Mac wingate 4, p.14
Mac Wingate 4, page 14
He stood up and turned toward Rinucchi, who had just finished placing a sixth tape marker on the rail. “That’ll do,” he said. “Get the staring man here to fetch the Bangalore Torpedoes and fit them under the rail on either side of this watch. They won’t fit under the track as it stands now, so start him digging. He’ll have to get under the rail on both sides of the track as well as in between the ties. I need them snug, but not too far down, OK?”
Rinucchi transferred Wingate’s instructions to the inactive maquisard, who leaped into action. Wingate caught up to him where the Bangalores lay and motioned that both torpedoes had to be lying in the same direction, with the fuse ends pointing toward the rail with the watch. The maquisard nodded. Wingate moved on, stopping behind the two other men still gingerly rolling the primacord in the dirt.
“Tell them that’s enough,” he instructed Rinucchi who had walked up to face him. “Then have them, very carefully, bring all the blocks of high explosive over here.”
Rinucchi translated and the two men moved off. While they were collecting the bricks of explosive, Wingate knelt next to the sixth tape marker. He placed the camouflaged primacord next to the bottom inside of the rail and wound the tape around the metal, securing the cord in place. He then took some extra primacord and cut off a half-a-meter length. He tied one end around the main cord taped to the rail and ran it to the center of the track, between the two rails and between two of the wooden ties. Finally he pulled a number 21 detonator from his case and carefully crimped it to the end of the primacord extension.
He moved up the track, repeating the procedure at the remaining five markers—taping the long cord to one rail, tying an extension to it, running it to the center of the track, and crimping a detonator to the end. He was left with a line of primacord “T’s” lying flat on the ground. Only then did he start to lift the five-pound blocks of high explosive the maquisards had brought over. There were five altogether and each had a small hole drilled into one side.
“Wherever I’ve laid a lead,” Wingate grunted to Rinucchi, “scrape out a hole underneath—between the ties—and lay a block of explosives in. Cover it up a bit but don’t obscure the holes. I’ll need to be able to find them quickly.”
After making sure he was understood, Wingate walked back to the maquisard who was working with the Bangalores. The big man was covered with sweat and was just sliding the second torpedo into place, muttering under his breath. Wingate couldn’t blame him. The warm September night did nothing to help the perspiration problem. Even though he knew what he was doing, unlike the maquisards, he also felt the salty wetness across his face and torso.
He got the man’s attention, gave him an “OK” sign and waved him away. Locating the last of the three packs, he pulled out some plastic explosive. Taking it over to the Bangalores, he pulled off the weapons’ caps and started smearing hunks of the white, pulpy stuff inside. He then reached for the end of the primacord protruding from the watch. Midway through his reach, he stopped moving. He raised his head. He could see no insects. Quickly he put his ear to the rail. It was humming.
Still kneeling, he pulled out his detonator case and cutters and worked feverishly, shouting to Rinucchi as his hands found two number 15s and a number 21.
“All right! Have the men stick the metal detonators attached to the primacord into the little holes in the explosive blocks. Be quick about it, cover them up as best you can, and crawl when you do it!”
His fingers trembling, Wingate crimped the 21 onto the primacord tip attached to the watch. He grabbed another length of cord, laid it across one railroad tie, and cut it so that it matched perfectly. He crimped a 15 on each end just as he heard Rinucchi’s strident voice call back to him.
“Crawl?” he cried, his tone reaching the upper octave level. “I—I don’t know what you mean. Please ... please explain. I—I can’t find the holes ...”
“The train is coming!” Wingate shouted, inserting the watch primacord length into the glob of plastic explosive protruding from the first Bangalore. “Any forward scout might see you if you stand. Just keep low and find the little hole on one side of the block explosive. Then stick the metal tube on the end of the cord into it. Do you understand now?” Wingate didn’t wait for a reply. He took the short length of primacord with the two 15s attached and inserted each end into the first Bangalore’s plastic explosive, then stuck the other end into the second Bangalore’s stuff. “How is it going?” he shouted, not taking his eyes off the matter at his hands.
“Yes,” came Rinucchi’s reply. “Yes, we’re doing it.” Wingate didn’t answer back, trusting in Providence that the maquisards were doing as they were told. Instead he grabbed a final line of primacord, tied it hastily to the main line of cord, scrambled in his pack for another 21, then crimped it onto the other end of the last length. Throwing caution to the wind, he jammed that into the second Bangalore as well.
His head jerked up just in time to see black smoke belching into the air from over a rise. He could hear the engine. The train had probably just crossed under the main roadway and was making its way to the Revinco River. He could expect it to come around the curve in a matter of seconds.
Crouching, he spun and ran toward the maquisards. They didn’t look finished and as Wingate approached, he saw the high explosive block closest to the Bangalores had not been connected.
“Leave it!” he screamed, waving his arms. The men needed no translation this time. As soon as they saw Wingate’s scurrying figure, they bolted toward the woods. Wingate stumbled across the unattached block, its detonator lying lifelessly nearby. He pulled the block loose, kicked some loose earth over the primacord, then held the block Rugby style under one arm as he sprinted for the forest.
He fell heavily in the little gulley, twisting so the high explosive rested on his stomach as he fell on his back. He slid the block to the ground and found his feet again. When and if the cars full of ammunition went up, he’d need a lot more distance between him and the train if he didn’t want to get fried with it. Wingate plowed into the woods, not caring about the noise he made. Over the roar of the locomotive engine, he could have sung an opera and not been heard. He found a hole in the side of the incline, resting between two clumps of bushes. He hopped over the shrubs and fell inside.
Sliding his knees under him, he looked back up over the hole’s lip and through the bushes’ base. Wingate cursed himself when he saw the back of the watch glint in the moonlight. He had failed to camouflage the integral part of the explosive. He twisted his head to look at the train. It was moving fairly slowly, but thankfully it was not preceded by any storm troopers on foot whose job it would be to pick out things like hollow watches on the rails. All there were was an engineer, Nazis on top and behind every car, and one conductor standing on a tiny platform stuck on the front of the engine.
The conductor didn’t see the glint until the wheels of the massive locomotive were almost over it. Then it was too late. Wingate ducked. The incredible weight of the machine smashed the metal down over the detonator, blasting the primacord length, which blasted the plastic explosive at the ends of the Bangalore, which triggered the torpedoes, which triggered the brown primacord, which triggered the other primacord length, which set off the other detonators, which blasted the blocks of high explosive, all simultaneously.
There was a flash of light under most of the train. Then the engine rose up like a startled horse and smashed back down onto the track. All five freight cars splintered at their middle and spread out as kindling wood. The Germans on board were hurled in all directions, most of them already dead. The conductor in front fell below the dropping engine. There wouldn’t be much of him to find afterward. The engineer dropped out of sight. The one missed explosive block hadn’t mattered much. It rested underneath the coal car.
It was over in a matter of seconds. The fire winked out, the smoke dissipated into the night sky, and all the debris and bodies crashed to the earth. Wingate lay curled in a ball, his knees tucked into his chin and his arms wrapped over his head. But nothing happened. He blinked in surprise, slowly uncoiled himself and stuck his head over the hole lip. He saw the maquisards swooping down on the train tracks, gleefully hacking away at any German body they could find, whooping like American Indians on a scalping party.
Wingate leaped over the bushes and raced down to the tracks. Poppa Wernzelli met him halfway, grabbed him in a bear hug, and squeezed. “You blow up train, eh!” he cried. “You make Nazis go boom!” He laughed hysterically, bouncing the American up and down. Wingate forcibly broke his grip with a sudden judo slap to the old man’s arms.
“Poppa,” he yelled in the Corsican’s face. “Where are your scouts?”
“Scouts?” the old man echoed, rubbing his arm where Wingate hit it.
“The men you stationed near the river! Where are they?”
“Scouts?” Poppa Wernzelli said again.
Wingate turned in disgust, staring at the maniacal maquisards as they continued their sport of dismembering corpses. Even Rinucchi seemed to get into the barbaric spirit. Wingate saw him pull out his brown-tinged machete and hack at a still form.
Wingate’s entire body went cold. He suddenly discovered the truth that had been eluding him. There was a traitor in the maquisard ranks. Wingate knew this from one fact and one fact only. He had been assigned to blow up a German ammunition train and he had done it. Only one problem: there was no ammunition on board.
Wingate stared at the rubble stretched across the tracks. There was wood and wood only. There were no metal casings, no shells undetonated, not one ounce of gunpowder. He had blown up an empty train. And he was deathly afraid he knew why. Poppa Wernzelli’s scouts would not return from the Revinco River. They would never go anywhere ever again. The whole mission had been a trap. There was going to be an ambush and Wingate was standing right in the middle of it.
He turned to run, but Rinucchi Wernzelli was standing there, his eyes wild, his hair disheveled, a bloody blade in his hand.
“You see?” he cried. “You see? I do not shame my father! I can kill. For the first time I have killed!”
Wingate wanted to throw up. Instead he violently pushed Rinucchi out of the way and ran back toward the woods. He could only see three maquisards in his way. They were the three who had helped him plant the explosives. They were emerging from behind some trees about halfway up the wooded incline. Wingate moved to the right of them just as the explosion hit them.
All three bodies flew outward, leaving in their wake smoke and flame and blood. Wingate fell to his face as all the other maquisards stopped. They watched as their three brothers fell back to the ground, their bodies a grotesque mound of tattered red flesh.
Wingate looked up just in time to see three German Panzer Mark III tanks come tearing down the forest slope.
Chapter Seven
Recognition was immediate. Wingate had seen the Nazi tanks before. They had appeared among the Afrika Corps earlier in 1942. Wingate had fought them, then traced their movements after his last mission. They were part of the 90th Panzergrenadier Division, under the command of Field Marshall Kesselring. The last Wingate had heard of them was on Sardinia. Now they were about to roll right over him.
The twenty-two-ton tanks crashed through the woods as if the trees were so many matches. The one in the center had used its 50mm long-barreled gun to cut down the three maquisards, and the cannon was already shifting toward a new target. As Wingate watched, all three opened up with their 7.9 mm machine guns.
The long bullets tore into the shocked Corsicans. They had been making so much noise in the aftermath of the train’s explosion, they didn’t hear the trio of tanks approach until it was too late. They died before the guns, confused, unknowing, and motionless. Before anyone found his feet, the Nazi guns had laid down a fence of lead, catching a majority of the maquisards in its wake.
The American was closer to the tanks than anyone else, so he was able to duck under the hurtling bullets. He fell sideways into the gulley by the tracks, rolled over, and started crawling. The blood in his brain was pounding, closing off almost all other sound. The ground beneath his body shook as the huge vehicles neared. Almost all thoughts of Poppa and Rinucchi left him in the panic to escape. The dying maquisards hardly made a difference anymore. Someone had set them up and Wingate was more interested in getting to that person than trying to save these doomed Corsicans.
He twisted his body so that he faced the oncoming tanks. They had leveled out, more or less, their large cannons pointing right at the maquisards and their machine guns lifted for better aim. All the latter weapons were still barking their metal death and, while Wingate watched, the former guns opened up again. The report was deafening at so close a range and the shells had the effect of huge bullets. They would explode against trees, spreading the wood out like spears, arrows, and bunches of shrapnel. Anyone near the tree would be cut down. Wingate looked over his shoulder just in time to see a shell catch a scurrying Corsican point blank, exploding in the center of his body and completely disintegrating him.
Turning back to the tanks he saw they were slowly coming to a stop at the base of the hill. He realized that if they came any closer, their aim would be thrown off, allowing several of the still living commandos to escape. Wingate prayed the Nazis saw no reason to supply backup troops on foot for this operation and kept crawling. He kept crawling directly toward the center tank.
Their angle of sight was such that Wingate should be just out of range. The extra frontal plate in the Mark III’s armor should block their view of him as the gulley had done when they were further up the hill. As long as he kept moving toward them they should not be able to see him or at least not be able to shoot him—the bullets would bounce off the front armor plates. But Wingate had no intention of being seen. This whole maneuver depended on him not being seen. He continued to propel himself forward with his elbows.
The treads of the center tank were right in front of him, its shells and bullets coursing overhead. Not stopping to consider his plan, Wingate pulled himself under the tank. There was about three and a half feet of space between the treads and the bottom of the tank, every inch covered with some kind of knob, indentation, or sloping section. Wingate pulled himself among the array, trying to be as quiet as he could. He couldn’t give himself away by inadvertently scratching the underside of the tank.
In the darkness beneath the vehicle, he twisted himself around so that he faced back the way he had come. There, in the moonlight, he viewed a macabre tableau of destruction. First, he saw the overturned train engine belching smoke. Littered everywhere around it were hunks of the destroyed train and human bodies. But from behind the big black engine came the sounds and flashes of gunfire. The remaining maquisards must have holed up behind it.
Wingate looked as far as he could in every direction. To the right and left were only more debris and more motionless bodies. The angle of the tank at the base of the hill blotted everything but a patch of incline behind him. Wingate was sitting in a tank-created cave, watching the Corsicans fight for their lives out front. The American could see that the three tanks had converged their sights onto the wrecked engine. He could see the bullets ricocheting off the dark metal of the train. Even at the regular German machine gun’s rate of 850 rounds per minute, Wingate knew the maquisards could probably hole up behind the engine all night.
The Nazis must have known it too. For suddenly the tank’s treads started moving. Wingate grabbed on, letting his legs trail along the ground. He couldn’t afford to find a purchase with his boots kicking against the tank’s underbelly. The tank pulled him closer to the train tracks, until the pebble-covered incline on the other side of the little gulley beside the tracks appeared in his vision. The tank stopped only a few yards from where it had been. Wingate relaxed his grip, letting his torso slip to the ground. He could see, just over the train rails, the entire side of the crippled engine.
There was a deafening roar from above and the side of the engine exploded. Wingate threw his head down to the ground and rammed his hands over his ears. He should have known. The three tanks had altered their positions so that they could turn their cannons on the engine. All three let the front of the train have a salvo of shells. The engine tore apart with a rending scream and a ball of flame. In its wake came a hail of spinning debris, covering the countryside with fire, red hot metal, and coal. The men inside the German tanks couldn’t care less about this stuff, but Wingate could imagine the effect it must have had on the maquisard survivors. He was saved only by his position. Any shrapnel that might have shot under the tank was blocked by the train tracks and the slightly inclined level it rested on.
The devastation was followed by an ominous silence. Smoke began to creep under the tank treads. But there were no shouts, cries, or gunfire. Wingate held his breath beneath the tank. Seconds passed, then he heard the turrets open above. There were some shouts in German. The American realized the three tank commanders were talking to each other. The one directly above him wanted to take no chances and check all the bodies, maybe have a count. The one to Wingate’s left laughed at the suggestion, saying they had succeeded in what they had come to do. The third man offered a compromise. From their turrets each would lay down another layer of bullets from their 7.9 mm machine guns.
It was agreed. Wingate heard the guns being set up, then the chatter of their firing. He saw the bullets scatter across the tortured ground, slapping across already motionless bodies, opening up new fountains of blood. Amid the shooting Wingate realized why the train had been moving slowly. Not to check for sabotage, but to allow the Mark IIIs to keep up. He imagined the trio would now continue toward Bastia, having more than enough fuel to make it. Wingate figured he’d trail along for the ride. His only worry was surviving the tank’s crawl back to the road. If the ground was soggy, the treads would sink, perhaps crushing him between the dirt and the metal. If the tank moved over a rock or fallen tree, the obstruction would push him right out from under. It would be a tense couple of hundred yards.
