This is a draft of a story I hope to do, I haven't done a war AU before but after reading some others and watching the BBC drama 'passing of the bells' for a second time (which I highly recommend as it gives a real look at both sides and is a very heartbreaking story), I thought why not?

there will probably be changes but this is a taste of what will be in store. I have a sequel planned too if this is liked.

I recommend the song 'Heaven Knows' by Five For Fighting as that is what inspired the story to begin with.

with that done, on with the chapter...

The date is...well that doesn't matter does it? It's still war and nowhere closer to an end. I have treated countless soldiers, boys really, and less than half survive the first night and the ones that do last perhaps a few nights more. The damp worsens the infections. Maggots thrive so easily in the wounds, I have to pluck them out while the lad screams bloody murder. So much screaming. Too much. At the start I knew it would turn ugly, the doctors and nurses always knew, but this is some Devil's play. For example, a Welsh lad came in the other day with the usual shrapnel, the medics at the frontline pulled most of the metal out of his leg but he was suffering from trench foot too. He lasted a few hours, sobbing relentlessly through the night.

I don't know how much more these lads can handle. Some of them are prisoned in their beds, others prisoned in memories. All are wounded in one way or another...and yet I have my arm twisted to say they are fit for fighting. If a limb isn't missing they can still fight according to the generals. My job is to do good by my patients, but I am forced to turn a blind eye and send these lads back to that hell. I'm not sure how many more fearful faces I can see disappear into the distance.

I miss you Peter. Every time I see the young lads come in I'm forced into a state of mind that terrifies me. When this war is over you won't need my guidance anymore, that alone makes me wish I had been a better father to you.

"Bugger!"

The candle wax had overflowed the holder and dripped onto Arthur's hand. The sharp pain as the wax hardened on his knuckles brought him out of his writing. The diary he had been writing since his first journal when he was fifteen had been his only companion during the war. His peers were arrogant and most couldn't even speak English. The nurses were mostly French, and those that did speak English it was just to say they didn't understand what he was saying. He stopped questioning them these days, if they didn't follow his instructions he simply did it himself. It left him exhausted, plainly delirious sometimes, but this late night writing stopped him from having a complete break down.

He picked at the wax, the action somehow soothing as random yells ripped through the hospital. If it wasn't yelling it was crying or coughing or vomiting. A never-ending nightmare day and night. Many of the recent patients were from the Belgium city of Ypres, an engagement had already happened a year previously but once again the Germans and the British Forces clashed but with a far worse consequence: tear gas was barbaric.

Lads came in blindfolded, rows upon rows holding the uniform of the comrade in front. The hospital had been in a frantic panic - trying to treat so many of them all at once - at the very least a thousand. Most were Canadian, some spoke French while others the strange Canadian accent. No matter where they came from all of them had the same horror-struck expression as if...there was nothing to actually compare it to. It was a new look of a new generation of broken men; men who should really be boys.

Arthur rubbed his eyes wearily, aware of the numbness around the pencil in his hand. He left the entry unfinished and locked the journal away in his desk. The night was quiet of shells for once, meaning many of the patients slept more soundly than usual, although not by much. It must've been nearing midnight, meaning another round of patrolling the floors of the hospital by lantern. It had become a spectacle amongst the more humoured patients to dub him Arthur of the lamp and while the mockery was uncalled for, even he had to admit the lads had the slightest smile on their faces when the glow passed over them. He grabbed the famous lamp from atop a cupboard of files and used the remaining flame from the candle to brighten the dented oil lamp. It was surprising how such a basic object could encourage peace to the lads, but light had always been the safest companion for man and now it was needed the most

He strolled along the elongated halls, beds in rows of three on each floor and nearly all containing a wounded man. Arthur glanced left and right, using the lantern to check that they were breathing. That was the worst part of the walks. The nervous ache in your gut that the next patient would be still, never to open their eyes again. It was better if they were found at night though, then they could be moved out of the sight of other patients as it always worsened the state of the ones nearest to the dead. However, thirty minutes into the walk and he had passed all seventy men on that floor, next was the one above containing the Canadian and French patients.

It had been the request of the French to be placed beside their Canadian counterparts, seeing as a few could speak French. Arthur had scoffed at one, reminding the Frenchman of the short time France had actually owned the Canadian colony, and how the French government had seen the land as useless. The remark earned him an onslaught of booing from the French, while some of the Canadians giggled, amused by the mutual rivalry between the two colonial masters. Although he hated to admit it, the French-Canadian ward was the most enjoyable at times, the quips and comebacks were a sigh of relief compared to the melancholy atmosphere of the other floors. As soon as he entered the double doors, someone shouted at him in French while others laughed. Arthur shook his head. These French, he scoffed, they don't think about the ones that want to sleep in peace. It was the only peace they would ever get, and usually it was only an hour or so.

With a scowl on his face he walked the floor, avoiding those that grinned at him beneath the white sheets as the lantern's glow passed over their faces. Someone else shouted out in French and on cue another lot of laughter echoed. Although nowhere near fluent, Arthur could suspect it was either the eloquent nickname or something with feminine in mind. It had become an art to ignore this taunting French until they spoke English, it was only then did they want him to reply. Even then it was to mock his accent.

It wasn't all laughter on the floor though, the air of death still sucked the joy out of this place. Arthur's lantern crossed over a blonde lad shivering beneath the sheet. His eyes were covered by a poor excuse of a bandage, the bandage slipping off one eye to show the raw redness around the socket. His wheezing was interrupted by racking coughing, mucus covered his mouth and pillow; tears were streaming down from the bandage, the lad clearly in pain but he refused to cry out. Arthur crouched low and waved the lantern in front of the exposed eye, the blue bloodshot and faded.

"Can you see the light?" He asked calmly, although the continuing symptoms worried him. The boy turned his head to Arthur's voice and stared blankly for a while, but reluctantly he nodded before coughing again. Good, that meant his vision was returning. "I need to sit you up, do you understand?" Arthur loudly spoke, thankfully the boy nodded again and held his breath. Arthur placed the lantern on the floor and carefully moved the boy onto his back, guilt gushing through him as the breath was released sharply and his body tensed. It was only half the battle and with a grunt Arthur leaned the boy up, however he was afraid he was to meek to keep himself upright. When he moved his hands away the boy balanced himself perfectly, if not swaying a little.

"T-thank you." He wheezed. Arthur bit his cheek.

"All part of the job, lad." He lied, the blue eyes and blonde hair had reminded him of Peter, his son who would be turning thirteen in the next month. "What is your name?"

"Williams, Matthew."

"Right Matthew, I don't think you'll be getting much sleep tonight. I will get a nurse to watch over you. It's just until that coughing stops as I don't want you-" Arthur stopped himself from saying choking on your own vomit. He had seen it once before when a nurse had laid a Yorkshire lad onto his back for the night, by morning the body was cold and empty. Matthew seemingly understood, weakly nodding his head. His chest heaved with the effort to breathe, the mucus on his lungs causing him this anguish. There was little to do but wait. The side effects of tear gas were relentless but eventually they wore off, however the Germans seemed to like the stronger doses of the chemical. "The effects are not permanent."

"Will you-" Matthew took a shallow breathe, "will you send me back?"

Arthur froze. Needle-thick jabs prodded his body, the words said so softly were sharper than a butcher's knife. What was he to say? The answer would always be yes. The lad had all his limbs and when the effects wore off his eyesight would be manageable in the trenches. Missing limbs, send home; limbs in tact, send back. That was the saying floating around the trenches and all eyes pointed to Arthur who had the last say. Right now - in front of Matthew and his pure face - Arthur Kirkland could not say yes.

"Ask me again in the morning." He replied ambiguously, before turning away to motion for a nurse. Instead he was greeted by the plodding of a crutch and a familiar scent of freshness. He mentally groaned as the man appeared in the orange lamp light with a perfect smile.

"I'll watch over the man, docteur." The Frenchman said with wistful charm. Arthur glared. If there was ever a time he wanted to carry a gun it would be now. Francis Bonnefoy, French officer, with the experienced age of twenty-seven was the bane of Arthur's existence at the hospital. The man was sexually inappropriate with all staff, never shied from making a nuisance of himself, and was constantly finding ways to make Arthur's work ten times as difficult. That thick-as-two-planks smile of his was blood-boiling too.

"No need Officer Bonnefoy, just go back to bed and rest." Arthur hissed sweetly. The crutch was for balance more than anything, the thick layers of bandage was healing a gash along his thigh caused by the tangling wires in no man's land. A shot of anti-tetanus would have done fine if the gash hadn't been invested with maggots. Francis had been there for well over two weeks, the healing process painfully longer than Arthur wanted.

"I have done enough resting. Soon I'll be healthy enough to join my peers again, shame I won't be seeing your handsome face for a long time. Might be I may come across another wire." Francis purred before winking at Arthur who flushed red. Damn him and his sexual advances.

"In all due respects, Bonnefoy, but that comment might just land you in trouble if it were mentioned to the higher-ups." Francis tilted his head and squared up to the challenge.

"Oh darling, it's not a comment. It's a promise."

Before Arthur could retort Matthew lurched forward and vomited in his lap. The lad tried to apologise but was halted by pain stinging his eyes, he almost fell back onto the pillow if not for Arthur moving forward and holding him up. It took Arthur and Francis to steady Matthew and remove the dampened sheets, Arthur having to do most of the work while Francis spoke soothing things in French. A nurse came and took the sheets away, Arthur disappointed by the revolted look on her face as she rushed the sheets towards the laundry area. She could at least be sympathetic, but then sympathetic was growing thinner with each patient brought in.

"I'm sorry, doctor." Matthew cried, his convulsing body nothing to do with the cold.

"It was the tear gas, not you." Arthur stated firmly. "It was those bloody Germans and their chemicals." The added left a bitter taste in his mouth, his green eyes flickering with sadness.

"Docteur is right. At least it's not the other end, oui?" Francis smiled at the Canadian, the lad attempted a hoarse giggle. Matthew looked comfortable with Francis sat beside him, perhaps it would be better than a nurse, a fellow soldier might hold more reassurance. Resigned to defeat, Arthur sighed and picked the lamp up again. Francis looked at him expectantly and in return Arthur nodded his head stiffly. "I will be staying by your side, Mathieu." The Frenchman breathed, Matthew captivated by his bright blue eyes dazzling in the glow of the lamplight.

"If I hear anything suspicious on my rounds, I will be holding you responsible Bonnefoy." Arthur declared, quite at a loss for words when Francis blew him a kiss. He stormed off to continue his walk of the ward, hearing a few wolf whistles and taunts as he did so. I hate the French, Arthur concluded.

With the English doctor gone Francis hobbled over to a stool and placed it beside Matthew's bed, skilfully sitting atop it as he had grown used to the awkward movements. He smiled at the young man even if it was fruitless. The boy's features was something to smile at anyway. A stray curl twirled out of his hair, the cute thing bouncing every time he coughed, the blonde hair shorter than his own and eyes slightly paler. He remembered the brave private from just before the battle of Ypres, when the French-Canadian troops were attempting to push the Germans back but as always it had failed. That was when his leg had got tangled in those lethal wires, the thick mud concealing the trap.

He had visited his sweet cousin in Ypres before the war had started and it was painful to see the once majestic place grey and in rubble and mud. The silent Canadian had rushed over the top every time there was an engagement, never faltering, but then the evil tear gas had swept over no man's land, engulfing any man that could be strangled by its mist. It was the same across France and Belgium, Francis feared both countries would forever be marked by the chemical.

"Will my sight ever return to normal?"

Francis paused, his face shadowed by the ever present darkness.

"Truthfully I do not know. I have seen men say their sight is better, others partially blurred, and a few lose it completely."

Matthew sagged, both his eyes now covered by a bandage but it was obvious he was holding back tears. Francis grimaced. There were too many innocent boys in this war, and too many of them were staining no man's land. The winters were the worst. The first year had seen boys freeze in the night, only to be dragged into the sunlight to try futility to revive them. The moon nor the sun was ever on their side. Both had their ways to get a man killed. All the same Francis humoured the best he could. "Though a loss of sight means a slip of a hand on a nurse could be excused, oui?" Matthew blushed.

"Oh no, I could never do that!" He exclaimed, Francis chuckled. Too pure was this young Canadian. He seemed polite enough though, in truth Francis found the company of the privates far more enjoyable than the officers, all high and mighty because their families were richer. The privates were decent men, they knew the meaning of comradeship. Francis rubbed his stubbled chin, the fine hairs darker than his blonde head. "There is a nice one though. She sits with us sometimes and sings songs to us." Matthew's blush grew darker the more he talked about this sweet nurse. Suddenly a sharpness appeared in Francis' tone.

"Most of them only act nice. The English girls are more sour than any lemon."

"I think this one is French."

"Even so, I have seen boys whoo the local girls and these girls become plump within the year." Francis liked to flirt with anyone who dared walk past his bed, but he knew the limits of his actions. Matthew nodded his head although a sadness crossed his face.

"I suppose they took a chance. No one wants to die a virgin." He whispered.

The hours passed and Matthew's wheezing calmed, the coughing also not as violent. Tears still streamed from the bandage but otherwise he was recovering nicely. Francis had to stand every so often so that his leg didn't lock in place but other than that he never left Matthew's side. He didn't know why he took an interest in the Canadian, most were rather nervous around their old colonial owner except for a few who had close family in France. Maybe Matthew reminded him of the better part of himself, whatever it was he hoped the stiff Englishman would send him home.

The signs were there.

The rigidity of his body, the sensitivity to loud noises when another man cried out, the spacey-expression whenever Francis stopped talking. He had seen too many men with these symptoms. Officers called it 'shell-shock' but others thought of it as cowardice. The symptoms always started out minor, but when going back to the frontline was mentioned it was like a different man was in front of him. Something snapped, what was left was an unknown, damaged creature. Francis gulped. He prayed Matthew was not one of them. He didn't think he could bear it.