Chapter Text
It was always poor manners to forget that the desert was inhabited by more than just the German, Italian, British, and American armies. It was stupid too. When their agreement would ease the crossing of men and weapons and protect them from attacks. When their disagreement meant their convoys would face more than just the Rat Patrol, more than the Allies and their spotter planes, and more than the desert environment itself.
Disagreement meant Captain Dietrich and eight of her surviving men were gagged and tied in the burning afternoon sand. The captain herself having had the courtesy of being tied to the only tree at the tiny oasis, surrounded by horses and men she didn’t know. Her half-track was listing into a sand dune, smoke belching from the engine, one of the tires ruined with the hub hanging from the wheel well. The truck was overturned, corpses flung about in broken pieces and uniforms which seeped with blood quickly being drunken by the greedy sands.
Her own head ached furiously, having been thrown to the side and clear of the destruction before she was set upon by… who were they? They did not wear tribal colors and clothes she recognized. Squinting past the dried blood cacked faintly over her swollen eye; she watched her men shuffle away from the prancing, rearing horses as some of their captors jeered.
Fury choked her silent as she tried to rise, dragging the ropes as the tallest, most decorated man emerged from the tent. He snapped a word at the laughing men, who withdrew quickly a subdued at his order. Dark eyes framed over a small, pinched mouth shifted from the bruised and battered soldiers towards Dietrich.
It took every ounce of control not to lash out as he approached. Under the heat, refusing to lick her lips as he produced a canteen. Tossing it into the sand at her feet, he crouched with the grace and strength of man born and raised under the harsh sun.
Sun and wind had aged him, deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, framing a deep grief and misery. One weathered hand rested on the lid of the canteen and his eyes traced up and down Dietrich’s frame.
“ I have heard you speak our language .” The gun slung over his shoulder was well-loved and well-used, the leather strap clearly worn. This close, he smelled like mint tea, horses, and gunpowder. “ The European…the German..” His eyes trailed up her form to her eyes. “ You know our culture….our language.”
Dietrich chewed on her words, watchful and cautious. Too many men expressed interest in her over the years, too many people thought they could tame her or bring her to heel. “ Yes .”
“ Then why attack? Why violate our home with your tanks and guns and bombs?” His light tone belayed the heavy words. Her breath caught in her throat. “ Why bring my people into your conflict? Why come to the desert?”
She had no answer. Every word of propaganda and defense she might have levied faded under the dark stare. Fingers digging into the wood and sand beneath them, her throat worked furiously. “I am a soldier,” she replied in English, lifting her chin. “I go where I am ordered.”
He glanced to her men and nodded. “ You do. And my people suffer….at the hands of the Germans, these Italians, and the British….especially the British. You are not the first…you will not be the last, but I will not allow you to continue.”
The weight dropped out from her stomach. Her eyes widened ever so slightly and the man nodded gently. Genuine remorse dragged his expression into a sigh, he shifted on his heels and rose. With that final nod, he moved back toward the tent. Now under the full strength of the sun, she caught a glimpse of her aide as he frantically tried to meet her eyes.
They were her men, her responsibility, and very soon they would all be dead.
Dietrich pulled against the ropes around her wrists, trying to drag them against the natural roughness of the tree to fray them. As the sun slipped down the horizon her attention and focus wavered. Heat, wound, and exhaustion dragging her eyelids down even as the cold crept over her. Her men would have each other, she realized they’d huddled together as their captors stayed under blankets and their heavy robes. She would be left to the winds and miserable temperatures. Shivering in her boots and beneath her sweat soaked jacket now clinging coldy to her body, her eyes snapped open as gunfire errupted. The soldiers stirred, and their captors rushed into the fray.
Muzzle fire, the familiar sound of jeeps and their mounted machine guns pushed unfamiliar hope into her thoat. She listened, for once hoping the jeeps would crest the dune. The sound of battle moved further and further away until it faded into the distance.
Savoring each unfamiliar sound, cataloging it, and discarding it, she was aware of their return before the men came into view. Dozens of horses and their riders returned. The chill of the evening receded somewhat, replaced by horror.
Private Hitchcock and Sergeant Troy were hauled into the oasis. Troy’s had were crooked, and Hitchcock’s glasses were smashed, reflecting an odd pattern onto the sand dunes. Worse for wear, possibly already injured before their brief battle. Hitch, listening heavily to one side, was dropped by the soldiers. The men wasted no time tying him to Dietrich’s aide. Corporal Mueller leaned down to check on him. She blanched at the sight of Troy being hauled, struggling across the sand. He grunted the tree rattled under the impact. More bodies moved, ropes shifting around. Aside from the men too close, she was aware of how close he was, tied back to back. Heat bled from his arms and shoulders, his broad back just touching hers.
Where were Moffit and Tully? Where did they go? They wouldn’t have left their leader and friend behind, not in the middle of the night…not when they thought they could help him.
The strange leader, bathed in cool moonlight only spared her a short glance.
She tried twisting her head around, catching only a glimpse of his hat and the profile of his face before her movements were halted. Warm, calloused fingertips tangled with hers. Jerking faintly as they encountered cool and crusted blood, she heard a cautious, muted humm.
Gagged. Sergeant Troy had been gagged.
“Sergeant,” she whispered, still shifting and cold forgotten. His fingers tightened over hers briefly, feeling around until his index finger found her palm and started tapping.
H U R T
“Not severely,” under the cold wind that tore through her clothes, Dietrich tried to suppress a shiver.
MEN
“Some of them, What of yours?’
His index finger traced a few idle circles against her palm. Was that meant to be a message? A clue?
A M B U S H. He paused again. W H O?
“A local. He does not wanter outside interference….he intends to execute us all.” At this, Troy’s grip tightened, a grunt working past his gag and ropes creaking under the jerking motion.
H O W L O N G
“Tomorrow….I do not know when.”
There came another hum. She flinched as the same calloused fingers prodded at the ropes and bindings, but the knot hadn’t been tied behind her back. The ropes had been wound to her front and the knot lay over her left bicep; out of reach. Whispering the information stilled the probing fingers. Could he feel her heart race? The frantic hummingbird beat her pulse as they were bound and imprisoned together. Much like the cold, frozen night in the desert, bound by slavers, too close for comfort, and at the mercy of strangers.
A L L
All? All of them? Would they spare the officers? Would they spare her? “Yes.” One of the men on guard looked their way, gesturing with his gun. Aware dimly of the wind, she pressed against the tree to stave off the dipping temperatures. It didn’t work. The wind drove sand over her clothes, dug through her skin, peeling her open for the moon and stars above. Even Troy’s closeness was not enough warmth to stave off the night. She might have been shivering, unsure of the fact until the hand closed around her fingers again. The careful touch zinging alarm through her.
H E L P C O M E
Moffitt and Tully would never leave Troy and Hitchcock behind. They would part the heavens and the earth for their friends and commander; and in doing so rescue her men as well.
She tapped back, aware of the guards still watching them.
H O W
H E L P
So, it likely meant the other Rats had returned to the base for assistance. Possibly for reinforcements or were planning a raid on the camp itself.
It could work…or it might be even worse. The other rats could get captured and no one would be the wiser. All of them would be dead, the first bodies in the unfamiliar man’s drive to cleanse the desert of the outsiders.
Dietrich slept fitfully, falling asleep only to jerk awake when the guards spoke or the wind blew particularly hard. Troy never released her hand, the only point of contact and warmth as they both suffered through the night. She wasn’t sure if he slept or not, but as the sky started to light and heat crept over the sand his fingers twitched against hers.
A movement drew her attention to the front of the main tent. Coffee and food were beginning to be prepared. She forced down her hunger and focused on watching her men stir from their sleepy haze.
Where were the others? Their planned rescue? If the Rats had encountered a sand pit, jackals, other angry locals, and Germans even, they wouldn’t be rescued. She watched guns being prepared, bullets found and loaded. It was only a matter of time now.
Troy’s grip tightened brightly. S T A L L P L A N He paused. TRUST ME.
Trust him? She had no choice but to trust him. Their hands and fates were tied.
The stranger came close, his subordinates set about untying them. A burly pair hauled Dietrich upright, keeping her in place as blood rushed back into her legs and buckled beneath her. Shaking her head, she lifted her eyes to the stranger as Troy was dragged to her side. Hans tucked neatly into his sleeves, he surveyed them for a moment.
“You are strangers in my land,” he told them plainly. “I would not wish for you to die under normal circumstances but you have forced my hands.”
Troy shook his head, redirecting his attention.
“You disagree… remove the gag !” Troy worked his mouth once it was free, and winced at the redness around his lips before speaking. “Well, American? You disagree?”
“Killing us won’t solve your problem,” Troy shrugged, trying to work out the kinks in his shoulders. The men were standing, hauled upward by their friends or captors to watch the proceedings. The fact that no one was standing behind them and the other men were in the process of packing up their camp and tents. “It won’t take the war from your shores.”
“I imagine you think so.” The man glanced toward Dietrich, leaning close he lifted a hand toward her chin stopping short as she jerked back. “ It will be a shame, madam. I hope you die with honor .” Stepping back, hand on his gun she felt the cold and of death inch toward her.
“Well…” Troy glanced briefly toward her. “Then how about a last request.”
“I did not think you would beg, Sergeant Troy.”
“That’s not it,” Troy lifted his head, peering steadily at him from beneath his hat. “If you’re really planning on this…then I think we ought to clear things up.”
The man turned to his companion, whispering too quietly for her to hear. Dietrich stared at the man, sooty, reddened from the wind, and cold, but steady.
“What is it you wish?” His hand hadn’t lifted from his gun.
“Will you marry us?” Troy’s question sent her own men into a whispering rush and the man in front of them started opening. Dietrich couldn’t help but stare. He spoked with complete seriousness, clear-eyed and focused.
“...marry you? You are enemies.”
“Yeah,” Hitch echoed faintly, still listing against her aide who was holding him upright. As the latest words were shared with the non-English speakers, her men stared at Troy with increasing alarm.
“We are enemies,” the American agreed, “soldiers on either side of the war, but there’s more than that.” He turned, the hand that had offered her the first piece of hope in the cold night; the only warmth in the misery and fear, found hers. Her wrists were bloody and chaffed. Fingernails blackened by dirt, soot, and blood. Undeterred, Sam smoothed a hand over hers, clasping it carefully. “Captain Dietrich…is a soldier like none other. Cleverer than a fox, smart, quick and ruthless. There’s no one like her….there might not be ever again.” Heat crawled up her face. Dimly aware of the stir the scene was causing, she was more aware of the fact that this distraction was only saving them a little time before their executions. His thumb trailed over her knuckles.
“She is a warrior.” Their captor confirmed, turning to Dietrich. “What say you?”
“I…” His eyes were very blue, handsome face framed in the shadows of his hat, and perfectly earnest. “Sergeant.” A distraction….that’s all this was. A distraction. “This is an excellent idea. Do you have the authority to marry us?”
“Does it truly matter?”
Dietrich sniffed, “of course it does.” She didn’t dare look at her men, unsure what expressions would be there.
The man turned to his companions who began to whisper furiously, glancing between them and raising their eyebrows. A few nodded approvingly; even Private Hitchcock seemed to nod along with him. Barking out a few words, the man leaped onto his horse and rode into the distance. She barely let out a short breath before they were turned upon.
“Very well. We will fetch the imam. You will marry and then you will die. You will face the afterlife as husband and wife.” He jerked a hand, and both were hauled back against the tree. With their guards close they were relegated to silence. Dietrich didn’t spare a glance for Troy. Cataloging her own men, their injuries, and just how badly Sergeant Wolfgang was doing. Their medic had made up a bandage for him, but without attention and medicine, he would be dead by the end of the day.
Where was the rescue? How long had it taken Moffit to get help? Had they been killed? Was her last act as a soldier and an officer to marry her mortal foe? Could she pass into death bound for all eternity to a man who had shot her? To a man she had tricked, betrayed, and ruined?
The man shifted, and she turned just enough to meet his eyes. Again, his fingers tangled, his thumb pressing into her palm. From the outside, it might have looked romantic or charming. It was wholly necessary.
S T A L L
Perhaps he was also discomforted by their bizarre situation. A scheme which would never have occurred to her was now their only savior from certain death….if the Rats hurried and if their commanders believed them.
Time was draining through their fingertips like sand. Each breath and heartbeat that passed between them only heightened her shorn, tired nerves.
Hoofbeats sounded against the sand, a quiet alarm filtered through her stomach as the familiar imam came into view. The same one she’d captured…kidnapped under the guise of Sergeant Troy and his men. The same one she’d nearly sent back to Germany for political gain. The very same man Troy had rescued so heroically.
“Ah,” she managed before another rifle was jammed toward her face. Troy hummed quietly. The imam dismounted, concerned before striding firmly toward the young man who offered a shallow bow.
This far away she couldn’t hear their argument, but knowing the man as she did it was likely in defense of the prisoners. Troy’s squeeze was not the most reassuring, but she raised her chin as the holy man faced her completely. It was not easy to read his face, but he approached and Dietrich and Troy were untied and dragged closer. For once, the American wasn’t arguing or shouting; as calm and collected under their future deaths as he was under fire. It was a familiar position considering she’d signed his death warrant not two months ago.
“You wish to marry?” The imam turned from Troy to her after a long, considering look. Refusing to quell or cower from her misdeed, she met his gaze evenly. “Of course….I have heard tales of your cunning and wit. Love can bloom in such an unforgiving desert…and such circumstances.” his reservations were clearly reserved for Troy choosing her.
S T A L L.
“We do,” Troy’s voice lowered, assuring and calm.
“I see.” He turned toward their captor and whispered. The younger man stepped a respectful distance away. The soldiers inched closer, necks craned and ears perked. “You…do not have rings.”
“We…” Troy reached for his neck, unwinding the faded blue bandana. Following his lead, she dug her handkerchief from her front pocket. “This will have to do.”
Hitchcock leaned closer, still supported by her aide, gaping. She felt a similar shock. Utter confusion, alarm that their promised rescue had not come. Their kiss would be a kiss of death.
“Very well.” he nodded, and taking her hand and Troy’s, collapsed them between his thin fingers. “Do you.” He eyed Dietrich carefully.
“Captain Dietrich.” Troy nudged her. “Hannelore Dietrich.”
“Pledge in honesty and sincerity to be a loyal and faithful wife?”
All eyes were on her. German, Arab, and American. Troy’s expression softened, understanding, and gentle. He was a good man, a kind man, a soldier, a warrior. “I do.”
“Do you?”
“Sergeant Sam Troy. “
“Pledge in honesty and sincerity to be a loyal and faithful husband?”
“I do.” He nodded without hesitation and carefully wound his bandana around her left wrist. It bandaged her injured, crusty, and raw wrist. She’d fought to escape the ropes only for this scrap of fabric to bind her to his man. It lay there, inconspicuous and a visible manacle.
In turn, with the handkerchief her sister had sent her so long ago in France, she wound it around Dietrich’s wrist and managed a small, careful knot. White, embroidered with an array of colors, it took out starkly against Troy’s tan skin and uniform.
He traced it around his limb with careful fingers, flicking towards her as the imam muttered a quiet prayer and stepped away.
It was now or never. She allowed Troy to pull her close overwhelming heat and trembling strength as he shifted an arm around her waist.
A kiss.
A wedding had a kiss to seal the contract. With this, they would be dead.
He was shorter than she was, but not by much. Leaning down she wound an arm over his shoulders and brought their lips together. A gentle, cautious peck which deepened as their breathes mingled. Troy kissed the way she had always feared and dreamed of; heated and passionate; reckless with a gentle power that overwhelmed her senses. Arms tightened as the kiss deepened; only her men’s faint applause and Hitchcock’s whooping cheers broke the silence.
A roar broke over the sand dunes. As one, she and Troy dropped to the desert floor; dragging the imam under their bodies for protection. Jeeps roared over the dune, trucks, and armored vehicles with guns blazing toward the crowd of men and horses. A jeep came to a screeching halt before them. Making out Moffit at the gun and Tully at the wheel, she stayed under cover as their captors began to retreat. A truck had podded up to serve as cover for the collection of prisoners, her men smart enough to take cover.
It was not a long battle, the Americans and English firepower overwhelming their enemies until the last shot rang out and silence fell. The men stirred, looking up and around as Moffit leaned over his machine gun.
“I say,” the Englishman said as they scrambled upright. “Were you kissing?”