Mac wingate 6, p.17
Mac Wingate 6, page 17
“Now, that’s not fair, Captain,” Tyler spoke up. “We were planning to air-drop the necessary equipment. Once we got word of the setup and situation.”
“That’s the other thing,” Wingate used the colonel’s interjection as a taking-off point. “Information. Intelligence. Right or wrong, the colonels and their superiors figured we wouldn’t be too happy if we knew about our lot, so they planned to have us do a minimum of on-site reconnaissance. They figured a better idea would be to collect intelligence the way they had all along! Have their spies send the material over the mountains to the SOE!”
“I’ve been collecting material for months now,” Larsen cut in, explaining further. “It was a good system, but not foolproof. I’d get the latest movements of the warships, put them on microfilm, and send them with an escaping MILORG man to Murmansk, just over the Russian border.”
“And it worked!” Tyler yelled. “It worked well!”
“When the agent wasn’t killed by a Nazi or a Quisling, or in a climbing accident, or the information wasn’t intercepted on the radio frequencies, or the microfilm wasn’t sunk on the ship carrying it to England by the Tirpitz—which was the reason ‘Source’ was set up in the first place,” Wingate managed to get out. “Like Larsen said, the system wasn’t foolproof. Sometimes it took too long for the material to get from Norway to Russia to England. Sometimes, it never made the circuit at all.”
“Like now,” acknowledged Larsen.
“Like now,” repeated Wingate.
“What do you mean?” Tyler shouted. “We have everything you need to know.”
“Wrong!” said Wingate, with barely controlled rage. When he had manhandled the colonel back at the whorehouse, he had been faking the emotion. Now the feeling was real. He came at Tyler like a locomotive. “Wrong! You think you have all the info you need. You pray that you do. Since God is on your side, you assume everything will turn out fine. But it won’t,” Mac assured him. “It hasn’t.”
“What do you mean?” Tyler asked dangerously. “Explain yourself, soldier.”
Wingate nearly punched him. He stopped in mid-swing. He held his fist in the air, looking at Tyler’s face. The American was smiling like the Englishman had. It was the superior death’s-head look. Mac realized Tyler wanted him to do it. He’d love it, in fact. It would prove in his own mind, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Wingate was the beast Tyler thought he was. The animal only good for throwing to the wolves.
Wingate thought about that, then slugged Tyler anyway. He didn’t care what Tyler thought.
The colonel’s head snapped back loudly in the cold, large barn. It moved so fast that it nodded twice before Tyler hit the ground. He lay on top of his tied arms with a bleeding lip and foggy eyes.
Wingate had punched him in the mouth on purpose. He wanted to sting and stun him, not knock him out or break his neck. He still had some things to tell him.
“You remember Walters’s speech back on the boat?” Wingate told the prone officer. “About how if I got in his way again, he’d hang my balls over Datchet Green? Well, you understand something, Tyler. You try to screw me one more time and we won’t wait until we get back to England for a ball-hanging. I’ll rip your balls out then and there and make you eat them.”
Kirsten had come over and put her hands on Mac’s shoulders. He straightened at a normal speed and nodded appreciatively. “All right, Tyler,” he continued, walking back to the warmth of the fire. “Let’s talk strategy. We go waltzing off north somewhere, destroying things as we go, drawing off the infantry from the camp on the mountaintop, ikkesant? That leaves a few unorganized schleps to protect the ships from the submarine attack. Is that right?”
Tyler struggled to a sitting position, trying to lick the blood off his chin. “Yes, of course,” he said with indignation.
“Wrong,” Wingate corrected. “That leaves a highly trained group of undersea commandos that patrol the ship’s hull in shifts. When one group is off gallivanting in town, the other is on shore or underwater. These boys couldn’t miss the approach of a midget sub. They know what they look like.” Mac looked at Larsen. The Norwegian spy nodded in support. Wingate had seen one shift off duty in the tavern. Arne had seen their schedules and watched them work.
“Surely a small group of men couldn’t stop three thirty-ton subs from reaching their quarry once the majority of troops were diverted elsewhere,” Tyler complained.
“Maybe not,” Wingate admitted. “But an antitorpedo net would succeed where they could fail.”
“An A/T net?” Tyler echoed incredulously. “We received no reports of any A/T nets!”
“You should have,” Larsen said solemnly. “I sent them to you. Lars Harald should have brought them.”
“Your wonderful system strikes again,” Wingate reminded the captured colonel. He rose placidly and stood over the sitting Tyler. “So it all would have failed,” he said as kindly as he could. “We would have been killed, and all the subs would have been destroyed, either by the undersea commandos you didn’t know about or by the nets you deal with because the news of their existence never arrived.”
“I-I had no idea ...” Tyler stammered. “I didn’t know!”
“That’s the crime,” Wingate told him sadly. “I’ll see that it’s chiseled on your tombstone.”
The American colonel looked honestly aghast that his mission could have gone so wrong. He stared at the ground, his eyes wide, his mouth working. As he tried to comprehend it, a small group of MILORG agents began coming into the stabbur from outside. Wingate recognized the tailor and the man who had played Karl’s father down the mountain. The last two to enter were the female survivors of the Harald commune.
“Wingate, I’m sorry!” Tyler had found his voice again. “Anything I can do. A-anything ...!”
“You’ll have your chance,” Wingate assured him as he went to greet the new arrivals.
Once they were all comfortable around the fire, Wingate got down to cases. “It is time to take action,” he said. “It is time to fight back.” But while Tyler had seen the light, Sørum was far from repentant.
“No!” he yelled at the collected Norwegians. “Remember what happened at the Harald commune! Remember all the other atrocities! We must not attack the Germans. There will be terrible reprisals!”
“There will be reprisals whether you do anything or not,” Wingate responded to the Norwegian’s outburst. “The only question is whether you die on your knees or fight on your feet.”
“No, it is not true!” Sørum babbled desperately. “Do not listen!”
Kirsten turned her head away. “Einar,” she said into Larsen’s shoulder. “Can you not see that it is over for us here? We cannot wish the Nazis away.”
Wingate elaborated further. “The midget submarines are coming, Sørum, no matter what you say. And whether they get to the Tirpitz or not, they’re going to deliver their payloads. And after those two-ton charges go off, there will be repercussions. The enemy will be crawling all over Alten and North Cape. Like it or not, there will be reprisals.”
The Norwegian captain may have wanted to spare his country, but he was a realist. He bowed his head in defeat. “Very well, since it seems we have no choice, I will help if I can.”
Wingate rubbed his hands together, both for warmth and in anticipation. “All right. Einar, are there captured German weapons and stores somewhere about? Somewhere I can get my hands on them?”
Head still down, Sørum nodded in the affirmative.
“W-what are you going to do?” quaked Tyler. “What can you do? The midget subs are scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning!”
“At 7:30 a.m.” Wingate acknowledged. “Larsen informed me.”
“But you’ll never be able to pull anything off by then!” the colonel went on incredulously. “You have to divert the bulk of the Alten infantry, fight the undersea commandos, and cut the A/T nets! All before tomorrow morning and with no equipment!” It was all too much for Tyler. He shook his head in disbelief, saying, “Face it, Captain. Operation Source is over. It’s finished.”
“Shut up and listen, Tyler,” Wingate said irritably. He faced the MILORGs. “I’ll need some things. I’ll need to know whether you can get them to the whorehouse cellar in ...” Wingate checked his watch. It was 9:30 p.m. Just ten hours before the midget submarines were set to arrive. “In three hours. Listen closely ...
“Ten boxes of kitchen matches.
“Five hundred meters of cord.
“Four rolls of bandages.
“Two clothesline pulleys.” Henrik the tailor raised his hand happily at that.
“Five winter knee socks.” The Harald girls raised their hands.
“One large can of petrol.
“Three large tins.
“One faucet pipe.
“One roll of black tape.
“A pack of cigarette paper.
“Four large sheets of heavy-duty cardboard.
“Two large and heavy rubber bands and three small rubber bands.
“A pack of straight pins.
“And three rucksacks.”
Not one item was left uncalled for. Among the group, everyone agreed they could get at least one item. Wingate sent them on their way, pulling out the blade Larsen had tried to stick him with. He talked to the postman while he hacked away at Sørum’s bonds.
“What can I do?” Arne asked.
“You’ve got one of the most important jobs,” Wingate said. “I need a thorough map of the Nazi infantry camp on the hilltop. I need all the buildings, all the cover, every detail. Can you get it?”
“In three hours?”
“Yes.”
“Sure.”
“Get going.” Larsen took off immediately. Wingate cut through the last strand tying Sørum’s hands together. “All right,” said the American. “Let’s see these captured stores.” The Norwegian led Mac and Kirsten to another stabbur within the confines of the village. Up a ladder and below a false floor section was an anarchist’s dream: bits and pieces of what looked like an entire armament. Wingate picked out a Maschinengewehr 42 machine gun and a Madsen machine gun converted from top magazine feed to a bottom belt-feed weapon.
“Strange choice,” Sørum commented.
“I need two, and they have to be different,” Wingate explained, sifting through the rest of the equipment. “The MG-42 is perfect; belt feeding an unlimited supply of 7.92 mm shells and pumping them out at 1,200 rounds per minute. The Madsen only kicks out 450 rounds, but it’s the best made, most dependable weapon of the lot. Besides, it is the only other belt-feed gun you have.”
Wingate looked around. “You store your ammo elsewhere?”
“Of course,” was the reply. Sørum was already moving across the barn to another fake floor section. Wingate followed and dipped in. He came out with several standard fifty-round belts of 7.92 caliber ammunition in a carrying rucksack. He then found a full cardboard grenade case.
“All right,” he said. “Tools. I need tools.”
“Mac,” Kirsten advised. “I must get back to the house. I ... we have ... paying customers.”
Wingate looked at her with understanding and gentleness. “This may be hard, Kirsten,” he warned. “But there is something you must do for me as well ...”
The prostitute part was easier than Mac had expected. He had planned to don the Nazi lieutenant’s uniform and lure the off-duty undersea commandos to the den of hookers, but he discovered it wasn’t necessary. On every cold winter night, the twelve men who comprised the unit took turns getting warm.
Each six-man group stood a twelve-hour watch. Unfortunately for his plan, the shift came at eight in the morning and eight at night. Wingate could only get to half the crew. He’d have to deal with the others underwater. But even to get that far, he’d have to make sure the half dozen commandos that visited the whorehouse never got out again.
Wingate looked at the ceiling of the cellar. He could imagine what was going on up there. That was all he could do: imagine. Kirsten had promised that she would signal him when the time was right. Until then, he had to keep working.
He had plenty of work to do. He took his eyes off the ceiling and put them on his watch. It was 2:00 a.m. Five and a half hours from blast-off. It was going to be close. Wingate would readily admit that. It would be close getting all the material collected. It would be close getting it prepared. It would be close getting it to the infantry camp. It would be damn close getting it set up to go off at the same time as the arrival of the subs. It was all ludicrously close, but the only chance they had.
Wingate looked around the room. It looked like Santa’s workshop, only the elves were intent on taking over the North Pole by force. Everywhere and on every surface, the MILORGs were working on the raw materials to Mac’s new specifications. Sumner and Neill wandered around occasionally to help out before they returned to their own preparations.
“Let’s go over it again,” Wingate suggested to Larsen, who was bending over a roughly drawn map on the side table next to him.
“Very well,” Larsen concurred. “Around the outside is a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The fence is at the edge of the woods on the eastern perimeter. Twenty meters to the west lies an empty barracks. The men who used to be inside were transferred to a ski-troop course.”
“Is the bottom of the fence buried in the ground?” Wingate suddenly interrupted.
“The bottom links are just barely submerged in a shallow trough. You can gain entry easily.”
Wingate nodded. “Is the area mined?”
“There are signs to that effect, but they are more show than security. I have seen the guards walk everywhere with no big booms.” Wingate opened his mouth. Larsen beat him to it. “The guard makes a full round every half hour. There is a single guard tower near the fence, forty meters from the empty barracks.”
“Are there any more empty buildings?” Wingate got to ask.
“A small supply shack right in the middle of the camp,” Larsen replied. “And the vacated tailor’s cabin to the west of it. I assume that when you say empty, you mean empty of people.”
“You assume correctly. Where are the inhabited buildings?”
“Not far from the empty barracks. There are two squads of crack riflemen headquartered there. Next to that is the officers’ quarters. To the west is another barracks for visiting seamen, staff members, like myself, and office workers. The Quislings often have their meetings there.”
Wingate studied the map. He saw a telephone pole adjacent to the officers’ dwelling. He saw several trees inside the perimeter. It just might work, he thought. He tapped the map several times with his forefinger. He just might be able to pull it off.
“Why not give us the guns and let us attack the camp?” said Sørum, sitting in the corner and practically reading Mac’s mind. “Why go through all this?”
“First,” Wingate responded, still checking the map, “like you, I don’t want to see anyone but the enemy die. Second and most important, I don’t think it would work your way. No offense, but send the hookers, the old men, the tailor, and you against a crack troop of German infantry? They’d chew you up and go back to breakfast without missing a bite.”
The American captain then left the side table and wandered around the basement to be sure everything was being done to his specifications. One group of three MILORGs was working on the can of petrol; another three were laboring over the MG-42; another trio was handling the deadly grenades and the smelly socks; and a final group was taking care of the Madsen.
The three working on the can were converting a harness usually used for carrying stretchers to a back rack for easier carrying. The large black can of petrol was strapped to the rack with strips of equally black cloth. The three empty tins had been wrapped in undershirts and strapped together with tape.
The trio slaving on the guns was knotting rubber bands around the triggers and securing them behind the hand grips. The rubber knot was then secured with a tight wind of cord. The cord continued to be wound until five feet of the stuff was wrapped around the hand grip. Then everything was held in with tape.
Alongside the breech mechanisms, the rucksack had been affixed. They were braced in a perpendicular fashion to the side of the weapon, with the interior girded by the heavy cardboard sheets. In them were a couple of fifty-round 7.92 mm ammunition belts—attached together and coiled in an overlay fashion so they would feed smoothly when the time came.
A long knife slit had been cut in the top of the pack and the first few bullets pulled through. The sack would be closed and the first few rounds taped over the breech. Wingate had demanded they not actually load the guns. One bad jolt during the trip up the mountain and one of his men might get his ass shot off. To facilitate his men’s carrying the guns, a belt of the pants kind had been attached. Finally the clothesline-type pulleys were taped to the gun barrels, right where the bipods used to be, along with two rolls of bandages each.
The people preparing the socks had first filled them up with gravel, dirt, pebbles, and various garbage of that kind. They were tied at the top. Wingate tested the heft. They were about ten pounds apiece. Then a grenade was attached to the top by running the knotted cord to the fragmentation device. Wingate examined that handiwork closely as well.
The five-foot length of cord ran to the pineapple body of the hand grenade and was tied tightly around the grooves. Then the length was folded over and over on itself. The resulting bunch was wrapped with a rubber band. That way it looked like a rock-filled sock tied to a grenade by a very short cord with an overlaying bunch in the middle. But pull both the sock and grenade apart and that string in the middle would rapidly unravel, leaving a rock-filled sock tied to a grenade by a very long cord.
That’s where the more experienced commandos took over. Sumner wound a piece of electrical tape around the spoon and the body of the grenade. He then folded back the end of the tape on itself, creating a little tab so later he could pull off the sticky strip quickly. Then, with a pair of pliers Mac had found at the hillside stabbur, he bent back the ends of the safety pin and clipped them off. It made the release extremely sensitive and it was the reason Mac had assigned his men to the chore. He wanted to kill the undersea commandos upstairs, all right, but not by blowing himself up along with them.
