Mac wingate 4, p.3
Mac Wingate 4, page 3
The explosive flew out of his hand as he fell forward. He had hardly hit the ground when hands began to tear at his Browning. He kicked out, feeling his foot collide solidly with a cloth-covered target. Hearing a satisfying “ooph!” he continued to try and claw his way out from under.
As he swung and kicked, he became suddenly aware that there was no more gunfire. A second after that realization hit, he felt the weight disappear from his back and heard a rough deep voice cursing.
“Stupido! Eh?”
Wingate turned over to see a big, rough-faced man with grizzled hair and coarse clothing soundly cuffing a younger fellow who held the American’s gun and grenade. Standing around the pair were about a dozen other men, dressed in traditional peasant garb, all cradling rifles or pistols, and smiling.
The big man continued to soundly curse the other one while clapping him on the side of his head with an open palm. Wingate recognized several words in Italian, but the rest of the guttural monologue was Greek to him. Even so, he was thankful that no one seemed intent on perforating him.
Finally the big man poked the other in the stomach, taking the gun and grenade from his grasp as he doubled over. The group laughed as the beaten man fell. Then the big man approached Wingate.
“This,” the man said, pointing the Browning at him. “Your gun, eh?”
Wingate stared at the hard, lined, smiling face in disbelief for a moment before he noticed the man’s long first finger was not wrapped around the automatic’s trigger. “Your gun?” the man repeated, pushing it at Wingate.
The American slowly laid his hand atop the weapon, curling his fingers around the barrel and carefully pulled it out of the man’s grasp.
“My gun,” he finally said.
The old man turned to his confederates and laughed. Soon everybody was laughing—even the man punched in the stomach. Everyone was quaking with mirth but Wingate. Wingate didn’t feel all that good. He wanted to know what was going on.
The big leader soon turned back to him and put out his hand. “You all right, eh?” His voice had a lilt to it—an accent somewhere between Italian and French.
“I’m fine,” Wingate replied dourly, taking the outstretched palm. The man pulled the muscular American to his feet with surprising ease and started dusting off his back with slaps that could knock over a cart.
“You are Granite?” he asked casually, brushing off the last of the dirt.
It took Wingate a moment to remember that Granite was the name of this extremely botched operation.
“Yeah, I’m Granite,” he quickly answered. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Corso Wernzelli,” the old man proudly announced, as if everyone from Goebbels to Vinegar Joe Stilwell knew his name. “I am Free French commando leader on the island. Everybody call me Poppa.”
“All right, Poppa,” Wingate spat, planting himself directly in front of Wernzelli’s face. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The Corsican’s expression didn’t change, but a hint of iron crawled into his voice.
“We supposed to back you up, Joe. We hear your trouble. We come running.” He turned his head to face his men. “We get your butt out of mess, eh?” The men roared their appreciation.
Wingate could hardly believe what he was hearing. He’s sent on a top secret mission by Allied Intelligence only to climb up into a wonderland where children kill his team and a bunch of hillbillies act like he’s Bob Hope on a tour. For a moment he was struck speechless.
Wernzelli must have taken his silence for awed appreciation, because he slapped him on the shoulder and confided, “Do not worry. We saved your packs. We will treat your wounded friend. You come with us. We take care.”
“But the guns,” Wingate blurted, his mind a gray muddle. “What about the German 88s?”
Wernzelli stared down at him benignly and spoke as if to a child.
“Oh, you mean big guns on cliff? Over harbor?”
“Yes.”
“Do not worry. We have control of those.”
Chapter Two
Wingate walked in stunned silence. He was having trouble adjusting to the new situation. It was more than a slight turn of events. It was like an entirely different war on another planet. With some harsh words from Wernzelli in what Wingate assumed was the native tongue, the men lifted the ammunition packs on their own backs and created a stretcher for the unconscious Thomas out of branches and blankets.
The cliff edge, it turned out, was only the first level of the mountain called Corsica. The entire area seemed to slope upward and was covered by dense patches of trees and bushes. At first Poppa Wernzelli led them through aromatic shrubs with waxy leaves covered with hair and spines. This stuff, Wingate remembered, was called maquis. During a lull in one of their technical discussions, Thomas had chatted eloquently on the subject.
“It encircles the area like a ring of hair on a monk,” the Englishman had said. “It creates an extremely complex system of hiding places that the peasants have made good use of. Having been driven out of the main towns by the Axis, they became known as the maquisards—a group of violent Corsicans who saw themselves as the island’s saviors. Actually they are little better than a prehistoric version of Robin Hood and his merry men—effective in a crude sort of way. Heaven help us if we run into any of them.”
Wingate wondered what Thomas would think if he knew he was being carried by two maquisards and led by the king of the maquisards deeper and deeper into what was supposed to be enemy territory. He looked over to the fallen mission leader. Thomas had taken a side wound, catching a bullet which would otherwise have sunk into Wingate’s temple. He had done his best to patch up the Englishman before he was lifted, and Wernzelli had promised to tend him properly once they reached their headquarters.
While walking, Wingate tried to get it straight in his head. Brand had panicked. Rather than pull off his own pack and scout ahead with Abu, he had buried his nose in the sand. The only excuse Abu had for not spotting the subsequent ambush was his uncertainty about where Brand was. Still, the Goum had signaled that there was no enemy around. Could he have overlooked the smaller shadows of the children? And who were those children and why did they try to kill?
Wingate pushed the questions out of his brain and returned to the facts. He had seen the first gun flash as a halo around Thomas’s shape. There was only one shot before Brand returned the fire and all hell broke loose. The firing, although massive, was indiscriminate. Indeed, Abu had charged into the midst of the fire and Wingate had not been able to find his body anywhere. He could only assume the Goum had escaped. And if that were true, where was the big fellow now?
Speaking of missing persons, where did the wild-haired woman go, not to mention the children? With the mist clearing out, Wingate had walked over the entire area finding not one clue to their existence. Not one spent shell or drop of blood. As far as he knew, the entire attack and rescue could have been staged for their benefit.
Wingate angrily edited that thought. The death of Brand had been realistic enough and all this theorizing wasn’t doing him any good. More important, considering the subject of absent bodies, where were the Germans? The shooting and explosions should have brought a patrol running. The American did his best to put all these thoughts into perspective while maintaining his footing on the loose rocks.
He looked over to the nearby maquisards, who were moving across the inclined ground with boring ease. They all looked the same to Wingate. Coarsened brown skin, baked by the sun. Deep lines in their faces, especially around the mouth and eyes. All thin, all sinewy, all salt of the earth. They wore almost the same outfit as well. Dark shirts, mostly without collars or cuffs. A dark vest with a variety of pockets. Green, gray, brown, or black straight-leg work pants with well-worn boots. Many sported some sort of facial hair and a dark beret or floppy hat as well.
But while they all looked the same, the guns they carried were almost all different. Wingate recognized a six-cylinder Bodeo revolver tucked into one waistband—an ancient Italian design with a low muzzle velocity. It was a big gun with little stopping power. He also spotted one or two single-shot .45s, the cheap, machine-stamped export, made specifically by Allied Intelligence for groups like the maquisards. Mass produced for the amazing price of $2.10 apiece, the espionage organization figured it would have a psychological effect on the enemy when the guns appeared in large numbers of local hands. Thomas would be pleased at their appearance here, Wingate mused.
Mostly, though, the partisans carried Glisenti and Beretta automatics, probably lifted off the surrendering Italian officers. About four carried Mannlicher-Carcano rifles—modified Mausers with a six-round clip and a safety catch. It was a grab bag of firepower; all very good for making noise, but not very effective. From a weapons point of view, Wernzelli made sure he looked like the boss. While his men carried remnants, he had a P-38 strapped to his leg and a Beretta 38/42 submachine gun strapped to his back.
Wingate imagined that Wernzelli thought it was a mark of superiority to be the one with a German sidearm “liberated” from a Nazi and an Italian automatic rifle, perhaps dropped in a RAF supply run. He wondered about the kind of man who would mark himself out that way. Wingate didn’t like the way his mind was working. There were too many questions that couldn’t be answered as yet and there shouldn’t have been any at all. He had to start thinking about the matter at hand. Thomas would have to be treated and the way for the French invasion still had to be cleared.
No sooner had that thought left his head than Wernzelli led the group through a clearing along another section of the cliff. There, pointing in every direction but out to sea, were the 88s. Wingate immediately left Thomas’s side and moved up to the beaming Corsican commando leader.
“You see?” he said. “We take over. We have control.”
Wingate walked over to the nearest weapon, Wernzelli staying alongside. It was a German PAK 43, all right. About that, and only about that, Thomas’s information had been correct. The gun was long, the barrel being a little over 260 inches, giving it good accuracy and penetrating power. Its carriage was on two two-wheel trailers for easy transportation. Its essential use was as an antitank gun, but with a range of more than 10,000 feet, it could be used effectively on most anything. Wingate had heard stories of this thing burning out Allied tanks at distances over two miles.
Wingate started to take off his jacket while barking out orders. “All right, Poppa. Have your men leave the pack of brick explosives here while I attach the detonators to the primacord. Then have them find as many boulders as they can. They have to be small enough to fit in the gun barrels, but heavy enough not to go shooting out when the ...” He stopped, realizing Wernzelli had not moved. Instead, the Corsican was serenely smiling at him.
“Well, come on, man!” Wingate flared, digging into his belt pouch for a number 15. “We have to blow these guns.”
The Corsican continued smiling. “No blow guns,” he said.
Wingate stopped and stared up at the man. “What do you mean, ‘no blow guns’?” he seethed. “That’s our mission. Granite, remember?”
“Sorry, no need Granite,” Wernzelli replied. “Leave guns alone. This stop for your friend, not for you.” The Corsican pointed over Wingate’s shoulder.
The American turned to see several maquisards collecting small branches off the ground and another unwrapping Thomas’s makeshift bandage. He quickly ran to where Thomas was lying.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked the vacuous face, trying to push the bandage back into place. He felt a hand grip his shoulder like a vise.
“Herbs,” said Wernzelli’s voice in his ear. “We will place them over the wound. They will help your friend.”
Wingate wrenched his shoulder out from under the man’s hand, then stood to face him. Wernzelli was staring into his eyes like a Southern preacher who had just found God. If he was trying to tell him who he thought was the boss here, he was succeeding. Only Wingate had no patience with unprofessional medicine. He would rather trust Thomas with God at the moment than gun-happy peasants.
“No herbs,” he flatly told Wernzelli.
“The herbs will help,” the big man said slowly, signaling the others to continue.
“I am Granite,” said Wingate, keeping his eyes trained directly into Wernzelli’s. “I say no herbs.”
All movement stopped. The maquisards looked to Wernzelli. He stared back at them from over Wingate’s shoulder. When his eyes returned to the American’s face, Wingate could see flashing hate in them. Wernzelli’s mouth opened to reply but no sound emerged. The mouth snapped shut and Wernzelli moved.
He stalked around Wingate, over to the man holding the twigs and slapped them out of his hand. Then he cuffed the man kneeling over Thomas’s bandage. He spoke some words in his native language, then looked back to Wingate. “Granite say no herbs, so Poppa say no herbs,” he said carefully in English. Then, right after Wingate nodded and turned back to the guns, he heard, “Now.”
The American whirled back to the Corsican, but Wernzelli was refitting Thomas’s bandage. Wingate scowled and moved toward the 88s, only to find four maquisards already there. They stood impassively, cradling their weapons in their arms. “No herbs,” was not the only thing Poppa must have told them.
Wingate kept his expression passive with an effort. Talking to these men, he realized, would do no good. Even with all his brutishness, Wernzelli was their leader and, more importantly, he spoke their language. Wingate’s only hope of destroying the guns now lay with Poppa. He went back and kneeled on the other side of Thomas’s body, facing the man.
“Wernzelli, look,” he reasoned, taking on a conciliatory tone after the confrontation. “If the Germans decided to take these guns back, could you fight them off? They are too big for you to use accurately against the enemy. They do you no good and their existence only makes them an attractive target for recapture. They have to be destroyed.”
Wernzelli seemed not to hear Wingate’s plea, busying himself with securing the last curl of Thomas’s bandage. When he did look up, it was with a smug smile.
“No herbs,” he said, “no guns.” Then he rose to bark out more instructions to the others.
Wingate felt his teeth and fists clench. With a renewed effort, he relaxed. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. Pursing his lips, he looked down at Thomas. The Englishman seemed to be resting comfortably. His breathing was regular and the bleeding had all but stopped. Wingate wished the odd runt would wake up and help him figure out a way around these backward backwoods bastards.
But Wernzelli held all the cards. He had the guns, he had the explosives, he had the 88s, and he had the knowledge of Corsica. Two maquisards picked up the makeshift stretcher again, so he had Thomas. And, with Thomas, he had Wingate over a barrel. Where Poppa would lead, he would have to follow.
The trail led back into the thick of the maquis and ever upward. Soon the shrubs came complete with fruit. Wingate saw some fig trees before the forest was taken over by various types of oak. The woods effectively filtered out what moonlight there was, so he followed close on the heels of Thomas’s rear stretcher-bearer. The trees became taller and thicker the longer they moved upward, so the trip simply became a matter of putting one foot in front of the other for Wingate. He took the time to chew over the new information.
The guns were not where they were supposed to be. They were neither pointed in the right direction nor placed at the right spot on the cliff. There were no Nazis around. Poppa Wernzelli seemed unconcerned about Nazis. This could mean one of two things. First, Poppa Wernzelli could be a Nazi. But if that were the case, why hadn’t he just killed all of them at the cliff edge—why go through this song and dance? Secondly, Wernzelli could have good reason not to be concerned about the thousands of Germans on the island. In other words, he was holding back certain information from Wingate. Hell, he was holding back almost all information from Wingate!
Whatever the case. Poppa was playing it as if it was for him to know and Wingate to find out. And part of finding out was following where Poppa was now leading. Wernzelli led the group out of the forest and into a sparsely planted field. The area was dotted with rows of trees filled with round, bright-colored fruit Wingate could see even in the gloom. As they passed beneath the branches, he recognized them as oranges and lemons. He even stepped on a few, evidence that the fall harvest was about to begin.
Seeing the fruit only served to remind Wingate how hungry he was. His nerves were still jangling from the climb, the attack, the rescue, the confrontation, and this trek, but the tension didn’t stop his stomach juices from flowing. Besides a little candor, the thing Wingate wanted most was food.
His wish was not long in coming. After passing through the fruit field, the group trudged through another nondescript patch of wood and into another clearing. There, Wingate saw a telltale glow of firelight in the distance. After a good hour of walking, it seemed as if they had reached maquisard headquarters. Squinting, Wingate spied what looked like three separate campfires almost entirely surrounded by tall, dark bodies.
As they drew nearer, he realized the tall bodies were not people at all, but the sides of windows, and the glow was not from three fires, but candlelight shining from inside. They were almost right on top of the structure before Wingate could see that it was a small, two-story building with a double door in the middle of what could be called its side.
As soon as they were near enough to see it clearly, various maquisards began to peel off from the group, disappearing into the night without a word. By the time Poppa Wernzelli reached the door, only five of the dozen remained—and two of them were carrying the stretcher. Without turning or saying a word, the partisan leader pulled open one of the doors by a wooden handle and stepped inside. The five maquisards followed, bearing Thomas with them. Wingate brought up the rear, stepping from 1943, over the threshold, back to one hundred years ago.
