Dietrich wasn't one to sit idly by when he was in danger, but since he was trapped in a ridiculously small room that was impossible to get out of and the very thought of moving made things hurt that should never hurt the way they were hurting, he didn't have much else to do. So, while he sat there, trying to ignore the pain in his back and ribs, he thought of all the ways he could escape the Arabs and find his convoy. Or even Troy. Troy wouldn't be an unwelcome sight at the moment, he decided. Then he smirked. Listen to you, he told himself. How far you have fallen. Still, he couldn't help but imagine those two jeeps surging over a sand dune, guns blazing. Even if they only took out a few of the Arabs, Dietrich could handle the rest, locate the halftrack, and get out of harm's way. He straightened and hissed through his teeth. Or, he thought as he waited for the hot throbbing sensation in his back to subside, perhaps they could simply kill all the Arabs. He leaned his head on his knees, for once giving in to self-pity. Then he heard a noise, a quickly stifled yelp. He lifted his head and listened intently. It sounded again.

"Moffitt," Dietrich murmured. He shifted tentatively, wincing as the fabric of his shirt scraped over his raw back. "Don't cry out, Sergeant," he sighed. "They will only beat you harder for it."

As if the Brit had heard him and heeded his advice, the yells stopped, and only the muffled snap of the whip could be heard. To keep his mind off the pain, Dietrich counted the whiplashes. After he reached twenty, however, he gave up and closed his eyes, wishing that he could lie down without feeling the burning agony that came with touching his back. The moments blurred into one monotonous buzz of pain and, to his annoyance, his head began to spin. He could feel how soaked his shirt was, presumably with blood, and as the lightheadedness grew worse he had time only to realize that he was going to pass out. Then he pitched backward and even the screaming pain in his back was blocked out.

Diamond paced the perimeter of the room like a caged animal. Annoyance made his steps quick and light. Finally he could stand it no longer.

"Stop already," he ordered in Arabic. "He can't feel it."

The Arab stopped. He coiled the whip in his hands, the lithe tip dripping bright blood onto the floor. The sergeant was slumped over as far as his bindings would allow. His head rested against his knees and his back was a mess, the shirt torn and bloody, but nothing compared to the flesh beneath. He would certainly feel it later, Diamond comforted himself. But for now, why waste energy?

"Take him back to the cell," Diamond said. As the Arab untied the unconscious Brit and dragged him out of the room, Diamond knelt and picked up the beret and goggles. He twisted the goggles' strap around his wrist, crushing the beret in his hand as he stared at the floor with slitted eyes. He would have to be more careful, he realized. If he wanted his fun to last, he would have to be gentler. Well. . .no, not gentler, he decided as he stood and looked at the chair with the trickles of blood running down its legs. He would simply not let the sessions last so long. He had been too caught up in the moment to exercise restraint.

He stepped out of the room, glanced down the hall to where the door was just banging shut. The Arab was locking it and the two guards waited to take their stations outside it. Diamond wondered which one of the prisoners should die first. Should they die alone, or together? Should the other be made to watch his companion's fate? He hated the English, as he hated the Germans, but the former held a somewhat special place in his heart. At least. . .he hated them impossibly more than he hated their steel-eyed Teutonic counterparts. The Englishman, Diamond thought vehemently. The Englishman will die first.

Moffitt was on his hands and knees, feeling the blood drip down his arms and onto the floor. For the moment, his back was numb save a dull, hot sensation, but he knew that soon enough he would be feeling full well the pain of his injuries. He had lost count after thirty lashes, but he thought, or at least hoped, that they had stopped whipping him after that. In the blurred, dim part of his mind that still hung grimly onto his college education came the recollection that, traditionally, the maximum amount of lashes administered in a single session hovered somewhere near forty. But what bloody good did that do him? Diamond didn't care anymore for tradition than he cared for the lives of his prisoners. Frustrated at the sudden uselessness of his highbrow degree, Moffitt stood and took a careful step forward, teetering on his trembling legs. He waited, eyes squeezed shut, as the wave of dizziness passed and he could move without falling over. When he dared to open his eyes again, he saw Dietrich sprawled out on his back in the corner and quickly went over, kneeling beside the unconscious German. Moffitt gripped him by the shoulders, although his muscles screamed in waking agony, and pulled the captain into a sitting position. Dietrich's head slumped forward and Moffitt shook him as long as his own injuries would permit him to.

"Dietrich," he said severely. "Dietrich, wake up. This is no time to just lie there." Although, if Dietrich's pain was anything like his own, perhaps just lying there would be better. Stop that, he thought to himself. We have to figure out how to get out of here.

"Sergeant," Dietrich murmured, his head slowly lifting, "if you would stop that ridiculous shaking, I would be in a position to answer." He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it gingerly. "I suppose we're still roommates, Sergeant?" When Moffitt didn't reply, Dietrich squinted at his face. "You can let go of me now, Sergeant," he said.

Moffitt dropped his arms and shuffled away from Dietrich. He stared at the ground, trying to tamp down the fresh agony that was tightening his throat, and the German rested his head against his drawn-up knees. At the moment, they both felt equally hopeless.

"Captain." Moffitt finally spoke in a strangled voice. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that we have to get out of here. You of all people understand the danger."

"Thank you for acknowledging that, Sergeant," Dietrich commented dryly.

Moffitt ignored him. "But they mean to kill us. That Diamond in particular; he has some grudge against us I don't quite understand."

"I understand it, Sergeant." The captain didn't lift his head when he spoke and his voice was so muffled it was difficult to hear. "The English and the Germans brought their war to his home. Moreover, the English forced him to be their guide. I can understand his motive completely." He shook his head. "Although I can't say I'm surprised that the English would act in such a way."

Moffitt glared. "Funny you should say that, since Germans have done their fair share of atrocities in this war."

"Agreed, Sergeant," Dietrich replied, raising his head. There was a quirk to his eyebrows that suggested he had anticipated Moffitt's answer and found it unreasonably amusing. "But we can't help the world while we're sitting here arguing, can we?" He glanced around the room, though what he expected to find was anyone's guess. "My men should be coming for me," he said as if to himself. "Anytime."

"Unless Troy arrives first," Moffitt countered. "By now he's probably shot your convoy to pieces. Your German efficiency at work again, I'm sure. You pride yourselves on it, don't you? If you must die, do it efficiently. Don't keep the Fatherland waiting."

Dietrich didn't reply and Moffitt regretted his words after only a few silent, pain-wracked moments. He knew he could blame the agony that spread over his back for his actions; the pain kept him from thinking clearly, from seeing that now was not the time to be squabbling. But even then he would know that his temper had flared and he had retaliated out of anger, which was a bad idea in his present situation.

"Look, Captain," he began, but paused when Dietrich leaned delicately against the wall, his head in his hands. "Are. . .you all right?" he asked lamely.

"You have done your work well, Sergeant," the German quietly responded. "Having been without water for hours, I'm afraid I'm not as helpful as I could be in this situation." He glanced up, squinting as though the weak light hurt his eyes. "But that was your intention, was it not?"

"All right, Dietrich," Moffitt replied, unwilling to be hauled back into the argument he had just extricated himself from. "An eye for an eye."

"Be quiet, Sergeant," the German said suddenly.

"Captain—"

"Sergeant, I gave you an order." Dietrich stood and made his way over to the window, leaning heavily against the wall. "Don't you hear that?"

Moffitt joined him as fast as he could manage. The window was too high to see out of, but he could hear what had alerted Dietrich. The faint hum of approaching vehicles.

"Ours?" Moffitt whispered.

"Yours," Dietrich corrected wryly. "But mine are no doubt nearby."

Moffitt turned away from the window and stared at the floor, quickly formulating a plan. "Perhaps if they can unlock the door we can find Diamond and bring him with us while they fend off the Arabs."

"If?" The captain interrupted. "Your 'if' is liable to fill us full of bullets. Diamond is obviously the leader of this group. They're going to try and protect him; they aren't barbarians, at least not completely. They have some sense of loyalty."

Moffitt wheeled around, instantly regretting the quick movement. "Look here, Captain, we can't let Diamond run around any longer unchecked. It's doubtful that Troy will know to go after Diamond specifically, because if he's smart at all he'll keep himself hidden and let his cronies fight it out. Who knows how many more soldiers will be led to their deaths by him?"

"We'll simply have to tell Troy, Sergeant," Dietrich compromised. "We are in no condition to be going after him ourselves."

"Thanks to him," Moffitt muttered. They both jerked around toward the window as the sound of gunfire erupted outside. "Mine," Moffitt said smugly, unable to resist a glance at Dietrich.

The roar of a halftrack punctuated with voices yelling in German joined the gunfire. "Mine, Sergeant," Dietrich replied. "And we might want to go stand in the corner."

"Why?" Moffitt queried as he followed the German. "Your men wouldn't be stupid enough to blow up the wall, would they?"

"I certainly hope not." Dietrich glanced at him slyly. "But yours might."