by David King
"Colonel Wilson," Dietrich said quietly. "Will you please loosen my hands for a few minutes?"
Colonel Wilson's eyes popped wide and he smiled. "Certainly not, Captain," he said, laughing. "I suspect you also would like me to remove the ropes from your legs so you can take a walk."
"It will not be necessary to untie my legs or even untie my wrists, only loosen the single strand so I may stand upright," Dietrich said with dignity. "You see, I must relieve myself."
Wilson hesitated and frowned. "All right," he said slowly and reluctantly. "You are not to go from under the net. You will have to open the door and not leave the back seat. You understand?"
"Yes, Colonel," Dietrich said, heart quickening and muscles tensing. He had not thought it would be so easy. "You are a considerate person."
"I shall have to shoot you if you make a suspicious move," Wilson said, laying the pistol beside him on the seat. He leaned over the back. "Move up close so I can get at the knots."
His fingers plucked and strained at the rope that joined Dietrich's hands to his feet. As Wilson jerked the line free, Dietrich crashed his bound but doubled fists against Wilson's throat, then slamming them at the base of his skull as he doubled, coughing and choking. Wilson slumped back in the front seat, half sprawling on the floor. Dietrich toppled over the seat, grasping Wilson's pistol and pushing it in his waistband. He shoved Wilson's limp body off the seat, searched along the base of the windscreen frame until he found a jagged piece of glass. He began to saw his wrists across the glass. The nylon rope was tough and Dietrich sweated, working furiously. His arm slipped and the glass cut a jagged wound in his arm. Blood dripped onto the dashboard and splashed on his breeches. He ground the rope harder into the glass, paused to examine it, found it fraying.
Somewhere in the distance, a series of explosions rattled back to the wadi and there was small arms fire, the zipped bursts from light machine guns. He heard the planes again, flying lower now. The rope parted and he ripped it from his wrists, rubbing and chafing them. He bound a handkerchief about the bleeding cut, bent over and worked at the ropes about his ankles until his feet were free. The planes seemed to be near at hand and circling. Working with frantic haste, he tied the lines tightly about the unconscious Wilson's hands and feet and pulled the camouflage netting from the top, searching the sky for the Stukas. He found them, flying in a V formation toward the east and cursed them. When he reached the back of the car, he retrieved his boots from the trunk.
He quickly inspected the wet sand in the wadi and the holes the spinning wheels had dug. Doubling the camouflage net, he jammed it under the tires, spreading it back across the sand to form a firm, rough surface. Then he started the car, put it in reverse gear and gently eased out the clutch, feeding the gas with a light foot. The tires gripped the netting and the car began to move back. Easily, easily, Dietrich thought, a few inches, a foot. Gradually the car pulled its nose from the bank and climbed back on the netting.
Dietrich slammed back the door, leaving the motor running but the car in neutral gear. He ran across the wadi, testing the ground, looking for the best way out. He was fearful of a steep slope at the east, trotted around to the other side where the depression shallowed and the sand seemed more solid. Back in the car, he considered Wilson for a moment. His eyes glinted as he thought of returning to Sidi Abd with the prisoner but he shook his head regretfully, opening the door and pushing the American colonel out onto the ground. It was a considerable distance to Sidi Abd and Dietrich did not wish to be hampered in any way. Also, he thought and made a wry face, he did not wish to provide the Rat Patrol with reason to return until he was prepared for them.
He reversed cautiously, creeping back on the netting until he had sufficient room to maneuver a tight turn. In low gear, he pulled out of the wadi, driving slowly, restraining his desire for speed. Coming around the wadi, he found a slope extending into the dunes toward the south and east. As the car climbed a mound, Dietrich looked back. He glimpsed four figures who flung themselves to the ground. He smiled thinly. The Rat Patrol apparently had been successful in their ambush but they still had a long trek to Bir-el-Alam and there should be another patrol somewhere close at hand. His eyes became steely slits and over another dune and concealed in a hollow, he stopped and switched on the radio transmitter, calling his headquarters at Sidi Abd.
Ja, mein herr Haupmann, there were two patrols in that sector of the desert but nein, it had been impossible to contact either of them for more than half an hour. They would keep on trying. Und ja, the Luftwaffe would be notified that the enemy was fleeing on foot and requested to pursue the search for them. The captain was returning? Gute. Gute.
It was not so good, Dietrich thought bleakly, switching off the set. If HQ had been unable to raise either of the patrols, it could mean the Rat Patrol had accounted for them both. And what had the divebombers been doing off to the west when they should have been searching for him? It could mean the Allied forces were advancing and with his crippled armor, the situation could become difficult if not downright nasty. It was far past time for him to get back to his command.
He put the car in gear and started in a northerly direction, seeking the known route to Sidi Abd. The desert seemed reasonably well drained and dry except in the deeper depressions and he picked up speed. Blasts of hot air gushed through the glassless windscreen burning his face and searing his throat. There should be water in the storage compartment at the rear, he thought, slowing on the top of a mound that overlooked the flat valley route. Before he came to a stop, the motor sputtered and his eyes fell quickly to the gas gauge. It registered empty. He braked and shut off the motor hastily. Water and gasoline in the compartment, he was certain. He walked back and opened the lid, craning his neck into the bin that was crammed with weapons. One can only. He lugged it out, frowning, unscrewed the cap and sniffed. He raised it to his lips and tasted. The can contained water. He rummaged through the bin again, found two canteens but no container of gasoline. He stepped back, staring helplessly at the sand and sky. He was caught, trapped only a few miles from the persistent Rat Patrol and probably in the path of an Allied advance, without gasoline.
Think, Hans, think, he told himself, returning to the shade inside the car with the can of water. If there had been extra gasoline, he could guess what had happened. The Rat Patrol had mistakenly taken it instead of the water can. It was possible, of course, that both cans had contained water and some dumkopf of a corporal from western Silesia had not provided for emergencies. He sipped water from the can sparingly. Well, what had happened was unimportant. What was to be done was what counted and there was one quick solution that remained. Dietrich switched on the radio transmitter. When he had made contact with his HQ, he told them to order one of the Stukas to land in the flat valley route and pick him up.
"I am aware it is a single-place aircraft," he said bitingly when his lieutenant reminded him. "Also, I am aware that in desperate circumstances many things thought to be impossible can be accomplished." He was reminded of the havoc created by the Rat Patrol and grew angrier. "You will have me picked up at once by a Stuka, verstehen?"
"Ja wohl, herr Hauptmann," his lieutenant answered. "At once, when it is possible."
Dietrich broke the connection, groaning with frustration. He took another sip of water, laid the Luger on the seat and settled back to wait. The idea that the Americans might possess the tin of gasoline haunted him, dug into his mind. They also probably knew that the gasoline tank was dry. It could possibly be that they had deliberately carried away the gasoline knowing that if he should succeed in escaping from Wilson, he would be unable to travel very far. If all these things were so, and they seemed likely to Dietrich now, then Sergeant Troy would follow the marks the tires had left and reclaim the vehicle. Dietrich groaned. Rather than that, he thought, I shall blow up the car myself if any grenades are left in the compartment. He stepped to the back and found a box, an entire box of stick grenades. Enough to make a cataclysmic blast.
He sat in the front of the vehicle, toying with die potato masher and thinking. Destroy the car and that would leave the Rat Patrol without transportation, if they actually did have the gasoline. But Dietrich actually would gain nothing from it and would lose one more car. He sat studying the grenade, eyes wandering about the floor, each time coming back to the brake pedal. Abruptly he decided and smiled frostily. He would call HQ on the radio to warn other German patrols and then he would booby trap the car. He would make this German patrol car a death trap for the Rat Patrol. The idea delighted him and provided him with something to do until the Stuka came by for him. He hoped most desperately that the Rat Patrol would come for the car.
17
Troy sat in the blazing sun on the jumbled camouflage net with his head between his knees while Hitch and Tully pulled at Wilson's fetters. He was disgusted and he was bitter. It was incredible that Dietrich could have escaped and left them in this impossible situation in the desert. Moffitt stretched on his side near Troy sucking a pebble.
"Clever man, that Dietrich," he said respectfully. "Some one of us should have thought of this netting to provide the car with a base on which to run."
"Someone should have thought," Troy said savagely, lifting his head and glancing disdainfully at Wilson. The colonel's face was pale and his lips were tight. He had volunteered no explanation of what had happened. The evidence was so obvious that Troy had not bothered to ask. Wilson had let himself get suckered. Troy turned his head back to Moffitt. "Doctor, how could you and Hitch have left your canteens in the storage compartment when you knew Tully and I had lost ours in the shuffle?"
"Careless, I know," Moffitt murmured. "We seemed to have an ample supply of water and it didn't occur to me to question when you brought along the five-gallon can."
"That was because Tully and I didn't have canteens," Troy growled. "So all right. I grabbed the wrong tin. So we both goofed, Doctor. It's a luxury we can't afford in our business."
"We still have the meat tins, Sam," Moffitt said.
"The corned beef won't satisfy our thirst," Troy said.
"There's still moisture in the ground," Moffitt suggested. "If we empty the cans, we can make sink holes and fill them."
"That'll help," Troy admitted, getting up and walking over to the box of tinned meat Hitch had lugged along for some hungry reason of his own on their ambush. He brought the tins back to the net. "Anyone want breakfast? No point starting our hike on an empty stomach."
Wilson came over with Hitch and Tully. The colonel swallowed as if it pained him, rubbing his throat and the back of his neck.
"I let Dietrich clip me," he said apologetically, looking sheepishly at Troy and then down at his feet. "I loosened the bonds to his ankles because he said he had a duty to perform and he knocked me out with his wrists still tied."
"You're lucky he didn't take you with him again," Troy said coolly.
"Yes, that would have been embarrassing," Wilson said with a weak smile.
Troy opened a tin of corned beef for each of them. "Eat," he said gruffly. "Then we'll dig some of that rain out of the ground."
Tully tilted his head to the sky. It was a washed-out blue and the searing sun was almost overhead. The sand was beginning to bum although the netting furnished insulation.
"How far you figure we have to walk, Sarge?" he asked. "Twenty miles, more or less," Troy said, wrinkling his nose at the meat.
"When you think we'll get there?" Hitch asked. "I've run out of gum."
"Maybe tomorrow," Troy said, chewing at the preserved meat. Now that they had no water, the corned beef seemed unusually salty. He moved to the edge of the net, kicked a hole in the sand with his heel and dumped the meat in it. "Maybe we'd be better off on empty stomachs."
The others looked at him, ran their tongues over their teeth, swallowed, and disposed of their meat. Moffitt prowled the wadi until he found a low place where the surface sand was moist. With his hands, he scooped a hole several feet in diameter and two or three feet deep. Water had seeped in and half filled it before he stopped. When the sand had settled, they took turns filling their meat tins with the dirty water. When they had drunk, each filled a tin, a thimbleful it seemed, for a precious, scanty reserve.
"I guess it'd be no use trying to fill that," Hitch said, pointing to the five-gallon can of gasoline. "We'd never get rid of the taste of gas."
Troy considered the can a moment and then he squinted at Moffitt, a smile tugging at one comer of his mouth.
"Doctor," he said, "what was it you said about the gas gauge in that car?"
"It showed empty," Moffitt said, beginning to smile and amusement glinting in his eyes.
"Let me have one of those MG42s," Troy said, stretching his hand to Tully. He hefted it and slapped the ammunition drum. "Wilson, you, Hitch and Tully rig up that camouflage net some way to get some shade and protection. Keep the tins filled with water." He turned to Moffitt. "Doctor, shoulder your weapon. We're going to get the patrol car back from Dietrich."
Moffitt was smiling with evident enjoyment. "We just might do that, if he hasn't blown it up."
"Aw, he wouldn't do that, would he, Sarge?" Tully drawled.
"You mean we aren't going to walk home after all?" Hitch asked happily.
"Not if I can help it," Troy said, picking up the gasoline can, adding to Tully, "Yank off that helmet and get it filled with water too. You won't need the tin lid if you stay out of the sun."
"That's why I wear it," Tully said and grinned. "To keep the sun out of my eyes. But I'll fill it for you, Sarge. Are you going to shave?"
Troy and Moffitt followed the tracks of the car out the shallow end of the wadi and around to the slope. Troy stopped and studied them through his glasses. He could see them stretching, straight and plain, for half a mile or so and then they disappeared over a dune. He swept the dunes around but found no Jerry patrol car. With Moffitt, he started to dig his way up the trail under the scorching sun. The sand flickered and flashed in heat waves as they plodded halfway to the first dune and stopped, panting for breath. Troy pulled off his bush hat and ran his palm over his sweaty forehead back into his wet hair.
"What's your guess, Doctor?" he asked. "What would Dietrich do when the tank ran dry?"
"He has the radio now, Sam," Moffitt said. "I think he'd call for help."
"Let's hope there wasn't another patrol closer than Sidi Abd," Troy said, picking up the can and trudging on. "If the Jerries get there before we do, we're sunk. They'll fix him up with gas. He'll drive the car away. The patrol will try to dig us out and clean our clocks."
They waded the rest of the way to the dune top. The car tracks went down through a hollow and came out the other side. They walked around the top.
"He went down there for something," Troy said, looking back.
"Perhaps to radio?"
"He isn't out of gas yet," Troy said, pointing at the tire marks that veered to the north and ran out of sight. "He's switching his direction. He's going to try to pick up the route they've all been using."
"Perhaps we'd better have a look," Moffitt said, raising his binoculars.
Troy brought his glasses to his tired, red-rimmed eyes. He followed the double lines and then lost them. Farther to the north, he brought the glasses on the tops of the sandhills and found the patrol car, a grayish tub that was anchored all alone in a sea of sand.
"I've got the car, Doctor," Troy said, "but I don't see Dietrich."
"He may be in it," Moffitt said, "out of the sun. Or he may be hiding somewhere, waiting for us to come along."
"Let's keep out of sight," Troy said tightly. Dietrich had an arsenal in the car.
They slid halfway down the slope, and keeping away from the ridges, crept toward the patrol car. They were shambling now and every fifty feet or so, they had to stop for breath. Troy's khakis were soaked through, and looking at Moffitt, Troy saw there was not a square inch of dry cloth on him. Wet outside and parched within, he wished he had a tin of the dirty, san
dy desert water right now.
"I'll take the can, Sam," Moffitt said heavily but a smile fluttered on his lips.
"Don't mind if you do," Troy said and pushed his feet ahead again. "Let's work around to the west and come up from the fiat route they've been using. If Dietrich is expecting company, he'll be looking for us to follow the trail he left."
"It's the long, hard way of doing things," Moffitt said and sighed, "but I expect you're right."
They changed their course, making a wide and tedious circle up and down over the dunes before they were on the flat. The car was half a mile east and above them on the sandhill. Troy drew Moffitt into a pocket off to the side of the valley and brought his glasses on the car. He searched it thoroughly. If Dietrich was in the car, he must be on the floor. They doubled over and moved ahead crouching, keeping close to the near side where the humpty dumpty dunes offered a place to hide. Troy was troubled. The situation did not look right. He wondered where Dietrich was, whether he had abandoned the car and set off on foot, why he had left the vehicle intact. Hadn't he expected them to come after it? Troy stopped and shook the doubts from his head. He was being foolish. Dietrich had no way of knowing they had gasoline.
He put his hand out to caution Moffitt, listening for the sound he thought he had detected. It came again, the ebb and flow humming of aircraft. Damn the Stukas, he thought, you couldn't throw grenades at them. You might have a chance with a fifty caliber machine gun but the MG42 just didn't have the stuff.
"The Stukas are coming back," he said wearily to Moffitt. "We'll have to take cover."
He swung quickly about in a complete circle, looking for a hole like a hunted animal. Some place where they would not be seen.
