Work Text:
The Lost Letters Raid
Hauptmann Hans Dietrich of the Afrika Korps had been frustrated too often to let this one get away Lying beside several of his men, he peered around the edge of the boulder as the sound of the messenger drew closer and closer.
It had been pure luck that he knew the man was coming this way. One of his spies in the local town had passed on that the messengers had been coming more and more often lately, and there had been reported movement of the British troops. It was a worthwhile way to spend the day intercepting a messenger to find out what was happening. He'd left a truck with more men back into the winding path of the wadi in case he needed them.
The characteristic putt-putt of the small motorcycle engine was loud in his ears as the rider roared around the corner, hit the rope strung between the boulders with a twang, then crashed as the motorcycle went off the road. The man flew off and hit the boulder Dietrich was hiding behind making the stone shake.
Dietrich swore viciously, first under his breath, then out loud. There was no reason to be quiet any longer. He stepped out from behind the rock, his troopers following him. Dietrich had seen his men die in many ways, from being cooked in their tanks to being shot by those pestilent desert patrols of the British, but he hadn't expected that the messenger would have smashed his head in on a rock.
It was obvious the man was dead. Blood dripped down his face, over the goggles that had kept the dust from his eyes, into the gray-speckled rust moustache and over his chin onto the sand-caked scarf. One hand was still crooked as if holding the handle of the motorcycle.
"Herr Hauptmann!" One of his men held up a dispatch bag that had been torn from the messenger's side during the call.
At least he had that much, Dietrich thought with relief, holding out his hand.
It was heavier than he expected. Opening it, he squinted at some wrapped packages, then pulled one out. Letters. Good.
Looking down at the man, he realized that he'd better dispose of the body before the British came looking for the messenger. Then he reconsidered. It looked like a simple accident that could have happened to anyone. The sun and the jackals would take care of the body in time. "Pick up the rope and get back to the truck," he ordered. "We leave tonight."
"Jawhol, Herr Hauptmann, but the sun," one of his men, Bruch asked hesitantly, waving at the red ball that was sinking behind the cliffs. "Are we driving back all night?"
He had a point. They couldn't make the town that was base camp tonight, and Dietrich wasn't stupid enough to think he could navigate the wadis in the dark. A truck with its lights on was a target for the sloppiest Allied night-fighter.
"Make camp. Bruch, you have the first watch here. You others, make fires only where you think they won't be seen."
The men beamed as they headed for the truck. There would be a hot meal and some warmth to offset the cruelly cold night.
Dietrich turned the bundles over in his hands, then put them back in the bag. He'd look through them tonight.
***
The small lantern was carefully shielded so it only illuminated a foot in front of boots as he sat crossed legged in the draped tent that the men had set up. Above him towered the rugged cliffs, black shadows set against the silvery flow of the Milky Way, gilding his brown-blond hair into a burnished helmet. A wind keened through the rocky walls. It was unnerving as it howled, then faded. Dietrich had heard Arab women wailing for their dead. Now he knew where they'd gotten the idea. Or had the wind gotten the idea from them?
He irritably slapped at the black flies circling him and the light, cursing the fact that the messenger had been late that day. If he'd been an hour earlier, Dietrich would be on his way back home to a camp bed, true, but one that didn't run the risks of centipedes or scorpions. The men had carefully policed the area and killed several of each.
He'd unwrapped first package to see what he'd netted.
It was not what he had been after. He had hoped for some kind of military documents or maps. These envelopes were personal letters belonging to troops that opposed him across the stony rocks, day in and day out. Addressed in the handwriting of other generations, lacy penmanship taught in schools twenty, fifty, or more years ago, the letters were from their families. Most of the letters were open as the glue had become unstuck, and he consoled himself that other eyes had read them before his.
He felt a chill suddenly when he checked one address. Hmm. Where had he seen that name before? He flipped over several more envelopes. They looked familiar. Where had he seen the names recently?
He set aside the letters, and picked up the other bundle.
More letters. He cursed under his breath. Why couldn't they have been orders or something important? A man had died for these.
Unfolding the package he saw a mixture of sealed American V-mail envelopes and English Airgraphs, folded so only the addresses showed through the windowed envelope. The top letter stirred his interest.
'Sgt. Jack Moffitt, Scots Greys, RA.' One letter.
He put that envelope aside and turned towards the others with greater interest.
Two for Sgt. Samuel Troy. One was from Denver, United States, the other a V-mail from England.
Three for Private Mark Hitchcock, two of them V-mail forms, and the other perfumed. He could smell the faint fragrance. How very American to waste good scent on paper.
One envelope for Private Tully Pettigrew, fatter than the others. The handwriting was lacy and curved, and easily readable. It was so beautiful that the censor had worked hard to avoid crossing it with his stamp.
He'd intercepted the mail of those persistent pests who plagued his existence for the last few months. What had they been called in that last message from headquarters? Some grandiose label. That was right. The Rat Patrol. Formerly, four Americans, now a joint Anglo-American command of two jeeps, and the new man, Sergeant Moffitt, was English. All enlisted men in that raiding party. No wonder the British were losing the war; they didn't keep their men in their place commanded with an officer, There was a reward for their capture. The High Command was tired of losing trucks and men to their hit-and-run tactics.
Dietrich fought with his better side and lost. He needed to know more about his enemies -- but it was an invasion of privacy to read other people's mail. His Mutter wouldn't approve of it.
Well, he couldn't resist.
"Coffee, mein Herr," said one of his men apologetically as he loomed out of the darkness, and Dietrich jumped. "It was in the motorcycle bags."
"Must have been for an important officer," Dietrich replied. "Danke."
The man faded back into the darkness outside the ring of light.
Dietrich set the tin cup down to one side, and put the fat letter to Pettigrew on top to keep the black flies out of it.
He spread the letters like a hand of cards. Which one first? Finally he picked up one of the ones to Private Hitchcock and with a small tug, the flap came free.
Up in the left corner was the censor's stamp, in the middle was Hitchcock's name and address, and to the right who it was from. Alicia Hitchcock, 87 Sea House Road, Long Island, NY, March 10, 1942.
The handwriting looked as if it wanted to be bigger but she was restraining herself. It started larger, then grew smaller as she wrote,
"'Dear Mark, We were glad to finally hear from you. Write us more, big brother.
They say we have to write you guys, but not anything about the war effort in ------"
An entire line was blacked out by the censor. Dietrich grinned. No matter what side of the war you were on, there were always censors.
"We're starting a vegetable garden in Mama's rose patch. The Stewards said they wanted a bigger one but can you see them out there digging? Ours'll have beans, tomatoes and cucumbers. Virginia said we can string the vines across the old grape trellis, and the cucumbers'll dangle down to be picked. The snowdrops are blooming in back. The old oak fell down, and we're using the wood for fires. One night we got sparks out of the chimney, and got written up for showing a light!"
Where did Private Hitchcock come from? He looked at the top. Long Island. The Atlantic coastline where U-boats were sinking shipping within sight of New York City. No wonder they had been fined.
"Mama tried to send me south to a private school, but I won't go. Only Virginia's still here. She's teaching me to cook and use the clothes washer. The others have gone to work in ------ .
Thank you for the group picture. Mama wondered about your red hat. How did you get it? I showed your snapshot to Mollie and Polly, and they were so impressed. Can they write? Who's this German you mentioned? The guy in the clipping?
Dietrich felt stunned. A German? Who?
Crammed in at the bottom was, "Write you soon. Love, Alicia."
Private Hitchcock's sister would have to learn to be more discreet, Dietrich thought, if she was going to avoid the censors. He refolded the letter and tucked it back in the envelope. She sounded like a nice child. Or a young woman? Did she look like her brother? Blond hair, blue eyes. Looked like something off a German propaganda movie.
"And too often, Private Hitchcock has weaseled his way into our camps with that look," Dietrich muttered. "I'll put an end to that."
He put the letter aside and picked up his cup, dislodging the envelope on top. Waving angrily at the black flies, he sipped the coffee and sighed with appreciation. Someone in the British high command warranted real coffee. Maybe, instead of waiting for another messenger, he should try to capture the officer who was supposed to get the coffee beans. Dietrich replaced the letter on top of the cup and picked up the envelope addressed to Sergeant Jack Moffitt.
The glue was a little more secure on this and it took some tugging to get it open. He was careful not to rip anything.
"February 12, 1942. Dear Jack, I see by your note that you got the transfer that you were after. I was sure that it would work out somehow. They need experienced men down there. I'd hate to lose you to some pestilence -- though after all the years we spent excavating tombs around that countryside, I can't imagine that you'll come down with any illness."
Excavate? An archeologist. He read with renewed interest.
"Your mother has taken over the running of the local church society. She's railing against the lax morality that seems to be invading England, but who can blame the girls? All our chaps are away fighting. Your brother has joined the Home Guard since he's too young to join up. He stays up with the fire wardens and listens for the bombers. There are quite a few of them. Don't worry. They don't seem to be interested in Cambridge."
No, our bombers are more interested in London. It is in ruins if Goering is honest.
"From the news accounts and your note, you are probably up in T------- -- -------ya. Do you remember the small hotel where we spent our holidays years ago? I've always thought we should try to excavate there again since I'm sure there is an old temple n---- ----- ----. I know you always preferred the tribes to ancient history but do remember to look around and see what you can find. Something to think about for when the war is over."
Ah, that was right. Sergeant Moffitt was an anthropologist, not an archeologist. Someone had done some research back in Berlin and turned up a Professor Moffitt but that archeologist was in his forties. This must be his son.
"Dispatches mention other old friends, Pat Clayton and Bagnold. They'll keep things warm for the Jerries. If you should meet them, give them my regards. "
I will also, Professor, if I catch them.
"What else? I've been cataloguing those old scrolls but it's mostly first century BC gossip about the Roman Senate; nothing that would interest you. But there was an old map marked with the trade routes on the peninsula. Amazing what our predecessors did!
As for that German captain you mentioned, don't underestimate him. As Aristophanes said, 'The wise learn many things from their enemies'. I would have put that in Greek but the local censor warned me he'd black it out!"
Me? Dietrich started upright. No, there were many captains in the German army. There would be more if I got rid of the Rat Patrol! He reached for the coffee, then saw the last paragraph, and stopped.
"Your mother says that she has moved your books to the basement, but I made sure they were put up high so that no flooding could get them. I'm afraid she's put you away for the duration, old boy. I'm sure we can find you room when you come back though it might be in the garden shed. Are you really working with the Americans? I look forward to hearing your comments about them.
Keep up the letters, Jack. I wish I was back digging but archeology is not part of the war effort. Ta!"
Dietrich put that letter back in the envelope and used a trace of the coffee to seal the glue. My Mutter said she kept all the letters I've sent her. She's framed the clipping and put it in the parlor along with the picture of her father in his uniform, and that ornate mirror with the gilded frame that I brought back from France. I wonder what she would think of me now? He brushed his hand against his bristling chin. He'd have to shave in the morning. His mother wouldn't want him to look unkempt. She'd never put his belongings where they might get wet.
He unfolded the V-mail to Sergeant Sam Troy. At the top was an English address and the date of March 21, 1942. The first name of the sender was blotchy as if it had been rained on. He couldn't read it in the low light.
"Dear Sam, Well, it's cold and wet here. I wish I was where you are. I've been transferred to our side now that we're in the war though it shouldn't have taken a sneak attack to get us in. Considering what the Krauts have been doing in France, it's obvious that they needed to be stopped. Join the flyboys. Doesn't being an officer attract you at all? Better beer.
"Paula, Marsha and Gwen say hi. They saw your picture. I think it's the hat they're laughing at."
Dietrich grinned. He wondered sometimes how Troy had come by the Australian hat. He doubted that the girls were looking at the hat when they saw the photograph.
"You've probably got the letter about Aunt Jane dying in Boulder. She left the land to Mother so now the cattle's grazing on sweet clover all the way down to the river."
"Your new guy sounds interesting. The Brits really are different, aren't they!"
"Write! Mom is worried sick about you. Occasionally, I am to. Be careful. D."
D? He wondered Troy's brother's name was. Daniel? Donald? Were they a Biblical family, naming one son after the Old Testament prophet, Samuel? Or was it a family name? He tilted the V-mail but he couldn't make out the name. Lifting up the other letter, he saw it was dated earlier than the one in his hand. This must be the letter about Aunt Jane. He didn't need to read that.
With a growing unease, he resealed Troy's letter and put it down. He didn't like what he was doing anymore. He was getting to know his enemies far too well. They had brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, and lives that weren't tied to war. If anything, the Americans should be fighting in the Pacific where they'd been attacked, not here at all. Sergeant Troy should go home to his mother in Colorado who was worried about him.
What would Mutter think of me right now? He felt the wind blow through his sun-bleached hair, carrying sand that sifted down into his shirt. The cold night sank into his bones. She wouldn't understand the military necessity of what I'm doing. I'm gathering information for the war effort.
He brushed the letter off the top of the coffee and drank the cooled liquid. The taste was a bitter coating on his tongue. He'd need it to keep going.
He picked up the last letter planning to add it unread to the pile, but the folded paper fell out. The heat of the coffee had unsealed the flap, and he saw lacy looping handwriting as beautiful as his great-grandmother's had been. He had always been in awe of her writing.
"December 27, 1941. Dear Tully, Merry Christmas! I wonder when you will see this letter. We celebrated down at the town hall but went home early because it started to snow. It's bitterly cold up here most mornings, but Mack pokes up the stove before he goes out. We trimmed back the trees last month, cleaning up the orchard for next spring, and are burning the wood. This year's crop pays for the roof repair to Mack's room. He's in the attic now. You should see it; he's plastered the walls with those historical pictures from Boys Life.
A fox was plundering the chicken coop but I killed it with the old shotgun. Thank you for teaching me to shoot! Mack sold the pelt and got some house paint. Did I tell you we got two puppies? Roland and Oliver. Oliver died a couple of weeks ago. He was too weak to get through the winter.
I thought of going back home and getting a factory job, but everyone's needed on the farms. Mack tried to join up last month but he's too young (as I told him). I can't imagine what I'd do if I lost Mack, Tully. I can't run this farm by myself, and with the war, I can't get help.
The War Department says that Davy is still alive in the Pacific. My husband is now a sailor? That old buzzard, Kathy Ferguson, gave me another star to put in my window alongside yours but up here, who will see it if I don't?"
Dietrich sat back stunned. From what he'd been reading, he thought that the mysterious woman was Pettigrew's wife. Apparently not.
"Mack says thanks for that little statue though he really liked the newspaper wrapped around it. It arrived just before Christmas. Did you say that one of your troop helped pick it out? I used some of the fox money to get Mack a big map of North Africa and he's tracking the battles from the newspapers he reads at the library. The power company says they'll run the lines up to the house this spring, then we can listen on the radio. Right now we're using candles and sleeping in the living room after we bank the fire. It's too cold upstairs.
Did you include that clipping because of that picture? Is that the German you wrote me about?"
That mysterious German again! Who was it that his enemies mentioned in their letters home? Dietrich almost felt slightly jealous. They were afraid of someone else but him?
"Daylight's going and Mack will want dinner when he brings in more wood, so take care, Tully, and don't let anyone kill you. Love, L."
Don't Americans ever use their full names? Dietrich thought exasperated. Who was "L?" Does it matter? He stuffed it back in the envelope and sealed it with a touch of his tongue.
He realized that the moon was rising shining on the rocks, casting shadows in sharp outlines on the sandy floor. The light slid like a cold milk waterfall over the truck, and the bundled shapes of sentries leaning against rocks blowing warm breath on chilled hands. On an impulse, he switched off the light at his feet. The world became black and white.
The wind had died down in the last hour leaving nothing but the deadly quiet. The joking had stopped sometime when he was reading. Quiet came in so many forms. A peaceful one where you stood inside the small row house where Mutter lived, and would welcome you home with cake and ham if she could afford it. The quiet that fell over a city when snowy streets were untouched by human footsteps. The anticipatory quiet of Christmas Eve when you knew that there would be presents under the tree.
But here, the quiet was of the dead.
Dead.
He looked down at the other bundle of letters that he had set aside. Familiar names. Why?
He cast his mind back. There had been a small battle two days ago that he'd joined in at the last moment. The British outpost had been overrun by the Panzers. Stubborn soldiers, the English. Three quarters of them died before they surrendered, and that was only to get help for their wounded.
That was why the names were familiar. He'd helped list the dead for the official report, thinking how tidy the British identity discs were, with names, religion, and blood type. Most of the letters were to the deceased men from the attack.
The cold was inside him now. He looked up and caught his breath. A shadow grew against the opposing wall, joined by others, stumbling towards him. Caught in disbelief, he saw the men of the attacked outpost carrying their wounded out, leaving the dead behind.
All those dead men coming toward him, looking for their letters.
Then he heard a curse. In German.
Bruch and the others changing the guard. These were his living troops casting shadows.
Heart still pounding, he let out his breath, and a plume of warm air blurred his vision.
What would the Rat Patrol see if they read my letters from home? That my father died just before our attack into France? That mother now lives with her aunt and sister in our old house? That each night she listens to every word on the radio to hear my name and that she believes everything Goebbels says about our campaign here in North Africa? She framed the photograph that went with everything that lying journalist said. I will never live it down.
And Hanne? I haven't heard from her for months so maybe she's found another man. She must have a friend in the censorship office to be able to write what she does. Where did she get the papers with the violets painted on them? I haven't seen that since Paris. I sent her some perfume from there; did she get it? Why doesn't she write me more? Why doesn't Mutter write?
This day had been a waste of time. The messenger had died bearing letters to dead or captured men, and the living ones were far away. He needed a bath to rid himself of a crawling feeling of shame.
I should not have read any of the letters.
He tied the envelopes back into bundles trying to replicate what they'd been like before he opened them. Shoving them back into the bag, he refastened it tightly. Tomorrow, he'd put the bag back with the messenger.
Leaning back, he huddled into his coat and tried to go to sleep. Every few seconds he flicked open his eyes to see if the ghosts were still there. All he saw were the rocky shadows cast by moonlight and his own living men. The dead lived in his dreams.
***
It was bitterly cold when the sun finally rose. The men stirred up the fires and scratched, exchanging jokes, but Dietrich waited till the frost had melted off his tent to stir. He'd finally fallen asleep after the moon set and the canyon was dark as pitch. Only four hours made him grumpy but he didn't take it out on the orderly who brought him another cup of the stolen coffee.
That he wouldn't replace. The coffee was spoils of war, and the English officer would have to miss it.
Stretching his arms out to the sky, he thought it was a beautiful day to be alive. Birds flew in wheeling arcs above him and the tips of the crags were edged in gold.
With the bag over his shoulder, he and two others headed back to the mouth of the wadi.
Reaching it, he startled a vulture that flapped to a nearby rock. He didn't look at the body as he tossed the bag so it looked realistic where it fell. That was part of war; Mother Nature wanted her bit as well.
He and two of the soldiers brushed away the marks of the tires so it looked as if the sand was undisturbed.
He was so preoccupied that he didn't hear the roar of the jeeps as they headed his way.
"Herr Hauptmann!" one of the trooper called abruptly, pointing towards the road they'd come up on.
Dietrich realized he'd never reach his truck in time.
"Behind the rocks and don't show yourself!" he ordered harshly. "We're probably outnumbered so keep quiet!"
"Jawhol!" the men chorused and hid.
Dietrich took a last swipe at the boot marks and ran for a rock himself. He didn't have time to climb up above their heads when the jeeps roared up, coming to an abrupt halt at the motorcycle.
"Hey, Sarge, here he is!" he heard a youthful voice call out. Private Hitchcock. It was the Rat Patrol, damn it. "The message was right this time!"
"'Fraid the old chap's had a bad accident, Troy," Moffitt added. Dietrich heard the creak of a jeep as someone shifted their weight, then the sound of boots hitting the sand. Moffitt was checking on the messenger, right on the other side of the rock from Dietrich. "Bashed his head in."
Dietrich wasn't religious, but right now he prayed to God that he wasn't caught. He never wanted them to know he'd read their mail.
"Motorcycle spun out on a rock, looks like," Pettigrew offered. There was the sound of screeching metal as he probably lifted up the wrecked machine. "This'll never run again, Sarge."
"Leave it," Troy said authoritatively. "We'll take the guy back to HQ. Tully, help Moffitt tie him on."
"Lucky that Captain Dietrich's not around or he would have taken the dispatches," Hitchcock commented. There was a clunk as the bag hit the floor of the jeep. "Who knows what's in here? Could be secret orders."
"Love letters," teased Pettigrew. "Probably all for you, Hitch."
Hitchcock laughed. "Naw, I don't get more than three a mail call! Wonder what kind of letters Dietrich gets?"
"Well, I'm sure he doesn't mention us in them," Moffitt said dryly. "We're lucky that he's nowhere around just now. He'd love to catch us for breakfast."
Pettigrew called dryly, "I haven't had breakfast."
"Aw, you make it sound like he can catch us!" Hitchcock stated ebulliently. "Looked good in that picture, didn't he? I sent my sister a copy to show her what we're fighting!"
"I used mine to wrap up that statue for Mack," Pettigrew added. "Got him tied down tightly, Sarge?"
"Right, Tully," Moffitt answered. "The poor chap won't slip off."
"Let's shake it!" Troy ordered. "We've got a war to fight!"
"And breakfast back at camp!" Hitchcock chimed in. "I hear they got real coffee!"
"In your dreams, Hitch!"
The jeeps roared off.
Dietrich waited until the sound faded from the air before he came around the rock. There were the marks of the jeeps, the crumpled motorcycle and the red stain on the rock where the messenger had died.
He was the German they'd written about! He felt honored...and more than a little perturbed. He had never written about the Rat Patrol in any of his letters. They weren't that important to him.
His guilt faded as they got further away and the dust settled in the mouth of the wadi. He'd just forget what he read in the letters. He'd go back to seeing them as the enemy without names, without faces, without family.
"Ach!" he muttered. "I will put an end to this sentimentality when I catch them."
Dietrich turned on his heel, waved to his men, and strolled back to his truck. If he hurried, he could be out of the wadi before sun was too intense to travel, and back in the city by sunset where he could get a shave, bath and a clean uniform. He'd be the brilliant officer that they'd written home about, the epitome of a German soldier, their worst enemy.
Someone that they honored by mentioning him.