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Private Mark Hitchcock, US Army, braced his hand against the edge of the dashboard and wished that he was back at the base playing poker and drinking the desert swill that passed for beer. Most of all, he wished he hadn’t left behind his red French Foreign Legion cap. Dust coated his blond hair turning it into dishwater brown.
It had only taken him a day to recover from the slight wound gained in the last raid, but too late for him to join the others as the Rat Patrol was ordered out to scout new German positions along the coast. Lonely and bored, he’d barely started to enjoy the attention of the blond nurse with the delicate touch with bandages, when he’d been “volunteered” by Captain Dickenson, the Supply officer currently in charge of the base camp.
The battered, dust-covered trucks were delivering rations to Al-Acuba, a small position held by the British at the isolated end of the Allied lines. It was an overnight trip for the convoy of three. They’d get back in time for Hitchcock to get breakfast, and maybe a nap, before Troy, Moffitt and Tully got back. They might even be a day late, which would mean he could keep his date with the nurse. At least, that was his dream.
Privately, he doubted that he’d arrive back in time, from the way the truck rocked back and forth. The road had been bombed heavily in the last few days, forcing the convoy to skirt huge potholes. This took them into sands which were still riddled with land mines. Just last week, the Royal Army sappers had cleared the road, but not the rest. The trade-off was either digging the trucks out of the potholes or risk being blown up, and the troops at Al-Acuba needed their supplies right away.
Huge black clouds were moving in from the west. There would be a storm tonight that would drench everyone in the area. He hoped they’d make Al-Acuba before it hit. Right now the air was hot enough to burn his lungs and the sun was directly in his eyes making him squint. Not that there was much to see -- the arid landscape along the curving road was mostly rock and sand.
A touch of green caught his eye. Palm trees? Must be an oasis or a spring somewhere nearby. Just before the road curved to the right was a small hut, surrounded by a fence made of tangled rusty wire. Then he saw other dilapidated buildings beyond it. This must have been a settlement probably abandoned during the bombing... or during the Roman Occupation. Not much had changed from the look of the mud nd camel-hair walls except that the windows used wood frames. Palm fronds made up the roofing. There was a stone well between the buildings but the path to it was blocked by a tumbled house.
Hitchcock tapped the driver’s shoulder, and the man glanced over with narrowed eyes, then nodded as Hitchcock mimed drinking.
“Won’t have to use our own water, eh, mate?” he said cheerfully, his heavy Australian accent making his words almost unintelligible.
Hitchcock nodded. He was used to the plethora of accents from the troops that made up the desert war. Raised on Long Island and the northeastern seaboard, he knew the tones of the upper-class British expatriates, but here the men of the Commonwealth ranged from Australia to South Africa and Indian. Sometimes it was difficult to hold a conversation.
The oasis was around the bend. One of the palms had tumbled down into the water, while the other was scored with bullet holes. The airmen must have seen some kind of German activity to do such a thorough job. The water was cluttered with half-decayed fronds. A large vulture fluttered out of the leaves and flew back towards the hut.
“Back to the well or the waterhole?” the driver asked uneasily.
“I’ll check to see if the well’s still drinkable. You check the water here,” Hitchcock said briskly. He jumped out of the cab and staggered for a second, his numb legs giving way. Pulling out his carbine, he slung it over his shoulder and took the last stick of gum out of his shirt pocket. He unwrapped it and began to chew as he trotted back.
No luck here. A broken bucket lay to one side while the spindle was splintered. The stones were shattered on one side. The pilots must have used this place for target practice before they hit the enemy at the oasis.
Hitchcock caught a familiar scent and wrinkled his nose. Something was dead in one of the buildings. Probably the first one where the vulture was perched on the roof, watching him speculatively.
I wonder where Troy and the others are now? Wish I could’ve… Hey! What’s this? Tire marks? He crouched down next to the fence and studied the marks.
The hard earth of the road hadn’t shown any tracks, but the soft sand did. He wasn’t familiar with the pattern of the tread. The Allied trucks hadn’t gone off the road here, and there had been a sandstorm the day before, so sometime in the last twelve hours or so, a mysterious vehicle, not as heavy as the trucks, had gone through here.
Are they still here? Hitchcock unslung his carbine and sank down, his senses alert. He heard the sound of the drivers around the corner, the rising wind as the storm gathered closer, and the creaking door, but nothing else. Probably cleared out. Well, there’s only one place to hide.
At a half-crouch, he headed for the hut.
It was larger than it had looked from the road. The walls were fairly intact, and the canvas door swung back and forth on a single hinge. The whole building was as wide as one of the trucks.
He swallowed heavily, and pushed through the door.
The large front room was lit by sunlight coming through holes in the palm-frond roof. It was empty. Hitchcock hesitated, looking around and saw only a couple of chairs and some abandoned blankets.
A dark shadow fell over him and he ducked automatically, his gun swinging upward. The vulture flapped over his head and landed on the wooden floor, eyeing him wickedly and bouncing on its claws. Its naked head swayed from one side to the other.
“Go to hell, you bastard!” Hitchcock hissed and fired at the bird, who dissolved in a flurry of feathers and raw meat.
The light would be gone soon. He’d better start back to the trucks.
He heard something from one of the other rooms, and went down on one knee, ready to shoot.
A fraction of a second later, he heard it again. It sounded like a groan.
A chill went down his spine. No matter what might happen, he’d have to find out what, or who, was in there.
Sergeant Sam Troy was sick of sand and dirt. Normally, it didn’t bother him, but enough was enough especially when it turned to mud. The on-coming storm promised an uncomfortable night unless they made it to headquarters in time.
The mission had been a failure. They'd returned a day before they planned since the Allied outposts that they were to contact were fully-filled with Germans by the time they reached them. They had barely made it out with their skins.
Troy was sure that Captain Dickenson wasn’t going to approve of the fact that they lost a jeep, two cans of water and a radio, when they were ambushed. Dickenson seemed to take it personally when they didn’t come back with all their supplies. His superior, Colonel Wilson, had a better sense of what was important but wouldn't approve of their report. The war was not going well for the Allies in North Africa.
Moffitt, his goggles down against the flying sand, was driving their surviving jeep. The city was getting darker as the sun set, and the British sergeant was having difficulty navigating the narrow streets to HQ. Their usual driver, Tully Pettigrew. had done most of the driving for the last twenty-four hours, and finally been convinced to get some sleep on the last leg. Troy doubted he was asleep now with all of Moffitt's imprecations against the roads, and natives who ran in front of the jeep.
What Troy really wanted a shower, food and sleep. He'd settle for getting out of the threatening storm.
The jeep skidded to a stop in front of an impressive two-story building with an American flag adorning the roof.
Tully came awake with a start, looking around. “Home again, eh, Sarge?”
“Yes,” Moffitt replied tiredly. He looked exhausted even if he'd never admit it. It had been a difficult mission for them all.
“I’ll drive the jeep around to the motor pool,” Tully cracked. “Better not let the sand get into the gun, or we’ll have replace that out of our pay!”
The others grinned. “Right, Tully,” Troy said, swinging down from the back seat and wincing at his stiff back. “See you inside.”
The guards had retreated inside to get away from the rising wind, and it took concentrated pounding on the ornate wooden doors to get them to open up.
The two sergeants were liberally coated with sand before they convinced the guards to let them in.
Must have had another rumor of Rommel coming to lunch, Troy thought sourly as he spent ten minutes establishing his credentials.
Finally, they were sent upstairs only to find that their commander, General Wilson, was away from the base.
Sitting behind his desk was Dickenson, a cup of coffee in one hand, and piles of paper to each side. He took their salutes in a perfunctory fashion, then did a double-take. “Good Lord! Troy?”
“Yes, sir!” Dust stung Troy’s eyes as he saluted and hit the brim of his bush hat. God, I’m tired.
Moffitt looked like a raccoon with a ring of dirt around where his goggles sat. Even the cap badge on his beret was dulled by dust.
“Your report, Sergeant?”
“Those outposts are full of Germans. They have a repair facility set up and it’s getting a lot of business. The Germans look like they’re assembling a base for their Panzers.”
“Well, that matches some dispatches the Brits gave us,” Dickenson replied stodgily, glancing at Moffitt, who didn’t react to the implied distrust of his country’s intelligence gatherers. “Can’t imagine they’re moving right now. Not with this storm coming up.”
“No, sir,” Troy agreed neutrally. This man was a glorified file clerk. What did he know about secret information?
Dickenson sensed Troy's dislike, and frowned. “Get some clean clothes, food, sleep. Colonel Wilson’ll be back tomorrow and you can report to him then, Troy.”
“Yessir!” Troy hesitated. “Captain?”
“Yes?”
“One of my men, Hitchcock, was wounded but he was supposed to be in camp. Do you have any idea of where he staying, sir?”
Dickenson shrugged. “Haven’t a clue, Sergeant. Ask the housing officer when you get your billets. Dismissed!”
“Yessir!”
Hitchcock felt the wind lift the hairs on the back of his neck or maybe it was fear that was doing it. As he crept up on the other room, he heard nothing but the sound of his footsteps.
An ambush? Are they waiting for me? His hand tensed on the trigger of the carbine.
Finally, taking a deep breath, he bolted through the door, landing on his stomach, the gun held ready.
Nothing alive in the first room. A broken table rested on its side against a wall, legs facing out. Under one elbow, he felt dried dirt. Glancing down, he saw the same pattern as outside. Something had been wheeled over the ground and into the last room.
Hitchcock licked his lips and moved forward on his stomach.
Finally, a sound. Harsh breathing from the other room, then sucked in as if a man were holding his breath. A smothered cough.
Hitchcock smelled the body before he saw it, covered by one of the tattered blankets. A motorcycle helmet and dispatch bag lay beside it.
On the other side of the bike, a wounded man lay face-down, his leg a mass from thigh to a bloody boot. He was also helmeted.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened here. The two dispatch riders must have been overtaken by the fighters, and taken refuge in the building. One had died, and the other was so badly wounded that it was a miracle that he was still moving. Had he expected to continue to the German camp? With those wounds, it would have been impossible. Maybe he expected someone to come for him. That meant there might be a Kraut patrol on the way right now. Better tell the drivers.
Hitchcock relaxed a bit and got to his feet, moving closer to the wounded man. The rider opened his eyes a fraction, flexed his hand as if to reach for a weapon, but couldn’t move.
Wood? A wooden floor? Hitchcock noted the anomaly just as he heard the sound of engines outside.
Unfamiliar engines. Not the roar of the Americans but another familiar, if unpleasant, sound.
German engines. And they were heading this way.
Hitchcock cursed and looked around. No back door, nothing but the way he’d come in, and they’d spot him then. What had happened to the Aussies?
Boom! A cannon shot smashed through the side of the wall, sending a cascade of dust over him. He was knocked off his feet, the carbine skittering out of his hand. The front façade of the house was gone. He could see the convoy as it raced around the corner to escape the marauding German column.
Rain stung his eyes as he watched. The storm was finally coming in.
How the hell am I gonna get out of this? He rolled over on his stomach and reached for the carbine, but didn’t make it.
One of the Allied trucks turned towards the ruined hut, its driver slumped over the wheel, a victim of accurate shooting. The rubble and the remains of the motorcycle stopped it about a foot from where Hitchcock had scrambled.
He gave a sigh of blessed relief. Here was something at least to shelter him from those Krauts –
Creak. Groan. List.
The floor sagged under the weight of the truck. Another groan and the floor gave way, sending everything into the pitch darkness of a cellar.
He landed, too stunned to move.
With a metallic groan, the truck listed and started to fall. It jammed on several wooden beams, hanging above the corpse, the men and the dispatch bag. The motorcycle had become a wedge that kept it out of the cellar.
God, I don’t want to die squashed like a bug. Don’t let me die. Help me!
Sergeant Troy was almost asleep. Well-fed, with a change of clothing, and a soft bed, and he was taking advantage of the lull in the war brought on by the storm. Moffitt had gone to report to his people while Tully was down at the truck depot making sure the jeep was covered in this harsh weather.
With a spray of water and a blast of cold air, Tully barreled into the room. “Sarge!”
Troy sat straight up. He hadn’t heard that tone in the laconic private’s voice since the last mission when they drove into an ambush with Tully’s jeep in front. Something was wrong? “Yeah? What’s up? The jeep?”
“Nope. I was talkin’ to some of the guys in the motor pool. There’s an extra jeep that they just finished redoing and they said that Wilson had been planning to give it to us anyway, so not to worry about the other jeep. But they said that Hitch went out with a convoy this morning and nothin’s been heard from them since.”
“What?”
“What convoy?” Moffitt asked coming through the doorway. He detoured around Tully’s wet rain tarp, which was dripping water on the stone floor. “You’d better hang that somewhere, Tully, before you get put on report!”
“Right, Sarge.” Tully shed the oilskin, hanging it safely out of the way.
“What were you saying about Hitch?” Troy said intently. He reached for his boots and pulled them on, not taking his gaze off the private.
“Some Aussies were taking rations down to their boys at Al-Acuba, but they haven’t been heard from since this morning. They should’ve called in and the depot sarge is about to bust a gut talking about lousy drivers. ‘Course, he’s from South Africa…”
“I wouldn’t take his words too seriously then,” Moffitt said dryly. “We’re not all one happy family, you know.”
“Yeah, but the trucks are still gone?” Troy asked ignoring Moffitt’s comment. The rivalry between the different parts of the British Army wasn’t his concern.
“They hadn’t come in when I was there,” Tully said, sitting on the bed opposite him.
“Troy, I’ll go down and see if the lorries have called in,” Moffitt commented. “I wish I’d known before I came up all those stairs!”
“How’re the jeeps?” Troy said abruptly. “Ready to go?”
“Fine. Gassed up, but the sergeant said he wanted to grease up the struts if we’ve got time.”
“Not if Hitch's out in this," Troy commented, pulling on his jacket. “So much for sack time.”
“You think he’s in trouble?”
“We’ll find out.”
Captain Hans Dietrich swore at the rain sleeting down the sides of his canvas tent. Even with the heavy coat over his uniform, he was still cold.
Not so much cold as chilled to the bone. Will the rain never stop? It just started so I’d better be patient.
He sat down on the camp stool and stared moodily at the chest across the tent. Records, maps, acquisition forms, everything a good officer needed to carry out his duties. Except for his orders. Where were his orders? Somewhere out in the sodden mess that was the North African desert. The storm would pass in several hours, it would be a cold freezing night, and his orders were still lost out there. Even the radios couldn’t transmit in this god-forsaken storm!
Looking outside his tent, he saw the camouflage over the tanks and his precious half-track was coming loose. The high wind would pick up every edge and rip it free. Well, he would worry about that in the morning. Even the RAF wasn’t flying in this storm. It would be madness to send up fighters now. He was safe until the early reconnaissance flights.
Safe and bored. The men on guard duty looked miserable and Dietrich wondered if it was really necessary to have a watch. Then he remembered that the Allied commandos enjoyed the challenge of the bad weather, especially that verdammant Rat Patrol, and he wasn’t going to lose his command to some stubborn fools who hadn’t the brains to stay out of the rain! No, the soldiers would keep watch; there would be hot food when they came off, and then, come daylight, their commanding officer would go out in the mud and water-filled potholes, looking for the dispatch rider. It would be difficult in the mud, but he’d find the man or men, if it took him the rest of the war.
Turning on his heel, Dietrich went back to his writing desk and started another letter to his parents in Germany. Circumventing the censors while still being entertaining was enough to keep him busy for at least an hour or two.
Hitchcock knew he ran the risk of going insane if he stared at the truck any more. It hung above his head, a huge ugly monstrosity, one door hanging open, swaying in the wind, creaking. Water ran off the saturated canvas, down the metal and the door, and made a pool on the hard ground. By the time it reached Hitchcock, it tasted of metal, and was cold as ice.
Ice. Christ, when the rain freezes, it’s gonna be a layer of ice and that could bring the damned thing down!
After he’d recovered consciousness, he’d explored the limits of the cellar. They weren’t much, which was why he was still alive – the hole was smaller than the truck. There was a broken ladder to one side where the owner must have climbed down to get his supplies, which were piled in several baskets at the far end. Rotted vegetables, for the most part. The hut must have been abandoned for quite a while before the Krauts had found refuge in it.
The Germans. Holding his gorge down, Hitchcock had rolled the corpse to one side, laying the man out neatly. He was glad that the only light he had was from the occasional lightning bolt. The man’s body was cold and stiff. Hitchcock had stolen his lighter and held it high to find out where the other man had landed.
The badly wounded soldier lay underneath the swaying door. The contents of the front of the truck, their coats, orders, assorted debris -- had fallen over him, but Hitchcock didn’t think the man minded. His breathing was sketchy, and his skin a pallid white. He was in shock. Hitchcock estimated he wouldn’t live out the night.
I’d better move him out of the puddle. He put his hands under the man’s armpits and pulled him to the driest corner of the room. He was still under the truck, but there wasn’t anywhere that wasn’t under that menace.
After making the man as comfortable as possible, Hitchcock went back and scooped up some of the water. He poured it over the man’s face, wetting the dry skin. Some of it might have trickled into his mouth. It might help.
‘Can’t do more for him. What the hell am I gonna do for me? He looked around desperately, holding the lighter up. He spotted the dispatch bag. Might find something to burn in there. If I don’t get warm somehow, I’m gonna have steal that coat off the dead guy. He shuddered at the thought.
Now what the hell do I do?
“Troy!” Moffitt called.
Troy sat upright, his senses on alert. It had been a good hour and a half since Moffitt had vanished downstairs and Troy was about to go looking for him. “Yeah?”
Tully stood up, his hand reaching for his metal helmet that hung on the wall.
“They finally got a call from the outpost. They said no trucks ever arrived,” Moffitt said tersely.
“So he never made it.”
“Correct. None of them did. Three trucks worth of supplies.”
“Got the route?”
“The only man with their route is Captain Dickenson,” Moffitt said reluctantly. “The radio man said that it was such a rush job getting it together, that he put together a special route."
“The Krauts probably ambushed the convoy despite the special route,” Troy commented acidly.
“We don’t know that,” Moffitt contradicted him. “Might have been an accident on the road holding them up.”
“Well, what do you think?”
Moffitt smiled thinly. “I think that we should ask Captain Dickenson if we can have a look at his maps. I asked my people if they knew where Al-Acuba was and they gave me coordinates but it would help to have a map that showed the route.”
“I’ll go tell the sergeant to quit working on the jeeps,” Tully said. He glanced out the window where water was still streaming down the waxed paper that filled in the gaps in the broken glass.
“Hold up. I’d like to go now, but we’ll just get bogged down in the mud,” Troy said brusquely, swinging to his feet. “We’ll go out at first light or whenever it’s safe. Where’s Dickenson, Moffitt?”
“Likely in his quarters,” Moffitt said studying the window opposite him with a detached air as if he was discussing the weather. “Asleep, I believe.”
Troy grinned. “Any guards around his office?”
“Maybe. I didn’t check. Who’d be fool enough to try and break in?”
Troy acknowledged that comment with a grimace.
“We could just ask him for the maps. He might give them to us—”
"I'm not going to take the chance. We leave as soon as we can.”
“If we’re not arrested,” Moffitt said dryly.
The Rat Patrol sauntered casually down the hallway. Tully brought up the rear, his hands shoved into his pockets, ever-present toothpick hanging from his mouth. Troy and Moffitt were a few steps in front of him, talking casually.
They were surprised to find no guard on the door, even if it was nearly two a.m. Still with the guards downstairs and on the roof, who would break into HQ?
Troy looked both ways down the hall, then nodded at Moffitt, who acknowledged his warning. Troy tried the knob to Dickinson’s office.
To his great surprise, it turned and the door clicked open. Troy flicked a warning glance at Tully over Moffitt’s shoulder, and went inside alone.
After he closed the door, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. It wasn’t totally dark inside – sporadic lightning showed him the layout which he remembered from earlier in the day. The map case was against one wall.
He sensed more than heard the other man as he sighed in his sleep.
Damn! Dickenson’s here? What’d he do, fall asleep over his papers?
Troy glanced at the desk and spotted the man’s balding head resting on his crossed arms. He shifted in his sleep, and gave a snort, then his breathing settled.
The sergeant took a step towards the maps, then stopped, irresolute. What he was doing felt wrong. After a second’s indecision, he stepped back and slid out the door, shutting it gently.
“What happened?” Moffitt asked.
“Nothing. He’s asleep,” Troy replied tersely, staring at the door.
“In there?” Moffitt’s tone was incredulous.
“What about the maps, then?” Tully whispered, shifted the toothpick as he watched the opposite end of the corridor.
“You have a plan, Troy?”
Troy grinned unexpectedly. “Yeah. I’m gonna do what you suggested.”
Moffitt blinked. “What?”
“I’m going to ask him for the map!” Troy rapped on the door, waited for a second, then tapped again. Without waiting for a call, he opened the door and boldly stepped inside.
Hitchcock reflected that it wasn’t as cold as winters in New Hampshire or as wet as sailing off Cape May, or as dark as the woods of upstate New York where, as a child, he’d gone camping, but it was a mixture of all the miserable times in his life. It was even worse than the night he’d been trapped outside his expensive prep school’s dormitory and sat in the wet bushes until a teacher caught him. Nearly expelled four months before graduation. Not very bright of him.
From the fading sound of the gale, the storm was nearly over. The water was puddled into two pools at the opposite end of the room. He decided when they became one, he’d call it Lake Acuba.
With a sigh, he went back to digging at the niche in the wall. Maybe if he could enlarge it, he’d have a place to hide when the truck fell. The dirt was hard-packed and he hadn’t made much of a dent in the hours he’d been working on it.
Crash! Squish.
His heart jumped to his mouth. What the hell was that?
The Australian’s body had finally succumbed to gravity and landed in the puddles, which then became one. He lay face-down in Lake Acuba, polluting the water.
Hitchcock pulled him out and dragged him next to the dispatch rider, folding his hands over his chest. He shifted the blanket so it covered as much of both men as possible.
Sitting down beside the other German who was muttering in delirium, he shivered in the icy cold. Much more of this and he’d have to take the uniform off the dead German, or steal the one from the dying man. It wouldn’t matter that much to him. He was probably beyond needing it.
Yeah, probably. Steal a dying man’s coat? He wasn’t that far gone yet. He dismissed the thought and rubbed his hands together to keep the blood flowing.
The man groaned. Hitchcock saw that he was bluish-white.
Well, hell. I’m not going to let him freeze to death or me either. Time to start the fire. He picked up the orders that had fallen out of the Allied truck, ripped them up, and added the paper to the pile of broken wood from the ladder. Including some of the Australian's shirt and part of a broken basket, he lit the fire with the German’s lighter.
The burst of flame provided some relief from the dark miasma of the cellar. He rubbed his hands over the small flickering wood. I’ll have to see if I can find more to burn.
This was nothing like the fires he’d had at home. There the main fireplace had been salvaged from some English manor, and dominated the living room. His mother teased his father that they could live in it, and forget the rest of the house.
She'd been given the house as a wedding gift from her father when she married the outsider, his father, who owned several textile mills. It was his money that made him acceptable to her upper-crust parents. Luckily they’d fallen in love and ignored the society snobs that proclaimed him as simply a shopkeeper.
Compared with the vast Long Island estates around them, the ten-room house overlooking the Sound, was small. Mansions lived in by the rich and famous bordered their twenty acres on the north and south. To the east was the slip where the sail boats were tethered, and Atlantic Ocean. He played in the sands and splashed in the cold water. No wonder they'd sent him to North Africa!
He remembered the well-laid out gardens around the house. He and his sister, Alicia, played hide-and-seek in the underbrush, thwarting their governess and later, tutors, until his parents sent him off to prep school to associate with other boys of his social class.
For all their money and snobbish attitudes, the neighbor's children had enjoyed going over to the Hitchcock estate.
The small house was far more fun than their palatial mansions. Cowboys-and-Indians, cops and robbers, King Arthur…
In his mind, he began to reconstruct his home. The main house had a swooping wooden staircase which he had slid down, to be stopped by the huge carved head on the bottom. The first time he’d overshot it, and landed with a bump on the marble floor. Looking up he’d seen the snarling teeth of the carved lion, and been scared into nightmares.
His mother had hugged him, given him a scold, then insisted that he polish the lion’s head for a week. By the end, he knew every nick and crack in the carving and wasn’t afraid anymore. He just made sure he didn’t overshoot it the next time or the million times since.
They’d gotten ponies a year after they moved in. Five years later, full-grown horses. He’d ridden with the local hunt several times, but wasn’t comfortable with the casual arrogance shown by most of the millionaires. His father's first automobile, a Packard, shared the stables with the animals.
So I learned to fix the car, and tune it up. Built a faster car that the Woolworth kid. That Ford could really fly! It hadn’t been hard to apply that training to a jeep.
He’d even tried to interest Alicia in the cars but she wanted to read. For years she’d planned on going to Vasser, and cars weren’t going to get in her in. Or boyfriends. The fact that she had to wear glasses had mortified her so much that she shunned most of the parties unless her mother insisted. It didn’t matter that Mark wore glasses; on a man they looked intellectual while a girl looked plain. That’s what all her friends told her, and she believed them over her brother.
Hitchcock personally thought this was bunkum. Time for her to get to school and find out that glasses don’t matter that much. If any guy can’t look behind the glasses at the face, then she shouldn’t even bother with him. And if I catch anyone making cracks about ‘four-eyes’, I’ll break their heads!
Creak.
He looked up. The door swayed, tantalizingly out of reach. Unless I die here.
The front seat was saturated with water and bullets had ripped the stuffing out of the seats. The door on the far side was closed, but he could see a flash of lightning through the open window.
What if I just jump up, and pull myself through? The door swayed as a gust of wind blew against the exposed truck, shaking the vehicle. The wooden beams groaned. Let’s give it a try. He stamped his feet to boost the circulation and rubbed his hands, then crouched and leapt upwards.
His hand caught the window crank and yanked it downwards, pulling at the entire cab.
With an ominous crack, one beam started to bend. The additional weight of a man on the door was too much.
The truck slid down a foot, then jammed. A torrent of icy water flowed out of the front seat where it had pooled and drenched him to the skin. With a yelp, he let go and jumped back, shivering.
That was a stupid idea. Not only is the goddamn thing about to come down on me, but now I’m soaked! He turned and looked at the wounded man, who was staring at him wide-eyed.
And it would have landed on him. That’s murder. What the hell was I thinking?
He laughed. He hadn’t been thinking clearly. Now he was paying for it. Damn, he was wet!
After a second’s hesitation, he steeled himself and went over to the dead bodies and took the blanket. At least it was drier than his clothes. He pulled off his shirt, wrung it out, then did the same with his pants. When they were just damp versus sodden, he pulled them back on and settled down next to the fire with the smelly blanket around his shoulders.
I’ll try again come morning. By then, this poor guy’ll probably be dead, and it won’t matter if that truck comes down – as long as it doesn’t land on me.
Dickenson was rubbing his eyes, startled out of his sleep. “Sergeant Troy?”
Troy saluted. “Captain Dickenson?”
“What is it?”
“We have information that the trucks never reached Al-Acuba, sir. One of my men is missing and I’m going after him.”
Dickenson blinked a couple of time. “Missing? Al-Acuba…ah, the convoy!”
“Yes, sir.”
“It still hasn’t arrived?”
“No, sir.”
To Troy’s surprise, Dickenson actually looked worried. “Those poor bastards out on the line! They’ll probably have to surrender or pull out – those supplies were their only chance.”
“I want to find out what happened, sir,” Troy said, changing tactics. If Dickenson was worried about supplies, not Hitchcock, then use the supplies as a lever. Whatever it took, Troy was going to get the map. “To the convoy.”
Dickenson yawned. “I’m sure you would, Sergeant! Wasn’t your man with them?”
“Yes, sir. Private Hitchcock.”
“You LRDP guys really stick together, don’t you?” Dickenson commented unexpectedly. “Figures… I didn’t want to send him along but he was the only man I had free at the time.” His eyes met Troy’s startled gaze. “I know what you’re really after, Troy, but we need to know what’s happening at Al-Acuba.”
“Yes, sir. We can leave right away to find out.”
Dickenson glanced out the window. The storm was almost over but the rain was still pelting against the thin glass. “You’ll get trapped in the mud before you get a mile, Sergeant. I understand why you want to leave now, but use your head!”
“Can you show us where the convoy was going, sir?” Troy asked. He was surprised that Dickenson was so reasonable. He hadn’t been at any other time.
“I’ll show you on the map. Then get some sleep. I’ll get an aide to get you up at dawn.” Troy’s expression was non-committal, and Dickenson shook his head reproachfully, wagging a finger. “I know you too well, Sergeant. Obey orders for once. You won’t do any of us any good if you’re half-dead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now move the papers off’a here and I’ll get out the maps.”
Dietrich gradually awakened to the sound of dripping. The howling wind had died hours ago and the rain had slowly moved out, but the canvas tent was still sopping wet, and sagging ominously on one side. The orderly would repair it before he returned from today’s outing or he’d be sleeping under the drip.
He yawned and stretched his arms. The blanket and worn sheet hadn’t been enough to keep him warm. His greatcoat was spread over his body.
Outside, a streak of light was the first sign of dawn breaking through the clouds. Dietrich shivered against the pervasive chill. So much for the belief that it was always hot and dry in the desert. The occasional storm came through, made the desert bloom, but a few days later, it would be as arid and lifeless as before. It was a harsh cycle of existence.
Dietrich checked his watch. Even his orderly wouldn’t be up this early. The first cup of pilfered American coffee, not much better than German, would have to wait till they boiled the water for breakfast.
He snuggled deeper into his blankets and thought of his last leave in France. The girls –
Running footsteps made him raise his head. The radio operator stopped right outside the tent as the guard challenged him.
“Let him in!” Dietrich ordered, sitting up.
The radioman, still wearing his headphones around his neck and his uniform wet from the rain, saluted. Dietrich returned the gesture, sitting up ignoring the chill that struck the skin uncovered by his undershirt. His uniform was draped over a chair.
“Was is los?”
“Hauptmann Ludwigstein says that they have captured Al-Acuba, Herr Hauptmann!” the man gasped. “They attacked the soldiers in the storm and have taken command of the outpost.”
“And did they find any German prisoners like our dispatch rider?”
“Nein, Herr Hauptmann. Just British soldiers. Very wet ones.”
“Danke.”
The man saluted him and retreated, his job done.
Dietrich lay back down, his mind working busily. If the dispatch riders hadn’t been at Al-Acuba then they had to have been stopped on the way. He’d have to track their route and find out what happened. Those dispatches were too important to let them go astray.
And where was his coffee? He had to get started.
Hitchcock was dozing, his knees drawn up against his cheek, his head resting on his crossed arms. The storm had passed over leaving only the sound of the flapping canvas in the dying wind, and the random dripping of water into the pool at the end. What’d Charlie Chan used to call it? Chinese Water Torture? Drip, drip, drip. The leaky faucet of the North African desert.
The dying soldier had stopped muttering an hour before and only the sound of his breathing showed he was still alive. He hadn’t regained consciousness after that one time. Mentally, Hitchcock gave him under an hour to live. Maybe less. The warmth of the fire must have helped, or just having the warmth of Hitchcock’s body next to him.
Creak. The truck shifted. The door swung with a screech of its hinges. It was a jarringly loud sound in the small room.
Maybe if I finish that hole in that wall, I can fit… Naw. I’d just be sealed into a tomb when the truck comes down. Dunno if I can get a grip on the door either – my hands are numb. Maybe things’ll warm up come afternoon. Then I can try again. Hitchcock stretched his back and felt stiff muscles crack. He had bruises from the fall and they ached.
What to think of now? The guys. Troy, Tully, Moffitt… Joining the Rat Patrol had been the best moment of his life though he wasn’t sure of that at the time. The thought of running around the desert with three other men who were unlike any people he’d ever met was slightly daunting, but he’d learned to follow orders the first day he joined the Army.
Sam Troy, US Army. What had he done before the war? Hitchcock didn’t know. Troy wasn’t one to talk about it, and that was that. It had taken several months for Hitchcock to realize that Troy did feel deeply for his family and buddies under a hard-baked façade. He had saved his brother from a minefield, pulled Moffitt out of more than one lousy situation, and generally shown that under his harsh manner, there was a man to be admired. It took a while to know Sam Troy but it was worth it. Besides, he had a sentimental streak which he only showed to his friends.
Moffitt…no, not Moffitt. It had been Cotter who had ridden on the back of Tully’s jeep on their first attacks.
Poor Cotter. Buried with Maykurth, and the rest of the guys now. Another German casualty who’ll be forgotten…like I will. Squashed. What a way to go! He looked up at the truck and shivered. Naw, the family will remember. Troy will bring my body back at least. Somehow, Sarge will get me home.
Hitchcock hadn't known what to make of Tully Pettigrew for the first couple of weeks. It hadn’t been long before he realized he had a buddy who knew the Army ropes. In Basic, he’d learned not to be inquisitive, so it had taken him a while to get Tully to open up about his home life, so different from Hitchcock’s own. It sounded like more fun as well. Moonshiner, rum-runner, Pettigrew was also one of the dirtiest in-fighters Hitchcock ever met up with. Must have been all those years of running from the Internal Revenue Service.
The dying man sighed. His eyelids fluttered, then opened, staring at the wall.
Hitchcock didn’t need to feel for a pulse to know that the soldier had died. He’d better move him over with the others. Standing, he found his muscles stiff and clumsy. It would be more effort than it was worth to move the corpse.
His glance fell on the dispatch bag that he’d tossed to one side. Was there anything in it? He should have remembered it earlier but it had felt empty when he put it with the dead driver. Picking it up, he finally got the latch open. Two packets of papers and the thin sheets of a German newspaper, fell out.
Wish I’d checked before, he thought ruefully, scanning the thin brittle newsprint. I can’t tell if any of these are important or not. But at least they’ll burn. He crumpled the newspaper, then ripped off the covering envelopes, tucking them into the embers, where they caught. He’d save the interior papers for later. Maybe he could salvage them somehow for whoever came to dig out the bodies. Or take them with him when he climbed out of here.
Resting his head on his arms again, he thought about Moffitt. Reserved, high-strung, imaginative, and occasionally irritating, he’d been a total contrast to Cotter, and a perfect foil for Sam Troy. Hitchcock hadn’t believed that Troy would ever become friends with a well-educated archeologist, but Moffitt had proved to be more than an ivory-tower academic. He was a German linguist, tougher than he looked, and alarmingly cold-blooded, especially when his life was on the line. Too often, Moffitt had proved he was red-blooded more times than any of them would have liked, getting injures that would have had other people invalided out. If I’d met him in England, or in one of the bars in Cairo, I’d have just written him off as another toffy-nosed Brit. Proves you shouldn’t judge a person by his looks. Crap, I wonder what they think about me?
He shivered and realized that it came from more than just the cold. What did they think of him? Would they ever do what he’d just done? What would they put in his obituary? That he was a good guy? Too young for this work? Prep-school boy who couldn’t take it? He took too many chances? Cared too much for his friends?
I’m gonna live ‘cause I don’t want Troy to have to write that death letter. Wonder if he’d do it or Moffitt? Naw, Troy’d do it, telling all sorts of lies like, honest and brave and the rest of that crap. Well, I hope so.
He chuckled, not taking himself seriously. In a couple of hours, it’ll be morning, and I’ll climb outta here -- if only that truck stays up there.
Troy and the others drove out as soon as the sun rose. It would take several hours as it was to reach Al-Acuba, and the route wasn’t that well marked on Dickenson’s map. Moffitt and Tully followed in the new jeep.
The news about the capture had hit the motor pool just before they drove out, and Troy was eager to be away before Dickenson realized that the need was probably past. If the Germans had the outpost, then they probably had the trucks as well, and the men were dead or prisoners.
I’m not giving up on Hitch, though. He’s been a prisoner before and still came back.
The air was cold and crisp. The storm had moved on, and the desert was starting to bloom as the sun rose. The jeeps splashed through puddles and rocked into hidden potholes, breaking the day’s peace with the sound of engines.
Troy just hoped it wasn’t too late.
From a distance, Dietrich spotted the motley collection of trucks. Several men unloaded boxes from the one with four deflated tires, while other soldiers were guarding prisoners.
The lieutenant in charge, looking proud of himself, came out to greet Dietrich. He’s probably been in the boxes in the trucks. Hope he hasn’t taken too much. Ah, well, fortunes of war, Dietrich thought, returning his salute, looking around. He said criply, “Good work."
“Ja, Herr Hauptmann,” the lieutenant replied proudly. “We took them by surprise just before the storm came in. We have been here ever since.”
Dietrich looked at the prisoners who looked cold but dry. “You took refuge in the trucks?”
“Ja.”
“Have you questioned them?”
“Ja, Herr Hauptmann. They are just transport drivers.”
“I’m looking for one of our dispatch riders who was supposed to come down this road yesterday. Did they mention anything like that?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Nein, Herr Hauptmann. They were just taking supplies to Al-Acuba.”
“We took it several hours ago.” Dietrich looked around in exasperation. “Where is that messenger?”
“Do you think he was intercepted, Herr Hauptmann?”
“He must have been. What’s over there?” Dietrich pointed down the road.
“A village, Herr Hauptmann. Some ruined buildings.”
“I will be refilling my water cans. You have secured the area?”
The lieutenant shrugged. “I was going to send a patrol down but I have barely enough men – “
“I will handle it,” Dietrich cut him off. “I will see you back at base, Leutnant.”
The soldier saluted. “Jawhol, Herr Hauptmann! We will move out right now.”
Dietrich waved and his troop moved down towards the village. Behind him, the lieutenant started loading the prisoners into the back of their captured trucks.
The hut had been wrecked by a huge truck. Tilted to one side, with one huge wheel jutting into the air, it looked oddly-lopsided.
Dietrich wondered if they’d emptied it of boxes, then remembered the lieutenant said he had been about to send out a patrol. There might be more food in the truck that they could retrieve. If nothing else, they could use the wheels and the canvas. A year in the desert had turned him into an expert scavenger.
The mud sucked at the wheels of his car. He hoped they wouldn’t have to dig out of it. It was going to be tricky getting all the boxes back as well.
“Herr Hauptmann! The motorcycle!" called one of the soldiers who were scouting ahead.
Finally. Dietrich walked forward. What interested him more than the truck was the wreckage of the motorcycle that lay to one side.
What happened to the riders? And my orders?
He cautiously approached the ruined truck, his gun held ready. There could still be enemy soldiers under that canvas, prepared to shoot him. Of course, if he’d been part of the convoy, he’d have gotten away from the truck.
One of the soldiers poked his gun over the back. “Nothing, Herr Hauptmann, except more boxes of rations!”
“We’ll take them later,” Dietrich replied in German. “Any sign of the messengers?”
“Nein, sir!”
Troy had no idea what was going on but he was watching carefully. Moffitt lay beside him, his gaze trained on the staff car and half-track parked next to the listing truck.
“That’s one of our trucks, Troy.”
“Yep. We found the convoy.”
The sunlight reflected off the mottled-brown tarp. It steamed as last-night’s rain evaporated. Something glittered. He trained his binoculars on it and saw the handlebars of a motorcycle. Motorcycle? What was going on here?
The hut was swarming with German troops with one very familiar officer standing, his hands on his hips, giving orders. He turned and looked around the landscape, then walked over to the motorcycle.
“Looks like he’s trying to find something,” Moffitt said softly into Troy’s ear.
“Yeah. Wonder what he’s lost.”
“We can flank them. Take out the back truck, then the others.”
“If they’ve got Hitch, we’ll need Dietrich alive to trade for him.”
“An officer for a private?”
Moffitt smiled. “We don’t have to report it, Troy!”
Troy grinned back. “You’re right. Tully, can you unload the fifty and take it up to a place that overlooks this?”
“Just don’t get in the way of my aim,” Tully said laconically, and melted back into the dawn towards the jeeps.
“What’s your plan, Troy?”
Dietrich knew someone was watching him. He looked around again but saw only his own men. I’m getting too suspicious in my old age. No, I am being watched! Where?
He was distracted as one of his soldiers climbed onto the back of the truck, and Dietrich heard an ominous creak. Glancing down, he saw one of the wooden beams bend. “Nein! Get down, get away! All of you!” he called to his troops who were coming closer. “It’s falling!” The man jumped off, landing with a splat in a mud puddle.
“Hey!” a voice cried unexpectedly from under the truck. “Hey there!”
Dietrich’s first thought was that he was hearing ghosts. Could anyone be alive under this truck? One of the drivers maybe? Why did it sound familiar? He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Who are you?”
Silence. Only the sound of the wind flapping the canvas.
He tried again. “Is someone there?”
Silence.
Dietrich looked at his men. “Did anyone hear anything?”
One nodded. “Englander.”
So someone had survived. He wouldn’t much longer the way the truck was balanced. “We can help you!” he called down.
Nothing. Whoever was down there could be badly injured or dead by now.
With the dispatches that Dietrich needed.
The officer frowned, glancing around the area. What was he going to do now? If he ordered his soldiers down there, the Englishman would probably start shooting. The Englishman could destroy the dispatches before they arrived. It might be better to negotiate. They could try to drag the truck out of the cellar, but that might be another dangerous move—what was that?
A flash of light caught his attention. Something shiny in the hills to his right. He lifted his binoculars. It looked larger than a pipe, longer – a machine gun!
With a familiar roar, Dietrich saw his worst nightmare come around the corner – the Rat Patrol. One half of the Rat Patrol. Troy stood braced at the machine gun, with Moffitt driving. Troy fired once over the head of the Germans, and the soldiers scattered for cover.
Dietrich didn’t move. Troy had him dead in his sights. It wouldn’t do any use to run; there was no cover close enough save him. Now he knew where the other half probably was – up in the hills targeting the Germans.
The jeep came to a halt about a hundred feet from him. “Captain Dietrich. How nice to see you,” Troy called.
“What do you want, Sergeant?” Dietrich asked. Troy normally would have blown up the truck and done his best to slaughter Dietrich, so he had to be holding back for some reason. The truck?
“What’ve you got to offer, Captain?”
“Prisoners?” Dietrich hazarded. Where are the other people, the other jeep? Why is Sergeant Moffitt driving? Where is the other one? Hitchcock?
“SARGE!” Now Dietrich knew why the voice was familiar. And why Troy hadn’t shot him down.
Troy’s gaze flicked towards the wreckage. “Hitch!”
“He’s underneath the truck, Sergeant, with my men,” Dietrich said tersely.
“Injured?”
Dietrich shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked him.”
“Ask, Captain.”
Dietrich studied the two men for a second, then turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Private Hitchcock! Sergeant Troy would like to know if you are injured.”
Hitchcock’s laugh was edged with relief. “Bruised.”
“Are my men with you?”
“Is that you, Captain Dietrich?”
“Ja.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but they were injured when I found them. They’re dead, sir. I’m sorry.”
Dietrich could hear honest regret in Hitchcock’s voice and knew that the American was telling the truth. There wasn’t any malice in the young man. So, what do I have to bargain with for my life? Only Hitchcock.
“So what do you have planned now, Sergeant?” Dietrich asked, casually resting his hand on the back of the truck. He hoped he wouldn’t have to do anything drastic. “The wooden beams are cracking, Sergeant. Soon, this truck will fall in.”
Troy’s expression changed to anger. “Then get the hell away from it, Captain!”
“Not yet, Sergeant. You want your man. I also want something.”
“Bargaining, Captain? I could just shoot you!” Troy said sharply, his hands tensing on the gun.
“I could fall against the truck and bring it crashing down on him,” Dietrich replied bluntly.
Moffitt didn’t take his gaze off the other soldiers. “Troy,” he said in an undertone which Dietrich barely heard. “Are the dispatches worth Hitch’s life?”
“I hope not,” Troy snarled softly. “I don’t like it.”
“Sarge!” Hitchcock’s voice was faint but filled with hope. It was underlined by an ominous creak and the truck listed. Dietrich, taken by surprise, grabbed at the edge. Underneath the tilted wheels, he saw one beam was almost broken.
“Are you going to let him die, Sergeant?” Dietrich couldn’t believe that Troy was hesitating. The man’s loyalty to his friends was proverbial. Dietrich had heard of the time when Troy was ordered to kill Moffitt, and he had found a way to around it. For a second, he wondered how the US Army handled Troy’s lack of respect for direct orders. Then again, he was very successful at his job; it probably made up for insolence.
Finally, Troy said, “All right, Captain, we’ll do it your way. Hitch!”
“Sarge?”
“Got a bag of orders down there?”
Silence. “Sarge?”
“Dietrich’s gonna put down a rope and you tie it to the bag. You got a rope, Captain?”
Dietrich snapped an order and one of his men ran back to the half-track. Moffitt aimed at him until he returned with a rope over his shoulder.
“Then we have a truce, Sergeant?”
Troy nodded. “Just get moving, Captain.”
Hitchcock looked at the bag and the denuded papers. What the hell was he going to do now? Well, he still had some of the orders, and he could put those back into the bag, but that wasn’t going to deceive Dietrich. He looked around frantically.
The Krauts might have something. Orders, you know, papers. He knelt beside the dead dispatch rider and went through his pockets, ignoring the ice-cold flesh. A notebook with some personal papers. He used a strip of cloth to tie them together and shoved them into the bag. Checking the other bodies, he found the Australian had a copy of the local troop newspaper, torn up as if for toilet paper, and the German, another set of personal papers.
Hitchcock prayed that it would be enough to deceive Dietrich, and stuffed the papers into the bag. He put the orders in his shirt. Fastening up the latch, he smeared it with dirt so it looked untouched.
A rope snaked down through the window of the truck’s cab and out the open door on his side. He could heard Dietrich’s voice, giving orders, and knew they were waiting for him.
Saying a prayer, he tied the bag to the rope, and called, “It’s ready!”
Dietrich waved and the men began to slowly pull the rope up. It had been nerve-wracking to watch it go down and pray that it wouldn’t be caught on any protruding handle or the door. One false move, one unlucky motion, and there would be a gun battle that would rival any in American movies. If the rope hung up, and someone had to climb on the truck, and brought it down on the unlucky Hitchcock, they’d all be dead. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and dampened his undershirt. Only to himself would he admit it was from tension. Troy’s loyalty to his men could make him unstable if his friend died here. In other words, if Hitchcock dies, Troy will probably just open fire. I have nowhere to hide.
The rope jerked as caught, and he cursed under his breath. Then the knot came over the edge followed by the bag.
A cheer went up from the men, which was cut short when Dietrich made a slashing movement. He was aware that Troy was watching tensely, his weapon ready.
“Carefully,” Dietrich ordered. “Untie it.”
One of the soldiers dragged it away from the wreckage, and untied it.
“Got what you were after, Captain?” Troy called.
“Jawhol, Sergeant.”
“Then get out of here.”
“You wouldn’t like some help – “
“No, thank you, Captain. We’ll get him out ourselves.”
Dietrich studied him, questioningly. Troy would handle this in his own way. “Very well, Sergeant. Would you like us to leave the rope?”
“Might help,” Moffitt commented.
“Leave the rope!” Dietrich ordered, turning to his men. “Achtung! Go back to the trucks! Now!”
The men obeyed him reluctantly, shooting Troy and Moffitt suspicious glances. Finally, they climbed in the back, their guns still held ready to fire.
Troy called, “Your turn, Captain!”
Dietrich nodded, and walked towards the trucks trusting his enemies not to shoot him in the back.
Behind him, the truck creaked ominously. Several boxes slid forward, landing with a clatter against the back of the cab. Dietrich swiveled and stared appalled, as the truck with a final groan, sank into the cellar. There was the sound of cracking wood and the truck lurched as the broken beam finally gave way.
He felt more than heard Troy yell, “Hitch!”
Clouds of dust arose from the wreckage. No one moved. Looking at Troy and Moffitt, Dietrich saw they looked absolutely stunned and shocked as he felt.
He could order his men to shoot, and they’d have the second’s advantage that would wipe the Rat Patrol off the face of the earth.
Rationality intruded a fraction of a second later. There was the other man still in the mountains. He’d slaughter everyone in the valley if they moved against Troy.
Besides. it would be inhumane. Troy wouldn’t shoot him in a like situation. Would he?
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of his soldiers lift his gun, and Dietrich swiveled. “Nein!”
The soldier stared at him, but lowered the weapon.
He’d lost that second where he could have killed the Rat Patrol. Ah, well, better to retreat. He had what he’d come for. “Sergeant Troy!”
Troy shifted his gaze to Dietrich. One false move and the American might shoot just to make himself feel better. Dietrich wasn’t going to give him the excuse.
“I’m sorry about Private Hitchcock, Sergeant.”
“Once you said that war catches up with us all,” Troy said harshly.
“Ja. But not this way.”
Troy nodded. Dietrich reflected that rank was no protection against command responsibilities. Troy had been Hitchcock’s leader; he had to deal with the grief that came with losing a man. The German had been there too often to not sympathize. In addition, Troy had lost a friend as well as a soldier.
Dietrich climbed into the cab and signaled his men to drive away.
He overheard one trooper mutter, “The Hauptmann has a plan to catch them and now we’ll do it.”
His reply was drowned out with the firing of a machine gun from the mountainside and they saw a line of bullets stitching the road behind them. The other private was up there, and letting them know that he was protecting the others. In the side mirror, Dietrich saw Troy and Moffitt were approaching the capsized truck through a pall of dust. Troy looked like he wanted to kill something.
I am sorry, Private Hitchcock. You were a good soldier. I will send what remains of your body back to the Allies when I return with more men to capture your friends and collect my bodies.
Troy scouted around the building, finding nothing but rope which lay in a heap beyond the dusty rubble of the building and truck.
The wreckage was tilted oddly as if something was holding up the front end. Maybe the motorcycle? Another wooden beam?
Moffitt slung the carbine over his shoulder, and knelt by the hole. “I’m sure it was fast, Troy,” he said in commiseration, looking up.
Troy’s lips were tightly pressed together as he walked around the edge. Finally he came to the rope and picked up the end. “Not fast enough. Think we can drag the truck out using the jeeps?”
“Using that?” Moffitt asked, eyeing the cord. “Maybe, but we’ll need more rope. And the other rope.”
“There might be some in the truck. It can’t go any further down if we climb in it…”
“Sarge?”
Both men’s jaws dropped. Moffitt leaned forward, and pushed back the edge of the drying canvas. “Hitch?”
“Hitch!” Troy called at the same moment.
“Sarge! Hold on for a second,” Hitchcock called, and they heard scrabbling. A couple of curses floated out of the cab, and the truck lurched. Both men scrambled away from the edge.
Hitchcock looked tired and wrung-out, and his hands were muddy when he climbed out of the cab’s window. It took both men to pull him the last five feet out of the cellar-cum-tomb.
They all began to laugh with relief, Hitchcock, the loudest. The sound reached Tully, who waved, but didn’t move from his spot.
“What happened?” Troy finally asked. “Down there?”
“We thought you were paste,” Moffitt added.
“Thought I’d be too. I saw that beam bending and I knew that I’d get squashed if I didn’t move, so I climbed up into the cab using the door. Must’ve sent the truck over the last couple of feet, and wham! Down it came. Thought it was gonna roll upside-down, but there wasn’t room. I got shook up when it landed but I figured I’d wait ‘til Dietrich left to climb up the rest of the way.”
Troy couldn’t stop grinning. He clapped Hitchcock on his shoulder in sheer relief. “Speaking of Dietrich, let’s move it! He’ll be back with more troops pretty soon. His base is closer than ours.” He waved at Tully, who started down the hill towards them.
“What about the guys at Al-Acuba?” Hitchcock asked getting to his feet, but finding his legs were wobbly. Troy supported him until he was stopped shaking, understanding without saying it was shock as well as cold.
Moffitt swung up behind the gun, leaving Troy the driver’s seat. “The Jerries took it last night. Pity.”
“Yeah, a waste of a trip,” Troy agreed. “Maybe we’ll get a couple of days of rest out of this.”
“Rest on such a beautiful day as this? Hell, we ought to go paint the town!” Hitchcock protested giddily.
“I think I’d settle for bacon and eggs,” Moffitt commented dryly. “Pity, you had to give up Dietrich’s bag, Hitch! What was in it?”
Hitchcock grinned. “Orders. I got what’s left of them right here. Filled the bag with a novel and some other papers instead.”
“What, you gave him a novel? He may put a warrant out on you for that!” Moffitt laughed.
“Here! You tell me what they say.” Hitchcock waved the packet in the air.
Moffitt plucked it from him, and began to scan the papers. “Well, well. There’s a new base going up near the coast, and Captain Dietrich is in charge of security until a Captain Preget arrives in several days.”
“Preget, eh? We’ll have to give him some kind of a welcoming committee,” Troy called.
“Jolly good! Can’t have the Germans thinking we’d miss a new arrival!”
The laughter floated on the air as they came up on Tully, and Moffitt switched jeeps. Troy drove, Hitchcock beside him, followed by the others.
It was a beautiful day to be alive.