AN: Thank you SO much to everyone who has followed, reviewed and kept up with this ridiculous amount of oneshots! Back in June I was just struck with so many ideas and thoughts after seeing Cars 3 in theaters that I just got straight to work. I wasn't expecting this to take off the way it has! Thanks to Funkywatermelon for pointing out that last chapter reached the Fabulous 51 count! I'd noticed it but thought it was just me! They might be oneshots but I've never written that much before.

This is for the request from Anon, who requested something involving Sarge. I've never written Sarge before other than a few mentions here or there, which is strange really because I'm a major history buff. This could be more than one part but we're starting with this for now.

While others would sometimes complain about the sizzling heat, especially on the days that were pushing the thermometers, the days even Red was stringent with the amount of water he used on his flowers, Sarge would sit in the shade under the short awning of the surplus hut in his red and white lawn chair with fly swatter in hand and a cold glass of whatever he felt the day called for beside him and watch whatever activity there was to be had.

Fillmore had the best intentions at heart and had warned him about the heat. We're only looking out for you, man. No one wants to see you come down with heat stroke. Doc says it's not good to be out too long. He'd then been handed a stack of printed medical reports and for Fillmore to use that much paper without complaint really meant something. Granted, he'd probably requested them from Doc, but still.

Doc had only ever mentioned it once take a little time inside but had left it alone after that. They had an understanding of each other that the Sgt. never thought much of, but it was there.

First Sgt. Jonathan Grant (who had never done the genealogy but was positive he was somehow descended from the great Ulysses S. Grant) would take the Arizona heat any day, because it wasn't Bastogne.

Bastogne was blinding white and numbingly cold, where fires were rarely permitted unless you were so far back off the line so as not to be seen by those krauts across the fields. Bastogne was where it was suggested to just go back a few hours, you know, get something hot, sleep a few hours.

Get your head on straight.

Because being under siege, nearly surrounded by Germans, with no proper winter attire aside from a thin wool coat had possibly been the lowest point of his life. It had been his responsibility to keep morale up while men were being sent back with cases of trench foot because they'd lost their shoes in a surprise shelling that had forced them all out of their foxholes. No one was going to take the time to make sure their Corcorans were meeting inspection standards when the trees and ground were exploding around them. No one cared if they had their shoes on while the very earth was upheaved and fell again like a horrible mockery of rain. Dirt, snow, wood and bits of tree limbs all falling like a heavy mist.

Mist that choked you and left your eyes burning.

Bastogne was blinding white and numbingly cold, where cries of medic! echoed after nearly every bit of popcorn fire and certainly after a good shelling. Where their own men grew so tired that mistakes were made, and medic! was even heard due to stupid mistakes, friendly fire, tripping into a foxhole, in one instance it was even heard because a man from their platoon had accidentally discharged his weapon and shot himself in the leg.

Their medic, their own Doc, had sent the man back to the hospital with instructions for him to stay off the line until deemed ready to return. They couldn't afford mistakes like that.

Their Doc had made the rounds, and eventually coming to Jon, gave him the opportunity to get off the line, spend some time indoors, get a hot meal.

That eight hours had been worse than if he had never gone at all. What right had he had to be able to unthaw frozen limbs while the other guys spent the evening piling cover over their foxholes, sharing Lucky Strikes and hoping the evening remained quiet. Luckily it had remained quiet, he would have never forgiven himself if something had happened while he was safe back at command.

It had helped tremendously, though. Less jumpy, less ready to strike out at whatever sound came through the trees in the dark winter woods, he'd actually been able to sleep the first few nights back on line, rather than just sit there with his eyes closed while Cpl. Donovan took watch.

Bastogne was white marked with red, white snow in the light and paralyzing in the dark. Arizona was dizzying heat, tans, reds, browns, windswept canyons instead of blank white snow laden trees and open meadows. In the daylight it was sizzling heat, sand and scrub brush, at night it was flashing neon and newly paved main roads. Arizona was the radio on the other side of the fence playing The Grateful Dead, of good mornings and turn that horrible music off instead of code words flash and thunder.

Arizona was buildings (some empty and dilapidated) in neat rows, clean sidewalks and residents that were safe to come and go as they pleased. It was manicured lawns, for the buildings that had lawns, and not so manicured lawns in front of storefront/houses labeled organic.

There'd been a time when he couldn't stand the sight of that lawn, overgrown, untended to and condemnable.

While he certainly would never allow the area around the flag he'd fought for to look like that, it had eventually become something he tolerated. Until one day, sitting in his lawn chair he'd looked across and spied something vining through the fence. With an irritated huff, he'd jumped up from his chair and stalked across the yard, ready to yank the vine from where it twisted around the white picket. Upon reaching the offending plant, though, he'd paused and regarded it in silence.

Three budding Morning Glories were just beginning to open in the morning sun, delicate and vibrant trumpet flowers unfurling as Arizona's warmth spread through the town.

Red, white and blue.

Bastogne was desolate, lifeless, and frigid.

Arizona was vibrant, abundant, and hot.

Before the end of that summer, the picket fence was covered in Morning Glories.