As Dietrich and Moffitt stood in the corner, listening to the chaos that filtered through the pathetic window, Moffitt noticed that the German was in worse shape than he'd let on. He was weak from blood loss and dehydration and after a few minutes had to lean against the wall to stay upright. Basic pride dictated he refuse to give into his lightheadedness and sit down as long as his cellmate remained standing, but his stubborn determination to stay upright only ate away at what little strength he had left. As the gunfire outside dwindled and finally stopped, Dietrich suddenly slid to his knees, slumping against the wall with his head bowed. Instinctively Moffitt knelt beside him, moving slowly to keep his back from hurting any worse than it already did.

"Dietrich!" he hissed. "You can't do this to me now. If we're going to get out of here I'm not going to drag you."

Dietrich didn't respond and Moffitt gingerly put a hand on his arm. "Dietrich. Wake up."

He heard someone outside the door, a voice speaking softly in German. Automatically he translated the whispered words: Someone is inside. There was a long, taut silence he filled with his pounding heart—then a loud explosion sounded and the walls shuddered. Moffitt and Dietrich were both thrown to the floor as smoke seeped into the room from under the door.

The door. . .

Moffitt ignored the pain, scrambled to his feet, and staggered across the room. The door was hanging awkwardly, jarred loose by the closeness of the blast. He yanked on it, steering past the agony that lanced through him, and gasped out his relief when it swung open, banging hard against the wall. Black smoke poured into the room and swirled around him, thick and suffocating. In moments it had filled the air and made his route of escape utterly invisible, but after one last glance at Dietrich, he dashed into the smothering hall, coughing and choking and wishing he hadn't been stripped of his ascot. He had to find Troy. But he also had to find Diamond.

Dietrich dragged himself to his knees as the smoke billowed around him, pressing in so thickly he could almost feel its weight holding him down. He struggled to breathe as the acrid stuff burned his throat and made his eyes sting and water. As he adjusted to the irritation he saw that a figure was moving through the dark gray haze, a figure he recognized as Moffitt.

"Sergeant!" Dietrich called, but his voice was too hoarse, too weak and clotted with smoke, to carry very far through the choking cloud around him. And yet Moffitt's head turned, for just a moment the smoke thinned, and their eyes locked. Then the Brit turned away and ran from the room, leaving Dietrich behind. For the next few seconds there was complete silence save the hissing of distant flames and the desperate gasps for air as Dietrich's lungs tightened. Then a second explosion sounded and the battered walls shook once more. On his hands and knees, the captain braced himself as the rumbling sent waves of pain through his body. The infuriating weakness that spread along with it meant that standing was out of the question. Disoriented by the smoke, unable to breathe without coughing, he pitched sideways, feeling the hard, solid roughness of the floor against his face for a few moments before realizing that he'd fallen at all. He didn't bother trying to push himself up, didn't even bother opening his eyes again. Just gave in to the pounding in his head, the dizziness that took his breath away, the never-ending burning of his blood-encrusted back.

He never heard the third explosion.

Moffitt ran with his hands stretched out in front of him, his injuries all but forgotten in his frantic race to escape the smoke-filled building. He crashed into something and staggered to a halt; evidently the obstacle was another person, because unseen hands gripped his arms and a voice began to call out.

"Are you all right? Are you English?"

It took Moffitt a few moments to realize that the man was speaking in German. He swallowed, his throat stinging from the smoke, and replied in a hoarse voice.

"Ja. Ich bin Englisch." In mute reply the hands dragged him through the smoke and out into blinding sunlight. At first he was too dazzled to see anything but a vast, shimmering landscape of stretched, ghoulish shapes and clotting whiteness, but as his aching eyes struggled to adapt he squinted up at his rescuer, a tall fellow wearing a uniform that was burnt in numerous places. "Troy," Moffitt gasped, ignoring the Wehrmacht eagle on the man's jacket. He couldn't have cared less if Rommel himself had just hauled him out of that building. "Wo ist Feldwebel Troy?"

The German acted as though he hadn't heard. "Herr Leutnant!" he shouted, still dragging Moffitt along. "Herr Leutnant!"

Ahead of them two German halftracks were parked haphazardly; one he recognized as Dietrich's, but the other one was in worse shape and several soldiers stood around it, all German, all with their guns at the ready, taking potshots at the Arabs hiding in the surrounding buildings. One of them was an officer, and he turned when Moffitt's captor spoke.

They're going to take me prisoner, Moffitt realized with sluggish alarm. He glanced around, ready to make a break for it—and stopped when he saw two American jeeps a short distance away. A young German soldier was leaning on one of the guns, slinging lead with obvious vigor when he saw an Arab appear in a window, but the other .50 was abandoned. Thoroughly confused, Moffitt didn't resist as the tall German propped him up against the halftrack and offered him an open canteen.

"Herr Leutnant," Moffitt croaked after he took a long drink. "Was ist passiert?"

"It is too difficult to explain, Sergeant," the lieutenant replied in crisp English, eyeing him with speculative pity. "Later we will tell you."

"But I don't—"

"Moffitt!" shouted a voice from behind him. He turned, his back protesting at the quick motion, and saw Tully's helmet over the tall hood of the halftrack. A moment later the rest of Tully followed. His jacket was singed and there was a cut on his chin. His matchstick was snapped in half, a casualty of the latest explosion. "Moffitt, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," was the stunned reply. Moffitt blinked at the Kentuckian, trying to process his very existence amongst all the DAK men swarming everywhere like trigger-happy locusts. "Troy. Where is Troy? And what is going on here? Why are there all these Germans running about?"

"It's tough to explain, like Brahl said," Tully replied, gnawing on his splintered matchstick. "Where's Dietrich?"

"In there still," Moffitt said, trying not to look at the ravaged building he had just emerged from. "I need to see Troy, Tully. Now."

"Here he comes." Tully glanced at Brahl. "I'd better get back in there and see what I can do." He gave the halftrack a quick rap with his knuckles and turned away.

"Danke, Private," the lieutenant said automatically. He looked at Moffitt nervously. "What about the Hauptmann?" he asked. "What was his condition? Why did he not follow you?"

Moffitt looked at him warily. The fear in the German's eyes was real, the way he clasped his hands in front of him a sign of his anxiety. "Dietrich was beaten," the Brit explained grudgingly. "By Diamond. He was still in the room when the explosion allowed me to open the door. I have to go back in and get him."

"We will go get him," Brahl informed him at once. "You are hurt."

"I'll do it," Moffitt insisted, knowing he would regret it later. "I have to."

Brahl looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Ja, Sergeant," he finally murmured. "All right. But Erich will go with you."

Moffitt straightened, steadying himself against the halftrack. He looked around for the soldier who was supposed to go with him, then flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder. His back did not approve of the sudden motion, and it told him so with a sharp jab of pain. He clenched his teeth so hard he felt them creak.

"Moffitt?" a disbelieving voice asked from behind him. Relieved at its familiarity, he turned and saw Troy standing there, looking very much at ease and on top of things despite a scorched shirt and scratched-up face.

"You're all right," Moffitt exclaimed, grinning like an idiot before he could stop himself. Troy's eyebrows rose.

"You're alive," he commented in reply. "But you didn't look it from the back."

Moffitt grimaced. "That bad?"

"That bad." Troy studied him carefully. "You sure you want to go back in there?"

"Positive."

"Might I ask why?"

"It's what you would do," Moffitt declared. His grin faded. "Please, Troy. Let me do this."

"All right," Troy agreed. "But don't do anything stupid." He paused. "Stupider," he amended. "Don't do anything stupider than what you already are doing."

"Yes, sir," Moffitt answered. He turned and dashed back toward the building as more smoke poured out of the archway into the courtyard. He heard someone following him and glanced back to see a German soldier running toward him. He was strikingly similar to Hitch, as his disheveled blond hair was barely kept in check by his cap. "Bist du Erich?" Moffitt asked. Reaching his side, the young man nodded.

"Und Sie sind. . .Moffitt?" Almost shyly he held out a battered-looking Thompson. Moffitt took it, realizing belatedly having an actual weapon would be of some use when charging into a potentially Arab-infested den of fire, and entered the haze of smoke. Immediately he started to cough, pain radiating through his chest. Instinctively, he reached for his ascot to pull it up around his nose and mouth; again he remembered as his hand brushed against his unbuttoned collar that Diamond had taken it, along with his beret and goggles. Annoyance lanced through him.

"Moffitt!" Erich was calling. "Feuer! Es gibt Feuer rechts!"

A dull orange glow could be seen through the black and gray patchwork of smoke. Heat rolled over Moffitt's skin, making the wounds on his back sting. The orange-hued smoke was all around him and, completely blind, he had to hold out a hand and find the wall, following it until he was past the pocket of heat. "Erich!" he called. "Bist du hier?"

"Ja. Ich bin hier." Erich's hand touched his arm. "Wir müssen schnell sein. Die Araber werden bald angreifen."

"Ja. Vorwärts, schnell." The smoke became thinner as they neared the end of the hall. Moffitt held out his hand and felt the door swing open at his touch. He blinked away the stinging tears in his eyes and looked around the room. The smoke was still difficult to see through and he glanced back at Erich.

"Schließst du die Tür. Es wird den Rauch stoppen." I hope. Erich obeyed and heaved the splintered door shut, leaning against it to keep it from swinging open again. The smoke slowly cleared as it poured out the small window, and Moffitt could now see Dietrich slumped on the floor. He hurriedly went over and knelt beside the captain, laying his Thompson on the ground and shaking the German. "Dietrich," he said. "Dietrich. Wake up."

When the captain didn't respond, Moffitt gripped his shoulders and heaved him into a sitting position. His head slumped forward and Moffitt gave his face a slap that, in retrospect, was perhaps a little too enthusiastic.

"Captain! Are you still with me?" Finally, Dietrich's head slowly lifted and his eyes focused on Moffitt's face. A tired, resigned smile touched the corners of his mouth, as if he had already made peace with his untimely demise and his rescuers were more interrupting him than anything else.

"Sergeant," he murmured. "You came back. I thought that by now you would be long gone."

Moffitt gave him a crooked smile. "Come now, Dietrich," he said, "I couldn't possibly let you die. You're the only challenge we have out here in this godforsaken desert. Besides," he added, his smile fading, "wouldn't you do the same for me?"

Dietrich only looked at him in bewildered silence. Whatever he thought of such a statement, it could wait until they were outside. Moffitt motioned Erich over and together they pulled the captain to his feet. There was no time to be gentle, but he didn't make a sound even when his face turned pale beneath its desert tan. Once they had him half-steadied, they started toward the door just as the sound of gunfire erupted outside.

"Der Arabische Angriff fängt an," Erich said, and his voice was ridiculously calm although his eyes betrayed his fear. "Schnell!"

He jerked the door open and flinched as a grenade burst in a ball of fire just outside the window. The wall protected them from the brunt of the blast, but its proximity was too much for the young German's nerves. Panicking, he bolted forward and disappeared into the smoke that seethed in the hallway from the still-raging fire. To the best of their ability, Moffitt and Dietrich followed. Moffitt's arm was around Dietrich's waist and he could feel the captain's ribs heaving with each breath, feel the sticky warmth of blood as it seeped from countless wounds caused by Diamond's whip. Dietrich suddenly stumbled, and as he fell he dragged Moffitt down with him. The Brit tightened his grip on the German and shook him fiercely, his own pain nearly forgotten in the rush of adrenaline that came with the sound of the firefight on the other side of the thin walls.

"Come on, Captain," Moffitt said severely. "You can't just give up here. You're so close; the door isn't far, and your men are just outside."

"I cannot, Sergeant," was the barely audible reply. "Believe me, I have tried, and I cannot. Go on. Find Diamant. Make him pay."

"Dietrich!" Moffitt yelled. All the frustration and impatience and outright anger he had previously felt towards his former cellmate came welling up again, trying to break through the surface of his smoke-raw voice. He let it. "What about German honor? What about that dignity you value so much? Show no weakness, know no weakness, remember?"

"That isn't quite what I said," Dietrich muttered, visibly irked. "But at least you remembered that much."

Relief flooded through him at such a faint glimpse of the captain's remaining spirit, and Moffitt couldn't help but laugh. "Then come outside," he countered. "Come outside and tell me just what you said."

He stood and dragged Dietrich to his feet, and then they doggedly went on through the smoke. Just a few more steps. . .a few more steps and they would be outside. True, the Arabs would be firing at them, but they would be out of the cramped hall and the fire, the encroaching heat and the blindness that came with the billows of choking smoke. He could barely breathe and the arm that supported Dietrich was beginning to go numb. For a moment he thought he wasn't going to make it. Bleakly he wondered what it was like to suffocate to death.

And suddenly sunlight accosted Moffitt's stinging eyes. He shook his head to clear his vision and pulled Dietrich forward, out of the smoke and into the blessedly fresh air. Erich was waiting for them, sheepishly avoiding Moffitt's gaze as he took some of Dietrich's weight.

"Ich lief in Panik." His voice was quiet. "Es tut mir herzlich leid."

"Es ist in Ordnung." Moffitt managed something like a smile, but his heart wasn't in it. "Nehmst du Hauptmann Dietrich, bitte. Schnell."

Erich wrapped his arms around Dietrich's middle just as Moffitt's legs gave out. He staggered and fell to his knees. His head was pounding and when he glanced up, his vision was bleary. The jeeps were a sun-dazzled mirage a few yards away, and the sound of guns firing blurred and softened into a distant buzz. His body folded up and his forehead rested against the ground. He knew he should get up—knew, too, that with a pack of angry Arabs on the loose shooting at him he was bound to be hit out in the open—but he was too tired to move anymore, far too tired to care what happened next.

"Oh, no, you don't, Sarge." A voice, far-off and muffled, broke into the confused, mess of Moffitt's muzzy thoughts. A pair of hands pulled at his arms and he was somehow standing upright. Through the clinging stench of smoke, the faintest odor of bubblegum reached his nose. "Stay with me, will you? We didn't come all this way just to let you die out here."

Hitch, Moffitt thought, at first in annoyance and then, reluctantly, relief. "Hitchcock," he croaked. "Where's Dietrich?"

"In the jeep, where you should be," said the kid pointedly. "Do your legs work, Sarge?"

"Of course they do," Moffitt protested, flinching as the gunfire paused and then started up again. He tried to walk, but to his chagrin, his legs didn't work after all. "But any assistance you have to offer would be appreciated," he added sheepishly.

Bent double, they raced forward, past the German halftrack and the soldiers around it who fired tenaciously at the unseen Arabs in the surrounding buildings. When they were only a few steps away from the jeep, Hitch shoved Moffitt forward, practically throwing him into the back of the vehicle. He yelped in pain as his shoulders struck against someone's legs. Blearily he heard Erich calling his name and then the jeep roared to life beneath him. He rolled over, sitting up and grabbing the base of the machine gun mount to keep from falling as the vehicle lurched forward. But he couldn't stop the agony of the last few moments that pressed irresistibly through the last receding dregs of adrenaline; he couldn't help the blackness that blotted out his vision, or the loud whine that filled his ears until he fell back, unconscious, fresh blood dripping onto Erich's boots.