Disclaimer: I don't own anything. These characters belong to Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
This fanfic is based solely on the characters in the HBO television miniseries The Pacific and in no way represents the real men that those characters are based on.
/
"Sledge? You okay?" he asks.
But you don't respond.
Instead you concentrate on the rain falling on your face, the sound of gunfire in the distance, the rotting corpses of the Japs around you, and you thank your lucky stars that you've got a moment to sit here and rest.
You were so eager to get here.
"Sledgehammer?" his voice comes again.
"What is it, Snafu?"
"You 'kay?" he asks.
"Yeah," is all you can muster. You'd like to say no, you're not okay. You're not okay with any of this, really. It's all for the greater good, you know that. You believe in what you're doing. But being on the front lines never looked like this in your head.
What'd you expect?
You move from where you were sitting because there was some blood moving towards you. Jap blood. "Germs," Snafu would say.
You sigh and take your helmet off, letting the rain touch your hair. It drips down your face, off your nose and off your chin. You're always wet, it seems.
"Reckon we'll get some sleep tonight?" he asks.
"I reckon not," you say. And you mean it. You're not really sure how 'sleep' is meant to feel anymore. The closest you've had is resting your eyes and for an hour or so each night.
"Sledge?"
"What?"
He pauses. "You sure you're okay?"
"I'm the same as you, so take a guess."
He chews his lip and sits beside you. "Okay."
You put your helmet back on and keep your rifle close. You close your eyes and say a silent prayer.
His hand touches your shoulder, gently.
Then he gets up and leaves.
/
The rain pitter-patters against your helmet.
Snafu's asleep in the foxhole beside you. Soon you'll have to leave with the replacement in yours on a patrol, checking the surrounding areas incase of an ambush. Tap, tap, tap - one of the other guys before you taps your helmet with his bayonet.
"Your turn," he says.
You keep your head down and your gun ready, bayonet fixed. The rain masks the sound of your footsteps, but it masks the enemy's footsteps, too.
"What are we lookin' for?" the replacement asks.
"Shhh," you whisper. "Lookin' for a goddamn cinema to catch a flick, what the hell do you think we're lookin' for? Keep quiet!"
How the hell did you get stuck with a replacement that knows nothing?
You keep moving foward, replacement in tow, checking the lines surrounding the company. 'They could ambush us, easily,' you can't help but think. It's not a nice thought. The Lieutenant halted the operation 'til morning. So here you were.
The rain just keeps on coming. You step on a rock you didn't see in the darkness, and slip. "Fuck!" you say as quietly as you can while the replacement helps you to your feet. You won't be getting any clean dungarees for a while, and now the ones you're stuck in are smothered with mud, soiled with the muck you're forced to live in. Bound to happen, sometime.
Tap, tap, tap. You tap the next guy's helmets with your bayonet.
"Your turn," you say. "No movement on the lines."
Finally, you can 'sleep' again.
/
"Smoke?" asks Snafu.
You look at his dirty fingers holding a cigarette in front of your face. "Naw," you say. He lights his, drags, and breathes the smoke out through his nostrils.
The rain has stopped.
"'pparently we're goin' over that hill, yonder," he says. "Lieutenant said so."
"Right," you say. "And we'll all fall on our ass in the mud."
He takes another drag, and the wind blows the smoke in your face when he exhales. His glassed-over eyes stare at the hill in the distance. "Reckon we'll make it?" he asks.
"I reckon."
/
You set up for the night, digging another foxhole, but this time on the other side of the hill. You'd do anything for a tent.
"Shackin' with me?" Snafu asks. You nod in return and help him dig.
He lights a cigarette as you prepare to sleep. He offers you a drag, and you take it, slowly inhaling and exhaling. Snafu smiles, then takes the smoke back.
You find it odd how he can smile and be so serene. Snafu's a good marine, but he's also a scary one. He has a bloodlust he can never seem to quench. He's one of those natural killers here - he likes killing the enemy, he likes the way it gets your blood pumping as your fire round after round and watch the men you hit fall to the floor like dominoes. And then he sits here, smiling, like it's the most natural thing in the world. You're not sure whether or not to be afraid. You used to be. You're also becoming more like him.
You look around. The darkness of the jungle is overwhelming, almost unreal. It's surprising how dark it gets in places like this; places with no streetlights, houses, buildings, electricity. The only light comes from the gunfire in the distance, the fires in the villages, and the lighters of the men smoking around you. This is your light. And maybe if you're lucky enough to get some lightning during the rain.
You take the smoke from Snafu's mouth, and take another drag. There's a bit of mud on his lips from where you touched. You thought you wiped it all off on your poncho. Guess not.
"Anytime," he says, as you hand the cigarette back.
He finishes it and butts it out in the mud. "Thanks," you say. You really needed that smoke.
You fall asleep as the rain begins to spit on you, rifle hugged against your chest.
The gunfire wakes you up two hours later. You can hear it from some other company, in some other place, and you wonder if that'll be you again - shooting, fighting - by the end of the night. Your head has ended up on Snafu's shoulder. This isn't unusual in foxholes. You make yourself comfortable against him, close your eyes, and drift back off to sleep.
/
"Alright, listen up," comes the Lieutenant's voice. "We've been told to clear a village up ahead of any enemy soldiers. No civillians are to be harmed, and if I find out any have been, I'll court-martial you so fast, it'll make your head spin." He paused and let that sink in. "3rd Battalion: we move out at 0700."
You hope there won't be too much action. You've seen so much these past few days, and as a mortarman, much of the pressure is on you.
"Move out!"
You take the village with ease, no Jap soldiers to be found. If there were any, it'd probably be a whole damn company and your battalion would have ended up with a high number of casualties. You sit on a nearby rock, mortar beside you, and light your pipe.
"Wanna explore?" Jay asks. You shake your head in reply. "Okay. I'm gonna look around."
You watch him leave as Snafu approaches, and crosses his path. "Where you goin', Jay?"
"To look around."
"Don't do anythin' stupid."
Snafu keeps walking towards you. "Ain't you goin' with Jay?" You shake your head. "You got the right idea." He sits next to you and smokes aswell. You see him glance at you from the corner of your eye.
"What?" you ask.
"I wanna try that," he says. "Your pipe."
"Tastes the same as that," you reply, referring to his cigarette.
"Lemme try." He takes it from you and puffs. "Feel classy," he says.
You laugh and take the pipe back. "Well, I lead a glamourous life."
He smiles at the joke, his overbite more obvious when he does.
A few minutes pass as Snafu finishes his cigarette. He butts it out on the rock and throws the remains in the mud. You notice a pensive look occupying his face, but are unsure whether or not to inquire.
You eventually decide to. "Somethin' on your mind?"
He lights up another cigarette. He's always going on about how you have to smoke them quickly before the rain makes them soggy. "Sort of," he explains.
"What is it?"
"Just thinkin' about-" (he lifts his hand) "-all this."
"What about it?"
"What are you gonna do when it's all gone?"
"You mean if I make it off this island?"
"Yeah, when you make it home."
You don't answer right away, because you're not really sure if you have an answer. You haven't really been thinking about what you'll do after war. You've mostly been thinking about the war itself; your next patrol, your next attack, defending yourself, the next time you'll sleep under shelter, and ultimately, if you'll survive at all. Thinking about more than that seems much too hard in a place like this. "I'm not sure," you answer truthfully.
"C'mon, what did you always want to be?"
"A marine," you say, and laugh.
Snafu laughs too. "Yeah, this is the life."
He doesn't ask you about it again until later that night when you're sleeping with him, Jay, and Bill under a straw veranda of a local house. The rest of the battalion is scattered in other houses that have room, under trees, and anywhere else that provides shelter. He yawns, stretching out his arms and purposely knocking Bill on the head.
"Fuck off," Bill mutters, half-asleep.
Snafu does it again, then fixes his poncho over himself like a blanket. "Hey Sledge, you awake?" he asks. You groan in response. "You never answered my question," he continues.
"What question?"
"About what you're gonna do after all this."
"I didn't answer because I don't have an answer."
"Have to do somethin'."
"Jesus Christ," interrupts Bill. "Can't you two take your heartfelt conversation somewhere else? I'm tryin' to sleep."
"Shut the fuck up, Leyden. Jay ain't complainin'."
"Jay's passed out."
Snafu looks at you. You look back at him.
"I just wanna get some sleep," you say, before closing your eyes again.
/
A week later, you're told that your company is moving out and being replaced by another from the army. You say a silent prayer, thanking God that you're being taken off the lines for now. There's been too many casualties, too many unecessary lives being lost, lives of young men who should be going home.
Snafu's question has been on your mind. You can hear his voice repeat in your head: "What are you gonna do when it's all gone?"
You wonder if he knows what he's gonna do, or any of the other men for that matter. Should you know? Is this something you should be thinking about, something you should know prior to going home, if you make it at all? Or is it something you should only answer if you survive that long; something that's considered foolish to think about while you're still stuck on this island?
All you can think about is going back to Pavuvu.
On the boat with the others, you light your pipe and they light their cigarettes. You can hardly see across the room; all you can see is grey smoke exiting their bodies and filling the air.
You can see Snafu next to Burgin, and wonder what he might do after all this is over. You can't really imagine Snafu in any other situation, in civilian clothes instead of his uniform, or interacting with people in a manner other than how marines interact with eachother (or with the enemy).
How would he satisfy his bloodlust?
You wonder if you'll ever see him after this.
You remember his features, incase you don't.
You look at his hair; it's almost black. Maybe it's that way because of the lack of washing. It's probably much lighter in 'real life'. You look at his eyes, his enormous, glassy eyes. He always looks like he hasn't slept, and most of the time he hasn't. The green and blue, like that of the sea that surrounds these islands, clashes with the dark pupil in the center. The flecks seem to be accentuated everytime he looks at you. The white is like the foam lining the waves. You'll always remember those eyes. There's so much behind them. His lips; he's always licking them. They're almost too big for his face. Swollen. You notice them everytime he takes a drag from his cigarette (like right now). There's his overbite, made even more obvious everytime he smiles. His smile looks devious to those unfamiliar with him, but you've learned when it's genuine. His skin is tanned, like the rest of the guys, with awkward tanlines from the unavoidable sun. You're just a little taller than he is.
You're forced to remember his smell after sharing a foxhole so many times. He smells like most of the guys here - like he hasn't bathed properly in weeks (and he hasn't), covered by the smell of cigarettes. He always smells like cigarettes. His laugh echoes in your head. The way he walks. The way he stands. The way he plays with his lighter between his fingers. The smoke slowly falling from his mouth...
You can see in your mind the look on his face when he shoots the enemy, and you can't help but think that this is the perfect place for someone like him (a killer) to be. He can kill, and kill, and kill all he wants. You're a little scared of him when you see him like that. You can still picture him digging in that dead Jap's mouth with his bowie knife, pulling out gold teeth. 'We're rich, boys,' he had said.
They're not all nice things to remember, but you hope you do, regardless.
/
You're on your cot in Pavuvu, your copy of the New Testament in hand. You mark the number of days you've been back.
"Always writin'," says Snafu as he enters. He sits on his cot and lights up. "Why you always writin' for, Sledgehammer?" You don't answer.
Jay walks in, too, and sits on his cot. "Got another one of those?" he asks Snafu.
You sit up and put your Bible back in your pocket before taking your jacket off. "I'm goin' for a swim," you say.
When you get back an hour later, Jay is gone and Snafu is still smoking. The grey smoke that escapes him contrasts with and alludes to the sun setting in the distance. It'll be dark soon. You sit down, put your jacket back on, and pat the pockets. Your New Testament is missing.
"Don't worry, it's here," Snafu says and reaches under his pillow.
"What are you doin' with it?" you ask, angry.
"Readin'." He hands it back to you.
"I didn't know you were religious."
"I'm not. I was readin' your stuff, nothin' else."
You put it back in your pocket and turn away. "Why?" You're still angry.
"Wanted to."
"You can't just take my stuff whenever you want, Snafu."
"I wanted to know what you're always writin'."
"And?"
"Now I know." You stare at him but you're not sure what to say. You've forgotten some of the things you've written. "You wrote about me. Said I scared you."
"Did I?"
"Yeah, I saw it in there. You wrote dates, too. Temperatures, names, and other stuff."
You don't say anything back, and neither does he, for a while.
"You wanna be a writer?" he asks as he shifts to sitting on the edge of his cot.
"Maybe," you say. "Maybe not."
He hasn't mentioned exactly what you wrote about him, and you can hardly remember what it was. "You should, if you really like it."
"I'm not sure, yet," you say truthfully. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"What do you wanna be?"
"Alive," he says. You smirk. You can't believe after him asking you so many times about what you want to be, he answers with 'alive', and that's it. "Don't you wanna be?"
You ignore his question and ask your own. "For how long?"
"Forever."
You shake your head and smile. "Okay."
There's a pause while Snafu looks down at his feet, then back up to your eyes, the green and blue still obvious even in this dark light. "You're a good writer," he says.
"Thanks," you say, not sure of what else to add.
"You should do it, really."
"Be a writer? I dunno."
"You should." He lights up a smoke. "I saw what you wrote about me."
"Was it bad?" you ask, trying to sound casual. You really can't remember.
"Naw, it was alright." You don't say anything. Instead you take his smoke, drag, and then hand it back. "You said we were friends. Somethin' like: 'I've found a friend in Snafu.' But that you were scared of me."
You open your New Testament and flick through. "'I've found a friend in Snafu. No one calls him by his real name. Most everyone here has a nickname.'" You don't read the part about why Snafu's scary. You begin to put the Bible away, embarrassed that someone else has seen such intimate details of your mind.
"Keep goin'," he says.
"It's private," you say.
"I've already read it."
"Then why should I repeat it?"
He takes a drag and exhales. "'Cause it's your words."
You sigh and take it out again, opening to a random page. You pause and see something you hope Snafu missed.
"Keep goin'."
"I don't want to."
He looks down at your hands where you still have the page open. "I already saw it," he says.
You lick your lips and keep reading. "'Snafu keeps asking me what I'm gonna do after all this, when or if I get home. I couldn't answer, so maybe that means I'll never get home. If I do, I hope... I hope I'll get to see him again.'" You close the Bible and stuff it back in your pocket. "I'm gettin' some chow," you say, and leave.
/
"Still mad?" Snafu asks as he sits across from you at the chow table.
"Leave it, Snafu."
"I just wanted to see what you're always writin' about. Better me seein' it than some Jap stealin' it."
You exhale and pick up your spoon. "It's private," you explain.
He starts picking at his rice. All you have to eat is rice. "Can I ask you somethin'?"
"No."
"Why not?"
You start eating your tasteless muck. "What is it?" you ask impatiently.
"You really mean the stuff you wrote?"
You swallow your mouthful and keep your eyes down. "Yeah."
"If I dumb enough to write shit down when I shouldn't be, I'd write the same."
You look up at him. He's been keeping his eyes on you the whole time. "Nice to know."
/
"Hey Sledge," Snafu whispers during the night. You can't sleep, and neither can he, it seems. "Wanna walk?"
With rifles slung over your shoulders, you walk down the makeshift dirt road, smoking and talking.
"You gettin' married after this?" Snafu asks after a while.
"I guess," you say. "What else is there to do?"
"And have kids?"
"I suppose."
"I thought you were a virgin."
You sigh. "I am. Doesn't mean I won't lose it when I get back. Maybe when I get married." You stop walking, lean against a tree by the side of the road and rub your eyes.
Snafu reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a piece of tied-up material. "Still got my Jap gold," he says. You're terrified by the way he's so proud of it. "Gonna make some lucky lady rich with it." He stuffs it back inside his jacket.
You look up at the night sky, mesmerized by the amount of distant stars above you. You look back to Snafu and say, "It doesn't look like that in Alabama." He smiles, then socks you in the stomach. You almost spit up your dinner muck.
"Fuck!" you manage to say, half-winded. You retch and stand up. Snafu's still smiling at you. You hit him in the mouth, pissed off that he finds it so amusing. He turns back, blood dripping down his chin.
"Nice," he says.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
He drops his rifle, and so do you, prepared to punch again. He grabs your chin, like he's gonna strangle you, but instead pushes your head against the tree trunk. He pushes his lips against yours, hardly what you'd call a kiss. You can taste his blood that's now smeared on your face too, some of it in your mouth. You push your hands against his waist to get him away from you, and wipe the blood from your mouth with your sleeve. He laughs and sits on a nearby rock and lights up a smoke, blood on his hands and face.
This is the Snafu you fear, the one that finds blood and violence something worth smiling about.
He offers you a drag, but you decline.
"I might get married," he says, as if nothing had happened, then shrugs and says, "Who knows?" He takes a moment to spit some of the blood that's gathered in his mouth. "You pack a mean punch," he says as he rubs his jaw. "But I asked for it."
"Fuck you," you reply. He smiles as if it's funny. "I hope you don't kiss girls like that," you say, a little more light-hearted.
"Only you, Sledgehammer."
He keeps talking and talking about maybe getting married, paying for the wedding with Jap gold, maybe having kids, maybe getting this job or that job, maybe staying in Louisiana - if he survives. You say you'll probably stay in Alabama - if you survive - because it's where you grew up. You talk about Peleliu, the guys who didn't make it, and what they might have done if they had. You talk about anything and everything.
You straighten up and lick your lips.
You try to remember the taste.