Farewell the Plumed Troop 1/1
Title: Farewell the Plumed Troop 1/1
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: PG-13 for a smattering swears
Words: ~1,000
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Skip Muck, Don Hoobler, a glimpse of a few others
Disclaimer: I wrote this based on the character Skip Muck in the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers, not the real man or information from the books Band of Brothers or Easy Company Soldier. I mean no disrespect to the real Warren Muck or his family.
A/N 1: Once upon a time hiyacynth wrote Et Maneat Semper and made me cry. This fic is meant as an early bday present to her, and as homage to her brilliance. I love you, c.
A/N 2: Thank you to hiyacynth for the beta. ♥ This fic is an experiment. I'm not sure it's successful.
Farewell the tranquil mind; farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars
That make ambition virtue!
~William Shakespeare
The first thing you’re aware of: warmth.
The second thing: nope, still warmth. You could say it’s a miracle. But it’s not.
You’ve been cold for so long you forgot how to sit still. It’s such a relief there aren’t even words. Why bother with Christmas presents, with birthdays, when there’s heat?
it’s so fucking cold
The third thing: Penk’s head on your shoulder. The dummy’s sawing logs like a pack of lumberjacks. Jeez, you’ve heard shells explode softer than the ruckus that guy’s making.
Still. You can’t complain. Okay, you can, but you won’t. You’re warm, you’re not starving, and snoring-let’s be honest here, there’s probably some drooling going on-is better than an 88 any day.
I have a gift for understatement.
Hoob’s still going on and on about his Luger. Jumping Jehosaphat, the way he’s carrying on you’d think he captured Hitler himself, not some soldier’s gun. But Julian’s all over it, eyes like stars, as if the Luger is proof the war’s finally tipping your way. Who knows. Maybe it is.
the Niagra was never this cold, but you had water in your ears and everything sounded far away and now, even your voice sounds far away, miles away
Word’s going around the L.T. has another mission planned, only a few guys are going. That’s fine, but you can’t leave without saying goodbye to Malark. Where is he anyway? You inch away from Penk and he snorts, blinks, sits up. He frowns at you.
“What the fuck, Skip? I was comfy.”
“Jesus Christ, I didn’t know I joined the fucking Army just to be your pillow.”
“Something goin’ on between you guys I should know about?” Hoobler asks. His grin is made up of two parts charming, one part curious, and one-fourth leer.
“Here’s a fact,” you say. “Penk has an unnatural attachment to my shoulder. Lotsa guys do. Let’s face it, I’m a lovable guy. We all have our burdens to bear.” You point at Hoob. “But here’s the fiction, Hoobler, you’re not as good a shot as you think you are.”
and the space between Luz and your foxhole is the whole universe and please God, please Jesus, just let him
You offer a disgruntled Hoob and a pouting Penk your one-fingered salute and head off to find Malark. Only he’s not there.
Julian’s calling after you. “Muck, the Lieutenant says we gotta go!”
Which doesn’t really make sense because Dike’s never given anything that actually sounds like an order. His ineffectual, mostly invisible instructions are always being translated by Lip or Buck into something better, real, more. Which brings you to realization four: You can’t find Buck or Lipton either.
You turn in a slow circle, frowning, fingers plucking at the chain hanging from your pocket, the other hand searching for a smoke. “Where the fuck are those guys?” you mutter.
get here in one piece, that’s all, let him live, just let him get to his feet, please God don’t let it be
You work your way to the edge of the tent, push open the flap.
“Hey,” Alex calls, voice sliding toward panic, “you can’t go out there!”
But you do.
The tent flap isn’t a flap so much as a curtain. And that’s when you realize--
too late it’s too late and your voice breaks into a hundred thousand pieces just like the rest of you and you dissolve, up and away and away
--it’s still snowing and broken branches lie like bones and Malark is standing with his back to a hole and he looks sick, he looks green, he looks dead, and that’s irony for you because between the two of you, Don Malarkey is the one still breathing.
Lt. Meehan’s waiting. He stares at you hard, but there’s kindness around his eyes. Hoobler and Julian and Penk are there too. You look, and there’s more guys all the time, more guys on your side than on Malark’s. Miller and VanKlink and Diehl and Harris and Dukeman and guys whose names you don’t even know.
“We’ve got to jump,” Meehan says softly.
Alex is at your side, puts an arm around your shoulder, nods. “Tell him goodbye.”
You know, without opening your mouth that Malark won’t hear you, can’t hear you, never will again. That knowledge hurts more than dying.
You sputter, helpless, lost. “I don’t...I don’t know how.”
Penk gives you that look. “Don’t be an idiot. Of course you do.”
Luz jumps down into the foxhole and his eyes are streaming. His face is covered with streaks of mud and ash and it’s not fair, nothing ever is, but you learned that with my help a long time ago.
You do the best you can.
You always have.
What else can you do?
You can’t say goodbye, but I can. I’ll be your goodbye, just like when your grandfather put me in your mother’s hand, when your mother put me in yours outside a bus station in Towanda. And now, I’ll travel on, another goodbye, another promise.
I’ll sit in his pocket or in a drawer, and maybe I’ll gather dust, maybe I won’t, but I’ll remind him every day that you were alive. That there’s always hope. Not much, but a little. That’s all some men need.
So you reach into your pocket and you pull out the chain. The cross shines and you let go and I fall down, down into the hole.
“Goodbye,” you whisper, and I don’t know if you’re talking to me or Don. I decide it's a farewell meant for both of us.
I can feel you go and the dirt is cold but not for long. George Luz clasps my beaded chain in bleeding fingers. With a look of reverence, he drops all that is left of Skip Muck into Don Malarkey’s waiting hand.
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: PG-13 for a smattering swears
Words: ~1,000
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Skip Muck, Don Hoobler, a glimpse of a few others
Disclaimer: I wrote this based on the character Skip Muck in the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers, not the real man or information from the books Band of Brothers or Easy Company Soldier. I mean no disrespect to the real Warren Muck or his family.
A/N 1: Once upon a time hiyacynth wrote Et Maneat Semper and made me cry. This fic is meant as an early bday present to her, and as homage to her brilliance. I love you, c.
A/N 2: Thank you to hiyacynth for the beta. ♥ This fic is an experiment. I'm not sure it's successful.
Farewell the tranquil mind; farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars
That make ambition virtue!
~William Shakespeare
The first thing you’re aware of: warmth.
The second thing: nope, still warmth. You could say it’s a miracle. But it’s not.
You’ve been cold for so long you forgot how to sit still. It’s such a relief there aren’t even words. Why bother with Christmas presents, with birthdays, when there’s heat?
it’s so fucking cold
The third thing: Penk’s head on your shoulder. The dummy’s sawing logs like a pack of lumberjacks. Jeez, you’ve heard shells explode softer than the ruckus that guy’s making.
Still. You can’t complain. Okay, you can, but you won’t. You’re warm, you’re not starving, and snoring-let’s be honest here, there’s probably some drooling going on-is better than an 88 any day.
I have a gift for understatement.
Hoob’s still going on and on about his Luger. Jumping Jehosaphat, the way he’s carrying on you’d think he captured Hitler himself, not some soldier’s gun. But Julian’s all over it, eyes like stars, as if the Luger is proof the war’s finally tipping your way. Who knows. Maybe it is.
the Niagra was never this cold, but you had water in your ears and everything sounded far away and now, even your voice sounds far away, miles away
Word’s going around the L.T. has another mission planned, only a few guys are going. That’s fine, but you can’t leave without saying goodbye to Malark. Where is he anyway? You inch away from Penk and he snorts, blinks, sits up. He frowns at you.
“What the fuck, Skip? I was comfy.”
“Jesus Christ, I didn’t know I joined the fucking Army just to be your pillow.”
“Something goin’ on between you guys I should know about?” Hoobler asks. His grin is made up of two parts charming, one part curious, and one-fourth leer.
“Here’s a fact,” you say. “Penk has an unnatural attachment to my shoulder. Lotsa guys do. Let’s face it, I’m a lovable guy. We all have our burdens to bear.” You point at Hoob. “But here’s the fiction, Hoobler, you’re not as good a shot as you think you are.”
and the space between Luz and your foxhole is the whole universe and please God, please Jesus, just let him
You offer a disgruntled Hoob and a pouting Penk your one-fingered salute and head off to find Malark. Only he’s not there.
Julian’s calling after you. “Muck, the Lieutenant says we gotta go!”
Which doesn’t really make sense because Dike’s never given anything that actually sounds like an order. His ineffectual, mostly invisible instructions are always being translated by Lip or Buck into something better, real, more. Which brings you to realization four: You can’t find Buck or Lipton either.
You turn in a slow circle, frowning, fingers plucking at the chain hanging from your pocket, the other hand searching for a smoke. “Where the fuck are those guys?” you mutter.
get here in one piece, that’s all, let him live, just let him get to his feet, please God don’t let it be
You work your way to the edge of the tent, push open the flap.
“Hey,” Alex calls, voice sliding toward panic, “you can’t go out there!”
But you do.
The tent flap isn’t a flap so much as a curtain. And that’s when you realize--
too late it’s too late and your voice breaks into a hundred thousand pieces just like the rest of you and you dissolve, up and away and away
--it’s still snowing and broken branches lie like bones and Malark is standing with his back to a hole and he looks sick, he looks green, he looks dead, and that’s irony for you because between the two of you, Don Malarkey is the one still breathing.
Lt. Meehan’s waiting. He stares at you hard, but there’s kindness around his eyes. Hoobler and Julian and Penk are there too. You look, and there’s more guys all the time, more guys on your side than on Malark’s. Miller and VanKlink and Diehl and Harris and Dukeman and guys whose names you don’t even know.
“We’ve got to jump,” Meehan says softly.
Alex is at your side, puts an arm around your shoulder, nods. “Tell him goodbye.”
You know, without opening your mouth that Malark won’t hear you, can’t hear you, never will again. That knowledge hurts more than dying.
You sputter, helpless, lost. “I don’t...I don’t know how.”
Penk gives you that look. “Don’t be an idiot. Of course you do.”
Luz jumps down into the foxhole and his eyes are streaming. His face is covered with streaks of mud and ash and it’s not fair, nothing ever is, but you learned that with my help a long time ago.
You do the best you can.
You always have.
What else can you do?
You can’t say goodbye, but I can. I’ll be your goodbye, just like when your grandfather put me in your mother’s hand, when your mother put me in yours outside a bus station in Towanda. And now, I’ll travel on, another goodbye, another promise.
I’ll sit in his pocket or in a drawer, and maybe I’ll gather dust, maybe I won’t, but I’ll remind him every day that you were alive. That there’s always hope. Not much, but a little. That’s all some men need.
So you reach into your pocket and you pull out the chain. The cross shines and you let go and I fall down, down into the hole.
“Goodbye,” you whisper, and I don’t know if you’re talking to me or Don. I decide it's a farewell meant for both of us.
I can feel you go and the dirt is cold but not for long. George Luz clasps my beaded chain in bleeding fingers. With a look of reverence, he drops all that is left of Skip Muck into Don Malarkey’s waiting hand.