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Jan. 21st, 2022 03:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skyhigh_seanceKlaus sleepily leans forward to press his helmeted head between Dave's shoulder blades. He's pretty sure no matter how long he has to go on in this war, he will never be a morning person. He can hear Dave laughing at him, but it doesn't inspire him to do more than whine at his fate. The 173rd Airborne Division is to head out from the base at Khe Sanh, off on some supposedly uber-important recon mission thing. Or at least they were told it's uber-important, odds are against it actually coming to anything. For some damn reason that means getting up at the asscrack of dawn and waiting for a chopper at the flattened top of Hill 689.
Klaus is unamused. Turns out the army doesn't care.
Rude.
Klaus closes his eyes and listens to the soft conversation of his brothers around him, including the wise-cracking and gorgeously tasteless commentary from Sean Morrisey, newly dead at eighteen and incredibly salty about it. The kid isn't part of 173rd, but had figured out real quick that Klaus could see him, and pretty much refused to leave. Klaus was as okay with it as he could be - the kid was funny, and he chased off the worst of the dead Charlies.
As long as Klaus didn't look at him, everything was fine. Sean couldn't help how he was mangled. Probably. Whatever.
Jefferies is talking big about his many conquests while on leave. Klaus smirks - he heard otherwise, but since he can't actually cite his sources without looking like a lunatic (or, you know, more of a lunatic), he settles for just feeling smug. O'Leery is debating barbeque techniques with one of the newer guys, while polishing his Most Favorite Knife. It's decidedly unsettling and homelike all at the same time. Hopefully no one gets stabbed over sauce preferences. Chavez is showing anyone who will stand still long enough the picture he got of his little sister's newest kid. No one has yet had the balls to tell him that the kid looks a lot like a squashed tomato.
The early-morning fog makes everything damp, and has long-since made a mockery of his sartorial choices - turns out while a t-shirt and cut-off vest work well when the jungle is actually hot, it's decidedly unpleasant at the moment. Maybe the chopper ride will be more pleasant - at least then he can cuddle up to Dave under the excuse of tight quarters.
Speak of the devil - the low thump of chopper blades breaks through the underlying drone of insect life, and they all sharpen up a bit. There won't be much time for dallying once they're actually told to move. He can't actually see the chopper yet, but he's caught enough rides at this point that he can pretty accurately gauge from the sound where it is coming from.
That means he has eyes on when the glare of a rocket cuts through the fog, and is nearly blinded when it connects with the shopper, the resulting explosion deafeningly loud. He's already dragging Dave back, like it'd do something if there was a rocket aimed at them, before he can even think. There wasn't supposed to be Viet Cong anywhere near here, but isn't that just the way it is?
They don't go on patrol.
They do get orders to start digging trenches.
Turns out they're in for a siege.
Klaus is unamused. Turns out the army doesn't care.
Rude.
Klaus closes his eyes and listens to the soft conversation of his brothers around him, including the wise-cracking and gorgeously tasteless commentary from Sean Morrisey, newly dead at eighteen and incredibly salty about it. The kid isn't part of 173rd, but had figured out real quick that Klaus could see him, and pretty much refused to leave. Klaus was as okay with it as he could be - the kid was funny, and he chased off the worst of the dead Charlies.
As long as Klaus didn't look at him, everything was fine. Sean couldn't help how he was mangled. Probably. Whatever.
Jefferies is talking big about his many conquests while on leave. Klaus smirks - he heard otherwise, but since he can't actually cite his sources without looking like a lunatic (or, you know, more of a lunatic), he settles for just feeling smug. O'Leery is debating barbeque techniques with one of the newer guys, while polishing his Most Favorite Knife. It's decidedly unsettling and homelike all at the same time. Hopefully no one gets stabbed over sauce preferences. Chavez is showing anyone who will stand still long enough the picture he got of his little sister's newest kid. No one has yet had the balls to tell him that the kid looks a lot like a squashed tomato.
The early-morning fog makes everything damp, and has long-since made a mockery of his sartorial choices - turns out while a t-shirt and cut-off vest work well when the jungle is actually hot, it's decidedly unpleasant at the moment. Maybe the chopper ride will be more pleasant - at least then he can cuddle up to Dave under the excuse of tight quarters.
Speak of the devil - the low thump of chopper blades breaks through the underlying drone of insect life, and they all sharpen up a bit. There won't be much time for dallying once they're actually told to move. He can't actually see the chopper yet, but he's caught enough rides at this point that he can pretty accurately gauge from the sound where it is coming from.
That means he has eyes on when the glare of a rocket cuts through the fog, and is nearly blinded when it connects with the shopper, the resulting explosion deafeningly loud. He's already dragging Dave back, like it'd do something if there was a rocket aimed at them, before he can even think. There wasn't supposed to be Viet Cong anywhere near here, but isn't that just the way it is?
They don't go on patrol.
They do get orders to start digging trenches.
Turns out they're in for a siege.
