Mac wingate 6, p.6
Mac Wingate 6, page 6
Incredulous, Mac collected the demolition supplies and strode out of the room. He closed the door to the colonels’ quarters softly and carefully. Then he stood outside, breathing deeply. After a few seconds to calm down, Mac marched into his own room and dumped the materials on his cot. He stood over it, seriously thinking.
Everyone seemed to have different bits and pieces to the puzzle. Only each piece was completely different from the others and there seemed to be no way on God’s green earth that they would fit together. Erikson’s piece was that the mission was of the utmost importance. Walters’s piece said the mission couldn’t be less important. The commandos’ direct commander’s piece said it would be easy. Candy’s piece said it was amazing they weren’t dead already.
Somewhere, somebody was lying, and Wingate didn’t like deliberating on just who that was. Because whoever it was, he was behind Wingate with both hands against the captain’s back on the edge of a cliff. So decided, Mac emptied out his thoughts again. He simply opened the floodgates of his mind and let his concerns wash out. He knew his situation, now he had to deal with it. And in cases like these, there was only one way.
Mac turned into the perfect wooden soldier. If they wanted him to play it by the book, play it by the book he would. If they wanted a minor diversion, a minor diversion he would give them. If they wanted him to be at the beck and call of MILORG, then all MILORG had to do was bark.
Wingate sat down next to the C-2 and primacord. Somehow, its presence was comforting. He felt a little better knowing it was available for use. He felt the rhythmic rumbling of the trawler’s motor below him, and the coarse rocking of the ocean. He thought about everything that had happened in the past few hours. And he realized that if he had the choice, he’d rather be back inside that burning English hotel than here.
Chapter Three
Things started to fall apart when they got within spitting distance of their destination. Dinner had been fine. It seemed as if the colonels had had a choice. They could supply K rations to the commandos and eat real food themselves, showing exactly how they felt about the men; or they could suffer the indigestibility of K rations themselves; or, finally, they could all eat relatively decent food. They all ate relatively decent food.
The remainder of the voyage had been fine. Wingate had relieved Neill right after dinner. The Canadian ate, then took an eight-hour rest. The sea was blissfully calm and Mac handled the wheel easily. They remained on course with no problem. And it all served to make Mac all the more tense. If a storm had kicked up, at least it would have allowed him to blow off some steam.
As it was, Mac thought about the Norse legends his father used to tell him as a boy in Wisconsin. He especially remembered the stories about “the Draug.” It was a horrid, troll like creature who sailed the Norwegian sea forever. The monster didn’t have to do anything. Its very sight portended death to any seamen who glimpsed it.
The night and the sea played tricks on Wingate’s eyes. There were always dark shapes out on the waves. Thankfully, he could make out no discernible beasts or anything that shot at him. But still his tension mounted.
Donald Neill returned right on time. The moon and the position of the stars told Wingate that. He didn’t have to look at his wristwatch with its black band and brown-tinged plastic crystal. It was two o’clock in the morning. The pair stayed on the darkened bridge for a few more hours, sharing tales of their various seas. Before the war, Neill had traveled all the waters around Canada. He had shipped through Hudson and Baffin bays, sailed the North Atlantic and the Pacific, and even reached the Beaufort Sea and the Queen Elizabeth Islands around the North Pole.
Mac talked about traversing the Great Lakes and some of his earlier wartime experiences in the Mediterranean. The outwardly calm, almost wistful, conversation managed to soothe him somewhat, but when Wingate went below, he couldn’t help but liken the talk to ones resigned criminals had with priests just before they walked that last mile.
So it was no wonder that when the low whistle sounded in Wingate’s cabin, he was instantly awake and fully aware. He reached up from his bedding and pulled out the hose like communications device.
Mac pried off the metal cap with the tiny whistle in the middle, which was attached to the thick hose by a thin, short metal chain.
“Yes?” he asked softly but clearly into the opening.
“Better get up here, Captain,” came Neill’s muffled voice. “Ship in sight.”
“Markings?”
“Can’t be sure at this distance, but it looks like another fishing vessel.”
“Roger,” Wingate concluded, far from whimsically. He slapped the cap back on, stuck the hose back into its holder on the wall, and sprang out of bed, all in one motion. He had slept in his clothes and boots, so all he had to do was break out the cap and jacket he had packed specifically for purposes of disguise. The hat was a plain seaman’s cap. The jacket was a canvas sort of thing with a hood that could fit over the cap. It was standard fisherman’s gear.
He was pulling on the coat as he silently moved out of his quarters. Before going above, however, he stuck his head through the portal where the commandos were sleeping.
“Up,” he said simply to see if they responded. All were awake. “It could be nothing,” Wingate went on, “but be prepared anyway. Neill has spotted a ship. Listen for the whistle. If I blow once, we’re clear. Twice, be ready for a fight.”
Mac pulled on the cap as he trotted down the ship’s hall. He hauled himself up the steps to the bridge, feeling acutely the lack of his shoulder holster and Browning. If they were boarded for any reason, he couldn’t chance the automatic giving them away before the commandos down below could do something about it. If they caught Neill and Wingate dead to rights, the others would be sitting ducks, no matter how well armed they were.
The new morning was impressive as Wingate stepped out into it. Off to his right, he could see the mist-enshrouded shores of Norway. At this distance, there was very little detail, but he could make out the barren coastline seemingly made up of one mountain after another. All around him was the olive-and-white sea, rougher than it had been for the entire trip. And right in front of him was the other ship—a small, solid fishing vessel with “Varsø” written on the front of its rounded wooden bridge.
A misting rain had kicked up, splattering the windows of Wingate’s bridge, effectively blurring any other delineations. The sun had not completely risen, giving the ocean a gray-blue pallor that made vision all the more difficult. Mac couldn’t see anyone on board the approaching trawler. The only good thing about that was that whoever was on the other ship probably couldn’t see them very well, either.
Mac took up a position at the chart table next to Neill. “How long have they been coming?” he asked.
“Made a beeline for us as soon as sighted,” the Canuck answered. “Not a good sign.”
“Any other contact?” Mac asked.
“No,” Neill replied. “In the colonels’ infinite wisdom, they neglected to outfit this ship with a radio.”
Wingate looked quickly around. He spied a bureau like unit at the back of the bridge. He went over, crouched, and opened both small, swing-out doors. Inside were various trawler requirements, like a ship’s log, various lengths and widths of rope, and, incongruously, a brass telescope. He pulled out the last item, opening it with incredulousness.
“What does Walters think?” he wondered aloud. “We’re sailing into the nineteenth century or something?”
He walked to the right of Neill and the wheel to the farthermost window. Using one hand to pull the jacket’s hood over his head and the other to undo the window’s latch, he swung the glass partition back, and stuck his head out.
The telescope helped. With it, he could just make out a figure moving onto the Varsø’s deck. It was a wide, solid figure with a pair of binoculars. Mac couldn’t make out his features, but he could make out the man’s blue-and-white cap. It bore the unmistakable bird clutching the little round swastika insignia in its claws. It was the hat of a Nazi officer.
Wingate didn’t immediately give voice to what he felt. If he had, he might have lost yesterday’s meal, or turned Neill’s ears blue. Between looking a mess, not having any major markings other than grease stains, and not having a radio, the ‘Shetland Bus’ had almost screamed for attention. Mac quickly pulled his head back inside, pulled in the telescope, and shut the window. He clamped his teeth shut. In case the German could see him through the military binocs, he didn’t want to be spotted cursing in either English or Norwegian.
Quickly, he strode to the other side of the cabin, located the four communications tubes that led to his room, the colonels’ quarters, the hold, and the engine room, pulled up the hold device and blew twice.
“What is it?” Neill asked, already expecting the worst, but wanting to know the details.
Mac looked over at the helmsman, his mouth opening. Then his mouth shut in surprise. Then it opened again and in spite of himself, Mac swore.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the American marveled. On Neill’s otherwise unassuming jacket was the insignia of his outfit: the First Special Service Force. It was a beautiful thing, with a red Indian arrowhead and the letters USA emblazoned across the top and the word CANADA coming down vertically. Mac pulled up his pant leg, brought out his knife, and ripped off the patch with a swift, angry stroke.
He thrust the knife back in its leg scabbard and shoved the insignia into Neill’s shocked hands.
“Get below,” Wingate ordered. “Tell the men there are goddamn Nazis on the other ship. Tell the colonels nothing. I’m going to try to bluff them out.”
Neill stumbled back, dropping the patch in the process. He bent and picked it up, apologizing all the while. “Hey, I’m sorry, Captain, I ... I forgot all about it ... my, uh, wife put it on during my last furlough ...”
“Forget about it,” Mac snapped. “Get below. If they make one move to board, I’ll blow the whistle and you guys get up here shooting. If I suddenly speed up, do the same. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” Neill announced, disappearing out the door.
Wingate shook his head in wonder. On this trip, nobody could help being woefully unprepared. He squinted out the front window. It was still a dark, dank, gloomy morning, but there was really nothing he could do about the approaching craft. Even in the dark, he would still see the other ship, so veering off now would be suspicious. He had little choice but to stay on course and tough out the possible confrontation.
Wingate felt the constant thrum of the diesel motors beneath his feet. He saw the Varsø getting closer and closer. He heard his teeth grinding against each other. Mentally he boned up on his Norse dialects. He decided to use “Nynorsk,” the language of the old Norse, rather than the more commonly used “Riksmaal,” based on Danish forms. Even if the Nazi knew Norwegian, he’d still probably be confused by the ancient dialect.
The Varsø was getting close. Wingate shook himself and tried to feel unassuming. In an effort to create the proper mood, he quietly sang an old Norwegian song his father used to sing to him.
“Midnattsol, oh, midnattsol ...”
As the other craft got closer, Mac could see the German officer more clearly. He was blond, with a mousey beard. He wore all the Nazi regalia, including a knotted tie. Only now, he had fellow soldiers all around him. Wingate saw four Nazi sailors wearing their dark, plain uniforms, folded caps, and life preservers which circled their torsos. To top it all off, each carried a Karabiner 98K, the standard Nazi rifle.
Wingate thanked heaven for little things. At least they didn’t have submachine guns. With those five-round, bolt-action weapons, the commandos could make quick work of it in case of a firefight, but Wingate hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The Varsø finally pulled alongside and idled its engine. Mac did the same. In order to talk, he had to go to the window opposite the door to below, as his ship was pointing east and the other craft was pointing west.
Mac pushed open the side window. “Goddag!” he shouted out across the waves. “Kan jeg hjelpe Demi!”
The Nazi officer reacted rather brusquely to Wingate’s “Hello, can I help you?” Instead of talking to him, the German turned to the Varsø’s bridge, shouting and gesticulating.
Mac saw the bridge window facing him open. A ruddy faced, dark-haired Norwegian captain stuck his head out. He nodded at the Nazi, then called back to Mac in Norse.
“You are a bit far out for simple travel,” he said, awkwardly translating the German’s question. “It is still several months before the cod travel.”
“There is still the lodde,” Wingate called back, referring to the salmon-like fish in the Norwegian waters. “Besides, it is never too late or too early to sail. ‘The land divides us, the sea unites,’” he concluded, quoting a well-known Norse catchphrase.
The other captain nodded, his expression saying he agreed with Mac. But rather than answering immediately, he yelled down a rough German translation to the officer. The Nazi barked back. Wingate pursed his lips. If only the Nazi wasn’t shouting away from him, he could pick up the words before the Norwegian translated, giving him more time to create a reply. As it was, the wind blew the German words away from him.
“This is not a good day for sailing,” the Norwegian shouted. “You would do better to repair your boat before sailing on such a hazardous morning.”
Wingate saw visions of a throttled, impaled, bullet-ridden Walters in his mind. The Germans had picked up on the trawler’s disrepair right away. About the only good thing about the Norwegian’s new speech was that it seemed to be leading up to a curt dismissal and fond farewell.
“I will!” Mac shouted back. “I was planning to, but I needed to test her seaworthiness, and the ocean’s beauty carried me away.” In an American translation, the phrase might not have worked, but in Nynorsk, it was perfectly apt. The Norwegian captain’s face told Wingate again that the old salt often felt the same way. And he told the Nazi that in words the Germans could accept and understand.
It seemed to do the trick, because right after, the Varsø’s engines roared into renewed life, gray smoke belching out the thin chimney next to the bridge. The German nodded and turned away. The Norwegian waved. Wingate waved back and turned to start his own engines.
He nearly walked into the still, standing figure of Colonel Walters. The Englishman’s appearance there had to rank with Mac’s most shocking experiences during the war. Wingate literally stumbled back, his mouth working, his head minutely shaking from side to side. He acted as if he were facing the Frankenstein monster. As if the Draug had slipped aboard the ship and set up housekeeping on the bridge.
Because it wasn’t just Walters’s image that so surprised him. It was the fact that the Britisher was wearing his full Allied uniform. From top to bottom he appeared exactly as he had in Scotland.
“I’ll take it from here, Captain,” he said sharply.
In numb shock, Wingate suddenly realized how it felt to touch madness. He couldn’t comprehend how Walters could do such an incredibly suicidal thing. Struck dumb, he managed to shake his head no.
“You don’t understand, Captain,” Walters said. “This ship is our contact. The resistance had promised to meet us with another trawler.”
The explanation brought Mac back to this earth. He swung his head to look at the other ship. He saw one of the Nazis pointing at him. He turned back, put both hands on Walters’s chest, said, “Not this ship,” and shoved.
Walters fell on his back and the first bullet came through the bridge window at the same time. Walters stayed where he was, but many more bullets followed the lead of the first.
Colonel Tyler started to come through the open port at the back of the bridge. He managed to utter, “What is going ...” before Mac put his hand on the American’s chest and pushed him down the stairs.
Ignoring the storm of lead buzzing around the cabin, Wingate leaped back to the wheel, slammed the throttle down, and spun the wheel toward shore. He fell to the floor himself then, dragging the communications tube with him. Holding the wheel with one hand, he popped off the cap with his other thumb and blew long and hard, twice.
“What are you doing?” Walters managed to bluster, still flat on his back.
Wingate had no time for vindictiveness or sarcasm. “If we can make it to shore, run and keep running. If we can’t, jump off and swim for your life.”
As he finished, Wingate heard the stamping feet of the commandos lunging up the steps. “Keep down!” he shouted. “We’re under fire!”
The lithe, wiry Sumner came jumping through the door first. He slid all the way to the front wall of the bridge. Candy was next, wrapping himself around the curve of the opening and slinking along the back wall. Neill was third, clutching a Reising in one hand and an Enfield in the other, nearly tripping over Walters as he took cover next to the wheel. Finally, in came Breaker Biggins, standing almost full length, already blasting out the opposite window with his Owen submachine gun.
As soon as one Australian kneeled, the other was up with the Austen, sending out more fire. The Canadians responded in turn.
“Neill,” Wingate shouted. “Take the wheel and keep this thing pumping toward shore! Baker, stay inside the bridge and cover him as best you can. Biggins and Sumner, fan outside and see what you can do. Use what cover you can without endangering Neill. He’s our only chance to outrun them!”
“Captain,” said another voice, “what about me?”
Wingate looked around to see Colonel Tyler laying on his stomach, just inside the door, cradling an American M3 submachine gun, otherwise known as “the grease gun,” in his arms. Normally, Wingate wouldn’t have used him, but when he was this angry and in this position, he refused to waste the manpower.
“Go with the Aussies,” he said.
“No!” Walters shouted. “Tyler, get below!”
“Move out!” Wingate told the others. The American colonel ignored his British counterpart. When Biggins slid open the side door to the outside, Tyler went with them.
