Mac wingate 2, p.9
Mac Wingate 2, page 9
“Bullet!” he cried.
Draja understood. He looked away, almost casually, and shrugged. “Not capture bullet,” he said. “Just gun. Cannon.”
“Where did you get all these weapons, anyway?”
Draja frowned.
“Where did you get ...” And he pointed to the cellar full of weapons. “Where?”
Draja nodded. He understood the question. “Vaso Korabe. He have bullet. Many bullet.”
“And shells?”
Draja nodded solemnly. “Shells. Vaso have shells, too.”
“You raided Vaso Korabe, stole what he had, but forgot to steal his ammunition.”
“Ammunition come later, with mules on high pass. We not know this.” He shrugged unhappily. “Kill all Communists and leave with weapons. Too late, we find no bullet, no shell for cannon. We wait,” he said hopefully, “for Allies. For you.”
“Jesus,” Wingate said softly. “This leader of yours may be one hell of a politician, but as a military leader, he shits.”
Draja frowned. He did not understand what Wingate had said about his leader. Wingate decided he would not try to explain it. He would save it until he got back to the camp.
And then he would explain what he meant, personally, to Ahmad Zogu.
It was too late by this time to go back to Zogu’s headquarters, and the village chieftain let them billet in his small house on the outskirts of the place. Breakfast was at dawn and hearty enough to please all three men, heavy on cheese, milk and eggs. A light-haired, buxom maiden in native costume awoke them and served them, giggling all the while, as her father kept a sharp, wary eye on her.
The four men arrived back at Zogu’s camp well before noon. Wingate sought out the guerrilla leader. One of his aides, a shifty-eyed Moslem with horn-rimmed glasses, said Zogu was in conference. Wingate shrugged. Perhaps he needed some time to mull over his situation. He entered the tent, where he found Sergio already asleep and McCauley lying on his back, his arms folded under his head, staring up at the tent ceiling. Wingate immediately began to pace.
This Ahmad Zogu was a real operator. He had conned the Allies into sending Wingate and two others into Albania to help him blow up a German supply depot, while the man’s real ambitions bordered on the lunatic; and yet, if somehow Wingate could save this operation from total failure, it just might help do all the things Holloway’s superiors in the OSS were hoping it would do. Hell, if Wingate and these guerrillas could wipe out that SS brigade ...
The thought intrigued him.
But what intrigued him even more was the problem of how they were to get ammunition for that crazy stockpile of weapons. And then he had an idea, and knew at once that he had the solution.
He stopped pacing.
“You’re looking a lot more chipper,” remarked McCauley. The corporal could not help noticing how agitated Wingate had been all during the trip back.
Wingate smiled down at the corporal. “Yes, I believe I have what amounts to a solution, Corporal. This is one hell of a crazy war. And like you said before, we’ve dropped down into a family quarrel. So what I’ll do is see if maybe I can bring the members of the family back together again. Give them something besides each other to fight. At least for a while.”
“Captain, they took our satchels while we were gone. All of them. The Lewis bombs and the fuses were in there. You don’t think they’ll blow themselves up, do you?”
Wingate frowned. “They might,” he said. “I’d better find out what Zogu’s up to. Stay loose, Corporal.”
“That’s not easy, Captain,” called McCauley after him, “not when I think of that luscious hunk, Viktoria Machek.”
Wingate halted in the tent opening and looked back at the corporal. “That woman is Ahmad Zogu’s private property, Corporal. Hands off.”
“I know, Captain. That’s why I am having difficulty staying loose.”
“Hopefully, we will be in action soon.”
McCauley groaned and looked back up at the tent’s ceiling.
A moment later, the aide with the horn-rimmed glasses told Wingate that Ahmad Zogu was most anxious to see him, and then ushered him into the guerrilla leader’s presence. Ahmad Zogu was alone this time, sitting at that table with the map pinned on it. He did not stand as Wingate entered. Wingate sat down at the table. Ahmad Zogu seemed singularly unenthusiastic. Indeed, he regarded Wingate with a wary eye.
“I saw your weapons cache, Ahmad,” Wingate began. “Quite a collection you have there.”
Zogu smiled softly. “And I have looked at your weapons, Captain. I have seen your explosives, all of them. Tell me. What is your plan with such little grenades?”
“They are called Lewis bombs, Ahmad.”
“Lewis bombs? I have never heard of such bombs. They are no bigger than an apple.”
“Or a tennis ball.”
“Is this something new, Captain? Have you been sent to try out something that might fail? Have you tested these little bombs on a target yet?”
“They are small, yes. But Corporal McCauley has told me what they are capable of achieving. For our purposes on this mission, I feel they are ideal.”
“What are these ... bombs made of, Captain?”
“Plastic and thermite. The plastic will explode, the thermite will ignite, sending its burning charges in all directions. You will achieve both explosive and incendiary action from the same device.”
“And how are they exploded, Captain?”
“Fuses, called ‘time pencils.’ Have you seen such time fuses before?”
“No, I have not, Captain. You see, my men and I think that you have little that can help us in our attack.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless this is a new ‘secret weapon’ of the Allies. Is that what it is, Captain?”
Hardly, Wingate mused to himself. These Lewis bombs were only a rather simple variation on the new plastic bombs currently being issued, an improvement over the difficult to handle gelignite with its almost poisonous fumes. But Wingate decided he had better let the guerrilla leader think what he wanted to think. “Yes, that is what these bombs are, a new secret weapon of the Allies.”
“And we are to test it?”
“Yes.”
He leaned forward. “Tell me again. How do you cause these bombs to explode? My men say you have no wire and no electric box.” He smiled. “You see, I have my own experts in explosives. Perhaps I did not need to call upon the Allies for your help in these matters.”
“They are delayed action fuses. They work on the principle of acid eating through wire. Once the fuse is planted, acid is released, which eats through the wire in the igniter. When the wire is completely eaten through, the blasting cap is set off, igniting the bomb. The thickness of the wire determines how long a delay there is between setting the fuse and the explosion. Some give half an hour after setting, others even more.”
“So you do not need to string long wires from the explosives?”
“Nor do I need to lug around a Hell Box.”
“But these bombs are so very small. They must not weigh more than a pound.”
“Which means that each man can carry twenty or thirty of them.” Wingate smiled coldly at the guerrilla leader. “We should be able to do considerable damage to that German supply dump with these. But of course, if you would rather I returned to the Allies without getting involved in your operations any further, I would understand. There are plenty of traditional charges in that arms cache, I noticed. They are pretty dusty and old, perhaps a mite unstable, sitting in that dampness all this time. And it would be difficult to find a Hell Box you could count on. But, as you say, you have your own experts. Do as you wish on the matter, Ahmad.”
Wingate leaned back in his chair. He hoped his anger at the guerrilla’s impertinence was made clear in a correct, impersonal way. He had had just about enough of the man and his pretentions. On the other hand, the prospect of roughing up that SS brigade was by this time taking hold of his imagination. It would be unfortunate if this idiot caused him to miss the opportunity.
Ahmad Zogu’s face had slowly darkened with anger as Wingate spoke, though he kept his smile intact. Now he considered a moment before replying. “Perhaps,” he said, “I was a bit hasty, Captain. But you must remember, I am not a dictator, but the leader of a democratic band of guerrillas fighting to rid their homeland, not only of the fascists and the Nazis, but also the Communists. It is not an easy task. And when my men tell me that you do not have enough explosives to accomplish the mission for which you have been sent to our country, I must listen to them. I cannot ignore their counsel.”
Wingate was pulled up short by Ahmad Zogu’s words—or rather by the clean, excellent English he used. Wingate had the uncanny feeling that all this time Ahmad Zogu had been toying with him, giving a perfect imitation of a fool, while all during the performance he was meticulously and with infinite calculation measuring every effect he intended to create. Not that Wingate believed a word of what the man had just told him.
“You speak English very well, I notice,” said Wingate. “Like Viktoria.”
He smiled, coldly. “She went to the City College of New York. I went to Dartmouth instead. I liked the mountains in that quaint New Hampshire community. My uncle Zog paid for everything. You see why I am so anxious to repay the debt.”
“Of course.”
“This ‘secret weapon’ is simply a natural development in explosives, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“But my men will need a demonstration of its effectiveness. They confuse power with size, I am afraid.”
“A demonstration?”
“Yes. On a worthy target, of course. If it is successful, Captain, you can count on it bringing many of the hill tribesmen to my banner.”
“What do you suggest?”
“A German outpost—or barracks.”
Wingate considered a moment. “How about a German airfield?”
“Yes. That would do nicely, Captain.”
“That German reconnaissance plane that fired on me and my men yesterday. Where is it based?”
Zogu smiled in sudden appreciation of Wingate’s intention. “Not far from here, as a matter of fact.” He leaned back in his chair and lapsed into his crude English routine. “My men, we march many long hours over difficult terrain at your side. We must see how these new tennis-ball-bombs work. Hey?”
Despite himself, Wingate laughed. He got to his feet. “Tell your lieutenants to bring me back those satchels at once. I have the fuses packed with my own gear, along with my radio.”
“Will you need one of my men to help carry the bombs?”
“It would be a good idea to train one of your men to help us, yes. I lost one of my own men shortly after we landed.” Wingate did not bother to tell the guerrilla leader just how the man was lost.
“I will select one of my best, most trusted and bravest guerrillas. You can count on that, Captain.”
Wingate saluted casually and left. Yes, he could count on that, all right—someone who would keep a sharp eye on Wingate and his men. With astonishing suddenness, he realized, he had come to see this Ahmad Zogu in a totally different—and somewhat unsettling—light.
He was no longer a fool, it seemed. He was something far more dangerous. An ambitious politician.
Six
After a night march that left Sergio almost whimpering from fatigue, they reached the German airfield high in the mountains, close to the Yugoslav border. Wingate saw it first from a considerable elevation. The airfield took up most of a mountain valley. Its hangars and shops were built close in under the mountains, well camouflaged. In the cold moonlight, Wingate could make out the outlines of at least thirty Junkers distributed about the airfield. There were more than a few Italian Caprioni bombers, at least fifteen. At last, well off to one side, close by a small shed, Wingate spotted the light reconnaissance monoplane. He smiled and lowered his binoculars.
“We’ve got at least three hours of darkness,” he told Ahmad Zogu. “Plenty of time. We’ll go down there now. I suggest you wait for us here. I’ll use two-hour time fuses. We should be back before the field goes up.”
“As you say, Captain.” Zogu turned then and said something to the guerrilla he had selected to accompany Wingate to the airfield.
The man nodded and turned to face Wingate, waiting for the captain’s orders. “I am Sergeant Halil,” he said.
The fellow was a handsome, cold-eyed ruffian with short, roughly cut black hair that stuck out from under his cap. He could not have been much more than twenty. His chest was crossed by two bandoliers and over his small, wiry shoulders was slung an old, but well-kept Hungarian 43M rifle, modified to take the standard German 7.92 mm cartridge. It was a weapon most of Zogu’s men carried, Wingate had noticed.
“Stick with the corporal here,” Wingate told him, pointing to McCauley as he did so.
The young man nodded curtly.
Without further conversation, Wingate led his men down the steep hillside toward the airfield.
They were within a hundred yards of the airfield’s perimeter when they heard the tramp of German jackboots on the path just behind them. It was a patrol circling the field. They dropped to the ground and hid in what cover they could find along the side of the path.
The patrol passed. As the tramp of the boots faded, Wingate and the others got to their feet and started once again toward the airfield. The airfield’s wire fence loomed ahead at them. It was at least ten feet high, but presented no problem as McCauley and Sergio attacked it with their wire cutters. The big corporal was pushing aside the strands when all of them heard a strangled cry behind them, and whirled.
Staggering toward them out of the night was a German soldier, a big Walther in his fist. It looked as if he were blind drunk and that in another instant he would fire upon them, alerting the airfield. But as Sergio swung up his Sten, Wingate knocked the muzzle down. In the moonlight’s pale gleam, Wingate had glimpsed the German’s wide, frozen eyes along with the bloody froth percolating from his nostrils and mouth. Within ten feet of them, the German plunged forward into the ground.
That was when they saw the hilt of the dagger protruding from between his shoulder blades.
“Look,” said Sergio, pointing to a small figure standing on the edge of the path. “It is Peter!”
For just a moment the slight figure of the boy stood in the moonlight, his face and shoulders caught in the eerie light. Then he turned and vanished among some rocks on the far side of the path.
“Never mind him,” ordered Wingate, turning back to the hole in the wire and grasping the strands. Pushing them aside, he stepped through and, keeping to the shadows on the perimeter of the airfield, led the group toward a large, unlit shed huddled in the shadows of a small stand of timber. As they rounded the corner of the shed, a German sentry confronted them.
The German was too startled to cry out. Wingate grabbed him about the mouth and bore him back against the wall of the shed while McCauley unsheathed his Indian wrist dagger and sliced the German’s throat. In his haste, he sliced through the German’s helmet strap and the helmet went flying. Wingate stepped quickly aside to escape the gouting blood. The German sagged to the ground and Wingate pulled open a door and stepped into the shed.
In the light from his hand-pump torch, Wingate saw that he had struck pay dirt. The shed was a bomb dump. He turned to McCauley. In a voice barely audible, he told McCauley to take Halil with him and plant at least four bombs with two-hour fuses. He suggested the corporal allow Halil to plant at least two of the bombs, and see how he did. “Then see to those Italian bombers on the far side of the airstrip. Sergio and I are going after those Junkers—and that reconnaissance plane.”
McCauley nodded and glided swiftly toward the bomb racks. Wingate watched for a moment, then left the shed. The dead German was a problem. His discovery could cause an alert of the airfield.
“Help me drag this Nazi into those bushes,” Wingate told Sergio, as he reached down and took hold of a jackboot.
Once the German was well hidden, Wingate led the way across the field toward the aircraft he had spotted from the hills. They were at the far end of the field surrounded by sandbags. Slipping over the sandbags, Wingate pointed to about fifteen of the Stukas huddled close to the hangars.
“Take those, Sergio. You remember how to set the bombs?”
Sergio nodded quickly. The man was panting. Wingate caught a gleam of perspiration dripping from the fellow’s nose. “You say under the engine, Captain?”
“In the air cooler vent. Out of sight.”
Sergio nodded and hurried off with his satchel of bombs and handful of fuses. Then Wingate started planting bombs in the remaining Stukas. When he finished, he found himself close by the small shed with the reconnaissance plane pulled up beside it, the wings neatly tied down. He slipped through the darkness without incident, reached the plane and pulled open the side door. Grinning malevolently, he placed a bomb under the seat, then closed the door.
He left the plane and flattened himself against the wall of the shed. There was a dim light showing in the window. He peered into the shed and saw that it was the radio shack. The equipment looked expensive and quite powerful. The German radioman was reading a novel while reclining on a cot beside the radio, his ears enclosed by headphones. Wingate could have tapped loudly on the window, he realized, without disturbing the German.
Noting which wall the radio equipment was set against, Wingate moved around to the rear of the shack, got down on his hands and knees and planted a bomb under the shack at a spot he judged to be directly under the radio.
He left the shed and started back along the field’s perimeter toward the spot where they had entered. He heard someone running and went down swiftly. Sergio almost fell over him. Luckily, the man did not cry out. “How many bombs do you have left, Sergio?”
“Five,” the man answered, his voice trembling slightly.
