Lynyrd Skynyrd - Sweet Home Alabama
Claire Keane

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@sgtbbarnes
Lynyrd Skynyrd - Sweet Home Alabama
|| I have neglected Barnes like he neglected O'Neill. ◦▿◦
by Jay Shaw
Platoon (1986)
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If you stay alive for no other reason do it for spite.
Maria Bamford (via bregma)
r e f u g e; sgt. barnes
“… He would set things right again. That day, we loved him.”
An understatement of sorts; perhaps adoration was not the right feeling that overcame us as we watched the village go aflame. I was speechless, overwrought with emotions I did not understand or know how to react to. Sgt. Barnes had signified he be our leader and act out a just revenge on those who killed our men. The smell of burning straw stings our noses and I find it hard to bear as smoke rises past the too-tall tree tops of this god-awful jungle. We had trekked for hours, my feet had gone numb— they didn’t ache anymore. Not after nearly a month of walking on them. There isn’t much said amongst any of us, our victory still swelling through us— and some second guessing their decision to follow Barnes in his eminent actions. Eventually, I found myself coupled with he — our Abraham — and another follower. There’s dirt and sweat in my eyes, I can’t see clearly but I can recall a faint grin on that scarred face of his. Though generally blind, I never bring it up to him and as we trek further into the forest, I find myself helplessly following him. I had no intended to succumb to the mysterious ways of my brutal — and questionable — sergeant, but as I was overcome with fear; at the same time I was brimming with curiosity. Not to ask him what happened to him, no. But to see how he functions. Elias is much more calm and approachable; likable. Barnes is gruff and off-putting. And yet, as we all settle in the brush and take watch; I am seated next to him in the dirt. The rain is soft, as I look up the trees are finally saving us from something. It’s all their good for, and I look to Barnes. I feel naive and and as outcast as I did when I first came here. I hesitate; “Are they going to come for us?”
"Move—!" Barnes barks, analogous to a burly dog with gnashing maw and crushing bite. He is tense and rigid; built to be top dog and shine as leader of the pack. So he thinks. And if he thinks it he so wills it and instills his beliefs unto his men. Perhaps it was the abrasive and sure nature of him that charmed his platoon into believing he knew what he was doing, at least some of them, and they following him into the fray of battle while he meticulously gave orders. Some would say he didn't care for his men, yet at the end of the day they were all he had to fight for - next to his own survival - and he'd be damned if he lost anymore on his watch. The fire blazed behind them in a reflection of the very rage that boiled over in his veins. And he had accumulated a band of followers. Barnes took those followers deep into the brush, now soaked soaked with rain water and bug guts. Mud stained their skin and it was almost as if they were apart of the jungle itself, making themselves at home in the throes of war and calamity. He doesn't notice the younger man following him, just an arms length to his left until he speaks. The movement he makes is rigid and stiff, barely turning to the side to observe who asked him that question. Of course. That little shit for brains who fucked up his first patrol - dumb sack of shit. His lips press into a hard line, jaw tightens and he looks past the tree. "Prolly," he drawls as a matter-of-factly as he can; there is no right or wrong answer. They may, and they may not. Those fucking Gooks were as predictable as the snakes that slithered between Barnes's boots or the direction of the wind during the storm. They were smart.
man made madness and the romance of sadness
— A child born of those two fathers.
Send a ♕ if you're too intimidated to talk/roleplay with me.
|| good. b y e.
You're dead, Elias. I swear to fucking God, you're dead.
The village, which had stood for maybe 1,000 years, didn't know we were coming that day. If they had, they would have run. Barnes was at the eye of our rage. And through him, our Captain Ahab. He would set things right again. That day, we loved him.
—- Chris Taylor (Platoon 1986)