Chapter 3 Troy's Rescue

He was lying on his back in the dark cell, counting bruises on his face by touching them one at a time. If he didn't get out of here, Troy realized, Hochstetter would have him for breakfast tomorrow. He still had told them nothing. Name, rank and serial number, that was all. He had remained mute otherwise, hoping they'd get the idea that a sergeant out of action for more than a week wouldn't be up to date on strategy, gun emplacements, and troop strength, but Hochstetter had remained committed to the idea that he must know something.

It was very late. Shadows were deep in the cells. Small wattage bulbs in the ceiling lamps flickered and caused the shadows to take on the forms of men contorting or writhing in pain. Wondering how true the depiction was, he went to sleep watching them.

Peace reigned—but nothing good could last forever in Hochstetter's jail.

Deep in the hands of Morpheus, the god of sleep and dreams, he was brutally awakened by what sounded like a rifle shot of an immense magnitude. Following what had to be a C-3 blast, a new commotion began in the guards' area just beyond the door. He wondered—dismally—if Kristina, who had been gone for a few hours now, was back.

At least his first worry went to her, not to Hochstetter. Funny, that. More afraid of a slip of a girl in an orange sweater and red skirt and sensible shoes and bobby socks than a tried and true Gestapo major!

What he didn't know was that when the Gestapo major showed up, Kristina had run to tell his friends to hold up a bit on rescue, as Hochstetter was on the prowl. Impatient to see their friend safely out of his hands, Moffitt, Tully and Hitch and their Stalag 13 helpers had hung back in the trees and bushes near the Gestapo HQ and waited until Kristina gave them the all-clear signal.

Sweeping up cigarette butts near the guards' table, she watched for Hochstetter to take his leave. He came bounding up the steps in his typical cruel exuberance and when he had gone, she raised her broom at the lighted window, as if fighting another cobweb. After giving the signal, she gathered up her things and left by her usual door and in her usual way. No worry, no hurry.

In his cell, listening to the sudden ruckus outside the cell block, Troy sat up with great difficulty and turned his eyes towards the door. It opened as if on cue and in stepped one of the tall guards.

Slipping off the cot, he moved into the most shadowy part of the cell. Leaning back against the wall, he waited, flexing his hands. The guard turned the key and opened the cell door, entering and looking toward the cot. Troy leaped out at him and grabbed him by the throat in a chokehold, his arm going around the guard's neck, strangling him. At the same time his right hand was reaching down to unholster the guard's handgun.

"Troy! Troy! No, don't!" whispered the guard with some urgency. He said it in English. Neither of the guards had spoken to him in English before.

"Moffitt?" he asked, loosening his hold on the tall Britisher's throat ever so slightly.

"Yes, Troy, it's me. You can let go now. I'm throttled sufficiently."

He let go and, rubbing his throat, Moffitt turned to face him, peering at him in the dim glow of the ceiling lights in the hall. Though Moffitt knew it must have hurt like hell with all of his black and blue marks, Troy wore a big grin.

"How—how did you get here?" he asked. "To Germany!"

"Well, it's a long story—"

"Yeah, you don't want him to go into it now, Sgt. Troy," said another man, one of two standing sentinel at the door, both of them wearing guard uniforms like Moffitt's. "He'd never finish before midnight."

"This is Col. Hogan. He's helping us rescue you."

"Wonderful reunion, lads," said the other 'guard' by the door. He spoke with a British accent, but oh so different from Moffitt's. "Don't forget Carter's waiting in the road for us."

"And this is Cpl. Peter Newkirk—a countryman of mine," said Moffitt, showing some pride at last in him.

"Pleased to meet you guys, but we'd better scram. Hochstetter and his gorillas might come back for round two on my face."

With Moffitt bringing up the rear, they exited the cell block and climbed the steps to the ground floor. Troy noticed several barely clad bodies lying against the wall. Carrying Schmeissers, or submachine guns, Hitch and Tully stood watch at both ends of the hall.

Moffitt whistled and they came loping up, stopping for a second on seeing the Sarge. Troy took an arm of each private and with a broad smile said, "Black and blue's the in-color this season."

They laughed and got a better grip on him to help him walk out of one of the building's side doors. It had been locked when they arrived, but a little C-3 did wonders for opening things.

"You used an explosive in here?" asked Troy. "I heard some kind of blast."

"So did the guards, Sergeant," said Hogan. "They came to see what happened, making it easier for us to deal with them. Now, let's go. I don't want to have to rescue you twice!"

On emerging from the building, Troy began to shiver uncontrollably. Hitch beat the other two Rats in pulling off his fleecy flight jacket and wrapping Troy up in it. He gave a thumb's up to Hogan who began leading the party through a back way to the car belonging to the Underground. Having brought the six rescuers from Stalag 13, it sat on the verge of a tree-lined road, out of prying eyes.

Here, Troy took Kristina's hands in his and thanked her for all her help with a peck on the cheek. She was staying here, as Hammelburg was her home.

"Take good care of that Englander," she said, nodding over at Moffitt who was patiently waiting for Troy. "He's gone through a lot for you. All three have."

"I will. Promise." Troy smiled. "Someday, I hope we'll see each other again."

He didn't take any longer to say goodbye—this was, after all, a public road in the middle of war-torn Germany. Kristina clasped his hand, waved to the others, let her eye linger a bit longer on Moffitt, and then she took off, back to her cold water flat, a second story walk-up on a nondescript street in Hammelburg. Just as she waved, Moffitt stepped out from beside the car and gazed after her. His eyes had a faraway look. He smiled as he saw her eyes pause on him.

Troy caught the look and called in a merry voice, "I'll take good care of him! Have no worries, Kristina!"

Watching her go for a second, he then turned to find several hands ready to help him into the car, including Moffitt's, the British charmer. It was a tight squeeze to fit seven men into one vehicle, and he was rather put out by Hitch's elbow as the three American Rats and Newkirk somehow crowded into the back seat. Carter drove, with Moffitt in the front and Hogan between them.

Tully, rubbing his spine where Hitch's knee had gouged him, said, "I'd rather just get out and walk."

Getting back into camp was as easy as getting out. It was night and the moon was hidden by snow clouds. A light snow was falling when Hogan and the other six men got out and left the car on the side of the road for the Underground to pick up. Then they all just climbed down the tree stump and entered by the tunnel.

Sgt. Wilson, the camp medic, was sent for and he gave the American commando a morphine shot for pain, then fixed up his other, mostly superficial injuries. Hochstetter had not turned the full force of a Gestapo interrogation on him yet, for which all could be grateful.

Moffitt, Tully and Hitch sat with Troy while he slept. All were hard-pressed to keep awake after so long a day, so Moffitt devised a watch schedule. He took the first watch, then Tully and lastly Hitch.

"How's your back?" asked the culprit with the knee.

"It's doin'," Tully responded, still rubbing his sore backbone.

"Pipe down," called Moffitt, half-asleep. "It's too early for tea."

Both Tully and Hitch looked at each other. Where did he think he was? In their desert camp? Breaking out into a smile, Tully went to find his cot and blanket. Hitch took his place—quietly—in a straight-backed chair at the head of Troy's cot.

That same night, in another part of the tunnel, away from the ears of the sleeping men, Kinch radioed London for a sub pickup, in order to return the four desert commandos to their base of operations in North Africa with all dispatch. Hogan and Newkirk slipped down the ladder into the tunnel to check on his progress and hand him a cup of fresh joe, then they went down an offshoot to check on the sleepers.

Sgt. Troy was out cold, sleeping on his belly with an arm dangling to the ground. Hitch, on watch, was nodding and the other two were dead to the world as well, one with his feet dangling off the end of the green army cot. Though it might seem hard to describe them as 'commandos' just then, Hogan knew it would take less than a sneeze for these men to wake up and turn lethal.

Pondering on the bonds between men fighting for the same cause, he crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his chin with its five o'clock shadow. "I've never seen such devotion to one man," he said.

Newkirk looked over at him and smiled, "I have, guvnor. To you."

Epilogue

In the week he spent recuperating in the base hospital at Benghazi, Troy wrote out his report for Capt. Boggs, detailing his capture and subsequent POW experiences. He sent it to him by Moffitt. Now alone, Boggs settled back in his chair to read it. He was on page five when an alarm clock—he had forgotten why he set it—suddenly went off. He hit the ringer button and settled back again, trying to find where he had left off. Troy's writing was very human and easy to read, but his handwriting was hieroglyphic.

It continued …

Just as Hauptmann Dietrich brought me in, his commanding officer, a Major Ernst Friedman, came on inspection. The major made sure I was bound on the next truck for the transit camp at Tobruk, a five-hour, almost three hundred-mile ride in a bumpy truck. Dietrich visited me that evening just before I was shipped out and expressed his regrets over sending me to Tobruk.

"I know the camp commandant there, Sergeant. He's been known to say that hell has a special place for desert rats. I'm afraid he won't be too obliging to you."

"I don't expect it, Captain. It's war, after all. We all take risks."

"Wisely put, Troy. Can I get you anything? You're leaving first thing tomorrow."

"Thoughtful of you, Captain. Maybe a little coffee."

"Nothing more?"

Sitting up on the cot, Troy shook his head and looked away, holding his side.

"Anything wrong with your side, Sergeant?"

"One of the men who captured me is quite a fighter, Captain. He gave me a rough time."

"I've seen what you did to him, so who's the fighter?"

Troy grinned. "I guess I am. I'll have to be a good fighter now."

The captain sent me down some coffee, along with bread and butter and even a slice of meat, with a cup of water on the side. I can truly say I welcomed the kindness he showed me then. Sleep was better that night—the night before I left for Tobruk—because of it.

When I was getting on the truck the next day, who but Herr Hauptmann stepped up to give me my Aussie bush hat. I lost it in the fight and had begun to wonder if I'd ever get it back! I thanked him for it and turned to step on board, but just then a feldwebel, or sergeant, who was traveling with me, grabbed it out of my hand and threw it down. It hit the sand and lay there.

Major Friedman appeared just then and motioned me to get on board. I remember Dietrich stepped back, his hands behind him, and nodded at me. I raised my eyes from my hat on the sand and gave him a firm salute. No one saw us, as everyone else was either getting on the truck or the half-tracks following us. Major Friedman rode in a scout car, the kind they call a Kubelwagen. It was just a small thing, that nod, but it meant the world to me to know that Dietrich was, in his own way, saluting me. I missed my hat, though.

It was the longest ride of my life and one of the hottest. I don't believe the temperature dipped one degree even towards evening. I was given a little water, along with two other GIs. This is just the beginning, I said to myself, of what to expect in Tobruk, at the POW transit camp—maybe all the way to Germany.

Well, when I hit the camp at Tobruk I still had both feet on the ground. I'll gloss over what happened there as it's not fit to write about. It's enough to say that when I left there on a plane bound for Germany, I was a few pounds lighter and a bit more banged-up.

I remember getting into Frankfurt, still wearing my POW tag from the camp at Tobruk. Man, was it cold! I had on just my thin shirt and pants from the desert and hadn't eaten much in three days. I was with a different set of prisoners, both sergeants, too, and the German guards kept us on the runway, standing out in the cold, for over two hours before taking us inside. I didn't have my watch, but I can tell time pretty well without it. I don't know why they did that, unless it was to contact their headquarters for instructions.

Losing track of my two companions after that, I stayed in a Frankfurt jail cell for two days, subsisting on not much more than cold soup and bread and water. Then a Gestapo man appeared. A Major Hochstetter. I never learned his first name. He had me hauled out of my cell. By this time, I was numb with cold and hunger. For two hours, he questioned me, and then I was taken to the train station. I was put on board a train heading south.

I can tell you, I didn't know where I was going or what would happen to me. This Major Hochstetter accompanied me, and he was as good a companion as an angry rattler. I didn't dare say much to him, for he had that look, trigger-happy. I knew he could have shot me on the train platform in full sight of the other train passengers. He'd have done it too if there had been that much less humanity in him than there was.

On arriving at Hammelburg, we drove in the major's car to his office at Gestapo Headquarters. I was strip-searched and put in a cell with a blanket. Hours later, I don't know how many because I slept some, I got my clothes back, but they had been torn in several places. Perhaps they were looking for microfilm, which I didn't have. Anyway, it was cold in there. About ten or fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. I know it couldn't have been any warmer.

I like to think I'm a calm man, and can face any adversity. But at that point, I'd had it. From Tobruk, with its solitary hut, to a plane held over from the last war, to Hammelburg with the major, life had taken a bad turn. I shook all over by that time. For just a little bit of food, I'd have sold my soul to Major Hochstetter—you get the illusion, sir.

Capt. Boggs chuckled here, but all in all, he felt quite distressed for what his best unit's leader had gone through. He kept reading.

Well, Major Hochstetter interrogated me again, and just like last time, I gave him nothing but my name, rank and serial number. He asked me questions about this base, about ammo dumps and troop strength, all of which by that time I didn't know the answers to. War changes everything so fast in the desert. He allowed a doctor to see me, Dr. Becker. First name, sir, was never given. His orderly helped me get a shower and some ointment for my leg sores. After that, I slept until Kristina, the cleaning lady—

Here, Troy himself, still hatless, followed by his three fellow Rats, was shown into the office. A knowing private had let them in before Boggs had become aware that they had rapped on his door.

"Reporting as ordered, sir," said Troy, giving a crisp salute.

Returning it, Boggs asked, "How are you, Sergeant? How did the recon mission go?"

"I'm fine, sir. Thanks for asking. The mission was a success. We met and destroyed a German convoy. Our grenades exploded ammo in three trucks."

"Good job, Sergeant, as usual. You can be at ease."

"Thank you, sir." Troy visibly stood down.

"Sergeant Moffitt, step up, please."

"Sir!" Moffitt had been holding back in order to allow Troy to make his report. Now he came forward.

"Tell me truthfully, is this man back in the saddle, or no?"

"Back in the saddle, sir?"

"Fit for duty? No lingering effects from being a POW?"

Everyone, especially Troy, waited for Moffitt's answer.

"He's still Troy, sir. A bit more stubborn, if anything."

Looking over at Moffitt, Troy grinned. At the back of the room, nearest the door, Hitch was laughing behind his hand, though he straightened up at a glance from Troy and put his arms behind his back again. Tully looked like he would burst out laughing, too, but the matchstick clamped between his teeth was his savior and kept him from doing it. He did have a devilish twinkle in his eye.

"There's another job for you," said Capt. Boggs. He continued, "A radio message came through from—of all places—Hauptmann Dietrich's base at Madro's Well. We don't know who sent it, but the message stated that an object valuable to the Allies would be placed in a convenient spot about two kilometers south of the Well. I'm sending you four to pick it up. Don't engage the enemy if you can, but do return with that object."

"Did the contact happen to mention if it would fit in a jeep?" Troy asked. "Or do we need a truck?"

"Nothing was reported about size. The message ended so abruptly, we couldn't trace it. Also, it was written in an old code, one that Dietrich's already broken. I'm not sure what to make of it."

"We'll find out, Captain."

"Good luck. Stay well and out of Dietrich's way this time, okay, Sgt. Troy?" Seeing Troy's smile, he said, "Dismissed. Don't come back without that object."

"It must be valuable, sir," said Moffitt.

"I'm hoping it's worth the trip. Since I may be wrong, I won't say what my suspicions are. The message was very inexact."

Troy looked at Moffitt, who looked back, both giving a shrug at the other. Saluting Capt. Boggs again, the two sergeants collected up the privates and went to the supply hut for ammo, grenades and all of the sundry items that made their unit as desert rats function so effectively. Tully and Hitch went to the motor pool to check on the progress of some jeep repairs.

"Have you mapped out the route?" Troy asked Moffitt over the hood of one of the jeeps as they studied a map of the area together.

"I have. It'll take a day and a half, so we'll have to make a night camp."

"Jeeps are all ready to go, Sarge," said Tully.

"Well, then, let's shake it. God, I've been wanting to say that!"

Finally, everything was set and off went the four members of the Long Range Desert Group towards the enemy's base.

Out on the desert, the two jeeps made good time. Repaired, tuned-up and gassed-up, they were like two leaping sled dogs ready to take on the ice, or in this case sand. Tully and Hitch could barely restrain their rambunctious Willys. The Rats camped out under the stars that night and got a bright and early start before the day got so hot and melted them.

Troy sorely missed his bush hat, with its white sash band and Rising Sun cap badge, a symbol of the Australian Army. He hadn't had anything to cover his head since he got back from Germany, so the sun bore down on him with ferocity. He could have worn a uniform cap, but nothing would have been a good substitute for that wide-brimmed slouch hat.

About two kilometers from the wadi known, in translation, as Madro's Well, the jeeps slowed. In case this was a trap, the four Rats drove around looking for half-tracks and other German vehicles. Seeing no sign of trouble, Tully and Hitch, as if reading each other's minds, pulled up side by side. There on a tall post stuck in the sand was a broad-brimmed, white-sashed Aussie bush hat, its Rising Sun cap badge pinning up one of its sides. A note tacked to it fluttered in the soft desert breeze.

Marveling, Troy got out and with a small leap snatched the hat off the post. He pulled off the note pinned to its brim, reading it with a merry chuckle. He turned and there was Moffitt right beside him, reading it, too.

"What does it say, Sarge?" asked Hitch, leaning both arms over the steering wheel of his jeep. Waiting to hear, Tully sat back and moved his matchstick from side to side.

Troy's voice caught in his throat. "It says," he began, but had to pause to collect himself. Feeling a slight wetness in his eye, he let out a deep breath. "It says—I knew you'd be back, so I kept this for you. Capt. H.D."

Capt. Hans Dietrich.

Troy, with the paper still in his hand, suddenly felt he had to leave the jeeps and his friends for a few moments, so he climbed up the side of a nearby dune. Now wearing his signature hat, he looked out over the desolate plain in front of him at some distant hills. Reaching down, he scooped up some sand and clasped it in his fist.

"This is good," he said, murmuring to himself. "It's good."

While he was on the ridge, HQ sent a radio message outlining a new mission. Moffitt climbed up to where he stood, but not wanting to interrupt his thoughts, watched from a slight distance. When Troy turned to him, he walked over and stood alongside.

"I realized back there in Germany that I'm not a superman," said Troy, gazing out again. "I really thought I was tougher than that."

"An Ubermensch," said Moffitt. "Friedrich Nietzsche."

"Yeah. Whatever. What brings you into this neck of the woods?"

"Headquarters wants us to go recon an ammo dump the Jerries have set up in a place known as Wadi al-Basir. If possible, blow it up. We're to leave as soon as possible."

"Does it lie anywhere near Dietrich's base? I'd like to send him a .50 caliber salute!"

Moffitt and Troy laughed together. Troy clapped him on the back and the two clambered down the other side of the dune towards the jeeps. Tully and Hitch were already in the driver's seat of each vehicle. Matchstick and gum were in their respective mouths, as well.

"Welcome back, Troy," Moffitt was heard saying as Tully put the jeep in gear and gunned the engine.

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