Robinet.
The sun was late in the sky; it was still hotter than hell. He checked his watch, then turned and took off toward the southeast at an even run.
He had only two hours to rendezvous.
“DEUTSCHLAND, DEUTSCHLAND ÜBER ALLES ”
The sand dunes rippled across the horizon, endless and golden like thousands of tanned backs bent down to hide from the hundred-and-twenty-degree sun. Standing in his armored halftrack SdKfz 250 Greif, Feldleutnant Frederich Rheinholdt took out his 6 X30 binoculars and searched that immutable horizon for a cloud of dust or a flea like speck in the distance. He searched for some sign of the 105th Panzer Regiment coming from the west, for reconnaissance, or the unit from the 900th Engineers Battalion.
He checked his watch, a futile motion because time did not matter in the desert. Hours and minutes seemed as unchanging as the horizon. He took off his field cap and the British anti-dust goggles he’d captured at Halfaya Pass. He wiped the grit and sweat off his forehead with the dusty rolled cuff on his sweat-drenched tunic, then used the hem of his tunic to clean the dust and grime off the goggles.
One of the first things you learned on the desert front was that sand was your constant comrade. It got into everything. You ate it. You drank it. You breathed it. And when you looked ahead, it was always there before you, inevitable, uncontrollable, like your destiny.
He glanced down at his driver, Obergefreiter Veith, who had finally rid himself of the ridiculous army-issue tropical pith helmet some Dover Idiot in Berlin thought necessary if you were anywhere near the equator. It might have been fine for hunting elephant on the plains of Africa at the turn of the century, but in the desert it was impractical and uncomfortable.
Veith was finally wearing the lighter, cooler field cap as Rheinholdt had suggested when they had been two hours into the desert. Callow and young, the corporal was too much of a Neuling yet to veer far from military convention. He had been assigned as his driver only a week before, just days after fresh troops had landed in Tripoli , the newest divisions and regiments assigned to the Deutsches Afrika Korps.
Rheinholdt had been with the DAK for a year, yet when he looked at Veith, he felt like it had been ten. The young blond soldier was staring at a map and sipping water from the aluminum cup of a new-issue brown felt canteen, his legs still in breeches and high boots, but stretched out into the depths of the floorboards. He looked for all the world as if he were sitting in a sidewalk cafe on Kurfurstendamm in Berlin , eating Kuchen, reading Signal, and sipping on coffee. Rheinholdt wondered how long it would take him to realize that the cup he was using was worthless in the desert because it would fill with sand and dust that turned the already vile-tasting, salty water to mud.
Rheinholdt put his cap back on, then unclipped his own canteen and took a drink.
“Can you find our location on the map?”
Veith did not answer right away. He was frowning into his canteen cup.
Rheinholdt smiled, then asked again.
“Thirty kilometers, Herr Leutnant.”
“Good. We have close to two hours until sunset.” Rheinholdt turned, signaled the rest of the motorized unit forward, slid on the British goggles, and sat down. “Keep heading southwest.”
“CLING TO ME”
Kitty awoke the moment a man’s hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled against him, drew back her left fist, and punched out at him as hard as she could.
Three rapid knuckle-punches that she felt hit square in his face.
“Jesus-Fucking-Christ!”
She stopped mid-punch. Good old American male swearing. The sweetest sound she’d ever heard. A small groan of relief slipped out from her mouth against his callused hand, muffled. Her throat grew tight with sudden emotion. “Thank God . . . ” she murmured.
“Quiet. Don’t make a sound, Kincaid,” he said into her ear.
She could feel tears
The sun was late in the sky; it was still hotter than hell. He checked his watch, then turned and took off toward the southeast at an even run.
He had only two hours to rendezvous.
“DEUTSCHLAND, DEUTSCHLAND ÜBER ALLES ”
The sand dunes rippled across the horizon, endless and golden like thousands of tanned backs bent down to hide from the hundred-and-twenty-degree sun. Standing in his armored halftrack SdKfz 250 Greif, Feldleutnant Frederich Rheinholdt took out his 6 X30 binoculars and searched that immutable horizon for a cloud of dust or a flea like speck in the distance. He searched for some sign of the 105th Panzer Regiment coming from the west, for reconnaissance, or the unit from the 900th Engineers Battalion.
He checked his watch, a futile motion because time did not matter in the desert. Hours and minutes seemed as unchanging as the horizon. He took off his field cap and the British anti-dust goggles he’d captured at Halfaya Pass. He wiped the grit and sweat off his forehead with the dusty rolled cuff on his sweat-drenched tunic, then used the hem of his tunic to clean the dust and grime off the goggles.
One of the first things you learned on the desert front was that sand was your constant comrade. It got into everything. You ate it. You drank it. You breathed it. And when you looked ahead, it was always there before you, inevitable, uncontrollable, like your destiny.
He glanced down at his driver, Obergefreiter Veith, who had finally rid himself of the ridiculous army-issue tropical pith helmet some Dover Idiot in Berlin thought necessary if you were anywhere near the equator. It might have been fine for hunting elephant on the plains of Africa at the turn of the century, but in the desert it was impractical and uncomfortable.
Veith was finally wearing the lighter, cooler field cap as Rheinholdt had suggested when they had been two hours into the desert. Callow and young, the corporal was too much of a Neuling yet to veer far from military convention. He had been assigned as his driver only a week before, just days after fresh troops had landed in Tripoli , the newest divisions and regiments assigned to the Deutsches Afrika Korps.
Rheinholdt had been with the DAK for a year, yet when he looked at Veith, he felt like it had been ten. The young blond soldier was staring at a map and sipping water from the aluminum cup of a new-issue brown felt canteen, his legs still in breeches and high boots, but stretched out into the depths of the floorboards. He looked for all the world as if he were sitting in a sidewalk cafe on Kurfurstendamm in Berlin , eating Kuchen, reading Signal, and sipping on coffee. Rheinholdt wondered how long it would take him to realize that the cup he was using was worthless in the desert because it would fill with sand and dust that turned the already vile-tasting, salty water to mud.
Rheinholdt put his cap back on, then unclipped his own canteen and took a drink.
“Can you find our location on the map?”
Veith did not answer right away. He was frowning into his canteen cup.
Rheinholdt smiled, then asked again.
“Thirty kilometers, Herr Leutnant.”
“Good. We have close to two hours until sunset.” Rheinholdt turned, signaled the rest of the motorized unit forward, slid on the British goggles, and sat down. “Keep heading southwest.”
“CLING TO ME”
Kitty awoke the moment a man’s hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled against him, drew back her left fist, and punched out at him as hard as she could.
Three rapid knuckle-punches that she felt hit square in his face.
“Jesus-Fucking-Christ!”
She stopped mid-punch. Good old American male swearing. The sweetest sound she’d ever heard. A small groan of relief slipped out from her mouth against his callused hand, muffled. Her throat grew tight with sudden emotion. “Thank God . . . ” she murmured.
“Quiet. Don’t make a sound, Kincaid,” he said into her ear.
She could feel tears
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