Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  Author’s Note

  This was, without a doubt, the most difficult COMMANDO novel I’ve written. While the other books in the series use the war as a backdrop to entirely fictional adventures, Operation Archery was a real Commando operation, carried out essentially as depicted in this story. I tried to order events in their proper timeline and describe them accurately, and it was a lot more difficult than I had anticipated. The difficulty was compounded when I tried to weave the real-life heroics of historical characters around the actions of Lynch and his comrades. I took pains to make sure the real heroes of the Vaagso Raid were represented honourably, while at the same time, giving my fictional characters something interesting to do, which is sometimes harder than you might imagine.

  Of the British Commandos who took part in the raid, aside from Lynch and the men of his squad, Corporal Finch was the only fictional character. Captains Forrester, Linge, and Giles were real, and their deaths were described here as accurately as possible with the historical documents I had available. Lieutenants Komrower and Lloyd were also real, as were Sergeants Larsen, Herbert, and Ramsay. While Price is a fictitious character, the injury he receives in this story - a sniper’s bullet through the eye - was suffered by a Lieutenant O’Flaherty. Like Price, O’Flaherty survived the wound, and he eventually went on to see combat again, years later. I cannot say whether the same will be the case with David Price, however.

  I will confess to borrowing the actions of one other real-life Commando, one Corporal Ernest “Knocker” White. When Captains Forrester and Linge were killed, Corporal White rallied the remaining men of No. 4 Troop and organized the mortar barrage before leading the final charge to take the Ulvesund Hotel. For his actions, White was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal, and he would eventually become the Sergeant-Major for No. 4 Troop by the time 3 Commando was fighting in Italy. The sources claim “Knocker” White was the sort of soldier who gave his commanding officers fits during peacetime, but found himself truly in his element while in battle. I’d like to think that Knocker wouldn’t hold it against me for borrowing his heroics for a kindred spirit like Thomas Lynch.

  While researching the Vaagso Raid, I found the story of Flight-Sergeant Reginald Smith particularly heart-wrenching. Smith really was shot down attempting to drop the smoke bomb which found its way into Lieutenant Komrower’s landing craft. Smith was the only survivor of the crash, but he died on another mission about six weeks later, shot down by a German fighter while sowing mines in the North Atlantic. It is a bitter fact of war that a man can survive a terrible event through sheer luck and the heroics of many comrades, only to die in an unrelated action soon after.

  Information about the Germans in South Vaagso is a bit sparse. While Metz, Egger, Ansel, and Gerver are fictitious, there was a unit of Gebirgsjägers in South Vaagso on holiday when the Commando raid took place, and they proved to be formidable opponents. As for Schroeder, Lebrenz, Sebelin, and Bremer, they were all historical figures, and I tried to write their fates as best I could, although the exact manner of their deaths is difficult to say. Overall, the Germans fought well and bravely that day, unprepared and not only outnumbered but outgunned. One account tells of a dying German encountered by a Commando passing by as the British withdrew from the town. The two soldiers didn’t understand each other, but the German shook the Commando’s hand, a gesture taken to mean he was congratulating the Commando on a good fight. There was no hostage-taking incident as depicted at the end of this novel, and the Norwegians did indeed only suffer one dead and a couple of wounded - surprisingly low numbers, given the amount of violence taking place in such a small area. And, while Arna and her family are fictitious, the brave Norwegians did offer to assist the Commandos, serving as guides and grenade-bearers during the fighting.

  In the end, the Commandos suffered almost a score of dead, more than fifty wounded, and eight RAF aircraft were shot down. The Germans lost more than one hundred killed and almost a hundred taken prisoner. All of Vaagso’s factories were destroyed, along with many thousands of tons of shipping, as well as several armed trawlers and both the Maaloy and Rugsundo batteries. Overall, Archery was a tremendous success, both tactically in terms of the objectives it completed, and strategically, in the boost to morale the raid gave both the Commandos themselves as well as the British people. Until Archery, there hadn’t been a true test of the Commando raiding strategy against a hostile, resisting enemy force, and the senior British commanders were unsure if such operations were worth the risk of men and materiel. But the success of the raid paved the way for many more operations, such as the attack on St. Nazaire three months later.

  As for Lynch and the others, 1941 draws to a close with the loss of their commanding officer and a promotion for Thomas Lynch. There are still three and a half years of hard fighting left, however, and many more adventures to come...

  III

  Operation Eisen

  Operation Eisen

  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

  Largs, Scotland

  March 4th, 1942, 1900 Hours

  Lance-Sergeant Thomas Lynch shook the freezing rain from his greatcoat before opening the door to the Royal Oak. Stepping inside, he scuffed his boots on the sodden floor mat and unbuttoned his coat, hanging it on one of the pegs next to the door. The inside of the pub was warm and smelled of pipe-smoke and ale, a pleasant change from the biting wind and driving rain outside.

  Looking around the taproom, Lynch saw a dozen men, all grey-haired and hunched over their pints. A few looked at him, but none made any comment and they soon turned back to their drinks. Only Fergus the bartender acknowledged him with a nod, already setting a glass on the polished bar.

  “What’ll it be, lad?” Fergus asked.

  He was a middle-aged fellow, balding and with a thick gut and broad shoulders. Lynch had been in the Royal Oak a number of times over the last year, and he’d never seen another man behind the bar, so he presumed Fergus was the owner.

  Lynch stepped up and nodded to the taps. “I’ll have a Smithwick’s, if you please.”

  Fergus nodded and picked up the pint glass, holding it under the spigot and pulling the tap handle. “A taste of the old country, eh?”

  Lynch just smiled and nodded.

  Fergus eyed Lynch’s rank insignia. “That third stripe looks new.”

  Lynch glanced down at his sleeve. “Aye, less than a month.”

  “Ye earn that in Norway, did ye?” Fergus asked.

  Lynch nodded. News of the successful raid on Vaagso Island had been broadcast before the Commandos’ troop ships had even returned to Scapa Flow. It didn’t take long for the inhabitants of Largs to figure out that the Commandos responsible for the raid were those who were stationed here. Once 3 Commando returned to Largs, it was some time before any of them bought their own pints.

  Fergus reached behind him and took a wooden cane from a peg on the wall. He rapped the end of it against his right leg, the impact producing a hollow wooden sound. “Went over the top in ‘16 and caught a wee limp from a Spandau,” he said. “All but took me leg off at the knee, but I was the lucky one in the family. Me brother and two cousins never came home.”

  “My father came home,” Lynch replied, as Fergus handed him the pint. “Although to be sure, his lungs were never right after the war. Gas attack, so I heard. He died when I was just a babe.”

  Fergus nodded. “Many grew up in those years without a father. But enough talk of old times, lad. Ye are expected upstairs.”

  Lynch reached into his pocket to pay for his drink, but Fergus just shook his head and winked, then gestured towards the near
by stairwell with his thumb. “On with ye now.”

  “Many thanks,” Lynch replied, raising his pint in a gesture of appreciation before moving to the alcove next to the bar. There, a narrow set of stairs led up to a private space above the taproom, where a half-dozen men in uniform sat around an old wooden table.

  At the head of the table sat Captain William Eldred, the new commander of 3 Commando’s No. 4 Troop. The previous captain, Algy Forrester, had been killed leading an assault against the headquarters of the German garrison in Vaagso. Eldred was an older man for a Commando, in his early 30s, with a face scarred from shrapnel and a slight limp courtesy of the German army, but Lynch had served under Eldred during their unit’s time in North Africa, and knew the captain was a skillful and experienced leader.

  The other officer at the table, however, was still a bit of a mystery. Lieutenant James Stambridge was in his late 20s, tall and lean, with jet-black hair sweeping back from his forehead in a widow’s peak. His features were sharp to the point of appearing cruel, and his grey eyes were cold and predatory. While Stambridge’s predecessor Lieutenant Price gave an impression of the classic English gentleman-warrior, Stambridge always looked like a hungry wolf, about to catch its prey and savage it to pieces.

  “Lance-Sergeant Lynch, good of you to finally join us,” Stambridge said, as Lynch emerged from the stairwell.

  Lynch saluted the officers at the head of the table. “Sorry, sir. Cleanup after the day’s exercises took longer than anticipated, given the weather.”

  Stambridge curled his lip into a sneer. “I would expect you to anticipate that and plan accordingly, Lance-Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir. I shall do so next time, sir,” Lynch replied.

  “Have a seat,” Eldred cut in, “and let’s begin, shall we?”

  Lynch walked over to the table and sat down next to Dougal McTeague, his old squad sergeant. McTeague was now the sergeant-major of No. 4 Troop, having been promoted after the Vaagso raid. McTeague had been incapacitated early on in the fighting, knocked unconscious by the handle of an exploding German stick grenade. With McTeague out of the fight, and Lieutenant Price wounded shortly after their squad had come ashore, Lynch had taken command of the squad and led it for the rest of the raid.

  After they’d returned from Vaagso, Lynch had been promoted to Lance-Sergeant, taking over for McTeague while the Scotsman recovered from his injury. The rank had been confirmed once the extent of 3 Commando’s losses was fully realized, with some eighty men killed, wounded, or returned to their units after the operation. No. 4 Troop had been hit particularly hard, having been given the task of assaulting through South Vaagso and neutralizing the German garrison. Only now, some two months later, was the troop’s fighting strength fully restored.

  Along with McTeague and Lynch, there were three other sergeants present at the table. Howard Peabody had led one of Eldred’s squads during the North Africa missions and was a solid fighting man. Across from Peabody sat Donald Howe, who had followed Stambridge from the Long Range Desert Group, the irregular reconnaissance force which carried out extended operations in North Africa deep behind enemy lines. Lynch knew little of Howe and the man didn’t seem inclined to become friends with any of the troop’s other non-coms, preferring to keep to himself or in Stambridge’s company.

  Last, but certainly not least, was Sergeant Archie King, who’d transferred in from No. 6 Troop. King was a big man, almost as tall as McTeague and a touch wider in the shoulders, with a freckled face, a shock of brilliant red hair, and a mouth full of the biggest, whitest teeth Lynch had ever seen. And Lynch saw those teeth a lot, because King was always talking, laughing, shouting, or otherwise carrying on about one topic or another. But, while King got on the nerves of a few of the more reserved men, there was something about his open, gregarious nature that lifted the spirits of all those around him.

  “Oi, what’ve you got there, Tom?” King asked, taking a long sip from his own pint glass.

  “A Smithwick’s, Arch,” Lynch replied.

  “That’s a lovely red ale,” King replied. “I had Fergus pull me a Boddington’s, but ever since the old brewery was lost in the Blitz, the taste just isn’t the same.”

  “It’s the steel vats,” Peabody interjected. “I heard they’re using new steel vats. Makes the ale taste different.”

  “All of ye, shut yer gobs!” McTeague growled. “There’s a war to win.”

  “If you didn’t want us to discuss ale,” Archie replied. “we shouldn’t be meeting above a taproom! Pardon, lieutenant, captain.”

  Eldred smiled and picked up the heavy glass tumbler in front of him, filled with more than a dram’s worth of amber fluid. The Commando captain studied the Scotch in his glass for a moment before taking a sip and nodding.

  “We’re meeting here,” Eldred said, “because when we’re done, this meeting will never have happened. It is not official, and neither is the operation we’re here to discuss.”

  There was silence for a moment, before King carefully set down his glass and scratched at his chin. “Beg pardon, Captain?”

  Eldred looked to Stambridge. “Well, James? This is your mission, you tell the lads.”

  Stambridge, the only man at the table without a drink at hand, cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Two days ago, the War Cabinet met to discuss the details of Operation Biting. I presume all of you are familiar with the actions in Bruneval last week?”

  All the men at the table nodded.

  “Good,” Stambridge continued. “Well, upon hearing of the mission’s success, the P.M. declared he wanted Combined Operations to accelerate the tempo of raids against the mainland. The paras proved that a small, well-armed force could strike along the French coast and hold off any early reinforcements long enough to be recovered and brought back home.”

  “So it’s another raid, is it?” Peabody asked. “Doesn’t seem like that should warrant all this cloak-and-dagger work.”

  Stambridge glanced at Eldred, who nodded, and Stambridge continued. “We intend to land at the end of the month, at the same time and in the same area as another mission. We have been given unofficial permission to act, but if word reached those planning the other, larger operation, ours would no doubt be scrubbed.”

  “So we’re keeping it secret from our own people,” Lynch ventured. “Where do we plan to land, the Calais region again?”

  Stambridge shook his head, then leaned to the side and pulled a rolled-up piece of paper from a valise next to his chair. Standing, he leaned over the table and unrolled the paper, which appeared to be a hand-drawn map. “Pint glasses on the corners,” he said.

  Lynch took a long gulp from his ale and placed his glass on one of the map’s corners. Leaning closer, he saw the map had clearly been traced over another, government-printed map of the lower peninsular region of western France. The coastline, roads, rivers, geographical contour lines, and population centres had all been meticulously rendered with a fine, steady hand. The port town of Saint-Nazaire was evident in the bottom-centre of the map.

  “In case you were wondering,” Stambridge said, “I copied this map myself. The captain and I agreed it would be best if no official copy had been requested from the cartographer’s offices.”

  “Excellent detail, sir,” Peabody said, clearly impressed.

  “No man leads an LRDG patrol into the deep desert without knowing how to draw an accurate map,” Howe replied, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

  “Our target is near here,” Stambridge continued, pointing to a small notation on the map. “The commune of Crossac.”

  Lynch looked at the area, which seemed to be nowhere near any major town or city, and away from the coastline. “That’s rather far inland, so it is,” he said.

  “About fifteen miles east of where we’ll land,” Stambridge answered. “But we’ll need to cover close to twice that in order to stay off the roads and remain hidden.”

  “That’s at least two days’ travel,” McTeague replied.


  Stambridge nodded. “And we’ll have to move fast, because we’ll be operating on a strict timetable.”

  “And what’re we doing when we get there, sir?” King asked, a worried look on his face.

  Stambridge produced a photograph from his valise and placed it upon the map. It was an aerial photograph of a large chateau, although at the height from which the photo was taken, the building was but a small rectangle in the middle of a large estate, surrounded in turn by a swath of thick forest.

  “This is the Chateau de Lorieux. It was originally the home of a French lord, built around the eleventh century. It has been altered and rebuilt over the ages, and was used in the 18th century as a hunting estate. Until the war, it’d been the home of a retired French colonel of artillery.”

  “And now, sir?” Lynch asked.

  Stambridge looked at Lynch, his gaze steady and unblinking. “Now, it is what the Germans used to call a Lustschloss, which translates roughly into ‘pleasure palace’.”

  “I’ve seen the inside of a few pleasure palaces in my time,” King said quietly, his eyebrows waggling.

  “That’s enough out of you, King,” McTeague grumbled.

  Ignoring the crude comment, Stambridge continued. “I say Germans, because they took over ownership of the chateau after the fall of France.”

  “Took it over how, sir?” Peabody asked.

  Stambridge’s lips drew into a thin line for a moment. “The Waffen-SS uses it as a holiday destination for those who’ve earned the Iron Cross. They are rotated away from the front and sent to the Chateau de Lorieux, where they have the run of the estate grounds, fine food, a well-stocked wine cellar, and all manner of other luxuries.”