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 Above and Beyond Raid
by Syl Francis
The drab interior of the tent Sergeant Sam Troy shared with his British second, Sergeant Jack Moffitt, looked the same. It had not changed in the three weeks since they had deployed on extended patrol: Two field cots were situated on opposite sides of the tent, the left Troy's, the right Moffitt's. A G.I. blanket sat neatly folded at the foot of each cot, while olive green footlockers with their respective names neatly stenciled on the front were stored underneath the cots, out of the way.
In the middle of the tent, next to the center pole was a field desk. Immediately above it on the pole hung a Coleman lantern, which Troy took a moment to light. The desk itself, usually meticulously clean, had a light dusting of sand on the top. Physically and emotionally spent from the events of the last two days, Troy tossed his Australian bush hat on his cot, unbuckled his equipment belt, and laid it next to the hat. Removing his filthy bandana, caked with sand and sweat, he shook it a couple of times, and used it wipe off the dust from the desktop.
Satisfied with the results, he pulled out the folding desk chair and sat down to write. He owed his brother David a letter and thought it better to write now before something happened to prevent him from writing it. He had a 1400-hour mission debriefing at HQs, which would take the better part of the afternoon. It was still early, and if he started on the letter now, he would finish with plenty of time to follow up on Moffitt's condition and get some lunch.
As he stared at the blank sheet of paper before him, Troy's thoughts wandered back to Moffitt and the severe beating his friend had received at the hands of the Germans. Once again Moffitt's facility with languages had been the catalyst for the Englishman to volunteer for a solo mission behind enemy lines. Troy shook his head. Sometimes it seemed that Moffitt spent more time in a German uniform than in his own.
After escaping from the German compound, Tully performed a quick job of First Aid on Moffitt's wounds. While the unflappable Englishman did not flinch at Tully's less than gentle bedside manner, he turned somewhat pensive when describing what had gone wrong. According to him everything had been going well until a single phone call blew his cover. As luck would have it, the man whom he was impersonating had been killed that day in a plane crash.
"And that was that," Moffitt said. "The jig--as you Americans would say--was up. I knocked out Colonel Schweiger, burned the parchment, and basically sat back and waited to be arrested." He shrugged, adding wryly, "I had no place to go." He gave Troy a lopsided though pained smile. "I'm afraid that the Jerries make lousy hosts. The service was frightfully bad. And the tea…atrocious! It was much too tepid for my tastes with too little milk. Really, I told Schweiger he should stick to beer and leave the tea to us."
Moffitt's Academy Award winning stiff upper lip performance did not fool Troy for a minute. For one thing, underneath the black and blue bruises, he was as pale as death. Also, while he wanted to personally set the explosives when they reached the likely location of the legendary underground water, his hands shook so much that he could not safely handle the dynamite.
Therefore, upon arriving at base camp, Troy had ordered him to report to the camp hospital for a checkup. He grinned ruefully. To ensure that Moffitt, a man known to go his own way when it suited him, made it to the hospital, he had ordered Tully to escort him there…
"And if he so much as even looks like he's going somewhere else…you have my permission to shoot him!" Troy ordered.
"Shoot him?" Tully repeated. Without thinking, he bit into the ever-present matchstick on the side of his mouth, breaking it half, a sign that he had lost his cool. To mask his unease, Tully tossed the ruined matchstick, and with slow, deliberate moves pulled yet another from his right breast pocket. Putting the new matchstick in his mouth, he asked, "Isn't that a little drastic?"
Moffitt stood back scowling, arms crossed. The fact that he was practically dead on his feet just barely took away from the effect of haughtiness he was aiming for. "What's the matter, Troy? Trying to get someone else to finish the job for you?" Moffitt gave him a look that he generally reserved for those times he found Troy especially trying.
"Oh, you know what I mean," Troy growled. "No one's gonna shoot you." Shaking his head, he added under his breath, "More so's the pity." Before Moffitt could offer one of his patented, sure-to-raise-your-hackles observations, Troy glared at Tully. "Don't you let 'im out of your sight even for a second. And Tully…I'm holding you personally responsible for ensuring Moffitt reports to the hospital for a complete checkup."
Catching the look of open defiance on Moffitt's face, Troy wondered if one escort would be enough. He had already tasked Hitch, the patrol's second driver, to take care of the jeeps, so he was the only one left. He seriously considered accompanying his stubborn English friend, when a sudden idea came to him.
"You know, I could just inform the CO that you deserve a medal for what you did. I mean--and I think Tully here would agree with me--" He looked meaningfully at Tully. "--What Moffitt here did went above and beyond the call of duty, wouldn't you say so?"
Troy's look had only one meaning as far as Tully was concerned: Agree with me or you won't get that twelve-hour pass.
"Um…yeah, Sarge. Real 'above and beyond the call of duty' stuff, if you ask me," Tully agreed.
"Et tu, Brute?" Moffitt said ironically.
"Sorry, Sarge," Tully mumbled, his eyes downcast.
"So you see, Moffitt. You go get checked up by the docs, or I put you in for a medal. You never know what'll happen when your people get wind of it. Who knows, they might decide they need you back." Troy's smile grew broader, and he threw in his trump card. "They might even decide to commission you!"
"That's blackmail, Troy!" Moffitt protested.
"I know, buddy," Troy said smugly. "Now…go get yourself checked out before I regret missing earlier."
"You haven't heard the last of this," Moffitt said with a huff as he started for the hospital, weaving slightly from the heat and his injuries. Tully tried to give him a hand, but Moffitt somewhat petulantly threw off any offers of assistance. Instead, he paused for a moment, gathered his dignity, and proceeded at a much slower pace.
Troy sighed at Moffitt's threat. "Don't I know it," he grumbled. "What's worse, I'll probably hear about it in twenty different languages." Sometimes he felt as if he were more Moffitt's keeper than his friend.
Shaking his head, Troy determinedly returned to his letter.
Feb. 1942
Dear David,
How are you, kid? Congratulations on not ditching any planes last week. I hear the war effort will be helped considerably by your finally learning how to land.
I told you about Moffitt, didn't I? The Englishman with the Ph.D.? He says that with the Americans in the conflict now, it should take the Allies only half as long to win the war. Of course, according to him, that's with the Brits doing all the work, and the Americans taking all the credit.
He can be funny at times--in a "veddy British" kind of way. Sometimes he'll say something that about an hour later, I realize was a joke. At other times, he gives me this look that were it anyone else I'd haul off and punch them. But with Moffitt…well, it's just his way. How do you put up with a whole squadron of Englishmen? I only have the one, and he can be a real pain at times.
I've gotta admit, though. The guy grows on you. I mean, he's already proven his weight in gold more than once. Like the buried fuel depot he found on his first mission with the Patrol. And the underground water he found the other day.
Okay, so I almost killed him that one time, but it wasn't anything personal. I was just following orders. Besides, he knew the score and volunteered for the job anyway. HQ got wind of an ancient parchment that the Jerries had gotten their hands on. The Big Brass needed someone to sneak into the German compound, get a hold of the document, and translate it. (Did I tell you Moffitt speaks just about every language known to man and several more that have been dead for a long time?)
Supposedly, the document revealed the location of a legendary source of water that had been lost through the ages. I don't need to tell you the importance of such a find. Next to gasoline, water is probably our most vital resource, as we all need it to survive. Anyway, the job was right up Moffitt's alley because he just loves this cloak and dagger stuff.
So, before the CO had even completed briefing us on the mission, Moffitt had already volunteered. We were warned that under no circumstances could we allow him to be captured and interrogated by the Gestapo. Moffitt didn't even blink. Instead, cool as you please, he asked the CO if Intelligence happened to have another operative on hand who was proficient in German and ancient languages.
The thought that I might have to put a bullet in him chilled me to the bone, but it just wasn't a factor in his eyes. Of course, with Moffitt I'm never sure if it's the danger that thrills him or just the opportunity to get his hands on a piece of history. I guess with him, it's a little of both; it's hard to tell though as he tends to hide his personal feelings behind that famous British reserve.
Before we set off, he looked me in the eye and said, "Be sure you don't miss." I didn't have to ask him what he meant, and we didn't talk about it again until after the mission.
Anyway, I had him dead in my sights. I could see that the Krauts had really worked the poor guy over. And these were the amateurs, not the professional pain pushers that he was gonna have to face at Gestapo HQs. I was just about to squeeze the trigger when Providence intervened. Let me just say that instead of killing Moffitt, I helped him escape. After we got away, he led us directly to the ancient water source.
Like I said--worth his weight in gold.
I could see that he was in pain from the beating he'd received, but he never once complained, even during Tully's less than gentle ministrations. When we were ready to head home, he gave me that look that usually warns me that he's about to say something I'm not gonna like.
Bold as brass he asked, as if it never occurred to him that I'd follow orders, "You really would've shot me, wouldn't you?"
Well, I wasn't proud or happy of the job that I'd been given, but I figured I wouldn't have been ordered to kill a friend if--a--the information he'd learned weren't important, and--b--the Gestapo's methods of getting info weren't so well known.
The Brass wasn't really sure about the "a," but they were practically unanimous on the "b." If Moffitt fell into the Gestapo's hands, it wasn't a matter of if he would break, but when.
Somehow I managed to look him straight in the eye and I nodded. "Yeah…I would've."
He nodded in turn and right before he climbed into his jeep, he shot back, "Well, you had your chance, and you blew it."
Like I said--a real pain sometimes.
Anyway, keep those cards and letters coming, kiddo. They really mean a lot. Besides, I love to hear about how tough you flyboys have it back in England.
Your brother,
Sam
Sealing the letter in an envelope, Troy carefully stuffed it in his right breast pocket and stood. Checking the time, he was surprised to see that it was almost noon. Had Moffitt been at the hospital this entire time? Frowning, he decided to go check on his Second and headed out.
Just my luck, he'll be sidelined for a week, and I'll have to put up with Petersen or some other clown who can't hit the side of a tank!
Reaching the hospital compound, Troy headed toward admissions and inquired about Moffitt. The Charge of Quarters pointed him to a curtained off area toward the end of the open ward. Before he made his way down the center aisle, Troy inquired about Moffitt's condition.
"He'll live," the CQ said reading from Moffitt's medical records, "but he'll hurt for a while. Let's see…a cracked rib, several cuts and bruises…blood in his urine--"
"That sounds serious," Troy said at this last.
The CQ shrugged. "The doctor that examined Moffitt wants him to stay overnight for observation to make sure it isn't anything serious." He looked Troy in eye. "Your friend took quite a beating, y'know."
Troy nodded. "Yeah…I know."
It sounded bad, but not Last Rites bad, nor million-dollar-wound bad. Troy sighed, relieved. It could so easily have been much worse.
Reaching the private cubicle, he pulled back the curtain and stopped. Appearing for all the world like a contented cat that had found the ultimate sunny spot in which to curl up, Moffitt lay back, eyes closed, occasionally letting out a small, theatrical groan for effect.
Troy rolled his eyes. Oh, brother!
Moffitt hated hospitals, but he was obviously going to milk his enforced stay for all it was worth. And Troy could not blame him, for hovering over Moffitt, and showing anything but motherly concern, were three very young, very pretty nurses--a brunette, a redhead, and a blonde--murmuring words of sympathy and concern.
"Oh, you poor, poor man…" the blonde said, tenderly combing back Moffitt's hair with her fingertips. The look on Moffitt's face could only be described as blissful, warring with a phony display of helplessness.
"How horrible it must have been for you, Sergeant Moffitt. Were they awfully mean to you?" The redhead spoke while gently stroking his hand. She looked to be about nineteen.
Troy shook his head. You better run home to your mama, little girl, if you know what's good for you.
"Oh, no…" Moffitt said, heroically dragging out each painful syllable. "It was all in the line of duty. King and country and all that?"
"You are so brave. I hope those monsters get what's coming to them," the brunette said. She spoke with feeling as she tenderly tucked in the blankets around the patient.
"All in a day's work, Leftenant," Moffitt said with false modesty.
"Don't let him fool you, ladies," Troy interrupted. "What you have here is a real, bona fide hero. Why I just recommended Sergeant Moffitt for the DSM for courage above and beyond the--" Before he could finish the sentence, Troy had to duck in order to avoid the flying bed pan that narrowly missed his head.
"Quisling!" Moffitt accused. "You knew they'd make me stay--!"
"Temper, temper. We wouldn't want you to get all excited and ruin all the hard work these good ladies have done for you, would we?"
"He's right, Sergeant Moffitt," the blonde said. "You shouldn't excite yourself." She bent down over him, her "assets" practically at his eye level.
Moffitt, who had had eyes only for Troy, gradually became aware of her closeness. Color suddenly rushed to his cheeks as his hazel eyes slowly followed her features up to her face.
"I'm the duty nurse tonight, Sergeant, and I'll be checking on you periodically." She paused and added sultrily, "You won't be getting much sleep, I'm afraid."
Moffitt swallowed at the implied message behind her tone. "I-I have no place to go…especially…I mean--"
Picking up the bedpan, Troy handed it to the blonde nurse. "Take good care of my friend, here. The Patrol needs him."
She nodded, professionally setting the bedpan back in its place, within easy reach of the patient. "I promise, Sergeant. I will personally see to all of Sergeant Moffitt's needs tonight."
Troy and Moffitt exchanged amused glances. Troy shook his head. "Some guys have all the luck."
Moffitt gave him a look of smug triumph. The next moment, however, his expression became diffident. "When one thinks about it, a short stay in Hospital isn't such a bad idea."
Troy recognized the statement for what it was, an apology. He held his hand out, and Moffitt took it. They shook, sealing their friendship and partnership.
Pointing at the bedpan, Troy grinned wickedly. "I guess we're even now," he said. "We both managed to miss our targets this time."
The End