Portals in Time 1

by Michael Beals

  An hour later, with the sun sinking fast on the horizon, Capson finally pried himself away from his machine guns. “I’ll take first watch, Sergeant. Atkins, can you help me dig a firing position? The manual says we need…”

  Atkins, feet on the driver’s door and head on the gearbox, didn’t even budge when the corporal tapped his back. His field cap dropped from his face, leaving a slight snore hovering over the wind.

  “How long has he been asleep?”

  Dore finished cleaning his MP40 and snapped the upper receiver back into place. “Probably since he first cranked up the engine. My back’s killin’ me.”

  He stretched and slung the weapon over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about prepping a fallback position, son. If you see anything even slightly suspicious, we’re bugging out anyway. Y'all did good today.”

  Capson’s whole body wagged like a dog, so Dore grunted.

  “I guess even a broken clock is right twice a day.” Dore knocked the crestfallen corporal backward with a playful punch in the arm and climbed out of the jeep.

  Only to have Kat slap his calf.

  “You’re in my light, big boy.”

  Dore two-stepped over the gal sitting right underneath him and resting her back against the jeep’s rear fender.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing? Where’d you even find nail polish?”

  Kat wiggled hey with her bright pink toes. “Found it under an ammo can, along with a couple bars of chocolate. Treats to impress the local prostitutes, I guess.” She gave her little toe a blow and preened.

  “A little flashy for my tastes, but I’m feeling adventurous. Do you like?”

  Dore flapped his mouth about five times as she buried her shiny feet inside her combat boots. “Do you have a date or something? I suppose next you’ll be putting on makeup.”

  “Makeup? In this heat? You must be daft.” She pursed her lips and splashed paint on her fingernails.

  “Me daft? Me daft? Bloody hell, woman…” Dore kept mumbling to himself as he studied the last rays of the sun melting into the desert. The beautiful sight was a poor substitute for the one under him.

  Kat popped up to her feet and admired her new nails. “Oh, sweetie. Chances are we all have a date with the Grim Reaper real soon. I sure aim to impress the old boy.”

  “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. The scuttlebutt was always you, and the Colonel had a… thing. You were supposed to be office decoration. I mean, he went through three wives, after all…” “You boys gossip more than a bunch of old village nana’s.”

  Dore faced her, trying hard to size her up like a man without falling prey to her ample distractions. “That’s not what I mean. This isn’t your first rodeo, is it? I’m here because it’s all I know. The others were drafted, but you volunteered? What’s your deal? Are you on the run from the bobbies? Or some type of war pervert?”

  Kat snickered. “As always, Sergeant, your delicate tact is astounding. I didn’t know you’ve been studying psychology on the side.”

  “Quit changing the subject, Lass.”

  She dropped her grin, chilling in the cool desert night. “And quit acting like I’m one of your privates. You don’t know me. Or what I’ve been through.”

  “So fill me in.” A little warmth melted the iron in Dore’s voice. “Look, I’ve never met a woman like you…” He coughed and glanced away. “I just want to know who I’m sharing my foxhole with. What are you really doing here?”

  “Same as you, I bet. Tea parties and knitting clubs or a little hand to hand with some NAZI scum? Tough choice.”

  “Fair enough… If you’re a man.”

  Kat squared her shoulders and widened her stance. “You don’t think a woman can take care of herself? How about we find out right now, Caveman?”

  Dore chuckled. “Ya. I know. I was thinking of seeing a therapist. Maybe work out some aggressions. Find my feminine side.”

  “Oh, I always knew you were a big cuddly bear.” She relaxed and slid close to him.

  “Well don’t tell anyone, or I’ll lose all respect for myself. Cry myself to sleep.”

  Kat’s jaw dropped. “Two jokes? You’re not Sergeant Dore. I have to find Major Trufflefoot and tell him you’re possessed, maybe need an exorcist.”

  “Won’t work on me. Parents brought me up as a heathen. As a teenager, I took up religion. After a while, I got tired of all that negativity. Thou shall not this, thou shall not that. Went back to my more flexible upbringing and became a born-again heathen. So as you see, I belong to a non-prophet organization.”

  Kat cringed. “Oh my God. Three in a row.”

  Dore shuffled his feet in the sand. “What about you? How’d you get so fluent in Kraut speak?”

  “I… went to school in Munich between the wars. Dropped out and fled after the Reichstag burnt down, and Hitler took over.” The magic spell broke as she shook in rage. Even Dore was able to pick up on the storm he’d unleashed.

  Prying his eyes off the frustratingly enticing colors of her hand on his shoulder, he changed the subject. “So where’d all the Germans and I’talians run off to? I thought this corner of the sandbox was their home base?”

  Trufflefoot slid out of the jeep and shoved his hands in his pockets. They all followed his gaze to the distant flashes on the eastern horizon. “With luck, hopefully, we’ve missed the party.”

  Kat yanked out her liberated Elite-Diamant bayonet and slipped it across a sharpening stone a few times. Flicking it over, she rested the blade against her shiny thumbnail. She purred when it sank in without needing any pressure.

  “Oh, I’m sure we can find some lonely Huns to play with along the way.”

  Ras Lanuf, Libya

  A wan perched on the jeep’s hood like a starving crow. His rapid-fire clicking prayer beads the only sound in their little hide site.

  “We have to get back on the highway. There’s no way around it. The creek bed ends around the next bend.”

  Major Trufflefoot popped his head over the wadi’s cliffside. “I thought you said this takes us all the way to Allied lines.”

  “It used to… at least three nights ago. Looks like someone has moved the game pieces around.”

  Kat hopped up on the jeep’s hood and elbowed in between the men. “Thanks.” She pried Major Trufflefoot’s binoculars to her face while he struggled to unwrap the strap around his neck.

  “They don’t seem to be on high alert.” She glared past the gutted hulk of a British Matilda tank and focused on the Italian troops grab-assing around a checkpoint a kilometer away.

  “Cause this ain’t the bloody front. We’re not just behind the lines; we’re a long way off. Too damn far to drive along the road.” Dore clacked the hand grenades on his chest strap in his favorite prayer.

  Atkins rapped his knuckles on the steering wheel and tenderly rubbed his cracked lips. “Let’s just do it already. We don’t have a choice. The Coastal Highway is the only west-east road within a hundred miles. Everybody uses it. Even if we had enough water, we’d look pretty damn queer slashing across the open desert.”

  “We only have to expose ourselves for a few minutes.” Awan hopped off the hood and rifled through his rucksack.

  “Just get 20 kilometers past the town and the desert breaks. Before we arrive at the next village, there’s a small river draining into the Mediterranean that crosses the highway. We just head south there, and we’ll run into one of my cousins. You lot can have some real food and a good night’s rest, while we find out where your English comrades ran off to. They couldn’t have retreated too far. With Allah’s mercy, I don’t see why we couldn’t have you home by lunch tomorrow.”

  Kat opened her mouth. Awan wagged a finger at her. “Way ahead of you.” He tugged out a sewing kit and a wad of gray patches and epaulets. “I told you, I’m the best guide this side of the Sinai.”

  Dore let out a little chuckle and snagged a shoulder patch sporting a pair of black diamonds. “Well, I’ve always want
ed to play an Officer for the day.”

  Atkins idled the Willy as calmly as he could in the shade of the Arch of the Philaeni. The 30-meter-high colossus marking the boundary between Tripolitania and Cyrenaica was a glorious monument to the might of the new Italian Empire. The bored Italian auxiliaries leaning against the marble pillars were far less impressive though. “Qual è la tua destinazione?”

  Oberleutnant Dore sniffed and rolled his eyes away from the young Italian private. While he snapped his fingers and sniffed, Unteroffizier Trufflefoot flashed a sheaf of German-language paperwork at the boy. Two more Macaronis clustered around and tried to make sense of the orders. Trufflefoot casually tucked away the random pages he’d torn out of the jeep’s maintenance manual.

  “Heil Hitler!” He shot his right hand up like a bayonet and nodded at his driver.

  One of the Italians gave an automatic salute. Another raised his weapon while glancing sheepishly at his NCO. The Sergeant shrugged and focused on trying to light a cigarette against the wind.

  Atkins popped the jeep into gear as a balding Italian Officer came jogging out of the nearest sandbag bunker.

  “Wartet!”

  The Officer lugged a satchel bag rather than a rifle, leveling his most potent weapon at these dirty strangers… His perfect German.

  “Where are you gentlemen headed?”

  Trufflefoot marshaled up his best indignant Command Voice. “You know that’s classified. Who the hell do you think you are to hold up the General’s messengers? Give me your name, rank, and serial number!”

  The staffer frowned and studied their tattered uniforms a little too carefully. “What’s with the large security detail, Oberleutnant?”

  Dore didn’t speak a lick of Deutsche, but the rank was clear enough. He cleared his throat to cover the sound of his submachine gun’s safety flicking off.

  Kat popped a button or two on her shirt and leaned down, finally getting the Italian’s eyes off the other uniforms. “Sorry, the boys have been through hell. We need to link up with the Afrika Korps headquarters. I don’t suppose you could guide us the rest of the way? We’ve got hard intel to prep Rommel on before… well, I’ve already said too much.”

  “Really?” He shoved his glasses higher up his nose. “I think I know what’s going on here. Intelligence thinks the Brits have a Commando team operating in the area. Bastards are wreaking havoc all over the place.” Before anyone could react, he slipped a hand in his pocket. Kat dived towards the Officer as he brought his hand out.

  She barely slipped her blade behind her wrist as he stuck out a little white box.

  “Cigarette?”

  “Uh, yes, please.”

  The staffer hopped aboard the rear tire well and wedged in between Dore and Awan, blissfully ignorant of all the safeties flicking back on around him. “Yeah, one of those saboteurs snuck a mine onto this supposedly secure supply route earlier. Blasted my jeep and driver into history. So I’ve been trying to organize a new escort all morning, but the local garrison Commander won’t risk sending any of his troops outside of his sight. Do you mind if I ride along?”

  Trufflefoot cut his eyes at Dore, beaming at the stowaway. “Sure thing, Major. The more the merrier, as those English pigs say.”

  The Officer whistled something in Italian. In a flash, the guards rolled away the concertina wire stretched across the road. Trufflefoot whispered “calm down” in English as Atkins peeled rubber. Not that Atkins could hear him over the Italian’s incessant chattering.

  “Now that’s a fine weapon, Oberleutnant. If Rome wasn’t so cheap, we wouldn’t need you guys here to mop up our mess. Maybe Rommel could spare a few crates of…” Dore shoved him away as he caressed the big man’s MP40. The Italian Officer blinked rapidly at a dark smudge on the ammo pouches.

  And the copious bloodstains all over the floorboards.

  His glasses dipped as his gaze settled on the receding Marble Arch, now over a hundred yards back.

  “So, uh, you men seen a lot of action?” He plastered on a forced smile, as Dore locked eyes with him.

  The Scotsman flashed a genuine smile.

  With surprising speed for a staff Officer, the potbellied Major tackled Oberleutnant Dore and snapped his Beretta out of its holster in one blitzing motion.

  He was almost fast enough.

  Awan produced a revolver from a hidden pouch in his cloak. Without hesitation, he shoved it against the Italian’s temple and fired twice.

  “Atkins, is this the fastest we can go?” Dore spit out the blood on his face.

  “Friggin’ trying, Sarge. We’re a tad overloaded if you haven’t noticed.” The piercing wail of a siren in the Italian camp outside of Ras Lanuf drowned him out. A crack sniper took a shot that missed by at least a meter. Dore chucked the corpse over the side with one hand while ripping open an ammo can with the other.

  “You’re up, killer. Work your magic!”

  Capson spun the guns around, not taking long identifying a target. He dropped the hammer on both MG42s, squirting off dozen-round bursts, and doing his best to thin the herd of riflemen flooding out of the sprawling camp. Scores hit the deck, and some stayed down, however, way too many survivors leveled their rifles and blazed back.

  “Bloody hell!” Atkins clapped a hand over his gushing ear as something cracked straight through his oversized earlobe. Another one shattered the side-view mirror. “We’ll take our chances cross country!” He jerked the wheel hard as Capson blanched.

  “I can’t aim if we’re bumping—”

  The machine gun’s buttstock kicked Capson in the jaw as the jeep bucked over a ditch straddling the road. He lost his footing and collapsed against the gun, instinctively grasping both triggers for balance. His endless stream of machine-gun fire missed the enemy snipers by a wide margin. The only thing his tracers hit was a truck in the motor pool behind them…

  A fuel tanker. One parked beside three more fully loaded benzene haulers simmering in the 120+ degree heat.

  Kadush!

  Even three hundred yards away, Atkins flinched at the heatwave.

  Dore slapped his back hard enough to snap his gaping mouth shut. “Damn, son! When did you go through sniper school? Get down though, before we lose you.” Capson dropped to the cargo bed despite Atkins sending the jeep airborne over a dune.

  Trufflefoot gasped, swallowing a little of his breakfast again, and hissed at the calm Bedouin beside him. “How much farther, Awan?”

  While everyone else crouched low in the bucking jeep, Awan braced his knees against the back of the front seats and stood tall. He never even touched the map below as he scanned the sun and wasteland ahead. “You’re drifting too far south. Cut east at least two more kilometers. Do you see that giant red rock at your 9’Oclock? Use it as a guide until—”

  “Dear me!” Awan dropped his noggin in Trufflefoot’s lap and grinned up at him. The Major cupped the free skull in his trembling hands as more slabs of bony hamburger splattered all over the front seat. He swatted at the spaghetti shower from Awan’s shredded upper torso, while doing his best to ignore the lower half still swaying behind his neck. A jagged pelvis kept jabbing him in the shoulder with each bump.

  Worst of all, it took a good two seconds from the first splat until the buzz-sawing rip of a 20mm autocannon washed over them. Dore fired back at the armored cars in the distance with a stiff middle finger while hugging Awan’s skull.

  “Fucking Fiat’s! We’re outranged. Capson, get back up on the guns and distract ‘em!”

  Capson went pale, clambering to the machine gun anyway. Kat unstrapped and rifled through their small satchel of salvaged hand grenades. Trufflefoot seized her shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She waved a lethal pineapple at the pair of armored vehicles racing out of Ras Lanuf. Seven hundred meters away and closing fast. “You’re just wasting ammo. Let me handle this. Atkins, slow down, then make a tight doughnut. Should kick up more dust cover than a smoke grenade.”

&nb
sp; Sergeant Dore tore the bomb sack from her slim hands and growled. “My ass if I’m going to let some civilian lassie play a hero…” He fell across her as another burst from the Fiat’s tore up the ground right behind their racing jeep.

  “Sumabitch!”

  Kat blew a kiss as she tucked and rolled over the shredded tailgate. “Take care of that ass, sweetie!”

  Dore howled and yanked a ragged chunk of the spare tire’s steel rim out of his left butt cheek. “All ballsed up! Atkins…”

  “Way ahead of you, Sarge.” Atkins spat in the face of gravity and spun the jeep around on two wheels. He circled Kat three times before stomping the brakes.

  Kat screeched blindly through the sandstorm. “Don’t be stupid. Keep going. They’ll never see me until I hop onboard.”

  Sergeant Dore stumbled through the storm and popped out inches from her face. He shoved her down against a half-meter high dune, the only cover around. “I’ve never left a man behind. Ain’t gonna start now.”

  “So what, we’re all going to play Alamo? Thought that was a Yank game.”

  Major Trufflefoot ran up and spat out a mouthful of sand. Every canteen they had left spilled out of his arms. He methodically dumped out the last few drops of water in each. Dore “You daft bastard. Couldn’t we die with a little comfort?”

  “Sergeant, dehydration takes hours to kill you. Those blokes will be here in seconds. Why not go out in a blaze of glory?”

  “Ain’t no glory in the shit.”

  Trufflefoot whistled at two shapes running in circles in the thinning dust cloud. Atkins and Capson slid alongside them, lugging their last two five-gallon jugs of fuel.

  “Well, at least a blaze then. Let’s go. Everyone top off.” He beamed like a cartoon villain while sloshing a quart of petrol into his water canteen.

  Dore’s eyes lit up. “Too right, you sneaky old bastard.”

  Kat yelled over the roar of the armored cars’ ever-closing engines. “That’s not going to do a lick of good. You have to slip a grenade into a gun port or open hatch if you want to do anything other than scorch the paint.”