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crack_van2010-05-03 12:28 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2010-05-03 12:28 pm
Entry tags:
I sing of arms and of the man fated to be an exile by ladytelemachus (PG-13)
Fandom: BAND OF BROTHERS
Pairing: Liebgott/Webster
Length: 4,959
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: The Stacks
Why this must be read:
I love this story's transitions from the past to the present and how the author keeps a some-what tragic feeling to her writing. Post-war Band of Brothers fiction somehow seem to hit me the hardest, and this piece is no different. Watching as the boys have reconcile who they were during the war, while having to pick up the pieces of their respective lives back home; Webster finishing his degree and Liebgott reaching out years after they last spoke. They're both broken in their own ways, and [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]'s stark depiction of them in this piece makes it a must-read for any reader.
‘Joe Liebgott,’ he breathes finally, like singing.
‘It’s been a long time, Web.’
‘Yeah.’ A long time. Time has always been a cruel mistress for them both; those four months he regrets above all things, these squandered years, the moments between hearing, watching Skinny’s inexpert fingers bandaging his leg, that Joe was down, and that he was fine, and taking pot-shots at unfortunate Germans. The absences stretch eternally, and the minutes together race callously, and he’s still too young to hold on properly, tightly.
‘Never seen you in a suit,’ he observes.
‘Never seen you dressed like a fucking pillock,’ Joe says acidly, the spit of his language awash with colour and life and it’s the only thing alive in this house of dead knowledge, really.
‘Well, you know, tradition and all that…’
‘Just like all that saluting and polishing buttons and stuff.’
‘Yeah.’
And still, they’ve said nothing of consequence. How’ve you been? seems futile, and Webster doesn’t want to know the answer, in case it’s happy or married.
‘Not gonna ask me how come I’m here?’ Joe asks, and Webster doesn’t want to think of the miles between Cambridge and San Francisco, and how many months’ wages it must have cost him, and what that sacrifice means.
‘You never wrote,’ he says, finally.
‘Neither did you.’
It’s true – he never did. He sent letters to his old friends, jaunty banter, Joe haunting every word, hanging from the loopy tails of his ys and gs, hunched in the circled space of the os and ds. They sent news back, little snippets they’d heard about Easy Company – how Toye got married to a real looker, couldn’t even wait to get out of the hospital, how Skinny’d taken to drink – but they never mentioned Joe.
‘Bull wrote me,’ Joe says slowly. ‘Told me all ’bout this, how you were finishing college. Figured someone should come and see it. Always fancied me a trip East, anyway. Damn, Web, you’ve got yourself set up nice here, ain’t ya?’
Joe looks wrong among the stately, graceful buildings of the university, a slouching, awkward figure with anger still coiled in his shoulder-blades, years after Landsberg. Webster thinks that maybe it’s the other way round, that it’s the buildings themselves that are out of place.
‘I have to go change,’ he says, and he’s still whispering, his diploma crumpled in his hand now.
‘Good. It’s fucking embarrassing, being seen with you all got up like that.’ Joe follows him without asking, just like he’s been following him ever since they parted ways on a stinking quayside three years ago, just a few steps behind, his jibes and insults still hurting.
They walk through courts and corridors Webster knew long before he knew Joe Liebgott, and the sound of jubilant graduates celebrating muffled by closed doors. Webster wishes there’d been doors to drown out Jackson’s screams, and the wails of frightened prisoners.
When they arrive at his room, he takes off his robe and hangs it up without ceremony, the same casual finality as handing over his weapon at the end of the war. Joe shuffles around his room, leafing through books, picking up ornaments and feeling their weight in his hand, peering at dusty photographs, impudent. Chewing on a nail, he looks out of the window and turns back to look at Webster with a smirk.
‘Nice view,’ he says, and the past cracks open.
I sing of arms and of the man fated to be an exile (Part 1), Part 2
Pairing: Liebgott/Webster
Length: 4,959
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: The Stacks
Why this must be read:
I love this story's transitions from the past to the present and how the author keeps a some-what tragic feeling to her writing. Post-war Band of Brothers fiction somehow seem to hit me the hardest, and this piece is no different. Watching as the boys have reconcile who they were during the war, while having to pick up the pieces of their respective lives back home; Webster finishing his degree and Liebgott reaching out years after they last spoke. They're both broken in their own ways, and [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]'s stark depiction of them in this piece makes it a must-read for any reader.
‘Joe Liebgott,’ he breathes finally, like singing.
‘It’s been a long time, Web.’
‘Yeah.’ A long time. Time has always been a cruel mistress for them both; those four months he regrets above all things, these squandered years, the moments between hearing, watching Skinny’s inexpert fingers bandaging his leg, that Joe was down, and that he was fine, and taking pot-shots at unfortunate Germans. The absences stretch eternally, and the minutes together race callously, and he’s still too young to hold on properly, tightly.
‘Never seen you in a suit,’ he observes.
‘Never seen you dressed like a fucking pillock,’ Joe says acidly, the spit of his language awash with colour and life and it’s the only thing alive in this house of dead knowledge, really.
‘Well, you know, tradition and all that…’
‘Just like all that saluting and polishing buttons and stuff.’
‘Yeah.’
And still, they’ve said nothing of consequence. How’ve you been? seems futile, and Webster doesn’t want to know the answer, in case it’s happy or married.
‘Not gonna ask me how come I’m here?’ Joe asks, and Webster doesn’t want to think of the miles between Cambridge and San Francisco, and how many months’ wages it must have cost him, and what that sacrifice means.
‘You never wrote,’ he says, finally.
‘Neither did you.’
It’s true – he never did. He sent letters to his old friends, jaunty banter, Joe haunting every word, hanging from the loopy tails of his ys and gs, hunched in the circled space of the os and ds. They sent news back, little snippets they’d heard about Easy Company – how Toye got married to a real looker, couldn’t even wait to get out of the hospital, how Skinny’d taken to drink – but they never mentioned Joe.
‘Bull wrote me,’ Joe says slowly. ‘Told me all ’bout this, how you were finishing college. Figured someone should come and see it. Always fancied me a trip East, anyway. Damn, Web, you’ve got yourself set up nice here, ain’t ya?’
Joe looks wrong among the stately, graceful buildings of the university, a slouching, awkward figure with anger still coiled in his shoulder-blades, years after Landsberg. Webster thinks that maybe it’s the other way round, that it’s the buildings themselves that are out of place.
‘I have to go change,’ he says, and he’s still whispering, his diploma crumpled in his hand now.
‘Good. It’s fucking embarrassing, being seen with you all got up like that.’ Joe follows him without asking, just like he’s been following him ever since they parted ways on a stinking quayside three years ago, just a few steps behind, his jibes and insults still hurting.
They walk through courts and corridors Webster knew long before he knew Joe Liebgott, and the sound of jubilant graduates celebrating muffled by closed doors. Webster wishes there’d been doors to drown out Jackson’s screams, and the wails of frightened prisoners.
When they arrive at his room, he takes off his robe and hangs it up without ceremony, the same casual finality as handing over his weapon at the end of the war. Joe shuffles around his room, leafing through books, picking up ornaments and feeling their weight in his hand, peering at dusty photographs, impudent. Chewing on a nail, he looks out of the window and turns back to look at Webster with a smirk.
‘Nice view,’ he says, and the past cracks open.
I sing of arms and of the man fated to be an exile (Part 1), Part 2