SNAFU: Unnatural Selection

THE VALLEY OF DEATH David Amendola

"What killed these Englishmen?"

Lieutenant Hartmann put his hands on his hips and asked the question as he squinted in the glare of the sun and looked at the four skeletons lying next to the heavily-laden truck.

"What do you mean?" asked Lieutenant Dietrich, a short, stern-looking man.

Hartmann pointed. "I don't see any bullets or shell fragments among their bones. No shell holes either. And their vehicle doesn't have any damage."

He nodded at the truck, a one-and-a-half ton Canadian Chevrolet painted in a camouflage pattern of pale blue and tan. It was rusted and covered with dust. Customized for the desert, it had been stripped of its windshield, doors, and roof and equipped with wide tires. It was armed with two Vickers machine guns, one mounted in the back and the other up front in the open cab.

Hartmann glanced around inside. "Plenty of food and water." He inspected the truck itself. "Fuel tank is half-full."

Dietrich shooed away flies. "I don't really care what they died of. We need to keep moving if we want to reach the escarpment by nightfall."

The glint of metal caught Hartmann's eye. Stooping, he picked up brass casings scattered in the dust. He inspected the dead men's weapons – Lee-Enfield rifles, Webley revolvers, a Thompson submachine gun. "They fired their guns, but it doesn't look like they got many shots off. They were caught by surprise."

Dietrich glanced at his watch.

Hartmann ignored his colleague's impatience, scratching the stubble on his chin. "These weren't regular soldiers. Look how they're dressed: Arab headcloths, shorts, sandals. And their equipment – sun compass, theodolite, air almanac. They're from the Long Range Desert Group. I've heard they sometimes sneak in here."

"Who are they?"

"An elite reconnaissance unit. But they usually operate in patrols of several vehicles, not just one. Wonder what they were doing here." Hartmann searched the truck and found codes, notebooks, and other documents. He was fluent in English so he skimmed through them.

"And?" asked Dietrich.

"Same as us apparently. A survey team." He blew dust off a map case, opened it, and studied the contents. "Here's a map they sketched. Looks like this crossing really does go all the way through the depression."

"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 21^st 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.

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."

"How could that happen?"

"Most mutations occur naturally and randomly, but they can also be caused by the environment. In this case it might be some sort of mineral contamination leaching into the water. Or sunlight since radiation can cause mutations too."

"What kind of bug is it?" asked Steiner, MP40 gripped tightly.

"A mosquito," said Lippert. He pointed at the proboscis, a long, wicked tube projecting from the insect's head like a stinger. "Look at those mandibles. That would cause a terrible bite."

Dietrich sighed and crossed his arms. "Gentlemen, we're not here for a nature lecture."

"Actually, Herr Lieutenant, I think this explains something," said Lippert.

"Enlighten us," said Hartmann.

"These could be what killed the Tommies and the Arab. Remember the puncture wounds on the Arab and his camel? A female mosquito can drink four times her weight in blood from her host so a monster like this could inflict significant blood loss. They can also transmit fatal diseases, but in this case the blood loss alone might be enough to kill. They only live for about a month though, so the ones that got the Tommies are likely long dead."

More pupae rose from the pond and cracked open like hideous eggs, mosquitos emerging.

"Can't they fly?" asked Steiner.

"They have to wait until their exoskeletons harden and their wings dry out," said Lippert.

"Then we'd better kill them now," said Hartmann.

"The noise will alert anyone in the area," said Dietrich.

"We'll have to take that chance. Steiner!"

"Yes, Herr Lieutenant?"

"Use the machine gun."

Steiner returned his MP40 to its bracket, then went and turned the halftrack ninety degrees so it faced the pond. He took his place at the MG34 machine gun swivel-mounted behind an armored shield, and peered down the sights with a steady eye. Gunfire shattered the stillness and echoed across the desert as he squeezed off single shots and short bursts with ruthless precision, 7.92 millimeter bullets slashing insects apart and spraying greenish-yellow blood. Empty steel cartridges tinkled on the floor and rolled around his feet.

Once all the adult mosquitos were destroyed he paused to load another ammunition belt and turned his attention to the pupae floating in the water, raking them with slugs. Then he chopped up larvae and clusters of translucent eggs. The acrid reek of cordite overpowered the stink of the marsh as the others watched the sickening slaughter. Finally Steiner ceased fire, swinging open the smoking machine gun to swap out the overheated barrel.

Hartmann surveyed the floating carnage. "You got them all. Let's move on."

The patrol rolled on. Hartmann continued scanning the terrain and at length spotted something in the shimmering distance. At first he dismissed it as a mirage, a trick of the heat waves, then realized he was not seeing things. It lay in another pond about two hundred meters from the trail, and he ordered a halt to investigate.

It was the wreck of an aircraft, a sprawling hulk of twisted metal, splintered wood, and torn fabric half-submerged in the water. The design was unusual – a biplane with two engines mounted in a push-pull configuration above the fuselage between the wings. The tail, which had four stabilizers, was painted in faded stripes of red, white, and green.

The fuselage had smashed open like an egg and the lower wing was broken off on one side. Rusty, odd-looking bombs still hung from external racks. Through his binoculars Hartmann discerned the remains of the two pilots, still slumped in their seats in the open cockpit, apparently killed on impact. An oily, yellowish liquid stained the water around the crash site.

He lowered his binoculars and consulted the British map. The LRDG had put the wreck down as a landmark without annotating any details about it.

Dietrich got out of his car and came over to the halftrack. "Why did we stop?"

Hartmann nodded at the aircraft.

Dietrich shrugged. "An old plane. Who cares?"

"You never know what might be of intelligence value." Hartmann raised his binoculars and resumed studying the wreck. "Looks like a Caproni Ca73, a civilian airliner the Italians converted into a light bomber and transport. They were taken out of service before the war."

"It's carrying bombs so it was on a combat mission."

"Could have been during the pacification campaign in Libya ten years ago. Egyptians were smuggling supplies to the rebels and that's why the Italians built that huge barbed wire fence along the frontier. But I never heard of them crossing the border to attack smugglers, certainly not this far inside Egypt."

"What's that yellow liquid in the water?"

"It's leaking from those old bombs." Hartmann lowered his binoculars and sniffed the air suspiciously. He caught a faint whiff of what smelled like garlic. "Mustard gas! The Italians bombed villages with it. Keep your masks handy!"

The soldiers rummaged for their gas mask carriers and gas cape pouches.

"If those bombs started leaking in-flight the pilots could have been exposed," said Dietrich. "That might explain how they got here. They could have been on a bombing mission in Libya, were blinded and disoriented by the gas, and then flew off course over the border."

The reeds were pale and sickly, stunted and twisted into grotesque shapes. "The plants here are more deformed than anywhere else," said Lippert. "This must be the source of the contamination. When sulfur mustard mixes with water it gradually dissolves into other chemicals, and the marsh water is loaded with minerals to begin with so God only knows what kind of toxic soup is in these ponds now."

"How could anything survive in that muck?" asked Steiner.

"No idea, but instead of killing the mosquitos it mutated them."

"Let's get away from here," said Hartmann. "It's not safe."

They drove off. In the distance towered the brooding, limestone cliffs of the Qattara Depression's northern escarpment – the end of the crossing. They were behind British lines, in enemy territory. Once the route up the escarpment was reconnoitered Hartmann would break radio silence to alert Rommel's headquarters.

The wind picked up. A dun wall of dust rose in the blue sky ahead. Soon it was upon them and they were engulfed by a howling sandstorm. Visibility dropped to nil in the yellowish-orange murk. The patrol slowed, but Fuchs drove off the trail into a salt pan. When he tried backing out, the rear wheels just spun helplessly, churning in the deep, sticky mud. Then the engine stalled.

The halftrack ground to a halt. Hartmann clambered out and rapped out brisk orders, having to raise his voice to be heard above the wind. The Volkswagen carried fascines and was light enough to be manhandled, but it was quicker and easier to just hook the tow cable to it. Hoffman motioned; Steiner slowly backed the halftrack up and pulled the car out.

"Drive more carefully, you idiot!" said Dietrich, eyes flashing with anger.

"Yes, Herr Lieutenant," said Fuchs.

"Gentlemen, we'd better stop until this blows over," said Hartmann.

The patrol hunkered down inside their vehicles to wait. The oppressive sun was blotted out, but it felt just as hot. They ate again and afterwards dangled their mess kits outside to let the sand blast them clean. Hartmann fretted with impatience as he tied down a corner of the flapping tarpaulin that had come loose. Sandstorms could last for days.

But this one ended after just a few hours. The wind died down and the sky cleared to an early evening.

When they tried switching on their engines the Volkswagen would not start.

"Now what's wrong?" asked Dietrich, sighing in exasperation.

"I don't know, Herr Lieutenant."

Fuchs got out and raised the rear hood to check the four-cylinder, air-cooled motor. He came back and rummaged for tools in the storage box behind the rear seat. "Looks like a clogged carburetor."

"Well, hurry up and fix it."

The yellow coal of the sun that glared down on them like the eye of an angry god, had finally, mercifully, begun to set, staining the cloudless sky a lurid orange. Soon the temperature would drop and the scorching desert would become bone-chilling cold.

Fuchs wiped grease off his hands with a rag, closed the hood, and got back inside the Volkswagen. This time the engine sputtered into life. "Ready to go, Herr Lieutenant."

There was faint droning sound in the air. Steiner pointed up. "Planes!" Black specks flew low towards them from the northeast.

"If they're Tommies we're sitting ducks," said Fuchs.

There was absolutely no natural cover, no time to try and hide their vehicles with camouflage netting, and if they drove away the dust they stirred up would only make them easier to spot. They were totally exposed.

Hartmann looked through his binoculars. A chill crept up his spine. "Those aren't planes. It's more of those giant mosquitos."

"Can't be!" said Steiner. "I killed them all!"

"The whole water table is probably contaminated," said Lippert. "They're probably breeding in other ponds too."

The patrol scrambled for weapons as the swarm dove down on them like grotesque Stukas, their loud drone filling the air.

Steiner jumped into the halftrack and swung the machine gun upwards. Green tracers streaked across the darkening sky as he opened fire. The insects swooped in low and the others tried shooting them down as well. Lippert, behind Steiner in the halftrack, opened up with an MP40. Fuchs and Dietrich knelt beside the Volkswagen and followed suit with an MP40 and a captured Thompson. Hartmann grabbed a captured Lee-Enfield rifle. The cacophony was deafening – the slow chatter of the submachine guns, the rapid deep roar of the MG34, and the sharp single barks of the rifle.

Bullets shredded wings, riddled exoskeletons, sheared off antennae and legs. Pieces of mosquitos fell like grisly rain. The machine gun's mount had a limited traverse, so Steiner could not swivel it far enough to aim at targets to his side or rear. Lippert covered his back, but then his MP40 jammed. As he struggled to clear it a mosquito landed on Steiner from behind.

Before it could bite Steiner reached around, seized one of its legs, and threw it on the floor with a curse. He stomped on its head with a big leather boot, smashing it with a sickening crunch and splattering yellow blood. But a second insect immediately jumped in its place. Gripping Steiner's broad shoulders with its legs, it speared him in the back with its proboscis, the razor-sharp mandibles slicing through his salt-streaked shirt deep into his flesh. An agonized gasp escaped his lips.

Lippert dropped his jammed weapon and began beating the insect with a steel helmet. Then a mosquito jumped onto Lippert’s back and stabbed him. He flailed away desperately, trying to throw the monster off as it sucked his blood. Both men collapsed writhing and screaming on the floor.

Dietrich batted a mosquito away with the butt of the now-empty Thompson, but two more flew in from either side. Fuchs emptied his magazine into one and then a pair dropped on him when he paused to reload. More attacked Dietrich as he clawed for his pistol. The men frantically struggled to fight them off, but they panicked and fled shrieking into the salt pan, immediately sinking up to their shins in the mud. Both were overwhelmed.

Hartmann's rifle was empty. He crawled under the Volkswagen and was temporarily ignored or missed by the mosquitos. They busied themselves gorging on his dying comrades, their cries and sobs mercifully subsiding as the insects' segmented abdomens bloated and flushed red with human blood.

He suppressed the urge to retch at the ghoulish sight. But now was his chance. The car's engine was still running.

He rolled out from underneath and scrambled inside. Questing antennae pricked up; bulbous eyes lifted from the gruesome banquet. The transmission grinded as he depressed the clutch pedal, shoved the car into gear, and sped away.

Four mosquitos flew after him.

The Volkswagen could reach eighty kilometers per hour on a paved road, but considerably less on a bumpy path like this. And if he drove too recklessly and accidentally veered off the trail he would immediately be stuck in the mud. He glanced in the side mirror, straining to see through the yellow plume of dust swirling in his wake, and swore.

They were gaining.

Steering one-handed, he fumbled for his Walther. He flicked off the safety and raked the pistol along his leg to push the slide back, feeding the first round into the chamber. He tossed it on the passenger seat beside him.

The insects caught up.

Hartmann shifted into high gear and floored the accelerator, the engine whining in protest. He gritted his teeth; he could not outrun them.

The celluloid door-windows had been detached for ventilation, so the car only had the front windshield and the convertible top. There was no way he could seal himself inside. Two proboscides punched through the canvas top, probing for him, one striking the back of his seat.

A mosquito thrust its head through the open passenger window to his right. Hartmann snatched up his pistol and rapid-fired four slugs into one of its eyes. The insect dropped away.

Another tried landing on the spare tire mounted on the front hood, but lost its footing as the car bounced along. It tumbled underneath and Hartmann heard a satisfying crunch, then another, as it was run over.

The base of the escarpment was just ahead. Salt marshes and salt pans yielded to scree and sand dunes. The trail curved towards a path zigzagging up the rugged cliff face soaring nearly three hundred meters high.

A mosquito flew up to the driver's side and Hartmann shot it with the remaining four rounds. Just one mosquito left. He clumsily tried reloading one-handed, first ejecting the empty magazine, then putting the Walther on the seat so he could pull out his only spare.

As he groped for it he rounded the bend and the car lost traction in the sand. The Volkswagen fishtailed, slid off the trail, and spun out at the base of the cliff. It crashed into a gray jumble of petrified wood, fossilized relics dating back to when lush forests had stood here thousands of years ago. Hartmann was hurled across the passenger seat and banged his head against the door.

Blood dripping from a cut above his eye, he looked for his pistol. It was gone, lost under the seat somewhere. The last mosquito landed on the rear of the car. Hartmann threw the car in gear and reversed sharply, crushing the insect against the rock face.

He let out a gusty sigh of relief as he shifted into first gear, but only moved forward a few meters before the engine stalled again. Repeated attempts at restarting failed. Hartmann jumped out and raised the dented, blood-spattered hood, switching on a light inside. He could not immediately see what was wrong and muttered a profanity. He was not a mechanic like Fuchs.

Hartmann spotted the black, oval mouth of a cave over by a gnarled, dead acacia tree. If he was stranded that could serve as temporary shelter tonight if necessary. He also noticed some bleaching gazelle bones scattered in the sand, most of them broken. That was odd.

A scuffling and shuffling sound came from within the cave and he glimpsed shadows of movement. Hoffmann's heart pounded. Something was in there – something big.

There might not be soldiers or minefields at this end of the crossing, but it was guarded nonetheless.

A huge yellowish-brown scorpion emerged, a monstrosity as long as a Nile crocodile with eight bowed, hairy legs and a pair of huge crab-like pincers. A long, segmented tail armed with a stinger arched menacingly over its back. Twelve black beady eyes stared at Hartmann.

The scorpion scuttled toward him, pincers outstretched. Its venom was likely lethal, but it would not need to sting him. The pincers looked powerful enough to tear him apart.

Leaning back inside the car, Hartmann groped desperately under his seat and finally retrieved his pistol. He snapped in the spare magazine, aimed, and fired. To his horror the bullet ricocheted off the hard, waxy carapace. He fired again and again, but the slugs would not penetrate.

Hartmann’s mind raced furiously. If it was bulletproof how could he kill it?

Holstering his pistol, he reached inside the car and grabbed a stick grenade. The scorpion's carapace was surely blast resistant too, but a different idea flashed in his mind, albeit a desperate one.

He unscrewed the cap on the grenade's hollow wooden handle, letting the cord dangle out. Grasping the ball at the end of the cord, he faced the scorpion, watching and waiting. He would only get one chance before he was ripped to pieces.

The scorpion suddenly rushed forward. Hartmann quickly backed up, but stumbled over a chunk of petrified wood and fell in the hot sand. Pincers lunged for him, mandibles opened. He yanked the ball to light the five-second fuse and flung the grenade into the arachnid's maw.

It detonated inside with a muffled boom.

The scorpion's charge faltered. It stopped, took a couple steps backward, then collapsed. Legs and tail twitched feebly for a few minutes until finally it laid still, bluish blood oozing from its mouth.

Hartmann clambered to his feet, brushing off sand, and warily approached the creature. It was dead.

He did not have a biology degree, but Hartmann knew scorpions did not live or breed in water. They did not even have to drink it. They obtained all the fluid they needed from their prey. How had this one mutated? Perhaps it had scavenged a contaminated mosquito.

And how had the British gotten past this monster? It was not mentioned on their map, so it had likely taken up residence after they had passed through. The horrible effects of the contamination were spreading through the insect population.

Then he heard that ominous, familiar drone. Black specks moved in a sky stained pink by the lingering twilight. His heart sank. Not over.

Hartmann grabbed a triple magazine pouch slung over a rack between the seats. It held extra magazines for Fuchs' submachine gun, which used the same 9-millimeter Parabellum ammunition as the Walther. He also found one of the Webley revolvers they had taken from the dead British soldiers. Hartmann spun the cylinder to confirm all six chambers were loaded, then tucked it in his waistband. Unfortunately he had no extra ammunition for it or for the empty Lee-Enfield.

However he did have the rifle's bayonet – a wicked-looking weapon with a grooved steel blade over forty centimeters long. Despite being largely useless in modern combat, armies stubbornly persisted in issuing such anachronisms. He drew it from the scabbard, snapped it on the end of the barrel, and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

The mosquitos circled in the distance and descended, probably attracted by the corpses of his comrades. That would give Hartmann a little time. He grabbed a greatcoat and a couple of blankets lying on the back seat.

Hartmann carried these to the cave. Gathering broken, thorny branches from the dead tree, he quickly piled them up in a semi-circle in front of the mouth of the cave and spread the garments over the desiccated wood.

He raced back to the car. It still carried two full jerrycans, one stowed in a recess under the dashboard and another lashed onto one of the rear fenders. Each held twenty liters of gasoline. He lugged the steel containers over and splashed their contents on the clothing and wood, thoroughly soaking them.

Then Hartmann sat inside the cave, working quickly and pausing only to light what he grimly knew would probably be his last cigarette.

Anguish over his slain comrades roiled inside him; weighed down with guilt, tormented by the feeling that as their leader he had somehow failed them. But he had to suppress these raw emotions for now. His mind had to be clear and sharp.

Night fell. A full moon had already risen, casting a pale, eerie gleam across the dark, desolate landscape. He extracted rounds from an MP40 magazine to reload his pistol magazines. The rifle he propped against the cave wall.

The swarm had taken to flight again. They headed straight for him now, homing in on him, their keen senses detecting fresh prey, fresh blood.

Hartmann's throat was parched; he swallowed the last drops from his canteen. Drawing in a deep lungful of smoke, he let it out with a long hiss. He was ready. Let the bastards come.

He stepped outside, Walther in hand. As his inhuman foes flew in he took a last puff and flicked the cigarette onto the greatcoat, the glowing tip spraying sparks. Bright, orange flames leaped high with a sudden whoosh as it caught fire and he flinched when the blast of heat hit his face. Black, oily smoke billowed up.

Hartmann doubted this would drive off the mosquitos, but all creatures feared fire and it might make them a little cautious at least. Delay the inevitable.

The insects circled outside the fire, buzzing angrily. Aiming carefully, he shot down three, reloaded, and brought down two more. One fell into the fire and Hartmann coughed at the reek as it crackled and burned.

The Walther was empty; he drew the Webley. The revolver bucked as he sent .38 slugs smashing through heads and abdomens, but as the fire burned low the mosquitos became more daring. They darted in, using their proboscides like lances. Hartmann dropped the pistol, snatched up the Lee-Enfield, and backed into the cave – he could not let them surround him.

Using the rifle like a pike he fended off those hovering at the entrance. He jabbed one in the eye with the bayonet and it retreated; he skewered another through the thorax and it dropped to the ground writhing in its death throes. A third he smashed against the wall of the cave with the rifle butt.

The rest withdrew and patiently waited for their chance to strike, staring at him with their soulless black eyes. It was only a matter of time. Hartmann could not keep them at bay forever. He would eventually tire and they would make their move. Finish him.

Their buzz was suddenly drowned out by the thunderous roar of heavy-weapons fire. A hurricane of bullets and shells cracked past, blasting mosquitos apart in explosions of yellow blood. The shooting continued until every insect was destroyed. Then silence. Ears ringing, Hartmann warily peered through the smoke of the dying fire.

Three heavily-armed trucks sat on the trail, etched against the moonlit sky. The bearded soldiers were white, but dressed in Arab headdresses, shorts, and sandals. When they glimpsed Hartmann in the feeble firelight the muzzle of a 20-millimeter Breda anti-aircraft gun swung down and pointed straight at him.

The savage euphoria of still being alive, the adrenalin rush of combat, was replaced by cold, sober realization. Hartmann had survived but his war was over. He bitterly threw his rifle down, raised his hands above his head, and stepped out to surrender.

One of the LRDG patrolmen strode up to Hartmann and roughly searched him, patting him down and turning out his pockets. He plucked out Hartmann's paybook and handed it to a captain.

The captain did not even glance at it. "Let's get the hell out of here before more of those bloody things show up."

Hartmann did not have to be told twice when ordered into one of the trucks. He could hear droning in the distance.