E. B. Sledge (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
withtheoldbreed) wrote2014-11-14 06:54 pm
withtheoldbreed) wrote2014-11-14 06:54 pm
d-day ✯ spam
[Open Spam for the Deck]
[It happens quickly. One minute, Gene's sitting in the rocky Peleliu hills, hearing Burgie's voice over and over in his head - Sniper got the Skipper, Ack Ack's dead - watching someone pull the wool blanket over the Skipper's head, and the next, he's here. Standing on the deck of a ship, looking out at a seemingly endless horizon of stars. He remembers the conversation, the promise that this could be fixed, a wrong could be righted, and he remembers agreeing, but he blinks, and suddenly, the hills, the crackle of gunfire, the solemn footsteps, his buddies are all gone.
He's alone. For the first time in well over a year, he's alone, and that hits him like a ton of bricks.
It's cold, is the next thing he realizes. At least, it's colder than the hundred and fifteen degree temperatures he's been forced to cope with for the last month, and he shivers involuntarily. He's still holding his helmet in one hand, his rifle in the other. His pack and sidearm and filthy fatigue green dungarees he's been wearing since they landed on that fucking beach have all come along too, along with the dirt and dried blood. Sometimes, it feels like he'd do anything for a shower, even a cold one with salt water.
He's filthy, exhausted, and he's staring out at an ocean of stars. Everything hurts - the scrapes and sores on his face, arms, feet, his feet in general, but his chest, too, even if that's a different kind of pain entirely - but for a moment, he's utterly distracted, staring. What is this? What kind of ship had he volunteered for?
For the hundredth time since he got on the LVT, Eugene Sledge wonders what the hell he was thinking when he volunteered for any of this.]
[ooc: multiples & fuzzy time are all welcomed. c8]
[It happens quickly. One minute, Gene's sitting in the rocky Peleliu hills, hearing Burgie's voice over and over in his head - Sniper got the Skipper, Ack Ack's dead - watching someone pull the wool blanket over the Skipper's head, and the next, he's here. Standing on the deck of a ship, looking out at a seemingly endless horizon of stars. He remembers the conversation, the promise that this could be fixed, a wrong could be righted, and he remembers agreeing, but he blinks, and suddenly, the hills, the crackle of gunfire, the solemn footsteps, his buddies are all gone.
He's alone. For the first time in well over a year, he's alone, and that hits him like a ton of bricks.
It's cold, is the next thing he realizes. At least, it's colder than the hundred and fifteen degree temperatures he's been forced to cope with for the last month, and he shivers involuntarily. He's still holding his helmet in one hand, his rifle in the other. His pack and sidearm and filthy fatigue green dungarees he's been wearing since they landed on that fucking beach have all come along too, along with the dirt and dried blood. Sometimes, it feels like he'd do anything for a shower, even a cold one with salt water.
He's filthy, exhausted, and he's staring out at an ocean of stars. Everything hurts - the scrapes and sores on his face, arms, feet, his feet in general, but his chest, too, even if that's a different kind of pain entirely - but for a moment, he's utterly distracted, staring. What is this? What kind of ship had he volunteered for?
For the hundredth time since he got on the LVT, Eugene Sledge wonders what the hell he was thinking when he volunteered for any of this.]
[ooc: multiples & fuzzy time are all welcomed. c8]
no subject
[He shakes his head and rubs his brow. His clothes, it's true, really aren't all that outlandish from the perspective of Sledge's time -- they're workman's clothes, functional, nondescript -- but the writing across his knuckles is probably a... little more unusual.]
You got a twin running around, just FYI. And no. I wish.
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Pretty sure I'd know if I had a twin.
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no subject
[He's totally asking it in a tone that implies he knows this is just some hazing thing, and will tolerate it for a little while if necessary, but no where near the long term.]
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[He's starting to pick up on the tone, and it's starting to annoy him a little. Of course, that's not hard to do. He puts his hands on his hips, eyeing Sledge over.]
Look-- you a warden or an inmate?
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[The question's turned back to Mickey pretty non-judgmentally, even though he knows he probably shouldn't underestimate how bad the inmates here might be. Not that he knows much about what kind of person gets brought here, or why.]
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You're gonna be a warden, man, you need to get way the fuck more up to speed, or some of these assholes are gonna eat your ass alive. Okay? Friendly advice from me to you.
[And because that's pretty much his quota for small talk or being friendly to strangers, he makes as if to go.]
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Except this guy probably isn't another marine, and so it irrationally does grate on him a little.]
Thanks.