A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, every little alert that popped up on my phone made the work day a little brighter! I hope this lives up to your comments.
This one's a little shorter still, so I'm posting the next one at the same time. It's been a while since I posted a chaptered-type story and I don't think I'm going to be able to drag the posting out like I intended.
_bulletproof weeks_
If he were a younger man, he thinks he might find the excitement in fighting that those around him have. But then he has always been older than his years and he cannot remember a time when he might have enjoyed cramped barracks and mess hall meals.
The training is harsh and quick. They delayed conscription until they had no choice and now they rush them to the frontlines before they're ready.
He shares his bunk with men who will be his men soon enough. They talk of the families left behind, the women.
When he talks at all, it's of the family, of the staff. He does not have a woman. He has Mrs Hughes and he will not share her with anyone.
The last night, when they circled each other, finding jobs and chores at opposite ends of the house, he found himself in her parlour, fingers rifling soundlessly through her desk drawers.
He imagines he could have asked her for the photograph he took, knows now with the handkerchief he keeps in the pocket by his heart that she would not have denied him. But to ask would have been to admit something he has kept locked up inside for too long to let out lightly.
The drill sergeant calls them to attention and as he has before, he pushes away thoughts of her to fulfil his duties.
They will be away soon, fighting and killing - dying -, but he will have her letters then.
That will be something.