The Rat Patrol 4 - Two-Faced Enemy (29 page)

Tully searched for several minutes before he said, "I see some dots moving out there. Is that what you mean?" 

"Try northwest, there should be some there by now," Troy said.

This time Tully said quickly: "Yeah. Half a dozen. Hey, they're tanks!"

"Sherman tanks," Troy said. "Ours."

"How'd they get out of the minefield?" Tully asked excitedly.

"They came out around it," Troy said, smiling at the surprise that awaited Dietrich when he became aware that he was caught in the jaws of a nutcracker. "Wilson didn't leave a safe path in that minefield, but it was laid out in concentric circles so the tanks could come out around the edge of the last circle. Last night he ordered the Shermans to pull out of the pits after the Jerry tanks left their positions opposite. He'll keep circling Dietrich just out of range until the Shermans close in or Dietrich gets wise and beats it."

"Why that's cuter than a bow on a hound dog's tail!" Tully exclaimed admiringly. "I never gave Wilson credit for that kind of brains."

"Neither did Dietrich," Troy said, laughing.

Not a shot was being fired by either Dietrich's or Wilson's forces in the field. Wilson continued his slow circle and Dietrich, with his gas low, held his formation in position, although by now, Troy thought, Dietrich must be getting a little uneasy and wondering just what was up. He retrieved his glasses from Tully and looked east and west again. The first of the Shermans were coming into focus, those beautiful, ground-hugging hulks with their low silhouettes and seventy-five millimeter guns in fully rotating turrets of three-point-two-inch armor. The tanks looked as if they were tearing up the desert at their top speed of twenty-five miles an hour but the sand hadn't dried out completely and they were leaving no telltale trails hanging in the air.

Another five minutes, ten at the most, and they'd be within range. All of them apparently were coming to do battle because their lines stretched in diagonals at both sides as far as the glasses would reach. Now Dietrich must have seen them because his armor suddenly moved out to the south, forming into a line. Dietrich didn't like the idea of the squeeze play at all. Wilson withdrew farther to the west. He wasn't going to risk being caught in the range of Dietrich's seventy-fives. Dietrich struck south at the head of the column. The Shermans came on.

"Well, chaps, that is the end of the assault on Sidi Beda," Moffitt said pleasantly.

"Dietrich will be back," Tully drawled and rolled a matchstick. "He always is."

"Not for a while," Troy said. "He won't have anything to come back in."

"Sarge," Tully pointed out. "He's getting away with about twenty tanks and some halftracks."

"You're forgetting, Tully," Troy said. "The Shermans are after him and he's plumb out of gasoline."

17

One of the better things about being in the Rat Patrol, Troy thought, was that with your irregular hours of duty, the commanding officer didn't give a hoot what you did with your time when you weren't on an assignment. Unless he happened to want you on your day off. Troy was taking a tepid shower and he was humming.

It was the afternoon of the day Dietrich's forces had been defeated, thoroughly whipped, crushed to nothingness on the plateau above Sidi Beda. It had been a clean sweep. The Shermans had continued after Dietrich's tanks until they had run out of gas. Twenty tanks in good running condition except they had no more gasoline. The five-man crews had surrendered them without a shot being fired. Dietrich, with a handful of halftracks and armored cars, had scampered toward Sidi Abd. Maybe they'd make it.

Troy wrapped his towel around his waist after he'd shaved and walked from the shower room into the barracks where no other military personnel was present except the other three members of the Rat Patrol, who were pounding their ears. They were wasting an afternoon that was theirs to do with as they pleased when all other men were on duty. He stepped into freshly pressed khakis washed thin enough to be cool, pulled on newly shined boots and clapped on his bush hat. The duty, beat up, thoroughly disreputable bush hat that had ridden through a hundred, or was it a thousand, missions. He wore the hat jauntily and he swaggered out of the barracks down the military avenue where the asphalt was bubbling and MPs patrolled in armored cars. It was a hot day, a very hot day, but not too hot to take Ray to the beach. They'd have a swim in the blue Mediterranean or perhaps get a native boy to take them out for a sail in one of those dinghy-like boats, then go back to the apartment at sunset for a cold bottle of beer, the fresh fish salad she'd promised three days before, and the whole evening alone with her.

He swung into the narrow alley across from HQ that led to the Fat Frenchman's, but caught himself up short when he got there. A jagged, broken-edged hole gaped where the door had been and the steps leading down had disappeared. Two MPs with tommy-guns stood inside the cellar.

"What happened? Where is Ray? Is she safe?" Troy shouted, chilled to the bone. He ran and leapt into the hole.

The MPs barred his way.

One, a cherub-cheeked sergeant with a rosebud mouth and a bass voice that seemed to rumble from the cavern of his guts, said, "Take it easy, Troy. We can't let you in. We can't let no one in. That's orders."

"But Ray," Troy yelled, "Is she safe?"

"You mean the girl?" the sergeant asked and smiled a tiny smile. "She your babe or something? Yeah, she's safe. Couldn't be safer. She ain't here, though."

"Where is she?" Troy demanded in agony.

"You'll have to ask at HQ where she is. They'll have to tell you," the sergeant said. "But don't worry none. I can tell you she ain't hurt and she's safe."

"What is all this?" Troy yelled. "What about Laurentz?" 

"You mean the Fat Frenchman?" the sergeant said innocently. "Yeah, he's safe. He's with her."

"All right," Troy said, relieved that at least Laurentz and Ray were together. "Now tell me what happened. How did the wall get blown in like that?"

"Look, Troy, you're all right, you're an okay fellow," the sergeant said soothingly. "We all heard about what you done and how it was. You're personally great. I'd tell you if I could but we got orders that we ain't to say nothing to nobody. You got to go to HQ for the dope."

"Hell!" Troy said disgustedly. "But you're sure Ray and Laurentz are okay?"

"Look, I tell you, I give you my word," the sergeant said. "They ain't got a scratch on them. Now go on to HQ, will you? We got our orders."

"Yeah, I know," Troy said, turning, half running down the alley to HQ.

He'd been afraid of something like this when he'd left.

He'd told Laurentz to bar the door. Some crazy Arab terrorist who hated the infidels had done this. Or maybe some crackpot French collaborator who thought the Jerries really were coming and wanted to show how he felt about the loyal French who thought the Allies were great. He knew he should have told Wilson to keep an eye on the cellar. Now Wilson had to have two of them on duty all the time.

He slammed into the first sergeant's office. Peilowski looked up and sucked in his breath as if he were unpleasantly surprised.

"Peilowski," Troy said in a growl. "Where are the Frenchman and Ray, that's his niece?"

"Troy, now listen," Peilowski said and chewed his fat lips nervously. "You'll have to see the colonel."

"Why do I have to see the colonel?" Troy demanded, threatening now. "What's he got to do with this? Why all the runaround? What happened up there?"

"Now look, fellow," Peilowski said, coming around his desk and putting his hand on Troy's shoulder. "There's nothing to worry about. Everything is okay. It's just that the colonel said anything about this would have to come from him."

"Why?" Troy shouted, jerking away from Peilowski's hand. "What's going on? Why should any information about the whereabouts of the Frenchman and Ray have to come from him? What's he got to do with it?"

"Troy," Peilowski pleaded, "don't ask me. Ask him. I just got my orders."

"That's right, Troy," a familiar voice said and Troy whirled to see Wilson in his tailored battle fatigues and white helmet with his pistols strapped at his hips. "Come to my office, Troy, and I'll explain it to you."

Half angry, half apprehensive, Troy stepped across the hall into Wilson's office. The colonel closed the door and turned on the fan. The four wooden blades started rotating slowly with a sound like an egg beater.

"Sit down," Wilson said, pushing a chair from the wall to the side of his desk. He removed his helmet and pistols and hung them on a hook on the wall, dropped into his chair and shook a cigarette at Troy.

"What is it?" Troy asked, lighting his cigarette with hands that trembled a little. "The front of the Frenchman's shop is blown out and nobody will tell me where Ray and Laurentz are. Is anything wrong?"

"They're all right, Troy," the colonel said. "They haven't been harmed. There is just a matter or two that must be cleared up. How well do you know them?"

"As well as I know anybody, I guess, her better than most," Troy said and bristled. "Why?"

"Do you know anything really personal about them, their loyalties and sympathies?" Wilson asked.

"Good loyal French, a hundred percent for the Allies," Troy said, beginning to get angry. "Why are you asking?" 

"Just that it appeared someone in town was collaborating with the Germans, helping that fake Rat Patrol," Wilson said.

"With due respect to your eagles and begging your pardon," Troy shouted, jumping to his feet and shoving his chair back so violently it crashed, "you got the muddle-minded idea when you thought the fake Rat Patrol was us that because I'd been friendly with Ray she was in on whatever they were doing!"

"Troy!" Wilson said sharply. "Restrain yourself."

Troy righted the chair and sat, silent and tight-lipped. His eyes were fierce.

"Now, if you'll remain calm, we probably can settle this matter quickly," Wilson said aloofly to let Troy know he had been offended by his behavior. "I'll admit I was deceived by the imitation Rat Patrol. I thought you had defected. I was hurt bitterly as an individual as well as shocked as an officer. Realize my position. A warehouse was bombed, weapons destroyed. Men were murdered by this band of men who impersonated you. They incited the natives to riot. I saw them several times at a distance. They were, to all appearances, you. There even was a matchstick in the fake Tully's mouth. I was desperate. Someone in town was helping them. Thinking they really were you, it was logical to think the Frenchman and his niece were giving you assistance and shelter."

"So you had them picked up." Troy said with icy scorn. "If it hadn't been for Ray, we never would have got out of Sidi Beda that noon you casually told us to find a goat path and get behind the Jerry lines. I went straight to her from HQ because I knew her father was an Arab and if anyone knew some way out, she would. It was she who told us about the old trade route, even offered to take us out over it. If it hadn't been for Ray getting us out, we'd never have hit the dumps, blown the Nebelwerfers, got into the armor. When it comes right down to it, if it hadn't been for Ray in the first place, you'd never have had your victory this morning. Both she and Laurentz hate the Jerries worse than we do. And you reward them by picking them up." 

Wilson had listened with patient restraint. When he spoke now, he was not stern. "Troy, I am sincerely sorry and I shall make what amends I can if they are the people you say. But the matter is not resolved by your emotional defense of your friends. There is a Frenchman who accuses them of collaborating with the Germans, the girl of fraternizing. Do you know a Frenchman named Nicodeme?" 

"No," Troy said curtly. His rage was burning.

Wilson observed him narrowly with eyes that suddenly seemed cold. He called Peilowski and told him to have the MPs bring in Nicodeme. When the swarthy, shifty-eyed Frenchman came into the room, Troy recognized him at once.

"I broke his wrist," Troy said. "I didn't know his name. He tried to knife a GI in the vane cellar. Ray told me this man hates her and her uncle."

"Nicodeme," Wilson said furiously, "that is exactly the story the girl told me and you denied it. You said that it was a lie, that you sprained your wrist working on the docks. I do not believe a word you have spoken. Now I want the truth."

"All that I said was true, I swear it," Nicodeme said, eyes jumping from one corner of the room to another.

"How can you say that?" Wilson said. He was becoming enraged. "The man who broke your wrist stands here and identifies you."

"Perhaps about that, I was a little drunk and did not remember," Nicodeme said.

"And about the other things?" Wilson said savagely. "The story about the Rat Patrol transporting the stolen gasoline into the desert? The story about the Frenchman reporting on the transmitter to the Germans? The story of the girl fraternizing with them? How was it you knew of the ancient trade route? I think, Nicodeme, it was you who worked with the Arab, Ali Abu, and gave aid to the enemy."

"No, it is not so, I swear it," the Frenchman cried. "I did not work with the enemy."

"I want the truth from you or I shall have you tried for the attempted murder of military personnel," Wilson said with frigid calm.

"No," Nicodeme said pleadingly. "No, I did not try to murder the soldier. It was only a friendly argument. Do not throw me in jail. Do not take me to court. I will tell you the truth, only let me go."

"I make no bargains," Wilson said firmly. "Speak."

"It was the Arab, Ali Abu, who worked for the Germans," Nicodeme wailed. "The girl and the Fat Frenchman told you the truth. When I heard you had arrested them, I did not think what I said would matter and I thought you would be willing to pay me some money. Ali Abu had stolen gasoline in his warehouse, this I swear. I worked for the Arab now and then. He had a concealed transmitter. I saw it. Ali Abu's men carried the drums into the desert by the trade route. I know this because I followed a distance one night. I know nothing at all concerning the Fat Frenchman and the girl."