A/N: I cannot thank you all enough for all the lovely long reviews I got after putting the chapter up yesterday. It was hard to write, but this was harder, so I hope it lives up. Yes, things are desolate, but the light at the end of the tunnel is here, my friends.
I'ms so honoured you say my take on these characters is so true to OG. That means so much to me because I think Seres 1 characters in particular were wonderful.
I'm a little poorly today so please do keep up the reviews! They made me so thrilled! Especially the long ones.
Massive thank you to Reddit for war stories and to one of my favourite Nottingham bands, London Grammar, for all the inspirational sounds while I'm writing. (They were also about 80% of the OG Series 1 soundtrack, for those of you who didn't know. Check them out if you like soundtrack-esque Roxy music. They're great).
"Every morning when I wake,
Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,
O please do keep Thy lovely eye
On all poor creatures born to die
And every evening at sun-down
I ask a blessing on the town,
For whether we last the night or no
I'm sure is always touch-and-go.
We are not wholly bad or good
Who live our lives under Milk Wood,
And Thou, I know, wilt be the first
To see our best side, not our worst.
O let us see another day!
Bless us all this night, I pray,
And to the sun we all will bow
And say, good-bye – but just for now!"
–– Eli Jenkins' Prayer from Under Milk Wood, by Dylan Thomas
VII
As Molly made her way out to the beach later, she was dressed in board shorts and one of Charles' old University of St. Andrews t-shirts. She had to sit and stroke it for a while when she had found it in the bottom of her bergen, folded into a forgotten pocket. She had instantly held it to her face, inhaling deep, but was mournful to find it hardly smelt of him anymore. She usually tied it at the waist so it didn't drown her so much, but today she felt liberated by how it swapped her, reminding her of her husband's size and strength, while also hiding her body from the world. In her current state, she never wanted anyone to see her bare skin ever again.
By the time she psyched herself up enough to face Two Section, she felt somewhat numb, having cried out what felt like her enough body weight in tears. Predictably, she heard the group's loud voices and banter before she even caught sight of them.
"I'm trying to tell a story!" she heard Baz strop, his classic line raising an unexpected grin on her lips.
"Yeah, well, maybe that's why no one's listening, Baz, mate," she heard Brains chuckle.
Creeping towards where they were sitting around a beach campfire, it was Brains that saw her first. He squinted in the afternoon sunlight, evidently doubting it was her. She tried to grin at him, but the expression felt forced and her chin wobbled.
"Molly?!" he yelled, triggering each of the familiar faces to whip round to look for her. "Holy shitballs, lads! It's Molly!"
"Alright, cockwombles!" she replied, unable to help herself. She had always hidden behind humour after all.
They all held looks of disbelief as they raced towards her with the bounce and vigour of little boys, impacting into her in a rather painful group hug. Instantly, she had to bite back more emotion, instantly frustrating herself. Hadn't she cried enough already?!
"What are you doin' here, Molls?! How'd you swing that one?!" Baz cried, still wearing a ridiculous hat like the last time she had seen him.
"Maybe because her husband is the Boss, Baz," Fingers reminded through gritted teeth, as though indicating for Baz to be quiet. She laughed, sniffing hard and shaking her head, already sensing what she had most hoped would not happen, as they were not sure how to cope around her.
"It's alright, Baz," she assured softly, finishing hugging each of them, squeezing and swaying with the vigour of each embrace. "Beck sent me on leave, you know, since the Bossman decided to be a hero." The group collectively sniggered at that comment, since he wasn't around to lecture any of them for it.
"Good one on the Major, eh?" Eggy called with a soft smile as he guided the group back to sit down.
"Yeah, he's a good egg," Molly agreed, gratefully accepting the beer offered to her. "Speaking of Bosses, who's your casualty replacement Captain? The Rupert not spending time with you all?"
"She is up on the wire London, keeping up to date on Bossman. Won't tell us nowt, o'course." Brains answered, sounding somewhat bitter. It was unsurprising that they felt their new boss did not cut it. No poor sod ever could when they had Charles to be compared to.
Molly was dumb suddenly at that comment, reawakened to the reality that so much was going on about which she was not allowed to know. She watched the sun moving across the sky all day with a feeling of chronic sickness and panic, knowing that when it hit the horizon in this time zone, it would mark not only end of a day, but the end of her life as she knew it. Looking around her, she knew only Eggy was aware of the impending timer of doom their Section was facing. His eyes were pitched as he tried to make sure his Section focused on resting and recuperating. The last thing he needed, after all, was panic and despair amongst all ten of them.
The new recruit, Monk, however, seemed to sense something, too. He was looking around his new Section, evidently seeing the change in them magnified since he had only known them a short while. Molly watched him watch his Corporal and felt him watching her as he pretended not to watch her too. She wanted to smile at him and tell him not to feel uncomfortable about enjoying this free little holiday, but she couldn't find the words.
Thanks to the western press and their appetite for misery and shock, their little fragile peace only lasted half an hour longer, after which the hotel wifi gave Baz the news she had hoped would stay secret. The others had all been snoozing, now on sun loungers around the pool, or playing beach football. She had found herself chewing her nails in the shade, never one for enjoying much sunbathing, when Baz had wondered up to her in silence, a blank look of shock and resignation on his face that she recognised the moment she saw it.
The others noticed too, since their banter and side comments towards his football skills went unanswered, as he instead moved like a zombie toward where she was. Looking up at him as he held his iPad in hand, she knew the word was out.
"Is it true?"
She pressed her lips together to keep from letting out another inhuman sound of grief. Instead, she simply nodded, unable to look him in the eye. One or two of the others, Mansfield and Brains, had gathered, asking copious questions that soon turned into demands for an explanation. She could hear the panic in their voices and knew that they already assumed what it was about, but needed to hear the tragedy to entirely believe it.
Thankfully, Eggy Kinders stepped forward from his lounger, kind giant that he always had been, and took a shaking heavy breath. "Al Shabaab have released a video, featuring Georgie, but mostly the Boss."
Instantly, Brains hollered the others over with an urgent call. They came instantly, with not one joke between them; the Army certainly taught one the ability to read tones of voice. Mansfield and Baz were already sitting on her lounger, comforting her simply by their close proximity, while the others gathered around almost as though in a Ops tent briefing.
"They've said he'll die tonight," Kinders continued, stealing his gaze in a way that reminded her starkly of Charles. "If the Army don't release all Al Shabaab fighters they're holding."
She stared at the rings on her finger as she listened to their deafening silence, the only sound being a collective sound of quiet disbelief.
"But the British Army don't negotiate with terrorists—" Mansfield gasped in realisation. Around him, the group burst into cries of 'Shut up, Mansfield!' most likely worrying that she was going to explode or shatter before their eyes. Instead, she finally looked up at them, her dearest friends in the world, and managed to smile.
"No, it's alright. He's only sayin' the truth, an' what are we, without the truth?" Ignoring the tear that fell, her smile widened as she began thinking back on all the time times Charles had lectured her on belief. "Bossman wo'nt want you to not enjoy this beautiful place just because he had to be a hero," she said, though her voice sounded strange. It was only then that so much effort was going into her keeping her own despair under control, she had forgotten to take a breath.
"The SF are working hard, Dawesy," Eggy assured, clapping his nearest friend, a very uncharacteristically quiet Fingers, on the back. "They'll get them back."
"Yeah! Shabaab ain't got nothin' on the Special Forces, Molls!" Brains interjected kindly, trying his best to sound sure.
Looking around at their faces, she suddenly felt lucky. At least if she were to lose her only love and her good friend in one horrific day, she would have her real family with her to help pick the pieces of her when she hit the floor. After all, holding herself together was becoming far more exhausting than she dare admit. Therefore, she let herself become old Molly, just for a little while, because old Molly had one very easy solution for tragedy. "Drinks then, yeah?"
–x–
Those who ordered Elvis and his men to rescue Captain Charles James and Lance-Corporal Georgie Lane evidently had not done their research. If they had, they would have never sent the man whom was best man for one and jilted the other at the alter. As it was, however, as Elvis had touched down in Kenya a few days before when he had opened the intelligence file. He felt physically ill when he had opened it and realised Primary One and Primary Two being non other than the two people that meant everything to him in the world. Add to that that Charles' Molly had been in contact with him, begging him to save her husband as though he did not so desperately want to save his best friend just as much, and he felt almost out of his depth.
He had known he was in charge of the rescue by the time she had called him, but he had simply been unable to tell her. Not only would it make him break even more advisory regulations than he already was, but it would add a pressure to his shoulders that he did not need. He did feel guilty, leaving her in the dark, but he told himself it was what was best. She would be told of the rescue mission soon enough by her CO anyway.
The Kenyan Special Forces had received intelligence from an anonymous source indicating that a white man and woman in military medical uniform had been seen in a truck driving south, ten miles from James and Lane's last known position. From there, military drones had flown high above and scoured for sight of them.
When no sightings had come back, Elvis had begun to feel the uncomfortable chill of panic. They had not expected Al Shabaab to know of Captain James' position and it was a mystery to them as to how they knew of his and not Georgie's. Elvis, knowing Charles so well, had his own theories, of course. He assumed his friend had done the most predictable of Charlie behaviour and played the hero. While admirable, he and Molly for once saw eye to eye on this matter in both feeling frustrated and angry at such behaviour. After all, he seemed to have little regard for his own safety where his Section were concerned.
This now meant that there was a countdown in place. Elvis worked closely with the Kenyan SF from the moment the video came in, realising that sleep would not be an option. On wires with London and Brize, he soon realised that they had very little to go on. They had a massive surface area to search via the Air Force's drones and less than eighteen hours to do so. As each kilometre was searched with little information and the sun rose, he began pacing. They contacted their contact at Al Jazeera again, pleading for something more. Meanwhile, the foreign secretary's office had been on the wire from Whitehall, along with senior military advisors to parliament and embassy leaders. All demanded that which all in the Army already knew: under no circumstances did the British Army negotiate with terrorists... no matter the cost.
In a crumpled heap on a makeshift floor covered in desert moon dust, Charles considered the impending doom that now faced him.
Days ago, he'd had spirit. He had fought back as tactfully as he could; he had tried to memorise the movements of the truck for an entire twenty four hours when they were first taken hostage. He predicted they were south east of their last known position, but there was no way for him to be sure.
Now, as he cowered with a course hood over his head, he felt himself slipping, as though attempting to climb a cliff-face as it suddenly turned to mud.
He had been dragged from his cell in the early hours of the morning, hazed with exhaustion, silently apprehensive as to what they could have in store for him. They had said he would be put to death at sunset, and yet it was barely even sunrise as he was hooded and thrown down in the dust. They shouted at him, surrounded him, rending him completely at the mercy of their torment. He recognised such techniques instantly as very predictable forms of torture: rouse disorientation and fear until reality is forgotten.
It soon became clear to him that they were doing this simply out of sadistic pleasure rather than because they wanted copious amounts of information from him. As the furious voices didn't stop, he found himself shouting back, attempting to ask them what they wanted from him.
Suddenly, his heart had stopped dead as they had abruptly pulled a hood over his head, rendering him blind. This could only mean he was being moved... or even worse was coming.
"Up!" A voice ordered, but he had so few bearings and so many thoughts, he didn't cooperate quick enough. "Up!" the voice screamed, yanking his body up. He was thrust forward and told to stand still. He had so little energy, he could barely stop his legs from shaking under his own weight. His long-standing Army training sent his nerves haywire as there was an unspoken presence behind him.
"Hands on the wall, soldier scum," came a familiar British voice, setting his nerves on edge as he twitched towards the voice, somewhere just off from his right ear. The British captor from the previous day was back and he was the one that Charles feared most, considering he had almost ordered his men to do... god knows what to Lane.
"I told you," he tried to reason. His voice was closeted back at him within the hood, sounding too loud for his ears. "I don't know anything about where your men are—"
The sound of a cocking trigger silenced him and sent the worst kind of chills up his spine and prickling up his scalp. His mouth was chronically dry, but this time with fear rather than his desperate thirst. He clenched his fists, attempting to tell himself not be he frightened, but his heart rate alone told him that was a lie. The noise indicated it was close and a moment later his suspicions were confirmed, as the barrel of a gun was nudged at the back of his head. He jumped at the touch, his nerves completely scattered with his body's rapid decline, gulping as he realised this truly could be the end.
"I don't call this sunset," he said, knowing the British captor would hear him, proud of the flat, unaffected nature of his voice. "Impatient?" He attempted to stand tall, focusing on his breathing in order to try and distract himself from the quiet and the sound of firearms being loaded somewhere behind him. More than one, he suddenly realised. He was against a wall, blindfolded, surrounded be rifles.
The penny dropped just as the British voice called out for his men to ready their weapons: he was about to be murdered by firing squad.
If he hadn't been paralysed with fear, he would have wondered why they were killing him early, or fretted over what that would mean for Lane, when he was gone, but as it was, he was ashamed to say it was much like that day in the ditch when he mistook thunder for enemy fire.
Despite the fact there were multiple important people in his life, he could only picture one face: a heart-shaped one with a smile and pair of eyes that were so wide and optimistic.
He so desperately tried to remember her, each tiny detail that once came so easy to him now feeling so very far away, leaving him feeling utterly desolate. How could he keep his vow, how could she be the last thing he saw, when he couldn't even remember how the freckles on her nose fell, or the shade of green in her eyes? Things he had once had memorised.
He almost wanted to pray, though he never much believed in any god other than Lady Luck (Flook, Chance), as he was terrified more of leaving his family alone in a world filled with men like this than of death itself. Who would give Sam the warmth and softness that Rebecca so often found to hard to show, if he weren't there at the weekends? Who would guide Two Section in his place?
Who would save Molly from her grief?
Suddenly, he thought of Smurf and the way his death desolated not only Mrs. Smith's life, but also, to a lesser extent, Molly's. Who would save her from the spirals she could get herself into, if not him? She told him once only he could bring her to calm.
Struck by the memory of long, lost verse he had recited as both Smith brothers' souls, far too young to die, had been put to rest, he began whispering to himself, attempting to claim his last few moments as his own.
"Every morning when I wake," he whispered, "Dear Lord, a little prayer I make." Perhaps he hoped it would offer his own soul some solace and dampen the way his body shook with fear.
"Aim!" A voice ordered.
His fingers flexed against the stone wall, breathing heavily as he entire body froze. "O please do keep Thy lovely eye... on all poor creatures, born to die."
"Fire!"
The order made Charles' weak muscles tremble so, he could feel himself collapsing. The sound of gun shots firing in the confined space triggered a cry of panic and terror from him that he was ashamed he could not keep within. It partially resembled the word 'please'.
He was rigid from head to toe, bracing for the agony he remembered gunshots to cause, his heart hammering so fast and with such velocity that he was close to hyperventilation.
However, no pain came.
He instantly fell to his knees, a strangled noise escaping his lungs as the salty taste of tears met his lips.
Blanks. The bastards had fired blanks.
As he collapsed, pleading without even first realising it was his voice, he heard them laugh. He then heard the leader who had captured him shout over at him in Arabic, a haunting, snarling declaration: "This is far our families you burned; their terror is now yours."
He did somewhat salute them. After all, they had won. He, a British Army Captain, had proven no match for them. He once thought he stood for good. He thought it was enough to simply state one was good, that simply stating such a thing made it so. He had assumed, because his father had been an Army man, because he had always grown up admiring the British Army, that the orders they gave him he was given must therefore also stand for 'good', because otherwise, obviously, he would not be a part of it. He told himself through his first to fifth tour that he truly did believe in the wars he was fighting; but it took meeting Molly and discovering her outlook on life to make him see things from another perspective.
He did not serve a defining 'good', but a country filled with good people and a very fortunate, liberal society, which was run by the greedy and the cunning. He served democratic governments, yes, but these democrats were also often warlords, who waged illegal wars in far off territories for oil and power, and he had followed them, willingly blind, all in the name of 'duty' and a uniform.
He wasn't beaten by a clear-cut 'evil', but by men of out-dated views who lacked the education or the means to interpret their holy book or their circumstances for themselves. Men who had simply been desensitised by the horrors of war because it had been waged by foreigners in their back yard. It was a tale as old as war itself.
Dylan Thomas had been right; no one was wholly bad or good and perhaps, just perhaps, it had taken being at the hands of terrorist militants for Charles James to truly realise that it, through everything, would always be true.
With a deep breath, he gritted his teeth, attempting to silence himself from making any sound of weakness, and thought of Molly. His happy place.
He managed a smile, thinking of how good she was, how much he looked up to her for an example of how good she could be. Perhaps there was one exception to the rule.
Suddenly, there was the clatter of commotion in the distance. He snapped up his head, still masked, as his terror was reawakened. Blindly, he tried to pull at the hood with his tied hands, managing just to untie it and pull it over his head. It was only then that he realised that the commotion was not being made by the captors. His heart hammered as he looked up from his position on the floor, his head snapping from left to right as unknown enemy fire was flying in all directions. Foreign cries of panic were bouncing off the tin roof and stone walls so loud Charles could feel his skull pulsing with it. Crawling on his elbows, Charles felt his training kick in, only his body was far too exhausted to keep up with it. Growling against the pain that spiked through his chest, he dragged himself through the dust towards the light spilling in from the doorway. Through his blurry eyes, he could barely see, so when he heard the cry of what were unmistakably British Army, he was certain he was hallucinating.
Fighting all desperate instincts to cry for their attention, he dragged himself as hard and fast as he could, ignoring how the course concrete and stone floor tore into the skin of his elbows. Down and out of sight, that was all he had to be until he found cover. Around him, the militants were so outnumbered that they seemed to have completely forgotten about him, too busy being trigger happy with their rifles with very little strategy.
The moment he reached the doorway, Charles dove behind a set of fuel barrels, only then allowing himself to reach his gaze above the ground.
Through the gap, he caught sight of the leader that had captured him just before he was shot down, his brains splattering across the concrete. Charles wanted to look away, but he had to see who the shooter was. A moment later, he had to laugh in disbelief, as none of than Elvis stepped into view, his best man and all round bane of his life. Elvis was fighting another militant as more Special Forces moved in. Charles dare not yet allow himself to feel relief, much less hope, as he remained cowered, his cognitive function frustratingly lagging with his hunger and thirst. Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind, a strong forearm coming around his neck in a unforgiving chokehold. Instantly, he clawed at the skin and as the person managed to lift him almost off the floor. He was gasping for breath, his blood coursing with such high levels of adrenaline as he couldn't breathe. His limbs began to tingle and twitch as he was assaulted by vertigo and an uncontrollable need to sleep, his kicks backwards seeming to do very little thanks to his weakness.
He had now lost count of the amount of times he had come to the acceptance that he was going to die as his vision became blurred. He had fought so hard, but he was so tired.
Suddenly, heady breath oxygen rushed into his lungs as his face collided with the dusty floor. The burning pain in his jaw and his chest robbed him of the breath he so desperately heaved for as he lay winded, his vision dancing with spots and what looked like static noise. A gunshot in close proximity spiked his adrenaline and roused him into a flinch so violent he sprang up onto his knees. Multiple pairs of hands grabbed him by the arms and picked him up. It took him a long moment to realise, despite the chaos, that these men were Special Forces in British Army uniform. Hurriedly, they cut him free and began hurrying him out into the open. The morning sun was rising and it made Charles's eyes burn and squint, having become unaccustomed to its strength.
"Lane!" He suddenly realised he had no idea where she was. He didn't recognise his own voice it was so gravelled and soft, even as he tried to shout. "Where's Lane?!" Around him, the masked SF officers ignored him, cramming him into a helicopter and knowing he was too weak to fight them.
"Elvis!" He tried to yell, seeing his friend out the corner of his eye. "Elvis!" His heart was in his mouth, his whole body shaking against his will. Now he was safe, his only concern was Lane. As they all ignored him, forcing him down on a gurney as an unknown medic asked him typical medical assessment questions he could barely comprehend. "Fucking—No! Elvis! Where's Lane?! What—Answer me!" The more he fought as the helicopter took off, the more they held him down. Somewhere, a sharp, hot pain pinched in his arm and he knew his struggle was useless. He felt so incredibly ashamed because he had failed his soldiers. He had failed everyone. Failed.
Suddenly, he was drifting as the blue of the Kenyan sky became all he could see. Sky, proper nice, just like Afghan. Suddenly, all his pain had gone and he felt lighter than he had in weeks. His thoughts became transient, shifting, like sand through his fingers. He couldn't grasp a single thread other than one: wonderful, blissful relief. He could not tell the ground from the sky, or even remember his own name, but there was a voice in his ear that rendered him almost gleeful, if he had not been nearly unconscious already.
This is proper nice, if it weren't so bloody war and all that...
He considered that this couldn't be heaven. No story of heaven he had ever been told included stories of angels that laughed like the unceremonious cackling he could have sworn he could hear floating over him, even over the whirring of the helicopter blades.
Ain't no way I'm lettin' him dip his spoon in my Coco Pops...
No tale of angels ever told of chestnut hair that tickled his face, or toothy smiles and Cockney rhyming slang...
Charlie boy! Get down them apple and pears before I come back up there and we never leave that bedroom again!
They were not wholly bad or good... but, fuck, she was good; his green eyed lover, wife, friend and comrade. His angel in green.
I was always yours.
He was not a religious man, but he gave into feeling so wonderfully taken over, to drift into nothing but oblivion, because he decided it felt like heaven all the same.
