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Vivian shuffled her feet, anxiously twirling hair around her fingers.

It was nervous behavior, but she could not quite understand why she was nervous. It had been certain for a long time that this was going to happen, set in stone from the moment the non-descript letter had hit the doormat several months ago.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not bring herself to care about the problems overseas. What did it really matter if one country disliked another and wanted to wipe it out? How did that effect her right this moment?

She still got up in the morning, still brushed her teeth. Still packed the children off to school and went grocery shopping. The food needed cooking and the pots washed. Real life continued regardless and, Vivian thought, wasn't that all that mattered? Normality?

Sure, there had been the odd siren out in the town square, the assemblies in the town hall. People had expressed concerns and voiced their opinions. There was a great divide between the residents then those that agreed with what was happening and those that hated it.

The radio crackled every night with reports of the atrocities unfolding in places Vivian never even thought existed. Who went to the south of France anyway? She was certain it was a nice place when there was no gunfire and trenches and bodies everywhere, but it was not something she thought about.

In her cottage, she was Queen. The children were well behaved and the groundskeeper efficient. She had lived in her village her entire life, and leaving had just never been an option. There was a status quo to Vivian's life, and she truly despised that it was now being broken.

On the table near the fireplace, the newspaper fluttered with the draught from the chimney. Tales of Churchill and The Front quivered and flapped, the headlines making no impression. She cared that England needed to win, but she did not like that she had to be involved in the winning. There was no love for war in her house, no love for fighting.

And now, this war, this Front, would claim the only thing that held her life together. She heard Eric bumbling around upstairs, slowly but purposely packing his things. What would he need over there? Would they give him a toothbrush? Something to read?

How would the military chef know how he liked his eggs in the morning?

He would be alright, she thought as she stopped twirling her hair and unconsciously began pulling it. He was a farmer and farmers can handle things like machinery and guns and big problems. She tried

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