A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing. I hope you are all enjoying the story.

Chapter 10

With the kitchen and dining room tidied, Foyle returned to the lounge to pace and watch the mantle clock. With both hands jammed in his pockets, he studied the framed photo of Rosalind as he listened to their son's footsteps from above. Another check of the clock showed that Turner would be at the door in five minutes. As a military man, Foyle was certain the Wing Commander would be on time.

He sighed and fiddled with his collar. A small part of him wished that Andrew had been charged with desertion because then at least he wouldn't return to flying ops. What am I saying? Whatever the outcome of this visit, I'm just going to have to bare it and be brave for Andrew. It's a blessing he's still alive. Too many parents aren't as fortunate.

Foyle was about to start another lap around the lounge when he heard a knock on the door. Andrew must have heard it as well because the pacing from above had stopped. Foyle instinctively smoothed his tie and walked quickly into the hallway. He paused at the foot of the stairs and called Andrew.

His son, dressed in his blue RAF uniform, came down the stairs and Foyle could see the determined set to his shoulders. He was ready to convince his commander he was fit to return to lead his squadron. Foyle's heart ached with worry but he stayed quiet.

Foyle glanced inquiringly toward Andrew and nodded toward the door. Andrew met his eye and nodded back, "I'm ready, Dad."

His father nodded and opened the door. "Commander Turner, please come in," he said as he stepped aside to let the other man pass.

Turner stepped in and removed his cap. "Thank you, Mr. Foyle. I hope this is not too inconvenient."

"No, no, not at all," said Foyle, as he hung Turner's coat on the stand in the hallway and gestured him towards the lounge. "Please, come and sit down. May I get you some tea?"

"That's kind of you. Tea would be much appreciated, if it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all."

They entered the lounge where Andrew stood stiffly at attention. "Wing Commander."

"Flight Lieutenant Foyle, at ease."

Andrew stepped his legs apart but made no move to sit down. Foyle chewed his lip for a moment. He knew military discipline dictated that Andrew could not be seated unless directed by his commanding officer. But as a guest in the Foyle house it wasn't Turner's place to sit without invitation. In short, there was a stalemate.

He looked between the Commander and his son, cleared his throat and said, "You are welcome to sit down, Wing Commander. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll see to our tea." Turner nodded and Foyle turned toward the kitchen to leave his son to speak to his CO in private.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Turner, who remained on his feet, said, "Well, you look much better, Foyle. I trust you are well?"

"Yes, sir, I am, and I'm ready to return to the squadron. It was wrong of me to leave as I did, and it was very good of you not report me. I apologize for the trouble my departure must have caused, and I would appreciate the opportunity to make it up to you. I'm ready to report to duty, sir."

Turner sighed and studied the young man who stood in front of him. He had watched Andrew Foyle over a few short months grow from a cocky college boy to an experienced pilot and brilliant squadron leader. He had been asked to mature under hellish circumstances and had done so in commendable fashion.

Before he replied, the commander considered his words. Mr. Foyle's earlier comment still rang in his ears: "more upset then I've seen him since his mother died." Turner couldn't help to feel responsible for this young man's near breakdown. It's a guilt he has carried since the loss of his first pilot.

The "burden of command," the brass called it, but Turner knew it was a burden he would carry to his grave whether he died in uniform or not. The faces of the young men who had perished so bravely on his orders were never far from his thoughts. And the guilt he felt for his part in their deaths weighed heavily on his heart. He couldn't save those men, but perhaps he could rescue this young man who stood in front of him - at least for the time being.

He studied Andrew carefully. "Frankly, I'm not sure you are, Foyle."

Andrew's jaw tightened. "With respect, sir, I must disagree. I am fit to return to duty regardless of what my father may have told you."

Turner heard the bitterness in his voice and shook his head. He was not about to let this become a battle between father and son, especially when Foyle clearly cared so deeply for his boy.

"Your father had nothing to do with this Flight Lieutenant," said Turner. "He didn't tell me anything that I did not already know. It has been clear to me for several weeks now how worn down you've become."

"No more then anyone else, sir."

"We both know that isn't true, Foyle. I've seen the amount of time you spend with the younger pilots when you could be - and probably should be - resting."

"It's my job as squadron leader, and Rex did the same." Andrew's voice shook slightly when he spoke his friend's name but he pushed on.

Turner nodded. "Yes, but we were not flying two or three operations a day back then." He held up a hand to forestall Andrew's objection. "I'd been considering this for a while, Foyle. The past 48 hours have only served to confirm my decision."

He took a deep breath before he said, "I've put in a request to have you transferred to a training post. You're done with ops, Foyle. You've done enough, more than a enough."

Andrew began to protest but Turner cut him off. "If the war continues to drag on as I fear it might, then I have no doubt that you will be put back in the line again. But for now we are in desperate need of new pilots, and I can think of few people better qualified to bring them along."

"Thank you, sir."

"You've done a hell of a job as squadron leader, Foyle, and I shall miss you."

Andrew didn't have a chance to reply because at that moment his father entered the room with the tea tray. Foyle placed the tray down and looked between his son and the Commander. He could see Andrew's frustration in the tight set of his shoulders and jaw, but Turner's face gave nothing away.

"Milk and sugar, Wing Commander?"

Turner turned toward him, "Yes, sir, thank you." He looked at Andrew, a small smile on his lips. "We had better sit down, Flight Lieutenant, or your father will think that RAF men have no manners."

Andrew nodded and tried to smile but it came out more as a grimace as he accepted his tea from his father and sat stiffly across from his CO.

Foyle poured his own tea and then looked at the Wing Commander. "Can I get you anything else, sir?"

Turner shook his head. "No, thank you, Mr. Foyle. This is excellent."

"In that case, I will leave you to your discussion," Foyle said as he turned to leave the room.

Turner watched him depart and found himself admiring the man's professionalism. He must be desperate to know if his son will be sent back to active service yet he acts as if this discussion is in my office rather than his sitting room.

The Wing Commander took a sip of tea and studied the young man across from him who was staring moodily into his cup. He cleared his throat and was about to speak when Andrew lifted his head.

"How are the lads, sir? Did the last few ops go all right?" Turner knew he wanted to know if there were casualties, but the question was left unasked.

"Everyone's fine, Foyle. We've only had two ops since you left and they both went well."

Andrew's shoulders relaxed slightly. "I'm very glad to hear that, sir."

Turner nodded and continued, "I spoke to Woods' doctor earlier…" Andrew's head snapped up at the mention of his friend who had nearly died in the cockpit of his Spit. "He's going to be fine. The doctor was able to save his eyesight and he believes Woods' other injuries should heal up fairly quickly."

The squadron leader closed his eyes in relief. He still felt guilty that the younger pilot had been injured in Andrew's own Spit flying an op he believed he, not Greville, should have flown.

"That's very good news, sir."

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Andrew worked up the courage to ask the question that had nagged at him ever since his father told him Turner would be paying a call this afternoon.

"Do the others know about me? I mean, about why I am not…"

Turner shook his head. "No, they think you're on leave, and as of right now you are, at least until Monday. A detachment is scheduled to fly up to Debden on Tuesday and you will join them."

"Yes, sir. Who will replace me as squadron leader?"

"I haven't decided yet, Foyle. I hoped you would help me with that."

"Sir?"

"No one knows these pilots better then you do, Foyle. Have a think on it and we can hash it out when you report back to base on Monday. Speaking of base, I should head back," Turner said, as he stood.

"Take care of yourself, Foyle," he said, as he held out his hand.

Andrew stood and shook his CO's hand. "And you, sir. Thank you for not turning me in. I truly do appreciate it. I know I deserved to be reported."

Turner shook his head. "No, you didn't Foyle, and it was my fault that you got to that point at all." He held up his hand as Andrew opened his mouth, "Leave it there, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

Andrew followed his CO into the hallway and politely handed him his coat.

"Thank you, Foyle, and please thank your father for…," Turner broke off as he saw the police detective walk toward them.

"Leaving Wing Commander?" Foyle inquired.

"I am, sir. Thank you for your hospitality."

"A pleasure."

The CO turned to Andrew and asked, "I will see you on Monday, Flight Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir." Andrew said as he came to attention with a salute.

Turner nodded and turned to Foyle "good day."

Foyle held the door open for him and nodded back, "Good day to you, sir."

He waited until the official car pulled away from the curb to shut the door.

"Well," he asked his son.

Andrew had been staring blankly at the front door but roused himself at his father's question.

"I'm on leave until Monday, and then I'm to report to Debden on Tuesday, training post. I'm off ops."

Foyle closed his eyes as relief flooded through him. Thank God. He opened his eyes and studied Andrew carefully. "How do you feel about that?"

Andrew ran a hand through his hair. "I don't really know, Dad." He stood for a minute, and then ran a hand across his face. "I think I'm going to take a walk to clear my head a bit. I won't be too long." And with that he grabbed his uniform hat and coat and quickly slipped passed his father and out the door.

Foyle stood in the hall for a moment before he returned to the lounge to clear the tea things. Ten minutes later he sank into his favorite armchair by the fire suddenly exhausted. He had barely slept since Andrew came home. Knowing that Andrew would not return to active service left him almost breathless with relief. He put his head back and closed his eyes.