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The air raid sirens began to wail in the early evening, cleaving through the calm dusk like a bullet through barbed wire. It scared the birds out of the trees and set tired hands fumbling for gas masks.
The shelter at Button House was warped tin and faded concrete, set deep in the waterlogged ground. The patchy layer of turf atop it hid it from any watchful enemy eyes that may have passed overhead. A flickering bulb barely illumated the wooden benches, the atmosphere thick and clammy as dozens of men crammed themselves into the cramped space.
The Captain stood in his office. He clutched at the straps of his tattered gas mask box like a life rope, eyes screwed tightly shut against the shriek of the sirens. He was frozen in place, trapped in a cage of his own making. The noise was death and fear and something terrible creeping over the horizon, but that was no attitude for a fighting man like him.
He inhaled, taking a deep breath into his shaking lungs. He should try and get some work done, since he didn't seem to be able to leave the room. It was likely a false alarm, anyway. Nothing ever happened in this obscure part of nowhere, and he doubted that that was going to change any time soon.
As he began to turn back towards the stacks of paperwork resting on his desk, he was interrupted by the scratched-record crackle of someone clearing their throat behind him. "Sir."
He flinched at the sudden noise, fighting down the rising nerves that tore at his chest like a swarm of angry bees as he turned towards the voice. Havers. It was just Havers. His Lieutenant's eyes met his for a brief moment, and he tried in vain to calm the staccato thumping of his heart, the moths that tumbled from the deepest reserves of his mind into his stomach.
They were moths, not butterflies, for these feelings were not beautiful things. They belonged to the darkness, creatures to be hidden away, to only be unearthed on the darkest of moonless nights when the crushing loneliness became too much to bear.
He was drawn to Havers like a moth to a flame, that fatal, irresistible attraction that would be the end of him were he to act on it. All he wanted was to bask in those oil-slick eyes, to sink into their depths and bathe in the endless warmth within.
"At ease, Lieutenant. Shouldn't you be in the shelter with the rest of the recruits?"
"If you don't mind me saying, sir, so should you. I noticed that you weren't with the others leaving the house, so I thought that I should check on you."
It was duty. It was duty, and not true affection, that had led Havers to return to see if he was alright, because if he strayed down that dark path, let himself imagine that he saw something of his own feelings flash in those golden eyes when they met his from across the room, he would never be able to restrain himself again.
It amazed him that anyone, let alone Havers, had even noticed that he was gone. Him, who was barely more than a fly on the wall despite his high rank. He cleared his throat, picking up a pile of papers from the table and absent-mindedly thumbing through them, if only to give himself something, anything, to do with his empty hands.
"Well, you know how it is, Lieutenant. I had paperwork, important business. The war won't be won by running off willy-nilly when there's work to be done."
Havers gave him a soft smile that tore through the wreckage of his already-ruined heart. "You sorted through that paperwork only yesterday. I'm sure that the war effort can wait an hour or two for you to get back."
Fool. He was a fool for trying to lie to his Lieutenant. Havers crossed the room towards him in a few strides, reaching over to take the papers from his arms, and he had to catch his breath to stop himself from releasing a shocked gasp.
This close, he could see every tiny freckle on Havers's skin, the flecks of emerald in his treacle eyes. The elegant curve of his eyelashes fluttered against his pale cheeks, soft as feathers and just as beautiful. His gaze dropped to those lips, curved upwards in some silent mirth, and for a moment, he almost dared himself to close the distance between them. He wanted to jump over barbed wire and dodge landmines, bullets whizzing past his head, to break through enemy lines for the first time in his life.
Then it was over, Havers moving away to place the files on the desk. He cursed himself for that momentary lapse in judgement, that foolish endeavour that could have spelled the end of everything he had worked for, everything that he had grown to love. All it would take was one word from Havers to the authorities and he would be ruined.
He turned towards the window, trying to hide the expression on his face, to distract himself while he regained his composure. The sunset cast the last of the retreating recruits in a soft glow. He thought, for a moment, of the inside of the shelter, the rows of men shoved shoulder to shoulder like sardines in a tin. He could already hear the noise, smell the potent sweat and aftershave that would congeal in such an enclosed space.
He couldn't do it. He just couldn't, couldn't stand to spend hours in that tiny shelter, trapped below the earth and unable to move, to even breathe. His chest began to hitch, tightness setting in, and Havers seemed to sense the change in his posture, in the way he held himself.
"It's probably too late to go out there now, anyway, sir. They would only ask questions. We might as well stay put."
He turned gratefully towards the man, but Havers glanced towards the ceiling, a glint in his eyes. "I have an idea for where we could go instead."
----
The roof of Button House was slanted, the slate damp from months of rain. Havers held out a hand to him, and he took it, praying that the Lieutenant didn't notice that it was slightly clammy, as he pulled himself up through the hatch.
As he turned towards the edge, though, all thoughts of the man beside him, the hand in his own, were lost. The green hills rolled on forever, punctuated with small clusters of houses like pieces on a great chess board. The entire scene was covered in a patchwork blanket of farmsteads and fields, woodland and meadows stretching off into eternity. It stole the breath right out of his lungs.
Havers slid down onto the tiles, dropping his hand and swinging his legs over the edge as he threw all caution to the void. "You should sit down, sir. It's better sitting down."
His knees shook, the old ache betraying him, but he did as Havers asked, wincing a little as he did so. The Lieutenant was right. He felt like he was soaring over infinity, a Spitfire pilot flying against the wind, the universe in his heart and fire in his veins. He was free and he was alive and this was what it felt like to be truly human.
"How did you find this place?"
Havers looked over at him, tearing his eyes from the panorama before them. "I was looking around, searching for some stray soldiers, and I happened to stumble across the trapdoor. I've been coming up here every so often since."
It rendered him nearly speechless, that simple act of courage in sharing this place and trusting that he wouldn't tell anyone. It gave him a little bit of bravery, a glimmer of light among the cowardice that penetrated his soul. "Thank you." It was not just for this moment. It was for so much more, for a lifetime of loneliness that had come to an end, for a reason to get up in the morning, for providing the beat of his heart.
Havers began to open his mouth to reply something, but he was cut off by the distinctive sound of an engine cutting through the night. A plane, and judging by the air raid sirens earlier, not an Allied one. It was heading home from London, exchanging the wartorn city streets for the empty darkness of the countryside.
It was a dangerous journey, crossing the channel cloaked in shadow, avoiding the anti-aircraft guns and barrage balloons that peppered the way. The silhouette drew closer, and it dragged with it billowing smoke that clung to its wings, flame licking at the tips.
It tilted to one side, one wing almost entirely blasted off. It became apparent then that this was no triumphant return. It was a death march. It listed nearly sideways, and as it passed over the woods at the edge of the property, it began to spiral, spinning like a helicopter seed falling from a peaceful autumn bough.
"Good lord."
Havers said nothing at all, silent as the plane sunk lower and lower in the sky, as it tipped past that point of no return, diving endlessly downwards like a comet ripping from the heavens. He did not speak as the crash ripped through the unearthly silence that permeated the night, as throughout the village babies began to cry, as the occasional lamp shone through the enforced darkness.
There would be no rescue. As the stars began to rise in the sky, they sat there, side by side, both shaking at what they had seen. They would investigate in the morning. For now, everything had stopped. It would not begin again until the sun lit the world once more.
---
The children of the village ventured outside early in the morning, chasing the sunrise as they searched for shrapnel and salvageable parts to show their classmates in school later that day. They clambered through the wreckage, taking only what they found interesting.
Many had come from London, evacuees from the jaws of the Blitz. They had seen war at its most brutal, been witness to hell on earth, and so they did not flinch at the bodies of the two German pilots within the cockpit. They carried on. Those two were far from the first casualties of the war, and certainly not the last.
It was grocery store gossip, whispered rumours over ration cards, hushed people gathered around a radio to hear any news from London. It was soldiers chattering, wishing they had seen the crash. It was stolen glances over coffee, eyes that had seen the stars fall from the sky and lived to tell the tale.
It was a bond that time could not break. It was an enemy lost, an evening spent in silence, the all clear siren finally unfreezing their blood from where they sat on the lip of the roof, sending them back down to their respective beds.
It was a beginning, and an end, and so much more.