Those who dare, p.23
Those Who Dare, page 23
“If you say so . . . Looks like an artifact from the Red Baron’s Flying Circus to me.”
“The Walrus may be an ugly duckling by day,” Squadron Leader Wilcox admitted, “but at night, when she snatches you out from behind enemy lines with the Jerries nipping at your heels, I’ll wager she suddenly becomes the most beautiful swan you ever saw.”
The Lovats christened her then and there: the Duck—as in ugly.
Training began immediately. Like all good exercises, this one was simple. Squadron Leader Wilcox taxied out and took off with a Lifeboat Serviceman sitting in the copilot’s seat. He did a single, short loop and landed.
The Lifeboat Serviceman launched the rubber inflatable dinghy over the side, out of the open-air cupola located behind the passenger compartment, climbed in, and paddled to shore. When he reached the bank, two Lovat Scouts gingerly climbed in, and he paddled them back out to newly named Duck.
They clambered up on the float and lashed the rubber dinghy back to the undercarriage. Then they climbed up a short rope ladder into the open cupola, with the Lovats entering first.
When everyone was on board, Squadron Leader Wilcox immediately lifted off in the shortest distance he could. True to his word, the Duck took to the air fast.
In theory, the plan sounded easy; good plans always do. Considering this one had to be executed at night behind German lines, there were a lot of things that could go wrong.
They practiced the drill over and over and over. Then they practiced it some more.
“Percy, I’m curious about one thing,” Major Randal inquired as he stood watching the exercise.
“Sir?”
“Why didn’t you go into the Scots Guards like the rest of the men in your family?”
“Sir, the Scots Guards are too intense for me. They have a saying: ‘One hundred plus ten percent,’ and they live it every day. Besides, sir, I always wanted to be a cavalryman.”
“In that case, why’d you volunteer out of the Lancers into the Commandos?”
“That’s simple, sir. The romance has completely gone out of the cavalry. Our motto used to be, ‘To Love and Ride Away.’ Then the War Department armored the cavalry regiments, and we were forced to abandon our horses in order to become mechanized. All Lancers ever do now is pull maintenance on their vehicles. The new motto is, ‘Screw and Bolt’—simply not the same, sir. ”
“I see,” Major Randal said. And he actually did.
SPECIAL WARFARE
TRAINING CENTER
26
COHQ TO ACHNACARRY
WHEN MAJOR JOHN RANDAL HAD LEFT LONDON THE DAY BEFORE, the city had been burning. It was still burning when the train pulled into the station on his return. The ugly smell of cordite and smoke hung in the air.
Royal Marine Pamela Plum-Martin was waiting for him when he stepped off the train. She whisked him to the Bradford Hotel in the Rolls-Royce, skillfully navigating around bomb damage, rubble, emergency services vehicles, and firefighting equipment. Military police in their distinctive red hats were everywhere. It was a sobering drive. The Junkers-88 Stukas, Heinkle 111s, and Dornier 17s had done their best work.
“Pretty rough, Pam?”
“Worse than any nightmare, sir.”
Major Randal could not help noticing that, like her boss Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn, she was even more attractive when she was serious. Whatever “it” was, Royal Marine Plum-Martin had it. A lot of it.
“Give me a briefing.”
“The Luftwaffe has been bombing nonstop since you left. They are trying to wipe London off the map. The Germans are not even attempting to hit military targets anymore. When they come over, it feels like they are aiming right at you, and if they could see you, they would drop a bomb on you just for fun.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. They’ve been concentrating on the high-priority docks in the east-end port area. Why would the German High Command suddenly switch to low-value civilian targets?”
“Apparently, sir, the Nazis bombed London accidentally, and the prime minister sent the RAF to Berlin the next night to retaliate, so Hitler ordered the Luftwaffe to strike back and this time obliterate London. Intelligence has reason to believe the Führer is convinced that bombing our cities is going to break civilian morale and force our government to sue for peace.”
“How do you ‘accidentally’ bomb London?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself. I wish I knew how to fly a bomber so I could wing over and bomb Berlin on purpose!” the Royal Marine exclaimed indignantly. Hitler was going to have his work cut out in trying to break her morale.
When they reached the sandbagged Bradford Hotel, Captain Lady Seaborn was waiting for them downstairs in the lobby. They departed immediately for Richmond Terrace, the headquarters of Combined Operations. Since COHQ was Raiding Forces’ parent organization, this should by rights have been the first place they called on during their tour of the wartime agencies, but the meeting had been rescheduled several times. Today they had an appointment with Lieutenant General Alan Bourne, CB, DSO, MVO, Royal Marines, who held the impressive title of Commander of Raiding Operations on Coasts in Enemy-Occupied Territories and Advisor to the Chiefs of Staff on Combined Operations.
Upon arrival they were ushered into the general’s office. He could not have been more charming. “We have been following your pinprick operations rather closely around here. COHQ has little to show for its efforts lately. Your small-scale raids have been about the only thing we have had to crow about,” Lieutenant General Bourne said sincerely.
“By the way, that was sharp, having your men trained as parachutists. Around COHQ we mostly think amphibiously. Now, thanks to you, we find ourselves responsible for all parachute operations, though there is talk of splitting off Airborne Forces into a stand-alone command to take over that mission from us someday.”
“You have to credit Lady Jane for the idea, to be perfectly honest, sir.”
“Fancy that. Well, I must apologize to both of you. As usual, I do not have much time today. The chiefs have once again demanded my presence quite unexpectedly. Let me proceed straight to the purpose of our meeting here today.
“I am charged with a four-point brief: coordinate interservice training; run the Combined Operations Training Establishment; advise on tactical and technical research and development; and lastly, devise the special craft needed for all forms of combined operations, from raiding to the invasion of the Continent.
“I have no planning staff, no signals staff, no training staff, and no chief of staff. The Royal Marines are spread out all over the globe, serving on ships and manning shore defense batteries at ports worldwide, so we are forced to use army personnel to staff the new Commando units, which by all rights should be a Marine light infantry mission. Big ideas are all we have around here.”
“A formidable challenge, sir,” Major Randal said.
“That is the way it always is with us British, I’m afraid, Major. At the beginning of every single war, a cataclysmic disaster occurs and incompetent generals make colossal blunders. The military is always structured, equipped, and mentally prepared to fight the previous war. We are forced to retreat; then, gradually, we begin to put things right. New generals with modern ideas are found; we reorganize and marshal our forces, counterattack, and eventually—slowly but surely—we overcome our enemies and somehow finally achieve victory. It has been said we lose every battle but the last one.
“After Dunkirk, a metamorphosis in military thinking began taking place behind the scenes. A catastrophe seems to be the only thing that can ever wake up the War Office, but that stodgy, old-establishment, barnacle-encrusted firm can, at times, move with surprising rapidity.
“Right now our one and only thought is to return to the Continent, on the principle that it is better to fight over there than over here. However, we have to work up to it. This is the beginning of the era of the swashbuckler and the licensed privateer. Raiding is the order of the day, only how does one get started?
“Everyone has his own thoughts on the subject,” the general went on, not waiting for an answer. “The navy—after an initial burst of impressive, selfless, interservice cooperation—is giving Combined Operations only token support these days. The army is actively discouraging its men from volunteering for the Commandos. The RAF is trying to ignore us; we are dead last on its priority list for aircraft.
“There has been more than a little interagency skirmishing over who controls what,” the general went on. “Right now, Special Operations Executive has managed to obtain a charter giving them responsibility for raids that number under thirty men. You have never actually taken that many troops on an operation yet, have you, Major?”
“No, sir.”
“We are not about to concede you to SOE. Raiding Forces belongs to COHQ, make no mistake. We need—and I cannot overemphasize how great our need is—for you to carry out an operation with more than thirty men as soon as reasonably practical. I think I have something that should help you to go about it. You recall, I mentioned the navy was providing COHQ only token support.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Strange bunch, the navy. They recently gave COHQ three C-class motor gunboats right out of the blue. Simply gave them to us; we never asked for them, and we have no particular use for them. The navy did not see fit to provide any crew to operate them, of course, nor did they offer to teach our people how to operate them. But now I presume they can honestly say, if queried, that they have provided COHQ with significant materiel support. If I gave you one of the MGBs, could you put it to work?”
Major Randal could not believe what he was hearing. He was not sure of the specs, but he recalled that a motor gunboat was typically about eighty-five to one hundred twenty-five feet long, with an impressive array of offensive weapons. MGBs were fast, powerful little pocket battleships: exactly what was needed for hit-and-run raiding on the French coast.
The general watched Major Randal closely. “Remember, Major, the catch is, there is no crew to man the gunboat, and I do not know where you are going to find personnel. The navy is surely not going to provide you with any sailors.”
“Sir, I don’t know what to say.”
“Do not say anything. Take the boat and go kill Nazis. Furthermore—and this is from the heart—there are some of us that appreciate an American volunteering to serve with British Armed Forces in our darkest hour, and around here, in particular, we are most impressed with your performance at Calais—bringing your men out like that. A lot of us old hands would like to fancy we could have done the same given the circumstances.
“So . . . good luck and good hunting, Major. Now, unfortunately, I really am running short on time.”
Captain Lady Seaborn drove Major Randal to the railway station, where Raiding Forces was loading onto a train to Scotland, carrying every piece of equipment the Raiders owned. The group’s trip ticket read SPEAN BRIDGE STATION, a place they all knew was located in the Scottish Highlands. But where? Raiding Forces troopers, being known for their enterprise and initiative, broke out a map and, after a great deal of reconnaissance, found that Spean Bridge was in the middle of nowhere.
Fort William, the nearest town, was nearly ten miles away from Spean Bridge, but their destination was not Fort William at all. It was Achnacarry Castle, the ancestral home of Cameron of Lochiel. Achnacarry had been recently selected by Combined Operations Headquarters to be the Holding Unit, Special Warfare Training Center.
The Special Warfare Training Center was where handpicked fighting men were put to the acid test. The training was designed to stretch human fortitude, endurance, and military skills to the extreme. Boys who came to Achnacarry and survived the test left as men—Commandos—changed for life by the experience. Those who did not make the grade were RTU’d, a much-dreaded fate. For some, not surviving the test meant that, literally—the casualty rate was seven percent. The casualty rate, commonly referred to as “wastage,” was not to be confused with the failure rate. Casualties meant dead and wounded students. Commando School was not for the faint of heart.
The new “Laird of Achnacarry” was Lieutenant Colonel Charles Edward Vaughan—a former Coldstream Guardsman, a sergeant major in the Buffs, and a veteran of No. 4 Commando. He had been specially chosen to command the Special Warfare Training Center because he was a peerless trainer of men: the proverbial round peg in a round hole, a rare thing in any army.
Lieutenant Colonel Vaughan met Raiding Forces at Spean Bridge Station with a small cadre of his staff, all of whom were wearing forest-green Commando berets. The colonel was a big man who looked something like an elephant in uniform. Standing in the rain with a tall walking stick in one hand, he made an impressive picture. He gave them a little welcoming speech.
“Good afternoon, men. Welcome to Achnacarry, though we are not quite there yet. We shall be putting the polishing touch on your Commando training here in the lovely Scottish Highlands. I trust you will find your stay interesting as well as informative.
“Men, I want to take this opportunity to dispel a certain myth that has been artificially created recently by certain unenlightened members of the national press. Commandos are not a wild, undisciplined mob of cutthroats, thugs, gangsters, ex-gaol birds, and what have you. Commandos are not Greek gods or supermen, either. There is no ‘S’ on your chest. You are, and always will be, professional light infantry soldiers—the best in the business. Though I must admit, lads, we Commandos are handsome devils, to a man.”
The men laughed. Clearly, Lieutenant Colonel Vaughan had a way with troops.
Making his way through the crowd of his Raiders to introduce himself to the commandant of the Special Warfare Training Center, Major John Randal bumped into Sergeant Roy “Mad Dog” Reupart of the Army Physical Training Corps, late of the No. 1 Parachute Training School.
“Fancy meeting you here, Sergeant,” he said, feeling his heart sink.
“I told you, you were going to owe me, sir.”
“I didn’t expect you to transfer all the way up here to collect,” Major Randal replied brittlely.
“Oh, no, sir, it’s not like that at all. I’m reporting in as your newest volunteer. I’ve even been practicing my Comanche yell.”
“This is a joke, right? Lady Jane put you up to it.”
“No, sir. I volunteered, and Lady Seaborn made the arrangements for the transfer.”
“Well, in that case, welcome aboard, Sergeant,” Major Randal said, sticking out his hand and hoping he did not sound as relieved as he actually felt. The last thing he wanted to find was Sergeant Reupart assigned to the physical training staff of the Commando School on the very day he was reporting in.
The men were ordered to load their equipment onto waiting trucks. There was some initial confusion when a few of the troops tried to climb aboard; they were denied space on the vehicles. When Major Randal finally managed to introduce himself to Lieutenant Colonel Vaughan, the colonel said, “Have your men fall in, Major. The trucks are for equipment only. We shall be marching to the castle.”
He gave Major Randal the order cheerfully, as if he were actually enjoying standing out in the cold rain.
“Sergeant Major Hicks, have the men fall in,” Major Randal ordered.
There was the usual moaning and groaning as the men formed up.
“It is not far, lads,” Lieutenant Colonel Vaughan called out reassuringly, “only seven miles. Forward, march! Route step, march!”
When they stepped out, a small, enthusiastic band of bagpipers—under the command of Pipe Major Johnny MacLaughlin and accompanied by a tall, gangly, knock-kneed bass drummer—struck up “March of the Cameron Men.” The band was playing for all they were worth. The Commando instructors had the air of hikers out for a casual stroll.
They soon discovered that the colonel had neglected to mention that the route was mostly straight uphill.
“Seven miles,” griped one of the Raiders in formation near Major Randal. “A bloke would have thought they could have brought the blinkin’ train a little closer.”
The rain stayed constant, a steady drizzle. It never picked up; it never slowed down; it never went away. Soon the new trainees were all soaked through to the skin. Steam rose from the column of marching men. Water ran off their hats, and their clothes were sodden. Raiding Forces leaned into the pace. The band played on.
Tendrils of waterlogged fog swirled around and over the marching column. The rain kept coming down. The slope climbed almost straight up. Water splattered with every step. They marched higher and higher. And the lousy, rotten band played on.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, after what seemed like an unusually long seven miles of hard speed-marching, they finally arrived. The band cut out on cue, as fresh as when they had started.
Achnacarry Castle occupied its own private world. Everywhere Major Randal and his raiders looked, they saw men of No. 1 Independent Company—wearing knit caps, with camouflaged faces, and dressed in denim fatigues—on the move. A lot of them had logs balanced on their shoulders. Training was in full swing; the tempo was full speed. No one ever walked anywhere; everyone double-timed, all the time.
“Welcome to Achnacarry Castle, the spiritual birthplace of the Commando fighting man,” Lieutenant Colonel Charles Edward Vaughan announced.
“You will always have a home here, men. When you go off on operations and get yourself wounded, there will always be a place here on our staff for you to return to and recover until you are able to go back on active service again.”
Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone turned to Major Randal and complained, “I feel dizzy.”
“Do you think it rains much here?” Major Randal wondered out loud.
As they would soon find out, it always rains at Achnacarry.
