Author: Amedia (amedia@fanfic.tv)
Pairing(s): Moffitt/Dietrich
Summary: Ten years ago, as a summer exchange student at the University of Cairo, Hans Dietrich had an affair with the son of his archaeology professor. He never dreamed they'd meet again--on opposite sides of a war.
Notes: This story was originally printed in FLANKING MANEUVERS 1 under the pseudonym Anaktoria. This is, however, the first publication of the illustrations by the amazing Safari.
Dietrich stared in frustration at the shattered remnants of the fuel dump. The carefully disguised supplies were now charred, smoking ruins. There was no way the Rat Patrol could have known so precisely where it was. How did they find it? It was as if they had X-ray vision, or someone along who could read the shifting desert sands like a book. The way Jack used to. . . .
Dietrich allowed himself a moment of nostalgia. It had been what, ten years? For one glorious summer during his years at the military college he had been sent to Egypt to study Arabic and archaeology, with a hands-on practicum at one of the University of Cairo's excavation sites. Since the war began and he had been posted to North Africa, he had often wondered whether the college superintendent had suspected that there would be a war in that part of the world, and had actually groomed him all along for the post he occupied now.
One of his lieutenants came up. "Your orders, Hauptmann Dietrich?"
Dietrich returned to the present. "We'll need to file a report. I want as complete a description as possible; see if you can determine what kind of explosives were used and how they were placed." He sighed. "If you can come up with any clue to how the Rat Patrol found this place, it would be greatly appreciated. Assign a dozen men to fan out and comb the site. And tell Leutnant Schmidt to start setting up camp for the night."
Not that many miles away, Sergeant Troy regarded the newest man under his command with puzzlement. At first, Moffitt had been loquacious, obviously eager to please, deference to authority warring with enthusiasm for the mission. Troy couldn't say he liked him much, not yet, but he recognized the man was worth his weight in gold to a unit like the Rat Patrol. It would probably be a good idea to ask for Moffitt to be permanently assigned. He'd mentioned the possibility to Moffitt, and the Englishman seemed pleased.
But since they'd made camp Moffitt had been very quiet. Right now he was sitting on his bedroll staring into space. He'd made no move to take off his uniform or otherwise prepare for sleep. Troy lit a cigarette and came up quietly behind him. "Penny for your thoughts."
Moffitt startled. "Sorry," he said. "I was woolgathering." He looked up at Troy. "This archenemy of yours. His name is Dietrich?" Troy nodded. Moffitt stared off into the distance again. "It's a very common name," he said, as if to himself.
A hundred questions leapt to Troy's mind as he sat down next to the Englishman. Had Moffitt recognized Dietrich? Did he know him from somewhere? At that distance, Moffitt could barely have gotten a glimpse of the German captain. Perhaps he had only recognized the name--and it was a fairly common one. Troy decided that the wisest thing to say for right now was nothing. He finished his cigarette, clapped Moffitt on the shoulder, and stood up. "Good day's work," he said.
Moffitt roused himself. "Thanks," he said, and went back to staring at the sky. As usual the stars blazed brightly in the clear night, seeming almost close enough to touch.
Dietrich took a last look around the camp, dismissed his aide, and went into his tent. As he turned to close the tent flap, the stars caught his eye, a welter of brilliant constellations against the pitch black sky. He closed the flap and began getting ready for bed. His mind drifted back again to Cairo, ten years before.
"Hans Dietrich?" Dietrich stopped, hearing his name called. He saw a young man his own age, thin and dark-haired, waving his arms. Dietrich broke out of the line of disembarking passengers to join him, and was surprised to find himself looking up an inch or two. It wasn't often Dietrich met someone taller than himself. "Do you have any luggage to pick up?" the young man asked. His German was excellent, with a distinct Bavarian accent.
Dietrich shook his head. "Just what I'm carrying," he replied in the same language.
"Let me take that," the young man said, reaching for one of the bags. Dietrich surrendered it, eyeing his new companion.
"Oh," said the latter, suddenly realizing he'd forgotten something. He put the heavy bag down and stuck out his hand. "I'm Jack Moffitt. Pleased to meet you."
The name sounded familiar. "Are you related to the Dr. Moffitt who teaches the archaeology class?" Dietrich asked as they shook hands.
"I'm his son," said Moffitt, bending to pick up the bag again. "This way. We've got a car from the university." As Dietrich followed, Moffitt explained, "The university couldn't spare Dad an assistant over the summer, so I got 'volunteered' for the position. I'll be doing some of the day-to-day supervision of the dig, that sort of thing."
"Oh," said Dietrich. "Because you're the professor's son?" He didn't care for the idea of taking orders from someone who was in charge just because he was a relative.
Moffitt lost his cheerful expression. "No," he said. "Because I've just finished my junior year at Cambridge reading archaeology and classical languages."
"I'm sorry," Dietrich said immediately. Wonderful, he thought to himself. I've been here barely five minutes and I've already insulted my supervisor.
Moffitt smiled again. "It's all right. I get that a lot. Sometimes I think it would all have been ever so much easier if I'd gone into biology or journalism or something else instead." Dietrich laughed.
They came out of the airport building to the drive, where cars and taxis honked and jostled for position. "Over here!" called Moffitt, leading the way to a sturdy-looking vehicle. "So, what's your field of study?"
"History," said Dietrich. An animated discussion began as the car pulled away.
Moffitt sat on his bedroll staring up at the stars. It was good to be back in North Africa; of all the different places he had lived, this one felt like home. He'd found a unit where it seemed that he could be of some use, if Troy would have him. And it seemed Troy wanted him to stay.
Wanted him to stay. . . .
"So, Jack, what's your impression of our foreign student?" Dr. Moffitt asked. He and Jack were in the professor's office at the university. Dietrich was downstairs filling out some last-minute paperwork with the department secretary.
"He's a little stiff and nervous, I think," Jack said. "But he seems like a serious student. We talked about history on our way over. He's very well read. What's more important is that he's also thought about what he's read." He reflected for a moment. "I like him."
"Good," the elder Moffitt said. "I was just on the phone with student housing. They lost his reservation."
"As usual," groaned Jack. "Just as well--those dormitories are hideous, anyway."
"I'm not comfortable with getting him a place alone in the city," Dr. Moffitt continued. "I don't think the exchange authorities would approve." He regarded his son for a moment. "And I know you've been lonely since you came back from university. I thought we might invite him to stay with us."
Jack's face lit up. "I'd like that."
Professor Moffitt took both young men out to dinner. "Don't even think about that wretched student housing," he said genially to Dietrich. "You come stay with us 'til it's time to go out to the dig. The house is practically empty since my wife took the baby back to England for the summer."
Jack Moffitt grinned at Dietrich. "Now, I grew up tagging along on expeditions all over the Sahara. But Mother's determined to keep Henry out of the summer heat over here."
"You were a graduate-school baby," said his father. "Henry's a tenure baby. We can afford to spoil him." He punched his son affectionately on the arm, and turned to Dietrich. "How about it, young fellow?"
Dietrich nodded politely. "Thank you, I accept," he said to the professor, and smiled at Jack.
Moffitt turned his attention suddenly to his dinner, looking away from Dietrich. That smile made him feel suddenly wobbly. He glanced back up to see Dietrich watching him. Their eyes met, and then it was Dietrich's turn to look away.
Dietrich got his men up early. "We're going after the Rat Patrol today," he informed them. "They can't be far." The lieutenant he had assigned to study the area last night had found jeep tracks leading away from the scene. "I've contacted HQ and they'll be sending a spotter plane at 0500 hours. I want a scout patrol ready to detach on my orders as soon as we get coordinates from the plane."
Dietrich was proud of his men's efficiency. Camp was struck, everyone dressed, fed, and the whole group on the road by 0430.
Troy had also gotten his men up early. He was anxious to get them back to the Allied lines for a much-deserved--and much needed--rest. But over the steady chugging of the jeeps' engines, Troy began to hear the faint ominous sound of another kind of engine. "A plane!" he yelled, pointing up toward the tiny reconnaissance aircraft that had appeared high in the sky. "We've been spotted." Tully pulled his jeep closer to Hitch's so they could talk without having to stop.
Troy called to Moffitt. "Dietrich must be on to us. We're going to split up. S.O.P. Tully can fill you in on the drill." Moffitt nodded. Tully's jeep peeled away, moving off the road to the hard-packed ground beside it. "Good luck!" Troy called after them. Moffitt turned and waved.
And they were off, driving for their lives across the trackless terrain. Moffitt let Tully drive without directions; obviously the driver knew what he was doing. Despite the fear that was gathering now that he knew the Germans had spotted them, Moffitt couldn't help but find the trip exhilarating. The desert air blew hot and sharp in their faces, reminding him of other drives he'd taken in the desert.
Night had fallen and the air was cooling as Moffitt pulled the car to a stop. The dig was ahead of schedule for once and the students had been given a few days off; Moffitt had suggested an evening picnic and Dietrich had accepted.
They were atop a ridge that overlooked the dig. Moffitt hopped out of the car and began unloading a large basket from the boot. "Give me a hand, will you?"
Dietrich came around and took the handle on the other end. They set it down and then walked to a spot a judicious distance from the edge. Moffitt took his friend's arm and pointed downward. "Look, Hans," he said. "From here you can see the whole tel. It's one of my favorite spots." Twinkling lights marked the edges of the dig; the individual excavation squares were marked off with ropes. The nearby clump of tents showed lights glowing through the tan fabric here and there. Overhead the stars shone thick and bright in the expanse of black sky.
"It's beautiful," said Dietrich, and shivered in the night air.
"Cold?" Moffitt asked. He went back over to the basket and knelt beside it. "Thought you might be." He rummaged around and came up with Dietrich's jacket.
"You think of everything," said Dietrich with a chuckle.
I think of nothing but you, thought Moffitt, but he didn't say it aloud. "Here," he said , bringing the jacket over to Dietrich and helping him on with it.
Dietrich caught one of Moffitt's hands as he was about to let go. "Your hands are so warm," said Dietrich.
Moffitt took both of Dietrich's hands in his own and squeezed slightly. "Yours are so cold."
It was a long time before they got around to the picnic.
The jeep's engine suddenly sputtered and coughed. Tully let loose a stream of exotic curses. So he does talk, thought Moffitt. The jeep choked, jerked along a few more yards, and finally came to a stop. Tully jumped out, threw up the hood, and danced back. Steam was pouring off the engine.
Tully came back to Moffitt. "Nothin' we can do for it right now, Sarge," he said.
Moffitt looked around. The desert plain stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. There was not a speck of cover anywhere in sight. Something caught his eye and he raised his binoculars. Through the wavering distortion of heated air, he could just make out a German scout patrol in the distance. It was on their trail. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
Tully coughed, clearly uncomfortable. "What is it, Tully?" Moffitt asked, then realized that Tully was in the awkward position of having to tell a superior what to do. Moffitt rephrased his question. "What's Troy's standard operating procedure for this situation?"
Relieved, Tully answered. "There's no point trying to fight right now. We'd just get killed and then they'd go after the others. We let the krauts capture us and wait. Hitch and the Sarge will come back and rescue us as soon as they can."
Moffitt nodded. "All right." He took off his sidearm and leaned against the back of the jeep. Tully put his weapon down as well and joined him.
The patrol arrived sooner than expected--both Moffitt and Tully knew that apparent distances could be deceptive in the desert. They straightened up and raised their hands.
Now Moffitt got an idea of how formidable the unit he had joined really was. Three soldiers came out from the first car and advanced toward Tully and Moffitt. The other two remained in the vehicle, their machine guns trained on the jeep. As the three soldiers got nearer, one split off to move behind the two prisoners while the other two stood in front, close enough to shoot easily but not close enough to be jumped. This group of Jerries obviously took the Rat Patrol very, very seriously.
Moffitt and Tully were herded into one of the cars with a guard on each side. Not a word had been spoken. The drivers started the cars and they moved off in a different direction.
The driver radioed ahead to let Dietrich know of the capture. When the answer crackled back over the radio, Tully thought he saw Moffitt start, as if he'd recognized the voice at the other end.
One of the guards turned and spoke to them in English. "We will rendezvous with the column at our base nearby," he said, not unkindly. "When we reach it, Hauptmann Dietrich will want to speak to you."
At the other end of the line, Dietrich was exultant. Now that his men had caught two of those pesky raiders, it was only a matter of time before they captured the whole group. The Rat Patrol was within his grasp at last. He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves.
"Cigarette?"
Moffitt opened one eye and glared at him. "For the third time this week, Hans, no thank you."
Dietrich took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly, staring up at the poles intersecting at the top of the tent above them. "Why not?"
"I never know when Father and I might take off and spend a few months living with the Arabs, fossil-hunting or whatnot."
"So?"
"The Arabs don't approve of tobacco. It's against their religion. And it's awfully hard to give up. Easier not to start."
Dietrich began laughing.
"What's so funny?" Moffitt demanded, irritated.
Dietrich sat up, holding his sides and trying to catch his breath. "You're concerned the Arabs will not approve of you for smoking? What do they think of homosexuality?" He lay back down again, still chuckling.
Moffitt tried to frown at him, but it didn't work. "I never thought of it that way," he admitted with a rueful smile. "It's easier to give up sex than cigarettes. For a few months, anyway." He turned serious suddenly, rolling on his side to look at Hans. "At least, that's what I used to think." He reached out, leaning over Dietrich and took the cigarette away, stubbing it out on the sandy tent floor.
"Hey! What was that for?"
"I just thought of something better to do. You've got the rest of your life to smoke in, but we've only got the rest of the summer." Moffitt's tone was light, but Dietrich looked up and saw that his eyes were very serious.
"Oh, Jack," he said, and pulled him down again.
Neither of them had to come out and say that they would never see each other again. Cambridge was a long way from Berlin; besides, while British academia might be tolerant of certain eccentricities, the German military most definitely was not. This ephemerality lent a sense of urgency and an instant melancholy neither one wanted to dwell on.
Moffitt and Tully were marched into Dietrich's office by two guards. Dietrich was sitting at his desk, sorting through some forms. He waited with studied nonchalance until one of the guards spoke to him. "Die Gefangenen, Herr Hauptmann."
Dietrich looked up casually in the middle of a word and promptly broke his pencil. So it was Jack after all. That explains a great deal. Regaining his composure, he managed to regard his two prisoners without a sign of recognition. They were both at attention and staring straight ahead.
"Gentlemen," said Dietrich, rising from his chair and coming around to the front of the desk, "you have caused me a great deal of trouble. Have you anything to say?"
"Moffitt, John. Sergeant, British 8th Army." Moffitt gave his serial number and Pettigrew took up the drill. Dietrich turned to the guards.
"Take Pettigrew and confine him. At least two guards at all times, do you hear? And leave a guard outside this tent--I want to interrogate the other prisoner alone."
Tully didn't understand the rapid fire German commands, but from Dietrich's gestures he realized they were going to be separated. "Good luck, Sarge," he muttered to Moffitt just before he was hustled away.
Once they were alone, Moffitt's eyes shifted so that he was actually looking at Dietrich. They stared at each other for a long moment. It was Dietrich who finally broke the silence. "Ten years?" he said in English.
"Ten years," agreed Moffitt. Another moment passed before the British sergeant volunteered, "It's been a long time."
Dietrich nodded. "These are not the circumstances I would have chosen for a reunion." Moffitt gave him a faint shadow of the smile he remembered but did not reply. Dietrich rounded on him suddenly. "How did you find our fuel dump?" Moffitt didn't answer. Dietrich turned away. Moffitt wasn't going to talk now, he could see that. And there was no real reason to hurry. There would be experts waiting for him where he was going, who could find out what they needed to know at leisure. Dietrich found he didn't really want to think about Jack being subjected to their methods of interrogation and pushed the mental image aside quickly. This was war and they both had their separate duties to follow.
Moffitt watched Dietrich closely. The German's stiff posture gave nothing away, and his face when he turned was carefully composed. Moffitt ached to reach out, to make simple human contact. But that summer had ended a long ten years before. They had to start over now, with new rules.
Dietrich called the guard back in. "Put him in with the other one," he said. "I want both prisoners tied up to prevent escape until they can be transferred to the proper facilities." The guard saluted. Moffitt didn't look back as he was marched out.
The summer had flown by. Jack spent his mornings helping supervise at the dig and his afternoons leading conversation practice sessions in advanced Arabic. The nights he spent with Hans. On Dietrich's last day, Moffitt took him to see a museum. Already the previous night, indeed the whole summer seemed unreal, fading from immediacy into the storehouse of memory. Jack stole a glance sideways at Hans who was inspecting a funeral vase across the room. It was hard to believe that he had ever shared so personal a relationship with this serious, formal young man. Staring at the antiquities preserved behind glass, Moffitt wished he could preserve this summer forever, just as it was. But life didn't work that way.
Later in the afternoon, Moffitt dropped him off at the airport, contenting himself with a handshake goodbye. Nothing more would have been appropriate, and at any rate, nothing would have been enough.
Dietrich held his eyes for a long time and Moffitt wondered what he was thinking. "I won't forget you," the German student said suddenly.
Moffitt gave him one of his rare cockeyed grins. "Just you try."
Dietrich smiled back, picked up his bags, and walked through the gate.
Troy and Hitch lay on their stomachs at the top of a rise, observing Dietrich's base through binoculars. "I don't see how we're gonna get them outta there, Sarge," said Hitch. "Look at those guards. We can't get to them."
"We can't," said Troy. "But Dietrich can. We need to get to him. Think you could persuade him to cooperate?"
Hitch grinned. "Piece of cake, Sarge."
Though Dietrich had the prisoners carefully guarded, Dietrich himself was relatively unprotected. He cursed his bad luck as Troy and Hitchcock somehow materialized in his tent shortly after the sun went down, armed and determined. Reluctantly, he led them to the tent where the prisoners were kept, dismissed the guards, and let Troy in. Hitchcock took up a position outside the door.
Tully and Moffitt looked up in surprise to see Dietrich coming in, followed by Troy, who held a gun on him. "Untie the prisoners," Troy said to Dietrich. Dietrich sighed and knelt beside Tully, undoing the knots that secured his hands behind him. With his hands freed, Tully leaned forward to untie the rope around his ankles. Dietrich turned to Moffitt. The Englishman stared straight ahead as Dietrich fumbled with the knots, with fingers that seemed suddenly clumsy and awkward. He realized that Moffitt, dressed lightly and unable to move about, was struggling not to shiver in the evening chill. As he slipped the last knot off, he whispered, "Deine Hände sind so kalt."
Moffitt bent forward to untie his ankle ropes. As he did so he glanced up and to the side. "Yours are so warm," he said softly. For a brief moment their eyes met, then Moffitt turned his attention to the ropes and Dietrich rose to his feet, staring impassively at Troy. Troy called Hitch in and gestured; Hitch went over to Moffitt, pulling him to his feet. Before Dietrich realized what was coming, Hitch turned quickly and dealt a quick chop to the back of his neck, knocking him out.
"Let's move out," said Troy, and the four members of the Rat Patrol melted away into the darkness.
"So," said Troy, sitting down next to Moffitt after dinner. "Was it the same Dietrich?"
Moffitt nodded. "I met him once a long time ago when we were both in college." If Troy needed to know more than that, thought Moffitt, he could bloody well ask.
Troy asked only one question. "Has he changed much?"
"It was hard to tell. I don't think so."
"You're lucky," said Troy.
Moffitt turned and looked at him. That was the last thing he had expected the American to say. "How so?"
"I've run into Dietrich a lot the past few months," said Troy. "I hate to admit it, but I admire the guy. I wish I could have gotten to know him without being at war." He yawned and stretched. "It's been a long day for all of us. Let's turn in early and get a good start in the morning."
"G'night," Moffitt said obediently, watching Troy leave. A strange day, he reflected. He lay back on his bedroll and looked up at the familiar stars. He'd thought that coming home would mean a return to the routine and the expected; but it seemed that North Africa was going to be full of surprises.
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