A/N: I don't own The Rat Patrol and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.
During Hitch's experience of "The Life Against Death Raid", a lot of things go through his mind...
Hitch could feel the adrenaline pumping as he sent the jeep into a skid, trusting Troy to hold on to the gun turret. Glancing over his shoulder, he noted with some alarm that some stuff in the back of the jeep had caught fire. He floored it, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Jerry convoy.
A few moments later he slammed on the brakes. Troy kept manning the machine gun as Hitch scrambled out of the jeep and grabbed the fire extinguisher. Just as he aimed the nozzle at the flames, a grenade flung by the Jerry motorcycle escort hit the sand only a few feet away. Hitch found himself flying through the air, wondering just how he had got himself into this situation...
"Let me get this straight." James Hitchcock confronted his son in the library of their elegant Long Island home. The only other sound in the room was the antique wall clock ticking, in the same disapproving manner it had always ticked. Mark reflected that he had always hated that clock; it was the backdrop for all of the lectures he had ever received for youthful indiscretions.
Mark's mother looked at him with pleading eyes, but he switched his attention to his father.
Hitchcock junior was just as stubborn as Hitchcock senior: Mark's jaw set and he straightened his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Dad, but the deed is done."
"Damn it, son, I know there's talk of a draft, but it hasn't happened yet—maybe it'll never happen. We're not at war. You're still in college. Why in God's name did you enlist?"
"Don't you read the papers, Dad? Didn't you notice what happened to Poland last fall? And what's happened to Britain and France since? Ever hear of Dunkirk?" The near disaster a few days earlier had haunted Mark unbearably.
"The United States is officially neutral, you know that."
"And it's a crime that we are. I believe that we must enter this war, and I want to be ready for it."
James turned and strode over to the fireplace. After a long moment he turned his head to look at his son over his shoulder. Then, in a tone of wonder and dawning respect, he said, "You are serious, aren't you?"
"Dad, I'm in the army now. I've never been more serious in my life. Mom, you know why I must go."
His mother's blue eyes, so much like Mark's own, were wet with unshed tears, but she smiled at her son. "Darling, you wouldn't be my son if you didn't go. I do understand. I know you will do your best, Mark..."
"Mark! Mark!"
Troy's gravelly voice brought Hitch back to consciousness—a very unwelcome consciousness as an agonizing pain tore through his gut, and he bit back a groan. Faces swam above him, each with an expression of horrified concern. Tully put a folded blanket under his head and Moffitt carefully cut away his shirt. Hitch couldn't bear to look—he knew it was bad.
"Shrapnel fragment against the main artery." Moffitt's voice had the cold level tone he always used in times of great danger.
Then came Troy's voice. "Can we get him back to our front lines?"
Moffitt again. "No. Over a hundred miles. Be lucky to do ten in a jeep."
Oh man, Hitch thought through the waves of overwhelming pain. This is it. I'm done for.
Tully's voice came from a distance. "I found a German field hospital yesterday, over the ridge—couple, three miles maybe."
Troy was fussing with something and Hitch barely felt a prick in his arm. "Easy, buddy," Troy's voice said soothingly. "A little morphine to help you out here."
Exhaustion, fear, pain, and the effects of the drug were sufficient to allow Hitch to fade out of the present and into the past...
Mark found boot camp to be far from fun or exciting. In fact, it was a deadly, monotonous grind, but he gritted his teeth and told himself that he would get through it. He came to realize that his twenty years of existence had been indeed carefree and privileged. His family had been prosperous despite the Great Depression and he had been blessed with good looks and sufficient charm, so that he had many friends, both male and female.
Here, though, he was just another G.I.
But I'll be the best damn G.I. they've got, he told himself. And then somehow, someway, I'll get overseas.
Near the end of basic training Mark was called to the CO's office. To his surprise, his drill sergeant was there as well. The CO told Mark of a great opportunity.
"Your drill sergeant says you're the fastest, strongest, and smartest private in the bunch. Is he right, Private?"
"Yes, sir." Mark was sometimes guilty of a flippant attitude, but not this time: the drill sergeant's assertion was the simple truth.
"I'm recommending you for commando training," said the CO. "You will report for duty ASAP."
Arriving at the commando training base somewhere in Texas, Mark was shown to the barracks. He looked around and saw another private not much older than himself, lounging on his cot with a book in his hands and a matchstick drooping from the corner of his mouth.
"Mark Hitchcock," Mark said, extending his hand to the other young man.
"Name's Tully," said the other private. Mark was intrigued to see that the matchstick never moved.
"Tully?" Unusual name, Mark thought. And the guy had a vaguely Southern accent. "Where are you from, Tully?"
"Kentucky. You?"
"New York."
And that was the extent of Mark's first conversation with his new buddy.
The next few weeks were intense, and Mark found himself physically and mentally challenged every minute of every day. He and Tully found themselves learning survival skills for almost any situation, including how to kill a man silently within seconds. They learned how to do reconnaissance, how to navigate by the sun and by the stars, how to use and maintain radio communications, and how to blow up just about anything. He and Tully were both surprised to find themselves receiving extensive training in evasive driving maneuvers as well, something at which they both excelled. Mark developed a deep respect for his buddy, as the soft-spoken Kentuckian was just as determined to succeed as he was.
One evening he asked Tully how he ended up in commando training. Tully's response was typically laconic, and curiously similar to Mark's own reason for being there.
"Dunkirk..."
Hitch swam upwards toward the sound of Troy's voice. "And if you have to moan...do it in German." He opened his eyes briefly and gave the Sergeant a weak nod. Then there was more pain as his friends loaded him onto a stretcher. In his line of vision was Moffitt, who had the end of the stretcher near his feet; Moffitt's face was grim but determined.
Where did the professor find that white coat, Hitch wondered hazily. Then the British sergeant helped to load him into an ambulance, and he and Tully climbed in after him.
Hitch watched the low ceiling of the ambulance as it bounced along the sands, and clenched his teeth to keep from groaning. "Take it easy, Hitch," Tully said soothingly, and Hitch turned his head to look at him in puzzlement. For some reason Tully yanked off his shirt and settled onto the stretcher alongside Hitch's, pulling a blanket over himself and his machine gun.
"Tully...were you hurt too?" Hitch couldn't think clearly.
There was a ghost of a laugh. "No, buddy...just playin' possum. Quiet now, okay? The Sarge is taking us to the Kraut field hospital. They'll get you fixed up...one way or another..."
One thing Tully and Mark were agreed on: their absolute detestation of their instructor, Sergeant Sam Troy. Troy was a good looking, dark-haired man a decade or more older than the two privates, and a few inches shorter. Mark secretly thought that the fact he had to look up to both Tully and himself peeved Sergeant Troy. He certainly seemed to have it in for the two of them: nothing they did was right, nothing was ever good enough, every task they were given they had to repeat over and over again until they performed with split-second perfection. Sure, he was rough on the whole bunch of his recruits, but Tully and Mark agreed between themselves that the Sarge had a special hate for them.
Added to this, Mark was intensely annoyed to find himself addressed as "Hitch" by the other commando trainees. Even worse, Tully started calling him that as well, and Mark, aka Hitch, had to resign himself to the inevitable.
Then came a day as they neared the end of their training. "Hitchcock! Pettigrew! Report to the CO's office, on the double!"
As the two privates stood at attention in the CO's office, Hitch had a sense of dejà vu. In addition to their CO, Sergeant Troy was also present, and they both looked determined.
The CO addressed the two privates. "Men, as you know, the United States is officially neutral regarding the hostilities overseas. Officially, we are not in a position to send an army to aid Britain. Unofficially...well, unofficially, as an investigational tool and training exercise, we have approached the British Eighth Army and offered our services on a special operations basis. Specifically, we want to send commando teams to train with and assist the Long Range Desert Group in North Africa."
"The Long Range Desert Group, sir?" Hitch had never heard of them.
"They are a highly mobile motorized group whose main tasks are to perform reconnaissance of enemy movements and to harass and impede the enemy in any way they can. They consist of soldiers from all over the British Commonwealth and they include a few Americans as well."
Sergeant Troy took over the briefing. "Hitchcock, Pettigrew, you are two of the dumbest, laziest, and most insubordinate sons of guns that I have ever run across. But you are also the best recruits I've ever trained, and I've chosen you to help me form the first patrol. Sergeant Cotter from the 35th will join us when we get to North Africa. We will meet with a New Zealand contingent of the LRDG there and train with them until we find our feet. Any questions?"
"No sir!" At last, Hitch thought. At last...
"At last," Tully muttered as the ambulance drew to a stop.
Hitch opened his eyes to see Troy opening the rear door of the ambulance. Then Moffitt climbed out and the two sergeants grasped the sides of the stretcher and began to haul Hitch out. An involuntary gasp came from Hitch and he closed his eyes again. "I can only moan in German..." he told himself, clenching his teeth.
He heard Moffitt's voice speaking in German, then a raised voice speaking English; it was too much for Hitch to take in, and he lay unresisting as he was carried into a tent. A gruff German doctor spoke to him in heavily accented English as he carefully examined Hitch's wound.
Then a young woman came into his line of vision. Her beautiful blue eyes were the only things he could see as she murmured quietly to found himself smiling as she placed the ether mask over his face...
And then all hell broke loose around him. He struggled to sit up, not wanting to lie helpless in the midst of the commotion, but the woman's voice spoke to him in the tones of an angel—an angel with a German accent—"Lie still. Be still. Do not injure yourself. Your friends will take care of you, you must lie still."
Cool hands held his head gently and the voice murmured on, under the noise of raised German and English-speaking voices and sounds of a struggle all around Hitch. "You must stay still, let us take care of you. You will get better and grow strong again, but you must lie still." She placed the ether mask over his face again and the room faded away...
The heat of Texas was nothing compared to the scorching conditions of the North African desert, and Hitch and Tully found themselves quickly learning how to pace themselves to avoid sunstroke and dehydration. They relied on the advice provided by the New Zealanders of the LRDG, a seasoned and hardy bunch who were casual to the extreme, but also extremely efficient and effective in locating and harassing the enemy. To the amusement of the Kiwis, who drove heavily equipped Chevrolet trucks, the Americans were supplied with small light jeeps. But Hitch and Tully felt they had the last laugh due to the four-wheel drive and maneuverability of their jeeps.
Sergeant Cotter proved to be a grizzled veteran of about forty, even more laconic than Tully, but who made up for his lack of conversation by his accuracy with the .50 caliber machine guns mounted on the jeeps. Hitch and Tully occasionally manned the guns as well, but their main job was to drive the jeeps. Not an easy task, as they had to maneuver the vehicles close enough to their targets so as to allow their sergeants to inflict maximum damage, but also had to quickly remove themselves from harm's way without dislodging the gunners in the process.
Jeep maintenance was a critical factor in their survival in the desert. Tully was a natural mechanic who had confided to Hitch that he had learned from his cousins how to fix their cars so they could avoid the revenuers. That Tully had spent part of his teenage years running moonshine didn't come as a complete surprise to Hitch. He accepted the fact as part of who Tully was—a backwoods hillbilly who had come from an impoverished background but who had somehow managed to graduate from high school and helped to support a large family of younger brothers and sisters. He didn't have much to say, but Hitch paid attention when Tully did speak. He learned how to keep the jeeps mobile with Tully's help.
But the most important thing Hitch learned in those early days in the desert was that Sergeant Troy was not only a man to be reckoned with, but also a man who commanded respect and loyalty, who didn't eat or rest until his men did, and who proved a wily and wise adversary to the Italian and German scout columns and convoys they encountered...
Hitch was jostled out of his dream and half-woke to find himself in a pine box—a coffin? He tried to sit up. "Troy!" A dull pain grabbed his gut as remembrance flooded over him, but not as bad as before, thank God.
Tully's face appeared over the edge of the box and he reached in, gently pushing Hitch back down. "Easy...easy," he said, and Hitch subsided...
Hitch and Tully usually alternated driving the two sergeants, and it was Hitch who drove the jeep the day Cotter was killed. He took it to heart, and although he didn't speak of his crushing sense of responsibility, Tully and Troy each took him aside and tried to get him to unburden himself, without success. When Moffitt joined their team, he casually asked about the man he had replaced, and Hitch found himself telling the professor all about Cotter and what had happened the day he died.
"I drove as fast as I could, Doc, trying to get him to safety, but by the time we were away from the Germans, he was dead. I keep going over it in my mind—what could have I done differently? Maybe if I had just broken away without trying to circle that half-track one more time..."
"You didn't shoot the sergeant, Hitch: Jerry did," said Moffitt in his matter-of-fact way. "One can't second guess oneself in these situations, old man. Our survival depends on quick reflexes and split-second decisions, and you are very good at both, from what I have been privileged to see. So you and Tully will keep driving to the best of your ability, and Troy and I will keep gunning to the best of ours, and the rest is in the lap of the gods. We can do no more."
Hitch thought about that for a long while, and decided that was all he could do. Just keep on doing the best he could...
When Hitch came fully awake he was no longer in the coffin. Had he really been in a coffin? Hitch decided not to mention his delusion to his buddies. They were all grinning at him as his stretcher was being loaded into the back of the medic's truck. He was wearing his glasses—where had they come from? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, now that he knew he was alive and safe.
The entire experience since the grenade had gone off was pretty much a blur to Hitch, but one thing stuck in his mind.
"Sarge, I met the greatest chick!"
The other three looked at each other and laughed. Hitch knew what they were thinking, but they were wrong. This girl was an angel who had helped keep him calm and safe in a dangerous situation, and he wished he could thank her. Too bad she was German, he thought wistfully.
Troy handed him his kepi—Hitch didn't know where that had come from either—and his buddies bade him goodbye. But that was okay. He'd be back on patrol soon.