"And the English know about it."
Hartmann thought for a moment. "Their headquarters might not know. Their radio is broken. These fellows have been dead a long time and each is still wearing both identity disks. When an Englishman gets killed his comrades take the red one. Their own people likely don't know what happened to them."
Dietrich grunted skeptically.
Hartmann closed the map case. "Anyway, let's take what we can use and move on. This map shows a way up the escarpment and it doesn't appear to be mined or guarded."
"Then our mission is complete. We need to notify headquarters."
"We have to check it first. Once we're certain our panzers can use it we'll radio it in."
"Headquarters needs updates so they can plan ahead."
"We can't risk direction-finders pinpointing our location. We have to maintain radio silence as long as possible."
Dietrich's thin lips tightened in a suppressed frown, but he said nothing.
They were the same rank, but Hartmann was in command. Dietrich had been attached solely as an advisor because of his expertise as a combat engineer, an arrangement the ambitious young officer was less than happy about. A Party member, Hartmann sourly recalled, with some relative high-up in the Propaganda Ministry.
Hartmann was dressed for the brutal climate in a tropical uniform – shirt with rolled-up sleeves, trousers, and field cap, the original olive color of the fabric having long-since faded to khaki. His boots were worn brown leather. He wore no decorations or insignia on his shirt other than shoulder straps indicating rank and branch of service. Goggles, a white scarf, and binoculars hung from his neck. A canvas web belt supported a Walther P38 automatic in a flap holster and a canteen was suspended from a shoulder strap. Long exposure to the sun had tanned his fair skin brown and bleached his blond hair almost white.
Despite the heat Dietrich insisted on wearing a tunic over his shirt. Hartmann suspected it was so he could show off the Iron Cross pinned to his left breast pocket. Hartmann had one of these medals too, but did not feel the need to advertise it.
At his direction the dead and the truck were stripped of anything useful. Scavenging was standard procedure since supplies and equipment was chronically short.
"Herr Lieutenant, I think somebody was here before us," said a stocky private named Steiner. He pointed out various items untied from their lashings and scattered on the ground. Some had been opened and then cast aside haphazardly.
Hartmann nodded. "Whoever it was doesn't appear to have taken much though."
"Arabs?"
"Probably. They have no use for most of this stuff."
"Maybe they killed the Tommies."
"I doubt it. I've never heard of the Arabs attacking the English or us. They likely came by later, found these men dead, and took what they wanted."
Unfortunately most of the dead men's rations were inedible now, a disappointment since the LRDG received better food than the average British soldier. Dreams of oatmeal, bacon, and biscuits with margarine and jam, which would taste like the nectar of the gods after weeks of living off stale black bread and tinned beef, were cruelly dispelled.
Steiner let out a triumphant cry and hoisted up a real treasure – a stoneware jug of rum, standard issue to British special units to help ward off cold desert nights. He uncorked it, took a tentative swig, and happily proclaimed it potable.
Hartmann laughed and then discovered another bit of prized war booty: cigarettes. They were the much-maligned ‘V’ brand made in India, but men hungry for nicotine could not be picky. He kept a pack for himself and passed the rest around to the others so they could enjoy the brief luxury of a smoke while they unloaded the truck.
Afterwards he strode back to his own vehicle, a small 250/3 communications halftrack. He gingerly climbed inside through the rear door, careful not to touch the outside metal. It was so hot from the blistering sun one could literally fry an egg on it. The temperature was over forty degrees Centigrade. A canvas tarpaulin stretched over the frame antenna of the open-topped vehicle attempted to provide some semblance of shade.
Hartmann squeezed between a bench and the bulky radio equipment. Ensconced up front in the driver's seat was Steiner, peering through the open visor. To his right sat the radio operator, an older, spectacled corporal named Lippert. Hartmann stood in the back so he could keep watch as they drove.
Dietrich returned to a Volkswagen Type 82 automobile, a tropical version with large sand tires, driven by a private named Fuchs.
Everyone put on goggles and wrapped scarves over their mouths and noses to screen out dust. Then the patrol drove off, the Volkswagen rattling in the lead, the 250/3 rumbling behind with its tracks clattering and squeaking and blue exhaust spouting from its sides.
Both vehicles were painted yellow-brown, but patches of the original dark gray paint showed around markings. Each bore black-and-white German crosses and white tactical symbols indicating they belonged to the 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion of the 21st Panzer Division. They were also emblazoned with the white palm tree and swastika of the Afrika Korps, the German contingent of Panzer Army Africa. Most of the army's units were Italian, but operational command was held by a German – Field Marshal Erwin Rommel.
When Benito Mussolini invaded British-controlled Egypt in 1940, seeking to expand his overseas empire and link up his African colonies, the outnumbered British routed his bumbling army and chased it back into Libya. In response Adolf Hitler sent three divisions to bolster his faltering ally.
Now it was early summer 1942. Rommel's renewed offensive in late May had forced the British Eighth Army to retreat into Egypt and it was making a stand at the little railway station of El Alamein. If Rommel broke through, the Suez Canal would be within his grasp. The Egyptians chafed under British occupation and might welcome him. And beyond the Suez lay an even greater prize – the rich oil fields of the Middle East.
But El Alamein was an excellent defensive position. To the north lay the Mediterranean Sea. To the south the Sahara Desert abruptly dropped away into the Qattara Depression, a vast sinkhole of salt pans, salt mashes, and soft sand the size of Lake Ontario. It was considered impassable to tanks.
The distance between the coast and the depression narrowed to less than seventy kilometers here, a bottleneck allowing the British to shorten their lines and anchor their flanks. They were also just a hundred kilometers from their supply base at Alexandria – and supplies and reinforcements were pouring in from all over the British Empire, and from America.
The supply lines of Panzer Army Africa stretched hundreds of kilometers all the way back to ports in Libya. Enemy aircraft and submarines took a terrible toll of supply convoys from Italy and what did make it through to Africa was harried by fighter-bombers all along the coast road to the front. Rommel's units were overextended, exhausted, and understrength.
Nevertheless, Rommel felt he could not halt. He had to maintain momentum and strike before the British could regroup. But the Qattara Depression prevented the Desert Fox from sweeping around the Eighth Army's southern flank, the strategy he had previously employed with such dazzling success.
Then an intriguing intelligence report arrived at his advanced headquarters. It summarized a legend told around campfires by Bedouins, the nomadic Arabs who had lived in this harsh land for millennia and knew it infinitely better than the European infidels who now fought over it with their big, noisy machines. Even these tough people shunned the Qattara Depression, which they referred to as the Valley of Death.
But supposedly the Bedouins knew about a secret crossing, a long-forgotten caravan route that sounded like it might be passable for tanks. When plotted on a map it came out behind the British lines. If true, a surprise pincer movement might be possible after all.