They called it the 'just in case' file, and for the most part, they tried to forget it was there. Each of them had written The Letter Home, the one that they hoped nobody would ever have to see; without saying anything about it, each of them had also written a farewell to their teammates. Just in case.

The manila envelopes they used were not sealed, and it was not entirely unusual for one or another of them to update their letters as events seemed to warrant. Carter's envelope, for example, had originally contained a passionate and loving farewell to Mary Jane. For obvious reasons, after he received her Dear John, he'd had to rethink that one. Carter removed it from the file, but he didn't get rid of it immediately. He couldn't. For a while, he carried it around in his jacket pocket, not quite ready to let it go. After a couple of weeks of grieving, though, he burned the farewell. In an odd way, it had served its purpose, after all; he was saying goodbye to his first love and an old dream. His other letters he left largely as they were, with only occasional, minor updates. He thought that he'd gotten most of it right the first time.

Kinch and LeBeau wrote their letters, stuffed them into their envelopes, and, superstitiously, left them strictly alone. Out of sight, out of mind. Not that the looming possibility that the letters represented was ever really out of anyone's mind.

Hogan took out his letters every once in a while and checked them over. Most often after the close calls—not just their everyday, business-as-usual close calls, but the really bad ones, the ones that had taxed his ingenuity and his nerve to their breaking point. The ones that haunted him. He read them the night LeBeau had been shot, the evening Newkirk had been arrested by the Gestapo, the morning he'd been informed that he'd been recalled and was due to be replaced by the biggest idiot on either side of the war. It was not exactly a cheerful sort of ritual, or for that matter an encouraging one, but there was a kind of peace in it. I will do the best I can, for as long as I can, it said to him. When the day comes that my best isn't good enough, I will know that I tried. And so will my family. It wasn't enough, not by a long shot. But there was a war on, after all, and he took what he could get. Cold comfort was better than nothing.

Newkirk updated his file often enough that the corners of the envelope were dog eared and slightly fuzzy. When asked what in Sam Hill he thought he was doing with his constant revisions, he usually smiled and said something flippant about his coterie of beautiful English roses, and the necessity of easing each and every one of those potentially broken hearts. Only fair, after all.

This became less and less believable as time wore on and the ladies stopped writing—or worse, sent wedding announcements—but he stuck to his story, and no one really wanted to think too hard about the subject, anyway. They didn't press for details.

Kinch came into the tunnel one afternoon, cautiously hoping that he was facing nothing more dire than another dull shift spent watching the radio do absolutely nothing. Newkirk, the headphones clamped over his ears and a thoughtful scowl on his face, was scribbling as fast as he could, transcribing what appeared to be a great deal of information from, presumably, London. Putting down the pencil, he tapped out a reply, listened to something he didn't bother writing down, and slid the headphones off to rest around his neck.

"Allo, Kinch," he said. "Just in time. I was just finishing up."

"Was that a message from London? Is there a mission for us?"

"No to the second and yes to the first. No emergency, mate. Just needed a bit of information. Personal matter."

Kinch folded his arms. "Are you trying to get that lady sergeant's phone number again? You do remember what the Colonel said the last time you tried asking her out, don't you?"

"Vividly. And I still think it's more than a tad hypocritical that a man who's snogged every female Underground agent, informant, and defector in this part of Germany got so shirty about a lonely enlisted man's attempts to find love." He shook his head. "Officers. I ask you."

"The Colonel does tend to volunteer for any mission that involves a pretty girl," Kinch said. And that was putting it mildly. He came home with lipstick on his face oftener than he did camouflage grease paint.

"Glad I'm not the only one what noticed," Newkirk said. "Even for an officer, that's a bit cheeky. The only time I'm allowed to mingle with the fairer sex is when I'm in that bloody dress."

Well, that wasn't quite true, but Kinch, considerately, did not mention Greta. Or Berlin Betty. Or North Star. Come to think of it, it did seem as though every girl Newkirk had met since the war began had done her best to have him tortured, shot, or both. Lucky in cards, unlucky in love, as the old saw would have it. Perhaps he was better off sticking to letters and the occasional try at the lady sergeant, after all.

"Maybe your luck will improve in the next war," said Kinch. "What sort of information were you requesting, if it wasn't the sergeant's phone number? Or her measurements?"

"Nothing pressing," said Newkirk. "Just keeping on top of a few details." He tore several sheets of paper from the pad and folded them in half, tucking them into his jacket pocket. "It's all right, mate. London knows exactly what I'm doing and why. It's completely legitimate."

"Does the Colonel know about this legitimate business of yours?"

"I don't know. Probably it's occurred to him, but we've never sat down to discuss the matter over tea, if that's what you're asking."

Kinch shook his head. "I don't like the sound of this, Newkirk. Remember the last time we tried going behind his back to surprise him? We nearly surprised ourselves in front of a firing squad. What are you up to?"

He rolled his eyes. "Nothing! I'm keeping the just-in-case file up to date, and that's all I'm doing. Background research. No possible danger in it."

"The just-in-case file? What are you putting in there that could possibly mean you need help from London? Do you have them tracking down forwarding addresses for your girlfriends again?"

"Don't be absurd," said Newkirk, with a dismissive wave of a hand. "This is strictly business."

"What business? Look, Newkirk, the radio link isn't something I can let you just play around with. I think the Colonel needs to know about this. I'm sorry, but if you don't tell him, then I will."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: This began life as part of the 'Mail Call' series, and I went so far as to start drafting the actual farewell letters in the file. More than a bit depressing, pointlessly morbid, and, in short, not worth posting. And then, as usual, it began to expand out sideways, outgrowing the original spark, and no longer really fit into the 'Mail Call' series in any case.

And as regards the lady sergeant, it would never have worked out. Newkirk's better off without her, and she doesn't know what she's missing. Or so he keeps telling me.