Chapter Text
The soft greens of summer had given way to the dark browns and oranges of autumn, which had quickly turned into a slippery mass of mud and wet leaves underfoot. But even those colours were long gone now, drowned in the mist that swirled through the camp at night, the now-naked trees and patches of bare, desolate landscape destroyed by the machines of war. He stares out at the trees, the land grey with the bitter hues of impending winter. The temperature had dropped considerably over the past week and the ground had transformed from a slushy mess to a frosty, slippery solid underfoot each morning, a sure sign that snow was on the way.
Early this year, he thinks. Of course. Everything seemed to be going their way – finally – so why not ruin it with a little bit of snow at the start of November?
Snow meant Christmas.
He brushes the thought aside; there was no Christmas for him, or for any of his men. They have a job to do, and no matter how close the end of the war seemed to be – no matter how much they could feel that the tide had turned – it wasn’t over just yet. They still have objectives to achieve, key targets to neutralise, and prisoners to liberate – all of which were crucial to Britain’s success. To the world’s success.
He has nothing much to celebrate anyway.
He wonders if it will snow overnight. He hopes not; snow does not help her or her team. Snow at the wrong time means tracks. He knows they’re trained for it, that they know what they’re doing, but snow almost always makes things harder and he worries.
The way she storms into the tent tells him the meeting hasn’t gone well. ‘Americans,’ she grumbles, as he watches her almost throw the folder down on the makeshift desk.
‘And here I was thinking you were beginning to like them,’ he replies dryly.
‘They want half my team, sir!’ she almost shouts, and he raises his eyebrows at her. ‘And for what will probably be a suicide mission? I think not!’
‘What’s their rationale?’
‘Part of it is that we speak German better than them.’
He frowns thoughtfully. ‘They’re not wrong,’ he says. ‘I’m impressed that they were willing to admit to being inferior in some way.’
She rolls her eyes at him. ‘I won’t allow it, sir.’
‘No, ma’am.’
She lets out a breath, eyeing him. ‘You knew they’d ask.’
He shrugs. ‘I guessed. They weren’t here for my brigade,’ he says wryly, and she purses her lips.
‘Besides, four of them are on leave for the next two months,’ she says, ‘and this will be their first Christmas in three years. I am not recalling them unless Hitler himself appears down the road!’
He nods as she lets out a huff. He understands the conflict; the longer they stay here, the more time the Nazis have to solidify their position and push back with what little force they have left. Or for their commanders to disappear into the forests, never to be found.
But the mud and the rain and the now-impending snow and the pressure of the end was getting to everyone; he could feel it in his bones, that weariness that brought tension in a camp the size of his. It had been a long, bitter, gruelling war, and there was still much left to do. The powers-that-be had hoped it would be over by the end of the year, but the Nazis hadn’t capitulated quite as willingly as they’d dreamed, and everyone was tired. They needed a break if they were to finish this before the middle of next year.
He watches as she sits at her makeshift desk in her usual uniform and boots, sorting out paperwork and rifling through her things and generally just making noise, and he can’t help but smile a little. He’s as desperate as everyone to rid the world of Nazis and deliver peace for the war-ravaged world they currently live in. He’s seen the refugees, the faces of women and children, desperate for calm and food and peace. She’d been by his side as they’d liberated the first of the camps, where they had begun to discover the true extent of the human capacity for destruction. But the end of the war means she will leave, back to England like him, and out of his life.
The war has made him unspeakably selfish, it would seem, and he feels the pull of shame. He is a one-star General who has fallen hard for this tiny firecracker of a Captain, and he’s only vaguely ashamed of himself. She’s been the only bright light in this war, but even that has been tinged with the shadow of death, the darkness of brutality and deception.
‘Would you do it, sir?’ she asks later, just as he’s leaving the tent.
‘It’s not up to me,’ he says, in what he knows sounds like a cop-out, but is nothing of the sort. She’d run away from home to fight with the Resistance – incredibly successfully, from the stories he’s heard – before ceding to her family’s requests to join something more formal and slightly less dangerous. She has proven how capable she is time and time again, her strength borne of character and personality and experience, and he won’t let her rely so heavily on his advice anymore. He’d taken her under his wing at first, this beautiful, tiny firecracker who set everything in her path alight, but then he’d realised what she was capable of, who she really was without the surname, and he’d started to pull back. She can soar without him now, and he’s ready to watch her do it.
He thinks. He’s not sure his heart can handle it. But he will, because it’s her.
She drops his eyes, turning and fiddling with the paperwork in front of her. ‘You’ll make the right decision,’ he says quietly, and she looks back at him. ‘You always do.’
She gives him a small nod, and he walks away.
***
‘Are they going to invade every space?’ she groans as she sits down at the table next to him. He raises his eyebrows at her as he looks out the door to the brightly-lit general mess hall, which was, to be fair, considerably fuller and more raucous than usual.
‘They are our allies,’ he reminds her.
‘We don’t need them, sir,’ she spits, and he eyes her. That was patently untrue, and she knew it.
‘Who was he?’ he asks, taking a sip of his beer and deliberately not looking at her. He can feel her eyes boring a hole into the side of his head, so he turns his head slowly to look at her.
She’s furious, he thinks. She might just hit him. But she doesn’t; she just looks down and grasps the drink in front of her. ‘His name was Alexander.’
He doesn’t ask. He can tell how this story ends by the fire in her eyes. ‘I assume he’s been castrated by now,’ he says, and her head flicks around to look at him so fast he worries she’s hurt herself. But then she looks away, and her hand goes to her mouth and she lets out huff and her body is convulsing with silent laughter, and he chuckles with her.
***
‘Oh, no,’ she says decisively when they go to leave. ‘No,’ she says to the flushed, grinning face of the young American soldier perched on the ladder next to the doorway they’ve just walked through from the Officer’s mess to the general mess. ‘No.’
He stands three steps behind her, arms folded. He’s always enjoyed watching. Besides, she needs to not maim this one, and he knows the warning signs now.
‘It’s Christmas,’ the US Army poster boy says, and her head tilts just slightly. ‘Ma’am,’ the soldier adds after a brief perusal of her shoulders, taking several steps down the ladder to stand in front of her.
‘I don’t care if it’s the rapture, soldier.’
‘It’s just some fun, ma’am,’ he says, and Melbourne’s lips twist as he watches the young man realise what he’s done. The colour drains from the kid’s face as she takes a step towards him, her head lowered just slightly.
‘Hoo boy,’ he hears a soft voice breathe beside him, and he resists the urge to let out a chuckle. Poor Alfred knew all about her temper. The thought makes him glance around; she has an audience. Most of the mess near them had noticed the kerfuffle and were now watching as the scene unfolded.
He’s vaguely pleased. He can hear the murmurs of his own men; those that know her will spread the word, but actually seeing it will set the tone for this group, and for whoever comes through next. They’ll know all about this Captain – this beautiful woman who had more power and responsibility than most of them will ever see – this woman who will take approximately none of their shit.
‘What is your name, soldier?’ Her voice is silky smooth, in a polished-steel kind of way and he’s suddenly glad that this particular voice will likely never be directed at him.
‘Private Aaron Randall, ma’am!’ the boy almost shouts, his eyes fixed firmly on a spot against the back wall. Smart boy, he thinks. He might yet survive.
‘Where are you from, Private Randall?’
‘Vermont, ma’am.’
‘And how long have you been in Europe, Private?’
‘Fifty P says he’s crying by the end, sir,’ Alfred whispers in his ear.
‘You’re on,’ he whispers back. He knows she won’t, not this time. Not in front of so many of his unit. They’re not out in the field; this is just regular, every day, respect-based discipline. She’s tough – uncompromising – but not unkind.
‘Eight months, ma’am!’
‘And I assume you have a girl back home?’
‘Yes, ma’am!’ The boys voice falters just a little.
‘Would you say she’s pretty, Private?’
‘Beautiful, ma’am!’ Melbourne’s lips twist at the way the boy’s voice betrays his confusion.
‘You haven’t seen your girl in eight months, Private, and you’re hanging mistletoe in an active military encampment that has a grand total of two hundred and seventeen women and four thousand men, five years into a world-wide war.’ She pauses, and the whole room is silent. ‘Would that be an accurate assessment of the situation, Private?’
He watches as the Private mentally panics. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ she says, her voice ice. ‘As you were.’
The Private remains at attention as she walks around him and out the door, and is still standing to attention when Melbourne makes his way past him, so he claps him on the shoulder as he goes past. ‘Well done,’ he says, not unkindly, and the young man’s shoulders drop.
‘It’s not really his fault he’s American,’ he calls just loud enough for her to hear, and she stops and waits for him to catch up.
‘I will not be swayed by a sprig of hemiparasitic flora that initiates an endless number of socially awkward interactions and forces intimacy on people who would otherwise not even touch each other!’ she cries.
‘Sounds festive,’ he deadpans, and she shoots him a look, and he smirks. ‘Do you think maybe you were just a little severe?’ he says after a moment, stopping to look up at the inky black sky, and he knows without looking at her that she’s rolling her eyes. ‘Eight months,’ he points out.
‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to hang mistletoe here?’ she asks a little incredulously.
‘Not particularly, but again, as you said, five years of war. They could use a little cheer in this hell hole,’ he mutters. ‘It couldn’t really be in a more public place.’ He shrugs. ‘Besides, Christmas isn’t all that far away.’
She narrows her eyes at him. ‘Why are you fighting for this, sir?’
‘I’m not. I’m just preparing you for when you find it up there tomorrow night,’ he says, smirking. ‘You know how Leopold loves the Americans. Goodnight,’ he adds before turning down the makeshift lane towards his quarters.
***
He’s aware of the rumours, and he doesn’t care. Besides, if they think she’s sleeping with him, Brigadier General William Melbourne, they’ll all likely leave her alone, and he’s more than happy for that. She already cops far more than her fair share for her gender alone.
He knows what they’ll say behind her back, but he thinks it’s a fair enough trade off. She’s eviscerated enough of them and won far too much respect amongst those who know her for anyone to actually believe she’s slept her way to where she is now. Besides, her name gives her away; if it wasn’t sex, it was nepotism, so he’s happy to use whatever he can to protect her that little bit more. She can handle the rest on her own.
And oh, she does.
One of the newer Belgian Captains gets just a little too friendly too frequently one evening; when she makes the mistake of walking under the mistletoe above the door and he follows her, she’s had enough and Melbourne doesn’t even try to stop her. That the Belgian Captain’s limp that lasts for a solid twenty-four hours spreads the message well enough.
When the Belgian Lieutenant-Colonel shouts his tent down, he calls her in and she stands to attention, her face like stone. She’s technically not in his chain of command, her orders coming directly from COH, but it is his brigade and his camp, and she is a Captain and he is a General and she is his responsibility, so he technically does have to deal with it.
‘I want her charged, General!’ the Belgian shouts, and he thinks that a man from a country that had their asses handed to them on a platter by the Nazis four years ago and had been liberated by their allies less than two months ago would have the good grace to be just a little less arrogant.
He lets out a sigh, rubbing at his temple; her face turns from impassive to outraged and he holds up a hand. ‘I appreciate the sentiment, Colonel, and I completely agree.’ Her eyes widen for a moment at him before she looks away, her face flattening. ‘And I’d be happy to provide testimony for your own court-martial, given that I witnessed the incident,’ he adds, and the Belgian starts.
‘What court-martial?’
‘For your own man. I assume conduct prejudicial and disgraceful conduct at the very least.’
The Belgian man gapes at him. ‘Of course, I would provide a full and detailed account of the behaviour of all involved to both Commands.’
He watches as the Belgian turns a rather unhealthy shade of red, turning to look at her before looking back at him. ‘She is fine. My Captain cannot walk properly, General!’
‘Then he should learn to keep his hands to himself,’ he replies, his voice hard. ‘Your soldiers are guests in my camp. If I have to deal with this again, I will be reporting to Command that you are unable to maintain a basic standard of appropriate behaviour in your men, Lieutenant-Colonel.’
When the Belgian spits something at her in French before storming out, Melbourne lets out a sigh before sitting in his chair. ‘Where did you learn that particular move?’
Her lips twist. ‘Belgian operative in the Resistance.’
He closes his eyes and tries really hard not to smile. ‘Of course.’
***
Twelve months earlier
He’s not particularly interested in this new SOE team that has been assigned to his brigade. An experiment in smaller, more independently-controlled teams embedding in larger units, Leopold tells him. Infiltration, reconnaissance, and sabotage.
SOE are a whole different breed of soldier, and in his experience, don’t usually fit in with other regiments. They were outsiders, those who had volunteered for special service combined with the downright unusual in a war zone, but they’d quickly become elite fighting units, tasked with small but crucial jobs.
They were usually arrogant as all hell. Combine that with his testosterone-filled young soldiers, wearied after years of fighting but still keen to prove themselves, and he rubs at his temple.
He just hopes that, whoever this Captain Kent was, he was able to keep them in line; the last thing he needs is fights breaking out. The field hospital, whilst brilliant, was struggling to handle what they brought in every few weeks, let alone injuries borne of testosterone and stupidity.
But he has his orders, along with a message from Combined Operations Headquarters telling him to play nice, so he’ll do what he’s told. It should be interesting, if nothing else. All he’s told about Captain Kent is that the Captain has a special skill set, and can speak both French and German fluently.
She is quite literally nothing like what he’d expected.
‘Captain Victoria Kent reporting in as ordered, General!’ she barks, saluting him as her men stand to attention behind her.
Well, then. Special skill set indeed.
‘Welcome to B camp, Captain,’ he says, ignoring the almost gaping stares of the men around him at this Captain who was a woman. They knew nothing of Special Operations Executive; all they saw was a female Captain in command of fifteen men.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Lieutenant Paget here will show you and your men to your quarters. I’m sure you’d like to clean up after your journey.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
She was beautiful, his mind supplies unhelpfully. And the fire in her wide blue eyes and the hard set of her mouth tells him that she had learned long ago that beauty was a blessing and a curse in a war – a world – dominated by men. But she wouldn’t be an SOE Captain if she wasn’t brilliant and tough as nails.
‘I cannot believe they’ve made a woman a Captain,’ Conroy sneers a little while later, and he’s just about to berate the obnoxious Major when someone speaks behind him.
‘General Leopold felt that your men weren’t up to completing the required task, Major, so he sent me,’ she shoots back, and they all stand there in shock for a moment. He glances at Conroy’s face, and the look of shock is comical, but he cannot laugh at this.
‘Captain,’ he warns, and she nods once.
‘My apologies, General. Major,’ she replies, sounding anything but apologetic. He catches Alfred’s eye and nods minutely at her, and Paget scrambles over to where she stands.
‘Captain, would you like a tour of the camp? It’s large, easy to get lost.’
‘I would appreciate that, Lieutenant. Thank you,’ she says, catching his eye and nodding.
‘Who does the skirt think she is?’ Conroy splutters when she’s gone.
‘A Captain, Major.’
‘I don’t care who she is, she’s—
He knows what’s coming and he doesn’t want to hear it. ‘She is a Captain in His Majesty’s Army, and you will not speak of fellow officers in that way in my camp, Major. Am I clear?’ he says firmly, and Conroy stares at him for a moment before nodding.
‘Yes, sir,’ he bites out, and Melbourne nods before turning back to his desk.
It had started already, he thinks, the fights. He’d anticipated trouble, but nothing like this. She was trouble personified.
She’s SOE, handpicked and better trained than most of the men in his camp, and a woman. But only he knew that first part; all they would see was the woman.
Well, at least the trouble would be interesting.