Evening is Miles' favourite time of day. Off shift, he can loosen his tie and relax in the tent with his book; Tarzan and The Apes. He's usually joined by Tom, a comfortingly familiar, if quiet, presence.
Since the arrival of that damn typewriter, his routine has been upset. It's a lot harder to get into his book with the incessant sound of typing punctuated by the occasional curse with a thick Glaswegian cadence.
"Do you have to bang away on that thing? It's so . . ." he trails off, gesturing with his book.
Tom doesn't favour him with a glance. "Useful? Aye, it is."
"Loud. Incessant. Vexatious."
Tom snorts quietly. "You have an outstanding vocabulary for a man who's only ever read one book, Miles."
Miles lets himself be drawn into the playful argument. "I will have you know," he says firmly, "I have read The Jungle Book as well."
"You can read this paper when I'm done," Tom says, offhand. They've been friends long enough that Miles easily spots the genuine undercurrent to his words.
He folds Tarzan closed. "Of course I will, my good chap. How else am I to learn about all these medical advanced you're making? I'm damned if I ever pick up a medical journal, that's for certain."
They lapse back into quiet, Tom intent on his work and Miles listening idly to the sounds of the surrounding camp filtering in through the tent wall. Dusk is setting in outside, spreading a gorgeous golden colour across the French sky.
A question nags at him, one he has been dying to ask for a long time. "Tom," he begins, hesitant.
His friend's fingers still on the keys. "What?"
"Why did you join up?"
The question hangs in the air for a long, pregnant moment. "I wanted to help people. I wanted to save lives."
"No. That's why you joined medical school, not why you joined the army. Why are you here? Were you called up?" He presses, thumbing the pages of Tarzan absently.
Tom types out another paragraph before he speaks again, so long that Miles almost gives up. "My brother's in the 52nd Lowland Division. He joined up as soon as the bloody war was announced. He was always one to pick fights."
"Do you know where he is?" Miles asks quietly.
Tom sighs, heavy and tired. "Belgium, the last I heard. He wanted to do his bit for King and Country, wanted to be a hero. I joined the army because I wanted to show everyone at home that I can fight in a war just as well without killing anyone."
The words die on Miles' lips. He's never known Tom be unsure of anything; the man's the most brilliant surgeon he's ever seen, talented in a way that's almost unnatural. The idea of him being uncertain, feeling the need to prove himself, is completely foreign. "What's his name?" He asks, finally.
"Peter," Tom mutters, threading paper into his machine. There's a beat, and then he shakes his head slightly, looking over to Miles. "What about you? Do you have a brother?"
Miles grins, glad of an easier subject. "No, I'm afraid not. Not that I don't consider you a brother in spirit, my dear chap. I have a sister, though."
Tom gives him a blank stare at his comment. "She's back home?"
"Yes, though she'd join up if she could. She's always been jealous of me because I'm much prettier."
Tom's laughter mixes with his own, ringing out loudly across the field hospital.