Somewhere in France near the Belgian border, 1914

Michel Morand wakes up to the sound of gunfire and the smell of death.

He's been lying down in the trenches and he is not sure for how long he passed out. As soon as he tries to get up, his vision spins and has to will his stomach to keep his food inside.

He tries to get up at a slower pace and while he's still not feeling well, it's good enough for him to stand on his feet. He is sure he has more injuries on his left arm and his ribs, but he is alive and grateful for that.

Michel looks carefully at his surroundings and looks for survivors. When he sees none, he begins to walk back where the medical camp was located (and silently prays that it wasn't destroyed or abandoned during the fighting).

He tries to not pay much attention to the corpses covered in blood and mud, although he is sure he managed to catch a glimpse of Jacques and Albert's bodies near some empty crates.

Suddenly, a sound catches his attention. It seems to be the sound of someone moaning in pain. He squints his eyes and finds the source.

A blond man that seems no older than thirty is trying to get up from the dirt, but his mangled leg is having none of that. Michel tries to run to get closer and help; however, his head injury forces him to slow down, so he shouts to let the man know he's coming to help.

The man looks at him once he hears the shouts and gives him some hand signals Michel doesn't understand. Either he's telling him to crouch or to get away, which he finds weird.

"Go away! Go back to camp!" the man starts to yell.

Michel ignores him and tries to help him get up. He takes on the the man's arms and the other guy leans on Michel's shoulder in order to not fall down again.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine" says the guy in annoyance. Michel can tell from his face that he's grateful and can't blame him. That leg must be causing a lot of pain.

The march is agonizingly slow. The guy can barely walk even with assistance, and Michel would have tripped over a dozen times except that the other man warns him whenever he's about to step over a corpse or crate.

The guy introduces himself as Francis Bonnefoy from Paris. He's been fighting since the beginning of the war. He doesn't want to talk about his family, so he hardly says anything more.

"What about you?" Francis ask him.

Michel introduces himself as Michel Morand from Nice. His head hurts and is a bit wobbly, and doesn't say more because he doesn't fully trust his memory at the moment.

They keep on going despite being exhausted to the bone. That is, until they hear the distinct sound of gunshots coming from afar. The Germans seem to have resumed the fighting.

Francis looks alarmed and turns to Michel

"The Germans are back. Leave me and get out! I'll be fine!"

"You're injured! I can't just leave you here!" Michel fires back. All it does is make Francis furious and then he tries to let go of Michel's arm.

"You don't understand! I will be fine even if I get shot. You have a concussion and you'll die if you get hurt again!"

Michel is about to retort when a bullet pierces his shoulder. The force of the impact makes both of them fall into the mud.

Francis quickly gets on his knees and moves Michel to one of the walls of the trench. Michel can only take quick breaths as he tries to handle the pain. His shoulder bleeds and his skin is turning pale.

Michel can barely notice what is happening and thinks that maybe this is it and he's about to die. He can almost feel Francis' hand shaking his uninjured shoulder and trying to keep him awake.

"Hey... it's okay. Go, before... they sh-shoot you... too."

Francis stops and looks at him, mouth agape. A second later, Francis grips his face and says

"No. I have lost many of us already. You will survive this, you hear me? You'll be fine and when this war is over you'll return to nice and hug your mother and your father and kiss your wife Marie and return to the goddamn post office and live happily until you get old and wrinkly with grandchildren. I won't let you die like this."

Michel doesn't know what to say. Francis sounds so serious and determined that he's almost certain that would walk a marathon with his broken leg.

As his blood keeps gushing out and conciousness seems to leave him, he sees Francis get up. The last thought that passes over him is that he never told Francis about Marie or about his job.

France gets up and picks up a rifle from a dead soldier (Didier, from a small town near Marseille, and a vegetable farmer's only son. France silently prays for his soul), then steps on top of a crate in order to aim towards the sound of the gunshots. He hopes Germany is on the other trench, just so he can shoot him between the eyes.

His leg keeps hurting, but ignores it. He's been through worse, and this would not be the first time he has died.

Michel is unconcious, but still alive. He can feel it in his body.

France takes aim and shoots. He really can't see well, but the plan is just to keep on going until the crates below him run out of bullets or he kills all the Germans on the other side. He doesn't expect to live, but as long as he can clear a pathway so Michel can survive that's all he needs.

In the end, he doesn't run out of ammo; instead, he falls over after one too many bullets in his body. On the ground, just as he knows he's about to die again, he asks God to let Michel and the rest of his children live.

France wakes up to the smell of tea.

He's in a small tent. England sits next to him while brewing a pot of tea.

"About bloody time you woke up."

Francis sits up. His leg looks fine but it is still a bit sore. He can tell it's been healing on its own.

England wordlessly give him a cup and orders him to drink. France would have made a face any other time, but now he's just too tired to bother and slowly drinks it up.

"Me and a few of my men found you dead with a broken leg and at least five lodged bullets. It was hard to convince them that we had to take you in."

France just listens. Then, he remembers.

"Michel, what about Michel?!"

He doesn't realize he's close to hyperventilating when England gets up and forces him down on the cot.

"Calm down, you frog. If you mean the brat with the concussion and the busted shoulder, he's on surgery. By some bloody miracle he was still breathing when we found both of you."

England takes a deep breath and picks up his bag. He takes out two cigarettes and hands one over to France.

"Is he going to survive?" France asks as England looks for his matchbox.

"He's one of yours. You tell me."

After taking a few drags, France relaxes a bit.

"He wanted to save me, you know?"

"Oh?"

"I told him to go, but he still tried to help me, the fool."

England stares into the distance.

"Blimey, humans are one of the dumbest creatures. Always going on about defending their countries when we will outlive them all." he takes a long drag, "But then again, we are always fighting. Perhaps we are the bigger idiots."

They finish the cigarettes in silence. England just keeps looking at nothing, deep in thought.

France, meanwhile, closes his eyes. He wills his soul to feel Michel's lifeline. It's faint, but he can feel it clinging to life. He carries it in his arms, like a father carrying a son, and prays for it to stay in the realm if the living.