Work Text:
There was no music in the room where William worked. There was only the sporadic clicking sound of his typewriter’s keys firmly being pressed. Most of the men who did paperwork played the record or a song off the radio, but William was the only one who didn’t. There was no need for a song when he was left with all of the casualty reports.
Names upon names of K.I.A and D.O.W soldiers lined the page, filling it up more and more. Each name was last to first in alphabetical order. After he scrutinised the A’s and cruised past the C’s, he instinctively focused on the D’s. He searched for a familiar name, a feeling of unconscious ease releasing him when he passed through them without finding any surnames with D-A-N in them. He did the same with the S’s, and when he cleared them, he stopped. Just below a private with the last name Turnbull was a Lieutenant Turner. Turner, Stacey. K.I.A.
William hesitantly clicked the keys that spelt his name. It felt oddly familiar, like he almost had to write a report with a man who went by the same rank and surname on it. He went to exhale through his mouth when he realised his jaw was clamped shut. He looked around the empty room, breathing in short huffs. He rubbed his face and hunched back over his typewriter. Turville, Abe. D.O.W.
Every time, this would happen. He would get tunnel vision and lock up and his mind would go right back to the night where he was kneeling in the mud. And slowly, he left the T’s behind and continued his work. And slowly yet again, he finished off his report with the last name being Younge, Lincoln. He pulled the page from the typewriter, neatly filing them all together. Then he stapled them, slipped them in a folder, and stood up. The chair squealed loudly against the floor, sharply echoing.
William was always quite surprised how his old platoon’s men kept their names off of a casualty report. Daniels, Aiello, Stiles, Zussman. And later, Howard. He silently left his office, ghosting through the hallway towards his major’s office. He didn’t let himself think past his four privates. All they ever were to him were privates. William was a sergeant and Daniels was never a corporal. In his own mind, everybody served their time in the military and left alive. Left and went home, leaving William alone in some blurry spot in Germany.
His legs ached and he noticed that he was stopped in the middle of the hall. A nervous private stood behind him, hesitantly tapping his shoulder.
“Sergeant?” He asked, saluting him. “Permission to walk the hallway, sir.”
William stared at him for a moment, taking a step back against the wall. The private saluted again.
“Thank you, sir.” He trotted awkwardly down the hall, trying not to look back at him too many times. William snorted and lumbered along his way. His major’s room was down the hall and down another to the left. He watched the private disappear into a room, shutting the door behind himself.
Wilian turned to the left, trudging past a lively room with a crackling radio singing loudly. He wasn't bothered enough to look inside until somebody called a name.
"Pierson! Get in here,” shouted one of his fellow soldiers. "Come look.”
William backed up, looking in through the doorway.
“We’ve found a box," said an unfamiliar man.
"C’mere," the first man continued. "There's junk in here that's from your era.”
At last, he was intrigued. He curiously walked into the room, dropping the folder onto the table. A few men were circled around a rickety iron table, a worn-out wooden crate sitting in the centre. Half of its contents were spilled around it. He quickly recognised what kind of box it was; a K-Ration box. The sight of it stirred a forgotten feeling inside his chest.
William carefully searched through the box, picking up things gently and setting them down the same. He saw old spoils of war- knives, mementos like watches, some interesting odds and ends. He even saw a neatly folded poster: "Americans will always fight for liberty". On it showed members of what seemed to be the Continental Army and the present-day U.S. soldiers.
"Major Rogers found it somewhere. Said, 'Have at it! Serves us no purpose no more!’" One of the others mentioned. William didn't bother to get to know his fellow soldiers. In response, he made a hmmm. He continued to dig through, aimlessly browsing the box’s cargo. As the other men rattled on and poked at the items, William continued to empty the box until he stopped at the bottom.
Lining the bottom of the crate was what appeared to be an empty, worn musette bag. In some sort of ink or paint that was flaking off of the flap were the words 1ID. To William, it made little sense. He wasn’t very sure what it meant so he gingerly lifted it up. From inside the musette bag, something slid from the centre to the corner with a quiet thump.
It piqued his interest— he thought it was empty.
"Watcha got there?" Asked one of the men, peering over his shoulder. He slowly lifted the flap, blindly reaching inside. When he felt a cold, smooth surface meet his fingertips, he grabbed it and pulled it out. In his palm sat a heavy yet fairly well-preserved camera, a thin leather strap hanging from its side.
"Look at that!" someone shouted. "It's a Kodak! Can I see?” He expectantly held out his hand, waiting for William to surrender it. But he kept a tight grip, staring down at it intensely. The room went quiet, save for the sound of William’s breathing.
“Hey, Sarge,” he asked again. "You alright?" Somebody clicked off the radio, leaving his ears to ring in the silence. Quickly, he began to hastily turn and inspect the camera in his hand. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips and his hands sweat and shake. His throat closed and he tuned out the world around him, because carefully carved into the bottom of the camera’s metal were the initials D STILES.
His chest ached painfully as he dropped the camera onto the table like it was scalding hot and dove his hand back into the musette bag. He slammed his hand around, his knuckle glancing off of a cornered object.
"Sarge, are—"
"Shut up," he commanded, clenching his jaw till it hurt. He fought the bag until he finally gripped the object. With as much force and speed as possible, he ripped his arm free from the bag, brandishing a small, bright red box.
"Playing cards?" whispered one of them. William could’ve slapped him across his face. He could’ve told him to shut up again, but he was miles and miles away on a boat sailing towards France's coast. Too busy kneeling on top of some hill in some forest in Germany, staring down his dying lieutenant in the mud and rain.
He suddenly blinked as a cold drop of sweat dripped into his eye. With as much care as a man holding an active landmine could manage, he slowly rotated the box till its side faced him. And right then and there, staring at the side of that deck of cards, William could’ve been pronounced dead the way his heart stopped.
1ID on the musette’s flap meant 1st Infantry Division. Belongings of the 1st Infantry Division. Drew Stiles’ camera he always had on him. William’s cards.
"Who's J.T and W.P?" Asked someone who squinted over his quivering shoulder. He pointed to the side of the box, where the initials were etched into the soft cardboard, exposing its white undercoat. It had yellowed over time, but it was still there. They were still there.
He suddenly shuddered, coming back into focus with the world. He dizzily turned to the man next to him, already talking shakily.
"You, take this folder to Rogers." He then promptly fled, but not before doing a double take for Stiles’ camera.
As he staggered down the halls back to his office, he could feel himself swaying side to side, a shake in his knees like he was walking on a ship.
Pierson had one hand out for balance as he walked the halls of the troopship, a box of Belmont playing cards in his other. He had just wrapped up a briefing with his higher-ups and needed to take a moment to himself. He lumbered into a bunkroom, dropping into a rickety metal chair and opening up the cards. He shuffled them loudly, bridging them, then laid them out to a game of Patience.
Behind him, soldiers chatted casually. A haze of cigarette smoke floated around the ceiling, making everything a little more washed out than it already was. He moved a red queen to a black king, flipping over a red three in place of Her Majesty. He learned now to play Patience when he was young, and it became a pastime of his ever since. He knew all the different ways to shuffle.
From the hall he previously came from, a gentle patter of boots reverberated against the walls. Now, there was nothing gentle about those footsteps, but after serving six years in the Army, he was able to classify it as gentle. His head lifted slightly and he shifted his gaze to the doorframe to see a young greying man saunter in, searching the room. When his eyes fell upon Pierson, they became gentle like his footsteps.
"Sergeant Pierson," he announced cautiously.
“Lieutenant Turner," replied Pierson. "What a surprise." He quickly gathered up all his cards after getting stuck on them, shuffling them once more.
"Oh, I just wanted to talk." He strolled over, sitting across from him. His back creaked as he sat down, sighing.
“You gonna demote me to a private this time?” He tensely joked, bridging the cards.
“No, I am not demoting you. I just want to say that I’m,” he tapped the table to grab Pierson’s attention. “proud of you. You’ve been tough, but good nonetheless.”
Pierson glanced at him for a moment, pausing with his cards. "Uh-huh.”
"And that I'm not sure I could have straightened out these men without you.” He stretched his arm out, making Pierson raise an eyebrow.
"And your point is?”
Turner cracked a smile. "You're still the same hard-ass you've always been." Then Pierson let a slight grin turn the corners of his mouth up. "No. The real reason l came here is—"
The sharp clatter of cards interrupted him, leaving his mouth open with no words coming out.
"Sorry. Go again.”
Turner inhaled."The reason I came here is—“ Again, cards smacked against each other as Pierson bridged them swiftly, trying not to show the amusement he got.
"One more time? I just didn't catch that.”
"I’m here because—" he paused to
see if he would be interrupted. "Because I'm proud. Of you, William. Since Ka— since the last battle, and even after that, you were able to prove yourself as a leader.” He turned over his extended hand, palm up, hoping Pierson would do something with it. He slapped the deck in his hand, letting the tips of his fingers linger on his palm for a moment.
The tension had been disarmed. Turner let out a tiny sigh.
"Why'd you give me them?”
"Shuffle and deal ‘em out. Let’s play poker." Pierson leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Turner looked clown at the deck, lifting the top card to inspect it. He fanned them out, then slid them all together again.
"What the hell're you doin?" He cocked an eyebrow, watching Turner doubtfully.
“I've never seen these kinds of cards before
“Well, they’re Belmonts. Says so on the box." Pierson pointed at the bright red packaging. "Now can you shuffle or not? I’d like to win a game before I gut some Krauts."
"Sure," Turner said, giving the cards a quizzical look, splitting them in two. He hesitantly took each half in each hand, positioning them. Pierson snorted, glancing at his wristwatch.
“Any time now, Turner.”
“Stop it,” Turner warned. “I’ll do it.” He held them firmly, beginning to bend them into a shuffle. Justice Pierson glanced away for a second, a loud flutter and gasp brought him back. Sitting across from him with white eyes was Turner, surrounded by a massive heap of cards. His hand still held the invisible deck of cards before they began to pick them up. He got up from his chair and cleaned them off the floor, handing them back to Pierson when he was finished.
“Wow,” was all Pierson said.
“You shuffle them,” Turner muttered, sitting back in his chair with a small, graceful yet defeated smile.
“Fine, fine.” He skillfully riffled them, shooting him a curious look. “How come you don’t know how to shuffle?”
“Turner shrugged and met his gaze. “I never had time to practice. Or to learn how to play.”
The cards went quiet as Pierson stared at him. “What?”
"I never learned to play cards.” Turner looked at him honestly, his eyes soft and truthful. Pierson blinked and narrowed his eyes, sighing.
“Never?"
"Never."
"Why?"
“My family insisted that I set aside distractions like that to focus on my work and studies." Pierson gave him a blank, mildly confused stare. "I have a military family. My father served in the Great War. He told me that I would join up and serve, just like he did."
"Uh-huh. So you had no time to play Patience or Poker between school or studies?"
"Not exactly.” Turner watched Pierson stand up and grab his chair, dragging it over next to him. "I've always been into literature and studying anyway.” He felt his shoulder bump against his sergeant’s as he sat next to him. He began to deal the cards in an odd fashion. Pierson placed seven cards horizontally, then turned a new one over on the second. He laid them out carefully but with speed, placing one left over deck in front of Turner.
“Here,” he said. “I’ll teach you to play Patience, since it’s simple.” Both men leaned over the table, close together, so they had a good view of the cards.
“This is the tableau,” Pearson pointed at the seven card piles all lined up. “When you move a card from the pile, turn the other over. When the row’s empty, you can put only a king there.” He went on to explain the stock pile of cards and how to stack all of the cards in order to win. Turner followed fairly well, getting the hang of it quickly. And with all of the admirable courage he could manage, he leapt into the game doing well so far.
He occasionally asked for Pierson’s guidance, in which he would point from here to there to show where the cards should go. Sometimes he would let his hand linger and feel Turner brush it with his as he went to flip over a card. But when he had only two aces down and half of his cards unturned, he nor his sergeant were able to continue.
“I think I’m done,” he told Pierson, nudging his shoulder. “I don’t see any more plays I can make.”
“Yeah. But for your first time, you got pretty far.” He began to collect all of the cards, looking at Turner’s hand. “Which card do you have left?”
He held out his hand and turned the card over, revealing the two of hearts. Pierson slowly chuckled, shifting his gaze to Turner’s eyes.
“It looks familiar, doesn't it?" His voice was low and hushed with a teasing edge.
"Maybe," Turner whispered back, the corners of his mouth turning up.
"Just maybe? Come on now, Joseph." He snapped to attention. That name felt so foreign to him, but it sounded right coming from Pierson.
"And if I said it wasn't familiar, how would you feel then, William?" Both of them eased into a light laugh together. When it ebbed away, Pierson sighed. Down the hallway, nearby footsteps quickly approached. From around the corner, a Major by the name of Locke popped in.
"Lieutenant, Sergeant? It's 16:00, almost about time for the briefing." He quickly disappeared back down the hallway, leaving them be. After sitting awhile, Turner started to get up. Pierson grabbed something from his leg, scooping up the card box.
"Wait” was all he said, bringing a knife up to the box’s side. There he carved something into the side, making slow, drawn-out movements. Then he stood up, put the cards away, and put his knife back. “Joseph, look."
He leaned over to see what he was being shown. Squinting, he saw a thin white sentence engraved into the side of the box. A smile formed upon his face, a full one, as he silently read it.
J.T. & W.P. Joseph Turner and William Pierson. He always made sure to write “and” and never “plus”. By writing "and", he thought it would keep people's suspicions low. He was very unaware back then that writing "and" hurt a hell of a lot more now.
The cards in the box rattled as he held them as carefully as possible, trying to steady his hand. He ran one of his fingers over the engravement, feeling the little tears around their names. William’s stomach felt hollow and empty, trying to eat itself alive. The box hadn't been touched in so many years. How long ago was it?
He didn't even have to think about it. He knew the answer before he knew the question. Three years ago they were on their way to Normandy, and just five months later, Turner was left behind on some rainy hill in the middle of a German forest. Something tried to push its way out of his throat. A scratchy, low cry that had been held back for years. He didn’t keep it back; he let it slip between his clenched jaws, the sound dying off slowly. Delicately, he pulled the top of the box open to reveal the pristine cards. They were still fresh and white, not yellowed by time. William was probably the only person to touch them in three years.
He sat down at his desk, placing the empty box next to Stiles’ camera. Holding the cards, feeling their weight in his palm, William could easily compare this moment to the taste in the back of your mouth you can’t quite remember. The memories were on the tip of his tongue, but just past his fingertips. He carefully split the deck in half, his breathing coming in short huffs. He readied himself like he was going into battle, and finally shuffled the cards after a painfully long pause.
When it came the time to bridge them, he took and bent them upwards, opening his hands to receive them. As they cascaded down, he picked up a sound in between the fluttering. A soft, up-and-down voice that he only heard in his head. A voice he forgot, but instantly remembered.
Joseph.
It shook him so bad that his hands jerked and he let go of the cards completely. They took flight around the room, launching themselves across his desk. William sat there, eyes blown wide, his hands frozen in mid-air. When he came back to his senses and the ringing left his ears, he looked around. The cards were all scattered on his desk and floor, facing upwards.
All but one. A fearful, unknown feeling speared his chest, drawing him to the hidden card. He reached out to touch it, hesitating to flip it over. When he gathered the courage, he finally hooked the card under his nail and held it in his hand. He heaved a quivering sigh, closing his eyes and flipping it over. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t seem to understand at first. But the longer he stared, the more a dark, sick feeling began to overrun him. His eyes watered. He sniffed.
In his hand was the two of hearts. The only downfacing card was the two of hearts. This felt like a cruel joke he didn’t know the punchline of. His vision blurred and he couldn’t see straight anymore. He stood up, staggering sideways, bracing himself against the edge of his desk. In the corner of his office was a metal waste bin, and he haphazardly lumbered over to it.
He bent down, trying to will his hand to let go. At last, it slipped from his grasp and floated gracefully into the bin.