chinese proverb
the pacific, snafu/sledge - sledge pov
by lilnee
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1.
Snafu's zippo has a cross engraved in its side. That seems like a contradiction, if there ever was one. Your eyes are on it in his hands, twirling and turning end over end. Nervous energy is your best guess. His fingers are black as night, slicked with gun grease and a skin of mud. With your eyes on it you're not watching him, but he's watching you. Eyes across the distance, focused. He flips it over so it's sitting proper in his hand, religious emblem facing outward, lid yawning. A single grind of the flint wheel, spark and flame, and the wick catches light.
"What, ya never seen one of these?"
He leans back, bracing his shoulder against the trench. He kicks out and crosses his legs.
"Don't have these where you come from?"
"Never seen one like that," you say, reestablishing your grip on your rifle, twisting the butt of it into the soupy earth. You mean the cross. You match his eyes for a moment and then disconnect. Don't stare into the abyss. This is the longest conversation you've had and you're just not sure how to approach the guy. He throws you off guard. Intellectually you're not at all surprised that you're intrigued. It's the pull physically that worries you. The way he moves and eases and glides around, like he's in a mist, a fog. You can't reach him. And yet here he is.
"Me neither," he says.
He snaps it closed, flick of the wrist.
"Saw it glinting away, sittin' pretty in the mud. Like an eye winkin'. Hell, he had no more use for it. Never again."
He holds it out at arm's length between his thumb and index finger. He closes one eye and pops the very tip of his tongue out, expressing focus. It's theatrical, silly, but you feel yourself getting more edgy than you were already and something new too: tingly sweat damp. The twisting grip on your rifle grows tighter.
"You took it off... a body?"
What a question, given you saw him digging around in Japanese soldiers' gullets not a day before. For the gold. The goodies, he had called them. Heard the bones cracking and grinding and everything. Him tearing and wrenching away with a herculean force, his own teeth grit on the end of his vice. You swallow all that saliva hanging around in your mouth and decide you're playing stupid rather than intimidated (fascinated).
"Not what I said at all."
He's coming over to you now, treading through the muck and rock churned up by so many passing feet. This place used to be grassy, overgrown and abundantly green, but not anymore. You wouldn't have known it. Presently it's rubble and bone-white sand tracked up from the beach and the splintered trunks of palms, some cut down to the root. These are the scenes you'll remember. Light's fading fast now, sucking the blue out of the sky above. The heat will break just a lick, letting you cool under the collar, but not too much. That tense, heavy air, it'll hang around.
Snafu fixes down next to you, holding the thing out. It's dingy, dented.
"Here."
You look at him.
"Try it."
His hand is shaking, little tremors. He looks to it, noticing, and then right back to you. His lips are thin, pulled tight across his teeth, like some kind of defunct smile. You set your rifle across your lap and pick it from his palm. It's heavier than it looked. You turn it over, side to side, the cross only on the one face. It's a plain thing and a thin outline under your thumb. The novelty starts wearing.
You tell yourself to ignore the initials on the bottom (E.P.) and pull the lid open. It's a metal click and chime, a good sound. You strike it.
Nothing happens.
Snafu covers his mouth and the grin there. The laughter he doesn't hide.
"No one ever does it right the first time."
He takes it from you and demonstrates.
"Hard," he says, and rolls his thumb down the wheel.
That scraping dry rasp. It lights. You're not amused but you take it back, waiting just a beat. He's got his chin rested on the back of his hand now, eyeing intently, just about on the edge of his metaphorical seat. Orphan eyes you can feel too, watching. The soldier at your right, the two across where Snafu came from and one even further up the lane.
"Hard," you repeat, tone pepper-flecked with agitation.
He nods.
White knuckled, grasp tightening still. The flint wheel slips on your first try but you're already striking again, throwing failure to the wind, finding this all too important in the moment. By your fourth or fifth attempt it sparks and catches and the tiniest flame works its way up the wick, mocking in its way. You can't help the smile or unmistakable relief of accomplishment. A sharp smack on the back jogs you free of it though, crashing you back down. You're worlds apart from civilization, no more please and thank you. They sound more like sir, yes sir here. Be damned if you find what you remember as kindness. You tense and jump despite yourself, the flame shuddering. Those lingering eyes divert, disinterested now.
"'Bout time."
You shoot a look at him. He's all teeth, face split in a shameless grin.
"Good thing ya don't smoke, huh?"
You take what's due, grumbling, "Sure is."
He won't be smiling later.
He takes the lighter back and retreats to his previous station. You watch him go.
He won't be smiling and you'll be deciding whether or not this little interaction, your interest, your strange intrigue and whatever else this falls under (God knows what) is enough reason to save his sorry ass. Maybe you'll be thinking, rabbit quick, while shells burst and percussion waves knock the wind from your skinny little chest, who's going to miss him? How will I benefit? Is it worth death?
He sets a cigarette on his lips, casual, those snake eyes glancing sideways.
He's not behind you anymore.
Warning signs don't come this cut and dry.
You hop-step and turn, mouth agape, taking in huge gulps of air and tank exhaust. He's nowhere. Out of sight but not out of mind, he lingers sticky-tough. Dust mixes with the air. Gravel and tiny rocks and some big ones too, oh boy, they whiz and whir by. The blasting goes on, the gun fire, the screaming, yelling, chaos. Men jet by you, knocking you, and you're just standing there, looking back. What may be seconds in real time feels like molasses on a cold day to you, right now, scanning the ground, scanning the men sprinting toward you. There are so many bodies, so many choices, and cutting and running and following the group doesn't feel like one of them.
You catch a glint just then, like lightning strike against the backdrop of war. Snafu's zippo, shiny smooth, skittering away, lost. That's your quick as a rabbit brain storm moment (should I, shouldn't I) but you're already running back out there. This is something to jot down later, keep as a point in time. If you get the chance. You'll hardly believe it later. You don't believe it now and you're in the processes, legs burning, muscles twitching, adrenaline high.
Jesus, what did you get yourself into?
He's lost his helmet. You crouch next to him, mouth spewing something like come on, get up, but even you can hardly hear yourself over all that shit hitting the fan. Not just the helmet, he's lost himself. Wide-eyed yet nonresponsive, somewhere far away. You're thinking the worst. You pat him down, roll him on his side, check for holes or gouges or scrapes or something missing, anything not jiving, but you come up blank. It's just a smudge of soot across his face and bits of super-heated shrapnel eating his uniform to Swiss cheese, scorching the palms of your hands. Christ, it's in his hair too.
"You're okay, come on!"
His mouth works, closes, reopens, eyes ever distant, glassy round. You grab for his hand and forearm, lugging him up, bringing him to his feet. You start the endeavor back. Not to safe ground but safer ground.
He's heavy dead weight at your side and you're about ready to drop, your lungs only filling halfway. With every step, every unsure trod, they're filling less and less, and now it's a choking gasp. You're not even halfway across the airfield.
A cement building looms ahead, cratered and cracked, impossibly far way.
Snafu comes back to life in that moment, miraculous, as if jolted.
Light-headed, you're staggering now. He lessens your load and takes on more, pulling you along, returning the favour. You manage to reach the crumbled partition. He practically throws you to the ground, your back connecting with the wall, jarring your teeth. He follows, crumpling. Seconds timed in heart beats. You sucking at the air, his hair smoking.
You reach an unsteady hand out and pat at the mess, smothering the embers. He follows your hand as you take it back. Mouth slack, eyes red rimmed, staring you down, looking rather mystified. The situation, the place, it seems all that much smaller. Bullet snap symphony, howling human harmonic, fighting or dying... It's dampened. He doesn't say anything and you can't. The both of you just breathe.
Humbled shouldn't be the prize won from this, but it's all you got. Humble, powerless. Afraid.
You steal yourself after a minute or two because truly, it's all you needed. Snafu looks like hell. Cheeks sallow, sunken in. You've got to go back out there, get back to the boys. You cuff him in the shoulder. Resolute, he half smiles. You think you see red there, flecking his lips.
"Pay 'em back for that one," he says thickly.
"Yeah," you agree. "Nearly blew your ass sky high."
"Wouldn't be the first attempt..."
He coughs and says, "Let's go."
His zippo's gone.
2.
It's Pavuvu you find yourself back on several days later. By military time it might as well have been months. You almost feel alive again. Almost. Able to sleep and eat and drink and shower regularly. Able to breathe and look at the sky and drift far away without having to worry about missing something, getting killed. Even worse, getting someone else killed. You feel different though, you have to admit. Feel... bigger. Well, it's hard to explain. Bigger, taller, more of a man, you guess. But at the same time there's sorrow there, self-pity, anger.
Taking a life plays tricks on your head and maybe this was just one of them.
"That's dangerous, ya know."
"Huh?"
The question is a burst of grey haze.
Crack an eye open to see Snafu simply pointing. Even his finger is lazy, arched in the middle, not ridged straight. You look down your nose and to the cigarette there, a white outline, a miniature smokestack. You decide against giving a response for now and just continue on, pulling a long, gusty drag into your chest. You pull your legs up so he can sit next to you on your cot. He sits, almost tentatively. You direct the exhale at his face. This sly, ruthless Marine dog, he's become your shadow, your friend, your lifeline. Stranger things have happened. He blows the smoke away, half-hearted, adding a little cough, cough for effect.
"Ran out of pipe tobacco," you admit.
"Oh, well ain't that a shitter," he says. "Have to come down to the likes of us heathens."
"You're not really a heathen, you're more of a mutt."
"Thanks."
Drawn out, dull.
You pass him the cigarette. He puffs at it, seeming pleased.
You fold your hands under your head, rest your tired eyes.
"Ya got a girl back home, G?"
They're back open again just as he said it. He's trying to puff out rings but is managing nothing more than plumes. You watch the columns, his lips pursing, unpursing. You look away.
At length you say, "Why?"
"Just ah question."
He quits his little show but never breaks his interest in the rolled paper and tobacco, never looks at you. He's blowing on the lit end, burning the rest of it up, bringing the heat so close, too close, to his face. Eyes shine. Dull orange.
"No."
It's a guarded answer, just waiting for a scathing response.
He flicks the butt out the tent before it can burn him.
And just leaves it at that.
"Wanna go for a walk?" he asks.
You're knee deep in tropic jungle, just a wife beater and trousers between you and all the insects and razor-like flora. You can't see or hear any of the encampment from where you are. It's just you, the blanket of heat, the patchy spots of blue overhead, and Snafu. He's lit another cigarette (with your matches) and peeled his wife beater off. The pungent smell offsetting. Sulfur and sweat mixing with the natural potpourri.
You've just been following him but now he stops. He stands in profile, exhaling largely.
You're uneasy. A little curious, little confused, but mostly uneasy. It's probably not hidden very well on your face.
He's very close. His air your air. You're stuck on that as he's turning fully around, pulling the cigarette from his lips. It happens fast. He rushes in, laying a kiss on you. Those chewed up and sultry-huge lips over yours. It's not at all like a girl. He digs his fingers into the back of your skull so you can't get away. You can feel his incisors hidden behind his lips, sharp, crushing, nearly painful. He pulls away, pulling sharp on your hair as he releases. A departing gift.
Your reaction now and you're decking him. A solid fist to the mouth. Middle two knuckles making connection.
"Ow."
"Shit, sorry. I-you," you're rambling.
He's bent over, holding his chin.
"Got ah' good arm."
Now you're a blank canvas.
"That was for..." he pauses, doesn't finish.
You know what it was for.
The airfield, him falling, you going back.
Started by a lighter.
Ended by a lighter.
"Yeah."
It's all you say. You lick your lips, body bow tight.
He's exaggerating his jaw, assessing the damage. A wince.
You wince with him.
He goes for another drag and exhale, playing too cool for school as usual. One beat, two beats. You're sick of this shit. This place. This guilt. Three beats. You're wildly worn out. Thinking is your worst enemy. Who knows about the future and, you know, who knows what's right around the corner?
Regret nothing.
Four beats.
You push him so hard he stumbles into the tree behind. You both hit solidly, bodies coming together. That expression of surprise, that open mouth. You go for it, unthinking, opening your own and finding his.
He's rigid at first.
You can taste his cigarette and an underlying sweetness there. He doesn't stay rigid for long. Hands come to your hair again, pulling, pulling, forcing your head back. You've got a feel on his hipbones (where they fell after your shove) and he's smooth, warm, perspiration damp under your fingertips. The sensations together, moist tongue, tacky skin, are intoxicating, dizzying.
He's ravenous, greedy, sucking at your tongue now, biting, pressing closer and closer, crushing the life out of you. Can hardly contain him. Fingers smoothed clean, rubbed raw of dirt and sand, blood. You can smell the soap on him. Can smell him.
It's a stretch in time before you both depart for a gasp of air.
As you're recovering, unable to meet his eyes just yet, he's pulling his arm back.
And slugs you.
You recoil, falling on your ass.
Eyes must be comic, face must be priceless. It's shock you're feeling. He grins, crooked, offset. So wrong, so right. He tries to puff on that forgotten butt but finds nothing left to burn. He's already looking for another, patting his person down, finding them, pulling one out. Comfort, a safety blanket. Just the fact the thing is on his lips, not lit, seems to calm him down. You touch your face, your nose. Pain flaring bright. He reaches down and helps you to your feet.
"I guess I deserved that."
"No," he snickers, "ya asked for it."
As you're walking back, breaking the line of palms, someone sees you.
"The hell you two go?"
Snafu tonguing his swollen, split lip. Your nose bloody.
"Settling a score," Snafu says, shaking out his hand, like you would after a good fight. Just to finish the scene.
The soldier shakes his head.
You try not to look at Snafu's mouth.