Remembrance Sunday is coming up here in the UK, and I was inspired. It's probably filled with historical inaccuracy, but hey, fanfic is famous for inaccuracies. Also I'm really lazy? And I hate doing actual research like a responsible person? So please call me out on anything I get wrong.
Disclaimer: you know how many bright blue flying elephants there are? None. That's how much of Star Trek I own.
This is the war to end all wars, they say. Scotty thinks it might be true, if only because nobody will be left afterwards to fight.
He watches the new lads as they huddle in the trenches, the stink and the horror and the filth a far cry from the glory they were promised. Fight for king, country, and then go home to a beer at the pub with all your mates intact and a chestful of medals.
What a load of horse shit.
His attention is drawn by one of the newcomers, sitting a little apart from the others with his eyes on the ground. The soldier is too young to be here, Scotty thinks to himself. He's all golden curls and pink cheeks and babyish innocence. He nudges the Captain sitting beside him, nodding towards the boy.
"War's robbin' the cradles now, I see."
James T. "Perfect hair" Kirk, or plain Jim to his friends, looks around. "So it seems. You're never too young to die, though. At least, that's what the generals say."
"Still. Bit young fer all this, ain't he, Jim?"
The other shrugs, his attention somewhat occupied by the task of picking a weevil out of his food. "If he's here, he's eighteen, I guess."
"Unless he lied on his enlistment form, o' course."
Jim just grunts vaguely and takes a sip of his tea. "Ugh. Who made this? It tastes like piss."
"That'd be you who made it, Cap'n."
"Ah. Right." He's moody today - Scotty wonders idly why.
The Scotsman picks up his bowl of what could be generously called food and walks over to the baby-faced soldier. "Mind if I sit here, laddie?"
The boy starts, jerked out of his thoughts, and looks up at the Scotsman standing over him. He flushed slightly, whether from embarrassment at being startled or surprise that someone asked to join him Scotty didn't know. "Oh! You may sit here, Meester...?"
"Montgomery Scott, but call me Scotty. Everyone does."
The boy smiles. "My name is Pavel Chekov."
Scotty sits gingerly by Chekov. "Pavel, eh? You from Russia?"
Chekov shakes his head. "My parents moved to England before I was born. I have newer seen Russia."
Scotty nods, more as acknowledgment than agreement, and they eat together in silence before he speaks again. "So, how old are ye, lad?"
"Nineteen, but I look younger." He turns to Scotty, slight amusement playing around his face. "You thought I was younger, yes? Lying on the form?"
Scotty shrugs, unabashed at being found out. "It's happened before. I don't see why, though - this is hell." At the last three words, his voice seems haggard and rough. He's been here several months now, and he knows what he's talking about.
Chekov looks around at the mud and despair surrounding him, at the faces of the soldiers who've been there for longer, at the barbed wire above him, and into the face of the man beside him. It's a nice face, he decides; there's a kindness to it, something that makes this man seem like a friend already. Finally, he speaks, and his voice is smaller than before. "It is really so bad?"
Scotty looks into the face of the young man beside him, open and innocent and unaware of the horror that's waiting. "Worse."
...
It is worse than the stories, a tiny bit of Chekov thinks later on. The rest of him is desperately trying to stay alive while shooting at people he can't even see for smoke. A bullet whizzes by his head and kills the man next to him, and he only realises later that he never knew his name. The blood and the wire and the noise and the muck are all around him, a nightmare he can't shake off. The gunfire is deafening, but he can still hear screams.
Something lands with a thump near him, and he can't even turn to see what it is when someone grabs him and drags him away, around the corner of the trench and he's pressed up against someone. Strong arms wrap around him and he doesn't know what's happening when the whole world explodes.
The noise is deafening and disorienting, and all Chekov can do is bury his face into the chest of his rescuer and stay there until his ears stop ringing. Gradually, his hearing comes back, and he steps away and looks into the face of Scotty.
The other man grips his shoulders, looking into his face with a worried expression on his own features. "Y'alright, lad? The blast didnae catch us, but the noise an' debris can be pretty bad."
The fighting had stopped while Chekov was recovering from the blast, and everything is quiet but for the moans of the wounded and the voices of the medics. Chekov looks around, and feels nauseous. "I-I feel...like..."
He leans over and vomits. Scotty rubs his back in small circles, mumbling softly as the boy is sick. "All right, lad. There, there. Just let it out - that happens to a lot o' lads after their first skirmish."
Once the last of his dinner has left Chekov's stomach, he stands shakily and wipes his mouth. He turns towards Scotty. "You saved me. I vould hev been killed by that grenade." He swallows, the thought of it making bile rise in his throat. "Thank you."
Scotty smiles, and Chekov thinks, impossibly, of angels. "It's no trouble, laddie. We gotta stick together, us lads in the trenches. You sure you're okay?" He asks, gently clasping Chekov's shoulder. The younger man nods. "Thanks to you."
Scotty flushes, oddly shy, and slings an arm around Chekov's shoulders to walk him back towards the others. "Well, as I said, we look out for each other. You stick with me, laddie - Scotty'll take care of ye."
Did you like it? Did you hate it? Do you wanna see more? Let me know in the reviews!