I was desperately tired, both emotionally and physically, but the sharp pain prevented me from sleeping. The doctors were extremely concerned about my condition, but I had flatly and adamantly refused any morphine. It was too soon after my after my pleasurable experiences with the heroin.

I had become anxious about becoming addicted to morphine in its stead.

I continually and blatantly reiterated other soldiers were in greater need than myself. Even in a major recovery hospital, morphine was in extremely short supply and was being used only on those seriously wounded. When the doctors had attempted to work on my back, I had practically fainted from the pain. At that point, I was finally ordered to accept it.

A few days after my arrival, Doctor Leone spoke bluntly to me. "Your back is slowly beginning to heal and the infection is finally subsiding. I am concerned, though, why you are not making faster progress. My goal was to discharge you next week, but I am not sure if you will have sufficiently recovered even by then." His face settled into a frown.

"But, you are young and strong and will eventually recover. Your facial lacerations will heal with no marks." Leone hesitated before continuing, "No doubt you are aware how your back will be permanently scarred. I'm sorry. I wish I could have done something to salvage it."

I shrugged my shoulders, appearing not to care. "I already have several scars from combat. More will make no difference."

"These are not just scars. It will be obvious to anyone seeing them that the injuries that caused them were not received in combat."

"I understand." So be it, I thought. At least I couldn't see the constant reminders of my ordeal at the hands of Guest. And the scars that remained that couldn't be seen were far worse than anything that would mar me externally.

Leone sighed. "I am only warning you since it could generate questions and especially be unsettling to a woman."

"To the right woman, it shouldn't make a difference." I shrugged. A woman was the furthest thing from my mind. "It doesn't really matter to me in the end."

"Of course, you are right." He looked down and then up at me. "There is something else I would like to discuss with you. You are continually refusing morphine. Is there a reason, Hauptmann, why you will not accept pain medication?"

I repeated what had by now become my rote line. "There are others in greater need than me."

Leone peered at me closely, searching my face. "Would you care for privacy so you may speak openly? Or, I know. Do you speak Latin?" he asked in that language.

"Yes," I responded warily.

Leone began to expertly examine my inner arms, intently focusing on the veins. The initial care Guest had originally given me had been quickly placed aside. His increasing disregard had noticeably left ugly marks on my arms

"Have you been injecting yourself with narcotics? Particularly opiates?" he asked frankly in Latin. "These marks were not made by a medical professional."

I turned away from him, not wanting to answer. My shame rose to the surface and I wanted to share my story with him, feeling that it might lessen my burden. However, I was also leery of answering. Nazi informants were everywhere, even in hospitals. I wanted nothing to negatively impact my military service, or to bring shame to my family.

"I am a Jesuit." Leone gave me a look that was pure compassion. "You may consider our conversation within the confines of confession, if you like."

"No," I responded forcibly. "I have not been injecting myself with drugs." It was not a lie. I had never once injected myself.

"Then I assume you were given them against your will? To keep you quiet after you had been flogged and to prevent you from escaping. Am I correct?"

I was surprised at Leone's astuteness. "Yes."

"You probably were not administered morphine, though," he said thoughtfully. "If I had to make a guess based on your previous location, I would assume it was heroin. Have you become addicted to heroin, Captain?"

I looked at him quickly, giving myself away.

"It's as I thought." Leone gently released my arm, replacing it on the bed and covering it with the sheet. "You must have been given the last heroin injection several days ago. Your system will have already processed any residual amounts. Now the addiction is psychological, not physical."

"The heroin was very pleasurable, Doctor. I had never felt anything like it before. I cared about nothing else while I was under its influence."

Leone spoke professionally and without judgement.

"It is understandable for one to become addicted to drugs. They give one an intense pleasure which is not easily matched. However, their gratification quickly gives way to intense suffering which then demands more drugs."

I thought of Cheri's end with regret. "I understand, but the desire is constantly with me. At times, I can think of little else except its pull."

"Which leads you to feel extreme guilt and shame." Leone shook his head. "You need to forgive yourself for that. It's merely human nature. With all that you've been through, continuing to torture yourself mentally is not aiding in your recovery."

Once again, I was surprised by the depth of his insight. But then, I realized, that as a Jesuit he had probably heard the confessions of hundreds of men who were in far worse shape than I.

"Are you offering forgiveness, Doctor Leone?"

"If it will give you peace, certainly. However, I'm not sure that there's anything to forgive. You cannot blame yourself for something in which you had no choice. You were a victim."

But I could blame myself, I thought, and I was. "A victim," I repeated, thinking about the word. An innocent caught in something that I was powerless to overcome? Perhaps not an innocent, but powerless certainly. It pained me to admit it, but overall the assessment was correct.

"Yes, a victim. What I want is to assure you that I will not allow you to become addicted to morphine under my care. There is no reason for you to be uncomfortable and suffer while you are here. I want you to have faith in my professional judgement. You are to stop refusing the morphine. It will aid in your recovery."

I hesitated before answering, but finally allowed myself to believe him. "Thank you, Doctor. I will trust your opinion and follow your treatment advice."

"I was informed that you are also an artist. A drawing pad was found in your belongings."

I smiled thinly. "No, I am a soldier. But I occasionally sketch."

"Then I recommend art as a therapeutic outlet for you. I believe you will find it useful to reflect your inner self. It will allow the wounds that we cannot see to heal as well."

The morphine doses prescribed by the Jesuit doctor immediately began easing my pain. It allowed me to rest comfortably and to begin slowly recovering. The initial doses Leone ordered were large before he began tapering them off almost immediately. They were small in comparison to the heroin doses that I had received, but were sufficient. I found the morphine pleasurable in a way I hadn't before when I had received it for my combat wounds.

I had much to reflect on during this time.

The remainder of the Afrika Korps had surrendered to the Americans and British only a few days after my evacuation. With much relief, I had learned that my unit had been among those whom surrendered. I found no small amount of peace in knowing that Hoffmann and my men were finally safe.

Much later, I discovered that Hoffmann and several others from my unit had been sent to a POW camp in Wyoming. It seemed fitting when I recalled my last conversation with Hoffmann.

A few days after my confession to Leone, I groggily awoke to having my dressings gently checked. At first I thought I was dreaming, but then the great pleasure of reality swept over me.

I gave a slow smile when I recognized the tall, attractive nurse attending to me.

"Fraulein von Stein," I said softly.

"So formal, Hauptmann Dietrich?" she lightly teased back, but just as formal. "After everything we've shared since Jufra?"

"It would be disrespectful for me not to address you properly since you are on duty."

I reached out and took her hand and gently clasped it before releasing it, the only affection I would allow myself to demonstrate while she was in uniform.

"Fraulein, you are definitely not the nun who was caring for me earlier. Have you recently arrived here?"

"I arrived not long after we saw each other last, Hauptmann. I requested to remain in Africa nursing, but as the situation continued to grow worse, I was evacuated to Italy. It was becoming too dangerous for any of the support staff."

I nodded.

"I wrote to you and explained my re-assignment. When I did not receive a response, I thought that I would never see you again."

"I did not receive your letters, Agathe." I could not prevent myself from using her given name. "Mail and all communications were very sporadic the last few months before I departed Tunisia. I was unaware of your escape to Italy."

"I thought as much, Hans," she responded, saying my given name softly so none of the nearby patients could hear her. "Today is my first day back after a few days off. As soon as I noticed your name on the patient list, I couldn't wait to see you."

"Agathe, you are like a ray of sunshine on a winter day to me: Unexpected and so welcoming to a broken man. My God, words cannot describe how much I have missed you."

"You are not as broken as you were at Jufra."

"Perhaps not, but I am now broken in a different way. I am not the same man," I added darkly, looking away from her. I was suddenly self-conscious. It was an odd feeling: I had not been uncomfortable nude around a woman since Elsa.

"Hans, your body is still as magnificent as that of a Teutonic god," Agathe reassured. "I will always be proud to be seen on your arm. A few scars will never change that and they mean nothing to me. I will walk by your side as you recover, and then I will never leave you."

Yes, and I knew Agathe was the right woman that I had mentioned to Leone.

I had known Agathe slightly before the war. She was from a prominent family in Hamburg, and my parents were distant friends of her family. We had been introduced a few times at various social events over the years, but neither of us had pursued anything further. Ironically, I had put little thought or meaning into the encounters at the time.

Our paths fatefully crossed again when I was recovering in a field hospital after the Battle of Jufra. Agathe had been certified as a nurse soon after the war began and assigned to the North African theatre. It was pure chance we had arrived at the same hospital at the same moment in time.

At this encounter, I was awake and sober enough to notice her.

Agathe was tall for a woman, only a few centimeters shorter than myself. Any doubts of her femininity were immediately dispelled by her curvaceous figure, honed from years of tennis and other athletics. She was a natural beauty with dark brunette hair and matching eyes in which any man could become lost. She normally wore her hair short, the tapered cut softening her strong jawline. Even though she could not have looked less like Irene, or Margot, I found myself taken with her.

We began casually corresponding when I returned home soon afterwards to convalescence. Our first letters were reserved, but became friendlier as the weeks passed. Then, their intensity greatly increased after we met in Benghazi for a few days during a lull in the war. Those days had become the first of many rendezvous' when the opportunities presented itself.

After several months, she was the primary woman to whom I wrote. I casually discounted the letters I received from other women and the majority of them went unanswered. I usually wrote to Agathe every evening if my combat duties permitted the indulgence. Through our letters, I grew to know her and I hoped to help her grow to know me. I shared with her my successes, along with my frustrations, particularly those of dealing with the Rat Patrol. Most importantly, we shared the everyday pleasures still to be found in life, even during a war, and what they meant to the each of us.

Agathe was blunt and straight forward. She openly showed her vibrant personality, her candid thoughts and desires, which she aggressively expressed when we made love. I was the aloof and reserved one, not readily showing myself to anyone. It took time to allow her to see my true self, the man I frequently hid behind a mask. It was a mask I wore as a disguise and for protection. And, I wore it at times to delude myself.

I fought against my deepening connection with Agathe. I had not wanted a serious relationship during the war when my death was a stark reality. I had promised myself and my father to not have any significant involvement with a woman until the war ended. I was married to my duty and I could not afford to have relationships that would make me forget that. I had easily placed my emotions aside when it came to the various women that I had casually encountered.

Only Margot had been the exception. But she had become Matthias Walther's wife and there could not be, nor would I allow, anything between Margot and myself. Eventually, Agathe was able to gradually pull me away from Margot, just as through Margot I had sought to forget the entrenched memories that I had held of Irene.

I found Agathe giving me the strength to survive, to keep living, to desire the upcoming dawn breaking in the morning. It was through her, that I eventually was able to place aside my former obsession with Margot, and it allowed me to frame my affair with Irene as what it had been. With Agathe, I was able to realize all the realities which she was able to offer me at this moment instead.

My moments with Agathe were normal and peaceful, a respite from the never ending reality of the war. It was true that we were very different, but we shared a common thread which drew me to her. She and I both faced death on a daily basis: I was killing men on the battlefield, and in turn, she was assisting to repair those the enemy had sought to kill.

Yes, Jufra was the significant event drawing us together, the mysterious unknown in life which could never be explained. I had won the Oak Leaves due to Jufra, but Jufra had also caused me to win Agathe.

I had asked myself on a few occasions if I was drawn to Agathe because she was the only woman with whom I had ever shared with death. This concern had returned again when I briefly held her hand just a few moments ago. Was I now even more drawn to her because she had seen my ruined body and was completely accepting of it?

I placed these thoughts aside, not wanting to sully the moment.