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“Time to go, Phillips, come on.”
Sid stayed still a moment longer, staring at the camp that had been their refuge for months—never comfortable enough to feel safe but serviceable enough to endure the crabs and the rats and the smell—before he hoisted his seabag higher, turned around and started stepping onto the transport ship.
Even if it was unlikely, he still harbored some hope that Eugene would see him off.
It was down right illogical, really, because he knew Eugene was at the firing range, at least one or two miles away from the dock, and would probably still be there long after he was gone. It was hard not to hope, though, that by some miracle he’d be here, in front of Sid, waving and saying goodbye. He hardly dared think about Melbourne, months ago, and Gwen in the same position. He’d at least had a proper send off with her; they knew when they’d started that it would end sooner or later, and though he missed her sometimes—her beautiful face, her gentle nature, the peace they’d had together—he felt a sense of completion. She’d get on with her life as would Sid.
With Eugene, he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. He’d been ecstatic to be going home, two years of service more than enough for him, felt relieved thinking about all the things he wouldn’t miss about the God-forsaken Pacific, but he hadn’t wanted a reminder that he’d be leaving Eugene behind, completely new to a war he knew would devastate him one way or another. Eugene had tried but Sid’s stubbornness had dampened any future attempts to breach the subject.
Sid sighed, looking out towards camp, now from higher ground noticing just how much jungle there was. Not that they hadn’t felt it all around them, with all the rotten coconuts and crushing trees and terrible humidity and fickle downpours. Now, though, seeing it from the ship with the benefit of more time, not hurried along towards the beach knowing he’d have to live there indeterminately, he could see how the trees towered over the corps, those tiny bodies alien and insignificant in the face of the Pacific’s natural environment.
He wondered if this war would leave a mark on the island, once they were all gone. It was more like the island had left a mark on them, really, sometimes literally if one counted every injury and every illness it, and its counterparts before, had provoked. He was sure he’d never forget it. The island, on the other hand, wouldn’t even know him. He’d escaped its clutch, mostly intact—every limb still in place and working—unlike so many others, who would know the island forever, would always know the sand and earth they were under. Those men had lost their lives only to now merely form a part of the island’s history.
Unlike Sid, and he couldn’t be more grateful.
He swallowed down the few tears trying to break to the surface, utterly aware of time and place.
He hoped Eugene would be the same. He had faith Eugene would be the same. Every time his brain even suggested that Eugene would end up stuck in the Pacific forever, he told himself to shut the fuck up, because if he outright denied it, somehow, it would keep it from coming true. And yet, stubborn as he was, his stomach twisted and turned; images of Eugene surrounded by all the other replacements, all those boots hungry for war, anxious to get out there and kill all those fucking japs, kept circling his mind.
Fear would never let go of him until Eugene showed up back home, and he knew very well what the odds of that were.
He sighed again, rubbed his face as if to wake himself up, and lit a cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. For heaven’s sake, shouldn’t he feel happier?
He was happy. He was finally going home.
He cursed at himself, fighting the urge to fidget.
For a second, he was going to search his bag for that Kipling book, before he remembered where he’d left it. Maybe somebody would get enjoyment out of it; he’d given it a try but all it had done was remind him of home and Eugene gushing about books. It’d been easier, frankly, to think about avoiding the mosquitoes.
Hopefully Eugene wouldn’t hate him for leaving it behind.
By now, the island was starting to become smaller and smaller, and if Eugene had made it to the docks, Sid wouldn’t know. He blew out another bout of smoke, not really sure if he felt calmer or even more agitated.
If he wanted to be honest, and he was trying not to, it wasn’t motion sickness that was making him queasy. He felt like he’d left a small puppy next to dozens of baskets of fireworks blowing off, disoriented and alone. Eugene had been following him around as much as he could, the only really familiar face among a multitude—Eugene hardly knew his own squad still. He’d stuck with Sid like he was a safe harbor in a storm.
Now Sid was off somewhere else again, and Eugene was left behind, drifting, utterly new to a brutal war and hardly getting along with the people he had to trust with his life. It gutted Sid to think he hadn’t even said goodbye.
He’d had a reason, though, he reminded himself. He hadn’t had much time to find anyone to leave a message with; orders waited for no man. He didn’t even know what he’d had said anyway, too many things too stupid or too heartfelt to say to Eugene, let alone to someone else to relay to Eugene.
His hand, injured still, went up to his shirt collar, feeling the regular cotton where the Globe and Anchor used to be. It didn’t hold sentimental value for him, it had mostly just been something to play with when he felt anxious, but now it reminded him of Eugene. When he’d found him pensive by the beach, staring at that butt-ugly crab, for once seeking a little solitude.
A lot between them was at stake.
When he’d first seen Eugene, walking through the camp looking into every tent, he hadn’t had any control over the warmth filling his chest. He’d just been so fucking happy to see his best friend again, and the feeling had been mutual.
But he’d noticed Eugene’s face when he talked about hot chow or shooting a guy’s arm off or when he didn’t care if a crab lived or died.
It was why so many veterans hated replacements in the first place; the constant reminder they’d be dead as soon as shots were fired, and that smidge of the real world boot camp hadn’t stamped out. They would get over it, if they survived, and the vets would come to accept them, too, but it was a hard price to pay to belong among soldiers.
Eugene’s eyes, so open and genuine, showed how green he still was. He’d looked judgemental, because Sid tolerated petty violence like that; hurt, because his best friend was so distant; puzzled, because Sid had changed and he couldn’t understand him anymore.
Eugene’s eyes, so open and genuine, had let Sid know Eugene doubted him, doubted his affection faced against Sid’s changes, and nothing had ever made him feel more unlovable.
He’d thought Eugene would grow out of his crush, eventually, and in a way, he’d been right.
But just looking at Eugene, and knowing how unmarred he still was, ignorant in exactly the same way Sid had been—that they all were—when he’d first made it to Guadalcanal…
Sid was the youngest of the two. He’d always thought Eugene was worldlier than him, knew more about everything. He brought all sorts of things to Sid that he wouldn’t have sought out for himself otherwise, happy to live in ignorance when he’d been twelve, thinking sports were interesting, not books or articles. Eugene had always felt like the voice of reason between the two of them, and Sid had pushed Eugene to be more sociable; it wasn’t like he was friend-less but, compared to Sid, Eugene was shyer and tended to keep to himself, but Sid had no problems with that, talked for the two of them at first, and soon enough, Eugene had opened up.
At that moment, though, when Eugene had asked him what war was like, he’d felt so much older. He hadn’t known how to explain it, had tried his best but Eugene’s pacifying okay had told him what a shit job he’d done. There had been no way of describing the level of fear knowing you were this close to having died, of seeing how easily everything could end, of knowing how stone cold crazy the tension could make you; worries far removed from his life before he'd set foot in the Solomons.
So he’d given Eugene every piece of advice he’d had, tried to prepare him for the reality he would face, and yet it’d only scratched the surface.
Sid took a deep breath, hating the salty smell, longing to take a shower even if it was a very shitty one but not willing to go inside the hull just yet. He flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the deck, always mindful of not throwing it to the sea.
They’d been so naive, enlisting so brashly. You’re the lucky one, Sid. If only he’d known to reply—if only he could have found the words to write, There’s nothing honorable about war, Eugene.
He sighed one last time. Maybe in two years’ time, he’d have his own questions about Eugene, or maybe they’d gain a completely different layer to their relationship, one of mutual understanding.
“Sid! Come on, I hear there’s coffee. Oh, sweet, sweet nectar,” W.O. said, signalling towards the door.
Deciding to give it all a rest, Sid followed behind. There was nothing he could do now but wait. Knowing what was ahead, Eugene needed someone to stay positive for him.
Sid smiled to himself. No matter what, when Eugene came home, Sid would be there, all forgiven and ready to welcome him.