Sorry for the brief radio silence! Spent the past few days finding out the hard way I'm allergic to coconut. Thank y'all so much for all the positive feedback, and I hope this part is up to snuff.
Lieutenant Brahl sat nervously on the cot in Dietrich's tent, fiddling with the smoldering stub of a cigarette he'd been working on for the past few minutes. His boot tapped the ground impatiently while his eyes roved the canvas walls around him. Where were those Rats? They should have been at the camp fifteen minutes ago, he thought, annoyed. Suddenly he yelped and dropped the cigarette butt; it had burned his fingers. Irritably he stood and ground the thing into the floor of the tent with his heel. Anxiety for his commanding officer outweighed the minor pain, and he wiped his fingers on his breeches before leaving the tent and stalking outside.
Glancing around, he took in the bullet-riddled halftracks parked in the maintenance area, while soldiers busily worked at patching them up and making them presentable again. Just so Hauptmann Dietrich can take them back out and have them all blown up, Brahl thought sourly. Another reminder that his captain was out there in the hands of those Rats. He heard footsteps behind him and turned. A soldier was approaching him. With a sinking heart he recognized Waldemar, Erich's best friend.
"Ja, Soldat?" he asked tiredly. "Was ist es?"
"Herr Leutnant," Waldemar began nervously. "Herr Leutnant, wann kommen Erich und Hauptmann Dietrich zurück?"
Brahl bit his lip, unsure of his answer. "Ich. . .Ich weiß nicht, Waldemar," he finally said with a helpless shrug. "Ich weiß nicht. Meine Entschuldigungen, Waldemar."
Waldemar looked away, disappointed. "Ja, Herr Leutnant," he murmured, and left with his shoulders hunched. The lieutenant turned away, staring down at the sand between his boots. There were some aspects of command he loved: the satisfaction of seeing orders followed, plans carried out smoothly, earning and keeping the admiration and respect of his soldiers. But not so much the rest of it—being the one to receive the dressing-down from a superior for a failed mission, having to make decisions that would get people killed unnecessarily, informing the family of a dead soldier that their loved one had been shot—shot for the Fatherland, he reminded himself bitterly. It required dedication, fortitude, perseverance, and fairness, to name only a few.
Dietrich had all those qualities naturally, it seemed, from the charisma needed to know each man personally to the firm determination necessary for giving orders to panicked subordinates in a crucial moment. Brahl, on the other hand, could barely compare. He could tell that his men were reluctant to obey his orders, and he noticed the sullen glances they cast over their shoulders when they thought he wasn't looking. They never acted that way with Dietrich. They always trusted in him. And now. . .
Angrily he kicked at the sand that the wind had blown up around his feet and made his way over to the halftracks. The soldiers, sensing the tension in the air and anxious to please, paused in their work to give him salutes he didn't return. Instead he went to the last halftrack in line and paused, leaning against it and crossing his arms. He had a fine view of the sun-dazzled dunes and endless stretch of sand. There were no vehicles in sight, American or German, and the pale blue sky was unbroken by distant dust clouds that signaled approaching jeeps. Brahl turned away from the desert with a long sigh. So he could count Dietrich and Erich as lost, lost along with the other countless soldiers who had been captured or killed during the long bloody battle for control of miles of hot, dead desert. Brahl looked back at the camp with resigned displeasure. He had best report Dietrich and Erich's capture, but he didn't think he could trust himself to do it. Not yet.
"How you doin', Sarge?" Tully's voice drifted back over the two figures curled up on the bed of the jeep.
"I'm all right," Moffitt called back in a fit of prolific fibbing. "Are we nearly there?"
"So close you can smell 'em," the Kentuckian answered. "Dietrich all right?"
"He's not any worse, if that's what you mean," Moffitt informed him. "But if you want to hurry, I have no objections."
"Yeah," was all that Tully said before the jeep lurched forward, picking up speed until it hurtled over the sand, passing Hitch's and taking the lead. In a few minutes, both jeeps topped a ridge and pulled to a stop. The German camp lay at the base of the dune, nestled among a patchy sea of scrubby bushes. Moffitt put a hand on Dietrich's shoulder and gently shook the German.
"Captain," he said. "Wake up. We've arrived."
Dietrich stirred and lifted his head, peering uncomprehendingly at the Brit. Moffitt tried again.
"Dietrich. We're near your camp. Can you walk?"
"Does it look like I can walk, Sergeant?" Dietrich's voice may have been weak but there was a distinct hint of annoyance in it. "Kindly refrain from shaking me."
"He's fine," Moffitt told Tully, irked. The jeep eased down the ridge and pulled up several yards away from the edge of the German camp. A few young soldiers lying in the shade of one of the tents looked up at their sudden arrival, staring for a moment before scrambling to their feet and dashing away. Tully glanced over his shoulder at Moffitt and Dietrich, eyebrows raised, but said nothing.
Hitch's jeep slid to a stop beside Tully's and Troy jumped down, eyeing the dust clouds the soldiers had left behind.
"I'd like to know what that was about," he said. "I thought Brahl was expecting us."
"Maybe you frightened him off with that scowl of yours," Moffitt replied. "I told you to stop glaring all the time."
"You're definitely feelin' better," Tully commented. Moffitt ignored him.
"Maybe those soldiers went to go get him," Hitch piped up. Troy nodded but didn't reply. After a moment someone began yelling, in German, and his voice was joined by many others.
"Die Ratten sind hier! Die Ratten sind hier!"
"Well," Moffitt sighed. "They know we're here for sure, at any rate."
Tully slid out of his seat and went around the back of the jeep to help Moffitt out. He held the Brit by the arm and guided him around to the front of the jeep so he could lean against it. Then he and Hitch went back to get Dietrich. As Moffitt teetered uneasily with one hand out to balance himself, Troy gave him a doubtful glance.
"How you doing?"
"Oh, fine," he replied. "I've never been better." He looked over at Tully, Hitch and Dietrich, the latter of the three barely standing up on his own. The two jeep drivers each had him by an arm to keep him upright, for which he looked somewhat less than grateful. "Dietrich's the one to worry about."
"Worry about Dietrich? You?" Troy grinned. "Now you're getting soft."
"Oh, shut up," Moffitt muttered, finding himself uncharacteristically embarrassed. "Let's just get this over with and get back to our own base, shall we?"
Troy didn't reply; his attention had been claimed by Lieutenant Brahl, who was rapidly approaching them with two other soldiers. The blond officer gave Troy a hasty salute and peered at Dietrich in surprise.
"Was ist passiert?" he demanded. "Herr Hauptmann, wie geht es Ihnen?"
Dietrich perked up at the sound of his second-in-command. "Gut, Leutnant," he replied. "Ich bin jetzt sicher." With Tully's help, he moved forward until he stood next to the lieutenant. Then the Kentuckian retreated to stand with Hitch by the jeep. Brahl inspected his superior officer carefully, glaring at the bloodstains on his back as if he blamed Troy for putting them there.
"Erich," he said. "Komm hier." The young German was still hanging back by the Rats' jeeps, looking rather reluctant to part with the cowled .50 now that he had discovered what a thrill it was to fire it. He glanced uncertainly at Hitch and then slunk around to stand behind his lieutenant. His expression, oddly enough, was distinctly apprehensive.
Surely he isn't frightened of Brahl, Moffitt thought, briefly confused. Anyone would think he'd be happy to find himself back among his own side.
Satisfied that everyone was sorted out according to his proper allegiance, Troy turned to Brahl, both of them squinting in the sunlight. "Well, Lieutenant, we brought your captain and your private to you. Thanks for watching our backs at that town."
"There is no need to thank me now, Sergeant," Brahl replied as the two soldiers behind him raised their weapons. "Because you are all now my prisoners."