Mac wingate 3, p.16
Mac Wingate 3, page 16
Startled, Costi jumped away from the window. As he did so, Wingate reached down swiftly and flung the lamp sitting on the floor under the bed. The bulb crashed and the room was plunged into darkness. Wingate flung himself away from the cot along the floor. He was just in time as Costi opened up with his Sten. His .45 in his hand by then, Wingate fired twice at a spot just above the Sten’s muzzle flashes.
At each pulse of the heavy automatic, he saw the Sten jerk convulsively, yet still Costi kept his finger on the trigger, his deadly fire spraying the room indiscriminately. As bullets slammed into the wall just above his head, Wingate fired a third time. The Sten stopped its insane chatter and dropped to the floor. Wingate heard Costi’s body thump down beside it—just as another, and then another explosion shook the little house.
Wingate stayed down, hugging the floor while the rest of the Lewis bombs in the garrison across the street detonated. By this time the window in front of which Costi had been standing was a livid, pulsing red—as it looked out onto the roaring inferno. There was now enough light in the room for Wingate to see Costi’s sprawled body. It was not moving.
“Captain!” Kowalski cried.
Wingate turned his head. Kowalski was bending over the cot. “What is it?”
“McCauley, sir. He’s been hit. I think he’s bought it.”
Wingate joined Kowalski. In the livid, flickering light that illuminated McCauley’s body, Wingate saw what the Sten’s random bullets had done to the sergeant’s face and torso. It was not pleasant to look upon. Wingate turned away, cursing softly. There was no doubt about it. The sergeant would not be making that long trip back with him into the mountains. But perhaps, he realized dully, considering what was left after the Germans had finished with him, the sergeant was fortunate.
Lubbock was standing by the window. “Here comes that baker, Captain. And he ain’t alone.”
Wingate hurried to the window. Lubbock was right. Socrates was not alone. He was with a German officer and four SS troops, his obsequious form hurrying abjectly before them as he led the way to his house. Wingate stepped away from the window.
“We’ll wait until they all get inside,” he told the two men. “You get on the far side of the door, Lubbock. I’ll wait in the kitchen. Kowalski, you wait just inside this room. I’ll open up on them first, so wait until I do. With those bombs going off, they couldn’t have heard the shooting in here. They will assume Costi has everything under control. OK, now. Move.”
Wingate had had to shout to be heard above the almost continuous roar that came now from the blazing garrison. There were still occasional, bone-rattling explosions coming from the building, the result, Wingate surmised, of the garrison’s own stores of ammunition and gasoline going up. Ducking into the tiny kitchen, he had to hang on to the doorjamb for a moment as a really titanic blast shook the house.
At the same time the door to the house was flung open and Socrates rushed in, the five Germans hurrying in behind him. All of them seemed anxious to get out of the street and into the comparative safety of the small building. When Socrates slammed the door shut behind them, the tiny hallway remained lit by the lurid glare that flickered in through the single small window beside the door.
“In there,” Socrates whispered to the German officer as he pointed toward the bedroom. “They are in there now with Costi. I give you my word!”
The moment the Germans started for the bedroom, Wingate stepped out of the kitchen and began firing. The Germans whirled to face him, but as they did, Kowalski and Lubbock opened up on them as well. The Germans went down without getting off a single bullet in return.
Incredibly, Socrates was unscathed. Aghast, he stood in the midst of the carnage, his mouth open, his hands flung into the air. He was about to give Wingate his word that this was all a mistake when Wingate cut him in half with his Sten.
Without a word to Kowalski and Lubbock, Wingate hurried past Kowalski into the bedroom. Reaching down, he grabbed the hair on Costi’s head and flung the man across the floor. As Wingate intended, the man’s lifeless body came to rest at the foot of McCauley’s cot. Wingate used his teeth to pull the pin from one of his grenades, then tossed it toward the cot.
Bolting back out of the bedroom, he ordered his men from the house. As they headed for the door leading into the alley behind the bakery, Wingate tossed two more live grenades into the pile of riddled bodies in the entrance. As the first, and then the second and third grenades detonated, Wingate ducked out into the alley and took after his two men.
Less than half an hour later, as they left Sphakia to begin their climb into the mountains, the three men paused to look back at the fire that continued to rage on the far side of the town, its fiery glow bright enough to rival the dawn now breaking over the island.
“Captain,” Kowalski said, “why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Throw Costi’s body to the foot of the sergeant’s cot, then blow up the place with grenades?”
“I wanted to give McCauley a Viking’s funeral.”
“How’s that, Captain?”
“McCauley’s corpse was consumed in a burning pyre, Kowalski—a dog at his feet.”
It was obvious to Wingate, as they started up again, that neither man really understood what he meant. Wingate was not entirely sure he knew himself, but one thing was clear for him, clearer than it had ever been before. It didn’t really matter how lunatic this assignment of his was—he was going to give it everything he had.
Just as long as it gave him an opportunity to kill more Germans—and any Communists that got in his way.
Thirteen
It was obvious to Wingate that Stephanos did not believe his account of Costi’s betrayal. He squared his shoulders grimly, nodded his goodbye to Clive and Alexis, then stalked from the cave entrance. As the guerrilla leader disappeared up the trail to his camp, Wingate glanced at Alexis.
“How many men do you think Zervas can come up with?”
“A force certainly not equal to Stephanos’s, I must admit. Twenty, perhaps thirty men. But each man loyal, Wingate. Not a Communist among them.”
“That’ll have to do then. Tell Zervas we’ll arm them with modern weapons, fresh from Cairo. Tell them we’re going to put a sizable dent in German power on this island.”
“I’ll go speak to Zervas.”
As Alexis hurried off down the trail, heading for the valley, Clive Smith, his eyebrows cocked quizzically, asked, “Is that wise, Mac? I see what you are doing—setting the two ruddy factions against each other.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. I could also be trying to establish some kind of balance. As it is now, the only force speaking for the Cretan people is Stephanos and his ELAS. Let’s give the other side a chance to be heard. Otherwise, when this is all over, only the ELAS will have any political punch. They will have won by default.”
“You’re thinking like a politician.”
“Yes, Clive—and it’s about time.”
Clive shrugged. “Do you want to go over the plans for the airdrop once more?”
“I think we’d better.”
As soon as Wingate had returned the day before, he had told Clive that, in the light of Costi’s defection, they should change the drop zone without telling Stephanos. Wingate went on to insist that they should let Stephanos and his guerrillas guard the old drop zone just as they had planned to do earlier. It meant, of course, that the new drop zone might not work as well, and also that Stephanos would know, soon after the drop had been completed, that he and his men were under suspicion.
Nevertheless, Wingate was willing to take both risks in order to insure security. This entire operation in Crete had been booby-trapped from the very beginning as a direct result of ELAS intrigue.
“This new drop zone,” Clive said, bending over a rough map he had spread on a rickety wooden table in the entrance to his cave, “is not as open as the last one. The planes will have to come in from the north, skip over these peaks here.” Clive tapped the two red crosses he had made on the map to indicate the peaks. “Then they will have to make their drop swiftly, while banking sharply to climb these other peaks at the head of the drop zone. It will be a ticklish operation, Wingate.”
“They’ll do it.”
“Remember. They are dropping considerably more supplies this time.”
“Well, they’d better. If they want us to soften up Suda Bay for them and blow that airfield at Rethymnon.”
Clive smiled. “Not to mention storming Canea.”
“I’ll let you worry about Canea, Clive.”
“I already am, old boy.”
Wingate nodded and stepped back from the table. He was satisfied the drop would succeed. Cairo had too much at stake not to send its best pilots, and Wingate knew he could trust Zervas and his men. They would guard this drop zone, not the ELAS.
There were four transport planes in all, modified but reliable British Albemarles. The drop went like clockwork until the crew of the last plane delayed somewhat in dumping their load, with the result that one parachute struck the sheer wall of a mountain. Its cargo was a shambles by the time it was recovered. Wingate was not happy about this, since this particular chute carried a few of the extra Brens he had requested. The ammunition had not detonated, however, and after a quick assessment of the drop zone, it was clear the damage was minimal. There were still plenty of Brens to go around. And the plastic and thermite Wingate needed to construct more of the small but powerful Lewis bombs arrived intact, as did the pencil fuses used to detonate them. Wingate promised himself he would build them as well as McCauley always had.
Within three days they would have to be in position for their attack on virtually the entire northwestern quadrant of Crete. The attack on Suda Bay itself would have to take place in the early hours of the third morning, in time to give the British ships the blazing targets they needed for their bombardment. Wingate sure as hell did not want to be late for that show.
As Alexis and his small band of guerrillas helped Clive’s men lug the arms and other materiel through the night to their camp, Wingate felt a good deal better than he had before those planes appeared. This time he had outsmarted—or at least outmaneuvered—Stephanos. If his luck held, he would continue to do so.
Stephanos and his men might still be counted on to follow Cairo’s dictates during this upcoming attack; and Wingate was perfectly willing to use them to the fullest extent possible—but he did not intend to allow any more Communist zealots to booby-trap this last audacious push.
In the rocks below Canea, Wingate huddled with the depleted remnants of his band, Lubbock and Kowalski. Behind them the dark waters of the Aegean pounded the rocky shore. It was 0300 and Wingate was waiting for Clive’s attack on the German and Italian garrisons in Canea. It would be the signal for Wingate and his men to invade the naval base sprawled in the darkness of Suda Bay further down the coast.
The Rethymnon airfield was the target of Stephanos and his guerrillas, and it was vital that their attack be as successful as their earlier assault on the airstrip at Alikianon. Reports had reached Clive that at Alikianon the guerrillas had outdone themselves in ferocity. Not only had they destroyed hangars, living quarters and the entire fuel storage area, but they had unleashed upon any German pilots and mechanics they found a barbaric fury that left few, if any, alive. In no instance had the deaths been swift or clean.
According to the reports of local Cretans supplying intelligence to the guerrillas, as a result of that attack—and the earlier one by Wingate on the airfield at Iraklion—the Germans had shifted the bulk of their remaining Stukas and bombers to the airfield at Rethymnon. It was up to Stephanos and his guerrillas, therefore, to prevent those relocated Stukas from taking off and attacking the destroyers and the single light cruiser Cairo was sending to finish off the naval base.
Alexis and Zervas, leading their royalist guerrillas, were augmenting Clive’s depleted forces during their assault on the Canea garrisons. And at the moment, as he glanced at his radium-dial wristwatch, he wondered what the hell was keeping them.
He needn’t have. A second later, the sound of fierce detonations echoed among the rocks above him. Immediately after came the rattle of automatic fire and the sound of still more explosions, as the Lewis bombs Wingate had labored to make for a full twelve-hour stretch the day before began to explode. The royalist guerrillas had planted them earlier at strategic sites throughout the town on Wingate’s suggestion. They were to have been careful to pick spots that would not kill innocent civilians, but would be sure to cripple the German defense.
“Haul ass,” Wingate called to his men, as he started ahead of them down the coast toward the naval base.
Behind him, Lubbock and Kowalski lifted onto their shoulders the dinghy they had liberated from a Greek fisherman who was rumored to be a collaborator and followed Wingate over the slippery, treacherous rocks to the tall, woven wire fence that enclosed the eastern boundaries of the naval base.
The fence marched down into the waters to a depth of close to ten feet, then swung along the coast until it broke off at one of the docks. Following the fence to the waterline, Wingate held up as Lubbock and Kowalski lowered the dinghy into the water; then the three men loaded into it their weapons, ammunition, the German helmets and greatcoats they were wearing, along with their boots, pants and shirts, after which, naked as jaybirds, they held on to the dinghy and slipped into the water. Pushing the dinghy along so that it remained between them and the wire fence, they swam as silently as possible along its outer perimeter.
They came to the dock and nudged the dinghy ahead of them, keeping it between them and the lone Italian sentry at the end of the dock, waiting for the sentry to spot it. He did, and called out in Italian to a companion at the base of the dock. His companion strode casually out toward him. The sound of battle above them in Canea, not to mention the glow on the skyline, didn’t seem to be bothering either of the Italians. As usual, Wingate mused, the German’s Italian allies were treating this as strictly a German war.
In the darkness, it was not too difficult to keep hidden on the far side of the dinghy, but the three men were close to exhaustion by this time. As the first Italian sentry crouched down on the edge of the dock and extended the barrel of his rifle in order to poke the dinghy closer, Wingate reached out with one hand and gave the dinghy a slight nudge. The boat rocked closer to the Italian’s probing rifle barrel. Abruptly, the barrel slammed down into it. The dinghy was hooked.
The second sentry arrived by this time. Wingate could understand enough of their language to know that this newcomer was asking the first what the hell he wanted with a boat.
Fishing, the sentry replied with a laugh.
It was important that neither sentry see the contents of the dinghy. Wingate ducked under the boat, came up on the other side between the dinghy and the dock and, reaching up with his right hand, grabbed the sentry’s rifle barrel and yanked viciously.
With a startled cry, the Italian went tumbling off the dock, landing with a sickening crunch face-down in the dinghy. The second Italian leaned over in astonishment and called out to his companion, Luigi. But Luigi was out cold, and just as the second one found that out, Wingate grabbed his ankle and pulled it toward him, then dove under the water. As he cut down into the icy depths, he was dimly aware of the splash above him as the second sentry—uniform, rifle and all—went tumbling into the water after him.
Turning, Wingate kicked for the surface and was in time to see Kowalski, his arm around the sentry’s neck, pull the Italian under. Wingate and Lubbock swam to the dinghy and pulled the still-unconscious Luigi out of it. The man sank with only a little help from them.
Wingate tied the boat to the dock, then clambered up onto it, the other two following. Swiftly, they reached back into the dinghy and dressed without bothering to dry themselves off. It left them feeling uncomfortably clammy, but they had no time to notice as they ran down the dock, ducked past a launch in dry dock and started toward the gasoline storage dump.
The storage dump consisted of seven huge tanks set in under the same bluff that shielded the entire naval station. It was flanked by several small buildings, including a pump station, and leading from it to the water was a massive belt of pipes and valves, difficult to negotiate in the dark. On a tarmac to one side stood a fleet of tank trucks, all of them the typical high-body Italian trucks Wingate had noticed all over the island.
As soon as the dump had materialized completely out of the night, Wingate and his men slowed. Despite the German coats and helmets, they were all carrying British Stens, since the Sten silencers were not as reliable on the few captured MP-40s they had in camp. Wingate was hoping that, in the darkness, the Italians would not notice the discrepancy.
The Italian sentries lounging before the pump station saw them coming and hurriedly straightened themselves and sprang to full attention.
Marching directly up to the three Italians, Wingate, in his most full-throated German, called out, “Achtung!”
Since the three Italians were already at attention, it was comical to see them strain to acquire an even greater rigidity. Their chins moved up a full notch and their eyes bugged as they stared straight ahead past Wingate and his men.
“Why are you not fighting the Greek saboteurs in Canea?” Wingate demanded in German. “You should be up there with your German comrades! Why do you hide down here? Cowards! Dummkopfs!”
The Italians quivered in dismay. They perhaps did not understand German all that well, but they got the gist of Wingate’s meaning.
Wingate was about to send them on their way to join their German comrades in Canea when an Italian colonel and his aide strode swiftly out of a nearby building, an Italian naval officer by his side. As the three officers hurried over to intercede with these arrogant Germans, Wingate made an unpleasant but necessary choice.
