Dietrich spent several evenings drafting letters to Helen Troy, the oldest Troy sibling and then to David Troy, and even to Mrs. Troy. Even the thrill of an espionage group in the middle of a POW camp in Germany wasn't keeping him busy. He was bored out of his mind, and he got a momentarily bit of entertainment out of composing letters that would make it past the censors in both countries, unscathed, as well as keep his cover.
He wondered how the family reacted to these letters. If they knew they were from someone else?
"Are you writing a book in there, Sir?" Sergeant Thomas knocked before sticking his head in. "Maybe you should; it'll be interesting."
"I do not have a talent for writing," Dietrich turned. He had gotten the man to knock, but waiting for his response didn't seem to be a skill that he could instill in any of the Allied prisoners. They were too used to coming and going as they pleased. "What did you need?"
"Just checking in," Thomas said, and he vanished. Bemused, Dietrich watched the door for a moment longer before sighing and returning to his heavily edited letter.
##$#$#$
London was a city under siege, but people still moved and walked around as if determined not to let the bombing and soldiers get in the way of their lives. Hitch was impressed despite himself and given how regular people were moving around and talking and even laughing.
"Hitch?" He looked over; Tully looked uncomfortably starched in his uniform. Given how cold London was compared to North Africa, they were both bundled up a little more than other people. He hadn't adjusted to the cold even after the boat ride over. "You find it?"
"Yeah," he nodded to a small shop down the street. "The shop Doc wants us to pick up his order at." Tully nodded, still looking miserable in the chilly London weather. No one else seemed to mind it, and he knew they were attracting attention for just how many layers they were wearing. "He said it's all paid for, so we're good."
"Right." Tully led the way; Hitch followed, trying to catalog the people he saw before the door opened, and Tully pushed in. The shop was empty, and Hitch could have sighed with relief at the familiar layout and the rows and rows of products. It reminded him of home.
"Excuse us?" He called, trying to remember what the training film said on how to behave in London.
"HOLD YOUR BLOOMIN' HORSES!" A woman bawled from the back room, and the two drivers exchanged a look as a rattle shook the room. "BLAST!"
They moved, years of serving together and dealing with everything from kidnappers, capture, and pranks, they knew how to read each other better than long-married spouses. Shifting around the counter, Hitch led the way into the back room where a tall, lanky woman with brown hair frizzing around her ears and wearing an apron that had seen better days. She looked frazzled and miserable; an upended table and scattered buttons and spools painted a clear picture.
"What are you doing?" She barked, turning toward the two rats.
"We're here to pick up an order for Dr. Jack Moffit," he said, staring at a woman ready to slap and the mess she'd accidentally created. After all his years working with and around Brits, he'd never seen one show nearly this much emotion. They seemed to take pride in how little they could reveal, and he knew that Moffit and Troy had had more than one blistering fight over Moffit's reluctance to speak.
"Oh, erm," she stared around as if realizing the sort of image she was presenting. Stepping across the mess, she picked a brown wrapped package off a shelf. With a furious nod, she pressed it into Hitch's chest. "Jolly good." She turned around, her hands working in and out of fists. "Good day."
"Huh," Hitch watched Tully moved across the room, fishing something out of his coat pocket. He paused beside the woman, and as she looked up, worry and misery fighting for space on her face, he held out the little package. A little envious that his friend was giving out the last of the cookies he'd been sent from home.
"What's this?" Her voice wavered slightly as she accepted the package, and as she unwrapped the handkerchief, the travel-worn cookies were revealed. "I...blimey."
"Take a seat," Tully suggested, his voice as quiet as ever, and the woman dropped onto the only available chair, looking faintly shell shocked. "Hitch?"
"On it." Together they righted the enormous work table, and as the woman mechanically ate the two cookies, they managed to clean up most of the mess, setting spools back in their boxes and sweeping the buttons up as she sat quietly.
Seeing that she hadn't moved since she'd sat, Hitch cleared his throat a bit to get her attention. "Miss, are you alright?"
"I…" she swallowed, "I'm perfectly alright," her accent slipped, attempting to imitate the sort that Moffit used. Before coming to England, he hadn't known how many accents could fit on a tiny island. "Thank you."
"Okay then," Tully nodded politely, and they both beat it back to base, where Moffit and Troy were waiting.
"What took you so long? You weren't supposed to be gone that long!" Troy demanded, glaring down at his weak coffee and then frowning at the two privates.
"Someone needed help," Tully answered, thereby eliminating any further interrogation by their sergeant.
"Very good," Moffit looked pleased as he opened his package. "I haven't been able to order through them for some time. Quite the family of tailors and seamstresses." He produced two knitted gray hats and handed them over to Hitch and Tully. "Here you go. I had my father send in the order before we left North Africa. I thought you could do with something London-appropriate."
"Gee, Sarge!" Hitch exclaimed, yanking off his kelpie and pulling on the gray hat. "Thanks."
"Don't call me sarge," Moffit ordered pointlessly and watched Troy hide his grin behind his coffee cup as Tully's soft blond hair disappeared into the cap. "A few other bits and pieces in here too, but that can wait until we've got our meeting with Captain Scamander." Troy's smile vanished. "Don't worry, Troy. I'll protect you from the mean captain."
Captain Scamander, tall, thin, redheaded, and beaming in a way that all of the rats found deeply unsettling. He hardly waited before handing a small box over. "Here you go, Troy. A gift and something you're going to need if you're going to be pulling these jobs with us."
"What?" Troy blurted, and opening the box, glared at the bars lying on the velvet. "Sir, I can't."
"You can, and you will. You've turned down being an officer long enough, and you need the rank. If your command had its way, you'd be a major by now, and don't give me that look. You need to be a lieutenant if you want to get anything done or have anyone take you seriously. Reputation alone isn't enough here in London-town."
"What about Moffit?"
"Here," Scamander tossed another box to Moffit. "For the both of you. We'd call you in on ceremony and such all, but you four need to be packed and ready for training. Hitchcock and Pettigrew?"
"Sir?"
"As soon as I can manage, you'll both be corporals. I'd prefer to have you four leading separate teams, but we're keeping you a lot together for now. I can't imagine the sort of mother henning Lt. Troy can do from a distance, and I don't want to see it." Troy glared at Scamander; the lanky Englishman seemed to relish in the dislike.
"Come, come, come; you'll want to see your new home. You'll be staying in a little place. The family will be gone for the duration or until you're shipped home upright or horizontal." The rats gaped at him. "Come on then!"
Much later, Sam stared at his shirt and at the rank bars meant to go onto his collars. He sighed faintly, closing his hands over the gold bars as a knock came at the door.
"Come in," he called, and Moffit's familiar tread caught his attention.
"Quite a shock," he said quietly, turning his beret over in his hands. He paused a few steps from the door and waited.
"It's a lot," Sam agreed, his shirt already had the lieutenant's patch sewn on, and Moffit's shirt and uniform were likely the same. The army could move fastest at the strangest times. "What do you think?" Beginning to pull on his shirt, he began to button his shirt as Moffit approached.
"I think you earned them and more," Moffit said quietly, and Troy paused as he caught sight of his friend's unadorned collar.
"Moffit?" The quiet of the moment finally caught up with him and his hands stalled as he finished tucking in his shirt.
"It's absurd, you know," the man said, his blue eyes catching Troy's before skipping over to the taped-up window which overlooked the back garden. "That they could keep the team together."
"Getting broken up wouldn't help anyone," Sam retorted, already knowing that Moffit was correct. "We're just….that good."
"We're soldiers in one of the greatest enterprises ever contrived," the man picked up the rank bars where Sam had tossed them onto the slightly dusty bed. He turned them over in his long, thin fingers and glanced down at Troy. "What we've managed to...form such a team is against all possible odds."
"What did I tell you about listening to percentages?" Sam demanded, a little more quietly than he might have.
"That we'd all be dead at this point if we listened to percentages?" Jack replied, and he took a step closer, and with a deft hand, pinned the rank bars to the collar.
"Return the favor?" He offered, not sure what was happening but unwilling to break the bubble around them.
"Of course, old man." Moffit's smiles had gotten rarer since the death of his brother, and being back in London made him tetchy and uncomfortable. As if the whole country was a poorly made suit he was expected to wear. The last time Troy had seen his second so uncomfortable had been the first mission they'd run together. Moffit had just been borrowed from the Scot's Greys with every intention of returning until everyone figured out how well they worked together. Sam knew that there was a beast tightly leashed by that man's control and idly wondered what would set it off. "What will you do after the war?" Jack asked finally as Sam's hands fell away, and his bars gleamed in the dim light of the room.
"I'm just trying to pull us out of the war in one piece," he answered, gruffer than he intended. Jack didn't take offense and only gave a slight nod. "You?"
"Return to North Africa, I suppose. Continue my work...if it's not too dangerous for me too. Perhaps I'll travel and study of other countries."
"Visit America?"
"Possibly Wyoming?" Sam offered, the words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them.
"I don't see why not? If you'll have me, of course."
"Ma wants to meet you," he admitted, thinking of how often he wrote his mother of his best friend.
"I should very much like to meet her...Lt. Troy." Moffit stepped back and gave a sharp, honest salute that Troy returned after only a moment's hesitation. "Shall we keep the boys out of the cupboards?"
"I want to know if Tully has any cookies left," Troy mused, "maybe he'll share with an officer."
"I wouldn't put money on it," the Englishman replied, "I honestly wouldn't."
#$#$#
"Mail Call!" Corporal Langenscheidt knocked on the door to Barracks 5 and entered. He tossed most of the letters to Sergeant Thomas. "Captain Troy!"
"Yes?" The tall man appeared at the door, looking tetchy and irritable enough that Langenscheidt snapped to attention. "Corporal?"
"Letters," he passed the packet of letters over. There were several of them, and each addressed from a different part of the world. "A package too," from the mail pouch, the corporal produced a small but dense package that looked to be so well wrapped and packaged that the inspectors had given up halfway through.
"What's that?" Sergeant Thomas eyed the mess. "How come he gets so many letters?"
"Maybe his family likes him more," someone suggested, and Dietrich waved them all off. He carted his letters back into his quarters and opened the one from David Troy, again in Sam's handwriting.
"Sam," it read, "I wrote and told everyone that you needed some things for the cold, and I'm not sure if you're going to get anything, but I figured it might be good to try. If Aunt B. sends you socks and you don't want them, send them to me." Dietrich turned to the pile of letters, all from members of his family, and the letter from Bethany Troy was suspiciously bulgy. He opened it to find thick, knitted socks that looked more like someone had knitted a cat's hairball. Hideous and scratchy, he had to bite down a scoff. No wonder no one had stolen them. He was about to toss them aside when he noticed a seam, hidden beneath the fibers, and turning the socks inside out revealed that they were bulky socks, but a smart blue-gray and looking normal from the outside, concealed their hideous underside. It took someone of great skill to create socks like these and someone with great cunning to send them successfully. Clearly, no one had bothered to inspect them too closely.
Sticking his hands into the socks, he sighed at the warmth. These were perfect socks, and he smiled and made a mental note to write Bethany Troy an excellent thank-you note. Returning to Sam's letter, he read, "I told Ma that you'd lost weight, so the sweater she's been making probably won't fit anymore. Stay warm and safe, David."
"Hmmm."
The small dense package turned out to be, after several hours of trying to unwrap it and figure out the sailor's knots keeping it compact, two sweaters, more socks, and a pair of gloves that fit well enough, including several hats. In the middle was a tin of coffee, and he gave it a sniff, and the thick, heady scent of genuine coffee made him pause. He hoped his heart wouldn't jackrabbit out of his chest when he drank his first cup. He hadn't had good coffee in a long while. Beside was a tube of condensed milk that Dietrich had taken to hoarding in the desert. When he got the chance, the American army distributed them to their men in the desert.
"Sam," the note from Frau Troy read, "I'm hoping that everything makes it through. I'm enclosing a packing list for you to check off, so if anything is missing, write me back, and I'll bring the next package in person. Remember to keep your feet dry, your torso warm, your head and fingers covered. Don't expose yourself to too much wind, and treat the cold like you did during the snowstorms here." Winter weather survival tips were not what he had been expecting from Mrs. Troy. "I'd send you some honey sticks, but I'm not sure they'd make it all of the way there." They wouldn't; Shultz had an unerring way of picking out which prisoner's packages were carrying food. Something that Dietrich wanted to take him to task for.
"Captain!" Thomas stuck his head in the door. "Wow! That's quite a haul! Who wrote?"
"The entire family," Dietrich said, concealing the coffee tin with a slow turn of his body. "It seems."
"Wow, big families really do the best jobs. Carter gets enough socks from his cousins that he gives out most of them; I got a pair from his Cousin Edith that is so great that I sent her a thank-you card."
"Edith..the young woman you've spoken of?"
"Don't tell Carter," Thomas warned, and he shrugged, "is that a sweater?"
"If you would excuse me," Dietrich frowned pointedly at the door, "I would like to enjoy my letters in peace."
"Right, right, sorry." Thomas grinned and vanished.
It felt like Christmas morning to get such presents, and the unsettling feeling that Troy's family had no idea who they were sending these things to only made the guilt worsen. He hoped that Troy was getting letters and gifts; the idea that the Allied command would simply re-route all of the man's mail was simple enough to accept. Ensuring that their ruse was upheld was easy enough, and explaining to every party would take too much time.
Unless the family members started noticing discrepancies in his letters, a lack of acknowledgment of in-jokes and such
He wondered how they would handle that.
The gray wool sweater fit perfectly, and as he pulled it on, the freezing chill that had settled in his bones since he arrived seemed to abate. It was smart too, not exactly uniform material, but given the usual state of the prisoner's uniforms, he didn't think anyone was going to care. The cap was green and suited him well, thick enough to be warm on its own and thin enough to fit under Sergeant Troy's regular hat.
It was a perfectly wonderful gift, and he needed somewhere to hide the coffee both from his own men and the guards.
He hoped that Sergeant Troy didn't need any of these things.
$#$#
Colonel Hogan paused, leaning over Kinch's shoulder as they waited for a message from London, as a heady, truly wonderful scent wafted down the tunnel. Coffee, strong and aromatic in a way that he hadn't had in a long time.
"What the?" Kinch lifted his head as Dietrich approached from the direction of Barracks 5, a tin cup in one hand and a packet of paper with the other.
"Colonel Hogan," Dietrich nodded, "Sergeant Kinchloe, I have looked over these aliases," he handed the packet to Hogan, ignoring the burning stares focused on his cup. "I have added several pieces of information I believe will ensure that they are unquestionable."
"Really?" Kinch looked over the pages, eyes straying back to the cup Dietrich was sipping from. "Hey, this is pretty good. Thanks. Is that a new sweater?"
"Yes," The man looked warm for the first time since he'd arrived at Stalag 13, a gray knitted sweater now covered his uniform, and in lieu of his usual slouch cap, he was wearing a smaller hat. The captain waved him off and retreated around the corner, and Hogan caught the barest hint of a smirk on his face.
"Where'd he get the coffee, Kinch?"
"No idea, sir."
"Huh," Hogan stared the direction down which the German had vanished and rubbed his chin. "Alright."