Work Text:
Somewhere in France, late October 1917.
Sammy had stopped writing. Martin had sent him two letters that had gone unanswered. He’d not been worried about the first; the field post chaps did their best but they could only do so much. It wouldn’t be the first time a letter got lost. Once the window for a reply to the second came and went, though, something cold and numb was beginning to lodge itself into Martin’s head.
Finnegan, his sergeant, was distributing the post while the Second Shropshire Vampires were preparing to move to… actually, Martin didn’t even know where they were currently stationed, much less where the brass was sending them next. Amidst the clamour and bustle of the whole squad grabbing their gear and weapons and personal effects, Lowery and Haversforth were arguing, as they usually did, over who was actually the owner of a certain pack. Finnegan distractedly looked at the sheaf of letters in his hands and winced. “Ah. I’m sorry, Nicholls.” He shoved two envelopes, one smudged and crumbly, the other slightly cleaner, in Martin’s direction and went over to Haversforth and Lowery to mediate in their dispute. Martin, who was often teased for keeping his things neatly in one place, but who was having the last laugh right now, sidestepped them and turned the envelope over.
Part of him had already known when he wrote the last letter to Sammy. He had known, in the same way he had known what to expect when he’d enlisted, those three long years ago. Vaguely, and not even close to grasping reality.
One was from an officer in Sammy’s regiment. The other was one of the letters Martin had sent Sammy. Recipient Deceased was stamped callously on its front, right over Sammy’s name.
Feeling terrifyingly calm, he stuffed the letter into his pack, between his socks. He’d known. He’d known. Of course he’d known. Sammy would never have ignored him for so long.
A sharp whistle pierced the chatter, and Martin looked up; Finnegan stood atop a crate and barked at his squad to get their shit together. As meek as schoolboys, the Second Shropshire Vampires piped down, got their equipment, and followed their sergeant into the night.
*
It wasn’t until hours later that Martin had the chance to read the letter from Sammy’s officer.
For the whole night, and much of the morning, the squad had been too busy for Martin to even think of it. The orders for the Second Shropshire Vampires had been to repair extensive damage to some defenses; the regular soldiers stationed there were dropping like flies. Much of the job turned out to be clearing the defenses of unexploded shells, rusted barbed wire, abandoned or broken equipment, and even a couple of dead horses.
Martin, along with Manish Mayna, had been tasked with disposing of one of the horses. Neither of them spoke, except for brief words about the grim task at hand, and swear words when they sank into the mud — Mayna lost a boot at one point, cursing up a storm in Haryanvi while he dug it back out.
The Germans shot at them a bit — Martin and Mayna were spared the worst, but to his left, Martin heard Reginald Lowery cry out and then swear just as furiously as Mayna had done over his boot. A couple more shots, then an angry voice from the German side, berating their own: “Lasst das sein, verdammt! Das sind Vampire, ihr verschwendet nur Munition!” They were left alone after that.
Still, they weren’t done until the first grey fingers of dawn slid above the horizon. Walking as if asleep, the Second Shropshire Vampires moved to their next assignment. Lowery was pressing a hand to his side, looking pissed off, but the bleeding had already stopped. A freight train, transporting horses — live ones — was sparing one of its wagons to take them God only knew where. Another unit stationed nearby had sent two trembling privates — why did they always send the youngest? — but Martin wasn’t thirsty. He climbed into the wagon, mud-stained, cold, and exhausted, and slumped into a pile of forgotten straw in a corner.
After the rest of the Shropshire Vampires had climbed into the wagon, as the train slowly rumbled towards wherever it was going, Martin read the letter. Sammy’s officer had written it by hand rather than taking a printed form and filling in the blanks. Maybe those were reserved for relatives. Maybe there hadn’t been any at hand.
Only individual phrases arrived in Martin’s brain. All the polite, rote clap-trap about bravery and valour, he didn’t even attempt to take in. The gist of the letter was this: Wounded in action on 5 October. Taken to infirmary. Died on 8 October. Interred a day afterwards. Family has been informed.
Sammy had died almost three weeks ago. All that time. And Martin had had no idea that he was gone. He opened the letter that had been returned to him; he’d written it on the tenth of October. He’d written to a dead man.
Finally, delayed by hours, his heart caught up with what his head had stonily taken in: Sammy was dead.
It hurt worse than being shot.
As the train rolled on, gently rocking on the tracks, Martin felt himself unravel. It was a bizarre sensation: he felt tears sting his eyes and sobs lodge in his throat, but he acknowledged it like he was looking over his own shoulder. Like he was watching an actor in a play.
“Nicholls?”
He lifted his head, his vision already blurry with unshed tears. Tobias Zhuang was bending over him. He placed one hand on Martin’s shoulder, frowning minutely. Martin swallowed futilely. He shook his head; he couldn’t speak. The chatter of the squad had died down, too. And now that all his fellow soldiers’ attention was on him, Martin slammed back into his body, and into the full, ferocious force of his loss. It droned through him like church bells. Sammy was dead. Sammy was dead. Sammy was dead.
Zhuang sat down next to him, rubbing his back, while Martin fell apart. He cried, and cried, and cried, his sobs ripping through his body, his tears hollowing him out one by one, until only a howling abyss remained where his heart was supposed to be. Where Sammy was supposed to be.
His tears eventually dried up, even if the grief didn’t. Martin straightened a little; he’d been hunched over, pressing the letters to his chest. Now, wordlessly, he handed the one from the officer to Zhuang. He didn’t want to explain anything. It would be mere details, anyway — his squadmates could easily guess what had happened. He didn’t even want to be looked at. So he drew his coat over his shoulder and turned his face away, towards where pale sunlight peeked through a gap between the wagon’s boards.
Having read the letter — it wasn’t very long — Zhuang gave him one last, inadequate pat on the back and left him. In a low voice, he spoke to Finnegan, telling him what had happened. Martin heard the paper rustle. Then Edward Cooper asked, to the group at large, “Who was this Thackery fellow? Does anyone know?”
“They were friends,” replied Zhuang. “They went to university together, I gather.”
“Are we sure ‘friends’ is all they were?” Those were the posh tones of Haversforth. “I’ve seen wives less shaken by their husbands’ deaths.”
“Corporal,” said Finnegan, and even though the Australian way he pronounced the word would usually make everyone laugh, his tone was chill and brooked no contrariness. “It is not our place to judge how anyone mourns their losses. I will not hear slander of anyone in my unit, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Haversforth immediately replied.
Martin closed his eyes. Right. He’d have to be more careful. There were more Haversforths than Finnegans in the world.
“His friend has already been dead for a while,” Zhuang said after a brief pause. “It must be hard to only hear about it now. And he’s lost his brother already, too.”
The squad muttered — yes, that made sense. The wagon was quiet for a little while. Then Simon Carey tentatively told them that he’d signed up with three boys that had been his neighbours and playmates growing up in Belfast. By the time Carey was turned — only a month or so before Martin had joined the Shropshires — all three were long dead. He was crying, too, when he finished his tale.
As the sun rose higher in the sky outside, the Second Shropshire Vampires shared their losses and their grief. Brothers, cousins, friends, schoolmates, and even a few sisters. One of them had been Haversforth’s; she had been a VAD and heading to the front when her ship was torpedoed.
Martin thought he should probably get up and join the others. Put on a brave smile. Stiff upper lip. And not give them any more reason to suspect that Haversforth had actually been right about him.
But for long, long hours, while the train rattled on and the sun climbed higher, Martin did not move from his spot, only turning his head away when the sunlight outside got too bright. Mayna came to sit next to Martin. Wordlessly, he rubbed Martin’s shoulder. Then, yawning, he settled against him, back to back. His breath soon became steady and slow. One after the other, the squad went to sleep, huddled, as they usually were when there weren’t any beds, in a pile. Finnegan had a protective hand on Carey’s chest. Even Haversforth put his head on someone else’s outstretched legs; Martin couldn’t tell who it was. Maybe Cooper.
Martin’s eyelids were heavy, too, and his bones leaden. And yet, for the first time since he’d been turned into a vampire, sleep eluded him.
Even while he was grateful that Sammy’s officer had taken the time to write to Martin and not just let him know via the returned letter, he wondered. What did it mean that the officer had written to Martin? After all, a superior officer might put some effort into tracking down a brother or other close relative, but a mere university friend was easy to lose sight of. Did that officer do that for all his men who died? Had Sammy, knowing he was going to die, asked him to? Had Martin really written so many letters that the officers knew of him? Did the officer suspect that there was more to his and Sammy’s relationship? And if so, how did he feel about it? If he disapproved, surely he wouldn’t have taken the pains to write to Martin? Or were the summons for Martin’s court martial already on his way to him?
Wounded in action. What did that mean? Had Sammy been blown up by a shell? Or a grenade? Had he been shot? And where? An arm? A leg? No, with those, you either bled out within minutes or made a decent recovery. The stomach, perhaps — that was painful and took a long time to die from. Martin buried his head in his arms and tried not to whimper too loudly as he imagined Sammy writhing in such agony for three days that death finally came as a relief.
A touch on his arm and a soft voice saying his name. He uncurled himself; Evan Patterson looked down at him. “Are you hungry?” he asked. His Jamaican accent, unlike Carey’s Irish one, had never even begun to disappear since his transfer to the Shropshire Vampires. If anything, it was getting stronger. He held out a chocolate bar, still pristine in its wrapper. “I saw you didn’t drink earlier, either.”
Slowly, his limbs having forgotten how to move, Martin accepted the chocolate. Mayna stayed asleep, only muttering a little. Martin frowned at the unfamiliar wrapping. This wasn’t Army fare, or even Red Cross.
“My wife, she sent it,” Patterson said, noting Martin’s confusion.
Martin shook his head and held the chocolate out again. “I can’t take a gift from your wife.” His voice creaked like a rusty door hinge.
“You need it more. She’d understand.” Patterson lowered himself down next to him. Now, Martin was flanked by him and Mayna. Closing his eyes for a moment, Patterson leaned back against the boards. Absently, he rubbed at his right knee — the injury was related to his turning but it hadn’t healed quite right. But more than a fussy knee had to be wrong with a vampire for him to be declared unfit for duty.
Martin didn’t particularly have an appetite, but to be polite, he opened the chocolate anyway. It was only when he broke a piece off and let it melt in his mouth that he realised he was ravenous. He devoured the entire bar in no time at all. Patterson was smiling at him when Martin crumbled the wrapper up. “Thank you,” Martin said, rather belatedly.
“You’re welcome, mate.” Patterson said this in an affected Australian accent, and in spite of themselves, they both smiled. After a brief moment of silence, he said, “You can’t sleep?”
Martin shook his head. “And neither can you, it appears.”
Patterson shrugged. “The ghosts keep me awake today.”
“Ghosts?” He’d never taken Patterson to be superstitious.
“Your friend Thackery,” Patterson said. “And Carey’s friends from Belfast. And Haversforth’s sister.” He paused. “My brothers. Everyone we lost.”
Martin was quiet. A ghost? His vivacious, energetic, beautiful Sammy, a ghost? It didn’t make fucking sense.
“One didn’t die here,” Patterson said, referring to his brothers and making a motion that encapsulated all of the wagon, all of the Western front, all of the war. “He died back home in Kingston, of a fever. The other, though —” He halted and took a deep breath. “The man who turned me also tried to turn my brother. When I woke up as a vampire, they’d already buried him.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin said automatically, and hated the inadequacy.
“I know,” Patterson replied. He put one arm around Martin’s shoulder, careful not to wake Mayna. Martin gratefully leaned into the embrace. “I’m sorry, too.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. His arm stayed where it was. “Go to sleep, Nicholls. Take what rest you can.”
None was to be had.