and we'll see it, oh, we'll see it
I should have been doing work but I kind of wrote this instead.It's Hillbilly/Ack-Ack, my new ship to fucking die for. I might even do a primer for them sometime because they are just the most beautiful, intense, tragic pairing ever ;___;
Warnings for angst, character death, angst, bad writing and angst.
*
The mortar squad bring the stretcher back down the ridge, and Andrew knows it’s wrong of him but he prays for it to be carrying anyone but Eddie. They’re walking too slowly and the body isn’t moving and no no no it can’t be. It can’t.
They set Eddie’s body down in front of him. It’s sprinkled with dirt and his eyes are closed. He could be asleep.
“No,” he breathes. It’s woefully inadequate, but Andrew can barely breathe past the lump in his throat. He feels like his ribcage has gone tight, like his lungs are being compressed to nothing. Repeats, “No.”
He looks away, unable to bear the sight of the blood leaking across Eddie’s chest. Everything blurs, Sledge and De L’Eau and Burgin’s anxious faces swimming in front of his eyes. The rushing in his ears drowns out the sound of gunfire and for a moment he wants to let go, to scream until his voice gives out, because it’s Eddie. It’s Eddie, and he’s gone.
Andrew remembers with a jolt that his men are waiting for orders. “Take him back.” he grits out and even that small phrase is too much, he has to turn away so that the others don’t see the grief written on his face. He stumbles away and his back is barely turned before he hears the rustle of a tarp being placed over Eddie’s body.
---
Burgin finds him the next day, before they go back into the ridge.
“Brought you this, sir, for the report.” Burgin says quietly, holding out his hand. Balanced on his open palm is a scrap of silver metal - it’s one of Eddie’s dog tags. Andrew tries not to think about its partner, still slung around Eddie’s neck.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Andrew tells him, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Burgin nods and hands it over, turns away, walks back to his foxhole.
The dog tag is hot from where Burgin’s been clutching it, and for an instant he imagines it warmed by Eddie’s body heat, swinging against his chest and glinting in the sunlight on Pavuvu.
He’s halfway through his report, copying down the serial number from Eddie's tag, when the sound of laughter pulls him back into the present. He draws himself together, picks up his tired body and tamps down his sorrow. He rounds the corner to a sight which might have made him smile a few days ago, made Eddie toss out a wry comment that Andrew had to suppress laughter at. It’s strange how not having Eddie here means that Andrew thinks of him more than ever.
---
It’s mid-afternoon and K Company is back in Bloody Nose Ridge, bodies strewn around. Andrew tries not to think how many more there are than when he climbed the ridge yesterday.
He scouts ahead with a few other officers, leaving the bulk of the company a way back, in the valley.
Andrew peers out from behind a large rocky outcropping, trying to assess the situation. There appears to be no enemy activity on the other side of the ridge today, but Andrew knows things are never that simple. There might be tanks just over the horizon or snipers watching intently for Marines.
“Captain Haldane, be careful,” Burgin whispers.
There might be a rifle sight pointed at his head right now. Well, the Japs killed smart, brave Eddie, without a moment’s thought - why would Andrew be any different? He thinks of Eddie’s guitar, old and battered but lovingly wrapped in wax paper and left in a box on Pavuvu, waiting for Eddie to come back and stroke his calloused hands over the strings and pick out a melody, never to be played again. Of Eddie’s biting, sarcastic remarks which he always followed with that small, affectionate smile.
Of Eddie’s dog tag in Andrew’s breast pocket, burning hot through his shirt.
Come on, he thinks wildly, staring out into the valley, shoot me. You shot Eddie, now shoot me.
Shoot me.
Shoot m-