Chapter Text
March 1944
Brief skirmishes in the south of England and the north of France consumed Anakin's days and, more often, his nights. Despite the advanced weaponry and air raids, war hadn't changed so much that Anakin couldn't recognize it. It didn't matter how people died, only that they did. It didn't matter how they won, only that the newspapers reported they had. All he worried about was staying alive and making sure the guy across the way didn't.
He was quiet and introverted during interludes of card games and raucous laughter. There had been a time when Anakin couldn't be kept from enjoying a fleeting moment of peace with his men. Except now, he was just another soldier, not a general. No one would look to him for advice or encouragement. In fact, he couldn't actually remember the last time someone had even looked his way.
So he proved his worth on the battlefield, almost never using his gun, in preference to the sharp edges of his bayonet. It put him in the thick of things and gave him the comfort of a lightsaber. Anakin's courage, or recklessness, brought him to the attention of his commanding officer. It felt strange to walk from the enlisted men's tent to that of Colonel Turnage. Never in his two years of having landed on Earth had he thought he would be on the receiving end of one of these 'reckless youth' speeches he was so used to hearing from Obi-Wan —and now was sure he was going to hear. Anakin wasn't positive, though, whether the sting came from the Colonel's need to give the speech to him or the use of the word 'youth.'
He took a deep breath and braced himself for humiliation before stepping into the tent. Turnage sat at his desk, feet up and on the phone. He motioned for Anakin to sit as he agreed numerous times to whatever was being said on the end. Finally, he dropped the brown phone back into its slot and, placing his feet on the ground, turned to face Anakin.
"Private Skywalker, it has come to my attention that you take undue risks on the battlefield," he began, getting straight to the point as commanders are wont to do and reaching for a file in his open cabinet.
Anakin grit his teeth, steadying himself. "I don't believe so, sir. I know what I'm doing," he ground out.
The colonel's graying eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "You think so? If you can count the battles you've fought in on one hand, you don't know what you're doing."
Anakin felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. The worst part was, the colonel didn't mean to be patronizing. He didn't know the scar that ran from Anakin's collarbone clear down to his knee had split him open for over an hour before the medical droid could get him stitched up. He didn't know the fine red line that ran across his right eye was the outcome of a lightsaber duel with no other than Asajj Ventress. But Turnage wasn't finished.
"However, I've seen you in action and you move like a soldier. You're green but you don't let the enemy know that. Through their eyes, you're the most experienced man out there. Which is why I'm promoting you. We could use more men like you." Anakin could hardly believe his ears. Promoting…
Colonel Turnage smiled and motioned for Anakin to stand as he moved around the desk to pin on the new insignia.
"Congratulations, Corporal.” He patted Anakin on the shoulder and then the phone rang and he was busy again and Anakin was blindly walking back to his tent, the inquiring faces of his fellow soldiers blurring into one. They shrugged, ignoring him as he did them. That night he determined this wouldn't be the last time his previous experience would give him an edge.
And so it went over the next few months. Anakin was reckless, ruthless, brilliant in battle, and he received a promotion. Yet something was missing. He wasn't a warrior anymore, only a soldier. The heroics he had been so renowned for were gone. He wasn't fighting for a cause, only for the sake of fighting. Everyone noticed something slightly different about Anakin when he was on the battlefield. It was as if he was looking for something and thought he might find it in the blood splattered on his uniform, like ink spots at a psychiatrist's office. His eyes took on a fierce quality and he seemed taller, no matter how absurd it sounded.
Yet when he sat on his bunk, away from the laughter and jokes of the others, a faded picture clutched in his hands, the light in his eyes died. He was a shell of the man they fought beside. In the heat of war, they could always trust him. Maybe not with their lives, but he always knew what to do. Not so here, where he could remember so wholly the wholeness he'd once known. Here he was angry and lost and mad at the world.
One such night after a particularly excruciating skirmish, Anakin was one of the few men still awake. Three or four others sat huddled around a poker game passing a bottle of something purely alcoholic back and forth as they indiscreetly watched Anakin staring once again at the unknown photograph.
"What do you think it's of?" One of them whispered.
"Probably his girlfriend," another said as he tossed a keychain into the pot.
"Nah, he's too ornery to have a girl."
Their curiosity got the better of them, so much later, after Anakin had long since fallen asleep, two of them crept over to his bunk and slyly pulled the picture from beneath the edge of his mattress. One shone an electric torch on it.
"It must be his family." The picture showed Anakin with Obi-Wan and Padmé at a picnic on Naboo. Obi-Wan was mock-glaring at Anakin who was tickling Padmé who couldn't seem to stop laughing long enough to get him back.
"You ever seen him that… happy before?"
The other shook his head. "Maybe they died," he said, squinting at the picture.
Anakin cracked an eye open. "Maybe you shouldn't poke through other people's things," he announced his very much awake presence.
Both men let out yelps of surprise. "Oh! Er, uh, sorry, mate." The one dropped the picture on Anakin's bunk and they took off for their own. Anakin shook his head, too tired to be more than a bit put out.
May/June 1944
Normandy, France
By the time Anakin was a Staff Sergeant, his division had been stationed in the south of England for weeks, training and awaiting the top secret mission they'd been pulled for. It demanded the utmost secrecy and even the date was undecided. All anyone knew was that they were collaborating with the Canadians and Americans and that the launch of the mission required a full moon. Late in May, June 4 was selected as their D-Day but the weather seemed to disagree. It was thought that the whole operation would have to be postponed an entire month so the full moon could be utilized, but on the fifth they received word to take the chance.
At about eight thirty on the morning of June 6th, Anakin’s division rode ashore of Sword Beach in the north of France near Caen. They came up the beach with minor casualties —a term Anakin would have once deemed moronic. "Nothing is minor about casualties," he would have said. Now it was just something he heard in passing.
It was in that winning battle, however, that Anakin's life was changed, once again, forever. For that day he did something Anakin Skywalker, jedi knight, the warrior and hero, would have done, not him. He saved a man's life. Anakin hadn't grown close to any of the men in his division, but he could at least recognize a few if need be. One such man by the name of William had come ashore beside him and the two had worked out a natural rhythm. They fought easily, never as easily as Anakin had fought beside Obi-Wan or Ahsoka, but comfortably all the same.
It was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon and the infantry had advanced nigh on three miles. Anakin was drenched in sweat but thankful to the relative light weight of his uniform. For once he was using his gun, though he still preferred the bayonet and kept it close at hand. After quickly dispatching a line of Axis soldiers, he turned to find William flat on his back with a gun pointed at his head. He was gushing blood from a bullet wound in his shoulder. Without thinking, Anakin swung his gun inches from William's face and knocked the pistol from the German's hand. The man turned, his rifle in hand and an ugly snarl on his face, which gave William the opportunity to roll away from the immediate threat.
However, now Anakin was locked head to head with the German himself. They swung and kicked, their bayonets firmly in place. It was a graceful dance between two frustrated people, pouring out their grievances in light footwork and gory steps. In a final blow, the German slashed at Anakin's chest, a perfect cut from arm to hip. It never crossed Anakin's mind that he'd lost the one-on-one war, for with his last coherent thoughts, he kicked out, tripping the German so that he fell neatly onto his own bayonet.
Bloody blackness consumed Anakin's world.