Chapter 2 Attack at the Oasis

"They're going where, Sgt. Moffitt?" bellowed the one-starred Frank Tapscott. "Over my dead carcass. May the vultures rip out my eyes and pluck at my guts before I take those two jailbirds along."

"I had a long talk with Tully, General. Technically, he didn't serve any time in jail, but was assigned to work on the roads. He could go home at night and take care of the horses."

"Then that leaves Sgt. Troy."

"Technically," said Moffitt, beginning to repeat himself. "Sgt. Troy didn't spend any time in jail. He was picked up by his father that same day and not thrown in the 'drunk tank,' as I believe it's called."

"Well, what about his stint in reform school?"

"What about it?" asked Hitch, remembering to add 'sir.' "He learned how to break down a gun and clean it. Where's the harm in that? It's what he does now."

"I'm not in the habit of debating my plans with enlisted men, gentlemen. They're not going. I've got a certain reputation to keep up at the officers' mess. How will the lower-ranking officers follow me if I start coddling goldbricks and jailbirds?"

Hitch looked away, exasperated. There they were standing in the motor pool at five in the morning and it was almost too late to get a new gunner and driver. Both of their current ones had been relieved not to be going on a trip so close to where Hauptmann Dietrich now operated, not with his reputation for ambushes. They were still asleep in their bunks in the men's enlisted quarters. No need to wake them when Troy and Tully were right there.

Leaning against one jeep's grill, Troy was smoldering. Tully wasn't much better, but he was yawning more. Both men were cold and tired and not used to being 'debated.' Troy finally had had enough. He came off the front of the jeep and strode over to the general, not forgetting to salute. The salute was hastily returned.

"We've got to get going, General, if we want to make the rendezvous point with the convoy by 0900."

"I'm well aware of the plan, Sergeant," said Tapscott, looking much older than his sixty years. He shook his hoary head. "Escort the convoy all the way to Benghazi and then deliver me to Benina Airfield for my flight out of this hellish wasteland."

"Oh, you're going back to the States, sir?" asked Moffitt, crossing his fingers behind his back.

"Just for a while, Sergeant. Then it's back to England. But what I've decided here still stands. After this trip, Sgt. Troy, you and Pvt. Pettipoint—"

"Pettigrew, sir," said Tully in a low voice. "It's Pettigrew."

Tapscott ignored him. "—will return to the motor pool at the Allied base at Tal Yata and there continue to work until this war is either won or lost."

"With Sarge fixing the trucks, that's a tossup." Tully was unceremoniously elbowed in the ribs by his fellow driver, Mark Hitchcock.

"What did you say, Private? Toss what?"

"Nothing, sir," was Tully's short reply. He turned to Hitch and both young men fell away, laughing.

"Let's shake it!" called Troy, already heading for one of the jeeps. He had a long, uncomfortable ride on top of the spare tire waiting for him.

While the sergeant got in the rear of the jeep and got settled, Tapscott shook his bad-tempered head and conceded a point in this contest. Half-heartedly, he took the passenger seat—right in front of Troy. Troy could sense his disapproval. He was well beyond childhood, but he wanted to make a face at the back of Tapscott's head, or put up two 'rabbit' fingers and grin over it. But he didn't. He glared out at the desert instead.

It would be another three plus hours before they joined the convoy on the coastal road, the Via Balbia. Then it was another two hours to Benghazi, and almost another hour to drop Tapscott off at the Benina airfield, nineteen miles outside of the city. That was a long time to feel Tapscott's displeasure, and Troy, vexed himself, was already biting his lip.

Hitch walked over to Troy and the general from Tully and Moffitt's jeep. Just as he was climbing into the driver's seat, Tapscott motioned him out. "That one," he said, pointing to other jeep, the one usually driven by Tully. "I want the two jailbirds together where I can see them."

"You can't see the Sarge, sir—he's behind you."

"Yes, and I'd feel more comfortable if he were in front of me. He might go all-commando on me and stab me in the back."

"The only backstabbing is what you've done to him and Tully," said Hitch simply.

"Hitch!" cried Troy. "Military courtesy. Remember?"

"Yes, Private. I could have you busted down to an ant, if I like."

"An ant, sir?"

Tapscott nodded, while Tully walked over and sent Hitch on his way with a small shake of the head.

"I'm beginning to feel like I'm not wanted," called Moffitt from the other jeep. "I suppose I'm going to get one of the drivers?"

"I'm coming, Doc," said Hitch. Then when he thought he was out of Tapscott's earshot, Hitch parodied the brigadier general, saying, "He might go all-commando on me and stab me in the back."

It was a long, sullen, hot and bumpy ride across the desert towards the rendezvous point with the supply convoy, after which the party would drive to Benghazi to deliver the supplies, which were going to be used to push Rommel even farther to the east. Neither driver was in much of a mood to watch for holes, rocks and pockets of fech fech, the areas of soft sand that sucked in tires like a miser his gold and were hard to get out of. Tully especially seemed a bit morose and his driving showed it.

Later, when Troy had had enough of the bouncy ride, he called a halt and had a word with Tully under an acacia tree at the Narfa oasis.

"Look, Tully, it's hard for all of us. The general has his ways for sure, but he's probably a fair man down underneath."

"I know, Sarge, but he keeps looking over at me like I'm going to steal his watch, or something. I have a watch, I don't need his."

Troy laughed and Tully joined him, both shaking slightly not only with mirth, but with weariness. It was harder having to be so correct around the general than if they were the reluctant objects of a Gestapo interrogation-training session! Still wound up a bit, the two commandos slipped down to the sand by the acacia and imagined themselves anywhere but on a beach to calm their nerves.

Sitting under another tree at the rim of the small waterhole, the general gruffled and ahemmed. Troy finally noticed him, squeaking his eyes open one at a time. What with the warm desert sun and the break from the tire-seat, he would have been all relaxed, but Tapscott looked over at him and Tully and startled them by asking, "What's going on over there? Plannin' something malicious?"

"He's a loon," said Hitch to Moffitt as they shared the shade of a date palm and a canteen. "Right round the bend."

"No one can drive us crazy, Hitch, unless we give them the keys."

Hitch looked at Moffitt as if he'd grown horns, then he shrugged and dug into the crackers he'd taken out of a box of K-rations. Soon he was munching happily on them.

Troy and Tully came over to their date palm and took seats around the tree, leaning back on it.

"Did anyone think to offer the general anything?"

"He has a canteen," said Hitch, "though it's probably full of fire-water."

Troy had to laugh at that and didn't have the heart to reprimand him. After a few more seconds' rest, he struggled to his feet. "I'll get him something to eat. He's too proud to ask, I'm sure."

"Yeah," agreed Tully, "he might think we contaminated his food."

"Maybe I should take it to him, Troy," Moffitt offered. "Seeing as how you two get along like two male mules."

Troy shook his head, reaching down as Hitch handed up a can of beef stew and a wooden spoon.

"I'll go. I want to get a few things straight, and while he's helpless in our hands, there's no better time to do it."

"Be careful, Troy," warned Moffitt, "or you may be digging ditches for the rest of the war."

"Yeah, in Leavenworth," added Hitch.

Troy went over in a casual, non-threatening way and came to a standstill right before the general. He saluted. Why not? They were only a hundred miles from anywhere and, on the desert, the general was as 'helpless' as a baby in a cradle, but Troy wanted to try to get on his good side by appeasing his sense of self-importance.

"Sir, I've brought you something to eat. You take this key and—"

"I know how to eat K-rations, Sergeant. I've probably eaten more K-rations than I have regular, sit-down meals. I was in the trenches, you know."

As he handed him the can and the spoon, Troy wanted to tell him that they didn't have K-rations, per se, in World War I, but out of an abundance of caution he let the matter drop. As he watched, the general fumbled so much with the key that he dropped it into the sand. He started throwing gobs of sand in the air as he looked for it. Troy spotted it right off, but as it had landed so close to the inseam of the general's uniform trousers, he thought it best not to reach for it.

"It's right there, General," he said, pointing.

Tapscott glared up at him. More gobs of sand flew into the air and what finally surfaced was the key in a chubby hand covered in minute sand grains.

"You could have said something earlier, Sgt. Troy."

Resisting the urge to say, "I did!", Troy just kept silent, considering what he had come over there to say. When the general finally had the spoon in the meat, and then in his mouth, Troy spoke up.

"General, sir, what is it you've got against us, Tully and me? My brush with the law was eons ago and Tully only ran moonshine to help feed his family. He has three brothers and three sisters. All younger than him."

"Propaganda, Sergeant," said Tapscott around a mouthful. Tapscott was an 'old' soldier, so of course to him the can of mystery meat was as good as home-cooking. He seemed to relish the stuff, Troy thought, but as with all the rest of it, he kept his thoughts on the matter to himself.

"I don't follow you, sir? What was it you said—propaganda?"

"The Germans have built themselves up as supermen. We've got to show them up. We can't promote our worst in order to be the best."

"I won't speak for myself, General Tapscott," Troy had to pause to make sure he said this right, "but Tully Pettigrew is one of the finest young men I've ever known. He's loyal to the hilt. He's always there if I need him, and he's never let me down. I'd give my right arm to have more men like these three, Moffitt and Hitch, too."

"What about you, Sergeant? Are you loyal?"

Taken aback a bit, Troy fought for the right words. He hoped to convince the general of something that he should not have even questioned, his loyalty.

"My record speaks for itself, sir," he began, his tone precise and unambiguous. "I want to see this war end as a win for our side, the sooner the better. Never again can we allow a madman to take over so much of the world and destroy so many people."

"A bit dramatic, Sergeant, but I agree with you. We have to win. That's why we can't allow the Germans to see our bad side. Men like you and Tully—"

Suddenly, blessedly, he was cut off by a series of potshots being fired from the top of the hills bordering the oasis. Troy threw himself onto the general as his men took what cover they could. Suddenly he heard the beat of horses' hooves pounding into the peaceful place. Arabs!

There had to be a dozen of them, but they were all moving so fast on their colorfully-rigged Barbs that it was impossible to get an exact number, and Troy didn't even try. As he lay astride the body of the older man, the general's legs kicking beneath him, he pulled his sidearm out of his belt holster and twisted just enough to fire off a couple of shots. He winged one horseman, who escaped, but followed the first shot with another that dropped a second Arab off the back of his horse.

Two more came into his orbit and, meeting fury with fury, he fired off a half-dozen more shots, killing them both. He was winged himself by a fifth Arab who rode up beside him, twisted in the saddle, fired, and then took off after the first. Troy stood up, his left arm bleeding. He took careful aim with his semi-automatic, squeezed the trigger, and felled the horseman with one bullet.

Moffitt was having the same orgy of shooting with his Webley revolver as Troy was with his army-issued 1911 Colt 45. The Englishman fired from a squatting position, circling with his arm as he aimed and taking his shots with excruciating care. He too was making headway against the Arab marauders.

While Moffitt was thus employed, Hitch ran over to one of the jeeps and grabbed a tommy gun out of the holster on the driver's side. He didn't risk standing up and making himself a target by manning the jeep's fifty, but he kept up a steady rate of bursts while Tully, the closest to the Arabs when they first entered the camp, dove for cover behind some desert scrub. Without a sidearm such as the sergeants carried, he was nigh well helpless, until the combined shots of the three other Rats allowed him to jump into the driver's seat of his and Moffitt's jeep. After starting it, he kept low as he raced over to where Moffitt was firing.

Seeing the jeep sprinting toward him out of the corner of his eye, Moffitt abandoned his firing position and jumped aboard the rear of the jeep. Pulling the bolt back on the fifty, he began to unleash its powerful rounds on the Arabs, most of whom were now getting the message that this oasis was no longer friendly to them, even if they did have swift Barbs and Italian-made rifles.

Moffitt continued firing as Tully raced after the Arabs. As they pursued them by jeep, Hitch ran up to the top of a sandy crest, knelt on one knee in the sand and, keeping his aim steady, fired at their backs. Most of them fell, but a few got away, splitting up and speeding into the rocks where a jeep couldn't go. Moffitt and Tully had to give up the chase.

The winded men split up as they returned to the chewed-up oasis. Hitch walked about the camp checking on the dead, while Moffitt saw Troy's arm and headed for the medical kit. Troy one-handedly was trying to lift the general to his feet. Tully assisted in that endeavor and soon they had Tapscott righted on his wobbly legs. He brushed himself off hastily and stooped to pick up his old can of beef stew.

"Sand all in it, Sergeant! How am I to eat it now?"

Troy thought quickly. "Tully, go get another box, another can of meat."

"But, Sarge! Shouldn't we get out of here before we get clobbered again?"

"Go, do as I say. The general needs it."

He gave a grim, knowing look at Tully and the perceptive young driver nodded and ran off to the get another box of K-rations. Troy had divined that the general was not well in his mind right then. He kept mumbling about 'sand' in his food and no good could come of jailbirds and moonshiners. He really didn't see Troy or Tully at all, but just mindlessly turned about in Troy's grasp, muttering all the while.

When Tully returned, Troy motioned him to get the jeep ready to leave. He himself opened the box of rations and pulled out a can of—anything, he didn't bother to read it. He pushed it into the general's hand and Tapscott looked relieved for the first time that day. His frown of the morning eased out of his brow and he almost looked grateful enough to thank Troy.

Troy patted him on the back and smiled slightly. "Take your time with it, General. We've got a long way to go still."

The general nodded and held on to it as Troy walked him over to the jeep Tully had already started after checking oil and water, the same as Hitch was doing to the other jeep now that the camp was secure. All of the Arabs lying about were indeed dead. Their own friends would have to come back to bury them. If there had been a wounded man, Troy would have ordered him to be taken prisoner, but he was saved that burden. All had been killed in the first go-round.

It took the rest of the day before the Rat Patrol joined up with the supply convoy heading towards Benghazi. They were to escort it the rest of the way. Troy made sure the general got a comfortable berth in the medical truck, lying on a hammock that was chained to the ceiling of the truck—the most comfortable 'digs' the convoy could afford.

With his arm bandaged, Troy and his fellow Allies kept vigil over the hills and wadis encircling the convoy, which consisted of not only the ambulance, but also four open troop transports, three armed half-tracks, and several supply trucks. As they rode on the outskirts of the convoy, they were specifically looking for Dietrich. A spotter plane had placed his scout column in this area, and the Allied base at Tal Yata had sent a radio message to the Rats letting them know.

"That's just great," Troy had been heard to say. "First, a lunatic general, then marauding Arabs, and now Dietrich. Can the day get any better, Doc?"

Moffitt smiled and said, "When it rains, it pours."

"That's so old hat, Moffitt," Troy remarked good-humoredly.

"It was all I could think to say." Moffitt's smile, always cheery, never faded.

"Let's go," Troy told the team and climbed in one of the jeeps.

While Moffitt and Tully's jeep went far afield, scanning the wadis up to three miles away and topping dunes to look for Dietrich, the other jeep—Troy and Hitch's, the pairs having switched back now that the general was au de combat—stayed close to the convoy, searching ahead, then swinging around behind, but always keeping the long column of vehicles in sight.

That wasn't all they saw. Troy, using binoculars while Hitch drove, spotted the yellow-camouflaged vehicles of an enemy column to the rear of the Allies' supply convoy. Since all of the German vehicles were armored, with no supply trucks, this had to be a scout column, he reasoned. It had to be Dietrich on the hunt for the convoy they were now escorting on the way to Benghazi.