“I want you, Lily and Giselle, to hide in the bushes and train your guns of Grantham’s guards. We’ll know who they are, because most of the people who use this park seem to be women and their children, or couples walking. I haven’t seen any men walking on their own. Any man who’s just standing there looking around has got to be one of Grantham’s men.”
“And Rostock?”
“I don’t think we’ll see Rostock. Grantham hates demons, and Rostock’s here to get me. He also can’t know we’re going to be here. Rostock’s just guessing. I think he’ll keep his distance while Grantham’s here and hope to spot us. If he uses a glass barreled gun, he’ll need to be near me, so Rostock will have to find a way of cornering me if he wants to kill me. If he tries to shoot me from a distance with an ordinary gun, it’ll make so much noise, Grantham will probably vaporize him.”
She looked around to see where Giselle and Lily went and found them by the Hansom cabs. Giselle was stroking one of the horses, and Lily was wandering up and down.
“So, the $64,000 question,” Dore said. “Will you be time traveling to follow Grantham?”
She gazed at Dore. Tonight, they would be having dinner in one of the most expensive restaurants in New York City, then, tomorrow would be D-Day, or G-Day, in Grantham’s case. Who knew what was going to happen? If she climbed the cherry tree and was able to see the year Grantham was going to travel to, she would be ready. The question was, would she be brave enough to follow him without Dore at her side?
End of Part 2
Slaughter in the Desert
The Declassified History of World War II
The Adventures of Kat’s Commandos
PART TWO
There are three parts of Slaughter in the desert. Each part is included with each part of “Kat’s adventures in Hell as a thank you for your purchase.
All pictures contained herein are public domain, courtesy of either the Imperial War Museum (UK) or the Bundesarchiv (Germany).
Cover art, sketches, and maps are provided courtesy of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either used fictitiously or are the fevered products of the author’s twisted imagination.
Table of Contents
Slaughter in the Desert
Part II
Outskirts of Benghazi, Libya
Central Benghazi
Afrika Korps Auxiliary Command Center
Freedom Square
Jalo Oasis
Part II
All right, they’re on our left, they’re on our right, they’re in front of us, they’re behind us...they can’t get away this time.
– Lewis B. “Chesty” Puller, USMC
Outskirts of Benghazi, Libya
M ajor Trufflefoot slid a sharp rock out from under his bleeding elbow and raised his field glasses. Old men were lounging around cafes, young folks hustling off from one chore to the next…
“This is eerie. If it weren’t for all those Burka-clad women, I’d swear this could be Manchester. I even see a cathedral. Looks open.”
Benghazi had fallen so fast that the city center was nearly picture-perfect. Unfortunately, there were no visible shortcuts through the maze of NAZI checkpoints and patrols all over town.
He dropped back down into the relative safety behind the old sandstone wall. The abandoned farmhouse on the city’s outskirts was only slightly damaged. The owners had sure left in a hurry, not bothering to take the gold-plated Menorah hanging over the fireplace.
“You do realize that this is a completely unnecessary risk. Right, Captain?”
“So’s getting out of bed in the morning.” At his elbow, Captain Steele cringed, the closest thing to a smile he could give with that cavernous old scar. “Come now. We need more supplies if we’re going all the way back to Tobruk.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. We could just knock off a few isolated trucks and take what we need. Where’s the sense in sneaking into the heart of the beast?”
Kat interrupted from the back of the nearby jeep, idly fondling a sack full of frag grenades. “Oh, where’s the fun in that?”
“She’s right, but for the wrong reasons.” Steele spread his map out on his knees. “Look, their headquarters already predicts a certain percentage of material won’t make it from Point A to B. Just the cost of doing business. A single panzer division burns through 360 long tons of supplies a day on average, so they’ll just round up their requirements to 400 tons shipped every that?”
Steele murmured to himself and flipped through his overlays. “No, if you really want to get the enemy’s knickers in a bunch, you need to hit them where they feel safe. We kill a few truck drivers, and they’ll just shrug. If we raid a depot though, they’ll double up their rear area guards everywhere. That’s hundreds, maybe thousands, of fighters pulled away from the front.”
“So, a campaign of terror? Like the Huns or something?”
“Hey, the old tricks are the best tricks. You down to have a squizz or not, bro?”
Trufflefoot tossed his forearms across his knees and sagged his head.
“German, French, or English, please, stow the Down Under hornswoggle.”
“You know what I mean—a kangaroo’s breakfast. Pull a Captain Cook. A looksie... Recon, man!” Steele rose and adjusted his civilian dungarees. Kat rolled her eyes at the Maori tribal tattoos still faintly visible under the cotton. The fabric stretched far too tight over his bulging biceps.
“Come on, who do you think you’re fooling?” Steele ignored her and circled a finger over his head. Two more similarly dressed, and equally terrifying warriors stalked after him like jungle cats.
“You look like one of Goebbels’s propaganda posters. If you’re lucky, they’ll only arrest you hulking Aryans for desertion. Either way, you’re about as subtle as a depth charge.”
Trufflefoot hefted his old bones up and tucked a pistol into his khakis. Kat pouted her lips. “Major, don’t go. You know there’s a better way to do this. Turn me loose.”
“Kat, I’m the only guy here that speaks German… oh. Now you can’t be serious. I’d rather take my chances with these killers than send a civilian. A female one at that.” He waved his hands as she protested. “Don’t get me wrong, dear. No doubt you’re a better shot than me and probably can swap blows with the best of them, but this isn’t a fight. It’s spy work. At least I have some experience there.”
Kat howled in laughter. “You think paying a few informants for information is the same as field wet work? What’s your exfiltration plan? Cover story? What do you do if you pick up a tail?”
Steele set his jaw and pumped his chest out. “We’ll figure it out. Always have before.”
“For Christ sakes, I’m not insulting your bloody masculinity.” Kat yanked on her red hair, her usual reaction when testosterone tried to smother reason.
“This place isn’t occupied by colonial police nor Italian reservists. This is Gestapo territory. They eat amateurs like you for breakfast.”
Steele clawed at his beard. “Yeah? You seem to have a little too much experience here. What do you know about the Gestapo?”
Kat looked away fast and ground her teeth. She squared her shoulders and plastered on her sweetest smile. “Ok, clearly I’m not getting through to you cavemen. Tuck your balls away and use your heads for once. How many of you speak both Italian and German? Show of hands.” The men just shuffled about.
“Kat, that’s not the point. Think about—”
“And how many of you have real cloak and dagger espionage experience in hostile lands? Could you tell a dead drop from a brothel?”
Trufflefoot worked his jaw, studying the girl as if seeing her for the first time. “Wait… no. I mean, your father’s situation, of course, but… I checked on you—part of the standard security clearance. Lyons tried to hide it, but I know you did some freelance work for the SIS between the wars. Still, it must have been clerical in nature…”
&nbs
p; “The records were sealed, weren’t they?”
Dore and Steele both cocked their heads at Trufflefoot. “Burnt, actually. Colonel Lyons did a great job making it look like an accident. Thomas Wintringham also personally vouched for you. How did you meet him if you weren’t in the headquarters? And Lyons, of course… well, you know.”
“Yeah, Tom. He’s a good egg. He and Yank Levy taught me everything I know about a blade. But it was Jack, Colonel Lyons, that taught me a few tricks, so I didn’t need to use one every time.” Kat sighed and stared off at the city. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean I don’t still owe him. Let me help settle the debt.”
Trufflefoot tore off his glasses and massaged his sore pupils. “Is that what those Scotland Yard boys were after the day we shipped out here? When Lyons hid you? I thought they were investigating him, and he was just trying to cover up his affair.”
“What the hell are you two gabbing about?” Captain Steele folded his arms and stamped his boot.
Trufflefoot muttered to himself and laughed. “Oh, the whole game makes sense now. All the hush-hush don’t ask questions about how some dame knows more about guerilla warfare than anyone on staff. I always thought it was odd that Colonel Lyons hired a secretary that couldn’t type worth a damn. Gentlemen, our innocent little Kat here, was one of the British Battalion’s spies in the Spanish Civil War. All thoroughly illegal, yet quietly sanctioned back when Lyons was only a Captain in the SIS. Or were you just a simple mercenary?”
“Whatever paid the bills and gave me a chance to kill some fascists.” She stuck a hand on her hip and glared. “How about we stop dawdling? We can trade war stories over some fresh bratwurst tonight. You have to understand. I can’t just walk right up to a tempting supply dump. It’s a game of seduction. I’ll need at least an hour to worm my way close to each one without attracting attention.”
Trufflefoot shook his head. Dore stepped closer, dropping the protective arm he tried to wrap-around her when he caught That Look. Steele studied her unflinching shark eyes for a solid minute.
“Ok, I guess you know your onions.” Captain Steele grunted. “I’m sold. No contact though. Just find us a supply point with the weakest security. Simple. No crazy spy shit, are we clear?”
Kat batted innocent eyelashes his way and gave a naughty, “Yes, sir, bossman, sir.”
She rooted in her rucksack before wrapping the most colorful of Awan’s old blankets around her shoulders. As a finishing touch, she pulled her turban, a gift from the veteran desert raiders, tight around her face.
“I don’t know. You can hide the red hair, but your skin still isn’t quite sunburnt enough to pass for an Arab.” Trufflefoot circled around her, chewing his fingernails to nubs.
Steele whistled. “Actually, I’d say it’s pretty good. This place has been a crossroads of the Mediterranean for thousands of years. Plenty of mixed-breed locals. Most importantly, she looks feminine enough to not appear threatening, yet definitely not the slightest bit attractive.”
Kat scowled. “Oh, I’ll remember that one.”
She tucked a pair of frag grenades in her pockets and reached for a submachine gun. “If I’m not back by sunset, then you can start worrying.”
Captain Steele swooped against her and shoved his hands in her pockets. He juggled both grenades out as she jerked the gun away from him. “Look, if you’re searched, you can explain away not having any papers by claiming to be a refugee, but that much heavy metal is going to turn heads.”
“Yes, mama.”
She chucked over the Sten gun, plus two extra pistols he hadn’t even seen. Steele snickered and offered his bayonet. “A knife isn’t so wild. From what I’ve heard from Sergeant Dore, that’s more than enough for a… lady like yourself.”
“Good to see that chivalry isn’t dead.” Kat snorted, waving his blade away. “No thanks. I’ve got my own. All right. You boys stay out of trouble while I’m out shopping.”
She spun around and dashed off towards the city center before any of the nervous men could say a word.
Central Benghazi
G od, you stink. Go clean yourself up, schwein!”
Kat flinched at the bar of soap bouncing off her head. With a deep breath and a couple of counts, she let go of her blade’s rubber handle and scurried on all fours to pick up the gift. Both of the German guards laughed at her eagerness. The whole compound had a two-meter high wall around it. She heard every little snide joke as she wailed inside the gaping main gate’s entrance… if that’s what you’d call the ten-meter hole in the wall, secured only by two bored supply truck drivers. One of them whistled as Kat bent over.
“Not a bad rump. Wash up and come back in an hour when we’re off duty. Maybe you could earn a few Marks…”
The soldier’s buddy elbowed him in the ribs. “Ah, you know she doesn’t understand you. Screwing one of these untermenschen is like banging a sheep. Shame though, she clearly has some Aryan in her.”
“I bet she’d love some more!”
While the soldiers giggled, Kat tucked away her bag of random knickknacks and studied the guardhouse one last time. She’d already spent more than an hour scavenging the rubble outside the depot, begging for treats from the guards. Plenty enough time to case the joint and realize there were no roving patrols around. Most importantly, she learned the gate guards had no radio, and their old NCO had bad knees. It was just too far for him to walk and check up on the perimeter every 30 minutes as Standard Operating Procedures called for. She purred at the guards under her breath.
“Danke.”
One of the men stopped smiling as he caught her parting grin. Something in her eyes made him clutch his Mauser tight. Straightening up, Kat dashed across the street, ahead of a motorcade of German Command Cars and half-tracks barreling her way.
She disappeared into Benghazi’s central market, or Freedom Square, according to a twisted propaganda sign, and mingled with the crowd in the bazaar. She started haggling in Italian with a local fruit vendor on the northern corner of the square, trying to swap the scrap items she’d accumulated over the last few hours for some fresh orange juice and dates.
“This isn’t right… Sayeed, what’s that beautiful building down there? A mosque?” She jerked her head towards the far side of the wide plaza, trying to keep her interest casual. The motorcade completely ignored the turnoff towards the heavily secured military compounds on the city’s west side. Instead, they all formed a little circle outside the holy site right in the middle of town.
The merchant gave her wares a half-interested glance and sang in Italian. “It used to be. Now the Atiq Mosque is, uh… you’re not from around here, are you?” The bearded local blinked rapidly and dropped his voice.
Kat launched into her standard cover story about being a widowed Egyptian refugee escaping the rampaging Brits.
The merchant wagged his hand. “Doesn’t matter. Here, take your juice and go with Allah. I don’t care where just not here. I’ll give you a little tip, stay away from that place, and stop asking so many questions. These Germans don’t play games like the Italians.” His leathery skin slackened as a squad of grim-faced soldiers fanned out from the motorcade and began shoving locals away and kicking over carts.
“If you don’t have any papers, you should disappear. Before they disappear you.”
Kat scooted away. She circled the square from the east, moving away yet still keeping the mosque in her sight. After crossing two streets, she was about to dash over a third when a lone German Officer getting out of the middle car snapped her head around.
“No bloody way…”
The average-sized man didn’t look any different from the half-dozen other officers crowding around. However, there was something in the way he carried himself. That smooth, confident strut. The dirty tanker goggles on his cap. Those swift, calculated movements. Just like a fox…
Kat gasped when a General came up to greet him and nodded in respect. Field Marshall Rommel stopped and turned enou
gh to reveal his perpetual poker face.
“Hot damn!” She dropped her sack and tore off in a trot…
Just as the screech of brakes filled the air, a speeding German Command Car squealed to a halt as she dived clear, the front fender millimeters from crushing her legs.
Kat scrambled off the cobblestones and dashed away as the young driver blared the horn and cussed at her. She vanished down a side alley while the apoplectic driver apologized to his lone passenger.
A pair of jackboots echoed after her, but she had a considerable head start. There was no way they could catch her.
So Kat slowed down and caught her breath.
Slipping into the shadows of yet another tight alley, she found a bombed-out house that still had a front door attached. With a lazy dropkick, she slipped inside. Leaning against the inside frame, Kat slid off her trousers and blouse in seconds. Boots clacked around the corner, and a moment later, just a rifle muzzle flashed in front of the doorway.
“Da ist Sie!”
Kat snaked a long, smooth thigh out the door. “Thank God I found that razor…” She muttered while wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, modestly, but not too tightly.
The sight of the first shaved leg they’d seen in months, electrified both 18-year-old soldiers. Kat didn’t give them a second to think before she moaned in German.
“Sorry for the trouble, boys. Just looking for work. Maybe I could give you lads a freebie, to make up for the worry.”
The rifle barrels wavered as they murmured back and forth. One of them shouldered his weapon and nudged the other. “Well, it’s not like she’s a spy or something. The feldwebel won’t lose any sleep if we can’t find her. Besides, it’s a long dry spell until payday!”
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