The Way Back Home: A 1917 Fanfic

Chapter 1: I Am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger

April 6th, 1917,

Somewhere in the exposed fields of Flanders, The most devastating war the world has known had been fragmenting the already fragile strands of human civilization for three unmerciful year's two young men rested at the edge of the lush landscape of buttercups and dandelions, savoring these moments of reprieve.

The younger of the two, barely at the age of 20 if one was to guess, lay flat on the soft grass, his hard metal helmet covering his eyes to block out the noonday sunlight that managed to break through the overcast clouds. His soot-soiled hands lay crossed on his abdomen as he attempted to rest in his mind despite being excited with the prospective adrenaline he yearned for.

The older man, though only by a few years, possibly more in his mid to late '20s, leaned up against a tree barely a foot away from his dozing companion, going helmetless revealing his dark brown hair. His eyes closed in the long afternoon monotony of no orders given, absorbing it by the minute. Nothing could be different about today than it had been the day previous or even the week before, awaiting the big push.

Lance Corporals Thomas Blake and William Schofield had no idea what events were to transpire in their path after they heard approaching footsteps from behind them.

"Blake." Their sergeant stood at Blake's prone side, shifting his foot to give him a good kick to rouse him. The young soldier lay unresponsive until another kick assaulted his hip, not enough to hurt, but enough to get his attention. "Blake!"

Blake sighed and removed his helmet from over his eyes, squinting in the daylight up at his upper-in-command. "Sorry, Sarge."

"Pick a man. Bring your kit." The sergeant directed towards Blake, more or less ignoring Schofield before walking away.

Schofield opened his eyes, looking over at Blake, who was placing his helmet back upon his head. He closed his eyes again to return to his shallow sleep until he sensed the presence standing above him.

Blake had risen and was now standing over him, holding out his hand for him to take. Schofield looked up, conveying without words as if to ask Blake if he was selecting him to come along. Chuckling to himself, Schofield reached up and took his comrade's hand with his own. He was calloused and hardened, having no idea what would be in store for them both.

Allowing himself to be pulled up onto his feet, Schofield followed Blake as they made their way across the makeshift camps of their fellow combatants participating in everyday tasks of cooking by the fireside, hanging up laundry on the clothesline, reminding all the men who were present of their families back home.

Reminding them of the reasons they were fighting in the first place.

As Blake made a small chat about what he received in the mail from home, Schofield listened as intently as he could but also wondered in the scheme of things what sort of mission they would find themselves on.

Whatever was about to happen today, Schofield would in no way have expected what he would lose and what he would gain. The promises he would make in the coming hours and the lengths he would go to keep his word to them as a good soldier with honor and a man possessing his English-born code of chivalry whilst wrestling with his heart's true desire.

Only a mere two miles away from the English dug-trenches, a pair of disoriented eyes slowly opened to the ceiling of a wooded farmhouse. The person whom those eyes belonged to groaned as they tried to clear their fogged mind, making certain to move their aching body slowly.

A young woman in her late twenties lay on the hard creaking floor of an abandoned farmhouse, desolate and foreboding with the lurking past evidence of looting and arson.