withtheoldbreed | 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]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh, fuck.

[Whoops. Chris pauses, his hands dropping to his sides]

Shit. Sorry. Thought you were someone else.

Wait, who the fuck can't catch a football?

[A guy who spends more time bird watching and sitting on the sidelines because of health problems?

Anyway, Gene picks himself up, scowling, puts his helmet back on and slings his rifle over his shoulder, shivering a little in the cool air on deck.]

Who're you supposed to be?

[Eyeing the rifle a little worriedly, Chris shrugs and goes to retrieve his football]

I'm the Motherfucker. Who the hell are you?

[It's okay, Chris, the rifle stays where it is. Gene knows better than to aim a rifle at anything you're not planning on shooting.

Also, you really need to stop introducing yourself that way. It gets you a confused rather than offended look.]

Excuse me?

[That is far and away the worst nickname he's ever heard.]

[Don't knock the nickname, he's already had it trademarked]

That's your name? "Excuse me"?

It's Sledgehammer. [So long as we're going with nicknames.] What'd you do to get "Motherfucker"?

I fucked your mom.

[Sorry, Sledgehammer. Chris has now become wholly devoted to the role]

Ask me another stupid question.

I think that just about answers all the ones I had.

Edited 2014-11-17 12:56 (UTC)

God. Dillon would've found that hilarious.

Well, I'm not Dillon, and you're no Bob Hope. You're gonna have to do better than that.

[Do you know how many proto your mom jokes he's been exposed to?]

Y'know, I think I'm just gonna go grab my football and find someone who's less of a killjoy.

[Gene moves to pick it up first, straightening a hair slowly while he looks it over - it's a strange looking football - and hands it over. He doesn't sound like he's complaining when he says what he does, but his voice is a little deader.]

Most of the stuff getting thrown at me's been a lot more dangerous than a football.

[Thus hitting the deck like that. Sorry.]

Thanks for that advice, Sargent Killjoy.

[Chris takes the football, tossing it to himself]

Relax, all we have here are terrible people without weapons.