Blaine - War scenario.
Apr. 28th, 2011 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
joegoda"Blaine! Get your friggin' head down, or else you'll be losing your least important part!"
"Wha?" Knee deep in trench muck, Blaine ducked. A shell exploded nearby and the world suddenly sounded like it was yelling at him from under deep cotton. He rubbed his ears, trying to restore something close to normal hearing.
"Yeah, Billy!" His best friend John was yelling at him, his dark lined face showing concern. Blaine could barely make out the words. "Why do you have to be such a dumbass all the time! Almost be worth it to leave your stupid white rear end for the Nazis to pick up the pieces! Dumbass!"
*Nazis? What the hell?* Blaine looked down at what he could see of himself. Khakis, baggy pants, and shirt. Black combat boots. Grenades strapped to his belt. He felt the weight of a pack on his back. His hands held a rifle of some sort - M1 carbine, most likely. "Nope," his mind argued with him, "it was a M1 Garand, not that crappy Carbine."
*Crappy Carbine? I never even heard of a M1 Garand*
"The sarge says the Garand is the best rifle in the world. The sarge says the carbine is crappy, so it's gotta be crappy."
John pushed up close, his dark brown eyes worried. "Who the hell you talkin' to, Billy? Nobody here's talking back."
"I ain't talking to nobody, Johnny. Just myself, I reckon." Blaine's voice sounded young. Young and dumb with a hick accent. Where the heck was he?
"Stuck in a trench near some godforsaken place called Mantes." Billy Blaine shook his head violently. "Johnny, something's not right. I keep hearing voices in my head, and boy, are they dumb. They don't know what a Garand is or even where we are."
*this has got to be a dream,* Blaine thought. *where's the doc?*
"Yeah," Billy said. "Where's the Doc? I must be going crazy!"
John helped his friend lay down. "Hey, maybe you took a hit in the head. Pull off your helmet."
Billy did as he was directed. "Do you see anything, Johnny? Is my brains leaking out?"
John worked billy's head over thoroughly, looking for a wound or any bleeding. "Nope. Just another dumbass white head on a dumbass white kid." He knelt next to the young Billy. "Still, once we're outta here, we need to get you to a medic. You don't look right. You're eyes are all bloodshot."
There was a whistle in the air, high and shrill. Somebody yelled "Incoming!" John covered his head with his arms and ducked deeper in to the mud. Billy lay on his stomach and prayed. There was a bright flash and men were suddenly screaming.
"Johnny! Whew, that was close!" Billy rolled over. "Johnny, I said, that was close." He sat up and looked over at his friend. Something looked odd.
"Johnny? You okay?" Billy lifted a boot and kicked gently at the other man. "Johnny?"
Johnny rolled away, or at least half of him did. The side that had been facing away from Billy was mostly missing, the arm and chest being replaced by red and gore and blood. His face, once proud and black and beautiful, the envy of men and the heartbreak of women, was crushed and burned and broken.
"Oh, Johnny!" Billy cried. "You done got yourself kilt. What am I gonna do now?"
There was another whistle and another blinding flash.
Bill Blaine took a hard deep breath and sat up, salty water splashing all over in the pitch black. He gasped for air and reached up to yank on the leads attached to his head.
Click. "Mister Blaine!" The speaker in the tank growled loudly at him. "What are you doing? I told you it would just be a minute or two while I made a final.... Hello? What's this?" Click.
The door of the tank opened violently. Doctor Johnson was standing in the blinding light of the opening and breathing heavily.
"Mister Blaine," the doc whispered. "Tell me. Did you... did you just have a dream?"
"Wha?" Knee deep in trench muck, Blaine ducked. A shell exploded nearby and the world suddenly sounded like it was yelling at him from under deep cotton. He rubbed his ears, trying to restore something close to normal hearing.
"Yeah, Billy!" His best friend John was yelling at him, his dark lined face showing concern. Blaine could barely make out the words. "Why do you have to be such a dumbass all the time! Almost be worth it to leave your stupid white rear end for the Nazis to pick up the pieces! Dumbass!"
*Nazis? What the hell?* Blaine looked down at what he could see of himself. Khakis, baggy pants, and shirt. Black combat boots. Grenades strapped to his belt. He felt the weight of a pack on his back. His hands held a rifle of some sort - M1 carbine, most likely. "Nope," his mind argued with him, "it was a M1 Garand, not that crappy Carbine."
*Crappy Carbine? I never even heard of a M1 Garand*
"The sarge says the Garand is the best rifle in the world. The sarge says the carbine is crappy, so it's gotta be crappy."
John pushed up close, his dark brown eyes worried. "Who the hell you talkin' to, Billy? Nobody here's talking back."
"I ain't talking to nobody, Johnny. Just myself, I reckon." Blaine's voice sounded young. Young and dumb with a hick accent. Where the heck was he?
"Stuck in a trench near some godforsaken place called Mantes." Billy Blaine shook his head violently. "Johnny, something's not right. I keep hearing voices in my head, and boy, are they dumb. They don't know what a Garand is or even where we are."
*this has got to be a dream,* Blaine thought. *where's the doc?*
"Yeah," Billy said. "Where's the Doc? I must be going crazy!"
John helped his friend lay down. "Hey, maybe you took a hit in the head. Pull off your helmet."
Billy did as he was directed. "Do you see anything, Johnny? Is my brains leaking out?"
John worked billy's head over thoroughly, looking for a wound or any bleeding. "Nope. Just another dumbass white head on a dumbass white kid." He knelt next to the young Billy. "Still, once we're outta here, we need to get you to a medic. You don't look right. You're eyes are all bloodshot."
There was a whistle in the air, high and shrill. Somebody yelled "Incoming!" John covered his head with his arms and ducked deeper in to the mud. Billy lay on his stomach and prayed. There was a bright flash and men were suddenly screaming.
"Johnny! Whew, that was close!" Billy rolled over. "Johnny, I said, that was close." He sat up and looked over at his friend. Something looked odd.
"Johnny? You okay?" Billy lifted a boot and kicked gently at the other man. "Johnny?"
Johnny rolled away, or at least half of him did. The side that had been facing away from Billy was mostly missing, the arm and chest being replaced by red and gore and blood. His face, once proud and black and beautiful, the envy of men and the heartbreak of women, was crushed and burned and broken.
"Oh, Johnny!" Billy cried. "You done got yourself kilt. What am I gonna do now?"
There was another whistle and another blinding flash.
Bill Blaine took a hard deep breath and sat up, salty water splashing all over in the pitch black. He gasped for air and reached up to yank on the leads attached to his head.
Click. "Mister Blaine!" The speaker in the tank growled loudly at him. "What are you doing? I told you it would just be a minute or two while I made a final.... Hello? What's this?" Click.
The door of the tank opened violently. Doctor Johnson was standing in the blinding light of the opening and breathing heavily.
"Mister Blaine," the doc whispered. "Tell me. Did you... did you just have a dream?"
