Chapter 4 Betrayal

Now all three men, including Hitch, climbed the dune once more, falling flat again. Hitch and Moffitt were on either side of Troy, saying nothing but ready to listen. With his binoculars, Troy stared down at the old town, about five hundred yards away over a nearly barren wasteland and full of Arabs and Germans alike.

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.

"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," said Hitch, "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, the most I had on my mind was finishing the letter to Colonel What's-his-name. Now, this."

Back at Moffitt's jeep, Troy divested himself of his sidearm, holster, and ammo belt. He pulled his long knife out of his right boot, tossing everything into the back of the jeep. Hitch, then Moffitt, both smiling and faking confidence, extended their hands. He took them in both of his, smiling his own brilliant, but now somewhat rueful smile, and then set off up the face of the dune towards Dar el-Tanri.

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 slip climb 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 next to Tully's 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, even now that he had the bigger prize—the leader of the Rat Patrol, Sgt. Sam Troy.

"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 Private 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. Together, the two men had rolled into Dar el-Tanri in Dietrich's scout car, or Kubelwagen.

"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 in town to fight the Arabs. To be let in the gate, he had been 'allowed' only one man—Pvt. Kurt Hilfer, his driver. He realized now that he had been duped by Hamdi into trusting him, but Dietrich also now realized, quite painfully, that Hamdi was unworthy of his trust.

"I see," he said, in cold calculation, his fingers steepled in front of his lips. "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."

Dietrich swung his head to Troy, sitting beside Tully. "Sergeant, young Pettigrew 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 two men of the Rat Patrol 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 an 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, Tully Pettigrew.

"About that plan to rescue me, Sarge," said this selfsame Tully, with a short smile, "how's it going?"

Troy had to laugh, for with his dry wit, Tully could always make a bad situation seem like it was going to turn out okay.

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 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 to root out that nest of vipers but in leveling the town."

"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 Tal Yata. 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 at Tal Yata where the units of the LRDG were stationed. He was Captain Boggs' immediate superior and, in general, liked the Rat Patrol. Like them he did, but much more importantly 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."

Next Chapter 5 Rescue