Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Back in Business
December 13, 1943
On a cold, raw Sunday afternoon, a group of children stood huddled in the doorway of a church, debating where to carol next. “We’ll go to the ‘ouse where those Yanks live,” decided the oldest boy, and the leader of the little band of urchins. “They have pots of money, and if you’re nice, they’ll give you chocolate.”
“Oooo,” said another of the boys. “I ‘eard there’s a Jerry there with ‘em. ‘E might be a spy, mightn’t ‘e, Tom?”
“Don’t be daft, Jack,” chided the leader. “If ‘e was a spy, would ‘e be livin’ with a ‘ouse full of Yank soldiers? Besides, I’ve seen ‘im, out in their little garden. ‘E don’t walk right—there’s summat the matter with ‘is leg, I think. But ‘e’s a nice enough chap, seems friendly like. And ‘e ran away from ‘Itler, they say. I would too if I was ‘im. Come on, step lively, or we’ll get caught in the blackout.”
The fire that Tully had built in the grate was not too large, due to the coal restrictions, but it was serviceable. It was late afternoon, nearing twilight; before long it would be dark, and time for the blackout curtains. The four members of the Rat Patrol, plus their German radio operator, Friedrich Arnheiter, were listening to the radio and Moffitt and Arnheiter were playing chess.
Above the sound of the radio, Troy heard something else. He listened, and then smiled. “Hey, I hear some kids caroling outside,” he said, getting up to see. Hitch hastily shut off the radio, and they all gathered at the window to see.
The carolers’ voices rang out pure and clear in the cold air.
“See, amid the winter’s snow,
Born to us on earth below,
See, the tender Lamb appears,
Promised from eternal years.
Hail, thou ever-blessed morn,
Hail, redemption’s happy dawn,
Sing to all Jerusalem,
Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
“It is so beautiful,” Arnheiter whispered to Moffitt. “But what do they say? Ich versteh’ nicht...”
“I’ll show you the words later,” the Englishman promised, remembering that he’d seen a copy of the New Oxford Book of Carols here in the library of the house. They all listened, the Americans captivated by hearing a Christmas carol that was at once lovely and unfamiliar to them. When the kids had finished singing, Troy shoved the window open. The wind flung stinging snowflakes into his face as he called down to them.
“It’s a lot warmer in here,” he said. “And it’s not dark yet. Want to come in and warm up? There’s tea.” He gestured to Tully, who opened the door.
The carolers came in, three boys and two girls, wide-eyed and awestruck. They looked around them at the sitting room with its walls full of bookshelves. The younger ones stared at Arnheiter, too, seated in the wheelchair ...they’d never seen a real live German before, much less one who was missing a leg. Tom poked the smallest boy, scowling. “Don’t stare, Bill, it’s not nice.”
Moffitt greeted them with a kindly smile. “Getting any shillings?”
“Not much,” said Tom, relieved at the sound of a familiar English accent. “It’s too near Christmas, everyone’s spent their shillings already.”
“Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that, eh?” All of the Rats were looking for whatever pocket money they happened to have; and Tom looked at the other children, signaling them to sing another song.
This time they picked one that everyone knew.
“Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright;
Round yon virgin Mother and Child,
Holy infant so tender and mild....”
The Americans and Moffitt joined them in singing, which delighted the children no end. At the second verse, one more voice joined in, in German. “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht...” sang Arnheiter hesitantly, and to the children’s astonishment. Moffitt instantly switched languages to sing with him, and for a few moments, all sang together.
When the song ended, no one knew quite what to say. “I am sorry,” said Arnheiter, worried that he had upset or frightened the children. “I am not hear that song since I was only a boy, same as you. No one at home sings them now. Many thanks.” His grammar was faulty, but the meaning was clear enough. His voice choked up a little as he spoke. “Wait a moment, bitte,” he said, and left to go to his own room. The four others had all chipped in pocket change to the kids, but he had no money to give them. He did have something else, he realized, and after a moment he wheeled himself back into the parlor, and gave Tom a slip of paper— his month’s ration coupon for sweets, which Moffitt usually redeemed at the Woolworth for him, for licorice drops. “I have one coupon only, so you must all share, hm?”
Tom stared in amazement. He didn’t know what to say, but he nodded solemnly and put the precious item in his deepest coat pocket. “Thank you,” he stammered.
Moffitt went into the kitchen and poured the children some tea, with a generous amount of tinned milk in each cup, and Tully offered them the biscuit-tin as well, with the last of the Oreo cookies that Hitch’s sister Barbara had sent them; the kids looked like they were hungry. “That should keep the chill away a little longer,” he said. “You know, I used to do that too, when I was a kid. A lot of us kids would get together and go up and down the valley, singing carols like that. I hadn’t even thought about it in years. Thanks.”
“Yeah,” said Hitch, “we kinda missed Christmas last year. We were out there in the African desert without a single tree or anything. No carols or presents, either.” This year will be different, he said to himself, thinking of the box he’d hidden under his bed downstairs in the room he shared with Tully.
“In the desert?” Tom asked, impressed. “You mean, out there with Montgomery? And Rommel?”
“That’s right. It’s been great, kids, and you sang really nicely,” said Troy, keeping an eye on the sky, “but you better scoot now, so you get home before blackout. Next time you’re out singing, come back, okay? We’re all a long way from home, and we like to hear the old songs.”
The carolers left, with the tattered mitten in Tom’s pocket richer by at least a pound. They had never had that much money in one day in their lives. “Did you see that, Lucy?” one of the boys said. “The Jerries are ‘orrible bad men, but that one—blimey! ‘E was right nice.”
Troy smiled as he heard that, and shut the window. Peace would come someday, and maybe when he grew up, that Cockney kid would remember what he learned a couple of weeks before Christmas, 1943. You’ve got to judge people by what they do, not just where they come from.
Hitch made a second pot of tea, and poured cups all around. He gave Fritz his, and eyed him closely. “You all right?”
Arnheiter nodded, a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of a long time ago, before…” He sighed. “I was thirteen then. The same like him.”
Troy nodded. “When everything went to hell in a handbasket.”
“Ja.”
They were all quiet, each man remembering Christmases of the peaceful past, before the war flung them into distant, desolate corners of the globe. Then the young German chuckled softly. “I remember two years ago, at Christmas. I was new in the desert. I was surprised when Hauptmann Dietrich let us sing Weihnachtslieder on Christmas Day. He told Konrad, “Yes, you may sing what you wish. In Berlin no one will hear us.” There was enough food, because we had some British supplies: ham, cheese, fruit, and fish too. Kipper herrings, and sardines. Herr Hauptmann’s Christmas present was the fish; we saved them all for him. He was happy.”
“ I daresay he was,” Moffitt remarked. “That was a good idea, by the by, giving them your sweets ration. You do know, old boy, they’re headed straight for the Woolworths pic’n’mix counter…”[1]
“Yes. That was my idea.”
In his office at Military Intelligence, Major R. T. MacDonald had a visitor. He rose to greet the young man with delight. “Lieutenant Cameron! It’s grand to see you! How long have you been back, now? Two weeks?” They had known each other slightly, when both of them were in the desert with the 51st Highland Division.
“Yes, sir.” The young officer smiled, glad to be where he could hear Scottish voices again, but still worn and haggard from two months on the run as an escapee from a German POW camp.
“We’ll have to go and have ourselves a wee dram, deoch an doruis, to celebrate. Did they ever stop you?”
“They did, a few times.” Daibhidh—David— Cameron grinned triumphantly. “When they did, I spoke Gaelic to them and pointed to Finland on my map—and they let me go on my way!” He ran a hand through his tawny brown hair. “There are times, Major, when speaking a little-known language is useful. It helped, of course, that the soldiers who stopped me had never seen a Gael nor a Finn in their lives.”
MacDonald nodded, smiling, but inwardly shouting with elation. He had had a bright idea, and it was looking brighter every minute. If Cameron wasn’t the right man for this job, no one was. “Let me tell you, Cameron, what I asked you in for. Many of the 51st are still in POW camps, so you’re at loose ends now.”
“Aye, sir, I am.”
MacDonald nodded, and changed the subject. “Look here, Lieutenant. You were over a year with the Jerries. What do you think of them? As people, I mean. Are there some decent ones, or is every last one of them rotten to the core?”
Cameron frowned. It seemed like an odd question. There had to be some reason MacDonald was asking him, but he couldn’t figure out what it might be. “Well, it all depends. Obviously many of them support the Party and its aims. Many of the older generation don’t support the Führer, but they know better than to say so aloud; they know what happens if they do. And some brave souls are actively in rebellion against Hitler; they’re the ones who helped me get out of the country. That’s the best I can tell you, Major. There are good folk and bad ones, and those in between.”
“Aye.” The major leaned forward in his chair and went on. “Now, Cameron, you were in the desert at the same time I was. Did you ever hear of a group of commandos known as the ‘Rat Patrol’? They were loosely attached to the LRDG.”
Cameron shook his head. “No, Major, I can’t say I did. Why?”
“Because they’re here now. In the spring, we brought these fellows back here to do the same kind of work, behind enemy lines over there,” he explained, gesturing out the window in the direction of the European continent. “And now they’re in a tight spot. They’re three Yanks and one Sassenach, and they’re all NCOs. Two sergeants and two corporals. But some of our higher-ups in M.I. are insisting that they must be commanded by an officer in the field. We need to find an officer to work with them, so they can go back to making Hitler’s life a burden to him.”
“And you’re thinking of me, Major?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because a man with the ingenuity to do what you’ve just done, escaping from a POW camp, would be just the man for the job.”
Cameron sat back in the chair, a shrewd look coming into his eyes. “If I might ask, Major, why were you asking my opinion of the Germans?”
MacDonald didn’t answer at once, but stood for a moment, gazing out of the window before he turned back to the young lieutenant. “This group uses underground contacts in Germany from time to time. And if your opinion of the Germans were like Colonel Hughes’ for example, there’d be no chance you could work with them. He believes generally that there’s no such thing as an honest defector, a German resistance movement, or a German citizen who hates National Socialism. In reality, of course, there are thousands of them.”
Cameron nodded. “Ah. I see.”
The major continued. “You should know, if you take on this assignment, you’ll be living in the house with these men. Any objections, Cameron?”
“None, sir.”
“Good. There’s one more thing to consider, which is Troy himself. He’s been broken in rank once or twice for insubordination, before the war. He’s brash, stubborn, a bonny fighter, and brilliant in an unorthodox sort of way, so long as you don’t try to tell him his own business, which he knows a good deal better than you do. The trouble with him is that—
“He’s got an imagination?” Cameron interrupted with a grin. He’d known a few Americans in the POW camp, and he recognized the type. Most of the ones he’d met were just like that.
“Aye, that’s one way of putting it. He does, indeed. Still want the job?”
“Yes, Major,” David Cameron replied thoughtfully. This was beginning to sound interesting. “I do.”
As Moffitt and Arnheiter settled down to finish their interrupted chess game, the phone rang. Troy went to answer it. “Troy here. Oh, hello, Major. What’s up? Yes, everyone’s here. No, we haven’t had dinner yet, just tea. Seven o’clock? Really? That’s great, sir! Have you told him about... oh.” He paused, listening. “Yes, I see. Fine, thank you, sir.” He hung up the phone and then stood there, staring at it for a second, then he turned around toward the others, who were all looking at him.
“Well, Sarge?” Hitch had recognized that tone of voice. Something was going on, all right.
“That was Mac. He says he’s got the answer to all our troubles, and he’s coming to see us at seven. So, we need to get a move on with dinner.”
“Well, well, well. What do you suppose?” Moffitt said, thinking aloud.
“I don’t suppose anything yet. But Mac sounded like the cat who ate the canary.” He knew what it was, but the major had ordered him to keep it to himself for the moment.
“Pleased with himself, was he?”
“Yeah. So let’s shake it. Who’s cooking tonight?”
It was Moffitt and Hitch’s turn in the kitchen. The food was never anything inspiring, but by pooling four men’s military ration allowances, plus what ration coupons Fritz got, there was at least enough to eat. In addition, they got occasional packages from home containing such American delicacies as Fig Newtons, peanut butter, grits, and homemade brownies. And out back was the victory garden, which still had carrots and turnips in it; as long as the ground didn’t freeze, they’d keep well enough.
As Troy was collecting the dishes, he remembered something. “Fritz,” he said, “the Major’s bringing someone with him. You might want to go put your leg back on.” The German corporal had already taken it off for the evening, having been in it all day.
Arnheiter nodded. “Danke.” He headed for his room.
As they cleared the table, Moffitt caught Troy’s attention. “Look here, Troy, do you know what this is all about?”
“Some. Mac told me not to say any more, though.”
“He’s found us an officer, hasn’t he?”
It was hopeless to try keeping anything from Moffitt. “Yeah. But don’t say anything. How’d you guess?”
The English sergeant replied calmly, “You sent Arnheiter to put his leg on. You didn’t want him to be embarrassed meeting a visitor. It wasn’t difficult to add two and two.”
Troy shrugged. “Yeah. You’re right there. I wish he wouldn’t be so worried about that; it’s nothing to be ashamed about.” He sighed. “Never mind. We’ve got company coming. Go take care of the library, Hitch. Most of that stuff in there’s yours. And take that sign of yours off the radio room door.” As a joke, Hitch and Tully had made an official-looking stenciled pasteboard sign for Arnheiter’s door that read Sendungsraum.
Hitch grinned. “Right, Sarge.”
Precisely at seven, the car arrived, and Moffitt went to let their visitors in. Major MacDonald came in, followed by a pleasant-looking young lieutenant with light brown hair, green eyes, and freckles. Troy and the two officers exchanged salutes. Cameron glanced around the room and stopped short. Hadn’t Major MacDonald said there were four men in this group? Here, there were five—and the fifth one was obviously a German, and wearing civilian clothes with a black British Army pullover. What was going on?
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the major, with a little more formality than usual, as the members of the Rat Patrol rose to meet him. “Allow me to introduce you. This is Lieutenant David Cameron, of the 51st Highland Division. Cameron, this is Sergeant Sam Troy, Sergeant Jack Moffitt of the Scots Greys, and Corporals Mark Hitchcock and Tully Pettigrew.” Now for the moment of truth... he thought. “And this, Lieutenant, is the fifth member of the team: Corporal Friedrich Arnheiter, formerly of the Afrika Korps, and now assisting Military Intelligence. He’s our radio operator.” MacDonald watched Cameron’s face to observe his reaction.
The young Scot was surprised, but not appalled. So that’s it... he was worried that I’d mind having a German defector aboard. “A pleasure to meet you all, I’m sure,” he replied with poise. “The major has been telling me about some of your group’s exploits, Sergeant.”
Once the introductions had been made, they all sat down. MacDonald privately breathed a sigh of relief, and began to believe that this idea would work after all. He knew what Cameron had said about his opinion of working with Germans, but he had to be sure. If the officer could not accept Arnheiter, it would make things very difficult. “I will go and make the tea,” said Arnheiter as he got to his feet and made for the kitchen.
“Troy, I brought the lieutenant here to meet you,” explained the major, “because I think he is just the man for this job. He was in the desert, as you and your patrol were, and was captured with the 51st in the summer of 1942. He spent the last year in a German POW camp and escaped in late September. The last two months, he has spent evading capture and making his way on foot into Denmark, where he was met by a fishing boat, and he made it back here just a fortnight ago. So, he has the right sort of experience at acting alone behind enemy lines, and he knows how to deal with the Widerstand, or he’d not have made it. I’ve explained to him about billeting here in the house, and told him about what you’ve been doing.”
Troy was nodding as he listened. Mac was right; this lieutenant sounded good. They talked for some time, explaining how the Americans had become involved in the desert campaign, and how they had eventually come to London and been attached to MI. Presently, the teakettle whistled, followed by various noises from the kitchen. “I’ll go help Fritz with the tea,” offered Hitch. He rose and went to the kitchen, returning with a tray bearing cups and saucers, sugar bowl and milk pitcher. Arnheiter followed him, carrying the teapot carefully in his left hand and using his cane with the right.
“Thanks, Fritz,” said Troy as the corporal set the steaming teapot on the table and sat down.
“Bitte,” he replied; he knew enough English to say ‘you’re welcome’, but he often forgot.
“Well, now,” said Lieutenant Cameron, in his soft Highlands accent, “I’ve heard all about these four men here, but I’ve not heard much about you, Corporal. How did you come to be here?”
Arnheiter was, understandably, anxious. His blue eyes looked from Troy to MacDonald to Hitch and back to the lieutenant. “I don't know what I should say, sir.”
“Easy, lad,” said the major in a fatherly tone. “You’re not in trouble. Start by telling him about what you did in the desert, and then how you came here. Take your time, and we’ll help you if you can’t think of the right words.”
Then Cameron smiled warmly, and demolished the language barrier with one stroke. “Sie können mir alles auf Deutsch erzählen. Ich verstehe ganz gut.”
“Danke, Herr Oberleutnant,” said Friedrich, relieved, and he responded with a veritable torrent of words. He told the lieutenant about his service in France, and how he’d been transferred to the Afrika Korps, and about Dietrich, and how he first encountered the Rat Patrol. He followed that by explaining that he was wounded and captured by the British at the battle of El Alamein, and some of what had happened since then, ending with his decision to defect. He was perfectly willing to tell anything that Cameron wanted to know; most of his anxiety had been because he didn’t know how to explain all that in English to someone he didn’t know. He was very skilled at many things, but language learning was not one of his strong suits.
The lieutenant nodded as Arnheiter finished. “Very good,” he said in English. “That was a brave decision to make. But are you well now? Sind Sie jetzt gesund?”
Arnheiter replied, “I understand English better that I speak it... Yes, I am well, but the knee that is not there hurts me often very much. Sometimes the foot, too. I have medicine at night to sleep.” He eyed Cameron with some nervousness, expecting that the officer would not believe it. Many people didn’t, he had discovered.
“Oh, aye. I knew a fellow in the POW camp with me who had a phantom arm, and it hurt like the very devil; he said it was like having his hand in the fire.” Arnheiter nodded emphatically. Cameron continued. “The camp doctor was a complete fool, of course, and didn’t believe him. He refused to give him anything for the pain, and the poor chap nearly went mad. Don’t worry, Corporal, I know all about that sort of thing,” the young officer assured him.
Well, what do you know? Troy said to himself, impressed. I think I like this fellow. He’s got sense. This could be good....
After they’d had their tea and talked some more, MacDonald looked at all of them. “Well, gentlemen, I intend to arrange for Lt. Cameron’s assignment to this unit, if there are no objections. What do you all say? Any objections?”
David Cameron responded, firmly, “None whatever, Major.”
“Are you sure, now? ‘Highly irregular’ doesn’t begin to describe this unholy crew, Lieutenant.” MacDonald was grinning, but he was serious as well.
“I’m sure, sir, if they are.”
Troy looked at his men’s faces. Tully was looking calmly satisfied, Hitch was beaming, and Moffitt—well, Moffitt looked like a hound eager for the hunt. He didn’t even have to ask them the question. “That goes for us, too, Major.”
“That’s grand,” said Cameron, and unexpectedly rose and offered Troy a handshake. “I’m glad to be working with you, Sergeant. I say, we really ought to drink to this—is there anything in the house?”
“There’s about a half bottle of brandy, but that’s all,” replied Moffitt. “Will that do, sir?”
“Admirably. Don’t bother about glasses; the teacups will serve just as well.”
Moffitt returned with the bottle, and poured some into each of the seven cups. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he said, as he poured his own cup last.
“Very well, Sergeant, carry on.”
The lone Englishman raised his cup. “Success to us, and confusion to our enemies.”
They all drank to that, and MacDonald looked around, pleased with himself. This was going to work beautifully, he was sure of it. “To the success of the Rat Patrol,” he added.
After the two officers left, Troy turned to the others. “Well, what do you think?”
“Seems all right to me,” said Tully. “I like him more than I liked Boggs, anyway.”
“Do you know, I’m glad he’s a Scot,” Moffitt mused aloud.
“How come?” Hitch asked. “Because he’s like Major Mac?”
“No, though that ought to help—they obviously understand one another. It’s not something I can put into words exactly, but I’ve known rather a lot of them in the past, when I was with the Greys, and they tend to be, well, unorthodox in their own ways.”
Troy nodded and turned his attention to Fritz, who had fallen silent after his conversation with the lieutenant. “What about you, Fritz?”
The young German was surprised. “Why do you ask me? It matters not what I think...”
“Sure it does. Do you think you can deal with him? If not, I’d better know it.”
Arnheiter nodded. “I think so. His words were kind. And he is not like Colonel Hughes, who distrusts me. Yes, I can ‘deal with’ him,” he answered Troy soberly.
“Good. He seems OK by me, too.” Troy grinned. “I think we’re back in business.”
[1] See http://www.woolworthsmuseum.co.uk/pnmrationing.html