Sweet is the music of Arabia
In my heart, when out of dreams
I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn
Descry her gliding streams;
Hear her strange lutes on the green banks
Ring loud with the grief and delight
Of the dim-silked, dark-haired Musicians
In the brooding silence of night.
- "Arabia," Walter De La Mare
The midday desert sun blazed down on the small encampment. On the long list of things that Sergeant Sam Troy would've killed for, his hat was relatively low, but definitely there.
The Germans had placed him and the three other members of the Rat Patrol in the center of the camp. All four of them were bound hand and foot with thick, rough rope, tied to stakes driven firmly into the sand. Troy had been working determinedly at the bonds for approximately a half an hour and had only succeeded in slicing up his hands and wrists.
He'd only given up when Sergeant Jack Moffitt cautioned him to stop needlessly injuring himself. "Unless your plan involves escaping by cutting your own hands off," he added dryly. "In which case we have additional problems to discuss."
The comment dragged a dark chuckle out of him. One of the guards watching them from the shade of a nearby tent shouted, Troy assumed telling them to be quiet. He leaned his head back against the wooden stake and shut his eyes against the assault of the sun.
Their mission had been top secret. They were sent into the deep desert to intercept a half-track transporting a German spy newly smuggled out of France. They succeeded in taking out the guards, but had to shoot the spy when he went to destroy a file of documents in the glove box.
Fortunately, the documents themselves more than made up for the loss of their target. From Moffitt's hasty translation of the German labels on the maps, they could tell that the information could potentially be a boon to the North African campaign; supply lines, previously unknown oases, weapons caches. They made a beeline for the nearest Allied base.
However, this German camp wasn't known to them, or marked on the newly captured maps. By the time they caught wind of the ambush, the pincers had closed around them. They only managed to evade capture long enough to bury the maps. Thanks to some quick thinking on Troy's part, they were finally discovered in the process of burning a set of plain topographical maps to ashes. The Germans were completely certain that the spy's maps were destroyed.
The camp they had been taken to was ramshackle, scantily supplied, and looked like it had been thrown up hastily. Troy had to wonder why the base had been set up so quickly in an area without apparent strategic value. He had a feeling the answers could be found in the captured documents. If they ever got the chance to dig them out again and get them to Allied headquarters. If they could get themselves out of this camp.
"Speaking of which, Sarge," Private Mark Hitchcock muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "What sort of plan to we have?"
"For the moment, sit tight and wait for them to make their next move," Troy answered. "Hopefully trip up somewhere."
The guard shouted again, brandishing his gun. He grumbled something to the soldier standing next to him under the scant shade provided by the canvas awning. Troy didn't need Moffitt's linguistic expertise to understand what they were talking about—the language of bitching was universal. Guarding a group of captives in the middle of the desert, miles from civilization was clearly not the most ideal assignment.
As Troy watched, the two soldiers suddenly snapped to attention. He followed the direction of their salutes to the officer's tent, where four men were walking in a loose knot. It took him a moment to place the uniforms, and when he did his jaw clenched and his stomach tightened. The men were SS—officers, judging by the reaction of the guards. All but one of them had their caps tucked under their arms. Their faces held the same look of restless boredom as did the soldiers'. And their eyes were fixed on the four captives.
The man with the cap (the insignias on his uniform were slightly different than those of the others, and Troy assumed he was a superior) lazily waved the two guards to ease, as he made his way towards the captives. Behind him, one of the men nudged another and said something in German. The other three laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, Troy saw Moffitt barely control a scowl.
The leader—a tall, fair-haired, sharp-featured man—stopped in front of them, hands behind his back, and surveyed the prisoners. Troy couldn't help but think that this was how a pig strung up in a butcher's shop window felt. With his eyes fixed on Troy's, the German spoke back to his cronies, provoking a fresh round of guffaws.
Troy strained futilely against the ropes. He recognized the way that the SS men were looking at them; like little boys who had found a nest of baby birds, idle sadism thrilled to find an outlet. He knew that he and the others were in a very bad place as long as they were the birds.
"So," the leader began in thickly accented English, "this is the famous Rat Patrol. It seems as if you've finally found a hole you can't crawl out of."
Troy glared up at him through the fierce sunlight. "You just watch us."
The man smirked and turned to comment sarcastically at his companions Troy found himself getting sick of the sound of the Germans' cackling damn quickly.
The others ranged around the four captives, sneering down at them and occasionally trading jokes over their heads. Troy looked over at Moffitt again. His tightly controlled expression wasn't encouraging.
One of the Germans—young-looking, with black hair and a broken nose—stopped in front of Private Tully Pettigrew. He grinned down at the young soldier and every ounce of Troy's protective feeling towards his men flared up like gasoline touched with a match. He renewed struggling, feeling fresh blood oozing down his palms. At that moment, he was willing to lose a hand, if he was sure that he could beat the leering Kraut to death before he bled out.
"What is your name, soldier?" the German asked in English worse than his superior's.
Tully cast a sidelong glance at Troy. "Tully Pettigrew. Private. U.S. Army."
"Pettigrew…" the German repeated. He elbowed the man next to him and said something that brought a grin to his face as well. All four of them were looking down at Tully now, their smiles dark and predatory. Tully's expression remained impassive, but Troy could see the concern growing on Moffitt and Hitch's faces and they squirmed against their restraints.
The dark-haired German reached down and grabbed Tully's chin in his thumb and forefinger. He tried to tilt Tully's head back, exposing his throat. Without changing his expression, Tully jerked away. The man snarled and yanked Tully back by his hair. He pressed his face in close to the young private's and said something that made his friends snicker as they circled around like vultures.
Troy thrashed uselessly. "Dammit—!" he began, intending to scream and holler as long and loud as he had to in order to get their focus off of Tully and onto him.
He was interrupted by a new voice shouting in German. It took him a second to recognize the voice as Moffitt's.
Moffitt stared defiantly up at the SS men as they turned towards him. His back was straight and his tone was clipped and curt as he continued speaking.
Troy could see that Moffitt had beaten him to the punch. Though he was glad to have the jackals off of Tully, it was still one of his men in danger—danger that Troy knew he should be facing instead.
The leader sneered and shot a question at Moffitt. Without missing a beat, Moffitt responded. The man chuckled as he took a few slow steps towards Moffitt and leaned down. Suddenly, he backhanded Moffitt across the face. While the sergeant was still reeling, the Nazi grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back until it smacked against the post. He said something in a low, threatening voice. When Moffitt's stony expression didn't change, the man spat in his face.
Moffitt winced as spittle rolled down his cheek. The leader shoved him to the side. Another German kicked him in the thigh. The dark-haired man pushed his boot down between Moffitt's legs provoking a strangled cry from the sergeant.
"Rotten sons of bitches!" Hitch snarled. He struggled against the restraints, ignoring the bloody mess he was making of his wrists. Tully remained silent, but Troy had never seen so much pure hate blazing in the young man's eyes.
The leader barked an order. Laughing, one of the Germans yanked up the stake Moffitt's wrists were bound to. The dark-haired man immediately kicked Moffitt over onto his side. A third SS man knelt down and unwound the ropes around Moffitt's ankles. The dark-haired German kicked Moffitt once more, before they hauled him to his feet.
Troy briefly caught Moffitt's gaze, as he struggled to keep upright. Anyone else would have seen nothing but the steely façade the sergeant adopted under pressure, the peerless poker face that had stymied would-be interrogators dozens of times before. Troy however, could read the fear barely restrained behind the hard blue eyes.
Troy wanted nothing more than to strangle each and every one of the Nazis with his bare hands.
The dark-haired man gave Moffitt a shove, causing him to stumble and his weakened legs to nearly give out beneath him. The two other Germans grabbed him by his arms and started dragging him away.
"Hey!" Troy instinctually pulled towards Moffitt, as his friend was forced through the mouth of a tent at the opposite end of the camp. "Where the hell are you taking him!"
The leader paused and looked down at him. He tipped back his cap and gave a grin that made Troy's skin crawl. "Do not worry. We will bring him back to you in one piece."
He turned on his heel and walked towards the tent they had dragged Moffitt into.
"Come back, you bastard!" Hitch shouted. He looked over at Troy, the fear and uncertainty undisguised in his youthful face. "Sarge, whadda we do?"
"I don't know yet." Troy took a deep breath, forcing his mind back on track. "Don't worry about Moffitt, Hitch. He knows what he's doing—he can take care of himself."
"Let's just not wait too long before busting him out," Tully said, his voice a low rumble.
Troy gritted his teeth. He knew Tully was right, but he couldn't let that distract him. He couldn't dwell on what might be happening to Moffitt at that very moment, while he was helpless to do anything; not if he wanted any of them to get out of this alive.
"Yeah," he growled. "Just keep your eyes open. We might only get one shot at this, and we gotta be ready to take it."
"Right, Sarge," Hitch said. Tully nodded solemnly.
Troy leaned back against the post. Half-formed plans buzzed through his head. He had to banish from his mind the image of the SS officer grinning as Moffitt was dragged away. Moffitt was usually the one who kept him from losing his head; now he was on his own, and he had to find some way out. He wasn't going to think about the alternative.
