The Rat Patrol 6 - Desert Masqueraade

by David King

  "Bourbon," he said. He sounded disappointed and handed the flask to Troy.

  "I'll get my own," Troy said, interested now. He lighted his silver cigarette lighter and the synthetic diamond on his little finger glimmered. "Hitch," he called as he lifted the first bag. "Whoa—Mark," he corrected himself, landing the bag over the cans across the wide back seat. "Sol."

  Hitch took Tully's bag. Troy felt the outline of the cigarette carton and removed the flask from the other pocket. He tasted the bourbon. It was smooth, bonded stuff. He drank again and replaced the flask. Inside his fingers felt the slippery touch of silk.

  "Silk shirts, silk shorts," he groaned.

  "I believe mine are linen, no cambric," Moffitt said and Troy knew he was smiling.

  "I've got a wool sweater with a turtle neck," Hitch called back.

  "They didn't make the mistake of duplicating," Troy said, relieved. "I'll bet none of the things are new."

  "Did you know there's booze in the flask?" Hitch asked.

  "Sure," Troy said with a smile. "I know, but how did you find out?"

  Troy explored below the silk, found a leather toilet kit and then his hand touched steel. He brought out a snub-nosed Browning automatic. His fingers ran along the side of the bag until they found a box of cartridges. He ejected the magazine from the pistol, loaded it, replaced the cartridge box in the bag and shoved the gun in his coat pocket. It was an authentic touch and it might come in handy.

  "Tully—I mean, Sol—has a fancy frog sticker in his bag," Hitch said. "I didn't get a weapon."

  "You've got your gat," Troy reminded him. "You can always pick up a piece of rope for a garrote."

  "They seem to be well acquainted with us for such short notice," Moffitt observed.

  "Yes, don't they?" Troy said dryly as he found a bottle of bourbon at the bottom of his bag. His hand grasped a bundle of paper that had the greasy feel of money. He removed it and his lighter showed him a bundle of twenty-dollar bills.

  "You get any of these?" he asked, showing the money to Moffitt.

  "Only what is in the wallet they issued," Moffitt said. "About two hundred dollars. It should suffice."

  Troy counted the bills. There were a hundred of them. Bribe money. He put them back in the bag and zipped it shut.

  They had driven by the last building and the graded road deteriorated into a track that ran northwest. This was the old trade route they would follow for almost a hundred miles before lurching off through the unmarked sand and rock south of the salt marsh. Troy heard the moan of the all-clear signal and turned as the lights of Bir el Alam twinkled on again.

  "Okay for me to use lights, Sam?" Tully asked over his shoulder.

  "Ohh!" Troy groaned with a fleeting smile. "I can see what this caper is going to cost me. Sure, it should be safe to use them for the next couple hours. Have to, if we're going to make any time."

  The big headlights poked holes in the night. Tully switched on the long-reaching searchlight mounted at the side of the windshield, adjusted it and turned off the headlights. Someplace ahead in the night a rifle cracked. The second shot made a spiderwebbed hole in the windshield directly between Tully and Hitch.

  5

  Shrieking protests that rose and fell in an incoherent babble brought Wilson from his table where he was digging his supper of rubbery cheese from a ration can. He stepped quickly from the acetylene lamp light in the tent into the alley behind the halftracks where the reddish light from small fires made the night seem darker. He could hear the sounds of struggling and grunts above the cries in Arabic. The commotion was coming from behind HQ and he stepped to the side of the tent, looking toward the supply trucks. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a man wearing an Australian bush hat and another wearing a French Foreign Legion cap plodding toward him. Between them they dragged a screaming, kicking, robed figure. He stepped back beyond the light that crept onto the sand through the open flap of his tent.

  "What's this?" he asked sharply as the bluish light fell on the trio.

  "Thief," said the man in the bush hat.

  "Or spy," said the man in the Foreign Legion cap.

  "Two other Ay-rabs got away," the man in the bush hat said.

  "Take him into HQ," Wilson said irritably. The Arabs were more of an annoyance than sand fleas. You never knew whether they came to steal or spy for the enemy. "I'll get the Eskimo."

  Kalmuk, the Eskimo, was Corporal Locke's assistant, the second radio operator. The flat-faced Eskimo who'd found his ways through the mysterious channels of the Army was a linguist who spoke not only German and French but who had mastered half a dozen Arabic dialects as well.

  "Sure, boss," Kalmuk said easily, turning his bright black eyes from the Command Set to Wilson. "Johnny was bringing me a cup of coffee anyway. He can take over and I'll be in right away."

  When Wilson returned to his tent, the Arab was trussed hand and foot, yelling obscenely and writhing on the sand. "We can't have this." he said angrily. "Untie the ropes."

  "He was biting and scratching," the man in the bush hat said. He was a chunky slab of beef, built like a wrestler with no neck. His eyes were small and his lips were thin.

  "You're Corporal Merriam," Wilson said with a frown, and then glanced at the man in the Foreign Legion cap. He was brawny and his jaw was square. "And you're Corporal Heath. Transportation. Correct?"

  "We're truck drivers," Merriam mumbled.

  "Before that you were MPs," Wilson said harshly. "That's why you were selected for this job. You know how to restrain a man. Untie the ropes."

  "That Ay-rab stinks," Merriam blurted.

  "Heath, remove the ropes," Wilson ordered. "Merriam, restrain the prisoner. Now tell me what happened."

  Merriam grasped the Arab by one wrist, and as Heath cut the ropes that bound his arms, Merriam brought the wrist up sharply behind the prisoner's back. The Arab screeched in pain. When Heath cut the bonds about his feet, he kicked Heath savagely in the stomach. Heath grunted. Merriam jerked the pinioned arm, twisting at the same time, and the Arab yelped shrilly.

  "On your feet, your garbage-eating pig," Merriam snarled, viciously yanking the Arab by his arm.

  The Arab uttered a sobbing moan.

  "That's enough, Merriam," Wilson snapped. He studied the prisoner. The Arab was a miserable specimen. He had beady, ferret-like eyes that seemed to burn red at the edges of the black pupils. He did not look like a man of the desert. His face was saffron and pocked. Filthy, ragged robes draped his thin shoulders and he did not stand tall. Merriam had been right: the foul odor of the man contaminated the tent.

  Heath was rubbing his stomach were the Arab had kicked him, but suddenly the grimace on his face changed to a grin. "We caught him in a net, like a fish," he said.

  The prisoner started to struggle and Merriam gritted his teeth, exerting slow, steady pressure to his arm until the man bent back in agony. "Once more," Merriam grated, "and I'll break it off."

  "Once more, Corporal, and I'll break you," Wilson said in a hard, flat voice. "I said restrain, not torture. Now tell me what happened."

  Merriam's little eyes were resentful. "We crawled out of that cave for some air." His voice was surly. "We took a walk to the landing strip. We come back through the trucks. There was these three Ay-rabs pawing in one of them. We grabbed at them. They ran. The other two got away. This one ran smack into the net over the jeeps. We nailed him."

  Probably no more than another petty Arab thief, Wilson thought. Jerry had no need to send spies into the camp. It was open, everything could be observed from the ridge. Unless, he abruptly realized, Dietrich's suspicions had been aroused by the bomber that did not bomb, by the four men who had boarded the aircraft. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Perhaps it was a good thing this man had been taken by Merriam and Heath in their unorthodox headgear. He would question the prisoner briefly and release him.

  The Eskimo stepped briskly into the tent, went directly to the table, about-faced and studied the Arab. Kalmu
k's black eyes were troubled and his broad nose seemed to be pinched in distaste when he turned to Wilson.

  "This is no desert Arab," he said. "He is a rat that has crawled from under a wharf."

  "Then it is fitting he should have been captured by the Rat Patrol," Wilson said. The man probably didn't understand English, but it was worth a try. Kalmuk's eyelids flickered but he remained silent. "Ask him what he was doing here, in French and German."

  The Arab's beady eyes showed no comprehension when Kalmuk spoke to him.

  "All right," Wilson said wearily. "Arabic."

  This time Kalmuk spoke sharply. The Arab spat at him. Merriam gave his arm a wicked upward thrust. The Arab cried in agony. Kalmuk repeated the question. The prisoner threw a torrent of bitter words at him.

  "He says it is his country," Kalmuk said, turning to Wilson. "He says we should answer that question."

  "And the Italians and the Germans," Wilson said under his breath. "Ask him what he was doing in this camp." Kalmuk spoke to the prisoner and Merriam emphasized the importance of the question by wrenching the arm again. The Arab jabbered.

  "He says he was hungry and looking for something to eat," Kalmuk said.

  "In the trucks?" Wilson commented dryly. "Where did he come from? How did he get here? Where is he going?" The Arab told Kalmuk that he was from the tribe of el Burabub near Siwa.

  "He is lying," Kalmuk said. "Siwa is an oasis near the Qattara Depression in Egypt. He could never have come so far on foot. Also, Siwa is the English word for the place. The Arabs have another word for it. It isn't much use to question him. He will say what he pleases and it will be nothing but a pack of lies."

  "You're right, Kalmuk," Wilson said.

  "What're we going to do? Hold him?" Merriam asked.

  "What good would it do?" Wilson asked. "His two companions got away. Turn him loose. There's nothing he can tell. March him out of camp. Kalmuk, tell him the next Arab we find in camp will be shot on sight. We'll double the guard."

  Wilson watched Merriam propel the dirty Arab out of the tent, and decided that the man who was impersonating Troy, like many MPs, had a sadistic streak in him. Wilson did not approve of cruelty and hoped the man did not suffer any further rough treatment. It could be difficult for the Rat Patrol if the Arab was a spy for the Jerries and reported to Dietrich that the men in the strange hats had captured him and mistreated him. From afar, Wilson thought he heard a sharp cry of pain but it might have been a jackal.

  The three Arabs walked into Dietrich's lines with Schmeisser machine pistols in their backs. Behind the three members of the patrol that had captured them, a corporal led the fine tawny horses they had been riding. Herr Hauptmann Hans Dietrich was seated in a canvas camp chair enjoying a brandy after a reasonably palatable supper of roast kid, when Doeppler informed him of the captives.

  "Arabs!" Dietrich exclaimed. "On the ridge? But it is impossible."

  "Ja, Herr Hauptmann, that is so," Doeppler agreed stiffly. His lantern jaw did not seem to move when he spoke. "It is impossible, but here they are."

  "Bring them in," Dietrich said frigidly. "We shall find out how this is possible."

  The three Arabs were prodded into the tent before him and the three enlisted men from the patrol kept their Schmeissers in their backs. Dietrich's cold eyes appraised them. The man in the middle was tall, erect and proud. He had a typical Arabian hawklike nose and the steady eyes of a falcon. His burnoose and robes were dusty but not dirty. The men on either side were scrawny and filthy, but their dark eyes were defiant. Dietrich noticed that the left arm of the man on the right had been injured. He clutched his robe near the shoulder as if for support.

  "Can any one of you speak to me in my language?" he asked hopelessly. No one in his command spoke Arabic.

  "We all speak your tongue, Effendi," the tall man in the middle said. He had a jagged scar running diagonally from his right temple across his cheek to the corner of his mouth. The scar appeared to whiten when he spoke.

  "What are you doing here on the ridge?" Dietrich demanded. "Do you not know this is a battlefield? The slope is filled up with explosives. You might have been blown in many pieces. How did you get here?"

  "We are aware you have mined the approach," the scarred Arab said calmly. "There is a trail through the rocks to this ridge."

  "Doeppler!" Dietrich shouted, although the lieutenant was still within the tent not ten feet away. "Take a patrol and one of these Arabs. Have him show you the trail. Mine it from the bottom up. At once."

  "Ja, Herr Hauptmann," Doeppler said. He turned to the Arab with the injured arm. "Come with me."

  "Take the other man, Lieutenant," the tall Arab said. It was an order, not a suggestion, and Dietrich looked at him with some respect. "The man with the broken arm is the one who can tell the most about the American camp."

  "What's that?" Dietrich asked.

  "There was no need to take us prisoner, Captain," the one who seemed to be the leader said. "We were on our way to you. We have just come from the American camp. We thought you would be interested in what we have seen."

  "Yes," Dietrich said cautiously. "Yes, I admit I would be interested in learning what you observed. A moment. Grosse!" he called for his orderly-driver. Grosse stepped into the tent immediately and Dietrich looked at the tall, fair young man appreciatively. Grosse was respectful but not obsequious. "Grosse, chairs for our guests. Coffee also."

  "Ja, mein Hauptmann," Grosse said.

  "Who are you?" Dietrich addressed himself to the tall Arab. "You have worked with us before?"

  "I am el Burabub," he said. "My tribe is a ride of a day to the south. The man is Haffi. He is of my tribe but for many years has been at Surt on the sea. We have provided information at one time or another to that one of you they call the Fox."

  "You have furnished the Fox with information?" Dietrich said in some surprise. He wondered whether they actually meant Rommel and how far he would have to bargain. "That is good."

  "It is understood we are paid for our knowledge," el Burabub said.

  "According to its value," Dietrich countered.

  "It should be to the satisfaction of he who bears the word," el Burabub said. "Today's bargain is tomorrow's sorrow."

  "That also is understood," Dietrich said with a grimace. "How do I know the Americans have not sent you with false information?"

  The man called Haffi burst out with a stream of invective in Arabic. "They took me prisoner! They mistreated me!" he said in German.

  "If they took you prisoner, why did they let you go?" Dietrich asked coldly.

  "They did not know what to do with me," Haffi said. "They said I would not tell them the truth in any case. They told me to warn my tribesmen that every Arab would be shot on sight."

  "Oh?" Dietrich said suspiciously. If this was true, Wilson was depriving himself of a valuable source of information. Usually, the Arabs would sell out to the highest bidder.

  "We do not know what information will be of value to you," el Burabub said. "From your position here on the ridge you can observe their camp so you know what most of their weapons are, but you have not been in the camp. I think we have discovered something you do not know, but it will be better if you question us first and we will answer if we can. Does this sound like deception to you?"

  "No, I believe you," Dietrich said warily.

  Grosse came in with two folding chairs. The Arabs seated themselves and in a moment Grosse returned with two tin cups filled with black coffee.

  "This is entirely different from the treatment I was given by the Americans," Haffi said.

  "How were you treated by the enemy?" Dietrich asked Haffi curiously.

  "I was seized and beaten," Haffi said vengefully. "I was tied hands behind and about my feet with rope and thrown upon the sand. When I would not answer their questions, they tortured me. When I was thrown from their camp, my arm was treated so savagely I fear I shall not be able to use it again."

  "I think it is broken,"
el Burabub said simply.

  "Who did this to you?" Dietrich asked angrily. "But of course, you would not know."

  "I do not think they were of the American military," Haffi said. "One wore the kind of cap the French wore when they were on the desert and the other, the one who was like a beast and maimed my arm, wore a strange hat almost like a civilian."

  "The Rat Patrol!" Dietrich said, profoundly shocked. "The very words they used," Haffi agreed. "They said I was a rat and it was fitting I should be captured by the Rat Patrol."

  "But this is savage," Dietrich said in disgust. It confirmed the idea that had been growing in him during the past months. The Rat Patrol were not honorable soldiers. "How was it they caught you?"

  "I fell into a pit covered with a net," Haffi said.

  The camouflage net that concealed the jeeps, Dietrich thought. He decided he could trust these Arabs and nodded approvingly. Doeppler stepped back into the tent.

  "Well?" Dietrich said shortly.

  "The way is sealed," Doeppler said.

  "There was such a trail leading into this camp?" Dietrich asked.

  "Ja," Doeppler said.

  "This should have been discovered when the first patrol went out," Dietrich said severely. "I shall deal with you later. That is all, Doeppler."

  "Ja, Herr Hauptmann," Doeppler said sharply. He saluted, about-faced and marched from the tent.

  Dietrich turned to el Burabub. "Tell me from the beginning. How was it you happened to be in their camp. Did you go there to steal?"

  "Of course," el Burabub said. He seemed surprised at the question. "At the same time, also to observe. We felt certain we would find things of interest to you."

  "What things did you find that you think might interest me?" Dietrich asked.

  "I hope you will treat us fairly because I do not see how you could otherwise have this information," el Burabub said. "You will know I speak the truth because I do not know what this weapon is that I shall describe to you. Under the net in the pit where Haffi fell, there is concealed a gun with a long thick barrel. It has a shield and is mounted on wheels. It is pointing toward you. In the trucks are many shells that are quite heavy, perhaps thirty kilos or more."