Armistice
Title: Armistice
Author: dalehead
Rating: PG-17
Pairing: Ostensibly an Orlibean but not really. Plus an unknown Narrator
Summary: Over 40 million casualties resulted, including approximately 20 million military and civilian deaths. Over 60 million European soldiers were mobilised from 1914 to 1918…
Disclaimer: This is entirely made up by me for you.
Author Notes: Please note: This is a story of War. There are deaths in this story. It is not a “death fic” but death occurs under the cut. I
Standing at the bottom of the ladder, I waited impassively for the whistle to blow, for the signal to be given. Lots of the lads were nervous. They shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, drunk their rum and wished they could get it over.
Me? Well I’m one of the old timers. I joined up in 1914…
Let’s all go, all of us together, let’s be the Camp Fire Pals,” that was Orlando, he was always first, impetuous, always wanting to do it now, never wanting to think about it.
“Camp Fire Pals,” Elijah snorted, he was the youngest of us all but what he lacked in inches he made up for in spirit. “They’ll all think we’re homos…”
“Well lad, that’s what we are,” Sean, my best friend, we had known each other for years and years, when I realised I didn’t like the soft curves of a woman, it was to Sean I turned. Dear Sean, he and Orlando were in love and even though they knew they were facing at best, a lifetime of prejudice, still they couldn’t help themselves.
We left the safe haven of the East End of London where we’d all gravitated, having been rejected by our families, we’d found a new family in each other, a new family and a new life. It was hard, the match factory wasn’t the best place to work, we were none of us healthy but at least when we weren’t working we were happy…
Happiness. A rare commodity in these days of strife. We went as a foursome, we trained and we embarked for the battlefields of France together.
On the boat, Orlando was horribly seasick, spending most of the crossing hanging over the edge throwing up. Elijah taunted him but then Elijah would, he was a devil with the most angelic face ever. I held his head, spoke soothingly to him and he swore he’d have his revenge on his friend at some point. I laughed and continued to describe patterns on his back.
The first few weeks in France were hot and pointless. We marched and we marched and we marched. We dug and we marched. It was some weeks, might even have been months before we first saw action.
It was the rudest awakening a group of young lads could have. We had thought of the war as a bit of fun, we thought we would walk in, defeat the Boche then walk out again. We thought we’d be home by Christmas…
“They said the war’d be over by Christmas, didn’t say which one though…” that was Sean on Christmas Day, 1915. And what a different Sean he was. Like all of us, he had a tremor, his hands were never still, he was slightly deaf from the endless bombardments, come to that so where we all. All except one …
Only a few weeks previously, a stray sniper’s bullet had hit Elijah, he’d died instantly.
When Elijah died, so did a part of Sean and Orlando. We buried him, we mourned him for half a day and then we got on with the business of War.
My batman came over to me. “We’re ready sir,” he smiled at me and I wished more than anything he wasn’t going to die today, that none of us were going to die. He had woken me earlier, bringing me a cup of tea and silently sucking my cock until he’d choked on my come. I sighed and returned his smile. I hoped so much he could see how much I loved him, just by the way I looked at him. The truth? I was tired of living like an animal.
1916 was a trying year. We all three of us survived July 1. I still can’t believe we did. We went over the top together, we trod on the dead and injured bodies of our pals, we walked in the brightest sunshine, we walked into a certain death. Orlando was never the same after that. He’d seen too much, walked too close to the edge to stay away from the precipice. Sean looked after him the best he could, so did I, so did my new batman, my boy. We all looked after Orlando while slowly, slowly he begun to lose his mind…
He limped on though, gradually withdrawing from reality until there was only a shell of a man left. In 1917, our regiment was involved in the Third Battle of Ypres, we called it Passchendale. We were severely hampered by heavy rains, the heaviest in 30 years, which churned the Flanders lowland soil into a thick muddy swamp. Somewhere down there lie the remains of Orlando. Sean was sitting next to him when the shell struck. He was badly injured; a Blighty wound, of which more later.
So it was that only I was left. My boy and me. We were due to attack the German lines, the ones near the Sambre Canal, despite managing to stay alive, to be lucky for so long, I had a feeling my luck was about to run out.
I rallied my men. It was nearly time to leave.
Sean, poor tragic Sean. When he woke up in the field hospital, it was to the news that his ‘pal’, his lover was dead. He died on the boat on the way home, having barely regained consciousness. It played heavily on my conscience that he had died alone, my best friend, my pal. I was the only one left and the guilt, the guilt was overwhelming. For several weeks I sunk into a dark place, was sent to a hospital in Scotland to get my head together once more.
When I came back I was shored up with a new determination. The determination to survive. Maybe after the guns stopped, maybe there was the chance of a new life in the new world we were busy creating out of the chaos of the battlefield.
It was time to go. My boy and me, we had already said our goodbyes. All that youth, all that optimism left buried in the mud of Flanders, Ypres, Passchendale, it would have been heartbreaking if one had the time to think about it.
Then it was all over, we went out, we went down, we attacked, the sound of machine gunfire, seeing the remains of my men dying, hearing them screaming. Seeing my boy, a young lad from somewhere in south London, inches away from me he caught a bullet and down he went, slowly it felt to me and in my sorrow for his lost youth, I didn’t feel the bullet lodge in my guts, didn’t feel the pain of death, rather I fell, noticing strangely that the sky was very blue for an early November morning. And the air around me became heavy with the stench of freshly slaughtered fresh. And all was dark but when I opened my eyes there they were. The Camp Fire Pals, Sean, Orlando, Elijah and my boy, all laughing and reaching out to me…
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Author: dalehead
Rating: PG-17
Pairing: Ostensibly an Orlibean but not really. Plus an unknown Narrator
Summary: Over 40 million casualties resulted, including approximately 20 million military and civilian deaths. Over 60 million European soldiers were mobilised from 1914 to 1918…
Disclaimer: This is entirely made up by me for you.
Author Notes: Please note: This is a story of War. There are deaths in this story. It is not a “death fic” but death occurs under the cut. I
Standing at the bottom of the ladder, I waited impassively for the whistle to blow, for the signal to be given. Lots of the lads were nervous. They shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, drunk their rum and wished they could get it over.
Me? Well I’m one of the old timers. I joined up in 1914…
Let’s all go, all of us together, let’s be the Camp Fire Pals,” that was Orlando, he was always first, impetuous, always wanting to do it now, never wanting to think about it.
“Camp Fire Pals,” Elijah snorted, he was the youngest of us all but what he lacked in inches he made up for in spirit. “They’ll all think we’re homos…”
“Well lad, that’s what we are,” Sean, my best friend, we had known each other for years and years, when I realised I didn’t like the soft curves of a woman, it was to Sean I turned. Dear Sean, he and Orlando were in love and even though they knew they were facing at best, a lifetime of prejudice, still they couldn’t help themselves.
We left the safe haven of the East End of London where we’d all gravitated, having been rejected by our families, we’d found a new family in each other, a new family and a new life. It was hard, the match factory wasn’t the best place to work, we were none of us healthy but at least when we weren’t working we were happy…
Happiness. A rare commodity in these days of strife. We went as a foursome, we trained and we embarked for the battlefields of France together.
On the boat, Orlando was horribly seasick, spending most of the crossing hanging over the edge throwing up. Elijah taunted him but then Elijah would, he was a devil with the most angelic face ever. I held his head, spoke soothingly to him and he swore he’d have his revenge on his friend at some point. I laughed and continued to describe patterns on his back.
The first few weeks in France were hot and pointless. We marched and we marched and we marched. We dug and we marched. It was some weeks, might even have been months before we first saw action.
It was the rudest awakening a group of young lads could have. We had thought of the war as a bit of fun, we thought we would walk in, defeat the Boche then walk out again. We thought we’d be home by Christmas…
“They said the war’d be over by Christmas, didn’t say which one though…” that was Sean on Christmas Day, 1915. And what a different Sean he was. Like all of us, he had a tremor, his hands were never still, he was slightly deaf from the endless bombardments, come to that so where we all. All except one …
Only a few weeks previously, a stray sniper’s bullet had hit Elijah, he’d died instantly.
When Elijah died, so did a part of Sean and Orlando. We buried him, we mourned him for half a day and then we got on with the business of War.
My batman came over to me. “We’re ready sir,” he smiled at me and I wished more than anything he wasn’t going to die today, that none of us were going to die. He had woken me earlier, bringing me a cup of tea and silently sucking my cock until he’d choked on my come. I sighed and returned his smile. I hoped so much he could see how much I loved him, just by the way I looked at him. The truth? I was tired of living like an animal.
1916 was a trying year. We all three of us survived July 1. I still can’t believe we did. We went over the top together, we trod on the dead and injured bodies of our pals, we walked in the brightest sunshine, we walked into a certain death. Orlando was never the same after that. He’d seen too much, walked too close to the edge to stay away from the precipice. Sean looked after him the best he could, so did I, so did my new batman, my boy. We all looked after Orlando while slowly, slowly he begun to lose his mind…
He limped on though, gradually withdrawing from reality until there was only a shell of a man left. In 1917, our regiment was involved in the Third Battle of Ypres, we called it Passchendale. We were severely hampered by heavy rains, the heaviest in 30 years, which churned the Flanders lowland soil into a thick muddy swamp. Somewhere down there lie the remains of Orlando. Sean was sitting next to him when the shell struck. He was badly injured; a Blighty wound, of which more later.
So it was that only I was left. My boy and me. We were due to attack the German lines, the ones near the Sambre Canal, despite managing to stay alive, to be lucky for so long, I had a feeling my luck was about to run out.
I rallied my men. It was nearly time to leave.
Sean, poor tragic Sean. When he woke up in the field hospital, it was to the news that his ‘pal’, his lover was dead. He died on the boat on the way home, having barely regained consciousness. It played heavily on my conscience that he had died alone, my best friend, my pal. I was the only one left and the guilt, the guilt was overwhelming. For several weeks I sunk into a dark place, was sent to a hospital in Scotland to get my head together once more.
When I came back I was shored up with a new determination. The determination to survive. Maybe after the guns stopped, maybe there was the chance of a new life in the new world we were busy creating out of the chaos of the battlefield.
It was time to go. My boy and me, we had already said our goodbyes. All that youth, all that optimism left buried in the mud of Flanders, Ypres, Passchendale, it would have been heartbreaking if one had the time to think about it.
Then it was all over, we went out, we went down, we attacked, the sound of machine gunfire, seeing the remains of my men dying, hearing them screaming. Seeing my boy, a young lad from somewhere in south London, inches away from me he caught a bullet and down he went, slowly it felt to me and in my sorrow for his lost youth, I didn’t feel the bullet lodge in my guts, didn’t feel the pain of death, rather I fell, noticing strangely that the sky was very blue for an early November morning. And the air around me became heavy with the stench of freshly slaughtered fresh. And all was dark but when I opened my eyes there they were. The Camp Fire Pals, Sean, Orlando, Elijah and my boy, all laughing and reaching out to me…
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.