Mac Wingate 3, page 13
They were in the open sea, well beyond the breakers, when Wingate heard the first unmistakable snarl of Stukas.
He swore bitterly, futilely, and turned his head in the direction from which the sound was coming. Against the star-flecked heavens, four Stukas appeared, sinister hawks leaping into view as they cleared the headlands to the south. There was no doubt their pilots knew where they were going and what they intended to do when they got there.
Glancing back at the sub, Wingate saw the frantic activity. The gunners cranked feverishly as more sailors poured out onto the deck. A crash dive this close in to the beach was out of the question, and there was not enough time for that anyway.
“Back! Paddle back!” Wingate cried as he plunged his oar into the water and turned the boat swiftly around.
Glancing back at the sub, he saw the first Stuka already in its dive, its sirens screaming. The night was filled with the steady thumping sounds of the sub’s deck cannons; but the piercing shriek of the diving Stuka drowned them out—and then the first bomb detonated, sending a tall geyser of water just beyond the sub’s bow.
The rubber life raft was into the surf by this time and Wingate had all he could do to keep the boat on course toward the shore. Not until they reached the hard-packed sand of the beach was he able to leap out and glance back again. The second and then the third Stukas were diving.
As Wingate reached into the boat for Sweeney’s stretcher, he heard Zervas calling out to him. He lifted the stretcher out of the boat and glanced in Zervas’s direction. The man was up on his crutch, pointing to the bluff above. Wingate saw the headlights of German trucks pulling up and the gleam of German helmets as the SS began picking their way down the steep incline toward the beach.
“It’s a trap, Alexis!” Wingate cried. “Hurry!”
Zervas’s guerrillas raced out to help them with Sweeney and by the time they reached cover in under the bluff, Zervas was propped back against a boulder, pumping rounds up at the Germans with a Sten McCauley had loaned him.
“That fishing village down the coast,” Wingate called to them. “Make for that! They’ve got us trapped here!”
Zervas nodded and led his small army of guerrillas down the beach, Wingate and Alexis following with Sweeney. Until now, Sweeney had not uttered a single word of complaint. But as Wingate began running full-tilt, the corporal, jostled cruelly, at last uttered a single, desperate groan. Keeping pace beside him, Laloula reached in and took the man’s hand.
Wingate glanced back at the sub and saw that the four Stukas had done their job. The submarine had been cut in half. The conning tower was now drifting in the midst of a blazing oil slick, while the severed bow sank slowly beneath the flotsam belched up by the ruined vessel. All around the blazing sub, the British sailors floundered, their bobbing heads barely visible.
The pilots of the Stukas should have been content. But they were not and began strafing the sailors in the water. Their tracers cut a merciless path, and with each pass, they ignited more of the oil slick. Before long, blazing swaths were crisscrossing the dark waters; and in the midst of the flames, drowning men screamed and cried out for help.
As Wingate glanced away and continued running down the beach, he could still hear their faint, pathetic cries.
Before they reached the fishing village, two of the Stukas—finished with their primary target—sought them out. Warned by the Stukas’ screaming approach, Wingate led his party deep into a formidable nest of rocks perched on a low bluff between the village and the beach. The two Stukas had no bombs left, but their pilots were content to pin Wingate’s men with machine gun and cannon fire.
Alexis shielded the terrified Laloula with his body, while a few of the guerrillas made halfhearted attempts to shoot back at the deadly German night hawks. As the bullets slammed into the ground and whined among the rocks, there was no way for any of them to communicate with each other. The universe had become a soul-shearing nightmare of sound. Wingate recognized these Stukas. He had met them before in North Africa. They were D-7s, a night fighter version carrying two 20 mm MG-151 cannons in their wings, in addition to the machine gun manned by a pilot in the rear cockpit. This Stuka had been a formidable adversary in North Africa; it was a terrifying, mind-numbing opponent now. Fortunately, the Stukas made no more than a dozen passes before they peeled up sharply and screamed off out of sight beyond the bluffs.
Wingate checked to see if anyone had been hit, then glanced back down the moonlit beach. The German soldiers, trotting along steadily, were now well within range of the rocks. It would not be long before they reached them.
“Alexis,” said Wingate, “take a man down with you to that village. See if you can get hold of a motorized fishing boat. With those damned Stukas gone, we might be able to make it out of this by sea. There’s no way by land.”
Alexis nodded, tapped one of the guerrillas on the shoulder, then disappeared among the rocks, heading for the small village huddled along the coast far below.
“Let’s go, Zervas,” Wingate said. “Bring your men. We’ve got some Germans to discourage.”
The man nodded enthusiastically, rose up onto his crutch and descended with Wingate into the rocks, the other four guerrillas following after. Sweeney remained behind on his stretcher, with Laloula at his side. Halfway down to the beach, Wingate and Zervas found a well-protected spot and waited, the four other guerrillas finding equally good emplacements above and below them. Wingate did not think much of their weapons, and their rate of fire would be anemic, but at this stage of his mission to Crete, he was thankful for any firepower he could muster.
The first wave of SS started up the slope in front of the rocks. Wingate pulled back the cocking lever on his Sten, waited a moment, then opened up. Beside him, his Sten jumping in his hand, Zervas pulled himself upright to get a better view of the hated enemy. The Germans were unable to make it to the rocks, and after a fearful toll, scrambled for cover in under the bluff.
But the Germans were nothing if not persistent. They regrouped quickly and made a second assault. Again the toll was heavy, but the SS almost made it into the rocks. So anxious was Zervas to continue the slaughter that he dragged himself out of the niche he was using for cover and lurched further down the rocks, his Sten stuttering with deadly efficiency. Wingate was about to call the old fighter back when he noticed a second Sten chucking steadily on his left. He glanced over and saw Sweeney, lying flat behind a boulder as he fired. How the man could have crawled that far in his condition was a mystery to Wingate—until he saw Laloula crouching in the darkness behind Sweeney.
The Germans fell back a second time and Wingate left his position to see to Sweeney. “What the hell are you doing here, soldier?” Wingate demanded, not unkindly.
“I’m too damn hot to lie still, Captain. I’m halfway to hell already. I might as well take a few of those bastards down there with me.”
Wingate clapped the man on the shoulder, nodded grimly to Laloula, then went back to his position. Just below him, he saw the waiting Zervas slamming a fresh clip into his Sten. Wingate reached over for the old warrior’s crutch and tossed it down to him. The man picked it up and waved his thanks to Wingate. Meanwhile, the Germans had not yet regrouped, and as Wingate peered into the darkness beyond the rocks, he saw why. An armored half-track materialized out of the night behind the SS troops and ground up the slope leading to the rocks.
A few of the guerrillas began firing at the half-track, but Wingate kept his Sten silent. The armored car was impervious to small arms fire. Only the steepness of the slope stopped it. As soon as it halted, medium machine gun and 81 mm mortar teams leaped out of it, took cover in the rocks and commenced a fierce barrage.
While the machine gun fire rattled among the rocks, filling the air with dust and tiny, needlelike shards of rock, a deadly covey of mortar shells fluted overhead and crashed down upon Wingate’s huddled force. Savage, earsplitting whiplashes of sound ended in bone-rattling crunches that showered Wingate with grit and sand. Peering with slitted eyes through the hellish landscape, Wingate saw the SS moving into the rocks under the cover of the barrage.
“Back!” Wingate cried above the mortar shells’ furious pounding. “Back to the ridge! Get out of this!”
Leaving his position, Wingate crawled over to help Laloula with Sweeney. The girl was almost petrified with fear by this time, and Wingate had as much trouble helping her back up the rocks as he did Sweeney. Better than halfway up, Zervas and the rest of his guerrillas joined them and helped with Sweeney and the girl. They reached the ridge unscathed, though one of the guerrillas had a nasty wound on his left cheek; a fragment had torn the flesh open. The man appeared unwilling to acknowledge the wound in any way.
Wingate glanced down the far slope at the silent village. There was no sign of Alexis. He turned back and peered through the darkness at the tangle of rocks up which they had just climbed. He could make out the occasional gleam of moonlight on metal that told him the SS were climbing rapidly toward them. By this time the barrage had been lifted somewhat, but Wingate realized that soon the ridge would be under fire.
“I’m going back down there,” he told Zervas. “I’ll see what I can do to stop those machine gunners and those mortars. Then we can counterattack.”
Without waiting for Zervas’s reply, Wingate slipped down into the rocks. As he climbed down, he unsheathed his knife and carried it in his mouth. He was heading toward the mortar team and was getting close when he saw a German soldier moving toward him in the darkness. The soldier was not very quiet and had obviously not seen Wingate. Wingate ducked low behind a boulder and waited. As the soldier passed him, he reached out, flattened his palm over the man’s mouth and slit his throat. The fellow slumped amid a dark geyser of his own blood as Wingate swiftly relieved him of his MP-40 and a canvas belt heavy with spare clips. Slinging the belt and the submachine gun over his shoulder, Wingate continued down through the rocks. Just before he reached the mortars, three Germans appeared out of the gloom below him. Wingate ducked into a niche in the rocks and waited for the Germans to glide past.
Instead, the three soldiers paused with their backs to a large boulder, took out cigarettes and lit up. As they smoked they talked and glanced up at the ridge. Able to catch most of their conversation, Wingate realized that this was the chief mortar crew. They were deciding where to position their mortar tubes for the next bombardment. The discussion centered around the question of the battle continuing. Two of the Germans were convinced the guerrillas had fled beyond the ridge, while the third maintained that this was not so.
Cautiously, Wingate glanced past the three and saw the machine gunners and the other mortar crew already moving their weapons higher into the rocks. Wingate decided to settle the matter for them.
Slowly, carefully, he rested his Sten against the side of a large rock. Then he sheathed his knife and took out two fragmentation grenades. With one in each hand, he brought the grenades up to his mouth, pulled the pins with his teeth, counted out the seconds, then tossed the grenades along the ground toward the three soldiers. A moment before the grenades detonated, he snatched up his Sten and flung himself to the ground.
He was not a moment too soon. Both grenades went off almost simultaneously, rending the night air with their blasts. There was no outcry from the Germans. Peering over the rock behind which Wingate had flung himself, he saw one of the SS on his hands and knees, shaking his head in dumb confusion. Only there was not much left of his head to shake.
The machine gunners and the other mortar crews farther down the slope cried out in surprise and began clambering up the rocks toward the three blasted Germans. Wingate waited calmly. As soon as the SS were close enough, he cut them down with his Sten. Then he tossed two more grenades at their abandoned weapons on the slope below, turned and began his climb back up through the rocks.
He almost blundered upon a nest of Germans huddled halfway to the ridge. The sound of gunfire and the explosions below had confused them. Where, in fact, was the enemy? Wingate heard arguments erupting. Some wanted to go back, others to wait until the barrage resumed.
Patiently, Wingate skirted the SS, listening to their feverish, fearful debate with some amusement. Once he was above them, he took out two more of his grenades, brought these also up to his mouth, then dropped them on the Germans. The debate ended with two numbing blasts. Leaning over the rocks and peering down at the Germans, Wingate saw two SS stagger to their feet. He hosed them to the ground with his Sten, turned and clambered up through the rocks, anxious now to reach the ridge.
A single German soldier suddenly appeared before him. He seemed to loom out of the night like some fearsome apparition come to avenge the death of his comrades. The MP-40 in his hand began to spit flame, but in his eagerness to kill Wingate, the German had not aimed well. The stream of fire crashed into the rocks just above Wingate’s head, and Wingate flung himself to the ground, crawled in between two heavy boulders and lay on his back, his Sten pointing upward.
He heard the German’s boots on the rock beside him. At the same time the man called to a companion. There was an answering shout followed by the sound of this second German clambering over the rocks to join him. A shadow blocked out the starlit sky as the first German peered down at Wingate. Wingate had been resting his finger on the trigger of his Sten. It went off almost automatically, the fire blasting the head and shoulders of the German, flinging him back out of sight.
Wingate heaved himself out of the cleft and was in time to face the second German, who had just reached the blasted body of his companion. Wingate aimed his Sten and pulled the trigger. There was only the sound of the bolt driving home on an empty chamber. His clip had been expended. With a furious oath, the German brought up his own submachine gun.
He never fired it. From just above him came the ripping snarl of a Sten. As the SS was flung forward over the body of his companion, Wingate glanced up and saw Alexis moving swiftly down the rocks toward him.
“Thanks,” said Wingate, hurrying to meet Alexis. “I owe you one for that.”
“They told me you were down here. And what I heard from up there confirmed it.”
“You’ve got the boat?”
Alexis nodded, “it’s not much, but it’ll have to do.”
“Good.”
A moment later Wingate reached the ridge. Behind him, he heard the voices of the Germans calling to each other among the rocks. They were still confused, Wingate realized. It would take them a few minutes to regroup and resume their pursuit.
“This boat,” Wingate asked Alexis. “Can it take us all?”
“Yes. But we must hurry. The Germans are moving up behind the bluff and will soon be in the village. Once they reach it, they’ll be able to cut us off from the docks.”
“Let’s go, then.”
The journey down the far slope toward the village was perhaps the most agonizing part of this nightmare for Sweeney. He passed out twice, once when Alexis stumbled into a cleft on his way down, causing the stretcher into which Sweeney had been strapped to go hurtling on past Alexis down the slope, the second time when they reached the dock and both Wingate and Alexis had to drop to the ground as SS, having already infiltrated into the village, began firing upon them from a ramshackle warehouse along the shore.
Sweeney’s groan was wiped out by the return fire Wingate and the rest of his party sent back at the Germans, but Wingate and Laloula were not impervious to Sweeney’s condition. As soon as he could manage it, Wingate crawled over to the corporal’s side.
“How do you feel, Corporal?” It was a stupid question, Wingate knew, but he asked it anyway to show his concern.
“You’re not going to make it,” Sweeney said, ignoring Wingate’s question. “Not with me holding you back.”
“We’ll make it. The boat’s at the end of this dock.”
“They’ll blow us out of the water as soon as we cast off.”
“Never mind that. Just hang on while we get you to that boat.”
Wingate and Alexis lifted the stretcher, and with their heads down trotted awkwardly to the end of the dock, where the boat Alexis had commandeered was waiting. There was no crew.
“Can you pilot this thing?” Wingate asked Alexis.
“Of course. I’ve been familiar with boats all my life.” He smiled. “My days of luxury and idleness will now be put to some useful purpose.”
The fishing boat had a single cabin, an engine room and two masts with faded, patchwork sails hanging from them. The rigging appeared frayed and untrustworthy, but it was the engine they needed, Wingate reflected, not the sails.
Alexis jumped down onto the deck, Laloula, Zervas and the others following after. Laloula reached back to help Wingate with the stretcher, but before he could lift the stretcher, a squad of German SS appeared on the other end of the dock and began running toward them, their submachine guns spitting fire. Wingate flung himself to the floor of the dock and returned the German fire.
“Cast off!” he cried to Alexis. “Get this boat moving. Start the engine!”
Even as he spoke, the fishing vessel’s ancient diesel coughed, then settled at once into a powerful mutter.
“Hurry!” cried Laloula. “We are casting off!”
But Wingate was pinned beside Sweeney, doing his best to return the German fire. He had stopped the first rush of SS, but they had immediately regrouped, and were once again charging toward them along the dock.
“Captain!” Sweeney said, reaching out and grabbing Wingate’s shoulder. “That German submachine gun on your back. Let me have it! Mine’s empty.”
Wingate ducked his head and swung the MP-40 off his shoulder. Then he flipped the belt load of clips after it. This momentary delay in his return fire had allowed the Germans to get dangerously close, but the deadly combined fire from Wingate and Sweeney stopped them in their tracks, while the fire from the deck of the fishing vessel completed the rout, sending the SS reeling back into the darkness with more than a few of their comrades left behind on the blood-slicked dock.
