by David King
"Grosse!" he roared, and the orderly-driver stepped into the glare of the gas lamp almost at once. His shoulders drooped and his eyes were hapless. He looked as if he were going to snivel. Dietrich felt no compassion.
"What do you know about this?" He swung his arm sharply about to indicate the condition of the tent. "Who has been here?"
"It was the Americans," Grosse mumbled. "It was the Rat Patrol."
"I know that!" Dietrich felt his face burning with rage. "Who was here?" He pointed to the cot, then to the table and locker. "Who drank my liquor?"
"I tried to warn you and could get no further," Grosse said. "I collapsed on the cot. I am sorry, mein Hauptmann. I had been attacked by the Sergeant Troy in the back of the tent. I tried to tell you they were the Rat Patrol, but you would not listen."
"Who else was here?" Dietrich thundered. "Did you drink the liquor?"
"No, Herr Hauptmann, I did not drink the liquor."
"Who was it, Grosse? Doeppler?" Dietrich watched Grosse furiously but closely.
"It was Doeppler," Grosse admitted miserably.
"Get Doeppler," Dietrich fumed. "Send him to me at once."
"Ja, mein Hauptmann," Grosse said and turned and ran.
Dietrich sat behind his table with the brandy bottle and a single glass in plain sight. When Doeppler reported, his back no longer was so stiff as it had been the day before and his eyes were red-rimmed. They jumped to the bottle and Dietrich thought the lieutenant's haggard face paled. Doeppler clicked his heels and braced his shoulders. Dietrich took his time, pouring the brandy deliberately. He sipped and studied the lieutenant with eyes he himself could feel turning from hot rage to cold wrath.
"Was it you, Doeppler, who removed a bottle of brandy from my locker?" Dietrich asked at last and gritted his teeth.
"Ja, Herr Hauptmann," Doeppler said, snapping his jaw like a puppet.
"Did it occur to you that you were stealing my property?" Dietrich asked savagely. "That I could and should have you shot?"
"Herr Hauptmann," Doeppler said desperately. "I removed it thinking only that it would be handy to revive you when we had rescued you."
"Rescue!" Dietrich exploded. "How can you call that farce you permitted a rescue? I do not recall your offering a drink of brandy to me when I had need of it. All you did was engage in staring like a dumb ox."
"Ja, Herr Hauptmann." Doeppler was at it again, looking at the tent wall above Dietrich's head.
"Where is the bottle now?" Dietrich demanded.
"I am sorry, herr Hauptmann, but I was shaken by the tragic misfortune and felt the need for revival myself," Doeppler said.
"The entire bottle?"
"Ja, mein Hauptmann."
"Doeppler, if you had drunk the entire bottle, you would be flat on your face in the sand." Dietrich examined the man with distaste. "I am not yet through with this theft from your commanding officer. There are other matters, however, which must come first. Do you have the list of men I ordered you to prepare?"
Doeppler reached inside his rumpled and soiled coat and handed Dietrich a page from a notebook on which the names of six men had been written in a shaky hand.
"I do not see the name of Grosse," Dietrich accused.
"I thought you were aware that he was present," Doeppler said stolidly. "He drove you to the camp."
"Nor also do I see the name of Lieutenant Doeppler," Dietrich said. "Every man, I commanded." He handed the paper back to Doeppler. "Add them now."
Doeppler found a fountain pen, managed to unscrew the cap and write the names. His hands had begun to tremble so badly that he had to press his elbows to his ribs to join the pen together.
"Now," Dietrich said, feeling calmer than he had. He sipped a little brandy. "You will take the men on this list into the Allied camp at once, before it is light, and destroy the British twenty-five-pounder with charges."
Doeppler looked at Dietrich aghast. "Including Grosse?" he asked when he was able to speak.
"Including Grosse," Dietrich said. "You know where the gun is—in the camouflaged pit. How you carry out the mission is up to you. That is all."
Doeppler saluted mechanically, turned and tottered from the tent. Dietrich found a few crackers and a piece of cheese Grosse had overlooked, poured another glass of brandy and shouted for Kloake, the radio operator.
"Kloake, contact headquarters of the Afrika Korps," Dietrich said.
"At this hour?" the boy gasped and his blue eyes widened.
"Call me as soon as you have the Field Marshal," Dietrich said. "I will speak to him in person."
Dietrich went over his plans as he removed boots and tunic and lay under a blanket on his cot. He would ask for three Messerschmitts to follow the route over the ridge Sergeants Troy and Moffitt must have taken. That would eliminate them. He realized that he should not allow his ire to influence his judgment on military affairs, but this time he was determined to remove the entire Rat Patrol. With the twenty-five-pounder blown up, Dietrich was ready to send his strengthened column roaring down from the heights to ravage the Allied camp in the morning. Never in his life had he been subjected to such indignity as he had endured at the hands of the Rat Patrol this day.
Doeppler's legs and shoulders ached and there were tender places in his bones. He stumbled down the grade with his little squad and they were sullen as they groped with their feet on the decline in the blackness before the first gray light of dawn. At least, he thought wretchedly, he'd been able to shut off the flares and silence the guns for a few hours so the only danger they'd have to worry about was the enemy. They carried machine pistols, grenades and plastic charges. They were going to immobilize the British gun about which the Arab had sold information. They'd do it at all costs, Doeppler thought grimly. Perhaps when this duty was done, he'd be able to get some rest.
When Doeppler reached the desert beyond the foot of the slope, he turned south away from the grade. It was the route the three false Enna brothers had taken earlier and he wondered how one of them had been able to slip back onto the ridge. He circled wide about the area where he knew the tanks and halftracks were stationed, reasoning that there would be guards about and crews would be in the slit trenches. When the squad had worked back to the lines of trucks that stood between the camouflaged pit and the airstrip, they went to their hands and knees, pushing their pistols ahead, squirming through the sand in the chill.
Despite the fatigue that even stretched his face stiff, Doeppler could not help smiling now at the thought of Dietrich flopping in the net. Doeppler realized his squad and he were being punished because the Rat Patrol had made Dietrich ridiculous. The Rat Patrol had roamed the camp at will, finding targets for the twenty-five-pounder. Doubtful as it seemed, perhaps Doeppler could reclaim some measure of esteem by carrying out this mission successfully.
Doeppler grasped the arm of Grosse and held the squad flat under a truck as the squishy tread of a sentry's desert boots moved past just beyond the wheels. It was the first guard who'd approached and Doeppler clung motionless to the ground. It was cold and he was afraid his teeth would chatter. Someone behind him sniffled. The guard turned and walked rapidly back toward the truck. He hesitated and disappeared in the dark alley between the lines of trucks toward the airstrip. In a moment Doeppler heard him calling softly and a second voice answered. A third joined in.
Although Doeppler did not understand what they were saying, he did comprehend 'Arab' and 'shoot.' He felt himself go warm as the perspiration burst out on his forehead, and then he turned cold. The three guards walked slowly down the lines of trucks, pausing every few steps to listen. They moved toward the pit.
"Grosse," he whispered. "I'll try to go in alone. There's no chance for all of us. If I don't make it, try a rush with the others."
He snaked from under one truck to the next, pausing every few feet, counting the vehicles to make his way back. The three guards approached again and he waited until they were by. When he could no longer hear them, he crawled fr
om the front line of trucks and ran straight ahead. The pit as he remembered it was about two hundred yards beyond the trucks. He counted again as he ran and when he'd taken two hundred paces, knelt and began to feel the sand. A few yards to the right and his hand touched coarse netting. He lay for several minutes, listening for the guards to return or the men in the pit to stir. He thought he detected a faint aroma of coffee and the lingering smell of cigarettes. He was tempted to throw a grenade and run but he was afraid he might not demolish the weapon unless he placed a charge at some vital position.
He lifted the net and moved down a sand ramp gently, a few inches at a time. He thought he heard the breathing of someone inside. He lay perfectly still for several minutes and the man snored gently. He went on again and his face was wet with perspiration when he reached the floor of the pit. He now could hear the breathing of a second person and he smelled gasoline and oil. When he could determine the positions of the two men, he crept ahead until he bumped into a vehicle. Quickly running his hand over the front of the car, he recognized it as a jeep. He backed away from it toward the other side of the pit and discovered a second jeep.
Doeppler was puzzled. The two jeeps of the Rat Patrol were parked under the net and the two sleeping men must be the men who drove them. It did not seem like a gun position nor a gun crew to him. Working his way between the second jeep and the side of the pit, he determined there was nothing else in that space. Backing out, he wriggled under the jeep and lay quietly until he again was certain that one man slept near the front and the other near the back of the hollow. Gently he urged his way out until he lay on the sand in the middle of the hole in the desert between the two men. He found no gun mount.
There was nothing in the pit but two jeeps and two men. The Arabs had sold false information to Dietrich. He almost smiled until he remembered where he was and quickly started edging back around the jeep toward the ramp. One of the men stirred and muttered something. Doeppler clutched the ground. He let several minutes crawl by before he went on again, up and out from under the net.
When he was satisfied no guard was walking toward him, he retraced the route he had taken to the truck and went back under them. A guard moved by and into the silence. Doeppler went on until a hand grasped his arm.
"Move out," Doeppler whispered urgently.
Bodies scraped through the sand and the squad crept out the way they had come in. Well south of the trucks, he risked getting to his knees, looking quickly all around. The sky was getting lighter and the hulking tanks and halftracks were visible in outline.
"What happened?" someone asked.
"No gun, just jeeps and men in there," Doeppler said. "We'd better move fast."
Although the dangerous part of the mission was past, the men still were sullen as they moved quickly across the desert flat. They started to trot when they reached the grade, although it seemed to Doeppler that his legs were so rubbery he would surely lost his footing. At the ridge he dismissed the squad and walked to Dietrich's tent. It was clear, pale daylight now.
A guard halted him as he neared Dietrich's tent.
"It's all right," Doeppler said. His throat ached with the effort of speaking. "Lieutenant Doeppler reporting to Captain Dietrich from a mission."
The guard pointed to Doeppler's weapon and explosives. "You'll have to leave them behind. I will say who is here."
When Doeppler stepped into the tent, Dietrich was sitting on the edge of his cot in breeches and shirt. His face was lined harshly with sleeplessness and his eyes were hard and dark. "Well, Doeppler," he said. "No earth shaking explosion lifted me from my cot. I have been lying here awake, listening for it. What excuse have you for your failure this time?"
"No excuse, Herr Hauptmann," Doeppler said stiffly. "I did not fail. There is no gun. The Arab lied."
Dietrich leaped from the cot and stood in the sand in his stocking feet. His eyes blazed. "Are you certain? This cannot be so. What was in the pit?"
"Two jeeps only and two men asleep," Doeppler said. "I myself investigated."
"You disposed of the men and left charges in the jeeps, of course," Dietrich stated.
"No," Doeppler said proudly. "I realized that would alert the enemy we had been in his camp. The Rat Patrol knew we had been informed the Allies possessed a long-range gun. I reasoned that as long as they believed we thought the information we had purchased to be true, they would be careless. It is an opportunity to surprise them."
"Doeppler, you fool," Dietrich said furiously. "Those were two members of the Rat Patrol asleep. You should have disposed of them at any cost. You have allowed yourself to be outwitted again. The Rat Patrol, alive, know our positions. We are going to attack and you have weakened us. Even the lying Arab outwitted you. Now you can take your useless squad and find the Arab so he can be punished. At once. Do not return until you have captured him."
23
The Hispano-Suiza threw a hot shower of dust over Troy, Moffitt and Hitch who stood at the edge of the airstrip while Tully drove the general, the colonel and the civilian to HQ.
"There goes the last of that car," Troy said wryly and wiped his forehead on his arm.
"It may be the last of the Rat Patrol if the general sends us back behind the Jerry lines to observe the fire," Hitch said and reached into his pocket for a stick of bubble gum. "We're stuck with these disguises until they send some stuff to get them off. All Dietrich has to do is catch sight of us and we've had it."
"I'm curious about the crates," Moffitt said. "Shall we pop over?"
Troy glanced once toward the ridge. He didn't have his field glasses in his turtleneck attire, but he imagined he could see Dietrich standing on a rock with his binoculars focused on the airstrip and wondering what and who was on the C-47. He turned with the others toward the trucks. Troy resented the casual, almost breezy way this new mission had been given. The only way he knew they could attempt to return was over the mined back trail and his hands and knees were scratched and sore from the clambering he'd done the night before.
Large wooden crates were being lowered from the belly of the C-47 and swung into waiting trucks. Each crate filled a truck. There were twelve of them and nine seemed relatively heavy while the other three were comparatively light. The trucks rumbled in the direction of the HQ tent. Puzzled, Troy turned to Moffitt and Hitch. They both lifted their hands in bewilderment.
Back at the rathole, Troy and Moffitt washed and changed into familiar clothes and hats. Tully did not return for another ten minutes and when he did he was scowling.
"Where's the car?" Hitch asked.
"Parked behind the trucks," Tully said. "The CO wants us at HQ."
"What for?" Troy asked suspiciously.
"He didn't say," Tully said, "but I think it has something to do with the job he took for us."
Troy pulled back and bumped into Moffitt as soon as he started into the tent. Wilson with General Caruthers and Mr. Spain were seated at the table in the stifling place and half a dozen tank officers were crowded on two cots. Peilowski seemed to have been crowded out. A strange wooden contraption, apparently a model, was on the table in front of Spain.
"Crowd in," Wilson said good-naturedly. "It's a briefing."
Spain stood. He seemed insignificant and uncomfortable in his large dark-rimmed glasses and baggy sweat shirt. He cleared his throat and the eyes that were turned to him were more curious than interested. His voice, however, was resonant and commanding.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a model of a rocket launcher."
Troy inspected the model quickly. He had seen rocket launchers before. This seemed to have an unusual number of tubes and was constructed at an odd cant.
"The rocket launcher," Spain went on, "consists of sixty tubes constructed of plywood. It is designed to be mounted on the turret of a Sherman tank."
The men on the cots wiped the moisture from their foreheads and leaned forward. Troy could feel a prickle of excitement.
"All sixty projectiles can be
launched in thirty seconds," Spain said. "The weapon launches thirty-eight-pound missiles which strike with the destructive effect of 105 mm. shells at forty-four hundred yards."
Troy felt a quick stir run through the tent.
"How many launchers will be tested?" Wilson turned to Spain and asked.
General Caruthers answered. "We have brought three launchers. Each will fire three rounds of sixty missiles. They will be pulled off-target for reloading and the firing will be staggered from three tanks. The test will give us the effect of five hundred and forty 105mm. shells with which to saturate the area."
"What area or areas will be the targets?" a bareheaded, red-faced tank commander asked.
Wilson glanced at charts before him. "We have pinpointed weapons positions on either side of the grade beginning with the mortars and including the rocket launchers, antitank guns and 75 mm. cannon. The grade is their safe passage. We expect the missiles to have a psychological shock effect. Our armor will proceed up the grade immediately with the firing of the final group of missiles. Our armor is prepared for the tank. Zero hour will be thirteen-thirty." He looked at three lieutenants seated together on one cot. "Byrd, Hipple, Furfal, you will command the Shermans on which the launchers will be mounted. Stations for launching and reloading will be assigned. I believe that is all. Good luck."
Troy stepped from the tent into the blazing sun with Moffitt, Hitch and Tully as the officers walked briskly out. Dietrich was in for a surprise, he thought. The Jerry captain expected a single 25-pounder but he was going to be smashed with a crushing bombardment. When only Caruthers, Wilson and Spain remained in the tent, still talking at the table, Troy stepped in.
"Excuse me, sir," he said to General Caruthers. "If we're going to get behind the Jerry lines, we'd better get started. Do you have any instructions?"