The Rat Patrol 4 - Two-Faced Enemy

by David King

  8

  Herr Hauptmann Hans Dietrich could feel the curious eyes of Corporal Willi Wunder on him and he willed his hand not to shake, his voice not to quaver, but he knew that even under its mask of grime his face paled.

  "Oberst Funke," he said with an effort, "will you kindly repeat."

  "All of the fuel at Sidi Abd has been blown," the old man blubbered.

  "I thought you said the Rat Patrol had been killed," Dietrich said and gnashed his teeth.

  "It was not the Rat Patrol, I told you," the colonel insisted. "It was Arabs who rode in on horseback and exploded the fuel."

  "Arabs would not have known to blow the fuel," Dietrich shouted. "What was it exactly that was reported concerning the halftrack firing on the Rat Patrol?"

  "It was as I told you, Hans," Oberst Funke said plaintively. "Exactly, the very words, the halftrack fired twelve shots from the seventy-five millimeter gun after the Rat Patrol."

  "That does not say they were killed," Dietrich yelled.

  "What else could it mean, Hans?" the colonel demanded, defensive and belligerent now. "What man could withstand a dozen rounds from a cannon?"

  "It means the Rat Patrol got away and destroyed our last supply of fuel within two hundred miles," Dietrich raged. "It means that like good Arabs, we can fold our tents and silently steal away from Sidi Beda. It means that we are finished. Kaput. We cannot wage a battle on empty fuel tanks."

  "I could send my column out to help," the colonel repeated like a parrot.

  "I could tell you where to put your column and there would be gas in plenty for it," Dietrich roared. "More machines here would mean simply more losses and more empty tanks. I am coming in to talk with you. Something must be done at once or we face defeat." Then he signed off.

  Willi was looking at him with large, frightened eyes. Wrath bubbled in Dietrich. He opened his mouth and abruptly he started to laugh. He laughed uncontrollably. He laughed at the absurdity of it. He was furious with his commanding officer because he used a gallon of gasoline to throw on the scorching sand over buried bottles of beer to chill them by the rapid evaporation. Laughing even harder, he thought that he would place a man in confinement for filling a cigarette lighter with a few drops of the precious fluid. It was hysteria, he knew and he grappled with his reflexes, forced himself to return to normal and accepted military behavior.

  "Call Captain Prittwitz," he said to Willi, still not entirely trusting his voice. "Have him report to me at once."

  There was a chance he still could pull this chestnut from the fire, Dietrich thought glumly, but it was a slim one and it involved persons a captain dared not invoke. The colonel would have to make the request with the full weight of his division behind him and even that was no guarantee the appeal would be granted. Even if the demand were favored and resulted in the capture of Sidi Beda, it would be humiliating. It would not be tanks that had defeated the enemy.

  When Hauptmann Rudolf Prittwitz stood beside the car, Dietrich examined the tank commander objectively. Dietrich did not want to feel that he alone was cracking at the reversals. Prittwitz looked haggard. His hollow cheeks were caked and his lips were pale and thin, but his gray eyes were steady. Pull yourself together, Dietrich told himself. Prittwitz had spent the morning out there in that hellish field and he still was sound.

  "Rudolf," Dietrich said in a firm voice, "run a halftrack up here and take command. I don't want you to do anything. Just hold the armor where it now is. Tell the men to get out of those cans and get some air. I am going in to the command post and I shall have food and coffee sent back. I do not want a machine to move or a gun to fire. Versteh?"

  "It is understood, Herr Hauptmann," Prittwitz said, saluting smartly, about-facing with a click of his heels and marching away.

  "All right, Willi," Dietrich said with a weary laxness that was completely out of character. "Drive me in to the old man."

  As Dietrich had expected, Herr Oberst Funke was sitting on a canvas stool in his shorts within his tent where the air was dead and laden with heat. He offered Dietrich a bottle of beer and Dietrich accepted.

  "Let's sit outdoors," Dietrich said, nostrils offended at the sour odor. "It actually is cooler in the sun than under the canvas."

  "My skin is sensitive to the sun," Oberst Funke said and dabbed with a towel between the dewlaps. He looked helplessly at Dietrich. "What is there to do, Hans? We are going nowhere and have not the means to arrive." Dietrich sat on a canvas stool and felt protesting juices rising in his throat. He hurriedly sipped the beer. It was tepid and tasted of petrol.

  "There is one thing only to be done, Herr Oberst," Dietrich swallowed and said. "We cannot continue without fuel and there is none within a reasonable distance. We cannot retreat with our superior forces and admit defeat. We must shell the port itself until this American colonel, Wilson, begs us to allow him to surrender."

  "Ja, Hans, that is good, but how are we to shell the port?" the colonel asked.

  "With Nebelwerfers," Dietrich said.

  "Nebelwerfers!" the tank colonel gasped. "That is an artillery piece, or worse, it once belonged to Chemical Warfare. And where are we to get the rocket launchers and the rockets, Hans?"

  "From Rommel," Dietrich said calmly now. "You must call the field marshal on the wireless and tell him to send us Nebelwerfers at once."

  "I?" the colonel said in horror. "To call the field marshal? To tell the field marshal? Never could I do such a thing."

  "If you do not call the field marshal and tell him we must have Nebelwerfers, you will be the division commander who twice has lost Sidi Beda," Dietrich said mercilessly. "There are worse things than calling the field marshal on the wireless."

  "Ach, Hans," the old man said miserably. "I should die if they put me at a desk." He stood and walked uncertainly around the table. He was barefooted. "When must you have these Nebelwerfers? Tell me how you will use them so I may know what to say."

  "I must have them at once, by the first thing in the morning at the latest," Dietrich said. "I shall place them where my tanks now are on the bluffs and fire directly into the town. I should have at least two dozen Nebelwerfers with an ample supply of rockets and crews to man the launchers."

  "All right, Hans," Oberst Matthe Funke said heavily and reached for his shirt and pith helmet. He looked very much an old man now. "I will do this for you."

  Dietrich stood to accompany the colonel to the communications van.

  Colonel Funke held up his hand. "No, Hans, do not come to listen over my shoulder. It is possible the field marshal will say things I would rather you did not hear." Still barefooted and in his undershorts but wearing his unbuttoned shirt and pith helmet, Oberst Funke started toward the communications van.

  After Dietrich had requested, then commanded the sergeant at the officers' mess to prepare canned sausages, cheese, biscuits and coffee for the men in the field, he sat at the long table alone in the open-sided tent and sipped coffee himself from a tin cup. He did not like the idea of using the Nebelwerfers. The Nebelwerfer Forty-One was a six-barreled, one-hundred-fifty millimeter rocket launcher that used H.E. and incendiary shell loadings. It was wheel-mounted, weighed eleven hundred and ninety-five pounds, and its fifty-one-inch-long barrels were fired electronically by remote control at a rate of six rounds every ninety seconds. It had a maximum range of seventy-seven-hundred yards at forty-five degrees elevation, a minimum range of twenty-seven-hundred yards at six-point-five degrees. Its cluster of rockets made a low-pitched shrieking sound in flight that jangled the nerves. It was a terrifying weapon and the civilian casualties were bound to be heavy.

  Dietrich lighted a cigarette, prepared to return to the pigsty of a headquarters tent, when Colonel Funke stepped into the mess and sat across the table from him. There was a twinkle in his eyes and he actually was smiling after his talk with the field marshal. He called for a cup of coffee and slapped the table.

  "The field marshal himself talked and he commended me, Hans. What do you thi
nk of that?" The colonel shook his head from side to side and sent his dewlaps swinging in his delight. "He will send the Nebelwerfers with the rockets and the crews by an Me-323 that just has brought in a hundred and twenty replacement troops. Imagine such a plane. But the field marshal was pleased that I called him for help. He said if there were more field commanders who had the good sense to seek solutions rather than make excuses, we should have fewer defeats. He said that under the circumstances, the Nebelwerfers should be an ideal weapon and that it was right to ask for them. Is that not, by God, something, Hans?"

  Although Dietrich did not like the idea of using the rockets, he was pleased that the request had been acted on so swiftly and favorably by Rommel and he was amused at Colonel Funke's reaction.

  "When will the aircraft arrive?" he asked.

  "Early in the morning by the first light," the colonel said. "It will leave in the dark and arrive here shortly after sunrise so that it can see to its landing. The road is straight, south from the first command post, and we can have it smoothed out some for a landing strip. Remember this as a lesson, Hans. When you are faced with an impossible situation, don't make excuses but seek the solution." He stood suddenly, pushing aside the cup of coffee that just had been brought to him. "Well, I am happy I could help you find your solution, Hans." Then he strode off to his tent.

  Back at his station in front of the minefield, Dietrich pulled back all of his armor two thousand yards into the desert. He called for shovels and consulted his map of Sidi Beda. It was another two thousand yards from the beginning of the minefield to the Allied positions, another fifty yards to the edge of the bluff. The military installations, the warehouses and piers were about one mile from the base of the bluff. He plotted the military targets as well as he could from the information he had and prepared positions behind his armor for the Nebelwerfers so the fire could be concentrated along the waterfront at an estimated range of seventy-two hundred yards. Then he went down to the road with a shovel crew to fill in the pot holes.

  Colonel Dan Wilson stood at the window in his office looking at the bluff. He was perspiring freely and he was frowning, but he was not scowling at the heat. Farb had just reported that after a lull which had lasted for almost two hours after the attack, Dietrich had pulled his armor back into the desert and that all was quiet except for labor parties that appeared to be preparing positions for small stationary pieces.

  Mortars? Wilson wondered and shuddered at the thought. It was possible. The range was approximately right for Jerry mortars. They would reach the tanks. They would reach somewhat beyond the tanks and that was what worried him. Any shells that overshot would fall in the native quarter. The thought dismayed him. He did not approve of senseless civilian carnage. He called in his first sergeant.

  "Peilowski," he barked and the sergeant came to attention. Wilson almost smiled. He wondered whether he frightened all of his men. "At ease. We have reason to believe the Jerries are planning to shell the tank positions with mortars. There's a good chance some of the shells will fall in the native quarter. It's going to be a howling mess, I know, but I want the quarter evacuated. The natives can go to the beaches, the piers or the country if they like, but we'll have to provide shelter for those who want it. The cargo ships left without unloading. There are two large and one small empty warehouses. Pack the Arabs in one of the large warehouses and the Frenchies in the other. Have mess set up a soup kitchen in the third. Take an armored car into the bazaar and start there. Send MPs in jeeps to the last street at the foot of the bluff and start working toward the avenue. Clear out every house. Get Christianson and take him along to explain. Any questions?"

  "No, sir," Peilowski said miserably and turned to leave.

  "Oh, Peilowski," Wilson called and the sergeant wheeled. "This will be a good opportunity to dig out the Rat Patrol. Pass the word."

  He was still appalled at the wanton attack by the Rat Patrol on the armored car that had gone to pick up the wounded. Whatever pity he'd felt at first for the quartet had been replaced by hotly burning hatred. He would not rest until they were brought to justice.

  Wilson considered the orders he'd given Peilowski and he shook his head. He did not like to think of the consequences. Jamming a thousand Arabs together in one building was an invitation to riot. It would be pandemonium. Well, they didn't have to go to the warehouse, he told himself, and if there were troublemakers, and there would be, they'd be booted out. He wasn't too concerned about the Frenchies, but they didn't have to go to the warehouse either, and they'd be treated the same as the Arabs, no better, no worse. He laughed shortly and mirthlessly. He had no choice in this matter. He could not ignore the civilian population when the enemy's intentions were clear.

  Wilson was agreeably surprised when the first groups of the Arabs began streaming onto the military avenue. They were frightened, fleeing people, yes, but there was neither anger nor resentment in their faces. They had heard the shelling, they understood the city was besieged, and Christianson must have done a good job explaining that the only concern of the Allied Forces was their safety. They carried precious few possessions, a pillow, a rug, a water jar, packages perhaps of food. The women clutched children too young to toddle. The older ones ran along whooping. They thought it was a lark. The men in their robes were more dignified but made haste.

  It was the shopkeepers who offered resistance, Christianson explained when he came in. They'd take their chances with the shells, they said. What they most feared were the looters.

  Wilson assigned teams of MPs to patrol the alleys and had Christianson announce from a roving car with an amplifier that looters would be shot on sight. Still the shop-keepers remained behind their corrugated iron shutters.

  The MPs reported the door to the Fat Frenchman's wine shop was barred and despite repeated attempts, they had been unable to get any kind of response. They did not know whether the girl and the Fat Frenchman even were in the building. Should they break down the door?

  "No," Wilson said slowly. "We won't break in."

  There had been no sign of the Arabs in the white robes from the bazaar nor of the Rat Patrol. They and their Arab friends may have fled Sidi Beda by the back route. Or the Rat Patrol might be hiding at the Fat Frenchman's. If they were and a shell fell on the building, it would be the most satisfactory solution to the whole sorry affair.

  Some of the natives went to the beaches, the piers, the wasteland at the edge of town, but most seemed to prefer being within the shelter that was provided, perhaps sensing that they had been conveyed to a place of safety. The Arabs were badly frightened and silent. The Frenchies were inclined to be scornful or gay. Many brought along bottles of wine and there were several concertinas.

  It was almost sunset. Farb reported that after the positions had been prepared on the plateau, the enemy had retired and there was no indication of further action. At the small warehouse, mess hall equipment had been lugged in and soup was simmering. The coffee urns were set up and at the kitchen in the regular military mess hall, racks of bread had been taken from the ovens. Wilson prepared to serve supper and tuck his town in. He looked doubtfully at the warehouse where the Frenchies were cavorting and hoped it would be a quiet night.

  It was almost sunset when Tully sent the jeep spinning down a sand hill toward a small, unnamed oasis about fifty miles north of Bir-el-Alam, the desert city that once had been the base for Wilson's armored unit. It had been the long way around to return through Bir-el-Alam, but Troy had thought it prudent to get out of Jerryland with as much haste as possible. Now the Rat Patrol was in familiar and friendly territory, but Troy stood at the machine gun in the back of the jeep. He darted a glance at the other jeep and smiled. Moffitt, still in the robes of the men of Abu-el-bab, was alert at his weapon. Tully and Hitch slowly circled the cluster of palms that grew by the waterhole in the valley. Satisfied they were alone and there had been no recent visitors, Troy called a halt.

  "We'll eat and rest here until the moon is up," he an
nounced, "and then we'll get back to work."

  "Is it okay to build a fire, Sarge?" Tully asked, getting from behind the steering wheel and going to the back of the jeep.

  "I'd forgotten about that so-called young goat you picked up at Bir-el-Alam," Troy said, laughing. "If you're sure it's a kid, go ahead and make a fire. Someone ought to stand guard anyway. Hitch, how about taking the first turn?"

  "Okay, Sarge," Hitch said and popped his gum to show that he was feeling good.

  They all were feeling good, Troy thought, carrying the bundle of sticks they'd bought with the goat over to Tully. Troy still burned at Wilson's attitude when he'd handed them this assignment, but it did give him a good, satisfying glow to realize he was doing the job he'd set out to do. What the hell, Troy thought, smiling suddenly; he shouldn't be annoyed with Wilson. With Dietrich hammering at his door, Wilson had other things on his mind besides a sergeant who couldn't be found on his day off.

  With coffee and biscuits from their rations, they dined well and the kid they roasted was surprisingly juicy and tender. It was a good fire, Troy thought contentedly as he lighted a cigarette after relieving Hitch on guard. He turned slowly round, looking first at the vast, unconfining, empty desert that surrounded him and then at the warm glow of the embers down in the oasis where his friends and companions were stretching out in the sand. He looked up at the deep purple vault of the sky, pin-pricked by stars, and listened to the music of the universe. Here it was calm and it seemed that peace was eternal. He grinned a little crookedly. And in an hour or two, they'd be in the thick of it again.

  The fire had died and Moffitt, Tully and Hitch all were asleep when Troy shuffled down to the oasis at twenty-hundred hours. The moon had risen, a magnificent full moon that was a great luminescent globe illuminating the desert with faintly greenish-white light.