Disclaimer: The characters of Foyle's War and the plot of "War of Nerves" belong to Anthony Horowitz. Every scrap of dialogue in this chapter? Exclusively mine. (Prodded and polished, as always, by GiulliettaC, Beta extraordinaire.)

Author's Notes: "War of Nerves" is one of my favorite Paul Milner episodes. He gets to get out of the office and go undercover. He wears clothes that accentuate just how thin Anthony Howell is (not to mention that he rolls up his sleeves). He gets shot. And then at the end of the episode, he gets to tussle with the crook who took a pot-shot at him and totally comes out the victor. I don't include that last bit in this chapter, but it's a joy to watch.

A quick note about Charlie Chaplin and his film, "The Great Dictator," courtesy of Wikipedia. Chaplin made his name as a comic actor during the era of silent films and famously refused to make the switch to sound when the technology became available in the late '20s. "The Great Dictator" was Chaplin's first talking picture. He was inspired to make the film after viewing Leni Riefenstahl's propaganda film of Hitler and Nazism, "Triumph of the Will," which Chaplin watched numerous times, all the better to accurately satirize Hitler and the Nazis in his own film. Filming began in 1939, literally at the same time as the outbreak of WWII, and was released in the US in 1940, in the UK in 1941. It was hugely popular on both sides of the Atlantic. Chaplin later said, however, that if he had known the true extent of the Nazis' crimes against humanity, he wouldn't have made the film.

June, 1941

"Paul!"

At the sound of his name, Sergeant Milner looked up from the paperwork that littered his desk and saw Sam in the doorway, a look of abject horror on her face.

"Hello, Sam," he said, smiling. It always made him smile to see Sam, and he hadn't seen her quite so frequently lately.

"Your arm!" she exclaimed, rushing from the doorway to his desk. "What on earth happened?"

"Oh, well," Paul glanced down at his bandaged left arm in its sling, "Part of the undercover job I was on. The suspect took a shot at me. He nearly missed." The smile that accompanied this statement was meant to be reassuring and even a bit satirical, but Sam didn't respond to his quip and continued to look stricken. "Really, Sam," he added, reaching out and capturing one of her hands with his good one, giving it a squeeze, "The doctor is making a ridiculous amount of fuss. It's just a flesh wound, very shallow. I got a few stitches, my arm will be a bit stiff for a week or two, and I'll be right as rain."

"I can't bear to think of your being hurt, Paul," Sam burst out, with a vehemence of which she seemed unaware. The only coherent thought she could form through her ebbing panic, was the idea that Paul had survived the slaughter of the battlefield, and it was grossly unfair that he should now get shot while pursuing petty criminals in Hastings. "And your left arm of all places!" Though, truth be told, she couldn't think of any other particular body part in which getting shot would be preferable. To Sam's surprise, after a moment, Paul burst out laughing.

"To match my leg, you mean?" he chuckled, "I do seem to favor that side, don't I? Pity that bloke didn't aim for my leg – wouldn't he have been surprised when I kept after him?" Paul was relieved to see that now Sam was beginning to look more cheerful.

"Does it hurt?" Sam surveyed the snowy gauze encasing Paul's arm with undisguised concern.

"Not much. It hurt like blazes when it happened, though." Paul remembered (was it really only the evening before?) the shock of the bullet knocking him to the ground, where he had lain writhing in pain, his shirtsleeve wet and crimson with blood. To top everything off, the suspect had managed to escape. "I'm fine, Sam," he repeated emphatically, recalling himself to the present and the young woman standing in front of him.

"Shall I get you some tea?" Sam offered with a full return of her usual sunny disposition; Paul didn't appear to require anything else.

"Yes, thanks. That would be lovely." Paul watched Sam bustle out the door, then returned to wrestling with his notes on the fictitious Ian Kimble.

...

By the next day, when Sam drove him and Mr. Foyle back to the Talbot Brother's' shipyard, Paul had dispensed with the sling as a nuisance and altogether too conspicuous. As often happened, Mr. Foyle set off in search of the Talbot brothers by himself while Paul hung about with Sam and the Wolseley.

"Is your arm better today?" Sam asked as they surveyed the shipyard workers coming and going.

"Yes, it's doing very well. I'm sorry I gave you such a fright yesterday."

"I was out most of the morning at Jack Archer's trial so I hadn't heard anything about the shooting," Sam explained earnestly, "I just saw that you were in your office and with all the undercover work you'd been doing this last month and more I hardly ever see you, so I just popped my head round the door and there you were with your arm in a bally sling!" Sam felt her face flushing, "And then I went and made a fool of myself."

"You didn't make a fool of yourself, Sam."

"I don't remember the last time I overreacted so. Of course I should have seen that you were sitting there doing perfectly well apart from the sling. But it was such a shock. I'm sorry; I don't know what you must think of me."

"Don't be sorry," Paul assured her, "It's nice to know that people care about you."

"Of course I care for you, Paul!" Sam exclaimed, anxious that he shouldn't be in the dark about something so patently obvious, "I care tremendously. You're one of my best friends."

Paul smiled shyly. It was odd, he thought to himself, but Sam was probably his best friend as well. He had had quite a number of friends over the years. Friends from school with whom he'd lost touch. Friends who had joined up when he had done and either died or were still fighting overseas. But none who were actually in his life apart from this blithe young woman who always seemed to be overflowing with energy and compassion. "I'm glad to have you for my friend too, Sam," he said.

They both fell quiet for a moment, but before either could speak again, the air raid siren began its sickeningly familiar wail. The trickle of meandering workers changed instantly to floods of people pouring out of doors and hurrying towards shelters. Sam and Paul quickly got out of the car and joined them, pausing while Paul ran back to the car to fetch their gas masks.

They followed the crowd, wending their way down into shelters, directed by air raid wardens, and took their seats side by side, shoulders touching, squashed amongst the over-all-clad shipyard workers. The sound of the air raid siren rose and fell in the uneasy silence, broken here and there by murmured scraps of conversation or prayer. The drone of German aeroplanes became audible, although it was hard to tell for certain their ultimate destination – until a whistling rent the air, followed by a palpable thud and the tremors of a nearby explosion. Sam suddenly bent forward and wrapped her arms around her knees, burying her head in her lap. After a moment, she felt an arm and hand come to rest lightly across her back and shoulder.

"All right, Sam?" Paul's voice spoke quietly in her ear.

"Been better," she quavered slightly.

"Care to talk about it?"

"Would it be…seditious…if I said I was frightened?" Memories of the odious Detective Inspector Collier from Scotland Yard and his trumped-up charges of sedition against Mr. Foyle flitted through Sam's mind. Collier had alleged that Mr. Foyle had panicked in a London air raid shelter and started spouting all sorts of nonsense about defeat and surrender.

"Of course not," Paul's voice was warm and gentle, "There's nothing wrong with being afraid."

"It's only…" Sam opened her eyes and turned her head slightly. Paul was leaning forward too, his face quite close to hers. "I've been in lots of raids already," Sam continued in a low whisper, so as not to be overheard, "And it's always horrible. You never know where Jerry will decide to let one drop. But…this is just the sort of place the Germans would target," Sam hissed, "We're in a ship yard for Heaven's sake. I've never felt like such a sitting duck in my life."

"Which is precisely why the shelters here are bound to be particularly reliable," came Paul's immediate reply.

"Do you really think so?"

"Of course." Paul put as much confidence as he could into the statement. Privately, he didn't feel quite as certain as he hoped he had managed to sound. But to voice any doubts he might entertain on their chances if the shelter took a direct hit wouldn't help Sam at all. He didn't think that any of the other people crowding the shelter would take such remarks very kindly either, if they were overheard.

"I was in a raid with Mr. Foyle my very first week as his driver," Sam continued, "Shortly before you came to work with him. He was interviewing a suspect at a pub when the sirens went off. I ran in to ask if it was a false alarm, and then the whistling started, and Mr. Foyle yelled, 'Get down,' and everything exploded. It was a mercy we weren't all killed. There was a girl killed – she was just outside the pub – but all the windows blew in and everything smashed, and we were covered in bits of rubble. And then of course, when poor Jenny…" her rambling ended abruptly at the mention of the girl who had died when Sam was bombed out of her home last year, and she squeezed her eyes tight shut. Paul tightened the grip of his right arm around Sam's shoulders in wordless sympathy. From above their heads came another high pitched whistle and an accompanying crash, though – oddly – no explosion.

"Sometimes I dream about…the night that Jenny died," Sam was speaking now through clenched teeth, "And when I do, I always hear the whistling – and her screaming. And I try to get to her, to help her, but I can't. I'm sorry," she added, using the heel of her hand to rub out a tear that persisted in leaking through her screwed up eyelids, "You're sure I haven't said anything seditious?"

"Quite sure, Sam." She could hear the grin that had accompanied Paul's words, though her eyes were still closed. Sam blinked her eyes open, dashing impatiently at the few tears that coursed down her face when she did. She straightened and sat up slowly, and Paul moved to sit back with her, though his arm remained draped across her shoulders.

"I feel a bit like I'm letting the side down," Sam muttered in frustration. What must Paul think of her, going to pieces like this? – especially after her earlier upset over his arm. "How do you cope so well, Paul?" she asked suddenly. "Don't the raids ever remind you of…Norway and all that?"

"The raids aren't really my problem." Sitting as close as they were, Sam could feel him tense just slightly as he spoke.

"They don't give you nightmares?"

"Not exactly… When I dream, it's usually to do with…my leg."

"Of course," Sam was beginning to regret her line of questioning; what kind of repayment was she showing for all of Paul's kindness, dredging up the worst moments of his life when he was doing his best to calm her down and make her feel safe? "That must have been… beyond awful."

"It was…" Even after all this time, his memories of the actual battle, of the explosion that would take his leg, were still fragmented and hard to force into focus. "But, it's odd, you see," he went on, "In my dreams, the left leg is still there… But my right leg is gone." As he spoke, Paul removed his arm from around Sam's shoulders and rubbed his hand absently along his right thigh. "Of course," he added with some attempt at lightening the mood, "When I wake up, it's easy enough to reassure myself that everything is still as it should be."

"I'm sorry," Sam muttered, feeling her face go suddenly hot, "I'm being horrible. I should never have brought it up."

"It's alright, Sam, really. They're just dreams; not real. I don't mind telling you." In the ensuing silence, Paul chided himself for his somewhat glib answer to Sam's question. He had been honest, but only up to a point. If they were really exchanging confidences, maybe he should allow himself a bit more candour. After a small internal struggle, Paul forced himself to add, "But it's hard to remember sometimes, isn't it? That dreams aren't real? Because they feel so real, even once you've woken up." The last time he remembered dreaming about his legs, it had taken over half an hour for him to calm down, to stop his heart racing and get his breathing under control, running his hand up and down his right leg to reassure himself that it hadn't disappeared.

"Yes," Sam's response was nearly inaudible.

"But…we just… carry on," Paul added, his voice regaining its usual calm. He couldn't give any special reason or explanation for how he managed to keep himself on an even keel, other than the job in front of him and the purpose it gave his life. He suspected that Sam felt the same way about her job; that it gave her a direction and a sense of contributing towards the greater good. As he spoke, Paul reached for Sam's hand once more, held it tight. "And it always helps to have a friend you can talk to."

...

When the all clear finally sounded, the built-up tension and anxiety in the shelter drained away. The babble of voices in conversation climbed to a steady hum as everyone heaved themselves to their feet. Sam and Paul began straggling to the surface along with everyone else.

"I think," Sam said as they climbed the stairs, "That we could do with a jolly good laugh after all that."

"What did you have in mind?" They emerged, blinking, into the open air and sunshine.

"'The Great Dictator' is playing at the pictures. Why don't we go tonight and find out what Chaplin's voice actually sounds like?" The face she turned towards Paul as she spoke projected a touch of hesitancy, as though she weren't quite sure what his reaction to her invitation would be. Sam felt a moment's anxiety that Paul might take the invitation the wrong way – either as a romantic gesture or one based on pity, when it was neither.

She needn't have worried. After a moment's deliberation, Paul grinned with pleased anticipation. "I think it sounds like just the thing." Sam couldn't have known it beforehand, but he had adored Chaplin's films ever since he was a boy.

"Good. That's settled then." Sam's veneer of nerves dissolved into satisfaction over a job well done. And together, they wandered off together in search of Mr. Foyle.