FIC: The Larks, Still Bravely Singing, Fly (8th Doctor)

Author’s note: this story came to me, almost literally, in a single flash. I knew it had to feature a Doctor suffering from fallout from the Time War…be that an Eighth Doctor before he finally regenerated into the Ninth, or Ninth just after regeneration. There had to be regret and loss and longing. And In Flanders Field had to feature. I knew the beginning, the middle and the end…I even had the dialogue in my head. Every voice. Nearly every line. But how was I to actually achieve this? I also wanted the Christmas Truce to be a major part of it, with the Doctor meeting the author of said poem there. Fortunately for me, The Second Battle of Ypres took place 3 months after the Christmas Truce of 1914. Brilliant element #1…the time lines mate up! Did Lieutenant McCrae take part as field surgeon during the Christmas Truce? It’s not entirely certain…we know he was re-enlisted as a field surgeon in the artillery division sometime prior to the Second Battle of Ypres in 1915. We make brief and subtle reference to his efforts in the Second Boer War 10 years previous. Red shoulder straps are the indicators of artillery men in the Canadian military of that era.

I could have covered more of the Second Battle, which was the first time gas was used as extensively as an offensive weapon (even though we do mention it in brief). It was also the first time in European military history that a colonial force (the Canadians) forced back a European National army (the Germans) on their own soil…but this story is about the horrors of war seen in more subtle ways.

It amazes me that the elements fit together so very well. I now know more about the Second Battle of Ypres, The Christmas Truce of 1914, and military uniforms of 1914 than I think any sane fan should.

I wish to thank my beta readers, who have assisted in clarifying and smoothing things out for this story prior to sharing it with you. Thank you all…your efforts mean everything to me.

Now, before the authors notes get longer than the story, let’s get to it.

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The Larks, Still Bravely Singing, Fly

December 25, 1914

The engines of the TARDIS ground to their traditional wheezing halt, the central rotor rising and falling like the beat of a heart. He looked diffidently at the clock on the control panel, not even registering the copper embossed numbers…1914.

He didn’t need to look at the clock, as he came here often in those days. In those dark days, after the end of the war to end all wars, when friend and foe alike chased him down with the word abomination ringing in his ears, calling him the destroyer of worlds, he came to this fixed point in time and space. Different moments, of course, and he was always careful not to cross his own time stream. Sometimes he would sit and watch, remembering the horrors and travesties he had visited on the armies of the universe, feeling all too keenly in his hearts the pain brought on by the primitive but still effective weapons these humans used. Change was just around the corner…in just a few months, the horrors of poison gas would be unleashed en masse upon the battlefield and the art of dying, such as it was, would irrevocably change. Other times he would try to help, to be the man his chosen name inferred himself to be. Always trying to find some kind of solace, some kind of redemption…or at the very least, some mirror in which he could face the dark deeds he found himself forced to set into motion.

He walked slowly from the console toward the TARDIS doors, head down, shoulders slouched as if weary from bearing a heavy load. The doors opened and for the first time in ages he walked out to a sight he didn’t quite expect.

Across the field of battle, across no-man’s land, they had gathered. The constant rain of artillery shells and bullets had ceased, and Germans and Britons alike met where once the bodies of their fellow troops fell, exchanging small gifts or parcels of food. In places, groups gathered and played pick up games of football, laughing even as they remained in uniform, their guns stacked to the side as if so much kindling or cordwood, cheerfully ignored and irrelevant. Soldiers trading coat buttons, commendation badges, giving each other hair cuts, acting like long lost friends, not mortal enemies. Acting like brothers.

In the distance, he thought he heard…no, he did hear…singing. Different voices, different languages, but a single tune, one no one could possibly forget…

Stille Nacht! Heil’ge Nacht!

Alles schläft; einsam wacht

Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar.

Holder Knab’ im lockigen Haar,

Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!

“1914,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Ypres. And it’s Christmas Day.”

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Read more here: The Larks, Still Bravely Singing, Fly