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Eugene knows his mother is worried about him. He knows she wants the best for him—that's why she insisted that he apply to Alabama State Poly.
He sits in the shade and hides behind his sunglasses. He spends whole days in the fields with his memories. It's strange to be alone again, after so long spent living in the pockets of his squad. Eugene tries not to miss them.
His mother thinks he needs to be around people, but the one thing Eugene can't stand—even worse than the Japs' war cries or the constant tattoo of machine guns—is people who don't know what it was like. Eugene has sworn never to put on a uniform again, and he's trapped in some kind of limbo, caught between knowing and trying to forget (and, most of all, knowing he can never forget).
He wears a suit for Sidney and Mary's wedding. He combs his hair and bares his teeth and stands by his best friend's side at the altar. He doesn't make a speech, because he has nothing to say to these people who have never felt the cruel lash of tropical rain or smelt the sickening stench of rotting corpses.
Eugene thinks about the morning he woke up on the train, back stiff from sleeping on his luggage, to find Snafu gone. To find his—friend? Whatever Snafu had been—had just up and left, despite all they'd been through together. He hates Snafu, sometimes. Other times he misses him so much it makes him sick.
His mother thinks he needs a purpose, a direction. Eugene thinks he needs to go to New Orleans and give Snafu Shelton a clout around the head.
Four weeks into Sidney and Mary's happy marriage, Eugene Sledge packs some spare clothes in a bag and takes the six o'clock train to Mississippi. He sleeps on the platform at Jackson, and almost misses the next train to Louisiana.
And then suddenly he's standing outside the station in New Orleans, people streaming past him, jabbering noisily in that near-incomprehensible dialect that streamed from Snafu's tongue. Eugene has no idea how to find Snafu in this sprawling city.
He walks, directionless, hoping, until late afternoon, when his parched throat and aching feet force him to stop (it's nowhere near as thirsty as he was in the Pacific, but it's enough). He sits in a small café just off a side street. His seat has a view of the port, and he watches the steamers glide over the water while he drinks his lemonade. New Orleans is hot and bright; it makes his eyes tired, and Eugene thinks that perhaps he could stay here for a while. He goes inside the bistro to pay but doesn't make it through the door before he stops in his tracks, stunned and disbelieving.
What he expects is a stout, kindly, middle-aged woman who will kindly tell him that he sure looks pale, and to be wary of sunstroke.
What he gets is a skinny young man with a head of dark curls, who is standing with his back to the door.
Eugene hardly dares to hope, and his breath catches in his throat as the man slowly turns around and—
It can't be—
But it is.
Eugene thinks there must be a God, no matter what Private Leckie had said to him, because this cannot be the work of chance.
Snafu is there, right in front of him, eyes wild. He looks like a rabbit staring at a snake, frozen in place. Eugene slowly takes a step towards him, and when Snafu doesn't move he takes another.
And another, and another, until they're almost toe to toe. This close he can hear Snafu's breaths, shaky and irregular. He lifts a hand and lightly touches Snafu's shoulder, just make sure he's actually there, and not a wishful mirage Eugene has cooked up—
But his fingers brush the rough cotton of Snafu's shirt, and it jolts him back to the real world. Everything comes flooding back: The mud and rain and Snafu's pocket full of gold teeth. The morning he woke up truly alone for the first time since Peleliu.
He swings back his fist, quick as day, and socks Snafu neatly on the jaw, sending him to his knees. He doesn't know what quite what to expect from Snafu, but the strange tension between them has dissipated. Snafu is laughing that low chuckle just like he used to, he's standing up and grinning at Eugene and saying "I guess I deserved that one, Sledgehammer."
"What the fuck, Shelton?" Eugene says, more harshly than he means to. "You just fuckin' disappeared on me?"
Snafu shrugs his shoulders, and says "You gotta live your life, Gene, and I gotta live mine."
Eugene waits for him to expand, but it soon becomes apparent that that's Snafu's only vindication. "I gotta live my life?" He repeats incredulously. "I don't have a life any more, Snafu! My head's full of K Company and mortar bursts and killin' Japs. It's full of Peleliu and Okinawa and there's no room left for Alabama. There's no room!" He's shouting now. "Sidney and my brother, hell, they've gone back to being normal-ass Americans with their pretty wives and their jobs. And I've—I've got nothing. And you weren't there. You weren't there."
The lazy smile has slid from Snafu's face, and he's watching Eugene with an unreadable expression. "It was better," he finally says, almost haltingly, dropping his gaze. "It was better if I was gone. Gene, I—you ain't the only one who thinks about the war."
"Don't take the piss outta me, Shelton." Eugene starts angrily, "I know it's not all about me. But how is it fair that everyone else is just fine, you're the same as always, and I'm still fucked up like I'm still on an island in the South Pacific?" He looks away.
Snafu dips his head to catch Eugene's eyes, and when he straightens up Eugene can't help but follow him. Snafu's face is much closer than Eugene remembers it being a moment ago, and his voice is low when he says "Everyone else ain't just fine, Sledgehammer. I ain't slept in weeks. I move boxes in the day and at night I'm movin' bodies in Okinawa. You're not alone, Gene. You're not."
And before Eugene can say anything Snafu's fingers are light on the back of his neck, and there's the slightest pressure as Snafu draws him down and slowly, tentatively, presses their dry lips together.
He draws back, expression daring Eugene to punch him again, to call him names and turn on his heel and stalk out of the café. But—fuck that, Eugene thinks. He's sick of doing what's required of him. He wants to shock Snafu as much as he was shocked the morning he woke up alone on a train. He wants to feel something that isn't guilt or anger or fear.
He leans down and kisses Snafu again, and senses his shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly before they relax again. He can feel Snafu's languid smile against his lips, and, just for a moment, Eugene lets himself smile back.