Fic: God for George and England
Title: God for George and England, or the Origin of Union Jack
Author: Cat_13145
In a week that makes you feel proud to be British (starting with the Queen's Birthday last Thursday, and ending with the Royal Wedding on Friday) I give you the origin of our first and best (in my opinion) Superhero, Union Jack (because we never found out how Union Jack one came into being).
“Union Jack.”
“Captain America.” The other man sheaved his weapon. “Is everything alright?”
Steve Rogers nodded, slowly lowering himself on a convenient stone. “Just wondered where you were. Thought you’d be resting up after today.”
Union Jack’s mask was the only one of the Invaders to cover his whole face, but after a while, you learnt to recognise the facial movements of the man behind the mask. He was smiling, slightly sadly.
“Couldn’t settle, so I decide to make a pilgrimage.”
“A pilgrimage?” Steve stared out over the landscape. All he could see were French farmers fields, pitted with the craters of war. Brian Falsworth nodded slowly.
“Where we are standing, Captain America, is where it all begins.”
“Where what begins?” He was starting to worry about the sanity of his friend. Brian had been fighting the war longer than any of them. If things were starting to affect him...
“Old Kent Road, Section B, Ypres. Home from 1914 to 1918 to four British Battalions, three French, two Canadian, one Anzac and briefly two American. And in 1916, where Union Jack is born, and possibly where we all begin.”
“How do you mean?”
Brian paused, as though considering how much he dared tell. “To explain that, I must explain Union Jack. Perhaps you would like to hear the tale.”
There was a lot Steve should be doing. There were codes to learn, intelligence to be read, someone had to stop Namor and Jim from killing each other, but he heard himself saying. “Yes.”
The slight twitch of the mask told him the other man had smiled. “Very well. Our tale begins in late 1916, in this section of trench. Britain has been at war for nearly two years, and here at least, the belief it will all be over by Christmas has dimmed.
“My father, James Montgomery Falsworth is Captain of the Falworth’s, part of the 6th South Staffordshire. They’ve been in France for nearly two years, but somehow they’re still mostly alive. They serve alongside soldiers from all over the empire, specifically, the Princess Pats, a Canadian crack troop, but there are others. My father’s Battalion is looking forward to some time in a rest trench coming up, and my father is lucky enough to have secured some leave. It is well deserved and he is looking forward to it, though he will miss the comrade ship of these men. Which is why the night before he is sitting around their small stove, talking and making jokes, when a communication arrives from HQ. The next morning, at dawn, they’re will be a raid on the German trench.
“War is a great equaller in one sense; my father was flung together into the same conditions with men he would never have spoken to in his normal life. He stood beside them, Ate with them, fought beside them, mourned dead comrades beside them. His own men are safe; the message confirmed their reprieve, but the others...” He sighed, looking out. “My father was no fool. Even when things were at their worst between us, I never viewed him as that. As prejudiced and obstinate, certain, but never a blind fool. He knew that raid would result in most of their deaths, but what could he do?
“If he protested, they would shoot him, and send the men to their deaths anyway.”
“Surely not.”
The eyes stared back at him. “Captain, a winner of the MC was declared as insane for writing a declaration that stated while the war had originally being fought for good reasons, it was now being needlessly prolonged, a sentiment that was pretty much universally known. Even now, what my father would have said would be...treason.” There was a bitter note in his voice, as he gazed out over the fields, and Cap wondered about the secrets that lurked in the other mans past. About the things that made him seem equally bitter towards his own country as the enemy.
“An hour before dawn, my father’s battalion assembles and prepares to begin the long march back to safety. They say good bye to the men of the Canadian Battalion, as they know they will not see them in this life, and marched away.
“You can’t know, nor can I, what was going through my father’s head, as he led those young men away from the fighting. He had been in the worst war mankind had ever known. He had seen his friend shot, gassed, caught up in barbed wire and left dying there for hours. He had been shelled day and night, seen men go mad with terror...” he shook his head. “In the distance, they heard the whistles sound, the signal that the men will be going over, but they keep marching. The wind is in the right direction, and it carries the sounds of the battle to them. The screams of shells and the bangs of explosives mixed in the cries of the dying. Finally, my father can bear it no longer. He just stopped dead in his tracks and turned to his Luitentant and said, “Take them on for me, will you George? I’m going back.” George tried to argue with him, it was a fool’s errand, suicide, but my father would not be persuaded, so eventually, George had no choice but to leave him.” He paused, turning to stare over Cap’s shoulder. “There was a flag hanging up in the relief trench, as he struggled down them, hanging solemnly and forlornly in the wind, its colours bright against the mud of Flanders. Maybe it was the colours that made him take it, maybe it was a sense of patriot pride, maybe it was in the middle of all that destruction, it survived, I don’t know. I’m not even sure he does. But he grabbed it, using the straps of his uniform to bind it to his chest, pulled on his gas mask and ran the rest of the way.
“Neither of us, I think, can fully grasp the impression he must have made. In a world of darkness, mud and death, this figure bounding out of the darkness on to the field...” he shook his head.
“Neither can you or I can grasp the impact it must have had on the troop son the field. Our own first outing, these are nothing. These were men who were at their breaking point on both sides, fighting though mud, slime and bodies. Nothing like this had never been seen, ever being thought of before, this vision in blue, red and white leaping out of the darkness amidst them, like some demon from the pantomime. It is hard to say who was more surprised, more terrified by this vision, the Allies or the Germans. I believe they did give orders for this figure to be shot, but the men were too scared to aim properly, giving the impression that this figure was immune to bullets. That changed things. Word spread along the Allied lines, such as they were, that there was a man immune to bullets on their side, calling them to arms. They came out of their trenches and charge at their confused and frightened enemy. I believe more land was gain in that day than had been for nearly two years, or at any other time in the war, until the Big Push in 1918.” He sighed, his breath forming a mist in the evening air. “My father left as the battle was finishing, and return to the British Trenches, where he was promptly arrested,”
“Arrested? For what?” Steve was starting to feel like a Greek chorus, but he guessed that this was something Brian had to tell someone.
“He had technically deserted his unit and disobeyed a direct order. Plus, I am not entirely sure about America, but in Britain, running around in a costume, especially on a battlefield, is not normally looked upon favourable. There was deep concern expressed that father was off his onion as George so eloquently put it. Others though perhaps he was a spy for the Germans.” He paused. “Then word came to them. Of men talking about the spirit of England being present in the trenches and granting them victory. Of men who days before had been exhausted and downhearted now wanting to jump out of their trenches and show Jerry whose boss. Like the Angels of Crecy, the effect on moral was magnificent; people believed that they could win for the first time. Those men who had been there wrote home, telling their families about the figure of the Union Jack who leapt from the trenches. Morale was boasted at home as well on the front line; all over the empire people were discussing this figure. And they felt a sense of pride, of belief, of hope.
“So command did something revolutionary. They made my father Union Jack. That is to say they actually made a proper uniform for him. He was removed from the front lines, officially to serve behind a desk at Staff HQ at Cannes.” His face dropped slightly. “That, I think was the one thing he hated, having others believe he was a coward who used his title to get himself a cushy position. I know the man who took over his unit, Captain Blackadder called him one, and his uncle, who lost 4 sons in the war, never forgave or spoke to him again. I know that rankled with him, but there was nothing he could do. He knew he was what was needed, a soldier who was more than a soldier, a symbol of everything they were fighting for. Of their country, of the empire, of a better and brighter future. Later on, others joined him or were found, but my father was the first. And of course, later still the Americans remembered the effect of Union Jack in the trenches and decided to try the same thing on their own, and” he shrugged. “Here we are.”
He paused, to glance at Captain America. “You understand why I referred to this as a pilgrimage?”
Steve nodded, slowly, seeing the trenches long vanished beneath the plough, a land churned up into mud and blood and a man wearing a flag
Author: Cat_13145
In a week that makes you feel proud to be British (starting with the Queen's Birthday last Thursday, and ending with the Royal Wedding on Friday) I give you the origin of our first and best (in my opinion) Superhero, Union Jack (because we never found out how Union Jack one came into being).
“Union Jack.”
“Captain America.” The other man sheaved his weapon. “Is everything alright?”
Steve Rogers nodded, slowly lowering himself on a convenient stone. “Just wondered where you were. Thought you’d be resting up after today.”
Union Jack’s mask was the only one of the Invaders to cover his whole face, but after a while, you learnt to recognise the facial movements of the man behind the mask. He was smiling, slightly sadly.
“Couldn’t settle, so I decide to make a pilgrimage.”
“A pilgrimage?” Steve stared out over the landscape. All he could see were French farmers fields, pitted with the craters of war. Brian Falsworth nodded slowly.
“Where we are standing, Captain America, is where it all begins.”
“Where what begins?” He was starting to worry about the sanity of his friend. Brian had been fighting the war longer than any of them. If things were starting to affect him...
“Old Kent Road, Section B, Ypres. Home from 1914 to 1918 to four British Battalions, three French, two Canadian, one Anzac and briefly two American. And in 1916, where Union Jack is born, and possibly where we all begin.”
“How do you mean?”
Brian paused, as though considering how much he dared tell. “To explain that, I must explain Union Jack. Perhaps you would like to hear the tale.”
There was a lot Steve should be doing. There were codes to learn, intelligence to be read, someone had to stop Namor and Jim from killing each other, but he heard himself saying. “Yes.”
The slight twitch of the mask told him the other man had smiled. “Very well. Our tale begins in late 1916, in this section of trench. Britain has been at war for nearly two years, and here at least, the belief it will all be over by Christmas has dimmed.
“My father, James Montgomery Falsworth is Captain of the Falworth’s, part of the 6th South Staffordshire. They’ve been in France for nearly two years, but somehow they’re still mostly alive. They serve alongside soldiers from all over the empire, specifically, the Princess Pats, a Canadian crack troop, but there are others. My father’s Battalion is looking forward to some time in a rest trench coming up, and my father is lucky enough to have secured some leave. It is well deserved and he is looking forward to it, though he will miss the comrade ship of these men. Which is why the night before he is sitting around their small stove, talking and making jokes, when a communication arrives from HQ. The next morning, at dawn, they’re will be a raid on the German trench.
“War is a great equaller in one sense; my father was flung together into the same conditions with men he would never have spoken to in his normal life. He stood beside them, Ate with them, fought beside them, mourned dead comrades beside them. His own men are safe; the message confirmed their reprieve, but the others...” He sighed, looking out. “My father was no fool. Even when things were at their worst between us, I never viewed him as that. As prejudiced and obstinate, certain, but never a blind fool. He knew that raid would result in most of their deaths, but what could he do?
“If he protested, they would shoot him, and send the men to their deaths anyway.”
“Surely not.”
The eyes stared back at him. “Captain, a winner of the MC was declared as insane for writing a declaration that stated while the war had originally being fought for good reasons, it was now being needlessly prolonged, a sentiment that was pretty much universally known. Even now, what my father would have said would be...treason.” There was a bitter note in his voice, as he gazed out over the fields, and Cap wondered about the secrets that lurked in the other mans past. About the things that made him seem equally bitter towards his own country as the enemy.
“An hour before dawn, my father’s battalion assembles and prepares to begin the long march back to safety. They say good bye to the men of the Canadian Battalion, as they know they will not see them in this life, and marched away.
“You can’t know, nor can I, what was going through my father’s head, as he led those young men away from the fighting. He had been in the worst war mankind had ever known. He had seen his friend shot, gassed, caught up in barbed wire and left dying there for hours. He had been shelled day and night, seen men go mad with terror...” he shook his head. “In the distance, they heard the whistles sound, the signal that the men will be going over, but they keep marching. The wind is in the right direction, and it carries the sounds of the battle to them. The screams of shells and the bangs of explosives mixed in the cries of the dying. Finally, my father can bear it no longer. He just stopped dead in his tracks and turned to his Luitentant and said, “Take them on for me, will you George? I’m going back.” George tried to argue with him, it was a fool’s errand, suicide, but my father would not be persuaded, so eventually, George had no choice but to leave him.” He paused, turning to stare over Cap’s shoulder. “There was a flag hanging up in the relief trench, as he struggled down them, hanging solemnly and forlornly in the wind, its colours bright against the mud of Flanders. Maybe it was the colours that made him take it, maybe it was a sense of patriot pride, maybe it was in the middle of all that destruction, it survived, I don’t know. I’m not even sure he does. But he grabbed it, using the straps of his uniform to bind it to his chest, pulled on his gas mask and ran the rest of the way.
“Neither of us, I think, can fully grasp the impression he must have made. In a world of darkness, mud and death, this figure bounding out of the darkness on to the field...” he shook his head.
“Neither can you or I can grasp the impact it must have had on the troop son the field. Our own first outing, these are nothing. These were men who were at their breaking point on both sides, fighting though mud, slime and bodies. Nothing like this had never been seen, ever being thought of before, this vision in blue, red and white leaping out of the darkness amidst them, like some demon from the pantomime. It is hard to say who was more surprised, more terrified by this vision, the Allies or the Germans. I believe they did give orders for this figure to be shot, but the men were too scared to aim properly, giving the impression that this figure was immune to bullets. That changed things. Word spread along the Allied lines, such as they were, that there was a man immune to bullets on their side, calling them to arms. They came out of their trenches and charge at their confused and frightened enemy. I believe more land was gain in that day than had been for nearly two years, or at any other time in the war, until the Big Push in 1918.” He sighed, his breath forming a mist in the evening air. “My father left as the battle was finishing, and return to the British Trenches, where he was promptly arrested,”
“Arrested? For what?” Steve was starting to feel like a Greek chorus, but he guessed that this was something Brian had to tell someone.
“He had technically deserted his unit and disobeyed a direct order. Plus, I am not entirely sure about America, but in Britain, running around in a costume, especially on a battlefield, is not normally looked upon favourable. There was deep concern expressed that father was off his onion as George so eloquently put it. Others though perhaps he was a spy for the Germans.” He paused. “Then word came to them. Of men talking about the spirit of England being present in the trenches and granting them victory. Of men who days before had been exhausted and downhearted now wanting to jump out of their trenches and show Jerry whose boss. Like the Angels of Crecy, the effect on moral was magnificent; people believed that they could win for the first time. Those men who had been there wrote home, telling their families about the figure of the Union Jack who leapt from the trenches. Morale was boasted at home as well on the front line; all over the empire people were discussing this figure. And they felt a sense of pride, of belief, of hope.
“So command did something revolutionary. They made my father Union Jack. That is to say they actually made a proper uniform for him. He was removed from the front lines, officially to serve behind a desk at Staff HQ at Cannes.” His face dropped slightly. “That, I think was the one thing he hated, having others believe he was a coward who used his title to get himself a cushy position. I know the man who took over his unit, Captain Blackadder called him one, and his uncle, who lost 4 sons in the war, never forgave or spoke to him again. I know that rankled with him, but there was nothing he could do. He knew he was what was needed, a soldier who was more than a soldier, a symbol of everything they were fighting for. Of their country, of the empire, of a better and brighter future. Later on, others joined him or were found, but my father was the first. And of course, later still the Americans remembered the effect of Union Jack in the trenches and decided to try the same thing on their own, and” he shrugged. “Here we are.”
He paused, to glance at Captain America. “You understand why I referred to this as a pilgrimage?”
Steve nodded, slowly, seeing the trenches long vanished beneath the plough, a land churned up into mud and blood and a man wearing a flag