As the first hint of dawn began to lighten the desert sky, Troy finished his second turn at watch and slid back down the dune into their little camp. Some time after sunset, the tank battle out on the plain had faded into silence, but the patrol hadn't been able to determine if it had moved elsewhere, or if the commanders had simply settled in for the night. They weren't even sure if they were in Allied territory, or behind enemy lines. Either way, Troy wanted to get moving before they got cornered again.

Tully was already up, listening to the radio with the headset, trying to tell from random radio broadcasts who currently was in control of the immediate area. He had the coffee on, Troy noticed, and the sergeant poured himself a cup before going to wake the others.

The three able-bodied Rats had slept outside the shelter, and left the limited space inside to Hitch and Spencer; the medic had been left out of sentry rotation so that he could look after his patient. As Troy crouched beside Moffitt to wake him, he peered briefly into the tent and found the two young men asleep as well, Spencer sitting up against the wall of the wadi, with a hand on Hitch's shoulder in case his patient woke.

Troy shook the English sergeant's shoulder, and said softly when Moffitt rolled over to look up at him, "Ready for some coffee?"

"There's water on for tea, too," Tully offered from his place by the other jeep.

"Ah, Tully," Moffitt sighed, sitting up, "Always thinking ahead."

"We aim to please," the private grinned.

"I'll wake Spencer; he'll want some, too." Moffitt started to crawl under the netting, but Troy stopped him.

"I'll get him; you start the tea."

Ducking into the shelter, Troy stepped carefully over Hitch's feet and knelt by Spencer. It was still quite dark under the netting, but it seemed to Troy that Hitch's color was better. He knew the morphine had worn off in the night—they had all heard Mark sleepily singing something at about 0230, as he was coming around. They couldn't distinguish the words, but the melody was truly awful . Tully was going to get plenty of mileage from stories of Hitch on morphine, Troy thought with a grin.

Before Troy could reach to rouse Spencer, however, the medic woke on his own, starting in surprise to find someone kneeling over him. He pulled himself upright quickly, glancing at Hitch to confirm that all was well on that front, then turned back to Troy.

"Do we need to leave?"

Troy shook his head. "Not yet. Moffitt's making tea; we thought you might like some."

"Absolutely! Give me a moment to check on Hitch, then I'll be right there."

Troy joined Moffitt and Tully at the radio, where Moffitt was now listening to the headset while stirring two tin cups of tea that sat on top of the radio set. Tully had scrounged out their rations and was trying to come up with something edible for breakfast. Finding himself at loose ends for the moment, Troy climbed into the passenger seat of the jeep and put his feet up on the dash, taking a precious few minutes to enjoy his coffee. After a moment, Spencer stepped out into the light as well, stretching before crossing to the second jeep.

"Morning, Spencer," Moffitt greeted, as Tully nodded and waved from where he was sorting through rations packs on the hood of the jeep. "How's our patient?"

"Morning, all. Better—he's awake, and somewhat hungry. I don't suppose he's eaten since … well, whenever you last ate before he was wounded. I doubt he'll feel like eating much, though. Tully, are there any crackers in any of those?"

"Should be." Tully began digging through the packs before him, and Spencer, snagging one of the cups of tea with a grin of thanks in Moffitt's direction, joined him.

"Spencer, you think he'll be able to travel this morning?" Troy asked from his seat in the jeep.

"Yes, if we go slowly. I've no idea how we'll keep him in the jeep, though. The last patient I moved without a stretcher or an ambulance was you, I think, Sergeant. And you were quite able to sit up on your own, as I recall. I suppose we can give him enough morphine to take the edge off, and hope he can stay put by himself."

"You can sit behind him on the jerry cans and help hold him up," Troy offered. "We've done it before, but it only works if we're moving slowly."

Seeing where Troy was headed, Tully observed, "We'll only have one gun that way, Sarge; you'll have to drive."

"Well, hit-and-run tactics only work if we can run after we hit. We'll just keep a low profile and stay out of trouble." Tully's disdainful snort made it abundantly clear how unlikely he found that scenario, but Troy ignored him. "Moffitt, any idea whose backyard we're in?"

Moffitt took off the headset and picked up his tea. "No one's. Or everyone's. Rather depends on your point of view."

Sitting up and dropping his feet into the jeep, Troy turned in the seat to stare at the Englishman by the radio set. "What does that mean?"

"Well, it sounds like Jerry has moved right past us during the night, putting us behind their lines."

"Wonderful," Tully muttered.

"However," Moffitt went on, coming to lean against the side of the jeep beside Troy, "it also sounds like they've been well and truly routed, and are headed back to their original positions with all possible haste – and with our lads in pursuit."

"So we're headed into some very unhappy krauts," Troy sighed. "Great."

"Well," Spencer said after a long moment, "I'll take Mark his breakfast and keep him company for a while."

As the medic gathered up his tea, the package of crackers, and a rations pack for himself, Tully snagged his coffee and a second rations pack. "Think I'll join ya."

After the younger men had left, Moffitt ventured, "Really, it's hard to tell from eavesdropping on radio broadcasts, but it sounds like a rather disorganized retreat. There's a good bit of calling back and forth, trying to establish positions, regain order, and so forth. We might be able to get through to base without being noticed."

"If base is still where we left it," Troy warned. "There was talk of pulling back when we were there yesterday." He paused, looking up at the rocky walls around them. "But if we stay put, they're liable to just run right into us." The wadi was a great hiding place, but would be almost impossible to defend with just three guns. Sighing in resignation, he leaned over the dash and captured two rations packs, tossing one to Moffitt. "We'll break camp after we eat, and head out. Maybe if we're moving, and they're moving, we'll all miss each other."

XXXX

An hour later, the two jeeps had been packed, refueled, and were ready to go. Hitch had insisted on walking out to the jeep himself, even though Tully and Spencer supported him most of the way. Although much better for the rest and the plasma, he was still shaky and drenched in perspiration by the time they settled him into his seat. He watched while the others made last minute preparations around him, turning carefully to look up as Spencer climbed in behind him, and the medic gave him a smile.

"Well, this will be a new perspective for me, riding back here," Spencer told him. "I don't know which is more likely, you falling out of the jeep, or me doing the same while trying to help you."

"I can stay in by myself," Hitch groused around a yawn. All this fussing over him was starting to get on his nerves, though he knew the others meant well.

"Until you fall asleep," Spencer returned, "Although it sounds as though we won't be up to your usual insane speeds this trip." When Hitch shot him a half-hearted glare, Spencer smiled again and clapped him carefully on the shoulder. "Seriously, though, I only gave you a tiny bit of morphine; if it gets too bad, say the word."

Hitch nodded, and the jeep shifted slightly under them as Troy took his place in the driver's seat. The wounded private managed an impudent grin for his sergeant. "I don't know. You driving, me riding – I could get used to this."

"Well, don't," Troy growled with a grin of his own.

"Just watch out for the bumps, Sarge."

"Watch out yourself, or you'll be walking home." Troy gave Tully a wave in the other jeep, and they left the safety of the wadi for the trek back to their lines.

XXXX

They made a half-day's journey without incident, swinging to the north on the path Troy, Tully and Spencer had used the day before, stopping frequently to scan the horizon with the binoculars, and staying in the wadis as much as was possible. Twice they had close calls with retreating German units, but managed to get under cover in time; and only once did Spencer have to grab Hitch's shoulder as the dozing American began to list to starboard. By noon, Troy was beginning to think they could make it back to base without problems. Later, though, he realized that he should have expected the halftrack they blundered into as they rounded a blind turn at the end of a wadi—things had been going too well.

Troy swung his jeep around to present the driver's side to the enemy, putting himself between them and Hitch and Spencer. Tully followed suit behind him, and Moffitt, who had been riding in the back of his jeep, just in case, scrambled to bring his gun around, although he was immediately covered by the equally powerful gun on the halftrack. Spencer grabbed the startled Hitch by both shoulders and dragged him down into the space between the two jeeps as Troy and Tully both reached for rifles.

"Not so fast, Sergeant," called a voice far too familiar to the Rats.

Tully swore softly, frozen in the act of reaching for his weapon; and Hitch, holding his side and trying to catch his breath, groaned and looked up at him. "Tell me that's not Dietrich," he whispered.

"Better go back to sleep, buddy," Tully replied quietly, his eyes on the Germans. "With any kind of luck, you're dreaming this."

Troy, however, being closer than the others, had noticed something they hadn't. "Looks like just you and your driver, Captain. I think you're outnumbered."

"And you are outgunned," the German replied coolly, "and we appear to be blocking your exit from this wadi, as well. I suggest you stand down, Sergeant Moffitt."

"I will if you will," Moffitt returned, holding his ground behind the fifty. Spencer, caught between the two guns, rose up a bit to peer over the passenger seat at the Germans, a dozen yards away. Dietrich was manning the halftrack's weapon himself, and wore a bloody bandage on his left arm. His dri ver , wearing an equally bloodstained uniform but apparently unhurt, was standing in the cab of the vehicle with a rifle directed at Troy. The American sergeant had managed to scramble out of the jeep and snatch his own rifle before Dietrich stopped them, but had not been able to find cover or bring his weapon to bear.

"We appear to have a stand-off," Troy observed. "Don't suppose you'd care to surrender?"

Dietrich raised an eyebrow at that, but was silent a moment, examining the Allied contingent carefully. Finally, he raised his voice to reply. "Actually, no, Sergeant; surrender doesn't interest me at this time. However, since we do seem to have reached an impasse, there is a proposition I'd like you to consider."

Troy shifted warily. "I'm listening."

"Do I see that you have a British medic with you?"

Hitch and Tully both looked at Spencer in surprise, and Spencer ducked back behind the jeep, seriously considering tunneling under the sand; but Troy didn't flinch. "If I do?"

Dietrich glanced down into the back of the halftrack, and then looked up again with the air of a man decided on his course of action. "Sergeant, I have two wounded men here, and our medical kit was one of the earliest casualties. Allow us to make use of your medic's services, and I will … arrange to get out of your way."

Troy half-turned toward the men behind him, knowing that Moffitt had the Germans covered, and looked at Spencer. "Private? Up to you."

Swallowing hard, Spencer shot a glance at his current patient, and then stood hesitantly. "Sergeant, I—wouldn't this be considered aiding the enemy?" he stammered in a whisper.

"Unless it was considered honoring a truce," Moffitt suggested softly from behind him.

Spencer looked up at the other Englishman, comprehension slowly dawning in his green eyes. He hadn't really realized that what had just happened was an offer of truce; he'd never seen that happen in the field before. It was true what they said around camp, he supposed—no one operates quite like the Rat Patrol. And besides, he had treated wounded Germans before, just not when their commander requested his assistance at gunpoint. Nodding his compliance, he turned back to Troy. "Very well. I'll do what I can."

"You've got a deal," Troy called back to Dietrich. "Can we put away the firepower for the duration?"

With a glance at his bewildered driver, Dietrich took a single slow step away from his gun. "I will if you will, Sergeant," he replied pointedly.

Moffitt grinned at having his own words turned back on him, and hopped off the back of the jeep to land next to Spencer. "Done."

At that, Dietrich took the few steps to the cab of the halftrack, and spoke to his driver, who reluctantly lowered his rifle to the floor; Troy simultaneously returned his to its place alongside the front fender of his jeep. Tully let out a guarded sigh of relief, and Spencer, glancing down, was surprised to see Hitch slip a small knife back into his boot before looking back up at him.

"It's okay," Hitch said softly. "He's a Kraut, but if he says 'truce,' he means it."

"Well, you certainly know him better than I do," the medic retorted nervously, before turning to Troy. "Now, Sergeant?"

"Is this going to be a problem for you?" Troy countered, coming around the front of the jeep.

Spencer shook his head resolutely, slightly embarrassed. "I understand the situation now. Sorry about questioning you."

"It was the right kind of situation to question," Troy replied. "You need any help?"

Glancing over his shoulder at Moffitt as he pulled his kit out of the jeep, the medic said, "I could certainly use a translator; I assume not all of his troops speak English as well as the captain there?"

"Safe assumption. Let's go, then," Moffitt replied, and they started for the halftrack as Tully helped Hitch settle in the meager shade beside the jeep.

Dietrich straightened abruptly when he saw the two Englishmen headed toward him. "Just one of you, Sergeant," he warned.

"I'm just the interpreter, Captain," Moffitt explained, his hands held reassuringly out to the sides.

"I can do that; you can return to the others."

"I beg your pardon, sir," Spencer interjected hesitantly, "but you really need to sit down. I'll see to your arm when I've finished with the others, if you like." He wanted Moffitt with him for more than one reason; he desperately didn't want to climb into the back of an enemy halftrack all alone.

Dietrich wavered, considering, then nodded his agreement and leaned wearily against the cab. Not wanting to give the German time to change his mind, Moffitt ushered Spencer to the rear of the khaki-colored vehicle and up into the back.

There were indeed two injured men inside, lying along each side with the gun mount between them – Dietrich would have had trouble pivoting the weapon without tripping over one of them. Kneeling next to one of them, Spencer pulled away the blanket that covered the man, revealing a nasty abdominal wound that had bled heavily into a bandage apparently made from a Wehrmacht uniform shirt. Frowning, the medic quickly shifted to check for a pulse in the German's neck. After a long moment, he withdrew his hand, glancing apprehensively at Moffitt beside him before looking up at Dietrich.

"I'm sorry, sir," the medic said gravely. "He's … already gone."

The German officer closed his eyes against the news, but nodded slowly. "I was afraid that would happen," he admitted softly, looking up at them again. The driver shifted nervously beside him, and Dietrich turned to explain the situation to him.

Moffitt pulled the blanket back up to cover the dead soldier's face, and put a hand on Spencer's shoulder to prod him on to his next patient. Nodding, the medic turned one-hundred-eighty degrees to the second wounded man, who was sporting a bandage-made-from-a-shirt on his left shoulder and murmuring somewhat deliriously. He jerked away when Spencer began gently removing the bandage, and tried to rise when he recognized the British uniforms above him. Spencer grabbed the man's arms, and Moffitt began trying to explain the situation, but it wasn't until Dietrich moved quickly into his line-of-sight and spoke to him that he finally settled, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and allowed Spencer to continue.

Revealing the shoulder at last, Spencer nodded and reached for his pack. "How old is this wound, sir?"

"About eighteen hours."

"Well, it's not too bad, for not having been treated sooner. We'll clean it up a bit and put a proper dressing on it; he'll make it to—ah, wherever you're going," he finished awkwardly, searching the depths of his bag.

"Very good, private; you may continue." Dietrich returned to lean against the cab beside his driver, and Spencer finally came up with a fresh dressing and glanced around. Moffitt, knowing from long experience what was probably needed, found a half-empty canteen on the floor and handed it to the medic. Between them, they got the wound cleaned and dressed; and then Spencer peered cautiously at the sergeant.

"I've got one more bottle of plasma," he said softly.

"Would it help?"

"Yes, it would. And we shouldn't need it …"

Moffitt heard the rest of the sentence in his mind: unless another of us is wounded. Still, that was only a possibility. The man before them was a reality. "Go ahead, then. We're under truce."

Spencer dug the last bottle of plasma out of his kit, while Moffitt set about explaining to their patient what they would be doing. The German seemed to accept his description well enough, until he looked over at Spencer, who was attaching the catheter to the rubber tube.

"What the—!" the medic exclaimed, dropping what he was doing as his patient went white as a sheet, eyes rolling back in his head.

Dietrich was there in an instant, leaning over their shoulders. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Spencer breathed, trying to find the man's pulse. "He's alive," he added after a moment, "but I've no idea what caused him to black out."

"He's afraid of needles," Moffitt said abruptly in realization. When the others only looked more confused, he went on, "He looked at the needle you were attaching to the plasma, and he fainted."

Dietrich straightened behind them, looking quite dumfounded, and Spencer bit back a nervous chuckle. "Can't say I've ever had that happen before," the medic said. "Let's get the IV started before he comes round."

When that task was behind them, Spencer stood and turned toward Dietrich, stealing a look at the three Americans as he did. Tully was sitting in the back of his jeep, talking to someone on the ground whom Spencer knew to be Hitch. Troy was perched on the radio beside his own gun, and gave Moffitt a wave as the two Englishmen came into view. They wouldn't have been visible to the others while kneeling, Spencer realized. Reassured that all was well with his friends, he started making his way to the front of the vehicle.

"Let's have a look at that arm, Captain," he began; but Dietrich, who had been studying the horizon to the west for the last little while, waved him off.

"It's nothing to be concerned about."

"Sir –"

"As you were, private," the German replied with the voice of authority, and Spencer took an involuntary step backward, bumping into Moffitt. "If you wish to leave supplies with us when you go, that is your affair," the captain went on, his voice softening somewhat, "but to delay here longer invites the arrival of parties who may not wish to participate in our cease-fire, which will surely endanger my men even more. No, we must continue on our way."[PC12]

After looking to Moffitt for confirmation, Spencer gathered some bandages and a small number of sulfa tablets and handed them over to Dietrich. "Be sure he gets some sulfa when he comes round, sir. And you need some, too. If he bleeds through the bandage, don't take it off; just put another on over it." He realized that he was rambling, that the officer probably already knew this, but he felt the need to say the words anyway. He was stunned to silence, however, when Dietrich extended his right hand.

"Thank you for your assistance, Private –"

"Spencer, sir," the medic supplied, accepting the handshake with astonishment.

"Private Spencer."

Dietrich withdrew his hand, and Spencer, unsure how else to respond—any time, sir? No problem?—came to attention and saluted. He was aware of Moffitt echoing him from behind; Dietrich returned the gesture and released it, and Spencer ducked his head and started for the rear of the halftrack.

"Sergeant," Dietrich said, as Moffitt also turned to go, "I noticed one of your own men is wounded. I suspect you are headed for a fairly large camp, situated next to an oasis some fifty miles west of here?"

Moffitt, recognizing the description of their current base, chose not to respond.

"It is no longer there," the German continued as if he had received confirmation, looking out across the desert, "but I believe you'll find it approximately thirty-five miles northwest of its previous location. I'm afraid I can't be more precise."

Moffitt nodded, baffled. "Thank you, sir. I suspect we'll be able to obtain the exact location from whoever's creating that dust cloud." He indicated the growing dark spot on the western horizon, which was now beginning to take on the shape of an armored column.

"Indeed," Dietrich replied wryly, and turned to give instructions to his driver.

With that, Moffitt clambered out of the halftrack to join Spencer in returning to the jeeps. By the time they had Hitch settled in his seat again, the Germans had started up the halftrack and headed off to the east, Troy and Dietrich trading casual salutes as the cumbersome vehicle swung its way out of the mouth of the wadi.

"So you helped 'em out?" Tully asked, pulling a fresh matchstick out of his shirt pocket.

"One of them," Spencer replied as he stowed his pack behind the seat and climbed into the back of the jeep. Tully didn't have to ask about the other German.

"You can't see it from here, Troy, but it looks as though some friends are headed our way," Moffitt announced, gesturing vaguely to the west.

"About time something goes right," Hitch muttered, and Troy, in the driver's seat, took the private's Foreign Legion hat from his head and swatted his shoulder with it.

"It's been going our way all along, Hitch," the American sergeant replied with a grin. At the various looks of confusion he received, he added, "Well, we're still here, aren't we?"

Hitch rolled his eyes in exasperation, and Tully's response was to start up his jeep with a roar. Troy laughed, handed Hitch his hat, and waved in the general direction of the approaching column. "Let's shake it, fellas. Time to go home."