Hello everyone, I am here with a Canada-centric fic. This will mostly focus on Canada's battle in the First World War, before moving to the Second World War and other major historical events. I just have such a love for Canada (I am Canadian) and its history. This chapter is about Vimy Ridge, which celebrated it's centenary last April. I hope you all enjoy!
*Note: Fag is used within the text as historically accurate slang for a cigarette. It is not meant to cause offense.
Matthew- Canada
Alfred- America
Arthur- England
France- Francis
Peyton- Saskatchewan
Howard- Ontario
Calen- Nova Scotia
Hetalia belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya
X
Matthew felt the chill deep within his bones, he wondered absently if Nova scotia always felt it in his bones, the constant furrows beneath his skin. Sometimes Matt swore he could taste the coal dust from the smaller province, he wondered what it must be like for its incarnation. He had the vague sense that Calen was fighting closer to Belgium, could feel the man's weary in a distant sort of sense. The same weary that hung off his own shoulders and those of his troops.
Most of them would be arriving soon, his boys, he acknowledged with a faded kind of smile accompanied by a shiver. The four Canadian Corps united for the battle. It left a strange flutter in his chest, that reminded him of night and smoke, winter chills.
The light from the fire one of the boys had lit, a letter from Joe's brother in law, cast strange dancing shadows over hewn walls, and Matt squinted blearily at the rough carving he was attempting. It was a cross plain and simple. Would probably make Arthur proud or something. He didn't believe he had the skill to carve the regiment insignia like Thomas, and Jim would likely not lend Matthew his pen come hell or high water (not when he was in the middle of sketching a pig from his farm back home).
Laughter broke out from the small circle of men huddled around whatever else the soldiers had found to burn. Their voices were a kind of soothing rustle, even with the unnatural way they bounced and sputtered underground. It distracted him slightly to listen to their talk of home, and John's mother's best homemade pies in the damn world. Distracted him from the pain that has settled somewhere behind his heart, and lingered about his eyes like the cloudy fields.
He would go and join them in a minute, but for the moment he was sat beside Sam, wide-eyed bright Sam who had lost a brother and half his street. He reminded Matthew something fierce of Alfred. Bright laughing Alfred who has just entered the war, and wouldn't arrive for months at least. And he was damn thankful for the fact (though he wished Al would never face the war in the first place). But not for the soldier beside him who had lost the innocence of his youth (he was only eighteen now), for the distance in his gaze.
He winced faintly as the deep slinking sound of the miners picking away at France's veins sounded throughout the tunnels. They would be digging for days more, and Matthew didn't mourn their fate. The constant worry of collapse, the looming dark. He had been through the tunnels enough to carry Al's token clutched close to his heart whenever he walked there, with a half-prayer on his lips.
"Oy Matt get over here."
One of the men called out with the thick coastal accent familiar to New Brunswick, he had the vague impression it was Tim (Tim who had two daughters and a lovely wife). Shaking his head in good humour, Matt tucked his pocketknife into the convenient pocket at his side and slipped from the top bunk, which he had taken to soothe Sam's nerves (because there's always that nerve of constant collapse and shells falling on your head). Really, he couldn't help but care for his men it seemed. Not that he had ever minded, it was his will, what little he could do.
"Aye, quit yelling I'm coming."
Matt called back padding across the floor to the small circle of men, he distantly wondered if he should replace his boots, he thought that could be his sock peeking out from the bottom in the dim light. But he pushed the thoughts aside he could survive well enough without boots of perfect quality. Squishing in between John and Joe, Matt was passed a flask, filled with something foul, that could only really ever come from Scotland. He downed it anyway and passed it to Joe who winked at him with a grin.
"You hear what the Upper Command's planning?"
Jim questioned where he was turning something over in his hands, a kind of excitement to his eyes. Matt raised a brow as the other shared a few insults about certain overconfident French generals and useless British ones.
"Well, word is that the sods are really planning with their taking the ridge. And they're gonna give us maps and shite."
The soldier continued, and the others mumbled and grinned, and guffawed. Duly Matthew noted that he had to go and speak to Currie tomorrow (and Hygge who kind of didn't really exist but that was beside the point). He liked the general well enough, he had a good head on his shoulders and focused on saving lives and victory. Which placed him far above certain British commanders (again besides the point).
"Want a fag?"
Jim asked with a sly wink that was just all his playboy personality and a bit of respect. Matt nodded and took the proffered cigarette, he pulled out the lighter tucked into the inner breast of his pocket over his heart and flicked it. Watched the play of the small flame off of the engraved stars before he lit the fag and passed it to Jim. He took a slow lax drag of the cigarette, inhaling deeply, recalling faintly the dim scent of tobacco (that and lavender) that had clung to Francis whenever he had visited.
Matthew welcomed the burning inhale, pushed aside the acidic taste of something far worse and focused on Sam who had drifted over a sheet of paper clenched in his hands. Right the YMCA had delivered another merde carton of paper to the lines, god bless them. He should probably write something to his yank of a brother. Instead, he passed the fag to Sam and memorized the faces of his comrades. He knew what the upcoming battle would hold for the infantry.
X
The view reminded him of the air, the D.H he flew, rickety beauty she was. The curves and spins, daring manoeuvres, howling bite of wind in his face, the ethereal freedom of it all. The miniature scale of the battlefield was stretched out, rising in hills and fields, around Matthew as he surveyed the land (Francis's land) and the ridge. The godforsaken ridge that they would take come hell or high water. If Matt possessed anything inside his hollowed-out soul, it was determination and perseverance.
There was a gnat's sliver of hope hovering about his chest and drifting on the cool breeze that ruffled his (too) short hair. Currie's strategy actually might work. Oh, there would be casualties, it wasn't a battle without them, but they could conquer the ridge.
The attack plan consisted of a crawling barrage, a tactic the Germans had first come up with (and Matt has long surpassed the willful ignorance of the German Empire's engineering skills. Doesn't mean they aren't still right bloody bastards), it consisted of moving in three-minute intervals across the field. The space in between was filled with artillery to create a sort of curtain. It had worked before, but that was not all the former real estate agent was employing.
The rumours Jim had heard (probably from corporal Smithson), were correct. They were giving maps to all the soldiers, that and the miniature Matt was currently standing on in the faint early morning rays of April, to serve as a first-hand view.
The planning was beyond extensive, but he couldn't fault them for it. Not when England and France had failed to take the ridge. He could still see them in his mind's eye, Arthur, tired stressed Arthur recoiling from heavy losses and bruised all over. And Francis pale strained but stubborn man he was who had a half-wild fear about him. If they were going to attempt it then they would do it right he supposed, and they would conquer it.
A hand waved distant in his line of sight and Matt perked up following it to place Currie surrounded by a few others, mostly lieutenants and other such high command. For some reason anytime, anything of any sort of major seriousness was conducted Matt was called in. It was not like they couldn't figure it out on their own. He's not even that old
Shaking his head, Matt tucked his hands into his pockets fingering the already creased paper in his hands, Al's words comforting and light in a world his brother nation couldn't understand (Dear Mattie, are the girls in France hot? Lafayette always said they were gorgeous but not as beautiful as my women. Stay safe for me please). Striding over Matthew nodded to a few soldiers, watching as the large farm horses pulled the artillery about, the men directing it. On the other side of the clearing where the set was plotted he could see the man cleaning their guns basking in the faint spring sun.
"Williams."
The general intoned with a precise salute, Matt mirrored the gesture with a half-cocked smile. Currie only shook his head, most of the upper command knew of Matthew's status, it would be rather hard to explain away someone who's died from shrapnel to the heart, alive the next day. He thought the man liked him well enough, all though a certain amount of that was likely to Matt being his country.
In any case, he respected him well-enough, he'd already united the Canadians in a way that Matthew hadn't felt before. He felt it in his veins, in his heart (and maybe not so much Quebec), the stretch of the prairies, the fjords of British Columbia. Unity. It was not an unwelcome sensation.
The general grumbled good-naturedly under his breath about paperwork and stubborn (oh so very stubborn) British high command before he guided Matthew over to one of the maps spread out on the table. Howard was crouched over the table, the representation of Ontario had a bandage wrapped around his head, and was subtly holding a cigarette at his side. The province brightened upon seeing Matthew and pulled him into a half-hug before refocusing on the map. Together they went over the battle plan, Currie pointing out key features and Howard made sharp remarks every once and a while that cracked a smile across his features. And Matt couldn't help the stirring of excitement and nerves in his chest.
X
The air was thick with thick fog, and the acrid scent of smoke drifting from the artillery, the usual chaos of the battlefield stung Matt's lungs as he perched at the forefront of the trench. Jim was beside him, having finally ditched his cigarette, to stare at the untamed mass of barbed wire and the pockmarked land. The rounds continued for another minute, deafening, so much so that he would hear the ringing in his ears for days after (which was never helped by constant presence and firing on the battlefields).
The tension was tangible in the atmosphere, that eager desire to prove themselves, assurance and nerves. He could taste it all on his tongue, and feel it in the pinched corners of the grin splitting his features. It was a bloody horrible April morning to begin.
It took a moment more before the command rippled out across the front line and they were going over the top. Matt pulled himself over the intermediary wall and into no man's land, breaking into a sort of half dash, his men beside him and around him, they charged.
Going across no man's land was nothing short of a trial run through hell. There was the barbed wire, the German's remaining artillery, trench holes, and occasionally gas attacks. Matt just pushed forward, ignored it all, gun clenched tightly in his hands gaze forward tracking the land before him.
Artillery rung out in the silence, and he bit his lip at the few that fall, their live flickering and guttering out like a candle. He could feel them fall. He would mourn them at the battles end, names still curled on the bridge of his nose, and the skin of his forearm, the roll of his tongue. Names and faces that he couldn't forget, wouldn't forget. Like the date, like the feel of the bullet already embedded in his shoulder (it hurts like a bitch, but the pain is tolerable enough).
Matt fell to the ground then, the advance halted for the next round of artillery that blasted overhead like raging gods, and the swept seas of the south. He breathed in the thick mud and laid still, there was another soldier to his left, part of the Third Corps, his name was Bill. Matt ascertained this with a short glance to the side infinitely thankful for the one small gift of his immortality. Calen was a few feet in front of him, he couldn't miss the red hair if he had been trying. It strengthened something of Matt to see the province.
In the echoing ringing pounding silence, that was hardly deserving of such a name (but when you hear shells every day the shock only jumps out occasionally), he could almost hear his heart beat in his chest. Loud and heavy, like it carried the weight of all the lives of the battlefield within it's corded muscles. He could almost tap into it all, the bloodlust, fear, hope, determination, a swirling maelstrom in his breast.
Then they were up again charging forward. And that seemed to drown out all other thoughts. Move. Forward. Charge. Survive.
Matthew cursed under his breath as the barbed wire dragged at his leg, and a shell exploded nearby, loud and far closer than he had thought. It snapped his body back like a rag doll. He landed in a nearby shell hole, mud and dirt clinging to his uniform and heightening the familiar taste of blood. With a curse his vision rapidly began to fade to darkness, he felt the injuries like a pulsing sensation. Fatal in any circumstance. A piece of shrapnel lodged near his heart, not to mention the blood loss.
Matt could pull himself together within a few moments and join the charge. And he hated it as he watched his comrades, his brothers fall. And he just got up and walked away barely a scar to name. He choked in a few rattling breaths and briefly thought of Al, and Arthur, and Francis.
He let himself fall to death's ever reaching grasp then, between a breath. In the next he slowly crawled to his feet, heaving breath, limbs disjointed, organs still settling into place, his gaze centring on the soldiers crouched and sprawled upon the ground. Hard to see in the smoke-filled battlefield but there nonetheless.
Matt took a deep breath and dragged a hand over his brow smearing dried blood and pushing aside stray strands he took a breath, and when the signal went he popped to his feet and darted forward.
X
He sensed the two immediately, a pre-set warning bell, one that any nation possessed, that rung shrill and fierce till he looked across the ridge, the bloody godforsaken ridge, and saw the sneaks of blond and oh so distinguished snowy white under their helmets. His lips curved into a sneer as the German troops rush forward, attempting a counterattack.
It had been three days and Matt was tired and weary, every muscle in his body seemed to want to collapse and his uniform was slicked with blood. They had rested their forces once night had fallen on the first night, but it didn't ease the ache in his chest. But they were on the ridge now, and a blond youth was charging towards him gun pointing into Matt's eyes.
He growled and ducked, driving his bayonet into the man's chest, he crouched and held the gun steady before he picked off a few poor sods. He fell into the rhythm, that endless pounding rhythm that fills like white noise, and left the reins loosely within his hands.
Slash, dodge, run, duck, slide, on and on the actions, repeated as the Canadian forces moved up the hill. Climbing through remaining barbed wire, over the trenches, and through the narrow alleys fighting in close quarters; he fell into the senses of battle. It was endless bloodshed over and over.
Matt had passed the front line when he came upon Prussia. The albino nation was grinning, blood staining pale skin macabre, eyes alight with bloodlust. Matthew just swung his bayonet and dodged the other's strike, he ignored the stinging cut across his cheek, the shredded skin of his leg, and crouched kicking a leg out to try and trip the empire.
There was a feral grin on his features, small, and noticeable to Matt only for the way it was mirrored on the older Beilschmidt brother's features. The older nation was cackling rambling something mad that Matt didn't care for. Instead in the intermarry he swung the but of his gun towards the albino's chin, landing a solid hit, before another German soldier came up behind him.
Matthew ducked the overhead bayonet strike and turned striking the youth in the solar plexus, knocking his breath out with a wheeze. Matt whipped his gun out and jammed the end into the boy's temple if he survived he survived. War didn't make fair of death and life or morality.
Prussia was charging again, and Matt ducked the charge swinging around to aim his gun at the nation's exposed back. He prepared to shoot when the younger of the Germanic siblings appeared followed by two soldiers, still young but so powerful.
Matt aimed his gun and watched with steely eyes as Germany stared into his eyes, there was a conversation, a warning of what was to come. One of the soldiers recklessly charged in the still silence and Matthew sidestepped the swing and shot the soldier in the chest, lips curved into a frown.
The air crackled with tension and Matt turns his attention to the blond, who was staring at Matt all assessing gaze. The blond nodded to himself and turned trusting whatever he had seen in Canada's eyes. Matt frowned, and the gun twitched in his hands but didn't fire. He would meet the younger Beilschmidt on the field another day, and he would cut the bloody Hun down in battle. For now, he watched the two brothers retreat with eyes cold as the north of his lands (the places where silence is tangible and winter kind).
He watched the two disappear before he blinked once to himself and turned his gun on a soldier cautiously approaching from the rear, without blinking Matt fired the gun and turned his attention on the other approaching soldier and parried his bayonet.
It was finally almost over. The German forces were retreating, and Matt pushed back viciously, expression feral at their retreat. Falling back to trenches a fair distance back, licking their wounds at the loss. As the generals mustered the corps the artillery fell silent and the battlefield began to haunt with the cries of the dead.
Matthew followed the nearest sound and crouched beside a young man, German if the cross was any indication. There was a bullet in his arm, and a scrap of a left leg, Matt bandaged the arm and leg with the remaining strips of his uniform and slung the unconscious man over his shoulders carefully carrying him to the field hospital. At the end of it, all the injured were the injured. They would become prisoners of war. But first, they make sure they won't die.
Coughing racked his chest harshly, and he crouched in the fields for a moment. He could feel the losses like cool pinpricks across his skin, that burn and pulse, like wafting smoke and guttering candles. Matthew took a breath (not particularly deep that would hurt), and rose to his feet, jostling a low groan out of the man slung across his shoulders he made his way to the field hospital.
It rustled a bit of brightness in his eyes when he saw Sam aiding John there were tears there, and Matt could feel the dried tracks staining his own cheeks, hidden as they were by a liberal amount of blood and mud. But there was a sense of euphoria that bounced around his chest, a sense of something. He felt like one.
X
The hospital was heavy with the acrid scent of sterilization, it burned Matthew's nose, and made his eyes water occasionally. But the nurses had left the windows open, and there was a nice enough, though a bit chilly, spring breeze about the room. He was sharing the large space with five other men, lieutenants, and Peyton, who had gotten half his leg blown up, the golden wheat-haired province had cursed up and down the halls since they had brought him in. It made Matthew want to shush the province, just as much as he wanted to fuss over the younger personification.
He would have preferred to be among the others; the poor bloody infantry on their cots, soothing what little he could with his presence, talking to the soldiers. Instead, he had been settled in the room, with a heavy stack of paperwork backlogged from god knows what, and set to rest as the nurses who possessed hidden cyanide (and they were Canadian of course) and perfect smiles had left him.
He was hardly injured anymore, he healed faster than Peyton would, and he managed well enough to revive himself from anything particularly mortal. But nonetheless, he had been set in the hospital under Currie's stern eyes. Idly his gaze flickered over to the fresh scar running the length of the underside of his forearm, Gilbert had gotten a shot in (he hadn't even felt it). It could fade, but Matthew doubted it, scars from other nations tended to stay, unlike the network of scars that marred his lower back (right below the still tender patchwork of healing burns scarred on his left shoulder).
Dull chatter filtered from outside the half-closed door, and Matthew looked up, tilting his new glasses that had slid down the bridge of his nose up. He crinkled a brow at the footsteps accompanying the noise and set his pen down on the document he was signing requesting another munition factory in Toronto.
A nurse appeared in the doorway, hair pulled into a tight bun, a sort of weary kindness to watery blue eyes, Nancy hovered for a moment gaze flickering to the visitors outside the doorway before falling to Matt. He nodded, briefly glancing at the other soldiers in the room, most were asleep, a kindness from the Scottish nurse with a cheery aura about her or otherwise preoccupied with letters. Peyton was in a half state of delirium eyes centered on the stone ceiling above.
Nancy entered the room bringing with her what he supposed were his visitors. Matthew blinked rapidly in half shock as Arthur entered the room with a slow walk, followed by Francis who well possessing the ever-airy nature was weary and haggard in appearance. What surprised Matt the most was Alfred tucked behind the two older nations, looking lively if a bit sombre in the morose aura of the hospital.
Francis spotted him first tucked against one side of the room, in half daylight. The French man glided over and placed a warm kiss on Matt's cheek, drawing him into a half hug he murmured softly, "Bonjour mon fils. Comme ça va ?"
"Bonjour Papa. Je suis bien, mais fatigue. Et-tu ?"
Matthew responded with a warm smile as Francis pulled away and settled into a nearby chair with a bone-weary sigh, and a self-deprecating smile serving his answer. Arthur approached then, breaking off from the hushed conversation he had been having with Al, he took Matthew's hand and placed a light kiss on his brow eyes crinkling in mirth and love, even as the typically stiff Englishman said nothing. There was a subtle pride in his eyes that left Matt feeling significantly warmer in the dull chill of the room.
He wondered why the two nations were here, and not upon their own battlefields. As far as Matt had understood from the last meeting of the Entente powers, the Nivelle offensive was to involve both British and French forces (as well as the colonial forces hence Vimy). He had read the reports, and as far as could be understood the offensive had ultimately failed. If he looked closely he could see it there in Francis' finely shaking hands, and the furrows of Arthur's brow.
"Are you both okay, I heard…"
Matt questioned softly, earning soft looks from the two parental nations. Francis shrugged and murmured something faint about mutiny, Arthur nodded and replied, "Well enough Matthew."
It was all he could really hope for upon the fields, he supposed.
Al stepped forward drawing Matt's attention, he was staring at Matthew, gaze intense like a focused crystal. Matt smiled weakly and waved slightly, it was enough for Al to snap out of whatever he had been thinking and pull him into a tight crushing hug. If anything could be said of Al, it was that his strength had only grown since their childhood.
"What are you doing here Al? I thought you weren't supposed to arrive for another month?"
Matthew asked in the whispered tight space between two brothers. Alfred pulled back and beamed all radiant light and puppy-like enthusiasm he replied, "Couldn't wait to see ya, Mattie. Anyhow the troops will be arriving like ya said."
The arctic personification just shook his head and smiled genially at his brother as Al perched himself on the edge of the bed. It settled some knot tangled up in his chest, right beside the one made of heartstrings and losses, to be surrounded by his family.
"So, Mattie I heard you fought Prussia? How was that? And your guys took a crazy amount of soldiers. Seriously?"
Al exclaimed bouncing about besides Matthew, he blinked a bit before acclimatizing to his brother's nature with a nod. Francis quirked a brow to Matt's left, a flicker of hurt and grief passing in singing blue hues before he questioned, "You faced Gilbert, Mathieu?"
Matt nodded and tenderly showed the (now) worried older nation his sleeve, Francis fussed over it for a few moments, while Arthur with all the airs of nonchalance carefully checked Matthew over. He could see it underneath Alfred's bubbly persona that the southern nation was also worried, in the twinkle of star-like eyes.
He reassured them softly with a gentle smile, happy in a faint way that his family cared about him. Peyton mumbled something in the midst of their fussing, and immediately Alfred was on his feet sliding over to the province close to his borders, grilling him on his state and the shell that had temporarily amputated his leg.
Laughter drifted about the small hospital room, as Matt verbally released his mirth at his brother's actions, earning shared looks from Arthur and Francis. He didn't much care for them and instead only shook his head. There would be mourning, and graves to be dug, soldiers to be healed, but for the moment he took health in the pride that lingered in England's eyes, and the unity that seemed to thrum at his fingertips.
X
Okay there was my take on Vimy.
Translations :
Bonjour mon fils. Comme ça va ? – Hello my son.How are you?
Bonjour Papa. Je suis bien, mais fatigue. Et-tu ? – Hello Papa. I am good/well, but tired. And you?
Merde - Shit
History:
So the battle of Vimy Ridge took place from April 9th to the 12th in 1917. It was part of a much larger plan known as the Nivelle offensive (named after the general), or the Chemin de Dames offensive. It was supposed to be this great series of attack that would defeat the Germans and take back miles of land. Ultimately the offensive was a failure, and in fact the French forces mutinied after the attacks as they had suffered such great casualties. As Vimy Ridge was part of the Nivelle offensive, it is often less widely known, and receives less mention.
Vimy is considered one of the Canadians most successful battles, as it united the four Canadian Corps (pronounced core) in one battle, under the command of sir Arthur Currie. It was also the battle that had the highest success rate in capture of artillery and prisoners. The history of Canada refers to the First World War as Canada's Baptism of fire, and this battle brought about a great sense of unity among the soldiers (who were mostly English-Canadians, but also French, indigenous, Asian etc.). Before the battle the soldiers thought of themselves more as English rather than Canadian but afterwards there was a sense of nationality.
What made the battle so successful was it's extensive planning, maps were indeed given out to every soldier, and a model scale was also built. Curie in essence made sure each soldier had an understanding of the battlefield, and their method of attack, which was a German tactic, the Crawling Barrage. Additionally, a large number of explosives were brought in.
Other references:
So, there are actually tunnels under Vimy Ridge, I actually had the pleasure of going and seeing them. The soldiers often carved their regiment insignia into the walls, but there were other things such as crosses, and there was even a postal box, where soldiers would place letters to go home in before a battlefield.
I will post some of the pictures from that trip on my tumblr Arowen12freelancer here: blog/arowen12freelancer
Lighters did exist in the First World War, and actually they were invented before the match. The first was invented in 1837.
The YMCA is mentioned, and they did actually play a large part in supporting soldiers on the front lines like the red cross. They sent hundreds of tons of paper and envelops to the front lines for the soldiers to write with (which was very valuable to a soldier's moral), brought them front tea, and paid for sports equipment for the soldiers.
I briefly mention horses, this is because the animals were often still used in the First World War. They were mostly used for pulling carriages, or artillery.
The United States entered the war on the 6th of April, because of the distance they would not have arrived in Europe for a few months at least. They entered because Germany resumed unrestricted submarine warfare.
For anyone interested in history exclusive to WW1, there's a Youtube channel called The Great War, that does a week by week coverage along with special episodes. It's amazing and I would 100% recommend.
Thank you all for reading, reviews/comments are always appreciated. Till next time!