Rommel's chief of staff was skeptical, but the prospect was so tantalizing it had to be checked out. Aerial reconnaissance photographed a dim trail that did look promising, but a ground survey was required to determine its condition. Accordingly, a patrol was dispatched to investigate.
Hartmann and his men drove along a rough, narrow trail of hard rock salt meandering like a natural causeway through the empty expanse of brown and white salt marsh. The flat, cracked surface of the marshes, sparsely dotted with green clumps of hardy grass and shrubs, was deceptively solid looking. The crust concealed treacherous quagmires that could swallow a vehicle whole.
A lonesome wind whispered, but did nothing to relieve the heat. It only blew dust that worked its way into everything – engines, food, eyes, lungs.
The sun beat down like a hammer. So dry was it, perspiration evaporated immediately, but it felt like Hartmann’s eyeballs were going to boil away.
And there were the flies, the damnable flies, detestable and incessant. They were not just irritating pests, they spread disease too, as did the tropical climate and unsanitary living conditions. Dysentery, jaundice, and diphtheria crippled as many German troops as combat.
Hartmann had been in North Africa for a year and still could not get over how endlessly barren the desert was. Kilometer after kilometer of just nothing. A hard, unforgiving land seemingly made for war. No delicate landscapes soldiers could ravage and despoil; few civilians to get in the way of the bloody business of fighting. The perfect battlefield.
He hated it, while admitting there were worse places to be. He had heard the horrible rumors whispered about the war in Russia from his brother serving there. Prisoners starved or shot, Jews massacred. Unbelievable madness. At least in North Africa both sides respected the rules of war.
As far as his current mission was concerned, it seemed to be a success. Thus far the crossing had proved solid enough to support the heaviest German tanks.
The patrol abruptly slowed. Something was blocking the trail up ahead. As they drew closer Hartmann spotted two bodies rotting in the sun.
One was a Bedouin dressed in a flowing keffiyeh and long, dark thobe, a rifle and a dagger lying next to him. A bandolier of ammunition was buckled across his chest. Beside him sprawled the carcass of his camel. Both swarmed with black, buzzing clouds of flies; the soldiers grimaced and held their noses as the foul stench of decay wafted over.
Dietrich ordered Fuchs to get out and move them. Fuchs, gagging, put on gloves and dragged the Bedouin off to the side, but the camel weighed far too much for one man to move. A tow cable was hooked to the carcass and the halftrack hauled it far enough over so they could get the vehicles around it.
Hartmann stepped out for a closer look, braving the flies and the horrible smell. The Bedouin's rifle was a Lee-Enfield and it was empty, spent brass nearby. His dagger's curved blade was encrusted with what appeared to be dried yellow blood. Tucked into his belt was a Sykes-Fairbairn fighting knife, a weapon issued to British commando units.
Both bodies were deeply pierced by multiple puncture wounds.
"I think this is who looted the dead Englishmen before us," said Hartmann.
"Those don't look like bullet or shrapnel wounds," said Fuchs.
"No, they don't. More like deep stab wounds, like from a spear."
"Maybe he was murdered by another Arab."
Hartmann shook his head. "An Arab would steal the camel, not kill it. He'd also steal the weapons. Strange. I can't explain it." He sighed. "All right, let's move on."
Soon they passed ponds of brackish, stagnant saltwater fringed with reeds, still as a grave. To Hartmann it stank like death.
They halted at midday to refuel with jerrycans of gasoline and clean grit out of the engine air filters. It also gave them a chance to stretch legs and backs stiff and sore from jolting over the rough track.
They ate a quick meal too, putting nets over their faces to try and keep out the flies while they gobbled down their food. They chewed the rancid-tasting Italian beef without enthusiasm. The tins were stamped AM for Administrazione Militare (‘Military Administration’), but Italian soldiers sourly suggested it stood for Asinus Mussolini (‘Mussolini's Ass’) or Arabo Morte (‘Dead Arab’). German soldiers simply called it Alter Mann (‘Old Man’). They washed it down with warm water from their canteens, refilled from other jerrycans marked with a white cross.
Per Hartmann's strict orders, the men were careful to pick up their trash and did not leave empty tins or cigarette butts on the ground. Litter could give the enemy clues as to who had been here.
Noon was also one of the patrol's scheduled radio contact times so Lippert slipped on headphones and tuned into his assigned frequency to listen for any messages from Rommel's headquarters. Nothing. He also listened for enemy radio traffic, but the airwaves were quiet. Lippert switched off the radio and climbed out to see if the others needed help.
Steiner was securing empty jerrycans in a rack on the rear of the halftrack. He paused to gulp from his canteen. Wiping his lips on his sleeve, he waved a broad hand at the marsh vegetation. "Can't believe anything can grow in this godforsaken place."
Lippert squatted to take a closer look at some of the foliage next to the trail. He scowled as he examined it.
Hartmann was double-checking directions on the British map with his compass and noticed Lippert's interest. "Something wrong, Lippert?"
Lippert stood. "Nothing, Herr Lieutenant. Just that the plants aren't normal."
"In what way?"
"Many are showing fasciation."
"What's that?"
"A plant deformity caused by mutation."
Hartmann looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Were you a botanist in civilian life?"
"A biology teacher, Herr Lieutenant."
Hartman chuckled. "I see. So we have a professor in our ranks."
Lippert's gaze strayed across the pond. "Something's moving in the water. Looks like a big white snake or something. More than one."
Even as he spoke one of the snakes reared up above the surface of the water. It did not resemble a reptile at all, but looked more like a worm or maggot. Its segmented body trembled and suddenly split wide open. An insect head thrust out.
"What the hell is that?" asked Dietrich, recoiling at the sight.
They watched in horrified fascination as a huge insect dragged itself free of the pupa cuticle and slowly crawled onto the muddy bank on six thin, spindly legs.
"Look at the size of it!" said Steiner.
The body was half a meter long, as big as a large bird, with a brown exoskeleton covered in short, stiff hairs. Wide, opaque, veined wings attached to the thorax spanned nearly two meters, and its legs were even longer. A comparatively small head sprouted antennae, but its dominant feature was a pair of large, black compound eyes.
Hartmann unfastened the flap of his holster. "Keep your weapons handy."
"Metamorphosis," said Lippert. He shook his head in amazement. "This is impossible with our atmosphere."
"What do you mean?" asked Hartmann.
"Insects don't breathe like we do and their method of respiration limits their size. Giant insects existed three hundred million years ago – dragonflies the size of birds, for example, and centipedes over two meters long – but that's because oxygen levels were much higher than they are now. An insect this big simply could not survive today."
Steiner took a couple MP40 submachine guns off brackets inside the halftrack and loaded them. Keeping one for himself, he handed the other to Lippert.
Lippert rubbed the back of his neck. "It must have an adaptation that caused a different way of breathing to develop. Then if no natural predators are around gigantism might be possible."