The Rat Patrol 3 - The Trojan Tank Affair (23 page)

"I didn't know it would be so difficult getting to the roof," he panted. "Drop the mike outside the front side window on the other end of the building. Perhaps you can drop the rope and help me up. Now step on my shoulders and try to make it."

Clinging to Moffitt, Hitch crawled up his back. Moffitt braced himself against the sides of the window with his feet and his hands, trying to hold firm against the weight that threatened to topple him from his perch. Hitch's boots scuffed at his hips, scraped on his spine. Hitch kneeled on his shoulders, stood to one foot and hoisted himself onto the roof.

Moffitt stood in the window for a moment, watching absently as the box on the end of the white rope swung before him. His arms and legs were shaking and his face was cold with sweat. He dropped to the ground, breathing hard and picked up the bottle of Scotch. He took a deep breath, smiling although his lips trembled, and shook the full bottle. There was no broken seal to reveal the bottle had been opened and the cap was on tight. It was odd, he thought, how often either he or Troy anticipated what the other would do without a word being spoken.

He gave Hitch a moment to cross the roof and drop the microphone while he combed his mind again for some excuse to present Dietrich with the bottle. He had to get inside the room where the staff meeting would be held and it was better that he do it openly with some covering explanation if he were discovered. Although Dietrich had seen and, indeed, interrogated him on several occasion, he did not think the risk of recognition was great. The face of a private would receive small attention when he held a bottle of fine English Scotch in his hands.

He chuckled softly. There were simple ways to change one's appearance. He settled his dusty field cap low and square on his forehead, just above his eyebrows, and limbered his jaw until it hung loose and his mouth was thick-lipped. That should do it, he told himself, circling the back of HQ and approaching the building from the direction of the tents. He had time, he thought. While Hitch and he had waited, they had heard no one enter the building and there still were no officers in sight. Lights were on in the front of the building on either side of the entry. The windows were closed and shades drawn at the windows to the right. That would be the meeting room, he thought, and the room at the back on that side of the building where the light burned was Dietrich's bedroom.

The sentry, a stockily built sergeant, barred the door to HQ. He held a machine pistol at his side and wore a pot helmet. Moffitt slouched up to him, hung his head to the side, let his jaw go slack and stood looking at the halflighted face.

"Was willst?"
the sergeant said roughly.

"Ich habe eine Gabe fur Herr Hauptmann Dietrich,"
Moffitt said, simpering, holding the Scotch bottle gingerly in the palms of both hands.

"Mir gibt,"
the sergeant ordered, holding out one hand.

"Nein, nein,"
Moffitt cried, hugging the bottle and backing away.
"Es ist fur Herr Hauptmann Dietrich allein."

"Du bist ein Esel"
The sergeant harked. "The captain is busy about plans for his staff meeting and will scarcely thank you for disturbing him even for a bottle of schnapps." He eyed Moffitt suspiciously. "Who is sending such a gift to the commander?"

"The lieutenant called Reinaud," Moffitt said indifferently but inwardly hopeful that he'd get the name he must have.

"I know of no lieutenant named Reinaud," the sergeant said curtly and took a threatening step toward Moffitt. "Just what is going on here?"

"It is the one who left last night for Rome," Moffitt wailed self-pityingly. "He wished to show the commander his gratitude so a request for an extension of a day or two will be looked upon with favor, perhaps."

"Ach, ja, ja,"
the sergeant said, bobbing his fat-enfolded chin and even smiling craftily. "Lieutenant Reinaud Langenscheidt."

"Well, how can a man remember such an impossible name?" Moffitt said sulkily.

"Go in and be done with it," the sergeant said abruptly. "The meeting commences within half an hour. You will not disturb the commander but leave the bottle on the table if you are wise."

"I must tell him who sent it," Moffitt insisted stubbornly. He had no desire to confront Dietrich. "Or perhaps you would tell him if he asks."

"Can you not write?" the sergeant asked.

"Well, I can print a little," Moffitt said.

"It is plain to see why I am a sergeant and you the lowest rank permitted in the Army," the sergeant jeered. "Well, I shall tell him for you. Now hurry on with you."

"Danke, danke,"
Moffitt muttered, walking past the sentry and turning unhesitatingly to the door at his right.

The room was long and bare but well-lighted. Two tables had been pushed together in the middle and five chairs were ranged at each side with one at the head by an easel. A map with arrows was tacked to the board, Moffitt saw from the comers of his eyes as he walked directly across the room to the side window. That map would bear scrutiny but only after the microphone was placed. Before lifting the window, he looked at the door in the wall at the end and listened intently. He heard no movement, lifted the shade away from the glass, opened the window a few inches. Looking back over his shoulder from door to door, he groped with two fingers for the microphone and cord. He touched it, pulled the button onto the ledge and closed the window until the bottom of the sash rested lightly on the microphone holding it in place.

"What are you doing at that window?" a voice demanded harshly and Moffitt spun around.

Captain Dietrich, dark eyes flashing and lips pressed tight, stood in the doorway of his office. His tunic was loose and unbuttoned, his shirt opened at the neck. His face was flushed, either with the pressure of work or anger.

"I just entered from outdoors, my captain," Moffitt stammered, "and the room smelled of stale air and disuse. I thought how the smoke from cigarettes and cigars would smart in your eyes and make your nose sore with dryness." He shrugged helplessly and looked down at his feet. He lifted the shade without turning his head. "So I opened the window one inch only. Shall I close it?"

"In the first place, what are you doing in this room?" Captain Dietrich snapped.

"I came bringing you this gift," Moffitt said, still hanging his head but showing the bottle.

"Why did you not knock at my door?" Captain Dietrich asked.

"The sergeant said you were working and I should not disturb you," Moffitt explained. "I was going to leave the bottle on the table."

"Who sent you to me with this bottle?" Captain Dietrich asked suspiciously.

"Lieutenant Langenscheidt, my captain," Moffitt said. "He went last night to Rome."

"Yes, yes, I sent him," Captain Dietrich said impatiently. "Well, this is uncommonly thoughtful of him. And why did you not bring the bottle to me before?"

"I have been on duty," Moffitt said in an injured voice. 

"All right, come here," Captain Dietrich said. "Let me see what Langenscheidt really thinks of me."

Moffitt hung his jaw and worked his tongue over his lower lip. He walked diffidently to Captain Dietrich and held out the bottle, bowing his head as he did.

"Well! Well, well," Dietrich exclaimed as he took the bottle. "White Horse Scotch." His voice rose in astonishment. "I wonder where the devil he got it." He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. "Excellent bouquet. Trust a lieutenant," he laughed, "or a private, to manage far better than his commanding officer."

Moffitt was studying the map from the comers of his downcast eyes. It was a map of northern Libya and showed two sweeping arrows converging on Bir-el-Alam, one extending north and west from Agarawa in what seemed to be a direct, frontal attack, the other extending north from Sidi Abd and striking at Bir-el-Alam from the west, or the rear. He felt Dietrich studying him and shifted his eyes.

"You're rather a remarkable fellow," he told Moffitt. "I do not think I would have entrusted an enlisted man for an entire day with a bottle of Scotch. Here, man, look up at me, let me see your face so I can remember it."

Moffitt let his jaw sag but he looked Dietrich straight in the eye.

"Yes, yes," Dietrich said, "I know you. I've seen you about, of course. Now, what is your name?"

"Berger," Moffitt said.

"Very well, Private Berger," Captain Dietrich said, still studying Moffitt's face. "I must have seen you often. Your face is very familiar. I don't quite place it, but you know, with so many men—Thank you again, Berger."

Moffitt saluted, about-faced and walked away from Dietrich. He could feel Dietrich's eyes fixed on his back and knew he was struggling with his memory. It made Moffitt's spine tingle. He had reached the end of the tables when Dietrich called to him shortly.

"Berger!"

He wanted to bolt but he turned. Dietrich's lips held a faint smile. Moffitt forced himself to answer calmly, "Yes, captain?"

"Open the front window an inch, will you? It really is quite stuffy in here."

The sergeant was waiting for him, a smirk twisting his lips.

"I could hear Herr Hauptmann Dietrich all the way out here," he said and laughed noisily. "You should have given the bottle to me."

"Ach, you were so right," Moffitt admitted and strolled away with his head downcast.

As soon as the sergeant's head was turned, Moffitt scurried up the sandy hill and came around to the other side of HQ. He stood by the window where Hitch had climbed to the roof. Hitch had seen or heard him coming and dropped the rope. Moffitt braced himself out at an angle and walked up the wall. As he rolled onto the flat roof, Hitch grunted and sat up shaking his arms.

"There wasn't anything to tie that rope onto except my waist," he said. "You almost pulled my arms out of the sockets. Anyway, the mike is okay."

"We came in so you could understand us?" Moffitt said, relieved.

"Hell no, I couldn't understand you, Doc," Hitch said. "You came in clear enough but I didn't know what you were saying. Were you talking to
him?"

"Yes," Moffitt said, chuckling. "It bothered him that he couldn't quite place me. Let's get settled at the equipment. His briefing will start shortly."

Moffitt inserted the phone plug in the drum of his ear and turned the set to monitor. For several minutes as he lined up extra spools of recording wire, he heard nothing but the live silence of an open circuit. Then a door opened and closed, footsteps sounded across the floor and something was placed on the table. Moffitt thought it was a tray with glasses. The gurgle of liquid pouring from a bottle was unmistakable. There was a pause, then a faint smack of lips and a grunt of satisfaction.

Again a door opened and closed. Dietrich greeted a Captain Nehring informally. They scarcely had exchanged meaningless commonplaces when two more officers came in. The rest of the staff arrived by twos and threes. When Moffitt had counted ten men by the names Dietrich called in greeting, the captain cleared his throat. Moffitt pushed the record button and the spool of wire turned noiselesly.

"Gentlemen," Moffitt heard Dietrich say. "Before we enter the serious business of the evening, let us drink a toast to the success of the coming campaign."

There was movement and some confusion as glasses apparently were handed down the table.

"To victory in North Africa," Dietrich said, and as an afterthought, he added, "
Heil
Hitler."

Heils
rang in Moffitt's ear, glasses clicked to the table, feet shuffled, chairs scraped and finally it seemed all must be sitting at the tables.

"That was Scotch," someone commented, sounding surprised.

"Where was such a prize liberated?" another asked.

"That is what I have been wondering," Dietrich said. "This is as much a surprise to me as anyone. Lieutenant Langenscheidt sent it over tonight."

"I thought he was in Rome," someone said.

"He is. Left last night, as a matter of fact," Dietrich said. "I returned in the same car from Agarawa with him after waiting an hour while he and Captain Nehring with three others chased after two Arab thieves they insisted were spies. I suppose the bottle was to ease his conscience or to express gratitude I didn't send someone in his place to inform our Italian allies of the campaign that will be underway by the time he confers with them. He sent the bottle around by one of his men."

"He could have asked me to bring it," Captain Nehring said, sounding injured.

"Oh, yes, but he wanted the bottle delivered intact," Dietrich said and there was general laughter. "This man, a Private Berger, was quite a remarkable and trustworthy person. His face was almost unnaturally familiar but I just can't place him in the circumstances that first brought him to my attention. Oh, well, it will come to me in time." 

Moffitt smiled in the chill moonlight on top of the roof. 

"Now," Dietrich said in a brisk, military tone, "let us go into the details of the offensive for which we have been preparing and the critical part this unit will play in achieving such a sweeping victory that the enemy will be crushed and driven from all of the territory he occupies in Cyrenaica.

"First, I shall briefly review what all of you already know. The importance of our phase of the offensive is indicated by the fact that the mightiest tank of the Reich and the only one in all of North Africa has been assigned to us. This is the awesome new eight-ton King Tiger which will lead us into battle. The tank mounts a high velocity super eighty-eight millimeter gun and its turret is protected by eight-inch armor that is impervious to seventy-five millimeter shells.

"Behind this true monarch of the desert, our three hundred especially built tanks which are unlike anything the enemy has encountered will roll westward and never stop until we come to the sea. Let us look at the map, gentlemen, and see how the pincers of our movements will throw the enemy into confusion and panicked retreat. As you are aware, tomorrow is our D-day, and the day after, the second phase of the operation will start from Sidi Abd.