No Bravery | dunkirk au

Fear Landscape

The dog tag was cold against Alex's heated skin. He was sweating. It was hot. The hottest weather he had ever experienced. 

He was sitting under a tree, which was the only place he and the rest of his Regiment companions had found that provided some shade from the burning hot sun. 

But, as they had soon found out, after having spent a good fifteen minutes fighting for who would've got what spot, the shade wasn't much use when the temperature was over 40 degress. 

Alex had no idea temperatures could be that high. And he also had no idea how the bloody hell the people from that godforsaken village could go around wearing wool scarfs draped over their shoulders, long heavy black skirts, socks, wool pants and cloth-caps. 

Their uniforms were a fucking nightmare to wear, and he had took the top part off, leaving nothing but his tank top on. He would've gotten a sunburn on his arms, most likely, given the fact the shade was only covering his head and part of his back, but a sunburn was better than melting in that useless uniform he was forced to wear. 

He slowly lowered his head, to give a proper sniff to his armpits. They stank, of course. He couldn't even remember the last time he had gotten a proper bath. 

No, he actually did remember it. It was when he had gone home, for those short two weeks, after Dunkirk and all that shit. 

The last time he had seen his family, the last time he had let his mother ruffle his hair pretending he hated when she did so - when he actually loved it; the last time he had hugged his father - they hadn't hugged in a long time, now that he was thinking about it; the last time he had carried his younger brother on his shoulders, around their backyard, hearing his high-pitched laugh. 

And the last time he had seen his girlfriend. Sarah. The last time he had touched her, and kissed her, and told her he loved her. The last time he had touched a woman. 

When he had been so scared to find them all waiting for him at the train station with nothing but disgust painted all over their faces, because he had failed them all, by running away from that bloody beach, instead of staying there to fight the bastards. 

And when he had found out that nothing but relief and love was painted all over their faces when he had gotten down from the train. They were so immensely happy that he was alive, in front of them, in the flash. 

That had been in 1940. It was now August 1943. He had managed to survive 3 years on the battlefield. 

And, of course, he had no one to thank, other than himself. He still had his reputation amongst all Regiments. But he had learnt to follow orders - or at least, to make it look like he was doing it, at all times. 

He had actually stopped following orders no longer after Scott's death. No, Scott's murder. By his own hand. 

He had thought that by doing that - by killing Scott - he would've earned the Colonel's respect - or at least, an ounce of his trust. 

It had been the exact opposite, actually. 

The Colonel had listed him as a bottom-feeder, a backstabber, someone who had no idea what loyalty was. Someone who would've been ready to sell their own Country just to impress someone.

So, in the end, Scott's de- murder had been for nothing. 

He bit his tongue hard, the image still clear in his head, as if it had happened that same morning. He could still see the life leaving Scott's body in a single moment, slumping out of him, crashing to the ground, right in front of his feet, the tiny bloop droplets spattering over his uniform, his shoes, and his face. He could still feel it, sometimes, if he kept thinking about it too much, right under his right eye, marking him forever as a murderer. A vile, vicious murderer.