Chapter Text
It wasn’t a bullet that felled her. Not an explosion, a landmine, a particularly bad fall, or even a fist, but an illness. The sort of illness that could get a commander sent to a hospital and given a month or so to convalesce.
Dietrich did not have the luxury of reporting to a doctor for the flu, this section of France was under constant bombardment, attacks from commandos, and the ever-encroaching US Army. If she were a humble person, she would have said that a commander was only as good as the men they commanded; and she could have returned to Germany to recover with a guilt-free conscience.
She was not a humble woman, she had never been, and she knew for a fact that if she fell so ill, she couldn’t stand that it would only be a matter of time before her men lost confidence and panicked beneath the ever-constant onslaught of Allied firepower. The same held true if she went to a hospital.
Plus, she didn’t trust hospitals at the moment.
“Sir?” Her aide, practically an infant, terrified and shaking in his boots, handed her a weak cup of tea and several missives. “You...you should rest.”
“We have,” she sneezed into her handkerchief; her body was rebelling against her mind. Even walking from the second floor of their little farmhouse had exhausted her; her arm trembled as she tried to support the weight of her drink. “An entire division bearing down on us, corporal. I cannot rest, else we will be overrun.” Blinking a few times in an effort to clear her eyes, she stared at the map detailing her men’s positions and the last reported locations of the Americans. Sifting through the missives, she glanced back up at Corporal Friedler. “What is it?”
“Sir,” he shifted awkwardly and gestured at the map. “Sir...I don’t see how.”
“We must,” she sneezed; the room swayed around her, and she wondered if she survived the next attack, would she survive the flue. “Succeed. If they push through France, then it is only a matter of time before they overrun Germany.” They would overrun Germany in due time; she wasn’t blind to the total and catastrophic failure this war was turning out to be. “Now, are the radios ready?”
“Yes, sir. And the runners too.”
“Good, I regretfully admit that I will not be able to lead this fight as I have in the past.” She stared at the map, wishing the lines would stop moving.
“We understand, sir.” With a sharp look at the man, she wondered if he was sarcastic. “We are proud to follow you, Major Dietrich.”
Into death? Which is where she’s leading them. Into capture? Into a battle that won’t be won? They don’t have the firepower, the manpower, or the time to make this battle go the way they want it to. She was too ill to lead from the front the way she always had, and that had to be taken into account.
“Good,” she coughed again, refusing to let the floor become the ceiling. “Have the men make ready. Remain vigilant; the Allies may attempt to sneak up with commandos.” Her breath caught, and she spent a few minutes trying to clear her lungs enough to summon a breath. When she managed to give orders, her voice was raspy and torn, and she refused to acknowledge the wincing visible on her aide’s face. “Go now,” she ordered, and he departed without protest.
It had been a hard year, the fall of North Africa, and honest-to-God invasion that had only filled her head with more concerns, and nowhere, in the heart of France in the middle of one of the worst winters she could remember, she was getting to sick to stand, let alone lead. It wasn’t just that they lacked supplies and men; it was the constant doubting from her commanding officers. They doubted her skills, her intelligence, her aim, and to the extent that the forces she’d anticipated had come along the direct route she’d said they would. The second-guessing had cost them ground and lives. Good men had died because they did not trust her, and she was torn between despair and fury.
She’d entrenched, gone out on commando raids, stolen American equipment, and gave units differing orders. She tore down telephone wires, did her best to sabotage tanks, and overall employed every trick she’d learned from the Rat Patrol in an effort to slow down their advance. It worked for some time, and they’d even managed to re-advance a bit before reinforcements they just couldn’t hold off had arrived. Being on the run was humiliating and infuriating.
If they had only listened ! The Field Marshall would have...but he was dead now, and attending his funeral was the last time she’d been in Germany. He would have trusted her instincts against the Americans and the English, and perhaps they would not be in this situation.
But they were, and she downed the last of the tea and decided that it would be easier to focus on the upcoming battle if she weren’t so maudlin.
“Sir?”
“Bring the radio set in here,” she ordered when her aide re-entered. “I will dispatch orders from here.” She couldn’t trust herself to stand, not when her fingers shook and her breath rattled. He had just succeeded in moving the equipment; a corporal brought her another cup of tea. It was weak, but it was hot, and it soothed the irritation the cough left her throat. So long as her voice didn’t give out, she could communicate...but only if her voice didn’t give out.
She paused as a distant explosion sounded, an artillery barrage, and the opening salvo in their battle. Dietrich straightened, pushing her illness to the side, praying that the inspection done by her captain had been properly executed. If guns were jammed and men were sloppy, then even more lives would be lost.
It was bizarre not to be fighting outside with her men, to be sitting in a decently warm farmhouse and dispatching orders as the battle moved and shifted the lines. It was with distinct pleasure that she noticed that they weren’t advancing as fast as they might have. Hampered as they were by her traps and schemes and the vigor of her men.
A lull in the fighting brought her some relief, but only some. Orders needed to be dispatched, men needed to be commanded, and the constant stream of information only exhausted her further.
“Sir,” a corporal whose name she didn’t know, splattered faintly with blood and dripping snow onto the carpet, handed her what had to be the only hot cup of tea in the entire division. He was shaking. “Captain Meiner respectfully suggests that you should rest.”
“Thank him for his concern,” she replied, her chest shaking under the effort to stifle her coughs. Someone had draped a blanket over her shoulders at some point, and she hadn’t gotten around to shoving it off. “But as I do not have a relief, it is not possible.” If she’d been well, this would not be happening. If she’d been well, she wouldn’t be holed up in a farmhouse looking like a plague victim and feeling like she’d been left to dry in the middle of the desert, dehydrated and overheated.
She missed North Africa; the heat, the sun, and the sand were infinitely preferable to the nightmare of France’s brutal winter and the overcast skies.
“Sir?” The voice jolted her out of her haze, and she forced herself to focus on the present. “Do you want…” His voice died.
“Dismissed,” she barked, and he fled—God, what a mess. Burning with fever and almost shaking from exhaustion, she sorted through more messages and alerts in an effort to find any advantage of their situation.
#$#$
“What I can reasonably say is that they’ve got someone real clever behind this.” Colonel Phillips stared down at the map in front of him and then at his men. “Fucking real clever. What is it, Captain?”
“Sir,” Captain Jones saluted, “I’ve got a Lt. Troy here with some information.” Squinting at the figure that slipped into the command, he found the man was shorter than he expected. Layered up to the point of practically being bundled up, Troy’s eyes were a sharp, sea-glass blue that nearly shone in the dark. Everything about the man tickled the primitive part of his brain, warning him of a predator approaching with the intent to consume . Lt. Troy saluted.
“What is it, Luitentant?”
“I know who the commander is, sir.” Troy’s voice silenced everyone else in the tent, including the two privates arguing over the pot of coffee in the corner.
“You found out who it is?”
“I recognize their work, sir.” The man paused. “You’ve got Dietrich holed up somewhere in this town.” He pointed to that map. “There’s too much information coming in and out of here. We’ve spotted one too many runners making a break for it, not to mention chatter we’ve overheard from their patrols.”
“Dietrich? You know this how?” He wasn’t going to argue about the town. This man knew his stuff.
“I recognize their style. They’ve served in France before and in North Africa. They know English and French, and they know how we operate. They’ve been using our tactics but modified, probably because their man weren’t trained to handle the sort of missions they’re on.”
“I see.” he waved for the extra personnel to clear the tent. When he was mostly alone with Troy, he asked. “How sure are you that this is Dietrich?”
“I’d put money on it.” Lt. Troy was even-tempered, and he didn’t look at all upset by the colonel’s visible disbelief. “If it’s not Dietrich, then someone just as cunning.”
“Cunning?” It was cunning and insane the hundreds of ways that the Germans had held up their advance. There were minefields where there shouldn’t be minefields. Electrical wires snagged in trees and electrocuting anyone who tried to move them. Entire sections of the road had been demolished, and that was just a little stuff. Their advance had become a crawl, and every open space was now a sniper battle. “This isn’t just cunning; this is ruthless. We’re losing good men to this Dietrich. I want him dead.” he growled slowly and eyed Troy. The man was perfectly, unnaturally still. “Troy?”
“Captured, sir,” he suggested. “Dietrich was nicknamed Rommel’s Hellhound for a reason.”
“ Jesus !”
“More than earned it, and a few other nicknames. If we capture Dietrich, then it’ll be a huge blow to German morale.”
“How big?”
“We’re pretty sure they were evacuated out of North Africa to avoid capture.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Fine, Capture this...you’ve got something else to say?”
Shifty wasn’t this man’s default expression, and he was hiding something in that inscrutable face of his.
“Dietrich, captain or otherwise, is a woman.”
Philips sat in silence and could vaguely remember hearing reports about the Germans deploying one or two women to the front lines. He thought Dietrich tickled a memory, but since he couldn’t recall the details, he dismissed it.
“A woman?” His officers were gaping at Troy. “Really?”
“Yes, sir.” Troy was visibly on edge, visibly waiting for his intelligence to be dismissed, waiting for the German to be dismissed. Except that Colonel Philips had seen the casualty reports from the last few days. He’d seen the schemes and tricks that he’d normally attribute to his own men, used against them. Troy was waiting, his men were waiting, and he had a feeling he’d lose the respect of a good soldier if he dismissed this off-hand.
“And the German’s will be upset to lose their bloodhound?”
“The regulars will. I’m pretty sure high command doesn’t care.” How did he know so much? That was suspicious in and of itself, but there was a war on.
“Well, that’s pretty good for me. If you’re so familiar with this Dietrich, why did it take you so long to figure out that this is her?”
“She usually leads from the front, sir.”
“Leads from the front?” A captain wondered.
“Yes, sir.” Lt. Troy shrugged. “She leads by example, not from behind the lines. We would have spotted her, but something might be keeping her back.”
“An injury?”
“It would have to be pretty significant,” he admitted. “I’ve seen her still manage with a bullet wound.”
“So she’s injured and still managing this ,” he gestured to the clusterfuck on the map. “Perfect. Just perfect.” Every soldier’s instinct told him to toss the notion of Dietrich away and not bother, but if a man like Troy took her seriously….a commando who genuinely respected very few officers...then he had to as well.
“How can a woman manage that?” A truly idiotic man wondered, and Phillips pinched the bridge of his nose.
“She’s a good soldier, and she’s not going to go down without a fight.”
“She’s giving us a hell of one. Well, Troy. She’s your dancing partner. How does she tango?”
A slow, careful smile worked across the man’s face, and Colonel Phillips had to admire a man with a plan.
#$#$#
Corporal Friedler did his best to keep his commanding officer upright, fed, and functional. He had managed to do his best. Her rest came in fitful, restless spurts that managed to do little in the way of her illness. And still, she led. Barking orders with a waning voice, she still commanded the room and her men with the sort of zeal Friedler could only admire and wished he’d seen in his other officers.
He was proud to serve Major Dietrich, no matter what anyone said.
The last thing he wanted was for her to die of her illness, to fall asleep in a stolen French farmhouse and never wake up.
He didn’t know what to do. He had no idea what to do. The officers were yelling, men were shouting and pulling back, and he was trying to get Major Dietrich upright. Her face was flushed, wane, and exhausted, the strain of the last week had been significant for even the healthiest men, and he wasn’t sure how she hadn’t passed out at this point. The feverish haze now clinging to her, and she hardly protested as he and the doctor began to maneuver her out of the converted living room and up the stairs.
“Shouldn’t we move her with the rest of the patients?” He demanded, kicking the door to her quarters open. It was cold in here, and he made a note to put a hot water bottle between the blankets. “If the Americans are coming, then we must move her!”
“She is too ill to move,” the doctor snapped, and together they got her into the bed. Major Dietrich’s eyes flickered open and closed, uncomprehending of the chaos unfolding outside. “If we try and transport her like this, her body will give out, and she will die.”
Friedler honestly didn’t think that would happen. If the major has survived this long, directing a battle while suffering a fever and aching coughs that made his ribs hurt with sympathy, then surely she could be transported along. He pulled the spare blankets from the other rooms, layering them over his commanding officer, thoroughly frightened by the lifelessness he saw there. “Doctor, what if the Americans come?”
“Then they come, but I was told that arrangements for reinforcements have been made.” He opened his bag, pursing his lips. “Has she been drinking?”
“Water and tea. I made sure to boil the water before I give it to her.” Never mind that this wasn’t his job. None of this was his job; he was supposed to fight.
“Eating?”
“Very little,” rations were low, and what they had were utterly disgusting to a woman who could hardly keep water down. The doctor cursed.
“We must keep her warm, but we must also cool her down. Get a rag with some water; it will have to do.”
“Yes, sir.” Running back down the staircase, he managed to stamp down some snow from the windowsill into a helmet and carry it back upstairs. Men were still frantically running around, soldiers were retreating, and rifle fire was now constant. “What can you do? ‘
“Not much, she insisted I care of the men. We simply do not have the supplies.” The man groused beneath his breath. “We must keep her alive until reinforcements come.” He paused; a man screamed for a medic. “I must go; keep her breathing and cool.”
“Yes, sir!” Out of his depth but utterly devoted to his commander, he did as ordered. Dabbing the cold clothe against her forehead, he trembled at the sound of artillery fire, the shots, and gritted his teeth as the night came and the cold encroached into the silent house.
They had left her. They had left him. They should have tried to remove her from her post earlier, to send her to Berlin to recover. They should have put her on a stretcher and carried her with the rest of the patients.
Maybe she was too sick, but it had to be better than the possibility of falling into the hands of the enemy.
Major Dietrich had hardly woken, only long enough to drink a few sips of water, and turn her head to the side and fall asleep.
It was stupid, ridiculous, and dangerous, and if the major were awake, she would have upbraided him something fierce. Still, wrapped in his coat and utterly exhausted, he perched on the only other chair in the room and fell asleep despite himself.
His dreams were fitful, dark, full of shadows moving around him. Quiet voices muttering incomprehensibly, and a few times, the shadows reached out to pat him so lightly that he hardly felt it, and they melted back beneath the furniture and into the walls when snorted. Shifting uneasily and pulling his coat tighter against the winter chill, he watched a shadow move to his side, only to jerk awake with a muffled scream of terror as iron hands grabbed his arms and a thick arm wrapped around his neck.
Americans, dressed for the cold, face blackened and armed to the teeth surrounded him, and his struggle was pointless when the three holding him were older and fitter.
“Amis!” His eyes darted to the bed. Major Dietrich’s breath was visible in the air now and raspier than ever. “Doktor,” he pleaded, nodding to the bed. “Please, she needs a doctor!”
“She is not doing well,” a crisp voice came from behind, and the arm around his neck vanished. The man was not American, but an Englishmen whose German was near flawless. “And you were left standing guard?”
“She has a fever,” it was not a military secret. What if they didn’t know who she was? Maybe he could tell them that she was simply a Frenchwoman, or maybe they’d believe she was a nurse? He should have hidden her uniform or done something to conceal the fact that they were German Army, but it was too late.
“She needs a doctor, Troy.” The Englishman bent over the major, pressing a hand to her forehead.
“Don’t you dare touch her!” He cried, struggling against the soldiers pinning him in place. “Don’t you dare!”
“This fever is dangerously high.” The man told him, “I was simply checking her temperature.”
“Moffitt?” Troy glanced between the trembling slip of a boy and his second.
“He doesn’t want us to touch her,” Jack informed him patiently. “Seems to think we might have evil designs on her.”
“Hey!” Hitch complained. “That’s not fair.”
“But a logical assumption,” Moffitt corrected.
“Tell the kid we’re not going to do anything crazy.” He waited until his friend did and went to get a closer look at his old enemy.
Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the woman was crumpled against the bed, unmoving and nearly dead to the world, her face pale but flushed through fever, and her uniform was soaked through with sweat. She could command a room with a look, but every bit of presence and vitality warped under the heat of her fever. Even when she’d been stuck beneath an overturned staff car, she’d been in command of herself. Chained to him in a forced march across the desert, and she could still move under her own power.
“Sarge?” Despite his promotion and the confusion, the address caused, Hitch still insisted on calling him, Sarge. “Is it really Dietrich?”
The prisoner jolted, visibly stunned.
“Yeah,” he looked toward his men. “It’s her, and she doesn’t look good. Jack, tell this kid that they’re our prisoners, and we’ll get a doctor if he comes quietly.” He heard the words relayed and glanced back at Dietrich. He couldn’t imagine anyone else successfully directing a battle with a raging fever, but she had always been made of a different stock. “It’s really her.”
#$#$#$
Everything hurt the way it hadn’t in years. Her limbs were heavy and aching, her face was far too hot, and every so often, chills would wrack her body. Too cold air aggravated her lungs, prompting a cough so wretched she began to dread breathing.
She could only sleep and awake; she didn’t have the strength to open her eyes. There were voices, sometimes, soft round tones around a language she knew but couldn’t translate when this exhausted; occasionally, she thought she heard someone familiar. The gravelly tones of Sgt Troy...but Troy was dead. Moffit was dead.
The Rat Patrol was dead….so she must be too. Bizarrely content with that knowledge, she relaxed. They had eternity now; she could ask Troy about his adventures later.
So she slept.
#$#$#
“This is sleep,” the doctor eyed the major and then looked back at Colonel Phillips and the commando standing just inside the door. “Which is a lot healthier.”
“What was it before?” Colonel Phillips wondered, staring down at the slack face of a woman who had doubtlessly made history a dozen times over.
“Not sleep,” Doctor Marcus muttered, “now she just needs to be watched to make sure that fever doesn’t spike again. She nearly bought the farm there, Colonel.”
“Huh, keep her alive. I want her well enough to interrogate.”
“That won’t be happening for a bit, sir.” Dr. Marcus stood, “I’d suggest posting someone to keep watch, keep her warm, and someone you can trust.”
“Private Palmer would be good for that,” Troy offered.
“Alright,” Phillips squinted, “make sure he knows that she’s an officer and to be treated as such. I don’t want her waking up to complain that we’re not taking her seriously.”
#$#$#$
Someone was writing nearby, the continuous scratch of pen against paper invaded her thoughts, prodding her mind awake, and she wondered who was writing in the afterlife. With concentrated effort, she forced her eyes open to take in the bemusing sight.
An American private, easily over six feet tall and all but stuffed into his uniform, with thick black hair and an earnest face, sat hunched over the desk in the room. His pen moved, and his eyes switched from his paper to the open book beside him. He paused, and as if sensing the weight of her stare.
“Oh! His voice was cheerful, and she wanted to cringe. “You’re awake!” He paused, “you’re not really awake. Not yet. That’s okay; I’ll be here when you’re really up.” And he picked his pen back up as her eyes slid shut, unable to stay awake any longer.
Time passed in a confusing blur; when she managed to wake up, there was the soldier who helped her sip at decently strong tea and helped spoon mouthfuls of broth down her throat. Whatever embarrassment she might have felt at being so helpless was brushed aside by the man’s sheer earnestness. If he had been anyone else, even a nurse, she would have pushed them aside and refused to cooperate; but the private helped her without thought, only commenting on the terrible weather outside and the luck they’d had in securing tea.
“So,” she was awake long enough for the private to help her sit up and fetch a bowl of soup. “Some little French lady made this,” he gestured with the spoon. “I guess someone made a deal with her, so this isn’t canned! this is actually food, which is pretty good. I had to trade a whole chocolate bar to get it.” Why had he bothered? Surely she was a prisoner, and even if she was a high-ranking one, that didn’t explain the effort he was putting into helping her. “I didn’t think you’d want tomato soup, which is what’s for eating in the mess hall. I mean, it’s tomatoes, and Germans don’t react well to tomatoes all of the time. So, I figured I’d cut a deal.” He hefted the spoon, and she reluctantly swallowed. She’d been awake for almost twenty minutes so far, which was the longest she’d been awake since she’d collapsed. “So, Major, what do you think?”
Swallowing down the soup, she could feel her voice trembling as she asked. “Where are my men?”
“Uh...I’m going, being honest, I didn’t think you’d be able to speak for a bit,” the private answered, stirring the soup around thoughtfully. “That’s not a question I can answer even if I knew the answer, Major.” She frowned as he held up another spoonful. “Sorry.”
It was another few bites before she could summon the strength to ask. “Who are you?”
“Oh,” his face twisted into a friendly smile. “I’m Private Palmer! Raymond Palmer, but my friend call me...Ray.” She almost could laugh at that.
“You are not a medic.” He was a regular private, no rank or insignia for medical work, but here he was.
“No, sir!” He beamed, “I’m just lending a helping hand.” Bemused, she could only eat.
The door swung open, revealing another American; he was handsome too, almost absurdly so. His face was twisted into another very American grin. “Ray! I got that hot water bottle for you!” Stunning blue eyes focused on her face, and he offered a hasty salute that warmed her almost as much as the soup had. “Sorry to intrude, sir, but.”
“Thanks, Nate.” Private Palmer set the tray aside and moved the blankets around to pull out one that had gone slightly cold. “Here’s this one.” He settled the bottle between the blankets, and she sighed at the heat. “Re-heat this one and take it to one of the wounded.”
“Sure.” The man, Nate, eyed her but made no further comment before leaving.
“He means well,” Palmer assured her, “but you have been pretty much unconscious for the better part of a week and a half...actually more.”
Her heart jolted painfully at the thought of her men, abandoned by their command, and she had no way to know their fates. What could she do for them? She couldn’t support a cup of tea or lift her arm; how was she going to escape? Managing only a few more spoonfuls before her stunning lack of energy pulled her back to sleep.
When she woke again, it was to someone wrapping the band of a blood pressure pump around her arm. Jerking faintly, she found herself staring into the pale, thin face of an Allied medic. He was a bit muddy, had a scruffy beard several days past shaving, and looked just as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
“Hi,” he offered, pumping the handle. Her arm squeezed painfully. “I’m Doctor Marcus; good to see you awake.”
“Doctor,” she tried to clear her throat. “What happened to my men?”
“You’ll have to ask the colonel; I’m just here to check your progress,” he noted something on a clipboard. “You’re finally on the mend, Major Dietrich. You were on death’s door when we found you. You owe your life to that little aide of yours.” Of course, she did. “He refused to leave your side. We had to drag him out of here.”
“Where is he?” She demanded.
“With the other prisoners, I expect.” Which means her men knew she’d been captured. “The Red Cross has already notified your family of your capture; we sent it along as soon as we were sure you were going to live.”
“How long?” She submitted to the doctor’s further examination without much protest. “Have I?”
“A lot longer than you should have been,” Dr. Marcus groused. “Acute malnutrition and dehydration on top of being sick with the flu and something that looked like an infection, you’re lucky you didn’t bruise a rib with your coughing. I’m guessing you’ve been pushing pretty hard for a long time.” It wasn’t a question, and she refused to answer. “So when you finally crashed, your body took convincing to get going again. You’ve been a prisoner about three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” she grimaced.
“Yes, now you’re well on your road to recovery. Is Private Palmer taking good care of you?” The man was poised, waiting for her answer, and she wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear. Was Private Palmer taking care of her? What she could remember, he was doing a phenomenal job. Helpful without being intrusive and polite to a fault. A little overly excited about things
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Well, we’re bringing nurses in, so.”
“No,” she croaked, and Dr. Marcus paused.
“You...don’t want me to bring in a nurse? I know you’re in bad shape and all, but don’t you want a woman to.”
“Palmer is adequate.” The fewer people who saw her so utterly helpless, the better.
“Alright,” the man looked bemused. “We’ll let you keep him for now.” She nodded slowly, and he stood. “Keep drinking plenty of fluids and eating regularly, and listen to Palmer. I’m giving him a set of instructions. Keep warm, and do not overexert yourself.”
“I am hardly a delicate flower,” she groused, too used to men and officers attempting to give her special treatment. As if her womanhood was somehow a handicap instead of an integral part of her identity.
“I’ve seen stronger men buckle under the strain,” the doctor snapped, taking her by surprise. “It’s not about being a woman; it’s about being careful. You were on death’s door.”
She had heard the voices of dead men; she had wanted to be dead. To be out of the war and to return to a place she was safe and comfortable. To learn the truth, the ghosts had been whispering.
Averting her eyes, she stared at the window and at the dead treetops beyond it. They were now far enough behind their lines that men could move safely around without worrying about sniper bullets. Exhausted, she watched the man leave quietly and heard him descend the stairs. She was asleep before she could find something else to worry about.
#$#$#
“Sir?” Private Palmer stood up; the doctor set his bag on the table.
“Well, you’ve done a fine job, Private.” Dr. Marcus turned to Colonel Phillip. “She’s not going to be well enough to talk to for about a week, but she’s gaining strength faster than I thought she would.” Ray tried not to grin. “You ever thought about going into the nursing corp?”
“No, sir.” That didn’t sound mocking, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t.
“Consider it; she wants you to stay.”
“Stay?” He had been already to be dismissed back to his unit; playing nursemaid to an enemy officer hadn’t been on his list of expectations. Glancing at Colonel Phillip, he continued. “Sir?”
“I offered to have nurses come in and take care of her; she still needs round-the-clock care,’ but she insisted that you say on.”
“I’m...flattered?” Ray looked over at the staircase.
“Ask her yourself, but keep up the good work. I want you to keep an eye out for any depressive states that can kill just as easily when someone is this weak.”
“Yes, sir.” He took the wave for the dismissal it was and retreated back to the second floor. He re-entered the room to find Major Dietrich asleep again; there was all the time in the world to write his wife.
#$#$3
“We went through her things,” Colonel Phillips said as Dr. Marcus took a lighted cigarette, and they both sat at the table. “Regular stuff, but her sketchbook was the most interesting thing.”
“Sketchbook? She sketches?”
“Oh yeah,” pulling the sketchpad out of his bag, he passed it over. “Take a look at some of these.”
“What the hell? These are fantastic.” Scenes of North Africa, a few men, buildings, detailed drawings of mosques and old churches. And a very familiar face. “This is Lt. Troy.” Lovingly detailed across a page, a full-color sketch of Lt. Sam Troy in desert fatigues and wearing an Australian slouch cap. “He does know her.”
“He does, pretty tight-lipped about it, and his men are the same. They’re in there too.” A few more pages are full of jeeps, the familiar lanky Englishmen, and the two corporals, who, by all rights, should have been officers long ago. But they were a close-knit bunch, and even the army knew when they had a good thing going. “Check what was folded into the back.”
“Are these wanted posters...holy shit! 200,000 marks for a private!”
“Sergeant Troy was worth 500,000.” Colonel Phillip felt absurdly proud of his men. “To be considered armed and extremely dangerous.”
“How does a commando unit in the desert run into this officer so many times she sketched them in her notebook, and they can identify her leadership ability from a few sketchy reports and base observation?”
“We’ll have to ask her when she wakes up.”
“If there’s really much to ask.”
“I’m guessing there is, but I did get more information on her. She is as dangerous as they come, training-wise. She’s got years of a military academy, and those shiny things on her uniform aren’t for show.”
“Is her uniform even salvageable?”
“Private Palmer sent it to get cleaned. It’s waiting until she can actually wear something.”
“He is very dedicated.”
“Well, I spoke to his CO’s. Palmer’s got focus and dedication for any job he’s given. He’s smart too, but we really assigned him to Dietrich because he’s too damn polite and dedicated to his wife.”
“Dedicated?”
“Dedicated, he learned how to say “I’m married” in French to avoid anyone trying to kiss him. I’ve heard it’s pretty funny.”
“That is funny, and he’s a good choice. Big enough to handle her, nice enough to not be threatening, a good combination.”
“Any idea on what to do about her?”
“Wait until she’s recovered enough before moving her. I’m really not sure she could survive the journey.”
“Well, Troy was right about one thing. Telling the prisoners, we’d captured Major Dietrich was a huge blow to their morale. No idea how it affected the other Germans, but we’ll see.”
“I guess we will.”
#$#$#
“ Can you afford to board!” Private Palmer’s voice, soft and lilting, carrying an unfamiliar well, broke through the unpleasant haze and prompted the exhausted woman to open her eyes. “ The Chattanooga Choo Choo? I’ve got my fare and just a trifle to spare .” The singing accompanied the man’s vigorous knitting. Perched awkwardly on the chair, feet propped up on the desk, the private was rocking back and forth in time with his song.
“Private,” she croaked, and the legs of the chair thumped down as he moved to stand.
“Major, good morning.” He helped her sit up, slotting a pillow neatly behind her back and standing away as she took a few deep breaths to recover from the ordeal. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungry,” she told him, and he brightened.
“You’re actually hungry?”
“Yes,” her stomach tightened painfully, “Is there coffee?”
“Not for you,” Palmer admitted, adjusting his seat to face her. “Doctor’s orders,” the hasty words coming on the heel of her frown. “Nothing strong.”
“Not even a cigarette?”
“Sorry, apparently, your lungs sound just that bad.”
“ Che! ” Muttering a few choice words in Arabic, she folded her hands on her lap.
“I can swing for some tea, and I’ll see what you can stomach from the kitchen. Just wait here.”
“I intend to march to Berlin,” she replied, and he grinned. Sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, and it was a testament to her irritation that she was bothering with it. At least her mood had no effect on Palmer; the overly helpful American returned ten minutes later balancing a tray.
“Food!” He exclaimed, “I managed to snag some of the good stuff from the cook.”
“Cook?”
“Yeah, the MASH unit set up nearby, it might be a little cold, but I don’t have the rations to actually cook in the kitchen downstairs.”
“I see.”
“But!” He pulled something out of his pocket and produced a slice of bread which he set on the tray. “New bread.”
“New bread?” How had he gotten that?
“Yeah, I tried to get stuff that would be light on your stomach.”
“Who are you?” She wondered, watched the tall American for a long moment. He paused in the middle of pouring a cup of tea into a tin cup.
“I’m Private Palmer,” his words were slow and careful. “I did introduce myself, right?”
“You did.” None of that explained her questions. A name was just the beginning of getting to know a man.
“Here,” he slid the tray onto her lap and carefully passed her a cup of tea that did wonders for her sinking mood. “Tea.”
“Americans drink tea?”
“Some of us,” he settled back in his chair and picked up his knitting. Where he had gotten a tan wool and knitting needles in the middle of France during a war, she couldn’t guess. It probably had something to do with his ability to find and scavenge tea in the middle of an American unit.
The food was deeply unappetizing, with the exception of the fresh bread, but hunger overrode her internal complaints, and she cleared the tray. Their rations were... superior to the ones she’d been subsisting off of before her capture. “It’s hospital food if you like hospital food, but the mess hall isn’t so bad if you’re hungry enough.”
“Far better than anything I have eaten recently,” she muttered, “it not so objectionable.”
“Ah, at least you’re keeping this down,” Private Palmer poured water into the cup. “Doc said to keep your drinking water since you’re able to take it in on your own; I figured I’d let you drink that, and I’ll give you more tea.”
“Hmph,” marginally less patronizing, she sipped idly at the water. Feeling the liquid slip down her stomach and better as she drank. “I would like to know what happened to my men, Private.”
“You have to ask the colonel, sir.” Private Palmer picked up his knitting again. She thought the shape of a sweater was taking shape beneath his hands.
“Then I wish to speak with him.” Tired she might be, but she had a duty to her men. “I am awake now; fetch him.” Private Palmer nodded, and putting aside his knitting again, he cleared her tray and left her with a cup of tea that she sipped at cautiously. It was hot, sweetened with condensed milk, and kept her focus as a heavy pair of footsteps approached . Private Palmer preceded the officer into the room. The colonel was short, squat with a square face half-covered in badges and his left arm in a sling. Lingering tobacco wafted around him as he took the seat Palmer had abandoned. He wasn’t as physically imposing as some of the men she’d met, but he stood with the confidence born of a career soldier who had earned his rank. “Colonel. She offered the sharpest salute she could. “Forgive me for not standing, colonel, but I am indisposed at the moment.”
“Don’t bother, the doc says you’re supposed to be off your feet,” the colonel answered, “I am Colonel Phillips, and I’m pretty pleased to say this, but you’re my prisoner.”
“I understand,” she replied shortly, “what happened to my men, Colonel? Where is my aide, Private Friedler?”
“Processed along the chain, Major Dietrich,” his gaze was calculating, measuring her against his impression, bias, and whatever the Allied reports had said. “A few who come through the MASH unit, but your aide isn’t here.”
“Was he injured in the capture?” She demanded, refusing to let her relative inability to put up a fight hinder her from actually putting up a fight.
“Not that I heard, dam near frantic about getting you a doctor, but other than that, he was fine. I can’t give you more information; it has been almost a month.”
“I see.” She guessed that she hadn’t been moved because she’d been too ill to safely transport, but it would only be a matter of time before she was transported along as well.
“Since you seem well enough to ask questions, then I’m sure you’re well enough to answer them,” the gaze turned gimlet, and she raised her chin. Her information might not be useful, but she refused to give him the responses he was looking for. Their frustrating back and forth paused for a moment as the colonel leaned back in his seat surveyed her more closely. Finally, as if coming to a begrudging conclusion, he nodded. “You’re a certified pain, Major Dietrich.”
“Thank you.”
He smirked faintly and dug a chocolate bar out of his pocket, “The doc said no cigarettes for a while, and no coffee, so we’ll share a commiserating bar of chocolate. It’s the good stuff.” He passed half of it over, and she eyed the chocolate. Colonel Philips seemed to have no trouble biting down, and she stared at it for a moment.
“Why have I not been moved?”
“You were half dead when you were found,” he told her, “and if they hadn’t found you when they did, you’d’ve had it.” She blinked at the overly long contraction. “But the boys were good, the medic was good, and the doctor was good, not to mention the fact that Private Palmer personally walked you back from that cliff’s edge.”
She owed him a great deal then. The chocolate was aromatic and tempting, and she hadn’t had any since North Africa, possibly even before then. Taking a bite, she savored it more than she might have savored a cigarette. It really had been too long since she’d had chocolate and even longer since she’d had anything resembling luxury. A soldier’s life was fine, all well and good, but she was tired . Years of fighting, running, killing, leading, scrambling to earn the respect of her men and commanders; had all culminated in this. Sitting in a bed, eating a pitiful piece of chocolate with an enemy officer. She wondered if Plamer would have been so attentive if she’d been a man or if the Americans would have bothered with this much attention and focus if she was a man. The few times she’d encountered enemy officers, it was always in a position of authority, having either captured them or in negotiating their surrender. The few truces were generally with lower-ranking soldiers and almost exclusively with the Rat Patrol.
“What of Private Palmer,” she asked, “which apple pie dish did you excavate him from?”
Colonel Phillips flashed a toothy, amused smile before saying. “He’s a fruitcake, but he’s damn good at his job, but you shouldn’t mock a fella who you’ve thrown upon.”
Blinking, she shot the man a disbelieving frown. “I did not .”
“Twice,” Phillips told her. Despite her best efforts, she felt a blush crawling up her neck and knew the American could see her face pink slightly. “I swear, some of you German officers are made of an entirely different stock.”
“Different stock?” She strenuously wanted to avoid thinking about Private Palmer witnessed to her lowest point. At no point had he mentioned it, nor had he tried to use that information against her. If Phillips hadn’t told her, then she would not have known.
“I think it’s that Prussian pride, but your sort is endangered.” She turned toward the window, knowing and hating that he was right.
“Where is my uniform,” she changed tracks.
“Oh,” the man turned, examining the room. “Probably in the wardrobe.” He stood, and crossing the room, he opened one of the doors, and she caught sight of her uniform hanging. It had clearly been handled with care, pressed with great care, and her hat and greatcoat were brushed down and cleaned up, and gleaming from the bottom shelf were her boots. Someone had taken the time to spit and polish them, and none of the scuffs she’d been dealing with were visible. “Huh, will you look at that?” If Colonel Phillips hadn’t seemed as equally surprised, she might have anticipated a trap or some sort of show.
“Private Palmer, no doubt,” she mused, biting down on the last of the chocolate.
“No doubt,” he echoed, and nodding a few times, “I’ll return, Major. When you have more energy to answer questions.”
“It will do you no good,” Dietrich told him, refusing to show a shred of subservience.
“We’ll see.” She offered a salute, which he returned before leaving. Private Palmer did not return at once, which, given his near-constant presence since she’d been captured her, unnerved her significantly. She fell into an uneasy, unhappy sleep from which she was roused as the door opened.
It wasn’t Palmer, but the man from...a few days ago. Nate, she wasn’t sure about his name.
“Where is Palmer,” she demanded, moving to sit up. Private Nate blinked a few times, stunned to see her upright.
“Major,” he began and paused. “Private Palmer is not here right now; you’ll have to settle for me. It’s just past 2300 hours, sir.”
“Who are you?” She demanded, and he gave her a faint smile.
“Private Nate Haywood, sir. I’m here too.”
“Where is he?”
“I can’t say, sir.” He took up the chair, moving it a few feet away to give her space, before sitting down.
Turning over the predicament in her mind, she came to a slow, reluctant conclusion. “Private Palmer is on leave.” Private Haywood’s eyebrows rose, which was answer enough for her. Satisfied, she let her mind drift off and sleep claim her.
Haywood was no Palmer, and the next time she woke up, she managed to sit up on her own, push back the blankets, and set her feet on the floor. It was a momentous occasion for her, having spent so much time unable to move, and all under the watchful and visibly judgmental gaze of Private Haywood.
“Shouldn’t you wait for Ray to get back?” Leaning back in his chair, munching on a tin of peaches, he watched her take a few shaky steps down the bed until she reached the bedpost.
“Shut up,” the snarled words caught the American off-guard. He dropped his feet to the floor and stood. Watching him approach, she wondered what sort of vengeance a petty man might try an exact. Private Haywood sighed, holding out his arm.
“Alright,” clearly uncomfortable, he avoided looking at her. “We don’t want you to fall.”
“No?”
“Do you want to be injured and sick?” He looked her way and then away. Grunting, she gripped the proffered forearm. More than a little surprised to feet the thickness of his arms and the iron corded muscles flexing beneath the army green. What did they feed Americans? To get so damn tall and strong? By the time she made it to the head of the bed, she was feeling the same, terrifying weakness seeping through her as she had right before she’d passed out several weeks ago. “I’d get you some tea, but Ray’s not here to bargain with the Brits.”
“Bargain?”
“Oh yeah, he’s the only one that can strike any sorta deal to get them to part with their tea,” Haywood flashed a grin. It wasn’t as friendly as Palmer’s, more artificial than anything.
“The English do not give up their tea willingly.” She distinctly remembered how attached English officers were to their tea. Her opportunities to steal tea from Moffitt had been varied and frequent, and she’d avoided giving in to the temptation to prevent Moffitt from having even more reasons to shoot her.
“No, they don’t, but I prefer coffee.”
“I will take some coffee.”
“Your chart says no coffee and no cigarettes and no strenuous activity.” Haywood plopped back into his seat. “I can get you a book if you really want.”
“A book?” She propped her eyes back open, “what kind of book.”
“Well, it’s not Mein Kamph.” She made a noise of disgust. “But I think one of the nurses might be willing to part with a book for a short while.”
“If it is at all possible,” she mused, “I am bored of sitting here with nothing to do.”
“You’ve been sleeping,” Private Haywood pointed out, “but I get what you’re saying.”
“Wait,” she struggled to rise, “where is my sketchbook?”
“Your...sketchbook?”
“Yes,” she tried to sit up but found every bone in her body protesting. “I...my personal effects. Where are they?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” he answered. He poked around the corner of the room, opening the wardrobe. “I found your uniform; It looks like Ray went and patched it up. Uh,” he knelt, rummaging through the bottom. “Nothing personal here. I’ll go see if they’re somewhere.” He left, and she shivered beneath the blankets. She had been a prisoner for so long; maybe someone had stolen her sketchbook. Maybe someone had stolen all of her clothes, and some perverted enlisted man had snagged. Private Haywood returned, holding her sketchbook. “Alright, here’s this; the rest of your stuff is packed up, minus your weapons.”
“Where was my sketchbook?” She demanded.
“Downstairs,” he passed it over, and the very drawing she had never wanted anyone to see fell out. “Oh?” Private Haywood blinked, “you’re good.” The sketch, full water-color and in loving, intimate detail of Troy...dressed in a German sergeants uniform. His slouch cap was replaced with a regular uniform cap of green, and she might have made the jacket a little tighter than regulation, but Troy was a handsome man. Horrified by the grin now slathered over Private Haywood’s face, she snatched the book and the loose page. “Who is he ?” He wondered aloud, perfectly straight teeth nearly blinding in the dim light.
“A fool,” Dietrich snapped, sealing the picture away in the back of her sketchbook, “who died a fool’s death.”
“Oh,” his smile dimmed, “sorry, he’s a sergeant, right?”
“He was.” Sergeant Troy had died, and she’d been so taken aback by the fact that it had been her men who had dragged her out of the blast radius. No one had believed he was dead, and there had been stunned, bemused silence as they had tried to come to terms with the fact that the Rat Patrol had finally been defeated. She had been proud of her men. There had been no cheers, no celebrations...only a ringing silence. She hadn’t even had a hand in their deaths, and she’d been promoted the next day. Promotion on the bodies of men she’d...respected and her rank had tasted bitter for weeks.
Not that the Rat Patrol’s death had stopped the advances at El Alamein. She had been evacuated back to Germany, knowing that the Allies would have paraded her around if they’d captured her and then had come to France.
“I guess you two were good friends,” Haywood was trying to be pleasant, but the fact was that she could hardly stand seeing or hearing about the Rat Patrol now. They had died such...inglorious deaths. So...pointless, and so sudden that she’d been half tempted to entertain the notion that they were still alive out there. They were still out there, set to wander the desert eternally, riding their jeeps into a never-ending sunset as she rotted away in some Allied prison.
“No,” she said, wondering why she was engaging him, “we were not.”
“Oh,” he paused, “still, death is hard to take for friends or not-friends alike.”
She had heard his voice, a faint gravel tone in the midst of frantic voices, steady as ever. Even if she didn’t know the words, she had felt a measure of peace thinking that she could find Troy in the afterlife and finally hash out the details of their battles and schemes. A faint memory of stolen American whiskey, the last of her stash, burning down her throat as she toasted her fallen enemies had prompted her into something like sleep...and she had woken up...alive and a prisoner. It had been the largest disappointment she’d had since her mentor had died. “You Americans are soft,” she told him, lacking any of her usual heat.
“Hmm,” the look in his eyes was too easy to translate for Dietrich, considering she’d been around Americans too often. Then why are we winning ? Was the question lurking on the side of his smirk and beneath the shadow of his eyes. “Anyway,” he clapped his hands. “Ray’ll be.”
“What?” She demanded, and Private Haywood started.
“Ray’ll be.”
“Rayell?”
“No, Ray’ll, it’s a contraction of Ray will.”
‘No,” she snapped, “do not.”
“Ray’ll be back in a day or two,” he said, stubbornly talking over her. She glared as intensely as she could, but he didn’t seem affected. Which, if she was honest, impressed her more than anything else about this man. He must have faced some terrifying people if he didn’t care to cower before her reactions. He was polite, but he didn’t grovel, which she could appreciate; but it would be easier if he were more malleable. “Now, I’m going to see about finding a book.”
“Very well,” she glared at the American, who didn’t seem to notice, as they left. When she woke up, the sky hadn’t progressed very far, only for Haywood to grimace and correct her.
“You’ve been out for a while,” he pursed his lips. “I called the doctor to take a look at you again. You shouldn’t be sleeping this much.”
“I am tired.”
“You’re not getting better as quickly as you should be,” the American looked worried for a moment. “And you are sleeping too much.”
Deciding she wasn’t going to dignify that with a response, she closed her eyes to prepare to sleep when the bed rattled. “What did you?”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t go back to sleep because it’s been...a full day since you went to sleep.” Haywood’s concern prompted her to keep her eyes open a moment longer. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat, and we’ll try the walking thing again.”
“I am.” She wanted to recover...but it was so easy to sit here and be ill. It was just too tempting.
“Come on; you’re a major; you can do this.” He helped her sit up and once again slid a tray of food. This one looked far less appetizing, but at least there wasn’t any chipped beef. She ate sparingly and leaned back against the pillows with the little energy she had, bored.
“What is going on outside?” She asked, and he blinked a few times.
“What?”
“What is going on outside?”
“Well...the...town is...happy. I guess we’re just. I can’t actually tell you that much, Major.” Damn, she frowned as he handed her a pencil. “Look,” he sighed, “just..sketch something.”
“Did you secure the books?”
“Oh, yeah,” he leaned back and pulled up two. One cover was suitably dramatic, showing an American lawman in the foreground with a properly manly glint in his eyes as he held a revolver in one hand and the reins to a horse in the other. In the shadows cast by the rearing horse was a bandit dressed in dark clothes, with a black fedora and a red bandana covering his mouth. “This is what they threw at me. Apparently, the nurses think you should read this.”
“Robber’s Delight?” She paused, trying to think about the conversation a man might have with nurses as he trolled for books for a lady officer prisoner of war.
“They swear by it, and I have a copy of Sherlock Holmes.”
She thought about it, an Englishman or an American. Taking the lesser of two evils, she accepted Robber’s Delight and opened it. A nurse's name was scrawled on the inside, and a list of the women who had read it was made out beneath it. Rolling her eyes, she opened the book to the first page and started to read.
#$#$#$
Palmer returned a few days later, wearing a bright grin, and she felt some measure of comfort at seeing the cheerful man. He had been the only constant in her life since her capture, and his company was preferable to the interrogators who had taken to visiting. Each of their visits was somehow more exhausting than the last, and she revealed absolutely nothing. It was a measure of pride, but it meant she hardly had the energy to eat, much less read.
“Major!” The overly enthusiastic man moved into the room, carrying a steaming cup. “Nate said you were walking a little bit! That’s wonderful!”
“Yes,” the doctor had also been in and had made vaguely threatening comments about bringing in a psychologist. Keeping awake was difficult, but she was managing. “Where have you been?”
“Out,” he said, handing her a steaming cup. “I found tea .”
“Which unsuspecting Englishman did you beg it off of?” She demanded, sipping the tea and reveling in its flavor. Rich and strong, just as she liked it.
“I,” the guilty expression on his face prompted a smile. “I didn’t beg, sir. I bartered .”
“Why bother?” She demanded and made a noise of irritation as he shrugged. “That is not an answer, Private.”
“You are so suspicious,” he marveled, “which is probably really good when commanding soldiers, but it’s just tea.”
“What do you want for it?”
“You to drink it and feel better...and I’ll drink some too.” He hefted his own tin cup. “See, tea.”
“You cannot expect me to believe that you have bargain what is essentially gold from English troops, simply to help an enemy officer. I will not be indebted to you.”
“You’re not,” he paused, confused.
“You did not make mention that I have...vomited twice.”
“You threw up like, seven times,” he corrected her, “you only managed to get me twice.” He blinked at her aghast expression. “I didn’t mention it because it didn’t seem important to mention. You only just started managing to keep food down.”
Anger gave her face a pink tint that she hadn’t had since her first days in North Africa. She opened her mouth, and Palmer held his hands up in surrender.
“You were sick ,” he said firmly, “you’re recovering . It is my job to make sure you recover. That’s what I was ordered to do, so that’s what I’m doing. I don’t...know why you’re angry. I thought we were getting along fine .”
“You found the tea, vegetables, and many other things you could have only acquired through either the black market or trading to...help me?” Hating her helplessness and hating even more that Palmer didn’t seem to care, she waited as he mulled over her question. If he wanted to extort something, then she could manage to handle him. If he’d wanted to lord her dependency over her, she could have loathed him properly, but he had been too decent and too kind, which made her suspect him all the more.
“Yes,” he shrugged again, an infuriatingly American gesture. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have recovered.” Icy fear gripped her heart. “Your heart rate was low, so low it almost sounded like it stopped.” He opened his mouth to say something further. “But you’re getting better, which is good. If you want to...hate me or suspect or...I’m not even sure what is happening; that’s fine. I am just a private.” To her surprise, he offered a stiff salute and left the room. Angry, both at herself and the American, she hurled her tea cup at the door just as it opened again to reveal Colonel Phillips. It shattered against the door jam, sending glass and hot tea everywhere.
He blinked in shock, “what the hell?” Scrubbing the tea off his face, he nudged a glass shard out of the way.
“Why are you here, Colonel?” She demanded, trying to reign in her bad temper.
“What the hell did you say to each other?” He demanded instead, and an aide bent to clean up the mess as he stormed across the room. “Major, prisoner or not, officer or not, you do not get to abuse by men.”
“Abuse?” She fumed.
“Yes, abuse, the last person that upset him was a Gestapo motherfucker who tried to kill him.”
Dietrich paused, the words breaking through her bitter anger. “What?”
“Fuck, Captain, go get Private Palmer up here. I’m not having the camp mascot sulk around and bring down the mood.” Phillips glared, which was easier to do with a badly scarred eye, at her and at the Private as he entered. Waving his hand, he barked. ‘What the hell happened? I came in and got this,” he held a broken piece of teacup up, “chucked at my face. Care to explain...both of you!”
“I,” Private Palmer swallowed, “it’s just my ego, sir. The major raised several points and I was reluctant to acknowledge their validity.”
“What sort of points?” Phillips' eagle-eyed stare impressed even Dietrich.
“I expressed suspicion for his intentions if they were honorable or otherwise,” she saved him the embarrassment.
“Palmer?” He demanded. “Ray Palmer? He’s a fruitcake!”
“I’m married !” The private went ignored.
“That’s not the reason you threw that cup! Jesus, you’re the last person I expect to be throwing cups. Whatever it is, get over it. If you think Palmer won’t do his duty.”
“He is exceptional,” she reported, “far too exceptional, which is suspicious in and of itself.”
“He was too good at his job?” Bemused, the colonel turned to Palmer. “You got one of the most level-headed officers I’ve ever met, who managed to command a battle while on deaths’ door, to throw her tea at you because you are too good at your job. I want you to remember this.”
“Sir,” Palmer blinked. “It is , well.”
“I don’t give a fuck!” He barked, “I’m not going to waste a nurse here! I’ve got men with bullet wounds and fucking frostbite. You’re going to deal with it, both of you. You’re not allowed to throw shit until you’ve got actual problems. You break my mascot; you’ll pay.”
“Mascot?” Palmer bleated.
“Cheerful fella who keeps morale up,” the colonel replied, “hell, even the locals love you.”
“I.”
“Now that this is settled get out. I want a word with the major.”
“Yea, sir.” He said bleakly and, saluting, left.
Still flushed, she eyed the man as he took the chair and smirked. “Would it feel better if we threw you in a prison cell? A few guards and a ratty blanket?”
“It might,” she snapped, not entirely sure where her sense had fled to. Normally she would never behave like this with an officer, much less an enemy officer, but every bit of patience she’d managed to cling to during her recovery was slipping away.
“Yeah, tough luck; London wants you in one piece.”
“I.”
“Did he tell you there was a coffin outside with your name on it?” Colonel Phillips wondered, and she blanched. “Didn’t think so. Now,” he switched tracks, asking her familiar questions she refused to answer. By the time he’d left, she was a great deal calmer and a great deal more tired, and when a nurse came through the door, she couldn’t figure out why she could be here.
“I’m Lt., Paula McClain,” the American was holding a small box. “Private Palmer asked me to come up.”
“Why?”
“Well, he thought you might want to talk about menstruation with someone else. Someone who was a woman.” The nurse held up a box. “Since you haven’t asked for any, I brought some.”
“Oh,” it was a day for insanity, it seemed. “I have not had a proper cycle in three years.”
“That’s,” the nurse paused, “do you know why?”
“Military rations,” she shrugged, trying hard not to yawn. “War.”
“Well, your rations are better now, so maybe they’ll restart. If that happens,” she patted the box, “here you go.”
Dietrich paused, staring at the box. “Thank you,” she managed eventually and avoided looking at the woman until she left. When Private Palmer slunk into the room, she cast him a glance and did her best to ignore him as he slid a hot cater bottle into the blankets and took a seat.
“It’s December 24th,” he muttered, and she finally tore her eyes from the windows. “I did get you something,” he said, and from his pocket, he produced a long, thin. “Didn’t have any wrapping paper.”
There wasn’t a feeling to describe the shock that poured through her as she accepted the box.
“Colored pencils?” These were...how did he get them? “Where did you get them?”
“It’s...don’t worry about it, but I thought that they’d cheer you up.”
“Cheer me up?”
“Yeah, you seem like you’re getting depressed, so I thought some color would brighten up whatever you’re drawing.”
“I am not depressed,” she snapped but admired the bright colors. It would be nice to add colors to her drawings.
“Yes, sir,” he pursed his lips. “No one would blame you if you were.” Her sharp glare didn’t dissuade him. He powered through. “You’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. You don’t trust anyone or me, but I think it’s been so long since someone took care of you that you don’t know how to handle it, and you’ve been on guard so long that you don’t know how not to be.” She stared at him, discomforted by the insight and not quite energetic enough to summon an argument. “You did get captured; you did get really sick, and...no one can really blame you if you get upset.”
“Get to the point, private.” She ordered, curling her finger protectively around her colored pencils.
“There isn’t a point, major. Just that getting upset is pretty natural, and I don’t blame you for getting worked up over the tea, but I’m really just here to take care of you, and I happen to think that tea would do the trick.”
It was...once when her half-track had overturned, and she’d been pinned beneath it in the middle of a sandstorm. Troy and his rats had saved her. The American had helped her sit up for a drink of water while her bruised and aching ribs prevented her from escaping. He’d left a canteen of water and had never acknowledged what he’d done on their later encounters. It wasn’t to hold anything over her head; it wasn’t to put her in his debt; it was just because it was part of what he could do from kindness.
“It was good tea,” she managed, as close to an apology as she could manage. Private Palmer seemed to get this because he brightened.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, and she nodded. “I think the MASH is going to serve a special Christmas dinner; I’ll see what we can get.”
It wasn’t obviously Christmas in her little room, and even Christmas was not enough to stop her from trying to move around. Now that she had Palmer back, she was willing to walk around and move around the room. He kept at her side, making sure she wasn’t about to fall and helped her back to bed when she utterly exhausted herself. Each day she felt better and stronger, and each day she knew she had less time before she was shipped to London.
Just after the beginning of the new year, she clutched a cane in one hand and opened the door into the hall for the first time since she’d collapsed. The house smelled of a mixture of smoke, firewood, and food. Step by step, she proceeded carefully down the stairs and, catching her breath at the landing, looked around to see astonishing faces all peering back at her. Private Palmer was in the middle of eating his lunch, Nate Haywood was reading, and the three other men were dressed in surgeons scrubs.
“Major!” Palmer jumped to his feet, “if I’d known you were going to try the stairs, I would have been there to help.
“I can manage the stairs,” she retorted, hoping she didn’t sound as out of breath as she felt. Moving to the merrily burning fireplace, she sank into the empty rocking chair and let out a slow sigh.
“Major, this is Captain’s Bittner, O’Malley, and Potter. Captains, this is Major Dietrich.” The three men waved, and Captain Bittner put out his cigarette.
“You’re up awfully fast,” Captain O’Malley stood; his accent was faintly Irish, reminding Dietrich of Blaknair. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I have had enough rest for one war,” she replied, waving a hand. Her things were gone, the maps and radio equipment had vanished, and she wondered where her aide had gone.
“If you’re going to escape,” Captain Potter told her, with a rounded southern accent almost like Private Pettigrew’s, “the lines shifted pretty far for a walk.”
“Oh?” She rocked back in the chair, closing her eyes and letting the fire’s warmth seep through her. “Are you interviewing Private Palmer for a nursing position?”
“We thought about it,” Bittner laughed, “but you’re stuck with him.”
“We’d be glad to take him,” Potter said, “getting an attentive aide isn’t easy.”
“I can still transfer,” the man complained, “Nate, help me out.”
“No,” Nate laughed, “you’re on your own.” He moved up the stairs, and she heard him walking around the room to return with a blanket and her book. “You might be down here for a while.” Palmer shrugged and returned to his lunch.
“I will not be,” she argued more for the sake of arguing. It would be some time before she got her wind back to make it up the stairs. But winded or not, she was now well on the road to recovery.