The Rat Patrol 6 - Desert Masqueraade

by David King

  "I'll do that," Dietrich said with a laugh, "but I don't think anyone who has seen the Rat Patrol would make that mistake."

  The Enna brothers had just filed out when Grosse darted into the tent.

  "Mein Hauptmann, please," he said agitatedly. "You are making a mistake."

  14

  Troy walked rapidly toward the Hispano-Suiza that loomed in the fitfully lighted night some fifty yards west of Dietrich's tent. He heard Moffitt, Hitch and Tully scuffing his heels. Two Mark IV tanks which had not been there before were parked behind the car. They seemed rather close together and blocked the way the car had come. He beard the slap of running feet and turned in time to see Dietrich's orderly, Grosse, outlined in profile before he dived inside the tent. The man disturbed him profoundly. His curiosity had been out of proportion and there was something uncertainly familiar about him that nagged at the back of Troy's mind.

  "Dietrich's orderly is suspicious of us," Troy muttered under his voice as the others shouldered around him at the car. "Be ready to jump in and make a run for it. Sol, can you turn around with those tanks behind us?"

  Tully looked to either side and considered the Mark IVs directly behind the car. "I'll back out, Sam," he said. "I'll squeeze between them."

  "What makes that guy suspicious?" Hitch asked quietly, removing his tommy-gun from the violin case. "We've never run into him before that I remember."

  "We sold Dietrich sure as shooting," Tully said softly, edging toward the driver's side.

  "Okay, boys," Troy said loudly, removing his submachine gun and slipping two clips of cartridges into his pocket. He tossed the case onto the back seat. "You know what to do. Sol, Mark, work the mortars from that grade to the end and back. Jack and I will do likewise here on top."

  A barrage of high explosive shells based somewhere down below and dust that flamed in redly burning clouds leapt above the ridge. Rocket launchers panted heavily and a cluster of magnesium flares trailing white smoke lighted the dark sky garishly. All along the ridge and slope, guns slammed shells down into the valley. Heavy firing crashed the floor of the desert. Dietrich broke from his tent at a dead run. Grosse stood in the entrance calling after him, "Mein Hauptmann, mein Hauptmann, bitte." Dietrich did not turn nor even hesitate.

  "Think we ought to take care of Grosse?" Hitch murmured.

  "Not now," Troy said. "We convinced Dietrich and Grosse didn't get a chance to sell whatever he's peddling. This attack gives us a break. Let's get this job done fast and get out while they've got their hands full. Use the grade as your reference. Remember what the weapons are and the paces between the emplacements. Now let's shake it."

  Tully and Hitch trotted ahead and Moffitt and Troy jogged only slightly behind. Without further conversation, Tully and Hitch plunged down the grade. Moffitt and Troy turned their backs to each other and started walking. Dust obscured the flare-lighted night as Troy paced off ten yards to a gun position. The weapon was a long-barreled Guerlich antitank gun that commanded the north side of the grade. The Guerlich was an odd weapon. It had a tapered barrel that reduced 28mm. shells ringed with soft iron bands to 20 mm. at the reinforced muzzle that looked like a funnel stuck into the barrel. The pressure built up within the barrel by gastight skirts slammed the shells out at forty-four hundred feet per second. There would be a similar weapon on Moffitt's side of the grade, Troy reasoned. A two-man crew manned the gun but it was not firing. The Jerries watched Troy curiously as he walked by with his submachine gun but they did not challenge him. He wondered whether Dietrich already had sent out word about the Enna brothers or if the men just didn't care.

  The Shermans apparently were not firing at the ridge. Although Troy could not see where the shells were landing, he guessed Wilson was blasting the minefield. He wondered whether there could be any truth in the Arab's report to Dietrich that a British twenty-five-pounder now occupied the pit where the jeeps had been stabled. It was possible Wilson had managed to get one in. It would explain the mission and the CO's refusal to disclose his reason for wanting the gun position. Well, the Arab had fixed that. If Wilson actually were working to clear a path through the minefield now, that meant a full-scaled attack on the ridge was imminent. Troy did not understand this. They were not expected to return with their information tonight, although, with luck, they might be able to return before dawn. They would not have the pattern of the minefield but apparently Wilson wasn't waiting for it. Except for Grosse, who hadn't hurt them yet, everything had fallen into place perfectly. If they could get the positions of the weapons while Dietrich was preoccupied with the shelling, they stood a good chance of getting out safely.

  Ten paces from the antitank gun to an emplaced 75 mm. cannon. The weapon was banging away and the crew, brawny-shouldered and bare to the waist, did not look at him as he strode behind them. Ten paces to a rocket launcher, ten paces to another emplaced 75. Back off the ridge on either side of the rocket launcher were halftracks, maneuvering to turn around. Apparently Dietrich feared Wilson would use the twenty-five-pounder and was sending the halftracks back to the column of Mark IVs Troy had noticed at the western perimeter as they had driven in. There had been twenty-four of them and it had looked as if others were concealed under nets.

  The positioning of the guns was consistent, a dug-in 75 every twenty yards starting with the first twenty yards from the grade. A rocket launcher every twenty yards starting with the first twenty yards from the antitank gun. He had counted four cannon when he saw Dietrich standing on a flat stone behind the next position, rigidly intent on the shelling. Troy slunk past him like a shadow. He did not think Dietrich noticed him.

  Troy's side of the grade was fortified for two hundred yards with ten 75s and nine rocket launchers. Beyond the tenth cannon, the ridge became spired and was insurmountable. Troy swung around and started back. He had not been stopped nor questioned.

  The shelling continued unabated from both sides. Wilson seemed to be having some success blowing mines, but nothing indicated the Jerries were scoring hits in the swirling dust. But the din was terrible. The incessant hammering sounded like mighty sledges pounding on great hollow steel drums and each blow sent up another gritty gray billow which the flares and exploding shells ignited weirdly.

  There was a half measure of truth in the information Dietrich had received about the Rat Patrol, Troy thought as he slithered past the Jerry commander again. Some men in the camp had been wearing Rat Patrol hats and caps, at least until nineteen hundred the night before, Troy thought with a stiff-lipped smile. It must have been the same Arab who'd disclosed the twenty-five-pounder who'd reported that the Rat Patrol had been around. Dietrich had been able to more or less pinpoint their route by the patrols they'd destroyed and the doodlebugs that had blown themselves up. He wondered how anyone who'd seen them could possibly have transformed the Hispano-Suiza touring car into two jeeps. That had been gratuitous assistance in the deception. The disguises had fooled everyone except Grosse. It irritated Troy that he could not place the man.

  Suddenly he remembered. Grosse had been the driver for the Jerry colonel they had captured in the battle for Sidi Beda months before. Troy had thought they had knocked him out when they had dragged him from the staff car they stole and dumped him in Dietrich's tent. The man must have been conscious and had a chance to observe them. But what could he possibly have remembered from those brief moments months earlier that enabled him to identify them tonight?

  Troy had his positions fixed and hurried away from the ridge and Dietrich, the shelling and the illuminated clouds of pulverized earth. When he passed Dietrich's tent, well off from the entrance, he glimpsed Grosse sitting on Dietrich's cot in the light of the lantern. The man's head was down and his hands were clasped on his knees. He was waiting for Dietrich to return.

  Troy lighted a cigarette when he reached the car. In a few minutes, Moffitt came up.

  "We've got to get out of here fast, Jack," Troy said. "Grosse was driver for that Jerry we nabbed at Sidi Beda and took
to Sidi Abd. I'm positive he's recognized us, but I can't figure out how he's done it. We fooled Dietrich, who knows us pretty well, and this bird only had a glimpse of us."

  "Oh?" Moffitt was mildly surprised. "It's odd he should see something Dietrich didn't. Hard luck. Everything was going swimmingly." He chuckled. "You played your part well, Sam."

  "I wish Sol and Mark would shake it," Troy grated. "We've got what we came for. Wilson's blasting a path through the minefield, so we can forget that." He stopped short. "You don't suppose he's coming right up without waiting for our information? That we got our heads shaved for nothing?"

  "Look at it this way, Sam," Moffitt said, and in the flare light the J. Enna smile was a leer. "We've exchanged our hair for a ham and cheese sandwich."

  There was a lull in the firing and Troy held his breath, searching toward the ridge for Tully and Hitch. He wondered what was delaying them. Then the guns bammed away again. Another lull. Half a dozen flares parachuted into shrouded night. The firing from the Shermans had fallen off to an intermittent shell or two. The Jerry guns hurled another dozen rounds. Machine gun and rifle fire still rapped from the slope. Perhaps there were sappers in the minefield. Abruptly all the heavy weapons were silent. Rifles still pinged. Troy thought he heard the clanking tracks of turning tanks.

  Dietrich walked briskly back from the ridge and entered his tent. Still Hitch and Tully did not appear.

  "Get in behind the wheel, Jack," Troy said tensely and flipped his gun off safety. "If anyone starts toward us, take off. I'll cover."

  "I can't run off and leave the three of you behind," Moffitt protested.

  "You're not exactly getting the frosting," Troy said and laughed shortly. "They'll be after you. At least you can tell Wilson what's on the ridge if you get through. On my side, every twenty yards starting from the grade, there was a 75 in place. Ten yards off the grade, a Guerlich AT. Every twenty yards from the Guerlich, a rocket launcher. Ten 75s. Nine launchers."

  "The methodical Jerries followed the same pattern on the south side," Moffitt said.

  The lieutenant, Doeppler, who had reported that he'd captured them, dragged a cursing, struggling Arab into Dietrich's tent.

  "The officer of the guard has granted us a reprieve," Troy said and breathed heavily. "Whatever Grosse was telling Dietrich, he will question the Arab. He has as little business here as the Rat Patrol."

  "Whatever can be keeping our boys?" Moffitt wondered aloud. "We've had a bit of luck so far. Perhaps Wilson has a way cleared and will provide more diversionary action."

  "We can hope," Troy said, lighting another cigarette. "I'm not going to feel like cheering until we're on our way."

  Grosse stepped from the tent. He turned his head toward the car and looked at them for a moment, then walked quickly toward the ridge. Tully and Hitch trotted up the grade and ran past him. He turned and watched but made no attempt to stop them.

  "Get ready," Troy said, adding quickly as he heard the ignition switch click, "not yet. Don't call attention until the last minute."

  Doeppler came out of the tent, saw Hitch and Tully, held up his hand, stopped them and motioned them inside the tent.

  "Get moving, Jack," Troy snarled, bringing his tommy-gun around at his hip. No starter whirred. The only sound that came from the car was the shuffling of feet.

  "Can't find the activator," Moffitt said quietly.

  "Up by the clutch pedal, on the floor," Troy hissed in exasperation. Doeppler was walking toward him.

  "Can't locate it, old boy," Moffitt said and Troy knew that he was deliberately stalling. Doeppler had almost reached him and Troy dropped his tommy-gun. The lieutenant touched his arm and pointed toward the tent with his machine pistol. Troy swore under his breath and started walking.

  "Wait a bit," Moffitt called. "I'll be along with you."

  15

  Corporals Merriam and Heath with Privates Albright and Kierzek had reported to Wilson as directed at nineteen hundred. Albright and Kierzek, who had impersonated Hitch and Tully, were meek by comparison with the corporals. They were slack-jawed boys with worried eyes and not much character development showing in their smoothcheeked faces. Each of them was wearing a helmet and field jacket and carrying a tommy-gun. Wilson sent Peilowski for the Arab who had been detained under guard in a supply truck. He had been provided with rations and a blanket and had spent most of the day sleeping.

  "The Arab informs me it is approximately five miles to the trail," Wilson said, thinking the men looked ill in the greenish light from the lantern on his table. Maybe they did feel sick. It was not a usual patrol. He felt a little sorry for Albright and Kierzek. "You will depart this camp at nineteen-thirty. When the enemy fires his usual flares, you will go to the ground and remain motionless if the area in which you are traveling is illuminated. Without resorting to force, you will see that the Arab does not attract attention to you."

  "How we going to do that, say 'please'?" Merriam growled.

  "Merriam," Wilson said severely and his eyes were icy. "If you think you will be replaced on this mission because you are insubordinate, you are wrong. I shall, however, prefer charges against you when you return unless the assignment is carried out exactly as I order. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir," Merriam said sullenly.

  "I am allowing one and one-half hours for you to reach the trail. At twenty-one hundred, you will begin the ascent and the Arab will start back. At that hour, tanks will commence diversionary fire on the north side of the grade. When you reach the ridge, penetrate the Jerry perimeter if possible. I do not want you to risk revealing yourselves because I plan to use this trail again, but I do want you to determine as well as you can the type and location of the enemy weapons at the southern end of the ridge. This information is particularly vital at this immediate time and I shall be personally grateful if you return with it. Is this clear?"

  "Yes, sir," Heath said, for the first time showing interest.

  "Observe the Arab closely at all times," Wilson continued. "I do not believe this is a trick. If it is, I believe I can outbid the Jerries." He pointed at a canvas bag on the table. "That is your insurance. If the Arab does anything untoward or there is indication of deception, return with him at once. Under no circumstances mistreat him. Restrain him if you must but do not injure him."

  "Yes, sir," Merriam said without enthusiasm.

  The Arab came into the tent like a cat, silent and wary. Peilowski followed. His face was flushed and sweaty and he was puffing.

  "Anything wrong?" Wilson asked quickly.

  Peilowski shook his head. "Nothing wrong," he said. "He just moves faster than I do."

  Wilson smiled fleetingly and spoke to the Arab. "Show the men the trail." He lifted the canvas bag and let it fall. It thunked solidly. He opened it and took out a handful of silver. "More than one hundred dollars," he said impressively. "A great deal more. You will be well rewarded. When you have shown my men the trail, return to my tent at once. You will be made comfortable. When my men have returned safely, the money will be given to you and you may leave."

  Wilson thought Merriam looked relieved.

  "Effendi," the Arab wailed. "I show the trail. How can I be sure they will be safe? Danger always awaits the man who enters the camp of his enemy. When I point the trail, I have done what I say I do. You pay me."

  "I am not asking you to guarantee against the normal perils of war," Wilson said. "If they meet with an accident and it is not a trap, you still will be paid for showing them the trail. I will know if there has been deceit. I must safeguard my men. You will be paid when they return or when it is shown that you have acted in good faith with us."

  "Last night we use the trail," the Arab argued. "Then it is safe. It is all I guarantee."

  "Let us take him with us to the top," Merriam suggested. "He can go first, lead the way."

  "No," Wilson said. "If there is a trap, he would only lead you directly into it. I believe the Jerries mistreated him and his companions a
nd he is telling the truth. Don't forget the attraction of the money." He lifted the bag and dropped it again, reminding the Arab, "A great deal more than one hundred dollars if you carry out your part of the bargain."

  The Arab's eyes burned greedily. "I carry the bargain."

  Wilson looked at his watch. "It is nearly nineteen-thirty," he said. "Good luck, Merriam, Heath, Albright, Kierzek. I'll be waiting here for you, whatever the hour."

  About twenty-hundred, Jerry rockets began firing the usual parachute flares over the valley. Wilson left the tent, walking between the halftracks to the lead Sherman in the V of tanks. He watched the globes of bright light as they floated over the desert. It was a rather spectacular sight, but tonight he wished he could dispense with it. While he had no intention of sending his armor within effective range of the ridge, he did want the first shells to come as a surprise and jar the Jerries. The flares tonight came in clusters and in no pattern. There would be a group to the north, a group to the south, a second and third group to the south and then the northern edge of the field would light up. Abruptly there was darkness, then flares flashed all along the line and died away. The desert was dark again.

  At twenty-thirty, during an interlude when no flares hung in the sky, Wilson ordered out the lead tank and the three tanks flanking it. The hulking M4s ground across the desert, their engines pounding, each pulling thirty-six tons of welded steel plate and armament ahead at a cautious ten miles per hour, less than half their top speed. The V closed quickly as the tanks drove for a position to the right of the grade. As they neared the minefield which extended into the desert from the foot of the slope, the tanks maneuvered, aligning in a staggered diagonal file. The 75s opened fire, smashing at the sand in a carefully directed path that reached toward the grade. The shells shrieked, a few mines blew and sand geysers spouted into the air.