From Boys to Men
Chapter Eight
All comprehension of time was non-existent, even the sky was so clouded that it could have either been noon or well after sunset. If it was the latter, which seemed far more likely, there was an eerie brightness. Dust still hadn't settled after the heavy rain of fire had ceased, leaving a sort of orange tinge over the ground. Bodies, British, French and German alike, littered the ground, so many were there that it was hard to move without touching one.
George stared without seeing, he had never felt smaller or more alone than he did in this moment. They had suffered heavy casualties that much was painfully obvious, and again he couldn't help wondering just how many had been alive when the day began. Oliver's leg was worse than either of them had thought. Running and dodging hadn't done him much good.
All around them those who were still alive were nursing their own wounds, or aiding others who could not help themselves, the lack of emotion on some faces was almost as bad as the sheer terror and loss that showed on the faces of others, others who had just found the body of a friend, or family member.
Now here he was, aiding a limping Oliver in what he assumed was the direction of a trench and George wasn't sure whether to be relieved or terrified that he hadn't yet found Fred. He wasn't dead…no way, he couldn't be dead. George would know it if he was. They were twins, after all.
He had eventually plucked up the courage to shoot, to actually aim his rifle and fire…he couldn't believe it, he had killed people…at least he thought he had, he hadn't exactly bothered to check. He had scared himself the first time he'd fired, knowing that there was a chance of someone dying with every bullet that left his gun.
How long had it been? His water was long drained from his flask and he felt certain it had been a great deal longer than half a dozen hours or so. Which was worse, the sounds of gunfire and explosions, or the sounds of the screams of pain or sorrow, of so many men weeping? George couldn't tell.
People were shouting, orders most likely, to which George paid little attention. It was eerie, the ceasefire, the end of a single day that felt closer to a week. It didn't feel as though it would start again…it was hard to comprehend the fact that Bill and Charlie had been there a whole year. A year of this? A whole year of shooting and running and trying your hardest not to die? It's a marvel they were still alive, as dark as that concept was to think about.
They hadn't gained much ground, and very little progress had been made, that much was easy to tell. It was terrifying, the vast amount of corpses from both sides that littered almost every available patch of land, George couldn't help but notice that there seemed to be far more British and French than German dead...not that it was possible to tell in many cases.
"You okay?" He muttered, helping Oliver to lower himself into a seating position and trying his hardest to ignore the very large lump in his throat that was making it increasingly difficult to breathe. If he didn't see Fred soon…
"I'm fine. Get lost alright! Go find your brother…" Wood grunted, trying to bind the wound without assistance and yelping sharply at the pain.
George closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, trying to calm his racing thoughts.
"Are you sure?"
Wood opened his mouth to yell at him before somebody else spoke. Barely a soul was recognisable in the aftermath, but George felt an overwhelming sense of relief wash over him at the soldier who greeted them, though he couldn't quite explain why.
"I'll take him, kid."
Prongs, his eyes tired and helmet missing, stood beside them. His uniform was bloody but he didn't appear injured…which meant it was another man's blood. Without another word he offered a sort of lopsided grin to George, knelt down, slung Wood's arm around his neck and half carried, half dragged him away.
xxxXxxx
"Fred…you ass, you'd better not have gotten shot…" George muttered, his fear turning to desperation with each passing minute he didn't see his twin.
Something caught his eye then, a mess of bright red hair that was prominently visible amongst the mass of bodies. His heart leapt into his throat for a moment, before plunging straight down through his feet and into the earth. No…no way…
Only then did he realise that he was running, stumbling repeatedly over a variety of rocks and corpses toward the red hair as though it were all that was tying him to sanity. Which it probably was. He let out a somewhat strangled cry somewhere between terrified and grievous as he dropped down to his knees. The face was turned away and he hardly dared to breathe, let alone summon the courage to turn the head to face him. He did though and almost choked on the relief that flooded through him. It wasn't Fred. Thank God it wasn't Fred.
George closed his eyes for a moment again and immediately wished he hadn't. The moment his vision was obscured by eyelids he felt sick. If possible the bodies around him were even more horrific when he couldn't physically see them.
"Oh thank God, George!"
The Weasley's eyes snapped open then and he turned slowly at the familiar voice, he could have cried he was so relieved at that moment. Fred was alive…he barely looked like himself, but he seemed unharmed. Except for the blood, there was a lot of it on his clothes.
"Bloody hell…are you alright?" George swallowed thickly "I've been looking for you for ages!"
Fred forced the largest smile he could manage, still barely visible as he embraced his brother, terrified of being separated from his twin in this place again.
"Yeah I'm okay…it's not my…" He took a slightly shuddering breath and started over "It's not my blood."
George looked down, only then realising that half of his own uniform was drenched in blood from Oliver's leg and he imagined that the expression Fred wore was very similar to his own upon seeing Fred's condition.
"Oliver's." He muttered by way of explanation…immediately wishing he had had the foresight to offer more explanation than that.
His brother's reaction was immediate, his face paled considerably more and his eyes widened. No way… Oliver Wood? The boy who had thought them cricket and acted as though it were the single most important thing in the world? Fred had stolen his cricket ball once, Oliver was not particularly thrilled with him.
"Oliver's dead?"
"No, no! He was just shot…leg's not too good…" George smirked very slightly "Poor bloke will probably never play cricket again…" Wood would have slaughtered him had he heard that comment.
They were walking now, slowly, in the vague direction of the trench they had first been assigned. Neither twin spoke and they barely even looked at each other until Fred, his voice emotionless and dry said something.
"Miles Baker's dead. I saw it…died before he could finish his sentence."
George stopped walking and looked up. "Bloody hell…"
Noticing that his brother was no longer beside him, Fred turned. "What? I've kinda made my peace with it."
The younger twin shuddered involuntarily, Fred had just watched someone they both knew to some extent die, he'd no doubt shot and killed like George had…and yet…he seemed almost desensitised by all of it. George knew that it was bound to happen eventually, but so soon? He didn't like this. He didn't like it one bit.
xxxXxxx
"Who are you? And…who am I?"
Fred arched an eyebrow questioningly at the soldier tending to the wound on Lockhart's head who was leaning against the wall of the trench, gazing around in apparently rapt interest.
"Bugger's lost his memory." Said soldier grunted, obviously growing increasingly frustrated and looked as though he was considering picking up a rock and belting the now essentially useless man over the head with it.
"Oh, hello!" Lockhart beamed toothily, not unlike the smile a child would give when presented with his favourite toy. "Did you know there are two of you?"
The twins exchanged a look. "Yes…"
"This is a nice place isn't it?" The delusional soldier chirped, looking around at the horrible surroundings covered in either blood or lifeless bodies being moved.
"Do you live here?"
George stared at him, feeling the very same urge to beat him with a rock.
"No." He replied contemptuously. Realising a moment later that was half a lie. They were living here now. This was their life…soldiers, living in trenches and sleeping where there was room.
Even as they walked away someone fired a short round, the stream of cursing would probably easily have been heard a ways away.
"Sorry!" Someone shouted.
Another person, undoubtedly Lockhart cried out in what appeared to be amazement.
"Amazing! That was just like magic!"
A dull thud and the sound of someone hitting the ground followed immediately and George felt, with grim satisfaction, that his urge had been fulfilled.
xxxXxxx
George felt…was there even a word for how he felt? He couldn't sleep, he was still ridden with fear and he thought he would either faint or vomit at any moment. Fred was asleep, and in that moment George hated him for it. What he wouldn't give to be able to sleep, each time he closed his eyes he was plagued with horrible images of war. If possible they seemed even worse second hand. Not that Fred's dreams looked pleasant, he was curled into himself and he was frowning, his face looked altogether like that of a child having a nightmare. Perhaps Fred wasn't as…desensitised as he had seemed.
George sat up, there was no way he would be able to get any sleep now, not with the looming thought that it would all begin again on the morrow. He'd killed people… no, that didn't even bother him, not as much as thoughts of his brothers killing people. Laidback, joker of bloke that was Charlie, generally calm and reasonable Bill, and Fred, all of them shooting to kill…it scared George. And he didn't mind voicing his fear. But of course he'd only tell Fred, anyone else would think him yellow bellied pond scum.
He looked over at Fred again, and frowned slightly, his lips were moving, forming silent words, something Fred only ever did when the dream was really horrible. Steadily, the words became audible, very soft and George had to strain to catch the words, but audible none the less.
"…don't wanna play anymore…I wanna…go home…"
The younger twin felt a lump rise into his throat far beyond that of nausea. Fred was supposed to be the strong one. Not the one who would whimper in his sleep and want to go home. From the beginning Fred had been the one to see this as an adventure. He almost wanted to wake Fred to stop him dreaming whatever it was that was paining him but he sounded like he would cry if he was conscious and George knew there wasn't a high chance that he would get back to sleep and they needed all the rest they could get here.
The best he could do was lean back and try to get comfortable, still not daring to close his eyes. It was horrible, he wouldn't have felt so lonely had Fred been awake too. But George wouldn't wake him. He tried his hardest not to dwell on the very worst moments of the day, the short minute or so he thought he'd lost his identical twin. Though it was a vain attempt, in trying not to think about it, by default he was thinking about it anyway. It would be literally the worst thing he could imagine, actually losing Fred. No…he had to stop thinking that. They'd be fine, they had been separated today but that wouldn't happen again. No. It wouldn't.
Slowly, and without realising it, George began to drift off, his mind finally surrendering to the tempting realm of unconsciousness.
They had buried theirs, and Germans had done likewise, but tomorrow it would start all over again.
