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Chapter Text

The air hung thick with the nauseating cocktail of rotting flesh, human waste, and gunpowder — the perpetual stink of death that defined life in the trenches. The walls oozed black mud mixed with God-knows-what, while rats the size of cats scurried between pools of stagnant water and unidentifiable organic matter.

Corporal Ruben McKinley stood at his post, his leather-gloved hands gripping his Lee-Enfield rifle, the wood stock sticky with grime and blood that never quite seemed to wash away. The jagged scar across his nose caught the dim light of the setting sun, raw and pink against his dirt-encrusted face. But it was the grotesque split that carved through his lips that drew the eye — a wound so severe that teeth gleamed through torn flesh, the scar tissue puckered and angry against his pale skin. No one knew the origin of that particular disfigurement; he'd arrived at the front already wearing it like a gruesome badge and, despite the countless rumors, he'd never spoken of how he'd acquired it.

Lieutenant Archie Winters materialized from the shadows like a wraith, his mismatched eyes — one a brown so deep it bordered on black, the other clouded from a gas attack — scanning the horizon with practiced precision. His gaze lingered momentarily on Ruben's mutilated mouth, as it often did when he thought the Corporal wasn't looking. Without a word, he produced a cigarette, striking a match against the damp trench wall. The small flame illuminated the deep hollows beneath their eyes, the weathered skin stretched tight over cheekbones, faces aged decades by mere months at the front.

"Quiet night," Ruben remarked, voice barely above a whisper, words distorted by cracked and bleeding lips. It wasn't a question, just an observation, the kind of meaningless comment that filled the space between the thunderous barrage of artillery.

Archie's response was a grunt, followed by the offering of his cigarette. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, both pairs trembling from the bone-deep cold that never left. The Lieutenant's hand shook more violently — withdrawal or exhaustion, Ruben couldn't tell. Since dragging him from the corpse-ridden wasteland of No Man's Land, he'd noticed these small details more than he wanted to.

"Your bandages need changing," Archie spat through blood-stained teeth, his dead eye twitching as he surveyed the carnage-strewn horizon. The authority in his voice barely masked something more primitive — the animal fear of watching another man rot.

Ruben's fingers ghosted over his festering middle, where shrapnel had torn through flesh. The wounds wept a yellowish discharge that mixed with the ever-present mud. "Following medical protocols to the letter," he droned, his mechanical response drawing a glare from those mismatched eyes.

"Course you are, McKinley. Wouldn't expect anything less." Was that amusement in his voice? Dried blood flaked from Winters' stubble as his lip curled.

They stood in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth, while the artillery's endless dirge echoed across No Man's. Here, in their putrid corner of hell, the silence between explosions felt like a noose slowly tightening. Neither would speak of it, of course — of the bloated bodies that dotted the landscape, their swollen faces frozen in eternal screams. Some things were better left in the shadows of the trenches, buried beneath the mud and gore that defined their days.

Archie jerked suddenly, his jaw tightening as he pressed his remaining eye to the periscope. His voice, when it came, carried the familiar bite of winter frost. "Movement. Sector four." The words clinical, precise, stripped of anything resembling human. This was the voice that had ordered men to their deaths without flinching.

Ruben moved to verify, his movements as lifeless as the corpses they stepped over. When he turned to acknowledge the report, his pale blue eyes caught what little light remained, two phosphorescent points in the growing dark. Winters found himself fighting the urge to step back. There was something fundamentally wrong about those eyes — like staring into the depths of a frozen lake, where nothing lived and nothing moved. Those eyes belonged on a cadaver, not a living man.

"Confirmed," Ruben intoned, his voice carrying the same hollow quality as an empty shell casing. "Alert the forward position?" The question hung between them, delivered with all the emotion of a marble statue.

Archie's grip tightened on his own gore-encrusted rifle, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. "No," he said after a moment's consideration. "Observe first." His words carried the weight of countless false alarms, each one paid for in blood.

Through the periscope, they observed the writhing shadows in the pre-dawn murk. Time stretched like congealing blood, marked only by their shallow breathing and the distant thunder of shells pulverizing flesh and bone. The sky lightened imperceptibly, turning from absolute darkness to the color of a day-old bruise.

"Rats," Ruben declared emotionlessly, carrying no trace of either relief or disappointment. He stepped back from the periscope, allowing Archie to verify his assessment. The Lieutenant's shoulders relaxed fractionally as he confirmed the source of movement — just another pack of vermin grown fat on human remains.

"They're getting bold, bastards," Winters commented, producing another cigarette. This time, his hands were steady as he lit it. "Crawling closer to the lines..." He didn't need to finish the thought — they knew what drew the rats so near. They knew where the fresh meat would be. The bodies in No Man's Land were a feast that never ended.

Ruben's expression remained unchanged, but something flickered in those unsettling eyes of his. "Nature adapts, Lieutenant. Even to this. Perhaps ‘specially to this."

The observation hung between them, uncomfortably profound, settled like maggots in their guts.

"How long, Corporal?" The question escaped before the Lieutenant could stop it, violating their unspoken pact against personal matters. He watched Ruben's posture stiffen like rigor mortis.

"Two years, four months, seventeen days." came the response. The precision of the answer made something in Archie's chest tighten. He'd known men who counted their days at the front — it was usually a sign they were close to breaking.

But Ruben didn't seem close to breaking. If anything, he'd already shattered, been reassembled wrong, pieces missing or replaced with shrapnel and bone splinters, reconstructed into something that only approximated humanity. A walking memorial. The thought should have disturbed Winters more than it did. Instead, he found himself wondering if perhaps this wasn't the most sensible response to their situation — to simply shut down, to become more alike to the weapons they carried.

Above them, a lone bird's song pierced the miasma — its song obscenely beautiful in the wasteland of the Western Front, against the backdrop of decay. Both men flinched at the sound of life.

The silence festered between them, comfortable in its discomfort. Winters shifted his weight, boot-soles squelching in what might have been mud, might have been something far worse. He found himself wanting to speak, to fill the void with something other than the distant thunder of artillery, yet the words felt foreign in his mouth, bitter as bile.

"Ever had a dog, McKinley?" The question emerged awkwardly, almost painfully casual against the backdrop of war. It was the kind of thing people used to ask, before. In cafes, at social gatherings, during those hazy days.

Ruben's dead-fish stare flickered, something unreadable passing behind those unsettling eyes. "No," he said after a long pause, his voice carrying an odd, distant quality. "Never liked them much." His hand twitched toward his throat, a gesture brief as a spasm. "Something about their teeth, maybe. Their bark. Can't remember why anymore."

Winters watched the Corporal carefully, noting how his typically precise speech had grown slower, fragmented. It was like watching a machine malfunction, gears grinding against memories that refused to align, humanity seeping through like pus from an infected wound.

"You?" Ruben asked suddenly, the question hanging awkwardly in the air, as if they’d forgotten the proper rhythm of conversation.

"Had a spaniel. Back home." Archie surprised himself by answering. "Copper." The name felt strange on his tongue, like speaking a long-dead language. "Funny how you forget these things. Details. What the house looked like. What you did on Sundays." He took a long drag from his cigarette, watching the ember glow, a glimpse of the fireplace he used to curl up to in its flicker. "If any of it was real at all."

Ruben nodded, a mechanical gesture that suggested understanding without comprehension. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, joints creaking like rusted hinges. "Memory's like looking through trench water." He paused. "Probably better that way."

The conversation lapsed into silence again, both men aware they'd ventured too close to something raw and real, something that had no place in the horror that had consumed their daily existence. They returned to their watch, their brief foray into normalcy already fading.

A shell burst in the distance, its deep rumble echoing across the wasteland. Neither man flinched — such sounds had long since become natural, replacing birdsong. The sky continued its slow transformation, darkness giving way to the peculiar, ghostly light that preceded dawn.

"Ever wonder what they'll write about all this?" Ruben asked unexpectedly, his voice carrying an unusual contemplative tone. "In the history books, I mean. When it's all over."

Winters scoffed, bitter, barely more than an exhale. "Bold to assume we’ll survive to write them." He took a final drag from his cigarette before crushing it beneath his boot. "What could they say? How do you explain—" he gestured vaguely at the devastation around them, "—this?"

"They'll try," Ruben replied, his pale eyes reflecting the pre-dawn light like mirrors "Use pretty words like 'valor', 'sacrifice.' Make it sound noble." His voice carried no judgment, just the same observation that always characterized it. "They won't mention the rats. Or the smell. Or how a man's insides look when they're on the outside. The way intestines steam in the morning frost.”

"Philosophical for a dead man walking, Corporal." The Lieutenant remarked dryly, reaching for another cigarette. His fingers brushed against the empty pack, and he crumpled it with a quiet curse. Without a word, Ruben produced his own pack, offering it. "Much obliged," Winters murmured.

The cigarette passed between them, a ritual as old as warfare itself.

"I think about the garden," Archie murmured suddenly. "Back home. The roses my mother planted." He took a long drag, the ember briefly illuminating his face. "Yellow ones. Never liked yellow roses myself, but she insisted they brought happiness. Funny what the mind clings to while it rots."

Ruben didn't respond, as if he had to manually process the personal nature of the confession.

"It protects itself," Winters offered to the void. "Buries what it can't bear to face. Bodies in a mass grave."

Machine gun fire ripped through their reverie. Both men tensed, their bodies responding with practiced efficiency to the potential threat. But the shooting was far off, someone else's battle — someone else's turn to feed the earth.

"Dawn patrol soon," Ruben observed, his voice returning to its usual cadence.

"Aye," Archie straightened, uniform adjustments precise as a mortician's work. "Best get everything in order." He paused, seeming to wrestle with something internal.

But whatever he'd been about to say died in his throat as the first rays of dawn began to paint the sky, turning the endless sea of mud into something almost beautiful. The moment passed, another casualty of the war that had claimed so much else.

"Checking forward position," Ruben stated, dissolving into the muddy passages.

Archie watched him go, a wraith among wraiths. Their exchange lingered like gas in his lungs, felt somehow significant, yet he couldn't quite grasp why. Perhaps it was the reminder that beneath mud-caked uniforms and heavy helmets, there were still boys who had once known gardens and dogs and Sunday afternoons.

But such thoughts were deadly luxuries. Winters focused instead on the familiar weight of his rifle and the constant vigilance required to survive another day. The war demanded nothing less than their complete attention, their total devotion — their flesh, bone, soul.

Yet as the sun illuminated the nightmare landscape, he found himself hoping that somewhere, in a garden memory hadn't quite rotted away, yellow roses still bloomed.

Chapter Text

The wind screamed through the trenches like a dying horse, its howl carrying the sickly-sweet stench of rotting flesh mingled with yesterday's chlorine gas attack. The air hung thick with decay — a putrid soup of human waste, gangrenous wounds, and the ever-present reek of death. The two stood at post, still as corpses, gaunt faces an emotionless mask — save for those unsettling, pale eyes that gleamed like frozen moons in the pre-dawn murk. Gas masks hung ready — grotesque rubber faces that turned men into insects.

"Movement in the wire," Ruben reported. His rifle was already pressed against his shoulder, barrel steady despite the bone-breaking cold that had turned gloveless fingers blue. Blood and mud caked the wooden stock, flaking off in crusty patches.

Archie slogged closer through the knee-deep muck, each step releasing bubbles of noxious gas from the decomposing matter below. Through the periscope's grimy lens, he spotted the figure — a dark shape writhing in the rusted barbed wire like a butterfly pinned to cork. The razor-sharp barbs had done their work well, opening the soldier's flesh like a butcher's hooks.

"Jerry," Winters spat, recognizing the distinctive coal-scuttle helmet. "Still breathing, bastard." The words tasted bitter in his mouth, like the metallic tang of blood.

The wounded man's struggles grew feebler, accompanied by wet, gurgling gasps that echoed across No Man's Land. Dark arterial blood pumped steadily into the churned earth beneath him, steam rising from the fresh warmth in the freezing dawn air. Intestines gleamed wetly through torn uniform, like pink-gray snakes in the wire.

"Gut wound," Ruben observed with clinical detachment. "Wire's opened him up proper."

They watched in grim silence as the German's movements became more spastic, desperate. His cries, when they came, were high and thin — childlike in their terror. "Mutter," he sobbed through blood-flecked lips. "Mutti... bitte..."

Something flickered behind Ruben's dead-fish eyes. His trigger finger tightened imperceptibly, leather gloves creak against the metal.

"McKinley." Archie's voice carried steel beneath the warning.

"Would be mercy," Ruben replied, hollow. "Clean shot. Quick death."

Winters’ hand landed heavy on Ruben's shoulder, fingers digging into flesh through the stained uniform. "And bring their artillery down on us? Alert their machine guns?" He forced iron into his tone, though his own gut churned.

Ruben's voice dropped to barely a whisper, breath misting in the frigid air. "Mercy's a peculiar thing out here, Lieutenant." His pale eyes locked onto Archie’s with uncomfortable intensity, dredging up memories best left buried in the mud. "Sometimes mercy means pulling the trigger."

Archie's jaw clenched so hard his teeth creaked, muscle jumping beneath his filthy skin. His hand jerked away from Ruben's shoulder as if scalded. "Shut your bloody mouth, McKinley," he hissed, desperation bleeding through his attempted authority.

"Merely an observation," Ruben replied with careful neutrality, adjusting his rifle slightly. "Though perhaps some acts of mercy are more forgivable than others, dependin’ on the uniform they wear."

The German's cries continued, growing weaker, more animal than human. Each breath bubbled wetly through the hole in his gut.

The Corporal's grip whitened on his rifle stock, the wood slick with God-knows-what.

Finally, mercifully, the cries stopped. Silence settled over the trenches like a burial shroud, broken only by the distant thunder of artillery and the endless drip of water and other fluids from the trench walls. Neither man moved for a long while, their eyes fixed on the now-still form suspended in the wire like a grotesque puppet.

"Your yellow roses," Ruben said suddenly, his voice carrying an unusual tremor. "The ones your mother grew. Did they have thorns?"

Archie blinked, caught off guard by this sudden intrusion. "Aye," he replied softly. "Sharp ones. Drew blood every time she tended them. Stained her gardening gloves."

"But she kept growing them anyway."

"That she did."

They stood in silence as dawn crawled across the sky like gangrene spreading through flesh, transforming the battlefield into something almost beautiful — if you could forget the horror that lay beneath the churned earth. The dead Jerry hung limp in the wire, his blood now frozen in dark icicles beneath him.

"Dawn patrol," Ruben finally stated, his voice empty once more, devoid of even the ghost of emotion that had briefly animated it.

"Aye," Archie nodded, checking his ammunition with hands that had killed too many times to count. "Keep your head down, McKinley. Wire's hungry today."

Ruben's only response was a slight inclination of his head, those eyes already focused on the horizon, watching for the next threat, the next horror, the next test of whatever scraps of humanity still clung to their souls like the last leaves of autumn.

The day began as it always did — with death, duty, and the fading memory of yellow roses blooming somewhere far beyond the reach of war, their thorns drawing gentle blood from hands that had never known the weight of a rifle or the warmth of a dying man's last breath.

Chapter Text

The night pressed down like a sodden wool blanket, thick and suffocating. Stars pierced the darkness overhead, cold and distant as sniper's eyes watching through their scopes. In the officer's dugout, Lieutenant Winters sat hunched over a worn desk, surrounded by empty bottles that cast dancing shadows in the guttering candlelight. His hands trembled violently as he lifted the last bottle of rum to his lips, throat working mechanically, desperately seeking the oblivion that lay at the bottom.

"Lieutenant?" Private Thompson's voice drifted in from somewhere outside. "Got another letter here if you'd like to review it before—"

"Get out!" Winters roared, hurling an empty bottle toward the entrance. It shattered against the wooden support beam, sending Thompson scrambling backward with a startled yelp. "Just... get out."

The whispers started again. They always did, in these dark hours when exhaustion gnawed at sanity's edges. Voices that weren't there, speaking words that made too much sense. Sometimes they wore the faces of men he'd sent to die. Sometimes they wore no faces at all.

"Your fault," they seemed to say, their voices like wind through broken teeth. "All your fault, Lieutenant. Remember Davies? Remember how he screamed when the wire took him? Remember how long it took him to die?"

"Shut it," Winters muttered, pressing his palms against his ears. "Shut it, just— fuckin’ shut it, shut up!"

A rat scurried across his boot, and Winters kicked out reflexively, nearly toppling from his chair. The world spun sickeningly, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. Was that blood seeping through the dugout walls, or just his mind playing its usual tricks? The faces in the shadows seemed to laugh.

"You're losing it, Lieutenant," Private Harris's voice echoed from the corner where he sat cleaning his rifle, though when Winters turned to look, there was no one there. "Going mad like Jones did."

"Lieutenant." The voice came from the entrance, quiet but firm. The Corporal’s pale eyes reflected the candlelight like mirrors in the gloom. How long had he been standing there? Seconds? Hours?

"McKinley," Winters slurred, attempting to straighten in his chair, to maintain some semblance of officer's dignity. His stomach lurched treacherously. "You're... you're supposed to be... forward patrol?"

"Ended two hours ago." Ruben's gaze took in the empty bottles, the wild look in his superior's eyes, the fresh glass shards glittering on the floor. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "Time for a walk, Lieutenant. Air's clean tonight."

Winters scoffed, a bitter, harsh sound like breaking glass. "Clean? Nothing's clean here, McKinley. Not the air, not the water, not our souls." He gestured wildly with the bottle, sloshing precious rum onto the desk. "Especially not our souls. Can you see them, McKinley? The stains? Black as pitch, they are. Black as death."

"Lieutenant—"

"Do you know what color death is, Corporal?" Winters continued, his voice rising hysterically. "It's not black at all. It's yellow. Yellow like mustard gas. Yellow like Davies's face when we finally got him down from the wire. Yellow like—"

Without comment, Ruben moved forward, gently but firmly taking the bottle from Winters' unresisting fingers. "Walk," he repeated, not an order, but not quite a suggestion either.

"Don't touch me!" Winters snarled, jerking away and nearly falling. "I'm your commanding officer, I'm—" He retched suddenly, barely managing to turn his head before bringing up a stream of bile and rum.

Ruben waited patiently, producing a relatively clean handkerchief when Winters finished. "Walk," he said again, his voice carrying an unusual leniency that made Archie question his own senses.

The trench walls seemed to breathe as they emerged, organic and alive in the worst possible way. Winters stumbled, his boot catching on something soft that might have been a sandbag or might have been something far worse. Ruben's hand appeared at his elbow, steadying him.

"Evening, Lieutenant," New-Boy Roberts called out nervously from his post.

"Shut your bloody mouth," Winters snapped, then immediately felt ashamed as the boy's face fell.

"Keep your eyes forward, Roberts," Ruben interjected. "Wire's been active tonight."

They continued their slow circuit, passing Harris still cleaning his rifle with religious dedication, Thompson writing yet another letter he'd never send. Each acknowledged Ruben with a slight nod, carefully avoiding their Lieutenant's unfocused gaze.

"Jones saw his dead wife again today," Archie mumbled as they walked, Ruben subtly guiding their path. "In the wire. Said she was wearin’ her Sunday best, calling him home." He swallowed hard. "Had to stop him from climbing out to meet her. Shot him in the leg to keep him down. Shot him like a dog."

"Jones is with the medics now," Ruben replied quietly. "You saved his life."

"Did I?" Archie stopped suddenly, swaying. "Did I really? Or did I just condemn him to more of this hell? More nights counting shadows? More days watching friends die?" He grabbed Ruben's collar with surprising strength. "Do you see ‘em too, McKinley? The ones that aren't there? The ones that should be?"

Ruben was silent for a long moment, carefully extracting himself from Winters' grip and guiding them around a corner. "I see what's in front of me," he finally answered. "Nothin’ more, nothin’ less."

"Liar," Winters spat. "I've seen you talkin’ to them too. When ya think no one's watching. Whisperin’ to the dead in your sleep."

Ruben seemed uncomfortable, but didn't respond. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead, his scarred face a mask of practiced indifference. The admission hung between them like poison gas, heavy and suffocating.

They had reached Winters' dugout again, though he couldn't quite remember making the circuit. Ruben's hand was still at his elbow, anchoring him to reality with an almost tender precision that left him wondering if this too was a hallucination.

"Sit," Ruben instructed, lowering Winters onto his cot. He produced a canteen, the water inside relatively clean — a precious commodity he'd been saving. Without ceremony, he dampened a relatively clean rag and began washing the grime and vomit from Winters' face. His movements were slow and deliberate, so unlike his usual clinical efficiency that Archie found himself holding his breath, convinced any sudden movement would shatter this strange moment of humanity.

The cool water helped clear his head slightly, and the Lieutenant felt heat rise to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the rum. The tenderness in Ruben's touch made him acutely aware of his own vulnerability, his failure to maintain the officer's composure he'd been trained to project.

"You..." Winters started, then faltered, unsure what to say. He watched Ruben's hands as they worked, steady and sure.

"You're not real," he finally muttered, though the cool cloth against his skin felt more real than anything had in days. "Just another ghost. Another trick. Like Davies. Like Jones’ wife."

"If I were a ghost," Ruben replied, "I wouldn't waste water on you."

"How do I know?" Winters grabbed Ruben's wrist, fingers digging in desperately. "How do I know what's real anymore? The rats speak German at night, did you know that? The mud has teeth..."

"I'm real," McKinley said firmly, allowing the grip on his wrist. His other hand continued its gentle work, each touch an anchor to reality. "You're real. This war is real. That's all we need to know right now."

When Ruben finished his ministrations, he stepped back, studying his handiwork. For a moment, something like concern flickered across his usually impassive features. "Try to rest, Lieutenant," he said simply, turning to leave.

"McKinley," Archie called out, his voice suddenly small, almost childlike. "When you... when you see Davies tonight... tell him I'm sorry. Tell him I tried."

Ruben paused in the entrance but didn't turn around. His voice, when it came, held an echo of the humanity he'd shown moments before. "Good night, Lieutenant."

Winters watched him go, the Corporal's outline blurring slightly in the dim light. He wanted to call him back, to anchor himself to something solid in this nightmare world of shifting shadows and whispering ghosts. But officers didn't beg for company like frightened children, even when the darkness pressed in and the voices grew loud.

Alone again, Winters lay back on his cot, staring up at the rough-hewn beams that kept the earth from swallowing him whole. His head pounded in time with the distant artillery, and sleep remained as elusive as ever. He tried counting his fingers, but the numbers kept changing, digits multiplying and vanishing in the shadows.

"Davies?" he whispered to the darkness. "Is that you in the corner? Come to haunt me again, have you?"

Somewhere in the darkness, a rat scratched at the walls, its movements echoing like machine gun fire in his alcohol-soaked brain. Winters closed his eyes, trying to remember if Ruben's touch had really been that gentle, that human, or if that too had been another trick of his disintegrating mind.

The night stretched on, endless as the war itself, while Lieutenant Winters lay awake, counting phantoms and wondering if tomorrow he'd remember any of this at all.

Morning arrived with its usual indifference, pale light filtering through the sandbags like dirty water. Archie woke to find himself still on his cot, uniform wrinkled and damp with morning dew. His head throbbed with the remnants of last night's drinking, memories fragmented and unreliable.

Private Thompson stood at attention in the dugout entrance, clutching a stack of papers. His young face showed the strain of trying to appear composed. "Sir? The reports from last night's patrol need your signature."

Winters squinted at him, trying to recall if he'd actually thrown a bottle at the boy the night before. "Right. Yes. Bring them here." His voice was rough, scratchy with dehydration and shame.

As Thompson approached, New-Boy Roberts appeared behind him, practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Lieutenant, sir! Enemy movement in sector four. Corporal sent me to fetch you."

The mention of Ruben brought a flash of memory — gentle hands, a damp cloth, unusual kindness. Archie pushed himself up, fighting a wave of nausea. "Tell him I'm coming. Thompson, leave those reports here."

Outside, the trench had taken on its daytime character — less ghostly, but no less horrific. Harris nodded tersely as Winters passed, his rifle gleaming with obsessive cleanliness. The man hadn't slept again, that much was clear from the shadows under his eyes.

"Good morning, sir," Jones called out weakly from his stretcher near the aid station. His leg was heavily bandaged, face pale but clear-eyed. The madness of yesterday seemed to have passed, leaving only pain and confusion in its wake.

Winters paused, guilt churning in his stomach. "Jones. How's the leg?"

"Hurts like hell, sir. But..." Jones swallowed hard. "Thank you. For stopping me. I wasn't... I wasn't thinking straight."

"None of us are, Jones. None of us are."

He found Ruben at his post, peering through a periscope at the enemy lines. The Corporal's scars seemed more pronounced in the morning light, but his stance was steady, professional. If last night's moment of compassion had happened at all, there was no trace of it in his bearing now.

"Movement in the German lines," Ruben reported crisply, not looking away from the periscope. "Supply rotation, probably. They're being sloppy about it."

"Should we take advantage?" Winters asked, grateful for the familiar routine of tactical discussion.

"Already have spotters in position. Two soldiers are ready with the Lewis gun if they present a clear target." McKinley's voice was cold, professional, but he finally turned to look at Winters. Something flickered in his pale eyes — concern, perhaps, or recognition. "How's your head?"

The question was quiet enough that none of the nearby men could hear. Winters felt his face flush. "Functional, Corporal. Thank you for... for your assistance last night."

McKinley nodded once, then turned back to his observation. "Davies isn't here today," he said, so softly Archie almost missed it.

Before Winters could respond, gunfire erupted from the German lines. The morning calm shattered as men scrambled to their positions, the familiar chaos of battle drowning out any chance for further conversation.

But as Archie barked orders and tried to make sense of the situation, he found his mind clearer than it had been in days. The ghosts had retreated, at least for now, and reality — however harsh — felt solid under his feet.

Chapter Text

The wooden support beams groaned like dying men as Winters lurched through the dugout entrance, his blood-crusted rifle clutched in trembling hands slick with something that might have been sweat, might have been blood. The world writhed and twisted like a dying serpent, trench walls pulsating with maggot-riddled corpses that weren't there. His boots squelched through ankle-deep muck — a heinous cocktail of mud, shit, and what his fractured mind insisted was liquefied human remains.

"Gonna kill every last one of ‘em," he slurred, his boot catching on a protruding femur. Rotting sandbags leaked dark ichors as he stumbled past. "Paint these trenches with their bloody guts, watch their eyes pop like grapes... put a bullet right between their fuckin’ Kraut eyes..."

Ruben materialized from the putrid darkness of a connecting trench, his scarred face a horror show of shadows. The familiar sound of the Lieutenant’s deranged mumblings had drawn him like a vulture to carrion. The Lieutenant swayed like a hanged man in the wind, uniform caked in layers of filth, eyes wild and unfocused in their sunken sockets.

Protocol demanded he ignore the spectacle of his commanding officer's descent into madness. But Winters' ravings about Germans and Davies' ghost threatened to draw enemy fire. Too many good men had already fed the mud of No Man's Land.

"Lieutenant," Ruben's voice cut through the miasma, measured and controlled like a butcher.

In Archie’s alcohol-poisoned brain, the voice morphed into harsh, guttural German, each consonant spitting with malice. He spun around, retching bile, and where Ruben should have been stood a towering monster in a Stahlhelm, bayonet gleaming with fresh gore in nonexistent moonlight.

"Lieutenant. Stand. Down." Each word fell like a hammer blow.

"JERRY BASTARD!" Archie howled, a sound more beast than human. He hurled himself at him, rifle forgotten in the muck. They crashed into the trench wall in an explosion of mud and splintered timber. The impact drove rusty nails and wooden shards deep into Ruben's back, tearing uniform and flesh alike.

Ruben's grunt of pain turned to a curse as Winters' fist connected with his jaw, splitting his scarred lip wide open. Blood and mud mingled with bits of lip and tongue as he fought to restrain the thrashing officer without crushing his windpipe.

"I'LL TEAR YOUR FUCKING HEART OUT!" Archie shrieked, eyes rolling in their sockets like marbles. Spittle and blood sprayed from his lips as he snapped at Ruben’s throat like a rabid dog. "KILLED DAVIES! CARVED HIM UP LIKE A CHRISTMAS HOG!"

They wrestled in the putrid soup of the trench floor, a tangle of limbs and curses. Ruben's height advantage meant nothing against Winters' manic strength. They slammed against support beams, sending cascades of mud and rats raining down. The vermin squealed and scattered, their fat bodies slick with gore.

"Die... fuckin’... Hun..." Winters wheezed through blood-flecked teeth, momentarily pinning Ruben in a puddle of stagnant water and decomposing matter.

Ruben's iron control shattered when he saw Winters scrabbling for the fallen rifle. His knee drove up with brutal force, pulping Winters' stomach. An elbow strike followed, crushing the Lieutenant's face into six inches of liquid hell.

Archie spat out a mouthful of blood and trench filth, still thrashing like a gut-shot animal. "KILL YOU! GONNA—"

His fingers found the rifle. The shot split the night like God's own thunder, the bullet screaming past Ruben's head close enough to tear flesh. Cordite and ozone filled the air as chunks of trench wall exploded into deadly shrapnel.

"FUCK!" Ruben roared, all pretense of composure forgotten. His fist connected with Winters' solar plexus like a sledgehammer, driving precious air from tortured lungs. Before the Lieutenant could recover, the Corporal bore down with his full weight, one hand gripping the back of his head and grinding the man's face into the freezing, thick mud.

The shock of drowning in liquid filth cut through Archie's madness like a bayonet. He gagged, inhaling a mixture of mud, blood, and things better left unnamed. The cold burned through his brain like frostbite.

Horror dawned in Ruben's pale eyes as sanity returned. He released his death-grip on Winters' head, scrambling back on hands and knees. His chest heaved, uniform more brown than green, fresh blood mixing with old stains.

Reality crashed back into Winters' skull like an artillery barrage. Through swollen eyes, he saw not a German soldier but Ruben's ravaged face — new cuts weeping, old scars split open again, all painted in a mасаbre mask of mud and gore.

"McKinley," the name bubbled through blood and broken teeth. "I... Christ, I..."

"Save it," Ruben spat, crimson dripping from his mangled lip. "Your mind's gone to pieces."

Winters went limp, shame and nausea washing over him in waves that threatened to drown him. "Davies," he whimpered. "Saw Davies again. And the bastards who... who did that to him. They were right there, McKinley. Right fucking there."

Ruben hauled him upright, both men slick with mud and blood, their uniforms indistinguishable from the trench walls themselves. A flare burst overhead, casting strange shadows across their faces.

"Davies is dead," Ruben growled, not unkindly. "Six months in the ground. You couldn't save him from then, and you can't save him now — not by drinking yourself to madness."

A laugh like breaking glass escaped Archie's ruined mouth. "Madness? Is that what's left? Fuckin’ Christ, McKinley... the mud whispers Jerry lullabies. The rats wear pickelhaube helmets. And Davies... Davies watches me with empty sockets, holding his own fuckin’ head."

"On your feet," Ruben ordered, grip bruising on Winters' arm. "You need real sleep, not this rum-soaked half-death you've been wallowing in."

They staggered toward the dugout like wounded animals, Winters leaning heavily on his Corporal. "Why bother with me, McKinley?" Blood bubbled between his lips.

Ruben's fingers dug deeper. "Someone has to," he grunted. "Davies wouldn't—"

"Don't," Winters choked, voice cracking like a violin string. "Don't you dare tell me what he'd want. You didn't know him. Didn't see what those bastards left of him."

"No," Ruben admitted. "But I see what's left of you."

The dugout swallowed them, night pressing against the walls like a living thing. As Ruben helped him onto his gore-stained cot, Winters clutched his sleeve with mud-caked fingers. "Stay," he begged, pride long since drowned in blood and rum. "Just... until they leave."

Ruben stood motionless, a statue carved of mud and scar tissue. Then, wordlessly, he settled onto an ammunition crate, rifle across his knees. In the guttering candlelight, his wounds seemed to pulse, scars dancing across his features like writhing worms.

Chapter Text

The medic's hands were steady as they probed the mangled flesh of Ruben's mouth, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. Blood and saliva dripped onto the already-stained cloth beneath his chin, joining countless layers of dried gore from previous patients.

"Nasty business, this," muttered Doctor Hayes, his once-white coat now a tapestry of browns and crimsons. "Clean through the right side. Won't grow back." He reached for a bottle of iodine, its amber contents promising fresh agony. "Some Jerry got you good, aye?"

Ruben grunted in affirmation, the lie easier than explaining how their commanding officer had tried to kill him in a drunken haze. The medical tent buzzed with the sounds of suffering — moans from the stretchers lined up like cordwood, wet coughs from the gas victims in the corner, the occasional scream.

A fresh batch of casualties stirred up the suffocating atmosphere as they were carried in, their stretchers leaving trails of dark droplets on the duckboard floor. The sweet-sick smell of gangrene mixed with the sharp bite of antiseptic, creating a miasma that never quite left one's nostrils.

"Hold still now," Hayes warned, before flooding the wound with iodine. Ruben's fingers dug into the wooden chair arms, knuckles white beneath the grimy gloves. He forced himself to focus on the tent's macabre tableau — anything to distract from the liquid fire in his mouth.

New-Boy Roberts lay three beds down, what remained of his legs wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. The boy hadn't stopped whimpering since they brought him in yesterday. Beside him, a Sergeant stared at the canvas ceiling with empty eyes, his bandaged head concealing the shell fragment that had taken half his skull. The medics said he might live. Some wondered if that was a mercy.

"McKinley?" A familiar voice cut through the haze of pain. Corporal "Lucky" James ducked through the tent flap, his trademark grin faltering at the sight of Ruben's condition. "Jesus Christ, mate. Heard you had a run-in with a Jerry patrol, but..." He trailed off, taking in the blood-soaked front of Ruben's uniform.

Hayes finished his grim work, stepping back to wash his hands in a basin of pink-tinged water. "No talkin' for at least two days. Shouldn’t be hard for you. Keep it clean — well, as clean as you can in this cesspit. And try not to get hit in the mouth again, eh?"

Lucky waited until the doctor moved on to his next patient before leaning in close. "Patrol my arse," he whispered. "Word is Lieutenant Winters was in some state last night. Firing his rifle in the trenches, raving about Jerries in the walls." He studied Ruben's face carefully. "Funny thing is, no one can find him this mornin'."

Ruben grabbed a nearby scrap of paper, scrawling with shaking hands: "Where?"

"That's just it," Lucky replied, glancing over his shoulder. "Major Harrison had search parties out. Found his pistol in the communication trench, covered in... well, covered in summit. But no sign of the man himself."

Another scribble: "When?"

"Dawn patrol spotted his tracks leading toward No Man's." Lucky's voice dropped even lower. "In this fog... could be anywhere by now. If the Fritz didn't get him, the shells will. Or worse."

Ruben closed his eyes, remembering Winters' broken whispers about Davies, about the things that haunted his dreams. He knew, with crushing certainty, that the Lieutenant hadn't wandered into No Man's Land by accident.

His hand moved across the paper one last time: "Get my rifle."

"You're mad," Lucky hissed. "In your condition? Besides, Harrison's given strict orders — no one goes out there until the fog lifts."

Ruben stood, ignoring the wave of dizziness that threatened to topple him. He pointed to the words again, harder this time: "Get. My. Rifle."

Lucky stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Give me ten minutes. But McKinley..." He gripped his shoulder. "Whatever's out there hunting the Lieutenant — whether it's Germans or his own demons — it might be better to let it finish the job."

Ruben shook his head, tasting fresh blood as the movement pulled at his stitches.

As Lucky disappeared into the fog, Ruben touched the fresh wounds on his face, remembering the wild terror in Winters' eyes. The Lieutenant was out there somewhere, trapped between reality and nightmare, probably still seeing Davies' mutilated corpse in every shadow.

Lucky's protests fell on deaf ears as Ruben checked his ammunition and adjusted his webbing. The morning fog pressed against the trench walls like a burial shroud, thick enough to hide a man — or his corpse — three feet away.

"You're in no state for this," Lucky pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let me come with you at least. Two pairs of eyes—"

Ruben silenced him with a savage shake of his head, fresh blood trickling from his mangled lip. He grabbed his notepad, writing with quick, angry strokes: "Stay here. Tell no one. Not worth more dead."

Lucky's face twisted in frustration. "And you're worth throwing away? Christ's sake, McKinley, you can barely stand!"

Another scribbled message: "Someone has to try. Not sending anyone else to die."

The fog swallowed the first wooden steps leading up to No Man's Land, making them seem to float in a sea of gray nothing. Ruben checked his rifle one final time, then pressed a blood-stained scrap of paper into Lucky's trembling hands.

The message was simple: "If not back by dusk, tell Major the truth."

Before Lucky could respond, Ruben was moving, each step deliberate and silent despite his injuries. The mist embraced him like a lover, erasing his outline until only a darker shadow remained. Then that too vanished, leaving Lucky alone with the endless whispers of the morning fog.

The fog swirled around Ruben's boots like ghostly fingers as he picked his way through the wasteland. Each step was a gamble — loose soil could mean safe passage or a partially-collapsed tunnel ready to swallow him whole. The sounds of the British trenches faded behind him, replaced by the hollow whistle of wind through barbed wire and the distant, muffled crump of artillery.

His wounds throbbed in time with his pulse, the cold air making the torn flesh of his lip burn like fire. Blood trickled down his chin, but he didn't dare wipe it away — any sudden movement could catch a German sniper's eye, fog or no fog.

The remains of the last offensive lay scattered around him: twisted tangles of wire, splintered wood from destroyed machine gun nests, and shapes in weathered uniforms that he refused to look at too closely. A rat scurried past, its fat body disappearing into the mist.

He found the first sign of Archie near a shell crater — bootprints in the mud, staggering and erratic. They led toward a collapsed section of German trench, barely visible through the gray soup of morning fog. Ruben followed.

The sound of ragged breathing stopped him dead. There, huddled in the remains of a German dugout, sat Lieutenant Winters. The man's uniform was caked in mud and worse, his good eye wide and glassy in a face streaked with tears and blood. He had wedged himself into a corner, trembling hands pressed against the earthen walls.

"No... no, it can't be..." Archie’s voice cracked as he spotted Ruben. "You're not real. Another trick. Like Davies. Like all the others..."

Ruben moved slowly, keeping his rifle pointed down. He couldn't speak, but he held out one hand, palm up — a gesture of peace, of rescue.

Recognition finally broke through Winters' madness. His face crumpled, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime. "McKinley? Christ... after what I did to you..." A sob wracked his body. "You came for me? Why? Why would you..."

Ruben reached him in three quick steps, hauling the broken man to his feet. He pointed back toward their lines with urgent insistence. They had to move — the fog wouldn't last forever, and the Germans would be watching.

"I can't," Archie whispered, but his legs were already moving, guided by Ruben's firm grip. "I don't deserve... the things I've done..."

A flare burst somewhere in the distance, its light diffused by the fog into an otherworldly glow. Ruben pushed them faster, weaving between craters and tangles of wire. Every shadow could hide a German patrol, every sound could be an enemy sniper adjusting his aim.

They made it back just as the fog began to lift, slipping into the British trenches like ghosts returning to their graves. Lucky was waiting, medical kit ready, questions burning in his eyes — but those would be kept for later.

For now, Ruben led the Lieutenant toward the aid station, both men leaving trails of mud and blood in their wake. They were alive. In this war, on this morning, that would have to be enough.

Major Harrison met them at the entrance to the command dugout, his weathered face a mask of barely contained fury and relief. The fog had lifted completely now, revealing a sky the color of old bruises. The distant thunder of artillery fire provided a constant backdrop to the morning's chaos.

"Lieutenant Winters," Harrison's voice was carefully neutral. "I trust you have a good explanation for your... unauthorized excursion?"

Winters straightened as much as his exhausted body would allow, but his gaze remained fixed on the muddy ground. "Sir, I... I cannot offer any excuse that would suffice."

Harrison's gaze shifted to Ruben, taking in his blood-soaked bandages and mud-caked uniform. "And Corporal McKinley. Disobeying direct orders, leaving your post..." He paused, his stern expression softening almost imperceptibly.

Lucky appeared at Ruben's side, supporting him as exhaustion finally began to take its toll. The morning's adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the burning agony of his wounds.

"Get them both to medical," the Major ordered. "We'll sort this mess out once they're properly seen to." He stepped closer to Archie, speaking low enough that only they could hear. "Whatever demons drove you out there, Lieutenant... we'll address them."

As they made their way back to the medical tent, Ruben caught glimpses of faces watching from dugouts and firing steps — some curious, others knowing. Word would spread quickly, as it always did in the trenches. But the truth of what happened in that fog-shrouded waste would remain between them.

Dr Hayes took one look at Ruben's reopened wounds and unleashed a torrent of creative profanity that would have made a sailor blush. "Bloody hell, McKinley, what part of 'keep it clean' was unclear?" But his hands were gentle as he began the work of repairing the damage.

Archie sat on a nearby cot, staring at his trembling hands. "I saw Davies out there," he whispered. "He was whole again, like before..." His voice cracked. "Callin' to me."

Ruben tore a fresh page from his notebook, scrawling with barely controlled frustration: "Shut up about Davies. Please."

Hayes paused in his work, eyes darting between the two men. The tent fell silent except for the ever-present rumble of distant guns.

The Lieutenant read the note, his face crumpling. "Right. You're right, ‘course." He ran a shaking hand through his mud-caked hair. "God, what a mess I've made. Of everythin’."

Lucky, who had been hovering nearby like a nervous mother hen, finally spoke up. "Sir, if I might suggest... the men have been keepin' some tea hot. Might do you good."

The Lieutenant nodded absently, allowing himself to be led away. His shoulders were still hunched, but some of the wild terror had left his eyes. Perhaps that was the best they could hope for, in this place where sanity was as fragile as morning mist.

Hayes resumed his work on Ruben's wounds, muttering under his breath about stubborn soldiers and death wishes. But there was respect in his touch, and something like understanding in his eyes.

"You're going to have a hell of a collection of stories to tell after this war," the doctor said quietly. "Assumin' you live long enough to tell ‘em."

Ruben closed his eyes, feeling the sting of the antiseptic and the pull of fresh stitches.

The next morning found the Lieutenant and Corporal standing at rigid attention in Major Harrison's dugout, the air thick with tension and the ever-present smell of damp earth. Captain Reynolds sat behind a makeshift desk, his weathered face unreadable as he thumbed through the incident report.

"Desertion, disobedience of direct orders, unauthorized excursion into enemy territory," Harrison read from a document, his voice carefully measured. "Rather serious charges, wouldn't you say, Captain?"

Reynolds shifted in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. "Indeed, sir. Though considering the circumstances—"

The dugout's entrance canvas rustled violently as Lucky burst in, his face flushed from running. "Beggin' your pardon, sirs, but I need to speak about this."

"Corporal James," Harrison's eyes narrowed. "I don't recall summoning you."

"No sir, you didn't." Lucky straightened his spine, though his hands trembled slightly. "But I was there, sir. I saw what happened. Lieutenant Winters needed help, and Corporal McKinley—"

"Risked not only his own life but potentially compromised our position," Harrison cut in. "In direct violation of standing orders."

"He saved a man's life, sir," Lucky pressed on, his voice gaining strength. "Begging your pardon, but if we start punishing men for that, what are we even fighting for?"

A heavy silence fell over the dugout. Ruben stood perfectly still, though fresh blood had begun to seep through the bandages on his lip. Beside him, Winters looked as though he wanted to sink into the earth itself.

Harrison studied them all for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the wooden table. "Captain Reynolds, your thoughts?"

Reynolds cleared his throat. "The men's conduct was irregular, sir, but their intentions were honorable. Lieutenant Winters is a valuable officer, and Corporal McKinley's record speaks for itself. Perhaps some additional duties would suffice as discipline?"

"Additional duties," Harrison repeated slowly. "Yes, I suppose that might be appropriate." He fixed Ruben with a penetrating stare. "Two weeks of night watch, Corporal. And you'll assist in training the new replacements arriving tomorrow."

Ruben nodded once, sharply. Blood dripped from his chin onto his collar.

"As for you, Lieutenant," Harrison continued, "you'll be helping Doctor Hayes reorganize the medical supplies. Every last bandage and bottle needs to be inventoried." His voice softened slightly. "And you'll be speaking with Captain Williams about... your recent experiences."

Winters flinched but nodded. They all knew Captain Williams handled cases of shell shock and battle fatigue.

"Now," Harrison's gaze swept over Lucky, "Corporal James. Your loyalty to your comrades is admirable, if somewhat inappropriately expressed. You'll be joining Corporal McKinley on night watch."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Lucky's relief was palpable.

"Dismissed," Harrison waved them out. "And gentlemen? Next time one of you feels the need to go wandering in No Man's Land, do try to file the appropriate paperwork first."

They filed out of the dugout, emerging into the wan morning light. The usual sounds of the trenches washed over them — distant artillery, the clatter of equipment, men's voices raised in conversation or argument.

"Could've been worse," Lucky muttered, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "Thought for sure they'd bust you down to Private."

The Lieutenant's mismatched eyes caught the dim light — one a deep brown like rich earth, the other a marble, pale grey, clouded and distant — fixed on Ruben, watching the exchange with a ghost of a smile. "Both of you, report to the medical tent. McKinley, you're due for another round of dressing changes."

As they trudged through the muddy trench, the sounds of war provided their constant accompaniment — the distant boom of artillery, the crack of rifle fire, the endless symphony of destruction that had become as natural as breathing.

"You know," Lucky said quietly, "what you did out there... going after the Lieutenant like that... it was either the bravest or the stupidest thing I've ever seen."

Ruben pulled out his notebook: "Same thing."

"S’ppose you're right about that.” Lucky hummed, “Still, next time you decide to go playing hero in No Man's, give a lad some warning, aye?"

The medical tent was a hive of activity when they arrived, Hayes moving between patients with his usual efficiency. He took one look at them and pointed to empty cots. "Sit. And McKinley, if you've torn those stitches again, I swear I'll sew your mouth shut permanently."

Chapter Text

The staccato of machine gun fire ripped through the dawn silence, sending both men diving into the mud. Winters' heart hammered against his ribs as bullets churned the earth around them, too close, far too close. Beside him, Ruben pressed himself flatter against the ground, his scarred face a mask of grim concentration.

"Intel said they'd withdrawn to the second line," Winters hissed, fingers tightening around his rifle. "Patrol wasn't supposed to be here."

"Intel's been wrong before," Ruben muttered, trying to get his bearings through the pre-dawn murk. They'd been tasked with a simple reconnaissance mission — scout the supposedly abandoned German forward position, mark any remaining supplies or ammunition for retrieval. Now they were pinned down in No Man's Land, caught in the crossfire between their lines and a German patrol that absolutely shouldn't have been there.

A mortar shell screamed overhead, detonating somewhere behind them with a thunderous crash. The concussion rattled their teeth, showering them with dirt and fragments of God-knows-what. Through the ringing in his ears, Archie heard someone shouting in German.

"They're moving to flank us," Winters growled, already shifting his position. "We need to—"

The rest of his words were drowned out by another explosion, this one close enough to spray them with burning shrapnel. Archie felt something hot slice across his cheek, but there was no time to check the wound. They needed to move, now, or they'd be surrounded.

"If we can make it to those shell holes," he pointed toward a cluster about thirty yards to their left, "we might have a chance of fighting our way back to our lines."

Ruben nodded grimly. It was a desperate plan, but they were short on alternatives. "On my mark then," he said, gathering his legs under him. "Three... two..."

The world exploded. A shell must have found its mark nearby, because suddenly they were airborne, tumbling through space like ragdolls. Archie slammed back to earth with bone-crushing force, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Through blurred vision, he saw the Corporal sprawled motionless several feet away, half-buried in mud and debris.

"Corporal!" he tried to shout, but it came out as a wheeze. His whole body screamed in protest as he dragged himself toward the man’s prone form. "McKinley!"

To his immense relief, Ruben stirred, pushing himself up on trembling arms. Blood ran freely from a fresh cut above his eye, mixing with the mud caked on his face. "Here," he coughed. "Still breathing."

But they weren't out of danger yet. German voices grew closer, accompanied by the distinctive sound of boots moving through mud. They were running out of time.

"Think you can run?" Ruben asked, his voice urgent. When Archie nodded, he gripped the Lieutenant’s arm.

They burst from their position just as another mortar round impacted nearby. Using the explosion's cover, they sprinted toward the shell holes, zigzagging through the cratered landscape. Bullets whizzed past like angry hornets, kicking up spurts of mud at their feet. Their lungs burned, legs trembled, but they forced themselves to keep moving.

They reached the first shell hole and tumbled in, gasping for breath. Ruben immediately brought his rifle up, squeezing off several shots at their pursuers. The crack of return fire was immediate and devastating.

"Too much fire between us and home," Archie said with a grimace, feeding fresh rounds into his rifle. "We're not making it back to our lines."

Ruben knew he was right. The Germans had the advantage of position and numbers. Already, he could see them moving to cut off any escape route. This shell hole would become their grave if they didn't think of something fast.

That's when they heard it — the distant, distinctive whistle of British artillery. "Down!" Winters ordered sharply, pulling Ruben closer as their own guns opened up, laying down a devastating barrage. The ground shook with impact after impact, the air filled with screaming metal and the cries of men caught in the steel rain.

They huddled together in their hole, hands pressed over their ears, as death rained down around them. Minutes stretched like hours until finally, gradually, the barrage lifted. When they dared to look, the landscape had changed again, fresh craters pockmarking the already scarred earth. The German patrol was gone, either withdrawn or buried beneath the churned soil.

"Someone's watching over us," Archie said with a cough. "Called in support."

They waited until they were certain the Germans had pulled back, then made their way carefully back toward British lines. Every step was an exercise in terror, expecting at any moment to hear the crack of a rifle or the whistle of another shell.

When they finally tumbled back into their trench, they were met by concerned faces and helping hands. Morrison himself came running up, the Sergeant's uniform clean compared to their mud-caked state.

"Cuttin’ it a bit close, weren't ya?" he said, helping both men to their feet. "Saw you through the glasses. Figured y'could use some cover."

"Perfect timing," Archie replied, allowing himself to be led toward the medical station. "Though a heads up next time wouldn't go amiss."

Later, patched up and nursing cups of rum-laced tea in the relative safety of a dugout, Archie studied the Corporal’s face in the candlelight.

"You know," Winters said suddenly, "all this mud reminds me of my uncle's farm. Used to raise sheep in Yorkshire, before everything. Had this old collie, Bess, clever as they come. During the floods of '08, she saved half our flock. Lead ‘em to higher ground in the dead of night."

Ruben listened quietly, letting his words fill the heavy air. After a pause, Archie continued, "Sometimes I wonder if she's still there, herding sheep across those hills."

He paused, studying the rings of moisture his cup had left on the rough wooden table. "Dog like that, worth more than gold," he said finally, but his voice was strained, as if each word was being dragged out of him.

"We're alive," Ruben murmured, raising his cup in a small toast. "That's enough for today."

Winters’ answering smile was slight but genuine. "That it is," he agreed, touching his cup to Ruben’s. "That it is."

Chapter Text

The morning brought a different kind of silence to No Man's Land. After last night's attack, the usual sounds of war seemed muted, distant, as if the battlefield itself was holding its breath. The Lieutenant and Corporal moved through the wasteland with practiced caution, their mission as grim as the gray sky above: locate and retrieve the fallen.

"Over there," Winters whispered, gesturing toward a cluster of shell holes. "I think I see Phillips' insignia."

They worked in silence, documenting locations, collecting dog tags, and when possible, preparing bodies for retrieval. Each fallen soldier was a letter home waiting to be written, another name to be carved in stone.

It was near the remnants of a German wire barrier that they found it — a dog, its gray-brown fur matted with blood and mud. The animal must have wandered into No Man's Land, perhaps following the chaos of battle, only to meet the same fate as so many others.

Archie noticed the change in Ruben immediately. The Corporal, who had faced German attacks and artillery barrages without flinching, suddenly went rigid. His face, already pale beneath its scars, drained of what little color remained.

"Corporal?" Archie turned, concerned by the unusual reaction. "What is it?"

But Ruben was already backing away, his breathing rapid and shallow. His eyes, usually sharp and alert, were wide with something Winters had never seen in them before — raw, uncontrolled fear. The man bumped into Archie’s shoulder and stayed there, like a child seeking protection from a nightmare.

"Christ, McKinley," Archie murmured, genuinely alarmed now. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

Ruben's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he managed to force out a single word: "Can't." His hand gripped Winters’ sleeve with desperate intensity.

It was unsettling to see him like this — the Corporal, who had carried wounded men through artillery fire, who had survived injuries that would have broken lesser men, now trembling at the sight of a dead dog.

"Alright," Winters said softly, positioning himself between Ruben and the corpse. "Alright. We'll go around. Different route back."

They gave the spot a wide berth, Ruben staying unusually close to Archie's side. The Corporal's breathing gradually steadied, but the haunted look remained in his eyes. Whatever memory that dead dog had triggered, it clearly went beyond the normal horrors of war.

They completed their grim task in silence, marking the last locations on their map. As they made their way back to British lines, Archie found himself watching the Corporal more closely. A crack in the armor, a glimpse of something broken and never properly healed.

Back in the trenches, the Lieutenant watched Ruben methodically clean his rifle, the familiar ritual seeming to steady his hands. The late afternoon light cast long shadows across his scarred face, making the torn flesh appear even more grotesque.

"I’ve never seen you so rattled, McKinley." Archie ventured carefully, lighting a cigarette. The match flame briefly illuminated the concern in his eyes.

Ruben's hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their mechanical motion. "Nothing to talk about," he muttered, voice flat.

"That dog triggered summit," Archie pressed, exhaling smoke that mingled with the ever-present miasma of the trenches.

A muscle twitched in Ruben's jaw. "Fragments," he admitted finally. "Like trying to catch smoke." His pale eyes had that distant look again, like he was staring through time itself. "Wake up tasting blood and dirt."

"The mind protects itself," Winters observed quietly. "Buries the worst of it so deep you'd need a mining crew to dig it out."

"That's the thing, isn't it? Sometimes I wonder how much of me is buried down there with those memories. Whole chunks of my life, just... gone. Like they belonged to someone else." Ruben’s hands moved faster on the rifle, almost frantic now. "I look in mirrors and don't recognize the thing staring back."

Archie watched as Ruben's movements became increasingly agitated, the cleaning rod scraping against metal with unnecessary force. "Easy," he cautioned. "You'll wear a hole through it."

Ruben blinked, as if suddenly becoming aware of his actions. He set the rifle down carefully, his hands trembling slightly.

The sight was unsettling, like watching a marble statue crack and splinter, each hairline fracture revealing something terrifyingly human beneath the stone. His hands — steady even in the worst firefights — trembled violently as they gripped the edge of his coat.

"McKinley..." Archie started, but the words died in his throat. What could he possibly say?

Ruben made no attempt to explain or excuse the display. They both knew any lie would ring hollow in the fetid air between them, and the truth — whatever it was — remained locked behind those fragments of memory he couldn't, or wouldn't, piece together.

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant thunder of artillery and Ruben's ragged breathing as he fought to rebuild his walls, to seal the cracks — but something fundamental had shifted, like the first tremor before an avalanche. They both knew it could never be unseen.

The next morning brought a peculiar stillness to the trenches. Even the ever-present artillery seemed subdued, as if the guns themselves were exhausted. Winters found Ruben at his usual post, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on the wasteland beyond their lines.

"Sleep at all?" Archie asked, though he already knew the answer. Dark circles shadowed Ruben's pale eyes, making the scars on his face appear even more pronounced in the wan morning light.

"Enough," Ruben grunted, but his white-knuckled grip on his rifle betrayed the lie. "Had company anyway. Rats bold as brass these days. Getting bigger too."

Archie leaned against the trench wall, mud seeping into his already filthy uniform. "Rats don't usually bother you."

"These ones wore collars," Ruben said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "Like dogs."

The words hung between them like poison gas. Winters watched as Ruben’s jaw worked silently, the torn flesh of his lip twitching with unspoken words.

"Sometimes, I think I hear barking," he finally admitted. "Not from No Man's. From somewhere deeper. Somewhere in here." He tapped his temple with a trembling finger.

The Lieutenant said nothing, recognizing the fragile moment for what it was. Like handling an unexploded shell, one wrong move could shatter everything.

A flare burst overhead, casting strange shadows across Ruben's ravaged features. For a moment, he looked impossibly young and terrifyingly old all at once.

"Maybe some memories are better left buried."

Chapter Text

The cigarette had burned to ash between Dr Hayes' gore-crusted fingers as he worked, his medical coat so saturated with blood and viscera it could probably stand on its own. The fabric had long since given up any pretense of being white, now a nauseating tapestry of brown-black dried blood, yellow pus stains, and the sickly greens of vomit. Corporal James — "Lucky" to the ones who'd survived more than a week in this festering hellhole — sat hunched in the blood-spattered aid station, biting back a scream as Hayes dug into the mangled flesh of his forearm. The oil lamp's weak light barely penetrated the thick, fetid air, heavy with the choking stench of iodine, rotting flesh, and the ever-present reek of death.

"Another fuckin' close call," Hayes spat through clenched teeth, his hands steady despite the distant thunder of shells that made the surgical instruments rattle in their rusted tin. "One of these days your luck's gonna run dry, mate, and I'll be pickin' bits of you off these piss-soaked walls."

"Just a scratch," Lucky managed, though his face had gone the color of a corpse beneath the caked-on filth of the trenches. "Ain't worth your time, Doc."

Hayes let out a bitter laugh, reaching for bandages already spotted with brown stains. "Everything's worth my bloody time in this shithole. Even scratches'll kill you when they're full of trench rot and fuck knows what else."

They sat in tense silence as Hayes worked, blood dripping from his saturated sleeves onto the mud-caked floor. The distant thunder of artillery punctuated the air like Death's own drumbeat, while fetid water trickled through the rot-blackened beams above, plinking into a rust-eaten tin cup thick with God-knows-what.

"Saw McKinley earlier," Lucky said suddenly, his voice casual but his eyes sharp as razors through the iodine-heavy miasma. "That scar of his is summit else, yeah? The one through his lip?"

"Fuckin' hell, that one's a right mess," Hayes spat through yellowed teeth, hands slick with gore as he worked. "Never got the full story, have we? Bastard won't talk about it, and Winters..." He shrugged, fingers probing the mangled flesh. "Well, you know how the Lieutenant gets when it comes to him."

"They're quite the pair, ain't they?" Lucky mused, watching pus ooze between Hayes' practiced fingers. "Never seen two men so different get on. McKinley, cold as a corpse. Winters, with his barking and that foggy eye of his."

Doctor Hayes' blood-crusted hands paused momentarily. "Thick as thieves now, them two." He resumed his grisly work, eyes glazing with that thousand-yard stare they all got when remembering. "Funny thing is, they couldn't have been more different before. McKinley..."

"Man's a ghost with a rifle, yeah?"

"War makes strange bedfellows," Hayes muttered, striking a match against his gore-stained apron. The flame briefly illuminated the ravines around his eyes, carved deep by years of watching men die screaming despite his best efforts. "Though there's more to it than that, I reckon."

"How d'you mean?"

"Notice how Winters always knows where McKinley is? How the Corporal's never far when the Lieutenant needs him? They orbit each other like planets in this shithole." Hayes exhaled a cloud of smoke into the putrid air. "Seen it before. Men find summit out here — summit beyond friendship."

"Understandin', maybe. Or salvation." Lucky hummed over the wet sounds of Hayes' work.

"They keep each other human," Hayes said softly, wiping gore from his instruments. "In this fuckin' meat grinder, that's no smallthing."

The conversation lulled as Hayes moved to attend the Corporal’s wound with mechanical efficiency. Lucky remained seated, watching the man work through the haze of death and disinfectant, contemplating the bizarre bonds forged in this hell on earth.

"Remember when I first showed up, the new batch? Wouldn't even bunk with the rest of us. Spent three weeks sleeping in the firing step before Winters convinced him to use a proper dugout."

The doctor pulled out another cigarette, offering one to Lucky who declined with a shake of his head. "He's got that effect on people, Winters has. Natural leader, that one. Though with McKinley..." He paused, striking a match against crusted gore. "It's different. More personal-like."

"Like two broken pieces that fit together," Lucky mused, then grimaced. "Christ, listen to me. Starting to sound like Jenkins with his bloody poetry."

Hayes smiled grimly through the blood-tinged fog. "Still, you ain't wrong. Whatever demons McKinley's runnin' from, whatever ghosts haunt Winters — they seem to cancel each other out, somehow."

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the thunder of shells and the eternal drip of filthy water from the dugout's ceiling.

"You know," Hayes said after a long moment, "saw summit strange last week. McKinley was cleanin’ his rifle — man's always cleanin’ that bloody rifle — an’ Winters comes in, sits down next to him. Doesn't say a word, just starts helping. They worked in complete silence for almost an hour, like they were havin’ a whole conversation without speaking."

"Reminds me of my grandparents," Lucky replied thoughtfully. "Married fifty years. Could communicate volumes with just a look." He paused, then added quickly, "Not that I'm suggesting—"

"Course not," Hayes interrupted with a knowing smirk, wiping fresh blood from his hands. "Just two men finding a bit of peace in this nightmare. Nothing more to it than that."

Lucky nodded, but his eyes drifted to the dugout entrance where, through the perpetual mist and cordite smoke, he could just make out two figures sharing a cigarette in the gathering dusk, their shoulders nearly touching as they stood in companionable silence.

"Nothing more to it than that," he echoed softly, but his tone suggested he didn't believe it any more than Hayes did.

Finally, Hayes finished, wiping his blood-soaked hands on his stained apron. "You're good to go, James. Keep that arm clean."

Lucky stood, flexing his bandaged arm experimentally. "Thanks, Doc. I'll do my best." He paused at the doorway, glancing back. "You ever wonder what they'll do? After, I mean. If there is an after."

Hayes was already preparing fresh bandages, his movements mechanical, practiced, like an undertaker preparing another corpse.

"Some men ain't made for peace, James. McKinley... He's got war in his bones. But Winters?" He shook his head, blood dripping from his sleeve.

"Man like that needs his peace. Question is, will he go back to it alone?"

Chapter Text

The morning brought a welcome lull in the fighting. Rain had fallen steadily through the night, turning the trenches into a network of muddy canals that threatened to swallow unwary boots. In the officers' dugout, Lieutenant Winters sat reviewing supply reports while Morrison cleaned his binoculars for the hundredth time, a habit born of anxiety rather than necessity.

Private Thompson burst in, water streaming from his helmet. "Mail's come through, sir!" The young soldier's face was bright despite the dreary weather, clutching a sodden bundle of letters and parcels.

Archie looked up from his paperwork, managing a tired smile. "Any Christmas packages make it through?"

"Yes sir! Quite a few actually. Jenkins got a fruit cake from his wife that's only slightly crushed." Thompson began distributing the mail with practiced efficiency. "Sergeant Morrison, three letters for you. Corporal Lucky, a package from Cardiff. Private Williams, letter from Bristol..."

The familiar ritual played out as men gathered, eager for news from home. Morrison tore into his letters immediately, while others carefully tucked theirs away for quieter moments. Ruben stood in the corner, cleaning his rifle with methodical precision, seemingly oblivious to the excitement around him.

"Nothing for you again, Corporal?" Thompson asked, then immediately regretted it when Winters shot him a warning look.

Ruben didn't look up from his work. "No need to check."

The awkward moment was broken by Morrison's delighted exclamation. "My sister's had her baby! A little girl." He passed around a small photograph of a swaddled infant. "Named her Rose."

"Lovely name," Winters commented, studying the tiny face in the grainy photo. "Healthy?"

"Seven pounds even. Mother and child doing well." Morrison beamed with uncle's pride. "Says she's got Father's nose, poor thing."

The conversation drifted to homes and families, childhood memories and future hopes. Ruben continued his work in silence, each movement precise and practiced. Winters watched him from the corner of his eye, noting how the Corporal's hands never faltered in their task, even as the talk of civilian life washed over him like water off stone.

"Remember those Christmas parties at the town hall?" Jenkins was saying, having joined them with his somewhat flattened fruit cake. "The whole village would turn out. Plum pudding, carol singing until midnight..."

"God, yes," Lucky laughed. "My first kiss was behind that hall, with this girl, Betty Marshall. She had mistletoe in her hair." He glanced at Ruben, perhaps trying to include him. "What about you, Corporal? Any Christmas memories to share?"

Ruben's hands stilled for just a moment. "No," he said simply, then resumed his cleaning with renewed focus.

Winters smoothly redirected the conversation. "Morrison, didn't you mention something about your mother's trifle?"

As Morrison launched into a story about holiday disasters involving overproof rum and his grandmother's prized tablecloth, Archie watched Ruben slip quietly from the dugout, rifle cradled in his arms like a child.

Later, Winters found him at his usual post, staring out across No Man's Land through the steady drizzle. They stood in companionable silence for a while, sharing a cigarette passed back and forth between them.

"They mean well," Archie said finally.

Ruben exhaled a stream of smoke. "I know."

"Some men just aren't made for reminiscing."

"That what you think it is?"

"Doesn't matter what I think." Winters accepted the cigarette back. "Though I do wonder sometimes..."

"About?"

"If you're not remembering, or if you're choosing not to."

Ruben's pale eyes remained fixed on the distant German lines. "Might be the same thing in the end."

They finished the cigarette in silence, listening to the soft patter of rain and distant sounds of men singing carols in one of the support trenches. Eventually, Winters had to return to his paperwork, leaving Ruben to his solitary vigil.

As he ducked back into the dugout, Archie glanced over his shoulder. Through the rain, Ruben's figure seemed to blur at the edges, as if he might dissolve into the mist at any moment, leaving nothing behind but a rifle and the memory of scars.

Chapter Text

The rain had been falling steadily for three days. The walls oozed like open wounds, releasing rivulets of filth that carried the acrid stench of death and decay. In the forward observation post, Corporal McKinley sat cross-legged on a rotting duckboard, methodically field-stripping his Lee-Enfield for what must have been the third time that morning.

Private Finn Williams watched from his position by the periscope, fascinated despite himself by the mechanical precision of McKinley's movements. The Corporal's scarred hands moved with practiced efficiency, each component cleaned with religious devotion despite the futility of maintaining anything close to cleanliness in this shithole.

"Waste of time, innit?" Finn ventured, immediately regretting breaking the silence when McKinley's pale eyes flickered up to meet his. The grotesque scar through his lip seemed to twitch in the dim light. "I mean, it'll just get filthy again in an hour."

McKinley said nothing, returning his attention to the disassembled rifle. The silence stretched between them like razor wire, broken only by the soft click of metal components and the eternal drip of contaminated water from the dugout's ceiling.

"Leave him be, Williams," Lieutenant Winters' voice carried from the entrance, followed by the man himself ducking under the low beam. His good eye caught the weak lamplight while his clouded one remained dull and lifeless. "Some men find peace in routine."

Finn shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Just trying to make conversation is all."

"How's the Jerry line?" Winters asked, changing the subject with practiced ease as he settled onto an ammunition crate next to the Corporal. Without looking up from his work, McKinley shifted slightly to make room.

"Quiet as a grave. Jenkins swears he heard them singing last night."

"Wouldn't surprise me," the Lieutenant mused, pulling out his tobacco tin. "They're as miserable as we are in this weather." He offered the tin first to McKinley, who paused his cleaning long enough to accept a cigarette, then to Williams, who declined with a shake of his head.

The flame from Winters' match briefly illuminated the cramped space, casting grotesque shadows across the walls slick with black mold and whatever else grew in this perpetual darkness. He lit McKinley's cigarette first, then his own, and for a moment the only sound was their synchronized exhales of smoke into the fetid air.

"Doctor Hayes says we're running low on iodine again," Finn said, desperate to fill the silence. "Sent Taylor and Lucky out to scrounge through the abandoned aid stations in the support trenches."

"Dangerous work," Winters commented, watching the Corporal’s hands as they reassembled the rifle.

McKinley's fingers stilled for a fraction of a second. "Taylor's green," he said quietly, his voice rough from disuse. "Doesn't know what to look for."

The Lieutenant nodded, understanding the unspoken concern. "Take Williams’ spot at the periscope. I'll have him help with the supply run instead."

Finn opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it when McKinley's pale eyes met his again. He surrendered his position, trying not to feel relieved as he ducked out of the observation post into the relative safety of the communication trench.

As he left, he heard Winters' low voice: "You've cleaned that rifle four times today."

McKinley's response was barely audible over the steady drip of water. "Keeps my hands busy."

"And your mind quiet?"

Finn hurried away through the maze of trenches, leaving the two men to their shared silence, their synchronous breathing, and the eternal ritual of cleaning weapons that would never truly be clean.

Chapter Text

The midnight watch loomed ahead like a gaping maw, threatening to swallow what remained of Ruben’s already fragmented sleep schedule. His boots squelched through the sucking mud of the communication trench, each step accompanied by the wet sound of displaced filth. The familiar weight of his Lee-Enfield pressed against his shoulder, its stock gleaming dully in what little moonlight penetrated the perpetual haze of smoke and fog.

He wasn't surprised to find Archie waiting at the junction of Suicide Alley and the support trench. The officer's clouded eye caught what little light filtered down, giving him an otherworldly appearance in the gloom. Without a word, Winters fell into step beside him.

"Thought I might find you here," Archie said softly, his Yorkshire accent peeking through his exhaustion. Ruben merely nodded, his scarred lip twitching slightly in what might have been acknowledgement.

They rounded the final bend toward the forward observation post, only to find it already occupied. Corporal Lucky stood at the periscope, while a fresh-faced Private — barely old enough to shave — fidgeted nervously beside him.

"Sir," Lucky straightened, nodding to Winters. "McKinley." His eyes flickered briefly to Ruben’s scar before settling somewhere safer.

"Explanation, Corporal?" Archie's voice carried that quiet authority that had earned him the respect of even the most hardened veterans.

"Captain's orders, sir. Training the new lad." Lucky gestured to the Private, who looked like he might soil himself under the pair's eyes. "Thought it best to do it during the quiet hours. And..." he hesitated, "well, word is neither of you have properly rested in days."

Ruben’s hands tightened imperceptibly on his rifle. The idea of not being at his post, of breaking the routine that had kept him sane these past months, sent an uncomfortable ripple through his gut.

Winters studied Lucky for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Very well. Carry on." He turned to Ruben, his good eye searching the Corporal's face. "A night's rest wouldn't go amiss, aye?"

The Corporal stood frozen, his pale eyes fixed on the periscope as if it might disappear the moment he looked away. Finally, he gave a slight nod, more to Winters than to Lucky.

"My dugout," Winters said quietly as they turned away. "It's drier than yours."

They walked in companionable silence through the winding trenches, their footsteps muffled by the omnipresent mud. The Lieutenant's dugout was indeed drier than most, though that was a relative term here. A single candle guttered in a makeshift holder fashioned from an empty shell casing.

"Tea?" Archie asked, already reaching for his battered tin pot. Ruben settled onto a relatively stable ammunition crate, propping his rifle carefully against the wall.

"Mm," he grunted, which Archie correctly interpreted as a yes.

The familiar ritual of brewing tea seemed to ease something in both men. Winters handed the man a chipped enamel mug, their gloved fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.

"Strange," the Lieutenant mused, settling beside Ruben on another crate. "First night off in what, three months?"

"Four," Ruben corrected softly, his voice rough from disuse. The scar through his lip caught the candlelight as he sipped his tea.

Winters smiled faintly. "You would know." He pulled out his tobacco tin, offering it first to the Corporal, as always. "Remember that patrol in Flanders? When we got lost in the fog?"

"When you insisted you knew which direction was north," Ruben finished, accepting a cigarette. He leaned forward as Winters struck a match, the flame briefly illuminating the deep shadows under both men's eyes.

Archie chuckled, a rare sound that seemed to soften the harsh lines of his face. "Aye, well, I got us back eventually. Though I'll admit, your sense of direction was better." He paused, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Always has been, come to think of it."

Ruben’s scarred lip twitched in what might have been a smile. They sat in comfortable silence, sharing the warmth of their tea and the bitter comfort of their cigarettes. Outside, the eternal symphony of war continued — distant shellfire, the crack of rifles, the wet sounds of men moving through mud — but in here, in this moment, they found a pocket of peace.

"You never did tell me," Archie said after a while, gesturing vaguely to his own lip, mirroring the location of Ruben’s scar.

The man was quiet for so long that Winters thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Another time."

Archie nodded, understanding. He shifted slightly, his shoulder pressing against Ruben’s. "Fair enough. Though someday, when this is all over..."

"If," he corrected.

"When," the man insisted, his good eye catching Ruben’s pale ones. "When this is over, I'd like to hear it. Over a proper cup of tea, mind. Not this swill."

McKinley snorted softly. "Your tea's always swill."

Winters chuckled, a genuine sound that seemed to chase away some of the dugout's oppressive darkness. "Cheeky bastard. That's insubordination, that is."

They finished their tea in comfortable silence, their cigarettes burning down to stubs. The candle guttered, throwing wild shadows across the dugout's walls. Neither man moved to light another.

"Should sleep," Archie said finally, his voice soft in the darkness. "I've got some clean blankets. Well, cleaner than most."

Ruben nodded, though he made no move to lie down. After a moment, the Lieutenant understood. Without a word, he shifted his crate closer to the wall, making room for Ruben to stretch out while remaining within arm's reach.

The quiet settled around them like a heavy blanket, broken only by the distant thunder of artillery and Ruben's steady breathing. Archie kept his vigil, occasionally shifting to ease the cramping in his legs, but never moving far from him. The candle had long since burned out, leaving them in a darkness punctuated only by the occasional flare that cast eerie shadows through the dugout's entrance.

Hours passed, marked by the changing of guards above and the eternal drip of water from the ceiling. Ruben slept deeper than Archie had seen in months, though his hands still twitched occasionally, reaching for a rifle that wasn't there.

Just before dawn, the relative quiet was shattered by the distinctive whistle of incoming shells. Ruben was awake and on his feet before the first explosion hit, his rifle already in his hands. Archie grabbed their headgear, passing Ruben’s helmet over with practiced efficiency.

"Fritz is eager this morning," Winters commented dryly as they made their way through the communication trench, ducking as another shell screamed overhead. The explosion sent a shower of mud and debris raining down on them.

McKinley grunted in agreement, his pale eyes scanning the lightening sky. "Barrage pattern's different," he observed quietly. "They're ranging for something."

Winters trusted the Corporal's assessment implicitly. Three years in the trenches had given McKinley an almost supernatural ability to read enemy artillery patterns. "I'll alert Command. You get to the observation post."

They parted ways at the next junction, though Archie spoke just before he disappear entirely into the maze of trenches. "McKinley," he called out, mismatched eyes meeting the Corporal's.

"You should come more often."

Ruben's scarred lip twitched in a way that came dangerously close to resembling a true smile. "Your tea's still swill," he replied, then vanished around the corner as another shell burst nearby.

Chapter Text

The morning dawned with an unnatural stillness that set Ruben’s teeth on edge. Even the constant artillery fire had died down to sporadic thuds in the distance, like the heartbeat of some dying beast. The air felt wrong — heavier than usual, with an odd metallic taste that had nothing to do with cordite or blood.

Archie found him at the forward observation post, pale eyes fixed on the enemy lines through the periscope. "Summit’s coming," Ruben said without turning, his toneless voice rougher than usual. "Wind's shifting west."

Winters was about to respond when Private Taylor came scrambling through the communication trench, his young face twisted with panic. "Gas!" he screamed, "Gas in Sector Four!"

The word rippled through the trenches like a death knell. Men scrambled for their masks, fingers fumbling with straps and filters. The Corporal was already moving, dragging his mask over his scarred face as he pushed past the growing chaos.

"Where's Lucky?" he demanded, grabbing Taylor's arm. The private's eyes were wide behind his mask's clouded viewports.

"Forward sap," Taylor choked out. "With Jenkins and the new lad, Harper."

Winters appeared beside them, his voice muffled behind his own mask. "McKinley, don't—"

But Ruben was already gone, moving with the urgency of a man who'd learned to navigate trenches blindfolded. The sickly yellow-green cloud was rolling in fast, hugging the ground like some obscene fog, turning the already hellish landscape into something truly demonic.

He found Lucky and Jenkins dragging Harper between them, the boy's mask dangling uselessly from his neck — the strap had snapped. Lucky's eyes met his through the fogged glass of his mask, desperate and pleading.

Ruben spotted a fallen soldier nearby, his mask unused, his face already blue from the gas. Without hesitation, he snatched the mask and forced it over Harper’s face. He helped them half-carry, half-drag the boy through the twisting trenches, each breath an agony of burning needles and acid.

They almost made it.

Jenkins stumbled first, his mask's filter clogged with mud from an earlier fall. He went down hard, clawing at his throat. Lucky tried to grab him, but Harper’s dead weight dragged them both down into the churning yellow hell.

Strong hands appeared out of nowhere, hauling Ruben backwards. The Lieutenant’s voice, cursing violently as he dragged Ruben to safety. More hands — medics maybe — taking Harper and Lucky. But Jenkins... Jenkins just lay there, twitching, his face already turning the hideous blue-black that they had seen too many times before.

Hours later, after the gas had dissipated and the dead were being counted, they found something that made even the hardened veterans pause: a German soldier, crumpled in a shell hole just beyond their wire. His uniform was crisp, probably his first time at the front. His face, barely touched by a razor, was frozen in a rictus of terror.

"Christ," Lucky whispered hoarsely from his stretcher, still weak from the gas. "He's just a boy."

McKinley knelt beside the body. The boy's dog tag identified him as Paul Mueller. Sixteen years old.

"We'll bury him," Winters said quietly, his good eye fixed on Ruben. "With Jenkins."

They dug the graves that night, under sporadic machine-gun fire. They buried Jenkins with his cigarettes and his lucky charm — a tiny, hand-knit sock from his wife, announcing her pregnancy. He'd worn it close to his heart since the day it arrived, never tiring of talking about the son he hoped to meet when the war ended. The German boy they buried with his photographs — his mother, his sister, a dog — and his Iron Cross Second Class, probably his father's.

Standing over the fresh graves, Ruben felt Archie's shoulder press against his. Thinking of Private Harper, barely older than the German boy, sleeping fitfully in the aid station. "Some of them make it home."

Later, in Winters' dugout, Archie wordlessly passed Ruben a cup of his terrible tea. He didn't comment on its quality. They sat in silence, listening to the distant thunder of guns and thinking about Jenkins, about his wife and baby boy, about Paul Mueller — about all the boys who would never see another dawn.

"Still here," Ruben said quietly, echoing their conversation from nights past.

"Still here," Archie agreed, voice a painful whisper in the darkness.

Chapter Text

The cold rain had turned the trenches into a quagmire of mud and decay. Ruben stood at his post, water dripping from his helmet's brim, watching the enemy lines through a gap in the sandbags. His scarred lip twitched involuntarily as another rat scurried past his boots, its fur slick with something he didn't care to identify.

Intelligence had reported increased enemy activity in their sector. The Germans were planning something — they could feel it in their bones, that sixth sense that developed after years in this hell. The new brass wire in No Man's Land, the changed pattern of their patrols, the eerie silence that had descended over the past three days.

"They're tunneling." Harper’s voice came from behind him, barely above a whisper. The young soldier had recovered from the gas attack two weeks ago, though his voice remained permanently damaged, taking on a wet, rasping quality.

"What makes y'say that?" Ruben asked, though he'd had the same suspicion.

"Listen." Harper pressed his ear against the trench wall. "When it's quiet, you can hear them. The scratching."

McKinley knew. He'd been hearing it for days, had reported it to Archie, who'd passed it up the chain of command. But Command, in their infinite wisdom, had dismissed their concerns. No evidence of mining activity, they said. Maintain normal operations.

The scratching grew louder that night. Ruben sat in Winters' dugout, both men silent as they listened to the sound of their potential death being carved beneath their feet.

"How long?" Archie asked, good eye fixed on the earthen ceiling.

"Days. Maybe hours." Ruben took a long drag from his cigarette. "They're close."

Winters nodded, then pulled out a bottle of whiskey — real whiskey, not the rotgut they usually managed to scrounge. "Been saving this," he said quietly. "Seemed like a good time."

They shared the bottle in silence, listening to the scratching. The candle burned low, casting their shadows against the dugout walls like puppets in a children's play.

The explosion came just before dawn.

Archie was thrown against the dugout wall, his head cracking against a support beam. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard screaming — horrible, animal screams that no human throat should be capable of making. The air was thick with dust and cordite, and somewhere above, machine guns had opened up.

"McKinley!" he called out, fumbling in the darkness. His hands found flesh, warm and sticky. "CORPORAL!"

"Here," came the grunt. "I'm here. Get up. They'll be coming through the gap."

They stumbled out of the dugout into chaos. The mine had blown a massive crater in their lines, taking two sections of trench and their occupants with it. Through the settling dust, they could see dark figures moving, advancing through the breach.

"Rally point!" Winters was shouting, his voice carrying over the din. "Second line! Move!"

But Ruben had spotted something in the crater. A flash of movement, a familiar voice crying out in pain. Morrison.

"McKinley, don't you fuckin’ dare—" Winters started, but Ruben was already moving, scrambling down the crater's slope. The ground was still hot from the explosion, the dirt mixed with pieces of wood, metal, and things he refused to identify.

He found Morrison half-buried in debris, his leg pinned beneath a collapsed section of trench wall. The man’s face was white with pain and fear, his voice barely a whisper. "Leave me. They're coming."

The Germans were indeed coming, their shadows growing larger against the pre-dawn sky. Ruben could hear their guttural shouts, the metallic click of weapons being readied.

"Shut it and help me lift," Ruben growled, positioning himself beside the beam. Morrison’s eyes widened as he looked past the Corporal’s shoulder, and then the Lieutenant was there, his rifle slung across his back, adding his strength to the effort.

The beam shifted. Morrison screamed. German bullets began to ping off the crater walls around them.

"Now!" Winters shouted, and they dragged Morrison free just as a stick grenade landed where they'd been standing. The explosion showered them with dirt and shrapnel, but they were already moving, half-carrying Morrison between them.

They made it to the second line just as the counter-barrage began. British artillery, pre-sighted on their own front line for exactly this scenario, opened up with a fury that shook the earth. The German advance faltered, caught between the barrage and the concentrated rifle fire from the second line.

Hours later, after the attack had been repulsed and the dead were being counted, Ruben found Winters sitting alone in what remained of his dugout. The Lieutenant's face was caked with dirt and blood, a fresh cut above his good eye still oozing.

"Morrison?" Archie asked as Ruben settled beside him.

"Alive. They're taking him to the aid station." Ruben paused, studying the fresh crack in the dugout's ceiling.

The Lieutenant nodded slowly. "Some of them make it home," he echoed their old conversation.

Ruben's scarred lip twitched. "Your tea set survived," he observed, nodding to the battered tin cups still hanging from their nail.

"God save the bloody tea," Winters replied with a weak scoff that turned into a cough.

They sat in silence as night fell, listening to the sounds of the line being rebuilt, of stretcher bearers doing their grim work, of men trying to convince themselves they'd live to see another dawn. The scratching had stopped, at least. The earth had swallowed its fill of blood for one day.

"Still here," Ruben said finally, pulling out his cigarettes.

Archie took one, his hands steady despite everything. "Still here," he agreed, and struck a match, the flame briefly illuminating their haunted eyes in the gathering darkness.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of the attack left their section of the line in ruins. Twisted duckboards jutted from collapsed walls like broken ribs, while sandbags lay split and scattered, their contents mixing with the ever-present mud. The stench was worse than usual — the explosion had churned up months of accumulated filth and decay.

Archie worked methodically, his face set in grim concentration as he helped the men rebuild. His muscles burned from hauling timber and sandbags, but he kept moving. The work needed doing, and standing still meant thinking about Jenkins, about that German boy, about all of it.

"Sir." Harper's raspy voice caught Winters' attention. "We've got the forward section mostly shored up. Do you want us to start on your dugout?"

Archie paused in his work, wiping mud from his good eye. "No. Corporal McKinley and I will handle it."

"But sir—" Harper started to protest.

"No." Winters' tone left no room for argument. The men exchanged glances but knew better than to press the issue.

As dusk approached, Ruben followed Winters to what remained of his dugout. The entrance had partially collapsed, and the interior was a chaos of splintered wood and displaced earth. They worked in silence at first, clearing debris and salvaging what they could.

"Still surprised your tea set survived," Ruben observed, fishing the dented cups from a pile of dirt.

"Bloody things are immortal." Archie's voice was tight as he examined a cracked support beam. "Unlike most things out here."

They began the careful work of rebuilding, measuring twice, checking angles, ensuring everything was sturdy.

"Morrison's leg's properly fucked," Archie murmured, wiping sweat from his brow. "Doctor says he won't walk right for weeks."

"Better than not walking at all." Ruben paused as they fitted a new beam. "Better than Jenkins."

"Aye."

They worked until well after dark, their shadows dancing against the walls in the light of a guttering candle. Neither mentioned how the fresh timber reminded them of coffin wood, or how the earth they packed around the supports had that same peculiar smell as a fresh grave.

"It's not the same," Archie said finally, stepping back to examine their work. The dugout was smaller now, but stronger. Like everything else in this war, it had been broken and rebuilt, scarred but standing.

Ruben understood what he meant. He touched his scarred lip unconsciously. "No," he agreed. "But it'll hold."

Winters pulled out the last of his whiskey and two relatively clean cups. The amber liquid caught the candlelight as he poured, his hands steady despite the exhaustion evident in every line of his face.

"To the dugout," he said, raising his cup.

"To the dugout," Ruben echoed, and they drank in companionable silence.

The night was unusually quiet, broken only by the occasional distant crack of a rifle or the muffled cough of someone in the trenches above. Even the rats seemed subdued, as if sensing the gravity of recent events.

"Had a letter from home," Winters said after a while, his voice soft in the enclosed space. "My sister's boy turned five. She sent a photograph."

He pulled a creased envelope from his breast pocket, handling it with the careful reverence reserved for precious things. The photograph showed a young boy with Winters' same sharp eyes, standing proud in short pants and suspenders.

"Looks like you," Ruben observed, noting the familiar set of the jaw, the slight tilt of the head.

"Poor lad." Winters managed a weak smile. "She writes that he wants to be a soldier, like his uncle."

The words hung heavy in the air between them. Ruben took another drink, letting the whiskey burn away the bitter taste that rose in his throat.

"What will you do?" Archie asked suddenly, studying the amber liquid in his cup. "After all this is done?"

Ruben was quiet for a long moment, watching the candle flame dance against the dugout wall. Any other time he would have corrected Archie, but tonight, something held him back. "Don't know," he said finally. "Never really thought about it."

"Neither have I," Archie admitted, his good eye distant. "Strange, isn't it.”

The silence stretched between them, comfortable and heavy with unspoken understanding. The candle guttered, sending shadows skittering across the freshly-installed timber.

"Might like to see those green hills you talk about," Ruben said at last, voice softer than usual. "Up in Yorkshire."

He took another sip of whiskey, letting it warm his chest before continuing. "Even, wouldn't mind meeting those sheep dogs of yours, despite…" He trailed off, unconsciously touching the scar that split his lip.

"Despite your fear of anything with four legs and a tail?"

"They're not like other dogs, you said." Ruben shrugged. "Smart. Loyal. Good judges of character."

"That they are." Archie topped off their cups with the last of the whiskey. "Old Tom's got a new litter. Sister mentioned it in her last letter. Said he'd save one for me.”

"Could use someone," Ruben offered carefully, staring into his cup. "If you did go back."

The statement hung in the air between them, fragile as the candlelight.

Chapter Text

The incident last Tuesday had been particularly memorable. During a routine inspection, Ruben had pointed out — in that maddeningly blunt way of his — that Archie's method of calculating supply requisitions was "charmingly antiquated." This led to a heated argument about modern logistics that peaked in Ruben demonstrating his more efficient system using Archie's own paperwork as scratch paper. The fact that Ruben's calculations proved more accurate only made it worse, especially since three junior officers had witnessed the entire debacle.

Now, a week later, the tension still simmered. Archie had taken to clearing his throat pointedly whenever Ruben spoke, while Ruben had developed an infuriating habit of pausing mid-sentence to "allow the Lieutenant time to process the information." Yet they remained inseparable — when a shell had landed too close yesterday, Ruben had yanked Winters into cover before the Lieutenant could even register the whistle, and Archie had wordlessly shared his last tin of beef with Ruben that evening, though he'd accompanied it with a lecture on proper tin-opening techniques.

The winter wind howled through the trenches like a wounded animal, carrying with it the ever-present stench of decay and cordite. Ruben stood at his post, watching the enemy lines through his scope with his trademark, detached boredom.

"Your nose is dripping again," Archie observed from beside him, his voice carrying that particular tone of irritation he seemed to reserve exclusively for the Corporal these days.

"How kind of you to notice," Ruben replied, not bothering to wipe it away. "I wasn't aware you were so attentive to my facial features."

Winters shifted, good eye narrowing. "It's distracting. And unsanitary."

"I doubt my running nose will be what kills us." Ruben's scarred lip twitched. “Perhaps you'd prefer to discuss the rat that's currently making a meal of your laces?"

Archie glanced down, cursing as he kicked at the massive rodent. "Fuckin’ hell, McKinley, you might have mentioned that sooner."

"I assumed you were saving it for dinner. Times being what they are."

"Your insubordination is noted, Corporal."

"Just trying to keep morale up, Lieutenant. As per your orders last Tuesday."

Lucky appeared around the corner of the traverse, his face pinched with concern. "Sir, the new wire shipment—"

"Not now," Winters snapped, his good eye fixed on Ruben. "And that tone, that's exactly what I'm talking about. That bloody superior tone like you're some Oxford don explaining arithmetic to children."

Lucky's mouth opened, closed, then opened again before Ruben cut him off. "Would you prefer I used smaller words?"

Lucky retreated hastily, shaking his head as he made his way toward the aid station where Doctor Hayes was organizing his meager supplies. The doctor looked up as Lucky entered, his hands busy sorting through a box of bandages that had seen better days.

"Lemme guess," Hayes said dryly, not looking up from his work. "Our illustrious leadership is having another one of their moments?"

“Got it in one,” Lucky began helping to organize the medical instruments, each one bearing the same patina of rust and grime that covered everything in the trenches. "Arguing about McKinley’s runny nose this time. The Lieutenant's proper furious about it."

"Course he is," Hayes muttered, setting aside what might have once been a scalpel.

"Those two, I swear they bicker worse than my grandparents did, God rest their souls. At least they had the excuse of being married fifty fuckin’ years," Lucky grumbled, starting organizing the medicine bottles by size. "McKinley's doing that thing where he pretends to be completely reasonable while saying the most inflammatory things possible. I swear he enjoys watching the Lieutenant's face turn red."

"Some men collect stamps," Hayes said dryly. "Others deliberately provoke their commanding officers. Pass me that iodine, would you?"

A distant explosion punctuated their conversation, followed by the familiar sound of Winters' voice raised in exasperation. "Yesterday it was about the proper way to hold a tea cup," Lucky continued, carefully wrapping a cracked bottle of alcohol in cloth to prevent further damage. “McKinley kept lifting his pinky finger just to watch Winters twitch."

"The way they carry on," Hayes started, pausing to listen to the raised voices still drifting from the fire step, "you'd think the war was just an inconvenience getting in the way of their fuckin’ quarreling."

From outside came the distinct sound of Winters threatening to have Ruben court-martialed for "deliberately inflammatory nostril activities," followed by Ruben's maddeningly calm suggestion that such an action might require paperwork, and wouldn't that be a shame given the current shortage of dry paper in the trenches?

"Ten shillings says the Lieutenant brings up the incident with the carrier pigeons before they're done," Lucky offered.

Hayes snorted. "No bet. That's his favorite. Though, personally, I still think McKinley was right about them being more useful as soup than messengers."

They worked in companionable silence for a while, the distant sound of the two men arguing mixing with the eternal symphony of artillery and machine-gun fire. It was almost peaceful, in its own way — at least until the next casualty would arrive, bringing with them the smell of cordite and copper, of torn flesh and spilled blood. But for now, they had this moment of relative calm, organizing meager supplies while two of their finest men bickered like schoolboys over matters that would seem absurd anywhere but here, in this mud-soaked slice of hell some called their home, and some called their grave.

Chapter Text

Lucky made his way down the muddy trench, cursing under his breath with each squelching step. Morrison had insisted he take the watch near McKinley's post, despite Lucky's protests about the endless quarrel between the Corporal and Lieutenant. But orders were orders, even if they meant being stuck between two men who'd turned bickering into an art form.

He settled into his position quietly, noting how Ruben didn't so much as glance his way. Whether the Corporal hadn't noticed him or simply chose not to acknowledge his presence, Lucky couldn't tell. With McKinley, either was equally possible. The man had an uncanny ability to ignore anything he deemed irrelevant, which seemed to include most human interaction.

The familiar sound of boots on duckboards announced Winters' arrival. The Lieutenant took his usual spot beside Ruben, and Lucky could feel the tension settle over them like a heavy blanket.

"Your scope's dirty," Archie observed, his voice carrying that particular edge it always had when addressing the Corporal these days.

"Observant," Ruben replied without looking up, his scarred lip barely moving as he spoke. "Perhaps you'd like to write a report about it."

"Perhaps I would. Though I s’ppose you'd find some way to improve my methodology there as well."

"Only if it needed improving."

Lucky fought the urge to groan. They were off again, like two old tomcats circling each other in an alley.

"You know," Winters continued, his good eye narrowing, "there's a fine line between efficiency and insubordination, Corporal."

"Is there?" Ruben's voice remained maddeningly calm. "I hadn't noticed. Too busy being efficient, s’ppose."

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a bayonet. Lucky found himself studying the mud-caked walls with intense fascination, trying his best to become invisible.

A rat scurried between them, dragging what might have once been a boot lace. Both men watched it disappear into a hole, and something in the shared absurdity of the moment seemed to deflate their anger.

"Your system did save us two hours on supply calculations," the Lieutenant admitted finally, his voice gruff but lacking its earlier edge.

"And your method of organizing the ammunition stores is more practical," McKinley offered, still not looking up from his scope. "But I'd rather eat my own boot than say that in front of Hayes."

"Wouldn't dream of making you admit it twice." A ghost of a smile crossed the Lieutenant’s face. "Though the boot might be more edible than whatever they're serving for dinner."

"Probably more nutritious as well."

And just like that, they were back to their peculiar normal.

The comfortable silence was broken only by the distant thunder of artillery and the eternal drip of water from the trench walls. For now, at least, the peace would hold. Until the next argument, the next crisis, the next moment when Ruben's efficiency would clash with Winters' pride. But that was tomorrow's problem.

Chapter Text

Dawn crept over the trenches like a jaundiced old man, reluctant and sickly, a sallow gray seeping through clouds thick with cordite. The sky, for once, wasn't pissing down rain — yet the air hung stale and putrid, rank with decay that no amount of dryness could mask. Lieutenant Winters woke to the discordant melody of distant artillery and the wet scrabbling of bloated rats in the corners of his dugout.

He reached for his canteen, one of the few luxuries he allowed himself — water clean enough to wash with, not just the muddy soup they usually had to make do with. The icy liquid shocked his system as he splashed it over his face, a string of colorful curses escaping his lips. "Fuckin’ hell," he huffed, hands scraping at the layer of grime that had become like a second skin, ground so deep into his pores it might never wash clean.

The ritual of making tea followed, his battered tin cups hanging faithfully from their nail like executed men, waiting to be filled with brackish liquid that barely deserved to be called tea. The motions were automatic now: measure the leaves, wait for the water to heat, try not to think about the brown scum that always formed on top no matter how clean the water looked.

Something felt off as he emerged from his dugout, though. The usual morning bustle was there — men checking firing steps, cleaning weapons, emptying latrine buckets — but no sign of Ruben. The Corporal was typically easy to spot, his frame and that scarred face making him stand out among the hollow-eyed masses that populated their stretch of hell.

Archie spotted Sergeant Morrison leaning against a fire bay, dragging a rust-spotted sliver of broken mirror across his jawline. "Morrison," he called out. "Seen McKinley about?"

"Aye, sir," Morrison responded, wiping his make-do razor on a relatively clean bit of rag. "Passed by before first light. Didn't say nothin', but that's normal for him, innit? Headed that way." He gestured vaguely down the communication trench with the blade.

Winters nodded then continued forward. He made his rounds, checking positions, inspecting the night's repair work, all while his eyes scanned for any sign of the Corporal.

He finally found Ruben, exactly where some part of him had known he would be — in the small clearing behind the support trench where they'd buried Jenkins and that German boy, standing vigil over fresh graves. The earth around them was crusted black, fragments of bone and rotting uniform worming their way to the surface like maggots through flesh. The crosses were crude things, made from salvaged ammunition crates, but they stood straight and true in the early morning light.

Ruben stood motionless, his rifle slung across his back, staring at the graves.

"They're still here," Ruben said without turning, his voice rough, cracked like dried mud. "In the ground. In the air we breathe. In every mouthful of food. Can't escape ‘em."

Winters moved to stand beside him, noting how the dried mud on their boots was the exact same color as the crosses. "No," he agreed quietly. "We carry them with us now, in our marrow."

The morning sun cast long shadows across the graves, and somewhere in the distance, a machine gun opened up, its staccato rhythm as familiar as a heartbeat, marking time in lead and brass.

Ruben moved towards the German boy's grave, crouching down beside the crude cross. His gloved hand rested on the dirt, one finger carving aimless patterns in soil fertilized by the dead. The morning light caught the puckered scar tissue of his lip, casting strange shadows across his face.

"Remember being sixteen?" he asked, his voice carrying that same cold, impassive tone it always did. But there was something else there, something that made his hands tremble slightly, a barely perceptible shake in his words that only Archie would have noticed after all this time together.

The question hung in the fetid air, trembling like the hand that traced circles in the dried mud.

The Lieutenant crouched down beside him, good eye fixed on those restless fingers. "Aye," he said softly. "Working my uncle's farm. Thought I knew everything there was to know about the world." He paused, watching the patterns Ruben's finger drew fade in the morning breeze. "Biggest worry was whether Old Tom would let me train one of his pups that summer."

Ruben’s breathing paused, a slight tremor in his otherwise steady frame. He stopped, jaw working, as if each word had to be carefully extracted. "Can't..." His voice faltered, then steadied. "Can't remember what it was like. Before all this." He gestured vaguely at the trenches, the mud, the crosses. "Used to know, didn't I.”

Archie said nothing. They'd circled this truth before, watching the Corporal’s past slip away like blood in the mud. His memories before the war dissolved like flesh in lime, leaving only fragments that made less sense with each shell that fell. Neither of them knew why, and neither dared to dig too deep for answers.

He watched the man carefully. In all their time together, through the shit and horror, Ruben had avoided this conversation. Now he knelt in the muck, before a boy's grave, speaking about memories as if they were precious things slipping through his fingers.

"Summit you want to tell me?" Winters asked quietly, keeping his voice neutral, the way he might approach a spooked horse.

Ruben's hand stilled, pressing flat against the earth. "Been having dreams," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Or nightmares. Can't tell." He swallowed hard. "Keep seeing faces. Places.”

"How long?" Archie asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Worse after Jenkins." His scarred lip pressed to a frown. "I remember everything here clear as day. Every bloody detail. But before?" His gesture encompassed the waste before them.

The Corporal’s hand stilled in the dirt once again, hovering over the patterns he'd drawn. Then, with deliberate slowness, he resumed his aimless tracings. "He'll never age," he said, accent rough as trench walls, betraying the slightest waver. "And I can’t go back."

"Neither of us gets to live it proper. Him, rotting here, me..." The words trailed off into artillery smoke. “Not much different, seems. Funny thing, that."

Archie reached out, his hand coming to rest on Ruben's shoulder. The fabric of his uniform was damp with morning dew, but beneath it, he could feel the tension in his muscles, coiled tight as tripwire.

"You're still here," he said firmly. "That's what matters. The rest..." He paused, choosing each word carefully, like treading a path through a minefield. "Time will sort it."

"Will it?" Ruben’s gloved finger stabbed into the dirt, no longer tracing but gouging, like a bayonet to flesh. "What if there's nothin’ left to sort? What if this—" he gestured at the trenches, the graves, his own scarred face, "—is all there is now?"

"Then we start fresh," the Lieutenant said simply. "Build new memories. Those Yorkshire hills I mentioned? They're still there. War hasn't touched ‘em. Dogs still need training, sheep still need herding." He paused, then added softly, "And I still need someone to help me with it all."

For a long moment, only the distant thunder of artillery filled the silence. When the Corporal spoke, his voice was barely audible over the morning breeze. "Might be nice," he admitted. "Starting fresh. Like being born again, maybe."

The sun had risen properly now, casting long shadows across the graves. Somewhere down the line, a whistle blew, signaling the changing of the watch, reality intruding on them.

"Come on now," Winters said, standing and offering his hand. "Got to teach the new ones how to not die too quick."

Ruben took the offered hand, pulling himself up with a grunt. As they walked back toward the trenches, he cast one last look at the graves. "You really think there's a place for us," he murmured. "After all this.”

"I do," Archie replied without hesitation. "And if there isn't, we'll make one."

They made their way back through the communication trench, ducking instinctively as a shell whistled overhead and exploded somewhere behind the lines. War ground on, indifferent to revelation, but something had shifted between them, subtle as gangrene's advance.

Chapter Text

The sky had begun its daily metamorphosis from pitch to a sickly gray when Lieutenant Winters and Corporal McKinley made their way to the reserve trenches. The morning mist clung to their uniforms like death's breath, carrying with it the ever-present stench of rot and cordite. They found the replacements huddled together like sheep before slaughter, fresh-faced boys with uniforms still crisp enough to crackle when they moved.

Fifteen of them. Christ. They looked younger every time.

Winters stepped forward, boots squelching in the mud, his one good eye fixing each replacement with a stare that could strip paint. His voice, when it came, carried the weight of countless dead men's wisdom.

"Right then. I'm Lieutenant Winters. This here's Corporal McKinley. We'll be showing you the ropes, such as they are." He paused, letting his gaze bore into them. "First thing you need to understand is this: everything you think you know about soldiering? Forget it. Out here, it'll get you killed."

The replacements shifted nervously, eyes darting between Archie's commanding presence and Ruben's silent, scarred visage. The morning light caught the ragged tear through Ruben's lip, making the exposed teeth gleam wetly. One of the younger ones — couldn't have been more than seventeen — visibly swallowed.

"You'll learn quick," the Lieutenant continued, "or you'll die quick. No third option. Keep your head down. Don't bunch up. And for God's sake, don't try to be heroes." His voice took on an edge sharp as a bayonet. "Heroes end up decorating the wire."

The trek to the front line was a meandering journey through a maze of waterlogged trenches. The replacements stumbled along, weighed down by equipment that still showed factory shine. Archie and Ruben led the way, their movements precise and practiced, like wolves on familiar hunting grounds.

It started quietly at first, barely a whisper over the distant thunder of artillery. One of the replacements, trying to keep his spirits up, began humming. Then another joined in, and soon the words of "It's A Long Way To Tipperary" floated through the morning air, young voices carrying the tune with the awkward determination of men trying to prove they weren't afraid.

"Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,”

Archie turned to share a weathered look with Ruben, a scoff building in his throat. But he stopped short. There, in the grimy morning light, Ruben McKinley — the man whose silence was as much a part of him as his scars — was humming. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, but humming nonetheless.

“Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,”

Winters’ lips twitched, fighting back a laugh. In all their time together, he'd never heard Ruben make anything resembling music. The man was as likely to burst into song as he was to sprout wings and fly over No Man's Land. Yet here he was, adding his rough baritone to the chorus, eyes fixed forward.

"Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there,"

He kept his eyes forward, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he listened to the Corporal’s quiet contribution to the song. It was rough and unpracticed, barely audible over the squish of boots in mud, but it was there — a reminder.

Ruben's voice faltered when he caught Archie's sidelong glance. He cleared his throat abruptly, the sound harsh as rifle fire in the morning air, and the humming stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

"It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go..."

Archie couldn't resist any longer. He nudged Ruben with his elbow, a playful gesture that would have gotten anyone else a broken nose. "To the sweetest girl you know, hm, Corporal?"

Ruben's scarred face twitched, caught between a scowl and something softer. "Don’t," he muttered, but there was no real heat in his voice. His fingers drummed absently against his rifle stock, keeping time with the young soldiers' singing.

"Just noting the unexpected," Winters continued dryly, his voice low enough that only Ruben could hear. "Like watchin’ a gargoyle whistle. Should I alert command? Might be a sign of the apocalypse."

McKinley’s response was a grunt that might have been amusement, but his eyes remained fixed ahead.

The singing grew louder as they approached the front line, young voices gaining confidence with each step. "Shouldn't encourage 'em," Archie muttered.

They rounded a bend in the trench, and the singing died away as the replacements got their first real look at the front line. The morning mist had begun to lift, revealing the apocalyptic landscape of No Man's Land. Twisted barbed wire glinted dully in the strengthening light, and the remnants of the previous night's barrage dotted the churned earth like pockmarks on a diseased face.

"Right then," Winters announced, his voice carrying the authority that had earned him his Lieutenant's bars.

"What you're about to face isn't in any of your field manuals. The next few days will strip away everything you thought you knew." He paused, scanning their young faces. "That's not meant to frighten you — it's meant to prepare you."

He adjusted his stance, mud sucking at his boots. "But, here's what I promise: stick close, do exactly as you're ordered to, and your chances improve. Don't be the hero your mum wants to read about in the papers. Be the soldier smart enough to make it home."

Chapter Text

The evening light filtered through the sandbags, casting long shadows across the dugout's entrance. McKinley descended the wooden steps with mechanical precision, his expression as rigid as the steel helmet strapped to his head. The air grew thicker as he descended, heavy with the musty smell of damp earth and unwashed bodies. His eyes scanned the rough-hewn support beams, noting the slick film of condensation that perpetually coated everything underground.

He needed Winters. The new batch of replacements had arrived, and Harrison wanted them both to oversee the night watch rotation. But more than that, something felt off about the German lines. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that preceded storms of steel and screaming men.

The dugout's interior emerged from the gloom, illuminated by a single guttering candle. Archie sat on an upturned ammunition crate, a small mirror propped against a beam. His tunic and officer's cap lay folded beside him, and he wore only his undershirt, stained yellow with sweat. In his hands, a pair of scissors caught the candlelight as they snipped methodically through his hair.

"Grooming during wartime," Ruben stated flatly.

Archie didn't pause his trimming. "Rather be vain than lousy," he replied, eyes fixed on his reflection. "Found three of the little bastards this morning. Not having another infestation like last month." His scissors continued their work, dark hair falling to mix with the filth on the dugout floor.

"Remember the lads from the Somme?" Archie continued, tilting his head to check his handiwork. "Half of ‘em scratching themselves raw. Can't aim a rifle proper when you're dancing with lice." He glanced at Ruben, noting how he slid his hand under the rim of his helmet to scratch at his matted hair. "You're overdue yourself."

Ruben's hand dropped from his helmet. The morning's rain had left whatever lay beneath it a mess of mud and whatever else had dripped down from the trench walls. "The Jerries," he said, voice devoid of inflection. "They're too quiet."

Archie's hands stilled, scissors poised mid-snip. His eyes met Ruben's in the mirror, understanding passing between them. They'd both been at this long enough to know when trouble was brewing. But instead of immediately standing, he gestured with the scissors. "Sit. Five minutes to sort that rat's nest of yours, then we'll see what Fritz is up to."

The Corporal remained motionless, his face an impassive mask. Winters cut him off before he could speak. "Orders are orders, Corporal. Even in this shithole, we maintain standards. Can't have the men thinking we've gone completely feral."

Without a word, Ruben took his place on the crate. Archie carefully unstrapped and lifted off the the man’s helmet, setting it aside. The candle flickered as he moved behind him, scissors ready. As the first snips sounded near his ear, Ruben's eyes remained fixed on the dugout's entrance with predatory focus, watching for shadows that might herald incoming shells. The war wouldn't wait for a haircut, but perhaps five minutes of something approaching normalcy wouldn't kill them.

Probably.

Archie's scissors paused mid-snip as Ruben shifted again, the fourth time in as many minutes. It was unlike the man who could stand motionless for hours in a sniper's nest, whose stillness had become legendary among the veterans.

"For Christ's sake, McKinley," he muttered, "you're worse than those fresh-faced lads up top." His free hand settled on Ruben's shoulder, attempting to steady him. "What's gotten into you?"

Ruben's gaze remained fixed on the dugout entrance, shoulders tense beneath the Lieutenant’s steadying hand. The candlelight cast wavering shadows on the earthen walls, making the beams seem to shift and dance like living things.

"You know what I miss most?" Winters continued cutting, his voice deliberately casual. "The quiet. Real quiet, mind you. Not this..." he gestured vaguely with the scissors, "this waiting quiet. The kind you'd get up in Yorkshire, where the only sound was sheep bleating and wind in the heather."

The scissors snipped methodically, clumps of hair falling into the mud. "Every Tuesday, like clockwork, Mum and I would walk into town for the farmer's market. Five miles each way, but she never complained. Said the hills kept her young." He paused, brushing debris from Ruben's collar. "Used to get these little honey cakes from old Mrs. Thackeray's stall. Two pence each, still warm from the oven."

The Corporal’s muscles remained coiled beneath Archie's hand, but his breathing had steadied somewhat. The Lieutenant's voice continued, measured and calm, like gentling a spooked horse. "The whole town would be there. Farmers bringing in their sheep, old men arguing about wool prices, children running between the stalls stealing apples when they thought no one was looking."

"My sister Mary, must've been about six at the time," he continued, parting another section of hair. "First time Mum let her come with us to market. Proud as a peacock, she was, wearing her Sunday best and those little white gloves she'd gotten for Christmas."

"Problem was, she'd gotten it into her head that she wanted to pet one of Farmer Gibson's prize sheep. Not just any sheep, mind you — the biggest ram you've ever seen, with horns like a demon and a temper to match."

"Before anyone could stop her, she'd ducked under the fence and was running straight at it, those white gloves stretched out like she was reaching for a kitten." Archie's hands paused briefly, remembering. "Well, that old ram took one look at her and decided he didn't much care for company. Started chargin’ right at her, kicking up dust and bleating like the devil himself."

"I've never moved so fast in my life — vaulted that fence and scooped her up just as the ram got there. Ended up face-first in a pile of sheep dung, Mary screaming bloody murder, and Mum looking like she couldn't decide whether to tan our hides or faint dead away."

The tension in Ruben's shoulders had eased slightly, his breathing falling into rhythm with the steady snip of the scissors. Archie paused, knowing his strategy had worked. "Those gloves never did come clean. She stuck to pettin’ the chicks after that."

He brushed another clump of hair from Ruben's collar. "First time I went to the market alone, I was eleven," he said, continuing his methodical trimming. "Uncle was laid up with a bad knee, and Mum had her hands full with Mary having the flu. Someone had to go fetch the week's supplies."

"Felt like a proper chap, I did, with my geezer's old leather coin purse heavy in my pocket and a shopping list written in Mum's careful hand. Must've checked that list a hundred times on the walk there, terrified I'd forget something important."

He paused, repositioning himself to better reach the back of Ruben's head. "Course, what I didn't account for was old Mrs. Pembroke — notorious for talkin’ the ear off anyone who'd stand still long enough. Caught me right as I was trying to buy the flour."

"Spent forty-five minutes trapped by her stall while she told me all about her grandson in the Royal Navy, her arthritis, and how her cat had caught the biggest mouse she'd ever seen. Kept patting my cheek and calling me 'dear boy' while I stood there, dying inside, watching all the best produce getting bought up."

A quiet snort escaped Ruben, something almost like amusement. Winters grinned, encouraged. "By the time I finally escaped, the baker had sold out of Mum's favorite bread, and I had to settle for day-old loaves. Was sure she'd be cross with me, but you know what she did?"

"She laughed. Said dealing with Mrs. Pembroke was a proper Winters rite of passage. ‘Parently, she'd done the same thing to her when she was a girl." His scissors made their final snips. "After that, my uncle taught me his secret technique for avoidin’ her — always carry a pocket watch and pretend you've just noticed the time when you see her coming."

Archie brushed more clipped hair from Ruben's shoulders, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. "Speaking of," he continued, "reminds me of the time me and the lads nearly got ourselves arrested when we were sixteen."

"Tommy Wilson, he'd gotten this mad idea about racing pigs. Not just any pigs, mind you, but old Farmer Higgins' prize sows. Biggest beasts you'd ever laid eyes on, and meaner than sin when riled."

"We waited until market day was in full swing, then Tommy and Jack Preston snuck round back of Higgins' pen while I kept watch. The plan was to spook just one pig, give everyone a bit of excitement." He paused, brushing more trimmings from the Corporal’s collar. "Should've known better, really."

"Next thing we know, there's six hundred pounds of angry pork charging through the market square, knocking over stalls left and right. Mrs. Thackeray's honey cakes went flying, old man Easton's vegetable cart overturned, and Reverend Phillips ended up backside-first in a water trough."

"The constable was after us like a shot, but he couldn't prove nothing. Though Higgins knew, right enough. Made us muck out his pig pens every Saturday for three months straight." Archie's hands finally stilled, satisfied with his work.

The words died in the Lieutenant’s throat as the distinctive whistle of an incoming shell pierced the relative quiet. Ruben's shoulders snapped back to steel-cable tension beneath his hands, all trace of relaxation vanishing like morning mist. The candle flame wavered, then steadied.

"Distance?" Winters asked, his voice stripped of its earlier warmth, falling back into the clipped tones of command.

Ruben's head tilted slightly, like a predator scenting the wind. "Seven hundred yards. Maybe eight. Walking it in." His scarred lip twisted in a grimace. "They've adjusted their range since morning."

Another whistle, closer this time. The dugout's timbers creaked ominously. Somewhere above, someone was shouting — probably one of the new boys, still green enough to waste breath on fear.

He set down the scissors and reached for his tunic, shrugging it on with practiced efficiency. His fingers worked quickly at the buttons while another shell screamed overhead, closer still. The candlelight caught the tarnished brass of his lieutenant's insignia as he settled his cap firmly on his freshly trimmed head.

Ruben grabbed his helmet from where it sat beside the crate, the metal surface reflecting dully in the flickering light. He pulled it on, adjusting the strap beneath his chin, some of his newly cut hair stuck to the sweat-stained leather liner.

"Ready?" Winters asked, checking his sidearm.

The Corporal nodded, retrieving his rifle from where it leaned against the dugout wall. His fingers moved automatically through the familiar routine — checking the bolt, ensuring the magazine was properly seated. The worn wood of the stock felt almost warm against his cheek as he brought it to his shoulder, testing the sight picture in the dim light.

Another shell landed, close enough to shower dirt through the gaps in the timber overhead. The candle guttered but held, casting wild shadows across their faces.

"Bakers Company will need support," Ruben said, his voice barely audible over the rising crescendo of artillery. "Their left flank was looking thin this morning."

Winters nodded, already moving toward the dugout entrance. "We'll swing by Morrison’s position first. He's got the best view of the German lines."

A particularly close explosion rattled the dugout's framework, sending a cascade of dirt and debris onto their shoulders. The thunder of artillery was building to a familiar rhythm now — the Germans' trademark prelude to an infantry assault.

Ruben’s eyes, sharp despite the poor light, had caught something in the pattern of explosions. "They're targeting the communication trenches." he said, tone carrying warning.

Archie's expression hardened as he processed the implications. "Trying to isolate the forward positions. We've got maybe ten minutes before they send in the infantry. Fifteen if we're lucky."

The words were barely out of his mouth when a new sound cut through the artillery barrage — the distinctive mechanical cough of a German MG 08/15. Somewhere above, men began shouting in earnest.

"Five minutes," Ruben corrected, already moving toward the entrance, rifle at the ready.

The evening sky had become a theater of destruction, crisscrossed with tracer fire and illuminated by the hellish glow of exploding shells. The trench walls seemed to vibrate with the continuous thunder of artillery, and the air was thick with cordite and fear. Archie and Ruben exchanged a final glance, then emerged from the dugout and into the chaos above.

Chapter Text

The day's mail delivery came as it always did — sporadic, unreliable, yet desperately awaited by the men who crowded around Thompson like starving dogs at a butcher's cart. Their hands reached out, trembling with anticipation, faces transformed by desperate hope. Letters from home were more precious than cigarettes, more vital than rum rations. They were lifelines to a world beyond the endless mud and death, paper bridges across the chasm between what was and what had become.

Thompson moved through the press of bodies with practiced efficiency, calling out names in his thin, reedy voice that somehow carried over the constant background symphony of artillery fire and distant machine guns. Each name drew a response — sometimes a whoop of joy, sometimes a muffled curse when the letter wasn't for them.

Then he paused, squinting at an envelope in his hand as if doubting his own eyes. "Corporal McKinley," he called out, his voice carrying an unusual note of uncertainty.

Thompson approached with uncharacteristic caution, holding out the envelope like it might bite, Ruben's pale eyes fixed on the letter. His scarred face remained impassive, betraying nothing as he took the envelope with mud-caked fingers. Thompson didn't linger — he'd seen enough of war to know when to retreat, and something in Ruben's stance suggested this was such a moment.

Without a word, Ruben slipped the envelope into his breast pocket, the paper crinkling against the fabric of his uniform. The watching men turned away one by one, returning to their own letters or their posts or their endless waiting.

The night came as it always did, creeping across the battlefield like a thief, bringing with it a different kind of tension. The darkness transformed the trenches, making them seem deeper, more absolute. The occasional flash of artillery fire threw everything into stark relief — the jagged edges of the walls, the twisted remains of barbed wire, the endless sea of mud that swallowed everything eventually.

Ruben stood at his post, rifle cradled in his arms like a sleeping child. The night wind carried the usual medley of sounds — distant explosions, the crack of rifle fire, the moans of the wounded and dying. But beneath it all was the whisper of paper against fabric, a sound that seemed to grow louder with each passing hour.

Finally, when the moon had risen high enough to cast weak shadows through the drifting clouds, Ruben's hand moved to his breast pocket. His fingers, usually so steady on the trigger of his rifle, trembled slightly as they withdrew the envelope. The paper was already worn from hours pressed against his chest, the corners softened by sweat and grime.

He held it in his hands for a long moment, staring at it as if it were written in some foreign tongue. His scarred lip twitched, the only betrayal of the storm raging behind his stoic facade. The moonlight caught the puckered flesh where the wound had never quite healed right, making it seem like a second mouth, frozen in a perpetual grimace.

With movements that seemed to cost him physical pain, Ruben broke the seal. The sound of tearing paper was obscenely loud in the night's relative quiet. His hands shook more obviously now, though his face remained locked in its mask of indifference. But there was something in his eyes — a flicker of something ancient and raw, like an animal caught in a trap, knowing the hunter approaches but unable to flee.

The letter itself was simple — a single sheet of paper, covered in neat, precise handwriting. Ruben held it in the weak moonlight, his breathing becoming shallow and irregular as his eyes moved across the page. He cracked, just slightly — a tightening around the eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw. For a moment, he looked less like the revered soldier who could wait motionless for hours and more like what he truly was — a boy, alone in the dark.

My dearest Ruben,

I hope this letter finds you, though I confess I don't know if I want it to, though I know not where you are, nor if you still draw breath in this world.

The world has changed so much since you left, or perhaps it's just me who's changed. The streets we once walked together seem narrower now, darker somehow, as if they too feel the weight of all that's been lost.

I've written this letter a hundred times in my head, each version more cowardly than the last. But time has a way of making decisions for us, doesn't it? Like water wearing away at stone, it slowly erodes what we once thought permanent until nothing remains but memory.

They say you've become something different out there. Stories drift back to us like autumn leaves — tales of a man who can shoot the wings off a fly, who moves like a ghost through No Man's Land. Some speak your name with awe, others with fear. I wonder if you recognize yourself in their stories. I wonder if you recognize yourself at all.

There was always something missing behind your eyes. The other children saw it too, though they couldn't name it. Such emptiness in one so young. I used to tell myself it was just your way, that you were simply different. But now I wonder if that void was always there, waiting to be filled with all the horrors you've seen and dealt.

I want you to know that I don't blame you. How could you have known what was to come? None of us did.

By the time this reaches you, I'll be gone — somewhere far where the past can't follow. Perhaps that's cowardly too, but I've come to believe that some threads must be cut clean, lest they strangle us both. The weight of what might have been has become too heavy to bear.

You were always meant for something else, something greater or terrible, but I can't keep holding onto a ghost, waiting for him to remember he once knew how to live among the living. We all have our wars to fight, Ruben. This is me fighting mine.

I pray you find your way back from whatever darkness has claimed you. Not to me — that door has closed — but to yourself, to whatever light still flickers within you. Some part of me will always remember that boy. I hope he's still in there somewhere.

But such thoughts are poison, aren't they? They eat away at the soul until nothing remains but bitter regret.

Carry on, soldier. Fight your war, and forgive me for not being stronger. Forgive me for letting go.

Goodbye,

      “Elle”

His rifle clattered to the ground, forgotten, as his body shook with sudden, wracking sobs. The tears came without permission or restraint, cutting clean trails through the battlefield grime that coated his face. They fell onto the letter, creating translucent spots that made the careful handwriting blur and run.

The name meant nothing to him. The handwriting, so careful and precise, stirred no memories. Yet something in his chest constricted painfully, like a wire pulled too tight. He read it again, and again, until the words began to blur together in the weak moonlight

His sobs were quiet, almost childlike — short, hitching breaths and sniffling as he wiped at his eyes with dirty sleeves. The letter trembled in his hands, damp now with tears and sweat.

His fingers traced the signature — "Elle" — again and again, as if the physical act might unlock some door in his mind. But there was nothing. Just the hollow echo of a name.

A distant explosion illuminated the trench for a brief moment, casting harsh shadows across his face. In that flash of light, tears could be seen cutting clean tracks through the grime on his cheeks. His scarred lip trembled, and for the first time that he could recall, Corporal Ruben McKinley allowed himself to weep — not for the woman who had written the letter, but for the boy she once knew.

Chapter Text

The dugout air was thick with stale tobacco smoke and the cloying stench of rot. Winters sat hunched on his bunk, a bottle of rum trembling in his dirt-encrusted fingers. The amber liquid sloshed against the glass as he raised it to his cracked lips, drinking deeply, desperately, as if the burning in his throat might chase away the demons that lurked in the shadows of his mind.

The candle's flame danced erratically, each flicker seemed to breathe life into the darkness, transforming mundane shapes into nightmarish specters. Archie's bloodshot eyes darted from corner to corner, watching as reality began to slip and blur at the edges.

He lay back on his thin, damp mattress, the world spinning violently around him. The dugout's low ceiling pressed down, closer and closer, until he could barely breathe. The air grew thick as mud, each intake a struggle that sent panic clawing up his throat. His heart hammered against his ribcage like artillery fire, each beat a thunderous reminder that he was alive when so many others weren't.

Then he saw it — a figure standing in the dugout entrance, silhouetted against the night sky. Private Davies, or what remained of him. The boy's uniform hung in tatters from his mangled frame, revealing grey flesh and protruding bone. Where his face should have been, there was only a pulpy mass of red tissue and splintered skull, one eye dangling obscenely from its socket.

"No," Archie whispered, his voice cracking. "You're not real. You're not fuckin’ real."

But Davies just stood there, swaying slightly, his remaining eye fixed on him with an accusatory stare. Water and blood dripped from his uniform, forming a dark pool at his feet that seemed to creep across the dugout floor.

"I tried," he pleaded, curling into himself, pressing his face into the filthy covers. "Christ, I tried to reach you. The mud... it was too deep. I couldn't... I couldn't..."

The sound that tore from his throat was barely human — a keening wail of grief and guilt that echoed through the confined space. His body shook with violent sobs as he pressed himself against the dugout wall, trying to make himself as small as possible. The rum bottle slipped from his fingers, spilling its contents into the mud floor, but Archie barely noticed.

Through the haze of alcohol and terror, memories flashed like signal flares — the tangled mess of barbed wire that had snagged Davies, held him fast as the machine guns opened up. The boy had screamed, high and desperate, like a rabbit in a snare. His hands reaching out, fingers grasping at empty air as Archie crawled through the sucking mud, trying to reach him.

But the wire had been everywhere, a devil's web of rusted steel that bit and tore at flesh. Davies' body had jerked and danced as the bullets found him, each impact driving him further into the cruel embrace of the wire. His blood had looked black in the starlight, streaming down to mix with the mud and shell water.

Winters pressed his hands against his ears, trying to block out the phantom sounds of that night — the wet gurgle of Davies' final breaths, the metallic ping of bullets striking wire, the distant thunder of the guns. But the memories leaked through like poison gas, choking him with their terrible clarity.

"Too young," he mumbled, rocking back and forth on his bunk. "You were too young. Should've been at home with your mum — not here."

Davies had lied about his age to enlist. Fresh-faced and eager, full of romantic notions about glory and duty. Now he was just another name on an endless list, another ghost to haunt the trenches, another weight for the Lieutenant to carry.

The specter still stood in the doorway, patient and terrible, waiting. Always waiting. Archie reached for the rum bottle, found only empty air, and laughed — a broken, hollow sound that echoed in the cramped space. It was all too much: the guilt, the fear, the endless parade of dead boys with accusing eyes. Too much for any man to bear and remain sane.

In that moment, as the shadows pressed in and Davies' ghost watched with its one terrible eye, Archie felt himself crumbling. All pretense of soldierly stoicism fell away like shed armor, leaving only the frightened child beneath. He didn't want the rum anymore, didn't want the false courage it promised. He wanted his mum.

He wanted to feel her work-worn hands smoothing back his hair, hear her gentle Yorkshire lilt telling him everything would be alright. Wanted to smell the lavender water she dabbed behind her ears every morning, to bury his face in her faded cotton apron that always carried traces of baking bread and strong tea.

"Mum," he whimpered, the word escaping like a prayer into the stale dugout air. "Oh Christ, mum." His body curled tighter, arms wrapped around himself in a poor imitation of a mother's embrace. He could almost hear her voice — soft, sweet notes that promised safety and love.

But there was no safety here, no mother's arms to chase away the nightmares. Only the endless mud, the constant thunder of guns, and Davies' accusing eye, watching as the Lieutenant wept like the child he'd never quite stopped being.

Chapter Text

Dawn dragged itself over the trenches like a wounded rat, spewing sickly grey light through a miasma of cordite smoke and fetid morning mist. The air reeked different today — thick with an electric tension that made even the bloated rats pause in their endless feast. Every man felt death's cold breath on their necks.

Ruben found Archie hunched over a tin mug of rancid tea, his filth-crusted hands trembling violently as he tried to lift it to his cracked lips. Dark circles carved hollow graves beneath his bloodshot eyes, yesterday's grime caked so thick on his gaunt face it looked like rotting bark. He'd aged years in a single night.

"Morning," Ruben croaked, his voice like gravel in a metal drum. His own face bore the ravages of a sleepless night — eyes red-rimmed and weeping, skin yellow and waxy beneath layers of crusted filth. The letter sat heavy in his breast pocket, a dead weight against his chest.

"Barely fuckin’ morning," the Lieutenant spat, gaze fixed on something distant and terrible. "Still dark enough to be in hell." His trembling fingers fumbled with his pocket, producing a sodden packet of cigarettes. His hands shook so badly he could barely offer one to Ruben.

They smoked in silence, watching as more men emerged from their holes like corpses rising from shallow graves, each face a mask of barely contained terror. The usual morning banter had died in their throats, replaced by guttural grunts and the hollow-eyed stares of men already counting themselves among the dead. Even the constant artillery seemed to hold its breath, like a predator waiting to strike.

"Major wants us at the forward position in twenty," Ruben muttered, flicking ash into a puddle of stagnant water and human waste, creating ripples in the rainbow sheen of blood and oil floating on its putrid surface.

Archie's only response was a choked sound as he obsessively checked his bootlaces for the fourth time, fingers clumsy with dread. "Reckon this'll work? All this planning, all these months... all this fucking waiting..."

"Has to," the Corporal replied, his mangled lip twitching grotesquely. "Otherwise, we're just more meat for the grinder."

They gathered their equipment in grim silence, every motion a rehearsal for death. Their filth-encrusted hands checked rifles slick with trench muck, counted ammunition with trembling fingers, secured webbing caked in things best left unnamed. Each movement was mechanical, a dance of the damned performed by muscle memory while minds retreated from the horror to come. Neither man mentioned their respective breakdowns from the night before. Some things were better left in the dark.

The forward trench reeked of impending doom when they arrived, packed with bodies emanating the sour stench of fear-sweat and resignation. Here, the stink of death was overwhelming — the putrid soup of decomposing flesh that carpeted No Man's Land seemed to seep through the very air they breathed. A fresh-faced private, still pink-cheeked beneath the grime, retched violently in the corner, his breakfast joining the filth at his feet while a grizzled sergeant steadied him with mud-caked hands.

"Three minutes," came the whisper, slithering down the line like a death sentence.

McKinley's blackened fingers caressed his rifle with a lover's familiarity, tracing each battle scar in the rotting wood as if reading his fortune in the gouges.

Winters stood rigid, his weathered face a death mask of forced composure that did nothing to soothe the terror. "Check your neighbor's kit. One loose strap, one rattle, and Jerry sends you home in pieces."

Major Harrison materialized like a ghost in the forward trench, his pristine uniform an obscene reminder of the world they'd left behind. He drifted between huddled groups, dispensing hollow encouragements to men already counting themselves among the dead.

Sergeant Major Brooks, massive and gore-spattered, prowled the line like a carrion bird. "Five paces apart. Keep moving. Don't bunch up." The familiar litany fell from his lips like a funeral prayer, each word weighted with the knowledge of how many times he'd watched men ignore it and die.

Ruben caught Archie's haunted gaze and produced his last cigarette, snapping it in half with blackened nails beneath leather gloves — their macabre communion. The tobacco tasted of mud and copper, but they passed it back and forth in silence, savoring what might be their final taste of anything.

"Funny thing," Winters said, taking a final drag before crushing the butt beneath his boot. "Used to be scared of dying. Now?" He shrugged, adjusting his cap.

Fear of death had long since been replaced by a sort of numb acceptance. It wasn't bravery, not really. Just the inevitable result of living too long with mortality breathing down your neck.

"Well," Ruben muttered, hefting his rifle like a gravedigger's shovel. "See you on the other side — one way or another."

Around them, men performed their desperate rituals. Some clutched crucifixes with trembling hands, others obsessively checked equipment they knew wouldn't save them, while the veterans simply stared ahead with dead eyes, already seeing the carnage to come. The trench had fallen tomb-silent except for whispered prayers and the thunder of approaching doom.

The whistle shrieked like a damned soul, and Archie transformed. The broken man vanished beneath a mask of military efficiency, his voice cutting through the chaos with terrible authority.

"MOVE YOU BASTARDS! KEEP THE LINE!" he roared, hurling himself over the parapet. His rifle slammed against his shoulder as he charged through the hellscape, boots slipping in the viscera of previous attacks. "SECOND WAVE, FOLLOW THROUGH! MIND THE HOLES!"

Time twisted obscenely. Each heartbeat stretched into forever, yet everything blurred into a nightmarish smear. Shell bursts painted the sky with the colors of hell. Men ran, screamed, fell, died — puppets in a grotesque theater of slaughter orchestrated by generals safe behind their maps.

"WIRE AT ELEVEN! GET THOSE FUCKING CUTTERS MOVING!" The orders ripped from his throat automatically, training overriding the animal part of his brain that screamed to run, hide, survive. Davies' mangled ghost could wait — there was only the objective, the mission, the next blood-soaked yard of mud to claim for king and country.

A machine gun opened up with its mechanical death-rattle, scything through the smoke like Satan's scythe. Archie threw himself down, rolling through things he refused to identify before scrambling behind a shattered tree stump. "THIRD SECTION, SUPPRESSING FIRE! KILL THAT GUNNER!" The words tasted of blood and cordite.

Ruben had vanished into the chaos the moment they'd gone over, swallowed by the smoke and screams. Archie couldn't spare him a thought — the battlefield demanded every scrap of attention, every sense — stretched to breaking. A shell screamed overhead close enough to singe his hair, and he ducked instinctively, feeling death's hot breath on his neck.

"PUSH FORWARD! DON'T STOP MOVING!" he screamed, his voice raw and bleeding as he sprinted between craters filled with stagnant water and floating bodies. The men followed like shadows through the smoke, their forms distorted by fear and motion. The enemy line loomed ahead, a wall of fire and steel through the haze. "FIX BAYONETS! MAKE READY!"

Everything had gone to hell at the last step.

Their intelligence was worse than wrong — it was a death sentence. The German positions were a fortress of interlocking fire zones that turned No Man's Land into an abattoir. Their artillery had been waiting, every gun pre-sighted on the British trenches. The "suppressed" machine guns roared to life the moment men appeared, turning entire platoons into red mist.

Now, crammed into the relative safety of their trench, Archie's mind raced through the butcher's bill of the past hour. Morrison leaked blood from a shoulder wound, while Harper's shaking hands wrapped Thompson's mangled fingers. Lucky sat in shocked silence, his uniform in tatters but his flesh somehow intact, living up to his nickname.

But as Archie's fevered eyes darted between survivors' faces, ice-cold terror seized his heart. "Where's McKinley?" The words came out as a strangled whisper, his throat constricting. Then louder, panic rising like bile: "WHERE'S CORPORAL MCKINLEY!? HAS ANYONE FUCKIN’ SEEN HIM!?"

The men shrank from his desperate gaze, eyes fixed on the mud, each silently begging someone else to speak. Archie's hands began to shake violently, his voice rising to a hysterical screech. "SOMEONE FUCKING ANSWER ME!"

Harper finally spoke, his voice wary. "Last I saw him near the second wire, sir. Trying to help Williams after he caught one. Then that barrage came down and..." The unfinished sentence hung in the air like poison gas.

"Which sector?" Archie's voice had become something inhuman, feral. When no one answered fast enough, he lunged at Harper, seizing his mud-caked collar with trembling hands. "WHICH FUCKIN' SECTOR—"

"Grid D-7, sir!" Thompson squeaked, terror making his voice crack. "Two hundred yards out, just past where Baker Company got wiped last month."

Archie shoved Harper away, his hands frantically checking ammunition with desperate, jerky movements. His mind tortured him with vivid images of Ruben bleeding out alone in the mud, screaming for help that wouldn't come.

"Sir," Morrison pleaded, recognizing the suicidal gleam in his lieutenant's wild eye. "Jerry's got every inch zeroed. It's certain death—"

But Archie was already stuffing extra magazines anywhere they'd fit, his movements frenzied, uncontrolled. "Get me a fucking stretcher," he snarled through clenched teeth, spittle flying. "And find me a medic before I start shooting."

The men watched in horror as their lieutenant paced like a rabid animal, splashing through puddles of blood-tinted water. His good eye had taken on an almost possessed look, madness and desperation warring behind it.

"Please, sir," Morrison tried again, reaching for Archie's trembling arm. "You're not—"

Archie spun with such violence that Morrison stumbled back into the trench wall. "NOT WHAT!?" His voice was a bestial growl, barely human. "NOT THINKING CLEARLY? MY CORPORAL IS OUT THERE, DYING IN THE FUCKING MUD, AND YOU'RE TELLING ME I'M NOT THINKING CLEARLY?"

"Sergeant Major's coming," someone hissed urgently. "He won't let—"

"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK WHAT HE'LL LET!" Archie roared, smashing his fist into the trench wall hard enough to leave bloody smears.

He ripped a stretcher from a terrified private's hands, slinging it over his shoulder. His movements were spastic, desperate, like a man possessed. "Anyone tries to stop me, they're dead. I mean it. I fucking mean it."

The madness in his eye left no room for doubt.

Heavy boots announced Brooks' approach, but Archie was already moving. With manic energy, he scrambled for the fire step, boot heels scraping splinters from the rotting wood.

"LIEUTENANT!" Brooks' voice thundered through the trench like artillery fire. "STAND DOWN NOW!"

But Winters was beyond hearing, beyond reason, beyond fear. He hurled himself onto the parapet, silhouetting himself against the gray sky. Machine gun fire immediately stitched the air around him, but he seemed oblivious to the danger.

"GRAB THE CRAZY BASTARD!" Brooks bellowed.

Morrison and Thompson's desperate hands brushed his boot as he vaulted over, too late to save him from himself. They could only watch in horror as their lieutenant sprinted through hell itself, bullets kicking up geysers of mud and flesh around him.

"Jesus Christ," Brooks breathed, rage giving way to grim admiration. "COVER HIM! EVERY RIFLE ON THOSE GERMAN POSITIONS! GET THE LEWIS GUN UP HERE NOW!"

The trench erupted in desperate activity as men scrambled to protect their suicidal officer. The air filled with the desperate crack of rifles and the Lewis gun's mechanical roar as they tried to keep the German gunners' heads down.

Through mud-smeared periscopes, they watched Archie vanish into the apocalyptic wasteland, his figure shrinking until the smoke and chaos swallowed him whole. The last glimpse showed him diving into a massive shell crater near Thompson's coordinates.

Bullets shrieked past Archie's head like metal banshees, tearing chunks from the putrid earth around him. His world contracted into a desperate, animal pattern of movement — scan the rotting corpses, scramble through sewage-filled craters, scan again. Every mangled body he encountered sent violent tremors through his chest until he could confirm it wasn't Ruben. Some faces he recognized through the gore and decay, each one carving fresh wounds into his fractured psyche, but he pressed on, half-mad with desperation.

The glutinous mud sucked at his boots like hungry mouths, threatening to drag him down into the earth's putrid belly. His lungs burned from the cocktail of exhaustion and lingering mustard gas that clung to the low ground like death's own breath. The stretcher felt like it was made of molten lead, but he clung to it with fevered determination. He had to need it. The alternative was a darkness his mind refused to enter.

"MCKINLEY—" he screamed into the fog, his voice cracking and bleeding. "MCKINLEY!" Artillery transformed the sky into strobing hellfire, casting writhing shadows that turned every piece of twisted metal and shattered flesh into a grotesque puppet show. His eyes played cruel tricks, transforming every blood-soaked rag into Ruben's uniform, every shadow into his fallen form.

He crashed into another crater, this one a cesspool of stagnant water and bloated remains. His boots slipped on something sickeningly soft beneath the surface, sending him sprawling against the crater's weeping walls. The impact dislodged a cascade of filth, revealing a partially buried Lewis gun protruding from the muck like a dead man's accusatory finger.

A German flare burst overhead, its savage white glare transforming No Man's Land into a photograph of the damned — a nightmare landscape of mangled bodies, razor wire, and earth torn open like festering wounds stretching endlessly toward a horizon that promised only more horror.

Then he saw it — a flash of familiar webbing, a mud-caked boot he'd mended just days ago. The sight sent him scrambling like a feral thing, all thoughts of self-preservation obliterated. Machine gun fire laced the air with deadly geometry, but Archie was beyond such concerns. He hurled himself through the bullets' lethal dance, his universe narrowing to those final, eternal yards.

He found Ruben crumpled against a shattered trench wall, one bloodied hand pressed weakly against the crimson flower blooming across his side. Another soldier — reduced to an unrecognizable mass of gore and mud — lay twisted beside him. Archie's legs betrayed him, sending him crashing to his knees with bone-shattering force.

"You stupid bastard," he choked out, his voice raw and animal as his shaking hands fumbled desperately at Ruben's wounds. "You— you fuckin' idiot." The words emerged as half-sob, half-snarl while he fought against the rising tide of hysteria. His fingers, slick with blood and filth, struggled with bandages that seemed determined to slip away.

Ruben lay silent, his normally sharp gaze now dulled by blood loss and the approaching shadows. His eyes, glazed with exhaustion and something darker, fixed on the man's face with an expression caught between gratitude and grim acceptance.

Shell bursts painted apocalyptic frescos above them as Archie worked with desperate intensity. Though the wound wasn't immediately fatal, the growing pallor of Ruben's skin spoke of time rapidly running out. Every few seconds, the Lieutenant's frantic gaze darted to the mutilated corpse beside them, its familiar aspects haunting him even through its disfigurement.

"I've got you," Archie muttered, his voice cracking like thin ice. "I've got you, you're going to be fine." The tremor in his words betrayed the terror clawing at his throat. "Stay with me, damn you. Stay right here with me."

A thunderous explosion showered them with debris and human remains, making speech nearly impossible. Through the cacophony, Ruben's voice emerged like a ghost's whisper.

"Just— just go," Ruben wheezed. His blood-streaked hand pushed weakly at Archie's chest. "Wouldn't be... any use to you anyway. Don't know the first thing about sheep..."

"Shut your fuckin' mouth," Archie snarled, raw emotion making his voice savage. "Just shut it— shut up." His hands worked with renewed desperation, checking bandages that were already soaking through. 

"You don't get to do this. You don't get to give up." Another shell burst showered them with earth and shrapnel, but Archie didn't flinch. "I'll teach you about the bloody sheep myself, you stubborn bastard. Every last fucking thing about 'em. You have to stay with me."

His trembling fingers pressed against Ruben's cheek, leaving grotesque streaks of mud and gore. "Don't you dare give up on me. Don't you fuckin’ dare."

A pained smile twisted Ruben's mangled lip as he leaned into Archie's touch, his scarred face softening for just a moment. "Lieutenant," he breathed, the words barely audible over death's perpetual thunder. "Don't think I'm... meant for your hills..."

The simple statement hit Archie like shrapnel, forcing a strangled sound from his throat. His fingers tightened involuntarily where they rested against Ruben's cooling skin. "Don't," he choked out. "Don't you dare fucking say that. The hills will love you. The sheep will love you. You just—" His voice shattered, and he had to swallow back bile before continuing. "You just have to make it there first."

Another explosion rocked the earth, closer this time, showering them with a rain of dirt and metal fragments. Archie threw himself over Ruben like a human shield, feeling the sting of hot shrapnel across his back. As the debris settled, he pulled back just enough to see Ruben's face, his own features contorted with desperate, primal fear.

"Listen to me," he growled, voice thick with terror and rage. "Those hills? They're waiting for us. The cottage needs fixing, the flock needs tending, and—" He broke off, choking on words too dangerous to speak. "You're going to live, you understand? You're going to live, and you're going to learn every bloody thing about sheep there is to know."

Ruben's eyes began to drift shut, prompting Archie to shake him with barely controlled panic. "No, no, stay with me. Look at me." His voice took on a pleading edge that stripped away all pretense of dignity. "Tell me about the hills. What do you see when you think about them?"

"Green," Ruben whispered, the word barely more than an exhale. "So much bloody green. After all this mud... just endless green rolling away forever." His breath caught wetly in his chest. "And you standing there like you belong."

"That's right," Archie urged, his movements becoming frantic as he positioned the stretcher. "And you'll belong there too. We'll build something there, something real." His hands shook violently as he prepared to move Ruben. "The war won't touch us there. We'll forget all this horror."

Another explosion turned the sky to fire, closer than ever. The increasing thunder from both trenches spoke of time running desperately short.

"This is going to hurt," he warned, voice thick with dread as he positioned himself to lift Ruben. "You have to stay quiet."

McKinley nodded weakly, his jaw clenched against the coming pain. When Archie moved him, a strangled sound of agony escaped his lips, but he managed to bite back the scream.

"Good man," Archie whispered, his trembling hands fighting with the stretcher's straps. "Just hold on. Hold onto those hills. We're going home."

As he steeled himself for the hellish journey back across No Man's, Winters allowed himself one moment of weakness, pressing his forehead against Ruben's, their ragged breaths mingling in the poisoned air. "Together, you bastard," he breathed, his voice breaking on the words. "We're going home together."

With a grunt of effort that threatened to tear him apart, Archie heaved himself upright, Ruben's weight on the stretcher making his muscles scream in protest. The German guns seemed to have noticed their movement, the air suddenly alive with the deadly whisper of bullets seeking flesh.

"Keep breathing," Archie gasped, more to himself than Ruben. "Just keep fucking breathing."

He began the torturous journey back, each step a battle against the sucking mud and his own failing strength. The stretcher felt like it was made of lead, growing heavier with every yard gained. Through it all, he could feel Ruben's life seeping away, each labored breath potentially his last.

A mortar shell landed nearby, the concussion nearly knocking him off his feet. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Brooks' distant voice bellowing orders, followed by the intensified chatter of covering fire from their lines.

"Almost there," he panted, though he wasn't sure if Ruben could still hear him.

The last stretch seemed endless, a gauntlet of bullets and explosions that stretched into eternity. Archie's world narrowed to the rhythm of his own footsteps and Ruben's increasingly shallow breathing. Nothing else mattered — not the war, not the dying men around them, not even his own survival. Just those precious breaths behind him, each one a desperate victory against encroaching darkness.

When hands finally reached out from their trench to help pull them in, Winters nearly collapsed from relief. As they lowered Ruben down, Brooks was already shouting for stretcher bearers to carry him to the aid station.

Winters barely heard him, gaze fixed on Ruben's still form as the stretcher bearers whisked him away. Only then did he notice his own wounds — shrapnel cuts across his back, a bullet graze on his arm he hadn't even felt.

"The hills," he mumbled, swaying on his feet. "He has to see the hills."

Then the adrenaline finally drained away, and darkness claimed him.

Consciousness returned to him in violent bursts of sensation — first pain, raw and insistent, then the acrid stench of antiseptic mixed with blood. His eyes snapped open, and he immediately tried to push himself upright, ignoring the protests of his battered body.

"Oh no you fuckin’ don’t—" Dr. Hayes' weathered hand slammed against Archie's chest, forcing him back onto the stretcher. "Lie the fuck down before you tear those stitches."

Archie struggled against the pressure, his mind focused on a single, burning thought. "Ruben," he croaked, his throat raw. "Where's McKinley?"

Hayes' lined face softened slightly, though his hand remained firm against Archie's chest. "He's alive, Lieutenant," he said, his gruff voice gentler now. "Resting in the next tent. Lost a fair bit of blood, but the stubborn bastard's holding on. Whatever you did out there in that hellscape kept him breathin' long enough to get him here."

The tension drained from Archie's body at those words, leaving him trembling with relief. He slumped back against the stretcher, suddenly aware of the deep ache that seemed to permeate every fiber of his being.

"Now," Hayes continued, reaching for fresh bandages, "if you can manage to lie still for five bloody minutes, I might consider letting you see him once I've checked these wounds. But first—" He fixed the Lieutenant with a stern glare that brooked no argument, "—you're going to let me do my job."

Hayes worked methodically, his weathered hands cleaning and redressing Archie's wounds with practiced efficiency. "You're lucky these aren't deeper," he muttered, dabbing antiseptic on a particularly nasty gash. "Though I suppose 'lucky' is a relative term out here."

"He pulled me out of artillery fire," Archie mumbled, voice thick with emotion and medical haze. "Fucking idiot ran straight through it. Could've died. I should've died." His hands twisted in the rough blanket. "He's always... always doing that."

"Heard about that," Hayes grunted, applying fresh bandages. "Heard about a lot of things you two have lived through. Remarkable stuff." He paused, studying Archie's face.

Tears welled in Winters' good eye, but he blinked them back furiously. "He has to live," he whispered, the words raw and desperate. "He has to."

Hayes finished securing the last bandage, then squeezed Archie's shoulder with surprising gentleness. "Listen here, Lieutenant. I've watched you both cheat death more times than I can count. Whatever's keeping you two alive — be it God, fate, or pure bloody-minded stubbornness — it's not about to give up now." He straightened up, his face returning to its usual stern expression. "Now lie still and let those stitches set. That's an order."

It took two days of restless waiting, drifting in and out of consciousness, before Hayes finally relented to Archie's increasingly desperate pleas. The stoic doctor's resistance had crumbled not under the Lieutenant's attempts at pulling rank, but rather his morphine-addled begging, all pretense of military dignity long since abandoned.

"For Christ's fuckin’ sake, fine," Hayes had finally snapped, though there was a softness beneath his gruff exterior. "But you're using the damn crutches, and if you tear those stitches, I'll sedate you until Christmas."

Now, Archie made his way across the medical tent on shaking legs, refusing Hayes' offered support with stubborn determination. Each step sent waves of pain through his back, but he barely noticed, his mind focused solely on reaching Ruben's cot.

The sight of Ruben, paler than usual but breathing, sent a fresh wave of relief through Archie's body. His scarred face was drawn with pain, but his pale eyes were open, clear despite the morphine haze. When those eyes found Winters, something in them softened, a mirror of the ache in the Lieutenant's own chest.

"You look like shite," the man rasped.

Archie let out a strangled laugh, lowering himself carefully onto the chair beside Ruben's cot. "Speak for yourself." His voice wavered dangerously. "Tried to leave me alone with those bloody sheep."

"Couldn't do that," Ruben murmured, his words slightly slurred from the morphine. "Who else would teach me about the hills?" His hand twitched on the blanket, fingers stretching toward Archie before falling still. "Keep... keep telling me about ‘em."

Archie leaned forward, his own hands trembling as they found the edge of Ruben's cot. "The hills," he began, "they're waiting for us, just like I said. Rolling green as far as you can see, touched with purple heather in the late summer. The air's so clean there, you can taste it — nothin' like this hell." He swallowed hard. "The cottage needs work, but the bones are good. Strong stone that's weathered a hundred winters."

"Paint the whole picture," Ruben whispered, his eyes drifting closed. "Need summit... summit to hold onto through this fever."

"The flock grazes on the western slope," Archie continued, his voice growing stronger as he lost himself in the vision. "You can hear their bells on clear days, mixing with the sound of the wind in the grass. There's a stream that runs past the cottage — good, clean water that tastes of stone and sky. The garden's overgrown now, but we'll set it right."

Ruben's eyes opened again, finding Archie's with desperate intensity in the drug-induced haze. "Promise," he breathed. "Promise it's real."

"It's real," Archie assured him, his hands clenching in the rough blanket. "As real as anythin' in this godforsaken world. We just have to hold on a little longer." He forced a weak smile. "Can't have you dying before you learn how to proper shear a sheep."

"Wouldn't... wouldn't dream of it." Ruben’s eyes began to drift shut again, the morphine pulling him under.

Archie continued talking long after Ruben had fallen asleep, painting pictures of peace with words that trembled in the antiseptic air. He spoke until his voice grew hoarse, until Hayes finally insisted he return to his own cot, until the morphine dragged him back into uneasy dreams of endless green hills and the promise of a home.

Chapter Text

A week later, the medical tent's flap rustled in the cold morning breeze as Corporal McKinley and Lieutenant Winters emerged into the gray dawn. Their uniforms, freshly cleaned — yet still stained with persistent, unwashable blotches of God-Knows-What anymore — hung slightly loose on their frames after days of poor appetite and fever sweats. The morning mist clung to their boots as they made their way through the maze of trenches, dodging the usual obstacle course of mud, standing water, and sleepless soldiers.

They'd barely taken ten steps when Private Finn Williams appeared, his boyish face already etched with the permanent worry lines that seemed to age everyone here by decades. "Sir, Corporal. Captain Reynolds wants you both," he said, voice clipped. "His dugout."

The Captain's dugout was a slightly more elaborate version of their own mud-holes, reinforced with stolen farmhouse beams and furnished with a rickety desk that had seen better days. Reynolds stood as they entered, his hollow-cheeked face illuminated by the weak light of a guttering candle.

"Gentlemen," he said, studying them both with tired eyes. "Good to see you vertical. How's the recovery?"

He didn’t wait for a response before he continued. "I've read the reports. That stretch of No Man's Land you crossed..." He shook his head. "By all accounts, it should have been impossible."

"Nothing's impossible with enough stupid, sir," Winters noted.

"Indeed." The man shuffled some papers on his desk. "There's talk of commendations. Though given our current position, they might have to wait until we're not quite so..." He gestured vaguely at the mud-slicked walls of his dugout, "...preoccupied."

Both men remained silent, their faces carefully blank. Awards meant nothing here, where survival was the only medal worth earning.

"That's all," Reynolds finally said, understanding their silence. "Dismissed."

They emerged into the trench, falling into step without discussion. Their boots squelched through the familiar muck as they made their way toward their section of the line.

"Mail came," Ruben said finally, his voice flat. "While you were delirious. Your sister sent another package."

"Let me guess," Archie replied, ducking under a low-hanging support beam. "More socks."

"And that awful tea she insists helps with nerves."

"Tastes like boiled cat piss."

"You've tasted boiled cat piss then?"

"After three years in this hell? I might’ve."

They continued in comfortable silence, passing a group of fresh-faced replacements who stared at them with barely concealed awe. The story of their impossible crossing had already become trench legend, whispered between watches like some sort of twisted tale.

Finally reaching the Lieutenant’s dugout, they settled into their usual spots – McKinley on his crate by the entrance, Winters leaning against the mud wall, automatically avoiding the spot where water constantly dripped through.

"Jones says the rats got into the preserved beef again," Ruben mentioned, cleaning his rifle.

"Good," Archie muttered, pulling out a cigarette. "Might improve the taste."

And that was it. No mention of fever dreams or morphine-induced confessions. No discussion of the moment when death had seemed as certain as the mud beneath their feet. They simply existed, as they had before, in the comfortable space between words where understanding lived.

Above them, another dawn patrol began their watch, boots scraping against the duckboards. The war ground on, indifferent to their survival, while somewhere far beyond the trenches, Yorkshire hills waited in patient silence.

Chapter Text

Ruben and Archie stood at the Corporal’s usual post, sharing a cigarette in comfortable silence. The morning fog clung to their uniforms like a second skin, the perpetual dampness seeping into their bones. Ruben's scarred face was illuminated briefly by the ember of his cigarette, the jagged scar across the bridge of his nose casting harsh shadows as the torn flesh of his lip caught the orange glow. In the dim light, Archie's pale, grey eye — forever clouded from a gas attack in his early days at the front — stared unseeing into the mist alongside its good companion.

Their peaceful moment was shattered by the sound of approaching footsteps and barely contained laughter. Corporal James "Lucky" emerged from the mist, his shoulders shaking with barely contained mirth.

"Christ," Lucky wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "You— you have to come see this— in the medical tent—"

Ruben and Winters exchanged a wary glance. The medical tent held too many recent memories of fever dreams and morphine-addled confessions.

"Some of us are on watch, Corporal," Archie growled, though there was no real heat in his words.

"Peters can cover you for ten minutes," Lucky insisted, his grin threatening to split his face. "I swear on my mum's grave, you'll regret missin’ this, you will."

"Your mother's alive and well in Cardiff," Ruben pointed out dryly.

"Then I swear on my future grave, which might be tomorrow if you two don't shift your arses and come with me right now."

Curiosity finally won over their reluctance. They found Peters, a fresh-faced private who still flinched at shell fire, and left him at the post before following Lucky through the labyrinth of trenches. The boards beneath their feet squelched with each step, the walls oozing black slime that might have once been soil before the war turned everything to rot.

As they walked, Lucky filled them in between fits of barely contained laughter. "Hayes has been treating so many wounded lately, been around so much morphine vapor... well, seems he's gone a bit peculiar himself."

"Peculiar how?" Winters asked, his good eye narrowing with suspicion.

"You'll see," Lucky promised, shoulders still shaking. "Poor Morrison's been tryin' to handle it for the past hour."

When they reached the medical tent, the scene that greeted them was unlike anything they'd witnessed in three years of war. Dr. Hayes – the same man who'd threatened to sedate Archie until Christmas, the stern-faced doctor who'd saved countless lives with steady hands and gruff efficiency – sat cross-legged on an empty cot, cradling what appeared to be a very dead, very large rat.

The rat, bloated and stiff, had been wrapped in what looked like a torn piece of bandage fashioned into a crude diaper. Hayes was gently rocking it back and forth, humming what might have been a lullaby under his breath.

Morrison, stood nearby with his hands on his hips, looking like he'd aged ten years in the past hour. Young Harper, still sporting bandages from his own recent wounds, hovered anxiously nearby, clearly torn between his duty to help and his fear of approaching the doctor.

"Now, sir," Morrison was saying with strained patience, "why don't you just hand over the... er, little one, and we can get you some rest, aye?"

"Rest?" Hayes looked up, his eyes unfocused but indignant. "How can I rest when this little thing needs immediate medical attention? Look at the state of him – clearly sufferin’. An’ such a peculiar case of facial hair for one so young..."

Ruben and Archie stood in the entrance, momentarily speechless. Lucky had both hands clamped over his mouth, tears streaming down his face as he tried to contain his mirth.

"Sir," Harper attempted, his voice cracking, "that's... that's not a baby. That's a rat. A dead rat, sir."

"Nonsense," Hayes replied, adjusting the rat's makeshift diaper with professional concern. "But I must say, the infant mortality rate in these trenches is really shocking. Look how still the poor thing is. Clearly suffering from exposure."

"Doctor," Archie said softly, crouching down beside the cot, "I think this little one needs to be taken to the special ward. For... observation."

Ruben positioned himself on Hayes' other side. "We can take him there now. Ensure he gets the best care."

Hayes looked between them, his professional instincts warring with whatever morphine-induced haze had gripped him. Finally, he nodded solemnly. "Yes... yes, you're right. The special ward. Mind his head — he's quite delicate."

Just as Hayes began to lift the rat-baby toward Ruben's waiting arms, Lucky lost his battle with composure. A snort of laughter escaped him, quickly devolving into uncontrollable howling that echoed through the medical tent.

Hayes froze, clutching the dead rat protectively to his chest. His unfocused eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. "You're laughing at him," he accused, voice trembling with righteous medical indignation. "This is a patient. A child. How dare YOU LAUGH AT MY PATIENT, IN MY WARD!?"

"Doctor, please," the Lieutenant tried again, shooting a murderous glare at Lucky, who was now doubled over, gasping for breath. "We only want to help—"

"Help?" Hayes scrambled backward on the cot until his back hit the canvas wall. "You're all in league with them, aren't you? The fuckers— fuckers who've been stealing the morphine. Now you want to take this innocent boy—"

"Doctor," Morrison cut in desperately, "no one's stealin' anything. You've just been workin' too hard. Maybe if you let us—"

"NOT ANOTHER FUCKIN’ STEP!" Hayes declared, struggling to his feet on the unstable cot. The dead rat's makeshift diaper began to slip, revealing its bloated belly. "I'LL REPORT YOU LOT FOR THIS! This is a violation of the HIPPOCRATIC OATH!"

Harper, who had been watching the scene unfold with mounting horror, finally broke. "Sir, it's a rat!" he blurted out. "A dead one! And it's starting to smell!"

Hayes gasped, covering what he presumably thought were the rat's ears. "How DARE YOU! He's just a bit peaked. Nothing some fresh air won't fix." He began edging toward the tent's entrance, still cradling his deceased patient. "We're going for a walk… Some time away from all you heartless butchers will do him good..."

Ruben and Arche moved simultaneously to block the exit, while Morrison approached from behind with a determined expression. "Now, Doctor," Morrison began, reaching for Hayes' shoulder, "let's be reasonable—"

What happened next would become yet another legend in the trenches, though one significantly less heroic than their crossing of No Man's Land. Hayes, with surprising agility for a man who hadn’t slept for three days straight, feinted left before diving right, rolling past the Corporal and Lieutenant with his precious clutched to his chest.

"Stop that doctor!" Lucky wheezed between fits of laughter as Hayes sprinted down the trench, holding the rat-baby aloft like some grotesque trophy.

McKinley and Winters took off after him, dodging surprised soldiers and nearly slipping on the duckboards. Hayes proved remarkably nimble, ducking under support beams and vaulting over supply crates, all while cooing reassurances to his deceased patient.

The chase ended abruptly when Hayes rounded a corner and collided with Captain Reynolds, who had chosen that exact moment to emerge from his dugout. Both men went down in a tangle of limbs and mud, the rat flying from Hayes' grasp to land with a wet splat at the feet of a very startled messenger.

"What in God's name—" Reynolds began, but his words were cut short by Hayes' anguished cry.

"BABY!" The doctor scrambled toward the rat, but Ruben and Archie finally caught up, each grabbing one of his arms. "You FUCKIN’ BASTARDS!”

The Captain's expression cycled through confusion, horror, and finally understanding as Morrison arrived, panting, to explain the situation. "Morphine vapor, sir," he gasped. "Been affecting him all mornin'."

Reynolds nodded slowly, brushing mud from his uniform. "I see. Well, get him to a cot and have someone sit with him until this... episode passes." He paused, glancing at the rat's corpse. "And for fuck’s sake, dispose of his... patient."

It took both of the men to half-carry, half-drag the protesting doctor back to the medical tent, where he was finally convinced to lie down after Morrison promised that his "patient" would receive "round-the-clock care in a specialized facility."

Later that evening, as Ruben and Archie shared another cigarette at their post, Lucky approached with a fresh bout of barely contained laughter.

"You'll never guess what Hayes said, when he woke up," he grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Do tell," Archie drawled, though his good eye betrayed his amusement.

"Says he had the strangest dream about running a nursery for oversized rodents, he says," Lucky shook his head. "Swears he's never touchin' morphine again."

Chapter Text

Morning. Air still carried the acrid stench of spent gunpowder and blood. Lieutenant Winters found Private Harper in one of the smaller dugouts, cursing under his breath as he struggled with a small mirror propped against a wooden beam. The boy — and he was just that, barely seventeen if a day — was attempting to cut his own hair with a pair of dull scissors, making a right mess of it. His hands shook as he struggled, whether from his damaged lungs or nerves, Winters couldn't tell. The boy's breathing was labored, even this simple task taxing his gas-scarred airways.

Archie watched for a moment, remembering how young Harper had looked the day Ruben had saved him, pressing a gas mask to his face just in time. The damage had been done, but the boy had lived.

"Making a pig's ear of that, aren't you, Private?" Winters said, his voice carrying just enough amusement to soften the criticism.

Harper jumped, nearly dropping the scissors into the muck at his feet, offering a wheezing salute. "Sir! I... I was just trying to..." He stuttered through a hoarse cough, face flushed red beneath the grime.

"At ease," Winters stepped into the dugout, ducking slightly under the low beams. "Let me help before you take your ear off."

The Private's embarrassment deepened, shaking his head, gesturing weakly at the man’s rank insignia. "Sir, you— y’don't have to... S’not proper for a Lieutenant to..."

"Nonsense," Archie cut him off, gesturing for Harper to sit on an upturned ammunition crate. "Already do it for half the platoon." He pulled out his own rusted scissors, the steel gleaming dully in the weak light filtering through the dugout's entrance. "Even sort out the Corporal’s mess when he lets me."

Harper's eyes widened at the mention of McKinley. His lips moved silently, forming the question his damaged voice couldn't quite manage.

"When the mood takes him," Winters replied, beginning to trim the uneven edges Harper had created. "I'll tell you — he's far worse at sitting still than you are. Man can stand motionless at his post for twelve hours straight, but put scissors near his head and he starts jumping off the wall."

A silent laugh shook Harper's shoulders, though it quickly turned into a wheezing cough when a distant explosion rattled the dugout's timbers. Winters continued working, his hands steady and sure despite the intermittent thunder of artillery.

"First time I cut his hair, it was after a particularly nasty stretch in the front line. Three days of constant shelling, mud so deep it swallowed men whole. Hadn't slept, jumpin’ at every shadow. Hair was a mess under the helmet, caked with blood and worse things." Winters' voice remained deliberately casual, though his eyes grew distant. "Couldn't stand seeing it touch his neck anymore — forced him to sit and get it done."

Harper sat perfectly still now, his labored breathing the only sound as Winters worked. The Lieutenant's words painted a drastically different picture of the Corporal who had saved his life.

"Took me nearly an hour to get him cleaned up proper," Winters continued, moving around to work on the sides of Harper's head. "Had to keep talking the whole time — anything to keep his mind from drifting."

Another shell landed somewhere in the distance, but Harper barely flinched. The Lieutenant's steady presence and matter-of-fact tone had a calming effect, making the war seem temporarily distant.

"There," Winters said finally, brushing loose hair from Harper's collar. "Much better than what you were attempting. Though next time, come find me first — save us both the trouble of fixing it."

"Yes, sir… Thank you, sir." Harper managed through a raspy whisper, reaching up to feel his newly trimmed hair, surprise evident on his face at how neat it felt.

"Right then, Private," Winters was already putting away his scissors, his voice shifting. "Get your gear sorted and report to the Sergeant. He's running drills with the new replacements in the secondary trench."

With that, the Lieutenant ducked out into the trench, leaving Harper to ponder his words as the distant thunder of artillery continued its endless percussion.

Chapter Text

The candlelight in Morrison's dugout flickered precariously as another shell burst somewhere above, showering dirt through the wooden beams. The space was cramped but meticulously organized — a testament to the man’s obsessive nature. Maps lined one wall, held in place by rusty nails, while a collection of spent cartridge cases served as makeshift candle holders.

Morrison himself sat hunched over what looked like a modified gramophone, his weathered hands carefully adjusting something beneath its worn brass horn. The device was smaller than a standard model, with reinforced joints and a specially designed case that could be sealed against the omnipresent mud.

"Gentlemen," he said without looking up, "welcome to the inaugural demonstration of the Trench Decca." His fingers, stained black with gun oil and dirt, traced the edge of the turntable. "Managed to convince a supply sergeant to part with it. Cost me three bottles of decent whiskey and my last few biscuits."

Artillery continued to thunder in the distance, but it had taken on a rhythmic quality that every veteran recognized as ranging fire rather than immediate threat.

"Said he found this beauty in a bombed-out house near Ypres," Morrison continued, producing a record from a protective leather case. The label was barely legible through the grime: 'Keep the Home Fires Burning' by James F. Harrison. "Previous owner won't be needin' it no more," he added grimly, the unspoken story hanging in the stale air.

Winters settled onto an ammunition crate, his uniform still bearing traces of hair from his earlier barbering duties. Other men began filtering in — among those being Corporal Lucky with his perpetual grin, Private Harper whose persistent cough everyone pretended not to hear, and young Williams with eyes that had aged decades in mere months.

The first notes crackled through the horn, slightly tinny but unmistakable. The sound seemed to cut through the perpetual miasma of death and decay, carving out a small pocket of something approaching normalcy in their underground hell.

Ruben's hands still rested on his rifle — they always did — but his shoulders had lost some of their steel-cable tension. His eyes remained fixed on the dugout entrance, ever vigilant, but his head tilted slightly toward the music.

Morrison produced a bottle of something that might have been whiskey in a previous life. "Obtained this from the same supply sergeant," he said, passing it around. "'Parently, it pairs well with trench foot and despair."

The liquid burned like battery acid, but no one complained. They sat in relative silence, passing the bottle, while the music fought against the distant thunder of artillery and the ever-present squeal of rats in the walls.

Harper's cough broke the relative peace — the sound had gotten worse over the past week, taking on a wet, rattling quality that everyone recognized but no one mentioned. In the trenches, such sounds often preceded a man's final trip to the aid station.

"Another round," Morrison announced, producing a second record. This one was scratched and warped, but still playable. "Summit a bit more lively, perhaps?" The opening bars of "Pack Up Your Troubles" wheezed from the horn, drawing a few weak smiles.

A distant explosion illuminated the dugout entrance for a brief moment, casting long shadows across the mud-caked walls. Young Williams flinched instinctively, but caught himself, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. McKinley pretended not to see, keeping his eyes fixed on the entrance while taking another burning swig from the bottle.

"Remember that dance hall in Albert?" Lucky asked, his trademark grin flickering to life. "The one with the broken windows and that piano missin' half its keys?"

"How could we forget?" Morrison replied, accepting the bottle. "You tried to teach Hayes how to waltz. Geezer nearly had a heart attack when you spun him into a stack of medical supplies."

The music continued to fight against the artillery's distant percussion, creating an oddly fitting counterpoint to their reminiscence.

"He got his revenge though," Lucky continued, his eyes taking on a distant look. "Made me sort bandages for six hours straight. My fingers were raw from rolling gauze."

Another shell burst somewhere above, closer this time. The gramophone's needle jumped, causing the music to skip momentarily. Morrison's hand shot out to steady it, his movements careful and practiced. The interruption served as a stark reminder that their brief respite could end at any moment.

"Time check," Winters said quietly, though everyone knew he could read a watch as well in the dark as in daylight. It was more ritual than necessity.

"2340," Morrison replied, already reaching for the next record. "Night's still young, gentlemen."

Ruben was the first to slip away. His scarred face disappeared into the shadows beyond the dugout's entrance, leaving only the lingering scent of mud and gunpowder in his wake.

Archie followed shortly after, pausing only to adjust his lieutenant's insignia. The weight of command seemed to settle back onto his shoulders as he stepped away from the brief sanctuary of music and memories.

Harper's exit was marked by another bout of wet coughing, the sound echoing off the dugout's timber walls. Thompson appeared at his elbow, wordlessly offering support. Neither acknowledged the assistance — such things went unremarked in the trenches.

Young Williams scurried out last, his movements quick and nervous like a mouse darting between cover. The fear was still fresh in him, not yet dulled.

Morrison and Lucky remained, letting the final notes of the record fade into the perpetual thunder of artillery. The needle scratched against the label, producing a soft hiss that mixed with the distant rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire.

"Quite a collection you've got here," Lucky said finally, his trademark grin dimmed but present. He ran a finger along the edge of a particularly well-preserved record sleeve.

Morrison nodded, carefully lifting the needle. "Music helps," he said simply. "Reminds us there's still summit worth fightin' for." He began returning the records to their protective cases with the same methodical precision he applied to his map-making.

Chapter Text

The candle's flame danced lazily in the dugout, casting long shadows across the rough-hewn walls. The space stank of wet earth, stale tobacco, and that peculiar metallic tang that permeated everything in the trenches. Ruben sat on an upturned ammunition crate, his scarred hands moving with practiced precision over his disassembled Lee-Enfield. The rifle's parts lay arranged before him on a scrap of oil-stained canvas, each piece meticulously placed.

Archie hunched over his makeshift desk — really just a door salvaged from some forgotten French farmhouse, propped up on empty shell cases. His fountain pen scratched against paper as he worked through the day's casualty reports, the ink occasionally bleeding into the damp pages. Neither man spoke; they didn't need to.

The quiet between them had grown strange lately, heavy with unspoken words that hung in the air like cordite after a bombardment. It had been this way since that day three weeks ago, since Archie had dragged Ruben's half-conscious body through two hundred yards of mud and barbed wire — since they'd shared a morphine-induced haze, drifting between fevered nightmares.

The Corporal’s helmet sat on the floor beside him, the dented steel reflecting the candlelight in distorted patterns. His leather gloves lay discarded atop it, revealing hands covered in a network of fresh scars and old calluses. The sight of those bare hands felt almost intimate in the confined space.

The Lieutenant’s own cap rested on his cot, the insignia barely visible beneath a coating of trench grime. His gloves were there too, cracked and stiff with dried mud. The scratching of his pen faltered as he reached the bottom of another form, another name to be filed away in the endless bureaucracy of death.

The silence stretched between them like a fraying rope, comfortable yet fragile. Neither man acknowledged how Ruben's hands would occasionally pause in their work, his dead eyes darting to the dugout's entrance — nor did they mention how Archie's shoulders would tense at each distant explosion, his pen pressing harder into the paper until the nib threatened to tear through.

A rat scurried along one of the support beams overhead, sending a shower of dirt onto Winters’ paperwork. He brushed it away with a practiced gesture, not even looking up. McKinley’s hands never stopped their mechanical dance over the rifle parts, oil-blackened fingers checking each component with obsessive thoroughness.

Outside, the night was punctuated by the distant thump of artillery and the occasional rattle of machine gun fire. A cold drizzle had begun to fall, turning the already treacherous ground into a deadly slick of mud and spent shell casings. The sound of it drumming against the dugout's timber roof created an almost peaceful counterpoint to the war's endless percussion.

Ruben finished reassembling his rifle with a series of precise clicks, each part sliding home with the familiarity of long practice. He worked the bolt once, twice, the action smooth and well-oiled despite the omnipresent grit that seemed to infiltrate everything in the trenches.

"Supply train's late again," he said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was rough from disuse and the perpetual smoke that hung in the air. "Third time this month."

Archie's pen paused mid-stroke. "Jerry hit another convoy near Thiepval. Lost six trucks and most of the mules." He didn't look up from his papers. "They're routing everything through Amiens now. Adds another day to the journey."

A particularly close explosion sent tremors through the dugout walls, causing the candle flame to dance wildly. Both men instinctively glanced toward their headgear, then just as quickly resumed their tasks when the expected barrage didn't materialize.

"Harper won't last another week," Ruben observed.

Winters’ pen scratched against the paper with increased pressure. "He's just a lad. Shouldn't even be here." He signed the bottom of the form with more force than necessary. "None of them should."

The unspoken weight of command hung heavy in the air between them.

"Got a letter from my sister yesterday," Archie said suddenly, changing the subject. "Says the garden's doing well. Tomatoes comin’ in fine this year."

"Still keepin’ those chickens?"

"Aye. Named one after you, ‘parently. The ugly one with the crooked beak."

"Bet it's better looking than me, ‘least." Ruben’s fingers traced unconsciously along the jagged scar that split his lip.

The silence that followed felt different than their usual comfortable quiet. It was charged with something neither man could — or would — name. The candle flickered, shadows dancing across their faces, as the distant thunder of artillery continued its ceaseless rhythm.

Archie stared at the candle flame for a long moment. "Thought I heard the death rattle in your breath that day," he admitted quietly, still not meeting the other’s eyes. "Every few yards, I'd stop to check if you were still..." He trailed off, unable or unwilling to complete the thought.

Ruben's hands stilled on his weapon, gleaming dully in the candlelight.

"Must've been quite a sight," he said finally.

A moment passed in silence, broken only by the muffled sounds of war beyond their sanctuary. Then, slowly, deliberately, the Corporal’s hand reached out across the space between them, coming to rest on Winters’ forearm. The touch was startling in its bareness — no leather gloves, just warm flesh against flesh, calloused fingers pressing through the rough fabric of the Lieutenant’s uniform.

Without looking down, Archie moved his own hand to cover Ruben's. His grip was firm, anchoring, as if the man might dissolve into the shadows if he didn't hold tight enough.

"Nephew’s doing well too," he added after a moment. "Says he's grown three inches since Christmas. Keeps askin’ when Uncle Archie's coming home to teach him cricket proper-like."

"Good lad, that one," Ruben replied quietly.

"Askin’ about you, too," Winters continued, his voice softening. "Heard so many stories about 'Uncle Ruben' that he can hardly wait to meet you. Wants to know if you'll teach him how to shoot as straight as his Uncle Archie says you can."

Ruben's grip tightened almost imperceptibly on Archie's hand. "Uncle Ruben, is it?"

"That's what Mary’s been calling you when talking to him — if y’don't mind."

The Corporal was quiet for a long moment, staring at the candle flame. "Reckon I could teach him a thing or two," he said finally.

They sat like that, frozen in a moment that seemed to exist outside of time and war, neither man daring to look at the other. The candle guttered, sending shadows dancing across their joined hands. In the distance, the artillery continued its endless dialogue with the night — yet, somewhere even further, green hills waited patiently.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered through the mist like pus through gauze, casting a sickly pallor over the forward trench. Winters trudged through the ankle-deep muck, his boots making obscene sucking sounds with each step. The night's rain had turned the dugout entrances into gaping wounds in the earth, dark and oozing.

He found Dr. Hayes kneeling in the mud outside Thompson's dugout, his medical bag abandoned beside him like a dead thing. The doctor's hands hung limp at his sides, crimson-stained to the wrists. He didn't look up when Archie approached.

"Harper's gone," Hayes said, his voice hollow. "Thompson's been with the body since before dawn. Won't leave him."

Archie ducked into the dugout, the stench hitting him like a physical blow. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of vomit. Thompson sat curled against the timber wall, trembling, his red-rimmed eyes fixed on Harper’s corpse. The dead boy lay on his back, arms splayed, mouth and nose caked with dried blood and something darker. His chest was still, finally free of the wet, rattling cough that had plagued him these past weeks.

Just a few days ago, he'd sat on an ammunition crate while Archie trimmed his hair, choking back coughs just to stay still. Now he was just another body waiting for the burial detail.

Ruben materialized from behind him like a reaper, scarred face even more grotesque in the dim light. Without a word, he moved to Thompson's side, gripping the young man's shoulder.

"His lungs," Thompson sobbed, voice cracking. "You could hear them... collapsing. Like wet paper tearing… I tried— I tried, sir— I tried to help him breathe— I swear— swear I really did, sir—"

"Nothing you could've done," Ruben murmured, the words rough and clipped. "Gas does what it does."

Archie watched as his Corporal gently but firmly pulled Thompson to his feet, steering him toward the dugout entrance. The young private's uniform was stiff with dried blood and other fluids, evidence of his night-long vigil beside his dying friend.

"Get him to the aid station," Winters ordered, though Ruben was already moving. "Have them check his lungs. He was exposed too, even if briefly."

Left alone with the corpse, Archie knelt beside Harper's body. The boy's face was twisted in a rictus of pain, skin mottled and discolored from the gas. Another name for the letters home, another empty space in the dugout, another ghost to haunt them.

Artillery fire walked across No Man's Land, and somewhere in the distance, a machine gun chattered its eternal hunger — but in this muck-soaked tomb, there was only the silence of the dead and the lingering echo of a cough that would never sound again.

Lucky's boots squelched through the mud as he made his way to the aid station, his trademark grin nowhere to be seen. The iodine bottles clinked softly in his pack, a hollow victory after hours of searching abandoned dugouts. The morning mist had given way to a heavy, oppressive heat that made his uniform cling to his skin like a burial shroud.

He pushed aside the canvas flap of the medical tent, then froze. The sight before him drove the air from his lungs as effectively as any gas attack. Harper's body lay on the central stretcher, already taking on the waxy pallor of death. Winters stood near the head of the stretcher, his good eye fixed on some middle distance while Dr. Hayes methodically wrote in his ledger. Morrison leaned against a support pole, uncharacteristically still, his map case forgotten at his feet.

"Fuck," Lucky whispered, the iodine bottles suddenly leaden in his pack. "Christ— fuck. When— when?"

"Just before dawn," Archie replied without looking up. His voice carried the weight of too many similar conversations. "Damage finally took him."

Dr. Hayes' pencil scratched against paper — another name, another date, another cause of death in an endless litany. The sound seemed to fill the tent, drowning out even the distant thunder of artillery.

"Thompson?" Lucky asked, already knowing the answer from the empty spaces around the stretcher.

"McKinley took him to get checked," Morrison supplied, his usual energy subdued. "Haven't seen either of them since morning stand-to."

Lucky set his pack down with exaggerated care, the glass bottles inside suddenly seeming so fragile. The iodine they'd spent hours searching for would do Harper no good now.

The sound of boots on duckboards made them all look up. Ruben appeared in the entrance, his scarred face even more severe than usual. "Thompson's resting," he reported. "Nurse gave him something to help him sleep."

"Good," Archie nodded. "He needs it. We all do." He finally turned from Harper's body, his good eye focusing on Lucky. "Did you find what we needed?"

Lucky gestured at his pack. "Six bottles. Would've been more, but the aid station in sector four took a direct hit. Nothing salvageable." He didn't mention the half-buried bodies they'd found there, or how Williams had retched until he was empty.

Morrison finally stirred from his position by the pole. "I should update the maps," he said, reaching for his forgotten case. "Mark that station as destroyed. Add the new shell holes from last night's barrage." His hands shook slightly as he pulled out his drafting tools.

"Later," Winters commanded softly. "First, we take care of our own."

As if summoned by his words, the burial detail arrived. Four men with hollow eyes and mud-caked spades. They moved with the efficiency of too much practice, wrapping Harper's body in a dirty blanket that had once been army-issue gray.

Lucky turned away as they lifted the bundle. He caught sight of McKinley’s face and was startled to see something crack in the man's usually stoic expression. It was gone in an instant, replaced by the familiar mask of scarred indifference, but Lucky had seen it.

"I'll write to his mother," Archie said into the heavy silence. "He mentioned sisters too."

"Three of them," Morrison confirmed quietly. "He showed me their picture once. Kept it in his breast pocket, wrapped in waxed paper to keep it dry."

Dr. Hayes closed his ledger with a final, decisive movement. "I'll have his personal effects gathered, but there's precious little that isn't contaminated now."

Lucky cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the stifling air. "The photo. It's still there." His scarred fingers reached into Harper's blood-stained jacket, retrieving a small package wrapped in wax paper. The photograph inside was miraculously untouched, protected from the horrors that had claimed its owner.

Three young women smiled up from the sepia print, their faces frozen in a moment of peace that seemed to belong to another world entirely. Their dark hair and high cheekbones matched Harper's, making their relation unmistakable. On the back, in careful script: "To our dearest brother Harper. Come home safe. Love, Belle, Elizabeth, and Jane."

Winters took the photograph with reverent care, studying the faces of women who didn't yet know they were sisters to a ghost. "I'll send this with the letter," he said quietly. "They should have something untainted to remember him by."

The distant rumble of artillery grew closer, the ground trembling beneath their feet. The war wouldn't pause for their grief, wouldn't grant them more than these few precious moments to mourn. Already, new casualties were being carried into the aid station, their groans mixing with the eternal symphony of explosions and machine gun fire.

"Back to it then," Lucky muttered, shouldering his pack. The iodine bottles clinked together, a reminder that the living still needed tending. "Taylor's probably wondering where I've got to."

Morrison gathered his map case, fingers still trembling slightly. "I'll mark the new positions before the light fails. We can't afford another miscalculation like last week."

One by one they filtered out of the tent, each man carrying a piece of Harper's death with him, adding it to the weight that bent their shoulders and haunted their dreams. Only the Corporal remained, vacant eyes fixed on the empty stretcher where the boy had lain.

"He was humming, just yesterday," Ruben said suddenly. "Some tune. Said his sisters used to sing it."

Dr. Hayes paused in his preparation of fresh bandages. "I remember. Some Yankee song — ‘For Me And My Gal’, s’ppose."

"I'm goin' to build a little home for two,” McKinley quoted, the words twisted by his scarred lip, "for three or four or more." 

Without another word, he ducked out of the tent, leaving the ghost of Harper's last song hanging in the air behind him.

Outside, the land waited, hungry for more young men with photographs in their pockets and families who would soon receive carefully worded letters.

Chapter Text

The night wrapped around the forward trench like a burial shroud, the darkness so complete it seemed to swallow even the ember-glow of cigarettes. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was actual silence — no whistling shells, no staccato of machine gun fire, no screams of the dying or the wounded. Both sides had bled too much, lost too many men to nameless mud and rusted wire. The replacements couldn't come fast enough to fill the gaps in their lines, and the Germans, too, must have felt the weight of their losses.

Ruben stood at his usual post, his scarred face turned toward No Man's Land, though there was nothing to see but impenetrable darkness. His rifle rested against the trench wall, within easy reach but, for once, not clutched in his perpetually ready hands. The night air carried the familiar cocktail of decay — rotting sandbags, stagnant water, and the ever-present sweetish stench of decomposing flesh — but even these seemed muted, as if death itself had called a temporary cease-fire.

Winters found him there, as he knew he would. Archie's boots made soft sucking sounds in the mud as he approached, but the Corporal didn't turn. There was no need — after so long in the trenches, they could identify each other by footsteps alone.

Without a word, the Lieutenant produced a pack of cigarettes, drawing two out. The scratch of the match seemed obscenely loud in the unnatural quiet, its brief flare illuminating their faces in harsh relief — Ruben's twisted scar tissue, Archie's clouded eye, both men's hollow cheeks, scars and sunken eyes mapping the geography of their shared exhaustion.

They smoked in their silence, the kind that could only exist between men who had seen too much together to need words. The smoke curled upward, lost in the darkness that pressed down on them.

"Strange quiet," Archie finally said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it seemed to carry for miles in the stillness.

"Won't last," Ruben mumbled.

"No," he agreed, taking another long drag. "But just for tonight."

The Corporal shifted his weight, boots squelching in the perpetual muck. "Lost Williams today. Didn't even make it to the aid station."

"I know." Winters’ good eye fixed on the darkness beyond the parapet. "Morrison's marking the maps. Hayes’ handling the paperwork."

Yet another name to add to their growing list of dead. The quiet hung between them, heavy as the mud that caked their uniforms. They'd both seen the boy's body, torn apart by shrapnel, his fresh-faced youth transformed into something unrecognizable. Hadn't even learned his first name.

Above, the stars remained hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, denying them even that small reminder of a world beyond the trenches. Somewhere in the murk, a rat scurried through the maze of duckboards and timber supports, its passage marking time in a night that seemed endless.

They stood together in shared silence, two scarred sentinels in a war that had already taken too much, waiting for the quiet to break — because it would break, as surely as dawn would come.

Chapter Text

Lucky's fingers trembled as he counted iodine bottles in the dim light of the medical tent, the glass clinking softly against one another. The sound seemed obscenely cheerful against the backdrop of muted groans and wet, rattling breaths from the occupied cots. Dr. Hayes worked methodically at his desk nearby, the scratch of his pencil marking another death, another letter home, another folder to be filed away in the growing archive of loss.

The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sickly-sweet smell of gangrene, underlaid by the ever-present stench of unwashed bodies and festering wounds. The medic’s nostrils had long since grown numb to it, just as his ears had adjusted to the constant percussion of distant artillery.

"Seventeen bottles," Lucky reported, his voice rough from the endless cigarettes they all used to mask the smell. "Won't last the week if they shells us again like they did sector four."

Hayes grunted, not looking up from his paperwork. The man’s hands were stained with iodine and blood, permanent brown-red crescents beneath his fingernails that no amount of scrubbing could remove. "Thompson's wound is showing signs of infection," he said finally. "The lad shouldn't have survived that belly wound in the first place. Now..." He trailed off, letting the implications hang in the air between them.

The Corporal’s hands stilled on the bottles. "Christ," he muttered. "First Harper, then Williams — now Thompson?" He thought of the photograph they'd found, those smiling sisters who would never see their brother again. "Morrison's barely holding it together, mapping shell holes like it'll somehow make sense of all this. And Winters—"

"Winters’ seen worse," Hayes interrupted, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark circles that seemed permanently etched into his skin. "We all have. Remember Passchendaele? The mud so deep it swallowed men whole. Artillery makin’ lakes of blood and tomtit — had to ball and chalk through it to reach the wounded."

"Hard to forget," he said quietly. "Lost my whole first aid kit in that mud, I did. Had to use shirt strips for bandages, dirty water to clean wounds. Most the blokes we saved died of infection anyway."

A wet cough from one of the cots drew Hayes' attention. He rose with a grunt, joints cracking like rifle shots in the relative quiet. "Speak of the devil," he muttered, moving toward the sound. Lucky followed, carrying fresh bandages and one of their precious bottles of iodine.

The soldier on the cot couldn't have been more than his twenties. His face was waxy with fever, uniform dark with sweat and other fluids. When Hayes pulled back the blanket, the stench that rose made the Corporal’s eyes water. The man’s leg wound had gone bad, the flesh around it mottled black and green, streaks of infection crawling upward like evil fingers.

"Saw three like this yesterday," Hayes said clinically as he cut away the old bandages. The sound of wet fabric peeling from corrupted flesh made the Corporal’s stomach turn, despite his years of experience. "Two the day before. Runnin’ out of morphine almost as quick as iodine."

Lucky held the boy down as Hayes worked, trying not to look at the way pus and blood mixed with the iodine, trying not to hear the whimpers that escaped even through the morphine haze. "Like Passchendaele, it is," he repeated grimly. "Only this time we've gots supplies. Just not enough. Never enough."

When they finished, Hayes didn't bother writing in his ledger. They both knew the man wouldn't last the night. Another name to add to tomorrow's list, another letter to write, another set of parents who would receive a carefully sanitized version of their son's final moments.

"Remember what you said to me, that night after we lost half the regiment at Ypres?" Lucky asked suddenly, washing his hands in a basin of water that was already tinged pink. "About how the worst part wasn't the dyin’, but the livin’?"

Hayes nodded slowly, his face a mask of exhaustion and remembered horror. "Still true," he said. "The dead don't have to remember. Don't have to smell it, taste it, dream about it. Don't have to write letters home, clean maggots out of living flesh, or hear men cryin’ for their mums while their guts spill out into the mud."

A shell burst somewhere in the distance, the sound almost comforting in its familiarity. The tent's canvas walls shuddered, sending dust and debris floating down onto the rows of wounded. Neither man flinched — they'd long since learned to tell the difference between danger-close and merely close.

"Morrison says the Fritz are running low on men," Lucky offered, though they both knew how little such reports meant. "Reckons the war can't last much longer."

Hayes barked out a laugh that held no humor. "They've been saying that since '14, mate. Meanwhile, I keep countin’ bodies, you keep bringing me supplies we don't have enough of, and men like that—" he gestured to the dying soldier "—keep arriving quicker than we can patch ‘em up — or bury ‘em, for the record."

The rest of their grim work was done in silence, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the eternal artillery fire. When Lucky finally left the medical tent, the sky was beginning to lighten with false dawn. He paused outside, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands, and tried not to think about how many more bodies they would count before the real dawn came.

Above him, the first hints of stars were fading, their cold light offering no comfort to the men in muddy trenches below. The war ground on, hungry and eternal, caring nothing for their dwindling supplies or their growing lists of dead.

Chapter Text

Lucky found Morrison in his usual spot, hunched over maps spread across a makeshift table of ammunition crates. The dim light of a guttering candle cast grotesque shadows across the walls of the dugout, making the man’s gaunt face look even more skeletal than usual. Red pins dotted the maps like droplets of blood, each one marking where another soldier had fallen.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the musty smell of damp paper. Morrison's hands trembled slightly as he placed another pin, marking Williams' final resting place in the churned earth of No Man's. His movements were mechanical, rehearsed through countless repetitions.

"Keepings count?" Lucky asked, though he already knew the answer. Morrison was always meticulous with his records, as if somehow documenting every death would give it meaning, would transform the senseless slaughter into something comprehensible.

"Two hundred an’ seventeen," Morrison replied without looking up, his voice hollow. "That's just this sector. This month." His finger traced a line of pins. "Used to know all their names. Now they blur together. Faces, too — am a pure nick.”

Lucky lit a cigarette, offered one to Morrison who took it with fingers stained with ink and graphite. "Hayes says you haven't been sleeping."

A bitter laugh escaped Morrison's throat. "Sleep? With ‘em watching?" He gestured vaguely at the maps. "They're always there, Lucky. Every time I close my eyes. Williams. Jenkins. Harper. All of ‘em. Ma heid’s mince.”

There was a long pause, broken only by the distant thump of artillery and the scratch of Morrison's pencil as he made another notation. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

"Sometimes I envy McKinley, y’know."

Lucky's head snapped up, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. "What?"

"Ruben," Morrison continued, still not meeting the Corporal’s eyes. "He doesn't... feel it. Not like we do. The weight of it all."

"Jesus Christ, Morrison." Lucky's voice was sharp with shock and something close to anger. "You can't be serious, you. Ruben's not... Don't talk about ‘im like he's changed. He’s always been that way. Those dead eyes since the day he arrived."

Morrison finally looked up, his eyes fever-bright in his exhausted face. "At least he's found a way to survive."

"Survive?" Lucky spat the word like a curse. "That's not survival. He's a walking corpse. A marble statue wearing a uniform. Christ, even Winters is more human, and he's mad most days — at least he still feels summit. Ruben…" He trailed off, shaking his head. “Born hollow. Was never truly here.”

"I know I sound harsh," he continued after a moment, voice softer but no less intense. "But we can't pretend we don't sees it. The way he watches us when we talk about home, about life before. Like he's studying us. Like a child learning shapes, colours, the simplest of shite, the fuckin’ basics — yet never quite understanding. Have you seen his fuckin’ eyes? There's nothing there. Nothing."

Morrison's hands had stilled on the maps, red pins forgotten. "Maybe that's the price some men pay to keep goin’. To keep functioning when everythin’ else..." He gestured at the sea of pins before him.

"No," Lucky said firmly. "No, that's not surviving — that's surrendering. Becoming summit else entirely." He stubbed out his cigarette with more force than necessary.

"I've watched ‘im," he continued, voice dropping lower. "In the medical tent, with the wounded. No reaction. No emotion. Not because he's learned to shut it off, but because there was never anything there to begin with. Like a child's doll with painted-on eye, mimickings what it thinks a person should be.”

The candlelight flickered, casting strange patterns across Morrison's map of death. Outside, the irregular percussion of shellfire continued its eternal rhythm. Somewhere in the darkness, rats scurried through the maze of trenches, growing fat on the endless bounty of war.

"He never sang, y’know," Lucky said quietly. "That's what I remember most. Every man here, no matter how broken, has some song from home they whisper in the dark. Not Ruben. Never a word, never a tune. Just silence and those empty eyes. Staring out at No Man's like he's waitin’ for summit. But he's not waiting. He's just... standing. Like he always has. Like he always will."

Morrison's fingers traced the line of pins again, each one representing a life snuffed out in mud and blood and barbed wire. "Maybe that's what scares you most about ‘im," he said softly. "Not that he's something inhuman, but that maybe that is what humanity looks like when you strip everything else away. When you reduce yin to their most basic function: survival at any cost."

The Corporal had no answer to that. The thought was too terrible to contemplate. Instead, he watched as Morrison returned to his grim task, placing pins and making notes, documenting the war's insatiable appetite for young lives. The candlelight continued to flicker, casting shadows that seemed to dance across the walls like the ghosts of all the men they'd lost, even if they weren’t quite buried yet.

Chapter Text

Lucky stalked through the trenches, his boots squelching in the eternal muck that seemed to seep up from hell itself. The conversation with Morrison had left him raw, exposed, like a nerve stripped bare by shrapnel. The endless drone of artillery fire matched the pounding in his skull, each explosion sending tremors through the wooden supports that held their world together.

He rounded a corner and there he was — Corporal Ruben McKinley, standing straight-backed and proper, rifle held with mechanical precision. Those dead eyes stared out across No Man's Land, reflecting nothing, absorbing everything like black holes in his mutilated face.

Something in Lucky snapped.

"You enjoy your little show of standing guard, Ruben?" His voice came out low, dangerous. The trench was empty save for them — most men were either sleeping or manning the forward positions. "Playing at being a soldier like a good little puppet?"

Ruben's eyes flickered toward him, then back to the wasteland beyond. No other response. Not even a twitch of that mangled lip.

"What's wrong, Corporal?" Lucky's voice dripped with resentment. "Y’too busy pretending to be human to actually speak? Or maybe you're just calculating the proper response, like some of that fancy machinery they've got up in London?"

He paced in front of Ruben like a caged animal, calloused hands balling into fists at his sides.

"LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKIN’ TO YOU!" Lucky grabbed Ruben's shoulder, spinning him around. The motion was rough, violent, but Ruben simply allowed himself to be moved, like a store mannequin being repositioned. His rifle stayed perfectly positioned against his shoulder.

"I've watched you, y’know. We all have. Standing ‘ere day after day, night after night, like some kind of... machine. Never singing. Never talking about home. Never showing a lick of feeling when we carry the dead pasts you. Are you even in there? Is there anything behind those eyes?"

Still nothing. Just that empty stare, now directed at Lucky's chest rather than his face. The lack of response made his blood boil hotter.

"REACT!" He slammed his palm against the trench wall beside Ruben's head, sending a shower of mud and splinters cascading down. "SHOW SOMETHING! ANYTHING! Fear, anger, confusion — PROVE YOU’RE FUCKIN’ HUMAN!"

His hands found Ruben's collar, bunching the filthy fabric. "What turned you into this... this thing? This— mockery of a man?"

The man’s only response was to blink slowly, like a lizard regarding its prey. His rifle remained perfectly positioned, even as Lucky shook him.

"ANSWER ME!" He roared, slamming Ruben against the wall hard enough to make the timber supports creak. "What are you? What kind of creature wears a man's face but can't EVEN—"

"You're hurting me."

The words were so soft Lucky almost missed them. They emerged from Ruben's damaged mouth like wisps of smoke, barely disturbing the air. His tone was flat, dry — not a complaint or a plea, just a statement of truth.

He released him as if scalded, stumbling backward in the narrow trench. Ruben remained against the wall where he'd been pushed, rifle still held precisely, eyes now fixed on some middle distance.

Without another word, Lucky turned and fled toward his dugout, his heart hammering against his ribs. Behind him, he heard the soft sound of a body sliding down the trench wall, followed by rapid, uneven breathing — the first real sign of distress he'd ever heard from Ruben McKinley.

But he didn't look back. He couldn't bear to see if those eyes had finally shown something human, or if they remained as empty as the shell-pocked wasteland above.

Chapter Text

Hayes wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve already stained brown with dried blood, his tired eyes fixed on the mess of torn flesh and exposed viscera that had once been Private Thompson's abdomen. The medical tent reeked of iodoform, blood, and human waste — a nauseating symphony that never quite left his nostrils, even in his dreams.

"Easy now, son," he murmured, cleaning around the wound with practiced efficiency. "Morphine's doin’ its work. Just stay with me."

Thompson's eyes were glazed, pupils contracted to pinpricks, a dreamy smile playing across his boyish features.

"Y'know what, Doc?" Thompson's words slurred together, drifting on a morphine cloud. "There's this girl back home — Josie. Chemist’s daughter. Has these eyes like... like summer sky, y'know? Not this sky." He gestured vaguely upward, toward the canvas tent. "Proper sky. Clean sky."

Hayes grunted in acknowledgment, his hands steady as he began the delicate work of removing shell fragments from the boy's abdomen. Each piece clinked softly into the metal pan beside him, joining a growing collection of brass-colored death.

"She gave me a handkerchief before I left. Embroidered it herself." Thompson's laugh turned into a wet cough. "Said she'd wait for me. Imagine that, Doc? Waiting for me. Me!"

"Dad said I was mad to sign up, but I told him — told him I'd be in the history books. 'Young Hero Returns Triumphant,' that sort of thing."

Hayes paused his work, studying the boy's face. So many of them came with the same dreams, the same delusions of glory. The recruitment posters never showed this — the reality of lying in your own waste, praying the morphine would last just a little longer.

"My mates — Thomas and Brooks — they signed up with me. Should've seen us, Doc. Three village heroes, we thought." Thompson's voice grew quieter, more distant. "Got separated at processing. Wonder where they ended up. Better than this, maybe. Has to be better than this..."

The doctor's fingers probed deeper into the wound, searching for fragments hidden beneath layers of damaged tissue. The boy barely flinched — testament to both the morphine's effectiveness and the severity of his condition.

"Mum didn't want me to go. Cried something awful when I left. Dad just stood there, all stiff-like. Wouldn't even look at me." Thompson's eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the tent's canvas ceiling. "Should've listened to them, shouldn't I, Doc? Instead of... instead of this. All this mud and blood and... and..."

Hayes reached for fresh gauze, his sleeves now soaked to the elbows in Thompson's blood. The wound was bad — the kind that made his stomach clench with the certainty of what was coming. He'd seen too many like it, watched too many young men fade away while clutching photos of sweethearts who would never see them again.

"Tell me more about Josie," he said softly, continuing his work. It was all he could offer now — a gentle death, wrapped in memories of summer skies and a girl with a handkerchief, waiting at home.

Thompson smiled again, his face ashen beneath the dirt and blood. "She has these freckles, right across her nose. Like stars, sort of. And when she laughs..."

His words trailed off into a wet cough, blood speckling his lips. Hayes quickly wiped it away, his touch gentle as a mother's. The morphine was doing its work now, pulling Thompson deeper into its merciful embrace.

"She... she loves violets. Plants them in window boxes. Said she'd... said she'd have them blooming when I came home." Thompson's voice grew fainter, his eyes becoming unfocused. "Can you smell them, Doc? The violets?"

Hayes swallowed hard, his hands still mechanically working even as his heart ached. "Yes, lad. They're beautiful."

"Good... that's good..." Thompson's fingers twitched against the bloodstained blanket. "Good…"

His voice faded to a whisper, then silence.

Hayes stood motionless for a long moment, watching the last breath leave the boy's body.

With practiced movements, he began cleaning his instruments, the metal clinking softly in the oppressive quiet of the medical tent. Outside, he could hear the distant rumble of artillery — the war machine grinding on.

He pulled Thompson's dog tag from his neck, adding it to the growing collection in his pocket. Later, he would write the letter — another carefully crafted lie about a peaceful death, about courage and honor and sacrifice.

With trembling hands, Hayes pulled the thin, army-issue sheet over Thompson's face. The boy became just another shrouded form amongst dozens — indistinguishable now from the others who lay in neat rows, stripped of names, of dreams, of violets in window boxes. Death had a way of making them all the same in the end.

He meant to straighten up, to move on to the next casualty, the next letter, the next lie about glory and sacrifice. But his legs betrayed him. Hayes found himself crumpling, falling forward until his forehead pressed against Thompson's sheet-covered chest. The fabric was still warm — God help him, still warm — and something inside him finally broke.

The sobs came violent, tearing through his chest like shrapnel. His fingers clutched at the sheet, twisting the fabric as he alternated between cursing God and begging Him for mercy. All those carefully constructed walls, the professional distance he'd cultivated like armor, crumbled in an instant.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, though whether to Thompson, to God, or to himself, he couldn't say. "I'm so sorry."

Every boy he couldn't save, every letter he'd written, every lie he'd told about peaceful deaths and heroic last words — it all came pouring out in harsh, ugly sounds that he barely recognized as his own. He'd promised himself he wouldn't do this, wouldn't break, wouldn't let grief catch him during his duties. There would be time later, he'd told himself. Always later. Always tomorrow.

But tomorrow had run out, buried under an endless parade of broken bodies with sweethearts at home. His tears soaked through Thompson's sheet, mixing with the blood that had already stained it. Somewhere in the distance, guns thundered on, calling for more bodies, more letters, more lies.

He remained there, bent over Thompson's body, until his sobs quieted to ragged breaths. Until the sheet grew cold beneath his forehead. Until the guns outside grew louder, promising more work, more death, more weight to carry.

Chapter Text

The acrid stench of vomit mingled with the already nauseating miasma of the trenches as Morrison heaved into a rusted bucket for the third time that hour. His knuckles were white against the metal rim, shoulders trembling with each wracking convulsion. The sound echoed off the muddy walls, drawing unwanted attention from the few men still conscious enough to care.

Archie shot Morrison glance, good eye glinting in the dim light. The tension in the air was palpable, thick as the mud that sucked at their boots. Every man was a powder keg waiting for a spark, nerves frayed to breaking point by weeks of constant shelling, endless death, and the crushing weight of their own mortality.

Ruben stood apart from the others, methodically cleaning his rifle, but those who knew him well enough to see the subtle signs of distress — the too-rigid set of his shoulders, the mechanical precision of his movements that spoke of barely contained anxiety.

A shell whistled overhead, distant enough not to cause immediate panic but close enough to make Morrison's retching intensify. The sound of his sickness was punctuated by mumbled prayers and half-formed apologies to a God who had long since abandoned them.

"Where's Lucky?" Hayes ventured, his voice barely above a whisper. The question hung in the air like poison gas, making everyone shift uncomfortably. No one had seen him since last night.

Ruben's hands stilled on his rifle for just a fraction of a second, a pause so brief that only Archie noticed it. The scar tissue around his mouth seemed to tighten, pulling his permanent grimace into something even more grotesque.

The walls of the trench oozed black slime, a mixture of mud and decomposed matter that no one cared to identify anymore. A rat, bold as brass, scurried across Morrison's boot as he finally straightened up, wiping his mouth with a filthy sleeve.

"Can't take much more," he croaked, his voice raw and breaking. "Can't... can't..."

"Shut it," Winters spoke for the first time since they gathered, his tone carrying the weight of command despite its softness. "Just shut it."

The silence that followed was broken only by the distant thump of artillery and Morrison's ragged breathing. Archie watched as Ruben resumed his methodical cleaning, noting how his gloved fingers trembled ever so slightly against the metal.

A young private whose name no one had bothered to learn yet — they stopped learning names after the third replacement wave — stumbled past, his boots squelching in something that might have once been human. He carried a stack of letters, already spotted with mud and blood, their contents full of lies about glory and honor that none of them believed anymore.

The tension coiled tighter with each passing moment, a spring wound to breaking point. They all knew it was only a matter of time before someone snapped — before the pressure of death and fear and betrayal became too much to bear. The only question was who would break first, and who would be caught in the blast radius when they did.

Morrison retched again, this time producing nothing but bile and broken sobs.

Chapter Text

The screech of an incoming shell shattered the pre-dawn quiet, followed by the familiar percussion of explosion that sent tremors through the wooden supports. Lucky emerged from his dugout like a demon crawling from hell, eyes wild and bloodshot, uniform stained with mud and worse. His gaze fixed on Ruben's position with predatory intensity.

The Corporal stood at his usual post, seemingly oblivious to Lucky's approach. But there was tension in his shoulders, a slight adjustment of his stance that suggested awareness of the coming storm.

"Oi! McKinley!" Lucky's voice carried the raw edge of sleep deprivation and bottled rage. "Still playin’ soldier, are we?"

Ruben remained motionless, eyes fixed on the wasteland beyond the parapet. His scarred face caught the grey light of dawn, making the mangled flesh around his mouth appear almost black against his pale skin.

Lucky closed the distance in three mud-splashing strides, grabbing Ruben's shoulder and spinning him around. "Look at me when I'm talkin’ to you, y’empty-eyed BASTARD!"

Ruben moved then, attempting to create distance with a firm but measured push. "Stand down, mate."

The measured response only seemed to fuel Lucky's rage. He lunged forward, hands finding purchase on Ruben's collar. The impact sent them both stumbling into the trench wall, dislodging chunks of rotting timber and sending a cascade of fetid mud down their backs.

"Stand down?" Lucky's laugh was a broken thing, more sob than sound. "That's all you've got? Your mates dying around you, Williams' guts painting the ground not twenty feet from where you stand, and all you can say is 'stand down'?"

Ruben tried to disengage, his movements still controlled, still measured — which only served to drive Lucky further into his frenzy. The man’s fist connected with Ruben's jaw, snapping his head back against the trench wall with a dull thud.

Blood trickled from McKinley’s already-mangled mouth, but his expression remained unchanged. He raised his hands, palms out, a gesture of pacification that came too late.

Lucky's next blow caught him in the ribs, followed by another to his throat. The impact was savage, fueled by weeks of pent-up grief and rage. Ruben doubled over, his carefully maintained composure cracking as he struggled to draw breath.

But Lucky wasn't finished. His boot found Ruben's knee, driving it sideways with a wet crack that echoed through the trench. Then, with the force of all his accumulated contempt, he drove his fist into Ruben's face, targeting the existing scar tissue with cruel precision.

The sound that erupted from Ruben's throat was unlike anything they'd ever heard from him — a raw, animalistic shriek of agony that seemed to tear itself from his throat.

The scream echoed through the trenches, causing heads to turn and conversations to die mid-word. Even the rats seemed to pause in their eternal scavenging.

Ruben collapsed to his knees in the muck, hands clutching his chest as blood poured from his nose. His body convulsed with heavy breaths that seemed to tear themselves from his chest, each one more violent than the last.

Lucky stood over him, chest heaving, his own eyes wide with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. The sound of boots splashing through mud announced the arrival of others — Hayes with his medical kit, Morrison looking green around the gills, and Archie.

But Lucky could only stare at Ruben's crumpled form, at the blood mixing with the eternal mud of the trenches, at the tremors that wracked his body. In breaking Ruben, he'd broken something in himself as well — some final barrier between sanity and the madness that lurked in the shadows of their war-torn world.

Winters seized Lucky by his muddy collar, fingers digging into the fabric. With a rough jerk, he dragged the struggling Corporal toward a nearby dugout, their boots slipping in the eternal muck of the trenches. Lucky's protests were cut short as the man roughly shoved him through the timber-framed entrance, sending him sprawling onto the damp earth floor. Lucky scrambled backward until his spine hit the dugout wall, sending a shower of dirt cascading down his neck.

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?" The Lieutenant’s voice rose to a roar as he seized the man by the throat, slamming him against the trench wall. The impact sent a shower of mud and rotting splinters cascading down their uniforms. "When Morrison got pinned, who dragged him out? When I lost my mind and climbed out into No Man's, who went after me? WHO!?"

"He's not human," he spat, but his voice wavered with uncertainty. "You've seen ‘im, standing there like some... some..." Lucky's face was turning purple, his hands clawed weaklessly at Archie's iron fingers.

"Like what?" Winters advanced, good eye blazing with revulsion. "Like what? Aye?"

He released Lucky with a violent shove, watching him slide down the trench wall, eyes wide with shock and something else — fear. 

Good. He should be afraid. The rage was still there, simmering just beneath Archie's skin, begging for release. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, itching to continue what he'd started.

The dugout fell silent save for their ragged breathing and the distant crump of artillery. Somewhere above, rats scurried through the wooden supports, their tiny claws scratching a nervous rhythm into the timber.

"He's not like us," Lucky whispered, voice hoarse from the choking. "Haven't you noticed? The way he watches. The way he stands guard all night, without tirin’. The way he—"

"ENOUGH!" Archie roared, a wildness creeping into his gaze. He could feel something dangerous unfurling inside him, something he'd kept desperately contained since... 

The dugout seemed to darken at the edges, shadows stretching toward him like grasping fingers.

Lucky pressed himself harder against the wall, as if trying to melt into it. "Winters, listen—"

But Archie couldn’t listen, even if he wanted. There was a buzzing in his ears, growing louder, drowning out Lucky's words. The damp walls of the dugout began to pulse and breathe, the timber supports creaking like living things. And there, just at the corner of his vision — something moved. Someone watched.

He whipped his head around, good eye straining to catch whatever lurked in his peripheral vision. But it was gone, sliding away just before he could focus on it. His head throbbed suddenly, a sharp pain lancing through his skull from the empty socket of his ruined eye.

"Lieutenant?" Lucky's voice sounded incoherent now, foreign.

Winters pressed the heel of his palm against his good eye, feeling the familiar panic rising. Not here. Not now. He couldn't afford to lose himself, not when he needed to maintain control. If he slipped, if he let them in...

He could almost feel cold fingers on the back of his neck, breath against his ear. The whispers started, as they always did, just below the threshold of understanding. Urging him toward violence. Toward release.

Archie took a shuddering breath, forcing himself to focus on something tangible — the mud beneath his boots, the weight of his sidearm at his hip, the smell of damp earth and unwashed bodies. Grounding himself in the physical world before he could slip away completely.

"Winters?" Lucky's voice broke through, tinged with new concern. "Y’alright?"

"M'fine," the Lieutenant managed, voice steadier than he felt. The shadows retreated, the whispering faded. For now. "And you're confined until we decide what to do with you."

The corporal opened his mouth to protest, but something in Archie's expression made him think better of it. The Lieutenant turned away, needing to escape the confines of the dugout before the walls closed in on him completely.

"I'll assign someone to bring you rations," he said over his shoulder, not trusting himself to look at Lucky again.

He stepped out into the trench, gulping the fetid air like it was mountain freshness. His hands were still trembling, and he shoved them deep into his pockets where no one would notice. He needed to check on McKinley, needed to make sure the situation was contained before rumors spread and morale deteriorated further.

But first, he needed a moment. Just one moment to gather the fragments of himself that had nearly scattered to the wind. To push back against the presence that lingered always at the edge of his consciousness, waiting for a moment of weakness to exploit.

Archie leaned against the trench wall, closing his eyes briefly. The darkness behind his eyelids was a relief, a momentary respite from the horror that surrounded him. He drew several deep breaths, each one bringing him closer to the surface, to control.

When he opened his eye again, the world had stopped pulsing. The whispers had receded to their usual distant murmur. He was himself again — or as close to himself as he ever got these days.

With renewed purpose, he pushed away from the wall and headed toward where Hayes was tending to Ruben. One crisis averted. Now for the next.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of Lucky's assault settled over the trench like a toxic fog. Ruben sat propped against the duckboard wall, his breathing labored but steadying. Hayes worked methodically, checking his ribs with practiced hands made steady by too much experience. The morning light filtering through the mist cast everything in a sickly grey pallor, making the blood on Ruben's face appear almost black.

Morrison lurked nearby, nervously chewing his thumbnail raw. His earlier sickness forgotten in the wake of the violence, though his face still held that greenish tinge that never quite seemed to leave him these days. He watched as Hayes pressed careful fingers against Ruben's throat, prompting a sharp intake of breath.

"Nothing's broken," Hayes muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Bruising's gonna be hell though." He pulled a grimy rag from his kit, dabbing at the fresh blood that mixed with the old around McKinley’s mutilated mouth. "Breathing'll be rough for a few days. Any dizziness?"

Ruben shook his head slightly, then immediately regretted the movement. His hand unconsciously moved to his throat, where Lucky's strike had left an angry red welt already darkening to purple. The perpetual tremor in his fingers was more pronounced now, though he tried to hide it by gripping his knee.

A rat scuttled past with something wet and red dangling from its jaws. No one had the energy to shoo it away anymore. The creature disappeared into a hole in the trench wall, where strips of rotting sandbags hung like diseased flesh, leaking their contents into the eternal mud below.

Winters emerged from the dugout where he'd dragged Lucky, his uniform splattered with fresh mud and what might have been blood, movements controlled as he made his way to where Ruben sat. The others gave him a wide berth, recognizing the barely contained violence in his bearing.

"Report," he demanded, crouching down to Ruben's level. His good eye scrutinized every detail of Hayes' handiwork, while his clouded one reflected the wan morning light like a dead thing.

"He's fine," Hayes responded, packing away his meager medical supplies. "Throat's bruised but intact. Ribs are probably just bruised too. Should watch for internal bleeding. Knee's twisted but not broken." He hesitated, glancing at Ruben's face. "The... previous damage... it's been aggravated. Might need proper medical attention if infection sets in."

"Can you stand?" Archie asked, his voice softer now but still carrying that edge of contained fury. When Ruben nodded, he and Hayes helped him to his feet, careful of his injured knee. The movement caused a fresh trickle of blood to wind its way down Ruben's chin, disappearing into the collar of his filthy uniform.

The young private who delivered mail scurried past again, pressing himself against the opposite wall to avoid their group. His eyes were wide as he took in Ruben's condition, no doubt already formulating the gossip that would spread through the trenches faster than trench foot.

"What about Lucky?" Morrison finally ventured, immediately shrinking back when Archie's gaze snapped to him.

"Corporal James," Winters corrected with deadly precision, "has been relieved of duty pending investigation. He's under guard in the auxiliary dugout." His hand rested meaningfully on his sidearm. "Anyone who feels like paying him a visit will answer to me personally."

The threat hung in the air like mustard gas, making everyone shift uncomfortably. Even the constant background noise of the war seemed to dim for a moment, as if the very battlefield held its breath.

Ruben finally broke the silence, his voice rough but steady. "I need to check the forward position." The words came out wet and thick, blood still seeping from his reopened facial wound.

"Like fuckin’ hell you do—" Hayes started, but Ruben was already moving, using the trench wall for support.

Archie’s hand shot out, catching the Corporal’s sleeve before he could take another step. "No." The word carried the weight of an order, brooking no argument. "Morrison can handle the forward position." He jerked his chin at the other man, who scrambled to attention. "Go."

Morrison disappeared around the corner of the trench, splashing through puddles in his haste to comply. The Lieutenant’s grip remained firm on Ruben's arm, though his touch was careful to avoid the fresh injuries.

"You're coming with me," Winters said, his voice softening slightly but maintaining its authority. "And before you start, remember I outrank you." He began steering Ruben toward his personal dugout, supporting him when his injured knee threatened to give way.

The dugout was marginally drier than the trench outside, reinforced with extra timber and lined with the remnants of sandbags. A single candle guttered in its holder, casting dancing shadows across walls covered in maps and official papers.

"Sit," Archie ordered, guiding McKinley onto his cot. "And for once in your life, stay put." He rummaged through a wooden crate, producing a battered tin of medical supplies and a flask.

"Someone needs to—" Ruben began, but Winters cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"Someone will. But it won't be you. Not today." He unstoppered the flask and held it out. "Drink. That's an order, Corporal."

The tremor in Ruben's hands was more pronounced as he accepted the flask, though he tried to disguise it by immediately raising it to his lips. The whiskey made him wince as it hit his injured throat, but he took another swallow before handing it back.

Archie moved closer, setting the flask aside. With practiced efficiency, he unbuckled Ruben's helmet, carefully lifting it away. His gloved fingers probed gently through the Corporal’s matted hair, searching for injuries Hayes might have missed.

Ruben flinched, pulling away from the touch. The leather material of Archie's gloves felt like sandpaper against his sensitized scalp, every nerve ending suddenly raw and oversensitive.

"Easy," Winters murmured, immediately drawing back. Without comment, he tugged his gloves off one by one, tucking them into his belt. "Just me. Just checking."

Ruben's eyes darted toward the dugout entrance, his body tensed as if preparing to bolt despite his injuries. His fingers clenched and unclenched rhythmically against his thigh.

Archie resumed his examination, this time with bare fingers that moved with surprising gentleness through Ruben's matted hair. "Been thinkin’ about Yorkshire lately," he said conversationally, as if they weren't crouched in a muddy hole while artillery boomed in the distance. "That cottage I mentioned. The one with the stone walls older than both of us put together."

Ruben remained rigid, but his breathing slowed marginally as Winters continued.

"The roof needs work, mind you. Probably let in water summit terrible during storms. But the view..." Archie's fingers found a small cut at the Corporal's temple, cleaning it carefully with a cloth dampened from his canteen. "Miles of green, rolling right up to the horizon. You can see the sunrise over Pen-y-ghent from the bedroom window. In spring, the meadows fill with wildflowers — blues and yellows that'd put an artist's palette to shame."

"Nothin’ but clean air and quiet. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears at first, because you've forgotten what peace sounds like." 

"Sometimes, when it's clear, you can hear the sheep bells from the next valley over. Like church bells, but gentler. And at night... stars like you wouldn't believe. No shell bursts, no flares. Just stars.”

Gradually, the wildness began to fade from Ruben's eyes as Archie kept talking, his voice steady and unhurried.

"Could keep chickens, like Mary, you know. Noisy little bastards, but fresh eggs every morning." He paused, carefully dabbing at the reopened wound on Ruben's face. "What do you think about chickens, McKinley? Reckon you could stomach wakin’ up to their racket instead of artillery fire?"

The question hung in the air between them, the Lieutenant's hands now resting lightly on Ruben's shoulders, no longer examining but simply steadying.

"Mm." Ruben finally managed, voice rough. "Cats, though. Good for rats."

Archie's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Cats and chickens, then. And a vegetable garden, perhaps. Summit practical." He reached for the flask again, offering it once more. "The cottage has land. Not much, but enough. What would you plant, if you could grow anythin’?"

The trembling in Ruben's hands had subsided somewhat as he accepted the flask, though his movements remained cautious, measured. The cornered-animal look was fading, replaced by something more contemplative, if still wary.

"Potatoes," he said after a moment's consideration. "Reliable. Hard to kill."

Archie nodded, as if this were the most reasonable answer in the world. "Potatoes it is. And some herbs by the kitchen window. Practical things." He continued talking about the cottage, about the creek that ran behind it, about the old oak tree that provided shade in summer…

A potent silence descended, broken only by the distant thud of artillery. The Lieutenant's words about Yorkshire hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

"Lucky—" McKinley began, the name barely formed on his bloodied lips before Archie's expression hardened like cement.

"No." The word cut through the air with the finality of a rifle shot. Winters' face transformed, warmth evaporating as if it had never existed. His mismatched eyes fixed on Ruben with uncomfortable intensity. "That topic is closed."

Ruben's mouth closed, the half-formed defense dying on his tongue. Blood continued to seep from his facial wound, a fresh crimson streak finding its path down his chin.

"As I was sayin’," Archie continued, his voice deliberately even, "the western field catches the last light of day. Perfect for growing those potatoes of yours." He resumed cleaning Ruben's wounds with mechanical precision, his movements now clinical rather than gentle. "We kept sheep there, but I reckon crops would do just as well."

Ruben's eyes had drifted toward the dugout entrance again, his attention clearly elsewhere despite the Lieutenant's continued monologue. The tremor returned to his hands, more pronounced now as he gripped the edge of the cot.

"There's a stone wall that needs mending on the south side," Archie pressed on, seemingly oblivious to Ruben's withdrawal. "Good, honest work. The kind that leaves your hands sore but your mind quiet."

"That's half the point though, yeah? Summit to do with our hands that doesn't involve…" He paused, assessing the dressing he'd applied to Ruben's facial wound. "You'd be good at it. Patient with the details."

But the Corporal wasn't listening anymore, not really. He was present in body but miles away in mind. Perhaps back in the trench, or forward to the next shell, the next assault, the next horror that awaited them all.

Archie noticed, of course. The Lieutenant missed very little. But he kept talking anyway, his voice a lifeline thrown into deep water, whether McKinley chose to grasp it or not.

"In autumn, the hills turn copper and gold. Makes you believe in God again, seeing colors like that after all this..." he gestured vaguely to encompass their surroundings, their situation, the entire godforsaken war. "Like the world washin’ itself clean."

Chapter Text

The days following Lucky's breakdown stretched like barbed wire, taut with tension. The military police had come for him in the early hours, their boots squelching through the mud that never seemed to dry. They found him curled in the corner of the auxiliary dugout, muttering about shadows that moved against the laws of nature and eyes that watched from the crater-pocked land.

Winters stood in the rain as they led the corporal away, his face unreadable beneath the brim of his officer's cap. The madman's hands were bound, but not with the rough treatment usually reserved for those who attacked their own. Instead, there was an almost gentle efficiency to their movements, as if they'd done this a hundred times before. Perhaps they had.

The trench walls wept black water, rivulets carving paths through the clay like tears down a filthy face. Ruben watched from the firing step, the newly-formed bruises throbbing in time with his pulse. The morning light caught the brass buttons on Lucky's uniform as he stumbled past — they'd cleaned him up somewhat, though nothing could erase the wildness in his eyes.

"They're taking him to Craiglockhart," Archie explained later to Hayes. "It's a hospital, up in Edinburgh. They treat..." He paused, searching for the right words. "They treat the ones whose minds have been broken by all this."

The hospital's name had been whispered in the trenches before — a place where they sent the officers who'd lost their grip on sanity, who jumped at shadows and screamed in their sleep. Some called it a mercy. Others, a weakness.

"Better than what they used to do," Dr Hayes remarked, his voice barely audible over the distant crackle of rifle fire. "Remember Cooper? The lad from the 15th? They shot him for cowardice. Turns out he'd been shell-shocked so bad he couldn't tell up from down."

The night brought its usual orchestra of horrors — the whine of shells, the rattle of machine guns, the muffled screams of the dying. But new sounds had joined the chorus: the soft weeping from Morrison's dugout, the whispered prayers of men who'd seen one of their own crack like a shell casing under too much pressure.

Ruben found himself in Winters’ dugout again, watching the Lieutenant pen his report by candlelight. The official account would be clinical, stripped of the human terror that had driven Lucky to snap.

The candle guttered, sending shadows dancing across the dugout's timber walls.

"They say the doctors at Craiglockhart try to understand," Archie murmured, setting his pen aside. "Try to help them find their way back. It's not like the other places, where they just..." He trailed off, but Ruben knew what he meant. Where they just waited for the men to either recover or die.

The night wore on, marked by flares that turned the sky to brief, artificial day. In the auxiliary dugout where Lucky had been held, someone had scratched a single word into the timber wall: "Peace." Whether it was a prayer or a bitter joke, no one could say.

Come morning, the war would continue its grinding march. Men would die, shells would fall, and the trenches would claim more souls for their muddy depths — and, somewhere to the north, in a hospital built of stone and hope, doctors prepared to wage a different kind of war — not against the enemy across no man's land, but against the demons that haunted their patients' minds. It wasn't much, perhaps. But in a world gone mad with violence, it was something. A small light in the darkness. A chance at salvation.

For Corporal “Lucky” James, and for all of them.

Chapter Text

The reinforcements arrived on a drizzly Tuesday morning, their fresh uniforms standing out against the mud-caked veterans like clean bandages on gangrenous wounds. Winters watched them file into the communication trench, counting heads — fifteen men total, a mix of fresh-faced boys who'd never seen combat and weathered soldiers transferred from other units.

Among them was Lieutenant Henry Blackwood, formerly of the 8th Battalion. The transfer papers had arrived yesterday, marking him as Archie's new second-in-command. Behind him trudged Sergeant Major William "Bull" Durham, a broad man whose reputation for both ferocity and fairness had preceded him.

Dr. Hayes emerged from his aid station, wiping bloody hands on his already-stained apron. "Fresh meat for the grinder," he muttered, only loud enough for Ruben to hear. The Corporal's mutilated lip twitched at the comment.

The new arrivals' expressions changed as they moved deeper into the trench system — disgust, horror, and resignation playing across their features as they encountered the full sensory assault of their new home. The walls weren't just mud anymore; they were a geological record of suffering, layers of blood, excrement, and decomposing flesh compressed into the earth. Even the wooden duckboards beneath their feet were slick with a film of organic matter best left unexamined.

Morrison, still haunted by Lucky's breakdown, had been tasked with showing the newcomers to their dugouts. His hands shook as he pointed out the various features — the latrine trenches that never seemed to drain, the spots where the Jerry snipers had the best angles, the places where the parapet was weakest and most likely to collapse during the next heavy rain.

One of the fresh-faced privates — barely over twenty — emptied his stomach when they passed the decomposing leg protruding from the trench wall. No one knew who it had belonged to anymore. They'd tried to dig it out once, only to discover it disappeared deeper into the earth, connected to God-knows-what horror buried in the clay.

"Keep movin'," Bull growled, his Brummie accent thick with authority. "You'll see worse before this war's done."

Lieutenant Blackwood fell into step beside Archie as they reached the command dugout. "Lieutenant Winters," he acknowledged, voice carrying the clipped tones of education. "I read the report about Corporal James. Nasty business."

Archie's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "War's a nasty business."

In the gathering dusk, McKinley watched the new men settle in, their movements awkward in the confined space of the dugouts. Some were already learning the essential skills of trench warfare — how to sleep sitting up, how to eat around the taste of cordite that permeated everything, how to ignore the rats that grew bold in the darkness.

Private Thomas "Tommy" Fletcher, one of the transfers from the 10th, was regaling his new companions with stories that walked the line between dark humor and horror. 

"...and that's when we realized the 'sandbag' was actually Corporal Mitchell's lower half. Poor bastard had been blown in half by a shell, and in the dark, someone had just..." He mimed stacking something. The story was met with nervous laughter that quickly died as a burst of machine-gun fire rattled across No Man's.

Dr. Hayes moved among them, his medical eye assessing each man. He paused longest at Private David Cohen, whose hands hadn't stopped trembling since arrival. "See me tomorrow, lad," he murmured to the young soldier. "I've got summit that might help with the shakes."

As night fell properly, the trenches transformed into their nocturnal state. Phosphorus flares turned the sky into brief moments of artificial day, casting everything in a sickly white light that made even the living look like corpses. The new men would learn quickly that darkness brought its own terrors — German raiding parties, the cold that seemed to seep into your very bones, and the constant, maddening uncertainty of what lurked in the shadows between the flares.

Winters found Ruben at his usual post, rifle ready, eyes scanning the churned earth of No Man's Land. They stood in comfortable silence, sharing the familiar ritual of a cigarette passed between them. In the distance, someone began to sing softly — one of the new men, by the sound of it. The melody drifted through the trenches, a gentle counterpoint to the percussion of artillery.

"They'll learn," Ruben mumbled, his scarred face ghostly in the ambient light of a distant explosion.

Archie nodded. They'd learn about the things that didn't appear in training manuals — how to wake a man from a nightmare without getting stabbed, how to tell when someone was about to break like Lucky had, how to hold onto their humanity when the world seemed determined to strip it away.

The night wore on, marked by the usual symphony of war. Tomorrow would bring its own horrors, its own tests of courage and sanity. But for now, in the quiet moments between shells, life in the trenches continued its grotesque parade, with fifteen new players added to its cast of muddy, blood-stained performers.

Chapter Text

The sun beat down mercilessly on the trench system, turning the usual stench into something almost visible — a miasma that clung to uniforms and crawled down throats. Lieutenant Winters stood next to the Corporal at his usual post, handkerchief pressed to his nose, watching the new recruits adjust to their hellish home.

Private Cohen had finally stopped shaking, thanks to whatever concoction Dr. Hayes had given him, but his eyes still darted nervously at every whistle of distant shellfire. Beside him, Tommy Fletcher continued his macabre storytelling, his Lancashire accent growing thicker with each tale of horror and dark humor.

"There was this one time," Tommy was saying, pausing to spit a glob of tobacco-stained saliva into the mud, "we found a Jerry helmet half-buried in the wall. Patterson — good lad, didn't make it past Ypres — he goes to yank it out, thinking it'd make a nice souvenir. Turns out the helmet was still attached to its owner." He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. "Poor bastard had been buried alive when the trench collapsed. Face was all..." He made a squishing gesture with his hands.

Sergeant Major Bull's massive shadow fell across the group. "That's enough ghost stories, Fletcher. Make yourself useful and help reinforce this section of the parapet. It's weeping like a widow."

The newest arrival, Private Michael Walsh, was already proving himself handy with repairs. His nimble fingers, trained by years of carpentry work, moved efficiently as he wove wooden supports through the muddy walls. Each post he placed was a small victory against the ever-present threat of collapse.

McKinley watched them from his usual post, his mutilated face partially hidden in shadow. The new men still stared when they thought he wasn't looking — at the grotesque split in his lip, at the jagged scar across his nose.

"Quite the menagerie we've got now," Archie remarked quietly. "Walsh’s got good hands. Might make it if he learns to keep his head down. The Cohen boy..." He trailed off. 

"Reminds me of Harper," Ruben hummed.

A sudden burst of machine-gun fire sent the fresh-faced recruits ducking for cover — everyone except Lance Corporal Ian "Hawk" Hawthorne, who merely glanced up with mild interest before returning to his letter writing. The former ranch hand had an almost supernatural ability to tell which bullets were close enough to worry about.

The day wore on, marked by the usual rhythms of trench warfare. Sergeant Morrison led a burial detail, removing yet another body that had surfaced in the last rainfall. The corpse's uniform had rotted away to nearly nothing, leaving only brass buttons and bones held together by leather straps and spite.

"That's what waits for all of us," Private Walter Reed muttered, his Oxford education evident in every cultured syllable. "Bones in the mud, buttons for some future archaeologist to puzzle over."

Bull cuffed him lightly across the back of the head. "Less philosophizing, more digging. Death'll come when it comes. No sense invitin’ it early."

As evening approached, the trench took on its nighttime character. The new men learned quickly about the importance of light discipline, about the way shadows moved differently here than in the civilian world. They learned that every sound had meaning — the difference between an incoming shell and outgoing, between a rat in the walls and a German wire-cutting party.

In the medical dugout, Dr. Hayes was teaching Violet Lewis — a young, volunteering nurse — the brutal art of trench surgery. "Sometimes," he explained, hands deep in a soldier's shattered leg, "keeping them alive means making hard choices. Better to lose a limb than die of gangrene." The wound pulsed darkly, spilling black blood over their hands.

Lieutenant Blackwood proved to be a competent officer, if somewhat rigid in his adherence to regulations. "The men need structure," he explained to Winters over a tin of bully beef. "Something familiar to cling to when everything else goes to hell." His aristocratic accent seemed out of place among the mud and gore, but there was steel beneath his refined exterior.

As night fell properly, the trench transformed into its nocturnal state. Phosphorus flares cast their ghostly light over No Man's Land, turning the cratered landscape into something alien and terrible. Private Cohen finally succumbed to exhaustion, his prayers trailing off into uneasy sleep.

Somewhere in the darkness, Tommy Fletcher was teaching Walsh the tricks of trench survival — how to keep your socks dry, how to catch rats for extra protein when supplies ran low, how to sleep standing up without falling into the mud. Their whispered conversation drifted through the dugout, punctuated by distant explosions.

"The trick is," Tommy was saying, "you've got to remember that everything here wants to kill you. The mud, the rats, the weather, the Jerries — it's all trying to put you in the ground. Accept that, and it gets easier."

Ruben and Archie shared their nightly cigarette, watching the new men settle into their grim routine. The trench had claimed them now, would change them as it changed everyone. Some would break, some would die, some would survive to carry the mud and memories home with them.

Chapter Text

Dawn crept over the trenches like a diseased hand, painting everything in sickly shades of gray and brown. Private Walsh worked methodically, his carpenter's hands weaving new support beams into a deteriorating section of trench wall. Each wooden beam disappeared into the viscous mud that seemed to digest everything it touched — wood, flesh, bone, and hope alike.

Nearby, Cohen knelt in the muck, emptying his stomach for the third time that morning. The acrid smell of bile mixed with the perpetual stench of decay, drawing the attention of the ever-present rats.

Lieutenant Blackwood stalked the firing line, his aristocratic bearing incongruous against the primitive squalor surrounding him. "Keep your heads down," he barked at a group of new recruits who were peering too eagerly over the parapet. "The Germans don't need the target practice."

Hawk Hawthorne sat cross-legged in a relatively dry corner, cleaning his rifle with methodical precision. His face betrayed nothing as another shell screamed overhead, detonating somewhere behind their lines. "Seven-seven," he muttered. "Getting closer."

Tommy Fletcher's dark humor provided a constant commentary to their misery. "Found summit interesting in the wall earlier," he announced, gesturing to a spot where something that might have once been a boot protruded from the mud. "Reckon it's been there since Verdun. Still has the foot in it, if anyone's looking for a souvenir."

In the aid station, Nurse Lewis worked alongside Dr. Hayes, her white apron stained with much less browns and reds than the Hayes’.

"This one's going septic," he muttered, probing at a wound that oozed dark fluid. "We'll need to take the arm."

"But he's so young," Lewis protested, her hands steady despite her objection as she prepared the instruments. "Surely there's something else we can try?"

The doctor shook his head, lines deepening around his eyes. "Youth won't save him from gangrene, Miss Lewis. I've seen too many good lads die trying to save limbs that were already lost. Better one arm than a life."

"The morphine supply is low," she said quietly, checking their stores. "We have enough for maybe three more major procedures."

"Then we'll have to make do. War doesn't wait for supply trains." He paused, studying her face. "Here, we make impossible choices every hour. Can you handle that, Miss Lewis?"

Violet straightened her spine, chin lifting. "I've already handled worse, sir."

A flash of skepticism crossed Hayes's weathered features. "Well then, you know what we're up against." He gestured to the instruments. "Shall we begin?"

"The patient has a name," she reminded him softly. "Private Miller. From Yorkshire."

"Names make it harder," Hayes warned, but his voice had softened. "Though I suppose that's why we need nurses like you. To remember."

Together, they bent to their grim task, whispered medical terminology mixing with the distant thunder of artillery.

Reed, the Oxford man, had taken to recording everything in a small notebook, his elegant handwriting describing horrors in clinical detail. "Fascinating, really," he mused to no one in particular. "How quickly civilization strips away when you're neck-deep in Other People's decomposition."

As midday approached, the heat turned the trench into a pressure cooker of putrefaction. Flies swarmed in thick clouds around anything organic, which was nearly everything. Private Walsh paused in his endless task of reinforcement to wipe sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of black mud across his face.

"Keep at it, lad," Bull encouraged. "Rather have splinters in my hands than Jerry in my trench."

Archie found Ruben at his usual post as evening approached. They shared their ritual cigarette in silence, watching as the trench prepared for another night of uncertainty.

In the gathering darkness, Tommy Fletcher's voice could be heard spinning another of his terrible tales, this one about a soldier who'd been buried alive and found three weeks later, his fingernails worn to bloody stumps from trying to dig his way out. The new men listened with horrified fascination, each wondering if that fate awaited them in the days to come.

Chapter Text

The afternoon brought an unexpected respite from the constant shelling, and with it came the mundane yet vital task of distributing new socks among the men. In the relative quiet, broken only by distant rifle fire and the occasional thud of shells falling somewhere down the line, Lieutenant Blackwood revealed himself to be unexpectedly adept at quartermaster duties.

"Wool's decent enough," he remarked, examining a pair with aristocratic scrutiny. "Better than those bloody paper ones they sent last winter."

The distribution point had been set up in a wider section of the support trench, where the walls were shored up with extra timber and the duckboards had been recently replaced. Still, the omnipresent stench of decay and human waste hung in the air, mixing with the musty smell of damp wool and unwashed bodies.

Bull Durham stood nearby, his massive frame casting a shadow over the crate of supplies. His thick fingers, incongruously gentle, sorted through sizes while maintaining a running commentary in his distinctive burr. "Right then, Fletcher, these'll do for your dainty feet. Cohen, you're next. Let's see those blisters the doc mentioned."

Private Cohen limped forward, his perpetually trembling hands now steadier thanks to whatever concoction Dr. Hayes had provided. The young soldier's boots, when removed, revealed feet that were a roadmap of trench life — blisters, fungal patches, and the beginning stages of trench foot that plagued them all.

"Christ, lad," Bull muttered, the gruffness in his voice masking concern. "Get yourself to the aid station after this. Hayes' got some powder that might help, if you catch it early enough."

Ruben observed from his position near the dugout entrance, mutilated face half-hidden in shadow. The scene before him was almost domestic, if one could ignore the crack of rifles or the way Morrison flinched at each distant explosion. New socks — such a simple thing, yet in the trenches, dry feet could mean the difference between life and death.

Winters appeared beside him, carrying a steaming mug of what passed for tea here — a murky brown liquid that tasted of tin and boiled mud. "Quite the operation they've got going," he commented, passing the mug to Ruben. "Blackwood's got a head for organization, I'll give him that."

The pair watched as Tommy Fletcher regaled his audience with another of his stories, this one about a messenger dog that had somehow survived a direct hit from a German shell, only to deliver its message to the wrong trench. His hands gestured animatedly, spattering droplets of the ever-present mud that caked everything and everyone.

"Three days," the Corporal mumbled through his mangled lip, nodding toward the new arrivals. "Three days of quiet, and they're starting to forget where they are."

"They won't have that luxury for long," Archie replied, his eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. "Jerry's been too quiet lately. Summit's coming."

Ruben grunted in agreement, handing the mug back to the Lieutenant. Through the mangled remains of his lip, he muttered, "Bull knows it too. Watch how he keeps checking the wire."

They stood in contemplative silence, watching the new Sergeant Major as he finished distributing socks, his movements efficient but his attention repeatedly drawn to the tangled barrier of barbed wire that separated them from No Man's Land. Each time he looked up, his weathered face grew more tense.

A shell screamed overhead, landing with a thunderous crash somewhere beyond their section. Cohen dropped his new socks in the mud, his face draining of color. Bull's hand came down on his shoulder, steady and reassuring.

"Pick those up, lad," the Sergeant Major ordered, his voice deliberately calm. "Good wool's not to be wasted, Jerry or no Jerry."

The mundane ritual continued, this small attempt at normalcy in a world gone mad. Private Fletcher had moved on to a story about his aunt's prize-winning pigeons, though his audience was notably more subdued now. Lieutenant Blackwood's aristocratic efficiency never wavered, checking names off his list with precise movements of his pencil.

Chapter Text

Dr. Hayes hunched over the makeshift operating table — a door torn from its hinges and balanced on sawhorses — demonstrating the proper technique for sterilizing instruments in their limited conditions. The weak afternoon light filtered through the dugout's entrance, catching motes of dust and debris that danced through the fetid air.

"Three times through the flame," he instructed Nurse Lewis. "Then alcohol, if we've got it. If not, boiling water will have to do. And always, always check the instruments for mud. Shite gets everywhere, and it breeds infection like nothing else."

Violet nodded, her face set in concentration as she mimicked his movements. Her hands were steady, belying her youth — something that hadn't escaped Hayes's notice.

"You can't be more than twenty-five," he remarked, watching her work. "Yet you handle the gore better than men twice your age."

Violet's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile as she arranged clean bandages. "The men out there," she deflected smoothly, gesturing toward the trench beyond their dugout, "they're the ones who truly deserve our attention. Speaking of which, how is Captain Harrison's shoulder healing?"

Hayes allowed the redirect, recognizing the professional distance in her tone. "Alright. Clean wound. Unlike most of what we see..." He paused, sorting through a box of morphine ampules, counting their dwindling supply. "The infection is usually worse than the initial injury. Mud and flesh aren't meant to mix."

"Do you ever get attached?" Violet asked suddenly, her hands busy with organizing surgical tools. "To the patients, I mean. It must be difficult, seeing the same faces, watching them return again and again..."

Hayes's weathered features softened slightly. "There was Lucky — before the shell shock took him. Used to help me organize supplies, even if he drove me bloody mad with his constant whistlin'. Always the same tune, never on key." He demonstrated a few notes of 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary,' then caught himself with a grimace.

Something flickered across Violet's face, but it was gone before Hayes could properly register it. The moment was interrupted by heavy footsteps at the dugout's entrance.

"Doc!" Morrison's voice carried urgency. "Need you topside. Fletcher's caught some shrapnel, bleeding bad."

Hayes was already moving, grabbing his kit with practiced efficiency. He paused only briefly at the entrance, glancing back at Violet. "Remember — three times through the flame. The mud is always trying to kill 'em. We're just trying to buy them time."

Left alone in the dugout, Violet continued her work, but her hands trembled slightly as she passed the forceps through the flame. Three times, just as he'd shown her. The sound of boots on wooden duckboards overhead mixed with distant shellfire, creating the perpetual percussion of their underground existence.

A rat scurried along the dugout's wall, its fat body a testament to the ample food supply the trenches provided. Violet didn't flinch. She'd learned quickly that disgust was a luxury they couldn't afford down here, where everything was tainted by the omnipresent mud and decay.

The knowledge that each instrument she sterilized would soon be slick with blood — would soon be fighting against the trench's perpetual attempt to infect and destroy — kept her movements precise and methodical. The men above needed every advantage they could get against the septic hell that awaited them.

Chapter Text

The night stretched endlessly before them, each minute marked by distant explosions that made the dugout's timbers groan. Neither man could focus clearly, though the warmth of contraband whiskey had loosened their limbs and tongues. The candle had burned low, its flame casting grotesque shadows that danced across walls stained with mud and worse things.

Winters shifted on his makeshift seat — a crate that still bore fragments of labels from some distant English factory — and pulled out his tobacco tin. His gloved hands, clumsy from the drink despite attempts to keep steady, worked methodically to roll a cigarette. The familiar ritual seemed to ground him, though his eyes, slightly glazed, never left Ruben's slumped form on the cot.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I got lost in the woods?" he asked, voice carrying the slight slur of whiskey. The words emerged through a cloud of tobacco smoke that briefly masked the ever-present stench of decomposition that seeped through the dugout's walls. "Must've been, oh, seven or eight. My uncle had taken me grouse hunting — even if I was too young to handle a gun properly."

Another shell burst somewhere to the north, closer this time. Both men flinched, but Archie continued, his Yorkshire accent growing thicker with each sip from his flask. "There's these limestone formations there, great bloody things risin' up out of the earth like giant's teeth. Easy to lose your bearings, especially when the fog rolls in — and roll in it did."

"I wandered for hours — I was convinced I'd never see home again. Ended up finding shelter in one of the old lime kilns — structures older than the Bible, some say. Sat there listenin' to the wind howling through the trees, imagining all sorts of creatures lurking in the mist."

"My uncle found me just before sunset, guided by our old sheepdog — Copper, y'know. I'd never seen him so relieved — nor angry, once the relief wore off." He managed a loose chuckle, taking another swig. "Couldn't sit properly for a week after that. But he took me back the next day, showed me how to read the land properly. How to spot the markers in the limestone, use the sun for direction."

The dugout's air grew thicker as the night deepened, heavy with moisture, the metallic tang of blood, and the sweet burn of whiskey. Somewhere in the darkness, water dripped steadily, a constant reminder of the mud that threatened to swallow them all.

"We'll go there," the Lieutenant said suddenly, his voice warm with liquor and conviction. "I'll show you every cave and crevice, every hidden valley. Teach you how to read the weather in the way the sheep gather, how to spot the best fishing holes in the beck. No more trenches, no more shells. Just limestone and heather and sky stretching forever."

Ruben found himself leaning into the warmth of Archie's words and the shared whiskey, letting them paint pictures across his buzzing mind.

Winters' eyes softened, a lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He paused briefly, taking another drag from his cigarette and offering the flask. "There's an old peach tree in what used to be the garden, of the cottage — gnarled but still bearing fruit. Makes the whole place smell like heaven come autumn."

"The locals think it's haunted," he continued, a playful tone creeping into his slurred voice. "Say they've seen lights in the windows on stormy nights. But it's just the sunset catching the glass, making it look like there's fires burning inside. Though I suppose we could start our own ghost stories, aye?"

Another explosion rocked the dugout, closer this time. "The kitchen needs the most work," he pressed on, words flowing easier with each sip. "But there's this great stone fireplace that'll keep us warm through anythin’ Yorkshire winters can throw at us. We can fix it up proper, maybe add one of those fancy iron ranges my sister's always goin' on about."

"Yorkshire winters," the Corporal murmured, his voice thick with liquor. "They must be brutal."

"Nothing we can't handle," Archie replied with drunken confidence. "Besides, that's what the fireplace is for. And proper wool blankets — none of these army-issue rags. Mary’s got a chest full of 'em, made by my grandmother, God rest her soul. Thick as armor, soft as clouds."

The familiar horror of the trenches seemed to recede slightly, pushed back by the Lieutenant's rambling descriptions and the warm glow of whiskey that made a future feel simultaneously impossible and inevitable.

"There's a stream that runs past the property," he continued, his voice taking on that loose, dreamy quality that came with drink. "Clear as crystal, cold enough to numb your hands even in summer. But the sound of it..." He paused, searching for words through the haze. "It's like music, but better. Like summit that could wash all this away."

McKinley closed his eyes, letting himself be carried along by the other's words and the pleasant buzz. The constant ache in his scarred face seemed to dim slightly, replaced by phantom sensations of cool mountain air and gentle rain.

"We could keep chickens. Like your sister," he found himself saying, words slightly slurred. "Fresh eggs every mornin'."

Archie's flushed face lit up at the suggestion. "Aye, and maybe a few goats. Contrary beasts, but good milk for cheese. My mum used to make this soft cheese with herbs from our garden — rosemary and thyme. Haven't tasted anythin' like it since."

The candle sputtered, casting wild shadows across the dugout walls. Neither man paid them any mind. They were lost in a shared vision, enhanced by whiskey, of limestone walls and morning mist, of garden herbs and gentle animal sounds replacing the endless percussion of artillery.

"We'll need a dog," Ruben said softly, then tensed as if regretting the words.

"Only if you want one."

"A farm needs a dog," McKinley insisted, though his voice wavered slightly.

"A farm needs what we say it needs," Winters countered with drunken firmness. "We could get a cat instead — better for the mice anyway. One of those big ginger toms, lazy as sin, who'll do nothing but sleep in sunbeams all day."

The tension in the man's shoulders eased slightly. "Sounds more manageable."

"And quieter," Archie added with a tipsy smile. "Though knowing our luck, we'll end up with the most talkative cat in Yorkshire. Probably try to wake us at dawn for breakfast."

"Still better than reveille," Ruben slurred.

Chapter Text

The setting sun painted the trench walls in shades of amber and crimson, a deceptively beautiful light that did nothing to mask the ever-present stench of death and decay. Nurse Violet Lewis made her way through the maze-like passages, her boots squelching in the perpetual mud that seemed to seep into everything. The day's duties were done — at least until the next bombardment — and her medical bag felt heavier than usual against her hip.

That's when she heard it: the faint, tinny sound of music drifting from one of the dugouts. Not the usual melancholic drone of a harmonica or the rough singing of soldiers, but something altogether different. Something that didn't belong in this hell of mud and blood.

Following the sound, she found herself outside a dugout she rarely visited. Through the rough-hewn entrance, she could make out the distinctive form of Sergeant Morrison, his broad shoulders hunched over something on a makeshift table. The music grew clearer — a slow, romantic melody that seemed to push back against the perpetual gloom.

Morrison must have sensed her presence, for he turned, his weather-beaten face breaking into a warm smile. "Miss Violet," he greeted her, his Scottish brogue thick, almost solemn. "Care to join me? The Trench Decca's workin’ a treat tonight."

Violet hesitated, her fingers unconsciously tightening on her medical bag. The dugout walls glistened with the same black slime that coated everything in the trenches. 

"I shouldn't..." she started, but Morrison was already clearing a space on the rough wooden crate that served as a chair.

"Ach, come now. Even Florence Nightingale must've taken a break now and then." His smile turned wistful as he adjusted the small gramophone. "Lucky and I used to dae this every night we could. Just sit and listen, pretendin’ we were somewhere else entirely."

The mention of Lucky made Violet's heart clench.

Perhaps it was that which made her step inside, settling onto the crate Morrison had cleared. The music filled the small space, somehow making it feel both larger and more intimate at the same time. A love song, she realized, though the words were partially lost in the scratch and hiss of the recording.

"This was his favorite," Morrison said softly, his calloused fingers gentle on the gramophone's crank. "Said it reminded him of his first dance." He paused, listening to the melody. "Never told ‘im, but I didn't have anyone to remember dancin’ with. Never learned how, if I'm being honest."

The confession hung in the air between them, vulnerable. Then, as a new song began — something slower, sweeter — he stood and held out his hand.

"Would you do me the honor, Miss Violet? Might as well learn now, eh? Tomorrow we could all be dead anyway."

Violet looked at his offered hand, noting the dirt under his nails, the small cuts and scrapes that marked his knuckles. Her own hands weren't much better — stained with iodine and bearing the rough, red patches that came from constant washing in harsh soap.

"I'm not much of a dancer myself," she admitted, but took his hand anyway.

They moved awkwardly at first, their boots catching on the uneven floor, their bodies unsure of how to navigate this strange intimacy. Morrison stepped on her toes twice, apologizing profusely each time, his face flushed beneath its coating of grime. But gradually, they found a rhythm, swaying gently to the music that seemed to carve out a small pocket of peace in their war-torn world.

Through the dugout's entrance, Violet could see the stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky. Soon, they would likely be obscured by signal flares or exploding shells. But for now, in this moment, there was just the music, the awkward shuffle of their feet, and the peculiar comfort of being held by someone who understood exactly what it meant to survive another day in this place where survival often felt like a curse.

As the song drew to a close, Morrison's hand tightened slightly on hers. "Thank you," he said quietly, and Violet knew he wasn't just talking about the dance.

"The music helped," Morrison said, his voice rough with emotion as he carefully wound down the gramophone. "Sometimes I think that's what Lucky understood better than most — the importance of holding onto these small moments of... normalcy, s'ppose."

"He was right," Violet replied softly, adjusting her uniform. "We can't let the war take everything." She paused at the dugout's entrance, watching as Morrison reverently packed away the gramophone. "Will you play it again tomorrow?"

"Aye, same time," he nodded, a ghost of a smile crossing his features. "Maybe we can work on your footwork."

"Cheeky," she shot back, but couldn't help returning his smile. "Goodnight, Sergeant."

"Goodnight, Miss Violet. And... thank you, again. Truly."

As Violet made her way through the darkening trenches toward her own dugout, the melody still echoed in her mind, a gentle counterpoint to the distant rumble of artillery. For just a moment, she allowed herself to imagine a world where such evenings weren't stolen moments between horrors, but simply evenings — ordinary, peaceful, unremarkable in their joy.

Chapter Text

Late into the night, Ruben found himself wandering through the labyrinth of reserve trenches, his boots squelching in the perpetual mire. The moon cast an ethereal glow through gaps in the cloud cover, transforming the battlefield into a tableau of twisted metal and splintered wood.

He knew the path well now, could navigate it even in the darkest hours. Past the collapsed dugout where Private Williams had bled out, around the corner where they'd found those unidentifiable remains after the last big push. His feet carried him automatically to that small, sacred place they'd carved out of the chaos — the makeshift cemetery where Jenkins and the German boy, Paul Mueller, lay side by side in the cold earth.

The crude wooden crosses still stood, though they'd begun to rot in the relentless damp. Jenkins' was weathered almost smooth, while Mueller's still bore the careful carving Ruben himself had done — name, date, and age. Just sixteen.

Ruben lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged in the mud like a child. His fingers, calloused and scarred beneath the leather gloves, began tracing patterns in the thick muck — meaningless swirls and shapes that might have been letters once, in a life he could no longer remember. The split in his lip pulled uncomfortably as he frowned, trying for the thousandth time to recall anything before the war, before the trenches, before the endless parade of death and dismemberment.

Nothing. Just a vast emptiness where memories should be, like a photograph bleached white by too much sun. The sight of entrails spilling from shrapnel wounds, the sound of men drowning in their own blood, the endless screaming of shells tearing the sky apart.

His fingers paused in their mindless drawing as he stared at Mueller's grave. The boy would never know what it was like to reach twenty-five, or thirty, or whatever age Ruben was now. In some ways, McKinley envied him that.

The wound in his lip throbbed dully as he sat there, a constant reminder of whatever had stolen him. He'd stopped trying to remember, stopped reaching for those phantom memories that danced just beyond his grasp.

A rat scurried past, its bloated body a testament to the feast of flesh that lay buried in these fields. Ruben watched it dispassionately, noting how its fur was matted with something dark that might have been blood. Everything here was stained with blood, even the rain that fell from the poison sky.

He sat there until his legs went numb, until the cold had seeped through his uniform and into his bones. Still his fingers moved through the mud, drawing patterns like a child might, though his dead-fish eyes held the stare of a man who had seen too much death to ever be truly childlike again. 

Guns began their nightly chorus, yet he barely heard them, lost in contemplation of a boy who would never grow old, and a past he would never remember.

The parallels between them were impossible to ignore. Both trapped in this hellscape, one in death, one in what barely counted as life. Paul Mueller would remain here forever, his young body becoming one with the mud that had claimed so many others. And Ruben, buried somewhere in the same muck that held Paul's corpse.

They shared more than just the trench that had become their prison. Both had been stripped of their futures — Paul by a bullet, Ruben by whatever violence had carved that permanent grimace into his face. The German boy would never age, frozen eternally at seventeen, while Ruben aged without memory, a ghost walking through his own life.

Even their names held a strange symmetry — both marked by careful documentation, Paul's on his crude cross, Ruben's in military records. Two soldiers, two sides of the same worthless coin, both sacrificed.

The mud that held Paul's body was the same mud that filled the Corporal’s boots, that caked his uniform, that seemed to seep into his very soul. It was a living thing, this mud, consuming everything it touched. It had already digested Paul's youth, his dreams, his potential.

Perhaps this was why he kept returning to this makeshift grave. In Paul's eternal rest, he saw a mirror of his own eternal present — both of them lost boys, both of them erased, both of them destined to remain here long after the guns fell silent. One in body, one in spirit.

The thought clawed at him like the rats that fed on the dead — what was he, really, without the war? The perfect soldier, they called him. There was something in his eyes, they said, something empty, something dead. A vacancy that had nothing to do with his missing memories and everything to do with his missing soul.

He was a weapon, nothing more. A rifle made flesh, as cold and unfeeling as the steel he carried. The war hadn't broken him — no, he'd arrived broken, a perfect blank slate ready to be molded into whatever the army needed. Even his scars seemed purposeful, as if he'd been deliberately marked, branded as something other than human.

The prospect of peace terrified him more than any artillery barrage. What purpose could a weapon serve when there was nothing left to kill? What place was there in the world for a man who wasn't really a man at all, but just an assemblage of horror and muscle memory, animated by orders and gunpowder?

His hands tightened on his rifle — the only thing that made sense in his hollow existence. The wood and metal felt more real than his own flesh, more alive than the heart that beat mechanically in his chest. This, at least, had purpose. This, at least, knew what it was for.

Even now, keeping his vigil among the dead, he maintained perfect posture, perfect awareness of his surroundings. A corpse standing guard over corpses, differentiated only by the fact that he could still pull a trigger. The Perfect Soldier. The title felt like a prophecy, a curse, a promise of what he would always be — not because the war had made him so, but because there had never been anything else beneath the uniform.

His fingers moved through the filth with the innocent rhythm of a child's game, drawing spirals and stars as if finger-painting on clean paper. But this was no innocent medium — beneath his childlike tracings lay the decomposing remains of countless men, their bodies slowly dissolving into the primordial soup of the Western Front. The mud held fragments of bone, scraps of uniform, shell casings... Each swooping line his finger carved might pass through what was once someone's son, someone's brother, someone's lover.

Yet there was something perversely comforting in this regression to childhood gestures while sitting beside Mueller's grave. Ruben felt a kinship with him that he couldn't find among the living. The other soldiers, with their stories of home and their dreams of return, were aliens to him. But Paul, frozen forever in his youth, stripped of future and past alike, was a brother of sorts.

His finger paused mid-stroke, hovering over the muck. What patterns had the boy drawn? Did he trace his name in schoolbook margins, doodle in the dust of windowsills? These simple questions about a dead boy's childhood felt more real, more urgent than any attempt to recall his own past. Perhaps that was why he kept returning here — not to honor the dead, but to borrow their memories, to imagine life through the proxy of a corpse.

The moon caught a piece of metal in the mud — a button, perhaps, or a spent casing. It winked at him like a conspiratorial eye, as if sharing some grim joke about this macabre communion between the walking dead and the properly buried. Ruben's fingers, still moving with that terrible childhood innocence, covered it over again.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand from the mud, watching the thick sludge drip between his fingers. The rising sun painted the trenches in sickly hues of orange and red, like infected wounds across the landscape. But for the first time in what felt like ages, Ruben let his mind drift to something beyond this charnel house.

Yorkshire hills rolling endlessly into the distance, waves of green untouched by shell holes or barbed wire. A place where the ground wouldn't be saturated with death, where mud meant nothing more than spring rain on fertile soil.

The warmth of a hearth, Archie had promised. Hands that would touch without violence, that would build instead of destroy. Ruben flexed his fingers, trying to imagine them holding something other than a rifle — the thought felt foreign, like trying to recall a dream through the haze of fever.

The first whistle of morning cut through his reverie — sharp, insistent, a reminder that dawn brought duties. Around him, the trenches began to stir with the sounds of men rousing themselves for another day of survival. Ruben pushed himself to his feet, his joints creaking like rusted hinges, uniform heavy.

He cast one final glance at Mueller's grave. The cruel irony wasn't lost on him — that his only true connection in this war was with a dead Jerry boy. The perfect soldier and the perfect victim, mirror images separated only by the thin line between breathing and not.

His boots made obscene sucking sounds as he walked away, each step carrying him through the viscera-laden mud that had become as familiar as his own skin. The morning mist curled around him like ghostly fingers, and artillery began its daily chorus. Ruben held onto something beyond the immediate horror — the promise of Yorkshire hills, of redemption, showing him the way back to humanity.

Whether he deserved such salvation remained to be seen.

Chapter Text

The morning brought a different kind of chaos to the medical dugout. Private Tommy Fletcher had managed to develop a nasty case of trench foot, his sodden boots practically fused to his blackening toes. Dr. Hayes cursed colorfully as he examined the appendages, the stench of rotting flesh mixing with the perpetual miasma of mud and mildew.

"Should've changed your bloody socks like I told you," Hayes muttered, though his hands were gentle as he worked. "Violet, get me the antiseptic solution, yeah? The strong stuff."

Nurse Lewis complied, her movements precise and economical. She'd learned quickly that efficiency meant survival down here, where every second could mean the difference between life and death. The candlelight caught the silver streaks in Hayes's beard as he worked, making him look older than his forty-five years.

Private David Cohen appeared at the dugout's entrance. "Need any help with the dressings?" he offered. Though not officially part of the medical team, Cohen had proven himself invaluable during busy periods, his now steady hands and calm demeanor a blessing during the worst rushes.

"Grab those bandages," Violet directed, nodding toward a relatively clean shelf. "And see if you can find any dry socks in the supply crate."

The day progressed with its usual parade of miseries. Private Walsh came in with a festering rat bite on his hand, followed by three cases of dysentery. Sergeant Major Bull Durham stopped by to check on the men, his massive frame filling the dugout's entrance as he spoke quietly with each injured soldier, offering words of encouragement in his deep, gravelly voice.

Lieutenant Blackwood made his scheduled appearance, ostensibly to deliver medical supplies but really to share intelligence about expected movements along the line. His aristocratic accent seemed oddly out of place among the mud and gore, but his information was always reliable.

"Keep extra morphine ready," he murmured to Hayes. "Jerry's been moving artillery into position. Could be a rough night."

Lance Corporal "Hawk" Hawthorne sat in the corner, helping Cohen sort through blood-stained bandages that might be salvaged and reused. The two had formed an unlikely friendship, finding common ground in their similar origins.

As evening approached, Sergeant Morrison appeared with his gramophone tucked carefully under one arm. The device had become something of a legend among the men, its music offering brief respites from the hell above. He set it up in the far corner, away from the worst of the damp, and soon the scratchy notes of "Keep the Home Fires Burning" filled the space.

Through it all, Violet moved with practiced efficiency, her once-pristine uniform now permanently stained with the badges of her profession: iodine, blood, and the omnipresent mud. She caught glimpses of Corporal McKinley and Lieutenant Winters passing by the dugout entrance, walking together in their distinct quiet.

Hayes finished cleaning a particularly nasty shrapnel wound on a young private's shoulder, his weathered hands steady despite the exhaustion evident in his face. "Remember when I said St. Thomas's prepared me for anythin’?" he said to Violet, his voice low. "Bloody hell, was I fuckin’ wrong. Never saw anything like this in London."

The night brought its usual symphony of distant explosions and closer screams, but in the medical dugout, Morrison's music played on, and Bull Durham’s deep laugh occasionally rumbled through the space as he shared jokes with the walking wounded. It was, by the standards of their underground world, almost peaceful.

As the doctor and nurse cleaned the last of their surgical tools, she glanced at the gramophone, still softly playing in the corner. "Would you mind if I slipped out for a moment?" she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. "Should return the Trench Decca before it gets too late."

Hayes looked up from the forceps he was sterilizing, a knowing smile hidden beneath his beard. "’Course," he said, his tone carefully neutral despite the warmth in his eyes. He knew as well as anyone that the gramophone was merely an excuse, but there was something endearing about the way she tried to maintain propriety, even here, in this place.

Violet carefully packed up the precious device, wrapping it in the cleanest cloth she could find. She had barely made it halfway to Morrison's dugout when she quite literally bumped into the man himself, nearly dropping his prized possession.

"Careful there, bonnie," Morrison steadied her with gentle hands, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. "I was just coming to fetch that, but..." he paused, glancing over his shoulder with an almost boyish excitement. "I've summit to show you first, if you're willin’?"

Violet hesitated, acutely aware of her duties back at the medical dugout. "I really shouldn't, I..." she began, but Morrison's enthusiasm was infectious.

"It'll only take a moment," he assured her, already reaching for the gramophone. "And I promise, Miss Violet, it's worth your time."

Against her better judgment, Violet found herself nodding. "Lead the way, Sergeant," she said softly, following him into the deepening twilight of the trenches.

Morrison led her through a series of winding communication trenches, their boots squelching in the ever-present mud. The route was unfamiliar to Violet, taking them past several dugouts she rarely had cause to visit. Finally, they emerged into a slightly wider section of trench, where a crude wooden ladder led up to what appeared to be a small observation post.

"After you," Morrison gestured, keeping his voice low. "Mind your heid on the beams."

Violet climbed carefully, mindful of her skirts and the precious gramophone still clutched in her arms. The observation post was little more than a reinforced hole in the trench wall, but as she ducked inside, she immediately understood why Morrison had brought her here.

Through a narrow slit in the sandbags, the sunset painted the sky in breathtaking shades of purple and gold. The clouds seemed to catch fire, their edges rimmed with brilliant orange that gradually faded to deep crimson. For a moment, the devastated landscape below was transformed, the shell holes and tangles of barbed wire softened by the ethereal light.

"Sometimes," Morrison whispered, settling beside her, "when the light hits just right like this, you can almost forget where we are." He carefully took the gramophone and began setting it up. "Lucky showed me this spot. Said it was good for the soul to remember that beauty still exists, even here."

As the first notes of music drifted up from the gramophone, Violet found herself blinking back unexpected tears. The melody seemed to merge with the sunset, creating something almost painfully beautiful in its incongruity with their surroundings.

"I know it's daft," Morrison continued, his voice rough with emotion, "but sometimes I imagine that the music carries across No Man's. That maybe some Fritzie lad in their trenches hears it too, and for just a moment, we're all just people again, watchin’ the same sunset, listenin’ to the same song."

Violet's hand found his in the growing darkness, squeezing gently. "Oh, no, Sergeant," she whispered. " It's not daft at all."

They sat in comfortable silence as the sun slowly disappeared and the first stars began to peek through the darkening sky. The music played on, a gentle waltz now, and Morrison turned to her with a crooked smile.

"Another dance lesson?" he offered, helping her to her feet in the cramped space. "Though I do warn you, my footwork hasn't improved much since last time."

As they swayed together in the tight confines of the observation post, Violet couldn't help but marvel at the strange intimacy of their situation. Here they were, surrounded by death and destruction, yet finding moments of genuine connection, of almost-joy.

A distant explosion somewhere along the line made them both start, the spell broken. Reality came rushing back as the first star shells of the night began to illuminate the battlefield below.

"We should head back," Violet said reluctantly, already gathering up the gramophone. "Dr. Hayes will be wondering where I've got to."

"Aye," Morrison agreed, helping her secure the precious machine. "But... same time tomorrow? Weather permittin’, of course."

Violet smiled in the darkness. "Weather permitting," she echoed, knowing full well that neither rain nor shells would likely keep her away.

They made their way back through the trenches, the night's artillery barrage beginning in earnest — yet, Violet found herself humming softly, the waltz still playing in her mind.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely risen when Violet made her way through the maze of trenches, dodging soldiers and carefully stepping over duckboards slick with morning dew and substances she preferred not to contemplate. The medical dugout beckoned, its entrance marked by a weathered Red Cross flag that had long since faded to a muddy pink.

Inside, Dr. Hayes was already at work, his experienced hands methodically arranging supplies for the day ahead. The ritual was familiar now — morphine ampules counted and recounted, bandages sorted by size, instruments arranged in precise rows like soldiers at attention.

"You're early again, Lewis," he remarked without looking up, his Cockney accent thick with fatigue. "Though, s'pose there ain't no such thing as 'early' in this shithole, eh?"

A fresh wave of casualties from the night's shelling had left their usually orderly space in disarray. Blood-soaked bandages formed sticky piles in corners, while used instruments waited in murky basins for sterilization. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sweeter, more insidious scent of festering wounds.

"Private Roberts?" Violet asked, already knowing the answer from Hayes's grim expression.

"Lost him just before dawn, didn't we?" the doctor spat, his weathered features tightening. "Infection had already set in when they brought him in. The shrapnel..." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "Reckon this bloody mud claims more lives than the fuckin’ Jerries."

As if to emphasize his point, a rat emerged from a dark corner, its whiskers twitching as it investigated a bloody bandage. Violet shooed it away with practiced indifference. These vermin had become as much a part of their daily routine as changing dressings or administering morphine.

Their morning fell into its usual rhythm — checking on patients, changing bandages, preparing for the inevitable casualties that each new day brought. Through the dugout's entrance, they could hear the distant thunder of artillery, a sound so constant it had become like a heartbeat to their underground world.

Corporal McKinley appeared shortly before noon, his distinctive scarred face immediately drawing Violet's attention. She'd learned to read the stories behind each wound that came through their dugout. The way Lieutenant Winters hovered nearby, ostensibly delivering a report to Hayes but his eyes never leaving McKinley, told another story entirely.

"Bandages need changin’," Hayes told the man, gesturing to a wooden crate that served as their examination table. "Nurse Lewis'll sort you out."

As Violet worked, her gentle hands cleaning the healing wounds on McKinley's face, she noticed how the Corporal's tension eased slightly when Winters moved closer, placing himself between Ruben and the dugout's entrance.

Later, as the day's casualties began arriving — young men with their flesh torn by shrapnel, their lungs burning from gas, their minds shattered by the endless bombardment — Violet found herself working in seamless tandem with Hayes. They had developed an unspoken language, anticipating each other's needs as they fought their endless battle against death and infection.

"The way you handled Private Cooper's amputation," the man commented during a rare, quiet moment, his hands busy with organizing surgical tools, "reminded me of this marvel of a nurse I worked with at St. Thomas's. Same steady hands, same calm presence. The men respond to that, y'know. Gives 'em summit to hold onto when everything else is going to pot."

"I never wanted to be calm," Lewis admitted, passing a forceps through the flame three times, just as the older man had taught her. "I wanted to scream, that first week. Every time they brought someone in, every time I had to..." She trailed off, focusing on the blue heart of the flame.

"But you didn't," Hayes noted, softening his usual gruff tone. "You learned. Like we all did. Though I reckon you had steel in your spine long before you came here."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Morrison, his uniform caked with fresh mud. "Got wounded comin’ in from the north sector," he reported, voice carrying that permanent hoarseness. "Shell blast. Three casualties, one critical."

"Christ, can't catch a fuckin’ break," the doctor muttered, already rolling up his sleeves. As they prepared for the incoming wounded, Violet caught sight of Lieutenant Blackwood helping Private Walter Reed adjust his rifle strap. In that moment, she understood something about survival, about the small mercies that allowed men to endure the unendurable.

The night settled over the trenches like a sodden blanket, bringing with it the peculiar tension that darkness always carried. Somewhere in the distance, a flare illuminated the sky, casting brief, harsh shadows through the dugout's entrance. Hayes and Violet worked by candlelight, their shadows dancing on walls that wept with constant moisture.

This was their war — fought not with rifles and bayonets, but with bandages and morphine, with whispered comfort and steady hands. And as the young nurse passed another instrument through the flame, counting under her breath — one, two, three — she realized that she had found her own way of fighting back against the chaos that reigned above their heads.

Chapter Text

The night was a thick, living thing in the trenches, every sound magnified to grotesque proportions. The distant crump of artillery blended with the occasional rattle of machine gun fire — sporadic bursts that stitched the darkness like a seamstress with palsy. Corporal Ruben McKinley moved with practiced stealth, scarred lip pulled into a permanent half-snarl as he navigated the treacherous ground. Behind him, Lieutenant Archie Winters followed closely, each man instinctively matching the other's pace and posture.

They'd been ordered to inspect the forward positions — a routine patrol made necessary by the persistent rumors of an imminent German raid. The rain had finally ceased, leaving behind a thick, clinging mist that hugged the ground and muffled their footsteps. It was both blessing and curse; the same fog that concealed their movements would do the same for any German patrol that might be slithering through No Man's.

Archie paused at a junction, gloved hand raised in a warning gesture. Ruben immediately halted, his body tensing as he listened. For a moment, nothing but the usual nocturnal orchestra of war reached their ears — the distant groans of wounded men, the scurry of trench rats, the occasional metallic ping of cooling equipment.

Then, unexpectedly, something else — the faint, incongruous notes of music drifting through the mist.

Ruben's glanced back at Winters, one eyebrow raised in silent question. The Lieutenant gave a barely perceptible nod, and they altered their course, moving toward the unexpected sound with the cautious precision of predators.

The music grew clearer as they approached — the Trench Decca, playing something slow and melancholic. The notes seemed almost obscene in their beauty, so utterly at odds with the charnel house reality of the trenches that both men felt a momentary disorientation, as if they'd somehow stumbled into another world entirely.

McKinley rounded a bend in the trench, then froze so suddenly that Winters nearly collided with him. The Corporal's body had gone rigid, his hand instinctively dropping to the knife at his belt. But there was no danger — at least, not the kind they regularly faced.

Ahead, in a small, partially collapsed observation post, two figures swayed together in the faint light of a shuttered lantern. The music came from the battered gramophone set carefully on a shelf carved into the trench wall. Sergeant Morrison — they recognized his frame immediately — had his arms wrapped around a figure in a nurse's uniform. Nurse Lewis, Violet, her dark hair catching the sparse light as she rested her head against the Sergeant's chest.

They were dancing, if the awkward, confined movement could be called that — a desperate mimicry of normalcy in a place where such things had long been forgotten. Morrison was saying something, voice too low to catch, but whatever it was made the nurse laugh — a soft, genuine sound that seemed to hang in the air like a soap bubble, fragile and iridescent against the war's relentless grime.

Ruben and Archie stood, unwilling intruders on a moment of such raw intimacy that it felt almost painful to witness. Like stumbling upon the last two roses growing in a wasteland.

Morrison's hand slid up to cup Violet's face, his thick, mud-stained fingers incongruously gentle against her skin. She leaned into his touch, eyes closing, and when their lips met, it was with a tenderness that seemed almost blasphemous amid the surrounding devastation.

Something shifted in McKinley's stance — a minute adjustment that caused his boot to scrape against the duckboard. The sound was barely audible over the music, but both men instinctively retreated, melting back around the bend before they could be spotted. They moved with swift, silent efficiency, putting twenty yards between themselves and the observation post before finally pausing.

In the narrow confines of the communication trench, they stood facing each other, both slightly breathless, though not from the short distance covered. Ruben’s scarred face was unreadable in the darkness, but the Lieutenant could sense the same strange tension in the Corporal that he felt himself — a curious mixture of embarrassment, melancholy, and something else. Something that felt dangerously close to envy.

"Well," Winters finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, "that was..."

"Unexpected," Ruben finished for him, the word emerging rough and ragged from his damaged mouth.

Archie nodded, removing his cap to run a hand through his matted hair. "Morrison and Nurse Lewis," he said, as if testing the idea aloud. "Can't say I saw that coming."

McKinley leaned against the trench wall, seemingly unbothered by the foul mud that immediately began seeping into his uniform.

A star shell burst overhead, its harsh white light filtering down even into the depths of the trench where they stood. For a brief, spectral moment, Their faces were illuminated in stark relief — the network of scars, the hollow cheeks, the eyes that had seen too much death to be properly called alive anymore. Then darkness fell again, somehow deeper than before.

"Report?" Ruben asked, though he already knew the answer.

Archie’s response was immediate and firm. "Nothing to report. Didn't see anything."

The Corporal nodded. "Rules made by men who've never set foot in a trench," he murmured, voice flat. "Rules that don't account for this place."

The trenches existed outside normal reality, a purgatorial realm with its own brutal logic and morality. Who could begrudge two souls finding comfort amid such horror? The pair deserved whatever scrap of happiness they could find.

"Reminds me of Mary sometimes, Lewis," Winters said suddenly. "Same sort of... strength."

Ruben studied him for a moment, expression unreadable. "Your sister's a good woman," he said finally. "Writes a fine letter, too."

The mention of Mary's letters — those precious lifelines to a world beyond mud and death — hung between them.

"Morrison's a lucky man," Archie said after a long pause, gaze fixed on something distant and unseen. "To find summit like that here, of all places."

Another star shell burst overhead, bathing No Man's Land in its ghastly illumination. Somewhere to their left, a machine gun opened up — a German MG-08, by the sound of it. The harsh chatter shattered the momentary peace, dragging them both back to the grim reality of their situation.

"Patrol," Ruben murmured, already reaching for his rifle.

Winters nodded, settling his cap back on his head. "Long night." 

They continued their patrol in silence, each lost in private thoughts as they moved through the labyrinthine trenches. The sound of the Trench Decca faded behind them, eventually swallowed by the ambient noise of the front. Yet something of it lingered with them — not the melody itself, but the simple fact of its existence, a reminder that even here, in this blasted wasteland of mud and metal and mangled flesh, humanity persisted in its most fundamental forms.

As they approached the forward listening post, McKinley paused again, this time tilting his head to study the sky. A thin streak of pale gray had appeared on the eastern horizon — the first hint of approaching dawn.

"Think they'll make it?" he asked suddenly, voice low. "Morrison and her. After all this is done."

Archie considered the question seriously, as he did everything the Corporal said. "If they both survive, you mean?"

Ruben nodded.

"I don't know," Winters admitted. "War changes people. Makes them into summit different than they were before." He glanced at the other, noting the way the pre-dawn light caught the jagged edge of his scarred lip. "But, if you're lucky, you find someone who understands what you've become."

McKinley was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on that distant lightening of the sky. When he finally spoke, his voice held an unusual note, buried beneath the habitual gruffness.

"Like Mary's garden," he said.

Winters blinked, momentarily confused by the non sequitur. "Her garden?"

"In your sister's letters. She's always going on about how the soil changes after winter. How it needs different handlin’ than before." Ruben shifted, adjusting his rifle strap. "But it still grows things. Different things sometimes, but it grows."

Understanding dawned slowly in Winters' mind. It was the most the Corporal had revealed of his inner thoughts these days, delivered in that characteristically oblique manner of his. "Yes," he agreed softly. "It still grows."

The distant rumble of artillery punctuated their conversation — the morning barrage beginning right on schedule. Soon the entire line would be alive with the day's business of killing and dying. But for this brief moment, in the liminal space between night and day, two men stood together in a muddy trench and contemplated the possibility of after.

"Right then," Archie said finally, gesturing toward the listening post.

As they moved forward once more, the Lieutenant found himself wondering about the Sergeant and nurse, still dancing to their music in that collapsed observation post. Were they treasuring these final moments of the night, knowing that dawn would force them back into their roles? Or had they fallen asleep in each other's arms, grabbing what little rest they could before the war reclaimed them?

Either way, he hoped they'd found some measure of peace in their brief respite. God knew such moments were rare enough on the Western Front.

The eastern sky continued to lighten as they completed their patrol, the mist beginning to burn away under the strengthening glow. By the time they reached their own sector again, the trenches were stirring with pre-dawn activity — men preparing for stand-to, officers barking orders, runners delivering the night's dispatches.

Yet as Winters watched the other move off, he found himself recalling that moment in the observation post — two people finding connection amid chaos. And later, in the quiet of his dugout, perhaps he'd mention to Ruben that he'd received another letter from Mary, asking when they might both come home to Yorkshire.

Chapter Text

The first hints of autumn had begun to bleed into the Western Front, the biting chill that preceded dawn lingering longer each morning. Private Michael Walsh huddled in his greatcoat, perched on an ammunition crate in a relatively dry corner of the communication trench. His fingers, stiff with cold and spotted with ink, moved delicately across the tattered sketchbook balanced on his knees. The book itself was a sorry thing — salvaged from an abandoned schoolhouse during the last advance, its pages warped by damp and stained with whatever filth permeated everything in this corner of hell.

Walsh wasn’t an artist by training — but here, in this liminal space between life and death, he’d discovered an unexpected solace in sketching the world around him, capturing fleeting moments of humanity amid the horror.

Today’s subject were the hands of Dr Hayes, currently bent over Tommy Fletcher’s infected foot. The doctor’s gloves were stained and worn, joined with the brutality of their surroundings. Walsh tried to capture the strange dichotomy — the gentleness with which those hands probed the festering wound, even as they remained steady and clinical.

"You making me famous, Walsh?" Hayes asked without looking up, somehow sensing the soldier’s attention despite his focus on Fletcher’s suppurating toes.

Walsh smiled faintly, the expression sitting unnaturally on his gaunt face. "Just your hands, sir. Thought they might be worth remembering when all this is done."

Tommy grimaced as the older man extracted something from between his blackened toes. "Christ almighty, Doc. If you’re taking souvenirs, ‘least you could do is give me morphine first."

"Save your complaints for someone who gives a damn, Fletcher." Hayes replied, though the words lacked genuine harshness. "And save your prayers for someone who’ll listen. I’ve got four more men waiting with trench foot, and precisely enough supplies to treat half of ‘em proper."

Walsh’s pencil captured the moment — the resignation in Tommy’s posture, the efficient economy of the doctor’s movements, the grotesque intimacy of medical care in the trenches. He added shading to suggest the oppressive dimness of the aid station, the only light coming from a sputtering oil lamp that cast macabre shadows across the mud walls.

When he finished, he carefully tore the page from his book and offered it to Dr Hayes, who wiped his hands on a rag that might once have been white before accepting the drawing.

"Talented bugger, aren’t you?" Hayes muttered, studying the sketch with tired eyes. "Might want to rethink your artistic subjects, though. Not much beauty to capture here, yeah?"

Walsh shrugged, already packing away his supplies. "Beauty’s not the point, sir. It’s about seeing. Really seeing."

The doctor made a noncommittal sound, folding the paper carefully and tucking it into his pocket. "Well, use those observant eyes of yours to keep watch for Nurse Lewis. She was supposed to bring fresh bandages a bloody hour ago."

Walsh nodded, slipping his sketchbook back into the inner pocket of his greatcoat before ducking out of the aid station into the main communication trench. The sky above was a muted gray, heavy with the promise of more rain. He breathed deeply, grimacing at the omnipresent stench of rot and human waste. Even after months at the front, the smell never quite became bearable.

He made his way toward the reserve trenches, where the field kitchen would be serving breakfast — if the term “breakfast” could be applied to the watery porridge and rock-hard bread that constituted their morning rations. As he walked, he mentally catalogued potential subjects for his new sketch: the strange fungus growing on the duckboards, the way Lieutenant Blackwood’s face always tightened when reading dispatches from Command, the precise angle of Corporal McKinley’s shoulders as he cleaned his rifle for the fifth time that day.

The communication trench widened slightly as it approached the reserve area, and Walsh nearly collided with Sergeant Morrison, who was hurrying in the opposite direction.

"Watch where you’re going, lad — fuckin’ stoating aboot." Morrison snapped, though his irritation seemed perfunctory rather than genuine.

"Sorry, Sergeant," Walsh replied automatically. "Looking for Nurse Lewis? Dr Hayes is asking after those bandages."

Something flickered across Morrison’s face — a tensing around the eyes, a slight coloring at the neck. "She’s been delayed at the casualty clearing station. Artillery hit near the road last night. They’ve got more wounded than they can handle."

Walsh nodded, carefully filing away the Sergeant’s reaction. There was a story there — something between Morrison and Nurse Lewis. He’d seen them together more than once, heads bent close in conversation, bodies angled toward each other in that unconscious way of people drawn together by something more than mere circumstance.

"I’ll let the doctor know," Walsh said, stepping aside to the let the man pass.

As Morrison moved away, he couldn’t resist pulling out his sketchbook again, quickly capturing the Sergeant’s retreating figure — the rigid set of his spine, the purposeful stride that somehow conveyed both authority and a peculiar vulnerability.

"Scratching away in that book of yours, aye, Private?"

The voice startled him, and he looked up to find Lieutenant Winters watching him with his good eye, the other milky and dead.

"Yes, sir," Walsh admitted, not bothering to hide his sketchbook. "Helps pass the time."

Winters stepped closer, tilting his head to see the drawing. "Sergeant Morrison, is it? You’ve captured him well — though I don’t think he’d appreciate being immortalized trudging through shit and mud."

The young man allowed himself a small smile. "Most of what I draw isn’t exactly flattering, sir. Just honest."

"Honesty’s a luxury out here," Winters replied. "Though, s’ppose there’s value in remembering things as they really were, not how we’d like to remember them."

He gestured vaguely toward the sketchbook. "Carry on, then. But don’t miss breakfast on account of your artistic pursuits."

Walsh nodded his thanks and continued toward the reserve trenches, the Lieutenant’s words lingering in his mind. Honesty was indeed a luxury in a war where propaganda posters depicted heroic charges and noble scarifies, conveniently omitting the reality of men drowning in shell holes filled with liquid mud, or bodies hanging on barbed for days, picked at by rats and crows until there was little left to identify.

The reserve trench bustled with morning activity — men queuing for food, runners delivering messages, officers conferring in low voices over maps and orders. Walsh found a quiet corner and opened his sketchbook again, this time attempting to capture the entire scene: the strange, subterranean society that had evolved in these ditches carved into the earth.

He was so absorbed in his drawing that he didn’t notice Lance Corporal Hawk until the man was standing directly in front of him, a chipped enamel mug extended in his dirt-encrusted hand.

"Saved you some tea," Hawk said, voice thick with fatigue. "Figured you’d be out here with your pictures instead of queuing up proper."

Walsh accepted the mug gratefully, wrapping his cold fingers around its warmth. "Thanks, mate. How’s the foot?"

Hawk grimaced, looking down at his bandaged extremity. "Doc says I’ll keep all my toes, which is more than Fletcher can say. Hurts like a bastard, though."

The other nodded sympathetically. Trench foot was a constant threat, especially as the weather turned colder and wetter. Men could lose limbs without ever facing enemy fire, their flesh rotting away from the damp.

"Mind if I sit?" Hawk asked, already lowering himself onto the duckboard beside Walsh. "Sergeant Major’s on a tear. Summit about missing rum rations. Best to stay out of his way until he finds someone to blame."

Walsh shifted to make room, taking a sip of the tea. It was claggy and bitter, but the warmth was welcome. "Bull always needs someone to blame. It’s how he makes sense of the chaos."

Hawk snorted. "Deep thoughts for this early in the mornin’." He peered at the young man’s sketchbook. "What you working on now? Summit cheery to brighten our day?"

Walsh tilted the book so the other could see the scene he’d been sketching — men hunched over their meager breakfasts, stem rising from cooking pots, the strange domesticity of it all juxtaposed against the instruments of death that surrounded them.

"Christ, that’s depressing," Hawk muttered, though there was a note of admiration in his voice. "You ever draw anything that doesn’t make a marrah want to put a bullet in his brain?"

The other considered the question seriously. "I drew Nurse Lewis once," he admitted. "When she was cleaning the tools. She looked… peaceful."

Hawk’s eyebrows rose suggestively. "Bet the Sergeant wouldn’t like that. He’s sweet on her, you know. Everyone knows."

Before Walsh could respond, a commotion at the far end of the trench caught their attention. Sergeant Major Bull’s voice carried clearly over the ambient noise, his Brummie accent thickened by anger.

"I don’t give a rats arse what Lieutenant Blackwood authorized! Those rations were meant for the entire company, not just your bloody section!"

The two exchanged glances. Bull’s temper was legendary — and potentially dangerous when unleashed on subordinates who couldn’t fight back.

"Should we…" Hawk began, but Walsh was already closing his sketchbook and rising to his feet.

"I’ll go," he said quietly. "He’s less likely to throw a punch at me. Still feels bad about my brother."

Walsh’s older brother had been killed at Looks, in the same action where Bull had earned his MiD. The Sergeant Major had written to Walsh’s mother personally — a fact that created an uncomfortable bond between the two, neither of whom particularly wanted it.

As Walsh approached, he could see that Bull had cornered the young man’s peer and good friend, Private David Cohen, against the trench wall — his massive frame looming over the other like a storm cloud. Cohen’s face was pale beneath the layer of grime, his eyes wide with a combination of fear and deference.

"It wasn’t like that, sir," Cohen was saying, voice remarkably steady despite his obvious terror. "We needed the rum for medical purposes. Dr Hayes requested it specifically for the men with trench foot."

Bull’s face, already flushed with anger, darkened further. "Medical purposes? Do i look like I was born yesterday, Private? You and your mates drank it, and now you’re spinning tales to cover your arses!"

Walsh cleared his throat softly. "Excuse me, Sergeant Major."

Bull’s head snapped around, his fury momentarily redirected. "What the hell do you want, Walsh? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?"

The young man kept his expression neutral, his voice calm. "I was just at the aid station, sir. Dr Hayes mentioned using rum to clean wounds before dressing ‘em. Summit about running low on antiseptic."

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Walsh had heard Hayes complaining about supply shortages, though he hadn’t specifically mentioned using rum as a substitute. But the fabrication served its purpose — Bull’s anger visibly deflated, though his expression remained suspicious.

"That so?" He growled, looking back at Cohen. "And, I s’ppose you have proper authorization for this requisition?"

Cohen nodded eagerly, producing a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "Lieutenant Blackwood signed off on it, sir. Like I was saying."

Bull snatched the paper, examining it with narrowed eyes before grudgingly handing it back. "Next time, make sure I’m informed before y’start redistributing supplies. That clear, Private?"

"Yes, sir," Cohen replied, the tension draining from his shoulders as Bull stomped away, still muttering about proper procedures and chain of command.

When the Sergeant Major was safely out of earshot, Cohen exhaled dramatically. "Christ, Walsh. Perfect timing. Thought he was going to feed me to the rats piece by piece."

Walsh offered a small smile. "Bull's bark is worse than his bite. Most days, anyway."

"Still, I owe you one," Cohen said, clapping Walsh on the shoulder. "Where you headed?"

"Back to where Hawk's sitting. Come join us — safer in numbers if Bull circles back around."

The two made their way through the winding trench, ducking under low-hanging support beams and stepping carefully over the duckboards where puddles had formed beneath. When they reached Hawk, he grinned at Cohen.

"Survived the beast, then?" Hawk asked, sliding over to make room.

"Thanks to our artist here," Cohen replied, settling beside them. "Walsh swooped in with a perfectly timed alibi."

Walsh shrugged modestly, already reopening his sketchbook. "Just speaking my truth," he said with mock solemnity before all three broke into quiet laughter — the subdued kind that men at the front permitted themselves, never too loud, never too free.

As his friends fell into conversation about the latest letters from home, Walsh returned to his drawing, adding details to capture the specific way soldiers carried themselves in the reserve trenches — slightly more relaxed than at the front line, but never fully at ease. His pencil moved quickly, creating vignettes across the page.

In one corner, he sketched a corporal asleep against a sandbagged wall, mouth slightly open, helmet tipped forward over his eyes, somehow managing to look both vulnerable and alert even in slumber. In another, he captured four men huddled around upturned crates, playing cards with an intensity usually reserved for battle, cigarettes dangling from lips, faces illuminated by the embers.

A few yards away, a soldier was writing a letter, his massive frame hunched awkwardly over the tiny field desk he'd fashioned from scavenged wood, his expression a study in concentration as he carefully formed each word. Walsh rendered him with particular care, noting how the man's enormous, dirt-encrusted hands seemed almost delicate as they gripped the stubby pencil.

"What's caught your eye now?" Cohen asked, peering over at the sketchbook.

"Redvers," Walsh replied quietly. "Writing home again. Third letter this week."

Hawk snorted. "Poor bastard. His wife hasn't written back in months. Everyone knows she's taken up with a munitions worker back in Manchester."

"Everyone except Redvers," Cohen added soberly.

Walsh added a final line to the drawing, accentuating the gentle care with which Redvers folded the letter. He turned the page and began a new sketch, this one darker in tone and subject — a stretcher team carrying a blanket-covered form toward the aid station, their faces set in that particular blank expression that meant the burden they carried was no longer a man but a corpse.

The day wore on, the weak winter sun barely penetrating the overcast sky before beginning its early descent. Walsh's pencil captured it all: Lieutenant Blackwood inspecting rifles with meticulous attention; two privates from the Middlesex Regiment sharing a can of bully beef with expressions suggesting they were dining on the finest steak; Captain Harrison carefully trimming his mustache using a broken mirror propped on a shelf carved into the trench wall.

Late afternoon brought duties — Walsh's turn at sentry duty, followed by a stint helping the cook's assistant peel potatoes for the evening meal. By the time he was released, dusk had fallen, and the trenches had taken on their nighttime character — darker, quieter, somehow both more menacing and more intimate.

He found a relatively dry spot near a brazier, where the dim red glow provided just enough light to see by without risking a sniper's attention. Opening his sketchbook one last time before seeking his dugout for sleep, Walsh began what had become a nightly ritual — a drawing that attempted to capture not just what he saw, but what he felt.

Tonight, his pencil traced the silhouette of a man standing alone at the forward sentry position, rifle at the ready, bayonet a silver sliver in the moonlight. Around the figure, Walsh suggested rather than detailed the fractured landscape beyond — the tangled wire, the crater-pocked no man's land, the distant, indistinct shadow of the Jerry line. But it was the posture of the sentry that formed the heart of the composition — neither heroic nor defeated, simply present, enduring, a single human form dwarfed by the vastness of the war yet somehow maintaining a quiet dignity.

A shadow fell across the page, and Walsh looked up to see Private Walter Reed standing over him, peering down with that familiar expression of smug condescension that never failed to make Walsh's fingers itch for a good charcoal pencil to render the buck’s pretentiousness in all its glory.

"Sketching the common man again, Walsh?" Reed asked, his cultured voice carrying the unmistakable polish of privilege. "How delightfully... provincial."

Walsh closed his sketchbook with deliberate slowness. "Reed. Thought you'd be off composing sonnets about the heroic struggle of dealing with mud in your boots."

Reed's lips twitched in what might have been amusement or annoyance — with him, it was often hard to tell. He settled himself beside Walsh without invitation, produced his own leather-bound journal from an inner pocket, and flipped it open with a flourish.

"As a matter of fact, I've been documenting the psychological impact of extended artillery bombardment on the common soldier," he said, adjusting his spectacles with one finger. "Lieutenant Blackwood found my observations quite illuminating. Said they showed 'remarkable insight.'"

Everyone in the platoon knew about the rivalry between Walsh and Reed — two young men with artistic inclinations but entirely different approaches to capturing the war. Where Walsh's sketches were raw and unflinching, Reed's writings were often flowery and philosophical, referencing classical literature that most of their comrades had never read.

"Remarkable insight," Walsh echoed flatly. "Did your remarkable insight tell you that men don't like having their brains rattled by shells for hours on end? Fascinating discovery, that."

Reed's smile tightened. "You know, Walsh, not everyone can appreciate the nuances of proper analytical thinking. One needs a certain level of education to grasp the subtleties."

"And one needs a certain level of Oxford breeding to be this insufferable," Walsh muttered.

Reed ignored the comment, making a show of writing something in his journal. "Perhaps if you'd had the benefit of a proper education instead of whatever passes for schooling in your part of the world, you might understand the importance of what I'm doing."

Walsh felt the familiar burn of irritation. Reed never missed an opportunity to remind everyone of his Oxford background — as if anyone could forget with how often he mentioned it. What made it worse was that Reed wasn't even a bad sort when it came to soldiering. He did his duty without complaint, shared his parcels from home, and had even shown remarkable courage during their last stint at the front line.

It was just this — this smug, patronizing attitude — that made Walsh want to throttle him.

"You know what, Reed?" Walsh said, reopening his sketchbook with sudden inspiration. "You're right. I'm just a simple artist with simple skills. Let me show you."

His pencil flew across the page with practiced speed, rough lines capturing Reed's likeness with deliberate exaggeration — the slightly too-large nose, the perpetually raised eyebrows, the thin-lipped expression of superiority. Within minutes, Walsh had created a caricature that transformed the Oxford boy into something resembling a pompous puppet, complete with strings being pulled by a ghostly hand labeled "privilege".

"There," Walsh said, tearing the page from his book and holding it up for all to see. "I've captured your essence, Reed. What do you think?"

The silence that followed was broken by a ripple of laughter from the nearby men. Reed's face darkened as he snatched the drawing, his composed demeanor slipping momentarily.

"Charming, Walsh. Absolutely charming," Reed said, his voice tight. "I suppose this passes for wit in your circle."

Walsh shrugged, the satisfaction of having gotten under Reed's skin competing with a flicker of guilt. "Just a bit of harmless fun. You're always going on about the 'common soldier' like we're some exotic species you're studying. Thought you might appreciate seeing yourself through our primitive eyes."

Reed carefully folded the caricature and tucked it into his pocket rather than destroying it, which somehow made Walsh feel worse.

"You know, that's your fundamental misunderstanding," Reed said, his voice regaining its academic tone. "I don't consider myself separate from the men. I'm documenting our collective experience, including my own. It's about creating a historical record."

Walsh let out a laugh that was more like a bark. "Historical record? And I s'ppose your poetry about the glory of battle is more accurate than my sketches of men covered in lice and gore?"

Reed's face flushed with indignation. "How dare you insinuate that my work is romanticizing this hellscape? I'm documenting the psychological reality—"

"Psychological reality?" Walsh interrupted, his voice rising. "You wouldn't know psychological reality if it crawled up your arse and built a summer home!"

Reed leaned forward, his journal clutched to his chest like a shield. "At least my observations have intellectual merit! Your little doodles are just... just primitive scratches that any child could produce!"

"Primitive scratches?" Walsh's pencil snapped between his fingers. "Those 'primitive scratches' show what's actually happening here! Not some flowery interpretation filtered through your fancy education!"

"You're simply incapable of appreciating the nuanced complexities of proper literary documentation," Reed retorted, his vocabulary expanding proportionally with his anger.

"And you're incapable of speaking like a normal bloody person!" Walsh shot back. "Always hiding behind big words because you've got nothing real to say!"

Reed's nostrils flared. "Your anti-intellectual posturing is precisely the kind of pedestrian antagonism that undermines the cultural significance of—"

"Of what?" Walsh sputtered, genuinely unable to follow Reed's increasingly convoluted argument. "What are you even saying anymore?"

"I'm articulating the fundamental discrepancy between representational verisimilitude and analytical abstraction as methodologies for war documentation!" Reed's voice had risen to a near-shout, though the meaning of his words seemed to escape even him.

Walsh stared blankly. "You... what? You're just stringing fancy words together now!"

"I am not!" Reed protested, though his expression betrayed momentary confusion at his own rhetoric.

"You're talking absolute shite and you know it!" Walsh threw his hands up.

"Well, you're... you're..." Reed fumbled, his Oxford education suddenly failing him.

They glared at each other, both breathing heavily, surrounded by the awkward silence of men pretending not to listen while absolutely hanging on every word.

Finally, Walsh broke the standoff. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Reed, just go fuck yourself."

Something in Reed's composure snapped. He shot to his feet, his journal dropping to the mud, all pretense of academic superiority abandoned. "Fuck YOU, Walsh!"

"No, fuck YOU!" Walsh bellowed back, genuinely surprised at Reed's outburst.

"FUCK YOU!" Reed shouted, his cultured accent evaporating entirely.

"FUCK YOU MORE!" Walsh was on his feet now too.

Reed began stomping away, but continued hurling profanities over his shoulder. "FUCK YOU TO HELL AND BACK!"

"FUCK YOU SIDEWAYS WITH A BAYONET!" Walsh hollered after him.

"FUCK YOU AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON!" Reed's voice echoed down the trench.

"I DIDN'T RIDE A FUCKING HORSE!" Walsh yelled nonsensically.

"FUCK YOU ANYWAY!" Reed's voice grew fainter as he continued his retreat.

Walsh stood there, still shouting "FUCK YOU!" long after Reed had disappeared around a bend in the trench, vocabulary reduced to a single, satisfying phrase.

The nearby soldiers, who had been watching the exchange with increasing amusement, burst into laughter.

Walsh slumped back down, suddenly aware of how ridiculous they'd both been — soldiers facing death daily, screaming obscenities at each other like schoolboys in a playground.

"He started it," Walsh muttered, more to himself, picking up his fallen sketchbook. 

For a moment, he considered drawing the scene — two soldiers, their faces twisted in childish rage, their uniforms and surroundings suggesting men of war while their expressions revealed the boys within. Boys playing at being men, trying to make sense of the senseless through art and words, their mud-caked hands still capable of creating beauty amidst horror.

Instead, he closed the book and stared into the brazier's dying embers. Tomorrow they'd return to being soldiers, with all the weight that entailed. But tonight, they'd been allowed to remember what it felt like to be simply, stupidly human.

Chapter Text

The rain had finally stopped, but the silence felt almost unnatural after days of ceaseless downpour. Dawn painted the eastern sky in muted grays and anemic pinks, barely visible through the jagged teeth of the trench line. Corporal Ruben McKinley stood at his forward firing post, his Lee-Enfield rifle resting on the mud-slick fire step, eyes fixed on the desolation of No Man’s. Three days he’d stood this position, rotating with the ghostly regularity of a clock’s hands — two hours on, two hours off, but never truly resting during those brief reprieves.

Private David Cohen approached cautiously, tin mug of tepid tea clutched in his raw, chapped hands. "Morning, Corp. Brought you summit."

Ruben’s only acknowledgement was a slight shift of his weight, gaze never leaving the tangle of barbed wire and shell craters that separated them from the Jerry lines. The grotesque scar that split his lip seemed more pronounced in the weak morning light, the puckered flesh glistening with moisture that might have been rain, or sweat, or perhaps something else entirely.

"Lieutenant Winters says you’re relieved," Cohen continued, the cautious edge in his voice betraying his discomfort — he still hadn’t learned how to navigate McKinley’s silences. "Sergeant Miller’s taking over the watch."

For a long moment, Ruben didn’t move. Then, with mechanical precision, he stepped down from the fire step. His legs buckled slightly — the only indication of his exhaustion — before he caught himself against the trench wall. Without a word, he took the offered tea, downing it in three gulps before handing the empty mug back.

"You should get some rest," the boy ventured, immediately regretting the suggestion when the other man's pale eyes met his.

The Corporal said nothing, merely adjusting his mud-encrusted helmet and starting down the trench with the stiff gait of a man whose body had forgotten how to exist without tension. Cohen watched him go, wondering if the "legendary" Corporal McKinley ever actually slept — or if he simply powered down like one of those new mechanical calculators when not actively engaged in war.

Ruben hadn’t intended to rest. He’d planned to clean his rifle, check his ammunition, perhaps change his socks if there was a dry pair to be found. But as he rounded the bend in the trench that led to the slightly deeper dugouts, where the men stole what moments of sleep they could, his body made the decision his mind refused to acknowledge. He slid down the slick trench wall, the leather of his boots squeaking against the duckboards as he settled into a sitting position.

Just for a moment, he told himself, just to gather his strength. His gloved hands remained wrapped around his rifle, the butt resting between his mud-caked boots. He leaned his head back against the sandbags, feeling the cold seep through his sodden uniform. His helmet tipped forward slightly, shielding his faded eyes from the strengthening daylight.

And just like that, for the first time in seventy-two hours, Corporal Ruben McKinley surrendered — not to the enemy, but to his body’s desperation for rest.

Nurse Violet Lewis navigated the narrow trench with practiced ease, her boots avoiding the worst of the mud puddles as she made her way toward the aid station. The medical supplies balanced in her arms were meager — bandages boiled and reused too many times, morphine diluted to stretch the perpetually dwindling supply, iodine that had become more precious than gold. Behind her walked Sergeant Morrison, carrying a similar burden, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the trench as he followed in her wake.

"Watch your step here," she warned softly, stepping carefully over a particularly treacherous section of collapsed duckboard. "The rain’s made everything—" She stopped abruptly, causing Morrison to nearly collide with her back.

"What like?" He asked, peering over her shoulder. Then he saw what halted her progress — the unmistakable figure of Corporal McKinley, slumped against the trench wall, his rifle still clutched in his hands, helmet tipped forward over his eyes.

Violet shifted her supplies to one arm, reaching out with her free hand as if to wake him. "We should move him," she whispered. "He’ll catch his death sitting in the mud like that."

Morrison gently caught her wrist. "Best leave him be," he murmured, his voice carrying that peculiar tenderness it only ever held when addressing her. "Lieutenant Winters specifically said if any yin found McKinley restin’, we weren’t to disturb him."

Violet’s brow furrowed with concern. "But he’s soaked through. Pneumonia kills more men than bullets out here."

"The Lieutenant’s orders," Morrison repeated, though his eyes reflected her worry. "Said it’d be more merciful to let him rest where he fell than to try to move him. Man hasn’t slept proper in three days straucht."

She hesitated, medical training warring with the unwritten rule that Ruben McKinley was a force of nature best left undisturbed. Finally, she nodded, carefully sidestepping around the sleeping figure.

As they continued toward the aid station, Morrison glanced back over his shoulder. "I agree with Winters on this one," he said quietly. "Some men, y’wake them too sudden, they come up swingin' — and I wouldn’t want to be on the receivin’ end of whatever lives behind those eyes."

Violet’s expression softened. "You’re a good man, Sergeant — for all your silliness."

Morrison’s grubby face colored slightly as he followed her down the trench, leaving the sleeping Corporal to whatever peace he could find.

Lance Corporal Hawk rounded the corner, his arms full of empty sandbags that needed filling — a thankless task that rotated among the men with the same grim regularity as latrine duty. He nearly tripped over McKinley’s outstretched legs, catching himself against the trench wall with a muffled curse.

For a moment, Hawk stood frozen, certain that his clumsiness had awakened the notorious Corporal. Yet McKinley didn’t stir, his chest rising and falling in the shallow, rapid rhythm of the combat-exhausted. Hawk had seen it before — men so tired they slept like the dead, but never deeply enough to escape the constant vigilance war demanded.

He carefully stepped Ruben’s legs and continued on his way, only to run directly into Private Tommy Fletcher coming from the opposite direction, his arms similarly burdened with empty sandbags.

"Watch yourself," Hawk hissed, nodding back toward the sleeping figure. "Corporal’s finally crashed."

Fletcher peered around him, eyes widening at the sight of McKinley slumped against the wall. "Christ, I’ve never seen him sleep before. Wasn’t sure he actually he did."

"’Course he sleeps," Hawk replied, though his tone suggested he’d harbored similar doubts. "Just not usually where anyone can see him."

The other shifted his load, considering the situation. "Should we wake him? Can’t be comfortable sitting there in the muck."

"Are you mad?" Hawk’s voice was barely above a whisper but carried the force of a shout. "I’d rather poke a wounded bear."

Tommy shrugged, accepting this wisdom. "Fair enough. Though it’s… strange seeing him like that. Makes you remember he’s human."

Hawk nodded in agreement, and the two carefully worked their way around Ruben’s form, continuing on their separate missions. As he departed, Hawk couldn’t help but glance back one more time. Cohen was right — there was something unsettlingly vulnerable about seeing the Corporal rendered momentarily mortal by the simple human need for sleep.

Unexpectedly, the sun had managed to pierce the perpetual gloom of the Western front, casting weak, watery light into the trenches. Private Walsh sloshed through ankle-deep water, cursing under his breath as he delivered messages between command posts. He’d drawn the short straw again — always the runner, never the rifleman. His foot caught in a particularly deep puddle, sending muddy water splashing up his already filthy puttees.

"Bloody fucking Christ," he muttered, shaking his foot like a disgruntled cat.

"Language," came a deep voice from behind him, causing Walsh to nearly jump out of his skin.

He spun around to find Sergeant Major Bull’s imposing frame blocking the trench, arms crossed over his barrel chest. "Sorry, Sergeant Major," Walsh began. "Didn’t realize you were—"

Bull held up a massive hand, silencing him. Then, to Walsh’s surprise, the Sergeant Major pressed a finger to his lips and pointed. Following the gesture, Walsh noticed for the first time the sleeping form of Corporal McKinley just a few feet away.

"Oh," Walsh whispered, immediately lowering his voice. "Sorry, didn’t see him there."

Bull nodded, his usually stern face softening almost imperceptibly. "Been there since dawn. Lieutenant Winters say we leave him be."

Walsh lingered a moment longer than necessary, drawn by the strange tableau before him. From this angle, he could see how McKinley's scarred head had tilted slightly to one side, the rigid lines of his perpetual vigilance momentarily softened by exhaustion. The man's chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular intervals — not the measured breathing of peaceful rest, but the fitful respiration of someone whose body had simply refused to continue without some semblance of recovery.

Through the layers of caked mud and dried blood that seemed permanently affixed to the man’s skin, Walsh noticed details he'd never dared observe before: the network of fine scars that crisscrossed the visible portion of his neck, disappearing beneath his filthy collar; the way his knuckles remained tight even in sleep, leather-gloved fingers locked around his rifle as if it were an extension of his own body; the slight tremor that occasionally passed through his frame like distant artillery vibrating through the earth.

He found himself drawn to study McKinley's face with an artist's critical eye. The scar that split his lip was far more gruesome up close — a jagged crater that sliced across the Corporal’s face with savage cruelty. Up close, the wound told its own story of brutality — beginning at the underside of his chin on the left, carving upward through his bottom lip around the middle, then tearing through the top lip more to the right side. The horrific injury left a permanent gap, a window of sorts, through which his yellowed teeth gleamed wetly in the half-light of the trench. The scar continued its violent path upward, narrowly missing the corner of his eye, as if some tremendous force had pinched his skin and ripped it away in a single, vicious motion.

Walsh continued studying the wound with the objective eye of an artist rather than the revulsion most men showed when confronted with such disfigurement. The healed tissue was a topographic map of suffering — ridges of angry pink scar tissue surrounded by valleys of paler, puckered skin. In places, the scarring was thick and ropey; in others, it thinned to a silvery line before broadening again into a knotted mass. The flesh never quite closed properly around the lips, leaving him with a permanent grimace that perfectly matched the reputation he'd earned among both allies and enemies.

There were rumors about the scar's origin — as many stories as there were men in the regiment. Some said it was from hand-to-hand combat with a Fritz officer wielding a broken bottle. Others claimed he'd been caught in an explosion, his face shredded by shrapnel. The most persistent tale, whispered only when McKinley was far from earshot, suggested he'd survived a firing squad early in the war, the bullets miraculously grazing rather than penetrating.

The Corporal himself never spoke of it, nor acknowledged the uncomfortable stares of new recruits who hadn't yet learned to avert their eyes. The scar was simply another part of him, like his deadly aim or his unnerving ability to move through No Man's Land as if death itself had granted him safe passage.

The jagged scar across the bridge of his nose was a monument to savagery, slashing diagonally across his face with all the precision of a butcher's cleaver. Its ragged edges looked as though they'd been carved by a bayonet wielded in blind fury rather than stitched by medical hands. The wound had healed poorly, leaving thick, ropey tissue that puckered and pulled at the surrounding skin, creating a topography of suffering that stretched from cheekbone to cheekbone. 

On the right side, this brutal disfigurement collided with the lip-splitting scar in a grotesque intersection of violence, the tissue bunched and knotted where the two wounds had fought for dominance during healing. 

The left side splintered outward like shrapnel, fragmenting into smaller tracks that branched across his cheek before diminishing into minuscule strings, reminiscent of a thread violently snapped under tension. The scar tissue itself had the waxy, off-red pallor of dead flesh, standing in stark contrast to the grimy, weather-beaten skin surrounding it.

Walsh studied the savage facial wounds with a growing sense that something didn't align with the whispered legends. His artist's eye observed details others missed, noticed peculiarities about the scarring that contradicted the common narrative. The scar tissue on McKinley's face possessed an aged quality that seemed at odds with the war's timeline. The coloration at the corners had faded to that particular silvery-white that came only with years of healing, while the edges had that settled, permanent quality that fresh war wounds lacked.

The lip scar in particular appeared weathered in a way that suggested it predated the conflict entirely. Unlike the fresher wounds visible on other soldiers — the angry red lines and puckered flesh still in the process of knitting — McKinley's facial disfigurement had the character of an old companion, something carried through life rather than recently acquired in some heroic or horrific encounter on the Western Front.

The contrast between the aged facial scars and the fresher wounds that peppered the rest of McKinley's visible skin told a story of a man who had known violence intimately long before King and Country called him to the slaughter. Newer marks — a recently healed gash along his forearm, the still-pink burn mark disappearing beneath his collar — seemed almost superficial compared to the profound disfigurement of his face.

This realization made McKinley simultaneously more and less frightening to Walsh. Less, because it humanized him — suggested a history, a before-time when he had been something other than the perfect killing machine the trenches had shaped him into. More, because it hinted at a capacity for survival that bordered on the supernatural. If such grievous injuries couldn't claim him before the war, what hope did Kraut bullets and bayonets have?

"Move along," Sergeant Bull growled softly, startling Walsh out of his morbid fascination. "This ain't no museum exhibit."

Walsh nodded hastily, but not before making a mental note of the play of weak sunlight across McKinley's ravaged features. If the Corporal remained asleep later, he'd return with his sketchbook. There was something in that face — something in the contradiction between the man's legendary ferocity and his current vulnerability — that Walsh felt compelled to capture. Not as the monster of trench gossip or “The Perfect Soldier”, but as this: a broken man momentarily surrendered to his body's demands.

Bull watched Walsh retreat down the trench, then turned his attention back to the sleeping Corporal. His weathered face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, but his posture — planting himself firmly between McKinley and the main thoroughfare of the trench — spoke volumes.

Lieutenant Blackwood and Dr. Hayes appeared around the bend of the trench together, an unusual sight that under different circumstances might have drawn attention. The Lieutenant's pristine uniform — as pristine as any could be in these conditions — contrasted sharply with the doctor's perpetually rumpled appearance. Despite the disparity in their presentation, they moved with the synchronized rhythm of men who'd learned to navigate the confined labyrinth of trenches without wasted motion.

"—told you, Lieutenant, I need at least three more orderlies if we're to manage the incoming casualties from last night's push," Dr. Hayes was saying, his voice carrying the gravelly quality of a man who'd spent decades shouting over artillery and the screams of the wounded. "Bandages and morphine don't administer themselves, and my hands are only good for one patient at a time."

Lieutenant Blackwood maintained his composed demeanor, hands clasped behind his back as he navigated the treacherous footing with surprising grace. "I understand your position, Doctor, but I cannot manufacture men from thin air. Every able body is needed on the line or—"

The Lieutenant's words died in his throat as they rounded the corner and encountered the unexpected tableau of Corporal McKinley, still slumped against the trench wall, rifle clutched in his mud-encrusted hands, chest rising and falling in the shallow rhythm of exhausted sleep.

Dr. Hayes nearly collided with Blackwood's suddenly still form. "What in God's name—?" The doctor's eyes widened beneath bushy gray eyebrows as he recognized the sleeping figure. "Is that McKinley?"

Lieutenant Blackwood gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable save for a slight tightening around his eyes.

"Bloody hell," Hayes muttered, medical instincts immediately taking precedence over their prior discussion. "Never thought I'd see the day. Man looks half-dead."

"He's been on watch for seventy-two hours," Blackwood replied, his voice measured and quiet. "Through the artillery barrage and the counterattack."

Hayes snorted, though there was a begrudging respect beneath it as he knelt beside McKinley, his weathered hands hovering over the soldier without touching him. 

"Explains why the Kraut advance faltered on this section. Should've known." He squinted at McKinley's prone form, his medical training automatically cataloging signs of exhaustion and exposure. "He needs proper rest, not this—" he gestured at the mud-soaked figure, "—whatever this is. Man's going to catch his death sitting in this filth."

Blackwood's gaze remained fixed on the Corporal, something unidentifiable flickering across his otherwise composed features. "Would you care to be the one to wake him, Doctor?"

Hayes let out a short, humorless laugh. "Christ, no. I've seen what happens when men like him are startled awake. Had to stitch up three fingers on a private who made that mistake with a shell-shocked sergeant last month." He shook his head. "Besides, the poor bastard's earned his rest, regulation beddin’ be damned."

Without hesitation, the doctor removed his greatcoat — a shabby but warm garment that had seen him through two previous winters at the front — and with gentle movements that belied his usual gruffness, carefully draped it over McKinley's slumbering form. The Corporal didn't stir, testament to the depth of his exhaustion.

"Most unorthodox, Doctor," Blackwood remarked, though his tone held no criticism.

"The bloke’s earned it," Hayes replied simply. "After what he's been through, a bit of warmth is the least we can offer."

The Lieutenant studied Hayes' actions with an expression that, for Blackwood, almost approached softness. "The men might talk."

"Let ‘em," Hayes countered, rising to his feet with a slight groan as his knees protested. "If anyone has complaints about showing basic human fucking decency to a man who's held this section of the line single-handedly for three days, I'll prescribe them a dose of front-line duty that'll change their jaspered minds quick enough."

The doctor studied Blackwood's face, noting the barely perceptible softening around the Lieutenant's usually rigid mouth. 

"Well, well," Hayes observed, the statement somewhere between amusement and discovery. "You admire him, yeah?"

Blackwood's posture stiffened imperceptibly. "I appreciate effectiveness, Doctor. His methods may be..." he paused, searching for the appropriate word, "...unrefined, but his results are undeniable."

Hayes snorted again. "Unrefined? Is that what we're calling it now?" He lowered his voice, though Ruben showed no signs of waking. "I've treated men who've returned from patrols with him. They speak of him like he's some kind of chronic myth..."

"Perhaps such tales serve a purpose," Blackwood replied, voice reserved and detached. "Fear is a powerful motivator — for our men as well as the Germans."

The doctor's weathered face creased into a frown as he adjusted the coat to better cover McKinley's shoulders. "Goddamned war," he muttered, the words carrying the weight of countless amputations and morphine-muted screams. "Turns men into monsters, monsters into bloody heroes, and leaves the rest of us to sort out the fuckin’ difference."

Lieutenant Blackwood's eyes never left McKinley's mangled face, where the hideous scar cutting through his lip gleamed wetly in the weak sunlight. "We should continue our discussion elsewhere, Doctor. I believe we were addressing your need for additional medical personnel."

Hayes nodded, casting one final glance at the sleeping Corporal. "Just remember, Lieutenant — men like McKinley are weapons. Useful in war, certainly, but they rarely find peace when the fightin’ stops. I've seen that type before, in the Boer conflict. They don't know how to exist without the killing."

"Then it is fortunate," Blackwood replied with cold precision as they carefully stepped around McKinley's outstretched legs, "that this war shows no signs of ending anytime soon."

The doctor mumbled something unintelligible that might have been another curse, but followed the Lieutenant down the trench, leaving Corporal McKinley to whatever dark dreams haunted his rare moment of vulnerability.

As the day wore on, the trenches came alive with the peculiar choreography of war — not the grand, terrible movements of battle, but the small, human moments that existed in the spaces between fighting and dying. The strange tableau of Corporal McKinley's sleeping form became something of a navigational landmark, a fixed point around which the daily business of survival orbited.

Private Walsh, having completed his morning duties as runner, found himself with a rare pocket of relative freedom. Sitting on an ammunition crate just far enough from McKinley to feel safe, he pulled a tattered sketchbook from inside his jacket. The book was water-damaged and filthy, like everything else in this godforsaken place, but it remained his most treasured possession. With a stub of pencil held between dirt-encrusted fingers, he began to sketch the sleeping Corporal.

The harsh lines of McKinley's face softened somewhat in slumber, though that grotesque scar still dominated, a jagged testament to violence etched permanently into flesh. Walsh's fingers moved with surprising delicacy, capturing the paradoxical vulnerability of this man whom most regarded with a mixture of awe and terror.

He was so absorbed in his work that he didn't notice Private Reed until the boy was already sitting opposite him, a leather-bound journal open on his knees. Reed, known throughout the platoon for his verbose letters home and his aspirations to literary greatness after the war, was scribbling furiously, occasionally glancing up at McKinley with the intense focus of someone mining for narrative gold.

The two soldiers worked in unusual silence, their typical antagonism temporarily suspended in service of their respective arts. Walsh despised Reed's flowery vocabulary and intellectual pretensions, while Reed considered Walsh's artistic endeavors childish scribbling. Yet here they sat, unexpectedly united by their shared subject.

Walsh caught Reed peering at his sketch and gave a small, defensive huff. Reed, in turn, angled his journal away when he noticed Walsh's eyes straying toward his prose. Their momentary truce allowed for proximity, but not collaboration.

"You've got his jawline wrong," Reed whispered eventually, breaking the silence. "It's more angular."

Walsh scowled. "And I s'ppose you're an expert on anatomy now? Stick to your penny dreadfuls."

Reed's nostrils flared. "At least my work doesn't look like something produced by a shell-shocked chimpanzee."

They lapsed back into silence, each stealing furtive glances at the other's work, their faces contorting with poorly concealed envy and disapproval. Walsh added deliberate, spiteful detail to McKinley's mangled lip, while Reed incorporated increasingly elaborate metaphors comparing the Corporal to mythological creatures of vengeance.

Their artistic standoff was interrupted by Fletcher and Hawk, trudging past with sandbags slung over their shoulders. Both soldiers were caked in mud that had dried to a crusty shell, their faces etched with the bone-deep exhaustion that came from hours of manual labor under the perpetual threat of sniper fire.

"Still at it, then?" Tommy nodded toward McKinley, his voice dropping to a whisper despite the distance. "Christ, he's got the right idea."

Hawk adjusted his burden with a grunt. "This is our fourth trip past. Been counting. Starting to think the man’s dead and no one's noticed."

"Wouldn't that be summit," the other replied. "The most terrifying man in the platoon, done in by a nap."

They continued on, their boots squelching in the mud, only to reappear twenty minutes later, looking even more depleted. This time, they paused longer, their eyes lingering on McKinley's still form with naked envy.

"Think anyone would notice if we just..." Hawk gestured vaguely, the suggestion hanging unfinished in the damp air.

Fletcher's face brightened with desperate inspiration. "We could sit down next to him. Pretend we nodded off too."

"Brilliant," Hawk agreed, already lowering his sandbag. "Everyone's afraid to wake him. We'll be safe by association."

The scheme, born of exhaustion and desperation, was executed with surprising stealth. Within moments, the two young men had positioned themselves on either side of the sleeping Corporal, their heads lolling in unconvincing imitations of slumber, faces arranged in expressions of peaceful innocence that couldn't have been more obviously feigned.

The ruse lasted precisely three minutes before Sergeant Major Bull rounded the corner, his massive frame blocking what little natural light penetrated the trench.

"Well, well," Bull's voice rumbled like distant artillery. "The three sleepin’ beauties."

Fletcher and Hawk maintained their performances with the desperate commitment of men who had already invested too much to back down. Bull's boot connected with Hawk's thigh — not hard enough to injure, but with enough force to communicate the message.

"Miraculous," Bull continued, his weathered face arranged in a parody of wonder. "Two men simultaneously fall asleep while sitting upright in the mud. Must be contagious."

Tommy cracked one eye open, assessed the situation, and quickly closed it again.

"I count to three," Bull announced, his tone making it clear this was a generous offer, "and if you two aren't on your feet with those sandbags over your shoulders, I'll have you digging latrines until the Kaiser himself surrenders."

The speed with which the two "awoke" and scrambled to their feet would have impressed even the most demanding drill sergeant. They snatched up their sandbags and fled, their boots splashing through puddles of indeterminate composition as Bull's barely contained laughter followed them down the trench.

Throughout the day, Lieutenant Blackwood and Sergeant Major Bull crossed paths repeatedly, their routes through the trench system seeming to intersect with uncanny frequency. The first encounter produced formal salutes and brief exchanges about troop positions. By the second, the greetings had become perfunctory nods. The third meeting elicited only the barest acknowledgment of each other's existence. By the fourth time they nearly collided at a junction, both men simply stepped aside to allow the other passage, their faces studiously blank, as if by mutual unspoken agreement they had decided to ignore the strange loop of fate that kept bringing them together.

Dr. Hayes made his own circuit, ostensibly checking on various minor injuries among the men, but his path invariably led him past McKinley's position at regular intervals. Each time, he would pause just long enough to verify the Corporal's continued respiration, occasionally muttering calculations about body temperature and exposure under his breath. If anyone noticed that his concern seemed particularly focused on the state of his greatcoat rather than its current occupant, they were wise enough not to mention it.

As afternoon gave way to evening, the sky darkened with both approaching night and looming rain clouds. The first droplets fell like halfhearted harbingers of the deluge to come, spattering against helmets and churning the trench floor into even more treacherous slurry.

Sergeant Morrison and Nurse Violet Lewis appeared together at the bend, their proximity raising eyebrows among the few men present. Their romance was an open secret in the platoon — the kind of knowledge that everyone possessed but no one officially acknowledged. Morrison carried several sections of corrugated metal, while Nurse Lewis balanced a stack of relatively clean bandages.

"Nae, absolutely not," Morrison was saying, his voice low but firm. "It's too dangerous. One shell, and that aid station becomes a slaughterhouse."

Nurse Lewis's face was set in stubborn lines, her usually gentle features hardened by months of witnessing suffering that no medical training could have prepared her for. "We can't leave the wounded exposed to this," she gestured upward as the rain began to intensify. "Pneumonia will kill them before their wounds do."

Their argument died as they noticed McKinley, still slumped against the trench wall, Hayes' coat now darkening with moisture as the rain picked up. They exchanged a glance loaded with unspoken communication, their personal disagreement temporarily shelved.

"He shouldn't get wet," Nurse Lewis said, her professional concern overriding everything else. "Not after that exposure."

Morrison nodded, already assessing the angle of the rainfall and the available space. Without discussion, they set to work creating a makeshift shelter, positioning the corrugated metal sheets to form a crude roof over Ruben’s unconscious form. The Sergeant anchored the improvised structure with sandbags while Violet carefully adjusted Hayes' coat to better protect the Corporal from the increasing chill.

"The men say he hasn't moved all day," she murmured, her trained eye cataloging signs of exhaustion with clinical precision. "That's not normal sleep."

Morrison secured the final corner of their shelter, his hands working with the efficiency of a man accustomed to improvising solutions under impossible conditions. "Anno. Nothing about McKinley is normal. Y’should know that by now."

They completed their task in silence, the rain now drumming against their makeshift roof with increasing insistence. As they prepared to continue on their way, Nurse Lewis hesitated, then quickly tucked one of her clean bandages beneath McKinley's collar, a small buffer against the damp that seemed to seep from every surface.

"Did Lieutenant Winters ever come to check on him?" she asked quietly.

Morrison shook his head. "Not that I've seen. Orders came down to leave him be, but the Lieutenant himself hasn't been through this section all day."

Something complicated passed across her face — concern mixed with disappointment and a flash of anger quickly suppressed. "A real sweetheart, isn’t he?"

They moved on, their bodies unconsciously angled toward each other despite the public setting, two people finding momentary solace in proximity amid the relentless inhumanity of their surroundings.

And through it all — the sketching and writing, the failed napping scheme, the repeated passings of officers, the doctor's check-ins, and the construction of the shelter — Corporal Ruben McKinley slept on, his body claiming by force what his mind would never willingly allow: a temporary escape from the hell that surrounded them all.

The rain continued to fall, beating a syncopated rhythm against Morrison and Lewis's improvised shelter, while the business of war — both its grim necessities and its small, stubbornly human moments — carried on around the slumbering figure of a man whose waking hours contained enough horror to fill a lifetime of nightmares.

The rain had finally spent its fury, trailing off into a sullen drizzle before stopping entirely. Darkness fell swiftly, the sky a vast, impenetrable void without moon or stars to penetrate the lingering cloud cover. The trench settled into the particular quiet of nighttime at the front — not true silence, but rather an absence of immediate chaos, punctuated by distant artillery fire that rumbled like perpetual thunder beyond the horizon.

The improvised shelter over McKinley's sleeping form dripped steadily, water running in rivulets down the corrugated metal. Most of the men had retreated to their dugouts or taken up their night positions, leaving this section of the trench eerily vacant except for the occasional sentry shuffling past with hunched shoulders.

It was in this strange, suspended moment between day and true night that Lieutenant Archie Winters finally appeared, moving with deliberate steps that seemed calculated to minimize the squelching sound of boots in mud. His figure materialized from the shadows like an apparition, the lit cigarette between his lips briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face with each inhale, catching the stark contrast of his mismatched eyes.

Unlike the others who had passed by throughout the day, Winters didn't hesitate or maintain a cautious distance. He approached the Corporal's position with the confidence of a man who had no fear of waking a slumbering predator, his greatcoat buttoned high against the post-rain chill, water still dripping from the brim of his officer's cap.

Winters surveyed the makeshift shelter with clinical interest, noting Morrison and Lewis's handiwork without comment. Then, with casual disregard for protocol and the mud that would surely stain his uniform, he lowered himself to sit beside McKinley. Two figures huddled beneath the improvised roof as water continued to drip rhythmically around them.

For several minutes, Winters simply smoked, the glowing ember of his cigarette brightening and dimming in hypnotic rhythm. His usually rigid posture gradually softened, the day's burden of command momentarily set aside. Archie allowed his head to tilt slightly, coming to rest against Ruben's shoulder.

The contact was brief but deliberate. Winters' eyes remained open, fixed on the opposite wall of the trench, while he finished his cigarette with methodical pulls. When only the smoldering butt remained, he leaned forward with practiced precision to extinguish it in a nearby puddle. The water hissed softly as it swallowed the ember, tendrils of smoke rising briefly before dissipating into the damp air.

The Lieutenant straightened, lifting his head from the man's shoulder. He studied the Corporal's face for a moment, noting the way Hayes' greatcoat had been carefully arranged around him, the bandage Nurse Lewis had tucked beneath his collar, and the other small evidences of care that had accumulated throughout the day.

"That's enough, McKinley," Winters said finally, his voice low and even as he reached to shake the Corporal's shoulder — the touch firm, but not rough. "Time to rejoin the living."

Chapter Text

Ruben came to consciousness with the practiced stillness of a man who'd learned that sudden movements attracted bullets. His eyes opened just enough to register the dim outline of the trench wall before him, the corrugated metal overhead, and the unmistakable presence of another person beside him. He didn't turn his head, kept his breathing measured, his posture slack — assessing his surroundings before committing to full wakefulness.

Awareness filtered back in fragments: the dull ache in his neck, the stiffness in his limbs, the unfamiliar weight of what he now recognized as Hayes' greatcoat draped across his shoulders. He could feel Archie's proximity without looking at him, could sense the Lieutenant's expectant silence. The realization that he'd been asleep — truly asleep — in the open trench sent a flush of something like embarrassment through him, though his face betrayed nothing behind its mask of scar tissue.

He kept his head low, gaze fixed on the sodden earth between his boots. The air between them grew heavy with unspoken words, the silence stretching like a wire pulled taut. When it finally broke, it was Winters who severed it.

"I found you asleep this morning," Winters said without preamble, his voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond their shelter. "Rather than wake you or have you moved, I left you here. Ordered that you be left here, in fact."

He paused, turning slightly to better observe the other’s profile.

"Not as punishment. Not out of malice. To prove a point."

The Lieutenant reached inside his coat, produced a battered tin of cigarettes. He extracted two, placed one between his own lips, then offered the second to McKinley with a gesture that somehow managed to be both a suggestion and an order. The movement was calculated, requiring the other to turn toward him if he wanted to accept.

After a moment's hesitation, Ruben did turn, accepting the cigarette without meeting Winters' gaze. The Lieutenant struck a match, the sudden flare illuminating their faces in harsh relief — Archie’s mismatched eyes, one clouded, one brown, watching intently as Ruben leaned in for the light. The flame caught, tobacco glowed, and for a brief moment, the two men were connected by nothing more than fire and shared necessity.

"Hayes gave you his coat," Winters continued after lighting his own cigarette. "Walsh and Reed spent half an hour detailing you. Morrison and Nurse Lewis built you this shelter. Bull and Blackwood found reason to pass by this section no fewer than eight times today. Fletcher and Hawk risked latrine duty to sit beside you."

He inhaled deeply, then released the smoke in a controlled stream before adding, with uncharacteristic hesitation: "And I deliberately didn't check on you. Not once. Didn't want to diminish the point I was making."

Winters shifted, angling his body to face McKinley directly now, forcing eye contact through sheer proximity rather than command.

"It all proves something. You're cared for — perhaps not in the conventional way, but in a manner distinctly reserved for you. Yes, many don't understand you, many don't want to try — but there are those who do want to understand, whose caution is born of genuine concern, not fear."

He paused, good eye narrowing slightly as he studied the Corporal’s face, checking for any sign that his words were penetrating the man's carefully constructed defenses. Finding what he was looking for — a subtle tension around the eyes, a fractional change in breathing — he pressed on.

"Every soldier in this platoon is looked out for. That's duty. But to be cared for? That's something else entirely. And make no mistake, McKinley — you are cared for. The evidence surrounds you."

Silence descended once more, broken only by the distant crump of artillery and the soft hiss of their cigarettes. Ruben smoked methodically, each drag measured, each exhale controlled, as if even this small pleasure required strict rationing. The trench walls seemed to close in around them, the world beyond their small shelter receding into insignificance.

Archie, still watching the man’s face with unsettling intensity, softened his voice to something barely above a whisper, the sound almost lost beneath the distant thunder of artillery.

"I haven't forgotten what I promised you," he said, clouded eye reflecting the dying glow of his cigarette. "Yorkshire, the hills, the sheep."

He paused, inhaling deeply before continuing. "All that green. Nothing but green as far as the eye can see. Trees that haven't been shelled into splinters. Grass that hasn't been churned into mud or soaked with blood. The sky above, endless." 

Winters continued, the cigarette between his fingers burning dangerously close to his skin, as if he'd forgotten it was there. "A cottage with solid walls. No rats. No lice. Just stone and wood and a fire that burns for warmth, not destruction."

The Lieutenant's words hung between them, fragile and incongruous amid the filth and stench of the trench.

The grotesque division in Ruben’s flesh caught the faint light as he inhaled, the glow illuminating the exposed teeth. His eyes seemed focused on something beyond the trench walls — perhaps the Yorkshire hills Archie described, or perhaps nothing at all.

The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable, but loaded with unspoken complexities. The Corporal’s lack of response wasn't rejection, but in this moment, caught between the harsh reality of their surroundings and the impossible promise of peaceful life, even Ruben seemed uncertain of what response might be appropriate.

Archie didn't press for acknowledgment. He finished his cigarette, crushing it beneath his boot with a finality that seemed to mark the end of this brief respite. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, as if coming to some internal decision, Winters rose to his feet in a motion that belied the hours he'd spent crouching in trenches and dugouts throughout the day. 

He straightened his uniform with practiced efficiency, brushing away what mud he could before extending his hand toward McKinley. "Right," he said, voice regaining its customary authority. "You've been sitting in this filth long enough."

The gesture hung between them — more significant than it appeared on the surface. Officers didn't typically offer hands to enlisted men, not even corporals with reputations like McKinley's. Yet Winters' arm remained steady, mismatched eyes meeting Ruben's, unwavering.

After a moment's hesitation, Ruben reached up with his leather-gloved hand, the material stiff with dried mud and substances best left unidentified. Their hands clasped, and Archie pulled as the other pushed himself upward, legs clearly stiff from remaining in one position for so long. The Corporal swayed slightly, his usual preternatural steadiness compromised by eighteen hours of immobility in the damp cold of the trench.

The Lieutenant didn't comment, nor did he release McKinley's arm immediately, allowing the other man to find his balance. Around them, the trench continued its nighttime routine — distant voices, the occasional flare illuminating No Man's Land, the perpetual drip of water from every surface. The business of war carried on with indifferent persistence.

"Hayes will want his coat back," Winters said finally, stepping back once Ruben seemed steady.

The Corporal’s shoulders straightened, his posture readjusting to its usual vigilant stance despite the lingering stiffness in his limbs. He removed the borrowed greatcoat with careful movements, his fingers working methodically despite their obvious numbness. The garment hung heavy with moisture between his hands, yet he folded it with precision before tucking it under his arm.

"Yorkshire," Ruben said, the single word neither question nor affirmation, but something in between — an acknowledgment of their promise, perhaps, or merely the verbalization of a concept too distant from their current reality to fully comprehend.

Archie nodded once, sharply, as if sealing a pact. "Yorkshire," he confirmed, the word carrying the weight of an oath between them.

Chapter Text

The rain that had plagued the trenches for days evolved into something more sinister as November's grip tightened. What began as a persistent drizzle transformed into icy sheets that sliced through greatcoats and found every seam in a man's uniform. The mud, once merely ankle-deep, now claimed boots with hungry suction, sometimes refusing to relinquish them entirely. Men spoke less, conserved energy more, hunched their shoulders against the relentless cold that seemed to hollow out bones and replace marrow with frost.

When the wind shifted, bringing a biting chill from the north, the veterans exchanged knowing glances. Winter was coming — not the lieutenant, but the season that had claimed more lives last year than any German offensive. The season of trench foot, of pneumonia, of fingers too numb to pull triggers and rations frozen solid in tins.

Supplies became more precious than ammunition. Dry socks were currency. A working lighter could purchase almost any favor. Hot food became a distant memory, replaced by congealed masses that men forced down their throats out of necessity rather than appetite.

It was against this backdrop of deteriorating conditions that the mail arrived — a momentary reprieve from the grinding misery, a tenuous connection to a world where mud didn't infiltrate every orifice and death wasn't measured in yards gained.

The excitement that rippled through the platoon at the appearance of the mail orderly was palpable, though carefully restrained. Men who had stared unblinking at artillery barrages suddenly found themselves unable to maintain composure as letters and packages were distributed. Names were called out, hands reached eagerly, faces fell when passed over.

Lieutenant Winters received his allotment with practiced composure, betraying nothing of the flutter in his chest as the orderly handed him a substantial package along with several letters. He recognized his sister Mary's handwriting immediately.

Archie retreated to his dugout, a slightly more substantial space than what most men enjoyed, though it remained a crude approximation of privacy. The wooden supports groaned under the weight of sodden earth, and canvas sheets did little to prevent the constant dripping that created miniature stalactites of mud from the ceiling.

He set aside the official correspondence — requisition denials, updated duty rosters, the endless bureaucracy of organized slaughter — and focused on Mary's package. The brown paper wrapping was damp at the corners but had protected its contents remarkably well. Inside, nestled in several layers of waxed paper, he found a tin. Opening it revealed a dozen perfectly formed Apple Queen Cakes, their tops glistening with sugar despite the journey.

The scent that escaped the tin was so incongruous with his surroundings that Archie momentarily froze, unprepared for the visceral memory it triggered — his mother's kitchen, harvest time, Mary standing on a stool to reach the countertop, cinnamon and nutmeg hanging in the air. He closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself this momentary indulgence in nostalgia before practicality reasserted itself.

He had just broken one of the cakes in half, revealing the moist interior studded with apple pieces, when a shadow darkened his dugout entrance. Even without looking up, Archie knew who stood there.

"Enter," Winters said, brushing crumbs from his fingers.

Ruben ducked through the low entrance, water streaming from his helmet in rivulets that traced paths through the grime on his face. He carried a folded map case that needed the Lieutenant's attention — requisite paperwork that served as pretext for this visit. The split in his lip seemed particularly raw today, the scar tissue angry in the cold.

The Corporal's gaze flickered to the open tin, a brief, almost imperceptible glance that nonetheless communicated volumes to someone who had learned to read McKinley's minimal expressions. Hunger, curiosity, restraint — all conveyed in that momentary shift of attention.

"My sister sent these," Archie said, gesturing to the tin. "Apple Queen Cakes. Family recipe." He paused, "Have one."

Ruben hesitated, his gloved hand halfway extended toward the paperwork he'd brought. The offer hung between them, significant not for what it was, but for what it represented — a sharing of something personal, something from home.

"That's an order, Corporal," Winters added, his mismatched eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.

With the same mechanical precision he applied to field-stripping a rifle, McKinley removed his right glove, revealing a hand less weathered than his face but marked with its own constellation of scars and calluses. He selected a cake with careful deliberation, as if the choice among identical items somehow mattered.

Archie watched with barely concealed interest as the Corporal brought the cake to his mouth. The first bite was cautious, perfunctory — sustenance evaluated for nutritional value rather than pleasure. But then something shifted in McKinley's demeanor. His jaw slowed its mechanical motion. His eyes, typically alert for threats, unfocused slightly.

The second bite was different — deliberate, almost reverent. The third was savored with closed eyes, an indulgence so out of character that Winters found himself staring openly.

"Good?" Archie asked, though the answer was written plainly across what was visible of McKinley's face.

Ruben nodded once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin. He finished the cake with the same methodical approach he applied to all tasks, but there was something different in his posture now — a subtle relaxation, as if some internal wire had been momentarily loosened.

"Have another," Winters said, pushing the tin toward him. It wasn't charity or pity that motivated the gesture, but a simple human desire to extend this brief moment of normalcy, this small reprieve from the horror that constituted their daily existence.

They ate in companionable silence, the tin gradually emptying between them. Water dripped steadily from a corner of the dugout, forming a puddle that reflected the weak light of Archie's candle. The sounds of the platoon going about its business — cursing, coughing, the endless battle against mud and misery — created a familiar backdrop to their impromptu feast.

When only two cakes remained, Archie carefully closed the tin. "Should save some," he said, though whether for himself or to share with others remained unspecified. He reached for a sheet of paper, smoothing it against his makeshift desk. "Writing back to Mary," he explained, though McKinley hadn't asked. "Thanking her."

Ruben watched as the Lieutenant's pen scratched across the paper, his handwriting as precise and measured as everything else about him. The letter took shape — acknowledgment of the package, news that could pass the censors, inquiries about family members, carefully edited accounts of life at the front that omitted the rats, the corpses, the men who disappeared piece by piece when shells found their mark.

As Winters neared the conclusion of his letter, he looked up, his clouded eye catching the lamplight in a way that made it appear almost luminous. "Anything you'd like me to include?" he asked.

The question hung in the damp air between them, weighted with implication. This wasn't merely about a message to a stranger; it was an invitation to participate in something personal, something outside the rigid structures of military hierarchy.

McKinley's brow furrowed slightly, the deep scar across the bridge of his nose becoming more pronounced with the expression. His gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond Archie's shoulder, as if the appropriate response might be written on the dugout wall.

"Thank her," he said. "For the cakes."

A pause followed, during which the artillery fire intensified somewhere to the north, vibrations running through the earth beneath them. Then, with visible effort, as if the words required physical exertion to produce, Ruben added: "And hello to Charlie."

Archie's pen stilled above the paper, surprise momentarily overtaking his customary reserve. Charlie — his nephew, Mary's son.

"I'll tell them," Winters said simply, adding the message to his letter before signing off.

As he sealed the envelope, Ruben rose to his feet. He had duties to attend to, as did Archie, their brief respite from war's machinery coming to its inevitable end.

The Corporal was gone, melding into the dreary tableau of the trench. Winters remained at his desk, the scent of apples and cinnamon already fading beneath the persistent reek of damp earth and cordite.

He added Mary's letter to the outgoing mail pouch, then turned his attention to the duty roster. The war, like the weather, showed no signs of abating. Men needed to be assigned positions, supplies needed to be inventoried, and death needed to be managed with the same efficiency as any other aspect of military operation — yet even so, the taste of home still lingered on his tongue.

Chapter Text

The commotion began with the thunderous arrival of Sergeant Morrison, his boots squelching through the mud with such force that Archie heard him long before he appeared at the dugout entrance. The Scot's face was a violent shade of crimson that clashed spectacularly with his dark hair, which seemed to bristle with indignation.

"LIEUTENANT!" Morrison bellowed, his Scottish brogue thickening with distress as it always did. "Some bampot has gone and DESTROYED THE TRENCH DECCA!" He held the gramophone's mangled horn in one hand, its brass surface dented beyond recognition. "Who would do such a thing!? It's a bloody CATASTROPHE, SIR!"

Behind Morrison stood Nurse Violet, her uniform splattered with mud up to her knees, her normally composed features pinched with frustration. "I found him like this, Lieutenant," she explained, gesturing to the apoplectic sergeant. "He was causing such a scene that Dr. Hayes sent me to escort him before he gave the entire medical tent a collective heart attack."

Winters set aside the report he'd been reviewing and stood, straightening his uniform with practiced precision. The gramophone had been one of the few luxuries the men enjoyed, a rare connection to something resembling civilization in the midst of their barbaric existence.

"The Decca," the Lieutenant repeated, his good eye examining the damaged horn. "When was it last functioning properly?"

"Last night!" Morrison's voice cracked with emotion. "We were playin' that lovely Chopin piece — the one that doesn't make me want tae stick my bayonet in my ears — and this mornin' I find it like this! Smashed to bits like some worthless piece o' rubbish!"

Archie studied the damaged equipment, then nodded decisively. "Gather the men. Everyone who's not on watch or otherwise engaged in essential duties. We'll address this immediately."

Within twenty minutes, the available members of the platoon stood in the relative shelter of a partially collapsed storage bunker, the only space large enough to accommodate them all without exposing them to potential sniper fire. They huddled together, a collection of mud-caked uniforms eyeing the broken gramophone that Winters had placed on an ammunition crate at the center of their impromptu gathering.

Corporal McKinley positioned himself at the edge of the group, his back against the damp earthen wall. Only the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed any interest in the proceedings.

The Lieutenant waited until the murmuring subsided before speaking. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice even and measured, "and Nurse Lewis," he added with a respectful nod in her direction. "I've called you here to address a serious matter. The Trench Decca has been damaged beyond repair."

"I'm not interested in punishing anyone," he continued, gaze sweeping across the gathered faces. "But I do need to know who's responsible. The gramophone was a shared resource, and its destruction affects us all."

Silence descended, thick and uncomfortable.

"I'm not angry," Archie clarified. "But whoever did this needs to step forward."

Private Walsh was the first to break the silence, his face contorting with accusation as he jabbed a finger toward Private Reed. "It was you, wasn't it? Always complaining about the music selection, sayin' it wasn't refined enough for your delicate ears!"

Reed's posture stiffened, his high education evident in every syllable as he responded, "That's a completely unfounded accusation, Walsh. If anyone harbored resentment toward that device, it was you. Your persistent requests for that abominable ragtime music were becoming rather tiresome."

"Bollocks!" Walsh spat, taking a step forward. "You couldn't stand that the rest of us got a vote! Had to take matters into your own hands, didn't you?"

Lieutenant Blackwood, who had been silently observing from beneath the brim of his mud-spattered cap, cleared his throat. "If I may, sir," he addressed Winters, "I couldn't help but notice Sergeant Major Bull expressing considerable frustration with the volume yesterday evening. Said something about 'silencing that infernal racket', as I recall."

Bull's reaction was immediate and volcanic. The massive Sergeant Major's face darkened to a dangerous shade as he rounded on Blackwood. "Are you suggestin' I destroyed military property, sir? Because that's a serious accusation comin' from an officer who spends more time polishin' his boots than leadin' men!"

"I merely observed—" Blackwood began, but Bull was just warming up.

"I've been in this man's army longer than you've been wipin' your own arse, Lieutenant!" Bull roared, his barrel chest expanding. "I don't destroy equipment; I keep these sorry excuses for soldiers in line while you play at being an officer!"

From the corner, Private Tommy Fletcher nudged Private Hawk. "Ten quid says it was Cohen," he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. "Always fiddling with things, isn't he? Probably tried to 'improve' it and cocked it up instead."

Hawk nodded sagely. "Wouldn't be the first time his sticky fingers made a mess of things."

Private Cohen’s youthful face reddened as he whirled to face his accusers. "That's rich coming from you two! Everyone knows you've been hoarding cigarettes. Probably broke it trying to barter for more from the supply sergeant!"

Morrison, who had been growing increasingly agitated as the accusations flew, suddenly thrust himself into the center of the group. "It disnae matter who did it! What matters is my beautiful Decca is destroyed!" His accent thickened with each word, becoming nearly incomprehensible as he rounded on Dr. Hayes. "Was it you, Doc? You were always complainin' it was too loud for your patients!"

Dr. Hayes, the man whose Cockney upbringing had gifted him with an extensive vocabulary of colorful language, didn't disappoint. "Are you off your fuckin' rocker, mate? Why would I break the only thing that drowns out the sound of you whinin' all bloody day?" The doctor's face contorted with indignation. "I'm tryin' to keep you sorry lot alive while you're accusin' me of vandalism? That’s real rich, real fuckin’ rich!"

Nurse Violet attempted to intervene, positioning herself between the increasingly irate doctor and sergeant. "Gentlemen, please! This isn't helping anyone!"

As the argument intensified, Ruben pressed himself further against the wall, his discomfort palpable. The Corporal had never been one for confrontation outside of combat, and the escalating hostilities clearly unsettled him. Lieutenant Winters observed the chaos with detached interest, making no move to quell the rising tide of accusations. 

Walsh and Reed were now standing nose to nose, exchanging increasingly elaborate insults. 

Bull had backed Blackwood against a support beam, jabbing a meaty finger into the lieutenant's chest with each syllable of his tirade. 

Fletcher and Hawk had formed an unlikely alliance with Cohen to confront Morrison, whose Scottish brogue had devolved into something barely recognizable as English. 

Dr. Hayes was unleashing a torrent of profanity that would have made a seasoned sailor blush, while Nurse Violet tried valiantly to restore order.

When the shouting reached a crescendo, with threats of violence beginning to pepper the exchanges, Archie casually made his way to where McKinley stood. Without a word, he gestured for the Corporal to follow him outside.

The relative quiet of the trench was a stark contrast to the cacophony they left behind. Archie led Ruben around a bend, ensuring they were out of earshot before stopping. He extracted a battered cigarette case from his pocket, offered one to the other man, then took one for himself.

The familiar ritual of lighting their cigarettes occupied a few moments of silence. Smoke curled between them, mingling with the ever-present mist that hung over the trenches.

"I broke it," Winters said finally, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were commenting on the weather.

McKinley’s expression didn't change, but his pale eyes fixed on Archie's face.

"It kept skipping during Crosby's 'Let Me Call You Sweetheart'," the Lieutenant continued, examining the ember of his cigarette. "Third time it happened, I may have... applied excessive force in an attempt to correct the issue."

The Corporal took a long drag of his cigarette, the split in his lip creating a small gap through which smoke escaped. He said nothing, his silence neither judgment nor absolution.

"When it became apparent I'd rendered it irreparable, I determined it would be more beneficial for morale if someone else were believed responsible." Archie's mismatched gaze met Ruben's. "Better they direct their frustration at an unknown culprit than lose faith in their commanding officer."

The other considered this, then nodded once — a barely perceptible movement that nonetheless conveyed understanding.

"Good," Winters said, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Perhaps we can requisition a replacement. Something better. The sound quality was abysmal anyway."

They stood in companionable silence, smoking their cigarettes as the distant sounds of the continuing argument drifted toward them. Neither man seemed particularly troubled by the discord they'd left in their wake.

"Think they'll sort it out?" Archie asked, flicking ash from his cigarette.

Ruben exhaled a stream of smoke before answering. "Eventually."

Chapter Text

Reed and Walsh trudged through the muddy trench, each bent under the weight of a sandbag slung over their shoulders. Their faces were streaked with dirt and sweat, their breaths coming in labored puffs that clouded in the early morning chill. Behind them stretched a line of similar bags, already positioned along the fire-step – the fruits of their morning labor.

"If you'd just adjust your grip," Reed muttered, his Oxford-polished voice notably strained, "you wouldn't struggle so with the weight distribution. There's a proper technique to these things."

Walsh rolled his eyes, shifting the coarse burlap higher on his shoulder. The sand inside shifted, threatening to spill through a small tear near the corner. "There's a proper technique to shutting your gob too, but you've never mastered that one, have you?"

"I'm merely suggesting—"

"You're merely being a ponce," Walsh cut in, wincing as a particular deep puddle sent brown water splashing up his already sodden puttees. "Three hours we've been at this, and three hours you've been telling me how I'm doing it wrong. Yet somehow, magical as it seems, I've carried just as many bags as you have."

Reed sniffed, his nostrils flaring slightly. "Lieutenant Blackwood specifically instructed us to reinforce this section properly. Properly, Walsh. Not haphazardly tossing sand wherever it lands."

"Blackwood just wanted us out of his hair," Walsh grumbled. "Man couldn't care less about proper technique. He just wanted someone else to blame if Fritz decides to drop a few more shells on this section."

They rounded a corner, Reed still pontificating about the importance of precisely overlapping the sandbags to create maximum protection against shell fragments, when they nearly collided with a small cluster of men huddled at the junction of two communication trenches.

"Watch it!" hissed Tommy Fletcher. He didn't turn around, just raised a silencing hand.

Walsh opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark, but something in the tense posture of the gathered men made him pause. He recognized several backs – there was Hawk's broad shoulders, unmistakable even under layers of muddy uniform; Cohen's slight frame, always seeming too small for the war around him; and several others from their company.

"What's happening?" Reed whispered, for once abandoning his lecturing tone.

Tommy merely jerked his chin forward, indicating they should look for themselves. With a shared glance of curiosity, Reed and Walsh dropped their sandbags with synchronized thuds and squeezed between the mud-encrusted bodies of their comrades.

At the center of the gathering, Corporal McKinley and Lieutenant Winters stood facing each other, locked in what appeared to be a tense disagreement. Their voices were low but carrying enough for those nearest to catch fragments of their exchange. A crude map had been scratched into the mud wall between them, with various lines and markings that seemed to indicate patrol routes.

"With respect, Lieutenant," McKinley was saying, his voice as level and impassive as ever despite the evident disagreement, "sending men through this section exposes them unnecessarily." 

His gloved finger traced a particular line on the mud-etched map, the leather worn thin at the fingertips. "Fritz has machine gun nests positioned here and here. We confirmed it during yesterday's reconnaissance."

Archie's mismatched eyes narrowed, his jaw set beneath the ever-present shadow of stubble. "I'm well aware of the Jerry positions, Corporal," he replied, his clipped tones carrying the edge of frustration. "The intelligence we received indicates their attention will be diverted by artillery fire to the north. The window will be narrow but sufficient."

"Intelligence," the Corporal repeated, the single word somehow conveying volumes of skepticism without his scarred face changing expression. "The same intelligence that promised us reinforcements three weeks ago?"

A muscle twitched in Winters' cheek. The Lieutenant leaned closer to the map, his finger jabbing at an alternative route. "Your suggestion requires crossing two hundred yards of open ground. Even in darkness, that's suicide."

"Not open," McKinley countered, his split lip giving his words a distinctive, soft whistle. "There's a drainage ditch that runs parallel to the line. It provides cover for most of the approach. I've been through it myself."

One man nudged a comrade with his elbow. "Been a while since I've seen the Corporal push back like this," he whispered. "Must really think the Lieutenant's route is bollocks."

The other shushed him as Winters' voice rose slightly.

"The drainage ditch floods with every rainfall," the Lieutenant argued, gesturing to the perpetually leaking sky above them. "It's been raining for three days straight. Your 'cover' is likely underwater and impassable."

"It wasn't twelve hours ago," Ruben stated flatly, his pale eyes unflinching as they met Winters' mismatched gaze. "I checked it personally while you were at the command meeting."

A brief flicker of surprise crossed Archie's face. "You went out alone?"

"Wouldn't ask to go where I haven't been," McKinley responded simply.

Archie's expression hardened again as he straightened. "Your dedication is noted, Corporal. However, the patrol routes have been approved by Captain Reynolds. We move through sector four as planned."

Ruben's posture didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened. "Then I'll take point."

"You most certainly will not," Winters countered immediately, his voice dropping to ensure only those closest could hear. "You've been on three consecutive night patrols. You're needed here to coordinate the next rotation."

"With respect," the Corporal repeated, the phrase now carrying a subtle edge, "if men are going to die following orders, I should be the first in line."

The air between them grew charged with an unspoken history.

"That's not your call to make, Corporal," Archie said finally. "You have your orders."

The standoff between Winters and McKinley continued for several more seconds, neither man willing to break eye contact first. It was a familiar dance to those who had served with them longest. Their mutual respect was evident even in disagreement, forged in the crucible of trenches that had consumed so many others.

Finally, Ruben gave a barely perceptible nod. "Understood, Lieutenant." The words were compliance without submission, acknowledgment without agreement.

Archie's shoulders relaxed fractionally. He turned to the gathered men, his expression sharpening as he noticed their audience for the first time. "Don't you lot have duties to attend to? Private Fletcher, Hawk — you're on the patrol roster tonight. Suggest you prepare your equipment."

The crowd dispersed quickly, none wanting to be singled out further. As Reed and Walsh hefted their burdens once more, they caught a final glimpse of the Lieutenant and Corporal. Winters had moved closer to McKinley, speaking in tones too low to hear.

"War makes strange bedfellows," Reed murmured as they resumed their labors.

Walsh grunted in agreement. "I'll tell you this much — if I'm going over the top, I want both of them leading the way. They may bicker like an old married couple, but they're the only ones who seem to give a shite if we live or die."

Reed didn't argue the point. For once, they were in perfect agreement.

Chapter Text

The evening hung heavy with the pungent blend of chloroform, carbolic acid, and human misery. Nurse Violet Lewis moved with practiced efficiency between the wounded men in the aid station, her apron stained with the evidence of her calling. Blood — fresh and old — mingled with iodine and various bodily fluids in a macabre watercolor that marked her as clearly as any uniform.

The young nurse paused briefly by a cot where a soldier lay shivering despite the woolen blanket tucked around him. His face bore the gray pallor of impending death, but she maintained her professional composure as she checked his dressings, her movements gentle yet precise.

"Think the bastard’ll make it through the night, Lewis?" Dr. Hayes appeared at her shoulder, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. The doctor's eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, his hands trembling slightly from the combination of fatigue and the endless cups of thick, bitter coffee that sustained the medical staff.

Violet straightened, tucking a stray curl back beneath her cap. "I don't believe so, sir," she replied. "The infection has reached his bloodstream. I've given him morphine for the pain."

Hayes nodded, his expression grim but unsurprised. Another name for the growing list. Another letter to write. Another life extinguished in this senseless meat grinder. "You've been on duty since dawn. Take an hour, yeah? That's an order."

She opened her mouth to protest, but the doctor raised a hand to silence her. "The wounded will still be here when you return, I can promise you that. God knows we won't run short of work." A ghost of a smile crossed his bearded, haggard face. "And I believe the Sergeant was asking after you earlier. Summit about the gramophone?"

A flush crept up Violet's neck at the mention of the Scottish sergeant, though she maintained her professional demeanor. "I believe the men are still quite distraught over the destruction of the Trench Decca, sir. Sergeant Morrison was likely inquiring if the medical unit had any music to share."

"Mm," Hayes hummed noncommittally, though a knowing glint appeared in his eyes. "Quite specific in his inquiries about your whereabouts for a man merely seeking musical entertainment, innit?"

Violet busied herself with straightening the already-neat instruments on her tray. "I'm sure I couldn't say, sir."

"Go," the man repeated, softer this time. "An hour, Lewis."

With a grateful nod, Violet removed her apron, placing it carefully on a hook near the medical supplies. She straightened her uniform, aware of the futility of trying to look presentable in this place where mud permeated everything, from boots to bedding. Still, she made the effort.

Outside, the early evening air bit with unexpected sharpness after the stifling confines of the aid station. Violet pulled her wool coat tighter around her, navigating the duckboards that served as walkways through the labyrinth of trenches. She nodded to the men she passed, many of whom brightened visibly at the sight of her.

"Nurse Lewis!" Private Tommy Fletcher called out from where he sat. "If you're looking for the Sergeant, he's by the new stores dugout."

Violet paused, her expression carefully neutral despite the knowing grin on Fletcher's face. "I wasn't aware I was looking for anyone in particular, Tommy."

"Course not, Nurse," Fletcher agreed readily, his grin widening. "But if you were — hypothetically speaking, like — he mentioned something about having salvaged summit from the rubble of the old communications dugout."

Beside him, Private Hawk snorted without looking up from the letter he was writing. "Subtle as a shell blast."

"I don't know what you mean," Fletcher replied with exaggerated innocence. "I'm just being helpful, aren't I, Nurse?"

Violet shook her head, unable to completely suppress the smile tugging at her lips. "Your helpfulness is noted, Private Fletcher. Perhaps you might redirect some of that energy toward keeping your wound dressings clean? The last time you reported to sick call, your bandages were positively black with trench mud."

Fletcher had the good grace to look abashed. "Yes, Nurse. Sorry, Nurse."

With a nod that was both acknowledgment and farewell, Violet continued on her way, ignoring the whispered comments and poorly concealed chuckles that followed her departure. The men's teasing was good-natured, she knew — a welcome distraction from the omnipresent specter of death that hung over them all.

She found Morrison exactly where Tommy had indicated, though he wasn't immediately visible. The stocky Sergeant was half-buried in a stack of supply crates, muttering curses in Gaelic.

"I do hope those aren't official military supplies you're manhandling, Sergeant," Violet called softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach him without alerting anyone else to her presence.

Morrison's head snapped up so quickly he smacked it against a wooden beam, eliciting another colorful string of profanity. Rubbing the emerging lump, he emerged from the supplies, his weathered face breaking into a lopsided grin that made Violet's heart perform a distinctly unprofessional flutter.

"Miss Violet," he greeted. "I was beginning to think you'd been evacuated to a proper hospital without sayin’ goodbye."

"Dr. Hayes granted me an hour's reprieve," she explained, acutely aware of how precious such time was — and how improper it might seem to spend it in the company of a sergeant. But propriety, like so many other peacetime conventions, had been one of the first casualties of this war. "Fletcher mentioned you might have salvaged something?"

The man’s eyes — a warm brown that reminded Violet of the whisky her father favored — lit with boyish excitement. "Aye, that I have. Come see." He gestured for her to follow him deeper into the dugout, away from casual observation.

In a small alcove at the back, partially concealed by stacked ammunition boxes, Morrison had created what could only be described as a pathetic attempt at comfort. A crate served as a makeshift table, covered with a relatively clean handkerchief. Upon it sat two chipped enamel mugs and — most surprisingly — a small, battered music box.

"Found it in what was left of Lieutenant Blackwood’s dugout after that last shelling," Morrison explained, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Gramophone might be beyond repair, but this wee beauty survived." He gestured to the humble setup with a flourish worthy of a maître d' at a fine Paris restaurant. "S’not much, but..."

"It's wonderful," Violet said softly, genuinely touched by the effort he'd made.

Morrison grinned, pleased by her reaction. He reached into his pocket and produced a small tin.

"And that's not all. Sergeant Major received a package from home yesterday — chocolate. Real chocolate, mind you, not that waxy stuff from the rations." He opened the tin to reveal two small squares of dark chocolate, clearly broken from a larger bar. "Cost me my rum ration for the week and a promise to take his next two night watches, but worth every drop and minute."

Violet raised an eyebrow, both impressed and concerned. "You bartered away your rum? And volunteered for additional night duty? Sergeant, that's—"

"Worth it," he interrupted firmly, pulling a crate forward for her to sit on. "Now come, jo, sit before your hour disappears. Chocolate's not gettin’ any fresher!"

With a small laugh that felt foreign to her throat, Violet settled onto the offered seat. Morrison took his place opposite her, winding the small music box with careful fingers that seemed too large and calloused for such delicate work.

When he released the mechanism, a tinny but recognizable rendition of "Loch Lomond" filled their little sanctuary. His eyes met hers across the makeshift table, and something passed between them — something that had no place in war, yet persisted nonetheless, as stubborn as the wildflowers that somehow bloomed amid the shell craters of No Man's.

"To better days," Morrison said quietly, raising his mug in a toast. Violet hadn't noticed him pouring the tea — a weak, lukewarm brew that nonetheless smelled like heaven compared to the usual fare.

"To surviving until we see them," she responded, tapping her mug gently against his.

They sipped in companionable silence for a moment, letting the tinkling notes of the music box wash over them. It was almost possible, in that moment, to forget where they were — to imagine instead that they sat in some quaint tea shop, with nothing more pressing to discuss than the weather or local gossip.

Almost.

"I heard about Wilson," Morrison said after a while, his voice gentle. "Cohen said you were with him when he passed."

Violet nodded, her fingers tightening around the mug. "He spoke of his mother at the end. Asked me to write to her." She swallowed hard. "I did. Last night. Told her he was brave and didn't suffer." The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but it was a mercy she couldn't regret. Wilson had died screaming, delirious with fever, convinced that rats were eating him alive. His mother didn't need to know that.

"You're a good woman, Violet," Morrison said softly, reaching across to cover her hand with his. The use of her Christian name was an intimacy greater than the touch, though both sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the damp chill of the dugout.

"And you're a decent man, Morrison," she replied, allowing herself the same liberty. "A rarity in this place."

He smiled at that, though sadness lingered in his eyes. "I try. God knows it gets harder by the day." He squeezed her hand gently before releasing it. "Now, eat your chocolate ‘fore I change my mind and devour both pieces meself."

Violet picked up the small square, holding it to her nose to inhale the rich aroma before taking a tiny bite. The taste exploded on her tongue — sweet, bitter, complex — a shock to senses that had grown accustomed to the bland monotony of military rations. She closed her eyes involuntarily, savoring the moment.

When she opened them again, she found Morrison watching her with an expression that made her cheeks warm despite the chill.

"You've chocolate on your lip," he murmured, leaning forward slightly.

Time seemed to suspend itself in that moment — the war, the trenches, the propriety that should have kept them at arm's length, all temporarily forgotten, and Violet found herself leaning toward him as well.

The sudden clearing of a throat at the entrance to their alcove shattered the moment. They jerked apart like guilty schoolchildren, Violet hastily wiping her mouth as Morrison shot to his feet with such force that he nearly upended their makeshift table.

Private Cohen stood awkwardly in the gap between the ammunition boxes, his expression apologetic but urgent.

"Begging your pardon, Nurse, Sergeant," he mumbled, studiously looking at a point somewhere above their heads. "Dr. Hayes sent me to fetch you, Nurse Lewis. Casualty clearing station just got word — incoming wounded from a patrol. Stretcher bearers already on their way back."

The brief respite evaporated like morning mist under shellfire. Violet was on her feet immediately, professionalism reasserting itself. "How many?"

"At least six, from what they're saying. One critical. They ran into a machine gun nest." Cohen shifted uncomfortably.

Violet was already moving, pausing only to give Morrison a regretful look. "Thank you for this, Sergeant. It was... a welcome respite."

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. As she turned to leave, he caught her hand briefly. "Miss Violet," he said quietly, too low for Cohen to hear. "Same time tomorrow? If y’can get away?"

She shouldn't make such promises. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring — how many wounded, how many dying, how many hours she'd spend on her feet trying to piece broken men back together with inadequate supplies and exhausted hands. But looking into his hopeful face, she found herself nodding.

"I'll try," she whispered, squeezing his fingers once before pulling away.

As she followed Cohen back through the warren of trenches toward the aid station, the music box's faint melody faded behind her, replaced by the familiar sounds of war — distant shellfire, the groans of wounded men, shouted orders, the squelch of boots through mud. The chocolate's sweetness lingered on her tongue, a fleeting reminder.

And despite the horror that awaited her at the aid station — the blood and the screams and the decisions about who might be saved and who was beyond help — Violet found herself holding tight to the promise of tomorrow's stolen hour, like a talisman against the darkness.

After all, in this place where life was measured in minutes rather than years, what were such small improprieties compared to the mercy of finding something — someone — worth living for?

As she approached the aid station, she could already hear Dr. Hayes barking orders, could see the stretcher bearers trudging through the mud with their grim burdens. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stepped back into her role as Nurse Lewis, leaving Violet — with her chocolate-stained lips and quickened pulse — behind in a dugout with a Scottish sergeant and a music box playing "Loch Lomond."

The war would not wait, not even for love.

Chapter Text

The hospital ward lay in a state of suspended chaos, a battlefield of its own where Doctor Hayes waged war against infection, gangrene, and the creeping specter of death. The stench of putrefaction mingled with harsh antiseptic, creating a miasma that clung to everything — the canvas walls, the wooden supports, even the skin beneath their uniforms. Outside, rain drummed an endless percussion on the tent roof, occasionally broken by the distant thud of artillery that made the wounded flinch even in their morphine dreams.

Hayes' hands moved with mechanical precision as he changed Private Simmons’ dressings, revealing the mangled remains of what had once been a young man's leg. The wound wept a yellowish fluid that spoke of infection taking hold despite his best efforts. Three days, perhaps four, before sepsis claimed another life.

"Not looking good, is it?" Nurse Violet asked softly, appearing at his side with fresh bandages. Her voice was steady, though the shadows beneath her eyes spoke of sleepless nights and too many last rites administered.

"Never does," the doctor replied, pressing his fingers against Simmons’ neck to check his pulse. The skin felt hot, feverish. "This one's burnin' up. Cold compresses when you can spare ‘em."

They worked in silence for several minutes, their movements a well-rehearsed dance around the narrow cot. Violet's hands were nearly as steady as his own, though significantly cleaner. She'd somehow maintained that impossible discipline — washing between patients despite the chronic water shortages, changing her apron when it became too soaked with blood and other fluids. Small rituals of sanity in their world of madness.

When Simmons’ bandages were changed and his fever temporarily soothed, Hayes slumped onto a nearby stool, fishing in his pocket for cigarettes. He offered one to Violet, who accepted with a nod of thanks. The ritual was as familiar as breathing — a brief moment of respite between storms.

"Heard about Corporal James," Violet said after lighting her cigarette, her voice carefully neutral. "They've sent him to Craiglockhart."

Hayes exhaled smoke through his nostrils, watching it dissipate into the already fetid air. "Aye. Safer for everyone, I reckon."

His thoughts drifted to Lucky — James — his mind catching on the man's easy grin and ready laugh. The last to complain about the conditions that would have broken lesser men. Until they did break him.

"Strange, that," Hayes mused, his voice dropping lower as they moved away from the row of sleeping patients. "Never would've pegged him as the one to crack. Always seemed... resilient."

Violet's hands stilled on the supply tray she was arranging. "You can never tell with shell shock. It's not always the quiet ones or the nervous ones. Sometimes it's the strongest that fall hardest."

Hayes nodded, watching her from the corner of his eye. There was something in her tone — a knowing that went beyond professional observation. Her fingers sorted through rolls of bandages with practiced efficiency, but there was tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there moments before.

"Knew a bloke like him, back in the early days," Hayes continued, testing his suspicion. "Always joking, always ready with a smoke or a kind word. Saw him at Loos, during the first gas attack. Never seen someone change so completely."

Violet's eyes remained fixed on her work, but her voice softened almost imperceptibly. "What happened to him?"

"Survived, last I heard. Not sure what became of him after they sent him back." the doctor tapped ash from his cigarette into a tin can. "Lucky, though — he was different. Had something drivin’ him. Purpose, maybe."

A wounded soldier moaned from the far end of the tent, and Violet moved to attend to him, her back straight and professional once more. Hayes watched her go, noting the careful way she composed her features before reaching the patient's bedside.

When she returned, he was still sitting on the stool, contemplating the dregs of his cigarette.

"Y’know," he said casually, "I always thought Lucky was hiding summit. Man that cheery in this hellhole? Had to be covering for something, yeah?"

The nurse’s hands paused minutely in their sorting of surgical instruments. "Most men are hiding something here, Doctor. It's how they survive."

"True enough." Hayes stood, wincing as his knees protested. "Just odd, the way he lost it. Going after McKinley like that. Never showed any animosity before."

He watched her face carefully, saw the slight tightening around her mouth. Interesting.

"Well," he continued, "perhaps Lucky'll find some peace at Craiglockhart. I hear they've got gardens there. Real beds. Proper meals."

"It's still a hospital for broken men," Violet replied, her tone sharpening slightly. "The food may be better, but the nightmares remain the same."

Hayes raised an eyebrow. "Y’sound like you've seen it."

She met his gaze then, steady and unblinking. "My brother was there. Before..." She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. Before the war claimed him anyway, one way or another.

"I'm sorry," Hayes offered, and meant it. God knew they'd all lost someone. The world was drowning in grief.

Violet nodded once, acknowledging his sympathy without inviting further discussion. Her hands resumed their work, but Hayes had seen enough to confirm his suspicion.

They fell back into silence, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the eternal patter of rain on canvas. Another shell burst in the distance, closer this time. Several patients stirred restlessly in their cots, trapped in dreams of fire and noise that never truly left them.

"Wonder if he'll write," the older man said finally, unable to let the subject drop entirely. "Lucky, I mean. Heard some of them do, once they're settled."

"Perhaps," Violet replied, her voice carefully controlled. "Though I doubt anyone here would receive such correspondence."

Hayes watched her for a long moment. "You'd be surprised who keeps in touch with whom, Lewis. This war makes strange connections between folk."

She met his eyes briefly, something flickering in her gaze — warning, perhaps, or simple recognition that he was probing too close to a subject she wished to avoid.

"Indeed it does, Doctor," she said finally. "Strange and often dangerous connections."

Before he could respond, a commotion at the tent entrance drew their attention. Two stretcher-bearers staggered in, carrying a man whose entire torso was a mass of blood and torn fabric. The moment passed, swallowed by the immediate emergency of new casualties.

But that night, as Hayes sat alone in his quarters, the memory of Violet's face when Lucky's name was mentioned returned to him. He'd seen that look before — in the eyes of wives receiving telegrams, in the faces of men who'd lost their brothers to the endless hunger of the front lines. It was the look of someone carrying a weight they couldn't share, a connection they couldn't acknowledge.

On impulse, he pulled out a sheet of paper and a stub of pencil. He began to write, the words flowing more easily than he'd expected:

Dear Lucky (he crossed this out, replacing it with the more formal) Corporal James,

I trust this letter finds you recovering at Craiglockhart. The ward is quieter without your particular brand of optimism, though I cannot say I miss your tendency to tear open freshly-stitched wounds with your reckless antics.

He paused, considering his next words carefully.

Morrison still counts his pins and makes his maps. I still patch up bodies that shouldn't be salvageable. The war continues its grinding march, as it always has.

Hayes tapped the pencil against his teeth, debating whether to mention Violet. Something held him back — an unspoken code of privacy that even the intimacy of war couldn't quite breach.

I've seen many men break under the strain of this place, Corporal. It is no reflection on your character or courage. The mind, like the body, can only endure so much trauma before requiring intervention.

The nurses and doctors at Craiglockhart are among the finest. I've corresponded with several of their staff regarding treatment methodologies. You're in good hands, though I expect you'll find their methods peculiar at first. Try to cooperate, if you can. Their objective is your recovery, however strange their approach may seem.

He signed the letter with his usual brisk signature, folded it carefully, and addressed the envelope. The hospital's name looked strange in his untidy scrawl — Craiglockhart War Hospital, Edinburgh. A place of ghosts and broken minds, where men like Lucky might find healing or might simply learn to mask their fractures more effectively.

Hayes tucked the envelope into his pocket, uncertain if he would actually send it. The front lines had a way of making such gestures seem simultaneously crucial and utterly meaningless. What good were words on paper?

Still, he couldn't shake the image of Lucky — always ready with a joke or a smoke, always finding the silver lining in their blood-soaked existence — now confined to a hospital for the mentally wounded. The thought left a hollow feeling in his chest, like the absence of pain after a limb has been amputated.

The next morning, Dr Hayes found Violet changing Private Simmons’ dressings, her movements efficient despite the obvious deterioration in the young man's condition. The yellowish discharge had increased, and the skin around the wound had taken on the mottled appearance that invariably preceded sepsis.

"He'll need monitoring through the night," he noted, examining the infection's progress. "Though I doubt it will make much difference."

The young nurse nodded, her face composed but her eyes revealing the fatigue of too many lost battles. "I'll stay with him."

"I can take the first shift," Hayes offered, surprising himself. "Got some paperwork to catch up on anyway. Might as well do it where I can keep an eye on him."

She glanced at him, a flicker of gratitude crossing her features. "Thank you, Doctor."

As they worked side by side, he found himself thinking again about Lucky and the peculiar intensity with which Violet had reacted to the mention of his name. It was none of his business, of course. Personal entanglements were common enough in this environment, where death loomed so close that traditional social boundaries often dissolved.

"I was thinking," he began casually, "of writing to James. To Lucky. Let him know how things are progressing here."

Violet's hands continued their methodical work, betraying no reaction. "That's very thoughtful, sir."

"Thought it might help his recovery, knowing life goes on here. That he hasn't been forgotten." Hayes watched her face carefully. "Unless you think that might be counterproductive?"

She met his gaze directly, her eyes revealing nothing. "I'm sure any correspondence from familiar faces would be welcome."

"Do you know much about Craiglockhart?" he pressed, unable to help himself. "Beyond what you mentioned about your brother?"

A slight tension appeared in her shoulders, but her voice remained steady. "Only that it specializes in soldiers suffering from neurasthenia — shell shock. They use talking cures, I believe. Encourage the men to face their fears rather than suppress them."

"Sounds unconventional," the doctor remarked. "But then, conventional methods haven't exactly proven effective for these cases."

The young woman nodded, finishing with Simmons’ bandages and straightening up. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I need to check on Corporal Taylor. His fever was rising earlier."

She moved away before he could respond, leaving Hayes to contemplate the careful way she'd avoided any personal connection to their conversation about Lucky. It confirmed his suspicion that there was history there — something beyond the professional relationship between a nurse and the men she treated.

That evening, as promised, Hayes took the first watch over Private Simmons. The ward was as quiet as it ever got, filled with the restless shifting of wounded men and the occasional whimper of pain or fear. He sat at a small desk near Simmons’ cot, the letter to Lucky laid out before him.

He'd made several additions throughout the day, jotting down details about the regiment's movements, about the weather, about the small, mundane aspects of trench life that might provide Lucky with a sense of continuity. He'd deliberately avoided mentioning Violet, though the temptation to probe that connection remained strong.

Just as he was preparing to seal the envelope, a soft voice broke into his thoughts.

"If you're writing to him, you might include that the weather's been favorable for the spring planting."

Dr Hayes looked up to find Violet standing beside him, her expression unreadable in the dim light. She held out a small package wrapped in brown paper.

"And perhaps you could include this," she added. "Just some cigarettes and chocolate. Things that might remind him of home."

Hayes accepted the package without comment, though questions burned on his tongue.

"Of course," he said finally. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

Nurse Violet nodded once, her eyes dropping to the letter. "Thank you, Doctor." She hesitated, then added, "He's not a bad man. Whatever happened... it wasn't him. Not really."

Before he could respond, she'd moved away, disappearing into the shadows at the far end of the ward. Hayes looked down at the package in his hands, then at the letter laid out on the desk. After a moment's consideration, he added a postscript:

P.S. The spring weather has been favorable for planting. Thought you might appreciate these small comforts from home.

He carefully tucked the package into a larger envelope, sealed both, and addressed them to Corporal James at Craiglockhart. As he did so, he couldn't help wondering what connections existed between Lucky and Violet — what untold stories lay beneath the surface of their interactions?

But those were questions for another time, perhaps for a world beyond this one. For now, all that mattered was that somewhere in Edinburgh, a broken man might receive a small reminder that he hadn't been forgotten.

The doctor tucked the package into his coat pocket, intending to hand it to the mail orderly in the morning. But as the night wore on and Private Simmons’ condition deteriorated further, requiring more of his attention, he found himself reconsidering.

How would Lucky receive such correspondence? Would it help his recovery, or would it drag him back into the nightmare he was presumably trying to escape? And what of Violet's strange, secretive connection to the man? Was Hayes inadvertently stepping into something more complex than a simple gesture of goodwill?

By dawn, when Simmons’ breathing had finally steadied into something resembling normal sleep, Hayes had made his decision. He retrieved the package from his pocket and concealed it in the false bottom of his medical kit, alongside other letters he'd written but never sent — to families of men he couldn't save, to his own family explaining horrors they could never comprehend, to a God he no longer believed was listening.

Some connections, he realized, were better left unexplored in this place where death loomed so constantly. Some words better left unspoken, some gestures unmade. Perhaps in the world that waited beyond the war — if such a world still existed — there would be time for untangling the complex webs that bound them all together.

For now, the unsent letter joined the others in its hidden compartment, a testament to intentions that could not, or should not, be fulfilled in the brutal reality of their existence.

Chapter Text

The rain had finally ceased, leaving behind a slate-gray sky that promised more to come. Lieutenant Archie Winters stood at the command dugout entrance, watching as the men went about their morning duties with the mechanical efficiency of those who had long since abandoned hope that their situation might improve. His good eye scanned the trench, automatically cataloging details — which sections needed reinforcement, which men showed signs of illness they were trying to hide, where the German artillery had come closest during the night's bombardment.

He spotted Lieutenant Blackwood approaching, his aristocratic bearing somehow intact despite the mud that caked his uniform. The man's precise movements as he navigated the treacherous footing reminded Archie of a show horse picking its way through an obstacle course.

"Morning, Winters," Blackwood greeted him with a curt nod. "Command meeting went longer than expected. They're planning something big." He lowered his voice, glancing around to ensure no eager ears were too close. "Word is we're making a push in two weeks."

Archie's expression remained carefully neutral, though his grip tightened imperceptibly on the map case he carried. "Where?"

"This section." Blackwood indicated their position with a slight jerk of his chin. "We're to take the high ground beyond the Fritz second line. Command believes it's lightly defended."

"Command believes a lot of things," Archie replied, his accent thickening slightly with fatigue. "Most of 'em wrong."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Blackwood's face. "Indeed. But we follow orders nonetheless." He studied Winters' face for a moment. "Have you told the men yet?"

"Just got the official word myself," Archie answered, patting the map case. "Need to review the approach before briefing the NCOs."

Blackwood nodded, understanding the unspoken concern. "Your Corporal won't like it. That position is exposed from three sides."

"McKinley doesn't need to like it," Winters replied, more sharply than he'd intended. "He needs to follow orders."

"Of course," Blackwood agreed smoothly, though something in his tone suggested skepticism. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Section needs reorganizing if we're to be ready." 

He hesitated, then added, "His word carries weight."

Archie met Blackwood's gaze directly. "I'm well aware of who carries weight in my platoon, Lieutenant."

With a final nod, Blackwood continued down the trench, stepping carefully around a particularly deep puddle that reflected the colorless sky above.

Winters watched him go, then turned his attention to locating McKinley. The Corporal would need to be briefed first — not because protocol demanded it, but because Archie valued his tactical assessment, even when they disagreed. Especially when they disagreed.

He found Ruben at his usual post, peering through a periscope at the German lines.

"Corporal," Winters called softly, approaching with measured steps.

The other man lowered the periscope, turning to face his commanding officer. His expression revealed nothing, but Archie had learned to read the minute shifts in his posture, the subtle changes in his eyes.

"Lieutenant," he acknowledged.

Archie gestured toward a more private section of the trench. "A word."

They moved to a relatively quiet alcove, where sandbags had been stacked to create a crude shelter. Winters unrolled the map from his case, weighing the corners down with spent shell casings.

"We're going over the top," he stated without preamble. "Command wants this position taken before the Germans can bring in reinforcements."

Ruben studied the map silently, his gloved finger tracing the planned route. The scar tissue around his mouth whitened slightly as his lips pressed together.

"Machine gun emplacements here, here, and likely here," he finally said, marking positions with his fingertip. "Their field of fire covers the entire approach."

"I know," Archie admitted quietly. "But orders are orders."

McKinley's pale eyes met his mismatched ones. "The men won't make it halfway across."

"That's why we're going at dawn, with artillery support," Winters countered, though his voice lacked conviction. "The initial barrage should take out most of their forward positions."

"Should," Ruben repeated, the single word carrying the weight of countless failed assurances from headquarters.

Archie sighed, running a hand through his mud-stiffened hair. "I don't like it either, but we have our orders. I need you with me on this, Corporal."

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of men at war — the clank of equipment, muffled coughs, the occasional crack of a sniper's rifle.

"When do we move out?" Ruben finally asked, his tone revealing nothing of his thoughts.

"Two weeks," Archie replied. "First light."

McKinley nodded once, sharply, his gaze returning to the map. "Permission to send out a reconnaissance patrol tonight? Need to verify these positions."

"Granted. But I want you staying here, coordinating. Send Fletcher and Hawk."

A flicker of something — perhaps protest — crossed Ruben's mangled face, but it was gone before Archie could properly identify it. "Yes, Lieutenant."

Winters studied his Corporal for a moment longer, wishing he could offer something more substantial than empty reassurances about artillery support and the element of surprise.

"Have a fag ready for me when I get back from briefing the others," he said instead, rolling up the map. "The good ones, mind. Not those French things that taste like burning hair."

The corner of Ruben's mouth twitched indiscernibly at that.

As Winters turned to leave, McKinley's voice stopped him. "Lieutenant."

Archie glanced back, raising an eyebrow in question.

"After," the other said quietly, "when we get back. Tell me more about those sheep."

Something tightened in Winters' chest — a feeling too complex to name. "I will," he promised.

Ruben nodded, satisfied, and turned back to his periscope, resuming his vigilant watch over the wasteland that separated them from the enemy. Archie watched him for a moment longer, then headed off to find Morrison. 

Two weeks would pass all too soon, bringing with them the familiar chorus of whistles, the thunder of artillery, and the desperate charge across No Man’s.