“Alright, easy now,” Steiner whispered in English. “We’re just three lads from ol’ Blighty, escorting a few Jerries from one end of the airfield to the other.”
The eight men began to walk, Steiner leading them with his rifle held ready, the two remaining Brandenburgers in British uniform bringing up the rear. As the minutes passed, they crossed paths with several genuine British soldiers and airmen, but an easy word or quip from Steiner had them on their way without trouble.
An hour later, they were cutting through the airfield’s perimeter fence. Steiner took one last look back at the airfield before slipping between the wires and pulling them straight behind him. A few miles away, he knew of a cache left by the Brandenburgers who’d been working with the Egyptian spies. Forged papers, currency, more weapons, and even explosives had been hidden away by his fallen brothers.
Time to go to work, Steiner thought to himself, and slipped away into the night.
Author's Note
The inspiration for this book came from two historical missions carried out in November 1941 in support of Operation Crusader. The first, Operation Flipper, was a raid by No. 11 Commando designed to disrupt Axis command and control on the eve of Crusader, primarily through attacking Rommel's headquarters and either capturing or killing him. Flipper was a disaster from the very beginning, and the mission's poor luck only grew worse, finally ending with almost every man who'd made it ashore being captured or killed. The second mission was the first formal operation carried out by the Special Air Service, involving an airborne insertion during extremely bad weather resulting in the majority of the SAS men also being captured or killed.
Although the daring and fighting spirit of the men carrying out these raids is without question, the missions made evident the fact that Commando-style operations were extremely high-risk affairs, and the slightest bit of bad luck could (and often did) result in disasters. The degree of risk involved was only heightened by the lack of understanding as to which missions were well-suited to forces like the Commandos, the LRDG, and the SAS. Furthermore, these forces were still in their infancy, the men still largely untested, their training and techniques not yet perfected. And, as a result, brave men died or spent a large portion of the war as POWs.
On the other hand, the tank battles in this book were inspired primarily by two books. The first is Major Robert Crisp's Brazen Chariots, a memoir of Crisp's involvement in Operation Crusader. Crisp was a troop commander in the 4th Royal Tank Regiment, commanding a lend-lease M3 “Honey” Stuart light tank against Panzer IIIs and IVs. The second book is Lt. Col. Cyril Joly's Take These Men, a historical novel set over the course of the entire Desert Campaign, from battling the Italians to the surrender of the 15th Panzer Division. Joly was also an officer in the British Eighth Army, and he and Crisp served together during the war. As of this writing, only Crisp's memoir is currently in print, although Joly's novel is available through used book dealers. Both are incredibly visceral, engaging stories of the epic, far-ranging battles back and forth across the expanse of North Africa. Many of the little details – such as the radio protocols of British tank units – came from these two works, and any errors in fact are entirely my own.
As always, I want to thank everyone who has read the previous entries in the CommandoCOMMANDO series, and I hope you also enjoyed this latest adventure. If you have the time and inclination, please take a moment to leave a review (or reviews) of these stories on Amazon or wherever you prefer. Books sell on the strength of their product reviews, and the feedback I receive from reviews helps me write the sorts of stories my readers most enjoy.
And finally, on an entirely personal note, I want to dedicate this book to the memory of Bailey, my feline writing companion. Bailey would sit with me for hours upon hours while I typed away, purring contentedly on a nearby chair or even curled up around the corner of my laptop. As any writer can tell you, this can be a lonely business, and an animal companion can be a great comfort during frustrating bouts of writer's block or while trying to meet a looming deadline. Bailey had been with me since before the beginning of my first novel, and it breaks my heart to know I'll be starting the next without him by my side. So long, little buddy – it won't be the same without you.
II
Operation Archery
Operation Archery
Kindle Edition
© Copyright 2019 (as revised) Jack Badelaire
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89122
wolfpackpublishing.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
Chapter 1
Outside Of South Vaagso
December 22, 1941, 0900 Hours
Feldwebel Erich Metz adjusted the strap of his MP-38 machine pistol and scanned the forest around him. A thick carpet of white snow covered everything, and there was an eerie silence, broken only occasionally by the sound of one of his squad members shifting slightly in the snow behind him. Metz turned his head one way, then the other, trying to hear whatever had caused him to stop in the first place.
“What is it?” asked the rifleman behind him.
Metz turned and glared at the man. “Be quiet. I thought I heard something to the north.”
The nine men following Metz along the forest trail looked around, adjusting their rifles for a better grip. The MG-34 gunner took the machine gun from his shoulder and held it like an enormous rifle, ready to engage the enemy. His assistant gunner and loader both unsnapped their pistol holsters and drew their P-38 automatics.
Metz was not aware of any active partisan elements on Vaagso Island, but that didn’t mean anything. Ever since Norway’s surrender, men and women had been disappearing from towns and villages all throughout the country. Some of them, the Germans knew, were making their way to England, while others were retreating into the wilder regions of the country, holing up and waiting for a favorable time to strike at a target worth risking their lives. While Metz didn’t think ambushing his patrol would be worth a partisan element making its presence known, he also didn’t want to die with that belief as his last, fatal thought.
Finally, hearing nothing, Metz grunted and gestured to his men. “Alright, keep moving, but stay alert.”
The patrol continued on, and after a few minutes, Metz began to relax. He always enjoyed forests in winter; the look of a pristine white sheet of snow across the ground, little mounds of white frosting the tree branches and boughs, icicles hanging and reflecting the light. He’d grown up on a small farm in the German countryside, and he’d gone for long hikes with his father and brothers, out into the deep forests beyond their farmland. Occasionally, they’d bring camping gear and stay the night, his father telling stories (highly edited, he now realized) of the last war.
Now, years later, Metz knew his father’s stories were just something to capture his children’s attention, pure fantasies with the barest relation to the real horrors of the trench warfare that had taken place. And now, having seen the realities of war during the invasion of Poland and Norway, Metz felt as if, in some small way, his father had betrayed him. As a young boy, he’d seen the veterans with their missing limbs and ruined features, heard muttered comments between the older men when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. But somehow, he’d taken his father’s tales and superimposed them over what was right in front of him.
Metz was so absorbed in his reverie, he almost missed the soft crunch of snow off to his left. He turned, hands fumbling for the grip of his machine pistol, but before he could raise his weapon and find a target, Metz felt something smack him in the upper thigh. For a panicked moment, feeling no more than a slight ache from the impact, Metz feared the wound was so terrible, his body had numbed itself to the injury, as some veterans claimed happened with the worst wounds. But when he looked down, all he saw was a fistful of crumbling snow splattere
d across his thigh.
Had he been hit by...a snowball?
One of the soldiers behind him shouted in surprise, and Metz turned, only to see a flurry of snowballs arcing out from behind thick tree trunks and over snow-covered bushes. Several flew over the heads of his men or plopped into the snow around them, but many struck home, exploding into bits and chunks of hard-packed snow.
Metz quickly spotted their attackers - a half-dozen young boys, probably in their early teenage years. They must have followed the German patrol, possibly using skis, and decided to move up ahead of the Germans and carry out an ambush of sorts. Foolhardy, considering that their targets were heavily armed, but such was the nature of boys and their pranks.
After the shock of surprise wore off, several of Metz’s men began chuckling, and after he gave them a nod of approval, the Germans slung their rifles and began throwing snowballs of their own. For several minutes, the two sides engaged in a mock battle, their missiles arcing through the air past each other as German and Norwegian laughed while scooping up and squeezing handfuls of snow.
Suddenly, one of the men near Metz let out a cry of pain. Metz turned and saw Egger, the machine gun loader, clutching at his nose, blood running freely down his chin.
“What happened?” Metz asked, alarmed.
Egger bent down and picked up a rock the size of a hen’s egg, half-covered in packed snow. “One of the little bastards hit me with this, stuck in the snowball!” The loader’s hand dropped to the holster of his P-38, and before Metz could say anything, Egger drew the pistol and raised it, aiming towards the boys.
“Nein!” Metz shouted, lunging at Egger’s gun. He managed to slap the pistol down just as Egger pulled the trigger. The nine-millimeter slug blew a small geyser of snow up into the air, its report echoing through the forest.
Both sides froze for a long moment before the Germans immediately went into action. Half-made snowballs were dropped as rifles were unslung.
“Nicht Schiessen!” Metz roared at his men, waving his arms back and forth. Slowly, the men of his squad lowered the barrels of their rifles, although they continued to eye the cowering Norwegian boys with suspicion.
“Hold your fire, all of you!” Metz ordered. “I’ll send them running.” He drew back the bolt of his MP-38, and taking careful aim, cut loose with several long bursts, aiming high above the heads of the boys, all of them now hiding behind any cover they could find. The machine pistol’s bullets ripped away chunks of wood from the trees and knocked ice and snow from branches, showering the area with bits of debris. The teenage boys were screaming and crying out in terror, never having faced gunfire before, and they buried themselves in the snow, not realizing that Metz was firing well above their positions.
Metz’s weapon ran dry, and as the echoes of his gunfire died away, he let out an inarticulate shout, waving his arm at the Norwegians, indicating they should flee. At first, none of the boys moved, but finally one of them, looking a bit older than the others, shouted something with a note of authority in his voice, and after repeating himself, the boys shook off the paralysis of fear and began to run. Several of the boys stumbled and fell in the snow before getting their legs under them and fleeing into the woods. A couple of the Germans threw snowballs at the Norwegians’ retreating backs, and Metz heard more than one muttered curse.
Metz turned to Egger, now holding a wad of crimson-colored snow to his face to stem the swelling and bleeding, Slinging his own weapon, Metz snatched the pistol from Egger’s hand and ejected the P-38’s magazine, then snapped the slide, ejecting the loaded round. He stuffed the magazine in Egger’s jacket pocket, then handed the weapon back.
“Holster it, and leave it unloaded until we return to the town,” Metz ordered.
“That rock, it was no accident. The little scheisse meant to hit me with it,” Egger replied, an insolent tone in his voice.
“So you were going to shoot him for giving you a bloody nose?” Metz shot back.
“He attacked me!” Egger whined.
“They’re just children, not soldiers. Have some restraint!” Metz unslung his MP-38 and pulled its empty magazine, exchanging it with a full one from his left-hand pouch. “If you’d killed a child for giving you a bloody nose, Major Schroeder might have charged you with the murder of a civilian. You could have been executed.”
Egger’s expression grew worried. “I am sorry, Feldwebel. It will not happen again.”
Metz nodded and looked back down the line. His men continued to peer into the woods, watching for any movement from the direction the Norwegian boys had gone.
“Alright, stop worrying about a counterattack from a bunch of children. Let’s move on,” Metz ordered, and he turned to continue moving along the trail.
Keeping his weapon hidden from the men behind him, Metz surreptitiously drew back the bolt of his machine pistol, readying it for action.
Just in case.
Chapter 2
Kirkwall, Scotland
December 22nd, 1100 Hours
“Are you ready, Corporal?”
Thomas Lynch looked into the mirror and adjusted his dress uniform one more time before turning towards the door. The gentleman from London gave him a polite smile, but the man’s eyes moved from Lynch to the clock hanging on the wall of the small anteroom.
“Right,” Lynch nodded to the civilian and walked to the door, peeking out into the church’s nave. Everyone seemed in attendance, waiting patiently. He turned and looked over his shoulder.
“Alright, boyo, it’s time now,” Lynch said.
René Chenot stopped fiddling with his necktie and brushed at his hair, fingers trembling slightly with nerves. “I would rather face a company of Boche, mon ami,” the Frenchman muttered softly. “I cannot believe I am so nervous.”
Lynch smiled at his friend and gently took him by the arm. “The only reason to be nervous is if you keep your bride-to-be waiting, you bloody fool. Let’s get cracking now.”
The man from London stepped aside as Lynch led Chenot out of the anteroom and into the nave. They walked up and stood in front of the pulpit, where the priest was waiting with a slightly exasperated look on his face. The first two rows of pews on both sides of the center aisle were occupied, while the rest of the church was empty. On the groom’s side, the other Commandos who’d survived the Calais missions sat in the front row - all save Johnson, who was still recovering from wounds he’d taken in North Africa. Behind them sat a half dozen men, all civilians who’d come with Chenot from London. Lynch was surprised to see among them the elderly Lord Pembroke, the gentleman Lynch had met before being picked to take part in the mission to Merlimont.
On the bride’s side of the isle, the front row was taken up by more civilians, both men and women. Lynch had heard several of them speaking both in French, and in English with strong French accents, so he assumed they were also refugees from their now-occupied country. Also in attendance were Monsieur and Madame Souliere, the grey-haired couple who’d supported the partisans Chenot fought with, and who’d escaped with the Commandos after Calais. The Madame stood near the altar, along with a young woman Lynch hadn’t seen before, presumably as matron and maid of honor.
As the organist struck the first few notes, everyone in the church stood, and all eyes turned to the far end of the church. Marie Coupé, wearing a simple white dress, entered the nave escorted by André Bouchard. Marie was as beautiful as ever, and when Lynch had first seen her yesterday afternoon, he’d barely recognized her. He had last seen the partisans when they’d all disembarked from the armed trawler ferrying them across the Channel in the dead of night, several harrowing days after their escape from Calais this past summer. Marie - like everyone else - had been covered in blood, sweat, and all manner of filth, her face pinched and drawn from hunger and exhaustion. Now, she looked healthy and happy, almost radiant.
In moments, Marie and Bouchard made their way to the front of the nave, and the priest cleared his throat, signalling the end of the organ�
��s music. Everyone in the pews sat down, and after Bouchard did his duty in giving away the bride, he stepped next to Lynch, while the priest nodded to René and Marie in turn. Lynch glanced at the little Frenchman next to him, noting that his wounded hand had healed nicely. Bouchard’s beard was short and neatly groomed, and he wore a tailored suit and a brand new pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Bouchard’s eyes glistened, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and Lynch remembered that Bouchard’s wife and daughter had been killed by the Germans shortly after the capture of Calais in 1940. Lynch placed a reassuring hand on Bouchard’s shoulder for a moment, for he imagined the man was thinking how he’d never be able to give his own daughter away in marriage. Bouchard looked at Lynch and nodded in thanks, then daubed at his eyes with a handkerchief.
As the priest began the wedding ceremony, Lynch’s mind began to wander. When he first got word two days ago that René and Marie were traveling here to get married in Kirkwall, just days before the largest Commando mission of the war, Lynch had been flabbergasted. He and the other members of his squad had had no contact whatsoever with the partisans, and they’d just assumed the French had been debriefed and then given some useful purpose. But when the wedding party arrived yesterday, Lynch had been shocked, not only at the number of people, but at the expeditiousness with which everything occurred. The army had made one visit to this, Our Lady & St. Joseph Church, the only Catholic church in Kirkwall, and in no time, arrangements for the marriage had been made.
In the few brief conversations Lynch had been able to have with Chenot over the past twenty-four hours, it seemed that the partisans had been recruited into some manner of secret government agency, one created to support the war effort through sabotage, spycraft, and other unconventional means. While Chenot wouldn’t give any more details, he made it clear that their initial training period was now over, and they would be sent into occupied territory in the near future. Knowing their lives would once again be put in harm’s way, the two young partisans had decided to marry now, rather than wait for the war to be over, in case one or both of them did not survive.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 17