The Rat Patrol 2: Desert Danger

by David King

  Unless Dietrich already had sent him away, Colonel Wilson probably was confined within that building. Troy smiled lopsidedly; all he and Tully had to do was get inside the building, find Wilson, liberate him and get out of town with him.

  He felt someone looking at him and glanced quickly down from the roof of the structure. An officer with the peaked cap of the Afrika Korps riding squarely on his head was standing a few feet away, examining him suspiciously. Troy pulled his face inside his burnoose, took Tully by the hand and led him down the wall and into the tavern doorway.

  It was a long and narrow room, a hallway of a place, murkily lighted with fat lamps that permeated the smoky air with their reek. Tables lined either wall with a cramped aisle between. Although the place was jammed with soldiers, most of them were concentrated at the far end where there appeared to be a small stage and entertainment. Several tables near the entrance were vacant and Troy hustled Tully into a dark comer.

  Now he heard wailing music that seemed to be coming from some single stringed instrument, a piping horn and a muted drum. Between the shoulders of the soldiers, he caught flashes of a dark-haired, bare-shouldered girl who was convoluting and swaying. Troy glanced swiftly at the doorway and finding it empty, stood. From the distant brief views he had of the girl, he thought she must be French or Italian or even Spanish. She was not, he was certain, an Arabian girl.

  As he watched, the music stopped abruptly and the girl disappeared through a curtained doorway at the back of the room. There was no applause although several of the soldiers shouted after the girl. Then they began to move back down toward the front of the tavern, not sitting at the tables but crowding toward the doorway. Troy and Tully withdrew into their comer.

  There was the clang of a cymbal and the men still seated pushed back their chairs, rose muttering among themselves and drifting out with the others.

  "Curfew," Troy whispered.

  "That go for us Ay-rabs, too?" Tully asked.

  "I don't know," Troy said tightly. "One thing for sure, it's going to make us conspicuous."

  Troy looked back at the doorway, suddenly and decisively knocked back his chair and stood.

  "I'm going to take a chance on that girl," he said and walked rapidly toward the curtained doorway at the rear.

  "Won't you never learn, Sarge?" Tully moaned at his shoulder.

  "When we go through the curtain take a quick look behind you," Troy said stepping into a dismal passageway.

  Standing in the doorway at the front observing them closely was the Afrika Korps officer in the peaked cap.

  3

  Moffitt and Hitch crouched motionless and hidden by the enveloping night in the sand beyond the double rows of tanks and armored cars that faced into the desert outside the walls of Sidi Abd. At the entrance to the town, the acetylene lantern was a bright blob of light in which hulked the outline of the guard. The light scantily touched only the hoods of the first two halftracks and the corridor between the vehicles became a tunnel to the opaque oblivion of black at the far end where Moffitt and Hitch lurked. A few acetylene lanterns burned within the tents that stood in taut ranks behind the vehicles on either side, but most of the shelters were dark. There was a tenacious impenetrability to the night. It was as if the clouded desert sky was an inky-colored sponge that sucked in and absorbed whatever light was spilled by wasteful man.

  Although the sand still was warm from the diffused heat of the gray day, the night was cold and there was a faintly dank smell that seemed to warn of rain riding above the fat-sodden, slow-crawling cooking odors. Sergeant and private, Briton and Ivy Leaguer, scholar and school dropout, Moffitt and Hitch huddled in their dark robes and patiently observed the movements of the sentries about the Jerry armor. The patrols of each of the four guards had been carefully planned so that at all times there was one man, front or back, at each end of the double rows of vehicles.

  "A bit sticky, wouldn't you say?" Moffitt said softly, reaching beneath his robe to touch the two packages of plastic explosives at his belt. "We can't just walk in as Troy and Tully did, plant our charges and say 'ta-ta.'"

  "One of those guards will goof off sooner or later," Hitch whispered confidently. "One of them's going to want a smoke or have to go to the can. You'll see."

  "We have only all night," Moffitt said. It was true; it probably would drag for Hitch and him but he hoped there would be hours enough in it for Troy and Tully. "Do you have any preference in the vehicle we appropriate for our flight?"

  "Sure," Hitch said promptly. He pulled the wad of gum from behind his ear and pushed it in his mouth. "Don't worry about the gum, Doc, I'll get rid of it when we move. About the cars, I'd prefer a scout car but I haven't seen one. They must have them somewhere else in a motor pool. I figure we take the halftrack closest to the wall and bust out in it."

  "Why not the last one in the line, the one farthest out in the desert?" Moffitt chided.

  "Doc," Hitch said and he sounded annoyed. "You know as well as I do, they'd run us down before we got to it. We've got to get out ahead of them and run away fast."

  "Good lad," Moffitt said approvingly. "Where do you think we ought to drop our packages?"

  "Aw, you're just making conversation," Hitch said. "We'll carry them with us in the back of our halftrack and toss them where they'll do the most good when we make the run for it."

  "Right-o," Moffitt said, chuckling. Then he gripped Hitch's arm and said quietly, "Down there, at the wall." Soldiers were spewing from the opening, separating and streaming along the wall to either side behind the last vehicles, going toward the rows of tents. The four guards who had been patrolling the armor now had lined up together to block off the corridor.

  "Come along," Moffitt said quickly. "We can at least get into the vehicles."

  He ran in a shambling crouch down the dark alleyway with Hitch loping behind him. Halfway to the wall, still cloaked by the blackness of the night, he dodged between two armored cars and, followed closely by Hitch, climbed over the side and dropped into the back of a halftrack. He slid down the metal wall and Hitch sat on the steel floor beside him.

  "It's going to be more than just my aching back by morning," Hitch said ruefully.

  "Easy now," Moffitt cautioned abruptly, stiffening and listening to the night. Despite the grumbling jumble of voices from the tents, he thought he had heard a distant whisper of slipping sands. Placing both hands on the steel bulwark of the halftrack, he vaulted over the side and cupped his ear a few inches from the ground. He distinctly heard the trickling sound that warns the desert-wise of someone's wary approach from far-off. He stood and whispered to Hitch, "Du kanst mir."

  "Maybe," Hitch replied under his breath, "If I knew what you were saying."

  Moffitt chuckled silently and asked, "Do you have your nylon noose?"

  "Natch," Hitch said as if the question were unnecessary. "What are you going to do?"

  "Intercept the enemy and entice him back here where we can deal with him," Moffitt said quietly. "Stand by for action."

  "You mean we're going to play rough again?" Hitch whispered.

  "It does look that way," Moffitt said and sighed.

  He edged along the cold armor of the halftrack to the corridor. Although Moffitt still was wrapped in the obscuring night, he could see the outline of a figure in a peaked cap striding toward him through a twilight zone. Shrinking within his robe, he slunk forward toward the Jerry.

  "Wo gehtz?" the German officer called sharply and his hand slapped to his holster and jerked out a Luger.

  Bobbing his head and clasping his hands before him, Moffitt took a few faltering steps toward the officer.

  "Mass'-el-Kheir, enfendi," he said in a plaintive voice. "Izayak?"

  Clearly not understanding the simple greeting in Arabic, the officer reached out a hard hand, seized Moffitt's robe in a bunch at his chest, shook him violently and threw him backwards. Moffitt crashed into the side of an armored car and staggered a few steps forward.

&nb
sp; "Was gehtz bei ihnen?" the officer demanded harshly and jammed the pistol into Moffitt's ribs.

  Moffitt giggled nervously and nodded his head apologetically. In halting German, he said, "Ich hab' eine fraulein." He described two generous arcs with his hands, took one step away and beckoned, repeating, "Eine fraulein."

  "Sie sprechen?" The German was amazed and lowered his pistol for a moment. Then he grasped Moffitt's shoulder roughly, spun him around and rammed the pistol in his kidney. "Wir wollen sehen aus," he growled and prodded Moffitt on.

  Moffitt stumbled down the line past two vehicles and turned into the narrow space between the second and third. The officer threw the crook of his arm around Moffitt's throat and ground the pistol deeper into his back. Locked together, they edged ahead in the black, soundless, motionless pocket. Moffitt tensed, ready to break the hammer-lock the moment Hitch struck.

  "Lailtak ayeeda atainaik behair," he muttered, hoping Hitch could locate them by the sound of his voice.

  The German's arm tightened like a vise. Moffitt gasped and choked, scarcely able to breathe.

  With a suddenness that surprised even Moffitt who was expecting it, Hitch lashed at the German with his noose. The officer jerked and in the flickering of time when his arm about Moffitt's neck relaxed, Moffitt squirmed about chopping at the hand that held the pistol at the same time he was groining the man with his knee. Briefly the German's hands clutched at Moffitt's throat but then they reached back to struggle at his own. Moffitt smashed his knee into the German's groin again but he already had begun to slump. Hitch tumbled over the side of the halftrack and fell onto the ground atop the man. Moffitt heard Hitch grunt twice and then he was up on his knees, then standing, breathing hard, astride the officer. Although Moffitt could not see it in the dark, he knew a two-foot length of plaited nylon rope was dangling from one of Hitch's hands.

  "Good show," Moffitt said quietly. "As neat a job of garroting as ever I've lived through."

  "What do we do with the corpus delecti?" Hitch whispered.

  "Heave it over the side into the halftrack," Moffitt said.

  They propped the lifeless, sagging figure against the side and, supporting and tugging, boosted themselves and the corpse over and onto the bed. Moffitt bent over the limp form and swiftly began to undress it.

  "His cap and pistol," he said urgently. "They must be out there on the ground. We'll have to find them."

  Hitch clambered down and Moffitt removed the German's belt, tunic, shirt, boots and breeches. He laid the clothing carefully in a pile in one comer, rolled the body over and shoved it against the gun mount. Hitch climbed back with the cap and pistol which Moffitt placed on top of the other clothing.

  "Let's move," Hitch said. "I used to call this place home but it's getting crowded."

  "Rather," Moffitt said agreeable. "Shall we pop off?"

  "Yeah, but wait a minute," Hitch said. He sounded puzzled. "Why'd you undress him? What are you going to do with his clothes?"

  "Nothing, I hope," Moffitt said cheerfully. "But they'll be here if I need them. If I have to go in to look for Wilson, they'll be checking for Arabs like Troy and Tully, not a German officer."

  "That I see, Doc," Hitch said. "Just one more thing. That chatter you gave out with when you brought him back. It sounded like you were sneezing, coughing and gargling all at once. Did it mean anything?"

  "Indeed it did," Moffitt said, laughing. "I was being choked to death. Just before that, to let you know which of us was which, I'd told him good night and goodbye in idiomatic Arabic."

  "Hey, that's pretty good, Doc," Hitch said and popped his gum appreciatively.

  "Stow the chicle, myte," Moffitt said in tight Cockney. "If you'd ha' busted that buble at the wrong time, there'd neither of us be on deck for the next show."

  "Yeah," Hitch said slowly. "It ought to be about time for the main event right soon."

  The hallway behind the stage at the tavern was long and cramped and draped with odors so evil they would not mingle but were suspended in separate nauseatingly distinctive streamers of harsh tobacco, cloying perfume, rancid food, diseased flesh and decayed filth. Jaundiced fingers of light from fat lamps poked feebly through brown beads that curtained the archways to two rooms at the left and one room at the end. No sound came from the two rooms off the hall but conversation jangled from the end room.

  Troy swallowed, tasting the bitter-sour spume of bile, and thought the last room must be a kitchen where all were dipping fingers in a communal pot. He and Tully stood furtively against the flaking rough walls a few feet back from the curtain, narrowly watching the German officer who stood in the front entrance. Lights from the building on the other side of the street outlined him clearly. The officer seemed uncertain whether or not to come in after them.

  "We can wait here and take him quiet," Tully murmured. He reached under his robe and pulled out his long, curving Bowie knife. Glancing over at Troy, he wrinkled his forehead and lifted his eyebrows questioningly as he pricked his thumb with the knife's needle point.

  "He may think we belong here and go away," Troy said, sliding his kris in and out of its sheath. He glanced down the hall and then looked hard at Tully. "But one thing is sure, we have to get out of this stinking joint. If he comes looking for us, take him. I'm going to reconnoiter."

  He backed along the wall of crumbly clay until he was opposite the first curtained opening. Moving forward inches at a time and breathing shallowly, he crept to the edge of the archway and peered between the beads. An enormous and shapeless old woman wrapped in black was seated on a pillow in the middle of a bare and desolate room that contained only a wick burning in a dish of fat on a low round table at one of the windowless walls. She was almost bald, only frizzled wisps of gray sprouting from her scalp, and her face was dark and gross. She had no neck. Her lips were blubbery and her nose a shapeless blob. Her eyes were ebony and she was staring straight at Troy. He froze.

  Moments, minutes passed, and still the grotesque old woman sat as motionless and impassive as a Buddha, fixing him with her unflickering black eyes. Cautiously he lifted a hand, passed it back and forth just outside the beaded curtain. She sat trancelike, as if drugged, eyes not following the movement of his hand. He moved across to the other side of the hall, sweat beading his forehead, and darted a glance at Tully. He had moved another step away from the doorway and held the Bowie knife flat in his hand, expectant, tensed for action. Troy slid down the wall to the second archway.

  Through the curtain he saw the dark-haired little dancer. She was seated in a spindly chair at a cluttered table against the back wall. She still wore her costume and her shoulders were bared to him. She was looking into a small framed mirror on the wall. Her shoulders and waist were thin and there was a red welt across her back between the spangles that bound her breasts and the gauze that hung from her waist about her legs like pantaloons. A fat lamp burned on her table showing an old brass bed pushed against the wall but occupying half the space of the room which was windowless like the other.

  She must have seen his outline in the mirror because she twisted about on her chair. He parted the beads, entering the room with a warning finger at his lips.

  Another time and another place, she might have developed into a rather pretty girl because her bones were regular and good, but her face was pinched and wan and her dark eyes were large and sad. Her lips looked too full in that little face and they came apart. Thinking she was about to scream, Troy swept the burnoose from his head and walked slowly toward her, smiling. Her expression changed from apprehension to bewilderment.

  "Wer sind sie?" she asked in a hushed voice and although Troy did not understand her, he thought her German was uncertain.

  "American," he said simply in English, wishing he had some of Moffitt's proficiency in languages. He pointed his finger to himself and then at her. Slowly and distinctly, hoping she would understand, he said, "I need your help."

  "American," she gasped, motioning him agitatedly away fro
m the doorway and to the bed. She whispered, "Be very quiet. I speak English, a little. How did you come here? What is it that you wish me to do?"

  From her accent, he thought she must be French. She sat beside him on the bed and her perfume was very heavy. It filled his throat. Her lips were quivering and he picked up her hand. It trembled in his. He smiled reassuringly at her.

  "Who are you and what are you doing here?" he asked.

  "They brought me," she said, motioning with her free hand in the direction of the German headquarters. She sounded more resigned than bitter. "From Tunis. I am called Colette. What do you want of me?"

  "Did they do this to you?" he asked, turning her by the shoulder until her back exposed the welt.

  She bit her lip and nodded her head.

  He slid his arm around her bare back and lifted her chin with the fingers of his other hand.

  "You poor kid," he murmured gently, even tenderly. "You're playing in a rough league."

  When he kissed her lips they were warm and moist and he forgot the perfume. She let the kiss linger a moment, returned it with a little pressure. Then she shuddered and pulled away. She stood, walked to the table and poured some dark red wine in glasses. When she handed a glass to him, her hand was shaking so she almost spilled the wine.