Chapter Text
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
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.
- Wilfred Owen, 1920
***
Wednesday 11th November, ‘14
Robin,
I could not bear to do this to you in person, because I knew you would attempt to stop me. And of course, I would be helpless but to listen to you.
This afternoon, I will be enlisting with the 8th East Surrey Regiment of the British Army. They will likely deploy me to the front line in France within a week, and I do not think it would be beneficial for either of us if we should meet before this time.
Please do not think that by doing this, I care for you any less. It is because I care for you so deeply that I could not suffer the pain of parting from you when it is uncertain whether I will return safely. I hope to God that I do. My father says it will be over before the year is out, so I doubt I’ll be gone long enough for you to miss me!
In the meantime, look after Nancy for me, will you?
I hope you will forgive me.
With so much love,
Steve.
***
“Name?”
“Stephen Christopher Harrington.”
“How old are you, son?”
“Twenty, sir.” Steve adds with a tight nod, nothing more than a dip of his chin.
“Any medical conditions that might affect your ability to serve?”
“No, sir. Healthy as a horse.” He smiles, then, and it’s almost real. He’s of age, he’s able-bodied, he’s following his father’s path in defending his country against foreign enemies. It feels almost right. But there’s still something sharp, something bitter about the thought of doing exactly what his father had laid out for him.
“Glad to hear it. Sign here.”
Steve takes the pen from the officer’s outstretched hand and scrawls his signature along the thin line towards the bottom of the enlistment paper.
It’s a good thing, the right thing , he tells himself as he taps a superfluous dot after his name and tips the pen back towards the man sitting across the desk from him.
“Report back here at 0800 on Monday morning.” The officer responds, pinching the pen away from Steve’s false-sure fingers, “you may bring one bag of necessities. Uniform will be provided for you. You’re doing the right thing here, Mr. Harrington.”
Steve nods again, begging himself to believe the man’s words. He turns, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, and heads for the door.
There’s a trail of men spilling into the courtyard outside. He recognises some of them from school or town shops, family friends or local pubs, but the majority are unknown. Where his place had been left vacant, the queue steps forward.
Another man to take his place. Cut one down and another will sprout.
Dazed as the reality of his immediate future sinks heavy about his shoulders, he catches the eye of a man loitering amidst the line. His mess of dark curls is so deep it’s almost black, falling in waves just above the collar of his thick winter coat. His eyes are rich and wide, not quite as dark as his hair but it’s a near thing. The man’s lashes are long, like a girl’s, and he blinks as if each movement comes with intent.
He’s a pretty man, if a man can be called something so soft as ‘pretty’. His lips are pink, plump, almost like Nancy’s , Steve thinks, then casts the thought quickly aside. His jaw cuts away sharply at the bottom of his face, and the tendons in his neck stretch and shift in shadow as he turns his head to follow Steve’s continued movement.
The man, somewhat scrawny even wrapped in layers of cold-bearing fabric, had been in the year above Steve at school; a loud-mouthed prankster.
He’d once, in the summer of his final year, when Steve was fifteen, let a gaggle of sheep loose in the main school building.
A note left on the headmaster’s desk said there were four.
Each animal had a number painted on the side; within a few minutes, 1, 3 and 4 had all congregated in the canteen, bleating and kicking out at anyone who attempted to come near. The teachers had searched for hours, all of them enlisted to help, but to no avail.
The second sheep was nowhere to be found.
Edward Munson, for that was the man’s name, had kicked his feet up on one of the tables, leant back in his chair and lit a cigarette, pinning it between his lips. It was obvious to all but the frantic staff who exactly had caused the ruckus, as he stretched out and grinned to no one in particular, but none of the girls cared beyond avoiding stepping in something awful, and all the boys had fostered a newfound grudging respect for the mystery shepherd.
Steve had wondered, as he’d sat with a small group of friends to whom he no longer spoke, whether there even was a second sheep. He’d thought at the time that it was a nasty trick to play, disrupting the day so much, but now, as Edward twitched a little smile of acknowledgement at their shared destiny, Steve can’t help but look back fondly on the memory. They’d never managed to prove it was him, and no one came forward to name names.
So he got away with it.
Steve returns the man’s smile, nothing but a gentle quirk of lips, and tips his head in a little nod. They’re not friends , they don’t know each other well enough to stop and talk , but the greeting feels sufficient.
He follows the queue out the door, which snakes out the front of the building; men and boys of all ages milling about, chatting and smoking, laughing and teasing. About half way down the line, Steve spots a handful of familiar faces.
“Michael? Mike, what are you-?”
“Steve! You signed up? Good for you, mate.” Michael responds cheerfully, bringing a hand up to clap Steve on the shoulder as he pauses beside the little group.
“We’re about to do the same!” One of Michael’s friends, one with a mop of tight honey-brown curls and a lopsided grin.
“But you’re not old enough. You have to be nineteen.” Steve warns, brow furrowing. The sight of his fiancé’s younger brother, surrounded by his equally under-age pals, waiting eagerly in line should spark pride, a patriotic glow, but instead it has him shuddering against the chill November air.
“We know.” Lucas Sinclair responds with a smug smile. Another of Michael’s pals from school, Lucas had been in the Hawkins Town football team, their striker where Steve had played in goal. He’s a fit lad, well-built and sturdy - he’d do well in combat , Steve thinks, pretends he knows what combat really means.
“No. Nope. Not a chance, lads. I’m telling your parents, Mike.” Steve shakes his head, gestures in a way that means what he says is final. At least, in a way that he hopes conveys the certainty of his disapproval.
“Spoilsport! Come on, we’re practically old enough as it is. Did they ask you to show any proof of birth?” Mike fires back, looking down his strong, straight nose at Steve - since when did he get so tall?
“Well - no, but-”
“Exactly! We look old enough, and people are already saying they’re desperate for men. So we’re signing up!” Mike responds, has a look of pure glee, pure joy on his sharp face, and God does Steve want to correct him, to tell him no, there’s a reason they have an age restriction; you’re just too young .
It itches at the inside of his skin, watching the small group so eager to sign themselves away to whatever the army had in store, but Steve takes some comfort in the knowledge that at least they would be close, that he could keep an eye on them.
“If we sign up today, we’ll all get to go together.” A quiet, sure voice comes from beside Mike. It’s young William Byers, Michael’s closest pal. He rarely speaks in front of adults, even perceived ones, so when he does , there’s no other choice but to listen. Steve looks hard at the youngest of the four, at Joyce Byers’ boy, and sees excitement glimmering against unease.
“Pals in life, pals in battle!” The curly haired one - Dustin - says, wrapping an arm around William’s shoulders and squeezing hard.
It would warm Steve’s heart if it wasn’t breaking it just a little instead.
“You tell my dad, and I’ll tell him about the night I found you trying to sneak in through my sister’s window.” Michael challenges, and shit, yeah. The boy’s made a valid point there. Steve would very much rather Mr. Wheeler didn’t know about the one time Steve had thought himself athletic enough to clamber up the trellis below Nancy’s bedroom window, and had been accosted by a scrawny, suspicious-looking fifteen year old.
“Well what were you doing out of the house so late at night?” Steve fires back, recalling the panicked look in Mike’s eyes when they’d spotted each other.
Michael looks from one boy to the next, mouth opening and closing as whatever comeback he’d planned crumbled on his tongue.
“Truce?” He asks, resigned to a lack of backup from his friends.
“Still not sure about this. But fine. Truce.”
***
The day comes. They gather outside the village hall, a sea of brown and beige. There are officers directing new recruits to collect the things they need, children wrapped around fathers, climbing as if up sturdy trees. There are mothers holding their sons’ faces, planting tearful kisses on cheeks. There are boys shaking hands, clapping backs and laughing, readying themselves for the Great Game.
Steve settles with his new belongings, loitering with the four younger boys who have, unbeknownst to them, become his charges. William’s older brother Jonathan was not able to enlist; something about the lasting effects of scarlet fever leaving his lungs permanently damaged. He hangs back a little way, shy and clearly fighting some internal struggle beyond that of watching his younger sibling wrangling with the buttons of his jacket.
It might have lightened some of the burden, Steve thinks wryly, if Jonathan had been able to join too. At least then he could share the weight of responsibility for the boys he’d known since they were tots.
They gather in a large, uneven group; the Wheelers and Mrs. Harrington, Joyce Byers fretting over William, Mrs. Henderson sobbing near-uncontrollably into Dustin’s shoulder. Mrs. Sinclair chats quietly to Nancy’s mother, carrying little Erica on her hip as Mrs. Wheeler hugs the wriggling form of her youngest daughter. Steve watches as Lucas’s mouth sets into a thin line at whatever his father has just said. He nods decisively, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling just a little as Mr. Sinclair drops a firm hand to his shoulder and squeezes.
Steve’s father isn’t there. He’s all wrapped up in strategising, in keeping things flowing on the Western Front. Steve knew he wouldn’t be there, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt just a little when he scans the waves of bittersweet faces and finds one painfully absent.
It’s a restrained goodbye, the one his mother gives him. She’s a stoic woman, hard lines and cool eyes, but the crushing hug she pulls him into, the simple whisper of ‘stay safe, sweetheart’ , it says more than gushing laments ever could.
Ellie is less understated in her farewell, but she carries that same forbearing stare, chewing lightly on her bottom lip.
Steve hauls her into an embrace, ruffles her short, dark curls and presses a kiss to the top of her head.
“I’ll be back before you know it, El.” He murmurs into her hair.
“You’d better. Or I’ll come all the way to France and bring you home myself.”
He can’t help but chuckle, because his little sister is tenacious like that. He half believes that she would actually find some way to cross the Channel if she really wanted to.
“Love you bunches, Bean.”
“Love you, Stiff.”
Nancy is the last to say goodbye. Officers are already beginning to bark instructions, sectioning groups of men into their Companies. Mrs Wheeler carries little Holly away, and the rest of the families disperse, some hanging back a little way off, others leaving altogether. Nancy’s warm brown eyes are wide, watery but her smile is genuine.
“I know your dad is really proud of you. I’m really proud of you. I wish you weren’t going, but I know it’s what’s best. For all of us.” She says quietly, taking one of Steve’s large hands in both her delicate, smaller ones.
Steve had always known he was going to marry Nancy Wheeler. From the first time he’d laid eyes on her at just thirteen years old he’d been certain that he would be her husband one day.
Their fathers were old pals, came up through the ranks together until they both sat in the lofty perch of command in the British Army. It was nothing uncommon for Steve and his parents, with little Ellie in tow, to spend long August afternoons in the Wheelers’ garden sipping lemonade, Steve vying for a moment alone together with Nancy without the watchful eyes of their parents.
After these days, when his heart would swell with thoughts of Nancy, Steve would venture deep into the woods behind the Harrington house with his pal Tommy, whacking trees with sticks they’d scooped up; playing soldiers and knights; sitting side by side on a log dreaming their futures into something tangible.
Steve had begun courting her in earnest once they turned sixteen. It was not without a little encouragement from his father, who’d often comment on what a suitable young lady Miss Wheeler is, and how I’d be surprised if she’s not spoken for by the end of the summer.
It was a careful, curated thing, their love. It was supervised, hesitant, sweet.
Inevitable.
And so at nineteen, when Steve had lowered himself to one knee, presented the ring his mother had uncovered from deep within her jewellery box, and asked for Nancy’s hand in marriage, he’d been overjoyed when she said yes. He’d barely raised himself off the ground when she’d launched her body towards his, arms wrapping tight around his neck, dark ringlets splaying wildly, catching on the tip of his nose.
Now, as he plants a chaste kiss on her cheek, promises her that he’ll come home, his mind reels back over every touch, every glance and soft word.
He’ll come home to her.
He has to.
She presses something into the palm of his hand, gives him one more small smile, and then turns to join her mother and sister as they begin their journey back to a house that will feel just a little more empty than when they left it.
He watches the Wheelers leave, Nancy’s mother still waving a trembling hand towards her son, towards her future son-in-law, and Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.
Steve stares down at the object in his hand - a little photograph of the two of them, nestled in a gold-edged frame. Longing crawls up the inside of his throat, and he’s overcome with a desire to call out to Nancy, to beg her to come back, to kiss her properly goodbye.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he presses his lips to the glass panel of the frame, and tucks it into his breast pocket. He’ll keep it safe there until he can return it to her.
“Stephen.” A voice comes from behind him, followed by a flurry of footsteps. It’s a voice he’d been desperate to hear, but hoped he wouldn’t. He didn’t want her to see him like this. As he turns, he catches sight of his best friend rushing towards him, face flushed and thunderous. Her short hair is tucked hastily behind her shoulders, as it tends to be when she’s stressed, and despite the cold November morning, she looks feverish. She has on a heavy jacket, buttoned up to the neck, loose trousers tucked into her boots.
It’s boyish, practical, the way Robin Buckley dresses. She has no patience for hose and skirts, for dresses or kitten heels. It’s one of the innumerable things Steve loves most about her.
“Robin.” Steve admits as she reaches him. Without ceasing her stride, she slams into his chest, arms swinging around his neck as she pulls him into a fierce embrace. Steve’s arms come up instinctively to cross around her back, and he feels her lift onto her tiptoes, pressing herself closer. For a moment, he simply allows himself to get lost in it, in the horsehair and hay; lavender; herbal cigarettes. And then she pulls back, and his arms drop uselessly to his sides.
He doesn’t see the slap coming, and it hits him hard on the side of the face. The flash of heat billows and then softens to burning warmth, and he blinks hard, stunned.
“You’re going to France. Going to war, and you thought a letter would be sufficient?” She shrieks, shoving once at his chest. His hand comes up to rub at his cheek, taken aback but reluctantly understanding of her anger.
Steve attempts to shush her, begging her not to draw unnecessary attention, “Robin, please. Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what , Steve? Make a scene? Too late, I’m making one!” Robin all but yells, and Steve grips her upper arms, ceasing her flailing movement.
“You know I have to do this, right?” He asks, willing her to comprehend the multitude of reasons why.
“Do you know what could happen? You’ve heard what they’ve been saying! Gas attacks and limbs blown off? This isn’t some jolly in France!” Robin’s eyes well with tears, and it’s taking everything in him to keep his arms pinned to his sides.
“I know. I know the risks, Rob. But this is about more than a few injuries. This is the whole country , our whole existence at stake. That’s worth more than my safety, than my life.”
“Not to me it isn’t.” Robin’s voice is thick, and her lips tug down at the corners as she clings desperately to the last vestiges of control.
“It’s too late, dear friend. It’s already done.”
Even as he speaks the words, he feels the weight of them swing and drop in his stomach. They settle, cumbersome and impossible to ignore.
A booming command comes from somewhere not far behind him, a final warning to fall in line, and Steve yanks Robin into his chest one final time. Her shoulders shake as she sobs openly against the rough wool of his jacket, and his throat constricts with all that he wishes he could say, if only he believed it to be true.
Steve pushes Robin away from him, tells her once more to look after Nancy for me, please, and then turns, attempts to swallow down the swell of emotion that threatens to spill from between his lashes.
By the time he reaches the spot where the other members of A Company are gathered - thankfully his four are there together, along with a couple of lads from his year at school and oh, Edward Munson - his eyes are itchy, but dry. The excited grins of the younger boys force him out of his melancholia, and he tries a smile in return. It’s weak, empty, but perhaps if he does it enough, it might not sting his insides quite so much.
***
The small ship across the Channel can only take them so far. The journey was tumultuous and cramped, but filled with excited chatter all around, and for a little while, despite the seasickness, Steve had allowed himself to be sucked into the bawdy, laddish banter.
When they pile out of the boat and spill onto the dark sands of France, they’re told it’s fifteen miles’ walk from the landing beach to the rest camp where they’ll spend their first few days ‘getting acclimatised’. Steve’s not exactly sure what that entails, but the thought of a day’s walk ahead of him holds a more immediate place in his mind.
Fifteen miles’ walk.
And then another few from the camp to the trenches, so he’s heard. Steve hopes his days of getting lost in the English countryside with Ellie is enough preparation.
They walk two by two, in their companies. Steve takes the lead behind Captain James Hopper. He’d been a policeman back home when Steve had been growing up, shifted to the military when Steve was still a middle-teen - and he already had a healthy respect, a desire to maintain a comfortable distance from his cold stare and general disapproval. He’s tall, broad, with a huge salt-and-pepper moustache lying thick over his lip. There’s a man Steve recognises from school walking in step with him, dark blond hair peaking from the base of his helmet, laughing heartily at seemingly flippant comments Hopper makes every so often.
Steve’s four shuffle around a little as they walk, excitement getting the better of them as they switch and shift, chatting to one another in joyous, bubbling voices. After an hour or so, the younger lads have seemingly decided on a configuration that suits them best, and Edward Munson ends up falling into step beside him. For a while, they trudge on in silence, weighed down by their bergens and the heft of all that is yet to come. Steve watches the green earth beneath his feet, sees the shine of his boots fade and mottle as dew and mud sweep over them.
And then Edward Munson speaks.
“Dyou still play?”
“Huh?”
“Football. You still play?” Munson asks casually.
“Oh- uh, no, I don’t.”
“Shame. You were a rather good keeper.” The other man pulls at a dark, curling lock that falls over his eyebrow, twists it around his finger before he slides his hand through his hair, pushing the tangle off his face.
“Did you…watch our games?”
It’s a bizarre thought, that Munson might have been on the sidelines when Steve was on the pitch, that he’d watched him play and thought he was rather good.
“Only a couple, my little sister wanted to support her sweetheart.” Munson gestures behind them to where Lucas is chatting animatedly to Dustin, and slowly, Steve begins to fit the pieces together.
“You’re Maxine’s brother? Blimey, I’d never have guessed!”
“It’s the hair, right? Some sort of genetic throwback, we reckon. She’s a right one though, is Max. Was a nightmare when she was little. Funny as all out hell now. Smartest kid I know.” Munson adds with a soft smile. It encourages Steve to open up just a little.
“Lucas would talk about her all the time, it was frankly insufferable by the end. We’d all rag on him for it. I didn’t realise you-huh.”
“Nobody ever does. I think she almost likes it that way. Gives her a little- uh, freedom, if she doesn’t look like the rest of us.”
Steve knew the freedom Maxine had craved, saw the reason for it in his father’s morning paper five years prior: Auto Theft Couple Left Mangled After High-Speed Chase: Two Children Rescued From Wreckage.
“I’m sorry.” Steve mutters, doesn’t know quite why, other than that he has nothing else to say.
“Not your fault, Harrington.”
Steve senses that there is more to say, more to be told, but the softness in Munson’s voice warns him that now isn’t the time. Instead, he offers a little something of himself in return.
“I’ve never been to France.” Steve admits quietly. “Never even left England until last night.”
“Me neither. Always wanted to travel, see the world and all that bollocks.” Eddie responds, turning his face to look at Steve fully. He’s almost walking sideways just so he can meet Steve’s eye.
“Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?” Steve finds himself asking; the words fall from his lips easily, without thought.
“Yknow, I never really got beyond the ‘see the world’ part,” Eddie chuckles, scratching lightly at his jaw, “perhaps America? I’ve heard they have buildings taller than any in England, even St. Paul’s.”
“Surely not! Blimey.” Steve huffs, struggling to picture the buildings in question. For a long while, Steve had thought the tallest structure in the world was the church steeple back home. He’d never even entertained the possibility that there might be something bigger until a trip to his father’s offices in London.
“So I’ve heard. What about you, Harrington? Pick a place.” Munson says, and there’s this little sparkle in his eye that catches Steve’s attention. He stares for a long moment at the shifting glimmer until he remembers himself, clears his throat, and his mind catches up with his ears.
“Oh, it’s- well I’ve, I’d always wondered what France would be like.” Steve answers, feels dumb.
“Ah, if only it were under less…drastic circumstances.” Munson jokes, but it falls a little flat as the truth of it burns through the lighthearted intention of the statement. Steve smiles crookedly, gives a little nod, and Munson turns himself so he’s once again parallel with Steve’s already aching steps.
For a long while after, they walk on in silence.
The unforgiving, stiff leather of his boots has already begun to wear away at his heels, even through his thick woollen socks.
They’ve only walked seven miles, Steve hears one of the officers say. Not even halfway there. Wherever there is.
And it’s nothing so strong as regret that slides cold and sharp down the inside of Steve’s spine, not yet.
But it’s a damn near thing.
***
Captain Hopper drills them hard. He’s gruff and mirthless, a near constant chain of cigarettes resting between his lips. He smokes them right down to the filter, and Dustin comments on more than one occasion that he’s surprised Hopper hasn’t set his moustache alight yet.
The days spent at the reserve camp are filled with shooting practice, drills and inspections. The lads barely get the chance to speak, but whenever they get the chance, they share looks, smiles, and for just a short time, Steve wonders whether all this ‘war’ talk has been a little overblown.
Steve has shot a rifle before; his father showed him how when he was fourteen. They’d gone shooting in the country, just the two of them.
“It’s a valuable skill for any young man, Stephen, knowing how to handle a gun.” His father had said to him as he shoved the weapon into his too-small hands. They’d gone hunting for rabbit, pheasant, deer if they were lucky. The day had been spent crouched, laid prone on the warm grass under a thicket of trees.
He’d missed the first three shots he took. Earned displeased huffs and sighs each time.
When Steve’s fourth bullet had finally hit its mark - a large pheasant as it struggled to take flight from a hedgerow - the impressed chuckle from his father had only served to drive home the bitter guilt at the life he had just taken.
His mother had cooked up the bird for dinner that night, and Steve couldn’t bring himself to eat it. He’d pushed the meat around his plate, buried it under a pile of green beans. His father had noticed, branded him weak, ungrateful, and sent him to bed without eating anything.
Ellie had snuck into his room that night with a little parcel of cheese and crackers she’d nicked from the pantry, and they’d shared them under the covers in the darkness. Steve hadn’t minded the crumbs they left on his bedsheets.
From then on, to the continued disappointment of his father, the only shots he took were at empty bottles lined up on the garden wall.
Steve hits targets with practised ease, even when lying prostrate amidst reloads deftly. He’s offered the title of Lance Corporal within days. It appears Christopher Harrington’s influence is international - his father’s rank, coupled with Steve’s seemingly natural adaptation to the demands of soldiering seems to have predisposed Captain Hopper to promote him quickly, and with an unbidden confidence, Steve accepts. Before they even reach the Western Front proper, Lance Corporal Stephen Harrington is responsible for twelve bleary eyed, barely grown men. Responsible for their uniform checks, their punctuality, and he will be held to account for any misbehaviour.
He is just grateful that this responsibility is for his four, Munson, and a gaggle of other lads around his age. He vaguely remembers one of them, Jason Carver, from school, only a year younger, and is immediately pandered to by the blond-haired, blue eyed, weasely boy.
“I knew you’d be first to be promoted. You’ve got that leadership look about you.” Carver offers as they’re sat on their bunks, shining their already dulled boots on their final night at the reserve camp.
“Oh. Uh, thank you, Carver.” Steve responds, mind floundering for anything other than silence beyond what he’s already said. “You did well at the range today.”
It’s almost true. Carver had hit the target a handful of times, jumping violently at each blast despite the determination and gritted teeth behind pursed lips, but otherwise he was all but inept.
“Did you really think so? You’ve a real skill with a rifle.” Carver continues, expression sincere. “Do you think they’ll promote any others when we reach the trenches?”
Ah, so that’s what this was about.
“I don’t know.” Steve says coolly, honestly, as he places his now-shining left boot next to the other. He begins to ready himself for the night, shifting his weight on the thin mattress until he’s under a blanket that’s more thread than wool.
Carver takes the hint, mutters something presumably self-deprecating that Steve doesn’t focus on, and turns to drop his own boot to the canvased ground beneath his feet.
It takes a long while for Steve to fall asleep that night, despite the bone-deep ache of using unfamiliar muscles and carrying heavy loads for days on end.
From his place on his bunk, Steve can see Dustin and Munson sitting up on Dustin’s cot. Their bodies are close, silhouettes etched into one mass against the fizzing darkness of the tent. They stay that way for a long while, as long as it takes for Steve to feel the trickle of sleep begin to slide into his veins. The pair speak softly, words incomprehensible to Steve through the whisper-quiet of their voices and the distance between the beds.
He allows his eyes to blur out of focus, and as Steve finally succumbs to unconsciousness, his tired, heavy-lidded eyes trace movement in the soft shape before him. He thinks, as his eyes fall shut, that it might have been an arm around a shoulder. It might have been the squeeze of a hand around a bicep.
It might have been an attempt at comfort.
***
The walk to the British front line is bitterly cold, it’s exhausting and the onslaught of driving rain chills them to the bone within minutes. Steve and Private Munson fall into step together, with his four trudging behind them. It’s the same configuration as five days before, but this time, there’s none of the chatter, none of the lads speak beyond grumbles about the weather. Between Steve and Munson, there’s none of the hesitant exchange of little tidbits from before. They simply walk heavily in silence, already exhausted, already downtrodden.
They hear the shelling before they even reach the Front Line.
Steve almost mistakes it for thunder, at first. But all it takes is a glance at the man next to him, whose wide eyes are flicking between somewhere distant ahead of them, and Steve’s face.
“Is that..?” Munson asks, voice shaking just a little.
“I think so.”
They don’t need to say anymore. Steve doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that if he speaks the words aloud, they’ll somehow become tangible.
Eventually, the line of new recruits arrives at the maze of trenches a little before midday, and it’s worse than Steve imagined it would be. It’s dirty and wet, and their quarters are cramped. The air is rank and heavy, everything soaked through by endless sheets of rain. The men already there are gaunt, grubby, and it is deeply unnerving.
The 8th East Surrey Regiment spend the rest of the day getting to grips with the realities of trench life. They’re already damp through, but the constant downpour from above and the puddles, rivers of rancid water streaming down the edges of the trenches seems to bring that dampness pervading into Steve’s very bones.
Much to his hesitant relief, Steve’s preferred half of A Company are assigned to bunk together, the six of them in one small room.
The younger boys clamber onto the two-tiered bunks along each of the longer walls, and Steve and Munson take the low-level cots lining the other. There’s a square table in the centre of the room, and the lads have already stocked it with comforts from Hawkins - playing cards and books, little bars of chocolate and pictures of loved ones.
As the night draws from grey to black, they share stories, many Steve already knows, because they’re all common stories from back home.
William and Michael recount with glee the hilarity of Dustin’s trousers splitting at school sports day when they were twelve; Lucas ribs Steve for fumbled saves in matches against neighbouring towns; Steve counters with the time Lucas missed an absolute sitter from three yards out. Munson watches from his spot on his bed next to Steve, seemingly content to just listen.
For a little while, it’s just lads laughing and chatting, sharing cigarettes, passing gills of rum back and forth.
For just a little while, they could be anywhere.
Until the rumble of shelling overhead has puffs of dust blooming in the air above their heads, and all falls silent. Wordlessly, they shift in their cots, laying heads upon bumpy, straw-packed pillows.
Steve knows none of them will fall asleep for a while.
He thinks, as he slips under the thin blanket, that the only mystery among their little gang is Private Munson.
Steve can’t get a proper read on him, not just yet. Despite their brief, surprisingly easy conversation a few days before, he doesn’t know anything beyond his name and the fire behind his eyes.
He falls asleep with that fire blazing somewhere unknown within him. He doesn’t recognise it yet, won’t for a while, but it will light his darkest recesses, and before long he will be ablaze.
***
The first time Steve sees a dead body, it’s up close.
It happens out of nowhere.
They’ve been on the front line for three days, and the near-constant drill of gunfire hasn’t yet settled into his bones. Each sudden sound, however distant, has him starting violently. Steve rights his aching body, rising from his bunk, and leaves the four boys playing cards at the little table in their living quarters. He's not sure where Munson is - was gone before Steve woke up.
He’s heading to the water barrel to fill up his canteen, treading sodden boots onto the rain-slick boards that line the trench, when an unfamiliar, nondescript man about his age rounds the corner, heading straight for him. He’s a tall lad, - taller than Steve by at least a few inches - pale, ginger-haired and freckled across his flushed cheeks. He carries his helmet hooked under his arm, pinches a cigarette between cracked lips.
Steve gives a half-smile in acknowledgement, huffs out a rough chuckle, and makes to step aside, to press himself against the sticky sand-sack wall to his side and let the other man pass.
“No, no after you mate!” The man calls jovially, pulls on the pole of the nearest ladder to him, lifting a foot to step up on the second rung.
“Cheers, you’re ver-” Steve begins to say, and then as the man - only a boy, really - hauls himself up to make space on the boardwalk for him, there’s a flurry of noise, and his body gives a sudden jolt.
The first time Steve sees a dead body, it makes him throw up.
Steve flinches hard at the crackle of gunfire and gasps as the boy falls heavy and fast from the ladder. He smacks against the opposite trench wall and tumbles, body twisting sickeningly, lands almost on his side in the acrid puddle that pools at the edges of the wooden planks lining the trench.
There’s a spray of red, of pink and white against the sack wall, and it drips. Steve’s eyes dart from the slash of all that should be inside, to the contorted form on the ground before him. The boy is still, heavy, and where his back is turned mostly towards Steve, there’s only a little gash, bleeding dark, in the back of his skull. The stream of red matts into his hair and for a feverish, childish moment, Steve thinks perhaps he’s just been hit with a stray piece of shrapnel. That the shock of the impact forced him from his perch, nothing more. That the flooding wound on the boy’s head is something he can survive.
On shaking legs, Steve stumbles forward, calling out for ‘help, someone help, please!’, and reaches out, grips the shoulder before him.
He pulls at the jacket sleeve, turns the body over and oh fuck, oh fuck, good god, please no .
Where freckles had once peppered the boy’s pale cheeks, it’s now a wreck of shining, slick red.
It’s indistinguishable, no features, nothing.
Just the messy exit of such a neat entry.
Steve feels his stomach convulse as bile rises quick and viscous in his throat. He staggers back from the body, the corpse, crashing clumsily into a hard wood pillar, and turns, bracing his hands on his knees. His chest heaves, bringing up what little fluid he has. Steve’s stomach is empty save for a hastily gulped mug of bitter coffee, and it comes up acidic, mixing with the putrescence in the dirt at his feet.
The first time Steve Harrington sees a dead body, it’s because of him.
The kid had moved out of the way so that he could pass. And now he’s dead. Lying shattered in the mud.
No older than Steve. Younger, most likely.
He’d had a family, hopes and aspirations. He’d had a future. And Steve had stolen that from him. Just the thought itself has his throat tightening, has him dry-retching.
Sudden hands wrap around his shoulders, dragging him sideways and into an alcove, a little cavern carved into the towering piles of sandbags and wooden planks. He almost loses his balance, but the hands keep him just steady enough to prevent a fall.
“Harrington! Harrington, what’s- oh fuck. Is he-?” The grip around Steve’s shoulders falters momentarily, the voice somewhere distant. Slowly, Steve drags his gaze from somewhere over his shoulder - all he sees are streaks of crimson, mangled skin, protruding bone.
And then a face comes into view.
Pale - pale like him - but the mop of hair that tangles around his hunger-pang features is dark. The eyes are dark, cocoa powder and tree bark, and so wide, so round. The nose is strong, straight to the tip, which is rounded, pink with exertion and panic.
Private Munson has Steve pinned against the dank wall of the alcove, and it feels like his gripping fingers are the only thing stopping Steve from sliding down the wall and joining all that is wet and awful in the ground.
“He- he’s dead. He’s dead. I didn’t- he was-”
It’s getting harder and harder to breathe; his lungs are constricting, tightening. There’s not enough air. His mouth tastes awful and the adrenaline and terror flooding his veins leave him shaking.
He killed that boy.
“Christ.” Eddie mutters, then returns his attention to the hyperventilating form clutched in his hands, “Harrington. Come on now pal. Look at me.”
Munson brings a hand to pat at Steve’s cheek, tapping the flats of his fingertips in the hollow of his cheeks. The gentle sting startles Steve into meeting the man’s eyes, though it does nothing to ease the shuddering gasps that fail to fill his lungs.
Blood, bone, freckles gone.
“That’s it, that’s good. Just look at me, focus on me. You’re okay. Just breathe.”
And though it’s easier said than done, the cool, soothing tone of Munson’s voice, the firm grip around his shoulder and the base of his jaw slowly brings Steve back to some semblance of a regular rhythm.
“I’m so-sorry, I’m sorry,” Steve babbles at Munson, at the mangled boy lying only a few feet away, forcing breath out, breath in.
“It’s alright, you’re alright. It wasn’t your fault. It was the fucking Germans.”
“But I- he-”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Munson urges, thumb swiping at the tear that’s fallen from the outer corner of Steve’s eye without his consent.
It’s strange, the way the frantic thrashing of Steve’s heart settles into a heavy, thick thud as his gaze flicks between the man’s smouldering stare. For a long, trembling moment, they simply take each other in. Their faces are close, bodies hidden by the little alcove in which they stand. Steve flinches as a fresh flurry of artillery fire echoes above, but he feels held, and it’s not so terrifying just now.
“It…it wasn’t my fault.” Steve repeats, attempting to encourage his racing mind to believe the words.
“That’s it, Harrington. That’s it.”
The fingers around his face slip down to the top of his shoulder, patting lightly, before Munson takes a little step back. Steve’s legs still shake, but he doesn’t feel so much like he’s going to crumble into the dirt anymore.
“You can, uh. You can call me Steve. If you’d like.”
He doesn’t know why he says it, only that in this precise moment, it feels right.
“Steve,” Munson begins, moving his jaw, lips pursing as if tasting the word, “yeah, alright. Steve it is. Eddie.”
Steve squints minutely, still-fractured mind attempting to catch the thread Munson’s weaving.
“Short for Edward. Would you believe I don’t just have a surname? But, Steve- you can call me Eddie. If you’d like.” He adds with a small smile, just one cheek quirking up a little.
“I- didn’t think you just had a surname. I, I did- do know your name.” Steve’s heart still thunders in his chest, and he’s afraid to close his eyes for fear of what he might see. But there’s something so disarming about Edward Munson. Something held within those dark eyes that sparkle even without light. Something effortlessly endearing about the tilt of his lips into a self-conscious smirk.
“Eddie.” Steve repeats, “suits you much better than Munson, if I may say so.”
“And Harrington was a few too many syllables to say in a hurry.”
It’s fragile, the smile they share. Breakable. Porcelain teacup thin. But it’s filled with something sweet, something just short of nourishing, and the tremor in Steve’s hands begins to fade to a manageable unsteadiness.
And when Eddie’s hands leave Steve’s shoulders entirely, he desperately avoids thinking about the tingle left behind in their absence, even through the thick wool of his jacket.
***
Captain Hopper enters their quarters the next morning unannounced, bringing with him that same tall, sandy haired man that Steve recognises. Another from back home, of course. He didn’t know him, as such, but he’d seen the way he flirted his way around their school, heard the backchat and the rumours of violent scraps behind the canteen. There’s something unsettling about the way the man’s eyes rake over Steve’s little group, as if he’s almost amused.
The six of them scramble upright, standing ramrod straight at the foot of their cots, waiting for instruction. Dustin struggles to smooth his wild hair, and Steve can sense Eddie’s shoulders tightening beside him as they stand to attention.
“Harrington, Sinclair, sentry duty until 0900 hours.” Hopper barks, “Byers, Wheeler, sandbags. Follow Hargrove here to the refilling bay. Henderson, Munson, bunks. I’ll be back in two hours to inspect.”
And then he’s gone. Hargrove hangs back for a moment, takes a lazy pull of his cigarette as he waits for William and Michael to button up their jackets.
“Hurry up now shitheads, you got sand to haul.” He drawls, disinterested and yet condescending all at once.
Steve bristles at the manner of address - who put this prick in charge? - but he says nothing, instead checks the laces on his boots, grabs his carton of smokes from the table and heads out into the sludge-lined trench.
***
They’re positioned at a sentry post, overlooking No Man’s Land. It’s a broad, frightening sight, dotted with shapes Steve can’t make himself to look at for fear his brain will fully register what they are and begin its spiral into pure animal panic. There’s his own pack of cigarettes along with Lucas's, a book of matches and two tin mugs of weak, bitter coffee sitting on a little table beside them.
“So, Munson’s sister, huh?” Steve attempts to distract himself, and Sinclair, from the view splaying out messy ahead of them. He’s still wrought by visions of scarlet, of wreckage and death, and talking girls is familiar territory. Far away from the horrors that haunt his consciousness.
“Maxine, yeah.”
“I didn’t even realise they were related until a few days ago.” Steve mutters out the corner of his mouth, striking a match against the little card of rough paper on one side of the matchbook and bringing it to light the cigarette dangling from his lips.
“They don’t really look alike.
“You can say that again.” Steve agrees, smiling just a little at memory of Munson’s fondness for his younger sibling.
“But she and Eddie are pretty similar in other ways.”
Eddie. It’s a soft sound, a gentle nickname, fitting. Steve almost smiles just at the sound of it, remembers that he can call him Eddie now, too.
“You’re still sweet on her?”
“Yeah.”
“And she feels the same?”
“I think so.” Lucas says, lips curling into a wistful smile as he lights a cigarette of his own. The coffee goes untouched; it tastes like stale dishwater, tastes like shit , honestly.
“I didn’t- I didn’t get to say goodbye to her. She had to help her uncle at the shop.” He continues, the sadness clearly evident in his voice now.
“I’m sure she’ll write you before long.” Steve offers, bumping his shoulder into Lucas’s.
***
They’ve been stood together, shuffling their feet to ward off numbness, for about twenty minutes more before it dawns on Steve that since their exchange about Maxine, Lucas has said nothing.
“You alright, buddy?”
Lucas is silent for a long while, takes a deep drag of his cigarette, then another.
“I don’t think I’ve made the right choice here, Steve.”
“What do you mean?”
Steve knows exactly what he means.
“I keep thinking, there’s perhaps a reason they have an age restriction.” Lucas passes the smoke to Steve, who accepts gratefully. “I don’t know what I thought it would be like, but it certainly wasn’t this.”
There’s nothing really that Steve can say to that, except to agree. And he doesn’t think Lucas needs confirmation of his doubts right now.
“You’re doing the right thing here, Sinclair.” Steve echoes the words of the recruitment officer weeks before.
“Am I? Are we? This doesn’t feel like the right thing. Eddie said you saw a man shot right in front of you. How is that right ?”
Lucas struggles to keep his voice low, kicks out at a rat that scurries past their post, no real intent in the action.
“We’re defending our country.”
It’s an empty offering, one of duty and honour, blind patriotism. Shellfire silence stretches between them for another heavy moment. Steve looks out over the expanse of destruction ahead of them, eyes straining for any sign of movement. He’s relieved and terrified when he finds none. What if he’s missed something, and it gets them all killed.
It’s a while before Lucas speaks again, dropping his chin to his chest. When he does speak, it’s quiet. He sounds - is - so young.
“I don’t want to die, Steve.”
“You won’t.” Steve fires back automatically. It’s a big brother reaction, the way he’d respond when Ellie was afraid their parents would discover that she’d broken a vase while playing fetch indoors with their family dog. It has no real logic to it, no reason other than the sole aim of alleviating just a little of whatever is weighing down someone too young to carry such a burden.
“You don’t know that.”
And Lucas is right, once again. Steve doesn’t know that. He’s not sure he even believes that any of them will make it out.
But he has to hope, surely?