The Rat Patrol 6 - Desert Masqueraade

by David King

  Tully came out of the night onto the trace and the two of them halted well away from the blaze. The patrol must have been carrying an enormous reserve of gasoline from the size of the fire, Troy thought. Of course they were carrying a load of gas. They hadn't known how far they'd have to chase the Rat Patrol.

  "What'd they have to come along for?" Tully demanded bitterly, breathing hard. The fire threw sparks onto his contact lenses and his dark eyes appeared to glint angrily.

  "They'd picked us up and were following the tire treads," Troy said. "We'll have to get out of here. If there's another patrol car, they'll see the fire." He laughed without humor. "It wouldn't make any difference if it were Allied or Jerry. We'd have a job explaining ourselves, the way we're rigged out."

  "Damn them crazy fools!" Tully exploded. "They spoiled our supper."

  "I guess we spoiled theirs," Troy said dryly.

  They turned and walked quickly back to the oasis. The Hispano-Suiza was on the trace, the trunk strapped shut. Hitch was at the wheel and the motor was idling. It would be foolhardy to continue on the mission, but they couldn't turn back until they were certain the way was safe.

  "Drive fast without lights for about ten miles," Troy told Hitch as Tully and he swung into the car. "Then pull off the trace into a wadi and we'll have supper."

  "Going on with it, Sam?" Moffitt asked quietly as the car eased ahead in second gear.

  "I've got to think about it, Jack," Troy said, looking over the back of the touring car at the fiery wreck. It was a lonely pyre. If there was a second Jerry patrol car it was ahead, waiting to intercept them.

  He settled back, alone in the corner of the back seat. They had their orders. If he returned to Bir el Alam, he'd be disobeying them. Under the circumstances, he could explain their failure to carry out the assignment, but the Rat Patrol had never turned back from a mission. They could return and request a new plan but Norman and Bernard had probably gone back to Cairo. They could go on, improvising a new plan of their own. Or they could carry out the original plan, assuming that the three events of the day had been unrelated although that seemed entirely improbable.

  The moon, a huge white globe, sat on the horizon now, diffusing its bright illumination over the already translucent desert. Moffitt's—or rather, J. Enna's—features were clearly visible. His mustache was the handlebar type of the first generation Mafia. He looked like a ruthless pirate with his black hair blowing in the wind kicked up by the speeding touring car. It was a shame that such a carefully prepared cover should have been broken by Wilson's prattling.

  Troy's stomach was stewing when Hitch ran the car off the trace, driving a mile through dark valleys to hide the tread marks, and finally stopped in a wadi well protected by high dunes. Troy told Tully to use the Sterno stove and brew a pot of coffee. He took a cup to the top of a dune to stand guard and think. He had no appetite for the ham or cheese and sausage Tully was heaping on the plastic plates from the hamper. What they did from this point on was his decision to make. He went over the events of the day again to see whether he could add them together and get a sum that was mere chance.

  It was true the Messerschmitts came over the Allied position regularly on strafing runs. If the fighters discovered a B-25 on the ground or taking off, of course they'd hit it. Arabs were predators who prowled the desert and lurked on the fringes of towns and camps waiting for their victims. If a band happened upon a lone civilian car, or a lone military vehicle for that matter, they would pounce upon it. But how could he explain the Jerry patrol car deep in Allied territory? It was possible that Dietrich or some other Jerry commander had sent a patrol behind the lines to harass and destroy in the same fashion the Rat Patrol operated and coming on the track of the Hispano-Suiza or seeing the car at a distance, had decided to investigate.

  It was shaky rationalization, Troy admitted glumly. Could he read in any positive conclusions that Dietrich was not aware of their mission into the events? If the fighters had been ordered to shoot down the B-25 they would not have given up so quickly. If the Arabs had been told to kill the Rat Patrol, they would not have fired at the car from a distance. If the patrol car had been after the Rat Patrol, the Jerries would not have followed the tire tracks, but would have swung wide ahead and ambushed them.

  It was possible to make it come out like that. Maybe it was stretching things a bit, but Troy didn't see that he had much choice except to take the possible and not the probable. Wilson had said the mission was vital.

  Troy closely inspected the desert before he stood. Far in the distance was a small flame where the patrol car still burned. Otherwise the desert was quiet. Not even a jackal slunk across a dune or barked. He walked briskly over the dunes that embraced the wadi scanning the silvery sands and then slid into the valley where a blue flame flickered under a fragrant pot. Moffitt, Tully and Hitch watched him without speaking as he took a plate, speared a slice of ham, spooned some caviar on a round of toast and half filled his cup with sparkling Asti Gancia wine.

  "Presto, mustachios," he said, cramming his mouth with Westphalian ham. "What you wait for? We got long way to go, stasera."

  "Si, parone," Tully shouted.

  Hitch yelped and smacked Tully between the shoulder blades. Moffitt's, J. Enna's, eyes didn't twinkle but the amused smile was familiar even under the mustache.

  It was strange that Troy had not noticed the others had been under a strain. Perhaps he had been too occupied with his own thoughts. It was as if suddenly a tension spring had been released. Hitch and Tully began horsing around, swaggering about the wadi with their violin cases. J. Enna leaned against the trunk-table that was loaded with delicacies. He twirled his moustache with a Continental flair but the smile lingered and was reminiscent of Sergeant Jack Moffitt, late of the Scots Greys.

  "We're with you, Sam," he said quietly "We were afraid you'd turn back."

  8

  The moon rode high and the desert was eerily washed with turquoise light when Hitch turned the big wheels of the Hispano-Suiza off the trace. Here, almost at the southwestern edge of the Cyrenaica peninsula, the track ran straight north to the ocean. Some fifty miles to the northwest, Wilson sat on the desert bed and looked up at Dietrich on the ridge. For almost the entire distance, Dietrich's southern flank was protected by a salt marsh. Directly south was the Great Salt Marsh, an enormous area two hundred miles long and a hundred and fifty miles wide, where nothing lived and there was no sound nor motion except the dancing wind dervishes. Between the marshes, a ridge of barren rock rose like the backbone of a dinosaur. It was one of the ribby outthrusts from this skeletal range that Dietrich occupied.

  Although it was nearing twenty-two hours, Hitch had not needed to use his headlights. Troy was not certain whether this was to their advantage. While it was easier to run with lights, he did not like the idea of being visible for miles from both the land and air. There had not been further incident, however, after the encounter with the patrol car and Troy had dozed intermittently, relieved and easy in his mind now that the decision to go on with the original plan had been made.

  When Hitch left the trail, Troy sat stiffly, straining as the desert cleats of the tires clutched loose sand. The car slowed perceptibly but not significantly and continued over the trackless desert at a steady thirty miles an hour toward the beginning of the stony highland. Within a mile, the sand began to show rock outcroppings and Hitch slowed to twenty miles an hour as he steered an erratic course between them. The land began to tilt and stones stuck knotty fists out of the sand. Abruptly, the car was above the desert on a sheer rock face that lay in slabs canted toward a ridge some one hundred and fifty feet high. Hitch stopped, and with the motor idling, he filled the radiator from one of the water cans in the rear seat. The engine had not started to heat. The night was cool and only tendrils of vapor lazed above the radiator.

  "I'm going to use the searchlight, Sam," Hitch said over his shoulder as he moved the stick into position for low gear.

  Troy could
feel the transmission gears turning over as Hitch kept the clutch depressed. He'd told Troy what he was going to do, but he wanted approval. Troy would rather have continued without lights but one way was as bad as the other: use the lights and risk being observed; go on without lights and risk being hung up on a rock.

  "You're the driver," he reminded Hitch.

  The searchlight thrust its inquisitive finger up the rock-ridged incline, ran back to the car, swept the gray slabs of stone on either side. Hitch slanted the light across the hood so it touched the ground about ten feet ahead. He let out the clutch and steered the car across a flat slab of rock at a forty-five-degree angle to the right. He followed this outcrop for about fifty yards and stopped to explore a flat layer of stone that ran upward to the right. The searchlight traveled this stretch, then leaped on, climbing up a steep ramp to the top. The searchlight ran up and down this face of stone. Troy swallowed hard. He would hesitate to go up that sheer ascent on foot. He remained silent.

  The car crept upward in a setback to the left without seeming to strain in low gear and the final ramp loomed straight ahead. Hitch stopped, aimed, gunned the motor and let out the clutch. The car started to crawl up the wall like a fly. The incline was so steep Troy felt as if he was lying on his back. He could not see the top of the ridge. All he could see was the bright night sky above him. If the tires lost their grip they'd crash to the bottom of the slope. He dismissed that thought the moment it flashed across his mind. The car lurched and they were on the top. A rending rasp scraped from the undercarriage and the car came to an immediate and abrupt stop. The back wheels were inches off the incline on the top. Hitch had shut off the motor, set the brake and he and Tully were under the car before Troy recovered. He and Moffitt hopped out and knelt on either side of the car peering under it. Hitch was inspecting the underside with the flashlight.

  "We're hung up on the pan," he called. The flashlight beam probed. "It doesn't seem to be punctured on this side. Here, Sol." Troy saw him hand the flashlight around a flat-topped rock. In a moment the light beamed from the other side. It held steady in one position for several moments.

  "It's not leaking," Tully called. "You stopped in time."

  Hitch backed from under the car, stood and blew out his breath. He stepped to the back and glanced down the precipitous slope. "Only an idiot would drive blind up that," he said disgustedly and looked back at the car.

  "What do we do?" Troy asked. The mishap annoyed him and left him feeling helpless but he was not angry. Hitch hadn't had a choice. He'd had to shoot over the top and he hadn't had a periscope. If it hadn't been for Hitch's immediate reaction, the pan would have been ripped off.

  "We can't drive it off," Hitch said. "That'd take the pan. We can't lift it off. The car weighs about four tons."

  "Can we rock it off?" Troy asked.

  "Be the same as if we drove it off," Hitch said.

  Tully and Moffitt walked around from the other side of the car. Troy lighted a cigarette and the four of them stood looking at the big powerful Hispano-Suiza, immobilized but not quite impaled.

  "If we had a chisel and hammer, we could knock off the top of the rock," Troy said.

  "It would take all night," Hitch said. "Besides, I don't think we have a chisel." He flung open the tool box mounted on the running board on the driver's side, turning the flashlight into it. "Hammer," he said, holding up a small sledge. "No chisel."

  Tully moved beside him and started removing wrenches and screwdrivers. He laid an assortment on the running board. "Give me the flashlight," he told Hitch and started to crawl under the car. "Oops," he said, backing out and standing. Tully was grinning, or rather, Sol Enna was smiling ferociously. "Better take care of the masquerade costume." He removed his suit coat and trousers and stripped down to his underwear. Troy saw he was still wearing GI khaki shorts.

  "When you get dressed again," Troy said with a thin smile, "you better put on your pink silk shorts. Norman would blow a gasket if he knew what Sol Enna was wearing under his gabardine trousers."

  "I wish we'd only blown a gasket," Tully mumbled, crawling under the car with the flashlight.

  "What do you have in mind?" Moffitt squatted and inquired.

  "I'm going to take off the pan," Tully called. "Maybe I can slip it off when Hitch drives the car ahead."

  "What are the chances?" Troy asked Hitch.

  "Not chances, Sam," Hitch said with a grim smile. "It's our only chance." He was stripping down to his shorts. "I'll give you a hand," he shouted at Tully and turned to Troy. "You and Jack might as well take a bottle of wine and go smoke a cigarette. Right now you're useless."

  The remark probably was true, but it irritated Troy. He walked away from both Moffitt and Hitch and stood beyond the hood of the car looking along the top of the ridge. It was broad and reasonably flat, jagged but passable with caution. Far to the south, the Great Salt Marsh was a spectral sea. To the north he could see the other marsh, Dietrich's marsh, glittering greenly in the moonlight. Abruptly he turned.

  "I'm going to get some food and drink to carry in the car," he told Moffitt. "With the time we lose here, we won't be able to stop again until morning. If we do get moving." Hitch gave him a Mark-Enna, dirty-dog scowl and dived under the car. Troy found a bare foothold behind the automobile and hung onto the rack as he unstrapped the trunk. The ham was on top and he tossed that into the back seat as well as a sausage, a good sized chunk of Swiss cheese, a tin of biscuits, a knife and four plastic cups. He tucked two bottles of wine under his arm, strapped the trunk shut and edged around to the side. When he'd deposited the bottles in the back seat, he thought briefly of getting out the Sterno stove and brewing coffee but rejected the idea. It was less than two hours since they'd had their supper. If Hitch and Tully got the car off the rock, they'd move right out.

  Hitch rolled from under the car as Troy started for the rock to the side where Moffitt was sitting. "We're going to give it a try," Hitch said. "Want to bend over and give me the word if Tully sings out?"

  "Sure, Mark," Troy said, kneeling. Tully was holding the loosened pan with both hands. Troy saw the front wheels being cramped to the right and the car edged ahead. "Stop!" Tully shouted.

  "Stop!" Troy repeated.

  "What's the matter?" Hitch called when he'd set the brake.

  "I can't slip the pan off," Tully called. "It's wedging in tighter. The rock will go through it."

  "Just a minute," Troy said. He lay on his back under the car looking at the pan mashed against the rock. He rolled out and looked at the rear wheels. Although close to the edge, they had firm purchase on the stone. "Screw the pan back on," he bent and said to Tully. "Jack," he called to Moffitt. "Give me a hand."

  "Of course," Moffitt said quickly. He walked over to Troy. "How can I do my bit?"

  "We want some flat stones," Troy said, bending over with his eyes on the ground. "A couple about an inch thick and a couple about two inches thick."

  "Right-o," Moffitt said, stooping immediately and lifting a thin slab. "Like this?"

  "That's the ticket," Troy said, picking up a stone about flie same size. "We'll cram these against the front tires and ind two thicker stones."

  By the time the two-inch stones had been laid in front of the first slabs, Tully had replaced the pan and was standing beside the car.

  "Put it in low and gun it over the stones," Troy told Hitch.

  There was a brief scratching noise of metal against the rock and then the tires mounted the stones. The pan cleared the rock as the Hispano-Suiza rolled free onto the ridge. Hitch set the brake and stepped out to get into his clothes.

  "I guess that's why you're a sergeant, Sam," he said mournfully as he pulled his trousers over his shirt tails.

  After Tully had exchanged his shorts for more suitable undergarments from his handbag and left his GI underclothes beneath a rock, they piled back into the car and moved on along the arm of stone. The searchlight stabbed the path ahead and the car dodged in and out of the slabs t
hat jutted from the broad ridge. The bright night turned cold and Troy voiced no objections when Hitch and Tully complained bitterly at the inefficiency of G2 in failing to provide blankets. With only suit coats, they all were shivering.

  At midnight, Troy checked the mileage with Hitch and found that despite the hangup on the rock, they had covered twenty miles since twenty-two hours. He wanted to be off the high thrust of land by daybreak, but with six hours to cover eighty miles, he felt safe in calling a break. Hitch stopped in an area near the middle of the ridge that was free of obstacles as far as Troy could see.

  "We'll take half an hour," Troy told Tully. "Time enough for a cup of coffee to warm us up."

  "It's colder'n a coon's nose at Christmas," Tully grumbled, taking the flashlight. "I wish we had Norman and Bernard in short-sleeved shirts with us right now." He walked to the back of the car. Troy heard the lid of the trunk go back and the side slap down. Abruptly there was silence. There was no sound of rummaging for the coffee pot and cups, the stove, the coffee can. Just dead quiet, as if Tully were standing motionless. Then Tully said, "Sam." His voice sounded weary and resigned.