A time like no other

by Warks1999

It was an ever changing world, but a world that would soon be at War, with consequences that would devastate families forever... their family included. A new adventure, setting the characters back in time to World War II. Enjoy :)

54. Eternity

Chapter 54: Eternity

The Belfast trip could be described in one word.

Cracker.

A word that even Erin could not disagree with. If anything, it was a trip that brought her out of her shell, if only for a day. The moody Erin that re-entered the lives of those closest to her earlier that Autumn was brushed to one side to be replaced with the normal vibrant young woman who enjoyed writing poetry. She was so different that Michelle wasn't quite sure that it was really her at first but was reassured throughout the day by the blonde that it really was. She couldn't explain why she'd had such a change of outlook, apart from putting it down to the change of scene and being able to mix with different people. There were few opportunities to mix in that way since the war began, and taking that opportunity, she found herself having a great time. When she could spend it with the girls too, it made it all the more special despite Gerry being there to mind them. He didn't go to the party itself, instead finding a pub down the road that he could have a pint in. Joe's concerns that he would be hated in Belfast turned out to be surprisingly incorrect, enjoying a good time and a couple of drinks with the local patrons. He was not the only father there on chaperoning duties either, bonding with the other men on the same duty for their children and others.

At the party itself, it was surprisingly uneventful. During that year they'd been to a night of dancing where Orla started a war within a war on the dance floor, which necessitated the intervention of the police and the British Army. In Belfast there was no such need, though she was kept on a tight leash by the rest of her friends at nearly all times. When they'd first arrived at the party, tickets validated by the man on the door outside after watching numerous others try and fail to get in, they split into two groups. Michelle and Orla did not hang around at all, heading straight off to where the dancing was slowly picking up into shape. Erin and Clare expected the move themselves, laughing at their friends while they went to get them all something to drink. Unlike at the party back in Derry, the bar staff kept a close eye on the patrons all night, ensuring that no one had too many, to Michelle's annoyance when she found out their scheme. It made for a more pleasant atmosphere though, after the sour one on the night of the brawl back home.

Finding themselves a table out of the way, like they always did whenever they went out, Erin and Clare were soon re-joined by their friends who wanted something to drink. Their initial reports from the dancefloor told them all that it was going to be a good night, with even the naturally hesitant Clare looking forward to some dancing. Although she wasn't sure whether she would when it came to it, Erin joined in too, much to Michelle's delight. She steered clear of any fellas but staying together with the group whilst doing so, still managed to enjoy a brilliant evening. The band that was in was far better than any they'd ever had back home, playing a variety of different songs that lifted the atmosphere. Mercifully, the German bombers didn't make an appearance anywhere near to them at all, which meant that they could dance uninterrupted. It would not have been quite as enjoyable had they have needed to make a dart for a bomb shelter midway through.

Erin stayed away from the fellas that night, Clare obviously doing so too despite an attempt by Orla, for once, to persuade her. She was having a good enough time without that, she'd told her friend, drawn to Michelle over her shoulder who was wincing. Luckily, neither Orla nor Erin caught the wince that she was giving to the diminutive blonde. If either would have done, difficult questions would have been asked of Clare, that would skirt too close to the truth that she so desperately hid alongside her new accomplice Michelle. The only advantage to Orla being the one making the attempt was that the easily distracted young McCool quickly found herself enticed by something else… or rather someone else. Orla and Michelle, predictably, were not so hesitant around the young lads at the party. Over the hours of partying, both strayed out of sight for a short while at one time or another with a fella last seen with them, reappearing looking far more dishevelled than they did when they left. Orla's state could have been explained by other activities with a fella other than the obvious, but the glint in Michelle's mischievous eyes told the rest of her friends that she'd been up to what they thought she had. She was Michelle Mallon… it was what she did best.

Those in charge of the railways rather smartly decided to run a night train back across the country that night, the girls getting to the train station well in time after being reunited with Gerry. The bar staff did a grand job of keeping the attendees sober, apart from with Michelle, who was absolutely steaming. Deirdre's decision to save up a lot of money to buy her a pair of heeled shoes for her birthday became a nightmare for the others, who had to help her from the venue back to the train station. In the end, she was forced to take them off, leaning on a combination of Erin and Orla, and when the former became agitated, Gerry and Orla, to get her onboard the train safely. Once they were on, with a long journey ahead of them, she was soon asleep to their combined relief. Clare's fretting about her state hadn't helped matters either, especially as Clare for a change was somewhat intoxicated herself. Erin and Gerry were the best off out of all of them, although none of them could tell whether Orla was drunk or just being herself, the comments she made as random as ever.

About half an hour after setting off on the long journey back to Derry, which in Erin's mind contained far too many stops along the route, Gerry fell asleep too. He was in the compartment behind them in the carriage that they were in, Orla having the smart idea to drop Michelle in there too so that the rest of them that were awake could talk. Somehow between the three of them, though with great difficulty due to Clare's strange reluctance to put her hands on Michelle, they got her into the carriage on the opposite side to Gerry, who did not wake during the process. When they were back in their own cabin, also without alerting any of the staff in service on the train, Orla found that her great idea backfired against when she was faced with questions. A curious Erin had seen her sneaking off with a fella at one point in the night, Clare spotting her on the return journey too, leading them to ask whether she'd done what they thought. She proudly admitted to having been with the fella that night, having found themselves an abandoned room at the back of the building they were in. Unashamed by it now that she was single again, she was prepared to share the full details of what happened until Erin sensibly told her not to. Orla got as far as talking about how flexible she was, her cousin aware of it without needing to be told the need for why she'd displayed such flexibility with the fella. She could guess without the explanation…

When they reached Derry, it was long gone midnight, the quiet darkness consuming the city that was normally far more vibrant. Gerry was unfazed by being up at such an hour, having worked through the night before when he'd had to, though the added cool of it being November was never an enjoyable compliment when walking back through the streets. Michelle still hadn't woken from her slumber yet, which left Gerry no choice but to carry her back to the Quinn house where she would be staying for the night. Oddly, it would have been quicker to take her back home to her own house, but the other three girls were insistent that they stick together for the night as planned. Michelle was by no means a large young woman, but she was fairly muscular, leaving the middle-aged man with a bad back by the time they were nearing home. Thankfully, Orla agreed to carry her the rest of the way so that he could recover, Erin carrying the zoned out to the world Michelle's bag and shoes for her.

None of the girls took long to get to sleep that night, thoroughly exhausted by the dancing and drinking at the Belfast party. None of them thought too much of the rest of the city, having spent some time walking around to kill time before the event started. Gerry's attempt at finding a gift for Anna was thoroughly unsuccessful, but Orla came up with the better idea of waiting until Christmas to treat her instead. It was not that far until the festive season rolled around again, and although there may have been a war that sapped the positive energies out of many people, it was still celebrated. A five year old like Anna would appreciate a kind gesture at such a special time of the year. Gerry was easily convinced by the plan, supported massively by Michelle for the selfish reason of her not wanting to walk around for any longer during the late afternoon.

With no work the following day for a change, none of them were required to wake early at all, a blessing with the likely hangovers that were to come. Except one of them did still wake early the following morning because she did not have it in her to keep her eyes closed. She'd fallen into her bed the night before aware of what the following day was, what it represented, and Erin woke with the same thoughts at a disgustingly early half past six. She'd only had two alcoholic drinks the night before, her head free from a hangover like the others eventually woke with, but it made it none the more appealing when she realised. There was a time in her life when waking up with thoughts, and sometimes images, of James Maguire in her head was a deviously brilliant way to start the day. It no longer was, that day more so than any other. The eleventh of November marked exactly one year to the day that he was shot down leading the attack on the Italian Fleet in port at Taranto. A year since the light in her troubled life truly went out.

The crying started very quickly afterwards.

When the rest of them woke two hours later, all in the space of around five minutes of each other, they were not privy to the sound immediately. She'd got dressed quickly that morning to be with her Mammy downstairs, who was already up seeing a slightly reserved Anna off to school. Her mood was changed because she knew what the date was too. The five year old had been a pillar of strength for the family a year before when James was confirmed to have died, but she missed her favourite fella. She couldn't miss him in the same way that her older sister did when she cried for him, yet Anna still shed the odd tear from time to time when he came up in a conversation. She missed his calming influence on her as well as the jokes he would share with both her and Erin during the precious summer that the sisters clung to. They cuddled that morning the moment that Erin appeared downstairs with her flaming red eyes. The most optimistic of mothers would have been unable to predict anything different, Mary coming to join her daughters to share their tears, having a wee cry herself. James was still missed dearly.

She was prepared for Orla too when she made her way downstairs later on.

The widowed young woman tried to fight the tears unlike her cousin, but it was a losing battle from the moment she started. Michelle and Clare only watched on at first as they arrived downstairs behind her, Orla falling into the embrace of her family to begin with. Between Erin's arrival and hers, Gerry had made his way down following the late night out, wrapping his arms around all of the crying women in his home. He managed not to shed a tear without appearing heartless, his thoughts going to the two young lads that he'd had a lot of respect for. A fool if he were ever to admit to any of them, a small part of him still believed that at least one of them was still alive somewhere. It was more out of hope than anything, and without trying to be uncaring to Orla, he desperately hoped it was James. Painfully clear that Orla could move on with her life where Erin could not, everyday he prayed that he would come home from work to find James sitting in his living room with Erin, the two happy and in love again. It never was to be. Though that morning Orla needed the same love that he showed his daughter, which was given without another thought. He cared for her a lot too even when she was not his own.

Marie did not understand why her Mammy was so upset nor why the rest of them were, too young to be aware of the significance of the day. Her own birthday was only a few days away, and from what she'd been led to believe about birthdays from the books she read and the questions she asked, they were meant to be happy occasions. It might not have been her birthday that morning, but she thought to herself that the mood would have to improve a lot in the following couple of days to make her big day joyous. She was yet to question why her Daddy was not home with her, Orla having always told her that he was out fighting because there was a war on. Marie did not know that her father was in fact buried in the Italian soil thousands of miles away. It was a conversation for another time when she was older, a decision agreed upon by them all in the family including Anna.

When the family huddle eventually broke, Michelle and Clare were there for their friends too. In a way Michelle should have been there before seeing as James was her cousin, but her guilt over treating him so poorly made her feel as if she would have been an unwelcome presence. When it came to fellas, she held absolutely no regrets other than James. She wished she would have held the conversation with her parents sooner, kicking her into gear to remind her that he was a truly brilliant gentleman, not the English prick her tunnel visioned look told her that he was. Those days were long over and well forgotten by the rest, and with grief in the air that morning, she put it to one side to help comfort Erin and Orla. It was always going to be an incredibly tough day one year on, the night out at least helping them to forget for a few hours beforehand, not that it mattered when the tears flowed later on.

Returning to their homes later in the day, Michelle spent a lot of time with her parents, who were equally upset too. Martin and Deirdre were not allowed the pleasure of knowing James for that long in their lives, but they'd come to love him very quickly. Sure, when he'd first arrived with his fine suit and his crisp English accent, they were cursing the Lord to have him there but then he'd revealed who he really was, the gentleman that cared for them all. That young man was a credit to any family whether he was English or not, and throughout the months he'd spent in Derry he worked his way into their consciences to be well loved. While they might not have shed as many tears as Erin, nor wailed for his loss like she had, they too missed him. A presence as large, caring and handsome as James' was not easy to replace.

By the time that the evening came around, the Quinn's and McCool's made their way to the graveyard as a family. Erin tried to stay away from the place as much as possible, but a year on from her beloved's death she was allowed to pay her respects. Orla too hadn't been to see David's grave for a while either but would not miss that evening's trip out there. Sarah's leg was sufficiently healed to make the journey, though she was aided by her father the whole way there. Not a word of her relations with Shane was passed onto any of them, made easier by the fireman being on duty that evening and therefore not by her side. She wasn't sure if she could have kept her mouth shut around the rest of them, beaming from the love that coursed through her veins. It was not the night for such happiness though, not when her daughter and Mary's were left in moods of great sombre, remembering the men they'd lost to the devasting war of their time.

One by one they paid their respects, sniffles and sobs filling the air that night in the otherwise deserted church graveyard. They were watched from afar by Sister Michael, who cast her eye over some of those that she cared about without them knowing that she was there. It was not her place to act as a shoulder to cry upon, but she wanted to be there to make sure that if any intervention were required, she would be able to provide it. It looked to her as if all was in hand though, the stronger influences of an experienced Joe and the calm-headed Gerry enough to convince her that she could return home after a short while. The rest of the family gradually drifted away too, until just Erin and Orla were left stood in front of the graves that marked the resting place of the men that they'd loved, even if their bodies were not inside the coffins beneath the ground.

Erin wished she knew how her cousin managed to go on the way that she did. The young Quinn's coping mechanisms may have improved slightly as the year went on, though they were disguised by the regular layer of Autumnal discomfort. She'd gradually began to feel much more able to function in life as time went on, but when she looked to Orla, it was a very different story. Part of her told her that Marie must have helped a lot with the process, her cousin having something to focus on, a creation to the world with her departed husband. Erin didn't have that with James, yet there was also a thought that it must have been incredibly difficult when Marie shared features that were so similar to David, for Orla not to break down at times. Those times simply hadn't happened from what she knew, which was not quite the truth, but there hadn't been that many times it had anyway. Orla's ability to move on when it came to relationships was the toughest for Erin to understand of all. She needed to know the secret.

"How?" Her thoughts came out rather than a proper question.

"Huh?" Orla replied quickly. "Did ye say somethin'?"

Hesitating for a moment, with only the light of a lantern between them in the dark of the Derry night, she didn't know if Orla would understand her at all. Her cousin could be oblivious to the world at times, with Erin suddenly thinking that it may have been the secret all along. Orla could move on so easily because she didn't think about David's death at all… it was simply no longer at the front of her mind, and anything that slipped to the back of Orla's mind was never coming back naturally.

"Y… Ye…". She whispered. "How… how do ye do it? Ye know… without David?"

Orla appeared to contemplate an answer for a few seconds, although her eyes being drawn to the cold breaths that were created in front of her made Erin question whether she was thinking at all, and not just distracted. Whichever answer was correct she would never discover, but an answer did eventually come in the form of a shrug, before her cousin gave her a more detailed explanation.

"I just… do".

Helpful!

Erin only just avoided screaming her answer back in her cousin face, which did nothing at all to aid her own struggles. She did not expect an answer worthy of a newspaper entry in return, but she didn't think she would get such a terrible one either. There was surely more to it than just her being able to, the details that she craved being withheld from her unintentionally. Mary once told her to watch Orla and how she went about her day, trying to help her daughter in her recovery from losing the love of her life. She'd followed her mother's advice as well, but still couldn't understand the mindset of her cousin. Sure, she could have gone around looking after Marie and doing the washing on a Saturday, but it was finding the will to do it that was what she could not understand. Without James there to support her, Erin's enthusiasm for life was so much lower yet Orla's remained high despite knowing that she would never see David again.

"But… how?" Erin tried again.

Orla frowned at her cousin's insistence, catching a similar look reflecting at her in the light of the lantern that she held between them. There was nothing more to it than that in her own head. David was not coming back and had told her to move on with her life, to not spend it waiting for him because he wasn't coming. She tried not to think about Erin's plight too often, but she didn't understand why Erin wasn't doing what James told her to do. After all, she'd read the letter he'd written to Erin. She needed to move on with her life, not think about him. However, Orla didn't come up the Foyle in a bubble, contrary to popular opinion, and knowing that her cousin would have to be given some form of answer to satisfy her, she gave into the request.

"I don't think about David that much ye know". Orla admitted. "Sure, I haven't forgot him, so I haven't, but I don't think about him all the time. There's too much to do Erin, I can't be thinkin' about him".

"But ye loved him!?" Erin argued fiercely in return. "How can ye… detach yerself so easily!?"

"I did love him. But he wanted me to move on, to live the rest of my life without thinking about him all the time. James wanted the same from you, didn't he?"

It was Erin's turn to fidget, though if she were honest, she only just held back from shouting at her cousin again. James did tell her to move on but what he hadn't done was given her on a manual on how she was to go about doing it. There was no such book in existence when it came to handling grief, each to their own on how to go on without the person that they loved. If they were to be compared though, Orla's life after David was almost the complete novel, whereas Erin was yet to get beyond the contents page. Moving on even when her beloved told her to was not as simple as it sounded, at least to her.

"He did". She eventually replied. "But that doesn't mean I just… can".

"Sure of course ye can". Orla tried to be cheerful in reply.

"HOW ORLA!" She shouted this time. "How do I just move on!?"

A dramatic performance worthy of the Hollywood scene was being enacted by the young blonde that evening. Shouting at her cousin was not what she wanted to do at all, but coupled with the cold of the night, Orla's inability to provide a proper answer only frustrated her further. The whole day was a carousel of negativity that never ended, manifesting itself in different forms throughout. It had been some time since she'd cried as much as she had that morning over James, although to her friends and family, those days did not seem that long ago. It couldn't be helped on such a landmark day though. The newspaper was of no help to her when she'd seen her Granda reading that afternoon, five pages in having a feature on Taranto, a year after the battle. The Derry Journal's reason for the article was David, with quotes from his parents being added to the article when Orla declined to provide them weeks earlier. Once again, it angered her that James was not allowed to be remembered in the same way thanks to their bias against the Brits. She would never know the truth behind him not being mentioned by the paper… few did.

"Ye just have to Erin!" Orla shouted back. "James wouldn't have wanted ye to keep cryin' over him and being horrible to everyone else. Why is that by the way? It can't just be James because ye've been like this the last couple of Autumns… what's wrong with ye?"

Turning the tables back against Erin, Orla felt quite proud of herself for plucking up the courage to ask, when a lot of them would have said nothing. She'd always remained somewhat curious as to what the moods were, though she'd seen very little of the first years because she was so busy with Marie in her early months. She too could understand the upset a year earlier when they'd found out that their fellas were dead, but the moods started before November. She was aware of an argument between Erin and Michelle at one point in time, but that couldn't have been the reason a year later. Unless there was some secret game where they all acted differently in November, which she would have been raging about having not been invited to play it.

On an average day it would take something special to truly stun Erin into silence, but Orla found the right combination that night in the church graveyard. She would not reveal the reasons, which were well buried in the back of her mind that evening, though Orla's reminder of them brought them forward. She pushed them away again though, because there were other matters at hand that night, not that one. Her grief for James, and inability to move on from it, far superseded anything else, she told herself. The knowledge would stay between her and her parents.

"Nothing!" She snapped. "Stop changing the subject!"

"Fine!" Orla argued back once more, her hands on her hips. "I can move on because I know I can't do anythin' about what's happened. Sure, I want my David back more than anything in the world, ye know, but I can't have him back! He's not comin' and I'm not goin' to sit here thinking that he is forever!".

"Ach right, I bet ye never thought of him last night, did ye!?"

Feeling her fists begin to clench, Orla was starting to lose control of herself. She was used to having a lack of control on a normal day when she was enjoying herself, but very few people had ever seen her at her most raging. Even fewer could push her to it. Erin was one of those few though, her comment about what happened in Belfast the night before making Orla very angry indeed. There was not an ounce of her being that regretted having sex with the fella at the party; they'd done so safely, and he was a nice fella. She was usually respective of Erin's choice not to engage in that sort of activity but even the academically challenged Orla could see that she needed it more than anything. Falling in love again could wait for Erin, but release was required quickly.

"He wouldn't have wanted me to!" The taller woman challenged.

"I don't think David would have wanted ye to be ridin' half of Belfast either!" Erin shouted again, moving right up into her cousin's face.

Her Mammy would never forgive her if she punched Erin in the face or slapped her across it, but that was all that Orla wanted to do. She didn't enjoy being spoken to in the way that she was by Erin. The significance of the day had long passed over her mind, the front of it being assaulted with thoughts of how she would have loved to have put Erin in her place. The first time that it was required, it was not, but she was used to leaving Michelle or Clare to bring the blonde into line. However, out on their own that night, nobody else could come to her aid, leaving it to Orla herself to end the situation before it got any further out of control. Acting as the adult between the two, she disengaged.

"I have had it with you Erin! I am sick and tired of all yer moanin'… yer cryin'… don't tell me how to live my life because I'm livin' mine! What's yers!?"

The widow didn't wait for a response to the question, which was meant rhetorically rather than genuinely. Her fists were unable to be stopped from their clenched state, but in walking away from the confrontation rather than rising to it, she won out. She needed to get back to Ferguson Street anyway, to spend the night with her little daughter, her precious Marie. The argument involving David, brought back the memories of being with him too her, the reason why she would end up crying all of the way home. She wasn't guilt ridden by her actions the night before, standing by the convictions she'd chastised Erin for not having, but some of her conscience still hurt. Welcoming David back into her life would have been the greatest treasure she could ask for, but Orla's years taught her that realism always won out in the end. David wasn't coming back… and neither was James.

Just as quickly as she'd raged at her cousin for not giving the answers that she desperately needed, Erin was upset from the anger she'd generated within her. Orla was always by far the calmest, rarely showing anger where the rest of them would so easily at the drop of the hat. Riling Orla up was a task that she'd only performed a couple of times in her entire life, and not since they were wee when children of that age would have silly arguments that angered the other. Her own pain being deflected onto others was not a strategy that would be advantageous in the long run, only serving to alienate her from those she loved even more than she already felt she was. Erin saw the looks they would flash to each other when they thought that she wasn't looking, understood how much her moods could annoy them. Sadly, nothing could be done about it. Burning her bridges with Orla was another wound to her fragile state.

"Orla… wait!" She desperately cried out to stop her.

"ORLA!"

It was no use. Orla did not even flinch at her name being called, carrying on the walk back to Ferguson Street without turning back. The already isolated Erin was left in the graveyard alone, with only the lantern that Orla left, purposefully or not, with her. No one else in her life wanted to be with her, she told herself, as after a year, she should have moved on. The carefree attitude of her cousin alluded her though, her heart still yearning for the English Pilot that captured it during the brief months that he was there. It may have been for that reason why she could not too. David and Orla were together for a long time, having known each other long before they became a couple. The brevity of her relationship with James was part of the problem; she'd tasted love but without reaching the zenith of where it could take her. There was so much more that they could have done, that they wanted to do, but were denied because of the Italians. A child was produced by the other couple; a broken life was all that she had left from loving him.

Tears already trickled from the corners of her eyes, but when Erin turned to look at the name on the stone beneath her, she cracked apart. The completely emotionally depleted Erin was not a young woman that was seen as regularly as she used to be, a reappearance a long time in the making that night. The name James Maguire was the cause of the trauma that lived in her heart permanently, defiantly residing there despite her best efforts to shake it off. More than two years were behind her without him, but there was a painfully obvious part of her life that still cried out with the truth, one that the rest of her family didn't want to hear.

She needed him.

"WHY JAMES!" She shrieked into the silent air. "WHY!"

Her knees used to fail around him for very different reasons but that night they were collapsing under the weight of her melancholy, not his intense stare. She missed that look in his eyes, the one reserved for her and her only. The James Maguire that used to make her feel as if she were the Queen of his kingdom that he served out of love, nothing more. The man might not have been there anymore, but the name lived on, yet it existed only to hurt her when she saw it. A constant reminder of the life she should have been living if it were not for the war that he'd bravely gone to participate in. It was not long before Erin's knees were muddied when she sank onto them on, digging into the turf on the periphery of where his grave lay.

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME!?"

"DIDN'T YE KNOW WHAT IT WOULD DO TO ME!?"

Her violent sobs and shrieks were enough to send some of the local cats scuttling off out of the graveyard, such was their severity. If Sister Michael would have stayed around for a while longer than she had done, then it would have been the perfect time for her to swoop in. She was not there for Erin though, leaving the young Quinn to fester in her own pity while her emotions were poured out into the emptiness of a bitter November night.

"WHY CAN'T YE COME BACK TO ME!"

"I LOVE YOU! PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

By the time the last words were falling from her mouth she was laying over his grave as if it were a bed, clutching to the stone that bore the name of the dead man that she'd given her life to. Wretched sobs that left her hurting both mentally and physically were ripped from her from minute to minute, numbing the effect of the cold ground that would have otherwise saw her spring up immediately. It was no place for a young woman to find herself, but she couldn't help it. One year on from James' death, her heart was still struggling to beat properly without him being there to sooth it. The teenage girl that existed before he walked into her life was expunged from her conscience's memory. All because of him.

She was not the first woman to have suffered from loving the Englishman, nor would she be the last.

The temperature was already getting to below freezing when Gerry found her more than two hours later, the time getting on for nearer midnight. When she hadn't come home at the time that she was expected, he'd told Mary not to panic when she inevitably did, Erin most likely needing more time to process her emotions on what had been a torrid day. Suffering as much as she had at a young age was not easy, and though his patience may have been tested by her at the worst of times, Gerry's heart went out to his daughter that night. Heartbreakingly for him, it was not the first time that he'd experienced feelings of such helplessness around his eldest daughter. The greatest fear of any parent was watching their child suffer whilst being incapable of doing anything to ease their suffering. Erin toiled on but it was never any easier on him or Mary when they could do nothing.

Only when it got much later did Mary finally convince him to go out to find her. There was always a chance that she'd gone back to Ferguson Street with Orla to warm up first, if they'd been out a lot longer, making Shane's home the first place he went to. The fireman was not around that night, but a surprised Sarah answered the door to him, immediately throwing her own worries into the mix when she revealed Orla had returned home upset but refusing to tell her why. The urgency that the southerner lacked earlier in the night, crept over him at a devilish speed when that information was passed to him, asking for Sarah to wake Orla to get her to say more. An initially hesitant young woman did not want to say anything at all, such was her anger with Erin still, but when Gerry revealed that she'd not turned up back at home, the anger was forgotten. Wishing to join him on another trip to the graveyard where she assumed Erin still cried, Gerry stopped her. It was far too cold for her to be out again.

Orla was correct in her theory that she would still be in the graveyard, but contrary to her opinion, she did not still leak tears from her eyes. The light in the lantern fizzled out well before Gerry arrived, though he'd brought a torch that Joe left at the house once with him to guide him. He faced a difficult task navigating his way through in the mostly pitch-black house of the deceased, a slalom of tombstones on his way to James'. The father's heart nearly stopped when he found her there, immediately fearing the worst when her figure entered the torchlight, lying down across the grave. One place in the house he hadn't checked before he left was the medicine cabinet, and the very first thought that entered his mind was that Erin had done something stupid. That she'd tried to join James in the afterlife, that not a single one of them knew he was not in.

The sound of her soft snores was music to his ears when he got closer, after being so terrified that he might have lost her when she was at her most vulnerable. Gerry would have been distraught if he'd allowed her to take her own life when she was loved so much by so many people, but she hadn't made any such attempt, leaving him content to not hold those thoughts close to his chest. Verifying that she was just asleep and nothing else, he needed to get her home quickly. Erin might not have been trying to end her own life that night, but the cold was making a reasonable job of doing it for her. His back still hurt from having to haul Michelle home the previous night when she could not be woken, finding himself in exactly the same position but with Erin this time. Luckily, she was somewhat lighter than her friend, though it was painful regardless for the aging man.

Jogging was the best that he could manage back through the dark streets but manage he did. There were times when Gerry couldn't see anything more than a few feet in front of him, the mist rising up off the Foyle to hinder his visibility. Erin did not wake once during the trip back, which on any other occasion would have been perfect, except she was so cold that he feared for her. He didn't know how long she'd been lying on the ground with only the protection of her coat against the elements, and it was an exceptionally cold night again. He wore gloves it was that cold, whereas Erin's hands were uncovered, fingers like icicles.

The front door was open when he got there, Mary lit up by the candles that were placed on the window ledge outside. She was brought to tears herself by the sight of her eldest in her husband's arms, knowing without having to look at her face that she was not awake. Her first thoughts mirrored Gerry's, cursing herself for not being more attentive when Erin was preparing herself to go out earlier in the night. She knew how hard it was for Erin to move on, more than everyone except Gerry, and though Erin regularly challenged her and could upset her, she still cared deeply for her own flesh and blood. If anything would have happened to her then she would have ventured into the same depressing abyss that Erin found herself trapped in.

"She's alright…". Gerry confirmed, panting as he began to slow up in front of her.

"Gerry…". Mary replied with worry, seeing the look of pain on their daughter's face.

"I don't know how long she's been out there love, but we need to get her into bed and warm her up".

Mary didn't stand on ceremony, leaping backwards out of the way to allow Gerry indoors with Erin, shutting the door behind him as her husband carried their daughter to her bedroom as quickly as he could. His back cried out for mercy all the way up the stairs, none being found until he reached her room. Kicking the door open with his foot, he spotted Anna at the door of her bedroom, woken by the commotion downstairs. She was at school the following morning and could not spend half the night awake worried for her sister. Gerry wasn't cross with her, but he needed her to get back to bed. He would talk to her in the morning.

"Anna!" He tried not to, but shouted. "Back to bed please".

"Sorry Daddy". She replied quietly. "Tell Erin I love her".

"I will love".

Gerry thanked the Almighty at that very second for having a daughter like Anna. Reading the situation, she knew that her bed was the best destination for her, apologising when she didn't need to as well as offering her love to her clearly unwell Sister. The message would be passed on in a whisper at some point or another, after the concerns for her welfare were completely cleared up. That was the challenge facing Gerry and his wife, who'd quickly come to join him upstairs with all of the blankets she could find downstairs. Laying Erin out onto the bed, she still hadn't stirred, her skin the same chilling temperature that it was when he'd found her. Delicate snores were purring from her, but his worries would not dissipate. Surely, he thought, she would have woken during his rush back through the city streets… or at least when she was dropped onto the bed. Instead, there was no response.

"She's so cold Gerry!" Mary whispered through her tears.

"I know love… I know…". He put a hand on hers to reassure her as he spoke.

Removing the hand from his wife, he placed it on Erin's frozen cheek, turning it to him slightly. Even with the coat still on her she was freezing, the garment doing more harm than good he decided. Between them, they managed to get it off her, replacing it with warm blankets to try to heat her up again. Still she didn't wake, frightening the life out of an already shaken Mary even more. She was coming to the conclusion that one of them was going to have to get an ambulance out to the house one way or another if Erin didn't wake soon.

Gerry went off to hunt down more blankets to keep her warm, while Mary stripped Erin of the rest of her bitterly cold clothes, ready with a top and bottoms to cover her instead. It would do her no good lying in bed in the same clothes that she'd spent the best part of a couple of hours asleep in on the freezing turf of James' grave. Deirdre had told her to do that in a similar situation, though it would have been more appropriate if she'd fell into the Foyle. It could be applied that night though, and Mary was prepared to do anything to keep her daughter safe.

"J… J…".

Finally Erin started to rouse, just as her father walked back into the room with the additional blankets that he'd found. He'd even taken the ones from their room to give to her, not caring if he became chillier during the night, his thoughts solely going to Erin.

"She's wakin'!" Mary once more whispered.

"J… James…".

The married couple shared a look of despair when she spoke his name, although neither could admit to their surprise. It was going to be another difficult conversation with her about moving on at some point in the days that followed, but one they would have to face as a family. Until then though it was Erin's physical wellbeing that took priority over her mental. Her eyes were beginning to flicker open to see who was around her, the room being lit by candles that Mary brought upstairs with her when she'd followed Gerry.

A few seconds later, Erin's consciousness began to kick in, immediately to drawn to how cold that she was. Her body began to shake, shivers running through her as it began to falter, having spent so long in such icy temperatures. Slowly she began to look around her, eyes flickering all of the time, until the unmistakable figure of her mother entered her eyeline in front of her. As soon as she did, Erin broke down again.

"Mammy…".

Wrapping her up in the warmest hug she could give her, Mary moved up the bed so that they were lying there together. Crying into her mother's shoulder, Erin's own broken heart was breaking Mary's too. They'd been in the exact same position before months earlier, Mary hoping then that it would never happen again. Yet there were too many factors that contributed to turn Erin into the miserable wretch that she was that night, who cared so little for herself that she'd fell asleep in the glacial temperatures of the church graveyard on a freezing night. For a young woman who was so loved by her family, from the outside anyone walking by would have thought she was neglected.

Mary stayed the whole night in with her daughter, warming her up even as Erin drifted back into the slumber she'd been in when Gerry found her. Come morning she would probably feel the effects of the chill in her and Gerry knew before he'd found his own bed that his back would be killing him. When they woke the following morning, they would deal with the consequences of the evening and offer all their love to her.

But both somehow knew, that it was never going to be enough.

---

The wait was longer than it was on the night of the Taranto raid, the information not being delivered back through the Navy channels. It made it even worse than the year before, when they could at least discover quickly whether the young English Pilot was lost to the world or not. Captain Smithers was at home when the news eventually got through to him, a regular occurrence which he was becoming privately frustrated with. His role for his country was one of vital importance but the number of long journeys into London at ridiculous times of the day were beginning to wear him down. It wouldn't have been a problem, had the news been good news, but because it was bad, the whole way there his stomach churned, concerned for the outcome of the failure.

Yet again, James Maguire slipped through their fingers.

It was mostly his plan too, which is what concerned him the most. Although Lieutenant Colonel Menzies held some input in it, a greater role than he probably wanted despite being the higher ranked of the two, fundamentally it was Smithers' plan to rescue the young Captain. He was the one who'd suggested the use of their Italian contacts in order to get him out, though risking them all bar Domenico was the Lieutenant Colonel's suggestion and not his own. They'd discussed the risk of such a move at length, determining that because it was James that needed to be rescued, any cost was a necessary one. They couldn't afford for him to slip into Hitler's hands, Smithers fully understanding why, having read the complete file on the young man. Few acts could end the war prematurely when there was still so much fight left, but if the German High Command discovered the truth about James, Britain could not continue in the war. Already struggling without the greatest Pilot the country had ever produced, there would be little that could be done if Hitler knew. As far as they were aware the Germans knew nothing, but secrets could be pried from even the most trusting of people.

There were already rumours coming out of the Italian newspapers of an incident in Taranto one year on from the attack on the Fleet, as early as the following evening. Details were sparce, nothing that they could work with to confirm the success of the plan at the time. From what could be gleaned from the Italian papers, the mansion of the highly regarded Professor Roberto Molinari had been attacked by assailants, though nobody could understand a motive for the attack. The Professor himself was reported as killed by whoever it was that attacked the mansion, which already concerned Smithers when his orders to the agents were to not kill anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. There were reports of other deaths too, setting off a chain of nerves that saw him phone Menzies immediately that evening. The Lieutenant Colonel tried to be more optimistic about their chances, especially because there was no mention of an escaped prisoner or a deceased Englishman in the story. Whether or not the Italian papers would print it was another matter but clutching at straws was what they needed to do. The plan, even if successful, would have seen days for his safety to be confirmed anyway.

The last contact they had left in Italy was the one to deliver the news of the dismal failure to secure James. Only one of the team of agents that went to the mansion to rescue him survived, the one left behind at their safehouse. They'd managed to stay undetected into the following day, watching on as part of a large crowd of locals who gathered at the grounds of the mansion to try to understand what had occurred. A search was underway for anyone who knew any of the deceased, the local military commander insisting it be done immediately when he'd arrived at the mansion during the night. He was aware of James' imprisonment in the basement, and upon finding him missing, panicked. Acting with far more composure, the last of the agents was able to transmit a message to Domenico to inform him of the failure, as well as his cousin's death. Their luck ran out though. Five minutes or so before their planned escape, belongings packed ready to head to safety somewhere else in the country, they were confronted at the safehouse. An eyewitness saw a group acting suspiciously there a couple of days prior to the rescue attempt and the soldiers decided that no questions needed to be ask. As soon as their identity was confirmed when the Sergeant asked for their papers, they were executed in the doorway, in sight of people who were walking by. Another traitor to the regime dealt with. Domenico was unaware of their death after the message was transmitted but it did not change the outcome of his message to Smithers when he was able to transmit, which was not until the early hours of Saturday.

By Saturday lunchtime, the underground office of Lieutenant Colonel Menzies held a familiar feel to it. Smithers was there with his superior officer, the two of them pondering what they could do next, James' safety again being a far more difficult task than it should have been. The country was spending an incredible amount of money on the war, a cost which the public would find out in time. A cost they would not find out was the lives that were being lost, though not British ones, to rescue a young man who appeared somewhat normal on the outside. He was anything but, and despite being an incredibly skilful Pilot, no logical reasoning could be given to justify the cost of trying to snatch him back out of the hands of the enemy. In an ideal world, the British Government would have loved to have been able to justify spending the resources they had on him, for every captured man abroad, but a world with war in it was never going to be ideal.

The greatest concern of all for Smithers, and for Menzies, aside from James' welfare, was the impact yet another failure would have on their careers. They were not the men tasked with seeing to James personally, stuck in London rather than being able to sneak into Taranto to retrieve him. However, they were the men assigned to planning for his safe return to home shores, in the firing line when failure occurred. Once more it had done so, with Menzies knowing that he would have to answer to the Prime Minister to explain why James was in more peril afterwards than he was in before the rescue. They couldn't be sure that he was in the hands of Doctor Kurt Van Der Heijden, but the now deceased final agent's message suggested that he may have been, having overheard a soldier that must have fought in the battle around the mansion, explaining that two men carried a man out to a car and left with him. It was unlikely to be anyone other than the stranded Captain.

"We should never have suggested the plan…". Smithers lamented to his superior. "… the risk… it was too great".

"Hindsight is rather wonderful Smithers. I wish I would have told you that it was all too much but… well you know why we risked everything now".

"I do, Sir". Smithers sighed. "Now in doing so we may have condemned him".

Quantifying the mood of the room would have given an answer of not very chipper at all. Lieutenant Colonel Menzies was a man who'd overseen spectacular success for the whole duration of the war, but James became a thorn in his side, in what was a glittering record. He'd done so much for his country throughout his life, serving with distinction throughout his career. Admitting himself to Smithers one day that he was in the twilight of it, James' safety was threatening to leave a stained legacy when he eventually called it a day. That would not happen during the war unless he was forced to, giving him time to rectify the errors that had been made, but he was running out of time. There was only so much patience that those who knew the secret of James Maguire would have, and there were other intelligence officers in other branches that could be brought in to attempt to do a better job than him. It would mean another man privy to the secret, not that it bothered those who knew too greatly. James could not fall into the wrong hands… preventing the situation arising needed to be completed by any means necessary.

"We need to find him immediately". Menzies said to him, stating the obvious.

"Where do we start though, Sir?" Smithers fairly noted. "If he is with Van Der Heijden, then he could be taking him anywhere. Back to Berlin, to a camp…".

"Don't forget we know where Emerald One is, Smithers. He will return to her at some point, so I would say that we should begin there".

"Do we get her to confirm his safety, Sir?"

A wide-eyed Menzies looked back at his Captain. It appeared that his Captain had forgotten some of the most key details of their operation, and that their Irish agent was perhaps their most valuable in Europe. She was one of the only risks that could not be taken when it came to James, the Prime Minister having agreed as such on many occasions, as well as the Prime Minister before him. Lyla Walsh's information could not be threatened by the Doctor's suspicion being raised if she took interest in the safety of an Englishman that barely anyone knew was alive. She was not aware of whether he was alive or dead anyway, but it was her information that the Doctor was on his way to Taranto to interrogate an English prisoner that sparked the hastily planned rescue attempt. That was as far as they could allow her to be involved though… at least for the time being.

"Sorry, Sir. That was a foolish statement". Smithers apologised a second or two later.

"It was, Smithers. I cannot have you making such ridiculous statements when we have a duty to this country to see James back home safely. Do not let me hear of it again".

Reprimanded as if he were a rebellious schoolboy, Smithers nodded his acceptance of the words of warning. Menzies did not treat him that way very often, but when he did it was almost always when stress was affecting the Lieutenant Colonel. The chances of Menzies admitting of the stress to his Captain were low, but Smithers would not be fooled into thinking he was not. The receding hairline of the Lieutenant Colonel would often find hands through it more regularly when he was at his most pensive, worried mostly for his own career that Saturday more than anything. They'd survived the apparent loss of James a year earlier, returning to a higher regard when they confirmed that he was in fact alive. A second negative outcome in just over a year would leave him, as well as Smithers, extremely lucky if they were to be given a third chance. If they were and that failed, their fates would be sealed.

"What about opt-".

Smithers' attempt to reengage his superior into conversation about James was halted by the door opening with a start. Lotty, the secretary, was the only other person present in the entire building that day, but it was most unlike her not to knock first. Menzies, already highly aggravated by the events of the morning, looked ready to dismiss her on the spot for such a rude interruption. When she remained undeterred after making eye contact with him, both men began to wonder what had gotten into her.

"My apologies Lieutenant Colonel Menzies, but I have the Prime Minister on the telephone for you. Shall I put him through?"

Her hastiness was understandable. The number of times Winston Churchill appeared in the underground area of their building was quite alarming, and when he telephoned into the office himself, she understood how important it must have been. Menzies was yet to pass on news of the failure of the mission to the Prime Minister, still trying to digest it himself. He'd hoped to delay breaking the news until later in the day, but time was a cruel mistress, and suddenly he was out of it.

"Yes… yes of course".

Smithers began to gather his papers together, preparing to vacate the room to allow Menzies the privacy of discussing the situation with the Prime Minister. He was used to having to do so, having done so on the day that the PM authorised the rescue attempt. A lot changed from that moment onwards though, another change being conveyed a second later by his superior officer.

"Stay where you are Smithers, there is nothing that you don't know now".

The ever-changing war took another turn for a man who started it as a mere lowly handler of a couple of agents of the country. A little over two years later, Smithers was present for secretive telephone conversations with the Prime Minister. Menzies was correct though; a man entrusted with arguably the country's greatest secret of the age they were living in was hardly going to need to be excused from such a call. He would not be able to hear any of it though, something that he dawned upon very quickly, left instead to listen to the likely defence that his superior officer would have to put up when the PM found out. Winston Churchill was not a man who enjoyed bad news, despite usually thriving from the aftermath of it. He couldn't make a speech to the country about James though…

"Good Afternoon Winston".

The one-sided conversation at least began nicely. It was a little while before Menzies spoke again, and from what Smithers could hear of the PM, it seemed that news of the failure of the operation had reached him unofficially that morning. A leak was a problem that they did not need but it was quite possible that it was the news of Molinari's demise and the subsequent manhunt for accomplices that found him rather than any news about James.

"Might I ask where you heard this?"

"My apologies…". Menzies stopped to clear his throat. "I regret to inform you that our young Captain, we believe, was forcibly detained by Doctor Van Der Heijden".

Smithers heard the shouting that followed well enough. Churchill was seething.

"The mission always came with inherent risks, Winston. It is too early to lay faults at the doorstep of those who conducted it".

"The agents were all properly trained. They knew the dangers that came with a rescue effort".

"Our plan never involved killing the Doctor. It would appear that they would have stood little chance anyway, seeing as the Italian soldiers killed them from what we could discover. If any fault should be apportioned, then it lays with me".

"It makes it far more complicated than I wanted it to be".

"We may have to utilise her yet". Menzies paused again, purposefully taking a look at his Captain before he spoke the PM again. "It is a course of action that Captain Smithers and I have discussed".

"For the time being we must locate him. After that Winston… I would have to say that we need to plan our options more carefully. The folly of rushing to try to rescue him has shown us what we must not do a second time".

"I quite agree".

"I do not plan to inform her. She will hear through the Doctor I suspect".

"We always knew it may happen, Winston. We can only hope that it does not come to that".

"Yes, I shall see you on Monday. Good day".

The telephone call was over, and Smithers could have sworn that the Lieutenant Colonel had aged ten years during it. It was clear that the Prime Minister was in an apocalyptically poor mood having found out about the mission's failure before they'd confirmed it, improving no more when he was told officially. They were going to be given another chance, the Captain was sure, but it would almost certainly be their last. The cup of tea that Lotty strode in with a couple of minutes later was the greatest cup that either man would probably have in their lives, dissolving the tension in the room. They'd not said anything for a couple of minutes afterwards, Menzies needing the time to strategise in his own head.

He did break the ice after Lotty exited the room though.

"Well Smithers, the Prime Minister is of the same mind as us. We need to find James immediately, starting where I suggested".

"Yes, Sir".

"I fear Option C is only a matter of time".

Option C was the very final option, the last roll of the dice… and they were running out of throws.

---

Dudum…

Dudum…

Dudum…

Something was bouncing around.

Dudum…

Dudum…

Of course, it could have been the pain in his head that was generating the sound, but it didn't appear to be a mentally produced sound. He didn't really know what it was in a semi-lucid state, waking up with little to assume of where he was. Whatever the Nazi Doctor injected into him, James did at least keep his memories of the incident when his eyes finally began to open. He could remember little else, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was not free, suddenly in the hands of a man that he did not know.

As he began to regain consciousness, he looked down to find that his arms were clean again. The last time that he'd seen them, they were covered in poor Giovanna's blood from where she'd died in his arms. The young nurse died for him to be able to be free, but in the immediate aftermath of her demise, he was back to being captive again. Her sacrifice was in vain because although he was no longer in the basement of Molinari's mansion in Taranto, he was in fact even worse off. Where he was or who the Doctor was, became a mystery to him. She'd died unnecessarily, his conscience making a note of it, one that he was unlikely to forget. However, it was not his main concern. He needed to know what was going on.

The Englishman didn't have to wait long to find out.

The rattling noise that he woke to was still being made in the background, but there was then the sound of a door being opened that drowned it out. Beginning to sit up from where he'd been left, laying on his side on a cold surface, his memory began to help him put the first pieces of the puzzle together. The vibrations that ran through his body were incredibly familiar, having spent hours feeling them since before the start of the war, though he had not felt them since crash landing in Molinari's mansion over a year earlier. For once, he was not the man tasked with being at the controls, but James without doubt knew he was in the air somewhere. Familiar sensations coursed through his veins, reminding him of what it was like to be thousands of feet in the air above the rest of the world. It may have answered one question, but it prompted the young man to ask himself more, in the end working against him rather than for him.

What was he doing in the air?

Where was he going?

A couple of seconds later he was presented with a man who could have told him everything but most likely would not. He'd only looked at the face of Doctor Kurt Van Der Heijden for a short time before he was injected, but it was enough to remember the look. There was a vile disposition about the man. Hidden under an otherwise calm and unassuming layer, James could tell immediately that there was darkness within him. The visage of darkness was before him again in the plane, and from a brief glance around him, it appeared that he'd been left in the hold with the other cargo, which was all in boxes.

"Good morning sweet Prince". Van Der Heijden spoke softly, toying with him.

Deciding that silence was his best course of action, James did nothing other than stare at him, trying to work out more about him. The Doctor looked tired if anything, eyes glowing a bloodshot red, showing the classic signs of a man low on sleep. Trying to sleep whilst in a plane was a difficult task, the Englishman never having been afforded the luxury to even try, almost always being the Pilot not the passenger.

"I am joking, James…". The Doctor added, crouching down in front of him. "… if I may call you that".

"It's Captain Maguire, to you, Doctor".

The comment was not the most thought out and he found out quickly enough. When Molinari did not agree with an answer that the Englishman gave him, there would be discussion about it, even if it was one sided. With the Doctor, there was going to be violence.

If he hadn't woken up already, the punch he received in the face made sure that there was no doubt about it.

"A feisty answer. I am impressed, James". Kurt nodded, speaking sincerely after drawing his fist back.

"You should get used to it. I am a far greater man than you are".

Snorts of laughter spilled out from Doctor Van Der Heijden, who was dangerously crouching in front of the Englishman, who was not tied up. The basic human instinct to lurch forward and throttle the man flowed through James' body and up into his mind, but with his correct assumption that they were airborne, there was no escape. There was at least a Pilot on the plane, if not a co-pilot and others, the younger of the two knowing that there was no chance the Doctor would have left him so free if there were not significant backup aboard. He was not going follow his body's wishes though, his head winning out over his heart, as it should.

"I am sure we will discover whether that is the truth in good time, James…". Van Der Heijden continued to smile. "… or whoever you really are".

"You as well?" James quickly retorted. "I am only prepared to say this once, out of courtesy to you Doctor. I am Captain James Maguire, 815 Naval Air Squadron, Fleet Air Arm".

"Yes… I know that. I am just not sure if I believe it… my good friend Roberto did not".

He could have laughed himself at the Doctor's description of his good friend. Good friends didn't have the habit of going around killing each other or getting other friends to kill them. The killer was mostly likely on the flight too, he assumed, the two men travelling as a duo all over. The Doctor and his right-hand man, one to make the plans and one to execute them. It wasn't an uncommon setup at all, but it made his blood boil nonetheless.

"Good friend?" James huffed loudly, looking directly at his captor. "I hope that we do not become good friends, if that is how you treat a good friend".

Kurt was finding himself having fun with the Englishman that was sat before him. He was not accustomed to having to see those he was tasked to deal with before they fell to his cruel intentions, but every minute of his assignment from The Führer so far was exciting. There was a rush to be found from the clear fear that lived within the young Pilot, hidden by a mask that he'd put up to defend himself. The Doctor's task was very simple; to break the mask. Patience was the key, but a man who'd spent years trying to be accepted into a medical community that simply did not want him, was used to having to wait.

"Perhaps we will become friends… or perhaps not".

"I have enough friends". James continued his defiant streak. "There is no room for a repugnant Nazi Doctor like you".

"Is there not? What of the young woman that died in your room? I would say that you were friends… if not more".

An intellectual battle lay ahead between the pair, as well as the battle of wills that was already underway. James was used to soaking up abuse, his cousin's torrid attitude towards him allowing for him to have plenty of experience, before striking back with a fiery resolve that would often end a conversation. In Doctor Van Der Heijden, he had a match. Another man that could withstand a lot of verbal abuse without retaliating, he could throw the spoken punches just as easily as he could take them. Neither held a significant psychological advantage over the other too, the only advantage being held was Kurt being the captor and James being his captive. First blood was going to the Doctor though, using Giovanna to play on the guilt that he felt over her death.

"She was innocent. She did not deserve the fate that she ended up with".

"Innocent?" Kurt raised an eyebrow, standing up before continuing. "My Italian colleagues do not see it that way. They see her as a traitor".

"Whatever her allegiance, she did not deserve to die!" James plucked up the courage to shout back at him. "I would hope you at least had the honour to arrange a proper burial for her".

Having moved away from the Englishman, Kurt turned his back to him as he asked about her. It allowed him to grin over his shoulder, another sadistic and sinister grin that sent a chill down James' spine. He was beginning to regret asking the question when it came to Giovanna, having the regret confirmed when the Doctor turned back to him a second later.

"I spat her on corpse personally". He chuckled, watching James' nostrils flare in return. "I do agree with you though, James, it is a shame that she died so soon. She was a beautiful woman, I could have had some fun with her before I left her to her fate".

At no point in his life had James made an effort as large as the one to stop himself hurling his body at the Doctor with the intent of killing him. Giovanna's sacrifice was being distorted by the evil man that stood before him, who saw her as no more than an object by admission of what he would have done had she been alive. James saw more than that within Giovanna, an intellectual talent that accompanied her obvious beauty, as well as the heart of a lion. A young woman with no connection to him, went out of her way to try to ensure that he was safe from the clutches of the Doctor. He never asked her to, nor expected her to, but she still did it anyway. She was not just the sexual conquest that the man walking around in front of him saw.

"You should not treat death so lightly…". James found comfort in a familiar phrase. "… I told your dear friend the Professor that and a few minutes later he was dead. I am sure you do not wish to follow his fate".

"Oh! How poetic!" Kurt toyed with him in return. "You know, if I am to die, then given that we are in the air, you would likely die with me".

"I would not dream of going any other way".

Beneath the surface, an angry voice in Kurt's head told him to hit the Englishman for his continued attitude and resistance. Molinari could not tell him much about James in their prior correspondence, as he'd always been calm and perfectly well-mannered according to the Italian. Digging away at the layers that surrounded the gentleman, taught Kurt that his friend's assessment was not entirely true, because a provoked James was a different man. He was already learning the ways in which he could rile the young man up, but when he fought back so strongly with jibes of his own, it irritated the man who held him captive. Only he was supposed to dish out the provocations… not the prisoner as well. As it was made clear by the attempt to rescue him though, James was hardly an ordinary prisoner of war.

"As much as I have enjoyed getting to know you a little better, we will be landing soon… Captain Maguire… and I think it is time you enjoyed some rest".

"If you are going to inject me with something again, then please do so quickly, Doctor. The less time I have to look at you, the more rested I would feel".

James wasn't backing down easily. He might have feared the Doctor to a certain extent, understanding that he was a sinister man with intentions that could range in how atrocious they could be, but he was still James Maguire. A man willing to dive headfirst into an attack on a Panzer division, with little more than some fabric and a few metal tubes to protect himself from exploding tank shells, could not be deterred completely. He had some much fight left in him, mostly because his main objective was not complete. The thought of going home to Erin when he finally escaped the hell he was in, drove him on.

"Very well, James. Although you will miss a view of the Eternal City if you do not wait another couple of minutes".

"Rome?" James responded sharply.

"Congratulations, James. You are more cultured than I expected". Kurt smiled, crouching down again, this time with the needle ready. "Sleep well young man".

With a grunt when the needle was pushed in, James drifted back into an unconscious state, not at all fighting back. It was pointless when he did not know who else he might have faced on the plane, and with only the wooden spoon as a weapon, he was hardly prepared to hijack the plane and fly it to safety, even if it was well within his capabilities as an aviator.

It was a long time before he woke again…

And when he did, he was in a very different state to than what he was on the plane when he slipped into darkness once more.

At first, he didn't notice, too busy laughing to himself when he first opened his eyes to look around the room. Doctor Van Der Heijden had gone to the trouble of flying him from Taranto to Rome, only for the Englishman to end up in an almost identical room to the one he'd been held in by Professor Molinari. It was far bigger, but other than that, it was the exact same layout. There was a mundanity to it like the other room, bland purposefully to not give any additional freedom no matter how small, to the prisoner held within it. There was even a bar over the bed again, although it would be at the Nazi's discretion as to whether he could use it or not. The light in the room must have been above him, waking up at the back with the bed in front of him to right hand side, and the door to freedom to the left, albeit a bit further back than the one in Taranto. It was also a larger door, not that it made any difference to him.

The smell of the room differed to the one back at the Professor's mansion too. It was nowhere near as damp, his nasal passageways not assaulted with the damp smell like they had been at times in Taranto. No doubt it had been the Doctor's idea, he reasoned in his head, as a form of torment to make him suffer. Molinari had told him that a man with far differing techniques would be coming to question him, and having seen the man, and spoken to him, James knew that it was very much a tactic. If he was trying to make the Englishman feel as if nothing had changed, and his situation was as dire as ever, then he was succeeding. Hope was almost completely extinguished.

Only then did he notice the major change. When he tried to move.

He could not.

James' legs and arms were chained to the wall, tightly too. Wriggling, he tried to see if there was any give in them at all, which was there was, but annoyingly it was nowhere near enough. Looking down, he saw an even bigger problem than just being chained to the wall, which explained one of the other thoughts he'd had when his eyes first began to flicker open. He'd wondered why he felt so cold, having not even done so for the short time that he was awake during the flight between the two cities. The Doctor, and probably the young soldier responsible for the deaths of Giovanna and Professor Molinari, had deprived him of the clothes that the latter provided.

He was stark naked, chained to the wall. A fate which some men would have enjoyed a great deal, but he was not one of those men.

Doctor Van Der Heijden soon joined him.

There were no echoes of footsteps approaching down a long corridor like there was in Taranto, but even from as far back as the rear wall he could hear the sound of heavy boots on stone steps. Whoever it was that was approaching, there were two of them that he could make out, perhaps a third. He could do little else but wait, fixed in place.

"James! You are awake!" Van Der Heijden called to him, noticing from afar that his eyes were open.

"We have to stop meeting like this, Doctor". He joked, trying desperately to keep his spirits up.

The comment amused the man, who approached slowly, the young soldier shadowing him once the door closed behind them. It was just the two of them, a third presence not to be. The soldier was no longer covered by the Italian uniform that he'd disguised himself in, instead wearing the full German Army attire that James saw just before being put to sleep the first time. There was no cap covering his hair either, showing James the blonde hair and blue eyed look that some of his men used to waffle on about in the briefing room before a mission. There was always talk of a master race that the Nazi's wanted to create with that combination being highly desired, talk he'd dismissed when he first heard it as far back as his time in Derry. The young man in front of him was the very embodiment of the idea that was so easily brushed off in a time of peace.

"James, this Lieutenant Hartmann, the two of you have met".

Casting his eye across to the Lieutenant following the introduction from Van Der Heijden, James offered a scowl. He was not a man that he liked.

"The murderer himself".

The Lieutenant was not seemingly fond of him either, Kurt having told a hand out in front of Hans to stop him from reaching forward to strike the defenceless James. The Englishman was not aware of how much the Lieutenant hated his countrymen for their persistence when in his eyes they should have surrendered. Whispering an order to Hans to tell him to calm himself down, Kurt's attention soon returned to the prisoner.

"I am sorry James, but like everybody else, Hansi here sees it as his duty. He does not see himself as a murderer anymore than you would see yourself".

"I do not gun down young women". An antagonised James replied.

"But you do bomb warships and kill fine young sailors with young families and lives ahead of them". Kurt argued softly. "Are you sure you are a better man than my Lieutenant?"

The question silenced James, looking away from the pair of them. There was a mix of shame and confusion brewing within him, fighting the defiant stance he tried to maintain. Except from one or two moments where he'd examined his conscience, usually with David present, he tried not to think about the lives taken in fulfilling his orders. Death was inevitable in wartime, with so many people intent on killing whether they be through orders from above or without needing to be told, holding natural hatred for their enemy. Kurt threw out a question that made him revisit the dark thoughts that rarely came to the forefront of his mind. When he looked back to his time in service to Britain, in little more than a year he'd inflicted death upon a number of people. There were the three ME 109 Pilots that tried to surprise him over the North Sea, those upon ships and stations at airfields where the bombs fell and, to some extent, David. His best friend died in his Swordfish while they were in combat; the responsibility for David's death was his, even if he did not fire the fatal shots.

Lieutenant Hartman held his sub-machine gun ready, though he chose not to point it at James. For a couple of minutes nothing was said. To try to regain the composure lost by questioning himself, James found a spot on the back wall, a slight chip in the stone, and focused upon it. The Doctor was preparing something on a chair over to his right, he could see from the corner of his eye, while his Lieutenant stood waiting on the other side watching James' expressions diligently. The embarrassment from having every inch of his body on show was also threatening his concentration, not used to being exposed so openly apart from when he was around Erin.

Doctor Van Der Heijden shattered the focus he'd built up around thirty seconds or so later, when he began to walk over towards him again. He'd donned a white jacket, making him look more like the Doctor that he was rather than an officer, which is how he'd presented himself when he arrived at Molinari's mansion. It unsettled the Englishman even further…

"Do not worry, James. You can trust me, I am a doctor".

"Forgive me if I keep my lack of trust". James tilted his head slightly, a thin smile etched across his lips.

Lightly chuckling to himself in the same menacing ways as he had done a couple of times in James' presence, Kurt took a proper look at the physical specimen that was in front of him. He was not a Doctor who specialised in general practice, and though he did know how to perform it, his speciality lay with the effect of chemicals on the body. Chemicals such as the ones that were beginning to be used in the concentration camps, systematically eliminating the enemies of the Nazi regime held there, primarily the Jews.

Kurt's aims for that afternoon were not vast, which he explained to his captive.

"I need to check you over, make sure that you are not carrying any illnesses. The last thing I would want is for you to be unwell and… uncomfortable".

With every sentence, the Doctor became more detestable to James. He was still defiant though, not allowing the attempts of the Doctor to get under his skin, like he had done with the question of his conscience. The line was drawn; there would be no more victories for Doctor Van Der Heijden that day… it was not to be allowed.

"Your muscles are highly developed…". Kurt started, taking hold of James' arms firmly. "… I can only commend you on your devotion to keeping them so".

"I was allowed such a privilege by the Professor during my rehabilitation. It has been of great help to me".

"As you can see, I have a similar… what do you call it… bar… above your bed. I will allow you to do so as your exercise routine each day".

"Thank you".

"Yes. You should thank me".

Their tense exchange took place, all the while Kurt examining the bulkier upper half of James' body. He put Hans to shame when it came to muscle, able to make a visual comparison in his head, having seen both of their upper bodies. Hans was by no means an unfit, unmuscular man, but the Englishman dwarfed him with his superior biceps. Allowing his hands to drift to James' back and up to his shoulders, all that the Doctor could find was well developed muscle, a body that was taken care of by its owner. He made a mental note to order Hans to retrieve more chains, to be sure that they could hold their prisoner in place should they need to again. James' stomach was equally well toned too, and when he pressed down onto it to check properly, Kurt found himself almost bounced backwards, such was the power of the muscle.

It was then, and only then, that he chose to take a quick glance up to James, who looked down to his captor examining him. The smile told James exactly where he would be examining him next, leaving him only a couple of seconds before the likely crude comments.

"Wow!" Kurt exclaimed, his hand coming to rest somewhere James wanted no man to rest his hand. "There is one very lucky woman out there somewhere…".

Expectations became reality when Kurt made the comment to him, looking back up at him again with a smile. Most men would have looked away with burning red cheeks, trying to think of a better place than the one they were in. As a man who certainly did not enjoy the advances of a fellow male, he held every right to, but in their psychological battle of wits he refused to break the eye-contact. He was not allowing the Doctor another win, and to show clear visual signs of embarrassment would hand the man more of an advantage against him. Despite detesting every single second of his existence since Kurt had begun to inspect his genitals, he swallowed his pride.

"You've had a feel...". James coughed, clearing his throat. "… anymore and I am inclined to charge you, Doctor".

"Fighting talk!" Kurt exclaimed, taking his gloved hands away. "You do surprise me, James. I thought you would have been shouting at me to remove my hands from you… that you were disgusted… but you are letting me examine Captain Maguire here without as much as a word".

The naming was just as predictable as his first comment…

"Perhaps I am not disgusted all". James played along, replying firmly. "But I would like to know exactly what you hope to gain from your examination?".

"I am checking you for lice, James. It can never help to be too careful". Kurt stole a grin at him again. "But you are in remarkable shape down there too. You treat your body well".

"Only for you, darling".

James' closing remark left Kurt howling, Hans unable to stop himself from breaking into a fit of giggles behind them too. A serious expression remained on his face after he made the comment, the look that a school teacher gave to their students when they were acting far more childishly than they should have been. Remaining seemingly unaffected by what he'd said helped him too, because inside he was anything but. Where the words came from for him to have made such a comment, he did not know. It was most ungentlemanly of him, and certainly not the man that his close family knew him to be.

"I think the two of us are going to have a lot of fun together, James…". Kurt laughed. "… but I am afraid I will not see you for a few weeks".

"I am heartbroken". James replied mockingly.

"You should be". An equally mocking reply was sent his way. "Hans will release you down from there and return your clothes and possessions to you. You will have everything that Professor Molinari provided for you here, but I am afraid you will not have any visitors until I come to see you again".

"If you would lend me a calendar, then I will countdown the days until your return".

Their game of wartime sportsmanship continued on, James having to in order to keep his focus and not allow the Doctor to gain anymore of an advantage over him. When he looked at Kurt, he could see there was fire in the man's eyes, hoping that it was caused by him frustrating the man by not breaking down before him. If he was not going to see him for weeks, then it would be far easier for him to continue their psychological battle when it resumed again. A part of him looked forward to the struggle, at least being clothed in the battle this time, but he still held fears too. His life was in Doctor Van Der Heijden's hands after all.

Kurt bid his farewell to his prisoner, after Lieutenant Hartmann followed his instructions, releasing James from his chains and handing the clothes back to him. They'd shown remarkable trust in letting him down, when James could have put up a fight at any time. Yet Kurt was not stupid like some thought he was. The young Pilot gained nothing from trying to make an escape attempt, especially when he barely knew where he was. James would be obedient to begin with, exactly how he wanted him to be. Without any experience at what he'd been asked to do, Kurt simply went about performing his orders his way.

When they'd both left, James had only managed to get as far as covering his lower half before he made for the bucket, throwing up the contents of his stomach. Ever since the humiliating physical examination began, he'd felt nauseous, and when Kurt had begun to examine his genitals, he fought incredibly hard not to throw up all over the man. The touch of another man's hands in that area sickened him. Only Erin could have her hands there… and certainly no man could other than the Englishman himself.

Little did he know that Kurt remained at the door, listening to him throw up with a satisfied smirk on his face. It was going to take time, but gradually he would break the admittedly brave twenty one year old and find out exactly who he really was.

And more importantly, why Britain desperately wanted him back…