Note: This one's inspired by – and takes its title from – the song "Children's Crusade" by Sting, which of course is about World War I.

And - AU this time, from roundabout chapter thirty-six.

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The children of England would never be slaves
They're trapped on the wire and dying in waves
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The soldier nudges the body's head with the toe of his boot, trying to turn it while avoiding the blood. The blood is long since frozen, and can't possibly stain his boots – but it's more a matter of superstition than practicality. His lieutenant crouches down to check the face against the photograph from the intelligence officers.

"It's not him," the lieutenant says, rising again. They move to the next body. The soldier looks down the row of the dead and grimaces. It's going to be a long evening, a longer night, and he's already half-frozen himself. He flexes his numb fingers around the lantern's handle; the gloves are doing nothing against the glacier's cold.

"Too old," the lieutenant judges. They go on.

Behind them, and entirely too close, the downed monstrosity makes a loud, peculiar sound – almost a bellow, almost a moan, almost a wail. The soldier feels it vibrate through his bones and crosses himself, spooked.

"Looks like they found the heart," the lieutenant says. "Thank God, that's one less of those."

"Yes sir," the soldier says. He's suddenly glad to be outside, even in the snow and ice, even conducting a long, fruitless search. Anywhere rather than inside that godless beast as it dies.

They pick up their pace. The soldier is only there to hold the lantern and move the bodies when necessary – heaven forbid a lieutenant get his hands dirty. He does his job and spends the rest of the time thinking about the war. Everyone at home talked about how glorious, how magnificent it would be. He's yet to see any glory. So far all he's seen is the belly of the Herkules and a lot of dead men in the snow.

"This could be him," the lieutenant says. "Right height, age, coloring… Bring the light lower."

The soldier bends down as directed, splashing bright light across the dead boy's face. The lieutenant checks the photograph and squints. "I don't know," he says. "What do you think?"

The soldier thinks the body and the photograph look enough alike that they can plausibly claim it so, be done, and go get warm; but he also knows better than to give an officer an opinion.

He says, "I don't know, sir."

The lieutenant hmphs. "We'll keep looking."

They go down the entire long row of enemy dead with no luck. The lieutenant stands around and curses for several minutes, then orders the soldier back to the body that might be the right one.

On second glance, it doesn't really look like the boy in the photograph at all.

The lieutenant curses some more. The soldier does nothing; he's waiting for orders and wondering what he's likely to have for dinner, and when, and whether or not he'll be able to eat it.

"He has to be here," the lieutenant says, dropping his voice and rubbing at his face. He looks around, nervous. Maybe he thinks the intelligence officers are watching. (Not likely – they're all aboard the Herkules, the soldier knows, staying warm.) "He wasn't one of the prisoners."

"No sir," the soldier says promptly.

The prisoners were all executed. Orders of the kaiser, supposedly. The soldier is also glad he wasn't assigned to that detail. Damn depressing job, that, particularly when they got to the dog-creatures.

The lieutenant isn't enjoying this job much either. He rubs his face again. "He has to be here."

"Yes sir," the soldier agrees.

The lieutenant takes a deep breath – and coughs at the cold. "Hell. This is him. I'll go announce it. Just – smash his face in a little, first."

The soldier doesn't move until the lieutenant slips him a pack of cigarettes and some money. Then he says, "Yes sir," steps forward, and brings the butt of his rifle down across the dead boy's face.