The Rat Patrol 4 - Two-Faced Enemy

by David King

  "Of course—" Dietrich started and choked back his words, prepared himself for some new setback. "What has happened, Herr Oberst?"

  "The entire fuel dump has exploded, everything is in flames." It sounded as if Colonel Funke were sobbing. "All is lost, Hans."

  "Tell me what happened," Dietrich said sharply, although his insides were collapsing.

  "There is no one who knows," Colonel Funke said. "At the dump, everything was calm, the men were in their positions. No one survived except one of the four guards at the empty drums and he saw nothing except the terrible explosions. I think the enemy must have bombed us from an aircraft."

  "Herr Oberst," Dietrich said coldly, like the military machine he now was. "Dispatch all of the trucks at your command immediately to the supply dump we left at El Alghur." It was more than seventy miles off the route through the desert, but it was their nearest storage. "We shall need more fuel. Send a convoy of halftracks with the trucks. It will slow their speed, but we cannot risk it without them. If they leave at once, they should be back tomorrow morning."

  "Ja, Hans," Herr Oberst Funke said sadly and signed off. Dietrich looked at the dust trails that marked his perimeter and swore bitterly. He had been forced to withdraw here on the plateau, his supply dump and stockpile of fuel had been destroyed and he'd lost a guard platoon and his executive officer. He did not know how it had been accomplished, but he was certain he knew who had done it.

  From the entrance of HQ, Colonel Dan Wilson watched with active concern as teams of MPs pushed the Arabs they'd rounded up from the waterfront and military areas into the dark alleys of the native quarters. There were too many of them to hold for sabotage. At least a hundred men and boys in rags and tatters had been discovered lurking or sleeping near the docks and warehouses. The small warehouse still burned. It had held naval stores and was isolated, near the end of the piers, which was probably the reason the saboteurs had selected it. The loss was slight. The worst result of the explosion was that hordes of natives, both Arabs and Frenchies, had gushed onto the military avenue. Now things seemed under control with the teams of MPs on foot backed up by six armored cars Wilson had ordered in from the edge of town.

  Wilson had made no attempt to go into the murky bazaar where hundreds of Arabs, and likely a dark-faced Frenchie or two, were reported congregating. Except for the explosions, there had been no real violence yet, but there was a nasty feeling of tension settling over Sidi Beda. Although weary in body and mind, Wilson himself was taut. All evening he'd been listening for the hollow sound of shells and a report from his commander on the plateau, Lieutenant Leon Farb, that the battle had been joined. Wilson had imposed a radio silence on the defensive perimeter until the intention of the enemy was clear. He didn't want the Jerries misinterpreting any signals. Two Jerry communications had been intercepted. They'd been in the clear and were meaningless. Translated, they were "Vermin" and "Fox." They did indicate some operation was underway.

  Although he hadn't been able to carry out any intensive search for the Rat Patrol, he'd instructed all of his units to be on the alert for the men. His initial rage had subsided and now he felt bewildered and sick at the betrayal. He tried hard to believe they were pursuing some crucial lead on their own as they often had in the past, but he couldn't overlook the fact that they had disobeyed his order.

  Most of the native quarter was falling into a sullen silence, but from the bazaar, half a dozen alleys to the west and enclosured within the quarter, an angry rumble continued. He'd sent Corporal Peter Christianson, a dark Norwegian who looked Portuguese and spoke Arabic, into the bazaar to get the feeling and pick up what information he could. For some reason the Arabs seemed to get along with the Jerries, and Wilson had no doubt that those who'd dealt with the Germans during the occupation informed for them now.

  His tired mind snapped alert as he heard the drumming boom of firing on the plateau. It was distant, not from the Sherman tanks, and came in steadily increasing crescendo. Jerry would be working his way through the minefield, Wilson thought. Taking a tip from Rommel and Dietrich, he'd devised his own "Devil's Garden" which extended to a depth of two thousand yards in front of the tanks. He had not followed the checkerboard pattern so methodically employed by the Germans. The field in front of the tanks was a complex design with no safe path. It was laid with tens of thousands of M1A1 antitank mines in concentric circles so that any pattern was impossible to detect.

  The battering slammed away on the plateau and the sky was illuminated with flashes that looked like distant heat lightning. Wilson gave a last helpless look at the bluff and went into the radio room next to his office. He nodded at Corporal Locke who was leaning over the command set, his hands on the tuning dials for the transmitter. Wilson noticed he'd brought the output up to maximum.

  Locke stiffened, listened intently, then spoke into the microphone. "Wildcat receives you loud and clear. Go ahead, Tiger. Over."

  He looked straight at Wilson as he listened, then said to him, "Lieutenant Farb reports the enemy withdrawing, sir. Would you like to speak with him?"

  Wilson nodded.

  Locke spoke into the microphone. "I have Tomcat by the tail. Hold on." He handed the earphones and microphone to Wilson.

  "Tomcat here," Wilson said. "Go ahead, Tiger. Over."

  "Hello, Tomcat," Farb said, and although there were background noises, Wilson was sure he chuckled. "Circle four squared. Over."

  "Roger," Wilson said, smiling for the first time all day. "Anything more? Over."

  "Not tonight," Farb said. "Over."

  "Roger," Wilson said. "Over and out."

  "Good news," he said to Locke as he handed him the earphones and microphone. The code was simple. The simplest codes were the most effective. "Circle four squared" sounded complicated. It meant the minefield had claimed four of the enemy's units and the enemy had withdrawn. "Not tonight" in response to "Anything more?" meant that no further action was anticipated tonight.

  "Are you on duty all night?" he asked Locke.

  "Until six," Locke said.

  "Good," Wilson said. "I'll be in my quarters. If anything at all comes in, send for me."

  "Right, sir," Locke said, bobbing his head. "Have a good night's sleep."

  Suddenly Wilson was unbearably tired. His eyes were heavy and his limbs were leaden. He yawned. "In spite of it all," he said, smiling again, "I think I shall."

  He walked past his dark office, automatically went back and stepped in to jerk the string that turned off his ceiling fan. As he stepped into the street, an Arab, a dirty-faced, tattered-robed, barefooted Arab beggar, trotted up to him. The natives all were supposed to be in the quarter. Angrily Wilson looked around for an MP.

  "Pardon me, sir," the Arab said. "It's Christianson. I'm afraid there's trouble."

  "What!" Wilson said, scarcely recognizing the Norwegian boy in his disguise. "What trouble?"

  "It's the Rat Patrol, sir," Christianson said. "They're in the bazaar, in uniform too, getting drunk with the Arabs."

  5

  Troy could hear the sound of battle like far-off rolling thunder as he led Moffitt, Tully and Hitch at a trot back to the wadi where the jeeps were concealed. He had seen a column of armor about a mile to the north when he surveyed Dietrich's CP from the dune with Moffitt. With the drums stored in the tents, the command post must have been moved to this second column when Dietrich's force struck out for the Sherman tanks. The armor he'd seen just north would be the second prong pointed at Latsus Pass. Whoever was in charge would be done in a hurry to investigate the explosions.

  "Hey, Sarge," Tully jawed. "Ain't nobody coming after us. Take it easy."

  "You're logy with beer," Troy said mercilessly. "We've got to sweat it out of you."

  "Well, I'm not sodden," Hitch panted. "I'm plain pooped. What's the rush? Even the Infantry takes ten."

  "I'm afraid Troy's right, there's a bit of a hurry," Moffitt said with a chuckle. "Didn't either of you chaps notice the column to the north?"<
br />
  "Let's make tracks," Tully said, breathing hard but passing Troy at a lope.

  It wasn't pursuit that concerned Troy. Patrols might be sent out on the road, but even in the moonlight it would be impossible to cover the thousands of wadis in a twenty-five mile area. And Troy was certain the commander of the second column would not draw from the crews of his halftracks and tanks to organize search parties. He'd redouble his own guards. What Troy wanted to know was where he would send trucks for a new supply of fuel.

  Confident that all immediate attention would be centered on the fire, if anyone was there to see it, he made no attempt to hide their movements. They covered the two miles through sand and over dunes in fifteen minutes. Tully and Hitch apparently were prodded by the idea that troops were on their tails and Troy let it ride like that. They peeled the netting from the jeeps without grumbling and shot out of the wadi. All of them still were wearing Jerry uniforms.

  "Where, Sarge?" Tully asked.

  "Backtrack," Troy said. "Exactly the way we came." When they reached the dune about a mile from the road at the point they'd turned off, Troy called a halt. The dune, he noted with satisfaction, continued south, paralleling the route.

  "All right," he said when they'd all piled out. "Drink beer. Smoke, as long as you're out of sight of the road. I'll take the first watch."

  "If you think they're after us, why stop?" Tully asked. "What are we watching for?" Hitch wanted to know.

  "The trucks?" Moffitt suggested with a smile.

  "Right-o, old chap," Troy said with an accent that made Moffitt laugh.

  "Hey, what gives?" Tully sounded annoyed.

  "Sorry," Troy said, quickly serious. "I didn't mean to be mysterious. I think we've blown all their gas and oil. They're bound to have another dump and I'm guessing it's in the direction Dietrich came. So we wait here to see if they send out trucks from that second column and then we try to get where they're going before they arrive."

  "We going to swipe all their marbles, Sarge?" Tully drawled.

  "It's fifty-fifty, isn't it, Sam?" Moffitt asked.

  "I don't think so," Troy said. "The column from the east converged with Dietrich's somewhere south from here. They'll head for the nearest dump, whichever way it is. It won't be by the road because up until today that was our property. So we wait for them, follow them until they leave the route. Once they do, they'll make a beeline for the dump. We'll chart their course, get ahead of them and keep going until we hit the jackpot."

  "Simple as all that?" Moffitt asked quietly.

  "I hope so," Troy said fervently. "I sure hope so. Now, while you're drinking your beers, how about getting the jeeps ready for a long trip?"

  Troy crawled to the top of the dune overlooking the road and lay prone like a ridge on the hill. He was certain there would be no traffic for half an hour or more, but he was taking no chances. There had been a time or two when seemingly unnecessary caution had kept him alive. He inspected the desert that was sheen in the moonlight over the path that they'd come and saw the bright torch that they'd lighted still burning at Dietrich's old CP. From it, his eyes roved back until they picked up the road. A mile down from where he lay was the slug-ridden Volkswagen with its Styx-crossing crew, but nothing moved on the road.

  He thought about Ray. It was strange that he should think about her. Love-'em-and-Leave-'em Sam Troy never thought about girls except when they were in sight. He supposed it was scarcely a compliment a female would tolerate, but damnit, the girl had guts. She'd have gone with them to the top of the bluff and taken her own chances on getting back home in one piece. He enjoyed being with her, not just once in a while but most of the time. Hell! he thought disgustedly; Sam Troy was getting soft in the head. A fighting man had no business having a girl on his mind. Maybe Hitch was right. Maybe Ray had set them up for the ambush. She was part Arab. Women were no damn good. There wasn't one of them you could trust. Damn Ray anyway; he'd trusted her and she'd played him for a John.

  He was coldly outraged and fighting mad when Moffitt came up on the dune to relieve him.

  "Keep your damned eyes open," he snarled.

  "Thinking does bugger a chap," Moffitt said with a smile.

  It was only a few moments later when Moffitt called down to him softly, "Sam, you'd better come up here. I think a convoy is coming."

  At first Troy could see nothing on the road in the half darkness of the moonlight; then his eyes caught movement and he gradually made out a mile or more than a mile away the high-sided, rear-dragging outline of a halftrack and behind it the covered wagon-like shape of the first of the trucks. There seemed to be a lot of them strung out behind it.

  "So they brought out the artillery," he said with a laugh in his throat. "That's good. That's downright thoughtful of them. Those treads will hold down the speed of the trucks to a creep. We'll be halfway back before they find the cupboard is bare."

  "You're making it sound too easy, old boy," Moffitt said doubtfully. "That isn't like you at all."

  The convoy moved on toward their position with the clackety-clack of the halftrack treads rattling the night. There were two halftracks, one at the front, the other at the rear, and sandwiched between were a dozen six-wheeled trucks. They were traveling between fifteen and twenty miles an hour. It seemed to Troy the convoy slowed as it went by the Volkswagen. They probably all looked but no one got out. Gave them something to think about, he'd bet. On the convoy plodded, past the dune where Moffitt and he lay and then straight down the route. They watched for long minutes until it was almost out of sight and then walked leisurely down to the jeeps.

  "Fire them up," Troy told Tully and Hitch. "But drive with light feet. This is a buggy ride. We just want to keep them in sight."

  "Okay if I finish my beer, Sarge?" Tully asked.

  "Sure," Troy said with a laugh and lighted a cigarette. "I'll have one myself."

  It was half an hour later when they cranked up the motors and took off down the valley hidden from the road by the protecting dune. Troy felt good. He didn't know when he'd felt so good. He knew why. First the encounter with the Arabs at the bluff. Then the blow-up at the oasis dump. And the fine foray on Dietrich's CP. Now, to top it all off, the convoy was giving them directions to the next gasoline station.

  "Hey!" he said a little too loudly and clapped Tully on the shoulder. "You want something done, you call in the Rat Patrol. How about that, boy?"

  "Sure, Sarge, whyn't you take a snooze?" Tully said agreeably but also solicitously.

  "I needed that, Tully," Troy said, sitting up straight. "That one beer didn't hit me. I was drunk with success. Kick it up to fifty if you can see well enough in this moonlight. Let's pick up the convoy and tail them for a while." Ten minutes later they stopped and Troy climbed to the top of a dune. There was no convoy moving on the road. Not anywhere back as far as he could see and nowhere ahead.

  "That's funny," he told Moffitt, coming back puzzled. "They haven't turned off to the east or we'd have cut their trail. They should have been right about here at this time at the speed they were going. I'm going down to the road and see if they've passed."

  There were neither tire nor tread marks on the road.

  "Maybe they cut off to the west," Hitch suggested.

  "That must have been it," Troy said. "We'll cross over and work back until we pick up the trail."

  They drove back on the west side of the road until they were opposite the dune where they'd lingered. They had seen no marks in the sand.

  "You'd better take over," Troy said bitterly to Moffitt. "You can easily see that my judgment is impaired. Now we'll have to follow their tracks out in plain sight on the road."

  "Carry on," Moffitt said quietly. "We all were in it with you."

  On the road, the cleat marks of the halftracks were plain. Tully followed them easily without lights, although the moon was beginning to wane. Troy and Moffitt both had climbed in the backs of their jeeps and were alert at the machine guns.

  They
'd traveled only a few minutes when Tully suddenly slammed on his brakes. Hitch ran alongside to avoid crashing and stopped.

  "What is it?" Troy shouted, swinging his gun in every direction.

  "Damnedest thing I ever saw, Sarge," Tully called, hopping from the jeep and running ahead. "The tracks end right here. They just disappear."

  Troy looked right and left and then up at the dark sky. "So a convoy of a dozen six-wheeled trucks and two ground-chewing halftracks just disappear in thin air!" he yelled in frustration and jumped to the road.

  Tully and Hitch were creeping forward on their hands and their knees.

  "Aw, Sarge," Tully drawled. "You know better than that. They used our old trick and put down some rakes."

  "And covered up the halftrack marks?" Troy demanded. "Those cleats bite deep."

  "This road surface isn't much more than sand, Sarge," Hitch said with a pop of his gun. "The cleats bite but this stuff doesn't hold the marks. Look, you can see the furrow marks made by the rakes."

  "Sure," Tully said soothingly. "We ain't lost them. All we got to do is follow the furrows to where they turned off."

  "Can you see them in this light?" Troy asked. "From behind the steering wheel?"

  Tully got into the jeep and admitted he could not. "Let's not waste any more time," Troy shouted in anger. "I got us into this. I'll bird dog."

  He trotted ahead on the road, bent over the trail like an Indian scout. The jeeps tried to keep behind him. He followed the trail half blind, hoping only that the rakes meant that the convoy was turning off soon. Surely they wouldn't drive very far with the rakes holding them back.

  He was right. He'd trotted bent over like a potato picker for scarcely a mile when the furrows made an east turn into the desert. His feet dug into the sand and he pushed doggedly on, sweating and cursing as he plowed ahead.

  Moffitt trotted alongside him. "I'll spell you, old boy," he said.

  "Damnit, Jack," Troy growled, punishing himself. "Why aren't you back with your weapon giving me cover?"