Midnight Raid

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  He rapidly gave his orders while they crouched behind the sandbags enclosing the last Flak gun, a dozen of his men fended off the enemy who were trying to encircle them, and bullets whined overhead.

  Two minutes later they crept out of the gunpit, on the southern side, which none of the enemy had succeeded in reaching, and, rising to their feet, spread out in line, they pelted into a final attack. Before they reached the lorries, they heard engines start up and saw two vehicles spurt away. The remaining Germans, left behind by more prudent or less courageous comrades, fought on half-heartedly for a few minutes before surrendering. They were disarmed, prodded at the double to the nearest hut and locked in.

  Piling into two lorries, setting the others on fire before they drove away, B Troop set off for the lower town.

  They ran into the enemy as they turned into the main square. A brisk fight gave them possession of the mortar there. On Abberly’s radioed orders they began to bombard Redlich’s Headquarters.

  The main attack, across the wharves, was slowly gaining ground; but the factory still stood inviolate. Abberly was in a dilemma: the factory was the prime objective, but as long as the enemy H.Q. remained intact the defence would be co-ordinated and stubborn; and could call in more, and probably more effective, air support. The plan had been to blow up the factory, in the same way as the power station. The failure to achieve surprise had put this intention in jeopardy: the attack was gaining ground too slowly.

  What should he do: throw the bulk of his remaining force against Headquarters, while maintaining only token pressure on the factory; or pull most of his men back from the H.Q. and go hard for the factory? Whichever he did, he would forge on to the second objective immediately the first was taken.

  The guns! One Flak gun and a 10.5 were still undamaged down here along the waterfront. He would put in a heavy attack on them: shelling the brick-built factory at point blank range would quickly reduce it to ruin.

  He told his radio operator to raise B Troop, and when Tarrant came on the air he said “Can you carry on mortaring their H.Q. and take the rest of your chaps round to the back of it, to set up a diversion? I want to switch my main effort to the factory.”

  “To the back of H.Q.?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Taggart called his two officers and sergeant major over and told them what Abberly wanted. “It’s going to take us half an hour to bash our way through.”

  A voice he had not heard since that hectic lorry ride to get away from the erupting power station spoke quietly; as quietly as anyone could and still be heard, in the surrounding din of battle. “I will show you a quick way.”

  “Damn it, Kirsten, what are you doing here? I told you to get away, down to the boats.”

  “I told you: I am not under your orders, Captain. If you want to reach Major Redlich’s Headquarters in a few minutes, I can show you…”

  “Tell me the way, and…”

  “If we meet Germans, we will have to change direction… without me you will lose your way… Come.” She stepped determinedly forward, brushing past him. He grabbed her arm. “Wait…”

  She shook him off. They stood glaring at each other, until she grinned suddenly and said “I can save you half an hour. And I can look after myself… I have proved it.

  Again she moved away towards the northern end of the town, where the H.Q. was situated, behind the harbour.

  Taggart resignedly gestured to the others to follow him. She led them at a trot along an alleyway and then down a steep flight of steps. She, with Taggart at her side, had almost reached the last step when they heard a humming and glanced up; to see a stick grenade twirling towards them.

  It hit the steps with a clatter. Taggart stopped and snatched it up. He tossed it around the wall on his left, into a roadway.

  They felt the hot blast of its explosion, accompanied by screams of agony.

  Taggart put a hand on Kirsten’s shoulder and thrust her roughly down. She lost her balance and sat hard and painfully on the cold stone.

  Taggart, kneeling, peered round the wall.

  Bullets slammed into the wall, inches above his head, chipping fragments from the bricks.

  Taggart fired a burst and saw a German officer stagger back, to tumble over one of the men whom the grenade had killed.

  Kirsten looked down at him and said, shakily, “Hauptmann Weitz… seeking a medal… he should have stayed in his command post…”

  Weitz glowered up at her, clutching his legs: both had been almost severed by Taggart’s bullets.

  The narrow road at the bottom of the steps led to a small square in which were a cluster of leafless trees and a shallow sheet of water which would soon freeze solid; an outdoor skating rink. They crossed the square at the double, to a corner where a passageway ran between two high walls and there was the smell of sawn logs from the timber yards on either side.

  Beyond, they came to a railway line which ran from the harbour to some sidings on the outskirts of the town. Ahead of them was the mouth of a tunnel.

  Kirsten stopped. “The other end of the tunnel is only fifty metres from the back of the Headquarters. It is a short tunnel, about eighty metres.”

  “Right,” Tarrant said. “Thank you… you’ve been a great help. Now, you are coming no further. Will you stay here, or must I leave a man here to make sure you do?”

  She gave him her cheeky grin once more. “You cannot spare even one soldier now, Captain.”

  Taggart regarded her for a moment, then reluctantly his face broke into an answering smile as he acknowledged defeat.

  “You’re right. But look: will you please go carefully down to the boats and identify yourself to our people… there is a naval officer or petty officer in command on each one…”

  He fumbled in a pocket and pulled out his notebook. He scribbled: “The bearer of this note is called…” He looked up. “How do you spell your name?” He continued writing:… “Kirsten. She has been our guide at great risk. She is to leave with us.” He signed it and tore out the page.

  “Thank you,” she said gravely, and put it in her pocket. Taggart turned away and ran towards the tunnel. He looked back twice to ensure that she was not following, but it was too dark to see.

  He had gone several yards into the tunnel when shots rang out somewhere behind him. He heard the clatter of a Sten and much shouting.

  A voice echoed through the tunnel. “Sir… Jerry… they’ve got her, sir…

  *

  Redlich looked up angrily as the door into the Operations Room swung open and a dishevelled Hauptmann Scherer stumbled in. He stared incredulously at Kirsten, as she followed, a soldier at her heels.

  “What the devil…”

  Scherer flung out his right arm. “Heil Hitler! Herr Major, on my way here in answer to your summons, we found her with a party of enemy soldiers, at the far end of the tunnel. She had a Schmeisser, and…”

  Redlich nodded. “All right, Scherer. Come and take over from Bissinger: now you have only one gun to occupy your attention.” Redlich’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I want Bissinger to organise the defence of this Headquarters.” He had not taken his eyes off Kirsten, who was looking at him impassively. “I shall deal with you later.” He pointed to the furthest corner of the big room. “Go and stand over there. And do not move.” He took his Luger from its holster and laid it on the table in front of him.

  She walked contemptuously away.

  *

  Abberly called A and C Troops back from their attack on the enemy H.Q. to join him on the wharves, leaving D Troop (such as it was now, at less than section strength) to continue, with Taggart and B Troop, its advance on the Operations building. A and C troops came hastening across the water in their assault craft, to attack the two gunpits he gave them as their first objectives.

  Both guns had been isolated but were strongly defended by a company of infantry which had erected improvised barricades by dragging three badly damag
ed lorries together, nose to tail, and piling crates that they had found in the factory compound.

  The factory itself was also defended by a whole infantry company, positioned along a sandbagged wall that Redlich had ordered to be built when he first came to Olafsund.

  The Commandos had to work their way around both flanks of each of these defences, in the face of well sited machine-guns and bombing squads that kept emerging from the darkness to throw grenades and scurry back out of sight.

  Neither the Flak gun nor the 10.5 was of any use to the Germans for the time being: the fighting was too confused to allow specific groups of Commandos to be identified. However, they might be used to shell the boats and ships when the Commandos pulled out.

  The first to fall was the 10.5. A sub-section of E Troop finally took it with a grenade attack that left none of the crew alive. Abberly and those with him cheered when they saw the green Verey signal.

  Within a minute, shells from the 10.5 began to batter the factory. Half of it had collapsed before another flare announced that the Flak position had fallen. That gun also started to pound the building.

  *

  Taggart covered the last ten yards that separated him from the door of the enemy Headquarters at a run, his Tommy gun slung over a shoulder, no ammunition left, but firing a Schmeisser he had taken from a dead German.

  He rushed into the building, spraying bullets right and left, ignoring shouts of “Kamerad” from men who dropped their weapons and raised their hands. He remembered Kirsten’s “Too late!” and the thought of her bravery and determination fuelled his anger.

  He kicked open a door across the entrance lobby and burst into a brightly lit room. He was about to hurl a jet of bullets around it when he heard her voice cry “Captain Taggart!” and saw her across the room.

  He heard a shot behind him and bullets from a Schmeisser that Udall had also picked up whined past his ear. Jerking his head, he saw a tall German major fall with blood gushing from his shattered chest and a Luger slipping from his lifeless hand.

  The other men in the room were staring wild-eyed at the Commandos crowding in behind Taggart, motionless except for their slowly rising arms.

  Taggart surveyed them. “Anyone speak English?”

  Bissinger stepped forward. “I do.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Major Redlich’s Adjutant.” He clicked his heels. “Leutnant Bissinger.”

  “Get on to that radio set and tell your officers out there to cease fire.”

  Bissinger looked defiant. “It is out of order.”

  “Don’t waste my time, or I’ll have to shoot you.”

  Kirsten called out “The radio is working.”

  Bissinger turned and gave her a look of loathing, then moved to where the equipment stood.

  “You can put your hands down,” Taggart told him. “He beckoned to Kirsten. “Come and listen to what he says. Any tricks, and he’s a dead man.” He looked at Bissinger. “Understand, Adjutant?”

  “Yes, Captain.” Bissinger sounded surly.

  *

  There was enough water for Prince of Denmark to approach to within a cable length of the waterfront, where she took the Commandos aboard from their assault craft, with their prisoners. They brought all their dead and wounded with them, and while this was in progress one of the destroyers was picking up the rest, who had been left on Island One. Several Norwegians accompanied the Commandos, to join their temporarily exiled armed forces in Britain.

  Standing at the rail, watching the harbour mouth come in sight, Taggart shifted his gaze to Udall.

  “I owe you a drink. I felt the bullet from that Luger pass within an inch of my ear.”

  Udall tugged Redlich’s pistol from a pocket. “Nice souvenir, innit, sir. Reckon I can keep it?”

  “Sure. What about nine-mil ammo?”

  Udall grinned. “Pick up plenty of that on the next operation, sir.”

  Taggart laughed. “You’re getting to be quite a line-shooter.”

  Udall, still grinning, said “You got the best souvenir, an’ all, sir.”

  Taggart felt himself flushing under the burnt cork. He tried to sound indignant. “What the devil d’you mean?”

  Udall jerked his head and Taggart looked round. Kirsten was walking for’ard to join them, smiling at him as she came.

  *

  Abberly, wearing the star and crown of a lieutenant colonel, eyed Taggart across his office table, ten days after they had returned to Scotland.

  “Why two weeks leave, Rodney? Isn’t one week enough for you, like everyone else?”

  “Well, Colonel…” Taggart felt as though his collar had suddenly shrunk. “No one else has got a… er… guest to show around the sights of London.”

  “The pretty lady’s waiting for you there, is she?”

  “Er… yes, Colonel… she’s been given an immediate commission in the A.T.S., for special duties… which include parachute training…”

  “H’m. But come on, Rodney, you know damn well the only sightseeing you intend doing is in a double room in a London hotel. A week is quite enough.”

  “The Savoy, actually, sir,” Taggart said cheerfully. “She deserves the best, don’t you think?”

  “In that case, definitely a week: I don’t want you to come back bankrupt.” Abberly looked out of the window, at the lowering, weeping Scottish sky and the pine trees bending to a gale force wind. He returned his attention to Taggart. “Besides, I want you back fit enough to start training at once for our next operation: somewhere where the sun shines all year round, I’m glad to say.”

  Taggart did his best to look injured. “I’ll have to try to cram two weeks’… er… sightseeing into one, then, Colonel.”

  If you enjoyed Midnight Raid you might be interested in My Enemy Came Nigh by Richard Townsend Bickers, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from My Enemy Came Nigh by Richard Townsend Bickers

  One

  The islands off the coast of Jugoslavia lend themselves to parody: Krk, Rab, Hvar; Brac, Pag and Losinj. One could invent Splodge, Bum, Prik, Pop and Cnt and strangers would be unable to tell fact from fiction.

  Seen from a height of twenty feet above the sea and at a speed of three hundred miles an hour, from a rocket-armed Beaufighter, there was nothing comical about these islands.

  The R.A.F. anti-shipping strike squadrons based on the Adriatic coast of Italy had to fly among them at low level every day under heavy fire from German anti-aircraft guns. They were seeking steamers and barges loaded with war materials, E-boats, destroyers and an occasional troopship; and, the ultimate target, the most valued prize, submarines.

  The flak positions on the islands were not the only danger: even the smallest German naval vessels had guns which could shoot down low flying aircraft, and many of the barges were anti-aircraft gun platforms and not the harmless cargo-carriers they seemed.

  Zdenka, beautiful, high-breasted and at this moment lying on her back stark naked with her ankles locked in the small of a German officer's back, her arms around his heaving shoulders, heard a formation of twelve Beaufighters thunder overhead. She gave an involuntary cry that her lover mistook for carnal delight. He groaned "Ja, ja, Liebling, es ist die Entzükung, die Ekstase."

  But if he had known Serbo-Croat he would have recognised Zdenka's happy squeal to mean "Good boys! Let the bastards have it."

  Middleton, flying in the centre of the' third section of the formation as the squadron raced over the island of Sprot, spoke no Serbo-Croat either. If he could have received and understood Zdenka's message he would certainly rather have been giving her what the German officer clasped between her shapely legs was contributing to her wellbeing than the attention he himself was in fact giving the enemy, to which her unheard exhortation so passionately urged him and his comrades.

  He saw the familiar shapes of the twin islands of Wrk and Rojn, which everybody, including the Intelligence officers, called Wrack and Ruin. They were dead ahea
d and guarded the only practical low level approach to a larger island named Taf. The R.A.F. had not parodied that name, because it was easy to pronounce and, moreover, had a cosy Welsh sound which reminded them of home. Some even referred to the place familiarly as Taffy.

  There was no hint of a cosy, homely Welsh invitation about Taf in the summer of 1944. The Germans who occupied it did not welcome even its rightful Jugoslav inhabitants and were lethally discouraging to the British and Americans. But the R.A.F. Beaufighter squadrons from such bases as Afrona on the north-east Italian coast persisted with their unwelcome visits.

  Middleton cleared his throat, which felt dry and constricted. He had flown on this type of operation so often that he would have felt under-employed if there were less than three a week. But veteran though he was he felt a tightening of his vocal chords and a choking sensation in his windpipe each time he saw Wrk and Rojn. There were heavy machinegun posts and anti-aircraft batteries on both islands, and the strait between them was latticed by bullets and shells. The big guns could not easily shoot at aircraft flying at less than a hundred feet: only the batteries right down at sea level could attempt it, and then only if they could aim clear of their neighbouring islands. The German machinegunners used tracer ammunition, and attacking British and American pilots could try to swoop under or zoom above the glittering arcs that shewed the path of the heavy bullets. Once safely through the gap between these two islands the feeling of apprehension was not reduced, but heightened; for the defences on Taf were the strongest in this part of the archipelago.

  Middleton said "Heavenly Twins coming up, Tommy." He spoke only to steady his voice, not to bore his navigator with an announcement of the obvious. He wanted to make sure that his voice was under control before he had to talk seriously to Tommy Tindall or use the radio.

  A few feet behind, in his separate small compartment, Tindall replied "The Infernal Twins." Every time they came here they referred to Wrk and Rojn by some different, obliquely descriptive, euphemism. It removed a little of the terror; not much, though. Three days earlier, the last time they had passed this way, Tommy had just spoken of the twin islands as "Bangers and Mash" when there was an almighty explosion alongside and the aircraft on their starboard blew up. The crew were particular friends of theirs and the pilot's headless, limbless torso had landed on their wing for a moment; before, smearing blood and entrails, it bounced and slid off. An unhealthy and discouraging spectacle, Tindall had called it later.