Disclaimer: not sure who owns them after these many years, but I sure don't. No money exchanged.
The Comrades-in-Arms Raid
by
tallsunshine12
Chapter 1 Sergeant For Sale
In groups of threes and fours, thirty or forty men stood around in circles, all of them decked out in desert robes, turbans and sashes, some animated in discussion, with hand gestures to match, others more subdued and scratching whiskery chins. The talk in the hall was incessant, not loud, but loud enough that he could catch some of the Arab words.
He knew enough of what was transpiring to understand that he was the object of this 'bring and buy' sale, as his saintly grandmother would have put it. Attacked and beaten last night, beaten again and starved this morning before the sale, he'd been thrown down in a heap by the shady native peddler and his two friends to wait until the bidding began.
Bruises on his face and arms mirrored those under his shirt. His wavy dark hair hung lankly on his forehead, while his eyes, dull and listless, would move around the crowd for a moment, then drop back to the floor. Leaning on the knuckles of one hand, he tried to keep from slipping to a fully prone position, but his quivering right arm couldn't hold him up much longer.
He looked up as the auctioneer began to shout, "Wanted by our allies for sabotage! A member of the famed Rat Patrol! Here he is, what am I bid?"
The attendees to the sale stepped up with clanking weapons in their sashes.
"Forty francs for the Britisher!"
"Fifty!"
And so on it went, going around and around, numbers and voices spinning like a top in his ears, until he couldn't stand it any longer. When would it all end? The robes and colors began to blur, while the sound took on a faraway, tinny note that made him want to laugh out loud. He was thirsty, so thirsty he thought he was going out of his mind. Just the taste of water, the smell of it, would satisfy him at this point. As the bidding continued, he was not given any water to drink.
Finally, he heard a clear, ringing voice stand out from the crowd of soft-voiced Arabs. It had a strong, deep timbre to it, an intoning play on every word. Measured, sonorous, that voice – fitting a man who chose every word precisely, who never let a casual sound creep into his carefully calculated utterance. The battered Brit on the floor thought he knew that voice, but so dazed with his injuries was he that the voice might just have been an illusion.
"One hundred, fifty francs!" interjected the voice, speaking in English, this being the owner's second bid. The bid was raised again and the English-speaking bidder was forced to raise his own. "One hundred, eighty francs," he said, topping the last bid by five francs.
"Who are you bidding for?" asked an Arab, also in English, a corpulent man who seemed to have everything material thing in the world and all of it on his own person. Several oddly-shaped knives hung from his sash and rope belt. "You don't appear to be rich."
That drew a feral laugh from the rest of the crowd, a crowd that hushed itself to hear what the German captain had to say. He didn't think it could hurt to throw out a name. His replied again in English, "I'm an agent for General Swickert. General Eric Swickert. He wants this man."
Sgt. Jack Moffitt looked down at the floor again. Dietrich. Somehow, some unfathomable way, he'd gotten wind that one of the Rat Patrol was on this day being sold to the highest bidder and thought he'd just trot down to city hall to get in on the action. The bidding continued, the bids rising and rising until it seemed that even this general Dietrich said he was working for would have given up.
"Two hundred, fifty francs!" shouted the rich Arab, drawing another wolf laugh from his friends in the crowd. Dietrich bid again. Like clockwork, slow and methodical, nothing could stop him, not even the gleaming knives on the Arab's belts. The Arab upped his bid. It continued.
"Four hundred!" yelled the sweating captain. Herr Hauptmann Dietrich knew he was going to rue this purchase, but he had to make it. There was no General Eric Swickert. Dietrich had just made him up to give some credence to his high bids. He, personally, couldn't have raised half of the sum now on the floor. The bid rose again. "Five hundred! Five hundred francs!" he cried aloud.
The Arab was more amused than angry. "Alright, Herr Hauptmann," he said, with a sneer. "You may have the prize and take it back to your base."
Dietrich looked around. So did Moffitt. Was that it? The Arabs, rich off oil, plunder, horses, slaves, and sundry other barely civilized things, were giving up. He was now the property of Herr Hauptmann Dietrich. That had to end badly, he thought.
The Arabs moved away, still laughing, gesturing and talking in low voices. Now two men working for the auctioneer came up behind the unfortunate man and pulled him to his feet, taking him out of the room to a stair leading down to a large, underground room. Here, the Arabs kept their slaves and prisoners until paid for. He was thrown into one of the cells lining the room and fell against a battered rope-bed with an old mat on top of it. Picking himself up, he flopped down on the bed – surprised that it held together – and put a hand to his forehead, shading his eyes from the bright light of a tiny window.
It wasn't long before his 'purchaser' showed up, ready to claim his prize.
"An unusual capture," said Dietrich, marveling at the turn of events.
"I don't need your sarcasm, Captain," said Moffitt, feeling burned out and not liking this one bit. "You didn't bring any water, did you?"
"No, Sergeant, I'm afraid not. But I've signed a bill for you. You're mine now."
Moffitt looked at him, askance. "Where'd you get so much money? On a captain's pay?"
"I signed for it under General Swickert's name. No money changed hands. Not yet, anyway."
"Does this general know he's just bought someone – and for that price?"
"General Swickert doesn't exist, Sergeant. I made him up to make them believe I could get the money. Now, we must go before they find out what I've done. Can you walk?"
"They'll come after you, you know," said Moffitt, sitting up and lowering his feet to the floor.
"I fully expect them to. That's why we must hurry."
Moffitt laughed. Wouldn't Troy love to see this episode unfolding! He had a dizzy spell as Dietrich guided him to stand and almost fell against the wall. That's when Dietrich noticed his back through the torn shirt.
He looked away. "I'm sorry you had to undergo this, Sgt. Moffitt. No one should have done this to you."
"Oh, you mean the stripes? Yeah, I thought that was a bit much, too. But I had very little say in the matter."
Earlier that morning, just as the peddler awakened him, he had lost an 'altercation' with his captors. After knocking out one of the peddler's henchmen, and gut-punching the second, the sergeant had gone after the peddler himself, but hearing the click of a pistol, he had stopped and allowed himself to be manhandled into a kneeling position. The torn shirt came next and then the real pain began, an ox whip sharp as a tack scoring his skin.
With his arm around Moffitt's back and the nearly limp Brit's arm thrown over his shoulder, Dietrich moved them out of the cell and into the hallway. He waited for the turnkey to unlock the upper door for him, then come back down the steps. Ascending the stairs himself with an injured man was not for the faint of heart, so Dietrich felt elated when they had planted their feet again on the main floor. As quickly as molasses runs, the German captain walked the Allied sergeant out of the building into the bright desert sun. Moffitt, instantly blinded, blinked and tried to shade his eyes again. His vision watery, he let Dietrich guide him to a waiting vehicle, a canvas-topped staff car. Once inside the shaded vehicle, he laid his head back on the leather seat, shut his eyes, and gave out a soft sigh.
Dietrich must have climbed in the front with the driver because Moffitt had the whole back seat to himself. Luxuriously, he spread his arm out, turned slightly and pulled up his knees. A canteen of water was handed back to him and he kept it, drinking out of it every now and then as the car pulled out of town and began its long drive to Dietrich's home base.
"How'd you know where I was?" he asked when he felt like talking again, about an hour into the trip over the bumpy desert road.
Dietrich raised his voice so that he could be heard over the motor. In flawless English, he said, "One of the Arabs came to me and said that I should go to the government office building and see what was happening. I paid him a few coins and came over. I thought it was my duty to keep up with what the Arabs were up to. Then I saw you. I knew then I should have given that Arab more money for recognizing you and fetching me."
Moffitt laughed a bit, though his bruised face hurt with the motion. "He knew who I was?"
"My belief is that they all did. The Arab bidding on you against me has a huge home base near a set of ruins and probably would have liked your services as an archaeologist. You've heard of Sheik Abdul el-Alazani?"
Moffitt blew out. "Good thing you saved me from him, Dietrich. He gets any richer and he'll own half of Africa. I don't fancy working for him."
"Do you 'fancy,' as you put it, being my prisoner?"
"I've been your prisoner before. Nothing to get excited about."
"Maybe the fake general will order you to be shot on sight, Sgt. Moffitt." Dietrich laughed, in a cold, cutting way.
No one spoke much during the next hour of the three-hour drive. Moffitt slept, badly to be sure, but a bit more securely now that he knew where he was going and what would likely happen to him there. He'd be questioned by Dietrich himself, nothing to write home about but not the worst torture he'd ever undergone as a member of the Rat Patrol. He knew practically nothing anyway after almost three days, so maybe that part of it would go by fast enough. In any case, he'd get something to eat, more water to drink, and even some time to himself in which to plan his escape.
Then Dietrich alerted him that they were being followed. He looked out of the rear window and saw what Dietrich's driver had seen in his rear-view mirror: two business-like Kubelwagens, each open with rolled-back canvas top and two full seats back and front, the steering wheel on the left.
In German, Hans Dietrich advised his driver to speed up, but the soft sands over which they drove kept down their speed, as it did the two scout cars'.
"They're gaining on us," said Moffitt, in English. Switching to German, in which he was fluent, he said, "Who are they? Why are they after us?"
"What an uncanny innocence you have," said Dietrich, again in English. "Don't you know? I traded a worthless signature on an invoice for you. It could be the auctioneer's men, or the rich Arab's."
"I rather think they're going to catch us, too, whoever it is," said Moffitt, with a reasoned detachment that was the hallmark of his character. He never got upset over anything, if he could help it.
"A bit more speed, Kurt," said Dietrich, switching to his native language again.
Responding in the only language he knew, German, Gefreiter Kurt Hilfer exclaimed, "I'm giving it all she's got, Herr Hauptmann. There's no more!"
Bouncing over the waves of sand, the staff car groaned and coughed, until finally it gave out altogether and, buckling to a stop, made a sound like a dying sigh. Dietrich, who had turned in the front seat so that he could look out of the rear window, slapped the back of the seat and cursed. Moffitt had never heard him curse before, though this much he knew: he and the other Rats had given him plenty of opportunity and reason to swear.
The three men were quiet as the seven or eight Arabs slammed their armored doors and approached Dietrich's staff car. They appeared to be the same men, in colorful turbans, short robes and loose trousers underneath, who had been standing in the atrium with the corpulent Arab bidder, but he wasn't among them. Only his henchmen had braved the open desert while he had returned to his base in his own Mercedes.
Pulling open the doors of Dietrich's car, the Arabs signaled with their SMGs for the Europeans to get out. Stiff as a board after the long ride and the beatings he had gotten earlier that day, Moffitt pulled his long legs out and tried to stand. Dietrich lent him a hand, but mostly he just leaned on the car behind him.
"Hände hoch!" yelled one of the closest Arabs, brandishing his submachine gun again. All three men raised their hands, the driver having remained on his side of the vehicle.
"I am Herr Hauptmann Dietrich," said the owner of the name, in German. "I am bound for my base a half-day's ride from el-Zuwara, the town we just left. You have no right to stop us."
There was murmuring among the Arabs, several of whom appeared to become even more menacing. Very politely, Moffitt said, "I don't believe they understood you, Captain. Shall I try?"
"Be my guest."
Knowledgeable in several Arab dialects, Moffitt chose one and tried it out. It worked. He communicated what Dietrich had just said. At the conclusion of his speech, he asked, "Does anyone speak English?"
One man stepped up, thumping his chest and saying, "I do. My name is Ahmad Nazari. I am at your service, gentlemen."
"Oh, brother!" Moffitt murmured to himself. "An eloquent Arab!" Dietrich heard and looked over at him, amused. Shrugging off the mantle of sarcasm, the Brit continued, "We want to proceed with our journey. Why are you stopping us?"
"When that one," here, Nazari pointed at the German captain, "bid for you in our midst, he should have not taken you until he had obtained the purchase price."
"The sellers will get their money," said Dietrich, hotly. "I never lie." Moffitt smirked at him over that. "If you let us reach the German base," he continued, "I'm sure we'll be able to secure the funds for the … um, sale."
That last word stuck in Moffitt's craw since he had been the item of merchandise.
"The captain's bid is forfeit!" shouted Nazari, needlessly raising his voice. There were no other sounds on the desert but the soughing wind. Not even a bird. "My boss," he said, "Sheik Abdul el-Alazani paid the five hundred francs for you before he left town. That means the Britisher is ours."
"I belong to nobody," said Moffitt, with a bit of temper, which quickly evaporated. Though he could feel himself sweating about the collar of his tan fatigues in this open-sky, desert heat, he made certain that his mien remained as cool as – why not say it? – a cucumber's.
"Get into our vehicle," said Nazari. He gestured with his gun to one of the Kubelwagens.
"This is an outrage to the Third Reich," Dietrich said, trying to stall them with nonsense phrases until he could come up with a better plan.
"I'm afraid this isn't Germany, Captain," said Moffitt, even as he detached himself from the German staff car and walked over to the nearest Kubelwagen.
"You can't go with them, Sergeant. You don't know what you're walking into."
"Hopefully, there will be shade. And something to eat," Moffitt said as he got into the open-air vehicle and tried to get comfortable in the deep seat. The Arabs poured in around him and the Kubelwagen's driver started the engine. The other German car started up a second later, both of them leaving Dietrich and his driver in a cloud of dust. For the second time today, Dietrich cursed.
He liked Jack Moffitt. College-educated, kind-spirited, never mean at heart, the British sergeant might have been his friend in another world. It made him worry just a bit over his fate with the Arabs. Dietrich would have saved him any more pain, if he could have. He liked to think he himself wasn't mean-spirited, too.
He and his driver reentered the staff car and waited until the Kubelwagens were over the next dune, then Dietrich ordered Pvt. Kurt Hilfer to turn around. They were going back to el-Zawara. There were three other Rats he wanted to somehow find.