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Hauptmann Hans Dietrich of the Afrika Korps had grown accustomed to defining the individual members of the Rat Patrol in terms of their leader, Sergeant Sam Troy, U.S. Army. Troy himself was, in a way, the ideal enemy: clever, resourceful, and surprisingly honorable. If only real men weren't dying out there, Dietrich would have enjoyed matching wits against Troy as a kind of game. As it was, he often found his chief regret was that his own side didn't have enough men of Troy's caliber or character.
As for the others, he had originally simply tagged Private Hitchcock as "Troy's driver" and Pettigrew as "Troy's other driver." He had soon learned to distinguish them personally: Hitchcock was irascible and voluble; Pettigrew, phlegmatic and laconic. Both were fearless, loyal, and deadly.
Sergeant Moffitt, he had quickly decided, was a sort of rabbit that Troy kept pulling out of his hat. Whatever Troy needed, be it a shortcut through the desert, an "in" with a local tribe, or an interpreter in virtually any language, that damned Englishman was there to provide it. Half the time Dietrich wanted to kill him; the other half he wished he could recruit him.
Dietrich's train of thought was broken by the faint sound of a familiar voice. He tried to look around himself unobtrusively to identify its source. He was sitting in a cafe in a small neutral town near the Tunisian border. It had no strategic significance and a kind of unofficial truce allowed both sides to use it for trade and R&R. Dietrich had come in with a supply officer to barter for food; the fresh vegetables and eggs that the Arabs were willing to swap gave his men a pleasant break from their dull rations.
Glancing around the cafe, he saw only one other occupied table; a group of locals in a tight cluster, conversing in low tones. He frowned to himself; the Arabs were not usually so secretive. In the drone of their conversation he caught that familiar voice again and suddenly recognized it--not by any hint of accent, but by timbre alone--as Sergeant Moffitt of the Rat Patrol.
Moffitt, of course, had as much right to be here as anyone. Still, Dietrich was suspicious; he couldn't quite hear what the men were saying, but it didn't sound like a casual conversation. He risked looking over in the direction of the group, and picked out the Englishman after a moment. He wore the local garb quite naturally on his tall thin frame, and his dark hair and sun-browned complexion fit right in; only the light hazel eyes gave him away. Moffitt happened to look up at that moment and met Dietrich's eyes. Dietrich observed his reaction carefully; he looked surprised, briefly concerned, then merely calculating. He certainly didn't look worried or anxious at seeing Dietrich, and sent a jaunty salute his way before resuming his conversation.
Dietrich's supply officer, Schmidt, came in at that moment with a couple more locals in tow. "Herr Hauptmann," he said, "I believe I have found some gentlemen who are willing to do business. This is Hassan and his brother, Abdul."
"Excellent," Dietrich smiled. "Before we begin, let me ask you, Lieutenant: do you recognize anyone in that group over in the corner?"
Schmidt studied them for a moment and shook his head. Then he squinted and said, "Wait a minute. That's my double over there, isn't it?" The stocky blond had once posed as Moffitt while Dietrich passed himself off as Troy to raid an American base; fortunately, no one there had ever met the real Rat Patrol in person.
"The very one."
"What's he doing here?"
"I have no idea. It's not our concern, at any rate. Let's get down to business."
About five minutes into their negotiations, two men entered the cafe. To Dietrich's practiced eye their manner fairly screamed "Gestapo." They glanced briefly at Dietrich's party then moved on to the group in the corner.
"Which one of you is Sergeant Moffitt?" one of them barked in German.
Moffitt turned and answered in the same language. "I am. Why do you ask?"
"You are to come with us."
"I don't think so," said Moffitt, making no move to join them.
The other agent, who had remained silent, moved abruptly like a coiled snake to deliver a quick one-two punch to the Englishman's stomach and jaw. Moffitt sank to his knees. The leader of the Arab group opened his mouth to protest and the first agent drew his gun. The Arab backed off, and the agent nodded in satisfaction. The two Gestapo men each grabbed Moffitt by an arm and dragged him out of the cafe.
Dietrich watched with curiosity. There wasn't much he could do. He was here in no official capacity, and to interfere, even to ensure fair treatment, would be to cast suspicion on himself. Still, the Gestapo certainly didn't belong here and he had to wonder what they were doing. After the haggling was over, he decided, he would have a go at finding out.
It took about an hour to finish the bargaining. Schmidt obviously relished the exchange, which was conducted in a kind of pidgin between Schmidt's broken Arabic and Hassan's marginal German. Dietrich interrupted every now and then to translate a difficult point, but for the most part they got on surprisingly well without assistance. When they had reached an agreement, Hassan eyed Dietrich with speculation. "You are curious, aren't you, about where the Gestapo took your friend?"
Dietrich didn't bother to correct the error. "Yes, I am."
"For a little bit extra, I could show you."
Schmidt shook his head. "I don't wish to alter the bargain now."
"Wait," said Dietrich. "I'll make this offer; instead of your bringing us the supplies, I'll send Schmidt with you in the car and save you the walk. In exchange, Abdul guides me to the Gestapo headquarters."
This was agreed upon, and Hassan even offered to give Schmidt directions so he could pick Dietrich up after picking up the supplies. They shook hands, and Dietrich set off with his guide.
When they reached a dead-end road with a few small buildings, Abdul became obviously nervous. "That one, in the middle," he said, pointing. Then he turned and fled.
Dietrich started to call after him, but it was too late. The Gestapo spooked everyone they came in contact with--including Dietrich himself. He squared his shoulders and strode confidently to the door.
It was opened by one of the agents he had seen in the bar. Dietrich introduced himself and asked to speak with someone in charge. Despite the disdain held by the Gestapo for the Wehrmacht, or indeed any other branch of the service, his rank seemed to be enough to get him in, and he was ushered none too graciously into a private office.
He looked around himself in some astonishment even as he saluted the man behind the desk. He knew he was inside a ramshackle building in a tiny town in North Africa; but from the interior of the office he would have believed he was in one of the modern buildings in Berlin. The fixtures and furniture were new; there were electric lights and fans. Where did the electricity come from, he wondered.
The man behind the desk, a major, returned his salute with a cursory "Heil Hitler" and gestured to a chair. "I see that you are impressed with our accommodations, Herr Hauptmann," he said as Dietrich seated himself.
"Indeed I am," said Dietrich. Impressed? he thought. More like surprised and suspicious.
"But you didn't come here to complement my decorator," said the major. He was only a little older than Dietrich, with a too-ready smile and cold flat eyes.
"No, I didn't," said Dietrich. He considered how best to approach this man and decided to be direct. "I observed your men apprehending a suspect at the cafe earlier today. I thought I might have recognized him."
The major leaned forward, interested. "Any assistance you can offer us would be appreciated. One of our informers told us this man was an English spy, but couldn't tell us what he was doing here."
"Have you learned anything from the prisoner?" Dietrich asked casually.
"No, and not for want of trying." The major shook his head. "He's obviously going to require more specialized treatment." He gave the first slow-spreading, genuine smile Dietrich had seen from him. "I've sent for some experts. It would be a pleasure to watch them work." His smile faded. "Unfortunately I have to leave in the morning and I may not get a chance to observe."
Dietrich fought to contain his revulsion. "I'm afraid I can't tell you what he's doing here," he said slowly. "To tell the truth, I came here because I was hoping to find out. He's a member of a commando group that has been harassing my unit for quite some time now."
The major looked curiously relieved. "I wonder whether that was his purpose this time?" He tapped a pencil thoughtfully on his desk. "We were concerned that he had discovered our presence here. As you know, even two or three agents such as my little group," he made a sweeping gesture around the office, "might make the wrong impression."
Dietrich felt that his intelligence was being insulted. Two or three agents? he thought to himself. I doubt it. This elaborate office was unlikely to belong to such a tiny post. And somewhere there had to be a generator. He suspected that there was a much larger base here, perhaps underground. No reason to let on that he suspected, he decided. "Yes, I think my unit is likely to be his target," Dietrich said. "Perhaps if I could ask him a few questions. . . ?"
The major looked thoughtful. "Yes, yes, that might be a good strategy. You can be the 'good guy'--a familiar face, at least--beg him to talk to you on humanitarian grounds, etc., etc. That can be very effective." He smiled again, that frightening genuine smile. "I've made a study of such things."
Dietrich nodded.
He was led to another room nearby. One of the agents from the cafe was standing guard outside. He unlocked the door--a sturdy prison door with professional locks, not the sort of door you'd expect inside such a house--and let Dietrich in. The room was dim, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust.
Moffitt was chained to a bunk against the far wall. He looked ghastly; he had obviously received a beating in the last hour, probably in this very room. Dietrich saw a chair with pieces of rope hanging from the slats, a small round table nearby with a powerful lamp, now off, and a pitcher of water with a half-full glass next to it. The latter puzzled him, and he went over and sniffed it. Salt water, a cruel trick for a thirsty prisoner. He went over to the door. "I would like some plain water, please," he said to the agent outside.
"For the prisoner?"
Dietrich shrugged. "I'm supposed to gain his confidence."
"All right," said the agent. He called to someone Dietrich couldn't see, and a glass of water was handed in shortly after.
Dietrich dragged a chair over to the bed and sat down. "Would you like some water, Sergeant?" he asked quietly.
Moffitt shook his head without opening his eyes. "Salty," he whispered. His voice was hoarse; they had not gotten him to talk, but they had gotten him to scream.
Dietrich sighed and started over. "Sergeant, this is Captain Dietrich." Moffitt opened his puffy, swollen eyes as well as he could; this time he recognized Dietrich. "Would you like some water?" Dietrich asked again. Moffitt nodded without hesitation. Dietrich was surprised and not a little touched. There seemed to be a kind of odd little syllogism at work: Troy's men trusted Troy; Troy trusted Dietrich; hence, Troy's men trusted Dietrich. Moffitt tried to push himself up on one elbow, but fell back; Dietrich held the glass for him and supported his head so he could drink.
Moffitt finished the water quickly and laid his head back down. "Thank you," he said. "What are you doing here?"
Dietrich set the glass back on the table. "I was about to ask you the same question. For that matter, so are they." He jerked his head toward the door.
Moffitt was silent for a long moment. Dietrich took the opportunity to study him. The Englishman's attitude puzzled him. Moffitt wasn't stupid; he ought to be at least apprehensive about the upcoming torture. Instead, he seemed resigned, not with the nervous expectancy of a man hoping to be rescued, but with the simple calm of a man who has accepted his fate. And his wasn't a fate that a man could accept calmly.
"Herr Hauptmann," Moffitt said suddenly. "You can tell them I was here to stir up the locals for a surprise raid on your camp. If you hurry back you can get there and prepare before they attack." Moffitt didn't look at him.
Dietrich glared at him suspiciously. "You're lying," he said.
Something in Dietrich's tone roused Moffitt to desperation. He pushed himself up, successfully this time. His chains clanked as he put out a hand to grasp Dietrich's arm. "For the love of God, Dietrich," he rasped, "get out of this town now." The effort had taken the last of Moffitt's strength; Dietrich felt the weak grip on his arm slacken as the English sergeant slumped back, unconscious.
Dietrich's mind was working at a furious pace. Here was an extensive, concealed Gestapo base in a neutral town; Moffitt coming in to deliver an important message to the locals. . . . a warning? Perhaps the Allies had learned of the base's existence and were coming in to bomb it. Moffitt's strange resignation suddenly made sense; he expected to die long before the next torture session.
But it was all conjecture, nothing he could tell the Gestapo. Or, for that matter, wanted to.
He went out to the door. "I have information for the Major," he said, and the agent let him out. He went back to the office.
The major returned his salute impatiently. "Well?" he demanded.
"Your suggestion was most effective, Herr Major," said Dietrich. "The prisoner informed me that he had been sent to coordinate an attack against my unit by the locals. If you will excuse me, I believe I have time to return to camp and prepare a surprise for our attackers."
"Excellent," the major beamed. "So he was not here to spy on our base?"
"He never even mentioned it," said Dietrich truthfully.
"I am glad to hear it."
Dietrich had a sudden idea. Without thinking about it twice, he said, "I hope you'll keep tight security on the prisoner. Once the Arabs know he's betrayed them they'll want him. They know exotic tortures that make our men look like fumbling amateurs." Dietrich spoke with feigned admiration and saw an answering gleam in the Gestapo officer's eye.
"If we turned him over to them," the major asked thoughtfully, "do you think they would return the body for our experts to analyze?"
"I don't see why not," said Dietrich cheerfully.
"In that case--do you have a car?--I'll ask you to drop him off with them. Perhaps you can use him as a bargaining chip to avert that attack they're planning." The major rubbed his hands together. "And when we've learned what we can from them, we'll exterminate them, yes?" He smiled a quick, cold smile. Suppressing a shudder, Dietrich flashed a brief smile in return.
Schmidt had been waiting outside for several minutes when an odd little procession emerged from the house: Dietrich, followed by the two Gestapo agents carrying an unconscious Moffitt. They dumped him in the back seat as Dietrich got into the front, then turned on their heels and returned to the house without so much as a salute. Dietrich got into the front seat and sat sideways with his back against the door. "Are we ready to go?"
"Well, yes," said Schmidt, starting the car. "We have the supplies we came for." He pointedly avoided mentioning the extra cargo lying in a heap in the back seat. "I was under the impression, sir, that you wanted to stay and check out the recreational facilities, to see if we might approve some R&R for the men."
"No." Dietrich's abrupt tone surprised Schmidt. "We are leaving immediately. I want you to take the fastest possible route out of here."
Schmidt was already pulling out as Dietrich spoke. "Yes, sir!" he said. As they got a little farther on he ventured to say, "Sir, does it have something to do with him?" He pointed over his shoulder into the back seat.
"You might say that," said Dietrich grimly "Drive faster, lieutenant."
Schmidt shot him a surprised look, but stepped on the gas. The car shot forward and they were soon leaving the little town behind.
Dietrich relaxed as he watched the town fade into the distance behind them. Schmidt looked over at him. "Are you going to sit like that the whole way back, sir? You don't look comfortable."
"I want to keep an eye on the prisoner."
"But he's unconscious!"
Dietrich regarded Schmidt patiently for a long moment. "Lieutenant," he finally said, "not long ago I left that man tied up in my car while I went to check on the engine. The next thing I knew, he had slammed the bonnet down on my head. One thing I have learned about these Rats is that you don't underestimate them--and you never turn your back on them."
Schmidt nodded and they drove in silence for some time; the camp was a couple of hours away. This area of the desert was not completely arid; scattered stands of trees and the occasional well indicated the presence of a little water.
After about an hour they began to hear a steady drone. "Incoming aircraft, sir," said Schmidt. Dietrich nodded. "Should we take cover?"
"Might as well," said Dietrich, indicating a small grove of scrubby trees just off the side of the road. Schmidt pulled the car in among them and they waited and listened.
The planes drew closer and closer. Soon they heard the whistling whine of falling bombs, the dull thud of faraway explosions. Schmidt looked at Dietrich. "It's the town, isn't it, sir? Did you know?"
"I couldn't be sure," said Dietrich. "But I had a suspicion."
Schmidt pulled out a pair of binoculars. "If it's safe, sir, I'd like to go outside and take a look."
Dietrich nodded. "Let me know how it looks out there."
The slamming of Schmidt's door as he left the car accomplished what the planes and bombs had not; it roused Moffitt. He raised his head and stared groggily at Dietrich. "Why aren't I dead?" he whispered.
"I don't know, Sergeant," said Dietrich. He had acted purely on impulse, and now regarded Moffitt with some puzzlement. "But you saved my life--even believing that you were about to die."
"All the more reason to save you," said Moffitt unexpectedly, bestowing an oddly endearing lopsided grin on the captain. "After all, somebody's got to keep Troy in line."
Dietrich couldn't help but laugh. Moffitt joined him briefly, then winced as the action hurt something in his ribs.
Schmidt returned. "They've flattened the city," he said to Dietrich. "Nothing left but a smoking hole in the ground. They're not going after any other targets, though; they're just leaving."
"That city was their only target," said Moffitt wearily. "Or to be more precise, the underground Gestapo base."
Schmidt looked around, startled. "Well, hello," he said.
Moffitt strained his eyes, trying to make out the blurry figure next to Dietrich. "Haven't we met?"
"Lieutenant Georg Schmidt, at your service," the young German said cheerfully in flawless American English. "Sometimes known as Sergeant Jack Moffitt." He turned to Dietrich. "Uh, sir, what are we going to do with him?"
"My orders were to hand him over to the Arabs whose plans he had supposedly betrayed," said Dietrich. "But it seems to me, that since the Arabs have, in fact, no cause to be angry with him, to do so would be to obey the letter, but not the spirit of the command." Schmidt nodded seriously. He had a fair idea of what was coming next. Dietrich continued. "To act in accord with the major's intention, I should return Sergeant Moffitt to someone who will be very irritated to learn that the sergeant is responsible for my survival."
"That would be a perfect solution, sir, if in fact we had such a hypothetical prisoner," said Schmidt, backing the car out of the trees and maneuvering it back on the road.
"Yes it would, wouldn't it?" agreed Dietrich, amused. "I tell you what, Lieutenant, drop yourself off at the camp and I shall take the car out to . . . make sure that there are no marauding tribes in the vicinity."
"Very good, sir," said Schmidt.
They proceeded to the camp in silence. Schmidt stopped within walking distance and got out, and Dietrich moved over behind the wheel. He drove a short distance away and then stopped. Reaching into the glove compartment, he pulled out a map of the area and turned to Moffitt. "Well, Sergeant?"
"Well, what?" Moffitt snapped. His head ached and he had a hard enough time following normal conversations, much less elliptical questions.
"I'm sorry," Dietrich said. "In order for me to return you to your unit, I need to know where it is."
Moffitt pushed himself up to a sitting position and took the map from Dietrich, squinting at it. "What makes you think they're anywhere around here?"
"Oh come now, Sergeant, they wouldn't just drop you off and drive away. Besides, I have a hunch that your whole chivalrous mission may have been Troy's idea. As opposed to, say, your commanding officer's."
Moffitt shot him a sideways look. "Mine and Troy's together, actually. Command was reluctant, but Troy. . . has a way with words. Convinced them of the utilitarian value of local goodwill, I think; I suspect they were looking for a practical excuse to do the decent thing, anyway. How did you guess? No, wait." Although not working at top efficiency, his mind had managed to sort through Dietrich's statement and make a kind of connection. "It's the sort of thing you would have wanted to do."
Dietrich looked away, embarrassed. Moffitt could tell he'd hit his target and decided to change the subject. "Anyway, about this map. If I show you where we are dug in, what's to stop you from coming back with some tanks and exterminating us?"
Dietrich sighed. "I give you my word not to make any hostile move toward your group for the next 24 hours. In exchange, I would ask the same from you. After all, I'll have to show you where we are on this map, which will give away my people's location as well." Moffitt nodded. Dietrich put his finger on a spot on the map. "Now, here's where we are. Which way do we need to go?' Moffitt gave him explicit directions and then lay back, exhausted.
Dietrich twisted around in his seat and looked down at the English sergeant. Under the bruises there was an unnatural pallor and he didn't seem to be breathing properly, as if taking deep breaths was painful. "I believe I can predict your answer, Sergeant," he began diffidently, "but I still feel that I should make the offer. You are probably far from the nearest Allied medical treatment and you are not in the best of condition. If you wish to surrender I can take you to the doctor in my camp and make sure that you receive immediate treatment before you go on to a prisoner of war facility."
"No, thank you."
Dietrich shrugged and turned back to the steering wheel. Starting the car, he said conversationally, "You know, Troy would have told me to go to hell."
"I'm not Troy," said Moffitt.
Dietrich stopped the car just shy of the spot Moffitt had shown him on the map. Getting out, he began tying his handkerchief to the antenna to provide a kind of truce signal. A voice from nearby startled him. "We have you covered. Hands in the air." He looked up to see Troy coming over a nearby rise, gun in hand.
Dietrich rose, and, instead of putting his hands in the air, saluted. Troy, taking in the white flag and the familiar face, holstered his gun and returned the salute crisply. He stopped a few feet from the car.
"What brings you out here, Captain?" Troy asked. Hitchcock and Pettigrew appeared on the rise behind him, machine guns at the ready. Troy motioned and the two privates came down to stand nearby, lowering their weapons, still alert.
Dietrich answered. "I ran into a mutual acquaintance of ours in town. Unfortunately, so did the Gestapo." He saw Troy's expression become guarded. "I persuaded them to let me have him. . . somewhat the worse for wear, I'm afraid, but essentially intact."
Troy's face revealed an interesting mixture of relief and suspicion. Dietrich opened the back seat door and leaned in. "Wake up, Sergeant, we're home," he said lightly.
Moffitt opened his eyes, sat up, and found Dietrich helping him out of the car. Troy was staring at him, looking worried. Moffitt took a couple of steps toward him and pitched forward. Troy caught him on one side, Dietrich on the other and they eased him down to the ground.
"Hitch, come take a look at him. Tully, get a stretcher," barked Troy. Pettigrew disappeared over the rise and Hitchcock came forward.
"Easy now, Sarge," said Hitch, bending over Moffitt. "Let me look atcha."
Troy motioned to Dietrich and they moved off a little ways. "I don't mean to seem ungrateful," Troy said, "but why?"
"I would still be in that town now if Moffitt hadn't warned me away," said Dietrich. He added quickly, "Not in so many words, you understand--nothing that would give your plan away. It seemed to me that one good turn deserved another."
"I don't know whether I should discipline him or commend him," Troy admitted. Tully came back with a collapsible stretcher from one of the jeeps, and Troy watched for a moment as the two privates carefully transferred Moffitt onto it. Troy looked back at Dietrich. "I'm half inclined to do both."
Dietrich met his eyes. "What would you have done in his place, Sergeant?"
Troy kicked some sand with his boot. "Yeah, well. . . ." He looked away again. "Thanks."
Dietrich nodded. "You're quite welcome. Now, the sergeant and I agreed on a 24-hour truce for both sides to get away without pursuit, so if you'll excuse me, I must be returning to my men." He saluted again. "Sergeant."
"Captain." Troy returned the salute and stood at attention as Dietrich got into his car. Dietrich watched in his rear view mirror as he drove away. Pettigrew and Hitchcock were carrying the stretcher back over the rise; Troy was walking along slowly beside, his military demeanor temporarily placed by concern.
Troy's men were becoming distinct individuals, thought Dietrich; not merely extensions of their leader. And the face of the enemy was becoming too damned familiar. He turned onto the main road and began the journey back to his camp.