The Lost Prince fic - The Squad

[amoama]

Well this is some silliness. I've driven myself into a little frenzy of feelings about The Squad from The Lost Prince and have written fic about the two named members of it fighting in the first world war. Thanks so much to surexit for looking it over and smartening it up. 

I got part of the title from The Weakerthans' song, Left and Leaving, which also has the lyrics:

I’m back with scars to show.

Back with the streets I know

Will never take me anywhere but here.

Not really relevant for the fic but still very Squad-feelsy, I feel!

Anyway, the fic is at AO3 or here:

Cad leans his head back against the dirt wall of the sap. It’s just a shell hole, not a proper trench at all. He’s been listening intently for hours now. Ben’s been back once to report mining sounds but it was most likely Frenchies not Fritz, and that was hours ago. Cad’s legs have seized up from sitting crouched for so long, and he’d welcome a trip back to the line now - even though that means crawling on his belly through sludge in the shallow trench that runs back under the wire from the observation post.

Ben’s mirroring his position, facing across from him. Ben’s right knee knocks Cad’s whenever Cad starts to drift off, getting too lost in his thoughts. Ben always stays alert through the watch – it’s a matter of discipline and pride for him - but Cad can’t help getting distracted, it’s quiet and boring most of the time, even here in the most dangerous position, forward of the front. Only four more hours.

Cad looks at Ben, who has flecks of fresh mud on his chin and down his neck from his most recent crawl up the sap. Cad doesn’t know what he looks like himself, he bares his teeth at Ben and widens his eyes to show the whites, even though last time he checked both his teeth and his eyes were more yellow than white. Ben rolls his eyes at him, swats at him, pushing roughly. Cad responds by angling his rifle to poke at Ben’s shoulder with the bayonet. Ben shrugs it away and glares at Cad. These wordless campaigns of provocation can go on for hours, days if necessary. Cad laughs softly as Ben’s booted foot slips violently into Cad’s hip. Ben puts his finger to his lips to shush him and then makes a gesture of victory: breaking silence is against the rules of the game.

Eventually their shift’s over and they drag their dirty, decaying bodies back to the front line, Cad watches Ben’s arse to make sure it doesn’t bob above the height of the trench. One of the few perks of the job, Cad’d say.

Ben helps him over into the fire trench when they reach it.

“Enjoy the rear view?” Ben asks quietly, as Cad rights himself, back standing on two feet at last.

“Not bad,” Cad mouths back, resisting the urge to reach out and give one cheek a quick squeeze. Funny business not approved down here, and Cad learned discipline from a young age.

They report to Fotheram but the Cap’s barely listening, seems like. Cad thinks back to when he used to know what it meant to have a leader. He hasn’t felt like that for a long time. It’s just been him and Ben left for ages. The other lads disbanded quickly, after, nothing to hold them together. He’s seen a couple of them lately, crossing infantry lines going back or forward to the front. Almost all the chaps from those days showed up at the local recruitment office - soon as they looked old enough to lie about their age. The Royal Fusiliers got most of them in the end, including him and Ben. Once he thought he saw Bates, or what was left of him, being stretchered down the support trench but Ben disagreed, didn’t think it looked like Bates at all.

They’re half sitting, half lying next to each other in the dark a few hours later when Cad asks.

“D’you ever think ‘bout the barracks, Ben?”

They both know Cad means the small enclosure behind the church back home, not any of the other barracks they’ve known since.

“Yes, why not, it wos a good lark that wos, eh?” Ben says patiently.

“Could do wiv a chap like The Rat now t’keep these lads in line. ‘E’d show these Germans wot’s wot, and the Generals too mos’ likely. Wouldn’t ‘e ‘ave?”

Ben thinks it over before he replies reasonably, “Yeah, I reckon he could’ave, Cad, I reckon he could. If they’d let ‘im, mine you. ‘E always said ‘e wouldn’t a passed the ol’ physical. Bein’ a cripple an’ all.”

“Righ’ you are, Ben, I’m sure, bu’ they’re gettin’ desp’rate these days, they migh’ let ‘im. Then we’d be alrigh’. We shouldna let ‘im go off wiv that Loristan fella to Samavia. If only we knew we’d be ‘avin’ our own war righ’ after.”

Ben lolls his head down further next to Cad, heading closer towards sleep, “’S’true, we could sure do wiv a few more good, disciplined lads these days, but we’re still ‘ere, ‘ain’t we, so The Rat’s training weren’t all a waste.”

Ben’s head hits Cad’s shoulder and Cad rests his head on top, like every night. The pride in Ben’s voice is still there when he speaks of The Rat and their time in the Squad, and that comforts Cad as much as the weight of Ben’s head on Cad’s shoulder and the crush of Ben’s chest against his arm. He lies awake wondering about The Rat and Marco and Samavia and he can’t help feeling that whatever wars they’re off fighting they must be more glorious then this one he and Ben are caught up in.