Mac wingate 2, p.7
Mac Wingate 2, page 7
Wingate aimed a bit high and began firing his Sten. “Slow down, Sergio!” he yelled above the stutter of his gun.
Obediently, Sergio slowed. The German car appeared to lunge at them through the night. The headlights almost blinded Wingate. He aimed for them. And the tires. One headlight winked out. He heard the screech of brakes. The car flung itself like a deranged beast upon the rock wall. There was an explosion of sparks, and then the car began to tumble. Miraculously, it did not go over. Instead, it burst into flames astride the narrow roadway.
Wingate winced as he waited for what was about to happen. And then a great plume of fire erupted as the second staff car slammed into the wreckage of the first car.
“All right, Sergio,” Wingate said, turning back around and sitting down in the seat. “Let’s get the hell out of here. That’ll stop ’em for sure.”
McCauley had seen the crash. Glancing at Wingate, he shook his head. “How fast do you think that second car was going when it hit, Captain?”
“Maybe sixty, seventy miles an hour.”
“Those troop carriers behind the staff cars. Do you think there’s a possibility they might ...” He didn’t need to finish.
Wingate grinned. “I don’t see why not. Corporal. It’s a winding road.”
Ruza’s head popped up from behind the seat. She looked with dark, intrigued eyes at Wingate. “I think this Sergio, he is right. You crazy. Like Nazi. But it is good. We need soldiers like you.”
Wingate laughed. “How far is it to Korabe’s stronghold, Ruza?”
“Not long. You must cross river first, then climb higher into mountains.”
“We’re pretty high now.”
She shrugged. “We must go higher. The bridge is old. You should be careful.” Then she turned back around and slumped in her seat.
Ruza had not been exaggerating. The bridge was narrow and rickety, and spanned what appeared to Wingate to be a mile-deep gorge. The bridge’s boards rattled ominously. And at one point, the left front wheel of the staff car broke through the planking. Sergio cried out, as if he were in pain, wrestled with the wheel and managed to keep the car going past the spot.
Still, it was not the bridge they should have worried about; it was what was waiting for them on the other side. As soon as they regained the highway, machine gun fire opened up on them from the rocks above the road. Both headlights went out and the sound of their shattering almost drowned out the sound of the gunfire. Sergio slammed on the brakes so swiftly that the car spun completely about. As it teetered with one wheel dangling over the edge, Wingate shouted at them to abandon the car.
They didn’t need his invitation. Ruza was the first to dart from the car, Sergio on her tail. McCauley started to grab some of the equipment, but Wingate knocked his hands away and pushed him out of the car ahead of him. All this while the machine gun fire was pouring into the front of the car. It was fortunate, Wingate realized, that the car’s headlights had been the first to go. Whoever was up there was not able to see his target all that clearly.
Wingate was crouching down beside McCauley under the cliff, his Sten gun in his hand, aching to take a shot at their murderous friend, when the gunfire from above them ceased. At once Ruza screamed out something to whoever was up there. But there was no response. Ruza looked with despair and exasperation at Wingate, then cried out a second time.
This time there was a response. A young, shrill voice called down. Furious, Ruza left the cover of the rocks and strode out into the middle of the road. A moment later, out of the shadows scrambled a boy who could not have been more than eight or nine years old. To Wingate, he looked like a half-pint version of a Hollywood pirate. A colorful bandana was wrapped around his head, and an oversized, soiled white shirt was tucked into a baggy pair of German infantry fatigues, which were held up by a broad, dark red sash, knotted in front. His boots were monstrously oversized.
So was the Beretta 38/42 submachine gun he carried.
“Who the hell is he?” Wingate demanded of the girl.
Ruza looked at him, then turned to Sergio and spoke in a rapid, angry stream. As she spoke, the boy hung his head. When she was finished, Sergio looked at Wingate, a trace of amusement in his dark eyes.
“This boy is Peter Flados. His father and mother were both shot by the Germans in reprisal for the killing of a German officer near their village. The boy has become a terror to the Germans, but a problem to the guerrillas. He sneak away all the time and shoot up German cars and sentry posts. This cause trouble for guerrillas. Even so, they must protect him. He is hero to them. While he stay with Korabe’s partisans, Ruza meet him. Now he is with Ahmad Zogu. He is not good boy. He want only to kill Germans.” Sergio paused. “And Italians.”
Wingate looked at Ruza. “Can this boy take us to Ahmad Zogu’s stronghold?”
“Yes,” she said. “He will take us.” She looked at the boy then with fire in her eyes and loosed a flood of what Wingate assumed was chastisement for his attack on them. The boy listened with bowed head, then meekly walked up to her and handed her his submachine gun. Then he started for the smoking car.
Ruza looked at Wingate. “He will help us carry the guns and explosives, Captain. He says Zogu’s camp is only a few hours away.”
“Higher in these damn mountains?” McCauley asked.
“Yes. That is right. Much higher.”
McCauley groaned at the prospect. “Just our luck. I’d like to shoot that little bastard out of a cannon.”
Ruza was turning to follow the boy; but at McCauley’s unthinking expression, she whirled about to face him. She was obviously furious.
“Ruza hear what you say!” she spat. “You not shoot Peter! You not touch him! If you do, we all kill you! Or maybe I let Peter kill you anyway. Already he have kill eighteen German and four Italian.” As she said this last, she glanced malignantly at Sergio. “Maybe,” she added spitefully, “Peter add one foolish Americano to his list!”
Astonished at her vehemence, McCauley held up his hands in mock surrender.
Ruza smiled at him coldly, contemptuously. “You say this is your luck, Big One. Maybe you are right. You had your luck just now. Almost always Peter hit who he aim at!”
She turned and hurried after the boy. Peter had reached the staff car by that time and was clambering obediently into it. Wingate patted the chastened McCauley on his broad back and warned him to keep his mouth shut in the future—and do what he could to get on the good side of that pint-sized assassin.
When he glanced at Sergio, he realized he didn’t need to warn him.
Five
Ahmad Zogu was anxious to try out the weapons Wingate had brought him. So anxious was he that early the next morning he and his guerrillas were lying in wait for a German patrol. Right on schedule, a little after ten, the German patrol appeared.
From his perch above the winding, narrow road, Wingate watched the ambush develop. There were two Germans on motorcycles leading the patrol. Behind them came three armored cars, followed by two more motorcyclists. Each of the three Leichter Panzerspahwagens had a machine gun, and a 2 cm cannon in the turret. Both wings of the turret’s wire grill had been flung back. A single Waffen SS trooper was perched high in each turret. As the patrol got closer, Wingate heard the Germans laughing as they shouted back and forth to each other. Their laughter echoed among the rocks. They did not appear to suspect a thing. The patrol was traveling no faster than ten or fifteen miles an hour, in order to give them time to spot any guerrilla bandits infesting the region.
Crouched beside Wingate were McCauley and Cappiello. The three of them had been asked to accompany Ahmad Zogu and his men on this mission. Zogu was eager to demonstrate to his new allies his prowess in decimating Germans. Frowning nervously in anticipation, Wingate watched as the unsuspecting German patrol neared the spot commanded by one of the Brens Wingate had delivered to Ahmad Zogu the night before.
“Those poor sons of bitches,” McCauley muttered.
Abruptly, the lead SS trooper stopped his motorcycle and pointed to something on the slope high above Wingate’s head. The rest of the patrol ground to a halt. While the German’s arm was still outstretched, the closest Bren blasted him, literally tearing him from his motorcycle. The other Bren opened up also, blowing the other motorcyclists from their machines like chaff. When one German scrambled to his feet and tried to raise his hands to surrender, he was simply swept away by the Bren’s fire.
Meanwhile, a hurricane of small arms fire poured at the patrol from both sides of the road, sweeping back and forth across the armored cars, bathing them in a deadly hail. The Germans toppled from their turrets. The lead armored car started forward jerkily, met a hail of bullets from both Brens and ground to a halt.
At last, with only two Germans left alive—one a driver climbing from his armored car, the other an SS that had been knocked from a turret—Ahmad Zogu left his cover and strode through the carnage to the armored car driver. The man was holding both hands over his head. Zogu ripped back the cocking lever of his MP-40, blasted the German from the turret, then continued on to the second German. This fellow was crawling doggedly, futilely, toward a clump of bushes. Zogu passed the wounded man, then turned so the German could see him clearly. With calm deliberation, Zogu aimed his new toy. The German raised his head, perhaps to plead with his executioner. Zogu fired. The torrent of bullets poured down on the German’s upraised head like a massive, invisible boot. The German flopped over, his head a dark, glistening stain on the bright, sunlit surface of the narrow road.
Ahmad Zogu thrust his new weapon high over his head and let out a triumphant shout to his followers. At once his men swarmed from the rocks to congratulate their gallant leader, their cries drowning out Zogu’s.
Wingate glanced at Cappiello. A frown on his face, the man was crossing himself hastily. The corporal’s face was pale. He glanced at Wingate and shook his head wonderingly.
“Hell, Captain,” he said, “I don’t like Germans any more than the rest of us. But I sure as hell felt sorry for that poor son of a bitch.”
“I think it’s time we got back to camp,” Wingate said. “We’re pretty bushed, I’d guess.”
“Yes, sir!”
Turning away from the celebration below, Wingate led the way back up the slope. They were only a few miles from Ahmad Zogu’s encampment, and Wingate was confident he could find the way without the guerrilla’s help. Hell, there was no sense in bothering them. They were probably busy taking scalps.
Ahmad Zogu’s camp was set in a narrow, wooded glen walled in by steep, overhanging cliffs. Inside caves and among titanic boulders that rested on the glen floor, serviceable living quarters had been fashioned for the guerrillas and their camp followers. Tents were everywhere. At the far end of the glen, Ahmad Zogu’s headquarters, a long, wooden building, peeked out from under freshly cut foliage and saplings. The camouflage was primitive but effective, Wingate judged.
As the three men reached the middle of the glen, Ruza and the boy Peter hurried toward them. Wingate pulled up to wait for the girl. It was Ruza who spoke first. She seemed unable to contain her fury.
“Did that pig Zogu kill enough Germans with his new machine gun?” she demanded.
“Yes, I’d say he did,” Wingate replied.
Peter’s eyes lit up. “He kill many Nazi?”
Wingate nodded wearily at the boy. Peter’s well-oiled Beretta submachine gun looked enormous in his small, dirty hands. The boy carried it with the muzzle resting lightly against his cheek. “That is right, Peter. He personally killed two Nazis. But it was not very brave, the way he did it.”
Peter frowned. “Why is this?”
Wingate was weary of the dialogue. He looked at Sergio. “You tell the boy all about it, Sergio. I’ll meet you in our tent.”
Consternation swept over Sergio’s features at the thought of being left to deal with this pint-sized assassin of German and Italian soldiers. But Wingate paid no heed and strode on with McCauley. They had been given a tent alongside Ahmad Zogu’s headquarters and Wingate had decided it would be more fitting if he awaited the guerrilla leader’s return in his own quarters.
Ruza hurried to catch up with him.
“You see?” she said. “This is no man to lead the people against the fascists!”
“You prefer Korabe, do you?”
“Yes! Long live the People’s Liberation Struggle! This pig Zogu cares for nothing but his own honor. His own glory. He has no feeling for the people!”
Wingate halted in front of the tent. “You sound like a Communist, Ruza.”
“Are not the Communists our brothers in this battle with the fascists?”
“Of course.”
She smiled mockingly. “Before the Italians take Albania away from King Zog,” she said, spitting out Zog’s name contemptuously, “I go to school. I learn what this King Zog is.”
“Where did you go to school, Ruza?”
She smiled. “In Moscow.”
“I see.”
“Yes. You Capitalist pig. Now you see!”
Her flaring anger caught Wingate by surprise. “What’s wrong, Ruza?” he demanded. “Why are you turning on me all of a sudden? Hell, I’m here to help you in that people’s struggle. Or have you forgotten?”
“I no forget. You need me, so I help you. And now you hand me over to that pig, Zogu! You do not come to help the people’s struggle! You come to help that pig give Albania back to the Italians!”
Wingate’s head was reeling. Politics. Balkan politics. Jesus! Wingate closed his eyes for a moment to get his bearings. Then he took a step closer to Ruza. But his bearing was unintentionally threatening, and before he could ask the girl what she was trying to tell him, he heard an ominous click behind him.
He whirled. The boy Peter, his feet apart, his eyes cold and deadly, was aiming his Beretta at Wingate. That unsettling click Wingate had heard had been Peter pulling back the Beretta’s cocking lever.
Now Wingate was angry.
“Put down that Beretta, Peter! Put it down or I’ll wrap it around your little neck! I don’t care how many Germans you’ve killed. Or how many Italians. This is an American GI you’re aiming that cannon at! Now do as I say! Put it down!”
The command in Wingate’s voice caused Peter to glance uncertainly at Ruza. In that instant Wingate stepped forward and snatched the submachine gun from the boy’s hand. In the same motion he tossed it to Sergio, who had been in the act of coming up on the boy from behind.
The boy was so furious he didn’t know whether to pee in his pants or cry. He chose to run into Ruza’s arms instead. There, safe in her embrace, he glared back at Wingate, his small, pinched face pale with fury. Ruza held him defiantly.
By that time a sizable crowd had gathered around. In fact, the guerrillas in the camp had been moving toward them the moment Ruza began her fiery accusations. Her sharp voice had carried from one end of the encampment to the other. Now, with all of them grinning in approval at the way Wingate had handled Peter, they moved still closer.
Iliya Gregovitch, one of Ahmad Zogu’s lieutenants, grabbed Ruza roughly by the arm. As he did so, he spoke in Albanian to Sergio. His voice was harsh, his eyes smoldering.
“What did he say, Sergio?” Wingate asked impatiently.
“He say she is devil, atheistic Communist. He should not have let her go free in the camp. It was against Ahmad Zogu’s orders. He does not want you to tell Zogu of this ... incidente.”
Wingate looked from Sergio to Gregovitch. The guerrilla was a tough-looking character, with a seamed face, hooked nose and eyes that were not at all gentle. As Wingate turned to him, he bowed swiftly, apologetically, touching his fingers to his forehead. A bright silk scarf was wrapped about his head. Though he was wearing what appeared to be an Italian soldier’s tunic, the rest of his dress was pure native: skin-tight white trousers held up by a brilliant sash and his feet clad in rawhide sandals. His weapon was an astonishing anachronism: a long thin Arab musket inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Still, as comical as his dress made him appear, Wingate was far from laughter when he realized what this fellow had just told Sergio.
Wingate looked back at Ruza. “I did not mean to threaten you,” he told her gently. “I know nothing about this business with you and Zogu. You must believe that. Now, has Zogu tried to take away your freedom?”
“I am his prisoner!” she cried furiously. “I am the woman of Mehmad Shehus, and Mehmad is second-in-command to Vaso Korabe. So Ahmad Zogu say now I am his prisoner, and he will keep me until Korabe brings to him the ammunition and guns he needs. This is what I get for to help you find this pig! I am his hostage!”
Wingate looked at McCauley, hoping for some support in this sticky business. The corporal looked quickly away. A glance at Sergio showed the Italian carefully inspecting the buttons on his fatigue jacket.
Wingate scratched his head unhappily as he looked back at Ruza. “Go quietly with this pirate for now, Ruza. I will talk to Ahmad Zogu about this. I will tell him that I will not help him blow up any German dump if he continues to hold you as hostage. Just trust me. Please.”
But Ruza was confused. Earlier, Wingate had spoken sharply to the boy still cowering in her arms; yet now what she heard seemed to give her hope. She looked over at Sergio for an explanation. Sergio spoke quickly to her, again in that curious mixture of Albanian and Italian.
When he finished, Ruza looked back warily at Wingate. “Thank you, Captain. I will trust you. Then we will see if it means much this word of yours against such a pig as this Zogu.”
Peter spoke up then. “Beretta,” he said. “Give Beretta back.”
Wingate looked at Gregovitch. “Is Peter here also an atheistic Communist? Is he also a devil?”
Gregovitch understood the question perfectly. He shook his head emphatically. “Peter is Hero of the War. Many Germans and Italians he kill.” He smiled, revealing magnificent teeth. “It is from Italian colonel Peter take Beretta.”
