Troy glanced at the German halftrack from the back of the jeep. Lieutenant Brahl was yelling in German, returning Arab fire with an MP40, but he stopped when he noticed the two jeeps building up speed.

"Sergeant Troy!" Brahl yelled. "Sergeant Troy!"

"Now's not the time, Lieutenant, we gotta get out of here!" Troy swung the machine gun around and raked the side of a building with a hail of bullets. The Arab he was aiming at pitched out of a window and crashed hard into the ground.

"You cannot leave, Sergeant!" Brahl ducked instinctively as a grenade exploded nearby. "You have the Hauptmann and one of my men! You will not come back!"

His sense of honor protested, but Troy kept his voice as calm as he could when he was trying to yell over a battle. "I keep my word, Lieutenant!" he shouted.

Brahl looked incredulous. "You're an American!"

"And you're a German," Troy answered. "So what?"

Brahl hesitated, then glared past a haze of smoke at the American sergeant. "Go!" he ordered, waving his arm. "Go! Mach schnell!"

The jeeps roared and surged forward, rounding a corner as the ground where they had been moments before erupted in a geyser of dirt and flames. Tully led the way, screeching around corners with his matchstick clamped determinedly between his teeth. Troy had the machine gun trained on the buildings near the courtyard, firing at any Arabs who noticed their sudden departure. Hitch's jeep followed, but Erich wasn't manning the gun. He had his hands full, splayed out ungracefully with one hand on Dietrich and the other on Moffitt, trying to keep them both on the jeep as it rocked and bumped over the uneven street. Moffitt had let go of the machine gun base when he'd lost consciousness, but, to Erich's relief, the Brit was beginning to stir. Erich glanced at him.

"Moffitt. Das Maschinengewehr. Lassen Sie nicht gehen."

The man groaned. "Was?" he murmured.

Erich sighed and repeated his words slowly, thumping a hand on the gun mount to emphasize his point. "Das Maschinengewehr. Ergreifen Sie es, bitte. Lassen Sie nicht gehen."

Blearily the sergeant grabbed the base of the gun mount and Erich turned his attention to his captain. Dietrich still hadn't regained consciousness, although pain was etched into his face. He was curled up on his side and there was blood spattered on the bed of the jeep.

"Mein Gott," Erich murmured. "Herr Hauptmann—"

"Quiet, kid," the blond driver said. His red kepi was shoved back on his head and his goggles were over his eyes. "He can't hear you."

Erich didn't understand the man's words but his message was clear enough. Hauptmann Dietrich was alive. Nothing more. Erich glanced over at the Englishman, who was still holding onto the base of the machine gun. The Brit had his eyes open; in wary silence he and Erich stared at each other.

"Wie geht's Ihnen?" Erich asked politely. Moffitt took careful stock of himself before answering.

"Im Augenblick, gut. Und Dietrich?"

Erich, wanting to know the answer to that question himself, merely shrugged. He looked ahead, squinting through the cloud of grit that the two jeeps kicked up as they sped away from the Arab town.

"Where are all the halftracks?" Hitch yelled to Moffitt as they topped a dune and skidded down the other side. "Ask the kid where the halftracks went."

Moffitt repeated the question in German to Erich. The young soldier pointed and gave him a rapid answer that involved a great deal of gesticulation.

"They went around the village," Moffitt told Hitch. "To attack the Arabs from that side." He flinched as the jeep swerved to avoid plowing through a low spot ahead of them. "But what about us? Where are we going?"

"We're going to a rendezvous point that Sarge set up with Lieutenant Brahl." Hitch glanced at his watch. "We're supposed to be there soon. How's Dietrich?"

Moffitt glanced at the captain. It was hard to tell as they both jounced around on the shuddering bed of the jeep, but he looked to be in a bad way. "Not good," he answered. "I'd tell you to go faster but I don't think you can."

"Oh, don't worry," Hitch replied, grinning around his gum. "I'm holding back so I don't overtake Tully."

"No one can overtake Tully."

"No one's ever tried." Hitch glanced over his shoulder at Moffitt, who glared at him without replying. Suddenly the vehicle lurched as the front tires hit a rock embedded in the sand. Hitch grabbed at the wheel and tried to regain control, but they were approaching a tall dune and the jeep was tipping forward up its slope. They topped the rise with a flying leap just as Erich lost his hold on the machine gun and was flung through the air. He landed in the soft sand with a yelp, but scrambled almost immediately to his feet, for the most part unhurt and more worried for his captain than himself.

The others were not so lucky. The jeep flipped over midair and smashed into the ground on its side, the metal frame groaning in protest as slowly it tipped over, until at last it lay upside down in the burning sand. The tall, sturdy stand of the machine gun had bent from the impact, but it still raised the bed of the jeep so it didn't come down on top of Moffitt or Dietrich. Still, they both lay in a tangled heap underneath the overturned vehicle, which had sunk deep into the soft sand. Hitch had flung himself across both seats of the jeep to avoid getting his ribs broken by the steering wheel. His leg was bent under him and pinned by the seat and he couldn't seem to get his breath, what with the gearshift jabbing him in the ribs.

"S—Sarge!" he called, coughing. "Sarge! Help!"

Swirling dirt clouds billowed into the confined space as the other jeep skidded to a stop beside the wreck. Moffitt was undeniably awake now; he could hear footsteps through the ringing in his ears. Despite the fact that his back felt on fire—the sand had burrowed into his wounds through the torn shirt—he somehow managed to turn his aching head and look at Dietrich. The captain was beginning to stir. Groggily his eyes opened. They focused slowly on Moffitt's face, recognition creeping in by degrees as he grasped his situation.

"Sergeant," he said simply, his low voice ragged but resigned. "I suppose it would be too much to ask that I die in my own camp."

"Nobody's dying, Dietrich," Moffitt replied, reluctantly relieved that the German was well enough to make a sarcastic comment. "The jeep just turned over, that's all." That's enough.

Dietrich half-smiled, then gingerly rolled over until he was stretched out on his stomach. Moffitt winced at the captain's blood-covered shirt, then wondered what his own shirt looked like. The pain that covered his back in liquid fire told him that he didn't want to know. Dietrich peered between the two seats at Hitch. "Private?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. This is what happens when you try to beat Tully, I guess. How about yourself, Dietrich? Sarge?" Hitch's tone was deliberately casual but Moffitt could detect the tightness just beneath its surface. Having a jeep on top of one's leg could hardly be described as a pleasant experience.

"We are. . .alive," the German said after a long time, answering for himself and the breathless Moffitt. "Let us leave it at that." He glanced at the looming jeep above them. The gun mount was creaking in a decidedly disgruntled manner; Moffitt could see as he met the captain's eyes they were both hoping very hard it would hold. "Sergeant Troy!" Dietrich called. "Would it be possible to get us out from under here?"

"Yeah, Dietrich, we're working on it," Troy's voice answered. After a moment of busy scraping enough sand was cleared away from the edges of the sunken jeep that Moffitt could see a pair of battered boots step over to where he was lying. A second later Tully's face appeared, silhouetted against a glittering backdrop of sun-dazzled desert.

"Y'all all right under there?" He was gnawing on his matchstick in what for him was an unprecedented show of nervousness. Moffitt paused before answering. He couldn't move, could barely breathe because of the stifling heat that radiated from the sand, and his legs didn't seem to work. Dietrich had closed his eyes again and a muscle in his jaw was beginning to twitch from his forced habit of dogged uncomplaining; he couldn't possibly be in any better shape. From Hitch came uncharacteristic radio silence. But the look on Tully's face was worried enough already.

"Yes," Moffitt replied. "We're fine. Just. . .afraid to move in case the jeep falls down." That was true enough. He hadn't gone through the past few hours to be squashed to death by some glorified metal apple cart.

"Right. We'll have you out in a minute." As he stood, the Kentuckian's voice took on a brisk, business-like tone quite unlike his usual steady drawl. "Don't you worry, Sarge."

Who's worrying? Moffitt wondered dryly. He hurt too much to worry. "Don't call me Sarge," he managed to mutter.

"Hey, kid!" Tully yelled. "What's your name? Erich! Come give us a hand."

"Hear that, Dietrich?" Moffitt asked, trying to illicit some sort of reaction from the mute German. "At least one of your men is all right."

"How encouraging, Sergeant," Dietrich murmured, but his eyes didn't open.

After a few moments the jeep began to rock back and forth. The metal groaned and complained, but with three men working on it finally it gave in and turned over, crashing down onto its four battered tires. Hitch's gasp of relief was audible as the pressure on his pinned leg was relieved. He scrambled to his feet, hopping around and testing his throbbing ankle by gingerly putting weight on it. Tully and Troy carefully pulled Moffitt up by his arms until he was standing. The Brit looked at Troy blearily, then managed a wan smile.

"Well," he said. "I'm certainly happy to see you two properly without being in danger of getting shot at."

"Save it for later, Moffitt," Troy told him. He left Tully to support the sergeant and crouched down by Dietrich. The captain was unmoving, eyes closed, lines of pain etched around his mouth. Troy looked at Erich, who was nervously picking at the hem of his uniform jacket.

"Hey," Troy said encouragingly. "He'll be okay. Help me get him up."

Erich blinked at him with his dark eyes, then bent and helped the sergeant heave Dietrich to his feet. The captain raised his head and took in his surroundings. When he noticed Troy holding onto his arm an almost amused look crossed his face.

"I see I can't ever get away from you, Sergeant," he said dryly. "No matter how hard I try."

"Keep quiet, Captain," Troy ordered good-naturedly. "You'll wear yourself out."

"There's not much left to wear out," muttered Dietrich. He straightened up in their tight grip, his shoulders forming a resolute line. "Kindly let go of me, Sergeant. I can stand on my own."

"No, you can't," Troy informed him. But he released Dietrich's arm anyway, because Erich still had a firm hold on his other one. As the young soldier helped Dietrich over to the second jeep, Troy could only watch them and sigh, giving his head a shake. He knew well enough that Dietrich was trying to prove a point—showing that he didn't need to rely on the enemy for help. Yet.

The German's stubbornness brought someone else to mind, and Troy turned back to Moffitt, who still stood beside Tully. He was wearing the Kentuckian's jacket over his own shredded shirt to keep the sand from getting into his wounds. He met Troy's eyes.

"Well? Where do we go now?"

Troy tipped his head to indicate their direction. "We're supposed to meet Lieutenant Brahl at his camp and return Dietrich to him."

Moffitt's eyebrows drew together. "A German camp? Isn't that a little risky, Troy? They could easily capture us there." He glanced at Tully, who looked noncommittally at the horizon and sucked on a fresh matchstick. He knew better than to get between his sergeants when they were undergoing a difference of opinion.

"They won't," Troy assured him. "Brahl gave me his word that we'd get safe passage there and back to the open desert. All bets are off once we're out there, though."

"Why not just meet there in the first place?" Moffitt's voice cracked as he spoke. He swallowed to take the edge off the rawness in his throat. Arguing wasn't the same with a case of laryngitis.

Troy wiped a trickle of sweat off his chin with the back of one hand, glancing up at the sun through squinted eyes. "There's no way we could safely coordinate a meeting. Our maps are unreliable as it is, and with two wounded in tow, we can't chance getting stuck out there." He glanced at Moffitt, who was looking silently at the ground. "I know what you're thinking, Moffitt," he said. "We're not taking Dietrich prisoner. I gave Brahl my word."

Moffitt closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "I don't know, Troy. Normally I would say that, but now. . ." He shrugged, then instantly winced at the action. "Let's just get this over with."

Troy clapped him on the arm, but he flinched again. "Sorry," Troy said, chagrined. "Go sit down. I'll see about the other jeep."

Tully led Moffitt over to sit beside Dietrich on the back of the jeep, then meandered over to see about its battered counterpart. Erich, having hung shyly back while trying to figure out what to do with himself, followed the Kentuckian and looked over his shoulder as he popped the hood, attempting to strike up some sort of conversation. Tully was only half-listening to the young soldier's English-sprinkled German as he peered at the jeep's gas tank, his matchstick tucked into one corner of his mouth, but the look on his face was one of infinite patience. Moffitt couldn't help but smile.

"Well, Sergeant," Dietrich's voice broke into his thoughts. Moffitt turned and looked at the captain, who was leaning stiffly against one of the jerry cans. "We're in the same boat again, it seems."

"Not for long, Dietrich," Moffitt replied. "Soon we'll be back to the same old game."

Dietrich's lips curved in a limp little smile and he shook his head. "Don't you ever tire of it, Sergeant? Taking and retaking land that you'll only have to give up again." He squinted up at the sun for a moment and then looked back out across the desert's shimmering gold expanse. "One might call it senseless."

"If you're suggesting we surrender, Dietrich, you can put that thought out of your mind," Moffitt snapped. There was less fire in his voice than usual, but the German's comment had still put him on the defensive. "It's pointless to talk about it."

Surprisingly, Dietrich chuckled. It was a rather brittle sound. "No, Sergeant. I've learned that you don't give up as easily as I would like." He sighed, resting his forehead on his arm and closing his eyes. Moffitt waited for him to say something else, but evidently he had exhausted himself.

"Moffitt," Troy called. He approached the vehicle, wiping his dirty hands on his pants. "The jeep's okay and Hitch says he can drive it if we don't go too fast. You feel up to moving?"

"Of course I do," Moffitt said. He unzipped the front of Tully's jacket to let the weak breeze cool off his neck. "Anything is better than sitting here roasting in the sun."

Troy grinned. "You just relax and roast. We'll have you back at the base in no time." He started to turn away, but Moffitt called after him.

"Troy?"

"Yeah?" He looked back at the Brit.

"You've broken tradition," Moffitt said. He smiled devilishly at the expression on Troy's face. "You were riding with Tully. You let that German boy take your place on Hitch's jeep."

Troy looked at him without saying anything for a moment, then shrugged. "Hitch is closer to Erich's age. I figured he'd be more comfortable with him instead of with Tully."

"Are you getting soft, Troy?" Moffitt laughed. Troy whacked the Brit on the arm with his bush hat.

"Quiet," he ordered. "You're wounded. You shouldn't be talking."

"You shouldn't be hitting me," Moffitt countered. But he obediently pulled himself up until his legs no longer dangled off the edge of the jeep bed, turned over on his side, and grabbed the machine gun base, as ready as he would ever be for the long and uncomfortable ride to to the enemy's camp. He only hoped this drive would be more uneventful than the last.