While I'm trying to get un-writers-blocked on Eagle Hunt, a fan (I have fans?!) requested a story, any story. So, I'm posting my first Rat Patrol story. Unfortunately, my wonderful beta reader is mad busy right now, so this is coming to you un-betaed and unpolished (it might get a rewrite later). But at least it's almost completely written, so there won't be any multi-month delays.
All the usual disclaimers about me neither owning nor claiming any rights to the Rat Patrol apply. My only sadness is that they didn't make more of it. Private Langert is all mine; if you borrow him, at least give him some time to warm up.
The North African desert can be bitterly cold in the dark hours before dawn. Private Klaus Langert, walking his sentry rounds on the perimeter of a small but vital fuel depot, was chilled to the bone. He rubbed his hands together again and blew on them, trying vainly to restore feeling to his fingers. He thought constantly about his duty: to be alert for any attack by the British, or by the crazy American commandos that were in so many of the war stories he had heard in the two days he had been with this unit. This was his first time on watch for real, guarding against real enemies. There were no lights, of course, to avoid becoming a target for enemy aircraft, but how was he supposed to see anything in this darkness? The thin crescent of the moon was just beginning to edge above the ridge to the east of the depot, but its faint light was no help. And how as he supposed to defend the depot against the enemy with his fingers frozen and stiff? He could barely feel the rifle in his hands; how was he supposed to fire it? He stared suspiciously at the shadows, searching them for hidden enemies, trying to stay awake, and wishing for the hundredth time that he had worn the warm coat and gloves that were sitting uselessly in his kit bag. A cold pre-dawn wind was rising. Klaus looked out across the desert again. Was that a rock or an American commando sneaking about in the dark? He was so tired the shadows seemed to dart about, always moving on the edge of his vision. He rubbed his eyes and continued walking his post.
Across the depot from the shivering sentry, a shadow among shadows moved between the dark bulks of parked supply trucks. It froze when one of Klaus's fellow sentries turned at the end of his patrol, just in case the soldier watching for threats from the outside looked inward, then moved silently to the rear of the last truck in line. Another moment frozen in place, checking for any watchers, then the shadow slipped up the back of the truck and through the flap of the canvas.
Inside the truck, Sergeant Sam Troy looked at the luminous hands on his watch. Only ten minutes until false dawn. This was the last of the trucks that should be moving out at dawn, Troy thought with relief. Hitchcock should already be finished setting his share of the charges in the critical parts of the camp and be making his way back to where Tully and Moffitt waited with the jeeps. Troy climbed up on the fuel drums that made up the truck's load, crawling quietly to the middle. He carefully set the timer on the detonator attached to his last bundle of explosives and lowered it down between the drums. Even if they somehow knew it was there, the Germans would not easily get it out. Thirty minutes until this truck, and the precious fuel it was carrying to feed Rommel's tanks, would become a fireball outshining the pre-dawn light. Time to make his escape.
Moving absolutely silently across the steel fuel drums was a slow process. As Troy made his way, inch by careful inch, to the tailgate of the truck, he froze at the sound of voices. Voices speaking German, and far too close to him for comfort. If they looked into the truck he would be spotted. He flattened himself out on the fuel drums, trying to look like a pile of random gear or something, anything, except for a man. He loosened his pistol in its holster and waited. The voices continued, sounding like they were right outside the truck. He wished he had Moffitt along to tell him what they were saying.
Suddenly there were more sounds behind him: the slam of the truck's doors was followed by the rumble of its engine starting up. From along the line of trucks came similar sounds. All around him, the depot was waking up and the convoy was preparing to move out. The halftrack parked behind the truck roared to life. No chance of sneaking out now. He cursed silently. What could have gone wrong? They had spent three days observing the depot, waiting for it to be resupplied. The convoys had never rolled out before dawn. Driving across the desert in darkness, headlights shielded to avoid betraying a vehicle's presence to people such as himself, was too risky. For three mornings, the fuel convoy had loaded in the evening and moved out at first light. Except this morning. Except the morning he was trapped in the damned truck. The two voices behind the truck were joined by a third and a fourth. Just his luck, to have a whole Kraut conference going on behind the truck he was hiding in. He mentally cursed again, more fervently. He could cut his way through the canvas side of the truck, of course, but a gaping Troy-sized hole would make it obvious that someone had been in there. He stayed flat.
Orders shouted in German. More doors slamming. His truck lurching forward. The convoy was moving out, and Troy was still inside the truck. Paradoxically, he thought, he was safer. At least there would be nobody looking inside the truck now. Hitch would report where he was. All he had to do was wait until the truck was a few miles from the depot and the other three members of his patrol would give him the diversion he needed to escape. Troy tried to find a comfortable spot on the fuel drums as the truck jolted across the rough desert road. He was safe for a while, if "safe" was the proper word for riding in an enemy supply truck on top of a thousand gallons of fuel with an explosive charge timed to go off in -- he checked his watch again -- 24 minutes.