Chapter Text
“And I wish you’d picked some other bloody idiot!”
The words tasted vile in his mouth, laced with the bitterness of masked fear.
“What?”
“Why in God’s name-” Schofield's voice cracked, “-did you have to choose me?” he asked in exasperation. His eyes welled up with tears, stinging as they pushed white dust out of his eyes. He knew the tears were not caused solely from the debris, they carried fear, and resentment. They carried pains rooted deep into his soul, the kind that never heal and emerge every so often like cicadas in the summer. As he fiddled with his tobacco tin, the sun beating on their necks, he saw confusion and worry in Blake’s face. He never had masked anything well, certainly no reason that had to start then.
Schofield felt guilt, but the fear of death ate away at it. The younger man huffed.
“I didn’t know what I was picking you for!” Blake finally cried, taken aback by the sudden anger in his friend.
“No, you didn’t. You never know. That’s your problem.''
Schofield regretted the words the second they left his mouth for he knew them not to be true, only used as means to hurt the younger man. While yes, Tom was naive and had just shoved him and his hand into a hun's carcass-it wasn't his fault, really. Tom was nineteen, young and soft with delicate curves, his face carrying less marks than Schofields. Age before beauty. The war had not broken Tom just yet, least not as it did Schofield’s and the other men who enlisted earlier– seeing the true horrors of mankind. Tom would know soon enough, and that only made Schofield sicker.
Blakes face was twisted, contorted in hurt and embarrassment, “Alright then, go back.” he spat.
Schofield wiped his eyes, staring deeply at the younger man “ nothing’s stopping you. You can go all the way bloody home if you want!” Home rang in Schofield’s ears like another gunshot, a deep stab to his gut. He remembered his children.
“Don’t.” Schofield retorted. Tom’s face stood, but his eyes eased. He was being stubborn, angry at his own mistake.
“Look, I didn’t know what I was picking you for.” the brunette repeated, softer this time, he walked closer to Schofield, concerned, “ I thought they were going to send us back up the line, or for food, or something. I thought it was going to be something easy, alright? I never thought it would be this.” Blake gestured to the blasted trenches around them.
Schofield, still bitter, tried to not look at Tom. He knew it wasn't his fault, he knew.
“So do you want to go back?” Blake sounded genuine, as though he would trek all the way back to the British frontlines once more and again just for Will. Naive, but sweet.
Tom had always been sweet. Schofield needed to be there for him. His body softened, still trembling from the blast, but calmed as he looked back up at Tom.
“Just fire the fucking flare”
…*...
Blake didn't know why Will traded his medal, he couldn't fathom it.
But Schofield knew what it took to get that medal, and how no fancy piece of tin (with ribbon) would ever make up for the shit he had to do. It will never get him to heaven. Will knew Tom would understand soon enough.
…*...
White petals swirled around the two soldiers as they crossed into the orchard. Schofield studied Blake, watched as the man peered over the petals blinking his eyelashes as they scraped by his cheeks.
“Cherries,” He held out a blossom and turned to Schofield with a gentle look of wonder. He studied the tree longer while Will clutched his rifle, “Lamberts,” he called to no one in particular. They begin to move, Petals catched on Blake’s shoulders, “They might be Dukes, hard to tell when they aren’t in fruit.” Schofield took the words in, processing.
“What’s the difference?” Schofield asked, genuine interest expressed as he saw Blake’s blue eyes light up in pride to be able to delve in something he actually knows; He’s often the one in need of an explanation.
“Mum’s got an orchard, back home. Only a few trees. This time of year it looks like it’s been snowing, blossoms everywhere. And then in May, we have to pick them. Me and Joe. Takes the whole day.”
Schofield could very well see that Tom had been a country boy. He had originally come in with a full frame of soft muscles and a strength that surely put Schofield to shame. But with lower food rations and the sheer exertions forced upon them, Tom now stood with his uniform more frump than it had been. It made Schofield uneased to see a man change like that in front of him. He didn't deserve to be here. Neither one of them did.
Along with his own bitterness, Schofield noticed it creep onto Blake's face, distorting the soft features, “So, these ones all gonners?” he asked the other lance corporal. Tom smiled lightly, shook his head and turned to Schofield,
“Oh no, they’ll grow again when the stones rot. You’ll end up with more trees than before.” he smiled at Schofield. The older man couldn't help but smile back.
…*...
The Hun plane came down in a fiery blaze, nearly taking out the two men in its burning glory. Upon hearing the German’s scream, the two of them ran over to help. Schofield had hesitated, debating whether it was the smart thing to do, but upon seeing Blake's pure anguish at the sight, he shook his head and delved in.
“Meine beine! Meine beine! Hilf mir! Hilf mir!” echoed across the abandoned farmhouse. Blake’s eyes scanned around, looking for anything to help the poor bastard. Schofield’s eyes also scanned, but came to a very different conclusion,
“We should put him out of his misery” he finally stated, searching Blake’s blue eyes. He was begging them for agreement. Blake shook his head, and somehow Schofield expected it.
“No. Get him some water. He needs water.” Blake begged, observing over Schofield’s shoulder to a nearby water pump. Schofield swallowed, but his mouth was dry.
Naive.
“Tom,” Schofield reached over the pilot's body where the men kneeled, trying to block his screams as he pressed a firm hand into Blake's shoulder, the fabric warmed from Blake's body. Fear is in the brunette's eyes, “It would be the best- the best thing to do.”
Blake’s eyebrows drew together, his pink lips pulled back in a tight line, his face was flushed with stress “No!” Schofield's face remained as stone, “No Will! The bloody pump is right-”
“Tom.”
“-there, we could-”
“Tom.” Schofield moved closer, grasping Blake's tunic by the collar, pulling the other man close to him. The rougher fabric cut into the younger man's neck. He rambled.
“-Let go of me! We need to-”
“Tom!” Blake stalled, his blue eyes widened and breathing labored, Schofield blinked softly, trying to look as reassuring as he could, silently pleading for him to listen as the hun screamed beside them. Annoyance grew in him, the immaturity- the irrationality in Blake- senseless his mate was,
“What do you suppose would happen if he lives? What do we do? Take him to a British aid post? The boche retreated, he's alone Tom. He would only suffer longer.” He tried to keep his tone stern, filtering out the desperation and annoyance as best he could. Blake’s eyes didn't leave his face. Schofield lowers his grasp on the boy, settling on his rifle strap.
“We-”
Schofield noticed the movement first, a quick flash in his peripheral vision. The shine of a pocket knife, heading straight for the side of Blake. The German was going to kill his friend. Tom didn't have time to scream ‘Stop’ before Will's fingers left the trigger of his rifle, moving on pure instinct and adrenaline.
The dead Boche laid beside them, ragged breathing from the alive men as they kneeled. The barn collapsed to the left of them, the smell of charcoal and some embers wafting over.
“Now,” Schofield choked, “Can you please just fucking listen to me?”
Blake’s eyes inspected the body, observing the red marred flesh, and the chunk of the hun’s skull that had been splattered along the olive grass. He looked down, turning away from Schofield.
“Yeah, yeah alright.” Blake said, choking on his words. The older one placed a tender hand to the small of Blake’s back, reaching between his bag to press into his muscles, trying to let him know It's okay, and I forgive you. But he knew he needed to be stern. Any mistake could cost them their lives.
“Come on,” he told Blake. After a few beats of silence, the other man gathered himself and got up with a rustle. Schofield dropped his hand, trailing it down Blake’s sleeve till their knuckles brushed. They walked a few steps like that, their skin brushing and the heavy weight of what occurred sitting between them, Blake on Schofield’s right.
Schofield lifted his pointer to brush against the rings that adorned Blake's hand, tracing the shine of the metal. His fingers moved to Blake’s wrist, pressing into the soft pad of flesh firmly. He felt his pulse, alive and fast, a rhythmic echo of life. He couldn't have begun to imagine what could have occurred if the Hun had stabbed Blake. If he had to carry his best mate to an aid post- embarking the journey alone. Or worse, had to cradle his best mate's head as he took his last breath.
Tom slipped his fingers into Wills, clasped so tight the rings barred pain on Schofield fingers.
He didn't mind. Tom was alive. He’d take any pain as long as they were breathing.
They walked around the corner of the farmhouse before they drew their hands back at the sight of two British privates.
“You blokes alright?” One called.
“What's happened?” screamed the other. Blake and Schofield look at each other then Blake spoke,
“Aye, a bloody Hun got shot down. Tried to save the miserable bastard but he- he,”
“He’s dead,” Schofield finished. Blake looked away from the lot, embarrassed of his shortcomings and the scolding he received. He was also scared, knowing that could have gone very differently.
The two privates eyed each other,
“Aye we saw the plane crash, just glad to see you boys alright.”
Just then a gentle voice carried through the air,
“What's going on here?” A taller man in a captain's uniform addresses the four men.
“Hun got shot down. Don't know what they're here for. Not one of us.” One of the privates explained.
A light breeze hit the men, causing Schofield to blink his eyes, probably the debris from the collapsed barn. The captain, tall and not as clean shaved- signs they've been at a nonstop pace- comes closer to Blake and Schofield, his eyebrows raised in question, “And what are you two doing here,” and before Will could open his mouth,
“We have an urgent message for the 2nd Devons.”
“2nd devons? What for?”
“We have orders to stop tomorrow morning’s attack, saving 1600 men, my own brother included.” Blake said breathlessly, the authority in it startled Schofield. He's never heard Blake sound so assertive, mellower than he had been just before no man's land. Schofield looked him over before turning back to the Captain.
“Where are they stationed?”
“A little past Ecoust. Near Crossilles woods, sir.” Will interjected.
“Come with me,” the Captain commanded. The two men looked at each other, trying to decipher what was to happen. “Come with me Corporals, that's an order. We’re passing through Ecoust. We can take you some of the way.”
The three new men began to march on, Blake peered at Schofield, biting his lips in apprehension. Will nods, marching on himself, a silent command.
They arrived at a convoy of trucks. After explaining the situation once more, men gathered on one of the trucks grumbled and reluctantly scooted to make room. It was a blend of men, Scot’s, English, and one sikh- with a tan turban wrapped around his head.
Will sat down, noticing Blake hunched over him with a worried expression.
“Sit boy!” One of the men yelled in the back, Blake looked at Will for help.
“What do I do? There’s no room and I’m not-“ Schofield looks at the small sliver of wood exposed next to him. Bout’ only enough room for one arse cheek. With a sigh, he yanked Blake down and winced as his rifle poked his neck.
“Put your fucking bag down-“ he groaned in Blake’s ear. With quick haste, the bag is thrown in front and Blake half sits on the seat, while his left thigh sits on Schofields right. He’s not as heavy, but each bump puts him more and more on Schofields lap leading to some discomfort.
The men talk around them, asking for a fag but not paying much mind to the two hitchhikers. Will notices Blake’s cheeks are flushed, his head standing higher than the other men for his predicament making him feel as though he stood out.
Blake doesn’t know why, of all issues to dwell on, he chooses this one. Who cares if he sits on his mates lap, for God's sake they’ve seen each other naked once. (Blake also flushed that time, covering himself as best he could while they washed. Two men rolled their eyes at him, saying something about new recruits.)
Schofield looked down at his tunic, tarnished in Hun blood and mud. Blake’s is in just as bad shape. He wonders how they’ll look after this God forsaken mission. Supply run. Yeah right. He checks his watch impatiently.
“You got somewhere to be?” One of the men asked, his tan skin blending in with his tunic. All men look at the two of them.
Before either one of them could speak, the truck violently lurched forward, jerking Tom fully into his lap and rousing a few others.
“What the fuck was that!” Blake yelped, scrambling fast off Schofields lap to stand in the middle. The men coo sounds of agreement, looking out the side.
The truck is stuck in mud, engine revving but the wheel spinned out nothing but brown goop.
“Areshole needs driving lessons,” one private said. The men all nod in agreement, but Schofield only focused on Blake.
The younger man is anxious, scowling and turning to Will. Will curtly nodded, grasping out to Blake and hoisting himself up. Time to be wasted. He heard Blake click his tongue. Unrest grew.
“He should reverse.” Schofield says.
“Yeah,” one of the privates says, huffing his fag. He doesn’t do anything.
Blake grumbled, surging forward and sticking his head out the back.
“REVERSE IT! TRY IT IN REVERSE!” He called, demonstrating looping motion with his thumb as if the driver could see him.
The truck began to sink deeper into the mud.
“Stop! STOP!” Schofield yelled, the men were staring at them, “ Everyone needs to move out.” he commanded. The men looked dazed.
Some men began to move, Blake one of them. Others haggle behind. Schofield ground down on his teeth.
“ALL OUT!” Schofield yells, anxiety high. 1600 men’s lives rely on them, he looked down to Blake, who stared back up to him, a weird happy look in his eyes.
He needed to save Blake’s brother. If not, a part of Blake dies. And he needed Blake alive, in whole.
-*-
The truck is freed after much manual power, and is on its way. The men shared whisky with them, engaging in small conversation. Blake’s legs ached, his right arse cheek numb from holding most of his weight. He didn’t want to bear down on Schofield too much.
Will took notice, wrapped his arm around Blake and lifted him slightly. Blake quietly thanked him.
Small moments of intimacy like this made the bite of the war less sharp.
-*-
“Bridge is down.” One of the privates said. Schofield turned to Blake in mutual understanding.
“Well lads, best we get going.” Blake admitted, grasping Schofield’s arm. His tone is humorless, but he gave a grim smile to the lot. Schofield looked yonder to the broken bridge, over a canal about 90 feet wide. The skyline above was slate. The cold water under it surged forward.
As they parted from the convoy, Schofield searched the skyline. The town has been destroyed, only a few buildings stood and smoke pillowed from afar.
They stood at the broken bridge, iron and wood twisting and contorting into jagged lines. There was a way to crawl over, through the right railing which only the middle touched the water from where it was split and slanted into a v-shape.
Will felt hopeless, to be stuck here and fail his commander, those men, Tom- he rubbed his eyes and groaned in frustration.
“Will,” Blake feebly whispered, as if scared to say something wrong.
“What?” Will spat, eyeing the bridge once more. He was stressed, and it seeped out of him and into his words.
“It’s going to be okay,” Blake stood straight, pressing a reassuring hand to the back of Will’s neck, “I know where we're at. We’ve just made it to Ecoust. We’re going to make it.” Schofield scoffs, attempting to appear strong for the younger man.
“I know that already. I trust you.” a pause, “ Now let us go.” Tom nodded, and the men made their way over the bridge.
A bullet grazed over Schofield's shoulder, whistling by and ricocheting on the iron bars underneath.
Will whipped his head back, seeing a frightened Tom. Breathing laboriously, he turned around and crawled forward as fast as he could, his trousers getting snagged on some flayed metal. “Fuckin’ Huns,” Tom yelps, knee sinking into the cold water, “Go! Go! Go!”
Schofield made it to the other side, crouching low on muddy cobblestone. The stone wall leading up to some stairs is hit with another bullet. Schofield urgently grabbed Blake’s hand as he made it to the end of the bridge, pulling the young man forward. He turned away and grabbed his rifle, ensuring there's bullets before crawling close to the wall. He rested for a second, watched Tom stumble to get his rifle out, before facing the wall and hiking himself up to take a shot.
“He’s at the window! Eleven o’clock!” Blake frantically warned. Will aimed near, but not before a bullet hit them with a crack. Tom yelped.
“Tom!” Will pulled him closer once again, huddling in. He assessed for bleeding but saw nothing, they were still in the clear.
“The fucking bastard shot my watch!” shrieked Blake, knitting his eyebrows close, Schofield yanked Tom's hand and examined his watch. Cracked, with the casing of a bullet embedded into the glass. He let out a sigh of relief.
“Oh you lucky sod,” he laughed, by some miracle, then another bullet pinged off the stone.
“Where- Tom! Ready your rifle!”
“I- my fingers they're-” trembling, he was too shaky. He was scared.
Will used his hands to steady Tom’s, then quickly cocked his rifle for him and slammed it into his chest. The two attempted to aim.
“We just need to head south east, then we will be at Crossilles woods.” Tom whispered-yelled,
“We have to go in. You can stay, I’m going to enter and take out the sniper.” Tom stopped him by grabbing his pant leg,
“Wait, let us both go.”
-*-
Tom held his breath as they silently marched up the stairs, Schofields steady and at attention. They knew the sniper was behind the double doors that stood at the top. They flung them open.
A wounded German sat at the window sill, gun raised. Blake shot him dead with a loud boom, all happening so fast; Blood splattered over the wooden floors, but not before he shot Will’s helmet, knocking the man down and causing him to tumble down the stairs. Tom screamed for him.
-*-
The sound of a voice faded in, light and young. A horizontal line of light appeared, his eyelids fluttering open. His breathing was calm. A palm pressed into his cheek, the fingers of which are cold. They were soft, he pressed into it, inhaling deeply. It smelled of gunpowder and blood.
“Will.” Blake's voice rang. And just like that, Will is hyper aware of where he was.
Tom. His brother. The men.
“What time is it?” he slurred with urgency, Blake instinctively looked at his broken watch, before wincing and grabbings Will's wrist, looking at his mates.
“Fuck. Broken too.” He helped Schofield get up, grabbing his helmet and dusting it off. Will watched him with a blend of confusion and anger. Why didn't he leave?
“Why didn't you leave?” It's interrogative. Tom swallowed, looking down as they rushed out.
“I couldn't do it alone.”
“Your brother- the MEN!” Will reasoned. The guilt that would bear on him if he was at fault for the deaths of 1600 men.
“And what-” he turned, pushing Will into the doorframe of the lockhouse. The city is lit up in flames, the sparkling of flares like firecrackers. It glowed yellow, the outline of the town golden and majestic, and would have been beautiful had they not been weapons of war.
“- leave you for dead? Is that what you wanted- fine- I'll admit it. I can't do this without you- and- and I NEED you. Call me incompetent call me naive but I can't do this without you Will. Please don't give me that look-” Tom let out an exasperated sigh and walked forward, “ We can still do it. C'mon.”
Will listened and bit his tongue in shame. He would've done the same.
-*-
That was in fact not an alley that they ran into at the town square.
He ran through the alley, the Hun chasing them and shooting at their feet. At a sharp turn, Will saw an opening to the left of them, hidden near the floor. A basement.
“Come, fast!” The men slid in.
Will held his breath, covering Blake’s mouth as the hun's feet ran past the low window with loud thuds. He pulled his hand away, moist from the younger man's breath.
“I knew we should've shot him.” Blake tutted, huffing as he got up, “Let’s go.”
The men kept their rifles pointed as they entered a curtained room, reached after a small passage. When Blake drew the curtains open, a young woman- appearing to be in her late teens- looked at them startled.
“Il ny rien ici. Nous n'avons rien pour vous. S'il vous plaît.” she begged, the men drew their hands up to assure her no trouble. She looked worn down, her hair messy and her body trembling.
“We mean no harm.” Blake defended,
“Anglais. Not German. Friend... We are friends.” Will admitted, Blake whipped his head to stare at him. The lady calmed, still wary, but let them in.
Will's head began to hurt now that the adrenaline had passed, he swayed, Blake rushed to steady him. The lady came closer,
“Ou sont les autres?” she asked. Others?
“There are no others, only us.” Schofield supplied. Blake held him tighter, turning to speak. His breath was warm against Will’s cheek,
“I didn't know you speak french.”
“Only a little,” he smiled at the woman, gesturing at the two of them, “Only us.” She nodded in understanding, observing as Will clutched his head.
“Assiez-toi.” She offered, coming close and guiding Schofield to a chair.
She had cleaned Schofield’s head wound with such tender nature. It made Blake jealous, and he didn't know why.
A baby’s cries filled the room and Schofield stared in awe. The woman made her way over, grabbing the baby from where it hid in a drawer. Blake was dumbfounded by the baby. As the woman cooed he thought about how this is the first time he's seen a baby in a year. Then he remembered this was half true; The only ones he'd seen had passed already.
He told Schofield this once, when it kept him up at night. Schofield only yelled at him to not tell him “such sick things" and to “keep them to yourself.”
“A girl?” Schofield asked, standing up and walking towards the baby. Blake followed suit, looking as the white sheets draped over the baby.
“Qui. Une fille.” The lady said, cooing once more.
“How old is she?” Blake asked, the lady looked at them with a sad smile.
“J’ne sais pas.”
She doesn't know. Schofield frowns.
“Who is her mother?”
“J’ne sais pas.”
They all looked somber. An eerie silence.
“I have food. Here. I have these. You can have them,” he reached into his bag, “ here, take them all, for you and the child. Here.” he looked at Blake, who instantly went digging for his own biscuits.
“Elle ne peut pas manger ça. Elle a besoin de lait…” she needed milk.
Schofield had milk in his canteen, gathered from the barn. The two men took turns feeding her, cooing over the baby. Schofield seemed fatherly, as if it's something he's done before. He looked at Blake, who’s smile stretched wide and love ebbed on his face.
“Avez-vous des enfants? Children - you?” Schofield stood quiet.
“Do you?” Blake perserted, seeming excited at the answer.
“Yes, two girls.” Blake's smile faltered. Schofield is a father. In war.
“Your wife…” Blake began, The lady took back the baby, watching the two.
“She passed. She got sick the first year of the war.”
“I’m-I’m sorry Scho.”
They return the baby, and carry on their way. They both understand each other a little more.
-*-
When they entered the schoolhouse, a drunk German stumbled in while Blake was holding down the German that was attempting to stab Schofield. Schofield held his jugular, pressing and pressing till there was no more noise. They killed the man.
They still get chased by another hun, chasing them all the way to a river far below. They had looked at each other before they jumped. Trusting God they lived.
-*-
The coldness surrounded Schofield, lapping up to his ears and threatening to cover his nose. For once his joints didn’t ache, and he felt no pain. He was floating, waitless. Drifting farther and farther down a stream. It was cold, but it felt right. His eyes remained close, and as the water began to cover his nose he only had one thought.
Death. He would die. He would die and he did not care. His body was tired, his mind was too. He was done fighting. He opened his eyes one last time before he embraced the sweetness of his end.
The sky was above, early in the morning. Cherry blossoms. Possibly lamberts, swirled around him falling into the water below. They remind him of a familiar face.
Tom. Oh his sweet Tom. Too gentle for this war. He wished the man stood behind and never enlisted, went to the priesthood like he said. Schofield would have fought for his family, for Tom’s family, for Tom. Tom Blake. Lance corporal Thomas Blake.
If he succeeded, he would get his medal.
Schofield smiled. His medal. Bloody piece of tin.
But Tom was alive. As far as he knew. The older man stirred, pulling himself up by the branch he was holding onto, and taking in a ragged breath.
As if lightning struck him, he was suddenly cold, in pain, and in an urgency to find Tom.
Tom. Tom. He searched around, groaning as he bumped into a dam made of human bodies, bloated and sickly. He wanted to hurl, but he couldn't. He had to find Tom.
“Tom!” He screamed, at least he attempted to. His voice was too hoarse and there was still some water in his lungs. He crawled over to the bank, the sound of rushing water falling behind him. He saw a sunken lump on the grass that lined the river bank, right at the entrance of the woods.
He frantically crawled closer, much lighter now that he has no commodities. He heard the soft sobs of a man.
“Tom?” He reached Blake, holding out a hand, freezing, and resting it against the side of Tom’s head. He was also without his bag, or helmet, and was soaking wet. He was sobbing, the tears burning hot compared to their cold skin.
“Will. Will.” Blake cried, looking up to the other corporal with red eyes, he grabbed onto his shoulders, pulling Will into a close embrace. Schofield didn’t realize he too was crying.
“Oh Tom, oh my sweet Tom. I’m sorry Tom I’m sorry,” he rambled
“I hate this Will, I hate this. I- I don’t know how you do it I’m sorry I hate this,” he sobbed. Schofield held him tighter, their foreheads pressed together. Shared sorrow is only half the sorrow.
“Shh, shh. It’s okay.” He cooed, wiping Blake’s tears with his thumb. Blake pressed his lips into his palm, making Schofields heart flutter. It’s the most intimacy he’s had in the past year.
“We have to get your brother, c’mon Tom.” Schofield whispered through his own tears. Tom nodded, his dark lashes washed out and lips reddened. They were freezing, but the woods were only right there.
Through the trees they staggered forward, beat down and knees close to collapsing. The trunks were tall and winding, leaving Schofield in a trance, only aware of the woods and Blake’s cold hand that gripped at his waist to keep up.
A voice is carried through the foliage, deep and melodic. A hymn?
The two men stopped in their tracks, facing a corral of men sitting about. A man singing.
I’m going there to see my Father, and all my loved ones who’ve gone on.
Tom was the first to sit, a soft smack as he fell against a tree stump. A private laid next to him, Schofield softly exhaled , shimmying next to Blake.
They rested their heads back, Schofield resting his head in the book of Blake’s shoulder. His short crop was still wet and plastered to his forehead. Blake sighed as he snuck his hand through Schofield’s torso and grasped the older man’s hand. His hands were warm now.
They remained like this for a small moment, enjoying the rare time of peace. It felt as though they were both alive and dead.
“You alright pals?” One of the soldiers asked.
“Where are you from?” another.
“They've probably got the wind up.”
“Well they're not one of ours.”
“They’re soaked!”
“Fuck it, let’s just pick him up and take him with us.”
‘Devons.” Blake groaned.
“Sorry pal?” one of the three men asked.
“The devons, we need to find the devons,” Will interjected, also dazed.
“Were the devons…” Blake looked at Schofield confused,
“Why haven't you gone over yet?” Schofield asked.
“Were the second wave.”
Blake stood up suddenly, yanking up Will.
“Woah easy there-”
“Mackenzie, where is Mackennzie?” Will asked.
“Down the line- oi where are you going?”
Tom and Will began to run off, Tom repeating “my brother” to no one but himself.
-*-
“You’ll have to wait until the first wave goes over.” The lieutenant said. The trenches were chalky white, with soldiers bustling around, surging forward. There was no time.
“No no! We can’t!” Schofield pleaded, Blake had already begun to move on his own.
“Move! Move! Stop the attack!” Blake screamed over the chaos, no one moved for them, continuing to trample the duo. Schofield saw the fear in Blake’s eyes, the desperation as he clawed his way through the men.
He shifted his gaze to the side of the trenches, where men surged forward. He could run. He could reach Mackenzie if he cut through the plains parallel to the men. It would be an instant death if he failed.
He looked at Blake. He climbed the firing fence.
The Lieutenant screamed at him, his men watching in disbelief as Schofield stood on the final step, a perfect target for the Hun’s shells.
“WILLIAM!” Blake shrieked, clobbering over more men, “move- Move out of the way!” WILLIAM!”
He kept screaming, while Schofield ran.
Schofield ran, and ran and ran even as he was knocked down over and over again, he tripped over fallen men and fell from the sheer blast of an explosion. He couldn’t hear, he could barely see, his lungs ached. Yet he ran.
-*-
Major Hepburn led him off to the casualty clearing in search of Blake and his brother. There were men everywhere, laid out in stretchers, missing limbs, missing parts of their mind, damage that can never be undone.
Schofield ran up to a medic officer,
“Sir, is Lieutenant Blake here?” The medic gave him an annoyed glare, already busy,
“No idea…. Move along corporal” he urged. Schofield continued to scan the bodies, none looking of Tom or Joseph, who apparently looked just like Tom only older. Worry began to settle in.
“Lieutenant Blake!” He screamed, “Has anyone seen Lieutenant Blake?” He asked, expecting no answer. Men swarmed about, leaving Schofield a strange interloper. The sounds of dying surrounded him as he marched forward, the grass below him crunched.
He saw an officer commanding others. He turned around, and it’s as if he was staring at Tom himself, and truly only older. Perhaps more conventional in aesthetic, but not his Tom. Never his Tom. He lost his breath.
“Lieutenant Blake!” He hollered, a glistening of hope. Joe quirked an eyebrow, moving closer.
“Can I help you? Do you need medical assistance?" he pestered, Schofield almost laughed, his lungs felt light. He did it. They did it. But where was Tom?”
“I’m from the 8th ,” he looked around, “where is your brother?”
Before Joe could answer, Schofield heard his name being called from a nearby medical tent.
“Tom?!” He cried as he saw the younger man spring from his seat on a makeshift bench made of wooden pallets. A medic officer was addressing a wound on his shoulder, it appeared to be light and not of detrimental danger. As he ran over, he saw the smile etched into his face. His dark curls now dried and bounced as he ran. His Tom.
“Schofield! We did it! You’re- you’re alive!” He cried, almost knocking down Schofield with the sheer force of the hug he gave him. It was tender, a firm press, his left hand ached as he held Blake with all his might. The stupid wound Blake shoved into a Hun’s corpse. How frivolous it all seemed now.
“Oh Blake. Oh my Blake,” he whispered into Blake’s side. When he pulled back he saw that Tom had been crying. Eventually they pulled apart, rather suddenly as if they both knew something was different about it.
It felt different.
“I thought you had died for a second.” Blake chuckled mournfully, before pausing. Suddenly he punched Schofield’s arm, making the older corporal scoff, “you fucking twat, why in God’s name did you do that!” He lectured.
Schofield could only smile weakly, his blue eyes stared down at the younger man, not noticing Joe creeping over to the duo.
“I needed to save your brother, those men. For you.”
“Jesus,” Blake sweared, resting his hands on his hips, “you’re…. You’re one mate. Jeez.” He rubbed his hands over his face, his light freckles being covered by his bloodied hands.
“Thank you,” Joe said, staring at the two. He directed it to Schofield, who offered a stern nod.
“It… it was the most I could do. He saved my life.” It’s true, in more ways than one.
“He saved mine as well,” Tom smiled, looking at his older brother in admiration. Schofield doesn’t see the bliss Tom looks at him with, as if he’s the center of the universe or as if he’s the sun.
Joe smiled tentatively, “you two should eat. Can’t imagine what it took to get here. Head over to the mess tent.”
The two then split off from Joe, they appeared stranded. Schofield’s eyes wandered to a lone tree, the very same one he usually napped on. As if Tom already knew, he headed over and plopped down on the grass, drawing out a long moan. The pain has settled in, the adrenaline gone.
Schofield settled in on the trunk of the tree. The French countryside surrounded them with bliss for once. He smiled, looking down into his pocket and fished out a photo of his daughters. He almost cried staring at their faces. When the photo of his late wife is pulled out, a somber look casts down on his face.
“Is that your family?” Tom asked, having settled next to him as Schofield was distracted. He looks at the younger man.
“Yes. My girls.” Tom gleamed.
“They’re gorgeous. And that’s your wife?” The last question is said to be quieter, invasive in nature. Schofield nodded.
“She’s beautiful. They look just like her.” Schofield stood quiet, a frown formed on Blake’s face. He played with his thumbs, pondering what to say.
“I’m sorry for your loss Scho, I really am.” Is what he settled on, no wise words for the young man, but sometimes it’s the intent that matters.
Schofield thought for a second. He had not felt much grief for his wife, not since Somme. He’d been too busy to dwell. He only thought of his girls. He looked at the younger man, boyish in nature, yet suddenly worn as of the war just changed him. Broken in. His Tom. Alive. A loved one with him, someone to suffer with him.
“It’s okay,” he comforted, pressing his left hand to the back of Tom’s head, reaching over and thumbing the shaved nape. “I’m just glad I didn’t lose you.” He admitted, tenderly and secretive in nature, “you're my best mate, and apparently I’de cross no man’s land for you.” They smiled once more, before closing their eyes and settling down.
-*-
Schofield made it back to the 8th before Tom. Word of their movement north had spread around like wildfire now that the boche had retreated.
He stood in his dugout, where Tom’s bed laid unkempt next to his. The lantern was lit and dusk had fallen, but he paced around anxiously, waiting. What if something happened? Why isn’t he here?
This bond was dangerous, it wore Schofield down. More worry to be added, a constant ache when he’s away. He didn't know it was only going to get worse. You should never get too attached, yes you can have friends, but putting all your hope in one person isn’t good for your morale. He can’t help it with Tom, for all they’ve been through, all they’ve seen. Only he understands.
“Oh Scho, I’ll tell ya my brother can yap. Oh and what was that slop they served? Here I was complaining about stale bread.” Blake complained, entering with a new issued rifle and bag, tossing it next to Schofield’s left.
The relief Schofield felt could have been shared among ten men, utter jubilance at the sight of his friend. He walked calmly to Blake, who had stopped his chatter, and brought him in for a soft hug once more. Blake was still, till he reached and held Schofield’s lower back with much force, causing a small grunt in the older man. A stupidly happy smile took over their faces.
“Oh,” he pulled back, observing Blake’s lopsided smile, “yeah the meal wasn’t great. ‘Least it was warm.”
They fully separate, now facing each other with Schofield holding his hurt hand to his chest, and Tom resting his own hands on his hips. “True. Still though. Can’t wait for my leave. Oh my mother’s cherry tarts, I can almost taste them,” he hummed, “wish I could bring you though, might be good for the both of us- because- because erm. Yeah.”
Then Blake looked at him grimly, “I can't believe you ran through no man’s land like that. It was reckless, and that’s coming from me. As you said, the naive one.” Schofield winced, salt on his wounds.
“I made it through. And saved who knows how many.” He rebuttaled, “ I don’t know why I did it; I was desperate to be honest…” They both shared a look, then stared down at the floor.
“Well, no time to dwell on it- but Scho?”
“Yes?”
Blake offers another smile, “Thank you. I don't know how you do it with someone so thick- you probably saved my life more times than I can count with my hands.”
Schofield sat on his cot, shaking his head, “I'm just glad we both made it.”
“Yeah? Must be chuffed to spend more time with me huh?” Blake quipped, Schofield rolled his eyes in fake annoyance.
“We should get some rest,” Schofield suggested, Tom agreed.
They don’t sleep much that night, every so often jolting awake at the memory of what they saw.
-*-
They do end up moving, the new trench a bit more secure than the last, wider as well. Still a hell hole, but as summer approached it meant less trench foot because the rains happened less frequently. Schofield’s hand did end up healing, though it gave him a nasty infection and a fever for three nights. He had to spend those days in the Med bay, hearing dying men and praying he didn’t end up sicker than he was. Blake had faked a rather convincing stomach ache in order to see him and let him in “the know”. Apparently the guff had been destroyed by a grenade, knocking out some men’s hearing. Blake warned him that he better get ready for more card games because of it.
When he came back, Blake had been punished for his faking and was forced to rebuild said guff. Even with the manual labor, he gave Schofield half his rations to “fatten him up” after his sickness. It made Schofield smile. In return Schofield drew him a picture of Myrtle, which Tom watched over and instructed him exactly how she looked.
Speaking of Blake, he did end up taking his leave after all, a week long in which he claimed to spend it with his mother. It was his last day on that leave, and Schofield was patiently waiting for his return.
The gunfire had ceased for the day, with only few casualties that week. A younger man, about Tom’s age, had stuck his head too far past the wall and got shot. It sickened him, causing him to give half of his meal to a fellow officer.
It was later that evening, when Schofield was laying in his barrack drawing, that Blake arrived, noisy as ever.
“Scho! Come here!” Schofield blinked, slamming his notebook shut where he was drawing some landscapes.
“What’s the matter?” Will asked as he sat up, walking over to where Blake was digging into his bag. He looked stronger, and less worn. The week did him good. He looked handsome.
“You must stay quiet, don’t need the other wanting a fair whack,” he whispered, handing Schofield a wrapped package, “ open it.”
Schofield, who had been dressed down in his karki trousers and flannel, opened up the package. Upon undoing the twine and removing brown parchment he is greeted with a delicious scent of cherries. A tart, looking as if it was made today.
“Try it! Oh- I mean try it” he whispered after he screamed, Schofield smiled, gently grabbing the pastry and lifting it to his mouth. He gives one last look at Blake before biting in.
The sweetness that hit his tongue was unlike anything he’s had in a long while. It shocked him how delicious it was. The flaky layers, the tartness of the cherries, all tasted like something from heaven.
He gave a low moan of unmasked pleasure. It’s stretched out with his eyelids fluttering close, and a look of pure bliss over his face.
“Oh Jesus Tom, this is something else. I might have to beg the higher ups to give you my leaves.” he joked, looking up through his hazed expression to see Blake staring at him with widened eyes and lips slightly parted.
Schofield flushed, feeling embarrassed at his reaction,
“Thank you…” he offers, Blake nodding and still watching him.
He tried to have manners and eat the tart slowly, but his control waned and he eventually shoved it all in his mouth with ferocity. He watched Tom with his cheeks full as he chewed, licking his lips clean.
“Of course… I- I uh thought of you. Mom asked about Joe and well, I didn’t tell her the whole ordeal, but I told her about you. She says thank you. She also sent some comforts, if you want a new vest cos’ looks like we’re not leaving this Christmas.”
Something in Schofield’s heart warmed at his first words, an unfamiliar feeling settling light in his chest, yet at the same time it forms a pit in his stomach. A wave of uncertainty, concerning pressure building inside him.
“Well, thank you. Thank you Blake. This is lovely,” he gestured to the empty parchment, “I hope you didn’t make me out as some hero.”
“What'd you mean?”
“To your mum.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Tom sat down next to him, a warm presence that Schofield is hyper aware of, “ we might even get a medal.” He grinned, almost taunting.
With a grimace, “ you and that bloody medal. I’de ought to shove something in your mouth to get you to shut up about it” He joked. Blake shook his head, smiling and offering a small chuckle.
“It’s something to bring home to me mum. And if I… don’t make it. It’s something to give her…”
“Since she will not have you.” Schofield agreed, sighing as he stared at the boy. It’s sad, but true.
“But your life is worth much more than tin, Blake.” Schofield discarded the parchment to the side, but pockets the twine. May come in handy.
“No reason to lose sleep over it.” Blake slowly reached at Schofield, holding his hand for a second, reassuring.
“I know Scho. I know.”
He leaves for the latrine, leaving Schofield to dwell in some strange emotions.
-*-
“Sarge, where’s Blake?” Schofield asked Sergeant Miller. The authoritative man gives him a puzzled look,
“He didn’t pick you? You two idiots are peas in a pod. Lovers quarrel?” He taunted, fishing out his tobacco tin and sliding some above his left gum.
Schofield ignored the man’s rude words, “ what d’you mean picked?”
“Sent him on a supply run. Simple as that. Now scram corporal.” He muttered, beginning to march off. Schofield clenches his teeth.
“When will he be back?” The sergeant whipped his head back,
“I told him by tomorrow, lest the sorry bloke wants to dig up more latrines. Do you need anything else or just going to pester about like lice?”
“No, Sarge,” Schofield replied, fuming.
Anger wouldn’t be the exact word to describe Schofield's feelings when he sees Tom marching down the trench with Private Stokes. Discontent? Jealousy? Annoyance? Yes to all three, but the one most prevalent was simple: Fear.
Blake walked right past him, where Schofield kneels in front of some wires stringing in the communication trench. He’s pale, and appears sickly.
“Oi!” Schofield called, tugging fiercely on Blake’s pant leg causing the teen to stumble forward, covering his knees in dirt.
“Aye you fucking twat what- oh.” Blake freezed with his hands sinking in the dirt, soiled like the rest of him.
“Oh? Is that all you have to say to me?” Schofield spat.
“What’re you? His lover? Why’s you care so much?” Private Stokes jeered through the fag in his mouth, and reached to pull Blake up by the fabric on his back.
Schofield’s had it with the insults, the confusing burn those words give, he stands up “I’m not going to argue the toss with you Private. Get on.”
Stokes eyed him suspiciously.
“Would you reckon that?”
“He’s just jealous to have missed my great stories, given the shit some of the men have been up to they’ve been rather good.” Blake tried to joke, falling flat. Schofield snapped his eyes at Blake.
“Or I want to be there if my best mate dies so I can write to his mother and brother. Let him know he wasn’t alone.” He snapped to the two. For once Stokes looks down, seeming to regret his words.
“Now get on Private. That’s an order.” Schofield commanded, turning once more to Blake, “I have no words for you.”
He marched off, exiting off to a field just before some more farmland. Very soon they’ll be out of the trenches and into tents. What would be seen as a less than ideal living space suddenly is a blessing for the trench man.
The grass is dryer due to summer, and a light heat hits his neck. He squinted at some far away trees, wondering if someone still lives at the settlement beyond them. It’s a silly thought, because they'd most likely have been killed by now. Whether by a hun or malnutrition.
He heard someone behind him, jerking suddenly and reaching for his rifle which is still strung on him. It was Blake.
“What is the matter with you? Why are you acting like my mum? It was just a supply run.” Blake angrily interrogated. His dark eyebrows are drawn tight, his head hung forward like he always does when he’s angry, as if stuck in a shrug. Schofield looked around. A few men dawdled about a way off, not paying much mind to them.
Schofield marched closer, “That’s what you thought last time. And it wasn’t. What if that had happened now?” Schofield had said in a blank tone.
“Why did it matter?” Blake had squinted at him, seemingly less angry.
“Because—what if you died, Tom? And I wasn’t there?”
“How would that have changed me dying?” This had been true. It wouldn’t.
“Because if you were going to die, I would have liked to be the one holding your head up, and burying your body.”
“Well, what if I didn’t want that?” Schofield had frozen, a perplexed look dawning on his face.
“You didn’t?”
Blake had paused for a moment, the flush of his anger slightly fading. “No… I did. It’s just— you are a father, Scho. A father to two little girls. D'ya know the guilt I would’ve had if it had been my arse’s fault for getting you killed? I couldn’t have lived with myself. So I chose someone… more… expendable.”
Schofield had taken these words with much consideration, for they had been true. He hadn’t moved closer, instead swaying where he stood, as if his feet had ached.
“Tom, I will always have been in danger of dying. That’s war.” Blake had nodded sadly, Schofield had taken a cautious step forward, “But I’d rather have died next to a loved one. If I were to have died, it would have been next to you.”
Blake had smiled, “You old sap. I couldn’t have promised you I’d always choose you. Besides, they’d been saying we were lovers when chatting the lice, so maybe it was best to squash those rumors.” Blake had joked, but offered a sad smile afterward.
Schofield hadn’t known why that had made him ache. Or why it had made his throat feel tight and his head dizzy; they weren’t lovers, that would’ve been wrong on so many levels. This had been his best mate.
“For once, you said something smart,” Schofield had laughed, trying to cover up his peculiar sadness. Blake hadn’t laughed, instead giving a curt nod before turning away.
Blake’s heart had raced, and he too had been unsure why.
-*-
The Sergeant Major had given them their medals, alongside some extra commodities. They had also finally made it out of the trenches, with the two men residing in a tent now. It had been getting colder now that fall had approached.
“‘Bout time they gave us the damn thing. You were right, all this waiting around for tin.” Tom had sighed, throwing himself onto his cot as Schofield had pushed past the canvas tent. It had been warm inside, an oddity.
“Well, at least you could rest happy now. Me more so now that I didn’t have to hear it,” he had gone to put it down next to his notebook, paused, then turned around and walked over to where Tom had hunched, medal still in hand. After unwrapping his leather laces, he had looked up to Schofield.
“Get up.” The older man had commanded. To his surprise, Blake had jumped to attention, rubbing against him in the commotion.
Schofield had cleared his throat, taking one step back. He had unclasped the back of the pin, watching as Tom’s blue eyes traced where Schofield’s hands had attached the medal to Blake’s uniform.
“Are you giving me your medal?” Blake had been bewildered, wide-eyed at the older man. Schofield had smiled.
“Yes. You did save my life, after all.”
“As you did mine!” Schofield had rested his hands on Blake’s neck,
“I’ve already got my medal. I didn’t need anything else.”
Blake hadn’t known if he had actually been talking about the medal.
Schofield hadn’t either.
“What about your girls? Wouldn’t they have wanted something?” Schofield had thought, then shook his head.
“They’d just have wanted their father.” Blake had smiled, reaching up and rubbing his fingers across Schofield’s lapels.
“I suppose I would have too. If I were them.”
They had stood like that for a second longer. Schofield had noticed Blake hadn’t been looking at his eyes anymore, instead staring at his lips, a thousand gears turning behind them. Schofield had stared at Blake’s mouth as well, how he had bitten his lips raw and now shown a bright red.
He had wanted to lick them.
“Scho?”
Snapped from his trance, Schofield had stepped back, clearing his throat.
“Sorry, I was thinking about—about” about him? “About what our next meal was.” Really?
Blake had laughed, “And you said I’m missing a few screws.”
In bed Schofield replays that moment in his mind over and over again. He's a ruined man.
-*-
They work like machines for a year. A never ending grueling job that wore them down to their bones. The sounds, the visions, the scent of death. It was everywhere, no matter how much they washed it never came out.
And Blake scrubbed. He scrubbed and scrubbed until his fingers were sore. No soap rids him of his sins.
With the overall filth of the camps, head lice spread rampantly, even body lice. Everyone was itchy, sore, and miserable. Schofield and him had spent hours picking them off one another just for it to come back. It was November, so the camps were now freezing.
Word was bustling around about what was to happen, and if the war would go on much longer. The answer was always a resounding yes, whilst men's morals dropped. Blake was already surprised they made it this far, even after he got a bullet in the thigh he was still giving all he had. Letters from home made it easier, a photo of Myrtle’s puppies and his mothers handwriting. The thing that kept him going the most of course, was Schofield.
They had been playing cards, huddling about together. Privates and corporals all gathered in a circle where bets were being made. It was almost noon, and the men were getting hungry.
It was a sergeant who came screaming, yelling at the top of his lungs with a paper held high as he ran towards the men. Blake and Schofield looked at each other with confusion, then at everyone else in the crowd who were trying to understand what was being said.
A few men stood up, Schofield and Blake included, and waited for the sergeant to reach them.
When he finally caught his breath men began to cry, some hugged, some fell. Schofield and Blake turned to face one another.
The war was over.
The men cheered, screamed, and did anything to show their happiness. Everyone was brushing against one another, jumping, or sobbing, throwing off any helms that were still worn.
“Oh dear God, Scho. We're going home!” Before Schofield could respond, Blake swung his arm around the older man's nape, forcing him into a deep embrace. Then he turned his face to look at him.
And Blake kissed him.
Blakes mouth, warm and wet with tears, pressed into the side of his mouth, mostly cheek as if that's where he had been aiming and yet he missed. It burned, and Schofield yearned.
Once he processed, he offered Blake one gentle kiss to his cheek which was cold from the wind. They pulled away and smiled, then Blake was being shaken by Private Cookes and they split off in celebration.
Life was going to be okay.