A time like no other Chapter 42: Prisoner of War, a derry girls fanfic

Chapter 42: Prisoner of War 7th January 1941

Drip…

It was the backing to the new life that James Maguire now found himself living. The constant sound that would greet him when he would wake up in the morning was the same sound that would be in his ears as sleep claimed him. There were worse sounds that he could have heard, but the monotony of it annoyed him greatly. It was all that he had to focus on in the room that he was in, wherever he truly was.

Drip…

All that he did know was that he was alive. His brain came out of the incident intact, remembering the night that his life should have ended. Through the dark night he could see the look on the young Italian soldier's face when he realised that he'd presumably killed the pilot. Those were the last set of eyes he assumed he would ever see, ready for the darkness to consume him for good, but it was not to be. His hand found David's as he lay dying but only dying. Death was not prepared to claim him on that nippy November night. Full up from consuming David, the Englishman was spared the axe of fate to find a worse fate lying in store for him.

Drip…

He could not raise his head to find the source of the dripping, which had changed from the original sound he'd heard over Christmas time. During the festive season and into the new year, melting snow dripped through the metal bars that let in the only light to the room. Under the ground, the melting snow dropped off of the grassy bank atop the light source, puddling over the Englishman's left shoulder. Like in Derry and Berlin, Taranto received a heavy heap of snow in late December which made life unbearable for many who lived in each city. In the Italian port, efforts to salvage the battleships sunk in shallow waters were extremely difficult with the frosty conditions. Some nights the harbour would freeze over completely, which meant they would have to break through the ice just to be able to start work again the next morning. The Conte Di Cavour, which James and David sunk, was even left completely submerged during those weeks whilst the Italian engineers worked on some of the other battleships. They were confident that they could return most of the ships to service, although how long it would take would be another matter. The Swordfish squadrons dealt the Regia Marina a deadly blow that would take a lot of time, and perhaps more importantly, a lot of money, to repair. Italy could not afford to lose any more ships, lacking the wealth of their German allies or British enemies when it came to replacing them.

James could not care less about the damaged he'd done though. The damage that was done to him in return was far greater.

With little else to focus on when he first began to regain consciousness, his thoughts often went to the best friend he'd lost. His memories of their final night together may have ceased as he lay dying on the ground, yet the lead up to it was still fresh in his mind. The two of them were flying like devils across the skies of Taranto with the rest of the attacking aircraft, spreading merry hell around the harbour freely. Battleships were being sunk all around them thanks to the successful planning of James himself and Admiral Cunningham. The great success that he envisaged became a reality that night, one that he could scarcely believe was true.

They'd weaved their way around the destroyers, whose gun crews desperately attempted to bring them down as they shot past. Obsolete but brilliant, the Swordfish could not be hindered in its progress towards the main target. He could still remember lining up the Conte Di Cavour in his sights, waiting for the moment that the call would come from his best friend to sink the ship. The heavy guns could not bring them down no matter how much they tried, allowing them to launch their torpedo right at the battleship. A sitting duck, the satisfying sound of the torpedo entering the ship and exploding was music to the ears of the Englishman. Except the melody in his head in the seconds after was one of panic and upset. David reported in that he was hit and the night, and their lives, changed forever. Suddenly trying to control the aircraft became a challenge that not even the most talented of pilots like James could master. From being on top of the world basking in victory, the sinking feeling of being brought back to reality still sat on his conscience alongside David's death. Even when he was not completely conscious, he still blamed himself for the Irishman's death. The fault was his and his alone.

David's life started a slide that it never recovered from as they'd began their own descent, he remembered. Quite how they'd not been unlucky and botched the landing was a miracle that he could not understand, despite several days of thinking about it. They should have hit something, crashing or exploding upon impact like every other crew would have done. It was just their luck that they picked the one unmined field in the whole of that area of Taranto to land in. Dragging David from the burning wreckage was a task that his muscles would never forgive him for, what was left of them after nearly two months of laying flat anyway. Cradling his best friend while he died, the promise that he made to look after Orla and Marie was firmly implanted in his head still. How he would go about it was a thought for another time, although with the amount of time available to him, that time was not so far in the distant future.

In the more immediate future, the pain in his shoulder was excruciating. Thoughts of one's best friend's death were ones that would usually be the worst to think of in any other situation, but the more James thought about the past, the more it distracted him from the present condition of his shoulder. An inability to move his head properly frustrated him greatly, being unable to clearly see the damage to his left shoulder. From the fateful November evening, he remembered that the final bullet found its way into the shoulder, missing his head where it was accidentally aimed at. If the trajectory hadn't changed, he would not have been hearing the dripping sounds that day unless they dripped that way in the afterlife. Strangely, it did not affect him sleeping through the night like it should have done. However, he believed he knew the true reason why.

Throughout his period of consciousness, which was weeks more than he thought it to be, people would visit him. No word of English was spoken, nothing that he could hear anyway. Deciphering what was being said was impossible when he could not speak or understand Italian, but he knew from the passionate tone that they were from the country. It made sense too, seeing as he'd landed in a field in Italy as he was shot down. Guessing at the total in his head, he would say they'd visited at least twice a day to bring him the food and water that he required just to able to survive. He was helped every day to consume them, without ever speaking to say thanks or do anything other than appear lucid yet confused. Until he could hear a word of English, he was uncomfortable about saying anything to any of them at all. He was upset that he could not show his gratitude though, appreciating greatly the lengths they were going to in order to keep him alive, when they could have left him to die.

The assistance in consuming two meals a day was not the only aid that he received from the unknown Italians. One of them was a woman, he could from her voice even though he did not know what she was saying, and the woman would re-apply bandages to his wounds daily. He did not know what she was doing most of the time as the work around the wound of his shoulder would usually leave him unconscious for a few minutes. Every time that he woke again, she'd finished. Sometimes he would see the bloody rags that were pulled from his body that fought against succumbing to the pain of the injuries on a daily basis. Lesser men who did not look after their bodies as much as he did would have long perished, but James was too strong to do so. His mental resilience was also put to the test, which it was so far passing.

Only when he thought of one person did it break. He could withstand the pain that his body was reminding him about on a daily basis, the bed that was stained with his own bodily fluids when he could not relieve himself properly and even knowing that David was dead. What he could not stand was when his mind went to Erin. His beloved wife, a title he'd fixed her as he lay dazed for weeks because there was no one to stop him, would now be led to believe that he was dead. One of the disadvantages of remaining fully cognitive despite the close brush with death was that he could still remember the process of what would have happened when he died. The letters that the whole squadron wrote home to their loved ones would have been released for him and David, unleashing a world of suffering upon Erin and Orla. It was wrong to think, but at least for the latter it was the truth. For his love though, she would be grieving falsely for her man that was very much alive but could not tell her so. Those thoughts devasted him…

Drip…

The dripping sound was not alone for long. Another sound made its way into his mind as the minutes ticked away in the dark, damp room. Whenever the mysterious Italians would come to aid him, he would always hear them coming. There must have been a long, empty corridor on the way down to where he was accommodated, as the footsteps would echo down them for a good thirty seconds before the door to the room was opened. The entrance was almost medieval in nature, a thick black door with only a small window slit that remained shut at all times to block the only other potential light source for the room.

Footsteps were in his head for another twenty seconds or so before the turning of a lock replaced them alongside the rattling of the keys responsible. There must have been five or six locks on the door that held him from venturing out into the corridor, hearing the satisfying click of each one being unlocked every day. One day he would count them when he became too bored to do anything else, which would probably be the following day given how bored he was. First though, he would have to fight his own doubts to be able to breach a line that he'd been hesitant to cross. Trying to speak to them would be a challenge that could see him killed though with no way of moving given the pain he was in, it was worth a try. Killing him would put a stop to the pain at least…

When the door finally opened, it became clear that there was three of them that were visiting him that day. It had not been light that long, the stricken pilot piecing together that it would be breakfast time. Meals at regular times were hardly a pressing concern for him, just having access to them was a blessing when he was in enemy territory, if his assumption was correct. If they'd woken him in the middle of the night to eat, he would not have cared. For the first time since he'd regained consciousness, he found the energy to prop himself up slightly. His shoulder gave out a jolting pain from the stress placed upon the still healing entry wound in it, though he gracefully declined from yelping out in pain as not to startle them. He could finally see the wound properly when he did, a very unpleasant sight. His shoulder had long since stopped bleeding but the bandages around it were still soaked with sweat and some fluid, hinting to him that at some point it may have been infected. Before he could look down his body at the rest of his injuries, the woman who'd aided him for weeks came into view.

She never smiled, he'd noticed from weeks of visits, always going about her business roughly with little affection shown. Granted, he never felt her dress all of his wounds as he would usually pass out, but the initial removal of the bandages was always rough. He was determined to stay awake for it that day though, to attempt to find out more about where he was and what was going to happen to him. They were keeping him alive for one reason or another, but what that reason was he did not know. The woman might not know either but if he spoke English and one of them registered what he was saying, they might be courteous enough to tell him the reasoning behind it.

Food always came before the redressing of the injuries though. He would never lose consciousness whilst hungry and dehydrated. Noting that he was now sat up in a slightly higher position to normal, she scanned him for a couple of moments. Hesitating to proceed for a brief second, one of the men behind her said something which must have been an order to continue, as she did so immediately. Two thick slices of bread and cheese would again be his meal. In the situation that he was in, he did not have the right to ask for anything better, but a hot meal would have been fantastic in the cold room that he was being kept in. They at least were sparing when it came to giving him blankets to sleep in at night; adding a warm meal to that would have made him a lot happier though. One of the other two men, the one that had not spoken, came over a second later to help to lift James slightly so that they could change his sheets.

He did not like to think of it too often, but he'd yet to figure out a way of being able to go to the toilet. His injuries were preventing him from getting out of bed himself to do it, the legs that were bandaged hiding their natural condition, which was horrid. Being shot in both legs ended any hope of him being able to spring up to answer any calls of nature that he may have, the extent of the damage being unknown to the Englishman. It left him two choices, both of which had been done during his time in the dark room. If his body wished to excrete like it needed to, when the woman was there he would make a grunting noise to indicate he wished to go. Someone else would always help her lift him over what he guessed would be a bucket so that he could go. Embarrassingly for James, they would clean him up afterwards too, an action robbed of being completed by the young man himself because of the wound to his left shoulder. In his life away from serving Britain, it would have been mortifying not to be able to go the toilet properly or receive help from others in order to do so. Volumes were spoken about the war, that he felt little shame from receiving help in his time of need. The other option was to soil the sheets and even more gutting was that he'd had no choice but to on another occasions when the need became desperate.

His sheets were clean that morning though without any need to relieve himself once the three of them were in the room. The man held him up whilst the woman quickly removed the sweat covered sheets to replace them with new ones. Receiving treatment that was unexpected, he flashed an appreciative smile towards the woman, who shrugged off the compliment with a vicious glare. He would not be smiling at her again. He would talk to her, or one of the men instead. As the man holding him returning him to the bed, James began to think about what he would say. A simple thank you appealed greatly, the pilot owing them that much.

Biding his time, he waited for another couple of minutes as she continued to prepare the meal that she would be helping him to consume. Once the water was poured into the cup he would drink from, James chose his moment to speak as it was placed into his shaking right hand.

"T-Thank you".

The three Italians all jumped out of their skin when he spoke. The woman's face soon returned to the scornful one that she would usually wear, not that she was any less shocked. Astounded, the two men shared looks between each other. After the initial confusion at their prisoner speaking subsided however, the man who'd ordered the woman around earlier on appeared to take charge again, issuing rushed instructions to the other two. At least James assumed that they were rushed, the man appearing to be speaking at a pace that the fastest cars in the world would struggle to match.

In less than a minute, the helpful man who'd held his weight and the woman who would usually tend to his needs, left the room. Shutting the heavy door carefully behind them, it left James alone with the man that was seemingly in charge. He was a man of around forty years old if the Englishman were to guess, sporting early signs of aging thanks to the grey wisps in his facial hair. The other two mustn't have gone too far though, as he did not hear the heavy footsteps of them walking away down the echoey corridor. The man in charge retrieved a chair from an area of the room that James had only ever thought was dark and empty, coming to sit right up next to him by where the woman left the water, bread and cheese.

"My name is Professor Roberto Molinari".

Vocalising in perfect English, the man revealed himself to be a student of science. A professor no less, a very well educated and knowledgeable man.

James took the information in, dipping his head ever so slightly to acknowledge the Professor. He was not expecting to be in the care of someone of his ability, surprised to find that he would have attracted the interest of a Professor. In addition to the wispy beard that showed his aging, the Professor wore thick glasses over his tired eyes, his hair receding notably. Time was not kind to the man, though James was not going to be stopping to feel any sympathy for him.

"You… you are James, yes?"

Speaking perfect English, the Professor's accent still stayed when he changed to James' language. It was quite a thick accent if the Englishman had to guess, though his lack of knowledge on the Italian language meant that he could not guess where the man was from other than assuming it was Taranto.

"Y-Yes…". He answered cautiously.

The Professor did not reply immediately, taking his measure of the young Pilot. Now that James had spoken, his care towards the man would have to change. The three of them that would visit him would always work away whilst speaking in Italian to each other, which had always worked perfectly for them. With the man in their care now fully conscious and aware of what was going on around him, he would have to explain what they were doing. James was in a foreign land where he knew he would be seen as the enemy, the Professor in turn understanding that mindset. He was well aware that the Englishman may question what they were doing to him if they did it silently so a rapport would need to be established to avoid any misunderstandings.

"You are very lucky…". The Professor continued. "Not many would… survive… the injuries that you have".

"I… I am".

Choking out a reply, James coughed. He'd not noticed how dry his throat was previously, but thrust into a conversation rather unexpectedly, it cried out for water. Luckily, the Professor understood the need within a second, retrieving the cup of water from where it was left on the floor next to him. Leaning over the young Englishman, he propped his head up, allowing James to sip away at the water slowly. He was not allowed to rush the drink which was beneficial for him, another act of care that he did not expect from the Italian man.

"Thank you".

Graciously appreciating what the Professor had done for him, James curved his lips up into a small smile. Reciprocating, the Professor's smile was radiant as he took the cup away, returning it to the floor once again. Re-adjusting his position on the chair, he began to address the young man, his body language not telling James of any ill feelings held by him.

"Your shoulder, it is in pain, no?"

A detective was not required to discover that for the Professor. It was a ridiculous question that even he found stupid, but to truly begin to understand the English pilot in his care, he wanted to hear it from James' mouth first. He was used to treating battlefield injuries, knowing the pain that recovering bullet wounds would bring to the young men sporting them. Those who were evacuated from Africa with grievous injuries would often find themselves in his care when they were returned home. Plenty of men would try to grit their teeth and pretend that the pain was nowhere near as bad as it truly was, lies that did not help him in trying to tend to them. He hoped that James was not a liar.

"Yes… it is very painful. Although I do remember being shot in it".

Snorting at his comment, the Professor confirmed that James was not lost in a dreamworld. The Professor was one of the first on scene behind the soldiers that night, the young man responsible for shooting the pilot breaking down and revealing himself as the culprit for doing so. In the dark fields of Taranto that night, Professor Molinari was solely responsible for keeping James alive, work that included stabilising the loss of blood from his shoulder wound.

"You were very lucky again. The bullet…". The Professor stopped, moving forward to lift James up slightly to point to a spot on his back. "… it went clean through, away from your spine. I did not have to pull that one out".

Should the bullet have become lodged, James may not have been so lucky. Only one hundred or so years earlier, the bullet staying in the tissue around his shoulder would have almost been a death sentence. Medical and surgical advances since those times reduced the potential of fatality, but it would always remain a far more difficult process in saving a life if a bullet was to be fished out first. Infection would be highly likely too with the bullet in the wound, although it appeared that James's shoulder had become infected at some point anyway. With the Professor able to converse freely in English, he decided to ask him.

"My shoulder was infected?"

"Yes. You had a fever after your first few nights here. The shoulder was infected at the same time, and we'd called for the priest… but you were strong enough to fight the injuries".

"I do not remember a fever…".

James could not remember experiencing the deliriousness that came with a fever, a familiar feeling. He was not immune to picking up illness away from the warfront. One winter, he developed a terrible fever when he was only a few years old, which he could still remember in its entirety. Still only a boy at the time, he had never been as terrified in his life before or after the couple of days that were spent shivering away. His mother was there for him then, Kathy not having the medical knowledge of Professor Molinari but instead having a mother's caring touch.

"You were not yet conscious when it happened…". He explained in his thick accent. "… but you always were asking about your friend…".

He must have been unconscious, James thought to himself, as he certainly did not remember asking about David. He'd thought about him in the weeks since he'd regained his conscious place within the world but questioning what had happened to him was not something he'd gotten around too. It would have to be asked at some point as the least that he could do for the family was to ensure that David received a proper burial. Unless the Italians had already seen to it that he did not. After all, they'd sank some of the finest ships of the Italian Fleet that night in Taranto; the understandably aggrieved Italians may not have followed the rules of war when it came to burying his best friend.

"We buried him with our dead. 'e got the full honours".

A tear was brought to James' eye at hearing that David had received no less than he deserved. The Italians were creditable for observing the honour when they easily could have avoided doing so, dumping the body wherever they saw fit. With full honours, David's exit from the world was a fitting one that observed his status as a true hero.

"I…". An emotional James could not find the words.

"The soldiers did not enjoy seeing his death and what they… thought was yours". Molinari revealed quietly. "You might have sunk our ships, but most of the people think that you are very… brave… for what you did".

The fine line between bravery and suicidal stupidity was one debated by James, David and Admiral Cunningham in the build up to the attack on Taranto. All three could agree on the element of bravery, the pilots having to have the hearts of lions to be able to even consider the incredulous task that they were being asked to perform. Where they would disagree was on how stupid it could also be seen as. Admiral Cunningham did not consider it stupid at all from his position, highlighting the strategic advantages that were to be had should they succeed. At the other end of the spectrum, from a man who would be over the skies during the attack, David believed it could be viewed as incredibly stupid, even though he respected the advantages that victory would bring. Diplomatically sat on the fence, James understood both arguments at the time without favouring one side over the other. Upon reflection, if he were to make a decision either way, he would be more favourable to David's view.

Not that it would have stopped him if he was asked to attack Taranto again…

"I cannot thank you enough f-for burying him". James stuttered.

Holding his hand up, the Professor smiled warmly back at him.

"You do not have to thank me. It is very easy to forget the… the honours of war when we are always fighting. Burying your friend helped the soldiers remember that we are all… humans too".

Humanity would often be lost during war, terrible crimes being committed during it. Unbeknownst to either of the two, the Nazi's were already committing plenty of them. Massacres were taking place on every front of the war, the SS being responsible for many of them. The death squads that roamed behind the regular soldiers did not hold the same respect for their opponent, murdering surrendering men without remorse. For them, the same honour that the Italians showed David did not matter. They would not appear weak by accepting the surrender of men from the kingdom they wished to bring to its knees.

Their conversation ceased for a couple of minutes, with the Professor retrieving the bread and cheese to begin to feed James. In his head, James knew that he could have probably found the strength to feed himself but not knowing how long he would be requiring such strength for, he decided to conserve it. For the foreseeable future he would not be going anywhere at least. The bread was never stale, which was a relief when it could have been the worst quality possible. Once again, he would not have been able to complain if it was. It was sustenance regardless of the taste. The cheese was of particularly good quality too, no expense appearing to be spared when it came to keeping him alive and well.

An appetite did not lack in appearance either. Two meals a day at lengthy intervals kept him well fed but often hungry for long periods of the dark-filled days. There must have been a good half day between when they would arrive in the morning and then arrive a second time. For a young man that was used to three meals a day it was an adjustment, but one that was done with the gentlemanly grace that James approached every situation with.

"You eat well". Professor Molinari commented. "It is very pleasing to see… I did not expect you to do so this quickly".

The Professor was not accustomed to dealing with a miracle weaver like the man thrust into his care. James was brilliant at whatever he turned his hand to, having the appetite to maintain his core strength being the latest in a long list of achievements completed with ease. It was not out of the ordinary for James to find himself surprising those that he was around either, very much aware of his own reputation when it came to delivering the unthinkable. He was after all a pilot who'd been set up on by three enemy fighters in an aircraft that he'd only flown for around an hour or so… only to come out as the sole survivor from the dogfight. Molinari was going to have to get used to that level of excellence with the pilot in his care.

"I must eat, must I not?" James questioned. "My injuries will heal faster if I continue to provide my body with the nutrition it requires".

Seemingly puzzled, Professor Molinari stared back at him with a frown etched across his face. Thinking about what he'd said, James was angered with himself as he realised that he may have tried to explain himself with words that the man did not understand. He'd relaxed so quickly upon what appeared to be an impressive command of the English language from the man, he'd forgotten that he was not a native speaker.

"I am sorry, what I meant was…".

"No no…". Molinari cut him off, laughing lightly. "I understood what you meant. I am just very… surprised that you understand the need. Not many men are ap… appreciative of science, that is all".

To James, it was common sense that the human body required significant nutrition in order to maintain its processes, especially when grievous injuries were taken into account. Hydration was perhaps the most vital component to life itself, the young Englishman unable to comprehend how some men could not see it that way.

Professor Molinari continued to feed him in silence. James managed to eat all of the bread and cheese that was offered, to both his own and the Professor's satisfaction. Pouring him some more water, the Professor once again offered his assistance, holding the cup steady as James drank from it. Drinking the water, James always had to trust that he was not being poisoned, which would have been a simple task to complete with the state he was in. It was not as if he could rise from his bed to fight him off if he was trying to poison him. Some poisons could barely be noticed in water anyway, but he was yet to ever feel ill after having drank the water offered. They'd had weeks to poison him and were yet to do so. Although common sense told him that with the effort that they were going to in order to keep him alive, it would not make sense for them to suddenly want to kill him.

Eventually, once the Professor cleared the cup and plates away, James decided that he would break the silence around them. There were so many questions that he wished to ask, more coming to him as he began to feel much livelier after being fed and watered.

"Your grasp of English is remarkable. Where did you learn?"

For the second time, Professor Molinari reverted to frowning before giving a delayed answer. His English may have been more than adequate, but he was not used to having to use it nor explain how his proficiency in it came about. However, it was pleasant to relive the time of life that he was going to tell the Captain of the Fleet Air Arm about, as most positive memories were.

"Many years ago, I studied the sciences in London. I lived there for two years while I studied and stayed for two more before I came back home".

"London?" James acted far more surprised than he needed to. "I lived there myself for many years".

"It is a beautiful city, is it not?" Molinari grinned. "I learned the language whilst I fell in love with London. They were the happiest years of my life and the most productive. My whole career in medicine began there".

Many men in the class that he was in had gone onto to become fantastic doctors in their respective fields. He would still write to some of them occasionally before the war began, the group all comparing notes from their own experiences in their careers. Molinari was one of the few members of the group that opted to stick to the principle of treating patients for general illness and injuries, whilst a lot of them had gone onto far more entertaining projects. He was never enticed by the need to leave his mark on history in the same way that some of the others were though, contented to use his knowledge to treat those who required treating. It served him well; there were not many men throughout Italy as respected as he was in the profession he'd chosen.

"The city has p-plenty of lessons that it can teach". James mused happily.

"I agree. To be able to speak English has always been very helpful, as you can see. We would not be able to be so pleasant towards each other, if I could not, no?"

"Yes… it… it would have made conversation very difficult. I am afraid I do not speak a word of Italian myself".

Laughing aloud into the dark room, it did not surprise the Professor at all. Given the care that he was receiving, James sincerely regretted being unable to thank the Professor in his own language for the care that was given out unjudgementally. The gentleman within him screamed at the poor form it showed, fighting against the logician that told him his mental energy was more advisable to spend on ensuring that he healed sufficiently from the wounds he'd received.

"Do not worry, I am not offended. It is very English to not speak another language, do you not agree?"

"Well…". James concluded wryly. "You do not invade most of the world to speak their languages I'd have you know".

They were both able to laugh at his tongue in cheek comment about British domination throughout the world. James was hardly the greatest Imperialist around, if anything mocking their position as an empire rather than rejoicing it. Professor Molinari did not mind at all either, respecting Britain for what it had achieved. Unlike the Nazi's, the Italians held some admiration for the British that they were fighting. From a military perspective, they had to be respected as the achievements credited to the armies, navies and air forces of Britain were outstanding. As well as that, whether rightly or wrongly, Britain was the Empire that James described it is. It was a powerful kingdom.

Another short silence followed, where the two simply watched each other as the trust began to build between them. James still remained wary of the Professor but did not feel as uncomfortable as he had done when the rest of them were speaking Italian around him. A low level of trust was all he was prepared to give to the man that was caring for him, aware that he could turn on him at any moment, such was the way of the war. His wits were still fully about him despite weeks of delirium, the sensibility of the conditioned young English gentleman on show. There were more questions to be asked too and with the Professor still sat on the chair next to his bed, it was as good a time as any to ask them.

"My legs…".

James paused, trying to find the words to describe what he wanted to ask. He knew that the injuries to the lower half of his body were far more serious than the one received in his shoulder. That one hurt like hell but the pain from further down his body was excruciating too. Some of the earliest nights he could remember in the dark room, he could feel the blood trickling out of the wounds under the bandages. It was a good job that one shoulder was out of commission and the other arm being unable to reach down to his legs without agonising him into a cry. If he could reach, then he knew he would have ripped the bandages off in panic to stop the dreaded feeling of cold red liquid spewing from an open wound.

"As you can see…". Molinari began. "… I was able to save both of your legs that night. It was no simple task, I can assure you, but you were very lucky that you landed in the grounds of my home".

"I am sorry if I damaged anything".

He'd been shot within an inch of his life, yet he still remained quintessentially James Maguire. He was lying on a bed in a dark room, somewhere in a country where he was the enemy and still he put his own needs to one side. His legs injuries were a concern but for a brief moment the notion that he might have left tyre tracks in the lawn of the Professor was of far greater concern to him.

"Do not worry about my grass". He chuckled. "It will survive".

A sigh of relief was pulled from the lungs of the young Englishman, quite possibly the strangest sense of relief he'd ever felt. With his conscience reassured, he smiled at the Professor, who began to explain about the injuries to James' legs again.

"Although I was able to save your legs, you have lost a lot of blood from them since. You will probably feel weak should you attempt to strain yourself too far although err… there is a long time until we will be able to reach that point with you".

"What do you mean?" A confused James asked.

Sighing, the Professor made himself ready to deliver the bad news to James. Although a miracle had taken place in being able to save James' life that November night, the lasting legacy of the injures that he'd received was an unknown quantity. It often was when it came to wounds in the legs, the recovery being different for each man whether it be through time or the extent of which a man could recover. There were sailors on his own side that received horrendous leg injuries during the chaotic night attack, with the Professor having to aid with their recovery in the days that followed. Nearly two months on, some of them were nearly back to full health while others were back on the table, having their legs amputated for their own good.

"We need to assess whether you can still walk. With the injuries that you have received, it is possible that you will need to learn to walk again".

Gutting him, the consequences that he feared were told to James. He'd always been able to feel his legs despite being shot in them, which was positive, but Professor Molinari knew what was under the bandages. His legs were not the mess that they were even a couple of weeks earlier, but the scars from where they were sewn back together would remain with the Englishman for the rest of his life. The Professor did not need to orate to him that the bullets that entered his lower body were not as kind to him as the one that went through his shoulder. They'd lodged themselves into both leg wounds deeply, having to be fished out by the Professor under nothing more than lamp lights from the soldiers around them in the field that evening. The young soldier who thought he'd killed James was one of those men, standing by with the light whilst Molinari attempted to correct the near fatal error he'd created.

"I see". James breathed out, the emotion clear within him. "I… well… I…".

Professor Molinari offered him a kind smile which just about held James from breaking down. Raw and exposed to a world of pain and suffering he did not know, the usual mastery of his own emotions was leaving him. He would be useless to society if he could not walk again, shunned by the people who would have been cheering for his success whilst he was still fully able. It was not certain that he would not be able to though, which kickstarted the part of his brain that stored positivity. Hope was something that he could cling to… he had to hope that he would be able to walk again.

Across Europe, many injured young men were facing the same problems. Injuries that would leave lives changed forever were being inflicted upon each other on a daily basis. Some men would require whole new faces, such was the level of injury that could be received in battle. Broken bones were commonplace no matter what the country or theatre of war was, with no man safe from the devastating impact of bullet or shell. The toll was taken by those asked to fight, to either attack or defend, following the orders of the only men who were fairly safe from the conflict itself. The days of true battlefield commanders, Kings who would lead their armies to battle were over. The suffering was shared alone by the working man.

Suffer they did.

A new year brought no change in the effort that was required at the factory. The war did not stop for the Christmas period, the girls finding that out when they worked for three hours on Christmas morning. An intense if short effort, they toiled for those hours, doing as much as they could to fulfil what was expected of them. Erin was predictably useless to her section, having spent most of the night before Christmas shivering in the corner of her bedroom as she cried over James. That night was the start of an illness which was not helped by the three hours of work, a cold leaving her even more useless until the New Year. It was not until the first day of the year that she was back to anywhere near her best when it came to her health.

She was not the only one that caught an illness over Christmas though. Michelle's decision to spend Christmas Eve chasing a fella to spend the night with proved to be a bad one when it became a rare night that her luck was out. With a dress on that belonged in the summer months, not the winter ones, she was frozen solid when she eventually returned home with the cold and sore throat coming in the couple of days that followed. She too did not recover properly until the first day of the New Year, which left the strain of work on Clare's shoulders. Clare's shoulders that panicked under the weight, a panic only eased by the supervisor Meyler telling them not to worry if they fell a little behind. The work they could not complete was distributed out to some of the other women, who were not happy but did not speak out against the girls.

At full health they were usually at a disadvantage too, however come the start of the new year the disadvantage was lost. Orla returned to work with the girls at the factory, the management accepting her back in an instant once the question was asked. She worked hard with the girls and although making uniforms would be quite a new role for her given that she'd not worked since the beginning of the war, they did not doubt that she would adapt to it. Unlike Erin, she'd been able to spend the Christmas period defeating her negative thoughts, determined to start the year in a positive manner. David was gone, she accepted the truth wholeheartedly knowing that she could do nothing to change it. It was a fact. She would not sit and cry forever, knowing that she owed it to David to not do so. Marie kept her occupied most of the time anyway, a reminder of what David's love meant and what she should continue to do in order to honour it. Returning to work was the first step on the road to the future, even if it was revisiting the past.

Orla returning gave them the additional strength to even cover for Erin, should she be as little use as she'd been before the end of the year. In the first few days of the new year it proved to be the case, the teared up blonde being unable to contribute more than a couple of acceptable uniforms during those days. The frustration ate away at Michelle, who was not amused by the continued poor performance of her friend. She herself was still upset by James' death, the guilt that ate away at her during the funeral still doing so at certain moments. At work she hid it well though, determined to focus on the needs of the men who were still fighting to ensure their continued safety. They needed her at her best, not a crying mess like Erin.

That Tuesday morning was set to be another one of frustration for Michelle. She arrived early with Clare, the two in and at their stations by half past seven. They were not starting any earlier, instead trying to work out how they would cover for Erin again without management becoming too suspicious. Michelle would often take on the brunt of the work from the blonde, despite being the one most angered by her.

"Give her time Michelle…". Clare insisted. "Ye know, she really loved James and… it's hard".

"Hard!? Hard!? Ye don't think it's hard for me too?"

The emotion that she held back was abruptly prompted into action by Clare's words. Clare herself began to fret from the second Michelle challenged her, correctly afraid that she'd upset the dark-haired girl. In fear of her occasionally acidic tongue, Clare was practically quaking.

"I… I didn't say that…".

"Yeah well, maybe ye should think about what ye say Clare! I've been proper upset about it ye know, but I'm not shaking all day like her! She's a feckin' liability!"

"Don't speak about Erin like that!" Clare viciously replied.

Michelle suddenly found herself on the backfoot in an argument with Clare of all people. Although she was still a cacking mess a lot of the time, Clare's tongue was becoming sharper. She'd always appeared to be modelled closely to her mother, but there were traits of Sean's that were beginning to show too. She was able to produce wicked counters like her father could, ones that would make even the most resilient arguers like Michelle hesitate.

"It's the truth though isn't?" Michelle spoke back, albeit in a far more subdued tone. "She's a liability to us everyday, even if she's our friend".

Disagreeing with her morally, practically Clare couldn't argue with her statement about Erin. From a workload perspective, she was dragging them down to be the worst section at the factory. To fulfil their orders, they'd had to work through lunch breaks before Christmas as well as working late a couple of nights. Erin's poor performance was impacting on their lives, but the good-hearted Clare would never shout about it. She was more concerned than anything.

"She's not been helpin' aye, but she's still our friend and that comes first Michelle! If she's upset all the time then it's up to us to do more. We won't help by casting her to one side!"

"I'm not sayin' we should. Orla bein' back means we don't need to anyway, but I don't like all the comments from the rest of the girls sayin' how shite we are as a group! I'm workin' my fuckin' arse off everyday, so I am and I won't have those gossiping… bitches! … tell me I'm not pullin' my weight when I'm pullin' Erin's!"

The pent-up aggression flooded out of Michelle at speed. Clare stirred a beast of hidden guilt and emotional torment. She did not wish to upset Michelle so thoroughly, resting a hand over her friend's but it was quickly pushed away as the young Mallon turned her head.

"Feck off Clare!"

The bitterness came next, not out of a personal vendetta but from Michelle's own coping mechanisms. It was Clare's fault that she'd been forced to admit how she truly felt about Erin's inability to pull her weight and also her own wish to have been able to have told James how much she respected him before his death. It ate away at her constantly, none more so than when her blonde-haired friend would sit crying about the life taken away from her.

"It's okay Michelle". Clare addressed her calmly. "Yer upset too and I get that. But we won't gain anythin' by pushin' Erin away, will we? We've always been strong as a group of four with Orla, why can't we be strong again?"

A question that did not have an easy answer, Clare raised a point which Michelle could not find a worthy response to. They'd navigated thick and thin as a group for years before the war when problems would face them as individuals or as one. The onset of war may have brought about a lot of changes, but it didn't have to change how they dealt with issues. Changing a formula that was always a winning one before, made little sense.

"It's just… I'm trying hard not to get upset and Erin always bein' upset…". Michelle floundered, sadness in her eyes as she sought Clare's gaze. "God, I've been such a bitch, haven't I?"

"No Michelle". A soft-voiced Clare replied. "Yer dealin' with it in yer way and it just clashes with Erin's sometimes. Ye've not been… that".

Wrapping Clare into an unexpected hug, Michelle was so appreciative that she had a friend like Clare Devlin. Oddly being left as the more composed of the two of them, Clare stroked her back as they were hugging. It was not so easy hugging Michelle with all of the connotations that danced around her lie from the world, but those thoughts were put to the back of her mind to be dealt with another time. Her friend, and in truth, her friends, needed her and she would be there for them. Her own grieving process was coming to an end when it came to James too, which helped her greatly in trying to help Michelle and Erin. She would never forget the impact that the Englishman had on their lives but she was already learning to live in a world that he did not exist in. Nowhere near as close to him as Erin and not holding guilt like Michelle, it was Clare that was the group's pillar of strength as Orla still mourned David's loss too.

"Yer a brilliant friend, ye know Clare… I don't say it enough".

Michelle's sincerity warmed her heart when the sound filled her ears. Praise like that from Michelle would usually have to be fought for, but it was given easily that morning at work. The day was going to start in the right way for once, Michelle no longer being angered by Erin's attempts at trying to live without James. Whether her fellow blonde would be of any use again would have to be found out, although it would be tackled with a positive mindset by the rest of them this time, rather than with annoyance.

"I'll always be there for all of you girls Michelle. We stick together, don't we?" Clare sniffed, welling up in happiness.

"Aye, we're like pack animals, so we are. Pack animals!"

Giggling away like school children, the rest of the women arriving at work were all wondering what they'd stumbled upon as they arrived in. The fact that Michelle Mallon was the first in was almost heart attack baiting in itself, but her and Clare calmly chuckling away to each other before a hard day was the icing on the bemused cake. The keen eyes of management found it strange too, though Meyler pointed out to some of the other managers that it was only good for motivation, protecting the girls from their ire as he always did.

Erin and Orla soon arrived with Mary and Sarah, the four of them walking in together from the cool winds of the Derry morning. They were spared the rain for once, a rare morning that was yet to even feature one burst or small shower to drown the ground with. Orla could already tell there was a different atmosphere from the moment they walked in, smelling it in the air almost. The happy smiles of Michelle and Clare sealed the realisation for her when they approached their friends, when they would usually be met with huffs and puffs about another gruelling day ahead. The day ahead of them would still be gruelling but nowhere near as much after Clare calmed Michelle immensely.

"Mornin' motherfuckers!"

Eyes lighting up, Erin was totally surprised by Michelle's positive outlook. Unbeknownst to the dark-haired girl, Erin was not quite the distracted snivelling mess she always appeared to be. She knew that one of her best friends complained about her behind her back, having overheard Sarah spilling Michelle's complaints to Mary one night at home. She should have been angry, she knew, furious that someone she trusted so dearly would complain about her when she was not there, but her upset for James prevented the anger from rising. The only positive his death brought, though she did not see it that way, was that the world no longer centred around her. How they acted as a group was defined more by Michelle and, to some extent, Clare rather than her in the weeks following James' demise.

"Aye, yer happy Michelle". Orla noted.

"I know!". She grinned, almost giddy with her newfound motivation. "How's my wee angel?"

Her wee angel, Orla's precious gem of a daughter, was still developing very well under her mother's care. Orla devoted herself to Marie to raise her properly in the image of her father. Returning to work was never meant to be on the cards, but she knew David would have respected her going back to the factory to be with the girls again. It gave the family the vital finances that they needed to. Far from the money that once belonged to James, it was enough to supplement their quality of life, ensuring that the dinner table was never empty thanks to a lack of finances.

"Marie's cracker so she is". Orla beamed. "She did get herself into a wee bit of trouble this mornin' though".

"How come?" Clare enquired.

"She called Granda Joe fat, so she did. I thought I was goin' to have to get Mary round to calm him down, he was ragin' so he was!"

Joe did not mind being called old or slow, but he would resent anyone's suggestion that he was carrying a few more pounds than he should have been. After all, they were living through a time of rationing, where he could hardly pile on the weight even if he made a conscious effort to. He loved his great granddaughter dearly, but she would not get away without receiving a stern word.

"I wouldn't be too worried though Orla…". Michelle gave her honest opinion. "… isn't Joe in enough trouble anyway?"

"Aye he is, yer right".

Almost forgetting the events of the Friday before, Orla's memory kicked into gear when she clocked onto what Michelle meant. Sarah left work later than Mary and the rest of the girls as she'd stayed back to help some of the others who'd fallen even further behind. Whilst returning from the factory, her chosen route back happened to cross Pump Street, where even through the darkened haze of a frosty, foggy evening, the unmistakable figure of her father could be seen outside one of the houses for a moment before heading in. Suspecting that he was seeing Maeve, the woman her and Mary thought was a tart, again, she wanted to try to get closer but the cold and thick fog stopped her. On a clearer night she would have knocked on the door to the house he entered to catch him out completely, but that night was not the correct one for it. One day she would discover the mystery of Pump Street though… one day…

"Erin…".

Michelle's sudden address caught the young Quinn by surprise, almost stumbling over when her name was spoken. As ever, her mind was firmly elsewhere for another day of suffering without the man that she loved so much.

"Y… yeah Michelle?" She tentatively replied.

"Can ye come here for a second?"

Scared stiff that another rebuke was about to come her way, Erin did not move for a moment. Glancing at Orla first was no use, her cousin's mind clearly going to something else as she appeared to be staring off into the distance. Turning her eyes to Clare's, the diminutive blonde offered a warm smile to entice her on. If there was any nefarious premeditation on Michelle's part, Clare would never have been able to hold out without producing a legendary cack attack, giving Erin the confidence she needed to be able to answer Michelle's beckon. As soon as she did so, any worry that she was in trouble evaporated.

Wrapping her into the warmest hug that she could, Michelle felt Erin soften up in her arms. Clare and Orla soon joined in, the four of them coming together as a group affectionately. Michelle cursed herself as they did because it dawned on her very quickly that it should have been done weeks ago instead of the way she herself had treated Erin in that time. Quite rightly, Clare pointed out that they were at their best as a group, not as individuals at each other's throats. In a warm huddle, they were a group of young women that could conquer anything together, more powerful as four together than four on their own. For the first time in a long time, Erin Quinn felt truly loved, even if it was not the same as having James' arms around her.

"I'm sorry Erin… I've been a shite friend, so I have". Michelle apologised as they lifted their heads for air. "All ye needed was my friendship and love, and ye've had neither. Can ye forgive me? Please?"

Locking irises with a sincere Michelle, Erin could see the desperation in her eyes, the need for forgiveness to be given to her. They'd fought not that long before, on the morning that the former caught the latter visiting Charlene Kavanagh but there was no true argument this time. It was all one sided as far as Michelle saw it, she herself being the perpetrator of the aggravation.

Erin could not allow her to feel that way though, sensing correctly that she did. She knew her efforts were nowhere near good enough, halting their progress as a section with her repeatedly poor submissions to quality control. The embrace with her friends gave her the turning point she'd procrastinated over in creating. From that moment on, she told herself that she would grit her teeth and do better, with no more rejections to be received from the quality control department any longer. It was the kick that she desperately needed.

"No Michelle, I'm sorry…". She smiled sadly. "I just… well ye know I've struggled really hard comin' to terms with… J… James… b-but that changes now. I swear to ye, I will improve for ye girls… I promise, I really do".

Squeezing the four of them back together, they all exchanged looks of defiance and pride, with additional warmth given to Erin. There were still tears poking at the corners of her eyes, yet this time there would be no morning cries or wails about the now deceased pilot. When it came to working at the factory, his memory was not going to disrupt them anymore. It was what he would have wanted, she thought… what he knew would happen.

Life would go on without him.

Thanks to the hard work of all of the women of the factory, they were able to leave at six should they wish to. Mary and Sarah were more than happy for the early finish, meaning that they could return home to get an early dinner on the go instead of trapsing in after eight to make the rest of the family something to eat. It would appear that most of the city's workplaces were thinking the exact same thing, with Gerry already at home when she returned home. He was busy helping Anna with her homework, where it was a rare occasion that she did in fact need help. History was the subject that she was struggling with, but it was one where he could fill in to assist with his own knowledge. She was happy to have her parents back early, as well as Erin, who returned a few minutes after her mother having stayed to finish one or two more uniforms.

Above all though, she was a changed young woman.

The girls coming together as a group to comfort her was the completely correct thing to do. Proven during the day, their output increased as they were smiling and happy. Erin took her positivity from the rest of her friends, though she was able to raise some of her own for the first time in a long time. There was still an outgoing young woman hidden beneath the layers of melancholy, one that liked to get the job done when she could. All of the uniforms that she'd submitted that day were immaculate, with none of the other girls falling foul of quality control either. They were beginning to show some of the rest of the sections up, their work was that good, which made it a blessing in disguise for some of the women at the factory when they were told that they could leave early. Meyler could be caught smiling at various points of the day, looking out over the factory floor with a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He had his best team back and at full strength; it was brilliant to see.

The power of positivity returned with Erin too, Anna noticing it the very second that she walked into the house. In the couple of minutes between Mary and Erin returning home respectively, Joe arrived from next door, much to Gerry's indignation. With Sarah and Orla back home to look after Marie, his job for the day was done, leaving him free to do whatever he wished. What he wished to do was see Mary, and he too was surprised when Erin returned home with a beaming smile upon her face. The family patriarch was the first to comment on the revelation.

"Evenin' Erin love, yer lookin' well".

"Aye I feel well, so I do, Granda". She chirped in reply. "Yer lookin' well too".

"Thanks love".

Their pleasant exchange made Mary both joyous and terrified. She'd seen from her station at the factory how well that the girls were working as a team again, but she didn't realise how much was down to the fact that her daughter was driving them on. In the same way it was before James died, she was the one reminding Michelle not to slack and to give all her effort as to avoid quality control's anger. It made them all chuckle when she took it upon herself to almost crack the whip with them, having been the one dragging them down with her slacking for many weeks.

Filtering through to the kitchen where her mother was, Erin pulled her in for a cuddle. Mary fought the urge to burst out crying at the daughter that she truly wanted to see putting in appearance, rather than the blubbering mess that she'd developed into since the news of James' death. It was truly fantastic to see her back at her energetic best, although how long it would last for, she did not know.

"Christ, yer really buzzin' tonight, Erin". Mary declared cheerfully.

"I've had a cracker day, so I have!" She replied with equal cheer. "We worked really well ye know, it was brilliant. Having Orla back is great too, we're gettin' so much done, so we are".

"That's grand love. But what about you, how are ye feelin?"

Erin did not reply immediately, taking the time to measure her response. It was a question that she knew would be asked thanks to the change in her demeanour, but not a question that she truly feared. The truth was that she'd almost turned a corner, to the life that she was going to have to live without her fella in it. When it came to work at least, she had the support and strategy to be able to move on in the right direction. There were fellas still out there fighting, a point she'd accepted from Michelle, that truly needed them to be give their hardest effort. Putting aside her grief throughout the day, she was not going to make the fighting men of Britain suffer from a lack of uniforms on her part.

"I'm alright Mammy… happy that the girls are happy again because I was helpful today".

"Will ye be helpful every day now?" Mary asked, smiling again.

"I will". Erin replied, nodding her head.

"Yer a very brave girl for yer Mammy, ye know that, don't ye?"

Coming to embrace her mother again, Erin proved that she did. Moments between them like the one they were having, had become few and far between since November but the tide appeared to be turning. Erin was still on a very long road to recovery, but her work was finally becoming the full distraction from her grief like it was supposed to be. If she could throw herself into completing what was asked of her on a daily basis, she would be able to concentrate her energy away from thinking about James. Her ability to cope would be tested to the extreme still, yet with the support of her friends and family, it would no longer be the unfair fight it was previously.

"CHRIST!"

Joe's shout from in the living room caught all of them off guard. Gerry and Anna in the opposite corner both nearly fell from the sofa when he did, such was the force of his bellow. Mary and Erin walked out of the kitchen to try to understand the commotion, finding Joe sat in his armchair reading that day's newspaper.

"What is it Da?" A concerned Mary enquired.

"Have ye seen this!?"

Pointing passionately at a story on the third page, he was almost taken aback by the article. Mary hadn't read the newspaper herself as it was Gerry who'd brought it back from his workplace. He knew exactly which story that Joe must have read, for he'd had a similar reaction himself when he read it that lunchtime.

"Those dirty German pri-".

"Da!" Mary warned him, eyes flickering over to Anna.

"Those Germans… they're shootin' all the French that question them, so they are. Fifteen members of the Resistance were captured and shot in front of a whole town it says here!"

The French Resistance were an admirable group in Joe's eyes. The reality of the French surrender was not that the people surrendered, but that their leaders made the decision to surrender for them. It was not a reality known to all unless they connected the reason for such resistance to the will of those who did not wish to bow the knee to Hitler's war machine. Some of the French army escaped to Britain from Dunkirk, but a lot of those who did not continued to fight in the guerrilla warfare that the Resistance was ready to perform. The German occupation would not be an easy one by any means, with those having fight left in them ready to take it to their invaders. However, for every successful act, German commanders made sure they retaliated tenfold in their attempts to prevent it from happening again.

"They were lined up against a wall in the middle of the town of Parthenay in the Nou… Nouv… Novel… what does that say love?" He tilted the paper up for Mary's inspection.

"Nouvelle-Aquitaine". Erin replied first.

"Thanks Erin". Joe nodded. "Anyway, the Germans brought up a machine gun and put them against the wall. That is no way to go, so it's not!"

Horrifying details like that never usually made the newspapers, but it appeared that an exception was made for the massacre of the Resistance members. It did not affect their morale as such, but it was a damning reminder of the power that Nazi Germany held over Europe. French people who only asked for the freedom to continue their lives in peace, were put to the sword mercilessly by the men that invaded their homeland.

"That's not even the worst of it!"

Frowns were on the faces of Mary and Erin when Granda Joe spoke again. There were very few details that could be worse than the massacre of multiple French people by machine gun. Very few. They were quite intrigued to see exactly how it could be worse.

"It says here that they were sold out by an Irishman who the Germans allowed to go. What sort of Irishman would do that to those poor French!"

An Irishman in France was a revelation itself, let alone a traitorous one. Apart from Lyla Walsh who was off galivanting in Switzerland or Germany, or wherever she was, they could not think of anyone else who could be in the Nouvelle-Aquitaine region of France. There was certainly no man from Derry who could have been there, with the only men left alive who'd signed up from the city, completing their duty far away from France.

"I don't even think those Free State pr…". He stopped, remembering Anna's presence. "…those eejits from the Free State would do that. Ye wouldn't sell out the French, would ye Gerry?"

"Of course not, Joe". He replied immediately.

"Good. Although with any luck those Germans would shoot ye instead!" Joe huffed.

Deciding to roll his eyes, Gerry did not attempt to fight back against Joe's incredibly unkind comment. Mary glared at her father in her husband's defence though, Joe having to back off to avoid his daughter's wrath. He would not be making another comment like that again, he knew.

"I hope it's not true…". Erin commented with a sigh. "… those poor French have suffered enough".

"Aye too right Erin… too right". Joe hummed in agreement.

A massacre of people whose only crime was to stand up for the values of democracy, it was a jarring thought that they might one day face the same. The Germans were still yet to invade Britain or Ireland, but there was always an eminent threat that they might.

With David no longer alive to protect the family with his own service to the kingdom, the chance of them befalling the same fate as the poor French Resistance members felt ever the more real.

James was dead to them too, but even though he was not, he was powerless to help them in his injured state.

A prisoner of war, he could not protect the family.

And they would need protecting as a frightening threat crept ever closer to them…