Gunfire rained down around the squad like a storm, shrapnel spitting at them from all directions. There were five men, all dressed head to toe in camouflage gear, heavy burlap backpacks resting on their shoulders. Large, metal helmets sat skewed on their heads, the straps hanging by their jaws, undone. One of the men assumed responsibility and urged the others forwards, towards their home line. They scrambled through the dirt, shrapnel and bullets still falling around them like snowflakes. One of the men cried out and fell as a small object struck him in the leg, his camo pants immediately reddening. The man behind him stooped and picked him up, slinging the injured man over his shoulder. Bullets hit the dust around them, sending up clouds of dirt. Two more seconds, and they were over the line, in familiar territory, protected by snipers. The man immediately lay the injured soldier down on the ground, taking note of the blood spreading on his uniform.
"Lieutenant?" The man who carried him spoke. Checking for consciousness, he added, "Name and rank!" He ripped a rag from his pants and tied it around the man's thigh, creating a tourniquet.
"Lieutenant Commander Chambers, 43rd Battalion." Chambers said from the ground, his face turning white as the man dug through his bag. "Alfred? What are you doing?"
"I'm going to take it out," Alfred replied calmly, his English accent showing through. He pulled some tweezers out of the bag, and a pair of socks. "Here, bite on this," He said, offering the socks to Chambers. Chambers willingly obliged.
Tears rolled down Chambers' face as Alfred pulled out the shrapnel, piece by piece. A high-pitched groan escaped the soldiers' tight façade. "Almost done," Alfred calmly reassured. "There we are."
Chambers instantly relaxed, knowing that Alfred had just saved him from infection, and possible amputation. "You, sir, are a godsend." Chambers said softly, looking straight at Alfred.
"If I should be so lucky, sir." Alfred replied, helping Chambers to his feet.
The old butler sat in front of the fire, a young boy staring at him intently. The fire flickered and popped occasionally, but it didn't interfere with the story that the old servant was telling. "There once was a time, Master Bruce," He said, "where I was in love with a lady, who worked for the Queen of England." He smiled as Bruce shook his head.
"But, Alfred, do remember that you've been a butler for a thousand years," he said seriously, hugging his knees, sitting on the rug in front of the fire.
Alfred laughed genuinely, "Not quite that long, sir." He continued to smile. "Actually, there are quite a few things I have done, that you wouldn't believe." He sat back in the armchair, resting his feet on the floor.
"Like what, Alfred?" Bruce looked to him curiously, his childish eyes trained on the familiar old face.
"Oh, not now, Master Bruce. Perhaps another time." The old butler shut his eyes and smiled mockingly.
"But Alfred!" Bruce got to his feet and tugged on the Butler's sleeve. "Oh, please will you tell me?" Alfred opened an eye and looked at the boy.
"Why not?" He said, straightening in his chair. "Once upon a time, I was a much more interesting man. I was a soldier in the British Army, and I was a medic to boot."
"Did you fight, Alfred?" Bruce looked up, shocked. It had only been a few months since the murder of his parents, and young Bruce had still not gotten over the sound of the gun. Alfred often woke to the sound of Bruce's screams as the nightmare of the night revisited him in his sleep.
"On a few occasions," Alfred paused, slightly lying. "But mostly I just helped people get better." He remembered officer Chambers, just one of the many lives he had saved. "And while I was in France on an important mission, I met the most wonderful lady." He smiled to himself. "She was the head maid of Buckingham palace. Her eyes were the colour of the sky, and her hair was the same colour as the Queen's. She was a good storyteller, and she always knew how to cheer people up. But something happened…"
It was 1968, London, England.
A young man sat in a café, awaiting his date. The flowers on the tables seemed to reflect his mood, their vibrant colours standing out against the dull café tablecloths. "Alfred!" a voice called from the front of the café. Alfred turned in his chair, his dark hair falling over his eyes.
"Marie!" He smiled, and got up from his seat, the perfect gentleman. "How good to see you," He held her hand and gently kissed the back of it, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. "I brought you a little something," he said, leading her to her table.
"Oh, Alfred! You shouldn't have!" Marie said, while Alfred pulled out her chair. He seated her then walked around the table, taking his own seat.
"Marie, before I give it to you, would you like to order?" She smiled, but shook her head.
"Alfred you know me. I'm horrid with surprises, If I were to wait I'd probably faint." Marie smiled at him cheekily, resting her head on her hands in a dreamy way. "Oh, go on, Alfie, tell me what it is." Their feet touched briefly under the table.
Alfred calmed his nerves. Standing up, he moves around the table to Marie. She looked at him purposefully. He stood in front of her, dressed in his suit and bow tie, an outfit he often wore, and then went down on one knee. Marie's face paled. "Before I ask," he said, holding her hand in his. "I want you to know that even if I am scheduled to ship out tomorrow, for the war, I still love you. I'll be fighting for you." He looked into her eyes, the significance of his words not lost on her. He pulled a box from his pocket. Opening it, he said, "Marie Remarque, will you marry me?"
Happy tears filled her eyes as she smiled broadly. "Of course, Alfred! Of course!" She beamed. "I love you Alfred!" She put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. He slid the ring onto her finger and she admired it fancifully.
"I love you too."
"I took her to a café one day, and asked her to marry me." Alfred looked into the distance, remembering.
"And what did she say?" Bruce asked, utterly enthralled in Alfred's story.
"Well, she said yes, of course." He smiled happily, but there was sadness in his eyes. "But we never made it to the wedding. I was shipped out to Oman the next day, to fight in what they called the Dhofar Rebellion." The smile left his face. "I stayed my time, and I kept my promise to her, that I would fight for her." His expression hardened. "24 of my fellow British soldiers died in Oman. 55 were wounded. I saved almost 200 lives while we were there. Some of my best friends were prisoners of war." He stopped, the agony coming back to him. "It was a living hell." He looked straight at Bruce, who was watching him with quiet intensity. "And when I got back," He paused again, a tear falling down his face. "When I got back she was gone. And nobody could tell me where she was. Some thought she was dead." He covered his face with his hands and cried softly.
Bruce got up from his spot and walked towards Alfred. He put a small arm around the Butler and whispered, "There, there, Alfred." Alfred stopped crying and smiled at the boy.
"Master Bruce, here I am crying away like a child, and there you are comforting me. It's funny how the world changes so quickly." A different memory came rushing back to him. "There was a time, Bruce, when my father worked here instead of me."
1977. The young, dark haired man sat in the quiet room, pouring over the books in front of him. They were records, of the people and units that had died in Oman. He was looking for one name, and one name only. Marie Remarque. He thought to himself, if only I don't find her name. Wishing that she was still alive, although nobody around him could tell him that. Page by page he searched, the handwritten signatures of everybody who enlisted assaulting his concentration with different colours and shapes. He ran his finger down a page, stopping suddenly. Marie Remarque. His heart dropped. He re-checked the name of the form. 'Enlistment of Intelligence Agencies.' He sighed, relieved. So she had enlisted. She hadn't died.
A librarian, a tall man wearing a porter's hat, approached him quietly. "Sir?" he asked, and Alfred looked up. "Sir, there's someone on the phone for you." The librarian paused. "You are a Mr Pennyworth, sir?" Alfred nodded and stood up, collecting his things into a briefcase. He followed the librarian across the room, their feet making no noise on the padded carpet. "Right this way, sir." The librarian moved to the wall, where a phone hung, the headset balanced on top. "When you are done, feel free to hang up."
"Ok," Alfred said, a feeling of panic gripping him. Who was it? Was everybody ok? He cautiously picked up the phone and held it to his ear.
"Alfred? Son, is that you?" His father's strained voice leaked out of the speaker.
"Yes, Dad." Alfred said, sadly. He knew his father was dying. How much time he had left, he didn't know. "It's Alfred."
"Alfred, I don't have much longer." His Dad wheezed. Alfred shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out the inevitable images of pain and suffering. "I just wanted to say, that I love you."
"Dad!" Alfred's voice quivered. "Do you want me to come to Gotham?" He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"That would be nice, son." His Dad said, pain evident in his voice. "And I would like, if I haven't the chance to ask you later, for you to continue this families' work for the Wayne's." Alfred sighed. He didn't want to become a Butler any more than he wanted to never see Marie again. But he would do it, if not just because his father had asked.
"Yes, Dad," He said calmly over the static phone line. "I'm going to go now, so that I can come to Gotham as quickly as possible. I love you Dad. Please know that."
"His name was Jarvis Pennyworth, and he loved working here even more than I do." Alfred smiled at Bruce. "But he was a smoker. They thought it was good for you back in the day, you see, to smoke. So his health didn't really hold up in the end." Bruce looked on, his interest unparalleled. "And as he lay on his deathbed, he asked one thing of me. One thing." He paused.
"What was it, Alfred?" Bruce asked, curiosity almost killing him.
"He asked me to stay here and help your family, Master Bruce. If it wasn't for him, I'd still be looking for Marie Remarque, not looking at this brilliant young lad in front of me." He winked at the boy, who smiled in return.
"Alfred?" Bruce asked, the smile leaving his face.
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Yes, sir?"
"You won't ever leave me, will you?"
Alfred looked at the frightened boy in front of him. Thinking back to all of his experiences, he replied, completely sure of himself, "No, sir. I'll always be here to pick you up when you fall."