Chapter 10
The small room was not much warmer than the lobby downstairs, and the smoke seemed to be filtering through the thin, wooden floors. However, there were two beds, for which Martin was especially grateful - the thought of another night on the floor wasn't very appealing, especially after a day spent in the back seat of an automobile. He watched as Dietrich slowly, silently moved about the room. He seemed to be a curious mixture of unshakeable resolve and unexpected ingenuity. Martin already had discerned the captain's routine. He removed his gloves first, carefully putting one in each pocket of his overcoat. After hanging up his coat, he took off his boots, placing them on the floor directly beneath the coat. He then methodically arranged each toilet article side-by-side in a straight line on the bedside table. Martin expected him to stow the luggage underneath the bed next, but instead he abruptly sat on the edge of his bed, his back towards Martin.
"Are you well?" Martin asked, tentatively approaching Herr Dietrich, who was running his hands shakily through his hair.
Hans jumped unexpectedly, as if he had forgotten Martin was in the room. "I'm fine," he answered harshly, seemingly agitated by Martin's expression of concern. Immediately realizing he had reacted inappropriately, he apologized. "It's very warm in here," he commented, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.
Martin studied the side of Dietrich's face for a moment. The man's skin had taken on a gray pallor and a few beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead. "You are ill," he observed, suddenly worried about his companion.
Hans wiped at the perspiration at his temple and shook his head saying, "It's just nerves."
Rising slowly from the bed, trying to ignore his aching body, Dietrich silently cursed his bad luck; this was the worst possible time to be sick. However, he remained determined to complete his assignment. After noting the time, he closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead, attempting to prioritize the evening's activities.
"I need to meet with Troy and his men," Dietrich told Martin. "When we're done, we can find something to eat."
"I'm going with you," Martin responded firmly.
"Martin, please-" Hans quietly pleaded with the boy not to begin another argument.
"You're not well," Martin hurriedly proceeded, before Dietrich could voice his objection, "don't bother to deny it." He was glad when Herr Hauptmann allowed him to continue. "You are going to need an extra pair of eyes and ears." He looked Dietrich earnestly in the eye, "I won't cause any trouble - I want to help."
Dietrich shook his head once and slightly bowed his head. He was in no mood to argue, and, as much as he hated to admit it, Martin did have a point. If he were to have trouble concentrating, at least the boy could fill him in later. He had no intention of letting Troy or the others know he wasn't feeling well.
"Fine," he said, meeting Martin's gaze. "Only do not talk - just listen." He gave the boy a half-hearted smile. "I'm going to have a bad enough time explaining your presence to Troy."
"You can depend on me," Martin confidently assured Dietrich.
Hans stared at Martin for a moment, then nodded. It appeared the boy had grown up overnight. "Good," he responded at last, accepting the proffered help. He hoped this unexpected growth would last until they were safely out of Lithuania and headed home.
"What's he doing here?" Troy asked gruffly, voicing his displeasure at the sight of Martin tagging along behind Captain Dietrich.
"I wanted him to stay where I could keep an eye on him," Dietrich replied as he threaded his way between Troy and Corporal Hitchcock, who were standing just inside the door to the sergeant's room. He thought the fabrication would appease the American, considering Troy's brief but turbulent association with Martin.
Sam Troy suspiciously eyed Dietrich and his companion. No matter how much the captain might disapprove of Martin's behavior, Troy could tell they had formed some sort of tenuous bond. The captain certainly acknowledged his responsibility for the boy's welfare, but Troy suspected Dietrich's feelings for Martin ran deeper than those of protector and guardian. Perhaps it was a shared sense of patriotism, no matter how disparate their political convictions, that had provided a common ground for the two men. Perhaps the captain saw Martin's rehabilitation as a challenge to his leadership abilities, or perhaps he recognized a part of himself that he could never admit to in Martin's rebellious nature. Whatever feelings the two had for each other, Troy was certain their newfound relationship would complicate matters for everyone concerned.
The sergeant grudgingly admitted Mueller, then opened the door a little wider for Tully and Moffitt. The British sergeant cast a wary eye at Martin. Shoving his hands in trouser pockets, he questioningly cocked his head in Troy's direction.
Shrugging, Tully raised his eyebrows in wonder, cracked a crooked smile, and took his place beside Hitch.
"All right," Troy said, as he stretched the topographic map out on one of the single beds. "I just want everyone to be sure of their positions for reconnaissance tomorrow." Bent over the map, he glanced up at Dietrich, to be sure the captain understood his intent.
Dietrich answered Troy's stare with a cold, hard gaze that was impossible to decipher. Hans was doing his best to ignore his innate desire to take command of this operation. He reminded himself of his agreement with Major Armstrong - he would follow the American sergeant's orders, despite being required to swallow his pride.
Troy shifted his attention back to the map. No matter what the captain was thinking, there only could be one leader of this unlikely group of soldiers. "We'll take up position on this hill," he said, pointing to a hill north of the encampment. The sun should be behind us and shouldn't pose too much of a problem."
"The glare off the snow, might be," Moffitt observed in his usual erudite fashion.
Troy looked at his British counterpart and smiled. Always the pragmatist, Moffitt could be depended upon to examine a problem from every angle. However, in this case, the U.S. Army had outsmarted them both. Troy produced a package from his duffel bag and handed it to Hitch.
"Pass these around," he ordered the corporal.
Moffitt grinned as he slipped on the wire-rimmed sunglasses. "Good old Uncle Sam," he observed affably. "One can always count on him to come through in an hour of need."
Hitch opened the glasses and held them out in front of his face without putting them on. "They're not going to do me much good," he commented, feigning disgust. The sunglasses were not going to fit over his eyeglasses. "Oh well," he shrugged, "can't see with 'em; can't see without 'em."
"You're blind as a bat either way," Tully chimed in enthusiastically.
When Hitch playfully poked a sharp elbow at Tully's ribs, Troy knew he would have to put a halt to the horseplay before a genuine ruckus broke out. Dramatically clearing his throat, he attempted to get the corporals' attention. "If you two are ready," he sternly addressed the two men.
Feeling appropriately chastised, Hitch apologized, "Sorry, Sarge."
Dietrich was losing his patience with all of them. This was certainly unlike any strategy planning session he had ever attended. Not only was the insouciant attitude unfamiliar to him, but he also was growing increasingly annoyed with the casual banter. "Shall we take lookout duty at timed intervals?" he asked, hoping to bring the conversation back to the matter at hand.
Although he had made every attempt to hide his irritation, Troy could tell that the captain obviously preferred a more orderly approach to the proceedings. "Yeah," he agreed. "I don't need to tell you, it's cold out there and I suspect there's quite a bit of snow piled up in those hills." Troy stood erect and directed his comments to the group of soldiers. "We have some thermal gear, but nothing that's going to keep you dry for too long. If we break into teams of two, and rotate every two hours, it should be good enough to keep everybody relatively warm and dry. Understood?"
"What about weapons, Sarge?" Hitch asked.
"Everybody carries a sidearm, but that's it," Troy ordered. "As long as we remain undetected, we won't even need any guns."
"And if we don't 'remain undetected?'" Dietrich asked solemnly.
Troy studied the captain for a moment. He didn't think Dietrich was going to like his answer. "Then you play it by ear, and get out the best way you know how."
Remaining expressionless, Dietrich slowly nodded. "I was afraid you would say that," he answered, confirming both his own fears and Troy's expectations.
Troy used the remainder of the meeting to issue what little equipment the Rat Patrol had brought with them. He took special pleasure in handing Dietrich his gun - a P08 Luger.
Hans hesitated before accepting the pistol. It had been years since he had held a service revolver in his hand, and the memories it brought back were not entirely welcome.
"I thought you might like something you'd feel comfortable with," Troy stated matter-of-factly, but his off-handed manner could not belie the significance of this moment.
It was a generous gesture on the sergeant's part - requisitioning a captured weapon could not have been easy. Dietrich would have felt honored if he didn't suspect the gun had once been owned by a fellow soldier who had been either captured or killed. Despite his misgivings, he had to admit the pistol felt good in his hands. There was a certain sense of balance, a blend of precision and form that felt so normal his fingers instinctively folded around the handgrip.
Dietrich, however, considered his response to be frighteningly effortless and entirely unnatural. Swallowing with difficulty, he took a deep breath and placed the pistol in the shoulder harness Troy had handed him. Hans looked at Troy and wondered if the sergeant ever had experienced the doubt he was feeling at this moment. He pushed the thought aside; philosophical questions would wait for another time.
"Thank you, Sergeant," he said, keeping his response honest and simple. "I shall try not to use it."
Troy nodded in understanding. He guessed it had been a while since the captain had used a firearm; he hoped Dietrich's proficiency with a weapon had not diminished over time. The lives of 250 men, as well as their own depended on it.
The impromptu meeting concluded with everyone agreeing to meet at six o'clock the next morning. As the others went off in search of dinner, Troy pulled Dietrich aside. The captain momentarily lost his balance, and Troy noted a few beads of perspiration on the man's lip. The captain instantly wiped them away.
"We need to talk," he instructed Dietrich, then cast a glance at Martin. "Without the boy."
Hans didn't doubt that the sergeant wanted to speak with him privately. Although he imagined it involved Martin, he had learned not to second-guess Troy. "Why don't you go get something to eat," he suggested to Martin, adding before the boy could object, "I'll be along shortly."
Surprisingly, Martin's only answer was an exaggerated sigh of displeasure before he turned to follow the rest of the men down the stairs. Troy watched as the teenager disappeared to the floor below. "I don't want that kid involved." The sergeant looked Dietrich squarely in the eye - he wasn't going to take "no" for an answer.
Hans could see Sergeant Troy was in no mood for an argument. For that matter, Dietrich thought, neither was he. "I shall do my best to keep him out of harm's way," he replied, then started for the door, unconcerned if Troy was satisfied with his guarantee.
"Your 'best' isn't good enough," Troy snapped, abruptly catching the captain's arm to prevent him from leaving the room. Again he noticed the perspiration and he became concerned when Dietrich anxiously touched his hand to his forehead. "Are you all right?" he asked, momentarily distracted from the Martin Mueller issue.
Dietrich caught the look of concern in Troy's face, and inexplicably angered by the sudden attention he was receiving, he pulled his arm from Troy's grasp. "Unless I am falling off of a cliff, Sergeant," he hissed in warning, "don't ever grasp me like that again." He attempted, again, to leave the room.
Heeding the captain's admonition, Troy nonetheless stepped in front of Dietrich to impede his progress. "If you're sick," he cautioned Herr Hauptmann, "I want to know now!"
Dietrich returned Troy's glare, but wasn't willing to admit defeat. "I'm fine," he replied with less enthusiasm that he would have liked. He attributed his throbbing head and general fatigue to hunger and lack of sleep; the fever, he hoped, was a temporary condition. Besides, he reasoned, even if he had picked up a virus, he wanted to be the judge of whether or not he was too ill to continue, not Sergeant Troy.
Troy knew Dietrich was lying, but he also trusted him to put the welfare of the rest of the men over his own stubborn self-interest. Still, he insisted on a straight answer. "Then why don't I believe you?"
"Because you are a very suspicious man," Dietrich replied.
Straining to end the conversation, as well as avoid Troy's inquiries, Hans pushed his way past the American and made his way to the stairs. He would have to be especially careful not to show any signs of weakness in front of Troy, or the entire project would be in jeopardy. Slowly negotiating the stairs to the main room of the inn, Hans worried that he might need Martin's help now more than ever before.
Dinner consisted of limp, reheated cabbage, old bread, and chunks of meat, cooked beyond recognition. Troy watched as Dietrich noncommittally pushed the food around on his plate. Admittedly, the meal was barely palatable, but he felt the captain's reluctance to eat involved more than the insult to his taste buds.
Tully stabbed a piece of meat with his fork and eyed it suspiciously. "Anybody seen that dog?" he asked, examining the red, grainy morsel in the dim light.
Groaning, Hitch tossed his fork noisily onto the plate. The taste made the mystery meat hard enough to swallow; the idea that it might be canine made it impossible for Hitch to finish. "Thanks a lot, Tully," he grumbled.
"My pleasure," Tully answered pleasantly, knowing he had ruined Hitch's meal, just like he'd planned.
Martin cautiously laughed under his breath. If they found the idea of eating dog-meat repulsive, he was certain the two corporals would have starved to death in his situation.
"Think that's funny, kid?" Tully playfully tapped Martin's arm. "You never can be too sure, ya know?"
Martin smiled shyly. Although they were strangers, he was beginning to feel comfortable in the company of the Americans. "I have had worse," he reminded Corporal Pettigrew.
Pettigrew's smile faded. Instinctively, he reached over to pat the boy's head. "I guess you have," he added, sympathetically.
The atmosphere of camaraderie was interrupted by Captain Dietrich as he quietly rose from the table. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen." He appeared to stagger slightly as he stood up, but closing his eyes, he caught his balance. "I'll be in my room if I'm needed." What little he had eaten tasted bad enough; the conversation combined with the foul odor of the meat finally forced him to retreat.
Martin immediately dropped his fork and left the table to follow Dietrich. Moffitt stared after the pair. "Was it something we said?" he asked wryly, but his sarcasm could not conceal his concern.
Halfway up the stairs, Dietrich turned slowly to find Martin at his heels. "Please don't follow me around like a lost puppy," he implored the boy.
Martin could see the fatigue in the slope of Dietrich's shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes. Remaining where he stood, he refused to be dismissed. "Please, let me help you."
If he had not known the rest of the party could see every move he made, Hans would have leaned against the wall as he debated with Martin. However, to maintain his show of strength, he forced himself to stand erect. "If you insist on leaving with me, they will know something is wrong," Dietrich patiently explained. "Troy already suspects."
He waited a moment for Martin to grasp the volatile nature of the situation. "Go back and finish your dinner," he ordered the young man kindly. "Just tell them I'm tired or something." At this point, he really didn't care what excuse Martin used; his head was beginning to swim and he closed his eyes against the nausea building within.
Martin understood the impact the captain's illness would have on the rest of the men, and he understood the need for secrecy. But he didn't understand why he felt so useless. Realizing Herr Dietrich was correct, he resigned himself to playing the apathetic young man they had all come to expect . . . even though it was a role he no longer wanted to fill.
Jack Moffitt watched as Martin made his way back to the dinner table. The anger that had been the boy's only self-defense a day ago somehow had been overruled by a steadfast interest in Hauptmann Dietrich's welfare. The sudden change in Martin's attitude, plus Troy's obvious concern, set off warning signals in Moffitt's head. Something was going wrong.
A pointed look in Troy's direction caught Sam's attention. Moffitt motioned his head in the direction of the door as a silent request for a impromptu conference.
Nodding his consent, Troy slipped out the front door to join Moffitt in the cold night air. Tully and Hitch assigned themselves the task of distracting Martin.
"What's going on?" Moffitt asked directly as Troy closed the front door to the inn. The British sergeant's easy-going manner had disappeared, replaced by a no-nonsense demeanor.
"I wish I knew," Troy answered, honestly. He lit a cigarette and watched as the smoke hung heavily in the damp air. Even in the pale moonlight, he could see Moffitt wasn't going to settle for such an inexact answer. "My guess is the captain's sick and they're trying to keep it between the two of them."
Moffitt recalled Dietrich's lack of appetite at dinner, as well as his ashen color, and arrived at the same conclusion as Troy. That certainly explained the change in Martin's behavior. Taking a deep breath, he considered their alternatives, then decided there were none.
"This isn't good," he murmured to himself.
"No," Troy agreed, although he knew Moffitt didn't need his opinion. "And you know he won't accept help from us."
"And he's the only one who knows if he's fit for the task," Moffitt reflected. He noted a distinct change in Troy's expression. "What?"
"You go talk to him-"
"Me?" Moffitt interrupted incredulously. "Why would he talk to me?"
"He likes you," Troy argued. "You two speak the same language, you come from the same stock." He could see Moffitt wasn't convinced. "You're the only one of us with any kind of medical knowledge - just see if you can tell what's wrong."
"I'm not a physician," Moffitt pointed out needlessly. He thought he detected a mischievous twinkle in Troy's eye.
"I know," the American replied. "Just see if you can tell how bad he is."
Moffitt looked at Troy in mock disgust. He didn't like playing the role of a medical doctor, although his limited scientific background had come in handy during the war. Still, he realized Troy needed an objective evaluation. "Okay," he agreed at last. "But what do I talk about?"
The mischief in Troy's eyes spread to his crooked grin. "Ask him what kind of champagne he likes."
Physically drained, Dietrich sat on the edge of the bed and looked longingly at the pillow. Resisting the urge to fall onto the lumpy mattress, he closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. If he gave into the temptation now, he would be admitting defeat, and he had no intention of surrendering to the illness. Wearily, he raised his head at the sound of a knock on the door, unable to imagine what was so urgent that it wouldn't wait until morning.
"Come in," he said in the best English accent he could muster. He did not know who was standing on the other side of the door, and thought it wise to use a "safe" language.
The door opened slowly as Sergeant Moffitt's head tentatively appeared around the corner. "Room service," he announced cheerfully, balancing a bowl on the tray in his hands. Entering the room, he kicked the door closed behind him. The look of astonishment on the captain's face was worth the effort it had taken to convince the Russian cook to heat a pot of soup.
Abandoning any hope of privacy, Hans closed his eyes and shook his head. He was too tired to be angry and too sick to protest against the Englishman's presence. He suspected the visit had not been of the sergeant's own volition.
When, at length, he turned to look at Moffitt, he found him uncomfortably waiting, tray in hand. "Let me guess, Sergeant. . ." His worn sigh was underscored with a touch of irritation. ". . . Sergeant Troy sent you." Dietrich raised his eyebrows in question.
Growing impatient, Moffitt walked past the captain and set the tray on the bedside table. Without looking at Dietrich he admitted, "Yes." Turning to face the German, Moffitt continued, "He's worried about you . . . as I am."
Feeling as if he were an insect under microscopic examination, Dietrich began to chafe. "I am fine!" he vehemently repeated. "I don't understand why Troy won't accept my word-"
"Captain," Moffitt cut Dietrich short forcefully. "Our lives - the lives of those POWs - all depend on your ability to execute your end of the bargain. We can't send you in there if you're too sick to complete the escape."
Dietrich looked up at Moffitt looming over him. "Don't you think I know that?" he asked, outraged at being treated as a first-year cadet. "Believe me, Sergeant, I would be the first to pull out if I thought I wasn't upholding my responsibilities."
Moffitt pulled the wooden chair from the corner of the room and sat at Dietrich's bedside. "Captain," he began more calmly, "I know there's a lot more at stake for you than just the completion of this mission." Moffitt paused, then added, "My guess is you accepted this assignment for personal reasons, as well as professional."
Dietrich looked everywhere but at Moffitt. The truth was somehow more real - more tangible - coming from the sergeant. Moffitt was right: he did have something to prove to himself, but it had nothing to do with ego or pride. Hauptmann Dietrich's reasons were deeply rooted in culpability and remorse.
"When I became an officer," the captain said softly as he searched his memory for that day that had been so important to him at one time, "I swore an oath to serve my country and my fellow soldiers." Dietrich stared at the floor, his hands clasped in front of him. "I have failed in one aspect of that promise," he said, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Dietrich looked determinedly at Sergeant Moffitt, "I will not fail in the other."
Moffitt studied the captain's face for a moment. He was thin and pale; the discoloration under his eyes emphasized the intensity in his face. But confidence was inherent in the firm set of his jaw, evidence of his unshakable tenacity. There was no need for further discussion; Moffitt had no doubt Hauptmann Hans Dietrich was capable of accomplishing the task before him.
"Perhaps you should eat something," he said, nodding in the direction of the tray on the table. "I took a lot of verbal abuse from the cook to get that for you."
Dietrich rose just enough to take the tray and hold it on his lap. "'Verbal abuse'?" he asked curiously as he removed the towel that covered the bowl.
"Well, I think it must've been," Moffitt replied, his amusement evident in his voice. "It was all in Russian."
Dietrich's first impulse was to set the soup aside but, feeling he owed it to the sergeant, he decided to feign an attempt to eat some of it. He winced as the aroma rising from the bowl's contents assaulted his sense of smell. Looking at Moffitt as if to ask if the sergeant really expected him to eat this, he sarcastically voiced his gratitude, "You shouldn't have." It was the only polite thing he could think of to say.
Moffitt shrugged innocently. "I think it's some sort of broth that once contained a bit of fish." He could see the captain's reluctance to taste the watery concoction. "It would make Troy very happy if you'd eat it," he pointed out in hopes of convincing Captain Dietrich to eat something.
"I wouldn't want to disappoint the sergeant," Hans replied glibly. Deciding that the faster he ate this miserable consommé, the quicker he would be rid of his guest, Dietrich bravely dipped the spoon, then raised it as a mock toast. "Here's to Sergeant Troy." He saluted the absent sergeant by swallowing the spoonful of soup with his eyes tightly closed.
Lying on his side, Dietrich opened first one eye and then the other. His mouth was dry and he was sweating profusely. The room was dark; he could hear regular, deep breathing coming from Martin as he slept in the bed opposite him. Hans fumbled for his watch on the bedside stand. When his eyes finally focused on the thin silver hands, he saw it was close to 3:30 a.m.
The captain threw off the heavy blanket and was surprised to find himself still fully dressed. He attempted to sit up, but when his head refused to follow the rest of his body, he decided to remain where he was. Turning on his back, he placed his right arm across his forehead and tried to recall Sergeant Moffitt's visit. He remembered parts of their conversation; they had talked for some time, even after Hans gave up on the soup. But he didn't remember the sergeant leaving.
Dietrich had always found Sergeant Moffitt a bit puzzling. The Englishman was something of a chameleon. Erudite and quietly self-confident, there was an elegance about the man that was lacking in his American counterparts. Yet he could adapt to any situation and be as tough and brutally calculating as any American commando. Memories of his many encounters with the Rat Patrol came flooding back in waves of unwelcome recollection. Hans began to shiver uncontrollably.
Pulling the blanket tightly around himself, he turned onto his side and curled into a fetal position, taking advantage of what little warmth his body could generate. He tried to concentrate on the day before him, but his mind insisted on jumping between the past and present; images of his home, Ilsa, and Gretchen became inexplicably intertwined with memories of arduous battles, the last desperate days in the oppressive desert, and his subsequent surrender to the British Eighth Army.
The familiar loneliness was the only factor that connected past and present. An unbearable emptiness overwhelmed him as he shut his eyes against the longing and the pain. Finally, when Hans thought he could not endure another moment of the mental torment, exhaustion took its toll and he gratefully drifted off to sleep.
A gentle hand shook Dietrich from his sleep. Reluctantly opening his eyes, he found Martin at his bedside, bathed in a dazzling ray of sunlight, streaming through the window. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, then he realized the warmth of the morning sun meant he had overslept the six o'clock rendezvous.
"What time is it?" he asked Martin, hurriedly swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Not that it matters, he thought disgustedly. Troy already had enough doubts about his ability to continue. Missing the meeting this morning would only give the sergeant more ammunition to summarily dismiss him and put an end to the entire mission.
"Nine o'clock," Martin replied. Placing a restraining hand on Herr Hauptmann's shoulder, he attempted to stop Dietrich from getting out of bed. "Sergeant Moffitt and Corporal Pettigrew have already left; Sergeant Troy thought it would be best to allow you to rest."
Shaking off the boy's hand, Dietrich threw an agitated glance in Martin's direction. Muttering a string of curse words under his breath, he remained seated, taking the opportunity to collect his thoughts. "What time did they leave?" he asked, gruffly.
"It was close to eight o'clock, I think," Martin responded warily.
Eight, Dietrich thought. It was nine now; that gave him an hour to clean up and meet Troy at ten. "Hand me a clean shirt, please," Hans said, slightly mollified. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of receiving special treatment, but it appeared no harm had been done. The added rest had been desperately needed, even if it meant he now owed Troy a debt of gratitude.
Martin fished a shirt out of Dietrich's bag and handed it to him. "I brought you some tea and bread," he said, indicating the covered tray next to the bed. "The Americans didn't seem to think the coffee was worth the effort."
Unable to predict the captain's next response, he then backed away a few steps. Martin knew Dietrich was more angry at himself than at him, but he didn't want to be in the line of fire.
Dietrich glanced at the tray, then back at Martin. He had been so preoccupied with his own tardiness that he had completely missed Martin's gesture of kindness. Ilsa often accused him of missing the forest for the trees, and again, he had proved his wife correct. He now felt indebted to several people.
"Thank you, Martin," he murmured, annoyed with himself.
Making himself lay the shirt aside calmly, Hans lifted the corner of the cloth that covered a small teapot, a few pieces of hard-crusted bread, and a glass tea cup sitting in a single-handled silver base. Dietrich's stomach was still protesting the previous night's meal; he was uncertain whether his digestive system was prepared for another assault so soon.
Hans' hand shook weakly, but he managed to pour the tea without spilling it. Tentatively testing the hot liquid, he found it to be equal to his expectations - strong and sweet - typical of every glass of Russian tea he had ever tasted.
As he busied himself with straightening his bed, Martin carefully watched Herr Dietrich nurse the hot tea. The captain seemed better this morning, even if he was less than enthusiastic about his morning meal. Although his strength was obviously depleted by his illness, the dark circles under Dietrich's eyes were less visible, and a touch of color had returned to his face. Martin was mildly surprised to find that he cared about the captain and the others. So much of his life had been spent in the pursuit of self-preservation that concern for others felt somewhat unnatural to him. Disturbed by the results of his self-examination, he wondered why this particular emotion had chosen to resurrect itself at this time. Perhaps it had something to do with the friendliness of the Americans, or with the respect and consideration Hauptmann Dietrich had shown him. Most likely, he thought, it was because he felt as if he belonged with what he considered a rag-tag group of misfits. Lost in concentration, a stifled cough from the other side of the room distracted Martin from his musings.
As the cough worsened, Dietrich's hand groped for the poorly mended ribs on his left side. With his other hand, he fumbled to replace the glass of tea on the bedside table. Missing the table by a mere fraction of an inch, the glass fell to the wooden floor and shattered at his feet. Hans noticed Martin out of the corner of his eye, as the fit of coughing subsided. The boy's unwarranted attention made him feel like an invalid. Needing to feel as if he were in control of his increasingly unstable situation, Hans raised his hand to keep the boy from coming any closer.
"It is nothing," he croaked in a whisper as he strove to catch his breath. Taking small, shallow breaths, he closed his eyes against the dull ache in his side. The fit of coughing had come upon him unexpectedly, and it was more the spasm than the resulting pain that had surprised him. As he forced himself to relax, his tense muscles began to ease and his breathing slowed to its natural rhythm. Having won one more skirmish, he now was more determined than ever to fight off the effects of the illness
Martin immediately crouched beside the bed and gingerly picked up the shards of glass. Hauptmann Dietrich was too busy breathing to offer any resistance. Cupping the broken shards in his palm as if they were a delicate flower, he cast a worried glance at the captain before depositing them on the bedside tray. For the first time, he too was beginning to doubt the captain's endurance.
As Dietrich holstered his Luger, a loud knock sounded at the bedroom door. He hurriedly donned his overcoat to conceal the weapon from prying eyes. With a nod of his head, Hans silently ordered Martin to answer the door.
Waiting to be sure that the pistol was safely hidden, Martin cracked the door a few inches to study the visitor on the other side. Sergeant Sam Troy appeared annoyed with the young man's inspection.
"Is the captain up?" he asked disdainfully as he pushed past Martin and into the room. He saw Dietrich visibly relax as he stepped from the shadow and removed the overcoat.
"Yes, Sergeant," Hans replied, equally scornful. "In a manner of speaking, I am 'up.'" He gave Troy a derisive look as he tossed the coat on the bed. "You shouldn't have let me sleep."
Exasperated by Dietrich's stubborn pretense that nothing was wrong, Troy finally lost his patience with the captain. "Look," he growled, mustering all his self-control to keep from shouting, "I know you're sick. All right? Moffitt says you're fit to keep up your end of this deal - that's good enough for me. I trust his opinion, and if it makes any difference to you, I trust you." If his anger was having an effect on Hauptmann Dietrich, he couldn't tell from Dietrich's calm facade.
Hans broke eye contact with Troy and took a step backwards. Finally letting down his guard, he was unsure how to respond.
Realizing he had broken through the captain's defenses, Troy continued more calmly. "You needed the rest, so I asked Moffitt and Tully to take first watch. It's that simple."
Still unwilling to match Troy's gaze, Dietrich raised his head a little as he considered his response. He supposed he deserved the sergeant's admonition. Facing Troy once again, he apologized. "I am sorry, Sergeant. It's just that I don't want my illness to prevent us from seeing this through to the end. It's only some sort of contagion - I'm sure it will pass soon."
Troy was unable to repress a grin. Behind all the sturm und drung was the soul of a real soldier. He couldn't help admiring the man. "We'll get you in and get you out as fast as we can," Sam promised, confirming their unvoiced truce. Then he added whimsically, "Maybe we'll all get home before dinner time."
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