Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Read online

  The Raiders were banged up from head to toe. It was not uncommon to see officers and men in the mess hobbling around with an arm, a leg, and even their whole torso encased in plaster. Parachute training was dangerous business. The problem, they had all discovered, was that even though each man had five points of contact, they seldom ever landed on any of them. Not only were they bruised on the places where the five points of contact were reputed to be, but since they also practiced front and rear parachute landing falls (where there were not supposed to be any points of contact), they were also banged up front and back from not being able to swivel fast enough to the right or the left in order to land on the approved school-solution five points.

  The consensus among the Raiders was that their opposite numbers— the poor bloody Nazis training to be German paratroopers like the ones in the film—must really be hurting after their first week of parachute school. Practicing to land on your face had to be really tough training!

  One lesson learned came through particularly loud and clear to Captain Randal: The Small-Scale Raiding Company had not been working on physical conditioning nearly enough. It was obvious that putting in excessively long hours to improve their military skills, as they had done, did not equate to training intelligently to be in top physical condition. Lack of conditioning was a mistake he did not intend to repeat in the future.

  The irony was that the British Armed Forces needed to raise some five thousand parachute-qualified troops. Why, then, did they make their best effort to murder outright the few who did volunteer? Captain John Randal knew somewhere in this madness there had to be a lesson to be learned; he just couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Major John Rock came by Hardwick Hall to deliver a sealed telex from the Ringway message center to Captain Randal and to invite him on a tour of the training facilities that they would be using during transition week. The message read:

  TO CAPTAIN JOHN RANDAL

  COMMANDING

  SMALL-SCALE RAIDING COMPANY

  ON COMPLETION OF PARACHUTE TRAINING YOU WILL RECEIVE AUTHORIZATION FROM COMBINED OPERATIONS HEADQUARTERS TO INCREASE THE STRENGTH OF THE SMALL-SCALE RAIDING COMPANY TO FOUR OFFICERS AND FORTY-FIVE MEN EXCLUSIVE OF NAVY, LIFEBOAT INSTITUTE AND RAF PERSONNEL STOP YOU AND TERRY HAVE BEEN PROMOTED ONE GRADE EFFECTIVE FRIDAY LAST STOP CONGRATULATIONS MAJOR STOP HOPE YOU ARE ENJOYING YOURSELF STOP

  SIGNED

  JANE SEABORN

  CAPTAIN

  ROYAL MARINES

  “Captain, Royal Marines,” Major Randal laughed, handing the flimsy sheet to the newly promoted Captain Terry Stone, who was reclining on his bunk with his boots propped up on his duffel bag. “That was quick. What do you want to bet she has date of rank on you?”

  The brand-new captain quickly scanned the telex. “I would have to hazard that the peerless Lady Jane has found the experience of being a mere lieutenant a trifle tedious, old stick,” he mused. “Probably the only way she could think of to justify having herself promoted was to arrange for us to be promoted, too. I say, let’s hope she has ambitions to be a general of Marines. That would make us both field marshals.”

  “Terry, I’ve heard there’s never been a Life Guards officer promoted to major general in the history of the regiment. Now why might that be?”

  “Life Guards tend to flame out around the rank of lieutenant colonel. There are two schools of thought as to why that’s the case. Some—mostly Life Guardsmen—point out that we are all so rich, we tend to retire early to manage our vast estates. Our detractors, on the other hand, make the claim that we are all so inbred, we do not possess the requisite brains to be general officer material.”

  He raised himself up on one elbow and gave Major Randal a look of appeal. “Make sure you don’t do anything to discourage the good captain of Royal Marines in her ambitions for rapid advancement, John. She is my only hope.”

  “Maybe the War Office recognized our superior leadership skills?”

  Captain Stone gave Major Randal a look that forced a laugh, despite his bruised ribs. “Okay, you’re right. It had to be Jane. But what makes you think I can do anything to encourage or discourage her?”

  “I hate it when that happens.” Captain Stone rolled his eyes. “It’s always such a letdown when you discover your commanding officer is an idiot.”

  Major Rock had been listening to the exchange, but the look on his face clearly indicated he understood little of what was being said. Both Major Randal and Captain Stone were careful not to allow him to see the contents of the telex.

  “Good news, I presume?” he ventured.

  “Terry and I just got the word we’ve been promoted,” Major Randal explained.

  “Jolly good! Congratulations are in order and all that. I have a spare set of crowns I’d be delighted for you to put up, and you can give your pins to Captain Stone. Afraid you won’t find anyplace else around here to obtain new officers’ rank insignia. We can stop by my quarters before I take you on the cook’s tour and get you kitted out straightaway.”

  “Thanks, Major.”

  “You get to call me John, now—John.”

  As they walked across the Circus after stopping by his quarters, Major Rock explained that the second week of parachute school was to consist of “synthetic training” to gain proficiency in “exits” and “air control.” What that meant, neither Captain Stone nor Major Randal had the heart to ask.

  “Aperture drill takes place in here,” he announced as they strolled into a huge hangar. A neatly raked sawdust pit ran its length. Towering above the sawdust stood a row of dummy midsections of Whitley fuselages mounted on wooden trestle legs. They looked like huge praying mantises. Quite a bit of praying did, in fact, go on in those mock fuselages.

  “From a tactical standpoint, the trick is to exit fast,” Major Rock explained, leading them up the wooden stairs into the belly of the apparatus. “The faster the exit, the closer together the stick of paratroopers lands on the drop zone. The closer the jumpers land together, the faster they can assemble and carry on with their mission.”

  The hole in the bottom of the floor of the mock-up looked a lot smaller than Major Randal thought it would. Really, it was more of a funnel than a hole; it was three feet deep.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the fresh paint that was thinly covering some suspicious-looking gouges on the far side of the exit hole.

  “Teeth marks. We touch them up at the end of every day’s class. No sense spreading unnecessary alarm and despondency to the students, what?”

  “You’ll want to make sure you don’t look down when you jump,” Major Rock went on, “or you’ll inevitably lean forward and hit the far side of the hole. We call it the ‘Whitley kiss.’ Not a good idea to lean backward, either. If you do, then you’ll most likely clip the near side of the exit hole with the back of your head. That’s called ‘ringing the bell.’ Hard to make a decent parachute landing fall if you’re unconscious, what?”

  “I see.”

  As they made their way around the hangar, Major Rock pointed out various pieces of training equipment. Then they walked outdoors and inspected the seventy-foot towers used to simulate a full parachute jump.

  “As you know, Prime Minister Churchill has ordered that five thousand jump-qualified troops be trained and ready by the end of the summer training cycle,” said Major Rock.

  “Can you do that?” asked Major Randal.

  “Well, actually, yes, we probably can. Provided, of course, that we are allowed unrestrained advertising for recruits. There is always a bit of resistance from the old establishment to new ventures, but then I would expect that in your line of work, you fellows have firsthand knowledge of how that plays out.”

  “Yes, but we have a way to get around it,” Captain Stone replied, giving Major Randal a wink.

  Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn, Major Randal thought to himself. Our own personal secret weapon.

  “I imagine you do,” Major Rock said. “Truth is, the army senior st
aff is quite keen on forming Airborne Forces. They want to raise parachute battalions, regiments, brigades, and even divisions.

  “They actually imagine that all the Royal Air Force will have to do is fly parachutists and glider troops to the target area, drop or release them, and that’s all there is to it: an instant, air-delivered field army smack in the enemy’s rear—as if by magic.

  “The RAF, for their part, rather resent being tasked to divert their already limited resources for what they see as supporting a purely army adventure.”

  “Interservice rivalry,” Captain Stone said with a sardonic chuckle. “The one constant in any military environment.”

  “Personally, I believe the army is being a bit shortsighted about the amount of air force support needed to sustain an airborne army in combat,” Major Rock opined. “My guess is the RAF will have to resupply any troops it drops until they link up with conventional ground forces. They’ll also have to provide continual close air support until the airborne forces can get their artillery up and going.” Major Rock shook his head. “That is my job, you know, to come up with how we are going to develop and execute a national command strategy of aerial envelopment.”

  “Sounds like a big assignment,” Major Randal observed.

  Major Rock nodded. “I have six weeks to accomplish what the Germans have been working on for six years.”

  “Good luck, old stick,” Captain Stone said. “Better you than me.”

  “Oh well, enough of my problems.” The major laughed. “Do you fellows have any place on your entire bodies that is not sore right now?”

  “Only the five points of contact, which I have never landed on even once, I do not believe, unless it was by pure accident,” Captain Stone admitted. “A thing should not be that hard for one to master.”

  “I’m black-and-blue all over,” Major Randal acknowledged.

  “Precisely. The problem is that while you have only five points of contact, you have two sides of your body, which really makes ten points of contact, and you never seem to be able to hit them. And that’s why I say gliders are the way to go, the way of the future!” Major Rock got a twinkle in his eye. “You can tow two of them behind a bomber. No Whitley kiss, no ringing the bell, no bloody PLFs, and no parachutists landing, scattered from here to kingdom come, and hunting for lost equipment bundles in the dark behind enemy lines.

  “What you do have, gentlemen, is a tightly concentrated combined-arms team, landed intact with exacting precision, armed, equipped, and ready to fight. You don’t have to break up existing regiments to form special battalions—guaranteed to make the old-line military establishment really happy, by the by. You simply cram an existing regiment in gliders, and away you go.”

  “Then what are we doing in a parachute school?” Major Randal said.

  “I would not have any idea why you are here, John. The only reason I am is because of orders. I constitute the only non volunteer in Airborne Forces history.”

  “You never volunteered?” Captain Stone asked in a tone of disbelief. “I thought parachuting was volunteers only!”

  “Do you possibly imagine I would ever, of my own volition, jump out of a perfectly good aircraft in flight? We don’t even use reserve parachutes. The whole idea is ludicrous! No, I do it strictly because I’ve been ordered to.”

  “Lady Jane volunteered us,” Major Randal offered.

  Major Rock shook his head. “Did either of you know that of the first twenty-one officers and three hundred twenty-one other ranks trained— all handpicked men, mind you, from B and C troops of No. 2 Commando under the able command of Lieutenant Colonel C. I .A. Jackson—thirty of them found themselves unable to screw up the necessary courage to jump, two were killed because of parachute failures, and twenty sustained injuries serious enough to render them medically unfit to continue the training? There is a special ward at Davyhulme Military Hospital devoted exclusively to the care of patients from Ringway. We keep the X-ray and orthopedic departments over there humming.”

  Major Randal looked at Captain Stone; Captain Stone looked at Major Randal. Neither of them could think of any suitable response.

  Captain Stone gave their tour guide a sideways look. “Major Rock, it would probably be in the best interest of Airborne Forces if you made a dedicated effort to stay completely out of the recruiting end of operations.”

  Major Randal stared at the ground. “Parachute failures?” Right this minute he would have dearly loved to wring newly promoted Captain Lady Jane Seaborn’s drop-dead gorgeous neck.

  When Major Randal and Captain Stone were let off back at Hardwick Hall, they found an officer neither of them knew waiting for them in the lobby. He introduced himself as Captain Neil Fergusson from Combined Operations Headquarters and asked if there was somewhere that they could talk in private.

  The three officers went upstairs and closed the door to Randal and Stone’s room. The COHQ officer proceeded straight to the business at hand. “Colonel Clarke ordered me here to brief you on the latest Commando raid undertaken by Combined Operations. Consider everything I tell you regarding the operation as classified ‘Most Secret.’ Do not discuss what I am about to tell you with anyone other than your Small-Scale Raiding Company personnel, for reasons that will soon be readily apparent.

  “Two nights ago, on 14 June, a Commando-type operation was undertaken against the German-occupied channel island of Guernsey. The troops involved were No. 11 Independent Company and elements of the newly formed No. 3 Commando. I accompanied the operation as an observer from COHQ.

  “An officer who had grown up on Guernsey was attached. He was supposed to provide intelligence on the German forces’ disposition. Additionally, the destroyers and RAF launches used to transport troops to the objective were degaussed in order to make them immune to magnetic mines. This had the unintended effect of throwing off the compasses of the launches being used to land the troops.

  “RAF Avro Ansons were assigned to buzz the landing areas and provide a ‘distraction.’

  “The mission was a complete hash. The officer from Guernsey failed to provide any useful intelligence. One of the detachments from No. 11 Independent Company sailed to the wrong island; another experienced engine problems and had to return to its parent ship; and a third from No. 3 Commando, though landing at the correct location, had to get ashore wading in neck-deep water, resulting in the troops being severely exhausted by the time they reached dry land. No contact was made with German forces, but unfortunately, while the raiders were ashore, the winds came up, which caused their only dingy to capsize when it was time to return to their ship. One man drowned. That meant the only way off the beach was to swim, and three men had to be left behind when it was learned that they had exaggerated their swimming ability when volunteering for special service. They are now presumed to be prisoners.”

  “The prime minister is outraged, vowing that there will be no more Guernseys. He called it a ‘silly fiasco.’” Captain Fergusson wound up his report.

  “Buzzed the beaches again, huh?” Major Randal said, shaking his head.

  “And good old No. 11 nearly invaded the wrong island,” Captain Stone observed drolly.

  “Colonel Clarke required me to inform you he believes that, in the future, more accurate intelligence and better training are needed for successful raiding.”

  “You mean like swimming lessons?” Major Randal asked.

  “One could argue they would have been rather useful for four of the men, actually,” Captain Fergusson replied.

  “Sounds like Combined Operations,” Captain Stone drawled, “is operating at roughly the level of the Keystone Kops.”

  Captain Fergusson departed, closing the door behind him. Captain Stone offered Major Randal a cigarette. “Do you reckon those Apache Indians you were telling Colonel Clarke about had this much trouble getting their initial raids into the Arizona Territory up and running?”

  Major Randal lit his cigarette and took a deep drag.

  “Pro
bably not.”

  ~ * ~

  10

  TRANSITION WEEK

  WORD WAS THAT THE SECOND WEEK OF PARACHUTE SCHOOL WAS worse than the first. No one in the Small-Scale Raiding Company or any of the No. 2 Commando fillers wanted to believe the rumor could possibly be true. Hope springs eternal for men bent on flinging themselves out of perfectly good airplanes. In fact, the second week of the British No. 1 Parachute Training School initially lulled the students into a false sense that things were not going to be all that bad.

  They were.

  The weather was a repeat of the first week: rainy, foggy, and damp. As they gathered on Monday morning, the future paratroopers were a sullen and battered body of men. Sergeant Roy “Mad Dog” Reupart did not seem to notice. He showed up alone, minus the dreaded cadre of assistants. He called the formation to attention and then shouted, “At ease ... Catch me if you can!”

  He took off in a dead run from a standing start, spraying gravel. Taken by surprise, the Raiders and Commandos nevertheless bounded after him like the hounds of hell.