Mac wingate 10, p.3
Mac Wingate 10, page 3
“Engineer Amphibian Command,” Glynn corrected. “AF-AF: the Amphibious Force, Atlantic Fleet; and the ATC: Amphibious Training Center.”
“All right,” Wingate sighed. “Get on with it, but take it easy on the armiese, will you?”
It was Glynn’s turn to be confused. “Army-ease?”
“The army secret language,” Wingate said. “All the contractions and code names.”
“Oh, yeah,” Glynn agreed. “Anyway, we’re down at Fort Pierce, you know, in Florida, right? And they got all this stuff, you know? Barbed wire rolls, concrete walls, cinder blocks, antitank ditches and even mines, you know, and Ted’s right at the front of the LCT, you know ... ?”
“The what?” Wingate reminded the soldier with a smile, looking up from his duffel and pack.
“Oh, yeah, right. The landing craft for tanks, OK? I mean, do you want to hear the story or don’t you?”
“I’m listening,” Mac replied, his eyes still intent on his equipment. The truth of the matter was he was only letting the private rattle on because he thought there might be something worth knowing amid the “you knows,” “rights” and “anyways.”
“Anyway,” Glynn started again, true to form, “Ted’s right at the front and he was taught to test the water and everything beforehand, but as soon as the LC—I mean, the landing craft stopped, the front dropped down, you know? And poor Ted was so nervous, he slipped, you know? Tripped right over the lip, you know, and fell with a belly flop right into the water. Bam!” The private slapped his hands together. He was surprised when Wingate didn’t react in surprise. What he didn’t know was Wingate was quite accustomed to sudden loud noises.
“Anyway,” Glynn continued, with a tinge of disappointment, “he does a swan dive, see, only he doesn’t fall all the way into the water, OK? He just sort of lays right on top of the water like he’s floating, you know. Only his legs and arms aren’t floating, you know what I mean? They’re drifting underwater, but his back is right on the surface, right? You know what happened?”
Glynn hurried on before Wingate got a chance to reply. “He had fallen right onto one of those steel spikes the krauts had put under water to catch landing craft, you know? He had enpaled himself. Right in the chest. Wham.” The private shook his head, leaning back on his bunk. “I mean it,” he breathed. “Wham. Never even saw action.”
Wingate didn’t bother to answer or correct the man’s mispronunciation of “impale.” He had seen the end of the private’s story several fathoms away, but he saw no good in cutting Flynn short. After all, the reason he had slept with the enlisted men and kept his rank to himself was to get an idea of who he had to deal with. Considering all the missions where he was thrown together with strangers he didn’t know the first thing about—many of whom didn’t even speak English—he wanted to make ample use of his “get acquainted” time. It was a luxury he wasn’t used to and a bonus he could use to save lives. You never knew who you might have to depend on in the field.
After the private’s story, Mac hoped he wouldn’t have to depend on Glynn for anything but the most rudimentary of tasks. Even though he looked and sounded like a classic Midwestern farm boy—broad shoulders, sandy hair, freckles and all—his story had the earmarks of an unrealistic, gung ho idiot. If true, and this Ted guy really had died, it was obvious Glynn didn’t have any idea what that meant. To him it was just a neat story. If untrue, and Glynn was just repeating a story he had heard because it was “neat,” the same gung ho description could apply.
“Well, those are two things you won’t have to worry about, soldier,” said another voice from behind the two. Wingate looked over his shoulder to see the squat form of Master Sergeant Phil Saltzman pulling himself along the row of bunk beds.
“What?” Glynn asked, standing. “Dying? And what else?”
“Not dying, you id-jet,” Saltzman growled. “Clearing the beach and not seeing action. The Anzio beachhead was cleared for you—almost a month ago. They haven’t moved from that spot since. All those poor bastards are getting is enemy action.”
Glynn gave a low whistle, seemingly impressed and a bit anxious. Saltzman turned to the other man. “Captain Wingate?” Mac nodded. The private’s whistle cut off abruptly.
“Captain?” he exclaimed.
Saltzman ignored the outburst. “They’re ready for you, topside.” He turned his head toward Glynn. “You too, id-jet.” Turning back to Mac, he finished, saluting, “I guess you can take it from here, sir.”
Wingate returned the salute. “I guess so, Sergeant.”
Saltzman turned and started to march out of the low cabin. Glynn hastily hefted his pack and followed, seemingly eager to put some space between him and the newly discovered officer. “Captain?” Wingate heard him whisper to the sergeant. “You never told me he was a captain!” Then the two men were out of the room.
Wingate made a final check of his most immediate necessities. Under everything he had on his dark long johns. Not many men had that sort of supply, but rank did have its privilege and Wingate would be damned if he let some general do a “strip-search” on him. Over the thick, U-necked, undershirt was the army regulation undershirt; over that the uniform shirt. In the neck of that, the ascot-tied scarf each officer was given. Wingate then pulled his special mission jacket out of his duffel. This garment had both a practical and sentimental value. Its inside pockets were great for hiding things as well as keeping those same things warm and dry; and he had worn the nondescript jacket on many of his infiltration and sabotage operations.
Over that he finally put on the regulation army coat with its four large, button-down pockets. Around that went the web belt, filled with ammo and detonators. On his feet were his laced boots. On his legs, the regulation green pants. Keeping those up was another Wingate surprise. Rather than just a belt, he had a thin, leather pouch belt with wire inside and more ammo in slide-on pouches. Another sign of his rank was on both sides of his web belt—namely two holsters, each filled with a thirteen-round Browning automatic. After losing his one gun several times in France, he was taking no chances—especially since an engineer had little time to fool around with a two-handed machine gun.
Just in case, however, Wingate pulled out a Sten Mark II submachine gun from the duffel. Although he was proficient with all the available weapons, the Sten was his favorite. It was far lighter than the Thompson—six pounds, ten ounces as compared to ten pounds, two ounces—and more dependable than the US-M3 “grease gun.” It also carried more rounds-per-magazine than either of the other two. Wingate attached that to the top of his demo pack, then hefted it onto his back.
Finally, the captain lifted his helmet from the bunk and slipped it under his arm, almost convinced that he was prepared. He hoped he had learned from the mistakes made at Operation Torch—the landing in North Africa—seemingly eons ago. He had done what he was told on that mission. He had taken what was given him only to discover that Allied Command had outfitted their soldiers with wool uniforms. In the middle of the desert, in the middle of Africa’s hottest season, the Americans were wearing wool. Our side won in spite of the fact that they were baking, like potatoes inside a skin.
Wingate exited the sleeping quarters and pulled himself toward the ship’s hold. He heard and felt the activity before he saw it. It was unavoidable. The vibrations came through the floor and his boot soles. Those same vibrations filled the ship’s interior with a deep thrumming. As he neared one of the many entrances, the thrumming melded into a cacophony of crashing sounds. He pushed open the door and walked right into a military madhouse.
Men and machines were everywhere—of different sizes and shapes. A line of vehicles were poised before gigantic doors and a swarm of men tended to these monsters. The first thing the captain heard clearly was the barking shouts of another master sergeant, telling people where to go whether they wanted to know or not.
“G-l, please see the order board for your commands!” the man roared. G-l being the personnel section of divisional or higher staff, the sergeant was a bit more polite in his screams. From then on, there wasn’t even a flaccid attempt at civility. “G-2, onto the LCIs and LCM. Threes! G-3, onto the LCPs and LCVPs! G-4, onto the others! Move out!”
Armiese was everywhere. Wingate marveled at the organized chaos. He moved over to a small table, where a blackboard and clipboard rack were attached to the right-hand wall. The man sitting behind the desk, scribbling furiously, didn’t look up as he approached.
“Name?” he asked, sounding like a terrier whose foot had just been stepped on.
“Captain Wingate.”
At that, the man looked up, but just for a second. He looked into Wingate’s face for identification purposes, then went back to his writing. “Sorry, sir, but you know how it is. Your orders are on the wall there. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Wingate replied, moving away. “You too.” He scanned the hook-hung clipboards until he found his name at the top of one. It told him to take a forward position on one of the LCTs—the same unit engineer Ted had taken his fatal dive from.
Wingate moved through the mass of scurrying soldiers until he found the craft in question. Pulling himself aboard, he saw that only three men seemed unoccupied with the business of tending the tanks and they were all standing together. Checking his orders, it also listed three men under his immediate command. Walking over, he executed a sharp salute, which the men hastily returned. One of them was Private First Class Richard Glynn.
“Private Earl Merrin?” Wingate read.
“Yes, sir,” said a long-faced, high-foreheaded young man to Glynn’s left.
“Corporal Robert Cobb?” Wingate asked. The muscular, crew-cut man to Glynn’s right answered. “At ease, men,” Mac went on. “I’m Captain Wingate, and I’ll be your commanding officer until we report to—” Mac checked the clipboard, “—Major Fred Bender on the beachhead. He’s handling the demolition engineer units for Operation Shingle.”
“Yes, sir,” all three men replied as one.
“Excuse me, sir,” Glynn hesitantly continued, “but I hope you don’t mind, well, you know, before, what I said ... ?”
“I said ‘at ease,’ Glynn,” Wingate answered. “Don’t worry about it. Just make sure what happened to that man in Florida doesn’t happen to you in Italy. We need all the help we can get.”
“Yes, sir!” Glynn replied with relieved gusto.
“Carry on,” Wingate told them, punctuating it with a salute. The men returned the movement and talked among themselves as Wingate moved toward the LCT crew for some specifics on their landing.
As he went, he couldn’t help but feel pleased with himself. No doubt Glynn was telling the others about his earlier “faux pas” in the bunk and how Wingate just let it pass. That would make the captain a “good guy” in any enlisted man’s book. And if Wingate had to depend on anyone on shore, he’d rather it be someone who liked him. Of course, respect was more important than being liked, but that would come later. Respect was something you earned.
Wingate had heard the dark, hushed rumors of soldiers killing their commanders in the field. Most of this minority were killed because they were incompetent leaders who had—or were going—to get their men killed. But some died because there was one vindictive psycho in their unit who saw, and took, his opportunity. If that was commonplace on the major battlefields, Wingate figured he better be safe than sorry.
Just as quickly as he thought that, Wingate shook the idea out of his head. He was too accustomed to leading antagonistic resistance units behind enemy lines, he rationalized, where anyone could be a spy or traitor. These were American soldiers, he told himself. He couldn’t think of them the same way he thought of Corsican, African, Norwegian or French partisans, for God’s sake.
Wingate smiled at himself as he neared the LCT crew. Most of them toiled at their craft, but one disengaged himself from the group and met the Captain halfway.
“You leading the ‘reppls’?” he asked, without so much as a salute.
“Reppls?” Wingate answered, feeling like he was talking to Glynn again.
“Replacements, Captain,” the broad crewman said with mock patience. “You’re the engineer contingent on this shipment, right?”
Wingate nodded. “That’s right, sailor.”
The crewman tipped his torso to the left so he could look around Wingate at the three men beyond. “Amazing,” he breathed, returning upright again. “You guys must’ve learned your lesson.”
“What do you mean?” Wingate inquired with real patience.
“This is the smallest engineer replacement count we’ve had to deliver yet!” the crewman exclaimed. “Oh, yeah, Allied Command usually pads the replacements because they lose so many on the way to shore. Like, if they need five men, they’ll usually ask for eight or ten, just in case, so when the krauts pick them off on the way to the RC, they’ll still have enough.”
Wingate could suddenly understand the animosity between the army and navy. For people who were supposedly fighting together, they sure could turn into pricks in the proximity of each other.
But rather than snap the man’s head off or threaten all sorts of things, Wingate played it smooth and easy. Feigning a worried interest, he responded. “Things pretty tough on the beachhead, then.”
“Tough, nothing,” said the crewman. “All hell’s broken loose in a hatbox! The day we landed, January 22nd? No problem!” The sailor spread his hands as if petting a calm sea. “A couple of flea-bitten krauts are rounded up and there’s nothing between us and Rome. Italy is our oyster. But what do we do? I’ll tell you what. Nothing. Absolutely zilch! We hang around on the beach and wait for the krauts to pour everything they’ve got on us. Man, I’m telling you, tough isn’t the word.”
Wingate was beginning to miss the non-English speaking partisans. At least they didn’t use armiese or wise off to superior officers. Wingate was still trying to figure out what RC meant. “Listen,” he said, motioning for the crewman to come closer. Leaning in conspiratorially, Wingate put a hand on his shoulder and a forefinger before his face. “Your job is to get us to the beach, right?”
The crewman nodded.
“Well, you just do your job,” Wingate suggested. “But if you or any of your friends so much as say two words to my men, I will personally see to it that you get cut off at the hamstrings.” Seeing the smug, disbelieving look on the man’s face, Wingate added, “Before I get off the LCT. Capisce?”
The superior, “I know something you don’t know” expression dissipated. Unlike some people, when Wingate promised something, it could be believed.
Wingate released the man’s shoulder and let him return to his compatriots. He was not pleased about getting tough with the seaman, but he realized the necessity of his threat. He didn’t want his men unduly worried or frightened. Prepared, yes, overly concerned, no. Of course, it was difficult not to be overly concerned when two groups of men were desperately trying to kill each other, but there were degrees of fear even within that situation. There was the degree that made one fight like a cornered bull and there was the degree that made one freeze like a surprised squirrel. Any soldier would prefer the former over the latter.
And Wingate knew the men would need all the courage they could muster. The seaman’s stupid declarations had only given credence to the reports Erikson had made available to him. The colonel may not have liked Wingate transferring, but he’d be damned if he’d let Anzio kill Mac without a fight. To make sure the captain knew what he was getting into—and to help him get back out alive—Erikson had opened the Operation Shingle files for his agent.
The push from Anzio to all points in Italy was the brainchild of Churchill himself. He conceived Shingle and was responsible for selling it to Roosevelt and Stalin. But because of parallel attack plans—plans that Wingate was unable to see—the plotting of the operation took only three weeks. Once he had discovered that, Wingate felt his first major tinge of worry. Even the most slapdash of the Allies’ major attacks took at least a month—usually the minimum was six weeks—of R & D, which was more armiese for Research and Development. Shingle had occupied half the planners’ usual time.
The final plan was to take over the mid-Italy hills and to cut the communication lines to the German 10th Army. The responsibility for that was given to British Field Marshal Alexander, the Earl of Tunis. For some reason, Wingate couldn’t bring himself to completely trust a man with a name like that. The name itself showed a distinct distance from the everyday fighting man. How could an earl—with no first name yet—relate to the men who were doing the actual work? Even worse, how could they relate to him?
Social position aside, Alexander, Churchill and the other planners worked out a fighting framework. The 2nd (U.S.) Corps would close up the Liri Valley, then General Juin’s French warriors would threaten the Nazis’ north flank after advancing through the mountains to Atina. Concurrently, the 10th (British) Corps would attack the south flank while the 2nd (U.S.) Corps would cross the Rapido River to join the Allied 5th Army, which, in the meantime, would have landed at Anzio.
As described in the communiqués, Alexander saw it all as a one-two punch—or left and right cross—which would knock the enemy out for the count. Only while Alexander thought he was going up against a heavyweight, Hitler had trained himself a champion. Alexander’s double punch only served to make the bad guys cover up, not disappear.
So Churchill sent new orders down the line. The Fifth Army, under the command of General Mark Clark, received instructions from Alexander himself, which were short and not so sweet.
“Fifth Army will prepare an amphibious operation of two divisions plus to carry out an assault landing on the beaches in the vicinity of Rome with object of cutting the enemy lines of communication and threatening the rear of the German Corps ...”
General John Lucas, recently promoted as commander of the 3rd (U.S.) Corps was put in charge of the attack forces: the 6th (U.S.) Corps, the 1st (British) Division, his own 3rd (U.S.) Division, two Commandos units, a Ranger battalion, a U.S. parachute regiment, the 1st (U.S.) Armored Division and the 45th (U.S.) Division—which was specifically included as a hard-hitting backup unit which could quickly take advantage of whatever headway was made. Only it was tough to be hard-hitting when you were sitting on your hands.
