The Rat Patrol 4 - Two-Faced Enemy (13 page)

He decided to try once more for a breakthrough at the middle of the field, going in with tanks to clear a path for at least two hundred yards further. He sent in two tanks to sweep the field on either side of the pile-up. The tanks roared out and before they reached the disastrous middle, their guns were working the field. There seemed to be an astonishingly large number of mines concentrated beyond the disabled tanks and the advance by the minesweepers was agonizingly slow. The Allied positions opened fire but the dust concealed Dietrich's tanks, which were also moving targets. They advanced beyond the fifteen-hundred-yard point for a hundred yards before one of them was struck.

Dietrich ordered the second tank to fire on the enemy position by calculation. The tank loosed a dozen shells and silenced the emplacement.

Dietrich commanded the tank to continue working its way ahead in the field. A second enemy position now opened fire on it. Dietrich's tank had advanced another hundred yards before it was hit. He did not order additional units into the field but waited again for the air to clear.

He was paying a terrible price for clearing the minefield. Now he was certain he had destroyed one emplacement, but he was left with only twenty-five tanks against the enemy's twenty-four and with the full rotating turrets on the Allied tanks, the units on either side of the one his tanks had knocked out could bring converging fire on armor he tried to push through on the path that had been cleared.

The sun was climbing rapidly and the temperature had soared over a hundred degrees. The tank crews undoubtedly were exhausted to the point of incompetence. When the dust had settled, Dietrich ordered his medics into the field in Volkswagens to pick up the casualties, and he sent mechanics out to drain the gas from the disabled tanks. The enemy held his fire.

Intermittently all morning the battle had raged on the plateau and a haze of grit had descended on the port. Now Farb reported another lull in the battle and the loss of one position to Wilson. It had been a direct hit that had penetrated the three-inch armor of the turret, killing the gunner and wounding two of the crew. The remaining two members of the crew were treating the wounded and would attempt to bring them down the foot path from the number twenty position at the east edge of town. Farb was drawing one man from the number twenty position and one man from the number twenty-one emplacement to help carry the litters. He reported he felt certain he could hold until the next day when the squadron of B-25s was promised.

Wilson called for two armored cars to pick up the wounded and went himself along with his greasy-faced sergeant, taking the opportunity to make a visual inspection of the halftracks at the foot of Latsus Pass. It was unbearably hot again this noon and there was not a breath of air.

The ocean lay smooth as a piece of blue glass and the mussel shells glowed as if they were afire. The native quarter seemed to sleep in silence as he rode along the military boulevard, but it was an uneasy rest and Wilson had nightmarish forebodings. The MPs and even the cars that patrolled seemed jittery. No one lurked in the alleys, but the MPs took one look and jerked away from them in a hurry.

At the edge of town, the second armored car turned onto a dirt trail that led to the edge of the bluff where a narrow path zigzagged to the top. It was not a good means of communication with the plateau, but it had been the most satisfactory Wilson had been able to find except through Latsus Pass. He remembered that the Arab who'd escaped the massacre had mentioned an old route, undoubtedly the one the Rat Patrol had used to climb to the escarpment, and he wondered whether it was feasible to use it, passing through the native quarter as it must. It was strange the Arabs should now be friendly with the Rat Patrol after they'd killed a dozen tribesmen, but the Arabs were clannish and fought among themselves as much as they did with unbelievers. It must have been men from some distant tribe the Rat Patrol had murdered or the local Arabs never would have welcomed them.

He rode past the backup line of six halftracks on to the units stationed near the beginning of the pass, beyond the range of the mortars and machine guns upstairs. His officer in charge, Captain Loring Drake, reported everything was quiet.

"Yesterday afternoon, it sounded as if they were clearing the pass, dragging out the halftracks that they'd hit," Drake said thoughtfully.

"Obviously," Wilson observed dryly, "otherwise how would the Rat Patrol have come through? Are you certain there was firing in the pass when the Rat Patrol broke out?"

"Absolutely," Drake declared. "Machine gun fire and mortars. It's a miracle those jeeps made it."

"I think that fire was a smoke screen," Wilson said. "I think the Rat Patrol came straight from Dietrich's CP where they'd sold us out. We monitored a report from Moffitt to the Jerries this morning. They've defected." 

"The Rat Patrol defected!" Drake exclaimed, horrified, and his eyes got larger behind horn-rimmed glasses. "That's impossible. This must all be a Jerry trick."

"I wish I could think that," Wilson said bitterly. "Unfortunately I saw the four of them myself this morning. They were in the bazaar inciting a band of Arabs. Troy threatened me and the Arabs attempted to overturn my car. It's a hideous piece of treachery that makes me want to vomit." 

"Then you haven't picked them up yet?" Drake asked. 

"They're hiding and protected in the native quarter," Wilson said. "When we've finished with Dietrich, I'll ferret them out if I have to tear down every house and damn the consequences. They'll be tried and sentenced to death."

"It is a terrible thing," Drake said unhappily.

"It is a terrible thing," Wilson agreed. "Well, don't let Jerry come through the way you did the Rat Patrol." 

"How was I to know?" Drake asked in an injured tone of voice. "They've always enjoyed the run of any place we've been and we've never challenged them."

"If you should see them again, if they should try to break out, don't challenge them now," Wilson said, "Shoot them on sight."

"I'll do it," Drake said, shaking his head. "I'll hate it, but I'll do it."

Wilson's sergeant drove silently half the way back to the edge of Sidi Beda. He chewed his cigar butt as if he were preoccupied and several times acted as if he wanted to say something. Finally he turned to Wilson and blurted, "Is it true, sir, what they're saying about the Rat Patrol?" 

"I don't know what they're saying," Wilson said crisply. 

"They say Troy got himself messed up with an Arab girl and she talked him into going over to the other side," the sergeant said. "They say the others went with him like they always do."

"I don't know," Wilson said. "They'll be tried when they're picked up."

There probably was a good deal of truth in what the sergeant said, Wilson thought. There had to be some explanation for the Rat Patrol's behavior. As soon as things were under control, he'd go into the quarter and pick up the girl at the Fat Frenchman's. She was the one Troy had spent the afternoon with before going out on the patrol. She undoubtedly knew where he was hiding if he wasn't with her at this moment.

The sergeant turned onto the trail to the bluff. Wilson heard the chatter of machine gun fire and two jeeps, windshields down against the hoods, bounded down the trail and swerved into one of the alleys that led into the native quarter. Troy was at the machine gun in the back of one of the jeeps, Moffitt at the gun in the other.

"After them," Wilson shouted to his driver. "It's the Rat Patrol."

The sergeant rammed the car into the alley and slammed on his brakes.

"Can't make it," he said, pointing ahead to a sharp turn. "I'd pile up on that corner."

"Then let's get up to the other car in a hurry," Wilson said. "They were shooting at something."

The men were just coming down the last slope with two litters. At the bottom, the driver of the second armored car was looking at his windshield and cursing. It was shattered and his radiator was spouting water.

"If I hadn't of fallen to the floor they'd of got me," he said angrily. "They caught me alone out here. It was Troy did it. I seen him coming and got on the floor. He was laughing like a hyena before he cut loose with that burst."

Tully and Hitch opened their smokescreen exhausts as they slammed the jeeps out of the wadi. The seventy-five on the halftrack laid a dozen shells on their tails as they plunged away to the south and the west. The halftrack did not attempt to pursue the fleet little bugs.

"Whew!" Troy shouted to Tully. "They almost had us that time."

"How'd they find us, you think, Sarge?" Tully asked.

"We didn't fool them," Troy said. "They figured we'd be waiting for them somewhere and when they got near enough to Sidi Abd to feel safe, they sent the halftrack out to look for us and they found our tracks. Either that or we were spotted from the camp and reported."

"Now what?" Tully asked. "We'll never be able to ambush them. They'll have guns sticking out on all sides of every truck."

"Can you ride a horse?" Troy asked abruptly.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Tully demanded. 

"Pull into a wadi—no, pull up on a dune where you can watch for the halftrack," Troy said, ignoring the question. "I want to talk with Moffitt."

When they were parked and sweating in the scorching sun, their eyes on the halftrack far in the distance, Troy called to Moffitt, "Aren't those pals of yours—the sheik and his men who helped you and Hitch when we busted Wilson out of Sidi Abd—someplace around here?"

"The men of Abu-el-bab?" Moffitt asked. "Their city is far from here but they are a restless lot and often wander and raid even farther afield. What do you have in mind?" 

"That place where they camped before, is it the kind of place where they might return if they were in the neighborhood?" Troy persisted.

"It was a reasonably safe place near a small waterhole," Moffitt said. "Yes, if they were in this area I expect they would lift their pavilions at the same place. But why are you asking, Sam?"

"You ride a horse, Doctor?" Troy asked.

"I've never played polo worth a chukker," Moffitt said, "but I sit a steed reasonably well."

"The Jerries are too thoroughly alerted," Troy said. "We'll never be able to blow that gas now unless we come up with something cute. If we can find your friends and if they'll lend you some robes, a horse and two or three tribesmen who are circus performers, I think we can blow up this Jerry dump."

"It won't do a bit of harm to look," Moffitt said, an amused smile beginning to tug at his lips. "I believe I can locate that wadi again."

With Moffitt directing, Hitch shot into the lead. The jeeps circled to the west and north, coming up along the bramble of wire that marked the back boundary of the Devil's Garden of mines Dietrich had planted to protect his headquarters town. From the Garden, Moffitt plotted a course to the east and south over the rippled and rolling dunes. It was a chance in a thousand, Troy knew, but one they had to take because nothing else would work now. Moffitt was standing as they rolled from the tops of the sand hills into the valleys and up again. He directed them into one large wadi, shook his head at Troy and moved to the top of another dime. He told Hitch to stop and leaped down to study the sand.

"They've been here," he said excitedly, turning to Troy. "These hoof marks are fresh. We'll go in the direction they take."

The jeeps spurted on again plunging into a valley and over a hill. A half dozen riders in dark robes and burnooses and brandishing Mausers galloped up on fawn-colored horses. The jeeps stopped and Moffitt spoke in Arabic to a hawk-nosed man whose burnoose was embroidered with threads of gold and whom he called Al Ombo Beni. After a few moments the man touched his forehead, bowing slightly to Moffitt. The tribesmen trotted off.

"Follow them," Moffitt called and chuckled. "They remember me. I am Hamam Gameel, the good pigeon, to them and they will take me to their sheik, Ben-el-bab."

Ben-el-bab, the sheik of the men of Abu-el-bab, bade them welcome to his pavilion with its rich Turkish rugs and damask pillows. The sharp-eyed, cruel-faced Arab seemed genuinely pleased to see Moffitt and served the four of them very sweet pastries and thick coffee. Moffitt spoke briefly with him in Arabic and Ben-el-bab's eyes seemed to glitter with pleasure. He spoke rapidly to A1 Ombo Beni, who bowed and hastened from the tent.

Moffitt turned to Troy. "The sheik will provide robes and a horse for me and half a dozen superlative riders," Moffitt said. He looked extremely pleased. "They will put on a display of horsemanship that will have every Jerry at Sidi Abd grasping the edge of his tailgate and I shall appear to be a part of it."

"You explained that the Jerries will probably try to take revenge on the tribe?" Troy asked.

"I explained, Sam," Moffitt said with an amused smile, "and the idea fascinates the sheik. Now give him a bow and thank him in English. I explained that we do not have the time that protocol demands for a social call and he graciously understands."

Troy and Tully in one jeep and Hitch by himself in the other watched the seven robed figures on horseback disappear over the dunes at a trot and start for Sidi Abd some five miles away. Moffitt sat his high-cantled, silver-chased saddle with the same ease and grace as the Arabs. The jeeps followed at a distance and when they were yet a mile or more from the town, Tully and Hitch parked in a wadi and crawled with Troy to a dune to watch.

As the horsemen neared the walled city, the horses began to prance. The seven riders circled and then moved in a single file toward the entrance with the horses lifting their forefeet daintily and dancing. Suddenly all seven horses reared with forefeet pawing the air and charged full speed at the wall, wheeled and raced toward the desert. The Jerries who had been assembled at the fuel dump where the canvas had been pulled from the fuel drums stopped work to watch the Arabs.

Now each Arab on horseback drew a curved blade from its scabbard, galloped toward the city and hurled the blade into the sand where it quivered. The horses reared, turning on their hind legs and stretching out at a gallop. Each man, including Moffitt, leaned from his saddle and wrested his blade from the sand as he raced by.