Mac Wingate 11, page 2
“That’s good news, sir,” Wingate said, desperately trying to avoid a thin veneer of sarcasm. “But did I have to come all the way from London just to hear it?”
Erikson looked up sharply at his field operative, his pupils seemingly covered by blue ice. Looking at Wingate critically, his expression soon thawed to a look which could be called sympathetic in a far-off kind of way. “You are tired,” the colonel said, as if he were issuing a general command. “It is eighty miles to Palermo. I suggest you take the next hour and a half to rest. It may be the only rest you will get in the next few days.”
Wingate took this news as far from heartening. But Erikson was right about one thing. He was tired. He had what one might call “military transport lag.” Going from the plane in London to the jeep in Africa to the ship out of Tunis across the Mediterranean Sea to the DUKW in the Gulf of Gela to this truck heading into the Sicilian interior was enough to wear out the hardiest soldier. Wingate felt as if someone had emptied out his guts and replaced them with cream of wheat.
“Thank you, sir,” he told the colonel, choosing to forget what questions he had. He had little doubt that the situation would get painfully clear if he just let it alone. In the meantime, in respect to his body, he began to slowly slide down the wall, his knees bending. “I think I will, sir,” he concluded.
Erikson watched the captain’s progress without expression. Even so, he couldn’t help feeling a certain anger and pity. As far as he was concerned, Wingate was his man. Wingate was the one who cleared paths for him while he himself did the same thing for Patton. It didn’t seem fair that Wingate would be the one chosen for this assignment. Even though Erikson knew that Wingate was the best man for the job—in fact, the Norwegian couldn’t help feeling that Mac was the only man who could possibly pull it off—he couldn’t help inwardly cursing the politics of war.
The colonel knew that in a conflict like this there was no “my men” and “your men” against the “enemy.” It was simply “us” against “them;” “them” being the bad guys. In that sort of fight, the warriors had to be interchangeable. They’d all have to be willing to seal up any breach of line, no matter where it landed them. And the fight would have to be to the death.
Wingate was beyond the colonel’s mental ruminations. Despite the careening of the truck, he was already in the netherworld between waking and unconsciousness. Given the irregularity of his schedule, he had been able to prime his body to find rest whenever he deemed it necessary. It was like that for a lot of men on the go. Mac had even heard that Bob Hope could do it between his shows for the troops.
And just as his body could find sleep almost automatically on cue, it could repel sleep almost psychically. It would awake once a subconsciously predetermined time had ended—in this case the hour and a half Erikson had mentioned—or if even one unusual thing assailed his senses. Also in this case, Wingate’s nasal senses picked up the smell of musty salt breezes. There was nothing unusual in this at first thought, since that aroma had been present on the beachhead; but by all rights, he should have been traveling many miles across the island’s interior. Although Sicily was small in comparison to any continent, it wasn’t so small that the smells of the sea would waft across its entire width.
Wingate’s subconscious mind therefore told him that they had either reached or were nearing their destination. He was instantly awake and alert—one part of his mind commending the other for its swift, hardly understandable reaction.
Erikson glanced over in the captain’s direction from his position at the rear of the flatbed, where he was looking out from between the two canvas flaps. Wingate rose smoothly and moved over to the colonel’s side. Erikson took it as a cue to flip open the right flap, giving Mac a clear view of Sicily’s capital city.
If Palermo was any example of what the island had to offer, Wingate was in for a pretty depressing time. Although there were some statues and structures that attempted to radiate pomp and grandeur, they actually seemed like pitiful attempts to give class to a rather seamy spot. The summer sun shone off the brown, flaking walls of the two-story boxlike buildings, their flat sides encumbered only by balconies of a rudimentary sort.
Almost everywhere Wingate looked were the telltale signs of bullet and bomb holes. As the truck rolled over the dirt and stone streets, he got occasional glances at the Tyrrhenian Sea, the body of water between Sicily, Sardinia and Italy. That, of course, was majestic. Not even war could take away the ocean’s beauty.
On the other hand, war could reduce handsome vestiges of a noble past into gritty rubble, and examples of this littered the Palermo streets. Nevertheless, the truck navigated these obstacles just effectively enough that Wingate wasn’t hurled bodily out of the vehicle’s rear opening. He held on as the Deuce-and-a-half swung around a corner and into a large, airy piazza.
This clear, open, seemingly unscathed spot was a refreshing change from the claustrophobic interior of the transports Wingate had been huddling in for the past hours. He couldn’t help feeling relieved when the truck stopped in between a deliriously designed fountain and a somewhat sumptuous church.
Erikson immediately hopped out of the truck to face and return the salute of a corporal who had instantly approached. The two men got the military protocol out of the way just as Wingate followed his superior’s example. As his booted feet hit the ground, he heard the corporal tell Erikson, “This way, please, the general is waiting for you.”
The Norwegian officer looked at Mac to see how he was assimilating, then followed the stiffly walking corporal. Wingate kept pace, seeing they were headed right for the church steps.
“Where are we?” Wingate asked, looking to all sides as they went.
“As I said,” Erikson countered. “Palermo.”
Not put off by the colonel’s brusque reply, Wingate pressed. “Where exactly in Palermo, sir?” But then he added an example of his own sardonic brusqueness. “Unless that’s classified information.” Sometimes, getting information from officers was like trying to milk a cow on a cold morning. Every time you approached with freezing hands, they would sidle away.
“Pretoria Square,” Erikson answered, either uninterested or unaffected by Wingate’s words. “The Church of Santa Caterina is to your left, San Giuseppe to your right. We are meeting Patton inside the Palazzo del Municipio. He wants to have a few words with you before you embark on your mission.”
“In that case,” Wingate suggested, trotting up the steps behind the corporal and beside the colonel, “don’t you think it’s about time I knew what the mission was?”
“I’m disappointed in you, Captain,” Erikson answered, his stair climbing not slowing, but the vague hint of a smile assailing the lower half of his face. “I thought you might have guessed by now.”
“I think I have,” Wingate countered, matching his superior step for step. “But the only thing that comes to mind is so ridiculous that I hesitated mentioning it.”
“In that case,” Erikson echoed Wingate’s phrase, looking directly over at Mac as they reached the top of the stairs, “you are probably right.”
The two men entered the Palazzo right behind the corporal. Wingate was impressed. The interior was cool compared to the outside air’s midsummer temperature in the mid-eighties. It was probably on account of all the marble which lined the floors and decorated the walls as veneering. There were frescoes and sculptures everywhere, designed in such a way that the entire effect was quite striking. Wingate could better understand why the Italians were so reluctant to fight if there was a possibility these beautiful, historic structures would be destroyed as a result.
The trio of Allied officers went from one stairway to another, moving across the handsomely appointed floor toward a richly textured set of steps which led to an open second story. Wingate took his mind off the building’s beauty to concentrate on Erikson’s last statement.
“All right, then,” he said, almost under his breath. “Let’s see if I’m right.” In a louder tone of voice, the captain continued. “Unless Patton has a drain clog in one of this palace’s bathrooms, I see no reason he would require an extra demolitions man. Things on the American end seem to be completely oiled and rolling smoothly.”
“Correct,” Erikson prompted him.
Wingate followed this train of thought to its logical conclusion, as he had before. Unable to come to any other conclusion, he finally groaned. “Oh, no.”
“Exactly,” Erikson agreed as they reached the top of the second stairway and followed the corporal to the right.
Quickly, seeing that they were coming to a door at the end of the walkway, Wingate queried his commander. “How can anyone expect results on my end when the total strength of the British Eighth Army has failed?”
“We have faith in you,” Erikson said flatly, either exercising an amazingly dry, deadpan wit or making the understatement of the era. Either way, Wingate didn’t like it. Thankfully, the colonel continued. “The full strength of the Eighth Army hasn’t been expended, Captain. The situation doesn’t allow it. Their forward motion is blocked by a bottleneck of heavy guns on a mountainside north of Adrano near the center of the east coast. Every time they move into the mouth of the pass, the German guns pound whatever appears. All forward motion has been stopped.”
Their own forward motion stopped as well, as they found themselves before the large, ornate door at the end of the right-hand walkway. The corporal paused, raised his fist and rapped smartly on the door. While this was going on, Wingate hastily summed up what he had learned thus far.
“I gather then that there is no other way through than this narrow pass and the Eighth is unable to put an effective force in the valley’s mouth to counter the attack from the mountainside.”
“You gather correctly,” Erikson snapped softly. “All they have been able to do so far is contain the enemy force on the face of one mountain. If the enemy has enough time to reinforce and spread, it could spell disaster for the entire campaign.”
“Can’t the Eighth come up from behind the placements?” Wingate wondered aloud.
“That’s where you come in,” the colonel all but whispered.
“Come,” said a gravelly voice from the other side of the door. In tone and manner, it was unmistakable. It would make almost any soldier snap to attention as well as be willing to do anything the voice said. The voice had the strength of command and the assurance that its bearer knew exactly what he was doing. It was the voice of Major General George S. Patton.
The corporal swung the door inward and stepped aside, fully aware of the theatricality of his movement. Inside was a beautiful room with two balconies leading to the outside and Patton standing amid dozens of maps, charts, reports and related papers. He was resting one haunch on the edge of a handsome table, his hands clenched on his thigh; he was smiling at the two officers.
“Colonel Olaf Erickson and Captain Peter Wingate reporting as ordered, sir,” the Norwegian said sharply, executing a swift salute. The American followed suit.
“Eric, Mac,” Patton said expansively, coming forward while making a quick salute himself. Then he spread his arms wide as if he were going to hug the two. The colonel nimbly put out his saluting hand, which the general took warmly between both of his. “Good to see you,” he said, while shaking the proffered hand. “You had a good trip, I trust?”
Erikson looked to the captain, remembering the demolition man’s exhaustion. “We arrived, sir,” said Wingate. “In one piece.”
“Nowadays, that’s all we can expect, Captain,” Patton replied, turning back toward the desk. “The colonel brief you on the situation?”
Wingate thought the question over carefully. He supposed that Erikson had told him the bare bones of the matter, leaving him to fill in the meat and muscle. And he certainly thought that neither Patton nor Erikson would appreciate an answer like, “In a manner of speaking, sir.” So Wingate answered with a cautious, “Yes, sir. But I would appreciate hearing your point of view on the matter. Given your position, your understanding will be the best one.”
Patton stopped suddenly between the table and a tall, handsomely carved, red-embroidered chair behind it. He looked at Erikson with raised eyebrows, then looked back at Wingate, an impressed expression on his face.
“You never fail to surprise me, Captain,” he said. “Last time we met, you were ready to snap my head off. Now you’re talking like a seasoned diplomat.”
“As you remember, sir,” Wingate replied, “last time I had just completed a mission that was not what it seemed. I was kept in the dark as to my true purpose. I assume that this will not happen again, since I am meeting with you before the mission.”
Mac had little doubt that Patton remembered their infamous meeting in Casablanca after he had completed “Mission Code: Symbol.” There he had been a guinea pig to test the security of an international meeting of Allied leaders. It was there and then that he had proved his mettle to both the colonel and the Major General.
The latter nodded slowly, his fists on the tabletop, his eyes burning into Wingate’s. “You don’t flatter me too much,” he mused, “you don’t instill doubt, but still you dig for more information.” Patton threw up his hands in a gesture that meant that he was satisfied, not exasperated. “All right, Erikson,” he said, sitting down. “You’ve convinced me. He’s the best man for the job. But I still don’t like it.”
Wingate almost shook his head in disbelief. Somehow he had passed a test with flying colors, but given how his two superiors were acting, he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t have been better off flunking. And, given their manner, he wasn’t sure whether they wouldn’t have been happier as well.
“None of us do, sir,” Erikson replied, moving forward. “But no one can see any other way. He has the experience, the expertise, and the necessary ... common sense.”
“Very well,” Patton growled. “I can see that. Wingate,” he called to the captain. Mac moved forward casually, letting his irritation show in his reticent step. He didn’t like winning an audition for a part no one liked, no one wanted him to have and one he knew too little about. “You know the general situation.”
“Yes, General,” Wingate responded. “The British were cut off at the Adrano Pass. They need help. I’m it.” He finished the summation with a scowl.
“You have a solid way of getting to the heart of the matter, Captain,” Patton told him, Erikson having taken a standing position behind the desk at the general’s side. “Only I wish it was that simple.” Patton stood again and started moving around the room like a caged tiger.
Wingate looked to Erikson, who paused for a moment to see if the higher-ranking man would continue. When he did not, the colonel took up the story. “General Montgomery has been reluctant to admit the gravity of his position. He refuses to admit that he’s in trouble and all but laughs off our offers of assistance.”
“But I’m sick and tired of sitting on my ass waiting for that idiot to get his head screwed on right,” Patton flared, turning back toward the pair. “So I had to go over his head and ask Headquarters if I could pretty please pull Monty’s butt out of the fire. They replied that I could only if I said, ‘with sugar on top.’”
Erikson made a point of clearing his throat, as a signal that Patton was getting carried away. In response, Patton let his voice drop to a disgruntled rumble.
“Headquarters made it very clear that we should solve the problem with all possible speed,” Erikson explained. “While making it a point not to step on Montgomery’s toes.”
“Which means?” Wingate asked, wanting, but at the same time, not wanting to know.
“Which means we’ve got to kiss his lily-white ass while we’re doing it,” Patton translated, then stopped abruptly. “I mean, while you’re doing it,” he said with veiled eyes.
“Yes,” Erikson said, then coughed uncomfortably. “It is necessary for your mission to seem totally unconnected with General Patton or the Seventh Army in any way. Your orders and your guidance must come from the Eighth or Headquarters. Which means that if you run into any ... difficulties ... we will be unable to offer you anything in the way of assistance.”
“Officially,” Patton was quick to add pointedly.
“Officially,” Erikson agreed. Something in the colonel’s tone made it clear, however, that Wingate shouldn’t ask for that unofficial assistance even on the pain of death.
Somehow, it didn’t surprise Wingate. He wasn’t enraged or disgusted or flabbergasted. From what he had already learned about inter-Allied politics, this sort of ego soothing was par for the course. He considered himself lucky that protocol didn’t make him do the whole job with one arm tied behind his back. He was to discover, to his chagrin, that HQ had something just as debilitating in mind.
“I see,” Wingate said.
Realizing how much they were asking—something even Wingate wasn’t completely aware of yet—Patton tried to soften the blow. “Hell, Mac, I know how you feel,” he grumbled. “I may hate that Limey’s stuck-up guts, but I hate Hitler more. If I got the go-ahead, I’d run right over everything in my way to Messina; the krauts, the wops and the British. But the boys upstairs say no. I’ve got to wait for Montgomery to pull himself together. And the faster you get him out of the shit he got himself into, the faster we can take over this entire front.”
Patton’s speech was enough to convince Mac of the necessity of the mission and his place in it. That was part of the general’s magic. He could convince a paraplegic that he needed cowboy boots and a pinkie ring if he had to. So Wingate forgot about the diplomatic niceties and got down to figuring out what he would need to do the job fast and clean. With any luck he could pull it off without even having to talk to an Englishman.
“I understand the predicament,” he said briskly, moving to the edge of the desk, his helmet under his left arm. “And I understand your position.” Both Erikson and, in a small way, Patton, looked relieved. “So I’ll keep my list of equipment down to a bare minimum,” Wingate went on. Both men looked up immediately.
