In Arms

At the end of the day they're not just a tank crew, they're brothers and brothers take care of each other. Or, five times Fury's crew took care of each other and the one time they couldn't.

Author's Note: I don't imagine anyone will read this; I just couldn't help but write something about this painfully wonderful movie. These characters just grabbed me and demanded to be explored. If there are readers out there, I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

There's also no real point to this other than to explore the brotherhood between Fury's team. So, in term so plot, its all kind of connected yet disjointed. Slice of life, I suppose. Also, Red is the fifth member for some of these vignettes; I feel like Wardaddy mentioned him very briefly in the movie. If not, well, that's okay! Norman will make an appearance, of course, though it will be in only two of the chapters.

a short prayer for the sick, part one

"Bible –" The man in question winced against the way the comm crackled at the sudden intrusion of noise, " - up top. You need fresh air."

Fresh air sounded good, except he was wizened enough to know that on a hot summer day like this, the corpses and mud and excrement of war would reek something foul.

No, he preferred the stuffy, humidity of the tank. Besides, with the way his limbs shook and the general weakness that had taken him, standing sounded a miserable venture.

Boyd brought a shaky hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled a breath and then wiped the back of his hand across his sweat soaked forehead.

There was something to be said about taking ill in the midst of wartime, and on the frontlines at that. Misery on top of misery; so is war. But this, like any other trial, would pass.

"Bible," the tank commander's voice rose in a threatening lilt, "don't make me send Grady." Bible stared ahead from his slumped position, at Grady's legs, his head spinning with each rattle that went through Fury's frame; he didn't know why the man couldn't let him lay in piece.

Though he did. It was the man's way. A very specific brand of care and attention – mothering, even – that came out in orders and terseness.

"Man, you should listen," Gordo's voice rang clear, softer than Collier's; Boyd looked over towards his position; the man's back facing him as he drove, his head poking out of the hatch. He watched the driver's steady hands reaching blindly yet knowingly over the controls, "it's hotter than hell in there."

It was, true enough. But he was a Southern man and a little heat and humidity wasn't likely to get him too bothered, even if Fury had adopted its own swamp-like atmosphere.

"I'm just enjoyin' some peace and quiet for once. That's all." He said into the comm as he let his head fall back against the metal, his eyes shutting against a wave of nausea.

"Peace and quiet?" Grady laughed through the comm line, "Ain't gonna find that here, no sir, you hear that boys, peace and quiet –"

Boyd groaned; he wasn't likely to find such a thing until the war was over and his feet were on American soil. He longed for that day, more than anything.

"Easy, Gordo, up and over –" Boyd sat up in an automatic response; despite his earlier plea for respite, he didn't quite like not being able to see what was coming once they were moving. No tank man did, though he figured if anyone was use to riding blind, it was Grady, who's position had him in constant movement within Fury.

Boyd eased himself into his seat, stomach churning and muscles aching, and leaned into the periscope's sight.

A mountain of rot lay before them, dead livestock piled high; a Nazi parting gift for farmers unwilling to relinquish their homestead and an effective roadblock for troops as they crossed the high ridge.

Boyd sat back in his chair - he didn't need to see anymore – and held tightly to Fury's frame as she suddenly jerked upwards, mounting the heap of decay. The smell hit him rather immediately, marrying the jostled movements of the tank, and his already rolling stomach responded.

He reached somewhat blindly for an empty ammo tin and as soon as it was in his hands he found himself retching.

He could feel Red pat his boot as Grady laughed over the comm., saying something in a teasing tone; he was far too busy losing his stomach contents to register what it was. It certainly wasn't important, he was sure.

Regardless, he bit out an apology, as was his way.

"Sorry –" Boyd let out between bouts; he hadn't the presence of mind, or time, to turn off his comm. and they were all forced to listen to his sick.

"Leave him be, Grady." Collier split through his sick haze and Boyd found it the proper time to remove his helmet, to get the voices out of his ears, even if temporary.

Fury dipped, demounting the fetid pile and God help him … Boyd buried his head deeper into the ammo tin.

He wondered, briefly, if the Good Lord was going to see to it that he died of dehydration. It would probably be kinder than what was afforded to most.

After some undetermined amount of time Fury rolled to a stop. Boyd fought the urge to groan from his place over the ammo tin. He had managed to close the lid but hadn't the energy to store it. Instead, he was leaned over the putrid thing, head bent miserably into his folded arms.

He could at least spare a word of thanks to the Good Lord for not calling him to battle, as indisposed as he had been during this stretch of travel.

"Boyd –" Don's voice broke through his dazed misery and he could feel movement behind him and then a hand on his shoulder.

"Now I know you know I don't like asking twice." There was no real bite to it, not like the way he got with Grady when the man just wasn't hearing him, which seemed often.

"No, sir." He said as he lifted his head, though he hadn't heard him the first time. The man's hand moved to the back of his neck.

"Come on." Boyd carefully placed the tin on the ground – he would deal with it later – and pushed himself out of the seat. His knees gave slightly but Don's strong arms were quick to steady him.

"I'm fine –" He started, reaching a hand out to brace himself against Fury's frame, but Don wasn't impressed, his hand not moving from where it was, clenching the back of his jacket.

"I can see that." Don gave him a short sad smirk and a nod. One would think Grady or Gordo made the worst patients but it was, in truth, Boyd who had proven most difficult. He was quite good at looking over others but unusually terrible at minding his own health and person.

Out of the five of them he was most likely to leave the tank, to walk into an active battlefield in search of the miserable and wounded; Don wouldn't say so, but he suspected the man had more faith than he ought to in His protection.

That or … well, he didn't much care for the or.

"Hold on." the tank commander gave the man a pat on the back, making sure he was holding on to something as he climbed out of the hatch and then reached down, offering a hand.

He watched as Boyd grabbed the rungs and planted his feet, and then reached up to grab his hand. He hoisted him up, allowing him to collect himself as he moved to sit on the lip of the hatch, feet dangling inside.

"It'll pass." And for once he can say it and mean it; he couldn't say the war would pass, or the grief. He couldn't say much about either. In a way it felt good to say something certain when he was surrounded by shit and shortened lives.

Boyd looked up at him, his hair stuck up like a child's and his face a sickly grey, save for the fever flushing his cheeks. He didn't envy the man; he looked miserable – physically, mentally - in a place that was already unbearable.

He eyed him for a moment, hating to see any one of his men suffer any more deeply than was permissible by war. Boyd stared back, wiping at his forehead before patting his jacket pocket, fishing out a cigarette.

"We waiting on orders?" The gunner cleared his throat, attempting to remove the weakness from his speech. Don offered the man a light, which he accepted with a grateful nod.

"No, orders stand. We'll head for Falaise tomorrow." The tank commander surveyed the land before him, briefly, before turning back to his gunner. The man's brow furrowed slightly, the gesture deepening the hollows under his eyes.

"Tomorrow?" They had meant to travel through the night and stop briefly to rest before dawn, when the light was most sparing. It was nearly night now, dusk even, and they hadn't more than three hours of land to cross.

"Krauts aren't going anywhere and the platoons been going four days now. We could all use the rest. Cartwright made the call." Don gestured towards the tank a hundred feet ahead of them; it too was at rest and the men had gratefully gathered at her tracks for a break.

Boyd glanced down as though in rumination and then back up at him, his eyes bright with fever but unmistakably relieved. It was replaced rather immediately by guilt because, well, Boyd was a smart man and wouldn't approve. He opened his mouth to say something but Don was quick to cut him off.

"Come on, Reds making coffee and Gradys cooking something up."

"Cooking?" Boyd looked up – it wasn't often they used their canned goods; they preferred to save them for miserable weather and dire situations; not hot summer days in relative 'peace'.

"His idea. Alright then, enough talk." Boyd flicked his half finished cigarette off the side of the tank and together they eased off Fury's frame, feet landing with a squelch in fresh mud.

Don held on to the back of the gunner's jacket as they made their way somewhat slowly to the front of the tank where Grady, Gordo and Red had gathered. The man's feet moved unsteadily, catching in the mud, and he nearly tripped when the ground leveled out into firm, grassy purchase.

"Careful –" Don hated seeing any of his men like this, hated knowing that should they be needed that he would put Bible behind that gun and expect him to perform, would be hard on him when he missed.

He also knew, however, that the men held themselves to that standard. They all answered the call, regardless of the situation, and were incredibly reliable.

Once Grady had spend a firefight loading with a dislocated shoulder and there had been more than one occasion where Gordo had driven with a concussion. Red and Bible had been burned by grease spills too many times to count and he himself had suffered enough shrapnel spray up top that he was rarely without a scratch or bruise.

There was something particularly bothersome about Bible being out of commission. It probably had something to do with the fact that Bible was the comforting word when they were hurt or despondent. When it was him who was sick or injured, well, things got quiet, as if they knew they couldn't match Bible's calming comfort.

Needless to say, he felt rather inadequate as he helped deposit the man onto the overturned bucket one of the others had set out for him.

Don was keeping him upright and he was thankful for it; being forced into motion again had set into him that debilitating nausea and had the man let him be, he would have slept through the next few hours in Fury.

"Careful –" The tank commander warned when he stumbled over the changed terrain. He nodded, though he was certain the gesture was imperceptible; he was always comforted by the man's quiet assistance, could depend on his nearly stoic strength.

An overturned bucket was waiting for him and Boyd sat down gratefully assisted by Don's steady hold, the twenty-foot walk seemingly having exhausted him.

"Gentlemen," the sergeant said, giving them each a quick look, his way of taking inventory on the well being of his men, "take it easy. I'm going to have a word with Cartwright."

The man gave them a final nod and turned away, leaving them to their small fire. Boyd dipped his head in acknowledgement as their attention turned towards him, cigarette dangling between his lips.

"Hell, man," Grady said from his crouched position, stove clamps holding a can of beans in his hand, "you do look like shit."

The man said it as though they'd been discussing him; there was nothing for it, they probably had been.

"Still better looking than you, Coon-Ass –" Gordo patted him on the back and Boyd closed his eyes against the ache it sent through his head.

"Hey, easy, now –" He muttered, doing his best to look as though he was feeling at least slightly better than he did.

Boyd watched as Grady tossed a rock at the other man, nearly forgetting the beans, dipping them briefly into the heart of the fire.

"Bible." Red pushed a mug into his hands; it was hot, comforting in a weird way, despite the near unbearable heat of his own body. Small comforts, he knew, and he was grateful for it.

"Thank you." Grady huffed at that because the man had a preoccupation with his use of the word, as though war should have cleansed him of general manners and gratitude.

A short moment of quiet passed over them, the fire in the small iron pot crackling and filing the air with a smoke that was, for once, unrelated to war.

"Seriously, though. Grady's right, you don't look so good." He took a sip of coffee and winced at the bitterness; more than likely, it wasn't the best thing for an unsettled stomach.

"Best not be contagious –" Grady said pointing a finger at him; kicked his booted foot at him but Bible knew the man meant nothing by it. They shared close quarters, sure, but he knew it was the man's own brand of concern.

"Jus' sayin', you don't want me droppin' one of them heavy shells on your head, Gordo, and all cause of the plague Bible's got - " As he said it he looked up at him, his brow upturned in concern, his lip upturning in a small sneer as it often did when he was unhappy with something.

"It'll pass," he said, echoing Don's words because it was true; they'd all been sick or injured before while on deployment, "just mind the beans, Grady."

Grady, to his surprise, fell silent and turned his attention back to the can in front of him. The smell wasn't exactly appetizing, not after the ride he'd just had, but he wasn't about to pass it up, even though his stomach rolled when the wind brought the smell to him.

He closed his eyes, hands around the mug, and let his mind drift; it followed the same tether it always did when he had a moment of respite. It drifted towards psalms and prayers, towards his too short days n the seminary and towards things lighter than this.

He must have lost some time because suddenly Grady was there in front of him, crouched and handing him a tin bowl; a comparatively generous helping of beans steamed inside.

"Thank you, Grady." Again, the man huffed, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Don't start now." He warned, his words catching briefly on a cough. The man, when riled enough by those two words, would sometimes go off on a tangent, wondering what to be thankful for. Grady would then accuse him of preaching too much and Don would inevitably have to intervene when things got physical, which nowadays, happened more often than not. He had never been one for getting physical or rough but Grady, God help him, brought it out in him. He suspected the man enjoyed it.

Instead.

"You're welcome." Grady said with a too wide smile; Bible wasn't a dumb man and knew it was a thing half formed in mocking but the other half, well, there was something sincere there.

He couldn't help but give a small smile of his own, despite what followed.

"Thankful for a can a beans –"

He woke suddenly from his restless half sleep - the one he didn't realize he'd fallen into - to the sounds of retching. Not uncommon in wartime but still unpleasant.

The source of the misery was no mystery to him and he only needed to look over a few paces from the tank to find the man. Boyd was leaned over, legs unsteady and hands resting on his knees as he bent over and spit into the mud and, more than likely, his lost dinner.

"Gordo –" Don hissed down at the man laid out on the tarpaulin almost immediately the man was sitting up, looking up at him and ready to move.

"Dig out the salts; see if anyone can spare some fresh water." They had used the last of theirs over dinner and coffee and had had one of their larger reserves punctured by a stray piece of shrapnel that had been sent their way by an exploding tank.

The man didn't need to be asked twice, rarely did in fact, and moved quickly, giving their waylaid brother a quick glance as he climbed into Fury.

Don hopped off the tank and made his way over to the swaying figure, his hand landing tentatively on his back; to his credit the man flinched, ready to fight, before understanding and releasing the tension in his shoulders.

"Going for a walk?" Don said, his voice filled with some small humor, or at least that's what it sounded like; he wasn't sure what it really was anymore.

The man didn't answer.

"Bible." He tried, his voice low, his tone similar to the one he used over the comms. If anything, it demanded attention.

"Yes, sir. Saw 'em, just checkin - " Boyd's accent was thicker than usual; the man spat once more before straightening and Don tried to catch his eye, his own gaze narrowing in suspicion.

"Good man." Don's suspicions of delirium were confirmed when he caught the man's terribly glossy gaze, the way he blinked slowly as though half asleep.

"No, sir." He didn't know what the man had meant, until suddenly he did and it made him hold a little tighter to the man's jacket.

"Ain't a good man. Done too much killin'," his voice was utterly broken and far too intentional; it sounded like a confession he'd had brewing for a long time, something he'd become familiar with, "done too much –"

The war had frayed them all; they'd all become something else throughout the years, had undergone transformations that had left them scarred and hanging on by threads.

This was new, even to him, and it was something that had been lying in deep wait. It made him sick.

"Enough of that." He said in a tone that was hard to argue with, though he knew if anyone could argue with him, successfully, it was Bible. "This isn't you talking."

It was the fever because it had to be; Don wouldn't accept otherwise.

"'M a sinner, Don." The man's eyes are red, welling with the impossible sorrow he knew lay within them all. His grip tightened again and that fire that burned inside him raged. It was the thing that came out whenever he saw a Kraut, the thing that kept him calm and true in the heat of battle.

"God forgives all, you know that." It felt wrong to be the one preaching, and to a man they called Bible, but the words came easily because, when it came to this man, he believed them.

He pushed the ailing man into a sitting position, back on the tarpaulin, Grady shifting slightly on the other end.

"Nothin' can clean away what I've done." He said it with conviction and it sounded damning, like the men that stood on podiums and cursed your soul as you walked by. "Done too much –"

The man muttered to himself and Don could do was put his around the man's shoulders; it was bullshit that this was all he could offer as the man shook with whatever had made him so ill, as he stared ahead, eyes burning with images only he could see.

"Top." Gordo called out as he approached, a water tin with Murder Inc. scrawled on the side in one hand and an army issue package of hydrating salts in the other.

"Gordo? He get 'r started?" He was grateful for Gordo's appearance; if anything it had broken the fevered man's train of thought. Hearing the man explore his fracturing faith was enough to shake his own resolve and he didn't need that, couldn't afford it.

"Started, man, what –" Gordo trailed off as he took in Boyd's appearance, sweat trailing down his temples and his gaze cloudy and altered.

"Gordo, get those in him. Did you see Harrison on your walk?" He fished a rag out of his back pocket – it was as clean as any other they'd find – and gestured for the water, pouring some over the rag and, without bothering to ring it out, slapping it on the back of his gunner's neck.

The man's only reaction was to dip his head a bit lower, in what the tank commander hoped to be relief.

"Yeah, he's down with Lucy Sue – " Gordo took the water back, intent on preparing the OHS and frowned, "we're heading out at dawn; he gonna be okay to move?"

"I'm fine, Gordo –" The man surprised them both and they both turned their heads to look at him, trying to judge if the comment had been born of true lucidity or habit.

He didn't say anything further, didn't move, didn't do anything; Don wasn't willing to call it lucidity but he had some hope.

"We'll get him there." They didn't have an option. They didn't have the luxury of travelling with an outfit as grand as a battalion; they were first defense, first to move, first to scout and lay the path. It was just the tanks, a jeep and a handful of men on foot; they hardly had a field hospital on hand.

His best bet was to find Harrison - the primary medic in their platoon - and get what he could to set his gunner right and get him back on his feet.

He left Boyd to Gordo, giving the gunner a final pat on the back; he thought about mentioning the brief conversation he'd managed with the man, thought about warning Gordo, but he didn't want to repeat it. Didn't want it to be heard again.

If he did, it might just break him.

Thank you for reading; part two will be up soon and then onto Wardaddy. Thanks again :-)