The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Fantasy Stories from the Pulps

The Battle of Manetong

First published in Fantastic Adventures, June 1942.

Dawn was spreading a hazy light over the oppressively humid Egyptian plateau when the young German officer received the message.

He was seated before a radio transmitter with earphones strapped over his closely cropped blonde hair, in a hot airless tent which had been set up at the rear of the small German encampment.

He read the message carefully a second time, frowning in concentration.

Then he removed the headphones and stood up. He beckoned to another young officer who was dozing on a cot in the corner.

“Relieve me for a few moments. I must deliver this message to Captain Hohffer immediately.”

Picking up his sharply peaked hat he strode from the tent. He had only to pass the mess kitchen and a line of supply trucks before reaching the large tent marked with the insignia of the swastika.

The Captain’s orderly saluted him, presented arms.

“A message for Captain Hohffer,” the wireless operator snapped. “It is important.”

The orderly lowered his gun and drew aside the flap of the tent. The wireless operator saluted and entered the tent. Captain Hohffer was seated at a large table in the center of the tent frowning absorbedly at maps and charts. A kerosene lamp smoked on the table and provided a yellow flickering illumination.

The captain was a tall, spare man with a prominent, bony nose and glacial, blue eyes. His uniform tunic was open at the throat and a cigarette was burning low in his fingers.

He looked up sharply as the radio operator saluted.

“Yes?”

“Message for the Captain,” the young officer said stiffly. “It’s from Intelligence Headquarters. I thought I should bring it right over, sir.”

The captain took the message and scanned it rapidly. When he finished reading a tight smile spread his lips. His cold blue eyes glinted with amusement.

“You did right, Herr Lieutenant,” he said. “These orders are extremely important. We break camp immediately. That is all.”

When the wireless operator had departed the Captain called his orderly.

“Summon Lieutenant Mueller and Oberlieutenant Schmidt here at once,” he said crisply.

When the two officers entered his tent a few moments later the captain permitted himself the luxury of a smile.

“For several weeks,” he said, “we have been waiting here for orders. Now the orders have arrived, and most pleasant orders they are. Intelligence has learned that a column of British troops is escorting a caravan of wounded natives and colonials back to Cairo. This column will pass within about five miles of our present position. They will be forced to cross the Nile tributary at that point. Their approach to the bridge is over a wide plateau known as the Manetong area. There is no cover on this stretch. Our artillery will be set up on the opposite side of the river. From that point we’ll be able to command the bridgehead and the Manetong plateau. When the British column reaches that our artillery will blow them to dust.”

“What is the strength of the British force?” Lieutenant Mueller asked. There was a hint of cautious nervousness in his voice.

Captain Hohffer smiled. “Insignificant in comparison to ours,” he replied. “You know our policy is to strike only when the numerical advantage is greatly in our favor. The British will not have a chance, of that you may be sure.”

The long winding British truck column proceeded slowly through the barren foot hills that led to the Manetong plateau. The column consisted of twenty eight creaking trucks loaded to capacity with soldiers, most of them wounded. Their uniforms were dusty and tattered from the ravages of the screeching, blasting sandstorms that howled incessantly over the plateaus of Libya and Egypt.

In a small rattling car at the head of the slowly crawling procession rode Major Archibald Douglass, a stocky, red-faced man of fifty, the commander of the small force. The interior of the car was like an oven. Perspiration rolled steadily from the major’s forehead, cutting muddy furrows through the yellow caked dust on his face.

For the dozenth time he mopped his flowing face and cursed the heat and the dust in fluent language. The driver, a gaunt Australian with a dirty bandage over his head, grinned in frank admiration at the major’s eloquence.

“The heat is annoying, sir,” he said.

The major snorted, “That’s a bit of understatement, corporal. This heat is hellish. The only advantage to this climate is that the Jerries die like flies in this heat. Can’t stand it at all.”

“Good thing,” the Australian corporal muttered.

For a few minutes they bounced along in a hot, oppressive silence. The road was only a rutted pathway a few feet wide, and its uneven shoulders rocked the car with monotonous regularity.

The major’s keen narrowed eyes swept carefully over the horizon.

“Too bad for us today if we bump into a tank corps of Jerries,” he said quietly. “Intelligence decided they couldn’t spare a tank escort for us. Hope they know what they’re doing.”

The Australian driver nodded grimly—

“We’d be nice pickings for the Jerries. They’d have a good time with a truck caravan of wounded soldiers. Just their blasted style.”

“Well,” the major said philosophically, “I see no point in worrying about it. If we get past the Manetong plateau we’ll be out of danger. Once beyond that open stretch and over the bridge I don’t think the Jerries will bother us.”

For another few moments they drove in silence. Then the major tilted his head and a faint frown creased his forehead. He glanced at the driver and then peered into the white glaring sky.

After a long anxious scrutiny he cleared his throat.

“I say, corporal,” he said, “do you hear anything?”

The corporal was staring fixedly at the rutted road but the knuckles of his big hands had whitened on the wheel. He nodded slowly.

“Sounds like a blooming buzzing fly.”

“Or a wasp,” the major said softly.

He shaded his eyes with both hands and swept a long glance over the cloudless glaring sky.

“Must be pretty high,” he said, after a moment.

The driver swallowed the dust in his throat.

“Do we keep going, sir?” he asked. The major glanced at him and smiled slightly.

“Of course. These wounded men need attention and hospital care. Naturally we will continue on. But keep your eyes sharp, corporal.”

As the small car jolted along, the major unslung his field glasses and carefully wiped the film of dust from their lenses.

“I’ll do the same,” he said as they drove on in silence...

Captain Hohffer was waiting impatiently as the young flyer clambered from the cockpit of his ship and dropped to the dry, hard ground.

“Well?” he snapped. “Have you located the British column?”

“Yes, Sir,” the lieutenant answered, saluting. “They are about six hours from the bridgehead. They are travelling very slowly.”

“Good, good,” Captain Hohffer said, smiling. “Those six hours will give us ample time to prepare a pleasant reception for them.”

Turning he swept keen experienced eyes over the scene of preparation that surrounded him. He was standing on a wide knoll that overlooked the sluggishly moving Nile tributary and the Manetong plateau. It was over this broad exposed plateau that the British column must travel.

Captain Hohffer smiled mirthlessly and swung about to face the opposite side of the knoll where his men were setting up their artillery. As his careful eye checked off each group of men and each maneuvering truck and tank, he nodded slowly in a pleased manner.

Everything was progressing satisfactorily. When the stupid British arrived they would be ready for them. His artillery would smash the British column in one decisive blast. Then the mopping up process would be only a formality.

The entire success of the attack depended on the unexpected devastation of the artillery barrage. For that reason Captain Hohffer was enraged at the information brought to him by Lieutenant Mueller a few moments later.

“I regret to report,” Lieutenant Mueller said nervously, “that my men have met great difficulty in establishing artillery positions as you ordered. The ground is too soft to support the weight of the guns.”

Captain Hohffer reddened in anger. “Fool!” he said furiously. “I will not listen to excuses. Everything is hinged on the artillery barrage. It must be as I have ordered.”

Lieutenant Mueller mopped his brow anxiously.

“My men have discovered a brick foundation in the form of a square at the base of the knoll. If we could mount our guns there and—”

“Impossible!” Captain Hohffer stormed. “Their fire would not clear the top of the knoll. Are you so stupid, lieutenant, that you cannot realize that?”

“We could build a platform on the brick foundation,” the lieutenant suggested desperately. “That was what I had in mind, Captain. If our guns were mounted on a structure thirty or forty feet high their fire would easily clear the top of the knoll. The brick foundation is deep and solid. It would easily support the jarring of the guns.” Captain Hohffer was silent a moment, frowning thoughtfully. Then he said:

“How do you propose to raise the guns to the top of this structure?”

“We have hoist equipment,” Lieutenant Mueller answered. “It would only be an hour’s work to raise the guns in place after the platform is completed.”

“And how long will that take?” Lieutenant Mueller made a swift mental calculation.

“If we use every available man in its construction,” he answered with assurance, “I can promise the Captain that the work will be completed in three hours.”

Captain Hohffer glanced at his watch.

“Possibly your proposal will be feasible,” he said. “Show me this foundation now. I will decide.”

At the entrance of the Manetong plateau, the British column halted. Major Archibald Douglass crawled stiffly from his car and walked back along the line of trucks.

The infantry escort was lying on the hot hard ground resting gratefully. It was almost three in the afternoon — the hottest hour of the day — and they had been marching steadily since dawn.

The major nodded to them as he walked by and they grinned back.

In the west the sun was dropping slowly, a blazingly intense ball of molten brass in a white sky. The major cast a careful glance over that deceptively peaceful sky.

He hadn’t heard any more planes and that only increased his caution. A funny feeling persisted in him that they were heading for danger. He shook the feeling away with an irritable shrug and began his inspection of the truckloads of wounded men.

The heat and the flies and the pain of festering wounds drove many of the wounded men into feverish hysteria; others it killed outright. But a large number of the wounded, the major saw, were conscious, enduring every second of their agony, features drawn into meaningless masks, eyes distended in torment.

Hard bitter lines etched themselves into the major’s face as he walked on, surveying truck after truck full of pain-crazed men.

There was nothing he could do for them but get them to hospitals as quickly as possible. Nothing on earth was going to prevent him from doing that, he decided.

This thought, with its touch of melodrama, almost made him blush. The major was not a heroic figure, given to stage speeches about Empire and Courage.

He was simply a man who did his job.

As he neared the end of the line of trucks a faint voice hailed him.

Glancing toward the sound of the voice, the major saw an aged, patriarchal Hebrew lying in a special litter in the last truck. The man’s brown, deeply seamed face was covered with a flowing white beard and his wise solemn eyes were filmed with a fog of pain.

His name, the major remembered, was Mosoch. The venerable patriarch was another victim of German barbarism. Both of his legs had been broken and he had been shot through the shoulder.

But he still lived. He had been invaluable to the major on the desert trek. Knowing Egypt like a wise father knows his child, he had counselled and advised the major in many ways.

Smiling, the major stepped to the side of the truck.

“It won’t be long now,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll be in a hospital bed this time tomorrow.”

“I will be where He wills it,” the old man answered, nodding slowly. His thin, veined hands gripped the frayed, leather bound book that lay next to him, and his deep eyes looked upward.

“That which has been written,” he said, “is as inevitable as the dropping of a stone or the flowing of a river.”

Awkwardly the major patted the old man’s shoulder.

The Hebrew turned his eyes to him.

“I must warn you,” he said softly. “We are traveling toward the place which He declared accursed. Wicked Sennaar, blasted symbol of man’s evil, lies ahead of us. We must not go on. Our feet must not trod the ground that has felt the wrath of God. Disaster falls swift on the evil ones who violate the commands of the God of Jehovah. So much has been written.”

The old man’s voice trailed off weakly. His eyes turned to the heavens. His cracked, dust-caked lips moved painfully as his fingers caressed the book at his side.

The major turned slowly from the truck and started back to his car. The men climbed to their feet and swung their rifles to their backs as he passed.

They knew from the set of his jaw that they were going on...

In a few minutes the line of trucks was crawling wearily onto the broad lap of the Manetong plateau — heading for the narrow bridge that spanned the sluggish Nile tributary.

Beyond that bridge was a low wide knoll spreading peacefully along the Nile stream — and hiding what lay behind it...

Captain Hohffer stood beside the towering firing structure which his men had erected at the base of the knoll. The foundation of the platform was made of huge slab bricks, held together by ancient, crusted slime.

With excellent efficiency his men had built a platform of steel and timber that reached forty feet in the air.

On the broad top of the firing structure heavy guns had been mounted, their ugly snouts covering the Manetong plateau.

Captain Hohffer felt a gloating anticipation mounting in his breast. Everything had been planned to the last detail. Every man was at his post, awaiting the signal.

With calm deliberation the captain drew his revolver from its belt holster.

He glanced at his watch.

The British were now almost at the bridge.

When he fired his gun the heavy artillery on top of the firing structure would blaze away. That one devastating barrage would completely wipe out the column of trucks.

The British would not have a chance. They would never realize what hit them.

Captain Hohffer smiled and raised his gun in the air. This would be a great personal triumph. He might receive the Iron Cross. Who could tell?

He would give his men an extra rest period when this was over. Building that structure hadn’t been an easy task. Even with every man it had been exhausting work. The men were very tired. Even now, awaiting the bark of his gun, they were sluggish and listless.

Yes, he would give them an extra rest period — after the thunderous barrage of his heavy artillery had destroyed the British column.

Glancing again at his watch, his finger tightened on the trigger of the gun. He was chuckling when he fired the single clear signal shot...

The major, riding in the head car of the small truck column, heard the shot and his blood ran cold.

The truck column was only twenty yards from the bridge, and he realized with sickening clarity, that somehow he had led his men into a trap.

At his command the tall Australian driver slammed on the brakes and the major scrambled out of the car. With a quick glance he swept the terrain. Not a spot of cover in miles!

The shot had been fired from behind the knoll that loomed beyond the narrow river.

Silence followed that first shot, but it was broken again by another revolver shot. Two more scattered revolver shots followed in quick succession and again there was silence.

The major stared bewilderedly at the knoll. If this was a trap it was a peculiar one. But he didn’t waste any more time pondering the peculiarity of the situation.

There was only one course of action to follow.

“Fix bayonets!” he bawled down the line at his men. “Follow me.”

Jerking the revolver from his holster he sprang onto the bridge and charged across to the opposite shore.

At his heels was his Australian driver, and behind him thundered the rest of his men, seventy-three strong.

The rise that led to the top of the knoll was a gradual slope a hundred yards in length. Up this the major’s troops charged, bayonets fixed.

They had no conception of what lay beyond the rim of the knoll. They could hear nothing, or see nothing that would give them an indication of what they were attacking.

The major reached the top of the knoll first. The scene that met his eyes almost stopped his heart.

A complete German attacking force was spread at the base of the knoll. A huge structure supporting a dozen pieces of heavy artillery had been erected, and dozens of tanks flanked it on either side in attacking formation.

Hundreds of German soldiers manned the equipment. At first glance the major knew that he and his men had blundered into a trap from which there was no escaping. But as his eyes swung over the scene his fear for his men was replaced by sheer incredulous amazement.

For the hundreds of German soldiers were not preparing to open fire or unleash a savage tank attack. They were milling about in confusion, as if they had forgotten their orders, or were completely demoralized by some major catastrophe.

The major was almost too stunned to take advantage of the situation. But as his men crowded up the slope at his heels, he snapped to a full appreciation of his advantage.

“Charge!” he yelled. “Give ’em hell!”

At the base of the slope, beside the towering artillery structure, the major met a maniacal German officer. He was the only man who offered any resistance.

He was screaming, “The fools! The fools! They won’t listen to me. They’ve gone mad. They don’t understand—”

When this officer saw the charging British soldiers he fired wildly at them, but his aim was erratic. The major dropped him for good with one careful shot.

After that it only took a short time to round up the Germans, disarm them and confiscate their equipment...

“Damndest thing I’ve ever seen,” the Australian driver said to the major, “This whole bunch of kraut heads act like they’ve gone sun daffy.”

The major didn’t answer. Queer, disturbing thoughts were plucking at his brain, but he was too busy superintending the job of taking over the German camp, to worry about anything else.

Those of the wounded that could be moved were shifted to the faster German trucks, and sped on to Cairo. A number of soldiers were left to guard the prisoners, captured tanks, and artillery.

It was a long tiring job to organize and manage, but through it all the major’s attention wandered time and again to a number of things beyond his understanding.

Had all the Germans been suddenly sun-struck? That question popped into his mind a dozen times during the long hot afternoon, as he watched the dazed, glassy-eyed, stumbling prisoners being herded into trucks.

And their vague, senseless mumblings, incoherent and meaningless—

Finally the long tiresome job was done. The prisoners were under guard, his own men were fed and quartered for the night, and the major could relax.

That is, after he wrote his nightly report, he could relax.

In an improvised tent he stared for a long moment at the sheet of paper on the table, before tearing it up and throwing it disgustedly into a corner.

Lighting a cigarette he strolled out of the tent. Night, black and swift, had descended. The bowl of the dark sky was studded with myriad pin points of silver.

Looming above in the blackness was the bulky outline of the firing tower the Germans had constructed to elevate their artillery.

The major walked slowly along the row of trucks that held those unfortunates who couldn’t be moved. He would start them on their way as soon as possible. Some strange attraction drew him to the end of the line, where a white cloaked figure with a flowing beard lay in uncomplaining agony, mumbling his ageless prayers.

Mosoch, the Hebrew, was lying patiently in his litter, and he looked up when the major approached.

One glance into those sunken, filmy eyes was enough to reveal that the angel of death was laying his soothing hand on that noble, suffering brow.

“My time is come,” Mosoch said feebly, “it has been written. On this place where the wrath of the God of Jehovah has been felt, I find my moment. Here, where the command of the Lord has been violated, I depart. That much has been written. Good-bye, my friend.”

“Please,” Major Archibald Douglass leaned forward and gripped the old patriarch’s arm, “you mustn’t go. I mean — I mean without explaining what you’ve said. About the wrath of the Lord, I mean. I must know.”

He leaned forward as the old man’s lips fluttered laboriously. The major heard three words, three strange, unbelievable words.

The last word was followed by a gasping choke, and before it had ceased to sound, Mosoch was dead.

Shaken, the major returned to his tent. He smoked three cigarettes nervously trying to decide what to write in his official report of the action. Through the flap of the tent he could see the looming bulk of the artillery structure the Germans had built.

What a good joke on them.

After a while Major Douglass wrote his report.

He wrote: “In a skirmish at the bridge head of the Nile tributary, our force was able to capture the personnel and equipment of an ambushing German camp. Our success was due primarily to the bad judgment of the enemies’ selection of artillery positions He smiled as he wrote that last line. The report was rather inadequate but, after all, what else could he say?

In a military report he couldn’t point out the significance of a fact that had only occurred to him a few moments ago. Namely, that the Manetong plateau derived its name from a contraction of two English words, “many” and “tongue.”

Nor could he relate the incident of a feverish, dying Hebrew who had whispered to him that the curse of the Lord lay over this ground because on it presumptuous man had attempted to erect a structure into heaven.

For adding all this together, his superior officers would decide that he was trying to imply that the Germans had accidentally built an artillery structure on the foundation of the ancient, almost legendary Tower of Babel.

Which was perfectly silly, of course.