Mac wingate 1, p.8
Mac Wingate 1, page 8
The implications of what Moreau was saying were obvious. The “legal” government of France had been collaborating with the Germans ever since June of 1940. If the leaders of that government were being shipped by the Germans to French North Africa, it was only for one reason: to rally those million and a half Frenchmen who lived there! No wonder Patton was worried. He had come ashore with 35,000 troops. How long could they survive if a million and a half Frenchmen turned against them?
“We could take them on the beach,” said Wingate. “A dozen light machine guns ...”
Moreau shook his head and stood up. “No,” he said at last. “Sure—we would get the ones coming ashore, but what about the ones already here? The ones in Casablanca that these dogs are coming to meet? We need them all.”
It came back to what Wingate had told Patton. Explosives planted at the meeting place.
“I need to know where they’re meeting,” said Wingate, beginning to go through his mental checklist. “I need a layout of the place, details on access, guards, alarm systems, raw steak and cyanide in case of dogs ...”
“Captain, Captain!” Moreau was saying, gesticulating with his hands to interrupt Wingate. “I don’t have the information yet. As soon as I get it ...”
A distant rumble of gunfire stopped him in full flow. A second later, the sound of air raid sirens wailed from the shore across the harbor. Wingate turned and pulled aside the shade covering the little window. He could see the lights from the supply ships in the distance, and beyond them half a dozen lights escaping from the blacked-out town. But above the town the sky was black. There was no second parachute flare hanging over the harbor. He dismissed the sirens as a false alarm.
Moreau picked up a leather coat from behind the cabin door and began to pull it on. He put on a beret and cried, “Come on! What are you waiting for? If we are caught here on the open water ...!”
Wingate cut in on him. “When do you expect to have the information? You’ve given me a couple of days, that’s all. I’m an explosives man—not a miracle worker!”
Moreau was pulling on gloves. “Tonight. I expect word from a contact.”
Wingate got to his feet. He was warm again at last. It improved his thinking. He said, “I’ll need explosives, blasting caps, a blasting machine ...”
“Everything—everything will be supplied,” Moreau cried. “But we must get out of here!” He sounded half hysterical to Wingate. Wingate wondered if maybe he wasn’t hiding something behind this apparent terror of being caught in an air raid.
Wingate followed him toward the cabin door. The second Moreau opened it, the blast of some colossal explosion caught him and flung him back into Wingate. Wingate lost his balance, put out a hand to save himself and finally fell backward on the cabin floor with Moreau sprawled face-up on top of him.
“Get me up!” screamed Moreau. “For God’s sake, let me out!”
The boat had been lifted bodily out of the water and as it fell back it struck bow-first. Moreau flew over Wingate’s head and landed with his face flat against one of the table legs.
Wingate struggled to keep his equilibrium and finally, when the movement of the boat had settled down, he got to his feet. As far as he could tell he was fine. There was no pain. All his limbs appeared to work. He turned to look for Moreau. Outside, the world seemed to be coming apart. The noise was continuous and deafening. He could actually feel the sound coming at him in pressure waves. His hearing and sense of balance were affected by it.
Moreau was lying by the table, making no attempt to get up. Forward of him, water was welling up through the floor where the bow had been stove in.
Wingate took a couple of strides down the sharply angled floor and grabbed Moreau by the back of his leather coat. The minute he turned him over he could see that the man was out cold. The leg of the table had split his forehead open, smashed his nose and broken two upper teeth. There was blood pouring down his chin and running all over the front of his coat.
Wingate dragged Moreau upright, slid a hand between his legs and lifted him onto his back. The angle of the floor was shifting every second. He began to wonder whether he could actually make the cabin door and get into the little wheelhouse before the boat sank at her moorings. He kept Moreau balanced over his shoulder and used both hands to help pull himself along the pieces of fixed furniture until he got to the door.
Once outside, the full violence of the raid hit him. The sky over the harbor was saturated with exploding flak bursts. Streams of slow-moving tracer arched over his head from the heavy machine guns and the 20 mm cannons mounted on the supply ships. Most of the floodlights on the quayside had been extinguished. Those that remained lit up fleeting figures of guards and Arab dockworkers racing for cover.
Wingate finally reached the quay with Moreau still over his shoulder. The bow of the ship had already disappeared. Another thirty seconds and the rest of her would be gone. He ran toward the nearest of the warehouses, keeping as low as he could so as to reduce the size of his target. To his left he could hear the drone of another wave of aircraft coming low across the harbor.
Ahead of him, one of the supply ships suddenly went up. It went up slowly, a long spiraling plume of flame coming out of the number-one hold and climbing steadily into the sky. He was aware that he was still running. The heat of the flames was warm on his face. The sensation was almost pleasant in the cold night air. Then the belly of the ship began to swell, three hatches lifted and cruised up into the air. There were distant screams and finally the ship split in two like a cracked egg on the rim of a frying pan. The blast rocked the two adjacent ships and sent debris towering into the air.
Wingate flung himself behind one of the cast-iron fire hydrants that lined the quay and waited. The blast tore past him, deflected by the hydrant and lifted a truck behind him into the water. The heat was intense. He clung to Moreau as the suction that followed the blast tried to tear the body from Wingate’s shoulders. A moment later and the violence of the air movement had passed.
Wingate got to his feet and ran. He had to make the cover of the first of the sandbagged guard posts before the debris started falling. God alone knew how many tons of garbage was floating around over his head. If he was still in the open when it came back to earth, he could forget the rest of the war.
He had covered thirty yards when the first of the aircraft came into view. It was a Junkers 88, silhouetted black against the blazing supply ship. The nose gunner must have spotted Wingate about the same time that Wingate spotted the aircraft. He let loose a two-second burst of machine gun fire that raked the concrete surface of the quay only three feet ahead of Wingate.
Wingate dodged, then as the nose gunner lost him in his sights, he increased his speed. In another second the aircraft would pass directly over him and he would be exposed to a burst from the rear gunner.
A bomb struck another supply ship, a hundred yards on the town side of where the first was still blazing. A moment later the shower of debris that Wingate had been trying to get clear of began to fall around him. A great sheet of iron smashed into the superstructure of a little private yacht to his right. Lengths of seasoned timber planking clattered ahead of him, bouncing on the concrete surface of the quay. Overhead, the streams of tracer still curved over the black surface of the water. Screams in French, English and Arabic filled the air and above the general racket Wingate could hear the bells of fire engines from the town.
He was within ten yards of the first of the warehouses with its sandbagged emplacement guarding the entrance, when the second burst of machine gun fire came. The Junkers was climbing and making a steep turn out to sea. The bullets ripped into the corrugated iron of the warehouse and splintered a side door, each one edging closer to Wingate’s head.
Wingate dived for the ground, still clutching Moreau. He rolled, taking Moreau with him, avoiding another chunk of falling debris by pure good luck. By the time the machine gunner had found his target, Wingate had got himself and Moreau behind the cover of the sandbagged wall. A moment later and he was in the shelter of the emplacement itself.
The guards inside the emplacement were French. They were too concerned for their own safety to take any notice of the two civilian newcomers. Wingate took care to stay out of the dim glimmer cast by the turned-down kerosene lamp. He was still on his knees and he opened Moreau’s leather coat and put his ear to Moreau’s chest. The heart was beating strongly and as Wingate lifted his head and looked at Moreau’s broken face, Moreau opened his eyes. There was panic in them as he realized where he was.
“Get me out!” he breathed, indicating the French soldiers crowding around the kerosene light.
“Take it easy,” Wingate said.
Moreau ignored him and sat up. He shook his head to clear it. “If they catch me!” he whispered, his voice trembling with alarm. “If they recognize me ...!”
Moreau got to his knees, taking care to keep his face deep in the shadows. Outside, the noise had eased. One of the soldiers took a quick glance around the corner of the sandbagged entrance.
Moreau whispered to Wingate, “I have a room in the Rue el Ghaza. Number 16. The top floor. I will have the information for you at nine o’clock tonight. You understand?”
Wingate nodded. “Sixteen—Rue el Ghaza,” he repeated. “Nine tonight.”
Moreau raised his head and listened. Then he turned and ducked through the sandbagged entrance and disappeared into the night outside.
Wingate’s position was no more secure than Moreau’s. The word was out on the streets that he was Legrand and it had been pretty clear to him already that everyone in North Africa was looking for Legrand. But when he weighed that fact against the air raid outside, it struck him as safer for the moment to stay where he was.
Five minutes later, the noise outside finished almost as abruptly as it had started. Flames from the burning supply ships framed the figure of the soldier standing in the sandbagged entrance. Sirens in the distance wailed out the “All Clear” signal.
One of the soldiers turned up the flame of the kerosene lamp and soft yellow light bathed the cramped interior of the emplacement. Wingate got up from the crouched position he had been in and made for the entrance. The soldier was still blocking the opening. He was facing Wingate now, eyeing him carefully.
“Ah, Monsieur Legrand,” said a voice behind Wingate.
Wingate hesitated. The soldier facing him was already lifting the muzzle of his Sten gun toward Wingate’s belly. Finally Wingate turned.
There was a French lieutenant standing just behind him. He wore the blue-black collar patches and green braid of the Foreign Legion and he was smiling. In his hand he was holding a World War I Smith and Wesson.
Five
It was two hours after the air raid that the French allowed Wingate to move. Until that time, he sat on an upturned ammunition box in the far corner of the emplacement and tried to get as much rest as he could. So far, lack of sleep had been one of his biggest problems. If he could only find a safe corner to curl up in so that he could lose consciousness for four or five hours, he would get the mission much more into perspective. It was turning into an endurance feat, rather than a test of his skill.
Someone prodded him with the muzzle of a rifle and pushed him toward the open entrance. Outside, it was full daylight. The damage that the raid had caused was more than he had expected. Two of the supply ships had sunk at their moorings, only the superstructures showing above the oil-slicked water. Derricks had been sheared from their mountings and blown backward onto the roofs of the warehouses. A truck lay on its side, a burned-out wreck jammed up against the wall of a scarred brick building. Debris lay everywhere—ripped sheets of metal, torn planks of wood, smashed supply cases. A group of Arabs were making a desultory effort to clear a roadway along the quay under the supervision of a French officer.
Wingate was prodded toward a covered jeep, his hands bound behind him. When he was seated behind the driver, he turned to the lieutenant sitting beside him and asked, “Where the Christ are you taking me?”
The lieutenant smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Either he didn’t understand English or he wasn’t prepared to talk.
The jeep rolled slowly down the quay, picking its way among the debris, passing the work parties that were trying to make some order out of the chaos. Every yard they covered increased Wingate’s sense of anxiety. These guys really believed he was Legrand and whoever the real Legrand was must really have given somebody trouble.
The jeep had a regulation canvas cover of olive drab, and Perspex side windows stained yellow with use. But at least the worst of the chill morning air was kept out, and the clothes and boots that Wingate had found aboard the Lorraine were keeping him warm. The thing he regretted most was that bastard Timmermann stealing his pistol. He could get by without a watch and maybe he could make out without money, but without a gun he didn’t stand a chance in a town that was teeming with hostile troops.
He wondered about Moreau. Had he got clear of the quay without being hit by machine gun fire or chopped into ground meat by shrapnel? It didn’t seem likely. The little Frenchman had been badly knocked around in the cabin and he had left the protection of the sandbagged emplacement when the air raid was still at its height. Wingate cursed himself for not taking the man’s pistol when Moreau had still been unconscious. What a waste to let the Frenchman get killed with that weapon still stuck in the waistband of his pants! Wingate really had to shape up. This wasn’t some high school picnic. That nose gunner in the Junkers hadn’t been fooling. This French guy sitting beside him now wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he gave the man the least excuse.
They were reaching the outskirts of town, already beginning to climb through the suburbs. The streets were broader, more spacious. Plane trees lined the boulevard they were driving along. In the distance a decrepit delivery truck had stopped at an intersection to let them pass.
They crossed the intersection and turned into the broad sweep of the Avenue des Regiments Coloniaux which ran southwest toward the Anfa road. As they did so, the delivery truck lumbered slowly out of the side road and turned after them. Wingate noticed it, the way he was noticing everything that seemed to offer him a way to escape from the French he was riding with. The Foreign Legion had been among the last troops to give up the battle against the invading Americans two months earlier. A lot of men had been lost on both sides. If Petain and Laval really did come ashore and set up a meeting the way Moreau had told Wingate, then the Foreign Legion would be the first to turn their weapons on the Americans again. There was no question about it—Wingate had to prevent that meeting. Sitting here in a jeep with his hands roped together behind his back, wasn’t the best place to start from.
The truck kept a hundred yards back. Wingate couldn’t make out the driver or whether there was a passenger with him. In the end he lost interest in the vehicle. He couldn’t see any way in which it could help him. He turned his attention once more to the knots in the rope, but his fingers were too numb now from lack of blood for him to be able to make any headway. Again, he turned his attention to the lieutenant sitting beside him.
The man was in his early thirties, his face tanned and weather-beaten from years of exposure to the desert air. He looked more German than French, with his blond hair cropped right up to the line of his kepi. He was sitting six inches away from Wingate, his feet apart on the metal floor of the jeep, hands resting on his knees so as to help absorb the shocks that came through the rock-hard suspension from every bump in the road surface.
Wingate had his legs free. The Frenchman’s revolver was back in its holster, though he had left the lap cover unstrapped. Wingate decided that if he could edge his right foot far enough under the lieutenant’s seat without attracting his attention, he might bring it up with sufficient force to drive the man upward and backward. The forward motion of the jeep would add to the movement while the back of the seat would act like a fulcrum. He would spin backward over the tailgate of the vehicle and land on his neck in the road. There was just a chance that the truck that was still following would fail to stop before it hit the man. In the confusion, Wingate would have a chance of running clear.
Wingate began to edge his foot across to his right. He kept his eyes fixed ahead of him, staring through the windshield so as not to attract the Frenchman’s attention. He hoped he had gauged the distance correctly. If his foot touched the other man’s, that would be the end of it.
Ahead, the avenue was empty except for a couple of donkeys with Arabs on their backs and a couple of American supply trucks heading north for the docks on the opposite side of the road. Another six inches and Wingate calculated that his foot would be in position. He leaned back a couple of inches. He wanted his back braced against the seat when he lashed upward with his boot. The old Hebrew Cemetery was coming up on the left. That seemed as good a place as any to put his plan into action.
The truck following them suddenly began to honk. The French lieutenant turned around at once, his revolver already half out of its holster. The two American supply trucks rolled past them and a second later the driver of the jeep swerved violently to his left. Wingate was thrown into the lieutenant, and the man’s revolver flew out of his hand and clattered on the road behind. The driver braked and Wingate and the lieutenant fell forward.
The whole thing happened too quickly for Wingate to take advantage of the situation. Through the windshield he could see the two Arabs lashing their donkeys mercilessly, urging them off the pavement and into the cover of the line of plane trees. Half a dozen small circular objects lay in the road ahead.
“Mines!” the driver screamed, jerking the wheel violently to his right.
Wingate was thrown against the canvas cover to his left. The lieutenant fell with him. The canvas ripped and through the gap Wingate could see half a dozen Arabs crouched behind the wall of the Hebrew Cemetery to his left. They had rifles. He grasped the situation in a sudden blinding flash, but it was too late to do anything about it. They had driven slap into an ambush.
