Mac wingate 2, p.13
Mac Wingate 2, page 13
Wingate shuddered at Annie’s story. “My God,” he said softly. “I’m thinking now of that boy—the son that mother sent on his bicycle to warn the Germans. Will the villagers kill the boy, do you think?”
“Of course they will.”
“It is a matter of pride.”
“Yes, Mac.”
Wingate took a deep breath. “I’m glad I’m on their side, I guess. And I’m glad I am not a Nazi or an Italian going against them once that attack of ours gets underway.”
“The thing is, Mac. You’ll have to watch out that Korabe and Zogu don’t square off against one another.”
He reached out and pulled her gently against him, his arm enclosing her shoulder. “Will you help me?”
“Yes,” she said, softly. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Fine,” Wingate said, just as softly, “now let’s see if we can keep warm. These mountains get pretty cold before the night is out.”
“I know,” she said, moving still closer to Wingate. “But I think you have the proper solution.”
She looked up at him then, and he knew she was absolutely right.
Nine
The party that reached Ahmad Zogu’s stronghold late the next day consisted of five members: Korabe, Wingate, Annie, Ruza and Mehmad Shehus. As they entered the encampment, Korabe and Wingate in the lead, Korabe turned to Wingate.
“This guerrilla leader lives in the open without fear, Poet. Did you see any manned checkpoints before we arrive? Long before you reach our camp, I know you and Ruza were coming. You were under our guns for miles, I tell you. This one is not so careful. Why is that, Poet?”
Wingate shrugged wearily. Korabe had a point.
Ahmad Zogu, his woman at his side, approached with his lieutenants. He was marching impressively before his aides, his mustache drooping fiercely, his eyes radiating a blazing combativeness.
“It is amazing,” Annie whispered to Wingate.
“What is?”
“Ahmad’s resemblance to King Zog—even to the weakness about the mouth. Ahmad is a little taller, however.”
Abruptly, Ahmad Zogu thrust out his hand to Korabe.
“Brother!” cried Zogu.
“Comrade!” cried Korabe.
The two guerrilla leaders fell upon each other, hugging and slapping each other with great warmth. At once the other members of both parties mingled happily, exchanging enthusiastic greetings. Viktoria Machek shook Wingate’s hand personally and then hugged Annie with great fervor.
Turning back to Wingate, Viktoria said, “Ahmad think of you often and wonder if maybe you have trouble with Germans and not return to us with Korabe. It is good you are back.” Her dark eyes gleamed. “Now we can kill Nazis! Many Nazis!”
By that time Corporal McCauley and Cappiello had also joined the welcoming committee. Wingate was genuinely pleased to see them both. Telling Korabe and Zogu that he wanted to confer with his men for a while, Wingate left the two guerrilla leaders and proceeded to his tent with McCauley and Cappiello.
“How were you two treated?” Wingate asked as they entered their tent.
“They kept a sharp eye on us, Captain,” said McCauley.
“But they not starve us,” said Sergio, smiling broadly. “And the corporal and I get much sleep.”
“Not too much activity here then?”
“Like a well-kept graveyard, as a matter of fact,” said McCauley.
“How was your trip, Captain?” asked Sergio. “Did you find many Germans?”
Wingate thought of Peter’s small figure disappearing beyond the brow of the hill, the German soldiers in frantic pursuit. “That kid Peter Flados showed up in time to warn us we had been betrayed to the Germans. Then he led them away from us—a fool, brave thing to do. The last thing I heard was his Beretta and the return German fire. I don’t think we’ll see him again.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Sergio said, shrugging. “He is a tough baby.”
“Very tough,” seconded McCauley.
Wingate looked at the corporal. “Have you checked out the grenades, the antitank and personnel mines yet?”
“No, Captain. I didn’t know you wanted me to do that.”
“I gave that order to Draja for Ahmad Zogu. Ahmad should have relayed it to you. I wanted you to check out those cannons, too.”
“Zogu never said a word, Captain. He was more interested in keeping us right here, I imagine, where he could keep an eye on us. I don’t think he trusts us, Captain.”
“No, I guess he doesn’t, at that. He’s more worried about the Communists and Vaso Korabe than the Germans, I think. He is undoubtedly furious I have insisted on Korabe’s partisans joining us.”
“What do you want me to do, Captain?”
“Get ready to move out, you and Sergio. I’ll get Draja to go with you. Check what’s in that cache. The explosives as well as the rest. We might find a use for them. Tonight I’m going to radio Holloway to arrange for our pickup—and tell him about the extra passenger we’ll be bringing out with us.”
“That dame you marched in with?”
“Yes. Annie Mitchum. She’s a reporter.”
“She’s a lot more besides, Captain. I hope you haven’t been letting it go to waste.”
“You handle your affairs, Corporal, and I’ll handle mine.”
McCauley smiled wickedly at that. “Yes, sir. That I will.”
Wingate looked closely at the corporal. “That Machek woman, McCauley. Viktoria. She is Ahmad Zogu’s woman. I hope you realize that.”
“Sure. I realize that, Captain. But I’ve been getting signals. I think maybe she isn’t as all wrapped up in that horse’s ass as she might like us to think. Give me another few days in this camp and I’ll be able to prove that for sure.”
“Corporal, that gives me a very good reason for hurrying this operation along.” Wingate got to his feet and started from the tent. As he stepped out, he glanced back at the two men. “And before you move out with Draja, check the radio. That’s our only link with Holloway and the plane that will get us out of here. I wouldn’t like to spend the rest of this war in Albania, keeping you and Viktoria Machek apart.”
With a grin, he waved a salute at the two men, and headed for the headquarters building. He knew he would find the two guerrilla leaders eyeing each other across that damned table, looking for an excuse to throw civilities to the wind and draw their swords on each other.
It was Wingate’s task now to see to it that these two men and their considerable force of insurgents worked together to destroy both that German SS brigade and the supply depot. Wingate had already decided that the SS brigade would not be challenged head-on. A surprise assault at night after a massive infiltration of their post should knock out the SS before they knew what was hitting them. And not until their tanks went up would the Germans know they were in a battle. Then would come the supply dump’s turn.
Wingate smiled. He was looking forward to it.
A moment before he reached Zogu’s headquarters, Annie called to him from a nearby tent. Her voice sounded anxious, and he hurried over to her.
Smiling down at her, he said, “How’re the accommodations, Annie?”
“Miserable. But that’s not why I called you over here. There’s something I think you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“Viktoria Machek,” she said softly, moving close so that no else could hear. “I know her from someplace else, but she doesn’t know me. She couldn’t be Zogu’s woman. She is a Communist, fiercely so. Her husband, a Montenegrin chieftain, was killed by forces loyal to King Zog. She is a spy, Mac. She is either working for Vaso or for one of Tito’s commanders just north of here in Yugoslavia.”
Wingate remembered what McCauley had just told him. And the suspicion in Draja’s eyes earlier. Yes. It fit. And poor Ahmad Zogu would be too blinded by his own self-importance to suspect such a thing.
“Thanks, Annie,” Wingate said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling up at him and leaning still closer. “And you might ask yourself about me while you’re at it.”
“No, Annie. Not you. You don’t make love like a Communist.”
“Oh?”
“You are very romantic, very democratic and charmingly possessive.”
She was laughing as he turned and left her.
Wingate was not able to convince Ahmad to infiltrate and attack at night without bringing a considerable amount of pressure to bear on the guerrilla leader. But Wingate’s trump—his expertise along with the corporal’s in handling explosives—gained Korabe’s unqualified support and helped carry the day. What also helped was Ahmad Zogu’s mad, romantic notion of a frontal attack on the German garrison that would rally the people to his side. With sword alone, he insisted, he would lead his men against the German Panzers. Even the flamboyant Iliya Gregovitch turned his seamed, hooked visage upon Zogu with some impatience when the guerrilla leader tried to insist on his foolhardy gesture.
After this nonsense had been dispensed with—and Zogu had been told to let Draja escort McCauley and Cappiello back to that arms cache in Rubik—the three men got down to the business of planning the attack. It then developed that Vaso Korabe’s lieutenant, Mehmad Shehus, had acquired remarkably detailed intelligence concerning the German brigade’s disposition, and he had unsettling news about a crack Italian garrison that had only recently moved in just north of Tirana.
This fact surprised Ahmad Zogu and gave Wingate pause. On questioning Shehus further, Wingate found that only a short road separated the two garrisons. The Germans, it seemed, were either beefing up Albania in preparation for an Allied invasion, or were simply making it as certain as they could that their supply depot was beyond the reach of the guerrillas. For it was between these two garrisons that the vast munitions dump sprawled. It was then decided, reluctantly, that the attacking force would have to be split into two groups, each one operating in close coordination with the other.
As the planning went on, Wingate began to realize that what was shaping up was a battle royal—a major strike against the German and Italian forces in Albania. For that reason he decided to change his original plan. The destruction of the supply dump, he now decided, should be the signal that opened the attack on both garrisons.
Mehmad Shehus immediately agreed, his fractured English nearly unintelligible as he began talking excitedly. The road that ran past the supply dump and between the two garrisons cut through a low, mountainous patch of terrain. It was a road, Shehus was anxious to explain, perfect for an ambush.
The plans developed swiftly from that fact.
The detonations coming from the dump would set off the attack. If any German or Italian soldiers or tanks managed to survive and headed for the dump, they would be ambushed on the road, their armor destroyed with antitank cannons and mines. It would be a glorious victory, the two guerrilla leaders insisted, their eyes alight as they searched the faces of the others. For once, it appeared to Wingate, the two men seemed in perfect agreement.
The attack would be at 0200 hours, Wednesday morning, June 16th. Wingate asked for Draja Burrel and Halil to aid his men in setting the charges, and Mehmad Shehus to command with him those guerrillas manning the ambush along the road. Mehmad agreed at once, his eyes bright with pleasure at Wingate’s suggestion.
Ahmad Zogu nodded slowly. Vaso Korabe grunted his assent, then turned to Zogu. “I know how it is for you, comrade,” he said to the royalist. “You would hope to take the German garrison. But I beg you to allow me that pleasure. Only this will satisfy my men. They hunger for the blood of the hated SS.”
Ahmad shrugged, then smiled generously. “Granted,” he said. “My men and I will attack the Italian garrison.” He smiled again. “There will be enough glory for us all.”
With that settled, Ahmad broke out some fresh bottles of wine, while Korabe produced a large, unopened bottle of vodka. Wingate begged off. He had to radio his contact in Malta, he explained. They let him go with some reluctance, but he noticed that he was not more than a few feet from the headquarters before the laughter and merriment generated by the drink filled the night.
Wingate hoped profoundly that their celebration was not premature. And that he would have no difficulty in getting through to Holloway. In less than three days, Wingate, Annie, McCauley and Cappiello would be on a plane taking them out of this mad, comic world of old and new hatreds—unless, of course, something went wrong.
The trouble was—something always went wrong.
It was amazing, Wingate thought. During the past twenty-four hours, more than six hundred of Ahmad Zogu and Korabe’s guerrillas, along with their considerable supplies of weapons and ammunition, had found their way to this small town overlooking the Drin River. And yet now, in the fading light, as Wingate looked out at the main cobbled street of the town, he could detect absolutely no sign that anything out of the ordinary was going on. The streets were quiet. Business was as usual. The rumble of two-wheel wagons and the clop of mules was almost the only sound. Occasionally a German staff car would honk its way impatiently through the narrow streets, while the impassive townspeople hardly bothered to glance up as it passed.
Wingate himself—along with Annie, Corporal McCauley and Cappiello, Draja and Halil—had been secreted away in a tiny loft that contained but a single small window, and that shuttered. It was through a crack in this shutter that Wingate now peered. He was in the house of the local tailor and dressmaker, while the rest were hidden away in cellars and lofts all through the town, as well as in farms in the outlying fields. It was in the barns that the antitank cannons and light machine guns were stored, along with the explosives.
As soon as darkness fell, the men would begin to filter out of the town and into the countryside, converging on one of the largest farms in the area. This would be the assembly point. From there the march south to engage the German and Italian brigades would begin.
Wingate left the window and turned about. He was careful not to strike his head against a low beam. The others were watching him through the dimness.
“It will be dark soon,” he told them.
“Thank God,” said Annie.
She was sitting cross-legged, her head and back bent slightly forward under the sloping roof. She no longer resembled a college coed. Before they set out, Korabe had presented to her an army fatigue outfit, and now she was wearing the fatigue jacket and pants, which were tucked into high boots. Since she had insisted on carrying her share, two bandoliers stuffed with clips of ammunition crossed her chest, their bulk almost too much for her slight shoulders. She had carried this load without murmur.
Equally cramped, the rest sat further back in the stifling attic. Wingate leaned his back against a support beam, his mind racing over the preparations he had already made for the next night’s attack.
Before leaving Zogu’s base, he had tested one of the dustiest of the German demolition charges. It was one kg in size, was packed in a watertight zinc container and had three threaded sockets for the blasting caps. The charge had blown to great effect. Immediately, Wingate decided that he and Sergio would use the demolition charges in the dump and leave McCauley, Halil and Draja to handle the Lewis bombs. This would substantially increase their firepower, and since they were not only trying to blow up a supply dump, but were taking on two Axis brigades as well, he was sure they would find some use for the additional firepower this would give them.
The laying of the German mines in the road to catch any tanks that might escape the initial assault would not be all that difficult. The only problem was that he really had no way of testing the mines. They were standard antitank mines favored by German airborne troops. Wingate knew they would do the job if their igniters were still operational. Laying them would be tricky, of course, but that operation he had left to Mehmad, after giving the partisan leader and his men a short, intensive course in the art. More than once, Wingate had winced and looked away, so nonchalantly had the men handled the fearsome mines. All Wingate could hope for was that their luck would continue to hold.
So what, really, could go wrong?
Everything. A premature detonation. An overly alert German sentry. A trigger-happy guerrilla armed with a fully-loaded German submachine gun for the first time. Anything that gave the attack away before it was launched. Surprise was the essential ingredient. Nothing was more important than that.
With it, they could decimate two garrisons and blow sky-high one of the largest German supply dumps in the Balkans. Without it, they would be a small band of courageous but doomed men fighting against insurmountable odds ...
Wingate became aware of Sergio snoring softly in the far corner, and smiled. There was something reassuring in that sound. Wingate turned about carefully and went back to the shuttered window and peered out.
It was pitch black.
“All right,” he said, turning back to the others. “I think we can move out now.”
“What about Sergio?” asked McCauley in a hoarse whisper.
Wingate smiled. “Leave him. He needs his sleep. When he wakes up, it’ll put a slight scare into him. Maybe he’ll slim down some catching up to us.”
As silently as they could manage, the trapdoor was pulled open and the five climbed down the wall ladder. Wingate was the last to descend, and as he pulled the trapdoor shut, he heard Sergio still snoring quietly.
Ahead of Wingate at the foot of the stairs, Annie was whispering softly to McCauley as she and the corporal followed the others into the tiny tailor shop that occupied the front of the small cottage. Abruptly, she stopped whispering to McCauley. Wingate thought he heard a soft intake of breath. A frown on his face, he hurried down the narrow stairs after Annie into the shop.
