Here, we see Matthew Williams as a Canadian solider, one to serve, and to be forgotten, in WW I.

I dedicate this story and poem to all my fellow Canadian soliders who have faced death bravely in order to protect in what they believed was right. May they eternally rest in peace.

Hetalia (c) Hidekaz

Story and Poem (c) Sherry Sun

Matthew William's hands trembled as he downed his whiskey in a quivering gulp. The room was a sweltering million degrees, but the sweat prickling his skin was cold as sleet. His eyes landed, once again, on the letter setting placidly in front of him.

He read the poem once more, aloud this time. It mattered not, though, for no one was in the room but himself.

For the aide and for pride

I gave you my men;

My husband and sons sent

To the lion's den

And what greater hell

For a mother, compelled

To say bye to her loved ones

And never again?

Conscription, indeed

For the profiteers; feed

On munitions, much sold

Bringing in blooded gold

And the gold in their hands

Were the lives of my boys

Who march at the front

In death's elaborate ploy

What is a mother

Such as I to think?

To know that my sons

Have not clean water, to drink?

What horrors unfold,

That papers' hadn't told

Of the trenches, stunk rotten

wretched, damned, cold

And how should a mother

react when she finds

A letter in the morning

of the malevolent kind?

One so vividly yellow

It burns blind my eyes

And with a heavy heart

come tears long dry

A mother's hand shakes

When she slips out a note

That in bold, black print

strangles her throat;

Bold, black font

Wherein epitaphs lay

For this is the War-

And the price to pay.

For the aide and for pride

I gave you my men

Forgotten, young boys

That were Canadian.

[poem copyright Sherry Sun]

Matthew cringed as he lifted the empty whiskey glass to his lips. He inhaled the pungent odour of alcohol, its intoxicating scent numbing his senses. With a bitter smile, he crushed the piece of parchment in his hands, and tossed it with all his might, into the lonesome, burning grate. The flames leapt eagerly for the poem.

They would consume the words, the piercing ink that had gnawed Matthew's raw heart tender. They would chew at the sentences, until at last, the letter would be no more than a memory.

A memory to be forgotten the next day, as Matthew would wave goodbye to his very own mother before departing on the boat, on his way to Somme.

Oh, history class, aren't you a wonder?

I'm taking summer school. History 11, and it's wonderful to learn about WW 1.

The Battle of Somme was one of the worst failures in history, where Canadian, French, and British soliders were mowed down mercilessly by the German's new technology-the machine gun. In a mere 30 minutes of the start of the battle, countless men had been slain. They were pretty much running out to meet their early graves, without any strategic ploy whatsoever. God, it was horrible.

The poem was written by me, because I felt like honouring the brave, Canadian men, who fought and were given less credit than what they deserved. As a nation, Canada has provided much aide to everyone, and yet recieved such litle recognition. It saddens me. Truly, it does.

Reviews? I love reviews. They make the world go round. Unless you live in USA. Everything there is already round.

You can follow me on Deviantart, and I will be posting a short comic to go with this in a few weeks time. My account name is Soviet-Signal (if you haven't noticed already)

Much love,

Sherry Sun