Mac wingate 7, p.9
Mac Wingate 7, page 9
“Kenny!” yelled Wingate. “My boot. Get the knife. Cut my hands loose!”
He’d already decided on the next course of action. There wasn’t a hope of freeing the others before the P-47s hit them.
There were too many ropes. He had to move the truck before that first burst of 50 caliber cut them in two.
As the ropes parted, Wingate swept up the Sten that one of the guards had dropped and slammed a neat line of 9-millimeter slugs through the thin metal of the cab’s rear. There were cries from inside and the truck immediately began to slew toward the ditch on its right. As it did so, the first burst from the approaching P-47s rattled out and screamed a couple of feet above the truck.
Wingate leaped for the cab, dropped onto the running board on the driver’s side, and dragged the sagging body of the driver out of the seat. He spun the wheel. The truck’s tires howled and the vehicle went down on its left-side springs till the bodywork hit the chassis. It screamed to the left, forcing Wingate right over into the dead and dying fascists still in the cab, then turned around a haystack and into the field on Wingate’s left. As it did so, the second burst of 50 caliber shredded the end of the haystack behind it.
The fighters screamed over the haystack and the truck beyond, climbed steeply, skidded through 180 degrees, and came back. They were clipping the tops of the olive trees when Wingate helped Betty over the tailgate. They ran for the far side of the haystack, Kenny Fields in the lead, with the Frenchman and Manganaro bringing up the rear.
Wingate flung himself behind the cover of the stack, dragging Betty with him and pushing the kid ahead of him to the ground. As he hit the rocky ground, he heard the truck behind him explode. Bullets struck the earth to his right and whistled over his head. A second later, the hay itself caught fire, flames clawing their way up its sides and pouring a column of black, acrid smoke into the sky.
As the fighters roared over them again, de Lille screamed, “Imbeciles! Cretins! Can’t they see who I am?”
Wingate looked at him. He was standing upright, face the color of eggplant, waving his fists in the air. For the first time, Wingate began to have serious doubts about the identity of the Frenchman. Sure, he was supposed to be a general and generals had a right to be eccentric. It was part of their act. He remembered Patton’s pearl-handled pistols and Montgomery’s collection of hats. But this guy was way beyond that. OK, he was French and excitable—but was that enough to account for behavior as way-out as this? If not, why was he doing it? More important, if he wasn’t the French general he was supposed to be, who the hell was he?
The P-47s circled, standing on wing tips as the pilots checked the scene. They made three complete turns over Wingate’s head before finally leveling out and heading north.
Manganaro got to his feet and took out an escape map from the lining of his jacket and a compass the size of a thumbnail from inside the collar. He looked around, checking the natural features of the countryside against those shown on the map. Finally, he stubbed a finger at the map and said, “I figure we’re here.” He nodded up the road they had just left and said, “Rome.”
The pronouncement didn’t help. Rome was no good. Right now it would be swarming with panicky krauts trying to figure out how to smash the Allied invasion. They needed south.
Wingate compromised. “Where’s Naples?” he asked. He didn’t want to be in Italy at all. He was supposed to be 500 miles further east. Naples was a port. If he couldn’t get an aircraft there, he might at least get a ship. It would be a move in the right direction.
“Right—there!” said Manganaro, laying down the direction with a couple of wags of his finger.
“Let’s go,” said Wingate.
He turned from the blazing haystack and began to walk toward the olive grove. The sun was warm on his back and cast a long shadow of him ahead.
General de Lille yelled, “We are on the ground! I am in command. We go south!”
“You go wherever you want, General,” Wingate called, without turning around or slackening his pace. “Just don’t let the krauts pick you up in that uniform. They don’t like generals. And they don’t like Frenchmen any more than they like Americans.”
“Come on, General,” growled Manganaro, taking de Lille by the elbow and urging him forward. “Let your hair down. You know what they say—see Naples and die.”
Wingate led the way into the olive grove. It was shady under the trees and they were out of sight of any marauding fighters. To their left, the smoke of battle billowed up from three or four miles away. Occasionally there was the crump of an exploding shell hitting the road behind them.
Beyond the olive grove, the ground rose steeply. They crossed a rocky outcrop with deep fissures sliced in it, the result of some earthquake, and began to climb. The track was bare rock, worn by the passage of generations of goats on their way to and from the higher pastures.
Kenny Fields was walking alongside Wingate, so close to him on the narrow track that occasionally they brushed against one another. He said, “Do you think this is where my dad is? This place we’re going?”
“I don’t know, Kenny,” Wingate admitted. “But I figure we’ll run into someone who knows. D’you know your dad’s rank and what outfit he’s with?”
“He’s a sergeant,” said Kenny. “I’ve got a photograph of him.” He groped in the pocket of his pants and gave Wingate a heavily thumbed print.
Wingate glanced at the print. The guy was in his late thirties, well built, dark-haired. He was wearing British battle dress with sergeant’s stripes, and he was smiling. The kind of picture that every soldier had taken at some time in his service. There had been someone beside him when he posed, but the person had been roughly removed with a pair of scissors.
“He’s a commando,” Kenny added. “I know his number.” There was a quality of hope in his voice.
“OK,” said Wingate, handing back the photograph. “I guess we’ll find him. What about your mother? We’ve got to get a message through to her. She have any idea you were on that plane?”
Kenny shook his head. “No,” he said. “She wouldn’t care. There’s another man living in our house. I don’t think my dad’s going to like it. She won’t notice I’ve gone.”
Wingate took a chance. “Is that why you cut her out of the photo?” he asked.
Kenny nodded, but he didn’t speak. Wingate could see it was a painful area for him.
The slope began to level. There were clumps of wild thyme and lavender growing out of the cracks in the rock. The sun brought a sweet smell to the air, but behind it Wingate detected the familiar acrid stink of cordite. They were about to break the skyline and somewhere ahead there was shooting. He signaled to the others to get down. He dropped to his knees and crawled forward, Kenny Fields beside him.
“How did you know which aircraft to get on?” Wingate asked, quietly. “Instead of sunbathing here, you might have gone on a bombing mission to Germany.”
He slowed as he reached the crest of the slope and waved Kenny to a stop.
Kenny watched him crawl a couple more cautious paces forward, then he said, “The man told me.”
Wingate stopped. “Hold it, Kenny,” he said. He turned and came back to where Kenny was kneeling. “The man? What man?”
Kenny glanced behind him, then said quietly, “The Frenchman.”
“That Frenchman?” Wingate whispered, with a barely perceptible nod of the head.
“That’s right,” the boy said.
“Let me get this straight,” said Wingate. “Exactly what did he tell you?”
“I said which plane was Captain Wingate flying in. He pointed it out to me.”
“Did he ask you why you wanted to know?” Wingate whispered.
“I told him you were taking me with you.”
Wingate looked at the kid. He had large, liquid brown eyes and the same dark hair as his dad. He looked guilty, caught in something he didn’t feel proud of.
“I had to see my dad,” Kenny added. “I want to explain about—what’s happening at home. I don’t want him hearing it from somebody else. He’s a soldier. That wouldn’t be fair on him.”
Wingate put out a hand and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Tell you what,” he said, softly, “let’s forget it. Just do me one favor. Don’t let the Frenchman know you told me.”
Wingate rolled onto his stomach again. It explained a lot but it didn’t explain everything. There was someone behind the Frenchman. A superior, maybe even an employer. They’d been tracked ever since they went into that dive in northern England. They’d been tracked across the channel and across France; The night fighters weren’t just an accident, they’d been lying in wait for them. Someone had very special reasons for not wanting them to reach Malta.
He thought of Rita, lying gunned down in the back of the truck. He still had her gold anklet in the pocket of his pants. What the hell had she been doing on the stairs of that joint and why had she followed them out to the camp? And what about the guy who’d come after them with an automatic rifle. Why had he taken the trouble? His mind went back to that scene in the cellar, blue smoke hanging over everything. He could see the guy sitting at the bar reading a paper. He could see Rita standing very upright, fear and anxiety in her face. But it was the guy she was with who came back most clearly—the guy with the blond beard and hair and the dark eyes that looked so out of place. And as the image hung for a moment in Wingate’s mind, so sharp he could have put out his hand and touched it, the disturbing sense of familiarity returned. Sometime, somewhere in the past, he had seen that guy before. Give it time. It would come back to him.
He dug his elbows into the slope ahead of him and crawled the last few feet to the crest. Very slowly, he started to lift his head.
Chapter Five
Wingate wondered whether he’d ever get used to people. He didn’t know that he even liked them. By temperament, he was a loner. He’d been brought up where the nearest neighbors were a mile away, and there had been more deer on the ground than there had been humans. And that’s the way he still preferred it. The biggest problem of war was people. You couldn’t get away from them. But then, that’s what war was all about—you didn’t get wars where you didn’t have people.
The coastal plain below the crest was crammed with people. There was a couple of miles between Wingate’s position and the dark blue of the Mediterranean. The land dropped sharply away from him through terraced vineyards. Where it leveled out, half a mile away from him, the main coastal road ran north and south. To his left lay the smoky sprawl of Naples, naked under the intermittent barrage of heavy field guns. Behind, Vesuvius rose above it into the morning air, sending a thin, spiraling plume into the heavens.
The road was jammed. There were refugees trudging north, trying to get clear of the doomed city. Some rode on farm carts, the whole of their salvaged property piled up behind them. One or two of them rode on horseback and a few had cars. But mostly they walked, pushing one tired foot in front of the other, carrying bundles of belongings on their shoulders.
Mixed among them were the retreating Germans. They rode in convoys of half a dozen vehicles at a time, blasting on their horns, screaming at the refugees to clear the way. The refugees parted, let them pass, then reformed behind them.
“Brad!” Wingate called over his shoulder, hands cupped over his eyes to cut down the glare from the sea.
Manganaro crawled up beside him. “Jesus!” he said, when he saw the milling scene below.
“We’d be picked up in a second down there,” said Wingate. “The road’s out—unless we join the refugees.”
Manganaro looked at him. “In this stuff?” he asked, pointing to his jacket and the uniform underneath.
“Take a look,” said Wingate. “That farmhouse at two o’clock. Do you see what I see?”
A yardful of washing hung to one side of the low stone building. There were pants and shirts for an entire family, left exactly as they had been hung before the panic evacuation started.
Manganaro looked dubious. “Mac,” he muttered, a quick glance back at the others waiting behind them. “You know what it means. A guy out of uniform’s a spy. They shoot spies. Why give those bastards down there an excuse?” He nodded toward the road and the retreating Germans.
“Just an idea,” said Wingate. “But I guess with the kid and the woman …”
Manganaro grinned. “Hey, Mac,” he cut in, “I’m not thinking of them. I’m thinking of Mrs. Manganaro’s little boy.”
“Who d’you think I meant when I mentioned the kid?” Wingate bantered. “Kenny Fields is about the only grown-up we’ve got.”
“Listen, Mac,” said Manganaro, suddenly changing the tone. “We could sit it out. Find somewhere around here and wait for our boys to come. Christ, you can see their guns from here. A couple of days and they’ll have mopped up Naples.”
It was true. If they sat long enough, the Allies would come. Montgomery was hammering north from Calabria even though Clark’s 5th Army was still on the beach at Salerno. It was simply a matter of time. But sitting and waiting was something Wingate had never been good at.
“You know what?” Wingate said. “When I think of the misery these bastards have caused already—the misery they’re going to cause in the future—I wouldn’t feel easy wasting a minute. If you want to sit it out—OK. I’m not about to issue any orders ...”
“Hey, Mac,” Manganaro protested, “don’t get me wrong. I’m with you. But I figured somebody ought to put the brake on you once in a while.”
Wingate slapped him on the back. “I wondered how far you’d push it. Nice to have you. We’ll keep clear of the road and stay with the ridge. OK, let’s go—and Brad, keep an eye on the Frenchman.”
They dropped down from the skyline out of sight of the road, and turned south. They moved at a steady jog in single file, Wingate leading and Manganaro bringing up the rear. Kenny Fields was immediately behind Wingate, the little khaki tote bag that he had had with him ever since they left the aircraft clutched tightly in one hand.
De Lille protested, clambering over rocks and around stunted thorn bushes just ahead of Manganaro. “I demand that you find transport!” he cried. “The indignity—is insupportable!”
“You bore the pants off of me, General,” Manganaro called, wearily. “So can it! Otherwise, leave us. Go fight the war all by your goddamn self.”
De Lille put on a show of blustering indignation, but in the end he lapsed into silence.
They covered a mile in silence, jogging very gently just below the crest of the ridge. Occasionally the sounds of gunfire reached them, either from ahead where the heavy shells were dropping onto forward German positions or from the coast road to their right. From time to time a P-47 or a pair of Spitfires cruised over their heads and they hid among the rock shadows or under the cover of an olive tree.
Finally the little valley they were following narrowed. The ridge curved east and the olive trees gave way to a little stream with a high, rocky bank rising sheer from it on the far side. Wingate paused and looked around. He didn’t like the place. It was like one of those scenes in a Western where the cavalry gets trapped in a canyon ringed by Apaches. One guy up there with a machine gun or a couple of hand grenades could wipe the lot of them out.
“Let’s get out of this,” he snapped.
He turned to a defile on his right and began to climb through it. It was dark and chill out of the sun and the walls were covered with damp moss. He could hear Kenny Fields behind him beginning to puff aloud as he tried to keep up. He was some kid. It must be tough and scary for him, but he never complained. Wherever his dad was, he ought to be proud of the boy.
The defile opened suddenly into the sunlight and took Wingate by surprise. He took a couple of quick steps forward, blinking and shading his eyes. He pulled up short as he realized he had walked into something. When he finally acclimatized to the light, he saw there was a figure standing in front of him. The guy wore feldgrau battle dress and the apple-green shoulder straps of a Panzergrenadier. What Wingate had walked into was the muzzle of an MP-40 Schmeisser submachine gun. Caliber 9-millimeter. Lethal up to a thousand yards.
“Hande hoch!” the man screamed. His hands shook and the look on his face was more one of terror than hatred.
Wingate took a long, slow breath. “Thank God we’ve found you,” he said, in German. “The British took us south of Avellino. We stole these outfits and got through the lines. I need to get north. Maybe you can help me. Oberstleutnant Schneider rejoining Generalfeldmarschall Kesselring’s staff.”
There was a long silence. Wingate never took his eyes off the man. He was aware that the others were standing behind him. Their security, maybe their lives, were in the balance. Would this kraut bastard buy it?
The German struggled to control his panic. The gun muzzle quivered against Wingate’s belly. His mind was split with indecision. Then suddenly he screamed in German, “Lying Yankee swine!” and smashed the metal butt of the Schmeisser into Wingate’s face.
The blow caught Wingate just above the left eye. He felt no pain. His eye began to cloud as blood trickled into it. He put up a hand to wipe it clear, but somehow didn’t make it. The German began to swim around in Wingate’s vision, the horizon behind him slipped to an odd angle, then began to spin. Wingate struggled to stay conscious, succeeded for a moment, then failed. The last thing he remembered was the ground coming up to hit him.
Wingate’s back was sore. His head drummed. He couldn’t open his left eye and all he could see out of the right was a brilliant blue haze. He was moving, but not of his own volition. The thing he was lying on was moving. There were noises all around him—rattles, groans, tense voices. He tried lifting his head. It was so goddamn painful ...!
“Hey, Mac. You with us again?” somebody whispered.
He knew the voice but he couldn’t put a name to it. Was it Erik, his kid brother? It couldn’t be Professor Bernhardt: nobody went to sleep in Bernhardt’s lectures. Anyway, what the hell was he doing back in Madison, Wisconsin? He’d graduated from the university years ago.
