Mac Wingate 3, page 19
As Wingate had hoped, German patrols had already discovered the abandoned trucks. And even as Wingate came within sight of the road less than a quarter of a mile from the trucks, he saw an armored personnel carrier and a truckload of German troops roaring toward the patrol from the direction of Rethymnon.
When he saw the number of Germans, Wingate was more than satisfied. They would do nicely, he was sure.
As the personnel carrier and the truck halted to let the officers in charge check out the situation with the patrol, Wingate stepped boldly out of the rocks. He was too far down the road to be heard clearly, but he had no doubt the Germans would recognize the cut of his coat and helmet. To gain their undivided attention, he fired a short burst from his Sten.
That did it. Every German immediately swung around to stare in his direction. Wingate waved to them and at the same time yelled at the top of his lungs, “Schnell! Schnell!”
If they didn’t hear his call to hurry, they did not mistake the sweeping motion of his upraised arm. At once they began to run in his direction. Wingate spun about and raced down the road ahead of them for about a half mile before he heard the faint rattle of gunfire below him in the rocks. He left the road and began picking his way carefully down the precipitous slope.
When he had arrived at a point where the sound of the gunfire from the guerrillas below came to him in sharp, clearly defined bursts, he halted on the back of a broad rock that protruded out from the slope and waited for the Germans to catch up. He was careful to keep his back to them as they swarmed down the slope after him, only the barrel of his Sten protruding from his greatcoat.
As soon as the nearest German was within twenty yards or so, Wingate peered over the edge of the rock and began firing down the slope. When the Germans finally reached him, he jumped lightly off the rock and, still firing, made his way further down the slope. The Germans were doing their best to keep up with him, though they were uncertain as to whom Wingate was firing upon. But Wingate kept going, keeping himself just out of reach—when suddenly a guerrilla appeared in the rocks just below him and began returning Wingate’s fire. When a second guerrilla joined the first, and then a third, the fat was in the fire.
The Germans joined the battle with Teutonic relish.
Slipping swiftly into a rocky outcropping, Wingate avoided action long enough to get rid of his German helmet and coat. Then, still keeping low, he hurried down the slope, narrowly missing encounters with the guerrillas who were swarming up the slope to do battle with the Germans. One guerrilla, however, Wingate was unable to avoid.
The man charged up the slope at Wingate with a grin on his face, his rifle held waist-high, his finger tugging on the trigger. But his ancient carbine misfired. Wingate grabbed the barrel, yanked it from the guerrilla’s hands and clubbed him over the head with it. The man crumpled without a sound, which was what Wingate wanted. Any commotion and he would have little chance of reaching the beach below.
He broke through some thick shrubs and found the sea yawning far below him, a brilliant blue expanse gleaming in the morning sunlight. Cutting across the shining water were six powered launches heading for the beach directly below Wingate, each launch loaded to the gunwales with what appeared to be British commandos. As the launches disappeared under his feet, Wingate roused himself and scrambled swiftly down the slope, anxious to greet the landing party with his comrades.
Just below him on the slope, Stephanos stepped out from behind a rock, a smile on his death’s head of a face, one of the Stens Wingate had given him personally in his hand.
“It is as I thought. You are the one who brought the Germans to us,” the man said, his dead eyes regarding Wingate with an unblinking, reptilian coldness. “Perhaps you Americans can do more than make refrigerators.”
“—and radios.”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to kill you, Stephanos.”
“You are a sentimental fool. You liked that foolish playboy, Alexis.”
“Yes, I did. And also a very brave man: Zervas. They deserved better than that. You can rely on it, Stephanos. I’ll let Cairo know just how much they can count on you and your guerrillas.”
“I know you will. And that would not be good for the ELAS cause, here or in Greece.”
“So kill me.”
“I intend to.”
Wingate had given up watching the man’s lifeless eyes. Instead, he had been noting Stephanos’s pale fingers as they clutched his Sten. As soon as his fingers tightened around the stock, Wingate flung himself headlong at the guerrilla leader. The Sten fired, but the bullets went wild as Wingate’s head crunched into Stephanos’s midsection. Dropping his Sten, Stephanos tried to grab hold of something as he went tumbling backward, Wingate fastened to him like a maddened wildcat.
The slope was precipitous at this spot, and for a while the two men tumbled helplessly through shrubs and over rocks, Wingate still clinging tenaciously to his prize, until they were brought to a jolting, numbing halt against the face of a huge boulder that reared up out of the slope directly in their path.
Both men were stunned momentarily by the impact, but it was Stephanos who reached for a weapon first—his knife. As the gleaming blade plunged toward Wingate’s chest, Wingate caught Stephanos’s wrist with both hands and twisted viciously. The knife dropped as the guerrilla leader’s thin wrist snapped loudly, like a dry twig. Shrieking with rage and pain, Stephanos flung himself away from Wingate, turned and ran. Wingate drew his .45 and pumped two quick shots at the fleeing man. The second slug caught him high, flinging him to the ground. But the guerrilla leader managed to scramble to his feet and disappear up the slope. Reluctantly, Wingate let him go. There were plenty of Germans in the direction he was going. Perhaps they would finish what Wingate had started.
Wingate picked himself up and looked down at the beach. The British Commandos were already swarming ashore, and a glance at the sky over the cruiser and its escort showed it still to be empty of Stukas. Their raid that morning had been more than successful. Hell, they hadn’t even needed those damn Communists.
Wingate hurried down the slope to the beach.
The brilliant Cairo sunshine, despite the canopy over the sidewalk cafe, was enough to make Wingate squint. He was sitting quietly, relaxing, a half-empty drink in his hand. It was late in the morning, and he felt at peace with himself for the first time in a long while. He had had his fill of politics.
Then a shadow caused Wingate to turn and glance up. Colonel Erikson and the owlish, dumpy Colonel Gray had materialized beside his table.
“Ah, Captain Wingate!” Colonel Gray said, almost joyfully. “We have found you out, have we?”
“May we sit down, Wingate?” the sharp-faced Norwegian asked curtly. Erikson was not really making a request; it was an order. The colonel was obviously under some kind of pressure; and Wingate had no doubt it was tied in with that report he had given Holloway a few days before.
“Of course,” Wingate said.
It was Gray who broached the subject first. “That report you gave Holloway was most interesting, Captain. Most interesting. Indeed, you are to be congratulated for a job well done. The hornet’s nest is buzzing wildly since your departure. Squadrons of Stukas have been dispatched to the islands. Fresh SS troops are on the way. In short, mission accomplished. As our forces march up the boot of Italy, there is no doubt at all but that the German High Command will insist on keeping key divisions in the Balkans, waiting for our counterpunch up through the soft underbelly. It is truly remarkable what your small force has been able to accomplish, Wingate.”
“Thank you.”
“And both of us wish to tell you how sorry we are that ... well, not all of your men came back. I understand you were pretty close to that Sergeant McCauley.”
“Yes, sir. And to the others, as well.”
“Of course.”
“The only trouble, Wingate,” Erikson said, “is that we can’t use all of that report.”
“What he means,” suggested Gray gently, his moon face growing positively cherubic, “is that we can’t possibly believe certain portions of it.”
“It’s the truth. Every damn word.”
“Possibly. Perhaps you don’t understand. We cannot allow ourselves to believe it. The Foreign Office is adamant on the subject.” Gray leaned back in his chair and regarded Wingate almost fondly. “It seems you have become a zealot in this matter. Like your General Patton, you see Communists under every bed.”
“Think what you like,” said Wingate. “I just call the shots as I see them. In Albania, I was able to work with Korabe, even though he was a Communist. In Crete, it was a different story.”
“We must continue to deal with the ELAS,” broke in Erikson impatiently. “In Greece as well as on the island of Crete. At the moment we are processing a request from Stephanos Zotos for more military aid. He is suggesting we continue the offensive you and your men started on the island. We are anxious to grant the request.”
“The son of a bitch is still alive?”
“It seems so,” replied Gray. He was regarding Wingate with something bordering on amusement. Obviously, politics and its necessity for strange bedfellows was not supposed to be Wingate’s province. In this regard, he was a child operating in a man’s world.
“Do whatever the hell you want. You will, anyway. But I’m not taking back a word in that report. Court-martial me if you want.” Then Wingate leaned forward. “But I’ll tell you one thing. You mess with me because I won’t play your little political games, and you will have sent me on my last mission. Is that clear?”
Colonel Gray rocked back in his chair, laughing. He almost had to wipe his eyes. “You do know how to express yourself forcefully, Captain. Court-martial you! Indeed! The Victoria Cross would be more likely.”
With a surprising grace for a man of his bulk, Gray got to his feet, Erikson following suit.
“Your leave is for how long?” inquired Erikson without any discernible warmth.
“Two weeks.”
“It may not last that long. We have something coming up.”
“Then you can shove it.”
Again Gray exploded with laughter, after which he extended a pink, chubby hand. “It has been a pleasure to know you, Captain. Until we meet again.”
Wingate watched them go, finished his drink and stood up. He wasn’t going to let Erikson and Gray ruin his day. He knew he’d be seeing them soon enough. Until then, he could do as he pleased. And deep down, he had the satisfaction of knowing that, when he did see them again, he would still be his own man.
About the Author
Bryan Swift was a composite of Arthur Wise, Richard Meyers and Will C. Knott, who between them penned the entire series, which itself was created by Ejan Productions.
The series comprises:
Mission Code: Symbol (1981–Arthur Wise)
Mission Code: King’s Pawn (1981–Will C. Knott)
Mission Code: Minotaur (1981–Will C. Knott)
Mission Code: Granite Island (1981–Ric Meyers)
Mission Code: Springboard (1981–Will C. Knott)
Mission Code: Snow Queen (1982–Richard Meyers)
Mission Code: Acropolis (1982–Arthur Wise)
Mission Code: Volcano (1982–Richard Meyers)
Mission Code: Track and Destroy (1982–Will C. Knott)
Mission Code: Survival (1982–Richard Meyers)
Mission Code: Scorpion (1982–Richard Meyers)
Arthur Wise (1923-1983) was a UK drama consultant and author, most of whose works were thrillers; he also wrote as by John McArthur.
Richard Meyers (born 1953) is an American author, ghostwriter, screenwriter, consultant, actor, editor, and teacher, who may be best known for his contributions to the martial arts film industry (Rim Films having called him “one of the men most responsible for the acceptance of Asian action movies and stars in America”).
Will C.(Cecil) Knott (1927-2008) He was best known as a Western writer and contributed to three long-running series – Longarm, the Trailsman, and Slocum – as well as working on other series and writing stand-alone traditional Western novels under his own name. He also wrote several mystery novels, some house-name men’s adventure yarns, and a number of mystery and sports books for the young adult market.
The Mac Wingate Series by Bryan Swift
Mission Code: Symbol
Mission Code: King’s Pawn
… And more to come every month!
Bryan Swift, Mac Wingate 3
