The National Army Museum stood like a sentinel of time as England entered, his enhanced senses picking up the faint scent of old leather and the metallic tang of preserved uniforms as he moved through the galleries. Each exhibit was like a portal to both his time and many others. There was a display case holding a British uniform from the First World War. The fabric was faded and the buttons were tarnished but to England, it looked fresh. It was as if he had just hung it up after a long and hellish day in the trenches. He remembered the mud, the cold, the camaraderie of men who knew they might not see another dawn. Memories surged, of laughter, screams, then silence. He moved on to a section on the Second World War. Here, artifacts from Italy and the deserts of North Africa laid side by side. His eyes caught on a map of Berlin, a city he had once infiltrated with a sense of duty and a heart of rage. The memories of that night, the blood on his hands, felt both a lifetime ago and like yesterday. Turning a corner, he found himself in front of exhibits from conflicts he had slept through. Korea. Vietnam. The Falklands. It was here that England encountered an old man sleeping on a seat, his avocado-coloured topcoat with service medals pinned to it covering his withered, lanky frame and a flat cap obscuring his eyes. He twitched and whimpered in his sleep. Moore may have brushed them off as small conflicts but, the way England saw it, there was nothing small about war. He sat down next to the old man and kept an eye on him. There was something familiar about the man and yet, from his recollection, England had never seen him before in his life. Maybe the old man reminded him of himself after the Great War. When the man woke up, he looked at England with the same eyes England saw whenever he looked in the mirror.
"Oh, hello, son," the man spoke, "Didn't see you there."
"Thought I'd keep an eye on you," England responded.
The man's neck and head twitched as he spoke, "Can look after meself, y'know. Yeah, I can look after meself. Looked after meself in all these, I did. Looked after meself in Korea. Looked after meself in Aden. Looked after meself in Falklands. Looked after meself in all these, I did."
England gave an understanding nod, recognizing the pride and the pain in the repetition.
"What about you, son?" the man asked, "Which one were you in?"
"What do you mean?" England asked.
"Look too old to be in the new ones," the man replied as his head and neck kept twitching, "Look too old to be in one of those. Been in one of these?"
England shook his head, the fog of his past mingling with the present.
"But you have seen action," the man continued, "I see it in your eyes. You have seen action."
Flashes of everything appeared before England's eyes as if he was reliving them, "I've seen horror rather than action."
"Mmm, I seen a bit of horror too," the man spoke before tapping his right knee, "Lost m'leg, I did. Lost it in '82. I wanted m'leg back. Did they give me my leg back? Did they fuck?"
England gave a light chuckle at the old man's rather casual swearing. Even though he was technically older than the veteran before him and had called Moore something far worse than the F-word, it always amused him whenever the elderly swore.
"Gave me a medal, they did," the man continued, "Gave me a medal."
England nodded, "I can see that."
"Me 'n' the boys helped win the Falklands for the Iron Lady," the man continued, his twitches mixed in with knee-tapping, "Helped her win the Falklands, we did. Gave us fuck all back, she did. She made everyone else rich but we get fuck all."
England half-chuckled, both in understanding and in the old man's repetitive use of the F-word. The experience of being used by those in power then left with nothing but scars and medals was something he was all too familiar with.
"You ever feel like you're fighting for something that doesn't exist anymore?" England asked as he looked back at the exhibits that seemed to encapsulate his existence.
The old man gave a wry smile as his eyes reflected a lifetime of battles, "Every day, son. Every fuckin' day. Lost everything in '08. But we keep goin', don't we? We keep goin'. Because what else is there?"
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of shared experiences forming an unspoken bond. England looked at the veteran, seeing not just a man from a different war, but a brother in arms. Someone who understood the unending cycle of conflict, duty, and survival.
"Sometimes," England said, "I wish I could go back and change what I've done, or at least make better decisions."
The old man nodded, his gaze drifting to a display of photographs, faces of soldiers from wars past. "Can't change the past, son. Can't change it. But you can learn from it. That's what this place is for, isn't it? To remember, to learn."
"Hmm," England nodded, "Maybe."
"So," the man asked in a more jovial tone, "You got a missus?"
England snorted, "I wish. No, it's just me."
"A handsome man like you not having a missus?" the man asked curiously.
"My current C.O is female," England replied, "But if you ask me, she is a C-U-Next Tuesday."
"Ah," the man twitched as he nodded, "Like the Iron Lady then."
"Uh...who is this Iron Lady, exactly?" England asked sheepishly.
"Thatcher," the man replied, "You must be younger than you look if y'don't know who Maggie Thatcher is. Must be younger."
"No, I am as old as I look," England responded, "More or less."
"Well, better get a missus while you got your looks, son. Women these days, they look for more than just a pretty face. Got to have something up here," the old man tapped his temple before thumping his chest, "and here."
"What about you?" England asked, "Do you have a special someone?"
"Yeah but she passed," he replied, his tone softening, "60s finally caught up to 'er."
England nodded, "My condolences."
"Nah, it's fine. Had an open relationship, her 'n' I did. Had an open relationship," the old man said with a fond smile, "She was something else, my Betty. Loved her freedom, and I loved her for it. We'd go dancing, have our own adventures, and come back to each other like we never left."
England raised an eyebrow, both amused and disturbed by the old man's implied adultery, "An open relationship? That sounds...unusual."
"Worked for us, it did," the veteran chuckled, " Worked for us. Kept things exciting, you know? But at the end of the day, we knew where home was. Knew where it was. Wasn't in council houses. Wasn't in flats. Wasn't in hostels. It was in each other."
England pondered the old man's words, "Must've been nice, having someone like that."
"Oh, it was," the man agreed, "But don't you go thinking it's all roses, son. Relationships, they're like wars. You have your battles, your peace treaties, your moments where you wonder why you signed up in the first place. But then, there's the love. That's what you fight for."
The old man's eyes sparkled with the memory of love, contrasting with the harsh light of the museum's displays. "You ever danced, son?"
England thought back to the few times he'd managed to enjoy life before or between the wars. Clumsy, awkward moments in village halls or makeshift dance floors in army camps.
"A bit, but not well," England quietly admitted.
"Well, if you ever find a missus, make sure she can teach you. Nothing like dancing to keep the heart young," the veteran advised, "And if you can't dance, learn. Life's too short to miss out on the good bits just because you've got two left feet."
The conversation lightened England's mood, the weight of his history and the complexities of his present momentarily lifted. He imagined himself in a different life, one where he could share a life, a laugh, and even a dance with someone who understood him, scars and all.
"Perhaps," England mused aloud, "I can look into it when I have the time."
The old man gave a quick pat on England's shoulder, "That's the spirit, son. And if your C.O. is giving you trouble, a good dance might just put things in perspective."
England chuckled, "I wouldn't so sure about that. You don't know her like I do."