"Wagner! Did Bader's messenger arrive with that report?"

Wagner visibly jumped, startled by Dietrich's sudden and loud reappearance. "Yes, sir. Right here."

Dietrich took the dispatch from the Leutnant, not even bothering to stop. He went into his office and closed the door firmly behind him. He dropped the report on his desk and then went to side board to pour himself a stiff drink. As an afterthought, he took the entire bottle with him to his desk as well.

Drink in hand, he sat down behind his desk and opened the envelope.

There was a copy of the report that he had seen earlier. Dietrich flipped aside the first few pages until he got to the part that had previously been missing.

And there it was.

Bader's report detailed clearly that six men had been taken, all alive. Two with injuries, burns. One of the men was the notorious commando, Sergeant Jack Moffitt of the Rat Patrol. The other man was an America private, Thomas Adams. Their identification numbers followed their names. The report also stated that they had been transferred to a holding location where their injuries could be treated before they would be processed as prisoners of war.

Dietrich let the report drop from his hands. He freshened his drink and then lit a cigarette. Staring out the window at nothing, Dietrich allowed his mind to wander.

The report itself did not necessarily mean that Jack Moffitt and the other man, Adams, were still living. After all, many things could have befallen them on either their way to, or from, the medical facilities.

Then Dietrich recalled his conversation with Wilhelm about Moffitt. Wilhelm had plainly said that Bader's attack had killed Moffitt, that he had burned in the tank with another man. However, the men with whom he had just spoken and Bader's report clearly stated that not to be the case. All signs pointed to the fact that Wilhelm had been intentionally hiding the truth from him, Dietrich realized. It could not be denied, the events of that afternoon had fed those suspicions quite nicely.

But to what possible end, Dietrich wondered?

He finished both his cigarette and his drink. With each passing moment, the question continued to haunt him. Why would Wilhelm have been dishonest with him? What possible reason could there be?

And not only had Wilhelm deceived him, he had gone to great lengths to do so. Bringing his prisoner into the camp with his face concealed, removing the pertinent pages for Bader's report, and, the most elaborate part of the ruse, presenting Dietrich with the dead body of goodness knew whom.

To what end, Dietrich asked himself again?

The longer that he thought about it, the more certain that Dietrich became that he would drive himself to madness. Looking at the half empty bottle of alcohol on his desk, Dietrich thought that it might be driving him to alcoholism as well.

Finally, Dietrich decided that there was only one way to answer his questions.

Dietrich tried to calm himself.

He was not used to being denied his requests by men that he outranked. Apparently, the Gestapo had no respect for a Wehrmacht officer, or for anyone, but themselves. Dietrich's first request to see Wilhelm or his prisoner had been brusquely rebuffed by Kauffmann. The second attempt, which really Dietrich could admit had been more of a threat than a request, had been met with a revolver.

Fuming, Dietrich left the area of the infirmary where Wilhelm and his prisoner were secluded. Still angry, he started to stalk out of the building. His curiosity at why Wilhelm had lied to him was quickly being replaced by a dark rage, almost entirely directed at one of his oldest friends.

However, he stopped when he walked by Doktor Hoffman's office and saw the man sitting at his desk. "Doktor Hoffman, how are you?"

The doktor looked up from the medical journal that he had been reading. He smiled at Dietrich. "I am well, Hauptmann Dietrich. And yourself?"

"Well, thank you." Dietrich gestured to the chair. "May I?"

"Oh, certainly. Please do. May I offer you something to drink?" Hoffman reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of schnapps. "Medicinal purposes only, I assure you." He gave a broad wink.

Dietrich grinned. "Why not? If schnapps is what Herr Doktor is ordering?"

"It is indeed." Hoffman also produced two glasses and poured a measure in each. He gave one to Dietrich. "Prost."

"Prost." Dietrich took a drink of the schnapps. "This is very good," he said, surprised.

Hoffman shrugged. "Your predecessor may not have been the most ethical man, but he certainly was very generous with his ill-gotten gains."

"I see." Dietrich smiled. "I am sorry that I will likely be in no position as to be so generous."

"I would be more disappointed if you were. The camp is doing well under your leadership, Herr Hauptmann. Much better actually. Though, I am not surprised. A leader on the battlefield can be a leader anywhere. Your father would have been proud of you. As would General Herzog. They both did an admirable job of ensuring that you became a fine man, if I may so."

Dietrich nodded, accepting the compliment with pleasure. "Thank you. I remember when we first met you had told me that you knew both of them."

"Oh, yes. Wonderful men. They met each other while under my care during the first war and became lifelong friends. Did you know that?"

"I knew that they met when they both had been injured in battle, but I did not realize that you were their physician." Dietrich smiled at the man. It was easy to forget that the pottering old soul who filled the role of the camp doctor was a full Oberst who had risked his life tending to the wounded during the First World War.

"I heard about the General's defection. Truly a shame that the Wehrmacht lost such a fine man."

Dietrich nodded. "It is indeed. But in the end, he made the choice that he felt that he needed to make."

"I certainly do not blame him for that choice. I would not want my children raised in the madness that has overtaken Germany." Hoffman shook his head. "I could no longer stand to be there myself."

Dietrich took a sip of his schnapps. "Really?" he asked, interested.

Hoffman nodded emphatically. "Why do you think that I am spending what should be my retirement here? I will tell you why, young man: I felt better about being in this God forsaken desert with Herr General Rommel than in Hitler's Germany."

Dietrich easily recalled how, under the influence of the Nazi ideology, General Herzog's young daughter was going to shoot her father as a traitor to the Reich, without remorse. It had been the worst thing that Dietrich had ever seen.

"No," said Hoffman again. "I cannot blame General Herzog. You are lucky to have been in the field for so long, Herr Hauptmann. You have not had to witness the madness that has overtaken Germany as otherwise decent people fall under the thrall of the Fuhrer."

Dietrich thought of Wilhelm. The desert was not offering him the protection from the epidemic of madness that Hoffman had assumed.

"I do hope that the choices with which we are faced are easier," Hoffman said finally, raising his glass.

"I will drink to that." Dietrich raised his glass in return. "Do you have any patients currently, Doktor?"

"Well, only the one. But he seems to be more of a patient of the Gestapo than mine." Hoffman looked irritated.

"Why would you say that?"

"Kriminalkomissar Freitag brings that man in here, into my infirmary, and then, he proceeds to forbid me see to him after the initial examination!"

Dietrich nodded. He could sympathize with the man's ire at not being allowed to see the prisoner.

"And the man obviously needs care. Burns require constant attention to prevent infection and further damage. Do you know how many burn patients I have seen die of sepsis, Dietrich?"

"Certainly, I know that is a risk. And you have not been allowed to administer him any additional treatment of any kind?" Dietrich leaned forward and allowed Hoffman to refill his glass.

"No. None other than the initial examination. Freitag told me that he that he would care for the man's medical needs." Hoffman snorted. "But while he is a doctor, he is a neurologist! He is also Gestapo, so I doubt that he would trouble himself too much with the wellbeing of the man. All he wants is the information that the prisoner can provide."

"What of the man's injuries? Was he badly burned?"

"Yes, very badly in some places. His hands and his forearms were burned, as was his back. Nasty wounds, burns are." Hoffman grimaced. "But oddly enough, though his face was wrapped, both Freitag and he both told me that there are only minor injuries to it. The man was lucky, I suppose, if you could consider being held by a prisoner of the Gestapo lucky."

Dietrich narrowed his eyes. "You said his back and his arms were burned?"

"Yes. The back is the worst of it. It is fortunate, though, that none of damage extends past the dermis into the muscle and bones. At that point, well," Hoffman paused and spread his hands, "there is not much we can do to help to prevent permanent deformation and injury."

"Yes, I understand."

And Dietrich did, more so with every word. The information of the prisoner's wounds matched the description that Iggy had given Dietrich of Moffitt's injuries.

"Is there anything that you can tell me about the man, Herr Doktor?" Dietrich wasn't sure as to why he asked, as he knew more about Moffitt than Hoffman would ever know.

"No, not much else. I do not even know his name."

"His nationality?" Dietrich asked, idly turning his once again empty glass in his hand. He supposed that he was just being masochistic at this point.

"Oh, he is an Englander."

"You are certain?"

"I lived in London for many years after the first war. I was a surgeon there, I had quite the practice, if I do say so myself. Of course I know an Englander when I hear one." Hoffman looked at the bottle and gestured for Dietrich's glass.

Dietrich held up his hand. "No thank you, though I do appreciate your generosity."

"Certainly." Hoffman looked at the bottle one more time and then put it back into his desk drawer. "Moderation is key, do you not agree, Dietrich?"

"In all things." Dietrich smiled. "Will you let me know if you do see the patient again?"

"Absolutely. Though I am doubtful that I will." Hoffman shrugged. "I suppose it is for the best. There is no point in forming any kind of relationship with him. I am sure that Freitag will kill him once he is done with him. Is that not what the Gestapo does?"

"I could not say," Dietrich said, despite suspecting that Wilhelm had already killed the man once. "Is the prisoner in any evident distress?"

"I have not heard screaming or any of the other sounds that would signify that he is being tortured. If that is what you meant?"

Dietrich nodded. It had been exactly what he had meant.

"No, nothing like that."

"Herr Doktor, I have enjoyed our time together. Thank you for the conversation and the schnapps." Dietrich got up and then offered his hand to Hoffman. "If there is anything else . . ."

Hoffman took Dietrich's hand and shook it. "You will be the first to know, Hauptmann Dietrich."

Dietrich had been looking forward to dinner, if for no other reason than it would give him the opportunity to talk to Wilhelm.

But when it had approached eighteen hundred hours, an orderly from the infirmary had delivered the message that Kriminalkomissar Freitag would not be joining the Hauptmann for dinner. Apparently, the Kriminalkomissar's work was going to go late in to the evening.

Despite his frustration, Dietrich arranged for Wilhelm to be served at the infirmary.

Dietrich, left to his own devices, drank his dinner.

All the while, he considered what he knew.

The man that Wilhelm was questioning was without a doubt in Dietrich's mind, Sergeant Jack Moffitt. Dietrich was not sure if he was truly surprised to find that the man was alive. Out of Troy's entire crew, the Englander seemed to have been especially charmed with a cat like ability to avoid death.

Dietrich supposed he would have been more surprised if Moffitt had actually been dead.

And if he recalled his dinner conversation with Wilhelm accurately from the previous evening, Moffitt apparently had some knowledge of a large Allied military initiative. While in the Wehrmacht, it would be unusual that a man with such a low rank would have any information of interest, it was not hard for Dietrich to believe that Troy and Moffitt knew more than the average sergeants of any army.

It did not bother Dietrich that Wilhelm was questioning Moffitt. In all respects, Dietrich whole heartedly supported Wilhelm in his mission gain information from the man. If the detail that Moffitt could provide was going to stop another Allied victory and more loss of German life, then so be it. In a war, knowledge was power.

What did matter to Dietrich, and it continued to matter regardless of how much he told himself that it should not, was that Wilhelm had been so dishonest in his pretense.

It also mattered very much to Dietrich that Troy thought Moffitt dead.

Though, Dietrich could admit, Wilhelm's had been a brilliant ruse. Troy would have hardly left so quietly if he had any suspicion that Moffitt was still alive. It had bought Wilhelm the time to question Moffitt, if all signs could be believed, humanely.

After most of a bottle of cognac, Dietrich had applied all logic and reason to the events of the past few days. And he had finally made peace with most of it.

Most of it, with the exception of one thing that remained. That one thing kept eating at him long into the night.

Dietrich still could not comprehend as to why Wilhelm had felt the need to dupe him along with everyone else.

However, as much as that thought troubled his conscious mind, Dietrich's subconscious was obviously troubled by something else. For in his dreams that night, what haunted Dietrich was not the betrayal that he had felt at Wilhelm's hands.

Instead, it was the image of Troy's grief stricken face.