It had begun as a story about one hill, one wound. Somehow it had become more than that.

Maybe it was because the place where he had nearly died was the place that reminded him most of what he could have lost. And yet, there was the strangeness of it all.

What he got because he survived—it wasn’t what he would have gotten if he’d survived another way.

If he hadn’t been wounded and flown home early, his life would have looked different, yes.

He’d gone all the way to the top of that hill, thrown grenades into the trench and shot whoever fought back—or finished off the ones who wouldn’t surrender.

Most of them did, thankfully. He was grateful for that. He was grateful that Pablo, the man who had shot him, had surrendered. To his mates in 42 Commando. Who continued to the top of Mt. Harriet.

He bore Pablo no grudge.

They had made Pablo a sniper because he’d won some shooting competitions as a teenager in Corrientes, his home province. Otherwise, he was just a conscript, like so many of the other Argentinians. Limited, in terms of training. Their only real advantage was the night-sight gear; in every other respect, they were unprepared.

It was strange to think of the small margins that could decide things, and yet decide nothing at all. Pablo had a better night sight than some of the British soldiers, and still, he missed. He hit Calum’s knee instead of his head or chest—a miss that saved his life. Pablo said himself it was because of an explosion from one of the HMS Yarmouth‘s shells. But the frigate had stopped firing by that point, when they stormed the mount .. as far as Calum recalled.

Many things about that night had gotten woven together, in the years that had passed. Memory, he had found out, wasn’t always to be trusted.

*

He felt that keenly now, here. Argentina. 34 years later.

Meeting Pablo.

It had taken months of messages exchanged through Google Translate. And quite a dig in his savings. But here they sat, at a dark wood table in a café in Buenos Aires, a world away from war. The air was thick with the scent of rich coffee and sweet pastries. Waiters in white jackets moved between tables with a quiet efficiency, the clink of porcelain cups a soft counterpoint to the hiss of the old espresso machine behind the bar.

His daughter, Caroline, sat with him. She spoke fluent Spanish, a skill he was only now seeing in its full grace. She lived near the Mexican border with her husband and children, but she had come down here with him … to translate.

A lot of time passed, more than he’d expected, just trying to piece together what had actually happened that night. They discovered that, even after all their online talks, their memories remained partial, unreliable things. He watched Caroline as she listened to Pablo, her expression serene, her own coffee untouched. She translated every word with a quiet, calm voice, and he was sure she got it right, both what came to him and what he sent the other way when he tried to explain something to Pablo.

Outside, the traffic was thick, a noise he’d only ever experienced in London, maybe. Buenos Aires was a huge and impressive city. A part of him wished they had the time and money to stay longer, but Carrie had to get home. His grandson was autistic, and his son-in-law couldn’t keep looking after him forever; he had his work. It was good of her to come. He’d saved for this trip so he could bring her along.

It wasn’t the money that was the problem, really. It was the time. He kept checking the weather forecast on the smart phone Sheila had insisted he buy. A host of information at his fingertips, completely unthinkable thirty-four years ago. He hadn’t kept up with it all; he was happy in his ignorance of what kind of gear soldiers had today.

The shattered knee had been a convenient excuse for some things, but not for others. The truth was, he’d been thrown out of the Highland Rangers, too. That wasn’t because of the knee. That was another story entirely. He said nothing of it to Pablo, and he certainly didn’t want to talk about it with Caroline. But every time he stood, the knee reminded him.

---

They had talked themselves warm about the details they couldn’t get right online. The battlefield had been mapped out as well as it could be, leaving a strange, awkward emptiness in the air. He wasn’t good with that. It was why he kept to himself, mostly. Just Sheila, and sometimes, the kirk back home. He felt he had to break the silence. He had hoped Pablo might, but it was apparently up to him.

But then Pablo spoke first.

“You are right I am still teaching,” Caroline translated. Pablo smiled for the first time. “But what you really meant was if I was getting too old for it, no?”

“Well, that wasn’t what I meant, but…” Calum started.

“But it’s a fair question,” Pablo said, his words flowing through Caroline. “There have been problems for us veterans getting our pensions. I get a little something, but it’s not enough. I have to work a while longer. And the school is happy to have me, thankfully.”

“Well, that’s good,” Calum said. “Sheila has a bit of a bad back, but… there’s always something at our age.”

“There is,” Pablo agreed, a shadow crossing his face.

Calum felt a clumsy urge to offer help. “You said your family chipped in when it got expensive. If you ever again need …”

Pablo shook his head firmly. “We will be fine. You will not have to worry.”

“No, no,” Calum said quickly. “Of course.”

Pablo looked at Caroline for a moment, as if wanting to bring her into the conversation, but then seemed to think better of it.

“Well, tomorrow we leave,” he said, a note of weariness in his voice. “We’ll see each other at the airport at eight.”

“Yes. Gate C,” Calum confirmed.

“Good. And now, as regards helping each other,” Pablo added gently, “I do actually have a favor to ask of you.”

---

He took out a small pocketbook and pushed it across the marble tabletop. Pablo began speaking, his voice soft but steady.

“He escrito algo sobre la batalla. Una especie de diario. Con más de tres décadas pasadas… bueno, es lo que es.”

Caroline leaned forward slightly. “He’s written something about the battle. A kind of diary. She looked at Pablo.

“With over three decades having passed… “ he added wearily, “well, it is what it is.”

“But it’s in Spanish, I suppose,” Calum said, opening it. It was handwritten, and of course in Spanish.

“Ah, you’re a proper schoolteacher,” Calum said, trying for a jovial tone. “Not so much of this modern computer stuff.”

“I find it best to write by hand to gather my thoughts,” Pablo explained. “But I can get it scanned and send it to you. I’d like you to read it.”

He glanced at Caroline. She sighed softly. “I could do some of it, but with my family, there’s a lot to see to.”

“It’s about 100 pages,” Pablo said. “But … I might be able to find a translator here.”

“Or I can find someone in Scotland,” Calum said, the words coming out before he could stop them. “It’s not a problem. I might already know someone who could help.”

He knew, even as he said it, that he was fishing. Who translated Spanish on the Isle of Skye? But he could find someone online. Maybe Caroline could help.

“Okay,” Caroline said slowly, “if it’s okay with you, Dad, to find … someone. Is that all right?”

He could see the hope on her face that it would be. He knew how absorbed she was by her family. It had to be all right. He would figure something out.

“That’s all right,” Calum said.

“There’s just one last… I’m thinking,” he began, then paused. There were things he wanted to say, but maybe it was best he slept on them. “I’m thinking it’s mostly your side’s experiences, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course,” Pablo said. “There aren’t many books I know of in English about our experiences.”

“But it’s not something you’ve written for me, I take it,” Calum asked.

Pablo’s expression shifted, becoming more guarded.

“No. En realidad, fue para mi hijo.”

Caroline hesitated for just a moment before translating. “No. Actually, it was for my son.”

“Ah, right.” Calum knew they were approaching a sore subject. He waited quietly. He knew from their online chats that things weren’t going well between Pablo and his son. Pablo probably felt the pressure of age, just like him, and wanted to leave something behind. He understood that perfectly.

“I’ll get it done,” Calum said finally. “And then you can pass it on to whomever you need to.”

Pablo looked down at his hands, then back up at Calum.

“Nunca hemos hablado de ello correctamente, mi hijo y yo.”

Caroline’s voice was softer now. “We’ve never really talked about it properly, my son and I.”

She looked at her father and translated carefully. “It’s very important to talk. It’s perhaps also the hardest part. That is why I try to write.”

“Yes,” Calum said, glancing at Caroline. “It’s certainly important.”

“It’s an honor,” he said, feeling the word hang awkwardly in the air as he pushed the notebook back toward Pablo. “That you trust me with this.”

It felt like the right thing to say. Caroline translated it faithfully.

Silence fell between them again, broken only by the city outside.

---

“Good,” Pablo said. “Good also that we have come this far.”

“Yes,” Calum agreed. “We have.”

“We are not finished,” Pablo said with a small smile. “We’re off to the Falklands tomorrow.”

Calum laughed, a short, rusty sound, and lifted his coffee mug in a mock toast. “Yes, we are. Maybe some good can come of it after all.”

The rest he kept to himself: we’ve only just started with what we’ve started.

For the first time all afternoon, Caroline smiled, a careful, genuine smile. That relieved Calum more than any other thing that had been said this afternoon.

A lot of good could happen, he supposed. When you didn’t shoot each other.