The Rat Patrol 4 - Two-Faced Enemy

by David King

  When the MPs brought in the girl, she stood before him defiantly. Her eyes were scornful and filled with fire.

  "Your name?" he asked curtly.

  She pressed her lips together and for a moment he thought she was going to remain stubbornly silent.

  "Rhee de la Croix," she suddenly spat at him.

  "De la Croix?" he repeated doubtfully. "But your father is the sheik of Siwa Kebir."

  "I have borne the name of my mother since I came to live with my uncle," she said. "I wish to be known as French, not Arabian."

  "Where is the former sergeant, Sam Troy?" he demanded.

  "How do you expect me to know that?" she asked angrily. "I expect he is where you sent him. Perhaps he is even dead by now."

  "Do not defy me, young woman," Wilson said severely. "You know the Rat Patrol never went away. You are quite aware they have been in town all of the time. I have seen them myself several times and Troy with them in his silly hat. It is no use to he. Where is Troy now?"

  "It is you who lie," the girl screamed. "I know Sergeant Troy is not in the town. If he had returned, he would have been to see me. That I know because he said he would."

  "Take her away," Wilson snapped to the MPs.

  It was a sorry kettle of fish, Wilson thought irritably. He was certain there was connivance between the Rat Patrol, or Troy, and his two prisoners. They'd as good as admitted that. Yet he knew that at this moment he had nothing more tangible than his convictions on which to hold the two civilian citizens, no evidence nor witness. He himself would be judged harshly for bombing their building, searching it, arresting them. Yet they were his only clue to the Rat Patrol.

  Peilowski stepped into Wilson's office. "There's a Frenchie to see you," he said.

  "Send him away," Wilson said wearily. "I've seen enough Frenchmen for one day."

  "He says he has information," Peilowski said. "Information concerning what?" Wilson asked.

  "He says he'll only talk to you," Peilowski said.

  "Oh, all right, send him in," Wilson said in resignation. It would amount to nothing, he knew.

  The Frenchie was dark-skinned, sharp-faced and sinister. His black eyes kept darting around the room. His right wrist was tightly bound in a dirty bandage.

  "Who are you? What do you want?" Wilson asked impatiently. He did not like the looks of this disagreeable fellow.

  "I am called Nicodeme," the man said in good but accented English.

  "I was told you have information," Wilson said.

  "You will pay for it?" Nicodeme asked.

  "If it is useful," Wilson said disgustedly. He did not like informers of any kind and he particularly disliked jackals who'd sell out for a price.

  "I have heard you have arrested the one who is called the Fat Frenchman and that woman of his," Nicodeme said.

  "Yes? Well, what of it," Wilson said. "That is scarcely information."

  "How do you charge them?" Nicodeme asked.

  Here was another one of them, Wilson thought angrily. The man had come looking for information, not peddling it.

  "That is no business of yours," he said sharply.

  "I thought it might be on the charge that they work for the Boche," Nicodeme said, shrugging. "I thought you might be interested to know that is something I would be happy to swear as a fact."

  On a magnificent dun-colored horse and in mud-splattered white robe and burnoose bound with gold-threaded purple, Ali Abu had ridden out of the desert with eight of his men and dismounted in front of Dietrich's tent. Dietrich stepped out at once, looking at the Arab merchant and informer in surprise. He scarcely recognized him. Before, he had seen him only in shoddy, ill-fitting western clothing. The eight men were dressed in robes like Ali, but their burnooses were not adorned. They all held Mauser rifles and remained seated in their saddles.

  "You are welcome, Ali," Dietrich said, not quite sure that he welcomed this visit at all. It probably meant the Arab had come to press some demand. "Will you and your men come with me to the mess tent to take coffee?"

  "I will talk with you," Ali said. His beady eyes that were set too close to his sharply curved nose were hard. "My men will remain mounted."

  "Very well," Dietrich said. "Come into my tent."

  Grosse still was in the tent. Dietrich had not yet assigned the man a new task. He rather liked the idea of a batman and now he sent him for coffee. Ah and he sat on the stools across the table from one another.

  "What brings you here, Ali?" Dietrich asked.

  "Twelve of my men were killed at the oasis where the fuel was buried," Ali said. "Another eleven died in your service when they were attacked on the old trail. More are fighting your battle now in the town. I want money."

  "You were paid for the fuel and I never received it," Dietrich said sternly. "Your men permitted it to be destroyed."

  "You must pay me for the loss of my men," AH demanded.

  "You said your men would guard it," Dietrich said severely. "I should demand you return the money I already have given you."

  "What of my men who fight in the town?" Ali asked sharply.

  "Is that not your battle as well as mine?" Dietrich fenced. The information was gratifying.

  "It is the four men you sent who order them," Ali said. "I have provided them the warehouse you requested. I have placed twelve of my best men at their orders."

  "What exactly have your men done to earn pay?" Dietrich asked.

  Grosse brought two tin cups of coffee to the table and withdrew from the tent,

  "They have enflamed the population and caused rioting," Ali said, eyes gleaming cunningly. "They have killed many soldiers and destroyed many weapons."

  "How many were killed, what weapons destroyed?" Dietrich asked quickly, excited now.

  "Fifty and more at least have been killed," Ali declared. "At least half of the armored pieces with the guns, I should say fifteen of them, have been blown up with bombs."

  "Are they now fighting in the streets?" Dietrich asked. Perhaps only half of what the Arab reported was true, but the news was still pleasing.

  "It has continued for two days without any rest," the Arab assured him. "The American colonel is fully occupied and unable to contain the uprising."

  "What of my four men?" Dietrich asked. "Have they remained free?"

  "They are free," the Arab said. "As long as I am paid, I shall protect them."

  Dietrich sipped his coffee in silence. He had ordered his duplicate Rat Patrol to incite such riots and to destroy the enemy's weapons. There must be some measure of truth in Ali's statements. Dietrich would settle for a great deal less than half of the losses the Arab reported. As long as there was a mob that was unruly, the American colonel, Wilson, would have to commit men and weapons to control them. It should be possible to break out of the pass and yet defeat the enemy.

  "Ah," Dietrich said decisively, "I cannot pay you for the men you have lost any more than you can deliver the fuel that was destroyed. Those matters are in the fortunes of war. I shall pay you twenty-five thousand Swiss francs for the men who fight in Sidi Beda. This I shall give you now, and another twenty-five thousand Swiss francs when the town is taken."

  "Your offer insults me," Ah said scornfully and stood. "I am certain the American colonel would pay me a hundred thousand francs to turn my men against you."

  "I doubt this is so," Dietrich said. He knew the Arab was perfectly capable of bargaining for the best price and he thought the American colonel, Wilson, would willingly pay under the circumstances. "I shall, however, pay you a hundred thousand francs Swiss in addition to the fifty thousand francs if you and your men will undertake another task for me."

  "What is it you wish done?" Ali asked greedily but suspiciously.

  "Somewhere in the desert south from here are four men, dressed like the four men I sent to you in the town and driving similar vehicles," Dietrich said with pleasurable anticipation.

  "That would be the Rat Patrol that your men imitated," Ah said. "I know o
f them."

  "Good," Dietrich said. "If you will capture them or kill them, I stall pay you the hundred thousand francs."

  "You would pay more for the four men than the capture of the town?" Ali asked incredulously.

  "Their destruction is worth more than one town," Dietrich said bitterly.

  "The desert is large " Ali began.

  "One hundred thousand francs, not one centime more," Dietrich interrupted him, feeling no inclination to haggle. "I shall tell you where to lock. Sometime—this afternoon, I think—they will be driving on the route toward my post. They will come from the trace that leads to Bir-el-Alam and will leave the road some miles away if the sand is firm enough for their vehicles. It should not be difficult for you and your men to conceal yourselves and surprise them."

  "It is as good as done," Ali said and smiled. It was a grotesque smile, more a cruel sneer. "I shall bring you their heads to exchange for the money. Now if you will give me the twenty-five thousand francs on which we agreed, I shall ride with my men to the south."

  Ali Abu had galloped off with his eight tribesmen waving their Mausers aloft, and Dietrich had spent a pleasantly busy afternoon, although he hoped Ali did not literally mean to deliver the grisly talismans. Reluctantly dispensing with Grosse's services, he had sent the man to scout the condition of the road through the pass and the defenses at the bottom. He had asked Gleicher to examine Funke's column of armor and to move it onto the road if possible. He had placed guards on the column and a patrol on the road.

  It now was late afternoon, seventeen-hundred-eighteen hours, he noted, checking his watch, and neither Grosse nor Gleicher had reported. Having nothing more urgent to do, he decided to see for himself what success the lieutenant was having in getting the halftracks and tanks out of the mud. He had Corporal Willi Wunder bring around his car. Although there should be another hour and a half of light at the least, it was growing dark. The sky was a gunmetal gray and the taste of rain tainted the air. Such a deluge as had flooded the pass in the morning was unnatural, but Dietrich remembered that in November of 1941 the Jebal area of Halfaya Pass bad been flooded by just such a catastrophic downpour. Trucks had been swept away and men drowned in the middle of the desert. If it rained again with such violence, he would be lost, he thought apprehensively.

  Willi drove slowly and cautiously, keeping to the middle of the road, although the grade seemed firm enough to hold tanks. Dietrich glimpsed the armor in the distance. It was a massive fine of destructive power and Dietrich's pulse quickened at the thought of his halftracks and tanks pounding into Sidi Beda. The column did not appear to have moved onto the road. He stood in the moving car to examine it through his field glasses, but movement to the east demanded his attention.

  He turned his glasses to the motion and the sight he focused on made his spine tingle. Four men in white robes, four of Ali Abu's men, he recognized, and one of them undoubtedly Ali himself, were racing their horses toward him and each bore a bundle before him on his saddle.

  When the Arabs had appeared on the top of the hill discharging their rifles, Moffitt had leaped to the fifty-caliber Browning in the stranded jeep while Troy and Hitch dived to the rear for tommy-guns. Ahead, Tully, who had shouted the warning, already was manning the heavy machine gun. His weapon pounded with hammering bursts and two of the horsemen tumbled from their saddles as the other seven swept past and bore down on the other jeep.

  Moffitt braced himself, arcing his fire into the group. Troy and Hitch crouched in the sand pudding almost under the jeep and squeezed off burst after burst in rattling tattoos. Three of the Arabs splashed in the muck. The remaining four pulled their horses about and separated, riding back to fire at Tully from both sides. Moffitt, Troy and Hitch continued firing at them as they galloped up the hill. Even in the heat of battle, Troy could not help admiring their horsemanship. They rode with their rifles to their shoulders, reins wrapped to the saddles.

  Tully's machine gun slammed two of them into the sand and then he fell from his weapon backward to the door of the jeep. The two remaining Arabs fired one last round from the top of the hill at Moffitt, Troy and Hitch and then rode into the desert. Troy gritted his teeth and splashed from the slough of sand toward Tully's jeep. He hoped Tully was wounded, only wounded, not dead.

  Tully sat up grinning. "Take it easy, Sarge," he drawled. "I had to play possum when they came at me Indian-like."

  "You no good hillbilly!" Troy roared and jerked his knife from its sheath. He laughed and slashed the rope from the rear of the jeep.

  "Get going," he shouted and leaped into the seat.

  "They got a pretty good start and their horses are fast," Tully said. He let out the clutch and the jeep shot ahead.

  "Forget the Arabs, they're long gone," Troy yelled. "Let's round up the horses with empty saddles."

  Two of the horses had wandered to the side of the sand hill when their riders were shot and Moffitt and Hitch merely walked to them and led them to their jeep. Tully circled around three horses on top of the hill and charged at them. They ran toward the valley. One shied and trotted toward the road. The other two ran into the slush and waded to the horses tethered at the jeep. Moffitt secured them.

  "Won't it require some type of yoke to hitch them to the jeep?" Moffitt inquired with a frown. "Even if we could fashion one, it seems a shame to make drafthorses of such fine specimens."

  "We're not going to use them to drag out the jeep," Troy said with a laugh. "Let's get the robes off four of these Arabs."

  "Just what do you have in mind now, Sam?" Moffitt asked with a gleam in his eyes.

  "Dietrich sent those men," Troy stated flatly. "I'd lay my bottom dollar on it. I'd been wondering just how we were going to get next to the armor. When we get close, we'll hide the jeeps, wrap the robes around ourselves and ride up to our targets. Dietrich won't be suspicious until it's too late." Moffitt untied the horses and led them up the hill. Troy and Hitch grunted and shoved while Tully pulled, and they moved the jeep onto firm sand a yard at a time. Moffitt tied two horses behind each jeep. They each selected a robe and burnoose from an unprotesting dead Arab, spread them in the backs of the jeeps to air and dry and drove east along high ground away from the route.

  Some of the valleys in the rolling desert still held water, but the high ground had drained quickly and the sand was only moist. Because they had to stay on top of the dunes, Troy kept their course from two to three miles away from the road. It was growing late in the day and darkening when Troy estimated they were within three or four miles of the pass. Tully and Hitch drove off the high ground but they did not attempt to run the jeeps into a wadi.

  Troy decided grenades would be the most effective weapons to use in a lightning strike at the armor. Each slashed off a yard or two of material from the bottom of his robe and made a bundle of a dozen grenades which he draped on his saddle.

  Tully inspected the four horses, stroking the neck of each and looking doubtfully into its eyes. The ran behind the jeeps had wearied the horses and all of them seemed gentle enough. Tully selected a mare he called Gertrude because he said she reminded him of a horsefaced girl of that name and Moffitt boosted him into the saddle. Gertrude immediately reared.

  "Don't jerk back on the bit!" Moffitt shouted. "Ease up on the reins."

  Gertrude pranced nervously about in a circle and Tully jounced up and down in the saddle. Moffitt mounted and rode by her side. The mare quieted. Troy and Hitch joined them and they set out for Dietrich's armored column at a trot. Troy, Tully and Hitch jogged clumsily.

  "Hang on to that steed whatever," Moffitt said to Troy with an amused smile. "You'll be in no condition to walk back from this ride."

  They viewed the armor from the top of a sand hill. It appeared to stretch for a good half mile along the side of the road. Troy studied it a moment.

  "Jack," he said to Moffitt, "go in at the head of the column and take as many as you can. Pitch for the treads. I'll go in at the rear. Tully, Hitch, strike at the
middle and ride away from each other. We ought to be able to hit them from fifty yards. If they start shooting at you, don't hang around to argue. We'll do considerable damage no matter what. If we're separated, keep going and don't worry. We'll rendezvous back at the jeeps."

  After the loafing trot, the horses lengthened their gait with little urging and the Rat Patrol galloped, three of them slapping leather, down the long hill toward the armor. Troy had a glimpse of someone standing and watching in a car on the road through glasses. He wondered whether it was Dietrich as the car sped toward the column.

  Moffitt had given his horse her head and reached the front of the column before the others were within reach of their targets. Troy heard one explosion and then a second as he hurled his first grenade. His horse reared at the blast and raced across thick, slithery mud toward the sand hill. There were three more banging detonations before he had his stallion under control. He brought the horse back within reach of a tank and threw another grenade as machine gun fire rattled close at hand. He heard the sound of light arms fire and another machine gun barked. His horse staggered as if struck a blow with an axe handle between the eyes. He jerked the horse's head toward the desert. The stallion stumbled once and then picked up its feet and trotted. Troy kicked his heels into its ribs. Behind he heard two more explosions and the continuing chatter of machine gun fire. He kicked the horse again and the stallion galloped for fifty yards, plunged forward on its knees and Troy went flying over the animal's head.

  14

  Dietrich watched in horror as the four men in white robes on Arabian horses drew apart as they neared and galloped toward the armored column. One of them might have been an Arab from the way he rode, but Dietrich, who was somewhat of a horseman himself, would have sworn the other three had never mounted anything more unmanageable than a bicycle. He shouted at Willi to speed and reached into the back of the car for a dual purpose MG-42 light machine gun which he threw to his shoulder. He heard clanging explosions from the head of the column, then center and rear.