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locker_monsterTitle: The Boy Who Waited (45/49)
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.
Northern France, 1917 A.D.
“Nurse!”
It was a cry heard often and Rory still looked up every time. It was a habit that couldn’t be quashed. In Leadworth Hospital, in any hospital, when someone called for a nurse, you answered. But he wasn’t a nurse, not here, not in the trenches.
It didn’t mean he couldn’t help, though.
He made sure that the latest wounded soldier he had pulled in from the fighting was all right before rushing over. The harried combat doctor stood over a young soldier bleeding profusely from a shrapnel wound in his upper thigh. The doctor had both hands clamped over the large gash, but it wasn’t enough to stop the flow of blood.
Rory snatched up some nearby supplies to make a tourniquet. He wrapped it tight around the soldier’s thigh, just above where the wound was. It wasn’t going to be enough to save the soldier’s leg, but at least now he wouldn’t bleed out before the doctor’s eyes.
The doctor slowly pulled his hands away; they were slick with blood, causing his palms to stick slightly to the soldier’s trouser leg. “Thank you…” He trailed off, searching for Rory’s name.
“Second Lieutenant Ross, sir. I’m a medic,” he added, in case the doctor was about to question why he was running around the triage area.
“Ah, very good.” The doctor seemed to be on the verge of saying else, but then something past Rory caught his attention. “Buckingham, where have you been?” The man didn’t shout, but the ire in his tone made it clear that he wanted to.
Rory glanced back. A young woman with shortly trimmed dark hair stood framed in the entry of the triage tent. Her long wool coat was splattered with mud and there was a smear of blood on her right cheek. She looked like hell, but she stood her ground. “I was helping with the last of the casualties. They’re in the ambulance.”
“Yes, all right,” the doctor said impatiently. “Get them unloaded and then help me in here. Ross, was it? Would you mind-”
“Of course, sir.” Rory hurried out of the tent, not really caring if he forgot to salute the doctor. Three years on and he still didn’t know when it was the right time to salute someone. He usually just followed someone else’s lead.
Outside of the tent the ground was a sodden mess. It wasn’t just the rain that turned everything in a quagmire. The constant bombardment tore up the ground and downed trees until a perfectly good forest was nothing but muddy ruins. Rory looked to Buckingham and she led the way to the ambulance.
His boots sunk into the mud almost up to his ankles and he had to yank out his foot each time to take another step. Buckingham was a lot lighter than him but she was forced to squelch her way through the mud, too. She was used to it, though. He could tell from the way she walked. She kept her gaze ahead and not on the ground. What was underfoot didn’t matter to her. It was the ambulance that was her focus.
It wasn’t much. A small lorry, battered and dented from numerous trips into no man’s land. Its paint was faded, but one could still make out the red cross on the side. The back doors were open and more able-bodied soldiers were helping the wounded over to the triage tent. With the battle over everyone was waiting for more orders, but until then, they would help where they could. Rory nodded his thanks at the soldiers he recognized from his battalion and they nodded back, too weary from all of the fighting and death to offer up complex sentences.
Two prone soldiers lay in the back of the ambulance, resting on stretchers. Field dressings bound their wounds for now, but the bandages were already bright red with blood. Without needing to be asked, the remaining soldiers milling around the ambulance helped to off load the two stretchers. Buckingham directed them towards the triage tent and then she turned to Rory.
“If your services are not required elsewhere…” she began.
“I’ll be happy to help out.” He was awaiting orders himself and patching up injured soldiers would be the best use of his time.
Some of the tension in Buckingham’s shoulders eased. They started back for the tent together. “It was Ross?”
“Second Lieutenant Robert Ross.” Rory held out his hand to Buckingham. The alias had been chosen for him this time.
She removed her gloves and shook his hand. Her palm and fingers were callused, likely from all the driving she did. “Lady Jennifer Buckingham. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Two hours later and all the men that could be saved were resting where they could find bedding. The ones who were stable but in serious condition waited to be loaded into Buckingham’s ambulance so they could be transferred to the nearest Allied hospital. When Rory stepped out of the tent, he found that most of the soldiers were gone. Their orders had been delivered it seemed.
The sky was streaked with orange, signalling the end of another day. It was hard to say if today had been a victory or not. The Allied forces might have gained some ground, but at the cost of thousands of lives. He couldn’t see them, but Rory knew the battlefield was littered with the bodies of the fallen. So many young faces and none of them would see their homes again.
Rory had experienced wars before, but this was completely different. A world war. A lot more was at stake than just the fate of one country. He knew how it all ended, of course, but standing there in the ruined countryside, with blood staining his clothes, he felt like that day was never going to come.
He tugged at the collar of his jacket. He didn’t sweat, but it was still stiff from the dirty rainwater that trickled down the sides of the trenches. A shower and a change of clothes would have been heavenly, but he didn’t see that happening anytime soon.
The canvas flap of the tent was thrown back and Buckingham stepped out. It wasn’t unusual to see female nurses on the battlefield but Rory still couldn’t get over the fact that she was a Lady. It made him admire her all the more. Her title suggested wealth, but here she was in the thick of it, putting her time and skills to good use.
“Lieutenant,” she greeted and somehow she found the strength for a smile. It had been non-stop in the tent, treating one causality after another. Rory felt fine, but he had the stamina of an Auton. He couldn’t see how Buckingham or the combat doctor were still on their feet.
“Lady Jennifer. Are you off then?”
She looked up at the darkening sky and sighed. “I suppose so. I don’t prefer driving in the dark, at least not with patients, but the hospital can do so much more for them.”
“I’d offer to come with you, but I’m waiting on new orders.”
“Of course. Perhaps we’ll meet again, but hopefully in a less stressful situation.”
“Hopefully.” They said their good-byes and Rory watched Buckingham walk back to her beat-up ambulance. She would be heading away from the front lines, but that was never a guarantee for a safe arrival. There were always stragglers after a battle. Any sort of vehicle was a tempting target when you were trying to make an escape.
He tried not to dwell on the thought as he went back to the trenches to wait with the rest of his battalion. He had resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t save everyone he met, but it still bothered him all the same.
Afforded a rare lull between campaigns, his fellow battalion members were resting up the best they could. For some, that meant taking a kip, for others it was having a cooked meal or putting on a dry pair of socks. Dry socks. Rory couldn’t believe that he could miss such a trivial thing until he got out here and he saw more cases of trench foot and did more amputations than he cared to remember.
He took to checking on old injuries his fellow soldiers had endured, to make sure none of the wounds were infected. It wasn’t about keeping them in their top physical condition so they could fight in another battle. Of the men that would make it out of the war alive, he didn’t want any of them returning home only to die from something as benign as an infection.
He was in the middle of redoing some stitches when the word came. Rory quickly finished up and then he went to speak with the man in charge.
The battered jeep sat lopsided upon the uneven ground. The headlamps were caked with a layer of dried mud, diffusing the amount of light they gave off. The driver was cast in silhouette, but Rory was still able to recognize him.
The coat was a dead giveaway.
“Captain.” Rory saluted with all of the seriousness he could muster.
Jack, dressed in a grey greatcoat not unlike his old ulster, smiled and even in the darkness it was luminous. “Lieutenant.” Jack saluted back but the smile never left his face.
Rory broke out into a smile, too, unable to keep a straight face. “It’s good to see you.” They hadn’t seen much of each other since Jack had convinced him to join the war effort. His rank as captain, real or not, kept him in different circles than Rory. He didn’t worry about Jack dying, but the man’s immortality didn’t mean that he was indestructible. Every death hurt.
Jack suddenly grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a hug. Rory caught a whiff of his greatcoat and while there were the usual smells of unwashed bodies, mud, and blood, there was something else, too. He was reminded of barns and swimming pools. Musty hay and chlorine.
Phosgene gas.
Rory hugged back. It didn’t matter if someone saw them. “How many?”
Jack shuddered. “Too many.”
Chemical warfare. Creeping fogs that killed. Yet another horror that Rory never thought he had to live through. His regiment had encountered chlorine gas once, but that stuff was tame compared to this new concoction. Phosgene didn’t always kill you right away, but when the symptoms settled in, it wasn’t an easy death.
Rory didn’t envy Jack’s ability to cheat death. He was forced to watch everyone around him die, time and time again, but he always came back unscathed. It was like endless torture.
They pulled apart, but Rory remained close. Jack took in a deep breath and let out an awkward laugh. “I need you.”
“Like I haven’t heard that one before.” He didn’t feel like joking, but it helped to bring some levity to the conversation.
“Needing you in that sense, ooh, I wouldn’t mind that, but I need you in another way. There’s an assault coming up and I want you to be there.”
“Why?”
“Nivelle Offensive. Did you ever read about it?”
Rory thought back to history class, or he tried to anyway. Even before he became a plastic Roman, his memories of his high school studies were a bit fuzzy. Add on top of that over 1500 years of new experiences and he was lucky to remember the address of his flat back in Leadworth. “Can’t say if I did.”
“It was supposed to end the war in forty-eight hours. It never happened. Most of the campaign was an utter mess. Vimy worked out all right, though. Got to love Canadian resourcefulness.”
“So you’re going to change history? Can you do that?” Rory thought of the Doctor’s parting advice before he hopped into the future. He hadn’t done well in the “staying out of trouble” department, but causing trouble was completely different. He had let history run its course, more or less, even when it could have used some changing.
“I tried once. It didn’t end well. Woke up two days later chained to a goat.” Rory opened his mouth to comment, but Jack kept talking. “I want you there to help with casualties. I’ve seen you work, I know how good you are. The survivors deserve the best.”
Rory was flattered to say the least. He wouldn’t have said he was the best. He just couldn’t stand by and watch people suffer. It was why he had asked to be a medic when Jack was setting up his fake identity. He was here to save lives, not end them. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as possible.” Jack reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Rory. “Transfer orders for your commander. You’ll be joining the Royal Berkshire Regiment of the 12th Division.”
“Give me ten minutes,” said Rory as he ran back to the trenches. He needed to grab his pack and his gun. Maybe he could find a clean pair of socks while he was as it…
They headed north to Bucquoy, a French village where the troops were gathering. The road was full of potholes from stray explosions and the jeep bounced over them with zero grace. Rory lost count of how many times he smacked the top of his head against the interior roof of the driver’s compartment.
As they got further away from the front lines, a bit more of the countryside could be seen beyond dead trees and mountains of mud. Rory spotted a lone pine tree that seemed to stand in defiance. No amount of fighting was going to take it down. He liked that.
Driving all out got them to Bucquoy just past midnight. With every window in every building blacked out to block out any light, it was impossible to tell that there was a village at all. It was only when the headlamps on the jeep cut through the darkness that Rory saw anything and then it was just glimpses. Run down shops, half destroyed homes, coils of barbed wire fencing in the village. He had to wonder if any of the villagers actually lived here anymore or did they all flee once the fighting got too close to their homes.
Jack pulled into the village square and stopped in front of one of the shops. There were rooms over top and just a hint of light escaped the very edges around the blacked out window. “The troops are scattered across the village, bunking where they can find the room. The Royal Berkshire are in the church if you want to join them. I need to report in.” He killed the lights, plunging the square into darkness again.
“Right.” Rory stepped out of the jeep, slinging his pack and his gun over his shoulders. His eyes adjusted almost immediately to the lack of light and he started forward. After a couple of steps, he turned back towards Jack. “Where is the church exactly?”
He heard Jack chuckle. “Keep heading down the street. You can’t miss it.”
There was no one out on the streets, at least, none that Rory saw. If there were soldiers patrolling the perimeter, they were very quiet. He found his pace quickening as the emptiness got to him. He had been surrounded by people since the start of the war. To be completely alone like this was rare. He hadn’t felt this isolated since his days wandering across South America with the Pandorica.
An image of the box in the Royal Collection warehouse appeared in his head. He had been reluctant to leave it behind, but Jack had assured him that their best people would keep an eye on it while they were away. Rory wondered if Vastra was sitting with the Pandorica right now.
The crescent moon broke through the cloud cover, allowing Rory to see the church steeple. The large stone cross atop it seemed to hover in midair thanks to the ghostly light. Jack was right about not missing it. The church had to be the tallest building in Bucquoy.
A barricade made of barbed wire, slats of timber, and piled sand bags obstructed the entrance to the church. Seeing as no one was watching, Rory easily leapt over it, barely disturbing the barbed wire wound around the top. He pounded his fist against the heavy wooden doors and waited to be admitted.
A narrow panel in the door was slid back and a pair of beady eyes stared out at Rory. The space beyond was lit by candlelight, but that was all he could see. “Second Lieutenant Robert Ross. I’m a recent transfer to the Royal Berkshire Regiment.”
The eyes narrowed just slightly. “Papers?” asked a gruff voice.
Rory reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumbled transfer orders, now bearing a signature from his old commander authorizing the relocation. He held it up to the panel and the paper was immediately snatched up. Then the panel slid shut again. He doubted that an enemy soldier would be so bold as to enter an Allied stronghold on his own, but he supposed that one could never be too careful, especially in a time of war.
A few minutes passed before the panel opened again. “Everything’s in order.” This time the voice was more polite. His orders were passed back to him and Rory shoved them back into his pocket as the doors were unlocked. They opened just enough so he could slip inside and they were quickly shut behind him once he was in.
Rory was familiar with village churches. He knew Leadworth’s thoroughly thanks to all of the wedding prep he and Amy had to do. Bucquoy’s, like Leadworth’s, was weathered but functional. The stone walls were cracked in places, but carefully applied plaster kept it together. The high, vaulted ceiling was black from decades of burning candles for light. The pews, now stacked along the sides of the room to accommodate all the soldiers, numbered in the dozens, hinting at the total population of Bucquoy. Tape and curtains covered up the stained glass windows, but the altar at the front of the room was untouched. No one had dared to bunk down near it.
“Colonel Myers is in a meeting at the moment,” said the door sentry, who turned out to be a young man probably no older than twenty-five. His cheeks were gaunt, suggesting he hadn’t seen a decent meal in months. “You can report to Major Kilburn, though.” He pointed to an older gentlemen seated in the far corner.
Rory nodded his thanks and wove his way through the ranks towards the major. He saw so many young faces.
Kilburn looked to be the oldest in the room, early thirties if Rory had to guess. He flipped through a Bible he had probably found in one of the pews. From the way his eyes scanned the page, it was likely he understood French.
Rory saluted. “Second Lieutenant Robert Ross reporting for duty, sir.”
The major looked up from the Bible. He had a pencil thin moustache and his dark hair was slicked back from his forehead. His hair was so oiled it gleamed in the candlelight. Instead of saluting back he held out his hand and Rory passed over his orders. He skimmed the contents and then said, “A medic. Good. We lost one of ours at Ypres. Hadn’t been able to get a replacement since.” Kilburn handed the paper back to Rory. “Bunk down where you can find room. I’m sure the men can get you caught up about the details of the campaign.” He went back to reading the Bible.
The man looked tired, but he seemed like the sort that wouldn’t admit to it. Promotions came fast out in the field. Rory wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Kilburn had started as low down as a lieutenant at the beginning of the war.
Rory scanned the room and he found a small patch of floor that didn’t seem to be occupied. He walked over and placed down his gun and his pack. He saw no point in unpacking anything if they could be called upon at any moment. Unbuttoning his jacket, he plopped down and leaned back against his bag.
Three years back he had brought a few books with him, but he had traded them over the years for needed supplies. He wished he had one now, even a French one would do, but he didn’t feel like cracking open a Bible like Kilburn. Rory looked around the room instead, taking in the soldiers that he would be caring for once the fighting started. Some snoozed while others played cards or wrote letters to home. It was a far cry from the coma ward at Leadworth Hospital. The people waiting there had hope, hope that their loved one would wake up. Here, there was only strained anticipation. What came next could bring glory or death.
The group of soldiers next to him, about six of them, were playing a card game. He wasn’t sure what they were doing at first. One soldier sat in front of the other five, flashing cards at them. It seemed like a memory game but then he noticed that only one in the group of five was answering. Then he noticed that only the back of the card was being shown. The soldier answering, who barely looked older than eighteen, would pause and think briefly, but he still provided a response like he had carefully thought it over.
Rory was drawn in by the oddness of it all. He leaned forward so he could see what was on the card. The current one was the ace of clubs. The boy stared at the card, thought for a moment, and then he spoke.
“The ace of clubs.”
A murmur of excitement went through the group. Another card was drawn and raised, the back still to the boy. Seven of diamonds. He stared hard at the card, like he had x-ray vision or something. A few seconds passed and then…
“Seven of diamonds.”
One of the soldiers slapped the boy on the shoulder while another ruffled his hair. “One more, Tim,” urged the soldier holding the cards.
The boy, Tim, seemed weary of the game, but he nodded his head anyway. Another card. The king of hearts. The Suicide King.
Tim’s fair eyebrows pulled down into a frown and for the first time it seemed like he might not get this one. Rory, along with the other soldiers, waited with bated breath. The boy’s eyes narrowed as he really concentrated.
“The king of…”
Everyone leaned in.
“Hearts.”
One of the soldiers let out a shout and he quickly slapped his hand over his mouth the second he realized his transgression. People nearby looked over at them but they quickly went back to whatever it was that they were doing, like they had seen this before.
Rory let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. He wasn’t sure what he just saw. Tim could have been guessing, but the odds were against him. Fifty-two cards, numbers one through ten, four different suits, and three different face cards. No one could simply guess and get it right three times in a row.
The soldier holding the cards turned back to put away the deck in his bag and he saw Rory staring at them. “Did you see?” he asked excitedly.
“Uh, yeah. What was that?”
“Tim knows what you’re thinking!” The soldier beckoned for Tim to come closer.
Up close, Rory saw that Tim was older than he initially thought. Not a boy, but not a man, either. Twenty years old, maybe. He still looked innocent, though, not hardened like some of the other young soldiers, which made him seem younger. He had big brown eyes, too, like he could gaze into your very soul.
“You’re new, aren’t you? Come on, Tim, do your thing. Tell us who he is.”
Tim fixed his gaze on Rory before he could protest. The only telepath he knew was the Doctor and then it was only through touch. Tim seemed like the kind that could pluck a thought from the air. Rory concentrated hard on his alias, repeating over the details Jack had created for him.
The seconds ticked by as Tim stared at Rory. He stared and he stared and then… Rory saw it flash quickly over his eyes.
Confusion.
“I don’t need convincing,” Rory said quickly. “I believe you.” The other soldiers moaned with disappointment as Tim sat back. He briefly looked up at Rory and gave an imperceptible nod of gratitude. “I’m tired. Are you tired? We should probably all get some rest.”
With their entertainment over for the night, the soldiers soon scattered, returning to their own spots. Rory made a show of lying down and resting his head on his pack while Tim stretched out on his down bedding. It wasn’t until he was sure that no one was watching did Rory turn over to address Tim.
“There’s nothing there,” Tim whispered. He stared up at the ceiling of the church.
“You can’t read me, can you?” Tim didn’t answer right away, giving Rory time to notice that Tim’s uniform was too big on him. It wasn’t just the malnutrition that plagued every regiment. The young man was of average height but very lean; he probably just made the height and weight requirements to make it into the army.
“You’re blank, like an empty canvas. There’s nothing to see.”
It made sense, Rory supposed. As plastic, he wasn’t living, so he had nothing to project. “About that-”
Tim looked over at him, a small smile on his lips. “It’s all right. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t mind, either. You’re quiet.”
“You can hear everyone all the time?” He couldn’t imagine having other people’s thoughts cluttering up your head.
“Not all the time.” The young man was starting to warm to the subject. He likely didn’t get much chance to talk about it seriously. “If I concentrate I can listen to anyone, but most times the thoughts just creep up on me.”
“Is that how people found out? You started talking about things they hadn’t mentioned to anyone?” He got a nod from Tim.
Rory had read articles about supposed telepaths and the experiments done on them. It was conspiracy theory sort of stuff, but maybe it wasn’t far from the truth. If anyone ever found out about the extent of Tim’s ability, they would likely try to exploit it for their own use. In a time of war, it was practically irresistible. To know what your enemy was thinking was an untold advantage.
Plastic soldiers and immortal men would be hot commodities, too.
“Tell you what. I’ll keep your secret and you keep mine.”
There was no hesitation on Tim’s part. Relief flooded his pale features. “Agreed.” He reached across and held out his hand to Rory. “I’m Timothy Latimer.” He smiled again, as if he had heard a particularly good joke. “What’s your name?”
Rory guessed it had been a long time since he had to ask that. They shook hands. “Robert Ross.”
No orders came in the middle of the night.
Instead of getting caught up on the details of the offensive, Rory just lay back and listened to the other men breathe. They all deserved to rest and they didn’t need him asking a flurry of questions that could wait until morning.
Rory always found himself in a strange limbo whenever there was a lull like this and the other soldiers were sleeping. He was part of the group but, at the same time, he wasn’t. He didn’t need to rest and it was a constant reminder that he didn’t belong, no matter where he was. When this was over, not just the war but when he got Amy back, too, he was always going to be a plastic soldier. What sort of life could he have with Amy when he couldn’t grow old, couldn’t have children.
He welcomed the dawn when it came. Stepping outside of the church, he watched the sun rise over the tops of the trees. The air had a chill to it but it wasn’t bitterly cold. Spring had come, but winter wasn’t going away completely without a fight.
In the early daylight, Rory got his first proper look at the village as he walked through the streets. It was all grey, like the war had leeched away every colour. Most of the buildings still stood, which probably meant the village had been part of a barrage but not an extensive one. He had seen entire towns destroyed from bombing just so troops could take the spot. It always seemed so counterintuitive. What was the point in claiming a strategic advantage when it didn’t exist anymore by the time the men reached it?
It was still too early for anyone to out and about. He could imagine, just for a second, that he wasn’t in a war. Instead, he was on a holiday in a quaint French village that was just waking up for the day and back in his lodgings Amy still slumbered beneath the covers. It was a silly dream but it helped to brighten his mood for a moment or two.
Back at the square, he spotted Jack’s jeep. The shop they had stopped outside of last night was a bakery; the lettering was still visible on the front window. Rory walked over and idly traced his finger over the “b” in boulangerie. There wasn’t the smell of freshly baked bread this morning. The entire village was a ghost.
The door opened and Jack stepped out. He always looked tired to Rory, maybe because of all the deaths he endured, but he looked absolutely exhausted today. There weren’t bags under his eyes or anything like that, but his entire body seemed to sag, like he had the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.
No, it wasn’t his deaths that weighed on Jack. It was the deaths of everyone around him. At this moment, Rory was sure that all Jack could think about was the men under his command that he had just lost. And here they were, about to charge into battle yet again.
“Hey,” greeted Rory.
Jack glanced around but there was no one nearby to overhear them. “Hey. Found your regiment all right?”
“Yeah.” He wanted to ask how Jack was doing, but he knew he’d just get a joke as a response. Having no desire to turn to small talk, Rory turned to discussing business instead. “I didn’t get a chance to ask about the offensive, though.”
Jack started down the street and gestured for Rory to follow him. “I’ll give you an overview.” They made hardly any noise as they walked along. “The French are attempting a massive assault about 50 miles from here. We’re the diversion. Three armies, each with their own objective. A creeping barrage started a few days ago to soften up the German defences. Royal Engineers have been digging out miles of underground tunnels since last year to house all of the men. We’re just waiting for the order to move out.”
“Sounds… involved.”
“Our part turns out okay, but the French’s offensive is, like I said, an utter failure. The French army will have mutinies after this. It’s not pretty.”
They walked on until they reached the edge of the village. Make-shift defences stood guard along the road leading in. It was amazing how much Rory had missed while driving through the dark. The two of them stood there for a minute or so, appreciating the stillness of the scene.
“I met a soldier,” said Rory and he immediately got a cheeky grin from Jack. “Not like that. He’s in my regiment. Tim Latimer. He’s telepathic.”
Jack, unsuccessfully, tried to wipe the grin from his face. “It’s been awhile since I met one. Powerful?”
“Not really. Thoughts don’t just come to him.”
“Still, you should be careful.”
“But that’s the thing. He can’t read me.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re not exactly an open book all the time.” Rory just glared at Jack and Jack just smiled back, but it was good to see his spirits lifted. “Seriously, though, it’s not as strange as you think. Latimer probably can’t read my mind, either.”
“Because of your immortality?”
“I had this friend who was given a telepathic pendant. She couldn’t get into my head, too. Said it was like trying to read a dead man.”
“But you’re not dead.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Keep an eye on Latimer anyway. He could be helpful in the future.”
Rory nodded his head, but he hoped it never came down to that. He looked out longingly at the road leading out of the village and then glanced back over his shoulder. “Ready to head back?” he asked.
Jack let out a shaky breath but then he stood up tall. “For King and Country.”
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49
Northern France, 1917 A.D.
“Nurse!”
It was a cry heard often and Rory still looked up every time. It was a habit that couldn’t be quashed. In Leadworth Hospital, in any hospital, when someone called for a nurse, you answered. But he wasn’t a nurse, not here, not in the trenches.
It didn’t mean he couldn’t help, though.
He made sure that the latest wounded soldier he had pulled in from the fighting was all right before rushing over. The harried combat doctor stood over a young soldier bleeding profusely from a shrapnel wound in his upper thigh. The doctor had both hands clamped over the large gash, but it wasn’t enough to stop the flow of blood.
Rory snatched up some nearby supplies to make a tourniquet. He wrapped it tight around the soldier’s thigh, just above where the wound was. It wasn’t going to be enough to save the soldier’s leg, but at least now he wouldn’t bleed out before the doctor’s eyes.
The doctor slowly pulled his hands away; they were slick with blood, causing his palms to stick slightly to the soldier’s trouser leg. “Thank you…” He trailed off, searching for Rory’s name.
“Second Lieutenant Ross, sir. I’m a medic,” he added, in case the doctor was about to question why he was running around the triage area.
“Ah, very good.” The doctor seemed to be on the verge of saying else, but then something past Rory caught his attention. “Buckingham, where have you been?” The man didn’t shout, but the ire in his tone made it clear that he wanted to.
Rory glanced back. A young woman with shortly trimmed dark hair stood framed in the entry of the triage tent. Her long wool coat was splattered with mud and there was a smear of blood on her right cheek. She looked like hell, but she stood her ground. “I was helping with the last of the casualties. They’re in the ambulance.”
“Yes, all right,” the doctor said impatiently. “Get them unloaded and then help me in here. Ross, was it? Would you mind-”
“Of course, sir.” Rory hurried out of the tent, not really caring if he forgot to salute the doctor. Three years on and he still didn’t know when it was the right time to salute someone. He usually just followed someone else’s lead.
Outside of the tent the ground was a sodden mess. It wasn’t just the rain that turned everything in a quagmire. The constant bombardment tore up the ground and downed trees until a perfectly good forest was nothing but muddy ruins. Rory looked to Buckingham and she led the way to the ambulance.
His boots sunk into the mud almost up to his ankles and he had to yank out his foot each time to take another step. Buckingham was a lot lighter than him but she was forced to squelch her way through the mud, too. She was used to it, though. He could tell from the way she walked. She kept her gaze ahead and not on the ground. What was underfoot didn’t matter to her. It was the ambulance that was her focus.
It wasn’t much. A small lorry, battered and dented from numerous trips into no man’s land. Its paint was faded, but one could still make out the red cross on the side. The back doors were open and more able-bodied soldiers were helping the wounded over to the triage tent. With the battle over everyone was waiting for more orders, but until then, they would help where they could. Rory nodded his thanks at the soldiers he recognized from his battalion and they nodded back, too weary from all of the fighting and death to offer up complex sentences.
Two prone soldiers lay in the back of the ambulance, resting on stretchers. Field dressings bound their wounds for now, but the bandages were already bright red with blood. Without needing to be asked, the remaining soldiers milling around the ambulance helped to off load the two stretchers. Buckingham directed them towards the triage tent and then she turned to Rory.
“If your services are not required elsewhere…” she began.
“I’ll be happy to help out.” He was awaiting orders himself and patching up injured soldiers would be the best use of his time.
Some of the tension in Buckingham’s shoulders eased. They started back for the tent together. “It was Ross?”
“Second Lieutenant Robert Ross.” Rory held out his hand to Buckingham. The alias had been chosen for him this time.
She removed her gloves and shook his hand. Her palm and fingers were callused, likely from all the driving she did. “Lady Jennifer Buckingham. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Two hours later and all the men that could be saved were resting where they could find bedding. The ones who were stable but in serious condition waited to be loaded into Buckingham’s ambulance so they could be transferred to the nearest Allied hospital. When Rory stepped out of the tent, he found that most of the soldiers were gone. Their orders had been delivered it seemed.
The sky was streaked with orange, signalling the end of another day. It was hard to say if today had been a victory or not. The Allied forces might have gained some ground, but at the cost of thousands of lives. He couldn’t see them, but Rory knew the battlefield was littered with the bodies of the fallen. So many young faces and none of them would see their homes again.
Rory had experienced wars before, but this was completely different. A world war. A lot more was at stake than just the fate of one country. He knew how it all ended, of course, but standing there in the ruined countryside, with blood staining his clothes, he felt like that day was never going to come.
He tugged at the collar of his jacket. He didn’t sweat, but it was still stiff from the dirty rainwater that trickled down the sides of the trenches. A shower and a change of clothes would have been heavenly, but he didn’t see that happening anytime soon.
The canvas flap of the tent was thrown back and Buckingham stepped out. It wasn’t unusual to see female nurses on the battlefield but Rory still couldn’t get over the fact that she was a Lady. It made him admire her all the more. Her title suggested wealth, but here she was in the thick of it, putting her time and skills to good use.
“Lieutenant,” she greeted and somehow she found the strength for a smile. It had been non-stop in the tent, treating one causality after another. Rory felt fine, but he had the stamina of an Auton. He couldn’t see how Buckingham or the combat doctor were still on their feet.
“Lady Jennifer. Are you off then?”
She looked up at the darkening sky and sighed. “I suppose so. I don’t prefer driving in the dark, at least not with patients, but the hospital can do so much more for them.”
“I’d offer to come with you, but I’m waiting on new orders.”
“Of course. Perhaps we’ll meet again, but hopefully in a less stressful situation.”
“Hopefully.” They said their good-byes and Rory watched Buckingham walk back to her beat-up ambulance. She would be heading away from the front lines, but that was never a guarantee for a safe arrival. There were always stragglers after a battle. Any sort of vehicle was a tempting target when you were trying to make an escape.
He tried not to dwell on the thought as he went back to the trenches to wait with the rest of his battalion. He had resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t save everyone he met, but it still bothered him all the same.
Afforded a rare lull between campaigns, his fellow battalion members were resting up the best they could. For some, that meant taking a kip, for others it was having a cooked meal or putting on a dry pair of socks. Dry socks. Rory couldn’t believe that he could miss such a trivial thing until he got out here and he saw more cases of trench foot and did more amputations than he cared to remember.
He took to checking on old injuries his fellow soldiers had endured, to make sure none of the wounds were infected. It wasn’t about keeping them in their top physical condition so they could fight in another battle. Of the men that would make it out of the war alive, he didn’t want any of them returning home only to die from something as benign as an infection.
He was in the middle of redoing some stitches when the word came. Rory quickly finished up and then he went to speak with the man in charge.
The battered jeep sat lopsided upon the uneven ground. The headlamps were caked with a layer of dried mud, diffusing the amount of light they gave off. The driver was cast in silhouette, but Rory was still able to recognize him.
The coat was a dead giveaway.
“Captain.” Rory saluted with all of the seriousness he could muster.
Jack, dressed in a grey greatcoat not unlike his old ulster, smiled and even in the darkness it was luminous. “Lieutenant.” Jack saluted back but the smile never left his face.
Rory broke out into a smile, too, unable to keep a straight face. “It’s good to see you.” They hadn’t seen much of each other since Jack had convinced him to join the war effort. His rank as captain, real or not, kept him in different circles than Rory. He didn’t worry about Jack dying, but the man’s immortality didn’t mean that he was indestructible. Every death hurt.
Jack suddenly grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a hug. Rory caught a whiff of his greatcoat and while there were the usual smells of unwashed bodies, mud, and blood, there was something else, too. He was reminded of barns and swimming pools. Musty hay and chlorine.
Phosgene gas.
Rory hugged back. It didn’t matter if someone saw them. “How many?”
Jack shuddered. “Too many.”
Chemical warfare. Creeping fogs that killed. Yet another horror that Rory never thought he had to live through. His regiment had encountered chlorine gas once, but that stuff was tame compared to this new concoction. Phosgene didn’t always kill you right away, but when the symptoms settled in, it wasn’t an easy death.
Rory didn’t envy Jack’s ability to cheat death. He was forced to watch everyone around him die, time and time again, but he always came back unscathed. It was like endless torture.
They pulled apart, but Rory remained close. Jack took in a deep breath and let out an awkward laugh. “I need you.”
“Like I haven’t heard that one before.” He didn’t feel like joking, but it helped to bring some levity to the conversation.
“Needing you in that sense, ooh, I wouldn’t mind that, but I need you in another way. There’s an assault coming up and I want you to be there.”
“Why?”
“Nivelle Offensive. Did you ever read about it?”
Rory thought back to history class, or he tried to anyway. Even before he became a plastic Roman, his memories of his high school studies were a bit fuzzy. Add on top of that over 1500 years of new experiences and he was lucky to remember the address of his flat back in Leadworth. “Can’t say if I did.”
“It was supposed to end the war in forty-eight hours. It never happened. Most of the campaign was an utter mess. Vimy worked out all right, though. Got to love Canadian resourcefulness.”
“So you’re going to change history? Can you do that?” Rory thought of the Doctor’s parting advice before he hopped into the future. He hadn’t done well in the “staying out of trouble” department, but causing trouble was completely different. He had let history run its course, more or less, even when it could have used some changing.
“I tried once. It didn’t end well. Woke up two days later chained to a goat.” Rory opened his mouth to comment, but Jack kept talking. “I want you there to help with casualties. I’ve seen you work, I know how good you are. The survivors deserve the best.”
Rory was flattered to say the least. He wouldn’t have said he was the best. He just couldn’t stand by and watch people suffer. It was why he had asked to be a medic when Jack was setting up his fake identity. He was here to save lives, not end them. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as possible.” Jack reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Rory. “Transfer orders for your commander. You’ll be joining the Royal Berkshire Regiment of the 12th Division.”
“Give me ten minutes,” said Rory as he ran back to the trenches. He needed to grab his pack and his gun. Maybe he could find a clean pair of socks while he was as it…
They headed north to Bucquoy, a French village where the troops were gathering. The road was full of potholes from stray explosions and the jeep bounced over them with zero grace. Rory lost count of how many times he smacked the top of his head against the interior roof of the driver’s compartment.
As they got further away from the front lines, a bit more of the countryside could be seen beyond dead trees and mountains of mud. Rory spotted a lone pine tree that seemed to stand in defiance. No amount of fighting was going to take it down. He liked that.
Driving all out got them to Bucquoy just past midnight. With every window in every building blacked out to block out any light, it was impossible to tell that there was a village at all. It was only when the headlamps on the jeep cut through the darkness that Rory saw anything and then it was just glimpses. Run down shops, half destroyed homes, coils of barbed wire fencing in the village. He had to wonder if any of the villagers actually lived here anymore or did they all flee once the fighting got too close to their homes.
Jack pulled into the village square and stopped in front of one of the shops. There were rooms over top and just a hint of light escaped the very edges around the blacked out window. “The troops are scattered across the village, bunking where they can find the room. The Royal Berkshire are in the church if you want to join them. I need to report in.” He killed the lights, plunging the square into darkness again.
“Right.” Rory stepped out of the jeep, slinging his pack and his gun over his shoulders. His eyes adjusted almost immediately to the lack of light and he started forward. After a couple of steps, he turned back towards Jack. “Where is the church exactly?”
He heard Jack chuckle. “Keep heading down the street. You can’t miss it.”
There was no one out on the streets, at least, none that Rory saw. If there were soldiers patrolling the perimeter, they were very quiet. He found his pace quickening as the emptiness got to him. He had been surrounded by people since the start of the war. To be completely alone like this was rare. He hadn’t felt this isolated since his days wandering across South America with the Pandorica.
An image of the box in the Royal Collection warehouse appeared in his head. He had been reluctant to leave it behind, but Jack had assured him that their best people would keep an eye on it while they were away. Rory wondered if Vastra was sitting with the Pandorica right now.
The crescent moon broke through the cloud cover, allowing Rory to see the church steeple. The large stone cross atop it seemed to hover in midair thanks to the ghostly light. Jack was right about not missing it. The church had to be the tallest building in Bucquoy.
A barricade made of barbed wire, slats of timber, and piled sand bags obstructed the entrance to the church. Seeing as no one was watching, Rory easily leapt over it, barely disturbing the barbed wire wound around the top. He pounded his fist against the heavy wooden doors and waited to be admitted.
A narrow panel in the door was slid back and a pair of beady eyes stared out at Rory. The space beyond was lit by candlelight, but that was all he could see. “Second Lieutenant Robert Ross. I’m a recent transfer to the Royal Berkshire Regiment.”
The eyes narrowed just slightly. “Papers?” asked a gruff voice.
Rory reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumbled transfer orders, now bearing a signature from his old commander authorizing the relocation. He held it up to the panel and the paper was immediately snatched up. Then the panel slid shut again. He doubted that an enemy soldier would be so bold as to enter an Allied stronghold on his own, but he supposed that one could never be too careful, especially in a time of war.
A few minutes passed before the panel opened again. “Everything’s in order.” This time the voice was more polite. His orders were passed back to him and Rory shoved them back into his pocket as the doors were unlocked. They opened just enough so he could slip inside and they were quickly shut behind him once he was in.
Rory was familiar with village churches. He knew Leadworth’s thoroughly thanks to all of the wedding prep he and Amy had to do. Bucquoy’s, like Leadworth’s, was weathered but functional. The stone walls were cracked in places, but carefully applied plaster kept it together. The high, vaulted ceiling was black from decades of burning candles for light. The pews, now stacked along the sides of the room to accommodate all the soldiers, numbered in the dozens, hinting at the total population of Bucquoy. Tape and curtains covered up the stained glass windows, but the altar at the front of the room was untouched. No one had dared to bunk down near it.
“Colonel Myers is in a meeting at the moment,” said the door sentry, who turned out to be a young man probably no older than twenty-five. His cheeks were gaunt, suggesting he hadn’t seen a decent meal in months. “You can report to Major Kilburn, though.” He pointed to an older gentlemen seated in the far corner.
Rory nodded his thanks and wove his way through the ranks towards the major. He saw so many young faces.
Kilburn looked to be the oldest in the room, early thirties if Rory had to guess. He flipped through a Bible he had probably found in one of the pews. From the way his eyes scanned the page, it was likely he understood French.
Rory saluted. “Second Lieutenant Robert Ross reporting for duty, sir.”
The major looked up from the Bible. He had a pencil thin moustache and his dark hair was slicked back from his forehead. His hair was so oiled it gleamed in the candlelight. Instead of saluting back he held out his hand and Rory passed over his orders. He skimmed the contents and then said, “A medic. Good. We lost one of ours at Ypres. Hadn’t been able to get a replacement since.” Kilburn handed the paper back to Rory. “Bunk down where you can find room. I’m sure the men can get you caught up about the details of the campaign.” He went back to reading the Bible.
The man looked tired, but he seemed like the sort that wouldn’t admit to it. Promotions came fast out in the field. Rory wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Kilburn had started as low down as a lieutenant at the beginning of the war.
Rory scanned the room and he found a small patch of floor that didn’t seem to be occupied. He walked over and placed down his gun and his pack. He saw no point in unpacking anything if they could be called upon at any moment. Unbuttoning his jacket, he plopped down and leaned back against his bag.
Three years back he had brought a few books with him, but he had traded them over the years for needed supplies. He wished he had one now, even a French one would do, but he didn’t feel like cracking open a Bible like Kilburn. Rory looked around the room instead, taking in the soldiers that he would be caring for once the fighting started. Some snoozed while others played cards or wrote letters to home. It was a far cry from the coma ward at Leadworth Hospital. The people waiting there had hope, hope that their loved one would wake up. Here, there was only strained anticipation. What came next could bring glory or death.
The group of soldiers next to him, about six of them, were playing a card game. He wasn’t sure what they were doing at first. One soldier sat in front of the other five, flashing cards at them. It seemed like a memory game but then he noticed that only one in the group of five was answering. Then he noticed that only the back of the card was being shown. The soldier answering, who barely looked older than eighteen, would pause and think briefly, but he still provided a response like he had carefully thought it over.
Rory was drawn in by the oddness of it all. He leaned forward so he could see what was on the card. The current one was the ace of clubs. The boy stared at the card, thought for a moment, and then he spoke.
“The ace of clubs.”
A murmur of excitement went through the group. Another card was drawn and raised, the back still to the boy. Seven of diamonds. He stared hard at the card, like he had x-ray vision or something. A few seconds passed and then…
“Seven of diamonds.”
One of the soldiers slapped the boy on the shoulder while another ruffled his hair. “One more, Tim,” urged the soldier holding the cards.
The boy, Tim, seemed weary of the game, but he nodded his head anyway. Another card. The king of hearts. The Suicide King.
Tim’s fair eyebrows pulled down into a frown and for the first time it seemed like he might not get this one. Rory, along with the other soldiers, waited with bated breath. The boy’s eyes narrowed as he really concentrated.
“The king of…”
Everyone leaned in.
“Hearts.”
One of the soldiers let out a shout and he quickly slapped his hand over his mouth the second he realized his transgression. People nearby looked over at them but they quickly went back to whatever it was that they were doing, like they had seen this before.
Rory let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. He wasn’t sure what he just saw. Tim could have been guessing, but the odds were against him. Fifty-two cards, numbers one through ten, four different suits, and three different face cards. No one could simply guess and get it right three times in a row.
The soldier holding the cards turned back to put away the deck in his bag and he saw Rory staring at them. “Did you see?” he asked excitedly.
“Uh, yeah. What was that?”
“Tim knows what you’re thinking!” The soldier beckoned for Tim to come closer.
Up close, Rory saw that Tim was older than he initially thought. Not a boy, but not a man, either. Twenty years old, maybe. He still looked innocent, though, not hardened like some of the other young soldiers, which made him seem younger. He had big brown eyes, too, like he could gaze into your very soul.
“You’re new, aren’t you? Come on, Tim, do your thing. Tell us who he is.”
Tim fixed his gaze on Rory before he could protest. The only telepath he knew was the Doctor and then it was only through touch. Tim seemed like the kind that could pluck a thought from the air. Rory concentrated hard on his alias, repeating over the details Jack had created for him.
The seconds ticked by as Tim stared at Rory. He stared and he stared and then… Rory saw it flash quickly over his eyes.
Confusion.
“I don’t need convincing,” Rory said quickly. “I believe you.” The other soldiers moaned with disappointment as Tim sat back. He briefly looked up at Rory and gave an imperceptible nod of gratitude. “I’m tired. Are you tired? We should probably all get some rest.”
With their entertainment over for the night, the soldiers soon scattered, returning to their own spots. Rory made a show of lying down and resting his head on his pack while Tim stretched out on his down bedding. It wasn’t until he was sure that no one was watching did Rory turn over to address Tim.
“There’s nothing there,” Tim whispered. He stared up at the ceiling of the church.
“You can’t read me, can you?” Tim didn’t answer right away, giving Rory time to notice that Tim’s uniform was too big on him. It wasn’t just the malnutrition that plagued every regiment. The young man was of average height but very lean; he probably just made the height and weight requirements to make it into the army.
“You’re blank, like an empty canvas. There’s nothing to see.”
It made sense, Rory supposed. As plastic, he wasn’t living, so he had nothing to project. “About that-”
Tim looked over at him, a small smile on his lips. “It’s all right. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t mind, either. You’re quiet.”
“You can hear everyone all the time?” He couldn’t imagine having other people’s thoughts cluttering up your head.
“Not all the time.” The young man was starting to warm to the subject. He likely didn’t get much chance to talk about it seriously. “If I concentrate I can listen to anyone, but most times the thoughts just creep up on me.”
“Is that how people found out? You started talking about things they hadn’t mentioned to anyone?” He got a nod from Tim.
Rory had read articles about supposed telepaths and the experiments done on them. It was conspiracy theory sort of stuff, but maybe it wasn’t far from the truth. If anyone ever found out about the extent of Tim’s ability, they would likely try to exploit it for their own use. In a time of war, it was practically irresistible. To know what your enemy was thinking was an untold advantage.
Plastic soldiers and immortal men would be hot commodities, too.
“Tell you what. I’ll keep your secret and you keep mine.”
There was no hesitation on Tim’s part. Relief flooded his pale features. “Agreed.” He reached across and held out his hand to Rory. “I’m Timothy Latimer.” He smiled again, as if he had heard a particularly good joke. “What’s your name?”
Rory guessed it had been a long time since he had to ask that. They shook hands. “Robert Ross.”
No orders came in the middle of the night.
Instead of getting caught up on the details of the offensive, Rory just lay back and listened to the other men breathe. They all deserved to rest and they didn’t need him asking a flurry of questions that could wait until morning.
Rory always found himself in a strange limbo whenever there was a lull like this and the other soldiers were sleeping. He was part of the group but, at the same time, he wasn’t. He didn’t need to rest and it was a constant reminder that he didn’t belong, no matter where he was. When this was over, not just the war but when he got Amy back, too, he was always going to be a plastic soldier. What sort of life could he have with Amy when he couldn’t grow old, couldn’t have children.
He welcomed the dawn when it came. Stepping outside of the church, he watched the sun rise over the tops of the trees. The air had a chill to it but it wasn’t bitterly cold. Spring had come, but winter wasn’t going away completely without a fight.
In the early daylight, Rory got his first proper look at the village as he walked through the streets. It was all grey, like the war had leeched away every colour. Most of the buildings still stood, which probably meant the village had been part of a barrage but not an extensive one. He had seen entire towns destroyed from bombing just so troops could take the spot. It always seemed so counterintuitive. What was the point in claiming a strategic advantage when it didn’t exist anymore by the time the men reached it?
It was still too early for anyone to out and about. He could imagine, just for a second, that he wasn’t in a war. Instead, he was on a holiday in a quaint French village that was just waking up for the day and back in his lodgings Amy still slumbered beneath the covers. It was a silly dream but it helped to brighten his mood for a moment or two.
Back at the square, he spotted Jack’s jeep. The shop they had stopped outside of last night was a bakery; the lettering was still visible on the front window. Rory walked over and idly traced his finger over the “b” in boulangerie. There wasn’t the smell of freshly baked bread this morning. The entire village was a ghost.
The door opened and Jack stepped out. He always looked tired to Rory, maybe because of all the deaths he endured, but he looked absolutely exhausted today. There weren’t bags under his eyes or anything like that, but his entire body seemed to sag, like he had the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.
No, it wasn’t his deaths that weighed on Jack. It was the deaths of everyone around him. At this moment, Rory was sure that all Jack could think about was the men under his command that he had just lost. And here they were, about to charge into battle yet again.
“Hey,” greeted Rory.
Jack glanced around but there was no one nearby to overhear them. “Hey. Found your regiment all right?”
“Yeah.” He wanted to ask how Jack was doing, but he knew he’d just get a joke as a response. Having no desire to turn to small talk, Rory turned to discussing business instead. “I didn’t get a chance to ask about the offensive, though.”
Jack started down the street and gestured for Rory to follow him. “I’ll give you an overview.” They made hardly any noise as they walked along. “The French are attempting a massive assault about 50 miles from here. We’re the diversion. Three armies, each with their own objective. A creeping barrage started a few days ago to soften up the German defences. Royal Engineers have been digging out miles of underground tunnels since last year to house all of the men. We’re just waiting for the order to move out.”
“Sounds… involved.”
“Our part turns out okay, but the French’s offensive is, like I said, an utter failure. The French army will have mutinies after this. It’s not pretty.”
They walked on until they reached the edge of the village. Make-shift defences stood guard along the road leading in. It was amazing how much Rory had missed while driving through the dark. The two of them stood there for a minute or so, appreciating the stillness of the scene.
“I met a soldier,” said Rory and he immediately got a cheeky grin from Jack. “Not like that. He’s in my regiment. Tim Latimer. He’s telepathic.”
Jack, unsuccessfully, tried to wipe the grin from his face. “It’s been awhile since I met one. Powerful?”
“Not really. Thoughts don’t just come to him.”
“Still, you should be careful.”
“But that’s the thing. He can’t read me.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re not exactly an open book all the time.” Rory just glared at Jack and Jack just smiled back, but it was good to see his spirits lifted. “Seriously, though, it’s not as strange as you think. Latimer probably can’t read my mind, either.”
“Because of your immortality?”
“I had this friend who was given a telepathic pendant. She couldn’t get into my head, too. Said it was like trying to read a dead man.”
“But you’re not dead.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Keep an eye on Latimer anyway. He could be helpful in the future.”
Rory nodded his head, but he hoped it never came down to that. He looked out longingly at the road leading out of the village and then glanced back over his shoulder. “Ready to head back?” he asked.
Jack let out a shaky breath but then he stood up tall. “For King and Country.”
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