A/N: I haven't posted this story before due to the awkwardness of the formatting not allowing words to be struck through/crossed out but given our current circumstances I decided to post it anyway and hope that the readers would accept that any word in double brackets i.e. ((word)) has been struck through. This only occurs in the letters themselves and hopefully doesn't make things too confusing. All the best, TT-5

1945

Dear Dad,

Sorry that it's taken me so long to write, we've been ((bloody)) quite busy here, I actually just got in from op. I suppose I ought to be trying to sleep but I'm too awake at the moment and I want to keep an ear out for the lads.

How are you? Been to the river lately?

There was a smudge on the page as if Andrew had been forced to stop suddenly and Foyle couldn't help wondering if it was a scramble or another pilot's nightmare that had disturbed him. He hoped it had been the latter. Andrew must have been exhausted when he wrote this and the idea of him having to go back up…

He shook his head sharply and looked at the next letter, it was hastily written on a piece of tea-stained paper.

Dear Dad,

Today's been rotten we lost men on two separate ops…bloody meat shop up there. Sorry, I shouldn't have written that. I hope…

If this is it…

Thanks for everything Dad and take care

Foyle blinked hard as he reread his son's words, "If this is it…" He shuddered 'How often did Andrew think that? Wonder if it was his number that would be called? I could have lost him so easily…'

The clock ticked by for several long minutes before he was able to push that thought aside and pick up the next letter. It was actually finished although it was only a single side of paper.

Dear Dad,

How are you? I'm sorry that it's been so long since I wrote, between ops, briefings and everything else I feel as if I haven't had a moment to myself in weeks. The sun is only just up and I'm alone in the mess so hopefully I'll actually get a chance to finish this letter and maybe even have two cups of tea.

How are Mr. and Mrs. Reid and the girls? I hope the raids haven't scared Maggie and Gracie too much. We are doing our best to keep Jerry away but some days it doesn't seem to matter how many ops we fly because they are still getting through.

Want to know something funny? I dreamt about the river the other night, just the two of us and a few trout. Bet you never thought that would happen! Best dream I've had in weeks. Catch a few for me next time you go.

Wing Co just came in, probably has the latest briefing from Fighter Command so I have to go.

Take care Dad,

Andrew

Foyle took a sip of his tea, Andrew's tone was much more cheerful than the first two letters but there was an undercurrent of worry and frustration that was impossible to miss. He sounded older and younger at the same time a man in his actions but a boy in his dreams, taking refugee in the memory of happier days. He wondered what had stopped Andrew from sending this letter, most likely he had simply forgotten.

He couldn't tell if the next piece of writing had been a letter or not, there was no salutation and no signature but the handwriting was unmistakably Andrew's.

Time has stopped making sense, I never know what day it is, hell I'm not really sure what month it is and I judge the time of day by the height of the sun. The ops blur together and when I close my eyes all I can see is trails of smoke crisscrossing the sky…we've lost so many men, some gone before I could even learn their names…I'm not sure what would be worse; forgetting them completely, as if they'd never existed, or remembering their faces forever but never knowing their names, I suppose I'll be lucky if I live long enough to find out…

Andrew had trailed off whether called to duty or simply unable to continue Foyle would never know but what had been written chilled him to the bone. He wondered if this had been written just before Andrew went AWOL or if, as awful as it was to contemplate, his son had felt this way several times during the war. He read the note again.

Andrew wrote with darkness that made his blood run cold and he knew he would have done everything in his power to get to his son if he had received this during the war. Even now it made him shiver and he wished Andrew were home so he could reassure himself that he was all right.

He got to his feet and went to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea. When he had come across the stack of letters that morning he'd had no idea what to expect. He had been putting Andrew's laundry hamper back and found the envelopes on the floor where it usually sat, and could only assume they had been fallen behind the hamper.

"For Dad" was written on both envelopes so he hadn't felt an obligation to check with Andrew before he looked at them but now he wasn't so sure; the letters he had read so far were far more revealing than anything Andrew had told him to date and he wasn't sure if his son would want him to read them now.

Foyle mulled over the problem while he waited for the kettle to boil, weighing the pros and cons before finally making up his mind. Back in the sitting room he poured himself a cup of tea and picked up the next piece of paper. It was a proper letter addressed to him and it felt like validation of his decision.

Dear Dad,

I had the strangest dream last night, although maybe if just felt strange because it's been so long since I slept long enough to dream. Mum was still alive and the two of you were dancing at Mr. Lucciano's restaurant, I'm not sure what the party was for but you weren't the only ones dancing. Did that ever happen when I was little? It felt so real, more real than what I do every day in some strange way.

The ops themselves aren't bad, there's no time to think up there, it's the waiting before and then thinking it over after that I hate. When you stop and realize what you've done and wonder…

The whole next two lines had been crossed out too strongly for Foyle to make them out (most likely because Andrew knew the censor would do it if he didn't) but he knew his son well enough to know where that train of thought would have led. He took a deep breath; proud that even in the middle of the Battle of Britain Andrew had been aware of the consequences of his actions.

I'm hoping to get some leave soon but that rather depends on Jerry; if he'll stop calling quite so regularly Wing Co says he should be able to give us all a couple of days (on a rota of course). We really could use the break and it would be nice to see you. I hope work hasn't been too bad. You can write about that too you know; I'd like to hear how you are getting on.

I know you've asked for more specific war work but what you're doing does matter Dad, just like always. The lads here are always worried about looting and such at home, people taking advantage because some many of the men are away. I always tell them not to fuss because if their families are on the South Coast than there's not a chance anyone will get away with that rot, not while your DCS. It really takes a load off Dad…

Foyle sat staring at the unfinished letter, a letter Andrew had clearly had every intention of sending before it presumably got swept away in the rush to get in the air. He blinked hard; Andrew had always been more demonstrative than him, more comfortable expressing his emotions (he took after Rosalind that way) and Foyle didn't think he'd ever been more grateful for it.

The knowledge that, in the middle of everything, Andrew had been aware of his frustration and inner turmoil and had tried to reassure him left Foyle speechless.

He had mostly made peace with what his contribution to the war effort had amounted to but seeing it again, through the prospective this letter provided, he suddenly believed that he might have actually done something relatively significant after all.

He took a long drink of tea and turned his head to study Rosalind's picture, longing as he always did for her presence. They were supposed to grow old together, share the bittersweet emotions of Andrew leaving home, dance at his wedding and marvel at their grandchildren.

Instead he had seen their son through his adolescent years alone, and he suspected with more strife than there would have been if Rosalind had lived. He had seen him off to Oxford and then, heartbreakingly, watched him fly off to war where he had served with distinction. Now he was trying his best to see Andrew through the process of readjusting to civilian life.

In turn Andrew was unintentionally forcing him to face every emotion he had ever known, just as he had since he was a baby. Of the many things he had not anticipated about being a father, the array of emotions that your child could draw from you in the span of a single day was possibly the most significant.

As he thought over what he had read and weighed the stack of remaining letters he was suddenly glad that Andrew would be in London for a few nights. He could speak to him on the telephone tonight, which would be reassurance enough and it meant that he could take his time going through the remaining letters. Deciding he'd read enough for the now he rose and placed the letters carefully on his desk before going to see about supper.