A/N: I'm not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination, so I apologize if I've gotten anything wrong, and I welcome friendly corrections.

The All-Star Raid

"I can't believe this!"

The afternoon sun made long, awkward shadows as the two privates headed across the dusty compound to the mess hall. The Rat Patrol had just returned from three weeks in the field, and Mark Hitchcock and Tully Pettigrew had finished servicing their jeeps and "bedding them down for the night," as Tully liked to say. It was Hitch who had spoken, kicking at the sand in disgust.

Tully shook his head. "Nothing we can do about it now. Just the Brits' way of doing it this time."

"Three days off, and we can't leave camp," Hitch groused. "That almost guarantees they'll cancel it and send us back out! We're so close to the coast here, and we can't even go for a swim. Half the time, they act like they don't even want us here. I bet if we were with an American unit, this wouldn't be happening."

Tully seriously doubted that American officers would be much different from British ones, in this case, but decided not to get into that, just now. Getting Hitch all worked up would only make the next few days more difficult to get through. He looked around the camp, desperate for something to distract his friend.

"Look," he said, pointing to a crowd of men on an open space behind the supply tent. "What's going on over there?"

Hitch stopped walking and looked. "Looks like a game. Is that Spencer?" he added after a moment.

Sure enough, a dozen young men wearing various parts of the Eighth Army's uniform were running from one end of the field to the other, chasing after a round leather ball. Diverting from their trip to the enlisted mess, the two Americans headed over to the sidelines to watch. It was indeed their friend, Drew Spencer – not leading the charge, but not too far back in the pack, either.

"What's the score?" Tully asked the man beside him, out of idle curiosity. The man looked him over, taking in the American uniform, and shrugged.

"Three to two," he replied. "Artillery's winning, but the medics are catching up." After a moment, and another uncertain glance at the newcomers, he added, "See, the point is to kick the ball between the jeeps at that end, or the tables at that end –"

"We know how it's played," Hitch interjected, but not as sullenly as Tully would have expected, given the younger man's mood. The Englishman shrugged again, and returned his attention to the game.

At that moment, a corporal on the other side of the makeshift field, who had been studying the watch in his hand to the virtual exclusion of all else, suddenly threw both hands in the air. "Time!" he cried.

The crowd of spectators erupted into celebration. The man beside Tully slapped him on the shoulder in jubilation, then seemed to remember himself and headed off with his countrymen. Tully sighed. He didn't even know who won, but no one seemed to care anyway. He didn't understand these English guys sometimes.

XXXX

Drew Spencer was looking for his canteen, which he had left on one of the tables that was serving as a goal marker. There was a variety of other equipment there, discarded by players during the course of the game; and an ill-timed dive by the artillerymen's goalkeeper had resulted in a pile of gear on the ground, as well. The exercise and camaraderie had him in a good mood, so he didn't mind the search. They didn't get much opportunity to get a game up, these days, but he joined in whenever he could. Finally locating the canteen under the table, he crawled under to get it, and looked up to find two pair of American boots on the other side. He stuck his head out, and was pleased to see half of the Rat Patrol before him.

He had only spent a few days in the field with the mostly American team, but had liked them almost instantly. They had been friendly and welcoming, even after finding they had a "green" medic on their hands. He had been impressed with how much they knew of the desert and the enemy; that one trip had made him realize how much he still had to learn here. They had seen him through his first real combat, as well, which led to a level of trust that only such an experience could bring. He had only seen them a few times since, mostly for a beer or two when they were in camp for supplies, but he was glad to consider them all friends.

"Hello, lads," he greeted, crawling out from under the table and standing. "Did they finally let you come in for a bit?"

"Yeah, we've got three days," Tully replied, shaking the Englishman's hand in greeting.

"Three days stranded in camp," Hitch added ruefully, repeating the handshake.

Spencer gave him a curious look, but before either American could explain, a voice hailed them from across the field. "Here, Spencer! Leave off with those Yanks and come on!"

"Yeah," added another with a laugh. "Unless you're not interested in intelligent conversation!"

Tully winced, and even Spencer could see that Hitch hadn't taken that well. "Hey, mind your own business, Tommy!" Hitch retorted. "We're talking here!"

There was a brief discussion among the group across the way, and then four men broke off and headed toward them. "Way to go, Hitch," Tully murmured.

"We were talking," Hitch protested.

"Well, watch your mouth, now, or we'll be talking to Sarge about how we managed to pick a fight while walking to supper."

"Here, now," Spencer started, intercepting the four British soldiers. "I'll be along in a bit. Why don't you go on without me?"

"Not until we're sure this Yank knows his manners," replied one, a burly red-haired private from an artillery company.

Hitch started forward angrily at that, and the artilleryman moved to meet him, but Tully grabbed Hitch's shoulders and Spencer stepped between them.

"Tully, let me go!" Hitch growled.

"We got three days' leave, Junior; I ain't spending it in the stockade!"

"Look, surely there's a better way to settle this," Spencer added to the group at large.

The irate artilleryman studied the lighter-built, bespectacled American before him, then relaxed, a slow smile creeping over his face. "Sure there is, Spencer. On the field."

Spencer blinked in surprise.

"The football field?" He could see that the other British soldiers had read Hitch as an easy mark, and he knew they were wrong, but this was getting out of hand. Shaking his head, he protested, "They're American, they don't play it the way we do!"

"On the field," the man repeated, still looking at Hitch. "Say, three days from now? Just after teatime. We'll play four-on-four, if you and your friend can find two more. If not, we'll draw lots to see who will be putting you Colonials in your place."

Tully, still holding Hitch's shoulders, was shaking his head, and Spencer was desperately trying to come up with another alternative; but Hitch was too angry now. "You're on!" he retorted. "Three days."

Tully, determined to support Hitch regardless, resisted the urge to stare at his friend in shock. Maybe the stockade wasn't such a bad idea, after all. As the others moved off, laughing at the foolish, hotheaded Yank, Tully slowly released his hold on Hitch and stepped back.

"That Turner can be such an idiot," Spencer murmured in disgust as they were left alone. "Sorry about that. I didn't know you played our type of football," he added curiously, then caught the look passing between the two Americans. His green eyes widened in shock. "Oh, no. Oh, no. Are you mad? You're really ready to make fools of yourselves over a stupid misunderstanding?"

Hitch was calming down now, and beginning to realize what he had gotten them into, but he wasn't ready to admit defeat, either. "So teach us how to play," he suggested, with the tone of a man issuing a dare.

Spencer was totally unprepared for that. "What? It's sun stroke, isn't it?" he asked Tully. "His brain's melted in the heat!"

Tully shook his head in disbelief, wondering if he should go chase down their challengers and pop one of them in the face, just to get out of this; but Hitch wouldn't be put off. "Come on, Spencer, it can't be that hard a game. I was a good athlete back home, and Tully's pretty good at baseball."

"This is not baseball, Hitch," Tully warned. They didn't play a lot of team sports where he grew up; there weren't enough kids to make a team. They had preferred individual competition – like target practice.

"Come on," Hitch wheedled, ignoring Tully.

Spencer stood staring at them for a long minute, then threw up his hands in resignation. "All right. At least we might keep you from total humiliation, if nothing else. We'll have to find a fourth, though."

Hitch grinned, amused that Spencer had automatically included himself on the team. "I think I have an idea who to ask," he replied.

XXXX

"You did what?" exclaimed Sergeant Jack Moffitt, after the two American privates and Spencer met the rest of the Rat Patrol in the enlisted mess, and the situation had been explained.

"We accepted a challenge to a soccer game," Hitch repeated, trying to sound sensible and confident while his two sergeants looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"You accepted, buddy," Tully interjected. "Spencer and I were just there."

"But we need a fourth player," Hitch went on as if he hadn't heard. "I thought you might be able to help us out."

Moffitt looked stunned. He glanced at their leader, Sergeant Sam Troy, but the American only burst out laughing.

"Well, at least they managed to stay out of the stockade," Troy observed with a grin. When he had seen Hitch's reaction to the restrictions on their leave, he had been a little afraid to leave the kid alone. It had been a hard few weeks in the field, and being confined to camp when they returned had been the proverbial last straw. He was glad to see that Hitch had found an outlet for his frustration that didn't require his sergeant to finesse the MPs. And besides, this was going to be fun to watch.

Moffitt returned his attention to the three privates across from him. "Look here, Hitch, I haven't played since school – and I wasn't all that good at it then." The fact of the matter was, he had preferred studying to sports, but found that the game gave him a good break from his books, and his mother had stopped insisting he needed to get some fresh air. "Not every Englishman excels at this, you know."

"If you played at all, Sarge, you gotta be better than us," Tully pointed out, more-or-less resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be able to avoid this.

Moffitt looked to Spencer, who shrugged. "We've only got tomorrow and the next day, Sergeant. If we could at least teach them the basics, then –" he let his voice trail off, not sure how to complete the sentence without offending Hitch.

"—then maybe we could get the other guys really drunk and actually have a chance," Tully finished dryly, and Hitch finally acknowledged his presence with a glare.

Moffitt sighed. "Very well; I'll help you defend your honor, though how exactly it was impugned, I'm still not clear." He had enjoyed football as a boy, after all; and as his schedule for the next few days was hardly set in stone ….

"Thanks," Hitch grinned. Rising with his cup in hand, he asked, "More coffee, anyone?"

When he had moved off, no one having taken him up on the offer, Troy clapped Moffitt lightly on the shoulder and said, "Well, look at it this way: maybe Rommel will surrender before then."

"Or attack," Tully added. "I think I'd take it either way."