I'll admit, I had a lot of fun with Moffitt considering compassion and morals in this chapter. He's so reliably bloodthirsty (my favorite example being in The Kill at Koorlea Raid), and throughout the series it's apparent he doesn't like Dietrich all that much anyway, that the process of him doing the decent thing instead of the 100% practical thing was an interesting challenge to figure out.
Moffitt was jerked out of an uncomfortable doze when the door opened. His head still ached from Diamond's vicious kicks, and the pain was enough to blur his vision. He had to blink several times before he could see the young man leaning against the doorframe.
Speak of the devil, he thought, and could have laughed at his poor choice of words.
"We have brought your friend back," Diamond said quite casually, and then reached out into the hallway. Dietrich appeared, clutching his cap in his hands, a dazed expression on his face. That was Moffitt's first clue. Diamond's hand was clenched around his shirt collar, but the German didn't object. That was Moffitt's second clue that something was seriously wrong. Diamond dragged Dietrich into the room and shoved him forward. The captain's palms slammed into the stone floor and he collapsed as if his arms were too weak to support him. Moffitt stared at him, seeing without comprehension the blood on his back, and Diamond grinned with all the malicious conniving of a starving jackal.
"That's surprising, isn't it, Sergeant?" he sneered. "Your mighty captain friend isn't quite as mighty as you thought." He drew back his foot and gave Dietrich a fierce kick, his boot connecting with the German's ribs. Dietrich didn't move, and for a moment Moffitt wondered if he was dead. But then he dragged himself to his knees and glared up at Diamond, somehow retaining his cold dignity even when he was slumped on the floor with blood on his shirt.
"It will take far more than that, Diamant, to break me," he hissed, his brown eyes hot with suppressed fury.
"I don't want to break you, I just want you dead," Diamond informed him dismissively. "And if you happen to die slowly, then that is fine with me."
Dietrich stood up and, although he wobbled on his feet, glared down at the Arab with all the unshakeable stateliness his rank demanded. "You," he snapped, "are nothing more than a cowardly deserter and a complete disgrace to your government and your army."
"Deserter?" Diamond scoffed, his tone condescending although anger was evident in his eyes. "How can I be a deserter? The English forced me to serve in their army, but I never allowed myself to be one of their soldiers, not really. And as for my government, my army. . ." He glanced into the hall, where two of his companions waited silently. "They are my army, and I am my own government."
"I can imagine," Dietrich replied, his eyes narrowing. Moffitt looked at him disbelievingly. He was unarmed, and didn't look too steady, and Diamond had a gun. A gun he'd been wanting to use for a long time.
"Dietrich," Moffitt said warily.
"And I suppose you think you're doing some great deed out here," the German captain pressed on, having apparently decided his life was worth less than the powder it took to pack a 9mm cartridge. He stared down at Diamond in pure, detached derision as if the man didn't even deserve the privilege of outright hatred. "Winning the war for your Arab countrymen, one outnumbered victim at a time. Tell me, Diamant, does it give you some satisfaction knowing your prisoners are no match for you as long as your bodyguards are nearby to keep you safe and sound?"
The impossible range of emotion carved into Diamond's face was unspeakable, inhuman—first disbelief, fear, almost shame, all fast diluted by some bestial kind of rage made all the more frightening by the Luger held tight in a white-knuckled grip. Hands shaking in fury, he let the last of Dietrich's words die out, fading into the cold stale air along with any hope Moffitt had of escaping alive and intact. Then he lifted the Luger and fired.
Moffitt squeezed his eyes tight shut, but it did nothing to stave off the deafening crash of the gunshot in the small space. Its intensity rattled his brain against his skull and only made his head throb all the more. Ears still aching, he was positive that Dietrich would be crumpled on the ground in a lifeless heap when he next opened his eyes, but to his surprise, the German was still standing. Behind him, a bullet hole was drilled into the wall, just higher than Dietrich's shoulder. He hadn't even flinched.
"You missed," he commented dryly. Diamond's eyes flared with that twisted, furious light and he whipped the Luger around, striking Dietrich hard with the handle. The German staggered.
"Don't tempt me," Diamond screamed at him. "Don't tempt me!" Spinning sharply on his heel, he stormed out of the room and the door slammed shut. Moffitt clutched his head against the aggravating noise.
"Dietrich," he said when the echoes had faded from his protesting eardrums. "That was stupid."
"Perhaps," Dietrich replied, his voice softer now that he wasn't putting on a show of bravado. "But I knew I could get him to crack."
Moffitt looked up, annoyed. "Get him to crack? What about you? What's it take to get you to crack?"
"I don't know, Sergeant," Dietrich murmured, rubbing his jaw where Diamond had hit him. "It's never been done before."
"I have the strangest feeling it'll be done soon," muttered the Brit.
Dietrich didn't reply. Exhausted, he leaned his shoulder against the wall, his back far too sensitive to put any pressure on it. He inhaled quickly, but then choked as his ribs protested. I'm a mess, he thought sourly. Sliding to the floor he let his breath out in short, quick bursts. Evidently Moffitt heard him.
"What did they do to you, Captain?"
Dietrich chuckled, then regretted the action. It hurt. "Why, Sergeant, I didn't think you cared."
"I don't," Moffitt mumbled. "Not about you, anyway. I just want to know in case they do it to me."
"It's quite a rudimentary process, Sergeant," Dietrich told him, wincing. "I expected nothing more."
"You would be professional about it," Moffitt sighed. "What rudimentary process would you be talking about?"
"Their aim is not so bad, you know, as one might think," the German murmured as if to himself, eyes drifting briefly shut. He seemed a little unsteady even sitting down, as if they were both being tossed in a stormy sea but only he could feel it. Moffitt stared at him, feeling suddenly nervous.
"Aim?" he demanded. "Aim with what?" Hot pokers? A chair? Steel-toed boots? Just plain sticks?
Dietrich cracked open an eye and looked at him, almost amused, as if he realized that he needed to elaborate to settle his cellmate's imagination. "They used whips," he explained distastefully. "The absolute barbarians tied me to a chair and they whipped me." He glared up at the ceiling. "Schmutzige Schweine."
His tone was so unbelievably, casually disapproving—as if their choice of weapons bothered him more than the excruciating concept of torture itself—that Moffitt couldn't stand it any longer. Having a stiff upper lip was something he could understand, even agree with, but this—
"That settles it," he snapped. "We're escaping. Or at least I am. So I don't have to listen to you go on and on like you weren't even there. It isn't so important to pretend anymore. You don't have to be brave, Captain," he added scornfully. "Who's going to know the difference except me?"
Dietrich gritted his teeth as he shifted his weight to the opposite shoulder. "I'll know, Sergeant," he said stiffly. "That's why it's important."
"Germans and their dignity," Moffitt responded contemptuously.
"Dignity?" Dietrich murmured. His eyebrows drew together in muzzy confusion as if he had never been faced with such a term in his life. "It's honor, Sergeant. A true German officer keeps up appearances, if nothing else. He follows the rules, he does what's right, he honors his word and he shows no weakness so his men will know no weakness. That's simply the way it should be."
"Show no weakness, know no weakness," Moffitt mumbled to himself. It had an irritating catchiness to it. He glanced at Dietrich. "Would you be considered weak now, Captain?" he asked, and some of the caustic quality was gone from his voice.
"It won't do any good talking, Sergeant," Dietrich said, his voice hollow and tinged with pain. "Can't you hear? They're coming for you." He looked at Moffitt with something that was almost sympathy. "Good luck, Sergeant."
Moffitt gave him a bitter smile. "Thank you, Captain. I expect I'll need it." He heard faint footsteps and slowly stood. The pain in his head was lessening and he was finding it easier to think. Maybe he could overpower his guards and steal Dietrich's halftrack, and get away.
Dietrich.
Moffitt glanced at the German, who was doubled over with his knees drawn up and his head resting on his folded arms. He was, on all counts, Moffitt's enemy. To leave him behind would be the duty of a British soldier; one less German to kill Allied men. And besides, Dietrich was wounded. He would slow Moffitt down, and the minute they were free, Dietrich would most certainly attempt to turn the tables and make Moffitt his prisoner.
Moffitt paused, listening intently. The footsteps were a little closer now, but still far enough away. He had time to figure out the details of his plan. But then he heard something. It wasn't quite a moan; even in his battered state, Dietrich would never show that much weakness. But it was just loud enough, just desperate enough, that Moffitt's whirling mind slowed, and finally stopped. He remembered what Dietrich had said. A German officer honors his word. Honors his word.
He wouldn't leave me here if our roles were reversed, Moffitt thought bitterly, reluctantly remembering all the truces, all the wordless agreements between Dietrich and the Rats when a common enemy had surfaced, when some innocent affected by the war had needed help they could both give. Honor-bound, too decent to go back on a thing like his word, Dietrich had tried his best to follow through each time, no matter what. He would get us both out of here, I'm sure of that. The conviction with which he thought such a statement bewildered him. And then something else struck him. Troy wouldn't leave Dietrich. Why should I?
Troy would have figured out a way to get them both out of there, no matter how badly Dietrich was hurt, no matter how much he would slow them down. And so Moffitt, reluctantly, decided that he would follow Troy's example. He threw away all thoughts of overpowering the guards, just as the door opened.
Diamond wasn't there, but two Arabs were. "Come," one said to him in Arabic. "There's a surprise for you."
A dozen different curses sprang to mind, but Moffitt bit his tongue to keep from speaking. Best to stay on their good side for now. Or whatever side he was on at the moment. He gave Dietrich one last sideways glance and walked down the hall. He didn't dare run, since both of his captors were armed, but he studied his surroundings carefully. There were no other doors except the one at the far end of the corridor, near the archway that led into the courtyard. And two guards were prowling near there, so he wasn't getting out that way. One of the Arabs shoved past him, opened the door, and pushed him inside. He glanced around the room, which was disappointingly similar to his and Dietrich's holding cell: one small window high up that would be impossible to climb through. Otherwise, the room was large and empty, and Diamond was waiting for him, leaning against the wall. He gestured to the chair that stood in the middle of the room.
"Sit, Sergeant," he said pleasantly. There was no hint of his earlier anger, but he still held the Luger. Moffitt glared at him, but one of the men behind him slammed his gun butt into Moffitt's shoulder, and the Brit stumbled and sat down abruptly. His hands were tied behind him and then secured against the sides of the chair back. He stared silently at Diamond as the Arab came forward and lifted the Luger. He rested the barrel's mouth against Moffitt's forehead.
"Shall I?" he whispered. Moffitt didn't flinch, although he bit his lip so hard he tasted blood in his mouth. Diamond slid the tip of the barrel underneath Moffitt's beret, and then flicked up the Luger carelessly. The beret and goggles fell to the floor. "Later," Diamond promised, the gun brushing against the Brit's forehead once more. He studied Moffitt through narrowed eyes. "We took the German's shirt off," he said, as if to himself. "But I don't think we'll take off yours. However—" He leaned in closer and, still holding the Luger, untied Moffitt's ascot. The handgun's cold metal slid over Moffitt's neck and he struggled to keep his eyes focused on the opposite wall, determined not to give his captor the satisfaction of seeing his fear. He understood now why Dietrich had been so determinedly cold-blooded about the whole business. He hoped he could be half so stoic.
Diamond straightened, twisting the ascot around his wrist. "That's better. This won't take too long. I hope you don't get too bored."
Moffitt said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the Arabs coiling a whip in his hands. The things I do for Dietrich, he thought, wondering if he would have found Troy already had he escaped by himself and left his German cellmate at the mercy of the Arabs. He flinched, surprised out of his musing, when the Arab cracked the whip.
"That's more like it," Diamond said. "I hope you're ready for this, Sergeant. I certainly am."