Mac wingate 6, p.7
Mac Wingate 6, page 7
Wingate crawled toward the door down to the hold.
“Where are you going?” Walters demanded.
Mac turned. He saw the Varsø out the shattered windows opposite, chugging in pursuit. As it dipped in and out of sight because of the choppy waves, he also saw at least half a dozen Nazis near its bow, shooting at them.
“Stay put,” he said by way of answering the Englishman. “With all the extra soldiers’ weight on board the other ship, we may be able to outrun them. But I doubt it.” Mac reached the back door, slid through, and stood on the third step.
“So what are you going to do?” Walters cried.
“Neill, Baker,” Wingate boomed. “Get ready to abandon ship. When I say so, get out the door the farthest from the other ship and swim for all you’re worth. Make sure the others do the same. No matter what happens, just keep going, underwater if possible. Clear?”
Both Candy and Neill answered, “Clear.”
“But what about me?” Walters wailed.
“Do whatever you’d like,” Wingate said, his back already turned, his feet already pounding down the steps.
He ran immediately to his quarters. Placing just one foot inside, he scooped up the block of C-2 and his two weapons. Then he marched toward the hold, the plastic explosives under one arm. As he went, he searched through the detonators in his coat until he found the one he was looking for.
Then he was in the hold, searching for the trapdoor to the engine. He found it below some empty cartons near the middle of the enclosure. Knowing it would be too dark for any delicate work down there, Wingate prepared the charge standing over it. He took the special detonator and buried it deep in the C-2. It was a “ring-pin” detonator, one that worked much the same way a grenade did. Once the little pin, attached to a ring, was pulled out, the priming charge would go off, detonating the larger bomb.
Wingate crouched down, opened the metal trapdoor, and dropped into the engine area. There was hardly enough room for one man to fit, so it was perfect to house the explosives. Wingate pushed the plastic stuff against the engine and hopped back into the hold again. As he raced back toward the bridge, he could hear the sounds of the battle grow more intense. Every few seconds, the bridge would reverberate with the sounds of hacking submachine guns. He climbed up the stairs and put his head just over the bottom of the door opening.
“Captain Wingate!” Walters exploded. “What is going on? What are you doing?”
“Captain,” Neill called over the Britisher’s complaints, “it’s no good. They’re more experienced in these waters than I am. And I can’t do my best in this position.”
Wingate empathized. Trying to outrun an enemy by shooting and steering at the same time in a crouched position was nearly impossible.
“How much longer can you hold out?” Mac asked.
“A couple of minutes, but then they’ll be on us.”
“All right,” Wingate decided. “Candy, get over to the cabinet at the back of the bridge and get me some strong string.”
Baker crab-walked back to the unit that Wingate had gotten the telescope from, and pulled out all the rope he could get his hands on, then threw the whole bunch at the back door.
“Take your pick,” Candy said, keeping his eye on the pursuing craft.
Wingate collected all the strands and pulled the rope down with him. He returned to the hold where he propped open the engine area’s trapdoor with some of the empty cases. Then, just to make sure it wouldn’t slam shut, he put the commandos’ jumbled bedding on either side of the opening. If it did try to swing closed with the wrong roll of the sea, the rolled-up blankets would keep it from cutting the lifeline he was planning.
Reaching down into the engine area, he tied one end of the cord he was carrying to the ring of the ring-pin detonator. Then, ever so gingerly, he tested its give. One tug too hard and the boat would blow with everyone still on it.
It was a situation that required finesse. He couldn’t just attach the other end of the rope to the trapdoor so it would go off when the Nazis opened it. If he did that, they’d all be dead in the water by the time the Germans got around to searching the ship. He had to work it so the place would explode after they had gotten away, but before the Nazis could spot them and shoot them like ducks in a barrel.
Mac unraveled the coiled cord as he walked backward out of the hold. He ran it down the hallway. One length ran out at the steps, so he tied another length to it. He unraveled it up the steps. Then he stuck his head over the doorsill again.
The Varsø was coming up along the opposite side now. When Neill had turned toward shore, the other vessel had simply followed. It had been on the left side of the commandos’ ship at first, but now it was gaining ground on the right side. It all worked perfectly for Wingate’s plan. He crawled into the cabin on his stomach, pulling the cord along with him. Reaching the front corner of the bridge, he pulled the rope as taut as he dared. Then he tied it to a bolt at the base of the floor.
He reexamined his handiwork. It seemed to be perfect. The rope was stretched across the bottom of the right doorway to the outside. If someone slid open the door without looking down and stepped in, they would kick or trip on the rope, which would pull out the ring-pin, which would ignite the detonator, which would charge the C-2, which would turn the trawler into matchsticks.
Not trusting Walters for anything, Wingate pronounced, “Don’t touch the rope.” Then he crawled to the left-hand door, slid it open, and shouted, “Get in here! Now!” He slid away from the opening as the three men charged back inside, looking none the worse for wear.
“Any damage?” Wingate asked everyone.
“Not in this bloody weather,” Breaker reported. “They can’t hit us with their peashooters, and our rounds are gone with the wind!”
“It’ll get worse as they get closer,” Sumner said.
“And they’re going to get closer!” Neill promised.
“All right,” Wingate interrupted. “It looks like we can’t outrun them, and getting into a one-on-one firefight is too chancy.”
“That’s ridiculous!” piped up Walters. “Why, with our submachine guns, we can make mincemeat out of them!”
“And what if they turn tail and run?” Wingate demanded, forgetting all about the “sir” stuff. “We can’t catch up to them and they’ll have an armada waiting for us in the fjord. No, we’ve got to get them all in one fell swoop.”
“What if they’ve already radioed for reinforcements?” Tyler suggested, breathing heavily. It was obvious he wasn’t used to battle.
“I don’t think so,” Wingate reasoned. “We must look pretty minor to them. Just a couple of people returning fire against a larger group of Germans. I’m hoping the Nazi pride will make them remain silent until they mop us up.”
“So what now?” Breaker demanded.
“I’m going to cut the engines and I want all of you to slip off the other side of the ship as one. Submerge as much as you can and swim as quietly as you can away from this thing.”
“What about you?” Neill wanted to know.
“Don’t worry about it,” Wingate answered. “If this works, you’ll see me soon enough. If this doesn’t work, we’re probably all dead anyway. Get ready.”
Six men huddled by the door opposite the booby-trapped entrance. Mac held on to the vibrating throttle while he kneeled behind the wheel. He waited until he saw the very front of the Varsø out the rearmost window, then started to pull the throttle back. The ship slowed.
Mac turned and nodded at the colonels and the commandos. Sumner slid the door open silently and they all crab-walked out. The bridge effectively blocked them from the Germans’ sight.
Wingate continued to slow the vessel. He saw the commandos tense. Colonel Tyler started to rise, preparing to dive in headfirst. Breaker Biggins pulled him down brusquely. Wingate checked the opposite window. It looked like the Varsø was slowing in unison with the Allied craft. The American captain licked his lips. Once this first part of the operation was completed and the commandos were off and the Nazis were on, then the real stickler would start.
Wingate quickly checked the bridge for the heaviest pockets of shadow. The darkness he sought was under the chart table as well as just behind it. He looked up toward the enemy ship again. He had to have his men get off before the Germans came astern. Before the Germans could see them through the bridge’s broken windows. The Varsø was almost upon them. Wingate put the engine in idle, then swung his head to nod at the commandos.
The whole group crawled over the side and slipped into the sea. Wingate didn’t hear a splash. So far, so good. He crawled over to the open door opposite the booby-trapped entrance and slid it shut. Then, before the enemy craft could pull alongside, he propelled himself back along the floor to his position against the wall.
He couldn’t leave yet. The Germans would board and enter the cabin, probably by the way he hoped, but there was also a chance someone would enter by the door opposite. Then the whole plan would be meaningless. He didn’t have the time or the equipment to set up another trip wire for the other door—he would need some nails to keep the second rope flat against the back wall, then taut on the bottom of the door. Somehow, he had to make sure the Germans came into the cabin only one way.
Waiting, as always, was excruciating. And as always, Wingate’s body responded by flushing almost all the liquid it could find out of his pores. Even in the chill of the Arctic morning, Mac pressed himself against the wall swimming in sweat. To make things all the more suspenseful, he couldn’t chance looking at the Varsø out of the windows above his head. At this angle they were sure to see him if he was anywhere but plastered against the right wall.
He heard no gunfire, so it seemed reasonable to assume that they had not discovered the men in the water yet. But he did hear muffled voices, a fact that elated and frightened him. It probably meant the Nazis had boarded. But how many? And where were they?
Mac looked out forward. He saw the top of a capped head moving toward the bow. Taking it as a cue, he crawled quickly to the chart table. He shrugged his Sten gun off his shoulder and into his hand. With his free arm, he rubbed his side to be sure his Browning was secure. He couldn’t see any Germans through the top of the chart table, but that meant they couldn’t see him either.
He looked to his right. The Varsø’s roof bounced in and out of sight. He looked to his left. Just empty sky. He listened carefully. Muffled voices, an occasional shout. No sign of alarm. Just caution and wonder. Mac had chosen his hiding place well. The bridge was the last place they’d check, and they would check it carefully.
Finally, Wingate could hear German voices clearly. They were near the broken windows of the bridge. One German wondered why there was no trapdoor to the hold in the deck. That was usual, as far as he knew. Another Nazi verbally shrugged. The eccentricities of Norwegian sea power were beyond him. Another voice wondered if the men were lying in ambush inside the bridge or below decks.
A voice, obviously used to command, answered. It ordered the men to surround the bridge on all sides. Then, when he gave the word, they would lob a grenade in a broken window. After that exploded, they would charge and hurl another grenade down the hold stairs.
Terrific plan, Wingate thought in a nearly manic state brought on by the sudden rush of adrenaline throughout his body. But he wasn’t going to wait around to congratulate them. He waited just long enough to hear the Nazi’s boots walking around both sides of the cabin before roaring into action.
Wingate was on his feet and out of his hiding place in a split second, bringing the Sten up in the same motion. What he had going for him was surprise, and he used it to the fullest degree.
He faced the rear of the bridge, but his torso and arms were twisted to the left. He tore open the nearest Nazi’s head with two 9 mm bullets from the silenced barrel. The effect was impressive. To his fellows it must have looked as if the sailor’s head had erupted of its own volition. Wingate didn’t pause to admire his handiwork. He pivoted and raked the whole opposite wall with a line of lead. The three Germans who were taking up positions on that side were mowed down in a messy row.
Wingate turned again, to face the way he had shot originally. He saw the German commander hop back to the deck of the Varsø while pushing a few more underlings toward the bridge. The first underling ran forward. Wingate shot him full in the face as he slammed against the opposite door. The second man ran off to the side as Mac hurled the door open. A third man slipped around to the other side of the bridge.
The third man crouched and took aim just as Wingate’s bullets ploughed into the second man’s side. He fell forward across the deck as Mac turned and emptied the last of his magazine over the head of the third man. He kept his finger tight on the trigger until the click of the firing pin in the empty chamber was audible to all.
It worked. If not perfectly, then effectively. Rather than trying to shoot him immediately, the third man turned to call to his commander. In that moment, Wingate swung the Sten onto his back again, slammed both feet onto the deck, and dove right over the side, headfirst.
The Nazi commander screamed for the third man to prevent Wingate’s escape, while starting to jump back onto the Allied trawler. The third man, not wanting to take up any more of his superior’s precious time, slammed open the door nearest him rather than running around the bridge to get to the other side. He hurled himself forward, hardly feeling the rope that pressed into the ankle of his boot.
He didn’t hear anything. The ring-pin clicked out of the detonator below decks. Then the C-2 exploded. Then the engine exploded. The double detonation tore the boat in half, then into many other pieces.
First the hold blew out and down, spreading kindling across the waves. Then the cabins and bridge blew up in a fiery tornado of yellow, red, and orange. The yellow and orange was the flame. The red was the blood.
All the Nazis on board were torn apart and spun out in all directions. The German commander, in the air halfway between his ship and the other, was shot backward onto the Varsø, slamming headfirst onto the deck, bouncing the rest of the way, and spinning into the ocean from the other side.
Wingate didn’t see any of it. He let the weight of the Sten and the Browning pull him down, while he was diving as straight and kicking as hard as he could. Even so, the shock wave was enough to nearly knock him out. Since he was expecting it, however, he held on enough to kick his way back to the surface. Rubble and little patches of still burning fuel surrounded him. He looked around for any sign of the others. He saw them a football field or so away—six bobbing heads on a rolling sea.
He looked in the other direction. Through the smoking wreckage of what was once a fishing trawler, Wingate saw the Norwegian captain standing on the deck of his ship, a P-38 automatic pistol clutched in one hand.
As Mac watched, the Norwegian stuck the weapon in his waistband, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted in Riksmaal, “Are you all right?”
“Ja, ja,” Wingate shouted back, waving him on.
The Varsø, still seaworthy despite the explosion, trudged through the remains of the trawler toward Mac. The Norwegian captain helped him to board.
“SOE?” the Norwegian asked.
Wingate shook off a little of the water, pulled his Sten off his back, and made a motion with his hand that said “sort of.”
“MILORG?” Mac asked back.
The Norwegian led Wingate back to the ship’s control room, making the same “sort of” motion. Mac smiled and nodded. At least they both knew where they now stood.
“Takk,” Mac said, meaning “thanks.”
“S’goo!” the Norse captain replied, meaning “you’re welcome, here you are, may I help you, and make yourself at home.” Wingate could identify with all four meanings.
Making himself at home inside the Varsø’s bridge was made a little difficult by the two German corpses that lay there, bleeding on the wooden floor. The Norwegian motioned at them, asking, “Voer sa god ...?” He was wondering if Mac would “be so good” as to rid the cabin of the bodies. Mac nodded again as the Norse captain headed the ship in the survivors’ direction. As Wingate dragged the pair out and dumped them overboard, he understood why the Norwegian had been holding the gun after the explosion. The man had taken the opportunity to rid himself of all his unwanted sailors.
Mac returned to the bloody bridge, introducing himself as he entered.
“Ah, Captain Wingate,” said the Norwegian. “I am Lars Harald. I was forced to pilot this group from North Cape to Trondheim. I am sorry we crossed paths, but ...” He shrugged as if saying, “What can you do?”
Mac commiserated with him. Norway had been hard hit by the Nazis when the war started. They had attacked early in April 1940. In twenty-five days, southern Norway gave in. A month later the whole country was in Hitler’s hands. The Norwegians did what they could, but their government was woefully unprepared and there just weren’t enough soldiers. Even so, it seemed as if the Nazis were willing to pay any price for the conquest. As it was, the Norse lost only 1,335 men as compared to the 5,636 Germans who died and the thirteen battleships they lost.
Harald kept an eye on the treading commandos. But a small shape coming from offshore caught Wingate’s attention. As he watched, it crept out of the mist and took shape as another fishing vessel. As the Varsø neared the commandos, Mac tapped Lars on the shoulder and pointed.
“Ah,” said the Norwegian, “MILORG.” He nodded optimistically at Wingate, then went back to the delicate task of approaching the swimming men.
As the last man was dragged out of the water, the approaching ship was gaining ground. Mac could see the word “Varfeinal” on the front of its bridge. Then he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, made all the more heavy by the sodden coat sleeve that surrounded it. He turned, expecting to see exactly who he did. Colonel David Walters, back from Davy Jones’s locker.
“Congratulations,” the Englishman said flatly. Wingate couldn’t be sure whether he was being blusteringly honest or craftily sarcastic. “You nailed the Jerries, but now we’re without a ship. Do you have any idea about how we might get back to Shetland?”
