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schofieldshelmet · 1 year

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mm...just thinking about the fact that Scho was already traumatized at the start of 1917. "You don't remember the Somme?" "Not really." but his face says otherwise, as does the wound stripe on his sleeve. he does his best to hide his fear, but it slips out anyway. the quick side glances he gives Blake when Erinmore says they'll be going into no man's land. the slightly panicked undertones as he says that maybe they should think about this. the horror that briefly flashes over his face when he sees the rotting corpse in the shell crater.

thinking about how he tries to be nonchalant about accidentally plunging his hand into the rotting carcass, but his voice and hands are shaking as he says "put it through an effing German." how when Blake steps into the German dugout, Scho stops and looks around and steels himself before he follows. how when they're inside, he pauses to stare at the picture left behind, and his face crumples because he is so far from home. then when the tripwire collapses the dugout, and for a moment there is nothing but the sound of Scho's muffled cries that seem to blend with sobs. He's panicking, buried, unable to breathe, and then his voice goes silent. Blake digs him up, and he's terrified, gasping, blindly following Blake. "I can't see-" and his voice is raw with terror.

thinking about how when they finally make it out, Scho stops and sits down and pours water over his eyes with hands that are visibly shaking. "I wish you'd picked some other bloody idiot," he says, angry, but inside he is just a scared, desperate child, missing home and fresh air and safety, the fear coming out as rage. thinking about how Blake tries to cheer him, and he says tersely that he's not in the mood. but in spite of himself, he laughs, letting the weight slide off his shoulders, because he made it through no man's land and the dugout and survived being buried alive. thinking about how he finally is raw and honest with Blake, spilling his emotions. how he hated going home. how his voice breaks and he pauses in a desperate attempt to control the tears before walking onward to collect himself.

and then the farmhouse. how he sees the doll with the cigarette burns on its eyes; it belonged to someone's child once. maybe that child is dead now. and he thinks of his girls and how it could be them and he says "I don't like this place." his tiny smile when he finds the milk, because he thinks of home and simple things. and then his mistrust around the German pilot. Blake wants to help but Scho's trauma runs too deep, his wariness won't let go, because he remembers blood on the grass and smoke in the air and he knows too much to be friendly. then the horror in his face, the way he doesn't hesitate to shoot down the pilot as Blake starts to scream.

how he tries to drag Blake to safety, but he is not strong enough and they both fall to the earth. how he desperately tries to help, how he looks around wracking his brain for solutions, for some way to save his best friend, perhaps his only friend. he's lost and scared on a mission he never had incentive to accomplish in the first place, and his figurative brother is bleeding out, pasty white, in his arms. "Am I dying?" and Scho pauses and then gently answers "Yes. Yes, I think you are," because deceit is not in his nature. Blake's blood coats his palms and fingers. the sky is gray and cold, and Scho cannot save him. he cannot do anything. he can only watch as Blake dies slowly, the life draining from his eyes. "I know the way," he says, and he is terrified, but he will not let Blake see.

and then how Blake goes still in his arms, and Scho rolls his lips together and does his best to keep it under control. how he tucks the photo of Blake and his family close to his heart, to keep with him even after death. how he tries desperately to drag Blake's corpse to a pleasanter resting place, but he cannot. how he is so broken, unable to process. shattered. he can hardly tear himself away from Blake's corpse when it is time to leave. he is not ready, he will never be ready. but he must.

thinking about how he climbs into the lorry and sits staring ahead like he is a statue carved from stone. the truck bumps over the road and he sways with it, surrounded by the casual chatter of strangers, trying not to break down. withdrawing into himself. empty and aching, unable to grieve. there was not even a proper grave for Blake, just damp grass and lonely hills, and Scho has left him behind. never to see him again. thinking about his panic when the truck comes to a halt, how he is near tears, begging the others to help him push it from the mud. how they do not understand until they see the half-mad grief sparking in his eyes. how they do their best to help, and he climbs back in the truck, drained. "there were two of us," he says. only one is left now. Blake's blood still clings to his skin like paint.

how he tells Cooke that he is going to make it, when he himself doesn't fully believe that he will. how he knows he must continue on alone when they discover the bridge is out. he doesn't have time for a detour. he faces the broken bridge, the crumbling town, and grief walks with him hand in hand as he steps onto the rail of the bridge. his legs are shaking. but he must go on because Blake's brother is still alive, and if he couldn't save Blake, maybe he can save his family instead. just like Blake. a little older. so Scho walks on with trembling legs. and then the gunshots, and he jumps out of his skin in the silence, heart racing.

thinking about the way he has to calm his breathing and steel himself before he takes aim and fires at the sniper. how he is cautious creeping into the building, but the bullet strikes him anyway, and he falls into darkness. how his blood has congealed in a puddle below his head, and he sits up, dazed. confused. not remembering where he is or what exactly he is meant to be doing. how he touches his head, and then drags himself up the stairs slowly and stares at the city. a city broken and bleeding like himself. how when he sees the German soldier near the burning church, he is dazed. he wonders if this man can help him. he walks towards the man, and then suddenly he is being charged at, and the man's rifle is lifted. Scho jumps in panic, because this man is not a friend, and he wants to kill.

thinking about how Scho, drifting in and out of his own mind, becomes suddenly aware of Lauri in her refuge, terrified and certain he is about to shoot her. how he tries to communicate in broken French. "Friend. I'm a friend." how he winces, head throbbing in sudden pain as dizziness washes over him. he tries to make her understand where he needs to go, because he has a vague idea but his head hurts and he just can't remember. how Lauri tells him to sit, but he is too dazed to understand, so she repeats it. he sits awkwardly, painfully, hand pressed to his head. how Lauri touches his head and turns it. there is the slightest bit of wariness in his face, but her hands are the first gentle touch he has felt in perhaps months, and so he lets her take care of him. "thank you," he tells her, hoarse from exhaustion, slowly so she will understand.

and then. instantly when he hears the cries every nerve in his body is sharpened. a child. a baby. there is still humanity in the world. "A girl?" he asks. Lauri affirms, and he can't help but smile. he can't help but think of his own two girls. he kneels in front of the baby, enraptured.

thinking about how he and Lauri look at each other with a horrible understanding because this baby is an orphan and she will never know her mother. how Schofield gives up all of his rations for Lauri, the only thing he can do to help when clearly he longs to do so much more than he can. how he and Lauri become so excited when he produces his canteen full of milk, because there are still small miracles during war.

how Scho leans in towards the baby and holds out his hand. "bonjour," he whispers, in a voice clearly used on babies before. how he avoids Lauri's questions about his own children, because it hurts too much to say out loud. how the baby is fascinated by him, because he is a father and he is gentle, and his voice is soft. how Scho recites a nursery rhyme, slowly and quietly, with the expertise of one who is used to speaking to small children. yearning for home fills his eyes.

thinking about how when the bell starts to sound, he remembers suddenly what he is meant to be doing. how his heart breaks and the dread returns as he stands, not wanting to leave this cozy, firelit scene of tranquility, a respite in the hellfire. but he knows he must. he tells himself he will return to help, but in his heart he knows that is impossible.

how Scho does not want to kill Baumer, because he has seen enough of death. how Baumer is young, maybe younger than Blake, and they are both afraid. how he and Scho stare at each other, two boys who miss their families and mothers and homes, how Scho shushes the enemy because he does not want him to die. he is just a boy. but as soon as Baumer screams Scho knows there is no mercy. not in war. not when Blake's brother could be walking into a deathtrap. so he wraps his hands around the boy's throat and pins him to the ground and he kills. there is no mercy in war. he repeats it to himself as he squeezes the air from Baumer's lungs.

thinking about how Scho runs desperate, panicked, flailing through the streets, careening and dazed, still reeling from Baumer's last chokes of air. how he sees the bridge and remembers Lauri telling him about the river and throws himself off as the bullets sing behind him. how he crashes into the water and comes up, gasping, choking, struggling to stay afloat, but his clothes are waterlogged and he is exhausted and the river is hungry. how he fights to stay above water, gasping, flailing through the rapids, trying desperately to grab on to anything he can reach, choking and trying to breathe. how he is thrown against the rock in the rapids, how he will drown if something does not change. he tumbles over the falls like a corpse, limp and helpless, splashing into the churning waters below. finally free from the jaws of the rapids, he seizes a branch and clings to it, and exhaustion drags him down and he chokes on the river.

thinking about how he slowly becomes aware of the cherry petals, how he sees them and freezes because they were the last thing Blake spoke of. "they'll grow again when the stones rot." And Schofield flips himself over, and swims towards the bank, because he is not dead yet and neither is Blake's brother, and he will not let him die.

thinking about how he approaches the bank and sees the corpses, floating at the edge, and he pauses and looks for a way around them before realizing there is none. how he climbs over first one, then two, then more and more, tumbling and rolling, trapped amid the bloated bodies, panicking. how slight hyperventilation has begun as he claws his way through the corpses and remembers the feel of the rotting soldier on his palm. how he drags himself from the river, choking, panting, and falls to his hands and knees and sobs with the anguish of a child who cannot hold back the tears, because everything has finally caught up with him and he cannot stop it any more.

how he hears the singing and thinks he must be hallucinating. how he wanders through the trees, wind brushing past him and stirring the leaves, mingling with the haunting song from afar. how he approaches the company of soldiers seated beneath the trees, and slows, because he is unsure if they are real, or if they are ghosts like him. he must be dead. he must be dreaming. he sits on the ground and leans against a tree and accepts that he is a spirit, lost amongst the trees.

thinking about how the men group around him and ask if he's all right, and his voice is weak and strained and feeble, and he is still trapped in the realm of the dead. and then he looks up in utter shock, because after a night of terror he has found the Devons, and the end of his goal is in sight. save Joe. save Blake's brother. his fate is in your hands.

how even though his face is not visible, there is so much horror in him when he sees the men funneling into the trench, a dusty white scar against an emerald landscape. how he shoves his way through the soldiers desperately, not caring about anything but saving these men, saving Joe. for Blake. do it for Blake. his footsteps carry him on, and he forces through the men with abandon. thinking about how he is so panicked, but the lieutenant ignores him and sends him on his way in rage. how Scho stumbles on, trying to find anyone who will listen.

and then. how Scho sees the devastation, how he knows what the field beyond the trench is like because he has seen it before. but he climbs up anyway, pausing just once. "Are you bloody insane?" and he hesitates, fear clouded on his face before he pushes it away. because yes, he is insane. he is insane, and he is determined, and he will not let them die. "What the hell are you doing, Lance Corporal?"

and he runs.

He builds in speed, sprinting, flying across the field. slamming into men, rolling on grass as shells explode around him in sprays of grass and mud and shrapnel. there is screaming and yelling and he runs. he has no energy left, but he forces himself onward, because he will not let these men die. he will not let Blake's brother perish. and then, finally, he crosses the field of death and Colonel Mackenzie is mere yards away. and the orderlies try to stop him, wrestle him out of reach, but he is desperate. he does not care. he fights them, and he stumbles into the dugout, and there is Colonel Mackenzie. the end is in sight.

thinking about how, on top of everything, after a day and a half of terror, exhaustion, hunger, and grief, Scho staggers up to Mackenzie, concussed, bloody, and panicked, and shoves the letter at him. and after everything, no one believes him. no one wants to listen, and he's near tears. he's desperate, because he's done all of this for Blake, and now they will not listen. there is such a rawness in his voice as he pleads. there is such a fractured heartbreak in his desperation. "sir, read the letter," he begs. and Mackenzie rips it from his hands with disdain.

thinking about how Scho, already traumatized at the start of 1917, endured so much fear and grief and desperation, only to be treated like he's less than dirt when he finally reaches the end. not a kind word. nothing. just told to eff off by a man who had no idea that he just went through hell and back. a man who is too inconvenienced, too high up to see the grief and pain and exhaustion in a lowly lance corporal's eyes.

thinking about how Scho searches desperately for Joe, hopelessness filling his gaze as he wanders among the wounded with the stench of bloody death in his nostrils. how a soldier babbles that he wants his mother, and Scho cannot help but think of Blake's last request. Tell her I wasn't scared. He wanders out into a field, dazed. staring into the sunlight, certain that he failed.

thinking about how he finally finds Joe, moving towards him in shocked relief because he is not a corpse, and gives him Blake's belongings. about how he asks if he can write to their mother. how he talks about Blake always telling funny stories, something he took for granted, because you never miss things until they are gone. "he saved my life," he says, and likely he means it in more ways than one. Blake didn't just unbury him from the rubble. he saved Scho from himself, from the hell of his trauma.

thinking about how in the end, Scho brushes off Joe's offer of food and wanders into the field to sit beneath a tree, alone. he pulls out his tobacco box and opens it, brushing his fingers over the faces of his wife and girls. Come back to us. He wants to, so badly. He hated going home, but he needs it more than anything else on earth. The sun is warm on his face, and the grass is fresh and sweet, and if he sits still, he can almost imagine Blake lying near him, helmet over his face as he dozes, not a care in the world. alive. breathing and alive.

there are things still worth living for. the war has not claimed him, nor will it, because he has chosen to live. "hope is a dangerous thing," he was told, and yet he sits and closes his eyes, and he hopes.

#long post #very long post. I am sorry but also I have no regrets #also don't judge this is literally just word vomit ajdskj #I didn't really look over it before posting so #schofield #william schofield #thomas blake #1917 #1917 film #blake #blake and schofield #lauri #joe blake

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