Mac wingate 4, p.15
Mac Wingate 4, page 15
Wingate used the commanders’ shooting time to secure himself to the undercarriage of the center tank. He grabbed onto the latch of an underside escape hatch with his hands and worked his feet against several knobs and pipes further down. By the time the three Nazis above agreed they had done enough, he was ready. The tanks pivoted around and started to move back up the hill to the road.
Wingate had no trouble holding on. All his fear, all his hate, all his determination was channeled into his muscles. He was prepared for the jolts, so it was no surprise when they came. The rocks and dips were no problem. The debris littering the ground was. Wingate was positioned so that his head was facing the front of the tank. He would loosen his neck muscles so his head would swing down for an upside down view of the terrain. He would see the logs and twisted metal strips coming toward him, pull his head up, and hope they didn’t knock him out, pull him off, or rip him open.
Twice, a fallen tree threatened to knock him from his perch, but he held on. The problem was the branches. The tank would knock off the branch ends as it passed over them, leaving only a broken, jagged piece to tear at Wingate as he passed. A piece of hot metal debris caught on his pant leg once, and it dragged behind the vehicle until Wingate kicked it off. Finally the tanks reached the road. The American waited tensely to see which direction they would take. If they moved to the left and Calvi, he’d have to chance dropping off then and there.
Thankfully the tanks headed to the right and Bastia. Wingate held on tightly and thought about his next move. He couldn’t afford to wait and see if these three would join up with any other members of the 90th Panzergrenadier Division, nor could he wait until they reached some sort of Nazi checkpoint. It was fairly certain that if three Mark III tanks were in the area, the remainder of the group couldn’t be far away. Their job, Wingate imagined, was to eliminate resistance forces in Bastia.
The three tanks shifted position on the road constantly; sometimes forming in a triangular position, with two tanks side by side and a third either in front or behind, and sometimes in a single line. Amid their formations, Wingate waited until the tank he was under took up a rear position. He lowered his body somewhat and looked out the back. He could see the tanks had just swept around a corner with a ditch to either side of the road. Wingate listened carefully for any sign that another tank was alongside or coming up behind. Hearing none, he let go.
The tank’s underbelly swept over him as his back smacked against the asphalt. As soon as he saw the sky, Wingate rolled to his right, slipping down into the ditch seconds later. He immediately pulled himself up short, gripping one side of the ditch and flattening his body there. Pulling himself up quietly, he stuck his head over the top of the road. He saw the tanks continuing to move away into the night, the commanders facing forward while standing outside their open turrets. Within moments, the Mark IIIs had rolled around a curve and out of sight. A few minutes later even their sounds diminished in the distance. Wingate was alone.
His head and heart were pounding, but he was in one piece. It was something to be thankful for, but Wingate was in no mood for celebration. His destruction of the train had added up to a big nothing and he was still on Corsican soil. And without allies. As far as he knew all the maquisards were dead back at the Revinco River. It had been a brilliantly conceived and brutally executed trap. Someone had been one step ahead of them at every junction. Someone with a firm connection with the Nazis and an extensive knowledge of the maquisards. Wingate figured there wasn’t much left for him to do but exact some kind of vengeance. Maybe in the process he could figure out a way to stay alive and get off this rock.
Wearily, he trudged back toward the maquisard camp. He approached it carefully. Using his innate sense of direction, a genetic benefit of his Ojibway heritage, he moved in from the west, avoiding the regular routes he had taken from Bastia twice before. If the Nazis had been able to nail the maquisards at the train site, they should be well enough informed to know the location of the Corsican resistance headquarters. The plumes of smoke dotting the early morning sky were Wingate’s first warning as he approached. By the time the first rays of sunrise appeared over the horizon, the American was close enough to see the burned-out devastation that used to be cabins and fruit trees.
Wingate took the time to do a complete reconnaissance. By the time he had silently encircled the entire area, the sun was up and shining. It made a bright counterpoint to the dark, charred remains of the commando camp. Those cabins that were still standing were covered with bullet holes. Small craters lined the grounds around the main school building, showing where the grenades had landed. Wingate’s sensitive nose picked up the last whiffs of tear gas as he moved into the clearing. He saw the corpses of several Corsican women lying just outside the headquarters. The Germans must have thrown in tear gas first, Wingate thought, and shot whoever came out.
Wingate moved around the bodies and toward a cabin to his left. It was the cabin Poppa had given for Granite’s use. It was the cabin where Wingate had left Thomas. The American looked in. Except for the bullet-ridden chair, table, and bed, the cabin was empty. Thomas was nowhere to be seen. Wingate moved cautiously inside. Other than the broken furniture all he found were the dirty remains of the Corsican and Italian clothes he had used as disguise earlier. He let the clothes remain where they lay and moved back outside.
Wingate leaned against the cabin wall. He looked out over the area. The burned-out cabins were a pile of smoking ash. Already huge swarms of flies picked at the fallen bodies. By the looks of it, this attack came at about the same time their attack had started on the Citadelle. If that were the case, Wingate figured the enemy was long gone, safe in the knowledge that they had emasculated the northeast resistance forces. The American slowly pulled out his Browning, weariness, disgust, and irritation filtering into his mind. He made his way to the headquarters door and pushed his way through. There he found Poppa Wernzelli sitting at a chipped table, crying.
Wingate nearly shot him as a matter of habit. The gun was immediately pointing and his finger was tightening when he recognized the hunched figure. Suddenly, out of the shadows all around him came other bodies—the survivors of the Nazi trap. Wingate lowered his weapon and turned all the way around. When his eyes resettled on the grieving figure of Poppa Wernzelli he had counted six other men. Six out of the thirty who had gone and the Lord-knows-how-many who had remained behind. Out of the six, four looked badly wounded. It was not a group that retaliatory attacks were made of. With the Germans knowing who they were and where they were, the maquisards were as good as gone.
The question foremost in Wingate’s mind had nothing to do with Wernzelli, however. He wondered where Thomas—or Thomas’s body—was. Had the Germans captured him? If so, was his cover about to be blown open so wide he wouldn’t be able to show his face anywhere in Corsica without it being blown off?
Wingate moved over to the one standing table, sat down at it, and closed his eyes. He listened to Wernzelli sobbing and tried to think. Was the ammunition that was supposed to be in the train real or another part of the trap? What was the “avalanche” Abu had alluded to? Was it the arrival of the Mark III tanks? The Goum hadn’t known English, Wingate reasoned; why would he get so esoteric in his clues? No, “avalanche” must have meant something so important he said it through a slit throat. It meant, in the long run, that Wingate’s mission was not over.
“Poppa,” he said quietly, his eyes still closed, “I am glad you survived the attack.”
He heard the Corsican moan and shift position. “Rinucchi,” the old man said. “They killed Rinucchi.”
Wingate sat up. “What do you mean?” he asked. “How did you escape then?”
Wernzelli looked at Wingate, his eyes misty. “As soon as the tanks attacked, we moved into the woods on the other side of the train. We wanted to move around behind the tanks. By the time we came out, it was too late. Everyone was gone. All dead. My son, my men. All dead.” The old Corsican bent back to the table, crying real tears of remorse.
Wingate wasn’t touched by the old world custom of bemoaning the dead. He had seen plenty of good men die and didn’t waste time crying over it. They were all fighting for the same thing and his job was to make sure his fellows didn’t die in vain. He got up from the table, moved around, and gripped Wernzelli by the arm.
“Come on, snap out of it, Poppa,” he demanded. “We were double-crossed. We still have more work to do.”
Poppa Wernzelli stiffened under Wingate’s grip, pulled his arm away, and smashed down on the table with his fist. “Streghi!” he hissed, his eyes gleaming. “That streghi in the mountains! It is she who betrayed us. But she has betrayed us the last time. We will hunt the hills for her. We will kill her and burn her body. We will lift her curse from these mountains for all time! Voceri! Rimbeccu!”
The Corsican stood and cried at his men in the Corsican tongue. They screamed back in tones of cracked rage and broken hate. Pitifully, they started to gather their remaining weapons in their bloody, tired hands. Those with leg wounds pulled themselves painfully to their feet. To Wingate they looked like zombies, rising from the dead. He quickly followed Poppa Wernzelli.
“Poppa, no,” he said. “Granite is not finished. We must complete Operation Granite.”
The Corsican faced him. “Granite is finished,” he intoned. “Granite must blow up train. Granite blow up train. Granite is done.” Once more Wingate came up against the cockeyed Corsican logic.
“No,” the American repeated. “What was supposed to be inside the train must be destroyed. Granite must find and destroy it.”
“Rinucchi say train must be destroyed,” Wernzelli answered, his eyes glowing with intensity. “Train is destroyed. Granite over. Rinucchi is dead. Vendetta begin. The streghi must die!”
All Wingate’s protestations fell on deaf ears. The shattered maquisard survivors banded together and left the camp, most of them carried by the two unscathed men and Poppa. They moved behind the schoolhouse, off to the north. Finally Wingate was left at the broken window of the building, shouting after them.
“Poppa! Rinucchi said that after Granite you’d get me off the island. Granite is over!”
Poppa stopped and turned toward Wingate slowly.
“Rinucchi say that?” he said. “Rinucchi is dead.” He turned back and continued north.
Wingate slammed his palms against the window frame and spun around. He returned to the table and sat down in a rage. His teeth and fists were clenched as he furiously evaluated his position. The mission had more twists and turns than the Andrews Sisters. No sooner did he get a grip on one aspect of the operation than it was whisked away and replaced by another. Now Poppa was gone, Rinucchi was dead, and Wingate could not find hide nor hair of Thomas. All that was left was his certainty that he knew where it all went wrong. He was sure he knew who the traitor was. Now all he could do was try to act on that knowledge.
Wingate quickly ran back to the cabin where Thomas had been. He pulled the Corsican clothes from the floor and began to change. He pulled the work pants over his boots, pulled off the commando jacket and replaced it with the sweater-vest. His utility belt was nearly empty and almost worthless. Most of his detonators were back on the railroad track. Rummaging through the remainder of his pockets, he was able to retrieve a leftover number 15, a couple inches of fuse, and one grenade. He still had his knife and gun, so he repositioned them under the new outfit. Last but not least, he found a beret crumbled up under the bed, shook it out, and crammed it over his head.
So dressed, Wingate moved out of the camp, in a southeasterly direction and in a suicidal frame of mind. The only place he knew where to look for the traitor was in town, and once he found the traitor, he imagined he’d find the connection to the wild-haired woman as well. He wasn’t about to join Poppa on his farcical search of the mountains. With four wounded men, the posse might take months to even get close. Wingate had to wrap up his mission before Corsica exploded between the Axis and the Allies.
So intent was Wingate on his plan of action that he didn’t take extensive note of the tree limbs above him. He saw some limbs bending out of the corner of his eye, but he subconsciously attributed the shifting to the early morning wind. If he had been thinking more coherently, he would have noticed that there was no early morning wind. Before the American could understand the implication, one of the limbs crashed down on his head.
The greens and browns of the forest turned red before Wingate’s eyes and he fell forward heavily. Dazed, but not unconscious, he felt quick, darting hands pulling at his side, his waist, and his legs. By the time his vision cleared, every one of his weapons had been plucked from him. Painfully, he sat up. Standing before him were three children. One held his grenade, another held his knife. The third held his Browning in both hands, aiming it right at Wingate’s chest.
The mountains were beautiful at that time of year. Plants were everywhere, literally growing out of the side of rocks. The trees were evergreen oak and pine, covering up the gray and granite-colored boulders. Wingate even spied some apricot trees amid the orange and lemon groves. Everywhere the mountain gave off nourishment, making the treacherously sloped area less harsh. Its beauty also made Wingate feel a bit less stupid for walking right into the path of a swinging club.
The group of four—the three children all around Wingate—made their way slowly. Whenever the incline became too steep, Wingate was forced to push one of the children up until he got his footing. Then Wingate would make the climb, lean down, and pull the others up, either by rope or by hand. At all times one of the kids would be covering him with either the knife or the gun.
As they progressed, the guard became more and more lax. Wingate had made it clear by his climbing that he had little intention of leaping off on his own and the children responded to this. By the time they neared their destination, all four were acting like a seasoned climbing team. The kids showed no inclination to return the American’s weapons, however.
Finally, the boy with the Browning led the way into a cave hidden by the limbs of a cork oak tree. Wingate had to bend down to fit inside and he could feel the sides of the enclosure with his outstretched hands. Once inside, the same tree limbs cut off the outside light, so Wingate needed his sense of feel to make his way. It was slow going as he touched, poked, and pulled his way along. A little further in and he could see some light. As they progressed, the light became brighter and Wingate spied an opening. It was about as big as the entrance and it was guarded by two more children.
They greeted their fellows silently, taking no undue notice of Wingate. He stepped outside and stretched. One poke of the Browning barrel in his back got him moving again. He walked into a flat, rocky clearing flanked by a circle of pine trees. The air was clear but it was also thin, making Wingate breath twice as fast. The knock on his head and the exertion of his climb added to his discomfort and blurred his vision slightly. All he saw around him were children. Children cooking something over a low fire. Children oiling rifles. Children in small groups talking among themselves or playing some sort of game in the dirt. Wingate felt like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput.
A few seconds later he was back to feeling like Alice in Wonderland as he neared a small enclosure made from tree limbs and leafy branches. The boy knocked on the side of the little teepee like structure, an opening appeared, and the wild haired woman stepped out.
Wingate’s eyes widened to take in her full splendor. Her eyes were bright gray, encircled by long, black lashes. Her nose was straight and small. Her lips were full and rich even without makeup. Her skin was tough and lined in places, but it did nothing to lessen her attractiveness. Her dark hair curled out all around her face, giving the impression of a regal mane or brown halo. From what Wingate could see of her flesh inside her tattered Nazi uniform, it was bronzed from the sun, muscular and smooth. And even inside the loose clothes, her strong figure was unmistakable. Altogether, she was possibly the most striking woman Wingate had ever seen.
She was only an inch or two shorter than him, so she only had to tilt her head to look him in the eye.
“Wing-gate?” she said.
He nodded.
She returned the head motion. “Good,” she said. “The children were waiting for you. I told them to bring you here.”
Wingate was taken aback by her directness and educated use of the English language. “But why?” he sputtered. “What do you want of me?”
“What she wants,” said a cultured voice behind the American, “is to know what you did with my bloody watch!”
Wingate spun to face a smiling Randolph Thomas, holding his side with one hand and leaning on a makeshift cane with the other.
“She’s no witch,” Thomas said, “although she certainly seemed like one to me when I first saw her.” The Englishman spoke while leaning up against a tree trunk, sitting beside the cooking fire. Wingate sat cross-legged next to him, across from the wild-haired woman who watched and listened serenely. “She appeared in the doorway of my cabin,” Thomas continued, “shortly after you left. At first I thought I was dreaming. I was about to cry out when children appeared all around me, keeping me quiet and carrying me off. I tell you, Mac, it was an amazing experience.”
