Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  One of the Halifax’s crew emerged from the cockpit and unsecured the door. With a creak of its hinges, the portal swung open, and an oval of light shined into the fuselage. Almost immediately, a wave of warm, dry air flooded the cargo compartment, causing the men to doff their stocking caps or loosen the collars of their battledress. Seconds later, a man wearing the uniform of the Eighth Army stuck his head into the Halifax.

  “‘Ello gents! Welcome to Egypt! Captain Nigel Abercrombie, at your service!” he said.

  Abercrombie was a grinning, gabbing, back-slapping tornado of magnanimity. Within moments of his arrival, the Commandos - already sweating in the oven-like heat of the metal aircraft hangar - disembarked from the Halifax and escorted by Abercrombie to a long row of wooden tables and camp stools, a late-night meal of sandwiches, cold water, and hot, sweet tea awaiting them. The men began their attack run on the food and tea, only to be halted by a look from Price and a growl from McTeague.

  “We ain’t all here yet, lads,” the sergeant warned.

  As if on cue, a door along the side of the hangar opened.

  When word had come down that their squad would be accompanied by more Commandos, there was some degree of consternation among the men. After all, they’d been hand-picked to fight together as a small unit of just twelve men - why bother fielding them on a mission with other squads? When they learned that not only were they just one of three squads, but Price wouldn’t be the commanding officer on the mission, there was nearly a riot. Only a silencing roar from McTeague had kept the men in line; that is, until they learned who was leading their mission.

  Captain William Eldred was a career soldier who’d served in Egypt, Singapore, India, and the battle for France. As a lieutenant in the Duke of Wellington’s Own Regiment, 2nd Battalion, Eldred fell deathly ill in late 1938. He was shipped back to England to recover, then assigned a place in the ranks of the 1st Battalion only six months before they shipped out as part of the BEF.

  Eldred’s new battalion fought a brutal delaying action against the Wehrmacht during the Dunkirk evacuation. Not satisfied with simply holding the line, Eldred and his men launched several hard-fought counterattacks against the encroaching Germans, driving them back and buying time for more men to be evacuated from the bloody beaches. Eldred’s command element was hit by mortar fire after one such action, and he suffered shrapnel wounds to the right side of his face and body. Torn and bleeding, but not broken, Eldred went on to lead several more assaults before his unit was finally recalled, some of the last British soldiers to leave France.

  Not content with sitting out much of the war on British soil, waiting months or even years before getting back into the fight, Eldred volunteered for assignment to a Commando troop the moment he heard of their existence. Although past the age of forty, Eldred was in fine physical condition despite the injuries received defending Dunkirk, and soon he became one of 3 Commando’s leading officers. When Lieutenant Price learned that Eldred was going to be assigned to head this mission, the men were amused to hear their normally reserved leader mutter to himself, “those poor bloody Jerries...”.

  Now, Captain Eldred entered the hangar, followed closely by two squads of Commandos led by Sergeants Donovan and Peabody. The two other squads had flown in their own Halifaxes. It had been decided that, despite Mersa Matruh no doubt containing sufficient supplies for the thirty-seven Commandos, they would bring their own arms, ammunition, and equipment in order to maintain as much operational security as possible.

  Eldred strode over to Price and shook his hand. “Well, David, it appears we all made it onto the ground in one piece. I shan’t say the hard part’s over, but it is something of a relief.”

  “Not to mention being able to stretch one’s legs and find a hot cup of char waiting,” Price replied.

  Although Eldred was not a small man, his five-foot-six frame was almost a head shorter than Price’s six foot height. Built like a bulldog, Eldred sported broad shoulders and a barrel chest, with thick, muscular arms and legs. His close-cut hair was dark brown shot through with a heavy dose of grey, and the right side of his face and neck bore shrapnel scars. When he walked, if one knew to look for it, a slight limp in Eldred’s gait was noticeable, but Lynch had seen first-hand that the Commando captain could hold his own on the training grounds and running the obstacle course.

  Once all the Commandos had filed into the hangar, Eldred nodded to Price and the three squad sergeants. “Alright gents, it’s been a long night. Tuck in.”

  The three dozen men descended on the tables with a speed and precision that’d make any training instructor proud. Within moments, faces now shining with sweat were bent over tin plates, hands were jostling for first helpings, and mouths were being burned by hot tea gulped far too quickly. Lynch acquired a bacon sandwich for himself, as well as a cup of tea loaded with so much sweet milk it was more white than tan. Sandwich in one hand, tea in the other, he alternated between the two, his lingering nerves from the flight and the discomfort from the heat quickly forgotten with his first several bites.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lynch could see Price, Eldred, and Abercrombie, along with the sergeants, standing off to the side, talking softly amongst themselves. Price had been unusually light on the details of this mission, to the point where Lynch didn’t think his commanding officer knew any more than his men. This was troubling, since on the previous two missions, not only had Price been fully briefed, he’d briefed all his men as well. In a small, high-risk unit such as theirs, it was important for every man to know as much as possible, because it was all too likely that the officers and NCOs could become casualties before providing their men with the operational details.

  Within a few minutes most of the men, well-trained in the art of eating their meals as quickly as possible, had partaken of their fill of food and drink. They were now wiping crumbs from their mouths and sweat from their brows with their sleeves, while they sat back and patted their full stomachs or ground knuckles into backs still sore from the long flight. The officers and sergeants now turned from their private conversation and approached the men, gesturing for everyone to remain seated.

  Eldred stepped forward, Abercrombie to one side, Price at the other. All conversation among the men was immediately silenced.

  “Well, lads, I know you’ve all been wondering what the devil you’re now doing thousands of miles from home, sitting in a hangar in the wee hours partaking of bacon sandwiches and tea. Operational details were withheld from all of us - not just yourselves - in the event we were forced down and captured while on route. Now that we’re here, however, we’ve been given our orders.

  “Some time in the next two months, the newly-formed British Eighth Army is going to launch a massive armoured assault deep into Libya. The routes to be used for this invasion are in the process of being determined, mostly through the use of some new recce units specially trained for deep desert operations. It is vital that not only are these patrols able to carry out their missions, but that they go undetected and unmolested by the other side.

  “Recently, it has come to the attention of Eighth Army intelligence, of which Captain Abercrombie is a part, that the enemy is operating a raiding unit out of a hidden base somewhere far to the southwest, possibly near the Jerabub oasis, one of our southern outposts. These raiders have, on several occasions now, either destroyed or captured supply convoys bound for our more remote outposts, including Jerabub and Siwa. In addition, they have fired on and driven off several patrols sent into the area to locate their base of operations.

  “Although there are elements here in Egypt that could be used for this mission, it was decided that we should be brought in from England instead. Those units that could be used are either preparing for the imminent invasion, tasked with their own pre-invasion missions, or simply possess too many operational details, making their capture too much of a liability. In effect, our greatest asset to Eighth Army is our strategic ignorance.”

  There were more
than a few chuckles from the men over Eldred’s last remark.

  Eldred continued. “Sunrise will be in just a few hours, and to maintain security, you’ll be confined here within the hangar until nightfall, at which time you’ll depart for a rendezvous with one of these desert reconnaissance groups. They will be taking you out into the deep desert, where your mission will be to neutralize the enemy camp once the desert group sniffs them out. Captain Abercrombie?”

  Abercrombie took half a step forward. “Lads, I’m a wee bit embarrassed to say this, seeing as I’m one of our intelligence officers, but this city is downright lousy with enemy informants. Not only are half the locals on the enemy’s payroll, but there have been recent rumors - only rumors, mind you - of German spies operating as Englishmen, right here in Mersa Matruh. I’m sure by now Jerry has sussed out that we’re planning something before the end of the year, a follow-up to Operation Compass, but hopefully he doesn’t know when or where we plan to strike. If he learns of your presence here, and your mission, we fear that he’ll be able to alert the enemy and Rommel will either withdraw, reposition, or reinforce your target before you arrive. This is why we need to keep you lads out of sight until we send you off.”

  With this, Abercrombie stepped back, and Eldred nodded in agreement.

  “All right, any questions?” Eldred asked his men.

  Nelson stood up, gave Eldred a quick salute, and tugged at the collar of his battledress with a hooked finger.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain, but can we do anything about this bloody heat?”

  Chapter 5

  Mersa Matruh Airbase

  October 28th, 2100 Hours

  His first day in Egypt had been one of the most miserable experiences of Lynch’s life. Sure, being shelled by the Germans during the battle for France had been terrible, and their retreat back in July through the streets of Calais had been equally awful. But on those occasions, Lynch had been fighting for his life - he’d been engaged, filled with excitement and the sensation of pushing himself to the limit in order to survive.

  But sitting in that tin oven masquerading as an aircraft hangar had been nothing but purest misery, without the benefit - if one could call it that - of danger and adventure. The three dozen Commandos were issued Eighth Army battledress, their old uniforms and insignia packed away out of sight from any prying eyes. The men re-packed their gear, cleaned their weapons and double-checked their ammunition and other supplies. All of this was accomplished just as the sun’s first morning rays struck the hangar and began to bake those within like a cottager’s pie.

  Eldred, Price, and the squad sergeants informed the men that they should sleep if possible, and drink plenty of water in order to stay well hydrated. They did the best they could, but men who were used to the cold autumn weather of Scotland were completely incapable of sleeping during the heat of the day. The men stripped off their battledress blouses, combat boots, even their shorts, lying on cots in nothing but their undershirts and undershorts. Some men, despite the protests of anyone in their vicinity, stripped off even those garments in an effort to stay cool. Fans had been set up, and their high-pitched mechanical drone filled the hangar as their blades tried to push air around in an attempt to cool the men off, but to most of them the scorching temperatures meant moving the air around did little to relieve their suffering.

  Lynch lay on his cot and stared up at the corrugated metal roof, the air at the top of the hangar shimmering with the heat of the sun searing the metal like a blast furnace. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the roof itself started to melt. He’d soaked a kerchief in water and tied it around his forehead in the hopes that the evaporating moisture would keep him cool, but the dry, hot air sucked the moisture from the kerchief almost as fast as he could wet it.

  After several hours of fitful, sweltering slumber, the men had been fed a midday meal of biscuits and some fruit, and the sergeants made sure every man took a salt pill and drank a full canteen of water. Several men joked that in all their time in the military, those were the easiest orders they’d ever carried out. They were also let outside in small groups of three or four men at a time and directed towards the privies, since there were no such facilities in the hangar. The men had to walk outside a hundred yards in the blazing sun, and one of the Commandos from another squad declared, “How can anyone fight in this bloody heat? The desert must be the victor in every tussle.”

  Eventually the minutes turned to hours, and as Lynch watched through a small window in the hangar door, the sun slowly sank below the edge of the desert; one minute the sky was a bright cerulean blue, and only minutes later, the western horizon was a quickly darkening purple, while the eastern sky was already black and carpeted in stars.

  “Bizarre how that happens so bloody quickly.”

  Lynch turned and found Nelson standing next to him, looking out the window over his shoulder.

  “It’s the latitude, so I’ve heard,” Lynch replied. “Something about being closer to the equator means the sun sets faster here than back in Blighty.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Nelson asked.

  Lynch shrugged. “Can’t rightly remember. Maybe one of me former sergeants. Some of those old codgers had been to Africa, the Far East, all over the world, so they had.”

  “How bloody nice for them,” Nelson grunted. “I’m going to take a piss, been holding it until the sun went down.”

  “I’ll take the walk now,” Lynch replied. “Knowing how dumb you are, someone’s got to tell you where to point it.”

  As the two men walked past Corporal Bowen, the lean Welshman sat up from his cot. “Where’re the two of you headed?”

  “Off to take a piss,” Lynch replied. “Care to make it a party?”

  Bowen stood up and slipped his knee-length shorts and boots on. Lynch noticed Bowen’s belt was adorned with pistol, magazine pouches, and his Fairbairn-Sykes knife.

  “We aren’t going on patrol, Rhys,” Lynch said, gesturing to the weapons on Bowen’s belt.

  “We’re in the middle of a bloody war zone, you berk,” Bowen replied.

  Nelson rolled his eyes. “We’re in the middle of a damn airbase, a hundred miles from the lines!”

  Bowen shrugged. “Fine. You walk around unarmed and without a care in the world.”

  The wiry sniper walked off towards the hangar door. Lynch and Nelson looked at each other.

  “The heat’s baked his brain already!” Nelson exclaimed.

  Lynch watched Bowen walk off, then stepped to his bunk, pulled his Colt automatic from its holster, checked the chamber, and slipped the pistol into his trouser pocket.

  “Aye, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” Lynch replied, and followed after Bowen.

  After a moment’s pause, Nelson cursed under his breath, then took a moment to fetch his own pistol before hurrying after his two squad-mates.

  Even though the sun had set only a short while ago, already the air was beginning to cool, and there was a welcome breeze coming from the coast to the north. The perspiration on their bodies immediately began to dry in the outside air, and all three men took a moment to savor the first pleasant experience of the day.

  “Pity it wasn’t like this all the time here. I’d almost enjoy it,” Nelson said.

  Bowen shook his head slightly. “It’ll get cold tonight. If you come out here in a few hours, you’ll start to shiver. We didn’t notice it so much when we arrived because the hangar trapped all that heat, but this time of the year, the desert can be frigid at night, just as it can still bake you during the day.”

  Nelson looked back and forth between Bowen and Lynch. “Where’d you two find so much bloody time for tucking away these odds and ends about the desert? A couple regular Lawrences of Arabia, you are.”

  Lynch let out a quick laugh. “Now look who’s showing off. Come on, let’s go take our piss and be done with it.”

  The three men ambled across the airbase grounds towards the privies. Although it was sundown and the b
ase was under blackout conditions, the moon was bright enough for the men to see where they were going. As they walked, they noticed other servicemen walking in one direction or another, some carrying supplies, others simply going about the business of a war that continued around the clock. Lynch supposed that if he were one of them, he’d actually prefer to do most of his assigned tasks after the sun had disappeared for the night.

  The three men did their business at the privy - holding their breath throughout, as the day’s sun had boiled the privy’s contents into a particularly malodorous stew - and began their walk back to the hangar. As they walked, Lynch noticed one of the locals, a young Egyptian man with a sack in one hand and a long wooden stick in the other, a nail poking out at the end, impaling an empty cigarette package. The man appeared to be wandering about jabbing and collecting refuse.

  Lynch was just about to walk past, when something tickled the back of his mind, some notion that things weren’t quite as they seemed. Stopping and looking at the man again, Lynch realized he’d been out collecting refuse along the same grounds earlier in the day. Nothing to be concerned about at first, but given Abercrombie’s warning about spies and informants, Lynch wondered just how much rubbish could be found after half a day of patrolling the same ground over and over.

  The two Commandos with him noticed Lynch had fallen behind. Bowen and Nelson turned, and the latter spoke up. “What’s the matter Tommy? Leave something behind you meant to bring back?”

  Lynch nodded his head towards the Egyptian. “Either of you remember seeing that fellow over the course of the day?”

  Nelson shook his head, but Bowen - the most eagle-eyed member of the squad, and the most naturally observant man Lynch had ever met - narrowed his eyes in thought.

  “You’re right, Tommy. All day long, that bloke’s been about. Can’t be that much rubbish lying around the airfield...”