Chapter Text
Author's note: The North African portion of this story takes place in late October 1942 just before the battle of EI Alamein. The Norway portion of this story takes place in late March¬ April 1943.
GERMANY-March 1943
"Sarge!" Mark Hitchcock muttered under his breath as he stared through the barred square window that opened on the central corridor of the cooler. His fair skin still held the darker tint of a man who had spent considerable time in hot climates.
The handcuffed prisoner, a stocky, dark-haired man, landed against the cement wall of the opposite cell. The iron door slammed shut, leaving the two German officers and several guards in the hallway lit only by h·vo lamps at each end.
The escorting officer turned to the camp commandant and saluted. "Commandant Gruber?"
Gruber returned the gesture with alacrity. "Yes, Sir!"
"I am Oberstleutnant Pregger of the Gestapo. Here is your new prisoner."
The commandant looked surprised for a split second, then his face returned to blandness. "He is to be left here permanently?" "He stays until I return for him," the Gestapo officer said coldly. "That may be several days to a week."
"I understand, sir."
"No, you do not, Commandant! This man has escaped from two different prison camps. He is in the special care of the Gestapo at the moment because he is dangerous. Be careful that you do not let him escape!" Pregger's slight double chin wobbled as he issued orders, and his belly strained at his belt. The tailored uniform couldn't hide that he was out of shape despite the fact that Gestapo officers were supposed to be fit.
The Commandant nodded. "Yes. sir! His name?"
"His name is Sergeant Sam Troy. He is an American-"
"A sergeant!?" Gruber said startled. "An enlisted man did what you say?"
The Gestapo officer's lips thinned dangerously. "He is still dangerous despite his low rank, He has escaped several times. I leave him in your care. Commandant."
"All escapees are shot here," Gruber said flatly. "Do not worry, Herr Oberstleutnant." Pregger gave a bark of laughter. "Then I almost hope he tries to escape."
He shot a malevolent look into the cell at the man who sat quietly eyeing him and Gruber, assessing them. Then the Gestapo officer turned and strolled off down the hall.
Gruber waved towards the guards, who followed him out of the cell block.
The blond man waited 'til the hallway was silent before pressing against the iron bars.
"Sarge! Sarge!" he hissed insistently. He heard sound of stirring, then the clink of handcuffs and the shuffle of feet. Troy looked out of the window of his cell.
"Hitch?" His voice held a tinge of disbelief.
The young man's grin stretched from one side of his face to the other. "Hey, Sarge, welcome to the stalag!"
Troy grinned, his face lightening up. His face was bruised on one side but the marks were almost imperceptible in the dim lighting. "How you doin', Hitch?"
Private Mark Hitchcock, US Army, and Troy's driver in North Africa, shrugged casually. "Okay, Sarge."
"Shoulder better?"
"The camp doc said I'd have an ache on rainy days but other than that it's fine. How about you, Sarge? The Gestapo-"
Troy's face closed immediately. Hitch knew that look. Troy had taken some damage but would never admit it. "Fine. Just a little tired. What's the plan here, Hitch?"
"The guards'll be in with food in a little bit. We've got another hour before everyone's confined to barracks," Hitchcock whispered.
"Why are you doing locked up here?"
"They caught us digging a tunnel. Said I was a ringleader and threw me in here a week ago."
Troy chuckled, his face relaxing into a smile. "Were you?"
Hitchcock grinned back. Then he became serious. "They caught the guys who got out, Sarge. They didn't come back alive. Gruber's serious about shooting escapees." '
'I'll keep that in mind," Troy replied, suddenly sounding tired. His handcuffs clinked on the bars again as he shifted position. "Have you heard anything about Tully?"
Hitchcock nodded. "Tully was in the same hospital as me for a while, but I got shipped out as soon as the Germans thought I'd survive. He got exchanged for some officer. I got a letter recently; he's back in Kentucky. What about Moffitt, Sarge? Did you see what happened to him?"
"He's dead, Hitch."
Hitchcock was struck silent, letting himself sag against the door for a second. For months he had hoped that Troy would say the opposite if they ever met. Even now it was hard to believe. Finally, he whispered , "He's dead?"
"Yes." Troy's voice had no emotion. "I buried him in the dunes where he died."
Hitchcock sighed, and leaned against the iron door, feeling more than a little regret. "I'll miss him. He was a stiff-necked limey but, hell, he was one of us."
"Yep," Troy replied laconically. "Dietrich told the English where to find the body, He wanted to make sure it was found."
"There was a lot of fighting around there a week later ... ."
"Dietrich told me the body had been found by the Eighth Army when they overran the place."
Both men went silent as the door at the end of the cellblock opened and a guard stalked up the corridor, staring suspiciously at them. He made one round then walked out again, slamming the door behind him.
After the lights had dimmed. Hitchcock went back to the door. "Sarge?" he whispered.
"What?"
"How are we gonna escape?"
Troy leaned back against the grimy concrete and laughed. Hitchcock's cheerful inquiry brought back all those months in the desert when he and his patrol had played havoc with the Afrika Korps, and. in particular, with a young German tank commander named Captain Hans Dietrich. Poor Dietrich. For an officer almost constantly humiliated by two roving jeeps of enlisted men, he had managed to retain his sense of humor and honor. Quite an accomplishment. Of course, he had ended up as the winner in their last battle, which had improved his outlook no end.
They had been a long-ranging independent patrol, taking their orders on the road and coming back into town at irregular intervals to resupply and for a little R&R. They had been outrageously lucky as well, only losing one man in their time. Sergeant Jack Moffitt had been his replacement and an invaluable one who'd fit into the more relaxed American system without changing his English point-of-view.
Intelligence had occasionally "borrowed" Moffitt for crucial missions, but he had always come back to join them until last job. If Lady Luck had been their best friend for months, she'd turned her back that day.
NORTH AFRICA-October 1942
The Patrol had spent a week scouting the mountains overlooking El Alamein. Any army attacking the dug.in Germans had to get through their mine fields. It was suicidal. The Allies had to figure out how the German defenses were placed to attack. Troy had a feeling that he knew their orders for the next couple of weeks or months. Somehow, they'd have to find a way so the Allies could safely transverse the five miles of explosives to reach the German lines. He had seen the British build-up under General Bernard Montgomery, and knew an attack had to be coming at any time.
At that moment, they were to meet a Colonel Ramsey from US Army Intelligence for a briefing in a nondescript Arab town with no pronounceable name. The small town bustled with tanks and trucks, accents from all over the world floating on the air as the speakers alternately cursed or laughed as they moved the flotsam of the armies all over North Africa. British accents dominated.
Troy glanced at Moffitt who was standing by his jeep, looking around with a slightly reminiscent smile. His fellow sergeant would fit right in with the officers heading for a local bistro across the square. Troy knew that Moffitt had joined up as an enlisted man to shock his upper·class parents, He was over·educated for his current job. Troy occasionally wondered what kept him there beside inertia, and orders. Not that he minded; Moffitt was the perfect fit into their little group, He just wondered how much longer the little group would fit in with Moffitt.
"Troy!" Moffitt called breaking into his musing. In the seat next to him, Private Tully Pettigrew, his driver, chewed on a toothpick as he waited for their next move. Troy had never known Tully to be anything but patient except in action. Most of the time he wondered what Tully was thinking of the rest of them.
"What, Moffitt?"
"We've got company," the Englishman remarked, nodding at a new jeep that pulled up in front of the crumbling white painted bricks of Divisional Headquarters. Two strangers climbed out. The dark·haired leader had a rangy build, rather like Moffitt's, but broader in the shoulders which strained against the slightly too small shirt. He looked like he had a small pot belly as well. The shorter man had curly red hair, and violently sunburned skin and dark eyes. His gaze ran over the other jeeps, taking note of them, then he followed the other man up the stairs. They both wore British Army khaki.
"Wonder where they came from, Sarge," commented Hitchcock who leaned on the wheel of Troy's jeep, his sand-bleached hair hidden under his red French Foreign Legion cap. He blew a bubble from his chewing gum, and popped it. "Looks like new blood."
"Probably England, Hitch," Troy mused aloud. "Not used to the heat down here." Both men's backs were soaked in sweat.
''They need to get some clothes that fit,” Moffitt observed. "And they'll have cases of sunstroke if they don't get hats. They're headed inside."
"So are we. Come on."
Troy led the way. Moffitt on his heels. Tully and Hitchcock exchanged dubious looks but climbed out of the jeeps and followed.
They exchanged salutes with the interior guards and were escorted to a room where the other pair and Colonel Ramsey were staring at a map of North Africa.
"Glad you could make it. Troy," Ramsey said harshly as he looked up. "You're late."
Troy saluted sharply. "We ran into a convoy just before our recall. It took us a little while to break free."
"Probably your friend, Captain Dietrich," Ramsey said in disgust. "He's been roaming around getting in our way. Why don 't you just finish him next time? Just shoot him. Troy, and put us all out of misery."
Troy stared at him in disbelief. Was the Colonel condoning cold-blooded murder? He must have had too much of the North African sun. Then again, it was wartime .... "He's an extremely difficult man to capture and keep. Next time, perhaps, Colonel?"
"Let's hope he doesn't interfere with this mission," the rangy stranger cut in. Troy saluted him, seeing his insignia, receiving a salute in return. ''I'm Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander. Royal Special Reserves."
"Sergeant Troy, US Army," Troy replied seeing Moffitt's reaction out of the corner of his eye. Alexander's accent was sharp enough to almost be exaggerated. The last time Troy had heard anything like it was in a Shakespeare play.
"Sergeant Moffitt, Eighth Army, Scots Greys," Moffitt supplied, saluting. His accent was even heavier than usual. He and Alexander stared suspiciously at each other for a second.
"Let's get started. This is your mission, Troy," the colonel cut in mercilessly. "It's scheduled for the next two days."
Two days? Small window of opportunity. thought Troy. moving closer to the map. What was happening in two days?
The colonel rapped on the map. "Look at this. EI Alamein is secured by the sea on the north, and the Qattara marshes in the south. Rommel holds the East and can withdraw his troops that way. We're here in the West. All that keeps us from him are the mines. We have a spy in the German camp, codenamed Felix, who has information that we desperately need. He has information about the minefields."
"And this man can help us with that?" Troy questioned.
"What he brings will help us tremendously," Alexander said soberly. "Felix is one of the best spies we have."
"He's being withdrawn then?" Moffitt asked. "By the Germans?"
"They suspect him of being a traitor which, of course, he is. His convoy will be leaving EI Alamein at dawn and we're counting on you, Sergeant Troy, to cut that convoy apart without killing our contact." Tully shot Hitchcock a look of disbelief.
Hitchcock glanced back and raised his eyebrow.
Troy put his hands on his hips, and stared at them in disbelief. "How exactly will we tell Felix from all the others?"
"That's why I'm coming," Alexander cut in. "I know Felix. My driver here. Lieutenant Partridge, and I, will accompany you to take Felix off your hands." The red-haired driver nodded, politely. He was studying Hitchcock and Tully inquisitively. Troy sensed their discomfort.
"After you save him, Troy, take off and make sure the pursuit doesn' t follow Alexander," the Colonel interrupted. "That's your most important role."
"How long do we have to keep them busy, sir?"
"For as long as it takes to get Felix to safety," Alexander said flatly. "I know your record, Sergeant. You can do it."
Troy felt ironically honored. It was a suicide mission, just the sort he specialized in. He hoped the patrol would survive the experience.
Moffitt moved closer to the table. studying the map. "So, where exactly do we meet this Felix?"
Alexander stood beside him and pointed. "Here."
Troy was struck by the resemblance between Moffitt and Alexander. They could be related by blood. He suddenly felt chilled. Someone just walked over my grave. This is going to be a bad one.
"I don't like this," Hitchcock mumbled. Troy caught it and sent him a stern glare but didn't say anything. He agreed with the private. He didn't like it either.
****
They camped in a ravine not far from the route the convoy was supposed to take the next day. Partridge lit a fire and began making dinner, as the others scouted the area. The smell of an appetizing stew drifted over the night air.
"You can cook?" Moffitt asked, sniffing appreciatively.
"I learned from a beautiful girl in Dublin," Partridge said with a laugh. "I appreciate Irish stew and Guinness."
"You're Irish?" asked Troy.
"Not a bit. English, American, a trace of German...I prefer to think of myself as an all-American mongrel," Partridge replied, taking a mess kit from Tully and spooning the stew into it. He handed it back, and took Alexander's. "Colonel?"
Troy's ears went up. The request had a slight edge to it. There was more to their relationship than that of just partners, and he didn't like it. Partridge scarcely ever looked at the Colonel, who seemed to be always aware of Partridge, as if he were watching him for trouble.
"Thank you," Alexander said, taking back his plate. He eyed the stew for a second, then glanced at Tully, The private was happily eating his slew, and Alexander followed suit. Troy doubted that Tully even noticed that he was being used as a food tester. "Been around here very long. Colonel?"
Alexander swallowed. "Not very. I came in a few months ago. How about yourself, Sergeant?"
"Been out here for months. When did you get here. Lieutenant Partridge?" Troy asked to include the other man in the conversation.
Partridge shrugged. "I was stationed up on the coast waiting for him to get here." He jerked his thumb at Alexander, who smiled thinly. "Couple of months."
"Then you've worked together before?"
"Yes," Alexander said simultaneously with Partridge's ·'No.'·
They stared at each other for a second, then Partridge dropped his gaze. and went back to scraping the pot.
"We were together in France."
"Dunkirk?" Moffitt asked, his voice sounding interested. Troy didn't spare him a look.
"No, after that." Alexander said easily. "Vichy France for a while, then out to North Africa."
"At different times," Moffitt asked casually. "You must have left France separately."
"Yes, at different times," Alexander agreed. "I suspect you thought I was dead, Partridge?"
The man gave a slight tight smile. "I heard the machine gun, Colonel, and saw you fall. I had to finish the mission alone,"
"Indeed," Alexander said with a slight edge. "Luckily, I wasn't badly wounded."
"Then you're commandos?" Troy asked.
Partridge shrugged. "Fancy word for soldier-spies, Sergeant. I've been all over Europe in my day. Belgium, Austria, Switzerland ... before the war, that is."
"You're very curious, Troy," Alexander commented. "How long have all of you been out here?"
"An eternity," Moffitt laughed. "I got out at Dunkirk and then 'was sent here when they found out I had an archeology degree and had gone excavating down here."
"Back to the scorpions and mummies," Tully added unexpectedly.
Moffitt chuckled. "I always wondered why I never had the luck to find a mummy."
Troy hadn't realized that Tully knew how long Moffitt had been in the desert. He didn't know what the Englishman and his driver discussed though Troy had been dragged into numerous bazaars in search of Egyptian scarab or ancient Greek statues to send home in packages. It almost seemed like Moffitt was teaching Tully about ancient history. Troy would never have thought that the laconic driver would be interested in that kind of stuff.
"You have a degree, then?" Partridge asked, looking curiously at Moffitt's insignia.
Moffitt nodded. "My doctorate from Cambridge. A Ph.D."
Tully dropped his head and smiled.
"Then why are you in the ranks?" Partridge asked abruptly. "Seems to me with your education, you should be an officer."
Moffitt eyed him calmly but with a perceptible chill. Beside him, Tully looked as if he wanted to take the lieutenant to one side and teach him some manners. "Family reasons, Lieutenant," Moffitt finally answered.
"Your family drove you into the ranks?" Alexander said curiously. Troy noted, coming from him it didn't sound impertinent, just interested.
"So to speak," Moffitt murmured. ”Do you have a degree, Lieutenant?"
Partridge nodded. "Yeah, in engineering. I finished it just before the war. American school. How about the rest of you? Any college boys here?"
Hitchcock smiled humorlessly. From his stance, he didn't really like Partridge, but he had had politeness drilled into him. "I would have if I hadn't joined up and sent here."
"How about you, Troy?" Alexander asked.
Troy shook his head. He wasn't quite sure how to defuse the growing tension.
“Nope. My father died, and I went out to make a living after high school."
Tully pursed his lips, and clambered to his feet, avoiding the next question. "Reckon I'll take the first watch, Hitch."
“I’ll relieve you in four hours," Hitchcock replied.
Moffitt watched Tully's retreat then glanced at Troy. "We should have changed the subject, Troy."
"Did we upset him?" Alexander asked politely.
"That's all right, Colonel," Troy said in a flat tone. "Tully's a bit sensitive on education. He had to leave early to help with the family farm. And run moonshine, He's one of the best drivers around here,"
"Where did he come from?" Alexander asked.
"Kentucky," Moffitt commented. “I'd like to visit there someday. It sounds very different from England...or here." The refined Englishman and the moonshiner's kid had an understanding born the moment that Tully had helped rescue Moffitt's father, instead of following Troy's orders to forget the captive man. If there was anyone who Moffitt trusted, it was Tully. And he didn't like anyone picking on his driver.
"It's different all rightn" Troy said with a chuckle. “Not a lot of sand over there."
"Your plate, sergeant?" Partridge asked, holding out his hand.
''I’m done, thanks, Lieutenant. So you came from France before this, eh? That explains your sunburn."
"Pardon?" Alexander asked politely, looking at his fingers.
"You're peeling. You haven't been in the desert long," Troy informed him.
Partridge heaped sand on the fire to kill the flames. "Told you to use the lotion, Colonel. You've been in the sun too much."
"Long enough to know what’s going on round here," Alexander said casually, his gaze shifting away from Troy’s. "There won't be a big push for a while. Rommel's too strongly dug in."
Troy sensed more to that casual statement than it sounded. What was Alexander trying to tell him? He glanced at Partridge but the man had his head down. There was no help there. "I think unless we find the way through that mine field, we won't be attacking soon, sir."
“Exactly. You've set the watch at the other end. Sergeant?"
“Yes, sir. I’ll be taking the first one, and Moffitt will be relieving me."
"When do you want us to stand watch?" Partridge asked, looking up.
"That won't be necessary," Troy said. "We're used to this. Get a good night's sleep, Colonel, Lieutenant."
Partridge's face showed a flash of frustration but he broke into a smile, and held out his hand. "Then at least let me do the cleaning up. Your plate, Sergeant?”
"Thank you," Troy replied.
Alexander shivered. The African night brought the temperature down swiftly, and his thin shirt was scant help against the chill. Moffitt went to the back of his jeep and pulled out a long coat from the back seat. "Try this, Colonel." He held it out.
Alexander slid it on. It was snug in the shoulders but fastened securely in front and fell to mid·thigh. "Thank you."
"'Fraid you've dropped a rank, sir," Partridge said in a light tone.
Alexander chuckled. "But I'm warmer."
Troy sensed there was something more to this mission than rescuing Felix but he couldn't figure it out. The teasing between Partridge and Alexander was barbed with a lot left unsaid.
"Get some rest," he said finally, standing up. “We’ve got an early call tomorrow."
"I'll be back in a second," Moffitt promised and vanished towards where Tully was keeping watch.
Alexander raised an eyebrow at Troy. "Worried about his friend?"
"Maybe. Maybe not," Troy replied stolidly. "Tully's from Appalachia, Colonel. He doesn't let a lot out."
"I'm sorry if I made him feel uncomfortable," Alexander said with commendable grace. "Isn't it strange to find someone like Sergeant Moffitt in the ranks?"
Troy shrugged. He wasn't going to explain why Moffitt had joined up as an enlisted man, That was his business. "His choice. In the meantime, why don't you bed down over there?" Troy pointed to some dark shadows deeper in the ravine.
"Do you have the sharper rocks there. Sergeant?" Alexander asked with a slight smile.
Troy heard Moffitt returning, the sound of his footsteps softened by sand. By the Englishman's expression, whatever had been said had calmed him down. Whatever had happened with Tully was over now.
"You're out of the way of the change of watch," Troy answered in a flat tone. "Get some rest, sir. You too, Lieutenant Partridge. Tomorrow's going to be a long day.”
***
The wind was picking up. It ruffled Hitchcock's hair as he took off his Foreign Legion cap. and brushed back his hair, then resettled the cap firmly. A fine spray of sand brushed Troy's face. then dissipated.
Beyond them, Alexander was leaning forward, holding up his binoculars. He was still wearing Moffitt's jacket which was sharply creases on the back. Moffitt suddenly raised his head and looked around. Then he cocked his head. and listened.
"What is it?” Troy called softly.
"Listen!"
"The wind?'
“There's a storm coming in, Troy!"
"There's more than that coming in! Look!"
The German convoy emerged out of the scrubby undergrowth and sand dunes following the road. The hot midday sun glinted off the polished grills. It was comprised of the usual armored car and a half-track, followed by one canvas-covered truck, and a truck full of soldiers. He overheard Moffitt comment to Tully that they stirred enough sand in the air to be a division. Tully nodded, his eyes squinting into the light.
“Troy, Felix is in the first truck. The one with the flapping canvas. He should be in the cab,” Alexander said in a low voice. Troy looked through his binoculars and identified the truck. Without the loose canvas, it would just appear to be another anonymous truck.
"Hope you're right, ColoneL"
Alexander smiled. "Don't trust me, Troy?"
Troy was vividly reminded of the first time he had met Moffitt. He had been put off by the cultured British accent and the immaculate uniform, and had generally felt that this was another body foisted off on him just because he had lost a man. It hadn't taken long for Moffit to prove himself. “Time to get started, Colonel?"
Alexander nodded, and pulled up the black scarf up around his nose. Wearing the jacket and with his dark hair and build, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Moffitt. If Partridge had worn an American helmet versus the bandanna with which he tied back his curly red hair. Troy might have mistaken the pair for Moffitt and Tully.
Moffitt leaned forward and took the cap off his gun barrel, then settled against the back of the jeep, well-accustomed to bracing himself against the kick of the Browning. He slid down his goggles. Tully glanced over at Hitchcock, and as one, they started their engines. The noise reverberated loudly.
Alexander's jeep roared to life and the three jeeps started for the convoy.
Troy had ordered the Colonel to stay out of the way until the worst of the fighting was over, It \vas bad enough that he had to come along to identify Felix, but if they had to protect him as well, they were sunk.
Tully sent his jeep into a circle that would bring him and Moffitt up on the other side, while Hitch aimed straight at the half-track.
The gun bucked under Troy's hands as he fired at the Kubeiwagens, then at the half¬track. Bullets pockmarked the steel vehicle and men screamed as they died. Through a blur of sand and dust. he saw the first car grind to a stop. and the half-track plowed into the back of it. Felix's truck went into a fast curve that took it directly in the face of Moffitt's attack. It was riddled in seconds, leaving the cab untouched. It screeched to a halt.
Unexpectedly, the other truck aimed towards Troy and Hitchcock, a German soldier leaning out of the cab, firing his gun. Hitchcock wove a pattern that kept him out of the direct path of the bullets, but Troy felt one pluck his sleeve and burn his skin. That guy was too close. He aimed and fired the heavy fifty, and had the satisfaction of seeing the windshield splinter and the driver and passenger jerk as they died. The engine sputtered to silence as the driver's foot came off the accelerator, and the sharp cut of the wheel as he flopped down on the front seat turned the truck on its side, partially protecting the soldiers in the half-track. They weren't all dead, Troy noted grimly, seeing the light reflect off their gun barrels as they aimed at him.
"Sarge!" Hitchcock hauled the wheel to the right and headed for the tail end of the armored car at the end of the convoy.
Troy turned his attention to the car just in time to see it virtually disintegrate as Moffitt threw a hand grenade into it. The Englishman had been a fair hand at pitching before he met the Rat Patrol, but now he was a candidate for a baseball team. With the assistance of Hitch and Tully, he had improved in the last few months.
That only left the half-track and Felix's trucks.
Troy tapped Hitchcock and pointed towards the trucks. "Let's stop-"
A chatter of machine gun fire cut off his yell. The surviving Germans were attacking. He swiveled the gun and fired.
Alexander's jeep approached the half-track. but dodged out of the way of the stream of bullets. Returning fire, he was hampered by the fact that Felix's truck was still partially in his line of attack.
Moffitt thundered around the destroyed armored car and saw the problem. With a thump on the shoulder, he directed Tully to go around so that they could get ahead of the truck and fire at the wounded half-track.
One of the soldiers threw a grenade at Moffitt's jeep. Before Troy could even yell a warning, it exploded six inches above the ground in front of the jeep, overturning it and throwing Moffitt head-over-heels into the hard sandy dirt. Tully collapsed against the other front seat as the jeep landed on its side spilling water and gasoline over the dry earth.
Troy gaped at the appalling sight. A second later, he was reminded that there was a war on when a bullet plucked his desert hat off his head. With cold vengeance in his heart, he aimed the machine gun at the half-track and fired full-blast. The men died and the half-track slowed, then came to a grinding stop.
Hitchcock roared around to where Felix's truck was now stationary and brought the jeep to a stop. Troy had it in his sights.
"Give up! Surrender!" Troy yelled. Nothing from the truck. The wind whistled over the dry land and through the holes in the canvas where the bullets had riddled it.
Alexander approached cautiously, holding his machine gun ready.
"Surrender!" he snarled. The door on the right side, facing Troy. opened and a young man, barely in his twenties, climbed out, his hands raised. He was trembling like a leaf. "Kamerad."
"The other one!" Troy snarled. "Get him out."
"He's dead," the German replied. "I killed him,"
Troy saw one hand was red with blood. "Colonel!"
Alexander came around the half-track, still prepared to shoot. He let the gun sink slightly when he saw the German. "Felix!"
"Colonel," Felix replied, clicking his heels. "Colonel?"
“That your man, Colonel?" Troy asked harshly.
"Yes. I'll take care of him, Troy," Alexander called.
The victory was sour to Troy. "I'm going to check Moffitt and Tully," he said to Hitchcock, who nodded. After Troy jumped out of the back, the private climbed up to the machine gun ready to fire.
Troy headed for the upset jeep. Praying that he'd find either man alive. He didn't have much hope. The rising wind ruffled his dark hair, and cooled his bare skin. He could hear the sound of sand scratching on his goggles.
He hadn't reached Moffitt's jeep when he heard gunfire behind him. Not the heavy machine gun of his jeep. but the lighter firing of a pistol.
"Sarge!" Hitchcock yelled.
Troy swiveled. his pistol held ready, and started back.
Alexander was writhing on the ground, the sand turning dark with blood. Hitchcock wasn't on the top of the jeep. He must have fallen behind it. Was he dead? Felix watched horrified as the truck's driver jumped out of the cab and slammed his gun against the informer's head. The man dropped. Whoever had donated the blood on Felix's hand. it hadn't been the driver. Felix must have been too afraid to tell Alexander that he was a prisoner, not a free man.
Troy rolled behind one of the huge tires of the truck and aimed at the driver who dodged back against the open door. In the sudden silence, Troy heard the roar of armored cars coming from the dunes. It seemed that the Germans were sending reinforcements. Damn, was this a trap? Troy rolled behind the truck and calculated his odds. They were rotten. If he could get Felix into the jeep, he could escape. But first he had to take out the driver!
He thought momentarily about Moffitt and Tully, then put them out of his mind. Dead or alive, they weren't part of the equation. Hearing cautious footsteps approaching. he gritted his teeth and lay still.
Then he realized that he was gritting more than his teeth. Sand was being blown into his mouth despite his tight lips. Moffitt's sandstorm was coming on fast. Soon he wouldn't be able to see the enemy. He rolled towards the front of the truck, not seeing anyone. Cautiously he moved over the blowing sand to where he had seen Alexander go down. No man. No jeep. Nothing but darkness.
Somewhere, he realized he had turned the wrong way. The storm was howling now, slowing down his senses. He paused and looked both ways. Something loomed to his right. He went towards it.
A man's hand slammed down on his head, forcing his face into a sand dune. He grasped at the wrist, and struggled, getting in a swift kick. The man grunted and let go a little, letting Troy see him clearly. It was Partridge. The man slammed his pistol against Troy's temple and the sergeant went out like a light.
AMERICA-March 1943
With an asthmatic wheeze, an old train blowing steam from its engine pulled into the siding of the small wooden station. Tall, uncut grass shimmered in the unexpected spring heal as the temperature rose with the sun. On each side of the station, dogwoods were decked out with white flowers and green leaves, waving among forests of dark-leafed oaks and ashes.
The station manager raised his hand in greeting as the engineer leaned out of the cab.
"Hey. Fred."
"Mornin', Robbie. How's it goin'?" The manager had a distinct Southern drawl.
"Good. Dropping one for you." The engineer sounded like he was from the Midwest.
"Eh?" The manager looked at the tall, lean soldier who stepped off the stubby passenger car crammed in before the three boxcars. He helped down an old man, who shook hands thrn tottered off down the platform to where a young mother, small child in tow, was awaiting him beside a battered truck. Several workmen, eyeing the stranger suspiciously, were unloading one of the box cars of empty boxes, and putting baskets of early spring produce in their place. Everything was normal except for the new arrival who looked alertly around him.
The station manager suspiciously watched the soldier. He didn't look like any American soldier Paulie had ever seen. The tailored uniform had an odd cut. He'd seen something like that in a movie newsreel a couple of weeks ago but he couldn't place it. "Who's he?"
"Ask him yourself. Doesn't talk much," Fred replied shortly, and went back inside the cab. The manager walked up to the stranger as he picked up the bag he'd dropped to help the ladies off the train. "Can I help you, young fella?"
The soldier eyed him judiciously. He wasn't as young as the manager had first thought. His skir was tanned darkly, and there 'were fine lines around the mouth and eyes from sun' exposure. His composure went far beyond his years. "I'm looking for Tully Pettigrew." His accent was clipped and foreign, and straight out of Hollywood.
"Pettigrew? He's up in the hills."
"Is he there now?"
"Sure, Lives with his family." The man's eyes widened. "You one of the guys who was with him...wherever he was?"
The soldier smiled slightly. "Wherever we were. How can I find him?"
"Fastest way is to take that path over there," the station manager pointed. "Bit of a climb but it'll bring you out on a main road. Take a right, and at a big white rock, turn left. Pettigrew's place is about a half-mile on. Leave your bag here. I'll look after it."
The soldier looked at the worn leather bag in his hand, then shook his head. "I'll take it, with me."
"Be a climb with it," the manager warned. "I promise, I'll keep it safe in the station. Put it under lock and key." He held out his hand.
A second's assessment, then the soldier held out the bag. "I'd appreciate that, Mister .... '·
"Parkins. Rob Parkins."
"Thank you, sir." The soldier walked away towards the path.
Parkins waited until he was out of sight before checking the label on the bag. Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander, Oxford, England. "Good God. He's a Brit! And a colonel too!"
GERMANY-March 1943
Hitchcock said in a low voice. "I saw you heading for Moffitt and Tully. I was watching Felix." He hated the memory of that last raid. It was bad enough to see Tully and Moffitt on the edge of his vision, their unmoving bodies light against the dark storm. He kept his eyes on Alexander who was approaching Felix, his gun held ready.
"Then the driver came up with a gun. I saw him just before he fired. Couldn't get around in time."
That second's notice had saved his life. He had seen the driver's cap come up as the man fired his pistol through the cracks in the windshield. The bullet caught Hitchcock in the shoulder, sending him spinning back onto the hard ground. He heard the gun go off again, and again. He shut his eyes and prayed. "I thought I was gonna die, Sarge. Then the sandstorm came in. I knew if I didn’t move, I'd smother. Covered my face as best I could." Then it had been all darkness, and a howling wind, and the feel of sand everywhere. "I blacked out. Came to in a German field hospital wrapped in bandages. What happened, Sarge?"
Troy replied reluctantly. "I was nearly buried too. I must've looked like a dune to Dietrich and his troops when they pulled up in one of their trucks. They'd had to stop to because of the storm."
"Dietrich!" Hitchcock sounded surprised.
"He was just doing surveillance until we attacked. He heard the noise but it took a while through the storm to reach the convoy."
NORTH AFRICA-October 1942
Troy was on his hands and knees, coughing sand out of his lungs, when he heard the truck. Two soldiers grabbed his arms and held him securely. Dietrich took the pistol from Troy's holster and put it in his belt, then crossed his arms. He was wearing his goggles and a scarf around his face, which he pulled away from his mouth to speak. "Sergeant Troy?"
“Captain Dietrich. Fancy meeting you here," Troy wheezed, and then coughed to clear his throat. He was dizzy. Dietrich snapped a command in German and one soldier let go of Troy's arm, pulled out a canteen and handed it to him.
"Are you feeling better. Sergeant?" Strangely enough. Dietrich almost sounded sympathetic.
Troy stiffened. No matter how he felt, he didn't need Dietrich's sympathy or pity. "Yeah, Just fine," The captain looked around at the buried vehicles. The storm had passed and the air was no longer full of sand. "It would appear that you are very unlucky, Sergeant Troy."
"My men..."
"We will find them," Dietrich promised, his voice reassuringly professional. "In the meantime, Om afraid I will have to tie you up, Sergeant. I am taking no chances."
"Let me help you dig," Troy said with a trace of urgency. "I won't try to escape."
Dietrich studied him intently. "Your men? You don't believe they are still alive, Sergeant!"
"Desert rats are tough, Captain."
"I know," Dietrich retorted in an exasperated tone, "I have had to deal with you for months! Go ahead, Sergeant. Your jeeps are over there." He waved to where a jeep was lying on its side, near Felix's truck, "And over there." He waved back the way he had come.
Troy kept his face expressionless as he walked over to the overturned jeep. It had been Alexander’s jeep. No one in the front seat. Where were Alexander or Partridge? Troy saw a pile of sand to one side. A buried body?
Dietrich grabbed his arm, holding him back. "Uncover it," he barked at the soldiers,
It took thirty seconds of digging to show a German uniform, then the face of the dead man, Troy recognized the driver. He looked like he had been smothered by the sand while unconscious, until they uncovered the stab wound lower down on the torso. Dietrich glanced at Troy. "Someone used a knife here. Were there any other commandos other than your team, Sergeant?" Troy didn't let himself react. He wasn't going to tell them anything they could figure out for themselves.
The captain nodded, then glanced around, "So there were."
Troy's head went up suspiciously, and he stared at Dietrich. Why did it have to be Dietrich who had caught them? They had been playing cat-and-mouse for too long; they knew each other far too well. Damn it! A soldier called them the other side of the trucks. Dietrich's eyes narrowed behind his goggles and he replied, then turned to his prisoner. "Sergeant Troy?"
Troy turned, chilled at the compassionate tone. Dietrich had become sympathetic again, which meant he felt sorry for Troy. There was only one situation in which where Dietrich would do that, if he and his forces found Troy's men dead.
His heart sank but he didn't let his feeling show. Then, he saw in disgust, Dietrich could read him. There was definite sympathy there. The captain waved at him to lead the way.
The man protecting his face with his arm and lying in a curled position. It was Hitchcock. The soldiers bent over him rattled a sentence at Dietrich who raised an eyebrow. "You're lucky, Sergeant. He's still alive."
Troy let out a slight sigh of relief. "For how long, Captain?"
"We'll get him to the hospital as soon as we can." Dietrich promised, turning to the other body lying nearby. "Careful. Sergeant Troy. It's not pretty. I believe it is Sergeant Moffitt."
Troy recognized the worn jacket with its patched shoulder. It belonged to Moffitt. The body was unrecognizable though. The skull had been pulped by some automobile running over it. dragging bits of black curly hair and brain for several feet. The black scarf was soaked in blood, and the ground around was splattered like a spill of red ink.
He knelt down for a second and saw shiny dog tags. He picked them up and looked carefully. His heart froze for a second, then gave an extra loud thump.
The markings on the dog tags said the blood type was A positive. This wasn't Moffitt. It had to be Colonel Alexander lying there. Of course, the Colonel had borrowed Moffitt's jacket! He didn't blame Dietrich for believing it was Moffitt. The hair, the build, the jacket with the British patches. Troy instinctively tried to hide the realization from Dietrich. "It's him," he said, lying through his teeth.
Another soldier called, and Dietrich turned. his head. Troy leaned forward and pulled free the tags, the broken chain sliding between his fingers. The captain didn't notice, though the German sentry who had helped uncover the body stared at Troy strangely. "You have another survivor, Sergeant. I believe it is Private Pettigrew."
"Tully?" Troy dropped the chain into the welter of blood that had been Alexander's face. pocketed the dog tags casually, and limped towards the jeep drawing Dietrich with him.
The soldier saluted as they both came up.
Tully's chest was blood-soaked and Troy could see bullet holes in his shoulder and chest as he lay crumpled in the front seat. He wasn't a sand-encrusted mummy like Hitchcock since the jeep had provided partial protection against the storm.
''I'm sorry. but he might not make it," Dietrich said, his voice professional once again. "Put the wounded in the truck! Be careful with them."
"You're taking great care of us," Troy replied grimly.
"Of course. You are prisoners of war," Dietrich reproved. "I follow the Geneva Convention, Sergeant. I regret the death of Sergeant Moffitt. He was a good soldier and a worthy adversary.”
Troy kept his face straight, though he sensed the sincerity in Dietrich's tone. "He was a good friend as well."
Dietrich nodded understandingly. "I will make sure his body is returned to the British."
"Thank you. I'll appreciate it." Troy looked around the battle scene one last time.
Hitch's jeep was missing. Alexander had been run over, Felix was missing. Partridge was missing. Moffitt was missing. Where Moffitt had been thrown, there was no heap of sand that would have marked his body. Who knew what had really happened? However, Troy wasn’t the one who was going to tell Dietrich anything about this mission. Let him think Moffitt was dead and the mission gone sour.
AMERICA-March 1943
The hot sun sank through the heavy khaki of Alexander's jacket as he slowly overheated. A trickle of perspiration ran down his back, dampening the shirt under the heavier jacket. Il was a steep climb and further than the station manager had assured him.
Reaching the white rock, he sank down on it shaded by a willow tree. The long strands of spring greenery draped themselves around him in the light breeze. He took off his cap and ran his hand through his short black hair which was curling in the humidity. A small puffy cloud dodged in and out of the hills but it gave little relief from the sun.
It hadn't been this hot in the North African desert. There it had been dry heat, not the sticky wetness that saturated his shirL He wished he'd had his old canteen, but that had been left behind along with so many other things. Maybe Tully would have some water.
Around him, he saw an abundance of vegetation. long honeysuckle with a few blossoms that early bees dived into for their intoxicated fill. Kudzu and ivy, tangling in the undergrowth and "vinding around the oaks and small pines that crowded each side of the mountain path. Some trees had more vine than leaves. Broken branches were homes to chipmunks and field mice that darted across the hard-rutted path. Somewhere behind him he heard the rat-ta-tat of a woodpecker among the rotted trunks. It had been a difficult winter and now the earth was coming back to life.
He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched, his body protesting after the hike. At least his shoulder and back didn't ache here. Cold weather exacerbated his war injuries. "Hey! Leggo!" The voices up ahead were young and male. Two, maybe three boys. It sounded like a squabble.
He clambered to his feet and walked around the corner.
The two boys were in their mid-teens. The smaller boy had a burly build and strong muscles amply shown by his lack of a shirt. His pants were held up by suspenders. The other boy was a little more willowy, and taller, though probably younger by several years. Several books were lying on the ground nearby. one large one spilling out of a book bag. Both had their fists clenched.
"What's this?" Alexander called using his best official tone. Startled. both turned around, One look at Alexander's uniform. and the small boy took off through the bushes that lined the road. The other one stared at him suspiciously, reluctantly lowering his hands. He looked wary. "Thanks. Mister."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. The shock of wheat hair was familiar even if it was a shade darker than the one he knew. "Are you related to Tully Pettigrew? Who me you?"
Mack smiled slightly. "Tully's my uncle. My name is Mack Pettigrew."
"Lieutenant Colonel Peter Alexander." He held out his hand.
Mack shook it. "Happy to meet you, sir."
"Is this the way to Tully's?" Alexander asked politely, as the boy began to collect his books.
"Yeah. Take you there," Mack stuffed the last book into his knapsack and slung it over his shoulder.
Alexander picked up something that had fallen out of Mack's pocket. "This yours?"'
The arrowhead glinted in the sunlight.
"Yeah." Mack took it from his hand and stuffed it in his pocket. "I got a few of 'em back home."
"Are you interested in archeology?"
“Yep.” The boy led the way up the path. "I read up on it a bit."
“So did your uncle,” Alexander remarked, keeping up easily. His long legs more than made up for the boy's lively pace.
"I know. He bought a book about it by some guy named Moffitt."
The soldier checked for a second, then walked on. "There's an English archeologist called Moffitt."
"I know. Tully said he met him. Said he was a great guy." They rounded a corner and stopped.
"Here it is," Mack said with a touch of defensiveness as if he expected Alexander to make a derogatory comment.
The wooden two-level farmhouse had a rambling roof with a center gable and a veranda that ran around it on three sides. It needed a coat of fresh whitewash, and someone had repaired the roof in wood that hadn't weathered yet, making it look like it had been bandaged. A huge redbud tree vied with a glorious white dogwood and a laundry line was stretched between the two. A woman in a worn, brown plaid dress was hanging a sheet, her back to them.
"Tully!" Mack yelled, startling Alexander. “Hey, Tully! You got a visitor!" The woman turned and stared at them. a clothespin still in her mouth. She put the shirt she was holding back into the woven basket at her feet. A man opened an inner wooden door, then the rusted screen door. and stepped out onto the veranda. The wood creaked under his feet.
The man raised his hand. squinting against the noonday sun. Tully wore a faded red shirt, worn pants with suspenders, and patched, battered boots. His hair was even lighter than it had been in the desert.
"Hello, Tully."
Tully was motionless. "You're alive?"
"Still alive, Tully."
"What's up?" Mack asked in puzzlement, glancing up at the tall man beside him.
"Thought you were dead," Tully observed. "Never heard from you."
"That wasn't my fault. It's a long story."
Mack's gaze darted from one man to the other. "Tully?" he asked uncertainly. "What's up?"
Tully laughed and the tension broke. "Sarge!" He came forward, his face creased in an unaccustomed smile, and clapped Moffitt on the shoulder. "I don't believe it! You're still alive. An officer now?"
"That's a long story," Moffitt said with a relieved smile. "I need your help. Tully. Let's talk."