The Rat Patrol 3 - The Trojan Tank Affair (8 page)

"Why do that?" Troy asked mildly. "Let them be seen in Benghazi. Have them patrol the munitions dump in the jeeps. After the sabotage, it would seem natural enough to Jerry. Just make sure they don't talk."

"All right, Troy," Major Grogan said, beginning to smile. "I think I begin to see why the Rat Patrol was selected for this Top Secret mission, whatever it is. You men think of everything and manage to turn a disastrous situation to your advantage. I'll go along with you on everything except one item. You will not put on steel helmets and ride out in the open. You will remain inside this van until I deliver you and you will not, under any circumstances, show yourselves. Every man in this convoy has seen you and would recognize you, even if you were wearing straw hats. I'll get the four men for the jeeps and bring them back here for their instructions. Just before they leave for Benghazi, you men, the real Rat Patrol, will drive around the convoy slowly, waving and shouting your goodbyes to one and all. Then to the rear for the switch and under cover for you. Is this clear?"

"I suppose so," Troy said. For once he felt defeated. One of the benefits he'd hoped to realize from his plan was release from the confinement of the van. "Don't keep us cooped up too long. We'll go stir crazy."

"No longer than necessary, Troy," Major Grogan said, laughing. "Tomorrow night at the latest."

"One request, Major," Moffitt said with a smile. "We're rather attached to our headgear. It isn't Army issue, you know. We want it understood that the pieces are to be returned to us at Bir-el-Alam. In your orders to Benghazi, you can arrange for duplicates. Call them replacements. Right?"

"Of course," Major Grogan said. "I understand the sentimental association. Now let me make the arrangements and we'll get the convoy under way again."

The major gulped his coffee which had been untouched during the conversation and hurried from the van. Moffitt's eyes crinkled and an amused smile played at his lips.

"You know, I think the major rather liked the idea," he said.

"Liked it!" Troy snorted. "Hell, he'll probably get a promotion for catching this snafu and pulling the mission out of the fire. Who's for poker?"

6

Troy awakened groggily. His body was weary and his bones ached. The air he breathed was hot and tasted stale. His head was throbbing. His shirt was clammy across his shoulders and the light in the place where he lay was gloomily gray. For a moment he did not know where he was and he stared at the dark roof vaguely arching above him. Although he was lying on something soft and warm, he seemed to sense motion. Then abruptly he remembered the convoy and the van and recognized the sound that had roused him from his torpor. It was the whistling whine of low-flying aircraft. He sprang from his rubber mattress and peered through the slit he'd made in the canvas flap that draped the back of the truck.

Although the keening of the engines grew louder, he could not see the planes. He glimpsed the shimmer above the gray sands of the desert and his mind was aware that the sun was shining, but he was not thinking, only reacting. His muscles tightened and his body tensed as he waited for Jerry's twenty-millimeter shells to come slamming into the van or a bomb to burst.

Two point-nosed P-40s with underslung jaws streaked in from behind so low he could see the pilots leaning against their headrests under the canopies. He whistled with relief and unsnapped the bottom buttons of the flap, pulling it apart a few inches above the tailgate for ventilation. The still air that seeped in was impregnated with dust and choked him, but he left the flap open. It relieved his feeling or imprisonment to have a small shaft of mote-laden sunlight slanting onto the bed of the truck.

Although the convoy was well within Allied controlled territory, the sabotage at Benghazi and the two attempted ambushes had shown that Jerry was able to slip through the lines and Troy was happy to see the air cover. The P-40s would sweep the desert along the route to Bir-el-Alam and their machine guns would spit at anything that looked suspicious. Once the Rat Patrol entered enemy territory beyond the defensive perimeter, they'd have to contend with the same type of air surveillance by Messer-schmitts and Focke-Wulfs.

Troy turned back to the interior of the van. Someone had turned out the lantern after he had fallen asleep although he did not remember lying down. After the Rat Patrol had circled the convoy and the four men wearing the patrol's unique headpieces had set out for Benghazi, Tully had dug out a pack of playing cards from one of the cartons. Troy remembered drawing three tens on the first deal, making an ante of five matchsticks and that was all. He must have dozed at the table and someone must have led him back to his rubber mattress.

The others were sleeping too. Moffitt, near the tailgate, was on his side, breathing regularly and softly. Troy walked quietly to the tables at the middle of the van and heard snores grumbling in Tully's throat. Troy ran to him, quickly turning Tully from his back to his side and smiling suddenly at his reflexive action. Not that it was amusing. Sneezing or snoring could reveal the Rat Patrol to the enemy.

It was good they all were sleeping, he thought. Not only were they exhausted after the fast-moving events during the hours since midnight, but they needed to get in the habit of sleeping during the days. They'd be restricted to the nights in their operations against Jerry. Troy frowned and returned to the back of the van, sitting by the unbuttoned bottom of the canvas flap. He hoped the return of the two jeeps to Benghazi would lessen Jerry's interest in the convoy. Although there had been an oversight in the matter of the jeep escort, elaborate precautions had been taken to cloak the Rat Patrol's mission. This caper was critical. They had to bring it off and it was starting out badly.

He thought the convoy must be nearing the El Abd track that sliced inland across the desert sands and rock ridges from near El Agheila to Gazella on the northeast coast of the Cyrenaica peninsula. He took his eyes from the rolling sameness of the desert they had entered after leaving the coastal hills and looked at his watch. It was nearing fourteen-hundred hours. The heavily loaded convoy was traveling slowly; between fifteen and twenty miles an hour, he estimated. With allowances for the stops they must have made en route for water and to cool the motors, and the delay of something like an hour beyond Antelat where Jerry had set a trap, they could not have traveled much more than a hundred miles from Benghazi. Another hundred miles lay between them and Bir-el-Alam, then fifty miles to the perimeter and fifty miles through enemy territory to the position that had been prepared for them. They would not be able to travel beyond the perimeter in daylight. If there were any more delays, they'd have to spend the whole next day inside the stifling van.

Troy heard the engines of the airplanes and the P-40s returned, one on either side of the track, flying low again, this time back tracking toward Benghazi. Sweat was steaming down his cheeks and his trousers were wet where his arms had rested on them. For a moment as he sat panting under the canvas topped van, he envied the Air Force but then he shook his head and smiled. The flyboys might have all the sky to fly in but still they did not enjoy the Rat Patrol's independence.

Moffitt had stirred this time at the sound of the aircraft and now he sat up, blinking and rubbing his eyes. He smiled slowly.

"Our own chaps, I'd say from your look," he said. "Beastly hot in here."

Troy unbuttoned another gap in the flap and motioned Moffitt to the tailgate. They lighted cigarettes and sat staring at the empty land through which they were traveling. A burning haze lifted from the floor of the desert and made Troy's eyes smart.

"There were goggles in one of those cartons," he said. "We can use them."

When Troy returned with the glasses and they had them over their eyes, Moffitt rolled a steel helmet to him and settled another on his own head. He laughed.

"It's smashing on you," he chuckled. "I'm sure I look quite as ridiculous in my tin hat. I already miss my old bonnet. Now we look like soldiers."

"They may keep Jerry from knowing who we are," Troy said with a wry smile. "But the helmets wouldn't do us much good if the SS got their hands on us. With the war in Africa running the way it is, one of these days the Afrika Korps is going to have to obey Hitler's order on the treatment of commandos."

"I can quote it," Moffitt said. "He issued it last October in a secret order to his commanders and it read: 'From now on all enemies on so-called Commando missions in Europe or Africa, challenged by German troops, even if they are to all appearances soldiers in uniform or demolition troops, whether armed or unarmed, in battle or in flight, are to be slaughtered to the last man.'"

"We didn't give the Jerries who tried to ambush us with the Arabs any quarter," Troy reminded him.

"We didn't know they were Jerries," Moffitt said. "They were in disguise. But it would have made no difference. That was combat. What would we have done if we'd captured them?"

"I don't know," Troy said frankly. "Even if they were wearing Arab robes over their uniforms, I don't think we'd have murdered them in cold blood."

"Right you are," Moffitt said. "I don't think Dietrich would murder us either, if we were captured."

"Probably not," Troy said. "But we've lost track of Dietrich. The commander of the unit at the staging area beyond Agarawa may be another breed. And I doubt we'll be in uniform when we go to have a look at what he's got."

"The answer is rather simple, isn't it?" Moffitt asked, laughing. "We don't propose to be captured, now do we?" 

"Oh, rather not!" Troy mimicked in mock shock and they both chuckled.

The muffled blast of an explosion somewhere ahead shook the desert air. The van stopped abruptly and Troy heard shouts coming from the front of the convoy. He reached back beside his mattress for his tommy-gun, eyes slitting at Moffitt as he slapped a clip in it. Moffitt was listening intently. Troy heard the sound of running feet and confused shouting but there were no more detonations.

"What do you suppose that was?" Moffitt asked, eyes darting to Troy.

"I can make a guess," Troy said grimly. "One of the trucks hit a mine."

"My thought precisely," Moffitt said. "I can't say I like traveling in this restricted fashion. We are plagued with difficulties and delays. If that lorry is disabled, it means we shall have to wait here while the load is transferred. Then our route will be altered and we shall have to poke along behind minesweepers."

"I know," Tory growled. "We'll reach the perimeter too late to go on tonight and have to sweat out another day in this canvas oven."

Hitch and Tully walked quickly to the back of the truck.

"If Jerry's this active behind our lines," Hitch said, unwrapping a stick of gum, "what's it going to be like when we get into his territory?"

"Who cares?" Tully drawled. "We'll be in the open. We only been in this truck a few hours and I feel like a bear in a cage already. What's going on ahead?"

Troy considered Tully for a moment.

"Why don't you go find out?" he asked.

"Sarge," Hitch spoke up. "That major said we were to stay under cover no matter what."

"If you were to smear some dirt on your face and stay out of the way of officers," Troy went on, ignoring Hitch, "who'd know the difference? It's worth a try to see if anyone recognizes you."

"Gotcha," Tully said, grinning. He ran ahead to his mattress for his tommy-gun and helmet, coming back with the weapon slung over his shoulder. He glanced at Troy before he lifted the flap.

"Just one thing," Troy said.

"Sure, Sarge, what is it?" Tully asked.

"Leave your matches here with me," Troy said, holding out his hand. "I know you wouldn't mean to give us away, but you've a habit you're hardly conscious of."

Hitch snorted and snapped his gum.

"All right," Tully said sulkily, handing over a fist full of matches. "But you'd better take away Hitch's bubble gum. He's unconscious all the time."

Tully lifted the flap and dropped to the track. A moment later Troy heard the padding of his crepe-soled desert shoes as Tully ran along the driver's side of the van. The P-40s came in low over the stalled convoy from the northwest, this time circling. Troy cursed them silently in his mind. If Jerry were anywhere watching, he'd know his mines had done some damage.

Troy waited with Moffitt and Hitch in the dead heat of the van, waited tensely and blindly for he knew not what. A sudden attack by an Arab band? The chatter of machine guns? The shattering blasts of grenades? The war in North Africa was fluid and despite perimeters and defensive positions, in the trackless desert you never knew when the enemy was going to outflank you. Supposedly the convoy was well within the protection of their own lines and the enemy had been bogged down by the rains, but now the sun was shining and no rain had fallen for almost a week. With or without the Rat Patrol, the convoy would be a fat prize, loaded as it must be with ammunition for the spring offensive.

Although it seemed the afternoon had dragged by, less than half an hour passed before Troy heard shifting gears and crunching tires and the van began to move. Tully had not returned. Troy pulled the flap wide apart and watched for him. He saw nothing that moved in the burning sand. The van crawled along for perhaps a quarter mile, then crossed the El Abd track and dug into the sands of a trailless desert area. Off to the side, he saw a truck canted on the side of a crater where a mine had burst. It was minus its left front wheel and its fender was smashed into the hood. The windshield was cracked in a spider web design on the passenger side and Troy remembered that a major had been riding in the lead truck.

At the tail of the convoy, the van scarcely seemed to move. Troy was certain minesweepers were walking ahead. The P-40s circled them once on the other side of the El Abd track and then swooped off in the direction of Bir-el-Alam. There still was no sign of Tully.

Nothing could have happened to him, Troy told himself. Maybe Major Grogan had spotted him. But wouldn't the major have sent him packing straight back to cover in the van? Tully must have jumped into the cab of another truck when the convoy started moving. It was foolish and he shouldn't have done it, Troy told himself, trying to work up anger to replace the worry that ate at the lining of his stomach.