The Steel Fist

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Taggart stared into the darkness. There was still only one sentry.

  “I did see and hear two. They must be walking separate beats, meeting in the middle. Go to the right and look for the other.”

  The sergeant slithered off.

  The enemy soldier still stood facing the bank.

  Taggart was conscious of every minute’s delay. What wouldn’t I give for a silenced gun... or a bow and arrow!

  He had no time to spare. There were no trees or bushes. But there was a stone close to hand. He picked it up and lobbed it into the ditch. The German turned his head. Seconds passed. The German returned his eyes to the front. Another stone made a louder splash and the German turned fully round.

  Taggart rose, ran the three paces needed to cross the dyke’s flat crown and bounded down its far slope.

  The German turned. His right hand jerked across his body to bring the machine-pistol to bear. Taggart thrust the dagger into his heart.

  They swayed on the brink of the ditch. Taggart had his left arm, holding the Tommy gun, around the German. For a moment he thought they would both overbalance into the water. Then he threw himself back and the dead man fell heavily on him. He lay winded, the German’s blood soaking into the front of his battledress blouse. His ribs ached where the Schmeisser had rammed them as they fell.

  He rose slowly and rolled the German’s body to the foot of the dyke.

  Where was Sergeant Duff?

  His unspoken question was answered by a murmur. “Can’t find him, sir.”

  “Fetch the others. We’ve got to move fast.”

  The section moved on at a trot. Taggart wondered where the other sentry had gone and how soon he would find his comrade, dead. He would have found him even sooner had the body been tipped into the ditch.

  It was ten minutes before a red Verey flare burst behind him in the direction of the dyke.

  By then his section had reached the wire and two men were cutting out a segment wide enough to allow three to pass abreast.

  Shouts were coming from the buildings beyond the wire. Here and there a light showed; bad black-out discipline. Aircraft engines started. The lights of a flarepath on the water twinkled.

  From the southern side shots cracked and echoed. Flares burst, ghastly white and brilliant. The figures of men running about on the slipway and across the grass and tarmac between buildings were clearly illuminated.

  Tracer was lancing into the base from north and south. Two searchlights on the hanger roofs swept to and fro across the ground. Spandau fire ripped into the barbed wire.

  A Bren was shooting at the flarepath. There was a bright red glow of fire, then a dull boom as petrol fumes detonated. In the brightness of the flames, everyone could see a seaplane burning. The flarepath lights went out.

  Grenades were exploding. Taggart and Udall pelted towards a hangar and peered in. Two seaplanes showed up faintly in the dim glow of interior lighting. Taggart placed a pack of dynamite at the base of a hangar wall and set off a time fuse; then ran around to the back to repeat this.

  A hoarse voice shouted from the hangar roof and shots thudded onto the tarmac near him. He fired a burst with his Tommy gun and a screaming German fell from the roof, to hit the ground with a squashy thud.

  Taggart and Udall edged along the wall while more men fired down at them. At the far end they rounded the corner and ran into three Germans. Taggart pushed Udall back and snatched at a grenade. A hand plunged round the corner, holding a stick grenade. Taggart slammed the barrel of his Tommy gun onto the German’s wrist and heard a shout of pain. The stick grenade clattered to the ground. He kicked it back the way it had come. A moment later it burst and there were more shouts and groans.

  He darted round the corner again, his feet slithered on blood and entrails and he fell flat on his back. His head hit the tarmac. His senses reeled and he lost consciousness for a few seconds. Udall hauled him upright.

  “All right, sir?”

  “Filthy.”

  There was blood and flesh all over Taggart’s clothes. But a few yards away stood a seaplane. He raced to it while Udall covered him, clambered up to wrench open a hatch and tossed in a grenade. The blast of the exploding grenade and petrol tanks knocked both men flat.

  Bullets whipped past them where they lay, coming from three directions. A strong torch shone its beam onto them. There was a shot and the torch fell and went out.

  Fysshe-Smith appeared.

  “Give you a hand, sir?”

  “Nice shot.”

  “One of my better ones, sir.”

  Running back the way they had come, Taggart stumbled over two dead Commandos lying one on top of the other. He stopped and lifted their heads, identified them, swore and raced on.

  The two charges he had planted went off with a roar and a shock wave that plucked him back a yard. Fragments of metal from the walls and roof began to fall.

  Hell of a way to die, flattened by corrugated iron. He ran faster.

  They reached the gap in the wire. Sergeant Duff waited there with the rest of the section; those who had survived. Three men were bandaged, one of them limping.

  “We’re not leaving any prisoners.”

  “No, sir.”

  The two biggest men lifted the one who had been hit in the leg. One bore him on a shoulder as firemen carry bodies. The other trotted along beside him, to take his turn when the first began to tire. They would continue in relays until two more carriers had to take over. By some means they would ensure that the wounded man was not abandoned.

  Abberley and his sergeant, with four men, came out of the gloom. Gowland, at the head of his section, met them a hundred yards further on.

  The dyke appeared across their path once more.

  This time they could discern steel helmets along its top. Abberley halted them.

  “We haven’t time for anything elaborate. But if we make a frontal attack we won’t get past the brutes. Rodney, go around to their right. Bill, go the other way. We’ll engage them. As soon as you’re on top, Rodney, open fire along the whole length of it. Bill, you take damn good care nobody is hit. Jerry will probably come down this side of the dyke. Whichever side he goes, you open up on him. We’ll look after ourselves.”

  Taggart doubled away to his left with his section. He heard Abberley’s small section begin shooting. The enemy put up a flare. Bullets whanged around Taggart and his half-troop. Grenades began to burst. There was the loud splashing of men falling or leaping into the broad ditch.

  Taggart was first onto the crest of the bank. A Tommy gun was effective only up to fifty yards. He fired a short burst and a moment later his section’s two Brens opened up. Tracer from both of them swept the dyke.

  Some of the enemy went one way, some the other. Firing continued on both sides of the embankment.

  Some hundreds of yards to the left another fight was on: tracer, the flash of grenades, the light of flares.

  Taggart called his men back to the near side of the dyke, while Gowland and his lot bounded across it. Men were clambering out of the ditch. Germans were falling into it, dead and wounded.

  Abberley, dripping water, hobbled up.

  “They rolled grenades down on us... had to jump into the ditch.”

  He started forward to climb the dyke.

  When they staggered through the dunes to the beach, shots followed raggedly. They had to wade out to the boats.

  Taggart saw two men knocked down by a high wave. He felt his legs being tugged by the undertow. He heard choking shouts. The two Commandos were being tumbled through the surf, arms and legs all over the place. He grabbed at the nearer one, but he was limp and leaden, already drowned.

  Hands reached down from the boats to haul the Commandos aboard.

  The sound of lorries reached the beach. Mortar bombs began to fall around the boats.

  The boats opened their throttles wide and roared away to sea with tracer fire and mortar bombs in their wake. But no avenging aircraft appeared.
/>   The long-expected rum became a reality; with lashings of piping hot cocoa, bacon and eggs; and a measure of respectful looks from the sailors.

  Nine

  Two men drowned, four killed, seven wounded but none left behind.

  On the voyage back to England, few were able to sleep. Those who did were either emotionally exhausted or so insensitive that they had suffered no distress or acute fear. Most of the Commandos were too excited by the hectic pace of the battle, the speed march to the target and back, the hazards encountered on the way and the spectacle of blazing aircraft and buildings, to be able to rest. The four and a half hours at sea were spent in reminiscence and argument, in savouring the memory of the most spectacular events, in enjoyment of an immense sense of pride and satisfaction.

  It was only when they woke, in the afternoon, following heavy sleep, that men looked drawn or haggard, pensive or weary. But their toughness and resilience restored them after a heavy meal and the balm of a few pints of beer.

  It was Taggart’s opinion that they were not yet ready for a raid on the scale of this one.

  “I’d like to try one with a party of no more than fifteen. Even as few as five or six. The target ought to be something as big as we tackled last night; but if there’d been only a handful of us, it would have been easy to sneak in and we could have taken our time over laying charges and setting time fuses. We could have done even more damage; without any casualties.”

  Abberley concurred.

  “I think there’s scope for both types of operation, but I agree that we need more experience before we plan another on the scale of last night’s. It seems to me that the first requirement is proper boats, designed for the job, to put us ashore; and take us off!”

  The Colonel had come into the room and was listening.

  “There was another show last night.”

  “At the same time, sir?” Abberley asked.

  “Yes. I’ve just been told. Three Commando and Eleven Independent Company landed on Guernsey. They had rather worse problems than we did in getting ashore. The boats were crewed by R.N.V.R. and they refused to beach them in the rough water and among rocks, in case they damaged them. Our chaps took half a dozen prisoners, but they also left several of their own number behind: because some couldn’t swim well enough to get back to the boats. You’re absolutely right, Hugh: there is an urgent need for landing craft specially designed for the job.”

  “That’ll raise the usual complications, sir. We know what we want, but the Navy will insist that they are the only ones competent to decide the issue.”

  The Colonel smiled. It was not an expression of amusement and there was a hint of grimness about it.

  “Again, Hugh, I think you’re right. But I’ve just had some other news as well, which should put a different complexion on it. Churchill has appointed a Director of Combined Operations: the formidable Sir Roger Keyes.”

  “Admiral Of The Fleet...?” Taggart began.

  “The one and only.”

  “But he’s old, sir.”

  “He’s sixty-eight, certainly. But he’s tremendously energetic. And considering his record in Gallipoli and at Zeebrugge in the last show, he’s just the chief we want. Typically, he’s not wasting a minute. He’s already announced a reorganisation. Each commando will henceforth comprise an H.Q. unit and six troops, instead of ten: with three officers and sixty-two O.Rs to a troop. Actually, I hear that the new set-up was proposed by Brigadier Haydon, who commands the Special Service Brigade. He’s a hell of man, too. With Admiral Keyes and Brigadier Haydon at the head of things, we’ve got leadership, brains, energy and guts to make sure the Commando idea is developed in the way Churchill and Dudley Clarke originally envisaged. There’ll be no stopping us now. We’ll get the equipment we need, and it will be we who decide what that is to be.”

  * * *

  “You ever been to Scotland, Fishy?”

  “I’ve never been further north than Doncaster for the St. Leger, Bert.”

  “Coo! All that way up north? Blimey, this ‘ere’s the furthest north I’ve been; Norfolk.” Udall turned to a sturdy, sandy-haired former Argyll and Sutherland Highlander. “Wassit it like up your part of the world, Jock?”

  “It’s God’s own country, mah wee man.”

  “Bleedin’ cold, innit?”

  “Aye, it can be a bit raw in winter.” A slow, perhaps reminiscent, smile spread across Private Wallace’s face.

  “But there’s lassies to keep a man warm.”

  “Girls? Go on.”

  Udall made a face at Fysshe-Smith.

  Fysshe-Smith looked faintly interested.

  “Even for Sassenachs?”

  “Wassat, Fishy?”

  “Southerners... bliddy Englishmen.” The way in which Wallace said this suggested that at any moment he might pluck a skene dhu from his trousers leg and slit a few English throats. “Och, I’m no’ saying the lassie’ll be for keeping you warm. But I’m awa’ hame, d’ye ken. I’ll be a’ richt.”

  “D’you come from the Western Isles, Jock?” Fysshe-Smith asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Not the place where we’re going, you jammy bastard?”

  “No, not Murdo; but no’ so far awa’.”

  “I didn’t know they had any girls up there. Only sheep.” This was a sourly delivered taunt from Udall. “Och, ye pairvairted heathen, if it’s sheep ye prefair...” this was accompanied by a challenging grin. “I’ll bleedin’ thump you, jock...”

  “Aye; and lose your stripe. Och, I ken fine ye’re a gey braw boxer, Corp. Dinna thump me.”

  Wallace was still grinning. He weighed five stone heavier than Udall and looked as though he could toss a caber from here to Land’s End.

  “I don’t see why they couldn’t send us back to Cornwall.”

  Udall looked, as usual, at Fysshe-Smith, the fountain of wisdom.

  “To toughen ye up, Laddie,” Wallace said.

  “I’m afraid Jock’s right, Bert.” Fysshe-Smith looked melancholy. “Foul climate. Cornwall would be too mild... too soft, I suppose.”

  Udall gave him a leer.

  “Never mind, Fishy: I expect they have widows at Murdo, same as in France.”

  “Aye; and every one spoken for a’ready,” Wallace said.

  “You haven’t seen our Fishy in action... I mean real action, not like that stuff in Holland last week. They may all be spoken for, but...”

  “That’s enough, Bert.”

  Udall took the warning with a laugh.

  He stopped laughing two days later as he stood on the pitching and rolling deck of a small steamer conveying the reorganised 100 Commando from the west coast of Scotland, through a drizzle, towards a mistily-seen and mountainous island many miles offshore. He shivered.

  He was not the only one.

  Abberley, casting an eye over his men, looked amused. “They look as though they’re in the grip of ague, most of them; or malaria.”

  “I’m only controlling my shivers by a supreme effort,” said Taggart.

  Dempster, who, under the new organisation, had been transferred from the irascible and slightly insane Captain McGinty’s troop to an enlarged A Troop, under Abberley, huddled into the upturned collar of his trench coat and hummed “The Skye Boat Song”.

  “Why so cheerful, George?”

  “Because, my dear Rodney, I’m thinking what a splendid opportunity this will be for me to perfect a Scots accent: for any character parts I may be asked to play; when, of course, I cease to be a young matinee idol.”

  It was Gowland who scoffed. He had quickly picked up from Taggart the sort of ragging that Dempster enjoyed.

  “Asked? When you go back to civvy street, George, it’ll be you doing the asking.” And what’s this about matinee idol? Matinee i-d-l-e, more bloody likely.”

  “That blows your chance of free seats to any play I’m in, Bill.”

  “That’s a relief. If you gave me a free ticket, I’d feel bound to go.”

 
“I wasn’t appreciated in the regiment and I’m no better treated in this crowd. You’ll all be sorry one day.”

  “I already told you, George, we can always find a place for you at t’ mill.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not skilful with my hands.”

  “Who said owt about hands, lad?” Gowland liked to ham the broad Yorkshire part on occasion. “There’s nobbut a lot of leg work and sitting around to being our night watchman.”

  “Ah, now, that is a proposition I could seriously consider: with my Commando training, and all.”

  “I doubt if there’ll be any sitting around while we’re here,” Abberley said.

  Later, as they drew near the shore, he exclaimed “Good God! Did you ever see anything grimmer!”

  “What’s that bleak-looking castle affair? More like a prison, by the look of it.” Taggart pointed to a three-storied, turreted, grey stone building on a hill overlooking the small fishing harbour.

  “Murdo Castle. Our H.Q. and Officers’ Mess.” Abberley pointed to another dismal edifice, also built of huge grey stone blocks and three storeys high. “That’s the Sergeants’ Mess. It’s an old Manse that some misguided chap turned into a school for unruly boys. Very expensive, I believe. The trouble was, the boys were too unmanageable. The Headmaster disappeared one winter night after having flogged half a dozen of them for trying to set fire to the place.”

  Dempster looked interested.

  “Murder?”

  “So it was supposed. But the Police never found his body or any evidence. The school shut down and the buildings have been empty ever since. Those Nissen huts are for the troops. There’s a N.A.A.F.I. in one of the school buildings and that big wooden hut is the cookhouse. There just aren’t enough inhabitants on the island for the chaps to billet themselves out.”

  The Colonel, who had preceded his commando, was standing on the quay with McGinty and four vicious-looking thugs in the white sweaters and blue serge slacks worn by physical training instructors.

  Within five minutes of going ashore, the whole commando, officers and men, their Colonel at the head and the P.T.Is acting as whippers-in, was doubling up the hill in full marching order.