war | ziall boyxboy

01

Tuesday, 7th February

His determined eyes watched with a slither of fear and spoonful of remorse as yet another explosion takes the lives of at least fifty men. The grip on his gun tightening at the sight of a loose limb sinking into the thick mud as he trudges through the field, his eyebrows almost permanently knotted together in a frown at the sound of guns and painful screams that pierce his ears. The small sludge sounded every time he stepped from the small puddles inside the thick boots that he hadn't taken off for at least a month. The damp uniform, that he had so proudly worn for the last half a year, clung to his frame as if dependant on it. The blonde mop of hair on his head falling to his eyes, the crew cut he had been given before he came had long grown out and left an uneven mess of blonde waves that lightly tickled his ears from time to time.

A tangle of men began shouting orders, guns starting to blast from the group of men surrounding him,

"Horan, get firing!" The buff Sargent yelled, briefly seizing his fire to focus on the man. Horan quickly reacted to words of his leader, readying his gun within half a second and sending the powerful bullets at potential threats as he continued his walk, numerous men around him doing the same. He knew that the initial hesitation he had would not be forgotten, most likely leaving him with extra labour that night. Short shouts and muffled cried echoed through his mind as he killed yet another man, feeling the immediate remorseful feeling engulf him once again, the sensation almost too familiar. Slushes of mud flying up as each man fell in pain, specks of the muddy mixture attaching to his already dirty garments as the pack sped up into a run.

To say he was relieved when they were told they could rest would be a lie; he was completely on edge; his dark blue eyes constantly darting from side to side and a severe case of insomnia keeping him from escaping, even for a little while. The envelopes of the freshly delivered letters that belonged to the other members of his platoon haunted him, not once had he received a letter from home. In the eight months he had been fighting, not a single letter had been given to him; it wasn't hard to miss the pitiful looks some of the men gave him each few weeks when the mail was delivered to them. His thoughts broke the cold peace of the night as his platoon slept.

The thought of home almost made him sad, almost. The prospect that his family were sitting at home, most likely drinking some tea and laughing over a game of scrabble without him sent a sore feeling to his chest. The idea that he would come face to face with his ageing father, uptight mother and innocent younger brother in just over a week scared him, he knew that they would most likely welcome him home and that was strangely unsettling. There was someone else, too; someone he hadn't thought of for at least ten months, Zayn. He couldn't put a face to the name if he tried.

"Horan, Lincoln!" The Sargent yelled, effectively waking the brunette next to him. The two men trudges with their heads held high to where their leader was. The blonde stood to the left, effectively closer to danger. "You two need to do a patrol, check for mines and any sign of the enemy. Understand?" The stern words pierced the eerily silent morning, the only other sounds being the distant echoes of gun shots and bombs.

With a huff, Horan pulled his bag over his shoulders and grabbed his oh so handy gun before following the brunette out of the eight foot deep trench they had taken cover in. Coils of barbed wire and lost limbs and fallen bodies were dotted across the muddy plain, the glooms shadow of death looming over the two men like a ghost as they wandered through the area.

It happened when they least expected it, a two and a half hour search for signs of enemy or mines seemingly wasted. Just as Horan had safely arrived back in the trench, Lincoln was shot down; one bullet to the head as he focused on the ladder below him. The short thud of his limp body as it landed on the muddy floor replayed in his mind, the obvious bullet hole in his temple staring right at him; almost mocking him for being too slow when getting back in the trench and going first.

It was inevitable, he knew that. The chances of his friends from home or the training camp surviving were low, very low. Chester Lincoln was the last of them, having lived in the bungalow opposite him since he could remember. The only soldier he had. Despite his sadness, no tears fell. The tugging feeling in his heart was telling him to look away, but he couldn't. Although they would be moving on within the next ten minutes, and he was still yet to prepare fully, his eyes remained glued to the bullet wound in his life-long companions head.

"Okay, men. When we go over the top, be ready. They are hidden in places we are yet to find, stay alert and stay alive" The Sargent shouted. The squad quickly shuffling into order and loading their guns, "3...2...1... Go!" He screamed, charging up the rickety ladder and out onto the battle field.

Needless to say, more than half the regiment died in that one run from trench to trench. The Sargent himself being blown to bits, leaving the men alive slightly lost. William Oakley managed to lead everyone to the correct place, finding one of the higher ranked soldiers in one of the trenches, although the man had quite obviously lost half his leg and most likely not live for the next day, he was very helpful and managed to get them to safety.

Oakley, Horan and the four other men that were left from the squad followed the instructions given to them closely. By the following night they had managed to weave their way through a set of woods on the outskirts of the battlefield and climbed through at least three lines of trenches to where a huge military base was set.

Finally, Horan thought. He was due to leave this hell-like place in the forthcoming days, and the idea of going home was finally becoming a reality.

♛

a/n: this is my new idea, hopefully it will go as planned and you will all like it.

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