Mac wingate 6, p.11
Mac Wingate 6, page 11
“If I thought you were some weak little girl, I wouldn’t be sending you back to Alten alone. You can take care of yourself, Kirsten, I’m not doubting that. But if one Nazi or Quisling sees you and just one man gets away, your usefulness to me, MILORG, and your country will be nil.”
If she wasn’t smart enough to see that, Wingate reasoned, she didn’t deserve the courtesy of an explanation. She saw the light, much to Wingate’s relief.
“Very well. I will go back and await your return.”
“Good,” Wingate said without a pause. “If, for any reason, we don’t come back, keep away from Walters. He is not to be trusted. Work from your own instincts.”
“Do not worry,” she said, breaking away from the group. “The mountain trolls will protect you.”
“You’ll have to tell me about these trolls, sometime,” Wingate smiled.
“When you return,” Kirsten promised. Then she was gone, disappearing among the heavy greenery.
“The least she could’ve done was lend me her Suomi,” said a voice behind Mac. The captain turned to a disgruntled Donald Neill, dubiously cradling the Reising 50. “I’m not too sure about this.”
“Oh, thank heaven,” Wingate exclaimed. “An English-speaking voice!”
“You didn’t look too upset when the Snow Queen spoke,” Biggins kidded him.
“None of us looked upset when the Snow Queen spoke,” Candy reminded them. “And only one of us could understand her!”
“Now that’s what I call a perfect wife,” Sumner said dreamily. “Looks to knock your socks off, her own cathouse, and you can’t understand a bleeding word she says!”
Everyone laughed except Karl, who picked up on the general drift that they were talking about his MILORG superior. He reprimanded the captain.
“The Nazis have ears, too, you know,” he chastised.
“All right, men,” Wingate announced in a low voice. “You’ve lightened the mood, but we don’t want the enemy chortling over our corpses.”
The silence was total and immediate. Even the sound of their footsteps seemed to disappear.
“Hurry,” Karl urged. “We must not be too late.”
The group made the rest of the trip in double-time. As they grew nearer the Harald commune, the sound of the flowing water grew louder. Karl halted behind a row of bushes. The rushing liquid was so loud, he had to talk in a normal voice to be heard at a whisper level.
“It is just through here,” he said, pointing to the other side of the foliage.
Wingate hazarded a glance. It was another awe-inspiring vista. In the foreground was a lush series of fields, all coming together in the center, like the petals of a flower. The eye of the flower consisted of many buildings. There were cottages, goattes, and stabburs stretched out in all directions.
In the background was the centerpiece of the scene and the reason the farming was so lush. Behind the commune was another mountain, but at the base of this mountain was a waterfall. A thundering, dramatic waterfall that crashed into a misty lake held in by natural rock formations, which led in turn to a bountiful river that flowed through the very center of the farm.
From his vantage point, Wingate could see some figures moving in the yards. They were casual, unconcerned figures. The reprisal had not yet started. A sudden thought flew into Wingate’s mind. Instead of arguing about a rescue, why not stage an evacuation? If there was no one there, there would be no one to kill. Then he realized that Sørum and MILORG were so sure of reprisal that if the sadists didn’t find anyone here, they’d be so frustrated, they’d go kill that many more innocents.
Still, since this rescue was going ahead, an evacuation might not be such a bad idea. Just as he was thinking about it, another roar joined that of the waterfall. It was the roar of a truck engine. Wingate saw the field figures begin to run when he turned to his men.
“They’re coming,” he said and just managed to catch Karl as the young man tried to leap right over the bushes. Mac pulled him back and threw the Norwegian boy on the ground. “You’d be throwing your life away. We’ve got to wait until they move in. If they know we’re out here, they’ll pick us off one by one.”
The wait was blissfully short. The men watched and counted an even twenty men boiling out of the truck and racing in all directions at once. The ferocity with which they pounced on the commune satisfied Wingate that they would probably miss the commandos’ entrance. The object was to shoot anything that moved.
“They’re foaming at the mouths,” Wingate told his men. “Put them out of their misery.” Then he vaulted through the bushes and charged toward the buildings as fast as he could.
He had seen one Norwegian figure running through a field of tall grass get tackled by a pursuing enemy. He had seen neither rise. He pointed at the spot as he kept on a dead center course. He had seen the other innocent runner get grabbed around the waist and dragged under the truck. He pointed there with his other hand.
Candy got to the spot in the field, hearing choked cries and laughs as he got nearer. He leaped up in the air, seeing a swarthy Quisling ripping at a young girl’s clothes with one hand and strangling her with the other just before he swung the butt of his Reising like a baseball bat. If the Quisling’s head had been a ball, it would have gone for a home run. As it was, the traitor was driven off the girl and landed on his face, his body doubled over backward. Candy also landed, but on his feet, nimbly, shoving the muzzle of his gun as far as it would go into the Quisling’s stomach before pulling the trigger. The Canadian didn’t want the resulting blat to be heard by the rest of the enemy.
Sumner reached the truck first. The men inside had been so excited about attacking the farm that they had left the motor running. Since the Aussie couldn’t see any way of getting to the man underneath without endangering the hostage, he leaped into the cab, slammed it into gear at the same time as he rammed the accelerator down, and drove forward. As soon as he had completed that move, he slammed down on the brake and let the engine die in gear. He slid out and around the front seat and still-open front door to see the Quisling straighten up on his knees over the form of another girl. As the screech of the breaking truck echoed off the barn wall, Sumner shot the man in the chest.
Wingate charged through the first barn he came to. He ran the whole traverse without spotting anyone, but he heard shots from behind the door in front of him. He kicked that open onto a sunlit passage that ended in another door, from which the noise was even louder. He kicked that door open onto a kitchen where a man and woman were being gunned down by two Quislings in another doorway. They eased up on the shooting, thinking Wingate was one of them come to join in the fun.
Wingate shot the nearest one without pausing and raced after the second, who had been safe behind his partner’s body. Wingate heard him running up the front steps to the cottage’s second floor even before he got out of the kitchen, so when he turned the corner he was already firing. The second Quisling had tried to time it so that if he didn’t make it up the stairs before Wingate came in, he could at least turn and kill Wingate before Wingate killed him.
His timing was off. The Sten’s lead gave him a second set of buttons up his shirt as his own German pistol poked a hole or two in the ceiling above Wingate’s head. The second Quisling fell forward down the steps as a third appeared, curious, at the top of the stairs. His curiosity came to an end as Wingate drove him back with another burst from the Sten. The American then charged up the stairs and ran down the hall, the submachine gun out in front of him. There were no more targets. In the last room, a young Norwegian boy lay dead, his chest a bloody sponge.
Out the window behind the corpse, Wingate could see Breaker and Neill on either side of the barn, flushing out the killers inside. The Canadian would shoot into one door, sending some Quislings out the other where Biggins would be waiting. Then the Australian would run to another opening to return the favor. Wingate saw them mow down five more Quislings that way before he smashed open the window, yelled, “Coming down!” and jumped.
He landed, rolled, and came up to join Biggins and Neill on their way to the second cottage. Sumner and Baker ran up from behind. “Where the hell is Karl?” Wingate grumbled. The rest of the men either didn’t know or didn’t care.
“Biggins, Sumner, move in from the back,” Wingate went on. “Baker, Neill, the front.” He didn’t bother telling them what he’d be doing. They would just have to trust that it would be something useful. They didn’t question his orders. All four moved off quickly, a couple switching magazines as they went.
Whatever they thought, there was method to Wingate’s maneuver. The simplest part was pairing each man with his most familiar countryman. Splitting the Aussies and Canucks might have resulted in a better fighting team, but Wingate didn’t have time to experiment. If the countrymen had gotten this far into the war together, Wingate wasn’t going to split them up just to see what would happen.
Secondly, he didn’t want everyone in the same house at the same time. Just in case a Quisling with a grenade was nearby, one well-placed throw and they’d all be done for. Wingate, and hopefully Karl, were the trump men. There would still be a chance of a mop-up if the second cottage became a slaughterhouse.
Wingate moved past the quaint structure to the last remaining shelters beyond—the teepee like goattes. He found the first few empty just before he heard fighting behind him. As he turned, a body went hurtling headfirst out the front window, followed by a pattern of bullets. As it fell heavily in the front yard, Mac could see it was not one of his boys. More gunfire could be discerned from the second story. A terrified man scrambled out the front door. Wingate shot him just as a small window upstairs erupted and Sumner shot down at the escaping man.
Wingate’s shot pushed the Quisling back against the door jamb. The Aussie’s bullets slapped off the man’s forehead. His brains started pouring out before he fell. Wingate turned back to the goattes just as one tried to stand up and run away. A man erupted from of the sticks that intersected at the top of the canvas wrapping, lifting up an automatic pistol as he came. Wingate crouched, secured the Sten’s butt against his waist, and pulled the trigger, making a short, sharp swinging motion from left to right. The teepee cloth was perforated near the top, dark stains blossomed out from the holes like light rays from the sun, and the man fell back while his gun kept moving up. The hidden Quisling landed a few seconds before his flying gun fell between his stiff legs.
A bullet whipped by his right ear, followed by a report that slapped his eardrum a split second after. Wingate did not pause in his sweep from left to right. He let up on the trigger for a second, then depressed it again as soon as a target entered his peripheral vision. His shots went over the head of a Quisling who was lying in the mouth of a goatte he had passed. As Wingate saw the man take aim again, he let his legs go limp.
He fell as the Quisling’s gun went off. He never knew by how much it missed him and it hardly mattered. On his side he poured the remainder of the Sten’s magazine into the Quisling’s face. It split open like a water balloon with cherry Tizzies inside. He heard the ripping plopping sound right after he saw the man’s face fall apart.
Right after that sound came the noise of movement behind his back. He rolled over to see a darkly dressed man running toward the waterfall. Wingate jumped to his feet and brought up his submachine gun. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, another form got in the way.
Wingate adjusted his focus. Karl had gotten between the Sten and its target. The Norwegian’s hands were empty and his back was heaving. Wingate ran to the lad. He saw that Karl was crying and bleeding from a cut on his jaw.
“Where’s your gun?” Wingate demanded.
“He’s got my gun,” the Norwegian sobbed.
What did he need or want Karl’s gun for, Wingate wondered, even as he ran forward. He saw the back of the last tent ripped open and then he saw the figure inside. It was a young blond girl. Her blue eyes were wide open, but dull and lifeless. A man’s handkerchief was stuffed in her mouth. Her long skirt was pushed up over her hips. Her tights had been pulled down. To his disgust, Wingate saw why the last Quisling needed Karl’s gun. He had left his own pistol inside the girl.
Beside the girl was a hand-held ax which the traitor must have used on Karl when Karl interrupted the perversion. Sure enough, there was a stain on the blunt side of the instrument. Wingate put the scene together as he ran through the field after the Quisling.
The fifth columnist probably didn’t hear the commandos attack at first. All he knew was that he had a pretty girl in his arms and didn’t want to share her with any other sadist. She was probably chopping some kindling outside but her little ax didn’t faze the fascist. He must have dragged her into the tent for some fun, either covering her with his gun or her own hatchet.
When he realized there was some serious fighting going on, he must’ve gotten really excited. He gagged the girl to keep her from attracting attention; then, holding the blade to her neck, he did the gun act. Whether she died from strangling on the cloth down her throat, or his pulling the trigger, or simply from the shock, was beside the point. Wingate was aghast at the viciousness of her death.
The last Quisling ran toward the waterfall. A few more yards and he would disappear in the mist. Wingate was still too far behind to get a sure shot, but he fired off a long burst just for chance. He saw the bullets dig up the ground behind the running man, split off some rock from the boulders in front of him, and cut down some grass tips around him. Everywhere but on his person. Wingate kept up his pursuit even after the traitor made it to the heavy drizzle.
Stalking was going to be a bloody problem, Wingate realized as he dove into the mist himself. The waterfall was so loud, it drowned out even his gunfire. The mist was so thick, he couldn’t see the rocks he was climbing. The one good thing about the situation was that the Quisling couldn’t go very fast under these conditions, either.
Wingate clenched his teeth and propelled himself up as rapidly as he could. As he got higher, the fog got thinner. He dug in, ignoring the slickness of the stone under his feet and hands. To facilitate matters, he slung the Sten on his back, knowing the Browning was within easy reach if he needed it in a hurry. He climbed faster, willing his limbs not to tire or slip. He couldn’t let the final Quisling get away.
He could now see a few feet ahead of him. He could make out the hand- and toe-holds he was utilizing. He pulled himself up a few more feet. Scraps of rock shards stung his face just before he heard the chatter of Karl’s Suomi. Wingate threw himself down and didn’t return the fire, his senses telling him the Quisling was firing blind.
Reality seemed to back him up, for the bullets whined past him and dug up several sections beyond him. It helped, though; he now had a better idea of where the fascist was. He crawled through the mist to his left. He remembered seeing an outcropping on the side of the mountain’s base as he ran toward it earlier. If he could get under its umbrella like protection, he might have a clearer view.
In a few seconds he felt a sudden rise to his left. It was no outcropping, it was the bottom of a cliff. No place to hide, but a guide with which to follow upward. Mac stood, pulling the Sten down. He held the weapon in his right hand and felt along the rock wall with his left. He kept trying to scan through the vapor.
After a few feet, the mist started to clear. A few more feet and it was no more than drizzle. Wingate was behind the Quisling. He was about to catch the man by surprise.
The Norwegian traitor stood near the edge of the rock incline. Immediately to his left was the waterfall basin, kicking up founts of liquid foam. To his right, about twenty feet away, was Wingate. The man must have thought his present position to be the most advantageous place. He was peering down, waiting for the first sign of his pursuer.
Mac moved up until he rested against a horizontal outcropping of stone. He steadied himself against it, rubbed the water out of his eyes, and waited until he was sure his gun barrel centered exactly in the middle of the Quisling’s body. Then he pulled the trigger.
The firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. The waterfall was loud, but it was not loud enough. The combination of the proximity, the water’s surface “carrying” the sound, and Wingate’s movement combined to draw the Quisling’s attention. Wingate knew he’d never get to his Browning in time. It was his last thought before he tried to fall and pull out his automatic at the same time.
The Quisling swung the Suomi around, firing. The bullets raced along the wall, making a straight line for the American. The bullets stopped three feet away from him. He wrenched his gun out and pointed it, but it was not necessary. He saw the dead girl’s hatchet buried to the hilt in the fascist’s chest before the standing corpse toppled over backward into the raging water.
“I knew you would not let any escape,” he heard a familiar voice shout from above him. He looked up.
Standing atop the outcropping he was resting on was Kirsten.
Chapter Six
At first, Kirsten was frisky. She didn’t say much because of the waterfall’s roar, and she couldn’t move very fast because of the slope’s wet treachery, but Wingate could feel her crackling energy every time he got near. He himself was keyed up after the nearly terminal showdown, while she was excited from saving his life and fighting the Quislings directly.
The scene at the commune settled things down. Karl was emotionally crushed. To find his girlfriend dead, let alone that horribly, devastated him. He sat in the field, his legs crossed, his head in his hands, moaning. The body count was twenty Quislings and five Haralds. The only innocents to survive were the first two girls rescued and they only made it because their captors were more interested in sex than sadism. When the traitors went to work, they were fast and brutal.
Both girls were in stages of shock. The one Candy had rescued was simply hysterical—crying loudly. The one Sumner had saved was nearly catatonic. The Quisling’s blood was flecked across her face and torso. Her own blood ran down her leg. These sights sobered Kirsten immediately. Fighting wasn’t just an “I-kill-you, you-kill-me, then-it’s-over” sort of action. There was always an aftermath and it was rarely very pretty.
