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Return to Owner

A Rat Patrol tag to "The Field of Death Raid"

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Flight Lieutenant David Troy of the Royal Air Force looked incredulously at the contents of the opened package before lifting his head to stare again at the postmaster. "Are you sure it didn't have a return address?"

The postmaster looked at him in surprise. Perhaps he wasn't used to officers repeating themselves with too-obvious questions? "No, sir." The Englishman paused. "At least not written on the box. No APO or FPO marks either, which is a bit odd. Makes me wonder how it even got here, really." Curiosity over the strange package finally seemed to take hold and the postmaster nodded at the RAF officer's cap in David's hands, "Did you leave that back in another country, sir?"

David's lips twitched. "It feels that way, but no. The last time I saw this hat was in the middle of the desert – when I was a temporary guest of the Jerries."

The postmaster's eyebrows rose in surprise and David reverently rolled the hat around in his hands before looking again at his address on the plain brown box:

Capt. David Troy

RAF Station Nefatia South

Desert Air Force

"Well, sir. I suppose it could have been found by one of our desert groups. Maybe they found it and figured it was yours?"

David couldn't help but grin. "My older brother is a sergeant with a rat patrol, but this isn't his handwriting. If it was one of his guys, I know they'd at least send a note." He hesitated, trying to think it over again, but came to the same exact conclusion he had reached the past two times. "Anyway, I think the only people who'd want to go back to the minefield where I was held would be the Jerries...for grave detail."

The postmaster considered this for a brief moment before shrugging. "I suppose it could have been Afrikakorps. Some of those blokes can be pretty alright."

"My one experience with them on the ground was the not-all-right sort." Shaking his head at the understatement he gave a small grin at the postmaster. "I guess it'll be one of those 'mysteries of war' I keep hearing about."

The postmaster gave him a friendly smile, a nod of respect in lieu of a salute and turned back to his duties. David walked slowly out of the wooden Nissen hut that served as the station's ad hoc post office and auxiliary supply center. He was finally getting to be a familiar face around the squadron's new landing grounds. After getting over the American accent in the British uniform, most of the guys seemed to find him acceptable. More likely, his squadron mates had bragged that "their" Yank had been flying with them since 'Thirty-Nine – when war was officially declared between Britain and Germany.

He had promptly dropped out of his freshman year of university and signed up. Even at the time it had seemed like a reckless decision, but he'd never had cause for lasting regret. Moreover, he'd actually inspired Sam, his older brother to follow in his footsteps for once. Sam had joined up with the Aussie infantry for a tour as an 'observer', but had somehow wound up as a senior NCO to a small band of men that, as far as he could tell, was a scaled down American version of the Long Range Desert Group; a group that, as far as David knew, consisted primarily of commonwealth forces. It seemed the Troys were destined to be a fairly international bunch - but then, it was a world war after all.

David gently twisted the hat around his fingers again in thought and started walking over the shimmering sands towards the aerodrome. Now that he thought about it, he did know a very resourceful sergeant in signals who owed him a favor...

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"Do I what?!"

"You know," David repeated patiently into the telephone's mouthpiece, "Know any Afrikakorps soldiers? I only considered it worth the asking since that major and his whole squad seemed pretty set on capping you. That does require some degree of infamy, right?"

There was a telling pause. "Why do you ask?" The bark was gone from Sam's voice and his tone was now surprisingly wary.

"I got my cap back – the one that I lost when that Kraut major nabbed me. It's the one I received when I was reissued a uniform when I made flight lieuy; I wrote in my rank and initials on the inside. It was sent to me at the base and at first I thought it might have been you or one of your guys, but I figured you'd at least have the decency to send a letter...or food...with it."

Sam laughed but was then quiet before finally admitting, "Well...there is this one German officer around this area who can be pretty classy."

David laughed. "Details, Sergeant, details!"

"I suppose there's no harm," Sam's voice was filled with resignation. "He's a Hauptmann-"

David cut in, "Wait, that's an equivalent of my rank, flight lieutenant...ah...captain, right?" He grimaced at his own hesitance in naming his formal rank. While he may be "Flight Lieutenant Troy" to most of the RAF, his own men had insisted on calling him "Capt'n" – in the fullest United States Army Air Corps sense of the word. As far as he could tell, it was their collective idea of an ironic compliment, considering that just prior to his promotion from Flying Officer he had dodged a transfer to one of the all-American Eagle Squadrons; mostly out of sheer loyalty to the squadron he was with.

"Yep. He's used to commanding on the front lines, so we run into him a lot." A pause. "It's rather amazing that we haven't managed to kill each other off yet."

David snorted quietly. "Well, he probably thinks you're a class act too."

Sam gave a laugh. "Yeah, we do keep him pretty entertained...if watching your own fuel and ammo dumps exploding and supply caravans raided can be called entertainment."

David laughed in return. "I suppose if you're apparently as brilliant at it as you are, the other side would have to be pretty respectful."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Dietrich does have his sneaky days; the sort where he shows his respect by trying to kill or capture us. Luckily we're usually just..." Sam paused as he struggled to find the right words before giving up, "...more sneakier, and maybe more luckier, too."

David grinned. Four years of barely seeing Sam, but he still had that very concise way of getting the point across. "Well, he can't be all that bad if he's returning me my hat."

"I think the operation offended his sensibilities. He'd probably give more than a years' pay to get all four of us into a POW camp, but he would have to be pretty desperate to even think about kidnapping my kid brother to do it."

David grinned again – he had a squadron full of people like that. "He sounds very European. Not cricket, wot?"

Sam gave an odd noise. "More likely, he knows there's a good chance I'd kill him if anything happened to you and I found out he was responsible." There was an awkward pause before Sam tactfully changed the subject. "You know his English is very good? I don't know if he's ever spent any time in the States, but I keep getting the impression he's a bit of an Anglophile."

David hummed in agreement – his brother's instincts were usually spot on – and glanced out into the unofficial communications center for the station. There was a line of very impatient faces. "Oi," he breathed.

"What is it?" Sam asked with alarm.

"Ah, nothing. Just a few brass hats waiting for me to get off the phone."

"Clearly nothing at all, then," Sam teased.

"Yeah. I better get going." He paused and against his better judgment added, "Go easy on my brother officers over there, eh?"

Sam clearly received the message, "I'll do my best, but you know me?"

"Yep" David replied and with one-hand still grasping the phone, carefully replaced his newer hat for the original. "I do know you."

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