by David King
The acetylene lamps burned with stark, cold light in Dietrich's big office at the front of the second story at his headquarters in Sidi Abd. He sat with his back to the windows at the long mahogany table he had brought with considerable difficulty from Tunis. One lamp hung from the vaulted white ceiling of this rather gracious old palace which, Dietrich regretted to acknowledge, he had been compelled to wrest by force from the stubborn old Arab chieftan who had occupied it. Another lamp was on the table and next to it, a bottle of Courvoissier from which he filled a glass and sipped not too frequently but every now and then when he recalled another pleasant event of this remarkable day, such as his amusing conversation concerning Indian tactics with the American colonel. Really now, did the fellow actually believe that he, Dietrich, a Panzer officer in the Afrika Korps, was serious? Dietrich frankly admitted to himself that he had wanted to gloat at the second trap he had so skillfully set that day.
Before him on the table was a chart showing the pattern of the minefield he had planted beyond the town. He had his finger on the gateway at the wadi and he pushed it now along the wide, safe path he had provided for the Rat Patrol to drive through the Devil's Garden right up to the fence. A patrol was concealed there, would remain right there at the fence for however long was necessary. If the Rat Patrol had come after the colonel—and he was certain they had—they should be somewhere in the minefield right now. Dietrich was waiting for a report from another patrol he'd sent around the garden to check the gate. Dietrich wanted that Gottverdamtig Rat Patrol safely locked up in the garden so he could take them alive at his leisure and deal with them at his pleasure.
He chuckled and sipped a little of the belly-warming brandy. The French did know how to do some things right. They would be taught to stick with their grapes and not play at being soldiers. It took a man of genuine and dedicated military talent to comprehend the ramifications of today's actions. The capture of the armored regiment's commander would bog down and demoralize the Allied Forces in this sector of the desert. Confused and leaderless, they would be ripe for attack and defeat. The capture of the Rat Patrol, while a minor thing by comparison, would have the major effect of removing a victory symbol from the Allies, and Dietrich knew full well how important symbols were to troops. And beyond the immediate results, properly supervised interrogation of this American Colonel Wilson would, Dietrich was supremely confident, elicit reluctant information that would reveal far-flung Allied plans. It might well be that his action today would be the hinge on which would swing final victory for the Afrika Korps.
For all this, Dietrich could well receive the diamonds to his Iron Cross. It was an honor reserved by the Fatherland for very few, perhaps no more than a handful of field marshals. It was an exhilarating possibility to contemplate and it was entirely possible that he would be called to Berlin to receive the highest of the Fatherland's decorations from the hand of Der Feuhrer himself. Although, Dietrich admitted privately, he would prefer the honor were bestowed by one of the old-line generals.
He yawned enjoyably and glanced at his watch. It was getting late, well after eleven o'clock, although he did not in the least feel tired. Comfortable but not tired. He crossed his black-booted legs under the table and let his usually taut muscles droop. From downstairs he heard the challenge of the guard followed by the clomp of quick pounding leather on the tiled stairway. Except for three guards—one at the entrance, one at the cell where the American colonel was confined and one outside his office door—Dietrich was alone in the palace. It was more than headquarters. The offices were confined to this large room on the second floor and the two front rooms on the first floor. The rest of the place comprised his personal quarters, a kitchen, diningroom, livingroom converted from a bedroom on the second floor and a few bedrooms. A man who bore responsibility was entitled to the privacy to think alone, relax now and then and enjoy himself with friends of his choosing. Dietrich was not apprehensive at his comparative isolation in the palace but he was prudent and when he heard the guard outside his door challenge the visitor, he pulled his Luger from its holster and held it in his hand before him on the table.
The door swung open and Dietrich chuckled, thinking the guards did well to challenge this sorry and unsoldierly looking sight. Feldwebel Max Schmitt wore a greatcoat that was splotched with dirt and trailed sand. The lower part of his face was swathed in a muffler while his cheeks and circles about his eyes that had been protected by goggles looked unnaturally pink.
Master Sergeant Schmitt stepped smartly across the room, halted sharply in front of the table, saluted and barked, "Heil Hitler!"
"Heil," Dietrich said impatiently. "Well, Schmitt, what did you find?"
"The Rat Patrol is in the Devil's Garden," Sergeant Schmitt said and Dietrich could see his heavy chest puff beneath his coat as if the sergeant himself were responsible.
"You are certain?" Dietrich challenged.
"Yes, my captain," Schmitt said. "There are unmistakeable tire marks of jeeps entering the garden through the gate which was left open."
"There was more than one?"
"More than one," Schmitt said decisively and a sly look flashed in his puffy eyes. "They sought to deceive, following closely in the same track, almost as if made by one vehicle only. But I examined the tread carefully with a flashlight and it is deeper by far than could possibly have been made by one jeep. Also there were several places where the tread marks did not exactly overprint."
"And you are certain they have driven into the trap?"
"There is no doubt of it," Schmitt said in an injured tone. "I personally followed the tracks on foot across the wadi well into the minefield until I lost them in the loose sand of the safe pathway."
"You do not think they are suspicious?"
"Of course they are suspicious but only of the minefield. They recognized it as it was meant they should. They had exploded mines on either side, many of them, to make certain they had found the path in the pattern."
"Ah, good, good," Dietrich said warmly. "Here Schmitt, help yourself to the brandy. The December nights are cold in the desert. Although not so cold as in the Fatherland, eh, Schmitt?"
"Thank you, my captain," Schmitt said, smiling broadly and pouring himself a glass of brandy. He lifted it to Dietrich, clicked his heels and said, "Heil."
"Heil," Dietrich said absently. "And you made certain the gate was closed securely before you left?"
"The gate is locked tight with antitank mines," Schmitt reported briskly. "It is also nailed with S-mines."
"We have them this time," Dietrich said and pounded his palm with his fist. He sighed with pleasure. "It is a good day's work, Schmitt. There is no way for them to escape. Well, Schmitt, unless the Rat Patrol blows itself to the skies in the meantime, we shall deal with them in person in the morning."
"Ja whol," Schmitt said and smiled fatly.
Dietrich heard the downstairs guard's voice again raised in challenge. He frowned with annoyance, wondering who could be seeking him at this hour and for what purpose. His hand reached back to the pistol he had abandoned when he recognized Schmitt.
"You may go," he told Schmitt abruptly, thinking irritably that the feldwebel would heil again. There were times, in the field like this, when it became tiresome.
"Heil," Schmitt said, sounding like a seal, and showed Dietrich the palm of his hand. He about-faced and marched stiffly from the office.
The door scarcely had closed behind the sergeant when it opened to admit Lieutenant Wilhelm Kummel. He was a tall man, like Dietrich, and he wore a tailored uniform.
His face was heavy, his mouth an incongruous horizontal line and his eyes blue and cold.
"Ah, Wilhelm," Dietrich said comfortably to his security officer and friend. He withdrew his hand from the pistol and gave it a little push. "Come, share a drink. What brings you out at this hour of the night?"
Kummel seated himself on the edge of Dietrich's table, reached for the brandy bottle and filled a glass. He tasted it and smack
ed his lips appreciatively.
"That is good," he said and refilled the glass. He held it to Dietrich. "This brandy may be the reason for the visit, hein?" He laughed but his face grew serious almost at once. "The reason but not the excuse. Are you having trouble with the Arabs, Hans?"
"There always is trouble with the Arabs," Dietrich said slowly and a little uneasily. "But at the moment no more than usual. Why do you ask, Wilhelm?"
"Two suspicious-looking Arabs were standing in a doorway across the street observing this building with more than ordinary curiosity. They hurried into the tavern when I approached to question them and that is strange in itself. Arabs no not usually enter places that are filled with no one but our soldiers. When they did not come out after curfew, I stepped inside and saw them stealing back toward the rear of the place."
"Probably friends of the proprietor," Dietrich said cautiously. "Waiting until the soldiers had gone before going back to the kitchen to share a cup of coffee."
"Possibly friends," Kummel conceded, "but possibly conspirators as well."
"Dammit, Wilhelm," Dietrich said, a little annoyed. "What can I do about it? Our relations always are touchy with the Arabs. I can't invade an Arab restaurant with a squad for no reason other than that two Arabs entered the building."
"I know, Hans," Kummel said with a sympathetic smile. "They looked suspicious and I thought I'd mention it." He held up the brandy bottle and laughed. "And it did give me the excuse for the reason."
"You don't need the excuse, Wilhelm," Dietrich said.
"Just the—"
A rap at the door interrupted him. The door opened and the guard stepped into the room.
"Your pardons, Captain, Lieutenant," the guard said with a flat plattedeutsch accent. "A young lady downstairs insists she must see Lieutenant Kummel. She says the matter is urgent."
"A young lady?" Dietrich exclaimed, bewildered.
"It must be Colette from the tavern," Kummel said quickly, standing. "Send her up, Sergeant."
Dietrich felt his face puzzling around a smile,
"She is your young lady, Wilhelm?"
"At times she is," Kummel said. "I have a feeling tonight we'll be happy that is the situation."
"The Arabs?" Dietrich drew a troubled breath and sat straight, waiting in stern silence. His hand grasped the butt of his pistol.
Colette flew into the room and Dietrich examined her as closely as he could. She was a scrawny chicken, he thought, but not entirely unattractive. Wilhelm should fatten her up. There was no doubt she was agitated. Ignoring Dietrich, she ran to Kummel and grasped both his arms.
"Vitement, vitement," she cried, tugging at him. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
"Colette," Kummel said sharply, grasping her firmly by both shoulders. "Calm yourself. Take a deep breath and then tell me slowly in German, what is the trouble."
Obediently Colette drew in her breath and with the tears still running down her cheeks, said in trembling German, "Two American soldiers dressed as Arabs are in the tavern. They threatened me if I would not hide them. I put them in the room of the blind and deaf old one and came to you as quickly as I could."
Her voice broke and her chest heaved in great, gasping sobs.
"Good God!" Dietrich shouted. "It's the Rat Patrol. They've managed to get through the fence." He leapt to his feet and shoved the Luger in his holster. "Come, Wilhelm, we'll take the two guards and capture them ourselves."
5
Troy and Tully sprinted down the dark aisle between the tables in the empty tavern and from the concealing shadows within the doorway, watched Colette run to the guard who stood at the entrance to the German headquarters. Troy could hear their excited voices. The guard ran inside the building and shouted something. Colette half turned, holding her hand at her throat, and looked toward the tavern entrance.
"Dames," Tully said and spit.
When the guard came out again, Colette ran into the building. The guard stood with his rifle at the ready, squarely facing the entrance to the tavern.
"Take the other side, flat against the wall," Troy said brusquely. He slipped the kris from its sheath. "They'll know we haven't gone out the front way so they'll probably bust straight through to the back. As soon as they're in the back hall, we slip out. If the guard is still across the street, we'll have to try to jump him before he gets us. I think they'll bring him with them. If he isn't there, we go around the bazaar side of headquarters and see if we can get up on the roof from the back. If they discover us, it's you for you and me for me. Just try to get away and carry on."
"Sure, Sarge," Tully said. He held his long-bladed Bowie knife sharp edge up, ready to slash and run.
Troy pressed his shoulders against the wall, table guarding him from the front but with enough space to slip into the street. He held his kris poised at his shoulder for a dagger thrust at the base of the neck.
Running feet padded on the packed dirt of the narrow street and two figures burst into the tavern with drawn pistols. Troy thought one of them was Dietrich. A few steps inside the dark room, they paused almost within reach of Troy, then ran toward the doorway at the back. Troy held his breath and remained motionless. More footfalls sounded on the trodden earth and a soldier with a bayoneted rifle, closely followed by a second one similarly armed, plunged into the tavern and followed the first two figures. Troy waited another moment and swore under his breath. He had not thought of Colette. Of course she would wait outside.
The four Jerries were in the hall now. Troy hissed softly to Tully, sidled around the edge of the door. The guard was gone but Colette was standing at the headquarters' entrance. Troy dashed across the alley and slapped his hand over her mouth before she could scream. He dragged her, legs kicking and arms flailing, around the bazaar corner of the building. Her teeth bit viciously into the fat of his palm by his thumb. At the side of the building, he halted long enough to smash a blow into the side of her jaw. As she slumped, Tully picked up her feet.
"We'll push her in the first doorway," Troy said, getting his hands under her arms. "She's no good to us."
They trotted with Colette's limp body slung between them until they came to a recessed side door in the headquarters' building. They dropped her back in the recess.
"I ought to wring her neck like a chicken's," Tully said bitterly.
"No time for games," Troy said, shaking his bleeding hand that stung from her bite. "There should be a back way inside. Let's find it."
The bazaar had closed its shutters for the night and it was pitch black along the side of the building. Troy ran blindly with his hand on the blank side wall. He had not gone far, perhaps fifty feet, when his hand slipped from the coarse plastered wall into the night. He stopped, felt ahead with both hands, took a step and then another before he encountered the rough surface of another building. The passageway between the buildings was about three feet wide.
"Keep your hand on my shoulder," he told Tully, turning into the narrow passage he knew might be a cul-de-sac.
"Sarge, you couldn't lose me if you tried," Tully said.
Troy moved warily now, not lifting his feet but sliding them along the ground, toe to heel, counting his foot-lengths. He paused for a brief moment as a small dog or rat skittered over one foot and rustled away. The stench of the passage filled his lungs. It was not an odor of garbage or sewage but of things dead and rotting. In the confined and airless place it almost choked him.
He had advanced for twenty-five feet when his hand slid around a corner in the wall and he touched the wood of a gate or door. He pulled Tully up to it, placed both of Tully's hands on it and both of them searched for a latch or handle. They could find nothing, not even a hole or recess where one might have been. They put their shoulders to the wood and strained against it. If it were a door and hinged it was securely barred from the inside because it did not give so much as a fraction of an inch.
"We haven't got time to fool and we don't dare go on," Troy said in a whisper. "Get o
n my shoulders. This may be just a wall and not a part of the building."
He stood to the side of the recess, clasped his hands together for Tully's foot and boosted him. Tully clambered unsteadily, first one knee on a shoulder then the other. Steadying himself against the wall, he gradually got his feet planted on Troy's shoulders.
"Uh," Tully grunted, swaying, almost toppling.
"What is it?" Troy hissed.
"A wall, but there's broken glass on top. I cut my hand."
"Pull off your robe," Troy ordered. "Fold it over the top." He thought he heard voices from somewhere, muted by the buildings. "Get gone."
He felt Tully balancing himself against the wall as the robe dropped, draping Troy's face for a moment, and then the weight left Troy's shoulders and he heard Tully scrambling atop the wall.
"Helped some but it still jabbed," Tully muttered. "Catch. I'll drop the rope to you, then jump down the other side, catch the end and brace myself."
Troy reached above his head in the blackness, groped only the empty night. The voices he had heard came again, still muffled but louder now. He started to grasp the air wildly for the rope, grinned, let his arms fall to his sides, then reached upwards searching the void in a careful pattern with his thumbs hooked together and palms extended near the wall. One palm touched the rope, lost it. The voices sounded near the mouth of the passage. He found the rope again, grasped it with both hands, gave a tug to make sure Tully was at the other end, and walked up the wall, hand over hand on the rope, feet against the vertical surface. The shouting was plain now, not voices but sharp orders in German. He wriggled over the folded robe, feeling the sharp thrusting shards of glass even through the cloth, found a finger hold for one hand between the jagged pieces and hung on while he plucked at Tully's robe. It clung to the glass. His fingers began to slip. Light appeared abruptly in the night at the entrance to the passage. Troy yanked desperately at the robe as his fingers slipped and he fell into the thorns of a shrub. The robe fluttered down and covered him.