Rory Williams didn't smoke, but most of the men in his regiment did. He always lit their cigarettes for them at night, because they didn't want the light to attract gunfire. The men always held their breath when Rory clicked his lighter, as if they were afraid that a gunshot would fire at the exact second the fire sparked to life. Rory knew all too well the sound of five men releasing their breath at once, the possibly-imagined danger having passed.
"You've got some courage lighting those things up at night," said Andrews, "I knew a man a few months back who was lighting up a cigarette at night, and those damned Germans took his hand clean off. He says a bullet missed his head by that much."
"It's one little lighter for a few seconds," said Rory nonchalantly, "We're in worse danger everyday."
"Yeah, but don't you have a wife back home?" said Andrews.
"Amelia," said Rory. He smiled at the thought of his red-headed love.
"I woulda thought you'd be a bit more wary of dying on account of her. I mean, if you die, it's not like you'd just come back to life."
"When don't I?" said Rory.
Andrews chuckled and clapped Rory on the shoulder. He put his helmet back on his head and ambled away from their bunker, moving carefully through the trenches.
Rory wished he could laugh at that too. But the fact was, he had died and come back to life more times than he could count. And he had said those exact words to Amy on the night he had died three times. The memories welled up in him, and he felt, for one horrible second, like he might suffocate from it.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a little picture of Amy that he still had from their time. It was of perfect color and clarity; he had had it in his wallet when the angels sent them back in time. Rory had been careful to keep it secret from anyone else, because the Doctor had warned him about messing with time like that. But when Rory had been drafted, he couldn't bring himself to leave the picture behind.
Other men in his regiment had pictures of their wives and sweethearts too, but those pictures were grainy and colorless. Rory needed to see the redness of Amy's hair, the sparkle in her eyes. He hadn't gone one day in the army without taking out that picture to remind himself of her smile.
If he had never met or married Amelia Pond, he wouldn't be in the midst of World War II. But Rory didn't regret that choice for one minute.