Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

HAPPY NEW YEAR :D

Sorry this chapter's taken a little longer to get up, been a bit busy over the Christmas holidays, but it's slightly longer than usual!

Apologies in advance if any factual stuff is wrong, though I've tried to make it accurate :)

Now time to see what Branson's been up to …

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

March 1915

It was cold. Actually, freezing was probably a more appropriate term.

Branson was huddled in a trench around the region of Artois, northern France, where he had been stationed with his regiment to increase the numbers on the line. He had been there just over a month so far, prior to that he had been in London, and then later sent to an army station in central France for a while when they decided where to assign him.

If he never saw another trench or sandbag again, he'd be eternally grateful. He was pretty sure he'd rather be back in England, driving the aristocracy around for the rest of his life, rather than be there for who knew how much longer. His mind drifted back to how he'd ended up sat in a freezing trench in a foreign country.

The division had caught a train and travelled down to London. He'd had a pleasant surprise there when he'd run into William, who'd arrived with his regiment just days after Branson had. He'd accidently let slip he'd been corresponding with Sybil, but William didn't seem shocked, to Branson's relief, and so he ended up going on to tell him all about how she was training to be a nurse. William seemed pleasantly surprised and told him to wish her luck in his next letter. When he'd gotten to Artois he found that William wasn't stationed too far away from him, so they continued to see each other now and again.

When he'd arrived at the line it was nothing like he had expected. In fact, it was eerily quiet, nothing like the constant barrage of gunfire and noise he'd expected, although that had happened more often than not during the weeks he had been there. The funny thing was that the worst thing wasn't the enemy, which he knew were just a stone's throw away over no man's land, but rather the weather. It was always either too cold, or wet enough to flood the trenches with a good few centimetres of water, which soaked through your boots so much so that they were near impossible to dry. The food wasn't much better; he was just glad he hadn't been there as long as some of the other men he had talked to, though he guessed he'd find out just how they felt soon enough.

Branson luckily hadn't had to venture much out of the trenches since he'd arrived, although it didn't stop him constantly wondering if every day would be his last with the constant threat of bombardment looming over everyone all hours of the day. Soon though, like everyone else, he just learnt to deal with it. He got into the routine, but it wasn't long before he heard rumours that there was an operation approaching; one where they'd most likely have to march straight across enemy lines and engage them head on.

To keep his mind occupied and away from this reality, he read, and then reread, his intermittent letters from Sybil. They seemed to keep him grounded, remind him what he had to go back to if- when, he corrected himself- when he got out of there. He'd received her last letter the previous day, their correspondence hadn't been nearly as fast as he would have liked to be, but as he was so far away he had to deal with it. It was a pretty long letter and she'd told him all about how her family had reacted when she'd told them she was to become a nurse. He wasn't completely surprised by Lord Grantham's reaction; of course he'd want to shield his youngest daughter from the horrors of war, but he was glad she'd had the support of Mary and her mother in the matter. It eased his conscience somewhat to know that her family were behind her and they'd left on good terms.

Everyone who was stationed on the front line of trenches was kept busy, so Branson didn't have time to write back until a few days later when he was rotated and put on the second support line. This would be followed by the third reserve trenches, and then base camp for a while, before being sent back to the front again. This was a regular pattern for everyone, and gave the soldiers a period of respite, and also a chance for him to write his reply.

He had a pencil and paper and was currently attempting to write a letter back to her, though so far he'd only managed two words; Dear Sybil, so it was fair to say it wasn't going too well. The problem he had was how much to tell her. He wanted to be honest, but conditions were so bad and the things he'd seen so horrible he couldn't even put it into words. Plus, the authorities would likely censor most of it out anyway, they wouldn't want anyone to know what was really happened over here now would they?

So he began by letting her how he was fine and there was no need to worry, which seemed to be a recurring thing in his letters recently. Sybil did worry too much. The last thought made him smile and he continued the letter by keeping it focused on her; how she was, how the training was going, if she'd treated anyone yet. He also added that he'd talked to William and he had wished her luck; Branson figured she'd be glad to hear he was doing well. He sighed when he finished. He had to admit he hated writing the letters, as every time he did he was just reminded that he was so far away from her and couldn't just talk to her. He missed her smile and her laugh, and the way her brow furrowed when she was debating a certain political issue she was passionate about. You didn't get to see any of that in a letter. He was pulled out of his reverie when someone called his name.

"Hey, Tom!"

His head snapped up and his gaze landed on the soldier who had addressed him; the man was well built with dark, closely cropped hair, his gun slung over his shoulder, looking over at Branson with a grin plastered on his face like he was in on some private joke you weren't privy to.

"What is it Joe?" Branson called back over. He'd known Joe Murphy since training, they'd become friends since their first conversation when they'd discovered they were both Irish and had grown up in towns mere miles apart in Ireland before moving to England.

"You're writing to her aren't ya? You ever gonna let us know who this secret Lady is?"

Branson laughed and stood up, folding the finished letter and putting it into his pocket to send off later. It was a recurring topic of conversation who Branson was writing to, as he refused to tell the other men anything. They even had a pool going as to what her name was, though he was pretty sure none of them had picked the right one yet. "Never you mind. You here for something Murphy?"

Joe's face turned solemn as he headed over to Branson, "We gotta head over to base camp."

Branson picked up his gun and walked up alongside him. "The briefing we've all been waiting for?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"The one and only" Joe replied, "It's about time we get to try and dodge some bullets, I was getting bored in my nice safe trench" he finished, sarcasm lacing his words.

Branson gave short laugh in reply as they, along with a crowd of others, gathered together and were given the briefing. It turned out that the British Army were planning an offensive in Artois. Branson's division would be involved in the attack on a place he'd never heard of before called Neuve Chapelle, where their aim was to capture village itself, and then attempt to disrupt the enemies' communication lines. During the briefing Branson took in every bit of information; he wanted to know fully what he was going into, though he felt the officer was missing out certain details; just telling them all the bare facts of what they needed to know to get the job done.

The day of the advance arrived soon enough. Branson had sent off his letter to Sybil the day before, hoping it wouldn't be his last. There was a deafening silence as the men were lined up in the trenches, waiting for the whistle that would tell them it was time to go over the top. Branson's heart was hammering in his chest waiting for the whir of bullets that would inevitably accompany an advance.

When the whistle sounded everything seemed to go in slow motion. Everyone around him began climbing the small ladders to leave the trenches. Branson closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tightened his grip on his weapon, and climbed up and out into the unknown.