Title: Baptism By Fire
Author: satoru_13
Characters/Pairings: Australia, New Zealand with a minor role, mentions of England, France and America.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 25th of April; the red bouquet in his arms reminds him of another red from long ago.
Warning: Much mentioning of blood.
Words: 1568
A/N: Written as a commemoration for Anzac Day. I am very sorry if the information and/or situations in there are incorrect; I actually relied quite extensively on what I remembered of the school syllabus of the campaign in primary school years.
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He had taken the care to ship the flowers from the very battlefield.
The blazing bouquet in his arms remind him – the nameless soldier who stumbles there long ago, blood draining from his body, staining the battlefield crimson. His bloodshot eyes ring with desperation as he clutches, claws at the other man's uniform, blood and saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth as his life ebbs away.
The smothering blood remains thickly caked over his front for days to come in the crude trenches, and the pair of wide, dying eyes in his mind for months.
The bugle sounds clear through the fray again – the light of the sun begins to fall from the sky; this is all for today, boys – and both sides begin to pull back their forces, disengaging opponents, retreating back to trenches, ploughing through the bodies and seeing which could still be saved. (Australia doesn't spot that glaring white mask and the stubbled man underneath it; it is a good thing anyhow, because even without that man's taunts he is worn enough as is.)
He wipes the sweat, blood and grime unevenly off his brow, slings another man's arm over his shoulder, and drags the soldier, as well as his own disobeying, weary body, back to the temporary safety of the trenches. He goes there and back several times more, sometimes bringing back one silent body and sometimes two, until one of his own subordinates say to him in that too-young boy's voice so cursedly common in this army, "Sir, you should rest too", and force him sliding down the dusty wall. A dented can is shoved into his hand, a fork in the other, and he smiles that they have given him something he comparatively likes.
The water tin is passed to him somewhere in the midst of the brief meal, and he takes a carefully measured sip before passing it to the next man.
The twilight is quick to fall over the camp – he hopes there is no sudden rain tonight. The men sport small glass lamps with flickering flames and write with tiny stubs of pencils on grubby pieces of paper, letters to mothers, fathers, siblings, lovers, diaries that might survive in their place. He had tried himself long ago; Dear England, he writes. (No, I can't bother him, he must be busy, he left me with this, he gave me this order; I can't send this to him). Dear France, he writes, but England has told him not to speak to France, even though they are fighting the battle together.
Dear America, he writes – he crosses the name out and replaces it with a tentative "Alfred" – and in the end it is a sad-looking Dear America with a long line of scribbled messes in between; he tears the top off and gives the paper to someone else to write on. Dear New Zealand, he finally resorts to, but decides that he is not lonely or miserable enough to be doing that and gives up entirely.
(The diary he tries to keep instead turns into a log of estimations of soldiers dead each day, and a set of notes for food rationing – and you think I don't know when you give me parts of your rations and tell me it is mine, I plan them, idiots, think about yourselves – he doesn't eat it and sneaks it back into the soldiers' food the next day.)
"Lights out, boys! Remember your watch shift!" New Zealand's voice flies over the jumble of low muttering and whispers, that odd strain from weeks ago dragging deeper into the bright voice. There is a shuffle as goodnights are shared, and the soldiers find the most comfortable positions they can on the hard dirt floor, clothes still bloody, faces still dirty, rifles still close to hand.
A murmur, Goodnight, Australia, as New Zealand settles down next to him, and tunes out before he can reply.
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He paces around back and forth, back and forth, inspecting. His men are filthy, unshaven, and slovenly, nowhere near the usual standard of this army – but looking around the rest of the companies they are depressingly similar – and he supposes he himself must be the same ragged picture anyhow; he gives a bitter snicker at the thought of what England might say.
The news has already been received – Dear Australia, it writes– England can spare no ships for evacuation. It is understandable, of course, but Australia is loath, so loath, to staying here any longer, in the futile battle. (Although, from what he has seen with his own eyes, he doubts those soldiers would have wanted to evacuate, even if it had become available to them.)
And there it sounds, the lofty notes of the bugle. The ceasefire ends. "Go, boys!" He yells high, and hears New Zealand's mirroring trill.
The trumpets cry from the other side, and the now-familiar Arabic shouts surge forward with the announcement.
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(It is late in a dark night when the dream revisits him – the taste of iron hangs heavy in the air. The beach is covered in bodies, the sand is sticky with red; and the rain that shoots from the cliffs is made of metal and not water. The place reeks of death, and the bile rises sickeningly in his throat.
There are stretchers and medics moving at the utmost speed, between the open beach and cover; and to the camp, two and a half hours away. It is too far, they take too long, there are not enough medics, there are too many dead – what else can be done? It is the best they can do.
He cannot bear standing still anymore, and, charging headlong into the hail of bullets, heads for the nearest soldier. The blood is spreading from the wound, spreading, spreading; he barely manages to choke his question out, and then they just spill – "Are you okay? Where are you injured? Does it hurt?"
(They are aiming at him now, the bullet whips past his tousled hair
The young eyes that gaze up at him are knowing, knowing, understanding––––)
"I'm alright." The soldier whispers. "Leave me, I'll follow." His hand rests limply on the blossoming red over his torso, and even as the colour recedes from his face Australia punches the ground with an already-bleeding fist.
It is all he can do just to stay by the dying soldier's side for what seemed like hours, the bullets tracing red gashes past his face, his neck, his clothes; until quietly, uncomplainingly, the laboured wheezing breaths come to an end, and the green eyes are peacefully closed.)
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He is shaking now, eyes wide and unfocused with the sudden break of memory, the beautiful bouquet of those flat, red flowers tumbling to the ground.
The faces of the people from that time plague his mind – they are all dead now, from time if not the war. (But I can't be weak here. Not today.)
Australia picks the bouquet off the ground, sighing a little at the scattered petals, and keeps walking.
It is not yet dawn when he arrives – he draws himself up tall, the medals shining off the lapels of his sharp suit, the red flowers carried gently in a bent arm. They are still fresh, he sees; it was much trouble to get them shipped over. (After almost a century the place still holds too many bad memories. He does not wish to go there himself, because even if he did, all he would get would be that awkward silence between him and Turkey, both steaming with nationalistic pride for that day, but both aware of the casualties he had taken, and that the other had taken. They are content with commemorating the day separately.
And now he is reminded of the view of the red poppies, now covering all the land that they had once fought on; spreading red, blooming red, like the red of the battlefield, like the red on that green-eyed soldier's chest–––– his head spins and his eyes see red, and it is the smell of the fresh morning air that brings him back from that coppery beach.)
There are already many here, despite that it was still hours before the service, and even though it wasn't like his usual self all Australia wanted to do today was to go unnoticed, without meeting his people or his boss, without attending the parade or the service, just sit at home by himself and please, let me grieve in my own way.
He threads through the gathering crowd, and places the bunch of flowers on the ground. He looks up, the flag with the red-white Union Jack and six silver stars soaring proud in the still-dark sky.
He knows he is crying.
"Lest we forget." He whispers, and leaves, without the bouquet of red in his arms.
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When the time comes to take a minute of silence he is there for hours and hours, going through the faces of every single man he had met on that battlefield, his squad, his platoon, his company, his regiment, his division, all of the ANZACs he could remember – because it is not the wasted effort that is really grieved for, but the dead comrades which were left behind.
(When he is finally done he lifts his head, walks up to the phone, and asks New Zealand if she wants over for dinner.)
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Thank you, Wikipedia –
The Gallipoli Campaign took place at Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey from 25th April 1915 to 9th January 1916, during the First World War. A joint British and French operation was mounted to capture the Ottoman capital of Constantinople, and secure a sea route to Russia. The attempt failed, with heavy casualties on both sides.
The campaign was the first major battle undertaken by the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC), and is often considered to mark the birth of national consciousness in both of these countries. As Anzac Day, the 25th of April remains the most significant commemoration of military casualties and veterans in Australia and New Zealand, surpassing Armistice Day/Remembrance Day.
People might know this story already; the troops landed on the wrong beach, surrounded by tall cliffs, making them incredibly vulnerable to Turkish gunfire. Basically, in the rush from the boats across the beach to any cover killed many, many, many soldiers. From then on was trench warfare, where they advanced, and then had to "dig, dig, dig, until you are safe." by the words of General Sir Ian Hamilton.
"It was not our wasted energy and sweat that really grieved us. In our hearts it was to know that we were leaving our dead comrades behind. That is what every man had in his mind." is something which a New Zealander wrote, after the campaign.
The significance of corn poppies – they were the first flowers to bloom on the battlefields of Belgium, France and other wastelands on the Western fronts, in the aftermath of the First World War; including Gallipoli. It became a symbol for those who lost their lives in the war.
Character notes:
I'm very sorry for the lack of England and France in this, even though as mentioned above, it was actually a joint British and French operation, with more British and French troops than any Australian or New Zealander ones – but they were also fighting on other fronts, so I thought that they would probably be in commanding troops in central Europe as compared to in Gallipoli. About the mention of America, I'm aware he hadn't joined the war at that point in time – it actually refers back to Red Poppies, which is something I wrote a bit ago, and this can be thought of as a sequel.
Australia – he is not as easygoing as he is usually portrayed, but Anzac Day is thought of as a really strong nationalistic sort of day, so he somehow turned serious and depressing… New Zealand – she seems to be a girl in most fan portrayals, so…
Thank you for your patience, and for reading this story through.