Lieutenant Commander James Reed gripped the wardroom rail as rain pounded the deck above. The table before him bore Admiral Sinclair’s rough chart: Pointe Verdure—a narrow cove along Normandy’s silver coast—and, barely a mile inland, the Freya radar station at Cap d’Épine.
“Last month,” Reed intoned, “five U-boats picked up convoy signatures here. Losses: over forty merchant ships. Our mission: land at 0130, breach the perimeter, place charges on the power house, antenna mast, and signal shack, then exfil by 0500. HMS Tenacious will lay down suppressive fire; Lieutenant Harker’s launch will extract us.”
Sergeant Jack Mallory, face half‐scorched from North African sandstorms, spat saltwater from his mouth. “Short march, big bang, then back to tea and biscuits?”
Reed allowed a tight smile. “Precisely.”
Corporal Tom “Whippet” Hayes—lean as a greyhound—tapped his Sten magazine. “And the garrison?”
“Fifty Wehrmacht infantry,” Reed said flatly. “Hauptmann Otto Fischer commands them—cold‐blooded, by the books.”
Lieutenant Marcus “Mace” MacGregor hefted a crate of amatol. “Ten kilos each. Fuses timed to two minutes. Enough to hammer the whole array.”
Reed surveyed the six faces before him—each soldier a story of survival. “Any questions?”
“This sounds like fun,” replied leading seaman Frankie Gordon. “And we should be back aboard in time for a full English brekky.”
“I have a question, sir,” asked AB Jock Stewart. “Do we get some leave when we get back?”
“I will personally get you a weekend off in London, if we get back Jock.” Replied Reed.
A hush fell.
“Good,” Reed said. “On your feet in ten.”
The motor launch cut through the swell, bow plunging under starless skies. Rain-slicked boots and uniforms. Whippet crouched at the prow, sea spray in his teeth.
Mace leaned in, voice low: “Nerves steady?”
Whippet grinned. “Yep, always.”
Mallory checked his watch. “Zero in two.” He glanced at Reed: “Ready, sir?”
Reed nodded. “No time like the present, old boy.”
Harker eased the launch into the cove, engines purring under Tenacious’s distant gun smoke. Waves slapped the hull. Reed gave the signal. The six commandos splashed into knee-deep surf, rifles overhead.
Saltwater met sand as they scrambled up the shingle, breath ragged. Behind them, the launch receded into darkness. Ahead, metal girders rose like skeletons against the thunderclouded sky.
They moved in twos, shadows among shadows. Reed signaled Mallory, Stewart and Gordon to circle the guard path; Mace, Hayes, and Reed pressed ahead.
Under gnarled oaks, a lone sentry trudged his beat. Gordon froze, thumb on the hilt of his Sykes-Fairbairn knife’s hilt.
Mallory signaled, “Three… Two… Go.”
In perfect silence, Mallory leaped the low fence, sliding behind the guard. Gordon barred his arm, wrenching the rifle from the sentinel’s grip. A single cut to the throat; the soldier slumped without a sound. Stewart caught him before he hit the ground and muffled the body under his Denison smock.
Gordon whispered, “Clear.”
Reed approached, voice a hush: “Good work. One down—no alarms.”
They swapped uniforms, ditching British webbing for grey tunics. Behind them, Mace rigged a clap-charge on the fence latch. A faint click—invisible from the station.
Inside the compound, searchlights swept across mud-slick earth. Fischer’s sentry booths stood by floodlights; two men huddled over steaming coffee.
Reed raised gloved thumbs: Mallory, Gordon and Stewart crept forward. Mace, Hayes, and Reed moved to the power house.
Mallory drew a .32 Revolver. Stewart knelt and nudged the shed door open.
Mallory’s bullets whispered through a gap in the planking. Both sentries fell in their chairs, heads lolling forward. Gordon held the door shut; Mallory plucked their pistols. In thirty seconds, they were fully armed in Wehrmacht gear.
Reed exhaled. “No one knows we’re here.”
Mace paused at the power house door. “I’ll set the charges. Two minutes fuse.” He slipped inside.
Hayes and Reed mounted sentries’ rifles on bipods, scanning for patrols. A lone guard trudged toward the antenna field—complacent, humming a lullaby.
Reed fired a silent bolt. The man stumbled, eye burning, then collapsed. Reed pressed a satchel charge to his chest.
Mace’s voice crackled in Reed’s earpiece: “Charges set—fuse lit.”
Reed nodded at Hayes. “In position.”
Reed signaled upward. Mace dropped behind a mossy wall.
Suddenly, all lights blinked out. Seconds later, the earth shuddered. Explosions tore through steel—transformers blew sky-high, the antenna mast bent like wet spaghetti as the radio shack shattered in flame.
From the tower, Lieutenant Greiner cried out: “Was that… sabotage?”
Reed raised his Sten. “Now!”
Behind a low wall, Mallory, Hayes, and Stewart erupted from cover. Stens roared. Gravel exploded around German troops rushing out of bunkers.
One squad tried to encircle them; Mace lobbed a grenade over the wall. The concussion wrenched men from their boots, bodies flying.
Hayes jumped atop a fallen crate, firing down at survivors. “They never knew we were here until it blew!”
Reed sprinted across exposed ground, trailing silver tracer. A burst of MG-42 fire raked across the clearing, splintering wood and cracking earth. Mallory dragged Hayes down as bullets kicked up sod.
Reed charged an enemy gunner, pistol-whipped the MG-42 aside, then ripped him down with a .32 slug.
Smoke and flame painted the station in flickering orange. Fischer’s shout faded beneath the secondary detonations—Mace’s synchronized charges tearing the remnants apart.
Under the shattered floodlights, the team slipped back through the woods. Mallory dragged a limp Hayes under gnarled roots.
Reed hissed, “Is Hayes hit?”
Mace halted, ripping open his medic’s pouch. “Shrapnel’s nicked a lung—he’s breathing, but fading.”
Reed’s jaw clenched. “We can’t carry him all the way.”
Mace shook his head. “If we get him back to Blighty, he might make it.”
Through the trees, searchlights stabbed the black canopy. Tenacious’s guns droned in rolling barrages, carving an illuminated corridor to the beach.
They burst onto sand, boots squelching. Harker’s launch gleamed wet in surf—two sailors braced ropes.
Reed shoved Hayes aboard. “Hold on, Whippet.”
Gordon knelt beside him, voice choked. “Stay with us, mate.”
Hayes's hand twitched; a faint grin crossed his blood-soaked face. Then his eyes drifted shut.
Reed’s voice cracked: “Come on, Whippet!”
But Hayes did not answer.
Reed and Stewart climbed aboard, and the launch lurched off.
From the stern, they watched Cap d’Épine crumble—towers collapsing in burning steel. Spray slapped the hull as the motor launch cut toward Tenacious’s flanks.
Reed pressed his forehead to cold steel. “We’ve only lost one tonight,” he whispered.
Mallory placed a hand on his shoulder. “One too many— but the Channel’s clear.”
Rain washed over them as Tenacious’s guns fell silent. The dark sky yielded to a faint glimmer of dawn. The commandos, battered and blood-marked, had struck undetected—and destroyed the radar base before the enemy even knew they were there.
