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Malarkey forgets. Skip doesn't.
It's not like remembering has much practical use. A lot of things change when you drop into a warzone, starting from the moment your ass falls upon the risers and you're scrambling for that white silk.
What you eat changes. Hell, the way you just look at food changes.
How you walk changes. The pattern of your sleep changes. When you decide to take a shit changes.
And, obviously, what you think's important changes.
Time topples down the ranks of priorities, settling somewhere between the desire for a replacement from your home state and how you feel about not having showered in a week. Far, far below what truly matters; ammunition, information, and the guy beside you.
The sun helps, sometimes, but when it's cloudy (which is very, very often in Europe) the only tell-tale sign of what hour, or even what day, it is falls to the orders given about the next plan of attack.
It's not June 15th anymore; it's 0800 hours on D-Day plus nine.
And it's a Sunday.
How Skip knows it's a Sunday when some of the guys here can't even remember their own serial number baffles just about everyone, the unbaffle-able included. Because nobody's counting weekdays when all anyone wants is to count off the days until they can leave this miserable continent.
Naturally, until Skip mentions it, or some poor church's bells start chiming, a lot of them forget it's a Sunday.
Malarkey forgets. Skip doesn't.
It's Sunday and it's not cloudy. In fact, the sun's shining, casting a warm morning glow on the few of the town's structures left standing. God's grace, some say, the beautiful weather contrasting so strangely with the totalled rubble crudely sweeped from the roadway.
Easy's in somewhere called Saint Georges de Bohon, a commune on the outskirts of Carentan. The area might have been pretty, if the grass was still green and the shops weren't missing all the glass from their windows.
Skip doesn't mind too much. Somewhere between securing the town, one of the transfers from Fox company taking a shot to the ass ("Guess it'll be somewhat of a tradition", Muck had joked, and the laughter didn't deny it), and the relief he’d felt that they were allowed to stay here for the day - He'd almost forgotten it was a Sunday.
Almost.
He’d been keeping track of the days, somehow. A difficult task, the week divided less by days and more by actions. A two hour fire-fight felt like an entire day’s worth of time, and an overnight stop in some town he couldn’t pronounce the name of like barely a minute.
He watches Easy split themselves pretty quickly after they're told to hold position, dig their heels in around Carentan, just in case Jerry decides he wants to have yet another crack at their lines. Exchanging insults and jokes without any real malice to them, the group of men who've been through all the Hell-fire Normandy can throw their way divide, parting down the middle.
The steeple of the church here is still standing. (Another miracle - Skip doesn't like that he's started counting.) A beautiful building, maybe, in its prime. He thinks he prefers the smaller, cosier consecrations of Tonawanda, in all their modern glory. Magnificent as these fancy European cathedrals are, or might have once been, nothing beat the friendly chatter amongst the choir pews back home.
Those who didn’t favour Rome too much start their tedious walk to the other side of town - a makeshift chapel waiting expectantly for their arrival. As always, Skip waves then off enthusiastically.
"Remember, boys - When y'meet Jesus, don't forget to call him Sir!"
There's a rumble of laughter from both parties, the grin on Muck's face barely containing his own giggles. He back-pedals as he waves, hand falling with a happy sigh as he turns towards the looming steeple.
"Ya'll better remember t'call him Mr. Christ, then!" Echoes from the retreating men, the larger group disappearing along the dusty road.
Someone grumbles about 'such disrespect'. That someone gets a hard slap to the helmet and a polite request to shut the Hell up. A man with no time for a little humour certainly has no time for mass. The reminder comes from Penkala as he slides his own helmet off, flashing a smile Muck's way before bowing his head and disappearing within the shadow of the church.
Skip's boots slow to a halt at the door, an action unknown to him before the war, but one that was becoming an uncomfortable routine.
Sliding his helmet over his hair, he takes a pause and turns, eyes moving to cast a look over his shoulder. A scan across the horizon, his gaze searching the dusty landscape and mottled fields for something he's not used to being without.
From the brutal runs up and down Currahee to the anticipation in England, and now the ditches of Normandy, Skip has kept a certain familiarity tucked securely within his field of vision. Neither part of his equipment nor his uniform, that change with the terrain's dirt and new additions to his pack; something not even a part of his own person.
No, this something that has always been by his side, yet still somehow detached from him. A glimpse, a constant presence in the corner of his vision.
A crop of red hair.
Skip had left a lot of things back home in Tonawanda, and several more back at Camp Toccoa. Hell, he'd even left a few of his lunches on the slopes of Currahee. He'd left washing and letters back in England, and mortar holes in Normandy.
But he's never left Malarkey anywhere.
The man is an anchor for them both, to the present, to Easy, to their movement across oceans and mountains and battlegrounds. Preventing any disconnect between them and the world; home is still there, and everything is still moving along alright.
And yet, somehow, when it comes to the few short intervals Skip takes to attend mass - Don suddenly isn't there anymore.
The redhead seemingly develops an allergy to church, vanishing each Sunday before magically appearing once the services are all said and done.
Mischievous and bold as he is, Skip is still too polite to mention it. He loves his church and his faith with all his heart, yet he never felt the need to talk non-stop about it. Don't preach to the unwilling, his mom always reminded him, they'll find the Lord their own way.
So, he doesn't mention it.
He goes to mass, he puts his hands together, and he prays.
He isn't selfish; he doesn't ask God to keep his family safe in Tonawanda, or to make the sun shine on Europe, or to end this war. (The latter is something he knows they will have to do themselves.)
And though sometimes he sneaks in a quick request for the Lord to make the food they're given taste a little better, Skip doesn't pray to survive this war either.
God knows he wants to see his mom and sister again, and he only gives thanks that they're being watched over.
And he doesn't pray for Malarkey's soul. Or for God to change the man's mind and make him suddenly burst into the church, helmet thrown aside, running over to his friend and promising to never miss mass again.
Because that really just isn't Don's style.
Instead, he shares stories in the quiet time he has in church, when it's just him and his thoughts. He thinks about how Malark has made him smile, even in the direst of moments, and how the man's crookedly grin lights up the dark of Europe. He relives the feeling of his hand on Don's arm, how they ate together the first day of running Currahee, with the redhead all but sprawled on top of him where he'd collapsed from exhaustion.
He thinks of how Don crawled to the mess tents; gives an honest testament to his friend's courage and determination.
He doesn't think of it as 'putting in a good word' for Malark. Just an important example to give, to share with his Lord, and encourage him to ask for God's patience with his friend.
Because Don may miss every mass, may be Protestant or Baptist or even entirely faithless altogether; but he is also a good man. And Skip wants to see him at Heaven's gates by his side, even if that red hair has turned grey from all their future years.
He exits the church a little after the other worshippers have disbanded and the morning's chaplain has packed away his communion pieces. Outside, the sun is still shining. Clouds still circle, but they break apart in the light. It's beautiful.
It gives an orange glow to the red hair that greets him at the bottom of the ancient church's steps. A warm shine to the dirty locks, layered with sweat and dust even without a helmet covering them.
“Ya' done God-bothering, yet?" Don laughs as his friend approaches, cuffing Skip affectionately upside the head, "Had me worried, not coming out with the other Alter boys!”
"Sorry, Don, my 'Hail Marys' took longer than I thought!" Muck huffs, raising his eyebrows at the other man, "Had double the sins to repent for, since I'm atoning for yours too."
Malarkey can't help his bark of laughter, his face one of amused disbelief. "Oh, really?" He huffs, elbowing Skip in the side as they fall into step, side by side, "And what sins would those be, huh?"
The list is a long one, made longer by Don interrupting Skip's recital of bad deeds with the occasional 'Hey, that was your idea!'. They're both smiling, either way, even as Malarkey's red hair disappears beneath his helmet again.
Skip doesn't mind - that Don's covered his head or that his best friend doesn't share his faith.
He can still see a little bit of ginger poking out from beneath the metal anyway.