Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Page 8

  There appeared to be four, or perhaps it was five, German L-lighters; it was hard to tell in the dark and the swell because it was possible to see them only from the very top of the waves. The Germans immediately challenged with the letter B for Baker. Naturally, no one on the Arrow had any idea of the countersign. In less than one minute, the Germans figured that out and opened fire at a range of approximately 1,500 meters.

  Their fire was quite accurate, with 2-pounder shells bursting in deadly bright flashes overhead and 20-millimeter cannon rounds the size of flaming onions screaming in. It is not much fun to be shot at by machine guns firing bullets the size of fully grown onions, and since the Arrow had nothing to shoot back with, the young skipper immediately gave the order to make smoke.

  The volume of enemy fire perceptibly increased. Burning orange pumpkin-sized 2-pounder cannon shells blazed down both sides of the Arrow. The only thing worse than being shot at with bullets the size of onions is being shot at with shells the size of pumpkins. Within five minutes, however, the smoke screen began to take effect, completely obscuring the German trawlers from view and, all hands sincerely hoped, hiding the yacht.

  Five minutes is an eternity to be engaged by high-velocity, rapid-firing cannons. Shortly after the smoke screen took effect, Midshipman Seaborn ordered the smoke making stopped so they could try to reestablish the exact location of the enemy trawlers. The unintended result was that German sailors reacquired their target and responded by increasing their volume of fire, this time adding 4-inch guns to the mix, aimed at randomly selected points within the smoke screen. These large shells were bursting approximately six feet above the water. Screaming shrapnel punctuated every detonation. The 4-inchers made the experience of the flaming onions and blazing pumpkins seem inconsequential.

  “It is always darkest,” Lieutenant Stone remarked philosophically, “before pitch black.”

  Midshipman Seaborn restarted his smoke generator and executed a couple of skillful maneuvers. The second smoke screen and the Arrow’s radical tacks somehow seemed to bewilder the German gunners on the trawlers. Their shooting slackened briefly as they realized they had lost their target once more. Then, by chance, amid the smoke and confusion, one L-lighter accidentally fired on her sister ship. After the odd round back and forth, the German ships suddenly engaged each other all-out in a ferocious blue-on-blue encounter.

  A relieved band of Commandos, sailors, and Lifeboat Servicemen watched the raging blizzard of tracers blazing back and forth as the German trawlers enthusiastically shot it out among themselves. Midshipman Seaborn eased the yacht away to the south-southeast unnoticed.

  “Now that is what I would call friendly fire,” Lieutenant Stone declared as they slipped away into the night.

  “Those trawlers sure carry a lot of heavy firepower,” Captain Randal observed in awe.

  “Nicely done, Midshipman,” Admiral Ransom said to his grandson. “A shame we have no torpedoes!”

  ~ * ~

  Thirty minutes later HMY Arrow made landfall. All hands able made ready for inshore operations. On the yacht’s small bridge, every officer studied the shoreline intently through binoculars. Captain John Randal’s Zeiss glasses were sporting recently retrofitted, battleship gray hard-rubber spray shades.

  The shoreline was extremely rugged, and the Commandos had absolutely no idea where they were. But because the railway ran parallel to the coast for nearly thirty miles in this area, it really didn’t matter much. The Arrow was bobbing less than a mile offshore; from that vantage point the men could see a solid black mass that appeared to be a rock face rising out of the water to a height of approximately three hundred feet. If it was a giant rock, then the train either had to run around it or go through it. Should there be a tunnel, it would be the perfect place to set the demolitions. In the event the railroad tracks ran around the rock, then setting the charges on a curve would be almost as effective.

  Midshipman Seaborn eased in the boat to within a cable’s distance of the rock. Captain Randal and Lieutenant Stone climbed down into the dinghy being held in place against the side of the Arrow by the Lifeboat Serviceman who was waiting to row them in. Both officers were carrying 50-pound packs of guncotton explosives.

  It was a short pull to shore. Thankfully, the winds had dropped to calm. The moon came out, rat-cheese yellow and one-quarter full, adding an eerie element to the night’s business.

  The rock cliff was not as steep as it had appeared from the deck of the Arrow. The climb would have been fairly easy had it not been for the side effects of the awful voyage and the heavy packs the two were lugging. The slope was steep enough that there was zero likelihood of a German patrol being out on it. They might be up there on top, though.

  As they worked their way up the incline, Lieutenant Stone whispered, “What were you thinking back there when the trawlers started shooting those gigantic balls of fire at us, old stick?”

  “I was wishing I was home, snug in my bed.”

  “At Seaborn House?”

  “California. You?”

  “I was regretting not having taken my father’s advice to go into the foreign service instead of the army.”

  “Wanted to get you out of the country, did he?”

  Near the top of the cliff they found a railway tunnel. Both men dropped their packs and crawled to the mouth to investigate. There were no guards they could observe, either at the entrance of the tunnel or patrolling the tracks.

  That was fortunate, because they were only equipped with sidearms. In his shoulder holsters Captain Randal was wearing a pair of short-barreled, 1899-issue Webley Mark V .45 5 revolvers with round bird’s-head grips and smooth-as-butter actions, thanks to Captain “Geronimo Joe” McKoy. Secured by a lanyard around his neck, and tucked into his belt, was his Browning P-35.

  Lieutenant Stone was carrying the private purchase Mauser Broomhandle pistol his grandfather had taken to South Africa with him as a young subaltern during the Boer War. The Mauser had the Stone family crest inlaid in sterling silver on the grip.

  In terms of weapons technology, with the exception of the Browning P-35, the two Small-Scale Raiding Company officers were two wars behind the times. A light at the far end of the tunnel emitted a dim, yellow glow. Pulling the Browning out of his belt, Captain Randal signaled for Lieutenant Stone to stay put while he went forward to investigate.

  It was chilly and damp in the tunnel. With his heart pounding in his throat, Captain Randal crept down the tracks. When he reached the far entrance, he could see that the light was some sort of signal beside the right-of-way. Luckily, there were no guards at the far entrance to the tunnel, either. Quickly making his way back, the captain reported, “There’s no one there. That’s a signal light. Let’s set these demolitions and get out of here.”

  “Why not just lay the charges inside the tracks?” Lieutenant Stone said. “We can scrape away enough gravel so the guncotton doesn’t stick up above the rails and then cover it with a thin layer.”

  “Good idea.”

  Suddenly, they heard the sound of someone approaching.

  There were a few seconds of high melodrama until they discovered it was the Razor crawling up the slope to observe their actions on the objective. Accompanying the admiral was Corporal Jack Merritt, an exceedingly competent Life Guards trooper. When the Small-Scale Raiding Company commander pulled him aside and demanded in no uncertain terms to know what was going on, Corporal Merritt merely shrugged his shoulders. The Razor was a law unto himself.

  Captain Randal set the charges, laying the dual-pressure ignition studs flush with the underside of the track. Next, he connected the main charge. Then, with delicate care, he put the detonators in place.

  “Fire in the hole,” he said softly to the others. It was not the correct thing to say under the circumstances, because he was not going to detonate the charges—the train would take care of that when it came along— but he did not know what the correct terminology was, due to the fact that the Small-Scale
Raiding Company’s demolitions training had been sadly lacking.

  “Move out, gentlemen.”

  Instead of making for the beach, Admiral Ransom produced a small flashlight with a red filter, turned it on, and proceeded to carefully inspect every inch of Captain Randal’s handiwork. One would have thought he was a lane grader on a training exercise rather than standing in a railway tunnel in enemy-occupied territory. Lieutenant Stone suddenly grabbed Captain Randal’s arm and pointed. The yellow light had flashed to green. None of them knew exactly what that indicated, but they hoped it meant a train was coming.

  “Time to go, Admiral!” Captain Randal said tersely.

  The men beat a hasty retreat down the cliff and climbed into the two waiting dinghies. With a few powerful strokes, the Lifeboat Servicemen had them back to the Arrow. As soon as the dinghies were hauled on board, Captain Randal turned to his ship’s commander. “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge, Randy.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  They were half a mile out to sea when the dark shadow of a long train could be seen snaking into the tunnel. Within seconds, a startling blue-white flash erupted from the shoreline, followed by the rolling thunder of a muffled detonation. Seconds later, brilliant red-orange flames shot out both entrances of the tunnel. Powerful secondary explosions soon followed and cooked off for some time.

  “I daresay we’ve just blown up some kind of ordnance supply train,” Lieutenant Stone crowed, for once unable to conceal his excitement. “Carrying bombs for the Luftwaffe or ammunition for the coastal ack-ack, I shouldn’t wonder.” The muffled secondary explosions continued booming until the Arrow was well out of sight of land.

  The celebration on board was enthusiastic, though short-lived. When the winds picked back up, the return voyage was even worse than the trip out—with the notable exception of the absence of enemy trawlers.

  ~ * ~

  “Do you reckon this would qualify as one of those lightning-quick Commando strikes we read about in the papers?” Lieutenant Terry Stone asked as they stumbled weakly off HMY Arrow and onto the dock at Seaborn House.

  “I thought tonight was going to last forever,” a wobbly Captain John Randal responded in a high-pitched voice, sounding every bit as sick as he felt. “I never want to go through anything as awful as that again for the rest of my life.”

  “You have to admit, though, blowing up that train was bloody fantastic! Why not get the map out right now so we can select another stretch of railroad to attack?”

  “Okay, Terry, only you’re going to have to help me make it up to Seaborn House first. I’m about to slip into a coma.”

  The next morning a motorcycle messenger arrived with sealed orders. Captain Randal scanned the dispatch briefly and handed it to Lieutenant Stone. The Life Guards officer read it and looked up.

  “Well, John, so much for blowing up more trains anytime soon. It seems we’re off to learn the gentle art of military parachuting.”

  ~ * ~

  PARACHUTE SCHOOL

  ~ * ~

  7

  RINGWAY

  THE BRITISH NO. I PARACHUTE TRAINING SCHOOL, OPERATING AS “Central Landing Establishment” for the sake of secrecy, was located at the Ringway civil airport in Manchester.

  Just who, exactly, anyone intended to fool with an obscure cover name seemed open to question, especially with the No. 2 (Parachute) Commandos jogging here and there in their distinctive little round, padded jump helmets and with snow-white parachutes cracking open continuously over lovely Tatton Park. Certainly it was not the Abwehr—the German intelligence service. However, No. 1 Parachute Training School was located far enough away from the London area that it was hoped the Luftwaffe would not interfere with their training operations.

  Visiting the Central Landing Establishment was like entering another world. The grounds had been nicknamed the “Circus.” Everything moved on the double all the time; danger seemed close at hand.

  Lady Jane Seaborn—dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant of the Royal Marines, which she had lately taken to wearing—met the officers and men of the Small-Scale Raiding Company on the outskirts of Bench Hill and escorted them to their quarters. Driving her Rolls-Royce was the newest addition to the raiding company’s roster, Royal Marine Private Pamela Plum-Martin, who looked as though she belonged on a billboard, wearing a swimsuit and advertising suntan lotion, more than in the Royal Marines. Where Lieutenant Lady Jane Seaborn had recruited her from was anybody’s guess; she didn’t elaborate.

  The other ranks were quickly marched off to barracks at the Airborne Force Depot while the officers bunked in at ivy-covered Hardwick Hall.

  Captain John Randal felt a stab of apprehension as he swung down from the cab of the truck and hoisted his gear over one shoulder. The idea of actually jumping out of an airplane sounded totally insane. Captain Randal was afraid of heights, or at least he thought he was. He felt as if he were being sucked along out of control and was far from sure he really wanted to go through with the whole thing. No—he knew he did not want to go through with it. Who in his right mind would jump out of a perfectly good airplane? Answer: No one. Captain Randal was beginning to feel trapped.

  Every man in the company, including Midshipman Randy Seaborn, the crew of HMY Arrow, and the eight Lifeboat Servicemen, had volunteered to attend. Even Squadron Leader Paddy Wilcox had insisted on coming along, claiming he needed to understand “every aspect of parachutage.” No longer flying air-sea rescue, he had volunteered, at Lady Jane’s suggestion, for the secret intelligence organization she worked for so that he could become the Small-Scale Raiding Company’s pilot.

  Captain Randal couldn’t remember whether the idea of becoming parachute qualified was his or whether Lieutenant Lady Seaborn had simply arranged for the training and he had been swept up in the moment. The parachute wings she wore on her sleeve may have had something to do with it; they were impossible to ignore. She had them, he did not, and there was no getting around it.

  Little details like qualification badges can drive a soldier to attempt feats he normally would never consider. Captain Randal couldn’t explain it—even to himself—since it didn’t make a lot of sense. He just knew the wings were a powerful incentive in the military.

  “The school commandant is waiting to see you in his office,” Lieutenant Lady Seaborn said, producing one of her tremor-inducing smiles. “I shall be back in three weeks to attend the wings ceremony when you graduate, John. Do try to have fan.”

  The Royal Marines lieutenant looked truly magnificent in her new uniform, which consisted of highly polished riding boots, jodhpurs, a perfectly tailored blouse, a khaki shirt and tie, and the glossy bill of her officer’s hat pulled down low, shading her vivid green eyes.

  Lieutenant Lady Seaborn stepped into her idling Rolls, and her beautiful driver stepped on the gas. The Rolls roared out the gate, spewing gravel.

  “Do you think that’s an official Royal Marines uniform she’s wearing?” he asked, staring after the car.

  “How could one know,” Lieutenant Stone said, “having never actually seen a woman Royal Marine before?”

  “Do you Brits call Marines ‘leathernecks’ like we do in the U.S.?”

  “Yes, we do, old stick. Though, in this case, I should recommend against it.”

  ~ * ~

  Squadron Leader Louis Strange, DSO, MC, DFC, was a highly decorated ace fighter pilot from the last war, during which he had achieved the army rank of lieutenant colonel. He had come back on active duty in the Royal Air Force during the late, great trouble only to find that, like Squadron Leader Paddy Wilcox, he was considered over-the-hill for combat flying. To Squadron Leader Strange’s total amazement, after a period of active service in France as a staff officer before the evacuation, he found himself in command of the Empire’s first parachute school.

  He did not have any previous experience with parachutes other than having wanted one in the last war. A good-looking, trim, silver-haired officer with a neat, clip
ped mustache, Squadron Leader Strange seemed most pleased to see Captain John Randal, though a trifle disappointed at the same time.

  “Welcome to the Central Landing Establishment, Captain.” The commandant gestured toward a chair. “You have elected to waive the parachute-packing phase of the course, I understand. Lady Seaborn has informed me that, since you are in the process of organizing your own rigger detachment, you will not require that particular block of training.”

  The rigger detachment was news to Captain Randal, but before he could say anything, the squadron leader continued.

  “Most unusual woman, Lady Seaborn. Knew her late father, you know. Fellow practically invented money! Women in the Royal Marines—I never even realized they had a women’s auxiliary! What have we here, Captain? Small-Scale Raiding Company, very hush-hush, top-priority orders straight from Combined Operations Headquarters.