Where your favorite blogs come alive
Eugene Sledge - Blog Posts
cutest picture in all of hbo war imo. sid said yes i do need my best friend and my wife in my pocket at all times
i'm one of the delusional sicko who firmly believe that if sledge and snafu reunite the relationship would work out and they'd be together till they die.
Purple Gas by Zach Bryan is giving Eugene Sledge for some reason. Like idk why maybe I’m crazy but I feel it in my bones.
L O V E I N H B O W A R
trying to get back into drawng fanart
may we get some snafu..... pwetty pwease...
here's chibi snafu with a bonus eugene
JOE MAZZELLO as EUGENE SLEDGE the pacific (2010) || part seven: peleliu hills
ok I got ambrose's bob book just finished reading it and this got my attention (my book is in portuguese so yall get the pdf)
I immediatly thought of Sledge. I just think is interesting how it's always (two times as far as I know but still) birds, like seeing such harmless, defenseless, small creatures hurt, in this case by his own hands, makes them snap (?) I dont know how to explain how i see it, it's like they finally see they still can do such thing, even with no apparent reason like Ralph said "the bird had done me no harm and couldn't have", they were so tired of all that violence and death but they still took it home with them. I like how, with Sledge, people always have something to say about that hunting scene in the last episode, how it represents his innocence in a way, or maybe he couldn't hunt them because he was back home but he was different and didnt want to "stain" the memory of the boy he used to be, he probably went hunting before but now it was different, he was different, hunting after all he saw and did would be more than just that, it would show him he did leave his humanity behind it would be him staying in the war and bringing it even closer than it already is. He didn't want that, he didn't want that uniform, didn't want to but he had to live with those nightmares. He wasn't that boy anymore and we can see that he feels inadequate when he comes back, but to his mother, maybe even his brother if just a little, he is still a boy. He lives in his old house and sleeps in his old room but he knows he is no longer that person and because of this loss he doesn't want the memory and innocence of that boy to be tarnished by the man he is becoming/is, in a way he's still mourning that boy.
tbf so many idiots would fit this I dont even know what pictures to use
you can only adopt 1
CRUEL EDITION
SIDSLEDGE: anyway, don’t be a stranger
“Soldier, soldier come from the wars, O then I know it’s true I’ve lost my true love!” “An’ I tell you truth again—when you’ve lost the feel o’ pain You’d best take me for your true love.” - Rudyard Kipling, “Soldier, Soldier,” Barrack Room Ballads
I would like the pacific characters headcanons but I don't know if I'm going to get lost in the tumblr shadows if I don't pls and thank you 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
I HAVE TO FREAKING REBLOG THIS
Snafu Shelton: You’ve got to act tough, Sledge! Show ‘em you can’t be pushed around! Show 'em they can’t mess with you!
Eugene Sledge: Right! Yes! Tough! Got it! *stands up from barstool and slams hand on the bar* I’LL TAKE A CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE!!
watching sledge go from a young, bright boy so impatient to go to war to the jaded, dead-inside man who watches a an orphaned baby cry next to his deceased parents and doesn't blink an eye is so heart-shattering.
The Girl From Home
Sid Phillips x Reader
GIF By: @rockpaperscissuhs
Please Read
Author’s Note / Historical Disclaimer:
This story is a fictional work inspired by the character of Sidney Phillips as portrayed in HBO’s The Pacific. While the show draws from the real stories of World War II veterans, this fanfiction is not intended to represent or depict any real people — living or deceased. It is purely a work of fiction, and I have changed details accordingly.
Additionally, this story includes period-accurate language and terminology that may be considered offensive or inappropriate today. Slurs and harsh military slang are used not to endorse these views but to reflect the historical reality and emotional toll of war. Please read with that context in mind.
Tags: 18+, Mature themes, PTSD, violence, some sexual content, Minors DNI
He never even got your name.
All Sid has to remember you by is that day.
The one moment you shared on the morning following his enlistment.
It was a warm Alabama day.
He'd just passed the bakery when a display of ice cream flavors caught his attention. Thinking he'd indulge himself before he went off to war, Sid stepped into the store.
Grasping the two crumbled dollar bills in his pocket, he had his mind made up on a cone of vanilla strawberry, whatever the heck that was.
But when his gaze took a lazy scan around the room, he came to a halt.
Mobile wasn't a big town by a long shot; everybody pretty much knew one another. And yet, he had never run into you before. Perhaps you and your family had just moved in?
His gaze first skimmed over you in the pharmacy corner, but then, then he had to look at you again. His body decided to act for him. "Warm out, isn't it?" He said. He just wanted to make you speak to him.
You looked up from the receipt you had been reading. Your eyes. Oh my, they could write books about eyes like that, Sid thought.
You smiled the way girls did in moving pictures when approached by a boy. "At least they run their fans in here. The parts shop was a sweat lodge."
Ah, so you were new. Rosemary's was owned by a wealthy family, so they could afford to run their fans on longer than other businesses.
"Yeah, most people know to avoid's Phill's shop until at least late afternoon." Sid said, just noticing the sheen of sweat glistening over your delicate collarbone above the hem of your pretty blue dress.
He cleared his throat, feeling his face warm. "After the sun ain't so bad."
Your own cheeks held a blush. "Where were you an hour ago?"
Sid chuckled, following the movement of your hand rising to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Nails pale, delicate.
How cruel of god, he thought, to send him a girl like you just days before he was shipped off for who knows how long.
Perhaps it was a test of faith, like his pastor often talked about.
The pharmacist returned from the backroom, holding out a paper bag and handing you back your change. "There ya go, sweetheart. Tell your grandma to only take one at a time."
You thanked him.
The pharmacist then looked from you to Sid, eyes creasing with recogn. "Sidney!"
"How are you, Carl?"
Carl smiled. "Not bad, not bad. How's your mama? Headaches any worse"
"Much better now, thanks to you."
"That's good, that's good." Carl's tone took a dip. "Heard you enlisted."
"Yes, sir," Sid glanced your way just in time to see the sharp intake of breath through parted lips.
Carl's nod was mechanical, his gaze held things unsaid. "When are you boys shippin' out?"
"In five days,"
Carl was quiet for a long time before he cleared his voice. "Now, you go there, and you do everything you need to do to survive, to win."
"Will do, sir."
Holding your things, you looked as if you wanted to say something but were unsure. At last, you met his gaze.
"Good luck." Voice soft, yet firm at the same time. Then you walked past him and out the door.
"Hey, wait!" Someone called behind you. You turned to see Sid running to you across the road, an ice cream cone held in each hand.
The corner of your lips lifted as he came to stand before you.
"I paid for one, but Carl gave me the second one for free." He spoke with a shrug. "I'd hate for it to... ah, go to waste."
Your hand rose to cover up your giggle.
Before Sidney Phillips sees action in Guadalcanal, he sees two mutilated U.S. marines. Boys his age. Bloodied, tied to trees, gouged eyes, and severed parts.
That evening, their medic is shot down by friendly fire. The man had just stepped out to relieve himself.
It was their third taste of incompetent leadership. The first was when the generals pranked them into thinking they were landing into enemy fire—only to hit a beach full of marines. Sid had to hand it to them. It was a good one.
In their dugout, they watch the American and Japanese fleets shell each other. Sid returns with edible coconuts and passes them around.
They cheer through the night like it’s a football game.
They nickname him Johnny Reb. He doesn’t know what it means. Sweating too much to ask.
Freshly eighteen, Sid is the youngest in his troop. Barely tasted his first drink. Leckie offers him a swig from a champagne bottle left behind.
He works hard. Eager to prove himself.
The Japanese fleet circles the island by the dozens. There isn't an American shit in sight. Jesus, where are their guys? Sid bites the inside of his cheek to keep from voicing his question... Have the american fleets abandoned them?
Sid goes partially deaf from the gunfire. Japs descend onto the beaches at night. Silhouettes in the dark. He fires. Some drop. Some don’t.
He moves. So do the men. Keep shifting to avoid bombs.
He and Leckie stumble upon their platoon leader. The once cocky, macho man is rolled over, crying in his dugout while he and the rest of them are running canon fodder, defending the island as the Japs run in by the hundreds.
How many break the line? he doesn't know. Too dark to see, so they fire and move and fire again.
The morning after, the beach is a graveyard. Corpses rotting in the sun. Some are floating in a pool of their blood.
The tragedy is one thing, but the smell...
Sid walks away, trying to find a clean place to vomit.
"A real turkey shoot."
"Run fucker!" Some of their men cheer and hoot as the last Japanese soldier standing runs around, looking at the corpses of his fallen comrades.
Sid screws his eyes shut as his supposed enemy screams out in desperation, taking shots and shots. He wonders if the Jap... if the soldier even registers the physical pain of the bullets. He doubts it.
This disturbing charade continues until Leckie has the mercy to pull his pistol out and shoot the poor boy in the heart.
Sid digs into the bags that belonged to the fallen Japs, trying to find anything useful. Edible. Instead, he finds family pictures and dolls... and books.
His eyes linger on those items. That woman in the photograph... had he killed her son? His eyes begin to swim, and he tears his gaze away, moving on to the next bag.
He can't dwell on it. On any of it.
He long has it been?
His birthday had just passed.... a couple of months then. Shit, he forgot it was his fuckin' birthday until he read Eugene's letter. He folds the envelope and hides it in his pocket.
They're thin. Sunken faces. Skin and bone. Bags under their eyes, sick, hungry. Sticky with blood and sweat.
Hoosier's hands tremble. He hasn't had a smoke in a couple of minutes. Sid managed to get his hands on a full pack of lucky strikes the other day but now sees the empty paper box discarded beside Hoosier's boot.
Chuckler has the runs for the fourth day in a row.
Runner has crazy eyes.
Leckie looks like an entirely different person.
Sid has at least a dozen cuts he's pretty sure are infected. His head is swaying, too.
Mama used to say women like to see men hard at work.
He chuckles to himself.
Yeah. Bet you'd love to see him now.
Withered. Sickly. A murderer.
He lights a cigarette. Dinner.
Semper fi, he thinks to himself. Happy birthday to me.
The army runs off to hide from the air raid, leaving a completely perfect delivery unwatched. So the boys swoop right in to pop open trunks in search of shoes, cigars, and booze.
Feeling like a kid on Christmas, Sid heads straight for the crates containing weapons. Throwing the crowbar aside after he busts the lock open, what he sees inside ruins his mood.
Disbelief, then denial, then rage.
He looks around to look at his comrades, looting brand new uniforms, cigars...
Who gives a shit?! They got the army rifles manufactured in THIS CENTURY. While he got to use shit that his grandpa wouldn't even hunt a bunny with.
His shoulders drop. Do they even give a fuck?
Do they care that the first marines are dyin' out here?
"So yeah, apparently, back home were... well, we're heroes." Leckie finishes relaying what the cook had told them in the mess hall.
They're all sitting aboard the boat, headed to Australia for some recovery, and resupply.
To Leckie's side, half listening, Sid sits with his head propped against the wall, a blank look on his face. Ya, here that, Soldier? He thinks. Every Jap ya killed has made you a hero back home.
The boy is broken. When he walks, it's without purpose. He's just taking step after step like the rest of them.
He doesn't bother greeting you when he plopps down on the wooden chair at your station. The nth soldier to do so in a room full of nurses today.
You gasp. "Sid."
The dirt covered boy looks up at you, eyes narrowing.
Does he know you?
Slack mouthed, and you take in the sight.
His once styled hair is now a disheveled mess falling over his forhead. His face all hollow cheeks, sharp edges, and poorly cut stubble. Eyes distrusting of their own shadow.
Even as you see the recognition there.
You whisper, "It's really you."
There's something in your voice you can't quite name. Excitement? Shock?... Relief?
But whatever goes on in your head, the opposite's in his. You see recognition flicker. Then apathy.
Eyes drop.
"Yeah... it's me."
You sit alone in the mess hall, quickly and hungrily eating your rations when Sid Phillips limps in.
His eyes find you instantly. He realizes hasn’t looked at a woman in months. Really looked. You're all soft skin and clean hands, dress hugging your waist, your breasts... he wonders if you're required to look so put together, so beautiful for your job.
He can't imagine why? Not much beauty out here.
Maybe that's why.
They ran out of clean clothes to give the soldiers so he's still walking around in his uniform. Torn over his stomach and chest, sleeves gone, exposing sunburnt arms.
One thing that stood out during your health check was a bunch of poorly healed welts and a once broken, mostly repaired ankle. You assigned him to triage for a wrap and a disinfection. There was a line to go to the showers, so you gave him an early number. But it looks like they hadn't gotten to his turn yet.
A lit cigarette hangs from Sid's dry lips as he makes his way to you, taking a seat across from you.
Suddenly nervous, you quickly wipe your mouth and plant your hands on the bench underneath your thighs. You watch your food, gaze occasional jumping to him, not ready to speak first.
"When did you become a nurse?"
The voice is softer than expected. Conversational. Not entirely kin, but you can tell it's difficult for him.
He’s trying.
"1943," you say. "The day after my high school graduation."
He nods, soot covered, fingers scratching his stubble. "... Do you like it?"
You swallow, cobsidering his question. Did you? It wouldn't feel right to say you enjoyed the sight of blood...
"I..." you begon, thinking over your answer. "Enjoy helping people. Serving my country."
He lets out a dry chuckle, turning his head to exhale the smoke away from you. "Yeah. No question there."
That stings more than you expect. "Excuse me?"
Seeing your reaction, Sid's smile drops as he realizes how he must have come across. "Oh, fuck."
You tense. You're used to profanity by now — every nurse is — but hearing it from Sid, who once spoke like a choirboy, catches you off guard.
"That's not what I meant."
You remind yourself not to judge him because you don't know what he's seen... what made him the way he is now. So you sit back, willing yourself to be more open-minded.
"It's alright." You offer gently.
"No," he rasps. "Its not. I'm... its me. There's something wrong."
A terrible curiosity claws at your chest. What had he seen out there?
"... what is it?" You ask.
"You... you have no idea what's it's like there. I'm sorry, they..." he looks around, paranoid. "They don't care. They dont care who lives or dies. There's no logic to it." He said brokenly.
"Who? The Japs?"
Chuckling again, he shakes his head. "No, not the Japs."
Before you can ask more, your name is called. The two of you turn to the entrance. A doctor stands, pulling on a pair of blue rubber gloves, his coat is smeared with blood stains. "If you're finished, nurse, we need hands."
"Yes, sir." You stand and pick up your tray, sending Sid an apologetic look.
He gives you a nod, his eyes dropping to your tray. Something he sees their makes him sit up. "Oh, is that chewing gum?"
You look down at the small white wrapper, then you hand it over. "Take it."
Judging by the expression on his face you'd think you had just offered him the moon.
"I was just going to ask for one–" he begins.
"I have much more. Take it." You reassure him. Then, diciding to risk making him laugh, you offer with a smile. "Please, you need it."
Priceless. The look on his face is priceless. Sid gapes at you, not unlike a proper southern dandy whose pride was just insulted. But then his gaze drops to your smiling lips, letting him know you're teasing him. And his own teeth start to show with the hint of a grin.
His fingers, dry, callused, brush yours when he takes the gum.
"Thanks,"
You nod, turning to leave, even when you yearn to stay with him for a little longer.
The marines line up to disembark, boots thumping on the metal plank leading to the harbor. An hour's passed since docking, and Sid scans the crowd—one hand gripping his pack, eyes moving from nurse to nurse, face to face.
But you're not there.
A tug at his collar jerks him forward.
Runner, grinning. "Nostalgic already, Johnny Reb?"
Sid shakes his head. "There’s a nurse I wanted to say goodbye to. She's from back home."
Leckie slings an arm around him, already pointing toward the crowd gathered at the dock. Sunhats, curls, lipstick. Cheers rising like confetti.
"Behold, my friend." Leckie drawls, "an endless line of sun-kissed Australian girls, all waiting to give a hero the welcome he deserves."
Sid follows the line of Leckie’s gaze. They are pretty, all of them. Fresh-faced. Smiling.
He looks back at the ship one last time.
Then he steps off the ramp, into the streets of Australia, ready—if not eager—to forget the Pacific.
He’d slept with a woman. Drank half the liquor in Australia.
Its… unbelievable.
That food can taste this good. That a bed could feel this soft. That a body could bring this much comfort.
If he ever makes it home, he swears, he’ll never complain again.
And then—training starts back up.
Fuck whoever invented blisters. He can't sleep most nights, not with the pain in his feet screaming through the thin material of his boots.
Marches across the scorched Australian fields blur his vision.
One night, wide awake and soaked with sweat, Sid reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out the white container.
The last stick of chewing gum.
He pops it into his mouth, folding the wrapper neatly before slipping it back into his pocket.
The days after a massacre are always hauntingly quiet. Sid is used to it. Probably for the best.
The rain lets up, leaving a sticky heat in the air. Pavuvu is a mess of swaying palms, mud, and tents that smell like mold and guns.
Sid sits under the lean-to behind the infirmary, rifle balanced between his knees. He's not on watch. He just can't sleep.
His stomach aches. Or maybe its his back. Or head. Always something lately.
"Phillips," someone barks, boot steps squelching in the mud.
Sid turns his head up.
"Mail," the corporal tosses a fistful of soggy envelopes into his lap before disappearing again.
He flips through it. Most of it is nothing—military nonsense, forms, nothing from his folks—
He freezes.
One of the envelopes has his name on it in script. Slanted.
He tears it open.
Dear Sid,
I'm writing you because I’m not sure if I’ll ever see you again. Not because I think you’ll die but because things don’t happen like that.
I didn’t get to say goodbye. I looked for you. But I figured you were already on a boat or maybe drunk somewhere with the boys. (Tell Hoosier he owes me a packet of morphine, and that those things are not candy.)
Things are the same back here. Blood, noise, more soldiers every day.
I still remember that day, by the way. That "free" ice cream.
I guess I’m writing this to say I hope you’re still ok. I hope there’s something in you they haven’t taken yet.
Be safe, Sid.
–The girl from home
Sid reads it twice. Then again.
The rain starts up again. But he doesn't move.
Instead, he folds the letter back into the envelope, slides it into his breast pocket with the gum wrapper and Sledge's letter, and leans his head against the tent pole behind him.
The sun is doing its best to boil Peleilu and them with it. Sid crouches behind a half-buried chunk of rock, sweat burning into the cuts on his back.
A Japanese sniper has them pinned down. No way forward. No way back.
Chuckler mutters beside him, working the bolt on his rifle.
Sid’s vision blurrs. Retinas burning. He blinks, then blinks again. His head is pounding. He hadn’t eaten in thirty hours. Maybe longer.
He puts a hand on his chest—instinct—and feels the envelope crinkle.
He hadn’t opened it again. Didn’t need to.
He remembered every word.
"I hope there’s something in you they haven’t taken yet."
Sid snorted under his breath.
Still something in him, huh?
He wasn’t so sure.
"Whatcha laughing at?" Leckie asks without looking.
Sid shakes his head. "Letter."
Leckie nods. "From back home?"
"Sort of."
"Girl?"
Sid looks out over the ridge. "Maybe."
On the day you receive your college acceptance letter, you run into Sidney Phillips for the third time.
It's been two weeks since you came home to Mobile. Sleeping in your childhood bed, enjoying your parents’ clean house and warm meals. The first week was rest. The second is something like healing.
When you finally feel like yourself again, you start going out. Visiting old girlfriends. Catching up over soda counters.
"You'll love college, dear," your friend Mary says, sipping Coca-Cola through a red-and-white paper straw. "I’ve never had access to so much education before. We ladies are even allowed to take the labs with the men now."
Your brows arch. "That’s wonderful!"
"Aha!" Marie winks proudly. "We’ll show them women can engineer just as well as they can."
You’re about to reply when something behind her catches your eye. A flash of navy blue.
A uniform.
You freeze.
There, walking down from the end of the street where the wealthier homes sit, is Sidney Phillips. His hat tucked neatly under his arm. He looks—
Washed. Shaved. Pressed.
Older. His cheeks have filled back in, but not enough to restore that boyish softness. There are still shadows under his tired eyes.
You rise abruptly, startling Mary. You mutter an apology—something about needing a moment—and cross the street, heart pounding like it did when you were seventeen.
He’s looking off in the distance, lost in thought.
Then he sees you.
He stops in his tracks.
Neither of you says anything.
Then your arms are around his neck.
He catches you instantly, arms circling your waist, holding you like something precious.
He pulls back enough to study your face.
His expression is unreadable at first—somewhere between awe and disbelief.
"How...?" he breathes.
You don’t know. Your throat is too tight to speak. The emotion you’ve been swallowing for months finally breaks loose.
A sob escapes you, and your shoulders tremble in his arms.
He flinches, not from you, but from what your pain unlocks in him. His features fold inward. The guilt is sudden, visible.
He gathers you back to him. Tighter this time. Desperate.
"Darlin’… please don’t cry," he murmurs against your hair.
He holds you like he doesn't think he deserves this moment. Not your tears, not your arms, not your presence.
You are warm. You are real.
And all his friends are still bleeding in Peleliu.
When he walks you home after your third date, you two are laughing. He'd just finished telling you about running into Sledge on his last day with his company in the first marines. Clearly, he had a favorite in one charismatic writer. Seeing him as a role model of a sort.
"Did Leckie ever read you any of Vera's letters?" You ask.
Sid purses his lips. He allows himself a sad smile. "You know, I never asked. In the case that she hadn't written back."
"Oh but she must have," you think out loud. "You made him sound infatuated with her. What girl would ignore such devotion?"
He considers your words while studying the way your hair falls over your shoulder. He yearns to run his fingers through it. Then, he gets another idea.
Wrapping his arms around your waste, he lifts you in the air and twirls you around. "Why the sudden fascination in my buddy, miss?"
The sound of your laughter makes him wonder if he's dreaming.
"Sid!" You sqeual, stomach hurting from laughter.
His hands hover over your waist like he’s afraid to touch something clean. When you kiss his shoulder, he lets out a noise that sounds more like grief than pleasure. He kisses softly, but when the two of you are alone, he kisses like a dying man kisses air. Greedy, shaking. You reassure him with a light brush at his jaw. "I’m not going anywhere."
He nods. He tries.
When the two of you are laying in bed and you lazily play with his dog tags, he reacts almost instinctively before realizing what you’re doing, then lets you.
The way he grips your thighs when pulling you onto him is urgent, not dominating — like the touch of your skin will pull him out of his mind.
His body trembles, just slightly, when he finally enters you. It is a kind of overwhelmed tension — not fear, not excitement, but something heavier. He doesn’t say what he saw, but the way he touches you — fists in your nightgown, mouth pressed against your chest — makes it clear. He’s trying to feel something other than his memories.
The smell of onions in butter is heavy in the air. The windows are cracked open, and birds chirp outside.
The war is over. Japan has surrendered. Sledge came home and was sitting in your porch in the grass, sipping a bear in silence. It’s another hot Alabama summer, and the floor tiles under your bare feet are cool.
Sid stands beside you at the counter in your kitchen, sleeves rolled, paring knife in hand. He’s not particularly good at peeling potatoes—he keeps taking off too much—but he’s focused. Determined.
"You’re gettin’ it now," you smile, brushing flour from your fingers.
"Yeah?" he grins. "Reckon I make a decent sous-chef?"
He’s happy, relaxed. It’s a rare thing to witness. You smile to yourself just having the chance to watch him.
He flinches.
"Shit."
You hear the metal clatter before you see the blood.
He’s nicked his thumb cleanly, the cut shallow but red.
You’re already moving. Your hand is steady as you pull the towel down from the hook and press it to his hand.
He holds it down, not needing to be told to.
You open the drawer where your mother keeps the tin first-aid kit. Gauze. Tape. Salve. You kneel at the table, taking his hand, already unwrapping the towel.
"It’s nothing," he says, trying to make light of it.
Quiet, you clean the wound efficiently as you were trained. Press gauze, tape it down. Your fingers work the way they always do.
Until—
You pause.
Something about the blood. The curve of his wrist.
You blink, and you’re not here anymore.
You’re on the canvas floor of the tent. It’s dark, there’s screaming, and someone’s leg is—
"Hey."
His voice cuts through it. Gentle.
You’re back. You’re holding gauze. Your hands are trembling.
You drop them.
"I'm fine." You say quickly.
"You’re not."
His bandaged hand lowers, and the other brushes your arm — soft, light.
You sit back against the cabinet, your eyes wide, unfocused.
"I didn’t even feel it coming," you whisper.
"That’s the worst kind," Sid murmurs, crouching down beside you.
"It was just a cut."
"It's not the cut," he says. Understanding in his voice.
He doesn’t press you. Doesn’t touch your face or try to fix it. He just waits. And when your breathing slows, he quietly says, "C’mon. Porch’s cooler anyway."
You nod.
And he stands, waiting for you to take his hand. You do.