Mac wingate 5, p.17
Mac Wingate 5, page 17
Regnais nodded and hurried off.
“I’ll be waiting with the pilot, Captain,” said Morrell. “Pilot Officer Lacey is somewhat nervous, I am afraid. He has not spent this long a time in occupied territory before.” Wingate nodded. He understood what Morrell meant. The “Moon Squadron” specialized in plucking agents out of occupied territories in a minimum of time. Flying compact Lysanders stripped of armaments and fitted with an extra fuel tank, the pilots were trained to fly in and out either before or after each full moon, landing and taking off on improvised airstrips many times no longer than 400 yards. But not only was this pilot flying at a time when the moon was full, he had landed the day before and was now forced to wait impatiently for his passenger. Wingate had met the RAF pilot earlier and had done what he could to relax him.
As Morrell moved off, Botnowski approached with Regnais at his side. The partisan leader had been a model of cooperation since they met outside the walls of the ghetto two nights before, but this did not fool Wingate or his men. During unguarded moments, Botnowski’s cold blue eyes still regarded Wingate and his men with undisguised contempt. It was still difficult for Wingate to realize—even after so many encounters with Communist guerrillas this past year—how much they hated what they called capitalists. To these unsophisticated Marxists, a capitalist was as much an object of loathing as a Nazi.
“Captain,” said Botnowski coldly, “do not send one of your men to tell me how to conduct this operation. You are to blow up the tracks. We will do the rest. I hope that is clear.”
“Perfectly. Are your men ready?”
“Of course they are ready!”
“Fine. See that they remain that way. I don’t want any fuck-ups.”
Wingate relished the quick smile Regnais flashed him—almost as much as he enjoyed the sudden anger he saw registered on Botnowski’s arrogant face. The partisan leader plowed his fingers back through his fair hair and pulled himself up to his full height.
“Of course, Captain. As you say, Captain.”
Botnowski swung around and strode off, his limp giving him an odd, loping stride.
“He is not a very happy ally now, Captain,” said Regnais, smiling in appreciation.
“He is a fucking peasant,” growled Martens.
“Whatever he is,” said Wingate wearily, “Regnais is correct. He is an ally. For better or for worse. Regnais, go on down the tracks; Martens go up a ways. After the derailment keep an eye out for Stern. I don’t want to lose him again.”
“I don’t either,” said Martens.
“Nor I,” agreed Regnais. “This has been a very ... depressing mission, would you not say, Captain.”
Wingate nodded. The two men moved off. Wingate went back to the log and hunkered down behind it. He pulled the Hell Box out from under the log and inspected it once more in the dying light. Yes, it had been a very depressing mission. The odd thing was, he had the ugly feeling that it was no way near being over yet.
He leaned back against a sapling to wait for the train—and tried not to think of what was going on at that very moment behind the walls of the Warsaw ghetto.
The sun had already dipped below the horizon and the birds that had been clamoring in the trees behind Wingate were now silent, except for a lonely lark calling from the dark woods on the far side of the tracks. The day had been unseasonably warm, but a cool breeze had sprung up, reminding him that the spring was still young.
He shivered suddenly and hugged himself. But it wasn’t the cool breeze. It was something deeper. Like an old wound flaring to life, he found himself thinking of Lisa ...
It was with some relief that he heard the distant huffing of the locomotive. He checked the connections on the Hell Box one more time, then sat up alertly, his right hand on the switch. The big engine’s headlight probed among the pines alongside the cut, then played its beam over the tracks ahead of it. The locomotive pounded into view, its engineer moving it along at full throttle, evidently attempting to make up the time he had lost earlier at Piotszyn.
Using as a guide a tall pine he had singled out earlier, Wingate waited until the engine reached the tree before he gave the handle of the Hell Box a quick, clockwise twist. The blast reverberated powerfully as a brilliant flame blossomed on the tracks just ahead of the engine. Wingate glimpsed the steel rails bending up into its fiery heart. Releasing sand, the engineer threw the brake lever; the locked wheels screamed as they ground over the sand-covered rails—but it was too late. With a grinding, almost living cry of pain, the engine lurched off the shattered track bed, its flanged wheels digging into the soft ground. Flipping over onto its side, the locomotive lay like some massive beast, its escaping steam filling the night with its panting, searing scream.
The tender was dragged over with it, as were the baggage car and one passenger coach. The rest of the coaches stayed upright, though only the last two remained on the tracks.
The partisans, roaring their defiance, poured out of the woods toward the train. Wingate saw the German guards jumping to the ground to meet them. The night erupted with the clatter of submachine gun and rifle fire. But it was the Germans who had the rifles. The automatic fire came from the partisans.
It was over quickly. Wingate saw the Germans, looking ungainly in their greatcoats, fling down their rifles and raise their hands over their heads. The partisans swiftly surrounded them and began herding them into the woods. Slowly, hesitantly, the train’s passengers began to descend from the train.
Wingate hurried toward the gathering crowd of passengers. Those getting out of the overturned coach seemed dazed, and one or two of them had been injured slightly. The rest did not appear to have been hurt at all. But all of them seemed hardly able to believe their sudden, unexpected deliverance.
A tall, shambling figure materialized out of the darkness just in front of Wingate.
“Captain Wingate!” Stern cried, holding out both hands and grasping Wingate’s firmly in his own. “So I have another chance, after all!”
Wingate was about to return the scientist’s jubilant greeting when he heard the sudden rattle of automatic fire. It came from within the forest, from the direction in which the partisans had been leading the captured Germans.
Botnowski’s men were already executing their German prisoners.
The Lysander had been rolled out from under the trees and now squatted in full view on the edge of the moonlit clearing. Its stubby black fuselage gleamed in the moonlight, its powerful undercarriage thrusting its snout skyward. It reminded Wingate of an oversized hornet.
As Wingate entered the clearing, he saw the RAF pilot hurry from the trees and clamber up onto the Lysander’s wing. Watching the pilot ease himself into the cockpit, Wingate slowed, then came to an abrupt halt.
“What is it, Captain?” Botnowski asked, his eyes glinting in the bright moonlight.
Wingate thought quickly. “I was wondering. Where’s Guy Morrell? He has some documents he wants to give the pilot. He should be here waiting for me.”
“If he is not here, Captain, that is not our concern. We must hurry.”
Botnowski and two of his lieutenants had accompanied Wingate and Stern through the woods to this landing strip. The execution of the German soldiers had troubled Wingate, but when he had complained of it to Botnowski, the partisan chief had laughed at Wingate’s sensitivity.
Wingate did not know how to handle mad dogs, Botnowski had told him with reckless arrogance. He was a capitalist weakling who did not have the stomach for war. As Botnowski uttered this contemptuous assertion, Wingate had realized in that instant that Botnowski no longer felt himself under any obligation to placate him. He was dismissing Wingate as one who no longer mattered. Wingate’s usefulness was at an end.
At once Wingate had realized that Botnowski had something thoroughly unpleasant planned for Wingate, but not until that moment—when he caught that glimpse of the pilot climbing into the Lysander’s cockpit—did Wingate have any idea what that might be.
“I think I’d better go ask that pilot,” Wingate told Botnowski. “Maybe Morrell has already given him those papers.”
Before Botnowski could protest, Wingate left Stern with Martens and Regnais and hurried toward the plane, loosening the automatic in his belt as he went. He had almost reached the plane when a familiar voice called to him from the trees.
“Captain Wingate!”
But Wingate kept going, jumped up onto the wing, slid back the canopy, and placed the muzzle of his automatic against the pilot’s temple.
Leo Gimolka appeared below him on the grass, his bald pate gleaming in the moonlight, his Tartar features squinting up at him. “Just what is the meaning of this, Captain?” he demanded.
“That is what I am asking you,” Wingate replied. “Bring the RAF pilot out here—and Guy Morrell, also.”
Gimolka hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “It will do you no good, Captain, I assure you. But if you insist.”
Gimolka waved his hand to Botnowski and his two lieutenants. They hurried into the brush and returned with Guy Morrell and Lieutenant Lacey. Both men were gagged and had their hands tied behind their backs. Wingate glanced back at the spot where he had left Stern with Martens and Regnais. The other two partisans were covering the three of them with their new Stens.
“You see?” said Gimolka. “It is a stalemate, Captain.”
“I don’t agree.”
“Be sensible. We can kill you as easily as you can kill our pilot.”
“He’s a Russian, isn’t he?”
“He is a member of the Soviet air force. Yes. Our Soviet comrades, Captain, are as interested in what Dr. Stern can tell them about German weaponry as are you Americans. In short, Captain, the Soviet Command knows precisely what it is the doctor was working on. I don’t pretend to understand it, but from what I gather, it is something really quite devastating—enough to shift the balance of power to the Soviet Union when all this is over.”
“And you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Gimolka?”
The man shrugged. “The capitalist system is finished, Captain. Surely, you must know that.”
But Wingate was in no mood for Marxian dialectic. “Untie the pilot and Morrell,” Wingate told him.
“Now, Captain, why should I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll kill this pilot.”
“I do not believe you. You do not have the stomach for it, Captain.”
“Perhaps not. But I can make it impossible for him to fly this plane—or any other plane, if I want.”
Suddenly the Russian pilot made a grab for Wingate’s automatic. For a moment he held the short snout in his gloved hand. Wingate attempted to twist it away. The gun went off. The pilot’s face disintegrated, his leather cap ripping loose. Glancing back down, Wingate saw Botnowski swinging up his Sten. Leaping from the plane’s wing, Wingate landed lightly, rolled over, and came up firing. He caught Botnowski in the groin, then glanced over and saw Martens and Regnais struggling with the two partisans.
Gimolka, a huge Tokarev automatic pistol in his hand, was racing for the trees, firing at the RAF pilot as he went. Wingate saw Morrell lower his head and ram Pilot Officer Lacey, sending him reeling to the ground and out of the line of fire.
Wingate unlimbered his Sten and sprayed the trees where Gimolka had disappeared, then glanced over again at Martens and Regnais. They did not need his help. Both men had disarmed the partisans, who were now cowering in the grass, their hands over their heads.
Stern was huddled apart from the struggling men, in the shadow of the trees.
“Untie the pilot and Morrell!” Wingate called to Martens and Regnais, as he hurried over to Stern.
The big man was visibly shaken.
“Is there to be no end to this?” he asked Wingate, with infinite weariness.
“No,” Wingate told him bluntly. “No end to it. We have no right to expect there will be. Let’s go.”
Stern allowed Wingate to hurry him across the moonlit clearing to the plane. Regnais had untied the British pilot, who was now helping Regnais dump the dead Soviet pilot to the ground. Then they helped pull Stern up onto the wing. In a moment Stern’s large frame had fitted itself into the rear cockpit. As the pilot climbed into the front cockpit, he glanced at Wingate.
“There’s room in the front here for one more,” he told Wingate. “And room for another in the rear cockpit, if we push it.”
Wingate looked with a frown at Regnais. The Lysander was a two-seater. It had been sent for Aaron Stern alone, a roomier, but slower and more vulnerable plane was to have come for Wingate and his team later. But all that was changed now. The problem was, with room for only two more beside Stern, which one of them would have to stay behind?
“Captain!” It was Martens, calling from the darkness near the trees. He was bent over a form coiled in the grass. “It’s Guy Morrell! He’s been hit!”
Cursing, Wingate and Regnais jumped to the ground and hurried to Morrell’s side. As Wingate knelt by the old British agent’s crumpled frame, he realized at once what must have happened. When Morrell had pushed the RAF pilot out of the way, he had taken the bullets Gimolka had aimed at the pilot.
“Get on the plane! Get out of here,” Morrell gasped, his bony hand catching at Wingate’s shirtfront. With astonishing strength, he pulled Wingate closer. “When Gimolka gets back, he’ll have his army with him. He cannot allow London to find out what he was up to. Get away with Stern, now!”
Wingate got to his feet. “Martens, Regnais, get on that plane. There’s room for two more beside Stern.”
“But what about you, Captain?”
“I’ll stay here with Morrell—to make sure he gets adequate care.”
“I’m a dead man,” Morrell gasped. “Save yourself, Captain!”
Ignoring Morrell, Wingate said, “All right, you two—that’s an order!”
At that moment, the pilot called to them. “Hurry up! The partisans are cutting across the field!”
Even as the pilot warned them, the partisans opened fire. Guy Morrell was right. Gimolka could not afford to let anyone get back to London after the betrayal he and his Soviet masters had attempted this night. The pilot started his engine.
Above the fearful roar, Martens shouted at Wingate: “I am staying, Captain! You need me to keep this landing strip clear until you get off! Hurry it up now!”
“No!” Wingate demanded. “Both of you! Get on that plane! I’m staying here with Morrell!”
Regnais stepped swiftly behind Wingate. Wingate started to turn but he was too late. The barrel of Regnais’ Sten came down hard on the back of his head.
Lights exploded deep within Wingate’s skull. He felt his knees give way and was dimly aware of being flung over Regnais’ shoulder and then being carried hurriedly over rough ground. The plane loomed over him. Martens leaped up onto the wing, reached down, and pulled Wingate up after him. Wingate protested feebly as Stern helped him into the cramped cockpit beside him. Wingate knew what they were doing, but he did not want it. He could not leave without Martens or Regnais. If anyone should stay behind, it should be him!
He saw Martens jump to the ground. The roar of the motor increased. He felt the small plane bumping over the rough field. Above the motor’s roar, he heard the dim rattle of automatic fire. Bullet holes appeared in the fuselage beside his head. Abruptly, the firing stopped.
Wingate’s senses cleared enough for him to look out at the moonlit field ahead of them. Martens and Regnais, running shoulder to shoulder, were advancing on the partisans, driving them off the field. The plane gathered speed and roared up to and then past the two running men. Only a single fleeing partisan was able to turn and get off one last futile shot as the plane roared past.
The pilot seemed to be having a difficult time getting the plane off the ground, reminding Wingate how much of a burden his extra weight must be. The plane lifted, came down heavily, then bounded into the air again. This time it stayed aloft. The roar of the motor reached a shattering crescendo as the pilot fed it full throttle. Wingate looked out through the windscreen as the plane banked sharply and just managed to clear trees sweeping toward them out of the night.
Wingate looked back down at the field below. He saw two tiny figures in the middle of it surrounded by a slowly contracting ring of partisans. He could barely make out the muzzle flashes from their Stens—and then another bank of trees swept between him and the field.
The plane leveled off and headed for the Baltic. Wingate leaned his head back and closed his eyes in an effort to fight back the tears.
But he did not entirely succeed.
About three weeks later Wingate saw Colonel Erikson poke his head into the pub and look around. The colonel was obviously trying to find Wingate, but Wingate made no effort to catch his eye or wave to him.
The colonel was about to leave the pub to look elsewhere when he finally caught sight of Wingate. He should have been angry that Wingate had ignored him—and probably was—but he concealed any anger he might have felt as he pushed himself through the crowded pub toward Wingate’s table.
Wingate did not ask the colonel to sit down as he glanced up at the blond, hawk-faced officer. “What is it, Erikson?”
“May I sit down?”
“Suit yourself.”
Erikson sat, caught the eye of the thick-waisted barmaid, and waved to her. She hurried over to their table. She had bad teeth, but a cheery disposition, and asked, what might it be, mates, and Erikson told her.
As the barmaid left, Erikson turned to Wingate. “There’s no need for you to sulk like this, Captain.”
Wingate simply looked across the small table at the colonel and sipped his drink.
“Well ...” the man said nervously. “I have news. It is not pleasant, of course. The Jewish uprising in the Warsaw ghetto has been put down. The Germans dynamited the Jewish synagogue. It’s all over.”
“What about my suggestion?”
