The Rat Patrol 2: Desert Danger (6 page)

Well, off we go, he told himself, dropping prone and listening to the sands. He detected the footsteps of the sentry on the outside of his line of tanks, going away, he was certain, and skittered to the last Panzerwagon. Moffitt leapt from the ground, grasped the armored side and pitched himself into the back of the vehicle. He dropped lightly to the bed and knelt in the spot where he landed, tense and ready to spring. He thought he heard a rustle, a flutter of a motion but it went away.

Moffitt slid back along the bed until his back was against the armor and would present no silhouette. Then he lifted himself slowly to his feet to survey the situation. There was, he noted with satisfaction, ample space, a good ten feet, between the back of the vehicle and the wall. Hitch should be easily able to get into the corridor and away by running in a simple reverse, then forward, maneuver. He considered the corridor thoughtfully. It could become a deadly trap if someone in the tents was alert enough to pull a vehicle across it at the far end and seal them in, cork them up like not so jolly flies in a bottle. He turned his head to the tent area. If, on the other hand, Hitch were to reverse first into the corridor, he could drive along the wall past the tent area and sweep wide into open desert. The only possible obstacle would be the first tank, and the Jerries would have to fire it up and get it into reverse at a rather hasty clip to block the way. Rather than run the gauntlet down the corridor, the tent area presented by far the better route, Moffitt decided. If it became necessary to crash over a few tents to elude pursuit, well, it
was
war.

Moffitt turned slowly now to consider the guard at the entry. His shoulders had dropped a little on the wall and his head was down again. Moffitt decided he would not use the noose on the man. It was both risky and time consuming. At the first signal, the sound of running feet, commotion or confusion, he would shoot the man and Hitch could reverse the halftrack and have it waiting for Wilson, Troy and Tully right at the entrance.

He loosened his robes, unhitched his web belt and strapped it on again outside so the forty-five was ready at his hip. A smile set itself on his lips and stayed there. Herr Hauptmann Dietrich was in for a night that would haunt him as long as he lived. Chuckling soundlessly, he checked the guard again, rolled over the far side of the steel bulwark and slid into the front of the vehicle to sit on the floor and whisper his plans to Hitch.

For a stunned moment he sat like a statue on the seat and then he was out of the halftrack and crawling away as fast as he dared. Hitch was not in the halftrack.

Herr Hauptmann Hans Dietrich was in an unusual mood. He was jovial, even expansive. Rarely did he indulge himself in such unmilitary luxuries. He was a stem disciplinarian who demanded more of himself than he did of his men. But this had been a day of singular achievement. He did not recall a day in his entire military career, a career that reached back to early boyhood and spanned most of his twenty-seven years, that had brought him such personal satisfaction.

True, the spearhead he had sought to thrust into the Allied defenses at Bir-el-Alam had been turned aside but that had been a probing action and the withdrawal of his forces had been strategic. Far from being defeated, the maneuver at Bir-el-Alam had been successful beyond his hopes. His capture of the American Colonel Wilson had been brilliant. While the main body of the Afrika Korps armor had raced straight on, two armored cars, hidden from the pursuing
Allied armor, had pulled off into wadis on either side of the route, while a third had lagged invitingly behind.

Dietrich himself had set the trap. He had glimpsed the flamboyant and foolish American colonel through his binoculars racing on to victory ahead of his armor in a scout car. Dietrich laughed aloud. If the colonel had not been wearing his stage-play white varnished helmet with its great golden eagle, standing erect in the scout car with those worthless twin pearl-handled pistols at his hips, it was almost certain that Dietrich would not have recognized him and risked the capture. But Dietrich had recognized this silly man who sought to make himself a legend. Dietrich had set the trap and the colonel had taken the bait. As if he were a knight on a charger, the colonel had sped ahead of his regiment when he spied the limping Afrika Korps vehicle. He had thought to make the capture singlehanded with the aid only of his driver, but the two armored cars had closed in from behind. The colonel was lucky he had not been shot on the spot as his driver had been. Or maybe not so lucky, Dietrich added dryly in his mind.

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 smacked 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."