by David King
"Get down behind the dunes," Troy said to Hitch, "Veer south."
Hitch swerved the car from the ridge and plunged down a slimy embankment, skittering toward a wadi like a swinging pendulum. The sandhill spun by as the car cavorted, uncontrollable and crazy, gliding, whirling, all topsy-turvy.
"Do something," Troy clamored.
Hitch struggled, spun the steering wheel, shoved the gear in second, pumped the brake. Nothing worked in the sliding sand. The car gave a final lurch and snugged its nose deep in a wadi. Troy leaped over the side, bawling, "Tully, Wilson, Moffitt! We've got to get her out of here."
Feet against the slanted hood, backs braced, they labored while Hitch tried to shake the car loose, only dug in deeper. Dietrich humped himself onto the back seat, sat and smiled. Damned Jerry! Troy raged, he put us in this, made us panic, this never would have happened except for him. The wheels dug deeper. Troy lunged for the car. Maybe the Rat Patrol was finished but Dietrich wouldn't live to gloat. Wilson caught Troy by the shoulder, twisted him about.
"Watch it, Sergeant," he said coolly. "Keep your head. You'll get us out of this."
Troy shook himself and bared his teeth. "Listen," he said hoarsely.
From not far off came the angry droning of airplane engines.
16
Troy was enraged. When you pull off a caper against furious odds and end up stuck in the mud only a few miles from home, it's enough to shake you to your boots. He spun away from Wilson, ran across the wadi and scratched his way to the top of the sandbank where the car had started slewing. Plopping in the goo, he propped himself on his elbows and searched the wet sands for the Jerry patrol cars. They still were distant. He did not know whether or not the patrol had observed them. He turned his glasses to the eastern sky. The Stukas were up there somewhere. He could hear the buzzing of the aircraft, louder now, but he could not find the planes. He was certain the planes would come swooping down upon them. The German patrol to the east must have reported their position.
He slipped and stumbled back to the car. Hitch was still trying to get it loose and the wheels were spinning in the mire. The car had to be saved. It afforded the only chance they had to reach Bir-el-Alam. In an hour or two when the sun baked the sand dry, they would be able to run it out. If the Jerries could be decoyed away, they still might make it.
"Knock it off, Hitch," he shouted. "You're only digging in deeper."
Troy jerked open the back door, ignoring Dietrich who still lay trussed up on the floor, and started pulling out equipment. He called to Moffitt, Hitch and Tully, handed them the MG42s, drums of ammunition, a can of water.
"Hitch, Tully, get the net over the car," he panted, scrambling out and jerking open the storage compartment at the rear. He pulled out a box of grenades. "Wilson, guard Dietrich here under cover. We'll set up an ambush for the four Jerries as far away as we can get. If the Stukas do spot you, let them get a glimpse of Dietrich. That ought to keep them from raking the ground with fire."
From the top of the dune, Troy looked back at the camouflaged car. The net had been soaked in the downpour and blended reasonably well with the sodden sand. The tracks of the car showed on the mound to the point they had started skidding, but from the marks on the side hill, it was difficult to tell what had happened. The sand was churned and nothing indicated direction. The deep marks in the wadi were hidden.
With Troy leading, the four members of the Rat Patrol jogged just below the crest of the tumbling dunes. Troy carted the heavy load of stick grenades, holding it awkwardly before him, knees banging against the wooden box. Moffitt, Hitch and Tully were not quite so heavily burdened. Their light machine guns weighed only twenty-five pounds with bipods but the steel drums of ammunition almost doubled that. Tully fetched along the can of water. Hitch had gathered some canned meat and biscuits. They were prepared for a siege, Troy thought and grinned. The only weapon he carried was a captured Luger. He would have liked the range and impact of the fifty caliber Browning heavy machine gun but handling it without a mount would have been like wrestling a boa constrictor with bare hands.
They trotted a good half mile before Troy called a halt to catch his breath and snaked up through the slime to check on the patrol cars. It was odd; the Stukas were somewhere overhead but seemed to be overshooting. He could hear the mutterings of their motors but now they sounded from the west. He found the four patrol cars, closer now, perhaps five miles off. They were coming on steadily but at a slow pace in the slippery sand. They appeared to be taking the same route Dietrich's armor had used on the withdrawal from Bir-el-Alam.
Troy lay in the sludgy sand, examining the terrain for a place to intercept the four patrol cars. The desert bed where the cars now were was flat, but another half mile and they would enter the lumpy dunes. The route in the rolling hills lay through a winding valley that was some fifty yards broad and looked like the course of some ancient river. Water from the rain had run through it and it looked slimy. Troy wondered whether the patrol would risk it over the ridges or take the established road through the valley. He gambled on the predictable discipline of the Teutonic soldier and decided they would take the proved way. Pulling Moffitt, Hitch and Tully from the ridge behind which they had hidden, Troy led the Rat Patrol to twin hills that humped on either side of the valley road.
Moffitt and Hitch, with two light machine guns and a couple dozen stick grenades, dug in on the south hill. Troy and Tully detoured through a depression and worked their way back to the opposite hill with one machine gun and the crate with the rest of the grenades. They had left the food and water with Moffitt and Hitch.
Troy kept looking at the sky. He was certain that the Stukas had passed high overhead and could not understand it. Were they abandoning the search for Dietrich? Had they been assigned another mission, perhaps to bomb Bir-el-Alam? Once more he checked the four patrol cars through his binoculars. They were pulling away from the valley route and moving toward the ridges. He swore. They would be behind Tully and him and out of range for Moffitt and Hitch. The cars started up the slope and their wheels spun. The lead car in the procession dug in deep and the column halted. The last two cars backed away. The second car fixed a line and towed the lead car slowly back. They reversed down the hill, swung and came into the valley that led between the Rat Patrol's positions.
The situation puzzled Troy. It did not look as if the Jerry patrol were looking for Dietrich or them. If he had had any way to signal Moffitt and Hitch, he would have called off the ambush. With the Stukas overflying and this patrol apparently heading back to Sidi Abd, he was taking a needless risk by engaging sixteen men with only four.
But they were in for it and they had better make it good, he thought, arranging his throwing sticks in front of him. Tully got his MG42 zeroed in. From the west end of the valley came the sounds of oncoming cars, motors loose and tappets rattling. Noisy machines the Jerries built, Troy thought, half smiling and then alerting as a patter of small sounds reached him from far away. It was difficult to tell what they were but they were familiar—distant machine gun chatter. He wondered what target the Stukas had found. Another sound intruded and he turned his glasses to the east. The two patrol cars they had outdistanced earlier were plowing through the valley toward the four approaching from the west.
It would be a good job if it came off, he thought, pulling off the glasses so Tully could have a look. Tully studied first the one patrol and then the other, chewing his matchstick contemplatively.
"They ought to meet about right here, Sarge," he said. "Think they hear each other coming?"
"It doesn't matter," Troy said. "When they get in view of one another, they'll stop."
"It's going to be like shooting fish in a barrel," Tully said, laughing.
From the west, Troy thought he heard the sound of the Stukas returning. The positions Moffitt and Hitch, Tully and he occupied were indefensible if the aircraft spotted them.
"Yeah," Troy said, smiling thinly, "providing we're not sitting du
cks."
The two cars from the east and four from the west came around the lips of the hills and predictably stopped.
The sound of the Stukas was louder now, and glancing hastily to the west, Troy saw them, flying lower.
"Let me get a couple grenades in first," he said, "then open fire."
He flung one grenade and a second. As the second arched toward its target, a burst of flame puffed where a stick from the opposite hill had struck home. Three other explosions in rapid succession blasted in the valley. Machine guns chattered from both hills and Troy pitched grenade after grenade. Showers of sand and metal flared. Three of the cars were flaming. The Jerries leaped from the other vehicles, racing from them but finding no cover. They scattered, returning light and indecisive fire from Schmeisser machine pistols and Mausers. The shots clattered away ineffectively. Grenades kept slamming the Jerries to the ground and unnerved them. Two more of the cars were hit and exploded in great blooms of fire. The machine guns were picking off their targets methodically and Jerry dead littered the desert floor. Troy pitched a grenade into the remaining car. It blew to pieces with a shattering roar. Troy swiped his hand across his face, looking skyward. The Stukas had dropped down and were coming in fast with shrieking motors.
"Let's get off this hill," Troy yelled, grabbing two grenades and throwing himself on the downslope, rolling toward the valley. He did not think the aircraft would open fire on their own men.
Tully plunged after Troy, dragging along the light machine gun. Halfway down they found a spoonlike hollow and crawled to it, lay there panting. The Stukas howled over the battlefield at about a thousand feet and skimmed on without opening fire or dropping bombs.
"The pilots can't tell what's going on yet," Troy said, leaping up. "Let's finish them off."
He heaved a grenade and ran in a crouch toward the bed of the valley. Moffitt and Hitch were scrambling down the opposite slope. The only enemy fire was sporadic, coming from somewhere behind the last burning car.
"Lie low," Troy shouted as the Stukas again screamed overhead.
The planes shot over the flaming wreckage and raging towers of black smoke, veering and streaking up. They had come in lower on this pass but still they withheld their fire.
Moffitt and Hitch were working toward the last car. They fell to the ground as another burst of shots spattered from the position. While Moffitt lay down a barrage of covering fire, Hitch rolled ofl to the side and squeezed two bursts. Jerry firing ceased.
"Down, don't move," Troy shouted as the three Stukas came in very low.
The four men of the Rat Patrol sprawled motionless in the sand with the dead. The planes flashed by, guns still silent, circling back for another look. They made still another, wider circle and a final sweep above the valley. Then they shot up steeply and flew east in a V.
"Any survivors?" Troy asked, getting to his haunches.
"I think that does it, Sam," Moffitt said, mopping his face. "We should have accounted for most of the Jerries in this part of the desert by now."
"He keeps turning up unexpectedly," Hitch said, snapping his gum.
"I worry about the Stukas," Troy said. "I wonder what they were doing west of here and when they'll be back. They'll report what they saw and someone's going to be boiling mad." A smile darted across his face. "Let's get up to the water can and take a break. Make sure those aircraft don't get cute and sneak back on us."
The sun blazed from a cleared sky and heat rose in moist layers. Moffitt handed the five-gallon Jerry can to Troy. Troy unscrewed the cap and lifted the tin to his lips. He hesitated suspiciously and sniffed, drawing back his lips.
"That's not water," he said disgustedly, handing the can to Moffitt. "Does Jerry always carry his extra gasoline in water cans?"
"It's water in the other can," Tully drawled. "We been drinking it."
"The gasoline may come in handy, old chap," Moffitt said, laughing. "I noticed the gauge. The tank is nearly dry."
"We can wait," Troy said, throwing himself to the ground, first scanning the sky for the Stukas then turning to the six burning cars and twenty-four bodies below. He wished they could have spared one of the vehicles. He thought they could work the camouflaged car back in the wadi free from the mud but it might take time. Jerry was certain to send back the Stukas, Troy thought. The enemy would be smarting from the trail of destruction the Rat Patrol had left from Sidi Abd almost to Bir-el-Alam. He grinned broadly. Dietrich would long regret taking Wilson prisoner.
He searched the sky once more and looked over the dunes about them. They seemed to be alone. He stood wearily, pulling off his bush hat and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Hoisting the can of gasoline, he started back toward the wadi. Moffitt trudged beside him, breathing hard. Hitch and Tully slouched behind, Hitch carting the tinned meat and Tully the biscuits, dragging their feet and trailing their guns in the oppressive heat. Their khaki shirts were muddy and wet from sand and sweat. Troy hoped they could get back to Bir-el-Alam without further interruption. Back to the sack. But he would hate to bet on it.
He straightened, lifting his eyes from his feet. To the south and east, he saw a Jerry patrol car with the cross on its side climbing a dune. The canvas top was up and he could not see how many soldiers were in the car.
"Down," he called quickly, diving into the sand. The other three dug furrows beside him and he watched the car roll over the dune and disappear. "I don't think they saw us," he said, "but we'd better lie low. Jerry must be combing this area with everything he's got."
He waited for a second car to appear and when it did not, turned on his side to Moffitt.
"What do you make of it, Doctor?" he asked, puzzled.
"It does seem a bit odd," Moffitt said, wrinkling his forehead. "Usually there are a pair of them at least."
"They must have heard the firing," Troy said. "Funny they didn't come over to lend a hand or investigate at least."
"And did the aircraft see them or know about them?" Moffitt wanted to know.
The lone car appeared again, a good mile off now and traveling east on the ridges. It continued its course steadily and after a few moments Troy moved on his belly below the top of the dune. The unexpected appearance of this car disturbed him. He wished he could have seem how many Jerries were in it. He wondered how close the car had been to the camouflaged vehicle in the wadi and whether Wilson had had trouble preventing Dietrich from crying out. He stood, stepping off at a fast clip.
"Hey, Sarge, have a heart," Tully groaned.
Troy grunted and began to trot, can of gasoline slapping against his leg. His face was running with sweat and his wounded leg throbbed a little. He could see tracks extending back now from the spot he had first sighted the car. They seemed a little beyond the wadi but too close for comfort. He broke into a run, transferring the can to his left hand and loosening the flap of his holster. The others brought their light machine guns at the ready, up across their chests.
They dug up a final dune and Troy stopped dead, panting and swearing. The patrol car and Dietrich were gone and Wilson was sitting on the ground, tied hand and foot, the same way they had left Dietrich.
Dietrich had edged himself from the floor onto the back seat of the car and watched angrily through the netting as Sergeant Troy led his men off to ambush the German patrol. It was a large patrol of four cars, Dietrich knew, and had been roaming the western part of the German held territory, alert for renewed Allied activity. He had been counting on this patrol to block the way to Bir-el-Alam and release him. Now, unless aircraft found him and his captors and somehow disabled the vehicle, it looked as if any opportunity to escape was gone. He strained at the ropes that secured his wrists but the knots were firm.
Wilson and he were protected from the sun by the high canvas top but was airless under the confining netting. The American colonel was in the front seat, half turned, watching Dietrich from droopily lidded eyes. He held a Luger casually in one hand. Dietrich worked his wrists forth and back
but the ropes only seemed to bite in harder.
It was a disaster, Dietrich fumed in silence. Wholesale destruction had been dealt the Afrika Korps and a smashing blow delivered to his campaign plans. Worst of all, he was a prisoner. He felt his rage burn fiercely. He was grimly determined that he would have his revenge on the Rat Patrol. But how, Gott in himmel, how? Tied with ropes that held his hands caught toward his ankles, he could not stand nor sit upright. He could not even wipe off the perspiration that was running into his eyes and beading his nose.
Wilson's head nodded and dropped to his chest. He jerked awake immediately but his eyes were heavy. Dietrich looked furtively about the car for some forgotten tool or weapon as Wilson's eyes closed again. There was nothing. Everything had been shut up in the trunk or carried off to the ambush. If I could only free my hands, Dietrich thought wildly, twisting and tugging at the line. It was no use. He would be carried into Bir-el-Alam a helpless captive and sent to some prisoner of war camp to sit out the battles with the Italians. The prospect was enough to make a strong man weep.
He heard planes passing so far overhead their motors made only faintly audible drummings. He thought they must be the Luftwaffe's Stukas but he did not believe that they were searching for him. In some respects, the Luftwaffe operated entirely too independently although they were under orders to cooperate. Or had his own headquarters already called off the hunt? It could not be possible. He should have his own light aircraft for liaison and observation as Rommel did.
Dietrich studied Wilson, head bobbing, eyes fatigued and strained. With the American drowsy and inattentive, he might be less cautious than normal. Dietrich tried desperately to think of some innocuous reason for asking Wilson to loosen his wrists. Not untie them, that would be too farfetched, but unloosen them from the cord that bound them to his feet. Dietrich's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Wilson was a career officer and observed military amenities. His attitude would not be the same as Sergeant Troy's, Dietrich thought. Wilson would observe a degree of respect for another officer, whatever country's uniform he wore.
