France, 1940. The air was thick with tension, and an overcast sky hung over the retreating British forces as they faced a relentless German advance. It had been ten days since the Germans stormed into Belgium, smashing through defences and forcing the British Expeditionary Force into a gruelling retreat. The battalion had taken a serious battering in its first encounter with the enemy two days earlier and was now trying to reorganize and make sense of the fluid situation.

Among the ranks was the 9th Battalion, Greenmoor Light Infantry—a unit known for its rapid deployment and precision in battle. Formed in the late 1800s, this battalion carried with it a long history of service in the British Empire, stretching from the deserts of Palestine to the rough terrain of Egypt. The silver bugle emblazoned on their insignia symbolized their origins as light infantry, quick on their feet and adept at skirmishing. Encircled by a laurel wreath of victory, the bugle stood beneath the battalion’s proud motto, “Celer et Constans”—swift and steadfast.

Their reputation was one of speed and adaptability, earned through years of hard-fought engagements in foreign lands. Officers like Major Ellis and veterans like Sergeant Mallory and Corporal Jacks had already seen action in Palestine, where the battalion’s ability to navigate hostile environments and employ guerrilla tactics became legendary. Now, in the face of the German Blitzkrieg, their expertise was once again being put to the test.

With each passing day, the front lines crept closer, and the crackle of gunfire grew louder, mingling with the rumble of distant artillery. The retreat to Dunkirk loomed large, and desperation hung heavy in the air as exhausted soldiers dug in wherever they could find shelter.

The battalion had taken refuge in a cluster of old works buildings on the outskirts of Armentières, an industrial town near the Lys River. Dust and debris littered the floors, while shattered windows allowed the evening breeze to carry the distant sounds of war. Makeshift shelters had been erected from crates, tarpaulins, and whatever scrap materials could be found, forming a rough encampment amid the ruins. The men were weary, their uniforms stained with sweat and dirt, but they kept their rifles close, knowing the enemy was not far behind.

Archer’s journey to join the 9th Battalion had been as disjointed as the lines of retreat themselves. It had started five days earlier, back in England, where he’d been summoned to report to the reserve depot. From there, he’d taken a series of train rides, each one packed with men heading to the front or evacuees fleeing the chaos. The quiet English countryside seemed to mock the urgency of the orders tucked into his kitbag.

A crowded ferry crossing had followed, the churning waters of the Channel alive with the hum of military traffic. Sea spray stung Archer’s face as he gripped the rail, his thoughts racing ahead to what lay on the other side. Upon arriving in France, he was shuttled from one staging area to another, each one more chaotic than the last. The overland journey had been the worst—long hours crammed into the back of lorries, the canvas flaps barely keeping out the dust and cold. Soldiers and supplies were shuffled like chess pieces, everyone guessing at the next move.

Now, finally, he stood on the outskirts of Armentières, his boots sinking into the mud as he surveyed the scene around him. Archer had been sent as a replacement officer, handed command of a platoon that had seen action only days earlier. He was new to the battalion, an unknown face among seasoned men, and he could feel the weight of their eyes on him as he approached. The sounds of war were distant but constant—a reminder that this place was only a temporary refuge.

Archer, his eyes scanning the horizon his thoughts wandered momentarily to a different time. At 19, he had the lean, wiry build of someone accustomed to constant activity, his frame more suited to the cricket pitch or rugby field than the weight of war. His brown hair, slightly overgrown from weeks in the field, curled at the edges under his helmet, damp with sweat. His sharp, intelligent eyes—hazel with flecks of green—constantly darted between shadows.

His face still carried the faint softness of youth, though the thin layer of grime and the taut set of his jaw spoke of the weight of responsibilities he was only beginning to shoulder.  A scar ran faintly along his left eyebrow, a relic of a misjudged rugby tackle in school, adding a subtle ruggedness to his otherwise boyish features.

Archer had a presence that belied his years—not commanding in size, but in the quiet determination visible in his posture. Even under the weight of his gear and the endless march forward, he carried himself with the disciplined air of someone accustomed to pushing through, no matter the challenge.

He could almost hear the echo of his father’s voice, deep and steady, calling out instructions on a construction site. His father, a carpenter by trade, had been the kind of man whose work ethic spoke louder than words—a steady presence who knew how to get a job done and earned respect without asking for it. Archer had learned discipline and determination watching him manage men and machines alike, even as a boy.

His mother, softer in tone but no less firm, had been the glue that held their family together. She’d run a small sewing business from home, turning threadbare fabric into things of beauty. Her hands were always busy, but her mind was sharper still—a pragmatist who never wasted a word or a penny. From her, Archer had inherited a quiet resilience, the ability to endure challenges with grace and humour.

At just 19 years old, Archer was among the youngest officers in his regiment. The weight of the commission sometimes felt like more than he could bear, but it was a responsibility he had accepted with determination. When he was just a boy, a scholarship to Reading Grammar School had changed the trajectory of his life. It wasn’t a world he was born into, but one he had earned his way into—a place of books and blazers, where cricket and rugby fields stretched wide under the Berkshire sky. Archer had excelled there, not just in academics but in sport. As a batsman, he’d once scored an unbeaten 114 against Eton, a memory that still brought a faint smile to his lips. On the rugby pitch, he’d been known for his speed and determination, not the biggest in size, but the kind of player who never backed down.