Disclaimer: no ownership, no profit. Just admiration.
Mariket's Tomb
by tallsunshine12
Chapter 1 Strafing Runs
The jeeps were already on their way to a rendezvous with a 'friendly' German operative by dawn that morning. The sun rose high in the air as the miles precipitously fell under the jeeps' tires. Finally, the four desert rats were at the rendezvous spot, a cleft in a series of rock formations that stretched for about a mile along a narrow valley, or wadi. On the other side of the thin, pencil-shaped gorge, dunes of golden sand rose dozens of feet into the blistering air.
The operative—or spy—was late, if he was going to show at all. Carrying some documents to transmit to the Rat Patrol, as well as some verbal-only information, he was expected to arrive by a small two- or three-seater aircraft. Troy and his men would take these documents and the information the spy dared not commit to paper back to their home base at Tal Yata.
Waiting around in the hot sun for a double agent to show up began to wear on everyone's nerves, but especially on Troy's. He paced around the jeeps two or three times, slapping a fist in one palm, startling Tully who had nodded off behind the wheel of the jeep he shared with Sgt. Moffitt.
Moffitt had taken refuge in the shade of an overhang of rock. Squinting against the sun, he noted Troy's increasingly fractious mood. Perhaps he was risking both life and limb for saying this, but he called out to his fellow sergeant, and said, "Troy, calm down. Perhaps he got delayed."
Troy whirled on him. "Or perhaps he was picked up by the Gestapo and he's being interrogated right now."
Hitch, blowing a big, pink bubble, overheard part of the conversation as he slid down the dune on which he had been standing guard. Since his four hours were up, he bent his head over Tully and spoke a few words. Tully roused himself with a couple of non sequiturs directed at Hitch—at least, that's how Moffitt chose to call what he said—and eased out of the jeep. He took Hitch's tommy gun and staggered up the dune to stand watch.
"What kind of plane is he coming in, Sarge?" Hitch asked Troy.
"A plane plane, Hitch. One with flight controls, seats and wings," Troy answered, not looking at him as he lifted his field glasses and scanned the skies above the rock outcrop. "Single engine. Pilot and Johann Marks, our contact."
"I say, Troy, I think I'm hearing a hum now." The English sergeant stood up from his seat on a boulder, pointing. "Up there, see it?"
Troy pulled his glasses away and squinted directly against the sun. "If you say so, Moffitt. The sun's too bright to make it out. Hitch, can you see it?" He raised his glasses again.
"It's coming this way—" began the young driver when Moffitt interrupted him.
"Oh, no, my mistake. It's only a vulture, circling around."
"A vulture with a hum?" asked Troy.
He lowered the binoculars once more and cast a sideways glance at Moffitt. The Rat Patrol leader was already smiling, while the starch British sergeant had turned faintly red.
Hitch laughed a bit, too. Practicing a bit of Troy's drollery, he said, "Planes have shiny silver wings, Doc."
Then he happened to look up at the dune just in front of them. Tully was waving and pointing to the sky. The three men left the jeeps and scrambled up the side of the dune and stood beside him. Everyone looked up. It was a low-flying plane, beginning to circle and seeming to be looking for a landing spot out on the desert.
"It's about time," said Troy, huffing slightly from his sudden exertions.
Moffitt caught his arm. "It's not the plane bringing the operative. It's a Stuka!"
"Never trust a German," said Hitch, echoing Troy's sentiments exactly.
"Maybe it's not the same man," said Tully. "He might be coming later."
Troy looked at him, considering his words, and then back up at the plane as it continued on up the wadi.
"Look," cried Hitch, "it's starting to make a strafing run!"
"The jeeps …" muttered Troy, watching from a half-crouching position as the plane, with 8mm rounds blazing out of two, wing-mounted machine guns, pockmarked both vehicles—their only transportation on the desert. The jeeps suffered a few additional holes, but none disabled them. Not yet. "Everyone get back down!" he yelled as the plane began to turn around for another pass, this one closer to home.
As the Stuka traced a second line of terror in the sand, all four Rats flew down the side of the dune. Throwing up shoots of sand behind them, bullets stitched a line where their feet had been. Troy and Moffitt jumped on the backs of the jeeps and began to fire the .50 cal. machine guns at the diving plane, while Hitch and Tully fired up the engines and raced towards it in a zigzag pattern.
At the higher end of the wadi, the unknown pilot and gunner banked to make a turn for yet another run, but the jeeps continued going in the same direction—down the wadi. As it flew over their heads, Tully and Hitch pushed the Willys MB's as hard as they could, weaving in and out of its line of fire, but also trying to avoid boulders and big rocks.
Troy, in the lead jeep, saw another overhang in the rocks on their right, a much deeper cleft than that which had sheltered Moffitt from the sun, and bent to tap Hitch on the right shoulder, directing him to go that way. Hitch swung the wheel over and flew into the small cave, leaving room for the second jeep to follow and park alongside.
As the Stuka flew overhead again, the two gunners swung their swivel-mounted Brownings around and fired up in rapid bursts of six or more rounds each, but to their mutual dismay, the Rats saw that the plane could hit them inside their constricted cave. As the Stuka fired into their position, shooting up the sand just yards away, Troy and Moffitt, the closest to the entrance, jumped off the jeeps and dashed for cover. Hitch and Tully ducked, but remained in their seats behind the wheels.
"We can't let him destroy the jeeps." Moffitt yelled over the roar of the plane and its machine guns.
"Or us!" Tully shot right back.
"I'm going out there," Troy declared. In action with his words, he waved Hitch out of the jeep. "Hitch, let me get there."
"Are you mad, Troy?"
"What'll we do, Moffitt, sit in here and watch the jeeps get blown apart? I'm going. The rest of you, stay put."
Preparing to make a mad dash outside, Troy threw the jeep in reverse and backed out, then he turned and drove about a quarter-mile up the wadi, facing the oncoming plane as it banked and turned to make a sixth—and hopefully final—pass.
With only seconds to spare, he stopped and climbed over the driver's seat into the rear of the jeep. Grabbing the handles of the fifty, he slid the bolt back and readied the M2. Sweat running down his back, Troy wiped stinging, salty drops out of his eyes as he glanced up to judge how soon before the Stuka would be right on top of him. He had never moved so fast.
Here it was. In its five previous passes, the Stuka had tried to take out the Rats and their jeeps. Now, in its sixth pass, it was a contest to take out just one of each.
Aiming to hit the underwing fuel tanks, Troy tilted the Browning's barrel up and pushed the spoons with both thumbs, sending black-tipped, armor-piercing rounds into the fuselage. He put a lot of holes in the disappearing plane but didn't quite hit his target yet.
In the cave, Moffitt, Tully and Hitch knew they couldn't let Troy be a hero all on his own, so while Hitch ran out, slipping from boulder to boulder as he made his way up the wadi to Troy's jeep, Moffitt and Tully backed out and raced the opposite way. There, at the lower end of the wadi, the Stuka was already banking and turning again. Tully behind the wheel, Moffitt behind the fifty, they drove directly into the Stuka's line of fire.
In seconds, after flying over their heads, the plane was strafing the sand again where Troy was. Hitch ducked under its very literal shadow as its bullets ricocheted dangerously close. He gazed up—it was a prehistoric bird about to descend, claws and all, on its prey. Hearing Troy already banging away at it, he spun his head that way and darted out again.
Flying beyond Troy's jeep, it gave time for Hitch to catch up and jump behind the wheel. As the uncanny pilot at the upper end of the wadi was making yet another tight turn, Hitch threw the jeep forward, and even as his driver swerved as much as he could to avoid being in the enemy gunner's crosshairs, Troy's shots were effective. So were Moffitt's.
This time, as it flew over, a double dose of hot lead from both directions, front and rear, pierced both of the Stuka's drop tanks, igniting the fuel. It swerved to the right, crashing into the rock outcrop about five hundred feet from Tully and Moffitt. A fireball erupted when it hit the rocks.
"We got him!" Tully cheered. He discarded his matchstick, broken in half earlier when he and Moffitt drove directly under the hail of bullets from the now-wrecked Stuka.
Now the hot, flaming debris of the ruined plane began to shower down on their heads. He backed the jeep up as quickly as he could to get out of the fiery rain, while Moffitt held onto the fifty and scanned the skies for more Stukas. Pieces of burning metal landed on the jeep and, to Tully's dismay, burned holes in its already sun- and wind-scorched paint.
"Damn!" he was heard to cry. "Another paint job gone to—!"
Moffitt, hearing that, couldn't help but laugh. He dropped one of his hands from the machine gun and waggled Tully's helmet back and forth.
Tully smiled up at him as he headed back towards Troy's jeep. They parked by the cave and Moffitt got out, nervously waiting for the other jeep to arrive.
With Troy still at the fifty, Hitch parked next to Tully's side and Troy leaped off. He and Moffitt grasped forearms and then stood silently watching the flames licking the side of the rocks a few hundred yard ahead of their position, catching afire what little stubble grew there. The pilot and his gunner had no chance of getting out. For that, they felt a pang of regret, but none for bringing down the enemy aircraft itself.
"I think this calls for a drink!" announced Hitch.
With everybody looking at him, wondering where he was going to get a 'drink' out here on the desert, he pulled his canteen off his belt and uncapped it. His eyes closing showed how much he relished the hot liquid. Troy and the others laughed, then their mood quickly sobered.
Another low-flying plane could be heard coming towards them from just over the dunes. All eyes were locked on it as it flew into view.
"Oh, no," said Hitch, replacing his canteen. "Repeat performance, Sarge?"
Before Troy could answer, Tully reached through the opening of the windshield and caressed the jeeps' hood. "We can't go through that again," he said, bitterly affected by the scuffing his jeep had already taken. "Not again."
"I agree, Tully, my man!" Moffitt sounded cheerful. "We just missed being turned into human sieves."
"I wasn't talking about us," said Tully. "I was thinking of the jeeps."
This time, Moffitt—playfully—thumped him. "Aren't you always?"
"Now I know why he wears a helmet," Hitch joked, taking off his kepi and rubbing his head where a piece of debris had hit him.
"It's about to land out on the desert, just beyond the dunes." Troy directed everyone's attention that way. "Now it's gone behind them. I can't see it."
"I'll get the glasses," offered Moffitt, "and then we'll go have a look."
All four men grabbed a tommy gun apiece out of the jeep holsters. Leaving Tully on watch, a new matchstick between his teeth, Troy and Hitch climbed up the side of the dune and Moffitt soon joined them with two sets of field glasses. He kept one pair for himself and passed the second to Troy. Hitch had to use just his eyes to watch the plane land. They were almost as good as the binoculars.
Skidding on its wheels along the sand, the small aircraft pulled up. In a few seconds, the single door opened and the pilot stepped out, followed by another man, this one rather stocky and wearing a German captain's uniform.
Troy lowered his glasses. "Johann Marks, our contact."
They had all been briefed on his appearance, passing his glossy 8 x 10 photograph around in Capt. Boggs' office back at Tal Yata as Boggs gave them their assignment.
"Hitch, get Tully up here and both of you keep alert. Moffitt and I will go meet them. We'll draw them into your range of fire."
Hitch nodded and went to signal Tully to join them. As the two sergeants skidded down the other side of the dune, he let Tully in on what was happening.
"I hope these guys are friendly," said Tully. "Not like the last ones."
Besides the tommy guns, both Troy and Moffitt had an arsenal of knives and side-arms. Ever cautious in this war, they started out slowly walking across the desert plain, while the contact made his way warily towards them. Troy hoped he'd been briefed about them. If Marks was looking for the desert rats, he'd found them!
Once at the midway point between the dune and the plane, all three men stopped and raised their hands in a solemn wave.
"We saw what happened here," said Marks, in a clipped German accent. "We circled around before we came in. Good shooting!"
Troy nodded in thanks, but still kept silent, his eyes taking in the measure of the man before him. Then he made introductions.
"I'm Sgt. Troy." He nodded over at Moffitt. "Sgt. Moffitt. Long Range Desert Group."
"Otherwise known as the Rat Patrol," said the English sergeant, giving a slightly lopsided grin at the German.
Troy let his gun rest lightly in his hands, the barrel pointed slightly down, but he was ready at any moment to use it.
"Do you know who was shooting at us?"
"Hard to say, Sergeant. Someone who found out about our meeting and wanted to prevent it." Marks clasped his own hands together. "Now, to the business that brings us here."
Suddenly a shot rang out and Marks, gripping his lower back, fell to the ground. Troy and Moffitt quickly looked for the culprit of the shot and saw the pilot jumping back into his plane. They fired at him, but he got a head start and raced to a lift-off. He had left the plane running the whole time to make a hasty getaway.
When the pilot was in the skies again, flying away from them, Troy knelt down next to the German contact and held his head up.
"Look, Troy," said Moffitt, pointing, "a trail of blood coming from his back."
It was starting to run along the sand. It was too late, Moffitt thought, even for his limited skills with the medical kit they carried, to save Marks' life. Whoever had wanted to stop him from his mission had evidently succeeded. But wait—"
"Have to tell you, Sgt. Troy," said the dying man. "A communications center, north of here, in the Gar hills. Princess's tomb. Emperor's daughter."
The man died then and there and left Troy and Moffitt staring at him, and then at each other. Troy looked back at Marks and saw a bulge in his tan jacket. Inserting his hand, he pulled out a manila folder, closed by a loop of cord.
"The papers he was to give us." He opened the folder and, not being able to read German, handed them up to Moffitt. "What are they, Moffitt? Better be quick about it in case that pilot comes back and brings friends."
Moffitt looked through them rather more hastily than he would have liked and concluded that they were maps of an ammo dump and a fuel depot. There were various classified reports of troop and tank movements in the sector, a sector which belonged to Hauptmann Hans Dietrich. He relayed all of his findings to Troy in a matter of a few words, then he stuffed the papers in the folder again.
After he lay Marks' head gently back into the sand, Troy rose. Back at the top of the dune, he ordered the privates to get the shovels and to bury the man, while he continued to watch the skies. Moffitt had gone back to his jeep to get out his map case, pulling out this sector's map. He spread it out on the hood and was bending over it when Troy returned.
Moffitt acknowledged him with a simple statement. "He said, 'Communications center.'"
"He also said princess's tomb," Troy reminded him, rather frustrated by all of this cloak and dagger stuff. He hefted the tommy gun in his hand. "How can we trust a dying man's words?"
"They're the only words to trust, Troy." Still trying to figure out what the contact had meant by the 'princess's tomb,' Moffitt abstractly added, "Why would a dying man lie?'
Not exactly ignoring him, Troy asked, "Any clearer on where that tomb might be? It's got to be big enough for Jerry to use it as a radio station."
"You only need a small desk for that, and one radio set."
Troy didn't answer. He wanted to get on the way, but they'd only be guessing which way to go unless Moffitt could come up with the whereabouts of the tomb. As a past professor of archaeology at Cambridge, who better than he to do it?
"What else did Marks say?" asked the English sergeant.
"He said, emperor. Emperor who?"
"Maybe I can help with that."
Moffitt grew silent, as his brain was configuring on a number of tracks at once.
"I'm waiting, Doc."
"Sorry, it's just that I was trying to count his children."
Troy huffed, raising his shoulders and dropping them in exasperation. "Whose children?"
"The emperor's."
"Which emperor? And why count his children?"
Moffitt straightened up, arching his back slightly to unkink it. "One of them must have been the princess who died and was buried in the tomb."
"So? Who is the emperor?"
"Septimius Severus, the only Roman emperor born in North Africa, in Leptis Magna."
"You've lost me. He had a daughter?"
"Oh, several of them. Different wives, you know. It has to be Mariket."
"Parakeet?"
"No, Troy, Mariket, his daughter who died of dysentery in her thirteenth year. Almost thirteen. Unlucky for her."
"How do you know who it was, when she died, and of what, Moffitt?" Then Troy caught himself up. "No, wait. Sorry I asked."
"That's alright, Troy. Leptis Magna was one of my specialties at university. Father and I actually got to dig there for two seasons."
"So, you know where she's buried?"
"No, I'm afraid I don't. We weren't looking for her tomb, or for anyone's, really, just excavating the city itself."
"Can you make a reasonable, educated guess?"
"I might be able to, but we must go there first. I need to see the outlay of the land, now that I'm looking for a tomb."
"Or for a communications center," said Troy. "Remember, that's our primary goal."
"Tomb or radio, it won't be easy to find where Princess Mariket is buried."
"Look, friend—Moffitt—we're not interested in the princess, except incidentally. Whether she died in this Leper Magnum place or not, of leprosy or a scorpion bite, is not our primary focus. The radio installation is."
"Gotcha, Troy! But if I do find the tomb, and it's not been cleaned out in the past by grave robbers, what a find!"
"Not much of a find if we have to destroy it."
Moffitt looked at Troy with a bit of mist in his eyes. "Destroy it? Oh, no," he said, using up his quota of 'oh, no's' this afternoon. "It can't be destroyed. It's the tomb of a Roman princess. How many of them are in this desert?"
"I don't know," said Troy. "But if there is one, we'll find it and deal with it as we see fit."
"Or as you see fit."
"Is that a challenge, Moffitt?" Troy looked at him in some suspicion. "You know, if Jerry is operating there, tomb or no, raided or unraided, it'll have to be blown."
"I do see your point, Troy." Moffitt abruptly closed his maps and stuffed them into the map case again. "We're wasting time. Hitch and Tully ought to be done now burying Marks. Leptis Magna awaits."
"Yeah, it does." Troy watched the hurried actions of his second-in-command and wondered if Moffitt was getting any ideas of continuing his excavations there—on the war's dime. "Have you any idea how long it'll take us to get there?"
Moffitt consulted the map in his memory, making a diagram in the air with his fingers. "Oh, by no later than tomorrow afternoon. We'll still be in Dietrich's sector, I'm afraid."
"I'd like to keep our visit a secret." Troy fired once into the air with his Colt .45 to signal the drivers that they were ready to go. "But he probably already knows. He must have been the one to send the Stuka after us."
"I wonder who killed the contact," said Moffitt. "The pilot had to be one of Dietrich's men, too."
Hitch and Tully returned from their hot and slightly gruesome job. Marks now lay a few feet deep in the sand far from anyone who ever knew him. In a few minutes, the shovels were stowed, Troy and Moffitt were seated beside their drivers and the jeeps fired up.
"Leper Magnum," Troy said again. He'd never heard of the place. Good thing that Moffitt had. He looked at Hitch. "Let's shake it!"
Soon the jeeps were bounding across the sands again.