by David King
"One hundred to one," Troy growled.
"And us stuck here," Tully wailed beside them.
"Better off here than in the open," Troy said. Not that they had any choice, he thought grimly. "I don't think they'll spot the jeeps. And they won't bomb their own oasis just to see the water splash."
"What about them rotors?" Tully asked. "How could they have taken them?"
"How isn't the question, they're gone," Troy said savagely. "But it wouldn't have been hard. Moffitt was with Dietrich working the burial detail. Wilson and I were at the waterhole. You and Hitch were supposed to keep an eye on the detail with the wounded but you were scrounging weapons. It not only could have happened, it did. The question right now is, what do we do without them?" The engines of the unseen planes were roaring overhead. "We'll have to radio HQ to send someone out for us," Hitch said, shifting his gum.
"We can't do that," Troy growled. "The Jerries would have a fix in a minute. Anyway, they'll be out here from Sidi Abd on a routine check. We've got to get away."
The pitch of the motors changed, became a whine and then a shrill rising screech. Out of the fuzzy sky, three planes dived at a sharp angle. The fat legs of their fixed landing gear, crooked wings and square-cut tails identified them. They were Stuka divebombers. They shrieked low over the oasis and pulled steeply back into the clouds. The screaming became a low humming high overhead and then the three planes made another pass. The third time they came over, they were flying level below the clouds in a V-formation but they skimmed the oasis and streaked away to the west.
"I wonder if they would have dropped an egg," Moffitt said, coming out from the palms and following them with his glasses. "If they're looking for us, they must know we have Dietrich."
"They're looking for us, Doc, but all they know about Dietrich is that he isn't there," Troy said with a humorless smile. "Maybe the Arabs have him. Maybe he got tired of fighting and took a powder. Maybe he's shacked up in Bizerta."
"Right you are, Sam," Moffitt said and lifted one eyebrow. "What do we do without the rotors?"
"We walk," Troy said harshly.
"Oh, I say, Moffitt said and grimaced. "Walk fifty miles to Bir-el-Alam. Jerries searching for us on the ground and from the sky. We may be desert rats but we've lost our scurry power."
"We walk and hide," Troy said impassively. "Let's gather our gear and get started."
Leaving Dietrich bound to the tree, Wilson and the Rat Patrol returned to the jeeps. For a moment they stopped, all looking helplessly at the machines.
"Isn't there some other way, Sergeant?" Wilson asked irritably.
"If you know how to make an engine fire without a rotor, there is," Troy said brutally. He looked fixedly at Wilson. "Well, do you?"
"If there is a way, I am not aware of it," Wilson admitted and flushed.
"Let's go," Troy said without spirit. He knew how the others felt. The situation looked hopeless. "We'll unload what we can carry. Water, one camouflage net, weapons. Then we'll blow up the jeeps."
"One moment, old chap," Moffitt said, pulling his eyebrows together and chewing at his lower lip. "Sam, has it occurred to you that those rotors may have been taken not only to disable us but to provide Dietrich with a means of escape?"
"It's possible," Troy said, eyes closing to slits.
"Dietrich shook hands with those men before they left," Moffitt continued, thinking aloud. "That's out of character for that Jerry. A salute perhaps, but a handclasp? Hardly. He could have been passing one or both rotors."
"What are we waiting for, Doctor?" Troy asked, baring his teeth. He swung to Hitch and Tully. "Hold everything!"
Troy released Dietrich from the tree. Hands still tied behind him, the sharp-faced German officer regarded Troy and Moffitt with silent and derisive contempt. Troy felt his muscles tightening and anger flaming. He and Moffitt began a probing search, working up Dietrich's sleeves to his collar, through his tunic, shirt and breeches, squeezing down the sides of his boots.
"Nothing," Moffitt said dejectedly.
Troy studied Dietrich's face. Defiance and superiority gleamed in the German's dark eyes.
"He's got them," Troy said with sudden conviction.
"Shall we strip him?" Moffitt asked. "Give him the body search before we put lighted matches to the soles of his feet?"
A flicker, almost the unseen movement of an insect's wings, touched Dietrich's eyelids.
"We won't have to," Troy said, lifting his lip until his teeth showed whitely. "The rotors are in the toes of his boots."
They found the rotors with Dietrich's toes curled around them.
"Walking would have been a trifle awkward," Moffitt said with an amused smile. "You didn't think we'd carry you, now did you?"
The Stukas had changed Troy's mind about the course they would take. He knew the divebombers would continue searching but he did not think they would return over the ground they had covered. Instead of going north as he'd planned, the jeeps darted into the desert from the waterhole on a due west course in the same straight line the planes had taken. The camouflage nets were carefully folded in the backs of the vehicles, ready to be quickly pulled over the machines at the first sound of aircraft.
Sooner or later, both the planes and the ground patrols would know that the Rat Patrol held Dietrich prisoner. It amused Troy to speculate whether or not the Jerries would fire as long as they held the commander of an Afrika Korps armored unit hostage.
The jeeps had scarcely left Faisan, driven perhaps two miles into the open desert, when the growling hum of fast approaching aircraft drove the two jeeps as one into a wadi. Before the Stukas whistled overhead, the camouflage nets were in place. Beyond the oasis, the planes climbed and dived back, once more soaring westward just above the cloud cover.
"They've got us charted in this area," Troy called to Moffitt. "We're going to have to make this by leaps and bounds."
Leaving the camouflage nets draped over the machine runs and the backs of the jeeps, they scampered from the wadi and raced across the sand. In less than five minutes, Troy heard the Stukas returning. Again they scuttled into a depression and were under cover when the planes shot over. They were flying at a lower altitude and on their return pass soared overhead at less than a thousand feet.
They know we were at the waterhole, Troy thought, his mind tightening. That means the carload we sent back met with a patrol. They've assumed a logical route for us and are combing it from above and on the ground behind us. They also know that we have Dietrich. At least it would be interesting to see the action the enemy would take, Troy thought, remembering what he and Tully had been prepared to do with Wilson.
He changed the course to due north, and well before the planes returned, the jeeps were under cover. The Stukas had dropped to about five hundred feet and had cut down to almost stall speed. They still were flying the same course, about a mile to the south now. When the planes swept back on the same line of flight, the jeeps leapt north again.
"Funny they don't spot our tracks," Troy said to Tully.
"There's lots of tracks going every which way around the waterhole, Sarge," Tully said easily. "And anyway, they ain't so easy to spot without the sun throwing shadows in them. If the sun was out, these nets wouldn't be much use either. We'd be throwing a solid shadow."
The sound of motors drummed from the sky again. Tully plunged into a hollow and Hitch followed. The nets were draped when a single Stuka keened above. Troy glanced to the south. The lead plane was flying the original course and the third was well to the south. They had opened the V. Troy turned, examining the hole in which they had plunged. It was a spoon-shaped depression with dunes on three sides and a level exit to the north at the tip. They were below horizontal line of sight. With the planes broadening the aerial search, it should be safe to stay here hidden.
When the lone Stuka dipped back from the sky beyond Faisan, it was at least three hundred yards beyond them to the north. Tully started his motor.
"S
hut off the motor and stay put," Troy told him and called to Hitch. "Pull up here, as close as you can get. We're going to stay."
With the jeeps snugged together, Troy had Hitch and Tully stretch one net from the top of the dune to the first jeep, continuing the camouflage unbroken with the other net extending on and over the second jeep and to the ground. Troy and Moffitt ran in the tire tracks well behind the hollow and obliterated the marks by dragging water cans over them. They were under the netting before the Stuka reappeared, this time half a mile to the north.
The six men sat in the two jeeps, cramped together in an airless pocket in the sand. Their faces were dirty and sweat streaked and their breathing was heavy. Troy looked across at Moffitt and flashed his teeth in a smile.
"What do you think, Doctor?" he asked.
"We should be safe until dark," Moffitt said, crinkling his eyes. "Then we can make a run for it by compass."
"Mind if I go up and have a look, Sarge?" Tully asked, screwing his head around.
"No, we ought to have a lookout," Troy said. "Keep your helmet under the net."
Tully scrambled over the hoods, kicking down sand as he crawled to the top of the dune.
"Rest of you get some sleep," Troy said and rubbed his burning eyes. "I'll take the first watch on Dietrich." Dietrich sat at attention, back straight, shoulders squared, arms still cramped behind him. He probably feels as if they're coming out of their sockets, Troy thought, but he'll have to beg before I change his position. Dietrich sat silent and tight-lipped. Moffitt curled around the machine gun mount in the back of the other jeep. Hitch and Wilson stretched their legs over the turned-down windshields and rested their heads on the backs of the seats. It should be a restful day, Troy thought and grinned. He was half asleep himself.
"Hey, Sarge," Tully cried out. "There's a Jerry patrol."
"Where?" Troy's mind snapped alert. "How many?"
"About a mile away. Two cars."
"Forget it," Troy said easily. "We've been expecting them. They can't see us here."
"But they're coming this way, Sarge," Tully insisted. "It looks like they're following our tracks, the way they're poking along."
Troy swore softly and shook Moffitt.
"I have a prisoner here for you, Doctor," he said, crawling over the hoods. "Take over."
"Right-o," Moffitt murmured.
Two Jerry patrol cars, spare tires mounted on slanted, snoutlike hoods, their sides looking like old-fashioned, galvanized iron bathtubs, were warily approaching the dunes above the hollow. There were four helmeted soldiers in each car. The vehicles did not appear to be carrying any mounted weapons but, thinking of the MG42 light machine gun he had captured, Troy did not underestimate the possible firepower of the patrol.
"We could take them on," he said, thinking aloud, "but what about the Stukas?"
Troy looked at the sky through the latticework of the netting. Far away, down near the visible horizon, he could just make out three widely, separated flecks.
"If they do see us," he speculated, "they aren't going to fire while their patrol is engaging us. And we may be able to pull it off before they reach it." He clapped Tully's shoulder. "Stay put."
He grabbed the camouflage netting in both hands and slid down the bank of sand carrying it with him.
"Moffitt, Wilson," he shouted. "Get the other net off. Roll Dietrich up in them and tie him from the outside. Push him some place out of the way. Hitch, get these two jeeps out the end of the hollow and faced back south with their motors running."
He snatched the MG42 with its bipod mount and drum of ammunition and dug his way to the top of the dune at the south end of the hollow.
"What's coming off?" Wilson panted as he knotted a snarling, struggling Captain Dietrich in the double layers of netting.
"We're going to do battle," Troy called and his teeth flashed. "A two-car patrol is tracking us down here. I want those cars. They're our transportation out from under the Stukas. I'm going to set up this Jerry gun here and decoy them in. When they come for me, take them with the jeeps from either side. Try to get the drivers first and fire only at the personnel. Don't damage our carriers."
"Right-o," Moffitt called and laughed.
"They're half a mile off now, Sarge," Tully sang out, "and the Stukas are coming back."
"How far away are the planes?" Tully asked quickly. Tully looked from side to side. "Real spread out. And far away."
"Sergeant," Wilson said, climbing to the top of the dune.
"Yes?" Troy clamped his teeth together and frowned.
This was no time to pull rank. Wilson should realize he was an armored battalion commander, not a guerilla fighter.
"I think it would be better if I manned the decoy gun," Wilson said with a thin smile. "I'm the least valuable man in this engagement and you'll be far more effective than I with the fifty caliber machine gun in the jeep."
"I suppose you're right, damn it," Troy said, looking longingly at the light machine gun. It was on the bipod, ammunition belt in place. "It's ready to go. The firing rate is unbelievable. It has a cycling rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute but you're limited to the fifty rounds you have in the drum. It's recoil operated. Just squeeze the trigger and wham! Let go quick or you'll blow your wad. The range is four thousand yards. Wait them out, say five hundred yards. Aim for the windshields. Okay, you're calling the shots now. We'll take off at your first burst."
"Right, Sergeant," Wilson said smartly.
"Right, sir," Troy said and his white smile flashed across his face. "Don't get yourself shot now, sir. We've gone to a lot of trouble over you."
Wilson nodded, smiling, and lay down back of his gun. Troy called to Tully and ran down the hollow past Dietrich, trussed up and spluttering in the netting, to the idling jeep. Tully jumped in behind the wheel, depressed the clutch and held it down after he had slipped the car gear. Troy checked the heavy Browning M2 fifty caliber machine gun and the belt of shells. He smacked the side of the weapon and grasped the spadegrip trigger. "Forgive me, big baby," he murmured. It had been a brief love affair with the MG42, a damn punk kid who had given him the eye.
He glanced over his shoulder. In the other jeep, Moffitt gripped his machine gun with both hands.
"We'll go a split second ahead," Troy called. "Don't want any crossfire."
"Right-o and Tally-ho," Moffitt cried as a burst zipped from the MG42.
The jeeps leaped off as another burst and a third from the light machine gun were answered with a rattling hail of fire. The jeeps sprang off the dunes and careened from either side toward the patrol cars. Troy's machine gun smashed the cars from windshields to rear compartment with high impact slugs. Not a yard behind, Moffitt raked the Jerries. The attack had been so rapid and unexpected there was no return fire. Tully spun his jeep around and dashed back. Again the slugs tore at the soldiers in the cars. A feeble spatter of bullets came from one weapon on Moffitt's side. It had dribbled away before Moffitt made his second pass.
Troy searched the sky as Tully skidded to a stop. The planes were distant. Hitch braked on the other side.
"Tully, Hitch, get those motors started. Toss out the bodies, but keep the weapons. Moffitt, get the machine gun and ammunition out of your jeep. Dump it in your car. Take the water cans and equipment." Troy was dismounting his fifty caliber machine gun as he shouted. He trotted to the patrol car nearest him and heaved his eighty-one-pound weapon into the back. When he returned with water cans and equipment, Wilson had come down from the dune with the MG42.
"I could manage only three bursts and the ammunition was gone," he complained. "What can I do?"
"Take off their helmets and stuff the bodies in the jeeps," Troy said, throwing his bush hat in the back of the patrol car. He yanked a helmet from the nearest Kraut and pulled the body over to the jeep, shoving it behind the wheel. The five of them dragged the other Germans to the jeeps and Troy peered at the sky. The Stukas were converging in a tight V.
"Helmets on," Tro
y yelled. "In the cars. Get them moving. Pour it into the jeeps."
Behind smashed windshields, Tully and Hitch leaned over unfamiliar, high steering wheels and manipulated the clumsy German cars toward the jeeps. As the Stukas looped low, Troy heaved a German stick grenade into the jeep Tully had driven.
"That hurt, Sarge," Tully shouted as the machine erupted.
A moment later the second jeep blew up. The Stukas climbed straight up, dived back from the east and came over low in formation. They dipped their wings to the patrol cars and five men in German helmets stood in the German cars and waved at the German planes. The Stukas streaked westward.
"Let's get Dietrich and let's get out of here," Wilson said.
"Right you are, sir," Troy said and laughed.
In the hollow, they released Dietrich, silent but with eyes blazing, and folded the camouflage nets into the backs of the cars. Near the flaming jeeps, Troy called a halt.
"Let's clean up, wash out the blood, and take stock," he said.
They knocked the shattered glass from the windshields and sloshed out the machines with water from Jerry containers they found in the storage compartments at the rear. There also were rations, extra gasoline, and ammunition. The weapons they had picked up included Schmeisser machine pistols, two more of the MG42 light machine guns and stick grenades. Hitch found a carton of American cigarettes in his patrol car and divided them, even tucking a package into Dietrich's tunic. Dietrich looked furiously at him.
"We've had a busy day," Troy said, lifting his upper lip from his teeth and shouting, "Hey! Let's go home."
They clambered into the cars, Tully at the wheel of one with Dietrich beside him and Troy in the rear; Hitch at the wheel of the other with Moffitt inspecting the radio at the front and Wilson sprawled in the back.
"We'll have to head south until we're sure the planes have gone," Troy said. "Then it's westward-ho."
The patrol cars had not driven a mile before the Stukas zoomed in low and dipped their wings again, then climbed upstairs in a hurry.
"I guess that does it, Sarge," Tully said.