The Rat Patrol 2: Desert Danger

by David King

  "Right," the colonel said and Dietrich felt cold steel against his neck.

  Dietrich was enraged. What kind of an army did the Americans throw together where an enlisted man could say what to do and an officer agree? It was unthinkable.

  Hitch started again, turning to the south, slowing every few minutes to flick the penlight on the compass, the speedometer, his watch and the chart. Gradually he turned, deviating from his straight course in a wide circle. They rode in almost complete silence with the jeep motor whispering at low speeds. After half an hour Hitch stopped again.

  "I'm going to crawl ahead and reconnoiter," he whispered. "This bird won't get away but if he opens his yap, let him have it and take off by yourself for Bir-el-Alam."

  "Good luck," the colonel said quietly and Hitch moved off into the dark as silent as a shadow.

  Dietrich's heart dropped into his boots. He had been certain the Americans would rush thoughtlessly into Faisan as they did into everything. It was their national custom. Now the trap was blown. Hitch would discover the patrol or patrols and they would race off in the jeep to warn the others. He sat grim and sick at heart, scarcely aware of the pistol that touched his skin.

  Five minutes, ten, perhaps fifteen minutes passed. What was time anymore? Then Hitch was standing beside the jeep whispering to the colonel.

  "It's okay," he said, "deserted."

  "Good," Wilson said. "Fill the radiator and water cans."

  Still without lights, Hitch drove the jeep over a dune and down into a hollow. Even when they were parked among the few tall palm trees at the edge of the waterhole, it was almost impossible to see their outline against the blue-blackness of the sky.

  I wonder, Dietrich thought unhappily, if the reason neither of my patrols is here is that they fear the things that move in the dark of a night like this.

  "I'll tie him to a tree," Hitch said, pushing Dietrich firmly against the rough trunk of a palm, winding a line in and about the ankles of his already bound legs, around the tree, about his waist and the tree again and then up through his hands. "That ought to hold you," he told Dietrich and patted his cheek.

  Dietrich was infuriated. He chafed at his bonds but that only made the ropes seem tighter. He relaxed and listened to the sounds the Americans made, filling their containers, pouring water into the radiator, refilling the containers.

  "Here." The voice startled Dietrich. It was Hitch. He held a bottle to Dietrich's mouth and Dietrich swallowed thirstily. "I'll unloosen the ropes so you can sit. They'll pull tight if you try to get away and I won't unloosen them again," Hitch said, slipping a knot here and a loop there. Dietrich slid down with his back against the tree. Hitch retied the line.

  "You are very kind, may I offer you a cigarette?" Dietrich said craftily.

  "Why sure," Hitch said. "Which pocket are they in?"

  "The right pocket of my tunic," Dietrich said, smiling in the dark. "Please take one for the colonel also."

  "Thanks," Hitch said. "We'll enjoy these tomorrow."

  Dietrich shrugged. The Americans could not go on being lucky. When one or the other or both patrols came in, they would surely scout the place first. And, he thought, heartening, they would find him bound to the tree and he would live to fight another time.

  Hitch returned to the jeep and he and the colonel loaded the cans in it. They busied themselves about the back end for a few moments and then Hitch was back. He untied the line around the tree.

  "Okay," he said. "Back into the vehicle, Buster."

  Dietrich pushed himself upright against the trunk, and with some slight assistance from Hitch, hopped to the jeep. The colonel climbed in the back and when Dietrich was in the seat, he felt the pistol at his neck again.

  With only the penlight, compass and chart, Hitch ran another blind course, a great circle this time, it seemed to Dietrich, finally stopping between two dunes that should be somewhere near but above the oasis.

  "Out," Hitch told Dietrich, and when he was on the ground, Hitch pushed him back against the jeep and bound him to the frame.

  The colonel and Hitch dragged a net from the back of the machine and draped it over the jeep and him. Someone crawled under the net and into the back of the vehicle.

  "Hitch is above, watching the waterhole, Captain," Wilson said. "I'm here with my pistol. If you make an outcry or even speak a word, I'll shoot you and we'll be away from here before they have their wits about them."

  Dietrich could have sobbed. In the distance he heard the clattering motors of his rugged scout cars that had armored sides and even windshields.

  Tully was protesting. He was wearing his helmet again and now he shoved it back from his forehead with the heel of his hand and chomped on the matchstick he had been rolling in his mouth. Troy, back in the bush hat he had dug out of the jeep, was beside him and Moffitt was asleep in the back on the camouflage net.

  "I don't like it, Sarge," Tully said loudly. "It just don't make sense to go barreling into a waterhole in enemy territory in broad daylight."

  Troy looked ahead and to the sides at the desert that was slipping grayly by in the somber day. There was nothing in it.

  "You can see a hundred miles in every direction," he said patiently.

  "You can't see into them wadis no better'n you can into a bear hole," Tully said irritably. "You ought to know. We hid in wadis times enough."

  "Okay, Tully, you're right," Troy snapped. "It make you feel better to have me admit it?"

  "Then what we got to do it for? Why can't we go sneaky-like around?"

  "Because there isn't time. We said we'd rendezvous at 1000 hours. The only way we'll make it is to go straight in."

  "And you think we're going to make it if we get shot up along the way?"

  "Knock it off," Troy growled.

  "Okay, Sarge," Tully said, slipping his left hand into the pocket of his khakis. He brought out a fresh matchstick and rested his hand, clenched on his thigh.

  Troy looked across the monotonous sands. Damn it, he knew Tully was right but they had to chance it. When he glanced back, Tully was returning his still clenched hand to his thigh. He had the new matchstick in his mouth. The oasis should be due west from their position now, Troy thought, no more than half an hour, and that would be on the button, as far as their last minute for rendezvous was concerned. He considered the desert, the unchanging sameness of it. On a day like this, with no sun for a guide, it would be impossible to tell one direction from another without a compass. Tully was stepping up the speed, he noticed. Might be dangerous, the way the engine overheated and them with scarcely enough water to rinse out their mouths. He started to say something but decided against it. Tully already was sulking.

  Troy glanced at Tully. He had been looking down at his left hand but he brought his eyes back up to the desert. The hand still was clenched. He's probably thinking how he would like to slug me in the jaw, Troy thought and a smile flashed across his face. He tiredly blew out his breath. If they ever got back to Bir-el-Alam from this caper, he wondered if the Old Man would pop for passes, a week for all of them in Algiers. Booze and babes, Troy thought happily.

  He looked again at Tully and started to say something about the passes. Tully was studying his fist. Nuts, Troy thought, he's been here on the desert so long everything but the orneriness has dried out of him. The wind whistled and Moffitt snored and Tully sulked. It was a great day to be alive. Troy glanced at his watch. It was 0947 hours. Half standing, he studied the rolling dunes of the desert ahead. They should be within sight of the waterhole. The minutes passed and nothing showed, no tracks, no sign of vegetation. At 1007 he sat and jerked angrily to Tully.

  "What's that in your fist?" he demanded.

  Tully opened his hand and smiled sheepishly. A compass lay in his palm.

  "You crossed me up," Troy shouted, grabbing Tully's shirt in his fist.

  A rattle of firing crackled in the distance.

  "Yeah, I guess I did, Sarge," Tully said, pushing his shirt down.
>
  "Where are we?" Troy asked quickly, turning to shake Moffitt. "Come on, Doc, looks like we got to get Wilson out of trouble again."

  "We're coming in from the northwest instead of southeast," Tully said. "I figured that ought to confuse them somewhat if they'd radioed anything from Sidi Abd."

  "All right, don't rub it in," Troy snarled. "If they've got trouble, we've no time to reconnoiter. Get us in there fast where we're not expected and we'll make a run, in and out. Doc, give them hell with the fifty caliber. I'll heave grenades. And Tully, you just drive straight on through."

  "Yes, sir, that's what the boss said," Tully said and laughed.

  The jeep bounded up over the dune overlooking the waterhole and leaped through the air onto the slope. Moffitt swung the machine gun almost next to Troy's ear and began to smash burst after burst into three patrol cars, then pivoted to rake the soldiers lying beyond the palms on the eastern uphill slope. The Jerries were caught in the crossfire of the fifty caliber machine gun and the thirty caliber gun from Hitch's jeep above. Troy pitched the grenades as fast as he could bite the pins and an ear-splitting series of blasts followed them. The jeep burst out of the oasis and rushed up the southern hill. Troy swung about to look. Hitch was plunging down toward a pocket where a seven-point-ninety-two millimeter MG42, fired like a rifle with its barrel braced on a simple bipod mount, was pouring out its rounds. Wilson was firing the thirty caliber machine gun over Dietrich's head. Dietrich was like a wooden statue.

  "They got one of them new contraptions down there," Tully yelled. "Let's give Hitch a hand."

  Suddenly as Hitch's jeep shot down the hill, the firing from the MG42 ceased and a Jerry stood back away from it.

  Hitch raced through the oasis and up a dune.

  "He must have seen Dietrich," Troy shouted. "Stop and keep me covered. I want that weapon."

  Tully slewed into a stop and Troy leaped from the jeep. Moffitt swung the machine gun on the Jerry who stood with his hands behind his head. Troy snatched the pistol-grip, rifle stock weapon from its mount and tossed it in the jeep. He leaped in the back with Moffitt and swung the MG42 from a sitting position.

  "Take it easy, Sam," Moffitt said and laughed. "The only ones left to shoot have their hands behind their heads."

  Troy looked around, surprised, and grinned. It was true. Resistance had ceased. The dead and wounded were sprawled helter-skelter through the oasis. Several—perhaps half a dozen—Jerries had dropped their weapons and were standing in the position of surrender. Two of the patrol cars were masses of flaming junk.

  Hitch reappeared in a flying leap from the western dime and came in for a landing next to Tully. Dietrich sat immobile while Hitch and Wilson jumped from the jeep.

  "An impressive victory." Wilson gloated.

  "Glad you was here, Sarge," Hitch said and popped a bubble.

  "Well, well," Wilson said, looking about. "We'll just load these prisoners in the undamaged patrol car and take them in with Dietrich."

  "And the dead and wounded?" Troy asked quietly.

  Wilson looked at him and didn't answer.

  "I'd suggest we strip them of their weapons, let them bury the dead in the desert, away from the waterhole, and take their wounded back to Sidi Abd in the patrol car," Troy said.

  "But we'd just have to fight them again another day," Wilson said.

  "We can't care for them, not even the ones who are able-bodied," Troy said firmly. "And I'm not going to kill a wounded man."

  Wilson's eyes hardened and he looked from Troy to Tully and back to Troy.

  "Only able-bodied men," Wilson said softly.

  "When they know too much," Troy agreed.

  "All right," Wilson said harshly. "Get on with it."

  Carrying the MG42, Troy walked to Dietrich, undid his bonds. "Get your men organized," he said coldly. "One detail to carry off the dead and bury them. Another to load the wounded into the patrol car. All weapons are to be left on the ground. If they're carrying sidearms, take them off and drop them. I'll be right with you and I don't mind cutting you in half with this toy of yours."

  Dietrich started shouting orders.

  "Hold it," Troy said and called Moffitt. He pitched the German weapon to him. "You understand this Jerry talk, I don't. Take over."

  Moffitt marched off with Dietrich. Tully and Hitch were picking up the scattered weapons.

  "What do we do with this junk?" Hitch asked.

  "Keep a weapon if you need it, pick out something you can use and some spare ammo," Troy said. "Toss the rest of it in the fire."

  Eyes darting from the Jerries on the burial detail to those who were loading the patrol car with the wounded, Troy went back to his jeep and pulled out the empty water cans. Wilson walked after him. Troy steeled himself. I'll try to keep my temper, he told himself, but if the CO sounds off about sending the wounded Jerries back to Sidi Abd, I'll slug him if it costs me my stripes and ten years.

  He turned slowly to Wilson and stared at him icy-eyed.

  Wilson smiled faintly. "Let me give you a hand with the water cans, Sergeant," he said.

  13

  Faisan oasis, a muddy waterhole in a grayish sandy hollow, where tattered-leafed palms reached in slant-trunked despair for moisture, was as neat and tidy as it had ever been. Only the charred and twisted heaps of junk from the two patrol cars that had been demolished disturbed the scene, reminding of the recent carnage. After burying their dead and policing the area with Germanic thoroughness, the dozen surviving Jerries, including five who were wounded, had packed into the patrol car and limped away, motor coughing and sputtering. Troy had broken off the firing point from one of the spark plugs. Colonel Wilson and the Rat Patrol sat in council under a ragged tree. Wilson, Troy and Moffitt were sharing one of the cigarettes Dietrich had given Hitch in the hope he would light it and betray himself. Tully was trying to manipulate a matchstick upward into one nostril and Hitch was snapping his bubble gum.

  "Granted we had no choice," Wilson said with a deliberateness that was almost academic. "Granted the only humanitarian thing to do was to send the wounded back to Sidi Abd, we still must face the facts. The Jerries must have the desert crawling with patrols by now. The men in the patrol car we sent back will radio our position. We'll find ourselves besieged."

  "Moffitt disabled their radio," Troy said patiently. He was fondling the MG42 fight machine gun he had captured with its drum containing a fifty-round belt. "It will take them as long to cover the thirty miles to Sidi Abd in that spitting machine as it will for us to drive the fifty miles to Bir-el-Alam."

  "Um, well, good thinking," Wilson said stuffily and coughed. "At any rate, I think we should be off."

  "And you're right," Troy said, yawning and stretching as he stood. "I wanted them out of sight so they couldn't report the direction we took. Moffitt learned this patrol we smashed was from the north. Instead of going west in a beeline for Bir-el-Alam, we'll go north a ways and then cut over. It's farther but we should avoid contact with the enemy. All right, men, let's move."

  Hitch and Tully reluctantly strolled toward their jeeps. Moffitt and Wilson followed and Troy went to the far tree in the oasis where Dietrich had been secured beyond earshot. He untied the line from the tree trunk and unbound Dietrich's feet but left the rope attached to the cords binding Dietrich's hands behind his back. Troy held the end of the line in his fist and pushed Dietrich ahead, "Monkey on a leash," he said and laughed aloud. Dietrich's spine stiffened and he walked wooden-legged and flatfooted.

  Hitch's starter already was whirring when Troy climbed in Tully's jeep behind Dietrich. Tully turned his engine over. The starters in both jeeps rattled away like coffee grinders but neither engine fired.

  "Hey, Tully," Hitch called. "You having the same trouble?"

  "No, I'm just keeping you company," Tully drawled. "Pretty soon now I'll turn on the ignition." He rolled the matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. "What you think? Overheated? Flooded?"

  "Funny they
'd both conk out at the same time," Hitch said, climbing out and lifting his hood. From under it, he called, "Wilson, give it a couple turns. Let's see if it's pumping gas."

  The starter buzzed but there was no response. Tully climbed out to look at his motor. Troy stood, scowling and shook a captured Luger at the back of Dietrich's head. He didn't know what Dietrich could have done or planned to do, but he was suspicious.

  "Not overheated, no more than usual," Tully mumbled, patting the inside of the radiator. He was working back on the engine, talking as he went. "Spark plug connections okay, points, fuel pump." He buried his head deeper and jerked it right back out. "Hey, Hitch! My rotor's missing." Hitch's head bobbed under the hood of his jeep. "So's mine," he yelled.

  They both glared at Dietrich. Troy jumped from the back, anger pulsing in his veins, and stood beside the German officer. Dietrich was wooden-faced. He had heard and seen nothing.

  "The damned Jerries stole our rotors," Tully exploded. "But how could they have?" Moffitt asked, coming over. His face was puzzled and he was shaking his head. "I was with Dietrich every minute."

  "I didn't say Dietrich took them," Tully raged. "I said the Jerries."

  From somewhere in the overcast sky, a faint droning sounded, faded, buzzed again. Troy tilted his head and moved it from horizon to horizon. Nothing was visible in the murk, but the deep-throated humming of airplane engines was unmistakable. Troy's throat grew dry and his palms went moist.

  "Wilson," he bawled. "Lash Dietrich to a tree. Moffitt, Hitch, get the nets over your jeep. Tully, let's move." They broke out the camouflage nets, threw them over the little vehicles and ran for the cover of the palms. Troy smiled crookedly; Wilson had tied Dietrich upright from foot to head with the last loop of line tight around his neck. The murmuring in the overcast was deep and sustained now.

  "You think they're Jerries?" Moffitt asked, lying on his back head to toe with Troy. They both searched the leaden sky with binoculars.