New Release | Operation Infatuate by Andrew Weston #historicalfiction #historicalaction #historicaladventure #warfiction #worldwartwo #newrelease
- N. N. Light
- Mar 31
- 5 min read
Title: Operation Infatuate
Author: Andrew Weston
Genre: Historical Action/Adventure
Publisher: DSP
Book Blurb:
47 (Royal Marine) Commando have been at the forefront of No 4 Special Service Brigade’s advance through Normandy since D-Day began. However, Hitler’s response to the Allied invasion gathers apace, with a massive influx of troops and armor throughout France, Belgium, Denmark and eastern Germany itself.
And nowhere are those reinforcements more imposing than at Walcheren Island, sitting at the mouth of the Scheldt Estuary. For the Scheldt leads to the strategic port of Antwerp, and Antwerp is the perfect location for the final push toward Berlin.
Little wonder, then, that Commando Regimental Sergeant Major Richard—Lion— Hart, CGM, MiD, and his men find themselves in the thick of it, for the assault will prove one of the most important, decisive battles of World War II.
Excerpt:
A near full moon smiled down from the endless void above, providing more than sufficient illumination for Hart to identify a number of sentry posts in addition to the opposing watchtowers in which the searchlights had been positioned. A blessing, in his opinion, as those arc lamps did nothing for the defenders except to keep them blind as to what was happening in the darkness, only a stone’s throw away.
His gaze eventually came to rest on their destination. A sizeable L-shaped outbuilding, situated to the east of the chateau, nestled up close to the estate’s side entrance. Their earlier briefing made mention that structure was used as a hayloft and grain store until the Wehrmacht repurposed it during the occupation. Into what, exactly, was why the Royal Marines were here tonight. But it went without saying that, if they didn’t like what they found inside, then that barn wouldn’t be standing for much longer.
Okay then, let’s do this. Twitching both of his feet simultaneously, Hart sent the signal to the men on either side of him that they should prepare to move. He started counting, slowly, in his head, allowing them time to repeat the gesture and pass that signal on, silently, down the rest of the line. One thousand—two thousand—three. . .
Upon reaching five, he rose up onto one knee. Ten, heavily armed men joined him, stirring from their resting places so that they could edge forward through the trees and bushes, weapons at the ready. Yet only the slightest rustling of grass betrayed their presence.
Hart smirked in approval, his only concession to smugness, his attention fixed instead on the play of the searchlights as they roved through the air. They passed again, the beams crisscrossing in front of him before stretching off toward the bends in the road where it disappeared off toward Duclair in the west and Barentín to the east. He waited until he was sure the soldiers operating them were keeping to their usual pattern, and then, rising from his place of concealment, made a chopping motion with his hand.
The outer wall sat hunched, more than thirty feet away.
Even now Hart resisted the urge to rush. Thirty feet was a lot of open space, yet nobody knew or suspected they were there. So why draw attention to themselves by making noise? Trusting his instincts, he set a steady pace, relying on stealth and the shadows created by the play of arc lamps against the all-encompassing gloom to protect them.
Seconds later, and his back was pressed firmly against cool damp stones, the overhanging cap tiles affixed to the top of the nine-foot wall offering yet further protection against unwanted scrutiny. Squatting down slightly, he braced his legs and interlaced his fingers. A position adopted by the marines on either side of him, Ray Wilson and Dai Evans, as the next wave of men filed forward, three at a time, using the makeshift hand-stirrups to boost themselves up and onto the apex, where they froze in place for an instant to ensure the coast was clear, before dropping down of the far side.
The last man in line was Lance Corporal Jack Jenkins, who, following procedure, adjusted his position atop the wall, braced himself, and then extended his hand, allowing Hart to gain purchase without having to take a run-up.
Keeping his movements smooth and graceful, Hart also lingered at the top, for just long enough to scan his surroundings for hidden sentries, before dropping down into the bushes bordering a small cobbled courtyard. There he stayed. Listening, watching, and waiting, until it was apparent that they had indeed made it this far without having been seen.
Bad news for the resident garrison.
A glance, left and right, confirmed everyone was ready. Reaching out, Hart tapped Ray Wilson and Dai Evans on their backs, whereupon they passed the signal on.
Having done so, Ray Wilson then adjusted his webbing and removed four tubes from his rear pouch. Made of plastic explosive, each one was covered by a new, experimental material: duct tape, allowing all four tubes be linked like a string of sausages and bent into all manner of shapes. Very handy, when you needed to attach them to tricky surfaces.
This particular contraption was fitted with a long fuse. The plan being that the raiding party would be able to mould the charge to whatever they wanted, set the fuse, and be well away before it detonated. As would happen tonight.
From what Hart could see from his vantage point, the outbuilding was constructed from a mixture of wattle and daub, and cob. Two main doors faced out onto the quadrangle; one on the right-hand side, facing him; the second, situated further along the bulk of the longest section of the barn, to his left. Steps, set midway along the exterior of the shortest wall, led up to a hayloft. Their intended destination.
Time to get busy. A final check ensued, during which time his men fanned out along the perimeter wall. Hart edged forward, taking Ray Wilson and Dai Evans with him, though they held themselves still within the safety of the undergrowth until the searchlights skimmed by overhead. Only then did they scurry out from their refuge, alert to any sound or movement that might indicate a concealed ambush.
Taking refuge in the space beneath the stairs, Hart waited again, this time until the lamps were pointing off in opposite directions . . . And then the trio was off, peeling out from the shadows and up the stairs in double-quick time. As they stepped onto the landing, however, one of the footboards let out a groan under their combined weight. Only slightly, true, but loud enough to cause all three men to fall still nonetheless.
Buy Links:
Free to read on Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon US https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F2SP2N3K
Amazon CA https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0F2SP2N3K
Amazon UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0F2SP2N3K
Author Biography:
Andrew P. Weston is a bestselling author from the UK who lives with a large amount of rescue cats in a medium sized house on a small Greek island.
A former Royal Marine, he is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association, the International Association of Media Tie-in Writers, and the Western Writers of America. He also reviews articles for Amazing Stories and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction in his spare time.
His latest pursuit – that of writing action-adventure thrillers – has only just begun, as is his quest to create a story that blends the very best elements of Tom Clancy with Robert Ludlum.
Social Media Links:
Website/blog: https://andrewpweston.blogspot.com/
