Mac wingate 7, p.2
Mac Wingate 7, page 2
The medication the doc had given him had left him woozy. There was a chunk shaved out of his hair around the wound and the wound itself had been stitched. It was giving him no pain. Even the headache that he had expected to develop into something savage was no more than a dull ache. But he felt drowsy. He needed to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep until the drug wore off, once he had seen Erikson.
The security at the airfield was some of the hottest Wingate had ever seen. The car stopped at the barrier and an MP talked to the driver, glancing now and then at Wingate seated in the back. Then he turned to Wingate and asked to see his papers. He let nothing slip, checking every single entry with methodical precision. The man had acquired an ability to read official documents while at the same time examining the bearer. Wingate wondered how, with security like this, even the station commander managed to get to his office.
Wingate finally got his documents back. But it wasn’t over then. The military policeman called his sergeant and they stood outside the car, necks craned toward Wingate’s open window.
“Captain Wingate, sir?” croaked the sergeant at last.
“Wingate,” said Wingate. “Captain—that’s right. Something wrong?”
“To see Colonel Erikson, sir?” There wasn’t the flicker of a smile on the sergeant’s face as he leaned forward into the vehicle, eyes locked on Wingate’s, waiting for some hint in Wingate’s expression that he wasn’t everything he claimed to be.
“To see Colonel Erikson, Sergeant,” said Wingate, resignedly. There might be some point in fighting the top brass, but there sure as hell was no point in fighting security. Experience had taught him that when an MP took it into his head to be difficult, he was willing to devote the whole of his life to it—twenty-four hours a day.
The sergeant seemed satisfied at last. He stepped back, threw up a salute, and waved the barrier up. A moment later they were inside the camp.
Erikson had aged in the short time since Wingate had last seen him. There were streaks of white in his fair hair, and the wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead had deepened. The war was getting to him.
His preoccupation with the tales of horror coming out of his native Norway was leaving its mark. Wingate could understand that. He had returned from Norway himself just a week ago.
Erikson looked up from the table he was standing at, the moment Wingate came into the room. “You’re late,” he snapped.
“I—ran into trouble,” said Wingate. “I needed to check with a doctor ...”
“I heard about it,” Erikson cut in, irritably. “You’re supposed to create trouble for the Hun, not for your allies.”
“There was a kid, sir,” Wingate protested. “A boy around twelve. He was walking into a death trap. I couldn’t ...”
Erikson cut him short with a brief wave of the hand. “OK,” he said. It seemed that the mention of the kid annoyed him. He tapped the map in front of him. Even upside down, Wingate could see what it was. It covered the whole of Europe from Norway’s North Cape to the Mediterranean and from the Atlantic to the Urals. Erikson’s finger was on northeastern Germany. “They’re putting on a big show tonight. The marshaling yards at Hamm. This time they want to take them out completely.”
“Any particular reason?” Wingate asked.
“Pressure from the Russians, mostly,” said Erikson, as if the reason didn’t particularly interest him. “Anything that disrupts internal east-west lines of communications can’t do anything but good. Not that it concerns you. You’re not going to Germany. But when they put up the bombers, we can sneak you out along with them. Once you’re lost in the rest of the gaggle, you can drop under the Hun radar and head south.”
“South?” asked Wingate.
“South,” said Erikson, emphatically. He looked up from the table at Wingate and finally stood up. They had worked together now ever since that first meeting in Casablanca, almost a year ago. Since then they had planned and executed between them half a dozen missions that had brought them to the attention of the Western leaders. Not that either Erikson or Wingate was particularly impressed by that. Recognition wasn’t why either of them was in the war. They were in it out of principle. Erikson knew firsthand what German occupation meant. He had seen the Nazi invasion fleet sail unopposed up Oslo fjord and his own family taken away by the SS. Revenge had driven him into hiding and finally got him out of the country to join British Intelligence—and revenge was what still propelled him.
Wingate’s experience had been different. His first contact with fascism had been as a student at the University of Wisconsin. There were some students on the campus who let their German background shape their thinking. Everything he heard from those ranting fanatics made him want to throw up. He was an American. There was also his Ojibway blood, inherited through his mother. On both counts, the streak of independence in his temperament was fundamental. The fascist view of subservience to the state was something he could never stomach.
“Take a look, Wingate,” said Colonel Erikson, indicating that Wingate should go around the table and join him. As he did so, he reached forward and picked up a piece of paper lying there and stuffed it quickly into his pocket.
The two men stood side by side, looking at the map. They were oddly alike, despite obvious differences of detail. Wingate was an inch taller than Erikson, though both were under six feet. Erikson’s fair hair, now whitening perceptibly, contrasted dramatically with Wingate’s straight black hair and dark skin. Erikson’s eyes were blue while Wingate’s were black as sloes. But they took the same square stance as one another, standing with feet set firmly apart and shoulders held a little forward, as if ready for immediate action. They were broad, firmly built, and strong, with the mark of outdoor living and physical activity clearly on them.
Erikson put the tip of a ruler on southern Italy. “Things are going badly,” he said. “What a crazy way for God to build a country. Look at it—it’s like a herring: a central spine with coastal plains on either side and no way of communicating between. We have a beachhead at Taranto and another in Calabria. From one we drive up the east coast, from the other up the west. But there’s no room. Look at this ...” He tapped the map south of the Sorrento peninsula. “What do we have there—five, maybe ten kilometers in which to maneuver. It doesn’t matter how many men we pour in from Sicily, they could be stopped by a troop of Boy Scouts! We have to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. We need Naples if we’re ever to ship in the kind of supplies we need. Above all, we’ve got to get those men off the beach at Salerno. Two weeks of shit those poor bastards have faced already!”
Wingate waited. Erikson was preoccupied with some personal consideration. In the end, Wingate felt he had to bring Erikson back to the point and break the tension. He asked, innocently, “And you’d like me to take Naples, Colonel?” he asked without a trace of humor in his voice or in his expression.
Erikson wasn’t amused, but it brought him out of himself. He said, acidly, “Well it would help, Wingate, if you think it’s that easy.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Wingate. He had to admit that when you thought of those guys lying in foxholes twenty-four hours a day with mortar shells dropping on them from the hillsides, his remark hadn’t been all that amusing. But he could see something was troubling Erikson. He felt a rapport with the man. He would have liked to help him if he could. But Erikson’s manner made it clear that he didn’t want any help. He could handle whatever was troubling him by himself. Wingate didn’t press him.
“While you were playing with this boy on the test range, did you notice the new explosive?” Erikson asked, suddenly. He had turned and walked to the window of the second-floor room and was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the misty airfield. “It’s why you were sent up here in the first place.”
“I couldn’t help noticing, sir,” said Wingate, letting the palm of his left hand rest gently on the dressing covering the back of his skull.
“Did it impress you?”
“It impressed me.”
“So it damn well should, the amount of work that’s gone into producing it. You’re going to be the first to give it its combat trial.”
“In Naples?”
“You’re not going anywhere near Naples, Wingate,” said Erikson. “You’re going to Greece.”
“We were discussing Italy, sir ...” Wingate protested.
“We’re still discussing Italy,” said Erikson, turning to face Wingate. He walked across to the table and tapped the map again.
Wingate could make out the name of a Greek town in the east of the country. “Larissa?” he asked.
Erikson nodded. “If we can’t drive the bastards back in Italy, maybe we can pull them back. It worked in Sicily, it’ll work again. We want to create so much trouble in the Balkans that they have to bring in reinforcements or withdraw. I can’t see them withdrawing—not yet. And they certainly can’t spare a single man from the Russian front. That only leaves them Italy. If we’re lucky, they’ll pull just enough men out of there to make a breakout from Salerno a real possibility. Anyway, ELAS is expecting you in seventy-two hours ...”
“ELAS?” Wingate interrupted.
“The Greek resistance army—or the part that matters ...”
“I’ve worked with them before,” said Wingate. “They’re Communists ...”
“Wingate,” said Erikson, irritably. “I don’t give a damn if they’re Martians. I need help. I’m prepared to take it wherever it’s offered.”
Wingate shrugged. He wasn’t about to object. His sentiments, in any case, were the same as Erikson’s.
“You’ll cross the French coast west of Dieppe,” Erikson was saying, tracing out the position with the ruler. “West of Paris, west of the Rhone, west of Marseilles. Stay on that course as far as here ...” He indicated a spot in the Mediterranean, a little west of southwestern Sardinia. “Then a direct course for Malta. The aircrew has full particulars. So long as you have a general idea. In Malta you have a commando team waiting for you to join it. They’ll put you into Greece by submarine. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Where do we pick up the explosives, sir?” asked Wingate. Now that he had an assignment that would get him out of this damp climate, he was anxious to be moving.
“You don’t. That’s the problem. You’ll be flying the stuff out with you,” said Erikson. There was worry on his face as he looked at Wingate. After a moment, he added, “Take care.”
It was a very personal remark made with a good deal of genuine concern. Wingate was grateful for it. It gave him a new insight into Erikson. Of the two of them, Erikson had the lousier job. If the mission didn’t make it back, it was Erikson who was going to have to live with the fact.
“I’ll take care, sir,” said Wingate.
“It’s vital for your own security that you don’t stick out like a sore thumb. You’re just another member of a bombing crew, until you set that course down the Rhone. See the sergeant in the outside office. He’ll kit you out—show you the ropes. And I’ve arranged for the navigator to keep an eye on you. He’s an American as well—Brad Manganaro.”
The briefing was over. Erikson was folding the map on the table and putting it into his briefcase. Wingate came to attention and saluted, then turned for the door.
“And Wingate,” Erikson called. “What you risked for the boy—that was ... brave.”
Wingate turned. He found the word “brave” embarrassing. What else was he supposed to have done under the circumstances? He said, “Anybody who was human, sir ...”
“His parents must be very grateful,” Erikson cut in. “There are some occasions when parents just aren’t around.”
“I don’t know about his Mom, but his Dad’s with the 8th Army,” said Wingate.
“Well—that’s ironic,” Erikson muttered, more to himself than Wingate. “And here we are trying to work out a way of helping him.”
There was something more that Erikson wanted to say, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to. Wingate waited, halfway between Erikson and the door. At last, Erikson said quietly, “Did I ever tell you, Wingate, that I’m a parent? Perhaps I ought to say ‘was.’”
It was completely out of character for Erikson to open up like this. He was professional to the core. Something very dramatic must have happened to make him want to unburden himself, thought Wingate. He said, gently, “‘Was,’ sir?”
“They shot my son when he tried to run up the Norwegian flag. It’s me they were after, but I was down on the docks at the time and friends hid me till the SS had gone. I had a daughter. She was six years old—the last time I saw her.” He paused for a moment to collect himself. Wingate had never heard Erikson mention a daughter. Finally, Erikson added, “I’ve had the underground trying to find out what they could ever since. I got this from their Intelligence an hour ago.” He groped in his pocket and took out the sheet of paper that had been lying on the table and thrust it at Wingate.
Wingate took it. It was in Norwegian, scrawled on the back of an official signals sheet. It read: “Child cared for by relatives, Stavanger, 1942. July 1943, family accused of harboring patriots, shipped to Germany. Final destination believed to be Auschwitz. Regrets.”
“I’m—sorry,” said Wingate, automatically folding the signal before handing it back to Erikson. He’d never felt more inadequate in his life.
“Will you do something for me, Wingate?” Erikson asked. He’d drawn himself up now and he looked very much in control of himself.
“Of course,” said Wingate. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Erikson was feeling. He admired the man for not breaking down altogether.
“When you next come face to face with some of those bastards—crucify them for me. Will you do that, Wingate?”
Wingate nodded. “I’ll do that, sir,” he said, quietly.
Chapter Two
Wingate was wondering how these guys who flew the bombers ever managed to move in all the equipment they had to carry. The sergeant in the little store beyond Erikson’s room was passing one item after another to him across the bare wooden counter, and checking them off on a list as he did so.
“Mask, oxygen—one,” the sergeant sang out, passing a soft wire frame covered in chamois leather to Wingate. “Microphone, aircrew—one.”
Wingate took each piece of equipment as it was handed to him and stuffed it in a kit bag. He had worn it all before on earlier airborne missions. Each time he had been shown where each piece fitted, and each time he promptly forgot. There was something in his nature that revolted against wearing all that confining harness. He felt like a bride being handed a chastity belt.
“Helmet, flying—one,” the sergeant intoned. “Jacket, inflatable—one ...” Then he put his hand underneath the counter and drew out a packet covered in light green duck material. “And,” he said, dramatically, “escape kit, aircrew—one! And now a signature, sir—so they don’t think I’ve nicked the lot ...” He gave a quick professional twist of the wrist and turned the form around so that it faced Wingate. He had a pen ready in the other hand and he was tapping the bottom line of the form.
Wingate signed, nodded, said, “Thanks,” and bent to pick up the kit bag.
The sergeant came around the counter and said, briskly, “And now, sir, if I can just show you how to use this stuff ...”
Not again, thought Wingate, tying the neck of the kit bag and turning to drag it after him out of the room. “Save your energy, Sergeant,” he said. “I don’t have a receptive mind. Anything you tell me, I’ll have forgotten by the time I reach the door. But thanks, anyway. I’ll figure it out.”
There was a short, thickset man standing in the corridor outside the storeroom. He was dark and powerful looking and he wore the battle dress of an Air Corps lieutenant. As soon as he saw Wingate he came right over to him and thrust out a hand. “Hey,” he said. “You must be Mac Wingate. Glad to meet you. Brad—Brad Manganaro. Brooklyn, New York.” Wingate shook his hand and Manganaro bent and grabbed the rope around the neck of Wingate’s kit bag and flipped it across his shoulders.
“I got the picture,” said Manganaro, leading the way out of the corridor and down a wide flight of wooden steps. “The colonel guy—he filled me in. Let’s drop this junk in the operations room with the rest of the kit. I figure I’ve got a tunic that’ll fit you. You been around here before?”
“No,” said Wingate.
“Jesus, are you in for a sight!” cried Manganaro, giving a quick laugh. “We go through a ritual, you know. I tell you it’s crazy, but—that’s flying. If you’re gonna join the gang, stay with it.”
Wingate figured that if he gave it enough time, what Manganaro was talking about might become a little clearer. Right now it didn’t make any sense at all.
The stairs led to an entrance lobby with rooms opening off. Directly ahead, through double doors, was the airfield. He could see the camouflaged shapes of B-17s and British Lancasters through the glass panes. Trollies rolled over the tarmac, towed in long trains by small tractors, and carrying bombs and ammunition to the aircraft.
Manganaro was ahead of Wingate, walking through a door on the left. Beyond the door there was a long room with a row of blacked-out windows running along the left-hand wall. Uniformed aircrew stood at lockers or sat around on chairs playing cards. The air was solid with tobacco smoke. From time to time Manganaro nodded to someone, beamed, called out a name. There were reciprocal calls of, “Hi, Brad,” and “’lo, Brad.”
