Chapter 2 Dar el-Tanri
Once the horses approached the village, a collection of rough mud-brick enclosures surrounded by tumble-down walls, and completely abandoned by its old residents, one of the Arab men pulled out a half-moon-shaped horn and blew into it. The mournful sound carried a long way over the desert, giving Tully a shudder. Inside the town, he slipped off the horse on his own and expected to find himself tied up again, but the Arabs were more interested in getting their mounts watered with bucket-water from an old well and putting the feedbag on their noses.
He actually was quite free to move around. Slapping his arms against the cold, he strolled over to the nearest wall and leaned against it, just watching the Arabs at their various tasks. He began to count them, as Sarge had taught him to do. He counted twenty-four, many more than had brought him here. It was a multi-tribal gang, it seemed. Where all of their homes were, he couldn't say. Maybe Doc would have known where they hailed from by their various robes and headgear.
Thinking of Moffitt, Tully felt all alone suddenly. He looked around a bit nervously now, wondering what his part in all of this would be from here on. Was he a captive, POW, kidnap victim, what? He found an old bench, dusted it off with his hand and sat down, sleepy, thirsty, too. He'd have to wait for instructions.
The Arab he'd ridden with gestured to him to come inside one of the less-collapsed buildings. He ducked under a crooked arch and entered, then a spot on the floor was pointed out to him and he went over there to sit down again. Looking up at the rafters of the ceiling, he let his eyes follow them to the walls and then down to the furniture in the big room. It was large and made of highly carved wood. The floor was tiled, but these tiles were broken in many places. Light was provided by tall, iron candlesticks, with three-legged bases.
He drew his legs up to his chest and rested his forehead on his knees. He looked up from that position as the Arab brought over some more bread and with it this time a small plate of meat. He took it gratefully. The Arab added a skin of water beside his leg.
"Thanks," he said, realizing that's all he'd said for hours. "I appreciate it," he added so the Arab didn't think he was mute. His voice was harsh from the desert wind and blowing sand.
The Arab nodded too and went back to his friends, who had gathered at a table to eat a meal prepared for them by the Arabs who had been guarding the town. Soon there was raucous laughter and Tully found it strangely comforting. If they were laughing, then at least they weren't in a killing mood. He lay back into a niche in the wall and closed his eyes. Soon he was fast asleep.
After what felt like a short hour, he was abruptly awakened by noisy talk in the big room. These were newcomers who were in a heated discussion with the Arabs, especially his 'own' Arab, who seemed to be the gang's leader. Tully's heart caught in his throat as he saw who it was the Arab was arguing with. He slowly inched up the wall behind him until he was standing again. He looked right, at the darkened end of the room, and then left again at the men sitting around the table.
Keeping to the shadows of the wall, he started to move away from the lighted end of the room, but he was pulled up short by an Arab guard. The big knife in his hand prevented Tully from tangling with him. He turned back, as he heard a heavy wooden chair scrape against the floor tiles. Rubbing the ends of his palms together, he walked out into the light.
The occupant of the chair, a tall man in a peaked cap and German uniform with two pips on his shoulder boards strolled over to him, coming to a stand in front of Tully and placing his hands behind his back.
"Capt. Dietrich," said Tully, feeling that lump in his throat again. "You arranged all of this?"
"I did. But I was after larger fish than you, Pvt. Pettigrew. Oh, it's good of you to 'drop in,' but my Arab friend here, Hamdi, was supposed to catch one of the two sergeants in your unit. Sgt. Troy, hopefully."
"But he jumped the gun and nabbed me?"
Dietrich laughed at the saying and nodded. "He's seen all of your pictures, so he knew you were with the unit, too." He turned slightly and gestured behind him. "Come over to the table. You haven't got anything to be afraid of … at this moment," he added.
Tully smirked slightly and walked past him, then nodded at the men gathered at the table. Hamdi watched him closely to see if he was going to give them trouble, but he had been a quiet young man so far, so he knew, at least for now, his fears were groundless.
One of the other men pulled out a chair and Tully sat down beside him. Not used to 'conferences,' especially when he might be the subject of their discussion, he glanced around uneasily. An older man Tully didn't know sat at the head of the table. Wrapped in scads of cloth, warm and comfy, Tully thought he looked asleep.
Dietrich took his own seat again opposite Tully. He leaned forward with his hands clasped on the table and asked, "Are you okay, Private? They didn't hurt you?"
"No, they roughed me up a bit, but nothing too bad." Tully kept his hands on the table, too, in plain sight. No need to give them cause to tie him up, he thought.
"Well, that's good."
"About the price, Herr Hauptmann," said Hamdi, in Arabic. Dietrich was acquainted with the language. "RM125."
"For your information, Pvt. Pettigrew, Hamdi has asked for 125 Reichsmarks for you."
"What's that in U.S. money?"
"Fifty dollars."
"He went to all this trouble for that?" asked a stupefied Tully. "What I earn in a month? Pay the man, Captain, and let's get out of here! I'll be in your debt."
"There's something else I want which makes the price even better." He didn't even hesitate, but said, "Sgt. Troy."
"How do you figure you'll get him?"
"Simple, he'll come after you, won't he? I'll be waiting for him."
"He's too busy right now. Our CO's injured. Troy won't leave the base himself. You'll just have to give up on your grand designs, Herr Hauptmann."
"Is that so?"
Hamdi coughed. He would like to get on with negotiations, but as long as the other Rats might be out in the night looking for this town, Dietrich was in no rush to leave. Up in the dunes, he had hidden his column, two half-tracks armed with MG 42's and a canvas-topped truck with half a dozen troops. He had arrived in town with his driver, Pvt. Kurt Hilfer, in a Kubelwagen.
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Looking through binoculars, lying flat on the top of the dune, Troy tallied up the problems the faced. There were two German half-tracks and the waiting troops stationed 'out of sight' behind a dune. Then, looking down into the town, under the glare of a multitude of torches, he saw a large number of Arabs milling about, some with knives, others with Schmeissers, some even sporting tommy guns like their own. Finally, he didn't know where Tully was in that town, though he could guess that the one lighted building must be where they were holding him. Who, too, was in cahoots with the Arabs? Whose half-tracks were those? Dietrich's? It was his sector.
He passed the glasses to his second-in-command. Moffitt took them, adjusted them to his eyes and, silently, in his head, began to count the difficulties, too.
"We could just slip in and then overtake a few of their guards."
"Every Arab has eyes, Moffitt, you know that. They're all watching, all the time."
"Do you think Dietrich's out and about?"
"Mighty likely. What's his column waiting for? For us?"
Moffitt smirked, slightly. "Dietrich, if it is he, wants to 'bag' us all, Troy. I say we don't let him."
"I'm with you. Let's go rejoin Hitch before he thinks we've all abandoned him."
Moffitt laughed and both men rolled off the dune, coming to their feet on the slippery sand and making a full stop at the jeeps again. The moon had set, but the golden yellow sand was awash in starlight, brightening up the scene.
"Here's the plan—" began Troy, whispering on the still desert air.
He had to stop because, quite out of the blue, a man's clear-cut voice bellowed a message into the night on a bullhorn. It was coming from the town.
"Sgt. Troy! This is Hauptmann Dietrich. We have your driver, Pvt. Pettigrew. We're willing to make a trade."
"Yeah," said Troy, suddenly catching on to Dietrich's plan. "He wants to trade Tully for me."
Hitch and Moffitt looked at him and realized that he couldn't be far off the mark. Somehow, Dietrich had figured out that the Rats were in the vicinity, even though their two jeeps were well-hidden behind one of the higher dunes. How had he or his men spotted them?
"At least we know it's Dietrich we're dealing with," Moffitt said. "He's fairer than most. But why he should join forces with a gang of Arab thugs, I don't know."
"He wants me to answer him, so he can figure out where we are," Troy said. "Pinpoint our location."
While listening to Dietrich's message, Troy had got up on the back of Hitch's jeep, with his arm propped up on the fifty he knew so well how to use. How he wished he could take it and blow a hole in the Arab-German defense of the town!
"Couple that with Dietrich's determination," said Moffitt, "and you have a veritable witch's brew."
Now all three men climbed the dune again, falling flat. Hitch and Moffitt were on either side of Troy, saying nothing but ready to listen. With his binoculars, Troy stared down into the old town, about a quarter-mile away and so full of people he'd never understand, Arabs and Germans alike.
"I don't like it much," he said. "I wish I had a way of talking to him first. To see if he'd really let Tully go. I don't want him to go through what I just went through in Tobruk."
Everyone grew silent, recalling the terrible time just recently when Troy was captured by this very same Capt. Dietrich—Herr Hauptmann Dietrich—and sent off to the transit camp in Tobruk as a POW. It took all of their resources to get him back to the Western Campaign.
"What're you going to do, Sarge?" asked Hitch.
"Hitch, I can't leave him to the Arabs—or the Germans. You don't know what they could do to him to make him talk."
Even though he couldn't see them clearly, Troy knew there was deep misgiving in Moffitt's eyes. And in Hitch's.
"He'd never betray us," said the English sergeant. "But I see your point, Troy. It wouldn't be pleasant for him, to say the least."
"Just like it wasn't pleasant for me. Three days in a sweatbox. No, I've got to give myself up."
"Surely, you're not going down there?" Moffitt's voice was tinged with concern, worry in every fiber of his being that that was exactly what Troy was going to do.
"Tully would understand if you don't go," said Hitch, trying to use his most persuasive tone. "We've broken each other out before."
"Hitch, I counted at least twenty Arabs manning the walls. They want us to see them—you can see the torches. With those half-tracks up on the ridge, we'd never get close to the gates with the jeeps, and if we went in on foot, they'd cut us down in a shot. No place is safe from Arab eyes."
"There's no other way?"
Troy looked at Moffitt, the ever hopeful Moffitt. "Not this time, friend."
Running a hand over his bearded, tired face, Troy turned his watch this way and that until it caught a stray beam of starlight and he could read the time. It was close to two in the morning. By no later than three, he'd be a prisoner of war again.
He looked at Moffitt, now clearly seeing that he was unsure of this. He saw only apprehension in his eyes. "If Tully comes out, that means Dietrich has kept his word. He'll let you go. Take the opportunity he gives you and hightail it out of here. Don't come after me."
"Sarge, I can't stand the thought of you falling into his hands again. You'll be sent to Tobruk again."
He turned to Hitch. "You think that's what I want, Hitch? It's been a long day. When I got up yesterday morning, the most I had on my mind was finishing that letter to Colonel What-his-name. Now, this."
Back at Moffitt's jeep, Troy divested himself of his sidearm, holster and ammo belt. Then he pulled out his long knife from his right boot, tossing everything in the back of the jeep. Hitch, then Moffitt, extended their hands. He took them in both of his, smiling his own smile and then setting off up the face of the dune.
But he turned suddenly. "Here, Moffitt! Catch!"
He flung his Aussie bush hat towards his half-stunned, fellow sergeant. Moffitt made a good catch, closing his hand on the brim, feeling in his fingers the strength that Troy's hat embodied, even as its wearer turned back to climb up the dune alone.
"Godspeed, Sgt. Troy," he murmured.
Hitch heard him and with wide eyes looked from one to the other of the sergeants, the very men he'd give his life for, one of whom was giving his life—or at least his freedom—for Tully.
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At the gate, Dietrich and a tall Arab were there to meet him. He was instantly searched, his clothes rifled through violently while the tall German officer stood aside. Hamdi was taking no chances, but searched the new prisoner himself.
"There's no need for cords," Dietrich finally said. "He won't try to run away. Not while we still have Pvt. Pettigrew."
"Dietrich," said Troy, his arms pinned to his sides by the tall Arab. "What made you have anything to do with the likes of these men? You know them for what they are. They owe no allegiance to anybody."
"But they get results. I could never infiltrate your base, Sergeant, and capture one of your men. They could and did. And now I have you."
"Life is good, huh, Dietrich?" asked Troy, smartly.
Dietrich smiled faintly. "Couldn't be better."
"When they turn on you, Captain, you'll be singing a different tune."
Hamdi got tired of a conversation the likes of which he couldn't understand, so he turned Troy about and marched him towards the lighted building. It had indeed been a long day, for all of them.
Tully got up from the chair at the table and would have gone to his Sarge, but an Arab knife prevented him from moving that way. Troy was forced into another chair and Dietrich wordlessly bid Tully to take his seat again.
Then a bidding war began. For both of them. Dietrich, who understood Arabic as well as Sgt. Moffitt, fought bitterly to denounce Hamdi's duplicity. Hamdi, the leader of a wolf-pack of rogue Arabs, wasn't going to let Tully go.
"I'll sell him to another German," said Hamdi in his native tongue. Both Troy and Tully looked at one another, not comprehending. "You're not the only one who'd pay for two desert rats."
"But I am the one who promised to release Pvt. Pettigrew."
Hearing his name, Tully turned his full attention on Dietrich's face, trying to read his meaning in his distressed expression. He knew that, like himself, Troy shared Dietrich's uneasiness about the Arabs, though neither man could quite perceive the way the die was being cast.
"You will pay for them! Two thousand Reichsmarks for the young one. Five thousand for his leader."
"With just a word over my radio, I could send my half-tracks down here to level this town. Mortar shells can do a lot of damage. So could my troops."
"I've taken your radio, and your driver. Bring him in!" Hamdi clapped his hands.
Pvt. Kurt Hilfer, looking very much ill at ease, and shorn of his own ammo belt and gun, was hustled into the main room from a darkened alcove. He was thrust to his knees on the floor. Dietrich visibly paled. Hilfer was a good man, a good driver, and over the years he had come as close to being a good friend as any private could be to an officer.
"How does it feel now, Captain?" asked Troy, angrily rubbing it in that he and Dietrich were both in the same situation now with Hamdi.
Dietrich didn't have the men here in town to fight the Arabs. He had only been 'allowed' one man—Pvt. Hilfer, his driver. He realized now he had been duped by Hamdi into trusting him, but that he was unworthy of trust.
"I see," he said. "So for the sake of argument if I had that much money, you'd let them go with me?"
Tully laughed. "You haven't got that much, Captain."
"Sergeant, your man sounds just like you. Impertinent."
"Tully already knew right from wrong," said Troy, "before he got into this war. He talks the way he feels."
Dietrich addressed Hamdi again. "I must tell you, Hamdi, that if I don't make a radio call to my troops every half-hour, they have orders to begin shelling the town. One of my half-tracks is equipped with a mortar launcher. It's firepower is enough to devastate a good portion of this town."
"You'll be in the firing zone when your troops attack, Herr Hauptmann. My offer to sell you the three men still stands." Hamdi folded his hands on the table. "Maybe you need time to think about it," he said. "I'll give you an hour."
"I don't need one hour, Hamdi. I don't respond to threats."
"You'll see it my way when I kill one of your prize commandos."
Hamdi clapped his hands again and several knife-wielding Arabs moved up behind the two desert Rats and while Pvt. Hilfer was put back in the alcove to wait with his own guard, Troy and Tully were taken out of the room. And into the night.
"Is this long day ever going to end?" Troy fumed aloud to Moffitt's driver, to the Kentucky-born moonshiner-turned-commando raider.
"About that plan to rescue me, Sarge," said Tully, with a short smile, "how's it going?"
Troy had to laugh, for Tully could always make a bad situation seem like it was going to turn out okay with his dry wit.
Once outside, their hands were tied behind them and they were forced up some outside steps to the flat roof of one of the more extant buildings in this half-ruined town. The party of two commandos and three Arabs stopped a few yards before they reached a mud-brick, diamond-shaped balustrade at the edge of the roof.
Moffitt and Hitch were watching the new development from the top of the dune as the five shadows took up positions on the roof. Two of those shadows had their hands tied behind their backs and were looking surreptitiously over the serrated ramparts to the desert below.
"Look, it's Troy and Tully," said Moffitt, lowly. He handed the field glasses to Hitch, who likewise saw that at least his fellow driver and the Sarge were still in one piece. He breathed a sigh of relief that matched Moffitt's a second or two earlier.
"Why are they making them just stand there!" Hitch didn't really expect Moffitt to know, but he should have known he would. Moffitt's knowledge of Arab ways, and culture, having practically grown up with them, was as big as the Great Sand Sea.
"They're showing off, these Arabs. They've probably got Dietrich too over a barrel by now, and they're demonstrating their might."
"I wonder what'll happen next." Hitch handed back the glasses and Moffitt took threw the cord around his neck, but didn't put them up to his eyes again. Instead, he rolled off the dune and made his way back down to the jeeps. Once there, he began to fiddle with the radio. He had made some plans and wanted HQ's help in carrying them out.
Hitch came up breathlessly beside him and asked, "Doc, what're you doin'?"
"Calling in an airstrike."
"You're joking. On that town? What about the Sarge and Tully? They'll be caught in it, too."
"If they're still on that roof when the raid begins, we can rescue them in the confusion."
Hitch shook his head suddenly. "Are you sure there's no other way?"
"We're down two men, Hitch. Just the two of us, we can't breach the Arab defenses. We can't count on Dietrich or his Germans for help. Quite the contrary. I don't see any other way but in leveling the town to root out that nest of vipers."
"Grenades?"
"Grenades would only offend them. Like a wounded bear, they'd attack furiously anything that came to hand, including our friends."
"I get you, Doc. Want me to operate the radio?"
Moffitt stood back and let Hitch search for the frequency of the Allied base at Ras Tanura. When he had contacted someone, who sounded sleepy at first, then bewildered, then angry, he took a deep breath and asked for a Major Getty, the base commander.
"It's nearly three in the morning! Over."
"It's an emergency. Find him for me," said Hitch. "Over."
"State your full name and rank and purpose of call. Over."
Moffitt took over the mic from Hitch and placed one of the earpieces against his left ear. "Sgt. Jack Moffitt. Long Range Desert Group. Purpose—to save the lives of Sgt. Sam Troy and Pvt. Tully Pettigrew. Over."
"I'll see if he wants to take your call. Wait one. Over." The once-dreaming private on the other end of the transmission used a telephone to ring up Major Getty's quarters, drumming his fingers on the radio table as he waited for the Major to pick up.
"Major Getty here. Who the blazes is this at … 2:45 in the morning?"
"Pvt. Olsen, sir. Communications. There's a call for you from a Sgt. Jack Moffitt. LRDG. One of the Rat Patrol, I think. He says Sgt. Troy's life is in danger. Also some private's, sir. I'm sorry I forget his name."
"Tell him to hold on. I'm coming down there to speak with him. Don't lose the connection, private or you'll be on KP duty for a month!"
"I won't, sir," said Pvt. Olsen, suppressing a yawn behind his hand. He put the phone handset down on the hook again and then picked up the mic. "Major Getty is coming to talk with you. Hold on. Over."
"I'll wait. Over," said Moffitt, curtly. "Hitch, take the glasses and go look to see if Troy and Tully are still on the roof."
Hitch took them from Moffitt and put the cord over his head. He scrambled up the dune again and called back down, "Dietrich's troops are lighting fires. They really must think everything is okay."
Moffitt was soon talking with Major John P. Getty, commander of the Allied base where the units of the LRDG were stationed. He was Capt. Boggs' immediate superior and, in general, liked the Rat Patrol. Like them he did, but he also valued their use!
"I'll scramble a bomber, Sgt. Moffitt. I agree that we need to destroy that Arab gang. Neither our convoys or our troops have been safe since they moved in to that old town. It was a matter of time before Col. Harris or I called out a strike. You just 'jumped the gun,' so to speak, with your request. Over."
Moffitt smiled, but then became deathly serious again. "I don't know how long we have, sir, until the Arabs become even more unfriendly. Over."
"Look for the bomber in about twenty minutes, Sgt. Moffitt. I hope this works out on your end. Over. Out."
Though Major Getty had already broken the connection, Moffitt whispered a silent prayer. "I hope so, too, Major."
He left the radio on in case there were further developments and went to join Hitch on the top of the dune again. He shook his head at the cook fires lit by the Germans even while watching the movement of the Arabs, dark forms moving wraith-like on the streets of the town. Through the glasses, he saw that Troy and Tully were wordlessly making their own plans. Under heavy guard, but in full view of the desert's eyes, they edged closer to the parapet, Troy first, with Tully following not too many feet behind.
When they reached it, after taking a big chance of being shot, they looked over the wall and it seemed to Moffitt that both were simultaneously determining the distance to the sands below.
"About thirty, thirty-five feet," said Moffitt to himself, regarding the height of the wall. He saw the silent look Troy gave to Tully, even if he couldn't read his expression or see if he mouthed any words. To Hitch, he said, "Get the Thompsons, Hitch. We're going to need them in about half a mo."
"Half a mo?"
"Half a moment! Troy and Tully are about to go over the wall. Go get them!"
Hitch sped as dust in the wind down to the jeeps again and returned with the two submachine guns, handing one to Moffitt.
"How do you know they're about to jump?"
"I just know. Let's go! We have only seconds to spare!"
With one leap, he was on his feet and running down the still-dark dune, Hitch close at his heels, then across the barren plain to a few sheltering bushes about a hundred feet from the wall. Moffitt readied the gun by flicking the safety off to 'fire.' Hitch did the same with his. Now they knelt in the sand behind their protective cover and waited for Troy and Tully to jump.
They had indeed only 'seconds' to wait. Troy threw himself off first, having voiced the words, "Shoulder roll," to Tully beforehand.
He showed him how it was done, leaping off the wall and hitting the ground with most of his weight on his shoulder. He rolled with the fall. Stunned for only a moment, he came to one knee, stood up and then darted back under the overhang of the parapet. Tully was already following before Troy hit the mud-brick wall with his back.
Moffitt and Hitch sprang out of their cover and ran forward, blazing away with the Thompsons at the Arabs on the roof who were attempting to shoot the two escaped commandos with their Schmeissers. Two or three Arabs fell to their deaths below, riddled with .45 caliber rounds from the tommy guns.
Troy and Tully darted out under the protective fire, but a stray 9 mm bullet hit Troy in the upper leg and knocked him off his feet. He tried to struggle up on his own, but found that he couldn't make it without help. He soon had help. While Moffitt steered the still tied-up Tully to the brush they had hidden behind, Hitch reached down, scooped up his sergeant and supported him around the back as they ran to cover.
Once down on the ground, Hitch pulled out his knife and, cutting Troy and Tully loose, helped to pull their hands free of the clinging cords. A number of times, Moffitt rose partway, shot at the Arabs who were massing on the walls all over that side of town, and then ducked down again. He was soon out of ammo. While Hitch and Tully each got a hand under Troy's arms, running for the dune, Moffitt grabbed Hitch's gun and fired it continuously, too, running backward in the others' wake.
They had made it to the top of the dune, when Troy, thoroughly spent, went down on his knees. But since they were on the exposed ridge, the privates had no choice but to drag him down the other side, Moffitt following with both Thompsons, one empty and the other nearly so.
Even in their capable hands, Troy fell against the side of Tully and Moffitt's jeep, covering his leg as blood continued to gush out around his fingers. Moffitt scrounged around for the medical kit in the back of the jeep. He retrieved it and then helped Troy to sit down against a tire. While he was addressing his injury, Tully, now wearing his combat helmet again, mounted the fifty and Hitch got behind the wheel of the other jeep, rolling out from behind the dune and onto the plain just before the walls of the town.
Eliminating Arabs was their plan. They had many opportunities. Fully half of the multi-tribal gang poured out of both the side door and the main gate and met the same fate with a .50 caliber Browning M2 machine gun, that their compatriots on the roof had met with the .45 caliber Thompsons. The Germans in the half-tracks too were ready to roll. The fires had only been diversionary, a ruse to make the Arabs think they weren't paying attention. Moffitt himself had thought so earlier.
Now he watched them descend from the dune on which they had lit those deceptive fires and roll towards the Arabs. Suddenly overhead there was another noise. A B25 Mitchell, if he guessed correctly, was zeroing in on the well-lit target—the building where Hamdi had held his 'conference.' A good portion of the building blew into the sky with just one bomb. Precisely dropped.
While the rafters and ceiling plaster fell in around him, Dietrich pulled out his sidearm—which had never been taken away from him—and shot Hamdi in the heart. Next he went into the alcove to rescue his own driver, but he and Kurt Hilfer had to wrestle for their freedom. The private's two guards, after seeing Dietrich shoot Hamdi, were now determined to stand their ground. One of them grabbed Dietrich's gun-arm and flung it up, both men toppling back into the wall. Pvt. Hilfer was soon trading blows with his guard, both to face and gut. He, Hilfer, hadn't had so much fun since his high school boxing matches four or five years ago.
Dietrich and his Arab managed to get the gun between them and just as Hilfer was about to send his last punch to his own foe, he heard the gun go off. He whipped his head around to see which one had been hit, and when he looked back, he met a fist that would have knocked out a lesser man. Instead, it just further enraged Kurt Hilfer. He yelled, balled his fists together and came down hard on the back of the Arab, sending him sprawling to the old wooden floor, out of luck and out of consciousness.
He turned again and saw his CO on the ground, holding his reddening side. The Arab standing above him was just about to apply the coup de grace, a shot to finish him off, when Hilfer's leg shot out and knocked the gun flying out of the Arab's hand. Then with a roundhouse punch—a very wide swing with a ham-sized fist at the end—he put the lights out of that Arab, too. Afterward, all gentleness, he bent down and retrieved the arm of his Hauptmann and lifted him up.
While another bomb shelled the building into rubble, he walked out with him into the night. Once outside the debris-strewn gate, they rested in the lee of a still-standing portion of the outer wall, while Dietrich's half-tracks and troops did mop up duty and a certain Willys jeep performed the same duty with any Arab escapees. The Allied bomber didn't see the two German soldiers, but if their gratitude could have reached the sky, he would have dipped his wing in acknowledgement.
Hitch drove around the building and spotted the two men, knowing that one of them had to be the broad-shouldered Kurt Hilfer and the taller man, leaning against the wall, could only have been Hauptmann Dietrich. He was clutching his side and seemed to be ready to drop. Stopping before them, he invited them into the jeep, the captain getting into Troy's seat and Hilfer falling into the back with Tully. Strange bedfellows!
Tully had only a couple more Arabs to send to Allah, or wherever they went, and then he drove around the dune to rejoin Moffitt and Troy. Troy, seeing Dietrich in his own place in the jeep, struggled up with Moffitt's help and turned to face him.
"What's he doin' here?" he asked abruptly. "Does he think we're going to play his game anymore?"
"No, Sgt. Troy, I'm wounded, like you, I see." In the glowing light of an early dawn, he could see Troy's hand still clinging to his bleeding leg. "I'm just 'hitching' a ride back to my troops."
"And what makes you think we won't ask for payment first?" Troy was angry and showing it. "Say, for five thousand American dollars?"
Dietrich laughed. "I would have gladly paid that much, and more, if it put you out of action, Sergeant. Now, am I free to go? I seem to have a bullet in me."
"I hope yours came from a Schmeisser, like mine did!" Troy dipped his hand in the back of the jeep and pulled out his Aussie bush hat. With it, he waved to the half-track that was about a hundred yards away, confronting them, but taking no action because of Capt. Dietrich's being in their midst. Somehow, the message was conveyed that there was to be no gunfire while Hitch drove up alongside. Tully remained at the gun, just in case.
In a short space of time, Tully and Hitch returned, packed the wounded sergeant into the jeep's seat recently vacated by his arch-foe, and they drove off into the night. The B25 had long gone, leaving the desert in an unnatural quiet, with dead bodies already beginning to turn rotten on the sands and in the streets of Dar el-Tanri.
For some time thereafter, too, in the vicinity of Dar el-Tanri, wild-acting Berber horses, freed from the town where the walls had been reduced to rubble, roamed the desert, kicking up their heels at the moon, and browsing on whatever rough grass they could find.
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A week went by. Troy remained confined to base, but luckily for army organization, he stayed in his quarters while he recuperated. One day, though, when he stopped by to visit, Capt. Boggs praised him for a job well done with the work in the office.
Troy raised his eyes to him and said, "Sir?"
"Lt. Perkins brought me your note in the hospital about the kidnapping of Pvt. Pettigrew, so I argued with my doctor and got out of bed. When I got to the office, everything was as tidy as could be. You really do have a way with paperwork. Do you think you'd like to make it a permanent job?"
"Maybe, Captain, you ought to let Perkins have the job. He seems very capable. You knew it had to be him who straightened up?"
Boggs laughed. "Of course, Sergeant. There's no shame in being good at one thing and not at another. Frankly, I wouldn't let you near my desk again with a ten-foot pole. Oh, I found your coffee cup upside down in the wastebasket."
"It wasn't good coffee anyway, sir."
Boggs was soon back where he belonged, at his shipshape desk signing reports and requisition forms, as well as sending out patrols. Sgt. Troy, too, was shortly back in the saddle. Halfway across the desert, though, Herr Hauptmann Hans Dietrich, still clutching a bandaged side, was grumbling about his own paperwork and "putting an end to desert rats once and for all."
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