The Truth Will Out Raid Title: The Truth Will Out Raid
Author: Amedia (amedia@fanfic.tv)
Pairing(s): Moffitt/Dietrich
Summary: On a joint mission against a common enemy, Dietrich must reveal his past involvement with Moffitt to Troy.
Note: Originally printed in FLANKING MANEUVERS 1 under the pseudonym Anaktoria.
The German dialogue was supplied by A.J. Becker and C.J. Ueberall, native German speakers who also contributed to FM.
Troy watched in some puzzlement as the German motorcycle approached the Rat Patrol. A white flag was evident at a distance; as the motorcycle drew closer, he could make out two riders. He waved to acknowledge them and turned back to his men.
“Message from Dietrich?” Moffitt asked.
“Who else sends us love letters by motorcycle?” replied Hitch, blowing a bubble with a satisfying pop.
Troy frowned. “It’s not the usual delivery service. Looks like a couple of Italians.”
“Not our friend Schmidt?” put in Tully. Dietrich usually sent messages by a young blond aide whom the Rat Patrol had come to recognize. Troy shook his head. Tully shrugged, watching the motorcycle coming closer. “Maybe he’s on leave with a couple of dancing girls.”
“We can only hope,” deadpanned Hitch.
The motorcycle pulled up to within a few yards of the jeeps and stopped. One of the men got off and walked stiffly over to Troy. Standing at attention, the Italian soldier saluted and handed Troy a letter. Troy opened it. The distinctive handwriting was Dietrich’s; a large D at the bottom confirmed Dietrich’s authorship. The letter was terse, requesting a meeting the next morning at a nearby neutral area, a deserted town by an extinct well. No reason was given. Troy looked from the letter to the messenger. “Do you know anything about this?”
The man shrugged and made signs. Troy realized he didn’t speak English. He turned to Moffitt, but the English sergeant was not there. Troy looked around and saw that Moffitt was chatting with the Italian who had remained on the motorcycle. Moffitt saw Troy looking at him and held up a finger to say, wait a minute. Troy nodded and reread the brief note. Turning it over, he found a postscript on the other side. “Sergeant Troy,” it said, “for their own protection, do not let Hitchcock and Pettigrew out of your sight before our meeting.” Troy frowned. Was this some kind of threat? Dietrich didn’t play word games.
Troy looked up to find Moffitt beside him. “What’d you find out?”
Moffitt took Troy’s elbow and steered him a few feet away. “I asked him where Schmidt was. He said Dietrich wouldn’t send him because it wasn’t safe.”
“Not safe?” repeated Troy.
Moffitt nodded. “I asked what he meant and he got very nervous and refused to talk anymore.”
Troy showed him Dietrich’s note and the postscript. Moffitt stared at it for a long moment, then looked at the courier, who was dark-haired, dumpy, and middle-aged. Moffitt’s eyes narrowed.
“Hmmm?” Troy prodded.
“I’m not sure,” Moffitt said slowly. “But I’ve got the beginning of a nasty theory.”
“Should we meet with Dietrich?” Troy asked. He knew better than to press for details of Moffitt’s theory right away.
“Absolutely,” said Moffitt. “Dietrich’s not the threat this time.”
Troy rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a pencil, and scribbled a response on Dietrich’s note.
“Let me add something,” said Moffitt.
Troy shrugged and handed him pencil and note. There was something odd about the way Moffitt held the pencil and Troy realized he was writing from right to left. When he handed the note back, Troy saw a line of Arabic scrawled across the bottom.
Troy beckoned the courier and handed him the note. Moffitt said something to him in Italian and the man’s face showed relief. He saluted both Troy and Moffitt several times, went back to the motorcycle and climbed into the sidecar. Both Italians saluted again and drove off.
“All right, spill your guts,” growled Troy. “What’s up? And what was that chicken-scratching all about?”
“Easy question first,” Moffitt said. “That ‘chicken-scratching’ is a safe-conduct that will be recognized by about two-thirds of the local tribes. It’s the other one-third I’m worried about.” He looked over to where Hitch and Tully were waiting patiently beside the jeeps. “Troy, do you remember the time you and Dietrich were captured by Arab slave traders?”
Troy nodded. “It would be hard to forget.”
“They wanted the two of you for manual labor, presumably. There is, however, a more. . . pernicious type of slaver infesting the desert.” Moffitt looked into the distance, trying to phrase his next sentence properly. “They are especially interested in young, blond, blue-eyed men, whom they drug into submission, take south to the deep desert, and sell as catamites.”
Shocked, Troy tried to focus on the logical implications of Moffitt’s words. “That’s why Dietrich said it wasn’t safe to send Schmidt. That’s why he warned us to keep an eye on. . . . “ He turned and looked at the two young blond drivers, who were now waiting not-so-patiently by the jeeps.
Moffitt recognized the look in Troy’s eyes. Troy took his command very seriously and considered himself fully responsible for his men. If any white slavers wanted to get their hands on Hitch and Tully, they’d have to get through Troy first.
All four Rats attended the meeting the next day. Troy wanted Moffitt along for his expertise on Arabs; and after Dietrich’s warning and Moffitt’s explanation, Troy did not want to leave Hitch and Tully behind.
Dietrich did not seem surprised to see them all. He, Schmidt, and the two Italians were waiting in a ruined building. “Sergeant Troy,” he said, returning Troy’s salute. “I am glad to see you.” He nodded to the others.
Troy took the direct approach. “Moffitt thinks we have a common enemy.”
Dietrich shot Moffitt a look. “Perceptive as always. Perhaps we could discuss this more privately?”
Troy hesitated. Dietrich said, “I think they’ll be all right here.” He gestured to the Italians, and Troy turned to Hitch and Tully, who shrugged and went out with the others, leaving Troy and Moffitt with Dietrich and Schmidt.
“Let us speak frankly, Sergeant,” Dietrich said to Troy. “A predatory group of Arabs has been picking off my men one by one.” He looked down at the floor. “We weren’t sure what was happening until one of my men got away. He managed to tell us what was happening, what they had done to him and were planning eventually to do with the others. . . . We put him in the infirmary and thought that he would heal.” Dietrich’s eyes darkened with sorrow. “He killed himself a week later.”
“My God,” Troy whispered, horrified. He looked at Moffitt to see his reaction and found that Moffitt was staring at Dietrich with a strangely haunted expression.
Moffitt was shaken. Accustomed, in a matter-of-fact way, to the harsh, sometimes barbaric customs of the desert people, he had never considered what a terrible shock they would be to outsiders. Dietrich’s young soldiers might have expected to suffer, to be sick or wounded, to die in battle; but they were utterly unprepared for this kind of thing.
That poor boy could not live with the shame and humiliation, Moffitt thought. And then, remembering what he had learned about the reactions of men who had suffered this kind of abuse, he thought, he was probably terrified that this experience would change him permanently; he was desperately afraid that he might become what we are. And he would rather die. At that moment Dietrich looked up and met Moffitt’s eyes, and Moffitt saw the same expression mirrored on the German’s face.
Troy broke the silence. “What can we do to help?
Dietrich smiled with relief, glad to have Troy’s cooperation. “I have been trying to think of a way to get my men out of their clutches before the caravan leaves for the deep desert. But this kind of thing is not my specialty.”
Troy nodded. “I gather you’ve ruled out simply launching an all-out attack.”
“Yes,” said Dietrich. “For a number of reasons.”
“The first one being that the Arabs would kill their captives at the first sign of such an attack,” put in Moffitt. The others agreed.
“Schmidt had an idea,” Dietrich said. “I’m not comfortable with its basic premise and the details are not worked out, but we haven’t had anything better.”
“Let’s have it,” said Troy.
“Well, sir,” said Schmidt. He was a fresh-faced, stocky young blond officer; unlike most Germans Troy had met, he spoke English with an American accent. “We need some kind of undercover operation. I thought I could serve as bait, get captured, and somehow help the others escape. I speak a little Arabic.”
Troy studied Schmidt through narrowed eyes. “You couldn’t do it alone. But it would be an excellent component of a larger plan.” He turned to his second. “Any ideas?”
Moffitt stepped over to Schmidt, put both hands on his shoulders and turned him around. His demeanor changed from that of a crisp British soldier to a cagey Arab huckster. “I can get a good price for this one,” he said in a nasal whine.
“You think you can pose as one of them?” Troy asked. Moffitt shook his head. “Not exactly. I’m sure they know each other well, and the dialects I speak fluently aren’t theirs. No, I can pose as a member of a different group, hoping to turn a quick profit by selling them this boy I’ve found.”
“We could create a diversion at a prearranged time,” Troy added. He grinned conspiratorially at Dietrich, remembering a previous Arab encounter and the wall of flame that he and Dietrich had created. “Then Moffitt and Schmidt could get the others away.”
“I don’t know. . . .” said Dietrich. He was clearly reluctant to send his young aide on this mission, especially when so many of his men had already been taken, and Troy felt for him.
“We could send Hitch or Tully,” Troy speculated. It would increase the immediate danger to his own men, but there would be advantages to making it an exclusive Rat Patrol mission.
Dietrich shook his head. “They don’t know any Arabic at all. Schmidt may overhear something that will be of use to him in an escape--your men wouldn’t have that advantage.”
‘I’m afraid he’s right,” said Moffitt.
Troy nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “What shall we do for a diversion?”
“A mock battle,” suggested Dietrich. “You and your jeeps could, I suppose, chase one of my heavily-armed convoys right up to their camp, where we could take up positions and start firing at each other.”
Troy grinned. “Business as usual, eh, Captain?” He sobered. “It might be more realistic if one of your half-tracks was chasing us.” He thought some more. “Er, we’ll be short a gunner.”
“I suppose you’ll want me to lend you one?” said Dietrich in mock exasperation. “Very well, Sergeant. Just make sure those 50’s are aimed into the sand.”
“Of course,” said Troy. “And you do the same.”
“We should move as quickly as possible,” said Dietrich. “Could you be ready by, say, oh-six-hundred tomorrow morning?"
Troy looked at Moffitt, who nodded. “Yes, we can,” said Troy.
“Very good, then,” said Dietrich. “Until later, Sergeant Troy.”
“Later,” Troy agreed. He beckoned to Moffitt and the two sergeants left the building. Outside, Hitch and Tully were trying to teach the Italians some kind of game with a ratty old baseball Hitch kept in his duffel bag. Troy and Moffitt stopped and watched them for a few minutes. The four of them, laughing as they threw the ball, missing as often as catching, looked like a bunch of kids on a vacant lot, thought Troy. It was easy to forget that they were trained killers and mortal enemies.
“C’mon, Hitch, Tully, time to go,” said Troy. The two detached themselves from the group and came over to the sergeants.
“What’s up, Sarge?” asked Hitch, tossing the ball in the air as he walked.
Troy snatched the ball out of midair before Hitch could catch it and said, “We’ve got a special mission. It’ll take some explaining.” He started toward the jeeps.
Moffitt stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Troy,” he said, “I spotted an Arab village on our way over here. Could you drop me there on your way back to base camp? I need to get some clothes and see if I can contact any friendly groups in the area.”
“You sure they won’t rat on you to these other guys?” Troy asked.
“Positive,” said Moffitt. “Most of your ordinary folk--especially the settled ones--detest the slavers. After all, foreigners are not their only target.”
“All right then,” said Troy. “How much time do you need?”
“At least the rest of the day,” said Moffitt slowly. "It would be dreadfully rude of me even to bring up a business matter like this in the first two or three hours. Pick me up when it gets dark, there's a good chap."
Troy nodded. “Let’s shake it.”
Troy brought the jeep around just as the sun was setting. Moffitt was waiting for him, carrying a bundle and wearing a dejected expression. "Any luck?" Troy asked.
"Some," Moffitt said, climbing into the passenger seat. "They gave me some clothes and a rough map of the area. They remembered my father; he had worked with some of them about ten years ago during a surveying expedition, and they were quite hospitable to me for his sake. But they don't want to get involved. I was hoping they might decide to attack the slave traders themselves, but it was no go."
Troy shrugged as he spun the wheel and directed the jeep back to their camp. "At least you got what you needed."
Moffitt entered the slave traders camp bright and early the next morning, trailing Schmidt behind him. Periodically Schmidt would lag, and Moffitt would jerk on the rope, bringing him back up to speed. The men in the outlying tents called out obscene compliments, which Moffitt acknowledged with the briefest of nods, and which Schmidt stolidly ignored. They reached the center of camp, where several men were gathered in a circle. Moffitt "parked" Schmidt in a shady spot nearby, keeping hold of the end of the rope, and stood near the circle until a few people shifted to make room. He was handed a cup of tea and sat nursing it in silence for some time. Finally one of the men said, "Travel far?"
Moffitt nodded. "My people are over beyond the sand sea," he said, using a dialect that would bear out his story. "We caught this infidel"--he spat on the ground--"and I was chosen to bring him here." He was offered a plate of bread and cheese and sat for a while, chewing and listening to the discussion of favorable traveling conditions, the health of camels, and the difficulties of keeping slaves healthy and quiet. After about half an hour, he ventured to say, "Feeding this one is more trouble than he's worth." He tossed a hunk of bread over his shoulder; Schmidt caught it awkwardly with his bound hands. The conversation went on for some more time; Moffitt gave Schmidt a cup of water, grumbling again.
One of the older men eyed the young German. "If he's so much trouble, maybe we could take him off your hands."
Moffitt thought about that one for a while, finally saying, "One would hope to recoup what one had spent so far."
Another of the older men shrugged. "One would hope to offer an acceptable price." Moffitt relaxed. It was time to bargain.
Troy had watched Moffitt and Schmidt head out with a mixture of worry and amusement. Moffitt looked quite the mercenary in his Arab get-up and conniving expression. Schmidt, hands tied behind him, trudged after Moffitt at the end of a rope, looking properly hangdog.
Precisely four hours later, Dietrich’s half-track showed up. Troy put down his binoculars, jumped into Hitch’s jeep, and waved Tully’s jeep to follow. The two drivers gunned the engines and the jeeps moved off.
A staccato burst from the half-track announced that the mock battle was on. If their position had been calculated correctly, they were near one end of the Arab camp and well within earshot. The substitute gunner, Holz, took to his job with commendable enthusiasm, cheerfully blasting his comrades with blanks.
It wasn’t long before they had an audience. A few of the Arabs, attracted by the noise, wandered over to see what was going on. They began gesturing to others and soon there was a knot of men milling about at a safe remove. They began waving and pointing and shaking their fists at different sides, talking excitedly. Troy gestured to Tully, who grabbed his shoulder, arched his back as if in pain, and then slumped over the steering wheel. This occasioned much discussion in the audience, and it was clear that they were starting to bet among themselves on the outcome. The Germans began to get into the act as well. One of them managed a spectacular fall off the top of the halftrack, which excited much gesticulation and a fresh round of bets. Troy found himself hoping the young fellow hadn’t hurt himself; he had fallen on the side away from the Arabs, and Troy was relieved to see him scuttle around to the rear, quite unharmed.
Troy looked up again at the crowd of spectators. It seemed that nearly all the camp had turned out. They must have left barely a skeleton crew to guard the prisoners. This was the time for the prisoners to break out.
Even as he fervently hoped that the breakout was successful, Troy noticed that a new arrival had just joined the Arab spectators. He was trying to get their attention, unsuccessfully at first, but eventually some of them turned to him. Soon the whole group was clustered around him. He was gesturing and pointing back to their encampment. The escape has been discovered, thought Troy. The one question is, was it successful?
The Arabs’ leaving for their encampment was the signal for the simulated hostilities to end. Troy made a cutting motion in the air to his gunners and they lowered the barrels of the fifties as Hitch and a miraculously recovered Tully drove away. The Germans on the half-track also stopped firing and moved off in the opposite direction. The plan now was to drive around to the opposite side of the camp, where the rest of Dietrich’s convoy was waiting to receive the escapees.
It seemed to take forever. The jeeps slowly described a half-circle around the camp, keeping a respectful distance from the perimeter. Hitch glanced at Troy. “Worried about Moffitt?” he asked.
Troy nodded.
“Me too,” said Hitch frankly. They completed their journey in uneasy silence.
When they reached the area where Dietrich’s convoy was set up, it was a bustling hive of activity. The Arabs’ ex-prisoners were everywhere; debriefing, filling out forms, waiting for medical exams, and so on. Seeing the Rats arrive, Dietrich excused himself from a group of his junior officers, and came over to the jeeps with Schmidt at his heels. He and Troy exchanged salutes.
“Good news, Captain?” asked Troy.
Dietrich looked uncomfortable. “Good news and bad, Sergeant. My men are returned unharmed. The first escapee that I described to you earlier was apparently an anomaly; normally these businessmen do not sample their wares.” Troy heard the relief in the German officer’s voice. Dietrich continued. “But the bad news is very bad. Schmidt, tell the sergeant what you heard.”
Schmidt stepped forward. “Sir,” he said nervously, “it all went off just as we planned. Sergeant Moffitt did his song-and-dance and they paid him for me, invited him for supper and hauled me off to join the others.” Troy looked around the German encampment, suddenly aware that Moffitt was nowhere to be seen. Schmidt continued, “The tent they put me in was right in the middle of the compound, and I could hear pretty well. They were taking Moffitt to have a bite to eat when one of them recognized him. There was a loud argument. I couldn’t understand all of it; everyone was shouting at once. As near as I could tell, some of them wanted to kill him immediately and others wanted to wait. It ended with Moffitt being dragged away, and someone yelling, ‘Lock him up, we’ll take care of him tonight.’” Troy exchanged worried glances with Hitch and Tully.
Schmidt added, “When the diversion began and we broke out, I tried to look for him. But we only had so much time, and I didn’t know where they’d taken him. . . . “ he shrugged helplessly.
Troy thought quickly. Technically, he supposed his alliance with Dietrich was over. After all, Dietrich had his men back, which was the goal of the mission. But he would prefer Dietrich’s help to rescue Moffitt, and would need at least a continued truce. Troy was trying to decide the most persuasive approach to convince Dietrich to help him when Dietrich spoke. “Sergeant Troy, I think a very small party--perhaps just you and I--would have the best chance of rescuing Sergeant Moffitt.”
Caught unawares, Troy found himself grinning. “My pleasure, Captain,” he said.
“Let’s find someplace quiet and discuss strategy,” said Dietrich. Troy nodded and directed Hitch and Tully to help with the newly rescued German boys. Then he walked with Dietrich some distance away from the German camp. “Some variety of what you Americans call a quick smash-and-grab would seem to be in order,” Dietrich said, settling himself down on an outcropping of rock.
Troy found himself a place nearby. “We’ll have to wait till dark,” he said, frustrated. “It’ll only be another hour or two. We’ll have to hope he’ll be OK ‘til then.”
Dietrich heard the concern in Troy’s voice. “He’s capable of taking care of himself,” he said, the words sounding hollow even in his own ears.
Troy accepted Dietrich’s statement as intended--as a sympathetic noise--and did not bother to refute it. “I wonder where they recognized him from,” Troy mused. “It might make a difference in how they treat him. Some of these tribes he virtually grew up with, others he merely visited for his graduate work.”
“Very true,” said Dietrich. “Furthermore, Schmidt couldn’t tell whether they’d recognized him as a soldier in the British Army, or how that would affect their opinion of him. It also depends. . . . “ he stopped himself abruptly, realizing that he was thinking aloud.
“Depends on what?” Troy asked sharply.
“Nothing,” Dietrich said, turning away.
“I don’t think so,” said Troy. “What were you going to say?”
“Something I thought of,” Dietrich said reluctantly. “But I don’t think it’s relevant.”
“That’s for me to decide,” Troy said doggedly. “We’re talking about my man, not yours.”
That’s what you think, Sergeant, Dietrich thought with some irony. But Troy was right, he realized. If these people knew of Moffitt’s orientation it could affect how they treated him, though Dietrich couldn’t figure out whether it would be for the better or for the worse. This was a need-to-know situation. He took a deep breath. “What I’m about to tell you must be kept in the strictest confidence. It could be very damaging to Sergeant Moffitt’s career, and I’m only telling you this because it may have a bearing on this mission.”
“You have my word,” Troy said.
Dietrich looked away into the distance. “You know that I was briefly acquainted with Sergeant Moffitt when we were both in college. I learned something about his personal life that he may not have chosen to share with his military colleagues.”
“Go on,” said Troy, when Dietrich appeared reluctant to continue.
“Sergeant Troy,” Dietrich asked, “are you aware that Moffitt is homosexual?”
Troy stared at him for a long moment. “If you were anyone else,” he said, “I’d punch you out for that.” Dietrich said nothing. Troy went on, struggling for words. He simply could not accept what Dietrich had told him. “I don’t believe you’d lie to me. But surely you could be mistaken.”
Dietrich weighed his next words carefully. It would be adequate, even plausible, to set aside the epistemological problem in favor of the practical one. *It doesn’t matter whether it’s true,* he could say. *What matters is whether his captors believe it.* But Troy deserved more than that. Troy deserved the truth.
Dietrich met his eyes. “Believe me, Troy,” he said. “I know.”
If the situation were not so deadly serious Troy’s reaction would have been comical. He stared blankly at Dietrich until realization set in, and then was reduced to a stammer. “You mean, you, you and Moffitt, you and he were. . . . ?”
“Yes,” said Dietrich firmly, cutting Troy off. “For one summer, eleven years ago.”
A hundred questions went through Troy’s mind; he grabbed one and asked it before he lost his nerve. “Do you still love him?”
“Does it matter?” Dietrich asked, a dull ache in his voice. “This is war, Sergeant. None of us can afford to let personal feelings interfere with duty.”
“I would never have guessed,” said Troy.
Dietrich smiled briefly. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. He grew serious again. “Sergeant, you realize that I have given you a very powerful weapon to use against me.”
Troy drew in a sharp breath. His mind was still reeling from the shocking news Dietrich had given him; he hadn’t stopped to work out all the ramifications. Dietrich’s own people would shoot him if they knew. But Dietrich had chosen to tell him, placing not only his career but his life in Troy’s hands. “I gave my word,” Troy said simply.
“That’s enough for me,” said Dietrich, obviously relieved. He smiled bitterly. "It is a secret I cannot afford to risk exposing; if I did not trust you, I would have already ensured your silence another way." His eyes dropped briefly to the weapon at his side, then returned to meet Troy's eyes squarely. “At any rate," Dietrich went on after a moment, changing the topic, "I don’t know whether it would make a difference to his captors. They seem to prefer inexperienced victims.”
Troy shuddered. “I don’t want that to happen to Moffitt. On the other hand, the longer they prolong his execution, the better chance we have of rescuing him.”
“We should arrange a rendezvous before we leave,” said Dietrich abruptly. “Assuming we are successful in our mission, we should have some of our men meet us near the perimeter at a prearranged time.”
“You’re right,” agreed Troy, grateful for the change in subject. It was odd to hear Dietrich speak so casually of “our men” when it wouldn’t be long before they were all shooting at each other again. The occasional temporary truce had become a frequent occurrence, but it was a rare and exhilarating experience to fight by Dietrich’s side against a common enemy.
They settled on a time and place. “We’ll meet back here at sundown,” concluded Troy, and each went to notify his men. As Troy walked back to where he’d left Hitch and Tully, he mused on what he had just learned.
Troy had long ago ceased to be surprised by anything Moffitt did. Behind the British public school veneer Troy was well aware that he had a half-tamed Arab on a very short leash. Finding out that Moffitt was sexually unconventional simply added to the exotic side of the picture; it was not much more of a surprise than learning that he spoke fluent Swahili.
Dietrich was another story. Troy couldn’t reconcile the new information with the image of Dietrich that he had built up over the last year. Troy had come to have enormous respect for Dietrich as an honorable soldier and a worthy enemy. And now this. . . . How could he ever think of Dietrich the same way again? How could he ever have admired someone like that?
Troy reviewed his opinion of Dietrich and the many encounters that had forged their relationship. In none of those had Dietrich betrayed any hint of his orientation; in none of them had he behaved in any way like the stereotypes Troy had heard of. Troy shrugged mentally; it didn't seem to make a whole lot of difference one way or the other in this particular case. Always a practical man, Troy decided to set the whole issue aside and concentrate on the task at hand.
Darkness fell at last with the customary abruptness of the desert. Troy and Dietrich nodded to each other and stole silently toward the slavers’ camp.
After the commotion of the afternoon, the camp was restless. Guards had been posted, and more people were about than usual.
The guard nearest Troy and Dietrich’s position was alert, obviously aware of the dangers from the direction of the German camp. Troy and Dietrich worked their way slowly around to the opposite side of the camp, where the guard, expecting no trouble, was yawning at his post. Moments later he was dead.
Troy stared at the jumble of tents, trying to orient himself from this new angle. Where would they be keeping Moffitt? he wondered.
Then, just above the hubbub of the camp, he heard a scream. He started forward involuntarily, only to feel Dietrich’s restraining hand on his arm. “That’s Moffitt!” Troy hissed.
“I know,” Dietrich said. “But we want to rescue him, not join him.” Troy settled back and Dietrich continued. “Where do you think that sound came from?”
“The second tent from the left, over there,” Troy said, pointing.
“Excellent,” Dietrich said. “That was my impression as well. Does it appear to be guarded?”
Troy squinted, trying to make out details in the half-light from scattered lamps and torches. “I can’t tell. We need to reconnoiter.”
There were no lights or sounds coming from the tents they passed. A dull murmur of voices came from a short distance, off to the left.
Troy went on. “The other tents nearest this one seem unoccupied. I think a lot of the tribe is gathered over there--" he gestured toward where the voices were coming from. "They may be plotting an attack.”
“I daresay,” said Dietrich. “Let them come.” Troy saw Dietrich’s teeth glitter briefly as he flashed a wolfish smile, and felt a strange kinship with his enemy. These slavers had harmed Dietrich’s men, and Dietrich would show them no mercy.
They stole carefully toward the tent from which they had heard Moffitt scream. As they got closer they heard the unmistakable whistle and crack of a whip, and another cry. Troy looked at Dietrich and saw that his jaw was set. There was a guard at each end of the tent. Dietrich pointed toward one. "I'll take that one--you get the other," he whispered. Troy nodded agreement. “Ten seconds,” Dietrich continued. “Start counting. . . . mark.”
Troy counted in his head, knife in hand, as he waited for the guard to come around the corner of the tent where he crouched, waiting. At the agreed moment Troy sprang. His knife found its goal instantly and the man died with only the briefest gurgle. Hoping that Dietrich was having similar success, Troy stepped through the flaps into the tent.
Moffitt was at the other end with his back to Troy, his arms tied over his head. He was still partly dressed, but his bared back bore numerous welts, and he was swaying, kept upright chiefly by his bonds.
Much nearer to Troy was a man he remembered seeing as a spectator at the mock battle, a huge brute, also with his back to Troy. The man said something in Arabic, then repeated it, demanding. Moffitt answered faintly, and the Arab laughed as he drew the whip back for another blow.
Troy grabbed the whip as it came in his direction and jerked sharply, pulling the man off balance. Their struggle was brief and fierce, settled by Troy’s knife. Troy looked up to see that Dietrich had cut his way into the other end of the tent and was sawing Moffitt loose from his bonds.
As the last rope fell, Moffitt collapsed into Dietrich’s arms. Dietrich hoisted him over one shoulder, trying not to touch his back, and looked at Troy. “Back the way we came, Sergeant?” he asked.
Troy nodded, moving swiftly to the way he’d come in. Poking his head out, he looked around. No one had noticed anything amiss; the coast was clear. He pulled his head back in and saw Dietrich staring down at the dead slave trader. Dietrich looked up at Troy. “I’m glad you killed him,” Dietrich whispered.
“Did you hear what he said to Moffitt?” Troy asked.
Dietrich nodded grimly. “Something on the order of, ‘Are you ready for the second course?’ I think we can both guess what that would have been.”
Troy shuddered and led the way out of the tent. There were no guards between them and the perimeter of the encampment; they should be home free. But the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled, and he signaled Dietrich to move with caution.
They were clear of the tents and just past the perimeter of the camp when an Arab materialized out of the night in front of them. Troy tensed and reached for his knife. Dietrich, encumbered with Moffitt’s weight, could do nothing.
The Arab made a motion with his hand, and from nowhere two more appeared, one carrying a torch. In the flickering light Troy got a better look at the man in front of him. He was dressed in a different style than the slavers, and his turban was wrapped differently.
Troy stared at him for a moment. "You're the man Moffitt spoke to yesterday, aren't you?" he said.
The Arab bowed. "I am Dhakil," he said. He turned to Dietrich, obviously about to ask who he was, but stopped short when he recognized Moffitt, who was slung over the German's shoulder. "This is. . . my associate," said Troy, gesturing toward Dietrich. "Moffitt was captured by the slave traders. We're trying to rescue him."
Dhakil came forward and looked Moffitt over. His face was serious as he turned to Troy. “He needs attention right away. He is going into shock and there is danger of infection. You can’t move him much farther. We have set up camp just over there--” he gestured vaguely behind himself-- “and our medical tent is empty, as we have not yet begun our battle. Come with me, our healers will tend to him.”
Dietrich looked questioningly at Troy, who nodded decisively. "All right, Dhakil. We're grateful for your assistance." Dhakil turned and they followed him. As they walked along, Troy asked, "I thought you told Moffitt that you couldn't help?"
The Arab shrugged. "Our elders thought long and hard last night about what the Englishman's son had told us. And about the woes we have suffered in the past few years. The slavers try to take our young men too, and they have brought down the wrath of the foreign armies on all our people. The situation has become intolerable."
They had reached the edge of an encampment. A guard materialized before them, seemingly from nowhere. "It is I," said their guide, and the man bowed and faded away again. Dhakil led them to a large central tent and brought them inside. Entering they found cots set up, flickering oil lamps and tables with medical supplies laid out, an odd mixture of modern Army supplies and traditional remedies.
Two old men in long robes were in the tent, discussing with great animation two vessels of liquid, apparently debating the relative merits of each medicine. Seeing Troy and Dietrich enter, they stopped and hastened over to them. Dhakil spoke to them in rapid Arabic and there was much nodding and waving of hands.
Troy helped Dietrich ease Moffitt’s weight from his shoulder and together they lowered him onto the nearest cot, propping him on his side with some pillows. The doctors immediately began buzzing around; one of them bent and examined Moffitt’s back carefully while the other began bringing over supplies.
Moffitt was only semi-conscious, but as the doctor began cleaning the welts he cried out in pain and tried to move away.
Dietrich and Troy both grabbed Moffitt and held him still. He was shaking and mumbling something incoherent. The second doctor came forward with a cup containing a pungent liquid and spoke to them. Dietrich turned to Troy. “It’s some kind of painkiller. They want him to drink it before they go any further.” Troy nodded. Dietrich took the cup and Troy held Moffitt’s head and shoulders; together they got most of the stuff into him.
The effect was almost immediate. Moffitt stopped trembling and struggling, lying quietly instead. Then he opened his eyes suddenly and stared right at Dietrich. “Hans?” he asked.
Dietrich glanced sidelong at Troy and answered gently, “Here, Jack.”
Moffitt's eyes were dilated from the pain and the drugs; he looked confused and unfocused. He addressed Dietrich in German. "Was machst du denn hier, Hans?" he asked. "Du solltest in der Vorlesung sein."
Dietrich paused a moment before answering, also in German. "Ich hatte eine Sondererlaubnis, um an der Suche teilzunehmen. Wir haben uns alle Sorgen gemacht um dich." He reached out and stroked Moffitt's cheek. Moffitt smiled and closed his eyes. Dietrich added, "Du bist in Sicherheit, Jack. Schlaf jetzt."
Moffitt sighed and relaxed visibly. His breathing gradually evened out. Troy felt like an intruder or worse, a voyeur. Dietrich's guard was clearly down, and Troy realized for the first time how sharply the German's loyalties were divided between love and duty.
Dietrich felt Troy’s eyes on him and composed himself carefully before turning to face the American. Anticipating the obvious question, he said, “Moffitt asked me why I wasn’t in class. I told him I had permission to help look for him, and told him to go to sleep.” He paused for a moment, adding unnecessarily, “He’s very disoriented.” He looked back down at Moffitt, who was finally sleeping soundly as the doctors cleaned and bandaged his back, and then back at Troy. “I have to leave now. Our truce can extend until we are both safely away from here with our respective men. I think the Arabs will settle this matter between themselves.”
Troy stared at him. “Yes, but why leave now? The rendezvous with your men isn’t for another half hour.”
Dietrich looked away again. Then he leaned forward, almost defiantly, and brushed his lips against Moffitt’s forehead. Then he stood up and faced Troy. “Because if I don’t leave now, I’ll never be able to. Goodbye, Sergeant.”
“Goodbye, Captain.” Troy offered him a salute, and Dietrich returned it. Then Troy watched as the German officer turned and left without a backward glance, his shoulders square, his back ramrod straight.
THE END
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