The Rat Patrol 2: Desert Danger (25 page)

"Let's get off this hill," Troy yelled, grabbing two grenades and throwing himself on the downslope, rolling toward the valley. He did not think the aircraft would open fire on their own men.

Tully plunged after Troy, dragging along the light machine gun. Halfway down they found a spoonlike hollow and crawled to it, lay there panting. The Stukas howled over the battlefield at about a thousand feet and skimmed on without opening fire or dropping bombs.

"The pilots can't tell what's going on yet," Troy said, leaping up. "Let's finish them off."

He heaved a grenade and ran in a crouch toward the bed of the valley. Moffitt and Hitch were scrambling down the opposite slope. The only enemy fire was sporadic, coming from somewhere behind the last burning car.

"Lie low," Troy shouted as the Stukas again screamed overhead.

The planes shot over the flaming wreckage and raging towers of black smoke, veering and streaking up. They had come in lower on this pass but still they withheld their fire.

Moffitt and Hitch were working toward the last car. They fell to the ground as another burst of shots spattered from the position. While Moffitt lay down a barrage of covering fire, Hitch rolled ofl to the side and squeezed two bursts. Jerry firing ceased.

"Down, don't move," Troy shouted as the three Stukas came in very low.

The four men of the Rat Patrol sprawled motionless in the sand with the dead. The planes flashed by, guns still silent, circling back for another look. They made still another, wider circle and a final sweep above the valley. Then they shot up steeply and flew east in a V.

"Any survivors?" Troy asked, getting to his haunches.

"I think that does it, Sam," Moffitt said, mopping his face. "We should have accounted for most of the Jerries in this part of the desert by now."

"He keeps turning up unexpectedly," Hitch said, snapping his gum.

"I worry about the Stukas," Troy said. "I wonder what they were doing west of here and when they'll be back. They'll report what they saw and someone's going to be boiling mad." A smile darted across his face. "Let's get up to the water can and take a break. Make sure those aircraft don't get cute and sneak back on us."

The sun blazed from a cleared sky and heat rose in moist layers. Moffitt handed the five-gallon Jerry can to Troy. Troy unscrewed the cap and lifted the tin to his lips. He hesitated suspiciously and sniffed, drawing back his lips.

"That's not water," he said disgustedly, handing the can to Moffitt. "Does Jerry always carry his extra gasoline in water cans?"

"It's water in the other can," Tully drawled. "We been drinking it."

"The gasoline may come in handy, old chap," Moffitt said, laughing. "I noticed the gauge. The tank is nearly dry."

"We can wait," Troy said, throwing himself to the ground, first scanning the sky for the Stukas then turning to the six burning cars and twenty-four bodies below. He wished they could have spared one of the vehicles. He thought they could work the camouflaged car back in the wadi free from the mud but it might take time. Jerry was certain to send back the Stukas, Troy thought. The enemy would be smarting from the trail of destruction the Rat Patrol had left from Sidi Abd almost to Bir-el-Alam. He grinned broadly. Dietrich would long regret taking Wilson prisoner.

He searched the sky once more and looked over the dunes about them. They seemed to be alone. He stood wearily, pulling off his bush hat and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Hoisting the can of gasoline, he started back toward the wadi. Moffitt trudged beside him, breathing hard. Hitch and Tully slouched behind, Hitch carting the tinned meat and Tully the biscuits, dragging their feet and trailing their guns in the oppressive heat. Their khaki shirts were muddy and wet from sand and sweat. Troy hoped they could get back to Bir-el-Alam without further interruption. Back to the sack. But he would hate to bet on it.

He straightened, lifting his eyes from his feet. To the south and east, he saw a Jerry patrol car with the cross on its side climbing a dune. The canvas top was up and he could not see how many soldiers were in the car.

"Down," he called quickly, diving into the sand. The other three dug furrows beside him and he watched the car roll over the dune and disappear. "I don't think they saw us," he said, "but we'd better lie low. Jerry must be combing this area with everything he's got."

He waited for a second car to appear and when it did not, turned on his side to Moffitt.

"What do you make of it, Doctor?" he asked, puzzled.

"It does seem a bit odd," Moffitt said, wrinkling his forehead. "Usually there are a pair of them at least."

"They must have heard the firing," Troy said. "Funny they didn't come over to lend a hand or investigate at least."

"And did the aircraft see them or know about them?" Moffitt wanted to know.

The lone car appeared again, a good mile off now and traveling east on the ridges. It continued its course steadily and after a few moments Troy moved on his belly below the top of the dune. The unexpected appearance of this car disturbed him. He wished he could have seem how many Jerries were in it. He wondered how close the car had been to the camouflaged vehicle in the wadi and whether Wilson had had trouble preventing Dietrich from crying out. He stood, stepping off at a fast clip.

"Hey, Sarge, have a heart," Tully groaned.

Troy grunted and began to trot, can of gasoline slapping against his leg. His face was running with sweat and his wounded leg throbbed a little. He could see tracks extending back now from the spot he had first sighted the car. They seemed a little beyond the wadi but too close for comfort. He broke into a run, transferring the can to his left hand and loosening the flap of his holster. The others brought their light machine guns at the ready, up across their chests.

They dug up a final dune and Troy stopped dead, panting and swearing. The patrol car and Dietrich were gone and Wilson was sitting on the ground, tied hand and foot, the same way they had left Dietrich.

Dietrich had edged himself from the floor onto the back seat of the car and watched angrily through the netting as Sergeant Troy led his men off to ambush the German patrol. It was a large patrol of four cars, Dietrich knew, and had been roaming the western part of the German held territory, alert for renewed Allied activity. He had been counting on this patrol to block the way to Bir-el-Alam and release him. Now, unless aircraft found him and his captors and somehow disabled the vehicle, it looked as if any opportunity to escape was gone. He strained at the ropes that secured his wrists but the knots were firm.

Wilson and he were protected from the sun by the high canvas top but was airless under the confining netting. The American colonel was in the front seat, half turned, watching Dietrich from droopily lidded eyes. He held a Luger casually in one hand. Dietrich worked his wrists forth and back but the ropes only seemed to bite in harder.

It was a disaster, Dietrich fumed in silence. Wholesale destruction had been dealt the Afrika Korps and a smashing blow delivered to his campaign plans. Worst of all, he was a prisoner. He felt his rage burn fiercely. He was grimly determined that he would have his revenge on the Rat Patrol. But how,
Gott in himmel,
how? Tied with ropes that held his hands caught toward his ankles, he could not stand nor sit upright. He could not even wipe off the perspiration that was running into his eyes and beading his nose.

Wilson's head nodded and dropped to his chest. He jerked awake immediately but his eyes were heavy. Dietrich looked furtively about the car for some forgotten tool or weapon as Wilson's eyes closed again. There was nothing. Everything had been shut up in the trunk or carried off to the ambush. If I could only free my hands, Dietrich thought wildly, twisting and tugging at the line. It was no use. He would be carried into Bir-el-Alam a helpless captive and sent to some prisoner of war camp to sit out the battles with the Italians. The prospect was enough to make a strong man weep.

He heard planes passing so far overhead their motors made only faintly audible drummings. He thought they must be the Luftwaffe's Stukas but he did not believe that they were searching for him. In some respects, the Luftwaffe operated entirely too independently although they were under orders to cooperate. Or had his own headquarters already called off the hunt? It could not be possible. He should have his own light aircraft for liaison and observation as Rommel did.

Dietrich studied Wilson, head bobbing, eyes fatigued and strained. With the American drowsy and inattentive, he might be less cautious than normal. Dietrich tried desperately to think of some innocuous reason for asking Wilson to loosen his wrists. Not untie them, that would be too farfetched, but unloosen them from the cord that bound them to his feet. Dietrich's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Wilson was a career officer and observed military amenities. His attitude would not be the same as Sergeant Troy's, Dietrich thought. Wilson would observe a degree of respect for another officer, whatever country's uniform he wore.

"Colonel Wilson," Dietrich said quietly. "Will you please loosen my hands for a few minutes?"

Colonel Wilson's eyes popped wide and he smiled. "Certainly not, Captain," he said, laughing. "I suspect you also would like me to remove the ropes from your legs so you can take a walk."

"It will not be necessary to untie my legs or even untie my wrists, only loosen the single strand so I may stand upright," Dietrich said with dignity. "You see, I must relieve myself."

Wilson hesitated and frowned. "All right," he said slowly and reluctantly. "You are not to go from under the net. You will have to open the door and not leave the back seat. You understand?"

"Yes, Colonel," Dietrich said, heart quickening and muscles tensing. He had not thought it would be so easy. "You are a considerate person."

"I shall have to shoot you if you make a suspicious move," Wilson said, laying the pistol beside him on the seat. He leaned over the back. "Move up close so I can get at the knots."

His fingers plucked and strained at the rope that joined Dietrich's hands to his feet. As Wilson jerked the line free, Dietrich crashed his bound but doubled fists against Wilson's throat, then slamming them at the base of his skull as he doubled, coughing and choking. Wilson slumped back in the front seat, half sprawling on the floor. Dietrich toppled over the seat, grasping Wilson's pistol and pushing it in his waistband. He shoved Wilson's limp body off the seat, searched along the base of the windscreen frame until he found a jagged piece of glass. He began to saw his wrists across the glass. The nylon rope was tough and Dietrich sweated, working furiously. His arm slipped and the glass cut a jagged wound in his arm. Blood dripped onto the dashboard and splashed on his breeches. He ground the rope harder into the glass, paused to examine it, found it fraying.

Somewhere in the distance, a series of explosions rattled back to the wadi and there was small arms fire, the zipped bursts from light machine guns. He heard the planes again, flying lower now. The rope parted and he ripped it from his wrists, rubbing and chafing them. He bound a handkerchief about the bleeding cut, bent over and worked at the ropes about his ankles until his feet were free. The planes seemed to be near at hand and circling. Working with frantic haste, he tied the lines tightly about the unconscious Wilson's hands and feet and pulled the camouflage netting from the top, searching the sky for the Stukas. He found them, flying in a V formation toward the east and cursed them. When he reached the back of the car, he retrieved his boots from the trunk.

He quickly inspected the wet sand in the wadi and the holes the spinning wheels had dug. Doubling the camouflage net, he jammed it under the tires, spreading it back across the sand to form a firm, rough surface. Then he started the car, put it in reverse gear and gently eased out the clutch, feeding the gas with a light foot. The tires gripped the netting and the car began to move back. Easily, easily, Dietrich thought, a few inches, a foot. Gradually the car pulled its nose from the bank and climbed back on the netting.

Dietrich slammed back the door, leaving the motor running but the car in neutral gear. He ran across the wadi, testing the ground, looking for the best way out. He was fearful of a steep slope at the east, trotted around to the other side where the depression shallowed and the sand seemed more solid. Back in the car, he considered Wilson for a moment. His eyes glinted as he thought of returning to Sidi Abd with the prisoner but he shook his head regretfully, opening the door and pushing the American colonel out onto the ground. It was a considerable distance to Sidi Abd and Dietrich did not wish to be hampered in any way. Also, he thought and made a wry face, he did not wish to provide the Rat Patrol with reason to return until he was prepared for them.

He reversed cautiously, creeping back on the netting until he had sufficient room to maneuver a tight turn. In low gear, he pulled out of the wadi, driving slowly, restraining his desire for speed. Coming around the wadi, he found a slope extending into the dunes toward the south and east. As the car climbed a mound, Dietrich looked back. He glimpsed four figures who flung themselves to the ground. He smiled thinly. The Rat Patrol apparently had been successful in their ambush but they still had a long trek to Bir-el-Alam and there should be another patrol somewhere close at hand. His eyes became steely slits and over another dune and concealed in a hollow, he stopped and switched on the radio transmitter, calling his headquarters at Sidi Abd.

Ja, mein herr Haupmann,
there were two patrols in that sector of the desert but
nein,
it had been impossible to contact either of them for more than half an hour. They would keep on trying.
 
Und ja,
the Luftwaffe would be notified that the enemy was fleeing on foot and requested to pursue the search for them. The captain was returning?
Gute. Gute.

It was not so good, Dietrich thought bleakly, switching off the set. If HQ had been unable to raise either of the patrols, it could mean the Rat Patrol had accounted for them both. And what had the divebombers been doing off to the west when they should have been searching for him? It could mean the Allied forces were advancing and with his crippled armor, the situation could become difficult if not downright nasty. It was far past time for him to get back to his command.