Mac wingate 5, p.3
Mac Wingate 5, page 3
“Let us hope you are right, Captain.”
Wingate glanced at Morrell. “The airstrip. Is it ready?”
“Yes. Botnowski and his men have been preparing it for weeks. It has never been used before, which is why you were parachuted in. I thought it best we use this landing strip only once. This way we can be certain there will be no Germans prowling in the vicinity when you bring Stern out. In addition, the air strike should keep the Germans sufficiently diverted.”
Wingate nodded. It all sounded reasonably safe and uncomplicated. As London had promised, things should go smoothly enough, and he would be back in England in a few days. The prospect pleased him. He was not comfortable with this hastily recruited team of his and was anxious to get back to London and disband it.
“When do you plan to radio London?” Wingate asked.
“Soon.” Morrell glanced at his wristwatch. “Within the hour, in fact.”
“Tell them that the air defenses around that German plant are more sophisticated than they realize. The Germans sent up incandescent rockets and the flak was the heaviest and the most accurate I have ever experienced. Our C-47 never had a chance once it blundered into their air space.”
“I’ll tell them.”
Botnowski got up. “I’ll leave you two. I want to inspect our new German staff car. We will find good use for it, you bet.” He smiled, saluted Wingate, and limped out.
Wingate watched him leave the room, a frown on his face.
“You don’t like him, do you,” Guy Morrell said, as soon as the door closed on the partisan leader.
“No.”
“Why?”
Wingate took a deep breath as he asked himself the same question. Then he said, “I don’t think I care for the way he refers to Stern.”
“Ah, yes. The Jew, as he calls him. There is no mistaking his sentiments in that regard. The poisonous doctrines Herr Hitler has been preaching have always found fertile soil here in Poland, I’m afraid. And not only here. All over Europe. Even in England, I am afraid.” Guy Morrell sighed wearily. “But enough of that ugliness. Do not underestimate the man. He is a brave man and an implacable foe of the Nazis. The same German grenade that killed his father took a chunk out of Botnowski’s right leg.”
“Another thing,” said Wingate. “I don’t trust Communists, Morrell.”
“Now, now. Aren’t they our brave and courageous allies?”
“For now.”
“Yes. And for now they make the best insurgents.”
“And the most treacherous.”
Guy Morrell shrugged. “The PPR is still the most viable and effective partisan group in Poland, Captain. The Home Army is no match for the People’s Army. I suggest you accept this fact.”
“I already have, Morrell. I just don’t like it, that’s all.”
Guy Morrell turned his attention back to the map and began to roll it up. In repose, the old gentleman’s face revealed to Wingate a stark weariness that alarmed him.
“I suggest you and your men get some sleep,” Morrell said when he had placed the map back in the drawer.
“You could use some sleep yourself,” Wingate replied, getting to his feet.
“After I radio London, I will.”
“Don’t forget to tell them about that flak concentration.”
The old gentleman glanced up at Wingate, a bleak, wintry smile on his face. “I won’t forget, Captain. For a seventy-three-year-old British agent, my memory surprises even me. It is the faces I have trouble remembering—all those young, impressionable faces glowing with pleasure as they cradle their shiny new weapons. Their bright faces disappear so soon after and never return—except in my nightmares. I think I will be glad when this madness is over, when one day we get so sick of killing and stop. Perhaps this mission of yours will help bring that day a bit closer.”
“Perhaps,” said Wingate, without too much conviction, as he started back to the kitchen to see to his men.
Wingate found himself recalling Morrell’s words the following night when he heard the drone of the incoming bombers. It was 0100 and the Lancasters were right on schedule.
The sudden whine of the air raid sirens on the other side of the fences cut off the dim mutter of the Lancaster’s powerful Merlins. Abruptly, the darkness above the installation exploded into light as the gun batteries hurled flocks of incandescent rockets into the sky. As each flaring rocket exploded, it was as if some legendary German god had flicked a switch and turned night into day. In that moment it became possible for Wingate to see the strands of the wire fence more than a hundred yards away so clearly he could count each barb.
The first wave of Lancasters appeared overhead. What looked to Wingate like 37 mm tracer shells began lacing the sky with a spectacular and deadly fountain of fire. A moment before the Lancasters began dropping their target-marking flares, the ground batteries’ searchlights winked on. This was the signal for the flak batteries to open up, their teeth-loosening thuds filling the night around them.
Peering up through the branches at the lead Lancasters, Wingate saw German night fighters diving upon them. Yet not all of those German aircraft were night fighters, he realized. Once the Germans had mastered the art of turning night into day, the Luftwaffe had pressed its day fighters into night duty. They had become a welcome addition to the Luftwaffe’s fighting capacity. There had been much discussion of this tactic in London, Wingate remembered. It had first been employed over Berlin, with dishearteningly good results.
A moment before, the grounds of the installation had been alive with scurrying figures. Now, however, they were as barren of life as the surface of the moon. Not a single German guard was in sight. Just ahead of Wingate and his men was the small cinder-block building in which Stern and his wife were presumably huddling at that moment. As Botnowski had promised, the underground had already cut through the outer perimeter of the wire fencing, though they had to be careful to leave the wires looking as if they were still intact.
Before the alert Wingate had sent Aldini across the cleared ground bordering the installation to make sure they would have no difficulty pushing through the outer wires. He had returned to report there would be no trouble. Now Wingate glanced around at his men. They seemed ready enough. All that morning they had practiced laying the two pipe charges Wingate had rigged from the material provided by the underground. These wire-blowing devices were similar to the German pole charges used to blow bunkers, except that Wingate was using safety fuses instead of electricity to fire them.
Martens and Regnais held their pipe charges at the ready. Regnais seemed finally to have become serious about this mission, and Martens’ dour face was a bit more pleasant to contemplate as the man waited eagerly for Wingate’s command to make for the fence. Crouched beside Martens, Aldini fingered his retrieved Sten nervously. The corporal had not allowed the weapon out of his sight since regaining it that first night.
The first bombs began dropping.
Wingate left his crouch and stood up. Frowning, he moved closer to the compound, being careful to remain behind the trees as he did so. Though the bombs were coming down on the other side of the installation, as planned, they appeared to be missing the installation entirely. The reason for this was obvious: the fierce ground fire.
A Lancaster, its entire fuselage enveloped in flames, streaked out of the night and headed directly for them. Both wings were ablaze by the time it passed overhead, and a moment later they heard it come down in the woodland behind them. The ground shook under them as the bomber’s tanks and remaining bombs detonated.
“Jesus, Captain,” breathed Aldini.
“Don’t blame him,” Wingate told the corporal, beckoning to Regnais and Martens. “Let’s go. There’s plenty of light to see by.”
The four men rushed from the timber, Wingate in the lead. He felt naked and exposed under the brilliant, pulsating sky. The green of the grass over which they raced was so unnaturally bright, it looked as if it had recently been painted. The Lancasters were over their heads now, their bombs finally thudding down upon the distant buildings within the compound.
They reached the outer fences. Wingate and Aldini swiftly coiled back the barbed wire, allowing Regnais and Martens to rush forward and set their long pipe bombs under the inner wire fence. In a moment they had lit their fuses and were scrambling back to join Wingate and Aldini.
The four men ducked their heads. The pipe bombs detonated. Wingate glanced up. There was a hole in the fence large enough for a platoon to march through. Wingate got to his feet and looked around for any German guards. He had seen none before and expected none now, not in this blazing inferno.
“Let’s go!” Wingate yelled above the pounding of the flak batteries.
The men scrambled to their feet and followed Wingate into the compound. They were about a third of the way to the cinder-block building when Regnais grabbed Wingate’s right arm and pointed skyward.
Wingate looked up. Two Lancasters, wrapped in a fiery embrace, were plunging to earth. For a moment it appeared they would crash to the ground not far from where Wingate and his men were crouched. But the massive pin wheel of fire exploded in midair. The two Lancasters appeared to detach themselves from each other, and like two comets disengaging, the flaming wreckage veered away from them.
They were safe, but only for the moment.
A bomb landed behind them—so close that the force of the concussion flung them all to the ground. Another bomb landed even closer, this one filling the air with debris and momentarily robbing Wingate of breath. A hot wind buffeted him.
Still another bomb detonated close by, and Wingate’s eardrums felt as if needles were being jabbed into them. He clapped both hands over them and tried to burrow into the ground like a mole as a carpet of bombs marched past them and into the timber from which they had just emerged. His head still down, Wingate glanced back. The entire stretch of wire fencing had been blown away. So much for planning, he thought bitterly, as the ground under him continued to heave convulsively. The Lancasters were not supposed to have bombed this end of the installation.
The first wave of bombs passed over. Then came the second. For what seemed like an eternity, the universe became a shuddering bass drum filled with choking dust and screaming debris. Wingate felt a couple of times as if the awesome detonations would pop the eyes out of his head. He kept his nose pressed firmly into the ground and clutched at the grass with both hands to prevent himself from being thrown off the quaking earth, as a second and then a third battalion of bombs marched across the compound and into the timber behind them.
The third wave of bombers passed over. Wingate sat up, his ears ringing painfully. He felt someone plucking at his sleeve. He turned. Aldini was pointing at the small building toward which they had been running—and where Aaron Stern and his wife were supposed to be waiting for them.
Wingate groaned.
There was a huge crater just beside the building and the structure itself had partially collapsed. Only two walls were left standing, and the roof appeared to have been peeled off completely.
Wingate scrambled to his feet and led his men on a dash to what was left of the building. The air raid continued with unabated fury as still another wave of Lancasters swept over. The German flak batteries sent up still more incandescent rockets, while the incoming bombers dropped their own yellow, red, and green marker bombs. These, together with the German rockets, filled the night with a light so garishly bright, the men had little difficulty in picking their way around the huge crater and into the building.
It did not take them long to find the slight body of the woman huddled in a corner. She was nearly hidden from sight under the plaster and debris that had collapsed upon her, but what stood out clearly was her gray head. Partially dark with blood, it was resting under the beam that had crushed her skull.
Wingate had no doubt who this was. Aaron Stern’s wife.
He directed his men to search through the wrecked building for Stern, then knelt by the woman and began to throw some of the debris off her slim, frail body. He tried to keep back the choking fury he felt. Not at the bombers, or at London and all their fine planning, or even the Germans. But at the indifferent barbarity of a universe that could do this so casually to a defenseless creature.
He was trying to lift the beam off her when his men returned without Stern.
“There is no one here,” Regnais shouted at Wingate above the awesome din. “Stern is gone!”
Wingate got back onto his feet, then glanced down once more at Stern’s wife. Wingate could imagine Stern trying to lift the beam off his wife, just as Wingate had tried to do a moment before. Perhaps only after he had failed, had Stern bent close enough to his wife to see the dark stain of blood spreading through her gray hair ...
Aaron Stern was not dead, perhaps; if not, he was out there somewhere in the night, half-mad with grief and fury, plunging through the countryside to God knows where.
Wingate decided they would have to get out of there and find him before the Germans did.
Chapter Three
Back at the safe house, Botnowski was no longer the warm, bear-hugging partisan he had been earlier. As soon as Wingate finished explaining to Botnowski what he felt had to be done, the partisan shook his head stubbornly and fixed Wingate with his cold blue eyes. He simply did not understand—or want to understand—why Wingate was so insistent on staying in Poland until he found Stern.
“You are mad, Captain,” Botnowski insisted. “What do you want with this crazy Jew? What is this ‘Manhattan Project’? You do not know and I do not care! Stern is no longer working for the Germans. That is good. The plant is demolished. Fine. But now the countryside is filled with Germans. A patrol will soon pick Stern up. They will shoot him when they find he has no papers, and that will be the end of his service to the Third Reich. What is needed now is not that Jew, but arms for my men. Please, you tell London that.”
“My dear chap,” Guy Morrell drawled, leaning carefully back in the kitchen chair and regarding the young underground leader with a faintly amused tolerance, “It is London that tells us what to do. And may I suggest, it really doesn’t matter to London what you want. Certainly by now you must be aware of that.”
“On the other hand,” said Wingate, “if you do not do what you can to help me find Stern, there’s no doubt you’ll get no more help from London. Tell me. How many rounds do your men have for those Stens they love to brandish?”
Botnowski glared at Wingate for a moment, then looked away. “We do not have enough, that is true.”
“I will see to it that you have enough,” said Morrell softly, “but you must help us find this Stern.”
“He is probably dead by now.”
“If he is, that’s the end of it,” said Wingate. “But we must know—one way or the other. While that man lives, we need him.”
“I do not understand. He is just a Jew.”
“He is a very intelligent—and gifted—Jew,” said Morrell softly, showing all the patience of one attempting to placate a stubborn child. “And Stern is also a human being who has suffered greatly as a result of Herr Hitler’s New Order.”
“Ah! So this is why the American government tells us to find him, is it? They want to save this poor, suffering Jew. Is that it, my friends? Well, let me tell you something. We have many fine Polish patriots who have suffered far worse than that Jew. You let me, and I take you to them. Now!”
“All that may be perfectly true,” Wingate said, his voice acquiring an edge as he spoke. “I do not doubt what you say. But at the moment, the American government wants Aaron Stern, needs him—and it won’t help you or your men any if I have to report to London that you refuse to help us find him.”
Botnowski glared furiously at Wingate. “You would tell London this?”
“Yes,” said Guy Morrell, “of course he would. And I would not hesitate to back him up.”
Botnowski leaned back in his chair for a moment, studying both men. Then he shrugged, his eyes suddenly crafty. “I will make a deal with you,” he said. “Tell London to fly in more weapons and ammunition. If London does this, my men will search the countryside for this damn Jew—all the way to Warsaw if need be. I will even contact the underground there. But you must send for the weapons tonight, Morrell, when you radio London.”
After a moment’s deliberation, Morrell sighed and said, “I will relay your request to my superiors.”
“Good. I will speak to my men.”
“When?”
Botnowski smiled. “When the weapons have been dropped on us.”
“No,” said Wingate. “Now. Or I will tell London to send a plane for me and my team—and let you live with the consequences. The Polish government-in-exile is not exactly in tune with the PPR. Or weren’t you aware of that?”
Botnowski’s smile vanished. “We are Polish patriots, not Communists.”
“Perhaps. Send your men out now to look for Stern, and there will be no need for that argument to arise in London. And I promise that tonight we will tell London what your needs are, and how well you are cooperating with us.”
Botnowski got to his feet and looked coldly down at Wingate. “You do not like me, Captain Wingate.”
“No.”
“Is it my politics?”
“Yes. And your manners.”
“Good. We understand each other perfectly.”
“I hope so.”
As soon as Botnowski was gone, Guy Morrell took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “It is damned hard to know who your enemies are in this war, Wingate. You understand, of course, that if Botnowski could get his arms from the Russians, he would not tolerate either of us for an instant.”
“I understand that. And I hope London does, as well.”
Morrell got to his feet. “I’ll go see to that radio message. London could not have been happy when I called off the rendezvous. It will be interesting to see what they think of your decision to keep after Stern.”
