There stands a hostel by a travelled way;
Life is the road and Death the worthy host;
Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,
"How have ye fared?" They answer him, the most,
"This lodging place is other than we sought;
We had intended farther, but the gloom
Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:
Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room."
Within sit haggard men that speak no word,
No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;
No voice of fellowship or strife is heard
But silence of a multitude of dead.
"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"
And to his chamber leads each tired guest.
- Mine Host by John McCrae
Screams.
Even now he could hear them, his limbs flailing.
A shell had burst near them, breaking the duckboards and sending them all into the mire, condemning them to death.
Drowning in the mud.
The ground in Passchendaele had been turned into a soup of mud by British artillery. The guns had destroyed the drainage systems and it never seemed to stop raining, causing the earth to try and swallow any unwary or unfortunate.
He heard pleas of the man beside him, begging those who had remained on the intact duckboards or on the more solid mud to help him. No one could, if any tried they would be sucked under as well. Matthew himself took his last gulp of air as the suction and equipment pulled him under.
As he was dragged down, he brushed against a drowned horse and some supplies and tried to push off them, to get back to safety. Unlike his men, he would survive, after all he didn't need air and until the nation of Canada disappear, neither would he. This would instead be a very painful number of hours as he 'swam' to more solid earth.
Eyes and mouth shut, he began to pull himself forward and hopefully upward, it was too difficult to tell now. He could still hear the muffled screech of shells, the explosions of the grenades, the groaning of the machinery and the cries of despair as his men. How long had he been trapped in this mire now? Minutes? Hours? It felt like a millennia.
With one last effort, he managed to pull himself out, onto a partially submerged artillery gun before groaning as another air strike came roaring overhead, dropping its payload. But for a moment, as the shells hit, the difference between ground and sky disappeared as the mud and blood reached upward to paint the dark clouds.
He wanted to go home.
To see rolling green hills and fields of gold. He didn't belong here. This was Europe's conflict, not his, and yet his loyalty was to England so he would would remain. Just as his brothers India, New Zealand, Australia and others from the Commonwealth were.
Seeing German forces coming towards him, he checked to see if his gun would fire before realizing of course it wouldn't. Not only was it a shoddy Ross rifle but it had just spent the last few hours submerged in mud with him, thing was worthless now as a firearm. Shrugging as though this didn't concern him, he leaped among those just arriving (they had foolishly thought him to be among the corpses) and began to swing the rifle as a club in the waist deep mud. He drew his standard issue knife and bayonet and completely immersed himself into combat.
Sooner or later he had found his way to his own forces repelling the Krauts, smiling grimly at India, New Zealand, Australia, Newfoundland and South Africa who were trapped in this particular hell they called Passchendaele with him. He ignored the stray bullet that slammed into his shoulder, blood pouring out of the new wound.
He saw the same resignation in their eyes as emerged from their partial shelter and into the arms of death...
England stood in his kitchen, making himself some Orange Pekoe tea to help him sleep (and denying the little voice that told him that he wouldn't, same as every year)
As had become tradition over the decades, Canada was staying over at his house before going over to visit all of the grave sites on the eleventh, to honour his dead. Britain would go with him and on the way, they would inevitably run into the others wearing the poppy, on their way to pay their respects to their children.
It was remarkable, nearly a century had passed and those old wounds didn't seem to heal - those who had been on opposing sides did their best to avoid contact with each other on these days. Though he was not one to talk, it had been centuries and he still mourned for many, including his queen Elizabeth I. His hand clenched around the pot as he felt a wave of sorrow and wiped a stray tear as it escaped his eyes. Best not to think about that. They were partly human after all and they had many to mourn. Far too many.
Sipping his tea, he began to walk back to his study, noticing in passing how hard it was raining tonight, the heavens seeming also to cry before he heard it.
Muffled sobs nearly completely drowned out by the rain.
Turning around, he gently eased open the door to one of his many guest rooms and saw on the bed a twisting and turning Canada, his mouth open in a silent scream and tears pouring down his cheeks.
Oh dear.
He stood at the door, frozen, before instincts he thought he had left behind in his colonization days came rushing in to overwhelm his senses. In swift sure strides, he crossed the room before gently picking up his younger son and slipping under the blankets to hold him close. As he rocked to him, Arthur hummed some old forgotten tune that probably only he could remember the words to and as he did so, Canada's frantic movements stilled and his eyes opened and made hazy contact with his own.
Canada hazily murmured "England" before his arms contracted around Arthur's middle and he fell back asleep, this time much deeper where no nightly terrors could reach him. Arthur moved to get up but he was firmly held down by those arms and after a moment or two, settled down and attempted to get comfortable, it would appear he was spending the night. Looking into the younger's sleeping face, he gently brushed sweaty hair away and he briefly became awash in memory.
British high command jumped ahead to secure the Belgium port of Antwerp, what would be a crucial link in supply lines. They had failed to inform England of this. If they had, he would have hastened to point out that Antwerp was inland on the Scheldt river and the Scheldt was still under German control. Any troops that they would send on such a mission would be met with high casualties but the generals didn't seem to care about this, giving higher priority to other operations at the time. The entire affair was a mistake waiting to happen and one easily avoided.
Together with some Poles and some British units, the Canadian 1st army was sent out with the task of clearing the Scheldt and opening the way into Antwerp. However the river with it's islands, canals, tributaries, peninsulas and pockets was a tactical and virtual nightmare. They would have to fight through flooded plains and waist deep mud in the open to get to their objective.
Knowing the potential disaster in the making, England went to bring Canada back, away from the front lines and those who might capture him. But he got there too late, as on the 2nd of October, the army began its advance north and hit stiff fighting on the sixth causing the army to loose all track of one Matthew Williams. He had been in a panic until he had heard on the 13th of October that Canada had been found.
The division Canada had been with, the 5th Infantry Brigade's Black Watch, was virtually wiped out. The attack hadn't gone at all as planned, the Canadians had been made to attack over open, flooded land against driving rain, booby traps and land mines. Already the soldiers that heard about it had begun to call it "Black Friday"
When he heard, he had had to go out, he had to find him.
He ran through the rows of the dead and past the soldiers shelters and tents, past the medical centre to a solitary figure sitting in the rain. Slowing to a walk, he came over to Canada, sitting away from the others lighting a cigarette. The others seemed afraid to be anywhere near him and as England got closer, he saw why. The lad's left arm was completely gone (never mind that it would regrow) and was riddled with bullet wounds, the blood was slowly pooling around his feet.
"Lad..."
Canada's eyes flashed up then back to his matches which he struggled to light with one hand. England leaned over with his own match and lit it for him, earning a nod of thanks.
"Why are you here England?" The boy said at last, breaking the silence.
"I'm here to bring you back, there is too much danger here. You could be captured or worse...Germany's not in his right mind because of his boss. Only nations can kill nations and if you are captured that is a distinct policy, you need to survive..."
Matthew interrupted him in a monotone as he stubbed out what was left of his cigarette against the butt of his gun. "I've given up trying to survive. None of you see me as more than cannon fodder and people at home don't want me, they want to get away. I'm just looking for a suitable place to die."
Arthur's hand flew on its own and he found himself on his feet, staring down at boy at his feet. "Don't you DARE give up on me lad. So what if Qwe-beck or whatever it's called wants independence or you were called America? What does that matter? Get up! It is not yet your time to die, lad. Don't see you? In a war that's fucking ideal! Don't give me that crap! We've all seen death boy, we've all lived through it, give up now and you'll just become another casualty. I have seen far too many young nations go that way boy and I refuse to let you join their ranks. Put on a stiff upper lip and stand back up and fight or so help me, I'll feed you my scones for a month."
The boy just back up at him through the curtain of rain with dead eyes and England felt his stomach drop when he realized that it was the wars he dragged him into that had done it. Picking the boy up (that shouldn't be so easy), he carried him over to his own tent and out of the rain and gave him a blanket.
Canada just began to try and light another cigarette.
The boy had gotten better after that, as he began to see the good he was doing and the Netherlands had managed to talk him further out of his depression during the liberation of his lands. England would like to think that his own speech had played a part in that.
He hugged the sleeping Canadian closer, he hadn't been able to get the boy's blank face out of his mind after that day and after the war ended, he began to make regular visits to the lad's house. It was worth the air fare and his boss's anger seeing those pale violet eyes light up and the loneliness and emptiness recede when he saw him on the doorstep. He wouldn't let the child think that he was forgotten and look so broken again.
Considering their history together, perhaps he shouldn't promise this, even considering his long standing affection for the boy. After all, his actions had done little more than hurt the lad. Taken him from France, made him fight his brother, denied him responsible government and more freedom, dragged him through bloody war after bloody war. But yet, here in the darkness of the room, it felt right to feel his warm body against his. To hold the boy in his arms and pulling him tighter felt right.
Maybe Canada felt the same, after all his nightmare had stopped when he had come in. He leaned forward a planted a gentle kiss on his forehead, smoothing blonde hair as he did so before leaning back against the pillows.
Old wounds may take time to heal and may never disappear, but together they could try to prevent any new ones.
By the time the storm ended and the sun began to rise, neither realized as they were both sound asleep.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstrpped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen
AN- This story is the one shot granted to SoulEaterRomanceFan who correctly guessed the answer to my question in chapter three of Welcome to the Real World and asked for rainy day MapleTea...not sure if this was what they had in mind but this is what it ended up being. First attempt at writting these two, hopefully isn't too bad.
The first flashback is of Passchendaele (WW1) and the second is of the Scheldt (WW2).
The last two lines in Owen's poem are Latin and are part of an ancient saying that translates roughly as "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country"
I have nothing else to add other then a thank you for those who have fought and died on behalf of my nation and that we still continue to honour your memories. I don't know which other countries have a Remembrance Day or when it is but I hope that if it was today, you also stopped and offered your thanks (or a prayer if you're religious) for those who have fought, both living and dead, over the centuries so that we can enjoy the life we have today.
Thank you.
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