Everyone put on goggles and wrapped scarves over their mouths and noses to screen out dust. Then the patrol drove off, the Volkswagen rattling in the lead, the 250/3 rumbling behind with its tracks clattering and squeaking and blue exhaust spouting from its sides.
Both vehicles were painted yellow-brown, but patches of the original dark gray paint showed around markings. Each bore black-and-white German crosses and white tactical symbols indicating they belonged to the 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion of the 21st Panzer Division. They were also emblazoned with the white palm tree and swastika of the Afrika Korps, the German contingent of Panzer Army Africa. Most of the army's units were Italian, but operational command was held by a German – Field Marshal Erwin Rommel.
When Benito Mussolini invaded British-controlled Egypt in 1940, seeking to expand his overseas empire and link up his African colonies, the outnumbered British routed his bumbling army and chased it back into Libya. In response Adolf Hitler sent three divisions to bolster his faltering ally.
Now it was early summer 1942. Rommel's renewed offensive in late May had forced the British Eighth Army to retreat into Egypt and it was making a stand at the little railway station of El Alamein. If Rommel broke through, the Suez Canal would be within his grasp. The Egyptians chafed under British occupation and might welcome him. And beyond the Suez lay an even greater prize – the rich oil fields of the Middle East.
But El Alamein was an excellent defensive position. To the north lay the Mediterranean Sea. To the south the Sahara Desert abruptly dropped away into the Qattara Depression, a vast sinkhole of salt pans, salt mashes, and soft sand the size of Lake Ontario. It was considered impassable to tanks.
The distance between the coast and the depression narrowed to less than seventy kilometers here, a bottleneck allowing the British to shorten their lines and anchor their flanks. They were also just a hundred kilometers from their supply base at Alexandria – and supplies and reinforcements were pouring in from all over the British Empire, and from America.
The supply lines of Panzer Army Africa stretched hundreds of kilometers all the way back to ports in Libya. Enemy aircraft and submarines took a terrible toll of supply convoys from Italy and what did make it through to Africa was harried by fighter-bombers all along the coast road to the front. Rommel's units were overextended, exhausted, and understrength.
Nevertheless, Rommel felt he could not halt. He had to maintain momentum and strike before the British could regroup. But the Qattara Depression prevented the Desert Fox from sweeping around the Eighth Army's southern flank, the strategy he had previously employed with such dazzling success.
Then an intriguing intelligence report arrived at his advanced headquarters. It summarized a legend told around campfires by Bedouins, the nomadic Arabs who had lived in this harsh land for millennia and knew it infinitely better than the European infidels who now fought over it with their big, noisy machines. Even these tough people shunned the Qattara Depression, which they referred to as the Valley of Death.
But supposedly the Bedouins knew about a secret crossing, a long-forgotten caravan route that sounded like it might be passable for tanks. When plotted on a map it came out behind the British lines. If true, a surprise pincer movement might be possible after all.
Rommel's chief of staff was skeptical, but the prospect was so tantalizing it had to be checked out. Aerial reconnaissance photographed a dim trail that did look promising, but a ground survey was required to determine its condition. Accordingly, a patrol was dispatched to investigate.
Hartmann and his men drove along a rough, narrow trail of hard rock salt meandering like a natural causeway through the empty expanse of brown and white salt marsh. The flat, cracked surface of the marshes, sparsely dotted with green clumps of hardy grass and shrubs, was deceptively solid looking. The crust concealed treacherous quagmires that could swallow a vehicle whole.
A lonesome wind whispered, but did nothing to relieve the heat. It only blew dust that worked its way into everything – engines, food, eyes, lungs.
The sun beat down like a hammer. So dry was it, perspiration evaporated immediately, but it felt like Hartmann’s eyeballs were going to boil away.
And there were the flies, the damnable flies, detestable and incessant. They were not just irritating pests, they spread disease too, as did the tropical climate and unsanitary living conditions. Dysentery, jaundice, and diphtheria crippled as many German troops as combat.
Hartmann had been in North Africa for a year and still could not get over how endlessly barren the desert was. Kilometer after kilometer of just nothing. A hard, unforgiving land seemingly made for war. No delicate landscapes soldiers could ravage and despoil; few civilians to get in the way of the bloody business of fighting. The perfect battlefield.
He hated it, while admitting there were worse places to be. He had heard the horrible rumors whispered about the war in Russia from his brother serving there. Prisoners starved or shot, Jews massacred. Unbelievable madness. At least in North Africa both sides respected the rules of war.
As far as his current mission was concerned, it seemed to be a success. Thus far the crossing had proved solid enough to support the heaviest German tanks.
The patrol abruptly slowed. Something was blocking the trail up ahead. As they drew closer Hartmann spotted two bodies rotting in the sun.
One was a Bedouin dressed in a flowing keffiyeh and long, dark thobe, a rifle and a dagger lying next to him. A bandolier of ammunition was buckled across his chest. Beside him sprawled the carcass of his camel. Both swarmed with black, buzzing clouds of flies; the soldiers grimaced and held their noses as the foul stench of decay wafted over.
Dietrich ordered Fuchs to get out and move them. Fuchs, gagging, put on gloves and dragged the Bedouin off to the side, but the camel weighed far too much for one man to move. A tow cable was hooked to the carcass and the halftrack hauled it far enough over so they could get the vehicles around it.
Hartmann stepped out for a closer look, braving the flies and the horrible smell. The Bedouin's rifle was a Lee-Enfield and it was empty, spent brass nearby. His dagger's curved blade was encrusted with what appeared to be dried yellow blood. Tucked into his belt was a Sykes-Fairbairn fighting knife, a weapon issued to British commando units.
Both bodies were deeply pierced by multiple puncture wounds.
"I think this is who looted the dead Englishmen before us," said Hartmann.
"Those don't look like bullet or shrapnel wounds," said Fuchs.
"No, they don't. More like deep stab wounds, like from a spear."
"Maybe he was murdered by another Arab."
Hartmann shook his head. "An Arab would steal the camel, not kill it. He'd also steal the weapons. Strange. I can't explain it." He sighed. "All right, let's move on."
Soon they passed ponds of brackish, stagnant saltwater fringed with reeds, still as a grave. To Hartmann it stank like death.
They halted at midday to refuel with jerrycans of gasoline and clean grit out of the engine air filters. It also gave them a chance to stretch legs and backs stiff and sore from jolting over the rough track.
They ate a quick meal too, putting nets over their faces to try and keep out the flies while they gobbled down their food. They chewed the rancid-tasting Italian beef without enthusiasm. The tins were stamped AM for Administrazione Militare (‘Military Administration’), but Italian soldiers sourly suggested it stood for Asinus Mussolini (‘Mussolini's Ass’) or Arabo Morte (‘Dead Arab’). German soldiers simply called it Alter Mann (‘Old Man’). They washed it down with warm water from their canteens, refilled from other jerrycans marked with a white cross.
Per Hartmann's strict orders, the men were careful to pick up their trash and did not leave empty tins or cigarette butts on the ground. Litter could give the enemy clues as to who had been here.
Noon was also one of the patrol's scheduled radio contact times so Lippert slipped on headphones and tuned into his assigned frequency to listen
for any messages from Rommel's headquarters. Nothing. He also listened for enemy radio traffic, but the airwaves were quiet. Lippert switched off the radio and climbed out to see if the others needed help.
Steiner was securing empty jerrycans in a rack on the rear of the halftrack. He paused to gulp from his canteen. Wiping his lips on his sleeve, he waved a broad hand at the marsh vegetation. "Can't believe anything can grow in this godforsaken place."
Lippert squatted to take a closer look at some of the foliage next to the trail. He scowled as he examined it.
Hartmann was double-checking directions on the British map with his compass and noticed Lippert's interest. "Something wrong, Lippert?"
Lippert stood. "Nothing, Herr Lieutenant. Just that the plants aren't normal."
"In what way?"
"Many are showing fasciation."
"What's that?"
"A plant deformity caused by mutation."
Hartmann looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Were you a botanist in civilian life?"
"A biology teacher, Herr Lieutenant."
Hartman chuckled. "I see. So we have a professor in our ranks."
Lippert's gaze strayed across the pond. "Something's moving in the water. Looks like a big white snake or something. More than one."
Even as he spoke one of the snakes reared up above the surface of the water. It did not resemble a reptile at all, but looked more like a worm or maggot. Its segmented body trembled and suddenly split wide open. An insect head thrust out.
"What the hell is that?" asked Dietrich, recoiling at the sight.
They watched in horrified fascination as a huge insect dragged itself free of the pupa cuticle and slowly crawled onto the muddy bank on six thin, spindly legs.
"Look at the size of it!" said Steiner.
The body was half a meter long, as big as a large bird, with a brown exoskeleton covered in short, stiff hairs. Wide, opaque, veined wings attached to the thorax spanned nearly two meters, and its legs were even longer. A comparatively small head sprouted antennae, but its dominant feature was a pair of large, black compound eyes.
Hartmann unfastened the flap of his holster. "Keep your weapons handy."
"Metamorphosis," said Lippert. He shook his head in amazement. "This is impossible with our atmosphere."
"What do you mean?" asked Hartmann.
"Insects don't breathe like we do and their method of respiration limits their size. Giant insects existed three hundred million years ago – dragonflies the size of birds, for example, and centipedes over two meters long – but that's because oxygen levels were much higher than they are now. An insect this big simply could not survive today."
Steiner took a couple MP40 submachine guns off brackets inside the halftrack and loaded them. Keeping one for himself, he handed the other to Lippert.
Lippert rubbed the back of his neck. "It must have an adaptation that caused a different way of breathing to develop. Then if no natural predators are around gigantism might be possible."
"How could that happen?"
"Most mutations occur naturally and randomly, but they can also be caused by the environment. In this case it might be some sort of mineral contamination leaching into the water. Or sunlight since radiation can cause mutations too."
"What kind of bug is it?" asked Steiner, MP40 gripped tightly.
"A mosquito," said Lippert. He pointed at the proboscis, a long, wicked tube projecting from the insect's head like a stinger. "Look at those mandibles. That would cause a terrible bite."
Dietrich sighed and crossed his arms. "Gentlemen, we're not here for a nature lecture."
"Actually, Herr Lieutenant, I think this explains something," said Lippert.
"Enlighten us," said Hartmann.
"These could be what killed the Tommies and the Arab. Remember the puncture wounds on the Arab and his camel? A female mosquito can drink four times her weight in blood from her host so a monster like this could inflict significant blood loss. They can also transmit fatal diseases, but in this case the blood loss alone might be enough to kill. They only live for about a month though, so the ones that got the Tommies are likely long dead."
More pupae rose from the pond and cracked open like hideous eggs, mosquitos emerging.
"Can't they fly?" asked Steiner.
"They have to wait until their exoskeletons harden and their wings dry out," said Lippert.
"Then we'd better kill them now," said Hartmann.
"The noise will alert anyone in the area," said Dietrich.
"We'll have to take that chance. Steiner!"
"Yes, Herr Lieutenant?"
"Use the machine gun."
Steiner returned his MP40 to its bracket, then went and turned the halftrack ninety degrees so it faced the pond. He took his place at the MG34 machine gun swivel-mounted behind an armored shield, and peered down the sights with a steady eye. Gunfire shattered the stillness and echoed across the desert as he squeezed off single shots and short bursts with ruthless precision, 7.92 millimeter bullets slashing insects apart and spraying greenish-yellow blood. Empty steel cartridges tinkled on the floor and rolled around his feet.
Once all the adult mosquitos were destroyed he paused to load another ammunition belt and turned his attention to the pupae floating in the water, raking them with slugs. Then he chopped up larvae and clusters of translucent eggs. The acrid reek of cordite overpowered the stink of the marsh as the others watched the sickening slaughter. Finally Steiner ceased fire, swinging open the smoking machine gun to swap out the overheated barrel.
Hartmann surveyed the floating carnage. "You got them all. Let's move on."
The patrol rolled on. Hartmann continued scanning the terrain and at length spotted something in the shimmering distance. At first he dismissed it as a mirage, a trick of the heat waves, then realized he was not seeing things. It lay in another pond about two hundred meters from the trail, and he ordered a halt to investigate.
It was the wreck of an aircraft, a sprawling hulk of twisted metal, splintered wood, and torn fabric half-submerged in the water. The design was unusual – a biplane with two engines mounted in a push-pull configuration above the fuselage between the wings. The tail, which had four stabilizers, was painted in faded stripes of red, white, and green.
The fuselage had smashed open like an egg and the lower wing was broken off on one side. Rusty, odd-looking bombs still hung from external racks. Through his binoculars Hartmann discerned the remains of the two pilots, still slumped in their seats in the open cockpit, apparently killed on impact. An oily, yellowish liquid stained the water around the crash site.
He lowered his binoculars and consulted the British map. The LRDG had put the wreck down as a landmark without annotating any details about it.
Dietrich got out of his car and came over to the halftrack. "Why did we stop?"
Hartmann nodded at the aircraft.
Dietrich shrugged. "An old plane. Who cares?"
"You never know what might be of intelligence value." Hartmann raised his binoculars and resumed studying the wreck. "Looks like a Caproni Ca73, a civilian airliner the Italians converted into a light bomber and transport. They were taken out of service before the war."
"It's carrying bombs so it was on a combat mission."
"Could have been during the pacification campaign in Libya ten years ago. Egyptians were smuggling supplies to the rebels and that's why the Italians built that huge barbed wire fence along the frontier. But I never heard of them crossing the border to attack smugglers, certainly not this far inside Egypt."
"What's that yellow liquid in the water?"
"It's leaking from those old bombs." Hartmann lowered his binoculars and sniffed the air suspiciously. He caught a faint whiff of what smelled like garlic. "Mustard gas! The Italians bombed villages with it. Keep your masks handy!"
The soldiers rummaged for their gas mask carriers and gas cape pouches.
"If those bombs started leaking in-flight the pilots could have be
en exposed," said Dietrich. "That might explain how they got here. They could have been on a bombing mission in Libya, were blinded and disoriented by the gas, and then flew off course over the border."
The reeds were pale and sickly, stunted and twisted into grotesque shapes. "The plants here are more deformed than anywhere else," said Lippert. "This must be the source of the contamination. When sulfur mustard mixes with water it gradually dissolves into other chemicals, and the marsh water is loaded with minerals to begin with so God only knows what kind of toxic soup is in these ponds now."
"How could anything survive in that muck?" asked Steiner.
"No idea, but instead of killing the mosquitos it mutated them."
"Let's get away from here," said Hartmann. "It's not safe."
They drove off. In the distance towered the brooding, limestone cliffs of the Qattara Depression's northern escarpment – the end of the crossing. They were behind British lines, in enemy territory. Once the route up the escarpment was reconnoitered Hartmann would break radio silence to alert Rommel's headquarters.
The wind picked up. A dun wall of dust rose in the blue sky ahead. Soon it was upon them and they were engulfed by a howling sandstorm. Visibility dropped to nil in the yellowish-orange murk. The patrol slowed, but Fuchs drove off the trail into a salt pan. When he tried backing out, the rear wheels just spun helplessly, churning in the deep, sticky mud. Then the engine stalled.
The halftrack ground to a halt. Hartmann clambered out and rapped out brisk orders, having to raise his voice to be heard above the wind. The Volkswagen carried fascines and was light enough to be manhandled, but it was quicker and easier to just hook the tow cable to it. Hoffman motioned; Steiner slowly backed the halftrack up and pulled the car out.
"Drive more carefully, you idiot!" said Dietrich, eyes flashing with anger.
"Yes, Herr Lieutenant," said Fuchs.
"Gentlemen, we'd better stop until this blows over," said Hartmann.
The patrol hunkered down inside their vehicles to wait. The oppressive sun was blotted out, but it felt just as hot. They ate again and afterwards dangled their mess kits outside to let the sand blast them clean. Hartmann fretted with impatience as he tied down a corner of the flapping tarpaulin that had come loose. Sandstorms could last for days.
SNAFU: Unnatural Selection Page 26