This is just a one-off, something along the lines of a vignette. I was searching WWII databases for events on the 4th of July, and discovered that that was the last day of the first battle of Al Alamein. (July 1-4, 1942). Then I spotted a tiny reference to the US Air Reconnaissance photos of Rommel's troops, and from there it was just a hop skip and a jump to a Rat Patrol fic. Unlike my usual habit, this was written in one afternoon and evening, and hasn't been beta'd by anyone. Any and all errors are entirely mine.

In WWII, the aircraft designations we recognize today often meant something entirely different. The "P" series, for example was for "pursuit" aircraft, today's fighters. The "F" series, what we now think of as fighters, was used for "foto" recon aircraft, and, according to some sources, because the letter "F" was available, and the letter "P" was not.

June 11, 1942

"Look, Colonel, I know the docs make it sound like I'm going to die the day after tomorrow, but–"

"No, Sergeant. I know you're disappointed, but until this ear problem is resolved, you're out of Air Reconnaissance."

Newly minted US Army sergeant Sam Troy slumped dejectedly in his cot. One mission. He had flown exactly one mission in one of the newly modified P-38s. A lot of the crews, including his own, hated the aircraft, but for Troy it was love at first sight. It was designated the F-4, but everyone knew it was just a Lightning, with all the armaments stripped out to make room for cameras. Flying high over Rommel's forces, documenting their numbers and locations, right under the Desert Fox's nose, had given him a thrill unlike anything he had experienced.

But as the little aircraft banked and changed altitude, he had felt a sickening pop in both ears. He kept snapping photos, but he became increasingly nauseated and had trouble keeping his eyes focused. When they landed, he had taken one step on solid ground and gone down for the count. For nearly a week, they had him in bed, lying at a 30 degree angle, with strict orders not to raise or lower his head. Once, when the nurses weren't looking, he had tried, but the walls seemed to bend and melt around him, and his cot felt like it was trying to dump him out onto the floor. Renewed vomiting had brought a flock of nurses to his beside, clucking like broody hens, and carefully returning him to his prone position.

At that moment he knew. He was grounded.

It wasn't an ear infection. Nothing quite so temporary. The docs called it barotrauma, and it was affecting both his inner and his middle ear. The middle ear might – stress might – have cleared up. The inner ear, on the other hand, was less responsive to treatment. The bottom line was that if he continued to fly, especially at such high altitudes and speeds, he would go deaf in relatively short order.

Now, days later, he was finally able to sit up and look around him. The cot on his left had a new occupant, or at least Troy thought it was a new occupant. From the looks of the kid he had been injured some time earlier; his many cuts and lacerations were scabbed over and starting to heal. He had a buddy sitting by the side of his cot, wearing his own impressive set of carefully stitched decorations.

"I'll never wish I was as tall as you ever again, Hitch," the ambulatory kid was whispering softly. "Docs said that's why you caught that shrapnel in your chest instead of your shoulder like me. Six inches, buddy, six inches that made the difference between just hurting like a son-uv-a and maybe being dead. You gotta learn to duck better, kid."

The words were alarming, but his constant murmuring was in a low-pitched drawling voice that was as soothing as a lullaby. Troy nodded off.

The next time he woke, the pair to his left were both awake. Troy had been raised in Chicago, but he had spent enough summers in New York visiting Uncle Spiro and his family and in New Jersey with Uncle Nick and his family to recognize the accent of the eastern seaboard moneyed class. The ones who sneered at Troy and his cousins as they were getting into or out of their limousines, calling them "filthy urchins" in voices meant to carry. He'd hated the kids even more than their parents, hated their spotless, sharply creased shorts and pants and perfectly ironed shirts, often worn with snappy little bow ties. This kid had that look, the one that shrieked privilege, from his glossy blond hair to his clear blue eyes, occasionally covered by a pair of wire-rimmed cheaters.

"Aw Tully," the kid was protesting, "I keep telling you, it wasn't my fault."

"You can tell me that all you like," his buddy snorted, "but you're the only one of us to end up in the hospital."

"Everyone else is okay, then?" the patient asked anxiously.

"Yeah, they're all fine. Except for the numbskull briefing us on those German stick grenades. He'll probably have to be sent home. You took the brunt of it. Why the hell were you a foot away when the damn thing went off?"

"Come on, Tully. It was two feet, easy, maybe even three." His grin was just a bit shaky. "How was I to know that he'd never taken one apart before? Besides, you know I need to be in front and close up to see."

"That's why you have these, you idiot," the one called Tully huffed. He one-handedly retrieved the glasses from the bedside table and tried to settle them on a nose that was so pale that its freckles stood out as if drawn in indelible ink.

"You don't seem to have ducked, yourself," the patient returned, eying the sling that cushioned Tully's arm and adjusting the earpieces of the spectacles. They made him look even younger, if that were possible.

"Yeah, but if I'd ducked, it would have got me in the head." He laughed, but his eyes were worried as he took in his friend's increasingly pale complexion and the drops of sweat dotting his forehead just from the effort of putting on his glasses. "Be honest with me, Hitch. How much are you hurting?"

"Not too much," "Hitch" replied softly, lowering his eyes.

"Ah-ah-ah," Tully chided, raising his finger, "I said 'honestly.'"

The blond didn't raise his eyes, but the fingers of one hand plucked restlessly at the blanket. He sighed.

"Uh huh," Tully said in tones of mock disgust. "That's what I thought."

He scanned the room until he made eye contact with a nurse a few beds away. He tipped his head slightly at the patient and she nodded her understanding. "Hey," he teased, "I think a member of your fan club is here."

He yielded his place to the nurse, who took the patient's wrist and began counting off his pulse. She lowered the arm and tucked it gently under the blanket. "Private Hitchcock, the doctor ordered pain medication as needed." Her light brown hair had broad streaks of gray through it and there were obvious wrinkles around her eyes and creasing her forehead, but she had a gentle touch and the soothing voice and accent of the south, Alabama maybe, or Georgia. Her hazel eyes were ordinary in color and setting, but truly remarkable for their compassion and caring. "Would you like a shot?"

"No thank you, ma'am," he replied softly.

"Yes thank you, ma'am," Tully replied more loudly. "Whether he'd like it or not, he needs it. He's just being a stubborn Yankee, Lieutenant." His slight accent had broadened perceptibly, establishing an instant rapport with the nurse. "You know how they get when that stoic Puritan streak gets hold of 'em."

The lieutenant's eyes laughed. "Somehow, I suspect that 'Puritan' isn't a very good word for the private here."

"Maybe not, ma'am" Tully acknowledged, ignoring Hitchcock's blushing expression of mingled annoyance and disgust. "But give him that shot, and make it good and strong."

"I'll get you for this, Tully," Hitchcock whispered, his eyelids beginning to droop as the medication hit his bloodstream.

"Yeah? You and what army?" Tully teased. He and the nurse watched until Hitchcock's eyes closed and he relaxed into the pillow. Tully liked the concern and concentration she showed as she watched, and decided he'd pick her over the younger, flirtatious nurses in a heartbeat. If he were ever a patient in this ward, that is.

"Don't worry, Private Pettigrew," the nurse said understandingly, patting his good shoulder. "I know he looks bad, but he's actually doing wonderfully well. A few more days and he'll even be walking a bit. Another week after that, and he'll be back on duty. How about you? Has anyone checked your stitches lately?"

"Not for a couple days." He shrugged, wincing slightly at the movement.

"Shirt off, Private. Let me take a look." He wriggled out of his shirt to reveal a long, livid slash held together by a neat line of stitches. Even from several feet away Troy could tell that the action pained the private quite a bit. The nurse could see it, as well, and although her examination was thorough she kept her touches light. Finally she nodded. "That looks to be healing well. I think the stitches can come out, say, Friday. Keep wearing the sling, and let's have the doctor take a look tomorrow to be sure. Now, I want y'all to go over to the mess hall and get a good dinner. Two glasses of milk, Private, and no coffee. And if it's green, I want you to eat it."

"Even if that's the meat?" Tully joked.

"They're out of the green meat. All we have left is the purple."

"Yes ma'am!" He saluted. "But ma'am, it's just that…"

"What 'just is it', Private?"

"The mess hall won't be serving dinner for another half hour or so. You don't mind if I wait here, do you?"

She glanced at the bed, assuring herself that Private Hitchcock was soundly asleep. "As long as you don't wake him," she agreed. "And then it's scat, Private. Don't let me see you until morning."

Tully nodded his thanks and retook his seat in the chair by Hitchcock's bed. He looked over his friend's sleeping body and spotted Troy. He'd noticed the older man before, wondering why he never seemed to have any visitors.

"Hiya," he said amiably.

"Hi," Troy answered. "Sam Troy."

"Tully Pettigrew."

Troy shifted restlessly. "Sorry, I'd get up, but …" He waved his hand in a slightly spinning gesture. "They won't let me get up."

"What happened?" Tully asked curiously.

"My ears exploded," Troy said dryly.

"Seems like an awful lot of exploding going on," Tully grinned. "And we haven't even left England yet." He waved towards his sleeping buddy. "Training accident. We're doing the commando course, and some idiot officer was showing us the innards to one of them German potato mashers."

"I heard. Commando course, huh?"

"Well, not the whole course. Hitch – my buddy here, Mark Hitchcock – started out in demolitions and I'm mechanics. But our captain decided we should both train in a couple other things so we could fill in here and there, and sent us here for a couple weeks of extra training. This wasn't quite what Hitch and I had in mind, and I'm pretty such the Captain didn't figure on it, either." His grin faded and he became serious. "I couldn't help noticing, Troy, that no one's been in to see you. Where's the rest of your unit?"

Troy grimaced. "Don't have one, not any more at least. I'm being reassigned." He saw the question in Tully's eyes. "I was air recon, but …" He shrugged. "Ears. No more flying. I don't know what they'll have me do now."

"Huh." He caught sight of the lieutenant frowning in their direction and scrambled to his feet. "Got my orders, Troy. Time to go. See you tomorrow?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Troy agreed morosely. But apparently Pettigrew and Hitchcock were. When Troy woke the next morning, the bed next to his was empty. Over the next couple weeks, while his recovery continued, the two were gradually forgotten.

July 4, 1942…

Sam Troy stretched, enjoying the sun of Egypt after all those damp weeks in England. He was back in North Africa, on the ground this time, as an observer with the 10th Corps of Auchinleck's Eighth Army, a cheerful hodgepodge of Brits, South Africans, Indians, Australians, French, and New Zealanders. The brass hadn't wanted to waste his recon training, so he was here in Cairo studying the Long Range Desert Groups to see if the US forces could do something similar.

It was the 4th of July, and for the past four days Rommel had pounded the Allied positions at El Alamein. Troy had been pleased to hear through the grapevine that the air reconnaissance photographs he and his unit had helped take were being given some of the credit for the Allies' successful repulsion of the German offensive. It would be nice, though, if he could find a couple other Yanks and hoist a glass or two to celebrate Independence Day. Oddly enough, his British hosts didn't celebrate the holiday.

He glanced at his watch. There wouldn't be time, anyway. A new American colonel had arrived that morning, and Troy had orders to report to his office at 1500 hours.

He took a few moments to stop by his quarters and be sure his uniform would stand up to an inspection. His eyes rested for a moment on the bush hat he'd taken to wearing lately. It had been a gift from an Aussie unit he'd worked with for a couple weeks. He reluctantly swapped it out for the standard Army cap, gave his boots one last swipe with his polishing rag, and headed for the HQ building.

He was immediately ushered into the Colonel's office, making him wonder uneasily if there was an emergency of some sort brewing. Maybe Rommel hadn't been as completely pushed back as they'd been led to believe. But as he entered and came to attention, he spotted a familiar figure standing in front of the colonel's desk.

"At ease, Sergeant," the colonel said briskly, seating himself. "I believe you know Corporal Cotter?"

"Yes, Sir," Troy replied, trying not to grin.

"Sergeant, you were sent here to study the British Long Range Desert Groups with a view towards establishing something similar for our troops. I've read your reports, and they are very encouraging. Is there anything more you'd like to add to them?"

"No – actually, yes sir. There is."

"Go ahead, speak freely, Sergeant."

"I think it could work very well, sir, as long as the units remain small and highly mobile. I'm talking no more than 4 to 6 men, sir. That's about as large as they can be without sacrificing speed and slowing communications."

The colonel nodded.

"That's what my people thought. But we don't want to step on any British toes, here. What we've decided to do is form one four-man patrol, let it operate for a couple months, then make the decision whether or not to expand the program. Think you'd like to head it up?"

"Sir, yes, Sir!"

"Good. We hated losing your skill at recon when we had to ground you. This should put that training and ability to good use. Corporal Cotter here will be your second, and we've picked out a couple of privates to round you out. Both are skilled drivers, they've been trained in jeep maintenance as well as demolitions, sabotage, navigation…"

This was starting to sound oddly familiar, but Troy couldn't quite pin down the memory.

"One qualified as a sniper, and the other in signals and comms. Here's their paperwork." He handed Troy a folder and nodded to Cotter. "Bring in the privates, Corporal."

Two youngsters were ushered in, standing at painfully erect attention while the colonel made the introductions.

"Sergeant Troy, Privates Pettigrew and Hitchcock. Now, if you'll all be seated, Captain Boggs will be in to brief you on your first assignment."

The briefing went on well into the early evening, and even as Sam Troy concentrated on the Captain's words, part of his mind was studying the two men. He remembered them now; well, he remembered Pettigrew at least. He'd never actually spoken to Hitchcock. But somehow, it felt as if they'd worked together for months. Years.

"I have a good feeling about this," Troy told himself with rising optimism. Suddenly, the future was looking a whole lot brighter. He looked back down at the map Captain Boggs had spread out, knowing that this would be only the first of many successful operations. And smiled.