Haven't updated in a while, sorry, I've been busy. But here's a new chapter with an old drabble...

Title: Les Hashey
Summary: "Maybe it wasn't him as a person; maybe Holland just had it in for him. Either way, it should have been him, not Miller."
Characters: Mostly Les Hashey. With Miller, Garcia, Cobb, Peacock, Dukeman, and Hoobler.
Rating: PG-13 ish...
Word Count: 921
Classes Ignored to Work on This: Um... Wrote this a while ago... Probably Algebra II.
A/N: Written for Berlin By Christmas on lj. 2006. For jbslasher. And it didn't have a title back then, either.

Les Hashey

Hashey sat in the back of the truck, stunned. He watched the faces of the guys around him and saw some of the same kinds of expressions on all of their faces. Webster was shakily wiping his hand on his pants, over and over again, adding a red stain to all the green and brown ones. Hashey didn't think he wanted to know whose blood it was. Peacock looked like he was about to cry, his hands folded under his chin in a prayerful manner. Their first time out and their C.O. looked like he was scared out of his fucking mind. Dukeman was crying, his hands were pulled up to his mouth. He had been biting his lip so hard it started to bleed, a small trickle of blood running down his chin. Hashey looked away, he couldn't stand the sight of blood anymore. Next to him he could feel Garcia tugging on the sleeve of his jacket, fighting back his own tears. He occupied himself with what ever he could, trying to keep his mind off of what he had seen.

Cobb was hunched over, a sick look on his face, barely disguised beneath all the dirt and paint. Ramirez had long since given up on trying to comfort him. He wasn't all that talkative now that he was sober, was he? Hashey hoped he felt sorry. He hoped that Cobb was miserable. Miller was dead. It wasn't Cobb's fault, no one said that. But he had been such an ass to the kid, and now he was gone.

They all remembered the night Cobb came up to Miller in the pub and started bugging him about the Unit Citation he wore proudly on his chest. Miller would never try to mislead anyone into thinking he had been in Normandy, and fought there. But he was proud – they all were – to be placed in a unit that already had such a great reputation. Miller looked up to the guys from Toccoa, maybe even a little too much. Hashey could still smell the alcohol on Cobb's breath. Everyone around them stopped what they were doing to listen to what was going on. The tension was so thick you could taste it. Hoobler had tried to step in, tried to get Cobb to back off. But if one of the Toccoa guys told Miller to do something, he was going to do it, to impress them. Just like he was when he…

Why did it have to be him? Miller was the youngest of the group of replacements, and he probably had the most determination as a soldier. Hashey was the one who was always screwing up. Even in basic training, he knew he wasn't cut out for the Army. But he did it anyway. He felt he had to. Once he got the hang of it, he got better. Miller was always together, always knew what was going on. He may not have been the best soldier, but he was reliable, and determined. Hashey had so many mess-ups going for him, he couldn't even keep track anymore.

For instance, the day they jumped into Holland he couldn't get his harness off. And it was one of the new quick-release harnesses. Then the next day when they were on the road, he spotted a Kraut, stopped dead in the middle of the road and tried to shoot him. Then his damn rifle jammed. That was brand new too. Maybe it wasn't him as a person; maybe Holland just had it in for him. Either way, it should have been him, not Miller.

Hashey hadn't even fired a shot in that battle. It was a huge firefight, and he hadn't even contributed a round. Miller had stopped, jumped down into that trench to give the retreating guys cover. He hadn't even thought about it, he just did it. Hashey hadn't even noticed that he had fallen behind at first. By the time he had, it was too late. Hashey turned around just in time to see that section of the trench go up in a shower of dirt. He remembered the strange ringing in his ears afterward. What he couldn't remember was running back toward the trench. Or, what was left of it. Then he saw Miller's body. That was a sight he didn't think he would ever be able to forget.

Hashey felt guilty, just leaving Miller there, but he knew there was nothing that could be done. Garcia had pulled him away, reminding him of the problem at hand. But once they were in the truck, retreating, Hashey could do nothing else but think, replay what had happened in his head, trying to fill in the gaps. Next to him, Garcia was muttering something to himself in Spanish. Hashey could hear the slight quiver in his voice, Garcia was crying too. And now, so was he, Hashey realized as he felt the warm drops rolling down his cheeks. He slouched back in his seat, wiping his nose on his sleeve, staring across the truck at Cobb. He looked up at Hashey, they had both been through the same things. They understood each other now, somehow. Hashey didn't have to fight for respect anymore, he had it.

He was thankful he was still alive, and sad that Miller was not. Little did he know that, in a few months' time, he would be sitting next to Garcia in a cold, damp foxhole, envying Miller. Wishing that it had been him instead.