Don't tempt me, Frodo.
This is for skew_whiff. And ddub_holla, natch. Takes place at the end of "Carentan":
* * *
"Hey. Hey, Alton." Smokey thumps More on the shoulder. More grunts and starts awake.
"We'n attack?"
"No, not yet." Smokey frowns and licks his lips. "You hear that?"
More makes an irritated rumble somewhere in the back of his throat and strains for sound. The infrequent pop of gunfire is always present, all around them. Smith has finally stopped his wailing, which was what kept More from sleeping in the first place. They don't move on the German guns until sunup. Normandy's pretty quiet, for the time being.
Except...
"People! Are you ready? Are you ready? Damn, we getting ready!"
More frowns. "Who the hell is that?"
Smokey shakes his head. "I think I got an idea, but I hope like hell it ain't right."
"We will cause a ruckus! We are fearless and come armed with love! Holla!"
"Somebody's gone over the top," says Smokey, his voice an awed hush.
"It can't be," says More. "Didn't he get his balls blown off at Carentan?"
"No," croaks someone from the next foxhole over. Smokey pokes his head up. "I saw him at the hospital," says Blithe, something distant and detached in his voice. "He told me I gotta keep it going, and that I should..." He swallows. "I should trust the signs I receive and I will move with purpose toward my destiny."
"Something ain't right," concurs Smokey. He glances over at More, who's still listening. The exclamations are getting closer.
"People!" the voice cries. "Soldiers! Friends! Comrades! I fucking love you! Get ready!"
"It's coming," whispers More, eyes wide. They wait, all of them, tense and worried. The noises stop. More is now fully awake.
Sergeant Lipton crouches down at the edge of their foxhole. "Hey, Alton," he says quietly. "Smokey. How you boys doing?"
The machine gunners turn, surprised. "Tolerable, I guess," says Smokey. "How 'bout you, Lip?"
He nods and scans the line. "I'm good," he says, his voice even. "You ready for this thing at dawn?"
"Hell yes," says More, even if he'd rather be asleep. Lipton smiles.
"Good, that's good." He squints into the distance, then looks back at the foxhole. "Remember, fellas, rise and grind." He holds up a fist. "The only hidden message you should get from me," he says, deeply serious, "is that I care about your loyalty. I appreciate the love. I only want to give back to you."
More and Smokey exchange puzzled looks. "Us too, Lip," says More, somewhat dubiously.
Lipton beams. "That's what I like to hear. Don't hate -- participate!"
Smokey just nods. "You know it!" When More frowns at him, he shrugs.
Lipton gets to his feet, satisfied, and wanders away. "Settle or grind?" he mutters to himself. "Inner glory! I'm grinding!"
The line is silent for a few moments. Smokey opens his mouth to try and explain it, but More just shakes his head and curls up with the ammo again. Normandy is quiet.
"Think I preferred Lieutenant Speirs," says Blithe.
* * *
"Hey. Hey, Alton." Smokey thumps More on the shoulder. More grunts and starts awake.
"We'n attack?"
"No, not yet." Smokey frowns and licks his lips. "You hear that?"
More makes an irritated rumble somewhere in the back of his throat and strains for sound. The infrequent pop of gunfire is always present, all around them. Smith has finally stopped his wailing, which was what kept More from sleeping in the first place. They don't move on the German guns until sunup. Normandy's pretty quiet, for the time being.
Except...
"People! Are you ready? Are you ready? Damn, we getting ready!"
More frowns. "Who the hell is that?"
Smokey shakes his head. "I think I got an idea, but I hope like hell it ain't right."
"We will cause a ruckus! We are fearless and come armed with love! Holla!"
"Somebody's gone over the top," says Smokey, his voice an awed hush.
"It can't be," says More. "Didn't he get his balls blown off at Carentan?"
"No," croaks someone from the next foxhole over. Smokey pokes his head up. "I saw him at the hospital," says Blithe, something distant and detached in his voice. "He told me I gotta keep it going, and that I should..." He swallows. "I should trust the signs I receive and I will move with purpose toward my destiny."
"Something ain't right," concurs Smokey. He glances over at More, who's still listening. The exclamations are getting closer.
"People!" the voice cries. "Soldiers! Friends! Comrades! I fucking love you! Get ready!"
"It's coming," whispers More, eyes wide. They wait, all of them, tense and worried. The noises stop. More is now fully awake.
Sergeant Lipton crouches down at the edge of their foxhole. "Hey, Alton," he says quietly. "Smokey. How you boys doing?"
The machine gunners turn, surprised. "Tolerable, I guess," says Smokey. "How 'bout you, Lip?"
He nods and scans the line. "I'm good," he says, his voice even. "You ready for this thing at dawn?"
"Hell yes," says More, even if he'd rather be asleep. Lipton smiles.
"Good, that's good." He squints into the distance, then looks back at the foxhole. "Remember, fellas, rise and grind." He holds up a fist. "The only hidden message you should get from me," he says, deeply serious, "is that I care about your loyalty. I appreciate the love. I only want to give back to you."
More and Smokey exchange puzzled looks. "Us too, Lip," says More, somewhat dubiously.
Lipton beams. "That's what I like to hear. Don't hate -- participate!"
Smokey just nods. "You know it!" When More frowns at him, he shrugs.
Lipton gets to his feet, satisfied, and wanders away. "Settle or grind?" he mutters to himself. "Inner glory! I'm grinding!"
The line is silent for a few moments. Smokey opens his mouth to try and explain it, but More just shakes his head and curls up with the ammo again. Normandy is quiet.
"Think I preferred Lieutenant Speirs," says Blithe.