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The wind blows cold this close to the ground. Willie is sure it was warmer in the belly of the aircraft, even before flames licked around the fuselage and sent him spiralling into a freefall that kept on after he hit the ground, only settling weeks later in this camp he's already forgotten the name of.
The camp's a squashed oblong hunched against the earth, he thinks. Not that he's seen it from the air - too far south, though with few towns or targets he's not sure.
"How much longer do you think it'll be?" he asks his latest guard.
A fair head looks up from the tales of Don Quixote. "Shouldn't be long now," Macdonald – 'everyone calls me Mac' – answers. He cups an unlit cigarette, still in a carefully military slouch on the step above Willie's, and adds, "You do know we have to be sure about these things."
Willie does know. The stream of Scots, English and Canucks who've stuck close, passing him on like a wary dog, had told him that. That he might bite. Probably wouldn't, but it'd be a great idea to sit here in plain sight and make friendly, trivial conversation. Willie had talked more about West Ham's chances here than he'd ever done in London. He'd come out of that nursing more than one bruise – damn Spurs man. It's still pointless, sitting here, whittling at a scrap of wood and waiting. "He's taking his time a bit, isn't he?"
"Not quite a waste of time," Mac says. He takes a tin can and props it against the steps to their left. Halfways across the camp some kicks a battered football against a hut wall and the signal passes through dropped rakes and whistled tunes, moving faster than the ferret hurrying down by the wire.
It's a couple of hours later when a steady pace of boots against earth approach. Macdonald ricochets up, tucking a finger into his book as goes over to talk to the man Willie doesn't know. He's battered, about Willie's height – a little taller maybe - dark hair flat against his scalp.
Willie can't hear more than a few words, and turns his concentration to the mauled piece of wood in his hands.
"Willie!" Macdonald calls over to him. "I'll just leave you in Danny's capable hands." He nods and walks away as the other man – Danny – approaches.
Danny offers a hand and Willie stands up, shoving the half-misshapen-horse-half-piece-of-wood into his left hand. Then he decides that's too awkward and stuffs it into his trouser pocket before taking Danny's hand.
"Are you my latest escort, then?" Willie asks him.
Danny's eyes crinkle at that. "No. I thought we might try something else. I hope you're not going to be too disappointed."
"Definitely not," Willie is very sure about that. "So, what are we doing?"
"Tell me Willie," Danny says slowly. "How do you like to dig?"
~~~
Willie watches him. It's like an itch under Danny's skin. A third and fourth hand that passes him the tool that was just too far, that flicks out a tattered decks of cards into waiting hands, that presses him still as the ferrets set their traps and measures above them.
Danny thinks it should bother him. Goons and ferrets and guards surveilling them is almost normal now. It's a game of hide-and-seek with maybe deadly stakes, but one at a distance.
This isn't, and he should hand Willie a cigarette, slap him on the back and walk away.
He should.
~~~
Four months later and Willie isn't regretting the hours of slow painful digging, the bouts of cramp that struck right when holding still.
He isn't thinking of anything but the ten feet of earth above his head. The clammy clay soil that he tries to spit out of his mouth, that coats the back of his tongue and presses him down. Willie moves the arms and legs as much as he can before the earth compacts around him. He knows the tunnel's only short way from the shaft and he stretches out, reaching for beyond the collapse.
One foot breaks through and he feels his ankle gripped tightly. A sharp yank jerks him backwards. The soil clings to him, sliding inside clothing, running up nose and mouth as he splutters and twists.
It's only few minutes before Willie is out of the collapse. He hacks and spits up again, forcing out the dirt.
"Your first tunnel collapse," Danny says, flickering in the light of a fat lamp.
"First and last," Willie says with a bravado he doesn't feel and neither of them believes, adding, "I think you just about pulled my foot off," in complaint.
Danny loosens his hold on Willie's foot. Both their eyes flick away from the imprint of fingers on flesh. "You are far too sturdy for me to break," Danny says. "And the fall has done you no harm."
Pushing up onto his elbows, Willie's not certain of that, but turns to look back at the fallen earth. "I think it's maybe eight feet?"
"We will see," Danny says and reaches for a coil of knotted string. Willie watches as he jams one end of the spike into the ground between them and tugs loose one end.
Seven knots on the cord mean Willie came close with his guess. He grins in relief and the satisfaction pulls him through the hours of digging and shifting of dirt. Word passes down and Willie takes a moment to relax, letting his tensed muscles go, just to lay there – aches and pains reminding him that he's still here.
The dirt has mostly dried on him, and he scrambles into his shirt and jacket, pulling layers on after layers. Danny's lacing up his boots when Willie looks up. He stands up, and brushes past Willie – the entrance chamber isn't built for comfort or space – and dips his hands in the water tins dug into the side of the wall.
"Stand still," he says and Willie does. Danny's hands are cold and wet and incredibly steady as they run through Willie's hair, coming away dark with soil, a careful frown on his face.
"There," Danny says with a snort of satisfaction. "Now you look pretty enough that you will not give the goons nightmares."
"Thanks, Danny." It's easier to say that when they're both pulling their way into the light. "Not for the-" Not for dragging him from the earth when that's just the right thing to do and Willie won't thank him, won't thank anyone for doing that.
"It's nothing," Danny says, as they move rakes and other gardening tools to disguise the planks over the entrance.
~~~
"And we'll need you to stay behind on this one, Willinski."
"But that- that's not right," Willie bursts out.
Roger bristles, Danny can see the hackles on the rise as the squadron leader turns away from him.
"It's a five man job at most," Roger lists off. "That much's been known from the start. We haven't the papers for more, and Danny's needed here."
Danny isn't surprised at what he's been told. Eleven tunnels and only three times has he made it beyond the wire and guards before being picked up by patrols, or one time an irate farmer who didn't like his barn being imposed on for a night.
Willie launches up from his seat, trying to stare him down, and if it were the old man he might manage it, Danny doesn't know, but Roger is stubborn enough when he's simply himself, let alone when he's Big X.
He leaves them to it, finds Haynes wrangling a few men into teams, shaking off their attempts to recruit him into what seems to be an overcomplicated relay race. It's a fine day, sun shining over rolling hills that are beyond his grasp for a little longer. Danny stands and looks. He's been spending too much time underground or inside.
Hunger is starting make complaints to his stomach when he hears Ramsey's approach. The new DSO has a limp and a cane for effect as much as for balance. Danny's not sure how he's managed to keep it so long where shakedowns are more the rule than the exception. Roger's at his side, looking more ruffled than usual.
"Willinski."
Danny looks up. "It's Danny, sir."
"Of course," Ramsey accepts the correction with a nod. "It looks like rain."
"It is October," Danny replies. "Maybe it will."
"Just try and keep your man under control," Roger snaps out, cutting across the conversation.
"Willie is his own self when we're above ground." Danny says in argument. And for months now, also when they're not. Willie knows most of it; Danny hasn't much left to say that he hasn't already given. "I'll talk to him, but…"
"It's not that we don't want you on this one, Danny," Roger says in almost explanation.
"I know, I know," Danny interrupts. "It is just that now is not the time." He knows this, understands this and is trying not to listen to the little voice of relief, whispering behind him that he's made it. Another tunnel that hasn't crowded in and taken him and one that now won't get the chance.
"Good," Roger's voice always sounds surer when a decision's been made. "Perhaps he'll listen to you."
"All just a storm in a teacup," Ramsey suggests when Roger's left them, striding off towards the setting sun.
"Yes," says Danny, knowing it to be true. Willie is too much part of the team now for it not to be so.
~~~
"It's a clear one tonight, Danny." The shutters creak as Willie jams them shut. It rained only two weeks ago and the wood swelled. Now? Now they fight to be closed, leaving a draft that is only remembered when the wind blows sharply from the east at night.
Danny nods; a glimmer of movement that is more felt than seen. Harry needed more wire, one hundred feet of it, and so several of the huts have suddenly developed problems of electricity. Hendley has assured everyone it will only be temporary, but Danny and Willie have heard too many promises to expect to see it over by Christmas. They rely now on what wood can be spared.
"A good night for air raids," Danny says, as he hears the familiar creaks that tell him Willie has settled in his bunk. Strange, what you get used to, he thinks, tugging at his blanket in search of a warmer position. The room is quieter, Stevens and McLeod waiting out a night in the cooler after putting on a show for the guards at appell.
"There's nothing out here," Willie says. "We're miles from anywhere."
"You don't know that," Danny argues. None of them do know exactly where they are. North and east from where they were, but that's a lot of country to be lost in, if they- when the two of them make it out of here.
"Exactly my point," Willie taps the boards between them, emphasising his words. "If we don't, we may as well hand ourselves over politely just outside the gates."
"When we finish the tunnels, then we will think of how to go," Danny tells him. "The others will find out the details, Big X will make sure of it. Digging our way out – that is our job."
"Seventeenth time lucky, I suppose." Willie's voice is quieter, drifting into a breathy pattern etched out with low snores.
Danny holds his eyes on the crack of moonlight spilling under the shutters, listening until sleep hits him.
~~~
A man should only be buried once.
Danny knows he's a walking dead man. It makes it easier, a little. To know that he is not the same man who fled his country, who came through ice and snow and Russians and Swedes to climb into a cockpit that sang under his touch and then broke apart under his hands.
Harder is when he forgets – when he watches.
Willie is sitting awkwardly on a chair in the centre of the room. A grey white sheet is pinned up behind him, Blythe and Larsson are fussing over a camera, muttered words like 'focus', 'plane', and 'angle of light' drifting over to him.
Griff is kneeling in front of Willie, checking seams and holding coloured patches against his clothes. "That should be alright," he says, and stands up, whisking the fabric into an inside pocket. "You're sure the insignia's secure there?"
Willie touches the swathe of material about his head, fingers pressing down as he nods. It's his hat and fits, the rest of what he's wearing is Danny's and doesn't quite.
"If you could just move aside, Griffiths." Blythe already has an eye fixed to the camera. "Try not to smile," he tells Willie.
Larsson taps the closed door and the light flashes. Everyone freezes for a moment, holding their breath and an answering knock – twice – echoes through the wall.
"I think we're done here," Blythe says, turning to Danny. "We'll let you know when we have more film." He picks up the camera and Larsson takes down the sheet and unlocks the shutters.
In a few moments Danny and Willie are the only ones left in the little room at the end of one-oh-nine.
"We're almost there, Danny," Willie says, shifting quickly out of escape gear and into his own uniform. "Do you ever think about it, if we actually get out, if we make it?"
"No." And that's all Danny says. He wants to get out, to get away, to- he's not exactly sure any more but it's what keeps him going down again and again. Not the only thing, he thinks, looking back at Willie as they leave the hut, but the rest he'll lose when they're out of here, if he lasts that long without breaking.
~~~
"I think we'd better not," Willie says and Danny's hand freezes on his leg.
They're both sitting on Willie's bunk, and Danny's heart is racing from not going over the wire, the ball of adrenaline still wound up tightly in his chest.
"I shouldn't have told you," Danny says. You shouldn't have stopped me, he thinks.
"Don't be daft," Willie's still close to him, still hanging on to Danny's arm tight enough to leave marks. Danny's not sure why; he lost his nerve, he trusted- he's committed to staying now, to another crawl through that tunnel because…
"It's not that," Willie tells him. "I think we might break it." He knocks against the side of the bed. "There's more wood gone than here."
A look of concentration settles on Willie's face as he pulls Danny forward and kisses him like he's not letting go. Not now, Danny thinks, and doesn't slam himself on the thread of hope that he won't – maybe not when they're out, maybe not when the war's over, maybe not ever.