Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  Smythe, however, was far too fast. He fired three shots so quickly it sounded as if they were a single long report, the bullets striking the guard in the chest, throat, and left eye. The German staggered back and hit the wall next to the doorjamb, then his legs gave out and he slowly slid to the floor.

  Before the second guard came to a stop, Smythe reloaded his pistol once more, and the Commandos moved to the door at the end of the hallway. A moment’s search of the two guards produced a key, and very carefully, Price unlocked the door while Lynch stood by, dagger at the ready.

  The door opened with a soft creak, and the two men stepped inside. A single weak bulb illuminated the room, and at the edge of the bulb’s light a cot sat by a heavily curtained window, a mostly naked figure strapped down upon the small bed. Two oval gleams of light moved at the head of the cot, as the bespectacled man who lay there turned to look at the doorway.

  “Monsieur Price, Corporal Lynch. Bonjour, and welcome back to France.”

  Chapter 10

  Hotel Du Chevalier

  0430 Hours

  Every second they stayed within the hotel, their chances of discovery increased, so time was of the essence. Hall stepped into the room, and as Lynch cut Bouchard free, Hall examined the Frenchman’s wounds, carefully unwrapping each dressing to look for signs of infection or other dangers.

  “Sir, they seem to have taken good care of him,” Hall finally said, standing up and buckling his medical kit closed.

  “The Boche were most eager for me to recuperate. That way, their ghoulish leader could spend more time examining my mind. I was to be his...specimen,” Bouchard replied.

  Price turned to Hall. “Can he walk? Can we move him?”

  Hall ran a finger absent-mindedly across the dark brown stubble of his chin and thought for a long moment before finally nodding. “As long as he moves carefully and doesn’t tear anything. All the wounds were superficial - no organs or bones. Well, except the loss of the finger.”

  Bouchard stood up and gingerly belted on a pair of trousers taken from the trunk in the corner of the room. “I will do whatever it takes to get free from this place. I will crawl out on my belly if I have to.”

  Lynch reached back behind him and pulled the Browning automatic from his belt. He handed the pistol to Bouchard, along with two spare magazines he pulled from his coat pocket.

  “Let’s hope you’re walking out of here quiet-like, Mister Bouchard. If not, at least now you have a chance to shoot your way clear,” Lynch said.

  Bouchard could not hold the pistol properly in his right hand because of the bandages, so he held the pistol in his left and awkwardly drew back the slide with his right, chambering a round.

  “I know this pistol. It has taken the lives of French citizens. Perhaps in my hands, a balance can be restored.”

  Smythe leaned into the room and whispered to the Commandos. “Gentlemen, we need to get you out of here, now.”

  Lynch pulled back his sleeve and looked at his wristwatch. It was 4:32.

  “Aye, so it is. Tick-tock, lads. Time to leg it.”

  Hall helped Bouchard finish dressing, the medic hovering over the partisan and fussing about like a mother hen tending to one of her chicks. Once Bouchard was ready, the seven men began to make their way out and down the hall. The hotel was still quiet at this hour, save for a few creaking boards and other movements from a couple of nearby rooms. Early risers were moving about, but there were no doors opening or voices to indicate their cover was about to be blown.

  They carefully advanced to the staircase leading down to the first floor. Everyone formed up on Smythe, who led the way down with his deadly little handgun at the ready. Nelson once again took his place as the last man on the line, and as everyone began to descend the stairs, Nelson followed them into the stairwell and began to shut the door behind him.

  “Können Sie die Tür offen halten, bitte?”

  It was a voice calling from a doorway a few feet away. Nelson hadn’t heard the door open, and he cursed himself for being an idiot. His wounded leg, healed but not quite up to the rigors of this operation, was distracting him with a dull, throbbing ache, and he had been otherwise focused on making sure everyone got down the stairs quietly. He didn’t understand what the German had said, and spoke not a word of German himself, so Nelson just let the door drift shut on its spring-loaded hinges.

  “Arschloch, die Tür halten!” the German said, obviously annoyed at the rudeness of one of his comrades.

  There were a couple of quick footsteps, and before Nelson could react, the German pulled open the stairwell door. The man was young, perhaps Nelson’s age, with light blond hair and grey eyes. He wore only his trousers, and as he opened the door, he finished pulling an undershirt over his head only to find himself standing face-to-face with a British Commando in full kit, holding a machine pistol, face blackened with soot, eyes wide with surprise.

  “Oh...Scheisse...”

  Nelson’s finger almost clamped down on the trigger, but his training took precedence over instinct at the last possible moment. Instead of firing his weapon, Nelson lashed out, stabbing upwards with the Thompson as hard as he could and driving the weapon’s compensator into the soft flesh of the German’s throat. He heard the crunch of cartilage as the man’s windpipe was crushed, and the German staggered back, his hands grasping at his throat, face turning red as his eyes bulged in shock and pain.

  Nelson let go of the Thompson’s pistol grip for a moment, holding the weapon by the foregrip, and he drew his trench knife. Before the wounded German could react, Nelson drove the blade up under the man’s sternum and into his heart. The soldier sagged to his knees, wheezing his last breath through blood-frothed lips. Nelson let out a sigh of relief and glanced past the dead man, into the hallway behind him.

  His eyes locked with another German, a brawny NCO wearing only his underwear, a towel draped over his shoulders, mouth agape. Nelson let go of the knife, still buried in the dead man’s chest, and reached for the Thompson’s pistol grip as the Feldwebel took a deep breath, about to shout a warning at the top of his lungs.

  The burst of slugs from Nelson’s weapon nearly tore the soldier in half.

  Nelson knew he might have just doomed them all.

  The rest of the Commandos and the partisans looked up from the base of the stairs and saw Nelson looking back down at them, a curl of smoke rising from the muzzle of his Thompson, a look of horror on his face as the hotel rooms behind him erupted in a clamour.

  “Nelson you madman!” Lynch hissed at him, as if silence still had some value. “Now what did you do that for?”

  “Run for your soddin’ lives, mates!” Nelson cried, priming and throwing a grenade back down the hall. “This caper’s been scotched!”

  Nelson reached the bottom of the staircase as his grenade exploded. Although he didn’t know it, the blast killed the first two SS who’d managed to throw on boots and grab their weapons. The two Germans had stepped out of their respective rooms in time to see the grenade tumbling down the hall, and before either of them had a chance to react, the grenade shredded them with hot steel fragments.

  Stepping out of the stairwell, weapons raised, the Commandos turned and headed for the loading area. Smythe paused and offered his hand to Price in farewell.

  “Lieutenant, it has been a pleasure, and I wish you and your men the best of luck in returning to England, but here’s where we part company.”

  Price hesitated for a moment, then nodded and shook Smythe’s hand. “Best of luck to you as well. For King and Country.”

  Smythe nodded, then dropped the little Browning into his black leather case. He straightened the cap on his head, then turned and began walking in the other direction, towards where Price figured the hotel’s lobby might lie.

  “Alright lads, to the lorries,” Price ordered.

  They heard the sounds of pursuit from up the staircase. There was shouting and the thunder of running feet, not only from above but towards the
front of the hotel as well. The Commandos moved towards the back hallway leading outside, almost making it before a trio of running figures emerged from the doorway at the other end of the long hall. The Germans had been raiding the kitchen before their day started, and none of them were armed. Price raised his Lanchester and stitched a row of slugs across all three men, cutting them down like wooden targets on the practice range. The men dropped, twitching and gurgling, to the hallway floor.

  “Poor bastards weren’t even armed,” Price muttered.

  “Aye, the poor Nazi bastards. Now come on, sir!” Lynch growled.

  The six men hustled down the dark hallway and into the loading area. There was no movement, and in a few seconds the Commandos cleared the room and stepped out into the alleyway. Both of the Blitzes were still there, engines idling, and an anxious face peered from the driver’s side window of the nearest vehicle, the muzzle of a Colt automatic gleaming in the dim light.

  “Sounds like you lads woke up the Jerries a wee bit early!” it was Pritchard.

  “Shut it, Pritchard!” Lynch snarled. “Get ready to pull out!”

  Price turned to Hall and Nelson. “Get in the staff car and lead the Blitzes out of here. Harry, fire on anything that gets in your way.”

  The two Commandos nodded and ran out of the alley. Price then looked at Chenot and Bouchard. The older partisan was sweating and breathing heavily, and a small red stain had seeped through his trouser leg, but he’d kept up with the rest of them during their escape.

  “Get in the back of the first lorry,” Price ordered, “and make sure Thatcher drives like Hell.”

  “What about you?” Chenot asked.

  Price looked to Lynch. “We’ll pick up the others. Now go!”

  Chenot and Bouchard headed for the tailgate of the first Blitz. Price climbed into the passenger’s seat of the second vehicle as Lynch climbed into the cargo bed. No sooner had he hunkered down behind several crates than a burst of automatic fire hammered through the wooden box next to his hand, peppering him with splinters. Lynch turned and saw three Germans running from the loading area, weapons raised. He brought up his MP-38 and triggered off a burst, but he squeezed the trigger just as the lorry began to move, and the burst of slugs raked across the brick surface of the building. The Germans ducked, but two of them dropped to their knees and began firing shots into the back of the cargo bed.

  As the Blitz exited the alleyway, Lynch pulled a grenade from his belt and flung it behind them. He was rewarded a few seconds later when the explosion was followed by a howl of pain from an unseen German pursuer. The vehicle then turned, lurching over the sidewalk as Pritchard cut the wheel hard, the side of the cargo bed grating against the corner of the adjacent building. No sooner had they pulled out of the alley, however, than a fusillade of shots rang out from the front of the hotel. Lynch peered around one of the crates to see a broad shaft of light spilling out of the front double doors of the hotel, and a half dozen Germans, all armed but in varying states of dress, running out into the street, wild shots blazing from their weapons.

  Lynch raised the machine pistol in his hands to return fire, when he saw first one, then another SS soldier jerk and fall to the ground, each apparently killed by a single shot. Lynch grinned and tucked the MP-38’s stock into his shoulder as he let loose with a long burst of slugs.

  “Bowen, you lazy git! About time you joined the party...”

  Chapter 11

  The Ruins Of Calais

  0440 Hours

  Bowen, Johnson, and Marie huddled in the shattered remnants of an apartment building, three hundred and twenty metres from the front of the Hotel du Chevalier. Bowen had found a suitable spot on the third floor near the corner by the intersection, a shattered hole where a window used to be. Bowen had said nothing, but looking around and spotting a bit of familiar bootheel in one corner of the room, he realized that the last person to occupy the space had probably been a British rifleman, using the windows to fire on Germans advancing through the city. Judging from the size of the hole in the wall where the window had been, Bowen guessed a rifle grenade had been used to eliminate the British defenders, rather than an assault element having to clear the room.

  Although he didn’t consider it a good omen, Bowen used the room anyhow. The position gave him a clean line of sight over the two-story building in front of him, and although it was still mostly dark, his optics were clear and his eyesight was like a cat’s. He lay on his belly, peering out of the bottom of the hole, his rifle stock sitting on a rolled-up bit of blanket he’d found in a corner.

  Bowen was carrying a new rifle on this assignment, the Lee-Enfield No. 4, Mk. 1, fitted with a telescopic sight. Although he missed his more meticulously-designed Enfield 1914, the No. 4 had twice the magazine capacity. The placement of the telescopic sight made reloading difficult, so having as many rounds in the weapon at the beginning of any fight was essential. Still, Bowen had never used the weapon in combat, and although he prided himself on being a practical person, he still possessed an undercurrent of superstition about such things. Bowen patted the stock of his rifle reassuringly, hoping the gesture would grant him a little good luck.

  Next to him, Marie sat on the floor, her rifle balanced on a raised knee. They had been in position for perhaps twenty minutes, and he’d detected almost no movement from her, admirable given the cool night air and the rough, splintered floor. Whatever her other qualities as a marksman, at least she didn’t fidget while waiting for the fireworks to begin.

  Although the Commandos had hoped they’d be able to get in and out of the Hotel du Chevalier without being detected, several contingencies had been put in place to make sure a hasty exit from the city could be accomplished. One of those contingencies had been placing snipers along the return route, close enough to cover the hotel and ready to fire on any pursuers when the lorries departed. Bowen was of course the logical choice as well as Johnson, his spotter. Without hesitation, however, Marie had volunteered to accompany them.

  At first Chenot had protested her involvement, but one determined look from the young partisan woman silenced Chenot’s protests. Bowen’s own concerns were more practical. He’d asked if she had any sniper training, or a weapon suitable to the task. To the first, both Chenot and Monsieur Souliere had vouched for Marie’s skill at precision shooting, as well as her skills in camouflage and hidden movement. To the second, Marie had shown Bowen the scoped Kar-98K she’d taken from the SS. Bowen had pulled the bolt from the rifle, examined its action as well as the scope, and even dry fired the weapon to test the rifle’s trigger.

  “Have you determined its zero?” he’d asked Marie.

  “Three hundred metres,” she’d replied. “But I only fired five cartridges. I did not dare to fire more, for fear of the Boche hearing me.”

  Bowen had nodded. “All right. If you have a good eye, you can assist me, but you take orders from myself and Johnson here. Failure to do so can get us all killed. Understood?”

  “Certainement,” Marie had replied.

  Now, as Bowen completed another sweep of the visible streets with his rifle, he heard his spotter clear his throat.

  “I see movement,” Johnson whispered. “Near the Kübelwagen.”

  Bowen shifted his aim to cover the vehicle. He saw two figures move to the car and climb in.

  “Jerries, or our boys?” he asked.

  “Looked like our lads,” Johnson replied. The spotter was only an inch or two taller than Bowen, but with broad shoulders and powerful legs developed from a lifetime spent on the football field. He had a florid face and a head of curly ginger hair, a combination which earned him a sound ribbing from the rest of the lads when they were into their pints. All of that aside, Johnson was level-headed when on the glass, and Bowen felt completely at ease trusting Johnson with his life as his spotter.

  Right now, Johnson was using a wide-lensed spotting scope with a much greater light-gathering ability and far stronger magnification than the scope of Bowen’
s Lee-Enfield. He sat on the floor behind Bowen, looking over him while bracing the scope on his knee, in a pose similar to Marie’s. Although he had his own rifle, Johnson’s duty wasn’t to shoot, but to find targets for Bowen and Marie to engage, and to confirm hits or misses.

  Suddenly Johnson let out a little grunt. “More movement. They’re driving away.”

  Bowen could see the hooded headlights on the Kübelwagen illuminating the road in front of the car, and the vehicle took off down the road at speed. It was followed by one of the Blitzes, also moving at speed. Bowen brought his scope back up to the alleyway just as he heard the faint sound of automatic weapons fire coming from the direction of the hotel.

  “That’s it then, this just became serious,” Bowen muttered.

  The second Blitz pulled out, the driver cutting too hard to the right and jumping the curb, the vehicle’s body jolting as the side of the bed slammed into the corner of the building. There was the sound of more gunfire, a clear exchange from both sides. The lorry finally made the turn and left the curb, the sound of the engine changing as the driver shifted gears.

  “Movement at the front door, Rhys. We’ve got Jerries out in the open.”

  Bowen shifted his scope to the front of the hotel. The double doors were flung aside, and a long swath of bright light spilled into the street. SS soldiers were running out, all of them clutching weapons.

  “Corporal Bowen?” Marie asked.