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August 23rd 1917-Ypres, France

The measure of a man's real character
is what he would do if he knew he would never be found out. - T.B. Macaulay

Carrigan had been polluting Darcy's head quarters for a grand total of twenty minutes when the door abruptly slammed open and a white-faced Private came charging into the room. The Private was covered in the mud which seemed part of any uniform around Ypres, but he was further decorated by one sleeve which hung limply, the hand reversed, and dripping blood onto the floor.

"What's the matter?" Darcy was on his feet in a flash and he had caught the Private's good shoulder, even under the mud the man was alarmingly pale.

"Peter..." The Private struggled for breath. "Private Peter James is missing."

"Missing missing or dead missing?"

"Dunno." The Private shook his head and then winced.

"Well damn well find out and fast...then get back to a clearing station." Darcy waved a dismissive hand and dropped back into his seat. "You were saying Carrie?"

"Nothing." Carrigan watched in silence as Darcy picked up a nearby pencil and spun it distractedly between his fingers, it was plainly clear that Darcy's thoughts were far away and he was very unlikely to hear what was said. The headquarters were held by silence, or by as much silence as was ever to be found near the front.

"Sir-r-r." It was fifteen minutes later when another Private appeared.

"Where is Lassing?"

"He went to the first aid post, there was no more he could do." The Private saluted stiffly.

"Well what do you want?" Darcy cast a brief glance at the man and then returned his attention to his pencil.

"Private George Smith, Sir-r-r."

"Continue Private Smith."

"Private James was last seen in the forward fire trench before transferring across to the forward observation post...since then the bloody 'Un raided the post and kilt the Corporal."

"Was Private James alone?" Darcy's brow darkened for a moment.

"No sir-r-r." Private Smith cast a nervous glance at Carrigan, who responded with a shrug. "'E was with Captain McDoull sir-r-r."

"Has Captain McDoull been seen."

"No sir-r-r, we assume the bloody 'Un took both of 'em."

"I see." There was a sharp snap to punctuate the response and the broken pencil fell onto the desktop. "I see." The tremor was audible in Darcy's voice as he rose to his feet and Private Smith's expression was plainly disgusted as he eyed the trembling hand which rested on the desktop.

"Sir." Carrigan rose hesitantly to his feet.

"No Carrie." Darcy shook his head, dug into his pack and withdrew a small leather cloth bag. "Smith, I'm going out for a bit, tell Brigadier MacNiell he is in charge until I return...Carrie, make sure he does it." Darcy's voice was barely audible or intelligible as he spoke.

"But sir." Carrigan started forward, alarm clearly written on his face, but he wasn't quick enough for Darcy had already ducked from the room and vanished into the gloom. "I hope to God nobody sees him." Carrigan shook his head ruefully.

"Sir-r-r?" Smith looked perplexed.

"Don't worry younker."

"I ain't worried, I'm just wonderin' what you're talkin' about? The General ain't likely to run a risk...not with his 'ands shaking like that."

"And where precisely do you think the General has gone?" Carrigan looked queerly at Smith.

"I'm guessing out the back to be sick." Smith wrinkled up a sick look.

"I doubt you could get any more incorrect if you tried." Carrie gave a grunt. "Where's this Brigadier MacNiell?"

"Should be here in about five minutes." Smith shrugged. "You think the General has gone somewhere else?"

"Private, I've had him as a superior officer for close on three years now, provided you ignore when he's been out sick, I'm willing to bet that the General is headed straight for the nearest entrance to the German lines."

"You think he'll come back?...Is that why you were hoping that no one will see him?"

"One may pray for the ungodly as well. I have no doubts that the General will be fine...it is for the health of the viewer that I hope no man sees the Major." Carrigan responded flatly.

"Why so certain?" Smith frowned doubtfully.

"Private...have you ever heard of a beserker? A man who will keep going until quite literally his heart stops beating?" Carrigan stared coldly at Smith.

"No sir-r-r."

"Then you should read your Scotch history more, for you've got plenty of berserkers at many points in history."

"But what has a beserker got to do with the General, he was shaking like Blancmange."

"The Major was not shaking like blancmange, he was shaking from the sheer physical force he was exerting to keep from murdering us and anyone else he saw. There may well be very bloody work done in the Hun trenches tonight, but you may rest assured that Private Smith and Captain McDoull are either already dead or they will be back with us tomorrow morning...The General knows how to protect his own."

"Right, get moving the pair of you." The Sergeant's guttural tones were sullen as he hastily shoved the two men through the gap in the wire. The dawn light was still only to be seen by the most imaginative as Captain McDoull and Private James hastily wormed back into the trench they had been in a mere five hours earlier.

"Bloody queer." McDoull scratched his head as they sank into the familiar mud.

"Not queer." Peter shook his head family as he took yet another glance back over his shoulder.

"Stop looking over your shoulder like that...anyone would think you expected us to be followed." McDoull snapped irritably.

"I do expect us to be followed." Peter curled up on the ledge of the trench and hugged his knees, a move which caused him to squelch and water and mud oozed from his uniform.

"Why?" McDoull snapped shortly.

"We were left sir, the 'Un does not just leave prisoners to walk back across the lines...and they certainly don't provide an escort so we don't get lost in the lines."

"More likely provided us with an escort so we didn't see to much." McDoull snapped irritably. "Next you'll probably say it was the weak-kneed General we've been dumped with who saw to our relief. Bloody tyke, he won't even let us form a proper assault, no we've just got to mince our way cautiously forward, an inch at a time so the bloody 'Un can kick us out the minute we arrive."

"I would..." Peter abruptly stopped, a large hand seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and now Captain McDoull was a foot off the ground and very rapidly turning blue.

"Remember in future Lieutenant the bad-mouthing superiors is a very unwise move." The hand abruptly released its grip and McDoull collapsed onto the floor of the trench, gasping awkwardly. "You may expect to hear more of this matter...of that I will promise you."

"Sir." Peter had uncurled.

"Get back to Headquarters, tell Carrie I'll see him next time I'm back...unless I can transfer back again first...provided he hasn't already left. Likewise tell Brigadier MacNiell I've finished and he may now return to his command. Likewise inform the next stretcher bearer that I'll want to speak to the next stretcher forward."

"Yes sir." Peter was gone in a flash, leaving Darcy to turn to where McDoull was painfully climbing back to his feet again.

"Care to repeat your remarks Lieutenant?"

"No sir." McDoull straightened with an agonised wheeze.

"Good, then I have a couple of questions to ask...?" Darcy paused and blinked up at the sky. "On second thoughts I think we'll return to H.Q. before I bring up the questions." The fifteen minutes taken to return to headquarters passed in silence between the two Officers, though Darcy stopped more than once to confer with other soldiers on the way. The Headquarters were empty, except for Peter who was hovering hesitantly near the door. "Sleep Peter, I won't need you before noon...and if I do I'll come wake you up."

"You said you had some questions to ask me, Sir-r-r." McDoull was fairly hopping with nervousness.

"Why were you at the forward observation post?"

"Part of my round, I had to check that they were up there and all was well."

"I see." Darcy tapped a thoughtful pencil against the table for a minute.

"Well you can't always entrust such activities to the Privates, the 'Uns have been bloody restless of late and I didn't want them falling asleep up there." McDoull abruptly burst out, his tone angry and defensive.

"I did not realise I had made any observation at all." Darcy gave a faintly surprised look. "I believe you were taken prisoner in the raid which followed?"

"Yes sir."

"How many prisoners did they take?"

"Three, but Corporal Hamilton tried to escape and got shot."

"Before or after you left the position?"

"After, Corporal Kinloch was killed in their initial arrival."

"I see." Darcy paused again and the pencil started its rhythmic tapping once more. "Why was Private James with you?"

"I asked him to come."

"Why?"

"An extra pair of eyes helps when crossing to the position."

"Why not one of your own Privates?" Darcy finally looked up at the uncomfortable Captain.

"Because I was talking to Private James when I decided to go."

"How many times do I need to re-enforce my statement that my runners are not to be used as extra eyes. My runners are here for the sole duty of running between you and me and the other officers whom I wish to speak to, they are not to be used when you have one hundred other Privates wholly at your service who's duty it is to keep your damned hide safe."

"Well how was I to know they were going to raid?"

"You didn't know, but you displayed criminal negligence to a high standard." Darcy abruptly rose to his feet. "There is only one person who knows as much as I do about our current placement here, the placement of the guns behind us and certain other issues such as our intelligence links...and it is bloody asses like you who risk letting the Germans get sufficient information to eject us from here and send us racing back to Paris like a cat on hot bricks. I will say it one more time to you, and I hope you will make it clear to your fellow officers. My runners are not to be given orders from anyone but me...unless the order is to return straight back to where I am. You can treat your own runners as you like, but I will beat the bloody hell out of the next officer who wantonly risks the life and well being of not only one of my runners, but also the well being of this Division. You may wish the joy of being blown out of the position, but I sure as hell am not interested. Not get out of here and I want a coherent report of all details before 0900 hours, and I'll be checking it against Peter's report so don't even consider fudging it in hopes of getting yourself out of this soup."

"Yes sir." McDoull practically fled as he left the room and Darcy sank back into his chair and was soon utterly engrossed in the question of when the relief was to arrive and how they were going to arrive.

"Sir-r-r." It was three hours later when Darcy was disturbed once more.

"Yes?" Darcy glanced up briefly, a brief glance was all that was required to recognise Colonel Jamieson.

"What did you say to McDoull."

"What is that to you?" Darcy spun his pencil indifferently.

"Quite a bit, I don't like it when my company officer's threaten to resign their commissions."

"Tell McDoull from me that if he does it will be the stupidest thing he has ever done and I'll personally take it out on his worthless hide...you may also tell him to rest assured he will not be demoted and that unless he gets out of line he'll hopefully never see me again in his life...take confidence in that yourself Colonel Jamieson." Darcy's tone became sardonic as he added the latter and Jamieson flushed darkly.

"That was uncalled for sir-r-r."

"That was bloody well called for, I doubt you can have an idea how bad it is managing a division of Scots when you yourself have to trace back five generations to find a scotch ancestor...I can tell you it becomes one hell of a sight worse when you have you Company, Battalion and even Brigade Officers doing bugger all to have the ranks below them behave even vaguely respectful."

"That is not my fault." Jamieson's tone became stiff.

"Then why in hell are you a Regimental Officer?" Darcy glanced up at Jamieson who flushed once more.

"I see, if I may be excused?"

"Be gone and do it fast before I say something I really regret." The hand that waved Jamieson out was very dismissive indeed.

"What has bitten him?" Jamieson looked enquiringly at Peter who was lounging sleepily next to the door.

"What bit him is the sheer incivility and ungraciousness of this entire Division. He's been with you for several weeks and the lot of you must admit that you've had the lowest casualty level, though you have not had an equal reduction in attacks, and even though this occurs he is still badmouthed by one and all because he won't let you charge to a bloody death and a lot of disgrace. Who gives a damn if he has little to zero of your precious scotch blood in his veins, at least have the decency to admit that he is a bloody good General."

"But why this sudden boil over?"

"The sudden boil over is because four hours ago I was in German hands thanks to that eminently stupid Captain whom you considered defending."

"How come you're not now?"

"I'm not over there now courtesy of a small silver-mounted pistol, a punishing left and someone who is very scientific when it comes to strangling people...Captain McDoull can probably back that story up because he was over there with me." Peter gave a shrug. "The General couldn't give a damn what you think of him personally, but he does give a damn when you violate the rules...the strongest of which is that Officers do not give orders to the General's runners, merely messages."

"You are remarkably opinionated for a Private." Jamieson looked coldly at Peter.

"And it is precisely for that reason why he is my chief runner." Darcy's voice caught both men by surprise. "Peter, find out where Captain McDoull is and what has happened to that report I asked for...Jamieson, I suspect there is a Regiment which requires your attention...Carrie I said I'd see you when I got back." Darcy turned sharply as he spoke and it took Jamieson a puzzled minute before he found the arrogant and eminently Oxford Officer standing a short way away.

"Greetings Major...no I just came up because Hazy has raised a few questions concerning us."

"Questions such as?"

"Question such as your Colonel over there does not like me."

"Are you surprised?" Darcy led the way to behind the hut. "You are walking Oxford dear boy and he is a Scot...and a very arrogant one though he will never admit it."

"And you aren't?"

"No, I'm an arrogant Englishman which he considers even worse."

"How pleasant for you...Miles said you might want to drop in on the Casualty Clearing Station where Mayhew went, seems Sister Bennet is to be found there."

"Is she?" Darcy's tone was indifferent.

"Yes, and apparently she is not happy about your being up here...Ashie spilt the beans to her it seems and Miles got it out of a fellow sister when he felt charming."

"You are a bloody unscrupulous nuisance and Miles is even worse...Bugger off."

"Yes sir." Carrigan nodded with a grin and started walking away.

"And don't forget to reassure Miles that my health is none of his concern so he can damn well stop sending you out here to check that I'm still alive."

"It is very much his concern because the lot of us are hoping we'll get you as a permanent replacement."

"I always knew Miles was a shameless climber. Bugger off Carrie and don't you dare come near me or Peter until I ask for you." Darcy turned and returned to his headquarters, once more turning his attention to how to make the relief change over smooth.

Author's Note: The giving to any person of a white feather during WW1 was an insult of the first magnitude, it was a way of telling the person you considered them a coward and not worth the air that surrounded them.

August 24th 1917-Shereforth, England

I wanted to forget, but to forget I had to lie...now I know forgetting is not the option.

Ashie settled back into the comfortably large armchair and blinked across the room before emitting a wide yawn.

"This indeed is the life."

"Well it is nice to use soap again, but the beds are as hard as rock." Florrie sniffed, then glared as Pyro made an unprecedented move in their chess game.

"Wet sock." Pyro pounced on the piece he had just captured.

"That move was not legal." Florrie howled in protest. "Ashie tell him that move is illegal."

"Who ever called Pyro legal?"

"Ashie, please don't say that." Pyro glanced up from the chessboard. "Just tell him to see rule 138b of the rule book."

"And that rule is?" Ashie lifted an eyebrow. The last he had heard of that rule book it had only had 138 rules inside it.

"When playing chess with Pyro any move is legal unless it makes him start to lose."

"Ahh, I had forgotten." Ashie had just responded when the sound of a loud bang made them all jump. "Sounds like our fellow guests have arrived."

"Doesn't it just...damn it I hope they don't come in here." Pyro frowned back down at the chessboard, Florrie had moved while he had been looking away and Pyro couldn't actually see what move had been made.

"Good evening." Their fellow guests came into the room with another clatter and another slammed door.

"Good evening." Florrie gave a brief nod, then proceeded to glare at the chessboard. Pyro currently had four queens to Florrie's three and Florrie needed to find a way of evening up the odds fast.

"Suicide my friend." Pyro recovered from his fit of coughing and suddenly pushed his king into the middle of the board.

"Good-oh. I'll beat you yet my fine friend." Florrie ignored the King and snagged a wayward bishop.

"James."

"What?" Ashie, Florrie and Pyro all looked up in response.

"I wondered whether it would work." Their host had wandered into the room. "Permit me to introduce Godfrey Smirth, Josiah Vavasor Bott, Eileen Madden, Clair Savage, Harold Cronting, William Hazel and Robert Corthin."

"Feel free to introduce them, but now permit us to ignore them." Ashie returned his attention to the lexicon by his side and stifled another yawn.

"I am a civil servant. What about you?"

"Lotus eater." Ashie yawned again. "Nothing like it, give me a bit of sunlight and there is nothing I like to do more then to lie back and eat some lotus. You wouldn't have any lotus would you?" Ashie looked hopefully across at their host.

"I'm afraid not Ashington."

"Good-oh. Keep it that way." Ashie gave a grin in response to Smirth's arrogant look.

"Why aren't you in the army?" Smirth looked down his nose at the man.

"Too uncomfortable, imagine crouching down in a dirty trench." Ashie sniffed again and returned his attention to the book he had been attempting to read.

"I would have enlisted had they let me."

"But civil servants aren't allowed to are they." Ashie nodded gravely. "You a civil servant as well?" Ashie looked curiously across at Bott.

"No, but I have a bad heart."

"That's a pity." Ashie suddenly came out of his chair. "My coat ironed?"

"I believe so. But why do you want your pyjamas ironed?" Sir John Woodston lifted a curious eyebrow.

"Makes them look much nicer." Ashie calmly left the room, Florrie was bound to report later on what was said.

It was nearly a week later when Ashie hurled the book across the room in disgust, and as with any self-respecting book it objected to such treatment and released a few annoyed pages.

"I have been trying to read that book for an entire week now and have yet to get past the first line."

"I never thought the first line could be that riveting, here, let me see." Pyro snagged the book, and having glanced at the first page hurled it back at Ashie. "You shouldn't read Greek if you want to get past the first line, devilish bad for the constitution."

"I'll say, mental strain and all that. Sure you weren't out in the sun too long the other day old son." Florrie was shoving one of Pyro's extra Queens into his pocket.

"Oh shut up Florrie." Ashie retrieved the book from the corner where it had landed and eyed the mangled spine in a depressed manner. "I really do hope that this was not an important book to Sir John." Ashie gave the book a gentle shake. "Because there is singularly little left intact."

"I think that is the version you brought with you Ashie, I seem to remember you left Sir John's upstairs."

"Oh, in THAT case..." Ashie pitched the book back into the corner and sat down again. "Damnably tedious work."

"Try Shakespeare." Pyro was rapidly setting up the chess table again.

"No thanks, a damnable bore when I'm in this frame of mind."

"French Revolution books?"

"No thanks, to much blood shed."

"Life and Times of the Earl of Deraux?"

"Boring as hell, I'm all too well acquainted with him already. Maybe I'll return to the Greeks, at least they were boring for a reason."

"What reason?" Pyro glanced up from his consideration of Florrie's move.

"The fact that I can't make head or tale of it. Now do shut up and get on with that game. I think we can officially call our leave as over come tomorrow."

"Well I'm delighted to hear that." Sir John had come into the room on the tale end of the conversation. "Is that my book in the corner?"

"No, Florrie's of the opinion that it is my copy of the same book, if it is your book however I will most willingly bestow the version which is upstairs on you."

"No thanks." Sir John turned and left again and twenty minutes later there came the familiar bang of the front door which signalled the return of the hunters. With a grimace Ashie retrieved the much-mangled book, only just managing to regain his chair as the library door opened.

"Ahhh, it would appear that our fellow guests are, as ever, proceeding with high industry." Smirth's smooth voice carried easily through the room.

"I quite agree." Ashie blinked as he looked up from his book. "Why I've read three lines since this morning."

"Hey, you said only a minute ago that you hadn't managed to get past the first line." Pyro turned his attention away from the chess board.

"Accidents do happen, and another one just did. I'd count your pieces before you move again."

"Florrie you crook." Pyro didn't even glance at the board, he already knew that his white bishop, a rook, three pawns and his queen were missing.

"Not at all." Florrie seemed to bristle. "The pair of you, maligning my spotless reputation. I ask you, is that fair?"

"Yes! Very! Now where are my bishop, my rook, my three pawns and my queen?"

"One the floor where you knocked them."

"Garbage." Pyro retrieved the wayward pieces. "They were on the wrong side of the table for me to have knocked them off."

"Prove it."

"Oh be quiet." With great accuracy Ashie threw the book again, it struck the chess tableside on and sent the pieces flying. However this last journey and collision proved too much for the maltreated bundle of literature and the book dissolved into flying sheets of paper.

"How impressive." Bott's tone was sneering.

"Well if it isn't the bravest men in all England...I hope your afternoon has been enjoyable?" Eileen Madden's remark drew a titter of laughter from the rest of the party.

"Eileen." Smirth's tone reproved coolly. "There is no need to be like that about the matter." There was a slight pause. "You need not heed my friend, she is annoyed after a bad day's hunting."

"Oh." Ashie gave a wise nod. "I quite agree, there is nothing quite like a bad day's hunting."

"Hunting cole perhaps?" A soft titter ran around the room at this sally from Eileen.

"Quite. A most frustrating material." Ashie sent a warning look at the others and was relieved to see them subside. "Why I spent a full hour this afternoon trying to catch the one that ran away. Look at what it did to my sleeve?" Ashie held up his sleeve for inspection, having just noticed the black mark on it and not having the faintest idea what might have caused it.

"How terrible." The sigh from somewhere in the group was met with another titter.

"I quite agree it took me over an hour to recover from it." Ashie looked offended as Pyro was suddenly overtaken by an attack of coughing.

"Oh there you are Ashie." Sir John's arrival broke the air in the room, an air which had been becoming increasingly hostile around Florrie.

"You wanted me?" Ashie twisted his head around but did not move otherwise.

"Well yes...the maid seemed to think you'd want this...she found it in the hall." Sir John dropped the object into Ashie's hand, it glinted briefly in the light ad then Ashie's hand closed over it and he pushed it into his pocket.

"Thank the maid from me." Ashie gave a nod and then another yawn as Sir John left the room again. "Pyro, do you have your sewing kit handy? I seem to have lost another button."

"I'll do it later." Pyro gave a nod and then removed one of Florrie's Queens from the board. "Was the button ever sewn on?"

"No..." What ever else Ashie might have said was prevented by Florrie's interruption.

"Hey!" Florrie frowned at the board. "How did you do that?"

"Double left, king queen switch."

"That's not legal." Florrie frowned to back up his protest.

"See rule 187B, everything is legal unless it makes Pyro lose." Ashie gave another yawn.

"You seem fatigued Mr. Ashington." It was Clair Savage who spoke now.

"I'm invariably fatigued." Once more Ashie failed to smother the yawn.

"We heard you were going to leave us tomorrow?" Clair looked despondent.

"Such had been our intention...my tailors demands are pressing."

"You are in financial difficulties?" Smirth looked politely interested.

"No, my tailors pressing demands are because my dinner jacket is becoming old fashioned...the buttons are too small."

"Oh I see." Eileen gave a titter as she stepped up behind Clair. "We thought since you were leaving that we had best get you a present each..."

"But we could only find one which seemed suitable." Clare took up where Eileen stopped.

"And since you are the most superior we thought it best to give it..." Eileen preceded once more.

"..to you." Once more Clare took up the rest of the sentence and as she spoke she brought her hand from behind her back and dropped the 'present' into Ashie's lap. The move brought some laughs and a bravo or two from the rest of the group, and the two girls retreated back to talk to Smirth. The 'present' also produced a loud crash from the chess table, which had fallen over.

"Most impressive." Ashie picked up the feather and held it up to the light, its whiteness was pure and unblemished, an admirable feather by any standards. "What do you think Pyro?" Ashie cast a glance across to where Pyro and Florrie stood, and though it did not show in his face he was not comforted at all by the white-knuckled grip Pyro had on Florrie's shoulder.

"Lacking...in my opinion it lacks. The feather you received in March had the magical iridescence, that one just is."

"True, but I still think it a good feather for all its lack of iridescence." Ashie watched as Pyro's grip slowly relaxed.

"The feather of March was a beauty." Florrie's tone was reminiscent.

"I'll say." Sir John came into the room as he spoke. "You boys better change, we have visitors for supper."

"No! You must be joking!" Ashie protested loudly as he rose. "I told you we should have left yesterday."

"True." Pyro folded the chessboard up on itself. "I take it we can't just leave by a window?"

"I'm afraid not boys." Sir John was chuckling softly, pausing only to speak.

"I'm sure it is not necessary for them to attend." Smirth spoke softly.

"I'm afraid so Mr. Smirth. The guests have in fact left specific instructions that they were to be present."

"Well, then pray, let us not delay them in their changing, it would be tragic if they could not change in time."

"You are most kind Mr. Smirth. Is this a REALLY formal affair Sir John? and plural?" Ashie was rubbing his chin as he spoke.

"I'm afraid so, it is formal, and he is bringing a guest himself. Earl of Clarrington, you may have met him."

"Then you didn't give us enough time, I haven't had my socks ironed yet. I'm sunk if Clarrie catches me with unironed socks." Ashie left the room protesting volubly about the shocking state of his formal evening attire, but he took the stairs on the run and was soon ripping his uniform out from his pack, it was a crinkled mess, and with a grimace Ashie left his room and headed for the servants quarters. Less than three minutes later he returned armed with an iron and a portable heating pan, he found Florrie and Pyro waiting in his room.

"What is it Ashie?" Pyro paused by the door.

"You heard Sir John, it's full formal, in other words pin every little lump of tin ever bestowed on you onto your uniform...Complete with the Cad's insignia...and don't forget your dressing gowns." The latter was called after their retreating backs.

"Why our dressing gowns?" Pyro came back for the iron.

"You can hardly expect me to sit around with all this in full sight a second longer then expected can you?" Ashie handed over the iron and heater and pulled off his dressing gown, he lost a second to inspect the mark on the sleeve, then with a chuckle he proceeded to strip off the badly stained pajama top he was wearing underneath.

"What was it?" Pyro stopped at the chuckle.

"Grease." The response came from somewhere inside the confines of Ashie's shirt.

"They must be blind." Pyro left and Ashie finished changing, then with a sigh he approached the more formidable task, the task of getting all his battle buttons, bravery awards and flying crosses pinned on in straight lines and in the right order.

"Where's the iron?" Florrie came into the room and was greeted with an annoyed howl as Ashie drove a pin into himself.

"Pyro has it." Ashie shoved his thumb into his mouth to save his uniform from blood and frowned in annoyance at the frustrating little lump of metal.

"Okay." Florrie grabbed the cross from Ashie and swiftly inserted it and all the others. "And you better stop that thumb bleeding as you're required to do mine as well, I won't have Pyro digging holes in me again."

"It certainly saves the dry cleaning bill." Ashie ran the rag over his boots and sighed at the lack of luster before pulling them on. Then, pausing to don his dressing gown, Ashie left the room, the resplendence of his uniform and miniatures concealed by the garish dressing gown. Ten minutes later the trio trooped down the stairs again and resumed their former positions in the library, it was with relief that Ashie noticed that Smirth and his companions were not to be seen.

"Ashie." Pyro's call had Ashie's head out of the book he was pretending to read, while in reality he was almost asleep behind it.

"What?...Florrie your trousers are showing."

"Have you seen today's paper? I forgot to check it." As Pyro spoke Florrie corrected his dressing gown in bemusement.

"Coming across." With a deft chuck Ashie sent the folded paper spinning across. Pyro caught it, checked his own dressing gown, then settled back to scan its columns. Pyro spent precisely one quarter of a second on the main pages, or exactly as long as it took him to flick past them, and settled down to a close inspection of the classified adds. A small section in itself, the classifieds invariably supplied interesting reading, and in Pyro's case it was more then slightly interesting and it was with a frown that he skimmed through the passages. A lady wished to sell a mink coat, and the price in asking drew a soft whistle from Pyro.

"What's up? That old bag still trying to sell a mink coat?"

"You might say that Ashie." Pyro continued his scan. There was an offer of three puppies and an elderly cat, there was a hamster for sale, someone wished to sell a hamster? and so the list continued, lace curtains, books, pets, a crystal ball, then Pyro finally found what he was hoping, and expecting, to find and with a sigh he threw the paper at the door.

"That was an error I think." Ashie watched gravely as Smirth detangled himself from the newspaper.

"Perhaps, but the error was his, not mine." Pyro returned to his game of chess.

"I say, where did you get that coat from?" Ashie was looking interestedly across at Bott, who visibly puffed his chest out.

"London."

"Oh I say, it is snazzy. What say?"

"Not bad." Pyro eyed the coat critically. "But the iron wasn't hot enough."

"Suicide!" Florrie changed the game with a yell and Pyro gave a howl.

"No way, you can't change when the pieces are like that."

"Just you watch me." With a grin Florrie snagged Pyro's queen.

"Classifieds at all interesting Pyro?"

"Well Lady Harnett is selling a goldfish and an elderly gentleman has a budgerigar to sell."

"A budgerigar? What in ruddy earth is a budgerigar?" Florrie was looking back and forth between Ashie and Pyro.

"Australian bird, friendly enough usually, and quite talkative. Maybe we should buy it for Florrie here?"

"No thanks, my bus is enough to handle, I don't need a bird as well."

"True." Pyro was shaking in his efforts not to laugh.

"Who knows..."

"Which reminds me." Pyro frowned. "How do you know what a ruddy budgerigar is, I certainly don't."

"I was informed by a friend." Ashie settled back abruptly into his book.

"A frie...Oh." Florrie suddenly flushed slightly and became thoroughly engrossed with the chess board.

"Exactly." Ashie's tone was dry in the extreme.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Bott was bewildered.

"Ruddy budgerigars, that's wot we was ruddy talkin' abou' so get yer ruddy nose outta it." Pyro growled in annoyance from his concentration on the chess board.

"It is not a ruddy nose...more of a pale, pasty-white I'd say." Ashie came back into it as abruptly as he had left it and as the meaning of Ashie's remark sank in Bott's choler rose and it was in anger that he rushed forward.

"Yeah I think it's ruddy now Ashie." Pyro simply extended a foot as Bott passed and was relieved to see Bott go flying into the fender.

"You're probably right." Ashie returned his attention to his book.

"Is Jim in here?" A rough head of dark hair inserted itself into the room, followed by a rather ragged personage.

"Yeah, he's over here."

"Good." With out any really apparent movement the man was standing beside Ashie and Pyro, deep in conversation with the latter.

"Hey!" Bott gave the yell as he extricated himself from the fender.

"Horses eat it." Ashie didn't even glance up.

"What's he doing here?" Bott jabbed a finger at Chris, who didn't even glance up from his conversation with Pyro, which seemed to be full of wherefroms and whatfors.

"Standing I'd say." Ashie was rubbing the sleeve of his dressing gown.

"That's bloomin' Flash Harris."

"You may choose to so rashly display your decidedly plebian upbringing, but please refrain from calling out names of those who are probably you former associates." It was a chilly pair of brown eyes which finally turned around, and Bott recoiled two steps, but jutted out his jaw in determination.

"I'm referring to you, you bloody forger."

"Are you insulting me?" Ice crackled on ever letter and fractured across the syllables.

"Josiah, restrain yourself." Smirth growled in annoyance as he dragged Bott from the room.

"What a kindly friend." Chris turned back to his conversation with Pyro.

"Quite." Ashie was rummaged around for a few moments, and then briefly beckoned to Florrie before leaving the room.

"Well since they've left, how about you directing me to a dinner suit Jim?" Chris had been watching proceedings with faint amusement.

"I'll lead you to it." Pyro lead the way upstairs and having dug the dinner suit in question out of his luggage and given it a quick ironing, Pyro left his brother in peace and strolled across the hall to join Ashie and Florrie.

"You seen Clarrington?" Sir John came into the room.

"Who?" Three blank faces looked up, then Pyro gave a chuckle. "He's probably still changing in my room."

"Thank you...And you boys better get back downstairs again, I'm expecting the warden any minute."

"Very well Sir John." Ashie rolled off his bed and the three men trooped out of the room and descended once again to the Library.

"Mr. Ashington." It was Bott's ominous tone which stopped the three men at the foot of the stairs. Pyro was turning to see what was going on when a nearly blood curdling yell sounded followed immediately by a dull crunch, the sound made when a fist connects firmly with a jaw.

"Ashie!" Pyro spun with the lamp, but it was Bott who was lying prone on the floor, Ashie was holding the banister white knuckled and pale as a sheet. "Get him upstairs Florrie."

"What the...!" The ejaculation came from Smirth as he came charging into the hall, Florrie had hustled Ashie upstairs at lightening speed.

"Who yelled?" Sir John came from a nearby room.

"I couldn't say." Pyro paused and readjusted his dressing gown. "Bott there called Ashie's name, there was a holler, a blow and then I saw Bott lying on the floor. But whether he was hit, or he fell over I don't know."

"Doesn't sound like Ashie to hit someone." Sir John helped Smirth carry the still unconscious Bott into the library.

"It sounds very like Ashie to hit if someone hits first."

"But you only heard one blow."

"Which makes me think that he slipped." Pyro paused, then turning he climbed the stairs.

"What happened Jim?" Chris stopped his brother in the upper hallway.

"I don't actually know, but I assume Bott either slipped or seriously annoyed Ashie."

"A rather large opponent for Ashie to have taken on." Chris frowned, then abruptly shifted his shoulders. "I formally announce that I haven't worn this jacket for far too long."

"Which is why I say seriously annoyed." Pyro paused. "Where'd they go?"

"Well they went into Ashie's room, but Florrie came out again almost immediately."

"I wouldn't go in." Florrie appeared from his room. "Whatever happened knocked him for six and he's being somewhat rude."

"Will he make dinner?"

"Seems to think he will given some peace."

"Well, shall we retreat to chess again?" Pyro lifted a brow.

"I brought the board up."

"Good-oh, come Chris, let's massacre this upstart."

"Hah! You just need all the help you can get."

"Yes." Ashie rolled over and sat up as he responded to the knock.

"I'm sorry to disturb you Mr. Ashington." Eileen came into the room somewhat nervously.

"What do you want?" Ashie's question didn't even attempt courtesy.

"I...I just wanted to see if you were okay. Your friend with the strange name seemed somewhat concerned about your health."

"Which friend, they both have peculiar names."

"The one...Pyro I think you call him."

"Red hair?"

"Well...yes."

"Then it is Pyro."

"Who are you?"

"I thought you knew who I was, you seem to have no difficulty in naming me."

"Well...Smirth calls you a layabout."

"And Mr. Smirth is correct."

"But you just hit Bott."

"So, I'm a vengeful layabout, what's new?"

"That doesn't make sense."

"Did I ever say it did?" Ashie looked up at the girl, his discourtesy finally giving away to his usual blank civility.

"Well I still don't repent that feather." Eileen lifted her chin stubbornly.

"What? This one?" Ashie lifted the white feather from beside his bed. "I wouldn't even consider asking for an apology."

"Would you come hunting with us tomorrow?"

"No thanks...I hate guns." Ashie restored the feather to its former position.

"So you really are just a layabout."

"What made you think I might not be?" Ashie looked faintly startled at this.

"Nothing...I...No, you just don't really look as...well as floppy as most of the layabouts I've seen."

"You profess to be an expert on our class?"

"No...just..." Eileen stopped and looked nervously over her shoulder as the door swung softly open.

"Evening Miss." Magnificently dressed in a dinner suit Christopher Angel would not have looked out of place had he suddenly appeared at a Formal Dinner at Buckingham Palace.

"Clarrie my friend." Ashie rose from his bed.

"I see that you have survived...I was positive you must have creased your tie." Chris stepped aside so Eileen could pass from the room. "What did she want?" The query was made in a very low undertone.

"Just to check I was alright, that brother of yours is too talkative by far." Ashie settled back onto the bed.

"What happened?" Chris continued to lounge by the door.

"That silly ass clapped me on the back...so I laid him out."

"What's on your back?" Chris' brows creased ever so faintly.

"Several lumps of shell, and even more places where shell used to be...or that's what is there which is relevant."

"Ahh...well I guess that's a good enough reason. Unfortunately we must be descending for the warden will arrive shortly."

"Blast." Ashie abruptly emptied the glass which sat on his bedside table then calmly followed Chris to the top of the stairs. "Do watch my back for I will certainly lay out anyone who touches it."

"Bad weather for old wounds?"

"You're telling me nothing." Ashie indicated that Chris was to precede him into the library where they knew everyone would be waiting.

"Chris could tell you anything ever?" Pyro came up behind them.

"Probably not Jim." Chris went into the room and the three others promptly followed him, only to see him promptly leave again.

"Ahh, they return." Smirth was leaning against the mantle piece when they entered the room.

"Did you expect us not to?" Ashie blinked in surprise. "I do appologise for disappointing you." Ashie resumed his seat by the fire while Florrie and Pyro resumed their never-ending chess game.

"Rule 140, Ashington rarely means what he says." Pyro gave a crow of delight as he snagged another of Florrie's Queens.

"Rule 140b, Angel is nothing like his name." Ashie frowned at the book he held, then looked up as Chris came back into the room. "Clarrie my dear friend, you polish up delightfully." Ashie shot out of his chair and extended a mitt.

"Such a compliment from you Ashington." Chris shook the hand with a faint smile. "Your socks are creased."

"No they are not, look..." Ashie seemed on the verge of pulling off his boots to prove his point when Pyro interfered.

"Greetings to you Clarrington, a good journey?"

"Very. I observe that you did not receive the budgerigar." Chris frowned slightly at the other men in the room and glanced inquiringly at the ladies. "Please Ashington, the honours."

"No, I merely saw a budgerigar for sale in the paper. Surely your uncle isn't trying to sell it again?"

"Indeed he is. Ashington, your manners."

"Foul aren't they." Ashie strolled forward and waved a fairly aimless hand. "Godfrey Smirth, Civil Service, Josiah Vavasor Bott, bad heart, sore jaw and a lawyer, Eileen Madden, Clair Savage, Harold Cronting, William Hazel and Robert Corthin." Ashie waved a hand at Chris. "The Earl of Clarrington...be sure your socks are ironed or he will tell you what is wrong with them." Ashie returned to his seat.

"Ashie." Florrie whispered softly.

"Mmm?" Ashie glanced up from his book.

"What's going on here?"

"Some people are on the verge of getting very embarrassed." Ashie gave a tiny nod of his head in the direction of Smirth and Bott. "They have drawn their conclusions and I somehow doubt they will be happy when they are upset. I wish the Warden didn't know we were here, I'd much prefer to skip this meal."

"Join the club...sure your socks aren't so bad that you just can't show your face at dinner?"

"No, but yours probably are." Ashie ducked Florrie's swing with a grin, a grin which almost immediately died as the butler entered.

"The Warden is here Sir John."

"Show him in Lefroy." Sir John responded with complete calm as if gymnastics in his library were a regular state of affairs. The gymnastics were provided by Ashie, Pyro and Florrie divesting their dressing gowns and concealing them before returning to their previous seats.

"Mr. William Cherner." The butler held the door open until the warden had entered then discreetly retired.

"Evening Sir John...I see you gave them sufficient warning. Evening James, bit of a curse to see you still alive."

"Isn't it just...and even worse that you're alive, sir." Ashie shook the proffered hand, then stepped back and let Sir John introduce everyone else. Ashie was very tempted to laugh at the dropped jaw of the other occupants of the room.

"Oh James, before I forget again. What was the feather business I walked in on this afternoon?" Sir John looked curiously back, having already ushered Smirth, Bott and their friends from the room.

"Oh nothing." Ashie tried to shrug the matter off, but Florrie wasn't having a bar of it.

"Nothing! The blighters gave Ashie here a white feathe..." Florrie got no further before Ashie managed to clap a hand over his mouth.

"Will you shut up you ass! Ignore him, he got a touch of the sun." Ashie shoved Florrie into a nearby room and dove in after him, closing the door before anyone else could enter.

"Was what Florrie said true?" Cherner glanced curiously at Pyro, who gave a brief nod in response. "Maybe that will teach Ashie to stay in his uniform."

"I doubt it." Pyro bent down and flicked some lint off his boots. "Ashie would sooner take white feathers than he'd take the fuss about the fact that he's a Squadron-Leader with a reasonable name."

"So that's why he drops the Frankston when he's in England." Cherner turned his head slightly as Ashie and Florrie re-entered the room. "I assume we may now adjourn to dinner."

"There is nothing we would prefer more...you forget Cherner, he has also dropped an Honourable Lordship as well." Sir John's mouth twisted in slight amusement.

"I'm sure it won't take them long to realise the truth." Ashie's expression was a trifle grim as he suddenly saw Smirth leaning against the dining room door with an expression Ashie was all too familiar with.

"Ashie dear boy." Smirth clapped Ashie on the back, and it was Smirth's last move of the evening.

"No one calls me DEAR boy." Ashie's expression was plain murderous as he stared down at the prone figure.

"What the...Why did you do that?" Bott gave his angry challenge from a safe distance. The response he received from Ashie was a chilly and blank stare.

"I suspect, Bott, that it has something to do with the greeting." Pyro yanked out a line of chairs as he walked past them so Chris and Florrie could sit down. "Shoulder okay Sir?"

"I'll live." Ashie was a trifle white around the lips, but he had made it safely to his seat.

"You were injured Major?" Eileen looked curiously across the table.

"Oh BLOODY HELL!" Ashie abruptly kicked his chair back and stormed out of the room, Florrie was following immediately behind.

"I doubt you've heard the last of this Mr. Cherner." Pyro gave a wry smile as he loaded up three plates.

"You're not the only one who thinks that Pyro."

"Was he injured?" Clair repeated Eileen's question.

"For crying out loud!" Pyro stared across the table at the two girls. "What do you think the answer is...or perhaps you think Ashie just lays people out for the fun of it? Of course he's been injured, he's been at war for three bloody years now and his first year was kicking around the trenches of Gallipoli. Your dear Smirth just happened to clap him on his shoulder, where you might be interested to know he has an imbedded lump of shell which is approximately the size of his hand. You dig a hole the size of a dinner plate in your shoulder, shove a lump of metal in there, stitch it up again and then have someone hit it. See if you don't see red and feel mighty ill." Pyro balanced two of the plates on his arm and picked up the third. "Open the door Chris. I do appologise for the destruction of your party Sir John, but feel happy, we'll probably leave by the evening train, and it wasn't of our looking." Pyro headed out of the door.

"Two people in one evening...I was unaware that Ashie was so handy with his fists." Chris tipped his head in an impressed manner and gave a silent whistle. "Remind me in future not to annoy him Jim." This was added when Pyro returned to the dining room to collect a fourth plate.

"I'd love to, unfortunately we will have left before you've left this room, so you'd better leave a contactable address where we can get it." Pyro was skillfully loading up the plate.

"Not an option I'm afraid, guess I'll just have to rely on my dodgy memory." Chris settled back in his chair with a sigh and frowned at the food in front of him, he then looked up and studied the other people around the table. Chris then looked back at his plate and then emitted a sigh and pushed his chair back. "You'll have to excuse me Sir John, I fear I really could not consume anything."

"What is it?" Sir John looked slightly aggravated.

"We obviously must make allowance for aristocratic tastes." Smirth sniped irritated, he was still stinging from the realisation that for the past three weeks he had been hung up as a mickey and laughed at.

"No Smirth you have no need to take any account for aristocratic taste, and my Uncle there certainly knows that is not the reason for my abrupt loss of appetite." Chris abruptly rose and headed for the door. "I'll be back in a minute, there is something which might interest you." Chris could hear the rise and fall of voices as he headed for the stairs and soon he was standing at the door of an incredibly messed up room, where two officers were simultaneously packing and eating.

"'Lo Chris." Pyro glanced up briefly from cramming his Flight Jacket into his pack.

"'Lo Jim. How's the back Ashie?"

"Killing me." Ashie was not packing at all, in fact he was installed stomach down on the bed and watching silently from that perch as the other's packed.

"You mind if I turn the lot of them off their dinner?"

"How do you intend to do that?" Ashie twisted his head and looked across at Chris.

"I'll show you in a second." Chris left the room and rifled a small sheet of photographic paper out of the pocket of the coat he had worn on arrival before returning to the bedroom. Chris handed the sheet to Ashie and then gave a hand in cramming odds and ends into the packs.

"Where'd you get this from?" Ashie was frowning darkly at the sheet in his hand.

"I was given it by a common acquaintance of ours, some medic or other heard of it and wanted a look at it."

"Well you better not let my name out or I swear I will kill you." Ashie handed the sheet back to Chris before stiffly rolling over and sitting up. "Though I'd give a fair bit to know how he got it."

"He got it from the Russians, if you don't remember you spent a few weeks under medical observation with them. You needn't worry the print is highly unlikely to get out into general circulation."

"That is a relief." Ashie spoke with great deliberation. "Now I'm changing my shirt, this one has too much damn starch in it." Ashie caught the shirt Pyro was about to pack and easily stripped off the one he was wearing.

"Doesn't look very starched." Chris eyed the shirt as Ashie started unpinning the medals and ribbons from it.

"Any starch is too much starch." Ashie threw the shirt to Pyro who promptly stuffed it into the pack. The sharp gasp cut through the room and caused all four occupants to turn sharply. Miss Eileen Madden was staring wide-eyed and pale from the doorway, in fact a more perfect picture of horror would have been hard to find.

"You want something?" Florrie's voice was dripping icicles.

"N-n-no!" Eileen stuttered uncertainly, but she still couldn't drag her eyes away from Ashie. Ashie abruptly pulled his shirt on and grabbed his discarded boots.

"Well if that's the case why in bloody hell are you standing in my doorway looking in?...I'll kill you for leaving that door open Angel." Ashie snapped angrily towards Chris before stalking across and slamming the door in Eileen's face. "We are leaving, and we are leaving immediately...and what's more we're borrowing your car." Ashie stuffed the last few things into his bag and tied his laces before wrenching the door open and walking crash into Eileen, the glare sent Eileen scurrying down the hall and Ashie turned and headed down the stairs. Florrie and Pyro were hot on his heels and Chris watched their departure in silence. Who knew this might be the last time he saw his brother. Pyro turned back and waved a brief hand before he dove out of the house.

"Why was he so furious?" It was not until the question was asked that Chris realised that Eileen was standing beside him.

"Lady, Ashie comes from proud stock, and I can tell you right now that ninety percent of that irritation was just because you caught him with his shirt off."

"But..." Eileen stopped. "Who are they? Why are they like that?"

"They are three men who were sent on enforced leave. They're about as happy to be back here in England as the majority of us are happy to eat dirt."

"H-how did his get like that?" Eileen was looking up uncertainly.

"That is the result of true Turkish treatment. Now I suggest you descend to your dinner."

"I-I'm not actually hungry any more."

"Surprising, and just to encourage your lack of appetite I'll observe that it was the left shoulder that Ashie was struck on both times, so now I'm sure you'll excuse my lack of appetite." Chris turned and walked off down the drive, it was highly unlikely those three would ever take leave again unless they spent it at the aerodrome. Chris turned his head and looked up at the sky, stars glinted brightly down and yet Chris was not happy, in two days he had a projected meeting with Uncle Mac. He was not even meant to be in England right now but sometimes jobs were done faster than expected. Chris looked down at the road and shivered, the end was near and Chris knew it. But who's end?

September 3rd 1917-London, England

Tact is the ability to describe others as they see themselves. - Abraham Lincoln

Dr. F.C. von Hense.

It was a discreet sign, small, brass, and screwed beside an imminently respectable front door. The name was followed by no initials and it was soon a well-known fact that Dr von Hense came from no home of academic learning. In fact his lack of higher education seemed to be a point of pride to Dr von Hense, he never failed to bring it up, and he seemed to have few greater joys than taking on an academic in a battle of wits...and defeating him soundly.

Even had Dr von Hense not taken pains to project himself and become a well-known figure, it is unlikely he would have remained a non-entity. Dr von Hense was not a handsome man, or even a tall man, but he was definitely striking. Thick black hair spiked from his head in the manner of a golliwog, framing his harsh, hatchet features. Dark brown eyes peered from behind horn-rimmed spectacles and his face had a perpetually bland and expressionless expression. Dr von Hense claimed to be a mystic and mentalist from Switzerland. He claimed, and proved his claims, that he could cure most ills, he could read the future with accuracy, he could straighten out any problem with seemingly ridiculous ease.

Dr von Hense lived in three small rooms on Harper St., no fashionable abode for Dr von Hense, and it was his front room which he used as a consulting room. His consulting room was a strange room, filled with metallic and electrical items. There was a strange ball in one corner of the room which roused much curiousity but was never explained, and never seen in use.

At first Dr von Hense's clientele was thin to state the matter mildly, but as the days, weeks and months passed the stream steadily thickened until it was to be expected that one might wait over an hour to see the mighty man. Dr von Hense's main clientele was the society matrons, though he was not averse to seeing or speaking to anyone. Dr von Hense charged no fees, never asked a question which might offend, and invariably offered comfort and happiness to his clients. Dr von Hense was a good listener, he never objected when someone merely came to discuss a letter one received. He listened as gravely to Mrs. Smith from down the road when she came to worry about Jimmy out on the Western Front, as he listened to Lady X who came to discuss her son's recent accession in rank, or his complaints concerning the Privates he was in command of.

By all respects Dr von Hense was an utterly innocuous and innocent character who relieved many overworked medics from the exasperating task of listening to society matrons who had nothing of interest to say...and certainly nothing wrong with their nerves they so frequently bewailed about. And yet for all the Dr's innocence it was an equally well-known fact that the War Office had practically planted a man outside his abode to keep an eye on his movements. At first the arrival of this man had caused much suspicion and Dr von Hense had lost a good quarter of his clients, but as time passed and nothing happened the clients returned and with them came more clients, many more clients. Obviously the War Office was protecting such an asset to society.

Dr von Hense was not merely active in his chosen profession, he was also the shining light at many a society function. He helped with fundraisers, he attended any and every ball, he was a member of the London Volunteer Fire Brigade and was known to make his rounds of the orphanages and homes for War Widows. Von Hense was a favoured entertainer, the mere mention of his name would bring many, just to see what new magic or wonder he produced, what gadget would he next produce from under his coat?

But von Hense did have his critics, the Medical Profession were probably his first and greatest critic. A Quack, a dangerous man, a confidence trickster. Yet none of these accusations held water, for von Hense never asked for money. What services he gave, he gave them freely and whether medics and husbands liked it or not, their wives and womenfolk certainly did like the process and results.

September 4th 1917-Squadron 284, France

In order to form an immaculate member of a flock of sheep one must, above all, be a sheep. - Albert Einstein

"Hi! You there!" The call stopped Ashie in his tracks and he looked curiously over his shoulder to see a Captain hurrying across the tarmac.

"You want something?" Ashie waited until the Captain was within reasonable earshot before he spoke.

"Yes...sir" The Captain paused to catch his breath. "What are you doing here and where are you from?"

"What I'm doing here is standing and where I'm from is England." Ashie responded somewhat curtly.

"Well I must request you to at least return to the buildings sir, we cannot have people just walking around."

"I admire your sense of security." Ashie's voice abruptly took an edge of acid. "I have Colonel Thomlin's permission to go where ever the hell I like here."

"Have you got papers...some sort of evidence?" The Captain was starting to sound uncertain, but he held his ground well.

"No I have not, Cap..." Ashie's response was abruptly drowned out.

"Ashie! When in hell did you get back? What of Pyro and Florrie? You here for keeps? What about your Camels?" Denny came flying across the tarmac.

"Greetings to you too Denny." Ashie gave a nod. "I got back five minutes ago. Pyro and Florrie are over at 83. Yes I am supposedly here for keeps. The Camels are also at 83. I came over in the dust-buster to check there'd be room for us."

"That is certainly the compact paper-backed edition." Denny gave a nod. "Meet Captain Phelps, he's been filling in for you these past few weeks."

"Greetings." Ashie nodded to the unashamedly gaping Captain. "Have you got room for three more Camels or do we remain at 83?"

"Plenty of room."

"Good-oh, I'll take the dust-buster back...expect us in about an hour."

"Hey!" Denny abruptly caught Ashie.

"What?" Ashie turned back.

"What in Hades are you doing here? You're supposed to be on leave for another week and a half."

"Is that my fault?" Ashie blinked. "We'll sleep out the back if you like, but I'm damned if I ever risk English society for leave again, it's even more exhausting then strafing."

"Happy remark, Mac said we're up front for strafing at Ypres."

"How the hell can we do that? We're 50 miles from the nearest point of that damn battle, It's going to take nearly half our fuel just to travel there and back...and that's not counting in for any dog fights which might crop up in the process. For that matter the two and a half hour time length is also for general flight speed, you only fly at full throttle when you want to get the hell out of somewhere."

"We're being moved."

"What?" Ashie stared at Denny in disbelief.

"We're being exchanged for the length of the battle with 42. 42 is going to camp where 83 is and 83 is going to hole up here."

"That is bloody insane...why don't we just exchange with 42 and leave 83 put?"

"Because of distance, 83's Bristols fly higher, faster and for longer than 42's Fees. Hence this way they seem to think they'll get three totally useful squadrons instead of one very useful squadron and two nearly useless squadron."

"Well it's a damn good thing I did come home early...when does it all start?"

"We move the day after tomorrow."

"Strafing?"

"Possibly even God doesn't know."

"That is pleasant to know." Ashie scratched his head thoughtfully and then glanced across at Phelps. "You want us to arrive, or would you prefer your week and a half?"

"Well you're here, it hardly..."

"Don't be daft Phelps." Denny gave a short laugh. "They are not officially in France, 83 has seen them, Thomlin has seen them and you and I. If Ashie feels like it he'll just go to earth for a week and a half. But if you'd prefer to get back to F.T.S. I'm sure he'll oblige you by making his return official...which reminds me, where did you get Camels from? You left your bombs here."

"We're flying transport back." Ashie grinned enthusiastically. "Nothing like it on earth, we had a minor dust-up with the Hun and Florrie practically fell out of the sky, he's too used to his heavy starboard wing for turns and he fell a clean five thousand feet before he got straightened up again."

"The Camels are still intact?" Denny looked doubtful.

"Indubitably...lovely word that. No. Barely a mark on them in point of fact, Pyro got a few streamers and I had the great joy of digging a bullet out of the engine casing." Ashie abruptly frowned and looked at Phelps. "You like F.T.S.?"

"Not particularly." Phelps' mouth tightened slightly. "But seeing as I seem to do little good when actually out here I have learnt the advantages...it saves me five o'clock wake-ups." The last was added with a small grin.

"Oh man is it a pity you're going...has he met the Major Denny?"

"No Ashie...and you are not to introduce them."

"I can't, the Major's up front." Ashie pulled a miserable face and then abruptly frowned more darkly. "Has the Major had any back time?"

"A bit of back time." Denny responded warily.

"I see, he's had back time, but no rest time...damn it to hell what is the War Office up to?"

"Running a war I suspect." Denny responded non-commitally.

"Who is this Major?" Phelps was looking back and forth between them in clear puzzlement.

"The Major is General D. Fitzwilliam Darcy, and when he's not called the Major he's usually called the Mountain. He's also peculiar because he's about the only Officer who has been listed as deceased by medics...twice!"

"What happened to him?" Phelps tipped his head curiously.

"He got shot to hell and back at Loos and shattered a leg...he now limps slightly because it's about half an inch to an inch shorter than his other leg. He then arrived back just in time for Somme, only to catch typhoid and chucked in some double pneumonia just for the fun...that meant that he missed the second Ypres, and they seem to be making it up by making him fight the entire of the third." Ashie scratched his head. "You seen any of them Denny?"

"Miles was over here for a bit, we're to have another cricket game as soon as we both have down time at the same time."

"Glory be...cricket, that means the Major will probably play...I hope you didn't refuse?"

"I said the response depended on you...Miles laughed."

"I'll bet he did." Ashie looked morose for a moment. "Heigh-de-ho, I'll be back with the others in about an hour or two...shall we bring anything with us?"

"Liquid refreshment never goes astray...we've supposedly got down time tomorrow."

"I hope the 14th haven't."

"No, in act they're just being shuffled forward."

"Without the Major?"

"No, he meets them as they come it, the 14th are replacing his Seaforths."

"Poor sod." Ashie turned and waved a hand as he headed back to the rickety motorcycle and sidecar he had 'borrowed' from 83.

"That was Major Ashington-Franston?" Phelps looked doubtful as the roar of the motor almost drowned him out.

"That was indeed Major Ashington-Frankston." Denny spoke thoughtfully as he watched the dust settle. "Sure you won't take Thomlin's offer?"

"Quite." Phelps nodded. "I'm damn useless out here and both of you know it."

"You needn't be."

"You're suggesting that I just press the damn button...I tell you Denny I can't. I want to do my bit for this damn war, but I damn well won't do it sitting around on my rear end in some governmental office."

"Do you take advice?" Denny looked up curiously at the man.

"It depends on what the advice is and where it is coming from."

"The advice comes from me...and my advice is for you to hold here for the full week and a half. Hand the flights over to Ashie, you're a first rate mechanic and we need mechanics even more than we need fuel."

"Any reason for this advice?"

"I don't know." Denny shrugged and smiled quietly to himself.

"I do not like it at all when you smile like that Lieutenant Denny."

"Smile like what?" Denny's response was a surefire conversation stopper and it worked once more. Phelps mumbled something exceedingly impolite and then moved off leaving Denny to smile another quietly amused smile, had any of the Squadron regulars seen it alarm bells would have rung at a deafening volume.

September 6th 1917-Ypres, France

"One death is a tragedy. A million deaths is a statistic." - Joseph Stalin

Elizabeth sighed and pulled yet another field bandage from the box. Long since all field bandages out in the field had been rendered useless and any and every injury had to troop back to the Clearing Station for bandaging, stitching or whatever care was required, and long since these same cases had been seconded to help with any stretcher. The reserves had been pulled in days ago to act as stretcher-bearers and the Clearing Station was now a sea of suffering humanity through which Nursing Sisters and VADs flitted and drifted like ephemeral bits of gossamer. Ambulances travelled in a steady stream, they came up carrying troops and they retreated bursting at the seams with the wounded. Elizabeth had spent the past week doing little but ferrying back and forth between various base hospitals, snatching half an hour sleep here and there while her ambulance was either loaded or unloaded.

"Lizzie." Philadelphia came flying up.

"Yes?" Elizabeth didn't even look up from the hand she was stitching as she spoke.

"I've been sent to replace you, they need you in the surgery."

"Right." Elizabeth hurriedly wrapped up the bandage, checked the patient off and then departed her perch leaving Philadelphia to take over. Whether Elizabeth liked it or not, she could not help but wince when stitching without any anesthetic and she felt somewhat guilty about the wave of relief which she had felt when Philadelphia had arrived.

"Sister Bennet." The doctor wiped his face with a weary hand. "Kind of you to come. Nurse Marshall is sick and I'm afraid you're the last one out here."

"Emergency relief I see." Elizabeth's grin was slightly twisted as she pulled on the second apron on. "What's up?"

"Just stitching and bandaging."

"Right." Elizabeth caught up a needle and a reel of thread from the steel tray which lay in the corner and followed the doctor back to the main table. Elizabeth took one look at the man on the table, then firmly focused her thoughts on higher things as she set to work.

"Peter you confounded ass-witted son of Belial get the hell back to the Clearing Station and do it NOW!" The voice was at curious variance with the expressionless face, hoarse, harsh, gravelly and quite irritated.

"But..."

"Peter do I have to drag you back there?" Eyes swiveled around and up from the page, hard and angry eyes.

"No sir." Peter flushed darkly and abruptly fled into the dim surroundings.

"You're awfully hard on him sometimes." Miles glanced up somewhat blankly from the mound of paperwork which he was sorting through.

"Shut up." It was curt and Darcy returned his attention once more to the page in front of him.

"But sir..." Miles stopped as Darcy lifted his eyes once more.

"Have you seen that hand of his?"

"No."

"He has a four inch gash from the fourth knuckle and stretching back along the line of the ulnar. That gash is a walking horror story waiting to happen...and I'm damn worried it's already happened."

"But Darcy, was it necessary to take such an approach?"

"You try to persuade him next time then...sixteen year old boys are not at all keen to take advice from anyone and certainly they won't admit to injury."

"Sixt..." Miles' mouth dropped open as he realised what Darcy had said. "But he's already been out here for two years." It was added in a soft whisper.

"Correct, Private James was only fourteen when he enlisted...so much for our minimum age." Darcy's tone was sarcastic.

"One question."

"What?" Darcy looked up from the paperwork once more.

"Why haven't you sent him home?"

"Because he has no home. I first met him in a hospital where he went after failing to save his brother...and incidentally his only living relation."

"Are you certain he has no relatives?"

"Miles I'm related to half of bloody England, and where I don't have relations I have friends and acquaintances. Trust me on that score, Peter has nowhere to go."

"Going to be rough on him when all this is over."

"Unlikely. His probability of survival is as remote as ours, if not even more remote. And even if he does survive he already has an occupation lined up."

"Oh?" Miles looked up in curious interest.

"No it is none of your business Miles."

"Pity." Miles grinned and returned his attention to the papers in front of him.

"You are a nosey sod Miles." Darcy's voice was still hoarse, harsh and gravelly from over exertion, but the underlying current of irritation had departed.

"True, and Carrigan is a heavy weight boxer, and having settled that let us return to the work which our lovely adjutant forgot to do before he went west."

"True." Darcy returned his attention to the page in front of him, the loss of the Adjutant Horton had been a blow to say the least, and things being as they were they couldn't call for a replacement until the next day at the earliest.

Peter took a look around the small dip, sheltered in the confines around a small mud building more then one hundred men lay around. An intricate drainage system had been developed to drain away accumulated water and here and there Peter could see the white headdresses of the head nurses. Peter bit his lip firmly as he viewed the situation before he finally scurried nervously across to where a VAD sister was loading up an ambulance.

"'Scuse me." Peter tapped her cautiously on the elbow.

"Just a minute." The Sister didn't even look at him, in fact she abruptly left him to help catch a stretcher which had abruptly slipped back out again. Five minutes passed and Peter was starting to look for another Sister when he heard the first Sister speak again. "Sorry about that. What can I do you for?"

"This." Peter extended his hand for inspection.

"You are a bloody fool Peter, come along." The Sister caught his arm and hurried him down towards a long cue.

"How do you know I'm Peter?" Peter waited until his hand was being repaired before he spoke and he had been looking in puzzlement at the face above him.

"Because we've met before."

"Lizzie."

"Yes?" Elizabeth looked up from the repairs.

"Oh sorry, didn't realise you were busy." The Sister was out of breath

"What's up?"

"The rations haven't come through again, Dr Monse wanted you to see what has happened to them when you go back."

"Right." Elizabeth nodded and turned back to her stitching, the cleaning had been a slow and painful process.

"What's the problem?" Peter studied the face more intently, but for the life of him he couldn't remember it.

"Our food hasn't come through as per usual." Elizabeth gave a side and then frowned. "How long has this been cut for?"

"Four days." Peter ventured cautiously.

"The truth." Elizabeth's frown deepened.

"Eight days." Peter spoke reluctantly.

"Well hold here for a minute." Elizabeth hurried away and soon returned with a hypodermic syringe and a thin cylinder.

"Why the worry over the rations? Ours are frequently late."

"Ours are over a week late now, we're down to about fifteen cans of bully beef for everyone here."

"Sorry." Peter flushed for Elizabeth's tone had been sharp.

"Well I'm sorry too, I shouldn't have snapped." Elizabeth was filling the syringe as she spoke.

"What is that?" Peter looked suspiciously at the syringe as Elizabeth prepare a site on his arm.

"That is to try and ward off gangrene...Anti-tetanus serum." Elizabeth quickly injected the dose. "Now hang on because this will sting." Elizabeth tipped her flask slightly and watched carefully as several drops fell onto the site.

"Might sting?" Peter's face was a grimace of pain. "It's damn well killing me."

"Good, now hold still while I finish this up." Elizabeth paused and then frowned. "You got your rum ration?"

"Aye." Peter looked suspiciously at Elizabeth as he handed it over.

"Yes you should look suspicious." Elizabeth unscrewed the top and took a squint into it and sniffed cautiously.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm about to make you feel very sorry for yourself...you want a wood block?"

"No thanks, I won't howl." Peter continued to watch suspiciously.

"Well, you better not." Elizabeth clamped Peter's arm expertly against her side and then, in a position so Peter could watch it all, sloshed the rum out over the now stitched cut. Peter responded with a muted gurgle in his throat and buried his face in her sleeve. Elizabeth watched the arm for a moment and then began winding a field bandage around it.

"Will it fall off?" Peter looked up curiously.

"I hope not."

"Well it feels like it will." Peter spoke candidly.

"Good-oh." Elizabeth straightened and then frowned around. "You like motors?"

"Mm-hmm." Peter nodded.

"Good, because in the near future you're going to see a lot of them."

"Why?" Peter looked up curiously.

"Because you're taking the next four days worth of trips with me...who's the Officer you report to?"

"I can't get four days away." Peter blinked and bit his lip.

"Do you want to lose that arm altogether?" Elizabeth looked down at Peter.

"No, but..."

"Peter, just give me the name of the Officer you report to. If you want to retain your hand you cannot return until that cut is at least bonding...it may be too late as it is...Now, who is your Officer?"

"General Darcy, 3rd Midlanders Division...I'm a runner."

"Charming." Elizabeth pulled a wry face. "He knows you're back?"

"He ordered me back." Peter's face fell slightly.

"Well with luck we can get you at least the half week, but I'm going to argue for a fortnight." Elizabeth rubbed her back and pulled out a scrap of paper which was soon dumped in the Communications box. "Now come on, we've got two trips to make before midnight."

Darcy looked around the scene silently, the Station was cloaked in ghostly light, a scene made even more ghostly by the white sheets and the small candle lanterns which flickered back and forth among the rows of men. Darcy broke himself free of the weary trance and threaded his way towards the squat mud building, he stopped a few times when he saw a familiar face, but otherwise his progress was unimpeded and within five minutes he was facing a Communications Sister who was produced from the surgery theatre at the back.

"Private Peter James from the 13th Division? He's with Sister Bennet. She's due back in fifteen, you can speak to her then."

"Thank you." Darcy nodded and retreated to the ragged hedge where the ambulances were housed.

"Oi!" The medical orderly pushed across to Darcy with a dark scowl on his face.

"Oi yourself, I'm waiting for Sister Bennet."

"Oh...well don't wait there."

"Where can I wait then, I'm damned if I'll wait with the patients."

"Well we've got a bivouac if you want to join us...quite warm actually."

"No thanks, I'll fall asleep if I'm at all comfortable." Darcy responded with a nod.

"Fair enough, you just back?"

"Nope, just got forward and got a minute to check out the days losses."

"Hope you hain't had to many." The driver disappeared back into the gloom.

"No, not too many." Darcy spoke softly and rubbed his face wearily as he crossed to where the ambulance bay debouched onto the wall.

"SIR!" It was an earsplitting yell which roused Darcy from his partial slumber against the hedge fifteen minutes later. Darcy stretched and rose to his feet at the same time casting a somewhat arctic eye over Peter.

"Well his vocal chords certainly don't seem to have suffered." Darcy rubbed his neck and glanced briefly across at where Elizabeth was arguing with an ambulance officer.

"Sorry sir, hadn't actually expected to see you this soon."

"What's the verdict?"

"She says a fortnight, but it can't be anything but garbage."

"Sister Bennet never speaks garbage...how many stitches?"

"Fifteen." Peter's voice was almost proud. "Only ever had two before."

"I said you should have brought it in last week." Darcy banged Peter on the top of his head. "You been useful?"

"I've been watching the back of the ambulance, her usual one copped out on her." Peter sounded miffed at Darcy questioning his usefulness.

"Well continue being useful. I'll rip the hide off you if you're not." Darcy nodded briefly to Elizabeth as she passed. "He been behaving himself?"

"Yes." Elizabeth gave a quick smile. "You got some spare muscle?"

"Some." Darcy gave a shrug.

"Got fuel in the back of the Ambulance which needs to be got out before I can reload." Elizabeth went belting back to argue once more with the ambulance man.

"Show me the way." Darcy scratched his chin as he followed Peter across to a dusty and dingy truck. The ten barrels were quickly unloaded and Darcy eyed the inside of the truck with extreme dislike. "I think I'll live without a trip in that." Darcy frowned and stepped out of the way, laden stretchers were already being hauled up into the empty body.

"Two and three on the left, not the right the road's bad." Elizabeth came charging up.

"You're going straight back down again?"

"No other choice." Elizabeth pushed a strand of hair from her face and then abruptly pulled her hair down and used her fingers to brush it back before tying it back up again.

"Can't someone else drive?"

"No, they're official medics, they have set hours."

"Ahh." Darcy paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Can't you stop?"

"There are wounded out there who cannot wait, but who have been waiting for hours."

"I see." Darcy gave a nod. "You've got Peter for the fortnight, keep him for longer if you like." Darcy paused. "If we're not back by then we'll be dead and either way he ceases to be the most important person in the world."

"Even more important than you General Darcy?" Elizabeth abruptly grinned. "Dear me."

"For that you pay." Darcy abruptly shoved a small pack into Peter's hands.

"I'm stony broke." Elizabeth gave another grin.

"Then I'll pay...next time we've got some free time I'm buying you dinner."

"Not at an estaminet." Elizabeth wrinkled her nose.

"What do you take me for?" Darcy gave her a startled look. "I promise you it will be edible."

"Shock horror, I fear the Major is going crazy...Major's should never joke." Elizabeth gunned the engine with her parting remark and drowned out any possible response Darcy might have had.

"The Major has been completely mad for many years now." Darcy drove his hands into his pockets as he softly spoke to himself. Only to pull them out and give an energetic scratch behind one ear, that was the last time Darcy intended to be skipped on bathing day, even the acid was preferable to cooties.

Continued in Next Section