Chapter Text
November 11, 1939
Sunlight flooded through the windows of the main office, a place so often bustling with chatter now settled in a calm quiet. The Captain spotted Mckinney rising from her seat and headed towards her—weaving through the empty tables topped with phones, papers, and occasionally, photo frames of loved ones.
“Ah—Corporal, hello. Please send this to HQ immediately if you could. It’s rather urgent, you see.” The Captain handed Mckinney a small brown envelope, bouncing on his feet.
“Of course, sir.” Mckinney flipped the envelope in her palm.“May I ask what this is?”
“I’ve been working on some plans the Commander might like, hm. ‘Operation Bandwagon’ I call it. It’s a good one, I’m sure of it.”
The Captain beamed proudly at Mckinney, who in turn, offered him a confused smile. “I’m sure it is, sir.” She looked the Captain up and down. “I like the outfit. Suits you.”
“Thank you, Corporal,” said the Captain. Though he felt the slightest bit uncomfortable. He didn’t quite agree with her, for starters, and there was something in her eyes, the way she kept… smiling, one side raised a little higher than the other. He couldn’t quite place it.
“Well…” The Captain briefly glanced out the window and then back at McKinney, whose gaze had dropped to his chest. Ah. He cleared his throat, rather loudly—forcing Mckinney to look back up. “You can have the rest of the day off, Corporal. I’ve already dismissed the others. I’ll brief you all tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you Captain,” said Mckinney, cheerful. “I’ll just mail this then.” She patted his shoulder, which went stiff, and exited the room.
The Captain turned to the hallway, fidgeting with the side of his pants. The sound of Mckinney’s heels echoed off the floorboards.
Was that? No. It was… Hot. The Captain felt hot. His clothes, itchy. Loose too. He scratched at it. Who designed this? No, no, mustn’t say that. It was lovely. But horrible. Too white. Not stiff enough. Mckinney wasn’t married, was she? Great heavens. The Captain rushed to the door and pushed it open, pulling his cricket uniform in every which way.
Sunlight—a breeze! The Captain sighed in relief and breathed in the fresh fall air. Much better. He looked up, taking in the view. The sky was painted in lovely shades of blue and yellow. A few clouds drifted by. Rare as it was, it hadn’t rained that day—perhaps they’d be lucky tomorrow too. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? For morale. Cricket. Clear skies. Made them think less of why they weren’t home yet.
Keep calm, and carry on, as the Captain said. He watched his breath condense in the cold. It would be Christmas soon.
No matter.
He ventured forth, leaves crunching beneath his feet. The team were stationed just past the fencing, surrounded by the warm thick of the forest, and it momentarily occurred to the Captain to check his watch. He yelped, picking up his pace to a light jog.
Sergeant Jones spotted him first, offering the Captain a small wave—prompting the man in front of her to turn around.
“Sir! Hello, we were just waiting on you,” said Havers, stepping towards him. His vest, a size too small, clung to his torso in ways so unbecoming of a man.
The Captain’s brilliant technique was to simply not look at him. “I apologize for the delay, sorting out plans and whatnot. Ah, dismissing the troops.”
“It’s alright sir. We’ve still got enough daylight ahead of us.”
“Right, well…” Someone coughed, and the Captain turned his head to see the other nine people present. “Ah.” He stepped forward. “Good afternoon, troops! Ahem, now that we’re all here, here’s to the first official meeting of the Button House Eleven!”
They stared at him blankly. Expected.
The Captain sighed. “Now, we don’t win wars, or anything for that matter, with attitudes like that, don’t we? Hm? Come on now.”
A few quiet “hoorays” and unconfident cheers resounded.
“Better,” said the Captain, skeptical. They definitely needed to work on that. Manning a brigade was one thing, but getting grown adults to sound excited was another. “Now— a brief overview.” He pulled out a small notebook from his pocket, instinctively patting his chest first as a force of habit. “Before the day ends, we will do precisely twenty minutes of bowling, twenty minutes of fielding, and twenty minutes of batting. Drills can be done in either partners or teams of three.”
The group shuffled around, accompanied by the wooden sound of cricket bats clanking against each other.
“As a warmup, we will do a brisk jog around the estate. If you find yourself tired after this, I do suggest coming to my morning jerks at zero six hundred hours, on the dot every day. It would do you troops some good.” The Captain squinted at the team, who refused to meet his eye. “Erm, and after that, we can discuss fielding positions.”
In seconds, the Eleven burst into chatter—drowning out any attempt of the Captain to finish.
Herolds, a stout man past the age of fifty, stepped forward. “Now, now, lads—what I do know is that the wicketkeeper should be a man of experience.” He stuck his thumbs under his sweater vest like they were suspenders. “Dare I say, someone who has won a few trophies himself…”
“And when was that old chap? 1902?”
“Well, I—”
Laughter erupted. The Captain waved his hand frantically. “Settle, lads! Settle. Now, I know this is all rather exciting, but that does not condone any type of horseplay. Understand?” He squinted, producing vague, affirming sounds. “Yes, it is vital we take this practice very seriously, men and—and…” Havers smiled at him.
“And what, sir?” said Robinson.
“—and that we don’t get any mud on these uniforms,” said the Captain. “The local tailor was kind enough to make these for us, and our beloved housekeeper, Agatha, is on leave. So any filth that gets on your sweaters men, you’ll be washing yourself. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the Eleven replied.
The Captain smiled. “Splendid. Now, we need to be in tip-top shape for tomorrow, lads, so let’s get a move on. Pip, pip!”
—
About half way through the practice, the Captain discovered that the Eleven weren’t that bad. Not that he was expecting them to be rubbish, but he had doubts.
Robinson was quick on the field. Banberry had a strong arm, with a good aim for the wicket. Rivers could deliver an excellent bouncer, although it was inconsistent, and Jones could even manage a little spin.
However, not everyone was spring chickens. Poor Herolds and Borrowsby were half the time out of breath. Even when static. They had finished the run last and had sluggishly sputtered to a slow stop—gasping for air. Goodness. Havers, on the other hand, had finished yards ahead of them without a single drop of sweat. Not that the Captain was looking at his face, of course. Or his arms. Or the wonderful way his back arched when he squatted.
Good lord.
Leaning on his bat, the Captain stretched his left leg out in front of him. He winced. Cursing himself for miscalculating just how many squats he could do before his knees started producing a horrid popping noise.
It was ten. The number was ten.
He plopped his leg back down, testing it like a crank. “There—”
“Watch this, ladies!” a voice yelled. Prompting the Captain to look up.
Norris, a young brunette man, pranced down the center of the field with his cricket bat, wearing spectacles that made his eyes the size of golf balls. He stopped a good distance from the wicket and waved at Morgan and Fisher.
“We’re looking!” yelled Morgan, smiling in amusement.
He wasn’t about to throw the ball and bat it was he?
Norris steadied himself, threw the ball in the air, and… launched his bat instead. The wooden thing flew through the air quite spectacularly and landed a pathetic five feet away. He slumped. The ladies watching looked away, struggling to contain their laughter.
The Captain sighed, pitying the man. “Norris, I believe it is the ball you want in the air, not the bat!”
“Sorry, Sir,” said the Private, slowly moving to collect his fallen equipment.
“You saw that, right?”
Havers appeared beside the Captain, looking far too put together for the amount of strenuous activity he’d done prior. They stood an arm's length apart.
Safe.
“Yes, indeed,” said the Captain.
“Good god,” chuckled Havers. “That poor chap’s been trying to court them since day one.”
“Would I be taking a gander to say he’s been largely unsuccessful in this mission?”
Havers laughed—Christ, it sounded nice. “You wouldn’t be wrong there, sir,” he said, watching Norris wipe the fog off his glasses.
“Hm.” The Captain allowed himself to look at Havers then. Innocent mistake. He fiddled with his bat idly—cheeks flushed from the cold, sleeves rolled up just above his forearms. And there, where his muscle flexed beneath the skin, the Captain wondered what it would feel like to touch him.
He looked away.
Havers turned to the Captain. “Would you like to bat with me? From the looks of it they’ve already started.”
The Captain’s eyes went wide. “That would be splendid, but I have to…erm.” He sputtered, mind racing for an excuse.
“It’s alright, sir, I can—”
“No, I…” The Captain’s eyes finally landed on Norris. Slumped by a tree.
He slowly backed away. Face hot. “I would like to, but, uhm, I–I think Norris is in need of cricketing—is that a word? ‘Cricketing?’ Yes. Cricketing assistance. And as Captain, it’s my duty to…to… I do apologize, Lieutenant.” The Captain rushed away. Leaving Havers alone with a rather confused expression on his face.