The Rat Patrol 6 - Desert Masqueraade

by David King

  Sol and Mark Erma stepped inside, turning to watch the Arab as he left.

  "I think the looey meant we should come in," Sol said uncertainly. "That right, Cap?"

  "Yes," Dietrich said, dusting off the chair on which Haffi had sat and replacing it behind his table. "We shall wait a moment for Sam and Jack."

  Sam was shaking his head as he poked it into the tent. "Sorry, Cap, but I'm certain the Rat Patrol isn't in your camp." Jack came in and stood beside him. Each dangled his submachine gun and Dietrich wondered again at Grosse's complete stupidity.

  "I also am satisfied they are not in the camp," he said. "The two leaders, Sergeants Troy and Moffitt, have just been killed. They, with the Privates Pettigrew and Hitchcock, were endeavoring to re-enter the camp over an Arab trail. I had been informed of the path and it had been mined. Troy and Moffitt stepped on mines and were blown up."

  "The two big Rats were exterminated?" Sam said incredulously. "Hey, Cap, that hits us where it hurts."

  "Yes, I can appreciate that," Dietrich said with a wry smile. "The two privates were injured but escaped back to their lines."

  "I guess you wouldn't be interested in them mice, Cap," Sam said sorrowfully.

  "That is where you are wrong, Sam," Dietrich said. "Each member of this Rat Patrol was resourceful in his own way. As long as Hitchcock and Pettigrew are alive, it is possible a new Rat Patrol may be formed with them as the nucleus. I want you to eliminate them."

  "Why, sure, Cap," Sam said with a pleased smile that displayed his flamboyant tooth. Dietrich wondered whether the capping had been necessary. He remembered African tribal chieftains he had seen who had embellished their teeth with diamonds. "Tell us how to get to them," Sam went on. "We'll take care of them. You said you had mined the bottom of the slope. Is there some way we can get around?"

  "Yes," Dietrich said. "You can drive west for fifty miles, south for fifty miles through the desert, across a treacherous ridge that the Rat Patrol managed both ways with jeeps, but which I doubt you could cross with your car, then north fifty miles into their camp. Such a trip, if you were able to complete it, would require endless explanation to the American commander. Not only that, it would take a good deal of time. If the injuries suffered by Pettigrew and Hitchcock are serious, as I am certain they must be, they will be evacuated by aircraft in the morning. You must reach them tonight."

  "There's a ocean up north a ways," Jack said. "We can take a boat."

  "Again there is the time element," Dietrich said. "It would take too long to reach the ocean, too long to walk to the Allied camp if you did make a safe landing. There is, however, a direct and relatively fast approach to their camp. You see, when we lay a minefield, we leave a safe passage through it for our own use."

  "That's cute, Cap," Sam said. "So we leave here and just drive into their camp over your safe way."

  "It isn't quite that simple," Dietrich said with a smile. "Driving into their camp through a minefield would be most difficult to explain. I am afraid you shall have to walk. It will be a stroll of about five miles. It will be tiresome but it will be safe."

  "I see what you mean, Cap," Sam said doubtfully. "You're going to send a guide with us?"

  "For part of the distance," Dietrich said. "For your own protection, I suggest you leave your machine guns behind. If you are discovered, they would do you little good and you would not want to risk using them on Hitchcock and Pettigrew. You would arouse the entire company. I shall give you knives and I have observed that you have a pistol, Sam, which I hope you will not need to use. I dislike mentioning such a grisly detail, but I shall require some proof that you have completed this job."

  "Like their hearts?" Sam said mercilessly and grinned fiendishly. "I gotcha, Cap. Can do."

  "Good, Sam," Dietrich said. "Now, I do not want you to misunderstand, but one of you will remain here. Not as a hostage but as a guest until the rest of you return."

  Sam laughed heartily. "You're sharp, Cap. We told you all we care about is a fast buck. You figure we've had a look around, we might be tempted to sell out to the Americans. We couldn't do it, Cap. Before he'd talk to us, he'd be calling Washington and we'd be on our way to the hot seat. We got more to lose than you, Cap, if we get picked up."

  "Do you object to my terms, Sam?" Dietrich asked.

  "Absolutely not," Sam said emphatically. "I'll stay here myself. The boys can handle a simple job like this. You and me will have a time. I got a bottle of bourbon in my bag and there should be some more left in my flask. You play stud poker?"

  Dietrich leaned back chuckling. "I would enjoy that, Sam, I honestly would," he said. "But I sense in you the inherent qualities of a leader and I'm sure that if difficulties should arise, you will find a way to talk yourself around them." He turned to Jack. "If you have no objections, Mr. Jack Enna, you will remain with me. I shall do my best to make you comfortable."

  "Sure, Captain," Jack said. "Anything you say."

  "You can dig the bourbon out of my bag, Jack," Sam said. "Don't let Cap get pie-eyed. We'll be back before sunup. You watch for us."

  "We'll do that, Sam," Jack said.

  Dietrich spoke briefly with Doeppler and the lieutenant left the tent. Dietrich spoke to all of them but looked at Sam. "Doeppler will bring knives and some men. Someone will be watching for you at the bottom of the slope to lead you back. Also, you will be led down. I hope you do not think what I must do is inhospitable. You will understand, I am sure, Sam. Each of you will be blindfolded until you reach the bottom."

  17

  After the Jerry lieutenant, Doeppler, had tightly blindfolded Hitch, Tully and Troy, he gave each of them a series of twirls. Troy smiled as he was spun to the left and to the right several times. He did not try to count the number of turns he made in each direction. It was ridiculous. There was only one way they could be led, east to go down the slope. The lieutenant snapped an order and someone seized Troy's arm. He heard the lieutenant step out ahead and order, "Vorwärts."

  The hand tugged and Troy stepped forward counting steps from the front of Dietrich's tent. He already had the position of the tent with relation to the slope well fixed in his mind. He counted fifty paces straight ahead, or east. He was turned and walked twenty paces north, then east twenty paces, and another twenty paces to the north. Now thirty paces east, fifty south, thirty east and his feet stumbled as the path sloped down. He repeated the directions he had been led to impress them on his mind, adding and subtracting to figure their position. Even before his feet told him he was on a relatively smooth surface free from obstacles, he knew he was on the grade, ten paces north and a hundred and thirty paces east of Dietrich's tent. He was happy the Germans were a methodical nation. If he had been walked in circles and diagonals, it might have been difficult to ascertain his position so exactly. But in any event, he would have realized he was being led down the grade so it really didn't matter.

  Methodical Jerry might be, but the simple logic in leaving the grade unmined as the safe passage amazed Troy. It was the obvious that confused. The Jerries had planted one mine at the beginning of the grade and Runstead's tank had struck it. Wilson, and everyone else, had assumed that the grade being the direct and easy route to the pass was heavily sown with explosives. If the one mine hadn't been detonated, sappers would have had an easy task removing it when Dietrich was ready to pull off the ridge. Troy no longer bothered to count. Occasionally he stumbled and grumbled about the roughness of the trail. Perhaps one of the guards understood English and it would be in character for city rats like the Enna brothers in pointed shoes to complain about the hardships of the trail.

  Grosse had done his best to sell Dietrich his suspicions about the Enna brothers, but they'd been saved again by a lucky break. Who had been killed and who had identified the men as the Rat Patrol? The Arab? He'd seen the grubby little jackal lurking outside Dietrich's tent, free and unmolested after the lieutenant had dragged him in. Troy decided they probably had a score to settle with the man. But mostl
y he was bothered with Grosse. If he knew they were the Rat Patrol, where had they slipped up?

  The first order of business was to get Moffitt off the ridge. They had what they'd come for, including the location of the safe passage. They hadn't been able to get the disposition of the machine guns and infantry, but their fire would be like hail pelting the armored column when it swarmed up the grade. What had been the purpose of Wilson's shelling? Had he really intended to blast a way through the devil's garden of mines? He still would have the direct fire from the mortars, rockets and 75s to meet and that would be deadly until he could pinpoint the locations of the weapons. What was going on? Did he really have a British twenty-five-pounder? It all was very confusing.

  Troy felt his feet on level ground and for a time was led straight ahead. To the edge of the minefield, he concluded. Then the spinning ceremony was repeated and the pattern of the walking went something like north, east, west, south and north, although he did not pay much attention to it and did not bother counting paces. He could find the grade. When the blindfold was removed, he saw they were standing in the open desert perhaps half a mile from the grade. Glancing about, he saw a squad already repairing the damage the tanks had done, laying new mines in the field. The night was not luminescent, but the moon was out and Troy felt starkly conspicuous. Perhaps they couldn't be seen through the dust haze from Wilson's camp three miles away but he wanted to be moving.

  "Whew," he said, shaking his head, "I'm dizzy. How we going to find you guys when we come back? Anybody here speak English?"

  The lieutenant, standing a few yards apart from his enlisted men and the three civilians, spoke sharply to the owl-eyed boy in glasses with the dumpling cheeks who'd guided Hitch and still clung to his arm. He puffed and said in good but grossly accented English, "The lieutenant said I should tell you that we shall wait somewhere back on the slope in one of our fortified positions. We will watch for you to approach and one of us will come down to meet you."

  "Sure, okay," Troy said. He hadn't counted on this. It was unexpected and he didn't like it. He had assumed that Doeppler, since he was officer of the guard, would return to the ridge with his men and a time and place for rendezvous set for several hours later. He had planned to send Tully and Hitch on to HQ and slip back to Dietrich's tent immediately to release Moffitt. It complicated matters to have Doeppler and his three men watching.

  He looked across the three miles of open desert and glanced at the sky. There were no clouds. "We can't go straight across," he said. "They would see us even if we crawled. Tell the lieutenant we are going to circle the camp to the south and go in from the other side, where they won't be watching so closely. Okay?"

  "Okey dokey," owl face said and giggled, obviously proud of his Americanism.

  "Also tell him this is going to take a while," Troy said. "I guess three hours at the least, so when you get settled, you might as well get some sleep. Not all at once, one of you stay awake and keep watching for us. If we ran into anything we might have to come back fast."

  "I will repeat what you have said," the boy told Troy.

  The lieutenant listened impassively and said, "Alles in Ordnung."

  "Now he said 'Okey dokey,'" the boy said with another giggle,

  "Okey dokey yourself, pal," Troy said. "We're off."

  He ran straight south at a steady jog with Hitch and Tully at his heels. He maintained the pace for ten minutes before he stopped and flopped on the sand. He wished he knew what Wilson was planning and how much time they had.

  "Did you hear this rat telling Dietrich we were mice?" Hitch asked Tully.

  "Said we wasn't worth the trouble of going after," Tully drawled.

  "Think we should do him in now?" Hitch asked.

  "Why sure, then we'll go back to Dietrich and make him a Rat Patrol," Tully said. "He knows who counts for what."

  "That Sergeant Troy doesn't count for beans, not any more," Hitch said. "He's dead, Moffitt and he. We're on our own."

  "Out of the mouths of babes," Troy said with a smile. "That's right, Hitch. You're on your own. You and Tully get into camp and report to Wilson. I don't care if he's in bed, get him out and tell him the grade is the safe passage. Give him what you've got on the mortars and anything else. I'll tell you what Moffitt and I found on the ridge. You saw where his armor is parked. Moffitt and I will try to get back sometime today."

  "You're going after Moffitt now?" Hitch asked.

  "That's right," Troy said and got to his feet. "Come with me another ten minutes and then head for camp."

  Troy described the cannon and the 75s, the two antitank guns and the location of the weapons as they trotted south.

  "Do a little squatting and bobbing up and down," he told Tully and Hitch when they turned east, "just for the lieutenant's benefit if he still can see, so he won't catch on one of us is missing."

  The ridge was jagged and the embankment steep. Troy crossed the desert toward the ragged stone on his stomach. The Jerries would have no reason for mining this area, he told himself, because no tank could mount that wall. But his mouth was dry and his forehead wet before he reached the foot of the escarpment. He tottered to his feet and hugged the wall as he trotted south, watching for the concealed trail the substitute Rat Patrol had taken. He had not been running five minutes when he stumbled on it, a narrow pathway that entered the stone wall through a fissure. He saw footprints in the sand and unhesitatingly turned onto the path. He walked cautiously now, watching the prints that led downward, the ones left by the two privates who had been lucky. When he came to a place where the thinning sand was trampled and dark splotches stained the trail, he hoisted himself up the knife-edged outcrops and crawled like a skink over the stone. This was no way to treat civilian clothing, he told himself, but he couldn't work much humor into the thought.

  Slipping, gripping hard blades of stone to hold the distance he'd gained, kicking for toeholds on the sheer face, he clawed his way up. Below to his right the trail was flat and slanted like a ramp through ragged fissures toward the top, but he saw the holes in it the mines had made. When he had scaled the embankment to a shelf an easy arm's length from the crest, he toppled on his face and lay panting and bleeding. His heart pumped furiously and his head spun. His suit was ripped and his shoes were gouged. Just above, he heard the heavy tread of boots. They stopped and he held his breath, afraid the gasps would reveal him. He was utterly spent and unable to resist. The boots crunched away. It was almost half an hour before the footfalls returned and then he was ready for the guard.

  Like an animal, he crouched for the kill, knife in hand, muscles coiled, thought shut off. The footsteps stopped again. A match flared as the guard paused to light a cigarette. Troy sprang from the ledge, gripping the guard by the neck in the vise of his arm, plunging his knife into his belly and ripping it open with a savage upward slash. He rolled and lay with the guard's neck in the crook of his arm until he was sure the man was dead. In those seconds, he examined this area of the ridge. He could see no guns and there was neither place nor reason for them here. A path disappeared between the stones a few yards north. To the east was the drop to the desert. To the west, rock spires.

  Troy wiped his knife on his trousers, took the guard's machine pistol and walked warily up the path. The trail passed through clefts and he had shadows where he flattened against the walls and listened. He slunk for almost a mile before he heard footsteps. Backing away, he waited in darkness, ready to pounce. A guard stepped into the trough where the moonlight was shaded. He was casual, unconcerned and unprepared. Troy's fingers and his knife choked the cry that bubbled in his throat.

  Beyond, the ridge flattened and Troy saw the row of cannon and rocket launchers that commanded the desert. A few men of the gun crews sat and smoked but most stretched on the ground and slept. Troy went to the ground and pulled himself with his elbows and knees toward a row of halftracks that had been backed well off the rim. He felt as if he'd fallen off a cliff and was certain that he looked it.r />
  Crawling under the fronts of the halftracks, he reached the area of the ridge beyond the top of the grade. From here he could see Dietrich's tent. It was only about thirty yards from the halftrack under which he lay. Light from the acetylene lantern spilled through the opening. The rest of the ridge was lighted by the moon. He waited, watching and listening. A guard walked out from the shadows between the two tanks and past the Hispano-Suiza, lingering at the car. Troy wondered whether he could back the car between the tanks as Tully had suggested. The guard drifted by the halftrack, almost aimlessly. Troy waited long minutes until the man returned on his patrol and disappeared behind the tanks. Then he sprang to his feet and darted toward the tent.

  He ran crouching for the back of the tent. As he reached it and stopped in the shadow close to the wall, he heard the sound of Moffitt's voice but not the words. Dietrich laughed; boisterously, Troy thought. He hoped Moffitt was keeping Dietrich's glass filled with bourbon. Troy waited.

  Except for Dietrich and Moffitt, no one was stirring in the area. Troy held the machine pistol in his right hand and lifted the knife in his left to slit the canvas. A rustle, the merest whisper of a noise brushed his ear and he whirled, gripping the knife tightly as he brought his left hand to his hip. Grosse faced him scarcely not more than a yard away and the machine pistol in his hands was pointed at Troy's stomach.

  18

  By the time Peilowski returned to HQ with two medics, both Albright and Kierzek were suffering from shock. Their teeth chattered and they shivered. Then, alternately, they were bathed with perspiration as they burned with fever. Wilson had wrapped both of them in blankets and bathed their faces when they flushed. One medic went with scissors directly to Kierzek's leg while the other prepared to give them morphine. They had brought one stretcher.

  "What are the facilities at the aid station?" Wilson asked as he stepped aside. "Are there cots?"