by David King
The aircraft began to rattle through its fuselage as they lost altitude in a fast approach and Troy felt the pressure in his ears. He looked down through the plexiglass and confirmed his suspicions about their destination. They were coming down for a typical hell-down-the-runway landing at Bir el Alam's airbase. The pattern of the buildings at the military installation was familiar, but even better remembered from the days when Wilson's armored column had occupied the town was the jumble of flat-topped, white-walled buildings of the town. There was the oasis, the feathery palms bordering the asphalt road the Allies had built to the base. He even thought he recognized the rooftop cafe where Wilson had entertained the four of them after they'd rescued him from Dietrich at Sidi Abd. They'd had Dietrich himself prisoner for a time on that caper.
Enemy though he was, Troy could almost think of Dietrich as an old friend. Certainly he was an old acquaintance. It seemed that most of their forays had been directed against the wily Jerry officer. Troy was sure Dietrich held no such feeling toward the Rat Patrol. As victors, they could indulge themselves. As the vanquished, Dietrich must hate their guts.
The bomber touched, settled, raced toward the end of the runway, reversed props, swung fast and taxied back beyond the administrative building toward a corrugated hangar off an asphalt apron at the far end of the field. Again the props reversed, the tail of the plane swung around, and the B-25 idled close to the open ended hangar.
"End of the line," the pilot called on the intercom. "Get under cover fast."
With the bomber blocking view of the hangar, Troy, followed by Tully, Hitch and Moffitt, dropped to the asphalt and ran into the building. It seemed to be empty. At the far back corner a partitioned area appeared to provide a fairly large office. Troy trotted toward it, seeing as he ran an ancient model open touring car parked at the back of the hangar. It had tall sides, high fenders and a huge flat-faced radiator.
"Would you give a look at that!" Hitch exclaimed, pointing at the old car. He broke toward it.
Troy glanced over his shoulder. They were well screened from view inside the building and he followed Hitch.
"It's sure enough a sweet potato," Tully called, running ahead with Hitch.
Troy chuckled. It scarcely seemed a thing of beauty to him with its clumsy, high-riding chassis. He thought he had seen similar automobiles in old gangster movies. "What is it?" he asked.
"Hispano-Suiza," Hitch said. "Italian. One of the best in its day."
"Still is," Tully affirmed.
"How long ago was its day?" Troy asked with a smile.
"This one, probably twenty-six or twenty-seven," Hitch said.
"But used more recently than that, quite likely." Moffitt observed. "This probably was Italian staff."
"You think this is a captured Italian staff car?" Troy asked, interested. "An old buggy like this?"
"Some general or other," Moffitt said, nodding. "Possibly old Electric Whiskers himself."
Troy smiled at the reference to the bearded Italian general who had been more successful at running and hiding than at standing and fighting. "It seems to be in good shape."
Hitch and Tully had lifted the hood and were examining the engine.
"Hey," Hitch said. "This baby has been worked over. Some aircraft mechanic has got hold of some real transportation for himself."
"And he plans to make use of it," Troy said, looking into the enormous back seat. Ten five-gallon gasoline cans and two five-gallon water cans were lined in three rows on the floor. He stepped onto the running board and lifted one. It was full.
The car had been a seven-passenger job, but the jump seats had been removed. The red leather upholstery had seen some rough usage but the tears had been mended. The instrument panel was clean and the large steering wheel had been spliced where it had been broken. The windshield was high and straight. Keys were in the ignition switch, Troy noticed as Tully opened the door on the driver's side and slid behind the steering wheel.
"I sure would like to give this one a whirl," Tully said enviously, working the wheel forth and back.
"Well, why don't you start it?" a voice broke in behind and Troy swung about.
A man with a high forehead; pleasant, tanned face and crinkled brown eyes had quietly approached them, apparently from the partitioned area. He was bareheaded, his thin brown hair revealing a sunburned scalp. He was smoking a pipe and wore a short-sleeved khaki shirt without insignia and suntan trousers. He was smiling.
He indicated each in turn as he spoke his name: "Troy, Moffitt, Tully, Hitch. I'm Norman, G2."
Troy wondered what his rank was, not that it made any difference.
"Go ahead, Tully, start it, drive it around the hangar. You might as well get acquainted with it. That car is going to take you behind the Jerry lines."
4
When Norman had told them the old Hispano-Suiza was going to take them behind the Jerry lines, Troy's immediate thought was that they were going in as Italian officers. He had been almost right in one respect and very wrong in another, he thought now, six hours later. He examined himself again in the full-length mirror and shook his head. He still couldn't believe what he saw.
Like the others, he was wearing civilian clothing. His suit was double-breasted with padded shoulders. The material was flannel, moss green with yellow stripes. His silk apple-green shirt was also striped with yellow and his wide tie was splashed with yellow flowers. His pants were pegged and his shoes were pointed. As should have been his head, he thought with a grin.
He turned to Moffitt, whose cream-colored gabardine suit was single-breasted with a pinched waist. Moffitt's eyes became crescents as he nodded his head at Tully and Hitch. Tully sported a double-breasted tobacco-brown gabardine with which he wore a dark brown silk shirt and a bright yellow tie. Hitch's single-breasted suit was purple and his shirt was pink.
"Come now," Moffitt said with a throaty chuckle. "You can't really mean this is the way you chaps dress in America."
"Not if we can help it," Troy said wryly, looking at the sparkle of the synthetic two-carat diamond on his left pinkie.
But it was not the clothing that had made the big transformation. Troy examined himself again in the mirror. His hair was black, curly and tousled, and grew low on the nape of his neck. His sideburns were lengthy and he supported an abundant mustache. It was his eyes that startled him the most. They had changed in color from tawny to brown. Hitch's and Tully's matched Troy's while Moffitt's were somewhat darker. Moffitt, Hitch and Tully also wore unruly caps of curly black hair. And like Troy, each of the others sprouted black bristles on his upper lip.
The Rat Patrol had been transmogrified. They now were the Enna brothers from Enna, high in the heartland mountains of Sicily, but late of Chicago, U.S.A.
"The deception is bold enough to succeed," Norman had said softly with a slow smile when he'd taken them into the hangar office after Tully had driven the Hispano-Suiza around the building and pronounced it sound.
The office itself was a deception, Troy had thought in disbelief, wondering how so much had been accomplished in so short a time. It was a theatrical dressing room. A table with three lighted mirrors held assorted jars and boxes. Next to it was a full-length mirror. A straight chair stood under a powerful light in the middle of the room. Two trunks were open, displaying prop material, and four violin cases leaned against a wall. Two Army cots had been pushed against another wall and a hawk-nosed man in a white jacket sat on one of them. He stood, fixing each in turn with piercing brown eyes.
"Bernard, G2," Norman introduced him succinctly.
Bernard nodded curtly.
"Time is short," Norman said. "You should leave as soon as it is dark, which gives us about six hours. I'll brief you as the doctor works. Troy, if you'll remove your helmet and fatigues. Take a seat in the straight chair under the light."
What crazy kind of caper is this, Troy asked himself as Doctor Bernard threw a barber's apron around Troy's neck. Bernard switched on electric shears and
ran the clippers up Troy's sideburns. Hitch, Tully and even Moffitt were staring at him speechlessly.
"First, your mission," Norman said quietly. "You are to obtain precise locations of the enemy's armor, emplacements, machine gun and mortar installations, and infantry positions at the ridge where Wilson is stalled. You also are to obtain the pattern of the minefield and chart the safe passageway."
Troy whistled softly as the clippers whirred and his hair fell onto the barber's towel. If they were successful in getting behind Dietrich's lines, it would not be difficult to obtain weapons locations, but the pattern of the minefield was something else. So Wilson had had a brainstorm after all. Troy glanced at the violin cases. He shook his head. Dietrich wasn't going to go for a stringed quartet on the firing line.
"Your approach to Dietrich will be from the direction of Tunis in the Hispano-Suiza," Norman continued. "You are black marketeers, former U.S. hoodlums who fled through Mexico and have taken refuge in Sicily. Forged passports and documents have been prepared. The forgeries are obvious. With your backgrounds, Dietrich would be suspicious if you had genuine papers. You now are operating in the black market between Spain and ports of convenience in Africa. If Dietrich checks your story, it will be confirmed in Tunis through our agent whose cover is the black market. You will approach Dietrich because you have something to sell him."
Bernard whipped off the towel from Troy's neck and shook off the hair. Tully guffawed at Troy's bare head. Hitch glumly watched the operation.
"We don't speak Italian," Troy warned.
"You are American gangsters with Sicilian antecedents," Norman said calmly.
"Moffitt's accent will give him away," Troy said as Bernard fitted a wig over his pate, stepped back, eyed it critically, shook his head and dug into the trunk for another.
"Button your lip, punk," Moffitt snarled with a sneer which quickly became a smile that lighted his eyes. "I've done a bit of acting, you know. This should be a jolly good time."
Bernard had found a wig that suited him and now he was affixing it to Troy's scalp with a liquid adhesive. "This will itch," he said, "but it can't be helped. You can scratch when it itches. It won't come off."
"What do we have to sell Dietrich?" Troy asked as Bernard lathered his face and started to shave him. He was beginning to enjoy the idea of this mission almost as much as Moffitt apparently did. Hitch was scowling.
"Among other things, you are experienced gunmen," he said. Troy glanced at the violin cases and laughed aloud. Norman nodded and smiled. "Yes, the European idea of an American gangster is Thirty-ish. The tommy-guns in the violin cases will be clinchers. This is what you have to sell Dietrich: he has tried to capture or destroy the Rat Patrol and failed. You know this because it is common knowledge among the German military in Tunis. It is more than knowledge—it is a standing joke. Lay it on as thick as you like. It will enrage him. For a fee, you will find them, gun them down or kidnap them. Nab, I believe the word is. This should put you on speaking terms with Dietrich. Now you're in the enemy's camp. You know what is required. From this point on, you're on your own, although we'll give you what assistance we can. In two days, the jeeps and the men who are impersonating you will disappear to put Dietrich in a receptive mood."
Bernard had fixed a mustache on Troy's lip. "One thing, Sergeant," he said crisply, turning to the others. "This goes for all of you. You must shave every day, twice if necessary. Do not let the stubble of your own beards betray you."
Troy stepped to the dressing table and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked at a stranger. "The eyes don't look right," he said.
"We'll fit you and the others with colored contact lenses after I've finished barbering," Bernard said and smiled for the first time. "Don't worry. I am an ophthalmologist in civilian life. The lenses will give you no difficulty. They are held in place by surface tension of the eye fluid."
Moffitt took the chair next and then Tully. Although the transformations were taking place before his eyes, Troy could not believe these were the men he had known.
"We could pad the cheeks, build up the noses, perform other small tricks," Bernard said as he finished with Tully. "Usually it is not necessary. Hair, eyes and clothes ordinarily do the trick." He beckoned to Hitch.
"You're not going to cut my hair," Hitch said sulkily.
Norman laughed and said, "A red-haired Sicilian is a rare bird indeed."
"I'm a rare bird then," Hitch said stubbornly. "You aren't going to cut it."
"We don't have time," Bernard began impatiently.
"It's all right, Doctor," Troy said easily. "Don't cut his hair. The three of us can handle this. He doesn't have to come along."
From the corners of his eyes, Troy saw a smile playing on Moffitt's lips. Hitch glowered and got into the chair without a word. He sat sullen and silent all the time the clippers scattered his hair about his shoulders and into his lap.
"We'll fit these and then I'm going to give you something special, Sergeant," Bernard said after he helped Troy put the lenses on. To Troy's surprise he was not conscious of them and they did not seem to change his vision. "Open your mouth, please."
Bernard examined Troy's front teeth, opened a small leather case and fiddled in it. With a tweezers, he picked up a small piece of gold leaf, fitted the foil around a left incisor, took out the cap he'd made and painted the tooth with a liquid. He slipped the gold cap over the tooth, adjusted and trimmed the gold.
"It is a special cement not affected by moisture," Bernard said. "We will remove the cap with solvent when the masquerade is over." He smiled. "Unless you decide to keep it."
Now Troy flashed a gold-toothed smile at himself in the mirror, turned to the pile of hats on the table. He selected a snap-brimmed grey felt and set it square on his head the way he wore his bush hat.
"I advise against the hats," Bernard said "They ruin the effect of the hair."
"We need protection against the sun," Troy said.
"Your wigs afford that," Bernard said. "Your scalps are insulated."
Troy shrugged and slouched over to Hitch and Tully. A cigarette dangled indolently from a corner of Tully's mouth. "You guys ready?" Troy growled.
"Let's scram," Tully said with curled lip and narrowed eyes.
Moffitt chuckled and Hitch cracked the glum face he'd worn ever since he'd lost his hair. He laughed aloud.
"You're a ham, Tully," Moffitt said.
"Southern style," Tully conceded.
The four of them went to the wall and each picked up a violin case. The tommy-guns had been checked out during the alteration sessions.
"Your bags are already in the car," Norman said, holding them a moment. "You'll find shaving equipment, changes of clothing, other items appropriate to your new status. With the exception of Tully, your own first names have been used on the passports and papers. Sam, Jack, Mark—they're common enough—but Tully's is made out to Sol Enna. Practice using it on the trip."
The Enna brothers filed out of the office. Through the open end of the hangar, Troy could see the marker lights along the runway glowing in the dark of early evening. The yellow headlights of a noisy tractor ran across the apron. Lights from the administration building reached out to touch the runway and a B-25 hulked in shadow on the other side. Norman and Bernard followed them to the Hispano-Suiza. Tully slid behind the wheel, Hitch beside him in the front seat, and Troy and Moffitt climbed into the rear that still allowed them room to stretch their legs even with the cans and baggage. Tully turned the switch and started the whispering motor.
"Good luck, men," Norman called and Bernard waved.
"Can it, mugs," Troy rasped at Norman and Bernard. The G2 men were A-l in his book, but he hoped they were at least majors.
Bernard chuckled and Norman was laughing as he walked rapidly to the office. Tully wheeled the big touring car without lights to the end of the hangar, braked and waited with the motor idling silently. The wail of a siren shivered on the desert air and the lights all over Bi
r el Alam blinked out. Tully eased the car from the hangar, across the apron and onto the runway. It was a cooling, moonless night, but the sky was iridescent and Troy could plainly see the skeleton outline of the tower, the buildings and the B-25. Tully drove west the length of the runway, turned south along the link fence and followed it to a gate which swung open as they approached. Troy heard the gate screech and clack as it closed after them. Tully turned right onto a graded road and picked up speed as they left the base behind.
"This security seems foolish after we were jumped by the 109s," Troy said to Moffitt. Even without a moon he could make out Moffitt's features.
"Coincidence," Moffitt said calmly. "I don't think Jerry had the faintest we were aboard. Those two birds have buzzed us regularly. Today the bomber was there, so why not take a swipe at it? Moreover, old boy, if you thought we'd been uncovered, why didn't you mention it to Norman?"
"And take a chance of losing out on this caper?" Troy demanded with a tight smile.
"It is a fantastic mission," Moffitt agreed and his teeth showed whitely. "Shall we open a bag and see what we're carrying?"
"Norman said toilet articles, changes of clothing," Troy said indifferently.
"He also said articles appropriate to hoodlums," Moffitt reminded him. "I'm curious what is considered appropriate to our new stations in life."
"Go ahead, then," Troy said. "Open your own. They're tagged."
Despite his indifference, Troy watched closely as Moffitt lifted two bags, checking the tags in the flame of the gold-plated lighter which matched the gold-plated cigarette case he had been issued. Troy had paid little attention to the bags, but now he saw they were the European type travel bag with zip tops and two side pockets. The leather was soft—buffalo, he thought—expensive but worn. Moffitt found the bag that was tagged J. Enna and opened the outside pockets first. One contained a carton of cigarettes, the other a long, slim silver flask. Moffitt unscrewed the flask and sniffed.