Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  Standing with their backs to the wall of the garage, Lynch peered around the corner. The sentries were close now, only fifteen yards away. Reaching out, he tapped Herring on the shoulder, then tapped the pommel of the man’s Fairbairn-Sykes knife. He could see Herring nod, and heard the faint scrape of steel against leather as the man drew his blade. Lynch pulled free his own F-S knife and waited, taking deep, calming breaths. He’d expect to sense more uncertainty or fear from Herring, but the man seemed calm, almost nonchalant in his actions.

  The crunch of sand and whispered conversation signalled the arrival of the sentries. Lynch tensed, and as the two men stepped past the corner of the garage, Lynch slipped behind and past the first man and lunged for the second. He reached around the sentry’s face and clamped his hand across the man’s mouth, jerking him up and back while driving his knife laterally through the sentry’s throat, the razor-sharp blade slicing through both sets of carotid arteries. With a grunt of effort, Lynch pushed forward, sawing the knife back and forth, ripping the blade through the sentry’s windpipe until it finally tore free in a spray of dark, gleaming blood.

  At the same moment, Herring struck. Out of the corner of his eye, Lynch saw the Commando stab out with his long sword-bayonet, thrusting like a fencer, driving the long blade deep into the sentry’s lower back and piercing his kidney. The man arched back, mouth open in shock, and Herring sprang in, F-S knife in his other hand, and whipped the blade across the sentry’s exposed throat, slashing so deep Lynch heard the blade scrape against bone. The sentry dropped his rifle, falling to his knees while clutching at his ruined throat, then collapsed face-first into the sand, Herring’s bayonet still jutting from his back.

  His own sentry limp in death, Lynch dragged the body behind the garage, and motioned for Herring to do the same with his kill. After returning to grab their victims’ rifles, Lynch grabbed Herring by the sleeve.

  “Listen here, boyo. One move, quick and sure, that’s it. No flashy tricks, no showing off now. One of these bastards makes a sound, and we’re rumbled but good, so we are.”

  Herring was perfectly still, his eyes fixed on Lynch’s hand as it gripped the fabric of his battledress. Slowly, Herring looked up into Lynch’s gaze, the smaller man's eyes black pools in the dark, and he nodded to Lynch, not saying a word.

  If this is the first time he’s had a dead man’s blood on his hands, I’m a red-headed Welshman, Lynch thought.

  Letting go of Herring’s sleeve, Lynch gave the other man’s kill a final glance, then checked the bolt on his Thompson.

  “Alright, time’s wasting. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 10

  The Outskirts Of Mersa Matruh

  October 29th, 0015 Hours

  Sergeant Dougal McTeague placed a 30-round Bren magazine in front of him, lining it up next to two other magazines sitting on a brown linen kerchief to keep out dirt and sand. Next to him Trooper Higgins lay hunched behind the Bren light machine gun, the stock tucked into his shoulder, the weapon loaded and ready. McTeague’s Thompson lay on his other side, also loaded and ready for action.

  The two Commandos were hunkered down behind a rickety bit of sun-bleached wooden fence, apparently set up to somehow separate the city proper from the beachfront. They were a hundred and fifty yards from the walls of Haddad’s compound, with a limited view of the grounds inside. Although that gave them poor visibility, their job was to provide perimeter security for the two assault teams, so McTeague wasn’t concerned.

  Their position was in the center of the three two-man Bren teams, the others twenty yards off to his right and left. Glancing to both sides, McTeague was pleased to see he couldn’t spot either team; their sergeants, Donovan and Peabody, had taught them well. Both were good men with considerable combat experience between them, and the three sergeants had considerable respect for each other’s reputations. Truth be told, McTeague admitted to himself, it was nice operating for once as a larger unit, with other senior NCOs he could rely on. The three corporals under his command - Lynch, Nelson, and Bowen - were all good men in their own way, but McTeague didn’t see any of them in his role as squad sergeant. Bowen was too much of a specialist, and he was too quiet, too unassuming. While all the men liked and respected him, McTeague couldn’t see Bowen chewing someone out, or bawling out orders in the heat of combat. At the opposite end of the spectrum, Nelson was too brash, too erratic, too driven by his own impulse for havoc and hooliganism. While he could certainly curse and knock heads about with the best of them, he didn’t have the tempered nature that made the best non-commissioned officers.

  In some ways, Lynch was a good candidate. He seemed to have a talent for working with every member of the team, and he served well in both a leadership role as well as part of a larger unit. His background, however, was a bit unusual. Born of Northern Irish parents, his father killed during the rebellion and his mother thrown in prison, Lynch had been raised in an orphanage before joining the army a couple of years prior to the war. Originally, McTeague had felt some reservations as to how well Lynch would serve under an English officer like Price, but after their capture and escape from Calais, those fears were put to rest. Whatever his opinions about the English, Lynch kept them to himself and focused on the greater enemy.

  But there was something in the man, some smouldering fire that McTeague could sense. Lynch was the kind of man who sought out combat because there was an unsettling need to, well, pick a fight. Sure, Nelson and some of the other Commandos were a rowdy lot, much quicker to throw a punch or pull a knife than your average sod, but with Tommy Lynch, he could tell it was something a little darker, a little more violent, deeper below the surface. Men like him were of a breed that thrived during wartime, only to get themselves into a lot of trouble when they came home from campaign.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a nudge from Higgins. “Sergeant, do you hear that? Sounds like engines, and they’re getting closer.”

  McTeague brought his head up and listened. Indeed, there was the unmistakable sound of automobile engines, two of them, and they were quickly growing louder. Although Mersa Matruh didn’t have a curfew per se, if there were two vehicles headed in this direction in the dead of night, they were coming here for no good purpose.

  Somewhere above and behind him, McTeague heard the faint warbling of a bird, repeating its call in an odd rhythm. It was Corporal Bowen, and he could see the approaching vehicles, or at least the plumes of dust they were raising as they came close. Bowen’s signal meant they were definitely coming in this direction.

  “Get ready lad. If they’re going to Haddad’s compound, we’re to stop them before they get inside,” McTeague whispered.

  “Aye, Sergeant,” Higgins replied. He was a good lad, young and eager to earn the respect of his squad mates. McTeague sometimes felt that he himself was the subject of more than a little hero-worship from Higgins. The other men had picked up on this, and they made no bones about keeping McTeague's head from growing too big.

  With a roar of acceleration, a battered Mercedes truck came into view, the cargo bed packed with huddled figures. A second truck followed close behind, similarly occupied. McTeague made a brief calculation, guessing that at least a dozen armed men were racing towards Haddad’s compound right as sixteen Commandos were trying to sneak inside. The trucks bounced and growled down the sandy road cutting across the beach, and they both turned to approach Haddad’s compound.

  “That’s it, then. Open fire!” McTeague shouted, hoping the other Bren teams could understand him.

  If they didn’t hear what he said, they certainly understood what to do when Higgins rattled out a six-round burst of .303 calibre slugs towards the first truck. There were several sparks from bullets ricocheting off the truck’s bonnet, and then Higgins adjusted his aim, ripping out three more long bursts and running the magazine dry. Immediately, McTeague pulled the empty mag free and slotted home a new one, slapping Higgins on the shoulder. The gunner checked the bolt and began to fire again as the
other two Bren teams engaged the vehicles.

  The effect of their withering storm of bullets was immediate and decisive. The two trucks slewed and lurched, finally rolling to a stop as those men on board who survived bailed out, seeking what cover they could, either behind the trucks or in some depression in the sand around them. The muzzle flashes from the three Brens immediately drew return fire, and McTeague heard both the single shots of rifles as well as the chatter of machine pistols. Bullets kicked geysers of sand up into the air in front of their position, and several knocked holes in the wooden fence above them. Other, closer slugs whined and cracked through the air around their heads.

  Whoever the newcomers were, they were trained enough not to panic when caught in an ambush. They bailed from the vehicles, knowing that being stuck inside such a big target was a death sentence. Then they sought cover and were now returning fire, hoping to throw off the aim of their ambushers. McTeague swapped out another magazine for Higgins, then grabbed his Thompson. Right on schedule, he saw several dark figures running to the west of his position, attempting to flank the Bren team over there and launch a counterattack. McTeague hoped those men were paying attention, because he had none to spare for them at the moment.

  “Blimey, Sergeant!” Higgins shouted over the roar of his weapon. “Do all missions get cocked up like this?”

  “If they didn’t, lad,” he replied, firing a burst from his Thompson, “they wouldn’t bloody well send us to do the job!”

  Chapter 11

  Inside Haddad’s Compound

  October 29th, 0025 Hours

  The moment Lynch heard the hammering of machine guns, he recognized the distinctive sound of the Brens and knew something must have happened outside of the compound. Now, the element of surprise gone, there was nothing for it but to strike as hard and as fast as possible, and hope for the best.

  "Herring, time to move it!" Lynch shouted.

  They'd just finished clearing the garage when the firing began, and they were concealed inside the garage's side entrance. The door was open a crack, and peering out, Lynch saw lights coming on inside the main house, and he heard the sounds of voices shouting in alarm.

  Running his fingers over and inside the open bolt of his Thompson, Lynch made sure no sand or plant matter fouled the mechanism. With a thump of his shoulder he opened the side entrance and ran hard for Haddad's residence, Herring's footfalls sounding right behind him.

  A porch light snapped on, illuminating the two Commandos and forcing them to squint against the glare. Ahead a door slammed open and figures rushed out into the compound, their bodies silhouetted by the light. Muzzle flashes lit their faces as the guards opened fire. Bullets cracked through the air around Lynch, small explosions of dust erupting around his feet as slugs hammered the ground. Lynch leveled his Thompson at the nearest silhouette and squeezed off a short burst. Three .45 calibre slugs chopped into the guard's heart and blew it out his back, painting the whitewashed wall behind him with a spray of crimson. Herring blasted another guard, the high-powered .303 bullet taking off the top of his target's skull.

  More weapons roared in the night, this time coming from behind and to Lynch's flanks. Glancing back, Lynch saw other Commandos rushing the house, both men from his squad as well as Sergeant Donovan's. Thompsons and Lee-Enfields roared, riddling the surviving guards with a lethal hail of lead. Within seconds, the porch had been swept clear of any resistance and claimed by the two Commando sections.

  Price stepped up next to Lynch and surveyed the men standing with him; it appeared that everyone was present and accounted for. The Commando lieutenant changed magazines in his Thompson and nodded to Sergeant Donovan.

  "Sergeant, I want half your section to move to the gate and secure it, in case any of those attackers make it past Dougal and his machine guns. Then hold this entrance with the remainder of your men."

  Donovan snapped a quick salute. "Yes, Lieutenant!"

  Price turned to Lynch and Nelson. "We'll make our way through the building. Harry, you'll take three men and clear the cellar once we've secured the ground floor. Tommy, you'll come with me and we’ll make our way to the top."

  Lynch and Nelson nodded.

  "Those of you with rifles, sling them and use sidearms," Price ordered. "No grenades unless I give the order, and beware of non-combatants. There may be women and children present."

  The men around Price all nodded. Herring, Hall, Brooks, and Stilwell slung their rifles behind their backs, then drew their .45 automatics, each man chambering a round and looking at each other for a moment, confirming their readiness. Price gave them all a final nod.

  "Right lads, quick and careful now," he said.

  Not an officer who shirked away from danger, Price was the first man through the door, followed by the other three men carrying Thompsons. They swept the foyer inside the doorway with the muzzles of their weapons, searching for any threat. But the room was clear, save for several pieces of expensive art hanging on the walls, all of them damaged in one fashion or another by the fusillade that had cut down the guards a moment ago.

  The eight Commandos moved through the first floor rooms, methodically hunting for any signs of hidden defenders, but the search was fruitless. Locating the cellar entrance, Nelson led his team down the stairs, weapons at the ready. Lynch found himself tensed, waiting for the sounds of gunfire or an explosion that signalled the injury or death of his friends, but after a long moment, Nelson hollered an all-clear up the stairs.

  "Corporal, look for any hidden tunnels or passages," Price shouted down to Nelson, "and then follow us upstairs."

  Price turned to Lynch. "Haddad must be hiding above us."

  "Aye, time to end this," Lynch replied with a nod.

  As the Commandos approached the main staircase, the first resistance inside the residence came from the barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. The blast of lead shot chipped and scratched the marble floor at the base of the stairs, sending flattened pellets ricocheting everywhere, one ripping through the edge of Lynch's sleeve. He had seen the weapon's muzzles a moment before the deafening blast, the twin barrels thrust around the corner of the stairwell by someone standing at the top of the stairs. The Commandos took cover behind an interior wall, and Lynch turned to Price.

  "I could cook a grenade a wee bit, get it onto the top landing just as it blows," Lynch offered.

  Price shook his head. "The blast could rip through an interior wall and kill an innocent."

  "I'll do this," Herring offered, stepping up. "I'll tempt him into firing again, and rush the stairs before he's reloaded."

  "And if there's more than one of them at the top of those stairs?" Lynch countered.

  Herring shrugged and waggled the Colt automatic in his hand, "I've got seven bullets."

  Lynch pulled his own pistol from its holster, chambering a round. He handed it to Herring.

  "Now you've got fourteen. Give me your rifle, it'll slow you down," Lynch replied.

  A cocked pistol in each hand, Lynch thought Herring looked like one of the crime-fighters in the American comic books he'd read as a boy. The wiry little Commando dashed out from behind the protective wall, and a heartbeat later there was the double-barreled roar of the shotgun, followed immediately by the whizzing of ricocheting lead shot pattering against the walls and ceiling. Lynch glanced around the wall, half expecting to see Herring thrashing about in an expanding pool of his own blood, but the man was instead halfway up the stairs. As Lynch watched, Herring leaped and slid sideways across the landing, hands thrust out, pistols blazing as bullets from an unseen gunman ripped into the wall above him. Herring rolled and came up on one knee, covering the hall at the top of the stairs with one pistol. After a moment, he gestured for Lynch and the others to come up after him.

  Lynch reached the top of the stairs and looked off to the left, towards where Herring had been firing. Two Egyptians were sprawled in the hallway, riddled with bullet holes. Blood, bone and brains covered the walls for several yards down
the hallway.

  “Bloody good shooting that was!” Lynch exclaimed.

  Herring merely shrugged. He flipped Lynch’s pistol in his hand and offered it, butt-first. Lynch waved it away.

  “Hold onto it until we clear the rest of this place,” he said.

  Herring nodded and reloaded the pistol while Lynch covered the hallway with his Thompson. A moment later, Price reached the landing with the other Commandos behind him, eyeing the dead men at their feet. Lynch saw that one of the dead men was armed with a long-barreled Mauser pistol, and as more men arrived to cover the hallway, he bent down and picked the Mauser up, feeling the weight of the pistol in his hand. His mind flashed back to a moment during their imprisonment in Calais, when Standartenführer Johann Faust had executed poor John Pritchard with a pistol just like the one in Lynch’s hand. He and Price had escaped Faust’s Einsatzkommando headquarters, and then fled through Calais with the other Commandos in a running gun battle against the Germans. Their mission was ostensibly a success, but five good men had died so three French partisans could escape to England.

  “Just take the bloody souvenir, Tommy,” Nelson chided, jabbing Lynch in the ribs with his thumb.

  Lynch looked at his fellow Commando and made a sour face, placing the pistol back down on the floor. Suddenly, a pair of shots rang out from a room at the end of the hallway. Commandos moved to cover the door with their weapons, and both Lynch and Nelson ducked into a crouch and began moving towards the door. But before they could get within ten feet, the door opened a crack and the muzzle of a submachine gun poked out, roaring at them as bullets tore into the walls and raced their way. Lynch and Nelson threw themselves to the floor and returned fire, the heavy slugs from their Thompsons blowing holes right through the heavy oak door and the plaster walls. Over the deafening sound of their weapons Lynch thought he heard a man cry out in pain, and he ceased fire, Nelson following suit a moment later.