[Archive] Monsters of Men [America]

[ghostehaccountx]

June 10th, 1943, World War Two.
A field, somewhere, in France, within the Allie trenches.

Possible M rating here for later posts, but nothing is for certain.


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The sky was burning that day, set alight by the molten hate that was spewing from the lacerations scattered across the French countryside. There were oranges, yellows and the faintest tints of blue along the edges, but mostly it was crimson. The clouds were drenched in it, and so was the ground, the blood of the brave mixing in with the mud that pooled into the narrow trench alleys. Not even the heavens could escape the colors of war. For some strange reason this made Matthew sad, as if all his hopes rested on the clarity of the sky and not the loyalty of his men.

He'd been looking up when guns and humans alike had started to scream.
All frivolities had at once been pushed aside. Cards and drinks were put down, words were exchanged and the rare cigarette was lit. There was no time for daydreaming, especially when death was sitting on your shoulder. And though he'd never admit it, sometimes Matthew could here him whispering, his voice like ice on his skin.

You're next... You're next...

He tried to push it off, he really did, but denying the inevitable was no easy task. So instead he ducked his head down, grabbed the nearest rifle and started shooting, which was probably the best thing to do considering the circumstances. Focus, however, was impossible. Voices and shouts filled the air, accents and languages mingling into one never ending burble while soldiers awkwardly pushed and shoved themselves into some form of structure behind him. 'Course, none of that really mattered when it came down to things. Orders slipped from Matt's mouth, bullets flew from the weapon in his hand.... yet they were all meaningless to him. Days and days of the same thing had left him numb - there was no clean, there was no privacy, just rats, dirt, and loathing. Where he got the energy to even do something as simple as pull the trigger was beyond him, sleep was an alien subject in trench warfare. You were always too nervous. Too fidgety to close your eyes, as if falling asleep would be the last thing you were aware of.

A curse was spat under the Canadians breath, and he ducked down below the muddy walls so he could reload his rifle. A flurry of feet scuttled past him as he did so, splattering his already filthy coat with mud and God knows what else. For a brief moment, he watched them go, his thoughts wandering with their passage. Was Kumajiro holding up well, down in the barracks? And where the hell was his brother?

There was a sharp click and a jolt of his arm, and immediately Matt was dragged back into reality, his face a mask of concern and detest. The gun was loaded. Shoot, shoot, shoot. That was all he had to do.

No sooner had his head poked out over the trench barrier did something boiling hot fly past his cheek, leaving a red mark in its wake. Matt's heart jumped as the bullet exploded into the mud wall opposite, and it continued to hastily bounce around while he returned fire. Shit! That had been close, too close in fact. Grinding his teeth together, he calmed his nerves and vainly sought out any movement amongst the perpetual fog that covered no mans land. Nothing. Just barbed wire and smoke.
That didn't deter him though. Still he continued to fire, hoping that he'd hit something, anything, that would stop the enemy approaching.... that would stop this war.

Once again he ducked down, cracked glasses askew over pale eyes.
Click, click. Reload. Shoot, shoot, shoot. There was no hesitation this time, no thought of worry for his friends or family. All he could think to do now was the same thing he did everyday. Survive. For the love of God, survive.

And he wasn't even being selfish. He knew with all his heart that every soul that was stuck in this mess was in exactly the same position as he was - fighting for their country, their freedom, but most importantly, for their lives. Perhaps if he hadn't seen the monsters of men that conflict created, he would have felt sorry for them. The enemy. Unfortunately, things simply didn't work like that. Out here it was kill or be killed, and no one wanted to end up the latter of the two options.

Matt let out a shaky sigh, and tried to steady his aim more. He wished he could say that war hadn't changed him, but in all his many years of being alive, he'd been victim to its blows in more than one way. He was no longer the shy little shadow that was tucked in the corner. He was the one who carried a whole continent on his shoulders, and he was the one who tried to stick the pieces back together again if that continent started to crumble.
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Nnn, hope that's long enough. ;A;
So yeah, I pretty much just threw them into some random trench-y type battle with shit going on. Y'know there are hardly any trench battles that involved both Canadian and American soldiers - the only thing I could find was the Invasion of Normandy but that was, like, with ships and stuff. e-e
Enjoy~

P.S: Sorry for the date mix up....
-fail-

[aniskywolf]

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[bg=5b2935][atrb=style,padding: 20px;border-top: 3px solid #FFFFFF;] Two years of hell. Once again he has forced into Europe's matters, but no longer was it Europe's matters. Once the Japanese decided to drop those bombs on Pearl Harbor; once they decided to target American lives, it became his business. He would get the back in the end, he knew he would, but for now his focus and his nation's focus would be on liberating the French who were under Nazi rule for basically the extent of the war itself. America wanted to see to it that they were liberated and felt freedom once more. Though, he couldn't really free the French if he didn't have sufficient ammo in his Thompson. With a soft grunt he tried to roll into the trenches again. That alone was a task on it's own as they were under heavy fire from the Germans. Tsk, he was shooting his last bullets, and he wasn't about to rely on a handgun. Okay maybe in the end he did as he was shot in the shoulder and a yelp was sounded from him. Snatching the gun from his waist he shot several rounds as he fell right before the trenches, taking out the one who was so fond of shooting at him. Bastard. With a huff he rolled into the trench, a wobbly landing and a loud sigh. He flopped himself down and reached for a kit that possibly hand bandages or... something. Though once he opened it there was very little left, probably only less than two feet of bandages and only one gauze left. That was perhaps all he needed. With a loud shot that almost clipped his head he decided that his bleeding, stinging shoulder had to wait. "Shit..". Quickly he ducked down and tried looking for ammunition for his semi-automatic. The trenches were no save haven as he carefully stepped over dead bodies that had fallen in or had been shot at the spot. Allied men that had fought so valiantly for the freedom and peace. It was a sad thing, but an all to often occurrence of war. This was war after all, and death was inevitable- the trenches made it worse though. America knew exactly how the trenches worked, even before the first Great War. his Civil War used them often, but at least the one he was in was well constructed and more sanitary. They didn't have in as often and disease, while it did spread disturbingly fast, didn't spread like it did in those days. For that he was thankful. In his search he bumped into his brother. "Ah, Matthew." He huffed out, grabbing extra ammunition from besides him and loading it into his gun, hearing it click as the cartage was inserted. "How's it going on your end?" His tones were exhausted, but Alfred made sure to sound like he still had much more fight in him, and with his almost unlimited energy, he did. Quickly he placed the muzzle of the gun over the edge of the trench and made his aim quickly, pulling the trigger that started the loud ringing of bullets flying ahead to their targets, missing almost each time. With a frustrated hiss he ducked back down and removed his dirtied glasses, placing them in his pocket and trying again, this time at least hitting something. This was a little annoying with the heat, but he had to deal with it. There, a soldier had fallen. So that made... 3 hits in the past 2 hours. Not good. Alfred sighed and ducked down again as he tried to figure out a more efficient method. At this rate he was just wasting all too valuable bullets. He looked to his brother. "I'm going out again. Cover me will ya?" Without leaving time for discussion he stood and ran out of the trench, raising his rifle and letting bullets fly. Oh, his shoulder still stung from the shot before, but it wasn't a new feeling. Each war he'd been shot at, and each time the feeling still hurt, but at the end of the day it was a familiar feeling. He was used to being cut, shot, beat- it was nothing new at all, so why should it bother him? Hopefully Canada was covering him like he asked-- Ahhh shit. Quickly he made his way back into the trenches. Ok the fire was getting to heavy, and to make matters worse, he was grazed with a bullet on his cheek. That stung even more than the damn bullet to the arm. With a deep huff he decided to stay in the trenches for a little while longer.

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