A clammy Channel mist hung chilly over Boulogne as the British ships sneaked inshore. In the murk of the early morning, the Commandomen, their faces daubed with jet black war paint like fantastic military minstrels, splashed into the surf and slipped ashore.
Not until they had made their way through barbed-wire barricades to sand dunes several hundred yards inland did the Nazis wake up to the alarming fact that the British were once again poking around the coast of France.
As the Commandomen split up into patrols and fanned out to cut Nazi...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
