A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing. I own nothing but my imagination.

Chapter 17

When Andrew and the nurse finally reached Greville's bed he was asleep. The nurse made a move to wake him, but stopped when Andrew shook his head. She smiled knowingly and quietly moved off down the ward.

Andrew stood silently studying the bandaged man he had come to think of as a younger brother. He had always wanted siblings growing up; it had never occurred to him that he would get a handful when he was in his 20s. Time after time, Andrew fetched cups of sugary tea for those shaken by their first combat op, and he was the one who held them when they wept for those who died whether friend or foe.

It was a sobering moment for a RAF pilot when he realized the Jerry he just sent to his death in a fire-spewing spiral into the Channel was just a man like himself. Only he would not return to his family or into the arms of his best girl.

Dad once told him "you get through it" because there wasn't any other way. You had to kill a faceless German before he murdered your mates or dropped a bomb on your parents' house while they slept. This rationalization didn't keep the nightmares at bay or assuage guilt, but Andrew had learned to push these thoughts aside during an op so he could "get through it."

He ran his hand through his hair and looked down at Woods relieved to see his friend's eyes were no longer bandaged. He did, however, look like he had nasty sunburn and his hands were wrapped in bandages. Overall, he appeared much better than Andrew feared.

"Getting your beauty rest, Woods?"

The younger mans eye's flew open and he blinked up at Andrew with a massive smile on his face. "Andrew!"

"Hello, Greville," grinned Andrew as Woods struggled to sit up. "Steady on, old chap. Are you allowed to sit up?"

Woods nodded. "Yes, I have been for days now."

The younger man was a terrible liar so Andrew took him at his word as he helped his friend ease into a sitting position and lean back against his pillows. "Right. There you go."

Andrew smiled down at the pilot, who beamed back it him. "It's jolly good to see you, Andrew, but how did you get away from base? Aren't we still on standby?"

The squadron leader shook his head. "I've got a spot of leave so I thought I'd say hello. How have you been?"

Woods shrugged. "I've been alright. The first few days were the hardest, but Anne comes everyday now." He paused, and then with a huge grin he asked, "Did you hear we're engaged?"

"I did NOT," joked Andrew as he pretended to be taken aback. "That's great, Greville. Congratulations! She's a wonderful girl."

"She really is, isn't she," said the besotted pilot.

"So when's the happy occasion?" asked Andrew.

"Not sure really. Anne wants to wait until after the war, and I can see that, you know, just in case."

Andrew nodded. "Just in case" was code for "in case you die." And as war still raged on, it was a very real danger for all of them.

"How are the other chaps?" Woods asked.

"They're alright the last time I saw them," said Andrew as he fiddled with his cap. "Like I said, I'm on leave right now."

He paused and made eye contact with his friend before he continued. "Look, Greville, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I should have made sure that moron Drake had fixed the bloody fly because if I had this wouldn't have happened." He had managed to keep eye contact while he apologized but now he just stared at his boots.

"Andrew, you cannot possibly blame yourself for this," said Woods with disbelief on his face.

His friend and squadron leader nodded despondently. "It was my Spit, Greville, and I shouldn't have let you fly it until I knew it was safe."

"Andrew, that was my responsibility and Drake's," Greville said. "It was my op and his job. Besides if I'd flown the op properly I wouldn't have been shot down at all."

The bitterness in Woods' voice made Andrew look up sharply, but when he spoke his voice was gentle. "What happened?"

It was as if the question had broken through a dam and the whole story flooded out.

"Everything went well on the first pass, but I must have come in too low on the second one and I got hit," said the injured pilot. "I didn't think it was too bad, but when I turned for home and saw the fire licking at the wing…" He paused and looked up at Andrew. "I thought I was a goner. I really did. All I kept thinking about was Anne…"

He trailed off, eyes far away.

Andrew softly squeezed his friend's left shoulder but stayed quiet. After a minute, Woods looked up again and forced a smile. "You probably know the rest by now. I managed to make it back to the field and land but I couldn't get out. Thought I was dead."

He shivered at the memory of beating his fists helplessly against the canopy as the flames enveloped him. The hand on his shoulder tightened and he swallowed hard. "If it weren't for the field attendants I would be dead. They risked their lives for me, Andrew. They ran over and pulled me out right before the fuel tanks went up." He shivered again and then frowned. "I don't think I even thanked them! Will you do that for me when you see them next, Andrew? Tell them how very grateful I am?"

"Of course, I will," said Andrew. "I'll be sure to do that on Monday."

Woods leaned back against his pillows suddenly tired but relieved to have told one of his squadron mates what happened on that fateful night. He hadn't really remembered much the first few days he was in hospital, and then when his memory returned, there had been no one to tell.

There had been no debrief by the Wing Commander because he was hurt, and he wouldn't dream of telling Anne. He looked up at the man who had done so much for him since he'd joined the squadron and smiled. "Thanks, Andrew."

Andrew frowned. "For what? Letting you fly an op that landed you in hospital?"

"No, for coming, for listening. I haven't told anyone until now."

Andrew nodded understandingly and then said, "I don't see how any of what happened was your fault, sounds to me like you did a very good job."

"Should have known to stay higher on that second pass."

"At the time did you want to go lower or did they catch you before you had time to correct?"

Woods frowned. "I remember thinking that I'd got everything on the first pass but I'd better take a second just in case. The WingCo was adamant that they needed images as accurate as possible, so I went a bit lower to try to get more detail."

Andrew nodded. "So you were just fulfilling the mission objectives then. I would have done the same."

Woods looked up at him. "Really? You would have made the second pass?"

Andrew nodded and spoke firmly. "Yes, I bloody would have, Woods. You did a hell of a job and you should be proud of yourself."

Woods closed his eyes and leaned his head back on his pillows. He felt like a massive weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and smiled up at his squadron leader. "Thank you, Andrew. You have no idea how much that means to me. You're a good sort."

Andrew smiled back. "You're a good sort yourself, Greville. Now should I push off and let you rest a bit? I imagine Anne will be here soon. Wouldn't want you to miss a minute with your fiancée."

Woods smiled at the term and nodded. "Yes, I suppose. Matron's very strict about us resting. Usually she insists that I have a nap if I want to go for a walk with Anne. The WingCo has nothing on Matron."

Andrew laughed. "I'd better be off before I'm court martialed for disturbing the peace then. Take care of yourself, Woods, and give my best to the beautiful Anne."

"Will do. Tell the boys I said 'hello' when you see them, and give Jerry hell for me," he said.

"I will. I'll see them before I head up to Debden."

"Debden," asked Greville. "What are you doing there?"

"Been reposted, actually, a training position," said Andrew. "Must be desperate if they want me to teach."

Woods laughed and shook his head. "Ha! A bunch of pilots trained by you, Foyle? Jerry won't know what hit him."

Andrew laughed as he helped the younger man lie back down. "Well, I'd better go and collect my father. Take care of yourself, Woods."

Woods nodded and held out his left hand. "Good luck, Andrew."

Andrew smiled and shook it. "Same to you, Greville," He watched the younger man's eyes drift close and his breathing level out before he turned and began to retrace his steps to Middlebrook's ward.

Andrew was glad he had come, but he suddenly felt much older than his 22 years. He paused and looked around him as a lump formed in his throat. Most of the patients appeared to be his age or younger. He swallowed hard, flashed a smile to the chap in the bed closest to him and walked on to find his father.

Andrew found his father still sitting by Will's bed. The chessboard and card table were tidied to one side and Foyle appeared to be listening to the young pilot tell a story.

"Op was going fine, and then all of a sudden a swarm of them dropped down from the clouds behind us…"

Andrew paused and decided to go no further. Neither man had seen him and he didn't want to interrupt. It sounded like Will also had a story he needed to share. He swallowed hard as he remembered that Middlebrook had lost his own father a few months before the war started. Heart attack, I think he said. He racked his brains trying to remember if he'd had any other family. His mother wasn't happy when he enlisted. She wanted him to stay home and run the family's shop. Also remember something about a married sister in Wales…

Andrew wondered if any of them had come to visit him since he'd been in hospital. He recalled that Will didn't receive much mail. Maybe a couple of letters from a girl back home, but he didn't mention if his family wrote to him.

He watched Foyle sit silently as Will retold his story. His father was a wonderful listener. Probably serves him well in his police work. His heart swelled with sympathy for Will as well as gratitude for his father. He was reminded yet again how lucky he was to have him in his life.

It sounded as if there was still a good bit left to Will's story so he quietly backtracked and glanced up the ward, trying to think of a way to keep occupied for a bit.

He spotted a young man with a bandage over one eye squinting at a book that Andrew suspected he wasn't supposed to read in his condition. Poor bugger. I'd go crazy if I was stuck in bed all day. He walked swiftly down the ward and stopped at the foot of the reading man's bed.

The injured pilot put down the book as Andrew smiled and hurried to introduce himself.

"Flight Lieutenant Andrew Foyle at your service," he said. "I dropped in to see a mate but he's gone and fallen asleep on me, and I've got a bit until my ride comes. So would you like me to read to you? I'm told I'm decent at it and I hate standing around doing nothing." He smiled again and waited nervously for the other man to respond.

"Foyle, you said?"

"Yes?"

"You're the squadron leader under Turner aren't you?"

"Yes, that's right. I'm sorry, and you are?"

"Flight Lieutenant Harding, 209th squadron. You sent us a couple of lads a few weeks ago when we were short."

Andrew nodded. He remembered he and the WingCo had a long discussion about whom they should send. "Ah, yes, that's right. Hope they behaved themselves."

"Aye, they did that. Raised bloody hell for the Jerrys and kept on about how they'd have to tell Flight Lieutenant Foyle how many kills they'd got."

Andrew laughed. "We have a bit of a competition going as I suspect most squadrons do. As leader it's my job to keep the tally up to date and heaven help me if I forget. They're after me like a gaggle of squawking geese."

The two men laughed as Harding gestured to the chair beside his bed.

"You're welcome to sit and pass the time before your ride comes if you like. Wouldn't recommend the book though. It's bloody dull but better than nothing I suppose."

Andrew looked around quickly and spied a pile of books on the other side of the room. He jumped up and walked over to the table hoping he'd find something he recognized that wasn't too dreary. He grinned when he found a book his father had given him and returned to the chair at Harding's bedside.

"How about this one instead? My father gave it to me last Christmas and I quite enjoyed it. I could read you the first chapter if you'd like?"

Harding studied the back of the book intently and then shrugged. "Can't be worse than Dickens. But are you sure you've got the time? Most people have better things to do than read to cripples."

His voice hardened on the last sentence and Andrew winced at the bitterness and self-deprecation but forced himself to smile. "Actually, I'd like to read it again. Haven't had much time for reading these days."

Harding looked at him critically for a minute, nodded and leaned back against his pillows to listen. Andrew shifted slightly in his chair, cleared his throat and began to read quietly.