Loyalty to Britain still existed, however, and during the darkest days of the Second World War, after the fall of France and before the entry of the Soviet Union or the US, Canada was Britain's principal ally in the North Atlantic, and a major source of weapons and food.

- from Wikipedia

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When he talks about war, these are the parts which Arthur likes to leave out. Not because he thinks they shouldn't be known, to be honest, but because afterwards he doesn't feel at all inclined to remember them. The actual fighting, with the death and the cries, the smoke of guns and blood and mud – that is awful. But it is the awfulness born of action.

The times in between the fights, however, don't even have that saving grace. They are cold and grey, all of the dirt and muck and none of the adrenaline. He feels the solid pang of hunger in his gut, amplified by the hunger which comes from all of the lives within his borders. The taste of sickness lingers constantly in the back of his mouth, and he feels more human than he should. Closer to death and dying than he would like.

It is easy to think that he is alone. He is alone.

A hand falls onto his shoulder.

"You should eat something, Kirkland," one of the men says, and Arthur blinks himself away from his thoughts, feeling the odd sharpness and numbness which comes from running too long on too little fuel. Rations are pressed upon him, and he blinks at them in surprise, shaking his head a little.

"When did we get this?" he asks, having no desire to make any sort of dent in their near-empty stores. He doesn't need to eat, not like his soldiers.

"An airlift," the man replies, looking a little brighter than Arthur can recall seeing any of his men look for quite a while now. "We've got food and some replacement weapons now."

Oh. Of course, Arthur thinks, and berates himself for letting his energy drift so far that he wouldn't even keep track of such things. Now was not the time to lose focus. No – he needed it more than ever. With an almost grim determination he permitted himself the small amount of sustenance, frowning thoughtfully when it was done.

Not quite alone, then, he supposed, feeling a flash of annoyance with himself. It was so easy to remember who wasn't helping him – and utterly inappropriate to forget who was.

Shaking his head, he stood up and squared his shoulders. He'd get some sleep, clear his mind, and then be done with this business of moping around by the morning. And the next time he saw him, Arthur would be sure not to think about how disappointed he was that Matthew wasn't someone else.

Because, in all likelihood, if he were 'someone else', then he wouldn't be here.