Work Text:
31st October 1942
On All Hallow’s Eve, the veils between worlds grow thin, gossamer boundaries tugged taut enough for spirits to slip through. They seek out those they love, or those they last saw in life, clinging to the living as they would a buoy in the sea. Most will never see them, too dazzled by the light or masked in the darkness. It is only in the half-light, when a shaft can cut across the spectre, that the edges become clearer. Their voices are a whisper, an echo of what once was, and can be dismissed as easily as a daydream. But in war, all are haunted by death, more willing to seek and believe the visions before them.
As in all times, some spirits are hostile, lurking in the periphery of those who killed them. Half-formed from memories that were half-seen to begin with - a glint of eyes, a flash of teeth - twenty-five of them dog the steps of Johnny Cooper. He knows not their names, nor does he pay them much heed. He understands, even with his handful of years, that their deaths likely staved off his own. He chooses to ignore each glimpse he catches, not dwell on the choices that lead to the phantoms that trail him. He has watched others troubled by their encounters with the enemy, but, as yet, feels none of it himself. So, even tracked by ghosts, Johnny still finds himself on Hallowe’en with a grin on his face and a quip on his tongue. It is easier to pretend they are not even there.
Bill Fraser knows who his ghost will be, the same that has visited him for many Samhains past. He has remembered that candlelight is best to reflect the edges of the shade, and has set two burning candles across the tent. The dog senses the visitor first, ears pricking upwards, a growl rumbling in his canine throat. Bill strokes Wither’s side, soothing his canine companion with a deep hum in his throat. Once the dog has settled, Bill lifts his eyes to the soldier before him. He is the same as ever, the same as the picture on his mother’s mantlepiece. Khaki uniform, mud clinging to hems, tin hat bound to the chin. A man who never truly left the trenches.
“Full Lieutenant now?” Gruff, the spirit gestures at the epaulettes. Bill just nods with a smile.
“Not the Gordon’s anymore?” The ghost flicks his gaze to the insignia stitched to the living man’s shirt, a frown twisting the translucent face.
“No, Da. This is something different.”
Jim Almonds finds his ghost in his tent, spine taut and tall as ever in life. The spirit's neat uniform is a far cry from Jim’s own shabby attire, half-caked in dirt and dust from many months in the desert. He pauses on the threshold, a desert sunbeam streaming in to make his Lieutenant seem solid again.
“How’s our unit, Almonds?” Jock Lewes barks, a smile tugging at the corner of his phantom moustache.
“Very well, sir.”
“Good, good.” As the shade paces, he slips in and out of the light, fading briefly back into oblivion. “And Tobruk?”
Jim hesitates, pinning back the tent flap to maintain the shaft of light. News of the city’s fall in July had been a blow, tinged only with the relief that Jock would never know. He steps into the tent fully, eyes fixed on the man he left behind, and he tells the story of the desert that Jock never got to know.
The candlelight paints Paddy’s book in soft yellow tones. The noises of the outside world fade away, the words consuming his attention entirely. In the words of the poets, all can be forgotten, all can be as it was. He can lull himself into the belief that he can be at home again, that everyone is safe. He refuses to pay heed to the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.
At the end of the page, Paddy shifts, the book dipping enough for him to finally notice the figure hunched at the end of his bed. Propping himself onto his elbow, Paddy eyes the man, the long limbs folded up, elbows resting on knees. The curly hair tips across the forehead, unruly as ever. Paddy reaches out, but his fingers pass through the edges of the shade as easily as smoke.
“Why didn’t you say something?” he whispered, dropping his book to the floor.
Eoin shook his head, a smile cracking across the echo of his face. “No, love. You don’t like to be interrupted when you’re in the middle of Blake.”
31st October 1943
Summer had clung to Italy for longer than they had expected. While not sweltering like the desert, they still spend their days sweating. It is only in the evening and the setting of the sun that they can feel more comfortable.
Dave’s cigarette lights up the gloaming, the burning ember catching a hint of an outline. Squinting, Dave takes another drag, the spectre becoming clearer in the bloom of light. The ghost remains silent, little more than the whites of eyes staring back at him. Eyes they had cut free from a barge, condemning to a watery grave.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Dave whispers to the shade. Bile creeps up his throat, an oil slick of disgust still coating every decision they made that night in the Mediterranean. He drops his cigarette to the ground, crushing out the light so he doesn’t have to see the eyes again.
Reg sits in the darkness, limbs leaden, throat raw. He doesn’t need the half-light to know the ghosts are there. He doesn’t need to see them, to hear them. They are with him always, burned onto the backs of his eyelids. The kind family, destroyed because of them, because of him. The brave father, the warm mother. The beautiful sister, her eyes twinkling with mock chastisement. The boy, staring up at him with big brown eyes.
“Voglio stare,” Matteo whispers in the dark.
“I wish you hadn’t,” Reg murmurs back. “You may still be alive if you hadn’t.”