Chapter 9e: Converse (Desert, Night of the Second Day)
He smelled old blood, old pain, old filth. They were his own. He'd been bruised, burned, cut. Pain was familiar and almost comforting. This much he'd endured before, and not broken. He could survive it.
He could not fight, not yet. He did not react to being touched. He began to think he didn't need to. He did not enjoy the sting and stink of disinfectant, but evaporation made a pleasant chill in the hot desert air. Those were bandages on his wrists and elsewhere, not ropes. A hand rested on his shoulder a moment longer than medically necessary.
"Stay with us, Troy. Keep fighting."
Crisp words. A young man's voice, too young for a doctor at the field hospital. Sounded like the oversea war news. The disinfectant smelled unfamiliar. The lantern hissed with the wrong tone.
"You will finish soon, yes?"
Arrogance. Demand. Good English, but the consonants were a little off. The man in charge was German.
Oh. Hell.
For some reason he thought he'd gotten away. The camp was past, forgettable. But he was here. Troy opened his eyes.
The Brit wasn't so young after all. A hard man, the kind Beckman liked to break. He shouldn't be in the camp. He was supposed to be safe.
"You're not . . . supposed to be here."
Words were hard in his throat, his breath heavy and slow. He should know the man's name.
"Leave . . . now. David. Get out!"
He watched expressions flicker like sparks and be quenched. Worry. Bewilderment. Pain. What was wrong? How could he protect his people? A dark cloud moved in from the edges of the tent when Troy blinked.
He opened his eyes again. The Brit was gone. The German sat at a folding table. The lantern, hung against the canvas behind him, made him a silhouette. Not Beckman. Where was the Colonel?
Not lying down. Not while he still had a choice. Slowly Troy pulled himself up, slid his legs off the edge of the cot. The dark feinted for him but he pushed it back.
"Sergeant Sam Troy."
He was still a sergeant, wasn't he? He'd managed to duck that promotion, hadn't he?
"Serial number . . . ."
"A matter of no interest to me."
Lean elegant hands moved in a shaft of the lantern light. Four bullets laid nose to base, in a line, in a square, set up on their bases, knocked sideways again and scattered across the table.
Dietrich. Hauptmann Dietrich. The camp was past after all.
"At evening yesterday, I had decided to make this much expenditure on four prisoners."
Relief, and worry. He had an additional duty. His own life was not the only one at risk.
"Don't break the bank. Let us go. Saves four bullets."
He needed to think. If he could think, he could get his men out of this. Dietrich corraled two bullets on one side of the table and two on the other.
"Later I had an opportunity to save half."
White fingers pulled the bullets in again, clustered three together and tried to balance the fourth on top.
"Tonight I find that additional arms and backs will be useful. Your men will live, as long as they work."
Troy laughed. His ribs ached, but he couldn't help it. If Dietrich set the Rat Patrol to work, he'd get a harvest of mischief.
"If they fail to cooperate, you will regret it as much as I do. A new acquaintance has promised to see to it."
Dietrich laid a coil of braided native rope on the table, gently enough that the pyramid wobbled but didn't fall. Sections of the cord were stained red-brown. Troy swayed back from it, as he disentangled the threat.
Something shifted in his chest. He coughed. He couldn't hold himself upright any longer. As he started to fall, Dietrich stepped around the table and caught his arm.
"You live, and I control them. All very orderly."
Troy laughed again, though it only triggered more coughing.
"Something . . . you don't control."
Standing. He wanted to be on his feet. And the Hauptmann's grip dragged him up so they stood face to face./span/p
"A tool is useless without a handle. If you die, I disburse three bullets instead of four."
His life, used to bind his men. His life, used to buy theirs. There was always a way out. He had to find the way out.
"Sergeant Sam Troy . . . ."
Dietrich called for Werber. The darkness lapped closer. Troy stepped into it like a door. When he fell against the table, all the bullets scattered.
ooooooo
Hitchcock was asleep. Before that had been irregular gasps, breath held when it couldn't be trusted. He was a good killer, but still a boy.
Tully had lain still, pretending to hear nothing. Some things didn't need to be seen. Most things didn't need to be said. For four men in company day in and day out, silence was both privacy and courtesy.
Only the two of them left now. Maybe. Dietrich would say what he'd done, sooner or later. Boast to them. Gloat to them. The Hauptmann had no respect for silence.
Tully would take care of the kid. That's what the Sarge would want. Get them home, if he could.
Maybe he couldn't. Not if that weird story was true. A new world. A red desert, like something out of Thrilling Wonder Stories. Maybe he should watch out for six-limbed Martian warriors and a barbarian princess or two.
He'd looked for constellations he knew, and couldn't find them.
Whatever brought them here, he would of been damn happy if it happened before the war. Or after, if there was an after. Now he was angry. They'd been grabbed away from where they were supposed to be. Where they were needed.
Not everyone slept. A couple of the goons snarled German at each other. They were coming this way. Tully kicked Hitch's boot, not wanting to be closer if the kid woke up thinking Tully was someone else.
A third man walked between the goons. Tully couldn't see much but an outline in the dark. He didn't need to see more.
Hitch took a breath. Tully shook his head at him, before the kid called out.
The goons chained Moffitt's ankle to a stake, like the rest of them. Like a circus elephant. Hitch managed to hold his tongue until the guards were back on their rounds.
"You're alive! When Dietrich came back without you, we thought something bad happened. You're all right, right?"
"Largely intact."
"So where. You didn't. The Sarge. Is he."
Hitch couldn't quite finish any question. Moffitt's answer was quiet. And very gentle. That made Tully afraid.
"Troy's alive."
The lack of detail was information in itself.
"He's in the Hauptmann's tent. The Hauptmann offered the use of some medical supplies. Generously."
Moffitt's tone turned 'generously' into the kind of word that got people killed in Saturday night fights.
"Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow will be difficult."
That wasn't enough for Hitch, but Moffitt wasn't saying more. The kid ran down eventually. He'd persuaded himself that Troy was going to be fine, that the four of them would turn the tables on the Germans just like all the times before. Moffitt didn't pay attention. Moffitt was calm. Quiet. Spookily distant.
Berserk. That was the word for it. If Troy died, the Englishman was going to kill someone. No, when Troy died. There was no hope in Moffitt's face. Just waiting.
Tully sighed, and closed his eyes, and settled himself to waiting too.
