#506thparachute

[warsounds-blog]

‘    other guys borin’ yuh ?    ‘             /               @506thparachute

[warsounds-blog]

@506thparachute

cancer stick sits between his middle & forefinger as a long tail of smoke rises at its lit tip. he is immediate to bring the wetted end at the corner of his mouth , pinch it there with a long drag , & tug open drawers of the empty , abandoned home. he meddles through cabinets , ajar containers , anywhere on the off-chance he finds something of use.  the only sounds filling the emptiness of a room are the scrapings of drawer wheels against metal & wood creaks of the floorboards beneath their sodden boots. 

it’s quiet , so far.

roe casts a glance at sledge , then back at the clothes-filled drawer , “you see anythin’?” its meaning is open : souveneirs , trinkets ... an unspoken obviousness flares high that it’s BANDAGES or a container emblazoned with a red cross or caduceus. ( it’s the reason they scavenge here , anyway. )

[warsounds-blog]

@506thparachute

“well , nothing’s lookin’ too bad,” his comment entwines with his breath as it condenses in the air. his voice becomes rasp after being tended to in the aid station , enduring three long days without much talk except from word some of the newer wounded were explaining. he swallows , the confines of his esophagus cracked from the bitter chill that persists around them. he’s walking with bryan , getting used to using his arm after removing its sling , but keeps himself armed & alert. 

“’cept all this fuckin’ snow.”

[warsounds-blog]

@506thparachute​

“don’t know,” words solidify the truth that heavily sinks into his stomach. he hates not knowing --- he hates being imbalanced on a beam of uncertainty of the well-being of a casualty , of someone whose life is practically on the line. those at the field hospital are dressing those wounds , extracting any spare piece of shrapnel that caught in the entry wound & burnt his skin & flesh surrounding it , but he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know if they’ll make it.

he looks around at the other men whose helmets barely stuck out from their foxholes , all facing a great big nothing. fog. a haze that paints their surroundings as some purgatory. there’s not much to see except eternal glum from the downcast skies with occasional snowfall.

“need some s’plies?” hands lift his bag containing extra supplies he picked up in the church.

[warsounds-blog]

bailey’s aesthetic: disheveled men ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[warsounds-blog]

@506thparachute​

he’s come to long for the other men , though his communication kept constant , he still feels distant not working alongside them , not talk to each of them face-to-face. communicate. he’s been hoping dike proves worthwhile for the rest of the men guarding the lines , but there’s an uncertainty still buoyant in his sea of hopefulness. their surroundings & situation proved no better , with lack of supplies coming in from dense fog & bad weather , he , like the other paratroopers up ahead , were not toting sufficient gear to keep warm against subzero temperature.

but a cast gaze to nixon tells him that some are handling this all relatively well. or maybe he’s still got spare warmth from the covered foxhole he came out of. “you seem to be coping with this weather well. least as far as i can tell.” he’s shivering , nose tinted as red as his hair beneath his helmet. though joking , it seems to release a new current of thoughts pertaining to the conditions of the men.

[warsounds-blog]

@506thparachute

skip’s reclined body on the hospital chair peels from its backrest. he sits up , a welcoming smile gracing his lips. the room is warm , strands of sunlight pouring in from the parted curtains of hospital window & stopping at the floor , piercing a few tiles between warren’s seat & don’s bed. 

“well , look who’s up.” 

[warsounds-blog]

@506thparachute 

“’ey , babe. how’s that lettah comin’ along? i mean why else ya starin’   so hard at that paper ---- ‘nless you’re takin’ a peek at hoobler’s broads.”