Mac wingate 10, p.9
Mac Wingate 10, page 9
“Men,” Bender began, standing next to the long wall’s map board, “we’re heading back to Cassino. This time the 751st Tank Battalion and 46th Royal Tank crews want to roll right over the Nazis in the railway station area. To accomplish this, they want bridges built over the Rapido tributaries and the roads cleared of mines and other obstructions. The NZ sappers will take care of the bridging with their Bailies and cranes while the American engineers will clear the roads with their detectors and Snakes. We’ll move out as soon as darkness falls. Prepare your units. That is all.”
After that, there was very little left to say or do besides get the men ready. Woolcott told the gathered squad chiefs the details of the operation and then the men split up with nary a word to each other. They were all concentrating on the tasks before them. But as soon as the two engineers were outside, Mergallo uttered one word of opinion.
“Damn.”
Wingate nodded. “I know how you feel.”
“It’s not that, sir,” the sergeant said, his head up, the sleet slugging his open face. “Listen.”
Raising his head also, Wingate heard another sound over the buffeting wind. It was the unnatural whooshing of another shell—only this was unlike the sound Wingate was used to.
“Look,” said Mergallo, pointing up. Mac followed his finger, getting a glimpse of a torpedo-shaped thing coursing through the cloud-covered sky. It appeared and disappeared into the low gray mist cover, seemingly traveling in a wavy, tortuous pattern. It looked like a drunk missile—unable to decide which target it should hit. Wingate saw it bank left, then right, then bank the way it came.
“‘Chase Me Charlie,’” Mergallo went on, following the thing with his eyes. “It’s a wireless remote-controlled bomb. It did a number on us when we landed, but the navy technicians discovered they could block the enemy’s signal and send it harmlessly into the ocean. Only then the krauts found out that we knew. Now it’s a battle of radio signals whenever one of them is launched. Whoever has the last radio word does the damage. We never know where the damn things are going to drop.”
The men watched the macabre show outside the officer’s HQ. They stood in the storm, nearly motionless, until the shell twisted, dipped and dived into the ocean in between two Liberty ships. The subsequent explosion was all but swallowed up by the winter storm. It was a distinct anticlimax to the battle of technology which preceded it.
“That’s one for our side,” Wingate smiled. But when he turned, he saw that the exercise in electronics had gotten to Mergallo. The man was almost shaking. “Sergeant, are you all right?”
Mac thought he heard Mergallo say something like, “It’s an omen.” Then he heard more clearly, “God damn Bender anyway. Why didn’t he take a little more time?” This was the third time Mergallo had shown strange unhinging signs. Needing someone to trust and knowing it wasn’t Bender, Wingate grabbed the sergeant’s arms and tried to get to the heart of the matter.
“There’s no way I’m going to take you back to the unit like this,” he told Mergallo. “Is there any place we can get a drink around here?” Wingate began to pull the sergeant back to the officers’ door, but Mergallo stiffened in his grip.
“Not there,” he said coherently. “Follow me.”
The two walked through the rows of stagnating equipment all around General Lucas’s Nettuno headquarters and marched into the crumbling Italian town itself. Mergallo went quickly and unerringly through the twisting, snow-covered, rubble-filled alleyways with an ease that smacked of experience. He had made this trip before. Wingate followed without question, gaining more knowledge about the nature of the beachhead as he went.
Finally Mergallo moved to the left side of one alley and trotted down three stairs to a doorway. On it were stenciled the words: “Al Ricovero.”
“To the Air Raid Shelter,” Mergallo translated, knocking without looking. The small sign the words were attached to swung back, releasing a little cloud of heat and moldy fumes. A swarthy, red-cheeked Italian face peered out suspiciously until recognition flooded his features.
“Ah, Sergeant Garfield,” he cried. “How good to see you again.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mergallo replied. “Just open up, will you, paesan?”
“Certainly, certainly,” said the man, as he pulled the door back a smidge. “Hurry, hurry, it is bitter outside tonight, no?”
The two soldiers entered a low, dank, musty room lit by one bulb and a variety of candles. On the far wall Wingate could dimly see large casks stretching from the floor to the ceiling and cowled women moving among the barrels. In front of them were many soldiers—almost all of whom were wearing nondescript jackets.
“This is my friend, Captain Power,” Mergallo told the short, round, mustachioed host. “You treat him bene, eh?”
“Oh, bellissimo, Sergeant Garfield,” the man promised. “Bellissimo! You want drink or bottle?”
Mergallo looked at Wingate. “It depends on whether you want to bring any back for the men,” he explained. “They’ll be able to smell ‘tomorrow’s bravery’ on our breaths.”
“Can they handle it?” Wingate asked.
“They’ve done it before and came out in one piece,” the sergeant swore. “None of them are anxious to die, Captain.”
“A bottle then,” Wingate decided. “We’ll probably need all the courage we can get.” He looked around at the mold and garlic-covered walls. “Not to mention warmth.”
“Excellent,” the host cried. “Wait here, gentlemen. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as he left, Wingate asked Mergallo about a pressing problem. “Sergeant Garfield? Captain Power?”
“It isn’t a great idea to give them your real name,” he explained. “So I use the names of movie stars to play it safe. To them I’m Sergeant John Garfield and you’re Captain Tyrone Power. Just in case anyone at Command Headquarters gets picky and tries to close these places down.”
“Places?” Wingate echoed, stressing the plurality of the word.
“They’re all over town,” Mergallo revealed. “Prime vino for a prime amount of lira. The families who don’t want to leave usually live down here for protection from the shelling. Even though most of the officers get their liquid lunches from these places too, you never know when one will get puritanical on us.”
Wingate shook his head in amazement. Looking around he saw that the women were taking orders from the soldiers. Then they would fill the proffered tin cups or wicker-wrapped bottles with the rich ruby and grape liquid. There was not one stick of furniture in the place, but that didn’t seem to deter the group’s enjoyment. After all, they weren’t there for the atmosphere—which was sticky.
Among the many faces—Wingate could see obvious differences in bone structure, revealing men from Britain, Morocco, Australia and India—he saw only one that was familiar. “Stay here, John,” he cracked to Mergallo. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t be too long, Tyrone,” the sergeant replied dryly. Wingate walked over toward the casks and placed his hand on the shoulder of a man collecting a bottle from one of the women. The man almost dropped the vintage liquid in surprise. Getting a better grip on the container, Second Lieutenant Thomas Woolcott turned to face Captain Wingate.
“Not very nice to have you do the dirty work,” Wingate baited.
Woolcott gathered himself up, his shoulders going back and his nose slightly raising. “That’s completely untrue,” he said. “Major Bender is busy back at headquarters preparing our advance. And no matter what, he is always leading his men. I consider this a minor errand and am proud to do it for such a dedicated man.”
“Come on down off your High Command horse, Lieutenant,” Wingate suggested. “Might I remind you that I’m the ranking officer in this room and I expect the same sort of respect you give the major. And let’s get one thing straight. I don’t know why you come here, but it certainly isn’t out of pride. You know damn well not one other officer would do this kind of thing for any major. It would be an insult to his rank and a danger to his men.”
Woolcott’s head went down. “Yes, sir,” he humbly replied. Then, with something approaching cunning, he continued. “And may I ask what you’re doing here, sir?”
“No, you may not,” Wingate easily answered, feeling no desire to justify himself. “But you can tell me the compared casualties between the time Lieutenant Sullivan died and Major Bender took over the unit.”
“It’s not a fair comparison!” Woolcott flared, obviously sensitive on the subject. “The German counterattacks grew more intense, the Allied advances were more bold ... !”
“Remember who you’re talking to, Lieutenant,” Wingate said evenly. “That was a direct order.”
“The engineer casualties went up forty-eight percent,” Woolcott said miserably. “But Major Bender covered far more ground than Lieutenant Sullivan had. He’s a far more daring, imaginative leader than General Lucas. If he had been in command when we landed ...!”
“But he wasn’t,” Wingate said quietly. “And when he took over the engineering unit, things had changed. There was no open road to Rome any longer and it’s a mistake to think that there was.”
“That’s not how it happened,” Woolcott replied, his tone of voice changing from a defensive near-whine to a deep, sad, nearly piteous disappointment. “You don’t understand.”
Wingate nodded. “I’m just like all the rest, aren’t I? Nobody understands, do they?”
The captain had hit the psychological nail right on the head. Woolcott looked at Mac with a combination of surprise and fear. It was as if Wingate had read his mind. He hastily paid his bill, saluted the captain and walked quickly past Mergallo and out the door.
Wingate had pegged the relationship now. He had wondered what connected the second lieutenant with the major. The Englishman had done the British version of hitching his wagon to a star. He saw Bender as being everything Lucas was not. He figured the Major would go far inland and up the military hierarchy, so he decided to become the “major’s man.” He would be swept up the ranks along with his superior.
Only the going had not been swift and easy. All Bender had succeeded in doing was killing off half his men. Through bravado and skill he was able to convince his superiors that it was just the increased opposition of the growing German Army. But Bender himself knew the truth. He was coming face to face with his own fallibility and it was eating him up inside. Unable to admit the frailty of being human, he tightened up his exterior manner and bolstered his interior with the vino.
That was the only way Wingate could explain the Jekyll and Hyde nature of his commander. But the realization did little for him. In fact, it only tightened the noose he felt around his neck. No matter what he concluded, the stripes on the major’s arms still demanded that Wingate follow his orders. Unless Bender was killed, the collective army would still side with the major no matter what the conflict. The phrase, “Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die,” suddenly took on new meaning.
And suddenly, a horrible feeling overtook Mac. On every mission, at one time or another, he had felt the cross hairs of an enemy rifle on him. As if he possessed a second sight, he actually felt the enemy aiming at him. It gave him an edge, he found, because he had always managed to avoid getting hit. But now he didn’t feel the enemy’s sights—he felt the Allied ones. He felt the weight of his own army on his shoulders, trying to grind him under the Italian dirt.
“What was that all about?” Mergallo asked, having come up to his side, a bottle in hand. Wingate looked at the man, seeing that he was back to his secure self.
“You all right?” he asked.
Mergallo nodded. “You?” he answered, seeing the distant, vaguely haunted look on Mac’s face. Wingate looked at the door where Woolcott had disappeared and nodded in return.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. I’m suddenly very anxious to fight the enemy.”
Everybody had surprises for each other back at the basement. To Wingate’s surprise, there was an extra man waiting for him. He was a thin, blond-haired man with a deep look of intelligence about him. Corporal Meyer did the honors.
“Captain Wingate, meet our new corpsman. Wayne Conrad.”
The corpsman was a vital part of any operation. He was the unit’s medic. His medical training, no doubt, was responsible for his general air of intelligence. Whatever the case, Wingate was very glad to see him. He had the sinking suspicion that Conrad would be of ample service on this operation. He returned the man’s salute, then put out his hand for an extra measure of welcome.
“Good to meet you, Corpsman,” Mac said. Then in a lower tone, he told him, “I’m afraid we may be keeping you very busy.”
“I’m ready,” Conrad said with assurance. It was the kind of assurance that relieved Wingate, not Bender’s false kind. Like Mac, Wayne gave off the feeling that he knew what he was doing and that what he said could be believed.
Now, to the unit’s surprise, Wingate ushered in Sergeant Mergallo, who was carrying several things under a roped tarp.
“Men,” Wingate declared, “we’ll be able to replace almost all the equipment we lost this afternoon. But in addition, we were able to requisition these supplies.” He untied Mergallo’s ropes and pulled the tarp off the SCR 625s. A general gasp went up from the men.
“Hey, great,” Glynn cried. “Mine detectors.”
The hubbub of pleased agreement went up from the men. “All right,” Mergallo interrupted. “Dodson and Taplinger get these two.” He handed the seven-and-a-half-pound machines to the two men. Parker, who was close to the front of the group, immediately scowled.
“Hey, that was my job before,” he complained. “We agreed that as soon as one of these babies came in, I’d get it.”
“Don’t worry about it, Parker,” Mergallo replied, reaching for another wrapped unit. “This one’s yours.” Using both hands, he handed the nineteen-pound RCA AN/PRS to him.
Parker whistled, practically fondling the unit in his muscular arms. “Hey, this one’s a beauty.”
“Remember,” Wingate interrupted, “these things aren’t magic wands. They don’t take the place of digging the mines up and defusing them. Whatever you do, don’t take the things for granted.”
“Don’t take anything for granted out there,” Mergallo took the lecture up. “Our lives are not only going to be made miserable by the Nazis, but by the weather as well.” Seemingly on cue, the air outside was alive with sudden shellfire from the hills.
Wingate listened closely, quickly recognizing that the German fire was not directed at their section of the beachhead. But when he turned back, he saw that a hint of the expression he had seen outside the officers’ HQ was back on Mergallo’s upturned face.
“Another stonk heard from,” Meyer said, referring to the night’s first major attack.
“All right,” Wingate broke the spell, “a truck is going to be pulling up outside in a little while. You’ll get your rifles and demo packs off of that. Coming shortly after that will be a tank-dozer. Taplinger, Parker and Dodson will ride on that. Glynn, Mergallo and I will walk behind it. Behind us, a tank will follow with Major Bender and Lieutenant Woolcott riding shotgun. Schwartz and O’Connell, you ride on that at first, with Meyer and Samuels bringing up the rear. Every fifteen minutes switch positions. Conrad, you go in the tank until you’re needed.” Wingate looked at the sergeant again. He seemed better, but still a little preoccupied.
“Better get whatever letters you want written or prayers you want said before the truck comes,” Mac continued, his voice quiet. “Any questions, I’ll be outside, watching for the supplies.” He saluted his men and moved next to Mergallo. Studiously ignoring his own curiosity, he said under his breath, “I’ll leave the wine tasting to you. See to it no one has too much. I’m counting on you.”
“Trust me, sir,” Mergallo said with quiet but fervent conviction. “I won’t let you down.”
Wingate looked into the man’s steady eyes, believed him and nodded. “Very good, Sergeant,” he said louder. “Carry on. Corporal Meyer, please stand watch with me outside.”
Meyer looked up in surprise, but by the time he got to Wingate’s side at the door, his expression had turned to one of inquisitiveness. Wingate went into the blasting cold, the frigid air sparkling with early evening animosity. The Allied guns and ships were answering the German salvos. But in this kind of fight, there was no real give and take. Both sides just poured whatever they had in each other’s general direction.
Wingate and Meyer stayed close to the wall, looking down the black, sleet-swirling street for any sign of the vehicles in the sudden burst of illumination that the explosions brought.
“What’s eating Mergallo?” Wingate asked into Meyer’s ear, getting right to the point.
Meyer smiled grimly and nodded. “I knew this was more than a watch,” he said. “Really, Captain, we can’t go on meeting like this.”
“You’ve seen it too, then?”
Meyer nodded once more. “It’s hard to miss. He keeps such a tight rein on himself, you’re afraid he’ll snap if he even so much as smiles.”
“Was he always like this?”
The Corporal shook his head. “It started when Lieutenant Sullivan died. Mergallo was the only one with him when it happened.” It was Wingate’s turn to nod. It was just that kind of close, personal shock which could change a man. But he needed to know how Mergallo had changed, in order to protect the entire unit.
“What happened?”
“No one is sure. I mean, we all know how the lieutenant died. He moved out from a thicket and stepped on an antipersonnel mine. We heard him screaming for a couple of minutes. Only we couldn’t break cover because of enemy fire. Finally we hear a shot that sounded much closer and the lieutenant stopped shouting. A couple of minutes later, the sergeant gets back to us and takes over. He didn’t and wouldn’t talk about it.”
