Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting. This is my first-ever fic, and I made several mistakes. I genuinely appreciate the corrections several of you offered, either via PM or in a review. I hope you like the conclusion.

PART III

CHAPTER 10

Troy said nothing as Tully pushed the pace to the limits of safety and a bit beyond. The sunrise warned him that it was well past the time when Moffitt and Hitchcock should have left the ruins and headed back to Allied territory, but somehow he didn't believe they had. While his reasons for it might be different, he shared his driver's conviction that their teammates were in trouble. And if they were in trouble, he was pretty sure who was to blame. From the beginning, Hitchcock had been opposed to splitting up, and Moffitt had been sympathetic to his argument. If Hitch had decided to ignore his orders, and persuaded Moffitt to go along, things could have gone sour pretty quickly.

Tully slowed the pace slightly as they crested a low hill near their destination, and a second or two later Troy understood why. There was a jeep, undoubtedly Moffitt and Hitchcock's jeep, cozied up against a low wall up ahead. An empty jeep.

"Dammit, I told them not to wait past dawn," Troy growled, concealing concern under annoyance. "I'd expect it from Hitchcock, but I thought Moffitt knew better."

Tully shot him a look of understanding mixed with frustration. He realized that Troy's brusque manner was just his way of hiding worry, but he also wondered why the sergeant was always so quick to pin the blame on Hitch. Sure, Hitch did his share of complaining, but as far as Tully knew, he had never disobeyed an order. He brought the jeep to a stop, waiting while Troy pulled out his binoculars and gave both the ruins and the surrounding hills a slow, careful examination.

He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, but he could feel it when Troy stiffened beside him. He felt the glasses pressed into his own hand, and took a look. His shoulders tensed. They were still too far distant for a really good view, but he could still make out the shapes of two human figures, one prone and one half-seated.

He handed the binoculars back to Troy and restarted the jeep.

"I didn't spot anyone else, did you Sarge?" he asked, letting the engine idle for a few precious moments. "Do you think it's okay to go straight in?"

"Yeah." Troy's voice had more than its usual gravely undertone. "Straight in. And step on it."

They pulled up beside the jeep, taking only seconds to confirm that it was, in fact, their teammates'. Troy headed towards the fallen men on foot, his sidearm at the ready while Tully followed a pace or two behind carrying his rifle.

Troy stopped for a fraction of a second, then hurried forward. "Tully, get back to the jeep and bring it up here," he tossed over his shoulder. "Grab both medkits and that extra gear Hitch has hidden under his seat." He looked back and gave a grim smile at the look of shock on Tully's face. "Yeah, I knew he'd been stockpiling some extra stuff."

"It's just a suture kit, some probes, things like that." Tully paused for a moment, then added, "After … well, after we lost Benson, y'know?"

Troy set his jaw. They'd nearly melted the tires off the jeeps rushing their wounded comrade back to base, but it hadn't been enough. One of the medics had been tactless enough to tell them that they might have saved their buddy if they'd been able to stop the bleeding in the field. Hitchcock had taken it hard. They all had.

"There aren't any drugs or anything, Sarge," Tully went on earnestly. "And he worked with a couple of nurses to make sure he knew how to use everything." He remembered that clearly, because Troy had accused Hitch of being more focused on dating nurses than his own teammate. Both privates knew that Brad Benson and the Sarge were good friends. For some reason, Hitchcock hadn't defended himself. He just stood there and took it, letting the criticism roll right off. Or that was the impression he gave. Tully hadn't pushed, sensing that Hitch wouldn't welcome any discussion of the Sarge's bitter contempt. He just got quieter and quieter, until he could give Tully a run for his money in the silence department.

Troy sighed. "I figured that out, Tully. That's why I didn't confiscate it. Shake it, buddy."

The sergeant hurried forward, already shaken by what he had glimpsed. Hitchcock was mostly upright but half buried under stone and rubble. Moffitt was lying flat, covered from mid-chest to his knees by more debris. Both were unconscious.

He paused to check the Englishman first, and was relieved to see that many of the stones were propped against one another, keeping the worst of their weight off the trapped man. The injuries were bad enough, but from his prone position, Troy had worried that Moffitt was severely hurt, possibly even dead.

He turned his attention to the private, and his relief evaporated. If Moffitt was better off than Troy had feared, the kid was worse. Much worse. His entire face was one massive bruise, and there was blood in his ear and down the side of his neck. When he gently worked Hitch's shirt open, Troy could plainly see the displacement of his collar bone and the bruising that announced broken ribs. Something seemed badly wrong there, and it took him a minute to realize what. Every few seconds he could see faint signs that a shallow breath was being taken, but it hardly moved his chest at all, and Troy wondered if the kid was even getting any air. His lips and nailbeds had taken on a bluish tinge, confirming Troy's worry that precious little oxygen was getting through.

Then Tully was beside him, handing him one of the medkits. Troy hadn't even heard the jeep pull up.

"I'll start digging out the doc," he told Troy. He paused, wasting precious seconds trying to put his fears into words. Finally he just shrugged, and Troy gave him a curt nod in reply.

Troy studied the debris covering Hitchcock and fought off a wave of despair. He didn't even know where to start.

"Get him free first." That was Moffitt's voice, weak but clear.

"Moffitt? How you doing over there?"

"Sore. And I could really use some water, but I'll be okay." He coughed, and both Tully and Troy winced at the harsh, dry sound. Tully held a canteen to his lips, and Moffitt took a few grateful swallows. "Tully, I can dig myself out the rest of the way. Help Troy. Be careful. I think he has a skull fracture."

"Yeah," Troy answered unhappily. He had pretty much figured the same thing.

"Just hang on, Doc," Tully told him. "I only need a couple more minutes to get you out. I can't concentrate on helping Hitch if I'm worried about you hurting yourself worse over here."

"Doc"? Moffitt considered it, and decided that his despite his dislike for nicknames, he didn't really mind this one. And it was certainly better than "Sarge."

He added his clumsy efforts to the private's, and finally he was free.

"You think you can sit up?" Tully asked.

"There's only one way to find out." He allowed Tully to help him to a sitting position, coughing a few more times and taking another drink. "Help me over there," he ordered.

"I don't think you ought to move," Tully replied uneasily.

"I probably shouldn't, but I have more medical training than either of you. I started patching up workers on my father's digs when I was about fourteen."

"But – "

"Don't argue, Tully," Troy interrupted. "I need any help he can give me. Moffitt, he's barely breathing, and besides the head injury he's got broken ribs and it looks like a broken collarbone, too. Do I sit him up or lay him flat?"

Moffitt struggled to rise, but couldn't quite make it. At least he had a clear view. "If he can't breathe, nothing else will matter. Get him a bit more upright and see if it helps."

Together, Troy and Tully pulled the rest of the chunks of stone away, revealing a blood-soaked trouser leg.

"Don't move him until you check out his leg," Moffitt called. "If it's broken, you'll have to stabilize it first."

Tully's hands were unsteady, too unsteady to use his knife. Instead, he used the scissors from the medkit, to slit up the leg of Hitchcock's fatigues. His leg didn't look too bad; bruised of course, with a couple of deep cuts showed where rock fragments had penetrated, but there was no sign of any breaks. Troy relayed that information to Moffitt who gave a heartfelt sigh of relief.

"All right. Sit him up. If he starts to choke or struggle, get him flat immediately. Be sure to support his neck and head. Is there anything we can wrap around his head to cushion it?"

Slowly, cautiously, Troy and Tully got the kid into a sitting position. Tully stripped off his shirt and quickly sliced it into strips. Moffitt nodded in approval as Tully stuffed some of the fabric inside one of the sleeves, making a thick sausage-like pillow that he could wrap around Hitch's neck. Troy had folded most of the sterile gauze into another pad which he laid gently over the contusion on the side of Hitchcock's head. The last pieces of Tully's shirt were wrapped around Hitch's head, securing the gauze in place and providing more cushioning. Hitchcock didn't react at all to their attentions, but while his rate of breathing didn't increase, his individual breaths did seem a bit deeper. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

"Now what?"

"Now we need to figure out how to get him back to our lines alive."

Troy couldn't speak for several seconds. He hadn't thought that far ahead yet. He closed his eyes and visualized the map. Were they closer to Montgomery's Eighth Army in Egypt? Or their own home base back in Morocco? With a growing feeling of desperation, he realized that their location was right in the middle between the two. A thousand miles from help, with two wounded men, and orders to maintain radio silence.

Jeeps could go as fast as seventy miles per hour, but not in the desert. Thirty to forty miles per hour would be the best they could hope for. That made it a three days' journey, under normal conditions. Unless he and Tully traded off, and they drove all night.

He saw Moffitt watching him and realized that the Englishman had already made the same calculations.

"We really don't have any choice," Moffitt said softly. "And the sooner we get started, the better. Troy . . ." He paused, looked over to where Tully was cleaning and bandaging the dozens of cuts and lacerations scattered up and down his buddy's right side. "I think we should only take one jeep. Trade off driving."

"Yeah," Troy agreed. "I'm way ahead of you. I go first, so Tully can handle the night driving. But what about you and Hitch?"

"Well, luckily we're both better off sitting up. We'll be all right in the back seat."

"That means leaving the 50 behind," Troy reminded him. "We might need that firepower."

"We'll manage," Moffitt answered, trying to sound confident, then added softly, "We have to."

CHAPTER 11

After studying the map, Troy and Tully figured that if they drove at night as well as during the daylight hours, they might be able to make it back to their lines in a bit under two days. If, and Troy hated "if's", they could maintain a speed of about 30mph and didn't run into any trouble.

Trouble. It could mean a lot of things depending on how you looked at it. "Trouble" was trying to transport them all in one jeep, but it was also leaving a jeep behind where it could tip off the Germans that Americans had been in the area. They couldn't risk it, so Troy and Tully each drove one until nightfall. Troy had to struggle to keep up with Tully's reckless pace, gaining new respect for his driver's skill as he dodged rocks and wove expertly around trouble. By dark, they were several hundred miles from Tripoli, and Troy figured that they could safely abandon one of the vehicles. First, though, they cannibalized it for its tires, gasoline, and whatever parts Tully could scavenge, so it wasn't a total loss. After stripping it of everything of value, he and Tully took a few extra minutes to shovel sand over it. They couldn't bury it completely, but they could at least make it look like it had been there for a while. The two 50 caliber guns were a different story. They were carefully and completely dismantled and the parts buried in several different locations, with a few rocks scattered over the spot for good measure.

Their remaining jeep was now packed to the gills with more cans of gasoline, extra tires tied to the hood and rear bumper, and everything from spark plugs to brake fluid tucked in wherever a few spare inches of space could be found. Tully was particularly proud of the hydraulic fluid. He emptied one of the canteens by the simple expedient of drinking its contents, then siphoned the fluid off into it. He flashed one of those hundred-word grins Troy's way, telling him without words that yeah, he knew that meant they now had only three canteens between four men, and did Troy think he was an idiot? Of course he'd been sure to mark it so no one accidentally drank out of it, and heck, Sarge, three canteens were plenty, since they had four full water cans secured to the rear of the jeep, and besides, he didn't mind sharing a canteen anyway, so c'mon, Sarge, he was worried too, could they get a move on now, please?

So he took Troy's place in the driver's seat, they gave their passengers in the back seat one final check and got a bit of water down them, and they continued west.

Troy tried to force himself to sleep, knowing that in a few more hours he'd be driving again. He'd need to be in top form, but all the worry and responsibility weighed him down. He worried about the packet of intel Ibrahim had given him. He worried about what Colonel Quint and the Brits would say if he'd gotten Moffitt killed. He worried about Hitch. But sometime around 3am, his thoughts shifted from whether Hitchcock would make it to whether or not he'd given the kid a fair shake. He liked him okay, but he hadn't really made an effort to get to know him the way he had Tully, justifying it by all the hours he and Tully spent together in their jeep. He tended to write the kid off as a bit of a trouble magnet and let it go at that. Was it because he expected more from a college boy, even if he was the youngest on the team? He didn't get into any more trouble than Tully did, so when the two of them found themselves in a tight spot, why did he tend to blame Hitchcock?

He recalled introducing the two privates to Moffitt, his description of Tully's skill running moonshine revealing his admiration for his driver's abilities. But his introduction of Hitchcock had consisted of a backhanded compliment about the kid's deceptively innocent face and a mention of his Ivy League background. And just a few hours ago, he had reflected on the difficulty of desert driving and his heightened respect for Tully. Why hadn't he included Hitchcock in that respect?

Why did he do that? Why hadn't he included both drivers as deserving of praise for their talents? Why had he been so willing to assume that Hitch had flouted his orders? Why had his description of Tully been so approving while his description of Hitchcock had been more mocking than complimentary? He remembered now the way Hitchcock's mouth had been set into a tight, insincere smile as he shook the Englishman's hand. At the time, he'd thought it was because Hitchcock was as unenthusiastic about the newcomer as Troy was. Now, though, he found himself wondering, with more than a bit of shame, if Hitch had really been reacting to his words.

"That doesn't help, Sarge."

Troy shook himself out of his troubled thoughts. "What doesn't help?"

"Feeling guilty."

"Yeah, well I keep thinking . . ."

It was too dark to see Tully's face, but he could guess at its expression. Hitch was a year or so younger than Tully, little brother age, and they were tight.

"Thinking what? That you did your job? Completed the mission? That you got us in and out of one of the most fortified cities in North Africa?"

"Yeah, well that won't count for a hell of a lot if they die, now will it?"

Tully didn't answer.

"I don't know why I never bothered to get to know Hitch better," Troy continued. "That makes me a pretty sorry excuse for his sergeant if you ask me."

Tully didn't answer for several long moments, wondering if he should say anything about his own frustration with Troy's attitude towards the kid, and decided to keep his personal feelings out of it. "Hitch understands," he finally said.

Troy frowned. "What does Hitch understand?"

"He understands that as the CO you can't afford to get too close. Yeah, you're responsible for all of us, but you're also responsible for the mission, and the mission has to come first. If you start thinking of us as friends instead of soldiers, well, that might get in the way when the tough decisions have to be made."

"Like sending someone to die?" Troy asked bitterly.

"Yeah," Tully replied evenly. "Like sending someone to die."

Troy was silent for a long time, exhaustion lowering his defenses and encouraging him to rare honesty. "I don't want to make that kind of decision," he admitted. "It's one of the reasons why I wouldn't let them make me an officer."

"We know." Tully sighed. "Look, Sarge, give yourself a break. Hitch and I trust you absolutely. We would follow you anywhere. I'm not saying you couldn't ease up a bit on him, get to know him a bit better, but he understands. That's not what gets him. . ." His voice trailed off.

"Gets him what?"

Tully's jaw moved from side to side, almost as if he was literally chewing over the question of how much to say. "Remember, Hitch has lost two partners. And now a third is injured."

"But none of it was his fault," Troy protested.

"You ever tell him that?"

Troy had no answer for that.

"You know he blamed himself when we lost Benson, don't you?" Tully continued.

Troy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had blamed the private a bit himself, even though he knew that realistically, it hadn't been Hitchcock's fault. The Krauts got off a lucky shot, that was all. But Benson's death was still too raw, too new. And Hitch's self-doubt and all-too-obvious feelings of guilt implied that he had somehow been at fault and made him an easy target for blame.

"And for Kowalski, before that?"

He winced. He should have guessed, or at least suspected. It had been Stan Kowalski's own damn fault. Troy'd warned him more than once about going off on his own, taking unnecessary risks, trying to play hero. No wonder he'd been captured. So why hadn't he said anything to Hitchcock? Why hadn't he tried to reassure the kid?

"It wouldn't have mattered," Tully continued, and Troy realized me must have spoken the thought aloud. "Hitch doesn't really let people get close. You know, he says he never had a real friend before he joined the army? And he pretty much expects to be ignored or treated like his opinions and feelings don't count. I think maybe he even believes he deserves it. He said once that his own father has never once asked him what he wants or thinks. Maybe he just figures he shouldn't expect his sergeant to, either."

If anything, that made Troy feel worse. "That doesn't make it right," he said in a low tone. They were crowded so tightly into the front seat that Troy could feel Tully's shoulder rise and fall in a shrug. "If he gets out of this in one piece. . ."

"He will," Tully returned confidently.

"If he does, I'll have to see about convincing him otherwise."

"I can get on board with that, Sarge."

In the back of the jeep, Jack Moffitt had surfaced long enough to hear the quiet conversation in the front seat. Before sinking back into the comfortable darkness, he added his own, silent, "So can I."

Later, Sam Troy was unable to remember many details of the rest of that nightmarish dash across North Africa. It was one long blur of sand, blistering hot sun, bone-chillingly cold night, jolting, bouncing discomfort, exhaustion, and worry. Always worry. They didn't even stop to eat on that second day, only to gas up and cool the engine and their patients.

They needed it. It was getting harder and harder to get them to drink. Despite his brave front, Moffitt was clearly suffering, and as the hours passed he became less and less responsive. As for Hitchcock . . . well, he was still alive, but that was about all.

But luck was finally with them. He and Tully were exhausted but relieved when, near sunset on the second day, they drew within the last 50 miles of their lines. Troy had replaced Tully in the driver's seat, and pushed their little vehicle as hard as he dared, blinking into the setting sun ahead of them. Moffitt hadn't roused in the last couple hours, and Hitchcock not only remained unconscious, but an occasional horrible choking, wheezing gasp announced that his struggles to breathe had intensified. Finally, they had shifted positions, putting Moffitt in the front, next to Troy, and Tully moved to the back where he could prop up his buddy and try to keep his airway clear.

"No! No!" Troy shouted, pounding the steering wheel with one clenched fist.

Tully snapped out of a light doze and heard what his sergeant had: the drone of an airplane engine.

"Dammit," Troy growled. "I knew we'd need that 50cal."

"Sarge! Sarge! Relax." Tully reached forward to shake his sergeant's shoulder. "It's ours!"

"You sure?" Troy's voice was hopeful if a bit shaky.

"I'd know the sound of that engine anywhere. Trust me, Sarge, it's American. An A-20, by the sound of it." He kept his voice as calm as possible. He couldn't see Troy's face, but the white knuckled grip on the steering wheel told him that Troy was perilously near the end of his tether. "Want me to drive the last bit?"

Troy shook his head. He couldn't explain it in words, but something inside was compelling him to be the one to deliver their wounded comrades to the medics. He needed it, needed it the way he hadn't needed anything during the long months of war. So he shook his head again and tried to feign a sense of calm.

"Thanks, Tully. I can handle it. Sorry – sorry I flew off the handle a bit there."

"You're entitled, Sarge. If I hadn't been asleep, I'd have been right there with you."

Tully settled back, but only half-closed his eyes, knowing that his sergeant had had less sleep than any of them during this operation. He'd let Tully, Hitch, and Moffitt nap that first afternoon – was it really only day before yesterday? – while he kept watch. Then they'd been up pretty much all night that night, and driven all day yesterday. He'd slept very little, if at all, last night. Anyone would be close to collapse by now. Tully was, by nature, the very definition of the phrase "easy-going." Because he was calmer and more relaxed than his teammates, he normally expended less energy than the high-strung Hitchcock or their hyper-vigilant sergeant. Now Moffitt had joined them, and for all his British reserve, he seemed a bit tightly wrapped, too.

Yet somehow he understood the Sarge's determination to keep driving. And in only a bit under two hours and they'd be home. Troy should be able to handle it. But Tully wasn't going to take it for granted. He'd keep an eye on all three of his patients – er, teammates.

In the end, their arrival was a bit of an anti-climax. Somehow they had miscalculated the distance, which explained the presence of the plane. Only minutes later, they saw the outskirts of the shabby little town ahead. They sped forward, slowing but not stopping at the checkpoint, just enough to shout that they had wounded. When they screeched to a stop in front of the infirmary, orderlies rushed to get Hitchcock and Moffitt inside, while Troy and Tully were hustled off to another pair of medics at the opposite end of the building. Troy struggled, wanting to follow Hitch and Moffitt, but they held him too tightly. He vaguely heard someone calling out blood pressures and pulse readings, then somehow Captain Boggs was there, ordering someone to help him and Tully to their tents. He never even felt the bite of the needle, as he fell down, down, into the bottomless well that was sleep.

CHAPTER 12

Troy sat bolt upright; suddenly, completely, awake and gasping.

"Easy, Sarge," a lazy voice drawled. "It's okay."

"Tully?" He squinted at the figure backlit by the harsh light of midday. He scrubbed his hand over his face. "What time is it?"

"About noon. You slept for close to 16 hours." Tully stepped a bit further in, allowing his features to be more easily seen. "I just woke up a couple hours ago, myself."

"How're –"

"Hitch and Moffitt? All I know is that they're alive. No one will tell me much more than that. I think the docs are waiting to talk to you, first, but the Colonel . . ."

"Yeah," Troy sighed. "I'll bet."

"I told him what I could, Sarge, but he wants to hear it from you."

Troy scratched at the several days' growth of beard. The thought that he could finally shave and shower tunneled traitorously under the wall of worry. He realized that Tully was shoving a cup of coffee into his hand and took a blissful mouthful, wondering, not for the first time, how hot coffee could taste so good in the middle of the desert.

Half an hour later, scrubbed, shaved, and dressed in a fresh set of fatigues, he presented himself at Colonel Quint's door.

The Colonel looked up from some papers he was examining. "At ease, Sergeant." He waved Troy towards a camp chair. "You're looking much better. Sit down."

"Thank you, sir."

He waited until Troy settled himself before continuing.

"Sergeant Moffitt was briefly conscious, long enough to tell me that you successfully completed the mission. Private Pettigrew says the same. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Sir. We made contact with the local resistance, then made our way to the museum and concealed the object in the first of the two storerooms that had been selected. There was a slight problem with the guards and patrols – they weren't where they should have been – so we needed to separate. Hitchcock and Moffitt had to spot for us while we exited the building."

"Bad intel?" Colonel Quint frowned, his eyes straying to the fat envelope from Sayed.

"No sir, bad discipline." He gave a quick grin, one that flashed and disappeared in the blink of an eye. "There was a big party for one of the Italian officers, and everyone skipped out of their duty to attend."

"I doubt the local German commander was happy about that," the colonel observed.

Troy nodded. "First time I ever found myself agreeing with a Nazi, Sir," he replied. "Anyway, our contact was spotted by the host and couldn't refuse to join the party without raising suspicions. We ended up stuck there for several hours. That's how Moffitt and Hitchcock got so far ahead of us. But the fake message, that there were only two rooms left to search, was definitely sent. The Germans should have 'intercepted' it and authorized their own search by now."

Colonel Quint nodded. "I can confirm that, Sergeant. In fact, they located the package the day you left Tripoli, and it should be arriving in Berlin this afternoon." He frowned. "You didn't mention any exchange of hostilities. How were Sergeant Moffitt and Private Hitchcock wounded?"

"In case we were separated, we had a prearranged rendezvous point at a cluster of ruins about sixty miles west of Tripoli. Sergeant Moffitt was conscious long enough to tell us that there was an unexploded shell at the site, apparently from a previous bombing run. It went off, and they were caught in the explosion."

"So there's no way to tell whether the shell of one of ours or one of Jerry's?"

"Not from what Sergeant Moffitt was able to tell us. But once Hitchcock is recovered enough to be debriefed, he may be able to identify the ordnance."

"Very well, Sergeant. Good job. I knew you and your team were the right men for the operation."

"Thank you, Colonel…" He paused. "Will that be all sir? I'd like to get over to the infirmary and check on my men."

"Just a couple more minutes, Sergeant." He frowned down at a folder on his desk. "Before you go, there's another matter we need to cover."

Troy thanked the doctor and left the infirmary. He needed time to think, and that meant time alone, a rare and precious commodity on a military base. He grabbed a cup of coffee at the canteen and found himself a fairly secluded patch of shade. Finally, after nearly half an hour of sorting through the various options, he took a deep breath and went in search of Pettigrew.

He found him not many yards away, in his own patch of shade, cleaning his gun.

"Hey, Sarge," Tully greeted him. "What's the word on Hitch and Sgt. Moffitt?"

"Moffitt will be out for a week, maybe a bit more." Troy eased himself down to sit by his driver. "Hitch's leg wasn't broken, but there's a lot of ligament damage. A coupla broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, broken collar bone . . ." His voice trailed off, and he took a deep breath. "Moffitt was right. It's a skull fracture, fortunately a relatively minor one." If any skull fracture could be considered minor. "But he'll be out a minimum of three weeks, maybe as much as four or five."

"Nuts," Tully muttered. He looked up and briefly met his sergeant's eyes before dropping them back down to the weapon in his hands. "He will be back though, right Sarge?" he said. His voice was carefully casual, but that quick glance had revealed a pair of brown eyes dark with concern.

Troy shifted uncomfortably, his eyes fixed on a row of tents a couple dozen yards away. He forced himself to look at the young soldier who had been his driver since the unit had been formed. "Tully, I'm going to be straight with you. What they told me is that with a skull fracture you never really know. He could be fine, he could have brain damage, or he could have anything in between. We just have to wait until he wakes up to know."

"Yeah," Tully grunted.

"Tully, there's more. The x-rays showed a previous fracture, six, maybe seven years ago, in just about the same spot."

Tully nodded. "He got beaned during a Little League game."

Troy's voice slowed. "You know how he only needs his glasses when he's tired? The docs told me that they suspect his vision problems are connected to that old injury. The fact that this is a second fracture, even a mild one, in about the same place, makes his recovery more . . . complicated. They want us to be prepared for his eyesight to be much worse. Maybe even…" He couldn't finish the thought. Even though the docs had called it a remote possibility, they still considered it serious enough to mention.

"Damn." The word was whispered. That pretty much summed it up for Troy, too.

"So we're getting a replacement. He may be temporary, he may be permanent."

"I'll show him the ropes, Sarge," Pettigrew offered, sensing what Troy was about to ask.

"Tully, there's a bit more to it than that. There's something I'd like you to do. I know I could make it an order, but I'm going to put it to you as a favor."

"Sure, Sarge, anything."

"Don't speak too soon. When Moffitt's back, I'd like you to drive for him until Hitch gets cleared by the medics."

That caught Pettigrew by surprise. "Sure, I guess," he said slowly. "But why?"

"I'd just feel he's safer if someone with experience, who knows how we operate, is paired up with him," Troy explained. "Until we get Hitchcock back, that's you."

Tully nodded and shifted the matchstick from the left to the right side of his mouth. He already felt more confident, hearing the conviction in Troy's voice when he talked about Hitch's return. "I guess that makes sense. I can see how it could be dangerous to have both new guys together."

"You don't mind?" Troy asked.

"No, Sarge. Like I said, it makes sense. Besides, I kinda like the doc. He's interesting."

Three weeks later . . .

Sam Troy sat alone in a corner of the crowded mess hall, watching Moffitt and Tully at the opposite end of the room. He could have joined them, but he had too much on his mind. A good sergeant has to have a feel for the men under his command, and everything Troy had observed told him that Moffitt and Tully worked well together. Very well. They'd successfully completed half a dozen missions without a – well, without a hitch. Tully liked the occasional anthropological or archaeological tidbit that Moffitt threw out, and had even accepted a copy of one of Moffitt, Senior's books. He'd actually started reading it. For his part, Jack Moffitt enjoyed hearing Tully's tales of his life and folks in the Kentucky hills, almost as if they were an exotic remote tribe, just waiting for an anthropologist to study them. After only a couple weeks together, they were as good a team as Tully and Troy had been.

Which created a problem, now, didn't it? Because tomorrow, Hitchcock would be released to light duty, and the following week he'd be back with the team. By all rights, he should be paired up with Moffitt again, while Troy and Tully went back to their old partnership.

But Troy wasn't blind, and he knew a good thing when he saw it. Tully and Moffitt were a far better team than Hitchcock and Moffitt would ever be. And he was fairly sure that neither would mind if he kept them together.

That meant he'd have to team up with Hitchcock. Over the past couple weeks, he'd made a real effort to mend fences, at least once the private was able to have visitors and carry on a fairly rational conversation. Still, he knew there was a ways to go before the two of them had a good working relationship.

"Deep thoughts, old chap?"

Troy looked up in surprise. Moffitt and Tully were standing in front of him. "You know," he grinned, as the two pulled up chairs, "I didn't think the English actually called people 'old chap.' Outside of the movies, I mean."

"Ah, well, when in Rome..." Moffitt murmured obscurely. "Makes it easier to work together, eh what?"

"Now I know you're putting me on." Troy caught the grin that flashed across Tully's face then disappeared.

"So, what's got you so serious that you're over here hiding?"

"Nothing much. Just –" he grinned at Tully, "-just thinking about 'sergeant stuff.'" It was an old joke between the two of them.

"Troy …" Moffitt said seriously. He and Tully exchanged a glance. "Tully and I have something we wanted to run by you."

"Yeah?"

"We … if it's not a problem for you … uh …"

Troy's eyebrows introduced themselves to his hairline. "And that would be…" he prompted, when Moffitt fell silent.

"We'd like to pair up," Tully said.

"Pair up?" Troy answered, deliberately playing dumb.

"I'd like to ride with Tully." Moffitt seemed to have regained some of his confidence. "I think we work well together. No reflection on Hitchcock, but Tully and I like being a team."

"Well..." Troy drew the word out. "You don't want to ride with me anymore, Tully?" He tried to assume a hurt expression, but instead just looked slightly maniacal.

The private almost sprained a vocal cord, reassuring Troy that everything was fine, that he just enjoyed what the doc had been teaching him about the area and its history.

"You know sometimes those long patrols can get pretty dull." He swallowed hard. "So the doc's been teaching me a bit about …" Troy tuned him out and let him ramble for a few moments longer, then decided to stop torturing the pair.

"Calm down, Tully. It's not a bad idea. In fact, it solves a problem or two." Like the letter from Marcus Hitchcock the Fourth that the colonel had shared with him three weeks earlier. The Army wasn't going to discharge Hitchcock, as his father had demanded, but the Colonel didn't see anything wrong with telling the irate father that his son's sergeant would be taking a personal interest in insuring his son's safety. Colonel Quint had suggested that Troy send Marcus Hitchcock a personal note saying that when the kid returned, he would be teamed with Troy. Swap Tully for Hitchcock. A fair trade.

Maybe.

It solved a lot of problems. All except one. No one had asked Hitchcock how he felt about the change. And if Tully was right, not acknowledging Hitch's feelings on the matter would destroy the fragile understanding that he was forging with the young private.

There was no way around it. He'd have to talk, really talk, with Hitchcock. And the sooner the better.

CHAPTER 13

Mark Hitchcock squinted at the top report on the untidy stack of papers. As good an officer as he was, Colonel Quint hated paperwork and tended to shove everything into a desk drawer or pile it on any handy flat surface. It was Hitch's job to sort it all into some kind of order and file everything in the shiny new file cabinet in the corner of the colonel's office. But it was hard on the eyes. There were times when he could barely read the cover sheet that contained the security classification and summary of the attached report, so it was slow going.

He'd been able to fool the doctors well enough that they hadn't evac'ed him to Casablanca, as originally planned, or even one of the forward bases in Tunisia, now that Operation Torch had begun and been a rousing success. Medical facilities would be better at either of those locations, but finally the doctors had agreed that the close proximity of his teammates would help his recovery. Hitch's efforts to deceive his doctors hadn't been quite as successful as he imagined. They knew he was struggling, and even though his physical condition continued to improve, he wouldn't be much use to his team if he couldn't break out of this cycle of depression. No one wanted to see him reassigned, other than his father that is, but unless things changed soon, they'd have to do it. If keeping him where he had the support and encouragement of his teammates could help, they were willing to bend a rule or two.

Hitch didn't know all of that, although he had overheard a few whispered conversations about sending him to Casablanca and breaking up the team permanently. Tully and the sergeants had visited frequently, though, assuring him that they wanted him back. That helped some, and encouraged him to fight harder to recover. The prolonged period of unconsciousness had left his muscles weak and uncooperative, and he had to struggle to do the simplest things. Tully had been there one afternoon at lunch time, and tried unsuccessfully to conceal his alarm at the sight of Hitch struggling to hold his fork and maneuver it to his mouth. That had been one of the worst days, and the memory of the expression on Tully's face had been a powerful motivator as he worked to regain his strength.

Now, weeks later, he was finally out of the infirmary with a promise that he could return to duty in another week. If, that is, he could handle light duty successfully.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. These new lenses were considerably stronger than his old ones, and their weight sat uncomfortably on his nose. The docs had warned him that he'd have headaches and blurred vision for a while yet. Once things settled down, he was told, the headaches would fade and he'd be able to go back to needing the glasses only when his eyes were tired or strained. So far, that hadn't happened, but he didn't want to be put back on bed rest, so he hadn't told them how bad the headaches were or how blurry his vision actually was. Light duty was bad enough. And it wasn't as if they offered him a lot of choices. It was either this, or work in the mess hall. When it came to choosing between a headache and a few thousand potatoes to peel, the decision was easy.

He slid his glasses back into place and frowned, moving the paper closer then further away, trying to find the sweet spot where it would remain in focus.

"Does the doctor know you have to do that?" The voice was amused, but laced with an undercurrent of concern.

"Hey, Tully," Hitch said happily. "How's it going?"

"Well, we're due to move out to Tunisia next week, assuming you're well enough. Sarge is trying to hang on here until the whole team is back together."

Hitch greeted this announcement with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. "You're sure he really wants me back?" he asked softly. "I mean, I'm such a screw-up . . ."

"Knock it off, Hitch. You're not a screw-up and of course he wants you back. In fact, I have it on good authority that he's . . ."

He let his voice trail off, deliberately allowing anticipation to build.

"He's what?" Hitch demanded. His voice was animated, with one of the few displays of real interest he'd shown in weeks.

Tully concealed a smile. "I hear he's thinking of switching us up, having you ride with him and putting me with Moffitt."

To his alarm, instead of seeming pleased, Hitch's face fell and his shoulders slumped.

"What?" Tully demanded.

"Don't you get it? He doesn't trust me," Hitch explained seriously. "He wants me in his jeep so he can keep his eye on me."

Tully was momentarily speechless. "Oh for – Are you completely nuts?" he demanded when he could speak.

"No, only partly nuts," said a new voice. "Tully, could you let me speak to Hitchcock privately for a few minutes?"

"Sure, Sarge." Tully fled, reflecting that he had never seen Troy or Hitchcock looking so uncomfortable.

"So." Troy looked around, locating a chair and sitting across the desk from his teammate. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Hitchcock muttered, avoiding his eyes.

"Hitchcock. . ." Troy sigh, cleared his throat. "Hitch, I have a few things I need to say, so just hear me out, okay?" He waited until the private nodded. "First, I do trust you. I trust you as much as I've ever trusted anyone, and a lot more than most. I know I haven't always acted like it. According to Tully, I need to do a better job of showing it. Yes, I would like you to drive for me, and no, it doesn't have anything to do with not trusting you."

Hitch looked up, surprised, then let his head drop again.

"Next. Benson's death was not your fault. Not in any way. Put the blame where it belongs, on the Germans. And if you can't do that, send a bit of it my way."

"But Sarge—"

"No. I knew that we didn't have enough intel on the target. That mission was a bad idea from the beginning, and I should have said something to Captain Boggs before we even left camp. At the very least I should have taken a few more precautions. Do you blame me?"

"Of course not."

"Then don't blame yourself, either. I don't."

He waited, but Hitch didn't say anything. He sighed.

"Next. Kowalski."

"I tried, Sarge, really I did." Behind his glasses, Hitchcock's eyes were deeply shadowed with pain, both physical and emotional. "I knew he'd try to sneak out and free those prisoners on his own, but I didn't want to rat him out to you behind his back. I tried to talk him out of it, instead, and I thought I had." He gave a deep sigh. "I guess I just didn't do a very good job of it."

"Hitch, don't. Yes, maybe you should have come to me, but I knew what he was thinking, too. I told him to stay put and wait for backup. I even made it a direct order. What did they tell you about orders in Basic? Other than to follow them, I mean."

"Well, that maybe we won't always understand them. . ." Troy nodded, encouraging him to continue. ". . .but that they're there to keep us . . ." His voice trailed off.

"To keep you . . ." Troy prompted.

"To keep us safe."

"That's right. I ordered Kowalski to hold his position, not because I didn't want to get those guys out of there, but because I knew we couldn't pull it off without reinforcements to back us up. Trying with just the four of us would have gotten us all killed or captured. When Kowalski decided he knew better, he not only got himself caught, he tipped off the Germans and put us all at risk. Which means he also made it impossible to break our guys out. Kowalski was an idiot, and I said so in my report."

"But what about Moffitt?" Hitch argued. "I'm supposed to know about ordnance. I should have spotted that shell."

"Hitch, where was the shell?"

"Ummm. I don't know." He groaned. "Man, Sarge, how stupid could I be? I didn't even notice where it was."

"You couldn't have. Moffitt says it was hidden under some debris, and when he moved it, he jostled the shell enough to set it off. There's no way you could have seen it in time. It's amazing that you got enough of a glimpse to pull Moffitt away. You know, you probably saved his life. At the expense of your own."

Hitch remained silent, unwilling to let himself off the hook.

"Hitch, I'll be honest with you. I think – no, I know that you're a good soldier. You're a valuable member of the team, and we'd be a lot less effective without you. But not like this. You're no use to me if you're going to let your doubts get the better of you. Your father's been pressuring Command to reassign you to a non-combat position. If you can't get these feelings under control, they'll give him what he wants and put you on a desk in London. And I won't try to stop them."

Hitch's head came up. "But Sarge!"

"I mean it. Either get past this, or accept a new assignment. It's your choice."

He didn't wait for an answer; he just left, hoping he'd said the right things.

Hitchcock was quiet for long minutes after his sergeant left. Had he really done that? Let his doubts get the better of him?

His hands automatically sorted papers as his mind went around and around. He finally realized that for the past couple months, Tully had been trying to tell him the same thing the Sarge had, but he just hadn't heard him. His headache receded into the distance as he found something more productive to think about than his feelings of guilt and ineptitude. Maybe … maybe they were right. Maybe it was time to give himself a break. At least a little bit of one.

Two hours later, he looked down with surprise to see that all the papers had been neatly sorted and assigned to their correct file folders.

And his headache was gone. Well, mostly gone. Gone enough that he had an appetite for the first time in over a month. He looked at his watch, and didn't have to squint to read the numerals. Time for chow. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd find the guys in the mess tent.

And he left, closing and securing the door to the colonel's office behind him, looking and feeling ten pounds lighter than he had when he'd entered it that morning. Somehow, he knew things would work out.

EPILOG

A letter from Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson to Marcus A. Hitchcock IV:

Dear Marcus:

I'm exercising my prerogative as a friend and a fraternity brother, to tell you to stop sending me all these letters demanding that your son be discharged or reassigned. I realize that you probably have your secretary writing them, so they don't represent any particular effort on your part, but it takes my staff valuable time to read and deal with them. Frankly, they have more important things to do.

I told you I'd have someone keep an eye on him, and I have. Colonel Quint tells us that Mark ("Mark," not "Marc". Do you really not know that that's how he prefers to spell his name?) appears to be completely recovered from his recent injuries and has rejoined his team. He's back on patrol with them, and his sergeant reports that he has settled back into his duties with his usual skill and dedication. His team is operating with its accustomed success and, not to sound overly effusive, panache.

We need him where he is, Marcus, and we need a lot more like him. These boys are fighting for something far more important than territory or glory. They are fighting for the very principles that have been our country's touchstone since the days of the Revolution. So stop it. Immediately. I've instructed my staff that the next letter from you is to be returned, unseen by me, unless it contains assurances that you will stop meddling in your son's life, and that you have sent him a personal letter with the same promise.

You've got a good boy there, Marcus. He deserves better.

I hope to see you at the next reunion, but as things currently stand, it seems unlikely.

Henry L. Stimson,

War Department

Washington, DC

PS: I can't force him to accept an officer's commission, so stop that, too.

Hank