Chapter Text
Peter skid through the mud, the soles of his shoes unable to keep its grip at the soft and moist dirt. His losing struggle to stay upright was about to come to an end when a rough hand suddenly gripped his arm, bringing his inelegant continuous fall to an abrupt end.
"Keep up, soldier," a gruff voice said.
Peter looked up at Colonel Davis, feeling his stomach drop a bit. The scruffy-looking man looked down at him in a cold, disregarding manner.
"Sorry, sir."
Peter felt as though his voice stuck on it's way out his throat. Colonel Davis finally released his arm after a moment, nodded and started moving again. Peter tried to walk faster than he'd done before not wanting to accidentally warrant another scolding. But his feet kept skidding, only for him regain a more or less firm grip at the ground at the last moment. They'd been on the move for what felt like hours, but It had probably been far less than that. Peter that already felt his legs soaring under the heavyweight of his equipment, wondered how his peers could look so unbothered.
The rain, that silently poured down on the marching flock, had the curls sticking to Peter’s forehead. A raindrop fell from his eyelashes, to land on his cheek. It reminded him of when aunt May had kissed him on the cheek. Her tears had been falling too, wetting the skin of his cheek, when she'd said goodbye. His 18th birthday, that happened a few weeks beforehand, hadn't had the same feeling to it as birthdays used to do. They both knew what awaited Peter soon. May had almost broken down where she stood in the kitchen, when the letter informing them that Peter had been drafted, arrived. Peter hadn't known how to neither feel nor react. Should he be proud or frightened? His peers back in the training camp had been proud and excited that they got to be at war. Got to take out some sauerkrauts. Peter was nervous. He never liked shooting.
Ben had taught him how to lie motionlessly, in-and exhaling steadily before pulling the trigger when he'd brought Peter hunting as a child. Sympathy for the beautiful but very dead doe would sting his eyes after he'd hit his mark. Ben had never given him a hard time about it. He would simply say that death was part of life while patting Peter on his head.
All things must die.
Peter lifted his head when reverberating booms started being heard from afar. The sounds of war became increasingly louder as their marching continued and unease began spreading throughout the flock. No voices could be heard among them as the threat of impending death inched ever so closer in on them. White tents began appearing soon after, and Peter quickly realized the purpose of them. Screaming of pain and yells of impotence drifted through the wind in between the loud booms from the horizon. They were soon surrounded by bloodied samaritans with exasperated facial expressions and men with pained or just empty eyes in soldiers’ uniforms on stretchers or beds. Some were screaming others just stared emptily at the newcomers. The marching around him came to a halt when they reached the edge of the outpost. The outpost had been placed in the vicinity of what once might have been a city but had now been reduced to rubbles and ruins. The line they'd been marching in was now addressed by Davis.
"Listen up, soldiers!" He yelled roughly.
"We are here to help fight off those damned Sauerkrauts! We will regain control of this territory and we will do it for Great Britain! She deserves our full devotion, and I will personally shoot every last one of those that might think it will be acceptable to come crawling back here!"
Peter could feel his face going pale, and he suddenly felt like throwing up. He couldn't feel his legs or hands. Could this really how God had intended him to die from the earthly plains?
"Now, drop your bags, and take whatever arms you get assigned at the end of this line!"
Davis looked as though he couldn't care less what happened to them beyond this. It probably wasn't his problem either. His assignment had probably just been to get them from England to wherever they were now. Peter wondered briefly how many young soldiers he’d sent off like this, and how many he’d seen afterward.
"May God be with you and make our motherland proud!"
With that, he stepped back and the young troops started shedding bags and other unnecessary luggage. Peter did the same but kept thinking of how pointless his previous struggles had been, if he was just going to die, before getting to use any of the clothes, the mug, and a blanket.
As the line decreased, Peter became able to see the end of it. The remains of a building were now the only thing separating them from the war. The deafening sounds of bombs going off from somewhere behind the smoke blurred the knowledge of whether it was Peter shaking or the ground beneath him. A particularly massive boom had the flock crouching down, frightened of being hit. An older soldier off to the side yelled at them, but Peter couldn’t hear over the sharp tone inside his ear. It took a moment before Peter understood that he was hurrying them to continue down the trail of mud. Peter’s brain couldn’t keep up, as the line he’d marched in became more compact as they were herded forwards. His front, back, and shoulders were being squeezed between the bodies of others. Peter looked around at the panicked faces surrounding him, his heart pounding faster. It reminded Peter of a flock of cattle being herded to slaughter. He needed to get a sniper rifle. It was his only chance. If he could get a sniper rifle so that he could fight from a distance he might stand a chance. If he could fight from a hideaway he might not die. But the hardness of a regular rifle was what he got stuck in his arms when he reached the end of the line. He looked at the man that had given him the firearm, but he had already moved on the next soldier behind Peter.
"Excuse me-" tried Peter, but his voice was drowned out by the commotion and bombs.
"Excuse me! Please give me a sniper rifle-" He tried again but to no avail.
The bodies from behind pushed him out through a missing piece of the wall. And now they ran. Peter did too. Bodies fell to the earth around Peter. He didn't notice. When they reached a point that seemed to have been the square of the city, their flock had become considerably less compact. Peter didn't wonder why. Opposing, soldiers became apparent some twenty meters from his position. He knelt behind a larger piece of rubble and lifted his rifle to his shoulder. The aim was terrible and his hands were shaking. He hit nothing when he pulled the trigger. Suddenly he felt hands tug at his rifle roughly and looked to his side to see another young soldier at the other end of it. His sweat-drenched face was panicked and his chest was heaving.
"Give me your rifle!" He yelled, spit hitting Peter's face.
"Wh-what?" Peter was confused.
"I lost mine. Give me your goddamn rifle!" He yelled again, leaving no room for discussion.
"Like hell, I will!" yelled Peter back and tried to swat the other's hands, off his rifle.
The man lunged at Peter beginning to wrestle him for the gun. Peter was caught off guard. He hadn't expected that he'd be fighting people from his own side. They tossed around for a short while, but the other was by far stronger than Peter. He soon had the better grip at the rifle and yanked it out of Peter's hands. He then slammed the handle of the gun into Peter's face.
The sharp pain of the blow was quickly replaced by an absence of everything, his world darkening.