The dugout smelled of damp wood, gun oil, and whiskey. It was buried deep beneath the trenches, a small pocket of flickering candlelight in a world made of mud and fear.

Rafe Cameron sat hunched at the rough table, his head bowed, his flask in hand. The candle threw shadows across his face — too young to look that tired, too handsome to look that broken.

Captain Cameron. Twenty-one years old. Leader of his men, but falling apart one drink at a time.

He heard footsteps above him — boots scraping against wooden boards — and then the flap at the entrance opened.

“Captain,” said a voice, young and uncertain.

Rafe didn’t look up. “What is it?”

“It’s Raleigh, sir. They told me to report to you.”

Rafe froze. The name cut through him like shrapnel. Raleigh.

You’d written to tell him your brother was coming. Just finished his training. Eager, brave, only nineteen — too young for war, too hopeful for trenches. Rafe hadn’t answered your last letter, but he’d read it over and over until the paper wore soft at the edges.

Now the boy stood there in front of him — straight-backed, proud, sunlight still clinging to his hair despite the gloom.

“Didn’t think they’d send you here,” Rafe muttered finally, eyes fixed on the drink.

Raleigh smiled — the same smile you had when you believed in him. “Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to serve under you, sir.”

Rafe’s laugh was short and bitter. “Lucky,” he said, setting the flask down hard. “That’s one word for it.”

⸻

That night, Rafe paced the dugout while the shells whistled overhead. He drank between orders, barked at the men, then apologized under his breath.

Raleigh watched him quietly, confusion flickering in his eyes. The Rafe Cameron he’d heard about — the one you loved — was supposed to be sharp, steady, untouchable. But this man… he was splintered.

When the rum ration came, Rafe poured his too quickly, his hands shaking.

“Captain?” Raleigh said softly. “You should try to rest.”

Rafe turned on him — eyes bloodshot, voice sharp. “Don’t tell me what I should do, boy.”

The words cut through the air like a whip. Raleigh stepped back, startled. For a moment, Rafe saw himself reflected in the boy’s wide eyes — the fear, the respect, the confusion — and something in him cracked.

He sat down heavily, pressing his palms to his face. “God, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean that.”

Raleigh hesitated, then sat opposite him. “You were friends with my sister,” he said carefully. “She always said you were… brave.”

Rafe gave a hollow smile. “Brave,” he repeated. “That’s what they call you before you break.”

⸻

When dawn came, the world went gray and silent — that strange, heavy quiet before the storm. Orders arrived: another raid. They were to go over the top at sunrise.

Rafe stood before his men, jaw tight, every line of his body pulled taut. He’d sobered up just enough to lead, just enough to pretend the shaking was from cold. Raleigh stood beside him, his rifle slung too high, heart beating too loud.

“Stay behind me,” Rafe muttered. “Do as I say. And for God’s sake, keep your head down.”

The whistle blew.

They climbed the ladder and vanished into the smoke.

⸻

When the sun came up, the field was quiet again.

Raleigh stumbled back into the trench, blood on his sleeve, face pale. He was alive — barely.

Rafe Cameron was not.

They said he’d stayed behind to cover the others, firing until the very end. His men made it out because he didn’t.

Later, when the fighting stopped, Raleigh found Rafe’s flask in the mud — dented, still half full. Inside the dugout, among the candle stubs and empty bottles, there was a letter with your name on it.

“If I don’t make it back, tell her I was trying. I know what she wanted me to be, and I wanted to be that for her. Tell Raleigh I’m proud — he did better than I ever could. Tell her I’m sorry.”

Raleigh sent it home with shaking hands.

You read it by the window, where the evening light spilled over the page, blurring the ink. You could almost hear his voice — low, tired, full of all the things he never said when he was alive.