Disclaimer: I don't own Our Girl. Everything you recognise was created by Tony Grounds and is owned by the BBC.
It's Sunday, and I still find myself missing Our Girl. If there's any more like me out there, happy Sunday!
Dialogue in Bold in the first scene is borrowed from Our Girl, Episode 4 and is (C) BBC.
Author's notes at the bottom.
Chapter 1
It was uncanny, thought Charles James, as he led his team over the bridge, he was sure he'd been here before. The sun beat down from the deep blue Afghan sky and there was a touch of wind, just enough to rattle the limp Afghan flag in its pole. He tried to push away his faint sense of unease and focus on the job at hand.
It was difficult.
At the back of his mind he could still feel the euphoria that that kiss with Molly had elicited. Not just that they had kissed, but that she'd accepted his explanation and that they were back "on". The fact that she'd accepted him back after he'd hurt her so much. Not intentionally but just by being a stupid fool.
He'd had to push that to the back of his mind as well.
And then there was the fact that this could be the last mission of this tour. If Badrai was in the back of the truck and everything went according to plan he had a good chance of getting his people through this without any casualties. That would be a great result. In fact it would be his first tour of Afghanistan where he hadn't lost someone. And it was within touching distance.
But he couldn't focus on that now. He had to stay focused on the mission.
He could see the bloody farmer out of the corner of his eye, but he was happy that that situation was under control. Although he had been a bit wary of Smurf after he had come back after being wounded, he seemed to have settled down now, and was behaving much more like the Smurf he'd known when they were training for the mission rather than the idiot he'd been at the beginning of the tour. He had entrusted Smurf with the responsibility of looking after the farmer which should allow him, Qaseem, Molly and the slightly loopy-seeming ASF soldier to look after the truck.
As they reached the truck the Afghans moved round to talk to the driver and he and Molly moved towards the back of the truck, greeting the occupants in Pashto. He couldn't help but smile internally at Molly's pronunciation, which had not improved one jot over the course of the tour. He wasn't sure if they would understand the standard greeting, spoken with a broad cockney accent!
Something wasn't right here, and he could tell Molly was feeling it too. The back of the truck was filled with a group of women and children. There was no obvious sign of Badrai, but the atmosphere was "off". Just on edge.
"Everything looking as it should do Dawes?" he questioned Molly as he observed the veiled occupants.
Molly replied suspiciously, "Somethin' ain't right, boss," confirming his thoughts.
Suddenly a gunshot rent the air. He and Molly ducked down, trying to find cover and work out what was happening at the same time.
"Was that contact?" he gasped, to be answered by a gabble of voices over the radio. A voice rang out, loud and clear, "Smurf?! What the fuck are you doing?"
Smurf? He swung round in his crouch to see Smurf still had his rifle trained on the farmer who was holding his goat and calling in anguish. Smurf was growling, almost screaming, "Come on you wanker, go for your weapon!"
James couldn't believe it. Not seconds ago he had been thinking that Smurf was back to normal but here was yet more evidence that he was fragile under pressure and had scant respect for the rules of engagement.
"Smurf what the fuck are you doing?!" he shouted, "does that farmer even have a gun?" Smurf didn't answer him, just growled towards the farmer again. The confused questions were still coming from the radio and James had to find out what was going on.
He called desperately, "Hold your fire! Hold your fire!" and, leaving Molly at the truck, he moved towards Smurf. As he approached, he called, "Smurf, what the fuck happened?"
The answer shocked him. "You. That's what fucking happened." He was totally taken aback. Firstly by Smurf's words, but secondly by his tone. Smurf had always been respectful towards him. Right from when they had met at Geraint's funeral, all the way through training up the unit, and on tour as well. Just what was going on?
"What are you talking about?" he asked, confused.
Smurf glared at him, his mouth working and his face rigid with anger and choked out, "You've ruined everything."
James was still clueless, "What?"
Smurf replied, "I looked in."
This was like pulling teeth. Charles couldn't handle this shit. He had a fugitive to capture and now Smurf seemed to have had a breakdown and wasn't making sense. He tried again, "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about but you will put your gun down now, Smurf!"
Now he was crying. What the Hell was going on here? Molly radioed to ask if Smurf was OK.
That seemed to have an impact. Once again he shot James such a look of enmity that the Captain took a step back. "Worried I might shoot you?"
To be fair, the thought hadn't crossed James' mind until then, but it was starting to become clear that there was something seriously wrong with Smurf and he should do something soon. Unfortunately the rule book didn't contain a lot of information about what to do when one of your soldiers loses it, endangers the mission and might be threatening to shoot you. It was difficult to know what to do. On the one hand he needed to focus on the mission, but on the other hand there was something clearly wrong with Smurf. What was he to do? He needed to focus on Smurf if he was to resolve this. He looked at him in the eyes, "Lower your gun now Smurf."
"I'd have laid down my life for you boss. And Molly."
Well that was nice to know, but what had changed? He tried again. "Private Smith. Lower your gun now! That's an order."
That was when the bombshell came. "But she wants you to be the last thing she sees." Just ten words. But ten ever so important words. Oh God, Smurf had seen them together. He had seen.
Smurf was talking again, and Qaseem was calling, urging him to get back to the truck. He knew he needed to, but he needed to make one last attempt to get through to Smurf. To tell him that this was neither the time nor the place for this. To get him to focus before someone got hurt. "Dylan Smith," he spoke slowly, enunciating each word clearly, "You are endangering this entire mission and the lives of your fellow soldiers! You do not bring 'personal' onto the battle field, is that understood?"
But it didn't get through, "You did," grated Smurf.
But then it didn't matter any more. He heard Molly calling to him, "Boss! Boss! It's Badrai!"
Swinging round, he saw her gesturing at the rear of the truck. He saw her look from where she was to where he was and quickly understood what was going through her mind. Shit! He was too far away to support her. He had allowed himself to get distracted and now her life was at risk. He shouted desperately, "DAWES! Get to cover" but even as the words left his mouth he realised that she wasn't obeying his order. She raised her gun and behind her he could also see a Burka-clad figure rising and pulling out a gun at the same time.
They both fired almost simultaneously, Molly a three round burst, but Badrai on full automatic, and he watched in horror as a stream of shots traced up Molly's body, from her legs to her shoulder, causing her to jerk and jump.
"NO!" he shouted, "DAWES!" as he finally found himself able to move and ran towards her, seeing her fall backwards like a sack of potatoes. He held his gun in the ready position but relaxed as he also saw Badrai blown backwards. Screams were coming from the truck as he reached Molly, but he ignored them to kneel by her side.
She was in a terrible condition, covered in blood but lying half propped up by her med Bergen. Her head was lolling to the side and her eyes stared at him, looking wired, in her already paling face. A large pool of blood was spreading around her body.
As he looked at her, he realised that he had caused this. He had allowed himself to get distracted by Smurf and had left her unsupported. He could feel the blood rushing in his ears. Fighting hard to maintain his composure and not let his panic show, he grasped his radio, "KINDERS! Man down! One CAT-A. Urgent medevac required! Stay where you are and send Dangles and Nude-Nut to take care of the insurgent. Make sure the MERT knows it's our medic that's down and they need to send someone to help on the ground!"
Not really hearing Kinders' acknowledgement, his eyes were drawn to Molly. She whispered, "Boss…"
He reached for her hand, conscious that it was cold. Colder than it should be.
"It's too late…" she whispered. He looked at her, wanting to deny it. Blood was frothing at her lips and she was struggling to breathe. Blood was pooling over the road underneath her. The woman he loved was bleeding to death in front of him. And it was all his fault.
"No!" he told her, "I can save you! Tell me what I should do."
Her voice was faint, "There's nothin' you can do. I'm a medic…remember?"
He looked at her despairingly, unwilling to accept what was in front of his eyes, "No Molly."
She looked at him and tried to speak, but couldn't. A great wracking cough shook her body and deep red blood splattered out around her lips. Her breathing was laboured, short gasping breaths. "It's too bad….I'm sorry."
James looked into her eyes, her beautiful green eyes, and finally accepted the truth there. He couldn't bear to keep looking at her. He was filled with self-loathing. He had caused this. It was his fault. His fault that the woman he loved was dying. "Don't be sorry, it was my fault," he told her, finishing bitterly, "It was all my fault."
She was trying to talk again, fighting to get the words out, "Don't…blame…yourself. Look…at…me…"
He looked again into her eyes, knowing what this was. She wanted him to be the last thing she saw. She had told him so. In that compound, what felt like hours ago. But it was only 15 minutes. He had expected then that it would be years in the future, but it was now. He almost cried about the unjustness of it all.
She was looking at him almost lovingly. How could she, when it was his negligence that had killed her? He tried to focus on the moment, determined that he would say the words that had been so difficult for him, "I love you," he whispered, looking into her beautiful green eyes, laying his hand gently on her cheek.
"Ditto." She told him, and then she coughed. This time the blood didn't stop flowing.
"No…" he moaned, overcome with grief. He had only known her a few months but she had become so important to him and he had come to rely on her. They were so close to their happily ever after. "No Molly!" he told her, losing control, "Hold on. Please Molly. You have to hold on. Please. Please!"
- OG - OG - OG - OG -
But something was happening. She was calling to him. Was she a ghost? What was going on?
"Charlie! Charlie! It's all right Charlie." It was her voice. Reassuring. Loving. It was her!
Afghanistan was breaking up, resolving into the walls of his bedroom at home. The TV. His Sandhurst class photo on the wall. The board with all his Army photos. Training exercises, his first platoon, him posing with his men next to a burnt out tank in Iraq, others "relaxing" at their first PB in Afghanistan. The framed photo of Sam on his desk.
As the last vestiges of the dream faded away he became aware of Molly by his side. Her face was whole and unmarred, but held a worried expression. Her body, which last he'd seen clad in camouflage and body armour and rent with bloody holes, was now covered by only a T-shirt with signs of lace knickers poking out at the bottom, and bare legs. If anything was going to reassure him, then it was this. A hale and healthy Molly Dawes.
"I'm here Charlie. I'm here," she told him reassuringly, "Everything's OK. You're at home. We're both here. It's all OK."
"Molly?" he asked wonderingly.
"Yeah Charlie. It's me in the flesh," she replied, lying down beside him and hugging him, "I ain't dead, missin', mangled or any of them other things you dream about."
Not again, he thought despairingly. Not again. Then he had another thought, "Are you OK? Did I hurt you?"
"Nah," she told him, "you weren't lashin' out tonight."
He looked around for the clock, but couldn't see it. "What time is it?" he asked her.
"Three thirty," she answered, then she looked at him a bit closer, "so what happened tonight?" she asked gently.
He closed his eyes, not wanting to answer but figuring he owed it to her. "It was the bridge again. Smurf blaming me and you got shot. You bled out right in front of my eyes."
"Oh Charlie," she sighed, reaching out to caress his cheek just as he had caressed hers in his dream, "I can't believe you tried to hide this. I can't believe this has been goin' on for three months. It's nearly December, Charlie. And it's getting' worse. You need to speak to someone."
It wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation, and he was beginning to get sick of it. It wasn't that serious. He would know if it was. But just to shut her up he told her what she wanted to hear, "I know."
She seemed to recognise his prevarication for what it was and pulled away, sitting up so she could make eye contact. "I'm serious Charlie," she told him, "I know it's a lot to deal with – leavin' the Army and everythin'. But you're not goin' to find somethin' else to do until you sort yourself out." She uttered a deep sigh, "I mean, you hardly sleep and most jobs I know need you to stay awake durin' the days!"
Realising he hadn't done a great job of convincing her, he told her, "I know, and I will see someone."
Again, she wasn't convinced, and now he could see she was starting to get annoyed, "Will you?" she asked plaintively, "You've been saying that for four weeks and it's only getting' worse Charles."
Her use of his full name was a clear shot across the bows and he looked up at her, startled. She stared back at him, vexed, refusing to speak. She was clearly upset about this, more upset than he had expected her to be. He guessed it wouldn't hurt to speak to someone. As the silence stretched out he apologised, "I'm sorry Mols. I will do something." Whether he would or not depended on how he felt tomorrow. He would have to see how it went.
Accepting his peace offering, she told him, "Well, see that you do." After favouring him with another glare her lips quirked up, and she asked jokily, "Now Charles James. Can you get back to sleep, or do you need a hand?"
Pleased that that conversation was over again for the time being, he responded in kind, "Why, Private Dawes – are you trying to lead me astray?"
Now she smiled cheekily, "Well Mr James, I'm sure that could be arranged…"
A/N 1: So, I'm back. Obviously I just couldn't stay away. Pathetic, I know, but there you are! I've been doing a bit of screen writing. Screen writing is a totally different skillset to writing stories and, to help train myself, I decided to write a script using some characters I knew about. I decided I'd use OG. "If Wishes Were Horses" is based on a speculative script I wrote for the first episode of a potential series two of Our Girl. Here's hoping we get one and I'm sure TG's version will be significantly better than mine!
A/N 2: I realise that a lot of this chapter has similarities with episode 4 or RNT. To avoid it being dull I've tried to build in a lot more of his feelings around it to give a better idea of what he might actually have been thinking. Don't worry though - this is the last flashback – everything else will be new material.
A/N 3: Welcome to all the new Aussie and Kiwi OG fans as well!