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I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete
The docks are empty and the wind weeps against his skin, caressing his hair and tumbling it from side to side. It's sweet, gentle, lacking its usual violence that slams against the metal surface of his plane when he is up in the skies. The perpendicular planks of wood, painted white, are sturdy below his feet, though he still feels the soft swaying of the waves that crash against the poles holding everything up.
Perhaps they sent the squadron just to fly over the coast for incoming bombers after the last few radar disappointments, but he only wants a moment for himself. He wants to feel the water, the freshness of salty smells, and sand underneath his feet.
Oh simple thing where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
As he looks at the horizon, a corner of his heart feels empty. The love that used to fill it with sights of the storm eyes or dark hair is empty, lost. Perhaps not forever, but he knows the odds.
Pilots fell out of the sky, fuel was burned through, and planes crashed into waters or sand in a decorative explosion of flames. He’d seen the airscrew stop, slowly at first but then coming to a total halt. He had counted gallon per gallon of fuel inside his head. Hopes and daydreams could not go against the math.
Someone calls him and he knows it's time to go back to the concrete pathways of the aerodrome. Nations and Generals cannot lose time over dead soldiers, much less grieving men. He has to take care of his duty.
However, when he closes his eyes, the obscurity is chaotic and never ending.
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin
He’s tired most of the time.
Slack was not something allowed in the RAF, neither by his commanding officers or the constant stress of the job. After Dunkirk that stress becomes an adrenaline that is always present on the base of his neck, both through dogfights and sleepless nights.
There are many new pilots, younger than him only by months, but they seem more excited for war. Most of them lack experience. The constant bombings, the raining down of Heinkels and Stukas and 109’s makes the RAF train pilots in a matter of months, sending in people from 13 Group and 12 Group without considering how useful experience is. Some of them don't even know how to recover from a spin.
He does not want to ruin their hopes and expectations, but it is difficult to see them think of war as a time for patriotic bravery.
They fly onto death thinking of heroism.
He lets them, trying not to become too close to any of them and maintain curt, silent behaviour. None of them know the Collins that gave lip, that talked back and quirked jokes in even the most severe moments, rather the lieutenant with muted smiles. They seem to respect him and believe he has an actual idea of what he is doing, when in fact he is as lost as any of them.
After a few months, his commander confronts him. He needs to move on. There have been losses greater than Fortis Leader and Fortis 1, and as an experienced pilot he is expected to keep his eyes on the air, not in his grief.
So he begins with that. A beer and a hangover, no expressing or crying over a lost pilot. He packs the remaining identity disk Farrier gave him before their last mission in his breast pocket, locking it in tightly like his many emotions and devotes his mind and soul to war.
I came across a fallen tree
I felt the branches of it looking at me
The Battle of Britain is cold and relentless. For months there is no army, no navy, just Spitfires and Hurricanes enduring. He writes letters occasionally but tries not to focus on the past or the future, rather his present. Each day another pilot dies, and each day his heart hardens.
Eventually news of the Eastern front arrives, and by the time he blinks away and realizes time has passed the Americans enter the war. The battlefield is no longer just English skies, rather the channel and into France. He flies a new Spitfire, leads a squadron and watches his wingmates return for a victorious pint or fall down in a trail of smoke.
At first those paths of grey clouds are solitary, but as the war progresses and soldiers claw their way through the beaches of France, they become a common occurance and even get lost in the smouldering cities that burn under the retreating enemy.
Eventually he himself crashes too.
He lands on a smaller town, fortunately not behind enemy lines, and manages to break his arm into bits and burn part of his hand. The pain is merciless as a few soldiers that speak in twisted, American accents pull him out and he’s unconscious for three days.
He stays there for time, for it is impossible to send the injured back to England until more support comes from the Allies. Day and night he hears the fighting outside of the decaying building he's in, where an impromptu medical wing is propped up.
One day, as he wakes up, he first notices the cherry trees flourishing in the remains of the town. The white petals with rose edges fall to the ground creating an eatherally pale blanket on the debri of blaste buildings, and some even filter through the shattered window to where he lies. Even with the bullets and explosions outside, barked commands and moaning injured, the world around him softens and he can only focus on the tree.
Like when he flies, everything is filtered, and he feels the wind and the speed, the beauty of reality through the eyes of the beholder.
He tucks one of the petals besides the identity disks and wraps the moment around himself like a desperate, warm comfort.
Is this the place we used to love?
Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?
His shoulder burns, his fingers are crooked, and these American boys are fresh and younger than he'd imagine. They laugh at his Scottish accent but try to be empathetic, and eventually, after a few sips of French wine and a cleaner bandage around his injuries, he is sent back.
The war has come to an end, and though the lads and gals and anyone with a clear mind celebrates, he stays quiet.
A doctor eventually explains that though his left hand will one day be useful again, neither his vision nor his arm will ever let him fly again. He had expected to feel angry, but he just felt numb.
They discharged him honourably, silently, and asked him to take his belongings quickly.
However, it takes him nearly two hours to leave the dormitory.
He had shared the same bunk beds, same small window, same storing space with Farrier since 1937, and it feels wrong to just leave. As he sits on the bottom berth with his crisp uniform and bandaged hand, his mind begins forming phantom images of their routines.
At first they had been professional but eventually dropped the polite salutes to a well formed friendship. Farrier would read with a small night lamp, legs up against the wall while he went in late or just laid to sleep. They would share cigarettes and chat about nothing until lights went out.
Eventually they fell for each other, and Collins could still feel Farrier’s breath on his face from when the pilot had stormed into the room, thrown the door closed and kissed him hard.
As secret as the relationship was, they loved each other dearly and spent many nights together, both out of spite or care or simple grief of lost mates.
During his injured, delirus state in France, he’d dream of this small room often. He’d think of Farrier's hands tracing his back, or the playful tugs and elbows, or the quiet nights or every time he’d listen to Farrier read out loud, late at night, and wonder about their future together.
But now the room is empty, and he’s sitting on a blanket that feels rough to touch. He glances one last time back at the fading memories of the place before closing the door.
He leaves for Weymouth hours later, with Peter’s invitation in his coat pocket, the dried petals and identification disks close to his heart.
And if you have a minute why don't we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
This could be the end of everything
When their eyes first meet in the train station, all else vanishes and he can only see the deep blue-green orbs, filled with thunderous emotions like a storm cloud.
He’s glued to the ground and his eyes well with tears, and thankfully the other man is capable of movement. Suddenly they are only inches apart and their embrace is hard. His arms encircle him and it's nearly bruising, but he doesn't care. He only tightens his own arm around his neck and presses his head against his shoulder and breathes in a scent he hasn't smelt in years.
It smells like cotton and jazmine and leather and home.
They stay in each other's arms for longer than decency demands but none of the people of the town seem to care, and no stares or glares are thrown in their direction.
The world could be ending but he doesn't care, just holds on for his life and prays its reality rather than a cruel illusion.
He catches him up slowly to everything, and never hesitates when they move in together, The Dawsons welcome Farrier as another adopted, more private son and though the pain of the last years is still there, Collins can finally make out a genuine smile.
He notices the change in Farrier, can nearly see the phantoms that followed him from prison camps and stayed there. Though they are sealed with an iron door of guilt and trauma, he is slowly let in. Stories of horror pour out of the pilot every few nights and he listens, rubs his hand around the man’s back and presses kisses against his temples. He knows there are few things he can do to chase away the demons that haunt his lover, but he still tries.
With time, they both get better.
The wedding is private, an event with only an open minded minister, Farrier’s sister and Dawson and witnesses. They both dress appropriately and smile like young dorks.
When Farrier slips the ring on his finger, the petals of bloomed cherry trees fall around them and for an instant, the world is a beautiful place.
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?
The aftermath of war in a country is tough, and people have to endure through reconstruction and lack of basic needs. Though the colours of Weymouth’s houses remain cheerful, life keeps its bitter tone and Europe takes a slow course to recuperate.
Farrier soon follows in Mr. Dawsons footsteps to become a school teacher. It makes him happy, less bored at night, and he enjoys reading so much that a small library starts forming in the office of their home. One night he comes back with a smaller gordon setter that is missing a leg, nourishes him back and does not ask for permission to keep the dog. A week later he brings in a kitten with black fur in a similar condition, and Collins does not question it.
By the second cat with no tail Collins buys a collar and forbids any more animals from going into the house.
The dusty parts of dried petals from France stay in a little box of memories by their bedroom and they keep each other's identity disks for comfort and nostalgia.
At night, when the animals curl up by the fireplace and Farrier reads out loud, Collins leans his head against the man’s lap and stops listening to words, focusing rather on the deep voice as if it's a melodious symphony that lulls him to sleep when nightmares show up.
As the evening drowns out the sun, the thin outline of Farrier curves like a comma, and he stops reading to light a cigarette that will balance between his lips. His eyes are opaque, the colour of the sea and sometimes flicker with the glowing embers.
This moment is kept in his mind forever. A moment only they know, private, small, yet immensely magnificent. They survived this much, and now he has his love right there, present and caring and he could not possibly ask for more.
He closes his eyes and for the first time, he feels peace.