The Father Christmas Raid
In the stifling darkness of his tent, Hauptmann Hans Dietrich sat on the edge of his cot and listened. There was nothing…no grind of heavy machinery cutting its path through the scorching sand; no gun fire of another bloody skirmish in the distance; no thunder of heavy artillery echoing across the vast desert. Hauptmann Dietrich sat and listened to nothing but the silence of a cease-fire.
The lack of troop activity didn't bother him as much as the quiet. It was Christmas Eve, 1942 and despite the merriment normally associated with the season, Hauptmann Dietrich's men had very little to celebrate. After the defeat at El Alamein and the subsequent retreat, the advent of Christmas only served to underscore the growing sense of futility of the war in the desert.
The atonal melody of an alcohol-laced Christmas carol floated through the Captain's open tent flap. Ducking beneath the low-hanging roof, Dietrich stepped outside to investigate the source of the discordant harmony.
Daylight was tenuously flirting with evening, and a cool breeze reminded the captain to grab his hat and tunic before he ventured too far from his tent. Buttoning his jacket, he followed the music to a group of soldiers huddled around a small fire. Obviously drunk on an improvised concoction of liquor, they were momentarily unconcerned with the chain of command and made no attempt to come to attention or salute their commanding officer. In a gesture of friendliness, one soldier did offer Dietrich a drink of the malodorous libation, which he politely refused. The cease-fire would not last forever and Dietrich decided someone needed to have a clear mind and a calm stomach when the war resumed the next day.
Crouching close to the fire, the captain lingered long enough to hear letters from home, share a tin of chocolate and admire a picture of Private Hiener's fiancé. Although this assembly of lonely soldiers would never pass for real family, the camaraderie they shared tonight would be enough to temporarily ward off the homesickness that always accompanied the season. The very nature of command would not allow Hauptmann Dietrich the comfort of the companionship these men shared. Fighting off his own encroaching emotional attrition, Dietrich rose slowly, wished his men a "Merry Christmas" and walked alone to the perimeter of the camp.
There was an inherent solitude about the desert. Dietrich drew his jacket close around his neck and considered the barren immensity of the land…ancient and immutable, yet in constant flux. Mysterious and uninviting, the desolate plains of North Africa were the last place on earth that Hauptmann Hans Dietrich would have planned to spend Christmas.
Standing atop the crest of a large dune, Hans considered how very little of his life he had actually "planned" during the past few years. He had lived the existence of a professional soldier, following orders, moving from post-to-post, rarely pausing to question either his actions or those of his superiors. But he had been in Africa for almost two years now, and if the desert was conducive to anything, it allowed one to think. During these rare moments of quite reflection, Dietrich occasionally dared to re-evaluate his career choice.
He laughed under his breath at the misconception that he had ever had a 'choice.' Born into a military family whose Prussian roots spread over several centuries, he was taught duty and honor before he could learn to pronounce the words. And, looking back over his short military career, he never questioned his tutelage until now. In the Libyan plains outside of Tunisia, fighting under the banner of a government he could not condone, patriotic ideologies took on a different pallor in the glare of a foreign sun.
As he continued to stare out into the ever-darkening night, Dietrich tried to tune out the Führer's annual Christmas address as it crackled through the sand-encrusted speaker on the portable radio. If the truth were told, Hauptmann Dietrich preferred the inharmonious slur of drunken carols to the near-hysterical whine of Nazi propaganda.
As if on cue, a loud cheer came up from the radio crowd and one of the soldiers saved Dietrich the bother of ordering the men to turn the radio off. Satisfied that the remainder of the evening would pass quietly, Dietrich was about to return to his tent when the glare of automobile headlights, glowing softly over the dusty terrain, caught his attention. Hans habitually, calmly took the safety off of the handgun at his side.
"Alarm!" the young sentry serving guard duty came close to pushing the captain over in his hurry to inform the rest of the camp of the unexpected visitor.
"Herr Hauptmann…!" he sputtered, pointing towards the lights in the distance.
"I can see," Dietrich said, holding the excitable sentry by the arm, his eyes remained fixed on the approaching vehicle. Such a late night visitor was indeed a rarity. Cease-fire or not, no military personnel would risk exposing themselves to enemy snipers by using their headlights at night. Dietrich could only assume their company was civilians.
"Stay here," Dietrich ordered the young sentry, while he proceeded down the other side of the dune to meet the car. Even in the dull evening light, through the dust kicked up from the balding tires, Dietrich could see that the vehicle was some sort of late model station wagon, old and rusted and apparently in need of repair. The captain's hand rested on his gun when the car stopped about 50 feet away and the driver's side door opened.
A diminutive figure stood behind the car door, hands raised above her head. "Please, don't shoot," a woman's voice called out. "We need your help!"
As he drew near to the car, Dietrich could see the black-robed figures silhouetted against the headlights. He recognized two nuns from one of the local hospitals whom Hans had met during one of the last typhus epidemics. "Sisters?" Squinting into the lights, Dietrich nonchalantly removed his hand from the gun. Clasping both hands behind his back, he remained wary but softened a bit, as the two nuns walked toward him.
"Hauptmann Dietrich," the younger of the two women spoke first. "My name is Sister Theresa, perhaps you remember—"
Dietrich offered his hand. "Yes, of course, I do," he genuinely smiled as she shook the sister's small, coarse hand. "You are from the Catholic hospital in El Agheila. Your staff was very kind to my men."
Relief softened Sister Theresa's worried face. "It is not our place to discriminate between any of God's children," she replied firmly. "We simply do God's will."
Uncomfortable with such an obvious display of humility and faith, Hauptmann Dietrich bowed his head to collect his thoughts. These women also had their own code of duty and honor…but one that was radically different from his own.
"You said something about needing my help," taking a steadying breath, Hans looked at the two nuns. "What can I do for you?"
"There is a sick child," the older of the two spoke up, ignoring the disapproving look she received from Sister Theresa. She took a step toward Dietrich. "He has been adopted by a family in America who will see to his medical needs, but we must get him safely out of North Africa."
"There is a private boat docked in Sirta, which will provide transportation for the boy to America. But it will be leaving tomorrow," Sister Theresa added, "if he does not reach Sirta by tomorrow morning…"
The sister did not have to finish her thought. If the boat left without the boy, there would be no guarantee that the child would ever leave Africa. The cease-fire would end tomorrow evening and privately owned vessels, no matter what their cargo, would not remain in port long enough to be harassed by either the Allied or Axis military police.
"I don't quite understand what it is you wish me to do." Dietrich purposely ignored what he suspected was inevitable.
"Our car would never survive the trip," the elder nun pointed out.
"We need you to take the boy to Sirta," Sister Theresa bluntly ordered the captain.
Closing his eyes, Dietrich slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry…" he replied, his resolve weakening as he looked into the hopeful eyes of the two sisters. "What about the Red Cross?" He offered. "There is a cease-fire until tomorrow night. Surely they could get the boy safely out of the country."
Sister Theresa strong hands firmly gripped the captain's arm. "In order to get to Sirta, you must pass through Nofilia. Nofilia is German-held territory under the control of Captain Steiner." The sister's grip grew tighter as she pleaded with Dietrich, "you know the SS has no respect for the Red Cross and Hauptsturmführer Steiner is too paranoid to honor a cease-fire." The determined young sister locked eyes with Hauptmann Dietrich, "you are this boy's only hope to leave this awful place."
Dietrich wrestled his arm out of Sister Theresa's grip. He deliberately watched the two sisters as he considered their unusual request. What right did they have to ask this of him, he wondered, annoyed? More calmly, he asked what right did he have to deny them his help. They were correct, of course. The trip would take little more than eight hours, and a Wehrmacht escort would get them through dangerous territory without interference from the SS. There was a cease-fire, Hans argued with himself, and if it would save one life, he decided, the trip to Sirta
would be worth the inconvenience.
Inhaling deeply, he looked at the two religious workers in front of him. "Very well," he decided, "I shall send one of my staff to pick up the boy and take him to the ship." Dietrich stiffened when neither of the sisters seemed to appreciate his answer.
"What more do you require of me?" he asked impatiently.
Sister Theresa lowered her eyes and nervously cleared her throat. What she had to ask would not be easy, but it was the only way she knew to safely get the child out of the country. "We'd prefer…we ask that you take the child, yourself, Captain." She solidly held her ground against the captain's astonishment. "As you said, there is a cease-fire," she hurried to explain her request. "Most of your men are in town," she continued, "and the ones here are…'indisposed.' Please," she begged him, "you are one of the few we can trust."
Removing his cap, Dietrich tiredly ran his fingers through his hair. Sister Theresa was correct. The war had been put on hold for the next 24 hours and, looking around the camp, Dietrich knew there were only a handful of men who he would trust to do the job efficiently. And, in the end, despite his own misgivings, he knew he would comply because he was 'one of the few.'"
With a sigh, Dietrich replaced his cap and looked past the sisters out into the dark desert sky. His voice tinted with resignation, he asked, "Where is the boy?"
Hauptmann Hans Dietrich's boots echoed with the resonance of authority as he followed the two nuns through the maze of hallways and sick wards that made up The Catholic Hospital at El Agheila. The marble halls were spotless, but the building smelled with distinctive odor of human death and disease, barely masked by chemical deodorants.
Up another flight of stairs and around another corner, the threesome finally came to a stop just outside the childrens' ward. Hans waited patiently as Sister Theresa negotiated the young boy's release. The nurse behind the desk stared disbelievingly at the German soldier the sisters had enlisted for the job.
Anxiously fingering the hat that dangled from his fingertips, Dietrich purposely avoided the young woman's incredulous reaction. Instead, he gazed at the long rows of little white beds that lined the walls of the large room. The smaller children whimpered for some form of comfort, while the older ones used any means available to shut out cries of the young. The children who were healthy enough watched with detached curiosity as the nurse lead the two sisters and the German officer around the ward. Others, too sick to care, watched dispassionately as yet another group of strangers passed by their beds.
Finally, the late night entourage stopped at the bedside of a young boy whose left leg had been amputated up to the knee. He was small and thin but with large, sharp brown eyes under a mop of curly brown hair. Dietrich dared not ask the circumstances of the boy's injury. He was sure he did not want to hear the answer.
"This is Jacob Naseem," the nurse smiled sweetly at the silent young man as she bent to rearrange his bed linens. Standing again, she nodded towards Dietrich. "Jacob, this is Captain Dietrich…he is going to take you to Sirta."
"Hello Jacob," Hans extended his hand in greeting, but the boy immediately withdrew his under the covers. Shrugging his eyebrows, Dietrich nervously rocked back on his heel, and moved his hat from one hand to the other. They were not going to become fast friends. "When can we leave?" he asked Sister Theresa.
"As soon as we get his personal—"
"What is going on here?" The small group turned as one when another, elderly sister who spoke with the voice of command, threaded her large frame between the rows of beds. Only the clatter of her rosary beads dared to make a sound when she came to a stop at Jacob's bed. "What is this man doing here?" she asked after making a hasty visual evaluation of the German captain.
"This is Hauptmann Hans Dietrich," Obviously caught off guard, Sister Theresa introduced the captain. "Captain, this is Mother Maria, she is the head abbess here at the hospital."
Dietrich paid close attention to the hint of frustration in Sister Theresa's voice. Even as they shook hands, Hans could feel an air of animosity stir between them.
Mother Maria barely acknowledged Dietrich's presence before she pulled Sister Theresa aside. "Do you know what you are doing?" she whispered, furiously.
Sister Theresa knew exactly what her superior was implying but attempted, instead, to quell a potentially volatile situation. "We can trust him," she insisted quietly, glancing at Dietrich as she defended her choice of escort. "He is Jacob's only chance!"
"He is a German!" Mother Maria needlessly pointed out.
"Yes, I know…" Theresa sputtered, "but—"
"Have you told him?" Maria asked, impatiently.
"No." Theresa answered honestly, "but I will—"
"When? After they are both shot by the SS?" Mother Maria waited for an answer that her sister could not supply. Finally, she turned to Captain Dietrich.
"I'm afraid, Captain Dietrich, that you have been put in the middle of a well-intentioned, if poorly reasoned, rescue attempt." Standing in front of Sister Theresa, facing Dietrich, the head abbess tucked her hands in the many folds of her black habit.
"I don't understand." Dietrich answered. "The sisters asked me to convey this child to Sirta, and I agreed. Is there a problem?"
Without loosing eye contact with the captain, Mother Maria looked at Herr Hauptmann and evenly answered, "Jacob is Jewish."
Making every attempt to maintain his calm exterior, Dietrich looked at the boy and then at Sister Theresa who stood, barely visible, behind the Mother Superior. "May I have a word with Sister Theresa?" he asked politely, although the anger in his eyes gave away his true emotions.
The head abbess took a defensive position between the captain and her nun. "Whatever Sister Theresa did, or asked, she did only out of concern for the boy," Maria reminded the captain. "Whatever you have to say to her, you may say to me instead."
"What I want to say to Sister Theresa, I will not say in front of Jacob," Hans seethed.
Mother Maria looked at the innocent boy lying on the bed in the swarm of controversy and softened. "Of course," she conceded.
Dietrich took a step past the Mother Superior and stood in front of Sister Theresa. Whatever she was feeling, the captain was surprised to find it certainly wasn't fear. He extended his hand as if to guide the sister ahead of him. "After you," he said, acerbically.
Determined to argue her case, Sister Theresa resolutely turned on one foot and left the ward. Perplexed and furious, Dietrich followed. When they were far enough out of earshot of the others, Theresa abruptly stopped and turned to face the captain.
"You were the only one we could count on," she began defensively. "He's an injured young boy," she pleaded, "and this is his only chance to escape."
"You left out one vital piece of information, Sister, " Dietrich replied hotly.
"He is a Jew," Theresa stated matter-of-factly, throwing up her arms for dramatic effect. "Does that change the fact that he is a sick boy in need of help?"
"Of course not!" Dietrich spat as he paced back and forth on the marbled floor. "But it certainly changes what I can do to help him!"
Theresa reached out and grabbed his arm to prevent him from pacing. "I can't believe that it matters to you," her eyes soft but intense as she attempted to read his face. "I've seen you interact with your men. I've seen you in the village with the civilians. You are not like the others…I know it."
Taking a deep breath, Dietrich straightened as the nun let go of his arm. She was right. Jacob's heritage did not matter to him, but unfortunately, he was not in a position to change the dictums of the Third Reich. But she was also correct that he was Jacob's only chance of safe passage through German-held territory. Most of all, she knew as well as he, that his conscience would not permit him to back away.
Dietrich's hastily began to work on a compromise they could all live with. It was certainly true that the quickest way to Sirta was through Nofilia. A German convoy would be the most efficient way to get him there, but he doubted many of his men would be interested in the safety of a Jewish child to attempt such a rescue. It would be unfair of him to ask any of his men to give up their Christmas Holiday to an effort that could potentially get them killed. The cease-fire, he thought. Surely there would be a way to use the suspension of hostilities to his advantage. But even if he were able to obtain safe passage through enemy territory, the journey would take longer than it should and Jacob's ship might sail without him. There had to be a way, he kept thinking repeatedly, until the answer finally produced itself. If he could not get through enemy territory during the cease-fire…perhaps the enemy could get through German-held territory. A dangerous smile crossed his face as he looked at Sister Theresa's expectant face. The first item on his agenda was to find Sergeant Troy.
Despite the drop in the temperature outside, the interior of the local bar was hot and dusty. Sam Troy eyed the lip of another shot glass filled with his favorite beverage and debated with himself the benefits of celebrating Christmas in the North African desert. When he could find no reason to make merry, he swiftly downed the whiskey in one swallow.
"Better take it a little easy," Jack Moffitt cautioned Troy, as he calmly stirred the over-wrung slice of lime floating on top of his gin and tonic. "The way to a man's heart isn't usually through his liver."
Laughing under his breath, Troy glanced sideways at his British partner. "Didn't the Greeks think that the liver was the center of all emotion?" he asked casually.
Moffitt smiled and took a sip of his drink. "Something like that," he said softly, glad to be discussing something in his area of civilian expertise. Although he had spent much of his life in the African deserts, Moffitt too, was feeling a little nostalgic for his home in Oxford.
"Don't like these damn cease-fires much," Tully chimed in as he climbed on a stool at the bar, next to Troy. Moffitt and Troy both waited for a forthcoming explanation from their comrade. Taking a long drink of his warm beer for emphasis, Tully stared at nothing and answered "gives a man too much time to think."
Three heads nodded in agreement and no one noticed when they were joined by a fourth khaki-colored uniform at the end of the bar. "Bier, bitte," Captain Dietrich ordered quietly.
Troy, Moffitt and Tully's heads all snapped in astonished unison towards the sound of the order in German. Slowly, wordlessly, Troy deliberately set his shot glass on the bar and turned towards the captain.
"Look at what Santa brought!" Tully announced in feigned amusement.
Without looking at the three members of the Rat Patrol, Dietrich accepted his drink. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said casually.
Troy, immediately agitated by the appearance of their unusual drinking associate, asked irritably, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"There is a cease fire, Sergeant," Dietrich answered sarcastically. "Apparently, I am celebrating Christmas in much the same way that you are."
A smile creased Moffitt's normally stoic face. "And I thought you had decided to surrender."
Dietrich turned to face the English sergeant. The barely traceable smile on his face disappeared altogether. "Not yet," he paused for effect, then turned back to his drink. "Actually," he said haltingly, "I am here to ask a favor."
Slowly rising from his chair, Troy menacingly circled the captain. "Let me see if I got this right…you need help, and you come to us?"
Uncomfortably sandwiched between Troy and Moffitt, Dietrich glanced out of the corner of his eye at the leader of the Rat Patrol who now sat at his right elbow. "I am not asking for myself," he said as he took another drink.
"How noble," Moffitt noted smugly.
Asking the Rat Patrol for help was more difficult than Dietrich had imagined, and their impertinence wasn't making his situation any easier. The captain deliberately replaced his glass on the bar with a beleaguered "thud." With great restraint, he was able to maintain his composure as he explained his dilemma. "There is an injured child at El Agheila," Dietrich began delicately. "If he can get transport to Sirta by tomorrow morning, there will be a ship there to take him to the United States."
"And?" Troy asked impatiently.
Dietrich took a deep breath. "I am asking you and your men to take him there, sergeant." The words came out so quickly, the captain was unsure if Troy had understood him. "Sergeant?" he asked when Troy did not respond immediately.
Shaking his head, a smile slowly formed on Sam Troy's lips as he stared at the top of the bar. "What is this, Captain?" he asked, "some kinda' practical joke?"
"I assure you, Sergeant," Dietrich answered sincerely, "this is no joke."
"The road to Sirta cuts right through your side of the tracks, captain." Troy caustically reminded Dietrich. "What makes you think we'd risk our necks-?"
"There is a cease-fire!" Dietrich snapped. "The risk is minimal."
"There's no such thing as 'minimal risk', captain!"
"Don't you think I would do this myself if I could?" Dietrich exploded. He rose so quickly his barstool toppled over as he turned toward Troy.
Just as quickly, Troy jumped up to come face-to-face with the German captain. "Then why don't you?" he asked, indictingly. It wasn't like Dietrich to shirk his responsibilities like this, and Troy suspected Herr Hauptmann wasn't being totally honest with him. "What aren't you telling me, captain?" Troy pressed Dietrich for the truth.
Dietrich searched Troy's eyes that fiercely stared back at him. Surely, the sergeant understood how difficult this was. Dietrich would never consider asking the enemy for help under normal circumstances. And he wasn't asking for himself. Or was he? If the boy weren't Jewish Dietrich would not think twice about providing an escort. Had he fallen prey to the Nazi racism, after all? Taking a step back from Troy, Dietrich murmured the words he knew would incriminate him. "The boy is a Jew."
Troy's eyes narrowed as he digested this new information. "And you don't want to get your hands dirty," he accused the captain.
Dietrich stared blankly at Troy for a moment, then shut his eyes and bowed his head. Shaking his head, he calmly asked, "You don't understand, do you sergeant?" Without waiting for Troy's response, he continued, "this isn't about a simple slap on the hands if I am caught." Dietrich paused, realizing he would have to be completely candid with Troy if he were to gain his trust. "You see, I am not a member of the Nazi party, Sergeant. I do not attend party rallies; I've never burned a book in my life, and I do not go about indiscriminately killing people because of their religious beliefs. I am in the army because I come from a long line of professional soldiers who taught me about duty to my country, and I believed what they taught me. But because of my "politics" I am the perfect target for some delusional SS officer to make an example of." Dietrich paused in order to allow Troy to consider his disclosure. "If I attempt this myself—and am caught-they will shoot me and the boy, sergeant, without even asking for an explanation. The cease-fire does not apply to seditious officers."
Any doubts Troy had about the captain's sincerity were completely erased when he saw the determined set of his jaw as he waited for Troy's response. The captain's explanation made perfect sense. In retrospect, Dietrich could have washed his hands of the problem to protect himself and the boy, but instead, he had made the effort to find the Rat Patrol and had swallowed his pride to ask for help. Sergeant Troy was glad to find his enemy had a conscience.
Looking past Dietrich, Troy addressed Tully and Moffitt. "I can't order you to do this," he said, suspecting that that it wouldn't matter to either of them.
With an elegant sigh, Moffitt set his drink on the bar. There was a devilish twinkle in his eye when he looked at Troy. "You'll need someone to look after the boy," he smiled.
"And neither of you can do anything without a driver," Tully added, a devious grin momentarily crossed his face.
Troy lifted his Australian bush hat from the bar and placed it on his head, "Looks like you got yourself an escort, captain."
Relief was evident as Dietrich's shoulders obviously relaxed. "Thank you," he said, genuinely appreciative of the Rat Patrol's cooperation. "I shall inform the sisters at the hospital. There will be a car waiting for you. It would be best if we get started before daylight."
Troy's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "We?" he asked.
"You do not think that I would expect you to shoulder the entire risk, do you?" When it became obvious that Troy did not understand, Dietrich explained, "I will follow you and your men at a safe distance, sergeant. I guarantee that I will be there for you should anything go wrong."
Troy shook his head in wonderment. "Sometimes I wonder why we're enemies, captain," he said earnestly.
A faint smile passed over the captain's lips; he wearily blinked, then looked at Troy. "I do, also," he responded as he settled his cap on his head and buttoned his tunic. "Gentlemen," he nodded a formal farewell to the men at the bar and made his way to the door.
Removing the ever-present matchstick from his mouth, Tully flipped the frayed piece of wood in the ashtray and finished his beer. "I guess we should be honored," he said, flippantly.
Tully's remark drew a sharp look from Troy. "Don't be," he warned the private, "there's still too many things that could go wrong." Watching Dietrich exit from the building, he added, "And he knows it as well as we do." Placing his money on the bar, Troy grabbed his jacket and nodded towards the door. "C'mon," he prompted the others, "let's find Hitch."
Dawn was still an hour away, but the members of the Rat Patrol could already feel the warmth of the ascending sun as they approached the hospital. Troy guessed that the unmarked, black sedan parked at the steps to the building meant Dietrich had already arrived.
True to his word, Dietrich was waiting in the small foyer when Troy and his men entered the building. Without a word, he led the odd band of soldiers down an adjacent hall. "Sister Theresa will meet us here," he instructed the men. "You may take the boy in the car parked out front. I'll give you ten minutes then start out myself." Dietrich handed the keys to Troy.
"We'll stick to the main road," Troy informed the captain, "less conspicuous that way."
While Dietrich nodded in agreement with Troy's plan, he could see that the captain was less than comfortable with this tenuous alliance. A shiver of uncertainty coursed through Troy. "Captain, there's no guarantee that thing is going to come off without a hitch," he cautioned Dietrich, "but you came to us because you know you can depend on us." Troy could almost feel Dietrich's apprehension as he continued, "and we have to know that we can depend you."
Watching Troy carefully, Dietrich finally looked away and nodded as if he had come to the same conclusion himself. "I'm sorry, Sargeant," he carefully apologized, "This journey is something of a gamble…for all of us." The captain seemed to reach within himself to substantiate his own conviction. "But you needn't worry," raising his head, he squared his shoulders, "I will not fail you."
Something in the certitude of the captain's promise reassured Troy that he and his men could attempt this mission with some modicum of safety. But there were no guarantees. The cease-fire could not ensure a safe journey for any of them…but the chances of survival increased greatly with Dietrich covering their backs.
The laborious hum of a well-used elevator prompted the men to turn to the opposite side of the hall. When the humming stopped, Hitch quickly pulled aside the heavy door and safety gate to produce an uncertain Sister Theresa impatiently waiting to wheel her patient into the collective arms of the Allied soldiers.
Dietrich watched with some relief when Jacob reacted in much the same way to the Rat Patrol as he had to the German captain. Apparently the boy was wary of anyone in a military uniform—his fear took no sides in a war fought by foreigners in his country.
At the conclusion of introductions, Sister Theresa hovered over the boy. Anxious to make him comfortable, she spoke encouragingly as she pulled the heavy blanket snugly around his small frame. Finally, with a tear in her eye, the sister gave Jacob a heartfelt kiss on the cheek. Smiling, she tousled his brown curls, then looked wistfully at Sergeant Troy. "Please take care of him," she quietly pleaded, attempting to regain her composure.
"We'll do our best," Troy answered. There was little more he could offer to allay the nun's apprehension. They both knew success was not a given. "Moffitt," Troy waved his partner to Jacob's side. "Take him with you and Tully in the back seat. Hitch and I can do the driving."
Nodding his agreement, Moffitt tenderly gathered the child into his arms, then signaled for Tully to follow him. Hitch followed as the three disappeared around the corner.
Turning to Sister Theresa, Troy said his good-byes. "He'll be okay," he said comfortingly, attempting to convince himself as well.
"Thank you, Sergeant," Theresa responded, forcing a smile. Shaking hands with Troy, she decided she had no other choice but to believe the sergeant.
Dietrich hesitated a moment before following Troy. There was little left to say. He was surprised to feel the sister's hand on his arm as he moved to walk past her.
"Thank you, also." Her smile was real this time.
"Don't thank me, yet," he warned her, dismally aware of the potential dangers inherent in this trip.
Sister Theresa nodded her comprehension. "I will pray for all of you," she promised.
Nodding, Dietrich laid his hand over hers. "We will need your prayers," he answered honestly. Exchanging a look of understanding, Dietrich gave the sister's hand a reassuring squeeze then turned to leave. When he stepped out of the front door, he noticed that Troy and his men had already left. Glancing at his watch, he walked slowly to his waiting staff car. It was important to give the Rat Patrol a good head start before he followed. It was also important to maintain his calm façade. It would do no one any good if covert eyes were watching him. He quickly inspected the area to be sure he had not been followed. Confident he had not aroused anyone's suspicion, Dietrich checked the ammunition in his side arm. One could never be too certain.
The cold night air grew progressively warmer as the black sedan raced westward across the only road that connected the seaports along the North African shoreline. Troy was visibly tense as he scanned the passing countryside for any signs of trouble.
"We're still a few hours from Sirta," Moffitt softly reminded his American counterpart.
Stiffly, Troy turned towards the backseat. Jacob was still cradled in Moffitt's arms, evidently asleep. "How's the kid?" he asked.
"Fine," Moffitt assured him. "It's you I'm worried about."
Troy turned back around to face forward, continually watching for any indications of unwanted company. "It's too quiet," he said at last. "Too damn quiet."
Moffitt smiled to himself. Sam Troy was the consummate soldier—constantly alert, never able to completely let down his guard. In many ways, Moffitt was grateful for his partner's dedication. Troy's professionalism had saved their lives more than once. But at the same time he would not have wished the American sergeant's obsessive nature on anyone. Moffitt guessed that Troy had rarely known any peace in his life. "There is a cease-fire, you know," he said affably, hoping that Troy would take this opportunity to relax.
Troy continued to gaze out of the passenger side window. The early morning sun cast a promising glow on the horizon behind them lighting the sky as well as heating the black top pavement beneath the car. Perhaps Moffitt was right, Troy thought as he rolled his window down, allowing the warm air to circulate through the sedan. They had made their way through enemy territory without interference and were only a couple of hours away from Sirta. Perhaps he should take advantage of this brief respite and allow himself to enjoy the holiday. At that moment, Troy caught a glimpse of Dietrich's car following at some distance, which reminded him that this journey was far from over.
The speedometer on the dash registered a few marks past 50 km/hr., a speed that Dietrich had steadily maintained since he left El Agheila seven hours ago. To his great relief, the trip had been free of incidence, and all that was left was to get the child safely aboard the ship to America. The trip back his camp in Tunisia remained to be traveled, but Dietrich felt as if the odds of being found out had just been cut in half. For the first time since the trip had begun, the captain loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He didn't realize how tense he'd been until he forced his shoulders to slacken and they responded by aching in unison. The cool of the night was already being replaced by the suffocating warmth of the day, and Dietrich offered a small prayer of thanks that he was alive to appreciate the difference.
Sergeant Moffitt was conversing with one of the local denizens as Dietrich pulled behind their car at the docks. The captain recognized Private Pettigrew standing next to Moffitt, but was puzzled at the absence of Troy, Hitch and Jacob. His heart was beating rapidly with concern as Dietrich approached Moffitt and his contact.
All conversation stopped at the captain's arrival. Dietrich considered how this scenario might appear to the Arab. Unless he was dealing on the black market, the man had probably never dealt with the Allies and the Wehrmacht in tandem. Hans fleetingly thought how strange this was for him, also. His many encounters with the Rat Patrol had rarely been amiable. Being able to trust his enemy felt entirely inappropriate, yet pleasantly innocuous. How did the Rat Patrol feel about him? Dietrich wondered. And is too much trust a good thing?
Moffitt stiffened as Dietrich stood beside Tully. The spark of skepticism remained overtly evident which caused Dietrich to speculate about the abruptly terminated conversation. What ever the discussion was, it was apparently not meant for Dietrich's ears. "Captain." Moffitt warily acknowledged the officer's presence while Tully peered out from under the brim of his helmet to inspect their interim partner. "This is Mr. Hussain," Moffitt indicated the Arab standing across from him.
Dietrich acknowledged Moffitt's greeting with an equally cautious nod. With no intention of shaking Mr. Hussain's hand—in what he believed to be an empty gesture of friendship—Dietrich simply nodded at the Arab. "Mr. Hussain," he repeated the man's name with his hands firmly clasped behind his back.
Obviously nervous in the captain's company, Hussain mumbled an excuse to leave, and hastily retreated to the crowded dock. Tully pushed his helmet back on his head. "Do you have that effect on everyone you meet?" He asked, amused.
Captain Dietrich fixed his gaze on the private. "Only when they have something to hide," he answered, acerbically.
Laughing to himself, Tully cautiously removed the matchstick from between his lips, while contemplating the captain's answer. He had no reason to disagree with Dietrich's comment. He had felt that "effect" many times in the past. Tully, like Mr. Hussain, had more than one secret to hide from his enemy.
No longer wishing to trade volleys with Private Pettigrew, Dietrich turned to Sergeant Moffitt. "Where is Sergeant Troy and the boy?" he asked, disapproval evident in his voice.
Crossing his arms across his chest, Moffitt leaned against their car. "I believe they had to use the 'facilities,'" he replied, unable to hide his distaste for being accountable to his German adversary.
Dietrich immediately recognized Moffitt's reluctance but discounted the sergeant's reaction as partisan recalcitrance. The barely discernable rise of his eyebrows was the only sign that the captain was aware of Moffitt's bias. "I will attempt to find the ship that has a reservation for Jacob," Dietrich stated authoritatively. "The sooner we are finished with this matter, the sooner you can get back behind enem…" Dietrich corrected himself, "your lines."
Moffitt was about to respond, but was prevented doing so by the arrival of Troy, followed by Hitch who was carrying Jacob on his shoulders. "Perhaps it would be wise to take Troy with you," Moffitt said, looking past Dietrich, as the rest of his unit approached.
Calmly turning around, Dietrich found himself in the company of Sergeant Troy and his entourage. Jacob looked infinitely more happy atop Hitchcock's shoulders than he did at the hospital and Private Hitchcock seemed to be enjoying his role as a big brother. The boy's smile disappeared when he noticed Dietrich standing with the other half of the Rat Patrol. It was painfully clear that Jacob associated the captain's uniform with some very unpleasant memories. Regretfully, Dietrich averted his eyes and addressed Troy. "I was just about to search out Jacob's transportation," he said, quietly contrite. "I would appreciate it if you would accompany me," he asked. There was no sense pretending that his uniform would garner any compliance. He uneasily admitted to himself that he needed the American's cooperation in order to question the seagoing captains.
"I already found it," Troy announced. "It's two or three piers away from here. I spoke with the captain. They're expecting Jacob within the next half-hour. We just have to get his things down to the boat."
The look of astonishment on Dietrich's face was reflected in Troy's self-satisfied grin. Dietrich could not help but feel that Troy had claimed another victory in their on-going clash of wills. "Good," he said, surprised that this was one battle he did not mind losing. "Shall we?" he asked.
Gently lifting the boy over his head, Hitch set Jacob on the sedan's fender. Searching through the trunk filled with Jacob's belongings, Tully finally found the small crutch the hospital had provided, and triumphantly handed it to Hitch.
"Do you know how to use one of these things?" Hitch hesitated. The most poignant casualty of this war was sitting in front of him, and he could not avoid the guilt that suddenly engulfed him.
Without missing a beat, Jacob took the crutch, planted it on the wooden dock and deftly slipped off of the fender, standing erect without much effort. "Yes!" he stated, confidently.
Hitch could not help but marvel at the child's adaptability. "All right!" Hitch playfully tousled the brown curls that covered Jacob's brow, suddenly very happy that the captain had asked for the Rat Patrol's help. The kid would be all right, he told himself. He was going to the States, where he would be cared for and loved. Unexpectedly, Hitch realized the debt of gratitude they all owed to Hauptmann Dietrich…if they made it back alive.
The Captain of the cargo carrier Nautilus held up Jacob far enough to allow the child a chance to wave good-bye to his short-lived comrades. As the members of the Rat Patrol waved a fond farewell, Dietrich marveled at the connection that they all felt with the boy. The captain secretly wished Jacob had given him a chance to bond with him, but comforted himself with the knowledge that the child soon would be safely in a country that would embrace him. A country that he could embrace in return.
"I suppose we should be leaving," the captain suggested as the ship faded into the horizon. "This trip is not yet over."
Troy turned to face Dietrich. Whatever gratification he felt with Jacob's rescue, the more dangerous part of the mission was yet to be traveled. "Yeah," he agreed. "We've already refueled. I suggest you do the same then start out."
Dietrich chafed at Troy's order, then dismissed it. They were all tired and anxious. It would do no good to start an argument over the chain of command. Checking his ego, Dietrich nodded his concurrence as he settled behind his car's steering wheel. Preparing to back off of the dock, the appearance of Sergeant Troy at the driver's side window startled the captain.
With both hands planted on the windowsill of Dietrich's car, Troy wordlessly made Dietrich turn towards him. "I just wanted to say 'thanks.'" He stated, genuinely appreciative. "I don't know how this is going to turn out…so I just wanted you to know."
Slightly taken aback, Dietrich searched for the right expression to convey his own thanks. "I doubt that we would've been successful if it weren't for you and your men," he said honestly, then added, wistfully, "There isn't any logic to all of this, is there?"
Pushing his hat back on his head, Troy pondered the meaning of 'logic.' There was very little room for rational thought in a world devastated by war. Still, the sergeant was grateful for these rare moments of sanity. "Sometimes there is," Troy affably disagreed.
Nodding his understanding, Dietrich put the black sedan in gear. "I shall meet you in El Agheila."
The heat off of the black tar road undulated like sheets of cellophane, distorting the view over the hood of the car as the Rat Patrol steadily raced along the road back to El Agheila. Troy studied the position of the sun, high in the sky. A glance at his watch confirmed his estimation—it was already half-past noon.
Pealing his sweat-drenched back from the leather seat, Hitch squinted through the glare as he leaned forward to study the images that danced in the distance. When figures came into better focus, Hitch's foot on the brake brought the car to a screeching halt just before they would careen into roadblock. "Damn!" the private muttered as all four men suddenly lurched forward. He looked at Sergeant Troy. "Now what?" he asked, anxiously.
The SS-soldier levied his gun at the passenger side of the car as he peered inside. Barking an order in German, he backed away while the rest of his unit surrounded the car, guns at the ready.
"He wants us to get out with our hands on our heads," Moffitt tersely instructed Troy. "By the looks of it, I'd say he's serious."
Troy slammed his hand against the dashboard, cursing under his breath. Watching out of the rear window, he found no trace of Hauptmann Dietrich.
The guards at the roadblock were more than willing to provide Hauptmann Dietrich with the details of the arrest, but he really didn't need to ask where the Rat Patrol had been taken. Hauptsturmführer Karl Steiner's headquarters were located on the only paved thoroughfare through Nofilia. The swastika flew proudly from the second story balcony of the ancient building, giving notice to the local populace that the Nazi juggernaut had taken up residence, warning them against any acts of defiance.
Dietrich easily made his way up the few steps to the entrance of the columned building, ignoring the salutes from the soldiers littering the stairway. The dim lighting inside the building was a welcome relief from the glare of the midday sun. Removing his cap, Dietrich tucked the hat under his arm, momentarily allowing himself to enjoy the cooler atmosphere of stone and marble.
"Herr Hauptmann!" Dietrich suddenly found a young soldier impeding his progress.
"I need to see your papers, sir." The guard asked, unhesitatingly.
Annoyed, but yielding to protocol, Dietrich fished inside his shirt pocket for his identification. "Where can I find Hauptstrummfürhrer Steiner?" The captain asked as he scanned his surroundings to get his bearings. Only a handful of SS soldiers milled around the open lobby, some laughing, others reading. None of them looked as if they knew, or cared, that the Rat Patrol had been taken captive.
The young man handed the captain's ID back to him. "Hauptstrummführer Steiner is not here," he answered, satisfied that Dietrich was who he claimed to be.
"Where is he?" Dietrich asked when it was evident that the private would not offer any more information than necessary.
The young guard made a quick appraisal of the officer before him. Hauptmann Dietrich looked tired and anxious—a Wehrmacht captain obviously uncomfortable dealing with the SS.
When his question remained unanswered, Dietrich prudently decided to pull rank on the young private. "I am ordering you to tell me where the captain is," he said evenly.
Something in the Herr Hauptmann's voice conveyed enough of a threat that the private thought twice before refusing to answer. "Hauptsturmführer Steiner is with a group of new prisoners," he said finally. "If you will wait over there," he said indicating the opulent lobby, "I will inform him that you wish to see him when he returns."
Dietrich settled into one of the red velvet-covered chairs. The rich upholstery was a definite improvement from the staff car he had been driving for most of the past two days. He had just made himself comfortable, when a noise arose from the entranceway.
Hauptsturmführer Karl Steiner was close in age to Dietrich. His thin dark hair was plastered to his scalp, and he dabbed at his moist neck with an elegant linen handkerchief. Like many of the pampered SS officers, Steiner was apparently not adjusting well to the desert climate.
The guard nodded towards Dietrich. Instantly suspicious, Steiner made a quick appraisal of Hauptmann Dietrich then dismissed his entourage. He hesitated before approaching the Wehrmacht captain. Glancing at a list of visitors, Steiner nodded his head and gave some sort of instruction to the private.
Dietrich stood and snapped a regulation salute which was answered by an enthusiastic "Heil, Hitler." "Hauptsturmführer Steiner," Dietrich started, "my name is—"
"Hauptmann Hans Dietrich," Steiner rudely interrupted. "Yes, yes…Private Bauer told me you were waiting to see me.
"Dietrich was temporarily caught off guard by Steiner's unfounded impatience, but quickly recovered. Steiner was a nervous man—a man with something to hide. "I need to speak with you," Dietrich replied calmly, "somewhere a bit more private, perhaps."
Captain Steiner did not attempt to hide his annoyance. "In my office," he suggested, curtly. Turning on his heel, Steiner almost ran over the Private Bauer who suddenly appeared with a note in his hand.
"A note from the Arab—Hussain-Herr Hauptsturmführer," the soldier informed his superior officer.
Dietrich watched as Steiner skimmed over the note. Whatever the message was, the captain was not happy.
"Tell him I will meet with him," the officer instructed the young man. "Follow me," he barked at Dietrich from over his left shoulder, while stuffing the note in his shirt pocket.
Dietrich did as he was told, but his mind was more than 200 kilometers away. The Arab—Mr. Hussain—had reacted rather oddly at their chance meeting in Sirta. At the time, the captain had dismissed him as just another Arab on the Allied payroll. But Dietrich had misinterpreted the Arab's motives. Hussain's role as a double agent was becoming abundantly evident as Dietrich accompanied Captain Steiner down a narrow, dimly lit corridor. It was he who set the trap for the Rat Patrol, and now he was here to collect his reward.
"Sit down," Captain Steiner addressed Dietrich a little less severely, as he brought forth a bottle of brandy and two glasses. "Care for a drink?" he asked, affably.
Shaking his head, Dietrich answered as he lowered himself into the leather chair facing Steiner's desk, "no, thank you." This sudden burst of graciousness was more unexpected than the earlier brusqueness.
"You'll have to forgive me, Captain," Steiner smiled as he poured himself a drink. "But I have just accomplished in a few hours what the Wehrmacht could not do in over a year."
Steiner's words were meant to be a slight against the German Army, but Dietrich failed to react—he had a much more pressing problem to consider than the rivalry between the SS and the Wehrmacht. "What would that be?" the captain asked, attempting to feign a casual attitude, already knowing the answer to his question.
"I have just captured the Rat Patrol," Steiner announced, triumphantly. He watched Captain Dietrich for some response, as he finished the brandy in one drink. "They will no longer be the 'distraction' that they have been."
Taking a deep breath, Dietrich slowly raised his head to meet Steiner's eyes. "They are have been much more than a mere 'distraction,' Herr Hauptsturmführer," he corrected the captain.
Steiner took a moment to examine Hauptmann Dietrich. Inclining his head a fraction, he searched his memory for relevant information on the captain. "Dietrich," he murmured to himself, "the 21st Panzer Division, correct?"
Dietrich nodded, once. He stirred in his chair, uncomfortable with the notion that the SS was aware of his existence.
Captain Steiner slowly lowered himself into his leather-upholstered chair on the other side of his desk. Maintaining eye contact with Dietich, he stretched his legs and rested his dusty boots on the top of the desk. Picking up the brandy, he poured himself another drink. "You and the Rat Patrol share a rather long, less-than-successful history," Steiner cast an accusatory glance at Dietrich as he tasted the brandy.
"We are old enemies," Dietrich agreed without substantiating Steiner's veiled indictment.
Examining the burgundy liquid as it swirled in the glass, Steiner laughed under his breath.
"Why, exactly, are you here?" he asked, warily.
The time had come. Dietrich had to make a decision…a choice…between jeopardizing his career, or upholding his own code of honor. The resolution was more difficult to make than the captain had thought it would be. He was risking everything—his career, possibly his life—in order to keep his promise to Sergeant Troy. It would be so easy to walk away…to sentence the members of the Rat Patrol to an unjust imprisonment...to save himself instead of the enemy...to finally be rid of these irritants. But in the end, Dietrich knew he could not live with the ignominy.
He had made a pact, and he had every intention of upholding his agreement. "I've come to take the Rat Patrol back to El Agheila."
Steiner almost choked on the brandy as he hurriedly sat up, and leaned across the desk. "By whose order?" he demanded to know.
Dietrich ignored Steiner's inquiry. "There is a cease-fire on, Captain. It's against the Geneva Con—"
"By whose orders?" Steiner, angrily shouted. "These men are my prisoners.
If he was going to be hanged Dietrich thought as he reached for his side arm, he might as well pull out all of the stops. "By my order," he replied, his gun pointed at Steiner's chest. Now," he instructed the captain, "throw your gun over here."
Dietrich noted the hesitation in Steiner's hand as he reached for his holster. "Don't be a fool, Captain," he warned Hauptsturmführer Steiner against reaching for his gun. "I am already going to be court martialed for this…it won't make a difference if I kill you or not."
If the look in Hauptmann Dietrich's eye wasn't pure insanity, then it most certainly was insane determination. In either instance, Steiner decided not to tempt fate. Slowly, he withdrew his gun and threw it on the desk.
"Now step away from the desk, please," Dietrich instructed the SS officer, as he approached the desk. Dietrich thought the captain was being much too cooperative when he took two steps back from his desk. His suspicions were confirmed when he noticed Steiner furtively glance at a buzzer mounted on the wall to his right. Immediately, Dietrich lept over the desk in enough time to grab Steiner's hand just as he was about to signal the alarm.
The two officers struggled for only a few minutes before Dietrich was able to land the butt of his pistol to the back of Steiner's head. Stunned, Steiner dropped to the floor; a solid right punch to his face finally rendered the man unconscious.
Breathing heavily, Dietrich watched for a moment to be sure his opponent would not stir. Satisfied that Steiner would not present any more trouble, Dietrich began to search the captain's uniform for information that would lead him to where the Rat Patrol was being held. Fortunately, the brisk search produced what Dietrich suspected would be a useful set of keys and the official paperwork, indicating the exact building where the Allied soldiers were being held. Quickly stuffing the keys in his pocket, Dietrich threw the paper back on top of Steiner's prone body. Lastly, he grabbed the note Private Bauer had delivered to Steiner from Hussain, guessing that Sergeant Troy would need some evidence that the capture had not been of his doing.
"How could we be so stupid?" Private Hitchcock asked, anxiously pacing the floor of the small room where he and the other members of the Rat Patrol were being held.
"Should've figured…" Tully observed, irritably.
In one grand sweep, Troy angrily threw one of the empty wooden chairs to the floor. This wasn't supposed happen, he thought bitterly. Although they all knew they ran the risk of capture, Dietrich had given his word that he would be there if they needed him. "Where the hell is Herr Hauptmann?" he wondered aloud.
Seated at the small table in the center of the room, Moffitt slowly shook his head. "Even if he could do something," he observed, "he's going up against the SS. His chances of success are probably equal to ours right now."
Picking up the toppled chair, Troy nervously clenched and unclenched his hands. For the hundredth time since their capture, he inspected his surroundings through the small barred window in the wall. "This place is crawling with Krauts," he spat, infuriated with the blow fate had dealt them.
"And there's only one way in and one way out," Tully murmured, pointing out the obvious.
His hands on his hips, Troy walked back and forth behind Moffitt, attempting to formulate a way out of this impossible situation. "Okay," he began, putting his thoughts in order. "There's four of us and only one guard."
"True," Moffitt agreed, "but I doubt they'll keep us here for long. If we are transported to a POW camp, I'm sure they won't let us go without a more appropriate escort."
"Then we have to get out of here now, while the odds are with us," Troy voiced what the rest of the men were thinking.
"So we take the guard and make a run for it?" Hitch asked.
"Yeah," Troy nodded his agreement.
Hitch eyed Troy warily, "I wanna' look at those odds again, Sarge," he said, skepticism written across his face.
Troy was about to respond when voices outside the door, accompanied by a key turning the lock, caught his attention. Moffitt quickly rose from his chair, as the four men gathered to receive their visitor. As their eyes adjusted to the sudden flash of light through the open door, the Rat Patrol breathed a guarded sigh of relief when Dietrich appeared in the doorway.
Quickly closing the door behind him, the captain moved with controlled urgency as he laid Steiner's keys on the table, along with the note from Mr. Hussain and his own service revolver. "You must leave now, Sergeant," Dietrich sharply gave his instructions, as he turned to face Troy and his men. "There is a car around the corner of the building," he continued, ignoring any questions the Rat Patrol might have. "There is petrol in the tank and the keys are in the ignition. I've dismissed the guard…I suggest you do not delay."
"What happened?" Troy asked. From his hurried movements and succinct instructions, it was evident that this was not the Dietrich Troy was used to dealing with. Replacing the calm, self-confident Hauptmann Dietrich, was a man obviously shaken, and in desperate straits. Troy grabbed Dietrich by the arm as the captain tried to move past him. Looking Dietrich in the eye, he demanded an answer. "What happened?"
"There is no time," Dietrich answered, wrenching his arm from Troy's grip. "Just think of this as my Christmas present to you," he added, trying—but failing—to sound indifferent about the sequence of events that had lead to his releasing the Rat Patrol.
Dietrich was right of course, but Sergeant Sam Troy did not enjoy feeling powerless to help the captain. Grabbing the items from the table, Troy hastily examined the note written in German, addressed to Captain Steiner. "What's this?" he asked, tucking the hand gun into his empty holster.
"It's self-explanatory," Dietrich snapped, as the Rat Patrol's window of opportunity continued to shrink. "Sergeant Moffitt can interpret it for you, but it seems as if you were dealing with a double agent." When it was obvious Troy wasn't going to settle for the condensed version of his explanation, Dietrich finished by saying, "It seems Mr. Hussain was also on the SS payroll."
Glancing again at the note, Troy shook his head disbelievingly. After all of the time he had spent in military, the vagaries of the spy trade continued to elude him. "C'mon," he said finally, waving the rest of his unit to the door, "let's shake it!"
"One last thing, Sergeant," Dietrich stopped Troy before he opened the door. "It would be…" he hesitated, searching for the appropriate word, " 'prudent' if you would strike me before you leave." He could read the puzzlement in the sergeant's eyes and hurriedly explained, "it might, at the very least, give me a somewhat reasonable excuse for your escape."
Troy met the captain halfway to the center of the room. He searched the captain's face for a sign of indecision, but found none. No matter the consequence, Captain Dietrich had made a commitment to his integrity. There was no going back. Ironically, Troy supposed a knockout punch was the best way to help the captain now. "This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you," Troy said, sincerely.
A wry smile played on Dietrich's lips. "I doubt that very much, sergeant," he answered, fully resigned to his fate.
The car Dietrich had furnished for their escape virtually flew over the black pavement as Hitch deftly eluded the last of the German roadblocks, leaving Nofilia to fade into the horizon. The mood inside the automobile was, however, less than jubilant; a peculiar silence replaced any sign of celebration.
The day's events repeatedly played in Troy's memory. And every time he came to the same conclusion. It had been Hussain, who had handed them over to the enemy and now Dietrich was paying for the Arab's duplicity. He could not…he did not…want to imagine what the captain was going through because of one man's deception.
"There was nothing we could have done for him, Troy," Moffitt announced, attempting to impart Troy with some needed solace. "He was well aware of the ramifications of his actions."
"He was right," Troy replied, the exhaustion evident in his voice.
"About what?" Moffitt asked.
Troy did not answer immediately. A good man was going to pay the price for the evil perpetrated by someone else. He had not believed it earlier, but when he finally replied, "There is no logic to all of this," he repeated Dietrich's words with haunting conviction.
A long moment passed as each man considered the veracity of Troy's answer. Apparently, logic had no place in war.
"Hmph," Tully grunted, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "The way I see it is there really must be a Santa Claus."
Immediately picking up on Tully's observation, Moffitt smiled, sadly. "I never would have believed he would be wearing a German uniform," he said wistfully, "but one never knows, does one?"
"Nope," Tully agreed, moving the matchstick to the other side of his mouth. He wistfully examined the night sky illuminated by the light of a full moon, "one never does."
A well-worn copy of the transcripts of Hauptmann Hans Dietrich's deposition laid askew on top of Fieldmarshall Erwin Rommell's already cluttered desk. Since the captain was a Wehrmacht officer under the Fieldmarshall's command, the military court had handed the case to him for what had been termed "appropriate action."
"Do you realize what you've done, Captain?" The Fieldmarshall rose from his chair, without looking at Dietrich, and cleared a space at the front of his desk, which would allow him to lean against the piece of mahogany furniture.
Standing at attention, Dietrich stared at the map of North Africa behind Rommell's desk. "Yes sir, I do," he answered, his mouth as dry as the Sahara desert.
"Then you must also realize that you could be court martialed for this." The Fieldmarshall propped himself against the desk, arms folded across his chest, as he keenly observed his young officer.
"Yes sir."
Rommell picked up the report and leafed through the pages, puzzled by Dietrich's actions. Although his captain was not known for following convention, the Fieldmarshall had never doubted his officer's loyalty or his sense of reason. "Whatever possessed you…?" he asked, genuinely interested in Dietrich's explanation.
After some thought, Dietrich answered, "It was an act of compassion…"
Fieldmarshall Rommell stood face-to-face with Captain Dietrich. "This is war, captain…," he snapped, "there is little room for compassion on the battlefield."
Turning his head to look directly at Rommell, Dietrich corrected his superior officer. "Herr Fieldmarshall, with all due respect, this had nothing to do with the battlefield. It had everything to do with honor and decency." Expecting Rommell to explode at his rebuttal, Dietrich steeled himself against the expected verbal lashing. He found it even more disconcerting when Rommell did not respond as he'd expected. Instead of a volcanic eruption, the Fieldmarshall was as calm as the Nile River.
Circling Dietrich, Rommell contemplated the report on his desk, and tried to synthesize the captain's account with what he already knew about Dietrich. Hauptmann Dietrich was bright and energetic. He was a loyal officer, dedicated and trustworthy. Decorated on many occasions, he had never flinched from his duty. But he had a streak of romanticism, a sense of fair play, an unshakable faith in morality and honor…a quality he shared with the Fieldmarshall. Unfortunately, no one knew the repercussions of this particular trait better than Erwin Rommell.
"I like you, Dietrich," Rommell finally broke the silence. "You're smart—" the captain made an effort to interrupt his commanding officer, but the Fieldmarshall silenced him with a wave of the hand. "You're a skillful tactician, and I daresay that you are more capable than anything the SS has to offer."
"Sir, I—" Dietrich was again thwarted by Rommell.
"But you are too autonomous…you follow your heart instead of your head. A soldier's duty is to—"
"I know where my duty lies, sir," feeling like a first year cadet, Dietrich spoke up in time to stop the Fieldmarshall from going any further. "But I had a decision to make. The choice I made had nothing to do with Germany or the Allies, it had nothing to do with religious beliefs or the color of anyone's skin." Dietrich swallowed hard in an attempt to contain his emotions. "It had to do with the life of one innocent child. I chose to help him, I chose to enlist the aid of the Rat Patrol." Unwavering, his eyes met Rommell's. "And if I have to pay for those choices, then at least I can say that they were mine to make and I did what I believed to be right."
Fieldmarshall Rommell almost smiled as he resisted the urge to commend the young captain's actions. Of course, Dietrich was right, Rommell thought. The child needed Dietrich's help, regardless of his heritage. The whole episode took place during a cease-fire. Whether the SS wanted to admit it or not, taking prisoners during a recognized truce flew in the face of the Geneva Convention. And it was, after all, Christmas! How could he reprimand his officer for being human? Turning his back to Dietrich, Rommell walked back to his desk and sat down again. "Fortunately, I still have the Führer's confidence," he stated. Ostensibly distracted by another file on the desk, he did not look at Dietrich when he pronounced sentence. "I believe I can defuse this before it goes too far."
Dietrich thought his heart had stopped beating. He momentarily relaxed, then caught himself and returned to attention. "Thank you, sir," he stammered his appreciation.
Rommell watched Dietrich was a spark of amusement, then regained his composure. "Don't let this happen again," he seriously warned the captain.
Dietrich caught himself before he answered. No matter the outcome, he could not be anything less than honest with the Fieldmarshall…and he was sure Rommell would expect nothing less. Taking a deep breath, the captain replied, "I can't guarantee that it won't."
Rommell nodded his understanding. "Yes, I know," he assured Dietrich. "Return to your men, captain."
Breathing deeply, as if for the first time in the past hour, Dietrich closed his eyes, relieved that this examination was over. "Thank you, sir," saluting, Dietrich turned on one heel and made his way to the office door.
"Captain?"
"Sir?" the captain stopped. With one hand on the brass doorknob, he looked back at Fieldmarshall Rommell.
"Don't be too self-congratulatory," Rommell advised his officer, "I am only helping you on this because we desperately need men like you in the battlefield."
A fleeting smile momentarily lifted the corners of Dietrich's mouth, only to be replaced by a solemn expression. "I understand," Dietrich assured the Fieldmarshall.
Nodding to the captain, Fieldmarshall Rommell smiled. "I'm sure you do," he said candidly. "I'm sure you do."
END