Chapter 26: No me without you
With his cheek still burning from where Michelle struck him, Sean Devlin walked home in an apocalyptically foul mood. He loved his daughter, but her mouth ensured that the side of his would ache for the rest of the day, the young Mallon girl putting an incredible amount of force into her strike. Not a single word was uttered between husband, daughter and wife as they began the fairly short journey from the church back to their house. Clare walked in front of her parents, tears streaming down her face at what she expected to be another detestable argument where she would have to lie through her teeth in order to make it through unharmed. Geraldine was likewise fearing what her husband would have to say, though she also felt that Clare needed to be dealt with strongly. No matter the content of the discussion, it should have never left the four walls of the Devlin living room, especially not when Michelle Mallon of all people was the subject matter.
Retreating to the kitchen the moment they returned, Geraldine immediately set about making them all a cup of tea. They hadn't stayed for a cup at church for once, Sean too eager to have his say on proceedings away from prying eyes and pricked ears. Clare didn't need to be told to take her seat in the living room. Her hands were rubbing at the side of her plain green dress, a rather unflattering one in her opinion, but the perfect one for Sunday mass. There were better ones in her bedroom upstairs, but they were for occasions that didn't require her to anxiously live her lie in the presence of the faithful.
Once the cups of tea were brought through, Geraldine took up her seat next to Sean with the two of them eyeing the snivelling Clare. Her eyes were closed, her ears waiting for her father to begin his bombardment.
Except it wasn't Sean who fired the first salvo.
It was Geraldine.
"Well I hope yer proud of yerself, Clare!?"
A stunned Clare's eyes shot open to find a snarling beast of a look on her mother's face, the same one she'd expected from her father. Unusually though, it was Geraldine who took the offensive, her own anger from Clare telling Michelle becoming rather evident immediately.
"What did ye think was goin' to happen, mouthin' off to Michelle like that?!"
"Mammy I…".
"No Clare! No you listen to me and ye listen to me good. You are nineteen years old Clare! NINETEEN! I shouldn't have to be tellin' ye not run yer mouth off!"
"Ma-".
"I'M NOT FINISHED YET!" Geraldine tore her fragile response apart, Clare jumping out of her skin. "Ye knew exactly what Michelle would do and quite frankly, I don't blame her. WHY CLARE? WHY!?"
At her most vulnerable, without a plan to be able to combat her mother's verbal battering, the cack attack queen began to show once more why she held the crown. Her hands were running through her hair, her head turned away from the piercing glare of her raging mother, trying desperately to find an adequate response. She didn't quite understand why she'd felt the need to make the throw away comment herself, wrongly assuming at the time that nobody would hear it, let alone Michelle. When Erin confirmed she'd heard it too, though secretly she hadn't, blurting out what Sean said became inevitable.
"I… I don't know…".
"Ye don't know… well what a feckin' brilliant answer that is Clare… ye don't know. I tell you why, because ye have a problem with keeping that mouth of yer's shut!"
"That's not fair Mammy!" She tried to protest.
"Not fair, is it?" Geraldine huffed a supressed chuckle. "Well what about that time ye said Erin was a Narcissist?"
Alarms really began to go off when her mother mentioned a very different comment she'd made. Around the height of Erin's moods the prior Autumn, Michelle happened to find herself round at the Devlin's one Saturday night. Sean was out at church to help out with an event that the priest was running, halting any arguments between him and her dark-haired friend. Having endured a week of Erin being almost unapproachable, to the point where having to sit next to her was a worse torture than spending life in prison, they couldn't help but discuss her. As Michelle began to unload her frustrations, Clare joined in too, the two of them combining their annoyance into an all-out introspection of their friend. From the other side of Clare's bedroom door, Geraldine heard every word that night but had always kept her mouth shut since.
"I…".
"Aye… I know what you said Clare!"
"But she can be Mammy… ye know what Erin's like….". Clare put up a timid defence. "She… She can't help it like, but she is!"
"She might well be Clare… but she's also yer friend! Ye can't be goin' around sayin' that about yer friends, no matter how much they're annyonin' ye!"
"But…".
"WOULD YOU SHUT UP CLARE!"
Geraldine's frustrations with her daughter reached boiling point. She would always love her and hated having to raise her voice, but the blubbering mess in front of her, grinded her gears. There was nothing worse than when Clare would start tearing up from a mess of her own making, trying to cry her way out of whatever the punishment was. The problem with the approach she'd chosen was that it only served to cause further upset for the diminutive blonde. Still stunned by her mother being the one of the two parents to launch into her, she couldn't fathom a proper response. Her mind was already entertaining the dark thought that if this was how rageous her mother could become, then her father would only be worse. Geraldine was just the warmup, it seemed.
"Maybe it might be let slip to Erin that ye think that way…".
"NO MAMMY!" Clare shrieked. "YE CAN'T!"
"I can Clare. Ye know, ye have it easy from us so ye do! I let that comment slide that night because ye were stressed from work… I'm tellin' ye, if that was at the Mallon's, then Deirdre would have taken the spoon to ye for it!"
Another day in the life of Clare Devlin was heading down misery lane. Her mother's continued sniping ripped her heart to bits. An already fearful young woman was finding that one of her most staunch allies was willing to turn on her in a heartbeat. She knew telling Michelle the truth was wrong but her mother was determined to make sure that it would be a lesson that would be learnt forever. Most nineteen years old would live in houses where the conversation wouldn't happen, where they would be treated like the adults that they were. But she did not live an ordinary life, owing to the pyramid of lies built around her secret that could not be told. Her Da was wrong in what he'd said, something which Geraldine could agree with her on, but she was foolish to think he'd pay the consequences for his actions. It was after all a man's world…
Her da, by contrast, was silent. Sean flickered his eyes between wife and daughter as they bickered, not taking a stand for either side. Appearing to seem contented to let them battle it out, he took a sip of his tea.
"I'm sorry Mammy… really I am!"
Opting to launch an apology rather than an insult to fight her mother, Clare watched as a brief look of thankful recognition flashed across Geraldine's face, before she was once again on the front foot.
"Too late now Clare!" She snorted. "Look at yer father's face! YOU DID THAT!"
She hadn't done that to him. Not physically. That was Michelle's doing. But it wasn't the physical aspect that her mother was speaking of. It was her big mouth that'd caused the pain that enveloped her father's cheek, glancing over to him to see if he'd taken his hand away, which he had.
Yet still, Sean said nothing.
"I… I've said sorry Mammy. I mean it…and to you, Daddy… I'm sorry!"
"I thought we'd raised you better than that Clare!" Geraldine continued. "But clearly you don't listen to us anymore…".
"WHAT!?"
The sobbing, weak Clare was suddenly replaced with an aggressive version of the same young woman. Under the consistently unfair hailstorm of abuse that her mother placed upon her, the elastic snapped for her.
"Ye know, yer not perfect either Mammy!" She roared. "What about the time ye lied to Grandma about not handing that money over to the Cops!"
Sean still didn't say anything, but his eyes widened. He too expected Geraldine to return the money she'd found a few years earlier and she'd told him that she had done. Old ground was trodden on, Geraldine's gulp being loud enough for the Scottish to hear.
"You…".
"See. I'm not the only one who makes mistakes! For the last time, I'm sorry that I told Michelle about what Daddy said about her and I'm sorry that she punched ye Daddy! I really am… I'm sorry…".
Sean still kept his mouth shut. Though this time he did act.
Getting up from his seat, he walked over to where his daughter cried profusely, to wrap her up into an embrace. It was Geraldine's turn to be surprised, having not anticipated that he would show even an ounce of warmth to Clare after what had happened. Her mouth got him assaulted; if anything, Clare should have been receiving the belt. In an even better world, he'd have apologised to Michelle instead of allowing Clare to take the blame and his wife could only assume he was showing the affection out of remorse. His behaviour had been unbecoming of a gentleman… very unbecoming. He'd seemingly found his time to make amends though.
"Ssshhh… calm yerself down, love".
Accepting her father's warm jumper to cry on, Clare let go of her emotions. Every single pent-up feeling of frustration and fear was sent into the soft woollen fabric as he stroked her back gently. Sean was not a man who showed such deep affection often, though he would always ensure that his family knew he loved them. Everything he ever did was for Geraldine and Clare. Sometimes it would be a tough love that would have to be deployed in order to maintain control of the house, but on seeing Clare in the state she was in again, his compassionate side made an appearance. Behind closed doors he could hug his little Clare as if she were a baby again, the feeling of her nestled within his arms being just as special as it was the first time he held her. The days and weeks after Clare was born were some of the best weeks of his life, Gerladine's too, when despite the challenges of adapting to life with a newly born baby, they thrived as a young family. Those days were long ago, but she would forever be the apple of his eye.
"I'm sorry Daddy…".
"I know ye are… I know…".
Ruffling her hair, Sean smiled when Clare picked her head up off of his shoulder to look him in the eye, all the while Geraldine sat a few feet away with her mouth hanging wide open. He was treating her far too well after she'd ran her mouth off and got him hurt. It was ridiculous that he would forgive her so easily.
"I'm sorry too Clare".
A greeting completed with furrowed brows awaited him on Clare's face, as she tried to understand why he would be apologising. It wasn't like her Da to apologise. In many ways like Michelle, he always believed he was right.
"I won't take back what I said about yer friend…". He resolutely stated, Clare's head dropping. "… but my choice of words might have been a little too strong".
"She… she's not a w-".
"She's not Clare. It doesn't make how she acts right, but I was wrong to say what I said… can ye forgive me?"
She wouldn't be able to forgive him for everything he believed in, but Sean himself taught her that forgiveness should be granted as much as it could be. He might have spoke abhorrently about Michelle, but if could see it himself where normally he would not, Clare would not take the moral high ground with her father. He could be forgiven.
"Of course Daddy".
Father and daughter came together in a hug once more, his drying jumper being the resting place for her head again. Geraldine drank her tea, sat watching on with a burning rage in her eyes. On one hand, she was glad that Sean admitted he spoke terribly for once, even if he still stood behind the basis of the claim. On the other, Clare still required a true punishment for revealing what was said behind closed doors to her friends. How could she be trusted with anything if it would automatically be passed onto Michelle or Erin… or worse, Orla…
"Ye best drink ye tea Clare, love…". Sean chuckled. "… otherwise ye'll be havin' to make yerself another".
"Aye I best do… thanks Daddy!"
He rose from where he'd comforted her, returning to his seat but not without missing the scowl from his wife. She'd foolishly made a sarcastic comment a few days earlier when she should have kept quiet, vowing to learn her lesson and not make such comments again. Yet something needed to be said to ensure Clare wouldn't say anything again.
"Really?" She stared at her husband, reigniting the tension in the room with her words.
"I… I don't understand ye there love?" He replied, frowning.
"No lecture about not revealing our business to the rest of the city… no tellin' off about her actions leadin' to you being assaulted!".
Rolling his eyes, Sean tried his best not to snarl back at her. Geraldine was out of line in his mind, which would normally force him into letting her know about it. However, his compassionate exterior still showing, he decided not to be goaded into the argument. In much the same way James tried with Michelle, diplomacy would be Sean's weapon.
"I think our Clare understands already, Geraldine, love". He eventually responded, Clare nodding in agreement. "I know ye didn't like what happened, and neither did I, but given the misunderstanding, it was natural that she'd turn violent like that. I don't hold it against Clare nor Michelle".
"A misun…". Geraldine was lost for words. "It wasn't a misunderstandin' Sean, ye called that wee girl a whore, so ye did".
"Love, I'm not havin' this conversation". He tried desperately not to explode, speaking almost out of the side of his mouth.
"I think ye'll find ye are! How are we supposed to talk about anythin' if Clare runs her mouth off like that after every wee incident in our lives!"
With words that would necessitate a change of room, one without their daughter's presence, Sean picked himself up again from his seat. The fury that built up within over his wife becoming argumentative with him would not go away, but Clare didn't need to see it being drained. Words had to pass between husband and wife.
"Will ye excuse us, Clare, love?"
"Yes Daddy".
Sean strode out in the direction of the stairs, with Geraldine raising herself up from where she was sat to quickly rush out after him. It left Clare alone in the living room, breathing out heavily to alleviate the stress that had descended on her. Her secret remained safe throughout, without ever really being touched upon. The battles would still come in the days ahead, but they would be tackled when the time came. For her, in the meantime, she could relax. There was one method of relaxation that she enjoyed particularly, though it was a skill she hid from her friends. They all assumed that the talent was held by Sean or Geraldine, perhaps even both, but would be completely blindsided to find out it was Clare.
To discover that she was a gifted pianist.
Gifted was perhaps used too strongly, at least in Clare's mind, but a component one she was at the very least. Sunday was as good a day as any to practice. That particular Sunday being overly useful for practice. There was a secondary aim to playing too, one which allowed for an incredibly awful action to continue without reprisal. She just couldn't hear it beneath the sound of the melody she produced.
As the first notes were played, the words became harsher between husband and wife.
"Sean… please… I didn't mean...".
SMACK
Adagio for strings stopped the strings of Clare's heart from breaking, as once again her father showed why he remained the authority figure in their house. He wouldn't let his wife get away with what she'd done.
"DON'T YOU… EVER…. I MEAN EVER… UNDERMIME MY AUTHORITY IN FRONT OF CLARE, EVER AGAIN! YE HEAR ME!"
SMACK
"I… I…. But she… got ye hurt!"
Choosing the foolish option yet again, Geraldine argued back. A woman who argued back was a woman who didn't know her place in Sean's eyes. She would have to be punished again.
SMACK
Another slap found Geraldine's cheek, which now matched his for inflammation. In the previous ten years he'd struck her no more than twice. Within the space of a tense week at the Devlin house, he'd done so four times and did not appear frightened to have to do so again in order to assert himself. It wasn't something he enjoyed having to do, but she knew better than to argue back when he was in that mood and there was only one course of action that befitted Geraldine's crime from then on.
"Sean…. PLEASE… stop!" She begged.
Palm open and ready, he stopped himself a couple of inches from her face. Crouching down, there was a look of rage ablaze across his face, that his wife would not forget for some time.
"The next time Clare acts up, ye leave it to me. Ye hear!?" The enraged Sean found a nod arriving shortly after. "And if I decide to forgive her… I DECIDE!"
"Y-Yes Sean…".
"Good. Now clean yerself up and get in that kitchen!"
Exiting their bedroom, Sean left the dishevelled and hurt Geraldine to cry alone. It never got any easier when his palm would smash into her cheek. She'd thought he was past that stage of their life, softened up and without the need to deploy such violence towards her. She was wrong though. The Sean Devlin that came home at night now lived in fear that their family name would be dragged through the mud, banded around along with the likes of the O'Keefe's. He couldn't have his Clare given those labels. That made him extremely unappreciative of his wife's hostility at such a troublesome time.
Their Clare wasn't one of those types. Not in his eyes.
Eyes that were blind to the truth.
That she was.
It was Monday, though the day of the week didn't matter too much for Lieutenant James Maguire. Everyday was a day of work when at war, which made Sunday's feel like Wednesday's, no rest to be found for those in service. A few days on from his dogfight with three Messerschmitt's over the North Sea, the young pilot was still receiving congratulations from those who served under him on the Swordfish crews. To show such adaptability to be able to pilot a fighter that was over two hundred miles per hour faster than his usual aircraft was an achievement in itself with no prior experience, but to then dismantle three enemy fighters without taking a single bullet in reply was something special. He was by far the most popular of the officers at Worthy Down, across all of the squadrons stationed there, the men of the other squadrons quickly coming to respect him. The praise was welcome, not that it changed his attitude on life.
James was as humble as ever.
His daily routine was unchanged. After a couple of nights on watch, he was back to a week of flying patrols in the day and sleeping routinely at night. It was his preferred schedule since David returned home. Night patrols were duller without his best friend to talk to. He was yet to be assigned a permanent observer come gunner, the men at his command rotating the role that the Irishman vacated. Trust was another element missing. Best friends would trust each other with their lives with little needing to be said; the same trust could not be found from the crewmen that took up David's seat. A total lack of trust was not present, as he held faith in the men at his command's ability to perform their duties, but it was not the same without someone he could joke with whilst they coasted over the English Channel.
Having flown patrols from half past six until midday, James was assigned to the afternoon watch, which dragged on into the late evening. They were an officer spare that afternoon too, as one of the neighbouring squadron's was using a patrol as training for some of their younger pilots. Nerves were higher than ever before following the German invasion of France. Some of the men were raring to go, wanting to test their skills against the finest that the Luftwaffe could throw at them, as well any unsuspecting Kriegsmarine targets that might come their way too. Others were anxious, reflective on the realisation that the Germans were masters of executing their plans, crushing anyone who stood in their way. Though the full truth hadn't reached them about just how poorly the Allies were coping against the onslaught, rumours were beginning to spread that the French were retreating in every direction. Little did the French know that the German Army were about to burst out of the Ardennes, the most unlikely place for an attack in their eyes, bypassing the heavily fortified areas of the Maginot Line that was in place to stop them.
In the watch room, James was writing up his report on that morning's patrol when he heard a knock on the door.
"Come in".
Striding in briskly, one of his fellow pilots presented himself to the Lieutenant. Parkin was the only pilot younger than James within the squadron, turning eighteen on the day that the war started. He came from some money like his superior officer, though not as much as James, not that either of them realised that. A Pilot Officer, he was amongst the lowest ranked of all of the commissioned Pilot's in the squadron, his training having been just as rushed as James' was. The two regularly interacted, Parkin often finding himself on the same schedule as the Lieutenant, which gave him plentiful chances to learn from him. Like the regular men, despite James being a young man himself, he recognised the skill and authority of their squadron's second in command.
"At ease, Parkin". James ordered, joining the young officer in standing. "Now, what do you need?"
Offering a reassuring smile to his fellow pilot, Parkin felt instantly calmer. He'd ran over from the hangar where he was inspecting his Swordfish, ensuring that the aircraft was maintained properly.
"Lieutenant Maguire, Sir, I have received a letter from home. My… My…".
Noting the distress in the young man's voice, he offered him a seat, which Parkin took without hesitation. If there was one thing that James would not stand for, then it would be his men being stressed or upset. It was not the way that he liked to keep order within the squadron, even if it went against certain principles that the textbooks told him.
Pouring his fellow pilot a glass of water, as well as one for himself, he sat down a couple of seconds later, ready to listen to whatever Parkin had to say.
"T-Thank you, Sir". Parkin mumbled as he accepted the drink.
"Now Parkin…". James smiled. "Where were you?"
"Y-Yes Sir. I… I have received a letter from home, Sir. My father writes that my mother is unwell and has repeatedly asked for my presence…".
The Lieutenant understood his fellow countryman's concerns immediately. It would be the sort of letter that would terrify him from home, devasting him if Erin were unwell, calling out for him. He'd luckily not received one of such ilk, but now faced with a young man that had, the trepidation still lurked from deep inside his chest. Parkin's shaking hands conveyed just how serious his mother's condition must have been, the water beginning to slosh over the sides of the glass.
"I… I would like to request leave to return home, Sir".
Expecting the request, James hesitated with his answer for a moment. All leave was cancelled until further notice, further exacerbated by the German Invasion of France actually being underway rather than it being a belief of impending battle. Real battles were being fought, Britain needing every fit man that it could count on to be able to defend the Kingdom against the threat of the rampaging Nazi war machine. Leave was something he longed for too, though his own wishes to return home were put to one side momentarily, outweighed by the needs of the man that served at his command.
"Parkin, you know that all leave has been cancelled…".
Sincere and honest, he couldn't mask the truth. Parkin did know, nodding a resigned confirmation a second later, as did every single other man within the squadron. Most were missing their wife or loved one at home, some with children and others with children on the way. Just about every man within the squadron would get on their knees and beg if they believed they stood a chance of being allowed to return home. A clearly desperate Parkin was chancing his arm.
"I do know, Sir. I… I would be grateful if you would ask Lieutenant Commander Borrett on my behalf though, Sir. My mother means a lot to me".
Snookering him on a subject where his own emotions were terrifyingly raw, James could only view the young man with sympathetic eyes. There was little surprise that no letter ever arrived from Switzerland, which was firmly ensconced in the bubble of conflict between Germany, France and the yet unmoved Italians. There simply was no way for Kathy to get a letter out to him, he assumed. Her safety was forever on his mind, a controllable that was out of his own reach, dictated by the advances of other countries on Europe's mainland. Parkin himself, as James knew, was only from up the road in Basingstoke, making it agonisingly close for him to not be able to return home.
"I… I appreciate that we need to be ready for duty, Sir, but my mo-".
"Return to your duties Parkin…". James interrupted. "… I will speak to Lieutenant Commander Borrett immediately".
Eyes flickering rapidly in surprise, Parkin's face lit up. James could not guarantee that the Lieutenant Commander would agree, well within his right to disagree in fact, but he would not shy away from asking. With his family home close by, it wasn't as if Parkin would be travelling as far as he would be in order to see his loved ones. If Kathy were so close by, he knew he would ask too.
"Thank you, Sir".
"It's my pleasure Parkin".
The Pilot Officer saluted his superior, exiting the watch room at pace to return to his aircraft. James sat for a moment, running a hand through his hair. A difficult conversation with the Lieutenant Commander lay ahead. With a conflict of emotions running through him, the Lieutenant's thoughts turned back to Erin, as they often would. She would have been the light that guided him in unsure times, her bright outlook shining the way to the answers that he required. She was probably as melancholy as he was that afternoon, toiling away making shirts whilst having to no doubt put up with a serving of Michelle's vicious tongue waggling away by her side. When it came to thinking about her though, when he was on duty at least, he refused to dwell on the thoughts for too long. Crying his eyes out in the watch room would hardly be the proper conduct for a gentleman and an officer like James. He needed her though.
After a couple more minutes of reflection, he began the short walk over to his Commander's office. Lieutenant Commander Borrett would have been taking the patrol that afternoon whilst James kept watch, leaving him as the spare officer. Keeping his paperwork up to date like his second in command, Borrett's reports were ones that would be sent off to headquarters. Hardly entertaining, he did not particularly enjoy having to complete them, but it was a sadly necessary part of being an officer. Whether it was the Army, Navy, Air Force or Fleet Air Arm, there was always going to be a lot of paperwork to complete, resources to manage. With the lack of a secretary to help him too, he was left to do it all on his own.
"James". He noticed the Lieutenant before James had a chance to speak. "Come in".
Invited to sit down in front of the desk, the roles were reversed from his own meeting with Parkin. No longer the superior in the room, it was James sat with the difficult question to ask the senior officer.
"This paperwork never seems to go away…". He complained. "… I think I will need an adjutant when we embark on a vessel!".
Laughing heartily along with the commanding officer, James appreciated the humour. Borrett was usually a very serious man, the exact opposite of Flight Lieutenant Bentley, but he wasn't without a lack of a sense of one. The humorous side was not deployed often, making it all the more appreciable when it was.
"I am afraid I would be no better, Sir".
"A banker that is poor with paperwork". Borrett's eyebrow raised. "That does concern me".
Chuckling between themselves once again, James decided to allow the low brow banter to continue, softening the atmosphere before he could go into the precarious battle on Parkin's behalf.
"My handling of finances is superb, I would add".
"That I do not doubt. I have seen that photograph that you keep. It is quite the fashion sense that you have, Lieutenant. No doubt the linings of those pockets have more than a few pennies in them to keep you afloat".
"I cannot say that I have ever come close to having an issue with debt, Sir".
"You do not need to tell me that, you are far too sensible to allow yourself to get into financial difficulty…". Borrett joked. "… but I suspect that you haven't come out of the watch room to discuss your bank balances, have you?"
The humour and jesting were fun whilst they lasted, but the time for laughter was over. There was a serious matter for the two officers to discuss. With a final deep breath, James began to address Borrett about Parkin's need for leave.
"Pilot Officer Parkin came to see me a short while earlier, Sir. He has received a distressing letter from home".
Borrett sighed immediately upon hearing what his second in command was telling him. Distressing letters from home were a problem for morale, a problem that he did not need when the war was beginning to heat up. Every man needed to be sharp and ready for action, the pilots like Parkin especially. They had jobs to do, duties to perform. Their home lives would have to wait and unwanted distractions such as unsavoury letters from back home, threatened how he ran his squadron.
"What did it say, Lieutenant?" He spoke up, formalities resuming.
"His mother is unwell, Sir. He has asked if you would consider granting him a short term of leave so that he can visit her".
"Of course he has…".
Allowing it was out of the question. The orders were clear for every single squadron within the Fleet Air Arm. All leave was cancelled until further notice. The only exceptions were for bereavement such as David's, where he didn't even have to come back, an offer he'd chosen to take the Lieutenant Commander up on. If Parkin's mother was dead, it would be a different matter. He would have been allowed to go for a few days in order to grieve with his family and see her buried ahead of returning to duty. Although she might have been ill and calling out for her son, the calls would have to go unanswered because he'd already answered a larger one. A call that many men were answering, some forced and some voluntarily.
The call to arms to stop the rise of Nazi Germany.
"He flew with you this morning, did he not?" Borrett interrogated James.
"Correct, Sir". James confirmed smartly.
"Has he been making sufficient progress during air patrols? His confidence has been an issue…".
Junior Lieutenant Allen was the commanding officer on the patrol that Borrett referred to. An unsteady and unsure Parkin, still wet behind the ears in his first days of flying, struggled to maintain formation as they flew over the channel, finishing off his day with a botched landing that ended up being reported to the Lieutenant Commander. Allen was critical of the young man, suggesting that his training was rushed too much, though his fellow officers were more lenient upon him. Ever since, he'd become a highly competent pilot that certainly benefitted from flying alongside the growing legend that was Lieutenant Maguire.
"I believe his progress to be more than adequate, Sir. I would think a few days away would do little to shake his confidence".
The answer that the Lieutenant Commander hoped for, his second in command's report on the Pilot Officer justified his decision. He could deal with the more than probable fiery note passed down from HQ as he'd done so before, knowing what to say when he circumvented the official orders. He too knew that Parkin's family home was not so far away as a lot of the other men's homes were, much closer than even his own...
"I will write Pilot Officer Parkin a note to authorise his absence". Parkin spoke softly, surprising James by allowing the leave. "Where is he residing this afternoon?"
"He is conducting maintenance on his aircraft in the main hangar, Sir". The Lieutenant responded.
"Very well, I shall take it to him myself. I hope that his mother's illness passes shortly, I think it would be pertinent of us to add her to our prayers tonight".
"A wise idea, Sir".
Wise, he was not. Though adding Mrs Parkin to their prayers displayed the sensitive side to both men, Borrett knew he was not wise in addition to the sensitivity. Disobeying a direct order from HQ was never a wise course of action, with men earning a lot more money with far less direct responsibility, able to end his career at the drop of a hat should they wish. Morale became a friend to him. HQ could not fight against anything that would drop the morale of men that they would almost certainly be sending into battle above the front lines soon. A dejected Parkin might allow his feelings to be copied by his fellow crewman, who could pass on the bleak outlook to the rest of the squadron. That would be detrimental to their efforts, an argument which HQ would not be able to raise any grievances against. It wouldn't be his only offence though.
Another surprise dropped from the lips of the commanding officer, this time for Lieutenant Maguire himself.
"You are yet to have any leave at all yet, are you James?" He engaged his younger officer, informality resuming from the Commander.
Time appeared to suspend itself for a moment as James tried to convince himself that he'd heard the Lieutenant Commander correctly. Surely, he wasn't going to be allowed to go back to Derry now. After all, leave was cancelled apart from only the most special circumstances, and his were even less plausible than Parkin's. Longing to hold Erin Quinn in his arms was not a reason that Borrett could put across on his behalf to HQ. Even if his need to have her there became more desperate by the day.
"I have not… Sir". He almost choked a reply.
"I cannot allow you to return home but take the rest of your watch off this evening. There is a quaint pub down the road, the Cart and Horses I believe it is called".
"But my du-".
"James, you have performed your duties admirably from the very first day that you entered training. You have not stopped since, sacrificing your own leave at Christmas for the needs of another squadron. You are only human James, you need to be able to relax too".
Reaching into his pocket, Borrett removed his wallet, handing over the Lieutenant some money to the bemusement of his second in command.
"Have your pint on me. I think I would speak for the whole country in saying that you have earned it".
"I wouldn't say that, Sir…". A now embarrassed James tried to hide his reddening cheeks, muttering his response.
"Mother of God!" Borrett mumbled an unusual exasperation. "Would you please stop being so humble and modest, James. Please, take a walk to the pub and enjoy your evening".
It wasn't leave to return home to Derry like he wanted or to see Erin, like he needed. However, it would finally be an evening where he didn't have to think about his duty. He wouldn't be able drown his thoughts away, as that would be a dereliction of his duty, but he could simply focus on his pint rather than having to inspect the men or keep watch. A return to normality… if only for a few hours.
"Yes, Sir".
The men spoke for another couple of minutes before they went their separate ways. Borrett headed off towards the main hangar to talk to Parkin as James headed to his room to prepare a few things before the short walk down to the pub. He put on his best uniform, rather than the one he'd worn since his duty started that morning, slickening back his hair to the peak of its attraction. Borrett's money in his pocket, he took some of his own too, not that he would be spending it on any alcohol himself, but out of peace of mind. Mary's wooden spoon would also make the trip to the pub with him, as he never let the utensil out of his sight. The good luck charm that Mary bestowed upon him would often feel like a child of his own, having to constantly look after it to ensure its safety, terrified of returning to Derry without it.
After twenty minutes or so, James exited the front entrance of the base, having a quick chat to the guard at the front before setting off on the short walk to the pub. The main road that led to it was not so busy, with all unnecessary journeys by vehicle foregone to ensure that fuel supplies remained plentiful. One or two vehicles passed him on their way to the camp, tooting at the officer who would always wave back to the drivers. They might not have been in direct combat, but the efforts and sacrifices of those not on the front lines did not go unnoticed by the Lieutenant. His Erin was one of those people, working to the bone to produce uniforms for those in service to wear on duty. Firepower was not essential to the war effort alone. The country was no greater than the sum of its parts, every single man, woman and even child held a part to play.
The Cart and Horses was located conveniently just off of the main road, the Lieutenant soon finding himself heading towards the front entrance. From a distance he'd watched a couple of people head inside, but the area around the old coaching inn was fairly quiet. The village of Kings Worthy was not one that saw vast amounts of visitors, with the only traffic usually coming from any vehicles heading to the air base or to and from Winchester. Although he was a city boy at heart, having lived at the cottage just outside of Derry for a few months, he could appreciate the quieter surroundings of a village setting. There was a great peace to be found in hearing the birds tweet as the sun kissed the endless acres of fields around the countryside.
Upon entering the pub, his handsome looks and smart uniform turned the heads of just about everyone inside. Having caused plenty of internal control problems for the women of Derry when he arrived, one a lot more than the others, James was used to the attention. He would never say that he thought he was particularly good looking, but he couldn't deny confidence in his image. The added stares of everyone he walked past only seemed to reinforce it. The barman stared too, eying up his fellow countryman who'd walked into the pub. For an unsuspecting officer of a certain class, it would have been frightfully rude to find the man behind the bar staring them over, but James was well aware of why the man was doing it. Some pubs in the area were having bother with airmen who'd had one too many to drink, though not from James' squadron, and one barman was even assaulted. They weren't taking any chances with any of them, though the barman at the Cart and Horses halted his inspection when he noted the rank adorning James' sleeve.
"Good Evening Lieutenant". The man said. "I apologise for…".
"No need". James quickly raised his hand up to stop the man. "I fully understand why it needs to be done".
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Now, what can I get you?"
On the walk down to the pub, he'd changed his mind about the drink. If he could get it, he would enjoy a glass of whisky, his favoured drink of choice back home if he were to have an alcoholic beverage. Despite the rigours of rationing and shortages, the pub appeared to be well stocked, and he quickly spotted what he was after.
"Whisky, please". He replied, handing over the money to the barman.
"Certainly".
Whilst he waited for the barman to finish, James turned around to survey the rest of the pub. There were other men in uniform present, who he recognised from the neighbouring squadron. Their commanding officer was far more lenient than Borrett when it came to allowing his men leave to go to the pub, a rota being devised between the men to ensure that each got ample opportunity to relax over a pint. Seeing the advantages and disadvantages to such leniency, James would still stick by his own commanding officer's decision to not allow for such freedom. With the likelihood of front-line action soon upon many of them, allowing them a couple of nights a week at the pub would only invite complacency. There was a job that needed to be done and going to the pub was not part of that job.
"There you are, Lieutenant". The barman said to him, the drink being placed down in front of James.
"Thank you". James dipped his head. "Lieutenant Maguire, 815 Naval Air Squadron".
The two men shook hands, the barman's respect showing instantly. He was an older man, around his late fifties, with a scar on his cheek that suggested that he'd seen action before, most likely in the last war.
"I fought in the Middle East last time…". The barman explained when he noticed James looking at the scar. "… I had a bit of an argument with a Turkish soldier. It cost me my handsomeness".
"A small price to pay in service for the country, though". James pointed out.
"It was. I'm an old bugger now though, it's up to the likes of you to get scars on your cheeks. How old are you, twenty-two… twenty-three…".
"Nineteen".
"Nineteen!" The barman replied incredulously. "I must admit, my knowledge of commissioning officers was not what it was, but you strike me as a little young to hold such a rank".
Though it was not completely unusual for someone of James' age to hold the rank, they would always have been from families with titles. Granted, his mother did hold the title of a lady in Switzerland, but that held no effect in the British Military. He was not the heir to a vast estate or significant title, which for him and for many others, made his appointment very odd. However, having shown his incredible ability as both a diligent officer and a devilishly capable pilot, nobody within the squadron would question it at least.
"I must admit, I was shocked myself when I was commissioned. I can only hope to repay the faith that has been placed in me".
"I am sure you will, Lieutenant Maguire".
Their brief conversation was ended by another customer walking up to the bar, leaving James alone with his glass of whisky. Leaning on the bar, he took a sip, glancing over at the customer to his left who was ordering a pint. Finally alone with nothing on his mind, a comfortability that was long overdue returned. It wasn't the same as being able to go home, it never would be, but the relaxation that he sought that evening came to him easily. With no one from his squadron present at the pub, he didn't have to fend off any questions about what they would be up to or where they would go next. He did have the answers though.
Lieutenant Commander Borrett's latest update from HQ indicated that the Illustrious would be ready to accommodate them from the start of June. There would immediately be a block of training to complete once they embarked, most likely to take place in the English Channel, where they could practice taking off and landing on a carrier. The Swordfish's adaptability, and crucially, folding wings, gave it all it required to be used as a carrier-based aircraft. It also held one distinct advantage over near enough every aircraft that either side could muster too. With the take off speed being so low, the carrier didn't need to steam into the wind to be able to launch the aircraft upon the perfect conditions, as it could simply set off unaided into combat. There was a genuine excitement for both James and Borrett, who were gearing up for their true service to the country, wherever it would take them.
"A handsome young officer, with slick back hair, drinking whisky alone in a country pub. Some might say you are depressed… or trying to forget someone".
Pulling his head up from where he'd began a long stare at the bar, a frown crept across the young Lieutenant's face at a woman's voice beside him. Slowly turning, with a scrunched nose to accompany the frown, her slender figure appeared alongside him. She was a young woman of around his age if he were to guess, her long flowing dress giving her a sense of prominence that would not normally be found in a country pub. She'd put serious effort into her appearance, lips covered in a sparkling crimson, the skin of her face appearing as if it would be soft to the touch. Bright blues eyes completed the gleaming look, along with her smiling face, which was angled towards him, eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly. Blonde hairs were swept up behind her tied up neatly so that it didn't extend down from her shoulders, down her back.
She reminded him of someone else…
Of Erin.
"Or perhaps to relax". He replied to her, staring at the young woman to figure out what she was trying to say to him.
"Relaxation is not something an officer is often allowed to enjoy in times of war…". She remarked fairly. "… you have a duty to your men rather than to the coffers of the local pub, do you not?"
Clearly a headstrong woman, she continued with her bizarre line of enquiry. Or as anyone else would have told him, none more strongly than David, flirting.
"I have been ordered to have a night off by my commanding officer, Miss?"
"Hartley. Olivia Hartley". She introduced herself. "And you are, Lieutenant?"
"James Maguire".
Remaining as strictly professional as he could, James ignored the rebellious nature that tried to assert itself from within his conscience. Oliva Hartley was a stunningly attractive young woman who was not so subtly attempting to bond with him, holding a beauty that he could not deny. A married man would have trouble ignoring the sight of her in the blue dress she was wearing, that he once again thought to be out of place. There were other women at the pub who were dressed well, out with their husbands to enjoy their Monday evening, but none as well as her… and after quickly looking around, he realised she was alone.
"I am surprised by the number of airmen that are here…". She shifted, pointing towards a group of cheery men in uniform making jokes between themselves. "… one has been led to believe through the papers and the radio, that there is a war on".
"You should not always believe what you read in the newspapers".
He hadn't even reached the end of his sentence when he realised he was playing into her hands, flirting subtly in return. An unintentional flirting that made his cheeks redden as soon as his mind turned to another blonde… who would never forgive him for such an outrageous act.
"I am good at reading…". She grinned. "… whether it is a newspaper or a person?"
"Really?" His eyebrow raised out of curiosity, rather than attraction.
"Quite".
Her eyelashes fluttered at him again. Suddenly, the tables were turned as it was he who was faltering in the situation rather than being the one to cause such faltering. Olivia was under his skin, playing on his mind with almost a frightening understanding of how miserable a life away from home actually was for him.
"I can tell that you are trying to fight yourself… asking… difficult questions…".
The gulp that came from him was louder than intended. He was swallowing his emotions, which were beginning to gain control over him, a control he flatly refused to surrender completely. The beautiful blonde stood in front of him may have been speaking of such mysterious delusions to him, but the sound of her voice was angelic. He was enticed by her, intrigued to find out who she really was and why she acted the way she did…
No
Allowing his mind to wander was a dangerous game he would not play. She might have wanted him, but he could not allow her to have what she wished. Even if she did make the room a lot brighter with her presence…
"I am asking myself as to what your intentions are…".
His head tilted as he spoke, applying a sterner tone that the previously more flirtatious one that he'd allowed himself to produce. There was a genuine wish to know too, in case he was reading the situation poorly. Seduction was not an art form in which he was a master in nor could definitively recognise once it was deployed against him. She may have just been acting in a friendly manner towards him, another lonely heart that required someone to converse with on a mild Monday evening in the country.
"Does it really matter what they are?" She edged closer, challenging him.
"Well…". He rose from where he'd propped himself against the bar, standing tall over her. "… I have a duty as an officer to ensure that all appropriate actions are completed. If I suspect that there is someone within the local community who may be a spy, then I must report them".
She was surprised, though not offended by his comment. Having read his glum looks and consumption of whisky as a sign that he would open up to her easily, his calm and authoritative response was out of place. Defying expectations was something James was unknowingly brilliant at though, a testament to his nature that he could pull off the unexpected, despite being largely predictable in his actions.
"A spy? I would not be able to disown our country so callously…". She smiled, though wringed her hands in a sign of slight stress.
A sign of stress that the Lieutenant picked upon within a second. He did not want to appear to have given the wrong impression, not wishing to upset the blonde whose smile was quite infectious but once which he'd quickly vaccinated himself against.
"Forgive me. I did not wish to cause offence".
"You have not!" She quickly replied, laughing at her own response a second later. "Though it would appear I am unable to mask my intentions".
"Then my question still stands as to what they might be, for I cannot see them even if your mask has slipped".
Words were put to one side for a moment, actions speaking in their place. The emboldened Olivia, forced to show him what she wanted upon his insistence, placed her hand over his, where it rested on the bar. He knew that was what she wanted from the moment she'd engaged him, but the movement of her hand to settle on his was the confirmation he needed. The James Maguire that caved into her amorous comments earlier in their conversation, even joining in with them, would have considered following her up on the clear offer… and somehow, he still was. The smallest part of him demanded that he allowed himself an evening of pleasure with the glamourous blonde who looked at him with such passion in her eyes. It would only be one night… there would be no consequences as he'd be leaving for the seas before too long.
The strangest of events changed his mind. As he adjusted slightly to her hand on his, he felt the wooden spoon moved in his inside pocket, his brain suddenly shooting a reminder to its front that there was something else within that pocket. The true reason for why he could not give in to accept Olivia's proposal. A photograph of the life he'd left behind in Derry and more importantly of the even more beautiful blonde that waited for him there, the Princess that he did not deserve. Giving in to Olivia would forever taint his relationship with Erin, their similarities reminding him of a night he knew he would regret should he show such weakness. He would have to thank the spoon another time, not that the spoon would understand him, simply being a wooden utensil.
"Miss Hartley…". He spoke her name gently as his hand began to slide away from her grasp.
"Olivia". She corrected him, emotion already prickling in her throat.
"Olivia… I think you are a beautiful young woman, who would bring out such joy and happiness in any man…". His words sent her bright red. "… but that man cannot be me".
As he was speaking, his other hand reached into the inner pocket of his uniform, retrieving the photograph kindly noted to him by the wooden spoon. The photograph was placed into the hand she'd previously held over his. Inspecting it closely, he watched as the realisation dawned on her as to why he was letting her down. He had someone else waiting for him at home that, by the picture at least, looked to love him dearly. A love that the picture showed was reciprocated too.
"I can see why you are an officer, James". She giggled, no animosity presented in return like he'd feared.
"Why is that?" He chuckled back.
"To inform me so politely and gentlemanly, you are clearly not a man from the ranks".
Complimenting him graciously, Oliva fought her own feelings. Upon spotting the Lieutenant alone at the bar, with his incredibly muscular frame and slicked back hair, her immediate attraction allowed hopes to rise that she could get to know him better, ideally spending the night with him. Her plans were scuppered from no fault of her own. This other blonde in the photograph, who might not have been as pretty as she was, obviously held the key to her countryman's heart. Her attempts to pick the lock with her own charm, could not supersede the evident love between James and the young woman who rested her back onto him, truly relaxing at home, wherever they lived.
"I meant every word. I may also be able to offer you an alternative, should I be able to persuade my commanding officer".
"Do explain".
"One of my fellow officers may be an interesting man for you to read. He gives away little to the rest of us… perhaps you may be able to coax more emotion out of him if he were to be allowed leave this Friday evening, to come here for seven o'clock?"
Playing matchmaker for Junior Lieutenant Barnes was not covered in the officer's manual. It most certainly wasn't an order that Borrett would seek to deploy, the pursuit of love long being over for him upon his marriage. James would not see Miss Hartley unhappy though. Spotting the flicker of joy beneath her ocean-like eyes, the thought of her being contented allowed him to settle once more. But he could not stay for long. He would not allow himself to.
"I will be here then should your friend wish to pay a visit".
"I shall see what I can do. In the meantime, I must bid you farewell for the evening, Olivia. It has been insightful talking to you".
Bringing her hand up to his lips, she held onto the bar with the other hand to stop herself from falling, knees weakening at the press of his lips to her knuckles. Nazi Germany could invade the moon and he would still be the same well mannered, endearing gentleman that conducted himself with high honour.
"Goodbye James".
"Goodbye Olivia".
Finishing off the last dregs of his whisky, he waved to the barman to let the veteran know that he was off for the night. The latter was busy with serving more customers, as well as speaking with what James assumed to be his wife, leaving unable to say anything in return, waving in return instead.
Outside in the now cooler air, the light was beginning to fade, the sun starting to drop down over the fields of the English countryside. Wildlife still roamed around him on the walk back to the base, though he did not pay much attention to it.
All he could think about was Erin Josephine Quinn.
Guilt was the overriding feeling of all. He hadn't progressed any further with Olivia, but just to think of it was bad enough to stain his conscience. In another time and another place, he would not have even entertained the idea of sleeping with another woman when he was already committed to Erin. Circumstances were against them though, unable to see each other even for a few minutes due to his commitments to the war effort. During the brief moments between comments, he'd pictured what it would be like to be with Olivia, being able to touch her wherever he wished once they'd found somewhere private. She would allow him to love her, suggesting as such by the otherwise innocent placing of the hand on top of his. He'd thought of her instead of Erin… the guilt ate away at him like tuberculosis to the lungs.
Shame was the other prominent emotion. Spending months in only the company of men, save for the occasional visit of a woman to the base, the first woman he'd spoken to for an extended period of time made his heart beat faster. He was ashamed of how easy he'd become, able to fall for a woman just by seeing her lips move it would seem. If Erin found out how easily he was enticed by another woman, then she would have every right to forget him, he reasoned to himself. In his current state, she deserved a lot better than the bumbling fool of a Lieutenant she loved so very much.
As the thoughts became darker in his mind, James stopped by the roadside for a moment. His hand subconsciously drifted to his stomach, though it was too late to stop the eruption. He hurled the contents into the grassy bank at the side of the road. A passer-by would have assumed that the normally responsible Lieutenant must have let himself go for the evening, but that was not the reason at all. He spewed up from his own conscience's reminder that far away, a begging for his return Erin would be there for him once leave could be taken, and he hoped, once the war was over.
He knew what he needed to do, other than clean himself up, once the sickness subsided. He'd procrastinated on writing another letter until closer to the time that they would be leaving aboard the Illustrious. After the events of the evening though, the procrastination was no longer acceptable following the turmoil he'd been put through.
The same as talking to her, it was not, but writing to Erin was the best that he could do without seeing her at all.
Seeing her would be the only cure for his aching heart… but fate was a mistress so cruel, that even the Kingdom's very best pilot could not battle it to come out on top.
He knew what was going on, sensing the mood as soon as he opened the Quinn's front door. Napoleon accompanying him whilst Orla spent some time with Marie, David knew the tense atmosphere of whenever a letter arrived was the one in the house that morning. The mood was almost the same when he'd sit in his room at Hendon or Worthy Down, writing with or without James. There were emotions such as love and longing that would manifest themselves briefly, crawling out from their hiding places within. It was no longer an atmosphere that he partook in, but he recognised its familiar scent as if it were time for him to write again.
But something was off.
The sound of sobbing was muffled by the distinctly dulcet tone of Gerry's voice, telling Erin that James would be alright. That everything would be okay.
Instantly, his thoughts turned to his best friend. He prayed everyday for James' safety, begging the Lord that one day the Englishman would get to return home not only for Erin, but so they could return to the bright days of their friendship too. Nights at the pub would never quite be the same without Peter and Lorcan, but it would be a start to have James alongside him. The light of the future remained locked away behind the rampaging storm of Nazism though, and judging by Erin's tears, it appeared to him as if the same snarling beast may have taken a chunk out of James too.
"Erin, love… don't worry. James will be fine…". Gerry again soothed her, David hearing his voice from out in the corridor. "… I know it looks bleak now, but he will be alright".
Increasing his step, to the despairing Napoleon who was content to labour his way into the front room, David's worries took over. He couldn't spare a second, not when it came to James. Or Erin for that matter, who clearly required a significant amount of comforting.
Mary was watching on from the kitchen, tears in her eyes, dipping her head slightly in his direction as he entered the living room. Anna sat at Erin's feet, almost like a dog herself, stroking her big sister's legs as she cried. It was a touching sight, that on any other day would have his own heart melt, but his heart was too busy wondering what was going on with the Englishman. Gerry looked up to see him walking over to them, flashing him an appreciative smile for coming to ease his burden. He'd been having to hold Erin for at least half an hour while she continued to cry, her fears over James seeming to only increase as time went by. He noticed the letter in her hands then too, which was quickly removed by Gerry, who passed it on up to him.
"This came this morning from James…". Gerry informed him. "… it… it's fair to see he's a wee bit unhappy…".
Another fear of David's was James' mood once he left. He knew how vital their conversations were to his own moral, realising so even more a few days after coming home. As much as having the chance to spend as many hours as he wanted with Marie, when he was not at work where he'd since returned to, not being able to laugh and joke with James was a privilege he missed. A privilege he sorely wanted to return to his life.
Holding the letter up, he began to read it…
Dear Erin,
I am sat in my room overlooking our airfield, taking in the sights and sounds of aircraft taking off to head out on missions. There is always a smile on my face watching my fellow comrades take to the skies in order to do their bit, having now felt the rush of impending battle. I do not wish to dwell on it with you for too long, as the whole experience has left me questioning myself rather than taking any joy from what I have done, but I cannot not say anything either. I found myself over the North Sea when a few less than friendly fellows met me in the air. They were keen to ensure that I did not get home in one piece, doing everything in their power to force me to swim the last stretch back to the coast. Sadly for them, they found themselves swimming with the fishes, though at the speed they entered the water, it was rather drowning with them. I was given a hero's welcome when I returned, but I do not find myself believing in the myth that my actions constituted anything heroic.
I have killed three men, Erin. I appreciate that statement is damning and uncontextualised, but the fact remains that I have taken the lives of three men that I did not know. As far as I know, they hadn't committed any crimes themselves, they were just men working in the service of their country. That their country happens to be the aggressor in this war is irrelevant. I played judge, jury and executioner a few afternoons ago, a role which I have always feared that I would be unsuitable for, yet find myself having to perform out of necessity. We are all having to make sacrifices in this bitter, bloody war, but to sacrifice's one conscience? I fear that could be one step too far. On the other hand though, we have a duty to protect this country, and the men whose lives ended during our scrap that day may well have gone onto commit atrocities, such as bombing cities. Bomb our home perhaps, should they gain the range to do so. My conscience fights my duty on a daily basis, a battle for which I am always going to be on the front line.
Other than my skirmish a few afternoons ago, I am otherwise well. My duties do keep me busy most of the time and since David returned home, I find myself spending more time in executing them. I have often thought that life would be easier if I was just another airman, without this level of responsibility that hangs over me all of the time, but I see the ability that I have to be able to help the men at my command, which is an honour that I revel in. You know me to be a realist, not a dreamer, which greatly aids me in being able to shape the lives of those around me, to create better images of my men on the home front as well as the war front. The men all seem able to come to me with the knowledge that they will be treated fairly, a projection of my own qualities that I wish them to take inspiration from. I hope you would agree.
I hope many things though. Which is what makes everything else I have said in this letter irrelevant when I think about it, because there is something that I am missing as a man and it is not a quality or trait that can be found easily.
I miss you.
My commanding officer allowed me to have a night's leave in the local area tonight, which I would add was my first night off duty for months. You cannot say that I do not work hard! With all leave cancelled as you know, it came as such a shock, but a treat that I held great expectations for nonetheless. My evening began well upon meeting the friendly barman of the local pub, who was a veteran of the last war. Partaking in the consumption of whisky improved the general aura around me too, as you know how much I enjoy a relaxing glass in the evening after a long day. But then a woman our age struck up a conversation with me, changing the course of my previously pleasant evening entirely.
From the second I turned to look into her eyes, I was reminded of you. She was blonde too, which only furthered your similarities with her as well as carrying a vibrant, intellectually stimulating conversation too. You have been in my head ever since, which has led me to conclude that the one sacrifice I have suffered the most with, is not having you to hold. Some mornings I wake up slightly dazed, hoping to find that you are by my side, with the war just a distant nightmare that would not return after waking fully. Except that nightmare either never ends or never begins in the first place. My reality is that I cannot have you, which is beginning to make my heart crack in the most detrimental of fashions. You are everything to me, Erin. Absolutely everything. Which means that when I cannot have you, then I cannot have anything at all in the world.
There is no me, without you.
I wish that the war would end tomorrow because I would be back home within hours to kiss you. I would never let you go ever again because I do not wish to think of what a life would be like without you in it. Yet I worry that this war might prevent me, one way or the other, and for the first time since departing your side last September, I can genuinely say that I am scared for the days that are to come. It is not an emotion that I can share with anyone else, the men needing me to be a beacon of motivation not trepidation… my fellow officers believing that I am showing weakness. Erin, you are the only one who I can talk to. I just wish that I could speak with you more. Every day without you is a punishment that I go to sleep at night wondering if I can survive another day of.
I must go now, for I have an early start tomorrow morning but thank you for being there for me.
I love you, ever so much.
My Princess.
My Life.
Your James.
David's initial reaction was confusion at how he'd gotten the letter through the censors. Then again, if anyone could pull it off, it was James…
"He… He…".
Erin choked out the words, looking up to meet David's waiting eyes once he'd finished reading the letter. The outlines of which were puffy, clear indicators of the devastation she felt from reading James' honest expression of his own feelings.
"He's so miserable… He… he needs me!" She wailed.
"Love…". Gerry spoke softly, still attempting to comfort her.
"I can't do without him either!"
Her continued anguish, turning to muffled cries when she buried herself into Gerry's shoulder, bit viciously at the closely guarded path to David's conscience. James may have believed his to have been challenged by his first brush with true combat, but his best friends was no better. A damning guilt crept into every cranny, consuming his thoughts as he gazed upon the tearful blonde, wrapped up in her father's arms. The roles could have been reversed, James standing where he was as Orla cried, though it would still most likely have been Gerry offering the comforting shoulder to cry on. Instead, it was David who led the perfect life now, away from the danger that he'd once shared with his best friend, who fought alone as he delved deeper into an unchecked depression that could not be hidden forever. Not even James could hide his unhappiness for that long.
The guilt would not leave David the rest of the day.
He couldn't stop thinking about poor James. The same James he'd left behind to return to his grieving family, forgetting he'd left another brother behind to cry for the two that were lost.
A brother who had no choice but to continue on with his duty until the war was over, without sight of when he could come home.
If he ever would come home…