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There was nothing quite so like the quiet afternoon before a big offensive. The calm before the storm. At least, this was what Arnold Messler was thinking as he undressed. He was alone, and the focus of his attention at the moment was the large freestanding porcelin bath tub that sat on a rug in the middle of what could charitably be called a room, but was in fact a tent in a German camp located just six miles west of the well at Bir-Hassani. It was sparsely furnished, reflective of the young squirrel's dedication to duty.

He stood in front of the looking glass perched somewhat awkwardly on the worn and wather-beaten dresser. Behind him, he could see the rest of the tent's interior; the tub, a cot and a collapsible table serving as a desk. His uniform lay folded across the cot. In addition to the usual stacks of files and a field radio one expected to find in the quarters of an officer in the Afrika Korps, there were some rocks and plants, a microscope and worn hardcover books; two in his native German about plant and animal life in the desert, and one, in French, about geology.

These items, set aside, were the sole allowances for individuality Messler permitted himself, and the thin layer of dust on them gave away that he hadn't touched them in weeks. More was the pity. He enjoyed his naturalist hobbies. But duty always seemed to call in Africa, and as much as he enjoyed the thrill of battle, Messler was as prone to emotional wear as the next German. So it was that what time he got to himself these last several days was spent relaxing, or trying to, instead of losing himself in his rock collecting and plant pressing.

Messler was in his early thirties, with creamy brownish-tan fur and a lighter tan chest and belly, with matching fur around the muzzle and eyes. In build, he was of medium height, with a hard body offset by the beginnings of a sloping paunch, and curved hips that were surprisingly feminine on so masucline a squirrel. His long, bushy tail grew out from just above toned buttocks and filled the space directly behind him.

His mouth was set in a hard, tight-lipped expression, and his green eyes were half-open in what seemed like sleepiness. It was an expression of lazy neutrality that came naturally to Messler, not betraying how truly alert and attentive he truly was. His face was both one of intelligence and compassion and at once one of fierce determination disguised as neutrality. Blonde hair smoothed down and parted in the middle sat atop his head, bangs that gave him a slight Romanesque quality falling in soft waves across his high forehead. Matching blonde fur softly encircled his flaccid penis down below his belly button. He was nude except for his identity disk and the object of his attention currently, a Knight's Cross. Both adorned his throat and hung just below his Adam's apple. He smiled at the medal, and then his fingers carefully undid the clasp at the back, and with the greatest of care he set the medal down on top of the dresser next to a simple silver cross on a chain. He left the identity disk on.

He walked from the dresser to the tub, from which steam rose in thick waves off of the water. He gingerly inserted one foot and then withdrew it before plunging the entire leg in with a soft hiss, but then smiled. The water was like a hot spring, and that was how he liked it. Despite the heat of the African desert, he couldn't stand taking a cold bath. He enjoyed a dip in the cool waters of the occasional oasis as much as the next soldier, but something about baths just told him they should be hot, regardless of the temperature of the surrounding environment.

And a hot bath was a rarity in the field, something he only allowed himself at times like this: the eve of a battle. It did wonders to fully relax him in preparation for what might prove to be his last day on Earth, and what was sure to be a harrowing experience even if he survived. Inserting the other leg and gripping the sides of the tub, he lowered himself in fully until the hot water cover him entirely below the shoulders. After fidgeting a few moments to get used to the heat, he shut his eyes and laid his head back against the porcelin, and tried to put his mind towards other things. An erection slowly developed between his legs, a combination of the heat, his relaxed attitude, and the individual his thoughts turned to, the officer who'd given him his Knight's Cross, awarded for the capture of three British officers and for saving the life of his immediate superior Captain Durst.

He had faith in Helmreich. Even loved him, if it were possible for one man to so completely give himself to another. Victory was all but assured with the burly, brilliant fox leading the way. It was merely whether he himself would live to revel in that victory that always had Messler secretly worried before each engagement. And yet, strangely, the thought of dying didn't seem to frighten him much. Instead, he was more concerned about disappointing Helmreich. As he pictured the general, his fingers danced nimbly over his stiffened member out of habit. It'd been a long time since he'd given himself over to pleasure. He so rarely found the time. No, he thought, fingers sliding away, his shaft aching in mute protest. He didn't want to debase his feelings for Helmreich with something as simple and filthy as masturbating. His arousal at his total dedication to his General was satisfaction enough.

He didn't consider himself a homosexual. Of women he cared absolutely nothing, but at the same time there were no other males who made his body react the way he did, who made his mind wander to such areas. And yet Helmreich's gender had little to do with Messler's attraction to him. It was instead his nature. His larger than life personality, his brilliant skill and fearlessness as an officer of the Afrika Korps. In most men it "simply" inspired total devotion and a willingness to throw their lives away for such a great man, one so awe-inspiring that whispered compliments included referring to him as "the other Desert Fox."

In Messler, it inspired that... and more. He would do anything for General Helmreich, even die for him. A suicide mission handed to him by "the other Desert Fox" would have sent him obediently, if not exactly gladly, to his death, with one of his many regrets being that he wouldn't live to hear the General's appreciation of his bravery. But beyond this "mere" loyalty to his commanding officer, which all the men in Helmreich's command shared towards their leader, in Messler it also inspired love.

The young officer would've given anything to feel his General's hard, manly embrace after the upcoming battle, their mouths touching, Helmreich's lips parting in a gentle kiss as Messler smelled his sweat and tasted him. He didn't see it as homosexual in nature at all. The act he yearned to commit may have been, but the desire sprang from a much more pure and absolute love and devotion that Messler saw as being perfectly natural from a subordinate officer to his demigod-like General. Again, he felt the weakness threaten to take over, his fingers touching himself under the surface of the already cooling water, and again he reigned himself in. To give in would reduce his love of Helmreich to a mere orgasm, and the thought made his stomach turn. His honor and appreciation for what he felt for his General won out, as indeed it always would, and he spent the remainder of his time in the bath with his cock aching, but he ignored it. Never once did it falter, but never did he touch it again.

He drifted into a contented doze, and would've remained this way if his will to perform hadn't eventually asserted itself. His eyes fluttered open what seemed like hours later, but was in reality only a few minutes. The water was no longer hot, but thanks to the heat of the desert, was still pleasantly warm at least. Grabbing a bar of soap, Messler bathed himself, taking special care to wash his private areas, lest he develop something unpleasant down there from poor hygiene.

After rinsing the soapy bubbles off of himself by repeatedly splashing himself with water, he decided he ought to get out before his identity disk rusted, and arose from the bath, sudsy water running off of him, his tail hanging limply like a dead, wet dog, and stepped from the tub. He grabbed a towel hanging on the back of his chair and dried himself. He hadn't got his hair wet. With the towel around his waist, he went to the dresser, and opened the middle drawer, the one he kept his underclothes in. He got a clean white undershirt. Removing and tossing the towel aside onto the cot beside his uniform, he pulled the shirt on over his head.

Nude below the waist and still slightly erect, he rummaged through the drawer until he found what he was looking for. He smiled as he held a pair of the softest panties he'd ever owned in his life, his mind racing as he thought how wonderful it'd feel to wear them in battle. He envied women, with their underthings designed for beauty and comfort. Men like him, especially soldiers of the Reich, wear expected to enjoy only "masculine" things, and while Messler did, by and large, one of his few weaknesses was for feminine undergarments and lingerie. Ever since he'd been a boy, stealing his mother's panties and stockings to wear in private. Oddly, "full" femine wear never appealed to him; he had no desire for dresses, skirts or gowns. Only lingerie, worn under his more traditional male attire, interested him.

But not now, he thought as he brought the panties to his face. They smelled fresh and clean. He considered rubbing his muzzle in them and decided against it. No. Not now. As much as it'd please him to wear them into battle, Messler had to guard against discovery. As one of General Helmreich's officers, even though he was just a lieutenant, Messler could expect to have his privacy respected. There was little danger of these panties, and the other feminine garments tucked safely away in his dresser, being discovered. But if he were wounded while they were on, and his pants needed to be removed, he'd have some... awkward explaining to do afterwards. So it was with determination but reluctance that he returned the panties to their hiding place inside the drawer, and retrieved a regular pair of men's undershorts. He tugged them on, grunting a little as he adjusted himself in them, feeling his erection softening, but still bulging them out in the front a little bit as he turned and went to retrieve his uniform.

Tan shorts were pulled on, zipped up and buttoned, hugging his hips tightly but hanging loosely around his thighs. A cream colored dress shirt was next, draped around him and the buttons all done up, even the high collar in spite of the heat. Already, perspiration showed under the arms of the shirt as he tucked it into the waistband of his shorts, but Messler ignored it as he grabbed the olive green necktie and did it up tightly against his throat, taking pride in his appearance, and not just because he was eager for a compliment from Helmreich. That was part of it; indeed, the thought of General Helmreich warmly telling him he set an example to the other officers made his heart flutter. But mostly, it was simple dedication to the uniform. In the field, things like undone shirt collars and unbuttoned tunics were permissable, but not when presenting yourself to your General, especially if you admired and respected - and loved - him as Messler did.

Seating himself on the cot, Messler pulled on a pair of rough, knee-length socks. Wiggling his toes to adjust his feet in them, the ankle-high brown boots were yanked on next, the laces quickly done up. He was in a hurry now. He stood. A standard Afrika Korps tunic bearing the plain shoulder insignia of a lieutenant was pulled onto his body and buttoned up tightly. His battle ribbons adorned the left breast over the pocket. The black, white-trimmed ribbon of an Iron Cross second class from the Great War also adorned the tunic. It'd been his father's. Dieter Heinz-Adolf Messler was now a colonel in Intelligence. He was a relatively unremarkable soldier in the Great War, but he'd been awarded the Iron Cross. When Messler had become a lieutenant, his father had sent him the medal as a present before he departed for Africa, and he now wore it with great pride. It wasn't the only thing of his father's he owned. As he buckled on his gun belt, he felt the comforting weight of the prewar model Luger nestled in the oiled leather holster dangling off the lefthand side in crossdraw fashion. The gun and its holster, cleaned and oiled with the greatest care, had been given to him as a gift when he'd first joined the Wehrmacht. It was, and would always remain, one of his most prized possessions. Hardly a day went by that he didn't strip and clean it as part of simple routine - to say nothing of affection.

Grabbing his officer's peaked cap, Messler went to the dresser, where he retrieved the Knight's Cross. Setting the hat aside, he held the medal in both hands laid across his spread fingers, the ribbon and clasp dangling loosely from the tips. The Swastika was etched in the center. Messler didn't care much for the Nazis, much less their "Führer," but the Swastika was the current emblem of his country and if the men who put it there held the key to Germany's dominance of the world, then so be it. He had deep pride in his nation's military history, and ached, liked his father, to see its honor restored through conquest. He was willing and able to obey Hitler and his cronies as long as they kept up their end of the bargain.

All the same, he was glad he belonged to the Afrika Korps, and the Wehrmacht overall, instead of an organization like the SS. Glad-handing, backslapping control freaks they were, entitled bullies playing at being soldiers. He neither liked nor trusted them, and thought they had too much influence. He was proud to be a real soldier. An officer of the Wehrmacht.

He was glad, moreover, that they had considerably little presence in Africa. He went months without seeing their acursed silver skulls and lightning bolts, and thank God for it.

Gently, he slid the ribbon around his throat and fixed the clasp into place. Releasing the Knight's Cross, he smiled as it settled heavily against the knot of his tie. He gave it a proud little flick with his finger, making a tiny metallic "ting." The last thing he did before he left was grab the silver cross on the chain that lay on top of the dresser. One of his other prized possessions. A gift from his mother, Ilse Messler, who had died of pneumonia three years ago. The cross had been hers. A devout Christian, she'd always been anti-military, a source of many an argument between her and his father. And she had never approved of her son joining the Wehrmacht. But a boy's love for his mother knew no bounds. Ilse Messler's sudden death had been the one time her son had ever wept in his adult life. It had also been the only time he'd ever seen his father cry. Although not as deeply religious as his mother, Messler certainly believed in God - principally that God was behind Germany, just as the belt buckles said - and so he'd kept the cross. It meant a great deal to him, both spiritually and sentimentally. So much so, in fact, he never actually took it into battle for fear of losing it.

He kissed the cross, his one symbol of connection to his faith and his mother, and mumbled a quick praise to God, Germany's God, he believed, and then rose and returned the cross to its place on the dresser and donned his hat. Pushing the tent flap aside, he stepped out into the blazing sun of the African afternoon. He squinted, then turned and saw Corporal Erhard Voss, the orderly, standing nearby, and called to him.

"Corporal!" he yelled.

"Sir!" Voss snapped to attention. He was a handsome young stoat with a lean body but a surprisingly ill-fitting uniform. A fieldcap sat slightly askew on his head.

Smiling, Messler sauntered over, and, using the tip of one finger, straightened Voss' hat. "That's better," he said, always insisting his subordinates, what few he had given his rank, look just as presentable in their station as he did. "Please empty the bathwater in my tub."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Voss replied. "I'll also have it removed and scrubbed," he added.

Messler nodded. He remembered when he, too, had once been a low-ranking peon scrubbing out tubs and other recipticles and shining shoes for superior officers. Indeed, it had been one of his first jobs for General Helmreich; he'd served as Helmreich's aide and caretaker before his eagerness to prove his worth in combat had made the General give him a position as a field officer. Because of this, he was not only appreciative of dutiful men like Voss, but deeply admired them as well. Maybe even slightly envied them. For, as much as he enjoyed the life of a field officer, he had fond memories of hard work and faithful service attending to the every whim of great leaders. He was sure that despite his obedience, Voss felt differently, but everyone was entitled to their own opinion.

Voss entered the tent, and, leaving the stoat to his work, Messler walked over to the middle of the encampment were Helmreich's tent was. It was large, serving as both their field headquarters as well as the General's personal living area. A dozen or so dust and dirt-covered vehicles were parked here and there in a semicircle around it. All halftracks and armored cars, except for two Kübelwagens and Helmreich's impressive but slightly weather beaten open-topped Horch that served as his staff car. The hood was up and the engine was being worked on as Messler walked past it. A few of the other vehicles were being tended to as well. Machinery needed constant cleaning and maintannence due to the endless ravages of the desert.

Past the perimenter of vehicles lay the tent itself, and before it, in the bright blazing sun, was a large table over which was spread numerous maps that all showed great wear and tear, stained and grimed by the desert. Surrounding this were numerous captains, majors and one colonel, as well as a handful of minor lieutenants like himself. All eyes were on the great man himself. General Max Helmreich stood at the head of the table, flanked by Colonel von Dorffman, who was a tall, lanky ferret, and one of the majors, Reiner, a badger, using a well-worn riding crop to point at positions on the largest of the maps as he spoke. The meeting was well underway already. He was late. Fortunately, Helmreich only gave him the most cursory of sideways glances before continuing, and no comment was made on the squirrel's tardiness.

"The other Desert Fox" was a large, broadshouldered vulpine of about fifty. Although he was a little thick in the middle which gave him a slightly dumpy appearance quite unbecoming of such a well-renowned officer, and, indeed he'd been much fatter when he'd first arrived in Africa, with all the sweating he did slimming him down considerably. Like most of his species, he had burnt-orange fur and a creamy underbelly. His long tail, not as bushy as Messler's but still impressive, wagged back and forth in the air excitedly as he spoke. His hat was off, currently sitting on the table before him, revealing his slightly thinning brown hair. A neatly-trimmed mustache in the popular "Der Führer" style grew just underneath his nose and looked slightly out of place. He was anything but what one expect a general of his reputation to look like; certainly not the model for the master race. But neither was Hitler. Great men, Messler realized, didn't all look the part.

Despite appearing ponderous and slow due to his weight, his height combined with his sheer force of personality still made him a truly masterful presence. Helmreich had a great sense of urgency and unbridled energy about him as well.

A standard desert uniform hugged his broad chest and thickening belly. Jodhpurs hung loosely around his legs, tucked into dusty jackboots. Binoculars dangled around his neck and a holster with what Messler knew to be a specially engraved silver Walther PPK hung from his belt. Like Messler, his necktie was done up tightly in spite of the heat. Where he truly "looked the part" was in the fact he all but bristled with medals. A Knight's Cross at his throat, two Iron Cross second class, and one first class on his left breast pocket as well as assorted assault badges and wound badges. Even a Nazi Party badge. One of the Iron Crosses was from the Great War, telling the tale of Helmreich's service in that conflict. No hand-me-down heirloom, but the real deal, worn out of pride for his service to the Fatherland and not because his father had given to him. In an age where it seemed like medals were handed out like candy, Max Helmreich was a man unto himself who'd earned every single one of them through blood and sweat. They were the one thing he kept completely clean. His uniform was otherwise quite dusty, but the medals gleamed smartly in the sun.

The meeting was a standard pre-battle strategy rundown, nothing particularly special, but Helmreich's manic energy was contagious. He knew how to get his subordinates worked up for the conflict to come.

"Now, our scouts reported that the British were about here at about nine this morning." The leather loop of the riding crop hit a western area of the map with a loud slap for emphasis. "About a hundred miles away. By the way, that was excellent work, von Bracht." This last part spoken to a middle-aged hedgehog lieutenant who had led the scouting party earlier. "Their obvious goal is the well. Now, given the amount of time that's passed, and the likely speed at which the British are traveling, it's a safe bet that our enemy are about forty miles away by now." He stood back from the table a bit and folded his arms behind his back, smirking and rocking on his heels, his boots creaking a little.

"Now, gentlemen, I don't need to tell you what we should do with enemies when we find them," he said with a grin. There were a few scattered chuckles. Then his expression turned hard and steely. "But just in case I do, you will stop them before they reach Bir-Hassani..." The riding crop was whipped around and again slapped firmly against the map, right on the spot marking where the well was.

"Encircle them. Trap them. Von Bracht tells me that they have no tanks, only trucks and halftracks, so we won't need the heavier armor." He indicated a few tanks that sat nearby with a nod of his head and them smiled warmly with fatherly affection towards his men. "Take them. Dominate them one and all. Let none escape. They'll have to surrender... or die. And although I'd prefer the former, given what brave opponents these Englishmen have proven to be thus far, despite their poor performance, in the end, results are all that matter. I want them stopped, period. They will not reach Bir-Hassani. Understand?"

This plan was typical of Helmreich. Despite not performing as well as the Afrika Korps, as Helmreich had alluded to, the British enemy seemed to have more men and armor compared to them in every single battle. At all times, they seemed to have total command of the country. And yet in every engagement, Helmreich had crushed vastly superior forces without mercy, due in no small part to the fact he knew how to properly use what he had. His favorite tactic was to divide his forces into three groups, only one of which drove head-on at the enemy. The other two encircled them from the sides and from behind. He called it his "broadsides attack." This trapped them and gave the advantage to the attacking Germans. To date, there'd been few survivors of the battles on the British side, and exactly zero escapes. One Jeepload of soldiers had come close, but Helmreich had run them down with a group of halftracks and destroyed them when they refused to quit trying to run away. He'd personally manned the high-powered machine gun on the lead halftrack which sealed the fates of the enemy soldiers.

That was the other thing about Helmreich which inspired such confidence and loyalty among his men; he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty, to join his men in the actual battle and even partake in the killing. His numerous wound badges were a testament to how dangerous a life he led. He'd once captured almost an entire group of British troops, one of the few times his forces had come away from a conflict with more prisoners than victims.

"Now then... Lieutenant Messler will lead the advance party," Helmreich said, smiling at his newly-decorated subordinate. "We'll see if he is truly worthy of the Cross hanging around his neck like so much jewelry."

Murmurs of agreement and a few chuckles. Messler was normally silent unless directly spoken to, usually just smiling proudly as he basked in his commanding officer's presence, but now he stood up straighter and gave a hearty "Yes, sir!" along with the others. He felt butterflies fluttering in his belly. Was he being sent to his death after all? Helmreich's way of doing things not only routinely endangered himself, but also resulted in a shockingly high casualty rate among his officers and soldiers. Especially the ones who led the advance parties and engaged the enemy from the front. Messler had been in an advance party once before, but this would be his first time leading one. But as before, although he didn't fear dying, he didn't look forward to it. In addition to feeling as though he'd disappoint General Helmreich by getting killed, he was filled with a deep sadness that he'd die without ever seeing his homeland again. To die here in this foreign land filled with harsh, dry sand and barren terrain so unlike the beautiful European countryside of the Fatherland filled him with sadness. He glanced off at the horizon wistfully.

But if he needed to die here, far from home, for his beloved General Helmreich's plan to succeed, he would. And gladly.

The General declared the meeting adjourned and ordered his men to get to their vehicles and ready themselves. As the officers dispersed and began shouting orders at their subordinates, and the mechanics finished up with their work on the armored vehicles, Messler joined them. His immediate subordinate Roland Falken was called over, a big, burly badger with muscles on his muscles, his black and white fur standing out against the light tans and greens of his Afrika Korps uniform and against the bland sandy biege of the desert terrain. A pair of petite wire-frame glasses perched on von Falken's muzzle gave him a surprising air of intellectualism.

"Sergeant Falken!" Messler bellowed with all the force his squirrel lungs could muster. "Get the men into halftracks three and six. Follow in halftrack seven. I'll be in the reconnaissance car. We'll take four altogether."

"Yes, sir!" snapped Falken, turned and began bellowing out orders of his own with much more gusto than the stocky blonde squirrel he answered to.

As Messler stood watching his men, who were mostly squirrels aside from Falken, he felt a strong arm slide over his shoulders, and was pulled against a powerful body in a warm embrace. "Steady there, son," General Helmreich urged gently. "You'll have lots of yelling to do yet, so it's best not to wear your voice out before the fighting has even started."

"Yes, sir," Messler said sheepishly, blushing a little uncharacteristically.

"Are you afraid?" the fox asked, keeping his arm around the squirrel.

"No sir," was the immediate response. "It's an honor to lead such a dangerous mission for you."

"I believe you," said Helmreich quietly. "But only fools are unafraid. Lack of fear, even on on some level, only leads to recklessness. You're afraid. Deep down, you're afraid. I can tell. You know how dangerous this mission will be. You know how many good men I lose each time I undertake one of these attacks." Messler nodded solemnly. "But know two things. First, if you die, it'll be for a good cause." And for you, Messler wanted to declare, but kept his mouth shut. "And second... I don't think you will die. I have faith in you. You'll do honor to this..." He touched the Knight's Cross with his fingertip. "...and this," he added, finger moving down, tracing delicately over the buttons of Messler's tunic until it stopped at his father's Iron Cross. "Your father clearly has faith in you, and so so I. That's why I chose you to lead the advance party. I know you won't let me down. You'll make me proud of you. And I know, because I'll be there to watch you, and I'll personally shoot you if you fail me!"

He eyed him sternly, but then bust up laughing, his belly shaking. Messler knew Helmreich didn't mean what he said about shooting him. Even though numerous officers had failed him, he'd never actually had anyone under his command executed.

The fox's broad face leaned in close. So close Messler could smell his breath and feel the bristles of his mustache tickling his nose. The finger remained pressing against the ribbon of his Iron Cross. "And after the battle," he said softly, so that only Messler could hear, "you'll come to my tent. You'll dine with me and my senior officers as the hero of the day. After that, I'd very much like to spend some quality time alone with you and get to know you better." Messler swallowed. He dared to hope Helmreich meant what he thought he meant. "You have a very bright future ahead of you. I suspect that very soon you'll be a captain under my command, and have a few more medals shining on your chest."

"But above all else," he added, "don't do it for me, or for Germany. Do it for yourself."

The finger withdrew, and then Helmreich's arm slid down, lower, and encircled Messler's waist. The squirrel's boots left the earth and with a grunt and a flex of his muscles, the General lifted him up and hugged him against himself in a very brotherly fashion, bouncing the stocky body up and down a few times against his slightly flabby side. He laughed, a great, bellowing guffaw of unbridled joy and love of life, and then released him, and Messler staggered back a bit, grinning, and received a good-natured, gentle punch against the shoulder.

"Yes, General," Messler said earnestly.

"Do your very best!" Helmreich said, gripping his shoulder tightly and looking deeply into Messler's green eyes. "That's all I can ask of any of my men."

The squirrel stiffened before his commander, and saluted. Then, turning, he walked over to the armored reconnaissance car, which sat idling with the motor rumbling. Behind it, three halftracks came trundling up, roaring. Falken was visibly in the first one. With nimbleness befitting a squirrel, Messler climbed up the armored side of the vehicle and hopped in. Standing up so he was visible poking out the top, he saluted Helmreich again for show, then, making sure all of his men's eyes were on him, especially the drivers, he motioned forward with his arm. The armored car jerked forwards and drove off, out of the camp, towards the endless sea of dunes and rocky rubble that was the desert...

~*~

Collars were undone and tunics unbuttoned long before the advance party reached its goal. Messler sweated unbearably as the sun shone down mercilessly, his tie and tunic removed, the buttons of his dress shirt undone all the way down to the middle of his stomach. The Knight's Cross sat shining in the sunlight as it lay nestled in the wide open front of his shirt. In addition, the need for protection in combat had made him switch out his peaked cap for a stahlhelm.

The vehicle he was riding in was a Daimler-Benz armored reconnaissance car or scout car, a long, narrow vehicle that rode high up off the ground on its four large wheels. The top was completely open to the elements the full length of the vehicle past where the driver, allowing Messler to stand up in it as it drove along. A young squirrel named Private Oster, sat peering through one of the front windows. Besides him and another squirrel named Sergeant Schiller, there was no one else in the car. Schiller sat braced against the rear, a Sturmgewehr across his lap. Thick goggles hid all three squirrels' eyes to protect them against the dust and dirt. Behind them in the three halftracks, Falken and the other troops were similarly attired.

Feeling perhaps a little too prideful, Messler made a show of standing at the front of the vehicle, one foot up on the side, like a turn-of-the-century sea captain riding ashore in a longboat, with his chest thrust outwards so the Knight's Cross could be plainly seen. Who he expected to impress, even he didn't know; riding in the front of the lead vehicle as he was, nobody could see the medal.

Despite the dust, Messler was grateful for the wind rushing over him as they drove. It went some way towards keeping him cool, but it was still warmer than he would've like. He looked left. Off in the distance, he saw a huge cloud of dust being kicked up. To the right, more of the same. The rest of the Afrika Korps attack force.

Gradually, he became aware of a another cloud of dust signifying a large assortment of vehicles. This one lay directly ahead. The enemy. Just to make sure, he looked through his binoculars, and indeed, he beheld a column of assorted vehicles, chiefly American Jeeps, trucks and halftracks emblazoned with the insignia of the British Army. At the front rode an officer in a Humber scout car, the lone genuine British-made vehicle in the group. In all there appeared to be about fifteen vehicles and around sixty men.

He lowered his binoculars and tapped Oster on the shoulder and the driver nodded, then he turned and signalled to the men riding in back of them to get ready. The two rearmost halftracks pulled around to drive alongside them, the men inside readying the mounted machine guns and panzerfausts. Taking a deep breath and deciding to go and meet his destiny, he hit Oster's shoulder again and the Daimler-Benz raced ahead, putting distance between itself and the slower halftracks. Speed was the key. They had to meet the enemy before they turned and tried to get away, and above all else, they had to keep their attention focused on them, to the exclusion of the Germans who were going to attack from the sides.

Meet them they did. The two groups of vehicles practically collided with one another. Messler sensibly ducked down into the armored protection of the car, as did Schiller. The clash was over almost as immediately as it began, but a lot occurred in that brief few seconds. As both groups passed one another, fire was exchanged. The Humber was hit first, being the frontmost of the vehicles. The officer riding in it, a British fox, jerked and flailed as automatic fire tore through him, and fell unmoving into the back of the vehicle. His driver sped up and the little scout car shot past the Germans without any further incident, bullets bouncing off its armored hull. Next, the halftracks passed the canvas-topped GMC trucks. The driver of the first was shot through the windshield, and took his foot off of the pedal. As the truck slowed, the one behind it collided with it. The other trucks either stopped to avoid further collisions, or drove around the two stopped vehicles. This put them directly in the line of fire. More windshields shattered and bullets tore through the canvas. Hurled grenades transformed the truckloads of enemy troops, predominantly more foxes and squirrels, in fiery infernos.

Soldiers started piling out of the trucks, armed with Stens and bolt-action rifles of some kind. One hurled a grenade which bounced off of the side of a German halftrack and exploded harmlessly in the sand. Ignoring these troops, two of the halftracks roared ahead to meet their American-made British counterparts. To either side, Messler could see the arriving vehicles of his comrades. Riding in the lead halftrack of one approaching column, he could see General Helmreich sticking up, giving instructions to a gunner. Messler grinned, and was in the middle of ordering driver Oster to turn around to pursue the escaping Humber, when something happened. Things started going wrong.

The first thing that happened was that Schiller, as he poked up over the side to fire, was hit more or less square in the shoulder and face. The beefy squirrel sergeant was spun around by the hit to the shoulder, and already dead from the bullet to his face. He mercifully fell out of the reconnaissance car, and Messler watched him go tumbling off to finally lie sprawled face down in the sand. This wasn't what went wrong, though; a man dying in a dangerous frontal assault was necessary. No, what went wrong was that the British suddenly turned their vehicles unexpectedly to either side to meeting the two new incoming threats, ignoring their initial attackers.

This had happened before, but not usually. More than once, Helmreich and his men had found that their prey decided to go on the offensive rather than simply sit and be sitting targets to get broadsided. But usually, they'd been so utterly surrounded that it hadn't mattered. This time, they wheeled in force against the nearest column, and hit it before the other could come to its defense. The huge guns mounted on the British halftracks fired merrily away. Even as the German halftracks wheeled 'round to come to their comrades' defense, the powerful explosive shells blew the attacking German vehicles into flaming bits of scrap. The panzerfausts found their mark, though, and a few of the Allied halftracks exploded as well.

Nevertheless, Messler witnessed the complete destruction of the initial side column in only a few seconds. The British force had been halved, but so had the German one. Even as the other column, the one headed by Helmreich's halftrack, arrived, the enemy regrouped. Two halftracks and some trucks survived, and a lot of infantry. Infantry, Messler noticed, with bazookas and PIATs. Horror dawned on him as he realized the British had come prepared, having somehow learned of Helmreich's standard attack procedure despite him never letting anyone escape previous battles. Either that, or they were just exceptionally well-prepared for an ambush and had unusually quick reaction time, and been able to realize the real threat came from the Germans attacking from the side.

Forgetting the Humber with its lone surviving occupant, Messler yelled at Oster to turn again, and, grabbing the radio, began screaming commands to his other halftracks. "Encircle them!" he yelled. "They're going after the General! Stop them!" There was genuine fear in his voice, and, even as the command left his lips, he could see that Falken and the others were too slow in turning to aid their commanding officer. And as for Messler, all his reconnaissance car's frenzied rush back towards the fighting did was rush him that much faster towards a better view of the horrifying demise that awaited the man he admired and loved.

A PIAT exploded under the front of the lead halftrack, flinging everyone in it backwards. The front end seemed to lift up briefly from the force of the explosion, then thudded unceremoniously back down in the sand. The vehicle behind it, an armored six-wheeled scout car, made an abrupt turn to avoid crashing into it. However, it attempted to do so at the top of a sloping dune, and it tilted too much to one side. It might've avoided going down the side, except the men inside it slid to one side, and this was enough to seen it tipping over. To their credit, the soldiers didn't scream. The car thudded onto its side, flinging them out to be crushed when the vehicle slid down on top of them and turned over on its back at the bottom of the dune. Messler grimaced, and grabbed Schiller's Sturmgewehr, which had landed inside the car, and fired at the group of soldiers who'd fired the PIAT. Most of them managed to get to safety behind a truck, but the slower ones did a jigging dance of death and sprawled in the sand. Fire was returned and Messler ducked back down inside the armored safety of his vehicle.

Through one of the front viewports, he watched as the gunner in Helmreich's halftrack was hit. He slid down inside the vehicle out of sight, pointing the gun upwards and firing aimlessly at the sky. Flames licked up along the crippled vehicle's sides as Helmreich, minus his hat, rose into view. Blood streamed down his face and he appeared to have been wounded in the back. Grabbing the machine gun from the dying soldier, he manned it himself as he'd done numerous times before, blasting away at the attacking Brits, mowing several of them down. But then one of the surviving British halftracks swung around at him, and one of the foxes riding in it stood up with a bazooka perched on his shoulder. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Messler stood up again in the car, bracing his butt against the side, and opened fire on the enemy soldier who was intent on killing his beloved General.

Even as he did so, he watched in helpess horror as the bazooka-wielding fox turned and aimed at him instead, and, behind, another Brit rose up with his own heavy anti-tank weapon. Both men fired at once. Feeling like he was swimming through molasses, Messler numbly sat back down as Oster, gritting his teeth, sped up in a vain effort to escape. The bazooka round hit the back of the reconnaissance car and it spun around and flipped over onto the driver's side. Messler felt himself flying out, tumbling through the air over Oster, and hit the sand rolling, his helmet flying off. Dimly, he heard another explosion nearby. For a moment, he lay there on his stomach, the whole world spinning, hearing shouts, gunfire and explosions.

After a moment, he slowly rolled over and sat up. Through the dusty lenses of his goggles, the first he noticed was the overturned Daimler-Benz and Oster still in it, smoke belching forth from the upended car. He grabbed his helmet and put it back on. Crawling over on his hands and knees, the squirrel grabbed the driver and pulled him from his seat. He was alive, but unconscious. Leaving Oster lying there, he drew his father's Luger and went to the front end of the car and looked around it. He saw the burning halftrack, partially overturned in the sand, and the fiercely-determined looking General Helmreich struggling to extract himself. He was stuck somehow.

Without a second thought, with not even a moment's hesitation, Messler took off like a rocket and charged headlong across the open ground between the two vehicles, kicking up great tufts of sand as he went. A British soldier came into his path. From where, he didn't know. Apparently, the other squirrel was just as confused as he was. Even as he brought his rifle up, Messler shot him with the Luger and he fell down. He charged past the prone form and drew nearer to the halftrack and his goal. The burning General Helmreich saw him, and hope filled his face. He reached out one hand for his fellow German squirrel even as his uniform caught fire. Then suddenly Messler's left arm seemed to explode in agony. A bullet entered it from the rear and exited the front in a spray of blood and bits of flesh.

He was spin around from the force of the impact. The Luger flew from his hand, landing he knew not where, and he suddenly found the bright blue sky very interesting, barely even feeling himself tilting backwards as blood ran down his arm, soaking his shirt sleeve. Then a second bullet struck his helmet and a noisy "clang" roared through his ears as the helmet spun around and flew off. Suddenly he felt the ground rush up and hit him - or did he hit it? - and dimly he heard the shouts and gunfire from the continued battle.

Dying. Dying. I'm dead.

Then:

Father, I miss my father.

Then he blacked out.

~*~

He slowly drifted up out of utter blackness, to find himself lying shirtless on a coat inside a medical tent. He winced as he felt the pain flare up in his arm. Glancing over, he observed the clean, but very bloodstained bandage covering his bicep. He sighed. Just then, a medical officer he didn't recognize entered the tent. He was a lean-bodied ferret wearing a long white coat over his officer's uniform.

"Ah," he said with a weary smile, "I see you're awake."

"I... thought I was dead..." Messler mumbled.

"No, just unconscious," the doctor said. "You won't be using that arm for a while, though..."

"My head," the squirrel said, and his hand flew up, feeling gingerly along a goose egg already throbbing underneath his scalp.

"A bullet did hit your helmet, but richocheted off of it. However, the force of the impact, plus the shock from the first bullet through your arm, were enough to cause you to loose consciousness. All things considered, you were lucky, Lieutenant."

The ferret assisted Messler in putting his bandaged arm in a makeshift sling. Messler nodded his thanks, then, looking over, saw his Knight's Cross sitting on his bloody shirt lying nearby. The ferret, noticing what he was looking at, retrieved the medal and handed it to him. Again, Messler managed to mutter thanks."

"I hear you're quite the hero. Or almost one." The ferret scribbled something on a clipboard.

"Huh?"

The ferret turned and looked at him solemnly. There was a deep sadness in his eyes, although, professional that he was, his face otherwise showed no expression. "Everyone saw how you ran to try and save General Helmreich from his burning halftrack."

The events of the battle came flooding back to him suddenly. He saw the overturned halftrack covered in flames and the trapped form of Helmreich so near. Then nothing. He shook his head and swallowed. "Tried to save?" he parrotted. "But, you mean..." He was fully aware he himself hadn't managed to extract the General from the vehicle, but he'd held onto the thin hope that someone else had managed to get to Helmreich after he'd failed. But the way the ferret phrased things, he made it seem like--

"I'm afraid that General Helmreich..." the doctor began, then trailed off.

"Out with it!" blurted Messler, who didn't care if this skinny medical officer was of a higher rank than him. He needed to know. Needed to be told. "And give it to me straight," he added, fiercely, "I'm not some grieving widow who needs to be protected from the harsh truth." In a sense... he was. Or felt like one. But he didn't want this ferret to know. "I'm a German officer."

The narrow-muzzled head nodded and the doctor said, "He died. Massive third and second degree burns. Besides that, the earlier explosion which hit the halftrack had broken numerous bones and caused severe bleeding. Even if you'd gotten to him and pulled him free... it's doubtful he would've lived."

What Messler wanted to do most in the world now, was weep. To cry. Cry as he'd never cried since his mother's death. But he didn't dare do it here... and there were things to do, besides. He tightened his fist around the Knight's Cross, thanked the doctor, and rose unsteadily.

"And my driver...?" he managed to ask. Please, God, he thought, let me have saved even one fellow German. He remembered pulling the living but unconscious Private Oster from the overturned armored car.

"Private Oster is recovering over there," said the doctor, and pointed at the soldier lying over on the next cot.

Messler went over and kneeled beside him. "How are you?" he asked gently.

"Fine, sir," said Oster, then got a little misty-eyed. "You saved me..."

"Nonsense!" Messler dismissed. "You were fine, just a few bumps and bruises... you just looked a little ridiculous sitting sideways like that. Very undignified for a German soldier."

They both laughed uneasily, and then Messler patted his shoulder, got up, and wandered over to the tent entrance.

"Where are you going?" asked the doctor.

"To find my father's gun."

He then walked out of the tent to discover they were in a newly-erected temporary encampment located near the battle. He watched British prisoners being led away, their hands up. Determined to be professional, even to his enemies, he smiled and saluted them. Whether or not one of them had been the one shot him was unimportant. Messler wasn't one to hold grudges for acts committed on the battlefield. In war, anything went; it was your conduct after the battle ended that mattered.

Turning, he headed in the direction of rising smoke. A good indication of where the battlefield had taken place. He passed two military chaplains, their purple scarves draped delicately around their necks standing out brightly against the drab greens and tans of their uniforms. One was performing the last rites over the death bodies of German soldiers, their unmoving forms wrapped in white sheets. The other one was doing the same, but for the dead British. They were lined up on their backs. They weren't covered with sheets, but care had been taken to arrange their forms neatly, arms folded across their chest. Close by, Afrika Korps soldiers with shovels were digging a mass grave, into which the bodies of the British would be lain. Only the Germans would go into individual graves. Respect for their enemies only went so far. Messler figured it was the same on both sides; their enemies buried their dead individually and put the dead Germans into a mass grave.

He went to the lines of shrouded German forms. Sergeant Falken, shirtless, stood alongside the quietly-speaking chaplain who was reading from his little Bible. Messler was glad to see that the big, burly badger had survived. "Which one is..." Messler asked, but his voice choked off as a gentle sob threatened to take over.

"Oh, sir!" Falken said, turning and noticing him for the first time. He saluted. "Uh, General Helmreich has been taken back to base camp. They want his body sent back to Germany for burial there."

That made sense. Nodding his thanks, he left and continued on towards the smoking wrecks of the German and British vehicles. A few soldiers were busy working to turn his tilted-over armored car back onto its wheels to see if it could be salvaged. A few others, under the direction of a lean-bodied squirrel named Karl Taussig, were trying to dig out the other car, the one that had turned upside-down, so they could retrieve the bodies of the men who'd been crushed underneath it. Messler went firstly to the men trying to turn his own vehicle back over, and was able to retrieve his tunic with his father's Iron Cross on it from the back, then let them get on with their work.

Messler went to where he figured he'd fallen and stood there for a few moments, looking at the black husk of Helmreich's halftrack. From where he stood, he could see nobody was in it. All the bodies, including Helmreich's, had been removed. He sided, then collapsed to his knees, fell forwards, supporting himself on his one good hand, and proceeded to openly bawl like a little boy, tears rolling down his cheeks. Nearby, the heads of Taussig and his digging crew poked over the top of the dune, to see what was the matter. Messler ignored them. Taussig, who could see that the lieutenant was busy mourning the loss of their commanding officer, yelled at his men to get back to work, and they disappeared from sight.

One of the greatest men Messler had ever known, the only person in the world he could even think of ever giving everything to, his life, his love, everything he had to give, was gone. Burned alive in a metal tomb here in the desert. Messler tried to tell himself that Helmreich knew the risks, that such a thing was highly probable, if not exactly inevitable, but it was still just too much to bear. And so he let it all out. He wailed and sobbed, railed against the injustice of it all, but, in the end, he was still a professional German soldier, and there was a time and a place to grieve, and this wasn't it. So powerful had his emotions been that he'd been unable to contain them, but now, he thought, as he sniffled and rubbed his eyes, he felt better, and could conduct himself a little more properly.

As he rose, a glinting piece of metal caught his eye. Rising, he went over to it, and saw it was a Luger. His? He bent down and picked it up. Yes. The date on the gun was correct, and he recognized the telltale nick along the barrel. He sighed in relief and gratitude. Slipping the gun back into the empty holster, he stuffed the Knight's Cross into his pocket, then, with one final mournful glance at the burned-out halftrack, turned and trudged back towards the camp, carrying the tunic in his hand. Having retrieved his father's gun and Iron Cross, he now felt he could rest a little easier. Right now, he just wanted to lie down and rest...

He'd finish grieving later.

The End.