(no subject)
The longer Harry spent on the island, the less he felt like a soldier. The memories were clear but he had little occasion to dwell on them, even less so with so few of Easy remaining to remind him of old ranks and responsibilities. He still had the ITF, and the guns and uniform stashed in his closet, but these days Harry spent far more time playing sports, looking after plants and working on lesson plans for his history class than he did anything remotely military.
He'd completely forgotten about D-Day, only realising on the eighth that it'd been two years now since he jumped into Normandy. It felt pretty distant; once he'd wondered how he'd readjust to civilian life, but the island had reassured him that he wasn't half as badly off as he might have been. It liked to drop him little reminders, now and then, but even those could be salvaged.
The dell was a case in point. The flowers were blooming and he'd made log seats, and he was already making plans for a Fourth of July barbecue. It looked a far cry from how it'd been when he first stumbled across it last Christmas Eve, which was exactly what he'd wanted. After a morning spent going through books and making lesson plans, he headed back there to check on the plants, and that was when he stumbled across something he hadn't been expecting.
There was a bazooka lying on one of the benches, like somebody'd put it down and forgotten about it. Three rockets were stacked up in a little pyramid on the ground nearby.
"What the -" Harry muttered to himself, and moved closer, picking the bazooka up for a closer look. It was the familiar M1 type, just the kind they'd used; and there, scratched into the metal, was the name J. McGrath.
Harry sat down heavily, memories rushing back with overwhelming speed. Today was the thirteenth. Two years ago - two years ago for him, sixty-six for everyone else - there'd been that wild hellish day where the rain was relentless and so were the Germans, panzers and fallschirmjager pouring forward without end. McGrath had been First Platoon's bazooka man; with this weapon, and Harry's instructions, they'd blown up a tank as it had come over the ridge towards them.
Harry shook his head, a slight smile beginning to form. "Okay, island, I get it," he muttered. "As if I was likely to forget." As gifts went, it could be worse; he just really hoped that the island wasn't going to send any tanks he'd be forced to use it against.
[Dated to mid-afternoon. A perfectly fine time to meet him; he's feeling a bit nostalgic, but mostly in a good way. As always, all tags welcome.]
He'd completely forgotten about D-Day, only realising on the eighth that it'd been two years now since he jumped into Normandy. It felt pretty distant; once he'd wondered how he'd readjust to civilian life, but the island had reassured him that he wasn't half as badly off as he might have been. It liked to drop him little reminders, now and then, but even those could be salvaged.
The dell was a case in point. The flowers were blooming and he'd made log seats, and he was already making plans for a Fourth of July barbecue. It looked a far cry from how it'd been when he first stumbled across it last Christmas Eve, which was exactly what he'd wanted. After a morning spent going through books and making lesson plans, he headed back there to check on the plants, and that was when he stumbled across something he hadn't been expecting.
There was a bazooka lying on one of the benches, like somebody'd put it down and forgotten about it. Three rockets were stacked up in a little pyramid on the ground nearby.
"What the -" Harry muttered to himself, and moved closer, picking the bazooka up for a closer look. It was the familiar M1 type, just the kind they'd used; and there, scratched into the metal, was the name J. McGrath.
Harry sat down heavily, memories rushing back with overwhelming speed. Today was the thirteenth. Two years ago - two years ago for him, sixty-six for everyone else - there'd been that wild hellish day where the rain was relentless and so were the Germans, panzers and fallschirmjager pouring forward without end. McGrath had been First Platoon's bazooka man; with this weapon, and Harry's instructions, they'd blown up a tank as it had come over the ridge towards them.
Harry shook his head, a slight smile beginning to form. "Okay, island, I get it," he muttered. "As if I was likely to forget." As gifts went, it could be worse; he just really hoped that the island wasn't going to send any tanks he'd be forced to use it against.
[Dated to mid-afternoon. A perfectly fine time to meet him; he's feeling a bit nostalgic, but mostly in a good way. As always, all tags welcome.]