Chapter Text
Tom Blake had always imagined that bombs would sound like thunder. Far off and echoing, a guttural rumble pouring from the lips of the clouds.
He was wrong.
The explosions of the German shells that rained down on the 8th in their trench had none of the dignity of thunder. This noise was invasive. Ripping through Tom’s bones in the same way they ripped through the earth of the trenches. Leaving him with a ringing in his ears that swallowed up his heartbeat.
Tom whimpered as a shell struck the dirt a few yards off, mud and grit raining down onto his helmet. His knuckles whitened around his rifle where he hugged it to his chest.
Another explosion.
Tom hunched into himself, pushing his body further into the trench wall as though he could burrow into the dirt like a rabbit, and just wait out this entire wretched war.
Beside him, Lance Corporal Schofield sat silently. His bowed head the only sign that this day was more violent than any of the others. His face tucked protectively into the neck of his sweater.
Rumors circulated around the man. That the Somme had broken him, taken the very soul out of him. And they were right, as far as Tom was concerned. He hadn’t seen the man mutter so much as a word outside of delivering orders to his men. On his third day at the camp, Tom had stopped Schofield as he passed the mess tent, asking him if he wanted to join the men for a round of cards. Schofield had only stared at Tom for a long beat before continuing into the dark without a word, settling into his spot beneath the tree at the edge of the camp.
Tom started after him only to be stopped by one of the other men, “Don’t bother with him.” The soldier nodded back at Schofield, “He’s been gone since the Somme, shell shock.”
Another explosion rattled the ground besides Tom, forcing him back to the present. He hadn’t quite understood shell shock then, how a man could become quite so empty, but he understood it now. The artillery had only been pounding at their stretch of the trench for a few hours now, but Tom felt as if it had been lifetimes. His memories of home, of his mother and Myrtle and the cherry trees felt distant. As though he had known nothing but smoke filled skies and the stench of blood and rot his entire life. As though it was all he would ever know. Cursed to die in the trenches hundreds of miles away from anyone who actually cared.
Tom sniffled at the thought, hot tears pricking at his eyes. He was NOT going to cry. He was a soldier for god's sake, and a grown man.
Down the line another shell struck the trench and Tom jumped, tears escaping his eyes at last. Tom prayed that the brim of his helmet covered his eyes as he dug one hand into the dirt beside him, trying to steady himself.
He felt something brush his hand, and his first thought was of those bastard rats back again, but then a soft warmth grazed the back of his knuckles before encasing his muddy hand. Tom glanced up in surprise as Schofields hand protectively covered his own.
Schofields gaze stayed pinned to the ground between his feet, making no indication that he had even moved.
Tom opened his mouth in confusion but before he could speak a shell exploded into the ground behind him, spraying him and Schofield in debris. Flinching back, Tom felt Schofields hand tighten around his, grounding him even as the world around them fell to bits. With a shuddering breath, Tom turned his hand over to properly intertwine his fingers with Schofields. His hands were large, yet soft despite the labor of war and Tom's hand fit perfectly, safely, within Schofields.
As the shells rained down and the screams of men came and went, Tom grasped Schofields hand like a lifeline, at some points worrying he was hurting the other man. But each time Schofield only responded by squeezing back, quietly reassuring the young soldier through the press of their palms. Their heartbeats drummed down to their fingers, a frantic beat of life, life, life in a place of endless death.
An explosion down the line. A scream cut short. Tom's shaky breath rattling in his lungs.
Schofields hand.
Life. Life. Life.