"And here we are!" Clara exclaimed happily.
"You're sure about that?" the Doctor asked with an infuriating smirk.
"'Course I am."
"Your first time out? Sure you don't want to double-check your co-ordinates?"
"You just don't want to admit that I'm getting good at this!"
"You are getting good at this," the Doctor agreed, "but this is your very first time setting the co-ordinates yourself, so are you absolutely positive that you don't want to double-check your work? You know, just be sure that when we open that door we won't be filling the place with vacuum? Or volcanic ash?"
"Nope. Just warm sea breezes from the South of France."
"I certainly hope so," he replied, eyeing the little black sundress that Clara was wearing.
"South of France!" Clara insisted, opening the door and strolling outside.
The Doctor followed after, grabbing her red shawl off the railing.
Clara stood outside, gazing around in confusion as a stiff breeze whipped her hair about her face.
The Doctor stepped up behind her and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. "North of France, love."
Clara bit her lip in consternation. She eventually realized that they were standing in a cemetery. Row upon row of identical white crosses stretched out as far as the eye could see, and the green, green grass was interspersed with splashes of crimson poppies. "I…oh, my…I know where we are. My great-granddad is here somewhere. He was a medic. He died on Omaha Beach."
"A lot of good men died that day," the Doctor said gently.
"You were there?"
He nodded, his gaze far off and seeing into the past. "Your people have a saying, 'There but for the grace of God.' Well, there but for the grace of a man named Charlie, who thought I was just another fragile human and pushed me out of the path of an artillery shell. There was nothing we could do. He died moments later. He asked me to take a message to his wife."
"Lucy. Her name was Lucy."
"Yes."
Clara reached her hand out blindly and the Doctor clasped it tightly in his own.
"I don't suppose…?" Clara began.
"No. It's really not a good idea. Too much of your planet's history hinges on those days. The nexus is far too fragile to take any chances with unnecessary visits."
"All right, then. Another go at the South of France?"
"Another go," the Doctor agreed, tugging gently at her hand to lead her back into the TARDIS. "And this time, triple check your co-ordinates!"
The doors swung shut, and moments later, the TARDIS faded from sight. The wind whipped through the space that the ostensible police box had occupied, flattening the sprays of grass around the nearest gravestone, and unfurling the small Union Jack that marked the grave. The breeze scattered a flutter of crimson flower petals across the lettering of the white cross - PFC Charles Oswald.