Chapter 2 The Race Ends
Tully and Hitch were so far ahead of the other bikers, that they weren't aware of the column and the convoy chase, until the gas-fueled vehicles caught up with them. Surprised to see the Germans in pursuit of the convoy this far behind Allied lines, the privates pulled up in some rocks and watched. The loaded trucks, three of them, were pouring on the gas, but the German column would shortly overtake them.
Presumably, the truck drivers were armed, but they had no other protection. Why would they be traveling without more firepower? Say, a half-track of their own? Tully and Hitch didn't have the answer to that, but clearly the tiny convoy lacked protection as the German half-track and the 20 mm cannons launched shells at it.
Both of the desert Rats knew they weren't going to win the race if they lent a hand to the three trucks, but nonetheless they took off for the open road where the 'action' was just starting. Sand whipped out from beneath their tires as they flew down the escarpment to the tableland below.
Waving the Tommy-gun over his head, Tully Pettigrew caught the attention of the truck drivers, as well as that of the Germans a half-mile behind them. A mortar shell erupted from the half-track and landed not too far away from the jeep drivers, spraying sand all over their bikes and into their eyes and mouths.
"Let's hurry, Hitch!" yelled Tully, once he had spit out half of the Sahara from his mouth.
The jeep drivers put more speed into their legs and the bikes fairly flew over the sand. As the bikes topped a low dune, all four tires left the sand at once.
"Hey!" called Hitch. "It's just like jumpin' a dune in the jeeps!"
"More fun, though," yelled Tully right back, a healthy grin breaking out all over his face. "We'll soon be there!"
Halting the trucks, the three drivers, plus their one-man relief crews, fell out into the sand around the wheels and took up positions with their Sten guns, a British-made submachine gun whose 32-round magazine was inserted into the side rather than the bottom of the gun, as in Hitch and Tully's Tommy-guns.
Dropping their bikes into the sand, the jeep drivers lowered the tailgates of two of the trucks and climbed aboard, turning to face outward. Tully looked sorrowfully at his bike, forgotten in the sand. Whether the 'steed' was a bike or 4 x 4, one-quarter-ton truck, commonly known as a jeep, made no difference. He felt the same way when one of the patrol's jeeps was lost. What a bummer, he thought, to have to leave it there.
A Kubelwagen, belonging to the commander of the column, a couple of eight-wheeled armored cars, and a half-track, whose mortar shell had landed so close to them, came fearlessly on. The armored cars were each equipped with 20 mm autocannons, not a quite a cannon at that caliber, but more lethal than a gun, while the half-track had a .50 cal. machine gun in addition to the mortar tube fixed to its bed. With only 30 rounds in their Thompsons, it wasn't quite going to be an even stand-off.
If Tully and Hitch could hit a couple of drivers, or the men in the turrets manning the cannons, it would at least slow the column down. Perhaps it would alter its path entirely. As the column closed in, they began shooting. The green canvas tarps covering the truck beds had been pulled back so as not to billow and interfere with their aim.
"Got 'im!" Tully yelled as he scored a hit on one of the tires of the commander's Kubelwagen, which hadn't gotten away fast enough.
The command car spun off the road, miring in the sand, and was out of the fight, not that it had much to offer anyway. An unarmed vehicle, it was more for the commander's comfort than for defense. At the remaining German vehicles, Tully kept firing away in short, rapid bursts, while Hitch, in the other truck, did the same. The truck drivers below them at the wheels continued to play their rat-a-tat-tat symphony on the Sten guns, adding a further distraction to the Germans.
From his stranded car, the German Leutnant in charge of the column signaled his other vehicles to dig in and start lobbing shells at the trucks, the mortars and autocannons highly effective as one of the trucks blew sky-high. Then, from out of the corner of his eye, Hitch saw what would turn out to be the saving of the defenders, a couple of racing jeeps. He jumped off the truck, shooting as he ran to the first jeep, while the driver, Sgt. Troy, climbed behind the .50 cal. machine gun mounted on the rear. Troy began firing even before Hitch had the jeep in gear.
From the second truck, Tully took a flying leap and raced over to the second jeep, while Moffitt performed the same acrobatic move as Troy and climbed into the back ready to fire. Off they went, threading the desert air with .50 cal. rounds, while the convoy drivers and relief men jumped into the seats and rear of the two remaining trucks. Both lumbered out of the way, not going far, while the jeeps, dodging bullets and shells, held off the column.
When it was over, the enemy Leutnant stood outside his vehicle, holding up his hands in the regulation 'hande hoch' position of surrender. His driver stood in the same position next to the burst tire of the Kubelwagen, and three men in the half-track, out of the four who had started out that morning, and two each in the armored cars, were dead. Only one man was alive in each of the three armored vehicles, a kill rate of seventy percent.
"How'd you hear about the German column, Sarge?" asked Hitch. "Radio?"
"No, we got word from the Turtle Team. They showed up about ten minutes ago at the base," said Troy. When the gun battle broke out, the Turtle Team had been behind Tully and Hitch, but as they were unarmed, they rode straight away into Tal Yata with the news.
"Yes, they made quite a clamor," added Moffitt, jumping down from the rear of the jeep to join Troy and Hitch.
Tully could hear the conversation, but he had made himself useful guarding the knot of men who had survived the battle. All of them had their hands placed on top of their tan field caps, or, in the lieutenant's case, his braided officer's cap. All looked ready to break out of their 'cage,' but knew better than to try.
"Darn!" Tully called over. "Did they win?"
"Well, at first Sampson and Cooper won, but then they were disqualified," Moffitt said, smiling broadly. "One of them, Sampson, I believe, was seen shoving one of the Turtle Team out of the way just at the finish line."
"He's in the stockade by now," Troy added, laughing. "Both Turtles crossed the line one after the other, once the man who Sampson had knocked off got back on his bike."
"A certain LRDG team of desert Rats wasn't there to stop them," Moffitt said, his wet-sheened face beaming from exertion and joviality.
"Maybe we can do something about that next year," said Hitch, flexing his calf muscles. "I for one could use a year's rest!"
Moffitt grinned. "If there is a next year."
Tully called over from his guard duties again. "What about the POW and his guard? Did they make it in yet? And the Arab and Parker?"
"No, we haven't seen any of them yet," said Moffitt. "I do hope they're alright."
"Let's get this motley crew into the trucks," said Troy. "We'll escort the convoy back to the base, and then go out after the stragglers."
"If you'll watch them, Sarge, Hitch and I will go retrieve our 'prancing steeds' and put them on the trucks," said Tully.
Troy looked surprised. "Your what?"
Hitch filled in the gap. "Our bikes, Sarge. We can't leave them out here!"
Troy turned, smiling, to Moffitt, and said, "No, I guess you can't. A little bit of jeep in every bike, right?"
Along with some very unenthusiastic prisoners, tied-up for safety's sake, the Columbias found a place in the two trucks, whose drivers were only too happy to get on the road again. Destination: Tal Yata.
In a little over an hour, the two jeeps were free to leave the base and had once again taken to the open desert to look for the missing bikers. In Troy's hand was the master map, the guide-sheet of where each bike team had planned to go. Since the convoy drivers hadn't seen them on the road, the idea was to look for them off-road.
"You didn't pass them on the way, did you, Hitch?"
"No, Sarge, but we were ahead anyway. They could have been in Timbuktu for all we knew."
"Let's hope we don't have to go that far—it'd take too much fuel." Sometimes, Troy's wit could only be described as 'dry.'
"Sarge, I didn't really mean Timbuktu, just a figure of speech."
Troy laughed over his map and continued to read it. "Just drive, Hitch," he loudly called over the engine.
At a group of rocks about two miles further on, they found the four remaining racers holed up. Their position had been shelled, leaving two bikes wrecked and Mario Giovanni, the Italian POW, with some non-life threatening leg wounds caused by flying rock splinters.
"È libertà! Libertà di essere feriti in nome della libertà!" exclaimed Giovanni, with passionate waving of his arms, when he saw the four men of the Rat Patrol.
He said it in Italian, so naturally it had to be translated. Giorgio Tamasi stepped up to the plate.
"It's freedom!" he exclaimed. "Freedom to be hurt in the name of freedom!"
"I'll go along with that," said Sgt. Jack Moffitt, drolly. "Come, we've got to get Giovanni back to the base."
"We'll have to leave the other two bikes," said Troy, glancing around at the small camp in the rocks. He could clearly see that a 20 mm cannon shell had landed amidst the hiding bikers, who had probably pulled off the road on seeing the German scout column. But not before they themselves were seen.
All of the bikers were unarmed, not counting the Arab's knife.
"Hitch, we'll take Giovanni and the Arab." Troy looked at the tall man in the striped green djellaba and said, "I'm sorry. I don't know your name yet."
The Arab slipped off the black band around his forehead and pulled off his white kufiya, or headdress. Shaking out her long, luxurious dark hair, she said, "Niesha, which means 'full of light.'"
"You're a woman!" Troy felt a bit strange having to look up to her. Maybe she was wearing high heels. His eyes glanced down that way and to his chagrin, he saw only sandals girding her bare feet.
"Since my birth I have been what I am, Sgt. Troy. Do you not think I could run this race?"
As all of the other men, including some of the more amiable among the Germans, smiled and elbowed each other, Troy backpedaled quickly. "No, no, ah, I'm sure you could—can." Shaking his head, he gathered up the various members of his flock and aimed them at the jeeps.
A lady biker! And a serious competitor to boot! How fitting for the 1st Annual Tal Yata Bicycle Race! Not even having an Italian POW on one of the teams could beat that one!
Later that evening in Effie's bar …
Troy sidled up to the bar with a half-empty mug of foamy beer in his hand and signaled for another round for the Turtle Team. He tried to make amends, even if he wasn't sure that they'd overheard him, Tully and Hitch talking before the race started that day.
"I want you to know we're all proud of the way you didn't stop to accept any honors at the finish line, but came directly over to let us know about the convoy."
"Y'all still think we're fat, Sgt. Troy?" asked Zdzblo, affably accepting his free beer from the barkeep and taking a swig. He licked off the foam from his upper lip.
"Did we say fat?" asked Troy in mock surprise.
"What was it Hitch said, 'With all that lumber they're carrying around?'"
"Hitch!" Troy called. "You want to step over here to the bar!"
Hitch disengaged himself from a pretty British nurse in a brown uniform and a poofy cap and came over. "You wanted me, Sarge? I was just getting to know the lady."
"You'll have time later. I think we have some fence-mending to do right now."
"What?" Hitch asked, then wising up as he faced Zdzblo and Torres. "Oh, I guess you're right."
"I'd like to extend apologies for all of us," said Troy, extending his hand. "I've never seen guys with more spirit than you have."
"Except the POW and Pvt. Tamasi!" Hitch added quickly, looking around for them in the bar. Not there, they might have been at chow in the mess hall, cementing a new friendship.
Tully and Moffitt entered Effie's bar just then after checking on their jeep in the motor pool. It had a few nicks in its side from the German fifties, and Tully was worried it might be suffering from shock.
"Hiya, fellows! Come over here!" Troy said. "Meet our two new friends." He stopped and leaned forward toward the Polish-American. "What did you say your name was again? And don't spare the ammo!"
"Zdzblo."
Troy nodded, swigged his beer, and repeated, "Zdzblo."
"My fellow biker is Torres." Zdzblo paused to slurp up some more beer, reminding himself that in his new weight-loss regimen he needed to be careful about how much beer he consumed. "My enemies call me Ziddie. I guess my friends can, too."
"Ziddie it is then!"
There was laughter all around and the good-natured spirits spilled over onto the other bar patrons. Soon everyone was throwing their voices, good, bad or indifferent, at the song "Run, Rabbit, Run, although the title was changed to "Run, Adolf, Run."
"P'raps you'll just allow us to explain,
What we did once, we can do again. …
Pour ol' soul, you'll need a rabbit-hole,
So, run Adolf, run Adolf, run, run, run."
It was one of the finer, more eloquent tunes of that evening in Effie's bar, though the finale was indeed uplifting and heart-wrenching, When the Lights Go On Again (all over the world).
"And the ships will sail again all over the world,
Then we'll have time for things like wedding rings and free hearts will sing
When the lights go on again all over the world,
When the lights go on again all over the world."
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