Mac wingate 3, p.2
Mac Wingate 3, page 2
As Wingate and McCauley took cover, McCauley cried, “Hear that ripping sound?”
“Yes,” replied Wingate. “The krauts are using an MG-42.”
Both men had encountered this fearsome German machine gun in North Africa. The machine gun’s mean, tearing, incredibly rapid whickety-whick-whick-whick ripped the silence of the night to shreds, drowning out completely the feeble answering fire from Sweeney and his men.
Abruptly the wicked snarl of the MG-42 ceased. For a moment Sweeney’s crew continued to fire; then they too were quiet as an eerie silence fell over the beach.
“Hell, Captain,” McCauley said. “If we try to get that life raft out of there, those krauts will cut us to pieces.”
“One of us will have to get in the rocks behind those emplacements and knock them out,” Wingate replied. “The krauts won’t be expecting anyone to show up on their rear. They probably think they’ve got the entire raiding party trapped below them.”
Suddenly both men spun around. Heavy German boots were running toward them over the beach from the direction of the demolished radio transmitter. As the MG-42 erupted again further down the beach, Wingate realized what was up: a pincers, if the Germans could pull it off.
In the briefing for this raid, Colonel Holloway had identified this German unit as a detachment of the 4th SS Polizei Panzer Grenadier Division, recently sent to beef up the island, which had been held by the Italians. Holloway had characterized the division as a ragtag group recruited from uniformed civilian police and Allgemeine SS reservists. Wingate shook his head grimly. This was beginning to look less and less like a piece of cake—and it was time to test Holloway’s description of these SS as “ragtag.”
“Keep down, Sergeant,” Wingate said. “I’ll drift back and let this squad get between us. When I open up, help me finish them off. We’ll see who surprises who.”
Keeping low, Wingate darted back along the beach toward the oncoming SS. When he reached a cluster of blackened, sea-worn rocks, he ducked behind them and was just in time to see the first of the SS sweep into view.
They were keeping close to the surf, since the going was easier on the hard-packed sand. As they passed him, he counted seven in all. Most of the soldiers seemed outrageously out of condition and were laboring unhappily to keep up the pace. All but one of them carried cumbersome bolt-action rifles. The one exception was the German officer in the lead. He was obviously in better condition than his men and was carrying a submachine gun.
He would have to be the first to go, Wingate realized.
As soon as the Germans passed him, Wingate looked back up the beach. Satisfied that no more Germans were coming, he slipped out from the rocks and took after the German squad. He drifted out toward the surf, eventually running straight up, aware that in the darkness and with the rattling snarl of the MG-42 ahead of them, there was little likelihood the squad members would hear him coming up behind them. He closed the gap steadily, then brought up his Sten. Firing from the waist, he caught the German lieutenant with his first burst. The rest of the squad spun just in time to take Wingate’s second burst. At almost the same moment, from the shadow of the bluff came McCauley’s rapid fire. The last two Germans staggered into the surf and collapsed. Wingate splashed into the shallow water and sprayed the still struggling soldiers to make sure of them, then turned to McCauley, who was running up to join him.
“We’d better get moving,” Wingate told the sergeant. “Those Germans on the bluff might have seen this.”
“Just what I was thinking, Captain.”
After a hard scramble up the bluff, the two men reached the road, darted across it, then worked their way higher into the rocks, keeping parallel with the road. Once they were behind the German emplacements, they caught sight of an SS squad pouring from the bluff farther down the beach. This was the second arm of that pincer movement Wingate had already done his best to discourage.
Wingate took out a grenade and studied the disposition of the German force below him. Up and down the bluff, pockets of German troops were pouring rifle and automatic fire down upon Sweeney’s beleaguered force. The machine gunner had so placed his MG-42 that it was on a projecting finger of land, enabling him to keep Sweeney’s men effectively pinned against the bluff.
“Try not to destroy that machine gun,” Wingate told McCauley. “We’re going to need it. You take the Germans on the left side of the machine gunner, I’ll take those on the right.”
“Now?” McCauley took out a grenade also.
“Now.”
Both men pulled the pins from their grenades and tossed them at the German positions. As the grenades bounced silently into their midst, they unlimbered their Stens and clambered swiftly down out of the rocks. The grenades detonated as they reached the road. By that time Wingate had expended his clip. He was slamming another one into his weapon when McCauley’s shout warned him. The machine gunner was manhandling his weapon around so he could fire on them.
Wingate flung himself to the ground, slammed back the Sten’s cocking lever and loosed a stream of fire at the German gunner. The Kraut peeled back from his weapon. When another German attempted to grab the weapon’s butt, Wingate’s next burst took him out also.
Wingate glanced back at McCauley. The sergeant was crouched beside a small armored personnel carrier, struggling to force a clip into his Sten.
“Cover me!” yelled Wingate.
“I can’t! This fucker’s jammed!”
“Use your grenades!”
Jumping up, Wingate dashed across the road toward the intended MG-42 through an almost palpable storm of fire. The torso of a dead German caught Wingate’s toe. He sprawled forward over the torn body, the muzzle of the machine gun less than a foot from his head. Reaching up, he grabbed the weapon and glanced back. McCauley was dashing from the protection of the personnel carrier to charge a pocket of Germans, his Sten held over his head like a club. The grenades he had thrown ahead of him were detonating murderously among the Germans. In a moment the big sergeant was towering over two terrified SS, flailing savagely down at them with his inoperative Sten.
“Here!” cried Wingate, tossing McCauley his weapon. “Catch!”
McCauley turned, reached up and plucked the weapon out of the air. Tucking the butt into his side, he fell to one knee and began spraying about him with a cold, judicious deliberation. Wingate hauled the MG-42 around and began directing its metallic hail along the bluff at the remaining pockets of German resistance. He swept the muzzle back and forth, stitching a series of dust spurts through the torn bodies and patches of moonlit brush, the steady throbbing against his shoulder imparting a momentary comfort in the midst of this hellish piece of war.
McCauley slumped down beside him. “Look, Captain!” He was pointing out to sea.
Wingate turned and saw the conning tower of a British submarine lifting out of the Mediterranean, moon-flecked rivulets of water pouring from its sides. As Wingate watched, the entire deck of the underwater craft surfaced and began to move toward the beach.
“He’ll be sighted!” McCauley cried. “Doesn’t he see the fire all along this bluff?”
“Sure, he does,” replied Wingate. “He sees it. But maybe he doesn’t care. He might even be thinking of trying to help.”
“You’re right, Captain. At least he’ll be a diversion.”
Wingate began to lift the machine gun’s bipod. “Give me a hand! We’ve still got to stop those Germans on the beach. And give me some help with this feed.”
McCauley helped Wingate reposition the MG-42, but Wingate found it difficult to make out the flanking detachment of SS that should have been coming up the beach to finish Sweeney. Where the hell were they? They were down there somewhere, but where? They seemed to have vanished. And there was no fire coming from Sweeney and his men on the beach below them. Wingate studied the beach intently for a moment, then settled on a rocky area a few hundred yards down the beach.
“Get ready, McCauley. I think I found the bastards.”
He sighted down the barrel and pumped a few rounds into the midst of the dark patch. Instantly, cries erupted from the rocks. A few Germans broke out of them and headed for the protection of the bluff.
Smiling grimly, Wingate sent another series of bursts into the rocks, each time flushing a covey of unhappy SS. When he had emptied the rocks, he followed the Germans across the moonlit beach. He kept firing until the gun went silent with a heavy clunk as the bolt drove home on an empty chamber. Wingate glanced at the sergeant. But McCauley was holding up an empty cartridge case. There were no more belts.
That was when Wingate saw the headlights of approaching trucks.
“You better hustle down there,” he told McCauley. “Get Sweeney and his men into that life raft before that submarine’s skipper thinks we’ve all bought it. I’ll hold off these krauts coming up now.”
“Captain, you better go down there and let me cover you and Sweeney.”
“That was an order, Sergeant! Haul ass!”
“Yes, sir, Captain!” the sergeant said, saluting smartly. He handed Wingate back his Sten. “Good luck, sir!”
As McCauley dropped from sight below the lip of the bluff, Wingate took out his pocket flashlight and signaled the submarine. There was an immediate response from the conning tower. After exchanging identification signals, Wingate told the sub his men would soon be in the water. The sub flashed back a single word: Hurry.
Wingate pocketed the flashlight and turned his attention back to the oncoming trucks. He had five grenades; these together with his six remaining Lewis bombs comprised his only offensive threat. Wingate smiled coldly, stuck a ten-minute pencil fuse in each Lewis bomb, then raced along the edge of the bluff toward the oncoming trucks, planting the six bombs among the dead SS as he went. Then he relieved two dead Germans of their submachine guns and ducked behind the personnel carrier. He placed the extra submachine guns on the ground, his five grenades right alongside them. Below him on the beach, he could hear McCauley’s voice barking authoritatively at Sweeney and his men.
The high, German trucks rounded the last curve, looming with sudden menace in the darkness. When the first truck swerved to avoid a dead German in the road, the rest slammed to a halt. In the dim moonlight Wingate caught the outline of an armored car hugging close behind the lead truck. He had no doubt the armored car’s cannon would be able to reach the submarine or at the very least wreak havoc on his men and their flimsy, air-filled life raft.
As soon as the trucks ground to a halt, SS poured from the rear of each and swiftly fanned out, moving cautiously in the darkness. Wingate could hear their cries of anger and dismay as they picked their way over the torn and fragmented bodies of their comrades. Wingate held his position and listened as the few wounded Germans scattered about in the darkness began to call weakly, pathetically, for “Wasser.”
The driver of the armored car cut sharply out from behind the first truck and drove toward the armored personnel carrier. Wingate could not have been more pleased. He pulled the pin from a grenade and tossed it along the ground toward the oncoming car. He followed this with a second and then a third. The second grenade bounced down the middle of the road and disappeared under the armored car. Another glanced off the right fender, then vanished in the darkness. Not a single German had seen or heard any of the grenades.
The night was split by three titanic blasts. Two grenades detonated under the armored car, lifting it off the ground. Its gas tank went, and the entire car was engulfed in flames. The car swerved wildly, erratically, then shot off the road. SS threw themselves out of its path. An instant later, it plunged off the bluff. The car exploded when it struck the beach, detonating its ammunition.
Wingate knew this might cause complications for McCauley, but he had no time to worry about them. The third grenade had blown alongside the lead truck, which was now aflame. Its blazing canvas top lit the area brilliantly. At once Wingate was spotted. He tossed his remaining grenades at the Germans, then—as the fragmentation grenades exploded among them—he took up his Sten and cut a fearful swath through their ranks. The return fire was heavy, and soon Wingate had expended his clip. Snatching up one of the submachine guns, he continued his fire.
By this time the SS had found cover, and their return fire was sporadic, dispirited. Wingate cut down his own rate of fire and peered into the darkness. He could see no movement, but he knew the Germans were inching steadily closer. Abruptly the lead truck’s gas tank blew. In the sudden flaring light, Wingate caught a glimpse of two SS in the rocks above the road, leaping from crag to crag in an effort to outflank him. Wingate emptied the MP-40 at the scurrying figures, snatched up the remaining submachine gun and darted out from behind the personnel carrier. Keeping low, firing as he went, he raced for the lip of the bluff.
He reached the edge of the bluff before he was ready. His right foot plunged into space and he pitched headlong. He felt himself turning completely. His shoulder struck first. His legs swung heavily over. A powerful blow on the back of his head momentarily stunned him. He felt the submachine gun slip from his grasp. He was lying on his back, his eyes wide, staring stupidly up at the helmeted Germans peering down at him from the top of the bluff.
He waited for them to fire down at him. But they didn’t. Through the roaring in his ears, Wingate could make out dimly an officer’s excited guttural command. At once a few SS began to clamber down the bluff toward him.
The closest German paused abruptly, shouted something up to those on the bluff, then pointed out to sea. He had discovered the submarine and Wingate’s men in the life raft. The Germans began firing at them, and for the moment at least, Wingate was forgotten.
Another shout from one of the Germans climbing down the bluff, this one sharper, revealing considerable astonishment, caused Wingate to test his responses and turn his head slightly. What he saw galvanized him enough to cause him to struggle to a sitting position.
McCauley! That crazy son of a bitch! He had left the life raft and was racing back across the beach toward the bluff!
“Get back to that raft, McCauley!” he shouted with surprising resonance. “That’s an order!”
But McCauley paid no heed as he plunged doggedly on through the darkness toward the bluff. He was not coming on straight; he had the sense to change his directions constantly and so far had not been hit. But it was only a matter of time before the big damn fool got cut down. In desperation, Wingate took out his .45 and began firing up at the Germans above him on the slope. But his handgun’s single rounds accomplished little, aside from revealing to the SS that Wingate was alive and dangerous. At once they began to direct their fire down upon him as well as at McCauley.
The metallic hail sent shards of rock and tiny metal splinters digging at his face and hands. He crawled in closer to the base of the bluff and watched the foolhardy sergeant zig and zag his way still closer through the withering fire. He was carrying a Sten, and every once in a while he would pull up and get off a futile burst at the Germans on the bluff. Since there was no way McCauley could see Wingate in the darkness, the sergeant was simply trusting to luck that he would find Wingate. The still blazing hulk of the armored car loomed between McCauley and the bluff. Wingate saw the man duck for cover behind it and prayed he would stay there.
Wingate swore as a round from above exploded a rock at his feet. What the hell had happened to those Lewis bombs he had set?
His answer came almost immediately. The first bomb detonated on the ridge above him. It was a shattering explosion. Chunks of rock and debris came tumbling down the steep slope. As Wingate ducked away from the shower of gravel, he heard the startled cries of the Germans. The second bomb went off and there was pandemonium above. Wingate stumbled from the cover of the bluff and headed toward McCauley, who was still crouching behind the blazing armored car. As Wingate legged it across the beach, two more bombs detonated on the bluff behind him. He darted behind the wreck and found himself looking into McCauley’s surprised, grinning face.
“I knew you were still alive, Captain!”
“You did, did you?”
“Sure. I heard you yelling at me to go back.”
Wingate started to reply, then thought better of it. As the last two bombs detonated, he clapped McCauley on the shoulder and started back across the beach toward the life raft now safely beyond the heavy surf. Sweeney and the others were waving to them, yelling encouragement. As Wingate pulled himself through the heavy water, the submarine—its bow only a few yards from the life raft—began to bombard the bluff with its deck cannon. At this stage, it was just adding insult to injury.
A pleased Corporal Sweeney pulled Wingate into the raft, while McCauley, blowing like a walrus, hauled himself over the side. As Wingate flopped down wearily beside the corporal, he cocked a wet eyebrow at the man.
“Some piece of cake, Sweeney,” he growled.
Comfortable at last in dry clothes, Wingate was trying to stand in the narrow confines of Captain Braithwaite’s quarters when there was a knock on the narrow door.
“Come in,” Wingate said, sitting back on the top of the skipper’s desk.
Sergeant McCauley entered and saluted as smartly as he could in the cramped quarters.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“I did, Sergeant.”
“How’re you feeling, Captain?”
“I’m a little sore, that’s all. How’s Private Murphy?”
“He lost a lot of blood, but he’ll be all right. Hell, he might even be sent home.”
Wingate looked closely at the sergeant. “The same thing that could have taken you stateside, McCauley, after our mission in Albania. A nice, safe little wound.”
“Yup.”
“Well, maybe Murphy will have more sense than you.”
“I think he does, Captain. The reason I didn’t, of course, was this here extra stripe. Thanks for putting me in for it.”
