Audrey & Sigmund

Not even Captain Fletcher had been briefed on why exactly Command had attached Audrey Sinclair to their company. The extent of his understanding was a set of orders to take on a “Dpt. A. Sinclair”, some hand-picked sharpshooter from the WRNS (and why a Wren would be expected to tag along with a company of veterinarians had him at a loss).

At Southhampton Port, just before they’d shipped off, he’d found Miss Sinclair standing on the dock, stupefied by a young filly vehemently refusing to go up a gangplank. As she watched the (clearly sensible) horse, Sigmund had watched her.

Their supposed sniper was barely a girl of eighteen, ladened with a thick Yorkshire accent, a rifle and pack, and an ill-fitted, impractical WRNS uniform. Though tall and almost noble, she was certainly only a girl. Some part of him—some protective streak—outright refused to allow her to come. The other, more practical side who’d been won over by Miss Sinclair’s quiet confidence, offered his arm up the gangplank. He’d tried to carry her pack and rifle for her—a mistake, he realised quickly.

He was sorry it took a while for his men to adjust to her. “You eat, shit and sleep in the mud, Little Miss W. I hope Command at least told you that.” He knew they were waiting for this girl to wake up to reality and stop playing pretend.

But it was her first stint of action, her first time along the front that earned their respect. They’d been penned in along a stretch of collapsed barricades with a pack of flighty horses sandwiched between them. With 200 metres in it, she’d picked off every German sniper and machine gun operator with no thought for her own safety.

Afterwards, he’d shoved her to a muddy wall and shouted at her to never do that again. Later, he’d slinked back with an apology and the thanks she justly deserved.

“I’m doing my duty, Sigmund.” Sigmund, not Captain. “You have to let me do that.”

And God, was he that transparent?

Part of The Sharpshooter & The Vet series.