by David King
The car was within range now and he fired at the horse that had reared and run into the desert. The man on the animal fought the horse back toward a tank and hurled another grenade. The blast shook Dietrich to his toes.
"Drive off the road, after him," Dietrich yelled in fury to Willi. "They're blowing the treads off our armor."
"But the mud," Willi objected.
"Damn the mud," Dietrich roared. "We'll go after them on foot if we must."
Willi turned the car off the road, slewing through muck before it lurched ahead. Dietrich fired again and again as the dark day filled with the smoke and smell of the explosions. He lost the man he was pursuing, then found him again trotting away from the column. He fired another burst and told Willi to drive straight ahead at the three men who still were throwing grenades. There were several more explosions and then the only sound was light arms and machine gun fire. As the smoke slowly lifted in the heavy air, Dietrich saw two horses galloping away at some distance. He examined the field and discovered two horses that had fallen. A robed man was running from one. Dietrich thought a man was lying on the ground in front of the other.
"After him," Dietrich called, pointing to the figure on foot. "We'll take him and come back for the other."
The car skidded half around and the wheels spun like tops that were going nowhere.
"Ease up, Willi," Dietrich shouted in frustration. "Throw in the clutch. Let it out with only a gentle touch of the petrol."
Willi did as he was told. The wheels only spun in the sludge.
Dietrich jumped from the car, sliding and stumbling as he set out at a run for the man on foot. It was like running on a greased treadmill. He slipped and fell flat on his face. He pushed himself up, scraping the mud from his chin and cheeks. The man he was after had reached the sand and was racing off.
Dietrich spat muck from his mouth and walked toward the figure lying beyond the horse. Both appeared to be dead. At least, Dietrich thought with some satisfaction, he'd got one of them. He had no doubt who the four were who had attacked his column, but he wondered which of the Rat Patrol he had killed.
Where had everyone been? he wondered angrily. Why had he been the only one able to shoot down the enemy? What was the matter with Funke's men? Everything they did was wrong. Each in his way reflected Funke himself, who by now undoubtedly was sitting across the table from some interrogator and was talking his head off.
Dietrich was alone in the field, he noticed, glancing back. Not a one of the noodleheads had had the sense to give chase to the enemy. They probably were still sitting in their tanks wondering what had happened. Not even Willi the Wonder had come to his assistance. He'd replace Willi with Grosse, he decided; the moment the man reported back from his mission.
The horse was dead, he saw, noting the red holes in his sides and the blood by the mouth. He must have caught the horse in the lungs. It was a shame, he thought regretfully, such a beautiful animal it had been.
The man was sprawled on his face. Dietrich turned him over with his boot, holding his gun on him. He saw the face and gasped at his unbelievable luck. It was Sergeant Sam Troy. At first he thought the sergeant was dead, but then he noted movement and saw Troy was breathing. There had been no bullet holes in the back of the robe and there was no blood on the front. Sergeant Troy had been stunned when the horse went down and threw him. He had captured the sergeant alive.
Troy stirred, groaned, sat up slowly, breathing heavily as he looked dully at Dietrich with glazed eyes. Dietrich backed off, squatting on his haunches five yards away with his gun trained on Troy's stomach.
"Take your time, Sergeant Troy," he gloated. "I have no intention of carrying you in, so recover your breath and your senses. Do not try any of your monkey business because you know I will not hesitate to shoot."
Troy looked around, shaking his head. His eyes seemed to clear but he did not say a word.
"Perhaps it would be as well if I did just shoot you," Dietrich said speculatively. "I would be certain then, at least, that you did not get away."
"You'd miss me," Troy said, suddenly talkative and grinning. "Who would there be to make your life interesting?"
"Interesting!" Dietrich exclaimed furiously. "Do not push me, I warn you. I do not find devastation of my men and machines interesting. Now get up and walk to my car."
"A moment more, Herr Hauptmann," Troy said, letting his head hang between his knees and gulping for air. "I feel weak. I don't think I could stand just now. Have you ever been thrown from a horse?"
"From the time I was a child, I never from a horse have been thrown," Dietrich said disdainfully. He softened a little as Troy continued to gasp for air. "It was not entirely that you were inexperienced, however. That brave animal died at a gallop."
"Yes," Troy said throatily. "The Arabians are fine horses. It was you who set the Arabs after us, wasn't it?"
"It may interest you to know that you have saved me a great deal of money, Sergeant Troy," Dietrich said drily. "I placed a value of a hundred thousand Swiss francs on your heads."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Troy asked, lifting his head and smiling. "I might have turned myself in for such a reward."
"If I had thought you could have been tempted to merely go away to some place in South America and simply retire, I would have offered you several times such an amount," Dietrich said. He was exasperated. "We will have no more of this foolish conversation. You will get now to your feet and walk to my car."
Sergeant Troy stood slowly and tottered. Something in his crooked half grin should have warned Dietrich, but he was completely without suspicions until he heard a noise like a swish in the air and then it was too late. A blow crashed the back of his neck and a great light seemed to flash in his brain before everything went black.
For a tense, silent moment the air in Wilson's office was as electric as a dark afternoon in Iowa just before the thunder crashes and lightning streaks the sky. He had confronted his prisoners with Nicodeme. Then the scream of the French girl pierced his ears.
"What lies has he told you?" she cried. "This man is evil. It is he who works with the Germans while we have helped whenever possible with the underground."
"Why should you so quickly fear what he has said?" Wilson asked tartly, but he felt the beginning of a pleasant glow of confidence. Nicodeme had shaken them.
"You must not take the word of this one," de la Croix pleaded. "He holds nothing but hatred for my niece and myself."
"Perhaps he has the distaste of a loyal Frenchman for a collaborator," Wilson observed.
"No," the girl said shrilly. "When the Germans were here, it was he who ran errands for them. Some pig of a colonel desired a woman and this man came to me. When I refused to listen to him, when I ordered him from the wine shop, he returned with German soldiers and they tried to force me to go with them."
"This is true," de la Croix declared firmly. "It was only when I struck this Nicodeme on the head with a bottle that Rhee broke away from his grip and ran into the hallway, barring the door."
"And the Germans were understanding and gentle and overlooked such an act on your part," Wilson said sarcastically.
"No, they were not," de la Croix retorted. "I was taken before this colonel, but there was a captain who inquired into the trouble. When he consulted with the colonel, I was released and there was no more trouble."
"Ask this man why he wears a bandage on his wist," the girl demanded.
Wilson looked inquiringly at Nicodeme.
"I strained it working on the docks," Nicodeme said sullenly.
"That is untrue," the girl shrilled. "Sergeant Troy broke his wrist when this man tried to place a knife into one of your men. Do you not see why he hates us and the sergeant as well?"
"Is what the girl says a fact?" Wilson asked Nicodeme doubtfully.
"Of course it is not so," the man asserted with a sneer. "What would you expect from such a trollop? You can easily see what she is. The truth of the matter is that she was fre
quently with the colonel. Since that time, she and the Fat Frenchman have steadily collaborated with the enemy."
"Ask the man he tried to knife," de la Croix said. "Surely you can find him among your men and he will come forward and speak the truth."
"I am unable at this time to assemble all of my men to either affirm or deny the story and I think you are aware of this fact," Wilson said sternly. He turned to Nicodeme. "What testimony can you give other than that the girl fraternized with the enemy?"
"Beth of them have reported to the enemy," Nicodeme said. "There is an Arab merchant named Ali Abu who also is an informer. I worked occasionally for him in his warehouse. It was filled with supplies, mostly gasoline, that he had stolen. He had a small transmitting set concealed in this warehouse, I discovered it and hid and watched. I saw and heard this Frenchman report to the Germans on the set. I stand ready to testify they worked with the Arab and collaborated with the Germans."
Nicodeme was a disreputable character and probably no better than the prisoners, but Wilson knew he spoke the truth. He was not aware of the Arab merchant, but he himself had found the warehouse and the receiver-transmitter.
"Never have I had a thing to do with the Arab named Ali Abu," de la Croix cried. "It is all a pack of dirty lies."
"What happened to the stores that were in the warehouse?" Wilson asked Nicodeme. "Particularly the gasoline.
I have been in the warehouse and it was empty."
The Frenchman's eyes were crafty as they darted from Wilson to de la Croix. "Ask him," he suggested.
"What happened to the stolen gasoline?" Wilson suddenly roared at de la Croix.
"I cannot tell you what I do not know," de la Croix said helplessly.
"I shall tell you, Colonel," Nicodeme hissed. "With de la Croix showing the way, it was transported at night in two jeeps over an old and little-used trail into the desert."
The Rat Patrol again, Wilson thought bitterly. They had been actively working with the enemy for some time. What Nicodeme had told him enabled him to fit all of the pieces together—Laurentz de la Croix, Rhee, the Arab, the Rat Patrol. With Nicodeme's testimony, Wilson was ready to take his case before a court, military or civil or even a tribunal.
"Return the prisoners to confinement," he ordered the two MPs stationed at the door. As an afterthought he added, "And hold Nicodeme as a material witness."
Troy trotted with Tully through the wet sand up the dune and turned to look back. Dietrich was still lying near the dead horse. A man was running toward him, but no one was pursuing Troy and Tully. Half a hundred men were swarming about the damaged armor.
"The hardest part of it was keeping from laughing when I saw you creeping up on Dietrich," Troy said. "How did you happen to be there?"
"Gertrude threw me," Tully said sourly. "I was lucky. I landed on my head, and no cracks, please. My helmet saved me. I was wearing it under the burnoose. I was running away and Dietrich was after me. The next thing I knew he was down in the mud. When he lit out for you, I peeled off my robes and took a dive. I seen you was okay and I figured you'd know enough to keep his attention while I sneaked up."
"Thanks for your confidence in my intelligence," Troy said, shedding his robe. He laughed. "And thanks for the hand. We'd better get started. We've a long hike."
Troy looked back once more. The man was helping Dietrich to his feet.
"How come they're not after us?" Tully asked as they trotted down a slope.
"Except for Dietrich, I think they're a beat bunch," Troy said.
When they'd topped the next dune and still saw no pursuit, they dropped to a walk, following the marks of the hooves in the sand. The armor was stuck and they'd blown the tracks from at least a dozen halftracks and tanks. It amused Troy that they'd attacked the armor with horses. Dietrich's men must be dispirited if not demoralized. The machine gun emplacement they'd captured at the pass had probably been replaced with another, but they'd thrown the mortars over the bluff. It was questionable whether Dietrich had additional mortars. If they could take those two positions, Troy thought the time had come for Wilson to bring his halftracks up through the pass.
Moffitt and Hitch met them on horseback a mile from the jeeps.
"We were becoming a bit agitated, chappies," Moffitt said, smiling. "Where did you lose your transportation?"
"Right next to the armor where Dietrich could pick us up," Troy growled. "Where were your eyes?"
"Straight ahead on the eastern horizon," Hitch said and blew a bubble. He took the gum from his mouth, looked at it and threw it away. "I must of been chewing on that for more than a day."
"We can remove the saddles and ride double," Moffitt suggested.
"Oh no, we won't," Tully declined. "Pappy always said, if it ain't good the first time, don't go back for seconds."
Troy looked at the sky and his watch. It was after eighteen-hundred hours. "Be dark fast," he said to Moffitt. "You and Hitch ride back, shred up some stuff from the ration boxes and heat some water for coffee. We'll eat the sandwiches that are left and get on with the war."
"Aw, Sarge," Tully groaned. "I'm a casualty. Can't we leave something undone to keep us busy tomorrow?"
"Sure," Troy said cheerfully. "Tomorrow we'll pitch in and give Wilson a lift."
It was black, foreboding pitch blackness, by the time they'd drunk their coffee and eaten. Gertrude hadn't returned, but Moffitt's and Hitch's horses were tied to the jeep and they whinnied.
"They'd make nice pets but they'd give us away." Hitch said.
"In addition to which they are probably hungry and thirsty," Moffitt said. "We don't actually have further need of them, do we?"
"I hope not," Troy said grinning. "Take their saddles for souvenirs if you want and turn them loose. They ought to have sense enough to head for home."
"And what about us?" Tully asked dolefully.
"That's where we're going too," Troy said. "Home. As soon as we've taken care of the machine guns and any mortars that are left."
"Aw, Sarge," Tully and Hitch chimed in a chorus.
Troy alternated with Moffitt walking the jeeps back near the route south of Dietrich's CP. Lanterns burned at several of the tents. If it didn't rain again, Dietrich would be able to move what was left of the armor in the morning, Troy thought.
"We have to take these positions without any outcry," he said when the jeeps were behind the dunes about a mile from the route. "When they're no longer in working condition, we'll cut behind Dietrich's armor in the field and slip back into town down the old trade route."
"Why do we always have to do it the hard way?" Tully moaned. "When we take the positions, whyn't we just drive down the pass?"
"Wilson must have weapons down there," Troy said. "They'd fire at anything that moved."
Carrying only knives, garrotes and forty-fives, they slunk across the route into the desert and slipped through the darkness toward the emplacement on the west side of the pass. There seemed to be an unusual amount of activity at the tents when they crept by at a distance of no more than two hundred yards. Tomorrow, Troy thought again; Dietrich was mapping some plan for tomorrow.
The four of them crawled on their bellies over the wet ground up to the emplacement. Five men were huddled about a small fire they'd built in a hole in the ground, warming rations in tin cups they held by the handles with knives.
"Take them," Troy whispered.
They were four fleeting shadows that struck silently from the black. Hitch had his garrote on the throat of his second victim before Troy, Moffitt and Tully felt the men they'd seized stop struggling. There had been no outcry. They found no mortars, and they plugged the barrel of the machine gun with mud.
A subtle change in the atmosphere had taken place during the struggle and while Troy was aware of it, at first he didn't know what it was. He tensed, listening and looking for it. Look! That was it. He could see the outlines of Moffitt, Tully and Hitch. They no longer were shadows that merged with the gloom. Glancing up, he felt r
ather than saw that the clouds had started to dissipate.
"We're losing our cover," he said quietly.
Moffitt looked at the sky and nodded. "Not only that," he said. "If the sun comes out in the morning, it will bake the ground dry enough for Dietrich to move."
In single file, they crawled back to the road on their hands and knees and slid across it on their stomachs. A yard at a time, they slithered into the second emplacement. Again, it was a five-man crew manning the position during the night. Four of the men were sprawled near the machine gun but the fifth was standing guard ten or twelve yards from them. While the others slipped ahead, Tully took the sentry's neck in the crook of his arm and silenced him with his Bowie knife. Troy, Moffitt and Hitch dived for the others. No one called out but there was a struggle and one of the Jerries scrambled off. Troy saw the man running as he scuffled and started to shout but then Tully had the man by the legs. They rolled on the ground and then Tully stood, sheathing his Bowie knife.
Six mortars were emplaced at this position. They required crews of at least two men to a weapon. That meant another ten or twelve men would report here for duty in the morning. Whatever Wilson did would have to be accomplished before then. Troy wouldn't risk the clatter the mortars might make if they were pushed off the bluff and he couldn't leave them.
"We'll have to carry them far enough down the pass so Dietrich won't be able to find them," he said.
He rammed the barrel and breach of the machine gun with mud and sand, and with two of them to each mortar, they sweated and grunted three long trips down the steep, curved road through the pass. The mortars were left piled against the rocky side of the last curve, within range of the halftrack stationed at the bottom. Troy even considered trying to reach the halftrack, but there was no cover and he was certain the crew would shoot at anything that came out of the pass.
