by David King
"You may stop there and turn around, Sergeant Moffitt," Dietrich said. "Don't move, Sergeant Troy. I am behind the spotlight and Sergeant Moffitt will tell you that I have his submachine gun."
Troy had dropped the net and stood with his arms dangling at his sides.
"Sorry, old boy," Moffitt murmured. "I stepped out to get the violin case from the rear and he knocked me down. I had no idea that he was feigning."
"The deception was brilliant, Sergeant Troy," Dietrich said. "It is too bad you permitted your compassion and childish sense of humor to overwhelm your judgment. You know, I was not amused at your plans for me. Now loosen your belt and allow your weapons to fall to the ground."
Troy obeyed in a daze. He unbuckled the belt and the two pistols fell between his feet.
"Remove the knife sheath and drop it," Dietrich commanded.
Troy did as he was told.
"Step back ten paces," Dietrich said.
Moffitt and Troy backed away. Dietrich stepped into the light. His machine gun was trained on them and his face was pale with fury.
"I enjoyed your performance, Sergeant Troy," Dietrich said. Troy was emerging from the shock that had numbed his mind. He detected a note of barely contained frenzy in Dietrich's voice. His wrath at what they'd done and planned to do was overcoming him. "You really are a much better actor than soldier," Dietrich went on. "It is really a shame that the world should never have the opportunity to witness your act. You might have lived to play another day if you had not indulged yourself in your fancy for games. You do not seem to realize that this is war, Sergeant Troy, uncompromising, unremitting war. There is no place for jokes and tricks and unfortunately for you I have not enjoyed your pranks."
Dietrich kept his eyes and gun on Moffitt and Troy as he stooped to pick up the pistols and knife.
"Break!" Troy said sharply and plunged away from the spotlight. He felt Moffitt dive in the other direction. The machine gun rattled and the bullets ricocheted on the walls of the ravine. The bursts arced over a hundred and eighty degrees. Troy scrabbled along the side of the car. The machine gun was firing wildly in all directions. Troy crawled under the high-wheeled automobile and saw Dietrich's boots running toward him. Instead of backing out, Troy pushed ahead to meet them. The spotlight swept the ravine as Dietrich stood at the car and manipulated it. Troy slammed his arm around the boots, hugging and jerking. The machine gun blasted and fell as Dietrich slapped the ground with his face. Moffitt and Troy swarmed over him and Moffitt knocked him out again with a judo chop at the base of the skull.
"No chances this time," Troy panted. "What have we got to tie him up?"
"Not a thing," Moffitt said, standing apart and holding the pistol on Dietrich. Troy retrieved the Browning, submachine gun and knife.
"There's the net," Troy said. "We'll roll him in that and tuck in the edges. He'll never get out."
"That is quite all right with me," Moffitt said angrily. "The chap was becoming quite hysterical."
Troy dumped the provisions from the net. They rolled Dietrich onto it, brought the ends over his head and feet and turned him over and over for the length of the net. Moffitt took the head and Troy the feet and they carted their trussed prisoner to the car and heaved him onto the back seat.
"It was the hysteria that gave us a chance," Troy said, picking up the scattered cans and sausage. He carried them to the trunk and stowed them away. "He was wild; his shooting was wild. If he'd been himself we wouldn't have had time to make a break."
Moffitt lifted a can of gasoline from the floor and poured it in the tank. He put water in the radiator. Troy picked up the bottle of wine that had been in the net and placed it on the front seat.
"Do you think he planned to shoot us here?" Moffitt asked, looking about the ravine.
"Not before we ran," Troy said. "I think he planned to get into the back seat, have us drive him back to the ridge and then put us on trial just the way we're rigged out as spies. We'd have ended up shot dead, but it would have been by a firing squad."
"The man told us war is not a game," Moffitt remarked.
"The man is right," Troy said soberly. "Killing isn't fun. We don't like it, but Dietrich's people let a silly-looking little madman with a toothbrush mustache hoodwink them into thinking they could run the world, and we're fighting for survival. Dietrich yaks about jokes and pranks, but he misses the point. If you can laugh a man to death, why shoot him?"
Troy climbed behind the steering wheel. Moffitt darted a look at Dietrich and stepped into the front seat from the other side. Troy let out the clutch and the car wheeled out of the ravine and climbed effortlessly to the stone. Troy switched off the spotlight and drove the mile to the road without talking. It was not his place to try nor judge, and personal feelings should not influence the discharge of his duties. Yet there were times when a man must make his own decisions, answering to himself as well as accepting the consequences of his actions. Troy did not hesitate when the car approached the road. He turned east, back toward the Jerry camp, and tromped the throttle. The big car soared.
"You have decided not to take the prisoner in to Wilson," Moffitt asked.
"I have decided this is a better way of punishing him," Troy said. "The Jerries don't have many opportunities for a belly laugh."
20
It was oh-three-hundred in the morning when Doeppler's head dropped to his chest and he jerked awake. He groaned at the chill that had crept into his bones. His eyes ached dully and he closed them for a moment. When he opened them again he saw that it was very dark. The moon was down and only a few stars remained in the sky. They glimmered feebly. It was impossible to see anything on the desert. Two of the men with him in the machine gun pit were asleep. Only Krafft, the apple-cheeked boy who wore glasses and spoke English, was awake.
"They have not returned?" Doeppler asked him. The lieutenant straightened his spine and felt a stab in his kidneys. It was very cold and the ground was hard. He was spent. Except for the small catnaps he had stolen, he had not slept for forty-eight hours.
"I have watched faithfully," Krafft said earnestly. "Although the morning is dark, if anything had moved I would have seen it. My eyes see well in darkness."
"Yes, that is why I asked you to watch for me," Doeppler said, although he acknowledged to himself this was not the truth. He knew very well he would have fallen asleep at the post.
"Something has gone wrong," Doeppler said mournfully. He did not want to admit the assassination the American gangsters had undertaken could have misfired. He would have to carry the report to Captain Dietrich and bear the brunt of his ire. He sighed. "They have had time to murder a battalion. I am afraid they have been captured." He stood on wobbly legs. "I must tell my conclusions to Captain Dietrich. You and the others remain. If the men should come back, hold them at the bottom and send one of the others for me."
"I shall remain alert," Krafft said, glancing at the two who slept. He sounded disdainful.
Doeppler moved cautiously behind the machine gun nests and positions that pocked the slope above the minefield. Most of the crews were huddled within greatcoats and sleeping, but a few of the men were awake and one challenged him. Doeppler crossly told him to go back to sleep and plodded on. He turned wearily up the grade, wishing only that he could wrap a blanket about himself and close his eyes.
He could see that a lantern still burned in Dietrich's tent as soon as he mounted the ridge and he ordered his legs to move more quickly. His boots felt as if they had flatirons attached to the soles and he could scarcely lift his feet from the ground. Once he stumbled. The captain would be in a vile humor, waiting in his camp chair behind his table. Doeppler shivered at thought of the outburst his report would provoke. He wondered what extra duty he would be assigned, but he managed a very military stiff-armed salute as he marched into the tent.
Dietrich was not seated behind the table. Someone was sprawled uncovered on the cot but it was not Dietrich. Doeppler rolled the man over on his back and
sucked in his breath. It was Grosse, sleeping on the captain's bed! Grosse must be drunk, he thought in horror. He shook him by the shoulders and slapped his face but the man did not come out of his stupor.
When Doeppler went to the washstand at the back of the tent for water, he saw the rent in the canvas. He stood rooted for a moment, examining the tent. There was no evidence of violence. But there was the rip in the canvas, Grosse sleeping or insensible on Dietrich's cot and Dietrich vanished, along with the American hoodlum who had remained behind.
Two glasses, one still containing a liquid that looked like tea, were on the table. Doeppler picked it up and sniffed it. It was not tea nor Scotch whisky or brandy. The aroma was pleasant and tempted him. He glanced furtively around as if someone might be watching from a corner, then lifted the glass to his lips, bending his head and tossing the drink off in a gulp. The liquor seemed harsh and seared his throat, but it warmed his chest and stomach and he imagined he felt much better at once.
Doeppler poured a little water into a basin, took a towel and knelt beside the cot, feeling for Grosse's pulse as he wet the towel and squeezed drops of water on his face. The pulse was steady and no marks showed on Grosse's face so he must be drunk, Doeppler thought, confirming his first suspicion. Grosse did not respond and Doeppler became agitated. He soaked the towel and wrung it until the water streamed over Grosse's eyelids and ran down his cheeks. Doeppler began to tremble, obsessed with the idea of getting Grosse out of the tent before Dietrich came back. He was certain Dietrich somehow would blame him for Grosse's outrageous conduct. He saw that he was dribbling water onto Dietrich's blanket.
"You lout, you oaf!" he cried and rolled Grosse off the cot onto the sand. He thought he heard a hollow moan, but it may have been Grosse's stomach emitting alcoholic fumes. Running to the washstand, he seized the pitcher and hurled half its contents in Grosse's face.
Grosse opened his eyes for a moment and the fids closed again. Doeppler was beside himself. He flung the rest of the water in Grosse's face and beat at it with the wet towel. After a monumental struggle, Grosse managed to sit up.
"Are you out of your mind?" Doeppler yelled. Now that Grosse had recovered part of his senses, the lieutenant's fears turned to wrath. "To get drunk and lose your wits on the captain's bed!"
"The captain!" Grosse was distressed. He tottered to his feet and reached to Doeppler's shoulder for support. "Where is the captain? They have taken the captain away," he sobbed and tears streamed down his cheeks. "I tried to warn the captain, but he would not listen. The Rat Patrol has made off with the captain."
"Grosse, you are disgustingly drunk," Doeppler said in complete revulsion. "I should have left you on the cot for the captain to discover."
"Lieutenant, I beg of you to listen," Grosse gasped. "You know I do not drink. I have been severely beaten. Here, see for yourself." He jerked the shirt from his trousers and Doeppler saw a great welt that was beginning to discolor above the navel. "That makes me ill. I want to vomit," Grosse said. "And here." He pulled back his cuff. A knot bunched on the wrist. He bent his head and touched the top of his spine. "Feel here, but gently." Doeppler found a swelling as large as half a golf ball. "When I recovered consciousness, I crawled into the tent to warn the captain once more but he was not here. Already they had seized him. I could go no further and collapsed on the cot."
"Get hold of yourself, man," Doeppler said sharply. Worries crowded his mind and pushed one another about. "Who beat you?"
"The one who called himself Sam Enna, the big man with the gold tooth who talked all the time," Grosse said breathlessly. "I discovered him about to slit the back of the tent with a knife and pointed my machine pistol at him. He also had a machine pistol and before I knew what was happening, he was whipping me with it. I must have fallen unconscious. When I recovered I was on the ground. I pulled myself into the tent and it was empty."
"It was not the Rat Patrol," Doeppler said, stalling for time, wondering what he ought to do. "Two of them are dead, the other two badly wounded. It was the Enna brothers. I distrusted them from the moment I took them prisoners."
"Call the men anything you wish," Grosse said desperately. "The one called Jack who remained here and the one called Sam who came back and attacked me have captured the captain. You must do something." He stumbled to the entrance and looked out. "I do not see the car. They have driven away with Captain Dietrich."
This was terrible, Doeppler thought miserably, to happen when he was officer of the guard. He pushed Grosse aside at the opening, stood outside the tent and bawled at the top of his voice for the guard stationed beyond the tanks on the route to the road.
"Wolke!" And again: "Wolke!" And yet again: "Wolke!"
A heavily bundled figure ran toward the tent from between two tanks. Other men appeared from nowhere and drifted toward Doeppler.
"What is it? What is the trouble?" Wolke huffed. He was middle-aged with gray hair under his cap and deep lines in his ruddy face.
"Did Captain Dietrich leave camp in the touring automobile with the bareheaded men who looked like Italians?" Doeppler asked. Half a dozen men now had formed a half circle around the front of the tent and others were trotting up.
"He left with one of the men driving," Wolke said. "I saw the car coming out between the tanks without lights and not knowing who was in it, ordered the car to halt. It turned its lights on and slowed. As it passed, the captain turned to me saying to clear the way and the car went on in the direction of the road. It was nearing midnight."
"One man only in the car with the captain?" Doeppler asked.
"One man only that I saw," Wolke said. "There could have been half a dozen lying in the back. It is a very large automobile."
"You are certain it was the captain and he told you to clear the way?" Doeppler asked.
"That is so," Wolke said, "and it made me wonder. It was not like Captain Dietrich to speak like that to me. I have been in the Army more than twenty years and he had a certain respect for the regulars. It is not impossible there was a gun against his ribs."
"He would not have gone with them alone," Grosse spoke up. "He does not trust anyone. He would not have gone willingly. They have seized him. We must go after them."
Doeppler felt wretchedly sick. Whatever he did would be wrong. If Dietrich had been spirited away by the Americans, it would be his fault. If he had departed with them freely on some mission and he went chasing after them, Dietrich would be furious. More men had come up. They stood, silent and waiting.
"They should have returned if they were coming back," Doeppler said. "We will look for a ways. It is possible they have ruptured a tire or need other help. Grosse, bring up the captain's staff car. Wolke, get a personnel carrier." About a dozen men had crowded around and he spoke to them. "Men, get your weapons and report back at once."
Grosse and Wolke trotted away for the vehicles and the men dispersed. Doeppler moved unhappily about the tent. The three American gangsters had not returned from the American camp. According to Grosse, one of them, Sam, had managed to slip back. There was the rip in the canvas to support Grosse. Wolke confirmed Dietrich had left in the car with at least one of them. With a start of a good three hours, the car could be halfway to the Allied lines. Worst of all, the car could have come from the Allied lines across the ridge the night before. He had not seen two jeeps as he had reported to Dietrich but only the single spotlight from a distance. Thoroughly miserable, he went to Dietrich's locker. It was open and he took a bottle of brandy, gulping several swallows and shoving the bottle in his pocket. Either way, it would make little difference.
He heard motors idling and went out. Half a dozen of the men had returned. They climbed into the truck and Doeppler sat in the staff car with Grosse. The lights flared out and then were contained in the alley between the tanks. Doeppler turned and behind the truck scraped through. Grosse drove past the armored column and down the long, rocky slope toward the road. Doeppler pulled out the bottle and had another drink.
<
br /> "The captain won't like that," Grosse said peevishly.
"We aren't going to find him," Doeppler said moodily. He felt as gloomy as the dark of morning.
"I warned him and he wouldn't listen," Grosse said and retched. Doeppler looked at him in alarm, but he swallowed and did not get sick.
"I know," Doeppler said sympathetically. "Unless he had the idea first, he was a hard man to convince."
"Don't talk about him as if he were dead already," Grosse said convulsively.
The headlights of the car spread over the road and Grosse started to turn onto it. Behind, the lights of the truck veered suddenly off to the right and the personnel carrier braked abruptly.
"Stop," Doeppler said. The men were jumping from the truck and running toward a large dark bundle that lay beside the grade. Doeppler swung out as Grosse slowed. He trotted, holding the bottle hi his pocket with one hand and his machine pistol in the other. When he reached the men, they were grouped around the bundle. It was a net. It squirmed and jumped and a steady stream of oaths flowed from it. The men had left a gap so the lights from the truck shone on it and revealed some kind of person deep inside. The men were beginning to laugh and make jokes.
"What does the net say?"
"The net has caught a talking fish."
"Perhaps it is a mermaid, although I have never heard a mermaid curse like that."
"It is Father Neptune. He is angry he was asleep and taken in the net."
"Perhaps it is not a net and a talking fish at all, but a cocoon with a worm inside."
"Well, I can crush the worm," one said, stepping forward and rolling the writhing net over once and again with the toe of his boot.