The Great Unknown Known
Summary: Still, the man is not what he'd been hoping for in a gunner. He's got soft edges and a Bible tucked in his belt – neither makes for a good killer, and he's already wondering how long this one will last.
He points the man towards the fresh from factory Sherman and tells him to settle in.
Or,
A collection of 'alphabet-soup' vignettes following Wardaddy and Bible's relationship, with a very healthy dose of Grady, Gordo, Norman and 'Red'.
A/N: Just a bunch of stories for Fury, revolving around Boyd and Don.
antilogy: a contradiction in terms or ideas.
The first time they meet he shakes the man's hand and asks him how long he'd been in the seminary before he'd been hauled off to war. The man's brows lift in surprise just before his lips lift in a smile.
He doesn't mean it as a compliment or something friendly. It was obvious, that's all. The man's hair is combed neatly, would have some length if mussed – he'd avoided the undercut or cropping common to soldiers – and his mustache is trimmed in a style common to those in the priesthood. It isn't just that, though. The man is dressed neatly – which is saying something when in fatigues – and he stands mindfully, an almost gentle confidence setting his spine in a straight line.
"Six months." Southern, Don decides; his accent is like molasses, catching in places a Northerner's own tongue would find uncomfortable. "God willing I'll be able to return soon."
He looks the man up and down and to his credit he doesn't seem particularly bothered by it.
"Don Collier, Staff Sargent."
"Boyd Swan, Technician Fifth Grade." The man follows his lead, revealing his rank and Don can at least be grateful that the man has been through tank school. He'd been hearing about other tank commanders that had been unlucky enough to get saddled with desk jockeys and under aged runaways.
Still, the man is not what he'd been hoping for in a gunner. He's got soft edges and a Bible tucked in his belt – neither makes for a good killer, and he's already wondering how long this one will last.
He points the man towards the fresh from factory Sherman and tells him to settle in.
It's just the two of them for a few days as they wait on the other three members of their soon to be team. The man spends a lot of time hunched over his Bible, reading, and gets to talking with the base pastor.
He also finds him, on occasion, at the field hospital, standing by bedsides and sending men home with words of prayer. Don knows the Book well enough, thinks about it on a rare occasion, but he's pretty sure he'd punch the man if he tried that on him.
"Heard you got one of them seminary types." Miles, another tank commander, one with a lot more dirt behind his ears, says as he marks up a map, sliding it towards him.
There's a difference between a seminary man and a religious man. The former tended to die, quickly, and due to his ideals. The latter tended to die just like the rest of them but before that day he always seemed a little more broken than the rest; fracturing spiritualism was an ugly thing.
"You heard correct." The man huffs as though he has a problem with it.
"Don't know why they put those boys on the front lines; better off behind a desk, or the pulpit." The man mutters as he pulls out another map, brow furrowing in confusion before realizing its the wrong one.
"He a pacifist?" Don chuckles because it's ridiculous; he's never heard of a self-proclaimed pacifist making it to the frontline. The man doesn't laugh. Doesn't look up.
"Didn't mention that." He answers when the man glances up at him.
"Well, good luck. Had one of them once." He marks the map with three red 'x's, folds up the map and pushes it into his hands.
"Word of advice, son. Don't get attached."
They work together on the tank and get situated, running through checklists and debugging the comms.; the man sings, sometimes, though it's more humming and muttering to himself.
" – and thy shall abide – " he murmurs as he cleans out grease from a sprocket – the newer tanks are filthy with the stuff – and then abandons the song to point out a missing bolt.
Don learns that sure enough the man knows the tank, has in fact been to tank school and can run through the commands good as any, but something about him seems out of place. He thinks about his conversation with Miles whenever the man speaks. He's half psalms and 'yes, sir's; from the little he'd seen of this war and for the overwhelming amount he'd heard, the God-fearing either lost their religion or their lives.
He doesn't want either for the man, and he sure as hell doesn't want to bring that into his tank.
The other three arrive and Don begins to feel a bit more hopeful.
First there is Trini Garcia; he tells him to call him Gordo, a nickname he's had and preferred since childhood. The man's voice always has an edge of humor, his speech often interspersed with Spanish, and he's wearing a cross. Gordo doesn't say anything about it though and that's good because he doesn't think having two Boyd Swans would work.
Hank Redding, a quiet, tall cattle rancher arrives with him; he's from Montana, he says, from a town no one has heard of and apparently he and Gordo had been in tank school together. Beyond that he doesn't say much, but he writes, he writes a lot; Gordo tells him that they're all letters to his girl back home. He likes the man; he's quiet, calm and doesn't require much.
And finally, there is Grady Travis, his loader; he is exactly what he expects of a man in that position. He's built like a bulldog and is a man of simple tastes; he likes women and drinking and picks fights when he's spent time doing either. Him and Boyd go together like oil and water and between the two of them, Don feels a headache coming on.
The man doesn't fit right; its confirmed when he and Grady get into verbal spats and in the uncertain way the man sits when they get talking about their latest conquests and girls back home, about drunken nights in basic and cultural misadventures in the local bazaar.
Don likes the man fine, has traded pleasant enough words with him, and that's the problem. Grady has already told him to fuck off and Hank has fixed him with an unimpressed stare more than once, and hell, Gordo has gotten involved in a tussle or two, but Boyd … he can't help but think he belongs back at that field hospital or hell, back in a seminary in Canada or Mexico. He's not saying the man is a coward, not saying that he'd run from conscription, but he seems like the kind to avoid fighting and killing.
Putting him behind that gun just don't make a lot of sense.
Regardless, he puts the man behind the gun and they roll out for the first time, at the back of the pack.
"Swan, gun front –" he says into the comm., his fingers hitting the wrong button, broadcasting the message to the platoon. The General laughs and calls him green; he presses the right one and repeats himself.
Sure enough, as they complete the hard right turn, the gun returns to the front and the man's voice crackles through. "Roger," he says, his tone serious. It's not the same tone the man saved for scriptures or the dying; it's something new.
He's a professional, Don thinks; it's a step up from his previous assessment but still, it doesn't mean much.
They pass through desert for two days before seeing any action. They're at the back, still, and it happens quickly. Something glances off the back of the tank's turret and it rocks the Sherman's metal frame.
They've run right into an ambush – a small one, and no doubt an inadequate one – and had the enemy gunner been aiming a little more closely they would be cooking.
Two tanks reveal themselves, from behind some bullshit sand dune – they'd all been preoccupied looking at the burnt husks of the lost ground patrol – and then there's gunfire and a grenade or two.
"Redding …" He stumbles over the other man's name because the side of the tank gets hammered with a spray of bullets, but the turret is turning towards the mess and it snaps him out of it,
"Redding, Garcia, bring her round, hard left – " The tank's body follows its turret and they're moving towards the gunfire.
The tank in front of them outranks them by a week in service and Don watches as the fresh commander's head snaps back, his limp body falling back into his vehicle. He had spoken to the man but twice, knew he'd seen a week of combat and that this was all that could be of his career.
The sand, in some areas, is already bright red and their own tank tramples a body – its only by the tan uniform and black arm band that he knows its the enemy. They're lined up now with an enemy tank and its by sheer luck that their next shot goes completely wild, flying well above his head.
"Boyd –" He is forced to duck down a bit as machine gun spray, bright red tracers and all, come calling up the tanks front.
"On one – " He hears the gunner yell into his comm.; Grady knocks into his knees as he loads the gun and he looks down at the Browning's returning fire. His team is performing and he's here forgetting names.
The whole tank shakes as the main gun discharges; the round finds its mark in the tracks on the tank and he's pretty damn sure they've managed to detrack it. Not the preferred outcome but good enough. Within moments another tank has managed to destroy the tank they've demobilized and all that's left are a few ground troops.
It's easy work for their platoon and though the battle was short – could hardly be called that – his hands are shaking and he's sweating under the beating sun. He feels ill, even as the cold sweat leaves him.
They're all silent, wallowing in their baptism by fire, when Travis gets to shouting and fuck, Don knows what its about- there ain't no running from it, not in these close quarters and if his adrenaline wasn't running s violently through his system, he'd probably be a little embarrassed over it.
"What the hell, Sargent –" Grady Travis howls and the stench hits them, "Aw, no, man – what's it like up top? That bad?"
The man's laughing and Gordo groans, "puta madre …", as he pops open his hatch and moves the seat up into driving position. Hank copies him with a sort of chuckle, though its hardly audible.
"Damn, I've heard of a pants-wetting experience, but shit –"
"Leave him be, Grady –" The gunner warns, his voice hard as he lights a cigarette, paying no attention to what had just happened.
Hank and Gordo get her going again and they get back into formation on his orders; except for occasional snickering from Grady they make their way to the next checkpoint in silence.
His team performed and he crumbled. He wasn't a betting man but had he been, he wouldn't have put his money on himself being the odd man out.
Amongst the lessons he's learned today – and hell, if he weren't a little humbled by it – the most important might be regarding his initial assessment of his gunner.
The man is crouched besides their tank - still unnamed, as virgin as it is – digging out sand from the tracks and checking the dings, making sure nothing is out of sorts. He can hear Travis working inside, oiling the loading mechanism and sorting out odds and ends, wrench clanking mutely from within. Boyd is humming over the sound and doesn't seem bothered when Gordo pops out of the hatch and flings a bucket of spent shells down the side, a couple catching him as they fall to the ground.
"Swan –" He calls out and the man glances back before straightening; it almost looks like at attention but even new tank crews know how little that matters out here.
"Boyd, sir."
"Boyd" He repeats the man's name and gives him a nod, his chin jutting out a bit as he said it. "You did a good job today."
"Thank you, sir." He dips his head in acknowledgment and waits.
"Don." He says because he feels like he should return the sentiment, especially seeing that the man would be sticking around. After that, Don realizes he doesn't have much more to say; he knows that a small amount of guilt is what brought him here, though the man is none the wiser.
Except he is.
"I'm here because I answered His call." He says just before Don makes to turn away and join the other tank commanders for a debrief.
"What's that?" Don eyes him, watches as Boyd sticks the spade into the ground.
"I know I seem out of place, have had more'n one man tell me so." Don's lip twitches slightly; he isn't going to deny it, though he hadn't realized he'd been obvious about it.
"But this is the path I'm meant to walk." After the man's performance first day out, he doesn't doubt it. And though he doesn't know it yet, he'd never come to doubt it.
"I can see that." That seems to appease the man and he pulls a cigarette from his chest pocket, pulling one for himself, sticking it hastily between his lips, before offering Don the pack.
Boyd lights the cigarette, offers Don the same, and grabs the shovel again. There's something tense there, in the way he moves, though Don doesn't know what it is, not yet.
He leaves the man to it but gives him a final word.
"Glad to have you on board, Boyd."
And he is.