Mac wingate 2, p.17
Mac Wingate 2, page 17
The bulk of the tanks vanished every so often in the blackness of the high embankments flanking the road. Wingate squinted through the night, cursing it. He thought he could see pale clouds of dust rising into the night air. And then, as if in answer to his frustration, a feeble crescent of a moon peeped over a line of peaks behind Wingate. It wasn’t much, and Wingate hadn’t counted on it, but he was astonished at the illumination it provided. It was as if a pale sun had dawned, so great a difference did it make. And then, a moment later, German flares blossomed in the sky above the road.
The pitch darkness was now transformed to a brightness that caused Wingate to wince. The partisans, too, seemed stunned. Not one of them fired at the tanks rolling swiftly toward them along the narrow road. But such inhibitions did not bother the Germans—not at all.
The armored cars behind the tanks began raking the slopes alongside the road with their 20 mm cannons and their machine guns, while the Panthers and Mark IVs let loose with a terrible barrage, their 75 mm shells plunging into the hills and slopes bordering the road with terrifying, devastating effect. Great plumes of dirt and rock leaped skyward, and just before the last of the flares winked out, a great explosion marked the spot where the 75 mm shell wiped out one of the partisans’ precious antitank cannons along with the shells standing beside it.
Wingate was momentarily disheartened, not so much by the German firepower as by the glimpse he had gained during that sudden illumination, of Korabe’s partisans. The moment the German tanks and armored cars opened up, there had been an immediate, precipitate scramble away from their positions along the road. Not used to such terrible concentration of firepower, the partisans were fleeing for their lives. Wingate could only hope that now, under the cloak of darkness, they would regain their nerve and dig in.
He turned to Corporal McCauley. “Load up,” he said. “We’re going down there and see what we can do close up to those damned monsters.”
“Jesus, Captain.”
Wingate grinned at the big man. “Hell,” he replied, “we’ll be a damn sight safer under those cannons than in front of them. Load up!”
Wingate had taken the handles out of most of the German grenades and wired them around the heads of four potato mashers, forming grenades with a head the size of a teller mine. Under the tracks of a tank, these multi-grenades would do considerable damage, more than likely crippling it fatally. He and the corporal began loading these, along with the antitank magnetic charges, into their web bags until the two men were lugging close to sixty pounds.
Then they set off through the darkness, keeping low and finding a disappointingly few number of partisans still crouching in the slit trenches commanding the road. Wingate still had the German MP-40 he had taken from that dead German Sergio had run over, along with the six clips he had taken from the man’s body. The last ten yards to the road they negotiated hastily, sliding and scrambling down the steep cut. They landed alongside the road and immediately flung themselves into the narrow ditch beside it.
This close, the earth-shuddering thunder of the approaching armor was awesome. Wingate glanced through the darkness at the corporal and felt a slight stab of loss: he wished Sergio was with them. Despite the man’s obvious fear—or perhaps because of it—Wingate now thought of him as one of the bravest men he had ever known.
From the heights behind them now came a desultory rattle of machine gun fire. Wingate had impressed upon Mehmad and his gunners that they were not to open fire on the tanks with their cannons until all of the tanks were strung out along the road. If they sprang the trap too soon, they would find themselves trading punches with men much bigger than themselves. On the other hand, if they let the tanks get too far along the road, they would be outflanked. Wingate’s aim at this juncture was to follow the lead tanks and, at the proper moment, cripple them with the magnetic mines and multi-grenades.
Tapping McCauley on the shoulder, Wingate began to run alongside the road keeping just ahead of the lead tank. Far ahead of him Wingate saw the overhanging shelf of rock he had already prepared with demolition charges. It was his ace in the hole. One way or another he was going to trap what was left of the Panzer force on this road.
The two of them had some difficulty keeping ahead of the lead tank. The weight they were lugging had much to do with that fact. At last, gasping for breath, they flung themselves off the road into a narrow ditch and sucked in painful mouthfuls of air. Glancing at the formidable size of the corporal and seeing him in as great distress as himself, Wingate felt somewhat better. So far neither of them had been spotted by the lead tank or by the others behind it. The German support troops were far back, sticking close by the steel flanks of their protectors. Glancing ahead, Wingate estimated that he was less than a hundred yards from that cache of charges under the rock spur. He looked back, saw the lead tank looming so close now that it blocked out the skyline, and dug into his web bag for his cluster grenade. He pulled it out. It was extremely heavy.
“Ready, Corporal?” Wingate asked.
The corporal had his own multi-grenade in his hand. He seemed to be hefting it with a bit more ease than Wingate. “As ready as I’ll ever be, Captain.”
“You take the first and third tanks, I’ll take the second and fourth. Then we both make like rabbits and find a hole.”
“I got you, Captain.”
“Let’s go!”
Wingate raced back toward the tanks. The first one clanked swiftly past him. He darted onto the road, removed the pin from his grenade, and using both hands, swung it under the second Panther’s steeply sloping glacis. As the tank rumbled over it, Wingate darted past the next tank, stumbling momentarily in the darkness, regained his footing and approached the fourth tank.
As he did so, a tremendous explosion erupted behind him. That would be the lead tank, he told himself grimly as he hefted the second cluster-grenade under the fourth tank, then bolted for cover. Just as he dove behind a huge boulder, a second and then a third explosion rattled his teeth. He kept down, hugging the ground, until his last cluster grenade went off.
Then he poked his head up.
The first tank had swiveled about so that it hung lengthwise across the road. Smoke was pouring out of its motor; and as Wingate watched, the hatches clanked open and the tank crew boiled out. They were leaping to the ground when the whole tank went up in a sudden, shattering detonation that caught two of the fleeing Germans and flung them into the air. Then the second tank, one of its treads malfunctioning, obviously unable to control its direction, slewed violently into the burning tank—and detonated, seemingly on contact. The crews of the third and fourth Panthers were leaping clear by this time. The third tank was not burning, but a cloud of heavy black smoke was pouring out of a side vent. Then the fourth Panther ran amuck. Though its right treads were a shambles and all of its crew had abandoned it, it started up with a sudden grinding of gears and plowed with tremendous impact into the third Panther, swinging it around and then shoving it broadside into the burning tank ahead of it. The third tank immediately exploded.
Wingate ducked his head, then glanced up. To his amazement the fourth Panther was still operational, still grinding forward. As Wingate watched, the tank drove off the road, climbed halfway up the embankment, then blew.
Wingate was still gawking at the spectacle when the night around him came alive with small arms fire. Armored cars, rushing forward to aid their tank crews, had come up suddenly and now half a dozen machine guns opened up on the embankment behind him. The guns ripped out streams of yellow tracer. The nearest machine gun was so close that by the flickering light of it muzzle flashes, Wingate could see the edge of the armored car as the vehicle swept past.
With his nose in the mud, Wingate heard the slopes around him erupt in cannon fire. Mehmad’s men could no longer hold off firing. Though it might have been a bit too soon, Wingate found he was grateful. The machine gun fire that had laced the slope around him slackened off immediately, and Wingate scrambled to his feet and peered around to get some idea of the situation.
The tanks were still burning furiously and seemed to have effectively blocked the road. Corporal McCauley, grinning with pleasure, slid down the slope behind Wingate and came to a halt beside him.
“We done it, Captain. Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“Not yet, Corporal. We’ve still got these magnetic charges. I’ve lugged mine halfway through hell, I figure. But not for nothing, I hope.”
The corporal groaned.
Wingate looked at him. “You still got yours?”
“Both of them, Captain.”
“Let’s go then. Those tanks further down the road have pulled over to watch the excitement. I figure we might as well bring it to them.”
The cannon fire from the hidden emplacements above the road was not being directed too wisely. Though they had intimidated the armored cars and knocked one out of commission, one cannon was actually concentrating its fire on the disabled tanks that already blocked the road, while the others were not having much, if any, effect on the tanks that had pulled up to await developments. Even as Wingate and the corporal lunged through the blazing darkness toward those waiting tanks, they heard the turrets cranking up their cannons. They were no doubt sighting on the cannon flashes above the road. In a moment they would begin their punishing return fire.
Wingate was within ten yards of the nearest tank when the night appeared to swarm with SS troopers. They came at Wingate and McCauley from around the waiting tanks and seemed as startled at seeing the two men as Wingate and McCauley were to see them. Instinctively, Wingate flung himself off the road and down behind a low shoulder paralleling the road, McCauley crunching down heavily beside him. The small hump offered precious little cover, but Wingate didn’t see that they had much choice as the Germans unlimbered their burp guns and began hosing a torrent of lead at them.
“Jesus!” cried McCauley as he slammed a new clip into his Sten. “We’ve run into the whole damn SS brigade—right out here with our pants down! Where the hell’s Korabe and the rest of his gang?”
Wingate was too busy returning fire to comment. The exposed Germans had broken back before the two men’s return fire to the protection of the tanks and the enveloping darkness. At least four Germans, in plain sight, were crawling painfully to the far side of the road. Their cries for aid were barely audible above the fearsome clamor of the machine gun fire.
“They’ll be tossing a few grenades in here in a minute, Captain!” McCauley said. “We better get the hell out of here!”
It was good advice. In a moment or two both men would be combing potato mashers out of their hair. Just then the cranking of the nearest Panther’s turret came clearly through the night. Wingate saw the hulking shape shifting lower as the muzzle of its cannon centered on their tiny ridge.
The tank commander was going to take them out with one of his 75 mm shells!
Thirteen
Korabe and his partisans must have heard the corporal’s anguished plea—for just as the Panther’s cannon settled into place, a shot from one of the antitank guns drilled an armor-piercing shell clear through the turret. The tank erupted in a violent explosion and began to burn. There was no chance for anyone inside to get out, and Wingate could smell the crews’ flesh cooking in the flames as the heavy, oily smoke billowed into the night sky.
Then, down from the slopes behind Wingate came a fierce band of partisans, firing their submachine guns as they came. Looking back up at them, Wingate saw Korabe, one of the two Bren guns tucked under his arm, well out in front of his men. He was yelling fiercely as he came, even though he had a spare clip clenched between his teeth.
His example was infectious, for the partisans behind him were shouting almost as loudly. Their screams must have done as much as Korabe’s Bren gun to drive the SS back into the night. Firing as they went, the partisans swarmed down onto the road and took after the SS.
“Hot damn!” cried McCauley, jumping to his feet. “The curfew shall not ring tonight! Let’s go, Captain! We got some antitank explosives to plant, ain’t we?”
Grinning, Wingate followed the corporal past the burning Panther toward the next tank. The crew of this one was clambering out through its hatch as Wingate and the corporal swept alongside it. McCauley cut them down with a single burst from his Sten as Wingate clapped the magnetic mine to the Panzer’s hull, set the detonator and swept on to the next tank—a Mark IV.
This tank’s machine gun rattled to life, nearly cutting off Wingate’s head. He ducked under it, and racing alongside the monster, clapped his last mine to the hull. As he did so, he heard the hatch clang open. He turned, and still running past the tank, sprayed the emerging crew members with his MP-40. They were still draped over the rim of the turret like wilted flowers when—in rapid succession—both tanks blew.
The force of the explosions sent Wingate reeling. His foot struck a lifeless German body in the darkness. He went sprawling. And that was just as well, for at that moment an armored car swept out of the night toward the burning tanks, a bee cluster of SS troops clinging to it. Wingate scrambled swiftly to cover as McCauley swept past him and disappeared into the blackness, heading toward the onrushing armored car. A moment later, there were two terrific explosions, each coming at about the same time, and the armored car vanished in a sheet of flame.
Wingate scrabbled up the steep slope and was just reaching level ground when he heard an increase in firing below him. A moment later, a jubilant McCauley appeared just below him, pulling himself up through the night.
Wingate reached down and helped him up beside him. “How the hell did you take care of that armored car, Corporal?”
“Hell, I just set the fuses and threw them mines at it. They were magnetic, weren’t they? I couldn’t miss!”
By that time, Korabe and the partisans were swarming back up the slope toward them, Korabe in the lead. The partisan found Wingate and slapped him heartily on the back.
“We do it, Captain!” Korabe cried. “Many Panzers blow up! Now we have them in our trap!” Korabe’s blue eyes were gleaming in triumph.
“Not quite,” said Wingate. “They’ve got at least six tanks left and plenty of other armor—and a hornet’s nest of SS on your trail right now.” He pointed to the support troops materializing out of the night below them, fresh tanks in the lead. “This isn’t over yet!”
Even as he spoke, two flares exploded over their heads, bathing the slopes on both sides of the road in an unearthly brilliance and revealing the partisans still swarming across the road and up the slope after Korabe. Roaring down the road, Wingate saw, were six large, green-painted trucks filled with SS troops. The Germans, famous for their tenacious counterattacks, were coming back for them, and coming in force.
As the flares grew paler, the night below seemed suddenly alive with Germans, some on foot, others being transported by armored carriers. And leading the way was an enormous Bergepanther, its jib up and its spade riding in front. Clinging to its superstructure were at least ten SS. It was obvious what the Germans were going to do: knock the disabled tanks off the road and make a run for the Italian garrison. The flares winked out abruptly, and as they did the night came alive with German mortar fire.
A flight of mortar shells shrilled overhead and crashed into the slope just behind Wingate. They were 81 mm medium mortars, he realized. Immediately afterward a wicked-sounding machine gun opened up, its fire incredibly rapid—an MG-42. The Germans were opening up their entire arsenal in this counterattack.
Suddenly the darkness was rent by a new rasping, metallic screeching that set Wingate’s teeth on edge. The screeching rose to an earsplitting pitch, after which there came a series of terrifying explosions that shook the ground under Wingate’s feet. By that time, Wingate, McCauley, Korabe and most of his men were on their hands and knees, scrambling frantically for a place to hide. A blast of hot air swept over them all. Smoke rolled over them. Debris rattled down.
“Shit!” muttered McCauley. “Those bastards got them too!”
Wingate nodded unhappily. Moaning Minnies was what the 8th Army had christened this terrifying piece of German artillery. They were a six-barreled mortar, each one containing a charge of forty pounds of TNT. Fired in salvos of five or six at a time from clusters of stovepipe tubes mounted on two wheels, they were highly mobile—and absolutely terrifying in their effect. They seemed now to be shredding the air with the fearsome screech of ten thousand alley cats. And the concussions were bouncing Wingate and the others around as if they were made of sawdust.
Wingate pulled Korabe over to him and yelled in his ear, “Hold this position if you can! This bombardment won’t last too long. When it’s over the Germans will attack! I’m going to see what I can do to prevent the tanks from breaking through to the Italians!”
Korabe nodded.
Wingate jabbed the corporal on his shoulder. The man, his eyes screwed up from the gut-wrenching screech of the mortars, turned to face him. Wingate leaned close. “Stay here with Korabe. Help his men hold this position. If the Germans take it, they’ll sweep around and take the road.”
McCauley nodded, then winced as a fresh round of mortars plowed into the slope just above him.
Wingate, bent double, moved off along the ridge. Keeping low, he found it difficult to make any speed in the darkness. And had it not been for that silly piece of a moon, he would not have been able to move at all. He was heading for that spur overlooking the road, the one he had already cached with explosives. It was time to play his ace.
Wingate found Mehmad directing a gun crew that was obviously having difficulty loading and firing one of the antitank rifles. The gun was one of the light antitank rifles Korabe had taken from the Germans. The bore was tapered. Korabe had insisted that these antitank rifles could be easily mastered by his men. Obviously, this was not proving to be the case.
