“Lassie, you weren’t in Ireland, back in the Tan War. Those cheap tires are basically a book of matches. Light ‘em up, and the rubber will melt in less than five seconds, and continue burning like Hades for an hour. We’ll roast them without having to penetrate the armor.”
Kat snagged a fuel jug, dipping her head a little in respect. “Crunchy on the outside, juicy on the inside. Love it!”
Dore filled a pair of canteens and stuck his head up a millimeter. A stream of 20mm lead stitched the berm, forcing him to roll over on his still-bleeding arse. “Aye!”
Major Trufflefoot went whiter than usual. He mustered up pepper in his voice. “Spread out at least 10 meters. Give ‘em a shower, roll your grenade, and keep moving. They can only hit one target at a time.”
Even Dore squirmed as another burst of cannon fire stitched the air centimeters over their heads.
Trufflefoot was at a loss for inspiring speeches, so he took a well-worn page from the ancient infantry leader’s playbook. “Follow me!”
Even the autocannons had trouble keeping up with the Major bolting out of the berm, especially when four other maniacs scattered in all directions, armed only with canteens. Unable to depress their guns fast enough, the armored cars flashed through their prey in perfect formation. It sure seemed like they ran over some as they all dashed around and slapped the armored sides of the war cars. About fifty yards farther along, the Italian’s swung around, ready for the kill.
It should have been an easy hunt. Kat hopped off the ground and shoved her hands heavenwards. One of the Italians popped his hatch and grinned at the white bra she waved in the wind.
His chuckle faded as the stench of fuel hit him. Reaching down, he yanked out a canteen stuck in the spare tire just below his turret. Another reeking vessel wedged in their front fender.
“Aprire il fuoco—AH!!!”
Kat had never seen Atkins move so fast as he monkeyed away from the parked tanklette. The grenade he cooked off opened a blistering portal to hell. Even Dore cringed as the lead armored car torched off, hot enough to ignite the vehicle next to them. None of the eight guys inside had yet climbed out of the cramped, flame-encased ovens.
“Ah, shit, Kat. Even the Macaroni’s don’t deserve that.”
Kat turned away from Dante’s porn and cussed herself. “Looks like Karma is a quick bitch.”
Dore gave the horizon only a resigned glance. The four trucks full of infantrymen kicked up a wall of dust. The lone Fiat M13 tank leading the charge was the most visible.
Twenty yards away, Truffelfoot snagged Capson and Atkins as they clambered into the jeep. “No, don’t give them a reason to use that big cannon.”
Kat plopped to the ground and laughed. “God, I’d kill for a drink of water.”
Dore squatted on his good buttcheek and slid over a grenade. “Plenty to drink in Valhalla. They’ll shoot us on site, but you… well, just wait until a bunch of them crowd around. See you on the other side, Lassie.”
He stuck out his hand… an exploding tank only 300 yards away killed the moment. The Italian trucks scattered about, spitting flames and shattered bodies as a half-dozen devil’s pianos tore into them from a hidden defilade off to their flank.
Atkins gunned the jeep’s engine and whipped over. “You guys comin’ or what?”
Trufflefoot and Kat hefted Dore to his feet while Capson snapped the twin MG42s around. A mighty engine roared behind the dune behind them. A split second later, a heavily modified Chevy Wide Bed half-ton truck rocketed over the dune and idled beside them.
Capson gulped at the smoking 37mm anti-tank cannon barrel inches from his nose. Five more trucks converged on them in moments, each one a porcupine with .30 or .50 cal machine guns bristling from every corner.
“Who are you guys?” Dore whipped up his little submachine gun, while all the dead-eyed machine gunners around him smirked.
One of the Chevy’s rolled up alongside, flapping rucksacks on the sides and jangling ammo cans drowned out the whining engine. A few heads peeked out of the ungodly well-armed gypsy wagon. The tall, gray-eyed guy in the passenger seat wore an English Officer’s uniform, sporting a Bedouin-length beard and local turban. He took a big bite from his Hershey bar and gave Kat a wink. He might have been handsome once, but there couldn’t have been anything comely about that raggedy shrapnel scar running the full length from his square jaw to those chiseled cheekbones. Still, she struggled to keep her glare steady, even as she hunched forward to hide the sweat-soaked shirt clinging tight to her chest.
“Oye, you lot are a long way from home.”
“We need some water.”
“Do we look like roadside assistance? Saving your asses wasn’t enough? No tires to torch on a tank.”
“And fuel. We kinda used most of it up.”
“Ha!” The newcomer yanked off his gloves and stuck out his hand while jerking a thumb at the still-flaming armored cars. “Yeah, you sure burned through it! I’m Captain Steele. Honor to meet you. I thought I’d handpicked all the crazy sons of bitches out of His Majesty’s Army. Good to see a few pyromaniacs are left. Meet Whiskey Patrol of the Long Range Desert Group.”
Major Trufflefoot studiously ignored the carnage and fought down his twitching cheek. “We’re with the 7th Armored’s intel section. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of you.”
“Ouch! And here I thought we were making a name for ourselves. Don’t I feel like a wanker.”
“Scouts? Aren’t you blokes way behind enemy lines?”
“Wouldn’t be doing our job right if we weren’t. We’re a… shall we say, special unit… General Wavell’s personal recon and sabotage team. Look, we can gossip and wag off all night long back at camp. If you want a cup of tea, then let’s get out of here. Say, does that raggedy old jeep still run, or do you need a ride?”
Atkins bristled. Even the lazy had their pride. “You wanna race, sir?”
Captain Steele took the last bite from his candy bar and circled a finger over his head. “Oh, this is gonna be a fun patrol.”
Bir al Akhariyah Oasis
T hirty kilometers and twenty minutes later, Kat found her first real peace of mind, surrounded by twenty dirty, well-armed men. Not that the fellas were so comfortable in her presence, judging by how they kept such a polite and formal distance. Kat tried not to giggle whenever she caught one of the warriors staring at her and then stumbling around to find some chore to occupy their attention.
While Kat and her team grabbed shovels and gently hauled Awan’s body to a nearby hilltop, the little army rigged up some shade by stretching tent tarps between trucks. Most heavenly of all, the patrol’s cook began boiling water.
After Awan’s simple burial ceremony, Kat spent a while perched cross-legged beside his simple grave. Captain Steele and his paranoia overrode her demand that they drop his body off with the nearest Bedouin camp.
Trufflefoot bent over and awkwardly rubbed her shoulder. “We’ll find his family when this is all over. I swear. Lord knows he earned his pay.”
Kat swooshed straight through the grief stages, landing on the most comfortable one. “At least one of us did.”
“You can’t blame yourself for what…”
“That’s not what I mean. Aren’t you sick and tired of running? We’ve got to do more to fight those damn NAZIs! They’re like a swarm of locusts from the Bible. It’s time we go Old Testament on them!” Trufflefoot dropped her shivering shoulders when she bounded to her feet. He sputtered as she raced off.
“Damn, girl. I get the anger, and even hate, but why is this war so personal?”
Kat swiveled halfway around, wagging her head furiously. “Please, don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.” She marched off at a near trot while Trufflefoot chewed the inside of his cheek.
Most of the gang flittered off for a birdbath while waiting on chow, so Kat had a quick chat with the patrol’s medic. After a few minutes, she wandered back to their beat-up old Willy.
&n
bsp; “Ah, pooch me hame!”
Kat dashed around to the shady side of their ride and giggled. The raging Scotsman lay on his side, head tucked between his knees and pants around his ankles. He dropped a mirror as she tossed down a first aid kit.
“You going to ask for help or not?”
“It’s just some shrapnel. I’m not showing you my ass.”
“Ok, then who do you want to wet nurse you, Atkins or Capson?”
“Those chuckleheads? They couldn’t find their own asses, and you expect me to let them look at mine? Doesn’t the patrol have a medic?”
Kat rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but he’s busy fixing up one of their own. Look, it isn’t complicated. Just a quick cleanup. Maybe a few stitches, at worse. How long are you going to keep bellyaching like a schoolboy?”
Dore mumbled under gritted teeth. “Fine. Just be quick about it.”
Kat flapped a borrowed blanket down and rested on her knees. “So, do I need to roll you over too? God, men are such babies with every little owey.”
Dore mumbled, flipping face-down on the blanket anyway, using both hands to hide his manhood. At least somewhat.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Are you blushing?”
“Not being modest, just respectful. Can’t have my willy flopping around distracting you.”
“I can see it, and I can tell you, ain’t enough there to flop. Don’t know how you pee.”
“Didn’t know you were such a doaber expert, Lassie.”
Kat snorted and slapped his bum hard before scrubbing her hands with alcohol. “Jesus, I've owned dogs with less hair. Do you howl at the full moon?”
Dore opened his mouth as she ripped off his old makeshift bandage and splashed alcohol all over the place.
The big man kept squirming every time she rested her sewing needle against his hindquarters. “Look, if you don’t stay still, who knows what parts I might wind up sewing together.”
He froze as she made the first stitch, his only move a guttural groan from deep within. Kat howled like a wolf while she worked.
Atkins and Capson came rushing around a moment later. “Oh, it’s you two. I thought we had a coyote problem…”
Atkins cringed away from Dore’s hairy ass and covered his face. “Ah, crap! Someone shoulda warned me. Damn! Now that’s a sight I won’t be able to shake. I’ll have nightmares for weeks.”
“After you’re done complaining about my ass, you can come over here and kiss it.” Dore waved a furry arm in their direction. “Piss off and mind your own business!”
Kat laughed as Dore barked. “The Wolfman here just needs a little vet care. I’m trying to explain to him in Wolfman language that he doesn't need to worry. Everything will be all right.”
Atkins and Capson shrugged at each other. They both picked up howling as they wandered back to the chow line.
“Goddamn you all!”
Kat laughed as she snipped off the last of the string. “All right, looks good. Just a deep cut, really. I bet you’ll have an even harder bum than usual for a while, but as long as it doesn’t get infected, you should be fine.”
Dore rolled over to his side and studied the mirror. “Not bad.” He patted her knee. “Thanks. I really mean that. You’re a real corker, Kat.” He held her gaze for a bit before coughing and staring off at the desert. “This might not be the best time, but you know, I was kinda thinking about, you know, about you and, uh, me… I’m not really good at this, but maybe, I was wondering… I mean, I was hoping…”
Kat nibbled her lip and cupped his head. His eyes went as wide as a doe’s when she leaned close and muttered his name. “Dore, dear…” He gulped and reached for her.
“Why don’t you pull your trousers up already?”
She giggled and strutted off, howling the whole way.
“So where’s the front line now, Captain?”
“Front? That’s cute. They couldn’t redraw the lines fast enough… That was a few days back when we made our last report. No clue what’s happening now.”
“Why aren’t you a little more perturbed about being separated from your unit? Don’t misunderstand, thank God you were there, but shouldn’t you retreat if you lose comms?” Major Trufflefoot tried to perch casually on a fuel jug… his tap-dancing boots never stopped twitching.
“This is our unit. Oh, there are more patrols raising hell from Tunisia to Tobruk. I have no idea where they’re operating exactly. Compartmentalization and all those fancy theories.” Captain Steele licked his corned beef tin clean and buried the trash. The Major gaped on.
“There’s only, what, 18 of you? That’s not even a full platoon!”
“And we’re killing far more Krauts and Macaroni’s than I could with a whole company. It’s a different type of war, out here in the devil’s garden. The smaller a unit, the better when you’re fighting behind the lines. Harder to spot, and hardly worth chasing even if we’re seen.”
Sergeant Dore butted in with a rare nod of respect. “Too right, mate. Do you have any idea where the 7th Armored might be?”
“That’s the great irony. I’ve got a long, detailed list of enemy positions, and only the foggiest idea where our boys are. Last I heard, the remaining Commonwealth forces that weren’t completely overrun are either scattered to the winds or dug in around Tobruk. Now that’s a nasty siege right out of the Dark Ages. They’re the only ones keeping the Afrika Korps out of Cairo.”
Trufflefoot blanched. “Tobruk!? That’s right on the Egyptian border. How’d we get kicked back 400 kilometers? It took almost three months to advance that far, and we lost it all in barely a week! What the hell did we miss?”
“From what you told me, you all were right there on day one of the disaster. This Rommel bloke sure queered our pitch. Supposedly he had orders from the German General Staff to dig in and hold the line. Instead, this tosser launched a mini-blitzkrieg and dragged the Italians along for the ride. Haven’t seen fighting like that since Belgium. Such perfect coordination between Commandos, mechanized infantry, tanks, artillery, and air support… Damn! We weren’t fighting an army. Nah, these guys were a force of nature.”
One of the New Zealand machine gunners kicked the Chevy hard enough to dent the side. “A lot of hot cock. Lost too many good men before those bludgers in HQ got their shit together.” Steele squeezed the man’s shoulder.
“Yeah, the Kiwi’s took the brunt of the assault. Anyway, our job now is to keep an eye on this highway and track the enemy’s movements, plus cock up the works whenever we can. It’s getting knees up busy out here since Berlin sent Rommel an extra panzer division to play with.”
Trufflefoot threw away the rest of his ration, fighting to keep the first half inside. “All the more reason to rally everyone we can and form a new defensive line.” Steele grinned and slapped a stack of land mines jutting out from his truck.
“Think about it, Napoleon. Rommel said it himself; Battles are decided by the quartermasters long before the first shot is ever fired. With the long-ass supply lines out here in the desert, these reinforcements just doubled the size of his Achilles heel. Sure, there aren’t many of us, but we’re all sitting right on his damn throat.”
Dore sat in rapt attention at his favorite type of lecture, while Trufflefoot picked at his bloody fingernails. “Fascinating, indeed, but we have to link back up with the 7th Armored. This isn’t exactly our bailiwick, you know? Can you at least call in that you picked us up and see what Command wants us to do?”
Captain Steele snickered. “I hear ya. You’re missing that sweet freedom of having someone else call the shots. You’re not a field Officer, are you, Major?”
Trufflefoot squared his shoulders, but couldn’t quite make eye contact. “Intelligence section.”
“Uh, huh. Well, somebody has to count the bodies. Look, I sympathize, but we aren’t in regular radio contact with the rest of the army. The range is just way too far. HQ sends a relay plane to drop supplies and take our reports every other day… If we’re lucky. They
missed the last two rendezvouses.”
Major Trufflefoot deflated with a hiss. “So we’re on our own. Again.”
Captain Steele pried off his turban and scratched his shaved scalp. “Nah, mate. The Luftwaffe is just making life tough for the relay planes. We’ve been cut off for weeks before. Pretty common when you operate this deep behind enemy lines. Now, we weren’t supposed to break routine until we miss three hookups...”
Steele flicked an eyebrow at his Executive Officer, who took a pinch of snuff and shrugged.
“Well, I reckon we could move the timetable up a bit. It’s not like we can pull this same stunt twice in the same area anyway. Let’s backtrack east and go check in with mama.”
Even Kat wavered. “I don’t know. Even with one lone jeep, we didn’t make it more than a click down the coastal highway. How do you expect to move all seven of these vehicles without bringing all hell down on us?”
“Mate, do you think we came this far by ducking underneath the enemy’s skirt? We got this here giant desert to play with. We’ll keep sailing the Sand Sea.” A Kiwi in the back of the truck glanced up from his maps and waved a sextant.
“Chin up, sir. This isn’t our first rodeo. Maybe we’ll find some more juicy, lazy targets along the way.”
Kat licked her lips and returned his grin. Trufflefoot prayed to heaven and buried his face in his hands.
“Out of the pan and into the fire, eh?”
Captain Steele slapped his back and tossed the Major a little salute.
“That’s the spirit, sir!”
END OF PART ONE
Slaughter in the Desert
Part Two is included with
Portals in Time Part Two
Portals in Time 1 Page 22
