The Steel Fist

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  He kept an eye on Taggart, Gowland and Abberley while the Colonel carried on with his briefing.

  A 120-mile crossing of the North Sea? You could bet the Navy wouldn’t provide any but the most clapped-out old destroyers. Say five hours. The original War Office hope of recruiting only men immune to seasickness, for the Commandos, was plainly tosh. So, say twenty out of the hundred of them puked their rings up on the way across; conservatively. Then, the three miles bucketing along in motor boats: old ones, if they were so damn noisy. The same twenty, plus thirty more, would be sick. They’d go ashore with half the force ineffective. Then those bloody Ansons: they’d have to fly low to make enough row; and that would tickle old Jerry’s curiosity.

  This wasn’t going to be the jolly picnic that most of the lads seemed to expect, judging from their expressions now.

  But he was pleased to see the scepticism on Taggart’s face, the frown on Gowland’s and the cynicism on Abberley’s.

  Turning, he saw that Fishy was also looking less than convinced that the sortie would turn out to be a spiffing jape, as schoolboy pranks at St. Jim’s and Greyfriars were described in The Gem and The Magnet. Wally Duff used, when a lad, to wonder if life at boarding school were remotely as it was depicted in these weekly “comics”. He thought probably not. Certainly, on this raid, there would be no genial and patronising monitors to say “cut along, kid... and bag me a few Jerries”. Putting the officers in the parts of monitors and the rank and file in those of third- and fourth-formers, this was going to be a scramble in the dark, in adverse conditions, in which more than bloody noses would be the penalty for over-optimistic planning.

  He saw Udall grinning and nodding approval as the Colonel spoke and reminded himself to have a quiet word with him afterwards. Udall represented a solid tradition of faith in, and obedience to, established authority. Duff shared it, but his discipline was discreetly tempered by intelligence and two years of secondary education at a good grammar school, where he would have liked to spend two more years if the family business hadn’t needed him.

  All you had to do to keep a private soldier happy was to give him a small, clearly defined and achievable objective and he would confidently commit his life and limb to attaining it.

  Sergeant Duff felt strongly protective towards the junior comrades with whom he had soldiered so long, and he felt a measure of the same towards his officers. He admired Taggart, but looked on him also as a twenty-one-year-old from the point of view of a man seven years older.

  Then Taggart happened to turn and catch the sergeant’s eye and the sergeant saw in Taggart’s the measuring, cold and unafraid light that always sent shivers down his spine, and he felt some of his anxiety lifted. It was an unholy light and he had seen it at full beam every day in France since the balloon had gone up. It meant that Taggart’s blood was stirred, and that in turn meant that he contemplated desperate deeds. It also meant, when there was that set to his mouth, that he was erecting his own intelligent defences against the vagaries of those less battle-hardened than he. Duff had learned that there was nothing in Taggart’s philosophy that subscribed to the admonition “Ours not to reason why”. It gave him comfort. He looked forward to his future and did not want to find it snatched away. He admitted to himself that he had volunteered for the Commandos largely on account of his trust in Taggart. If you find a good officer, hang on to him, he had always reckoned. Of course, this wild one might get himself killed and leave me in the hands of someone else; but there was a hardness about Taggart that marked him out as a born survivor.

  * * *

  On a windswept stretch of Norfolk coast, the two troops rehearsed their assault night after night. They had billeted themselves in small houses which were normally let to families on summer holidays. Some of the other ranks were living cheaply, if roughly, in beach huts, or cafés and stalls on a pier that was now closed to the public. Officers’ and sergeants’ messes had been set up in large houses that had been evacuated as part of the preparations for repelling an invasion; although it was unlikely that the first wave would come ashore on the North Sea coast.

  Abberley had little spare time on his hands; and when he did have an idle moment he usually spent it in wondering whether perhaps his guilt about the unproductive and self-indulgent life he had led before the war had prompted him to venture into a military region to which he could never properly belong. He had never considered himself a great leader of men. He had reached the rank of captain purely by automatic promotion. He had natural authority because he had always been used to giving orders to servants. He enjoyed taking risks and the thrill inherent in dangerous sport such as polo, hunting and skiing. He had tried motor racing but found that he lacked skill. He had tried to qualify for a pilot’s licence and had failed because he could never learn to judge a decent landing. He had sailed in weather which would have kept a professional mariner in harbour. He was satisfied that he had courage above the average, but all his enthusiasms had been for solitary endeavour: except that friends crewed for him when he sailed, and took his orders.

  He had done well enough as company commander in the brief Norwegian campaign. He had volunteered for the Commandos because they offered the prospect of a freer life than in a conventional regiment. And now he found himself among officers who, he judged, all had greater qualities of leadership than himself.

  He told himself that he had made a magnificent, prodigal gesture which had succeeded because he interviewed well, had just the right amount of independence in his manner, and had not disgraced himself as a regimental officer or in action. Now he was to be judged by others who had the same qualities in abundance and no doubt looked at each other with sharply critical eyes.

  I don’t want anything for nothing out of this war, he had decided on the day that war was declared. If I survive, I want to have earned my survival; as I have never had to earn my living.

  Abberley had chosen Taggart and Gowland for his subordinates because he believed that they both possessed abilities and strengths that would force him to produce the best performance from himself. He also believed that either of them, with experience, would make a better troop leader than himself. Thus the welfare and leadership of the troop would be secure if he were killed or wounded in action: provided that both his subalterns were not also knocked out of the fight. But one could not provide for every contingency. And, anyway, Sergeant Duff was a good substitute for any junior officer.

  ***

  “What d’you reckon to it, then, Fishy?”

  Fysshe-Smith gave Udall the sort of look that Udall called “Right fishy-eyed, an’ all; like a bleedin’ cod on the fishmonger’s slab.”

  “What I think, Bert, is that if the Colonel’s coming with us, it’s going to be tricky, that’s what.”

  Udall nodded. He looked thoughtful. There was no need for Fysshe-Smith to expound: the Colonel lived to fight. He had sent his second-in-command off to set up No 100 Commando’s H.Q, with the other troops, while he led the raid. The Colonel led by example, he commanded from the van, not the rear. He would not ask his men to do anything he had not done himself. If there were a hornet’s nest on Texel, the Colonel would stir it up. Maybe old Jerry wanted nothing more than peace and quiet, but Lieutenant-Colonel Beauchamp-Ballantrae abhorred such a state. He had served on the North-West Frontier and drawn blood long before the war. This had given him a thirst for battle. Warfare took the place of dangerous sport in his compendium of hobbies. His profession was his hobby.

  “I wonder why they don’t send the R.A.F. to bomb the seaplane base?”

  “Don’t we all! I’ve been asking myself that since the Colonel told us the target. I’m afraid I’ve got the answer.”

  “Wassat, then?”

  “Too strongly defended by flak.”

  “Not according to what we were told.”

  “They’ve got it wrong, Bert. Stands to reason. If the flak were as sparse as they say, they’d be bound to send bombers. But they aren’t sending bombers. Whi
ch means the flak must be an absolute bugger. So, if they’ve either got that wrong, or deliberately understated it to reassure us, it makes me suspect two things.”

  “Wassat, Fishy?”

  “That they’ve either got the rest wrong, and the target is as strongly protected as... as the Crown Jewels; or they know it and they don’t want us to know it; not until we get there.”

  “Ta, Fishy. Ta ever so. You rotten sod.”

  Udall’s sarcasm drew a grin from Fysshe-Smith.

  “I’ll lay you odds, if you like.”

  “No thanks. I’ll keep me six and eight a day in me pocket.”

  Eight

  It was a moonless night of low cloud; the base was less than 2000 feet above the Norfolk flatlands and choppy North Sea.

  The Commandos embarked at eight-o’clock on a grey evening. The two destroyers at the quayside looked, to their inexpert eyes, sleek and fast. Their trim lines and dazzle camouflage concealed worn engines and cramped space. The troops went up the gangway almost as though they were about to make a trip from Torquay to Brixham on a pleasure steamer. The tang of ozone and seaweed belonged to well remembered holiday times. The strange environment was full of interest. The sailors’ cheerful badinage and mockery as the soldiers came aboard was met with enthusiasm by a barrage of equally amiable insults.

  The soldiers envied the sailors their comfortable, informal working dress. They did not, however, respond well to the stern-faced officers they saw on the quarterdeck and bridge; nor to the tough-looking petty officers who gave the impression of harbouring immense suspicions of their conduct. Sailors, every soldier knew, could be as fussy as old maids about the cleanliness and tidiness of their ships. They and their clothes managed to look well washed and to give off an odour of soap, whatever the time of day.

  The guns in turrets and on deck mountings looked powerful. The depth charges at the stern gave notice of aggression. Most of the Commandos’ knowledge of the Navy was limited to a vague notion of liberal issues of free rum. Every man of them looked forward to participating.

  A few barked orders from a bearded chief petty officer tended to reduce their expectations of hospitality. Never mind, they thought, everyone knows the matelots get much better grub than the Army dishes out. But the Army did not feed Commandos: they fed themselves out of their six shillings and eightpence per day. Still, although they had been living well, thanks to generous landladies, they anticipated a good feed on the messdecks.

  The ships sailed five minutes after the last man was aboard. The Commandos were confined below decks, out of sight of unauthorised eyes. The rough water that met them beyond the harbour mouth sent a dozen soldiers on board each destroyer rushing to the heads to vomit within the first mile.

  Taggart, going round with Abberley and Gowland, saw Udall streak past holding a hand over his mouth. He saw Corporal Fysshe-Smith seated at a mess table, looking pensive; and slightly yellow. Sergeant Duff, accompanying the officers, had already adopted a rolling gait and the air of a maritime veteran.

  “All you need is a parrot on your shoulder, Sergeant.” Duff grinned.

  “Have you seen the leading seaman with a ginger beard and an armful of service stripes, sir? He wears an ear ring.”

  “I don’t think the Colonel would go much on that.”

  The destroyers headed north, close to the coast, minefields between them and the open sea. The troops who had not succumbed to seasickness were regaled with cocoa. Packs of cards emerged, games of draughts, chess and dominoes alleviated the boredom of idleness and confinement.

  For Taggart there was an unreality about the mission. War, to him, meant bombardment and slit trenches, holding back an advancing enemy under shellfire and bombs. Shelling was the most frequent and vivid experience of infantry in battle. It caused four times as many casualties as rifle or machine-gun fire. War meant a constriction of the muscles so that, instead of an involuntary voiding of bladder and bowels from extreme fear, a man was more likely to find himself temporarily unable to perform his natural functions at all; because his sphincters had seized solid and refused to respond to urgent necessity.

  To recall his one previous Commando raid did not help to create a sense of reality. That had been an escapade, an amateur effort to justify the existence of a newborn formation that was struggling to stay in being. Everything seemed to have been extemporised rather than organised.

  There had been better planning this time: but, once again, what they planned to do bore little similarity to what he thought of as real war.

  This did not prevent the cold sensation in his bowels when he looked a few hours ahead.

  The destroyers turned eastward with the setting sun low astern. Darkness fell and the Commandos were allowed on the open decks to breathe clean air. Some leaned over the side and were sick, some remained below, unable to climb the companionways or stray far from the heads.

  The destroyers, despite their age, were going at a clip that impressed the landsmen. Too fast, Taggart hoped, for a U-boat captain to aim his torpedoes accurately. The officers and senior N.C.Os dined in their messes, the other ranks ate a hearty hot supper; with a few seasick exceptions. There was no rum issue and neither officers nor sergeants drank any alcohol. Anticipation mounted.

  Black greasepaint was issued and smeared on faces, to the accompaniment of the same nervous banter at before. The Commandos were ordered to fall in facing the port rail. Many who had been seasick stood limply, nauseated now by the smell of greasepaint. The destroyers slowed to ten knots... five... they lost way and anchor chains rattled through hawsepipes. Two motor launches on each ship were lowered from their davits. The Commandos scrambled down rope ladders to find their footing on the boats that tossed and rocked on the waves.

  The launches headed shoreward in line abreast and Taggart thought that now was the moment for E-boats to appear from out of the darkness and shine their searchlights on the raiding force.

  He listened for aircraft engines above the throbbing of the motor launch’s. The fleet of four small boats moved slowly, as quietly as they could. The stench of hot oil tainted the air. There was a popple on the sea that kept the launches rocking all the time. Now and then they would slam into a wave, rear up and race down on the other side. Men were vomiting again.

  Taggart felt the boat’s bows touch gently shelving sand. The sea washing along the shore made a frothy, turbulent line. It hissed as it slid back from the beach and it tugged fiercely at his legs when he climbed over the side and into the water. The water came well above his knees. It was the coldest water he had ever known in high summer. He heard three or four men cry out as they lost their footing and tumbled flat, disappearing momentarily beneath the surface.

  The dry sand was soft and deep. He sank up to his ankles. His legs were cold, his trousers heavy with water and clinging annoyingly to his cold skin. Sand began to clog on his boots, gaiters and trousers legs.

  Now he began to wonder how long it would be before someone trod on a mine or set one off by a trip wire. He counted the paces. A hundred yards up the beach they reached tussocky dunes and halted.

  A quick conference with the Colonel, and then A Troop moved off, diverging from B Troop. They intended to approach the target from opposite sides. The attack was to be made from both directions thirty minutes from now. They had twenty minutes in which to set charges. For five minutes after the charges exploded they could stay and shoot. They had to return to the beach within fifteen minutes after that.

  They marched at Rifle Brigade speed, their rubber-soled boots making a soft padding sound on the hard ground; deadened sometimes by grass, made louder sometimes by a stretch of road surface. The cloud here was higher and scattered. Starlight gave faint illumination.

  The seaplane base consisted of a concrete slipway to the water, two hangars with flat roofs on which were light flak guns and heavy machine-guns, stores, a bomb and ammunition dump, workshops, and barracks, cookhouse and messes for some dozen officers and about 200 men. It
was surrounded by barbed wire on the landward side. The approaches to be made by the Commandos would come from roughly north and south. A Troop would attack on the northern side. Taggart’s half-troop, No 1 Section, was on the extreme left, or northern, flank. Abberley was between the two sections, with a sergeant and six men drawn from both.

  It was too dark to identify the few landmarks. Taggart marched by compass, his men in file behind him. They were half-way to the target when a dyke, twelve or fifteen feet high, became visible. Taggart turned to Sergeant Duff and whispered “Halt.” The order was passed down the line. Taggart advanced to the bank of earth and began to climb it on all fours. He paused beneath the edge of its flat top, before slowly raising his head over it.

  Water in a wide irrigation ditch caught the starlight. In its reflection, he thought he could see two figures. Listening, he thought he could hear men talking. He moved to his right, towards the dark forms and the sounds. There was the chink of metal. A soldier eased the machine-pistol hanging from one shoulder.

  Taggart slid feet-first down to the foot of the bund and, bent double, hurried back to where his sergeant waited.

  “Knife or garotte, Sergeant. Two sentries: not alert. I’ll take the one on the left.”

  “Sir.”

  Duff took from a pocket his length of wire with a wooden grip at each end. Taggart drew his knife from its sheath. They worked their way back to the point from which Taggart had seen the enemy.

  One German soldier stood with his back to the ditch, facing the bund. Of the other there was no sign.