A/N: Just a short thing I couldn't get out of my head.

November, 1943

It had started to rain a little bit within the last half hour – a steady stream of near-invisible water droplets, only to be seen when someone shone a light; not quite heavy enough to flood your boots or obscure your vision, but just patient enough to be a bit of a nuisance.

He leaned backwards until he felt the back of his head touch the edge of the sandbag, and then softened his body and slid down an inch or two for comfort. Though his eyes were closed, he could see where the rest of his squad lay around him, mainly from the imprinted image in his mind from before he had decided to shut his eyes, but also because of the urgent, hushed conversations that flowed around him.

This, to him, was the sound of the war, when there was a lull in the fighting and men were desperate to talk, desperate to have a human connection, to alleviate that heavy blanket of fear that had enshrouded them before. Because during the course of a battle, there was only chaos. There were only men shouting at each other, and mortars blowing up ten feet away from you, and bullets whizzing through the air. No one could see it. No one even knew where it was until they heard it half a centimeter away from their face.

So it was after the fight, after the madness of bullets and blind shooting, that the men could look at each other and not see that insanity in their eyes – that single, focused need to live that bordered on derangement. It was after the fight that they were themselves again. It was after the fight that they were human again.

"What do you think he's thinking about?" Perez said from somewhere in front of him, kicking his boot lightly to let Jack know that he was indeed talking about him.

Everyone knew full well that he wasn't actually sleeping.

Campbell, who was seated a few inches to his right, responded with, "Some girl, probably."

"No, not just some girl, Campbell. His girl – Clara What'shername." This was Perez again. "You know he carries around a picture of her in his helmet? Why do you think he takes such good care of that thing?"

"Not his helmet, boys, but his breast pocket. So she can be near his heart." At the sound of that Dutch-laced accent, Jack did open his eyes, to look at the man to his immediate right. Aart winked at him. Jack merely shook his head, even as the boys aww-ed mockingly – the man wasn't even really a part of his unit. "The more important thing is this whole business with the post," the Dutchman grumbled, and by post, he meant mail, "Where in this surprisingly wet country am I going to procure cigars?"

At this point, Campbell nudged him in the shoulder, inciting Jack to lean towards him, anticipating that the younger man wouldn't want to be heard. "What does procure mean?" he asked sheepishly.

Jack smiled at him, though it was likely that the other man didn't see it. He was oddly fond of Campbell – well, he was fond of everyone in his squad, but particularly Campbell. He was just barely a man – still very much a child, really, having only turned eighteen a few weeks ago, and still affectionately known as "Runty" in the squad, being the youngest and the littlest among them. He started to move his hand to pat Campbell on the back, as he would have his own brother, but thought better against it. "To get something," he whispered back.

When he once more settled into his previous position, he registered Aart jumping a little before he did the sound of the thunder. This elicited a quiet laugh from the rest of the group, but a particularly painful sounding snort from Chris O'Bryan, who'd likely tried to stifle his laugh too late. "Wait till you boys get to be my age," Aart chided the men jocularly. "That right there could've given me a heart attack. You won't be laughing when I turn blue and cold."

In response, Donny threw a pack of cigarettes at him, the offending projectile finding its aim true when it hit Aart in the side of his head. Once more, there was a resounding wave of restrained laughter. Aart, for his part, picked up the packet of cigarettes that had fallen by his lap. "All you do is joke about dying, old man. Why don't you take a smoke and tell us a story, instead – a good story!"

Had Jack been the one asked, he would have said no, or asked them what they wanted to hear. But Aart wasn't Jack, and what's more? Aart was European. He drew out a cigarette with his teeth, and Perez leaned forward to light it for him. As Aart leaned back and puffs of smoke emanated from within his mouth, ready to tell his story, Jack thought the man looked more like he belonged in a café in Paris rather than a trench in Fuck-knows Micronesia.

"I was only about nine or ten the first time I fell in love," he started. "Her name was Elsie, and she was the most glorious creature I'd ever set my eyes upon. She had this gorgeous mane of jet black hair – it was the colour of the country sky at midnight, and she was three years older than me, already a woman of the world. She had no time for me. Yet, I was still determined to let her know that no man could ever devote himself to her more than I could.

First, I started picking flowers for her – little purple and yellow and pink and white delicate ones from the fields beyond my house – wildflowers, you understand – weeds. But I thought they were beautiful. Still, they were not enough to win her affection. So I started to pick roses from my mother's garden. I started with one, and gradually worked my way up to twelve. I had nearly decimated my mother's rosebushes, and it became impossible to hide. When, eventually, mother did find out, I was given a spanking like you wouldn't believe. But I persevered, because as the great bard himself said, 'The course of true love never did run smooth.'

And when I found out that strawberry torte with fresh cream was her favourite dessert, I set out to learn how to make it. I slaved in the kitchen night and day with my mother, and I learned how to make almost every strawberry dessert in the book – it was quite unnatural for a man. But I was determined. And every day, I sent them to her house. Still, she wanted more…"

Jack found himself smiling, listening to Aart speak of his Elsie. Belatedly, he saw that the man was holding out the half-smoked cigarette to him, and obligingly, he took it. He held the tubular thing suspended between his index and middle fingers, then brought it to his lips, and took a deep drag. Instantly, his mouth was filled with the taste of stale cigarette, but he held it there for a moment anyway – a stale cigarette was better than no cigarette.

Not for the first time, the sight of the smoke blowing out of his mouth, and the smell of the cigarette, even in the rain, brought him a measure of peace. He could see her now – his very own Elsie. The year was 1940, and Europe was properly entrenched in war with Germany, but still she'd stood languidly by the bay windows, her dark hair tumbling past her shoulders in loose curls, wearing only a white dressing gown courtesy of the hotel. He'd pretended to be asleep when she turned around to look at him.

October, 1944

"JG?" He looked up from the sheet of paper to see Campbell, looking very small in his jacket. Outside, he could hear the sound of rain falling onto water – that ever-present, maddening plip-plop-plip-plop.

It'd been raining for hours now, and it'd started out thunderous, almost opaque with the force of them. That had been better. The sound of the rain had very nearly overpowered the noise of artillery being fired, and it'd masked that awful sound that flesh made when a bullet tore through it, and it'd masked the sound that Aart made as he lay dying on the ground.

He hadn't even thought to ask for Aart until hours later, when it came time for role call, when it came time for him to make sure that everyone in his platoon was accounted for. It was then that Simmons had told him, and he'd had to report the death to his company commander. There was a disheartened shake of the head from the major, and a heavy hand on a shoulder, then a nod, and finally an order to gather up Aart's things and hand them over to the chaplain.

Jack had loathed to do it, walking into the tent and seeing the faces of the men in his charge, feeling their eyes on him as he haphazardly threw Aart's books and shoes and shirts and flute into a duffel bag, as if they were a contaminated thing that he refused to touch. Even as he'd cleaned, the emptiness of the cot screamed for attention, and the deafening silence of his men had not escaped him. But then, he supposed that was his fault. Campbell had called then, too – "JG?"

"What?" he asked, perhaps a little too testily, returning his attention to the paper. In just a year, the boy looked like he'd aged about ten. He supposed that was his fault, too. He put a hand up to his forehead and pushed his hair out of the way, almost throwing the pen he held down onto the piece of paper. "What is it, Campbell?"

"I – well – sir, I was thinking that maybe we could write a letter to Aart's mom, just to let her know how brave and good he was. I think that it'd mean a lot to her. I know that if I die, I'd like my mother to have a letter from you guys." He looked up to meet Campbell's eyes then. There was an indescribable, undirected rage inside him that was threatening to turn into outrage at the man before him. "I just think that he's spent all this time away from his family with us. And we were the ones to spend his last day with him. I think a letter would be nice."

"Campbell!" The man in question closed his eyes at that, and his shoulders jumped up a little at the loudness of the voice, and the vehemence in it. The outburst had, surprisingly, come from Perez. "Just shut the hell up, will you? No one's writing no god damned letter to Aart's mom."

One last time, Campbell looked to him, almost searchingly, and Jack only inclined his head, not in acquiescence with Campbell's wish, but to tell him to let it rest and go back to his cot. And he didn't bother to wait and see if Campbell did indeed do an about-face and left him alone. He couldn't stand to look at him anymore – he couldn't stand to look at any of them anymore.

Where the hell had he been that a Jap rat could get to Aart like that?

"JG?" Donny – he knew even before he'd turned to look at him. The other man set himself down on the edge of the empty cot next to his. "You trying to write to your girl?"

"Yeah," he replied quietly. "The words just aren't coming. Nothing feels right."

"Why don't you just write whatever? Just ramble on. It ain't got to be poetic. She seems like a nice girl, from what I can tell. I'm sure she'd be happy to just receive a letter from you."

"Yeah," he said again, still quietly, turning onto his back and letting his head sink into the pillow, his body heavy from the length of the day.

"JG –"

"Are they mad at me?" he blurted out suddenly, his voice small and hushed, sounding for all the world like a guilt-ridden five-year-old Jack Thompson, sounding like he was afraid.

In that moment, he hated himself.

And when Donny was quick to reassure, he hated himself more. "No, of course not. Why would they be mad? You didn't point a gun at Aart. You didn't pull that trigger. It's no one's sin but that son of a bitch that killed him." He closed his eyes, shutting out the expanse of green above him, and just half-heartedly listened to Donny getting up a minute later. "You get some rest, Jack," he said – pitifully, perhaps; sympathetically. "Maybe you'll dream of your girl."