Arthur was a military man through and through. Arthur's father and his father's father before him had been in the military. As far back as one wished to look in the Kirkland line the profession had been passed between father and son. Arthur was no different; it would not be a surprise if his very heart beat to the rhythm of a military tattoo.
Alfred, though, was different. Young, idealistic - a boy who ought to be running through wheat fields, holding aloft a wooden airplane and making silly noises. Alfred should not have been pressed up to him, four inches in water, blood, guts and mud. Alfred's eyes should never have seen the horror of trench warfare. Alfred was too young, too naïve, too human.
Arthur had witnessed it, the slow decline of mentality. At first the boy had been all smiles and thumbs up. Any room would have lit up with his presence. The soldiers adored him and snatched whatever moments they could to listen to his smooth American accent crack jokes that were only partially funny. Alfred was infectious. From a distance Arthur had watched and hidden tight lipped smiles.
War soon changed a man.
After six months Alfred barely spoke, he barely slept – though no one could be accused of sleeping well. Muscular limbs had become thin, features gaunt. When he thought no one was looking he'd occasionally weep. Death rained all around them, the bodies of their comrades scattering the land between trenches. Alfred loved the world but there was nothing but despair offered in return. Arthur kept close to him, worried, his silent shadow.
Then the order had come. "Over the top lads!"
And Alfred had stayed still. Eyes wide, frame trembling in shock and fear. Alfred was not a coward, he'd fought valiantly but this unforgiving conflict had torn out his heart. Sickness wrenched Arthur's stomach, grasping the American's wrist, yanking, twisting, trying to get him to his feet. Alfred would not come, he shook like a leaf – too terrified to move.
It was no secret what they did with 'cowards'. Men were either shot from the front or shot from behind. The idea of the boy, barely a man before court martial, before a firing squad… Arthur could not bear it. Sinking down he pulled the slender frame close, tucking him against his jacket, the roar of explosions deafening overhead.
Dirty blonde strands were stroked, comforting him like he would comfort a wounded animal, pressing the pale face against his chest as he slowly drew out his gun. Just one shot. Mercy. Release from hell.
Hot blood swelled down his abdomen as Alfred's body fell still, his body tensing.
Nothing made sense anymore. Why were they fighting? Why were they dying? Carefully he laid Alfred into the mud before he pulled himself up over the top of the trench to dice with death once more.