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

[When he sees how seriously Gene's digging into the food, Isaac just decides to let him go for it without trying to talk for a while. He tucks into his own fried mess and keeps quiet until Gene seems a tiny bit less desperately intent on his tray.]

So... I'm guessing whatever you were getting to eat before you got here wasn't all that great.

[Taking a break for a moment is probably a good thing anyway. Gene swallows and half smiles, maybe a little embarrassed. Maybe just feeling pretty weird, because he's starting to realize he must stick out like a sore thumb.]

C-Rations. Everything comes in a can.

[But he shrugs, because this might be something he would've complained about to one of his pals, but he's not going to give the impression that he's a whiner or that marines can't make the best out of a terrible situation.]

Better than nothing.

[Isaac's plate gets a little more of a curious glance now that he's less ravenously hungry (fractionally less, anyway), and Gene points with his fork at that pile of orange things stacked to the side of your fried stuff.

So, Cheetos.]

What are those?

Oh, dude, you've never had Cheetos?

[Here's something he's never thought about before: when exactly Cheetos were invented. He turns his plate a little so they're closer to Gene.]

You wanna try them?

[He doesn't say no, but the pile of Cheetos is still being regarded with curiosity rather than genuine desire at this point. He's just really not sure what they actually are.]

What are they?

They're like cheesy... puffed corn or something? I don't know, man. They're junk food.

[Okay, not necessarily a concept he's familiar with, but he is curious, and it doesn't sound like something that's going to make him sick if he just has one, so he takes one and pops it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully.]

Kinda salty.

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