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November 1944

They are going to hang me.

The thought pounded through his head as he stumbled over tangled roots hidden by wet leaves. A few feet to his left, the river roared by, fed by the storm. He tripped over a broken branch and fell, bruising his knees on the hard earth. Tears streaked his frozen cheeks as he looked both ways trying to figure out where he was.

He vaguely recognized the landscape. The pine trees were laden with pinecones, and there was the large rock he'd sat on watching the shallow river gurgle by, heavy with silt and moss. Here in Kentucky the leaves of the sugar maples had blazed their dying colors a month ago, and the only color was the silver-skinned birches stood out among the pine groves, and naked trees.

But in the blizzard, he couldn’t see the river, and all he heard was the snow-laden wind as it howled around his ears. Climbing to his feet he stumbled onward, and hit a tree. Reeling under the impact, he fell again, this time on his left arm, and lay there panting.

Icy wind cut through the thin coat over his work clothes. He could feel that the blood had congealed into a solid lump on the front and he knew from past experience that he’d never get it out of the fabric.

That wouldn’t matter. When the Americans found him, they’d hang him, coat and all.

How could this be happening? Didn’t he know enough not to get involved in family squabbles? Especially since he was a prisoner of war in the country that was sweeping across Europe like a plague, destroying the Third Reich, and all he’d known for the last decade. By the end of the war, he wouldn’t have a home to go back to escape the consequences of what happened an hour ago.

Stop it! he railed at himself. Think clearly -- your life depends on it!

He took a deep breath and winced, the freezing air cutting his lungs. Major Hans Dietrich, former Afrika Korps tank commander, considered his options and came to the same conclusion: They are going to hang me for murder.

* * * * *

Early October 1944

The sour-faced American Army captain in charge of prisoners-of-war didn't want to deal with Dietrich. In fact, he didn't want to deal with any of the men milling around in groups between the lines of barbed wire. However, he was in charge of the captured Germans, and Dietrich, to his amazement, had been singled out. Standing at attention in front of the captain, he felt filthy in his dirty, torn uniform. The skies were cloudy with the threat of thunderstorms to break the intense heat. Allied bombers and fighters roared overhead, but the prisoners didn't care. The vast majority of the captured Wehrmacht was happy to be out of the war that had been bitterly fought since the Allies landed two and a half months before. Paris had been ridded of its German captors two weeks before.

“Why am I here out, sir?" Dietrich asked the captain, an overworked officer named Reynolds. The interpreter standing to one side perked up at the perfect English.

Reynolds grunted. "That's one reason, Major. You speak the lingo like one of those damned Brits." The American looked as if he had slept in his uniform. He had two day stubble on his cheeks. There had been an influx of prisoners the night before which had taken time to process, and Reynolds was probably exhausted. "Got a note here about you. Orders from someone well above me, so get your stuff together, if you got any, and, Joey, take him to the pen. You're shippin' out tomorrow." The young interpreter stood up, and swayed as he was going to fall over. He looked like he was fresh from high school.

"What about my men?" Dietrich asked firmly. "I was captured with -- "

"Crap. They'll be processed like the rest of them. You're the one that this stupid Brit wants outta here," Reynolds said succinctly. "Git!"

Dietrich was intrigued. Stupid Brit? He craned his head but couldn't make out the signature. "Who is that, Captain?"

Reynolds frowned. "This handwritin's terrible. Can’t read most of it! Can't they write English?" He looked up. "Joey, get him out of here! Say hello to the States for me, Major."

Dietrich saluted smartly and was escorted outside. The United States, eh? That would be something new.

The ship was overly crowded and while his fellow officers were as seasick as any common soldier, Dietrich had always had a solid stomach, and he found that he was called to interpret often between the senior men and the American crew.

After a week in England, where he'd been intensively questioned, he was shipped out on the nearest troopship going back to the United States. He was intrigued by why he got special treatment -- the authorities had put him in solitary confinement, and sent him on as fast as possible. He overheard someone say that he was going to one of the camps for hardened Nazi. How did they come to that conclusion? Well, maybe they'd be sunk by one of the U-boats and he wouldn't have to lodge the latest complaint of his fellow officers: lack of fresh vegetables.

Following a guard down a corridor, he heard the sound of German voices commenting ribaldry on some job they were engaged in. Rounding the corner, he dodged a paint can held by a small round-faced man with a shock of brownish hair. The enlisted prisoners instantly jerked to attention, their conversation silenced.

"Was is los?" Dietrich asked after saluting.

"They wanted us to paint the walls, Herr Major," the man said respectfully. His brush dripped on the paint-caked cloth at his feet and splattered his boots.

The Americans are putting the men to good use. I don't blame them. I wish more of my fellow officers had some kind of work, Dietrich thought eyeing the others. They looked like so many of the men he'd left behind, both dead and alive. "Carry on, then, Gefreiter..."

"Gruber, sir! I was assigned to Oberst Legnine's quarters before the attack." Gruber looked up as if trying to impress himself on Dietrich's memory, to be more than just one more face, among all the men he knew. "I took care of his belongings. Have you heard anything about him, sir?"

"Legnine's dead," Dietrich replied. "Shot. You are better here."

"We got to go," the American guard said firmly, visibly uneasy at the rapid exchange of German. "Major?"

"Lead on," Dietrich agreed. He felt a pang as the man paled. "Be careful about the painting, Gruber. They might throw you overboard if you get it on the decking. It was a joke!"

"Jawhol, Herr Major. They won't..."

"Americans aren't known for it, Gruber. Do your best." I will have to keep my sense of humor under control. Uncertainty was eating away at Dietrich. Too much time to think about his capture and the message that had landed him here. What was happening back in Germany to his pregnant wife, Annaliese? What was going on in the war? He stifled his misgivings and followed the guard to relay the latest set of complaints to Americans.

Only to himself, deep in the darkness of the night, he'd admit that he didn't want fight anymore. With massive relief, he knew the war was over for him. The Axis power had commanded their captured troops to abstain from sabotage or work-stoppages. They could escape, yes, but not sabotage since the Germans were worried that their prisoners might act the same -- and they needed the labor of the Allied prisoners.

Where was he going? Would he have to work? He was an officer -- did they have to do the same plebian work that the enlisted ranks did? The other officers bragged that they wouldn't help the Allies but what would they do?

Wait and see. Wait and see.

The ship docked in South Carolina, and they marched down the ramp and to the train station. Pride kept them in stride, no lagging, but the prisoners openly gaped at the civilians who acknowledged their presence mostly by ignoring them and going on their business. Occasionally the children would wave, but their parents would stop them.

Many of the younger soldiers had never been to America. They were impressed by the number of cars on the wide streets and the air of peace, and by the beauty of the young women who were at the dock to meet the sailors.

Dietrich struggled with a grin as he remembered their comments. What he had noticed was that the cars dated from before the war, had worn tires, and the girls' dresses looked as if they'd been washed too often. Most of the men were either too young or too old to be in combat. The flower of American manhood was in the Pacific or in his homeland of Germany.

The prisoners were loaded on trains, officers in the front cars, enlisted in the rear, and the engine rolled out of the city, past rows of homes and small houses as it headed for its destination somewhere in the heartland of the United States.

They spent four days on the train. Padded chairs. Food that was fresh from the fields, not out of a can and packed six months ago in bombed factories.

They passed small towns where American flags hung on the porches of every tiny house. There was no sense of panic on the streets or even interest in the train. Many of the windows had banners in them, blue stars against a white background with a red border and gold fringe. Some of the window banners were gold. The reasoning eluded him. He would have to ask the soldiers when they reached their final destination. They rumbled passed scrap yards where billboards called for any kind of metal to help build bombers to crush the Axis armies. On their marquees the theaters were showing movies called "When You Went Away" and "Pin-up Girl". The latter occasioned much comment from those who read English.

Then, the train chugged into farm country, past scarecrows who waved in the breeze and endless fields were golden in the autumn light. It would be a good harvest, and most of it going to the war effort, if he read the country around him right.

The comments from his fellow officers on the strangeness of the land made Dietrich realize that the others had no idea of what America was really like. He would have been the same except for his run-ins with them in North Africa. If nothing else, Sergeant Sam Troy had been an education. And it is because of men like him that we have lost this war, Dietrich thought, watching the train chug by a railroad depot guarded by a sleepy dog that twitched its ears but didn't move. The Americans can adapt to anything.

Dietrich dreamed away the hours thinking about his wife, Annaliese. What was she going through right now? Where was she? Up in the mountains at the horse farms where they first met? Down in the city where she'd been forced to find work? The cities where the American and the British were bombing on a nightly basis? No, he'd believe that she was still up there in the fresh air, thinking of him. He had taken the first opportunity to send a message that he was still alive through the Red Cross but he didn't know if it reached her.

What struck every man was the expansiveness of the land. The first day's travel would have taken them across three countries in Europe. Here the countryside was endless, broken up with low mountain ranges, bridges that crossed gorges where the water splashed the windows, deer didn't flee when the train rumbled by, flocks of geese flew north towards Canada, small towns, and the occasional factory.

At intervals, the train stopped and the prisoners were allowed to disembarked to stretch their legs, laughing and joking, and eyeing the countryside around them. The guards watched them closely but didn't interfere unless it got out of hand. Twice, Dietrich intervened when some of the younger prisoners began to mock the Americans in German. His rank and tone held the men in check. He saw Gruber in the crowd and acknowledged him with a flick of his eyebrow, which made the small man stiffen proudly. The other officers noticed this and teased him about being the enlisted man's hero. Dietrich laughed along with them, and kept a watch out for jealous knives. Some of the officers were fresh from the battlefields and paranoid about what the Americans would do for them. They had heard the Propaganda Ministry's tales of what they could expect after capture. Dietrich had never taken them seriously. More dangerous were the civilians who didn't like the prisoners-of-war who stopped at their railroad depots for food and supplies. The prisoners were living better than American soldiers on the battlefield, and the civilians knew it. There was some hostility at times, but, for the most part, people were disinterested as long as the prisoners kept out of their way.

By the late afternoon of the fourth day, they reached their ultimate destination, Camp Crowe, Kentucky. It was a groggy group of prisoners that disembarked the train to face the uncertainty of what was to come. It took a few orders to make them hurriedly snap to attention.

In step, they marched the half mile to the gates of Camp Crowe. The sun was setting behind the wooden towers and wire fences. Dietrich was vividly reminded of the interrogation camp he had briefly been in charge of. It had been the blackest part of his time in North Africa, basically a punishment for letting the Rat Patrol defeat him too often. Luckily, a change of German command and the subsequent need for him in Russia had saved him from staying there too long. The Russian Front, Norway, France...what the English used to call "The Grand Tour", but in a perverse manner.

The new men passed a group of German officers on the way in, one, a Colonel, from the markings on his uniform, but they didn't speak with them until the processing was done.

The Americans have almost as much paperwork as our Army, Dietrich thought, filling out a three-page form that asked for the explanation of his capture. He had his fingerprints taken, and was thoroughly searched. What he disliked most was delousing and having his only uniform cleaned with some kind of insecticide. He was presented with new clothing from a belt to four pairs of drawers, and canteen coupons.

Finally they had a brief speech by the camp commander, Captain Bushnell. The broad-shouldered man with sandy hair and a thin mustache, he stood on the stairs, leaning heavily on a cane. This was a former combat officer from the two lines of ribbons on his immaculate uniform. One of them had a star in it. What did that mean? Stars are becoming an obsession. At least I have something new to learn about. I will have plenty of time to do that. The speech was short and sweet. Bushnell promised to be fair and reasonable.

Finally they were marched to the long wooden barracks, and released. Dietrich was assigned to a bed in a four-man room. Putting his blankets and clothing on the lower empty bunk, he stared around, assessing his new home.

Only one other bed was occupied, from the pin-up of Betty Grable and other actresses on the wall beside it. He didn't recognize the other women. American movie actresses hadn't been his specialty even before the war.

Another man came through the door, and saluted, his arm stretched out rigidly, and clicking his heels. "Heil Hitler!"

He reciprocated, reluctantly, but it didn't pay to get off on the wrong foot. "Heil Hitler!"

"I am Hauptmann Kozer. Welcome to the camp, Herr Major..."

"Hans Dietrich. Fifth Panzer Army in France."

"Ah, yes. I thought you were that Major Dietrich. I saw you once in North Africa."

Dietrich felt a tickle of wariness. "Where?"

The man's smile was smug. "Up near El Alamain, before the filthy British launched their attack, Herr Major. I was only an Leutnant then but I remember that time very well. Hours and hours of bombardment, then the attack."

"They were persistent," Dietrich agreed. "That is your bunk, Hauptmann Kozer?"

"Ja. I see you have taken the other. Good. You will have a man assigned to look after you, unless you know someone you would like? Someone from your trip?"

Dietrich remembered the round face of Gruber. The man had seemed inoffensive, competent and knew how to valet. "There was one man on my boat who might do well. Gefreiter Gruber."

"Excellent. I will ask the Oberst Beckmann if he can be assigned tomorrow."

"Oberst Beckmann?"

Kozer nodded. "He is our senior officer here, Herr Major. He wants to meet you."

Dietrich felt the wariness return. "He is waiting for me?"

"You and the others. Oberst Beckmann will inspect you all in the dining hall in," Kozer checked his watch, "fifteen minutes."

A watch? Dietrich's own had been stolen on the way here. How had Kozer gotten a watch? "I shall have to make ready then."

Kozer sat down on his bunk, obviously ready to stay. "How much did they let you bring with you?"

"Not a lot. I lost most of my belongings," Dietrich said with disgust.

"The Americans will replace them."

"Really?"

"Ja. If you must be a prisoner, be one of the Americans'! The food is better than in Paris!" Kozer said enthusiastically. "They allow us to have books, play games, teach classes to learn English. Sometimes I don't believe they think they are at war, Herr Major!"

"Learn English?"

"Ja. Classes are held every day."

"What about escaping?" Dietrich asked in interest.

Kozer grinned. "There have been escapes, but... well, it is a very large country. If one could pass for an American you might be able to get away, but there is still an ocean to cross to get home."

"It is the duty of prisoners to try and escape," Dietrich said sternly.

Kozer stiffened as if he had been drawn on the carpet. "Jawhol, Herr Major!"

Seduced by the Americans, Dietrich thought. I can understand that. Maybe if I am here long enough, I will be as well. "It is time to go?"

The man sprang to his feet and clicked his heels.

"Lead the way." Dietrich smoothed back his hair one more time, then followed Kozer.

The dining hall was across the parade ground from the barracks, and Dietrich saw uneasily that most of the prisoners were outside either kicking around a soccer ball, or commenting on the two teams. Only a few men, men he recognized from the boat, were headed for the same door as he and Kozer.

Inside, the tables were set against the walls in a U-shape, leaving the middle of the room clear. Oberst Beckmann sat at the head table, with two other colonels on his left, and a major on his right. At the other tables were other officers.

Twenty gazes were pinned on Dietrich as he entered and saluted. He felt at a disadvantage since he was the first to arrive. He knew this kind of court from the past, and every crease in his uniform or missing button would be held against him.

Minutes passed and the other officers entered and took up position in four rows, Dietrich at the head. He felt the tension in his legs, making them quiver. When was this going to be over with?

A harsh noise almost made him jump. The man beside him did, and went ashen in fear.

Beckmann had shoved back his chair and was now standing at attention. The others followed suit. Finally, the colonel thrust out his arm, "Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!" chorused the newcomers as one. They returned the salute.

Beckmann padded quietly came around the table and walked down the line of officers, reviewing them.

Dietrich felt a burn of dislike coursing through him but hid it. Who did Beckmann think he was? Adolf Hitler? Suddenly, he realized that Beckmann, in this camp, was as powerful as any Reichmarshal. He was in command. It behooved Hans Dietrich to not offend him. This man had the power of life and death over him. He might be a prisoner like Dietrich but only a fool would believe it.

Beckmann eyed Dietrich's profile, then nodded slightly to himself. He stepped back to in front of the table. "I am Oberst Beckmann of the Afrika Korps! I am in charge of this camp! Nothing takes place here without my knowledge, is this understood?"

"Jawhol!" they chorused.

"The Americans are weak and stupid, but we are still their prisoners for now. They know nothing about who they really face. I speak to their commander, Captain Bushnell, and I alone! Is that clear?"

"Jawhol!"

"Here there are books, and the radio, though all the news about Germany that it broadcasts are lies. You will find many opportunities if you wish to learn. We will learn about you as well. Who you are. What you are," Beckmann said harshly, "a son of the Fatherland or a traitor to the Reich? Traitors are punished in the usual way. Do I make myself clear?"

"Ja!"

"Good. You are dismissed!"

"Jawhol!"

With one movement, the men saluted and turned on their heel to file out of the room.

"You, Major Dietrich, stay behind," Beckman ordered.

Dietrich faced him, standing at rigid attention. He heard the last of the boots go over the threshold, and became aware of the silence that now filled the room. Only the men behind Beckmann's table had stayed, leaving the four of them, and Dietrich.

Unexpectedly, Beckmann folded his arm. "Do you remember me, Hauptmann Dietrich?"

Hauptmann? He shook his head. "Nein, Herr Oberst."

"Back in North Africa. We met on the drive towards Tripoli. I was in charge of a camp of prisoners while you commanded a reconnaissance patrol."

Dietrich struggled to think back that far. France, Norway, Russia...North Africa. Back when war was almost enjoyable. "I did that for many months, sir. Among other duties."

"I heard about what happened to you often, Major. You met up with the verdammant soldier Sergeant Sam Troy and his band of underlings," Beckmann said with a layer of bitterness that took Dietrich back.

Troy? How did Troy come into this? "Sergeant Troy of the Rat Patrol?"

"And his British partner as well as the other two who drove their Kubelwagons."

"Jeeps, sir."

Beckmann shrugged. "I don't care what they were called, Major. He made you look like a fool many times, didn't he?"

Dietrich knew he was standing in an explosive minefield. How did Beckmann know Troy and have such bitterness against him? Better to agree until he knew more. "Ja, Herr Oberst. Too often."

"Do you know anything about where he is now?" Beckmann demanded.

"Probably in France, sir, unless he and the others are dead," Dietrich replied. "I suspect that they are in the advance of the Allied attack -- "

"Which will fail!" one of the men behind the table said. The light of fanaticism was in his eyes. "We will drive them back to the coast of France and drown them like rats!"

Dietrich raised his chin. "That would be difficult, sir. There are many of them."

"And you couldn't even dispose of four rats," Beckmann said sharply. "I will be watching you, Herr Major. You speak English, ja?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well enough to escape unnoticed?" Beckmann persisted.

Was this a trap? Dietrich thought. What did Beckmann really want? "I once impersonated an American, sir, and infiltrated their camp."

"Good. Good. I will remember that," Beckmann said. "You will have a man assigned to you to look after your needs."

"Hauptmann Kozer mentioned it. "

"You are in his room, yes. Excellent. You are dismissed, Herr Major!" Dietrich saluted and clicked his heels.

Outside he could feel his uniform blouse under his coat was wet with sweat. If the men around Beckmann followed their leader, then they were the hardest of the Afrika Korps, all true believers. Dietrich had seen too many rotting corpses of his own men to believe in the Third Reich any longer. Somehow he had to avoid being swept into their group.

Over the next several weeks, Dietrich settled into the camp's regimen. Gruber was a life-saver since the little man was not only honored that Dietrich had selected him, but had the pulse of the enlisted ranks. He cheerfully related gossip with Dietrich when they were alone in the room but kept silent when Kozer was there. Gruber also repaired the only uniform Dietrich had, and generally kept 'his' officer neatly turned out.

Kozer's one attempt to get Gruber to help his man, Kraken, out, ended with both officers having to intervene. Kraken was taciturn to a fault, and sullen.

The camp was as highly structured as the German Army. Roll call, breakfast, classes, free time. Too much free time. Dietrich quickly fell in with the athletes and played soccer to fill the empty hours, but at the end of the day he was bored out of his mind. The camp newspapers were a vast source of fascination to him, and he briefly flirted with the thought of writing for them, but gave that up when his efforts were rejected. The English lessons were far more basic that Dietrich needed. The books in the prison library were heavy into German classics, and the few in English were dog-eared. The danger at being at loose ends was that he might get swept into any of the small groups. This ran from the hardcore Nazi supporters who were very strict and had most of the camp in fear of retribution, and the intellectuals who discussed a single line in Goethe until Dietrich wished he had a time machine and could go back and slaughter the man.

Dietrich had another problem as well. Oberst Beckmann. He was sure that the colonel was spying on him using Kozer and Kraken. Why? He hadn't done anything. Not even when questioned by the Americans had he given them important information. What did Beckmann want from him?

Gruber supplied part of the answer one day as he was chattering aloud.

"What was that?" Dietrich said, looking up from the newspaper.

"The Americans are going to finally take Oberst Beckmann to trial, Herr Major."

"Trial? For what, Gruber?"

"Back in North Africa, sir, he was in charge of a prison camp with American and British prisoners," Gruber explained. "Many of them died under questioning. The Americans accused him of torturing them to death. He was going to be tried when he was first captured, but there were so many prisoners, and the Americans didn't know what to do with him, so they sent him over here. According to Frank, they now have the evidence they need -- "

"Torture!" Dietrich said in shock, feeling shaken. The past shook and settled into place. Like Beckmann, Dietrich had run an interrogation camp. Something else, along with Sergeant Troy, that he now had in common with the colonel. He suspected that he'd been more merciful than Beckmann. Dietrich only hung the members of the underground after he was certain of their guilt. There hadn't been too many of them either. Thank God. "He tortured them to death?"

Gruber flinched slightly. Any sign of temper and the little man shut up. "They say it was very harsh, sir. The Americans are going to try him on the basis of what some survivors said."

And I have no doubt that one of those men would be Sam Troy, Dietrich thought. Is that why Beckmann is watching me? Because I also knew Troy? He felt this incredible urge to escape the camp and just disappear before Beckmann cornered him. There wasn't probably much more that Dietrich could tell the colonel about Troy, but being connected with Beckmann and his trial would taint him in the eyes of the Americans.

"Gruber, how do I get on a work party?"

The man gaped at him. "Work party, sir?"

"Yes. Outside the camp."

"Planning to escape?" Kozer asked coming in, his eyes alight with mischief. "You are the best able to survive out there, Hans."

Dietrich didn't let his expression show his distrust. "I am sick of this barbed wire!"

"So you will work for the Americans?" Kozer needled.

"Working for the Americans keeps us fed here," Dietrich said, with a shrug. "Even you have gone out once or twice."

"Ja. The Americans aren't friendly." Kozer shrugged. "The girls ignored me when I went out, and their men didn't appreciate my sense of humor."

Wounded ego. "I would be working," Dietrich replied, slightly amused. "I do not expect their attentions."

Gruber chuckled, then shrank as both men looked at him.

"You had something to say?" Kozer asked icily.

"Nein, Herr Hauptmann!" Gruber said with a quiver of fear

"I thought you were learning English now," Dietrich interposed to save his man. "Do you want to practice it?"

Kozer switched his gaze to Dietrich. "Oberst Beckmann wishes to see you, Herr Major. He is in the library."

Dietrich felt ice going down his spine. With what Gruber had said earlier, this could be a dangerous summons. "I will go to him immediately, Hauptmann. Danke."

He took a deep breath before stepping over the threshold. Beckmann was at a table flipping through a volume of Grimms Fairy Tales. Dietrich thought it appropriate. One of Beckmann's flunkeys stood by the wall, his arms crossed.

"Major Dietrich. Kozer found you then," Beckmann said, leaning back on the table.

Dietrich came to attention in front of him. Anything else would be disrespectful and the danger was almost palpable in the room. Beckmann was after something. "Jawhol, Herr Oberst."

"I asked you before about the Rat Patrol and Sergeant Sam Troy. Do you still remember him?"

"How could I forget him?" Dietrich asked. "He made me into the laughing stock of the Afrika Korps several times."

"How? Tell me how!"

Dietrich wondered in puzzlement what Beckmann was really after. "He tricked me by using one of our own tanks to destroy one of my outposts. He met with the French Resistance to destroy our bases, he...he did many things."

"Lie to you?" Beckmann said angrily. "He was a liar?"

Liar? Dietrich could not call Sam Troy a liar anymore than he could call himself one. Their game had been done more by bluff than a mask of lies. "No, sir. I would not say Sergeant Troy was a liar."

"Would not or could not? Didn't he lie to you, Herr Major?"

Dietrich hesitated. He sent his mind back to North Africa wondering if he could remember a moment when Sam Troy had definitively lied to him. Nothing came to mind. "I don't remember, Herr Oberst -- "

Beckmann slammed the book onto the table. It sounded like a shot. "He lied to you, Herr Major. That is an order."

"Order?" Dietrich felt like he was in a trap. "Why, sir?"

Beckman surged menacingly off the table-top. "That doesn't matter, Major. It is an order. If you are questioned about Sergeant Sam Troy, he lied to you. Constantly."

"But he didn't, sir. He and the others were honest men -- " Dietrich said imprudently, then stopped. Fool!

The colonel shook his finger under Dietrich's nose, his face purpled with anger. "He lied, Major! You are the only other man here who had dealt with him other than me! Sergeant Troy was out to kill as many of us as he could and it didn't matter how, do you understand? He was an untrustworthy foe, and I expect you to say that if asked! Do you understand?"

"Jawhol, Herr Oberst." Dietrich saluted and took his wave as a dismissal and went outside

Lie? Why would Beckmann be so emphatic unless he was scared of Troy? Was Sam Troy here? Nein, of course not. But he must have left a report. Was Beckmann was scared that Dietrich would have to comment on it in front of the American judges? If Troy's testimony against Beckmann was discredited, then Beckmann might escape whatever charges the Americans had against him. Was Troy the only witness? Maybe the only survivor of Beckmann's interrogation camp? "Maybe the best witness," Dietrich said aloud. He pulled out a precious hoarded cigarette and lit it. His hands were shaking, and he admonished himself for losing control.

What am I going to do? I have to get out of here. Get on that work party as soon as I can. If I am not here, the Americans cannot ask me questions, and I won't have to lie for Oberst Beckmann. "I will have to talk to Gruber and find out how to do this." He set off for the barracks, noting that as he passed some fellow officers they stopped talking and eyed him warily. He was a marked man.

The rain poured down the slanted roofs and dripped into the long ditches that ran alongside the main road through camp. Mud was everywhere from the polished boots of the officers to the crepe-backed shoes of the enlisted men. Every wooden plank that led to the barracks was coated with it.

Dietrich hated the rain with a passion. It kept him trapped in what was becoming an increasingly dangerous situation. The barracks was full of men, full of pent-up energy and frustrations. Personally, he was afraid of the moment when the Americans came for Beckmann.

He didn't show his fear. Lying on his bunk, reading a copy of Faust from the library, he was acutely aware of the movements of everyone else in the room, but he didn't let it show. Across the way, Kozer was writing another letter to his wife.

An American lieutenant, followed by two guards, came inside. "Major Dietrich?"

Is this it? Dietrich stood up, discarding his book on the bunk. "Jawhol?"

"Captain Bushnell wants to see you, sir."

One smooth blond eyebrow went up in curiosity. Bushnell was rarely seen. He ran the camp from afar, leaving the day-to-day workings to a trusted underling, Captain Day.

Dietrich nodded, and put on his tunic. Setting it on his hair, he made sure it was straight. He was the spitting image of a well-polished tank commander, thanks to Gruber, and only he knew that it was safer outside the room than in it. He didn't let his qualms show as he followed the lieutenant. The guards brought up the rear.

The officer led him to the administration building, and into an office where Commander Bushnell was watching staring out of the window at the rain. He turned and acknowledged Dietrich's salute with his own.

“You have requested to go out on a work party, Major Dietrich,” Bushnell said in a voice that was as raw as a bad cold could make it. He stood stiffly by the window, tilting the request so he could read it by the faint light. “Why?”

“Why not, sir?”

“That’s not a good enough answer, mister!” Bushnell snapped, wheeling about to face him, then putting out his hand to catch himself as his stiff leg caught.

“I would like some work,” Dietrich replied simply. “I have read the books, played soccer…I wish something to do!”

Bushnell studied him. Under the thin sandy moustache, his lips twitched in amusement. “It's rare that I get a request like this from a man of your rank, Major. You understand that I’m suspicious of your motives.”

“If you know my background, sir, then you know that if I give my word not to escape, I will keep it.”

“Oh, really?”

Dietrich stiffened at the slight note of skepticism. “I am a German officer, sir!”

“Yep. I’ve seen the file on you as well, Major. Didn't you once masquerade as an American officer?"

"That was a long time ago, sir, during the course of a mission in North Africa."

"You must have been fairly convincing. The report on that incident was that you nearly destroyed a depot before being discovered. Then you escaped."

That was a very complete file, Dietrich thought wryly. Who would have dreamed that was in his dossier? Was there also a mention that the information he'd stolen was completely false? The Americans won again. "I wish to do something, Captain, other than play soccer! I will give you the word of a Wehrmacht officer that I will not escape."

"I'm agreeing to this, Major, because I've had a lot of your type here for the last couple of years, and they’ve never broken their word,” Bushnell replied, his words laced with amusement.

Dietrich realized that he had been testing him. Why should he have to prove himself to this officer? Well, I am still his prisoner. He squelched the thought that he could escape if Bushnell trusted him this much. Of course, there was a faster way of killing his honor. For example, lie as Beckmann wanted him to.

“Tomorrow, Major, a busload of POWs will be going out to work in a small camp nearby. It's probably several weeks working in the orchards. Let’s see how that goes.”

“What kind of work is it, sir?” Dietrich asked. His back ached from standing at attention.

“Apple picking. The crop's ripe, and farmers up there in the mountains are short of help with the men gone to fight.” Bushnell studied him closely seeing a slight look of surprise. “You’ll have a squad of eight men, Major, and the guards. Think you can handle it?”

Dietrich was taken aback by the question. He’d fought through the North African campaign, Norway, and France, and this man, this officer, was asking if he could handle eight men for apple-picking detail?

“That will not be a problem,” he said unable to hide a slight edge to his tone.

Bushnell smiled grimly. “I didn’t think so. The bus leaves at eight. You’re dismissed, Major.”

Dietrich saluted, Bushnell reciprocated and the German left with a click of his heels. He made sure it didn't look like he was running away.

The unprepossessing truck had no roof. Two long planks ran down each side where the prisoners could sit, along with their guards.

Dietrich felt undressed in his dark blue POW-issue work clothing Like the others he had a change of clothing which would be deposited at the temporary quarters where they would spend the nights They'd left their uniforms back in the barracks. He hoped his would still be there when he returned.

The Americans didn’t expect trouble, Dietrich saw with hidden amusement. There were only two guards and they looked scarcely older than the men they guarded. It would be easy to escape…if I hadn’t given my word. He recognized one guard as Frank Miller, who was usually assigned to the enlisted end of the camp, and a friend of Gruber's. The little man sat next to Dietrich, his head up and looking about eagerly. It was a tourist excursion for Gruber.

The other American guard, Albert Peterson, was built like a scarecrow but was really much stronger than he looked. Dietrich had seen him take on one of the more insolent prisoners and beat him into a mass of bruises. Peterson had little sense of humor, and an eagle-eye for insolence. It didn’t pay to run afoul of him.

The POWs stiffened to attention when Dietrich came out, and he acknowledged it with a salute. With a wave of his hand, they silently climbed into the back of the truck.

It was the sudden attention of the soldiers that made Dietrich turn his head to the right. Captain Bushnell was on the porch, leaning heavily on an ironwood cane. Dietrich swiveled and saluted.

Bushnell returned the salute carefully so as not to unbalance himself. “Have a good time, Major. I’ll see you when you return.”

There was nothing to be said to that. Dietrich nodded stiffly, and walked over to the truck. He lithely climbed into the back, and the guards climbed in after him. Other guards slammed shut the truck gate and slid on the latches.

The truck jerked forward, heading towards the front gates.

Dietrich met the suspicious gazes of Beckmann and Kozer. The latter was sucking on a cigarette, but turned and spat as he met Dietrich’s eyes. They questioned his motives. Let them.

With a vast sense of relief, Dietrich left the camp behind

Four hours later, they arrived at the barn where they’d be domiciled for this duty. It sat on the outskirts of a small town which had probably grown up around the railroad depot that sat at one end. Little houses with porches, now cluttered with fallen scarlet leaves, had American flags waving in the slight breeze. Ancient trucks on balding tires were parked alongside the curb of the small business area. Store windows carried on the patriotic theme from having a Join The Army! display to posters suggesting that the townspeople join the Navy, WACs or WAVES. Beyond the small town, rolling hills were covered with trees.

Activity ceased when the truck pulled up to a large barn. Five farmers leaned against the wall, chatting amongst themselves, probably waiting for the prisoners. It was incredibly bucolic to Dietrich. The last time he had been on a farm , it had boarded horses and he’d fallen in love with his wife. Now, she was so very far away and he didn’t know when he’d see her again. He jumped down first, and waited for the others.

A boy panted up, a knapsack on his back. No one had time to warn him of the smaller boy with a smug expression came up behind him, and with one yank, pulled the bag. The first boy nearly fell backwards as his books scattered over the road. One landed in the mud at Dietrich’s feet.

The boy turned and punched his attacker in the stomach, taking his assailant by surprise. He followed up by clenching his fist and hitting him smartly on the nose.

Dietrich was startled as the bully fell against him sending them both into the farmers, then to the ground. The prisoners scrambled down off the truck to protect him but the fight was already over by that time. One farmer held the small boy by the collar.

Peterson came boiling down from the cab. “Hey, what’s going on here?”

“Jemmie Fitz, what do ya think you’re doin’?” the farmer asked in exasperation. “Your pa’s gonna have something to say to ya about this! How’re you doin’, Mack? You got a nice hit in there.”

The first young man, Mack, shrugged. “Fine, Mr. McCarthy, just fine. He didn’t lay a finger on me. But my books are all over the place.”

Dietrich picked himself up, and brushed at the dirt on his pants.

He picked up the book at his feet, and his attention was caught by the title. The Caves of Amaranth. He unobtrusively flipped through it. Middle Eastern archeology? In a backwater Kentucky town? His eyes were caught by the title page. Professor J. Moffitt, Sr., Cambridge University, 1943.

Would he never escape North Africa? It all flooded back to him. This was probably Sergeant Jack Moffitt's father. Moffitt was Troy's partner, an archeologist-cum-bomb specialist. Along with Privates Pettigrew and Hitchcock, the four men he'd played a game of frustrated cat-and-mouse with, with no one winning until that last battle where he’d finally captured the badly-wounded set of commandos. It had hardly been a fair fight by then. One was supposedly dead, the others wounded or captured. He never felt like he'd won over the Rat Patrol.

“Thanks, I’ll take that, mister,” Mack said boldly, holding out his hand. He looked as if he were uncertain if he was going to get the book back, but he put his chin up. Did he expect to have to fight for it? From his run-in with Jemmie, who was getting harangued by the farmer, he probably did expect a battle with a total stranger.

For a second Dietrich saw himself through Mack’s eyes and realized how foreign he looked to the Americans. Blond, blue eyed and muscular, he looked like a poster of an Aryan superman. “A nice fight,” he said in English. “Your book is on North Africa?”

“Yep.” Mack stowed it in his knapsack and closed the straps. “I met the guy who wrote it – nice old guy.”

“I used to know a sergeant by that name.”

Mack looked curious. His blue eyes lit up. “Yeah?”

"But I think he might be the son of the author."

“Major,” one of guards called hesitantly. It broke the tentative bond between the German and the boy. Mack stepped away and Dietrich, with a second’s hesitation, turned back to the group. “Your assignment’s comin’.”

He waved towards a woman who was hurrying down the road. “Oh, Mack, I’m sorry I’m late but you’re here just in time," she called.

She’s too young to look that tired, was Dietrich’s first thought. Annaliese would never look like that.

“I just got outta school, Ma,” Mack said affectionately, putting his arms around her and giving her a hug.

He could see the resemblance between the two. She had the same brown hair as her son, though it was tied back under a scarf. The small-plaid brown dress looked a size too large for her slight frame. Not a particularly pretty woman, she had a sweet smile that she bestowed on her son, and very fine brown eyes. The smile faded as she looked at Dietrich.

“Are you my help?” she inquired. "Up at the orchard?"

Peterson came over with a paper in his hand. “Miz Pettigrew?”

Dietrich felt like he’d been hit with a small jolt of electricity. Pettigrew? It can’t be. He looked at the young man. Was he related the Pettigrew he knew? They were both from Kentucky. No, they are probably a large family.

“Yes, I’m Laura Pettigrew,” she said gaily holding out her hand.

Peterson shook it. “You applied for some help with your apple crop?”

“Yes.”

Peterson nodded. “Then four of them are with you, Miz Pettigrew. I’m assigned to the others, so Frank Miller will be going with you.” He wheeled on his heel. “Gruber, Schmit, Franz, Bruening, you’re going with this lady. The rest of you--”

“And what about me?” Dietrich asked.

Peterson glanced at him suspiciously. “You, Major?”

Dietrich affected nonchalance even though he desperately wanted to go with the Pettigrew party. “Yes. Where do I go?”

Peterson's eyes narrowed. “Thought I’d keep you around me, Major.”

“I have given my parole, and as a German officer, my word is my bond,” Dietrich said stiffly. His voice had a touch of anger in it. “However, these others aren’t officers.”

“What – they might escape?” Peterson snapped.

“Hell, Al, let me have ‘im,” Miller cut in peaceably. He turned to Laura, who was watching curiously. “One more set of hands can’t hurt. You got a lot of acreage, ma’am?”

“Fair amount…ah, Corporal?”

He smiled. “Yes, ma’am. We can use you, Major."

“Then, I’m holdin’ you responsible for him,” Peterson said coldly, folding up his papers. “You get back here by five p.m. for roll call, Miller.”

“Yeah, sure,” Miller said, shouldering his carbine. “Come along, Major.”

Dietrich wheeled on his heel and barked an order. The POWs stiffened to attention, then separated as he ordered them into two groups. Turning back to Peterson and Miller, he nodded. “We are ready.”

The two Americans exchanged glances. That amount of discipline showed up their own lack. “Yeah, I guess you are,” Miller said with a trace of uncertainty. “Miz Pettigrew?”

She smiled. “This way, gentlemen.” She started off up the path, Dietrich and Mack fell in behind her, and the four other prisoners followed in marching order. Miller brought up the rear.

A half-hour later they walked up a winding path that led to the aging two-storied farmhouse. The paint was flaking off the wood in large strips, leaving expanses of weathered wood. Sometime in the last couple of years, the gabled roof had been repaired from a weathered patch that almost matched the older shingles but he still saw tattered tarpaper poking out where shingles had fallen. The veranda that ran around three sides had a dusting of leaves in the corners, and the floor was uneven where the wood was warped. The broken windows had been bordered up with cardboard.. The Pettigrew home suffered from a lack of money and a good carpenter.

Three huge wooden barrels, banded with rusted iron, sat on the edge of the lawn as if waiting for a truck.

“We got the baskets around the back,” Mack said turning to Frank Miller who was panting from the hike. “I’ll be out in a minute, Corp. Gotta get out of my school clothes before Ma kills me.”

Miller grinned. “No problem, kid. Anywhere we can get some water?”

“We got a pump next to the baskets. You need to use the outhouse, you’ll see it back there too. Out beyond the chicken coop.”

A rooster stared at them as they passed, then went back to strutting around the clucking hens who were pecking at some fallen corn. None of them looked fat.

Outhouse? Dietrich was intrigued by the word. What did the young man mean?

He found out as soon as the group trooped around the corner to take turns emptying their bladders. The outhouse was set up to overlook the crest of the hill. Through the slatted windows, it would have a wonderful view of the orchard. If this was the only toilet the house had, it must be colder than the Russian Front in winter.

A shiver went down his back as he fastened his pants. Russia? No, the thought of winter. He would be back in the camp then, dealing with Beckmann and his demands. What might happen in the stillness of the night watches if he didn't lie was something the former Panzer commander didn’t want to contemplate.

A nondescript dog came around the corner barking, but wagging his tail. When Dietrich held out his hand, the dog licked it thoroughly.

“Right, let’s get started,” Miller said with a nervous laugh, looking at the five men.

“Where do we put the apples?” Dietrich asked, not moving. “When we have picked them, where do we store them?”

Miller stared at him blankly, then flushed. “Yeah, let’s wait for Mack to come back and tell us.”

Dietrich realized that he was hardly being fair to the young man by confronting him in front of the others but their guard had no idea of what he was doing.

Again he had the nagging thought that he could escape with ease from this farm. He spoke English well enough to pass as an American – he had proven that in one raid back in North Africa. If he could get the money… Nein. I gave my word. And this young corporal has enough problems. I shall have to train him to run an outfit. The humor struck him and he almost chuckled, barely catching himself in time. This was a ludicrous situation.

Mack came out the backdoor, wearing worn coveralls over a faded red shirt and work boots. “Hey, what’s up? Oh, you got Roland.”

"Roland?"

"My dog. Here I'll put him inside so he doesn't get underfoot." He whistled and the dog came over at a run.

Miller flicked a glance at Dietrich, then turned to Mack. “Where do we take the apples once we got them picked, Mack?”

“Oh, yeah, right. There're some barrels down by the house. One of the farmers will be picking them up tomorrow, and drop off new ones that he'll pick up in two days after that. We set it up before you guys said we could have some help. That’s why we only got three.”

Miller looked relieved. “What’ll we do with the rest of them?”

Mack shrugged. “Well, we got an old car but it doesn’t run. We can fill the trunk. Listen, tell your guys that if they pick some of the duds, like bird-pecked or stuff like that, put ‘em on the porch. Ma’s gonna make apple jelly. If you find any honey or berries, we could use them to. Bake some pies and sell them in town for the city trade.”

Miller turned to Dietrich. “Major, can you tell them?”

Dietrich nodded and turned to the men, who automatically stood at attention. From the corner of his eye he saw Mack and Miller’s startled expressions. So, let them see how the German Army worked. He repeated Mack’s request, and added that if he caught anyone trying to sabotage the crop, he would personally make them regret it. “We are ready, Corporal,” Dietrich concluded, turning to Miller and Mack, who were eyeing him with respect. “These are the baskets?”

“Uh, yeah.”

The wooden baskets were stacked to one side. They looked old and decrepit and Dietrich hoped they’d last out the harvest. He also hoped there wouldn't be too many splinters in his hands by the end of this job.

“Okay, I’ll take Gruber, you take…uh, well, you sort them out, Major,” Miller said flustered.

“Mack!” Laura had come out onto the porch during the conversation and was instantly the center of all eyes. From their expressions, the others hadn’t seen a woman for quite a while. Dietrich eyed them warningly. He was well aware of the consequences of anyone even touching an American. “Would you bring in some firewood before you get started? And put that dog outside on the leash!"

“Sure, Ma,” Mack said cheerfully. “Gonna start the canning?”

She smiled wearily. “Got to sterilize the jars first. Thank you so much for coming, folks,” she said directly at Dietrich, then extended it to the other men. “We needed you.”

They must have understood the sentiment if not the words because everyone straightened up at the sound of honest appreciation. Dietrich vowed to make them worth the compliment. “We will do our best, Frau Pettigrew,” he replied in English.

“What’s your name? And theirs?” she asked, leaning against the post that held up the sagging roof of the veranda.

He stiffened. “I am Major Hans Dietrich, Fifth Panzar Army. This is Franz Gruber…..”

“Dietrich?” she mused, her eyes half-closing. “Huh. That sounds familiar.”

Can this really be the same Pettigrew? Were they the family of the man he’d known in North Africa? If he remembered correctly that man had been from Tennessee or Kentucky. Mein Gott, that was a long time ago! I visited Private Pettigrew before he was returned in a prisoner-exchange. I thought he wouldn’t live but he did. I know. He was in Norway with the others.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said conclusively. “Mack, the wood.”

Dietrich realized it was time to get started. “Gruber, you go with Corporal Miller. Bruening, come with me. You others, take baskets and start at the far end. Do not go out of sight of each other.”

They saluted and silently picked up their baskets. Time for work. The day was getting hotter and hotter, and humidity was sinking through their clothing, making them sweat.

The orchard started at the bottom of a hill, ran over the crest and down to the river on the other side. The wooden baskets had splinters, but the prisoners soon fell into a rhythm of plucking the lower apples, then using an old apple hook that Mack found to loot the upper branches. It didn’t take long before competition broke out between the pairs as to who could pick faster, and the joking started up.

Dietrich shook his head when he saw Miller had put his carbine down to help Gruber with the picking. The young man was no soldier.

Unfortunately, Dietrich hadn’t managed to get Mack as his partner so he could discover if these were the Pettigrews he remembered, so he picked mostly in silence. Bruening was intimidated and didn’t speak unless spoken to.

The day was only beginning to darken when Miller called them back. “We gotta be back by five, remember?” he said shouldering his carbine. He was sunburned from the fierce sun.

Dietrich looked around in dissatisfaction. It wouldn’t be too dark for another two hours. “We have time, Corporal.”

Miller shook his head. “Sorry, Major, but I gotta follow the rules. I know we can do more now but I promised Peterson we’d be back on time.”

The others looked disgruntled but fell in line. They carried their baskets to the barrels and gently poured the apples inside. They had managed to fill just a barrel and a half.

Mack wiped his hand on his sweaty forehead. “Good job, Major.”

“They are not filled,” Dietrich observed coldly.

“Better than I coulda done alone though,” Mack said disarmingly. “Ma and I took a couple of days to do a barrel.”

“Your mother has been in the orchard?” Dietrich was disturbed at the thought. Why? She was a farmer’s wife and probably had done lots of manual labor. Which is why she looks so tired? Undoubtedly.

Mack shrugged. “Gotta bring in the crop. Got the duds?”

Gruber came forward with a bundle full of bruised and battered apples. They had used his POW jacket as a bag. He started to tip them on the veranda when Dietrich ordered him to put it in one of the baskets.

“Tell your mother that we will be back tomorrow. Earlier if possible,” Dietrich said abruptly. “We will fill all the barrels you have.”

“Jordie will be by around noon to take these out and leave more,” Mack said.

“The barrels will be filled by noon,” Dietrich cut him off. “Tell your mother that.”

“Yes, sir…uh, yeah, Major,” Mack replied taken off balance.

Dietrich turned to Miller. “We are ready to go, Corporal Miller?”

Miller looked slightly unnerved but nodded. He was obviously intimidated by Dietrich. “Yeah. Form—“

Dietrich snapped a command and the others fell into marching order. “We are ready.”

Miller nodded and waved them on. Dietrich led the way, not looking back to see if Laura had come out.

She was beginning to obsess him. He had been too long without a woman. Annaliese was too far away, and dreams paled in comparison with reality. Dietrich remembered his own wife back in Germany and wondered if she would ever see American prisoners. What would she do? Exactly what Laura Pettigrew should do.. Keep her distance.

He wondered if God was watching over his soul because when they returned to the barn, Peterson handed out some mail from camp. There was a letter for him from his wife. He forgot all about Laura Pettigrew as he opened the censor-read letter, and retreated to a corner of the room.

The envelope was fatter than he expected and it was because of the two photographs that tumbled out onto his crossed legs.

Annaliese! He didn‘t want to ask where she might have gotten the Reichmarks to get a picture taken for him, but she stared at him, her brown eyes wide, with a big smile on her lips. The dress was one that he’d never liked. What happened to the others he'd given her?

Her letter stunned him. He leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

He was a father. His daughter had been born that summer just about the same time he'd been captured.

Little Katrina was the darling of her grandfather's eye, Annaliese wrote. The old man kept an eye on the baby when her mother went to work. The family visited the local park, and the fountain had been on for the first time in longer than Annaliese remembered. They went to the stables in Pfozheim to see the stables where Dietrich first met the round-faced brunette, and fallen in love with her. The letter was full of his daughter, thought there was nothing about the war, about what she was probably going through.

Dietrich's world expanded suddenly. A daughter? Not a son? What would a soldier do with a baby girl? How were they really? Did he want to hear that she was miserable and cold, and that their child was probably under Allied bombs as he sat in this barn? No, not that. Well, maybe. The truth. That was what he wanted. The truth.

With a sigh, he folded up the paper and put it back in his pocket. It would be a shield against the attraction of Laura. Maybe he'd dream of Annaliese tonight and wake up happy.

Outside he heard the whistle of a train. It would stop at the depot, let off its passengers, then go on to the eastern seaboard where he might be able to get to Canada, and back to Germany, and his wife. He could just walk away from the other men in the room. What was honor compared with a new life?

Boisterous laughing caught his attention. Gruber was fending off the jokes of the other men. His face and hands were splotchy and swollen. "What happened to you, Gefreiter?"

"I found a honeycomb, Major," Gruber admitted. "I gave it to Frau Pettigrew but there were still the bees. She has given me some ointment for the stings. Her son translated but he doesn't speak German very well."

"The others are jealous that you actually saw her," Dietrich joked, studying him. Lucky that he wasn't allergic, or he'd be very dead. "Do you still have some bees on you?"

Gruber looked horrified. "Nein!"

They all laughed.

Miller grinned. "I made him strip to make sure, Major, but the bees were all gone. Dinner's served!"

Dietrich followed the men. Their happy chatter filled the room as they exchanged stories about their day. It looked very normal. It would all change in an instant if the Americans knew what Dietrich was thinking about. He'd be back in Camp Crowe before moonrise.

If I leave now, I have no honor. When I have finished my job here, and before I have to testify, I will escape camp. Somehow. Somehow.

By the time the farmer pulled up in his rickety truck, the work party had filled the remaining barrels, and several filled baskets sat on the porch waiting for the new barrels. Laura came out of the house to greet the grizzled man and his partner, a tall lanky man with one eye hidden by a patch. The heat of the kitchen had taken the curl out of her brown hair, and even the bandanna she wore over it was limp. The blue plaid dress was patched..

The weather had turned sharply colder and there was a touch of fall in the air that hadn’t been there the day before.

Dietrich left Gruber and Bruening loading the barrels on the truck and unload the new ones. Mack was sitting on the porch steps, his chin on his folded arms, as she walked back. She turned and laid her hand on Gruber’s arm, startling the little man, and spoke, then went inside. Saying thank you again? Probably. A nice woman.

Mack sprang up and followed her inside.

“Fine woman that,” Schmidt said cheerfully as he returned to the trees. “I wish I could take her out here and make her happy." His expression said very clearly that the term 'happy' was an euphemism.

“And they’ll hang you for touching her,” Dietrich answered, more sharply than he’d planned. “Do not think of touching anyone, Schmidt. You have read the newspapers!"

“Ah, he thinks that every woman would be so overwhelmed that she’d not tell!” Bruening commented from the top of the next tree.

Hoots of derision came from the others.

“In this part of the country, they won’t wait for an Army court marshal,” Dietrich called. “They will just shoot you. I knew a man from Kentucky once – he was an expert with a slingshot.”

“Ja?” Bruening sounded skeptical. “Sling-shot?”

“Don't sneer! He saved his patrol with it. They were trapped without any water. He killed one of my guards with it, then stole his truck. They all escaped that time. So, respect Frau Pettigrew or I will not wait for the US Army to convict you. I will hang you from the highest branch of these trees, myself!”

The others were cowed into silence. For the next half-hour, there was only the sound was the rustling of leaves and an occasional curse when the apples fell to the ground rather than into the men’s hands.

Dietrich knew that they would take him seriously now. All in all, they were good men, though as ribald as soldiers generally were. Tonight there would much boasting, out of his earshot, of the beauty of Laura Pettigrew. Just enough to make the other troop of corn-pickers jealous, but they wouldn’t lay a finger on the woman now that he had given the order.

Mack came out to join them, assigning himself to Dietrich's tree. He used the pruning hook to pull down branches.

Schmidt began to sing in German, an old folk song and the others joined in, except Dietrich, who raised an eyebrow, but just pulled at the last apple.

Mack turned to him. "What's that?"

"It's a drinking song."

"Really? What does it mean?"

"That all a man needs in the world is beer and women."

Mack laughed, and looped another branch, dragging it down. "Funny, that's what I heard but not like that. I got a couple'a books in German back at the house but I don't have a good dictionary."

"German books?" Dietrich dumped an armful of apples in a basket. "What are they about?"

"Archeology, a lot. I used'a read some of those old legends, you know, the ones with rings and dragons, but that was in English. I got one of them in German before the war, but the words...well, it just doesn't really match," Mack said resignedly. "I wish I could learn German. Proper German. I only know a couple of words."

"Why not?" Dietrich asked. He saw the other men had moved to trees farther away from his. "I am sure the American Army would appreciate someone who spoke my language."

"Yeah, but I'm not going into the Army 'cause Mom's here alone. I'm exempt," Mack said disconsolately. "They need people on the farms."

The urge to be a soldier had left Dietrich a long time ago. The glories of combat and winning were glossed over with defeat and imprisonment. Mack's dreams were falser than the fairy tales he'd read, but he would never make the boy understand that. "It is safer here."

Hating himself for that comment, he went around the other side of the tree. Finally, driven by the silence, he added, "I will help you with your German if you want."

The boy looked eagerly. "Would you? Gosh, that would be great!"

"If you bring the book down -- Mein Gott!" Dietrich swore and dumped the apples. A wasp crawled out of one of the fallen fruit, and flew away. He looked at his hand which had been scored by the broken wood of the basket. Blood showed against his dirty skin.

Mack eyed his wounded hand. "Come on up to the house, Major, and let Mom put somethin' on that. I can show you a book and then we can get back to work."

"That is hardly proper of me to ask for your mother's help," Dietrich said stiffly. "It would be an imposition."

Mack snorted. "If that gets infected, she'd let me know about it. This is hill country, Major, and you're here to help. Ain't heard of no problems with you folks up here. Hey, Frank!" He turned to the guard who stood several trees down laughing with Gruber who was up among the branches. "Got a scrape! Taking him up to the house!"

Frank nodded and waved, then went back to his work.

Feeling foolish, Dietrich trailed behind Mack.

Mack opened the rusting screen door, and went inside, followed by Dietrich.

The smell of steam and boiled apples assaulted his nose. Directly in front of him was a staircase that lead to the bedrooms upstairs. Across the sunlight living room was a door cocked open and that was where the heat was coming from. The fireplace took up much of one side of the room, the mantle crowded with photographs. There were some small cabinets against the wall, two comfortable chairs with ragged lace antimacassars on the arms. Over the fireplace, was a shotgun, easily reachable.

"Wait here, Major, I'll get Ma," Mack said and vanished into the kitchen.

Dietrich was drawn to the mantle, not for the gun, but by the pictures. He saw a face so familiar that he almost knew it better than his last lieutenant. That man hadn’t lasted long. He had died when a grenade exploded in front of their tank during the fighting in France.

But this face was eerily familiar. Dietrich had known the man in North Africa, Norway, other places, and his suspicions were totally laid to rest. This was the same Pettigrew that he met in the desert. Tully Pettigrew.

And the others. There was a picture of the four of them on their accused jeeps, looking like they were laughing. He had the feeling that there had been a picture seconds before this, where they were all stern-faced and grim, but it hadn’t lasted for the second shot. Above their heads was a sign that said, “11th A—“ but Moffitt blocked the rest. Typical. The Englishman had always been too tall for his own good.

“Do you recognize them?” Laura asked from the kitchen doorway. She was wiping her hands with a cloth as she watched him.

Dietrich chucked. “Private Pettigrew and the others are old enemies, Frau.”

“I thought so. When I heard your name, I couldn’t believe it was you, but I dug out some of Tully’s old letters. He mentioned you a lot.”

His curiosity rose. What had the man said? “Really?”

She smiled. “Then, after he was wounded, and back here, he told me that you came to see him that last day. Said you treated him good.”

Dietrich’s ears burned. It hadn’t been so much compassion as a desire to know that the badly-wounded member of the Rat Patrol was actually getting out of his hair for good. As for the others, Troy was in a prison camp, Hitchcock was in the hospital, and, of course, Sergeant Moffitt was dead. Or so he thought.

It hadn't been until months later, in a hospital room in Norway, that Dietrich learned that he had been wrong about them all. Troy and Hitchcock had escaped the camp, Moffitt hadn’t died, nor had Tully Pettigrew.

“I wished to make sure he was well enough to exchange,” Dietrich said stiffly, unwilling to accept her goodwill. He glanced over the other pictures. Mack with a fishing pole and three fish, an older man, maybe Tully’s father, from his age and appearance, standing behind him, beaming with pride. The same man and a woman with Mack and Tully, the latter in a brand-new American uniform. Laura in her graduation gown, looking very young and starry-eyed. Had she looked that way at her wedding to Private Pettigrew? It was strange that there was no picture of that day. Laura holding a baby. This reminded him of the letter in his pocket. "Young Mack?" he asked gazing at the photograph.

"Yes, when he came back from the hospital," Laura said proudly. "My father-in-law took that picture. He was a good photographer."

"I just heard from my wife that I have a child now too. A little girl."

She smiled, lighting up the room. "Oh, congratulations, Capt--ah, Major Dietrich! When did you hear?"

"Yesterday."

"Well, you may have had the best of it since you didn't have to hear how your daughter probably made your wife sick for nine months," Laura said bracingly. "I would like to have had a daughter but I lost the second child just a month after I knew I was pregnant. Mack doesn't know that."

"I'm sorry that it happened. He is a good boy," Dietrich said simply, turning back. "When was this taken?"

From the look of one picture, it had been taken when Pettigrew was back here recuperating from his wounds. He had his arm around Laura, hugging her, both of them mugging for the camera. They both looked very happy.

They are a nice couple. I wish I had a picture of Annaliese and me.

A smothered giggle called his attention back to Laura. “Little over a year ago. When I heard from Mack that he thought you were Tully's Dietrich, I went and dug through the letters. I finally found what I wanted up in Mack's room." She held out a tattered sheet of newsprint.

He took it. Memories flooded back to him eyeing the crackling paper. He remembered that day in North Africa, leaning on the gun in the turret of his armored car, binoculars in his hand, posing for the photographer. It had been one of his best patrols. He'd netted several major Allied officers, and Rommel had insisted that he get the credit in print.

It had taken him months to live down, and the rest of his military career to live up to the glowing review. Things had never been so rosy again.

“It's you, isn't it?”

“Ja. A long time ago.” He put the paper down on a chair.

“Well, let's deal with here-and-now. Let me look at your hand.” She disappeared back into the kitchen, and Dietrich followed.

The table was crammed with open jars and bowls of fruit. There was a bowl of ripe blackberries that made his mouth water. Steaming kettles of water boiled on the pot-bellied stove, and the firewood supply next to it look depleted.

"We will bring in your wood if you need more," Dietrich said, stiffly holding out his injured hand. "This is nothing to worry about, Frau Pettigrew."

She smiled, and turned his hand one way and the other. "You're right. It's just going to sting a lot, Major. I've got some moonshine left -- "

"Liquor? What a waste!" Dietrich said in shock. "Nein, Frau, just let it alone. I can work around it."

Laura laughed. "All you strong men don't want help, do you? Tully wouldn't ever ask for help either."

"He is a brave man," Dietrich said honestly. He considered all of the Rat Patrol brave men. Frustrating, irritating, distracting, but brave.

She dimpled. "That's what they thought about you, you know. And other things that I won't repeat. Now, just wash it off, and I'll get the iodine. That'll help more than anything else," she said briskly. "Mack!"

The boy reappeared, a book in one hand. "Yes, Ma?"

"Keep the Major company for a second, while I get the medicine."

"Yes, ma'am!" Mack bounced over, putting the book down beside a basket of bruised apples and too close to some spilled water for Dietrich's comfort. "This is the book that I have about legends."

Dietrich almost laughed. Grimms Fairy Tales again. Another connection between Beckmann and Tully Pettigrew. It was a small world. "It's a classic."

"Can you teach me to read it?"

"I don't believe that I will be here long enough," Dietrich said slowly, flipping pages. He met the boy's suddenly unhappy eyes. "But I will show you some of it."

Mack beamed. "Thanks, sir! You're everything that Tully always said you were."

"Mack, don't litter my kitchen with your books!" his mother chided him affectionately. "Get some more wood for the living room, will you? It's looking like a storm is coming in and I want to build a fire in there. Put Roland in your room. I don't need a wet dog running around my house!"

Both men glanced out the window. The skies were getting hazy but it didn't look like rain. "Yes, ma," Mack said obediently, picking up the book. "I'll see you outside, Major?"

"Ja."

Dietrich stepped out onto the porch after she was done and smelled the rain. The wind was rising as well, and the clouds were thickening. She'd been right. He saw Mack had brought in some wood and dumped it by the fireplace.

"Major, call Frank and the others and get them out of the orchard," Laura ordered behind him. "Storms come up real fast out here. Hurry."

He nodded and loped towards the orchard.

The party had separated more now that the front of the orchard had been plucked of its ripe fruit, and the only man he saw was Bruening carrying apples through the woods.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he ordered. “Get back to the house!”

He gaped at him. “Was--?”

Dietrich pointed to the clouds, and the man looked up. With a swift change of expression, he nodded and dumped the apples in a pile. He tore back into the woods calling out.

Dietrich went to where Miller and Gruber were supposed to be working with Schmidt. A few calls and he found them loading the last of the apples.

A rumble of thunder drowned out his call, and they looked around apprehensively as he gestured wildly. Picking up their baskets, they headed for the house.

The first raindrops stained his shirt before they were all crowded on the porch. She had been correct that storms came up fast. The trees lashed furiously. A flock of crows flew out of the leaves, cawing loudly as they were blown across the skies.

"Come on , all of you," Laura ordered. "Get in here!"

"Inside, all of you," Dietrich ordered, adding sternly in German. "Wipe your feet. Frau Pettigrew has invited you into her home out of this rain."

"Bless her," Gruber said with a cherubic smile.

The men crowded inside the foyer, their eyes wide. From their expressions, most of them had never been in a farmhouse. She had started the fire and the room was appreciatively warmer than when he was in there earlier. Candles were lit on the mantelpiece. It was cozy, and friendly.

Laura looked at them, then beckoned to Dietrich. "Do they need anything, Major? Water, some food?"

Bruening looked up. "Food?"

It was probably one of the few English words that Bruening knew.

Frank laughed. "Food! Can I help you, Miz Pettigrew?"

"Sure you can. Mack, help me get the plates out." The Pettigrews went into the kitchen.

Dietrich caught Miller's arm as he went by. "Be careful, corporal. I believe this might come under the heading of fraternization, and should anyone want to make trouble for the Frau, they could use this."

Miller stared at him in incomprehension. "Fraternization? You kiddin'?"

Dietrich shook his head. Was this boy that naive? Was this another thing he'd have to teach him about? "Warn her about this." He didn't think it would make any difference. Laura would ignore the warning because she was an hospitable woman. Besides, she trusted him because he had consistently tried to kill her husband, Tully. Only in America could this scenario occur.

Gruber picked up the newspaper clipping that Dietrich had dropped on the chair and began to scan it. His eyes widened, and he poked Schmidt in the ribs. They read quickly while the officer's back was turned, then handed the paper onto the others. Their expressions as they looked at him were even more respectful.

"I don't have enough chairs, but you can sit on the steps," Laura said, coming out with plates full of apple pie. "I used some of that honey you gave me, mister."

The prisoners accepted the plates with slight bemusement, keeping an eye on Dietrich who realized he was setting the example. The pie smelled divine. Raisins, apples, a few walnuts, if that was the lump he spotted under the crust. Schmidt and Bruening had a berry pie of some kind, from the dark filling spilling on the fine china plate.

Probably spoiled pies that wouldn't go to town, Dietrich concluded, succumbing to the alluring smell. He tasted the apple pie, and gave an unconscious sigh of pleasure, then jumped as a crash of thunder made the electricity flicker. It went out seconds later leaving the room lit only by the fire.

"Hold on, I've got the candles ready," Laura said, going back into the kitchen. She distributed the fat beeswax candles, stuck in tarnished copper holders. They were probably family heirlooms from the dents and tarnish. "Light them up. We always lose power in storms."

Mack wandered over to the banked fire and put on another log, then poked at the embers. "It'll stop in about a half-hour or so. Take a while to get the lights back, but we've got lots of wood."

"'Bout time for us to leave then, I'm afraid," Miller said regretfully. "It'll be almost dark, and I've got to get the prisoners back to the barracks."

"But you're here tomorrow, eh?" Mack asked eagerly, flicking his gaze towards Dietrich. "I mean I hoped you'd help me with that book."

Miller shrugged. "We're here 'til the apples are in."

Lightning flashed outside, and thunder rolled. Rain lashed at the windows, streaking through the dirt.

"What book's that, Mack?" Laura asked, leaning against the door of the kitchen with her arms crossed.

"The one that was in your way, Ma," Mack replied his tone affectionate. He held it out to Dietrich, standing by the fire. "Grimms Fairy Tales."

Dietrich turned it over and over in his hands, then flipped open the first page. "I read these as a mere child..," he murmured. He began read the German. "Einem reichen Manne, dem wurde seine Frau krank, und als sei ihr einziges Tochterlein zu sic ans Bett und sprach 'liebes Kind... This is an original version of the tale!"

"Which one?" Laura questioned.

"What does it mean?" Mack demanded at the same time.

"I believe it is what the English called 'Cinderella'," Dietrich replied. He looked around the room at the eager faces. Gruber sat cross-legged by the stairs his expression worshipful. Why? Dietrich hadn't seen that before on any man's face. It made him feel uncomfortable. Distracting himself, he flipped through the book. "There are many other stories..."

"Why don't you start with that one?" Laura asked, smiling at him. "We don't need any ghost stories tonight."

"Aw, you just don't like spooky stuff, Ma!" Mack teased.

"Respect your mother, young man!" Dietrich said lightly. "As you wish, Frau. Let me translate it line by line. 'The wife of a rich man fell sick, and as she felt that her end was drawing near...'"

By the end of the storm, he'd finished Cinderella. The other prisoners had been respectfully silent, even appearing to enjoy it. It was better than the textbooks they had at the camp. He handed the book back to Mack. "You should read real history, not fairy tales."

"Sort of hard to get it up here," Laura said seriously. "I got him a copy of Julius Caesar's memoirs when I went into the city, but couldn't find anymore that he'd written."

"In English?" Dietrich asked.

Mack put his chin up proudly. "Latin. Jack helped me with it when he was here a year ago, and I've kept going."

So this was where Sergeant Moffitt had been before his trip to Norway? I'm just a year late in following his tracks. Dietrich chuckled. "I suspect he was a good teacher. Wasn't he a Cambridge man?"

"How'd you know that?" Mack asked suspiciously.

"I tried to find out as much information about him and the others as I could," Dietrich replied. "If you are trying to catch an enemy, information is power. I missed meeting his father though. His plane crash was in another part of the desert, and I read about it later when I was assembling material after his -- " He cut himself off. He had been closing the file on Sergeant Jack Moffitt because he thought the man was dead.

Mack gaped at Dietrich. "I never heard about his pa! He came and visited with us, and gave me his book, but he didn't say he was over there, and in a plane crash!"

"You should get Sergeant Moffitt to tell you the complete story," Dietrich said dryly. "He rescued his father from our troops in an occupied town, and escaped the men sent after them"

"He wouldn't have that if you'd been in charge," Gruber said loyally in German. He flinched at the blistering look Dietrich sent him.

Gruber knows more English than I thought. Turning back to Mack, Dietrich continued, "Sergeant Moffitt was a good teacher. You should have him send you a complete copy of Julius Caesar in Latin from Europe where I suspect he is. If they haven't been burnt, of course."

"Burned?" Miller said. "Books or our guys?

"Books, of course, Frank. Don't be silly. They gotta keep warm over there, after all," Laura said. Her gaze went to the pictures on the mantle. "Yes, I can see them burning anything they can buy. It must be cold over there in the winter."

"Or burned before the war," Dietrich said dryly. Everyone looked blank. Didn't anyone remember the rallies in Nineteen Thirty-three where troopers had burned huge piles of books? Did the Americans even remember back that far? "Only the English versions though. Grimms' books would be the last to be burned." After Mein Kampf.

That cast a pall on the room. From their expressions, some of the others now remembered that part of the past. Gruber collected the plates and gave them to Mack who took them back in the kitchen, as Dietrich ordered the others to get ready. The skies had already lightened and there was a streak of light among the trees. The muddy ground was covered with storm debris, broken twigs and fallen branches. Leaves were plastered to the outside of the house. The prisoners would get very wet on their march back to town.

As they lined up in front of the house, a truck pulled up to the house and a man clambered down from the front seat, pulling a duffel bag in his hand. He wore a US Navy uniform with several lines of decorations. The truck driver raised his hand in farewell, then drove away. Dietrich paused on the porch, Laura beside him. The man glared at the crowd. He had an angry scar across his left hand.

A stifled sound made Dietrich turn. Laura had her hand over her mouth. Her face was drained of color, and her eyes were huge against the pallor.

"Frau Pettigrew?"

"Oh. My. God."

He looked back at the man who was walking toward them. "Who is it, Frau?"

"My husband."

Dietrich's world spun around him. Her husband? But her husband was Tully Pettigrew -- wasn't he? What was going on? "Husband?"

"David. I thought he was dead," she whispered. "They told us he was missing-in-action."

"Hello, Laura," David called, his gaze flipping suspiciously from the German back to his wife. The man's voice was a light tenor, and the hair uncovered when he pulled off his cap was as brown as Tully's when Dietrich first met him, before the African sun had bleached it gold. He was a good five years older than the man Dietrich knew.

Color returned to her cheeks as she drew a deep breath. "Hello, David."

"Who's that guy?"

"Just one of the POWs," Laura replied, stepping away from Dietrich's side. "I need them for the harvest."

David paused by the stairs. "Huh."

Miller came out of the house, wiping his hands on his pants. "Put the last of the dishes in the kitchen, Miz Pettigrew -- My goodness! Welcome home, Pettigrew! Heard you were killed in the Pacific!"

David grinned. "Too ornery for that. Can't kill someone raised in these hills! You the Miller boy?"

"Yeah. My dad sold his farm years ago but I came back here after he died. I'm Frank." He held out his hand, and David shook it. "Couldn't get the hills out of my system."

"Know what you mean," David agreed, his eyes going to Laura. "Taken a while but I'm back to my land for good."

"You left about ten years ago, right?" Frank asked eagerly.

Dietrich sensed that neither David or Laura wanted to discuss that in public. He didn't look at the woman. It might leave David to draw a conclusion that wasn't true, and make trouble. Why do I think it will cause trouble? Because her husband isn't Tully, and she's in love with Tully .I wonder how long she has been in love with his brother? Before he left the farm? If she can fall in love with his brother, then she can fall in love with anyone else, including me, and that is a complication I don't need.

Dietrich realized all the prisoners were watching him, taking their cues from his stance. "Corporal Miller?"

Frank jumped. "What? Oh, yeah. We'd better get moving."

"You'll be back tomorrow?" she asked. turning to the young man.

"Sure, Got the rest of the orchard to go. Down to the river."

From the corner of his eye, Dietrich saw David tense. What had made him do that? The fact that they were returning or something else? "How long will it take to clear the rest of the apples?" David questioned, hitching his bag over his shoulder.

Laura met his gaze. "About a week probably. Mack and I couldn't do it alone,"

"I'm here to help out, " he said firmly. "Mack?"

"Goodbye, Frau," Dietrich said, seeing his men becoming restless. He hated to interrupt but the sunlight was rapidly fading. He wanted to get the others out of here before the Pettigrew family problems exploded. into public. His responsibility was to his men.

"Good afternoon, Captain," she replied, demoting him absently. "Mack's inside, David."

"Lookin' forward to seeing him again. Haven't seen my son for ten years."

She raised her chin. "He's become quite a man since then."

"Reckon he has. Wish I'd seen it," he snapped, setting his foot on the first stair.

Dietrich snapped an order and the men formed up in two lines. He led the way down the hill, Miller at his side, feeling like he'd just abandoned Laura to her fate. At least her son was there. And now her husband. Husband? But his picture wasn't on the mantle.

It's none of my business, he thought. I can't do anything about it. Come between a wife and her husband? I would be crazy to do that Verdammt noch mal!.

Dietrich could feel the tension every time he went near the farmhouse. It showed in the drawn curtains over the windows, and the neatly-swept porch as if a single leaf lying about would be a capital sin. He was designated to carry the apples up to the house since none of the others would approach it.

His path therefore crossed with David Pettigrew's. The sailor was on a ladder scraping the wood shutters free of flaking paint the first time Dietrich carried up two loaded baskets. He could feel the man's gaze on his back as he poured the apples into the barrels, but turned to find David had gone back to scraping. The next few runs were the same.

Fair enough. If David was going to ignore his existence, Dietrich would be happy with that. Right before they broke for lunch, he brought up a last load and found the ladder was empty. The shutters were scraped bare.

Going back to the others, Dietrich saw David heading for the river, the shotgun over one shoulder. He wondered uneasily what was going on, then reminded himself that it was none of his business.

The others had spotted the American and were silent. Dietrich knew that they expected him to save them if anything happened. That was his job as an officer. I am a prisoner. I can do nothing for anyone including myself.

As they lugged the last of the day's apples up to the barrels, and formed in lines in front of the house, they saw David coming back, several rabbits in his hand. The man stared at them, but went inside without commenting.

"Hase," Gruber said wistfully.

"Halt den Mund! " Dietrich snapped louder than he planned. Damn! The tension was getting to him as well. Time to get control again. "Corporal, it is time to go."

"Uh, yes, sir," Miller stuttered. "March!"

Over the next week, David scraped the wood bare and repainted the shutters. He started work on the roof from the cursing Dietrich heard one day. But only during the morning hours. Every afternoon, David, and sometimes Mack with him, went towards the river, the shotgun over David's arm, the dog Roland running beside them. The boy looked interested in what his father was saying, so Dietrich felt a trace of relief. He didn't think Mack would let David hurt his mother. Dietrich was still bemused by the fact that he'd been so wrong about Tully Pettigrew being Mack's father. Looking at David, he could see the family resemblance, but it ran strongly through the family line. He had seen Mack some mornings when they arrived, feeding the chickens and cleaning the pens, but there was no trace of Laura.

No one had seen her, though the laundry fluttered in the air when they marched up, and was gone when they marched back. The bruised apples that were collected and put on the front porch were gone the next day.

Dietrich was the only man to see Laura Pettigrew and he wasn't telling anyone about it. One afternoon, three days after David's arrival, as Dietrich headed for the barrels, he glanced in the kitchen window. Laura was there, caught in the bright afternoon light. She looked even more tired than she had the day she had come down to greet her help.

She glanced up, caught his gaze as he paused, then reached out and pulled the curtains closed. In the merciless heat, she had rolled up the sleeves of a long-sleeved blouse. The bruises were black on her forearm.

Dietrich walked on to the outhouse, a bitter taste in his mouth. After finishing his business, he walked back the same way, glancing towards the closed windows. Nothing stirred.

Passing the compost heap, he saw something shiny under the rotting apple peels. Looking around, and seeing no one, he rooted until it was uncovered.

It was a shard of one of Laura's plates. How had it become broken? He stared at the pile, then pulled a twig out and turned over the garbage.

More fragments of plate. Enough to confirm his suspicions. Laura had lost her dishes. Had the shelves broken or had it been done on purpose? He would lay good money, if he had any, that someone had broken every dish that he and the others had used. He tossed the apple peels over the broken bits, and stuck the twig on top.

Coming around the house, he saw David come out of the wood with Mack. The man stared suspiciously at him but said nothing as they passed. Mack looked up, and away, then covered his mouth as he hiccuped.

Dietrich was so absorbed that it took several seconds for him to recognize the smell on Mack's breath. Alcohol? Whiskey? Looking back he saw Mack miss the first step of the veranda, and his father laughing his expression.

Was young Mack drunk? What did his mother think of that?

Then again, maybe she didn't have anything to say in the matter. No, no maybe about it.

Dietrich headed back into the orchard devotedly glad that this wasn't his responsibility to deal with. He would tell Corporal Miller of his suspicions, and the young man could... He slowed down. How was he to explain how he saw Laura's bruises? They would probably accuse him of being with her in the house.

No, there was nothing he could do. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

On Monday, Mack was already picking apples when they arrived. He smiled at the group as they came up.

"No school today?" Dietrich asked, pointedly taking up the hook.

"Nope. Got the day off. Some teacher's conference thing," Mack said cheerfully.

Examining him closely, Dietrich couldn't see much difference in the boy. He didn't look as if his father's return had made any difference.

"We are almost done with the picking," Dietrich said painfully making conversation. "Just a few more days."

"Yeah, looks that way," Mack said. "Pa said he wanted me to make sure I helped you guys out here since it's a long walk back to the house."

The young man lies badly, Dietrich thought. His father wanted him with them for some other reason. Something down by the river? But it gave Dietrich an opening. "How is your father?"

"Pa? Okay."

"It must be strange to have him home," Dietrich probed delicately. "Here, you pull down the branches and I will pick."

"Careful up there. Don't fall," Mack said. "Well, it's different, yeah. He and Ma had words at the start, but that's all over with. We talk a lot over dinner about my enlistment."

Dietrich almost dropped an apple on Mack's head. "Enlistment?"

"Yeah, well, Ma doesn't need me here anymore with Pa home, so I'm heading down to the recruiter in a couple of weeks. Promised Ma I'd finish up school, and that ends after Thanksgiving."

"How does she feel about your enlistment?"

Mack was silent for several minutes. Finally, he said, "Thought she'd put up a bigger fight, but she said it was probably for the best. It's real different now that Pa's home."

"How?" Dietrich asked baldly, holding out a handful of apples. The boy caught them and put them in a basket.

"Well, you know all those pictures on the mantle of Tully and Jack and the other guys? Ma made me take them upstairs to my room. Pa got upset when he saw the one of her and Tully, and threw it in the fire," Mack said squirming in embarrassment. "I think that he was upset that she didn't have one of his pictures up there."

I am not surprised, Dietrich thought. "I thought that she said your father was dead. Has he been gone a long time?"

"The Navy told us he was MIA," Mack said. "I don't remember him real well 'cause Grandpa told him to go find some work about ten years ago. He just left one night, and didn't come back. Didn't send money, nothing."

In other words, Grandfather Pettigrew had thrown his oldest son off the farm for reasons unknown. "Ja, I saw your mother's face when he reappeared."

"She has this gold star upstairs but she only hung it out one time when Tully was reported dead. I never saw her cry except when we got told he was still alive. That was back when he was in the desert fighting you guys."

"What is the reason for the gold star?" Dietrich asked curiously. "I have seen it in other windows."

"If someone dies in battle, they give your family a gold star," Mack replied succinctly.

Dietrich remembered all the windows with gold stars on the trip across the United States. They had paid their prices on the homefront in this war. "So, she did not hang it for your father?"

Mack shrugged. "Well, he'd been gone a long time, y'know, before the war, and he was just missing. Tully was supposed to be dead."

"I hope she never has to hang out that star again," Dietrich said abruptly. "Hold out the basket."

"Yes, sir!" Mack reacted to the tone before catching himself. "Shucks!"

They both laughed. Dietrich and Mack worked amicably together for several minutes before Mack asked, "You still gonna teach me German?"

Dietrich shook his head. "There's no time left. We go back to camp in a few days." Where, he realized with a jolt that Oberst Beckmann and his trial probably awaited him. How could he have forgotten why he had taken refuge in a work party?

Mack wrinkled up his nose. "Darn it! Well, at least, I got a dictionary now. Ma gave me some of the pie money and I bought it in town."

So that was why the boy had been gone for the last two days. Taking the produce into the city maybe or a larger town. "Did you make a profit on the pies?"

Mack shrugged. "Pretty good, yeah. Get us through the next few months if we're real good. 'Course Pa says I won't be here to eat us outta house and home, so there should be enough money."

"Your father hunts as well, doesn't he?"

"Yeah. We're goin' out this afternoon across the river. He uses Grandpa's shotgun. Think I'm a better shot though," Mack said disarmingly. "Grandpa taught me to use the gun same time he got Tully to show Ma how to load and shoot. She's a good shot though she doesn't do much hunting anymore. It's hard to hang the meat properly and all that kinda stuff. A couple of deer and some pheasant can keep us for winter."

Dietrich wondered if Grandfather Pettigrew taught them to use the guns against the day David returned? What a leap of judgement! Why did the man make his hardened skin crawl? Because David Pettigrew didn't like what he saw as enemy soldiers on his land, eating his wife's cooking, and being in his home? And those bruises...she could have fallen in the kitchen.

"But with Dad here, we'll need more meat," Mack said with more enthusiasm. "He's on extended leave from the Navy 'til his hand heals. Got a back problem to. Said it was fighting in the Pacific that did it."

Dietrich glanced at the boy. When had he had this enthusiasm for war? Nineteen-forty in the desert when he was winning. "Keep up your language studies, and you may end up with your uncle, since I'm sure they are in Germany by now!"

"Naw, we've still got to get across the Rhine," Mack said sagely. "I listened to the news on the radio. Tully's probably still in France somewhere."

The German doubted it. If his enemies were still intact, they would certainly be blowing things up somewhere where there were lots of Axis troops. "Careful!" Mack nearly dropped his basket of apples when his foot slipped on a root. "Leave that branch for the crows. It's too high."

Mack shrugged. "I can climb up but the basket's full. Anyway, I'll take it up to the house with the other one, and then go out with Pa. He said he wanted some time alone with Ma this morning."

Dietrich shuddered at the thought but hid it. reaching for an apple. "About what?"

"Probably the roof. It's leaking again in my room, and Pa is trying to fix it. Hope he does it before it hits the pictures!" Mack jumped down from the ladder. "Well, I'm off."

"Good hunting. Where will you be?"

"Not near the orchards or nothing. Dad says he's got a lean-to down by the water and that's where we end up a lot."

A lean-to where there is whiskey? Dietrich watched the boy stumble back up the orchard, and automatically looked around to see where his men were.

Schmidt and Bruening were working at the far end of the row of trees, their laughter drifting back to him. Where was Gruber? He and Miller had been working down the opposite way.

Time for a walk. See how much has been done. We need to leave this farm as soon as we can. I am not going to get any further involved with this family. I have to watch out for myself... for Annaliese and Katrina. He walked down the row of trees, seeing signs that Frank and Gruber had been there from the filled baskets. Further down, he head the sound of water, and saw the ground become rockier, with tufts of grass.

Trees bordered the river. The water was heavy with sludge stirred up by the storms that happened almost every evening. A bundle of twigs floated by, bound together by a mass of grasses. Some squirrel's nest probably brought down by rain.

A huge rock sat under a tall well-branched tree. It was a perfect place to sit and watch the river, and Dietrich suspected that generations of Pettigrews had done their courting up there, or used it to fish.

He headed down the riverbank looking for signs of Gruber.

Coming around a corner, he smelled burning wood. Following the scent, he found a small hut hidden by a screen of fallen trees. He peeked inside.

A huge pot swung over the cold embers of a fire, and several old wooden barrels took up much of the room at one end. Along one wall were a line of brown bottles, most of them corked. The room smelled of whiskey and smoke.

A still for alcohol. How was it called here? Moonshine. Whiskey. The room was warm when he stepped inside. He touched the neck of one corked bottle, craving the liquor, then stepped back. Not only was this liquor owned by David Pettigrew, the consequences of his showing up drunk would be deadly. He remembered uneasily, the Pettigrews had guns, and were out hunting. Time to leave.

Emerging into the hazy sunshine, he immediately felt cold. The sky was clouding over. A storm was coming in fast.

He headed towards the rock, looking both ways. A flash of khaki to the left caught his attention. He hurried towards it, his mouth open to call.

The two men were in a small hollow, well-hidden by leaves and tall grasses. The first thing Dietrich saw was Miller's gun propped against a tree-trunk, abandoned. He raised an eyebrow at that but left it behind.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he opened his mouth, but saw them disengaging from themselves instead. Frozen by surprise, he watched them pull their clothing straight. That they had had sex was clear.

He dropped his hands and beat a fast retreat, his thoughts in turmoil. What was he going to do?

Sitting cross-legged on the rock, he propped his chin on his fingertips, and thought. The walk had cleared his head a bit as shock receded.

He knew there were men who preferred other men. That had been made clear in his school days,
though they'd sensed he wasn't interested in them, and avoided him. The North African campaign had had them as well. As long as they were discreet, very discreet considering the feelings of the SS and most of the Wehrmacht, homosexuality was tolerated. Some had been killed, or tormented. Many had been shipped off to the concentration camps.

But Gruber had survived by seeming innocuous and becoming Legnine's aide. Did that mean that Hauptmann Legnine had been homosexual? Despite his turmoil, Dietrich grinned. No, Legnine had been far too fond of ladies, large fat ladies from the beer halls, to have swung the other way. Gruber had been careful, and who would expect anything like that of the round-faced little man?

I didn't. Dietrich wondered what to do now. He couldn't look at Gruber the same way after this. What about Miller? How did the Americans feel about this behavior? He'd estimate that they felt the same way the German Army did.

What about me? Had anyone else figured out about Gruber? Mein Gott, did they think he, Dietrich, was homosexual because Gruber was his servant? Dietrich shook his head. Don't panic. That probably hadn't occurred to anyone.

But what about Beckmann? No matter if Dietrich had only met Gruber on the boat, they were now connected. No matter if Dietrich had a small child and a wife, he could be tainted by Gruber's proclivities. Rumor, lies, danger. Dietrich had to get rid of Gruber as soon as he could, for his own sake.

He shivered more from his thoughts than the wind which had gained strength. Large black clouds were rolling over the hills. The sunlight disappeared.

Beckmann will do anything in his power to stay out of prison. Or be hung. He wants me to lie about Sergeant Troy's testimony... or at least I think he does. If I don't, he can set his bullies on me, or spread the word about Gruber, and the stain will be on me. I am caught in this trap. There is only one thing I can do.

Run.

His thoughts were rudely broken into by the familiar sound of a gun being fired. The trunk above him splintered and bark showered his jacket.

He rolled off into the grasses and stones, bruising his body as he landed hard.

Nothing more. A crow above his head cawed in amusement.

Finally, he looked up, over the rock. On the opposite bank, down opposite the still, David and Mack were bent over the carcass of a deer. Had they tried to kill him? Dietrich guessed they didn't even see him there on the rock. He was supposed to be back at the orchard, working hard for the Americans. The shotgun pellets had simply gone further than they thought, or one of them missed. Mack? No, the boy would have warned me if he saw me. I'm sure of it. This was probably an accident.

I could just run right now though and get away.

"Herr Major! Where are you?" Gruber's voice startled him. David and Mack both raised their heads and looked around. David looked angry while Mack was puzzled. They both started for the small rowboat moored on their side, leaving the deer.

Dietrich wriggled around until he was on the far side of the tree, and then, bowed low, crept away from the rock. He would have to deal with Gruber and Miller, and not run, not yet. Behind him, he heard the boat ground itself on the shore.

He reached the bottom of the orchard when he spotted Miller and Gruber coming out of the woods, calling for him.

"I sent the others down to the town," Miller said, his face openly worried. "It's gonna storm, Major. We got to get a move on." They raced through the orchards, but the darkness made the going rough. All three tripped over tree roots and tangles of grass. Gruber flinched from a snake that hissed at him, then disappeared among the undergrowth.

"Maybe Frau Pettigrew will let us stay in the house?" Gruber asked.

"Nein," Dietrich said shortly. "Not with her husband back there." He pulled the jacket more tightly around him. Glancing around he saw Gruber was also huddling in his jacket. Miller was better dressed but he still looked cold.

“We won’t make it back in time for the truck,” Gruber said hoarsely.

“I didn’t know we’d come that far,” Miller admitted. “It'll be gone when we get to the bottom.”

A snowflake fluttered past them, followed by others. The three men looked at each other, bonded together by the common knowledge that they were now in trouble.

“If we run, we might make it,” Dietrich said thoughtfully.

Miller shook his head. “Naw, it'll be an ice storm along with the snow. We're going to have to take refuge with the Pettigrews. ”

“We will not be welcome even in their chicken coop,” Dietrich said angrily.

Miller looked frustrated. “Yeah, I know but that bastard Pettigrew's better than freezing to death! Down in town they said he got thrown off the farm years ago for drinking too much and beating his wife. Have you seen her lately? I haven't.”

Dietrich remembered what he’d seen, the bruising. If Miller was telling the truth, then under her worn dress would be more bruising probably all over her body. What would happen when Mack left?

That bastard Pettigrew. How could Tully Pettigrew have come from the same stock as his brother David? Then again maybe it was the effect of Troy and the others on him. No. Dietrich hadn’t thought much about Tully in the months they’d fought but he knew that the man was honest at heart. Maybe it was the effect of the liquor -- the hut!

“I found somewhere to take shelter down by the river. Come on,” Dietrich said forcefully.

“We’ll be snowed in,” Frank replied uneasily.

“We need to get out of the storm!”

“Jawhol, Major,” Gruber said automatically reacting to Dietrich’s tone. “Let us go.”

Miller rebelliously scowled, then nodded. “Okay, I see your point but it’s my idea if we get caught.”

“Of course, Corporal,” Dietrich agreed, leading the way. He didn’t care who took the credit for it; he just wanted to get out of the cold.

What am I going to do? Swim home? Head to Mexico? Better to be there than in Germany.

They could see the outline of the hut among the trees. Beyond it, the river had swelled, rushing by loudly. Snow was sticking on the ground and rocks.

Slipping and sliding, Miller and Gruber went before Dietrich.

Dietrich followed at a slower pace, looking around. He thought he heard the sound of panting but it could have been the wind or something else --

Crack! No, there was someone out there!

He turned, staring in the thick woods. Nothing. He looked back at the path.

Someone was running towards town, his feet slipping on the iced leaves and snowy ground.

Mack? What was Mack Pettigrew doing running through the woods away from the warm of his family hearth? Why’d he leave his mother alone?

Dietrich wasn’t cold from the wind any longer. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Mack!” but the boy kept running. He disappeared into the darkness leaving Dietrich in the dark.

He glanced at the hut. Miller was waving at him to come down, and Dietrich reluctantly obeyed, thoughts whirling like the snowflakes around him. He slipped once, and bruised his hand on the stony ground, but gained the hut and went inside.

"You found Pettigrew's still, Major! Congrats!" Miller said cheerfully, pulling a bottle out of the long line. "This'll keep us warm all night."

Gruber scraped together some fragments of wood and leaves and lit them with Miller's lighter. The firelight made the small cabin almost look homey.

"Some of these are full!" Miller said enthusiastically, turning with a bottle in one hand. "Got enough crud on them to sink a ship though. Must've been here for a while!"

"Probably since the older Pettigrews left the farm," Dietrich commented, holding his hands out to the fire. "I doubt that Mack knows how to make this." But his father had just introduced him to it. This was probably where he had gotten the whiskey that Dietrich smelled. That brought back the memory of the running boy. Where had he been going?

The warmth was a soothing comfort against the gusts that came in the rough walls. It had been meant only for distilling, and the howling wind treated it with contempt.

Miller looked up, and saw Dietrich’s expression. “What’s up, Major?”

Dietrich rubbed his hands together. “I thought I saw someone on the path when we came down.”

“Someone, Major?” Gruber asked in German, hunching his shoulders. “Who would be crazy enough to be out in this? Except us?” He flashed a quick smile at Miller, who grinned despite the fact that he hadn't understood a word.

“Probably Davey lookin’ for a fight,” Miller offered. “Or some moonshine.”

“No, I believe it was Mack,” Dietrich said slowly, trying to pinpoint his unease. “He was running away from his home.”

“In this kind of weather? What kinda a fool would do that?” scoffed Miller, settling himself on the ground.

Gruber stared at Dietrich with more than a touch of unease on his bland features. “If it was the boy, Herr Major, then Frau Pettigrew is alone at the farmhouse.”

Miller looked up. "Frau means misses, doesn't it? You worried about Mrs. Pettigrew?"

“She is not alone. Her husband is with her.”

The shudder that went through Miller wasn’t from the wind. “That is what I meant, of course. He is there with her alone.”

All three men glanced at each other, then Miller dropped his gaze to the fire. “He won’t do anythin’. Hey, if she gets hurt – “

“The authorities will do little to nothing,” Dietrich cut him off harshly. “He is her husband. But after she's dead, they will intervene, electrocute Pettigrew, and Mack will have lost both his parents!”

Miller glanced up at Dietrich. “Sound like you're all riled up, Major. Nothing we can do about it. Family matters.”

Outside the wind had fallen slightly, and more light was coming in the uneven walls.

“That is if Mack was really the guy you saw,” Miller said harshly. “I don’t think anything’s happenin’ up there anyway.”

“I hope you are right,” Dietrich said crisply. “Maybe we should try to get to the Pettigrews to find out, Corporal. It would be safer than here, and warmer!”

Miller looked rebellious. “I'm not gonna go tracking through all that damned snow! We can spend the night here and do some drinkin'! Siddown!”

Dietrich stared at him in frustration. More and more his instincts were telling him to do the stupid thing, to go over and make sure that Laura was all right. It was foolish beyond all belief that he was even thinking of this. He had to remember he was a prisoner-of-war and that Miller for all his incompetence, was his captor. One move and Miller could shoot him and be absolved. Dietrich would be written off as ‘trying to escape’.

Dietrich waved his hand towards the door. “Don’t be ridiculous, Corporal. The wind will turn me into a snowman in half an hour!”

Miller’s frown became uncertain. “Then whatta’ya up to, Captain?”

“I want to see if Frau Pettigrew is alright,” Dietrich said simply. “Once I know that, I will come back.”

“If her old man wasn’t there, she’d probably invite you in for the night,” Miller put crudely. “Got a fancy for her?”

Dietrich saw red, then his vision cleared. It was a logical conclusion on Miller’s part, even if the man was a boor.

Pity she’s in love with her brother-in-law, and I’m in love with my wife…and that we’re both honorable people.

“You think she’s in danger?” Gruber asked in German. His brown eyes were watching shrewdly, and Dietrich realized with a surge of hope that the Gefreiter was on his side. Besides, he probably wouldn’t mind some free time with Miller.

Now to persuade the American. “Ja,” Dietrich said looking at Miller who was biting his lip. “I think that Mack has gone for help. Will you let her die, Herr Corporal?”

“We can’t do nothing’,” Miller muttered. “Back here in the mountains, they don't want help in this kind of family matters.”

“So we stand by and do nothing?” Dietrich raged. “Corporal Miller, I give you the word of a German officer that I will simply find out if she’s safe – then I will return here. She won’t even know I’m around.”

“I can’t let you do it," Miller said. "Siddown and have some 'shine."

“If Major Dietrich gives his word, he’ll do it,” Gruber cut in. “Please, Frank?”

The name hung in the air as Miller's ears went red. “Figure you’ve gotten lost on the way to the outhouse,” he said half-defiantly. “Don’t freeze anythin’ important, Major.”

Dietrich nodded, and pulled tighter the coat. The large white PW on the back stood out starkly. “I will be back soon.”

"You'd better or all this booze'll be gone!"

* * * * *

The snow was now ice-pellets of sleet, but Dietrich estimated that at least an inch had fallen in the time he had spent arguing with Miller. It was going to be a nasty night. The wind was still harsh enough to sting his cheeks.

Mack’s footsteps were mostly filled in. Dietrich hurried along the path, listening as he went. The air was heavy with the smell of more snow, and the temperature cut through his coat.

I didn’t expect to be doing this tonight. By now they should all be confined to their barn, ‘enjoying’ a ribald evening talking about the latest American pin-ups or discussing motion pictures.

Urgency made him walk faster and faster. His bruised wrist ached, and he flexed it to see how much movement he had. Not bad, though it hurt a little.

The big rock had a cap like snowy frosting on a chocolate cake. He went up the path, a little more cautiously now that he was coming up to the farmhouse.

It loomed ahead of him, a darker spot against the dark trees. He could see a light in the living room and one upstairs in what Dietrich knew was Mack’s room.. The chickens clucked as he passed the coop.

He slowed, suddenly assailed by doubt. There was probably nothing to this except for his dislike of David. It was a family matter, and he shouldn't be involved! So what was driving him on? Stupidity.

Hugging the coat around him, he crept closer.

A shower of sparks came out of the chimney floating down. Surely, they will set the house on fire with that kind of fire?

Reaching the window, he peeped over the sill into the living room.

Laura sat on a stool beside the fireplace, dangerously close to the sparks that popped out onto the hearth. The abandoned fire screen was lying to one side. Her arms were clasped around her knees, and she had bitten her lips judging from their bright color. She was watching David who was striding back and forth in front of her, a brown bottle of whiskey in his hand.

What had she done? Dietrich wondered. Her head was low as if she were expecting a blow but David didn’t look drunk, just angry from his expression.

Dietrich ducked as David turned around and came towards the window. Crouching in the snow, he hoped that the man would overlook him. A second later, he heard the sash being raised and a blast of warmer air came out.

“Davey, we’ll freeze!” Laura protested.

“You’ve got this room like an oven, Laura, so shut up. If you’re so damned cold, go upstairs and I’ll warm you up like last night! What’s the matter? Don’t like the thought?”

Her voice was low and firm. “Go to hell, Davey. I’m not going to let it happen again.“

Dietrich flinched. He knew what had happened, and what would now occur.

David must have knocked her into the fire shield, to judge from the clatter. “Just what do you plan to do to stop me? Wish it was Tully? Oh, I saw you liked him all those years ago when I first brought you home. Tully was hangin' around like a dog after a bitch in heat. Where'd you send Mack? He gone for help? You damn well know that he can’t get anyone to come up here tonight!”

“Your father left this house to me when he died,” she replied shakily. “He threw you out of the family, like he threw you out of the house, Davey. Everyone thought you died in the – “

“I come home and find you’re making eyes at some Kraut!” Davey said wildly. He threw the bottle against one wall. It bounced, a splash of liquor staining the wallpaper. “All those guys in my house, eating off my plates -- "

"You broke them all!"

"Damn right, I did! What do you think my sainted brother would think of you feeding your pies to some Germans while he's out there killing them!"

"Tully would understand. He knew Major Dietrich -- "

"Hell, Laura, the bastard’s the guy who Tully said tried to kill him! I read those letters you saved--"

"You stole my letters? How dare you!"

"Burned them too. You're my wife, not my brother's, and I'll be damned if you're keeping love letters hidden away. And I didn't come back wounded to find you screwing some Kraut."

Dietrich's hands were going white from the cold, but there was a burn in his head that made him see red. He might have thought about it, but nothing happened!

“I never did anything with Major Dietrich!” she wailed, her control breaking. “You’re crazy!”

“Crazy? No, you’re crazy. Don’t you think I know that you’ve been sniffing around my brother for years? I useta wonder if Mack was mine – “

“He is! “

“Yeah, right. Like all those pictures of you and him and Tully from last year. Real family pictures.”

“You weren't here. Tully was."

She sounded guilty, and Dietrich knew that was a giveaway. If she hadn't sinned with her body, she'd certainly had in her dreams. Damn! He shifted and felt his numb feet slip in the snow. He thudded against the house, and winced. There’d be a bruise on that knee tomorrow if he lived through the night. The sleet had turned back to snow and his head and shoulders had white epaulets.

“Davey, what are you doing?” Laura sounded panic-stricken.

“Sounds like we got an intruder out there,” Davey said in a suddenly-calm tone. “Well, I guess that someone must of come up here tonight, Laura, and found you alone.”

“Put the gun back, David! Leave it alone!" There was the sound of rustling cloth and boots stomping on the wood floor, ending with a cry of pain from Laura as she hit the ground. David must have done something because Dietrich heard ripping cloth.

“Got to make it look real,” David said smugly. She sobbed.

Dietrich licked his lips and turned to face the window. He flexed his cold hands to get the blood flowing again.

“Yeah, maybe one of those POWs or a hobo came up to get out of the storm. Found you alone.”

“David, that gun’s loaded!”

“I know. I put it back there when I came in from hunting.”

“Davey, I sent Mack for help! They’ll know it’s you! The Germans have gone back to their base. David!”

Dietrich didn’t wait any longer. He put his numb hands on the sill and pulled himself through the half-opened window. Forcing it up further, the wood screeched as if it hadn’t been open in years.

David Pettigrew turned, the old shotgun in his hands. “What the hell are you doing here!”

Laura lay beside the old radio. Her dress was ripped down one side and Dietrich caught a flash of white underwear. The bruises from the earlier beating were noticeable.

David aimed the gun at the half-frozen German. “So you lied about him as well as Tully! You goddamn whore!”

She rolled into his legs and he staggered against the wall. His boot caught her in the side, and she cried in pain.

The distraction was enough for Dietrich to throw himself against the man. David was shorter than his brother but more muscular through the shoulders. It would have been an uneven match if Laura wasn’t doing her best to help Dietrich by tripping David.

They bounced against the china cupboard, sending pieces of the glass front over the floor and the carpet. The radio was jarred into life as they rolled against it, and the strains of Glenn Miller provided a stark contrast with the grunts of the men.

Finally, Dietrich desperately shoved David hard against the rocking chair. The flimsy wood fragmented, and David went down on his back, Dietrich on top. They struggled, Dietrich to put the metal against David’s throat, David to knock the German off his chest. Blood flowed from Dietrich’s nose from one well-aimed blow.

David bit Dietrich's wounded wrist, and the German instinctively reared back. At the same moment, Laura raised the poker and hit David's shoulder. His grip on the gun loosened, letting Dietrich pull it free. He rolled off David’s chest, and brought it up. The feel of a gun was second nature to Dietrich. Pointing it at David, he said, “Don’t move!”

David's expression was a mixture of disbelief and rage. He grabbed Laura’s hair and yanked to try to bring her in front of him as a shield.

Dietrich fired.

Smoke filled the room, and Laura screamed once.

The buckshot hit David in the chest, flinging him back against the wall. Blood spurted all around, over Laura’s hair and face and torn dress.

Dietrich went pale. I’m going to be hanged, he thought numbly. I just killed an American. Mein Gott, how stupid can I be? The gun sagged in his hands. He could smell the gunpowder on his hands and clothes. “Frau…Pettigrew?”

Laura pushed her wet hair out of her face. She stared at the body of her dead husband in a mixture of disbelief, and relief. “Oh, God, oh, God….oh, God.”

“You are hurt?” Dietrich said. It sounded like his voice was very far away. This hadn’t gone the way he had planned. Had he had a plan? No. He licked his lips, and tasted the blood trickling from his nose.

“Major, are you hurt?” she blurted out, looking at him.

“You were almost hit, Frau. Are you all right?”

She got to her feet and came over. Her foot caught on the edge of the worn carpet and she staggered. Dietrich caught her, feeling the blood in her hair soak into his coat.

“I’m…fine. Sorta. Where did you come from?”

“I saw Mack running away,” Dietrich replied. “Why did you send him out?”

“David said he wanted…oh, God, what am I going – “ she shuddered. “Never mind that, what are you going to do, Major?”

He stared at her. “I...don’t know.”

A determined look came into her eyes, and she pushed off from him. She took the gun from his hands, and put it down on the carpet. “Get out of here, Major! I don’t know where you came from but get out of here and get rid of that coat!”

He looked at the bloody garment. “I don’t have anything – “

She gave him a shove towards the window. “Mack’ll be back soon with help. I’ll tell them that I did it.”

He stared at her appalled. “Frau, they will not believe you!”

“Why not? David and I fought over the gun, and I defended myself,” she blazed. “Everybody around here knows that Tully taught me to use the gun to protect me if David came back!”

“They will throw you in jail!”

“That’s my problem, Major, not yours! Now get out of that window and out of here!” She shoved him again. “And thank you.”

“Thank…me?”

Her eyes were full of tears. One was closing from the force of David’s blow. “You did what I couldn’t do. Thank you!”

Dietrich went back out the window leaving her with the body. She was right. What was he going to do now though?

He was at the edge of the clearing when he heard voices. Mack and the rescuers? Dietrich plunged into the orchards, sliding over the snowy ground. He hoped the storm would regain its earlier fury. It would fill in the footprints that he was leaving.

The voices were closer. Dietrich wondered where he could hide. Maybe, in daylight, he’d be able to see where he was but right now he was blind. He headed away from the voices and landed flat on his face as he fell over a tree root.

The voices passed him, but then he heard an engine. Police car? Maybe. Beams of light shone as the car slowly came up the winding path.

Dietrich put his head down into the cradle of his arms and prayed.

The lights passed by.

He staggered to his feet, feeling dizzy. Doggedly, he stepped forward, feeling for solid ground and his hands outstretched to warn him for tree trunks. The wind howled around him, snatching at his coat.

He paused in the lee of a large oak and took a deep breath. This tree looked familiar. Where was he? He looked around.

Snow. More snow falling heavily. Cawing crows from a nearby tree. He couldn't see the huge black birds but he knew they were waiting for him to pass out. In North Africa, huge vultures sat patiently on dead trees or large rocks waiting for you to die. Here, the crows were larger than the black birds at the Tower of London. What did they call them? "Where's Sergeant Moffitt when I need him?" he said aloud, and almost giggled. Maybe the ones were buzzards, not crows. Miller had pointed out a buzzard to Gruber a couple of days ago, and it looked like a crow.

I'm getting light-headed. I have to find shelter. He heard gurgling.

The large rock by the river. The hut was nearby. Dietrich smiled in relief. All he had to do was follow the riverbank and use his nose for the smell of smoke.

His boots slipped on his first step and he fell, grabbing desperately for something to stop himself from hitting the hard earth. It was worse than that.

Icy cold water flooded his boots and pants as he plunged into the river.

Floundering around, he managed to get his head out of the water as the current dragged him downstream. Every time he grabbed at the bank, he found himself breaking off pieces of ice. A branch caught his coat and stopped his passage for a second, but the current bore him onward.

If I don’t try to get out, I’ll freeze to death! he thought numbly. Kicking out, he found that his legs barely moved. Hypothermia was dragging down his body temperature.

A light. He didn’t care if the United States Army hanged him as long as they got him out of the river. He called out weakly towards the shore. He saw a half-submerged branch jammed up against a rock, and he grabbed at it desperately. Pulling himself hand over hand towards the light, he croaked, “Help!” He hit the water several times, calling more loudly each time.

A familiar voice called in sheer disbelief, “Major?”

Footsteps and curses in English and German. Dietrich was dragged out of the river .

“He’s frozen!” Gruber said excitedly.

“Get his coat off,” Miller snapped. “Damn, I thought this might’a happened! They’re gonna throw me in jail for losing a prisoner!”

They’re going to hang me so you’ve got it lucky, Dietrich thought, barely conscious. His mouth tasted foul from swallowing river water.

“We’ve got to get him out of the wet clothes,” Gruber said with sudden authority. “At least down to his underclothes, Frank. He’ll freeze if we leave him like this.”

For a second Dietrich panicked remembering what he'd seen that afternoon, but he didn't have a choice, and besides Gruber had never given him any reason to worry before. Why should he now? The others were now down to their shirt-sleeves in the warmth. One of the planks in the wall had been opened to let the smoke out, and the room was quite snug.

They stripped him efficiently, wrapping him up in their dry coats. The wet clothing was hung to dry on rusty nails.

With a chill, Dietrich realized that Gruber and Miller would see the blood on his shirt. Why didn’t they comment on it? He could still smell the gunpowder still on his hands even if it had been washed off by the river. Maybe he was just imagining it. He let his head fall back against the wooden floor, and fell asleep, lulled by the warmth of the fire.

* * * * *

The next time he thought clearly was when he was in bed back at Camp Crowe's infirmary. The air smelled of antiseptic and starch, and there was a steady rumble of male voices. Morning sunshine slatted across his bed, hurting his eyes.

He must have vomited earlier, from the smell under his nose, and his mouth tasted so foul he tried to avoid thinking of a description.

What was wrong with him? He remembered clearly collapsing in the hut, and vaguely the fuss that Miller and Gruber had made. Finally, Miller had gone up to the house, and come back with the soldiers, lead by the other guard, Peterson, who had showed up as soon as the snowstorm stopped. They strapped Dietrich to a board, and carried him down off the mountain, escorted by one of the sheriff's guards. Most of the local constabulary was up at the Pettigrew's house where, as Dietrich remembered with an even more sickening stomach roll, David Pettigrew was dead. What was happening to Laura? How long had he been here? He closed his eyes and fell back asleep, his questions unanswered.

The next time he awoke it was late afternoon. He no longer felt nauseous but very weak. Whatever he had caught, it had emptied him.

"Major Dietrich? Hans?" The voice was enough to bring him down to earth. He rolled his head slightly to the left and saw Kozer sitting next to the bed, a book in his hands. In one insane moment, Dietrich thought it might be Grimms' Fairy Tales, but this was thicker than Mack's book. Mein Kampf?

He croaked, "Ja?"

"You're awake! Wunderbar!" Kozer closed the book and put it in his pocket. "How do you feel?"

Dietrich grimaced, licking his lips. His stomach rolled. He shut his eyes, and was surprised to feel Kozer put his hand on his sleeve.

Kozer whispered, "This is important, Hans. Now that you are better, the Americans will want to question you about Oberst Beckmann's trial. They arrived two days ago but you were still too ill to talk to them."

Dietrich had forgotten all about Beckmann and his travails. Somehow murdering Pettigrew had driven it from his mind. He could smell beef stew on his breath as Kozer leaned closer. "The Oberst expects you to follow orders, Major."

Orders... Orders? What...oh. Lying about Sam Troy. Lying to get Oberst Beckmann off the hook for torturing prisoners of war. Whose side am I going to take? Dietrich's eyes flicked open. Kozer was staring at him warily. If I tell the truth, my life won't be worth a Reichmark for as long as I live, which won't be very long in here. Of course, if Gruber or Miller tells the local authorities, I will hang alongside Oberst Beckmann. So, who am I protecting? Bile rose, and he choked. Hastily Kozer stepped back. "I will... answer their questions..."

Kozer's eyes narrowed. "Give the correct answers and you may live to go back to Germany when we win."

"Win? We're not going to win against the Americans," Dietrich replied unthinkingly. "There are too many of them!"

The man's face darkened. "That is treason, Hans!"

"Reality, Hauptmann Kozer," Dietrich replied, rolling his head to eye him. "I have been there more recently than you have. We are losing."

Kozer growled under his breath. He glanced both ways, seeing that they were alone in the small infirmary, then picked up a pillow. "You have become a traitor to the Third Reich."

Dietrich's eyes widened. His hand went up, then fell uselessly. He was too weak to hold Kozer off as the man pressed the pillow into his face. He saw black spots appeared in front of his eyes, and there was a singing tone in his ears. He tasted the detergent used to clean the case.

He feebly clawed at the man's wrists trying to stop him. With an adrenaline rush, he hit out, landing a blow that made Kozer grunt angrily.

Just before he reached the point where the spots became total darkness, he heard a familiar voice protesting, and the pillow was dragged away from his nose. Fresh air. Wunderbar!

"Herr Major! Let him go!"

"Hey, what's going on here?" came an American voice that he recognized. Frank Miller?

"What the hell were you doing?" snapped an even more authoritative voice. Captain Bushnell!

Dietrich blinked open his eyes and saw Kozer being held by Miller and Peterson, who wore his usual suspicious expression. Standing behind them, Gruber was mangling the pillow, his face pale.

Bushnell, with three other officers, stood to one side, a doctor hovering in the back. The officers looked alarmingly judicial. Dietrich didn't recognize the markings on their uniforms. Kozer, caught in the act, didn't reply, just stared at Gruber with pure hatred.

"He was trying to kill me," Dietrich finally said breaking the silence.

Bushnell switched his glare to the prone man. He limped over to the chair on the other side of the bed. "Why would he do that, Major Dietrich?"

Dietrich smiled grimly. "So I couldn't speak about Oberst Beckmann."

"Beckmann!" one of the officers said loudly. "Why would we ask you about him?"

Dietrich licked his dry lips. "He is afraid of what I might say."

Gruber muttered and threw the pillow aside. He poured a glass of water, and held it to Dietrich's lips solicitously.

After swallowing, Dietrich sighed in relief. That was better.

The men exchanged glances with Bushnell. "Well, that's probably true enough," one muttered. "Major, I'm Oberst Beckman's defending attorney, appointed by the US Army. He is questioning the testimony given by a Sergeant Samuel Troy, who accuses him of torturing prisoners in North Africa."

"I don't know the truth about that," Dietrich broke in. "I met Oberst Beckmann only once there."

"We know that," said the middle man in a bass voice. "But you met Sergeant Troy many times."

True. So, Beckmann's fears are right. They want to know about Troy. "Yes."

"In fact, you were often in direct conflict with him."

In spite of himself, Dietrich chuckled. "Conflict...oh, yes."

"And sometimes on the same side," the man continued. "I've read the reports that he filed."

The attorney broke in. "My question to you, Major Dietrich, is your impression of the honesty of Sergeant Sam Troy. Have you at any time questioned it?"

The moment of truth. He felt an insane giggle. Who would have thought that Sergeant Troy's honesty would have to be vouched for by an enemy? Which way to go? His gaze flicked to Kozer, who was staring sullenly at him, his face full of evil promise, then to the discarded pillow. There is only one way to go. "No. Sergeant Troy always played by the rules. Whatever he wrote about Oberst Beckmann is probably accurate, sir."

"Probably?"

"From his point of view," Dietrich said, feeling his energy drain away. The die was cast. Whether he lived or died depended on how fast he could escape the camp after they let him out of the infirmary. "I never questioned... Sam Troy's word when he gave it. He probably wouldn't say the same about me."

Bushnell chuckled. "Someone did or you wouldn't have been sent to this camp as quickly as you were, Major Dietrich. This is for dangerous men, and someone singled you out back in France. Ordered that you be kept alive."

Dietrich chuckled weakly. "I am a dangerous man?"

"More like endangered," Bushnell commented. He stared at the three men. "Satisfied?"

"I am," said the attorney. "Darn, thought we'd have a chance there!"

"Pipe down, Petey," the middle man replied. "We'll be taking Beckmann with us when we head out, Captain Bushnell."

Bushnell nodded, using his cane to get back on his feet. "Thought so. I'll have him rounded-up and in solitary so nothing happens tonight when they find out."

"Uh, sir, what about him?" Peterson asked, staring at Kozer. "I mean he was committing murder -- "

"Throw him in the clink," Bushnell ordered. "I'll deal with him tomorrow. I'll be back, Major Dietrich."

To Dietrich's vast relief, the men filed out dragging Kozer, until only Gruber remained. The small man held out the glass. "More water, sir?"

Dietrich closed his eyes. "Nein. How...did I get back here?"

"We carried you down the mountain. There were many policemen but they were at the house."

"The house...?"

Gruber whispered excitedly, "Frau Pettigrew killed her husband!"

Dietrich didn't even try to hide the retch. Gruber grabbed the basin and held it, then helped him lean back. "Why?"

Gruber shrugged. "I don't know, sir. After we carried you down the mountain, the truck drove us back, Peterson was angry. He thought that maybe you'd been involved up at the Pettigrews', but you were too sick to ask. He is not a nice man."

Dietrich's gaze met Gruber's. Was the little man blackmailing him? In the brown eyes was only worry. He could get me killed if he talks about the shirt. He remembered that Gruber and Miller had stripped his clothes off. Gruber would recognize powder burns. Gefreiter Gruber probably knew the truth.

Then again, Dietrich knew a truth too. "Were you in the orchard with Miller all afternoon 'picking apples'?" His gaze didn't shift from Gruber's.

The little man started back, his face paling. "Major?"

"I saw you. I wasn't at the Pettigrews that night. And you were never alone with Miller in the woods. Correct?"

Gruber nodded slowly. "It was not necessary to ask, Herr Major. I will never talk about that night to anyone."

"I wouldn't speak of that day. I give you my word."

"And Frau Pettigrew?"

"She ordered me to leave." Dietrich didn't know if he'd actually silenced the little man, or if Gruber was going to put the pillow over his face as soon as he passed out, but the moment was coming fast. He shut his eyes. He heard Bushnell's halting step coming down the hallway. The Captain stumped back into the room. "Is he asleep?"

Gruber sprang to attention, holding himself rigidly. "Jawhol, Herr Captain, sir!"

"It won't be safe for him now," Bushnell mused. "Or you either. I think he's sicker than he seems. Needs some specialized treatment."

"He is still very ill," Gruber said eagerly picking up the basin from the sound of clatter.

"Phew! Don't have to show me the evidence, boy. You'd better get back to your barracks. Don't talk about what happened here. Kozer's already out of commission so you'll be safe till tomorrow. Move you then."

"Jawhol, sir!" A click of heels, and the sound of feet retreating out of the room.

Dietrich flicked open his eyes, but Bushnell looked very far away, even though the touch of his fingers on Dietrich's wrist said he was next to him. "You're a problem, Major Dietrich, and I know exactly where to send you to get rid of you."

With a slight croak, Dietrich asked, "Where?"

"Somewhere safe. A hospital at a camp in New Jersey. Very far away from here."

Dietrich shut his eyes, hearing Bushnell stumping away down the hall.

Where is New Jersey?