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For once the Rift had given them a break, and the weekly staff meeting had wound down into a discussion of what had been on television the night before.
"There was this amazing documentary," Gwen was saying. "About some Australian soldiers killed in World War One, and they found the graves while widening a road. Six men; five sort of bundled into the ground, but one was wrapped up in a canvas sheet and had a crucifix in his hands. Would you believe they got enough DNA from him, and called for samples from people who had missing relatives."
"Did they find any?" Tosh asked as Gwen paused for a sip of coffee.
"That's the amazing part - they found a woman whose grandfather told stories about losing his brother during a battle, and having to bury him with his bare hands. That was the one wrapped up, you see. He'd gone back afterwards, but everything was so destroyed that he was never able to locate the site. The DNA matched, and they reburied the body with a military escort and a proper headstone. Well, they reburied all of them I suppose, but that one at least has his name."
"For all the difference it makes," Owen interjected. "Dead is dead; you think he cares if he's in a ditch or a cemetery?"
"It made a difference to her," Tosh said. "If they'd been a little sooner, his brother would have known too. It's never too late for the families of the ones who went missing."
Ianto, clearing the table without comment, was suddenly aware that Jack was standing just inside the shadows of the hallway. He could only barely make out Jack's outline, and the others would not be able to see him there at all. As far as he could tell, Jack was listening, but his stance was oddly tense, and his hands were clenched by his sides.
Jack must have known men who were lost during World War One, Ianto thought. One of those other bodies might have been someone he knew. Or one of who knows how many lost ones there still are.
Jack moved and caught Ianto's eye at that moment, but Ianto dropped his gaze back down to the tray he had loaded and moved off without a word. He wasn't about to reopen any old wounds.
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As always, at the end of the day, Ianto took one last swing past Jack's office to see if he needed anything. The others had already left, taking advantage of the lull in activity while it lasted.
As he stuck his head thought the doorway, Ianto noticed with some surprise that Jack had his decanter on the desk, with two glasses already set up with shots of scotch. Jack was leafing through a small metal box, finally pulling out a much-folded and stained sheet of yellowed paper.
"Ianto. Come in for a bit, would you?"
Ianto moved in slowly, unsure of Jack's mood. He didn't seem upset or unhappy, but wasn't his usual flirty self either. He sat and took one of the glasses.
"I heard Gwen talking about those soldiers today," Jack started. "It reminded me of something." He fidgeted with the paper in his hands, then put it on the desk and smoothed it out. Ianto couldn't see what it was, although by appearance it was something official, with stamps and signatures.
"I was over in northern France during 1918, near Amiens. Some little dot of a town called Villers-Bretonneux." He paused to swallow some of the scotch. "I was on Torchwood business, sent to retrieve an artefact our sensors said had come down there. Anyway, I must have been killed, because I came back to life in a field station, lying on a hillside among rows of bodies." Jack snorted a humourless laugh. "One of the few times I've woken up without any clothes and wished I had them on. There was nobody alive in sight, but I could hear lots of noise, shouts and truck engines coming from the other side of a line of canvas tents.
"It was... There's no words for it. There must have been a hundred dead men on that hillside, none with even a blanket to cover their faces. I pulled the uniform off of the guy next to me, and five minutes later I was an Australian private. I didn't really stop to think about it; I just had this need in my gut to get out of there and I didn't care what I did to achieve it."
Jack knocked back the rest of his drink, and Ianto silently added more to his glass.
"By a combination of lies, thefts, luck and charm," Jack's mouth twisted briefly, "I made it back from the front to find officers senior enough that I could pull rank using my Torchwood codes. I was in Cardiff by the end of the week.
"I threw away the uniform - it hadn't been completely intact when I took it - but for some reason I kept the man's papers. Here, have a look."
Ianto took the document gingerly and examined it. The paper - printed with bold flourishes, and filled in by hand - stated that one Thomas Beaufort of Windale, New South Wales, was a private in the 35th Brigade of the Australian Imperial Force. There were various dates, birth, enlistment, and some blurred marks he couldn't decipher.
"I never really thought about it before. I needed papers, and I took the nearest set I could find. But after listening to Gwen and Tosh today, I wonder about this guy's family. With no papers on the body when they buried it, he wouldn't even be Killed In Action, but Missing, which always has that taint about it."
"You mean, maybe he deserted and they never found out because of the battle," Ianto said.
"Exactly." Jack took the fragile paper back. "Tosh said it was never too late. I'd kind of like to return them somehow, but I can't exactly come forward and say I stole them a hundred years ago." Jack opened his hands in a rare gesture of helplessness. "I don't know what to do with them."
"That's because you're still thinking like a soldier," Ianto said confidently. "When it comes to old documents, what you need is an archivist." He smiled at Jack. "Good thing you have one handy."
"And what does my archivist suggest?" Jack asked with a hint of his old smile.
"First, I write a letter. I say that my grandfather died several years ago - to prevent any attempt to trace recent deaths - and left an envelope with his lawyer. I won't give any names or dates, because he wanted to remain anonymous. He fought in France during 1917 and 1918, and due to circumstances he didn't relate, came into possession of these papers. It wasn't something exactly illegal, but he was too ashamed to ever confess it while he was still alive.
"I can give them the details about where and when they came into his possession," Ianto tilted his head at Jack, to acknowledge his actual source of information, "and say he wished them returned in order to clear an old wrong he had done.
"Then, I send it to the Australian War Memorial."
"The War Memorial? Wouldn't you send it to the Army?"
"Nope. For a start, we don't have a name or department to address it to specifically, so all we can say is "The Army, Australia." Any letter that badly addressed will go into a slush pile on a desk. The person who opens it will be low-ranked, 'cause it's a lousy job. He looks at the letter. It doesn't relate to any current soldier, or base, or operation, in fact the matter's been waiting a hundred years already, so it can wait a bit longer. It goes into their work queue at the very back. It stays there for an unknown length of time; it may even get lost completely.
"But, if we address it to the WWI Document Curator at the War Museum, that person will open it. The first thing he'll say is "My God, is this authentic?" and when they work out it is, they'll dance around the table singing Hallelujah and dive into finding out everything they can about Private Beaufort, while preserving his documents and fixing his record. He may even still have family."
Jack thought it over. "My archivist has very good ideas," he said finally.
"Of course, sir. That's why you hired me."
"Really? I thought it was because of the pterodactyl. And the coffee, and the suits. And the nice ass."
Ianto could tell that Jack's heart wasn't in the teasing remarks. "Come on," he said, taking both glasses and setting them down next to the decanter. "Let's go outside and watch the sun set, and you can tell me stories about going on dangerous missions and doing unspeakably brave things."
"You want brave?" Jack asked. "There was this one time..."
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They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
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