Richten glowered at the papers in front of him.
Their glorious headquarters was in shambles, Sergeant Moffitt was nowhere to be seen – his only chance at promotion and an escape from the campaign – and the campaign itself was going poorly. Even though headquarters had suffered some severe blows, the army could not wait another month for the spearhead attack.
It was supposed to be a surprise, an ambush on Allied forces, but that part of the plan had never got off the ground. They'd been waiting with a counterattack of their own, and Richten was growing nervous. It looked as though Dietrich had been right about Sergeant Moffitt. Hopefully he'd die before saying anything, but Richten began making escape plans nonetheless.
:::
It was only through the radio faintly coming through the canvas walls of the hospital tent that Moffitt learned that his information had been put to good use. No one came to see him – not that he blamed them – and even the nurses made the least amount of contact possible. There was nothing he could do about any of it, so he focused on getting well.
No easy task, since after being stitched up in a preliminary manner by the doctor, he'd insisted on relaying his information to High Command immediately. The debriefing took less than hour, since he'd gone over the information in his head so many times so as not to forget it, but the strain and work of remembering important details through the haziness in his head was hard to ignore.
It was only after he was sure they had everything he could give him that he relaxed and was whisked back to the operation tent.
That was nearly a week ago, and he was only just beginning to get his strength back. Still, he felt content, if not happy. Boggs – the only visitor he'd had all week – had assured him that spying charges would not be followed through and as soon as they were certain the German attack had been successfully stopped, he would be able to make steps toward clearing his name and explaining everything.
Not everything would be the same, though. High Command could release as many bulletins as they wanted claiming his innocence – although they probably wouldn't bother to even send out one – but the radio broadcast would always be a black spot on his record. If not officially, then in his own mind. Not to mention betraying his teammates in order to gain a strategic advantage.
But at least it was a start.
:::
The news was bad.
Dietrich shook his head. He knew it, he'd always known, that Moffitt had never defected to their side. Rommel's tanks were being pushed back, countless lives had been, and would continue to be lost, and the bulk of the blame was at Major Richten's feet. The German army was in ruins, because of one man's ambition.
His own personal setback wasn't any little thing itself. While most of his injuries had been caused by flying debris, his hands and right arm were burned with varying degrees of severity. The doctor hadn't told him how severe, but the pain was relentless. The field hospital he'd been transported to had no sophisticated equipment or medicines to deal with the worst of his burns, but it was better than nothing.
He briefly considered sending a message to Rommel, detailing Richten's mistakes and greed, but decided not to. What was the point? It would be a petty thing to do, especially since Berlin would dig deep to find out what went wrong, and their trail would almost certainly lead to Richten and a certain British sergeant.
There was nothing more he could really add. The Gestapo were thorough.
:::
An MP opened the flap that led into Boggs' tent and Troy walked in.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
Boggs nodded. "Sit down, sergeant. I have something to tell you that might come as something of a shock." Troy sat down while Boggs did the same, and waited for whatever shocking news Boggs had. At the moment, he didn't think much could surprise him, considering the way things had been going lately.
"It's about Sergeant Moffitt."