Archive of Our Own ^beta

"The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blest.
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
It is mightiest in the mightiest...
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice."

—William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act IV, scene 1

June, 1942

          The African sun blazed mercilessly in the blue sky, seeming as if it would broil alive any mortal so foolhardy as to venture out at midday in early summer.  Two men in German khaki struggled across the bleak and desolate landscape. They paused briefly to rest against an outcropping of rock.  The younger man silently rubbed his left shoulder, which ached from supporting his commander's weight.

            "I am sorry," said the officer thickly through cracked lips.  "It is hard on you." He could barely hear his own voice for the roaring sound in his ears.

            The corporal shook his head.  "It is nothing, sir.  I am all right.  Aber…” He faltered.  It was not, after all, his place to give advice to officers.  "You are injured, mein Herr, and you are ill from the sun.  We should not go on." He used his handkerchief to wipe away the blood oozing into his eyes.

            "We must.  The nearer we are to the coast road, the greater our chance of being found.  If we remain here, we shall surely die." 

            The fair-haired corporal nodded.  He had known, of course, the answer he would receive.  After a few minutes' respite and a check of the compass, they continued across the trackless desert toward the coast.

 <<<<<>>>>>

            "I say, chaps, thanks awfully," the RAF officer said, offering his hand as he got into the rubber dinghy.  "I'm afraid I've been a dashed nuisance, don't you know."

            "Not at all, Lieutenant.  Glad to be of service." Sergeant Sam Troy shook his hand warmly and saluted.  "Have a good trip, sir."

            "I'm sure I shall, Sergeant.  Cheerio!"

             All in all, it had been a good job, thought Troy later on their way back to their own territory. They had found the downed flier before the Germans; had rescued him, his papers, and his precious new American bombsight, and had delivered him safely into the hands of the Royal Navy around dawn that morning.  What's more, although the Rat Patrol was technically behind German lines, this area seemed practically deserted.  There had been no sign of Jerry traffic all day.  Barring any surprises, they could make their run home with very little trouble.

<<<<<>>>>>

            They had been walking for some hours, and for most of that time, Arnheiter had been singing. Both German soldiers and Wandervögel such as himself were trained to sing while marching, both to keep in step but also to relieve the monotony of a long march. It was as natural to him as breathing.

            Dietrich knew this. Most of the men in his company would have done exactly the same thing. Well, perhaps not exactly… the company clerk had been singing an old Jägerlied he would have known from his youth.  However, no doubt as a result of the injury to his head, Arnheiter had repeated it no fewer than seventeen times. Being from Schleswig-Holstein himself, the captain had never heard the song before, but it was certain that he would now never forget it as long as he lived.

 Ich schiess den Hirsch im wilden Forst, im tiefen Wald das Reh,
den Adler auf der klippe Horst, die Ente auf dem See;
kein Ort, der Schutz gewähren kann, wo meine Büchse zielt!
Und dennoch hab' ich harter Mann die Liebe auch gefühlt….

             The younger man began the next verse: “Der wilde Falk ist mein Gesell, der Wolf mein Kampfgespann …”, still sounding, as before, slightly drunk.

            The captain could bear it no longer, and shook him gently by the shoulder to get his attention. “Arnheiter.  Stop singing, and save your breath. This makes you need more water.”

            “Zu Befehl,” he replied obediently from habit. “But … I don’t think I can keep going unless I sing, Herr Hauptmann…”

            Dietrich sighed.  “Then sing…something…else.”

           <<<<<>>>>>

            The German corporal stared, appalled, at his commander lying unconscious in the sand.  He had seen the signs of impending heatstroke, had tried everything he could think of, including offering the captain his own cap, but all to no avail.  Not only had Hauptmann Dietrich refused to take his cap, he had insisted on continuing, until he had eventually collapsed.  Friedrich Arnheiter stood still for a few minutes, as if paralyzed.  "What am I to do?" he said aloud, frightened.  He could not help his captain, but he could not leave him, and there was no one now to give him orders or tell him what to do next.  Despite the heat, his hands and face turned cold with fear—any decision he made could be the wrong one.  This was not a situation for which the Wehrmacht had thought to prepare him.

            He knelt on the ground and turned Dietrich face up.  The injured young officer was breathing heavily, he was deeply flushed, and his skin was not only hot, it was dry as paper.  A single sob escaped the corporal's throat.  He was company clerk these days,  and the captain's personal driver as well; over these several months with the Afrika Korps he had grown very attached to his commander.  Arnheiter could not bear to sit here and watch his captain die.  And he could not simply give up and walk away.  He had to do something.

            He stood up again and looked around, shading his eyes from the brilliant sun.  He spotted a rise some distance away, and behind it a hint of what might be vegetation.  Perhaps there was a wadi over there.  Even if not, it had to be more sheltered than this spot, and where there were plants there might be water.  He looked down at the captain, and decided against dragging him that far—it would only worsen the injuries he had suffered in the accident that morning.  Arnheiter bent, hoisted the taller man onto his back in a fireman’s carry, and staggered with his burden toward the ridge.

            The greenery was, in fact, at the edge of a wadi—a hollow in a dry stream bed that was big enough to conceal a Kübelwagen, or perhaps even a halftrack.  More to the point, it had some scrubby bushes, and it was deep enough to afford some shade when the sun got lower in the sky.  However, it had been farther away than it had seemed, and he was nearly at the limits of his strength from the effort of carrying Dietrich uphill.  He'd had to change his grip several times in order to balance the captain's weight across his shoulders.  Kneeling, his legs trembling with weakness, he carefully lowered Dietrich to the ground in the shadiest place.  Making sure that the officer was still alive, he pulled off his own bloodstained khaki cap and fanned him with it.  Now what?  He needed some help, if the captain was going to survive.  He'd prefer a truck full of medics, but he'd settle for anyone who had a jerry can of water—whether Italians or Bedouins, he didn't care.   Arnheiter stood up again, fighting dizziness and nausea from the heat and his own injuries.  He crawled up the ridge above where Dietrich was lying and scanned the area.  Nothing was moving as far as he could see.  He wished with futility for Herr Hauptmann's field glasses, but the lenses had been smashed in the accident, and they had discarded the useless instrument hours ago.  There was nothing left to do, and no hope that they would live.  He slid back down beside his captain, and fanned him again, futile though it was.  "I'm sorry, Herr Hauptmann, I did the best I knew how," he whispered.

            How much time passed, he did not know.  Suddenly, in his heat-induced stupor, he heard an engine.  Desperation launched him to his feet; the sound was from a car bigger than a Kübel — it might even be a truck.  Peering over the top of the ridge, he could see the source of the sound.  Staggering, falling and getting up again, Arnheiter ran like a madman toward the moving, shimmering dots on the horizon.

<<<<<>>>>>

            As the Rat Patrol dashed back for their own lines, Troy had kept a lookout for the enemy.  It was ridiculous. but he was beginning to wonder if the Germans had all packed up and gone home, as they hadn't seen a single sign of life all day.  "A bit odd, isn't it?" Moffitt had remarked when they'd stopped at midday for water.  "Lucky for us, but it looks as if Jerry isn't home.  Off playing war games, perhaps?"

            But now, suddenly, there was a movement over to their right.  A lone figure came running toward them down a slope, waving his arms over his head.  As they watched, he lost his balance, fell down, but then regained his feet and kept coming.  I don't like this, Troy thought as he raised his field glasses to his eyes, and got a shock as he recognized the man.  "I know him.  It's Dietrich's driver," he said tightly.  "Hold your fire, but cover him."  Suiting the action to the words, he swung his own gun to face the approaching German. He didn’t look like a threat, but one could never be sure.

            At a distance of some fifty yards, Arnheiter looked up and froze in dismay.  He had feared the vehicles were mirages, but they were in fact something much worse: the Allies.  Faced with two .50 caliber machine guns aimed directly at him, he did the only thing he could—he dropped his sidearm and raised both hands.  As they came closer, he recognized the American with the field glasses and the Australian cavalry hat as the leader of die Rattentruppe: the Rat Patrol. They are commandos, and commandos do not take prisoners.  They will kill us, then.  It is all the same, we are already dead men, Herr Hauptmann and I. Yet, I have heard Hauptmann Dietrich say that these are honorable men.  And the leader could have killed me last winter when he escaped from us, but he did not. Perhaps.... He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Helfen Sie uns, bitte!" Waiting for an answer, he hoped against hope that one of them spoke German.

            "He's asking for help, Troy," Moffitt said.  "A trap, maybe?"

            "Somehow, I don't think so," the American sergeant replied thoughtfully, lowering the binoculars.  "From what I can see, he looks like he needs it.” The desperation could be faked, but the bleeding head wound looked real. “Find out what's going on."

            Arnheiter was relieved beyond description when the British soldier with the beret, behind the other gun, shouted back.  "Was ist denn los?  Wieviele Männer gibt es?"

            "Wir sind nur zwei!  Hauptmann Dietrich liegt im Sterben!"

            "Ist er verwundet?"

            "Nein!  Er stirbt an Hitzschlag!  Bitte, helfen Sie uns!  Ich schwöre, daß ich nicht lüge!  Ich sage die Wahrheit!"

            Moffitt turned to Troy, urgently.  "He says there are only the two of them, he and Dietrich, and that Dietrich's dying of heat stroke.  He swears he's telling the truth."

            Time for a judgement call—the kid might still be lying, in which case the four Allies would be walking into trouble.  Troy took another look at the desperate expression in the boy’s eyes and decided.  "Tell him to get in and lead the way."  I'm probably gonna regret this... “Tell him he has to surrender them both first. Otherwise, no deal.”

            Moffitt relayed that information  as the young man came toward them—now that he was nearer, they could see several charred holes in his shirt, as well as the blood on his face.  Arnheiter nodded. “Wenn Sie sein Leben retten, ich werde alles tun, was Sie wollen.”

            Good Lord. Moffitt spoke briefly in the same language, and turned to Troy. “He says he’ll do anything we ask if we save Dietrich.”

            “It’s the desert. No guarantees—but we’ll do our best.”

            “He knows.”

            Tully swung the second jeep around so the German could get in the front seat, while Moffitt jumped down and picked up the corporal's Luger from the ground.  They proceeded around the ridge and into the wadi, following Arnheiter's directions.  He had been telling the truth; Dietrich lay on the ground on his side, bareheaded and unconscious.

            As Arnheiter clearly didn’t speak English, Moffitt came over and and began tending to him while Hitch climbed out of the driver's seat and knelt on the ground beside Dietrich, reaching to feel the pulse in the officer’s neck.  "The kid’s not wrong, Sarge.” He gestured to the captain. “Dietrich's still with us, but he's burning up.  If we don't get him cooled down PDQ, he's had it."

            "Right.  Tully, bring me one of those cans of water, and gimme your helmet." Troy gave orders while he and Hitch removed Dietrich's lightweight field jacket and opened his shirt.  "Oh, and a section of camouflage netting." They stuffed the netting under him to keep some of the water from running into the sand , and Troy began pouring water from Tully's helmet, completely soaking the tall German from his hair to his knees.  When the water evaporated, they would repeat the performance.  A breeze was coming up, but Troy still pulled his hat off and fanned with it to speed up the process.

            Kneeling beside the unconscious captain, Tully wrinkled his nose and sniffed. “It’s not just sunstroke… smells like gasoline and burned hair.” He bent and looked closer. “Hitch, grab the burn salve, will you? Sarge, these guys were in an explosion of some kind. Captain’s got some burns on his head and his back, like it was rainin’ fire down on top of them.” Maybe that’s why his hat’s gone; could be it was on fire.

            Hitch brought back the tube of ointment, and then turned to Troy, curious.  "Hey, Sarge?"

            "Yeah?"

            "How'd you know who he was?" Hitch indicated the young German, now talking to Moffitt.  "I don't remember ever seeing him before."

            "You didn't," said Troy.  "I did.  Remember when we were keeping the Jerries out of Al-Jawari and Dietrich captured me?  Well, that kid was brand-new to their company—he was the one you helped me escape from that night, but you never saw his face.” Troy looked up from the captain and saw Moffitt talking quietly to Arnheiter, who was sitting with his head between his knees.  "Is he OK?"

            "More or less. A bit shocky, and he’s had a good crack on the head," the Englishman replied.  That was readily apparent; the corporal had a long bloody gash near his hairline, and an egg-sized lump had risen on his forehead. "Pass me some of that water, why don't you?" He poured some of it over their prisoner's head and back, and let him drink the rest, warning him to take it slowly.  "He’s suffering from the heat as well, but they’ve also had a rather nasty accident; he must have gone into the windscreen headfirst.  He’s got bits of glass in his hair, and a few burns as well. I'm still working on the details.  He said something about a land mine.” 

            "Trouble just follows Dietrich around, don’t it?" remarked Tully as he dressed the burn on the back of Dietrich’s left shoulder.  "I guess I always figured that if we ever managed to hang onto him for longer than five minutes, it'd be sheer dumb luck." The hostile elements had delivered him into their hands this time.

            Troy glanced at Hitch, who was checking the captain's pulse.  "Soak him down again?" The private nodded, and they slowly drenched their patient once more.  This time had better work—they couldn't spare much more water and still have enough to make it back.

            They waited.  Tully lay flat across the top of the wadi to keep watch, with his machine gun.  The late-afternoon breeze picked up, and the sun cast long shadows across the six men.  Twenty minutes passed, and Troy turned to Hitchcock.  "Well?"

            "I think he's gonna be all right," was the reply.  "His pulse is around ninety now instead of 160, and his temperature's still a little high, about 102 or so, but he ought to make it.  He must have the constitution of an ox," Hitch said.  "All we can do now is keep checking him and hope we weren’t too late.”

            “What happens if we were?”  

            Hitchcock looked up, sober. “Don’t ask, Sarge. You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy.” The most severe consequence of untreated heatstroke, barring heart failure, was irreversible brain damage.  If there’s a fate worse than death, that’s gotta be it.

            "I say," Moffitt spoke up.  "Our young friend here is still a bit worried about our intentions; he's been listening to propaganda about how we Allies treat our POW's.”

            "Tell him it's all right," said Troy quietly.  "Tell him they're safe with us."

            "I already have.  Arnheiter also said he thinks Dietrich's right ankle is broken.  Now would be the time to see to it, while he’s not conscious."

            "Right.  Don’t worry, Fritz, we'll take care of him," Hitch called out to the prisoner, leaving Moffitt to translate.  The ex-college student scrambled around to the other side of his patient and took a look. “Somebody better hold on to him, he might come around all of a sudden,” he said to Tully, who came back down and moved to hold the captain’s shoulders.  Hitch felt the right boot and grimaced—the officer's leg was swollen tightly inside the battered black leather.  "I'll have to cut his boot off.  If I try to pull it off, I’ll just make it worse.”

            Pettigrew shook his head. “Got a better idea—get his legs up above his heart to get the swelling down, and strap it up good, boot and all. That stiff leather makes a better splint than anything we’ve got.”

            Hitch nodded, agreeing. Hearing the German corporal speaking with Moffitt, he looked up.  "What's he saying?"

            "He couldn't understand how you knew his name," Moffitt explained.  "I told him that Allied soldiers call all Germans 'Fritz'.”

            Or Hans…what do you know, we got one of each.  Hitch shoved an empty ammunition box under the officer’s bent knees, and folded the Wehrmacht field jacket under his head, covering him with a spare blanket to prevent shock.  Now he was strapping the injured ankle firmly. The contents of Dietrich’s pockets had been set aside in Hitch's red képi, except for the knife, which Troy had confiscated.  Now, all they could do was keep waiting.  "Y'know, the captain'll probably be real mad when he wakes up," he commented as he worked.

            "After all this, he'd better not be," said Troy, who was carrying things out of his jeep.

            "Sarge, we took him prisoner when he was out cold.  Dietrich sure won't appreciate that.”

            Troy had to agree.  "You're probably right." I didn’t appreciate it much, either. He turned suddenly when their prisoner spoke again.  "What?"

            The English sergeant replied in German, and Arnheiter nodded, tears in his clear blue eyes.  "Ich danke Ihnen," he said again and again.  Even Troy could figure out what that meant: "thank you." He and Moffitt exchanged looks. The young German politely refused when Moffitt offered him his khaki handkerchief, hastily rubbing his eyes dry with a singed and bloodstained sleeve.

            "I just told him Dietrich would probably be all right.  He says to thank you very, very much, and he will never forget that you saved his captain."

            Troy smiled at the kid, by way of acknowledgment.  “Did he tell you what happened? And what were they doing out here?”

            "Apparently they were escorting a major and some other staff officers. They were about twenty yards away when the major's driver hit a land mine.  When the mine exploded, it caused Arnheiter here to lose control of the Kübelwagen, and they went off the road into a gully," Moffitt explained.  He was using disinfectant and gauze from their kit to clean the laceration just below the corporal’s hairline.  "Then the staff car’s gasoline tank exploded, which pelted them in burning debris. Then they started walking.  He carried Dietrich here across his shoulders after he lost consciousness." He quickly made a few ‘butterflies’ from adhesive tape to hold the wound closed, and added a gauze dressing to keep it clean. “That will probably need stitches when we get to a hospital, but it’ll do for now.”

           <<<<<>>>>>        

            Hans Dietrich heard voices—American voices.  At first, he struggled to remember why someone had run him over with a Panzer.  Then, gradually, he remembered the explosion and falling.  His throbbing ankle reminded him of walking for hours across the desert.  As he became more aware, he realized his clothing was drenched, wet through.  Adding to that a shattering headache, he deduced he must have suffered heatstroke.  And those voices.... He opened his eyes and found himself staring straight up at an apparition of Sergeant Troy.  No, not again...ach, Schiet.[1]  But he said nothing.

            "Captain," the American said, putting a hand on his shoulder.  It wasn't an apparition after all.  "Can you hear me?"

            "Yes."

            "Good." He chose his next words carefully.  "I'm sorry to tell you this, Captain, but you're our prisoner."

            Dietrich had already reached that conclusion.  "I understand."  He coughed: his throat felt like scorched sandpaper. 

            “Mein Herr….” At once, Arnheiter arrived at his left side, kneeling and offering him a tin cup of water.  The captain raised himself painfully on one elbow and sipped at the water; it was most welcome as he was desperately thirsty.  Ever since the staff car had exploded, his palate had tasted of burning petrol.   

            “Danke,” he murmured to his anxious corporal, and lay back again, dizzy.  "How did you find me?" he asked the American a few minutes later. “The smoke from the explosion, I suppose.”

            "Well, it's like this.  We didn't find you, he found us." Troy indicated Arnheiter.  "I think he thought we were the Italians or something," he explained, having overheard the young man saying something to Moffitt about Italiener.  "When he realized who we were, he surrendered.  But don't be too hard on him, Dietrich.  He saved your life.  If he hadn't got our attention…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

            "Yes." Dietrich closed his eyes, exhausted.  The pain in his head was excruciating.  He started to shift his position, and felt a hand on his right knee.

            "Easy, Captain…" said Hitchcock quietly.  "Don't move around if you can help it.  We think your ankle's broken." He paused, then went on, "Sorry, but I've done the best with it I can; if I've strapped it too tight, just say the word, and I'll do it over."

            "Thank you." It did feel better than it had before—the pain had shot all the way to his back with every step. Then he turned to his clerk. "Arnheiter. Are you all right?”

            "Ja, mein Herr,” the young corporal replied stoutly. 

            Dietrich could see with his own eyes that this was obviously untrue, but he let it go.

            A few minutes later, Moffitt approached and knelt by Troy.  "Well?  Stay or move out?

            "That depends. Captain, do you know where this mine field is that you and the other car ended up in?"

            Dietrich thought for some time.  Finally he answered, "No, Sergeant.   I do not now remember.  However, Arnheiter might know.  May I ask him?"

            "Sure, go ahead." Troy waited while the captain posed the question to his driver.  At first, the younger man looked nervous and a little frightened; his CO added something else.

            Moffitt whispered, "The boy's afraid we're going to interrogate them—Dietrich just told him we only want to know where it is so we don't end up in it ourselves."

            The two Germans finished conferring, and Dietrich addressed his captors again.  "He does not know how far we walked, so he cannot give any estimate of distance.  All he says is that it is to the south from here."

            "Okay," said Troy, "that does it.  I'm not driving off anywhere in twilight if I don't know where that mine field is.  We'll make camp until morning." He added, "And, Captain, tell him we don't interrogate prisoners.  It's not our job."

            "Here's another question," continued the Englishman.  "I know it's not done these days to ask for parole, but we can either tie up our young friend or we can ask him to promise not to take action against us."  He glanced at Troy, who nodded, and then Moffitt proceeded to put the proposal to Arnheiter in German.  "We can restrain you, and you will be very uncomfortable," he explained, "or you can give us your word not to escape or attack us."

            The fair-haired corporal met his gaze soberly.  "I will not leave Herr Hauptmann, and I will not attack the men who saved him.  Also, I have surrendered myself.  To violate that is dishonorable. Is that enough for you, Herr Unteroffizier?"

            "It is." Moffitt sat back on his heels, satisfied, and filled Troy in , translating what they had said.

            "Good enough," said the American.  "But remind him they're both under guard, and they better not try anything." This is going to be real interesting.  I don't remember ever having a prisoner who didn't speak any English at all.

            "He is a man of his word, Sergeant," Dietrich offered.  "He can be trusted, or I would not have him."

            Troy smiled slightly.  "That figures."  Dietrich himself was nothing if not trustworthy—Troy had never known him to lie, even when it would have been a good idea, he reflected.  Moffitt got up and left them, to help Hitch set up camp and make dinner while Tully stood guard.

            The four Allied men had moved off a little, leaving the two Germans a brief time to talk between themselves. "Report, Arnheiter…" said Dietrich, still not quite understanding how this situation had developed. His company clerk did so, capably reporting what had transpired that day, but even in the waning light, Dietrich could see that his face was red, and not only from sunburn.  "Was ist denn los?"

            "I was frightened, mein Herr." Arnheiter confessed, shamefaced.  "I did not know how… there was no one to tell me what to do."

            Dietrich sighed.  This was one of the evils of the Reich; people were discouraged from thinking for themselves.  The government feared nothing as much as citizens with independence of thought and action. "You did your best.  That is what I expect from any man."  At about that moment, a marvelous aroma got his attention. "Real coffee…?"

            "That's right," said Troy as he approached them and sat down on the ground beside them.    "Are you hungry?" he asked Dietrich as Arnheiter respectfully moved a few feet away to let them talk.

            "No, only very thirsty.  Thank you for asking." He was too unwell to want to eat anything.

            Moffitt spoke up.  “Would you care for tea instead? It’s even fresh—sent from home.”

            “That would be most welcome.” At that moment, tea sounded even more of a miracle in the wilderness than coffee. “Thank you.”

            Arnheiter apparently heard the word tea, and deduced what the Englishman had asked. He gestured toward Dietrich, and said in an amused tone, “Herr Hauptmann kommt aus dem Norden; er mag sein Tee so stark, daß man ihn fast schneiden kann."  That prompted a quiet smile from the captain.

            Troy frowned, and murmured, “What was that?” If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d just seen the kid tease Dietrich, and get away with it.

            Moffitt explained. “He explained that Herr Hauptmann comes from the north, and prefers his tea so strong one can cut it with a knife,” he paraphrased, using a similar American idiom. ”With or without sugar, Captain? Or we have sweetened condensed milk.” Nestlé supplied that item for the troops, in metal tubes like toothpaste.  Moffitt tended to hoard the stuff like dragons’ gold.

            “If you have it, please.” Dietrich declined to elaborate further.  He looked around at the surroundings, and frowned.  "Tell me something, Sergeant."

            "If I can, sure."

            "I do not remember seeing this place before.  Did you bring me here?"

            Troy jerked a thumb in Arnheiter's direction.  "Nope. He did. He carried you on his back, Captain., at least the last part of the way." 

            The officer’s eyes widened, surprised. “He did? He did not report that to me.”

            “No doubt about it. There’s only one set of tracks leading to this spot—made by his boots, not yours.”  Troy added, "I've got to hand it to you, Dietrich. That's not the same kid I met in your camp last winter." The nervous, anxious youth he had seen then, driving Dietrich’s patrol car, was quite different from the young man they had captured today.

            "No, Sergeant, he is not.  When you saw him last, his spirit had been nearly ruined by a bullying sergeant in his former unit, who found it amusing to torment and harass a shy young man. He knows now he has nothing to fear in the Afrika Korps but the enemy and the desert itself, and he serves with cheerfulness, courage, and dedication.  He is of great value to me." Talking worsened his sick headache, but he wanted Troy to see that a proper German soldier was not the nervous wreck that Arnheiter had been the last time Troy had met him.  He didn't really want to admit it to himself, but it mattered to him what the American sergeant thought.

            "You’re sure doing something right.  It took a lot of courage for him to ask us for help.  A lot of guys wouldn't have had the guts to do it."

            "The men used to call Arnheiter 'the rabbit' behind his back.  They don't say that now." However, he was not going to favor Troy with the story of how that had happened.[2]

            "How'd you manage that?” He refilled the cup with fresh water and gave it back to the captain.

            "I value him, Sergeant," Dietrich replied simply, "for his many talents. Observe." He pointed. Tongue between his teeth, Arnheiter was absorbed in drawing the intricate structure of a nearby bush, using a pocket-sized sketchbook and a stubby pencil.  Open on the ground beside him was an improvised paint box made from a battered Players cigarette tin; nine beer-bottle caps soldered inside the box held dabs of paint in various colors, along with two small brushes and the pencil he was using.  “In fact,” he went on, when you escaped from him in my headquarters tent, you took the map of that area away with you.”

            “Yeah, I did.  Thought it might slow you down a little.” He shrugged—it was an opportunity, and he’d taken advantage of it. “It didn’t work, though.”

            Despite how ill he felt, the captain smiled. “It was a good try, Sergeant. It might have worked, except that Arnheiter was able to redraw the map for me. Freehand.  From memory,” said Dietrich with evident pride. “I made him company clerk on the spot, as you say.”

            Troy eyed him, frowning.  “He drew it? You’re kidding.” Well, that would explain why my plan went south…

            “Not at all.  Among other talents, he is an accomplished artist, no mere amateur. In fact, as you can see, he will draw anything that stands still long enough.” He watched as Moffitt told the young soldier what his officer had said. The corporal reddened, abashed by the praise, but amused by the mild banter. “Sending him to Africa was my gain, and his old commander’s loss. They never knew what they had.”

            Hitch came over and gave tin cups of coffee to Troy and Arnheiter, who put the sketchbook back in his shirt pocket and the pencil back in the tin box. On the second trip, Hitch brought another steaming cup to Dietrich.  "Chow time.  The only trouble is, we've got plenty of food, but only four mess kits." Dinner was what he called “four-can stew”, which he had concocted from the British field-ration corned beef, combined with tinned peas, canned tomatoes, canned beans, and crumbled hard biscuit. They had also been lucky enough to receive some tinned salmon recently, but he had decided to save it for breakfast.

            "Fritz can use mine," called Tully as he came down briefly to collect his share.  Seeing that Dietrich was conscious and talking, he grinned.  "Hey, it worked. Just add water…"

            Troy rolled his eyes; Tully had an odd sense of humor.  Moffitt considered translating for Arnheiter's benefit, but thought better of it.  Trying to explain that joke was more trouble than it was worth.

            Hitch started to divide the food five ways.  When Arnheiter saw what he was doing, he gestured to the army 'bread bag' clipped to his belt, which had survived their ordeal.  His mess kit and canvas-covered canteen were still with him.  When given his share of the food, he exclaimed with delight, “Sie essen kein Alter Mann!"

            Moffitt chuckled.  "'Alter Mann' is their slang for the tinned meat they get,” he explained to the others. “It means ‘old man’."

            "Also called 'Armer Mussolini'," Dietrich said. "It is supplied by the Italians and marked A.M. on the tin.  No one knows what A.M. stands for; it is some sort of tinned sausage, but what animal it came from is open to debate.  Not even the Italian soldiers know; they call it Asino Morte." He sipped at the hot sweet tea, and nodded, appreciative.  At that moment, it seemed the most delicious thing he’d had in ten years, reviving him like a magic elixir in some old storybook.

            "Doesn't that mean 'dead donkey'?  In the college dining hall, we called it 'mystery meat'," Hitch sympathized.  "The Brits' chow isn't all that great, but at least you know what it is."

            Arnheiter was devouring his share of the British rations with obvious enjoyment.  "Thank you very much," he said to Moffitt in German.  "It is much better than spaghetti."

            Troy could hardly believe his ears.  "Did he say spaghetti?"

            "Unfortunately, he did," replied the captain.  "Tinned spaghetti is Mussolini's idea of noodles, but it is not ours."

            “Must've been a shock to get issued that stuff when you first came out here."

            "It was." Dietrich remembered being appalled to discover that any civilized people would put tomato paste on noodles, not to mention sealing the whole mess in cans.  “However, the tomato sauce is useful to prevent scurvy. On occasion, we are issued sauerkraut for the same purpose.”

            “There’s a good trick with that stuff, you know,” Tully suggested.  “If you can get hold of some of the canned potatoes the English have, then smash them together with the sauerkraut and fry it up…” He stopped when Hitch glared at him; he had momentarily forgotten that the two Germans would not be doing their own cooking for some time to come since their next destination would be a British prisoner-of-war camp. “Sorry,” he added, with embarrassment. “It’s a good idea anyway.”

            “Well,” Troy said to cover the awkward moment, “wherever you’re going to, the food has to be better than what you’ve got now. If it’s any consolation.” Which it probably isn’t…

            “Of that I have no doubt,” the captain replied, wearily. He could understand his company clerk's enthusiasm; the Allies' food smelled good to him, too, but he had no interest yet in eating anything.  Dietrich closed his eyes with a sigh, and lay still.

            Some time later, someone touched him gently on the arm.  It was Hitchcock, looking concerned.  "I'm going up on guard next," he said.  "You've been conscious for a few hours, so it should be safe now to give you a shot of morphine.    Do you want it, sir?" he asked respectfully.

            Dietrich considered that. There was no point in useless heroics, and the throbbing pain in his ankle and leg was growing worse.  "Please."

            "Okay." Hitch was all seriousness, with no joking.  He prepared the injection and found the vein in the officer’s left arm with his sensitive fingertips, even though it was dark.  "At least now you're hydrated enough that I can find a vein." He inserted the needle expertly and pressed the plunger.  "That should help a little.  Maybe you can get some sleep."

            "That was well done."

            "Thanks." Hitch shrugged.  "In this outfit, I get lots of practice.  Anyway, if you need help or anything, Pettigrew's over here on your right, and you can wake him up if you have to.  We don't mind, okay?  And one of us'll be checking on you every now and then, so don't deck the guy who's taking your pulse.  It's just us." He smiled a little, as he counted the pulse in the captain's wrist.  Once he'd done that, he checked his patient's ankle, and gave him another cup of water.  Tully’s idea had worked; as a result of elevating the captain’s legs on the ammo crate, the injured leg was less swollen than it had been when they’d found him. "Anything else I can do for you?"

            "No, thank you."

            "Okay, see you later."  He thought of saying 'good night, Captain,' but decided against it.

            Dietrich watched the dim figure scramble up the slope, thinking.  Only once before had he been at such close quarters with the Rat Patrol, but it hadn't been the same.  They had been under truce, and then he and Troy had been up all night creating an explosive trap for the horde of Arabs bent on killing the seven infidels.  He was intensely curious about these men and what they were like when they weren't blowing up his armor and thwarting his purposes.  He had been fascinated by their efficient operations, entirely without the direction of an officer.  Troy usually behaved as if he were an officer, and he sometimes had difficulty remembering the man was only a sergeant: sergeants in the Wehrmacht didn't act like that.  He did know that they were all honorable to an amazing degree, and that they were compassionate when they weren't being dangerous.  If he had to be taken prisoner, better by them than by anyone else.  There were worse ways to be captured—and far worse people to be captured by.

            An hour or so later, Troy abandoned the effort to go to sleep.  It just wasn't going to happen.  He got up, paced around the little campsite and stirred up the remains of the tiny fire, startling Hitch, who was standing guard.  He waved, and his driver waved back, giving him a thumbs-up:  no Jerries in the neighborhood.  Troy stood there for a long time, hands in his pockets, looking at the stars.  There was a reason he couldn't sleep, but there wasn't anything he could do about it.  Out of habit, the sergeant looked around for the rest of his men.  Moffitt was asleep, and so was Tully, snoring softly on his back.  Near the other jeep, the moonlight gleamed on Arnheiter’s light hair; he was asleep, but Dietrich was awake only a few feet from him.

            The captain’s dark eyes were watching Troy’s every move.  I guess I'm not the only one who can't sleep.  Being quiet, he moved over to his prisoner, and knelt beside him.  "You okay?"

            "More or less, I think you would say."

            "How's the leg?"

            "As one would expect."

            Ask a stupid question.... Troy thought a moment.  Maybe if he got this off his chest, he could go to sleep.   "Um, listen, Captain…" he began.

            "I am listening."

            "You understand, I've been wanting to capture you for a long time."

            "Naturally.  And I you."

            Troy sighed.  This wasn't getting any easier, but it needed to be said.  "I'm glad you're the POW, and not me—but I didn't want it to be like this."  He avoided looking Dietrich in the eyes.

            The German officer was bewildered.  If his interpretation was right, Troy was embarrassed.  No, more than embarrassed—he was ashamed.  Why?

            Troy looked up, and went on.  "A guy should at least have a chance to fight back, or be able to decide to give himself up.  Nobody should get captured when he's not even aware of what's happening—it's not fair.  I'm sorry."  He started to get to his feet.

            Dietrich winced inwardly. And he is carefully not mentioning that I did exactly that to him several months ago, and that I tricked him into thinking he was in an Allied hospital…  He replied, "Do not apologize, Sergeant, these are the fortunes of war.  You had no reasonable choice but to take me prisoner, and losing my freedom is preferable to losing my life.  I appreciate your kindness."

            "Well, what was I gonna do, shoot you?"

            "Many would have."

            "Not us. We don’t make war on sick or wounded men." Troy walked away then, climbing up by Hitch to take a look around.

            Fascinating, thought Dietrich to himself.  He's behaving as though he were caught cheating at cards—as though this were a game instead of a war.  What idealists the Americans must be ...

 <<<<<>>>>>

          Hitch gazed out across the desert.  Nothing moved except a family of kangaroo rats out foraging.  He grinned as he watched them.  Back at the barracks, he'd tried to keep a jerboa as a pet for a while, until it bit him.  They were sure cute, anyway.  Gradually, he became aware of a strange sound.  It was a vibrating noise, hollow and metallic.  He checked all around with the field glasses, but he knew it wasn't a motor or an airplane.  As he listened, staying absolutely still, it seemed to come from below and behind him.  "What the heck is that?" he muttered to himself, looking down into the wadi.  Nobody was moving; Sarge had come up a while ago for a minute or two, but he'd gone to sleep again.  Wonder what was eating him. Something sure was.  He frowned, still listening.  It was coming from down there, all right.  He knew he shouldn't leave his post, but he had to figure out what was going on.  For a Jerry, Arnheiter was a good kid, but he might try to pull something anyway and escape.  Hitch slid down as silently as he could and prowled around the camp, machine gun at the ready.  Whatever it was, it wasn't the German corporal; he was sacked out, all right.  The sound grew louder, and he realized it was coming from his left, where Dietrich lay.  He knelt beside the captain and then found out what the noise was.  Dietrich was in a severe chill, shivering so violently that the heel of his left boot was vibrating against the empty steel ammo box.  It was still early enough in the summer to be very cold at night, and his damp uniform had evaporated all the warmth from his body.  "Gee," whispered Hitch.  "I guess we got a little carried away, didn't we?" There was no response—despite the chills, the German had not awakened.  The ex-student gathered up his own blanket, dumped it on top of the captain, and kicked Tully on the ankle.

          Tully came awake, groggily.  "Huh?"

          "The captain’s freezing.  Can you spare a blanket?"

          "Yeah, sure." Tully handed over one of the blankets and curled back up, yawning.

          Hitch moved to where Arnheiter lay curled up and woke him, too.  He couldn't explain the situation, but he pointed to the officer, pantomimed shivering, and indicated that the corporal should move.  Arnheiter got up at once. He rose, gathered up the blanket that he had been using, and covered Dietrich with that one as well.  Hitch nodded, satisfied.  Then he saw that the German corporal was doing something else.  Arnheiter filled one of the metal canteens with water and placed it in the embers of the small fire to heat it up. After a few minutes, he checked to see how warm it was, and then carefully slid it underneath the blankets against the captain’s side.   Then he sat down again, warming himself by the fire and wrapped his jacket closer.

          Smart kid, thought Hitch. That and the extra blankets ought to work. You didn’t have to give up your own blanket, though. That wasn’t what I meant.

 <<<<<>>>>>

          The sky was just growing light in the east when Troy ended his watch.  He couldn't explain why, but he always liked to have the dawn one¾0300 to 0600.  The others were already up and around when he came down from the ridge, and Tully was measuring powdered coffee into the four cups. 

          Moffitt was sitting tailor-fashion on the ground, talking to Arnheiter, who had been sitting there for some time, keeping an eye on Dietrich. “Wie heißen Sie?” he asked, even though he knew the corporal’s name from the day before. He wanted to be sure the boy could recall his own name.

          “Mein Name ist Friedrich Nikolaus Arnheiter.”

          “Welchen Tag ist es?”

          “Am 13. Juni.”

          Close enough, thought the Englishman. That had been yesterday. “Wissen Sie, wo Sie sind?”

          The corporal hesitated a moment, then replied, “Cyrenaika.” He grinned, clearly intending it as a joke. Cyrenaica was the entire eastern section of Libya.

          Moffitt had to chuckle. “Mehr genau?”

          “1400 Meilen von zu Hause,” Arnheiter answered, and then added, more seriously, “Wo auch immer Herr Hauptmann ist, da bin ich auch.” He gestured toward the sleeping captain.

          I suppose he can’t be more exact than that, given where we are. The sergeant took a pen from his pocket, and held it up. “Bitte, folgen Sie diese Sache nur mit den Augen.” He slowly moved the pen from the right to the left and back again, watching the man’s eyes.

          After only a few seconds, however, Arnheiter paled and then shut his eyes. “Ach, ich kann das nicht, es wird mir schwindelig.”

          Oh, that’s not good. Moffitt brought over his own bedding, saying, “Das ist genug. Sollten Sie sich hinlegen und ausruhen.”[3]  The young German accepted both the blankets and the advice, and lay down.

          Two hours later, it was bright day. Hitch jerked a thumb at their prisoners; Arnheiter was awake, but the captain hadn't moved.  "He had kind of a rough night.  Should I wake him up?"

          Troy shook his head.  " I'll do it." He picked up a cup of the steaming coffee.  "This'll work better than an alarm clock."  He knew that Germans loved their coffee, and the Afrika Korps had been making do without it for months.  He walked over to the sleeping officer, sat down, and put the cup on the ground six inches from his prisoner's face.  Then he started counting: five...four...three ... two...

          It worked.  Dietrich's eyes opened with surprise, and then the expression changed to a weary resignation as he remembered where he was.

          "Yeah, it's me, Captain.  Sorry," Troy said.  "At least it's not all bad—there's coffee if you want some. And sugar. Help yourself."

          Dietrich sat up, cautiously, as Troy moved the ammo crate out of the way.  "Thank you."

          "How are you doing?” the sergeant asked.  It seemed a less personal question than ‘how do you feel?’.

          "Better. Thank you." He ran one hand through his hair and picked up the cup that was beside him.

          "Good.  You know, if you people weren't trying to take over a desert, you wouldn't have these problems."  He realized that he was saying the first thing that came to mind, trying to relieve the awkwardness of the whole situation.  It was a stupid remark, but it was too late—the words were out already.

          "It was not my idea, I assure you."  Dietrich sipped at the coffee.  It wasn't half bad, and it wasn't ersatz, either. It was certainly better than what the Afrika Korps had, even if it was reconstituted.

          Hitch came over and examined Dietrich's ankle, handling it carefully, and shook his head. He and Moffitt had decided not to try removing the boot. "I dunno, Captain.  Maybe it's broken, and maybe it isn't.  I’m sorry.” He looked apologetic. “I guess we'll just have to find out when we get you to a hospital.  Do you want breakfast?"

          "Yes, please." He still had a headache, but it was tolerable.

          Hitch went over to get the Germans some of the food he had prepared. This time it was the tinned potatoes and tinned salmon, along with oatmeal porridge.  "Is there any fruit left?" he asked Moffitt.

          "There is one tin of peaches left in my jeep.  It's not enough to go round six of us.” The English sergeant paused, thinking.  "Give it to them, Hitch.  We had ours yesterday, and they're hungrier than we are."

          "Right." The two privates exchanged looks.  They had both seen Arnheiter devour what they'd given him last night as if he hadn't seen food in a month.  Tully went and got the tin of peaches, leaving Hitchcock thinking.  In his previously sheltered lifetime, the Columbia dropout had never really experienced not having enough to eat.  He was learning more about the world in the Army than he ever had in school. Then Tully looked as if he’d had a brilliant idea.

          “Hitch, what about that stuff your mom sent? You didn’t bring any along with you, did you?”

          “Yeah, I did… that’s a good idea.” He grinned, and rummaged in the back of his jeep for the box of Fig Newtons he had hidden there.  He passed both those and the peaches to Moffitt.

          Moffitt opened the tin, divided it between the two plates for the prisoners, and continued with portioning the rest of the breakfast for all six of them, including the fig cookies.  As they sat down to eat, Tully gathered up his cup and mess-kit; it was his turn to stand guard again.  He went back up, smiling at Fritz as he passed him.

          Troy eyed the captain, speculatively.  "We were talking about food last night.  May I ask a question?"

          Dietrich raised an eyebrow.  "You may ask," he replied.

          Right. But I may not get an answer.  "Okay, you've been out here about a year, right?"

          "Yes, approximately."

          "What do you miss the most?"

          That was not the question Dietrich expected.  Interesting.  He is probably expecting me to say sausages, or possibly strudel.  Instead, I will tell him the truth.  "Very well, Sergeant.  Fried herring."

          "Oh."  Herring? None for me, thanks…you can keep it.

          Hitch looked from one to the other, and grinned. He wasn’t sure if that was the truth, or if the captain was pulling Troy’s leg.

          “Yes. Fresh fish. And…” The German paused, debating how much he wanted to reveal. Did it matter what they knew? He would never see them again, after all. “And I miss the Northern lights.”

           Now Troy was intrigued. His mental picture of Germany was full of mountains, castles, and forests. “Okay, I’ll bite. Where are you from, anyway?”

          “My home is Kiel. It’s a very old city, a seaport on the Baltic.”

          Troy didn’t recognize the name at first, and then he realized where he’d heard of that city beore. Oh, yeah… that’s where their big submarine base is.

          The captain went on. “Now I have a question for you, Sergeant.”

          “All right, fire away.”

          Dietrich looked to be sure his clerk’s attention was elsewhere, and spoke quietly. “Is Arnheiter all right? I doubt he will tell me even if I ask.”

          “He seems to be, as far as we can tell. It looks like nothing that a few days’ rest and some stitches won’t fix.  Moffitt thinks he has a concussion, though.”

          As do I. “I agree.”

          “Was he knocked out at all?”

          “Yes, for perhaps three or four minutes. Not for long.”

          “Okay, we’ll make sure the doc knows. Anyway, don’t worry.  Once we get back to our side of the line, we’ll get him to a hospital ASAP, along with you.”

          Hearing his name, Arnheiter spoke up, and the captain translated.  "He thanks you for the rations and suggests that the British should teach the Italians to cook."

          "Oh, they cook well enough when it's for themselves, I hear," Troy said. "Considering that they asked your general to come and defend Africa for them, it seems pretty chintzy to give you lousy food."

          "Mmm," said Dietrich.  The Italians were his allies, after all, and he was hesitant to criticize them to the enemy.  On the other hand, they did have a peculiar idea of warfare.  "They are fond of creature comforts, by all accounts.  We heard from one of my radiomen who is a Bavarian Catholic and who takes Mass regularly with the Italian chaplain, that at one time there was a mobile brothel kept by them for the—ah, 'amusement' of the officers."

          "I say," said Moffitt.  "Had you heard that we captured it?  The Eighth Army, that is. When it was captured, it was found that the young ladies were chaperoned by a priest."

          Now it was Dietrich's turn to stare.  "You're joking."

          "Not a bit of it." The Englishman repeated the information for Arnheiter, who howled with laughter and pounded his knee.  "I'll admit," he went on, "the implications of that are a trifle awkward."

          "Indeed they are." The German captain shook his head, making no effort to conceal his amusement.  "They are good soldiers under certain circumstances, but....  For example, this story was told through the entire division that when a certain Lieutenant Cristalde reported to his commander with two Allied prisoners, Colonel von Bracht said that he had never seen an Italian with a prisoner."

          Moffitt's eyes were sparkling with mirth.  "Captain, he still hasn't.  That wasn’t Lt.  Cristalde; it was I."

          "You?  How?"

          "He and his men surrendered to me and Pettigrew because of our 'superior force.'" Dietrich sighed, and Moffitt continued, "The Lieutenant was kind enough to lend his uniform to me so that we could rescue Troy and Hitch from the camp."

          "I ought to tell the colonel that one day," the captain began, and then stopped.  "However, it does not seem that I will have the opportunity.  So ist das Leben."

          Troy listened, quietly amazed.  If somebody had told me this was gonna happen, I'd've told him to sign up for a Section 8.  Here we all are, in a wadi at 0700, trading Italian jokes with Dietrich.  I still don't believe it.  It’s over.  It was all over at last; not only the challenge of matching wits, but the gut-level foreboding that one day he would have no choice but to kill this man, to whom he owed his life more than once.  Not that he'd ever admit it even to himself, but he was actually going to miss Dietrich.  He had enjoyed the contest, the knowledge that perhaps over the next ridge, there was someone thinking, and that someone could second-guess his own plans more often than not.  It had been exhilarating in a certain kind of way—a poker game with the highest stakes of all.  He had won, in the end, but it didn't seem fair and square when the hostile elements had fixed the game for him.  Like Tully had said, it was sheer dumb luck they had been in that place at that time.  Dietrich was taking it pretty well, though; he couldn't do anything about the current situation, so apparently he'd decided to be civil and make the best of it.

          It's over, thought Dietrich as well.  For us the war is over.  There was nothing realistic to do at this point, as he was physically unable either to resist or to escape.  What he felt was partly resignation, but in some way, also a sense of relief.  He didn't particularly want to spend the duration of the war in Canada, but on the other hand, he would never again have to weigh his orders against his conscience.  No more could he be compelled into doing loathsome things to satisfy men who had no honor.  He would miss the desert, and he would miss his loyal and excellent men.  He would not miss the Rat Patrol, but he admired Troy for his handling of this situation.  Dietrich knew that many another man would have gloated over him in this circumstance, but not Troy.  Instead, he treated the two Germans with respect and compassion. 

          Arnheiter had been watching the Allies thoughtfully for some time.  Now he leaned over and spoke softly to Dietrich.  The captain raised an eyebrow as he listened, then addressed Troy.  "Arnheiter wishes to ask you a question.  We are all aware that you and other Americans in the desert are volunteers, as the United States is not involved in this theatre of operations.  Rumor has it that the Americans volunteered because of your hatred of Germans.  Arnheiter believes that your actions do not support this.  He wants to ask why you are here."

          Troy grinned.  "Captain, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

          "Tell the man, Troy," Moffitt teased.  "This I'd like to hear."

          "Okay, okay.  Well, Captain, as for me, I told off a major one time too many.  They gave me a choice: getting busted to corporal—again—or helping the Australians defend Tobruk.  So, I've been out here about as long as you have.  As for Hitch and Tully, they blew up an officers' latrine back at Fort Benning."

          "We did not blow it up!" Hitch protested.  "It was just a stink-bomb…"

          "Yeah, it was really easy," said Tully, preparing to describe the possibilities inherent in a stolen bottle of rubbing alcohol, a trapped skunk, and a blasting cap, but Troy cut him off.  "So, the Army decided their talents at demolition should be put to use somewhere else.  They, er, volunteered, too."

          "Is that what you call it?" muttered Tully under his breath.

          "Eventually there were enough volunteer Yanks over here that they put us all together and handed us to the Long Range Desert Group.  That’s how I got 'em.  Moffitt's supposed to be here, except that he asked for this assignment with us.  I don't know who's crazier, him or me." 

          Dietrich shook his head.  "Sergeant Troy, I am familiar with your sense of humor, but if you expect me to believe that..."

          Troy held up two fingers.  "Scout's honor, Captain.  If I weren't here making your life difficult,  I'd be in the South Pacific somewhere, minus a few stripes."  Watching Dietrich translate all that to Arnheiter was a treat. 

          The captain was shocked.  He still wasn't sure whether he was being had.  It was impossible that an enlisted man subject to disciplinary action should end up with the charge of an independent patrol.  One cannot run an army like that...

          "We better be movin' out pretty soon, Sarge," Tully said to Troy, ending the conversation.  "The cooler it is, the less water the jeeps'll use up."

          "Yeah."  Now for the next problem—how to get Dietrich from point A to point B in the back of a jeep.  It would be a tight squeeze, to say the least.  By the time the patrol had all their ammunition, food, medical kit, camouflage net, and plastic explosives, they barely had room for themselves, much less for unexpected passengers with long legs.  Troy walked over and surveyed the space in the back of his jeep, walked back, eyed Dietrich thoughtfully, and stood thinking for some minutes.  "Well, Captain, it's not gonna be a comfortable ride, but we'll do our best."

          "There is no need to concern yourself, Sergeant."

          "Don't be an idiot.” As he said this, Arnheiter turned and gave him a sharp look. Troy didn’t see it, and went on. “I've been in your shoes. I broke my leg once on a hunting trip, and my kid brother had to drive me sixty miles in the back of a 1927 Ford pickup because he couldn’t get me into the front seat.  I'm not gonna wish that experience on anybody.  Now, I think we can wedge your legs between a couple crates of ammo so they won't bounce when the jeep does.”  Padded with camo netting and the blankets, it'll be almost tolerable.

          While Troy had been speaking, the two privates had been efficiently gathering up all the gear and stowing it in the jeeps. Once that was done, Pettigrew and Hitchcock arranged themselves on either side of Dietrich and lifted him into the back of the jeep. 

          "Sarge is right, Captain," said Hitch.  "It is gonna be a rough ride.  You'll have to hang onto the gun mount for dear life.  Here, you can have my canteen until we get there.  Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.  Would your corporal like some of this?" He fished a square of Bazooka out of his shirt pocket and began to offer it to Arnheiter.

          He was interrupted in his kindly intention.  "No."  Dietrich was adamant.  "I will not allow you to do that again.  The last time you gave that—substance—to one of my men, he had to scrape it off his goggles.  I forbid it."

          "Oh.  Sorry about that."  Apparently that guy Heine learned to blow bubbles with it after all....  Hitch noticed that Troy had suddenly ducked his head into the other jeep's engine compartment, and Moffitt's face had solidified into a parade-ground stare.  "Well, look, I've got another kind too.  It's licorice, and it doesn't bubble.  Honest."  He reached into his pocket again for the blue package of ‘Black Jack’ his mother had sent him.

          Dietrich considered this and acquiesced.  He translated for Arnheiter and allowed Hitch to give him some of it.  They drove off, after policing the area carefully to remove all signs of their presence.  Troy stood over Dietrich in the back, and braced himself so that his shadow fell across the captain's head and shoulders.  As Hitchcock had predicted, Dietrich was only able to keep himself upright among the boxes of ammo by wrapping both arms around the base of the machine-gun and clinging to it ferociously.  Every bounce, every vibration, was extremely painful, but the camouflage netting helped somewhat.

          It was nearly ten o'clock when they rounded a hill and found themselves in the midst of a German reconnaissance patrol—they were outnumbered, outgunned, and surrounded.  "Herr Hauptmann ist da!" someone shouted, and a cheer went up from nearly two dozen men.  In response, a smile of pleasure lit up Dietrich's angular face like a sunrise.  The hospital he was going to would belong to the Germans, not the Allies.

          Troy looked at the triumphant faces of Dietrich's men, and knew the game was over, all right—but not the way he'd had in mind.  Behind him in the other jeep, Tully remarked quietly, "So much for dumb luck…"

          From his vantage point, Dietrich surveyed the patrol that had evidently come looking for them.  His second-in-command, Lt. Bergmann, was there, as was Arnheiter's best friend, Konrad Genscher.  He looked up at Troy, who was still standing and holding on to the machine gun.  It would be so nice to know that the Rat Patrol was a thousand miles away in a POW camp, and unable to harass him any further. Still, he couldn't do it; if not for them, he and Arnheiter would surely have died. He owed them that. They might yet end up as prisoners in Bizerte—but not today.

          He tapped the wiry American's boot, and motioned for him to bend lower.  "Sergeant," the German said softly.  "I appreciate your position.  If you had merely captured Arnheiter and shot me, or abandoned us both, you would have been home on your side of the lines hours ago.  If you had not remained to help me, you would not now be my prisoners."

          "Yeah.  I'd figured that out already, thanks."

          Ignoring Troy's sarcasm, Dietrich continued.  "Therefore, Sergeant Troy, I have a proposition to make.  I can guess how much water remains in this can beside me, and I know what you did with the rest of it.  You have at present two prisoners, and I am sure my men have two spare cans of water.  Shall we trade?”

          Troy stared at him.  The captain couldn't possibly be serious.  "You mean that?"

          "If I did not, I wouldn’t make the offer. Take the water, hold your fire, and I will let you go."

          It was too good a proposition to turn it down, and it was their only real choice.  Outnumbered six to one at point-blank range, there was no way they could fight their way out of this without getting them all killed. "Okay, you've got a deal."  It was worth a try.

          "Excellent.  Genscher! Bergmann!" Dietrich shouted, and began to give orders.  Arnheiter climbed stiffly out of the back of Moffitt’s jeep as a short, dark-haired man wearing a corporal's stripes jumped down from the halftrack and brought the two cans of water. Beaming with happiness, he crossed himself twice and saluted Dietrich as he approached the jeeps.  He and Arnheiter argued for several seconds and then moved together to help their captain, who was disentangling himself from the heap of camo netting.  Making a chair of their clasped arms—not easy given the difference in their heights—they simply lifted him out of the jeep.  "Another day, Sergeant.  Thank you," Dietrich said as they moved off toward the nearest truck. Astonished, the Rat Patrol watched as the two enlisted men lifted him into the vehicle, and Genscher climbed in after him.

          Arnheiter turned back and gave Troy a long look before he too got into the truck, but said nothing. You saved my captain’s life, he thought.  I will owe you this debt as long as I live.

          The entire group rumbled off, leaving the four men and two jeeps alone in the desert.  Apparently, the captain had meant exactly what he said.

          "Well, I'll be a¾" Troy began, but words failed him.

          "Nobody is gonna believe us,” Tully said, watching the column retreat into the distance. "We don't even have anything to prove it happened."

          "Yeah, we do." Troy held up Dietrich's pocket knife and the two Lugers, which he hadn’t given back.  "Let's shake it!"

<<<<<>>>>>

          “Hans, you are lucky to be alive,” said the battalion’s doctor, a general practitioner in his early thirties named Köhler, who hailed from Hannover. Lieutenant Bergmann had radioed to the battalion hospital for him even before they had reached their camp. “That I am treating you and that clerk of yours, instead of burying both of you, I consider a genuine miracle.” The two officers had known one another since the Afrika Korps’ arrival in Libya, though the affable Köhler was the least soldierly officer Dietrich had ever met. Martin Köhler’s purpose in life was to practice medicine; saluting fell much lower in the list of his priorities. “God must be saving you for something special, my friend.”

          The idea of the Rat Patrol somehow acting as the agents of the Almighty brought a deep chuckle from the company commander. “Using them? What an absurd idea.”

          “Laughter is an involuntary response to absurdity. This should tell you something about the world, eh? It is full of absurdity, and God knew it when He made us.”  Köhler went on. “As for your ankle, yes, it’s broken. It looks as though you struck the outer side of the ankle on the inside of the car door. The break is three centimeters above the ankle bone, the lower end of the fibula[5]. It’s still in the correct position, and it’s not the bone that bears a man’s weight, so it ought to heal well enough without an operation. Six weeks in a splint should see it nearly good as new. Still, you should stay off your feet, keep it elevated, for the first ten days or so. A fortnight would be better.”

          Dietrich sighed.  How he was going to manage to do that was beyond him.  “And Arnheiter?”

          “As you thought, he sustained a concussion.  There isn’t anything to be done for that, except rest from brain work and rest for the eyes as well. I’ll stitch up that wound for him while I’m waiting for your morphine shot to take effect.” Suiting the action to the words, Koehler filled the syringe that would deaden the pain of his friend’s fractured ankle.  “I will say, you’ve made a strong man out of that nervous boy who turned up here last fall.”

          “It was not I who did that, Martin. It was the desert.”

          "You know, Arnheiter," Dietrich murmured later that day, "We two ought to be dead." At that moment, they were alone in the infirmary tent. Doctor Koehler had finished splinting his right ankle and foot and applied an ice pack. The shooting pain had diminished to a dull ache. "Instead, here we are, safe if not exactly sound.  However, you have witnessed the most foolish thing I have ever done."

          "Foolish, Herr Hauptmann?" Seated on a canvas camp chair beside him, the blond young man shook his head, now properly sutured and bandaged.  "Never that I have seen, sir."

          "You," said the captain, "are not impartial.  I had them all in our hands; and, due to my soft heart—or perhaps head—they are still roaming free to attack us at will."

          Arnheiter took his courage in both hands, and dared to disagree.  "I thought, mein Herr, it was due to your honor."

          Dietrich was glad of the semi-darkness in the tent—enforced by his sunstroke—which kept his corporal from seeing him blush.  He frowned at the man and changed the subject. "Now," said the captain, "about this matter of your surrender."

         Arnheiter sighed and looked down. "Yes, sir."

        "You do realize that we have orders which do not allow us to surrender to an enemy, in any circumstance, while we are still capable of resistance."

         The corporal nodded. Dietrich continued. "In fact, your sidearm was fully loaded, and so was mine, which you could have used even if I could not. Is that not so?"

       "Ja, mein Herr." With a pistol, he was a mediocre shot at best, but that was beside the point.

         "How many shots would you have had?"

          "Sixteen, sir."

          "Which you could have used against that group of commandos."

          Arnheiter's expression was miserable.  "Yes, sir," he admitted.

         "That is what the men at High Command in Berlin would have told you to do," said his commander, and then his tone of voice shifted.  "What I am telling you is that I am exceedingly grateful you did nothing so idiotic as that." The captain’s stern expression softened. "Instead, you had the good sense and the courage to do exactly what you did."

          His clerk looked up, startled and confused. "Sir?"

          "Had you complied with that order, Arnheiter, neither of us would be here now.  They would probably have killed you, even injured and on foot, had you charged them firing a pistol, and no one would have found me or known where I was.  Your brave actions saved my life and yours as well."

          "But I was not brave, mein Herr. I was afraid." I was afraid you would die…and it would be my fault.

          "Of course you were, as any sane man would be. Only a fool is not afraid when there is good cause for it." He coughed, and Arnheiter quietly poured him a cup of water and handed it to him. "What I am saying," Dietrich went on, "is that the men who wrote those orders are sitting in an office a thousand miles away. They have no understanding of the desert, nor of the conditions we face here. You did what you needed to do to get help. Das war gut gemacht." The clerk nodded, slowly understanding what his commander was implying. "Still, I must discipline you for taking that action, even though it saved both of us to fight another day. Orders are orders.”

          "Yes, sir." That he understood.

          The officer continued, "As my activities are restricted for the near future, I need some responsible man to be my eyes, arms, and legs.  That man must run errands, deliver messages, make reports, and see to it that I am kept abreast of all developments in the unit.  It will be very hard work, and he will be on call twenty-four hours a day.  That, Arnheiter, is your punishment for saving my life."

          Friedrich Arnheiter could think of no duty assignment that would please him more.  "Thank you, Herr Hauptmann."

          Dietrich had known, of course, that the young man would take it exactly that way—and that his comrades would view the same assignment as cruel and unusual punishment.  "However, our Doctor Koehler tells me that you’ve suffered a concussion. He says you must have some days’ rest to recover from that injury."

         "Herr Hauptmann, I was hurt worse at twelve years old falling out of a tree," the younger man protested.

         "Very likely," said Dietrich, amused. "But this injury is to the inside of your head, not the outside. For that to heal, you need rest. Your orders are to stand down for four days. I have spies in this camp," he continued in a minatory tone. "If you are sorting files at midnight, making circuit diagrams, in the motor pool repainting all the palm trees, or soldering radio components, I will know. If you are doing anything besides staying in your tent listening to 'Lili Marleen', I will have you placed in the guardhouse where there is nothing you can do except sleep. Alles klar?"

     Arnheiter chuckled.  "Ja, mein Herr." He knew when to give in.

      "Good. Get out of here and please send Bergmann to me, and a mess orderly if you can find one, on the way to your tent. I will see you here in four days’ time. Remember that you have been severely disciplined,” he added in as stern a tone as he could muster.

          "Yes, sir." Arnheiter left, pausing to wipe the smile off his face and assume a suitably dejected expression before going out the door into the golden light of sunset.

          As  his company clerk left the infirmary tent, Dietrich sighed. It is strange, he thought.  Outwardly, there seems to be nothing extraordinary about that young man. A detailed description of Friedrich Arnheiter would describe ten thousand other men equally as well. Yet there is much more to him than is apparent to the eye.

<<<<<>>>>>

          Back at the Siwa oasis and their HQ, Troy and Moffitt reported back to Captain Fallon. “You did what?!”

          “I don’t know what else we could have done, sir.” Troy countered. “Like I said yesterday, we don’t make war on the sick and wounded. And I’m not going to drive off and leave a man for dead, no matter whose uniform he’s in.”

          The officer sighed, resigned. “I suppose you’re right. And if we did, it would make us no better than those thugs in Berlin. Too  bad you couldn’t have just grabbed them both, Dietrich and the other chap, and run like hell for our lines straight away.”

          “I know. But we couldn’t. It was already getting dark by the time he was conscious again. And I didn’t want us to find that mine field the hard way. So we stayed put until morning.”

          As the two sergeants left, and walked out into the afternoon sunshine, Troy kicked a small rock out of his way and sent it spinning across the hard-packed earth. "Thanks for not telling him."

          "Telling him what?"

          "That that was the stupidest thing you've ever seen me do.  Right now, we could all be POWs in Bizerte.”

          "I see what you mean, rather.  But I don't see what else you could have done, old boy.” Moffitt frowned.  “Unless, that is, you were seriously considering shooting an unconscious man. There are other men who could have left him for dead or shot him, but not you."

          "Yeah. Come on, I need a drink,” said Troy.  “Several, in fact.”

          “It won’t help, you know.”

          In the motor pool, Tully Pettigrew reached one hand out from under the jeep, expecting the half-inch wrench he’d asked Hitch to hand him, but nothing happened.  “Hey, Hitch,” he called out, “What are you doing?” He rolled the creeper out and looked up.

          Hitchcock was leaning against the jeep, lost in thought. “Huh? Oh, sorry… here.” He handed over the wrench that Tully wanted. 

          “What’s eating you?” But it was a rhetorical question; the Kentuckian was pretty sure he knew.  Hitch just got his horizon broadened, I think.

          “I dunno. That was just…strange.” He shook his head, the late-afternoon sun reflecting off his glasses.  “That was the strangest morning I ever… I never really thought about the captain that way before.”

          “In what way?” Pettigrew’s voice echoed strangely from under the jeep.

          “We were all of us just there, talking and drinkin’ coffee. Him, too. Like a regular guy.”

          “He is a regular guy, ‘cept he’s an officer. Just from someplace else, that’s all, with a different way of lookin’ at things. By the way, you realize Dietrich’s younger than me?” Tully came out again, sat up and took a drink of water from the canteen beside him.

          “No…” Hitch exclaimed in disbelief. “No way!”

          “Yep. Saw his Soldbuch, that record thing they have to keep with them, when I was folding up his field jacket. My birthday’s six months before his. He’s not even twenty-six yet.” He chuckled.  “Did you see those two kiddin’ around with each other? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

          “What do you mean, kidding around? Dietrich doesn’t joke…”

          “Like heck he don’t. What’s even funnier is that Arnheiter kid started it, saying Dietrich likes his tea so strong you need a knife to cut it.”

          “Oh, yeah…”

          “And then later the captain gets him back, saying he’ll draw anything that stands still long enough. And he was laughing. Not out loud, it’s not dignified, but he was laughing all the same.” Tully prepared to get back under the jeep and fix the damage caused by a rock that they’d driven over.

          Hitch went on, “And I still can’t believe that guy really did that.”

          “Did what?”

          “Put the captain on his back and carried him.” He shook his head, dumbfounded. “Over half a mile, Moffitt said, looking at the tracks.”

           “Nothin’ strange about that. I’d do the same thing for Sarge, or Moffitt—wouldn’t you?”

          “But, that’s different…”

          “Nope. Dietrich and his guys are just as tight as the four of us are. I’d bet those twenty-some guys didn’t turn out to search for some major they don’t even know. They wanted their captain back, and their buddy. And that one guy must’ve been praying for them—did you see him crossin’ himself?”

          Half an hour after they left HQ, seated at a table with pints of beer, Troy clenched his fist in frustration.  “Damn… all we needed was three more hours.  Three lousy hours to get back on our side, and this would all be over. Finished.” He looked up as the curtain of beads rattled, and waved away the serving boy. They had this particular room to themselves for the moment. “If we’d rolled out at dawn, we might have made it.”

          “Well, when you’ve rescued your prisoners from death’s door—or one of them, anyway— things don’t always go according to plan.” Moffitt took a pull of his own beer, and only then registered what Troy had said.  “What do you mean, over?”

          “You know what I mean,” the wiry American growled. “If we could have gotten Dietrich shipped out of here, sent to Canada or wherever they’re sending POWs these days, then everything goes back to being simple, instead of… whatever the hell it is now.” He downed the shot of whiskey that he’d ordered instead of pouring it into the beer. “Y’know, there’s a reason that the first rule of war is to never know their names…” Much less their voices, or how they like their coffee, he thought sourly.

          Now Moffitt understood.  “Because then the enemies are just faceless enemies—instead of men like ourselves, with a clever sense of humor and missing their homes as much as we do.” He paused, weighing his words before speaking. “But, Troy, this is Africa. It’s never been that way here, probably never will be. We’re not out here to kill as many of them as we can, that’s not the point. Their goal is to take Palestine, and the Persian Gulf oil to fuel Hitler’s war machine, and then the territory up through the Caucasus—our goal is to stop them. It’s the strangest war zone there has ever been… do you know, our lads and their lads take advantage of foul weather and get up a game of footy on the beach? And not long ago, some officers from a British unit crossed the lines with a white flag to borrow the nearest German unit’s doctor, and brought him back the next day? And they sent a dozen bottles of Bass with him?” He took another swig from his pint, and went on. “Last winter, when the 8^th moved into a town that the Jerries had just left, there was a message scrawled on a wall that said, ‘Merry Christmas – See you next year!’ Signed, 21^st Panzer Div.”

          “Yeah, I know. But those are someone else’s problems.  This one’s mine.”

          “And theirs, too.” The Englishman grinned.  “He’s probably having the same drink we are, and asking himself why the devil he let us go.”

          "Foes became friends.  Comradeship has a fluidity that people who were not soldiers at the front cannot understand.  Shared times of need, dangers endured together, memories of mutual helpfulness, and especially of that help an enemy gave one, often at risk of his own life, formed stronger bonds than all traditional friend-foe clichés."

          —Volkmar Kühn,   Rommel in the Desert:  Victories and Defeat of the Afrika-Korps 1941-1943

[1] Just what it sounds like... Plattdüütsch (North German, Low German) = Scheiße or Schmutz.

[2] See “The Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing Raid.”

[3] It’s too cumbersome to translate that whole conversation in the text:

• Welchen Tag ist es? – What day is it?
• Am 13. Juni. – June 13.
• Wissen Sie, wo Sie sind? – Do you know where you are?
• Mehr genau? – More exactly?
• 1400 Meilen von zu Hause – 1400 miles from home
• Wo auch immer Herr Hauptmann ist, da bin ich auch.— Wherever the captain is, I am there too.
• Folgen Sie diese Sache nur mit den Augen. – Please follow this only with your eyes.
• Ach, ich kann das nicht, es wird mir schwindelig.” – Oh, I can’t do it. It makes me dizzy.
• Das ist genug. Sollten Sie sich hinlegen und ausruhen.— That’s enough. You should lie down and rest.

[4] A true story.

[5] I.e., the lateral malleolus.  It is not a weight-bearing structure, and a fracture there, although quite painful, does not necessarily make the ankle joint unstable.