Chapter Text
“The best-laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley.”
—Robert Burns
“A [starship] runs on loyalty to one man, and nothing can replace it—or him.”
—Spock of Vulcan
Prologue: Shadows from the Past
When Doctor Köhler arrived at the HQ tent, Dietrich stepped out and beckoned to the sentry who was standing outside. "See that we are not disturbed. Ist das klar?"
"Ja, mein Herr." Once the captain went back inside, Müller, the sentry, dutifully took up his position a couple of feet in front of the tent so that even he would not hear what was being said within.
Dietrich then turned to the battalion doctor, brow furrowed and dark eyes perturbed. “What about Stroh? Is his condition improving?” One of the artillery sergeants had been ill for some time.
Martin Köhler sighed heavily and shook his head. “No. I’m sorry to say, there is nothing more to be done.”
“Nothing?” the captain asked sharply. “He is dying, then?”
“Hans, I don’t know. He may survive. But there has been permanent damage to his heart from the parasites. If he lives, he will never be fit enough to serve again with such a heart condition.” It was ever thus in North Africa, he reflected—disease was an even greater threat than the Eighth Army. “I have ordered that he be transported to the battalion hospital at El Agheila; they can care for him there better than we can here in the field hospital. What else did you want to consult me on, Hans?”
“The letter I wrote you regarding Private Arnheiter?”
“Yes. You said he shows signs of nervousness. In what circumstances ?”
“It varies; I have observed no apparent pattern. But it has been noted by others as well as I. Some of the men call him an Angsthase[1]; that won’t do. I thought perhaps he may have some sort of shell shock or battle fatigue, but he has never been in combat, according to his records.”
“It may stem from some earlier experience.” The doctor from Hannover frowned as well. "So that is why after I read your letter, I came here and borrowed him as my driver yesterday while visiting Kompanie 2.” Dietrich nodded, and the doctor continued. “I wanted to observe him without your presence. I can assure you, he's quite sane—as sane as you or I. And I observed nothing out of the ordinary in his actions or his demeanor. He is, in fact, quite a good-natured and amiable fellow. But that does not rule out the possibility of some degree of persistent anxiety."
"What causes this?"
"There can be many causes. A severe shock or traumatic event, for example, such as a natural disaster. However..." Köhler hesitated before continuing. "It could also be what we call a conditioned response."
The captain looked even less pleased than he had before. "Explain that, please."
"Oh, it's quite simple, Hans. All thinking creatures—rats, dogs, horses, men—can be taught to fear something. Anything.” The doctor spoke lightly, but his voice carried an edge of bitterness. "I have seen a film of how it is done. An American scientist named Skinner developed the method a number of years ago. One places a rat—just an ordinary rat—in a cage with a metal floor wired for electricity. After it has grown accustomed to being in the cage, one shows the rat a photograph of a butterfly, or a flower, or something equally harmless, and simultaneously applies a painful electric shock to the floor of the cage. The unfortunate animal cannot escape, nor can it avoid the shock to its feet by climbing on something because there is nothing else in the cage. The procedure is repeated at random intervals, and before long the rat becomes highly agitated and fearful merely at the sight of the picture. And then it becomes constantly nervous because it has no way to predict or avoid the next occurrence of the foot shock." He continued. "Over time, these unhappy creatures begin to do such things as chew the metal bars of their cage, run endlessly in circles, or bite their own feet as a way to cope with the fear of the thing that they know is coming and cannot avoid.”
“Do you mean that something like that…” Surely not—what monster would subject a man to such treatment? He felt ill at the thought.
“Was done to him? No, certainly not. Yet, somewhere in the past, it’s possible that he was in a position where no matter what he did, there was no escape. Or a mistake resulted in some disastrous consequence. So now any time something reminds him of that experience, the anxiety returns. What was he doing, you said, when you observed this?”
“Nothing in particular. I have noticed it more than once. Is there any way to know…?”
“What caused it?” Köhler replied with a vague gesture. “I doubt that. It may well have begun much earlier in his life, possibly with the loss of his parents—you told me they were deceased. Remember, too, that you and I were too old for the Hitler-Jugend by the time it was established—but he was not. This tendency of being worried or anxious may stem from his experiences in those days as I have heard that the HJ boys are encouraged to treat one another very cruelly. And we know he was subjected to some sort of violent attack by someone not long ago—it may be related to that[2]. However, we might never be able to determine why. He himself may not even remember.”
“Can anything be done?”
“Indeed, yes. What I would prescribe in such a case is a complete change of scene; fresh air, sunshine, interesting work.” He chuckled. “The Army has already done that by sending him here. If we are lucky, the desert itself may do more to cure him than I can. That, combined with good companions and a wise commander,” the doctor added. “However, if he happens to fall into the anxious state in your presence, say nothing. Draw no attention to it. Send him on an errand, or give him a different task to do that will interrupt the cycle of anxious thoughts. Now, let me have a look at your shoulder…”
Hans Dietrich sighed with resignation. “Very well,” he replied and began to unbutton his shirt.
In their tent that evening, Arnheiter was attempting to make a drawing, quite unaware that he had been the topic of a serious conversation in the HQ tent. He scowled with annoyance, and tore the page out of his sketchbook, crumpling it up and adding it to the small pile of paper they saved to be used for lighting fires.
“What’s wrong?” inquired his tentmate Konrad Genscher, curious. “Is it going badly?”
“Yes, because I only got a few seconds to look at the creatures, not long enough.”
“Creatures? What creatures?” Konrad asked, apprehensive. Had Fritz here found out his secret already?
“I don’t know what they are called. They look like mice, a little, with long furry tails, but bigger. I only saw them, two of them, for just a moment before they disappeared into a hole in the rocks.” He sighed. “So none of my sketches look right. The proportions are wrong, but I don’t have any way to go look at one again.”
Konrad gave him a knowing smile. “Don’t be too sure. If you are ready and dressed before dawn and reveille, you might have a chance.” What were friends for, after all? He had been secretly befriending a small colony of Wüstenmäuse[3]—desert mice—by giving them small bits of bread saved from his own rations. The next morning, he would invite his new friend and tentmate to come along and see them.
“How? I don’t know where they are.”
“Wait and see, my friend.” He reached to put out the light. “Wait and see.”
Chapter 1
A Cunning Plan
- October 1941
Sergeant Sam Troy of the Rat Patrol whistled softly, as he focused the approaching German tank column in his binoculars. Twelve halftracks, five tanks.
"We're supposed to stop that?" asked his driver, Hitchcock, incredulous. "We’re kind of outnumbered…"
"We don’t have to stop it, just hold it up long enough for the British to get there first." They were involved in a race to the town of Al-Jawari[4], currently held by a small contingent of the 6th Australian Division. The British 7th Armoured and the Cameron Highlanders were on their way to support the Australians, but they wouldn't arrive in time to prevent the town's falling to the Germans—which is where the Rat Patrol came in. The outcome of this race across the desert depended on them. Al-Jawari wasn’t a large town, but its location was what made it significant; it straddled a secondary road between the ports of Derna and Agedabia—a road that could be used to supply Rommel’s forces if the major coast road was in Allied control. It was important to make sure that road was not available for the Axis forces to use. Given their heading, it was reasonable to assume that this reconnaissance column was part of the force that was going to take control of Al-Jawari. Not if we can help it…
“That’s not all, Troy,” added Sgt. Moffitt, pointing toward the head of the column as he lowered his own field glasses. “Look whose party we’re about to crash.”
Troy took a closer look and swore under his breath as he focused on the lead patrol car. “Our old pal Dietrich,” he growled. “Just our luck.” If their mission to hold up or delay that column had been difficult to begin with, it was now doubly so. The average German officers they had experience with were highly methodical, but unimaginative. Hans Dietrich, on the other hand, was anything but average.
“He sure must be in Rommel’s good books,” commented Tully Pettigrew laconically. “Look at all that armor they gave him. That’s more than his outfit usually has, isn’t it?”
“Well, that doesn’t change anything,” Troy declared as he turned his back toward the Germans and crouched down among the rocks on the hillside. “Just makes our day a little more exciting. One thing for sure, we can’t do much to halt them out here in this open country. We need to get them hemmed in, cornered somehow.” He turned to Moffitt once more. “Got any ideas?”
“Maybe,” the Englishman replied, tapping a finger on the map he had spread out on the hood of his jeep. He then looked up and pointed toward a formidable escarpment rising out of the desert to the east of their position. “There is a way through those bluffs,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s wide enough for tanks, say two by two, but it’s narrow enough to make a good ambush, if they were going that way. For them, it’s a shorter route to Al-Jawari than the one Dietrich is taking; he’s leading that column along a road that will avoid that escarpment.”
Troy nodded, taking another look at the Panzer Reconnaissance column and estimating their rate of travel. “I think we’ve got time to check that out. Let’s go take a look at this road of yours.”
Some time later, the four members of the Rat Patrol were looking down from a height into a steep-sided defile, through which ran the road that Moffitt had described. They were in what passed for a mountain range in this region, called the Green Mountains, or Al Jabal al Akhdar. “You’re right,” said Troy, fists on his hips as he looked along the road below them in both directions. “It is a good place for a trap. There’s only one problem…”
“I know, old boy—you don’t need to say it. It looks like a trap.”
“There’s no way Dietrich would take that column through here—it’s like asking to get ambushed. He’d have to be crazy or desperate to come this way, and he’s not desperate. He’s holding all the aces.”
The English sergeant nodded, but there was a speculative look in his eyes. “But he doesn’t always play it safe, you know… he takes chances just as we do if he thinks the odds are in his favor. He’d do it if he thought going this way was his best chance—or the only chance—of getting to Al-Jawari in time to drive off the reinforcements and take the town themselves. And they’re probably not the only column headed that way.” Moffitt gazed at the late-afternoon shadows creeping across the road below them, and racked his brain for ideas.
Troy turned to him suddenly, a light in his eyes. He had been seized with an idea. “You said this route was shorter than the way they’re going now, south around this formation. Shorter by how much?”
“Oh, quite a bit, I’d say. Judging by the speed they’re moving at, he’d save at least eight hours, possibly even ten.”
"When are the 7th Armoured and the Camerons getting to Al-Jawari?"
"Sometime the day after tomorrow is about the earliest they could be."
The plan leaped into Troy's mind. "OK, here’s what we’ll do. We need to make sure our German friend out there finds out about this road. But it can’t be you, Moffitt—he’s seen you recently, up close.”
“I could do it, Troy…”
“I know you could, with anyone else but Dietrich. But face it—around here, anybody dressed like the locals who is taller than he is? With grey eyes? He’ll know it’s you.” Troy thought a minute and went on. “But you can send one of your Arab friends, or one of your father’s acquaintances, to tell him about it, can't you?"
"Very possibly. There is a village not far away where we knew the head man and his family."
The American sergeant grinned. "Good. Then we just need to have the 7th Armoured send a nice message that the Jerries will overhear, telling the Aussies that they're coming about fifteen to twenty hours earlier than they'd expected."
Hitch grinned. "That's great, Sarge! Dietrich won't think he has any choice—he'll have to come through here, and we'll be waiting for him."
"After we're finished," said the Englishman lightly, "they can put up a nice plaque here and call it Thermopylae."
"Oh, no," groaned the Ivy League dropout. "Don't say that…"
Troy looked from one to the other, confused. "What?"
"Well, it's like this, Sarge. A long time ago—we studied this in Ancient History—there was this king of Sparta, uh, what's-his-name?"
"Leonidas," said Moffitt.
"Yeah, that's right. Leonidas. Well, he and three hundred Spartans held the Pass of Thermopylae for three days against Cyrus and the Persians, who had the biggest army in the known world."
"Sounds good so far, " replied Troy.
"Except they were slaughtered to the last man."
“Well, that’s not so good,” muttered Tully Pettigrew while watering the jeep.
"But they held the pass," supplied Moffitt helpfully, with an amused twinkle in his eye..
"All right, you two," growled Troy. "The next time I want a history lesson, I'll ask for it!" While they had been telling him that tale, however, another thought had come to him. "I've got another idea," he began.
<<<<<>>>>>
- October 1941, 0500 hours
In the HQ tent, in the back one-third of it that he’d had partitioned off as his own quarters, Hans Dietrich was awake. As it was an hour yet before dawn, he should have still been asleep. He wasn’t.
Finally giving up the effort to go back to sleep, he sat up on the canvas cot and began to dress. It was an awkward process at the present, as he had strained his left shoulder nearly a month earlier. It had been improving, but now that they were on the move and no longer in camp, the injured muscles were aggravated and the pain had been disturbing his sleep the last couple of nights. He wasn’t sure why—the cause might be as simple as holding up the heavy 10 x 50 binoculars for too long. As he buttoned his shirt, Dietrich became aware of a sound—a sound that ought not to be there. It sounded like the movements of an animal, but he had seen no animals in the area larger than a jerboa or a mongoose. As quickly as he could, he quietly pulled his boots on, with jaw clenched against the pain in his shoulder. Then he silently got to his feet and moved to the entrance of the tent, alerting the sentry and motioning for the soldier to follow him without a sound.
<<<<<>>>>>
Dawn was approaching as Troy, bare-headed, crawled under a tank with several packets of explosives. This should give ‘rude awakening’ a whole new meaning, he thought to himself with a grim smile. This was just a diversion, to keep Dietrich and his reconnaissance company occupied while Moffitt and Tully had time to set up the ambush in that ravine. Troy prepared the spot to place the packets as he heard Hitch quietly hiking back to the jeep to wait for him. They had had to leave the vehicle some distance away in order not to be heard.
Then a soft voice spoke disconcertingly near. "Don't move, Sergeant."
Troy froze. Damn… From the position he was in, he could, by turning his head slightly, see a pair of well-polished boots. It was, of course, Captain Dietrich—by now, he'd know that voice anywhere.
"Throw your pistol out here, and hand the rest of your equipment out as well," Dietrich directed him, calmly. He didn't sound as though he'd been awakened at an ungodly hour of the morning, but Troy had been sure the whole camp was asleep when he and Hitch had made their way in.
He followed the German's instructions, having little choice in the matter once he’d heard the unmistakable sound of the bolt being locked down on a Mauser rifle, presumably in the hands of a guard or sentry. Careful, don’t sound like you expected this to happen, or he’ll get wise. "Don't you ever sleep?" he asked, making sure to sound irritated.
"Not when I hear small, soft noises in my camp before dawn, Sergeant. I thought it would be as well to check for rats. As you see, I did find one." Troy could practically hear Dietrich smiling. "Come out now, slowly."
As Troy crawled backward out of his position, he heard the jeep driving off. Good for Hitch! "Your driver, I take it," observed Dietrich. "I hear only one jeep. Where are your other men?"
The American shrugged. "No idea. Sorry, you'll just have to settle for me." He slowly got to his feet at the point of the German's pistol. As he had guessed, another man was holding a rifle on him as well. It didn’t matter—he had accomplished what he came for, which was attaching a radio tracking device underneath the number plate of one of the halftracks. Now we’ll know where they are and if they’ve taken the bait.
As there was no further need for silence, Dietrich raised his voice. “Wache! Komm’ schnell! Es gibt Feinde im Lager!” It was as if he had struck a beehive with a stick. Men—at least those who were awake and dressed—then came out of every conceivable place, prepared for a fight. Two of them in particular charged straight for the HQ tent from somewhere else in the camp; one was short and dark-haired, while the other was taller and blond. However, a somewhat older man, a sergeant, arrived first. “Kunzler,” said Dietrich to the sergeant, “have a detail search the camp. I caught this man, a commando, attempting to sabotage a tank with hidden explosives. See to it at once.”
“Ja, mein Herr.” He turned and began giving orders.
Dietrich spoke briefly to the guards, and went back inside the tent, quickly moving into the back portion to finish dressing since he had gone outside wearing neither his cap nor his field jacket. He pulled on the jacket, left sleeve first, and then buttoned it; then, as he had for the last ten days, he picked up the field-grey arm sling that the doctor had given him, and started to put it on to support his injured left arm. No, he thought suddenly. I do not want Troy to know that. Especially as it is his doing… He folded the fabric up compactly and put it in the inner pocket of his jacket, and picked up his peaked cap.
A few minutes later, two of the guards accompanied Troy and the sentry inside the HQ tent. This was not the semi-permanent headquarters tent in the camp, which Troy had once seen the inside of. Instead, this was a temporary version, intended for only a night, or at most a day or two while the company was on the move. This tent was only just high enough for a man to stand upright inside, and about half the usual dimensions; it was held up by steel poles driven into the ground instead of solid 4 x 4 wooden posts.
At a spoken order from Dietrich, the two guards firmly tied Troy to a chair, and the chair along with his hands to the center pole of the tent.
"I apologize for this necessity, Sergeant," the officer said, coming back around to face the American, "but you have a …certain talent for escaping from the men who guard you. So, you will remain here with me where I can see you. You will please note that any attempt to free yourself will cause the tent to collapse, which would hardly go unseen." He sat down at the table and proceeded to ignore Troy while he filled out some papers, swallowing a yawn in the process.
Troy grinned. He is a mere mortal, after all… no matter how much he tries to hide that.
"I was not surprised to find you in my camp," said Dietrich as he replaced a stack of papers in a steel box. "We are advancing on an objective—therefore, I was expecting you and your men to be in the area."
"Oh, too bad,” said Troy lightly. “If we'd known you were expecting us, we'd have dropped in yesterday afternoon for tea."
The captain gave him an odd look for a moment, one eyebrow lifted, but made no reply. Outside the tent, the camp was stirring, awakening to the duties of a new day. An orderly entered; he seemed surprised to see the captain already working, and even more surprised to see an American soldier trussed to the tent pole. Dietrich spoke to him briefly, held up two fingers, and the man vanished, only to reappear presently with a tin tray which held portions of dense black bread and some hard cheese, as well as a flask of coffee and two cups. "I assume, Sergeant, that you haven't eaten breakfast. Nor have I. We are taking you along with us to Al-Jawari, but we won't starve you." There were officers who would readily eat their own meal in front of a prisoner who had none, but he was not among them. Even though he knew for a fact that the British and their allies had not only better food, but more of it, than he and his men had, civilized men did not behave so. Dietrich poured a cup for himself, and one for Troy, instructing the orderly to hold the prisoner's cup for him.
“No, I haven’t.” Troy was surprised. Whatever he had expected from being a captive in Dietrich’s camp, he had not expected to share in their breakfast. “Thanks. That smells good," he said politely as the orderly approached him with the coffee.
Dietrich grimaced slightly as he tasted his own. "Unfortunately, it is not. It is what there is, however. Many of the supplies destined for us never arrive."
"Like they say, Captain, there's a war on." The American grinned, teasing.
"Well, Sergeant, it seems you are now reaping the fruits of your own endeavours."
"That's the way it goes." Troy paused. "You don't trust me enough to untie one of my hands?"
The tall German actually laughed for a moment, briefly and with no lack of sarcasm. "Not in the least, Sergeant."
After they'd finished, the orderly left, taking the food and coffee with him. "Thanks," repeated Troy, meaning it. "By the way, you haven't even asked me to tell you what we're doing here."
"No, I have not. I know from past experience that you will not tell me, that no amount of threats will induce you to do so, and that any attempts to discover the nature of your mission are an exercise in futility. As I have neither the time nor the energy to waste, I am hoping that your presence in my patrol car all the way to Al-Jawari will perhaps prove to be a deterrent to your men." I am also hoping that you will inadvertently tell me what I want to know…
They were interrupted at this point by a voice outside the tent. "Herr Hauptmann…"
"Kommen Sie herein," Dietrich replied, and a young soldier entered. “Arnheiter. Was ist los?” he asked, seeing the apprehension in the clerk’s eyes.
“Der Sender in Funkwagen funktioniert gar nicht,” the soldier replied, agitated. “Ich weiß nicht, warum es schief gegangen ist,” he added, explaining that he could not get the transmitter working again.
Dietrich eyed him, disconcerted. Arnheiter had been in the unit for three weeks now, and the last several days he’d been doing clerical duties alongside him in the HQ tent. There was no reason that the boy should be reporting to him with such trepidation. True, it was a major problem if the transmitter in the radio truck was out of order, but in these desert conditions, the cause could be almost anything. It didn’t help that the man had had training as a radioman, but not much actual field experience. Now that they were not in camp but on the move, they needed Arnheiter as a backup radioman more than a clerk-typist. “Beruhigen Sie sich,” the captain told him firmly, and the youth made a visible effort to calm his anxiety. “Sie sollen Feldwebel Jahnke finden; er kann Sie helfen, und Genscher kann das auch.”
The soldier who had just come in was, Troy thought, the "typical Jerry"—blond and blue-eyed, just like most of the German soldiers one saw in the newsreel photos. His sunburned face and neck showed that he was new to the desert and unaccustomed to the conditions. There was one thing, however, that Troy noticed more than the soldier's appearance. The hands he held clasped behind his back were white at the knuckles. He's scared stiff, he thought to himself. But of Dietrich? That doesn't make sense…
The boy was probably the same age as Hitch, about twenty or so; he made what sounded like a report to his captain. The only words Troy understood were “…funktioniert nicht.” Something wasn’t working—and from the soldier's bearing, it was probably bad news.
Once the boy had gone, Troy let out a breath. What was all that about? But he didn't ask. He waited, curious to see what Dietrich would say.
The captain scowled, annoyed. “That should not have happened,” he muttered, half to himself. Of course, Sergeant Troy of the accursed Rat Patrol had seen everything, including how fearful the soldier was. Dietrich was proud of the Heere and its long traditions, and he hated having his army dishonoured by those of its own personnel who persisted in behaving like swine. That in itself was bad enough, but having it witnessed by the enemy was far worse. "Contrary to your propaganda, Sergeant," he said bitterly, "brutality is not standard procedure in the Wehrmacht. He is still learning that making a simple mistake is no cause for dread."
“I take it he’s the new guy.”
“One of them.”
"Well, you've dealt with scared troops before," Troy offered, feeling conciliatory.
"Certainly I have. Soldiers are often frightened." He raised his dark eyes to meet the American's gaze. "But not of me, Sergeant." When Arnheiter had arrived on the ship after being transferred from a unit in France, it had been obvious that he’d been badly beaten by someone. But Dietrich hadn’t asked the circumstances, and the new clerk had never explained. Whatever had happened to him, the captain had a bad feeling that it had gone on for quite some time—Arnheiter was a good clerk and a hard worker, but he tended to react badly to odd things. He started at loud noises, for instance, but not gunfire… “And I do not know why,” he added, his tone grim.
Lieutenant Bergmann came to him one afternoon, looking provoked. He had just come back from ten days in the battalion hospital, so he had not met any of the new men until that day. “That new fellow with the odd name, the blond one with the blaues Auge,” he said, referring to the soldier’s bruised eye, “I think he is a coward, Herr Hauptmann.”
“Indeed?” Dietrich had said. “What makes you say so?” Bergmann was not the first to call young Arnheiter an Angsthase.
“He jumps every time I open my mouth,” the Heidelberger had complained, “and he looks twice, as if he expects enemies around every corner.”
“Well, consider, Lieutenant. Why do you suppose a man would develop such a habit?”
Emil Bergmann had stood there in the HQ tent, nonplussed and shaking his head. “I cannot imagine, mein Herr.”
“Then let me remind you of a proverb,” Dietrich replied, having guessed at least part of the explanation. “It is said that 'once burned is twice shy'; is that not so?” At the junior officer’s obvious lack of comprehension, he said with some exasperation, “It is entirely possible that he has good reason to be wary. Most men do not learn such caution for nothing.”
Troy commented, "If one of our officers hit an enlisted man, he'd be thrown in the stockade for about a hundred years."
"Quite right," said Dietrich, and then pulled himself up short. Troy had the unnerving ability—he'd noticed this before—of making him say far more than he'd ever intended to.
"By the way," asked Troy, "what did the kid do wrong, anyway? He sure thought he was in trouble."
"Probably nothing. I assume it is an unknown mechanical malfunction.”
“In the RAF, I hear they call that a gremlin.”
[1] Angsthase: lit, a ‘fear-bunny’, i.e., timid as a rabbit.
[2]See the story “Sand Dunes and Palm Trees”, which precedes this one.
[3] That is, the North African gerbil, Gerbillus campestris
[4] To avoid giving offense, no actual town names have been used. Al-Jawari translates roughly as “stockings” or “socks”.