Work Text:
Sand Dunes and Palm Trees:
Welcome to 3rd Reconnaissance
There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship.
—Thomas Aquinas
Somewhere in Cyrenaica
13. September, 1941
The sun was already hot even though it was early morning. Hauptmann Hans Dietrich stood where he could quietly observe the eight new men for his unit as they collected their kit from the truck they had arrived in from the docks at Benghazi. They were his share of a cohort of several hundred that had arrived by ship from occupied France, along with a number of newly-conscripted men from Germany. As a result, these few would stand out from their more-seasoned comrades by their field-grey uniforms until their tropical uniforms were issued to them.
This group did not seem to be out of the ordinary, much like the other replacements whom he had received from time to time in the last several months. However, something about this group struck him oddly though it took him a moment to realize why. It was clear that the eight of them, being a random selection, were not all known to each other, but one of the men seemed to be somehow separate from the rest of his fellows. He didn't speak with the others, nor they with him, as they gathered their kit and assembled themselves to be addressed by Georg Kunzler, the first sergeant of Kompanie 4.
Dietrich turned away for a moment, as his senior lieutenant, Emil Bergmann, came up next to him, also to observe the new batch of men to be exiled to this inhospitable corner of the earth. "Good God," murmured Bergmann. "It looks as though you have caught yourself a Tartar, mein Herr." He gestured toward the last man on the left end of the line. The wind ruffled the soldier’s very light hair and threatened to snatch off his grey sidecap. Like the others, he held himself very properly at strict attention, staring directly forward—or as well as he could stare with only one working eye. The man’s left eye was swollen shut, completely obscured by a vividly purple bruise. "That one's going to be trouble, mark my words."
Dietrich raised an eyebrow to acknowledge Bergmann's sotto voce remark, but he was watching the eight of them, and Kunzler, as he laid down the law for these new members of Kompanie 4. Two of the men were in their mid-twenties, nearly his own age, and definitely not new recruits; three others seemed to be relative youngsters fresh from training, judging by the way they wore their uniforms. That left the remaining three, all of whom looked like good recruits, though one of them seemed as though he were a bit too fond of rich meals. On the rations we get, the desert will solve that problem in good time, Dietrich thought to himself dourly. Interesting that the one who looks the most soldierly is the one who's been in a fight. If not for that eye, he'd pass an inspection on the spot.
He waited for Kunzler to finish his introduction, which was as always difficult to distinguish from a general dressing-down, before he approached to address the new men himself.
He spoke briefly, introducing himself and his officers, and explained that he would speak with each of them in turn over the next several days as it was important to him to know all of the men in his command. In that way, they could be assigned duties to the best advantage of the unit. Dietrich also described what sort of work that 3rd Reconnaissance battalion did and the situations they might encounter which were unique to life in the Afrika Korps. Then he dismissed them all to be settled into quarters and have necessary items issued to them. Breakfast would follow in a half hour.
As the men dispersed, the captain motioned Sergeant Kunzler over to him. "See to it that they all get zinc oxide," he reminded the older man. "Especially the one on the end there." The Libyan sun was merciless to all the new men, but anyone as blond as that fellow would be broiled to a crisp in no time flat.
"Ja, Herr Hauptmann. Zu Befehl.”
After checking for any new dispatches, Dietrich headed over to the mess tent for his own breakfast, and found himself joined by the doctor assigned to 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion, Martin Köhler. Köhler also held the rank of captain, with two pips on his shoulder boards; he had been in general practice in Hannover before the war. They had known one another since they had both arrived in North Africa, and were on familiar terms. "Good morning, Hans," said the physician quietly to his friend. "Good to see you." Köhler generally came every week or ten days, on his rounds to visit all the companies in the battalion. "Don't vanish anywhere until I've seen to your shoulder. Is there anyone else whom I need to see?"
Dietrich looked around the mess tent and saw his new recruits being herded by one of his most seasoned men, a short dark-haired Bavarian named Konrad Genscher. He looked toward the group getting in line for their chow. "In fact, yes. One of the new ones..."
Köhler nodded. "Let me guess," he said, as they sat down to eat at the table nearest the center of the tent and thus the most protected from wind and flying sand. By unwritten tradition, that table was reserved for officers in general and the captain in particular. "The one with the eye?" He had happened to see the eight new men while they were at muster.
"Yes. First, I want to know if he's actually fit for duty. He can't possibly see out of that eye. Second, if you can, Martin, get him to tell you what happened. In my experience, that indicates a weakness for either fighting or drinking. If that is the case, I want to know." The man with the bruised eye seemed awfully young to be a committed drunkard, but it was not unheard of. Dietrich had known boys younger than that who would steal cough syrup from the infirmary for the alcohol in it.
Later in the morning, Dietrich finished discussing a problem involving one of the halftracks with Sergeant Wolfgang Jahnke, and looked up to see the battalion’s doctor patiently waiting outside the HQ tent. “Come in, Doktor Köhler,” he said. Uncharacteristically, the amiable doctor’s eyes looked hard and angry. “What is going on?” the captain asked him. “Was ist los?”
“I am not certain, Hans, but whatever is going on, I don’t like it,” Köhler replied, once Jahnke had taken his leave of the two officers.
“About that man, you mean?”
“Yes.” The doctor laid down his bag on the desk. “First, though, let me have a look at that shoulder of yours.” He pulled the flaps of the tent closed as the captain slowly unbuttoned and removed his shirt, using mostly his right hand. Two weeks before, he’d injured his left shoulder after leaping out of a halftrack just before it was blown up by the Allied commando team commonly known as the Rat Patrol; running across the sand, he’d then slipped and fallen, his left arm giving way under him.[1]
The first week, Köhler had bound the arm to his side to immobilize it; this last week he had simply instructed Dietrich to avoid using his left arm as much as possible. Now, he carefully probed the badly strained deltoid with his sensitive fingers, slowly moving the injured arm—a sharp intake of breath and Dietrich’s knotted brows told him how painful it still was. “Bad news, my friend,” the doctor said, gently lowering the captain’s arm. “It’s getting worse, not better.” The injured muscle was still very inflamed. “You’re using it too much.”
“I did what you said, Martin,” Dietrich replied, his tone sharp and his dark eyes flashing annoyance. “Don’t tell me you have to strap it again.” That first week had been an extreme nuisance. The company medic, a former medical student named Paul Schäfer, had had to help him on and off with his shirt every morning and evening for eight days and had re-strapped it each time.
“I might have to. How are you sleeping?”
“Badly,” the captain admitted grudgingly. “No position is comfortable.”
“I can well imagine.” Köhler helped his patient back into his shirt. “See, no matter what position you are in—standing, lying, or seated—the weight of your arm itself keeps pulling on that muscle, so it can’t heal.” From his bag, the doctor took a paper packet labeled Verbandtuch, and tore it open. It contained a large square of grey fabric, which he competently folded into a triangle and knotted into a sturdy sling to support Dietrich’s bent left arm. “Two weeks, Hans. You can’t use the arm, at all. If you don’t rest it, it won’t heal. I was hoping that a week immobilized would be enough, but it wasn’t.” He wrote brief notes on a slip of paper after pinning up the corner firmly around the captain’s elbow. “Keep using aspirin for the pain, and you can use heat on it for short periods. I’ll leave some arnica for you with Schäfer. And he can help you with a rolled towel or blanket or something to rest the arm on at night.” He smiled at the younger officer. “With luck, two weeks will be long enough.”
Grudgingly, Dietrich allowed himself a half-smile in return. There was no sense in taking out his annoyance on his friend, and it was due to not sleeping well that he was ill-tempered in the first place. He changed the subject away from his aching shoulder. “What were you able to find out about—” he paused, recalling the names on the paperwork he had just signed off on. Of the eight new men, only one was blond with blue eyes. “—Obersoldat Arnheiter?” he asked.
“I think the eye itself is all right. It’s only a bad bruise. There’s no fracture of the facial bones. But… that’s not all.”
“No?”
“No. There are more contusions, all over him, and all occurring at the same time. It was not a fight, Hans—it was a beating.” Martin Köhler’s normally placid expression was tight with anger. “By one man, wearing a ring on the right hand. All of the bruises, including the one on his face, show a little mark from that ring.”
“You are sure of this?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes. His hands are not bruised at all. He never hit back. Another man, or men, may have been restraining him—there are some faint marks on his upper arms.”
That was disturbing. “Did he tell you what happened?”
“Oh, yes. It’s quite a good story, in fact—except for not being true.”
“What did he say?” Dietrich’s curiosity about this strange situation made him almost forget about the pain in his injured shoulder.
“He explained how his duty the last few days in some unit in France was as a messenger, so he was delivering dispatches and riding around the area on a bicycle. He says he hit something in the road, and went off the bicycle.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No. He has no abrasions from the road, and if he’d fallen headfirst off a bicycle, he would have. The contusions across his abdomen are from a man’s fist, not the handlebars.”
“He said nothing except the bicycle story?”
Koehler shook his head. “No.”
“Well, I suppose the truth will come out eventually. “ All sorts of men from all walks of life— good men and bad ones, lazy and diligent, intelligent and otherwise—washed up on these sandy shores, and it was Dietrich’s job, and his sergeants’, to make soldiers of all of them if they weren’t already. Admittedly, this fellow’s past was a mystery, but it wasn’t one that needed to be solved at once. He would, however, keep an eye on the man as he did all the new ones, and wait to see what developed. “I take it, then, that he is fit for duty?”
“Yes, though you might want to choose a less arduous duty for him at first, and I’ve written him a chit to excuse him from drill for the first week; being struck in the face that hard, he may have a mild concussion. And I’ve left arnica for him with Schäfer as well.”
“Kunzler often puts new men in the motor pool. He says that they can’t get into as much trouble there, while he decides what work they are best suited for. In fact, he rotates all the men through there by turns, so that any of them can make repairs on vehicles in the field.”
“A sound policy. Well, I must be off, but I'll be back next week. Tschüß..." said Koehler, and saluted Dietrich more from courtesy than requirement, given their long friendship.
Dietrich nodded and returned the salute. Dr. Köhler departed then with his own driver, leaving Kompanie 4 for the next destination on his weekly visit to the various divisions within 3rd Panzer Reconnaissance Battalion.
Alone in the HQ tent, Dietrich idly wished there were more coffee. Insufficient sleep the last several days had left him weary and worn-out. After downing three aspirin with a tin mugful of water, he opened the file folder with the transfer paperwork for the eight new men, and set himself to read.
The corporal who was filling in for Kompanie 4's late clerk had efficiently sorted all the forms into alphabetical order. The first man was a Klaus Allgeier from Kassel, aged eighteen, and trained as a tanker. The second form in the folder was the one for this Arnheiter fellow. His full name was Friedrich Nikolaus Arnheiter, age 21, from Ilmenau in Thüringen. His previous experience was in a motorized-infantry company, the 29th, in southern France, where he had been one of the clerical staff. Well, that's useful, thought Dietrich, whose previous company clerk had recently succumbed to an infection of the kidneys. Besides his clerical specialty, Arnheiter's other training was as a radioman, which was also something Kompanie 4 was short of.
Dietrich turned the page and began reading the next form, of a man named Helmut Engelmann, when something he'd noticed made him turn back to the previous form.
Unlike all the others, which were neatly typed and dated, with carbon copies, Arnheiter's transfer paperwork had been hastily filled out by hand, in ink. And the date was only three days earlier, and the time... Dietrich stared at it, and carried it into the sunlight to be sure he'd read it correctly. The officer who had made out the form, apparently the battalion adjutant, had filled out the paperwork at half-past three in the morning, three days ago. Was zum Teufel....? This Captain Becker filled out the paperwork in the middle of the night, shoved that boy onto a truck, and had him on a troopship by dawn. This is becoming stranger by the minute...
There was nothing he could do about this conundrum except wait and see. He turned the page again and concentrated on mentally connecting August Krähenbuhl's face with his name.
<<<<<>>>>>
Around midday, Kunzler arrived at the HQ tent, bearing a folder under his arm along with some victuals from the mess tent as a repast for both himself and Dietrich. He had peered in earlier and noticed that Köhler's ministrations had left the captain temporarily with only one usable hand, so the sergeant had taken it upon himself to bring their lunch with him.
"Herr Hauptmann?" he said, pausing just outside the entrance.
Dietrich looked up. "Ah, Kunzler. Come in, come in. What have you there?"
"The new quarters and duty assignments for the new men. Also, a bite to eat. I can bring a flask of tea if you would like it," he offered kindly.
"Do not trouble yourself, there's no need." Dietrich gestured to the chair opposite his own. "Do sit down. How have you disposed the new arrivals?"
"Here." Kunzler opened the folder, and spread out the chart of which men he had assigned to which tent. He had made sure that almost all of the new men were now bunking with one or more of the current ones, so they could become integrated into the company more quickly. "I put that blond fellow Arnheiter in with Emil Steiner. He's from Thüringen as well, so I thought they might get on."
Dietrich perused the list, nodding slowly. Then he was struck with an idea. "If you will accept my advice, Kunzler..."
"Of course, Herr Hauptmann."
"Put him in with Konrad Genscher instead. I saw them eating together at breakfast." The good-natured and ebullient Genscher could make friends with anyone, even a Nile crocodile, it was rumored.
The sergeant frowned, perplexed. He could not imagine any two men more unlike each other than the gregarious, unreserved Bavarian and the silent and awkward young man who had arrived that morning with highly polished boots and a very black eye. But he knew his captain, and there had to be a reason for Dietrich's odd suggestion. "Why, mein Herr?"
Dietrich had debated whether or not to tell Kunzler what Martin Köhler had discovered, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed that the first sergeant needed to know. "Let me tell you what Herr Doktor Köhler was discussing with me. I had Köhler see him, of course, to find out if he is fit for duty and if his eye is injured."
"Yes, of course. I presumed that was what Herr Doktor wanted with him." When he heard the physician's deductions, Kunzler was not shocked—things like this were not unheard of—but he shook his head, saddened. "He seems polite enough, and a quiet fellow. Almost shy. I wonder why anyone would..."
"That may be all there was. A bully would regard that as weakness and take advantage of it. And, just to add another puzzle, whoever chose to send him here to Africa did it in the early hours of Monday morning. He would have been on that ship only hours later." I still can’t determine what that means.
"So," Kunzler mused aloud, "You are thinking that Genscher will not make him nervous?"
"I would hope not. Genscher is a very good man, one of our best, and anyone less like a bully would be difficult to imagine." The Bavarian almost always had a smile, had a reputation as the camp comedian, and was also the shortest man in the company.
The sergeant nodded, a smile slowly brightening his features. "And I have heard that Genscher and his current tentmate don't get on all that well. A change might suit all of them."
"Excellent, Sergeant. See to it at once."
"Zu Befehl, mein Herr." And that is why he is one of the best commanders in the whole Afrika Korps, Kunzler thought to himself. How many other officers would take the trouble to know the men so well?
"One more thing, talking of him." Dietrich indicated a note in Kunzler's duty roster, organized in alphabetical order. "I see you have put this Arnheiter in the motor pool. He's trained as a clerical assistant and a radioman, according to his transfer papers."
"Yes, mein Herr, I saw that. But I saw something else, too. I think he is shamed as well as shy—he must know that he’s made a very bad impression and there's nothing he can do about it.” Every time I talked to him today, he looked down and went red in the face. That could be the reason someone blacked his eye—to humiliate the lad at morning muster, and get him put on report… Kunzler went on. “In the motor pool, he can help Dorfmann who is short of men at present, and he can get right to work without the others poking fun at his expense. What about giving him a few days to settle in, and I'll move him into the office with you? Then I'll rotate the next one in there, and the next. Dorfmann wants to give them all a turn at polishing the Tarnscheinwerfer."
"Very well. Thank you."
Friedrich Arnheiter picked up his own kit bag, along with the sack containing his newly issued tropical kit. Being of medium height and build, about five feet ten or a little over, he had had no trouble getting issued a khaki shirt and pair of trousers that fit him. He had been told which tent to go to, but then one of the other men had come in search of him, out of breath, with the message that he'd been given the wrong tent by mistake, and gave him a paper showing which one to move into instead.
Finally, he found the correct tent, checking the number painted on it, and pushed the flap open. No one was there. Das ist gut, he thought to himself, and sat down wearily in the canvas camp chair that stood to one side. I am not certain if this was a good day or a bad one. On the one hand, his head ached along with his swollen left eye, and everywhere he’d gone that day someone had said something which they had imagined to be clever or amusing about his blaues Auge, most in the form of sly remarks about open doors or irate husbands. There was no point in trying to explain what had really happened. However, neither the captain nor the gruff-mannered first sergeant had said anything to him at all about his disreputable appearance, and in fact the captain had sent the doctor to him. That was very kind of him. On the other hand, if he were not so tired, part of him wanted to sing and dance for joy at being 800 miles away from Feldwebel Oskar Gebhardt. That fact alone made the desolation of Libya into the most wonderful duty station on earth. I will never see him again, God willing…
Arnheiter had been asleep on the cot in the corner of the HQ office, where he had finally learned to hide at night in order to avoid Gebhardt’s less-amusing tricks, such as scattering ball bearings around the young private’s bed in the dark, or smearing ordure from the stables both inside and outside of his boots. That was a favorite prank—it almost guaranteed that Arnheiter would be late reporting for duty by the time he’d cleaned his boots enough to put them on and muster out. In the office, however, there was always a sentry on guard who could be bribed to let the most junior of the clerks back in there to work late. Two pencil portraits he had drawn—one of the sentry’s girl back home, and another one of the sentry himself to send her—had bought Arnheiter a fortnight’s peace and quiet.
He startled violently when he felt a hand on his shoulder as he slept, but a familiar voice soon calmed him. “Arnheiter, wake up, boy. Come on, now, schnell…” It was Captain Johann Becker, the battalion’s adjutant, gently shaking him by the arm.
“Ja, mein Herr,” he’d said, coming awake as he sat up. “What do you need, sir?” Perhaps the major needed a radio message sent immediately. At least that was one good thing about secretly sleeping in the office.
“Here’s a bit of coffee for you, drink up.” The captain placed the cup in his hands. “Tell me, Arnheiter, are you particularly attached to this little corner of the world?”
What a strange question to ask him…. “N-no, sir,” he had answered, sipping the coffee carefully with his sore mouth.
“Good,” the adjutant answered abruptly, and Arnheiter realized that Becker was angry—no, more than angry. He was furious. “Because you are leaving here at once. Now. The truck will arrive in an hour or so, for a refueling stop and a meal for those twenty men. When it leaves here, you will be on it.”
“Wait, mein Herr…” he had protested. “I don’t understand… what have I done wrong?” It would normally be a gross offense to ask such questions of an officer, but Becker was a kindly man, a schoolmaster in the years before the war. He was so well-liked that many of the men in the 29th referred to him as “Onkel Johann.”
Becker had sighed, heavily. “My dear boy, you have done nothing wrong except to be unlucky enough for Gebhardt to make tormenting you his latest entertainment. But he is sly enough to make sure it can’t be put to his account. I can’t ship him out; there’s no way to prove he’s the one doing it. What I can do is to send you as far away as possible. A thousand miles should do.” He held out a sheet of paper, unfolded, for Arnheiter to see. “You’re a good man, clever, and a good soldier, Arnheiter. General Rommel needs men like you for his brand-new 21st Panzer Division.”
“General Rommel?” exclaimed Arnheiter, awestruck and so shocked as to almost forget the pain of his bruises. Rommel, the hero of the 7th Armoured, the famed Ghost Division? He would be going to his command?
“Yes, Rommel. Enjoy Libya, my boy, and both of its palm trees…” Becker had joked. “Come with me, now, and we will gather your kit. Do not worry about your mail going astray; I shall take care of any letters that arrive for you, and simply return them with a note that you’ve been transferred out.”
“You don’t need to come, sir…” A captain should not be helping a mere Landser like himself pack up his possessions; it was far beneath him to do so.
“But I shall, just in case Gebhardt gets any ideas about waylaying you again.”
Becker was true to his word, and two hours later when the troop truck rumbled its way out of the camp, Arnheiter was on it and headed for the ship they would be boarding in Marseille.
He sent up a brief prayer, the sort of prayer a child would say, in gratitude for Hauptmann Becker, who had rescued him from the brutal sergeant at last. He no longer believed in any God who might listen to prayers from a lowly office clerk, but his own arrival in Libya was such a miracle that he made the prayer anyway. I may not be safe—we are at war, after all—but I am free.
Then the tent flap opened, and the Bavarian soldier who had shown him and the other new men around the camp that morning came in. “Wie, bitte? What are you doing here…eh, what’s your name?”
“Arnheiter. Friedrich Arnheiter. This is my tent, they told me.”
The short dark-haired man beamed with delight. “Truly? Prima!” He was apparently delighted with this change in living arrangements. “Das ist toll… that Udo is such a dour dumpling!”
"Really? Why do you say so?"
"Ach, he’s always complaining. We all know the food is bad and the sand fleas bite, so why keep on about it? It doesn't change the menu any..."
Arnheiter had to smile at that. The man had a point there. But at that moment, he felt like a rubber-band airplane after the rubber band had snapped. He had no idea what he was supposed to do next.
Genscher eyed him, thoughtfully, and then sat down on his own cot. "Where are you from? Not Bayern, like me..." He could tell that at once from the new man’s accent. He was trying not to stare, but it wasn’t easy—the new man had possibly the most impressive black eye he’d ever seen.
"No. From Ilmenau, in Thüringen. Neben dem Thüringer Wald. How about you? What city?"
"Marienstadt. A coal-mining town, west of München." He got up and opened the footlocker which had contained his former tentmate's belongings, and still did. "Let me go find Udo, so he can take this stuff with him and make room for yours. Are you all right?"
"I suppose so. You will think I am stupid, but... I don't know what to do now. Everything has happened so quickly."
"Just wait, I'll be back." Genscher departed for several minutes, and came back bearing a canteen of water. "Here. I’ll bet you haven't had enough water, it happens to everyone when they first get here." He handed it over to his new tentmate.
Genscher handed him the canteen, and Arnheiter lifted it to drink. It wasn't cool, and it tasted somewhat metallic, but it was water. "Danke," he said simply and handed back the canteen.
"No, keep it. You'll need it. Welcome to the desert; you'll learn fast, don't go anywhere without water. Well, I'm going to go find Udo, and then see what's for dinner. I'll be back before long." With that, Konrad Genscher departed the tent, whistling cheerfully to himself.
Left to his own devices, Arnheiter got up from the camp chair stiffly and looked around the tent, mentally finding places to stow his own belongings, such as they were. I need to do two things, he reflected, changing out of his grey tunic and breeches into the new tropical tan uniform, glad that Konrad was not in the tent at the moment. First, I need to walk the camp again so I know where everything is. Second, I must be able to hear if anyone comes into the tent in the night. At the same time as he decided that, he also felt faintly foolish as he knew that Feldwebel Gebhardt was hundreds of miles away in southern France. Still, he knew he would not be able to sleep unless he arranged that no one could sneak up on him by night.
Walking out of the tent, Friedrich Arnheiter stopped short, astonished by the intense and cloudless blue of the late-afternoon desert sky. It was of such a pure color that he could not imagine what colors he might use to paint that sky. Cerulean was close, but not quite right... It was completely different from any humid hazy sky in Europe. He had never seen anything like it.
He walked about the camp again, committing to memory the fastest and most efficient way to get from their tent to the mess tent, the motor pool, the medic's tent, and headquarters. At the same time, he made certain that none of those paths involved narrow spaces, hidden corners, or blind alleys where one could not be seen. He'd had quite enough of being cornered and waylaid the last eight months.
Satisfied that he knew how to get quickly to all the places where he might be expected to arrive, he then set about solving his next problem. What could he use to warn him if anyone entered their tent? He thought about it as he kept walking; what about some kind of electrical circuit? It would be simple to construct a circuit that made a sound if another person came into their tent and stepped on something which closed the circuit... No, that would require a battery or some other source of power. Passing the mess tent, he saw one of the mess orderlies trundling along a large rubbish bin, in which were a number of tin cans. Perfekt, he thought to himself.
An hour later, Konrad Genscher returned from his errand and was about to pull open the tent flap and walk in when he saw the sunlight reflecting off something hanging in the doorway. He carefully opened the flap and realized that three tin cans were hanging together in the opening, a piece of twine knotted through a hole in the bottom of each one like a set of makeshift bells. Wie, bitte? What’s this for? It would make a hellish racket when… Then as he came in—without jangling the cans—he saw that his tentmate was lying on the other cot, shirt off and fast asleep. Even in the dimness inside the tent, the half-dozen or so dark-purple bruises across Arnheiter’s belly and midsection were plainly visible under his fair skin. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Genscher exclaimed softly at the sight, dismayed. Someone hadn’t just belted his new friend in the eye, but beaten him black and blue. Was zum Teufel…? Who would have done that? Why? He looked from his tentmate’s sleeping form to the tin cans hanging in the doorway, and back again. “Du lieber Gott…” he murmured, putting two and two together.
At the sound of his voice, Arnheiter awoke suddenly, breathing hard and with his forearms crossed in front of him to defend himself. Realizing that it was only Konrad, he let his arms down and gave a long sigh. “I—I didn’t expect you back yet,” he said, looking away with embarrassment and tugging his khaki shirt back on.
Genscher moved to sit down again on his own cot. “Whoever did that,” he said slowly, “got into your tent at night?” Wie schrecklich!—to not even feel safe in one’s own bed.
“Into our barracks? Not this last time,” Arnheiter replied quietly. “But other times, yes.” He sighed heavily as he fastened the buttons of the long-sleeved shirt. He was hoping not to have to tell anyone about Sergeant Gebhardt, but it had been terribly hot, and slipping out of the shirt had felt good. “His favorite trick was scattering ball-bearings on the floor so I’d fall on my face. Or making off with my boots so I’d be late to muster. I’m sorry about the noise-maker, but…I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.”
Genscher shrugged. “Keine Bange,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me. I guess that’s the good thing about getting transferred, eh? That böse Kerl isn’t here…”
“That’s why I got transferred.” Arnheiter got up, and ran his hands through his damp and rumpled hair. He wasn’t keen on the heat, but anything, even being roasted alive in the desert, was preferable to where he had been a week before. “Our commander was a Prussian, von Rostock. Not a bad officer, but either he never knew what Gebhardt was doing, or he didn’t care.” He smiled slightly. “In time, the adjutant found out and did what he could to help. So here I am.”
Konrad smiled warmly. “Heute bist du ein echte Glückspilz,” he said. “You’re a lucky dog, and you’ve landed in the right place, for sure. We have the best captain in all of Nordafrika. Nothing like that would happen on his watch, mark my words. Hauptmann Dietrich’s first-rate, even though he’s practically an Ausländer.”
“He seemed all right when he spoke to us.” Arnheiter frowned. “What do you mean, he’s an Ausländer? Where’s he from?”
“Schleswig-Holstein—as far north as you can go and still be in Germany. In the old days, it was in Denmark. Still, by now I can understand him most of the time, as long as he doesn’t blow his stack in Plattdüütsch. Then no one can, except maybe the battalion doctor, who’s from Hannover. Anyway, you’ll like him. He’s a good officer, and a good soldier, but there are many men who are that. The best thing about him,” Genscher explained, struggling to find the right words, “is that Hauptmann Dietrich is a good man. But just wait, you’ll see. Hard, sehr streng, but fair.”
“All right.” That sounded hopeful, but it remained to be seen.
The evening meal was signaled promptly at 1800 hours. As the two young men left the tent and walked toward the mess tent, a tiny crescent moon showed just above the horizon in the west-southwest. “Look at that,” said Genscher, pointing at the sight. “The old moon rests in the new moon’s arms.”
“Yes, indeed…” Arnheiter nodded, pleased at the sight. Today, everything is new. It was a beautiful sight, one that made his fingers and his imagination itch to paint it. But he wouldn’t be able to, not easily; night skies were difficult to render in transparent watercolors, and his watercolor paint box was all he had to work with besides pencil or ink. But as his vision adapted to the darkness, he looked upward, and stopped so suddenly that Genscher almost crashed into him. The stars blazed overhead with such clarity as to be beyond description. The humid and often cloudy skies in France had frequently obscured the glories of the heavens, but that was not the case here in the arid landscape of Cyrenaica. The magnificent sight of the Milky Way crossed directly overhead, with the Northern Cross exactly at the zenith. He kept trying to say something, but there were no words. All he could say was “Wunderschön. Es ist wunderschön…”
Finally his roommate nudged his arm. “Come on, the food is getting cold. And the sky will be even better later after it’s darker.”
Dinner, das Abendessen, turned out not to be all that bad—heavy black bread, sauerkraut, pickles, and some sort of chopped tinned meat. “It’s Saturday, there’s meat,” remarked one of the soldiers at the table where Arnheiter and Genscher seated themselves. He had dark brown hair and a neat mustache; his sleeves bore a single stripe. “I’m Rudi—Rudolf— Hartmann. Wie heißen Sie?”
“Ich heiße Friedrich Arnheiter.”
“Es ist gut, Sie zu kennen. Willkommen in Kompanie Dietrich.” Rudi took a bite of the dark rye bread and went on. “Do you play cards?”
Arnheiter found himself grinning with pleasure. “I like to play anything—cards, dice, checkers, dominoes, even backgammon. But chess is my favorite.”
Rudi Hartmann looked around, and then motioned to another man. “Wolf—come here and meet this new fellow! We might have another one for our Kartenspiel.” He turned back to Arnheiter. “On Saturdays especially, if we are not on duty and things are quiet, we play cards after supper until lights out.” His gesture included Konrad Genscher, as well as the sandy-haired man, also wearing one stripe, who was apparently called Wolf. “Want to join us tonight?”
“Gladly.” Things were definitely looking up. I think I like it here…
“Splendid! Ausgezeichnet!” exclaimed Konrad. “That’s another thing about Udo. He only likes games if he’s winning…poor sport. If he doesn’t win, he sulks and won’t play.”
Wolf came over to them and sat down in a vacant spot, a scowl on his handsome face. “But there’s no one like Udo Lorenz for working on engines, you know. He’s a magician when it comes to that. And you oughtn’t to put a fellow down behind his back, Genscher. Not fair.” He turned to Arnheiter, smiled and held out a hand. “Wolfgang Bauer. Everyone calls me Wolf.”
Arnheiter shook hands with pleasure, beginning to feel like Lucky Hans in the old children’s story. In France, the last several months he’d had no friends at all because no one else wanted to become Gebhardt’s target, and anyone who appeared to support him would be letting himself in for the same treatment. But here, in the Libyan desert, he’d met three possible new friends in as many hours. Thank you, Hauptmann Becker, he thought silently to himself. I will have to write him a letter someday.
Just as the group of four men were finishing their meal and preparing to leave, a soldier with a cross emblem on his armband entered the mess tent and looked around, and then made straight for them. Bauer raised an eyebrow, curious. “That’s Weber, the medic’s assistant—wonder what he wants?”
Arnheiter sighed. “I can guess. Probably me.”
He was right. The young man approached and said, “Are you Arnheiter? One of the new men?”
“I am. At your service,” the Thuringian answered politely.
“Oberleutnant Schäfer, the medic, wants to see you as soon as you can come. Do you know where the medical tent is?”
“Yes, I remember. Very well, I shall come directly.” How aggravating—just when he had gotten invited to a Kartenspiel.
“Don’t worry, we’ll save you a chair,” said Rudi Hartmann cheerfully. “We can play Skat until you get back.” Skat, arguably the most popular game in Germany, was a three-handed card game. “Do you prefer dominoes or cards?”
“Ich spiele alles gern. You three choose, it’s all one to me.”
Walking as quickly as he could so as not to make the medic wait too long, Arnheiter was glad now that he had taken the time to walk the camp over twice while it was still daylight. It would now give him half a chance to arrive at his destination in a reasonable amount of time. He was, it was true, still stiff and aching all over from the beating he hadn’t been able to elude a few days before, but he doubted there was anything that Schäfer, the medical student, would be able to do for him.
Stopping in the middle of the camp, he took a few moments to look upward once more at the splendid sight of the star-bedecked velvet-dark sky overhead. Now the moon had set, but other sights had come into view as the earth turned in its perpetual motion beneath the sky. Mesmerized, he had to shake himself a minute or so later and remember that he was expected somewhere else.
The medical tent was easy to spot, as the dark-red cross on a white flag showed up just as well by night as by day, and he headed toward it across the open field used for morning muster and drill.
Paul Schäfer, the company’s medic, was at that moment occupied with another patient—his commanding officer.
Hans Dietrich was seated, shirtless, on one of the examination tables while the doctor-in-training slowly massaged his aching left shoulder with a heated smooth stone wrapped in flannel. Schäfer had begun with an application of a pungent liniment containing wintergreen, helichrysum, balsam, and other medicinal oils. Once that had soaked in, he then began applying the deep heat and gentle pressure in hopes of relieving the spasms in the strained muscles. “I think, sir,” he said deferentially, “you were using it more than it should be.”
“Very likely.” The captain allowed himself a sigh of resignation mingled with annoyance. Nothing like this had ever happened before, at least not to him. “Such a simple thing, to cause so much trouble.” It’s almost ridiculous—I was running, and fell, and landed wrong. Nothing more. He clenched his teeth as the medic touched a particularly painful spot. My God, that hurts… he thought, though he would never say so aloud.
“That is not unusual, mein Herr. I have known patients to suffer a serious back injury from merely bending down in the garden to pick a flower, or water a plant. One patient was a university professor who tore his rotator cuff lifting a carton of books off a desk.”
“Indeed.” As Schäfer continued to move the warm stone up and down, following the deltoid muscle and the tendons that attached to it, Dietrich could feel the pain in his whole left side diminishing little by little. I may even sleep tonight. Imagine that…
“I’d like to determine, mein Herr,” the medic said quietly, “what degree of motion there is, and if it has improved. With your permission…” He carefully took hold of his patient’s elbow and began to raise the arm.
Friedrich Arnheiter waited patiently, and realized that the medic must be with someone else by the canvas pulled across on a rope to separate the waiting area from the treatment area. He was just hoping that Udo Lorenz had retrieved his things from the tent, so that he could unpack his own when he got back. There was a sketchbook packed among his other belongings that he wanted to get at. Even just in one day, he had seen enough new things here to keep him drawing for a week. There were these funny little animals, that looked like furry long-tailed mice, but they weren’t mice… what were they?
Then he heard a short, sharp groan of pain from within the tent, followed by an oath. At least he assumed it was an oath, as it was a word unfamiliar to him. A few seconds later, he realized that while he didn’t recognize the word, he certainly did recognize the voice even though he’d only heard it that morning. Ach, Gott, it’s Herr Hauptmann… verdammt nochmal! Arnheiter oughtn’t to have overheard that, but if he were still sitting there, he couldn’t very well pretend he hadn’t… the only thing he could think of to do was to get out of there fast. Mach schnell, du Idiot!… he berated himself as he made for the outdoors in embarrassed haste.
“My apologies, Herr Hauptmann,” said Paul Schäfer as he finished the treatment by gently applying a tincture of arnica to the officer’s injured shoulder. “I had not expected…” He had hoped that he might be able to raise the captain’s arm to at least forty-five degrees, but even thirty degrees had been too much.
“Nor had I. It’s quite all right, Schäfer,” Dietrich replied, recovering his composure. The sharp pain had taken him by surprise as well.
As he helped the captain back into his shirt and replaced the sling, Schäfer eyed his watch in some irritation. “Where is that Junge? I sent for him to come directly after the dinner hour. He’s late.”
Dietrich had heard the scuffling sounds a few minutes earlier that told him that someone had been in the outer area, and had departed rapidly. “I believe he is here, probably outside the tent, waiting for you.” He put his cap back on, which he had removed upon entering.
The medic shook his head with a brief exclamation of annoyance. “If he was here, he should have rung the bell….” He went on. “In any case, that ought to be helpful, mein Herr. I will certainly repeat the procedure each evening if you wish.”
“I shall send you a message if that is the case,” the captain replied as the medic saluted him and he returned it. “And if your next patient is outside, I shall send him in to you.”
Schäfer nodded, and Dietrich turned to leave the tent.
When he came out of the medic’s tent into the darkness, it took a minute or two for his vision to adjust. There was indeed a man waiting outside, who turned toward him, clearly agitated. “Entschuldigen Sie, mein Herr…” he began as the captain came nearer. “I beg your pardon, sir, I meant you no offence…”
Dietrich recognized the speaker as the new man from Thüringen with the very light hair and the injured eye. Oh, it’s this fellow. He made a dismissive gesture, replying, “It is no matter. There is no offense to pardon.”
The soldier looked up, but not all the way, allowing his gaze to rest somewhere in the vicinity of Dietrich’s collar button. “I’m very sorry… I shouldn’t have been inside,” he answered. “I didn’t notice…”
“Do not distress yourself, Private Arnheiter—you could not have known I was there.” He paused a moment and went on. “Did you receive Sergeant Kunzler’s message to move into the tent with Private Genscher?”
Arnheiter’s expression brightened at once. “Oh, yes, Herr Hauptmann. Please convey to him my thanks.”
“Gut. And now you should go in there to see Schäfer; he is waiting for you with some impatience. It is hoped that he can help you.”
“Danke, mein Herr. Ich hoffe, daß es geht Ihnen besser,” Arnheiter replied formally, taking the risk of wishing his captain—whom he had only just met—a good recovery; even in the darkness, he had noticed the field-grey fabric arm sling. He bowed slightly and even though these boots would not click, clicked the heels anyway out of habit.
“Sehr vielen Dank. Guten Abend.”
“Guten Abend, mein Herr.”
“Ah, there you are,” said Paul Schäfer the medic as Arnheiter came into the tent looking a bit nervous. “You’re later than I thought you would be, but I was with someone else, so it’s no matter. Sit here, please, and take off your shirt.”
Arnheiter nodded and complied, undoing the buttons and pulling off the khaki shirt. The medic examined him, gently probing the several vivid bruises across his midsection. “Herr Doktor was right. Someone was angry with you, hm?”
“It was … a difference of opinion,” his patient answered quietly.
“So I see. Well, for these I will give you some arnica to use, morning and night—that should help quite a bit. As for your eye…” Schäfer used a light to take a closer look. “The doctor said it had been three days, correct?”
“Yes.” Actually, it had been almost four days.
“So, lie down here for a short while. I’m going to use a warm compress followed by a cold one—warm, cold, warm, cold. We should repeat that two or three times each day. It should heal more quickly.” He left the makeshift treatment room, so unlike the hospital where he had trained in Frankfurt, and returned momentarily with a basin of steaming water he had brought to a boil with an immersion heater. He wrung out a soft cloth in the hot water, and folded it neatly. Once it had cooled to a safe temperature, he placed it over his patient’s bruised eye. “Wait ten minutes, and I’ll change it for a cold one.”
Forty minutes later, Arnheiter left the medical tent and hastened back to Rudi Hartmann’s tent where the four of them had agreed to play cards. In his pocket he had the metal tube of the arnica salve that Schäfer had given him. Out of habit, he was careful to cross the field out in the open, avoiding any narrow paths or blind corners. He’d had enough experiences with being ambushed in his own camp to make him cautious about where he walked. Passing down along the rows of tents, however, he was unsure how to find the one that Rudi had told him to go to. Then he heard a voice calling out, “There he is! Arnheiter, komm herein!” It was Konrad Genscher motioning to him from the entrance to Hartmann’s tent.
“Wondered where you’d got to,” said Wolf Bauer, gathering up the cards from the table and shuffling them. “We were taking bets that those verdammte Ratten had sneaked up and made off with you.”
“Ratten?” Arnheiter asked, confused. “Wie, bitte?”
“They are a group of very tough commandos,” Hartmann explained. “Usually they don’t come right into the camp, but they often are in this area and catch up to our scout columns and patrols. They nearly did for Herr Hauptmann a couple of weeks ago, if he weren’t so fast as he is. Lucky for him, he leaped free.”
“What happened to his arm?”
“That was a few seconds later. The commandos were pelting the column with grenades and those big machine guns. Hauptmann Dietrich was in a halftrack, and leaped free of it just before it was hit.” Bauer was shaking his head, impressed. “Damned if I know how he can run like that in those Reitstiefel, but he could do a creditable hundred-meters if he chose. Anyway, he charged after them flat out, firing his pistol, until he hit a patch of gravel and lost his footing. Came right down on the left arm, I saw it. Poor devil, I thought sure he’d broken it, but he was lucky.”
Arnheiter took his hand of cards, marveling. Never in his previous military career had he served in a unit where ordinary soldiers, Landser like himself, referred to their captain affectionately as “poor devil.”
Two hours later, the bell sounded to indicate “lights out” in ten minutes. The party in Hartmann’s tent broke up, and Arnheiter and Genscher headed back to their own tent. Arnheiter was astonished at the turn in his fortunes—his entire life had changed out of all recognition in the space of less than a week.
“Did the medic help you?” Genscher asked, curious.
His new tentmate shrugged. “He tried to. Might help, might not.”
It didn’t take long for them to prepare themselves for bed, and Arnheiter knelt on the ground to arrange the contents of his kit bag in the now-empty foot locker. He could do it by feel, so the lack of light was no obstacle. He laid the sketchbook on top, so he could use it easily. Out of habit, he began to put his boots under the blankets with him, and then stopped himself. Oskar Gebhardt was 800-odd miles away; there was no need to hide his boots anymore. Still, he had gotten used to having to defend himself at all hours of the day and night from whatever mean-spirited game the sergeant might conjure up. He lay awake for some minutes, trying to convince himself that he could sleep in peace here in this camp, that he really might have friends and that his tentmate was one of them.
Then he realized what he was smelling while he lay there—it was the sea! Genscher had told him that their camp was rather close to the Mediterranean, and that one could actually see it from the height of a nearby ridge. He would have to test that the next time he had any liberty.
As he fell into the first stages of sleep, he also recognized a sound he would never have heard in the Ardennes—the raucous cry of a seagull. He smiled to himself, and was fast asleep.
Across the camp, the lights also went out in the HQ tent—first the front, then the back.
Over the next few days, Dietrich had the chance to observe how his eight new men settled in and became part of the company. Generally, it seemed to work out well for all of them, and one by one he arranged an opportunity to speak with each man individually, partly to ascertain what sort of skills they possessed that may not have been mentioned in their records, and partly to get to know each of them a little. On one afternoon, he came into the motor pool looking for Arnheiter, who was doing a ten-day rotation in that duty.
As it happened, the motor pool sergeant, Dorfmann, had sent him on an errand from which he had not yet returned. “”What do you think of him, Dorfmann?” Dietrich took the opportunity to ask once salutes had been exchanged.
“Willing enough, and a good worker, Herr Hauptmann,” replied the sergeant. “I wouldn’t call him a mechanic, but he learns fast. I set him to cleaning all the distributor caps and rotors, and he was very thorough about it. And look at what he did here,” the older man added, shaking his head. “I didn’t order him to do that, he just did it.” He pointed to the nearest Kübelwagen. “See here…” The palm trees painted in black on the doors of the patrol car had been repainted. Only this time, the palm trees had been rendered freehand instead of with a stencil, and a few extra strokes had been added to each of them so they almost seemed to bend and sway with the wind. The boy must have taken the tin of paint and sat down on the ground with a fine brush to do that detailed work. “Not just on this one, mein Herr, but all of them. I couldn’t decide whether to reward him or punish him… We now have the best-looking palm trees in the whole division.” He frowned then, shaking his head slightly. “Good worker, like I said, but he’s an Angsthase.”
A scared rabbit, a coward? “What makes you say so, Sergeant?”
“He’s skittish as a stray cat, Herr Hauptmann. Every loud noise, he practically jumps out of his boots. He’ll never stand combat, mark my words.”
The captain considered this thoughtfully. “What sort of loud noises? Anything? Or certain ones?”
Dorfmann shrugged. “Walters there let the engine lid fall with a bang, and you’d think he’d been shot at.”
“I see.” Given what we know, I suppose that is not surprising. “Can you spare him, Dorfmann? He’s a trained clerk, and I have none at present since Weitzel is gone.”
The motor pool sergeant was mildly taken aback. Most officers would not have even asked that question. “Of course, Herr Hauptmann. He’s done nearly everything that could be done without mechanics’ training. That’s why I sent him for supplies.”
“Excellent. When he returns, send him to me, bitte.”
“Zu Befehl, mein Herr.”
Arnheiter returned from the supply errand that Dorfmann had sent him on, and the sergeant signed off on the form. "Thank you, Private. But you're not working in the motor pool anymore, at least for a while."
Donnerwetter, thought Arnheiter, what have I done now?
"In fact, Junge," said the sergeant, whose accent marked him as a native of the Rhineland, "I'm sending you straight to headquarters." He scowled, looking stern and displeased.
Arnheiter immediately apologized, though for what he had no inkling. "I'm very sorry, Sergeant..."
Dorfmann's scowl vanished and he playfully thumped the boy on the shoulder. "Ist nur ein Witz! I’m joking with you, son! Hauptmann Dietrich came by not long ago, looking for you. The last actual clerk we had died about a month ago, and the captain's been making do ever since with farm boys who can't type and don't know that ‘Schmidt’ comes before ‘Schroeder’. You're a trained clerk, not a mechanic. Get a move on, lad—don't make him wait. But wash your hands first..."
Finally, someone wants me to do something I'm good at, Arnheiter thought as he headed across the camp on the double. He hadn't minded working for Dorfmann in the motor pool, but he had been well aware that he didn't really have the right skills for the job. It was a good system, though, making sure that every man at the rank of corporal or below knew the basics. Out in the field, especially these fields, there was no telling what kind of thing might happen, or who would be on hand—or still alive—and have to fix it. He made a hasty detour past the medical tent for some soap and rubbing alcohol and then, hands clean and hair combed, made for the headquarters tent.
Dietrich was alone at the heavy table which served as his desk, making notes for himself as to what correspondence needed to be done that day. At least he wasn't completely exhausted as he had been earlier in the week; Schafer had continued with the same treatment of his injured shoulder with the aromatic oils and heat. Dietrich wasn't sure if it was helping the strained muscles heal or not, but it was doing wonders for the pain and his ability to sleep. He was sleeping several hours a night again, instead of struggling to get by on barely two or three.
He heard a man outside the entrance to the tent—of course, there was no way to knock—and called out, "Komm’n Sie herein," hoping that it was Arnheiter arriving from the motor pool.
It was. He entered the HQ tent and saluted crisply, but did not attempt to click heels. Ah, he has learned that I don't like that. Apparently the young Soldat was feeling better as well; his expression was that of a man eager to get to work. Although his left eye was still discolored bluish-purple, the swelling had diminished somewhat, and he could open it now.
"Thank you for coming so promptly," Dietrich said to him and indicated a folding chair that faced him across the table. "Sit here and tell me what sort of clerical work you have done in your previous unit. I am assuming that you can both type and take dictation."
The young man smiled. "Ja, mein Herr, I can do both."
"Excellent." Dietrich smiled too, briefly. This fellow’s attitude was infectious. "Then please prepare to take a letter. There is ruled paper in the drawer there," he said, indicating the other table to one side which held the shelves with the files.
"Zu Befehl." Arnheiter quickly found the writing paper, and casually took a steel sharpener from his pocket to put a fresh point on the pencil. "Ich bin fertig," he said as he was poised ready to write.
Who on earth keeps a pencil sharpener in his pocket? "Very well, begin. Attention: Headquarters, Third Panzer Reconnaissance Battalion..." The captain stopped dictating, surprised. His new clerk had rotated the writing paper 90 degrees, and with pencil in his left hand, was busily writing the Kurzschrift shorthand symbols downward towards himself across the page. I never noticed before that he is left-handed. Dietrich had never seen anyone write like that. The few adults he knew who were left-handed wrote by awkwardly curling the fingers down from above the writing line.
So passed the afternoon. A number of important letters and dispatches were dictated, then typed and sent off, and several more received and filed. Finally, as the sun’s rays were low in the sky, Dietrich decided that was enough for one day. “You have done good work, Private. Let us adjourn until tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Arnheiter cleared away the desk he was sitting at, putting all the paraphernalia in the proper place, Dietrich turned towards him again. “Did you say that you had never seen the sea until you left France?”
“Yes, sir. Not until last Monday when the ship left Marseilles.”
“Then come outside and follow me—this is worth seeing.” The two men left the tent and walked up along a nearby ridge, and then came out on the top of that ridge. Below them, and some miles away, sparkled the mighty Mediterranean. To the west, the setting sun set all the clouds afire and turned the sea to molten gold. Before long, we shall have to pull up stakes and move inland, the captain thought to himself. We know the British are planning a major offensive in the near future. But for now, we may appreciate such beauty while we can. He had seen this sight many times, but he enjoyed the pleasure he saw in the younger man’s face as they beheld a beauty that few of their countrymen would ever see.
Friedrich Arnheiter drank in the sight and tried to commit it to his memory so that he could paint it someday when canvas, paints and easel were once more to hand.
“So, Arnheiter,” said Dietrich quietly, “How do you like our sand dunes and palm trees, here in Africa?”
This was a harsh land even in this area, the greenest part of a very dry country, but Arnheiter regarded it all with the joy of a man who had been released from prison. The sand, the sea, and the wide blue skies imparted to him a freedom like none he had ever known since childhood. “It is a beautiful place, Herr Hauptmann. It is wonderful, mein Herr…wunderschön.”
“Good. I am pleased to hear that.” With his one free hand, he reached into his own pocket for a cigarette, and offered one to Arnheiter as well, who accepted it with surprise and took out matches to light both of them.
The two men stood there in a companionable silence, smoking, until the sun went down and the stars came out.
<<<<<>>>>>
Liebe Onkel Helmut und Tante Trudi, und die liebste Oma,
I hope this letter finds you well and that everything is all right at home. I am sorry that your most recent letter to me will have no answer, but I am not in France any longer. I was given a transfer to Libya to join the Afrika-Korps, so you should not write me at the old address anymore.
When I came here, some of the other men—they are my friends now—told me that our captain, Hauptmann Dietrich, is very good, one of the best. I believe they are right; today I began working with him in the office. They have had no regular clerk in some time and there is much to be done…
[1] See “The Chase of Fire Raid.”