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Boggs was waiting in the office when Troy and Moffitt arrived for the briefing. With him was a British officer, his blue eyes tired and strained. "This is Lt. Alexander, gentlemen. He's going to explain your next mission," Boggs told them briefly. "Lieutenant, Sergeants Troy and Moffitt." They seated themselves and the mustached young officer began to speak.
"You understand," he said, "that security considerations severely limit what I am able to tell you. I shall explain what is needed, and then I shall answer questions as best I can."
Troy nodded. Sometimes it was a toss-up between what they needed to know and what the higher-ups were allowed to tell them...the same old story.
Alexander went on, "I suppose you are aware that the Germans use a cipher machine which is known as 'Enigma.' For some years now, a large group of people--mathematicians, chess masters, and others--have been working at breaking the ciphers which Enigma produces. We're indebted to the Poles who passed on their work to us just before they were invaded." He took a sip from the cup of water Boggs had provided for him. "Well, by the time war actually broke out, we had a fair grasp of what Jerry was doing with it. In some ways we were even helped out by the Germans themselves, who grew a bit careless, shall we say. They were so self-satisfied with their supposedly unbreakable cipher-machine that they got lax with radio security procedures. For example, there's an officer sitting out there in the Qattara Depression, who makes the same report to the same superior at the same time every day, to report that he has nothing to report. Apparently it never occurs to the fellow that his daily report is one of the more reliable cribs we've got."
Alexander stood up and moved to a chalkboard on wheels, on which he had drawn an elaborate diagram. "At this point I've got to tell you about how Enigma works, so you can understand what's needed. The cipher clerk types in the plaintext message, one letter at a time. When he hits a letter down here on the keyboard, an electrical impulse activates the rotors here on the side and advances them one letter at a time as he continues. For each letter, a bulb lights up on the top display and illuminates that letter's cipher equivalent. The second cipher clerk writes the ciphered message as each letter is lit on the board. Is this clear?"
"I think so, yes," replied Troy with a slight frown at the diagram; there was obviously a lot more to it than that. Moffitt nodded in agreement.
"Good. Now the point is this: every message has its own key. The key is invented by the cipher clerk, and consists of three letters. Every day there is a specified setting for the three rotors, as well as for internal electrical connections which can be changed to modify the results of the cipher. Each rotor has a complete alphabet on it, and there are movable rings which can be set to a specific letter on each rotor. In addition, the rotors can be arranged in different orders; there are six rotors and they use four at a time. The daily key settings specify all this. So far, our people have been able to deduce a fair amount of this information, helped by cipher clerks who don't change the rotor settings enough, or choose ABC or XYZ as message keys; it's a bit difficult for people to really create random selections, and often they don't. Now, there's a new wrinkle. The Germans have upgraded the Enigma to include more rotors, and they are enciphering the message keys in a different way to make them much more difficult to deduce. Given enough time, we could crack the new Enigma messages as easily as the old ones...but time is not a commodity we can spare."
"Here's where you boys come in," said Boggs, clearly slightly lost by the Englishman's description; like Troy, he would have preferred to hear a more thorough explanation. However, it would probably take not only time, but a higher clearance than any of them had. "Your job is to get into the cipher room in the Germans' new Division HQ at Tobruk, and photograph as many of the key sheets as you can lay hands on. Old ones as well as current ones. Even outdated information is helpful."
"You and your men need to realize two things," added Alexander wearily, as he handed them a sample key sheet. "There's no glory in this job, no medals, no heroics. Just get in, get the pictures, get out. It's not going to save the world, but it might give these men and women a leg up on this project when they need it most. Secondly, nothingand I mean nothingis more important than keeping the secret that we can decipher Enigma. We could not warn the people in Coventry of the bombings back in 1940, because evacuating them would have tipped the Germans off that we had prior knowledge of their mission. If all those people's lives were worth losing to keep this secret, so are yours. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly, sir," Troy replied with icy correctness.
Boggs winced. He didn't like the lieutenant's tone, either. "The point is," he said hastily, "this can't be done in your usual style. No demolition, no bodies left behind, not even a hint that you've been there. If the Krauts even get the faintest idea that their cipher security's been compromised, then the game's up."
"I'm aware of that, sir." The wiry sergeant's tone softened, but not by much.
The captain continued, running one hand through his sandy hair, "OK. If the objective's clear, I want to see you tomorrow with your plan of attack, at 0800. Thank you, men." The officers rose, the four men exchanged salutes, and the leaders of the Rat Patrol left the office.
Outside, Troy turned to Moffitt with a furious glare. "Just what was he trying to say?"
Moffitt sighed. He'd known this was coming for the last five minutes. "Steady on," he said. "I don't really think he meant to, you know. It's just that a lot of people at home have this idea about Americans. They get it from the cinema, I suppose...that the Yanks are a lot of 'hotshots,' as you say. Not to mention the last war. There are people who feel that your government sat on its hands and let us take all the punishment, then came in at the end and took all the applause. Some are angry that Roosevelt's done it again...that he didn't do anything about Hitler until attacked by the Japanese. They're grateful for lend-lease and all that, but they say if he'd acted back in '39, that we'd not have had the disaster at Dunkirk. Mind you, I don't think so...but that's the idea. I daresay Alexander was probably a bit put out to find that the team who's doing this for him is mostly Yanks. What he thinks of me for being with you, I don't want to know. In fact, I didn't tell you before, but I got into quite a row over that very question last month in the NCO club."
"Oh?" This was news to Troy. "About being with us?"
"No, about Americans in general. This fellow from the 7th Armoured was going on about how we could wipe up Rommel with a rag if the bloody Yanks would just do something, and except for the Air Corps and a few volunteers like you, that the U.S. was just letting the Huns eat us alive. I told him he was talking rot. Let's just say it proceeded from there."
"Hm. Well, thanks for sticking up for us. I know you think we're crazy."
"Oh, stark raving. But you do get the job done." Moffitt's blue-gray eyes were amused. After all this time, they'd got used to one another, and the old argument didn't have any more barbs. By that time they were back at their barracks. They stepped into the dimness of the Nissen hut and walked to the far end where their bunks were. Hitch and Tully were nowhere to be seen. The Englishman eyed his watch; it was 11:25. "Nearly time for dinner. They'll turn up then, at any rate."
"They'd better. After chow, we'll brief them and make plans." Troy sat down, took out pen and paper and picked up a letter he'd begun earlier. Now was a good time to finish it.
Dear Mom,
Sorry I took so long to write back...hope you didn't worry too much. I'm fine. Have you heard from Dave? I wrote him about two months ago, but he hasn't answered me yet. Probably the mail was sunk, lost, or held up, but you never know. I saw him down here earlier this year, and he was looking good. It was the first time I'd ever had to salute him, and I can tell you it was funny... my guys ragged me about it for a month. They didn't know my kid brother was a captain in the RAF! I wish I could tell you more about it, but I can't.
Thank you and Aunt Annie very much for all the socks! The others all send their thanks as well. Tully's mother is knitting socks, too, so we should be OK in that department for a while. Moffitt and Hitch were especially pleased...wool is strictly rationed in England, and Hitch's mom is too high-society to own knitting needles, he says. The brownies survived the trip, and lasted about twenty seconds...yes, I did get a couple before they were all gone.
Too bad about the roof. If I were there, I'd take care of it, but I'm glad Uncle Mickey can. I hope he's careful. It was time the Hoogendyks' tree was cut down anyway; it's been rotten for years. It should've fallen on their roof, not ours. Oh well.
Speaking of Uncle Mickey and Aunt Annie, have you heard anything about Pat yet? Let me know when you find out. Tell Margie to try not to worry about him...all kinds of things might have happened. We Irish are tough, and worrying won't do her or the baby any good. She doesn't have too long to go, does she? Didn't you say September? I can't find the letter.
Let's see, not much else to tell...things are kind of quiet today. Moffitt was down sick a couple of weeks ago, and was feeling pretty lousy for about ten days, but he's OK now and getting a little sack time while I write this. It’s good to have him back, it was hard to do without him. I'll tell you, sometimes we have more trouble with the desert (heat, flies, diseases ) than with the Krauts.
I could keep writing all day, but I've got to go now. Keep your chin up and tell all the cousins Hello from me, and give Margie my best. I'll write when I can.
Love,
Sam
He read the letter over, addressed it, and left it unsealed for the censors, although by now he'd learned to write letters that didn't need words cut out of them. "Trouble?" asked Moffitt from his bunk. "You look worried."
"Oh. It's my cousin Pat, Uncle Mickey and Aunt Annie's oldest boy. He's missing somewhere in the Philippines, and his wife's expecting in September."
"Hard luck."
"Yeah. Believe me, there are worse places to be than here."
It was about two when the remaining members of the patrol came back to the hut from the motor pool. Troy and Moffitt briefed the others on the next mission.
"He's crazy!" Hitch exclaimed in frustration. "He thinks we can get in there and out again with nobody knowing, and without taking out the guards?!"
"That's the plan," said Troy. "No bodies, no explosions, nothing to even hint that we've been around."
"It's a tall order, Sarge." Tully fished a fresh match out of his pocket and bit it thoughtfully. "It'd work better with a good-sized diversion."
Moffitt nodded, his thoughts and Tully's often ran in the same direction. "That's what I was thinking, Troy. I know it's not what the lieutenant ordered, but—" He paused, gazing into the distance for some time.
Troy waited. He knew that look...it was the same one the tall Englishman used when planning devastatingly effective chess. The results would be worth waiting for.
Finally Moffitt spoke, "What if we created a diversion that didn't look like one? Something that would distract the guards' attention and look perfectly harmless."
"Like what?"
"What about something simple? A fight, for instance?"
Tully spoke up, "You mean picking a fight with the guard?"
"No. That's too obvious. I mean picking a fight with any chap who happens to be in the right place. The guard's attention would be drawn to breaking it up, so he wouldn't hear the person getting into the room and taking the pictures."
"It's an idea." Troy frowned. "But I don't think I like it. There'll be more than one guard—it is division HQ, after all—and there would be only one way in and one way out of that room. You can't count on distracting him twice. The other problem is, you'd have to do the distracting; none of us could pass for a German soldier if we had to say anything. Which leaves one or more of us to find the key sheets, and we can't read the language."
"True. But I can't think of anything else. It's like a locked-room mystery."
Troy got up and paced, frustrated. "My idea is this. We'll have to get in there tonight and check it out. Until we know where the cipher room is, we can't plan anything."
Suddenly Moffitt sat up straighter. "I say, I think I've got something. Have any of you read Sherlock Holmes stories?"
"Yeah," said Hitch. "Sure."
"What's that got to do with anything?" Troy was curious.
"I'm about to tell you," said Moffitt and began to explain. "There's a story called 'A Scandal in Bohemia'...."
<<<<<>>>>>
Boggs flung up his hands in despair. "Are you crazy? That's just what we don't want! Troy, I told Alexander that you could do it. I told him you could pick Rommel's pocket if you felt like it. I told him his superiors could rest easy with the matter in your hands. And that's what you come up with? You didn't hear the man, did you? You're supposed to be invisible!"
This was the hard part. "Look, Captain, it's the only way. Any other way, they're going to get suspicious. This way, they'll think that there was a crisis, and they were in control all the time. They'll never realize that it wasn't what it appeared to be." Troy met his gaze. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" Boggs nodded, and he went on, "I know how it looks. It's risky. But that lieutenant doesn't know the score...it's fine for him to order that we do it that way, but it can't be done. He doesn't realize that because he's been sitting in his secret hiding place staring at ciphers for seven years. I'm sorry, but it's true. It's your call, sir. Do I know my job, or don't I?"
The red-haired officer scowled, paced, swore under his breath, and turned back to face the two sergeants. "Sam Troy, I swear if you screw this up, I'm not just gonna rip your stripes off, I'll take your arms off with 'em. You got that?"
"Is that an OK?" Troy's expression was eager.
"You got it. Get out of here."
<<<<<>>>>>
In the dark, several miles outside Tobruk, they waited. Surely, it wouldn't be long now. Rocks and scrub hid the four men from the road, where a captured Kübelwagen was parked on the shoulder.
Troy consulted his watch for the fourth time; the faintly glowing hands showed 21:00. Finally, they heard what they'd been waiting for.
A solitary motorcycle proceeded down the road toward their position, and pulled over to check the empty patrol car. Tully moved swiftly and silently to knock the courier unconscious. He switched the engine off, and lifted the man down onto the ground. Moffitt searched the man, and took the Wehrpass out of his pocket; the courier's name was Hans Kistler. Hastily, he exchanged clothes with him.
"OK?" Troy whispered.
The Englishman replied with a thumbs-up, took the message bag, got on the motorcycle, and rode off toward Tobruk. Troy turned to the other two. "Showtime. We'll be back as fast as we can. Hitch, the camera?"
"All ready."
"Good. Let's shake it."
Tully remained behind with the unconscious courier, as the sound of the Kübelwagen's engine faded away in the distance.
<<<<<>>>>>
Moffitt, in the guise of Hans Kistler, delivered the dispatches and was directed to the canteen to get some refreshment after his long ride from El Agheila. He did not go there, but made his way around the building until he found the radio sending room. The cipher room could not be far away. He found an inconspicuous spot, and waited. Nothing happened. He looked at his watch...if they didn't hurry, the real Hans Kistler would regain consciousness and make things even stickier than they already were.
Finally his patience was rewarded. First, there was an acrid chemical smell, followed by an alarming amount of oily black smoke pouring out into the corridor, shouts of "Feuer!," and shrieking klaxons. At once the area was crowded with fire-control parties wearing masks and men evacuating the area. Moffitt swiftly dodged them and the worst of the smoke and presently saw what he was waiting for. A man came out of an unmarked door, clutching a sheaf of papers to his chest and choking from the fumes. He leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.
The fire-fighters discovered and extinguished the blaze which had apparently begun in a storage and maintenance room, but the vapors still lingered. "Hans Kistler" went to the assistance of the stricken man with the papers. In German he said, "Let me help you. Here, I'll pick up these papers."
"No, no!" the man said, panicked, and clutched the papers to his chest.
That was exactly what Moffitt wanted to hear. He reached to assist the man; a brief pressure on the side of his neck, and he conveniently fainted, dropping all the papers. The Englishman raised his voice and hoped to sound convincing. "Help me please. What should I do?"
A lieutenant appeared at his elbow. "What is it? Ah, I see...."" He looked about, seeming uncertain, then eyed Moffitt. "Who are you?"
Hans Kistler's identification reassured him...Army Intelligence could be trusted with this. "Go in there," he said, pointing to the office from which the unconscious clerk had just come, and smothering a cough. "Place these papers on the desk, and then you must lock the doors and guard it. Is that clear?"
Moffitt put on an air of relief. "Perfectly, I can do that."
"Excellent. I will come back with a relief cipher clerk."
"Ja, Herr Oberleutnant." As the lieutenant detailed two men to take the unconscious man to the medics, Moffitt did exactly as ordered...he picked up the precious papers, carried them into the cipher room, placed them on the desk, and stood guard outside the closed door with his submachine gun. The fox was in place, and ‘Operation Henhouse' was going exactly as planned. Now all that was needed was a few moments of solitude.
Presently the corridor was empty as the situation returned to normal. Standing guard, the Englishman began to whistle the all-too-familiar tune of "Lili Marleen." A door opened down the hall, and a voice bellowed, "Hören Sie das auf!"[1] He stopped whistling and waited, hoping that his all-clear signal had been heard.
It had. Two officers approached him, he challenged them, they showed their identification. "How are we doing?" Troy whispered as Moffitt let Hitch and him into the unlocked office.
"All right so far. Make it quick—the lieutenant who ordered me to guard this room is coming back with a relief cipher clerk."
"Right."
"A nice bit of arson there."
"Well, cans of paint come in handy, and somebody always smokes in places they shouldn't."
"Right-oh." Moffitt locked the door from the outside and resumed his post. Five minutes later, the "officers" left. Two minutes after that, the lieutenant returned with another clerk, checked the room, and gratefully dismissed Moffitt, thanking him for helping out in a pinch while he was merely here on an errand from his Intelligence unit.
Moffitt saluted him gravely and sauntered off to the motor pool to retrieve his motorcycle.
<<<<<>>>>>
Tully sat on a rock near the courier and waited. He was starting to worry; Kistler had already come around once, but had luckily blacked out again before he'd had to do anything about it. Finally, just after his watch showed 2245, a Kübelwagen pulled up—finally, it was the right one. Troy and Hitch got out and came over to him. "Is he still out?"
"Yeah, Sarge, he hasn't woke up yet...well, he sort of did awhile ago, but not for long. Did you get the pictures?"
Hitch held up the camera with a thumbs-up sign. "Just like clockwork. Moffitt shouldn't be very long behind us."
That was the last bit, the home stretch... Moffitt getting out of Tobruk without being caught.
More than half an hour passed before he arrived, apologetic. "Sorry," he explained. "Our friend here should have got more petrol before he left. I had to get some from the motor pool sergeant."
"No trouble? No questions?" Troy came over to him as he got off the machine.
"None."
"OK. Hitch, Tully, you know what to do. Make it look like a wreck—when he wakes up, he'll see the receipt in his message bag, figure that he was on his way back, and go home."
"No, he won't, Troy." Moffitt was bending over Kistler. "He's dead."
"What!" That was not the idea. "Moffitt, did you have to hit him so hard? He’s supposed to go back to his unit!"
"I know that! But did you want him conscious when we returned? So you could explain to him why I borrowed his motorcycle?"
Troy took a deep breath, and nodded...Moffitt was right. That would have been a much worse problem.
"But that doesn't make sense," said Tully, who came over and saw that his sergeant was right. "I checked him just before they got here. He was alive then."
"It happens." The English sergeant's voice was distant.
Troy pounded his fist on the hood of the patrol car. Of course, something had to go wrong, just when he'd promised Boggs they could pull it off. A dead intelligence agent was a potential disaster; although it wasn't likely that Kistler's body would be seen by anyone who had seen Moffitt, it could happen. Then someone who could add two and two would realize that the man who had helpfully guarded the cipher room wasn't what he'd claimed to be.
"Do it anyway, like we planned. We'll just have to take the chance that no one will make the connection." The only other option would be to take Kistler's ID and bag, and make it look like an ambush—which would get more attention than his dying in an accident. Hitch and Tully replaced his papers and his bag, arranged the body where he would have fallen, damaged the motorcycle appropriately, and hid their tracks.
"Right. Let's shake it."
<<<<<>>>>>
Just after dawn, Troy and Moffitt reported to Boggs in his office. "You got it?" he asked, a smile crossing his face despite the early hour.
"Right here." The leader of the Rat Patrol handed him the rolls of film. "Every page we could lay hands on."
"I can't believe that plan of yours actually worked. They really bought it?"
"Hook, line, and sinker, so he tells me." Troy grinned. "There was one problem, though." He explained about Kistler.
"Well." Boggs frowned—that could invalidate the whole mission. On the other hand, they'd been far enough from Tobruk that whoever found the courier probably wouldn't take him back there. "I wish that hadn't happened, Sergeant," he said, turning to Moffitt who was standing stiffly, waiting to be censured. "But of all the things that could have gone wrong with that raid, that one is the least of our worries. No plan ever survives contact with the enemy...don't lose any sleep over it. Even if they guess that it wasn’t an accident, they may not make the connection. If they do, we’ve got the information anyway. Enjoy your three days off."
They went back to the Nissen hut. "How about it?" said Tully, looking up. "What'd he say?"
"It's all right," Moffitt explained. "But for a moment there, I had my doubts."
"You know," Hitch said, taking his glasses off, "the thing I hate about that kind of job is never knowing if we accomplished anything or not. If we did any good, they'll never tell us."
"I suppose we could wire Churchill and ask him if he liked our snapshots."
Troy shook his head, grinning, and tried to think of a good reply, but they were interrupted by a clerk who came in with a telegram and asked, "Sergeant Troy?"
"Yes?"
"This came for you yesterday, after you left." He handed over the wire, which was from Michael P. Donoghue—Uncle Mickey.
The Rat Patrol was silent as Troy ripped open the telegram...they all knew about his cousin in the Pacific. His blue eyes shone with relief. "They found Pat." He read on, and stopped smiling. "He's in a hospital, but they don't know any more yet. They'll write when they find out."
Moffitt was the first one to speak. "He's alive, Troy." His own brother wasn't.
The American nodded slowly. "That's what matters, isn't it?" He stared at the yellow slip of paper, reading it over again: DEAR SAM STOP PAT FOUND ALIVE STOP...
A hand touched his arm, and he looked up. It was Tully. "Yeah, Sarge. That's what matters."
[1] Knock that off! Shut it!