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"I think he's coming around."
Dietrich frowned to himself as he returned to consciousness in a haze of pain. That voice was familiar. . . Private Pettigrew, of the Rat Patrol. Dietrich cursed to himself. He'd obviously been wounded and captured by those damned desert vermin, and was now at their mercy.
He refused to open his eyes and see their gloating faces. He heard Pettigrew rise and walk away, his voice fading. "Sarge, I think you should have a look. . . "
Different footsteps came closer. There was a hand on his shoulder and another familiar voice said gently, "Hans, it's all right. You're safe here."
Dietrich opened his eyes and glared up at the worried face of Jack Moffitt. "Kindly remove your hands from my person, Sergeant!" Dietrich said icily. "And I'll thank you to remember my proper title, which is Hauptmann." Moffitt jumped back as if bitten, obviously startled.
Actor had been watching Dietrich carefully from his seat by the window. He had a suspicion and now wished to test it. Brushing past Moffitt, he stood by Dietrich's bedside and said formally, "Herr Hauptmann."
Dietrich peered up at him. "Who are you?"
Actor looked at Moffitt. "He doesn't remember."
"Doesn't remember what?" Tully piped up. Actor beckoned them away and they moved to the far edge of the room, where Dietrich couldn't hear them.
Doesn't remember what? Dietrich wondered, too. He remembered clearly standing in the half-track, seeing the Rat Patrol approach to attack his column. He remembered the first few minutes of the battle--then, nothing. His head ached abominably; putting his hand up to it, he felt a bandage. He must have been knocked out.
Except--Dietrich frowned, trying to recapture a fragment that had flitted across his mind like the last echoes of a fading dream. He thought he saw Troy, standing in a corridor. Then the image was gone, and there was only the murmur of voices. Moffitt and the unfamiliar man returned to his bedside.
"My name is Actor," said the unfamiliar man calmly. "Please tell me, what day do you think this is?"
Dietrich thought for a moment. "July--no, August something. The third, I think."
"Of what year?"
Dietrich stared at him. "Why, 1941, of course."
"Good God!" exclaimed Moffitt. "No wonder--look, Dietrich," he said, "I mean, Hauptmann Dietrich, you've lost over two years out of your memory. It isn't 1941 any more and you're not with the Wehrmacht any more either." He shot a beleaguered look at Actor, who picked up the thread.
"Herr Hauptmann," he said respectfully, "Rommel lost North Africa."
Dietrich almost sat up straight. "Impossible!" His head spun and he didn't resist as Moffitt pushed him back down.
Actor continued in the same reasoned tones. "That madman you people call the Führer made it impossible for Rommel to win. Moreover, the S.S. and the Gestapo are virtually running Germany. It was when you realized the depths to which your homeland had sunk that you decided to join our side."
Dietrich looked from Actor to Moffitt. "I did what?"
"You defected," Moffitt repeated patiently. "You're working with us now."
"And you expect me to believe this?" Dietrich frowned.
Actor smiled. "Surely the very absurdity of the story argues for its truth. If this were a plot to deceive you, they would have come up with something more plausible, would they not?"
Dietrich glared at him. "Not necessarily. Troy might have anticipated that line of reasoning."
Moffitt sighed. Dietrich and Troy thought far too much alike for his peace of mind.
"Where is Troy now, anyway?" Dietrich demanded.
"England," Moffitt said promptly. "He was hoping to come with us, but he's still recovering from a recent mission."
"And where exactly are we?" Dietrich asked, as if placating a madman.
"You won't believe me," said Moffitt, "but we're in occupied France."
Dietrich managed a short laugh. "I think you were hoping to prey upon my disoriented condition to convince me of this fiction. I'm sorry to disappoint you gentlemen, but while this injury may have given me a headache, it has not made me stupid."
Moffitt, Actor, and Tully held a brief conference just out of Dietrich's earshot. "That head injury must have been worse than we thought," whispered Moffitt.
Actor nodded. "I've heard of this kind of partial amnesia before. Certainly it's very awkwardly timed for us."
The others agreed. The Germans had taken to planting heavy stakes in open fields to deter gliders and small airplanes. Dietrich had demonstrated the hard way that these stakes could also endanger parachutists. No one had actually seen him hit it, but they had found him bleeding and unconscious next to a partially dislodged stake, and assumed that he must have slammed into it on landing.
"Our original plan, however, can go on more or less unchanged," Moffitt said. "Actor and I will make the rendezvous and pass on the plans as scheduled. Tully, you stay here and keep an eye on Dietrich. With any luck he'll be well enough to leave with us this evening as planned."
"I hope so," said Actor. "Rest and quiet are what he needs most. Obviously talking about his defection upsets him."
Tully grinned. "I get the hint. I'll leave him be. Tell Henri good luck from me." There were nods all around and Moffitt and Actor left.
As they went down the hallway of the dilapidated hotel, Actor nudged Moffitt. "How did you ever get Tully to pronounce Henri's name correctly?" Actor had been working with Tully for some time, trying to teach him a few scraps of French and getting nowhere. He had finally given up in despair when Tully, given the chance to speak to some Maquis, proudly and in blissful ignorance introduced the con man as "mon ami, le con"--"my friend, the asshole."
Moffitt chuckled. "I just told him to say 'ornery' instead. It comes out the same."
Dietrich dozed fitfully, unable to rest. His mind was in turmoil. He accepted that he had been captured by the Rat Patrol. A number of questions ensued. Where had they brought him? It didn't seem hot and dry enough to be the Libyan interior--perhaps they had moved him to the coast. Why was he here? Why were they trying to convince him that he had defected? He wondered vaguely who exactly Actor was and what his role was in all of this, but at least he was sure he knew where Actor and Moffitt had gone. They must have gone to find Troy, to tell him their prisoner was awake.
At the thought of Troy, he caught that fleeting glimpse again, like a snapshot fallen out of a stack onto the floor. Troy was standing in a hallway with Moffitt, and he, Dietrich, was talking to Troy. What was he saying? The memory faded as soon as he tried to seize it.
He pushed aside the questions that were tormenting his mind and turned to more constructive thoughts. He was alone with Pettigrew at the moment. Once the others returned, he would have little or no chance to escape. Now was his best opportunity.
Pettigrew was sitting by the window, peering out through the space betwen the shade and the casement at the street below. He wasn't looking at Dietrich.
Dietrich considered his options carefully. Springing out of bed and taking Pettigrew by surprise did not appear to have a high chance of success. Subterfuge would be called for.
"Tully?" he called. He felt awkward using the man's first name,but hoped it would persuade the American that Dietrich had decided to play along.
Pettigrew turned immediately. "Can I get you something?" he asked.
Dietrich nodded. "Glass of water, please."
Tully stepped into the next room. As soon as he was gone, Dietrich slipped out of bed and looked around for something to use as a weapon. To his surprise, there was an overcoat thrown over the chair near his bed with the outline of a gun showing clearly in one pocket. Dietrich reached in and pulled the gun out.
He could use the gun to get out simply by threatening Pettigrew, but there was nothing to prevent the young driver from following him as soon as he'd left the suite. Dietrich somehow didn't see himself as up to tying Pettigrew up without being overpowered. Perhaps it would be simpler to knock him out from behind. It would certainly save on conversation.
It never occurred to Dietrich to shoot Pettigrew in the back.
It didn't take long to find a small command post. Dietrich staggered in and said to a very surprised young corporal behind a desk, "I am Hauptmann Hans Dietrich of the Afrika Korps. I must speak to your commanding officer immediately."
The young man stared at him for a moment, gulped, and said, "Yes, sir." Then he turned and fled into a back office.
Dietrich caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the plate glass window and smiled ruefully. No doubt it was his appearance that had discomfitted the young man. He was unshaven, bandaged, and dressed in dishevelled civilian clothes.
The young corporal emerged almost immediately, followed by an officer whom Dietrich thought he recognized as someone he had met briefly at some functions before being posted to North Africa.
"Hauptmann Dietrich," the man said with a smile. "I am Hauptmann Karl Strasser. We are surprised to see you here." He pointed to a chair by the corporal's desk and pulled one up for himself. "Pray tell me what has happened."
Dietrich took a seat and poured out his story. The captain took it all in calmly; when Dietrich mentioned Troy, Strasser reached for a small notepad and made some quick jottings.
When Dietrich had finished, the captain regarded him closely for a few minutes. Dietrich was just beginning to feel uncomfortable when Strasser finally spoke. "I must tell you, Herr Hauptmann, that part of what you were told is true. As you may have surmised from the temperature, we are in France, not Libya. You have lost a couple of days in transit--you say you last remember a battle on August 3rd? It is August 5th now." The corporal looked startled. The captain shot him a warning glance. "I don't know why they had you brought here, but if we can capture them we can not only solve that mystery, but bring an end to a terrible scourge."
"My idea exactly," said Dietrich. "I can tell you where I was being held, and you could send someone back there to pick up Pettigrew, then stake it out until the others return."
"Excellent," said Strasser. He brought out a map of the village, which Dietrich studied briefly.
"Here," he said, putting his finger down. "In a suite of rooms at the end of the hall on the third floor."
Strasser turned to the corporal. "I will arrange for the pick-up and get some men for the stake-out. You take Herr Hauptmann where he can get cleaned up and find him a proper uniform. He can join us in fifteen minutes."
The corporal saluted and went out, Dietrich in tow. The captain watched them go, then picked up the phone. "Get me Lieutenant Eckhardt," he ordered.
Moments later the local S.S. liaison was on the line. "What is it, Karl?" he asked impatiently.
"We have had the most amazing stroke of luck! Hans Dietrich has turned up."
"The turncoat? What's so lucky about that? Unless you're holding a raffle for the privilege of slitting his throat."
"No, not that. He just staggered into my office and claimed to have been kidnapped by the Rat Patrol. He's had some kind of head injury. He thinks it's 1941. He doesn't remember defecting and is happily plotting to turn his friends over to us!"
Eckhardt laughed. "That's rich! But how do you know he's not faking it?"
"Show me a man who can voluntarily dilate one eye wider than the other and I'll show you someone who can fake a concussion," said Strasser. "No, he's telling the truth."
"If that's so," said Eckhardt, "then we've got a marvelous opportunity here to capture the others. Let's string him along, humor him, and get as much as we can until he gets his memory back."
"And then what?" asked Strasser.
He could hear the gleeful smile in Eckhardt's voice right through the telephone line. "Why, then we kill him."
Tully sat up, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. What had happened? He'd been watching Dietrich, he remembered that. Dietrich had asked him for a glass of water. He'd come in here to fix the drink and then. . . . Someone must have hit him from behind. Tully climbed to his feet and went to the other room. Dietrich was gone!
Tully thought carefully. At first he thought someone had snuck in, knocked him on the head, and made off with Dietrich. But a kidnapper would be unlikely to take all of Dietrich's clothes along as well. Moreover, Tully knew he'd locked the door after Moffitt and Actor left. He checked the door now. It was unlocked, but it hadn't been forced. No one had come in from outside.
It had to have been Dietrich. He's crazier than we thought, thought Tully. If Dietrich really had amnesia and really thought it was 1941, he'd head to the nearest command post and try to turn the members of the combined team in. At any moment the goons would be coming this way to pick Tully up. He needed to get away. Tully fretted. Trying to get to Moffitt and Actor now could endanger them--the rendezvous with the underground contact had been carefully set up so as not to draw attention. Right now what Tully had to do was find a place to hide out. It seemed to Tully that the best place for him to hide was the last place the Germans would look: the command post itself. He pulled on his jacket and cap and ducked out.
Moffitt and Actor returned from their rendezvous with Henri about an hour after Dietrich had left. They were discussing the mission very quietly in French as they walked. "I'm glad to have the plans safely handed over," confided Actor. "They'll be of great assistance to the right people." The plans in question had been taken from a captured German officer in England. They were for a large supply depot in France, showing not only the disposition of the various warehouses and their contents, but also the guard stations and schedules. They would be invaluable to the underground in plotting a raid.
Moffitt nodded. They went into the dingy hotel and began trudging up the stairs. "Assuming they reach the right people, that is. Henri seemed more nervous than usual--he's afraid he may be under suspicion. He has all the right papers, but still. . . ."
Actor shrugged. "We can only hope. At least our role is over." They reached the third floor and turned down the corridor. "Now all we have to worry about is getting our friend home and restored."
They reached the door of their room. Actor looked closely at the door and put his hand to the knob; it turned easily. Moffitt looked at Actor. "Didn't Tully lock the door behind us?" he asked.
"Yes," said Actor. Both drew their guns.
"Wait here," said Moffitt, and slipped inside the dark room. Abruptly the lights were switched on. Actor heard voices barking in German; a weapon fell to the floor, a set of handcuffs clicked into place. Then a voice called out loudly, "You in the corridor! Throw down your weapon and come in here or we shoot your friend!"
Cursing quietly under his breath, Actor dropped his gun, raised his hands, and walked in. He had to admit there was an impressive turnout: one S.S. officer, two S.S. soldiers and two Wehrmacht soldiers were standing around the main room, holding weapons trained on Moffitt. Two of the weapons immediately shifted to cover Actor as he came in.
As he entered the main room, Actor saw another officer standing in the shadows. Actor was herded into the center of the room to stand by Moffitt, and the officer stepped out of the shadows.
Actor and Moffitt both stared at him. From impeccably polished boots to a perfectly peaked cap, the man was the very epitome of a well-dressed Wehrmacht officer. Only the pallor of his face, set off by a bandage around his head, belied his crisp image.
Hauptmann Hans Dietrich smiled at them. "So, we meet again. Only now, you are my prisoners."
"You don't understand," Moffitt began. "You're in much greater danger than we are--" one of the guards poked him with a rifle and he fell silent.
Dietrich eyed him. "Still playing that tired game, Sergeant?" he asked. "It's not funny anymore. And it's you who will be in great danger if you don't tell me where Pettigrew has gone, and more important, where Troy is." Moffitt just glared at him. Dietrich shifted his eyes to Actor, who returned the stare impassively. Dietrich shrugged and made a quick, commanding gesture to the guards, pointing from the prisoners to the door and snapping his fingers.
Actor hadn't known Dietrich before his defection. Moffitt had. More than anything else, that characteristic gesture took him back to North Africa, to the old days of enmity and opposition, and he wondered whether Dietrich was lost to them forever.
Tully walked down the road by the maintenance garage for the command post, casually observing its activity. It seemed to be a busy day for them. There was one fellow who'd been under a hood for at least ten minutes without making any apparent progress. Maybe he could use some help, thought Tully. He strolled over to the garage and stood silently behind the man, gazing over his shoulder into the engine. The man was trying to refasten some hoses that had been undone for repairs. After a moment the fellow looked up and asked a question angrily in German. Tully guessed it was something like, "What are YOU looking at?"
Mumbling some indistinct syllables that he hoped sounded like French, Tully reached into the engine and made a swift adjustment. Then he pointed and made a "try it now" sort of grunt. The German glared at him, but made the effort. This time the components slid easily into place with a satisfying click.
The German looked back at him, this time with a smile. "Merci," he said, with a dreadful accent. Then he pointed to another car and asked a question in German, adding "s'il vous plait" at the end.
Tully was patching a brake fluid line when he saw the little parade crossing the street to the command post next door. Dietrich all in uniform led the way; Moffitt and Actor were being marched along by a formidable group of soldiers. Tully sighed and renewed his efforts. These cars were in sad shape, and he had to get at least one ready to go. . . if he was going to steal it for a getaway.
Hauptmann Strasser greeted Dietrich and his party with pleasure. "Lt. Eckhardt, you may take the prisoners for questioning," he said. The S.S. officer saluted and led his prizes into another room. Strasser turned to Dietrich. "You must be exhausted," he said. "Come, have some coffee."
"We didn't get Pettigrew," Dietrich began.
"Don't worry, I've put out notices all over the city. We'll find him," said Strasser soothingly. "We've got an eye out for Troy as well, and I've given them Hitchcock's description too, just in case. Your work is done for now." He got Dietrich settled in the lunchroom with a cup of coffee. "You can take time to relax for a while. I'll be in my office if you need anything."
"Thank you," Dietrich said, suddenly realizing how tired he was. He watched Strasser leave, then turned his attention to the coffee, which was not quite as bad as usual.
Dietrich reflected on the events so far. He was pleased to have captured Moffitt, but not content. Troy had gotten along just fine without him before he came and would no doubt manage without him in the future. Even the imminent capture of Pettigrew was not sufficient. He'd seen the Patrol function effectively with a substitute driver on several occasions.
No, the key to breaking the Rat Patrol was Troy. As long as there was Troy, there would be a Rat Patrol. Maybe it could go on without him--Dietrich had his doubts. But with both Troy and Moffitt under wraps, the accursed Rat Patrol would surely come to an end.
A pang of familiarity struck him, and suddenly he thought that he had once captured the two of them, recently, too. He seemed to remember a surge of elation at his good fortune. He strained to remember, and thought they might be in a warehouse, and that Troy had hurt his leg, but the memory faded out again to be replaced by that brief snapshot of Troy standing with Moffitt in a corridor lined with soldiers, and suddenly Dietrich knew, though he still knew nothing else, that his brief elation had turned to grinding despair.
Henri stopped the cart at the checkpoint. His hands were sweating. This was no ordinary stop: there were four alert guards buzzing about. His papers would be scrutinized, his belongings would be searched. He had little confidence that the worn, forged pass would stand up to a close inspection; he'd been counting on a brief glance and a wave-through from a single bored guard.
"Out of the cart!" ordered the guard abruptly. Henri jumped down, fumbling for his papers. The guard waved them aside and scrutinized Henri instead. "Stand up straight! How tall are you!"
"165 centimeters," Henri quavered.
Two guards made a quick inspection of the wagon. They did not bother to open his small bags, but poked around any space that looked large enough to hide a man.
Another guard came over and looked into Henri's eyes and pulled his hair. "Black hair, brown eyes. Too dark and too short."
The first guard nodded agreement and turned back to Henri. "Go on," he barked. Henri scrambled back into the cart.
Obviously they were looking for someone else--someone taller and fairer than he. Tully Pettigrew, perhaps? Henri breathed a sigh of relief as he lifted the reins and clucked at the old horse, and sent up a silent prayer for whoever the real S.S. target might be.
Dietrich sat in the lounge at the command post, drinking another cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. Strasser had given him a pack of shoddy French cigarettes, lumpy and tasteless. He'd gotten spoiled smoking Troy's American brand for so long. . . . what? Dietrich thought for a moment that his memory had drifted somewhere important, to something he ought to remember, but it faded out again. He could overhear the corporal in the next room as he came and reported to Strasser that the search was still proving fruitless. Strasser replied that he was going out for lunch and would be back later. Sighing, Dietrich picked up his cup of coffee and went to see what was going on with the prisoners. Maybe one of them had broken and disclosed the location of the rest of the Rat Patrol.
Then again, maybe not. As Dietrich stepped into the interrogation room, a long, low room with a fireplace at one end, he saw Eckhardt strike Moffitt, who fell to the floor. The guards put him back on his feet and Eckhardt growled, "I will ask you again, Sergeant--where are the others?" Moffitt shook his head; it was obvious that this was a pattern that had been repeated a number of times. Actor was chained against the wall, watching in helpless frustration. Eckhardt turned away and walked over to the fire that burned low in the grate. He reached for the poker, poked at the fire idly for a moment, then stood, holding the poker in the fire steadily. "Ah, hello, Hauptmann Dietrich," he said casually. "You're just in time to see some of our more stringent measures being put into action." He looked down at the poker and rotated it a bit to make sure it was heating evenly.
Dietrich sighed inwardly. He didn't like to see this happening--on the other hand, it was vital to get that information. A familiar voice echoed in Dietrich's memory. "We are no longer free to choose which of the Führer's tools we will or will not use." Dietrich frowned to himself. When had Rommel said that to him? He couldn't remember.
He forced himself to look at Moffitt. Bruised and dazed, kept upright mainly by the efforts of the guards, the Englishman was focusing vaguely on Eckhardt. Apparently sensing Dietrich's gaze, he turned and locked eyes with Dietrich.
Something in Moffitt's eyes, some kind of weary dignity, brought that picture back into Dietrich's mind. It was so clear now. Troy was standing in a corridor lined with S.S. guards. Troy had a leg wound. He was leaning on Moffitt, barely able to walk. The look in Troy's eyes was that of a man who is about to die without fear for a cause he believes in.
Memory allowed him another trickle, as the picture was suddenly enlivened by sound. He, Dietrich, was trying to apologize to Troy; Moffitt, answering for the exhausted American, brushed off the apology with uncharacteristic rudeness. Now that Dietrich could see and remember the whole picture, it all seemed to narrow down again to Troy's eyes. Even in defeat, the American was defiant, proud, holding onto his honor even as Dietrich felt his own slipping away.
He gasped as the floodgates of memory opened. Honor. That was it. He had defected. The Rats had been telling the truth.
Which meant that Strasser and Eckhardt were lying to him, using him to get at the others. If they suspected that he had remembered, it was all over for him.
Eckhardt noticed Dietrich start suddenly. "Something wrong, Herr Hauptmann?" he asked.
Dierich put a hand to his head. "Y-yes," he said. "My memory--I have remembered where Troy is!" He looked at his watch. "Quickly, fetch the captain. I need to talk to him. Immediately!"
Eckhardt nodded and raced for the door, the hot poker falling to the tiled floor with a crash.
"Put him in a chair," Dietrich ordered, pointing to Moffitt. When the guards had turned their backs to him he drew his gun and said, "Throw down your weapons." They turned and saw him. Exchanging puzzled glances with each other, they obeyed. "You," Dietrich gestured with the gun to the man on the right, "free that man." He pointed to Actor. The guard drew the keys from the chain at this side, walked over and unlocked the con man's shackles. Dietrich watched tensely, knowing that this would be the prime time for one of the guards to make a move. But neither one did. Moving dully, as if it didn't really matter whose orders they obeyed, so long as they were obeying orders, the guards did exactly as requested and no more. Dietrich had Actor tie them up, gag them, and lock them in the supply closet.
As soon as they were safely stowed, Dietrich turned to Actor. "Come on," he said. "We've only got a few minutes." He went to Moffitt, who was slumped in his chair. "Can you walk?" he asked.
"Piece of cake," Moffitt said, pulling himself to his feet. Once up, he swayed dangerously and Dietrich grabbed him, pulling Moffitt's arm around his shoulder.
"Let's go," Dietrich said. They ducked out into a deserted corridor.
Dietrich led his little party down the hallway toward the garage. With any luck, the vehicles would be only lightly guarded, and if he couldn't commandeer one, they could overpower the guards.
Actor pushed open the door that led into the garage. It appeared deserted. Three gleaming cars sat unattended in service bays. Dietrich and Actor shared a hesitant smile.
Then Actor pointed silently. A pair of legs stuck out from under one of the cars, and a faint metallic scritching sound could be heard. Someone was still working under one of the cars.
Actor strode over to the car. "We have you covered," he said firmly in German. "Come out and put your hands up."
There was a muffled curse from under the car and a young man on a service trolley slid out and gaped at Actor. "What was all that about?"
Actor sighed with relief. "Tully! What are you doing here?"
"Oh, the fellas and me are great friends," said Tully cheerfully, climbing to his feet and wiping oil from his cheek with his sleeve. "They left me here to watch the shop while they went to lunch." Tully peered at Dietrich, who was standing just behind Actor, still supporting Moffitt. "He back on our side?"
Actor nodded.
"Just in time," added Moffitt with a wince.
Tully pointed to the center car. "That's the best one. If we've got a minute I can disable the others."
"Do it," said Dietrich. While Tully fiddled briefly under the hoods of the other cars, Dietrich and Actor bundled Moffitt into the back seat. Dietrich was about to climb into the front passenger seat when Actor stopped him.
"Hans," he said, "Lend me your cap and overcoat and I'll ride up front. You look worse than Jack does right now."
Dietrich stared back at him. The adrenaline that had been keeping him going was draining away, leaving him suddenly weak and shaky. He shrugged off his coat and handed it to Actor along with his hat, and got into the back.
Sitting in the car, Dietrich leaned his head against the high back of the upholstered seat and closed his eyes. He had almost forgotten about his head in the excitement of the last few hours; now it was beginning to throb insistently.
"You all right?" asked Moffitt.
Dietrich turned his head and opened his eyes, struggling to bring Moffitt into focus. The Englishman was peering at him with concern.
Dietrich raised a hand toward Moffitt's black eye, the most obvious of a number of injuries. "God, I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Don't worry about it," Moffitt assured him. "I've been through worse."
Dietrich remembered the gleam in Eckhardt's eyes as he held the poker steadily in the flames. Then his newly restored memory brought him the similar look in Weggener's eyes as he bore down on Troy's wounded leg. Dietrich shuddered. Yes, it was because of such as these that he had defected. He could not allow such degraded creatures to drag his beloved country down with them.
The next few hours passed in a hazy blur for Dietrich. They made their getaway and rendezvous uneventfully, and he was coaxed from the warm, comfortable car and assisted into a hard, cold airplane seat. The abrupt transition brought him a few minutes of lucidity and he overheard Garrison, who was piloting, talking to Actor.
"I don't know how you managed to arrange it, but Henri made it back to his Resistance team in record time. No trouble with the checkpoints at all. The man who radioed us said that you had somehow inveigled the local S.S. into putting all their manpower into a desperate search for Tully!" Garrison chuckled. "It was a lifesaver for Henri, I can tell you. He was sure he was under suspicion."
"It's a long story," said Actor. "I'll tell you on the way. We should radio ahead for medical assistance if we can. . . ." His voice seemed to fade out as Dietrich dozed off again.
It seemed only moments later that he felt a bump, and then another, and heard the whine of the reverse thrusters as the plane came to a halt. Actor was leaning over him. "Hans, can you make it out of the plane? There's a stretcher waiting for you on the runway." Garrison came out of the cockpit, pulling off his gloves and goggles and eying Dietrich warily. Dietrich looked from Garrison to Actor. "He knows the whole story," said Actor. "And we called ahead on the radio. Troy's waiting for us."
That's all I need, thought Dietrich. They should have brought a coffin, not a stretcher, because Troy is going to kill me. He watched as Tully helped a wobbly Moffitt out of the hatch. It's my fault Moffitt got hurt, just as much as if I'd hit him myself. And I put the others in danger, too.
Actor saw where Dietrich was looking, and interpreted the stricken look on his face correctly. "It wasn't your fault, Hans."
Dietrich turned to him. "I could have gotten you all killed."
"But you didn't," said Actor firmly. "Come on, let's go."
With Actor's help, Dietrich managed to climb down and stand on his own two feet on the tarmac. The sun was just beginning to set, and the gray foggy air was cold, except for the hot breath of the airplane exhaust. Troy stood about ten feet away, watching Tully and a medic carry Moffitt's stretcher to an ambulance parked beside the runway. Troy turned back toward the plane and saw Dietrich.
Dietrich watched Troy coming toward him with a sense of dread. It was Troy who had stuck up for him so many times, who had trusted him implicitly, who had fought for his inclusion in their missions. And now? He steeled himself for a torrent of well-deserved anger, or worse, a curt dismissal.
Troy put a hand on Dietrich's shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. "Thank God you're all right," he said quietly.
Relief washed over Dietrich and he felt his knees buckling. Troy caught and supported him till he was steady again. Actor was calling for a stretcher.
Dietrich started to shake his head, then stopped when he realized just how much that would hurt. "No," he said. "I can walk." Leaning on Troy, he allowed himself to be led to the waiting ambulance.