Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Page 15

  “We’ll wear it on our left sleeve. It’ll look marvelous.”

  “Outstanding!” Major Randal exclaimed. “Absolutely first-class, Jane.”

  Captain Lady Seaborn’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was surprised at how pleased she felt that the major had complimented her idea.

  “Raiding Forces is also a very subtle cover name,” she went on. “Every time there is any kind of offensive operation, the troops involved are always described in the newspapers and newsreels as ‘raiding forces.’ No one will actually know who we are or what we have accomplished, but everyone will think they have heard of us.

  “At the same time, the name ‘Raiding Forces’ does not give anything away. It could mean anything or nothing. German intelligence will never know what to make of a report that raiding forces have moved into a certain area or conducted an operation.”

  “You must have actually learned something in that posh Swiss finishing school of yours,” Captain Stone said.

  “I thought it might be appropriate for us to wear our parachute wings over our hearts, like the Royal Air Force pilots wear their wings, instead of on our sleeves the way Airborne Forces personnel do now,” she continued. “They will look much prettier that way.”

  “Pretty is good,” Major Randal said with a laugh. “What do you say, Sergeant Major?”

  “As I mentioned, sir, the lads are sure to like the new name, and they will definitely appreciate being authorized to wear their parachute wings on their chest,” he confirmed confidently. “A morale-building development, upon my word.”

  “Any more surprises?” Major Randal inquired, more delighted with the name “Raiding Forces” than he wanted to let on. It sounded crisp and professional: the kind of outfit the caliber of men they were looking for would want to be a part of.

  “Oh, I may have something else up my sleeve. But right now would be a good time to bring in the lads,” Lady Jane Seaborn said. She was beaming, well satisfied with the way the conference had gone.

  Captain Stone and Sergeant Major Hicks went to the other car to collect the troops. When they were out of earshot, Captain Lady Seaborn said, “I hope you will not think it presumptuous, John, but I have taken the liberty to make arrangements for you to stay at the Bradford Hotel.”

  “Thanks,” he lied.

  “And John, if it’s not too terribly much to ask, after I have ruined all your other plans, would you consider escorting me to Randy’s party this evening?” she asked.

  For once she did not sound entirely sure of herself.

  That about caps it, he thought. While Terry’s hanging drunken horsewomen by their spurs off chandeliers, I get to babysit a grieving widow. How much worse can it get?

  What he heard himself say was, “Love to.” He almost sounded convincing.

  ~ * ~

  15

  SHOTGUN

  MAJOR JOHN RANDAL STOOD AT THE FRONT OF THE CAR AS THE troops moved in from the second car and took their seats. They all crowded in, and with the new men from No. 2 (Parachute) Commandos, it was a tight fit. The train was chugging steadily toward London.

  “Men,” Major Randal began, “I have some administrative announcements and then I’m going to turn it over to Captain Lady Seaborn. First of all, congratulations are in order for a job well done. Parachute school was sure a lot tougher than I expected it to be. You may have noticed that a couple of people are no longer with us. Good soldiers who completed the training and received their wings, but who did not measure up to the professional standard we require and so were not invited to continue. That’s all that is going to be said on that subject.”

  There was dead silence in the car. The idea that you could be “invited out” at any time for simply failing to measure up came as a surprise. In the past, to be RTU’d, a man had to commit some major breach, quit, or be injured too badly to continue. As the realization settled in, the men in the room looked around at one another and nodded their approval. Only the best need apply; only the very best would be allowed to stay. They liked that.

  “We lost some good people, but we’ve gained some outstanding men. Lieutenant Stirling and you new troops from No. 2 Commando who have been tapped to join our ranks, welcome aboard.”

  The troops in the railcar thundered their approval. Lieutenant Percy Stirling was wildly popular. The young “Death or Glory Boy” had acquitted himself well the last three weeks. When the going got tough, he kicked it into high gear.

  The eleven men from No. 2 Commando selected to join them had been carefully handpicked. They came from some of the finest regiments in the British Army. Virtually everyone in the No. 1 Parachute Training School had volunteered when it was learned that the company was recruiting, but the men present now were the cream of the crop.

  “The Small-Scale Raiding Company is no more,” Major Randal announced. The car grew quiet. What could this mean?

  “From this day forward, we will be known as the Strategic Raiding Force.”

  Whistles, Comanche yells, and other sounds of approval greeted the announcement.

  “Our full name is classified. We are going to call ourselves simply ‘Raiding Forces.’ When anyone asks you what outfit you’re in, that’s what you tell ‘em. This is the flash,” Major Randal went on, holding up the black tab with the eye-catching silver stitching. “Captain Lady Seaborn came up with our new name and she designed the patch. She has requested that all Raiding Forces personnel be allowed to wear their parachute wings over their heart like pilots do, not on the sleeve. She thinks wings will look, ah, prettier that way. What do you think, boys?”

  The Commandos cheered enthusiastically. Fighting men did like their badges. Major Randal remembered a quote attributed to Napoleon: something to the effect that he could conquer the world, as long as the French factories kept churning out enough ribbon for him to keep awarding decorations. From what he could tell, Captain Lady Jane Seaborn’s stock had spiked to an all-time high.

  “My first formal duties as Raiding Forces commander are pleasant ones. Royal Marines Karen Montgomery, front and center.”

  The parachute rigger looked wonderful in her brand-new Royal Marines uniform.

  “You men know Marine Montgomery. She does professional work, which is a good thing, or there probably wouldn’t be as many of us here having this little ceremony.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “By decree of the King, or whoever, she has been commissioned a lieutenant of Royal Marines.”

  Marine Pamela Plum-Martin handed him the appropriate rank insignia and he pinned it on one epaulet while Captain Lady Seaborn pinned the other.

  “In the U.S. Army it is traditional for a brand-new lieutenant to discretely slip a silver dollar to the senior noncommissioned officer present to buy his first salute. I do not believe you have that tradition in the British Army, but I would be proud, Lieutenant Montgomery, to return your first salute and not even be paid for it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the new Royal Marines officer said happily, and she snapped him a crisp salute, which he returned with a flourish.

  “Next order of business. Midshipman Randy Seaborn, front and center. By order of the First Lord of the Admiralty—and with a little help in the form of a waiver for the age-in-grade provision—you have been promoted to lieutenant in the Royal Navy.”

  “You mean sub-lieutenant, sir,” corrected the young officer.

  “Nope. Don’t forget, I’m your commanding officer, which means I’m never wrong. You skipped a rank, stud.”

  For a second there, it looked as though brand-new Lieutenant Randy Seaborn’s first official act was going to be to faint dead away.

  Not doing much to help his blood pressure, Royal Marine Plum-Martin moved in quickly with a uniform blouse that was sporting the appropriate straight gold rings on the cuffs, indicating the teenager’s transition out of the reserves into the regular navy. The beautifully tailored blouse also bore the planks of a full lieutenant on the shoulders. She gave him a sexy wink
.

  “No more wavy-navy for you, Lieutenant,” Major Randal said. “You’re the real deal, now.”

  The men stood up and applauded. They kidded the young officer unmercifully about his navigation problems every chance they got, but they all knew that he was a good sailor in fair and stormy weather. More important, the Raiders all knew that when they returned to the beach at the end of a mission, he would always be there waiting to take them out. He was reliable, and that stood for something with these fighting men.

  “Now, gentlemen, I’m going to turn the floor over to our beautiful patron, Captain Lady Jane Seaborn. As you will soon see, she has been slaving away diligently on our behalf while we were in training.”

  Captain Lady Seaborn stood to address the troops. “That was fun,” she said, clapping her hands. Every man in the railcar laughed right on cue. At this moment, they would have laughed at anything she said, cheered, stood on their heads, done cartwheels, or whatever else they thought she wanted them to do. It was clear to Major Randal that the Royal Marines captain had the troops of Raiding Forces wrapped around her little finger.

  “And now, Captain ‘Geronimo Joe’ McKoy has a surprise for you that I believe you are all going to especially appreciate.”

  Captain Lady Seaborn gestured toward the back door of the car, and right on cue, the former Arizona Ranger entered and sashayed down the aisle with a canvas gun case lovingly cradled in his arms.

  Unzipping the case with a flourish, he pulled out an exotic-looking humpbacked weapon.

  “Boys, this here is a 12-gauge Browning A-5 semiautomatic shotgun. The barrel has been cut back to twenty inches, and on the end is an improvised Cutts Compensator just like they have on the Thompson submachine gun, designed to reduce felt recoil and muzzle jump. The compensator also serves as a flash suppressor. The end has been duckbilled, which means she will throw a wide, oval, sideways pattern of shot rather than a circle. Makes for a nasty little alley sweeper,” he added with a knowing wink.

  “Notice the magazine tube has been extended to hold eight rounds. The U.S. Border Patrol came up with this idea a while back because they needed a lot more firepower than they had available at the time. Some good ole boys at Purdy’s, which is a right nice shotgun outfit, took the specifications I gave ‘em and modified us a whole passel of these here Nazi blasters.”

  Without fanfare, he stuck the barrel of the stubby Browning A-5 shotgun out the window of the train. They were passing a fair-sized pond when he began pulling the trigger.

  BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM ...

  Every round produced a pie plate-sized eruption and sent up a tall geyser of yellow-brown water.

  When the empties had stopped rattling on the coach floor around the old Ranger’s feet, he concluded, “This here modified Browning A-5 is my personal weapon of choice for fast, close-in work on dark nights, and is especially effective in tight quarters against multiple targets.

  “I guarantee you she’ll blow a hole big enough to throw a cat through in anybody you hit square with it. They ain’t for shootin’ skeet, boys.”

  Every man in the room was immediately on his feet, cheering at the top of his lungs.

  Captain McKoy looked pleased. “Strategic Raiding Force . . . Now boys, that there is what I call a real ‘bring ‘em back dead’-sounding kind of outfit. First chance you get, I want each one of you to hose one of those Nazi Germans for me, personal. You ain’t ever going to be outgunned again, not at night.”

  The men grinned at one another, clearly itching to get their hands on the Brownings.

  “About thirty years ago, when I was a-operatin’ against the Moros in the same Philippine jungles young Major Randal here cut his teeth on recently, a-huntin’ Huks,” the old Ranger continued, “the Moros had a bad habit of wiring themselves up real tight from head to toe with bits of telegraph wire until they cut off the circulation and couldn’t feel no pain. They’d smoke a whole bunch of real powerful narcotic dope, then run amok wavin’ their razor-sharp bolo knifes. You could fill ‘em full of lead, but they’d just keep on a-comin’, dead on their feet. They chopped up a lot of good men that way. It pretty much took a spinal column hit to put one of those hopped-up fanatics down for the count, which ain’t exactly all that easy to do when a wild man is a-swingin’ a three-foot-long knife at you with evil intent.

  “So I got me a 12-gauge Winchester Model 97 pump, had the armorer whack off the barrel and make one of these duckbill devices for it, and that shotgun never left my side the rest of the time I was over there. When one of them bad boys came at me, I’d just take dead aim at his Adam’s apple and let him have it. Worked every time.

  “Now, boys, let me tell you what; this here Browning is a much superior weapon. There ain’t a Nazi made that’s as tough to put down as a doped-up Moro religious fanatic with his testicles wired up tight—’scuse me, Lady Jane. Anyways, you can put that in the bank.”

  The Raiders stood up to cheer. They stomped their boots and gave Comanche yells for a long time. Geronimo Joe McKoy knew exactly how to communicate with fighting men; he was a master motivator and trainer. Major Randal, watching his troops closely, realized that not only were Raiding Forces personnel convinced beyond doubt that their deficiency in firepower had just been corrected; every man present in the railcar knew exactly where he was going to hold on target the very first time the opportunity presented itself.

  The troops were going wild. Captain Lady Seaborn was not quite certain she was ever going to get them to settle down. When the Commandos finally quieted, she said, “Well, lads, there’s not much one can do to compete with Captain McKoy; he is a rather hard act to follow.

  “Marine Plum-Martin is passing out packets that contain your Raiding Forces flashes and additional parachute wings. You will wear the tab on the left shoulder of your blouse and your wings on the left side of your chest, above the pocket. There is a diagram in the packet that tells you precisely where they are to be sewn and gives you the exact spacing.

  “When you return to duty at the end of your leave, Raiding Forces will immediately be traveling to Achnacarry Castle in Scotland for an intensive training program at the newly established Special Warfare Training Center.

  “Congratulations on graduating from parachute school! Now go enjoy your leave, lads. Wings really get the girls, I’m told.”

  “YEEEEEEHAAAAAA! “

  ~ * ~

  16

  LONDON

  WHEN THE TRAIN ARRIVED AT THE STATION, THE PLATFORM WAS crowded with men and women in uniform. Invasion fear was raging at fever pitch; the Battle of France had been lost, and the Battle of Britain had commenced. There was a sense of impending danger and urgency in the air as people went about on their appointed rounds.

  The instant Major John Randal, Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone, Captain Lady Jane Seaborn, and Royal Marine Pamela Plum-Martin emerged topside from the underground station, a tall blonde wearing a luxurious full-length mink coat with the golden tops of champagne bottles peeking out of both side pockets stepped out of the crowd and glued herself to Captain Stone.

  As Major Randal and the rest of them watched, the duo tangoed their way over to the curb where her racing-green Jaguar was parked. After tossing his bags into the bonnet of the stylish English sports car, Captain Stone waved a brave salute, climbed resolutely into the passenger side with the look of a man who has his work cut out for him, and with the blonde at the wheel, roared off into the city.

  “Was that Monica Woodleigh?” Captain Lady Seaborn asked Marine Plum-Martin.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She was the one expelled from Westley for getting caught in the boathouse totally...”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “John, you really are making the ultimate sacrifice if you gave up partying with Monica and her crowd to spend your leave attending meetings with me,” Captain Lady Seaborn said. “Do you mind terribly?”

  “If I had two choices—jump on Berlin, kill Hitler, win the war, and li
ve to tell about it, or party with Terry for the next ten days—Hitler would be safe from me,” he replied as the green Jaguar drove out of sight.

  Captain Lady Seaborn and Marine Plum-Martin exchanged looks, but neither of the women said a word. They were both reasonably confident Major Randal was telling them the truth.

  The hotel had sent a long black Rolls-Royce limousine, a silver “B” monogram painted on the door, to meet them at the train station. A uniformed chauffeur dressed in the traditional garb of an Indian Sikh, complete with a turban and sporting a full beard, helped them load their luggage.

  Once they were on the way, Captain Lady Seaborn began explaining the drill. “We are going to drop Pamela off at the Bradford. She will supervise delivery of our baggage to our rooms, and then she has the rest of the day off to herself to prepare for Randy’s party tonight. John, you and I are going shopping.”