Up ahead, Lynch saw a sergeant pointing to Lynch’s left. Off to the side of the trail, he could see five silhouette targets set up in a staggered V formation out to a distance of fifty yards. Lynch skidded to a halt, drew back the bolt of his Thompson, brought the weapon up to his shoulder, and began to fire. Each target received a four-round burst, Lynch aiming low and riding the recoil up as the slugs riddled the silhouettes from imaginary navel to throat. Weapon empty, Lynch pulled clear the dry magazine, tossed it aside, and re-loaded the weapon with a fresh magazine before continuing along the course.
Up ahead, a water-filled ditch ten feet wide and twenty feet long greeted Lynch. He jumped in, immediately sinking up to his armpits in cold, muddy water. Keeping his weapon raised clear, Lynch sunk down until his chin was touching the surface before crouch-walking ahead, with good reason; there were strands of barbed wire stretched over the ditch only six inches above the surface. One of the barbs scraped across the butt of the Thompson, and Lynch lowered his weapon a fraction before continuing the last few feet.
Emerging from the ditch, Lynch jumped up and down a couple of times to shake some of the filthy water loose, then heeded the bellowed demands of another nearby sergeant and took off at a run. He dodged left and right, ducking around upright wooden poles driven into the ground, with sharp wooden arms jutting out at random angles just waiting for some careless unfortunate to run into one and knock the wind out of himself. Passing the last post, Lynch turned to his left again and ran up to the first of several free-standing wooden doorways. Bracing his weapon against a doorway, Lynch locked back the Thompson's bolt, clicked the fire selector to semi-automatic, and squeezed off aimed single shots out to a hundred yards, engaging more man-sized silhouettes.
Firing his weapon dry again, Lynch performed the same reload, then continued on down the course. He approached a boulder path, jumping and weaving between the rocks at his best possible speed. At the gesture from another one of the course’s watchful NCOs, Lynch tore a grenade from his shoulder, armed it, and heaved it to the side of the course as far as he could throw it, then ducked down behind a nearby boulder. A moment later he heard the flat crack of the grenade’s explosion, and jumping to his feet, Lynch sprinted for the last segment of the course.
Ahead of him there were dummies in tattered field-grey, stuffed with straw. Lynch charged one and nearly tore its head clean off with a butt-stroke from his Thompson. Passing the “dead” dummy, Lynch slung his submachine gun and drew his .45 calibre automatic. Racking the slide while still on the move, Lynch skidded to a stop and fired three shots at the left-hand dummy, three shots at the right-hand dummy, and a final shot back at the left. Lynch dropped the empty magazine, let the slide snap forward, reloaded his pistol, and holstered it before charging towards the final dummy. When he was no more than five feet away, Lynch drew his knife and lashed out, slashing and stabbing at the dummy’s groin, stomach, heart, and throat. After the final slash, Lynch sheathed his blade and stood at attention as a whistle sounded, signalling the end of his run.
A nearby instructor looked at the stopwatch in his hand. “Final time three minutes, forty-seven seconds.”
Lynch nodded, breathing hard. Six seconds faster than yesterday’s run. He turned right and walked off the course, unslinging his Thompson. Keeping the weapon pointing in a safe direction, he unloaded and cleared the submachine gun before doing the same with the pistol at his belt. They took enough risks running live-fire exercises; there was no need to risk an accidental discharge off the course.
Lynch saw there was a small crowd near the end of the obstacle course. Several junior Commando officers, as well as more senior men such as Major Jack Churchill, stood in attendance along with a handful of American Marines. The Marines were commanded by Lieutenant James Tracy, a sharp, no-nonsense fellow with a keen interest in studying Commando combat doctrine and operational methods. He and his men had been living and training with the Commandos for some months. The Marines were all solid men, disciplined and enthusiastic, and every one of them was a crack shot. One of their senior NCOs, a Sergeant Edwards, had handily trumped most of the Commandos on the rifle range, his marksmanship on par with the scores of Corporal Bowen, one of the best sharpshooters in 3 Commando. Lynch saw the Marine sergeant in attendance; a tall, grizzled, broad-shouldered statue of a man standing at a regulation-perfect parade rest, the very image of what Lynch would describe if someone asked him what an American Marine Sergeant looked like. He’d spoken to Edwards a few times in the last couple of months, and the grey-haired veteran had been the consummate professional soldier. Perhaps the Yanks will finally get off their arses and take up arms against old Adolf, he mused. Don’t they know there’s a bloody war on?
“Oi, let’s hear it, Tommy!”
Lynch turned to see Corporal Harry Nelson, one of his squadmates, walking towards him. Nelson had run the course earlier, as evidenced by the wet muck still clinging to his boots and battledress.
“Three and forty-seven. Yourself?”
Nelson’s face screwed up in a grimace and he gave Lynch a playful punch in the arm. “Bastard! I was three seconds slower. Must be your Irish blood - makes you run faster than us honest Englishmen.”
Lynch let out a guffaw. “Honest! That’s a laugh, so it is. I’ve never met a more dishonest Englishman than you, Harry. There be dead men rotting in prison graveyards who’re more saintly.”
“More saintly, but clearly slower,” Nelson replied with a grin.
The two men turned and walked back towards their barracks. When they’d first met, Lynch had been somewhat distrustful of the roguish Englishman, and with good reason; Nelson was clearly a man who’d chosen the army over an inevitable date with the hangman’s noose. But although his activities before the war were no doubt less than honest, Harry Nelson was a man Lynch knew he could trust completely under the direst of circumstances. As part of the British Expeditionary Force, both had seen squadmates die a year and a half ago during the battle for France. In fact, it was the drive to strike back at the Germans as soon as possible, whatever the personal risk, which brought both men together in Colonel Durnford-Slater’s elite 3 Commando. They’d fought side by side first in the small French town of Merlimont, and then again three months ago in the city of Calais. When Lynch and Price had been captured by the SS while trying to escape the city, Nelson had been one of the few who’d readily agreed with Sergeant McTeague to go back into Calais and rescue them, no matter the cost.
Nelson’s willingness to dive head-first through the gates of Hell was one of the reasons Lynch was alive today, and he knew he’d do the same for Nelson in a heartbeat. They were brothers-in-arms, and there were few bonds stronger than that.
The walk back to their squad’s barracks took them past some of the other training grounds, crowded with men performing their mid-morning exercises, as well as the formidable Castle Largs itself. The morning was cold and grey with a thick cloud cover overhead and the promise of rain later in the afternoon. Fall in Scotland was a cold, wet affair, and the men of 3 Commando were working hard in anticipation of a rumored operation sometime in the next few months, possibly before the end of the year. Price hadn’t mentioned whether or not his squad was going to be involved; theirs was considered an independent unit, operating partially outside of 3 Commando’s normal command structure. The particulars of that arrangement were clearly beyond Lynch’s pay grade, so to speak, but he was sure they had something to do with the mysterious Lord Pembroke, the elderly statesman who’d been behind the last two missions Price’s squad had undertaken. Although Pembroke’s degree of authority was unclear, he’d mentioned being old friends with the PM. No doubt, a word in Churchill’s ear from Pembroke was enough to grant him the power to send Lynch into battle again at a moment’s notice.
Nelson and Lynch entered their barracks, a smaller outbuilding set aside for their squad because of its independent status. There was some grumbling about this from other men of 3 Commando, but the decision was ma
de in light of operational security. The other members of the troop weren’t involved with their missions and weren’t cleared for the details of what took place, although there were enough rumors and speculation, especially with the casualties Price’s squad had taken during each of their two missions.
Inside the barracks, eleven cots lined two long walls, each with a canvas camp chair and a large foot locker. Price was bivouacked with the other officers in a separate barracks, although he did spend considerable time with his men. Several of the other squad members were sitting around the barracks space, changing out of wet uniforms, cleaning their weapons, or enjoying a breakfast of biscuits and marmalade. Corporal Rhys Bowen, the squad’s sniper, was meticulously cleaning the scope of his rifle, removing the last traces of muddy water and fussing over the weapon like an overprotective parent. His spotter, the ginger-haired and gregarious Johnson, was oiling the action of his Colt .45 automatic while a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.
Over in another corner of the room, Sergeant McTeague, the squad’s bearlike senior NCO, leaned back in his camp chair, Tam O’Shanter pushed back on his head, and smoked a pipe while reading from a leather-bound book. Lynch recognized it as something by Kipling, no doubt some gripping tale of adventure in the exotic East. While not much of a reader himself, Lynch was even more surprised that McTeague found relaxation and enjoyment between the pages of a good book. The broad-shouldered Scotsman was a man of many surprises.
An iron stove occupied one corner of the large room, with a stack of firewood and a wooden camp table nearby. Some rickety wooden shelves contained boxes of military rations, tins of tea, and cans of sweet milk, a critical component in any good cup of char. As was to be expected on a cold morning after several hours of field exercises, Hall, the squad’s medic, was tending to the stove, with a brew-up almost ready. Lynch and Nelson hustled to their bunks to grab their mess tins.
“Splashing around in all that bloody frigid water, you two need to get something hot in you before you catch a chill,” Hall declared as the two hurried past him.
“Aye mother, I’ll fetch my tin and be there in a moment,” Lynch replied. He dropped his weapons and kit on the top of his locker, then fished around underneath his bunk, retrieving his tin cup.
Nelson saw him do this and frowned while digging through his wet, filthy pack. “Damn you, Tommy! You’re supposed to pack your mess kit with the rest of your equipment.” Nelson fumbled around in his pack for a moment, pulling free a cup half-filled with muck and dirty water, which he unceremoniously poured onto the floor with a curse.
“That, Harry me boy, is why I didn’t follow such orders,” Lynch replied with a grin, slapping the Englishman on the back as he passed him by.
“Not fair, Tommy!” Nelson growled. “Not bloody fair at all!”
“No man in this unit is here because they like to play fair, Corporal. You least of all.”
Everyone in the barracks stood and saluted the trim, well-dressed figure standing in the doorway. His fitted uniform looking as fresh as the day it came from the tailor’s, Lieutenant David Price appeared every inch the gentleman English officer: dashingly handsome, with blue eyes and blond hair kept neatly trimmed, a tidy moustache attempting to add an air of authority to an officer no older than the men he led into combat.
But Price was no foppish dandy, serving the Crown in the army as little more than a stepping stone to higher office. His family had a long tradition of military service, with several of his older relatives holding command positions in the Royal Navy. Price was a fighting officer, a man who took his duties to heart with a deadly conviction. Lynch had seen Price kill with automatic weapons, grenades, pistols, and even in hand-to-hand combat. Gentleman or no, Price was first and foremost a soldier.
Price returned the salutes and waved his hand towards Hall and the stove. “Drink up lads, get some char in you, it’s been a cold morning. Especially you two, Tommy and Harry.”
The Commandos lined up and Hall poured everyone a generous serving of hot tea dosed with a large splash of sweetened milk. Hall offered to pour Price a mug, but the lieutenant politely declined. Price waited until everyone had a chance to enjoy a few sips before he cleared his throat and addressed the men.
“Lads, your exercises and training for the rest of the day have been cancelled. Clean your kits, pack your bags, and be ready to depart by thirteen hundred hours.”
“Back across the channel again is it, Lieutenant?” Nelson asked.
“No, Harry. Given the cold weather we’ve been having, someone in authority decided to be kind.” Price gave them all a broad grin. “You’re being sent somewhere with lots of bright sunshine, blue skies, and plenty of white sand.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” Lynch declared. “We’re off to North Africa!”
Suddenly, the cold and the muck didn’t seem so bad after all.
Chapter 3
50 Miles Northwest Of The Jerabub Oasis
October 23rd, 1500 Hours
Lieutenant Lewis stood in the turret of his armoured car, his arm resting against the edge of the cupola, and stared out across the Libyan desert. There was little to differentiate it from the Egyptian side of The Wire; a rock-and-sand wasteland of flat ground seared to the boiling point by the relentless, white-hot sun overhead. The wide expanse of nothing was broken up by low sand dunes or rocky hills, with bits of tenacious scrub brush clinging to life despite the desert’s hostile conditions.
Lewis had imagined his first deep intrusion into Libya would be at the head of the 11th Hussars, escorting a troop of cruiser tanks as they raced into enemy territory. Lewis often pictured it in his mind’s eye; pennants whipping in the air as his car ran at flank speed, the sleek shapes of British armour fanned out behind him like a wake as he crossed the ocean of sand, hunting for enemy armour formations just as the sea captains of Nelson’s day hunted enemy ships.
Instead, Lewis found himself in the bag. Steiner and his squad of Brandenburgers had combed over the convoy like a plague of locusts, stripping men and vehicles of any and all weapons, right down to everyone’s clasp knives. The armoured car’s radio had been stripped out, as well as the mounted Bren MG and the Boys rifle. One man from every lorry had been loaded into the back of Steiner’s Bedford, hands bound behind their backs and covered by a machine pistol, while a Brandenburger took their place, each of the driver’s bellies touched by a gun muzzle. The canvas flaps across the back of the Bedford in front of Lewis were tied up, and the MG-34 was mounted on a tripod and pointed back towards the convoy, the muzzle less than fifty feet away from Lewis.
“You really must put that frown away, Lieutenant. We’re almost there. Water, hot food, and shade for you and your men await.”
Lewis turned and looked at Steiner, standing in the Morris’ turret with him. Freddy was tied up in the back of the Bedford, nursing a couple of bruised ribs earned by loudly protesting his separation from Lewis’ side. While he appreciated Freddy’s loyalty, he couldn’t risk the peaceful surrender offered them by Steiner. Lewis had ordered Freddy and the others to cooperate with their captors in the interest of maintaining everyone’s safety. He only hoped Freddy would keep his word.
“Whatever amenities you offer, Captain,” Lewis muttered, “a prison camp is still a prison camp.”
Steiner shrugged. “Such are the fortunes of war, Lieutenant. If I was more bloodthirsty, you and your men would be lying dead in the hot sand, food for the desert scavengers.”
“I’m still a bit surprised you didn’t just riddle us with bullets and take our convoy anyway. You’ve got enough bodies to handle the lorries yourselves,” Lewis replied.
“As I told you, Lieutenant,” Steiner said, shaking his head, “I do not take lives unnecessarily. War is terrible enough without killing men who don’t need to die.”
“Sounds a bit pacifistic for a Jerry officer,” Lewis replied.
Steiner glared at him. “Do not make the mistake of thinking I am incapable of killing when ne
eded.” Steiner gestured towards the Bedford in front of them. “This truck was not machine-gunned by an aircraft. The occupants were less inclined than you were to accept my offer of surrender.”
Lewis remembered the bullet-riddled windscreen and nodded, an icy finger running down his spine.
Eventually, Lewis was able to see around the body of the Bedford, and he spotted a low hill of ragged stone in front of them, a small fort perched on its summit. The convoy continued towards the hill, and as they grew closer, Lewis’ estimation of the hill’s size was considerably revised. The hill was a good sixty or seventy feet high at its peak, and several hundred yards from end to end. The hill appeared to be a rough crescent of sun-bleached stone, and they were approaching it from the concave side of the crescent, the tips ahead and to either side of them as they drove closer. The side of the hill facing them was steep, almost sheer, and comprised of bare rock devoid of any sand or vegetation, worn almost completely smooth by the desert winds.
The hilltop fortress stood on the middle of the crescent. It appeared to be two storeys tall, built of rock similar to the hill itself, no doubt quarried nearby. Lewis saw the glint from a pair of binoculars at the top of the fort, but there was no other activity or outward signs of modern civilization.
As they passed between the tips of the hill’s crescent, Lewis spotted several well-camouflaged sangars—redoubts of stone piled in the manner one might normally use with sandbags - covered with sand-colored canvas and camouflage netting. Lewis spied the muzzles of machine guns and at least one anti-tank gun, but he guessed that from a distance, and certainly from the air, the sangars were all but invisible.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I Page 31