The letter he writes to his mum is not quite as honest as the one to Jemma. He does not lay out so explicitly how many times he's come close to death or how close he currently feels to it. Instead he attempts to explain why he's there in the first place, how he'd never meant to cause her any pain, and how he hopes she's proud of him. He gives both notes to Hunter and makes him promise to mail both out if he goes down.
Weeks of icy winds and torrential rain bleed into another month on the front with no respite. There's little movement or activity. Just cold. He hears about a man in another company who had been carrying a Mills bomb in his hip pocket and accidentally pulled the pin out when he'd been reaching for his handkerchief. The thought of dying such a senseless preventable death haunts Fitz, but he soon realizes there's little difference in the manner of a man's death up here. It's a little patrolling every night, occasional small arms fire, but their numbers dwindle daily. A sick list composed of Jocks suffering from everything from frostbite to dysentery. He is stiff with cold, a core of ice encased in faintly warm dirty skin. He writes often about the cold: how wool shirts and overcoats still don't keep the chill out during the motionless hours he's on watch and what it's like to try string wire or clean his Enfield with stiff fingers that refuse to bend.
The worse things get, the more benign his letters to Jemma are. He leaves out anything about assaults and artillery, but tells her about the Indian troops he'd patrolled with and the Christmas he'd shared eating cold rations with the Anzacs. His "death letter", as Hunter calls it, remains unsent.
Fitz calculates that in the last one-hundred days of combat, they have had six real days rest. Even then nobody had a real rest. Just a couple of days when they knew straight away they were going back to the line. Fitz's mind never registered it as a rest. They're weary and fed up. The handful of veterans that had fought across North Africa joke morbidly about missing the sand to maintain their sanity. He rereads Jemma's letters every day and spends most of his free time gazing at her photograph, trying to assure himself that she'll still want him if he should somehow return from this.
They're passing through another deserted mountain hamlet when he looks at himself in the mirror for the first time in, what feels like, months. He stares at his reflection in the broken piece of glass, wondering if she'd even recognize him. Aside from the patchy beard he'd told her about months ago, his face is gaunt with dark circles beneath his eyes. There's a scar above his left eye where he'd caught a fragment of treeburst months ago and his wiry hair is as long and unkempt as it's ever been. He holds his hands out next and tries to tell himself it's the stress and lack of sleep that is making both hands shake. Four months of dirt and blood are trapped beneath his fingernails and the skin has been torn from the knuckles on three of his fingers from the bouldering they'd had to do on yesterday's patrol. He thinks about what's beneath his uniform then, the countless cuts and bruises, and curses himself for even daring to imagine a scenario where Jemma would see him without it on. He'd survived this long by living minute-to-minute, not getting lost in dreams about the future. He wouldn't start now.
Hunter's voice echoes for him throughout the deserted home and Fitz drops the bit of broken glass back into the sink so it shatters into further pieces. Ignoring Hunter, he stares at the jagged fragments, remembering a time back in Reggio after they'd first landed on the mainland, when he'd tried to straighten up each ruined house they entered. He'd looked around at the books and china and tablecloths that used to be a home and attempted to right it somehow.
"Oi, there you are! Answer me next time, you pillock! Thought a sniper got you."
"What's wrong?"
"They're setting the company CP behind the church, want all NCOs there at 1300 for a command brief. That's you now."
"Right." Fitz does not like the new responsibility that had come with his move to being section leader, but there are no other Lance Corporals left in the section with as much time in service as him.
"You okay, mate?" Hunter asks.
"M'fine." Fitz pulls at his jaw with his hand and scratches his beard. "So we're staying here for the night?"
"Some of us. They want to send a patrol out into the valley."
"Of course they do," Fitz grumbles.
"13 Platoon's up. They won't send us." Fitz can see straight through Hunter's false confidence, but he tries to be confident too.
When they move to the Company CP, Fitz isn't sure what he's more excited to see, the crates of ammunition, new Compo rations or the canvas bags of mail. He draws ammo first, then his rations, then waits patiently to hear his name called. There are a handful of letters from his mum, but only two from Jemma.
He grumbles about how backed up the mail must be to have only gotten two letters from her this month.
"You're standing there with fresh food, fresh rounds, and fresh mail from the love of your miserable goddamned life," Hunter reminds him. "Rumor has it we might even get new uniforms." He throws a tin of plum pudding Fitz's way that hits him hard in the chest. "Stop complaining."
Twenty minutes later it's Hunter who is complaining. The rumors switch from showers and clean uniforms to rumors of another mission. There is another river to cross up ahead. This one, the Moro River, will be the fourth major river crossing in the last three months.
"Please tell me the engineers have already built the bridge." Fitz pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
"They have not. Guess who's going to serve as a screening force while they build it."
"Why is it always us?"
"Not only that." The sarcastic edge to Hunter's voice prepares Fitz for the worst. "We're going with the Lancashire company."
"The ones that have only been in country a week?"
"And been parked on the coast the whole time. It'll be their first proper mission."
There are no ridgelines to cross or objectives to seize. In terms of missions they've done, this seems to be a relatively simple one. They will cross a canal in canvas boats and provide an infantry screen around the fledgling bridge the engineers are constructing across the river and canal. There have been no reports of German activity and assault boats have already been provided for them.
"Those are taking the whole company across?" Fitz asks skeptically. The boats have wooden bottoms, canvas sides, and look to only hold about six men each. There's one paddle for each boat, an engineering marvel that makes Fitz roll his eyes considering they're not narrow enough to even paddle like a canoe. Fitz finds flaws in almost every part of the mission plan that he makes no effort to keep to himself during the brief.
"Corporal, do you have a problem with the mission?" the subaltern asks pointedly. Fitz is reminded of his conversation with Jemma years ago about being too cerebral in the army. Except this isn't high-level analysis. This is just common fucking sense.
"No, sir, I'm just wondering where the intelligence is coming from about no German activity?"
"From the Engineers."
"Right, but they're on this side of the canal." Fitz's bottom lip protrudes and he raises his palms in question. "What's to say we don't alert every damn German in the valley crossing in these bloody boats?"
The reprimand is swift and intended to be scathing, but Fitz has a hard time taking the brand new subaltern seriously. Hunter laughs later when they're preparing their quits, questioning why Fitz has waited this long to poke holes in the ridiculous missions they're sent on each day. Fitz just shrugs as they prepare their kits and prepare to move out. He supposes it's the same reason he'd written a letter like he had to Jemma and his mum. He's stopped caring very much about any consequences aside from surviving each day.
The boats, as expected, are difficult to maneuver and, as Fitz attempted to explain, seem to only move in circles. For as many river crossings as they've done by now, it's almost embarrassing to see how slowly it takes to simply cross a canal. If there are any Germans in the valley, they've splashed across the canal so loudly they've surely alerted them all now to their presence.
The new Lancashire platoons are as raw as he and Hunter had feared. They lack basic noise discipline and are terribly exposed, fanned out with their kits off before they even set up proper defensive positions and set up sectors of fire. Fitz is helping set up communications on the 18 Set with Company HQ when everything starts. He hears what sounds like gunfire on their left flank and when he looks up, both platoons from the Lancashire unit are scarpering back to the canal.
"What the - ?" Fitz begins to question upon seeing the fleeing soldiers. He thinks at first it is a feigned retreat, one to draw the Germans out and expose them. Then the mortar lands.
The blast is disorienting and Fitz can't hear anything in the immediate aftermath, but he can see nearly everybody seems to have taken shrapnel, including himself. He feels a sticky warmth from his shoulder, but has no time to do self-care. The only thing that matters now is returning fire as best they can. Hunter and the lieutenant scream uselessly at the retreating men to stand and fight, knowing full well they can't hear them. Fitz can clearly see the Germans advancing on their weak and untenable position, probably two companies strong. Fitz can respect the sheer genius of the German attack and the discipline it had required. They likely had intel on the new Lancashire unit and had been waiting for them to let their guard down. Now they're throwing everything they have at them. Machine guns seem to open up from every quarter. The shattering noise of automatic weapons, grenades, and mortars at such close range is both deafening and debilitating.
"We're fucked," Hunter shouts matter-of-factly as he watches the two Lancashire platoons on either flank continue to run. There's no place to mass a counterattack. The valley is flat as a football pitch, a sticky pool of snow and mud dotted with deep puddles of icy water, but nothing that could offer cover or concealment. Fitz isn't surprised when the order comes for a tactical withdrawal.
It's a maneuver he hasn't practiced since his time with the Highlanders. Practicing on the moors, it always seemed to be a logical option in the face of overwhelming firepower. Two sections lay down covering fire while the others retreat. Fitz knows, even as Hunter shouts the plan for the retrograde action, that with only two Bren guns and a handfield of Enfields it is a hopeless endeavor though. This valley is where they're going to die. Defending a canal that leads to a bridge over a river somewhere in Italy.
"Hell's Last Issue?" One Jock shouts in query and the rest of the section echoes him with the same phrase, this time as an affirmative statement and not a question. The silly call and response had been a part of the unit's esprit de corps since Sicily. When ridiculous orders came down, whether for a useless patrol, latrine duty, or a suicide mission like what they're about to embark upon, it had been their rallying cry. Not one man could explain what the useless moniker even meant, but they all loved to shout it. Fitz had never taken part, but with his mortality staring him in the face he now shouts it back.
Fitz and Smyth stay close to the lieutenant through both iterations of the retreat. They try to communicate the position of the Germans to call in mortars, but there's barely time before they have to run again. Each time, fewer men get up from the line to retreat. When the lieutenant is shot through the jaw, Hunter takes over and orders an all-out retreat for whoever is left to get to the canal.
And so Fitz runs.
It's the first time he's ever run from the enemy like this. Not running to seek cover and concealment, not running to set up a defensive position, but running away. Running for his life. It feels wrong. He's doing exactly what they'd cursed the Lancashire platoons for doing and expects to feel a bullet hit him square in the back any minute. Instead, it's a tug at his wrist. Still, he doesn't break stride. He just glances behind to check on Smyth.
He calls for the young private who has carried the wireless set since Sicily, the wireless that frequently had been the only thing that kept them alive and in contact with higher. He and Smyth had never been particularly close, but they had been a unit since landing on the mainland. A well-oiled machine, their old lieutenant had once said. Smyth's body is now riddled with so many bullets Fitz can't even count. Fitz knows he's already gone when he falls to his knees beside Smyth, who had always been a better soldier than Fitz could ever hope to be. He knows if the wireless, with all its filled frequencies, falls into German hands, the results could be disastrous, not just for the rest of the company, but the entire battalion. So instead of reaching into pockets for personal items to get back to Smyth's mum like he'd promised the young soldier, he apologizes over and over to him as he works hurriedly to pull the wireless off his corpse. Something tugs at his leg as he jerks the straps off his shoulders and he continues to hear the crack of bullets all around him.
Pain radiates down his shin as he races toward the canal with the wireless set now on his back. Hunter is nearly at the canal with the rest of the company. He turns to shout for Fitz to hurry, like he has countless times, and then crumples to the ground like he never has before. Fitz doesn't see what exactly hits him, whether it's shrapnel from the mortars the Germans are lobbing or a bullet, but when he gets to Hunter there is a dark spot forming on his abdomen.
"Get up!" Fitz grits, trying to haul him to his feet, ignoring the part of his brain that knows a gutshot soldier is a goner.
In nearly every situation Fitz has ever been in with Hunter, the sergeant has always had a quip to break uncomfortable silences, a toast to a fallen comrade, a dig at a commanding officer, a gripe about the sheer misery of their situation. He's always had something to say. This time, as blood seeps rapidly from the wounds, the dark stains quickly covering nearly his entire midsection, he's silent.
"Go on," he orders Fitz shakily, who curses the ridiculous directive, seizes him by the webbing across his shoulders, and begins hauling him toward the canal. Hunter cries out in pain while Fitz drags him, but then quickly goes silent. Fitz knows it means he's probably been hit again, but he doesn't dare look down until he reaches the canal where five panicked soldiers are all trying to get on the last remaining boat.
"Here, get him on! Get him on!" Fitz can see another dark circle on Hunter's uniform.
"Is he even alive?" The soldiers trying to debark amid the hail of bullets question.
"Just get him on!" Fitz helps move his friend onto the boat, indicating, as he wades into the canal, that he has no intention of forcing himself onto the already floundering wooden vessel too. Unaware of how deep the water is, he tries to cling to the edge of the boat with his wounded arm, while holding his rifle above his head with the other. It works just fine until his feet lose contact with the bottom and the radio that weighs nearly three stone begins to pull him down. He bobs in and out of the water, gasping for air and hanging on grimly to the edge of the plywood boat. Bullets continue to snap over their heads and the other soldiers scream at him to let go of the vessel so they can cross. They're desperately using the butt of their rifles to propel the boat across the river to no avail. Fitz tries to push them forward, but instead continues to sink into the water under the weight of the wireless set.
He curses everything. His own idiocy at taking the wireless, this idiotic mission three days from when they were supposed to be pulled off the front, the numpties from Lancashire who had panicked and run under enemy fire instead of standing and fighting.
He thinks briefly of Jemma and his mum, hardly believing after months of slogging his way through the mountains, fighting to come back to her like he'd promised, after weeks of impossible shelling and the constant threat of sniper fire, freezing rains, howling winds, and one-hundred twenty-four straight days of combat that this is how it ends. In the freezing, stinking water of a forty-foot wide canal.
The last thing he sees is the butt of a rifle. Then everything is black.