He had never been in a storm as deadly as this.

Arthur Kirkland crawled along the bloodstained sand on the beach, bullets slicing through the air above him like a thousand knives.

A cacophony of noises, both natural and artificial, burst about him-machine guns roaring, the sound of shells, the wind in his ears, the cries of his comrades as they were felled, the crash of the waves on the shore-they rang chaotically in his ears. All the sounds seemed to mesh together to produce a morbid, lethal song. The wind was scented with salt and blood, stinging his nostrils.

Arthur watched as a young man stumbled past him, gun aloft, firing desperately into the fray. He had only barely made it up to the barricade of barbed wire when a shell exploded directly in front of him, blowing him to pieces. His blood splattered across the sand, still steaming, and darkening the earth even more .

He gritted his teeth, flinching as another shell exploded only a few feet away from him. Lord, he pleaded in his mind, let this all end…

He licked the sand and grit off his lips. Have to find cover… He was practically exposed for all the world to see. There was no way he could get a few rounds in at the enemy without taking a thousand bullets to the chest while doing so. It's like a bloody swarm out here… he thought bitterly, swearing as he felt a bullet graze his cheek. Even if you manage to come out of this shithole alive, you'll still be in fucking tatters…

He managed to find some decent cover behind a sizeable barricade, with plenty of wire and wooden posts that would keep him safe...for the moment at least. Not until a shell blew the thing skywards, along with himself.

Arthur, trying to ignore in the burning pain in his cheek, scooted himself up and loaded his gun, hissing out curses all the while. The constant hail of bullets seemed to go on forever.

Damn those krauts and their fancy new machine guns...those wretched things didn't shoot as much as spray when they fired. Like pesticide...but for humans, thought Arthur, silently laughing to himself bitterly at his little joke. And indeed it was. They could take down dozens of soldiers within the space of only a few minutes.

There was a piercing shriek from behind him, permeating into Arthur's very bones. He felt hot blood splatter onto his back, and then there was the sound of something heavy falling through the air.

Before Arthur could even comprehend what had just happened, a corpse of the soldier who had been killed crashed full force onto his back.

The wind was knocked out of his lungs. Wheezing, Arthur struggled under the dead weight of the man on top of him.

"Fuck!" he shouted out in sheer frustration, his exclamation punctuated by the sound of exploding shells. He was trapped-if he didn't get out from underneath the bloke in time, then he'd be dead meat for sure...idleness meant certain death….

His filthy hands dug into the sand as he tried to slide out from underneath the body like a seal. But it was no use, the man was just too heavy….

So this is how I die… Arthur slowly began to lose hope. He felt a sudden fatigue overcome him. Trapped underneath a dead bloke...what a way to go…. It was almost funny really...really quite ridiculous….

A part of Arthur, the side that was intent on earning a victory for his homeland and for the Allies, urged him to fight on. That he could still make it, that he could get to the end of the beach….

And yet he felt so tired. All his muscles were burning, begging him to rest.

The screams meshed in with the crash of the waves. The shells began to sound muffled, became one with the noise and the barbed wire and the steaming blood. The world, slowly, began to turn dark.

A voice.

"Hey!"

It was one of God's own, coming to take him away, no doubt about it.

"Kirkland! You awake?"

Arthur groaned, his throat parched, his strength and will draining from him. Leave me alone, he wanted to say, can't a bloke get some bloody rest for once?

He felt the body shift above him, dragged off him. Arthur's eyes flashed wide open and then he was gulping in as much air as he could, as though he'd been underwater for too long.

"Jesus Christ!" he choked out, the biting wind nipping on his back. Fuck-what the-" He looked up. "Jones?!"

Sure enough, it was him. He'd know that damn annoying grin anywhere, anytime; he shared his barracks with him. The American youth hunkered down beside him, flashing the older man a bright, toothy smile. "In the flesh," he said cheerfully, winking at him. "You seemed to be in quite the tight fix when I saw ya, Artie-couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for you."

For a moment Arthur was beside with himself with anger-he did not want to be pitied, and anyway an older, battle worn man like him being saved by a boy was embarrassing enough. Then again, he would've died...slowly his feelings morphed to gratitude. Way to be ungrateful, Kirkland...he just saved your life, or at least earned you a bit more time, and you're pissed off that he did.

"Bad weather," Jones commented jokingly, his casual demeanor all too inappropriate in this hellhole.

"You idiot," Arthur snapped at him, his voice hoarse, "this is a war zone, not a goddamned dinner party."

"Aw, c'mon, Artie-what's the harm in lightening the mood a bit?" Jones scooted up, adjusting his glasses and loading his rifle. "I'm tellin' ya, these Krauts sure mean business! I don't think they're gonna let up anytime soon. Might as well hit 'em while you can."

Arthur snorted in disapproval, although secretly he was grateful for the youth's jokes. Jones had been like this earlier too, last time he saw him. He'd been with the other soldiers on the boat as they reached the beach, joking and laughing with them-even though it was a virtual certainty that many of the men would be dead before the night fell.

"We can't stay here any longer," Arthur told his fellow comrade, his voice tense. "A few minutes more and they'll throw a shell over here and blow us to pieces."

"I'm liking your idea, Artie-in fact, I think it's high time we get outta here! Look out!" Arthur nearly yelped aloud in shock when he felt Jones' hand grab him by the scruff of his uniform and throw him to the side, the other following suit. In the space of a few seconds the barricade that they had been hunkering down at was sent a thousand feet up into the air. Shrapnel flew out at breakneck speeds, and the two soldiers had to throw themselves to the ground in order to not to get skewered.

"Fucking Christ…" Arthur hissed, his ears still ringing. "Couldn't they just let off on the bloody bombs for a couple of moments?"

"In your wildest dreams, Kirkland. We better get moving-c'mon!" They were both on their feet already, guns held aloft, rushing into the chaos.

The end of the beach was not far off, he realized, as they sprinted through the chaos and destruction. It was only a few metres away...only a few metres! Memories from his days as a schoolboy came rushing back to him in full force; this was like running that wretched mile that his gym instructor always made his students do. He'd been the slowest one in the class...reaching the finish line on his last lap felt like ten thousand years…he'd ended up vomiting straight afterwards….

There was a whistling sound then. Then something piercing, and soon his entire body was set on fire.

Arthur stumbled facefirst onto the sand. The area where the bullet had hit him, his kneecap, was already turning the ground around him a sickly shade of red.

"Damn, damn, damn…" he managed to hiss out weakly, the agony of his wound strangling him. This was it...he'd been hit...there was no chance of him managing to make it back home anymore….

Then he felt Jones' arms wrap around him, heft him up, and soon he was on the move again.

"You're not going anywhere, Kirkland...not on my watch," Jones grunted, his voice strained with effort.

"What are you doing, Alfred!" Arthur tried to shout at him, although it ended up coming out as a wheeze. "Don't waste your time with me; I'll end up getting you killed!"

"Well, if I end up getting killed," the boy beamed proudly, "then at least I'll die saving your skin!"

He turned around, Arthur in his tow, and ran opposite the direction he was supposed to be going, back to the ocean, the ships….

"Fuck, fuck...just drop me here, Alfred, leave me here! I'm not worth it! You're younger than me-" Arthur's voice cut of in a series of heaving coughs. "-y-you've got an entire bloody life ahead of you-don't throw it away just like that-"

"I'm not leaving you here," Jones said with fierce conviction, frightening the very life out of the man he was carrying. Good lord, he's lost it!

He continued to run on, as much as Arthur's weight on him could let him. The sand below started to become dark with seawater. They were getting closer.

Arthur's wound, meanwhile, was beginning to drain him. The bleeding showed no signs of stopping anytime soon; already he was beginning lightheaded. He began to feel his eyes drooping...the pain...it was getting worse….

"We're getting there," he heard Jones say, or at least he thought he did...everything seemed to be more like a dream, really.

The wind roared in Arthur's ears, he could hear the bullets, he felt pretty damn sure he saw a dragon or something rising out of the waters, hulking and fierce and grey...or was it the ships…?

Suddenly he felt the man who was carrying him beginning to sag suddenly. Jones been hit-that his confused, blood-deprived brain could be completely certain of.

"Almost there…" Jones breathed out, the pain apparent in his voice. "Dang, Artie...you're pretty heavy...been packing on a few pounds?"

If Arthur had the energy to be indignant at the bloke's fun little jibe, then he would be...but he was so goddamned tired that he couldn't even hear correctly.

Water, then. Splashing. The waves, now strange, rushing foamy blurs to Arthur's eyes, were threatening to batter Jones back, but still he went on.

The boats...there they were, bobbing like rubber ducks in the water...like the days of his youth...his mum scrubbing him down as he splashed around with the things in the bath...the ocean looking very much like marmite, maybe. Black treacle. Nasty stuff, he thought disdainfully, foggily, wanting to gag.

Jones was still carrying him, probably. Struggling to. He didn't even know. Arthur could hear him shout something to the medic in the boat.

Then, the next thing he knew he was on the cold, wet floor of the boat, the medic hovering over him, looking more like an apparition than a being of flesh and blood.

Where was Jones, though? Where did that damn rascal go...perhaps he was somewhere else, perhaps in the waiting room, waiting for him...was he in the hospital, though? What? He couldn't trust himself.

A seagull flew overhead. There were no seagulls in hospitals, unless it was maybe a hospital for seagulls.

Damn. Damn.

He wanted to get up, look out of the boat, try to find him, see him. Jones, you idiot-the hell were you thinking? thought Arthur angrily, though now he wasn't entirely sure what he was angry about. Damn you, you've really done it this time. Was he turning back to fight? Where the hell was he?

He was sure the boat was moving now. Perhaps Alfred was on the ship...the boat, he meant.

He was faintly aware of his wound being tended to. He could still hear a bit-there was the sound of the medic, several other voices, mostly people from his homeland...but no Jones.

Damn it, Jones. Damn it, stop hiding, stop joking around! Tears began to rush out of Arthur's eyes. The sky began to grow foggy, blurry, like watercolor, running down in gray rivulets, looking like that godforsaken, unforgiving ocean that surged and toiled around him, that took dying men into her freezing grasp and drowned them. You idiot, say something, say something!