A/N: This chapter has been posted early to try to catch the attention of those readers who are giving up on this storey before they can get out of earshot.

But what do you say to someone who got as far as the last chapter and then quit? That it's a long war and we are only in 1915? That in canon our couple only got together in 1920? Hang in there, it's a roller coaster ride? That there's fluff (but no smut, I'm too embarrassed to write smut) forecast for Chapter 26? That I don't blame you for quitting if the writing has gone all to crap but don't give up because of the plot. Not just yet.

I can't say any of that to them because they're not reading this. But you are Gentle Reader and I beseech you to give the storey a chance. At least until the end of 1915. Yes my two favourite villains will continue to wreck havoc. Miss Swire will make an appearance. But remember this is a romance not a tragedy.

The version of the chapter title song by Bob Dylan is recommended.

Tell Me That It Isn't True

Tuesday, May 12, 1915

Matthew handed the orders to the colonel. This being about the two dozenth time he had done this since he had joined Col. Flashman in MI1 he could predict what the colonel's reaction would be based on how long the Colonel had been in service. The younger ones could see the point in gathering intelligence and would cooperate fully. Older ones, prewar colonels, like this one, who looked to be older than Robert, would not. As far as Matthew was concerned the sooner these old mossbacks were killed off the better.

On cue the colonel sputtered "Why in effect these orders hand over the battalion to you" He glared at Matthew "A mere captain; that's outrageous! I won't stand for it..."

"That's fine sir. I'll let General Haig know" General Haig, the supreme commander of them both, had signed the orders, or at least someone with an ability to sign very much like the General had signed the orders; with Col. Flashman you could never tell. Matthew held out his hand for the orders.

"Tell him what?"

"That you refused..."

The colonel's survival mechanism kicked in. These old timers hadn't lasted as long, and risen as high in the peacetime army as they had, without the ability to sense and avoid danger. He held up his hand. "Let's not be hasty. I was just ... perhaps I should confirm..."

"Quite right sir. Perhaps I should go have a cup of tea while you see if you can get Gen. Haig on the telephone." Matthew looked at the clock. "If you could do that right away I would greatly appreciate it. My mission is rather time sensitive. You should be able to catch Gen. Haig at dinner."

The colonel frowned at Matthew. Matthew gave the colonel a bland look, with not the faintest hint of the smirk that was plastered all over the inside of his mind.

"No ..no that won't be necessary." said the colonel. "Will you be long?"

Matthew smiled at him. "With any luck we'll be heading back to HQ by eight o'clock tomorrow morning.

Wednesday, May 13, 1915

Counting himself Matthew had eighteen men in his squad, all veterans of the Great Retreat. His second in command was Lt. Silverfish, whom, once Matthew had understood the kind of missions he would be going on, he had had Col. Flashman recruit. Patrick Harper was his sergeant and he had two corporals: Julius Marx, a Londoner fluent in German, and several other languages Matthew had no immediate need of, and Robert Dearheart, a wireless expert, who for obvious reasons preferred to be addressed by his nickname 'Sparks'. The rest of his squad was thirteen of the toughest, roughest, steadiest men Harper could find. Matthew didn't know if this dirty baker's dozen would scare the Germans but they certainly scared him.

Planning for the mission had been meticulous. They had pored over aerial photographs of the target trench. Thanks to the Teutonic need for order they generally knew what to expect but they had to be sure. At the intersection of the north-south trench paralleling their own trench and a connecting trench coming from the German's rear there was a command bunker which had a communications bunker conveniently located right next to it. In the communication bunker there would be both a wireless and a telephone. They had laid out the locations on the ground with tape and practised until the corp de ballet had their roles down pat.

The goal was straight forward: sneak into the command and communication bunkers, steal any code books, maps, orders and such which might be carelessly left unattended and sneak back. Simple enough.

Execution was a tad more complicated. Twelve of the Hard Men were divided into four teams of three each. A team would be posted in each trench, to block any German reinforcements, and the fourth team would man a captured machine gun post to prevent any counterattack over the top. Sgt. Harper was in charge. The last hard man would stay back in the British trench with a well publicized order to shot anyone, enlisted man or officer, who interfered with their retreat.

Marx and Sparks would gather up any books and papers in the communications bunker and any equipment which looked like it might be different from the usual run of equipment. Matthew would scoop up any maps and papers he found in the command bunker. Lt. Silverfish would spend his time seeding the two bunkers and the connecting trenches with various explosive devices. As he liked to say 'he came in like a lamb but he went out with a bang'.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes from the time the first sentry died to the time the last of them climbed out of the German trench. Five minutes to gain control, five minutes to gather their posies and five minutes to get the hell out of there, hell usually breaking loose anywhere from the four to seven minute mark.

They slithered out of their own trench at just after one o'clock in the morning. It would take them two hours to cross the two hundred yards of no man's land. They took their time working across. Silence was paramount. Barbed wire had to be cut; alarms as simple as tin cans with pebbles inside to complicated electrical buzzers had to be disarmed. Land mines were a theoretical possibility but this particular piece of ground had been chewed up so much they were unlikely to be found.

Their goal was to arrive at the German trench at the hour of death, three a.m., the time old men pass away peacefully in their sleep. The German sentries would have been on duty for three hours; they would be cold, hungry and tired. Their replacements would be still sleeping soundly in their bunks, desperate to get a little more rest before going on duty at four a.m. There would be one solitary officer in the command bunker and one wireless operator in the communication bunker. Which was fine with Matthew, the fewer bodies to trip over the better.

This mission was better than most; it did not go pear shaped until minute eight. Matthew was stuffing maps into the duffel bag he carried when he heard a muffled wump to the south. Shots started to ring out. The machine gun on top started up. For maybe three more minutes, five maximum, the Germans would think they were being attacked in general and would seek to defend themselves. When they realized there was no general attack, that it was just a raid, they would counterattack. Matthew looked around, he had ransacked the entire bunker, he could not see any paper he had left. He hoisted the duffel bag on his shoulder, unscrewed the can of paraffin the Germans used for their stove and poured it on the desks and bookcase. He was careful to not get any on the body of the German officer. Just then Harper stuck his head in the door and called out that it was time.

The blocking teams slowly retreated back to the command bunker. Only two men returned from the south. Matthew looked at Harper. Harper held up one finger and then made the throat cutting sign with that hand. One dead thought Matthew.

When they were all back, at least all those who were coming back, Silverfish blew his whistle and they all covered their ears and ducked. Silverfish then set off the first round of explosive surprises he had spent the last ten minutes spreading around. The bang hadn't even quit reverberating nor the dust settled and the squad was over the top and beetling back to their own trench. As they ran Silverfish's second, and then third, round of surprises erupted. They were almost home free before any shots were directed at them, luckily without effect.

The butcher's bill was one dead, one serious injury and three flesh wounds. The dead man, Jackson, cost Matthew ten shillings, Silverfish five, Harper three, Marx and Sparks two each and the men one each. None of the enlisted men had any family to which they would admit, so there was no one for Matthew to write to, no one to grieve them, so the tradition had arisen of a wake the first night of their next leave. Matthew and Silverfish would attend, drink the first toast 'To a quick death' and then leave the men to go at it.

Col. Flashman was quite happy with the night's haul. There was a code book with a purple cover which he had not seen before and there were some scribblings on a map that looked promising. Matthew left him with his booty and headed back to the tent he shared with Silverfish. There were two letters waiting for him, one from Mary and one addressed in writing he did not recognize, postmarked London.

He read the one from Mary first. She thanked him for the cotton nightgown he had sent her for their second wedding anniversary. 'Where had he found it in a war zone?' A fille de joie of Harper's acquaintance had recommended it via Harper; Matthew had not met her directly, he had made an offhand comment to Harper about buying a present for Mary and the next morning Harper had passed on the address of a seamstress who made nightgowns. Tres romantic Harper had leered. 'So beautiful, a perfect fit, made of the best Egyptian long staple cotton and hand embroidered! You must have gone to a great deal of trouble' Mary wrote. Matthew had found the seamstress, who spoke no English, and he only the coarsest French; Matthew had mimed that Mary was so tall, so wide and so busty; the seamstress had rolled her eyes; Matthew had emphasized that it should be tres beau; the seamstress had rolled her eyes again; they had negotiated a price that on reflection was probably too high; and that was that. It took less than five minutes.

The rest of the letter was gossip about Downton Abbey and a short report of her visit with her aunt in London. The Season had been cancelled, they had dined out a few times, saw a few shows, nothing remarkable. 'The song of the day is Keep the Home Fires Burning and I will keep them burning for you. Love Mary' Matthew smiled at that.

He opened the other letter. Read it. Put it down. Rubbed his eyes. Picked it up and read it again. Reread Mary's letter. He sat with his head in his hands. He read the other letter again.

'Dear Captain Crawley:

I think it is a crying shame that while a brave young man is sacrificing his life in the trenches for his King and Country his wife chooses to run around on him. You should know that while you are in France your wife is in London keeping time with Sir Richard Carlisle who owns a chain of newspapers. He is a rich and powerful man who is said to be one of the men behind the rise of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Your wife was seen to partner him at several dinners and then she acted as hostess at a dinner he gave at his mansion. She was sporting a very expensive ruby and diamond necklace he gave her. They apparently rendezvous at a flat he keeps in Mayfair. You should send this hussy packing as soon as you can and marry someone pure who will be true to you.

A Friend'

Matthew fought down the rage rising him. He would give Mary a chance to respond. He owed her that.

He wrote her:

'Darling Mary:

I am so glad you liked the nightgown. I hope to see you it in it someday. But it may be some time before I do, the fighting season is upon us.

I am enclosing a letter I just received. There was no return address on the envelope but it was postmarked London.

If you have taken a lover I do not want any justifications, or rationalizations, or apologies, or promises to never do it again. Just write the word 'goodbye' on a piece of paper and send it. It will be enough; I do not want to know any details.

Know this: I hope it is not true. I hope that it is the calumny of some enemy of yours who is hoping by such libel to injure you. After the war we will hunt her down and deal with her.

I really really want to see you in that nightgown. Then I want to see you out of it.

Love Matthew'

Matthew sealed the letter. Then he went to see Col. Flashman about circumventing the censors; he did not want them reading of his marital troubles.

Saturday, May 22, 1915

Mary read Matthew's letter then the hateful anonymous letter he had forwarded and then his letter again. He still loved her. He just wanted an explanation. She felt like throwing up. This might be the most important letter of her life. Where to start?

The trouble was that just enough of the letter was true to make her look guilty. She had partnered Sir Richard at two dinners. She had co-hosted his dinner. She had worn the ruby and diamond necklace, which he had promised to give to her. He had wanted to rendezvous with her in Mayfair. She felt trapped.

And she had thought she was home free. The night of Sir Richard's dinner, the night Sir Richard had pressed that card with the address in Mayfair into her hand, she had made her decision. She would have nothing to do with him or London High Society. The corruption beneath the shiny facade disgusted her. She had told Anna to pack everything, and then the next day, after Aunt Rosamund had left for her weekly lunch with her cousin, she and Anna had left for the train station. At the hour Sir Richard had appointed for their assignation she was already rocketing north. She half wondered how long he had waited. She was sure he would have had words later with Aunt Rosamund over the absence of her protege.

Aunt Rosamund. Mary scowled at the anonymous letter. No it couldn't be. Not her aunt. She jumped up and headed down the hall to her mother's room.

Her mother kept a file of all the correspondence she received. Mary riffled through it. She found a letter from Rosamund asking, in a round about way for some beef and other provisions. She compared it to the anonymous letter. The handwriting was identical. Mary ground her teeth.

Why? Why would her aunt do such a thing? What on earth had she hoped to accomplish?

What her aunt couldn't do directly she had tried to do indirectly. She had tried everything she could to throw Mary together with Sir Richard. Looking back it was so obvious. But it hadn't worked, Mary had ran away. So she had tried to break Mary and Matthew up with the letter, hoping no doubt that Sir Richard would win Mary on the rebound. But she hadn't realized Matthew would send the letter to Mary. Well Aunt Rosamund you are going to pay vowed Mary. Like Matthew wrote, we are going to hunt you down and make you pay.

"Mary, what are you doing?"

Mary turned around. "I...I" she stammered.

Cora did not like the look on Mary's face, it reminded her of when Mary had been in the hospital. "What's a matter?"

Mary couldn't reply she just sat on her mother's bed and handed her the anonymous letter. Cora read it, frowning as she did so.

"This looks like Rosamund's writing"

"It is" and Mary handed her the letter from Rosamund she had found in her mother's file.

Cora sat down on the bed beside Mary. "Maybe you should tell me what happened."

Mary told her the whole sordid tale.

Cora looked at her daughter with sympathy. "You know, Rosamund never wanted me to marry your father. And now it looks like she doesn't want you married to Matthew."

Mary nodded.

Cora patted her on the knee. "Don't worry we'll take care of that bitch" Cora chuckled at Mary's shocked reaction. "Yes I know words like that, and how to use them. Now let me think about this, in the meantime you had better write Matthew and put out that fire." Mary got up and headed towards the door. Just before she went through Cora called to her "You had better not tell your father or grandmother about this just yet, I'm not sure how they'd react"

But in the meantime she was going to have write and explain everything without making herself appear guilty of something she had not done. She sighed and went back to her room. She sat at her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper.

It took Mary eleven attempts to produce a letter to Matthew. It would be so much easier if he was there in person. She could draw diagrams if she had to do, to show him how her aunt was behind everything. But he wasn't and so all she could do was describe what really happened as best she could without making herself look too culpable. She wasn't totalling satisfied with it but it would have to do, She was going to have to step off the cliff and hope he loved her enough to catch her.

It was five months before Mary heard from Matthew.