September 19th, 1918 - No Man's Land

Blaine

The closer Blaine got towards his side of the battle field the louder the guns sounded, the hotter the smoke felt, the darker the sky became and the more his grin fell.  With each step his boots sunk lower into the damp ground with a distinctive slurp. It was something he had become more or less accustomed to, so he knew to tilt his body opposite to the slope of the butchered ground.

The bodies dangling over the rusted and twisted entrapments looked too fresh. Their uniforms identified them as German. Blaine had to crouch down to avoid detection from either side. Friendly fire was a serious issue and after deciding that he really wasn't up to dying anymore he didn't want to risk it. Instead he scrambled in a wide arc, avoiding the areas densely populated with corpses that had become only decomposed sludge and picked over skeletons gently laid in large piles. It had been awhile since any living thing had passed by these parts. Most likely, the trench he was working his way toward was empty, however, Blaine was certain that he was only a short way south of where his company was situated so it wouldn't take long to join up and the jog would be predominantly safe.

What would happen once he'd returned was another thing altogether.

On top of going bat-shit crazy and charging straight into the line of fire without orders, he had threatened a fellow solider. At best he would be reprimanded, maybe demoted or discharged without honours and at worst he would be shot for acts of treason.

Blaine crawled over yet another entanglement that had been shredded and twisted in the action of previous weeks before he finally spotted the rotting sandbags that marked the top of the trench wall. With a tight grimace he slumped his way closer. The bottoms of his pants snagged on an exposed piece of wire causing him to jerk and stumble forward, tumbling face first into thick pools of dark mud with a brief cry of panic. He coughed, raising his face and spitting out most of what had made its way into his mouth but the gritty feeling between his teeth remained. Cursing loudly Blaine pulled himself up on his elbows and looked back to where his leg dangled on the wire.  He jiggled his leg about, tugging it forward until he was satisfied by the loud rip that meant that he was now free again.

Inside the trench was a sad sight. The place had been abandoned weeks ago but sad little trinkets and pieces of rusty equipment remained sitting in shallow, stagnant pools of muddy water along the bottom where large fat rats scurry about trying to avoid been trampled on by his feet. This section was narrower than what he was used to, and silently he pitied the poor retches that had had to live here, reaching out both arms his fingertips brushed the mud and duckboard walls. This made it easier to follow.

Around one corner he found his first body. It was a man slumped over in a thick green wool jacket which had started to discolour because of the decomp that soaked through. Blaine could feel the jerky trying to make its way up when he noticed that the man's fingers had been gnawed away by hungry little scavengers. Those fleshy bits were usually the first to go, luckily for Blaine the man had been wearing a mask so he didn't have to see what his face looked like.

Blaine nodded in the man's direction before moving on.

Unfortunately Blaine overestimated where his division had been situated, in the end it took several long hours to reach his destination and by the time he had finally returned the sun had disappeared behind the grey clouds that threatened another torrential downpour. He could hear the soft murmur of men going about their daily lives within the watery foxhole, shuffling about and lighting cigarettes. The loud booms and spitfire snaps of guns continued to be heard in the distance but seemed to be largely ignored.

He waved slightly at the first living person he crossed paths with since the young German man had crept away sometime the night before. The man, no older then Blaine himself looked briefly horrified before seemingly realizing that Blaine wasn't a member of the walking dead returning to duty.

"Good god mate, you alright?" he asked in his thick Australian accent. Blaine waved off his concern but not before looking down at himself and finally noticing that he was covered, absolutely slathered, in thick mud that had started to dry. He wiped at his face and grimaced at the feeling of the grime caked into his stubble. By now, the man was starting to lose interest in Blaine's magical reappearance in the trench. His dark rimmed eyes seemed to dart about and his fingers were twitching. Blaine decided to keep their meeting short, understanding that the man needed a fix. 

"How far in is the eighteenth?"

The guy's eyes turned back to Blaine questioningly but didn't ask, deciding that it was Blaine's own business. That was one good thing that seemed to come from the war was people tended to mind their own affairs and never questioned longing looks sent in the direction of some very attractive majors.

"Oh, they moved up another hundred. Keep going and you'll find them a little worse for wear." Blaine muttered a soft thanks and started to move away before stopping, turning and calling back to the boy who turned around as well, confusion etched on his sunken face.

"Thanks for the help. Sorry they're both a little soggy and squished." He tossed the last pack of cigarettes he had been hoarding in his breast pocket. The Australian caught it easily, a bright smile curling on his thin lips.

"Thanks mate." He smiled and Blaine returned it before continuing on his way with more pep in his step and feeling just a little lighter.

As the man had said Blaine found his division a hundred meters down. Each battalion looking a little more battered, bruised and picked over.

"Well, look what the cat dragged back in."

October 26th, 1918 - German Trenches

Kurt

Kurt hated the fact that he was back in the trenches but at least it had stopped raining for a few hours earlier in the day allowing the men some relief. It was quiet at the moment as the sun began to set in the west, giving the men a needed break.

Kurt was repacking his bag getting things organized before he had to go back over the top. Most of the men were talking, while some sat quietly writing home. Kurt listened to the conversations and joined in to offer the men some dry matches when they had run out.

Most of the conversations seemed to revolve around his new rifle, which was once Blaine's. It was a magnificent weapon, not that Kurt knew much about guns, but by the way the men were talking, and from what he had seen in no man's land it was deadly. Polishing the rifle, Kurt made sure it shined. He was determined to keep the gun in good shape, not because it was his most prized possession but because he needed it to survive.

Kurt's most prized possession resided in his breast pocket. The small, gold battalion pin that had once graced Blaine's lapel was now tucked away close to Kurt's heart. Anytime Kurt felt scared or lonely he would place his hand over the button, close his eyes and think of Blaine.

Smiling to himself as he finished packing his bag, he grabbed a couple pairs of stolen socks and threw them in at the top of his pack, making sure that he would have them ready for when he needed them most. Suddenly, an explosion went off in no man's land. Shielding his face with his arm, Kurt moved quickly to avoid the debris that fell into the trench.

As if on queue all the men stood and grabbed their gear as they got ready to go over the top again. The shells started to fall more frequently landing alarmingly close to the trench. Kurt clutched at the pin as his heart started beating at an alarming rate, grabbing Blaine's gun he made his way to the ladder and climbed the rungs.

Kurt took a moment to get his bearings then started running towards the British troops praying that he wouldn't find Blaine anywhere, because he knew he would do something that he would regret.

The echo of shells exploding could be heard for miles. While parts of earth were sent flying, Kurt could hear the whizzing sounds of the bullets. Yet this wasn't what filled Kurt with dread. That was the haunting sounds of the pain-filled screams of the injured and dying men falling as they ran towards their enemies; the sounds piercing his eardrums. He always had the urge to cover his ears in hope of trying to keep the noise from creeping in.

He did his best to ignore the sounds and kept running. Running until he felt a sharp pain in his left thigh as he once again tumbled into a shell hole. He had a feeling that this time things were not going to go as well.

September 19th, 1918 - British Trenches

Blaine

Blaine didn't fight when two large MP's simultaneously grabbed his biceps, forcing both his arms behind his back while another stepped in front and searched him over for any weapons or anything that could be used as. He reached into Blaine's jacket and yanked out the journal, which remarkably didn't have a smudge of mud on its binding, and flipped through the pages not really taking anything. Blaine reacted badly, twisting and writhing in the grasp of the two large soldiers who cursed and increased their hold until he was sure that there would be some angry bruises.

"Clam down now, Anderson."  Captain Sandy Ryerson walked around, an ugly smirk on his doughy face. Since becoming the commanding officer he had set his sights on degrading and belittling Blaine and his mates any chance that he could get. Blaine wanted to punch the look right off his face but however tempting that would just get him into even more trouble. Instead he stopped struggling and the thin MP holding his journal tugged his jacket open and shoved the book back in.    

"Now listen up Anderson, because you're in a lot of trouble." A small crowd had started to gather and out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of an ashen-faced Trent and a light-lipped Nick standing in the growing throng.

Blaine didn't answer Ryerson, not that the older man would have cared either way as he continued on reading off all of Blaine's newest infractions, humming and hawing over just what the punishment would be.

"...and a little birdy told me that you turned on a fellow soldier." That caught Blaine off guard. Hushed whispers surrounded them and Trent seemed to grow a shade paler. An accusation like that, if proven, would mean that Blaine had committed an act of treason and thus was eligible for a fitting death by firing squad. The reality of war had almost literally smacked Blaine upside the head, so he realized that he would most likely die here, but not this way. For a sinking moment Blaine thought of his mother's tear streaked face and his father's disapproving glare. They had already lost Copper. The shame this would cause would be unbearable and Blaine's existence would be swept under the rug, but oh, how the neighbours would talk.

Blaine would pray that the German boy, Kurt, would never hear of this.

"What about it, Duval? Anything you want to say?" Ryerson affectively turned all attention onto Nick, who, even though was largely disliked by the captain, was tolerated. The boy had a pinched expression on his thin face when he looked over at Blaine who met it head on and nodded, readying himself for the answer. It was obvious that Nick was still angry but they were friends and they had each other's back at all times.

"Sorry, Sir, I didn't think that birds could survive down around here." Loud hearty chuckles accompanied the reply and for a brief moment Nick cracked a smile. Ryerson's face went beet red and he had started making those wheezing, squawking noises that his subordinates joked about behind his back.

"Well t-then." He stuttered "Don't think you're getting out of this, Anderson." He spit the name out as if it was something rotten that had crawled its way into his mouth.

"You're punishment will be swift and excruciating. Mark my words, Anderson, you're going to pay for your insubordination."  With that he turned around and stomped his way back towards the sad little rooms that officers seemed to treasure, the MPs pushing Blaine forward to follow. 

"Wait. Please." The man that had patted Blaine down stopped and cocked a thin eyebrow, without words he basically demanded that Blaine tell him what was causing this delay.

"In my right pocket there's a lighter. Will you let me give it to my mate?"

He grunted and rolled his eyes but shoved his skeleton like hand into the pocket; Blaine had to hold back the urge to shiver in distaste. Nick was looking at Blaine with another alien look on his face but took the lighter without either of them saying anything before Blaine was once again pushed forward and away from the crowd.

He didn't know if he'd ever see the others again, but he figured if he were to die, this made them even.

October 26th, 1918 - No Man's Land

Kurt

Kurt emerged from the waist-deep water, spitting the filth from his mouth and trying to keep his body upright, as he winced from the pain shooting up his left thigh.

The pain was excruciating. Kurt placed one hand on his thigh, feeling the exposed flesh of the bullet wound. Groaning, he shuffled his body to the embankment to secure himself from falling into the water once more.

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, being shot in the leg was not a fun experience, no matter what anyone said. It definitely wasn't glorifying as his general said it was, and it definitely doesn't make a man braver in the spur of the moment. No, being shot just makes you scared, bleeding and in pain, crying to the powers that be to make the pain of the metal invading the delicate skin go away.

However, Kurt kept his cries in; he knew that making a sound could lead to the end of his life if he was found by the wrong man. Instead, Kurt just lay as still as possible in this shell hole, so similar but so different from the one he had shared with Blaine weeks ago, bleeding from his leg while the filthy water engulfed his lower body.

Taking a shaky breath, Kurt could feel the first tears fall from his eyes, leaving a stain on his muddy face as he bit the inside of his cheek to ensure that the sounds of his sobs would not be heard. But it wasn't helping, the temptation to grab the blade on the end of his gun grew as the pain intensified with even the slightest movement, yet he refused to take his life when there was still a lingering chance of his survival.

The sounds of gunshots kept blaring overhead, intertwining with the screams of the dying to make the most horrifying lullaby known to man. It was to these sounds that Kurt started to lose consciousness.

His mind wandered back to faces of his family.

Kurt's strong and supportive father working in the shop with his balding head covered by a cap. His striking blue eyes glittering with mirth as his boy teased the younger sisters.

Little Anna twirling to see her new dress (a gift from her favourite brother, of course) spin around her legs, while her auburn hair whips around her head.

Headstrong Lena would shake her head as her two siblings would bicker and tease one another, then light up as soon as her fiancé, Noah, showed up at the doors of the shop.

The last thing that crossed Kurt's mind as he drifted off into a painful sleep was that of a British man, whose hazel eyes stared at him without wavering. His strong calloused hands holding Kurt's, as he finally fell asleep on his broad shoulder.