Chapter Text
Private Tully Pettigrew debated. She had stayed very still and very quiet as the Germans had done their initial assessment. A combination of ripped canvas and the mutilated remains of what once had been a vehicle concealing her fallen form from casual view. Not to mention the ever shifting sands. Now though, it appeared the enemy soldiers were preparing to leave.
In other circumstances, a good thing. Except that she was quite thoroughly pinned. Tully knew without a doubt that Sarge and the others would be looking for her. Would they find her in time though? That she wasn’t so sure of. And dehydration was a nasty way to go. Clearly it was bad luck for the Rats to go anywhere alone. First Hitch got shot, and now this.
Of course, being a woman in the hands of the enemy could also lead to less than pleasant circumstances. That was why she had chosen to cut her hair short and wear the man’s uniform. It was not a secret really. It just was not obvious.
Taking a deep breath, the Private made her decision. “Nicht schießen!” she called out as loud as she could, repeating one of the phrases Moffit had insisted they all memorize. “Ich gebe auf!”
For a brief moment, Tully thought they had not heard her. Fortunately, a few seconds later she spied at least one pair of boots approaching through a small rip on the canvas. A harsh voice barking an order she could not understand. Though presumably they wanted her to come out.
“I can’t,” she called back, hoping one of them spoke English. “I’m stuck.”
There was a quick conversation before a knife came through the thick material above and to the left before beginning to saw down.
For lack of a better option Tully did her best to cover her face with her free hand. Both to keep the sand out of her eyes and to prevent from getting shot. They had the canvas moved off of her in short order. Tully flinching even through her fingers as the light of the desert sun hit her dark adjusted eyes.
“How badly are you injured soldier?”
Tully groaned a bit dramatically at the familiar voice before removing her hand. “I don’t think it’s that bad Captain,” she replied in a low husky voice. “I just can’t get out.” On the upside, there were far worse Commanders to be captured by. If nothing else, she would not have to worry about her virtue. On the downside, there were also far easier Commanders to escape from.
Captain Dietrich looked surprised, and then pleased at the sight of the familiar face. “Private Pettigrew.” Lifting his head, he scanned the surrounding sands. “And where is the rest of your unit?”
“Pettigrew, Tully. Pri . . .” rather abruptly she started coughing, unable to finish.
While ultimately, it would have made things simpler for him if the Private had not survived, Dietrich could not help but be relieved when no blood appeared on the American’s lips. Pettigrew was clearly in pain, but he suspected Tully was correct in thinking that the wounds were not serious.
Tully found a canteen pressed against her lips and she took a few grateful gulps. If the canvas had not provided some shelter from the burning sun she would have been even worse off.
“Are you armed Private?” Dietrich abandoned his first line of questioning, confident the rest of the Rats would be along soon enough.
“Probably at least a knife,” Tully admitted, not that she could reach it. “Not sure where my sidearm ended up.”
“I see,” Dietrich looked unsurprised. He fixed the commando with a stern glare. “Understand Private, that I am trusting you to behave yourself.”
“Yessir.” Escaping from enemy forces was very much a matter of waiting for the opportune moment. And this was decidedly not it.
The Captain’s men hadn’t exactly been idle as they talked. They already had the jacks in place to lift the hunk of metal holding her down a few critical inches. Tully allowed her body to go limp as Dietrich moved out of the way to let a couple of his soldiers get in position to grasp her shoulders. The 22nd Panzer was a skilled, disciplined unit. They were just on the other side.
Gritting her teeth, Tully remained silent as the Germans played tug’o’war with her body and the desert sands. Then, rather abruptly, she was free. She did her best to scramble backwards with the soldiers grasping her arms as one of the jacks tipped over, the metal crashing back down to where she had been lying a moment before.
For a few moments, Tully just breathed, staring up at the clear desert sky. Close one. Deliberately, she placed one elbow beneath herself, leveraging her body into a sitting position. Hissing as the movement pulled on the shallow wound that ran from nearly her armpit down to her thigh. She was lucky it hadn’t been any deeper.
Frowning, Dietrich looked down to where the blood was staining Pettigrew’s uniform. “We should take a look at that Private.”
“I ‘ppreciate your concern Captain,” Tully replied, one tanned hand coming up to discreetly hold the torn fabric of her shirt together. “But I’d rather wait for a medic.” It was inevitable at this point that the Rat’s little not secret was going to be revealed.
Dietrich blinked, not having expected the other to refuse. The Rats were usually more sensible than that. “Private,” he started.
“I ain’t stripping down to my bra in front of your men,” she stated stubbornly hunching her shoulders. “And that’s that.”
“What,” Dietrich stated flatly. Slowly, he ran his gaze up and down the Private’s form, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Noting a dozen small details he had always seen but never really noticed. Then, he raised his eyes heavenward as though beseeching some higher power for patience. Why him?