A/N: Thank you for the very encouraging reviews. I am so glad that you are enjoying the story.

As always all credit for the editing goes to LauraRaposa. I own nothing but my own imagination.

Chapter 5

Dinner passed in comfortable silence. Foyle could tell that Andrew was preoccupied and left him to his thoughts. He had learned long ago that, if possible, it was best to let Andrew bring things up in his own time.

They were halfway through their second game of chess when Andrew finally spoke, his eyes fixed on the board. "It's the strangest thing Dad, but sometimes at the base, especially if we're flying a lot, it feels like an island of its own. Like there's just us and the Jerrys, like Hastings doesn't even exist." He paused and looked up at his father to see if he understood what he was trying to say.

Foyle looked back at him sadly and nodded, the words he had said earlier to Reid coming to his mind. "It feels like everyone is either getting killed or trying to kill you?"

Andrew nodded, "Yes, exactly." He paused and took a sip of his single malt. "It was so different before…" - his voice broke slightly but he pushed on - "…before Rex died, you know? It was exciting, fun even, but now…"

He broke off, staring into the fire, as he tried to find the words to explain himself without stirring up more worrisome thoughts for his father. Andrew knew he could be completely honest and tell his father everything, but what good would that do? It would only pile on the torment. Certain things were best left unsaid.

Foyle watched his son struggle to express himself; he felt anger and sorrow doing battle in his heart. He hated Hitler and the Nazis for not only putting his son through this bloody war but for aging him so painfully. He was also sorry he could do little to ease Andrew's heavy burden. All the love and support in the world could never erase the horrors of what his son had seen and done. And that knowledge broke his heart.

"But now each day feels longer then the last," said Andrew. "And each day I wonder if we'll all come home." He blinked and looked up at his father, and Foyle felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared into the tormented eyes of his son.

Andrew did not look 22 years old. Gone was his charming, cheeky boy who he had shipped off to Oxford to read English. The man who stared back at him was aged by war and grief, exhaustion and responsibilities. The mischief that had always sparkled in his eyes was gone. His son was at the end of his tether.

Foyle took a shaky breath and reached for his drink only to discover that his hands were shaking. He gripped the crystal tumbler tightly and took a sip, trying to combat the sudden chill that had settled over his body.

Andrew didn't appear to have noticed. His voice was detached, almost dream-like, as he spoke. "There are days, Dad, where I swear I can't remember who I was before the war. I lie on my bunk and try to think back, and all I ever see is my last op, or maybe my very first one but that's it. It's like I didn't exist before the war." He looked up and forced a wan smile, "Your letters help, though. When I read them I can remember when we used to fish, and that helps. But it seems so long ago, Dad, almost like it was another life."

Foyle nodded. He had felt the same detachment all those years ago, as if there had never been a time in his life when he wasn't cold, muddy and surrounded by death. Rosalind's letters had been his lifeline, and he was glad that his letters provided their son some of the same comfort; he only wished he could do more.

"What if I forget, Dad?" Andrew's voice was quiet but the worry was palpable. "I mean, I forgot the day Mum died for God's sake!" He was about to continue but Foyle cut him off.

"Andrew, you're exhausted," he said. "It's natural to forget things when you're tired. How many of those 30 ops you flew were night ops?"

"Half I suppose," his son shrugged. "We sleep, eat and fly. The time of day doesn't matter too much anymore."

Foyle felt his jaw tighten at this glimpse into his son's daily life. "Then you couldn't have known unless you had seen a calendar, and I guess there aren't a lot of those in the barracks."

"No, not really, Dad."

"So, for the love of God, Andrew, stop blaming yourself," said Foyle. "Please, son. I don't blame you for not being there and neither would Mum."

Andrew nodded but steeled himself to ask the question that really scared him: "But what if I forget her, Dad?"

Foyle closed his eyes and remembered the other time his son had asked him that question. It was two years after Rosalind died and Andrew had been talking with some friends when he realized he had forgotten her birthday.

Foyle had stopped by the graveyard on his way home from work to drop off some flowers where he discovered their son lying in front of her grave stone sobbing. It had taken several hours to quiet Andrew then and he knew the same words would not work now. Andrew had been a boy then, but now he was a man who had seen a war take his friends, his youth and his innocence.

Christopher Foyle looked at his wife's picture, and then into his son's tear-filled eyes. He spoke with all the conviction and love he could summon: "Andrew, you must never confuse what your mind remembers and what your heart remembers. Even if at the moment you are too tired to remember everything about Mum, I promise you that your heart has not forgotten her and it never will."

But Andrew just shook his head. "But Dad, it's like I'm losing myself if I can't remember Mum. How long will it be before I can't remember Rex or Douglas or one of the other chaps? How long until it's all gone and all I have left are memories of war? When I'm here at home I can remember better, but I can't stay here forever and it's not like I can take it away with me.

"At first I could, those first few months it only took a night or two at home to remind me who I was and why I was fighting and it would last for weeks. Now, it only takes a few days back at the airfield and it's like the war has consumed who I used to be and all I have left who is who I am now - Flight Lieutenant Foyle, squadron leader, the man others follow, so often to their death. Honestly, I don't think I like him very much anymore." He gave a bark like laugh that held no humor, and Foyle felt his blood run cold.

Oh, God, no. Andrew spoke with a dark despair that frightened him and the look in his eyes was almost wild. He looked at the photo of Rosalind again and prayed, "Help me, Rose. Help me bring our boy back. Help me stop him from doing something foolish."

Foyle closed his eyes for a minute before they flew open. Damn, why didn't I remember it sooner? He stood and moved to his desk where he opened a drawer and searched through it until he found two envelopes.

He turned back to the fire and found Andrew watching him, his eyes full of curiosity. He took a deep breath and slowly walked back to his chair and sat down. He looked at the envelopes he held in his hand and tried to think of how best to explain.

"Andrew, I know this probably won't help but I do know how you feel. I felt the same way many times when I was in France, and all I can say is you do get through it. I wrote to your mother once and told her almost exactly what you just told me. The letter she wrote in response probably saved my life."

He paused and carefully opened the first envelope withdrawing a handful of yellowed papers, he carefully picked through them, selected one and handed it to Andrew.

His son took it and carefully unfolded the worn page. He gave his father a questioning look. Foyle nodded and Andrew began to read.

My Darling Christopher,

I don't know to whom you were referring in your last letter. The man I married and the man to whom I write letters is one of the best men I know. Listen to me, Christopher, war is terrible because it makes good men do terrible things. I know that you have had to kill, and I know that doing so has upset you dreadfully. Don't you see, my darling? That is how I know you are still the man I married – not some monster as you fear.

If you had truly lost yourself, you would not care that you had taken lives. You would not care how many men were lost in the last charge or be sick at the thought that you will have to send more over the top today. I have wished a thousand times that none of this had happened and that you could still be here with me in Hastings. But I knew when I fell in love with you that you would always do what you felt was right even if it was difficult. And that is what you are doing.

I know more than anything that you hate having to send the men over the top, but being the one giving the order does not make you the one who is killing them. If you didn't give the order, someone else would, and they might not pick their moments as carefully as I know you do. I am certain that you do everything in your power to keep the men in your command safe. Please listen to me, Christopher. If you go and get yourself killed then who will look out for them? Who will try and get them more blankets or a couple of nights away from the front?

You, Christopher Thomas Foyle, are a good man and a man I want by my side 'til death do us part. This is only a chapter, my love, and one that I pray will be over soon. I wish more then anything that I could hold you in my arms and keep you safe, but I cannot, so you must keep yourself safe for me. Try to think of happy things, like the day you will come home to me or perhaps our beautiful wedding day. Promise me that you will try Christopher, for I cannot imagine life without you.

With all my love,

Your Rose

Andrew looked up to find his father watching him with a sad smile on his face, and then stared down at the letter in his hand. He felt a lump grow in his throat as he re-read his mother's words through watery eyes: "Being the one giving the order does not make you the one who is killing them." To know that his father, a man he respected above all others, had been burdened by the same fears that he now faced but had made it through was comforting in a way that he couldn't really explain.

The younger Foyle did not try to stop the tears that poured down his face to join the old tearstains on the worn page in his hand. Andrew let his dead mother's words, written with such love, understanding and forgiveness soothe some of the fear in his shattered heart.

Foyle stood, crossed to Andrew's chair and placed a hand on the back of his neck.

"Andrew?"

His son stood and Foyle wrapped his arms around his boy holding him close. "You're a good man, Andrew, and I am so proud of you and your mum would be too. You haven't forgotten who you are. You're just too tired to remember right now. When you finally get a proper rest, it will come back. Until then, and you can take my word for it, you're a good man, Andrew." His words were soft and his voice thick with emotion, "It's not your fault that Rex or any of the others died Andrew, it's God awful but that doesn't make it your fault. Just like it wasn't mine."

"Then why does it feel like it is?"

"Because you're a good man Son, and that makes you feel responsible for things that you can't control."

"I want it to be over, Dad, I just want it to be over."

Foyle felt his own tears running down his cheeks as he rocked his son in his arms. "I know you do, Andrew, so do I. But it's like Mum said, 'It's just a chapter, and one that I pray will be over soon.' You just have to try and keep your head up 'til then. You can make it through but you have to try, Andrew. Please promise me you'll try."

Andrew could hear the tears in his father's voice and realized with a start just how difficult this must be for him. He knew that Dad had tried unsuccessfully to get transferred to London because he didn't feel he was doing enough for the war effort here in Hastings. And he knew that he had fought the first war, the alleged "war to end all wars," to keep his family safe.

But the bloody Jerrys wouldn't go away. And now his father was forced to watch his son battle the same demons. It must hurt him terribly, Andrew thought, as he squeezed his father a little tighter, "I will, Dad. I promise I will."

It was as if reading his mother's words had lifted the dark despair that dogged him for days. He felt lighter somehow as he stood safe in his father's arms.

Foyle's knees felt weak with relief at Andrew's words, and he was grateful for his son's strong arms as it took him a minute to recover himself. "Thank you," he murmured softly into Andrew's hair. "Thank you, son."

He felt Andrew's tears ease and pulled back slightly. He was very relieved to see that the hopelessness that had filled Andrew's eyes since he returned home had finally lifted. Rose, you've now saved two Foyle men with those words. Thank you, my love, Thank you for bringing our boy back to me.

He gave Andrew a weak smile, "Tea?"

Andrew gave a watery laugh. "Tea sounds wonderful, Dad."