Summary: In the background of war, the members of the Rat Patrol send and receive letters. Second in a Series; written in response to a writing challenge at RatPatrolWriters.

Author's Note: I apologize in advance for playing a little fast and loose with the incidents as depicted in "The Double or Nothing Raid."

Disclaimer: The Rat Patrol and all related characters belong to Mirisch-Rich Productions, Tom Gries Productions, and United Artists Television; this is an original story that doesn't intend to infringe on their copyright. Constructive feedback--the positive and negative kind--is welcome and encouraged.

Copyright: May 2006

The A Friend in Need Raid

By Syl Francis

Tully held onto an unconscious Moffitt with his right hand while he steered the jeep with his left. Smoke and explosions all around obscured his vision and made driving all the more hazardous. He prayed that Troy and Hitch, who were supporting Tully and Moffitt with covering fire, were faring better. Over the din of explosions, he could make out the distinct staccato of Troy's 50-caliber machinegun.

Additional explosions from farther behind them told Tully that Troy had scored another hit. The exploding shells that had been landing to his left and right began slacking off, until at last, they stopped altogether.

As if on cue, Tully and Troy's jeeps cleared the covering smoke and roared for home. As he drove, Tully stole occasional glances at Moffitt. The British sergeant looked bad. He had a discoloration on his forehead that warned of a possible head wound. Also, he was sweating profusely and shivering at the same time. At the speed they were moving, it was becoming problematic trying to keep Moffitt in his seat. They would have to find a place to stop soon.

Twenty minutes later, they spotted a wadi, and Troy signaled a stop. Even before his jeep had come to a halt, Troy jumped out and ran to where Tully had pulled to a stop. At last, Tully released his death grip on Moffitt's shirtfront. He deliberately flexed his fingers in order to get the circulation going again. However, that was the least of his worries.

"Sarge! Sarge!" Tully called to Moffitt, awkwardly shaking him in an attempt to wake him up. While he did not entirely succeed, he did manage to get Moffitt to stir somewhat and mutter a few unintelligible words.

Troy had run up to Moffitt by then and begun running a cursory examination of his injuries. He gently ran his fingers along the head wound, a crease near the temple that showed where a bullet had come too close for comfort. His fingers also discovered an additional bump on the back of his head. Troy frowned at the significant swelling around both head wounds. At least the bullet crease was no longer bleeding; however, Moffitt was much too warm.

Troy shook his head. He looked angry.

"He's burning up with fever," he said. "We can't expose him to the afternoon sun; it'll only spike his temperature even higher." He stopped to think, glaring at Moffitt as if blaming him for his present condition. Why did the guy always have to volunteer for these dangerous cloak and dagger assignments anyway?

Troy then turned his glare on both Tully and Hitch, who drew back slightly. They knew that Troy was not angry with either of them, that it was just his way of expressing worry for an injured man. Still, neither wanted to be on the receiving end of whatever might happen.

After a minute, Troy turned his glare toward the desert landscape in general. Moffitt looked bad, and Troy was afraid for his friend. "Set up a bedroll for him--under some shade."

Tully and Hitch nodded and immediately set to work. Tully broke out Moffitt's bedroll and took out one of his own blankets to add to Moffitt's. He spotted a natural overhang from one of the wadi walls and set up the bedroll underneath it. Meanwhile, Hitch hung the camouflage netting over the bedroll to provide some additional shade.

Back with Moffitt, Troy tried to get him to drink some water. He managed to force a few mouthfuls into him, not quite choking him in the process. However, it did work in rousing the patient enough to rebel at being coerced into swallowing any more. He cleaned and bandaged the wounds to prevent infection. Finally, he checked the leg cast for any signs of damage. It appeared fine.

When Tully reported that the bedroll had been set up, he and Troy, hampered by Moffitt's leg cast, carried him toward the camouflage net. Awkwardly, they set him down and covered him with the blankets. Moffitt barely stirred from the somewhat ungainly handling and before long, slipped into a deep sleep...

Two days later at the base hospital, after fighting a high fever coupled with a mild concussion, Moffitt finally came to. As he blinked his eyes open, he felt the world move underneath him as if he were on a child's carousel. Finally, his surroundings came to a relatively safe standstill. He felt a strange sense of unease, as if from an unpleasant dream that continued to linger long after one awakened.

"I see you finally decided to join us," a lovely female voice said.

Moffitt concentrated on the vague, out-of-focus form before him. At last the image sharpened, and unable to help himself, his eyes widened a bit in appreciation. Before him sat a beautiful blonde vision in army green. Slowly, his eyes lit in a weak smile.

"I always knew heaven would be this way," he murmured. "Beautiful angels to comfort a man in need for all eternity."

The vision grinned tolerantly. "I'm afraid, this isn't heaven, Sergeant. It's the base hospital."

"Oh, dash it all." Moffitt spoke with an attempt at lightness; however, the sense of unease that he had been feeling since waking was gathering strength in the back of his mind. The others knew how much he hated hospitals. Had they abandoned him? "I guess I won't get to meet Saint Peter after all--Mmmph!" The thermometer that the nurse unexpectedly stuck in his mouth effectively silenced him.

She gave him a quirky smile of amusement. Moffitt saw it as an opening, a way to shrug off his growing disquiet, and though still weak and somewhat woozy, he reached out his hand for hers.

Giving him a fond smile, the nurse pulled her hand back. "Sorry, Sergeant. But I make it a strict policy not to take advantage of a sick or injured man."

"I'm not that sick," Moffitt managed around the thermometer.

Shaking her head in amusement, she grabbed him by the wrist to take his pulse. Taking advantage of the intimate contact, Moffitt placed his other hand over hers.

"Does this mean we're engaged?" he asked with a disingenuous smile, removing the thermometer in order to speak a bit clearer. "I mean we haven't even been formally introduced. I'm Jack Moffitt, by the way. And you are--?"

"Kate Davies," she said, taking the thermometer from his hand and replacing it in his mouth. "Lieutenant Kate Davies." She added this last as a gentle reminder of the rules against fraternization.

"Kate Davies…That's a nice name," Moffitt murmured as if trying it out for size. He again removed the thermometer. "And don't worry about being an officer. I promise I won't hold it against you. Are you free later today?"

Davies again yanked the thermometer from his hand and returned it, none-too-gently, to his mouth.

"My, my…aren't we a fast worker?" Davies said with a not-quite disapproving shake of her head. The next instant, her expression became serious. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll stop removing that thing from your mouth." She gave him a no nonsense look, and Moffitt at last nodded in acquiescence.

"Sergeant Moffitt, you've been unconscious for two days with a head wound and high fever--not to mention a fractured ankle." At his sudden look of concern, she stopped the recitation of his injuries. "Don't worry, Sergeant, none of your injuries are life-threatening, but you won't be leaving here anytime soon. Your body has suffered some serious abuse and you're going to need time to heal." She leaned back, her expression sympathetic. "You also need to know the full extent of your injuries so you're prepared for what's to come."

Moffitt looked away momentarily, thinking of his parents and brother Ian back home. It was silly, he knew, but it was times like these that he missed his family the most, especially his father. He recalled how his father used to read to him from Mallory's Morte d'Arthur or from the Odyssey when he was sick. His expression softened in fond remembrance. No Peter Pan or Winnie the Pooh for Professor John Moffitt's first-born son; thus the father-son bond forged between them had been exceptionally strong.

Sadly, they had not parted well when he enlisted in the ranks. Since that day nearly two years ago, their relationship had lost some of the easiness that had been its hallmark. Indeed, lately his father's letters seemed somewhat strained. Unfortunately, this little mishap would only add to it. Sighing, Moffitt knew that he would have to inform his father of his "accident" or matters might grow worse between them, if that were possible.

Swallowing, he turned back to the nurse and nodded. He removed the thermometer in order to speak clearly but replaced it as soon as he was done. "I'd like to know everything, Leftenant," he said softly. If he were to minimize the worry that his hospitalization caused his parents, then he would have to know how bad it was in order to paint everything in the best possible light.

Of course, in no way would his parents ever find out about the whole firing squad episode. As it were, he could still see the rifle barrels aimed directly at him, hear the officer's countdown, and know that his life could be measured in mere seconds. He had never experienced such a feeling of utter helplessness in his entire life. A black shroud descended upon him, threatening to suffocate him. He tried to recite the Lord's Prayer and Twenty-third Psalm, but the words would not come.

All hope fled. His time had just run out.

It was over.

Moffitt closed his eyes, no longer able to anticipate the inevitable flash-bang that would accompany his last breath. Even in this he had failed his parents. He would die a coward unable to meet Death with dignity.

Those last terrible seconds were indelibly fixed in his memory. There they would remain for the rest of his life.

No, his parents would never learn of it from him.

"Sergeant?"

Moffitt flinched, startled. His heart rate had increased, and his palms were clammy. Unknowingly, he had been holding his breath and let it out. Shakily, he wiped perspiration from his eyes. He turned to the nurse, discomfited. "I--" he swallowed, trying to regain control. "I'm sorry…wha-…what were you saying?"

"I was apologizing for being the one that had to break it to you," Davies said, "that you'll be staying here several more days until this fever breaks." At his look of protest, she continued calmly. "Afterwards, you're going to be walking around in a cast, which means you'll be on medical leave for several days thereafter."

Stay here? Alone? With only his black thoughts as companions? Be forced to relive that nightmare over and over again? No, he had to be released. Somehow he had to make them understand. He had to return to the Patrol. Only out there in the desert, his senses heightened by the constant danger, would he be able to rest, to return to some semblance of normalcy.

Before Moffitt could speak, the rest of the Rat Patrol traipsed in, their boisterous presence almost overpowering the quiet atmosphere of the hospital ward. Seeing a beautiful nurse practically holding Moffitt's hand, they each reacted in disgust. Amused, Davies stood to make room for her patient's visitors.

Tully rolled his eyes. "Oh, brother! Some guys have all the luck."

"Figures," Hitch said with a shake of the head. "It's the accent. Dames dig the accent."

Troy stood over and behind Moffitt's head and removed the thermometer. "He suffers so nicely," he said with a wide grin.

"Fortune favors the brave," Moffitt replied smugly. "And speaking of which, it's time I got back to work." He tried to sit up but the room began to move in sickening, undulating waves.

"Oh, no you don't!" the nurse protested, reaching for him.

However, Tully got to Moffitt first and gently pushed him back. "Take it easy, Sarge," he said softly.

"Tully…I can't stay here," Moffitt murmured, shaking his head. He could feel the blackness returning. He reached his hand out for Tully's, needing the feel of human contact. "I just can't stay. Please…!"

Tully looked at the others, his expression somber. Squeezing Moffitt's hand reassuringly, he spoke quietly. "Sarge…you had a rough time out there--"

"Tully…I keep seeing it over and over. The firing squad--" Moffitt stopped, ashamed of his weakness. He shut his eyes. "I'm afraid if I stay here, I'll go mad--"

Tully interrupted him before he could go any further. "Don't talk like that, Sarge!" he said sharply. "Y'hear me? You just stop that kind of talk!" He looked at the others and jerked his head, indicating he wanted to be left alone with Moffitt. The Englishman was his partner, and it was to him that Moffitt had reached out in his time of need.

Troy and Hitch did not have to be asked twice. Exchanging a look, together they walked up to Davies, each taking an arm and leading her away. She went without protest, knowing that her patient needed to talk to his friend. The three moved a respectful distance away to give Moffitt and Tully some privacy.

Tully leaned in closer to ensure that only Moffitt could hear him.

"Sarge…listen to me. None of us could've done what you did. And none of us can really understand what you must've gone through. But it's gonna get better. The docs here can fix just about anything. You're gonna get better, you'll see."

"Tully…? What if…? What if I can't go back? I--" As he spoke, Moffitt looked anywhere but at Tully.

"You will, Sarge. I know you will."

When Tully said nothing further, Moffitt at last turned to him. He searched Tully's face looking for any sign of dissemblance. Finding none, he finally asked, "H-how--? How do you know?"

"That's easy, Sarge," Tully said gently. "'Cause I know you."

Moffitt swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He nodded, struggling to maintain control of what little dignity he had left.

Tully turned away, his back to Moffitt, giving him a chance to regain some of his usual control. He took out a matchstick and studied it as if it held a profound secret that only he could decipher. As he did, Tully spoke softly and reminded Moffitt of the many times that Moffitt had saved his life, often at the risk of his own.

"…'Cause that's what you do, Sarge. That's what we all do. You, me, Troy, Hitch--we take care of each other. That's why we go back out--so as not to let the other guys down. And 'cause we know that the other guys won't let us down." He finally turned and held Moffitt's eyes. "Sarge, we know that no matter what happens, we won't leave one of our own behind. We know that we would never abandon a friend."

As Moffitt listened to the soothing tones of his friend's voice, he began to feel the weight of the oppressive darkness lift somewhat. Friends…they were what mattered, he thought. They did not judge you, and they were there for you when you needed them. He met Tully's eyes and a silent message of empathy passed between them. At last, Moffitt nodded. "Thanks, Tully."

Grinning shyly, the Kentuckian spoke lightly. "Just don't start making any postwar plans, yet, 'cause once the docs spring you, we'll be back for you. And don't worry…there's plenty of war to go around. It'll still be there when you get out."

Moffitt's eyes crinkled in a grateful smile. "I'll hold you to that."

Tully looked across the ward to where Troy and the others were waiting and nodded. Troy grinned in relief and flashed him a thumb's up. Turning to the nurse, Troy raised an eyebrow at her. Deliberately, she took the thermometer from his hand and walked back to Moffitt's bedside, sitting down next to him. Smiling, she again put the thermometer back in Moffitt's mouth. After a moment, she removed it and read the temperature.

"One hundred and two," she said with a smile. "I'm afraid, Sergeant, that you'll just have to put up with me a little longer." With that she stood and moved on to her other patients.

Tully followed her with his eyes, and turning to Moffitt, he shook his head in envy. "What is your secret?"

"Clean living and a pure heart," Moffitt quipped immediately. From his awkward angle, he could not see Troy who was standing behind him. Craning his neck, he called out. "Troy?"

Troy walked around and looked down at his friend. "Yeah?"

A thousand different thoughts flashed through Moffitt's mind, words he wanted to say, feelings he wished to express, and in several different languages. At last, he settled on what was uppermost in his mind.

"Thanks."

"Piece o'cake," Troy said with a bright smile. "Take care, buddy. We gotta go. The war's waiting."

With that the three men turned to leave. Hitch had not said much since his arrival, and thus hung back for a while longer. He smiled at Moffitt and punched him lightly on the arm. With a quick, "Take care, Sarge!" and a half-salute/half-wave, he followed the others out.

From where he lay, Moffitt heard the jeeps roar off into the desert. For a long moment, he stared up at the ceiling, trying to fight off yet another wave of despondency that threatened to drown him. Despite Tully's words of comfort, he relived the ordeal again: The capture, the firing squad, his feelings of utter hopelessness and anger at being used as bait to entrap his friends.

He barely remembered the prisoner exchange. The images that flashed in his mind were reminiscent of a drug-induced dream. He remembered needing to escape because the whole setup was a trap. He recalled that as he hauled himself on crutches, his head hurt from a concussion, and he was woozy from fever. Barely able to ascertain which way was up or down, he had concentrated solely on balancing on his one good leg, while he used the crutches to drag himself forward another foot or two.

He had been ordered to walk fifty yards in order to conduct the prisoner exchange; however, as the figure of a German officer suddenly swam before him, Moffitt unexpectedly found himself heading toward the open desert in a futile act of defiance against his captors.

At the last minute he heard a familiar voice call out his name, the voice of a friend. It was a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea. As if in slow motion, Moffitt reached out for the lifeline, moving awkwardly in the direction of the voice. As he struggled desperately toward the figure waiting for him, he could feel the darkness begin to envelope his confused mind, each pain-wracked step bringing him closer to oblivion. The last thing he remembered was Troy being there to catch him when he fell.

At long last the tears came, silent but cleansing.

March 1942

Dear Father,

I received your letter four days ago, but this is the first opportunity I've had to reply. Did Ian receive his birthday present? I can't believe he's thirteen already--thankfully, too young for this infernal war. I can only pray that it ends before he's of age to enlist. God help us all should the war last that long.

Father, there is no easy way to say this, so I'll come straight to the point. I was taken prisoner for a couple of days. Please don't worry Mother with it; she has enough on her plate. I admit that being a guest of the Jerries isn't exactly comparable to a stay at the Savoy, but I survived and even managed to escape. Of course, I got a bit banged up and had to spend a few days in Hospital. Thankfully, my stay there was blessedly brief and of little consequence.

Seriously, it was little more than a scratch. It's just that my team leader, Sgt. Troy insisted that the doctors take a look at me. Tell Mother that with Troy in charge, it's almost as if she were here. Between you and me, Father, I've never known anyone quite as intense as our Sgt. Sam Troy--almost like a mama bird protecting her chicks--except Mother, of course.

I'll have to walk with a cast, but only for a short while. This means that I can't go out on patrol until the cast is removed, so you can tell Mother that I shall be out of harm's way even if only for a brief period.

On a brighter note, the desert is as beautiful as I remember her from our many excursions here. Sadly, the current campaigns that are being waged here between the Allies and Axis Powers are doing much to disfigure her lovely face. In the end I've a mind to believe that all that will remain of the outward signs of this terrible conflict are "the lone and level sands" that "stretch far away."

In the meanwhile the other members of the Patrol and I do what we can to keep busy. You'd never believe it from the news reports, but we don't spend each of our days shooting at the enemy, nor spreading a little alarm and despondency. To be truthful, most of our days pass in deadly boredom as we "hurry up and wait" (to quote Hitch, the youngest member of our Patrol).

A few weeks ago to help raise morale a bit, Command set up an intra-unit baseball tournament that someone dubbed "Operation Diamond." (Remind me to tell you a bit more about it at a later date.) Suffice it to say, baseball is not cricket, and I told the NCO in charge that I knew nothing about the game. Nevertheless, I was "volunteered" to participate because frankly, they needed bodies (if you'll pardon the pun). As soon as the umpire called "Play ball!" I proceeded to prove my point--incompetent does not quite describe it!

I must have dropped or missed every other ball that was batted my way. About all I could do was throw with a deadly accuracy that took a few base runners by surprise. Then as luck would have it, I stunned everyone (not the least of whom was yours truly) by hitting what Troy coined a "Grand Slam!"

Your Eton-educated, Cambridge graduate son won the game! It was a most exhilarating moment, I must confess.

It's getting late, Father, but before I close I just want to say that I know you and Mother worry about me; however, I want to reassure you both that I really can take care of myself. I am far removed from the callow youth you sent off to school all those years ago. I promise that I never take unnecessary chances, and being an experienced Desert Rat, I have learned to be very cautious. So please…if you keep a candle burning for me, don't burn it at both ends.

By the way, my driver and friend, Pvt. Tully Pettigrew read your first book and enjoyed it. We spent several hours discussing it over drinks not too long ago. I told him you had published another and were currently working on a third. Could you please send a signed copy of your second book? I know that Tully would be deeply appreciative, and I would be, too. Besides, I hear it's bad form to ignore one's admiring public.

Give my love to Mother and Ian. I miss all of you and look forward to the day when we shall all be together once again.

Your loving son,

Jack

Moffitt set his pen down and read over the letter. Abruptly, he pushed away from the field desk and hopped on his good foot to his cot. He could not believe the drivel that he had written, and yet, he could hardly give specific details about his ordeal. In the first place, his mission when captured had been Top Secret. Whatever he wrote home about, the censors would probably line out over fifty percent of it.

Besides, it was the kind of information no one really wanted to receive. There was something to be said about the old adage, "Ignorance is bliss." In his mind's eye, he could just see his father receiving a letter that told him everything Jack had gone through.

"Dear Father, How are your classes going this term? Are Mother's tea roses thriving this season? How about Ian? Did he make the soccer team? As for me, there's nothing much to tell. Two weeks ago, I barely escaped being shot by firing squad as a spy--one second I was about to die, the next--" He stopped. "The next…"

His father would age a hundred years, and never mind his mother. What was the point in worrying them?

On a brighter note, his cast would finally come off next week, and Moffitt would be placed on light duty. Of course, if he had any say in the matter, he would be pulling his "light duty" while out on patrol. Troy just did not know it yet.

From outside he heard the welcome roar of two jeep motors, accompanied by the light banter of his returning friends. He lay on the cot, listening to their laughter, allowing it to flow into him, filling him with a sense of belonging. Yes, if he had any say in the matter, he would soon be out on patrol with his friends, sleeping under the stars, comforted in the warm bosom of the timeless desert sands.

The End