Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II
Page 20
“Sergeant,” Lynch spoke up, “have you seen Lieutenant Price since we boarded?”
McTeague shook his head. “The lieutenant is meeting with the Troop captains and the other subalterns, going over the details of the mission. That’s all I know, lad.”
“Going to be a bloody big raid, it will,” Nelson speculated. “The whole of Three Commando, plus boys from Two, Four, and Six. I’ve seen those patches on all sorts of blokes over the last couple of days. Even heard a group speaking funny, and shag me sister if it wasn’t Norwegians wearing our kit.”
“No one wants to shag your sister, Harry,” Herring said. “Not good to get the pox before a raid.”
“He doesn’t even have a bleedin’ sister,” Lynch said. “Least not one he knows about, that is.”
“Stow it, you lot!” McTeague growled.
Lynch saw Bowen set down his mug of tea and think for a moment. “It’s probably another raid along the Norwegian coast, like Claymore back in March,” the Welsh sniper said. “Blowing up fish oil tanks and burning down factories.”
“Those were the only fun parts of that bloody mission,” Nelson muttered. “The sodding Krauts didn’t even put up a fight! More’n two hundred of ‘em walked right into the bloody bag, Hande hoch!” He raised his hands up in the air in an imitation of surrender.
“If you think the bleedin’ Jerries are going to make it that easy this time around, you’re a bloody fool, so you are,” Lynch replied. “A lot has happened since that mission, a lot more blood has been shed. You’ll see now, there’s going to be fighting before the end, to be sure.”
The conversation died down as each man focused on his tea and sandwiches, their thoughts no doubt on the upcoming mission. A week ago, Lynch and all the other Commandos had participated in a full-scale training exercise, an amphibious assault landing on a small, rocky island here in Scapa Flow. They’d been carried out into the sea by these same ferries, lowered into the water aboard landing craft, and had motored in towards the island while the Royal Navy warships fired massive, high-explosive shells over their heads, and RAF fighter-bombers dropped smoke bombs along the beaches. The rough sea and bone-chilling spray had made all the men cold and miserable, and Lynch did not relish the idea of doing that again, and under fire from the enemy, no less.
On two separate occasions over the last year, he and the other members of Price’s squad had carried out stealthy nighttime landings on the beaches of Northern France, paddling rubber boats ashore, waiting for the dreadful flash and roar of enemy guns signalling their discovery. But, Lynch knew those landings, while risky, were designed to avoid contact with the enemy if at all possible. The idea of wallowing through heavy seas in an over-burdened tin box, offering little more than some morning target practice for the German machine guns, mortars, and artillery hammering at them, was infinitely worse. Lynch knew that every encounter with the enemy could result in his death, but if it was to come, he wanted to have at least a chance at taking one of his killers with him. There was no chance of such satisfaction if he was blown to bits by a heavy mortar or howitzer shell and sent to the bottom of the Atlantic.
The Commandos had just finished their meal when McTeague suddenly stood at attention. “On yer feet, lads! Officer present!”
Immediately, every Commando in the galley stopped and stood, a few quickly chewing and swallowing a half-finished bite of sandwich, as Captain Herbert “Algy” Forrester entered the galley. Forrester was the leader of 3 Commando’s No. 4 Troop, to which Lynch and the rest of his squad had been assigned after returning from North Africa. Captain Eldred, who had led them on their desert missions, had been called away to Army HQ soon after their return to Britain. Lynch admired Forrester quite a bit - he was a model Commando officer, a fighting man who always undertook every exercise his men performed, a man who possessed a real warrior’s spirit. Although Lynch thought highly of Eldred, and would gladly serve under his command again, Captain Forrester made for an excellent substitute.
“Alright lads,” Captain Forrester spoke once all the men were standing at attention, “I know you’re all wondering what you’re doing so far north in the middle of winter, stuck aboard this old tub. Your other captains and I, as well as your subalterns, will provide all the answers later this afternoon. But first, we have a guest aboard, and I want you lads to muster on deck for review.”
The men gave each other queer looks, but McTeague got them all moving. “Ye heard the Captain! On the deck, right bloody smartly!”
The men rushed to the exits, and within a few minutes, the entire troop complement aboard the Prince Charles was standing above deck, doing their best to stand at attention while shivering in the cold, the wind slicing right through their battledress. A motor launch from HMS Kenya approached the ferry, and once it pulled alongside, a sailor piped aboard a small party of men, at the center of which stood Lieutenant-Colonel Durnford-Slater, the commanding officer of 3 Commando, as well as a tall gentleman in a Royal Navy uniform, bearing an Admiral’s insignia.
“That bloke looks familiar,” Nelson muttered, standing next to Lynch.
Lieutenant Price, who’d joined them on deck, glanced over at Nelson and leaned in slightly. “That’s Lord Mountbatten, Commander of Combined Operations.”
“What the bloody hell does that mean, sir?” Nelson asked.
“It means,” Lynch replied in a harsh whisper, “He’s in charge of this whole bloody carnival, so straighten up and don’t look like a ponce.”
Durnford-Slater and Lord Mountbatten slowly made their way from one end of the ferry’s deck to the other. The lieutenant-colonel was doing most of the talking, while Mountbatten nodded and asked the occasional question. Now and then, Mountbatten would stop and have a few words with one of the Commandos before moving on, and from what Lynch saw, the English lord seemed pleased with the state of the men under his command. Lynch recalled that Mountbatten had been given his current position shortly before Lynch and the others had flown to North Africa. Mountbatten had replaced Sir Roger Keyes, the first commander of Combined Operations, whom, rumors stated, hadn’t been very well-liked by anybody. To make matters worse for Sir Roger, his son, Geoffrey, a lieutenant-colonel at the shockingly young age of 24 (through his father’s influence, many said), had led Operation Flipper, the disastrous raid on what was supposed to have been Rommel’s headquarters in North Africa. The rumors around Flipper varied wildly, but only a tiny handful of the men who’d made it to shore to carry out the raid managed to return. The rest, including Keyes, were presumed dead or captured.
Lynch cleared his head of such thoughts as Durnford-Slater and Lord Mountbatten approached. The lieutenant-colonel gestured towards Lynch and the other men in Price’s squad.
“My Lord, this is Lieutenant Price and his men. The lieutenant was picked by Lord Pembroke for the, ah, excursions to the Calais region earlier this year, and he was Captain Eldred’s second-in-command during the recent expedition to Egypt.”
Lord Mountbatten extended his hand and shook Price’s, smiling broadly. “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant. Lord Pembroke speaks very highly of you and your men. Just the sort of dash and vigor we’re going to need to win the war.”
“Thank you my lord, we strive to do our best,” Price said, blushing.
Lord Mountbatten glanced towards Lynch. “What’s your name, Corporal?”
“Thomas Lynch, my lord. Formerly of the Royal Irish Fusiliers,” Lynch replied.
“Did you see action at Arras?” Mountbatten asked.
“Yes, my lord. I lost many friends to the Jerries there, so I did. That’s the reason I volunteered for the Commandos.”
“Got back in the fight as soon as possible, eh? Good show, lad.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Durnford-Slater and Lord Mountbatten continued down the line of men, and Nelson shot an elbow into Lynch’s ribs. “Now who’s the ponce, talking up the quality.”
“You’re just jealous, you tosser,” Lynch replied bac
k.
Eventually, Mountbatten finished his review, and made his way back down the line towards his launch. Before he departed, the commander of Combined Operations turned back to the men standing at attention.
“One last thing!” Mountbatten said, raising his voice so everyone on deck heard him. “Some of you may know that my destroyer, the Kelly, was sunk by the Germans earlier this year. As my men and I bobbed about in the water, the Germans swept us with machine-gun fire, and many good lads were killed, butchered in cold blood. I can assure you, there is no reason to treat them gently on my account.”
Lord Mountbatten let his words sink in for a moment before he raised a hand and saluted the men aboard the Prince Charles.
“Farewell, and good luck to you all.”
Chapter 7
Hms Prince Charles, Scapa Flow, Scotland
December 24th, 2100 Hours
Lynch peered through the porthole and looked out over the waters of Scapa Flow as the engines of the Prince Charles began to vibrate the deck under his feet. In a few minutes they’d be underway, heading several hundred miles north, into the fjords of Norway.
Shortly after Lord Mountbatten’s departure yesterday, the Commando officers had called their men together and laid out the mission ahead of them. The target was a small coastal town known as South Vaagso. It contained a number of fish canning facilities as well as fish oil processing plants, all providing resources for the German war effort. In addition, South Vaagso harboured a small fishing fleet, guarded by a number of armed German trawlers.
Their mission was to assault the town with an amphibious beach landing, then advance from south to north through the town. Several troops were tasked with eliminating the German garrison, while demolition teams destroyed the canneries and fish oil refineries, and the naval vessels sank the Vaagso fishing fleet and any German vessels in the harbour. The mission was little different than the Lofoten raid they’d carried out back in March, but while that mission had been essentially bloodless, there was no telling the opposition they’d face while taking Vaagso. Reconnaissance photos of the area showed at least one substantial gun battery guarding the entrance to the fjord, along with what could be a couple of established defensive positions near the southern end of the town. If the Germans were awake and paying attention to the waters in front of them, the Commandos’ landing craft might very well be sailing into a wall of lead.
In addition, even if the landing went according to plan, and the Royal Navy bombardment and RAF smoke screen protected the landing craft, the town itself could be a death-trap. South Vaagso was a little more than a mile long, and only a couple hundred yards east to west at its widest point. There was one main thoroughfare down through the center of town which would, by necessity, have to be the Commandos' route through the town, and any competent German garrison commander would make sure that road was covered by multiple machine gun positions, as well as mortars, snipers, and makeshift strongpoints packed with men carrying machine pistols and grenades. The Commandos would have to move through the town and fight house-to-house, the worst kind of environment for an assault, while the Germans fell back from one fighting position to another. The right kind of commander, with troops willing to fight tenaciously, could ensure that a considerable percentage of the Commando raiding party found their end in the bloody snows of South Vaagso.
But Lynch also knew that these sorts of missions were exactly what the Commandos were trained for - indeed, they were the whole reason for their existence. They’d strike hard and fast, and with any luck, be gone before the German forces occupying Norway could respond. The result would be a harsh blow delivered to Germany’s Norwegian resources, and a moral victory for the British forces and their allies, not to mention all the Commando units themselves. A couple of minor penny-packet raids along the occupied coast and a few (largely) disastrous actions in North Africa had left most of the Commandos feeling as if all their training - and their hopes of striking back against the Nazis - were for naught. Lynch knew the men around him needed a big, solid victory to give them all the courage and confidence to soldier on during the years to come.
The throbbing of the ship’s engines increased, and soon Lynch realized they were underway, forming up with the Prince Leopold and the four Royal Navy destroyers escorting the HMS Kenya. Lynch turned to look at his three berth-mates, each of whom was performing some mundane task. Nelson was running a whetstone along the edge of his brass-knuckle trench knife, while Higgins used a needle and thread to mend a pair of woolen socks, and Herring cleaned and oiled his M1911A1 automatic, the pistol stripped apart and laid out on a scrap of old cloth.
“Looks like we’re leaving port,” Lynch said.
“Thank you for the announcement, Captain Hornblower,” Herring replied. “But we’re not bloody unconscious - we can feel the boat moving.”
“It’s a ship,” Higgins said, looking up from his sock, “not a boat. They’ll get mad at you if you call it a boat.”
“Who the hell cares, boat or ship?” Herring shot back. “They’re all the same.”
“A boat is something you paddle around in a duck pond,” Higgins answered. “A ship is big, goes on the open water.”
“Will the two of you shut your bleedin’ gobs, before I test this edge on your sodding throats?” Nelson snarled, brandishing his trench knife.
“You’re still carrying that old relic around?” Lynch asked Nelson. “If Lieutenant Price or Captain Forrester see that bit of non-regulation kit, they’ll chew your arse out, so they will.”
“It bloody well suits me,” Nelson replied. “Besides, it’s got history. Some bloke probably slit a whole company of Hun throats with this back in the last war.”
“Was probably dropped in the mud by some poor sod running from a Kraut artillery barrage,” Herring snickered.
Nelson glared at Herring, but before he fired off a retort, Sergeant McTeague appeared in the doorway.
“Alright lads, off to bed with ye. We’ll be up well before the dawn, so best get a good night’s rest.” McTeague paused as he eyed the trench knife in Nelson’s hand. “Put that bloody pig-sticker away in your kit, before I break it over yer head and shove it sideways up yer arse.”
With that, McTeague disappeared, and with some muttering, the four Commandos readied themselves for bed. The last thing Lynch recalled before slipping into a light slumber was the gentle rocking of the ship as it began to move into the open waters beyond Scapa Flow.
An indeterminate amount of time later, Lynch suddenly found himself awake and clinging, by pure reflex, to one of the bunk supports as his legs hung over the edge of the mattress, his body a moment away from rolling right out of bed and onto the deck.
“What the bloody hell is this now?” Lynch shouted.
Looking around, he saw his other berth mates hanging onto their bunks for dear life, as the Prince Charles shuddered and lurched, the hull plates groaning and popping with stress as the ship heeled over far further than Lynch imagined she was designed to handle.
“We’ve been torpedoed!” Herring cried out, showing abject fear for the first time Lynch had known him.
Higgins’ arm appeared over Lynch’s head as the Bren gunner pointed to the porthole in their berth. “Look at that!”
The four men stared in horror as a line of foaming water climbed up the porthole glass for a moment before subsiding again. Lynch knew they were a good ten feet or more above the waterline when sitting in harbour.
“We’re done for!” Herring exclaimed. “Bloody sinking, we are!”
In the next few seconds, however, the ship slowly leaned over in the other direction, and its bow lifted up, only to drop and roll back in their direction again in a nauseating corkscrew fashion. The men sat in their bunks, knuckles white as they gripped the metal bunk supports.
“We aren’t sinking,” Lynch finally announced. “It’s just a heavy sea, so it is. We’re bobbing about like bloody cork.”
The men visibly relaxed at the new
s their vessel wasn’t about to make its way to the bottom of the North Atlantic. However, as time went on, their level of anxiety rose again, as the Prince Charles continued to lurch from port to starboard, rolling with the heavy seas and groaning as steel was repeatedly stressed as the whole ship flexed from bow to stern. At one point during the night, a sailor stopped by their berth and left two tin buckets just inside their door.
“In case any of you lot need to be sick, do us all a kindness and empty your guts into one of these, so we don’t have to swab up your mess in the morning,” the sailor explained, before he moved down the passageway, repeating himself to the occupants of the next berth.
Almost immediately, Herring dropped out of his top bunk onto the deck and staggered over to one of the tin pails. Crouching on all fours, he heaved and vomited copiously into one of the buckets. The bilious odor hit the other three men a moment later, and Lynch choked, nearly throwing up from the smell alone.
“Good Christ, that is bloody foul,” Nelson groaned, holding his shirt over his nose and mouth in a futile attempt to filter out the smell.
“And we can’t even crack open the bloody window without letting the whole Atlantic into the room.” Higgins added.
A minute later, McTeague appeared in their doorway. Even the indomitable Scotsman was looking a little green around the gills.
“Alright lads, on yer feet,” he told them. “The old girl’s taking on water. Shouldn’t be too serious, but they want us on the next deck up, along with our kit, in case the water makes it to these berths.”
As fast as they could, the four men gathered their belongings and exited the cabin. Nelson carried Herring’s kit for him, while the nauseated Commando carried the two buckets. As Lynch passed McTeague, he paused.
“If this ship sinks, we’re all bloody done for, so we are. We’ll freeze to death in these waters in minutes,” Lynch muttered.