by David King
"Where are they?" Wilson asked coldly. "Where is the Rat Patrol hiding?"
"Hiding?" the Frenchman cried. "Did you not yourself send them into the desert?"
"How could you know the Germans were coming?" Wilson asked harshly. "How could you know where I sent them? You have talked with them or you would not have known such things. Where is Sergeant Troy concealing himself?"
The Frenchman lifted his hands helplessly and shuddered.
"Seize him," Wilson commanded the MPs. "Confine him."
The MPs were only too willing to comply with his order.
Wilson grasped the handle on the door and yanked it open. Flanked by two MPs, he stomped up the steps to a foyer where a slight, dark-haired girl stood in a simple green cotton dress, pointing a pistol at his chest. Her eyes were burning and her nose seemed to quiver. She challenged him silently.
"Where is Sergeant Troy?" he asked brusquely and dived to the side as he saw her face tighten. The report of the shot crashed in the stairwell and he gripped her wrist and took the pistol away as she kicked, clawed and shrieked. The MPs gripped her arms and feet and carried her bodily down the steps.
With four men, he searched the apartment, every nook and cranny of the building, the sodden garden, the roof, even peering into the reservoir. There was no evidence that the Rat Patrol or Troy alone had recently been on the premises. He left two MPs stationed at the shattered entrance when he left. He had ordered the girl and the Frenchman confined in separate rooms with chain fence meshed windows at HQ. He'd question them himself.
The measures he was taking were severe and subject to criticism, he realized, but he could no longer permit the Rat Patrol to roam the town, enflaming the natives, bombing the installations, destroying his weapons, murdering his men. Even if the girl and the Frenchman refused to talk, and he would not subject them to treatment that was cruel or inhuman, he thought that at least Troy would make an attempt to set the girl free. He would be ready for Troy.
It was crazy, this entire sickening business. The Rat Patrol must suddenly have gone stark, raving mad. They singlehandedly, or as a tiny, integrated unit, were engaging the force and might of the Allies within Wilson's own base. The Rat Patrol must be eliminated.
The two halftracks rattled down the grade from half a mile away at the staff car and two jeeps. Troy motioned Hitch back.
"They must know we have the colonel," Troy called to Tully. "That shot was a warning. They won't fire into his car. Drive slowly straight toward them."
He put the jeep in reverse and drove directly into Tully's rear end, which he bumped as Tully started up again. They were safe until they reached the halftracks, he thought, then the enemy armor would pull to opposite edges of the road and turn their guns on the jeeps. Tully had a slim chance of speeding off with the colonel, but Troy did not see how Moffitt, Hitch and he could possibly escape. He considered the weapons they had. He could not even man his machine gun. There were grenades and demolition charges, the tommy-guns, pistols. If the jeeps tried to race past the halftracks, their seventy-five would blow them out of the desert. It seemed that the Rat Patrol's string of luck had run out.
He quickly examined the sand to the right and left of the road. It had not rained quite so hard here and while the sand was wet, he believed the jeeps could navigate. He wasn't sure about the Mercedes, but running seemed the only way they had out of this trap. He nudged against the bumper of the staff car and bumped it twice. He saw Tully glance in the rearview mirror. Troy jerked his thumb at the desert to his right and Tully nodded. He turned his head swiftly to Hitch and repeated the motion, cutting open his smokescreen exhaust. Hitch nodded his head.
Tully jerked the Mercedes off the road and gunned it into the desert. Troy nuzzled against the left fender with smoke streaming behind and Hitch crept up on the right side with the foggy vapor trailing. Troy was sure the clouds concealed the three vehicles and he did not think the Jerries would endanger their commander by firing blindly into the smoke.
The Mercedes lost speed in the sand, but Tully did manage to plow steadily ahead. A shell, then three more, crashed behind them and Troy broke out in a sweat. Had the halftracks been instructed to rescue the colonel or bring down the Rat Patrol? Two more shells crashed out at the sides and Tully swerved the staff car to the right. Hitch apparently had anticipated the turn and swung with the sedan, but Troy ran wide for a moment and another shell sang over his head. He closed back in on the others and saw that Tully was racing for the shelter of a dune.
The staff car plunged over the crest of the sand hill and skidded to a stop. Troy pulled away, braking and watching. The door on the colonel's side of the car flew open and the colonel tottered out with Tully's pistol jammed in his back. Troy drove the jeep in front of the Mercedes and Tully booted the officer into the front and vaulted into the rear behind the machine gun. Troy cut his smoke exhaust and Hitch turned off the cloud machine on his jeep. Leaving the staff car with its motor still running, the jeeps sped south on the side of the hill behind the dune.
The halftracks had stopped firing when the jeeps had taken shelter behind the sand hill. Without the smoke trails to guide them, the halftracks crawled up the dune, hesitated and stopped before starting out in pursuit to the south. The jeeps were flying over the desert now, making a wide circle back toward the road. The halftracks did not fire again. They gave up the chase and lumbered away.
When the jeeps reached the road again, the halftracks no longer were in sight. Troy stopped and exchanged places with Tully. The colonel had pressed his lips together so tightly they were white.
"You reckon we're going to have to put up with any more nonsense today, Sarge?" Tully drawled as they started off again. He'd removed his Jerry tunic and cap and was wearing his helmet again.
"Not until we start back," Troy said, glancing all around. It scarcely had drizzled here and the road was dry. Tully had settled for a comfortable fifty miles per hour. Troy could see nothing else moving in the open surrounding gray desert except the jeeps.
"When you figure on starting back," Tully asked, fishing a matchstick from his pocket and rolling it in his mouth.
"Just as soon as we deliver the carcass beside you," Troy said, sitting on a crate of fifty-caliber ammunition and bending his head as he cupped a match to light a cigarette that was damply limp.
"Aw, Sarge," Tully protested, "don't we ever get any shut-eye?"
"Haven't you heard, son?" Troy said with mock severity. "There's a war going on. We're supposed to be fighting it. What do you suppose Wilson would do if he thought the Rat Patrol was goofing off?"
"The old man knows the Rat Patrol wouldn't do that," Tully said.
Although the day remained gloomy and sunless, no rain at all had fallen in the country they entered after turning west on the trace to Bir-el-Alam. The rest of the trip was fast and uneventful and Troy found himself nodding and jerking awake half a dozen times to quickly check the seat beside Tully. The colonel remained as uncommunicative as a bag of potatoes, which he resembled, although Troy doubted the Jerry knew any English and if he did, what was there to talk about anyway? He probably couldn't tell them much that they didn't already know.
The armored unit now stationed at Bir-el-Alam was commanded by Colonel Randolph Randolph III. He was pudgy and pink-faced and his hair was white. He looked like a banker or broker. His command was a very small force assigned to defend the new airfield which had not yet been put into service. It was a green force that, like the colonel, had seen little combat in North Africa.
"Would you forward him to division headquarters with our compliments?" Troy said to the colonel, jerking his thumb at the Jerry who stood bristling but still silent between Tully and Hitch. "We can't do it ourselves because we can't go home just yet."
Colonel Randolph had recovered from the shock he'd obviously suffered when the Rat Patrol had introduced themselves and now his eyes were lively and interested as they inspected the prisoner. "A colonel, no less," he said apprecia
tively. "I'll be happy to accommodate you boys. Just who is he, do you know?"
"His name is Matthe Funke," Moffitt spoke up. "He is, or was, their division commander for the area all the way to the Egyptian border."
"Well, well, indeed!" exclaimed Randolph, much impressed. "Headquarters will be grateful for this. Is there anything I can do for you men?"
The jeeps were serviced, supplies and ammunition replenished and a coil of heavy rope added to the equipment while Troy, Moffitt, Tully and Hitch took quick showers and changed into clean, dry clothes at the colonel's insistence. He also provided a dozen beef sandwiches and a dozen bottles of beer which they consumed on the run back to the battle. The capture of Funke and the side trip to Bir-el-Alam had been a pleasant diversion, but Troy was anxious to strike another blow at the enemy while his tanks were unable to move.
They could get into the armor at the top of the pass after it was dark, Troy thought, and plant some of the packages of explosives which Randolph had provided. It was a little after fifteen hundred hours, he noted, checking his watch as they turned onto the route to Sidi Beda. They were now thirty-seven miles south of the German CP and entering the country that had been drenched by the downpour. The sky was again heavy with layers of black clouds to the north and the east. Even if it did not rain again, it would be dark early. If the sands would hold the jeeps, if they could strike from the north and the east, Troy thought, they could reach Dietrich's floundered column. He did not doubt that the CP was guarded and that Dietrich would have patrols on the road. When they had driven fifteen miles on the route, he told Tully to stop.
"Hitch," he said as the second jeep came alongside, "drive off the road a ways into the sand and then drive parallel with us. If you get into trouble, we'll get you out. I want to see whether it looks as if we can take to the desert."
Troy watched closely as Hitch threw the jeep into four-wheel-drive and crawled off the road. The tires dug furrows in the sloppy sand but the jeep kept going ahead. About fifty yards off, Hitch turned to parallel the road and Tully started up. Hitch maintained a steady speed of fifteen miles an hour for five minutes. Troy had decided the sand was substantial enough to carry them when the road went over a hilltop and down a short decline. Hitch drove into a valley and bogged down.
Troy ran through the sloshing sand to see how bad it was.
"My dumb fault," Hitch said, exasperated. "I should have come back to the road or gone around. The desert is okay to drive as long as you keep to the high ground." The wheels of the jeep were sunk almost to the hubs in a watery mixture that looked like thick barley soup. Troy glanced up the incline. About twenty-five feet away, Hitch's wheels had started to dig deep.
"I'll have Tully come out here as close as he can," Troy said, starting back. "We'll throw you the rope and see if we can tow you out."
"Do that, old chap," Moffitt said, still sitting in the jeep. "I'd dislike getting me feet wet, you know."
Troy looked at his own legs. His boots were filled with sandy water again and his pants were soaked halfway to his knees.
"I'll throw you the rope, Jack," Troy retorted. "You can get out and attach it to the frame."
Tully turned about on the road, drove back to the top of the hill and into the desert in four-wheel-drive. "It's slushy in the sand but we shouldn't have trouble if we don't make Hitch's mistake," he assured Troy.
He eased down the slope toward Hitch and Moffitt in reverse. Troy in the rear called a stop about twenty-five feet away from the other jeep and attached one end of the rope to the back of his vehicle. He cast the line toward the other jeep. Moffitt splashed up to retrieve it with a mocking smile on his face. He'd removed his boots and socks and rolled his pants to his knees.
Troy, Moffitt and Hitch put their shoulders to the back of the stuck jeep and Tully started up slowly. The line tightened. They pushed and Tully's wheels started to spin. The jeep resisted their efforts and refused to budge. They tried again, rocking the vehicle, and moved it forward a foot.
"Hell!" Troy said, breathing hard and sweating. "We ought to be able to lift it and carry it out of here easier than this. Let's give it another try."
This time they covered a yard before they gave up to catch their breath.
"Troy!" Tully called sharply as the three of them leaned on the jeep, gasping.
Troy lifted his head as a shot sang angrily nearby and then a volley of rifle fire rang in his ears. A band of eight or ten white-robed Arabs on horses charged down from the hill, firing as they came.
13
Two MPs in white helmets escorted the Fat Frenchman to Wilson's office. The military policemen were almost as wide as the Frenchman but stood several heads taller than he. They closed the door and stood on either side of it after they'd pushed the prisoner toward the middle of the room.
Behind his desk, Wilson felt his blood pumping angrily to his head and he clamped his teeth together hard. He would be just, he told himself, and he would not lose his temper. He stared at the proprietor of the wine shop without speaking for a moment. The Frenchman was visibly shaken. His big face was ashen and he was trembling but his eyes were not frightened. They were mournful.
"Your name?" Wilson asked abruptly.
"Laurentz de la Croix," the Frenchman said softly.
"You are proprietor of a wine cellar that is patronized by military personnel as well as the native Frenchmen and Arabs," Wilson stated.
"No Arabs except rarely," de la Croix said, shaking his head. "Mostly they do not drink."
"You were in business at the time the Germans occupied Sidi Beda," Wilson continued, not asking a question but stating a fact.
"I have been in business for many years," de la Croix said. "I was in business before the Germans came. I expect to be in business after you have left."
The Frenchman was humble, he was not being bold, but something about the statement nettled Wilson. "While the Germans were here, your shop was patronized exclusively by them," he snapped.
"Mostly. The French did not fraternize," de la Croix said.
"But you are a Frenchman and you served them to the exclusion of your own people," Wilson accused.
"I was in business," de la Croix said lifting his hands helplessly. "I did not say who should come to the cellar and who should stay away. When the Germans came and demanded to be served, I could not refuse them."
"You served them then," Wilson said sternly, "and since we drove them from the port, you have collaborated with them."
"That is not true," de la Croix cried agitatedly. "How can you say such a thing? I am not one of the Vichy turnabouts. I am loyal. My only wish is to see the Germans defeated and the homeland restored."
"You are acquainted with the four men, formerly of my command, known as the Rat Patrol," Wilson declared.
"I know of them," de la Croix admitted.
"Do you deny that you have served the Rat Patrol in your cellar?" Wilson asked, voice rising.
"I have served them," de la Croix said softly.
"You are acquainted with the former sergeant, Sam Troy?" Wilson said feeling his temper flare at mention of the name.
De la Croix only nodded his head.
"How well acquainted?" Wilson demanded.
"He is my friend," de la Croix said firmly.
"He has been a frequent visitor to the cellar," Wilson stated sternly.
Again the Frenchman only nodded his head.
"He also is a friend, a very close friend, of that woman who lives with you," Wilson said pointedly.
The Frenchman shrugged and lifted his hands.
"That woman was living with you at the time of the German occupation," Wilson said.
"What is it you suggest?" de la Croix cried. "The young lady you speak of distastefully is my niece. She has made her home with me for many years, since the death of my sister."
"She is part Arab," Wilson said.
"Her mother was legally married to an Arabian gentleman of some refinement and education," de la Cro
ix said with dignity. "They lived a good life in the town. When my sister died, her husband returned to his tribe. He is sheik of the tribe of el Siwa Kebir."
"The sheik is friendly with the enemy," Wilson said. He had never heard of the sheik or his tribe.
"That I could not possibly know," de la Croix said. "I have not seen him since many years before the beginning of the war."
"That is not true," Wilson said. The man was being evasive and Wilson was certain he was lying. It was not reasonable that a father would not occasionally visit his daughter. "The sheik is a friend of the Germans. Your niece is in sympathy with them. She fraternized with them when they were here. You are a collaborator. You and the girl have influenced the Rat Patrol through Troy to work with the enemy. Now that your lies have been spread before you and you know that we are aware of your activities, tell me in what new place is the Rat Patrol hiding?"
"I do not collaborate with the Germans," de la Croix declared firmly. "My niece does not sympathize with them. We despise them. I do not know the place your Rat Patrol is. I know only that you sent them into the desert. I have not seen a one of them, including Sergeant Troy, since the day when they left."
"You refuse to tell me?" Wilson said angrily.
"I cannot tell you," de la Croix said.
"Take him away, lock him up," Wilson shouted, enraged.
"On what charge?" de la Croix cried. "Why do I stand accused? You have not produced a shred of evidence against me. You occupy a town that does not belong to you and enforce the rules that you lay down with military policemen who patrol it like the German SS troops. Confront me with the witness who accuses me. I demand it on my rights as a citizen."
"Take him away," Wilson ordered. "Bring in that girl."
Of course the Frenchman was lying, Wilson thought. He admitted knowing the Rat Patrol and being friendly with Troy. He admitted cooperating with the Germans during the occupation. The defection of the Rat Patrol and the admitted friendship of the Frenchman with Troy couldn't possibly mean but one thing: the Frenchman was in some way working with the Rat Patrol.
