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ammunitionist · 4 years

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a small gift brings a little life to king company.

or, ack ack finds a guitar- and hillbilly remembers how to play.

ao3 here | full first chapter under the cut

Ack Ack honestly has no idea what it is for a good minute.

He doesn’t bother to get up to check- never stand when you can sit- so the wooden thing leans, an odd little enigma, just in the peripheral of his sight for the better part of ten minutes. It’s definitely wood, he can tell from the hint of grain at a distance. The angle is just so that the neck looks uniform, that he can’t see the strings at all. It almost looks like a broom handle.

It isn’t that Andy’s never seen a guitar. He’d had a friend in high school who played (just not very well) and guitars were common enough in small town New England. It wasn’t unusual to walk down the street at dusk and hear some old timer picking away at the instrument.

It’s funny to think back on himself, sixteen or so, thinking of anyone as elderly. With the new recruits popping up around him on the daily, he’s starting to feel like an old timer himself.

Ack Ack tries to ignore the odd chunk of wood, get in another nap before sundown, but they’ve been eating good lately. Sleeping good, too. He simply has too much energy to let go of the curiosity.

Without moving- never sit when you can lie down- he calls out to the man sitting closest to him, scribbling in a small book held in his left hand.

“Hey, Sledge,” he asks genially, his hands resting behind his head. “What’s that wooden thing over in PX? I can’t see it all too well.”

Eugene looks up from his book almost too fast, glancing first at Andy and then leaning over to scrutinize the object of interest. Ack Ack stifles a small smile at how eager the mortarman is to please.

“Hell, Skipper,” he says, blinking. “It’s a guitar.”

“Really?” Ack Ack says, almost embarrassed at his lack of observational skills. “Shit, I am getting old. I thought it was a broom.” Sledge laughs, because of course he does, but Andy’s already sitting up, looking directly at the handle of the thing. The neck, he recalls its specific name being. Slender and slightly curved, it looks out of place with the crudely made shipping crates stacked around the PX.

“Is that all, sir?” Sledge asks. Andy barely acknowledges it, too occupied with the discovery. He nods, waving the younger man off with a hand and a vague ‘yes, Private’.

Hillbilly plays guitar. Ack Ack knows because he mentioned it once, and just once, but that’s the kind of information you store away for people you care about. Somewhere in the long list of things Andy knows about Eddie- a list riddled with question marks, smudges, and the not infrequent total censor- is the fact that he plays.

He learned from his daddy, apparently. That was the kind of skill they handed down in the Jones family. Workin’, fightin’, n’ the guitar, Eddie had put it, the end of his cigarette a glowing ember in the darkness. He only really taught me th’ middle one.

Andy hadn’t interrogated, but between that one night and the other things on his list about Eddie Jones, he’d figured out what that meant.

Knowing Hillbilly played the guitar just- always did something to him, something strange. Not like giving him a hard-on, it was never the subject of a sexual fantasy, but some aspect of the idea of Hillbilly’s large, callused hands cradling the neck of an instrument was an image that stuck in his mind. Knowing a man like that could make music- enjoyed it, even- just pushed Eddie deeper into Ack Ack’s heart.

Despite himself, Ack Ack slowly hauls himself to his feet, brushing sand from his palms on the nearly-compromised fabric of his dungarees. No one pays him much mind, just another man wandering towards PX. The Seabees had touched down about a week ago, so the postal exchange is more or less looted, but Ack Ack has no burning desire for candy bars or magazines.

Still, when he gets there, he feigns interest in the dregs of merchandise. Back issues of Superman, a few melted Hershey’s chocolates, a copy of Sports Illustrated. If he beelines for the guitar, the corporal sitting in the corner will definitely upcharge him. Pocketing an extra few dollars was never above the Merchant Marines, and this young man- chubby, blonde, picking something out of his teeth with a Jap bayonet- looks like no exception.

Finally making the wide, lazy half circle to the guitar, Andy feigns mild interest in it, tilting the head of the instrument towards his belt. Upon closer inspection, it’s practically beaten to pieces- the body has a fair few dents in it, and a concerning looking crack runs nearly the entire length of the neck. One of the tuning pegs had been replaced with a roofing nail at some point, poking out like an odd splinter at a not-quite right angle from the headstock.

“You play?” The corporal asks lazily, examining a caught piece of food on the end of the bayonet with catlike self-satisfaction.

“Me? No.” Andy shakes his head, letting the guitar back to rest against the crates. “One of my boys does, though.”

He almost smiles to himself when he refers to Hillbilly as one of his ‘boys’. It’s not unlike calling the White House a ‘big ol’ mansion at 1600 Pennsylvania’.

“He any good?” the blond asks. Andy shrugs, pocketing his hands discreetly. He really has no idea if Hillbilly is any good, but it doesn’t matter much if he is or not. Ack Ack would pay out in spades to see him play even if he couldn’t sustain a single note.

Upon receiving no verbal answer, the corporal takes Andy’s silence as permission to keep chatting. He sighs and sets the bayonet down, kicking his feet up on the shoddy crates nearby. The containers creak ominously.

“That there belonged to Johnson. Buddy of a buddy, or somethin’.”

Ack Ack glances at the corporal in mild interest, mostly playing along in favor of a discount.

“Went lookin’ for some dead Japs to loot a couple nights ago.”

Andy figures what happened before the man finishes his thought, but that doesn’t stop him from clarifying. It’s with a sick glee that Ack Ack only sees in men that have never once seen a friend die in their lives.

“Got blown to hell on a landmine. Skipper said to put the thing in the PX or use it as firewood.”

“Ah.” Ack Ack says, less keen on the conversation than he would be to sitting on a land crab in his skivvies. The corporal grunts in acquiescence.

He almost up and leaves the exchange there and then. What kind of earthly gift would a dead man’s guitar be? Hillbilly’d show no outward insult, likely feel none inward either. Ack Ack can’t begin to express in words the amount of gratitude he feels for Eddie’s tolerance. Still, he deserves better than this.

But where else could he find a guitar in the whole of the Pacific?

“How much?” he asks succinctly, looking up from his boots. He hopes the curtness in his tone reminds the corporal of their ranks, of his decidedly upper hand.

“Seven dollars.” The blond replies, eyes narrowing slightly. Andy has to stifle a scoff.

“It’s not worth more than three, Corporal,” he sighs, nudging the body of the instrument with his boot. “Look at it. Beat to hell.”

“Six.”

“Four.”

“Deal.”

He leaves the postal exchange with the thing in hand, simultaneously lighter than it looks and much, much heavier. Sledge glances up at him with interest as he walks by, glancing between Ack Ack and the instrument.

“You play, Skipper?” he calls out as Andy passes, heading deeper into K Company’s cluster of men.

“No!” Ack Ack replies, a wry smile countering Eugene’s expression of confusion.

Hillbilly never went far from King Company, but he also avoided its center. Ack Ack liked to think he prowled its perimeter like some kind of guard dog, keeping an eye on even the rowdiest of the unit. It’s a reliable kind of safekeeping, one that Andy has come to value more as they’ve moved further towards the mainland. Both for himself and his men, that protection is beyond invaluable.

He’s smoking a cigarette up against some concrete rubble, the slowly setting sun dying his pale brown hair a burnt orange. Between the small ember at the end of his cigarette and the dying light, Hillbilly’s almost golden.

Ack Ack sits down quietly in front of him, the slight sound of shifting rubble enough to garner a glance from his Lieutenant. His eyes catch on the guitar and linger, though, and Andy holds it out- an offering.

“Where th’hell did y’ get that?” Eddie asks, sitting up to take the proffered instrument. Andy shrugs, pulling a crushed carton of cigarettes from his breast pocket.

“PX.” he replies simply, biting one out of the package and lighting it with a quick turn of his wrist.

Eddie turns the guitar over in his lap once, twice, three times, examining it. Andy watches mildly, his eyes catching on the neck of the guitar resting in the crook of Hillbilly’s palm. His stomach warms, just slightly, the sight of the slender thing in his lover’s hand like a hot cup of coffee on a cold morning.

“How did y’ know I play?” Hillbilly asks again, tone slightly sotto with confusion.

“You told me.” Ack Ack answers, mildly surprised that Hillbilly forgot. “A few months ago. Remember?”

Eddie shakes his head vaguely, but his attention has already re-allocated to the instrument. He settles it in his lap, the curve in the hollow body fitting over his thigh. It’s a small guitar- that, or Hillbilly’s just bigger than the last person Andy saw holding one- but he still supports it comfortably.

He runs his fingernails across the strings experimentally, and both of the men wince in tandem.

“Is it broken?” Ack Ack asks, momentarily worried that his gift is damaged beyond utility. Hillbilly snorts.

“Nah,” he sighs, a wolfish smile cracking his face in half. Ack Ack has never quite seen him smile like that before.

Unbothered, Eddie turns one of the pegs in the head, thumbing the top string in rapid succession. The tone wobbles slowly higher.

“Jus’ outta tune. I think I can handle it.”

Andy smokes as Eddie coaxes the instrument into tune, slow going considering the state of it. It’s a pleasant experience, to hear the strings slowly come up to par, and the surprising gentleness with which Hillbilly tunes it brings up the warmth in Ack Ack’s belly to a low simmer. To watch his broad hands dance across the head, fiddling with the pegs, is certainly an odd sight for the middle of the Pacific Theater, but it’s one Andy more than welcomes.

Finally, Hillbilly strums the guitar’s strings again, and even though the sound is unremarkable Eddie seems to find it satisfactory.

“Does it play?” Andy asks, tapping his cigarette on a nearby block to ash it into the sand.

“Well, why don’ we find out?” Eddie grins. He adjusts his hand against the neck of the guitar and strums carefully, a gentle note ringing out from its body. Tension leaches from Andy’s shoulders immediately. Between artillery, rifle fire, and bodies hitting the dirt, it feels like the first soft sound Ack Ack’s heard in months.

“Oh,” he breathes, and Eddie glances up to meet his eyes. They both pause for a moment, holding the gaze, before another smile breaks Eddie’s face and they start laughing. The absurdity of it is captivating. A fucking guitar, here, in a warzone. A flimsy, breakable little thing that somehow made its way to them unbroken. It feels like watching a daisy bloom on the rim of a shell crater.

“Shit, sir,” Eddie chuckles, broad shoulders shaking in amusement. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ one of these for a long time yet.”

Ack Ack has to grin. The sun had all but fully set in the time it had taken Eddie to tune the guitar, and the long shadows on his companion make the moment all the more absurd, a strangely stark figure against the rubble.

Small fires have started up again throughout the camp. They dot the landscape like little flowers, flames blooming upward into the black sky. Ack Ack and Hillbilly have a favorite, one nearest the Captain’s tent, and relatively sequestered. Them, Haney, and a few select NCOs. It’s a good crowd, and none of them say anything if Hillbilly’s hand drifts a bit close to Ack Ack’s knee, or if Ack Ack’s head dips momentarily onto Hillbilly’s shoulder. They’re still careful, of course, but it’s good to know that a toe over the line goes unnoticed, for virtue of respect or some other unnamed force.

They get up in tandem and wander deeper into King Company, towards their fire ring of choice. Haney is sparking at some dry tinder just as they arrive, coaxing a small flame to life under the larger logs. He glances up as they settle in, eyes falling on the guitar in Hillbilly’s fist.

“The Marine Corp,” he starts, sitting back with a grin. “Must practice leisure with the same fervency as the act of war.”

Hillbilly smiles at him, the exact same accommodating smile Ack Ack gives to the Gunny when he starts his tangents. Ack Ack settles back, shifting in his seat.

“And in that leisure,” Haney continues, a wolfish grin splitting his weathered features, “Each Marine must be invested in his brother’s recreation as well as his own.”

Eddie nods, equal parts amused and obliging. Haney gestures at the instrument.

“Play us a goddamn tune, Jones.”

Eddie adjusts the guitar in his lap, fingers hovering over the fretboard in hesitation.

“I, uh, I ain’t played in a long while,” he starts, but Ack Ack nudges his side at the same time Haney gives him a genial wave of the hand. No one minds. Even bad music will be the first melody any of them have heard in months, other than the terrible raucous ballads that swell up among the men sometimes. Ack Ack tolerates those songs for the morale boost they are, but he never feels an impulse to sing along.

Hillbilly arranges his fingers against the fretboard and strums quietly, picking up a lazy pattern. Ack Ack watches his nails hit against the strings, his strong fingers even further golden in the firelight than the dying sun. He has the same sheen as a bronze statue, like the ones Andrew had seen in the greens at Bowdoin.

Eddie swaps the chord, pausing for a moment in between. He swears under his breath, obviously frustrated with his apparent rustiness.

In the protection of the shadow between their bodies, Andy presses a supportive knuckle into Eddie’s side, up underneath his jacket.

His skin is warm to the touch.

After a few minutes of fumbling around the frets (and growing gradually bolder), Hillbilly pauses, letting his arm fall from the guitar’s neck. He swipes the back of his hand across his nose discreetly, glancing around the circle to gauge his company’s apparent tolerance. Ack Ack follows his gaze, just to realize they’d accumulated somewhat of an audience. Five, maybe ten of the enlisted men from a nearby group had heard the quiet strumming and crept up on the edges of the firelight to listen. From where he sits, Andy can recognize Burgin and Shelton, meaning Sledge probably isn’t far.

“Why don’t you fellas come and join us?” he calls genially, gesturing for the men to have a seat, instead of crouching in the semidarkness like a bunch of house cats. They start, with the guilty countenance of children caught in the cookie jar, but move into the light anyway.

“Instead of standing out there like a bunch of Peeping Toms, at least.” Andy murmurs, settling in subtly closer to Eddie. From what he knows of the men, they’re either dumb as a bag of rocks or queer themselves, so there should be no issue with their standard dance on the edge of obviousness. He knows Hillbilly probably isn’t happy with the added volume, but Ack Ack figures it won’t do any of them much harm for a little

entertainment.

“Just play them one song and I’ll make ‘em leave,” he murmurs into Eddie’s neck, making it look like a subtle stretch on his part. “Promise.”

Eddie sighs, shifting uncomfortably, but Andy knows that he’ll do it. He knows that Eddie will do anything when he asks like that.

It makes his heart stutter a bit in his chest.

The strings squeal faintly as Hillbilly leans back, tongue running over his teeth while he considers his options. “Any of you, uh, heard’a Midnight Special?” he asks tentatively.

“I have,” Snafu interjects, drawing most eyes in the circle to him. His accent is deeper than Hillbilly’s, and his drawl makes his Is into long, lazy ‘ah’ sounds.

“Can’t sing, though.” he adds, picking something from his teeth.

Someone snorts. Ack Ack’s pretty sure it’s Sledge.

“Well,” Eddie sighs under his breath, nearly contemptuous, but he doesn’t finish the thought. Instead, the guitar starts up again, and everyone settles in a bit closer. The fact it’s music would probably interest most of them alone, but Andy has no doubt most of these men would pay real money to hear their very own Lieutenant Jones sing a ditty.

The introduction to the song lasts for a while, a simple and slightly jaunty chord progression, but right as Ack Ack is starting to think Eddie’s stalling he opens his mouth and he sings.

His voice is nothing special. A gentle, sweet tenor, making up for lack of range with modesty. It’s about the voice expected of a man who played music as a child and fell off, being as his instrument of choice is not included in the provisions of a Marine.

It may be nothing special to everyone else in the world, but to Andrew, it’s fucking magical.

“Yonder comes Miss Rosie,” Eddie intones, over the soft notes of the guitar. “How in the world you know.”

All at once, some otherworldly tiredness sinks into Ack Ack’s bones.

It’s strange, though, to call it that. He had felt exhaustion before- Hell, almost every single day since their landing on Peleliu- but this is different. Hillbilly’s voice makes him want to rest, to tuck his head into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder and let his voice carry him away to gentle oblivion.

“Well, I know her by the apron,” Hillbilly carries on, a loud pop from the fire interjecting in the middle of the lyric. No one so much as jumps. They’ve all been through worse. “And that dress she wore.”

“What kind’a dress?” Someone calls, to quiet chuckles. Ack Ack smiles faintly. If there’s nothing else to be said for King Company’s crude banter, it’s at least endearing.

“Umbrella on her shoulder, Piece’a paper in her hand.” Hillbilly sings. A couple men have joined their circle since the song began, ones apparently more familiar with the music the Lieutenant grew up on. Their voices join in slowly, crooning the ballad towards the smoke rising into the black sky. Andy doesn’t mind- with his proximity to his lover, Eddie’s voice easily overpowers the rest.

A few more lines pass like that, slurring together in a pleasant melody in the Captain’s head. He has to fight to keep his eyes open, but he doesn’t struggle after fixing them on Eddie.

His curls burn amber in the firelight, same as the angular plane of his cheek and just the barest corner of his jaw. With his eyes closed and lips parted, Hillbilly looks like a fucking fever dream of a man.

“Let the Midnight Special,” They all sing at once, loud enough that Andy’s pulled from his momentary reverence. Even Snafu joins in, apparent vocal ineptitude nothing but another one of his little quips.

“Shine her light on me.”

Ack Ack watches the smoke from the fire carry sparks up towards the stars.

“Let the Midnight Special,” he joins in quietly, a second after realizing the lyric repeats.

“Shine her ever-lovin’ light on me.”

#WOOH this one is long for my usual ballpark #over 3k words in just the 1st chapter #it's a lot for me #the next chapter will b up in a few days! pinky swear #andyeddie #andrew ack ack haldane #edward hillbilly jones #Snafu Shelton #eugene sledge #the pacific

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