Page 63 of The Words Beneath the Noise

TOM

Finch reviewed the file in front of him without looking up. Mission parameters. Extraction timeline. Confirmation of target elimination.

“Clean shot,” he said finally. “Three hundred metres. Centre mass. Target confirmed deceased by Resistance contacts.” He glanced up, and something in his expression shifted. Not warmth, exactly, but acknowledgment. “Well done, Sergeant. Truly.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Major Hartley's report is glowing. Says you performed exactly as expected. Professional. Efficient.” He set down the file, and his hand lingered on it for a moment. “Brandt was responsible for coordinating intelligence that led to the sinking of fourteen Allied vessels over the past year. Over two thousand men.” He looked up at me. “You've saved more lives with one bullet than most soldiers save in an entire career.”

The words should have been comforting. They weren't.

“Any issues to report? Complications during extraction?”

“None, sir. The operation went according to plan.”

“Good.” He was quiet for a moment, staring at the file. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Softer. “The first time I killed a man, I was twenty-three. Ypres. Close quarters, not like your work. I could see his face clearly. He was younger than me. Couldn't have been more than nineteen.”

I didn't know what to say. Finch never talked about his service, never revealed anything personal. This felt like watching armour crack.

“It gets easier,” he continued. “That's what they told me. And they were right, in a way. The mechanics become routine. But the weight of it...” He touched the file again. “The weight never gets lighter. You just get stronger at carrying it. Or you break.”

“Sir.”

“I'm telling you this because I've seen men come back from operations like yours and fall apart within weeks. The silence gets to them. The knowledge of what they've done, sitting alone in their heads with no one to share it.” His pale eyes met mine. “If you need to talk, Sergeant, my door is open. Not as your commanding officer. Just as someone who understands.”

The offer caught me off guard. Finch, offering counsel. Finch, admitting to vulnerability. It didn't fit the rigid, suspicious man I'd been dealing with for weeks.

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“Don't appreciate it. Use it if you need to.” He straightened, and the moment of openness closed like a door. “Now. The intelligence that made this operation possible. If the Germans investigate, if they trace back how we knew about Brandt's movements, the chain is protected. Compartmentalised. Your identity is secure. No one outside this office and the relevant command structure knows who pulled the trigger.”

“And the codebreakers? The ones who cracked the original intercept?”

“Are equally protected.” He studied me. “Is there a particular reason you're pressing this point?”

“Just want to make sure all angles are covered, sir.”

“They are. I've made certain of it.” Something flickered in his expression. Understanding, maybe. “The people who work in those huts carry enough weight without adding fear of exposure to it. Whatever else you may think of me, Sergeant, I protect my people.”

I believed him. In that moment, despite everything, I believed him.

“Now.” He pulled another file toward him, and his tone shifted back to business. “There's another matter. You've been here long enough to form impressions. I want to know what you've observed in Hut X.”

“Observed, sir?”

“The cryptanalysts. Their routines, their interactions, their state of mind.” He leaned back in his chair. “You're not a fool, Hale. You've been watching them while you guard them. What have you seen?”

This felt different from his usual fishing expeditions. Less accusatory. More like a commander genuinely trying to understand his people.

“They're exhausted,” I said carefully. “All of them. Working hours that would break most soldiers. The pressure is constant, and they feel every failure personally.”

“Go on.”

“They care about the work. Genuinely. It's not just a job to them. When intelligence arrives too late, when an operation fails despite their efforts, they carry it. You can see it in their faces.” I thought of Art, hunched over his desk at three in the morning. Ruth, snapping at everyone because she hadn't slept in two days. Noor, making jokes to keep from crying. “They're not securityrisks, sir. They're people doing impossible work and paying the cost.”

Finch was quiet for a long moment. “And Pembroke specifically? You spend more time with him than the others.”

My jaw tightened, but I kept my voice level. “He works harder than anyone I've ever seen. Irregular hours because the work demands it. Stress because he takes every lost life personally. He's not hiding anything suspicious. He's just burning himself out trying to save people.”