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 :)

57. Lion Tamer

Chapter 57: Lion Tamer 31st December 1941

A year of renewed hardship was drawing to a close, one which had seen another twist in the tale of a story that should have been ended the year before. It was over for a time, for quite a long time, the secret long thought buried until once more it reared its ugly head. Britain was not a country that was short on secrets, scandal and salacious information, but there was one secret which came back when it never should have. James Maguire was meant to have died bravely after being shot down over Taranto whilst attacking the Italian Fleet. Instead it turned out that he was alive, eventually being found by British Intelligence before a lacklustre, and very much amateur attempt at a rescue took place. The rushed plan saw multiple Italians loyal to Britain lose their lives, as well as allowing James to fall into the hands of one of the most dangerous Nazi's that they knew of. Another torrid year that was somehow worse than the one he'd been killed in.

Sitting in the backroom of his home, a cup of tea in his hand, Captain Smithers was struggling to stay awake. For once it was not the work that kept him awake though… it was the cries of his newly born child. The Smithers family welcomed a young son late on Christmas Eve, their own Christmas miracle and a week later, the healthy youngster was screaming his lungs off at all hours of the day. His father, frightfully busy with his work that extended far beyond looking after James' safety, desperately required sleep, but knew he must not. Any day he was expecting something through from his premier Irish agent, the woman tasked with keeping an eye on the very man that held James. Lyla would have to be careful, he knew, the information that they desired her to obtain potentially being close to the Doctor's chest. James' welfare was paramount though; they needed to know he was alive.

The final day of the year was a cold, windy one in Kent. The snow and rain stayed away, only for the wind to pick up in its velocity, galling gales smashing into anything that dare move in the open of the countryside. Tucked away in its own little area, his home was thankfully well guarded by trees, but others were having anything outside not bolted in, lifted from the ground. The temperature was yet to exceed seven degrees, a bone chilling cold being carried along in the air to victimise any that were not dressed appropriately. Across Britain it was mostly the same, including in Derry, where it was in fact much colder.

Taking a swig of the tea, his eyes were drawn over the rolling landscape of his country home, peering out through the trees to the fields behind the house. He did not own the fields directly behind the house and was therefore not responsible for the sheep that roamed them, but sometimes he'd go down to the gate at the bottom of the garden and watch them closely. Those were days when his work would not take over the full day, allowing himself some time for reflection. He'd needed the reflection on the day that the rescue attempt on James was confirmed as a failure. That night he went straight out to the back of the house to cogitate on the lives he'd lost, his plan being the one that ultimately failed. Upset on the whole of the drive home, his wife did not even try to get in his way when she saw the look on his face. Whatever the job he did was, one which even she was not privy to the knowledge of, it took a strain out on her husband.

He was expecting a guest at his home that afternoon, oddly for once being the one who could stay in the comfort of his regular surroundings rather than the one travelling. Lieutenant Colonel Menzies decided that he would make the effort to drive out to Kent to see his Captain, rather than seeing the new father have to be separated from his son for longer than was necessary. Along with Lotty, who'd trained as a driver in the opening months of the war alongside her role as secretary, the journey was made from London to Kent rather than the other way around. He'd told the Captain to stay where he was when he'd telephoned in. A peculiar thing for Menzies to say when he rarely left the office.

An engine in the distance snapped the Captain into gear, his concerns for family put to one side for a moment while war related business was discussed. Reluctant to give away too many ideas during the phone call that they shared, Menzies made it clear that James would be the main point of discussion for the day. A year earlier they'd thought that they were finally coming to the end of the story when it came to James, but heading into the New Year, his story continued on. It was coming up to three years since he'd first started handling James' life, much longer for his superior officer, and those years were some of the most chaotic he'd experienced. Few men found themselves in his position, a rather literal noose around his neck if there was to be yet another failure.

Walking over to the front door of the house, he stopped by the mirror in the hallway to take a look at himself. His eyes betrayed the tiredness that found him fighting to stay awake in the back room of the house with his tea in hand. His hair was not as well kept as it usually was, though he quickly ruffled it around to try to form some semblance of order once more. Menzies was hardly the sort of man who'd have made a situation out of his officer's poor presentation, especially within his own home, but Smithers always liked to retain a positive image of himself in front of the Lieutenant Colonel. When he'd last visited London, a few days before Christmas, with his worries for his wife in her latter stages of pregnancy fresh in his mind, he'd looked ready to attend a ball thrown by the King. On New Years Eve, he appeared to be ready to be thrown into jail, such was his scruffy demeanour.

Removing the chain that held the door in place, he opened it, finding Lotty to be the first face that he saw. She was dressed in a full military uniform, which he'd never seen her in before, startling him at first when he was used to seeing her in a smart skirt with her hair tied up. Mockingly saluting, she was having a lot of fun in her role as a driver, though Menzies' huff from behind her indicated that he was finding it tiring.

"Good morning Lotty…". Smithers smiled. "… or is it Sergeant?"

"Your spirits are high, Captain Smithers". She laughed back to him. "How is your wife, faring?"

Mrs Smithers' worries over the pregnancy, which was years in the making, were unfounded by the successful birth, though it drained her far more than the sleepless nights were draining him. She did her best for their young son but finding herself so tired in the days following his birth, she spent the majority of the day asleep. He worried for her somewhat because of the excessive sleeping, however she'd reassured him during one of her brighter moments that she would be just fine a couple of days into the new year. He hoped she would be too, wishing to start the year with far less worries than he was ending it with.

"She is sleeping with our little boy as we speak…". He told her quietly, dropping to a whisper just as Menzies joined them. "… I am relegated to the rear room for my work, I am afraid".

"We can conduct our meeting outside if you wish?" Menzies suggested.

Holding up a hand, Smithers internally was grateful for his superior's suggestion, but ultimately did not need it. As much as his wife and baby son were the pride and joy of his life, he knew he was involved in far too important a position to allow them to dictate it. He loved them dearly, but on some occasions, like when they were both sleeping soundly, his country needed him a lot more.

"Your concern is appreciated, Sir, but as long as we do not shout then we can safely hold our meeting indoors. It would be too cold I fear to stay out for long". He replied after a couple of moments.

"Very well. Let us make our way inside".

Smithers allowed the two of them into his home, Lotty immediately asking where the kitchen was so that she could make them a drink. He did not expect her to, perfectly capable of doing so himself, but she insisted upon it. She was a valuable asset to them with her outgoing personality and selflessness, traits which were vital in the field of work that she found herself in, even though not directly involved with the espionage. She was not her father, a fine field agent and good friend of Menzies, but she was not useless by any means. Menzies once remarked to his Captain that he'd never seen a young woman so smart and helpful as the one he'd taken as secretary. She was not allowed to be present for the meeting, but Menzies suggested that she introduce herself to Smithers' wife, though not too thoroughly, offering to help with the baby. Assured that the woman wouldn't wake with a start, Lotty went over to the master bedroom to see mother and baby once the drinks were made.

"Have you named the boy yet?" Menzies asked him when the door was closed behind them in the back room.

"Yes… yes… we have…".

Frowning, Menzies couldn't work out why his Captain gave him such a short, nervous answer. It was hardly going to be treasonous, Smithers being a man in service of the country would not ruin his reputation by giving his child a ridiculous name. He couldn't comprehend why Smithers began to fidget with his hands, avoiding eye contact with his superior. The behaviour was certainly not that expected of him.

"Well?" Continuing to probe, Menzies would not give up.

"I… you have to understand, Sir, that it was my wife's choice…". He blurted out. "I… I tried to convince her on several other names".

Raising an eyebrow, Menzies did not know whether to be worried or amused by the Captain's nervousness. He'd only had the one child himself, a little girl who was only a few years old, but he'd not been anywhere near as nervous when it came to giving her a name or telling others of it. Smithers was behaving most oddly.

"He's… he's James… James Thomas Smithers".

Putting a hand over his face, amusement won out for Menzies. He could understand why Smithers was so nervous trying to tell him the name, when it happened to be the same one as the very man that they were there to talk about. He was aware that his Captain would have never chosen the name himself, amused from knowing thanks to Smithers that he'd tried everything to persuade his wife to choose a different name. There were so many names that they could have chosen, so many more suitable ones than the one that she wanted, but he'd lost out to her in the end. The name James appeared everywhere to the two of them already, and now for the Captain, even more so.

"James!?" He almost snorted the name. "My god Smithers, how do you cope?"

"I love him, he is my son…". Smithers tried to explain.

"Of course you do. But you cannot tell me that you love his name. At least not for the moment".

Taking a moment to consider his answer, or more accurately, see if his wife was yet to wake, Smithers sighed deeply. Menzies hit the unfortunate truth that although he would love the boy with all of his heart, he regretted the choice of name. There were suggestions that were put to Mrs Smithers left, right and centre, but her heart was set on the name from the moment she thought of it. He could not make the true argument to her about why he did not want their son to be called James, making several half-hearted attempts to tell her that it was too generic of name, only to have it pointed out that his suggestions of Samuel and Thomas, the latter of which was eventually settled on as a middle name, were no better.

"He will grow up to become a brilliant young James…". Menzies told him softly. "… though please do not ever allow him to become like our young Pilot!"

"I will not, Sir". Smithers relaxed, joking in return. "I don't think it is possible".

"Neither do I…".

Allowing for a moment's silence to creep over the room, Smithers breathed a sigh of relief to himself that the difficult conversation was over. The last time they'd met, the name was still being decided upon, at least that's what he'd told his superior, already knowing at that point what his wife wished for it to be. As late as the morning of his birth, he tried to convince her otherwise, fearing the mockery or perhaps warning he might receive for naming his son after the Pilot they were desperately trying to keep safe. Surprisingly, at least to him, Menzies took it in good jest, seeing the admittedly funnier side of the naming. He was going to be sick of the name.

"Another James in the world to protect…". Menzies mused. "… I think we should rebrand ourselves as the James Services. One would think it more appropriate".

"Quite, Sir. Although our record with James' is far from spectacular…".

"Yes, you are right, Captain. And for that reason, we must discuss Mr Maguire and wherever he might have gotten to".

The worst possible scenario they faced, other than losing him to Hitler, was losing track of where he was. Emerald One was yet to report in with what she could find, leaving Smithers with no further updates for the Lieutenant Colonel. Deploying her was a last resort, the details needing to remain confidential so that they did not clash with her own mission to keep track of Doctor Van Der Heijden. The Nazi Doctor was a terror, one of the very few men in the world that they could not allow to keep James for long. Although his propensity for torture was unknown to them, they knew thanks to her earlier reports of mass extermination programs, spearheaded by his methods, that he did not worry about taking life at all. Fixing a firm location on James at least gave them options to combat him, and with better preparation a second time around, a chance to release him from his hell for good.

"I have heard nothing from Emerald One, Sir. I suspect she is yet to find an opportune moment to be able to contact us".

"That would indicate that you believe she knows where he is?" Menzies questioned.

"She is one of the best agents we have, Sir. With all due respect, I would think that she would have found him by now. He was taken from Taranto weeks ago". He argued back.

"That does not mean that he went directly with the Doctor. They may be in different locations for all we know and that would fit with why she has not yet contacted us".

Menzies did not enjoy doubting an agent as capable as Lyla Walsh, but his doubts were not unfounded nor where they without logic. She could not risk blowing her cover to find James, no matter how important he was, her own value too high to be put on the line. Her piece in the intelligence jigsaw was stuck in place, and though it may have unwillingly intertwined with James', the two could not destroy each other by an attempt at connection. The Lieutenant Colonel knew it left her with few choices in how she could obtain the location of where he was held or even if he was alive or not, aware that it was going to take a lot longer than even Smithers believed. His experience was key just as much as the patience he knew he would need because of it.

"Surely Doctor Van Der Heijden has spoken to her, we know he is weak because he tells her everything, even the most the confidential information". Smithers fairly argued.

"Perhaps he does not trust her as much as she thinks he does".

If the Doctor held any doubts about her, or suspicions that she might not be as loyal to him as she made out to be, then they would have to extract her as well. That would leave them in an even bigger mess, although she did have the advantage of a skillset to escape, which James lacked. Menzies did not speak his mind on the matter to Smithers, the Captain having enough to worry about without adding her rescue into the mix, but it was not beyond the realms of possibility. Despite the danger though, they still needed the bare minimum of information from her. A location, even a rough one or co-ordinates, so that they could trace him. Maps of the terrain and reports of the area could be obtained, Domenico proving very useful for such tasks. There was still hope of saving James, it was just how they did it that was the difficulty.

"Our hands are tied anyway Smithers. We cannot proceed without her locating him nor can I go back to the Prime Minister with anything else". Menzies informed him, clearly frustrated.

"I wish we could do more, Sir but we risk her cover by trying to make contact ourselves". Smithers said to him in return.

"That is out of the question, we do not contact her at all". The reply was brisk and firm. "However, we can plan an escape for James once he is away from Rome".

"If it is Rome where he is held, Sir".

"One would have to think it would be. I cannot see him being far away from Rome if the Doctor has stayed. Our other agents have not reported him back in Berlin".

Even if Lyla couldn't report the movements of the Doctor, he was too high profile of a figure to be able to slip in and out of Berlin unnoticed. Although he was relatively unknown to many of the soldiers that fought for Nazi Germany, his presence in the higher echelons was no secret. One of the various agents of the spy ring that the Irishwoman created in the German capital would have noticed, and in a better place to contact London from their safe location, they would have said if the Doctor returned at all, almost immediately. It told Menzies that James was somewhere near Rome even if not in the city himself, an assumption that he was unknowingly correct in making.

"How do you plan to retrieve him then, Sir?" Smithers enquired.

"If you recall, Domenico has contacts within the fishing industry that he swears blindly by should we require their loyalty. My suggestion is that we get him to a small dock where a fishing vessel can take on a new member of their crew". Menzies began to explain, a hand resting under his chin as he did.

"I do not remember James being able to speak Italian, Sir?"

"He does not need to be able to, Smithers…". Menzies started his reply sharply. "… all he needs to do is keep his mouth shut and wait. Once the vessel is away from the coast then they will rendezvous with a submarine a short distance offshore".

"What about mines, Sir?" Smithers countered. "We would need a map of the Italian minefields to be able to safely guide a submarine close to the coastline".

Unbeknownst to the Captain, the Lieutenant Colonel had already gone to the trouble of locating a map of the minefields, thanks to the work of Domenico. He'd began to change his opinion on the agent in one way, seeing him as far more useful than he once did. The loss of his cousin in the attempted rescue of James must have hit him hard, Menzies had thought to himself one day, but it drove him on further too. He was still a man that would be completely unadvisable to send on such a mission as a rescue, but as a source of information within the Axis country, there were few better. From his base of operations in Milan, he was beginning to have friends in every city and village in the country, such was his reach. A map of the minefields was no problem at all.

"That is taken care of, the submarine can enter the waters safely. However, we will need to cause a distraction to be sure of success. If the submarine is caught off guard by the Italian Fleet we'll lose him".

"How can we make a diversion so far into Italian waters, Sir. It puts our own Fleet at risk?"

"That is a cost that we can take, Smithers. Remember, this is James Maguire that we speak of. Any cost is acceptable, materialistic or in human life".

Sacrificing a few agents was one thing, a terrible thing to have to do when their lives were of as much value in Smithers' eyes even when he knew the truth about James. Allowing the Fleet to be compromised for him was another. The Mediterranean Fleet held the upper hand in a tightly contested fight for control over the seas of the theatre, but it could change at any moment. The Italians may have been taken by surprise before, but that was from the air thanks to James' men. No surprise could be achieved by taking the Fleet into the Tyrrhenian Sea and ransacking the coastline away from the chosen dock.

"If it is successful…". Smithers started before he was cut off.

"When it is successful, Smithers". Menzies became far more serious in his tone. "There can be no if's here".

"When it is successful…". The Captain corrected himself. "… where do we take him? To Alexandria?"

"No. Once the submarine is far away from the reach of the Italians, it will join up with a small task force and James will be transferred onto one of the destroyers. From there, it will sail to Gibraltar".

Gibraltar was a convenient location for them, Smithers knowing as much from his time in the Intelligence Services. A stopping point between the conflict in the Med, and the calmer shores of the Channel back home, they held an office there, which Menzies occasionally visited, very clandestinely when he did. James could not just be allowed back into Ireland or even into London, perhaps especially not into London he thought, not until a full debriefing of his time in captivity was received. Britain could not afford a leak coming from a man such as him, and though there was no doubts over his loyalty to the country, it would have to be checked anyway. He could quite easily have defected under duress and if he did, then he would never set foot in the country again until it was renounced. He was too dangerous as an ally… as an enemy, he would uncontrollable.

Menzies continued after a moment, when Smithers failed to question his plan.

"When he gets to Gibraltar, he will need to be greeted properly, if you understand my meaning. I must ask Smithers, I know you have a child to look after but…".

"Sir…". Smithers interrupted his commanding officer. "… I love my son, but the war could be lost if we lose this James to the Germans. If you need me to travel to Gibraltar, I will do so without hesitation".

"You are a good man, Smithers. Perhaps the best I have". Menzies admittedly openly with a smile. "I am pleased that you are the man handling this with me and not any others".

"Thank you, Sir".

"Now, when he arrives in Gibraltar…".

For another hour or more the two men sat and spoke about James Maguire, doing so quietly so that the women did not hear. Smithers' wife was the only potentially untrustworthy one amongst them, though Menzies tactfully said nothing to his Captain about it. Once again, the life of the young man that appeared to escape death at every turn, only to worsen his chances of survival at the next crossroads he came to, was in their hands. Until Lyla could give them the information that they needed about his whereabouts, nothing could be done, but as soon as she could confirm them then the plan would commence. It would not be rushed like the prior one, when they'd committed the amateurish mistake of acting too quickly with the wrong agents for the job. They would not make another mistake of that ilk again.

The outcome of such a failure was one which could decide the fate of millions, all for the safety of one life.

James had to return to Britain alive.

---

"For fucks sake!"

Michelle Mallon's shout filled the chilly air of a New Years Eve afternoon in Derry. It was justified though, in her eyes at least, because Clare was really starting to get on her nerves. She could deal with a lot of her friend's random cack attacks and bouts of worrying, as well as her occasional decisions to pin the blame solely on her for the trouble they got into as a group. What she couldn't deal with, was the diminutive blonde not finding it within herself to be capable of walking down an icy street without falling over. The slight hill on the way down to the Quinn household was hardly the descent of an alpine mountain, but Clare could have fooled anyone into thinking it was. Far from treacherous, she appeared to have found every single patch of ice on the way down it. Michelle's annoyance grew from every yelp when the blonde would shoot forward, slamming into the snow covered ground at the side of the paths.

"Can ye not walk down the street for five fucking minutes without falling on yer arse!" She moaned. "Christ, I've seen old ladies with better balance after a few glasses of sherry!"

"I… I can't help it Michelle… I get nervous…". Clare responded as she was helped to her feet by her friend.

"Nervous? What's the worst that can happen, ye bruise yer shin?"

"What happens if I slide into the road when a car comes Michelle! I might be killed if it runs me over!"

"Clare, if a car comes down this fucking street, then I'll run the rest of the way down it naked shouting 'I Love Hitler'… wise up!"

The area that the Quinn's and McCool's lived in was hardly the sort of area where cars were affordable. Most relied on their feet or bicycles in order to travel around, Orla having used a horse once upon a time though she'd stopped since her pregnancy. Michelle could count on one hand the times that she'd seen a car on that street, every time being James' Morgan with her now deceased cousin behind the wheel. Panicking for nothing as usual, Clare's chances of being run over were so slim that it was not worth thinking about.

"I could still hurt myself!" The blonde argued. "Do ye really want to be the one carryin' me to hospital because I've broken my leg!?"

"Carry ye!?" Michelle responded in a shout. "Not a chance, Clare. Ye'd be waitin' for an ambulance or a random fella passin' if ye wanted the hospital".

"Ach thanks, Michelle, glad to know ye appreciate me!"

Rolling her eyes, Michelle decided to focus on their destination rather than the girl she was walking with. Next to her, Clare was finding the old routine of bickering with one of her best friends to be relatively easy to fall back into. Conversations between them felt much more difficult when her feelings for the dark-haired young woman were at their highest, returning to normal once she'd swallowed the truth and dealt with it. Unlike Erin, who'd taken over a year to finally come to peace with a part of life that she could not change, it took Clare only a few weeks after confessing to Michelle that she had feelings for her, if not saying the actual words herself. There would never be anything between the two of them because Michelle only liked fellas and once that was made clear to her, she started to see her friend differently again. Friendly arguments were a grand experience once more.

"I wonder if Joe will be there…". Michelle was almost sniggering in delight with the thought. "… Christ we might be in for some day if he is!"

By the time that the last hour of Christmas Day was setting over the city, she was aware of the incident thanks to Erin. When Joe left that afternoon, skulking off to the McCool house next door with his tail figuratively between his legs, the rest of the family soon followed in their disbursement. A still upset Sarah went back to Ferguson Street with Shane, crying most of the way there about how her father treated her fella. She was a forty year old woman being made to feel stupid by her Da, who was too old to have been raising serious complaints about who she wanted to love or not. If she were twenty years younger then she would have understood, but already a grandmother, she could not understand. Taking the brave decision to return next door with Marie, Orla to her credit kept Joe indoors for the rest of the day, with whatever she'd done being enough to calm him from his previously rageous state. Erin departed not long after her too, heading straight to the Mallon's, mostly because she knew she'd get a decent drink there. Spilling all to Michelle, they had quite the fun night, Erin tipsily making her way home in the early hours.

Clare gained knowledge of the story too, though she tried to play the pacifist by not coming to Sarah's sympathy nor criticising Joe. A very typical Clare response to conflict…

"Come on Michelle, we don't want to see any arguments!"

"You might not, but to be honest, that is mostly why I agreed to come here".

Shot a look of disdain from the blonde, Michelle did not tell any lies whatsoever. When Erin first suggested the day before on the way home from work that they all congregate that afternoon at hers, it was only the thought of Joe having a scrap with Sarah's fella that enticed her. There was no guarantee that Sarah or her fella would be there, though Erin could not rule it out either, which excited Michelle a lot. She'd never seen Joe properly fight anyone, not as much raising a fist to Gerry despite the numerous threats to do far worse. Shane was a tough man though, a burly firefighter, and Joe's threats alone would have to be backed up by a good hand to be able to win against the fella.

As soon as they began walking up the path to the front door, Orla greeted them with a smile on her face and drink for them each in her hand. She was dressed up for the occasion, a specification that Erin hadn't made to the two of them the day before. Underdressed compared to their friend, Michelle looked at her with a frown for a moment as Clare began to panic that they'd ruined the afternoon by not making the effort to be in their best. All became clear when Orla opened her mouth.

"Ach are ye thinkin' about me dress?" She enquired, receiving nods in unison. "I'm goin' out later, so I am… meeting a fella ye know…".

"A fella? Gettin' some on New Years, that's my girl!"

Michelle jumped into a hug with her friend, Clare left to shake her head at their juvenile antics from where she was stood next to them. She expected such behaviour off of Michelle when it came to fellas but not Orla. A young mother with plenty of responsibility on her shoulders, especially after David's untimely demise, the lessons of her father spoke within her when she told herself her friend was wrong to go charging off into the city with a new fella. Whether she was actually with the fella or not she did not consider, perhaps it was just a one-time fling, but still it did not seem right to her. Knowing that Michelle would side with their friend though, she kept her mouth shut when her Da certainly would not have done.

When they pulled apart, the three of them walked inside, quickly greeted by Anna who was rushing down the stairs to see them. Their faces lit up as the little treasure of a girl appeared so wondrously, full of energy.

"If it isn't my clever little warrior!" Michelle cooed, opening her arms out for a cuddle. "Someone's gettin' taller, don't ye think Clare?"

"Aye yer growin' so ye are Anna!" Clare agreed, brought out of her mood. "Ye'll be as tall as me soon!"

"That won't be hard". Michelle snorted.

Receiving a glare from Clare, she soon did the smart thing and kept quiet, rather than facing a rant from her friend for belittling her height. The blonde couldn't help being tiny, but it was rather rude of Michelle to point that out to Anna, who found herself grinning at the comment. As much as she knew it was not the right thing to say about a friend, she could never help herself when she was around Michelle. The young Mallon made her laugh with her jokes, sometimes crossing the bounds of acceptability, which thrilled her even more. The lack of respect for the imposed boundaries around her did not stop Michelle; Anna wanted to be that sort of woman.

"I'm the tallest girl in the class!" She pointed out to them. "But some of the boys are taller, so they are…".

"But yer smarter than those lads". Michelle chuckled. "They can be as tall as they want but they won't ever have yer brains".

"They can't help it!" Anna defended the lads. "They all try their best, so they do".

The passionate defence was nothing unexpected from Anna, who always looked to help the others in her class. Aware that she could get through lessons thanks to her own ability, Sister Michael's decision to give her relative carte blanche around the school left her able to assist those in her class. Whether they were girls or boys, she would do her best to teach them when the teachers could not get through, the children often learning better from her. Some of the teachers were disgusted that a five year old was allowed such freedom, but they have valued their profession and jobs too much to clash with Sister Michael. Arguing with her authority would quickly make them lose theirs.

Michelle, being herself, saw it differently.

"Sticking up for the fellas… or one fella in particular is it, Anna?"

Making suggestions that were hardly appropriate to put to a five year old, Michelle's eyes twinkled in the calm air of the Quinn house, sending Anna's cheeks to a scarlet red that she'd never seen before. It almost certainly indicated that she was already experiencing her first wee crush, bringing back memories for Michelle of when Erin had her first, embarrassing her in a very similar way. There was one lad, whose name she could not remember, that came before David, John-Paul and James, but it was a childish crush that ended very quickly much like the first two. Only with the Englishman was it anything more substantial than that.

Luckily for Anna though, she was saved by her father being at home. His youngest wasn't ready to be discussing boys, especially not with Michelle, the worst possible influence on the matter.

"That's enough Michelle!" He called out from the kitchen. "I'm sure Anna will come to ye when she's older if she needs advice".

Following the sound of his voice, Michelle walked through to the kitchen to greet him, as well as Erin, who was yet to welcome her friends. She was too busy making them all a cup of tea, along with Gerry who was part helping and part getting in the way. He was good at making a cup himself, but when Erin wanted to get on with it, it wasn't helping having him in the confined space with her. A space which was getting smaller when Michelle, Clare, Orla and Anna all piled in to join her, as well as Marie who gripped onto her Mammy's hand when she darted through from the living room. Gerry was nearly in the sink by the time they were all in.

"Such a prude Gerry…". Michelle sighed. "… so where's Mary then? And Joe?"

When neither of the two appeared in either the living room or the kitchen, it was quite clear that they were not in the house. The snow left any outdoor activities such as the gardening or tidying the shelter, as jobs that were not welcome for a New Years Eve. With none of them having to work at the factory that day it was a blessing, but the heavy showers of flakes put pay to anything they might have done outside. There was no need to even look into the garden for either of the new arrivals to know that the two were not present. Gerry looked to Erin to see if she would give the answer, his eldest daughter flashing him a smile that indicated that she would. The two of them were glad that they were not with Mary that day, that was for sure…

"Ferguson Street. She's took Granda with her and she's forcing him to apologise".

"Oh for f…". Michelle stopped, remembering the children were there. "I mean, come on Erin, why didn't ye invite us there. That would have been cracker to watch!"

"I'm expectin' most of Derry to have heard about it by tomorrow Michelle…". Erin huffed. "… I don't know what Mammy's thinkin' and neither does Da".

The girls all looked at Gerry, who cursed Erin for repeating what he thought he'd told her in confidence, around the rest of them. Mary would kill him if she knew that he didn't agree with her course of action, since he'd nodded his head throughout when she explained what she was going to. Fed up with the hostile atmosphere around the family in the week after Christmas, the end of the year was going to be peaceful, Mary decreed that morning, with Joe forced out of the door despite his protestations. There were yet to be rumours spreading to their door about a fight, or a death, on Ferguson Street, but it did not mean to say it was going well at all. Both he and Erin were dreading what would happen when Mary returned with him.

"It might not have been your mother's best idea love, but I'm sure if anyone can sort it out then it's yer Ma".

"Catch yourself on Gerry!" Michelle was again the first to comment. "She'll be lucky if she doesn't come out with blood running down her face".

"Michelle! That's hardly appropriate!" Clare whined, backed up by Erin.

"Don't be a craic killer Clare…". Michelle sighed, shaking her head.

It was a description that did not go down well with the young Devlin at all. She would accept the title of Queen of cack attacks, but craic killer was a step too far. Michelle crossed a line with her accusations and she did not appreciate the line being crossed. It wasn't her fault that she kept to her sensitive and thoughtful ways… but it certainly did not make her a craic killer.

"I'm not a craic killer!" Clare argued, hands on hips. "Am I? Am I Erin?"

Erin hesitated to give an answer, which allowed her cousin to speak up instead.

"Aye yer a real craic killer, Clare… cold blooded craic killer…".

"My blood is not cold! Come on Erin, ye don't think I'm a craic killer, do ye?"

Forced into giving an answer that she dreaded, because she would be on Michelle and Orla's side, Erin again hesitated. Clare would be raging but it could not be denied that she was indeed the craic killer that she was accused of being. At times, she could be the biggest craic killer in the whole of Derry.

"Ye are a bit…". She eventually muttered.

"What!" Clare reared up in shock. "I am not a craic killer!"

Reiterating her view, Clare was ready to have a verbal spar with any of them who wished to take it any further with her, though none of them were ready to. Feeling as if he could add no more, Gerry quietly slipped out of the kitchen along with Anna, the two of them heading up to her room so that he could read some of the work she'd written earlier that day. Ever the academic, she was prepared to study on New Years Eve if it meant that she could take in the information that was needed. Already at the stage of being able to solve mathematical problems that most adults would struggle with, she was truly special. The other little girl in the house was the next voice that was heard in the kitchen, before Clare could present her argument for why she was not a craic killer.

"Mammy I've done a wee!"

All of their heads turned to look down at Marie, who'd started her own wee puddle on the floor beneath her. Springing into her protective mother state, Orla immediately picked her up to take her to the bathroom, leaving the other three with their cups of tea and surprised faces. It wasn't the first time that Orla showed just how good a mother she was though, and they were all very proud of her after the initial doubts about her suitably for the task at hand.

"Well…".

Michelle started to speak, stopping when Erin started to walk into the living room, indicating that the other two should follow. Another year of knowing each other was coming to an end for the group, hardships and success over, to start anew the following day. They were all over the landmark age of twenty one, though what should have been some of the best years of their life were being wasted thanks to the war. They would have still been working, most likely at the factory, but with all the friends that the world contained before war commenced. Erin and Orla had lost the most to the war in the group, but even though they'd not lost a partner in the conflict, Michelle and Clare were still affected. The former more than the latter when her cousin was amongst those men who'd gone off, never to return. Apart from the letter that she'd sent to him to apologise, along with his reply where he'd forgiven her in writing, the true chance to ask for his forgiveness over her treatment of him was gone. It was a regret she would take to her grave.

"Another year done…". Michelle started again as she sank into the sofa in the most unladylike fashion. "… another year closer to my prediction".

"Not this again…".

Erin's whinging was somewhat justified, Michelle having mentioned her point a few times that week. She'd boldly claimed that the war would last until May of 1945, and although it remained far in the future, they were getting closer to her prediction than anyone else's. Most believed that the war would have been over by Christmas of the year it broke out, but Nazi Germany's war machine was a different beast to most. Instead in just over two years, fighting broke out across the globe in every continent, the death toll forever rising. Millions of lives were already lost, some in the efforts to stop the terror of the Nazi's, some in order to spread it.

"You's all said I was out of my mind when I suggested it but here we are. Don't start cryin' because ye know I was right".

"We weren't planning on it…". Erin huffed, before taking a look at the nervous Clare. "Alright, I wasn't planning on it".

A satisfied Michelle took a victory, something which Britain was in need of too. There were breakthroughs in the campaign in Africa, the port of Benghazi which was once successfully attacked by James and David falling back into allied hands once more. However, it was in the East against Japan where problems continued to mount. One by one, territories were falling to the rapid advance of the Japanese army across the jungles and wetlands of Asia. They'd taken Hong Kong, invaded Burma and bombed Singapore in the space of a few short weeks since their attack on Pearl Harbour, showing their willingness to take on not only the Americans, but anyone else who was going to stand in their way. At sea there was more misery too, the British ships in the area coming to understand the vulnerabilities of being in a war against a Japanese military that was technological adapting faster. Not only were their tactics different to any that Britain had faced, the loyalty of those in service to Japan was beyond insanity. There were some pilots willing to the fly their aircraft into ships in kamikaze attacks, to ensure that death was brought to the enemy. Heroes to the nation back home, they terrified British and American servicemen alike. The battlecruiser HMS Repulse and the battleship HMS Prince of Wales were lost to the Japanese aircraft, though torpedo bombers rather than kamikaze attacks. They'd travelled in their task force without any aerial support, a lesson that would have to be learned from when eighty hundred and forty men went to their watery graves because of it.

"I just don't want anymore wars…". Clare bemoaned their circumstances. "Ye know, if everyone just got round a table and talked, we might have peace again".

"Peace with those kraut fucks?" Michelle looked at her incredulously. "Catch yourself on Clare! They don't want peace, they want to take over!"

"Aye she's right Clare, there's no chance of peace as much as we all want it".

Glumly, Erin reflected on the words that she'd spoken so effortlessly. Michelle was correct in her thoughts, a truth that should have been seen by all, a message not understood by Clare it seemed. Nazi Germany nor their allies would be interested in peace after the fighting that had taken place, their prior offers of negotiation being wafer thin in promises. The Empire that the Nazi's wanted would have only had room for the desirable types that they sought, disposing of anyone not fit for purpose. Peace could not have been achieved with the horrors that they wished to inflict upon the unworthy.

"Anyway, those Italian bastards are just as bad!" A riled up Michelle began to rant away. "Those Pope loving pricks killed James and David, so they did!"

Taking a look at Erin, Michelle hoped she hadn't muddied the water with her friend by mentioning his name, but like on Christmas Day, she was not flustered by it. Although the words did not come to her to speak up in agreement, she nodded her head at the statement. She hated the Italians for what they'd done to her, stealing the life she wanted, away so cruelly after only having the shortest of tastes of it. For months she'd hoped an Italian might turn up in Derry so that she could berate them for being who they were, despite knowing deep down that not all of the people of that country could be tarnished with the same brush. Like in any countries that were involved in war, there were always good people that were forgotten by the darkness of the evil that led them.

"They ever come here I'll give em' a feckin' bloody nose, so I will. Pricks!"

Sounding more like Joe than anyone else, Michelle continued her rant about the Italians for several minutes, spouting various vague references to their culture. Quite how she knew much about Italy was a mystery to the other two, who mostly knew very little of the Italians, especially when it came to their culture. Michelle appeared to know every single detail, though the majority of her beliefs were built upon lies and misconceptions. As the minutes went by, Clare gradually became more horrified by what she had to say, until her mouth could drop no further. Erin mostly agreed with everything being said even if she knew it were not to be true, because as Michelle had pointed out, they'd stolen James from her. She was still ranting on when Orla returned to them, having taken Marie upstairs to play with Gerry and Anna as her daughter requested.

"Orla!" Michelle shouted to her. "The Italians are right bastards aren't they?"

"Aye they are!" She emphatically agreed.

Rolling her eyes to accept a defeat that had been on the cards for several minutes, Clare found herself with nothing to add to the atmosphere. Michelle could create an impression wherever she went, and the one that she was making in the Quinn household that afternoon was certainly one that would be remembered. She might not have liked it at all but outnumbered and easily frightened by confrontation, she was not going to be causing a scene by arguing any further. Gerry being upstairs helped with that, leaving her unable to get too riled without him noticing.

"So what are we up to then girls?" Orla enquired, perching down next to Erin.

"Nothin'". Her cousin answered. "Listenin' to Michelle's take on Italian culture and looking at the fireplace".

"That's borin', so it is".

"Well have ye got any better ideas, Orla?" Clare tackled her. "Ye know, there is a war on. We are limited in what we can do!"

"That doesn't mean we can't have fun…".

The sort of mischievous look that Michelle could fashion at a moments notice was dashed across Orla's face, which could only mean trouble. It certainly did too. She was meant to be going out that night, but was already keen on getting a head start when it came to drinking, pulling out a bottle of whisky that she'd hidden in her dress. Somehow she'd managed to do so without anyone cottoning on to it being there, though it soon brought joy to Michelle, predictable joy but joy nonetheless, and Erin too. It was New Years Eve… the thought of getting absolutely plastered was tempting, with no work the following day either.

"That's class, Orls!" Michelle raced forward to hug her. "Girls, I think I know what we're going to do".

"We can't start drinking Michelle! My Da will kill me if he smells drink on me!" Clare fretted, already shaking at the thought.

"Sean can fuck off for all I care…". Michelle snorted. "… and ye don't have to be absolutely steamin'. Just one or two to give ye some buzz! Like he hasn't been pissed before anyway!"

Clare could not imagine the sight of her father drunk, unless he overdid it on the communion wine, which was diluted anyway. Michelle was quite correct in her belief, Sean had been drunk on occasions before, not that the two of them would have seen it, being before either were born. That was the younger version of the pious man that ruled over his home with an iron fist and a biblical fury to anyone that disobeyed him.

"You don't have to live with him Michelle! I don't want him talking down to me all night because ye've got me drunk!"

Orla and Erin were once again siding with Michelle, leaving Clare feeling pressured to drink when she really didn't want to. However, she knew she could chance it with her father on one drink, as long as she could have something in between to cancel it out. He would never ask her to breathe near him to get a whiff of her breath, but the slightest waft of it on her when she walked past would make him interrogate. Anymore than one small glass of whisky would have certainly done so, but just the one was a risk that could be taken. If it would keep Michelle from teasing her for the rest of the afternoon about it then it would be a risk worth taking too.

"Fine… one! But I mean it Michelle, one!"

A cheer dropped from Michelle's lips from winning another victory over Clare, the tally continually rising. Erin stopped it from going further with the look that she gave her dark-haired friend, a reminder that Gerry could hear them from upstairs when they were loud and would wonder what they were up to with any further noise like that.

"We are going to have a cracker afternoon!"

Occasionally Michelle would have days where she was actually right, everyday thinking that she was but most days it not being the case. She was right all day that day though, because they enjoyed an amazing afternoon of talking and drinking that went uninterrupted. Gerry's presence was still there throughout the afternoon, but he was far more tolerant than Mary, allowing the girls to drink away as they pleased. His eyes were drawn to Michelle a little closer to monitor her drinking, the only one who he was worried about when it came to being excessive with it. She was that busy talking that she didn't drink too much in the end anyway, by her standards, just the three to leave her quite happy but not at all drunk. Orla and Erin managed two each to Clare's one, though Michelle did attempt to force a second down her neck, only to be warned by Gerry on the one time that he did have to get involved. It amused him greatly to have to do so, confirming that they were all still children despite being over twenty one.

Over the course of the afternoon, Orla managed to convince Michelle to go out with her that evening. Although it was just meant to be her and the fella, she reasoned that there was nothing stopping her coming along and picking up a fella of her own on the way. It didn't really take too much enticement to get Michelle out into the city when a strong drink and the potential of meeting a massive ride was on the cards. She'd told her parents that she would see the New Year in with them, but secretly Martin already doubted her sincerity, telling his wife that if she didn't go out that night, he'd get the barber to shave his head. His receding hairline would be breathing a sigh of relief later that evening when she arrived back from the afternoon with the girls.

Heading back to the Mallon's with her friend, her dress already on for the night, Orla was joined by Clare too, who was on the way back home. She'd have to attend church that evening, an exercise she was used to at New Year, her father demanding it. To have him allow her to stay up to see the New Year in was a new sensation, having not allowed her to do so until three years earlier. Forced to bed by him at sensible times every other year, he'd only relented because Michelle happened to discover the truth about it and would not stop mouthing off to him. Conceding defeat to her went against everything he believed in about a woman's place in the world, but like most he found it beneficial to keep her quiet.

The three of them were just leaving as Mary returned home with Joe, Sarah remaining absent. She still was yet to return after the Christmas Day debacle, electing to remain at Ferguson Street with Shane. It was another point of contention for Joe before he'd set off with his other daughter that afternoon, prepared to give the fireman a good hiding if he found the arrangements far from ideal. He'd seen the house before without ever going inside, the lion heading into the hen house that afternoon in a manner of speaking. By the look on his face, and on Mary's, it was a trying afternoon, but neither looked upset or angry, which showed that it couldn't have gone that badly. Nothing was said between the two groups as they passed, other than Mary telling them to be careful with whatever they were getting up to. The look on Michelle's face said it all in return.

Mary headed straight for the kitchen, where Gerry was making another cup of tea and starting to prepare their evening meal. Anna and Marie were in the kitchen ready for something to eat themselves along with him, though the latter would be heading back next door with her Granda straight after. She was not going to be stay up to see the New Year in, not that he would have stopped her, the reason stemming from the fact that she would not stay awake that long. A solid sleeper, Marie could be in bed by seven o'clock on a weeknight quite easily without causing any fuss whatsoever. All of the playing she'd done with Anna earlier in the day tired her out too to ensure it.

Joe didn't follow his daughter into the kitchen, instead walking into the living room. The second that he entered it, Erin looked up and they locked eyes. Since she'd told him to leave on Christmas Day, their interactions hadn't extended beyond saying good morning to each other. The tension would have been evident to anyone else present should they have been. Cut from the same cloth, they were stubborn, neither willing to be the first one to make an apology to the other if they didn't need to. Erin certainly wasn't ready to make any apologies when she was only standing up for her Aunt, who was having her day ruined by Joe's insistence that he still needed to shield her from the world. At forty, she didn't need shielding, she needed freedom. Shane was that freedom, but with her Granda stuck in his ways after years of being horrible to her Da, he couldn't see the error of them in a different context.

He broke off their eye locking first when he saw the empty whisky bottle on the table, Erin's face going red with mortification when she realised it was still there. Orla hadn't told them where she'd gotten the bottle from, but having a fair idea, she'd thought earlier in the afternoon that the evidence would have to be hidden before Joe returned home. Unfortunately, she couldn't clear it away in time.

"My whisky!" He huffed. "Did you take it or Orla?"

"Ach come on Granda, as if I'd take yer whisky from ye… of course it was Orla!"

Asking was unnecessary, but it had broken the tension for a moment, the exact opportunity he required to be able to capitalise on. He was going to be the one to break the tension that existed between them, not wishing to take their grievances into a New Year.

"Erin…".

"Granda". She replied before he could say anything, hands on her hips when she stood up.

"Look Erin, I… I need to say sorry to ye".

She nearly collapsed to the floor at his words. Granda Joe saying sorry to anyone was rare, not least her when she'd defied his authority so blatantly over the dinner table. A secondary confirmation was needed, she thought to herself, in case she'd actually passed out or was asleep dreaming.

"W… what…".

"I said I'm sorry, don't you make me say it again!" He huffed for a second time, though there was clear amusement in his voice.

"I'm sorry too Granda…". Erin replied, her tone a sensible one. "… I shouldn't have shouted at ye or told ye to leave. Ye've always been a cracker Granda to me and Orla… I was wrong to be so horrible to ye but… could ye please try and be nicer to Shane. He's a grand fella".

Composing himself for a moment, Joe was becoming familiar with the taste of defeat. After what started out as him prepared to beat Shane to a bloody pulp, he'd gradually came to accept Sarah being with him. He still didn't particularly like it, no more than he liked Gerry being with his Mary, but Erin's logical argument from Christmas, brought up to him by Mary that afternoon, eventually swayed him. He couldn't protect Sarah forever, and at forty years old it was no longer his responsibility to make decisions for her. If she wanted to be with the fella from Belfast, then he would have to learn to live with it. Sarah appreciated his concern for her always, telling him as much, but it was time for him to let her live her life without him trying to have his say.

"I'll try love. Yer right, he's not the worst fella". Joe smiled. "And I'm sorry for what I said about James. He was a grand fella and I can't blame ye if ye don't ever want to forget him. I liked him a lot, he was a good lad".

"I do miss him…".

Erin spoke the words without even thinking them, an honest reflection of her current stage. She missed him dearly despite the upturn in her morale in recent weeks. He wasn't at the forefront of her mind everyday though, that being the difference as to why she could talk about him openly without breaking down anymore. The straw had broken the camel's back in that regard; her heart was starting to open once more.

"… but he's gone now Granda, I can't bring James back. I'll always have my memories of him and I… I'll never forget him… but that part of my life is over now. I have to look forward, not back".

Pulling her close to him to hold her tightly, the two embraced. Erin's fond reflections of her times with the Englishman were in her mind, but the tears no longer fell because of them. She was smiling into the warmth of her Granda's coat, thinking of those times where she would spend a day with James. They were the best moments of her life. Ahead of her lay more, and although he couldn't be in them with her, there were still a lifetime of experiences waiting for her to grasp on her own or, perhaps in time, with someone else.

Little did she know that her fella was still fighting for her in Italy, imprisoned in his hell away from her heaven, with no way of letting her know that he was alive.

Though for how much longer remained to be seen…

---

The year was coming to a close for James Maguire. A year which started with a recovery, having only truly came to just a few days earlier, it was ending in a similar confinement, albeit in a different city. Rome was where he'd see in a New Year, which started in Taranto, the scene of his greatest triumph come defeat. Another year away from those he loved, Erin especially. His situation was not improving at all a year later, if anything deteriorating to where it had been at the start. Professor Molinari might have turned on him eventually, but he was nothing like the man that was now responsible for his imprisonment. The sadistic streak of Kurt Van Der Heijden could still be felt in the muscles of the Englishman, a week on almost from being placed onto the rack. The ancient method of torture left him wounded for a couple of days, staying away from the bar above his head to avoid straining the muscles even more. He was soon back to his exercises afterwards but cursed the Doctor for making him lose a couple of days of effort.

He hadn't seen the Nazi nor his Lieutenant for a week, the two of them staying away from him after Christmas morning. The Doctor's other project did necessitate him visiting the site where James was held, but in the laboratory located across the compound rather than the underground section where the Englishman was held. He'd assumed it was some form of house or barracks that he was held under, often hearing the comings and goings of those above him without ever being able to work out what they were doing. His lack of Italian did not help, as apart from Kurt and Hans, the whole complex was Italian. The soldiers there were all privy to the knowledge that a prisoner was held there, not that James knew, which Kurt one day explained to Hans. In the rare, and it was rare, chance that James managed to escape his room, he wanted them to be able to retrieve him quickly. If they did not know that he was a prisoner, then he could have been any labourer that often visited the compound unless challenged. None of the guards were allowed to leave the compound of course… unless they wished to die.

From his room under the ground, James did not know of that arrangement, instead spending the week up to the New Year alone once more. Spending six weeks doing so in the run up to Christmas, it was a relatively easy task, especially as he was still fed as Kurt decreed. The guards would interact with him no more than they had done previously, opening the door slit to give him food and reopening to take away the plate. The only time that they went into his cell was to take away his waste bucket and give him a bucket to wash with, hygiene remaining important in the Doctor's mind too. A barber arrived in the week between the two landmarks, to cut his unruly hair back to a sensible length, which it hadn't been since the move from Taranto over to Rome. He wasn't particularly suited to short hair being naturally curly, but in time he knew it would grow back. A lot of the men under his command often went for an almost shaved head, though he could never bring himself to do so. The excuse of being an officer was the one he used whenever they asked him, not joining them for the shaven headed look.

From the night of Christmas Day, where he was still lying in bed in aggravating pain after his time on the rack, he kept a count of how many nights he'd spent there since, therefore knowing it was New Years Eve. Ever since waking up at what he assumed must have been around six o'clock that morning, he'd assumed that Doctor Van Der Heijden would visit him. It would have made sense when it came to their game of wits, only visiting him on important days to remind him of the freedom that he could not have. If he were back home in Derry, his true home, then he would have no doubt spent the night drinking with Erin and the girls, as well as David, his brothers and anyone else who wanted to join in. He would have seen in the New Year by planting a kiss to the blonde's soft lips, whispering messages of love as they held each other in the candlelight of the midnight hour. The only messages he knew he would receive in Italy were the dark ones that would fall from the lips of the Doctor that was his nemesis. However, thinking of Erin reminded him of what he was fighting for, to see her again. She would be there waiting for him to come home, picturing the day in his head… a day that he did not know if he would ever see.

Darkness set in hours earlier, leaving the Englishman with only a single candle for a light source in his room that night. They trusted him with one, another odd trust that most prisoners would not be allowed, the likelihood of burning themselves deliberately being high. Drawn to movement outside the barred window, he picked up the candle from where it was sat on the floor a short distance away from his bed, taking it over to the window. With one hand he grabbed the chair that was kept to the side of the window, keeping the other holding the candle, before climbing onto the chair. Once he was up there, it was clear what the cause of the movement was. An unexpected visit from the loyal pigeon that kept him company in confinement. Frank always seemed to arrive at the most pivotal moments on the biggest days.

As ever, James began the made up conversation with the avian visitor.

"Evening Frank…".

….

"Yes, I am well…".

….

"No I cannot say I am enjoying my New Year. It is quite lonely down here but I do have you to talk to my friend".

…

"I know. One day I will escape".

The conversation continued to flow, James going to make another comment to his avian friend. That was until his ears were ringing from the sound of gunfire, an explosion of feathers blurring his vision. Frank picked the wrong moment to swoop down to converse with the Englishman, paying for it with his life. The pigeon was blown to smithereens by the well placed shot, killing him instantly whilst leaving James covered with his remains. It was the closest the pigeon ever got to the window, close enough for James to have been able to reach out and touch him if he wanted to. Yet another, this time a bird, got close to him, only for him to watch them die in front of his very eyes. A recurring theme in his life, it was another ally lost for him in his Italian isolation.

"Frank! No!" James shouted.

He could hear the sadistic laugh of Doctor Van Der Heijden filling the dark air in the distance, knowing instantly that either he or Lieutenant Hartmann took the shot. It was his fault again, another death to add to the conscience, the candlelight having illuminated Frank the closer he got to the window. Being anywhere near him seemed to result in death, making the Englishman cower when he thought of it in the proceeding seconds. He wanted to be at home, to be with Erin, but judging by his record since the start of the war, he would be better to stay away. If he was to witness her death with his eyes, then he would never be the same again.

Saying a couple of words for Frank, James slowly climbed down from the chair, taking the candle with him on the journey back to the bed. It would be another couple of minutes before Kurt made his way down to the room, perhaps with Hans in tow. The visit that he expected was a late one, James guessing that there was only a maximum of four hours before it turned midnight, and the New Year began. Anger rushed around him from Frank's needless death, the poor pigeon doing nothing wrong other than getting close to the window. It was hardly as if the pigeon were going to break him out of his imprisonment and fly him away to safety.

When the door to his room did eventually open, the smile that was slapped across the face of the Doctor made him feel sick. He was carrying a lantern, as was Hans, the two of them lit up to make them look even more menacing than they were in the light. The torture rack did not make its way down with them that day, being absent from the room since the Christmas morning session of torture that James was put through. His eyes never left the Doctor, who walked towards him, but it did obscure the Lieutenant from view. Hans stayed back out of the way, placing his lantern on the floor just away from the door, whilst he moved around to the far corner away from James. His footsteps were deliberately slow, he'd realised, as well as Kurt stopping so that he could hear them. Another unspoken plan of theirs was clearly in place, he being the victim of it.

"I did not take you to be a man that would talk to a pigeon, James…". Kurt began, goading him about Frank. "… it is a shame that you have lost another friend. You appear to be very good at that…".

He did not rise to the challenge, and could not, not without breaking his own vow not to retaliate physically to the taunts. Already well aware of the way that death clung to him, a pungent smell that inhibited every orifice of his body to pollute the air around him. Hans' submachine gun also reminded him of the price of any aggression, even if the Lieutenant couldn't kill him. He certainly still could injure him with it.

"That poor nurse, this poor pigeon… whoever next…". Kurt continued to taunt. "… oh James, you told me that being my friend was dangerous. Are you sure it is not friendship with you that is more deadly?"

The Nazi played on the fears that the young Englishman held, deducing without having to ask too many reaching questions that he held them. Any sane man would have done when everyone around them died whenever they got too close, coincidence no longer being deployed as a justification when consciences were searched. David, Giovanna and Frank were all dead because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time around him. Life was always lost but his was not, remaining standing when everyone else fell. Sensing the brain of his prisoner ticking over on those thoughts, Kurt began to tempt him into retaliation again, the upper hand firmly with him not James.

"You lost a friend too, Professor Molinari told me… David, was it?"

David was yet to come up in any sustained conversation with the Doctor, and Molinari knew not to speak much of him to James. The Italian Professor allowed him one visit to David's grave, which was properly adorned with the honours that his best friend deserved. As much as he wished to have David with him to get him through the hell that the young Englishman was living through, he was glad that he was not. Death spared David the agony of being unable to do anything but wait for the likely fate of it further in the future, with significant pain to be experienced first. Wishing that for his friend was not something he could do.

"Do not talk about a good man. His reputation should not be tarnished by having you speak of him".

"You insult me James…". Kurt pretended to be offended as he paced around in front of the Englishman. "… so clearly you feel responsible for his death. I do not see why you should".

"I do not treat death lightly, Doctor Van Der Heijden, especially not the death of a friend!" James shouted at him, losing a modicum of control he desperately wriggled back. "I was his commanding officer and he was killed in my aircraft. Of course I am responsible".

"How can you be? You did not fire the shots that killed him, did you? The Professor told me that he was hit from the Italian gunners not from your pistol".

"The man who pulls the trigger does not always feel as guilty as the man who watches their friend die while they live. Your Lieutenant certainly does not know what guilt is".

Hans did not understand English that well, but understood enough what was being implied. Kurt took a look over to the young man that he mentored, smiling at him. The Nazi did not need to be told to know that he was in control of the room that night, James having to fight to try get back to staying level with him during their war of wits. Fight he would though, Kurt wary of his adversity who was far tougher than most he'd came across during his life.

"Hansi does what I ask of him… his duty. Just as you did yours when you attacked Taranto. There was no thought to the human cost of what you were doing".

"I thought of the people that might be affected by my actions". James responded briskly. "It is always a regret to know that death was been brought upon another, no matter what the cause that is being fought for".

"But you still carried out your orders James. Just as Hansi carried out his". Kurt reminded him, coming to a stop in front of the prisoner. "You are no better than he is. The country you fight for is no better than the growing Empire that we serve".

He'd bent down to whisper the last part to James, whose eyes narrowed when their heads were almost touching. The decorum that he conducted himself with was vital when the Doctor spat out his fanatical belief of servitude for the Nazi's. Britain itself had an Empire, but not one which was willing to wage war across the world… not anymore at least. The days of the island holding power over not only Europe, but the world, were coming to an end with the rise of the Nazi's on the mainland, but they were still mighty. The Empire that Hitler was attempting to build was callous and unjustified, wreaking death and destruction wherever it went. In front of him was a man that embodied the bloodshed of the regime he fought for, boiling the Pilot's blood.

"It will not matter for much longer though, James". Kurt paced again, his voice just as evil as it always was. "Our troops have landed on the south coast of England. Dover and Southampton have already fallen… London is not so far away".

Bereft of any information, James could not say that it was not true. The thought of Britain being invaded, chilled his blood from where it was boiling thanks to Kurt, thinking of what would happen if it were indeed true. There would be massacres on the streets of the cities, soldiers and people cut down indiscriminately by rampaging troops. The last bastion of Europe falling would leave the world in the hands of those not yet involved in the war, at least to his knowledge, to stop darkness infiltrating every corner of the globe. Thoughts of Derry washed into his consciousness too, suddenly fearing for Erin and what they might do to her if the Doctor indeed knew who she was. That was also why he doubted the man though. If Britain was invaded, then he would no longer be deemed useful to them. Staying silent, he listened into what else the Doctor had to say, to confirm to himself that they were indeed lies.

"Liverpool will soon be under our control too… and then of course, we have Ireland. Londonderry is an appealing target… perhaps I might be able to watch from the ships and you could join me to watch my glorious Empire's final victories against your horrible country".

The snarling digs were becoming more frequent, Kurt's own hatred beginning to seep out. He was far better than Hans when it came to concealing the resentment he felt towards Britain, but he could not help but feel it beneath the surface. The defiance that James persisted with provided him with a view of the true Britain that the Nazi Regime faced, an apparently defenceless creature that was a fierce opponent in the direst circumstances. Lying to him about the invasion was an attempt to unsettle the man, Kurt spending some of the afternoon discussing it with Hans whilst Lyla and Elsa prepared a meal for them. He was not convinced that it would work, but it would at least make the young man think about home and himself, therefore potentially then giving up the reasons for why his country required him so greatly compared to every other captured prisoner of war.

Once again, the Doctor was wrong. James read him too well.

"Liar…". He huffed with amusement, shaking his head. "… you forget that to invade Britain, you would have to defeat the Royal Navy. The poor excuse of a Navy that your country maintains is no match for rulers of the waves".

Summoning the power of the spirit that the whole country relied upon, James stood firm in spite of the lies that were being told to attempt to break him. Kurt was proven right in his own mind when he was accused of the lies, finding no anger for a change when he was confronted by the accusation. James was his project, and not all projects could advance quickly. Unable to break the young man, though not yet requiring the need to, he was surprisingly impressed by his views. No fool when it came to understanding weakness, Kurt might not have been a man of the sea, but even he had to concede that they could not challenge Britain on the waves. Much like Russia was Napoleon's downfall in the East, which was becoming Nazi's Germany's, British control of the seas was the thorn in the Western side. The Royal Navy were a spectacular force that were difficult to oppose.

"You have caught me out". Kurt chuckled, shooting a vicious glance at the Englishman. "There is no invasion… it was just a dream I was having last night I think. Or a… how do you say it… a premonition".

"The premonition would only contain failure for your own side, Doctor Van Der Heijden. For your sake, you should hope it is a dream".

"Failure for my side? Your country only knows failure! Look at you, they have tried to rescue you and failed! Do not accuse my Nazi Empire of failure when your own revels in it!"

At his most ferocious, Kurt Van Der Heijden was a man who almost spat every word at his opponent. Furious that James would dare question the successes of the German troops that would engage his British ones in conflict, he'd lost his head in a way which the Englishman would have expected from the Lieutenant instead. He remained curiously out of the way in the unlit corner, watching on carefully without involving himself. His inability to speak English also factored into the decision from what James could tell, but the lack of movement from the young officer was mystifying the prisoner. Whilst Kurt began to lose his cool, his Lieutenant did nothing.

"Remain calm Doctor!" James warned mockingly. "I was once told that such aggravation can rise the pressure of the blood tenfold".

"There you are again James. Oh, how much fun I have watching you tease me!" Kurt gleefully shouted, engaging him in a private battle once more. "You are my prisoner, yet you do not know your place".

"That is a problem with a man like myself. Those of us with hearts of lions cannot back down from the challenge of men with cowardly minds such as you".

Unfamiliar with being labelled as a coward, Kurt froze on the spot for a moment to ensure he'd heard the young Englishman correctly. In the seconds that followed, his lips began to curve up slowly, presenting James with the worst possible view of the malicious Doctor that was his captor. The smile that told of a world of pain that was awaiting him in the sadistic mind of a Dutch born man of medicine, that was one of Hitler's closest confidants, and now chief torturer. Kurt was always the correct man for the job, The Führer's judgement proving to be wise. The tables turned against the prisoner once more, control of the room returning to Kurt.

Turning to James, he held his hand out, gesturing at him.

"Up!"

Doing as he was told, watching Hans all of the time out of the corner of his eye, James rose in front of the Doctor. Once more there was little use for retaliation. He'd already began to resign himself to a New Year that would start painfully. It was the worst possible nightmare to have to spend it with Kurt and Hans, trapped away from the rest of the world and those he loved, for what would have been a special time of the year outside of wartime.

"Over there".

Pointing to the rear wall, just along from the window, Kurt's hand stopped on the chains that were first used to hold his prisoner. James did not let his emotion show, but internally his heart dropped at having to be placed in them again. The last time that he had been, he'd found himself humiliated by the bodily inspection that the Doctor conducted, immediately concerned that it would happen again. His resilience was tested to its absolute limit that first day he was there, never before finding himself in such an uncomfortable, demeaning position. He would rather face the rack again than that. Obeying the instruction anyway, his concerns stayed within him on the short walk across the room to the chains.

"Take the shirt off!" Kurt instructed again.

"Would you not buy me a drink first?" James jested. "Another lice inspection is it?"

"As much as your games amuse me, James, we do have some work this evening and a New Year to then celebrate".

The nature of Kurt's tone told the Englishman that their battle of wits was coming to an end, to be replaced by a battle of mental will for him whilst the Doctor conducted his latest interrogation. In a week, there'd been no change in the information that James could give, the truth of his life still hidden from him. Another trip to a torturous hell awaited him, with no way out even if he tried. Which he would not. Yet again, he faced his punishment as the brave young gentleman that he was. The sound of the soft fabric of his shirt hitting the floor was the sound that signified that his journey to a land of agony was about to begin.

"It was good of you to mention an animal such as a lion…". Kurt began, as he started to fasten his prisoner into the chains. "… I have always wondered what it would be like to meet a lion and here you are".

"Me?" James snorted. "My heart may share its likeness with one, but I am no lion… no I am part of the larger lion that my country represents to fight your snake".

"Snake? You accuse us of being dishonest?" Kurt pretended to be offended.

"Yes, deceptive too. Your snake tried to keep the lion in line by giving it a bloody nose. I may not be aware of the progress of the war, Doctor, but I know my country well enough to know that a lion is far more dangerous when it holds the whip to strike back with".

Whilst he monologued, James began to wonder why he'd been placed with his face almost into the wall. When he'd been chained up the first time, he was facing the room, seeing the eyes of the man who was there to humiliate him for himself. It helped in their psychological battle to a point, albeit not so much when the check for lice began, James wishing to look anywhere else but at the Doctor who as examining his genitals. All he could see on the night of New Year's Eve was the cold wall in front of him, as well as the figure of the Doctor on his left-hand side. Kurt's face was partially obscured due to the angle that he was stood in, but James knew for certain that the man was grinning wildly.

"James… we must become a comedy duo when this war is over. You set everything up so well for me. We would be the greatest entertainers in the world!"

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, you have not realised? Even better!" A cackle was drawn from the man. "Do you know the punishment that Sir Arthur Wellesley favoured, James?"

Realisation soon came. James was not the greatest historian but was versed well enough in the life and times of the Duke of Wellington to know of the technique that he favoured to keep order amongst the ranks of the British Army. It was common practice for the time, when troops fell out of line and were unruly. Stealing was one of the more common crimes that permitted its use, a use that James did not want to have put upon him. Chained to the wall, unable to see what was going on behind him, Wellesley's favourite method of punishment could not be avoided. He did not even answer Kurt, not having the time before a demonstration was made so that he understood.

THWACK!

His bare back was not where the whip landed for the demonstration, but the Doctor ensured he could see it strike the wall next to him only a few inches away from his right hand. Behind him, the reason for Hans staying in the dark became clear, he being the one with the whip in his hand ready to perform the duty of inflicting pain upon their prisoner. Kurt hadn't wanted James to know his fate until he was chained up and unable to put up any fight against, proving once again that he was the master of fate in the room. There was nothing that James could do other than withstand the assault on him. Removal of the shirt finally made sense too. No protection would be left in the way of the savage lashings of the instrument of torture.

"Flogging…". The name of the punishment finally fell, but from Kurt's lips. "I must say I cannot believe that your beloved Duke won wars with such a technique… but I can admire its beauty in the flesh… or rather, on your flesh".

James still could not fully see Kurt's facial expressions, missing the grin that he exchanged with an equally delighted Hans. The rack was a useful tool, but it was not the right way of getting the answers that they needed from James. Constant pain might have been achieved, but they'd only been able to go so far on the day without killing him. With the whip, they could bring James closer to the edge of death whilst remaining in control… perfection in the eyes of the Nazi Doctor.

Speaking instructions in German to Hans, Kurt's New Year plan was in motion. Lyla and Elsa knew not to expect them back that night, leaving the two to enjoy the evening together with little Leo. Away from the women, they were going to see in nineteen forty-two in the cruellest, most despicable way possible. Neither Kurt nor Hans could have asked for anything more…

"Twenty lashes James. And you will give me the answers that I want in between each one, or you will get twenty more. Understood?"

"Give me five hundred lashes, make it worthwhile".

He was a fool. He knew it immediately.

Kurt Van Der Heijden was the last man he should have been offering so much pleasure to. The Doctor's hand weaselled its way into the freshly cut hair atop the Englishman's head, grazing his scalp to make his stomach grumble with a foul concoction of anger and fear roaming free inside. Forty would have been manageable; he'd put his foot in it.

"We will tame you yet, my English lion…".

Moving backwards from him, Kurt suddenly drew his lift fist back and placed a hooked punch to James' jaw, stunning the young Englishman, the chains rattling as his body reacted to the blow landing. He should have been winding down to go to sleep at such a time of the night, yet instead he was left fully woken by the blindsided strike he'd received.

The punch was nothing like as painful as what was to follow.

Walking over to the spot beneath the window, Kurt retrieved the chair that James usually stood on to see out of it, retrieving a bottle of wine and a glass from outside the room before finally settling down. Comfortable with a glass of the finest red in one hand, and a pistol in the other, he was agonisingly sat just within James' eyeline on the right-hand side. Enough for him to just about be seen with the objects in his hands, and that was it.

Not that James would be focusing on him whatsoever.

For when the Doctor waved his Lieutenant on a few seconds later, his mind was concentrating on anything positive left within it.

In what was a different place and a different time, the sofa of the Quinn house in Derry contained all of the members of the house that night. Anna was still fighting on despite her yawns, snuggled up to next to her big sister, the two sharing a blanket together at one end of the sofa, their parents at the other, under a blanket of their own. The last seconds of the year were passing by, spent in solitude on a cold, snowy night in Derry, where no soul other than those like Michelle and Orla who'd braved the weather to go out, graced the streets. Across Britain, Auld Lang Syne was about to be sounded out, a stark contrast to the countdown in Italy, one hour earlier. Two very different countdowns…

"Five!"

Anna shouted to start the count in Derry, having managed to get Erin and her parents out from under the blankets to celebrate properly.

THWACK!

"Four hundred and ninety six!"

Kurt was the counter in Rome, equally gleeful, but for reasons that were malicious rather than joyful like hers.

"Four!"

THWACK!

"Four hundred and ninety seven!"

"Three"

"Two"

THWACK!

"Four hundred and ninety nine!"

"ONE!"

THWACK!

"Five hundred!

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Precious happiness was drawn from one of the smartest girls that the Emerald Isle had ever seen, but in Italy, quite possibly the most handsome man to have ever walked its shores was a bloody mess. There was not an inch of skin left on James' back, the whip having seen to it that skin was no longer required for the English prisoner. His back instead was akin to a basket over strawberries that had been dropped into the road and subsequently ran over by a car. Blood trickled down the trousers he was wearing, drying on them the longer that the torture went on, which was drawn out deliberately by Lieutenant Hartmann, who'd taken joy in every single lash. The Englishman was getting exactly what he deserved for his defiance in the eyes of the young father.

By the time that the final lashes were inflicted upon, James's energy to scream was long dissipated. Kurt only counted silently to begin with, so he could not say exactly when he'd stopped grunting or shouting at every lash that took more skin away. Not once had he screamed out in pain, unwilling to give the Doctor the satisfaction of breaking the young man so easily. At every question that the Doctor asked, he could not give the answers, yet still Kurt asked them. Five hundred lashes later, he was still no closer to discovering the truth about James or why Britain wanted him back, but time was on his side. Hitler did not need an answer yet…

Once Hans was finished, he backed away, though not all of the way into the darkened corner of the prisoner's room. Pointing his gun towards the Englishman, he stayed alert on guard as Kurt allowed James down from his chains. Expecting to have to catch him, Kurt was caught off guard when James' legs did not buckle as he thought they would. Any normal man should have collapsed, some to their deaths, after receiving a flogging of five hundred lashes, but he was facing a man who was proving at every turn that he was anything but normal. The strength, not only physical but mental, that James possessed, was unlike any he'd seen before. He was almost unbreakable… almost…

Without a doubt he was stupid.

Ignoring the Doctor, James' eyes, blurred in a daze of pain and a chill that seemed to inhibit his shredded back, locked eyes with Hans. He still held the whip in his hands, the end bloodied and covered with scraps of skin that were taken from the Englishman's back. His battle of wits was with Kurt, but he knew there was another fight to be won in goading the young Lieutenant, who he knew hated him immensely. The brave and stupid James spoke again.

"Four hundred and ninety nine of them… were too soft".

Coughing after he spoke, he watched as Kurt placed himself between the two, to stop Hans from striking him. Lieutenant Hartmann might not have understood much English, but he understood every single word that came out of James' mouth, rising to the taunt that was put to him. James was in a battle with Kurt but was in control fully when it came to Hans.

As Kurt fought to keep Hans under control, the young man shouting obscenities in his native language, James staggered towards his bed. After being on the rack he'd thought he'd experienced pain like he'd never felt before, and that was from a man who'd been shot to within an inch of his life a year earlier. Receiving five hundred lashes from the sharp whip of the Lieutenant faded his previous punishments into triviality. Each step forward towards the bed sent shooting pains around his body, hammer like blows smashing around his skull. Ignoring the two Nazi's, the older of the two trying to calm the younger down, he desperately wanted to sleep. The final, painstaking staggers forward saw him reach the covers, and it was only then that he let go of his control.

James' body finally gave in, his legs buckling.

The New Year began, but he was not consciously aware of it.

A year which looked more and more likely to be his last…