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Chapter Text

31st January 1941

Dear Rose

If you are receiving this letter, it means that we have indeed finally set sail and are headed back out to the war. While I cannot tell you where we are headed, you should know that it is due to be a long journey, and I will not be able to receive or send mail with any frequency. It is going to be an interminable bore.

On top of that, I imagine it would take a small miracle for me to make it home before Easter. For this, I am most sorry. You will have to wait a little longer for our wedding, though you will have won a pound out of the deal, so not all bad. What will you spend your winnings on?

I know Mother will write of home, but I want to hear it from you too. Write to me, tell me what mad creatures you have rescued, what your incorrigible students are up to. Tell me that Peggy still wears her coral monstrosity to go dancing, because I hope that you do still go dancing. Just save me one for when I’m home?

All my love (it feels strange but also right to write that for the first time)

Bill

(1) 8th February 1941

Dear Bill,

In case the censor decides to remove the dates off my letters, I’ve decided I need a system. I shall number my letters and write one per week (probably on Friday on the nightwatch, or Saturday when I have time to myself). This way you will be able to keep track of what has happened and when. You will also then be able to tell if any go missing. It might take me some getting used to, writing without a reply to respond to, as I feel letters should be a conversation. I guess in a way they still are, but scattered like a jigsaw to be reassembled. You and I shall be trading pieces to build our own pictures, but the halves will only make sense when back together.

As for our bet, you never specified which Easter, though I know that this year’s was your intention. Perhaps we should raise the stakes? Another pound for every year you are away - an incentive perhaps for you to come home sooner? As for what I shall do with my spoils, I apparently need to save for a new kilt, in a new colour. All your fault, darling, of course. I suppose a silver lining is that my golden Barclay tartan gets an extended life until my name changes.

I hope you are well, my love, and you are safe wherever you are.

Love, Rose

P.S. No animals out of the ordinary to report - both the badger and my robin have flown the nest, so to speak. Dad thinks we need some chickens though, just in case rationing gets any worse.

6th June 1941

Dear Rose

I am writing this in the early hours because I find I cannot sleep. I cannot tell you anything, but this will be the first true test of me as an officer, not just a soldier, and everything feels all muddled inside of me. There is this horrible thrill, the way blood rushes through you, right before a deployment, where you are almost excited even though you know it will be terrible. I have good soldiers, good men, here with me, and we have been together for months. I trust them, and I hope they trust me. I hope I can get them all through this alive.

The camp is beginning to stir, and I must sign off. I miss you, mo ghraidh, and I love you so much.

Bill

10th June 1941

Dear Rose,

Not to cause alarm, but I am writing this from a military hospital bed. I am quite well, just a very big headache, and a touch of concussion. I am really rather lucky

A bullet hit my chinstrap and caused me to hit my head. I will forever be grateful for that helmet, even if the tin absorbs so much heat that it makes my whole head sweat. Without it, I would be dead, which is not ideal.

11th June 1941

I’m sorry, mo ghraidh, McGonigal came to see me, and then I was too tired to continue. Both he and Mayne are fine, and we achieved our aims, so this splitting headache was worth it. I do not think the heat helps, so I shall comfort myself with memories of the cold and the snow, and the hope of coming home to dreary Scotland once more. For in that cold and grey and gloom, the only sun I need is you.

I think the concussion may have addled me. Forgive these ramblings of a madman.

All my love, Bill

(20) 20th June 1941

Dear Bill,

I received your 6 June letter last Saturday, after your second had been penned. In a way, I am glad that I have established this weekly routine and that it kept me from writing, as I received your second this morning, and it changed my outlook. It is eerie to think of events that happened in the space of days that I was unaware of for weeks. I know that if the worst would ever happen, that would be a message more promptly conveyed to your mother, who would in turn inform me, but it is strange to consider that a soul may leave this world, yet their written words would still be on their journey to be delivered.

Forgive my maudlin mood, but the idea of a bullet racing towards your face makes me feel sick. You are a very lucky man, William Fraser, and I hope that you are recovering well. 

Love, Rose

P.S. Peggy has asked me to be her bridesmaid - I have accepted, but categorically refuse to wear anything peach or ruffled. Hopefully, I’ll be allowed to just get away with my green dress.

P.P.S. The roses are crowding into my window from your trellis. I wonder if any trace of them will survive the journey to you.

14th July 1941

Dear Rose,

I am so sorry that my previous letter caused you such distress, that is never my intention. In all honesty, I cannot even remember what I wrote, only the intense desire to write to you when I regained consciousness. But you need not worry anymore, I am quite recovered, not a scratch on me. A thick wad of your letters have just found me - 16-20, mo ghraidh - and they do more to cure my spirits than any medicine a doctor could provide.

Do send my congratulations to Peggy and George, I am happy for them and wish them the best for their marriage. It is strange that I have never met this man, yet within six months of my absence he has interwoven himself into your lives. I hope I get the chance to meet him one day. I agree, though, it does seem unfair that they should be allowed their happiness when we still wait for ours. This is the longest, I think, that we have ever been apart, and it hurts my soul more than I can say. You were forged to be my other half, and without you, in this desert, I am not whole.

My unit has settled into the state of constantly waiting again, each day proceeds without much difference from the last. An endless stretch of sand and drills and hiking. Never again will I complain about you dragging me out into the countryside - it would be far more pleasant than this suffocating summer.

I suppose I should be grateful for the quiet. Frustration is commonplace, and I know Mayne is getting irritable (well, more than usual). Keeps talking about running off to Burma. McGonigal’s doing his best to try and calm him down, but I think his malaria is playing up again.

Alas, no scent of the roses clung to your paper, but I sometimes find them in the nicer parts of Cairo, and every waft brings me straight back to you. Perhaps I should let myself be scratched by them a little to truly replicate the experience of home.

All my love, Bill

July 1941, Heliopolis

Baking in the midday sun was not Bill’s idea of fun. But, the higher ups had ordered him to run his troop through gun drills, and they had spent the past hours disassembling and reassembling their weapons, before lying in the sand and shooting into the distance. They could only leave once all of the cans had been knocked off the wall, but there was one still stubbornly clinging on. His men were tired, and their aim was failing, so he joined them in the dust. Sweat clinging to his forehead, he lined up his shot. The first one went wide. The second sealed their release into the shade with a satisfying ‘clang.’

He dismissed them with a soft smile, handing his rifle to a corporal to stow away. As they trudged back to the tents, Bill spotted a figure on the outskirts of the camp, watching them. His men saluted as they passed him, but by the time Bill reached the man, a captain by the pips on his shoulder, he looked like he was about to scream. Apart from his obvious ill temper, the man was tall, with thick dark hair that would once have been neatly brushed. In the desert heat, it had become rumpled, likely from a hand dragging it away from his eyes. 

“Lieutenant William Fraser?”

“Aye,” Bill saluted, but the man didn’t return it. “Who’s asking?”  

“Captain David Stirling,” the man held out his hand, and Bill shook it. The grasp was firm but fleeting, and the clipped accent gave away the man’s class. Rose had been surrounded by them at Edinburgh, and the senior officers all seemed to be bred from the select circles of the aristocracy. Bill felt his guard rising, until the captain continued, “I’m a friend of Paddy Mayne’s.”

What sort of fop would be friends with Paddy Mayne? 

“I thought he was still in prison?” McGonigal had been allowed to visit Mayne in Ghadzi, and had kept Bill updated out of courtesy.They were an odd pair, the empathetic youngster to the brutal older one, and while Bill was peripherally aware that their relationship went beyond the paltonic, he wasn’t one to meddle. It made no difference to their effectiveness as soldiers, perhaps even improved Paddy’s, and he was glad they had snatched some happiness from the cauldron of chaos. 

The two of them allowed him to tag along on their jaunts into Cairo occasionally, but he knew it was only because Eoin felt sorry for him. He owed Eoin everything he had with Rose, even if he hadn’t seen her for half a year. Eoin was always kind, asking after her whenever the post came. Paddy, however, was forever mocking, rolling his eyes at every packet of letters.  

“That’s by the by,” Stirling waved his hand as though batting away a fly. “I have a proposal for you.”

“As much as you are a handsome bastard, I am already engaged and don’t think I'm cut out for bigamy.” 

This made Stirling laugh, a loud bark that drew glances towards them. Bill ducked his head from the attention and instead attempted to brush the sand from his forearms. Four months and he still wasn’t used to being caked in desert.

They reached the mess tent, and Stirling gestured to one of the tables. Sat opposite the man, Bill could see where the skin was peeling from his nose, adding to the quiet dishevelment he was sensing from his character. He could see how this captain could be friends with Mayne; they both exuded an air of exasperation that was barely restrained under the rigidity of uniforms and protocol. 

Stirling leaned forward conspiratorially. “Tell me, Fraser, are you fed up with the war?”

“Isn’t everyone?” Bill huffed, folding his arms.

“Do you want to make a difference?”

“Aye.” Bill was a soldier, born and raised, but even he could see that the way the war was being fought wasn’t producing the results they wanted. They had snatched victory at Litani by a fine margin, but the tales from Tobruk haunted everyone’s desert dreams.

“See, I have a plan. Some would call it mad but Paddy says you might just go in for that sort of thing.”

Stirling pulled a crumpled sheaf of papers from his jacket and laid them out on the table before them. The captain spoke excitedly about his idea, pointing towards maps and even waving a bird feather in his direction. Bill nodded along, spotting the pattern that Stirling had found, each of the airfields lined up like beads on a string. All they needed was someone to cut the thread. There would be none of the confusion of Litani’s water landing. They would be calling the shots.

“We’d be sneaking into their back gardens and up the rose trellis,” Bill murmured, feeling the rasp of the paper beneath his fingers as he traced the lines of the map. Hadn’t Rose said something similar when he volunteered for the Commandos, comparing his midnight jaunts to working behind enemy lines? It was such a simple idea, one he had been playing at since he was fourteen.

“Pardon?” Stirling’s voice broke his reverie.

“Sorry, just reminded me of home for a moment,” Bill shrugged, looking back up at the Captain. “You shot birds, I snuck into my next door neighbour’s house.”

Stirling sat back in his chair, smirking. “To fuck the daughter?”

“Well that bit only recently,” Bill laughed, unable to stop his mind skipping back to that last night, her soft skin and small sighs. But before that, it had been smiles and talking and staying awake with his clever best friend. “Started mainly because I needed help with my homework.” 

“Your intended?” Stirling raised an eyebrow, and Bill smiled. Was his face truly that obvious? “What’s her name?”

“Rose.”

Most of Bill’s questions were about the parachutes, concerned about the potential for it to go wrong. Even in Britain, jumping out of a perfectly serviceable aircraft carried its risks, let alone into a terrain as unpredictable and unmappable as the Great Sand Sea. But, the logic was sound, and if Stirling managed to pull it off, it would be incredible. With a swallow, Bill realised he was excited. He wanted to be a part of it.

“I hear you’re lucky, Fraser. Could’ve had your head blown clean off at Litani but you were saved by the thinnest piece of metal imaginable. Mayne and McGonigal are both joining us, once they secure Paddy's release. But we could do with some of your luck.” Stirling gathered the papers into a neat stack before looking Bill in the eye again. “So, are you in?”

Bill heard the echoes of Rose’s parting words, to not be an idiot. He had asked his questions, and Stirling had answered them all. The plan, while yes unconventional, was a good one in theory. He trusted McGonigal, and to some degree even Mayne, and if the sensible Irishman had agreed, it couldn’t be that bad. And he still couldn’t shake that feeling, the niggling whisper of the connection between this plan and his life at home.

“I’ll join you.”

“Excellent!” Stirling clapped and retrieved a hip flask from his pocket. He tipped it in Bill’s direction, raising a toast. “Welcome to the SAS.”

Chapter Text

August 1941, Heliopolis

“Lieutenant Fraser?

“Aye,” Bill looked up from his breakfast, a grim porridge-like concoction that the catering staff had served up that morning. Its only discernible features were being grey and slimy, with an uncanny knack to adhere itself steadfastly to the roof of one’s mouth. Across the table, Eoin prodded his bowl of the stuff cautiously, while Paddy scribbled away in a notebook by his side. 

Stirling’s outfit was near enough complete, the tables surrounding them filled with his hand-picked recruits. Bill often thought they were an odd cross-section of society, on paper at least, but in person he could see the men falling into an easy camaraderie. He recognised the young private who had appeared at his side, the blond haired Johnny Cooper who looked barely old enough to have left school. The boy held out a sheaf of envelopes, which Bill took gratefully.

“Mail, sir. Most of it’s yours, but there’s one each for Mayne and McGonigal too.”

“Thank you, Cooper,” Bill smiled, and the boy nodded in return before dancing off to the next table. Very light on his feet, that one. Bill sorted the envelopes, flicking the relevant ones across the table to his comrades.

“How many from Rose today?” Eoin asked, ripping the flap of his own envelope open. Paddy just pocketed his, returning to his notes.

Bill shuffled the papers in his palm, counting. “Three, and one from mother.”

“Anything fun today? No more frogs in the classroom?” Eoin smirked over his own letter, playfully trying to peer at Bill’s.

“Hey, she brought that upon herself.” Bill snatched his papers away and pulled a face at his friend. Eoin went back to reading his own letter. While Bill was sure Rose’s students had enjoyed watching the frogspawn grow into tadpoles and then into froglets, he was certain it was only her tendency to over-coddle wild animals which had caused her to misjudge how long to keep them in her class, and thus caused the chaos she had relayed. She had painted quite the visual of returning to her classroom on a Monday morning, tiny frogs hopping around under all of the desks. It had made even Paddy Mayne snort a laugh, a rare enough sight that Bill silently thanked her for.

Rifling through the sheets, he checked the dates and numbers on each of them, placing them in the order that they had been written. Then he scanned them quickly for any amusing stories he might relay; he would save their softer endings and a closer reading for when he was alone.

(23) 11th July 1941

Dear Bill,

It is very nearly the school holidays and good god do I need it. The little wretches have figured out how to splat ink at each other on purpose, and I think I might scream…

(24) 19th July 1941

Dear Bill,

Peggy has, as per usual, landed on her feet. No coral ruffles for our girl anymore, no, George has found her something even better…

(25) 25th July 1941

Dear Bill,

How could I resist writing my 25th letter on the 25th of the month? Practically providential…

Bill was struck most by the second letter, rereading it twice. Its details held an irony that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Here we go, something you might enjoy.”

Eoin folded his letter away and tucked it back into its envelope. Even Paddy paused, glancing up from his page. Bill smiled across the table, taking in the novelty of his small, rapt audience.

“One of our friends from home is getting married to an RAF pilot, heaven forgive her.” All three of them shook their heads, a shared exasperation at the mere existence of the flight jockeys. Bill cleared his throat and continued. “Apparently, with rationing now on clothes, fabric is difficult to get hold of, but the chap figured out a way to get good quality white silk for his bride.”

“How?” Eoin asked. 

Bill leaned forward, voice low. “He stole a fucking parachute.”

“Lot of that going around these days,” Paddy muttered under his breath, causing the other two to laugh. With a sigh, Paddy closed his notebook and stood from the table. “Right, come on. We’ve got an exercise to lead this morning on the trucks.”

“Trucks? What are we doing with the trucks?”

“Ah, you’ll find out,” Paddy waved his book in their direction. “And pay attention. Stirling wants you two to run the drills too.”

Bill glanced at Eoin, eyebrow raised. The other man shrugged, either as confused as Bill or not wanting to give Paddy’s game away. Bill sighed, tucking his letters into his breast pocket, next to the photo that he always carried of their author. Then he turned to the rest of the men in the mess tent and called them to start making their way to their drills.

A few peeled off on various other assignments, from helping with the ammunition testing to contributing to the camp functions. The rest of them mustered at the vehicle depot, where Paddy was already lounging in the bed of a truck. He called out a handful of names, and Bill clambered in to join him. With a tap on the roof, the driver began to pull out into the open desert.

“Since we have no aircraft,” Paddy began, “we will be simulating a parachute jump landing.”

“How are we going to do that?” Bill asked, crouched by the tailgate. He looked down at the sand they were rapidly covering, with a mixture of alarm and growing intrigue.

Then Paddy pushed one of the other men off the back of the truck.

Bill watched as the man fell, feeling the horrible thump with which he hit the ground. He thought he heard a groan, but the truck was already speeding away, leaving the body in the dust. Paddy leant down, and tapped Bill on the shoulder. 

“See, he forgot to roll.” Paddy stood up again, addressing the rest of the men packed onto the vehicle. “Land on your feet, bend your knees, roll to the side. ‘S not that hard. So, who’s next?”

Bill woke up the next morning aching all over, sure that he would find his skin mottled with blue bruises from all the times he had hit the ground. It wasn’t, but he was still grateful that they weren’t scheduled to repeat the drill that day.

As it turned out, jumping off of trucks at high speed hurt a lot less than participating in a hike led by Jock Lewes. 

Bill met the eyes of McGonigal further down the line of men. As junior officers, their role was generally to keep a close check on the men’s welfare, but even if they were to raise a query they both knew it would be shot down instantly. Lewes was relentless, halving their water rations and refusing them breaks even as the sun reached its zenith. Bill wanted to scream at the man to stop, let the boys recover, but he knew the type of soldier the lieutenant was. No matter what Bill said, their trudge through the desert would continue, and he would end up being the one cowed by his outburst.

Stirling had managed to wriggle his way out of the exercise, bogged down with final arrangements he had to square away with GHQ. He’d built a fine unit of men, which Lewes was now trying to roast alive.

Paddy Mayne had simply refused to participate.

Lewes conceded a ten minute break in the shadow of a rocky outcrop, and the men emitted a sigh of relief in unison. The scouser, Dave Kershaw, flopped onto the sand with a groan, arms spread wide. Bill smiled, and nudged the man’s ankle with the toe of his boot.

“Remember to drink as well, corporal.” 

Kershaw grunted his acknowledgement and flapped his hand to his forehead in a lacklustre salute.

Bill found that Eoin had saved him a spot in the shade, which he accepted gratefully. He flipped the cap off of his canteen and took a precious sip of water. It was warm and left an unpleasant tang on his tongue, but he savoured it anyway. 

“And I thought Paddy was the mad one,” Bill muttered. Lewes stood apart from the group, hands clasped behind his back, staring out into the wavering horizon. 

“Nah, Paddy’s fuelled by rage, this one’s fuelled by sheer stubbornness.” Eoin nodded to the silhouette of Lewes, then gestured to the bodies around them. “However, look at the ones who’ve been with him longest. Riley and Almonds, they’re coping much better.”

Bill assessed the two men Eoin had pointed out, and had to admit that he was correct. Pat Riley, a curious American who had snuck his way into the British Army, was still laughing and joking, stretching his limbs as one would before a sports fixture. Jim Almonds, older than most of the recruits, was at least sat down, but he had tilted his face to bask in the sun, eyes closed. They looked as though they were out for a stroll, whereas the others were panting and groaning all around as though they’d just run a marathon.

“You really think this is something we’ll get used to?”

Eoin shrugged. “Maybe we’ll have to.”

“Right, that’s enough of your lounging, everybody up!”

Lewes’ bray was met with a chorus of groans. Reluctantly, both Bill and Eoin got to their feet, but others were less spritely.

“You heard the man, move!” Riley bellowed, clapping his hands together.

Bill reached a hand out to help one of the soldiers up, the rough looking sergeant with an almost permanent split lip. Reg Seekings grasped the proffered hand gratefully, hauling himself upright.

“Not allowed to belt him, am I, sir?” Seekings muttered in Bill’s ear.

“Generally not advised, Reg, you need your energy for walking,” Bill smiled in reply. “But I imagine if you could, there’d be a queue behind you.”

On returning from the hike, Bill had no desire to be in any company and slunk off back to his tent. The sides were pinned open to allow the breeze in, but the others knew well enough to leave him in peace. He’d reread his letters until the light began to fade, letting their words soothe him like a balm.

…Sometimes I dream that you have appeared at my window, tousle haired, knuckles scratched from the roses. Those nights are both sweet and sorrowful; even my subconscious misses you. As my dear Jane says, ‘all my heart is yours...’

“So this is where you’re hiding.” Eoin peered under the canopy, knocking Bill out of his reverie.

“If you’re looking for Paddy, I don’t know where he is.”

“Ach, no, I’ve just left him. He’s gone to relay the message to Seekings and some of the other loud NCOs. They’ll get the order round.” Eoin eased himself down onto an upturned box, long limbs folding up beneath him. He ran his fingers through his hair before meeting Bill’s gaze again. “Stirling’s called us to muster tomorrow at 09:00 hours. This is likely our last night in Cairo.”

“Did he say where we’re going?”

“The desert,” Eoin shrugged, smiling at the vagueness. Then his face dropped, his gaze shifting to his boots. “You should know, though, we’re going to be cut off from communications for a while.”

“How long for?” This was the main part of Stirling’s plan that Bill disliked. Letters were the lifeblood of a soldier’s morale away from home. The drip-feed of news from home was enough to remind them what they were fighting for, a reminder of their humanity, and Bill was wary for the others as well as himself.

“He didn’t say,” the Irishman murmured. He gestured at the letter still resting in Bill’s fingers. “You should write to Rose. Hopefully she’s tolerant enough to put up with the silence.”

Bill folded the sheet of paper closed and ran his thumb across the edges fondly. “Rose is the writer, not me. She knows I’m not especially great at replying anyway”

“Once you’re done, fancy one last night getting rip-roaring drunk with me and Paddy?”

Bill shook his head, grateful for the offer. He didn’t wish to intrude on their revelry and he usually left a night out feeling worse. “Still feeling battered from the truck jumping, I think I’ll just have a quiet one.”

“If you say so.” Eoin stood from his box, brushing the creases from his shorts. “Send her my love.”

“You’ve never met her.”

“Ah, but through you I feel I have.” Eoin tapped one of the tent poles as he left, sending a musical chime echoing through the air.

“Keep him out of prison!” Bill called after the retreating man. The Irishman flashed a wicked grin over his shoulder.

“I can only do my best!”

12th August 1941 

Dear Rose,

It frustrates me that I can tell you so little, but I’m sorry to say that I will not be able to send or receive letters for at least a couple of months. So, I apologise if this letter is long, but I feel as though I must cram as much as I can in before we cut contact. 

I’ve been recruited for a new experiment, but don't worry I asked plenty of questions. The plan seems sound, even if it was cooked up by some upper-class fool - Stirling, the new CO, kept babbling on about shooting grouse of all things (I know you disapprove of shooting sports, mo ghraidh, but I wasn’t going to have that argument on your behalf).

McGonigal and Mayne will be coming too, so be happy that I have friends with me (Eoin sends his love, apparently. He told me to write that). The other officer, Lewes, on the other hand, does my head in something terrible. He’s a fanatic, but at least a decent motivator of men. He’ll make a cracking general someday, and be just as insane as the job requires. 

I’ve not spent much time with the other men, but they all seem decent and competent enough. I guess I’m about to get to know them all rather well, being stranded in the middle of nowhere with not much else to do.

Letters 23-25 arrived earlier in the week, and I found Peggy’s parachute tale amusing - I will explain to you why when I get home. It is kind for her to offer the remnants to you, given we have no idea when our wedding might be. You know, though, I do not care for the fripperies. You could be wearing your mud-splattered dungarees fresh from helping your father on a farm for all I care (hope you are enjoying the summer testing out in the fields. There’s no risk to you, right? Actually, don’t tell me, I’ve never worried about that before). All I want from a wedding is you and me (fine, our parents can be there too… and Peggy, if you insist), and finally being able to call you my wife. Because you already are, in my mind, and I live every day so I can make it back to you.

All my love, Bill

Chapter Text

August 1941, Kabrit

The sunset was casting shadows over Bill’s checklist, but he had finally finished the audit he had been assigned to monitor: the thermite and blastics they had been given to practice with had all been buried under the sand in one corner of the crumbling ruin that was Kabrit. He handed the paperwork to Chalky - a short man with thick eyebrows - to run back to Lewes for record keeping, and dismissed the other men. With one last glance at the carefully heaped piles of sand, he headed back towards the rest of the camp. 

In a remarkably short time, a small village had sprung into existence - a forest of tents were pitched in neat rows, their white canvas glowing in the dimming daylight. Amongst them, he could spot the tell-tale plumes of smoke as cook fires started, no doubt all slung with a kettle for tea by now. Outside of the crumbling walls he could still spy a few figures who had been given the unenviable task of digging the latrines - a necessary evil for any army unit.

“Sir?” The tall, burly sergeant approached him from the edge of the tents, giving Bill the impression that he had been waiting for him.

“Almonds? How can I help you?”

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s been a mistake in the number of tents we brought.” The man sighed and clasped his hands behind his back. “We knew Stirling and Lewes would have their own, and we had assumed Mayne too, and then you McGonigal would share. But we were then told that McGonigal and Mayne would share, and we reduced the number, forgetting…”

Bill nodded in understanding. “Forgetting me.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Almonds ducked his head, the tips of his ears growing pink. Bill thought it would be a wonder if, in this whole endeavour, that was the only thing that had been left behind in Cairo. It was difficult enough to get any army unit to up sticks and move, let alone one with no pre-existing infrastructure. 

“It’s okay, Almonds, it’s an easy mistake to make.” Bill smiled, hoping it would ease some of the other man’s concern. “I haven’t been an officer long, just put me where there’s a space.”

“Very good, sir,” the sergeant nodded, before adding with a frown. “Actually, sir, I was wondering… Well, it might be most suitable, sir-”

“Almonds?” Bill sighed. It was getting late, and he just wanted to know where he would be sleeping that night.

“You could join Sergeant Riley and myself? We behave better than some of the younger lads, and, as far as we are aware, neither of us snore.”

“Sounds like an excellent solution.” Bill thought back to what Eoin had said about the two sergeants on the hike - perhaps sharing a tent with them would help him figure out how best to work with Lewes.  “I'm all done with my audit, care to show me where we’re staying?”

With a nod, Almonds set off through the tents, navigating the thin alleyways and guy ropes with practiced ease, and Bill followed in his footsteps. They picked up Bill’s pack from the small pile of those still left unclaimed, and then headed back into the labyrinth. The other man had spent months in Tobruk, being shelled and shot at, and Bill wondered what he must think about the quiet and peace of this corner of the desert. It was a far cry from even Bill’s previous experiences of the camps in Cyprus and Cairo, where there had always been a bustle of some sort or another.

“Here we go, sir.” They had reached the end of one column and Almond’s held open a tent flap, gesturing for Bill to enter first. Bill ducked his head, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. There were three camp beds orientated around the space, two side-by-side and one perpendicular to their feet, a small gap between them all. It was tight, but plenty enough room for everyone to sleep.  On one of the parallel beds, Sergeant Riley had already removed his boots, ankles crossed, and was blowing cigarette smoke at the ceiling.

Almonds sidled in, hovering at the bed beside Riley’s. “Will this be suitable, sir? We thought you could have the one at the end.”

Bill placed his pack beside the pallet. It was the furthest from the tent entrance, a dark secluded corner for him to disappear into. It also meant he would be less likely to be disturbed when the other two were coming and going from guard duty. He turned to the dark haired men with a smile.

“Inside this tent, please just call me Bill.”

“You’re sure?” The American asked warily, sitting up and exchanging a glance with his friend.

“Aye.”

“Okay then,” the man shrugged, slumping back down to the horizontal. “Well, we’re Pat and Jim.”

“I know,” Bill nodded, taking a seat on his own bunk. “You sound like you should be a comedy double act.”

The two men laughed, before Jim shrugged. “Either that, or an old married couple.”

“Take your pick, I guess,” Bill chuckled, settling into their easy humour.

September 1941, Kabrit

It was easy to slip into a routine and Bill quickly grew fond of the men around him. He, Paddy and Eoin alternated running drills, from jumping off of trucks and scaffolds, to marksmanship and general desert survival. In the evenings, Pat and Jim were easy to live with. Jim was always there with a cup of tea or a kind word, and Pat would supply a quick joke or insight wherever he could. The two still tended to seek each other out, though, leaving Bill feeling like a tag-along again. It seemed to be his fate in this war, though with Paddy often with Stirling and Lewes, Eoin had been calling on Bill’s company more frequently. It was nice enough to just sit quietly in someone’s presence, but they often found themselves discussing the idiosyncrasies of the men around them.

Lewes kept himself largely apart, still perfecting the recipe for his little bombs, and Stirling was often bouncing back and forth to Cairo. Eoin compared them to two sides of one coin - fanatic in their belief in the unit, just one side as stern as the king, the other often changeable and more flamboyant. Bill thought Lewes was a grumpy sod and Stirling an egotistical aristocrat. Paddy was in the best spirits they had seen him in for months, running wild far from the prying eyes of GHQ. Seekings and Kershaw tended to drink heavily, but were both efficient and practical in their tasks. Cooper was a surprise, the best shot in the company, quickly shedding much of the ridicule his age had garnered. 

It was only as the end of September ticked by that the cracks began to show. They had been isolated in the desert for several weeks, and the men were getting fractious - Eoin had had to pull Paddy away from more than one brawl, and Bill was losing count of how many he had broken up. 

On a Saturday night, when the cold was beginning to leech in with the rise of the moon, some of the men had built a large fire, sharing rum and stories. Bill hovered at the outskirts with Eoin, content to watch the others have fun. Then they started singing.

“Fuck ‘em all, Fuck ‘em all

The long and the short and the tall

Fuck all the Sergeants and W.O.1s…”

It was musical in the thinnest of senses, but it still felt like someone had plucked Bill’s spine like a bowstring. Ricochets of discomfort trembled down his fingers, and he clenched his fists tight to stop them shaking.

“Go,” Eoin nudged him gently. “Don’t force yourself through it.”

“I’m fine,” Bill said through gritted teeth. It was just drunk soldiers. It shouldn't still affect him like this.

“No, you’re not,” the Irishman murmured. “You’re here, not in a dancehall in Scotland.”

“I don’t need reminding.” He glanced down at his watch and did a quick calculation; it would be nearly six at home. He should be tying his shoes and checking they were polished to a shine, not still wearing the same boots he had been for fourteen hours straight. His hair should be washed and brushed, not windswept and full of sand. He should be getting ready to see Rose.

“Precisely.” Eoin’s voice broke into Bill’s spiralling thoughts, drawing him back. Eoin’s hands gripped onto Bill’s shoulders, his voice firm and commanding. “So, you’re going to go back to your tent, read a book, write to her if you can. I’ll make sure this lot don’t set themselves on fire.”

Bill nodded, drawing in a shaky inhale. He patted Eoin’s shoulder in return as he got to his feet. “Thank you.”

“You’ll get no promotion this side of the ocean

So cheer up my lads, fuck’em all!”

The echoes of their joviality dimmed the closer Bill got to his tent, the tension in his shoulders unwinding bit by bit. Eoin had the frustrating habit of being right, and Bill resolved himself to write a new letter to Rose. He had a couple of them tucked under his pillow waiting to be sent, even if there was minimal news he could tell her. Bill knew that even his three or four letters of rambling would entertain her, and she would be as desperate for news of him as he was of her.

He had already composed the first few lines in his head as he ducked inside, only the tent wasn’t empty. He hadn't noticed the flicker of candlelight from outside, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. 

Bill froze, taking in the sight of Jim Almonds facing away and curled on his side, his shoulders shaking. Jim, the gentle giant who was always so strong and steadfast, now coiled up so small in some sort of pain. Half of Bill wanted to leave, to not intrude. It was overridden by his concern.

“Jim? Did something happen?” Bill reached out, a soft hand placed on a khaki shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing, sir.” Jim stilled slightly, a hand dashing to his face to wipe away tears.

“Where’s Pat? Do you want me to get him?” Whenever Eoin or Paddy were bad, he always knew to fetch the other. Perhaps it was the same with the two sergeants. Either way, Bill knew he was never anyone’s first choice for companionship.

With a shaky exhale, Almonds rolled over, offering Bill an unconvincing smile. “Guard duty. I’m fine, sir. It’s nothing, sir.”

“It’s Bill, remember. And it’s clearly not nothing. Would you like me to leave?” When Jim shook his head, Bill stepped over to his own bed. Unsure what else to do, he retrieved his book in a show of nonchalance. In reality, he was still watching the other man. Quietly, he added, “Well, if you need to, you can talk to me.” 

“It’s nothing, sir,” Jim whispered.

“Bill,” he reminded the other man. This was not a conversation between an officer and a soldier, but two friends. Bill turned his page having not read a single word.

“Bill,” Jim nodded, swiping another tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. Over the top of his book, Bill watched as the other man sat up, planting his feet on the ground. Hunched forward, Jim rested his elbows on his knees, head still bent. His breathing had slowed, calmed, but there was still tension coiled through Jim’s shoulders. He hesitated, voice catching on each of the words. “It’s my little boy.”

“You’ve heard news?” Stirling had returned from a meeting earlier that day - Bill calculated it was possible that the captain had brought a missive back from Cairo, even if he hadn’t seen the two men meet.

Jim shook his head, quickly dashing that train of thought. “No, that’s most of it. Before we came out here, I received a letter from May, my wife, saying he was unwell. Not heard anything since.”

Bill felt his heart sink for the other man. To have that hanging over you, for weeks, it would obviously eat away at your resolve. It was impressive that Jim had lasted this long without cracking. Unsure what to say, Bill set his book to one side and repeated the moniker they were always being told. “They say no news is good news.”

“I know.” Jim swallowed, audible in the silence of the tent. He added quietly, “I’ve never met him.”

Bill’s heart broke a bit more. Over the weeks he had enjoyed listening to Jim’s tales about home, how he had met his wife and the little house he had been fixing up for her. In another world, Bill could imagine his own life similarly, if he and Rose had come together sooner. Jim had mentioned a son, but not the boy’s age. The agony the man must be feeling was unimaginable, not hearing news about the baby that had been born with him stuck thousands of miles away in the desert.

“What’s his name?”

“John,” Jim huffed a half-hearted laugh. “May called him John.”

“You would’ve chosen something different?”

“Why do you think I chose to go by Jim? Far too many Johns in this world.”

“Well, at least when you get home you’ll be able to tell whether your wife’s talking to you or your son.”

The sergeant’s face fell, tears threatening to tumble again. “If I even make it home.”

“You will. We’ll make it home.” Bill stood, closing the distance between them. He crouched beside the bed and grasped Jim’s shoulder firmly. A touch as a reminder that they were alive, and that neither of them were alone. He added softly, “You have your little boy to meet.”

“I’m not sure -”

“How about a deal - I’ll get you home, if you get me home.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Jim offered a weak smile. He held out his hand and Bill shook it, sealing their pact. “You’ve got a bride to get back to, right?”

“Aye,” Bill confirmed, remembering the reason he had returned to the tent early in the first place. His aversion to music seemed trivial by comparison to what Jim must be going through. He straightened, thoughts ticking over in his mind. “Y’know, those letters are probably just sitting in an office in Cairo. I’m sure Stirling would have space in a footwell to bring some back from one of his meetings.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn't want to impose.”

“Could you get Lewes to ask on your behalf? I know the man’s made of stone but he seems to like you.”

“No, if Jock knew, he’d stand me down. Couldn’t be distracted on a mission.” Jim ran his thumbs together, thinking. Then he turned to Bill, eyebrows raised slightly. “You could ask?”

“I’m only a junior officer, I’d have to go up the chain of command,” Bill shook his head with a grimace. “And Paddy’s always made fun of my letters from home.”

Chapter Text

October 1941, Kabrit

After his conversation with Jim, Bill was on high alert, watching for the effects on the other men. The discontent was spreading, moving from brawls to seep into their training too. In a shooting drill, Cooper’s aim started to slip, leading the young man to throw his rifle across the range in frustration. When he followed up with him, all the blond man said was that the sun had affected his focus, but Bill suspected it had been something more. 

A few days later, he caught Kershaw staring into the flames of one of the explosives they had just trialled, his brow creased and jaw clenched. When asked what was troubling him, the Scouser murmured back, “These are only small ones. Some can blow up a whole street.”

Bill turned his gaze to the fire, trying to follow the corporal’s line of thought. 

“Luckily, we don’t need to blow up a whole street,” he tried to reassure the man. 

“No. No innocent people either.” Kershaw shook his head, snapping his gaze away from the crackling inferno. He forced a smile as he turned back to the tents. “Sorry, sir. Mind’s on home today. While they say the Blitz is over, I still don’t trust Jerry to leave them alone.”

Bill fell into step beside the curly-haired man. “Can’t say I blame you. But at least we’ll be able to take some of their planes out of action soon.”

“Not that it’ll help those back home,” Kershaw muttered.

Watching the corporal’s receding back, Bill made up his mind. He had to say something, to someone, at the very least.

Bill found Eoin by the scaffolds, tightening some of the screws on the crossbars. With a wave he was invited up, taking the familiar handholds to climb up the structure. Eoin held out a water flask and the two of them sat on the planks, legs swinging. They gazed out over the tents, watching the various silhouettes pacing within and around them.

“What’s on your mind, lad?” 

“I know Stirling was all for independence,” Bill remarked, taking a swig from the flask before handing it back. “But, watching these boys, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“The forced proximity is really getting to some of them,” Eoin agreed. “Seekings was having it out with Cooper this morning, they really rub each other up the wrong way.”

“Aye, but it’s more than that.” Bill leant back onto his hands, shifting his eyes up to squint at the sun. The ever-present, ever-brutal, beating desert sun. “There’s nothing really to break up one day from the next, nothing to look forward to.”

“I suppose that’s war for you, it’s all miserable," Eoin muttered, raking one hand through his hair.

“Aye, but it wasn’t this bad before, when we were in Cyprus or Cairo. And y’know why?”

“Why?”

“Letters, “ Bill said simply. “No one has had any news in weeks, save what Stirling has told us. Everyone has families that they are having to pretend don’t exist. They’re all wondering if something bad has happened, stretched thin by the not-knowing.”

Eoin was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Aye, you have a point. I’m sometimes kept awake thinking about home.”

There was a shout in the distance, a rush of movement. Another fight, by the looks of things, but they were too far away to pick out the individuals involved. They watched in silence as the figures massed together before being pulled apart, splintering in smaller groups to either end of the camp.

“Selfishly, I miss hearing from Rose. I’ve read and reread her old letters more times than I can count,” Bill said softly. He nodded his head to the camp beyond, the raised tensions and fractious spirits rattling around within it. “Unselfishly, so many of those men are haunted by families with illness, or in the line of the German bombers. Even just one letter would help soothe that, I’m sure.”

Eoin hummed his agreement, taking another sip of the water. Bill looked across at the younger man, the dark curls shining like ebony in the sunlight. He supposed it might be different for him. He had known Paddy back in Ireland, and the two men were closer than soldiers normally were. They had each other for comfort, their own family unit together here in the desert. Perhaps the lack of letters had less effect on them. Perhaps it was that distance which allowed them to feel free in their happiness.

Bill cleared his throat with a cough. What his friends did in their own tent was their own business. But it could be a useful relationship to help get his idea to the right people. “Could you ask Paddy to talk to Stirling?

“Ach no, he’ll know you put me up to it.” Eoin shook his head, clapping Bill on the shoulder. “It’s your idea. You have to fight for it.”

Night had fallen by the time Bill was able to track down Paddy. The Irishman was huddled in his tent, a candle lit so he could read his book, humming softly along with the poetry. Eoin had been the one to invite Bill in, lounging on the next bunk over, but quickly stood and made an excuse to leave. He gave Bill a parting smile of encouragement before dropping the tent flap behind him.

“Can I ask you something, Paddy?” Bill paced the small space before finding a box in the corner. He brushed the sand from the top and folded himself down to perch on it. In the glow of the dim light, Paddy’s frown threw his features into sharp relief.

“You just did,” Paddy drawled, turning the page in his book deliberately.

“You know what I mean,” Bill sighed. “I need you to bring something up with Stirling.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“He’s your friend.”

“Aye,” Paddy snapped his book shut, resting it on his chest. “And you’re one of his officers.”

“I’m the most junior officer.”

“Technically that’s Eoin,” Paddy smirked, that crooked smile that tugged one corner of his lips upwards to expose the line of his teeth.

“Aye, technically, but he has a way in because of you.”

Paddy froze, the joviality of his face replaced with a blank stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do,” Bill affirmed quietly, with a pointed stare. He locked eyes with the Irishman, wishing to convey all that couldn’t be said. That he knew, but wouldn’t say anything. That he knew, but didn’t judge.

With a groan, Paddy rolled up to sitting, breaking the eye contact. “What do you want?”

“Look. I know the whole point is that we’re cut off from the rest of the world here, but I really think it would do morale some good if on Stirling’s next Cairo trip he brought back some of the mail.”

There was a pause before Paddy barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Fuck me, that woman’s really got you by the balls even out here.” 

“I’m not thinking of myself here!” Bill felt his voice rising, the temper he usually kept leashed bubbling to the surface. “Almonds’ wife has just had a baby, he understandably wants news. Cooper’s got a brave face on him, but he’s little more than a child himself. And even though the Blitz is supposedly over, Kershaw and Seekings are still twitchy. Everyone’s got a family, Paddy.”

“Family that’s thousands of miles away.”

“Distance doesn’t mean that you stop caring.”

“Well maybe they need to. Maybe you need to.” Paddy sprang to his feet, finger jabbing into Bill’s chest hard enough to bruise. He crowded over Bill, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Bill had seen this before, but never directed at him. Paddy spat his words out, trying to rein in his wild interior. “Because we have a job to do, and if you’re too busy moping around because of your feelings, you’re not focusing on the mission.”

This close, Bill could taste the rum on the Irishman’s breath. He stood, unfolding his long limbs until he towered over Paddy again, his turn to crowd the other man. He lowered his voice, unwilling to rise to a full fight. “It’s got nothing to do with focus. We can all put it away when the moment comes. But, for some of us, it’s the reason we keep going. When it gets tough, those are the people we are fighting for.”

Paddy made a noise in the back of his throat and stepped away shaking his head. Bill watched the other man pace a few times like a caged cat, before throwing himself back onto the bed. Paddy rolled over, turning his back. 

With a sigh, Bill knew the conversation was over and he picked his way back to the tent entrance. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder at the other man. “I really think it would be good for morale, for the boys.”

Paddy just threw one of his books at him. 

“Oh just go wank off to some of her other letters and leave me alone.”

Bill ducked out from the canvas, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the darkness again. Across the way a figure was leaning against a barrel, a cigarette the only pinprick in the dark. With a sigh, Bill crossed to join him.

“How did it go?” 

“I know full well you heard from here.” 

“Ah, but you tried, lad.” Eoin took a long drag from the cigarette, the end crackling with its glowing embers. He inclined his head, blowing a cloud of smoke at the stars before raising an eyebrow at Bill. “Do you, though?”

“Do I what?”

“Do the letters, y’know,” the Irishman gestured, waving his hand through the air, before lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Help you relieve yourself?”

Bill huffed a short laugh and shoved the other man’s shoulder. “No, they don’t.” 

“Oh aye, I guess that’s what a photograph’s for. That one you keep in your top pocket, ey?” Eoin knocked his ash to the ground and dodged another of Bill’s lunges. He took another puff of the cigarette before stamping the butt into the ground. “Fine, you want your letters, Paddy’s not going to get them. But, you could ask Stirling directly. Or Lewes.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Lewes’ is made of stone, he’d be worse than Paddy. And Stirling barely knows who I am.”

“Well maybe he would if you spoke up more.”

“Eoin, stop worrying about my life so much, you’ve got your own.” Bill pointed back at the other officer’s tent, the flickering candlelight peeking out from under the door flap. “Now, go calm him down, he’s in a bad mood.

Eoin offered a mock salute, retreating back into the dark. “Aye aye.”

The next morning, a vehicle was spotted trundling over the dunes, a light jeep come to collect Stirling for one of his innumerable meetings. Bill took this as his chance. 

Skipping breakfast, he went to meet the driver, a swarthy northerner with a thick Newcastle accent. The man wasn’t talkative, and once he had discovered Bill wasn’t his expected charge, he propped his ankles up on the steering wheel and settled in for a doze. Determined to wait, to catch the commanding officer before he left, Bill leaned against the side of the vehicle and watched the ruins for the sauntering figure.

Unsurprisingly, Captain Stirling was late.

“Sir.” Bill sprang into a salute, his limbs falling easily into the taut lines required. It was an action they’d drilled into him since he was eighteen, and a difficult habit to shake. It was only when he clocked Stirling’s scowl that he remembered the man’s disdain for military structures.

“Lieutenant, if you don’t stop saluting me I’m going to give you a dead arm.” Stirling threw a satchel into the footwell of the jeep, not even greeting the driver.

“Sorry, sir.” Bill rearranged his limbs, clasping his hands behind his back instead. Not the best start. “Could I ask something, please sir.”

“Ask Paddy.” Stirling retrieved his sunglasses from his pocket, hooking them over his ears.

“I already did.”

“Well, if Paddy didn’t have time for it, neither do I.” The captain climbed into the passenger seat of the jeep, knees bumping against the dashboard. With a sigh, the man tipped his face towards the sky. “I’m going to be late for my briefing.”

The driver took this as his cue, turning the key in the ignition. Bill reached out, fingers grasping at the captain’s sleeve. “Sir, I really think -”

Stirling batted his hand away. “Not now, Fraser. Ask Paddy.” 

The jeep sped away, leaving Bill in a cloud of dust. As the sand settled it clung to his skin, stung his eyes. He turned back to the camp, dashing a hand to his cheeks to brush it away, resigned to at least another week without news. In the middle of the desert, it all felt too far away.

Chapter Text

November 1941, somewhere near Kabrit

“Well, the compass is fucked.” 

“D’you think they knew?”

“Wouldn’t put it past Lewes. Man’s a sadist.”

“Enough of that, thank you boys," Bill clipped. He was the officer on this exercise, and as much as the SAS were all about breaking rules, it probably wasn’t best to foster a culture of disdain toward their superiors. Even if Bill agreed with them.

This was one of the Lieutenant's latest ideas - blindfolding them in small groups and dumping them in the desert in the middle of the night. Between them, they had a rudimentary map, a pair of binoculars, a compass - apparently non-functional tonight - and half an inch of water each. All they had to do was make it back to camp by dawn. Anyone late was reprimanded and assigned to the latrines or the laundry for a week.

Bill’s group tonight wasn’t too bad. Kershaw, Chalky, and a wiry sergeant called Stone. A three man chorus of ‘Sorry, sir’ rang through the desert night.

“So what do we do? I’d rather not have to wash Seekings’ socks this week.”

“I’ll trade the shit shovelling for the socks.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d met his socks.”

“Enough,” Bill sighed, crouching down to spread the small map they’d been provided with onto a rock. In the light of the moon he could just make out the rudimentary markings. He gestured to the binoculars hanging around the Scouser’s neck. “Kershaw, climb that dune and see if you can spot any landmarks. Roads, ridges, oases, anything.”

The corporal gave a quick nod before scampering up the incline. Bill pulled a pencil from his pocket, squinting up at the other two men. “What time did we set off?”

“Nine.”

Bill checked his watch - it was nearing twenty to ten, but the vehicle had been gone for at least five minutes - they weren’t allowed to remove their blindfolds until they could no longer hear the engine. He looked back up at his men. “Top speed of the trucks?”

“Forty miles an hour.”

“Correct, so we should be within twenty miles, possibly even as kind as fifteen.” Using the scale as a guide, he drew a rough circle onto the page, Kabrit at its center like a bullseye. They were somewhere within that perimeter. The desert held very few landmarks, little to demarcate one grid reference from another. The easiest thing would be if Kershaw found something, but he was doubtful that was where this night was headed. “Now, look up. What do you see?”

“The sky?”

Bill stifled an exasperated sigh. How the hell did Rose deal with children and their stupid questions every single day - these were grown men who were struggling to use their brains. Internally, Bill wanted to scream. Externally, he was very patient. “And what’s in the sky, Chalky?”

“Stars, moon.”

“Correct,” he drew the attention back to his map, the other two men crowding round. “The moon travels East to West, and if we can find the plough, we can trace it to the North star. At least then we’ll know which way is up.”

The three of them stared up at the sky. Bill tracked it easily, following the spine of the constellation until he was sure he was pointing in the right direction. He spun the map so it would line up with their re-orientation. It took the other two men a couple of minutes, but they reached the same conclusion, excitedly pointing when they had identified the correct point.

There was a scuffle as Kershaw slid down the dune. He brushed his hands against his shorts, shaking his head. “Nowt really, just a whole bunch of sand.”

With a grunt, Bill returned to the map on the rock, gesturing for the men to follow him. “So what have we learned?”

“That we’re fucked?”

“No,” Bill sighed again, pointing the tip of his pencil to the paper. “We can discount these grids, If we were anywhere near, Dave would have spotted something.”

“That still leaves a lot of space.”

“Aye, but if we take into consideration that we don’t necessarily trust that our equipment was ever meant to work, I think there’s only one direction for us to go.”

Looking up, Bill was met with a trio of blank faces. Christ, he was in for a long night. 

“North. We know the raids they want us to run are based on the North coast, so they want to make sure we can navigate there. That’s the whole point of the exercise. Plus, a consistent direction will also help us rule out different locations.” He pointed his pencil to a grid in the south west. “From here, if we head north, we’ll meet this ridge, and then we can hang a right and head home.”

“And if we’re here,” Stone pointed, “heading North will mean we meet the road. We can then turn around and head back.”

“Exactly.” 

Kershaw huffed a laugh, flicking one of Bill’s epaulettes. “And that’s why they gave you these.”

Kabrit’s silhouette began to loom on the horizon at around two in the morning. Slightly further north-east, but Bill’s theory had been correct at least. A small mercy, given the trek they had completed. The desert was cold at night, the air before them clouding with each breath. The sand slipped beneath their feet, each step needing to be placed carefully in the dark so as not to roll an ankle. 

Conversation was quiet, the four of them exhausted by the monotony of the night. They paused to rest once they had spied their destination, each man inspecting his meagre water rations. Bill let his small sip line his mouth, washing away the taste of sand and sweat, before swallowing.

“How’d you learn your stars, Fraser?”

“Read Treasure Island as a kid. Much to my father’s chagrin, I wanted to sail ships for a while.” Bill paused, racking his memory. “It was probably Rose that told me pirates used stars to navigate, having read it somewhere else.”

Mr Barclay had taken the two of them out into the countryside one crisp spring evening, away from the lights of the city, and let them stare up into the sky for what felt like hours as he worked a call from one of the farms. Cushioned by the heather, Bill had pointed out different constellations, and Rose had supplied the stories behind all of their names. The temperature had plummeted by the time Geoffrey picked them up again. He tucked them into the back seat of his car, under a blanket, and Rose had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

“Do all of your stories feature her?” Chalky asked, quietly.

Bill considered the other man before nodding. It was getting harder and harder to talk about her, to talk about home, the longer they were out of communication. “If it’s about home, most likely.”

“See if I’d learned about pirates, think we’d have been more interested in the looting part,” Kershaw broke the tension, his loud thick accent piercing the reverie.

“Or the saving of damsels in distress,” Stone threw his hand to his forehead, enacting an overdramatic Victorian swoon into Kershaw’s lap. The sight of the sergeant sprawled on the floor, the Scouser shoving him off into the sand, drew a smile to Bill’s lips.

“Aye, well only one of those has turned out to be actually useful tonight.” Bill hauled himself to his feet, brushing the sand clinging to his calves away. His men followed suit, setting their eyes to the horizon for the final push in their march.

“Impressive,” Lewes drawled, not looking in the least bit moved. He had stationed himself at the tumbled down entry to the fortress ruins, as upright and stationary as a stone sentry. “We were certain we’d have to pick you out of a ditch somewhere.”

“Nah, Fraser’s a smart one, he is.” Kershaw ruffled Bill’s hair quicker than he could duck out of the way. “Figured your game out right away.”

Lewes’ face was unreadable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Our compass was fucked,” Chalky spat, pointing a finger back out into the desert.

“How unfortunate,” Lewes drawled.

Chalky looked like he was about to explode, but Bill placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Leave it. Just go to sleep, move on in the morning.”

“Literally, as it happens,” Lewes interjected, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his moustache. “Stirling arrived late last night. It’s time to pack up and move out - trucks will be here by noon.”

With a groan, the men dispersed. All they wanted was a long lie-in to recover from the night’s excursion. Now, they’d only manage a couple of hours before they were called to help fold canvas and pack everything into boxes. 

Bill was surprised to see the glow of candlelight seeping from under his tent flap. Ducking in, he squinted against the bright light and found Jim, flushed and folding something haphazardly. Riley must still be out on his own moonlit march.

Jim smiled warmly, genuinely. It was as though the weeks of worrying about his son had sloughed off of the man in the course of a few hours. An anxious Jim was not one that anyone wanted, and seeing the man restored softened Bill’s insides.

“You know anything more than the fact we’re breaking camp?”

“Oh, aye, “ Jim grinned. “We’re heading back to Cairo. Stirling says we may have a jump scheduled.”

“A proper one?”

“Aye, a proper one.”

Bill flopped face first onto his bed, unable to match the sergeant’s feverish excitement. A couple of hours of sleep, then maybe he would. Heading back to Cairo meant the return to civilisation, and access to the army post service. Letters, glorious messages from home would be waiting for them. Three months of isolation had taken its toll, but he couldn’t deny that it had also defined them. The unit was slick, they were fit, and while often fractious, they were all good men. They were all itching for an opportunity to prove themselves - the jump would give them that.

But first, sleep.

Chapter Text

11th November 1941, Heliopolis

Bill had been in a foul mood for the past twenty-four hours, and he knew it. Awoken by Jim after what felt like mere seconds with his eyes closed, followed by the back breaking work of dismantling a small village, and the most uncomfortable journey in the back of a truck he had yet experienced, Bill  had written most of the past day off and just gone back to bed. Eoin had tried to lure him out into Cairo with him and Paddy, but Bill had politely refused. He had finally been allocated a single officers tent, and he was going to make the most of it. Asleep. 

Now, sat in the corner of the mess tent that had been allocated to the SAS, Bill savoured his cup of tea as though it were the elixir of life. Someone had scrounged up real milk by some miracle, taking the edge off of the tin-tinged tea he had grown accustomed to. A briefing for the officers had been scheduled for the afternoon, but Stirling had ordered all of them to assemble this morning for an unspecified reason. Bill watched as the other men arrived, in various states of disarray after a night out in Cairo - one of the corporals still had a smudge of lipstick on his cheek. It was good to see them like this, the tension from Kabrit dissipating now that they were reminded that the rest of the world existed. Bill resolved to do battle with the postmaster later - he would get his boys their mail. Just had to survive Stirling and his schemes first.

“Are you in a better mood today?” Eoin slid into the spot next to Bill, his hair still mussed and eyes limned with sleep. Paddy wasn’t far behind, tucking himself into the corner and reclining into the back of the chair.

“Aye,” Bill hummed, offering the two of them tea. Eoin accepted gratefully, but Paddy merely tilted a hipflask as a toast in his direction. Still drunk then, or about to be.

“Well, I reckon it’s about to get better.” Eoin took a deep draught from his tea before setting the mug down on the table. “We just saw Cooper headed to the postmaster, chit in hand from Stirling himself.”

Bill felt his stomach lurch, excitement bubbling up inside him. If what Eoin said was true, the letters would be with them sooner than he had anticipated, without the fight he had been spoiling for. He raised his mug to Eoin, clinking the rims together. “Cheers to that and news from home.”

“You manage to finally speak to him?”

Bill shook his head. “Not me, seems to have been avoiding me since I tried to collar him a few weeks ago.”

Paddy coughed and shifted in his seat. Bill and Eoin shot him a glance, but he just shrugged, sipping at his flask. “May have mentioned it over a drink before we left Kabrit.”

“You waited this long?” Bill hissed. It had been weeks since he had gone to Paddy with his plea, weeks of watching the men slowly torture themselves with the not knowing. All that time Paddy had had the ability to plant the idea in Stirling’s brain, and just not used it. Bill wanted to be angry, but it fell into disappointment instead; this man was supposed to be his friend, and he had known how much he cared about this issue. 

Paddy just shrugged. “Not sure I was fully aware of what I was saying. It was late, there was rum.”

“Unbelievable,” Eoin sighed, swatting Paddy around the ear. “And you wonder why people don’t like you.”

“Oh no, I’m fully aware of those reasons,” Paddy grinned, swiping back at Eoin’s curly head. 

The two of them descended into an exchange of playful shoves, still buoyed by whatever fun they had had the night before. Bill turned his head away, falling across the men ranged across the tent. A cloud of smoke was gathering, formed from the myriad of cigarettes being puffed skywards. Someone had brought a pack of cards and a small group of them carefully inspected their dealt hands - who knows what they were playing. Bill watched as Lewes entered and ousted a couple of privates from the far table, bracketed by Almonds and Riley. Lewes sat as though someone had shoved a rod up his spine, incongruous with the lounging American and Jim fussing with the tea. 

It was almost domestic. Then there was a scuffle to the right, followed by a clamour of raised voices. 

“Give us here!” “Oi, watch it!” “Any for me?”

“Back off, let me do this properly!”

Cooper emerged from the crowd, a large mail sack flung over one shoulder which he dumped onto a central table. He shooed the other men away, slapping any hands that reached to grab for the bag. 

“Now, gentlemen,” Stirling had apparently been following Cooper and came up beside the blond man, grasping a shoulder. “Shall we have a little competition? In this bag we have all of the mail from the past three months - any wagers on who has the most letters?”

“You're not supposed to encourage gambling,” Lewes drawled from his corner. Bill caught Jim’s glance and rolled his eyes pointedly, but the other man’s smile was infectious, giddy with excitement. Finally, they would have the answers, the news they had been craving. The shores of home felt closer even in the proximity of the promise of mail, sending a shiver down Bill’s spine, as visceral as a snowy Scottish winter would. 

“Lewes, you’re no fun,” Stirling sighed. “Well, boys, if you can be patient, shall we let Cooper count out the mail? My bet is on Almonds.”

There was a clamour of voices, each pitching in their own contender. Eoin bent his head to Bill and murmured. “My bet’s on you and that Rose of yours.”

“Aye,” Bill chuckled, heart tripping in his chest. He did the calculation in his head - three months, there should be at least twelve letters from Rose.  “She’s good at keeping to a schedule. So long as they’ve all arrived safe, there should be a tidy packet.”

Cooper conducted his sorting methodically, an uneasy chatter filling the tent as they watched him. All eyes were glued to the central table, neat piles of letters mounting up across its surface. Stirling took a seat beside the table, helping line up the stacks if they threatened to fall. The anticipation had Bill’s blood thundering in his ears - which letters were his? Cooper’s eyes were reading her handwriting before he could - only the address, but it was more than he had seen for months, and the thought made him ache.

“Okay, boys, I have the results!” Cooper called out, and a hush fell over the tent. Bill had never heard this group so quiet before.

“In joint third place, with seven letters, Mitcham, Riley, and Stone.”

There was a smattering of applause, the three bundles of letters passed along to the respective recipient. Bill was glad to see Riley’s face light up at the stack - the American could be cagey about home, but it was clear someone was there for him.

“In second place, with a very respectable eleven,” Cooper held the pile up and paused for suspense. Bill felt his heart jump, it was entirely feasible that his own name would be called - letters often went missing, that stack of papers could be his -

“Mr Jim Almonds!”

Jim’s face broke into a grin, gratefully receiving the papers from Cooper. Bill hoped there was good news in them, enough to assuage the worries and put the sergeant’s mind at ease.

A sudden thought tripped into Bill’s mind - what if something had happened to Rose? What if she had stopped writing? His assumption had always been that she was fine, and that one of the larger piles would be his. Left only with the tallest, he began to doubt the likelihood that it would be his.

Cooper returned to his table, enjoying his performance. Stirling handed up the largest pile of envelopes, face impassive. Cooper read the name, counted the papers again, and cleared his throat. “But the award for most amount of mail goes, undoubtedly, to Second Lieutenant William Fraser, with a whopping seventeen letters!”

Relieved, Bill still felt his cheeks flush at the attention. There was applause, the stamping of feet, the hammering of tin cups to the tables, and a myriad of lewd shouts and remarks. 

“It’s always the quiet ones!” “How many bonnie lasses are you stringing along, ey, Fraser?”

Cooper presented the stack to him with a flourish and a cheeky glint in his eye. Bill accepted them gratefully and fanned out the envelopes, noting the handwriting on the front of each. He rearranged them in his hand, placing the more infrequent one to one side.“Four of them are from my mother.”

“And the rest?” Eoin nudged him in the side, already knowing the answer. 

Bill swallowed, his voice feeling like it was stuck in his throat. “All Rose.” 

Like a starved man, Bill wanted to gorge himself on her letters. Somehow, he managed to stumble back to his assigned tent, sealing himself away from the world. He wanted it to be just him and her words, this first time in months. In the glaring morning sun, he didn’t need a candle, enough ambient light pouring through the canvas to make the space glow.

He sat himself on the camp bed, pulling a box over to use as a table. With so many, he didn’t know where to start. He hooked his commando knife from his pocket, using it as a letter opener. He didn’t want to open them all fully, but if he got the right corner, he’d be able to see where she had written the date; she was predictable like that, always folding her letters the same way. He scribbled the dates and numbers on the outside of the envelopes, sorting them into date order. 26-30 for August, 31-34 for September, and up to 38 and the 24th October. They were all there.

With shaking hands, Bill picked up the August stack, opening the first letter reverently. The page swam with blue inked handwriting, an orderly collection of loops and swirls. Bill blinked, letting the words come into focus. 

… It’s sunny here in Scotland, but I know it will be nothing compared to where you are. Do you remember how we used to…

Unable to stop, he reached for the next, and the next, consuming a whole month back to back.

… I’ve got the window open to let in the breeze. Perhaps if I dream hard enough, you will climb through it too…

…Whenever you receive this, I hope you are well.

All my love, Rose

Each sheet was so full of Rose and her joy and memories of home. He could see her smile, the roll of her eyes, hear the exact tone of voice she would tell these stories in. He felt his chest tighten with each page, each memory of who they had been before the war and each opportunity that had been stolen from them in his posting to the desert. Bill laid the letters down carefully on the box, then shifted so that he was lying down. As he stared at the canvas roof, it was as though her writing was projected on the ceiling, echoes of it etched into his eyelids even when he blinked the moisture from them. God he missed her. His whole body ached, torn in two by the pain of being stranded so far away. He curled onto his side as a sob escaped from his lips, a gasp as his lungs felt they were collapsing.

He was grateful for his forethought in closing the tent flaps.

Chapter Text

(39) 31st October 1941

Dear Bill,

Happy Samhain, my love. The streets are quiet now, but earlier they were filled with wee bairns guising. They had to go during daylight on account of the blackout, but they’ve been practicing their singing all week. I reckon they’ll have collected at least a few pennies for sweets.

It is strange how life still goes on even with the war. The children are still growing, still doing so many of the same things we did when we were their age. It hangs like a spectre though - when sharing stories in class about the traditions of Samhain and about the veils between worlds growing thin, one of my pupils asked if any of the ghosts would be their father. They’re only seven. What do you tell a child when they ask that, when you know that their parent was shot and buried in France? I settled on reassuring them that their father would be in heaven and not a haunted spirit, but it still left me feeling hollow.

I hope you are well, no haunting is allowed from you either. If you are taken from this world, please choose to move on. I will manage, I promise. 

Love always, Rose

16th November, Bagush Airstrip

“Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

“The fuck are you on about this morning, Paddy?” 

Rose’s letter was burning a hole in Bill’s pocket, shortening his temper. One of the flight sergeants had handed it to him over breakfast - a magnificent feast of eggs, bacon, and all manner of delicacies from home. Bill doubted he had eaten that well in years, and was slightly envious if that was the reality of service in the RAF. Perhaps he had made the wrong choice following his father into the army. He had snuck a few quiet moments before the briefing to read the letter, hoping it would buoy him for the mission, but it had done the opposite. It was a sad reminder that what happened out there, in the desert, had an impact back home. These were lives they were playing with, connected to families and loved ones who would be left behind. 

“Reached a level of vagueness that even I can’t figure out.” Eoin’s voice pierced Bill’s black mood. The three of them had been the first to arrive to the meeting and had scattered themselves around a table in a back room. 

Paddy was smoking and reeling off poetry, in his own little world, but each stanza was bleaker than the last. Perhaps it was the weather. The lantern above them swung as another gust buffeted the building, the windows so clogged with dust and sand that no light was seeping in.

Stirling sauntered in, closely followed by Lewes. They took the two remaining seats, the former languidly and the latter rigidly. The other three merely glanced up - not a salute was thrown, nor attention braced. Such was this strange little unit, Bill had found, though he was slowly getting used to it.

“Right chaps,” Stirling tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “We have a problem.”

“Is it, perhaps, the weather?” Eoin suggested, one eyebrow raised.

“Indeed, the Brylcreem boys want to stand us the fuck down.”

“We will not stand down!" Paddy spat. Eoin patted him on the arm soothingly, a familiar gesture that they all knew to turn a blind eye to.

“They know that our mission is integral to facilitate Auchinleck’s advance?”

“They do,” Stirling affirmed. “Their captain was saying something about ‘safe operating parameters.’”

“Bollocks, this is war.”

“Well hang on,” Bill interjected, caution rising within him. Something wasn’t sitting right. “Surely they are the best people to know about the weather and its effects? Aren’t we jumping out into the sky they fly in?”

Stirling shrugged. “Well, yes, but a human is quite a bit smaller than a plane.”

“And quite a bit more breakable,” Bill replied. Their practice jumps had all been conducted under clear skies, yet they had still resulted in injuries and even tragedies. Gusting winds would surely catch the parachutes, accelerating their fall, or blowing them off target or-

“Fraser, do you want Tobruk to fall to the enemy?” Lewes scowled.

Bill scowled back. Naturally, that battlefield was still personal to the lieutenant. How many men had he watched die in that city? How many were still trapped there? Equally, Bill didn’t want to condemn their own men to a similar fate. 

“No of course not, I just think we need to consider-”

“Then shut up,” Lewes snarled. “You can go back and hide behind your unit’s Scottish skirts if you’re afraid.”

Bill sighed, dragging a hand across his face. “I’m not scared, I’m being rational.”

“War is not rational, it does not follow logic. Therefore, neither should we.” 

“We will rise from the storm as avenging angels,” Paddy cackled, arms raised to the sky. Bill watched as Lewes rolled his eyes to the Irishman's theatrics.

Their argument continued, though with each volley Bill could tell he was losing it. Stirling and Lewes had blind faith, and Paddy was fuelled by some demented desire to cause as much chaos as possible. The tension lay in Bill’s concern for not risking the lives of their men, and the others’ exasperation at the lack of progress. His only chance was Eoin and his calming presence, so Bill eyed him beseechingly hoping he would see sense.

Eoin met his gaze but remained silent, watching the scene unfold with a thoughtful look on his face. Finally, he cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself. “Either way, I think we should ask the men if they’re happy to go ahead with the jump.” 

“Why?”

“I don’t think this is something we can impose on them, it is outside of what we trained them for.” 

Bill shot a grateful smile to his friend. Hopefully they would listen to him, if not Bill. Eoin had a sway he did not, people liked him on instinct. His calm, measured words slipped into one’s consciousness, and it was hard to disagree. “If we jump, everyone on those planes should agree to it. Every one of our men holds the same responsibility for the decision we make.” 

“We can do that,” Stirling nodded.

Eoin hesitated then, before adding, “We also need a clear directive on what happens if someone is injured, or, God forbid, killed.” 

They had never spoken about practicalities like this. It had seemed like a fantasy those past months in Kabrit. But Bill remembered the letter cradled in his pocket, that niggling concern about what would happen to their ghosts.

“The mission is the main priority,” said Stirling, each word considered as though he were convincing himself of them. “If they can walk, they continue with the group. If they cannot…”

“Leave them where they fall,” Lewes finished bluntly. “Time cannot be wasted transporting dead weight. If they are alive, leave them with some food and water, and hope they’re picked up by a patrol. But also leave a revolver in case they want to choose the easier way out.” 

The men unanimously agreed to the jump. Stood to one side, hands clasped behind his back, Bill cast his eyes across the rows of soldiers before him. Not a single one flinched at the briefing, nor the howling wind rattling the rafters. Some, like Cooper, were even grinning, their nighttime plans a promise of a great adventure. So, the SAS would jump, and Bill would go with them. In spite of his concerns, he wasn’t going to be left behind. If it worked, it would be a miracle. If it didn’t, they might just need someone with a level head.

Bill and Eoin watched the other three officers left to convince the RAF to send their planes into the air - they were to supervise the kit check and the writing of the mission letters. The room filled with excited chatter, echoing off of the corrugated tin walls.

“Keep him from doing anything stupid,” Bill murmured.

“No promises when it comes to Paddy, but I’ll do me best,” Eoin grinned, bumping his shoulders against Bill’s. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Aye,” Bill agreed, patting his friend on the shoulder. He scanned the crowd for another figure, then picked his way over to the corner where Jim had squirreled himself away and was hunched over a sheet of paper.

“Can I ask you something?”

The dark-haired man nodded, his warm face always a calming influence to those around him. Bill fished out the letter that had been handed to him over breakfast, all those hours ago, and held it out for the sergeant to read. As he slid down to join Jim on the floor, his voice cracked. “What do I say to her?”

Jim took the paper carefully, smoothing the creases out. Bill’s breath hitched in his throat; he had never shared Rose’s letters with anyone before, never surrendered them willingly to another’s hands. Yes, he had read passages to Eoin and Paddy over meals, but her ink scrawls had been his alone. But he trusted Jim, Jim was different. He watched the man’s brown eyes skim over the page, before he handed it back. 

“The same thing we always say,” Jim smiled softly. “That you love her, and you’ll see her soon.” 

Bill nodded, folding the paper back into his pocket. Jim was right. If they were creating ghosts tonight, he couldn’t let the last letter he sent to Rose be one foretelling their downfall. Still, an oil slick of guilt trickled down his throat, sticky and cloying, making it hard to breathe.

As though he could read his mind, Jim tapped a finger to Bill’s wrist, “We’re going home, remember? You promised.”

“Aye, but have you seen what it’s like out there?” Bill hissed, gesturing towards the doors that shook with another gust. “What if that storm kills us?”

“It won’t. Stirling and Lewes know what they’re doing.” Jim said it with such confidence, it was almost convincing in itself. “Failing that, I trust God.”

“Aye. Fuck.” Unsure why, Bill threw his arms around the sergeant, pulling him into a hug. Jim returned it, his arms warm, comforting and strong. Bill didn’t want to let go, but he forced himself to pull away. He patted the other man on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at the rendezvous.”

Jim smiled, giving Bill’s forearm a quick squeeze. “Aye, see you in a few days.”

16th November 1941

Dear Rose,

It has been a quiet few days, but now we are poised to be released once more. It will be the first true test of this detachment, this mad scheme of Stirling’s. If we succeed, we will make a difference. The potential for greatness of these men is huge. I just hope these other officers can see that. Or they'll be added to the long list of silver-spoon-fed idiots who have gambled with the lives of the good and the brave and the honest. 

If we can turn the tide, perhaps I will be home sooner. I got your Samhain letter yesterday, and all I want is to hold you tight. I’m sorry your children are hurting. I know that you are likely hurting too. I am so proud of you, my brave girl, my love. I will do my best to not die, you have my word on that. Though I cannot make promises on what my soul will do if it is separated from this earthly plane. I imagine I shall always be tethered to you, my better, cleverer half. So long as you are happy, I shall be content, in both life and death. 

Enough of the morbidity though, it is useless speculation because I will be coming home. As I told you that day in January, I want that life of ours, that house of books and animals and children. We grew up together, we will grow old together, I promise.

I love you with my whole heart,

Bill

Chapter Text

(40) 8th November 1941

Dear Bill,

For once I am grateful to be on this last shift of the watch. I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I sent Sybil to rest instead. This week it will have been three months since your last dated letter. I am clinging to your warning that you wouldn’t be able to send or receive mail, but will admit it is fraying my nerves. Though the rational part of me knows that your mother would have been told, I am scared that you are dead in the desert and no one knows, that I am writing letters to a ghost and could spend forever waiting but never find you again. I guess that is the nature of war, and I know I am not the only one haunted by nightmares of their loved one’s passing.

My deeper fear is that you are well, and you have just abandoned me. The months since I have seen you are now too many to count on my fingers. Perhaps you have decided me foolish, or found a beautiful nurse out there in Cairo. I hope and pray that you have not, but I also would not blame you. I just wish I could know one way or another.

It is raining here - does it rain in the desert? I think I’m going to turn out the light and open a window. Let it wash the world and my soul clean again.

Love, Rose

It was still raining when the weekend watch came to reprieve them, and Rose bid Sybil and Clare goodbye with a quick wave before pulling her hat tighter around her ears. The pavement was slippery, and she had to be careful even though she had trodden those very streets for most of her life. 

She slotted the key into her front door quietly, easing it open so as not to rouse the household. There were usually a couple of animals that were kept overnight in the small veterinary surgery her father had built into their house, and any unexpected sound could very well set them off into a cacophony of howls, yowls, or squawks. 

As she hung up her coat to drip dry, the sound of clicking paws rushed across the tiled floor. When she turned, she found Scrap, his wiry face peering up at her, tail wagging excitedly. Rose bent down to hug the Border terrier, a little squirming body who gifted her with a quick lick to her cheek before padding off back to the kitchen at the rear of the house. Sliding off her shoes and damp socks, she followed the small dog in her bare feet.

Rose was surprised to find the light on in the kitchen, and the figure of her father slumped in the chair at the head of the table. She paced around to his side and pressed a kiss to his temple. He opened one eye blearily.

“You’re up early.” Rose moved to put the kettle on the stove, noting the empty cup and teapot already on the table. She set about retrieving what she needed from the cupboards: another mug, the tea tin, a dash of milk.

“Or am I late to bed?” Geoffrey Barclay sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Cow struggling with twins up at Turner’s. One of the calves died.”

Rose leaned against the cupboards, mug clasped to her chest. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Life of a vet.” He shrugged, before nodding back in her direction. “Are you at least going to try and get some more sleep, Rosie?”

“I’ll close my eyes and see what happens.” She lifted the kettle as it started to whistle, adding the water and a few leaves into the pot. After a moment to stew, she poured another cup for her father, followed by one for herself. There was a creak of a floorboard to indicate that her mother was awake, so Rose poured another mug and left to carry it upstairs.

After a quick ‘good morning’ exchanged with her mother, Rose finally closed the door to her own room. Scrap had run in and immediately made himself at home in his basket, curling round into a ball among his nest of blankets. Rose placed her tea on the bedside table, a slight shiver tickling through her as she realised just how cold the damp walk home had made her. She slipped out of her clothes and into her pyjamas, then under the covers in a bid to get warm. She tried to read a few pages of one of the Woolf books as she sipped her tea, but her eyes suddenly felt heavy. She placed the book and her mug back on the table, and laid her head onto the pillow.

“Rose, wake up, Peggy’s here.”

Blinking, Rose rolled over to check the clock - four hours had passed. Light was now streaming through the edges of the blackout, and her mother was shaking her shoulder. With a nod, she sat upright and rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes.

Washed and dressed, Rose found her friend perched nervously in the front room, a large box balanced on her knee. Noticing her arrival, Peggy leapt to her feet, sending the box tumbling, and threw her arms around Rose’s neck. “Rose, thank goodness. It’s all going wrong.”

With a sigh, Rose detangled herself from Peggy’s arms and slumped onto the sofa, still not quite awake enough to handle her friend’s high energy. She accepted a cup of tea from her mother gratefully. Bracing herself with a sip, she turned back to Peggy. “What’s happened? Is it George?”

“Yes, but also no.” Peggy hesitated, her blonde hair bobbing as she shook her head. She sat down again, hands fidgeting. “It’s my fault.”

Rose tipped her mug in Peggy’s direction, encouraging her to continue.

“Well, you see,” the other woman took a deep breath, words tumbling from her mouth in one long stream. “George is coming home today, and we’ve got that flat that we’re moving into, so I need to sort that out. Then his parents are travelling up from Carlisle on Tuesday - so that will be interesting in and of itself - and my dad is coming across on Thursday, then we all have to have dinner together - which will be hell - and somewhere in there I still have to go to work -”

“Peggy,” Rose warned, willing her to reach the point of her distress.

“I haven’t finished my wedding dress,” Peggy admitted, sheepishly, scuffing the toe of her shoe against the rug.

Rose stared at her friend incredulous. “You just had the hems and buttons to go!”

“I know, but I got distracted!”

“For four weeks!”

Peggy waved a finger accusingly in Rose’s direction. “Enough of your judgement, Miss Barclay, you haven’t even made a start on yours!”

Rose stilled, the words piercing her like a knife. She looked down at the ring on her left hand, the tiny stones winking at her, mocking her. She had been wearing it for almost a year, a reminder of a promise as yet unfulfilled. In the beginning, she had been ecstatic writing lists and drawing out exactly what she would need. But then Bill had set sail at the end of January, and she had put those hopes on hold.

Now her lists were forgotten, tucked away out of sight, and the fabric Peggy had gifted her from the remnants of her parachute were buried in the back of her wardrobe. The sight of the white silk as they had helped Peggy sew her dress had clawed at her heart, green jealousy that her friend would get her happiness first. Peggy hadn’t even known George Cartwright existed last January, yet Rose couldn’t marry the boy she had loved for nearly a decade. 

With a sigh, Rose got to her feet, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt. “I don’t even have a date for a wedding. It could be years, it may not even happen.”

“Oh, it will.” Peggy reached out, taking hold of Rose’s hand gently. “Or else I will hunt Fraser down in the afterlife and give him a hiding.”

“I’d like to see that.” Rose squeezed her friend’s fingers once. “You get it out of the box to show us what you need, I’ll get Mother.”

“Aye,” Audrey hummed, her gaze assessing the garment Peggy held out to them. She pinched the fabric, running it through her fingers. “I can do the hem, Rose can manage the buttons. We’ll have it ready for you next Saturday.”

“Thank you, Audrey.” Peggy sighed, looking as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “I am still okay to stay here the night before?”

“Of course you are,” Rose smiled, squeezing her friend's shoulders in a hug. “I’ll be at the school. My room’s yours.”

“Thank you.” Peggy shifted, pulling Rose into a closer embrace. She smelled of violets. As they swayed together, Rose knew her friend was trying to convey more than just thanks for sewing assistance. When she pulled away, Peggy tapped Rose on the nose twice with her finger. “Now, I’m afraid I have to dash. George’s train pulls in at two, and I want to meet him.”

Peggy left in a whirlwind, a flurry of skirts and coat, leaving the house oddly quiet in her absence. Rose looked over at the white dress still bundled in her mother’s arms and began to shake.

“Mother?” she whispered.

“Yes, darling?”

“I will do the buttons because Peggy is my friend and I love her.” She swallowed down the tears that were threatening to fall. Swallowed down the fear that had started dogging her with every further week without news from Bill. Swallowed down the ache in her heart that grew with every uncertainty for the future. “But I can’t see that dress hanging around in our house. Please. I just can’t.”

(41) 16th November 1941

Dear Bill,

With apologies that I am writing on a Sunday, later than normal, but it was Peggy’s wedding yesterday, and I thought you may wish for an account.

It was a grey November day, but not raining, so good weather for Scotland. We let her stay at our house Friday night, as I was at the school (first watch, I was thankfully fairly rested having managed to sleep from midnight to six). The parachute dress turned out beautifully, even if Mother and I had to finish it off because she left everything to the last minute. I wore my green dress, it goes well with my hair. Peggy made the photographer take a picture of me, and she has promised me a copy or two. Perhaps, you would like one? I would hope you haven’t forgotten what I look like, but it has been nearly a year. 

Peggy was glorious, she was so happy, and George looked like the cat who got the cream. As long as he treats her well, that is all that matters. Peggy’s father came back from Glasgow to give her away - he scrubbed up well, couldn’t smell any alcohol on him, and he didn’t pick any arguments. Small miracles, I guess. Her mother would have been so proud. It was a nice, quiet ceremony, followed by a small reception with cake in the hall next door. Egg rationing has really got it in for desserts, it was a very dense sponge. There was a piper, and we danced a few reels, but I had to make my excuses and head home early. The watch keeps me exhausted, and I found that I was not much in the mood for dancing. An unusual state for me.

They’re off to the Cairngorms for just over a week. The weather will likely be poor for hiking, but I’m not sure they intend to spend much time outdoors.

I am tired but well. If you get this, please write.

Rose

Chapter Text

16th November 1941, Somewhere in the Sahara Desert

The minute Bill jumped from the plane, he had an overwhelming urge to shout “I told you so” into the gale.

The usually pleasant drift of falling was replaced by a sharp snap as his parachute was surrendered to the wind. Buffeted from every side, he grasped the risers blindly, with no hope of altering their direction. He was a leaf in an autumn gale, left to the mercy of the elements in his journey.

He thought of Rose, the strong likelihood that he was about to die. He would never hear her voice again, never see her smile. He knew she would mourn, but that gave him no comfort. If it were just him he would be hurting, he would not have minded. The worst part of it all was that it would destroy the woman he loved. 

As children, he’d broken his arm falling out of a tree, landing with a crack as he hit the floor. Rose had been giggling from the upper branches, initially unaware of his pain. When she had noticed, she had landed beside him like a cat. Her gentle hands had helped him back to his feet and back to their homes; she’d offered him her handkerchief to dry his tears even as her own ran down her cheeks. No handkerchief would be offered that night, though, tumbling towards the desert. A bad landing and more than just his arm that would snap. He blinked the tears from his eyes, trying to maintain as much visibility as was possible.

Miraculously, the dust cleared briefly in time enough that he was able to judge the distance from the ground, allowing him to tuck and roll as they had practised. Yet he was unable to breathe a sigh of relief, the wind tugging at his parachute like a kite, dragging him across the sand. Grains tore into his mouth, his skin, every nook and cranny, as he battled to release the canopy. He reached an abrupt stop as he slammed sideways into a rock, knocking the breath from his lungs and leaving his shoulder smarting.

Coughing and spluttering, Bill had no idea what to do next. In theory - in better weather, that is - he should have been able to see his comrades landing not far from him. They should all stow their parachutes neatly before starting their march to the coast. As it was, he could barely see his hand in front of his face. Somehow, he managed to gather the fabric into his lap, if only to stop the endless pulling of the wind at his shoulders. He ran the fabric through his fingers, an idea coming to him.

Amongst the howling wind, there came a very human cry. Bill saw a vast screen of white looming from the dust and managed to scramble out of the way as another body came to a stop against the rock. The man coughed and spluttered, and Bill reached over to help him. His arms had become tangled in his parachute, pulling one of them to an awkward angle. Fishing his knife from his boot, Bill sliced through the ropes securing the ‘chute, the fabric whirling away like an angry swan once cut entirely loose.

Peering through the wind and the haze, Bill tried to discern which man had ended up beside him. Beneath the helmet and goggles, he thought he spied a distinctive pair of eyebrows. “Chalky?”

“Sir!” the man replied with a choke.

Every cough and every word pulled sand into their mouths, grating against their throats, which in turn caused them to retch again. They needed a respite. Taking up his bundled parachute, Bill passed part of it to the man beside him.

“Take one corner, put it under your boot.” The private did as he was told, and Bill mirrored him. “Tuck the rest behind your head, lean back against the rock.”

Together, they stretched the canopy taut, sealing themselves into a makeshift shelter. The storm still hammered against it, shaking the fabric, but they were out of the worst of it. They both coughed until their throats felt somewhat clear, their breathing settling. Bill tugged his goggles from his face, blinking into the dark. 

“Well,” Chalky sighed, scraping some of the sand from his face. “At least two of us are alive.”

“It’s a start,” Bill murmured. “I guess we’ll look for the others once the wind dies down.”

As if in protest, the elements threw another almighty gust at them, threatening to rip the parachute free from its makeshift moorings. Bill and Chalky scrabbled to secure the edges, trapping each side more securely under their bodies. 

“Tell me one of your stupid Scotland stories," Chalky mumbled. “At least then we won’t be thinking about what’s going on out there.”

“Nah, tell me about your home for once,” Bill smiled, nudging the man with his elbow. “Who’s waiting for you back home?”

“No one,” the man murmured, thick eyebrows furrowing into a frown. “No siblings, parents died in a motor accident back in ‘37. No girl either.”

“I’m sorry,” Bill whispered. He couldn’t imagine life without the solid belief that there were people who cared for him and wanted him home. It was sometimes the only thing that kept him sane in the war - all the fighting slowly brought him one step closer to home.

The other man shrugged. “Felt like the SAS could use some people with nothing to lose.”

“Aye, but you need a reason to keep living too.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, the only noise the howling of the wind beyond their silk barrier. Not for the first time, Bill marvelled at the strength of a fabric so thin, able to withstand so much. Rose would have been able to make a metaphor of it, he was sure.

“Do Yorkshire puddings count?” Chalky piped up after a while. “I would kill for a good Yorkshire in this desert.”

Bill barked a laugh. “We’ll work on it, but you can start with Yorkshire puddings for now.”

17th November 1941, Somewhere in the Sahara Desert

The weather eased as dawn approached, Bill and Chalky emerging from under the silk into a hazy world. There hadn’t been a man in sight from their location. When the private pointed out the glowing horizon to the East and suggested heading North, Bill felt a small surge of pride that the man had been paying attention during training. Trudging across the sand, they had finally stumbled across a group of their comrades.

Out of their stick of twenty, only eight had survived. Bill had been grateful to find Pat among them, the American’s easy smile undeterred by the grim state of affairs. But a survival rate of less than fifty percent did not bode well for the other groups, and Bill worried for his other friends. Paddy and Eoin would have each other, at least, and Jim had been certain that God would care for him and bring them all home safely. Bill muttered a prayer under his breath in the hope that Jim’s God had been watching over them last night.

Bill had tried to urge the group back to the rendezvous, but Lewes had remained steadfast in his decision to continue the mission. With limited water and food, the trek would be brutal, limping toward the coast. They didn’t even know where they were in the grand scheme of the desert, relying solely on Pat’s compass. Then Cooper had found the weapons, and Bill knew his cause was lost. They would head North under the instruction of a masochist, falling into line as ducklings behind their mother.

When the rain began to fall, Bill closed his eyes in momentary relief, sticking out his tongue to swallow those first delicious drops of water. But the shower turned into a downpour, quickly flooding the valleys of sand. The grains turned to mud, slipping, sticking and sucking to their boots with every step. The sheets of rain soaked them to their skin, shirts clinging to their bodies and dragging them further down with their weight. Bill voiced his concerns again to the deaf ears of Lewes, who only paid heed when Pat joined in with the call.

The weather turned again as night fell and they stumbled across a small oasis of trees. The rain eased, and the desert settled into humid stillness. Men slumped to the floor, exhausted, but Bill refused to rest yet. They had wasted a day thanks to Lewes’ pigheadedness, because, once again, no one had chosen to listen to him. Bill wondered what the point of his lieutenant pips were if he was to be ignored the same as when he had been a sergeant. He stalked around the perimeter to collect fallen branches, shaking off the water clinging to the leaves as best he could. He brought them to the centre of the clearing, stacking them carefully to form the foundations for a fire.

Pat squatted down beside him, a tuft of leaves and tree shavings in his palm, and shoved them into the centre of Bill’s wood pile.

“Kindling,” Pat explained, before setting to search in his pockets for his lighter. Bill merely replied with a grunt; he was too tired to even utter his thanks.

“I’m sorry,” Pat whispered once the first tongues of flames began to lick at the meagre branches.

“What for?” Bill used a stick to poke at the fire, distributing it more evenly. The branches were reluctant to catch, a bitter smoke spiralling into the air as the blaze began to crackle.

“Should’ve listened to you, heading north was the wrong decision.” Pat rolled back onto his haunches, elbows resting on knees. “Even without the rain, we would have been unprepared.”

Bill sighed, settling back to sitting too. He unlaced his boots, desperate to get the damp socks from his feet and dried out. If there was one thing they had learned from the last war, it was that sodden toes did not fair well. “Lewes doesn’t like me; he was never going to listen.”

“He does seem to have it out for you,” Pat laughed. “I would follow Jock Lewes to the ends of this Earth, but he’s not used to someone standing up to him.”

“He threatened to shoot me.”

“He wouldn’t have followed through.” They sat in silence, watching the glow of the fire before them. Pat tapped the back of his hand against Bill’s knee. “You need to do it more. Someone’s got to have some common sense around here.”

Bill looked up at the American, then, curious if he was being serious. The sombre set of Pat’s face suggested that he was. A couple of the others had noticed their fire and started to make their way to the fireside, huddling in tightly to its warmth. The air was thick with melancholy; their first mission a resolute failure. In all likelihood, GHQ would disband this experiment once they found out. They’d be sent back to their respective commando troops, unlikely to cross paths with each other for the rest of the war. If they had survived, he’d have Eoin and Paddy, but so many others would fade away into memory.

Bill realised he would miss them.