The Rat Patrol 3 - The Trojan Tank Affair (5 page)

"Get ready," Troy warned, voice hollow inside the tank. He glimpsed the medium bomber swinging around fast. Again the marker lights grew dim and the field was plunged into darkness. Troy jumped from the truck and ran along the side of the twin-motored plane. The hatch was open and he pulled himself in, crawling to the middle of the belly. A dim light burned above the hatchway to the cockpit and he watched as Hitch and Tully and then Moffitt came back. The hatch slammed shut, the engines shrieked and the ship trembled and strained. In a moment the B-25 was speeding between the dim marker lights and then they were lifting quickly into the air. Troy looked about. At each side were bubbles with familiar fifty-caliber machine guns. Troy walked unsteadily to the near station, pulled on a set of earphones and pressed the intercom.

"Sergeant Troy to pilot," he spoke into the mike. "Come in, please. Over."

"Gus Ogilvy here," the answer came, loud and clear. "What can I do for you, Troy?"

"What's the procedure?" he asked. "How do you operate?"

"Relax, Troy," Ogilvy said, laughing. "You're cargo, not crew. It's up to us to deliver you."

"The point is," Troy said, "we've got an interest in your cargo. We're familiar with your weapons. How can we help?"

"Good enough," Ogilvy said. "There's a position in the rear for a tailgunner and a turret halfway back. Two of you can man the sides. All of you keep your earphones on and sing out if you sight anything. Over."

Hitch went back to the tail, Tully took the turret and Moffitt and Troy settled at the sides. The lights of Algiers were enveloped by the overcast. The sky was not so different from the desert, Troy thought. In both you had big empty spaces of nothingness and room to maneuver. Although, in the sky, you had a better opportunity to hide when there were clouds, as on this night.

"I'm going to see if we can climb above this soup," Ogilvy's voice came in the intercom. "I don't like to fly in it and I don't want to fly under it."

"Roger," Troy said.

He could sense the ship climbing steeply and leaned against the side that trembled under his back. His hat still was under his jacket and he pulled it out, perching it over his earphones. Moffitt looked across at him, smiled quickly, put on his beret and fitted the headset over it. They wore no insignia, but their individual, unorthodox headgear stamped them surely as the Rat Patrol. They were mavericks, each of them, Troy thought, grinning, and the was proud of them.

Abruptly they were in bright moonlight and below lay the light upper side of the cloud cover. The moon was full and the space immense, unexpectedly beautiful, but even emptier than the desert. The night sky above the clouds was a light, transparent blue and they were alone in it.

"Eight thousand feet," Ogilvy announced. "It shouldn't be too uncomfortable but let me know if any of you has trouble with his breathing. Our air speed is approximately three hundred miles an hour. Everything okay?"

"Okay," Troy answered and the others chimed in.

Ogilvy kept the ship just above the clouds, so close they seemed almost to be floating on froth. With all the sky to fly in, Troy wondered why.

It was half an hour later that the three wasp-bodied Focke-Wulf-190s burst on their tail from the clouds. Troy saw them almost as he heard Hitch calling excitedly in the intercom.

"Three Jerries closing in fast," he sang out.

"FW-190s," Tully confirmed.

"We're going to hide," Ogilvy said. "They're too fast for us."

Troy understood now why Ogilvy had kept so close to the clouds they almost brushed the bottom of the ship. Before the FW-190s could check their climb and maneuver into position, the B-25 had nosed down and was hidden. Troy could feel the plane tipping on its side as Ogilvy circled in evasive action. It seemed to Troy that they were veering to the south. It was like driving in the fog, he thought, expecting any minute that the plane would crash with one of the Jerry fighters. He checked his watch and it was not until fifteen minutes had passed that the pilot pulled the bomber up into the moonlight again. Once more, they were alone.

"Can't imagine what those 190s were doing up here," Ogilvy said. "Whatever it was, it wasn't us. They didn't waste any time searching."

Troy smiled tightly. The Jerries had been waiting for them, all right, he thought, but they expected us in a C-46 and not a B-25.

"We didn't even get a shot fired," Tully complained.

"For that you should be thankful," Ogilvy told him.

The B-25 skimmed on above the clouds. How much did Jerry know or guess, Troy wondered. Would he believe the Rat Patrol exterminated when the C-46 was shot down? Would the ruse take him in long enough for them to penetrate the staging area beyond Agarawa?

"Jerry's on our tail again," Hitch cried and almost while he was calling, his machine gun began to rattle.

Troy gripped his gun and looked back. The three FW-190s had come through almost on the Mitchell, flying in a V. Now the one on Troy's side peeled off, slipping below the bomber. Troy raked it with his gun and saw the tracers going high. One of the other fighters was climbing and the third was closing on them level. All the machine guns were chattering now although Troy couldn't get onto anything. The FW-190 upstairs came down at them with its twenty millimeter cannon blasting. In the turret, Tully's machine gun slammed away. Slugs from the 190's cannon started to spatter the top of the B-25's fuselage and abruptly stopped.

"Got him," Troy heard Tully drawl and saw the 190 laze on its side and come drifting past his bubble. A stream of white smoke trailed from it as it disappeared into the clouds.

Now the 190 that had been on their tail pulled up and streaked over with its cannon blazing. Slugs tore into the fuselage and left raw holes. Tully's machine gun blasted, but the fighter already was beyond them and climbing. The third enemy fighter came up at them from below and both Moffitt and Troy put their guns on it. Troy could see the fighter's tracers streaking at him. He set his jaw and kept on firing. Before the fighter reached the bomber, it yawed and its cannon stopped firing. It disappeared out of control into the clouds. Cold air was whistling into the fuselage of the B-25 from a dozen or more holes.

"Everything okay?" Ogilvy called back.

"Right," Moffitt, Hitch and Troy answered in quick succession.

Troy waited a moment, then called sharply, "Tully, you okay?"

"Two down and one to go," Tully drawled.

"Oh no, we don't," Ogilvy said and Troy felt the B-25 nosing down. They were buried in the clouds before the third FW-190 came back, if it ever did. Troy wondered whether the Jerry fighters had intercepted the C-46 and were returning from a successful mission when they encountered the B-25 for the second time. Or had there been a leak already? Had Jerry been looking for the B-25 all the time?

They came in over Benghazi at four-forty-five hours, flying low under the clouds from the sea. The old port town showed no lights and looked deserted. Some of the ruins from the early fighting in North Africa when the Aussies had taken Benghazi still remained, shapeless piles of debris. Ogilvy circled wide to the east and south.

"We're going in at a restricted area beyond the city," Ogilvy said in the intercom. "They've put in a strip there especially for this landing."

Troy saw the fire from a distance, first a flicker and then a blaze near the middle of the strip as the plane came in fast, touched its wheels, bumped and settled down with props reversed. It was a crazy thing to mark a secret landing strip with a bonfire, he thought angrily as the plane raced by it. He called to Moffitt, Hitch and Tully, pulled off his hat and earphones and jammed the hat under his jacket. He was crawling forward as the plane came to a stop and then swung about. Moffitt, Hitch and Tully scrambled after him. Ogilvy was looking over his shoulder and Troy waved hurriedly before dropping to the ground. It was dark at this end of the field and he had to peer through the murk for a moment before he made out the truck parked some fifty feet beyond the strip. The B-25 started away with engines racing as Troy ran for the truck. A figure trotted out to meet him. The truck's motor was running, Troy noted.

"Troy?" the figure asked in an urgent voice. "Moffitt, Hitchcock and Pettigrew?"

"Check," Troy said, halting. He half turned, hearing the B-25 roaring down the strip. Ogilvy was streaking past the fire, taking off.

"Lieutenant Dorsky," the figure said. "Hop in the back and let's get moving."

"Sure." Troy said, jogging beside Lieutenant Dorsky. He looked curiously back at the fire. "Anything wrong?" 

"Sabotage," Dorsky growled. "That blaze out there is the third truck they've managed to blow tonight. This is a munitions dump and tightly guarded. That's why you were brought in here. It looks as if Jerry knew you were coming and made up his mind to get you."

4

The first sharp reports snapped through the air, followed by a booming blast less than five minutes after the truck carrying the Rat Patrol had left the munitions area. Troy, who had been half asleep, jerked wide awake toward the open end of the truck where the guard with the tommy-guns was leaning out over the tailgate, intently watching. Streaks of orange and white rocketed into the sky and the sounds of more crackling detonations clapped Troy's ears. Troy teetered on the jouncing truck bed back to the tailgate.

"Are they blowing up the dump?" he shouted at the guard.

"I don't think so," the guard answered without turning his head. "The main stuff is underground in a concrete bunker. That was a loaded truck that just exploded."

Before Troy could respond with another question, a second flash and then a third showed the dark bellies of the clouds as explosions stabbed across the rocky ridges like harsh slaps of thunder that accompany forked lightning. Several fires were blazing now in the area they'd just left.

"Trucks," the guard said bitterly, turning his face to Troy. Although the truck was more than a mile from the dump, his features were illuminated. He looked tired, and deep lines plowed his forehead. "They're getting all the trucks."

"Some send-off," Troy said grimly. "How could Jerry get in there?"

"He didn't have to," the guard said, turning again to look at the restricted area. "There are Arabs who work around the motor pool. It wouldn't be too hard to slip a time charge in the trucks going to the munitions dump." 

"Have you had much sabotage?" Troy asked.

"That's just it," the guard said. "Nothing, nothing at all to speak of for a year. Never anything at the dump, just some minor incidents at the port. Then this, six trucks tonight. I don't get it."

It might be coincidence, Troy thought, both the attack by the FW-190s and the charges planted in the trucks. It could be Jerry was suddenly active in anticipation of the coming spring offensive. And then, although the security measures G2 had taken to conceal the movements of the Rat Patrol were thorough, it was possible that somewhere along the line there had been a leak.

Tully came up and stood at the tailgate on the other side of the guard.

"So they been getting at the trucks," he said. "What about this truck, Joe? You fretting?"

"Name's Buck, Buck for Buckweiler," the guard said and laughed shortly. "No, this one's clean. Soon as the first truck blew, I took back the one we had and requisitioned another. Had the mechanics go over it like monkeys picking fleas."

Troy looked curiously at Buck. He was wearing a helmet and fatigues with no insignia of rank, but now that Troy thought of it, there had been the assurance of authority in the way Buck had pushed them back into the truck and taken his guard position at the tail. "Sergeant Buckweiler?" Troy asked.

"Captain Buckweiler, if it makes any difference," the officer said and laughed. "Just call me Buck."

"G2?" Troy asked.

"Right," Buck said.

"And Lieutenant Dorsky?" Troy said quietly.

"Yes, he's G2," Buck told him.

"I'm glad we got some brass aboard," Tully drawled and fished a matchstick from his pocket. "I got a complaint to make. Do we have to make this whole trip sitting on them hard benches? We don't have canteens or rations and no weapons. Can't you get us some blankets to roll up in and some water? We been fighting Jerries and had no sleep and my throat is burning."

"Here," Buck said, undoing the canteen at his hip and handing it to Tully. He looked back at Troy. "Fighting Jerries?"

"The Mitchell that brought us in was jumped by three FW-190s," Troy said.

"Well, you're off to a fine start, wherever it is you're going," Buck said and shook his head. "I don't know anything, so I can't tell you anything. This truck is taking you to a rendezvous where you'll make a transfer. If you're on a long trip, I hope your accommodations are more comfortable. All I know is that I was assigned to ride shotgun and Lieutenant Dorsky to drive. The precautions are unusual, but in view of what has happened, perhaps necessary. And considering that, why don't you move back out of the open, sit down and have a smoke? Here." He handed Troy a package of cigarettes. "Keep them. I'd have them all smoked up in a hour if I were in your boots."

A Top Secret mission, all the security the Army had to offer, Troy thought, sitting on the bench and stretching his legs. He lighted a cigarette and passed the package around. Nothing written, only verbal orders. Even the code, he had noticed when he'd glanced at the notebook, was handwritten, presumably by Major Blakely. The attack by the fighters and the sabotage at the dump had to be coincidences.

The truck bounced and jerked across rocky land, through gulleys and over hills. Dawn came abruptly and through the open back end of the truck, Troy could see nothing in the gray sky nor on the barren land they left behind. They were somewhere in the bleak country beyond Benghazi and on a track, not a road, that looked like twin, stone strewn stream beds. Troy shivered a tittle with the damp chill and weariness and glanced at the others. All of them, including Moffitt, were dozing. Troy ground out his second cigarette.

The tires skidded on the rocks and the truck ground to a jarring stop.