Chapter Text
But now, since I shall not return to my
fatherland…
nor did I bring one ray of hope to my
Patroclus,
nor to the rest of all my steadfast
comrades,
countless ranks struck down by mighty
Hector –
No, no, here I sit by the ships…
a useless, dead weight on the good
green earth.
The Iliad, book 18, lines 118-123
Robert Stirling was well aware that he was walking into the lions den — the loss of Eoin had showed the cracks in Paddy Mayne, cracks which he had sought to exploit, for what he said was the good of the team, but in actuality had been a balm to his own wounded pride over the disaster of that had been Operation Squatter. So many lives gone, and he knew that he was at least partially to blame . . .
One of the men from the deep desert patrol who still stayed occasionally at their base in Jalo was leaving the tent when he approached. Stirling recognized him as the one who usually acted as a medic for the group, when needed.
Not waiting for any kind of military address, for he knew he would get none, Stirling asked, “How is McGonigal?”
“Wouldn’t say he’s fighting fit,” The man said in a low voice, glancing back over his shoulder. “Any longer out there and they’ve have brought back a corpse.” Blunt, the words stripped of gentleness, the product of a man too long in the desert himself. “He’s got a fever — though the wounds have been taken care of, sand is tricky. If I thought it would help, I’d recommend we take him to the hospital camp. But . . .” Mouth twisting, obviously warring within himself, American bluntness tempered in the face of English gentility.
“I think them being together is probably the best medicine he’ll get at the moment.” Shrugging. And after waiting for any follow up on Stirling's part, the man left with a courteous nod.
Blinking, Stirling made no move to get closer to the tent flap, processing what he’d just heard. For it had confirmed the thoughts that had been in his mind but which he’d sought not to put form to up until now.
Where you found one, you found the other.
Remembering how it had been McGonigal who’d come to him with news of Paddy being in the stockade, how he’d asked — more like demanded — that Stirling go and talk to him himself about the SAS. Remembering how it had been McGonigal who Paddy had always followed around like the taller man was his northern star. Remembering Paddy’s worsening moods and madness after Eoin was thought to have been lost in the Storm and the Fall.
Remembering how he himself had seen it all happen, and hadn’t known what to do or say in the face of such obvious, potent grief.
Lost for words, for once.
Squaring his shoulders, he approached the tent, calling out before intruding inside, “Paddy — it’s Stirling!”
Silence. Then a low murmur. “. . . come!”
A small part of him bristling at the casual manner of the order, even though he was the superior, he drew back the tent flap, stepping inside, giving his eyes a few moments to adjust to the comparative dimness of the tents interior.
Seeing the protective gleam in Paddy’s eye, he was glad for his caution, for his fellow officer was like a lion guarding his den, putting himself between Stirling and McGonigal’s prone form. Laying on his stomach, McGonigal’s head was turned towards the entrance, stripped down under the blankets, what parts of him that remained exposed were wrapped in bandages where blood had still occasionally seeped through, despite the several days he’d already been bedridden.
“Lt. McGonigal,” Stirling address the elephant in the room. “It’s good to see you alive.” And it really was — one less death on his own personal tally.
“It’s good to be alive, sir,” McGonigal replied with a ready smile on his lips, though it was made dimmer by exhaustion and the paler of the fever. Still, it was the same smile that Stirling remembered, for the man had always been one to laugh at anything and everything, even Paddy’s rages (if only the petty ones).
“Are you here for a report?” Paddy asked, voice deceptively calm. “Thought I told you to wait.”
“It’s been more than three days, Paddy,” Stirling tried to be reasonable.
“And whatever has kept for that long can keep for still longer,” Paddy snarled. Though he quieted down when Eoin reached out a placating hand, murmuring something in Gaeilge that Stirling could neither hear nor understand. Paddy murmuring back.
It seemed to Stirling that it was a language which suited Paddy’s inherent lyricism, like the sea had come to the dry land.
Judging that it was safe to pursue his goal, Stirling asked, “Would you like Paddy to remain, McGonigal?”
“. . . aye, sir.” Was Eoin’s soft reply.
Though they both knew that Paddy wasn’t going to like anything he heard. But . . . undoubtedly it was better to have it all out in the open between the three of them.
“I would appreciate truthfulness,” Stirling commented as he sat on another chair that was in the tent. “However,” crossing his legs and raising an eyebrow sardonically. “How much of the truth actually gets into the report I send on is up for debate.” Grinning with all his teeth. Eyes softening at the relief he sees in McGonigal’s gaze. Prompting, “Whenever you’re ready.”
And he sits, listening to the story of an actual Desert Ghost who had again joined the ranks of the Living.
So such was I
in the ranks of men . . . or was it all
a dream?
This Achilles —
he’ll reap the rewards of that great
courage of his
alone, I tell you — weep his heart out far
too late,
when our troops are dead and gone.
The Iliad, book 11, lines 907-911
It feels like his fault.
Paddy had taken his habitual spot just outside their camp, in the shade of the broken walls of Jalo. Everyone knows better than to disturb him, given his already mercurial moods.
Looking out into the distance and seeing nothing, Paddy’s mind returns again and again to all that Eoin had revealed in his debriefing. Paddy’s nightmares made flesh.
It had been such a relief to see Eoin — alive — that it hadn’t sunk into until recently how much better off Eoin might have been to have been dead. At least the Fall would have been cleaner, not the drawn up torment of deprivation and then torture. Giving up the battle with his stomach at last, bile having churned in his stomach since he’d heard the testimony. Throwing up mostly stomach acid and a little liquor onto the sand, burying it right after to stop the smell from spreading. A headache now pounding through his skull. Pain upon pain.
Pain which he richly deserved.
Because it had all been because of him, in the end.
It was Eoin’s connection to Paddy which had gotten him chosen as a sacrificial lamb.
Patroclus to my Achilles.
At least the SS man had been a well read bastard.
When he’d found the sign left to signal Eoin’s judgment at the hands of their enemies, he had not made any particular correlation to himself as a motive, just that Eoin’s being a part of the SAS had made him a target. But to hear from Eoin’s lips the truth of it — that it had been planned specifically to hurt Paddy . . . it was a truth that Paddy had not yet learned to live with, and a truth he was not sure he would ever resign himself too.
If he could, he would raze the whole desert to avenge Eoin.
But, at it was, he could only content himself with the thought of finding the SS man. If ever their paths crossed — and Oh! He intended them to! — there would be a Reckoning!
Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the American, their medic for all occasions, approach where he perched, thinking dark thoughts.
“He’s asking for you.”
Paddy merely looked at him.
“He’s about as stubborn as you,” was the observation. “Seeking's won’t be able to keep him abed for long, if McGonigal puts it in his mind to come and find you himself.”
Guilt momentarily forgotten in the face of further harm coming to Eoin, he took off towards the invalids tent, muttering under his breath about ‘stubborn bastards,’ arriving to the sight of Eoin on his feet beside his cot, Johnny propping him up and Reg trying to be a voice of reason, for once.
“— done in! You’ll just hurt yourself, McGonigal!”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Eoin muttered. Looking up to see Paddy appear. “But it appears that the mountain has come to Muhammad, my friends,” already sagging in Johnny’s arms, fruit ripe for the plucking as Paddy swooped in to get Eoin back to bed, fussing in a way that he would fiercely deny later. Johnny and Reg quickly making themselves scarce. Though Paddy was sure that they’d keep watch to make sure that there was no more foolishness, on either his or Eoin’s parts.
Muttering invectives and pleas in turn, Paddy eventually ran out of things to say, silence filling the tent. Eoin watching him through half open eyes, clearly exhausted by the effort it took to stand, sweating and pale, but shivering in a way that made Paddy wish that Jalo was not so far from civilization.
“. . . it’s not your fault, Paddy.”
Paddy could not look at him.
“But you’ll believe me, someday,” Eoin said, eyes sliding closed, obviously the better for having his guardian nearby. “I’ll just have to keep telling you that, aye?”
And maybe Paddy would, someday.
But not today.
Today he let himself feel like the villain he sometimes was. Though he put his own hurts aside to tend to Eoin’s, taking the wet towel from the bowl nearby, partly full of precious water, starting to wipe away the sweat on his friend's brow.
“Sleep now, lad,” he said softly. “I’ll watch over you.” For that is the least of my Penance.
And Eoin sleeps. Because how could he not trust in such myriad layers of devotion?
And Paddy plans.
There is a future for him now, (whether or not Eoin is a part of it), and many letters will need to be written for Eoin to be truly back among the Living.
And now . . . Paddy must rejoin the Living as well.
But Ajax,
shielding Patroclus round with his broad
buckler,
stood fast now like a lion cornered
round his young
when hunters cross him, leading his
cubs through wood –
he ramps in all the pride of his power,
bristling strength,
the heavy folds of his forehead frowning
down his eyes.
So Ajax stood his ground over brave
Patroclus now.
The Iliad, book 17, lines 151-157