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Private Mark Hitchcock sighed and floated on his back. “I love the feel of sand between my toes.”

“And everywhere else,” Tully Pettigrew, also a private, cracked unexpectedly. “We’re gonna itch until we get back to the base. Sun, surf, relaxation…”

“Yeah, and without even being on leave,” Hitchcock added. He sputtered as he got a faceful of water. “Hey! What the--”

Sergeant Sam Troy, leader of the Rat Patrol, grinned. He’d aimed that splash so it would drench his driver. “Come on, Moffitt!”

His counterpart, Jack Moffitt, an English sergeant from the Scots Greys, added his shirt to the pile of clothing on the front seat of the jeep, and tossed his boots in the well. All four of the men were very white where the sun never reached, but the rest of their bodies was varied shades of tan with arms and faces burned very brown. “Shouldn’t we leave someone on watch, Troy?”

“Aw, come on!” Hitchcock protested. “We’re fifty miles behind our lines, and there’s no one around to shoot at us.”

“This beach has changed hands so often and fast that there could still be Germans,” Moffitt argued as he walked into the surf.

“We left Dietrich in the dust two days ago,” Troy retorted. It was a beautiful day for a swim. The water of the Mediterranean was a crystal blue and so clear that he could go out as far as five feet and still see the sand. A current swept past his ankles and he felt a strand of seaweed catch his ankle. “Besides, he’s going to have to recover from that last raid. I thought that that convoy wasn’t well enough guarded.”

“Seemed good enough to me,” Tully exclaimed in disgust. “They seemed to all be aiming at my jeep!”

“That’s true,” Moffitt said thoughtfully, sinking until only his head was above water. He looked relaxed. Shutting his eyes, he lay on his back and spread his arms. “They were aiming for our tires as if they had targets on them. Madness.”

“Nearly knocked us out too,” Hitchcock commented. He sank amid the billowing waves and moved stealthily towards Moffitt.

Tully noticed and grinned. His partner was in danger but he wasn’t going to do a thing about it. “Can’t we talk anything but work? It’s a beautiful day for swimming and sun bathing, something we don’t get enough of, Sarge.”

Troy laughed and splashed him. “Can’t win a war on the beach, Tully!”

“Mmph!” Moffitt protested as Hitchcock grabbed his legs and dragged him under. There was a bout of frenzied battle and everyone joined in, changing sides whenever someone looked like he might win.

Troy was glad that he’d taken Hitchcock’s suggestion. It had been a week of constant darting in and out after convoys and then hiding from the Germans. Though no one spoke of it, the fact that they could all die at any time or on any raid, did wear on the team. They needed the break. He could feel his muscles relaxing in the salty water.

The empty beach had wide expanses of sand, and the clear water was warm enough to make him want to spend a long time in it. A few large rocks dotted the tiny inlet and Troy planned to swim to one and sunbathe. It was just large enough to lie on and take a nap. He’d deal with the sunburn later.

Overhead two planes came over the tall cliffs that ringed the cove, and by squinting, Troy saw they wore the roundels of the RAF on their wings. Probably Hurricanes making a reconnaissance. This was the limit of their range if they came from the base he knew was in this sector. Idly, he wondered if they had spotted the two jeeps and the bathers. The planes disappeared behind the craggy heights and Troy dismissed them from his mind.

He mused on Moffitt’s words. That last attack had been an anomaly. Dietrich had been waiting for them but hadn’t tried to kill them. There was no reason why, and that bothered Troy. He knew there were no personal reasons that the German captain wouldn’t try to kill the Rat Patrol. Given the opportunity, Troy, Moffitt and the others would undoubtedly shoot him down and vice-versa. So why hadn’t he tried to kill them? Dietrich had had them in a cleft stick and he wasn’t inclined to be merciful these days, after the death of his last commander, Preget, at the hands of the Rat Patrol.

He opened his mouth to speak and gagged as a vengeful Hitchcock raised his hands to splash again. Troy set his mind on revenge and dived under the sapphire waves. He’d worry about Dietrich later.

* * * * *

After about twenty minutes, Moffitt clambered out onto the rough sand and sat down in the sun. A slight wind cooled his salty skin and he hardly noticed his pale skin reddening.

What a change from the last three years! He could almost believe he was back in England on the shore at Brighton where he and his parents had spent for a summer. Looking back on it, he saw that his parents had been unhappy since his archeologist father hadn’t gotten permission to excavate in Egypt that year, but what Moffitt remembered was the marvelous time he had had out on the beach learning to swim.

Smiling, he picked up one of the twisted shells, and turned it over in his long fingers. Shells in the original sense of the word. Not cannon shells, not gun shells, but slender shells, created in the sea, fragile, brittle, non-lethal.

“Toisin d’ikmenon ouron hiei glaukopis Athene, akrae Zephyron keladont’ epi oinopa ponton,” he recited softly, savoring Homer’s ancient words. Gray-eyed Athena sent them a favorable breeze, a fresh west wind, singing over the wind-dark sea

That was the year that he’d been given his first copies of the Iliad and the Odyssey, in the original language, and started translating. He had read parts of them before, in English, but the Greek made it more real. His father had been absurdly proud of his oldest son’s linguistic abilities, and boasted about them. Moffitt knew then that he wanted to become an archeologist and make his father proud. It hadn’t turned out exactly as he thought it would. He’d been so bored with endless reading on the ancient Romans that he fled, with relief, into the living history of the Arabs.

Lost in his memories, he heard someone clear his throat and looked back at the sea. where the others were. They were still splashing each other, ignoring him.

So, who is… He turned his head and saw the trim uniformed German standing in front of the hood of the jeep, his Luger pointed directly at Moffitt. Dietrich? Dietrich. Oh, damn!

Moffitt slowly raised his hands in response to the officer’s gesture and stood. He was horribly aware of the fact that he was naked except for a coating of sand.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Moffitt,” Dietrich finally said, straightening up. His expression was professionally neutral. “Have a nice swim?”

“Splendid, Captain, thank you,” Moffitt replied blandly. He heard the splashing stop. Troy must have seen the German.

Dietrich looked beyond him. “Your friends have realized I’m here.”

“I’m sure.”

“Yes, Sergeant Troy is very upset. His turn will come. Why don’t you get dressed?” Dietrich ordered casually. “Your uniform?”

“It’s in the other jeep.” Dietrich backed up and Moffitt followed at the same distance until he reached his clothing. He put on his pants and undershirt, but left his shirt unbuttoned as he reached for his boots.

“Herr Hauptmann!” one of the soldiers cried, and Dietrich’s head swiveled. “Hurricane!”

The plane bore down on something, guns chattering, and they all heard return fire. Obviously, Dietrich’s convoy had been seen and one of the trucks had an 88.

Moffitt flung a boot at him but missed. Dietrich’s bullet went flying by his head momentarily deafened him. Throwing himself to one side, he landed on the hot metal hood and gasped as it stung his hands. He was yanked to his feet and felt the hot muzzle of Dietrich’s Luger on the back of his neck. He tensed himself. Had the German decided he was expendable?

He was dragged until he gained his footing. Along with the pain of his burned hands, now his feet stung with small cuts from the small rocks that littered the hot sand. What the hell was going on?

“Moffitt!” Troy yelled, and Moffitt looked back in time to see one of the soldiers fire into the water. The rest of the team dove under the waves.

Moffitt would have done something that would have gotten him killed if one of the Hurricanes hadn’t come over the hillside, trailing a smoky plume. The experienced pilot nursed the plane along, but it was headed for the water.
The other one followed solicitously but at a higher altitude.

“This way, Sergeant!” Dietrich snarled, yanking his shoulder. One of the soldiers came alongside, pointing his gun at Moffitt’s back, and he reluctantly obeyed Dietrich’s command.

He heard the crash of a bullet going through metal, a sound Moffitt was very familiar with, and realized that Dietrich had shot the jeeps. There’d be no rescue even if
the team was alive.

One of the soldiers yelled something, and Dietrich replied sharply.

He’d got what he wanted? What the hell was going on? Was Dietrich after him?

Moffitt tried to look back when he heard the plane hit the water but a sharp prod made him go forward instead. Damn all, what a way to go!

* * * * *

Troy peered around the rock where he’d hidden when the firing started. He saw Hitchcock’s sleek head heading for the plane’s wreckage but couldn’t find Tully. For a second, he thought the worst until he spotted the private crawling out of the surf, heading for the now-empty beach.

Hitchcock reached the plane just as the last wingtip sank out of sight. The pilot was splashing frantically in the water, hindered by his heavy flight jacket and thick boots. He grabbed onto Hitchcock as the soldier reached him, and both went under. Troy swam as fast as he could as they resurfaced, the pilot now without his cap and goggles. He could hear Hitchcock reassuring him.

“Under control, Hitch?” Troy called, shaking water out of his dark hair.

The pilot stared at both of them in bewilderment. He had hit his forehead on the canopy, judging from the watery blood trickling down his face, but his eyes were alert. “Who are you, chaps?”

Hitchcock ignored him. “Yeah, Sarge, if we can get the chute off.”

“It’s the boots that’re dragging him down,” Troy commented. “Hold on.”

He dived underneath the waves. When the pilot felt his touch, he froze, and that was all Troy needed to unfasten
the bindings. The boots fell to the bottom.

Troy surfaced, taking a deep grateful breath. “Nice bit of piloting, sir. You nearly made it to the beach.”

“When I saw the Jerries, I decided the ocean was safer,” the pilot admitted, treading water. “Leftenant Julian Pool, RAF.”

“Sergeant Sam Troy, LRDP,” Troy replied. He scanned the beach, then the cliff-tops. Empty. “Let’s get you on dry land.”

Cautiously paddling to the shore, followed by Hitchcock and Pool, he crossed to the jeeps. It had been ten minutes since Moffitt and the three Germans had disappeared.

“What’s going on, Sarge?” Hitch muttered, keeping his voice low.

Troy shook his head. “Don’t know.”

“Why take Moffitt? Why not try and get us all?”

“He tried but thanks to the looie, he missed.”

“Glad to be a help,” Pool commented, overhearing. He stripped off his soaked leather flight jacket, tossing it into the back of the jeep, and stretched. The hot sun was already drying his light shirt and pants. “Any way to tell my mates that I’m here?”

“Your wingman must have seen you go down. Haven’t seen him since you hit the water. He’s probably headed back to base if he’s not harassing Dietrich. What about the jeeps, Hitch?”

Hitchcock waved his hand toward the first one. “Dietrich’s gone and put a hole in the radiator, Sarge. Radio too.”

“The water cans are empty. He must have done that while we were in the water. Damn!” Troy swore. “We can write that jeep off. The other one?”

“Radio and one of the cans.” Hitchcock shook his head in puzzlement. “But, Sarge, this jeep’ll run! He didn’t have time to shoot the engine.”

“Yeah, but we’ve only got enough water to get back to our lines,” Troy commented in a hard tone. He pulled on his clothing, feeling reassured by the false protection offered by the cloth. Naked was just too damned naked. He saw one of Moffitt’s boots was lying on the front seat. Damn it! Troy didn’t like losing his men, dead or live. Besides, the Englishman was a friend.

“No chance of reaching my base then by radio,” Pool observed. He shrugged slightly. “Guess the ball’s in your court, Sergeant.”

“What were you doin’ out here, Lieutenant?” Troy asked, putting on his hat.

“There’s a Luftwaffe base not too far away. We’d heard that they were stocking up for a big push but who knows what you can believe from Intelligence, eh? Snelgrove and I were headed for home when I saw those Germans outside the cove. Decided to make a run but didn’t get too far,” Pool explained soberly. “Thompson’s going to lay into me for this one!”

“Luftwaffe base!” Troy frowned. “I thought that the bomber raid had taken it out.”

“Can’t finish the job until we knock out the fighters, and they’ve reinforced them,” said Pool laconically. “I need to report in, Sergeant.”

Hitchcock glanced at Troy. “We going after Moffitt, Sarge?”

Troy didn’t like not knowing what was going on. Something was bugging him, and he finally put his finger on it. There was no reason that Dietrich wouldn’t have taken all four of the Rat Patrol prisoner. Even the arrival of the Hurricane wouldn’t make the German run away; he’d have just waited until Troy and the others rescued the pilot and taken them all into custody.

Why shoot up the jeeps? To strand us so he could come back with more men and take us all? About his style. “How many Germans did you spot, Lieutenant?”

“Hm? Oh, a truck and a staff car. Think there were three Germans in the back of the truck and one in the car, a driver.”

“And three with Dietrich.”

“Say a driver in the truck, you have four, and three with him, and Dietrich….” Hitchcock counted aloud. “Eight men. Not a lot to take us on, Sarge.”

“Feeling insulted?” Troy joked. “No, Dietrich came here for a reason and I think he got what he was after.”

“Sarge?” Hitchcock said in disbelief. “You mean he was after Moffitt?”

Troy nodded. “Yeah, or he would have waited and taken all of us. He could have done it but the other Hurricane was still around, and he didn’t want to take the risk.”

“We’re going after him, aren’t we, Sarge?” Hitchcock asked as he laced up his boot. The sock on his other foot had worn through, and Troy thought that they’d been out on patrol so long that they didn’t even have decent clothing any more. What kind of commander had soldiers with holes in their socks, and lost them to the Germans because he didn’t set a guard? A stupid one. Serves me right – but Moffitt is the one who’s paying for it.

“Yep, but we’ve only got one jeep and one jerrican of water – not going to take us too far.”

“And if they ask us what happened to Moffitt?”

“He’s on a patrol with Tully. Where the hell is Tully, by the way?” Troy asked, looking around.

Hitchcock pointed at a line of footsteps leading from the water around the edge of the cliffs. “Must have been following Dietrich and his goons.”

“If that trooper was a better shot, he’d have gotten us all,” Troy said soberly.

“Yeah, I thought he’d hit me but it was just some rocks stirred up by the crash.” Hitchcock settled his French Foreign Legion hat on his sun-bleached hair. He glanced questioningly at Troy. “Think Moffitt knows we made it?”

Troy shook his head negatively. “Not from the way he looked. Tully!”

The stocky private trotted around the corner and up to the jeep. On the way, he picked up the boot that Moffitt had thrown, and tossed it beside its partner. He eyed Pool but didn’t comment as he pulled on his uniform.

“What’d you see?” demanded Troy.

“They loaded him into the back of the truck.”

“And?”

“He looked like his feet hurt. Lotta rocks on the way up.”

“Anything more?”

“They were treating him pretty well, considering, Sarge. Hands tied behind his back, yeah, but nothing else. Dietrich got in the staff car and they all took off --soldiers, driver, Dietrich and Moffitt.”

Troy swore long and hard. “We’d better get moving if we’re going to catch up with him.”

Pool cleared his throat. “I really need to report in, Sergeant!”

“Sarge, how we gonna find him if we don’t follow them now?” Hitchcock asked, ignoring the pilot’s remark as he looked at the footprints made by Tully. Water was starting to brush away the marks. The tide was coming in. Soon there wouldn’t be any trace of their stop here but the wrecked jeep.

Troy stared grimly at his driver. “If Dietrich’s done this much, it has to be big. We’re gonna have to count on Intelligence for once to give us a hint as to what could have caused him to come this far behind our lines, kidnap Moffitt, and leave us alive. Let’s shake it!”

“Where?” Hitchcock asked, settling into his seat. Troy climbed to his usual place by the machine gun, while Pool gingerly took the front seat, his jacket at his feet. Tully finished stripping his jeep of weaponry, and ammunition, and clambered in beside Troy. It was cluttered in the back.

Troy looked like he’d bitten into a persimmon. “Back to our lines, Hitch. The RAF base if that’s closest. We’ll drop the Lieutenant, get restocked and head out.”

Hitchcock swiveled to look at him. “But that might be too late, Sarge.”

“I know.”

* * * * *

The sun was setting behind the line of tents and crudely-built hangers when Dietrich and the truck drove into the Luftwaffe airbase. Tanks lined each side of the rough ground, shaded by the palm trees that cast long shadows over the sand. The arrival of the truck, and staff car, raised little attention except from the guards who saluted Dietrich as he sat with a grim expression in the back seat, his cap shielding his blue eyes from the hot sun. It had taken almost three hours to reach the base, and he was heartily tired of riding over bumpy roads. They’d even been strafed once by the remaining Hurricane, who had retreated in the face of their weaponry. It would return; the RAF had made the base a primary target to be removed. Dietrich hoped to be far away by that time.

The staff car stopped in front of a large tent where the front flaps were tied back so the evening breeze could cool the interior. A young captain sat at a small table busily plying his knife and fork on the remains of dinner. A used plate opposite him showed that he’d had company, probably the base commander, a Luftwaffe major, who was talking on the radio in the back of the tent.

The captain rose and stepped out of the tent as the staff car halted in front of him. The man had thin lips and greenish eyes surrounded by black lashes which were startling against his sallow acne-scarred skin. His hair was a dark helmet, slicked back with some kind of cream.

Dietrich cursed mentally but didn’t let his expression change. He had hoped to talk to Moffitt before he had to hand him over, to tell him about Oberg, but that would be impossible now. He saluted, and the captain returned it.

“You are finally successful?”

“Ja, Herr Hauptmann.” They walked back to the rear of the truck, where Moffitt was being helped to his feet. He was dragged out, his shirt still hanging open, dark hair in his eyes. He hardly looked like the man Dietrich knew so well. For a second, the captain regretted not allowing him to get cleaned up before they tied his hands, but Dietrich had wanted to get as far away from the beach before the Hurricanes brought in reinforcements, or Troy came out of the surf. That was if the others had lived through the trooper’s fusillade. “Sergeant Jack Moffitt of the Scots Greys, the Long-Range Desert Group and Cambridge University.”

Moffitt blinked and swayed. He looked dehydrated. Still, he recognized Oberg’s rank and stiffened before sagging. The guards on each side caught him and held him upright.

Oberg’s gaze scanned the tall Englishman with avid interest. “Really?”

“Ja.” Dietrich said in a clipped tone. “Professor Moffitt, this is Hauptmann Oberg of the Luftwaffe, here from Berlin. He is in command of this operation.”

Moffitt stared at Dietrich in growing puzzlement. “You aren’t in charge?” From his expression, he obviously wasn’t tracking well. He needed water and to get out of the sun.

Oberg stared very coldly at him. “Professor….Moffitt?”

“Yes,” Moffitt said thickly through sun-parched lips. “Sir.”

Oberg looked up and down, and sniffed. Moffitt’s dishabille obviously didn’t impress him. Especially since his bare feet were stained with blood where he’d been dragged over sharp rocks. Dietrich reminded himself that he should have a medic look after his prisoner. Those cuts could become septic.

“I believe he needs some water,” he interjected, pulling a canteen out of the back of his staff car and holding it out. “Here, Sergeant.”

Reluctantly one of the guards accepted it, and let go of Moffitt’s arm. Moffitt took a small sip, then a larger one. Finally, he brought it down, licking the last of the moisture off his lips. “Thank you.” He sounded better instantly.

“When did you finish your degree?” Oberg asked, his tone an arrogant rasp. He ignored Dietrich, who looked curious.

“Nineteen-thirty-nine,” Moffitt replied in mystification. “Cambridge.”

“I see. Archeology?”

“What’s this all about?” Moffitt flicked his gaze to Dietrich in puzzlement. “Captain Dietrich?”

“I believe there are certain formalities that should be observed before we continue,” Dietrich said but stopped at the flicker of anger that showed in Oberg’s eyes.

“You take care of those, Captain. He is now my responsibility.”

Dietrich’s lips thinned but he stood his ground. “He is my prisoner.”

Moffitt looked from one to the other with growing suspicion. He took another sip from the canteen but didn’t comment. Dietrich had no doubt that his mind was putting together the pieces even if he was missing the main reason he had been captured.

“You’re relieved of that duty, Herr Hauptmann. I will take care of him,” Oberg replied in German.

Dietrich glanced at Moffitt. Not for a second had the sergeant revealed that he was fluent in the language. “Then, I would suggest you provide him with more water, food, and clothing if you want any kind of help,” he said in English.

“Help?” Moffitt ejaculated. “Not likely, Captain!”

Oberg studied him, his face going red with anger, and raised his hand as if to strike out, but as both Dietrich and Moffitt stiffened, he changed it to a wave to dispel the omnipresent sand flies. “I suggest you reconsider, Professor Moffitt.”

Moffitt stiffened to attention. “Sergeant Jack Moffitt, Eighth Army. Sir.”

“Bring him along,” Oberg ordered the guards brusquely, turning away.

One of the guards shoved Moffitt, and he stumbled, then followed, his jaw set against the pain of his feet. Dietrich brought up the rear, frowning as he saw bloody footprints. Dietrich reflected that he was getting to know his enemies far too well. That the sergeant wouldn’t ask for help was typical of the Englishman…indeed, of all the Rat Patrol.

The calvacade passed several hangars where the Messerschmitts were being tuned. Moffitt turned his head, counting planes for reasons Dietrich fully understood. He would be doing the same if he was in the same situation. Moffitt would probably try to escape with his information, whether or not, Sergeant Troy was still alive.

They reached the last hangar in the row of temporary buildings. It had been a target in the raid but camouflage had been draped over a gaping hole in the ceiling. The sunlight sifted through the netting, providing a golden glow and shifting shadows.

Oberg stepped to one side. “This is why you are here, Professor.”

Moffitt stopped dead in his tracks and Dietrich nearly ran into him. “Good God!”

* * * * *

Pool eyed the grim faces of his rescuers and kept a prudent silence. He sensed he was rather unimportant to these men who would rather be going after their captive friend.

The RAF base was still a mile away when the jeep’s gasoline gave out. Slogging over the sandy ground, they hiked into the base carrying their machine guns over their shoulders.

Pool was limping. He’d borrowed Moffitt’s boots but they were too small for him and almost more painful than walking on the stony road. He didn't want to think of the blisters on his feet.

The RAF base commander was shaving outside a tent draped with netting. Opposite him stood a pilot at attention. “Who’s that?” Troy asked as they approached.

“Group Captain Ian Thompson. Been out here in the desert too damned long for our own good,” Pool muttered. “Hope he doesn’t decide to give Keith another haircut.”

“Keith?”

“Snelgrove. My wingman.”

Thompson waved his razor in disgust obviously ranting, and the man opposite was prudently silent considering how close the sharp edge was to his face. His face brightened when he saw Pool.

Thompson saw Snelgrove’s expression and spun, the razor still in his hand. “Pool!”

“Yes, sah!” Pool came to attention as did the others.

“You lost us a plane, Pool!”

“Yes, sah!”

Thompson jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Snelgrove says it’s easier to replace a plane than a pilot, but I’m not convinced! You know how short we are on planes!”

“Yes, sir,” Pool said in a carefully contrite tone.

It didn’t convince his commander who waved his hand, then realized that he nearly cut his ear. He tossed the razor into the bowl beside him. “Then what the bloody hell were you doing – who’re your friends?” Thompson’s voice changed to mild curiosity as he looked at Troy.

They saluted and he returned it.

“Sergeant Troy, Privates Hitchcock and Pettigrew, LRDG, sir.”

Thompson’s face lit up. “Long-Range Desert Group! Good chaps. Pulled Pool out of the drink, eh? You’re a very lucky man, Leftenant!”

“Yes, sir!”

“He saved us from a nasty problem with some Germans, sir, so we decided to reciprocate,” Troy explained.

“That truck we spotted?” Snelgrove asked eagerly, inserting himself into the discussion. “Saw the Jerries heading for it with a prisoner.”

A muscle jerked in Troy’s jaw. “They got one of my men.”

“Did you see where they were headed, Keith?” Pool asked.

Snelgrove nodded. “Back to that Luftwaffe base, both the truck and the staff car.”

“I hope you tried to stop them!” Thompson said through gritted teeth. “All we need is more of those Jerries running about!”

“I was out of ammunition, sir,” Snelgrove replied meeting his infuriated commander’s eyes. “They’re stocking up at the base. It looks like a big push coming.”

“So you told me,” Thompson said in disgust. “I’ll have to report all this to HQ.”

“I have a report,” Pool said avoiding looking at Troy. He had seen the man’s face set in anger when Thompson casually wrote off the prisoner. “Several new squadrons coming in, sir, and a couple of transports.”

Thompson let out an infuriated growl, and glanced at the handful of planes scattered down his airstrip. They’d be little use against a concentrated assault and everyone knew it.

“Sir?” Troy drew Thompson’s attention. “We’d like to report in, then get some gas for our jeep, and go after our man.”

“You must be mad, Sergeant!” Thompson snapped, staring at him. “If he’s a prisoner at that base, then there’s no way you’ll get him back. He’s on his way to Italy now. Probably going to be trucked out to the transit camps tomorrow.”

“They won’t be sending him along until they have more prisoners or a truck going that way,” Pool added. “He might be there a while.”

“Sergeant, I won’t have you captured in some futile effort to save your friend,” Thompson said flatly, ignoring Pool’s. “You can check in though. The radio’s in the tent next door. Then get yourself some food, and we’ll see what HQ says. Pool, you come with me! You too, Snelgrove.”

Troy and the other saluted without another word, and headed for the radio tent. All three backs radiated dislike for the officer, but they didn’t comment audibly.

Pool wondered what he could do to help. All they needed was another war, this time in their own camp. He was certain that Troy and his men wouldn’t put up with Thompson’s fears.

Sergeant Troy is not going to wait for orders. He’s not that type of man. Pool wondered about the captured prisoner. He knew the tight bonds of friendship that tied him to Snelgrove and the rest of the men in the squadron, and imagined they were even tighter among the LRDP groups where your teammates were the only ones you could count on.

“Pool! Where are you!” Thompson bellowed.

“Coming, sah!” Pool limped into HQ, his feet hurting from the tightness of the boots. He uncomfortably realized, at least for his rescuers, that he couldn’t fill them.

But I can do one thing – I can tell them where the Luftwaffe base is.

* * * * *

Sunlight danced over the hardened sand floor of the hanger.

The petrified wooden prow of the Roman ship, encrusted with dead coral and seaweed, lay on its side. Beside it were a stack of coral-encased bundles wrapped in straw and burlap, heavily roped. On the other side, a long table was set up with some camp chairs tucked underneath. Spread on it were fragments of different kinds of amphorae, bronze vessels that probably were to be used for dishes, and other unidentifiable lumps. A scattering of broken, brilliant
mosaic chips from a broken table added a dash of color.

Moffitt had eyes for only the statue of the woman before him, rising from a coral-encrusted mass of ancient packing material. Only the top half had been uncovered but it was enough. Taller than he was, her eyes watched him with unearthly amusement.

At least, that was his first impression. He forgot that Dietrich was behind him, and Oberg to the other side. For a split second, he even forgot the war.

Finally he stepped forward, just to be brought up short by the guards. That jolted him back to reality. “Where did you find her?”

“It is Athena, then? You recognize her?” Oberg asked eagerly, thrusting his head forward.

Moffitt glanced at him, irritated, and realized that there was more to this than met the eye. He’d have to tread carefully. “It seems obvious that it’s Minerva.”

“Then you will authenticate the statue?” Oberg continued urgently.

Moffitt felt the skin at the base of his neck tighten. “Authenticate? As what? Where did you find her?”

“I’m sure you remember your bomber attack last month which uncovered the ruined town?” Dietrich inquired politely.

That was a loaded statement. Dietrich’s former commander, Preget, had chased Moffitt and Tully into a ruined Roman city which had been buried for centuries until the bombing had uncovered it. Then the bombers had returned, and nearly bombed them all into the Elysium fields, killing Preget. In fact, the last time Moffitt had seen Dietrich, he’d been holding the head of a statue, the Emperor Caligula’s, and contemplating it much as Hamlet had contemplated Yorick’s skull. “I remember.”

“I was sent from Berlin when Captain Dietrich reported what happened,” Oberg said. “That marble head is quite a stunning example of early Greek sculpture, and my superiors were interested.”

“Greek?” Moffitt looked surprised. He remembered reading the carved inscription at the bottom of the statue’s plinth. It had been in first century Latin. “Not Greek!”

“Of course it was Greek,” Oberg snapped in a flash of mood change. “Hermes. I confirmed it myself.”

Moffitt eyed him and opened his mouth, then caught Dietrich’s frown. The expression disappeared so quickly that he might have imagined it, but was pretty sure he hadn’t. He’d have to go with the German’s unspoken warning. “Ah….

“We excavated the ruins of that city but found nothing more until we expanded down towards the sea. Apparently, at one time, it was a seaport, but the coastline has changed,” Oberg continued.

“You were digging?” Moffitt asked in disbelief. “I thought we had bombed that area fairly thoroughly! There would be nothing left”

“You had,” Oberg said in high disgust. “Couldn’t you have convinced your superiors not to drop their bombs there!”

“I’m afraid that my rank precludes giving advice to the senior command,” Moffitt said with a slight edge of sarcasm. Unfortunately, Oberg caught it, and Moffitt knew that he’d just made a huge error. Damn all, what’s going on here?

“They don’t appreciate education,” Oberg replied with mockery in his tone. “I do. You will confirm that the statue is Greek?”

“Captain Dietrich overstates my expertise,” Moffitt prevaricated. “I studied the Arab tribes and history of North Africa, not archeology or the era of the Roman Empire, which post-dates the Greeks…as I’m sure you know.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dietrich’s slight smile. What did that mean? Had he bothered to find out about Moffitt’s background, or was he trying to score off Oberg?

“You don’t remember me, do you, Professor?” Oberg asked unexpectedly.

Both Moffitt and Dietrich stared at him.

“I was one of the students in the audience at the University of Bavaria when you spoke about a dig that turned up evidence supporting Homer’s Iliad.”

Moffitt vaguely remembered that year in Germany. He’d accompanied his father on a trip, but spent most of his time in the library or paradoxically in the beer hall. It had been an eye opener for the young archeologist who had first began to understand world politics, and the danger of Adolf Hitler. “Lecture?”

“Yes. You were fairly convincing though I later found that you were only a graduate student. Your German was adequate for teaching.” Oberg’s tone dripped disdain. He waved toward the debris. “Still, I believe that you can confirm my findings.”

“Not without further examination,” Moffitt replied sharply, stung by the words. “You must know, Herr Hauptmann, that without examining the provenance, I can’t make a definitive judgement on the statue!”

Oberg’s eyes narrowed. “I agree, Herr Professor. When Captain Dietrich said he could find an archeologist to confirm my findings, I hadn’t expected to find one of my old lecturers. You will confirm that it is Greek?”

Moffitt hesitated, at a loss for words. To his eyes and half-forgotten training, this statue looked much more like a statue from the Roman period or even later, but he wasn’t sure. Also he wasn’t sure of what would happen if he told

Oberg the truth. The man reminded him of a small petulant child dressed in his father’s uniform, but that didn’t negate how dangerous he was -- families had been denounced by their children and vanished in Germany. He was also an academic colleague and Moffitt knew the wars of academia were dangerous and self-serving. The main difference is that he wasn’t likely to get shot. But I wouldn’t count on that. Oberg’s unstable. What the hell was Dietrich thinking? He would never have expected it out of his old enemy. Then again, there was a war going on.

He looked around the covered hangar playing for time. There were still unwrapped bundles at one end. Maybe he could distract Oberg. “What are those?”

Oberg didn’t even bother to look. “They brought many things from the wreckage.”

“I need to see what’s in them,” Moffitt replied flatly. He wasn’t going to play Oberg’s control games. If the German needed him so much that he’d sent Dietrich out to make a special effort to capture him alive, then he saw no reason to kowtow. The longer he could keep himself here, the more chance that there would be a way to escape. He was on his own, after all; the rest of the patrol was dead. He needed to get the information back to the Allies, if possible, about the fighters. It looked like the Luftwaffe was building up their forces.

“You will confirm it, Professor, before tomorrow,” Oberg ordered imperiously. “We will have visitors who are interested in the statue.”

“Captain!” Dietrich said in sudden warning, but it was too late. Both Moffitt and Dietrich knew that if there were high-ranking Luftwaffe officers coming in, then Moffitt would definitely try to get the information back, and Dietrich would have to stop him, His hand went to the gun at his side, and Moffitt’s eyes narrowed. They knew enough not to underestimate each other.

“You are dismissed, Captain,” Oberg snapped, glaring at Dietrich. “You have done as ordered, and now you can go back to your normal duties chasing those desert pests that you keep complaining about to Rommel!”

Moffitt didn’t let his exultation show. Getting rid of Dietrich would raise his chances for escape since he didn’t have to deal with someone who knew him.

Dietrich realized that from his expression. “You have read my reports on the Rat Patrol, Herr Hauptmann?”

“I was briefed before I was sent here. You seem to have a problem with vermin,” Oberg remarked.

Moffitt stiffened in outrage. He resented being called ‘vermin’ by some desk officer even if he apparently outranked Dietrich. Whatever Oberg had been doing in Berlin, he probably hadn’t ever been out on a battlefield. Besides, no matter how the Englishman might personally feel about Dietrich, he had an alarming good track record of trapping the Rat Patrol. Keeping them was another problem. “The Captain is well-feared out here, Captain Oberg. We try to avoid him as much as possible.”

Dietrich stared at him dumfounded, then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Thank you, Sergeant Moffitt. I had no idea. Herr Hauptmann, the sergeant is my prisoner!”

“Now he is mine,” Oberg said arrogantly, ignoring Moffitt’s words. “I will ensure that, in due time, his presence will be reported to the British authorities.”

“’In due time’!” Moffitt exclaimed at the same moment Dietrich said, “You don’t realize how dangerous he is!” Do I really rate this high with Dietrich? He always thought that Troy was more feared than he was.

Then again, Dietrich’s relationship with Troy was far different than Moffitt’s. American against German versus British against German. There was a tenseness between the nationalities that came with three years of war, and long history, versus a few months.

He was jolted back to reality as Oberg clicked his heels and raised his hand in the Nazi salute. “You may go! Heil Hitler!”

Dietrich saluted, his unexpected resistance gone. His expression was again bland. “Sergeant Moffitt, I will make sure Sergeant Troy knows of this.”

“Troy!” Startled, Moffitt turned, and one of the guards raised his gun. “They’re alive?”

“I suspect they survived,” Dietrich replied dryly. “There was no blood in the water.”

“Then you should go make sure,” Oberg ordered imperiously. “Aren’t they the reason you are still in the desert?”

Dietrich didn’t react to that just turned to Moffitt. “Good luck, Sergeant.”

Moffitt wondered, with a chill, what that meant. He saw Oberg smiling triumphantly, and he wished desperately that Dietrich wasn’t leaving. I wondered if that warning about danger was meant for me? “Thank you, Captain.”

Dietrich marched out, leaving Moffitt with Oberg and the two guards. The Englishman suddenly felt bereft. Funny how that was -- he was very used to dealing with Captain Dietrich’s little peculiarities and now he was in uncharted territory.

“So, Professor, what do you need to confirm this?” Oberg demanded, catching his arm.

Moffitt looked around, wondering where to start. He’d have to play along until he got his bearings. “First, some water and food. Then we should see what you’ve got here, Captain.”

Oberg was taken aback at the confident request, hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Very well. Why don’t you look around? I will be back shortly.” He turned on his heel and left, leaving Moffitt and the two guards who raised their guns menacingly.

Moffitt didn’t care. Now that the officer was gone, his atrophied archeological instincts came out and he wanted to know more about what was in the hangar. “Let’s see what’s here,” he murmured, and headed for the table.

* * * * *

Troy chafed at the restraint and took a long walk down the length of the airstrip to release his tension. He reran the entire day in his mind, wondering what he could have done for Moffitt, and finally realized he couldn’t have done anything. Tully had been right back at the beach; the Germans had been shooting at his jeep. Dietrich had wanted Moffitt from the beginning, and the rest of them were secondary. Why hadn’t he just killed the others or spent the time capturing them? Somehow, Troy didn’t think it was because of any liking or consideration on the Dietrich’s part, but something bigger. And until I know what it is, I’m not gonna let this go! At least, Moffitt was probably still alive, even if he was a prisoner. Dietrich would see that he was well taken care of.

They had eaten dinner, and had been assigned cots for the night. They were trapped in the airfield until they could get fuel for their abandoned jeep. Aviation fuel wasn’t the same as what ran the trucks, and the trucks had short supplies. HQ hadn’t sent new orders, and Thompson wouldn’t relinquish his precious gasoline until he was ordered.

As he neared the tents, a man waved him down, and he recognized Pool. The man glanced around him nervously. “I have to speak with you, Troy.”

Troy nodded and they headed for the edge of the camp where shadows were long. He wondered what was on Pool’s mind. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Thompson would have my wings if he saw me,” Pool muttered. “Sergeant, we’re going to attack that base tomorrow. My squadron will be part of the attack. It’ll be blown to bits.”

Troy’s blood ran cold. That meant Moffitt was as good as dead. “When tomorrow?”

“Probably in the afternoon. The weather should clear then. There’s supposed to be clouds in the morning.”

“Then we have until noon,” Troy murmured.

Pool caught his arm. “One other thing, Sergeant. Intelligence says that some Luftwaffe officers are supposed to arrive at the base in the morning. That’s the reason for our attack. High-ranking officers, maybe even Goering. We’re supposed to make sure that they don’t make it back to Berlin.”

Had that been the reason Dietrich kidnapped Moffitt? For one of these important officers? “Thanks for the information,” Troy replied. “Got any idea of where to get some gas?”

“The petrol dumps are on the far side. I believe that I can distract the guard if your men can get away from the game.”

“Do you know where this base is?”

Pool held out a crudely drawn map. “Nicked it from Thompson’s tent. I hope it’ll get you there.”

Troy stowed it in an inner pocket. “Thanks again.”

“Oh, and Sergeant?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve still got his boots. Remember to retrieve them once you’ve got him back. They don’t fit me,” Pool said awkwardly.

Troy grinned. “He’ll appreciate that, Lieutenant.”

* * * * * *

I shouldn’t have thrown that shoe at Dietrich. I should have kept my head. Moffitt gritted his teeth and lifted his bruised feet out of the basin. The blood-stained water had loosened much of the sand and dirt. Now the medic was going to dry them off with a towel, which didn’t look too soft, and Moffitt braced himself for pain.

He was lucky to have finally gotten to see the doctor. If Oberg had had his way, Moffitt would still be in the hanger. When a chunk of coral had hit his left foot, and Moffitt gone down in a heap, even Oberg realized that having his prized prisoner limping pathetically wouldn’t go over well with the men coming in on the transport. He’d reluctantly ordered Moffitt to go to the hospital tent and get some care.

That had been over a half hour ago, and Moffitt wondered when the officer was going to return. He had been very annoyed at the delay.

The doctor was muttering things under his breath as he looked at the scored flesh. “This will hurt,” he finally commented in a bored tone. “Stupid schweinehund.”

“Just see if you can get most of the sand out of it,” Moffitt replied in German.

The doctor looked up in surprise. “Ah, I didn’t know you understood me!”

“Ja,” Moffitt said through gritted teeth. The doctor softened his rubbing but the cloth was badly stained by the time he took it away.

“Now, I will apply astringent and bandages. You have some shoes, Ja?”

“Nein,” Moffitt replied. “None.”

The doctor stopped. “Then why am I bothering? You will have dirt in those cuts as soon as you leave here.”

“You’re bothering because Captain Oberg ordered it.”

“Ja.” The doctor applied the iodine and wrapped the bandages around Moffitt’s feet, ignoring the occasional flinch of his patient. Finally, he stood up and looked, with satisfaction, at his handiwork. “You will have to keep them clean, Sergeant.”

“I’m not sure how, Doctor,” Moffitt said agreeably.

The man smiled primly. “I think I had better find you some shoes. Wait.” He went out leaving Moffitt with the guards. He heard the sound of airplane engines revving up, and laughter. The base was well-manned.

“Aren’t ready yet?” Oberg asked from the doorway. “I have uncovered something that I must show you. The chest was covered with coral but I had it opened while you were here.”

Moffitt wished the German would stop interfering. He had probably ruined what he’d touched. “A chest? What was in it?”

Oberg smiled thinly. “You must come and see. My command of Latin has faded in the last few years so I think I will leave it up to you.”

Moffitt raised an eyebrow. A scholar who didn’t keep up his fluency in ancient languages but was trying to authenticate material, wasn’t much of an expert. “You studied at the University of Bavaria, Herr Hauptmann? Did you get your degree there?”

Oberg’s chin went up. “I was within a semester’s work of finishing my thesis when the war started.”

“What was your dissertation on?”

He was forestalled by the entrance of the doctor, who had a rolled-up pair of socks in one hand, and a pair of flimsy shoes in the other. The laces flapped. “Here,” he said flatly, holding them out to Moffitt. “These will keep the dirt and sand out of the bandages.”

Moffitt’s lips twitched in amusement as he accepted both. The socks were standard British-issue obviously captured during some raid. He had seen how much of the Allies’ material was scattered over the medical tent. The Germans were notoriously short of supplies. He slid on the socks, wincing when he caught a tender spot, then stood up gingerly in the worn shoes. Well, it feels better than before, at least.

“Now, we go, Herr Professor.”

Moffitt drew himself up to his full height, a couple of inches over Oberg. “Sergeant. I’m a sergeant in the British Army.”

Oberg’s face darkened. “Then you will be treated as such, Sergeant. Follow me!” He stalked out leaving the guards and Moffitt to follow.

The doctor held out some pills. “These will help keep out the infection.” He added in a bare whisper, “Be careful.”

Moffitt nodded, his eyes narrowing. This was the second warning he had received regarding Captain Oberg. He should probably be taking a great deal more care than he was. “Danke.”

The sun was setting behind the hangars. A Messerschmitt taxied down the runway, followed by its partner, and launched itself into the air. The night reverberated with the sound of the engines.

Moffitt limped back to the hangar to find that an alcove had been draped in black. Inside there was a lit lantern at one end of the table. In between were a loaf of bread and a steaming bowl of beans of some type. A pitcher sat to one side beside an upside-down cup.

Set next to the lantern was a pile of ancient message tubes encrusted with barnacles and coral. A pad of paper and a pencil sat beside it. Moffitt was drawn like a magnet. He didn’t even notice Oberg until the officer drew his attention by pointing.

“I found those in the trunk. I am going to dine now, but look forward to seeing your work. I left you some food and water.”

The Englishman didn’t spend any time looking back as Oberg walked out the door. He was starving as well as thirsty, and beyond that, was the hunger of exploration. Athena, or Minerva, watched his back, her smile almost kindly, as he wolfed down the bread, then went over to the scrolls.

What a mess! I should be able to find something that says this isn’t Attic, though. Even the scrolls are from a later period. I’m afraid Captain Oberg will be very disappointed. I wonder what Dietrich was trying to warn me about? Oberg’s nothing but a Jerry out for some kind of advancement, only this time off of me. Well, we’ll have to see about that. He settled down to pry open the fragile scrolls without breaking them. The trunk they had come from had been almost watertight; either that or the leather had deteriorated so badly over the centuries that moisture had seeped through. They were sealed with centuries-old dirt.

Ah, well. This will keep me busy long enough to put them off the scent. Somehow I have to get out of here and tell the Allies about that plane.

* * * * *

Hans Dietrich prided himself on being a professional Wehmacht soldier; not SS, not Gestapo, but a plain soldier who didn’t play politics. A fighting man, like those he opposed.

Which was part of the reason he was still in the desert. A wiser man would have long ago wangled some kind of post in a city or back in Berlin.

Now he was being forced into being underhanded and that annoyed him. Oberg had not, as Dietrich suspected, notified the British of Moffitt’s capture, something that Dietrich had corrected as soon as he returned to the Luftwaffe base. He hadn’t meant to return but a nagging worry as to his prisoner as well as the breakdown of the truck carrying his soldiers meant he had to return for a replacement vehicle.

The base’s radio operator frowned as he noted down a message. Over his shoulder, Dietrich read, “To Hauptmann Oberg. Arrival moved up to noon. Well done capture of Prof. Moffitt.” Dietrich’s expression darkened. Of course, he didn’t expect that I’d come back and find out that he’s taking credit for my work.

“I’ll take that to Captain Oberg,” he said in his most urbane tone and held out his hand. The radio man looked doubtful for only a second, but then handed him the flimsy.

“Ja, Herr Hauptmann,” he said obediently.

“Remember to log it in,” Dietrich commented, looking down. “And send my message out as well.”

“Ja.”

Dietrich strolled over towards the mess tent planning on finding out where Oberg was after dinner. He was forestalled when the man stepped out of the hangar, his expression smug. It changed when he saw Dietrich.

“Hauptmann Dietrich?”

“Hauptmann Oberg.” They saluted each other warily.

Oberg snapped an order behind him and the guard took up position outside the door. The almost-full moon cast shadows through the netting like a web. It was becoming a beautiful desert night, if a little chill.

“I thought you would be out hunting your Rat Patrol,” Oberg observed snidely, dropping into step beside him as they headed for the mess hall.

“My truck had a tire problem,” Dietrich replied. “I do not hunt the Rat Patrol with less than seven men, Captain.”

“Really? You feel you need that many men to capture…what is it now? Three men?”

“I don’t underestimate them.”

“I would say that the one you caught isn’t that dangerous.”

Dietrich chuckled. “If you believe that, then why do you have the extra guards on the hangar?”

Oberg shrugged. “The Major has ordered extra patrols tonight. Apparently he is also afraid of your Rat Patrol. Their reputation precedes them. It would seem that you missed your opportunity to capture them all earlier today.”

“I suspect I will have another chance.”

Oberg’s right eyebrow arched skeptically. “You are so sure of that?”

“As long as Sergeant Moffitt is here, the Patrollers will be around.”

“Then it is lucky that he will be leaving tomorrow for Berlin,” Oberg said complacently.

Dietrich stopped. Berlin? He’s sending him to Berlin? And taking credit for capturing him? “And what do you plan to do with him back in Berlin?”

Oberg stared at him. “Does it matter?”

Dietrich felt a stirring of anger but swallowed it. “I was the one who captured – “

“Yes, you keep bringing that up. I’ll give you credit for that. But now he is my prisoner and when we reach Berlin, I plan to have him assigned to some kind of work with the antiquities that we have recovered from French and Russian museums.”

“’Recovered?’” Dietrich asked, hiding his irony as best he could.

“Of course. They took those statues from us in Nineteen-Eighteen; we have simply recovered our property,” Oberg said with complete certainty.

A blind rewriting of history. Dietrich didn’t remember anything of the sort but he wasn’t going to cross Oberg. It would be best if he just walked away from this base, from his prisoner and from the officer who was now leading the way into the mess tent. “And you expect Sergeant Moffitt’s help?”

Oberg glanced back. “I will compel him one way or the other. Or the Gestapo will. I wonder what would happen if we had a lever to use. You said that the other members of his team are still alive?”

Dietrich looked at him warily. “I am fairly sure they are not dead.”

“Then capture them. If they’re threatened, I’m sure Professor Moffitt will assist me any way I want."

Dietrich laughed, heedless of the danger. “If they are nearby, Captain Oberg, then the threat will not be to them -- it’ll be to us!”

Oberg smiled primly. “Then you had best catch them first, Captain Dietrich. Before they become a threat. That is if they are still alive. Professor Moffitt and I will be going back with General von Straussberg on that plane.”

Dietrich looked startled. “Von Straussberg? The Luftwaffe chief of staff for the Mediterranean? He is the man who is visiting tomorrow?”

“Ja, of course. I thought you knew,” Oberg replied with a lordly air. “He is interested in antiquities as I am.”

Yes, to decorate his family mansion. “I was aware,” Dietrich lied smoothly. “I wasn’t sure you were.”

Oberg laughed. “I’m the reason he’s coming here. I told him about the statue. That is why it is imperative to have Professor Moffitt’s agreement.”

“So, I will have to – “

“You will have to make sure that we have a lever to make him do what we want,” Oberg agreed. “Now, dinner!”

Dietrich followed him into the tent, thinking furiously. Would it better to catch the Rat Patrol or not? He would have to muse on it…after he’d eaten. He hoped that Oberg had remembered to feed Sergeant Moffitt. Starvation always made prisoners more stubborn.

* * * * *

Sergeant Troy gave an unconscious sigh of relief when they climbed into the jeep, and Hitchcock started the engine. He and Tully had siphoned off two jerricans of gasoline while Pool distracted the guards, and hiked away into the desert to their abandoned jeep. He wondered what Thompson would think when he awakened. Probably promise them a firing squad on the spot when he caught up with them.

They traveled in silence for an hour before Hitchcock pulled up in the shadow of a mesa. “Sarge, the map’s wrong,” he said succinctly as Troy glared at him.

“Best we got, Hitch,” Troy replied.

“Yeah, but look at our map, Sarge. The compass bearing that those Hurricanes were coming from is slightly to the north of where we’re heading. If we follow Pool’s map, we’re gonna miss the base – and run out of gas again!“

Tully put out his hand and stopped Hitchcock. “Look at that!” He pointed across the desert.

The line of dust was barely perceptible in the moonlight. Troy might have taken it for a sudden storm except that it was coming from Hitchcock’s compass point and in a straight line. “Looks like you’re right, Hitch. Let’s wait and see who’s coming to visit.”

“They’re heading for the beach, Sarge,” Tully commented after a few minutes.

“Not only that, Tully, but it’s Dietrich,” Troy added after staring at the convoy through his binoculars. “Can we cut him off?”

Hitchcock settled more comfortably in his seat. “He’s gonna reach the beach before we do, but we can probably sneak up on them that way. Why’s he coming back?”

“Who knows? Looking for bodies, maybe.”

“Or our jeep,” Tully added. “The Krauts need equipment.”

Hitchcock shook his head. “Captain Dietrich, trash collector? My, how the mighty have fallen!”

Troy grinned. “Move it!”

* * * * *

Moffitt started up, blinking his eyes in surprise. He hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep over the crackling parchment until he saw that the lantern was flickering low. Behind him, one of the soldiers was snoring loudly, his hands folded over his gun, while the other stood at the door to the hangar, stretching his arms and yawning loudly. That was probably why Moffitt had awakened; the sound of the man’s boots on the hard sand as he had walked over to the door.

Oberg had come in, reeking of beer, bratwurst, and arrogance, distracting Moffitt from his reading. He’d left when the moon was full overhead and the base had quieted down as the men went to their rest in the tents or the low-slung hammocks that swayed between the scrubby trees.

Part of Moffitt’s attention was still bent on escape. He could hear the guards outside the hangar walking their beats and joking when they met each other. They sounded alert. It wouldn’t be easy to get free.

He glanced at pages of notes and saw that his handwriting had deteriorated as the night went on. All those years of learning Greek and Latin during his childhood had paid off. Once he’d delicately unwrapped several scrolls, he found a wonderful treasure trove of information. It would be a fantastic cookbook if he could find contemporary ingredients for the dishes. Apricots and white wine over lamb? Chicken stuffed figs drenched in honey… His stomach growled. i>I don’t need anything to turn on my appetite when God knows when I’ll get breaker!

Oberg’s going to be upset. This is definitely not a Greek shipwreck. If only he’d see it for what it is rather than what it isn’t! This is a wonderful find.

Moffitt stretched. His hands were cramped from writing, and still stung slightly from being burned on the beach. Standing, he winced and breathed a curse. He’d forgotten how much his feet hurt. Shuffling back, he stretched again, feeling his back muscles unkink.

The guard glanced at him with disinterest.

This was the moment if he was lucky. Moffitt limped to the doorway, and the guard straightened. “I need the latrine,” Moffitt said in German.

“Ja,” the guard replied understandingly. “Franz!”

The other guard jerked to wakefulness, and his fingers tightened. The gun fired, then fell off his lap, hitting the ground with a loud clatter. Moffitt and the other guard ducked. The bullet plowed through the flimsy wood of the hangar, and vanished.

A siren went off, then lights lit up the airstrip.

Damn! Damn, damn, damn! They’re all awake now! Moffitt started to reach for the guard’s gun but caught himself before the man realized the danger. Tipping his hand would be foolish in the face of the number of men who were flooding out of the tents and mosquito-draped hammocks. They all were armed, they all were trigger-happy and they all seemed to be headed towards the hangar.

Moffitt put up his hands and waited.

It didn’t take long for Oberg and the Luftwaffe major to arrive with a bevy of soldiers around them. Most of them were waving pistols or Lugers.

The two guards had their guns trained on Moffitt, who looked very bored. Actually, he was very glad that he had a strong bladder. It looked like it would be a long time before he’d reach the latrine.

“Was is los?” Oberg demanded shrilly. His jacket had been hastily pulled over a loose shirt, and his right bootlace was untied.

The major was far more well-kept than the captain. Moffitt estimated that he had been dressing for the morning’s activities since he was shaved, his shirt buttoned. He glared at Oberg, then stepped in front of the slender man. “What happened?” he asked harshly of the two guards.

The man whose gun had gone off waved at Moffitt and let out a storm of German. Moffitt felt a rush of adrenaline along with fear. The guard was accusing him of trying to escape.

I’m going to get shot if I’m not careful! He waited until the man stopped for a breath and coolly said in German, “He’s lying.”

The guard paled. He obviously hadn’t realized that the prisoner understood him.

The major turned to Moffitt. “What happened?”

The guard’s pallor turned ashen. Moffitt eyed him for a second, then shrugged nonchalantly. “His gun went off when he was escorting me to the latrine. Nothing more than an accident.”

Both officers looked suspicious. Perversely, Moffitt wished that Dietrich was around somewhere. He’d see through the guard in a second while these men didn’t seemed inclined to believe the truth. In fact, where was Captain Dietrich? That shot would have awakened the dead.

Moffitt yawned, trying to stay calm The late night was coming back to haunt him.

The major glared at the prisoner, then back at the guards. He turned to Oberg and snapped a command, and Oberg saluted, then stalked off towards his tent. The two guards followed him while a set of four took up positions around Moffitt.

Despite his physical needs, Moffitt was slightly amused. Apparently he was now judged more dangerous than ever, despite the fact that he was unshaven, ill-dressed, and was almost to the point of shifting from one foot to the other.

Oberg didn’t hide his fury. “You tried to escape? After all I’ve done for you?”

“Done for me?” Moffitt asked mystified. “What are you talking about?”

“You ingrate! I gave you food and water and a doctor, and you try to escape!”

“Escaping is part of the laws of war, and I didn’t try to escape -- I need a latrine,” Moffitt said succinctly. He realized a second later that he should have left the first part out. Oberg was firmly convinced that he had tried to escape.

“The guards will shoot you on the spot,” Oberg raved on uncontrollably. His face was red. “Maybe I should now.”

Moffitt stiffened. “Hardly the act of an officer, Herr Hauptmann.”

“You aren’t an officer!” Oberg took several deep breaths then pointed to the guard on the right. “You, take him to the latrine! Then bring him back here.”

Moffitt gave a sigh of mixed relief and defeat. He might end up feeling better but his chance for escape was totally gone. The morning was coming, the base was thoroughly roused, and as he passed the other hangars, he heard the first roar of engines as the Messerschmitts warmed up.

I’ll have to find another way out.

* * * * *

Dietrich strolled along the beach, kicking sand into the air. The tide was going out; the high mark had stained the tires of the abandoned jeep and clogged the wheel wells with seaweed.

The foamy water was a tracery against the dark sand like the fancy lace on the bodices of French whores he’d visited in Paris. He’d been in the parade when the tanks had rumbled over the ancient cobblestones and they’d marched through the Arc de Triomphe. It had been a moment unparalleled in his life, too soon over as he was sent to this miserable desert.

Oberg’s statement struck uncomfortably close to the truth; he was stuck in the desert because of Sergeant Troy and the Rat Patrol, and his chances for advancement went down every time they humiliated him.

But that doesn’t mean I should have left Sergeant Moffitt in the hands of Captain Oberg.

His thoughts nagged at him. There was no reason why he should even feel guilty about it. Moffitt was hardly his friend; in fact, their relationship was far more tense than cordial. Dietrich admired Troy’s professionalism and unexpected talents -- even when he was the butt of them – but he understood Sergeant Moffitt all too well. He’d met men like Moffitt on the roads of France, the beaches of Dunkirk, in the thousands at camps where they were being sent back to Germany, but still this Englishman was different from the men back there. For one thing, he got along with Sergeant Troy. Troy respects him. And as a prisoner he is protected by the Geneva Convention. So why am I worrying?

Because Oberg will kill Sergeant Moffitt once he is done with him. Men should die in war for causes, not for ancient ruins and academic rivalries.

The foam came up around his shiny boots and then sucked away. Looking down he saw small puckered holes where tiny crabs sucked in air. The water came up again, lapped at his toes, then went out again.

“Es irrt der Mensch, so lang er strebt,” he murmured. Man errs as long as he strives. He always enjoyed Goethe but never expected to remember that quote on an abandoned beach. It had been so many years since he’d had the freedom to read whatever he wished. The Wehrmacht took up too much of his time, and some authors were dangerous to read.

“What was that, Captain?” a familiar American-accented voice asked behind him.

Dietrich smiled but didn’t turn. “It’s from Faust, Sergeant. I told Sergeant Moffitt I thought you’d survived.”

“Coming back to make sure, Captain?”

“Exactly,” Dietrich said, turning with his hands up. “As I was ordered to by Hauptmann Oberg.”

Behind, Dietrich’s men stood in a silent line, their hands on their helmets. At least they were alive. To Troy’s credit he wasn’t usually a cold-blooded killer.

“’Ordered’, Captain?”

“Why are you here, Sergeant?”

Troy shrugged. “Followed your dust.”

“Sidetracked from going to the base, perhaps?” Dietrich asked, amused. “I’m surprised you took the time out to follow me.”

“Don’t worry; we have time,” Troy said tightly.

“You don’t,” Dietrich replied, his voice dropping a tone. Before he might have been making pleasant conversation; now he was deadly serious. “Sergeant Moffitt will be sent to Berlin by noon tomorrow unless he can manage to put Captain Oberg off any longer.”

“What?” Troy was incredulous. “Berlin?”

“Yes, Berlin. Captain Oberg has decided that Professor Moffitt would be a feather in his cap.”

Troy got sidetracked. “Oberg? Who’s Oberg?”

Dietrich sighed. “He’s the reason I kidnapped Sergeant Moffitt. If you are planning a rescue, I suggest you hurry before it’s too late.”

“Why would he send him to Germany?” Troy demanded flatly.

“Oberg is an archeologist sent from Berlin to assess an ancient shipwreck we discovered several weeks ago. He decided he needed a second opinion but Headquarters wasn’t going to spend time sending another man. I told him there was someone here who could provide the assurances he needed.”

“Moffitt.”

“Sergeant Moffitt, yes. I had no idea that Oberg would display him as a prisoner, and send him back to Germany!”

“As Oberg’s prisoner, not yours, eh?” Troy said with sudden insight. “I’m surprised you let him.”

“He was simply a nuisance before, Sergeant. Now he is a danger.” And if I bring you back with me to the base, as my captive, I can garner the approbation that Rommel will heap on the officer who caught you. And the reward. Oberg will be left in the rubble.

Troy nodded his understanding. “Well, I suspect you’ve got some maps I need, Captain. In the front seat?”

“What were you planning, Sergeant? To attack the base and hope to find Sergeant Moffitt? It’s rather large and well fortified.”

Troy’s eyes narrowed. “You have a plan, Captain?”

“I don’t want my men shot, Sergeant. The only way that ensure that is if you leave them here tied up. If you try to kill them, then you will have to kill me, and I know exactly where they are keeping Sergeant Moffitt.”

“You could just tell me and save me from having to take you along,” Troy suggested.

Dietrich’s lips thinned and he shook his head. The surf hissed by his boots, then out again. Behind him, the moon cast his shadow up the dark sand over Troy. “No, Sergeant, I will not. You don’t have the time for games if you plan to save him.”

“Why should I trust you, Captain?”

“Because it is the only way that you will get your Sergeant Moffitt out, Sergeant, if that is what you are planning!” Dietrich said forcefully. “I have no wish to become a prisoner of war. We can do an exchange through our armies—“

Troy shook his head. “No time for that.”

“No time, Sergeant?”

“Not if he’s going to Berlin!” Troy shot back.

“On a special transport in fact,” Dietrich agreed mildly, studying his opponent. What was he hiding? Why was there ‘no time’ for Troy?

“What time are they leaving?”

Dietrich frowned. “I’m not going to tell you that, Sergeant!”

“Guess then we’ll have to leave you here, Captain.”

“And how do you plan to get into the base?” Dietrich asked curiously. “You have only one jeep.”

Troy smiled wolfishly. “But you have a staff car, Captain. Hitch! Get changed!”

“Yes, sir!” Hitchcock waved at one of the soldiers, who with a doubtful glance at his commander, and seeing a nod, began to undress.

“You will never get through the guards without my help, Sergeant. You have to take me along!”

“He’s being too downright helpful,” Tully commented unexpectedly.

“We have a common goal. I wish to rid myself of Captain Oberg, and you wish to free Sergeant Moffitt,” Dietrich said baldly. “So, what do you suggest?”

Reluctantly, Troy nodded. “Looks like you’re coming along for the ride, Captain. Hitch, tie them up!”

“Sure, Sarge!”

* * * * *

As he returned to the hangar, Moffitt found Oberg looking over his notes. The papyrus he had been translating was rolled up and set to one side along with the six other tubes that Moffitt had wrestled open during the night.

The officer’s face was dark with rage. If he’d been angry before, now he was furious and even more dangerous than before.

Moffitt longed for the days when he just dealt with the common irrationalities of the Wehrmacht. He hadn’t any idea where Oberg would jump next but that he was lethal was unquestioned.

“Excellent translation,” Oberg said grudgingly. “I was never as fluent in Latin as I was in Greek.”

Moffitt didn’t comment. He had a second of blinding insight when he saw Oberg flip a page. Remember that Cambridge student who committed suicide because a professor proved that he cribbed some old book for his thesis? He lost his standing in the community, and the respect of his peers, and that destroyed him. I’ve done that with Oberg by proving this isn’t a Greek statue. Forget the war; this is academia with bullets, and he holds the cards.

Oberg waved to the guards. “I will talk with him alone! Go over to the doors.”

Warily, they retreated, their guns still pointed towards the prisoner, who was watching suspiciously.

“So, you agree with me that it is a Greek statue?” Oberg challenged Moffitt, taking him completely off-guard.

“Uh—no,” Moffitt stuttered, then shook himself mentally. Oberg had to be crazy. “It’s a Roman copy of a sixth century BC statue of Athena, commissioned for the Emperor Hadrian. It was being shipped with a whole set of pre-cut stones for a new temple, some trunks of kitchenware, pots and pans, and a very fine cookbook.”

“It’s an ancient Greek statue,” Oberg said flatly cutting him off. “I have told Berlin that, and you will agree with me.”

“Like hell I will!” Moffitt replied in a similar tone. “There’s six-seven hundred years between them! There’s a letter to Hadrian from the Roman senator who commissioned it! He was trying to curry favor -- ”

“And three lives are at stake in your reply,” Oberg interrupted, ignoring him. “Your friends.”

Moffitt was startled but didn’t show it. Was Oberg lying? With the roar of the engines and the sounds of the camp outside, a legion could have come in and Moffitt wouldn’t have noticed. Sanity retained its grip; he had passed the transportation depot on the way back and hadn’t seen a jeep among the vehicles.

Come to think of it, Dietrich’s staff car was missing as well, and one of his trucks. Where the devil was he?

“You have the others?”

“Of course. They were brought in last night,” Oberg replied.

“Where are they? Show them to me!”

Oberg’s lips tightened. “I will show you their bodies if you don’t make clear that this is a Greek statue!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Moffitt challenged. “If Captain Dietrich captured Sergeant Troy, he wouldn’t permit you to shoot them, and if he brought in their bodies, then he would have probably come to me to…gloat.” He added that comment to cover Dietrich’s reputation. That was the last thing Dietrich would have done, but he would have informed Moffitt if his friends were dead. “You haven’t left this base to capture them. It’s not quite your style, is it, Captain?”

Oberg drew his lips back in a snarl, and pulled his Luger. Moffitt stared in disbelief, and one of the guards moved closer.

“Back!” Oberg snapped and the guard stopped. He said in accented English, “Either you agree or you’ll have an unfortunate accident, Sergeant.”

“No, sir,” Moffitt said, his gaze riveted on Oberg’s face. “I will not let you destroy my reputation along with my life. It’s not a Greek statue. It’s Roman.” Oberg’s finger tightened, and the guards started forward again. They looked confused. Then Oberg relaxed and smiled unpleasantly. Putting the gun away, he looked down at the notes. “I’m afraid that you won’t be going to Berlin, after all, Professor Moffitt.”

Berlin? I was going to be going to Berlin? “Really? I haven’t seen Berlin in years.”

“No, I think there is enough here that I can forge your comments on the statue,” Oberg said judiciously.

Ice ran in a stream down Moffitt’s back. Death was very close by. Thank God for the guards. They were the only witnesses keeping him alive, and Dietrich would be sure to interrogate them if he turned up mysteriously dead. “What did you have in mind, Captain?”

“Hauptmann Dietrich was very concerned that you receive honorable treatment, Sergeant, and are sent to the nearest POW facility. I believe that it is time for you to leave.”

Moffitt stared at him warily. “Leave?” And get a bullet in the back?

“Yes. It is a long drive through dangerous territory. I hope you make it.” Oberg looked around. “Lock this man up!”

The guards came forward. Moffitt was puzzled by Oberg’s change. He was going to survive after all? “I suspect Captain Dietrich will be pleased to hear you’re following his orders.”

Oberg’s face darkened, and he clenched his fist. Bad move, old son. Moffitt’s glance landed on the head of the statue which had been watching him all night, upsetting his concentration at times. Like Caligula, Oberg was as unstable as the dickens. Moffitt only hoped that, in due time, the German equivalent of the Praetorian Guard would take down the man.

“Hauptmann Dietrich is out hunting rats,” Oberg said tensely. “I suspect this time he will capture them.”

“Then you haven’t caught them!” Moffitt slashed out. “I thought you said that you had, Captain!”

“Guards! Take him away!”

Moffitt put his hand out for his notes. “I’ll take my research – “

Oberg looked at him mockingly. “Nein. I believe that this might be the basis of my doctoral degree.”

“What? You’re stealing my work?” Moffitt was incredulous, then angry.

“I will find a student to help with the other translations, then publish it after the war. No one will know,” Oberg concluded smugly. “Thank you for your help, Sergeant Moffitt. If anyone disagrees with your assessment of the statue, I will make sure that it is you who made the mistake. After all, once you’re dead…who cares about your reputation?”

Moffitt saw red but didn’t move as the guards were all aiming at him. His fists were clenched. “Somehow, the truth will come out, Oberg!” He left off the rank -- the man didn’t deserve the courtesy.

Oberg shrugged, and waved his hand to the guards. “How do you plan on telling them, Sergeant? Take him away!”

With a prod of his gun barrel, the guard pushed Moffitt. He walked out too angry to notice the pain in his feet. If I have to come back from the dead, I’m going to get that bastard. Dimly, he heard the sound of heavier engines, and glanced up. A cargo plane was coming in, with a three-Messerschmitt escort. The major had left his tent, trailing aides, and was hastening towards the air strip.

I think his guests are early.

* * * * *

Troy thought that both armies had the same problem -- sand. He felt grit chafing his skin as the staff car rocked back and forth, and fine grains sifted under the German uniform he wore. Dietrich’s sergeant was a bigger man, and smelled.

Then again, Dietrich had been very cooperative. His soldiers were all tied up back at the beach, and even if they got free, the truck had been incapacitated. Everyone knew that unless Dietrich told his people, or Troy called his side, that those men were not likely to make it back to the Fatherland. The officer hadn’t been happy with the situation but didn’t try to protest in the face of Troy’s almost certain refusal to take the men with them.

Troy leaned forward and laid his hand on Hitchcock’s shoulder. “Slow down!”

Hitchcock obeyed, bringing the staff car to a stop. Tully, following behind in the jeep, stopped as well.

All four of them listened.

It was more what Troy felt than heard. A deep thrumming that played along the nerve endings just loud enough to be lost in wind.

Dietrich looked around, shading his eyes as he looked at the clear morning sky. “Bombers?”

“Yours or ours, Captain?” Troy asked.

“There’s one of mine,” Dietrich replied, pointing across the sandy landscape.

They saw the transport land, protective Messerschmitts circling it like flies. Cocking his head, Troy could hear other airplane engines revving on the airstrip, which he could barely make out on the horizon. “Your usual arrivals, Captain?”

Dietrich shrugged. Their unspoken truce was over. He wasn’t going to give them any more information than he already had.

Which is enough unless he’s leading us into a trap -- he probably is, Troy thought. Picking up the binoculars, he screwed the lenses until he got a clear view.

Ten Messerschmitts, including the new arrivals sat alongside the bomber. Sun glinted off the caps and uniforms of the new arrivals as they disembarked. Hangars, tankers for gasoline, those’ll burn nicely, staff cars, a flag flapping in the wind raised by the airplanes, and men. Lots of men. Troy’s heart sank.

“Sarge?” Hitchcock startled him. “Looks like they’re gonna have company!”

“They’re already—“

“Mein Gott!” Dietrich said and ducked unconsciously as a trio of Hurricanes roared over their heads, a cloud of dust trailing in their wake. Pebbles and sand scored Troy’s skin, blowing his borrowed cap into the desert. They all sheltered their heads as another trio went over.

“Pool and his crowd?” Hitchcock yelled over the howl of engines.

“They’re early!” Troy squinted, waving on the markings on the sides of the planes. The numbers matched those they’d seen the day before on Snelgrove’s airplane.

“They’re attacking my men!” Dietrich said, his attention riveted on the base.

“Yeah, looks like it,” Troy replied. “Oh, no, you don’t, Captain!”

Dietrich jumped him, reaching for the pistol that Troy had taken from him, and Troy hit back hard, sending him reeling back against the side of the staff car. They struggled in the back. Finally, Troy kneed him in the stomach, and as Dietrich gasped in pain, he grabbed him by the collar.

The worn fabric shredded in his hand, and his fist went across Dietrich’s face harder than he planned. Dietrich’s eyes unfocused and Troy took his opportunity to give him an uppercut that knocked him into unconsciousness. He went limp against the side of the car.

“What now, Sarge?” Hitchcock asked looking back.

“We’ll leave him here,” Troy said decisively. “Don’t need him now. That base’ll be a mess and no one’s gonna check our credentials.”

“But Sarge, it’s a helluva long walk back there!” Hitchcock protested.

Troy glared at him. “You got a problem with leaving him behind?”

“What happens if the Germans do look at us, and don’t see him, Sarge? They gotta know that this is his car! We could say that we found him on the road.”

“In what? English?” Troy slashed back. “He’ll just hold us up!”

“And what’ll they do if they find we abandoned him?” Hitchcock questioned. “In this sun, in the raid…”

“Hell!” Troy snapped, seeing where Hitchcock was going. Abandoning a man to the desert was frowned on by both sides. He remembered the soldiers back at the beach. More potential deaths. “Get moving, Hitch. I’ll tie him up, and then we won’t have to worry about his getting loose and blowing our mission!”

“Can’t accuse you of cosseting him either, Sarge!” Hitchcock said ebulliently, and gunned the engine before Troy could retort.

Troy looked out the back at Tully in the jeep, who was placidly chewing on a toothpick, and looking amused. Had he heard them? Probably not but Troy wouldn’t count on it.

“I’m not pampering the damned fool -- you are, Hitch!” he muttered under his breath, as he lashed Dietrich’s hands together behind his back, and propped him up against the door. Settling the dented cap on his disheveled head, Troy had to admit he hadn’t wanted to leave Dietrich behind to die in the sand; but it would probably have been better for the mission if he had.

* * * * *

Moffitt ducked as the first wave of Hurricanes went over them. Like his guards, he jumped into the cover of palm trees as lines of bullets kicked up dust as the planes shot across the airstrip. He saw a fighter fly apart as one of the Hurricanes nailed it on the runway, parts of the plane scattering into the path of other defending Messerschmitts trying to take off. One crashed, a wing scraping the earth, and swerved into the burning wreckage. It exploded, sending flames dangerously near the bomber. The major and his guests had scattered as soon as the Allied fighters roared over the airbase.

Amid the dust and smoke, Moffitt saw his chance to escape. The largest group of troops were behind him, or heading for the trench. He wasn’t totally ignored but when the planes came over again, he probably would be.

Then what? Head out into the desert? No, I need a car and that looks like a good one. He spotted a staff car parked next to the major’s tent.

He heard the roar of the anti-aircraft guns go into play, and airmen wheeled out a Messerschmitt from a far hangar. It would have a clear runway while the others were still caught behind the wreckage. The Germans were starting to fight back.

The engines roared again as the Hurricanes swept across the battered base, firing.

A blow to his back reminded him that he was still in enemy hands. He turned, and almost fell as one of his wounded feet landed on a sharp rock that he could feel through the worn sole of the borrowed boots.

The soldier aimed his gun, and his eyes were warily watching Moffitt.

“Don’t shoot me, you damned fool!” Moffitt muttered. He realized a fraction of a second before the German fired that man had panicked.

What the soldier hadn’t expected was that the Hurricanes had finally hit the fuel dump, and with a huge roar, the gasoline exploded. A burst of hot air knocked both men to their knees, and the bullet whined past Moffitt’s ear.

Moffitt desperately grabbed at the red-hot muzzle and fought with the dazed soldier. With one hard punch to the solar plexus, he knocked the man off his feet, and with a chop of the gun’s butt, knocked him out. Breathing heavily, Moffitt turned, winced as his feet protested, and headed for the hangar. It would provide a bit more cover against the planes that were turning for another strafing run.

He didn’t make it before he was seen.

* * * * *

Troy saw the man running through the smoky battle, and called, “Hitch!”

“I see him, Sarge—Sarge!” Hitchcock slewed the car to avoid several soldiers who were aiming in their direction until they saw the pilfered uniforms, and assumed the car held their own kind.

A stray bullet pierced the door beside Troy and lodged in the door opposite him. It narrowly missed Dietrich, who was slowly regaining consciousness, blood trickling from one nostril. Another stray bullet hit the engine which died but momentum carried the staff car into the side of the hangar, through the thin wall. Everyone ducked.

A little dazed, Troy looked around. Piles of boxes, coral, a table draped in black netting littered with scrolls and papers – what was this place?

He was taken aback by a familiar marble head in the middle of the table. The last time he’d seen that curious smile, Dietrich had been holding it. Now, cleaned and polished, it watched him across the room.

Who’d Moffitt say that was? Oh, yeah. Caligula. Roman freak. His attention was drawn back to Dietrich, who was struggling to sit up, and Hitchcock who was brushing bits of wood and metal off his chest. Blood dripped down his face from a cut in his blond hair, but he looked all right.

And suddenly he was gaping at something behind Troy.

Troy swiveled and stared in total disbelief. The last thing he’d expected to find here was a imposing woman made of white marble.

She was guarded by a thin, wiry German officer whose uniform was stuffed with papers. He was aiming a machine gun.

No wonder Dietrich’s wiggling. This guy’ll take us all out, Troy thought, freezing. He didn’t like the look in the officer’s eyes.

Dietrich kicked out and Troy lurched forward, catching his hands on the edge of the staff car. The sudden movement took the officer by surprise and he fired. The bullets caught Troy’s sleeve and nearly hit Dietrich.

“Oberg, nein!” Dietrich shouted.

So, this is Oberg, eh? Looks like just another Kraut.

A small smile crept over Oberg’s face and he braced himself to fire again. With a chill, Troy realized that he had seen that smile before on the statue sitting on the table. Caligula and Oberg were a matched set, and, with a flash, he remembered that the reward for the Rat Patrol would be given if they were taken dead or alive.

Dietrich realized it too from his expression. He fell back against the door, trying to find the handle that would open it and he could fall out of the car, out of reach.

The machine gun that went off wasn’t Oberg’s. It came from the hangar’s doorway, and Moffitt was firing over the hood of the wrecked staff car. His expression was grim.

The bullets cut Oberg in half. Papers floated out of his coat onto the packed sand, all stained with red.

There was a split second of silence, then the Hurricanes roared over the hangar again, perforating the far end with bullets. Horrified, they saw Athena shake, crack, then break apart, landing in chunks on the ground. Caligula took a bullet across his face, shattering his nose.

“Damn!” Troy said, shaken back to life by the howl of the engines and the flash of the bullets. “Moffitt!”

“There’s another car out here, Troy!” Moffitt called, waving his gun. “Hurry!”

Hitchcock picked himself out of the wreckage and pulled out his gun. “Let’s go, Sarge!”

Dietrich struggled with his bonds. Troy saw one hand come loose, and knew he’d be free in a second. He debated shooting him but didn’t take it seriously. At least he was an enemy they knew how to handle!

Troy heard the sound of crackling fire and saw that one of the trucks hit by the Hurricane had set fire to the camouflage netting draped over the hangar. Shortly it would be an inferno.

Dietrich could make it on his own. Troy jumped out of the staff car and joined the other two who stood by the door.

“Happy to see you,” Moffitt greeted him, smiling through a mask of dust. “Don’t think that’s the right size uniform though, old man.”

“Couldn’t find a tailor,” Troy retorted with a grin. “Another car?”

Moffitt sobered. “We’re out of luck. The Hurricanes have gotten it.”

Hitchcock pointed. “Look!”

A jeep wheeled through the smoke, avoiding soldiers, heading for the main officers’ tent. Tully probably assumed that that was where Moffitt was -- it was as good a place as any.

“Over here!” Hitchcock called and waved his cap. He caught Tully’s attention, and the jeep changed direction, slowing.

Firing as they went, the three men tore across to the jeep and swung into the empty seats. Troy begin firing the main gun, starting with the bomber which was still sitting on the airstrip unscathed by the bullets.

It exploded, rocking the earth, and the soldiers and airmen were knocked off their feet.

Troy felt a blast of heat scorch his face and his hair.

Looking back, he saw Dietrich stagger out of the burning hangar, and get knocked down by the explosion. His attention was drawn back to soldiers who were setting up a machine gun in their path. He pointed the gun, fired, and they scattered or died. “Get us out of here, Tully!”

Tully drove like a bandit, ignoring the bullets that peppered the air in their wake.

Over their heads, the Hurricanes roared by, one waggling its wings. They had taken some damage as well, one man missing from the wing. It seemed a small price for the destruction of the base and the probable death of a German general. Troy just hoped it wasn’t Pool or Snelgrove.

Tully raced down the road until he reached the mountains, where he slowed, and wound down through the narrow canyons until he reached the edge of a cliffs.

Below them was the deep blue of the Mediterranean as placid and calm as it had been a day, and a mission, ago when they were all relaxing in the warm depths.

“Have a good time, Moffitt?” Troy asked finally breaking the silence.

“Simply ripping. Got a chance to brush up on my Latin and German,” Moffitt replied flippantly. “Pity I couldn’t get any of my papers but there’ll be another time.”

“What was so important about them?” Hitchcock asked. “What was it all about?”

“Nothing that would win the war. An academic tiff, and an old cookbook with some fantastic recipes.” Moffitt stretched out his legs. “All gone now.”

“Where’d you get those boots, Sarge?” Tully asked, with a grin eyeing the worn shoes. “From the Germans?”

“They’re very comfortable. I think I’ll keep them.”

Troy laughed. “Then you don’t need the ones you left behind. Let’s move it, Tully, back to Thompson’s. We’d better check in and report those Germans back at the beach.”

“Yeah, there’s still a war on!” Hitchcock cracked. The others laughed.

A fresh western breeze blew from the wine-dark sea, keeping them company, as they drove away.