Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  Exiting his room, Faust was greeted by a pair of SS soldiers posted outside his door. Each man snapped to attention and saluted him, and Faust smartly returned the gesture.

  “Kommen Sie mit,” Faust told his men, and gestured down the hallway.

  The two guards fell in line behind their Standartenführer. Both men held the rank of Sturmmann, or Storm Trooper. Each had at least five years’ enlistment with the SS, and had been with Faust through Poland, Belgium, and France. One of the men, Klaus, carried an MP-28, while Dieter carried one of the new MP-40s. Faust knew each of the men had at least a score of kills to his name. At his command, these men would murder, torture, rape, beat, or burn without the slightest hesitation.

  To Faust, that was the sign of a perfect soldier.

  The three men walked down the hall of the Hotel du Chevalier, built in the early 20’s to entice tourists from England and America after the Great War. During the siege of Calais a year ago, the hotel took several hits from heavy weapons fire, and rooms on various floors of the hotel were little more than open wounds facing the streets. Since the city’s occupation, Faust’s Einsatzgruppe had been using it as their command center. The seven-story hotel was certainly more comfortable than any other lodging the men had occupied over the last two years, and although it couldn’t fit Faust’s entire command, one of the two Einsatzkommando units was stationed there at any time, while the other was broken up into reinforced patrols moving throughout the Pas-de-Calais region.

  There were, of course, a few inconveniences. Faust had been ordered to treat the civilian population fairly unless provoked, and he had to pay the hotel staff wages and provide reimbursement for food and drink. Supplies arrived at regular intervals, and when he wanted to eat better than the men, Faust and his officers paid the kitchen staff to go and acquire better food than what his unit was issued. Most of the men didn’t mind, as it allowed them more leisure time, as well as food prepared by those who knew what they were doing. The French might be awful at making war, Faust reflected, but they were experts at making dinner.

  Faust and his bodyguards stepped into the elevator at the end of the hallway. The operator shut the gate and Faust raised two fingers. The man, an elderly Frenchman in a somewhat worn hotel staff uniform, nodded and selected the second floor. The elevator lurched and began to descend. Faust noticed that the old man refused to look at any of the Germans, and a single bead of sweat had formed on his forehead, trickling down until it disappeared into one of the man’s eyebrows.

  Faust turned and looked at the man. “You appear unwell. Did you sleep poorly last night?” he asked, addressing him in rough French.

  The old man turned pale and gulped, patting at his forehead with a kerchief. He glanced at Faust, his eyes flickering to Faust’s empty eye socket, and then the man looked away again.

  “Oui, monsieur, I am unwell today. My apologies.”

  Faust leaned down, looming over the smaller Frenchman, and tilted his head so his empty eye socket seemed to be staring at the man.

  “Perhaps you are sick?” Faust asked. “Maybe you should see a doctor. I do not want you to spread your illness to my men. That would be...unfortunate for all of us, wouldn’t you say?”

  The old man shuddered and glanced away, unable to look into the hollow of Faust’s skull. “Yes, very unfortunate, I will do as you say.”

  “Good, that’s good,” Faust replied, standing up straight again. “Ah, here we are.”

  The elevator stopped with a clatter and the operator pulled open the gate. Faust smiled at him, causing the man to turn even more pale and look away again. His disfigurement had an unsettling effect on the younger officers who tried to kiss his Arsch too much, and when he turned the scarred, empty socket on some terrified civilian, the poor unfortunate would rather betray their deepest secrets than be forced to meet his gaze.

  The three Germans stepped out of the elevator car, and began walking down the hall. Behind him, Klaus and Dieter quietly chuckled at their commander’s sport. They reached an intersection and turned left, walking past several doors before approaching another with two other Storm Troopers standing guard. Faust nodded to the men, and one of the guards took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside the room, holding the door open.

  Faust stepped inside. The small hotel room had been stripped of all its decorations and finery. Even the carpets had been pulled up and taken away. A bed occupied the center of the room, not much more than a cot. There were a couple of wooden stools and a large wooden chest in the corner, with a pair of trays sitting on top. One of them contained a plate with two slices of bread covered in preserves and a tin cup of milk. The other tray contained several stainless steel instruments and several different kinds of medical dressings. A small, bent Frenchman with wisps of white hair sticking out from his head was leaning over a patient strapped down onto the cot. At the moment Faust entered, the doctor stopped rolling a bandage around the man’s right hand, and looked up.

  “How is our guest today?” Faust asked.

  “He is recovering well,” the doctor answered. “There continues to be no sign of infection, and his wounds are closing as they should.”

  Faust smiled. “Excellent.” He stepped forward until he was looking down at the man on the cot.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Bouchard.”

  Chapter 5

  The Partisans’ Cave

  0530 Hours

  In short order, the Commandos settled into the cave and began preparing a morning meal. Every fourth man fired up a small Primus stove, and within minutes hot tin mugs of sweet tea were being passed around, while the men shared their packaged rations with the French. Tins of potted meat, some hard bread and cheese, as well as chocolate bars and cans of condensed milk were shared with their hosts, and soon everyone was sitting around in the cave, talking to each other and catching up on the time the two groups had been apart.

  In one corner of the cave, Pritchard handed Lynch a mug of tea and half a tin of bully beef, heated in a small bowl until it steamed. Lynch nodded his thanks, and took a long sip of tea before balancing the mug on his knee. He used some hard bread from his pack to scoop up the beef and shovel it into his mouth.

  Sitting in a circle with him were Chenot, Price, McTeague, Smythe, and the boy, Édouard. Corporal Bowen had volunteered to stand watch outside the cave, and Nelson, although promoted to corporal, wasn’t yet considered part of the squad’s command element. He squatted next to a stove with several other men nearby, enjoying his tea and telling a rude story. Although Smythe was a civilian and fell outside the Commandos’ command structure, Price had told them to treat the spy as if he was one of them, at least with regards to planning and sharing information. Lynch watched the man as he perched on the edge of a captured German supply crate, sipping tea and worrying away at a hard biscuit. Smythe had a placid, almost chipper expression on his face, and Lynch wondered if this was the man’s version of a holiday.

  Lynch turned to listen to the Frenchmen with him. Édouard was relaying his story through Chenot, as the young man didn’t speak any English.

  “His grandfather works at the Hotel du Chevalier as an elevator operator,” Chenot said. “Several days ago, the Germans there, the SS Kommandos, brought in an injured man, a Frenchman. He had been shot several times, but he still lived. The Germans forced the staff to strip a room on the second floor bare of anything unnecessary. Then a small cot and a few other pieces of furniture were brought in, and the Germans summoned a local doctor.”

  “Are we certain the man is Bouchard?” Price asked.

  “The description matched,” Chenot replied. “Given the time, and the Germans involved, there is no other alternative. They wouldn’t keep anyone else alive and treat their wounds, but still hold them prisoner. I am certain it is him.”

  The Commandos exchanged glances.

  “So why do we think this Faust is keeping Bouchard alive now?” Lynch asked. “D’you think he’s going to try and break the
wee fellow? Bouchard seemed a hard nut to crack, so he did, all the more if it’d be to a bunch of bloody death’s-head wearing SS bastards.”

  Smythe nodded. “Corporal Lynch is right. I cannot believe even their torture experts would get such a fanatic to talk.”

  Chenot shook his head. “It is just as much of a mystery to me as it is to you. I agree that André wouldn’t give away any secrets, but on the other hand, Faust has been an implacable enemy, and he is known for breaking men who were thought unbreakable.”

  “Well,” said McTeague, “what harm is it, if your man talks? I hate tae say it, but your efforts are at an end, laddie. You cannae fight the Huns with just yourself, Miss Marie, this young fellow, and a pair of grey-hairs.”

  Price looked from his sergeant to Chenot. “Sergeant McTeague is correct. Your unit, such as it was, is now combat ineffective, and we’ll be taking you back to England soon enough. I pity the poor fellow, but without a doubt he is a dead man. Do you suppose he would give up this location?”

  Chenot shook his head. “This area is full of little hills and patches of woods. André could have them running everywhere looking for us, and there are several caches and temporary camps we’ve set up over the last few weeks. He could hold out for a while to make it convincing, then send the Germans to a cache. They’d think we’d disappeared, taking what we needed. No, that is not the reason he must be rescued.”

  “Well now,” Lynch said, glancing at Price as he spoke to Chenot. “What be so bloody important as to risk our necks sneaking into an occupied city just to nab your mate?”

  Chenot looked down into his mug for a moment. Lynch took the lull in the conversation as an opportunity to drink more of his tea and scoop up more of his breakfast. In the army you learned that, when you had time to eat, eat quickly and as much as you can.

  “Several weeks ago,” Chenot finally said, “we derailed a train and killed the Germans on board. It was a great accomplishment, one of our finest, but as a result...many innocent lives paid the price for our victory.”

  “Bloody savages, the lot of ‘em,” McTeague grumbled.

  Chenot nodded. “It made many of the men quite upset, myself included. A vote was taken, and we all agreed that André should make contact with resistance cells in Vichy France, that we should leave this area and head south. Here, we are forced to attack Germans more frequently in order to acquire supplies, because so few are willing to help us with the Germans looking over their shoulders. To the south, we hope to find more support for our cause.”

  “The Vichy government is entirely in old Adolf’s pocket,” Smythe remarked. “You’re going to have a devil of a time no matter where you go. Intelligence has it some of your own countrymen are just as dedicated to hunting the resistance as the Germans. Perhaps more so.”

  “An enemy is an enemy,” Lynch muttered. “But a bloody traitor, they be deserving of a special kind of hatred.”

  “So, is that the problem?” McTeague asked. “Bouchard knows something of the southern resistance?”

  Chenot nodded. “Enough to put several cells in danger, at the very least. And there are the civilians who have helped us here in the north. Their lives are all in danger if he reveals them to the SS.”

  The three Commandos looked at each other. Risking other resistance cells was bad enough, but risk was part and parcel with that life. Those men and women were soldiers, of a kind. Giving the Germans innocents whose only crime was supporting those who fought to liberate their nation from tyranny...none of the Commandos could stomach that. Finally, Price nodded, and both McTeague and Lynch returned his nod.

  “Alright son, we’ll do this. Our orders were to get as many of the resistance back to England as we could, and if you think Bouchard is that important, we’ll try to get him out as well,” Price said.

  “But he’s right under the bloody Huns’ rooftop, so he is,” Lynch replied. “We be lookin’ at a reinforced company of crack sodding infantry now, the best of Hitler’s best. And that’s if we get inside the bleedin’ city. Lieutenant, I agree it’s orders sir, but there’s no way we be making it into Calais, much less be making it out again.”

  McTeague grunted. “Lad’s got a point, Lieutenant. I cannae imagine how we’ll pull off this caper.”

  Chenot made a small sound, and they all turned towards him. The Frenchman turned and looked at Édouard, who said something emphatically in French, gesturing in the direction of the city. Chenot replied, nodding, then pointed to Smythe, who smiled. Lynch realized Smythe was able to follow along; he was the only Brit among them who could speak fluent French. Smythe spoke with Édouard and Chenot for a few minutes as the Commandos waited, and finally the spy turned back to address them, a smile spreading across his face.

  “Gentlemen, we have a plan.”

  Chapter 6

  Hotel Du Chevalier

  0530 Hours

  Faust pulled a stool over next to Bouchard’s cot and sat down. He took his peaked cap off of his head and ran his hands through his iron-grey hair. Bouchard was strapped down onto the cot at the ankle, knee, elbows and chest, with just his forearms and hands free. The Frenchman was dressed only in a pair of German-issued underwear, and his stomach, right thigh, left shoulder, and right hand were swathed in bandages.

  Faust’s bullet had struck the butt of Bouchard’s pistol, knocking it from his hand and severing his little finger at the second knuckle. According to the doctor’s initial diagnosis, while the wounds would keep Bouchard from going too far, if treated well the Frenchman would eventually recover, save for the loss of half a digit.

  Faust ran his eye over Bouchard’s gaunt frame. The man’s body, once soft and slightly overweight with the sedentary nature of his profession, was now scarred and lean, almost gaunt, with wiry muscles formed through months of hiking and running, climbing and crawling, living with little more comfort than a Gallic tribesman would have two millennia ago. Examining Bouchard’s face, Faust saw the SS hadn’t done anything to groom their prisoner, and the man’s beard was unruly, his hair wild on his head. His small rimless glasses were cloudy with dust and grime.

  “Tsk tsk tsk. Das geht nicht,” Faust said. He reached over and plucked the glasses from Bouchard’s face before the man could utter a word of protest. Pulling a kerchief from his pocket, Faust meticulously cleaned Bouchard’s spectacles, holding them up to the light coming through the widow three times before he was satisfied with their condition. Finally, he straightened the wire arms and placed the glasses back on Bouchard’s face.

  “At least now you can see your captors clearly, Monsieur Bouchard,” Faust said, speaking in French.

  “Do not expect a thank you,” Bouchard replied.

  Faust turned to the French doctor standing on the other side of Bouchard’s bed. “He has not eaten yet this morning?”

  “I was going to feed him after I’d examined him and changed his dressings,” the doctor replied.

  Faust nodded. “You may feed him now, while I speak to him.”

  The doctor brought over the bread and the tin cup of milk. The doctor held the tray and handed Bouchard a piece of bread, smeared with some kind of fruit preserve. Inquisitive, Faust reached over and touched his finger to the edge of one smear, then brought it to his mouth.

  “Hmmm. Apples, and a little cinnamon. Delicious.” Faust gestured to his empty eye socket. “When I was recovering from this, in 1918, The food was awful, what little I remember of it. Some thin beef broth, stale bread, water, perhaps a boiled potato mashed into a pulp and fed to me with a spoon.”

  Bouchard looked Faust in the eye for a long moment. Despite the straps restricting his movement, Bouchard managed to bring the bread up close to his mouth. He craned his neck forward and took a generous bite, then slowly chewed and swallowed, a small smile on his lips. His other hand reached for the cup, and he washed the bread down with a swallow. Faust could see the milk was cold, beads of condensation running down the outside of the metal cup.

  Faust sat there
and watched Bouchard eat his breakfast for five silent minutes, each man studying the actions of the other. Faust produced a pipe from his pocket, filled it with a small measure of tobacco, and lit it with a wooden match. He didn’t draw deeply on the pipe, merely giving the occasional puff and enjoying the scent and flavor of the quality leaf. Finally, Bouchard finished his breakfast, and the doctor took away the tin cup and the platter.

  “Was it good?” Faust asked.

  Bouchard shrugged. “The preserves were fair, but the bread...I have had better. Still, I cannot complain. For a dead man, you are treating me exceptionally well.”

  Faust smiled and shook his head. “You misunderstand my intentions. I am going to keep you alive as long as I can. This is why I have done my best to prevent you from taking your own life. The restraints are not there to protect us - I doubt that even your surprisingly lethal skills are going to get you beyond the door to this room. They are there to prevent you from finding a way to end your own life before I am finished spending time with you.”

  “Ah, so it is torture then?” Bouchard asked.

  “Nein, no torture,” Faust replied. “Perhaps that would work on a lesser man, one of your lieutenants or some of the civilians who I am sure have helped you now and then. But I can sense that you, sir, are a different kind of animal.”

  Bouchard grunted. “So you intend to break me with flattery. I am amused.”

  Faust shook his head. “It is not flattery. Some time ago, I learned the reason for your campaign of vendetta. The men who committed the crimes were Wehrmacht, not SS troops, and I had no knowledge of the acts at the time and therefore it took a while to link your name and actions to that...incident.”

  Faust paused and puffed on his pipe. Bouchard was staring at him now, silent and with a deadly intensity.