Troy pushed the little jeep to cover ground. He would rather risk night driving than risk being in German territory when the sun came up. The wind from their speed plucked at Troy's jacket collar and churned Tully's hair every which way.
At every bump, Tully grimaced and held his side. Troy knew there was nothing he could do to help, and he hated it. He looked over at his private, stretched out in the passenger seat.
The dimpled chin was tipped up to the sky, and his eyes were screwed shut. He let his tawny head loll with every roll of the jeep. Troy gripped the wheel in anger. How could they do that to Tully? No, how dare they.
The front wheel hit a large rock, jarring the whole jeep. Tully let out a sharp hiss of pain. Troy cursed himself.
"Sure you don't want me to drive?" Tully grinned weakly. Even in his sorry state, the southerner could find the energy to be a sarcastic sunnova gun.
"You should be getting some shuteye. It's a long ride back to base."
"Can't. Hurts too much," was the gritted reply.
"We're still in Rommel's neck of the woods. If we keep pushing, we'll be home around midmorning." Troy continued, trying to sound upbeat, "Hitch and Moffitt will be glad to see us in one piece. I thought there was going to be a riot after they heard what Quint said."
"The colonel was crazy to send even one man. A rescue mission for one private is a real bonehead play."
"I think Quint will agree with you there. It wasn't easy, but with a little persuasion, he agreed to let me go."
The private's smile glinted in the dark like Alice's cheshire cat, "You mean you nagged him, Sarge."
"I did nothing of the-!"
"-You missed me that much. Why, Sarge, I didn't know you cared."
"This is why you ride with Moffitt," Troy growled. "I've got half a mind to return you to the Germans, let them put up with you. They'd pull out of Africa tomorrow."
Tully laughed, but it morphed into a hideous cough. A sobering reminder. Both men fell quiet like reprimanded children; riding through the night in silence.
Above them the fickle moon would dodge behind clouds and emerge again, in a running game of hide and seek. Stars glittered coldly from their settings deep in the sky. The desert was full of grim foreboding at night.
The faithful little jeep thrummed in their ears, the only sound in a dead desert. Under the noise of the engine, a new sound impressed itself upon Troy.
"You're shivering again," he frowned.
"It'll pass," Tully assured him through chattering teeth. "Seems...colder than usual tonight."
Putting on the brakes carefully, Troy hopped out. He scrounged around in the back until he found a blanket. The moon chose that moment to emerge from behind another cloud, casting its light across the desert. Troy walked around to the passenger side,
"This'll keep the night chill away, at least." He froze, staring past Tully's outstretched hand.
Tully looked like a ghost in the moonlight, so gaunt and pale. If his eyes had been shut, Troy would've sworn he was dead.
He wrenched the protective arm away from Tully's wounded side. The dark patch on his jacket had spread a little, but worse, it was soaked to the touch. Troy's fingers came away wet with blood.
"We're not going any farther tonight. We're finding a place to hunker down, and stay until you're ready to move."
Tully protested, "But we're still in German held-" a burst of coughing cut him off.
"I haven't forgotten."
Troy climbed back into the driver seat and headed off the original path. With a little luck, and a convenient landmark, he could find the spot where he'd stayed last night en route to the German base. Tully was deteriorating fast.
They finally reached the spot, after what felt like years later. A bombed out village in the middle of the desert, with a working well. The decaying remains of the houses clustered around the well like skeletons frozen in time. Their stonework gleamed like sun bleached bones in the moonlight.
Even wrapped in the blanket, Tully's lean frame was wracked with chills.
Troy wheeled their jeep between the buildings and stopped beside a barn, the only building in the village that wasn't threatened by a stiff breeze. It smelled mostly of old hay and crumbling mortar, but the scent of Troy's campfire also lingered from last night.
Using hay and blankets, Troy made a bed in the least drafty corner. He could still see the impression of his bedroll in the dirt. Walking back to the jeep, he half carried, half dragged the private inside.
Troy made several trips out to the jeep bringing in supplies, and searching for kindling in the wreckage of other houses. When he came back, arms full of wood scraps, Tully had dozed off.
He looked so peaceful, like it was the first time he'd relaxed during the whole eight days he'd been gone. All the tension had drained from his body, leaving him like a marionette with its strings cut.
When his eyes opened again, some time later, Troy had built a fire in the ashes from last night and heated a kettle. As he watched the flames licking at the tin kettle, the bone-dry wood popped, sending up a spray of golden sparks.
He lifted his head to find Troy, causing his vision to swim. At the sound of rustling hay, Troy looked up.
"I'm glad you're awake," the Sergeant was dipping a teabag in and out of a mug to steep it faster. "How are you holding up?"
"I've been better, Sarge," he admitted.
"Since you were able to keep down water after we left the base, I thought we could try tea. Moffitt sent some along. Here, I'll help you," putting one arm under Tully's shoulders, Troy lifted him up to meet the cup.
After the first scalding sips, Tully was able to take a few mouthfuls of the fragrant drink. His dark eyes shot up at Troy,
"You put sugar in this."
"Yeah, well," Troy brushed him off. "I put a painkiller in it too. I don't know how strong it is, but I hope it's enough." He lowered the private back down.
"Enough for what?"
"I have to take care of that," he pointed at the bloody jacket. The private paled a little. "I'll give the pill a couple minutes to take effect first."
Tully opened his mouth, until he saw Troy's face. He didn't dare argue with the sergeant.
Troy checked his tools once more, and turned back to his patient.
"I'm going to take the jacket off."
Tully nodded, biting his cheek.
Gathering himself, Troy began peeling off the army issue jacket. Dried blood, and loose skin, and what was left of the scabbing came up with it. The pungent smell of blood filled his nose, thick and coppery.
Tully's whole body stiffened as the jacket came off inch by bloody inch. He grabbed at fistfuls of dirt, and clenched his jaw. His eyes rolled back in his head like he might pass out.
"I guess it wasn't a strong enough dose," Troy said apologetically.
When he had pulled back the fabric, he recoiled.
Underneath, the skin had been shredded, and jagged cuts ran up and down his side. It was still bleeding, sluggishly. Most of the scabbing had been torn off in their escape. Horrible raised welts stretched around his back.
"...What the…" he looked up. Tully had passed out.
Sam stared at the wound in horror that quickly turned to rage.
What kind of monster...He could feel the anger boiling up in his chest again, threatening to spill over.
Troy took a deep breath and kept blinking until the red mist faded from his vision. He had to focus. Muscling aside his hesitation, he went to work.
Using hot water, and sulfa from a med kit, he cleaned up the area as best he could. The skin was so torn up, he couldn't use stitches. Instead, he made a thick pad by folding bandages and pressed it to the wound, binding it firmly with torn strips of the jacket.
Tully came to while Troy was cleaning the cut on his brow.
Troy hesitated. He had to ask the question, but wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Washing out the kerchief, he finally asked,
"Do you want to tell me what happened back there?"
The gaunt private was silent.
"Tully?" The private averted his eyes.
Troy dropped his head, "Alright, I won't ask again. But I have to know one thing," his eyes burned like blue fire, "Who did that?"
"An SS kraut with a broken nose. He, agh, didn't like me too well."
"If you ever need to get it off your chest, I'm here." Tully didn't answer.
Troy cleaned up the many scrapes and cuts across Tully's face and torso. He even found a nasty welt on Tully's neck.
When he finished, Tully was sweating; despite the cold. His breathing was ragged and shallow.
Troy helped him drink a little water, and ordered him to get some sleep. Then he grabbed a rifle and headed up the rickety ladder to the loft to keep watch.
Tully watched him go. The red embers of the fire crackled comfortingly, and the rolled up blanket under his head was certainly nicer than the stone floor in his cell. By degrees, he surrendered himself to deep sleep.
Troy stared out the loft window into the night. It would be dawn in a couple of hours. So much had happened in one night. They weren't nearly as far away from the German base as Troy would've liked, and Tully wasn't fit to travel, but at least they were safe for the moment.
The desert was so peaceful, it was hard to believe that war was being waged out there, somewhere. The village, too, was so quiet, without even a breeze to stir the sand... so... quiet...
A sound snapped Troy out of his doze. Idiot! He'd fallen asleep on watch. Nothing outside caught Troy's groggy attention, everything was just as quiet as before. Troy pinched himself to wake up faster.
He waited, not moving a muscle. There it was again, the same sound that had alerted him.
It was faint, and Troy strained to pinpoint its origin.
The noise repeated. It sounded like a muffled groan. He looked out over the edge of the loft. In the dim light of the dying fire, he could see the dark figure of Tully struggling in his blankets.
Rushing down, Troy grabbed him by both shoulders and tried to pin him down. If he tore that wound any bigger, they might as well send his dog-tags home now.
"Tully. Tully!" Troy could feel him shivering uncontrollably.
"Tully, it's Troy. Sam Troy. You're having a nightmare." The struggling ceased, and Troy released him.
"I'll say it was a nightmare, Sarge," he wiped his face with a shaky hand.
"I guess it had something to do with that base and the German with the broken nose," Troy sat down beside him in the darkness.
"Yeah, it did. Sarge?"
"Yeah?"
"N-nothing." Whatever the private was about to say, he pushed it back down. He closed his eyes tightly and turned his head away.
Troy coaxed the glowing embers into a flame. In the flare of light, he saw Tully was shivering again.
"Tully?" No answer. Troy tried again, louder, "Tully!"
The pinched face turned toward him, and the dark eyes slid open, they were glassy with fever. His dry lips parted, but no words came out. Troy felt Tully's forehead,
"You're burning up!"
Tully's answer was a racking cough.
"It's n-nothing, s-sarge," he slurred. "But it's so... so cold," His eyes slid shut again.
"No, no, Tully, stay with me. Tully! Stay with me," Troy slapped Tully, a little harder than he needed to. Tully flinched at his touch.
The brown eyes fluttered, and squinted up at Troy. His heart sank when he saw how bleary and unfocused they were.
"Tully Pettigrew, Private First Class, US Army..." and he slipped back unconscious.
The hours dragged by for Troy, sitting by his wounded private. Tully suffered bouts of shivering, often mumbling in his delirium.
Troy helped as best he could, keeping a wet rag over Tully's feverish brow, and wrapping him in any as many layers as he could get his hands on to keep the chills away.
Only once, he found the courage to check on the wound and change the dressing. Even already knowing what it looked like, his stomach churned. He traded the old wad of bandages for a new one and tied the shredded jacket back over it.
Tully needed more help than Troy could give him, that was plain.
Troy flicked another cigarette butt into the fire, with the all the rest. He lifted his aching head. Fingers of early morning light were creeping through the loft window, and they were getting stronger every minute. Troy looked down at the private. Tully's face and neck were covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Troy pulled the top blankets closer under his chin.
Tully's eyes drifted open just long enough for him to mutter something before they closed again.
Troy decided they'd waited long enough. Rising stiffly, he went out to break radio silence with the American base. He had realized long ago it was their only hope. If Tully was to have a prayer of getting back to base alive, he needed an ambulance, and better help than Troy could give.
He also knew the Germans would be out in force looking for them. If they picked up Troy's signal, both Rats were as good as dead. He knew it only too well.
Sam dug his nails into his palms.
It was a risk he would have to take, if Tully was going to see the sun set today.
Troy slammed the headset down with a growl. He rubbed his eyes blearily, leaning on the dusty wheel well of the jeep.
After some fierce haggling, Troy had secured an ambulance, but they refused more than one jeep for escort. That wasn't adequate protection this deep in enemy territory. Sam's shoulders sagged farther.
A wandering breeze tussled his hair. The light was getting stronger, and the heat of the day would follow soon. Looking to the east, Troy could see the sun peeking over a range of blue mountains in the distance. For some time, he stood watching the sky change from purple to blue, and saw the shadows of the mountains retreating across the sands.
Troy wasn't much in the habit of prayer, but he sent one up anyway, hoping someone would hear.
"Please…let me get him as far as the base, just let me get him home."
The meager clouds were quickly dispersing in the rising temperature, but the breeze was still sweetly cold. It soothed Troy's headache.
"Sarge?"
Troy was at the door in a flash at the weak call.
"Tully?"
The private was sitting up, his chest heaving with every breath. At Troy's appearance he leaned back against the wall.
"I thought maybe you'd left."
"It was a stupid thought," Troy growled, feeling Tully's forehead. "Well, the fever is lower."
Tully stared up at the sunlight coming through the loft window.
"I missed the sunrise," he said quietly.
Troy poured more water in the kettle. "You've missed quite a few lately, one more won't hurt."
To Troy's surprise, Tully shook his head.
"The window in my cell faced east. I watched the sunrise every morning, except one."
"Oh?" Troy worked to start the fire again, "Which one was that?"
"Yesterday's."
"Why was that?"
Only silence. After a moment, Troy looked up, confused.
The southerner was staring at the window with his jaw tightly clenched. His right hand rested on his wounded side. Troy put everything aside.
"Did it have something to do with that German with the broken nose?" His answer was a tense nod.
"Can I tell you about...about that German?"
"I'm here."
The young Rat took a shaky breath.
"At first, it was the old routine. The back and forth between the cell and the interrogations room, same questions, same methods. Well, that all changed on the third day, when this one SS kraut came into the picture. He was always the first to snap when I refused to answer questions, and his buddies just stood and watched. A couple days went by, and he was the only one coming to question me," he was stopped by a coughing fit.
"I guess his buddies figured my information was useless by then. On the sixth day, he comes in, all smiles. I found out why soon enough. He had made himself a whip, with barbs made from shrapnel on the end. And they..."
Troy waited.
"They strung me up like something in a butcher's shop and he..." Tully stopped abruptly.
"Why on only one side?" Troy diverted.
"The room was too small, he could only land a hit that way. When he finished and they cut me down, they put my jacket back on over all the cuts; so I wouldn't die from blood loss. He told me as much. He said if I died, he wanted to be there," Tully smirked.
"What did you do?" Troy asked suspiciously. He knew that smile.
"I spat on him. That's when he let fly with the whip and," he traced the welt around his neck, around to the cut on his left brow, "did that."
Troy shook his head, "What am I going to do with you, Pettigrew." Tully just grinned, and started coughing again. Troy winced. The fever may have abated, but the cough sounded worse this morning. When he had caught his breath, Tully continued,
"He told his men to leave me in the room for 48 hours, with no food or water. This was the morning he was going to come back."
"Well, it's a good thing I came along when I did," Troy picked a piece of straw out of Tully's hair. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."
Tully shrugged,
"I'm only glad you got there at all, Sarge. I wish I could've seen that kraut's face when he heard I was gone," they both laughed at the thought.
Tully doubled over in a terrible coughing fit. He tried to smother it in his hand, but his thin shoulders shook with every hack. When it was over, Tully was left gasping for air.
"Not out of the woods yet," he wiped a dribble of blood from the corner of his mouth.
Troy helped him to ease back onto the bed, silently urging the ambulance to drive faster.
"If you rip that hole any bigger, so help me, Pettigrew. I didn't risk my neck springing you just to let you die on the return trip."
Untying the shredded jacket, Troy checked on the wound. In the daylight, he could see what he had missed last night. An infection had begun to fester in the more severe gashes.
Carefully pouring hot water over the area, Troy tried to clean the wound again. He bit his tongue to stop apologizing every time Tully seized in pain.
Using a liberal dose of sulfa, and the last of the bandages, Troy dressed the wound again.
Troy was no medic, and it was late morning by the time he'd finished.
The barn offered shade and a livable temperature, but Tully's fever had returned. Thankfully, the chills had passed with the night.
It was a bad situation, Troy thought ruefully. Their medical supplies were almost gone, their water was dwindling fast, and Troy had packed little food in order to travel light. They had no idea when help would arrive, and only one gun to protect themselves if the Germans got there first.
His dark thoughts must have been apparent, because Tully licked his pale lips and broke the heavy silence,
"I'm sorry, Sarge. I know you were planning to be back on the base by now, not sitting in the middle of the desert running out of water."
Troy came back to earth and shook his head with a weary smile, "I should have chosen my supplies better. I was in such a hurry to leave when Quint gave the word, I didn't stop to plan for every contingency. Here," he held up the tin mug, again filled with tea, "I used the last of the hot water to make it." He added apologetically, "There's no sugar."
Under Troy's watchful eye, drank most of the cup. The hot drink brought a little color back into his pale cheeks.
"It reminds me of the tea our family Mammy would make us when we were sick," his eyes had a distant look. "She didn't use sugar either."
"I hope she didn't put painkillers in her tea, too," Troy stood and shouldered the rifle. "Now get some sleep, I'll be standing watch."
It was much hotter in the loft. Troy's mouth was burning for a drink. He tried not to think how the last of their water had been that mug of tea.
Outside, heat lines danced off the sands in the midday sun. The rifle was heavy in his hands. After all night awake, Troy's eyelids were drooping dangerously low. His empty stomach gnawing at him was the only thing keeping him awake.
The sound of motors reached his ears. In his stupor, Troy was almost sure it was some kind of hallucination. But the sound was coming closer and closer, out of the silence of desert.
Troy began to wake up, searching the desert for the ambulance he desperately wanted to see. His stomach dropped when he recognized the sound of Wehrmacht engines.
His fears were confirmed when the light column drove into view. Two halftracks and two armored cars. A quick headcount set the odds at 18 jerries to 2 Americans. Troy bit his lip.
He looked over his shoulder, Tully was sound asleep.
Turning back, he watched the Germans circle the village; wishing he had a 50 cal in his hands instead of an Enfield.
Curiously, the column stopped. Shouting that sounded like gibberish to Troy's ears cut through the sound of the idling motors. Two words stuck out, that even Troy's poor grasp of the German language could understand, "Amerikaner" and "ein jeep". They had seen the jeep.
A flurry of action and the sound of boots hitting sand followed soon after. All the men unloaded from the cars and began searching the houses.
One figure caught Troy's eye. A captain in a SS uniform swaggered through the village, occasionally shouting orders or cursing the men.
The search parties were getting nearer and closer. Systematically ripping apart the houses and moving to the next one with stunning efficiency.
But Troy couldn't stop looking at the Captain. A man of perhaps forty years, with steely eyes and a half smirk, half smile carved indelibly on his face. More prominent than these, however, was his disfigured nose.
It had once been a fine, aristocratic nose, but through happenstance, it had been broken and healed improperly, leaving it crooked and marred.
There was no doubt in Troy's mind about the identity of this officer. Without even thinking, Troy held up his rifle and drew a bead on the German.
The oblivious officer walked to the well in the center of the village, peered over the rim, and spat in it.
Something pulled on Troy, telling him to put down the rifle. One shot would alert the other 17 armed jerries to their exact position, and they wouldn't have a prayer of getting out alive. He stared down the rifle sights at the piece of human scum.
Then it all came rushing back to him. When he'd first found his private, the painful trek across the base, the horrible wound, and Tully's story. Tully could still die, and this was the man responsible. This swaggering, arrogant, smirking, SS dog.
Troy heard the crack of the rifle, saw the officer stumble backwards and drop to the ground, smelled the gunpowder and smoke.
Soldiers were shouting and running for cover. A few fired at open windows, hunting for the sniper. Troy had already pulled back inside and braced his back against the wall.
Down below, he could see Tully was sitting up holding his side, and looking around. Troy made a motion like he was snapping his nose, and a slashing motion across his neck. Tully tipped his head back until it rested on the stone wall, releasing a silent sigh.
Troy felt oddly calm. It was only a matter of minutes before they would be ferreted out and captured, or killed, but it seemed less important after their small victory.
Rapid gunfire sounded outside. Peeking out from cover as far as he dared, Troy strained to see what was going on.
The Germans were scrambling to get back to their armored cars, while the 30 cal gunners on the halftracks were locked in a fight with... it couldn't be.
The beautiful song of a 50 cal impressed itself on Troy. In the spaces between buildings, Troy could see a small dark shape zipping around, harassing the German armor. Both halftracks had mobilized and engaged the little jeep.
Shouldering his rifle again, Troy shot one halftrack driver and winged the gunner on the other, before he started picking off the soldiers scrambling for their cars.
The battle moved behind other buildings and Troy lost sight of the action. Two grenade explosions in quick succession ushered new peace across the desert.
Several tense minutes later, and their sister jeep was rolling into the village, followed by an American ambulance. Troy whooped and waved his hat out the loft window. Moffitt saw him and waved back.
Sliding down the ladder, Troy flung the barn doors wide open.
"Am I glad to see you two!"
Jumping down from the back, Moffitt waved toward the ambulance.
"A medic volunteered to come along and Quint gave his blessing, is Tully alright?"
Troy jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "He's in there, I'll help the medic."
A man in his mid-twenties hopped out of the ambulance passenger door. The scarlet cross on his helmet shone in the sun.
"Can you get my man stable enough to travel?"
"That's my job, Sergeant," The medic slung his satchel across his chest and tossed Troy a canteen.
"I don't need to look at you to know you're dehydrated, Sergeant. Where's the wounded man?"
Troy brought him into the barn where Moffitt was already taking Tully's pulse. Hitch hovered over them.
"He's running a fever, his pulse erratic, and he seems to have suffered severe blood loss," Moffitt rattled off, "not to mention, malnutrition and dehydration."
The medic raised his eyebrows. "This might take a while, you gentlemen better make yourselves comfortable." The medic put down his satchel and began rolling his sleeves.
"Can I stay here, corporal? He's my buddy, and I'd like to stay with him," Hitch spoke for the first time.
"I don't mind, as long as you're not squeamish," was the impassive reply.
"Moffitt, let's go outside, I need to check something."
Wandering back into the blistering heat, Troy headed straight for the well. Dust from the recent fight hung in the stagnant air, coating Troy's throat and sticking to his sweat. He wiped his brow and realized he still had the medic's canteen in his hand. Unscrewing the cap, he began to drink the tinny water greedily.
"I should tell you, thanks for shooting that halftrack driver. I wasn't looking forward to fighting two without my usual driver."
Lowering the canteen, Troy swiped a dusty hand across his mouth.
"Why? Hitch isn't a good driver?"
"He's an excellent driver, but too reckless for my taste. Compounded with the fact he's been champing at the bit since the colonel told us about your radio message this morning."
"Was he the only one?" Troy asked slyly.
"I won't deny, I was rather anxious to get here myself. But these lads are more than a handful when they're excited. Who is this?"
The body of the SS Captain sprawled face first in the dirt. The back of his head was quite gone.
"An acquaintance of Tully's."
Troy rolled the body over. Blood poured out on the cobblestones from the hole between his eyes.
"Clean shot," Moffitt remarked.
"Yeah." Troy turned and walked away.
Doc Walters pushed his spectacles higher on his nose and did a quick survey of the room. The three men he was looking for were sitting in the corner, not speaking, not even looking at each other.
"Sergeant Troy, you're waiting to hear about your man?"
"Yes sir, I am," Troy stood and shook hands with the doctor. "If you don't mind, doc, we've been waiting for some time for any news on Pettigrew's condition."
"I understand, Sergeant. You had every reason to worry. That young man was in terrible shape when you brought him back. He wouldn't be alive right now if he hadn't gotten medical attention when he did."
"But he's stable now?" Moffitt asked. Doc Walters frowned and removed his glasses.
"That's a difficult question, Sergeant. That infection has got itself a firm foothold, and may spell the end of him yet. But Sergeant Troy, here, did keep it from spreading farther than it otherwise would have by now. I'd say he has a strong chance of recovery."
"Would it be alright if I sat with him, Doc?"
The soft-spoken doctor replaced his glasses and looked Hitch over.
"The surgeon is finishing stitching up his side and he'll be moved to the recovery ward soon. I suppose you can wait for him in there, Lord knows your no stranger in there, Private. But it will be a while before the ether wears off," he warned.
"Thanks, Doc!" Jumping up, Hitch grabbed his kepi and book.
"Just a moment Private, what's that?" Walters pointed at the bandage below Hitch's elbow.
"Medic Jenson said Tully needed a transfusion before he could be moved this afternoon. We're the same blood-type."
"As long as it's not serious," Walters waved him away, and Hitch was gone.
"As I was saying, it will take some time for a wound that size to heal up. Optimistically, one week; realistically, two."
"Take all the time you need, Doc. Just get him fit for duty again," Troy scooped up his hat.
"Thanks again, Doctor," Moffitt shook Walters' hand.
Outside of the hospital, Troy closed his eyes and let his shoulders drop. Moffitt watched him with an amused smile.
"Jack, when will this end." Moffitt quirked an eyebrow.
"Do you need to get something off your chest, Troy?"
Troy pinched the bridge of his nose, "It's nothing. Just... something Tully told me."
"Will you be coming along to the Mess hall?"
Troy shoved his hands in his pockets, "No, I'm going to do my best impression of Rip Van Winkle. I don't even want to hear about going out on patrol. Wake me when the war's over."
Stepping into the street, Troy headed for the barracks intent on making good on his promise.
Jack Moffitt watched his retreating back, hands in his pockets. He was almost knocked off his feet when a corporal ran into him.
"Uh, sorry, Sergeant," the flushed young man straightened himself out. "I'm looking for Sergeant Troy, Colonel Quint needs him right away." He began counting off his fingers, "There's mission report, debriefing, the Colonel wants any intelligence about the German fort, squad status, next assignment briefing-" the corporal startled when Moffitt clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"You may not know it, friend, but you are caught between a rock and hard place. I wish you the best of luck delivering your message." Without another word, Moffitt walked off, leaving an unsettled corporal in his wake.