July, 1940

I remember McKerras saying that he wasn't surprised at France's quick defeat at the hands of the Germans, but he wasn't looking forward to the French forces stationed in Syria, now controlled by the Vichy government, potentially being turned loose on us. Training and exercises became more rigorous, numerous, and many of us were on edge. The four of us—McKerras, myself, Anworth, and Colfield—were often on patrol at the northernmost edges of our camp, riding with one hand on our reins and another on our rifles. Snowstripe was used to feeling me being so nervous, but at least now that nervousness wasn't directed at him.

Over the last several months, I would spend time off with either my unit in the city of Beersheba, or venture out to see what the local Bedouin were like. A handful of clans were impressed at my knowledge, others remembered my father from expeditions he took over twenty years ago, and a few others really didn't want me around. I felt at ease interacting with the friendlier tribes, but they did make me miss home and the long study sessions I had with my father.

Some study sessions, especially close to exams, were utter nightmares, but most were very relaxed, and it was nice to talk about the material I was learning rather than the object of learning itself. The trips to North Africa were arguably better than spending hours in a classroom or library. As magical as libraries can be, actually going to the place you read about is ten times more magical, and I will never forget the time I stepped into one of my favorite photographs from a book I nearly worn out from one of the Cambridge libraries.

I spent most of my free time in the library. Even though everyone was strictly forbidden from bringing food in there, I would sneak a few things in from time to time simply because—yes, it was a bad habit, Troy. I skipped a lot of lunches. Anyway—yes, Anah, I know you wouldn't have let me do that if you were there. Do stop interrupting.

Anyway, I did nearly get in trouble a few times because the apple cores I was leaving in the rubbish bins were quite obvious, and even wrapping them in tissues wouldn't prevent them from smelling. Since they couldn't find who was leaving them, they just kept putting up more signs saying not to bring food in the library. Did I listen? No. I kept bringing snacks in, because I enjoyed the library at its most quiet, while the majority of the students were having their lunches in the cafeteria or out on the grounds. It was so quiet that I was pretty sure the librarian—a very sharp-featured lady with equally sharp hearing—would be able to hear my stomach rumbling all the way across the enormous maze that was the library, so I had to master the art of eating quietly to keep that from happening.

You're right, Dietrich. Silently eating apples of all things is no easy feat. I did eventually start bringing in softer things, but I really wanted to avoid things with crumbs. When I say that librarian had sharp senses, I mean it. She would find a single crumb and scour the whole room for mice or disobedient students, and the last thing I wanted was her tracing them back to me and banning me from coming to the library during my lunch period. I enjoyed not having to worry about anyone seeing me sitting on the floor in front of the shelves with stacks of books surrounding me like a little fortress, so it was well worth the risk. Frankly, my adventures of dodging the librarian could be a story of its own, but she was really a nice woman and very helpful when you weren't being too loud or disrespectful to the books.

Anyway, the photograph I mentioned was that of a view of the Mediterranean from a Roman barracks in Alexandria. The picture was old, but something about it called to me. I wanted to see that view for myself.

My father had been to Alexandria several times, and I felt that telling him I wanted to go just to see this one spot wouldn't be a good use of his time, so I decided to do it myself. I waited until the summer of that year—it was 1932, I remember that clearly—to get myself a ticket on a ship headed to Egypt, and packed nothing but a few changes of clothes, some money, and, most importantly, a camera.

Did I tell my parents where I was going? No, not exactly. I left a note on the table the morning I left, though. I knew I was going to be in heaps of trouble when I returned home, but I didn't particularly care. I thought of it as my first solo expedition, and what an expedition it was!

I had made the journey from Britain to Egypt many times, but something about it was different this time. The ship's captain was familiar with us and wondered if everything was alright with my father. I explained that I was traveling alone, but didn't say anything about how this was a rather impromptu trip and I had gotten permission for absolutely nothing. The captain gave me this big smile and told me he was amazed at how quickly I was growing up, that it seemed not that long ago that I was a wide-eyed boy taken on his first journey to the desert. Now that same boy was a young man taking his first journey to the desert all by himself.

It felt good to be in Egypt again. There was still a strangeness to being there without my father or any of our guides or assistants, and in my chest, I felt an odd blend of excitement and nervousness all at the same time. At the time, I knew this was going to be my career, and I was looking forward to every minute of it.

I had managed to convince the librarian to let me borrow that book over the summer, since I hadn't been any trouble—oh, little did she know just how many apples and tarts and scones I had snuck in. I'd have been banned for the rest of my schooling. Anyway, I needed the book so I could pinpoint the exact positioning of the photograph, in order to retake it. After a few hours in the blazing sun and nearly getting run over by a cranky camel when I took a wrong turn and ended up in probably the busiest marketplace in all of Egypt, I found the Roman barracks.

I was alone in the barracks apart from some local wildlife. With the camera around my neck and the book in my hands, I tried to find the rooftop lookout, and wouldn't rest until I found it. Eventually, I did, and standing in that place provided a beautiful sensation that I can best describe as exhilarating, like I was flying. The butterflies in my stomach were quite excitable when I raised my camera to get that picture. I took several, hoping at least one of them would be the perfectly identical shot, and I took a few others of the view of Alexandria to the east of the barracks. When I was satisfied, I felt compelled to stay there for a few moments and enjoy the sound of the Mediterranean lapping at the shore, feel the wind in my hair and against my sweat-stained skin, and see, with my own eyes, the view I had been dreaming about since first seeing it in that book. For me, this was happiness, and I didn't want to leave.

I did eventually leave. After all, I had to get those photographs developed. My mother ripped into me when I walked in the door, telling me what I did was stupid and dangerous and that there was no reason for me to have hidden this. My father was disappointed as well—because I didn't ask him to come along. We had a long chat while we went to have my pictures developed, and I did feel a bit guilty for not saying anything, but my father swiftly took that guilt from my shoulders when he asked if I at least enjoyed myself, and told me that was all that mattered. He was proud of me for having undertaken a journey without assistance, and said it proved I was ready to start organizing expeditions on my own. Granted, I was still in trouble for having gone behind my parents' backs, but it did nothing to damage my relationship with them.

My father was curious to know what I found so fascinating about that picture, but I couldn't really give much of an answer. He was impressed at how closely I had been able to match the angle and scope of the original, and he jokingly said that perhaps that book should be reprinted with mine.

I had been thinking about that experience while riding back to the British camp from a Bedouin one, and how despite my own desire to be a bit more independent, I sorely missed traveling the desert with my father.

McKerras wasn't too familiar with the ways of the locals, but he was eager to learn. We spent our tea breaks talking, and it was those talks that led him to see that perhaps my ten years at Cambridge weren't so wasteful after all. He still felt that I had a lot of growing to do as a man, but he was starting to see that my work had been more than just digging in the sand for pottery shards.

We frequently went riding together, and McKerras was impressed to see how quickly Snowstripe had bonded to me. At the same time, in the weeks after the fall of France, I noticed McKerras becoming a bit withdrawn. He didn't say much of anything one day, until late in the afternoon when we were assigned to patrol the northeast sector of camp. I had gotten a bit distracted watching a camel caravan off in the distance, when McKerras's voice broke the gentle ambience of the desert wind.

"There's talk that they might replace the horses with vehicles," he said.

"Oh?" I asked.

"Yeah. Wheeled vehicles have already been implemented in some parts. They're looking at tanks as well." McKerras turned Slate to face me. "I understand that this is a different war, technologically, but I joined the Scots Greys to follow in my father's footsteps as a rider. Feels like I won't be doing him proud if they go through with that decision."

"You're not going to leave, are you?"

"If it were peacetime, I might, but in wartime, you can't afford to complain." McKerras and Slate kept moving.

I sat in confusion for a moment, then urged Snowstripe into a trot so I could catch up with the sergeant and his gray Arabian. "Why are you telling me this?" I asked once I was walking side by side with McKerras.

"Why shouldn't I?" McKerras replied. "I consider you a friend."

"I'm your subordinate, though. We can't be friends."

"If you want to see things like that, that's your problem."

"It's regulation, though."

"And I think it's a silly regulation. I may be your commander, but I want you to be comfortable with coming to me with personal problems. We're still human at the end of the day. Would you rather you weren't able to come to me?"

"No."

"We all need someone to trust, Moffitt. I had my misgivings about you at first. Now I'm glad to say I trust you. You're a fine rider, a lot better than I expected, and you're quite capable, despite your upbringing. When I heard we were getting Cambridge alumni with a doctorate, I expected to have to babysit you. I'm glad I was wrong."

I couldn't argue with anything he said, and I didn't want to go through this new chapter of my life alone. Since McKerras had confided in me about something on his mind, I decided to do the same. "Sergeant," I said.

"What is it?" McKerras asked.

"I'm terrified about going into combat. I know it's inevitable at this point, but I don't feel prepared. I'm afraid of botching things up and getting my own comrades killed."

"No one's ever truly prepared for going into combat. As much as we like to plan, it's rare for things to work out as you hope. In those moments, the best thing to do is rely on your trainings, your instincts, and the people fighting alongside you. Your job is to protect them and their job is to protect you." McKerras looked me in the eye. "Be completely honest with me, do you trust me?"

"I do."

"Do you trust Anworth and Colfield?"

"Yes."

"Do you trust Morrissy?"

"Of course."

"Do you trust your horse?"

"Absolutely."

"Do you trust yourself?"

I froze at that one. "I… should say yes, but… I'm not quite sure."

"What can I do to help you gain confidence in yourself?"

"I'm… not sure there's anything anyone can do."

"There's always something. We just have to pinpoint what it is."

"Alright. I might need your help on that, because I don't know what I have a lack of confidence in. It feels like… everything."

"We'll narrow it down. Just know that when we do go into combat, I have complete faith in you."

I was tempted to tell him about the dreams. Over the last few months, those dreams were becoming more and more frequent, but there were strange elements appearing in them that I had no clue how to explain to anyone. I kept them to myself, but awoke one morning after emerging from yet another dream to McKerras staring at me with an expression of concern.

"Are you alright, Moffitt?" he asked.

"Fine. F-Fine," I said.

"You're holding your ribs. Are you sure you're alright? I've noticed that the last few mornings."

I hadn't even realized that I had been pressing down on the left side of my ribs, just above where they ended. When I let go, I was relieved to see no blood. "I'm alright," I said. "I… keep dreaming about getting shot."

McKerras gave me a sympathetic look. "I've had similar dreams."

"I believe it, but do you keep getting shot in the same place?"

"No. How long have you been having this dream?"

"Since shortly after I came here."

"And it's the same thing every time?"

I nodded. "I get shot in the same place, and I'm always left for dead. Recently, though, that's changed. I've been seeing… people carrying me, putting me on a table. I always bleed out, though."

McKerras thought for a moment. "I'm no dream expert, but I don't think you're mad. Something repeating like that has to mean something."

He would see me waking up like that for a few more mornings before suggesting I talk about it with someone who would know more than either of us. Unfortunately, the day he suggested that was the day the tranquility of my life in the Scots Greys was completely shattered.

It was during a patrol shortly after my unit had been moved up north to the border between the Mandate and Syria when we were charged by a rogue band of Arabs on horseback. McKerras began shouting into his radio for reinforcements, then began ordering me and Colfield to start holding them off.

This sort of thing was nothing new, but it was my first true engagement in combat. I have vague memories of my father telling me that he had narrowly dodged attacks like this before. In most cases, these were not people who could be negotiated with, and I had to set my fear aside in order to keep my comrades safe.

Colfield and I galloped up to a ridge overlooking the expanse of desert that the Arabs had come from. We weren't quite sure what set them off, but there weren't that many, at least not compared to the stories my father has told. Still, they weren't to be trifled with, and they seemed to be after us, specifically. They were shooting at McKerras and Anworth as they made their escape, while Colfield and I dismounted and lay down on our stomachs with our Lee-Enfields.

We caused a great deal of confusion as dead and wounded riders fell from their horses and broke up the charge. McKerras was turning to fire back at the Arabs with his revolver, trusting Slate to carry him to safety. Through the banging of gunfire, I heard the leading Arab call out to some of the surviving raiders to find the ones shooting at them from the ridge—myself and Colfield.

I was terrified. I can't think of many other words to describe it. My blood ran cold as I told Colfield what I heard, and we both got up and started running for our horses. My rifle was slung over my shoulder as I leapt onto Snowstripe, and started galloping away from the Arabs, but back toward the British camp. Colfield and I had drawn our revolvers, frantically glancing over our shoulders. When three Arabs appeared behind us, I found myself praying and urging Snowstripe to go faster.

Bullets flew by our heads. Colfield was trading shots with the Arabs, while I was looking west toward McKerras and Anworth. McKerras was coming toward us, helping us out by firing at the three Arabs chasing us. A lot of sand had been kicked up from all the horses, and my hands were shaking as I pulled down my goggles and lifted my scarf over my nose and mouth. I could hear my breath rushing in and out through the fabric, and that made me even more nervous.

I looked over my shoulder to see the Arabs were still on our tails. McKerras galloped out in front of us, narrowing dodging us as he charged at the three raiders behind us with his bayonet. Two swiftly turned their horses away, while the third's last sight was of McKerras spearing him in the chest.

The loss of their comrade hadn't slowed the other two raiders. They were attempting to trap us. One of them had gotten alongside me, and, without my prompting, Snowstripe shoved the other horse away, giving me a chance to shoot the rider, knocking him free from the horse. "Good boy, Snowstripe!" I said. "Nicely done!"

Below the ridge, several more British riders had arrived, along with a handful of armored cars. McKerras and Slate were hot on the tail of the third Arab that had gone after us. The raider was right up on Colfield. From where he was, he couldn't miss if he took a shot.

And he didn't.

Colfield's revolver had run out of ammunition, so he was trying as fast as he could to switch back to his rifle. That was all the time the Arab needed. Both McKerras and I were trying to get a clear shot without hitting Colfield, but all that trying and no firing sealed Colfield's fate. One gunshot was heard, and Colfield was falling from his horse, blood gushing from a fresh wound in the upper left side of his chest. He didn't get free, and was being dragged by the horse in the sand.

"Moffitt, after that raider!" McKerras ordered. He tried to get Colfield's horse under control, leaving me completely on my own to handle the last Arab.

The man had pulled back the bolt on his rifle, ready to take a shot at me. I was blind with rage at him injuring Colfield. Without a second thought, I put a round through his skull. When the raider had fallen, I ordered Snowstripe to stop, and we watched the man's horse flee off toward the southeast. My heart was still racing in my chest, but there wasn't time to think about what had just happened.

McKerras ran up to me on foot. "Moffitt, go back to camp. Get Major Langston."

"Is Colfield going to be alright?" I asked.

"He won't be if we sit here talking about it! Go, now!"

"Yes, Sergeant. Come on, Snowstripe." I urged the horse forward, heading down the ridge, where our troops had finished forcing the surviving raiders into retreat.

I hadn't needed to get Langston; he was already on his way with the rest of the medical staff. The adrenaline rush from the battle was still coursing through my veins, and as it gradually stopped, I struggled to process what occurred. In that skirmish, there were several wounded, and a few dead for us. I made the mistake of passing near where the bodies of the dead were lined up and covered with sheets. Even though I couldn't see their faces, I knew that beneath each of the sheets was a man who left behind loved ones. Bearing that in mind, I started feeling sick.

Langston and his men were stabilizing the wounded. I found where Colfield was being treated, and his cries of pain resonated through me. I wanted to go over, ask if there was anything I could do to help, but I couldn't. I simply couldn't.

Colfield's screaming became too much for me to handle, and I staggered over behind one of the ambulances to throw up. Shivering from the sudden force of vomiting and the stress of what I had just witnessed, I sank to the hot sand. I could still hear the groaning and crying of the wounded, and drew my legs up to rest my head on my knees. I really didn't want anyone to see me sobbing like a child, but I wasn't sure how else to express my shock.

I heard a snort, and felt a horse's muzzle touch my shoulder. Lifting my head from my knees, I saw Snowstripe looking down at me. It was relieving to know he was alright, but I felt guilty for having survived myself. "I should've done more to protect Colfield," I said.

Another presence appeared, and McKerras crouched next to me. He noticed the puddle of what used to be my breakfast next to his boot, and sighed, shifting to avoid it. "Are you alright, Moffitt?"

"I'm… well, I'm not wounded," I said.

"No, but this was your first real taste of action, and I can see you're not handling it well. You performed to the best of your ability out there. I'm impressed with you, and with Snowstripe."

I tried to suppress it, but another sob came out anyway. "Obviously I didn't do well if Colfield was injured. I failed to protect him."

"No, you didn't. You did your best. That Arab got lucky. Neither of us could've fired without accidentally hitting Colfield ourselves."

"I still should've done more—"

"There was nothing more you could've done." McKerras's voice became firmer. "Don't blame yourself for things like this. No good will come of it." He stood. "Get up. We're going back to camp."

It was difficult for me to stand, but Snowstripe helped me along. I followed McKerras out to where Slate was waiting, and we both rode our horses back to camp. I was still in a state of shock, and was beginning to regret choosing to enlist. Snowstripe kept looking over his shoulder at me, sensing my stress. Even Slate was occasionally glancing at me, which prompted McKerras to do the same.

"Moffitt, we can discuss this when we get back," McKerras said. "Relax, mate."

When we returned to camp, McKerras and I put our horses back, and then headed off to an isolated area in order to talk. McKerras handed me a canteen, ordering me to drink. He said nothing until I drank a good amount. "Feel better?" he asked.

"A little," I said.

"Throwing up and crying uses a lot of water in your body. Be mindful of that out here."

I nodded. "I know."

McKerras sat next to me, letting out a sigh. "I expected that to be your reaction to being in combat for the first time. No one takes to it easily. If you were going about your day normally, I'd be bloody worried, because I'd be afraid we let a psychopath in."

I managed a grin. "No, I'm not a psychopath." My grin faded. "Do we… Do we know if Colfield is going to be alright?"

McKerras shook his head. "They're operating on him right now. We'll know in a few hours. Hopefully. Start praying." He took a drink from his own canteen. "You'll get used to it. You have to. For your own sake, as well as the sakes of your men."

"I'm starting to feel as though this wasn't a good idea."

"What do you mean?"

"Enlisting. I… feel like I've made a terrible mistake."

"I don't think you have. We weren't expecting that to happen today, but we adapted well to the situation and did what we could. Four lone soldiers can't take on a band of twenty or so Arabs."

I see you grinning, Troy. I know we've gone up against a lot more than that, and twice as many Germans. Anyway…

"I know I can't… act like this after every engagement," I said. "I'm just afraid that's what's going to happen."

"Like I said, you'll get used to it. Well…" McKerras trailed off. "You'll get better at putting your emotions off to the side. Save them for a rainy day, you know."

"What does that mean?"

"Means you can't let your emotions get in the way, but they will never go away. You're going to see things that no man should ever see. You won't forget those things, no matter how much you want to, but you'd be demoralizing everyone by breaking down in front of them. Best to get it out in private."

I had a feeling McKerras was trying to tell me something about himself. I could never see him as someone who cried, but he wasn't heartless. He cared about Colfield as much as I did, and as his commander, I imagined McKerras felt just as guilty for not being able to do more to keep Colfield from getting hurt. At the time, I wasn't sure if I should have come right out and asked if he was upset. His tone and body language suggested he was, so I felt it would've been stupid of me to say anything.

Present Day, 1948

Moffitt paused when it looked like Troy wanted to say something, and he had a feeling it wasn't a silly observation or comment this time.

"Your sergeant's a smart man. I can definitely see where he and I differ, though. I… wouldn't have told you anything, or even hinted about being upset," Troy said. The whole time, he had been leaning against the back of Dietrich's chair.

"Trust me, I know," Moffitt replied. "McKerras never let his friendships intrude on his abilities as a commander, which was quite impressive. He knew the value of trust and having a good relationship with your team off the battlefield, but he was also wary of the risks of them becoming too emotionally attached. He was still an open book compared to you, Troy." He glanced at Dietrich, noticing the skinny German was still awake, but looking a bit distant. "Are you alright, Dietrich?"

"Me? Oh, yes… just thinking," Dietrich murmured.

"Is this something we need to worry about?" Troy asked.

"You know, Troy, the same can be said for you sometimes."

"Boys, that's enough," Moffitt said. "Is this something you're comfortable talking about with us?"

Dietrich sighed. "I was thinking, when you mentioned that this took place just after the Battle of France… that was my first taste of combat as well, and my reaction was not unlike yours. Despite being an officer—a rather young officer at that—I was up in the front with the enlisted men. I saw them wounded. I saw them get killed. Little did I know that was going to become a common occurrence." He glanced up when Troy touched his shoulder, but, surprisingly, didn't protest against such contact. "I still remember after it was over, and seeing the corpses being carried off for burial, hearing the wounded screaming in pain, and feeling powerless to help them. I found a somewhat secluded area, threw up, cried, and felt guilty." A ghost of a smirk crossed his face. "The funny part is that Rommel was not too far off from where I was losing my lunch. I am not sure how much he heard, but I do recall him approaching me not too long after and asking if I was alright because I 'looked pale.' I did not want to show weakness in front of him, so I lied and said I was alright. To this day, I have no idea if he saw right through me. He never called me out on it."

"I was afraid McKerras would be angry with me over my reaction, but he didn't get upset with me over crying when I was having trouble with Snowstripe, so I saw no reason why he would've gotten upset with me after that fight was over." Moffitt looked back down at his journal, sighing and rubbing his face as the onslaught of memories crashed in his head.

Anah tightened herself around his shoulders. "Perhaps you should take a break and top off your cocoa, dear."

"Alright." Moffitt placed a bookmark in his journal before standing. "Do either of you want anything more?"

"I'm good for the night," Troy said. He looked down at Dietrich, and took the opportunity to roughly tousle his hair.

"Stop that," Dietrich grunted.

Moffitt paid no attention to them as he set about making more hot chocolate. It was getting very late, but he didn't care. He was enjoying this, even if it was tough at times. Once he topped off his mug, he returned to his chair, and opened his journal to where he left off.