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Before the world grew mad, the Somme was a placid stream of Picardy, flowing gently through a broad and winding valley northwards to the English Channel. It watered a country of simple beauty. . . Then came the pestilence.
-A.D. Gristwood
Somme, France, 1916
Distant artillery shells barraged the eastern section of the trench. It sounded like a deep rumble from a mighty slumbering beast. A hollow echo of each shell haunted the vast mangled field that was No Man’s Land. Some were louder, suggesting it could reach the center of the trench, only to return to where it started. The irony of it all was that it was a quiet day.
There was no order to charge for the next trench. No order to resume the fight. Not yet.
The men were tired; having fought the maddeningly cruel game of advancing by just a few feet a couple of days ago. Inch by inch, if need be. Complaining— grumbling and muttering under their breaths— only temporarily eased their frustrations with the so-called ‘advance’. But even then, they had to keep their misgivings to a minimum. Annoying the officers would only make things harder than they already were.
So the men took every opportunity to sleep. As they slept in the often drafty and damp dugouts they’ve carved from the trench, there was always one, awake and alert, keeping watch.
That night was England’s turn. Rather, he volunteered for it. Sleep was the last thing he prioritized at the time. He shuffled his way past the droves of soldiers scattered on the ground, clinging to their overcoats as the cool but not yet bitterly cold, wind howled in their ears as it raced through the trench. England opted to lend his coat to a private who lost his during a scramble for cover a few weeks back and dealt with the wind by smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t much, but it did the job. He avoided thinking about his tremors and used one hand to grip his rifle sling as the weapon rested on his shoulder.
His boots had seen better days, having trudged through endless layers of thick mud to get to the western part of the trench. They were worn and threatened to come undone entirely had Arthur not wrapped them together with scraps of fabric he managed to find lying around. His uniform was in urgent need of a wash, but he was too far out in the front lines to do so. The helmet strap was coarse on his chin as it held the armor together, irritating him to a point where he took it off and clipped it to the rifle’s sling instead. It didn’t help that a growing scruff of a beard made him even more annoyed with the chinstrap.
When he finally made it to the farthest end of his patrol area, it was eerily silent. The trench line was half-destroyed as it was hit by enemy artillery three days ago. In addition to the mud that collected on the sides of the makeshift platform in the center of the trench, splinters of various shapes and sizes peppered the ground. A large crater was on one side of the trench, displaying the mangled remains of the wooden support posts where the artillery shell had struck.
Most of the men stayed away from the areas Arthur ventured into, often noting that wherever he was, trouble always seemed to find him. There were days where the island nation was attacked by raiding parties in the dead of night. Other times, he encountered snipers who happened to have a clear line of sight while he was on guard. Needless to say, the Englishman was usually left to his own devices. Usually.
A soldier sat on a dilapidated wooden ammo crate at the end of the trench network, his back hunched over. Though visibility within the trench was only mitigated by the soft-glow of early night, Arthur could make out that the soldier wore a horizon-blue uniform covered in splotches of mud and it was scorched in other areas by what looked to be from an angry blaze of a flamethrower. The man had his face covered with his hands, not seeming to care that they were grimy and pale from the chilly environment.
“You look ghastly,” Arthur commented as he leaned on a dry part of the trench wall. He doesn’t bother to smile, nor look at the man. Instead, he concentrated on the warmth of his smoke.
The man placed his hands on his lap, glancing at the Englishman with a distant expression. “Says the man with a hideous beard.” His eyes were bloodshot and there were heavy bags under them. “What are you doing here?”
“The watch shift.” There was no need for the soldier in blue to know that he volunteered for it. He didn’t need to know that.
“What a coincidence,” the other said dryly, reaching for a canteen tucked between his feet. He shakily uncapped it and brought the tin container to his lips for a sip. “Me too.”
England couldn’t help but focus on his tremors. “It’s cold today,” he remarked, looking up at the thick grey overcast of clouds. None of the stars were twinkling. Cold winds continued to wail into his ears like a banshee. “Damn your weather.”
The man doesn’t respond. Instead, he extended his canteen towards Arthur. The nation eyed it for a second before taking a swig. He nearly spat it out. It was wine. Rationed, foul-tasting wine.
“Does it not suit your taste, England?” There was a hint of amusement in soldier's tone. For the first time since they saw each other, Francis had a small smile on his face.
The island nation grumbled, “I know it doesn't suit yours, frog." He quickly rid himself of the canteen and practically threw it back at the other, who anticipated his counterpart’s actions and caught it smoothly.
"The supply horses won't be here for a few days and this is all I have left. But wine is wine, even if it isn't like the ones at home," France let out a dejected sigh and placed his canteen by his mud caked boots. He leaned back as the crate creaked in protest. “...Humor me, what are we doing here?”
Good question. England opened his mouth to respond, only to close it without a single word spoken. What were they doing? They were in a godforsaken battlefield filled with filthy rats, mud, and parasites. They were trapped between the option of surrendering should they retreat or death in a field that the devil himself would quake in fear of entering.
“We’re here,” Arthur finally spoke, casting a somber glance towards No Man’s Land, “because we’re here...” ... because we’re here because we’re here, he finished the verse in his mind.
Those words, suited for a madman, were the few forms of entertainment in the packed trenches. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here. Sung by boys who barely left their families to start a grand adventure and men who miss their wives and children. All stuck in an elaborate hole that could lead them six feet under at any given moment. Terribly tragic.
“How poetic,” the Frenchman dryly commented, pushing a few strands of his hair away from his face.
“Well, how else would you want me to explain?”
“For glory,” he suggested, “Honor. Bring pride to their families.” That’s what they told their men when the war started. To bring glory to their country, to their families. To fight in a quick war and return home with medals proudly pinned on their chests. With each day, the prospect of what they promised diminished. “Come now, Arthur, I’m sure you’ve heard and said this before.”
“What? Glory?” England echoed, his temper flaring with each new barrage of artillery shells. “There is no damn glory, no damn reward— much less any honor— for sending our boys into hell.” He paused and cursed once more when the cigarette fell out of his lips in his tirade. It was the last one he carried before he left for the patrol.
“Ah and there goes the saying, War is hell ,” Francis remarked, completely ignoring Arthur’s new predicament. “But I find going through hell much better than being in war.”
"Who died and made you philosophic today?"
"Your hideous eyebrows."
"Ha. Ha. Ha." Of all of the possible places the Frenchman could be, he had to be within five feet of Arthur. That's just fantastic. "It's always the eyebrows with you," he muttered in an indignant tone.
"It's the only entertainment I have," the bearded man pouted. Damn his humor. "Let me have my fun, Arthur."
"At my expense?" His eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms. "Not a chance."
Francis shrugged as he looked around. “Do you see anything else worth joking about?” He swiped a hand from one side of the trench to the other. “We’re in a trench with hundreds of our soldiers, huddling together like a pack of wounded animals. If we stand up just to take a little peak at the enemy lines, our heads will be the target of many snipers. So forgive me, Angleterre, if I sound bitter and want to laugh. Hmph. I’d rather be in Versailles, drinking wine until I can’t see straight and moan about your horrendous fashion choices.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Arthur rolled his eyes.
“Really?” The Frenchman questioned. “So you’d rather be here instead of sitting in one of your stuffy rooms you call a library at your estate in Dover?”
“I didn’t mean it like that, you idiot,” England snapped. He grumbled a second later, staring at his boots. “All I’m saying is that your little tantrum is hardly helping the situation.”
“Casse-toi! ” Francis hissed, giving Arthur an obscene gesture.
To his credit, the latter merely wrinkled his nose, disgusted with his counterpart’s attitude. It was clear to him that the french nation was at his wit’s end as well.
Despite the victory— if they were so bold to call it that— the nations secured in the Somme two weeks ago, they failed to capture the strategic city of Péronne. Germany retreated with his men and dug a network of defensive lines at its outskirts. It was only by sheer dumb luck that the weather decided to be sympathetic to Ludwig’s retreating forces. The approaching winter halted the advance of the newly battle-christened tanks England had at his disposal and forced the allied armies to wait until the frost subsided.
But that wasn’t the real reason that created the dark circles under the Frenchman’s eyes, nor did it cause the seemingly permanent creases on his forehead. Arthur knew exactly what placed Francis on edge. The former eyed a piece of paper that was sticking out of the French nation’s coat pocket. It looked as if it was constantly crumpled and smoothed out due to being frequently read. If it were to fall in anyone else’s hands, they would simply read numbers. There weren’t any accompanying words. No paragraphs nor any explanation to the vague message sent from command were present. Just numbers.
200,000+.
“When this infernal winter ends, then we can push forward,” England commented offhandedly, his mind was still preoccupied with the Somme. “Our boys didn’t die in vain. We got Ludwig on the defensive now. It’ll only be a matter of time.”
Francis didn’t appear convinced. “Was it really worth it? Did you get the count from your leadership yet? ”
Arthur had the aforementioned parchment in his left breast pocket. It too had creases and marks from constant re-readings. In fine black ink, his read: 420,000+.
“No,” he lied. There was no point in mentioning it.
With a sigh, France picked up his Lebel rifle from its propped up position on the crate he sat on. He then produced a small dirty rag and proceeded to clean the rifle’s action. “It must be bad then,” he surmised to Arthur, continuing to rub the cloth against the dirt-ridden metal with shaky fingers.
“Worry about your men,” the Englishman said tersely. He didn’t need anyone’s— much less Francis’s— sympathy. It certainly won’t bring back the fallen.
“Temper, temper, Arthur,” the other blond chastised. “I only guessed.” A minute later, he leaned forward, coughing profusely. He made several attempts to stop himself, only to further exacerbate his predicament.
When it mercifully subsided, Arthur offered him a handkerchief and a worried expression he would vehemently deny if Francis brought it up. “It’s Verdun, isn’t it?” He asked lowly, untwisting his own canteen’s cap to give it to his counterpart. He stepped closer to the other man and stopped short of placing a hand on his shoulder. Instead, he took the Frenchman’s rifle and placed it next to said nation.
“The fighting never stops,” Francis weakly nodded, accepting the drink and the cloth at the same time. Just when he finished taking a sip, he suddenly gripped his chest with the hand holding the handkerchief and dropped the canteen with the other, coughing once more. “Putain,” he grunted in his native language and closed his eyes, “it’s burning.” He made a pained gasp as Arthur looked on.
Sympathy was the only thing the latter could give. From the first air raids taken in Sheringham, King’s Lynn, and Great Yarmouth, Arthur knew exactly what Francis felt at the moment. He could still feel the dull thrum of the fires all over London. The sharp pang of the bombs exploding, reducing homes, schools, and ports into rubble. Incendiary flames that burned his lungs and threatened seize him in a vice-grip.
As he watched, island nation sighed and conceded that there was nothing he could do but watch. And wait. His hand curled into a fist.
Damn this war.
Damn this vile new age of warfare where men crawl through pits, live in trenches like animals, and hide from constant aerial bombardment. Where artillery pummel the ground into indiscriminate mud, soaking every man’s shoes, food, and water. A wretched piece of hell where a million men can fight in a battlefield, only for all of their lives to be ruthlessly cut down in a matter of seconds by machine guns and grenades.
Damn the new weapon that eclipsed the horrors of them all. Poisonous gas, capable of burning a man’s lungs from the inside and horribly disfigured those who fail to put on their masks. Damn the unfortunate fates of the young men who left home with the pride of their families in their hearts, who are forced to return with the scars of battle— whether it be missing limbs or blindness, a disfigured jaw from a grenade, or even lungs filled to the brim with soot and smoke.
Damn it all.
Quietly, Arthur picked up the canteen and brushed off the mud that clung to it. He placed it beside Francis before he sat on the crate, occupying a corner of it. With a heavy sigh, he clasped his hands together and rested his elbows on his knees, mirroring the other’s leaning position. “What a bloody mess we got ourselves into,” he remarked with a frown. “We really are fucked this time.”
His comment earned him an amused snort from France. “That’s too pessimistic, even for me,” Francis wheezed and coughed. A moment later, he opened his eyes and leaned back, letting his left shoulder blade to rest next Arthur’s shoulder. The latter didn’t make any motions to shake him off.
“Forgive me for being a realist.”
“And you wonder why the boys always come to me for advice about the future,” Francis remarked dryly. He followed it with a snort. “That’s why.”
“Being a realist keeps you alive.”
As if on cue, a deep rumble echoed across the sky. Another artillery barrage was imminent.
“But your dreams suffer because of it.”
“Dreaming doesn’t win wars. It’s one of the first things that gets taken away. Only fools believe in that folly.”
Francis opened his mouth to say something, only to straighten his posture and give a questioning look. He stared at the other for a moment. His expression was reminiscent of a time long ago— when both nations still had the hunger of conquerors and the ruthlessness of cutthroats. “We’re talking about Alfred, aren’t we?”
Arthur scoffed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what you’re going on about.”
“He is doing his best,” the Frenchman pressed on. “You know he’s trying to do everything in his power to help. You are being too hard on him.”
“Well his damn best isn’t doing us any good, now is it?”
“It’s not easy, hmm?” France hummed, clearly enjoying the barbs aimed at the other. “When the favorite son is disobedient?”
“I don’t play favorites,” Arthur huffed, annoyed. What he really needed was America’s stubborn ass to finally help them. Alfred’s isolationist stance could sod off for all he cared. “I just think he’s...forget it.”
Silently, France placed a hand on the other’s knee and lightly squeezed it. Despite everything— the conversation, artillery mercilessly crashing all around them, and the current state they both were in— he gently smiled. “He will listen. Eventually.”
There is a brief pause. Then a sigh. “I know...I just hope it’s sooner than later.”
“Speaking of sons, where is Matthieu ? I haven’t seen him for weeks.”
England rubbed his neck. “Vimy,” he said quietly.
“Vimy? Isn’t he in a combat division? Why is he doing that?”
“He's doing supply runs. The last battle took him out of the field for a week. He needed to rest.”
Francis softly smiled, “So there is a heart somewhere in there. I’m touched.”
“What are you going on about?” the Englishman questioned, feigning puzzlement.
“You care,” he replied bluntly. He then rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder. The latter said nothing. “Sometimes I think you’re not showing him enough of it.” Francis speaks of the time where England was colder and cruel— when it was clear to everyone that he didn’t gain his amassed power just by asking .
“Tch, I’m not a complete bastard,” he argued, his eyes were trained on the French nation’s cigarette. “Matthew’s done a lot for me.” That was an understatement. Canada, who said nothing when the war erupted but was the first to collect his things and offer his support. The stoic one who rarely complained and followed England through hell and high water. Matthew, who had always been more of France’s son rather than England’s, had been in the trenches for far longer than the other colonies and continued to smile in spite of it all. “It’s only fair.”
“Where was that sympathy when Ivan was chasing me in Sevastopol?”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “You happened to incur Ivan’s wrath far more effectively. And it wasn’t my fault you chose to wear the least subtle uniform on the field. He spotted you a mile away.”
“Yet, you just watched and laughed at me,” Francis huffed in annoyance. “You didn’t even lift a finger.”
The island nation chuckled in response. “If I tried to intervene, Russia would’ve had both of our heads.”
“A little help would’ve been nice.”
“Go back in time and yell at me then,” Arthur remarked dryly.
“You wouldn’t do anything even if I tried.”
Silence settled between them after. Neither of them had the energy nor the need to talk.
When the moon rose to its full height above the stars, Arthur heard Francis shifting through his coat. With a quick side-glance, he saw the other produce a small dirtied tin that was half-filled with unused cigarettes. Without saying a word, the Frenchman plucked out two and passed one to him. In response, the island nation placed it between his lips and fished out his light. He lit France’s first then his own.
When the smoke between their combined cigarettes created a dense grey haze between them, Francis felt a steady hum thrum against his ear as he rested on Arthur’s shoulder. He immediately recognized the song to be a popular tune the English soldiers sang on particularly dreary nights. When the weight of what they’ve left behind finally came to their senses and filled them with melancholy.
Artillery continued to tear through the sky. Yet both nations did nothing. They’ve both been through too many wars to flinch.
“I think I know why we’re in this bloody war,” England broke the silence. “Hubris,” he took a long drag and slowly exhaled. “We all stupidly thought this would end by Christmas. But now look at us— this whole damn shitshow started two years ago.”
Francis nodded absentmindedly. “At least we aren’t Icarus.”
“No, I suppose not,” he agreed softly, his mind preoccupied with the Greek myth. Icarus, who sought to fly like the gods. Full of confidence and ambition. Icarus, who successfully flew and pushed man’s boundaries towards the sky. Only for tragedy to befall him after flying too close to the sun. “I’d give that title to Germany.”
The other nation flicked his cigarette between his fingers to remove the ash. “Austria and Hungary ignited this war. They were never satisfied with the attempted peace deals. Aren’t they Icarus?”
“Oh please,” Arthur muttered bitterly, ”We both know the true threat to us is Ludwig’s ambition. At the very least, Roderich and Elizabeta know that they are losing.” He sounded cold and a tone away from a snarl. It was a mistake to think he could rely on the Dual Monarchy to maintain a sense of balance in the Balkans before the war. In hindsight, perhaps he should've let Prussia vocalize his protests even louder during the two's wedding and the subsequent emergence of their empire all those years ago. What a terrible miscalculation. “Germany still clings to his delusion.”
“Is he really? Or are we the delusional ones?” Francis questioned. “Angleterre, we are at a stalemate.”
“And we will continue to be if you keep up that defeatist attitude,” the thick-browed man countered with a huff. “The winter will pass. It’s only a matter of waiting.”
France drew in a long breath then looked up toward the sky. “The War to End All Wars,” he remarked in a whisper. “Do you think it’s true?”
Arthur stared at his worn boots and nearly laughed in bitterness. Silently, he let go of the remnants of his cigarette and crushed it with his heel. He wasn’t naive. Nearly a thousand years of warfare and broken alliances taught him to never believe in lasting peace. “Ask me that in the next war,” he responded dryly.
In irony, the relatively quiet night was shattered and sent into chaos.
Floodlights sputtered on and a shrill of an alarm reverberated across the trench lines. Shouts soon followed a cacophony of whistles. Raiders! Raiders! Raiders! Both nations scrambled to their feet with muttered curses. So much for an uneventful watch.
England reached for the rifle by his side and glanced at the other man. “Don’t get captured.”
“Try not to die,” France shot back before he fumbled with his coat pockets and fished out a khaki pack made out of burlap. “Here, a gift from Alfred,” he said as he threw the pack at the island nation. “Shave that thing off.” He gripped his own chin for reference. “The last thing we want is for you to be at a field hospital, complaining you couldn’t get your mask on.”
“Since when did you have the time to even speak to—” A series of explosions rocked the trench, causing the rest of Arthur’s sentence to die in his throat. Knowing better than to argue, he pocketed the pack. Impulsively, he clasped Francis’s shoulder and lightly squeezed it. Stay safe . Those words were left unsaid, but the bearded man gave a small, knowing smile— worn and melancholic. They shared a brief look before they parted ways— France raced toward his side of the lines, while England made his way back to his men, mud and dirt kicked high into the air following his footsteps.
England tried valiantly to ignore the dull ache in the pit of his stomach. It was there, among the flurry of soldiers bustling past him and shouting at each other with fear in their eyes and adrenaline coursing through their blood, that he longed for home. Arthur was exhausted; his spirit run aground.
But he couldn’t stop fighting. Not when the outcome of his precious home would mirror France’s trench and battlefield-ridden land should they lose. He could already see himself back there; the gentle rolling hills, fields of golden wheat, and quiet back roads adorned with neatly trimmed rose bushes and cottage houses.
Arthur held his rifle in a white-knuckled grip.
All he had to do was to make sure both he and his soldiers survived long enough to return.