”

  He was about to add that, if not, he did not want the stripe; but it occurred to him that his career as a Commando would be ended before it had properly begun if he had the temerity to try to make conditions.

  “If Mister Taggart has no objection,” Abberley said. That evening, Lieutenant-Colonel Beauchamp-Ballantrae told his officers a little more.

  “Nobody is expecting miracles from this operation. All we want to find out is whether it is possible for a force of our size to land on an enemy-held coast and stay ashore long enough to do worthwhile damage; and come back with information about the enemy order of battle, local defences, the terrain and the morale of the inhabitants; and bag a prisoner or two.

  “The landing will be near Le Touquet and the main target will be the aerodrome at Berck, sixteen kilometres — say ten miles — down the coast, south of Le Touquet. I might tell you that Lieutenant-Colonel Clarke, who’s Military Secretary to the Chiefs of Staff, and very much instrumental in originating the whole Commando organisation, is coming with us to see how things go.”

  “I admire a chap who sticks his neck out... prepared to back up theory with action,” Gowland whispered to Taggart. “What the Yanks call ‘putting your money where your mouth is’.”

  Taggart had never heard the expression and thought it less than elegant, but he nodded agreement.

  The 180 selected officers and men made their various ways to Southampton to train for the operation. Commandos were left to transport themselves not only because it called on their initiative but also because the movement of any body of men could attract attention; and the Commandos were highly security-conscious: even though no badges or shoulder titles had yet been devised and there was nothing to indicate that anyone belonged to this new arm; and the green beret had not yet been introduced.

  “I’ll drive you down,” Gowland offered.

  He owned a bright red Singer Le Mans two-seater with chromium grilles over its headlamps and spotlights. The dashing lad from The Dales with a bit o’ brass, Taggart thought with amusement. He himself did not own a car. He was occasionally allowed to drive his father’s ponderous black and green 18 h.p. Wolseley and cherished the hope of buying an M.G. when he began to earn a salary.

  On the way, Taggart reflected that the enterprise seemed to have been put together so hurriedly that German spies in the south of England could hardly have had time to penetrate the security. He himself had very little idea of what was afoot, let alone any fifth columnist. It was all very well to be swept along on a wave of enthusiasm for a dynamic new corps that existed solely to carry the fight to the enemy, and to be infused with the excitement of an imminent raid: but half the force had seen little or no action; he was one of the most battle-hardened; and there was an air of desperation about this raid which did not consort with the record of its commander, or with what he knew of the background, career, character and position of that fine man Lieutenant-Colonel Clarke, or with the formidable naval captain, a hero of the great attack on Zeebrugge in 1918, who was to procure the six boats.

  Urgency was acceptable, haste was suspect. Even though he had been soldiering in the Territorials for more than three years and fighting a war for nine months, Taggart was still an embryo lawyer; and legal men did not rush unprepared into a situation or into action.

  An insistent voice at the back of his mind reminded him that he had not been conspicuous for prudence, forethought or preparation on the battlefield. His impetuousness and quick temper had cost men’s lives. True, these characteristics had also caused havoc among the enemy; but then he was reminded of the moments of almost paralysing terror that had also gripped him.

  He tried to excuse himself: I was keen to get at Jerry and be done with it, those times on The Maginot; and when I took on those tanks and then bolted, I was so damned weary and exhausted that I was half out of my mind.

  It still didn’t wash. Guilt remained. And he told himself that he had no right to criticise the pr
eparations for the coming assault.

  Yes, I have, though. I can question it, even if I’ve done some crass things myself. I’m not afraid of what might happen. But I do feel less than confident that all will go smoothly.

  They were nearing Southampton when he spoke to Gowland of some of these matters.

  “It would be useful if we could have at least one rehearsal, Bill. Or at least meet the boats’ crews and learn the layout before it’s time to embark in earnest. It would be better if we could see a scale model of the coast where we’ll be landing, instead of photographs.”

  “Yes. But I think Jerry’s going to be so surprised at anyone attempting a landing so soon after we evacuated the place, that we’ll catch him with his pants down. After all, it is a bloody cheeky two-finger gesture at Jerry. It’s old Winston who’s behind it, of course. You can bet he’s the one who gave the order to get on with the job; and set the date. It don’t see the C.I.G.S. or a man like Colonel Clarke, or our own C.O. rushing into it without a bit more time and planning. No, it’ll be Churchill who lit the fuse.”

  There was, about the imminent escapade, a distillation of recent experience which played on Taggart’s recovering spirits like a chilly wind springing up unexpectedly on a warm day. There was an air of improvisation about it which recalled too vividly the scramble to put the advancing enemy behind one in France, to make use of every chance feature of the topography that could serve as a temporary protection while one stood to fight a short rearguard action, to make the best of whatever weapons happened to be to hand rather than those which were specifically designed for a purpose: such as, he remembered, firing a Boys anti-tank gun at a building to demolish its walls and bring the roof crashing down on a dozen German soldiers within.

  The Royal Navy could not provide purpose-designed assault craft, so the R.A.F. was having to lend basically unsuitable vessels.