Richten shuffled several papers around and threw them into his briefcase. They were already late for the propaganda broadcast and now that Dietrich demanded on coming with them. He regretted having ever sent for him in the first place, but his insights on the Rat Patrol had proved valuable. But there were limits on his generosity in accommodating the suspicious captain, and he'd breached them.

"You will not come with us," Richten said, glaring up at Dietrich.

"There could be a breach of security at the station, and I wouldn't want something like that to happen while the sergeant is partly my responsibility." Dietrich's words were polite, but there was an undertone of steel, even defiance, in his voice that couldn't be ignored. All the same, Richten ignored it.

He scowled. "Sergeant Moffitt is not your responsibility, captain. You forget yourself. I ordered you here merely as a consultant concerning that demon patrol and to corroborate any of Sergeant Moffitt's facts. Nothing more."

Snapping the briefcase shut, he stormed out of the room.

Dietrich was just like every other one of those promotion hounds in Berlin. Always grasping at advancement at any cost, even the downfall of a fellow officer. Disloyal. Mercenary. Richten shook his head, the scowl still etched firmly on his face as if set in stone.

:::

Dietrich stood in Richten's office, alone, for just a moment before he too turned and left. His hands were nearly shaking with anger and frustration. Richten was being stupid, impossible. Just because Moffitt had supposedly defected didn't mean they had to immediately set him up for a broadcast where he could transmit classified information to the Allies.

Better to have checks run by Berlin, even the Gestapo. Dietrich didn't condone most of what the Gestapo did, but their network of informants and spies made them an intelligence center for both Germany and the occupied countries and territories. But, no, Richten was too afraid of someone else getting the credit for Moffitt's defection. Or afraid that Moffitt would turn out to be a double-cross. Or both.

No, it was foolhardy to let a loyal Allied soldier speak to his superiors – it was an open secret that the BBC monitored all of El Jebel's broadcasts – after spending nearly three weeks as a trusted defector at German headquarters.

Dietrich shook his head and walked out of the building, to the motor pool. He'd follow them, monitor the situation, and stop the broadcast – somehow – if needed. He wasn't going to let either Moffitt or Richten get away with traitorous acts against Germany.

:::

Memories flooded back the moment Moffitt entered the room.

Windsor cringing in the corner.

Tully holding a gun on nearly everyone in the room – all at once.

Hitch hurriedly setting up a strong frequency.

Troy telling the BBC, and by extension the entire British army, to stop Operation Wildcat.

And himself, tossing pages of propaganda garbage to the floor.

Only now he was going to be reading some of the same propaganda.

Windsor was gone, of course, killed by the very people he worked for, but there had been no shortage of propaganda readers to choose from. Moffitt took an instant dislike to the Germans' new pick – and small, scrawny man called Dickson – but, then, he would've disliked anyone in the role. But the disturbing thought kept coming back to him; that he was one of them now.

"How do you like the remodeling, sergeant?" Richten asked.

Moffitt looked around with an appreciative expression. The room didn't look all the different, but they'd replaced the door. Small wonder, since the last time he'd seen it, bullet holes were riddled through it, both from inside and out. "You've done a good job," he said.

Richten smiled thinly. "We had to change everything after you and your former comrades attacked."

"I can see that."

Richten pulled a paper out of his briefcase. "This is what we want you to read. Go over it now, and in a few minutes, Dickson will introduce you over the air." He handed Moffitt the sheet and then walked away to talk with Dickson.

Moffitt skimmed down the page. No real surprises. The same trash that poured into thousands of ears every day – unless they switched it off. The only real difference was that it was written from the perspective of a man who's realized that the Third Reich will sweep into a glorious victory, and all soldiers listening would do well to realize the truth of it as well. None of the broadcasts ever really turned anyone over to the enemy side, so there was no danger there; it wasn't what he was worried about. And he didn't want to think about what he was worried about. It seemed petty, in the face of all the lives he would be saving.

That he would be considered more of a traitor than he already was.

Richten came up to him once again. "Ready?"

Moffitt nodded, pushing down all his indecision.

"I want you to read it word for word," Richten said. "Word for word."

Moffitt got the message. He wasn't to include any personal messages of his own. He'd briefly considering doing so on the drive to the station, but had concluded the risk was too great. Richten wasn't a fool. So he would read the words on the page, and that was all, even if none of it sounded like anything he would say.

:::

The radio droned on endlessly.

Tully's head felt thick, fuzzy, a result of all the morphine they were giving him to keep the pain manageable. There were about ten other guys in the hospital tent, all in varying states of consciousness. Somewhere above, the radio was playing, the only entertainment they had. Tully just wanted to go to sleep and forget about it.

"Good evening, soldiers everywhere," a voice came from the radio, circulating through the tent.

He would've rolled his eyes if they weren't half-closed all the time. Eight o'clock, time for the Krauts to jam their signals and switch to a broadcast of their own. Happened every time. He waited for a nurse to come in and shut the radio off just to get rid of the propaganda that always came spouting out the traitor's mouth.

"I have a very special guest with me today-"

Tully couldn't have cared less if he tried.

"-a Sergeant Moffitt, lately of the famous Rat Patrol, here with a message for you."

Despite the drugs, Tully's eyes opened fully, alert. Before he could think or say or do anything, Moffitt came on the air. Talking about how foolish the Allied war effort was, how comfortable and happy he was now that he'd realized that, and that he urged every Allied soldier to do the same.

"While all of you are fighting an enemy much stronger than you, sweating in your tanks, or lying wounded in a filthy tent, I sit here, surrounded by friends. Food, drink, and recreation available to me at any time at the proud Reich's very own headquarters. Come in, relax, and enjoy a drink with me. My friends will be more than happy to accommodate you."

Tully couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Sure, it was Moffitt's voice. There was a ring of sincerity in his words. And no hint of being made to speak under torture. But it didn't match up, didn't make sense with the Moffitt he knew. First, his escape, if you could call it that. Then the ambush at German HQ. Kraut tanks and half-tracks and men all around their camp. And now this.

Anyone else would've called it grounds for a traitor.

But Tully didn't believe it. Moffitt would never betray any of them, the thought was laughable. Something about this didn't add up, and if he hadn't had a banged up shoulder, he would've been out there, finding out what exactly was wrong.

:::

The broadcast ended, and Dietrich walked into the room.

"Captain Dietrich! What are you doing here?!" Richten half asked, half shouted.

Moffitt stepped away from the booth, and Dietrich glanced at him for a moment before answering Richten. He looked tired, drained even, and Dietrich couldn't be sure – maybe it was just his imagination – but it looked as though Moffitt's hands were shaking.

"Well?" Richten bellowed.

"I wanted to make sure the broadcast went well, sir," Dietrich said. And as far as he could tell, it had. Moffitt had read Richten's notes, he'd heard no messages sent to the Allies, and they were all going back to the heavy security of headquarters. He couldn't care less about Richten's anger right now.

Things had gone well, and for the moment that was all that mattered.