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Sergeant Sam Troy, US Army, awoke with a start. That the room was dark which surprised him. He had been dreaming of the hot sun, burning his skin and draining his strength until he couldn't move. In the nightmare, his face was purple, with his blackened tongue hanging out, and he was seeing himself reflected in the metal of a tank.
He knew where the dream came from, and he wouldn't fall asleep anytime soon. He needed to take a walk.
His undershirt was soaked in sweat from the heat of the small barrack's room. He rolled out of bed, pausing for a second, to get his bearings, then walked over to the window. He pushed aside the black curtain, and looked out at the buildings lit only by the starry sky and a moon the size of a silver dollar. Lights out at this army base meant just that.
They couldn't muffle the moon. It hung high in the sky, surrounded by a nimbus of light, wiping out the stars around it. It was as good as a floodlight.
To the left of his window was the black bulk of the hospital. It was a place that Troy had visited too often lately when one of his troop, or even himself, was injured. The windows were open to the slight desert breeze, and the black drapes moved back and forth. It would be only a little less stifling than the room he was in now.
Peering to the right, beyond the walls and barbed wire of the army base, the exotic city of Abbas was a hodgepodge of tall buildings rising against the rolling sand dunes and a few craggy mountains.
Troy remembered it when there were only two hundred men in the city, and all British or Commonwealth troops. They had been part of the small supply force that kept the gasoline flowing for the British tanks and other armored forces. Now it was a major staging point for raids into German-occupied Tunisia and Egypt.
He stripped off the wet undershirt, and tossed it to one side. Pulling out his only other dry one, he slid it on, then pulled on his pants and shirt. Stuffing his cigarettes into his shirt pocket along with the lighter, he headed outside, boots in his hand. Once he got to the windowless corridor, he donned socks, the boots, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Didn't pay tonight to light a ciggie outside -- the military police would get him up on charges, and who wanted to deal with the MPs?
He left the building, startling and saluting the guards, and walked toward the hospital. Beyond it was a seldom-used gate guarded by a friend of his. He'd let Troy out and back in without comment.
The others in his troop, British sergeant Jack Moffitt, Privates Tully Pettigrew and Mark Hitchcock, were out watching the German supply routes, a mission that consisted, from what he heard, of a week watching empty roads and flapping vultures. They'd be ready to turn the city on its ear when they pulled in.
He'd been ordered to stay behind to give his deposition and answer any other questions regarding the upcoming trial of a German colonel named Beckmann. He was ready to go back out into the desert and lose himself in fighting. Beckmann haunted Sam Troy. You couldn't fight nightmares; all sleeping pills did was drag down the body and let the mind do what it will.
Rounding the corner of the hospital, he reached the gate, saluted his friend and walked outside. The mud brick buildings had bleached to faded cream by the relentless hot sun, and were silvery ghostlike in the moonlight. Latticed arched windows punctured the tall walls. During the days, cloaked and guarded women walked to the local market and home while the native men, who were probably spying for anyone who would pay them, gossiped at the local coffee shops or market stalls. Many drove their animals through the city and out to feed on the stubble outside the walls. It was a lively, vibrant city by day. At night, it was ominously quiet.
Troy stepped into a shadowing alcove to avoid a roving patrol of MPs, but they walked by unseeing. The few natives on the streets watched his movement but no one tried to interfere with him. His expression warned them to stay away, and he had his hand on the knife in his belt. They wouldn't bother him.
Wandering among the streets, he stopped when a dark shadow blocked his way. Looking up, he saw the crucifix on the local church blocking the moonlight. He headed for the church hoping to shake off his nightmare.
At the copper-studded door, he paused. He didn't want to go inside and pray. He wasn't comfortable with that right now. The North African churches weren't like the clapboard ones at home.
He walked around the side of the building, ignoring the squeak of rats that ran by him in the dark, heading for the sands beyond the stucco. He needed the wide open spaces of the desert.
Walking out of the shadows, he was momentarily blinded by the bright moonlight. He squinted and held up his hand shading his eyes until his eyes adjusted.
Looking to one side, he froze.
Crosses, angels, small tombstones. The church had its own graveyard, stretching over the rocks until it met up with the sand. The shadows of the monuments stretched over the barren rocky ground up the side of the building, and in the windows.
Troy snubbed the cigarette out, stopped himself from discarding the butt on hallowed ground by putting it in his pocket, then walked into the graveyard, looking for something he couldn't name. Escape?
He reached the stone wall at the other end, and sat down on it, folding his hands around one up-raised knee. Looking back at the crosses, he thought about the deposition he was going to give the next day against Colonel Beckmann of the Wehrmacht who was now an Allied prisoner-of-war back in a high-security camp in the United States.
With any luck, it'll hang the son-of-a-bitch.
***
December 1941
Sergeant Sam Troy brushed at the stripes on his sleeve to get the dust off them. The ride to the British radio outpost had been longer than he expected, but the party was in full swing from the sound of music. He had been stopped by a guard on the way in, but Lieutenant Ian Michlan's note had been good enough to get him through the roadblock.
Technically he wasn't supposed to be out here at all. As one of the lower-ranking members of the American liaison to the newly-formed Eighth Army, and an enlisted man to boot, the invitation to the British outpost was extra-curricular to an extreme even if he'd helped save Michlan's troop from the attacking Italians several weeks before. That had been outside the bounds as well since he hadn't retreated with the rest of his group when the attack looked imminent.
After a brisk battle, which Troy unexpectedly found he enjoyed, the Italians had surrendered or fled.
Troy had arrived back to find his own officers frothing at the mouth about his little excursion. There wasn't enough of the US Army there to court-martial him, but they promised him that it would come. The British compliments on his actions hadn't helped with his officers; they wanted to ship him back on the first slow boat to the Fort Leavenworth.
So, capitalizing on his sin, Troy had 'liberated' a jeep for the evening, and headed back to the lonely outpost. If he was going to be cashiered for saving British lives, he might as well enjoy one last evening with the men he helped.
The outpost was now quite far behind the British lines, and there was an air of relaxation that Troy picked up on as soon as he drove in. A tank was parked outside, in ruinous condition, with several camels hobbled next to it. Troy parked nearby.
Michlan greeted him with a raised hand. "Glad you could make it, Troy!"
"Wouldn't miss this," Troy replied, with a grin. His dark hair was covered with dust, and he ran his hand through it sifting it out. "Brought a melon with me."
"Oh, jolly good! 'Fraid that it's mostly us and some Australians from down the line, but we took an officer's car last week -- and it had wine," Michlan commented with a big smile. He looked almost like a bird of prey with a long mouth that curved like a sickle and a hook nose. His green eyes were startlingly light against his well-tanned skin, and blond hair. "Come on. I'll introduce you."
He lead Troy over to two men who were clustered around the radio trying to get the BBC news.
Gesturing to the one on the right, a young man with a scruffy beard, and grease on his fingers from working on the tank, "Leftenant Malcolm Paul. He just got in as you can tell."
"Not a lot of bath water out there, sir!" Roughly in his early twenties, Paul had hair so fair it looked like silver. Maybe the blonde was bleached out of it by the same sun that gave him the deep tan on his cheeks. "Glad to meet you, Sergeant."
"That tank's cleaner than you are, Leftenant," Michlan joshed him. "See if you can get a bit more off your hands before you come to supper."
"Yes, sar!"
The other man looked to be twice Paul's age. He had lined, deeply sunburned skin, dark eyes, and had a neatly trimmed beard. He was wearing Arab clothes with a dark burnoose thrown on top. The man eyed him for a second, nodded coolly, then went back to tuning the radio. "I'm Alan Maykurth," he said quietly.
Troy would lay good American greenbacks that Maykurth was an officer. If he had just come in from the field, he wouldn't have a uniform. He had to be one of the British intelligence men. In other words, a spy.
"This is Sergeant Sam Troy, US Army," Michlan introduced him. "Saved us from a wicked spot of trouble last week."
"Has America joined up then?" Paul asked eagerly.
"Nope," Troy replied with a touch of regret in his voice. "Not yet."
"But they will?" Maykurth inquired.
Troy hesitated. Passions were running strongly back in the United States against intervention in the European war even if the President was for it. Personally, Troy had only seen the end results of the Afrika Korps attacks, and that was enough to make him want to fight. What would happen when he met his first German soldier, he didn't know. "Don't know about that. They seem to want to send tanks, not men."
"Enough of that tonight," Michlan cut in. "He's brought us a melon to share around. Can't you get anything on that radio, Paul?"
"We got the broadcast from Abbas," Maykurth replied. "Nothing but music tonight."
"Anything of interest?" Michlan asked suddenly serious.
Maykurth shrugged. "Nothing for us. It seems to be mostly American dance music."
"Well, it's almost time to eat," Michlan said bracingly. "Let's join the others."
There were eleven men in the outpost. The five assigned at the listening outpost had been augmented by the crew of the tank. The wreckage sat outside the perimeter, resting on a broken tread. With the mysterious Maykurth, there were eleven at the party including Troy.
Three hours later, he was leaning back against the wall, staring at the sky, feeling full and contented. The party had gone off well, there wasn't a trace of his melon left, except rine. The singing had started right after dinner, and continued for an hour, then dwindled. In honor of his presence, they'd sung the Star Spangled Banner, and he reciprocated by joining in God Save The King. Now most of the troops were asleep except for the guards standing at each end. He'd moved his jeep next to the tank, so it was easier to guard that way, and borrowed a blanket to stretch out on under the stars.
There were too many sparks of light to count up there. He closed his eyes and inhaled the smells. Fire, men, a whiff of mechanical oil, the heavy scent of lime soap...
Soap? Lime?
Troy's eyes flicked open. What the hell was that?
He bolted upright, looking to the right where the sentry had been standing when he lay down. The man was still there, outlined by stars.
Looking to the left, Troy saw the other sentry bent over as if he was sleeping. Michlin would have his balls if he was asleep on duty.
Troy felt uneasy. He rolled off the blanket to a half-crouch and looked around again.
He opened his mouth, then felt someone behind him wrap a cord around his neck. His warning died as he struggled against the throttling belt.
The Germans must have come in from the opposite side, creeping stealthily through the sand. The sentry to the left was dead, knifed as the commandos came over the wall.
Troy pushed back as hard as he could against the strangler, trying to free himself from the cord. A hard fist slammed against his head, knocking him down. The cord loosened as he fell.
Through a fog, he saw the men being roused from their bedrolls. One of the tankers got a round off, but was slammed to the ground by two attackers. The reward for the shot was a bayonet through the chest.
Whoever these men were, they were ruthless, Troy thought dizzily. There hadn't been a need to kill the tanker.
He went limp, and his attacker stopped strangling him.
Michlin held up his hands in surrender as he was surrounded by bayonets. "Who are you?" he asked.
The leading German just jerked up his rifle, and Michlin folded his hands behind his head. The prisoners were herded into a row.
Four men dead. That left seven -- Michlin, Troy, Maykurth, Paul, and three others, two of them from the tank crew.
"Sit down," the leader of the attack finally said, waving at them.
"What's going on?" Michlin asked warily.
"Shut up," was the reply.
They obeyed as he gestured.
With his raw throat Troy couldn't do more than nod. My commander'll never forgive me. I won't be only court-martialed, I'll be hung out to dry! If I ever get home, that is.
The leader looked at Maykurth who was muttering in Arabic and wringing his hands, crying out loud. "Quiet or I kill you."
Apparently, Maykurth understood the German because he shut up, but continued to cringe.
Troy glanced at Michlin who stared back warningly. He looked back at Maykurth who pulled the burnoose over his hair and squatted down.
Four hours later, out of the darkness, four hours later, came a German staff car, neatly polished and complete with fluttering Third Reich flags. A neatly-turned out colonel lounged at his ease in the backseat. The driver's uniform was immaculate. It was as if they had just driven in from Berlin. Several of the attackers had lit torches which illuminated the area in front of the prisoners. More than anything else that told Troy that the battle lines had shifted once again, and the Germans were now in control. They didn't fear a night attack because the British lines were far away.
Troy licked his lips and hoped that whatever was going to happen would happen fast. He hadn't gotten enough sleep, and he needed the latrine.
"Stand up!" one of the guards ordered, and the prisoners struggled to their feet.
The car stopped, and the colonel stood up, eyeing the small group. "I am Colonel Beckmann!" he said in an imperious tone.
The attack had taken its toll on Michlin. He struggled to salute but it was sloppy to an extent that even Troy winced.
Beckmann looked them over with a faint smile that made Troy feel uncomfortable. There was something unsettling about the officer's attitude. He struggled to put it into place but he couldn't.
"Where is the radio truck, Gutfreund?" he barked in German.
"Over here, sir," the leader of the attack replied, saluting sharply. "We have captured the code book."
Troy felt a trickle of fear go down his back. So that was what they wanted. The codes, the radio truck, and whatever had come in that night.
He risked a glance at Michlin and saw with alarm that the man was as pale as the stone wall behind him, and swaying as he stood at attention. The guard beside him also seemed to notice and waved at Gutfreund who was standing to one side.
"Herr Colonel," Gutfreund called, attracting his attention. "The prisoners?"
Beckmann looked over and noticed. Again that faint smile. "So, what?"
"As prisoners, we are entitled food and water," said Paul, eyeing Michlin who was trying to keep himself upright. "Colonel -- "
Michlin collapsed, and the line of prisoners broke up as each tried to get to him.
Troy didn't see which one of the British hit the first guard who tried to separate them, but the fight spread swiftly around the fallen man.
A stunning blow to the stomach, then back knocked Troy flat but he grabbed the guard's ankles and tried to yank him off his feet. His attempt failed.
A shot went off, and everyone froze. Then the guards who hadn't been fighting moved in, and separate the pile.
Michlin was unconscious, his breathing harsh. Paul had a head wound that matted his silver hair with red blood.
Two of the guards were also unconscious.
"Get in line!" Beckmann ordered, waving his Luger. "I'll kill the next man who tries to escape."
They were herded into the ragged line, Paul and Troy beside Michlin. That was when Troy noticed that there was one man missing. Maykurth.
Gutfreund also noticed that there was one less. "The Arab has escaped!" he barked, waving to the guards. "You, and you, stay here and guard them. The rest of you, spread out and find him!"
"He cannot be allowed to escape," Beckmann warned angrily. "We have to stay here as long as we are unnoticed."
"Jawohl, Herr Colonel," Gutfreund agreed. "We will find him."
"I suspect that someone here might know where he has gone," Beckmann suggested, eyeing the prisoners. He added in English, "Maybe the captain?"
"He needs water," Paul rasped, with loathing in his voice. "We all do."
"He will get it," Beckmann replied indifferently. "But no one else. Not until we have found the missing man. Who was he?"
Troy said nothing. All his suspicions about Maykurth came flooding back. If he was an intelligence officer, then it made sense for him to vanish.
None of the others commented.
Beckmann shrugged. "Separate them. Gutfreund, bring the captain over here and get him water. Put the others up against that wall."
"The sun will be up in an hour, sir," Gutfreund commented. "It will hit there all day."
"Then they will burn until we find the prisoner. Or the captain tells me what I want. Or until they die. I don't care which." He settled back against the cushions. "Take me to the radio."
The driver set off, leaving a choking cloud of dust.
Gutfreund glowered at the prisoners. "Take him," waving at Michlin, "over there, and get him some water, Leutnant. You," he thundered, pointing at Troy, "get back to the others when you are done."
***
Troy could feel Paul shivering beside him. It wasn't from fear, but cold; the night was just starting to pass and the baking heat hadn't reached them yet. The sunlight came over the low walls of the outpost directly into the eyes of the prisoners. The guards had tied their hands behind their backs and they knelt uncomfortably on the hard sandy ground.
Beckmann and his men had taken over the bedrolls and other implements. There was stirring in the camp as some men stirred up the fires and began making breakfast. They brought out jerricans of water for the cooking, ignoring the longing expressions of the prisoners.
Troy had wondered what would happen when he saw his first German. Now he knew that he hated the men and would be happy to kill them all for an ounce of the water being poured into the pots. If he ever needed a reason to join the fight, he had it now. The way they had cold-bloodedly killed, and dumped the dead bodies over the wall, then mistreated the living, made him so angry he almost felt warm despite the lingering chill.
Michlin recovered consciousness about an hour after the sun rose. Troy saw him stirring against the wall. The Germans had tied his arms behind him, but not his feet. The guards watched for any chance of rebellion.
Breakfast was ready before they saw Beckmann again. He came around the corner, shrugging his uniform jacket over his shoulders and bantering with his men who treated him with respect, and fear, if Troy read their expressions correctly. Maybe all the Germans weren't like Beckmann; he hoped not.
Nine men in the raiding party, another five in support staff. Two of the fourteen with the prisoners, three cooking, and the others scattered around guarding the outpost, or working with the radio. The odds were against the prisoners.
Gutfreund held out a slip of paper, Michlin's code book in his other hand. "It is ready, Herr Colonel," he said saluting the burly officer.
"Excellent," Beckmann replied. He scanned the message, and thrust it back. "Transmit it."
"They're sending out false codes!" Paul muttered indignantly. "We have to stop them!"
Troy nodded. His throat was still rough from the near-strangling and he was saving what he could for when he needed it.
Beckman caught sight of the movement and walked over towards the prisoners. "Good morning. It looks like it will another hot day."
No one answered.
"Last night I asked you where the Arab went. You didn't answer me," Beckmann stated turning towards Michlin. "Unteroffizier Gutfreund went through your radio materials and found something. Do you know what it was?"
Michlin shook his head and winced. It obviously hurt to move. Either there had been some other damage, or he had a bad headache.
"A message to your army headquarters from a spy. I translated it. Which one of you is Captain Alan Maykurth?" Maykurth was a spy, then as Troy had concluded earlier. Beckmann's inquiry had confirmed it. The prisoners stared sullenly back at him. "Oh, come, that isn't a hard question to answer. Leutnant Michlin, yes, we got your name off your papers, which one is Captain Maykurth?"
Very deliberately, Michlin raised his head. "Bugger off."
Beckmann's cheeks slightly flushed, but he didn't lose his smile. "So much for the vaulted British courtesy. I must convince you the hard way. I am sure you've heard of me."
"I have heard of a lot of Jerry officers," Michlin said, his voice thin and a touch wavering. He looked dizzy. "They're all alike."
"My reputation hasn't spread here? Well, I haven't left many to spread it," Beckmann commented meditatively. "This is your last chance, Leutnant. I want Captain Maykurth."
Michlin shook his head. "I don't know him."
"Was he the man who escaped on the camel? The Arab?"
Silence.
"I will let your men live if you tell me."
Michlin glared at him. "You wouldn't dare kill us."
Troy didn't wince but instinctively he knew Michlin was wrong. The German would do whatever he wanted.
Beckmann looked around. The majority of the men nearby were from the raiding party. "You and you," he ordered two of the cooks, "relieve the men in the radio room. Send them down here."
He had emptied the area of everyone but the commandos, Troy noticed uneasily. What did he have in mind?
Beckmann turned back to Michlin. "I will have the information now."
"No," Michlin said chilly.
"Gutfreund, the one at the end."
Gutfreund removed his uniform coat, and his weapons. Then he took off his canvas belt and wrapped it around one fist, the buckle out.
Another of the guards grabbed the designated man, one of the tankers, and dragged him forward until he was in front of Michlin, on one side, and Beckman on the other.
Gutfreund's first blow the buckle tearing into the tanker's weathered skin, knocking the bound man out of the guards' hands. They stepped back. Then Gutfreund unwound the belt and slashed, using the canvas as a whip.
Michlin, with an oath tried to get to his feet but a guard forced him down.
Troy started forward but got hit in the back of one knee, and went sprawling. He felt the cold muzzle at his neck but the guard didn't shoot. The American could do nothing but watch helplessly at the brutal beating in front of him.
"Stop it!" Michlin cried after a few seconds. "You cannot do this, Colonel! We're prisoners of war!"
"I want the information," Beckmann retorted. "Tell me where Captain Maykurth is! Or where he is going on the missing camel!"
The tanker's shirt was wet with blood, and he wasn't moving any longer. One of the lashes had caught the back of his neck, tearing a strip of skin. He whimpered.
From Michlin's expression, he knew if he didn't give the German something, the tanker would be dead. "Stop it. You're beating Captain Maykurth!"
Beckmann grunted and held up his hand. Gutfreund stepped back from the limp man. "Check his identity discs.
Gutfreund knelt down, and pulled out that metal disks. "Private Railey of the Royal Tank Corp, sir."
"It's still him," Michlin said defiantly. "Railey died last week. Maykurth needed something to identify him with our Army in case you fellows took over, and he wasn't carrying his own. I gave him Railey's."
For a second Troy saw Beckmann believed it, then his face hardened with doubt.
"This man has the tan of a man who recently came to North Africa, Leutnant. Captain Maykurth has been here before and speaks the language from his report. This is not Captain Maykurth."
Michlin couldn't say anything, his face realizing that he couldn't save Railey.
"Kill him," Beckmann ordered, his eyes on Michlin. "The private."
Gutfreund grunted, and knelt down, wrapping his canvas belt around Railey's neck.
Troy didn't shut his eyes. This he wanted to remember in all the detail so he could tell the rescuers exactly what that murderous bastard Beckmann and his goons did to helpless prisoners. Reilly's neck snapped like a pistol shot.
Michlin let his head sink to the ground, his face white as snow. A pair of guards dragged Railey's body away after Gutfreund got back on his feet, the belt dangling from his hand, stained dark and bloody from the beating. He was smiling in enjoyment.
"Now, Leutnant, you will tell me where Captain Maykurth has gone, and everything you know about your army, or I will kill the others as well," Beckmann said harshly. "After dinner, though. Make sure the Leutnant gets water, Gutfreund. He must be able to talk."
And the rest of us are not important, Troy thought grimly. He felt the boot on his back ease away, and he struggled upright until he was back kneeling next to Paul. The taste of the dirt was on his lips. This Kraut is going to kill us all, including Michlin, as soon as he gets what he wants. He'll do it slowly and enjoy it.
"Troy -- if you get a chance, get Michlin out," Paul whispered eyeing the bloody ground in front of him.
The American couldn't imagine a moment when he could do this, but he contented himself with a barely perceptible nod.
Over the long hours of burning sunlight, they heard the crackle of the radio, and the Germans talking, but the four men were left alone. The rays reached Michlin by mid-afternoon and he suffered along with them.
It was almost evening when Beckmann returned standing under an umbrella held by one of the cooks. From the man's expression, he was absolutely terrified and the shade trembled.
Troy looked up at them with pure hatred in his heart. The colonel was smiling as if he took pleasure in the suffering before him.
"Where has Captain Maykurth gone?" he asked Michlin simply. Doggedly, the officer shook his head.
"Very well. I run a camp nearby where I usually do interrogations, but I don't have the time to take you there. I want the information." He waited but Michlin didn't reply. Beckmann turned to Gutfreund who was wiping his mouth after swigging from a canteen. Some of the water flowed down his chin and onto his shirt. He was aware of how greedily the prisoners watched it. "He has had water? The Leutnant?"
"Jawohl."
"He still won't tell me what I want," Beckmann mused. "He does not love his men, that is obvious. He is a coward."
Paul whispered so quietly only Troy could hear. "Bastard. Michlin's got a DSO from Dunkirk."
"So, who is next?" Beckman asked, looking at the three men. "You saw what happened to your friend. Won't one of you tell me what I want?"
No reply.
"Give them a drink, Gutfreund. Just a little."
Troy licked greedily at the water Gutfreund poured over his face. It felt he had reached Nirvana. He sucked it in.
The others reacted the same way. All of their skins had been scorched by the blistering sun.
"So, where is Captain Maykurth?" Beckmann asked patiently, staring from one to the other. He didn't seem to notice that Troy wasn't wearing a British uniform, probably because of the sand and blood that stained the khaki cloth.
"Go to hell," Paul whispered as loudly as he could.
Beckmann's expression changed. "For that, you pay. Him next," he ordered Gutfreund, pointing to Troy.
Troy actually felt relieved. He would have a chance to do something rather than just having to sit and wait. He'd spent some of his waning energies working on the ropes that tied his hands. Gutfreund was in for a surprise.
The guards dragged him out into the clearing, and stepped back. The canvas belt stung the back of his knees and he fell on them, leaving himself open for the next lashes.
The belt was supple and stinging. He could feel welts and blood on his back. There was no way he could defend himself since Gutfreund was dancing around, whipping as he went. It was a macabre waltz.
He wrenched at the wrist ropes as he rolled, trying avoid Gutfreund. In a second's flash, he saw Beckmann's amused expression, and felt a flush of pure fury. He was enjoying this. Troy went back to trying to protect himself.
One slash caught his ear and part of a cheek. It felt like a razor blade.
That did it. His anger flaming up like an oil-fed fire, he ripped at the bonds, and finally one broke. His hands were free.
He came boiling up from the hard-packed dirt to hit Gutfreund who looked taken aback.
They went flying back into the guards who scattered out of their way. Troy smashed his bloody hands into Gutfreund's belly finding to his dismay that it was hard and flat. The man was all muscle, and was probably going to rip him apart.
Gutfreund smashed him in the jaw making him see stars.
Troy stumbled aback, falling against boxes of piled supplies. His hand grabbed the long strands of ammunition and he threw one at Gutfreund.
The man grunted and dodged.
Ammunition? Ammunition! Troy didn't bother to try to find a gun. He grabbed a huge handful of the ammunition belts and threw them into a nearby fire. The Germans had been using it for their own cooking.
Beckmann shouted for the guards to stop him and to get the ammunition out of the flames.
Troy tripped one man. He ignored Gutfreund who leapt towards him, his hands outstretched.
It worked. The belts exploded as the fire heated their casings. Everyone, even Beckmann, hit the dirt and hide their faces.
Troy knew he could die from the exploding ammunition, or by Gutfreund's meaty fists, but he was going to take his chances. Glancing across the dirt, he saw Paul nodding urgently towards Michlin, and remembered his command. Get the captain out.
Looking at Michlin, he saw the man was now half-standing, which was more than most of the Germans.
Troy grabbed the bayonet off the belt of one of the guards, and slashed down. He left the man for dead as he raced over to Michlin.
He grabbed the officer's arm and dragged him through the smoke and dust created by the exploding ammunition.
They stumbled over the piles of rocks and fallen bricks and ran into the bulk of the ruined tank.
Troy dragged Michlin around it to the jeep. Thrusting the officer into the front seat, he ran over to the driver's side.
He pulled the keys out of his pocket, and started the engine. Driving away, he heard the whine of bullets flying by his head, and hitting the jeep. He pressed the accelerator to get them out of range as fast as possible.
Behind him, he heard the sound of the German trucks and shouting, and he gunned the engine, driving over the rocky ground.
It was a long trip into the night. No moonlight to drive by, just the stars. The jeep handled the rough terrain better than he thought it possibly could, and he led them a long run. Finally, he slowed down and glanced back.
The trucks were still following as best they could but they were at least a mile away. It was probably two miles back to the encampment.
Troy fumbled with the water can on the back of the jeep and drank deeply of the brackish water inside. It was ambrosia on his parched lips. He stopped himself before he drank it all, and turned to the officer who was slumped against the side of the jeep, his hands still tied behind him.
"Lieutenant?" he asked, putting his hand on Michlin's shoulder. After a second, the man stirred, turning his head towards Troy. "Have some water."
Cutting the ropes, he helped Michlin sit upright. The man's ashen pallor was noticeable even in the dim starlight.
After drinking a scant amount, Michlin turned his head. "Where...where are we?"
"I don't know. But I can see the Germans back there -- they've got their headlights on."
"The men..."
"Ours? Don't know."
"We have to get... to Abbas."
"Not in this," Troy replied, striking his hand on the dashboard. "I'm almost out of gas."
"Walk..."
"It's a good two-three miles to the outpost, then another ten back, and the terrain's crammed with Krauts."
"You have to get... them some... help." Michlin stared at him demandingly.
"We have to get them some help."
Michlin swayed again, then fell against the wheel. Troy grabbed him, and felt wet cloth. Not damp, wet. He lifted his hand and saw blood.
Those German bullets had hit their target after all. Michlin's uniform was soaked in blood from a stomach wound.
"Why the hell didn't you say anything?" he said angrily.
"You were driving...," Michlin whispered with a ghost of humor. "Get back to... Abbas, Troy. Tell them about... Beckmann. Tell Maykurth about his report."
"I'm not leaving you behind," Troy stated, pulling the man out of the jeep and lying him flat on the ground.
"You can't... carry me back," Michlin replied weakly. "Leave me -- "
The sound of engines roared in close proximity. The Germans were still hunting.
"Damn!" Troy dragged Michlin behind some rocks. "Stay here until I lose them again."
Michlin caught his sleeve. "Get back to Abbas... Troy. That's an order!"
"You're not my commanding officer," Troy said flatly, detangling himself. "I'll be back for you."
He ran back to the jeep and started it again. If he remember the map correctly there was a ravine nearby, and if he set the jeep afire, his pursuers might think they were both dead, and go back to the camp.
It didn’t take long for the Germans to see the jeep and start firing. Troy dodged them, and sent the jeep around a corner.
He'd remembered correctly after all. The ravine was under his wheels before he could dodge it. He threw himself out of the front seat, feeling the jeep slide, and rolled on the ground until he fell into a neighboring one. He lay in the shadows as the trucks rolled up, disgorging Gutfreund and troopers.
They clustered near the edge of the deep crack, which he'd sent the jeep into, commenting in German. The headlights extended over the lip, leaving the depths in Stygian dark.
Gutfreund ordered one of the soldiers to go down and find out what happened. He lit a cigarette, American from the smell, and tossed his match into the ravine as the trooper went back to get some rope.
The dregs of the gasoline in the broken gas tank exploded and the ground shook. Troy felt dirt crumbling into his hair as the walls of his trench crumbled. He sent up a prayer that Gutfreund would believe he and Michlan were dead.
Whatever the Germans were saying was incomprehensible, but they sounded amused. After a few minutes, they piled back into their trucks and left.
Troy sighed with relief. He climbed out of the trench and headed back over the dark terrain to where he had left Michlan.
The Englishmen lay still, his hands folded over his stomach. He looked incredibly peaceful.
Troy didn't need to touch him to know that he had died. The blood loss alone would have killed him, even without the chill of the night.
Troy sank down on his knees and wondered what to do next. He would like to bury the dead man, but it would take precious energy which he didn't have. His mouth was already dry from his travel, and he didn't have any more water than the jerrican he'd left beside Michlan. The rest had gone up with the jeep.
Looking up, he saw a vulture circling around in the morning sky. As soon as he left, the scavenger would be down for his breakfast.
He fought down a urge to retch.
At least, he could pile stones up and hopefully keep the animals at bay. Then he'd head back to the outpost following the tracks in the sand left by the German trucks. He would start after he was done here.
He took a sip of the water, just enough to wet his throat, and feeling better, began to find rocks for the cairn.
The day was hotter than hell and longer than any day he'd ever dreamed of. Too long for the exhausted American. He had finished the cairn by mid-morning, then retired to shade, thinking about what might be going on back at the outpost.
Had Beckmann withdrawn, taking the other prisoners with him? Was he beating Paul to death as Troy lay there? Remembering Michlan's last command was to get to Abbas and report what happened, he regretted being quite so flippant in saying that he didn't belong to the same army. While true, it had become his war in a deeply personal way.
If his Army decided to court-marshal him, Troy would apply to the British and see if they'd take him on in some way. He wanted to fight the Germans now. A culture that had produced the sadistic Beckmann had to be stopped. Grimly, he remembered a letter from his brother David, who had joined the Royal Air Force a year before, arguing that the Germans and Italians needed to be stopped. Troy hadn't believed in it before, but now he did. He suspected that the vast majority of the Germans weren't like Beckmann; the multiple told tales of Rommel didn't show sadism, but right now Troy was willing to kill them all.
He drank the last of his water at sunset when he headed back to the camp. He was weak now from lack of food, and only hoped he could make it back and that the outpost would be unoccupied. He avoided thinking of what he might have to do if the Germans were still there. I'll deal with one thing at a time.
The sky was almost dark when he staggered over the hill, then flopped on his belly, making himself as small as possible. The Germans were still in occupation. Hell and damnation!
Beckmann and Gutfreund were walking around the ruined tank, chattering calmly, smoking cigarettes, looking relaxed. Behind them, troops were loading up a truck.
Troy dragged himself behind a rock and watched. It looked like the Germans were pulling out.
He looked up as a pair of airplanes flew over the outpost and circled back. They were RAF Hurricanes which couldn't miss the markings on the German trucks. Beckmann looked like he was cursing as he headed back into the outpost at a run.
Troy felt a surge of hope. Somehow someone must have gotten information to the British HQ that the outpost had been taken by the Germans. Maykurth? One of the other prisoners who might have escaped when Troy did?
The outpost erupted into a buzzing hive of troops running back and forth. The Hurricanes roared back and fired, missing the tank and the truck, but hitting at least three troops who flopped on the ground with the limpness of dead men. The airplanes soared out of sight as the troops fired back, and disappeared. In the distance, Troy heard other airplane engines. Either the German reinforcements Beckmann spoke of, or the British were on their way in force.
Beckmann came out, waving the troops to drive the trucks around to the front. He turned as Gutfreund and a trooper dragged out a prisoner who looked as if he was barely alive. Malcolm Paul looking worse for wear.
Troy cursed and tensed. He'd never get down there in time to prevent whatever Beckmann had in mind.
Beckmann glanced at Paul, and gave an order. The men dragged Paul around the front of the tank out of Troy's view.
"Rot in hell, Beckmann," Troy muttered. "What are you going to do, you bastard?"
A few minutes later Beckmann disappeared back into the outpost. Gutfreund walked over to the trucks and issued orders that sent men scurrying about.
There seemed no reason for the troops to be rushing around, especially if the Germans were coming in. The British must have counter-attacked and were headed this way.
The staff car came around, flags flying, Beckmann in the backseat. He stopped to pick up Gutfreund, and laughed at something the soldier said. The trucks roared out with the troops, leaving a cloud of dust.
Troy waited a half-hour before crawling out from behind the boulder and staggering down the hill. He could smell smoke. The Germans must have torched whatever supplies had been left behind. The acrid air burned Troy's eyes and he panted. Water. He needed to get to the well, and get some water.
The bulk of the tank loomed like Mount Rushmore in front of him. He walked around it, his hands using the metal as a crutch until he reached the front. The shadow of the cannon stretched out like a tree limb. But it was misshapen.
Walking forward, he hit a pair of sandy-and-bloodstained boots. The skin above the sagging socks was red from sunburn. Shoes? On eye level? His gaze traveled up the body. Stained shorts, blood-caked shirt, hands tied behind his back, shoulders... He recognized the clothing, the shoes; he didn't need to see the purpled face or the broken neck.
Beckmann had hanged Lieutenant Malcolm Paul from the cannon of his own tank.
Troy collapsed on the sand.
***
"Here, be careful with him," said a familiar voice. He felt cool water being poured into his mouth. It ran out the side, staining his burning skin. "Is he dead?"
The reply was in musical Arabic.
The sun was behind the hooded form of the man who turned him over. Through slitted eyelids, Troy saw it was Maykurth, his burnoose casting his face into shadow.
"Relax," Maykurth said softly. He looked at someone else outside of Troy's range. "Is anyone else alive?"
"No, sir," replied the other man. "We have other bodies though."
"Well, then we'd better be going."
Troy grabbed weakly at Maykurth's robe. "Mich...lan," he whispered. His tongue felt too large for his mouth.
"Leftenant Michlan?" Maykurth asked. "Did the Jerries take him with them?"
Troy shook his head fractionally.
"He's dead?"
"Yes.... In the...sand," Troy said as clearly as he could. He flipped his hand. "I'll... show you..."
Maykurth looked toward the rocky hills. "Fraid we'll have to come back for him," he said compassionately. "I'd rather take care of you first. Let's get you to hospital. I'm afraid your commanders aren't very happy with you."
Troy let his lids close. He'd deal with the US Army tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow. There had to be. He would get even with Beckmann if it took the rest of his life.
By the time he was conscious again, the Naval base at Pearl Harbor had been attacked, and the United States was at war with Germany. The Army no longer cared about his transgression except to tell him that he'd better recover since he was being requested by the British to join the Long Range Desert Patrol. Maykurth visited him in the hospital saying he'd spoken with the Army, and cleared it if Troy wanted.
Troy agreed. It was better than a court-martial, and he had little doubt that the US Army would get to that sooner or later if he stayed in Abbas.
Paul's swollen face haunted Troy's infrequent nightmares. It didn't matter that he hadn't ever seen it for more than a fraction of a second. His imagination easily supplied the details. He never expected to see Colonel Beckmann again. He had never forgotten the officer.
Present Time
Troy sighed, and reached for his cigarettes. He was almost out of them. He'd have to go back to the barracks and see if he could scrounge some more. There's a reason he was called 'Beckmann the Beast'. Paul wasn't the only man he murdered. Why did they ship him to that American POW camp instead of hanging him here? Doesn't matter now.
"Troy!"
Despite himself, he jumped before turning.
Moffitt was leaning against the wall, watching him quizzically. One hand was on his pistol. He didn't trust the night wanderers in Abbas any more than the MPs did.
"When did you guys get in?"
"An hour ago. One of the MPs said you were out here," Moffitt replied crisply.
"How was the mission?"
"Boring. Nothing out there but sand. Your deposition?"
"This morning." Troy shrugged.
The gesture said it all to Moffitt who was studying him intently. He waved his hand. "Why are you here, Troy?"
Troy looked around at the churchyard. Had Michlan or Paul been buried here with all these others, or sent home? The cemetery contained so many soldiers that he'd never find their graves.
"The MP suggested you get back to the barracks before he has to notice it," Moffitt said critically. "He didn't want to disturb you."
Troy grinned. "Thoughtful of him."
"Yes indeed. Coming along?"
They strolled back through the winding streets. Troy was glad of one thing -- the Englishman who had joined the Rat Patrol looked nothing like Michlan or Maykurth.
And when they hung Beckmann, he hoped to never see Lieutenant Malcolm Paul again.