Mud.

It was all that he'd seen for days, weeks, and now it was curving into months. Thick, cold, viscous mud. He'd seen people fall into it and drown, there was so much of it, it coated everything. Thick layers of it caked his boots always, smeared with the blood on his uniform, jammed the bolt on his gun.

What was worse was that they had to live in the mud. The hollowed out trenches, the walls slick from the near constant rain and the stagnant putrid water that sat under the worn deck boards that ran all through this worn hellhole.

Matthew passed his lighter to the solider beside him, hand shaking from the lack of sleep and food. He'd refused to smoke the cigarettes they'd given him, they made him feel ill, no matter how many times he'd tried to smoke one. There was a quiet exchange of pleasantries before the lighter was once again tucked into a pocket.

The sounds of battle were far away. The tata-tata of machine gun fire and rumbling growl of explosions melded in with the early spring wind. Winter's snow had just melted and unfrozen the ground, Spring's rains making the muck they'd been living in that much more treacherous.

But Matthew's mind was not in the mud and putrid trenches of war. But far away, in a small country to the north. About now her people would be painting their colourful eggs for Easter, flowers being collected and made into circlets that she'd wear in her soft moonlight coloured hair. He had never been very religious, Francis and Arthur had both tried but now that he was here he prayed that she was safe.

Grungy, once golden curls flopped back against the muddy boards of the retaining wall. He hated Arthur. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. The man had called on him, Matthew's people, his children to fight for him. And all for what? So less of Arthur's children would die. Arthur didn't give a damn about Matthew, he was cannon fodder, a colony that was to sacrifice itself for the love of their queen, for their mother country. It made tears spring to the corners of his eyes.

The Newfoundland Battalon, massacred because Arthur wanted to clear a path. Arthur had known it was a trap and sent his people in anyway. They had won, oh yes they had. But the cost had been devistating, Matthew hadn't been able to move his entire left arm for days after.

This war had caused so much pain, he was sick of it, sick and tired. He ran a dirty hand over his face, adjusting his glasses. Dim blue-violet eyes trailed over the muddy walls, a soldier across from him gave him a salute with a blue medicine bottle filled with rum or gin. The colour made him sigh, hand going to his wrist where a dark blue ribbon was tied. Calloused fingers brushed the dirty silken material, a small smile coming to his face.

He'd remembered the day he'd told her that Arthur had called him to war. Her soft doe like eyes filling with tears and pleading in both English and Ukrainian for him not to go. It had broken his heart seeing her cry like that, especially after they'd finally been able to be together again. But he'd promised, promised her that once this was over he'd go to her first. And now, sitting in this dark, stagnant, vermin infested hellhole, it was a hope he held onto dearly.

He knew many of the other men had similar ambitions to see their wives and girlfriends back in Canada. But being the embodiment of a nation was different, he wholly believed it. Closing his eyes he could see her kind sweet face, smiling at him and laughing, almost feel her gentle but strong hands on his cheeks when she wanted him to pay attention. It made him smile, forgetting where he was, instead remembering sitting in her small but comfortable living room trying to carve and paint Easter eggs. Matthew's painting looking more like a small child's craft and hers looking like a stunning masterpiece created by a master.

It hadn't been what they were doing, just being with her, laughing, getting paint all over each other and just enjoying each other's company. Dear god he missed her.

The sounds of war grew louder, the bombs falling closer and fighting growing nearer. The men around him jumped to their feet, grabbing their helmets and weapons. A shout came for the troops to rally, the Germans were trying to push into their ranks.

Matt lowered the steel helmet to shade his eyes, breath stilling in his chest as he felt his own men dying on the battlefield. The screams of the dying melded together with the hiss of gas and the ricocheting booms of explosions. Tears dripped down mud streaked cheeks as he loaded his gun and fired at the enemy. Men were dropping around him, Canadians and Englishmen alike; a shout rang out, pushing them over the top, heading straight for the heat of the battle and the thickest of the mud.

Pressing his back up against the remains of a tree Matt closed his eyes and hoped, hoped desperately that he'd live through this war to see Yekaterina's face smiling at him once again. With that thought, it was enough to keep him going as he threw himself into the heat of the battle.

NOTE:

For all those who care to know, the details on this are skewed for artistic license. I really don't care that it's not 100% historically correct. Lighters instead of Matches, who the hell cares, the point got across. It's a fanfic, enjoy it for what it's worth and the emotional quality of the characters. For the anonymous reviewer I am a Canadian and a Newfoundlander. I know the details on that aspect of history but because most people in the general public do not. Therein, the battle a Beaumont Hamel could be included because Newfoundland did become a part of Canada (eventually). Trenches were not used in WWII, WWII modernized warfare away from trenches and running at one another with guns over minimal amounts of ground. Canada has as much to be ashamed about with WWII internment camps as the Germans did in their country. But this is WWI, not WWII. Please sign your reviews and don't critique me on bursts of fanfiction that I wrote just because it brought me a moment of joy. Thanks.