Fic: The Enemy of my Enemy Raid (Rat Patrol, slash, complete)
Title: The Enemy of my Enemy Raid
Author: Amedia
Fandom: Rat Patrol
Rating: PG for canon-typical violence and boykissing
Characters: Moffitt, Dietrich, Troy, Schmidt, OC's
Pairing: Moffitt/Dietrich
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Mirisch-Rich and United Artists. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Moffitt gets a few surprises when he is sent on detached service to pick up an important prisoner.
Word Count: 3042
Author's Note: A gift for Klio, who was wishing she had more of my Moffitt/Dietrich stories to read. How could I turn down such a flattering hint? Many thanks to TODS, who beta-read three complete drafts. The story is set during the "Raids End" universe, in which Moffitt and Dietrich had an affair ten years before the war. It takes place before “The Truth Will Out Raid,” which means that Troy is not aware of their previous relationship.
Moffitt pulled the jeep to a stop along the road and peered at the hand-scrawled map he was holding. He shouldn't be far from the rendezvous point now. He turned the paper over and looked at the sketch on the other side of the map: a low adobe building, typical of the North African desert, with one door and a couple of windows, and stairs on the side running up to the flat roof. If he was where he thought he was, he would soon meet one of the other Long Range Desert Groups and take custody of an important German prisoner.
The day before, Captain Boggs had explained the situation to him back at unit HQ. The group he was meeting was another one of the irregular units, not unlike the Rat Patrol. "Rough and tumble, and not good with authority," Boggs had said with a knowing grin. Boggs refused to provide any details about the prisoner except that he was an unusually successful officer and HQ was itching to interrogate him. Moffitt had been detached from his unit because the group that had captured the German officer was British, and Boggs thought they would respond better to a fellow Brit rather than to the entire Rat Patrol. Apparently the British were touchy about "those damned Yanks getting all the attention." And so Moffitt was driving out there alone, in dress uniform, with the transfer papers for the prisoner carefully tucked in a briefcase. The other Rats would join him a little later.
He had to admit that he was looking forward to meeting this British unit. The Rat Patrol rarely came into contact with the standard Long Range Desert Groups, still less often with the few other irregular LRDG units. And he was curious about the prisoner. He half hoped it was Dietrich. It was true that tucking him away for the rest of the war would mean they wouldn't be running into each other for a while, and Moffitt would miss that. But it would also mean that Hans was safe. It was exhilarating to encounter his former lover now and again, but he had to admit that doing their best to kill each other did rather take the gilt off the gingerbread.
Continuing on his way, Moffitt rounded a bend and saw the building a short way ahead. There was someone lying on the roof with a pair of binoculars, keeping lookout-even as Moffitt watched, the figure scuttled toward the stairs, keeping a low profile. No doubt reporting my presence, he thought. These lads are on their toes.
Reaching the building, he parked the jeep in the meager shade afforded by a few scrubby trees. He could just glimpse the group’s six-by truck behind the building, covered in camouflage netting.
He knocked and called out the password Boggs had given him. The door was flung open immediately. A big bluff sandy-haired man in his thirties, his uniform shirt worn open and without insignia in typical LRDG style, greeted him warmly. "Hello, mate," he said. "Come on in! What brings you to our little corner of the world?"
"Pleased to meet you," said Moffitt. "I'm Sergeant Jack Moffitt. I'm here to pick up your prisoner." He stepped inside and found himself in a large, sparsely-furnished room. A couple of closed doors presumably led to other rooms. Three other men, also in disheveled, non-regulation uniforms, were sprawled on chairs, and at one end of the room sat their prisoner.
"I'm Kirby," said the man who had opened the door, "and these are the fellas- Martyn, Wright, and Green." The others nodded without speaking. Their postures struck Moffitt as elaborately casual-their muscles looked tense and their eyes followed him closely as he came farther into the room. The discrepancy quickly left his mind when he glanced at the only other person in the room.
It was Dietrich. He was tied to a chair with his hands bound behind his back. There was a trail of fresh blood running down the side of his face, which was heavily bruised; one eye was swollen shut,. A filthy bandage was tied around his upper left arm; it was stained with dried blood. Moffitt wasn't naive enough to think that his own side was incapable of cruelty, but this kind of treatment didn't jibe with what he'd learned from Boggs. Rough-and-tumble, yes. Vicious, no. He kept his face carefully neutral.
Kirby spoke. "You'll understand we can't just hand him over without proper identification and transfer papers," he said. "There are a lot of spies out there. It would be just like the Jerries to send someone in a lent uniform to pick him up and take him right back to his unit. Can you prove you are who you say you are?" Moffitt pulled the paperwork from the briefcase and handed it to Kirby along with his I.D., struggling not to let his suspicions show. The confusion between "lent" and "borrowed" was an easy mistake for a German speaker to make-and Kirby had pronounced "prove" to rhyme with "grove," not "move." Someone wasn't who he said he was, but it wasn't Moffitt.
While Kirby took studied the paperwork, Moffitt's mind worked fast. Clearly these men were foreigners who had somehow disposed of and replaced the original unit. But professional German spies were well-trained in English and would not have made such errors. So who were they? Opportunistic Brandenburgers--the LDRG's German counterparts?
The leader handed Moffitt back the papers. "Your papers look OK," he said. "But we've suffered a lot of casualties at his hands. We’d rather interrogate him ourselves."
"He'll be of far greater value if HQ has a chance to talk with him," said Moffitt, stalling for time. Perhaps introducing a new topic would help. He added cautiously, "Assuming there's enough of him left to talk to."
Kirby laughed. "He's fine!" He waved a hand in Dietrich's direction. "Ask him yourself."
Moffitt was aware of the intense scrutiny of his hosts as he crossed to Dietrich. Now that he had time to take a better look, he could see that Dietrich's face was unusually pale. The blood on his face appeared to be from a minor scalp wound; more worrying was the arm bandage, which looked as if it covered a bullet wound. It had to hurt like hell with his arms tied back like that. Moffitt said, in the most execrable German accent he could muster, "Is thou bad hurted, Hopt-man?" Out of the corner of his eye he saw the others relax just a fraction.
Dietrich shouted back at him in German, with uncharacteristic defiance. "Your men are dead. These men are imposters. Renegades."
Moffitt laughed aloud and slapped Dietrich across the face, in a manner calculated to make more noise than damage. "I didn't catch any of that, but the message was obvious. He's not going to come with me willingly." He looked around at the others. "I'll need your help to get him into my jeep."
Kirby's affable manner vanished. "As I already said, we are not releasing him to you," he said coldly. "We caught him. He's ours, and we are going to keep him."
"I’m afraid that you won't get your way," said Moffitt, fighting to sound casual. "These orders come from the big boss in Cairo."
"Then go back to the boss," said Kirby flatly, "and tell them the answer is no."
"You've got to be kidding," Moffitt said. By this point in the conversation, it was easy to pretend to be nervous. "I’d be skinned alive!"
Kirby shrugged. This wasn't going anywhere productive, Moffitt realized. What he needed was time--time for Troy and the others to show up and balance the odds. "Let's discuss it over a drink. You didn't happen to capture any German beer, did you?"
Kirby turned and looked at the others as if asking a silent question. One of them gave a faint nod, and Kirby drew his service weapon and pointed it at Moffitt. "Look, mate," he said. "We gave you a chance to leave. Several chances, in fact, but you were dumb enough to turn them all down." Moffitt did his best to look surprised. "And now we're going to have to decide what to do with you."
"Look here, old chap," said Moffitt, "I know there's no love lost between the English and American units, but-"
Kirby laughed. The others looked puzzled; Kirby said to them in German, "He still thinks we're on his side." Turning to Moffitt, he said, "We're not LRDG." Keeping the gun trained on Moffitt, he pointed to the one of the closed doors. "In there."
Moffitt didn't move. If the renegades decided to cut their losses, he'd rather not leave Dietrich a convenient target. "Not without my prisoner," he said stubbornly.
"Sure-why not?" said Kirby. "He's all yours." He stepped back and beckoned to Martyn, who drew his gun and held it on Moffitt. Kirby holstered his weapon, drew a knife, and cut Dietrich's bonds; then he hoisted him out of the chair by the injured arm. Dietrich drew in a sharp breath; Moffitt could see him biting his lip to keep from crying out in pain.
Moffitt opened the door indicated by Kirby. It appeared to be sleeping quarters, with just enough room for two sets of bunk beds. He walked into the room as directed; Kirby pushed Dietrich in after him and slammed the door. Dietrich stumbled and nearly fell. Moffitt caught him and helped him lie down on one of the lower bunks. There was fresh blood on the arm bandage. Moffitt frowned; Dietrich didn't look like he could afford to lose much more blood. He pulled an extra pillow and blanket off the top bunk, put the pillow under Dietrich's feet and laid the blanket over him, hoping to ward off shock.
"I assume Troy and the others are going to show up eventually," Dietrich said.
Moffitt settled himself on the edge of the bunk. "I don't know what's delayed them. They should have been here by now."
"It's not often that I look forward to the arrival of the Rat Patrol," said Dietrich wryly.
Moffitt grinned. "No, I shouldn't think so." They were silent for a few minutes.
"That was some entertainingly dreadful German you came up with," said Dietrich. "But not as bad as you intended. You still put most of the verb at the end of the clause."
"I'm a classicist," protested Moffitt. "I can't help it." Dietrich almost smiled. Something Dietrich had said earlier made Moffitt curious. "What did you mean when you said 'renegades'?" he asked.
"There are soldiers here and there, raised in the Hitler Youth program, who are dissatisfied with Rommel's ideal of a clean war. His open distaste for some of the Fuehrer's more extreme positions makes them suspicious."
Moffitt was surprised. "I've never heard anything about them before."
"They are few and far between," said Dietrich. "Not organized. A few of them heard about my capture by your fellow unit and seized upon the opportunity to stir up hatred against the Allies. They tracked down my captors, killed them, and pretended to rescue me, planning to bring me back more dead than alive as evidence that the Allies were not abiding by the Geneva Convention. I overheard them debating what kind of atrocities to inflict. Of course, I wouldn’t live long enough to tell the truth.
"So these injuries ... " Moffitt gestured vaguely in Dietrich's direction, "represent the beginning phase of their plan?"
"No, Sergeant. The bullet wound-“ he pointed to his arm-"is from the original skirmish. The rest-“ he gestured toward his face-“was the result of trying to escape from the renegades.”
Moffitt shook his head, reflecting on the complexity of fighting a war without being able to trust your own side. He was intrigued by Dietrich's admission that Rommel did not fully support Hitler. He wondered whether Dietrich felt the same way, but decided not to ask. There was no reason to force Dietrich to admit it. He settled for saying, "You lead a very complicated life, Captain." Dietrich made no response.
Moffitt decided to change the subject. "You never did answer my question earlier. How serious are your injuries?" he asked, concerned.
"I'm fine, thank you very much," said Dietrich, trying to sit up.
"You're worse than Troy, you know that?" grumbled Moffitt, pushing him back down with a gentleness that belied his words. "You need to take it easy. I wish I had a first aid kit."
Dietrich glared at him with his good eye. "So you could give aid and comfort to the enemy?"
Moffitt was startled for a moment until he realized Dietrich was smiling ever so slightly. He smiled back. "Well ... Hans. Perhaps I can just kiss it and make it better."
"I do not believe that is standard Army procedure," Dietrich said dryly.
"The Rat Patrol has never followed standard Army procedure," said Moffitt, and leaned over him, laying a hand on each side of Dietrich's head.
Moffitt planted the gentlest of kisses on each bruise, working his way from the less-injured side of Dietrich's face to the more damaged side. When he reached the trail of blood, Moffitt carefully traced it with his tongue, breathing warmly on the skin underneath, Dietrich drew in a sharp breath.
Moffitt stopped. "Am I hurting you?" he asked, his voice husky.
"No, Jack. Just ... surprising me. You find the strangest things attractive."
"I'm a classicist," whispered Moffitt, bending again to his task. "I can't help it."
The squealing of jeep tires outside stopped him almost immediately. "I will have to speak to Troy about his sense of timing," he said, straightening up.
Dietrich raised an eyebrow. "That is a conversation I would give a great deal to overhear."
The next moment, they heard several other vehicles, including a halftrack, screech to a sudden stop outside.
From the next room, they could hear their captors speaking excitedly in German.
"This is perfect!"
"What do you mean, perfect? They're going to attack us!"
"Yes, but first they’ll attack each other. Once they're finished, we'll mop up the survivors."
That's the last thing we need, thought Moffitt. Do our friends out there realize that we have a common enemy?
He heard Troy's voice identifying himself, followed by another voice speaking in German. "I am Lieutenant Schmidt of the Panzer Korps. We know who you are and what you've done. For your sake, we hope your prisoners are still alive. Release them immediately and come out with your hands up."
"Do you think our captors will cooperate?" asked Moffitt softly.
"I doubt it," said Dietrich. The voices from the other room grew harder to understand as the men panicked, shouting and blaming one another. All at once, the two prisoners heard gunfire erupting from both within the building and outside it. There was shouting in both English and German, followed by the booming of the 50's and the staccato bursts of machine guns.
They'll be occupied for a while, Moffitt thought. Impulsively he lowered his head again, this time licking the tiny bit of blood where Dietrich had bitten his lip, and then raking his teeth gently over the lower lip, worrying at it. Dietrich made a sound deep in his throat; his uninjured hand moved up to caress Moffitt's cheek and to pull him closer into a kiss. As bullets slammed into the side of the building, Moffitt found a strange intoxication in the concatenation of love and strife. He wished the moment would never end.
Alas, it did. A violent explosion shook the building and the shooting began to die down. There were a few last ricochets, and then silence. Moffitt regretfully sat back up, clasping Dietrich's hand for just a moment before letting go.
Dietrich smiled ruefully. "Occasionally, a complicated life has its rewards. Even if such moments are all too brief."
"Moffitt?" came Troy's voice from the other room, followed by Schmidt calling, "Hauptmann Dietrich?"
"In here!" called Moffitt, and a moment later the door broke open.
Troy and Schmidt both wore big smiles of relief. "How did you know?" Moffitt asked, curious.
Troy lost his grin. "On our way to the rendezvous, we found the bodies of the LRDG men who originally captured Dietrich. Schmidt and his guys showed up just a few minutes after we did. It was tense at first, but we came to an understanding."
Schmidt nodded. "We have agreed that both sides will have reasonable time to leave the area." He looked with some concern at his commanding officer. "Are you able to walk, Herr Hauptmann?"
"Yes," said Dietrich, just as Moffitt said, "With help."
The four of them came out of the building through the blown-out entrance: first Dietrich, leaning on Schmidt, then Troy and Moffitt behind them. Moffitt wasn't surprised that Dietrich's men clapped to see their captain; he was surprised, however, that they continued clapping when he and Troy came out. Hitch and Tully were clapping too.
Dietrich turned and saluted Troy. "Thank you, Sergeant, for the role that you and your men played in bringing this business to a successful conclusion," he said with his customary formality.
"Don't mention it, Captain," said Troy, returning the salute. Moffitt was about to turn back toward the jeeps when he noticed Troy looking over beyond the half-track. Following Troy's gaze, Moffitt saw a couple of Dietrich's men collecting the dog tags from the dead renegades, while a couple of others were digging a communal grave for them.
"I can guess what our next task is," said Moffitt quietly.
Troy nodded. "We'll have plenty of time to bury the guys from the LRDG before we head back to our lines with the bad news." He gestured toward the jeeps, where Hitch and Tully were waiting. "Let's shake it!
Bad news indeed, thought Moffitt, with regret for the rough-and-tumble unit he would never get to meet. But as much as he tried, he couldn't regret being able to hope that in some future raid, he would encounter Dietrich again.
This entry was originally posted at https://amedia.dreamwidth.org/412411.html.
Author: Amedia
Fandom: Rat Patrol
Rating: PG for canon-typical violence and boykissing
Characters: Moffitt, Dietrich, Troy, Schmidt, OC's
Pairing: Moffitt/Dietrich
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Mirisch-Rich and United Artists. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Moffitt gets a few surprises when he is sent on detached service to pick up an important prisoner.
Word Count: 3042
Author's Note: A gift for Klio, who was wishing she had more of my Moffitt/Dietrich stories to read. How could I turn down such a flattering hint? Many thanks to TODS, who beta-read three complete drafts. The story is set during the "Raids End" universe, in which Moffitt and Dietrich had an affair ten years before the war. It takes place before “The Truth Will Out Raid,” which means that Troy is not aware of their previous relationship.
Moffitt pulled the jeep to a stop along the road and peered at the hand-scrawled map he was holding. He shouldn't be far from the rendezvous point now. He turned the paper over and looked at the sketch on the other side of the map: a low adobe building, typical of the North African desert, with one door and a couple of windows, and stairs on the side running up to the flat roof. If he was where he thought he was, he would soon meet one of the other Long Range Desert Groups and take custody of an important German prisoner.
The day before, Captain Boggs had explained the situation to him back at unit HQ. The group he was meeting was another one of the irregular units, not unlike the Rat Patrol. "Rough and tumble, and not good with authority," Boggs had said with a knowing grin. Boggs refused to provide any details about the prisoner except that he was an unusually successful officer and HQ was itching to interrogate him. Moffitt had been detached from his unit because the group that had captured the German officer was British, and Boggs thought they would respond better to a fellow Brit rather than to the entire Rat Patrol. Apparently the British were touchy about "those damned Yanks getting all the attention." And so Moffitt was driving out there alone, in dress uniform, with the transfer papers for the prisoner carefully tucked in a briefcase. The other Rats would join him a little later.
He had to admit that he was looking forward to meeting this British unit. The Rat Patrol rarely came into contact with the standard Long Range Desert Groups, still less often with the few other irregular LRDG units. And he was curious about the prisoner. He half hoped it was Dietrich. It was true that tucking him away for the rest of the war would mean they wouldn't be running into each other for a while, and Moffitt would miss that. But it would also mean that Hans was safe. It was exhilarating to encounter his former lover now and again, but he had to admit that doing their best to kill each other did rather take the gilt off the gingerbread.
Continuing on his way, Moffitt rounded a bend and saw the building a short way ahead. There was someone lying on the roof with a pair of binoculars, keeping lookout-even as Moffitt watched, the figure scuttled toward the stairs, keeping a low profile. No doubt reporting my presence, he thought. These lads are on their toes.
Reaching the building, he parked the jeep in the meager shade afforded by a few scrubby trees. He could just glimpse the group’s six-by truck behind the building, covered in camouflage netting.
He knocked and called out the password Boggs had given him. The door was flung open immediately. A big bluff sandy-haired man in his thirties, his uniform shirt worn open and without insignia in typical LRDG style, greeted him warmly. "Hello, mate," he said. "Come on in! What brings you to our little corner of the world?"
"Pleased to meet you," said Moffitt. "I'm Sergeant Jack Moffitt. I'm here to pick up your prisoner." He stepped inside and found himself in a large, sparsely-furnished room. A couple of closed doors presumably led to other rooms. Three other men, also in disheveled, non-regulation uniforms, were sprawled on chairs, and at one end of the room sat their prisoner.
"I'm Kirby," said the man who had opened the door, "and these are the fellas- Martyn, Wright, and Green." The others nodded without speaking. Their postures struck Moffitt as elaborately casual-their muscles looked tense and their eyes followed him closely as he came farther into the room. The discrepancy quickly left his mind when he glanced at the only other person in the room.
It was Dietrich. He was tied to a chair with his hands bound behind his back. There was a trail of fresh blood running down the side of his face, which was heavily bruised; one eye was swollen shut,. A filthy bandage was tied around his upper left arm; it was stained with dried blood. Moffitt wasn't naive enough to think that his own side was incapable of cruelty, but this kind of treatment didn't jibe with what he'd learned from Boggs. Rough-and-tumble, yes. Vicious, no. He kept his face carefully neutral.
Kirby spoke. "You'll understand we can't just hand him over without proper identification and transfer papers," he said. "There are a lot of spies out there. It would be just like the Jerries to send someone in a lent uniform to pick him up and take him right back to his unit. Can you prove you are who you say you are?" Moffitt pulled the paperwork from the briefcase and handed it to Kirby along with his I.D., struggling not to let his suspicions show. The confusion between "lent" and "borrowed" was an easy mistake for a German speaker to make-and Kirby had pronounced "prove" to rhyme with "grove," not "move." Someone wasn't who he said he was, but it wasn't Moffitt.
While Kirby took studied the paperwork, Moffitt's mind worked fast. Clearly these men were foreigners who had somehow disposed of and replaced the original unit. But professional German spies were well-trained in English and would not have made such errors. So who were they? Opportunistic Brandenburgers--the LDRG's German counterparts?
The leader handed Moffitt back the papers. "Your papers look OK," he said. "But we've suffered a lot of casualties at his hands. We’d rather interrogate him ourselves."
"He'll be of far greater value if HQ has a chance to talk with him," said Moffitt, stalling for time. Perhaps introducing a new topic would help. He added cautiously, "Assuming there's enough of him left to talk to."
Kirby laughed. "He's fine!" He waved a hand in Dietrich's direction. "Ask him yourself."
Moffitt was aware of the intense scrutiny of his hosts as he crossed to Dietrich. Now that he had time to take a better look, he could see that Dietrich's face was unusually pale. The blood on his face appeared to be from a minor scalp wound; more worrying was the arm bandage, which looked as if it covered a bullet wound. It had to hurt like hell with his arms tied back like that. Moffitt said, in the most execrable German accent he could muster, "Is thou bad hurted, Hopt-man?" Out of the corner of his eye he saw the others relax just a fraction.
Dietrich shouted back at him in German, with uncharacteristic defiance. "Your men are dead. These men are imposters. Renegades."
Moffitt laughed aloud and slapped Dietrich across the face, in a manner calculated to make more noise than damage. "I didn't catch any of that, but the message was obvious. He's not going to come with me willingly." He looked around at the others. "I'll need your help to get him into my jeep."
Kirby's affable manner vanished. "As I already said, we are not releasing him to you," he said coldly. "We caught him. He's ours, and we are going to keep him."
"I’m afraid that you won't get your way," said Moffitt, fighting to sound casual. "These orders come from the big boss in Cairo."
"Then go back to the boss," said Kirby flatly, "and tell them the answer is no."
"You've got to be kidding," Moffitt said. By this point in the conversation, it was easy to pretend to be nervous. "I’d be skinned alive!"
Kirby shrugged. This wasn't going anywhere productive, Moffitt realized. What he needed was time--time for Troy and the others to show up and balance the odds. "Let's discuss it over a drink. You didn't happen to capture any German beer, did you?"
Kirby turned and looked at the others as if asking a silent question. One of them gave a faint nod, and Kirby drew his service weapon and pointed it at Moffitt. "Look, mate," he said. "We gave you a chance to leave. Several chances, in fact, but you were dumb enough to turn them all down." Moffitt did his best to look surprised. "And now we're going to have to decide what to do with you."
"Look here, old chap," said Moffitt, "I know there's no love lost between the English and American units, but-"
Kirby laughed. The others looked puzzled; Kirby said to them in German, "He still thinks we're on his side." Turning to Moffitt, he said, "We're not LRDG." Keeping the gun trained on Moffitt, he pointed to the one of the closed doors. "In there."
Moffitt didn't move. If the renegades decided to cut their losses, he'd rather not leave Dietrich a convenient target. "Not without my prisoner," he said stubbornly.
"Sure-why not?" said Kirby. "He's all yours." He stepped back and beckoned to Martyn, who drew his gun and held it on Moffitt. Kirby holstered his weapon, drew a knife, and cut Dietrich's bonds; then he hoisted him out of the chair by the injured arm. Dietrich drew in a sharp breath; Moffitt could see him biting his lip to keep from crying out in pain.
Moffitt opened the door indicated by Kirby. It appeared to be sleeping quarters, with just enough room for two sets of bunk beds. He walked into the room as directed; Kirby pushed Dietrich in after him and slammed the door. Dietrich stumbled and nearly fell. Moffitt caught him and helped him lie down on one of the lower bunks. There was fresh blood on the arm bandage. Moffitt frowned; Dietrich didn't look like he could afford to lose much more blood. He pulled an extra pillow and blanket off the top bunk, put the pillow under Dietrich's feet and laid the blanket over him, hoping to ward off shock.
"I assume Troy and the others are going to show up eventually," Dietrich said.
Moffitt settled himself on the edge of the bunk. "I don't know what's delayed them. They should have been here by now."
"It's not often that I look forward to the arrival of the Rat Patrol," said Dietrich wryly.
Moffitt grinned. "No, I shouldn't think so." They were silent for a few minutes.
"That was some entertainingly dreadful German you came up with," said Dietrich. "But not as bad as you intended. You still put most of the verb at the end of the clause."
"I'm a classicist," protested Moffitt. "I can't help it." Dietrich almost smiled. Something Dietrich had said earlier made Moffitt curious. "What did you mean when you said 'renegades'?" he asked.
"There are soldiers here and there, raised in the Hitler Youth program, who are dissatisfied with Rommel's ideal of a clean war. His open distaste for some of the Fuehrer's more extreme positions makes them suspicious."
Moffitt was surprised. "I've never heard anything about them before."
"They are few and far between," said Dietrich. "Not organized. A few of them heard about my capture by your fellow unit and seized upon the opportunity to stir up hatred against the Allies. They tracked down my captors, killed them, and pretended to rescue me, planning to bring me back more dead than alive as evidence that the Allies were not abiding by the Geneva Convention. I overheard them debating what kind of atrocities to inflict. Of course, I wouldn’t live long enough to tell the truth.
"So these injuries ... " Moffitt gestured vaguely in Dietrich's direction, "represent the beginning phase of their plan?"
"No, Sergeant. The bullet wound-“ he pointed to his arm-"is from the original skirmish. The rest-“ he gestured toward his face-“was the result of trying to escape from the renegades.”
Moffitt shook his head, reflecting on the complexity of fighting a war without being able to trust your own side. He was intrigued by Dietrich's admission that Rommel did not fully support Hitler. He wondered whether Dietrich felt the same way, but decided not to ask. There was no reason to force Dietrich to admit it. He settled for saying, "You lead a very complicated life, Captain." Dietrich made no response.
Moffitt decided to change the subject. "You never did answer my question earlier. How serious are your injuries?" he asked, concerned.
"I'm fine, thank you very much," said Dietrich, trying to sit up.
"You're worse than Troy, you know that?" grumbled Moffitt, pushing him back down with a gentleness that belied his words. "You need to take it easy. I wish I had a first aid kit."
Dietrich glared at him with his good eye. "So you could give aid and comfort to the enemy?"
Moffitt was startled for a moment until he realized Dietrich was smiling ever so slightly. He smiled back. "Well ... Hans. Perhaps I can just kiss it and make it better."
"I do not believe that is standard Army procedure," Dietrich said dryly.
"The Rat Patrol has never followed standard Army procedure," said Moffitt, and leaned over him, laying a hand on each side of Dietrich's head.
Moffitt planted the gentlest of kisses on each bruise, working his way from the less-injured side of Dietrich's face to the more damaged side. When he reached the trail of blood, Moffitt carefully traced it with his tongue, breathing warmly on the skin underneath, Dietrich drew in a sharp breath.
Moffitt stopped. "Am I hurting you?" he asked, his voice husky.
"No, Jack. Just ... surprising me. You find the strangest things attractive."
"I'm a classicist," whispered Moffitt, bending again to his task. "I can't help it."
The squealing of jeep tires outside stopped him almost immediately. "I will have to speak to Troy about his sense of timing," he said, straightening up.
Dietrich raised an eyebrow. "That is a conversation I would give a great deal to overhear."
The next moment, they heard several other vehicles, including a halftrack, screech to a sudden stop outside.
From the next room, they could hear their captors speaking excitedly in German.
"This is perfect!"
"What do you mean, perfect? They're going to attack us!"
"Yes, but first they’ll attack each other. Once they're finished, we'll mop up the survivors."
That's the last thing we need, thought Moffitt. Do our friends out there realize that we have a common enemy?
He heard Troy's voice identifying himself, followed by another voice speaking in German. "I am Lieutenant Schmidt of the Panzer Korps. We know who you are and what you've done. For your sake, we hope your prisoners are still alive. Release them immediately and come out with your hands up."
"Do you think our captors will cooperate?" asked Moffitt softly.
"I doubt it," said Dietrich. The voices from the other room grew harder to understand as the men panicked, shouting and blaming one another. All at once, the two prisoners heard gunfire erupting from both within the building and outside it. There was shouting in both English and German, followed by the booming of the 50's and the staccato bursts of machine guns.
They'll be occupied for a while, Moffitt thought. Impulsively he lowered his head again, this time licking the tiny bit of blood where Dietrich had bitten his lip, and then raking his teeth gently over the lower lip, worrying at it. Dietrich made a sound deep in his throat; his uninjured hand moved up to caress Moffitt's cheek and to pull him closer into a kiss. As bullets slammed into the side of the building, Moffitt found a strange intoxication in the concatenation of love and strife. He wished the moment would never end.
Alas, it did. A violent explosion shook the building and the shooting began to die down. There were a few last ricochets, and then silence. Moffitt regretfully sat back up, clasping Dietrich's hand for just a moment before letting go.
Dietrich smiled ruefully. "Occasionally, a complicated life has its rewards. Even if such moments are all too brief."
"Moffitt?" came Troy's voice from the other room, followed by Schmidt calling, "Hauptmann Dietrich?"
"In here!" called Moffitt, and a moment later the door broke open.
Troy and Schmidt both wore big smiles of relief. "How did you know?" Moffitt asked, curious.
Troy lost his grin. "On our way to the rendezvous, we found the bodies of the LRDG men who originally captured Dietrich. Schmidt and his guys showed up just a few minutes after we did. It was tense at first, but we came to an understanding."
Schmidt nodded. "We have agreed that both sides will have reasonable time to leave the area." He looked with some concern at his commanding officer. "Are you able to walk, Herr Hauptmann?"
"Yes," said Dietrich, just as Moffitt said, "With help."
The four of them came out of the building through the blown-out entrance: first Dietrich, leaning on Schmidt, then Troy and Moffitt behind them. Moffitt wasn't surprised that Dietrich's men clapped to see their captain; he was surprised, however, that they continued clapping when he and Troy came out. Hitch and Tully were clapping too.
Dietrich turned and saluted Troy. "Thank you, Sergeant, for the role that you and your men played in bringing this business to a successful conclusion," he said with his customary formality.
"Don't mention it, Captain," said Troy, returning the salute. Moffitt was about to turn back toward the jeeps when he noticed Troy looking over beyond the half-track. Following Troy's gaze, Moffitt saw a couple of Dietrich's men collecting the dog tags from the dead renegades, while a couple of others were digging a communal grave for them.
"I can guess what our next task is," said Moffitt quietly.
Troy nodded. "We'll have plenty of time to bury the guys from the LRDG before we head back to our lines with the bad news." He gestured toward the jeeps, where Hitch and Tully were waiting. "Let's shake it!
Bad news indeed, thought Moffitt, with regret for the rough-and-tumble unit he would never get to meet. But as much as he tried, he couldn't regret being able to hope that in some future raid, he would encounter Dietrich again.
This entry was originally posted at https://amedia.dreamwidth.org/412411.html.