All the anthem for doomed youth (post-wwi slice of life/romance)

[saturnine]

I decided to make a separate request thread for this story, because it's for a specific character from a story I had started last year but sadly never got off the ground. I'd like a chance to write this character again, and I'm looking for a story primarily about two very broken people learning how to be human again after surviving a war. There are no supernatural elements here, just life as it was back in the early 1900s. (Please note that I absolutely do not expect 100% historical accuracy at all, I just like period plots). Also, because this story is M/F* with myself playing the male party - to distinguish it from my M/M thread.

*I could be convinced to try this story as an M/M, although there would definitely be more complications (and drama!) due to the time period.



Ian Turner is a young working-class man living in Britain in the year 1918. He is a veteran of what is known as The Great War, where an enemy shell blew his non-dominant arm to shreds. It had to be amputated at the elbow, a devastating turn of events for a man who had made a living with his hands. His ex-fiance left him because he wouldn't be able to provide for her and whatever family they had.

Who your character is depends on you, but there are a bunch of options! Maybe she worked as a nurse during the war and is bearing her own scars from that. Or her husband went to war and never came back. Either way, she decides to offer him a job. Something in her house needs fixing - maybe the porch is falling down. A job that would take a couple of months for a carpenter with two hands, let alone Ian. At first he wants to refuse, because it's clearly an offer made out of pity and he can't stand that. But his elderly mother pushes him to give it a shot because he has nothing else to do.

Themes would include social mores & values of the time, trauma, substance abuse, suicide, trust and vulnerability. Nihilism, class differences, nationalism & xenophobia, and the fallibility of memory.

Here is the starter I had written for this story. If you're interested, please feel free to give me a shout.

In his dreams, it was always the 1st of July, 1916.

He left part of himself back in the stinking mud of the Somme, along with the meagre remnants of his innocence and all of his hopes for the future. The experts claimed that over 20,000 men were killed on that first day. In his memories, it might as well have been the entire world lying dead around him, bodies piled haphazardly in the trenches or left where they fell.

Their commanders had sold them all a pack of lies, one after the other. The war would not be over by Christmas - not this year or the next. The German positions were intact, after they'd been told the opposite. Ian still remembered the sinking feeling of dread he'd felt upon seeing that barbed wire, so thick it resembled an impenetrable black wall.

The memories bled together after that, blurred by agony. Something metal hit the ground next to him and the world exploded into pieces, throwing him off his feet. The next time he looked down, his right arm was a horror of mangled bone. His recollection was a jumble of various sensations.

Screaming. Explosions. The acrid smoke that burned one's throat and lungs. The taste of blood in his mouth. More screaming.

His own voice, though he didn't realize it at the time.

By the time he woke up in a military hospital that reeked of bleach, they'd already amputated what was left of his arm. In its place was nothing, just a bandage that covered the stump, ending just above the elbow.

His mum had cried when Ian knocked on her door, dissolving into tears when she saw the haunted look in his eyes. Everyone in their neighbourhood had been following the papers eagerly, and most had lost a husband or a son. Ethel Turner thanked the Lord that he'd come home at all.

Before the war he'd worked as a carpenter, usually hired out by people in the local area. It was a set of skills he'd been proud to have, gained from working his way up as an apprentice for years. Ian had known he'd have more prospects taking on a trade instead of signing up for factory work like his father. Now that his dominant hand was gone, he knew those years had been a waste.

Ian tried. At least, he did at first. He tried to figure out how to hold his tools again, but his fingers were clumsy and the whole exercise was frustrating beyond belief. He'd ended up smashing half his workbench before curling up in a ball, weeping hot tears of rage and grief. Screaming out his agony with his face pressed against the rough stone floor. His mum left him alone, knowing that her presence would only make things worse. She prayed for her son several times a day, entreating God to help him heal from the pain. Trying not to think about what his prospects would be like now, with him unable to take on physical work.

It had been six months since he stepped off the train platform, and he still drank himself to sleep every night. He hid the bottles under his bed to keep this habit a secret from his mother, but she knew. She was at her wit's end, and one Sunday morning she marched into Ian's childhood room with her hands on her hips.

"You're coming to church with me," she announced. He looked up from the book he'd been reading - Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. It was an old dog-eared copy that one of the neighbourhood men had lent him.

That was how he'd ended up sitting in a pew in his threadbare Sunday best, only half-listening to the minister droning on about how they needed to give thanks to God. His mum nodded fervently beside him, but Ian's attention wandered to the faces in the other pews. Every so often, he had the intense feeling that people were staring at him. When the service was done, he noticed the way their eyes flicked down to his right sleeve, which his mother had pinned up.

He could have worn the arm to make people feel less uncomfortable, but it was painful and heavy and had to be strapped to his shoulder with leather belts. All that effort for a poor facsimile of a limb made of unmoving wood, to hide the fact that he had a gap where his arm should have been.

Let them look, he thought stubbornly as some of the congregation crowded around him. The women whispered their sympathies to his mother while he tried not to listen.

---

What had his life been like before the war? Ian hardly remembered. It felt as if the last few years had torn part of the fabric of his mind, leaving only tattered edges that didn't fit together.

He'd been a child before he left for France. That was unquestionable. His days had been simple, filled with work and neighbourhood events, church services on Sundays, festivals and dates with giggling girls. Back then, he'd always been quick with a joke or a ready smile.

The first thing he'd done after returning home was to find his girlfriend. Ian had considered proposing before he left for war - he certainly wouldn't be the first. It seemed like the city had been full of young couples rushing to get married, signing the papers right before the poor bastard got on the train. He didn't really know why he'd hesitated.

When he knocked on her door, he noticed the ring on her hand almost immediately. She looked shocked to see him there, but the expression turned to pity as her eyes moved across him and saw his empty sleeve.

"Who gave you that?"

Betty looked uncomfortable, turning the ring around on her finger repeatedly. "Gary Jones." she admitted, not meeting his eyes. The name felt like a physical blow. He'd been in the medical corps instead of on the front lines.

"What about us?"

Her gaze flicked to his arm again. He knew what that meant. He'd been a working class boy his entire life, growing up in a community where most people lived hand to mouth. A man who couldn't work doomed his wife to a life of poverty.

Gary Jones had book learning, a respectable trade. Ian had finished primary and middle school, but nothing further than that. He'd been working since the age of 14.

The silence hung between them, and he'd had enough. "I suppose he's got two working arms as well," Ian muttered, trying not to sound bitter.

"Please don't make this difficult."

He looked up at her for the last time, then turned abruptly around and started walking down the path again. Making the half-hour walk back to his own home with a face like thunder. She didn't want him, and he couldn't blame her. Who would? He was half a man.

What kind of woman would want a husband who couldn't even take her dancing?

So that was it, then. A life of solitude, of being a burden to others. That's all he would ever be. Frankly, the only reason he hadn't shot himself yet was the image of his mother's stricken face. Ian knew he couldn't inflict more pain on her, not after she lost her husband and the love of her life. He would wait until she passed, until he had no one else to cry over his death.

Ian kept his service pistol in the bedside drawer of his childhood room. Sometimes he pulled the drawer open and stared at it for long moments in silence.

Until that day, he'd have to hang on. It was a herculean effort for Ian to smile at those who gave thanks for his homecoming and promised to pray for him. His mother nudged him with her elbow as a woman approached them, and with a start he realized that he recognized her. Alice Fletcher, wife of Jack the boilermarker. The one whose porch was slowly falling down.

"I remember," Ian nodded, although there was a sinking feeling in his gut. "Though I…don't believe I'll be able to fix your porch for you now."

"Nonsense," his mother admonished with more conviction than she felt. "All you need is a little practice."

 

[kyuri]

Just wanted to say that I adore your piece of writing, and the whole story idea is so good! I hope you get to RP it

 

[saturnine]

Just wanted to say that I adore your piece of writing, and the whole story idea is so good! I hope you get to RP it

Thank you so much, that's very kind of you to say