The Rat Patrol 6 - Desert Masqueraade

by David King

  Rockets showered the sky with flares and for a moment before roiled sand spume hid them, the tanks stood stark behind fire-spouting gun barrels on the desert. The hill flashed and puffed and roared as cannon, rockets, mortars and even machine guns and rifles began to fire in a frenzied outburst. The hill erupted like a volcano spewing fiery lava. The night shook.

  Wilson stood in his staff car parked half a mile behind the last tank. He had left Peilowski at HQ with the canvas bag of silver and had asked Corporal Locke to drive him and get a change of scenery. Locke was enjoying the show. He craned so intently, Wilson knew his neck would be stiff in the morning. Wilson removed his glasses and handed them to Locke. Actually they were worthless and the result of the firing on the minefield was difficult to assess because of the dust storm that raged under the pounding shells. Now and again he heard the muffled blast of an exploding mine, but there weren't enough of them to satisfy him. He smiled a little grimly and reminded himself that this was not a serious effort and would do little good other than to occupy the Jerries while Merriam and his small squad crept up the secret trail. Jerry would be down to lay new mines when the tanks pulled back.

  He gave a good show for one hour and at twenty-two-hundred ordered the tanks to withdraw. It should have been ample time for Merriam to get to the top, he thought as Locke whisked him; back to his tent. He half expected the Arab to be waiting for him when he stepped into HQ but the native had not returned. Peilowski was stabbing at his typewriter and Wilson told him to knock off for the night,

  "Build a fire, see if you can get some water to boil. Let's have hot coffee for a change," he said.

  "Yes, sir," Peilowski agreed. He gathered paper and two waxed ration containers from the tin can he used as a wastebasket. He half filled a half-gallon peach can and carried the paper and can outside the tent. He scooped a hole in the sand, and when a small fire blazed, he placed the can over it and went back into the tent for canteen cups and powdered coffee. Sitting beside the fire, he fed it continuously with bits of the waxed cardboard.

  Wilson went out, glancing at the moonlighted, starry blue velvet sky that still was streaked with the smoke and dust of battle. He sat on the other side of the fire from Peilowski, gave him a cigarette and lighted one for himself. For a few moments they smoked without speaking.

  "A C-47 will touch down at ten-hundred in the morning," Wilson finally said casually.

  "Oh, yes, the one we've prepared the runway for," Peilowski said as if he'd known all about it all the time.

  Wilson hid his smile. "We shall have a guest—overnight at least. Do you think you could find another cot somewhere around the camp?" Although Wilson had never mentioned it, he knew that Peilowski had a cot he used himself in the back of a supply truck he'd preempted.

  Peilowski hesitated. Wilson knew it wasn't so much giving up the cot for a night as admitting its existence that bothered him. "I've always had the greatest respect for a first sergeant's ability to. provide the impossible under the most difficult circumstances," Wilson said with a straight face. "The cot would of course be returned promptly to its rightful owner and no questions asked."

  "Yes, sir," Peilowski said. "I'll try to manage something."

  "And can you rustle up something a little different in the way of rations?" Wilson asked. "Are there any five-in-one rations with meat stew and canned fruit?"

  "I guess I can dig up something in the way of chow," Peilowski said, but this time he scowled. "Seems to me it ought to be the other way around. Somebody coming into a combat area from the outside ought to bring us something decent to eat."

  Wilson laughed. "I agree but I'm afraid we're out of luck. This man is coming from the States, where civilians are issued food stamps and have the idea they're rationed so we can have steaks and butter three times a day. If he should bring any food, you can prepare it and take your share."

  The water never came to a boil, but it was hotter than usual and they drank their coffee outside. After Peilowski had kicked sand over the cardboard embers, they went back into the tent. Twenty-two-thirty crawled by and twenty-three-hundred. The Arab still did not return. Wilson stared at the bag of money and worried. Nothing short of death could have prevented the Arab from laying claim to his reward. Wilson smoked nervously. He became increasingly more certain that some disaster had overtaken Merriam's squad and the Arab.

  At twenty-three-thirty, Albright and Kierzek stumbled into HQ. They were babbling incoherently and their eyes were dull with shock. Kierzek's face was pinched with pain and one side was covered from temple to chin with congealed blood. Albright's left leg dragged.

  "What happened?" Wilson exclaimed, jumping from his chair and helping first Albright and then Kierzek to his cot. "Peilowski, get a medic. Where are Merriam and Heath? And the Arab?"

  "The Arab... came back?" Albright gasped and winced.

  "No," Wilson said, and added softly, "tell me what happened."

  "If he... didn't come back... then it was a trap," Albright managed with great difficulty.

  Peilowski rushed from the tent.

  "The trap," Wilson urged quietly.

  "Kierzek and me... we thought so... he'd of come back... if he didn't know."

  "Know what?" Wilson said gently.

  "The trail he showed us," Kierzek answered. He glanced at the bloodied left pants leg of his fatigues and gritted his teeth. "It hurts," he said. "It kept going out under me and I had to crawl."

  "I've sent for a medic," Wilson said comfortingly, although he knew it was small comfort to a man in pain. He lighted two cigarettes, gave one to Kierzek and placed the other between Albright's lips. "Can you tell me about the trail?"

  "It was mined," Kierzek said and gritted his teeth again. "He showed it to us and beat it. There was horse droppings on it. Merriam decided the Arab had told the truth. About using it. We started up. Merriam first. Then Heath. We were maybe ten, maybe fifteen, feet behind. Merriam must of stepped over a Shu mine, because when he got it up ahead, Heath behind him went up in pieces too. Damn pieces of both of them flying all over. I got smacked in the face with something sticky. It was worse than the shrapnel. Damn Arab didn't come back for his money. He knew it was mined and beat it."

  16

  Dietrich had hurried back to his tent as soon as the Allied shelling had stopped. He still did not know quite what to make of the rather foolish attack on the minefield. At first he had feared Wilson would open with the twenty-five-pounder and his column would roar through the path the line of tanks had cleared. After an hour, however, the Shermans had withdrawn. He had sent a squad of sappers to patch up the field. Rockets still were firing flares but the dust was settling.

  Grosse was waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the cot as if it belonged to him. Dietrich was furious with Grosse. He did not understand the man's boorish attitude this evening. He had been vexing whenever he was in the tent. Grosse had been trying to babble something when the first shells exploded. Now he jumped to his feet as Dietrich stepped into the tent. Dietrich brushed past him without a word and poured himself a glass of brandy.

  "Herr Hauptmann " Grosse said nervously, timidly approaching the table. "All evening I have tried to warn you. I hope it is not too late. The men who are here calling themselves the Enna brothers. They are the Rat Patrol."

  "Grosse, have you been at the brandy?" Dietrich asked in utter disbelief. "The Enna brothers are exactly what they admit themselves to be. They are American gangsters. You forget I am well acquainted with the Rat Patrol. You think because they are American and there are the four of them, that they are the Rat Patrol. They are not. For your information, they are looking for the Rat Patrol to kill them."

  "I am sorry, mein Hauptmann," Grosse said stubbornly although he paled. "Those men are the Rat Patrol. They have disguised themselves."

  "Grosse, you have always discharged your duties with competence, but now I think you are more than somewhat mad," Dietrich said. "Troy, Moffitt, Hitch and Tully have eyes of various color
s, none of which I recall to be dark brown. Also their hair runs from light to dark, but I do not think anyone of them has black hair and I believe the hair of one to be bright red. No one of the Rat Patrol possesses a gold tooth. No one of the Rat Patrol whom I observed as recently as yesterday had grown a mustache. I have talked with each of the Rat Patrol on many occasions. Pettigrew has a slow way of speaking that, I believe, is from the southern states. Moffitt has a decided Etonian or Oxford accent. Troy comes from the midwest, I think, and Hitch has certain mannerisms in his speech that suggest the east. Each of the Sicilian-Americans who were here tonight speaks the same cant or argot that in motion pictures at least is associated with what the Americans call mobsters. The men are killers, yes. They were alone in the tent with me and each had a machine gun in the violin case he carried. Can you imagine what the Rat Patrol would have done with me under such circumstances? Please, Grosse, leave me alone and do not bother me again tonight."

  "I regret, mein Hauptmann," Grosse said miserably, "I still must insist they are the Rat Patrol. You forget, I also am acquainted with them. They overpowered me at Sidi Beda. I studied each carefully so I would recognize him if we ever should encounter one another again. I was an art student before I entered military service. An artist must study anatomy, bone structure as well as physiognomy. They told me I was particularly gifted at the structure, particularly of heads and I planned to be a portrait artist. Forget the color of the hair and eyes, remove the mustaches, view these men in profile, and you will recognize the Rat Patrol."

  Irritated as he was, Dietrich considered it. He wished he had not returned the passports, although the pictures in them were full face. He tried to recall Sam, the one he remembered best, but the only image he could focus in his mind was a fiercely smiling face, a gold tooth and hard dark eyes. He simply could not make Sam Enna come out as Troy or Moffitt—or either of the two privates, for that matter.

  "Grosse," he said, "I accept that your concern is real, but your fantastic suspicions are entirely unfounded. On one point alone, you are defeated. I have pointed out to you the color of the Enna brothers' eyes is dark brown."

  "There are ways of changing the color of eyes," Grosse said.

  "Oh, come now," Dietrich said, out of patience. "A field commander scarcely goes into battle equipped with colored contact lenses. And do not tell me those black heads of hair are wigs. Such disguises call for elaborate preparations which are not available to someone in the field."

  "The Rat Patrol could have been flown to Cairo in that bomber," Grosse persisted.

  "I told you I myself saw them in their camp yesterday," Dietrich snapped, losing his temper. "As late as last evening, they were in their camp. Their movements from the time they left the camp in their jeeps are known. You have allowed the Rat Patrol to become your personal bogey man. I will have no more of this nonsense."

  "Herr Hauptmann Dietrich," Grosse said stiffly. "Will you bring the men into your tent and permit me to examine them?"

  "No!" Dietrich shouted. "I will not subject them to such an indignity."

  Doeppler interrupted. He dragged a screeching Arab into the tent.

  "Now what is it?" Dietrich said, beginning to shake with rage.

  "One of those sneaking Arabs who was here last night," Doeppler said. "I caught him stealing into camp again."

  "And so you have taken yet another prisoner, Doeppler," Dietrich said with deadly calm and then he exploded. "You idiot. I invited Haffi to come back whenever he had information. Remove your hands from him." He turned to the Arab. "I am sorry, Haffi. It has been an unfortunate mistake." He stood and carried his canvas chair around the table. "Please be seated. I shall sit upon the cot. You returned because you have something to tell me?"

  "You have had no reason to complain," Haffi said resentfully, glaring at Doeppler.

  "Your information has a certain value," Dietrich said. "They have not used the gun yet, but I think they are preparing to. We are removing our armor to safety. What new report do you carry?"

  "You have not heard that certain men have been destroyed?" Haffi asked.

  "What men?" Dietrich asked, puzzled.

  "So you have not learned of it," Haffi said with satisfaction. "I am pleased that I can tell you and of the part I took. You will pay, of course, according to the value."

  "That is understood," Dietrich said gravely.

  "I tricked them into destroying themselves," Haffi said gleefully. At the moment he did not look at all Arabian. "You spoke of the Rat Patrol last night. The men who wear the peculiar hats. The one in the hat that seems more civilian than military injured my arm so severely I fear I shall never use it again. You can forget them. They are dead."

  "The men of the Rat Patrol are dead!" Dietrich exclaimed, not yet believing the report but turning triumphantly to Grosse. He looked quickly back to the Arab. "Tell me the entire story."

  "Last night I heard you order that the secret trail we had used to enter your camp be fortified with the explosives you bury in the ground," Haffi said. He indicated Doeppler. "When this officer returned later, he reported to you that the charges had been placed. Today I returned to the camp of your enemy. I arranged to be captured by the man of the Rat Patrol who wears the civilian hat, the same man who had beaten me before. Things performed themselves as I had planned and this man again twisted my arm and pained me."

  "Just a minute," Dietrich said suspiciously. "At what hour was this?"

  "Somewhat after the time the sun had passed its zenith," Haffi said.

  It was possible, Dietrich thought. Doeppler had seen them at midnight. Soon after that they had blown up Stengle's patrol. They could even have been in and out of his camp and returned over the ridge between the salt marshes to their own lines before noon. None of the halftracks had discovered any trace of them.

  "Go on," he told Haffi.

  "They held me prisoner until it was dark," Haffi said bitterly. "Their commander told me he would pay me five hundred dollars in silver if I would show them the path my companions and I had used to reach your camp last night. I agreed to show it to this Rat Patrol and the four of them went with me. I took them to the trail, and when they saw that horses recently had been over it, they believed I spoke the truth and started to walk up it. I concealed myself and watched. The two who seemed to be the leaders—the one who wore the civilian hat and the one who wore a dark, soft flat cap without a visor—were in the lead, but tonight all were wearing helmets."

  "Are you certain they were the same men?" Dietrich interrupted.

  "Of course," Haffi said indignantly. "I do not forget a man who injures me. I expect a reward but also I wanted revenge."

  "All were destroyed by the mines?" Dietrich asked, checking his mounting excitement.

  "I know you hold that the truth is not always spoken by an Arab and I am sorry that often you are right," Haffi said earnestly. "I shall not deceive you in any way because all of what I can say you can discover for yourself. The two men who were in the front were all blown up in pieces. The other two, who seemed to be of lesser rank, were disabled, but they were not killed. They dragged themselves away. I did all of this at a great sacrifice to myself because I could not return and claim the five hundred silver dollars they offered me."

  "If what you tell me is true, you shall not suffer for the money," Dietrich said. "Doeppler, you are officer of the guard. Have you had no report?"

  "The shelling has just now stopped, Herr Hauptmann," Doeppler said. "I must excuse the men guarding that sector if they did not call in during the battle."

  Dietrich pointed to the telephone on his table. "There is a field telephone with a connection near that position of the perimeter. Use it."

  Dietrich watched Grosse narrowly as Doeppler made his contact. Grosse appeared bewildered or dazed. It was a shame, Dietrich thought. The man had served him well, but he would have to be replaced. If he had known Grosse had been an art student, he never would have placed him in the sensitive position he had occu
pied as driver and orderly. Artists often were unstable. He returned to Haffi.

  "The two men who were injured returned to their camp?" Dietrich asked.

  "I started after them with my knife but thought better of it," Haffi said. "Although they seemed to be severely hurt, they still had their weapons."

  "Since you knew the path was mined and had seen two men killed on it, how did you get here this time?"

  "I climbed over the rocks like a goat." Haffi showed Dietrich the palms of his hands. Tough and callused as they were, they had been ripped and were covered with dried blood.

  Doeppler ended his telephone conversation and looked at Dietrich.

  "The guard confirms the Arab's story in every detail," he reported. "A four-man patrol was observed on the trail. There were two explosions almost simultaneously and the first two men were actually blown apart and shattered. The other two men appeared to be injured but were able to stagger away. The guard has been unable to go down the path because of the mines that are in place."

  Haffi spoke excitedly. "You see, Captain, I bring you valuable information, I perform extensive services, and I speak the truth."

  "You speak the truth and you will have your reward." Dietrich looked at Grosse. "You may leave."

  When Grosse had gone, Dietrich lighted a cigarette and sat silently thoughtful for a long time. He was considering the deaths of Troy and Moffitt and the fate of Tully and Hitch, who still lived.

  "Doeppler," he finally said. "Have you any idea where the Enna brothers are?"

  "Two were by the motor car," Doeppler said. "The other two had not returned from the mortars."

  "Find them and bring them in," Dietrich said reluctantly. He did not like the decision he just had made. To the Arab he said, "Haffi, if you will leave when these men come, please. We have some business to discuss for a short while and then I shall deal with you."

  "Certainly, effendi," Haffi said, standing with his hands clasped and bowing as he backed from the tent. "I will be outside next to your tent when you are ready."