Raids Begin with Lovers' Partings Title: Raids Begin with Lovers' Partings
Author: Amedia (amedia@fanfic.tv)
Pairing(s): Moffitt/Dietrich
Summary: Dietrich and Moffitt are drawn back together at an awkward time.
Note: Originally printed in FLANKING MANEUVERS 1 under the pseudonym Anaktoria.
The wall was ancient, older than the Roman occupation of Cyrenaica and the little garrison towns that had sprung up during it. It caught Moffitt's eye as he strolled around the archaeological site, a minor dig abandoned because of the war. The other Rats were back in town, enjoying themselves on a rare leave, but when he'd heard about this site the bars and brothels had immediately lost their appeal; he had borrowed a jeep and come out to see it. The town was neutral, as so many were, and he had left Tully and Hitch cheerfully drinking half a dozen German lads under the table. Such an odd war, so different from the vicious fighting in France where he'd begun. Here enemies could almost be friends. . . . could almost be lovers.
Moffitt didn't want to pursue that line of thinking. When first posted to North Africa, he had found it surprisingly easy to shrug off memories of Dietrich and the summer they had shared long ago. But the Rat Patrol ran into the German captain so damned often, and his presence was becoming harder and harder to ignore. Moffitt remembered hazily that Dietrich had helped Troy rescue him from Arab slavers a couple of months ago, but it was an earlier incident that kept intruding on his consciousness.
It had happened a few months ago. He d been taken prisoner by Dietrich, along with some other Allied soldiers, and they were being marched from one building in a compound to another. Straggling along at the end of the line, Moffitt saw a slim chance to escape. Hoping both to get away himself and to get help for the others, he waited until the guard's attention was away from him and bolted. He hadn't reckoned on Dietrich's noticing immediately. The German officer charged after him, finally launching himself in a flying tackle to bring the Englishman down. Moffitt remembered lying flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him and Dietrich's weight holding him down. Their faces were inches apart, and for a long moment Moffitt stared directly into Dietrich's eyes and found his gaze returned. Then the moment passed; the German officer scrambled to his feet, drew his gun, and ordered Moffitt back into line with the others. He was rescued later of course when the Rat Patrol came charging in to liberate the prisoners. But he couldn't shake the memory of that brief moment of complete physical contact, so familiar from the past, so alien to the present.
Moffitt deliberately turned his attention to the wall, blocking out the intruding memories. The rough-hewn stones that made up the wall were heterogeneous, obviously gathered from different sources. Drenched in brilliant white sunlight, they varied from sandy brown to terra cotta in color, with a few being very dark and some others very light. As he studied them he thought he caught sight of something moving. He realized that there was a piece of paper stuck between two of the stones and it was the fluttering of a loose corner that had caught his eye. He reached for it and pulled it out.
It was a scrap of plain notepaper with a few words scrawled on it and a "D" at the bottom. Moffitt scrutinized it, his heart suddenly pounding. It was in Dietrich's handwriting, and although without salutation, it was obviously meant for Moffitt. For one thing, it had been deliberately placed where he and only he was likely to see it. For another, it was in rusty but serviceable Latin. "Would like to see you about a book. Nothing to do with war. Room 311."
Moffitt stood for a long moment motionless, the piece of paper clutched in his hand. There was only one building in town with three stories, a hotel where officers occasionally stayed. What would it mean if he accepted the invitation? Dietrich was truthful; this would not be a trap but some sort of personal favor. Moffitt just wasn't sure how personal the favor would be. Something to do with a book. . . . his curiosity was piqued. He crumpled the note and stuck it into a pocket, and began walking back toward town.
It wasn't much of a hotel room by European standards, but it was luxurious for North Africa and princely compared to the usual conditions of combat. There was an actual bed, not a cot or a pile of cushions, a lamp, a fan, and a table with a couple of chairs.
Dietrich stood by the window looking down into the street below. Without turning, he said quietly, "I hoped you'd come." Moffitt regarded him for a long moment. The sun struck golden glints in Dietrich's hair, but his face was in shadow. One of the few clear memories Moffitt had of his rescue from the Arabs was of Dietrich supporting him while Troy freed him from his bonds after a severe beating. Moffitt shied away from the memory, not wanting to recall Dietrich's arms around him, the desperate care with which Dietrich had struggled to carry him without hurting him further, the hand that had stroked his face just before he passed out.
Moffitt set the past aside and concentrated on the present. "Your note said something about a book," he said, trying to sound casual.
Dietrich turned from the window. His expression was guarded, but Moffitt detected amusement in the German captain's eyes. "I thought that you would not be able to resist that archaeological site," Dietrich said. "When our intelligence reported that the Rat Patrol was taking its leave here, I reckoned I knew where to find you. I see that I was right. You got my note."
Dietrich was gloating; Moffitt decided to take him down a peg. "Your Latin isn't any better. I thought you promised me you'd brush up on it." It was a promise made a long time ago, during that summer in Cairo.
"Oh, I did, but it got rusty again. It hasn't gotten much use out here," Dietrich said. He smiled. "On the other hand, I did make good my other promise. Remember?"
Moffitt regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, trying to pry loose an eleven-year-old conversation. "Of course!" he said after a moment. "You kept after me because I wasn't perfectly fluent in German, and were adamant that one day you'd speak better English than I spoke German." He held up his finger and thumb, quite close together. "I suppose you're maybe this much better." He cocked his head and grinned.
"Ha," said Dietrich.
"About that book. . . . " Moffitt began. A thought struck him. "Unless it's a ruse, and you actually lured me here to seduce me. Along the lines of, 'come up to my flat and see my etchings, won't you?'"
"Certainly not," said Dietrich indignantly. "Were I planning such a thing, I would be perfectly forthright. I would not say, 'Come help me with a book, Sergeant Moffitt.' I would say. . . 'Jack, I can't stop thinking about you, for God's sake come to me and . . . . '" Dietrich's bantering tone faded; he did not finish the sentence. When he spoke again, his voice was serious. "I really would like your help. Look what I found in a bookstall in Tangier." He took a brown paper parcel from the table, unwrapped a worn, odd-sized book, and handed it to Moffitt.
Moffitt opened it carefully and leafed through a few pages. "I say," he exclaimed. "This is rather nice. Looks like a facsimile of some historical documents from this area. Roman provincial government ledgers, that sort of thing."
"I thought it was in Latin at first," said Dietrich, "but I can't seem to make it out."
Moffitt nodded, peering down at a page. "Lots of abbreviations. Some local peculiarities, too, I shouldn't wonder."
Dietrich pulled up a chair and waved Moffitt to pull up the other. Opening to a page he had marked, Dietrich said, "Now look at this here. It looks like a list of military supplies. But I'm having trouble making some of this out."
Moffitt followed Dietrich's finger across the page. "I think this column is for suppliers. See, he's requisitioning the weapons from Rome and they're coming in through Cyrenaica." He stopped with his finger halfway down the column. "Aeg.? Oh, supplies from Egypt, cotton for part of the uniform, perhaps." He traced across the ledger. "Yes, that's it. Wonder where the salt is coming from.
"Mm-m," Dietrich agreed. "Is this oats for the horses?"
Moffitt focused at where the German was pointing and pushed Dietrich's hand aside to see better, trying to ignore the electricity in the brief contact. "No, that's grain for people." He eyed Dietrich mischievously. "And here s the order for Alter Mann in tins."
Dietrich laughed. "Alter Mann" - "old man" - was the nickname given by the less-than-grateful Afrika Korps to the dreadful canned rations supplied by the Italians. "No," the German said, "the ancient Romans did not torture their soldiers then as their modern counterparts do now. "
Moffitt turned a few pages. "Look, here are some household expenses for the local prefect. Food, wine, clothing. Ahh. . . ." His brow knit for a moment, then cleared. "Look at this." Dietrich looked. "Here's a new housedress for his wife. Very simple and appropriate. An embroidered nightgown for his mistress. Much gaudier. And for his Greek bathboy, imported sandals, by far the fanciest gift. Gilded, if I read this aright." He raised an eyebrow and Dietrich chuckled.
"No," he said, "you're joking. "
"Really," said Moffitt, "it's right here." Dietrich bent closer, following along where Moffitt pointed. Their hands brushed again.
"You're right," Dietrich said, glancing up at Moffitt. Their faces were scant inches apart, and Dietrich suddenly found that he could not look away. Moffitt's hand still rested next to his on the page and on a sudden impulse he moved his hand slightly to cover Moffitt's.
Moffitt looked directly at him. Dietrich's eyes were perfectly steady and his face was unreadable; but the hand that rested on Moffitt's was trembling.
Moffitt put his other hand on Dietrich's shoulder and moved it slowly upward until it rested on Dietrich's cheek. "Quel giorno piu non vi leggemmo avante," he said, a hint of a question in his voice.
That day we read no further. Dietrich recognized the quote, from the story of tragic lovers seduced by reading a book together. Suddenly unable to speak, Dietrich nodded and moved closer.
Moffitt kissed him with a desperate gentleness born of long loneliness and recent enmity, only to find Dietrich eager in response. Ten years of being apart and a year of being at war melted away.
Tenderness gave way to enthusiasm, which was in turn replaced by satiety.
Dietrich rolled over and idly traced a finger down Moffitt's back. The angry welts he'd seen there two months ago when he helped Troy rescue Moffitt from Arab slave traders had faded to pinkish streaks; eventually they would change to thin white scars but would never quite vanish.
"Look at you now," said Dietrich, resting his hand on Moffitt's back. "When I knew you eleven years ago you were flawless."
Moffitt turned his head toward Dietrich. "I've got character now, that's all," he said with an impish grin. He gently touched a bullet scar on Dietrich's shoulder. "So do you."
Dietrich nodded, serious again. Moffitt's casual words had started him on a train of thought. "You know," he said, "I don't think I was really in love with you eleven years ago." Moffitt eyed him curiously. "I never said you were."
Dietrich refused to be sidetracked. "What I mean is, that was what your American friends call 'puppy love.' We were both so young and unformed. It's different now." The words were not coming easily. "I. . . admire you; in our repeated encounters, you and the others have shown qualities that I respect."
Moffitt thought about for a while. "I might say the same of you," he finally said.
"Ironically," continued Dietrich, "the circumstances under which we have at last discovered these qualities in each other are not conducive to friendly relations."
Moffitt suddenly chuckled. "Listen to us pontificating. In another eleven years maybe we'll do this again and be complaining about how people in their thirties are terribly shallow and only 40-year-olds can truly appreciate each other."
"I'm not pontificating, damn it," said Dietrich. "I'm trying to tell you that I love you. And I certainly don't intend to wait another eleven years to do this again."
Moffitt pulled him closer. "I don't intend to wait eleven minutes," he whispered.
That was when the door burst open.
Hitch stopped so fast that Tully plowed into him from behind. They both stood there open-mouthed.
Troy came in at that moment and took in the situation at a glance. Striding around Hitch and Tully who were frozen in the doorway, he picked Moffitt's uniform up off the floor and threw it to him. "Leave's canceled," Troy said calmly. "We've been looking for you everywhere. The lobby, five minutes." He turned to Dietrich and saluted. "Sorry about the intrusion, Captain. You know how it is--orders are orders."
"Quite all right, Sergeant," said Dietrich, returning the salute, dignified as ever.
Hitch and Tully had stopped staring at Moffitt and Dietrich and were now goggling at Troy. "Come on, you two," Troy snapped. They fell in behind him as he left.
As they walked back to the lobby Troy said, "Hitch, Tully, go get the jeeps, check 'em out and bring 'em to the commissary. I'll wait here for Moffitt and we'll meet you there."
"OK, Sarge," said Hitch.
Hitch and Tully left for the garage where they had left the jeeps. As soon as they were out of Troy's earshot, Hitch said, "Could you believe that?"
Tully nodded. "Sarge was cool."
Hitch shook his head in amazement. "As a cucumber. And what about those other two?"
Tully ruminated on that as they crossed the street, finally producing a shrug. "Furriners," he said, both by way of explanation and dismissal.
"Yeah," said Hitch. "Say, do you s'pose we can cop some extra supplies since we're getting our leave cut short?"
"Worth a try," said Tully.
Moffitt made it to the lobby in three minutes flat, fully dressed with his customary neatness. Troy was leaning against a table waiting for him, arms folded across his chest.
"Reporting as ordered," Moffitt said crisply, standing at attention in front of Troy.
Troy looked him up and down very slowly, aware that Moffitt withstood the scrutiny with increasing nervousness, obviously waiting for one of Troy's blistering dressings-down. When Troy judged that Moffitt was properly terrified, he finally spoke. "If this ever interferes with your duties," he said, enunciating carefully. "I'll kill you myself." Moffitt swallowed hard. "Yes, sir." He remained at attention.
Any Rat who would use the word "sir" must be thoroughly intimidated, Troy thought with satisfaction. "That's all," he said. "At ease."
Moffitt assumed his customary slouch but watched Troy warily, as if he still expected the volcano to erupt at any moment.
Troy winked at him. "Let s head over to the commissary and see if those delinquents have sprung our jeeps yet." He made a fist and chucked Moffitt lightly in the arm. "C'mon, shake it."
Dietrich watched from the window as the two sergeants left the hotel and crossed the street. They appeared to be still on good terms. So, Troy hasn't killed Moffitt yet, he said to himself with a wry smile. I hope to God I never have to.
THE END
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