February 19th, 1918 - German Training Camp, Outside Luxemburg

After six months of grueling physical training, Kurt was finally ready to go out into the trenches. Kurt and the other men were lined up in the chilly February wind listening as their commander spoke.

Kurt fidgeted restlessly as he tried to listen, but he wanted out of the camp so badly. He wanted to fight. He wanted to prove to those Neanderthals back home that he wasn't a coward, but a soldier. It was in the trenches that he could prove to them he was a man.

A sudden movement to the right caught Kurt's attention. A runner was approaching the commander; interrupting what Kurt was sure would be a rousing speech if he had been paying any attention. The runner rummaged in his bag to produce an official looking piece of paper which he handed to the commander.

The commander read over the letter quickly, and then looked up at all the men standing before him.

"Are any of you soldiers fluent in English or French? Hands up, if you are." He paused, waiting for a response from the soldiers.

Hesitantly, Kurt raised his hand glancing around to see if any others did the same. He was alone.

"Step forward, Soldier!" The officer called.

Kurt instantly snapped out of his thoughts as he stamped his right foot on the ground. He marched out of formation, rifle slung over his shoulder. Seconds later, he was standing in front of the commander at full attention.

He assessed Kurt with his dark eyes before he spoke again, "What's your name soldier?"

"Sir, Soldier Kurt Hummel, Sir."

"And you can understand both languages, spoken and written?"

"Sir, Yes Sir."

Nodding, the Commander looked straight into Kurt's eyes. "Good, Congratulations Soldier you have been promoted to Gereiter. You will be working in translation until further notice."

Kurt just blinked at the Commander, mouth gaping slightly in astonishment. He was getting promoted and he hadn't even seen the trench yet.

The rest of that day was a blur as Kurt was brought out to his new outpost, where he learned that he was replacing a man that had died.

August 11th, 1916 - Tidworth, United Kingdom

Blaine had actually enjoyed the initial training at the local army camp, near Tidworth, even if they were forced into some pretty bizarre situations, which were supposedly to help the men become accustomed to trench life. Mud had quickly become a mainstay of life. It filled their boots and had become encrusted onto their too-thin, second-hand, khaki uniforms until they all looked a murky, dark brown. Eventually it had covered the floors of every training building they were schooled in. Blaine wouldn't be happier than if he never saw another speck of the damn shit, ever again.

He'd taken up smoking around that time too, much to the chagrin of Cooper, who would shoot him disapproving glances from time to time when he caught Blaine hanging around the large group at the back doors of the mess. Whenever Blaine would start to light up, Cooper would be there to point accusingly at his little brother, shouting out Blaine's name before slumping away through the thick pools of mud towards their shared tent. Shared, mainly because when one storm had gotten particularly bad, it had been Cooper's single pup tent that went sliding down into the ditch. It would take two weeks to dig the damn thing out and even then the damage would have been irreversible, so it had to be scrapped.

In the four months of training things had started to change between the two brothers. Blaine had somehow become popular. He'd put on fifteen pounds of hard-earned muscle but was still 5'8 and had not grown any since leaving home, making him the third shortest in his platoon. Cooper had been placed into another regiment entirely and the only time they got to bond was late at night when both rolled into their cramped quarters. However, Blaine had taken the separation as an opportunity to make friends without his brother breathing down his neck.

Brett Holmes was the first boy Blaine had meet that never compared the two brothers, and had never messed up his hair. Whether this was because he simply didn't care or had never picked up on the fact that Cooper and Blaine were brothers and Blaine's hair was eternally shellacked into position, Blaine never knew. The boy seemed permanently cemented in a dazed state, always flowing in and out of reality at different moments of the day. Sometimes Blaine wondered if he even knew that he was signed up for the army or if to him this seemed like a very long and rigorous camping trip. It really didn't matter all that much in the end because Brett was the man with the connections. He could get you anything for the right price. His well-formed connections into the military hierarchy were obviously suspect, but if he was willing to keep Blaine well stocked with cigarettes, well then Blaine was willing to keep his mouth shut.

Around this time he'd also met Jeff Sterling, a tall blond kid with a slight over bite to his mouth which made all his wide smiles consist mainly of large front teeth. Blaine had liked him immediately and they'd become fast friends.

September 2nd, 1918 - German Training Camp, Outside Luxemburg

For the next six months, Kurt found himself reading and deciphering the English and French commands that were sent to him; he would rewrite them in his own perfectly flowing German script, before he would send one of the runners to the command post with his findings. It was easy work for Kurt, something he could do in his sleep and honestly, he loved it.

Kurt knew he was one of the lucky ones. He saw hundreds of men being brought to the field hospital, which was only a few yards from his post. Kurt could hear the sounds of the shells going off in the distance at all times of the day; some days were worse than others. It was those days that hordes of soldiers were brought into the hospital, most of whom never left.

It was a rainy September morning when Kurt was pulled from his station and told that he was finally going to the trenches. According to his captain, it was time to see if he was truly a man. It was time to make his country and family proud. He was to go kill the men that oppressed the German people. Kurt was a soldier now and he was meant to kill. Something he had never dreamed of doing, even in his worst nightmares.

October 22nd, 1916 - British 4th Army

Blaine didn't actually join the fighting until the fall of that year. He was attached to an unusually small relief company which consisted of only two platoons, neither of which contained his brother. Luckily, however, he found himself in the company of Jeff, Brett and his continued supply of quality fags.

They were attached to the British 4th army as new recruits and shipped out the countryside of France, literally. This marked the first time Blaine had ever actually been on a ship. This one, though only a small troopship attached to a short distance convoy had been fitted with all the fixings, even if the ship itself outdated them by at least a decade. There was a single smoke stack from which a large cloud of grey smoke trailed and a gun torrent had been mounted onto the bow while white painted wooden life boats dangled over the side; the whole thing had been painted a deep grey as to blend in with the murky water it floated along in. Rewa was scripted perfectly along the back in large block letters. Blaine was both excited and nervous about the whole thing and spent most of the trip reassuring himself that there were no icebergs in the English channel.

They landed in the wee hours of the morning and everyone seemed either entirely too tired to celebrate the fact that they were finally going to see some action or were too excited to stop fidgeting about. Blaine was the former; having spent the last few hours sweating over the possibility of drowning, he found the train ride inland comforting and had slept a few hours nestled against Brett's arm, as the other boy smoked.

It took full day to finally reach their destination. First they were dropped off at a small town over run with yammering soldiers and beautiful French women but the further they continued inwards on foot things seemed to change, and this left an unsettling feeling in the pit of Blaine's stomach. The faces of nurses became more haggard and stoic and some men, covered head to toe in filth hung in packs chain smoking but never looking up to acknowledge the newbies. They finally stopped their marching once they reached the region of Pas-de-Calais, close the Belgian boarder. It was a horrible place in which it seemed to rain more than in England. It caused the earth to become soggy and hard to walk on.

The ground was like a thick dark soup, which flooded into Blaine's stiff boots and made him grimace with disgust every time his steps squished on the inside. His helmet was second hand, slightly too big and dented in many places. Its heavy presence on his head made him uncomfortable and he wanted to remove it but was strictly warned about such an action by a very large and intimidating man, who spoke only broken English. The regiment had only just got there and Blaine was already sick for the sights and smells of home. By the time they made it to the extensive trench system near the Somme River, Blaine had realized he was in way over his head.

In the distance he could hear the shells coming over with a defining roar, they shook the ground and made the boys' knees shake together. For the first time since joining Blaine found that he was truly scared, ready-to-wet-himself terrified.

To Blaine, this obviously wasn't France any more. It was hell. This is what hell must look like. With its sad raped landscape, bogged down by overflows of thick mud mixed with rain water, where everything refused to live. Groups of waterlogged men would huddle along the sides, trying to light damp cigarettes with damp matches, looking at them with hollowed eyes ringed with dark shadows. One smiled at Blaine. He was shorter with his helmet dipped down slightly to the right in a parody of gentlemanly fashions, a drooping fag sitting between twisted lips. He tried lighting it with a small silver lighter held in one hand, but was hindered by the fact that he only had the one arm. Where the other would have been was a bloody stump wrapped with could have been the sleeve of someone else's uniform.

Blaine tried not to vomit.

September 18th, 1918 - Battle of Epehy, German Trench

The rain was miserable; they had been marching 4 days before Kurt and the rest of his battalion entered the trenches at the Somme, and it looked like the rain wasn't going to let up anytime soon.

Kurt sat, among the rest of the men milling around, with his back against the trench wall, his head bowed, watching the rain run off the brim of his helmet. He no longer tried to stop the cold rain from soaking into his uniform. It was a battle he knew he wouldn't win.

Kurt's feet were soaked and his hands were freezing but he kept hold of his mouser rifle as if it was the only thing keeping him on this earth. The cold metal bit at his skin, keeping his mind awake, not that he could sleep if he tried. His mind lingered on the thought that he was soon going to be running over the trench to his imminent doom. Kurt knew he should be thinking positively about his abilities, but he couldn't kid himself any more than he could kid his superiors. Kurt was a horrible shot; it would be a miracle if he hit something stationary, let alone a moving target that was living and breathing. That was the part that Kurt dreaded more than anything; in order to survive he would have to kill, and Kurt wasn't a killer.

Yet here he was, sitting in a trench, waiting for the command to kill as many Englishmen as he could. Something he secretly refused to do, he couldn't take a life no matter how much he wanted to live. Kurt knew that if he was to survive this war, he would never be able to live with himself knowing he killed another man. It was in that moment, on the muddy ground of the trench, that Kurt decided he would give his life instead to save the life of someone he would never even know. He knew he was signing his own death warrant but he couldn't think of any other way to avoid the inevitable; he chose to be a martyr.

Kurt grinned at that thought of himself, of all people, being a martyr. It was a preposterous idea, he was just a coward, but at least he knew that he was doing the right thing for himself. Kurt knew his family would be distraught, but he also knew that they would respect his decision, had he been able to tell them. He would live his last moments knowing he was a compassionate man, stupid yes, but compassionate.

A whistle cut Kurt's thoughts short. His superior officers were walking along the muddy boards of the trench, talking in hushed voices as they looked over the reinforcements. There were only sixty men in Kurt's battalion, but he knew that there were others sent to this trench as well. They were to take back the land that had been lost to the British and advance their territory if possible. The captains had made this sound like an easy feat, but the soldiers knew it would be anything but.

Kurt watched as the three, surprisingly dry men walked into better view of him and his comrades. The men sported trimmed facial hair and large bellies, which Kurt knew was from the actual meals they were eating. They came to a stop along the walk way only a few men from Kurt's left. The men along the trench walls looked up at the three officers waiting for the reason as to why they were even out of their cozy little alcove.

"Gentlemen, welcome to the trenches," the largest of the men bellowed "I have been informed that the majority of you have not seen battle. That will change soon enough. You are all here to do one thing, gentleman, and that is to liberate Germany." The man paused to look at the men around him. "Men, we are here to kill our enemies so that we can have a better future. I know many of you are scared. While that is expected, you must fight your fear so that we can prevail. May God be with you all." Every eye was on the man as he turned on his heal and walked away, the men that accompanied him following close behind.

Kurt closed his eyes, and wished he were anywhere but in this dirty trench, waiting for his death. The rest of the men went back to what they were doing before, whether that be sleeping, smoking, or chatting with the others.

Kurt tried to sleep but his mind wouldn't stop wandering. He was scared; he didn't want to die and he didn't want to kill. Kurt fidgeted, running his fingers along the cold barrel of his rifle, to keep his mind distracted from the terror and panic starting to build.

A strong hand was placed on his shoulder, making Kurt jump and look up in terror. Peter was standing over him with his hands held at chest height in surrender.

"Woah, there boy. Calm down, it's just me." A smirk graced his lips. Kurt relaxed with a small smile.

Peter crouched on Kurt's right side. "How are you doing, Kid?"

"I've been better." Kurt admitted as he shuffled to the side to let Peter sit. "I mean, I've definitely been less dirty, but I hear that mud is good for the skin, so I better shine when I get back home." Kurt smirked.

Peter let out a chuckle. "At least you still got your humor." His smile fell as he looked Kurt in the eyes. "But in all seriousness, how are you?"

Kurt looked down at his gun, the steel glistening in the moon's rays; a chill ran down his spine as he mumbled "terrified."

Peter nodded. "Here's my advice, don't let the fear control you. Clear your mind and be rational, use that bright head of yours and you'll be fine. Just keep your wits about you and your head down." Peter said, squeezing his shoulder. "You'll be just fine, kid. Now try to get some sleep."

Peter winked at Kurt as he pulled himself up and turned to walk away. Peter mumbled to himself "I have a feeling you're going to be just fine."

Kurt closed his eyes and let his exhaustion take him into a fitful sleep.

October 26th, 1916 - Battle of the Somme, British Camp

Their new company leader was a slender man named Smythe who, though young, was ranked as a lieutenant. He quickly turned his flirtatious attentions onto Blaine. Blaine wasn't sure whether he was joking but he went out of his was to turn down any advances shot his way. Sure, the guy was attractive enough in his similar khaki uniform but things like that were illegal.

Blaine knew he liked men, it was just a natural fact by this stage in his life, like the sky was blue, if a man got shot in the head he would most likely die, and Blaine got horny thinking of cock. Yet, it wouldn't be anything he would ever act on. He was expected to go home after the war, marry a nice girl and raise a few kids of his own and that was what he planned on doing.

Sebastian had gone so far as to insist that Blaine call him by his given name when they weren't around the other blokes. He eased up next the boy after finally getting him semi-alone. Blaine rolled his hazel eyes, moving a few steps over but the man followed, wiggling his well-maintained eyebrows to emphasise what he was really going after.

"You know, I could get you a comfy position back in the firebay." Sebastian started. "You only have a few minutes to decide. The call to go over the top is coming, but if you ask really nicely I could even throw in a quick tour of the ranked officers accommodations. All you have to do is say yes."

Blaine was scared. He had started to hear things from the pale shadows that weaved their way through the bustling crowds of fresh meat. He knew that going over the top meant entering a new state of hell, filled with bloody and mangled bodies and holes so deep that men who would fall in would never be seen again accompanied by a soundtrack of anguished screams, half audible curses and the rapid spitfire of German machine guns.

"Hey, they said that they want us to start lining up." Brett was standing at the bend in the trench, if he noticed Sebastian being a little too hands on with Blaine he didn't say. Blaine followed without ever responded to the lieutenant's proposition, ignoring the frown that was probably aimed at his back as he adjusted his grip on his rife and wadded through the ankle deep water.

If the trenches were hell then Blaine had no words for what to call no man's land. It was a nightmare from which Blaine was not able to wake himself up. The leap out wasn't dramatic or comfortable as the sandbags on the parapet had become slick and rotted by a deadly combination of rain and time so that when one would reach up to find purchase they were likely to fall apart. The sight that greeted them was equally disillusioning as the area had already been devastated by months of warfare, carnage and the remains of the artillery; broken and abandoned military equipment dotted the hideous landscape. Copious amounts of barbed wire had been buried by the repeated shelling until the wire entanglements had sunk so low that when men attempted to walk through the mud their legs were likely to come out with strands of barbed wire clinging to them. The unburied bodies would sit outside the dug-outs all day, all night until they had become the normal sight while many of the dead who had been buried where they fell were unearthed by the constant barrage of artillery fire. The decayed bodies were tossed up, flying through the air before disintegrating and raining down back onto that spot in-between with audible plops.

Brett died early on after getting caught on one of the entanglements. The pops of rifle fire were so constant that Blaine never saw nor heard which one killed his friend. He only noticed how the boy's body twitched backwards somewhat before being thrown forward face first into the mud, his boot still caught on a line of rusty barbed wire. This left Blaine felling numb and confused; he didn't know how to react. He wanted to run over and see if Brett was still alive even if that seemed highly unlikely, but he knew he couldn't. He had to keep forward lest the sergeants make good on their words to shoot and kill any stragglers.

He spent the night in that place, later it would something Blaine could not speak of, having to listen the death wails of good men and the constant earth shattering thump of shells and the rapid tat-tat-tat of gun fire, before being stumbled on by a weary captain. He was a big guy who looked used to a life of manual labour from not only a different regiment, but a different country all together. His uniform, though similar differed slightly but most defining qualities were caked over by mud so it was hard to tell. He smiled somewhat as he tumbled into Blaine's shell-hole, taking a seat across from the boy before asking in a heavily accented voice if Blaine had some cigs on him.

"Lost m'ne a few puddles bac'."

Blaine offered him one, slightly embarrassed by both their crushed and soggy state but the man graciously took one. Lighting it and taking a deep breath.

"Which regiment are you from?" Blaine was surprised at his voice. It was rough but eerily steady. The man raised his eyebrows before answering with a wiry grin.

"Royal Regina Rifles." He was Canadian but his accent spoke of a more Slavic heritage. Blaine didn't push it and that was the end of the conversation. They spent the night that way, glancing at each other and divvying up the remaining fags but not talking. Close to first light the call came to for the British to fall back.

The man nodded at Blaine before reaching into a side pocket and throwing the younger boy his spare lighter in thanks. Blaine grinned and gestured back his appreciation with a dip of his head. The Canadian continued on forwards and Blaine stumbled his way out of the hole. It was somewhat amusing to watch hundreds of men emerge from their own mud slick pockets; however, many were worse for wear with missing limbs and pronounced limps. The trek back was seemingly more unpleasant then the advancement because now the bloated bodies were ones you could recognize. If someone who had been struck down earlier and was lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to have had made it through the night, men would pool together to drag them back to the safety of the trench.

It seemed however the nowhere was actually safe. As men dropped in, they were greeted with sight of the slumped over bodies of ranked officers and even newer relief. Faceless people wandered in and around them, picking up certain ones, rummaging through their pockets before moving them over to the growing pile of corpses. The lingering smells made Blaine gag and his eyes water.

"What happened?" One man looked up, shook his head and continued to dig through the pockets of a lieutenant. The face and hands of the corpse were burned and bits of his lips had peeled off, but Blaine recognized him as Sebastian Smythe and he said so.

"Mustard Gas. Fucking Fritz got us good last night. The fucking monsters." The man spit to the side as if the thought of their German counterparts made him sick with fury. Blaine could feel such sentiment building within his own stomach. It was raw and cold. He nodded slowly before turning away to find the remnants of his platoon. He had survived his first night in hell, but there would be many more to come.

September 18th, 1918 - Battle of Epehy, German Trench

Kurt was jerked awake, dropping his rifle as an officer moved quickly through the trench, rousing the men. Kurt was disoriented and confused, as those around him started to rise, pulling their packs onto their backs and checking their rifles. A chill ran down Kurt's spine and it dawned on him that it was finally time. With numb fingers Kurt picked up his kit and slung it on his shoulders fastening it around his midsection. He adjusted the knots on his boots and reached for his rifle with a shaking hand.

He was then pushed toward the bottom of a ladder, where he waited behind a boy that couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. Looking to the men on either side of him, he saw what he could only guess was the expression mirrored on his own face, terror.

"-get ready boys we are going to go over the top. The British are in a lull at the moment so we have the element of surprise, so keep your traps shut as you go over" The Captain bellowed "Guns at the ready boys, on my whistle we go over, God be with you!"

"Hummel!" Kurt whipped his head around quickly to see Peter, who was tapping his helmet. Kurt nodded. Right, he needed to keep his head down and keep his wits about him; easier said than done.

It was then that he heard the dreaded whistle. The boy in front of him climbed the ladder and disappeared into no man's land. Kurt was pushed forward with a "Get going, lad!" from the captain. His feet moved of their own accord as they climbed the ladder and over the top. That was when Kurt finally saw what hell looked like.

The Germans crept as quietly as they could through the muddy ground of no man's land, their boots sticking in some places and sliding in others. Kurt kept his eyes on the ground, carefully watching his step to avoid the barbed wire and dead bodies covering the ground.

They were everywhere. Rotting bodies littered the broken earth, their blood combining with the water to cover the battle field. The bodies lay in broken positions; some caught on the entanglements, some with missing limbs and others with their guts protruding. Their faces were lax, showing no emotion, yet Kurt could imagine their horrifying screams in their final moments. They died far from their homes with wounds that sent horridness pain snaking through their bodies, the last sound escaping through their lips was a great cry of agony. It was a horrifying thought. One that Kurt was sure would give him nightmares for the rest of his life.

As Kurt moved on slowly, the rain kept pounding down onto the German 2nd. The rain however didn't subdue the smell of the rotting flesh that kept invading Kurt's nose. His stomach lurch, but he was able to keep it in, barely.

It seemed like they had been walking for hours. The mud clung to their clothing as the rain still poured, bogging the men down. They were already tired and they haven't even started fighting yet. Kurt pushed on, his legs growing tired and his fingers frozen to his rifle his knuckles white from clenching at it so hard. Releasing his hold a bit he wiggled his fingers to get the sore muscles to relax.

It was then that Kurt heard the most terrifying sound of his life, a blood curdling scream from the British trench. He froze, that sound made Kurt's blood run cold, and his heart stop. It sounded like the man was in agony, and his heart went out to him. However, he couldn't dwell on the feelings of sympathy rising in his gut; he needed to keep his wits about him.

The rain was starting to fall harder, so he pressed on, his strides becoming increasingly heavy from the mud caked to his boots. The ground started to become slick as rivers started to flow between the shell holes making the trek in no man's land even more treacherous than before. Kurt tried his damnedest to keep his footing, but the extra weight on his back and feet made it impossible to save him from falling. Kurt rolled into the shell hole hitting every vile thing possible on his decent.

When he hit the cold unsanitary water at the bottom he gave up. He wasn't moving anymore he was tired and he had made up his mind earlier that he was not going to kill. But Kurt knew he would fight when he had someone stumble upon him. Reaching for his rifle and looking at the damage he groaned the barrel was jammed full of mud, and of course his luck would have it he had nothing to clean the damn thing with. So that left him with the bayonet blade attached to his belt. Reaching for the cold metal he secured the bayonet blade to the barrel. Sighing as he got into a comfortable position in his hole he decided that all he could do is wait and see if fate decided that today was the day that Kurt Hummel was to die.

September 18th, 1918 - Battle of Epehy, British Trench

He got the letter at twenty to ten, just as the boys started to hunch down into the alcoves that had been carved into the slick walls of the trench by their predecessors. The sky above was quite, there was an uncomfortable lull in the artillery barrage and the boys filled the silence with loud boisterous laughter that carried down the walkways and through the makeshift duckboard doors.

"Yeah right!"

Nick's disbelieving scoff reached Blaine where he sat a little ways down from them, in his own carved out patch of mud. He watched amused as his mate jumped about the narrow ditch just out of the wide armed reach of the young dough-faced boy, Trent, from Somerset who had unfortunately been brought in with a small relief regiment of seventy. One look at the kid's wide eyes and baby fat cheeks and the boys of the forth had decided to take him under their wing, and with that honour came the terrible teasing he would have to endure.

"It is true! Now give it back." Wailed Trent as he once again tried to sneak a reach around Nick's back to try and retrieve his tattered photo that the other boy kept just out of his reach, waving it about without a care. Nick continued to snicker wickedly, jumping backwards avoiding the flailing arms.

"What's true?" Jeff wadded his way through the pools of gathering mud, his boots squishing with each step he took to reach Blaine, all the while absentmindedly digging through the canvas bag slung across his thin shoulder. Blaine looked up at him sympathetically; the regular mail runner Jacob had been taken out by a German blind pig two weeks earlier so Jeff had been dutifully promoted to the position.

"That our darling Trent here, has himself a girl back home," Supplied Nick, finally giving back the picture, throwing an arm around the boy's shoulders bringing him in tight to his side. Jeff looked back down at Blaine who in turn looked upwards, a thick eyebrow cocked and a small smile twisting on his lips.

"Oh. What's her name?" Jeff grinned at his mates wiggling his eyebrows. Trent's round face was red with embarrassment and he desperately tried to shove the photograph back into the breast pocket of his mud stained uniform.

"Amy. She's got it real bad for me too." Blaine would never say but the smirk on Trent's face was just fucking adorable. He watched, trying to lite another fag in the drizzling rain as Trent puffed out his wide chest and continued on with his story.

"Yeah in fact on the day I left for base camp she let me get to second base," he boasted to the humour of the others "...and she's got some great tat tats. She even told me that if things got bad that I was to think of them."

The laughter that followed was unusually loud and drew in the attention of others stooped down in the corners. Ashen faces largely hidden by the darkness save for the small flicker orange lights, turned up in order to glance at the quartet of chuckling lads, rain dripping from their helmets. They looked like ghosts.

"Were they glorious?"

Nick and Trent continued to gush over their sexual encounters, water logged arms wrapped around the others neck and heads dragged in so close that their helmets would clank together. Blaine snorted lightly flicking the butt of his fag into a muddy pool before standing up. His knees cracked loudly but he ignored the discomfort and stretched outwards and not upwards to avoid any stray bullets old fritz could be sending their way.

The weather was getting more and more miserable by the second. The rain was now coming down harder and filling the shovel carved dyke to the point that Blaine was worried that the soup of blood and rot might start to fill his boots again. Then he would have to scout out another pair of socks. Maybe ones that didn't smell like three day decomp. By now the deadly chill was finally sinking into his bones and he brought his hands up to his face, inspecting the raw and red digits before breathing warm moist air onto them.

"Hey before I forget." Jeff interrupted Blaine's silence, thrusting a sagging envelop at his face. Blaine blinked, trying to make out the soggy lettering on the front before reaching out to take the note with a look of confusion etched on his attractive face. It wasn't like his parents would have sent him anything even if they were privy to where he was stationed and Cooper was too busy being bogged down in his own trench system.

"Thanks," he replied turning all attention to his new possession. Jeff's thin lips twitched upwards again and he took off, continuing down the way, the squish and sucking of his footsteps lingering.

Blaine looked the envelope over again finally being able to distinguish his name, rank and division. The writing wasn't pretty; rather it was angled and rushed, the ink was heavily smudged and some suspicious dark stains dotted the top right corner. The paper was obviously damp due to the fact that the flap was slightly opened but Blaine had lost the feeling to his hands days ago. He had to thumb the rest of the thing open because his fingers, now swollen, were practically useless.

Predictably it was a letter, short and done on one page of standard military paper, the kind that the captains and commanders tended to hoard by the stacks. The words were hand written and done with a blunt pencil but still legible. Blaine first pulled out another fag before reaching back into his breast pocket to pull out his lighter too, ignoring the lustful gaze of others as he pocketed it again. The lit tip of the cigarette provided some light but he still had to bring the damned thing up close to his face weary of either burning it to ash if bought to close or soaking it thoroughly if held further away than the reach of his helmet's rim. Letters were hard to come by in this little slice of hell so he had to make sure that he read it carefully, drawing in every detail knowing that the boys would want to know everything, before it was sentenced to the punishment of life in the trench. So he read it, and then re-read it again just to be sure.

The scream that ripped its way out of Blaine throat was so blood curdling that it didn't sound human.

Dear Blaine

I am so sorry that you have to find out this way. At this moment your parents must be receiving their letter but I thought it pertinent that you be directly informed of your bother, Cooper's death. It happened on the first of September in the old foxhole. He was sent to the rest camp by some shrapnel that came down from the top. He was conscious up till the last breath. I was with him in the end. He gave me a message for you when we realized how bad he had gotten it. He said to have courage, that it is the greatest quality next to honour. We buried him at dawn but sent his disk on home.

Coop was a gentleman's gentleman, a mother's worst nightmare and a born friend. I am sincerely sorry for your loss for he will be truly missed.

Yours respectfully

Tomas W. Baker