The Sharp End

by Phil Ward

  Jim said, “Colonel, this will be a lot easier for all of us if you simply answer the questions to the best of your ability. We are all three friends, but this transcends friendship—nothing personal.”

  Col. Randal said, “Yes.”

  “Explain,” R. J. said.

  “Jane’s husband, Mallory, took her to a political club for members of the Six Hundred and high government military and political people—weekends in the country,” Col. Randal said. “God’s Truth, Ltd., I believe it was called.

  “Mallory was flirting with the idea of being a Fascist—thought it would advance his navy career.”

  “Is Lady Jane political?” R. J. asked.

  “No,” Col. Randal said. “Jane has zero interest in politics.”

  “Is it true,” R. J. asked, “you once accused her of sleeping with you at the behest of the British Secret Service because you are a Special Forces officer?” R. J. asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you joking or did you have a reason?”

  “Both,” Col. Randal said.

  “What was her response?”

  “‘Only at first.’”

  Despite being professional intelligence officers, R. J. and Jim were unable to contain their amusement.

  “And what was your motive for the question?” R. J. asked.

  “I never understood,” Col. Randal said, “why Jane was attracted to me in the first place—still don’t.”

  “Do you have any reason to suspect Lady Seaborn is not a loyal British subject?” Jim asked.

  “No.”

  “We were never here,” R. J. said. “We never had this conversation.”

  Col. Randal said, “Yes, we did.”

  25

  DONKEY MEAT

  Ten Rangers handpicked from the I&R platoon were assembled out front of RFHQ. Five would be assigned to Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy’s Team C. Five would be assigned to Colonel John Randal’s Team A.

  The dusty Rangers flown in from the desert where they had been undergoing hard training under Blue Patrol’s ex-Foreign Legionnaires were sitting on the ground, leaning back on their packs, waiting to see what happened next. They did not have long to wait. Col. Randal and Lieutenant Mandy Paige came outside to brief the troops.

  One of the Rangers called, “ATTENTION!”

  Col. Randal ordered, “As you were.

  “You men have been selected for a Top Secret mission. Raiding Forces is conducting three raids tonight. Your team leaders will brief you when you’re assigned to your team.

  “The action is going to be short-range,” Col. Randal said. “We have Thompson submachine guns for those of you who prefer them for close, fast work during the hours of darkness.”

  There was a murmur from the Rangers—this was getting interesting.

  “Lieutenant Paige is here to give you a security briefing,” Col. Randal said. “Listen up. This is no drill.”

  Lt. Mandy stepped out in front of the Rangers dressed in her off-duty uniform of blue jean cut-offs, peewee cowgirl boots and a great tan. There was very little chance the troops would not “listen up.”

  “Tonight, you Rangers are about to participate in a clandestine mission of national importance,” Lt. Mandy said.

  “Acting in my capacity as the Raiding Forces Counterintelligence Officer . . .”

  Col. Randal had to resist a smile—Raiding Forces didn’t have a counterintelligence officer.

  “ . . . I need to brief you on the security ramifications of participating in strategic special operations,” Lt. Mandy said. “Raiding Forces has rules. One is ‘Keep it Short and Simple.’

  “So I will,” Lt. Mandy said. “What you are about to do tonight never happened. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the Rangers chorused.

  “You are not authorized to tell your Ranger buddies. No war stories. No bragging in bars. Is that clear?

  “Clear!”

  “An organization so secret even its initials are classified,” Lt. Mandy said, “has requisitioned a former leper colony in Beirut. Nowadays the place is called a ‘mental institution’—staffed by the lepers.

  “Anyone deemed a security threat,” Lt. Mandy said, “for example, a Ranger who talks in his sleep about a classified Raiding Forces operation, will find himself institutionalized there for the duration—is that clear?”

  “HELL YES!”

  “Did I go too fast for anyone?”

  “HELL NO!”

  “Have a nice night, boys.”

  • • •

  Colonel John Randal drove Major the Lady Jane Seaborn to the dock in a jeep as the sun was beginning to sink into the desert, putting on a spectacular light show.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Col. Randal asked, “What made you think the Rangers were the ‘perfect little regiment’ when they first arrived?”

  “Their jump boots,” Lady Jane said. “Even the scruffiest Ranger’s boots were polished bright enough for me to put my eye liner on in the reflection off their toe.”

  Brandy Seaborn, Captain Penelope “Legs” Honeycutt-Parker and Lieutenant Mandy Paige were waiting when they arrived. They wanted to see for themselves that the SOLID GOLD mission was being supported to the fullest extent.

  James “Baldie” Taylor and Commander Ian Fleming were present, but were making a point of staying out of the way—strictly observing.

  Lady Jane brought an ice chest full of Coca Colas to the five Rangers picked for Duck Patrol. She passed them out. The troops sat on the dock eating Italian rations they had scrounged from Fort No. 9 and drinking the Cokes.

  The Rangers were Lady Jane’s new pet project.

  Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy strolled over with Waldo. “You boys like Italian cookin’?” Capt. McKoy asked.

  “Yes, sir. Beats K-rations.”

  “Know what’s in them cans?” Waldo said. “Donkey meat.”

  Several of the Rangers became physically ill, right then and there.

  “The most important rule to remember when eatin’ captured enemy rations,” Waldo said, “is know what you’re eatin.”

  Capt. McKoy sipped one of Lady Jane’s Cokes while he waited for the gagging men to recover. Then he assigned each Ranger to a veteran Duck Patrol Sea Squadron operator. Exactly the way it was taught at the Special Warfare Training Center. The buddy system—new troops married up with old hands.

  Duck Patrol (minus), Team C for tonight’s operation, was augmented with Col. Randal’s two phantom operators. Their assignment, which was classified, was to lead the search for German signals equipment once the 621st was overrun. The raid was a hasty mission—not much time for detailed planning.

  Skipper Mud Cat Ray turned up to tag along on the mission. He was without a ship because his trawler, Pirate’s Dream, was in dry dock. That meant all three of the Gold Coast tugboat captains were together again, ready to put to sea for the first time since the raid on the Portuguese Protectorate, Rio Bonita.

  Captain Roy Kidd and Frank Polanski could be seen on board the ship with a map spread out over the hood of the Little Elephant’s gun truck, Team B. Col. Randal walked up the gangplank to listen in on their conversation about their BOMBSHELL target. Capt. Kidd and Frank had an interesting night ahead of them.

  Capt. Kidd asked, “Once we complete our mission, Colonel, are we cleared to hit targets of opportunity as we work our way back to Oasis X?”

  “You can,” Col. Randal said. “Keep in mind, we don’t know how the DUKW is going to perform in the desert—I’d be careful about chancing what might turn into a running gunfight.”

  “Point taken, sir.”

  “You ready, Frank?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Happy hunting.”

  It was time for Skipper Finley to cast off. The Rangers and their Duck Patrol counterparts came on board. Col. Randal had a final word with Capt. McKoy, took a long last look around at all the preparations going on board the ship, then walked back down to the dock.
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br />   Capt. McKoy called over the rail, “See you when I see you, John.”

  The raid was on.

  • • •

  Colonel John Randal was lying back on his parachute at the Raiding Forces departure airfield. He was surrounded by the Team A stick of Chalk 1 that would be jumping on the small island ten miles off Crete. Five minutes ago, he had concluded his final Frag Order.

  The plan called for him to jump on the nameless island with Team A, consisting of Captain Billy Jack Jaxx, James “Baldie” Taylor, Lieutenant Clint Hays, King, five Rangers and a Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve lieutenant who was a signals intelligence specialist. The team would immediately storm the German radio station, which was located in a tent. Then, once the mission was completed, Team A would board a pair of Walrus amphibious aircraft to fly back to RFHQ.

  Good plans are easy to understand. The only part that anyone was having any difficulty getting a handle on was the fact that Team A would be jumping with no reserve parachutes tonight. The Rangers were having serious reservations. None of them had ever jumped without a reserve.

  The reason for not using the reserves was due to the extremely short length of the DZ. The jumpers had to get down fast in order to avoid ending up in the Mediterranean. Team A would be jumping below five hundred feet.

  A reserve parachute was useless at that low level. There was a good chance of jump casualties tonight. That was the reason the Rangers were included on the team—Col. Randal was taking his replacements with him.

  He did not mention that fact in the Frag Order.

  Team A was jumping British X-type parachutes. The Rangers had never jumped them before. Captain Roy “Mad Dog” Reupart, a former instructor at No. 1 British Parachute School, spent an hour familiarizing the men with the quick release system.

  Compared to the U.S. Airborne Forces’ harness that had to be unbuckled one buckle at a time or cut off with a jump knife, the British system was light-years ahead as far as practicality on combat jumps. The Rangers loved the system—pull the safety clip, hammer the release on your chest with your fist and the parachute fell to the ground. The Americans could not understand why the Five-Seven-Five had never had quick releases before now.

  No one seemed to care what parachute they jumped, as long as it opened, but Col. Randal knew the Rangers would care once they experienced how soft the X-type parachute deployed. The U.S. Army’s T-4 had a vicious opening shock that created something called “riser burn” on jumper’s necks. The X-type chute did not do that.

  An engine popped on one of the Dakotas of the 267 “Pegasus” Squadron, Royal Air Force, being piloted tonight by Squadron Leader Paddy Wilcox, and the wheezing sound of a prop turning over could be heard.

  Col. Randal ordered, “On your feet.”

  There were two chalks—six jumpers in one stick, five in the other. He would be the jumpmaster on the lead aircraft. Capt. Jaxx would jumpmaster the second.

  Col. Randal and Capt. Jaxx performed final jumpmaster inspections—not that they were needed. Both officers had already done one thirty minutes previous, but there is no such thing as being too sure on a mission like this.

  Even though it was pitch-dark, everyone who could get away from RFHQ and a lot of Raiders who had been in Cairo had returned to be on hand to see them off. No words were spoken, but as the two sticks marched past, everyone in the crowd started clapping.

  Major the Lady Jane Seaborn was standing by the door to Col. Randal’s chalk.

  She kissed him on the cheek, “Be safe, John.”

  Stick 1 helped each other up and into the door at the tail of the C-47—it was pretty high, and then the last man—Col. Randal—had to be pulled up. Everyone was armed to the teeth. The three Rangers in Col. Randal’s stick had traded their M1 Garand rifles for Thompson submachine guns, opting for the additional firepower.

  Almost as soon as the door was closed and bolted shut, the C-47 began to taxi. Stick 1 consisted of Col. Randal, King, three Rangers and one very anxious Royal Navy Reserve Officer—a recent graduate of No. 1 British Parachute School. Tonight would be his first operational jump since earning his parachute wings.

  Shortly after takeoff, Col. Randal went down the aisle of the aircraft to talk to the four new men.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen. The instant you exit the door, take up a tight tuck in a good prepare-to-land position—elbows in hard, chin down and DO NOT lock your knees. Your canopy will deploy, you will make one swing and be on the ground—like the swing landing trainer in Jump School.

  “You’re not supposed to hit all Five Points of Contact at the same time, but that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Don’t be surprised—jump up, drop your harness, lock and load, stand fast and I’ll roll up the stick.

  “No shouting, AIRBORNE!”

  The Rangers were raring to go. The RNVR signals intelligence officer did not seem as enthusiastic.

  Col. Randal had a quiet word with King, who would be the last man in the stick—the pusher. Then he went back to his place on the end of the bench seat running down the side of the Dakota next to the door, sat down and went to sleep.

  His eyes came open. The red light flashed on. Col. Randal stood up, “TEN MINUTES.”

  Col. Randal shuffled up to the cockpit. The C-47 seemed to be skimming across the waves. Sqn. Ldr. Wilcox was in the command pilot’s seat. He was not wearing his trademark black eye patch tonight—he had it on but it was pulled up.

  Up ahead was the tiny island.

  “Two hundred fifty feet, Paddy,” Col. Randal said. “Try hard not to make it any lower.”

  “Wilco,” S/Ldr. Wilcox said. “Good luck, Colonel.”

  Col. Randal shuffled back and started the series of jump commands as soon as he returned to the tail of the plane. The loadmaster had opened the door and the wind was howling.

  “STAND UP!”

  “HOOK UP!

  “CHECK STATIC LINE!”

  Tonight the jump commands were condensed. There was no reason to check equipment or sound off—they were all jumping.

  Col. Randal arched his body outside the door doing his jumpmaster check. He could see the trailing C-47 bobbing and swaying behind. Up ahead, the island was approaching fast. He could see water all the way around it—the beach on the far side of the DZ was coming up fast too.

  Col. Randal swung back inside, “CLOSE ON THE DOOR.”

  The Rangers were not rattling their static lines tonight. The lack of reserves may have dampened their enthusiasm for false bravado. As ordered, they crowded up as close together as they could get, right behind Col. Randal. The idea was to land in as tight a cluster as possible.

  The shore flashed under the Dakota. Col. Randal ordered, “Let’s go.”

  He leapt out as vigorously as he could, the X-type parachute popped open with a satisfying crack, then WHAAAAM!

  It felt like he bounced a couple of times. Col. Randal experienced pain the entire length of his body—actually hit the five points of contact on his left side all at the same time. While he was pretty sure he was going to live, breathing was a problem.

  Col. Randal considered the idea of lying there for a while to rest.

  All members of Team A from both aircraft were down by the time he struggled to his feet and hit the quick release on his chest, dropping the parachute—which took less than ten seconds.

  Col. Randal began moving in the direction of flight, rolling up the stick.

  Capt. Jaxx appeared out of the dark, looking none the worse for wear. King was also undamaged. The Merc was with Lt. Hays, the Rangers, Jim and the RNVR officer. Nearly everyone else was banged up, but pressed on—shaking it off. Col. Randal was impressed with how quickly the new Rangers had assembled.

  Team A left their parachutes where they lay. The destroyer would land a party of Royal Marines at first light to police up the tiny cay and retrieve them. Nothing was going to be left behind on the island to indicate that there had been a raid on the B-Dienst radio station.

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nbsp; With everyone assembled, King led out, moving swiftly. He could see in the dark like a cat. Capt. Jaxx was right behind him, followed by Col. Randal, Lt. Hays, the navy signals officer, Jim, then the Rangers.

  The night was cool. There was a half-moon glowing. It was perfectly quiet.

  Within minutes, Team A was at the pyramidal tent that housed the Nazis. King and Capt. Jaxx immediately made entry without pause as the Rangers shook themselves out into a loose firing line . . . Thompson submachine guns at the ready, standing by for developments.

  Col. Randal went into the tent with his MAB-38A submachine gun shouldered, with Jim right behind.

  The Germans were asleep—at least they had been before Capt. Jaxx and King made entry. Apparently, low-flying airplanes were no cause for alarm. By the time Col. Randal arrived, all six radiomen were in their bunks with their hands in the air, scared stiff.

  The bright light from Capt. Jaxx and King’s hooked-nose flashlights shining in their eyes and the Merc shouting in German that if a single man moved a muscle “British Commandos are going to kill you all” had a paralyzing effect on the Nazis.

  The RNVR signals intelligence officer immediately began his search for GOLDEN FLEECE material.

  Col. Randal went outside and fired red over green flares—the signal of success.

  Within minutes, a cutter from the destroyer standing offshore landed on the beach, and Commander Ian Fleming stepped out, accompanied by four 9mm Lancaster Mk1 submachine-gun-toting Royal Marines. Another cutter pulled in beside it.

  The RNVR signals intelligence officer came out of the tent. Col. Randal heard him inform Jim and Cmdr. Fleming, “No joy—not tonight.”

  Cmdr. Fleming did not look happy.

  • • •

  Acting Provisional Sub-Lieutenant Skipper Warthog Finley had his borrowed trawler hove to three miles off the shore. Captain Roy Kidd, Frank Polanski, the Phantom radio operator, the loader for the Little Elephant and an ex-LRDG navigator were sitting in the gun DUKW. It was being lowered over the side of the trawler by the deck crane.

  A DUKW crane launch from the deck of a ship is one of the most harrowing experiences Raiding Forces Sea Squadron personnel had to endure—at least for the Raiders in the DUKW.