Hauptmann Hans Dietrich sat at his wobbly camp desk at the end of a long and trying day, a mug of soup forgotten at his elbow. He stared at the latest casualty report without really seeing it. So many names. How many of these reports had he filed since he came to the desert? How many more would there be before the madness ended? Now the name of Kurt Schultz was added to the list, a victim of the verdammswert unit known as the Rat Patrol.
Kurt had been the only person to whom he could express his doubts and disillusionment. Bereft of his friendship he felt the loneliness closing in. He banged his fist on the desk, nearly upsetting the mug of soup. Hastily he placed it on the floor. Headquarters would not appreciate a soup stained report.
With a sigh he squared the pages of the report and shoved them back into the file folder. Pushing back his chair he stood up and stretched his arms over his head, trying to ease the knots of tension in his back and neck. Perhaps a walk around the compound would help him relax and clear his mind.
A gentle evening breeze brought relief from the unrelenting heat of the day as Dietrich strode through the camp, hands clasped behind his back, the ubiquitous sand scrunching beneath his polished black boots. As he passed the motor pool he acknowledged the salutes and greetings from the men working there. He felt a certain pride as he watched their industry among the neat rows of vehicles. The whole camp reflected an air of industry and purpose. He had good men, fine soldiers under his command. Still, there was no one with whom he felt at ease. He keenly felt the loss of Kurt's friendship.
This was not helping.
When he returned to his tent a flicker of movement inside caught his eye. The memory of a poke in the ribs with Sgt. Troy rifle still fresh in his mind he approached cautiously, Luger in hand.
With a startled yowl a streak of tawny fur shot past his boots and was lost in the darkness. Dietrich chuckled in relief. It was only a cat. He'd seen it, scrawny and battle scarred, slinking about the outskirts of the camp. He wandered where it came from, and what brought it into his tent. Then he saw the now empty mug on the floor and understood. A cat desperate enough to eat Weirmacht food must really be starving.
The next evening Dietrich left a bit of mystery meat from supper a few feet from his tent. Camel? Goat? He found it barely edible, and longed for the fine meals his Mother prepared the last time he was home. Even with rationing and shortages she managed to make everything tasty. The tom however, wasn't so fussy, and devoured the offered meat like it was prime filet. hunger really was the best sauce.
After that Dietrich began leaving scraps a little closer to the tent each evening. The cat would appear, eat the offered food and favoring Dietrich with a soft brrrrt as if in thanks, disappear into the night. Dietrich couldn't explain his actions, even to himself, but something about the cat's quiet dignity touched a chord in him.
One evening Dietrich was later than usual returning to his tent, delayed by a minor emergency