Notes: The characters aren't mine, and the story is! This ficlit was written for Branmuffinpower's GI fic contest, the theme being "Anniversaries," and I decided to go with a fic that delivers some insight into the Skipper's past. In my headcanon, the Skipper was a war hero—but a highly modest one, which is why the audience doesn't hear much about his time in the war during the show. And I decided to have this ficlit be about him reminiscing about one of those instances. As such, there are some descriptions of war in this ficlit.

There was nothing quite like the feeling of waking up to the tropical sun streaming through the hut window. Even if he missed life back on the mainland, Gilligan had to admit that this was one of the perks to their little island home. And best of all was how warm it was; here he was, in the middle of November, enjoying a heat wave. His family and friends back in Pennsylvania were probably huddled over from the cold—more than likely shoveling a thin layer of snow from their walkways. And though he missed his loved ones, he most certainly didn't miss that ever-persistent threat of frozen precipitation; moving to Hawaii had been one of the best decisions he had ever made, even if it had led to life on a deserted island in the end…

The first mate yawned and hopped out of his hammock, pausing to take note that the Skipper's hammock was empty. Gilligan scratched his head in momentary confusion; the captain was not known for letting the first mate idle while he or the others went about their morning chores. And there were always chores to be done.

Gilligan shrugged and headed outside; the other Castaways, minus the Skipper, were all gathered around the communal table as Mary Ann began to serve everyone fish with seagull eggs on the side. The Professor was more interested in the radio; it had been on the fritz for the past couple of days, but, judging from the look on his face, the Professor was beginning to get it working again.

"Well, look who woke up just in time for breakfast," Ginger commented. "We could set our watches by you."

Gilligan shrugged again.

"Well, better late than never, right?" he asked. "Or do I have to do all of my chores first?"

"Don't worry, Gilligan; you can eat first," Mary Ann assured him, with a smile.

"Great! But d'you happen to know where the Skipper is?"

"Funny thing," the farmgirl said, as she readied Gilligan's plate. "Ginger saw him a while ago, and he said he was going down to the lagoon."

"Yeah?" the first mate asked, looking to the actress.

"Said he wanted to be alone for a while," the redhead confirmed. "I guess he just forgot about breakfast."

"It really is poor form not to gather with the rest of us at the table for a meal," Mrs. Howell tutted.

"And it's not like the Skipper to forget about a meal," Gilligan added. "Gosh, I hope he's okay…"

"Now, let's not panic; I'm sure if something was wrong, the rest of us would've heard something…" the Professor began, but trailed off as the static on the radio began to clear up. He moved to switch the radio off, but paused as he heard the voice of a newscaster—

"…In other news, today marks 25 years since the start of the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal, one of the major military campaigns in the Pacific Theater of Operations…"

"Oh…" Gilligan said.

"I think that about sums it up," the Professor sighed, now switching the radio off. "I'm sure the Skipper's told you a lot about what happened."

"Actually, no," Gilligan admitted. "Not really."

"The captain never seems to talk much about his war experiences," Mr. Howell observed. "Not that they'd make for suitable mealtime conversations, of course."

"Now that you mention it, the only times he's ever mentioned it were when he was trying to remember how he converted the radio into a transmitter, and that time he had amnesia," Ginger sighed.

"Well, I'll tell you what," Gilligan said, standing up. "I'll go let him know that breakfast is ready. You can go ahead and start without us."

It didn't take long for Gilligan to reach the lagoon; sure enough, the Skipper was there, in plain sight, gazing out at the calm waters, though it was clear that his mind was elsewhere.

The first mate cleared his throat quietly a few times; it took some time, but the captain finally turned around, glancing at him.

"Morning," Gilligan offered.

"…Morning," the Skipper replied, taking a moment. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah; everyone's having breakfast—fish and seagull eggs. We were just wondering if you'd like to join us."

"Maybe later, Little Buddy," the captain said, turning back to gaze upon the waters once more.

"…Okay," Gilligan said. He backed away a couple of steps before pausing. "The Professor fixed the radio."

"Uh-huh. Never doubted him."

"…They said on the news that twenty-five years ago was the start of the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal." The first mate hesitated, knowing that he was stepping into vastly uncharted territory. "That's why you're here, huh? Remembering stuff?"

The Skipper glanced back at him.

"Yeah," he confirmed, after another pause. "I figured the others wouldn't be too interested."

"I think we're all a little curious, actually," Gilligan blurted out, before he could stop himself. "All we really know is that you converted the receiver into a transmitter."

"That was only the beginning," the Skipper said, looking back towards the water with a shake of his head. "We knew we'd be in for it when we landed on that miserable rock. They were waiting for us, and we…" He trailed off. "You don't wanna hear this story; why don't you go back and have your breakfast?"

But Gilligan sat down beside the captain.

"I'd like to hear it," he stated. "If you don't mind telling it."

The Skipper exhaled, thinking for a moment, but then nodded.

"It was night when we hit the beach; I'd just gotten the transmitter working, and Harris was calling for backup. We'd been under fire ever since we landed, so when it began to let up, we got suspicious. I figured we oughta hold our ground and wait until our backup arrived, but the lieutenant insisted that some of the boys scout a little ways ahead to see if we could get an idea of how many enemy soldiers were in the immediate era."

"Weren't you a lieutenant back then, too?" Gilligan asked.

"Junior grade," the Skipper informed him. "The full lieutenant got the final say. Anyway, the boys came back, but they weren't all there. The scouts had been ambushed by a sniper just waiting for them, and a couple of the younger kids had panicked and scrambled, and some of the others followed them when they saw them running, and they left behind three of the men— Evans, Ferguson, and Wilcowski."

"What…!?"

"As much as I wanted to blame those kids, there was a part of me that couldn't hold it against them. They were in the jungle in the dead of night; first logical thought that pops into a guy's head when there's sniper fire is to run."

Gilligan bit his lip. Of course; after his encounter with Kincaid, he knew that all too well.

"One of those kids was probably only seventeen—lied to get in and got far more than he bargained for," the Skipper went on. "I didn't discuss it; I just went to look for the others."

"All by yourself?" Gilligan asked, awed.

"The bigger the numbers, the more attention you'll attract; I didn't want anyone putting themselves in any more danger. Found Ferguson and Wilcowski fairly quickly; they were okay, but they hadn't seen where Evans had got to. I sent them on back and kept looking on ahead. And then I heard it."

A chill ran down Gilligan's spine.

"Sniper fire?"

The Skipper looked at him.

"Believe me, Little Buddy, that day when Kinkaid showed up… I'd have given anything for it to have been me instead of you. I knew what it was like. I never wanted you or any of the others to know."

Gilligan nodded.

"What happened to Evans?" he asked.

"Evans was just a bit up ahead, half-inside the foliage; he'd taken one to the leg trying to duck for cover—missed the femoral artery by that much…" The Skipper held a finger and thumb about a centimeter apart. "But he was still losing a lot of blood. I had to decide whether to try to get him out of there, or go back without him."

"You got him out of there," Gilligan said.

"How'd you know?"

"'Cause it wouldn't have been you to leave him there," Gilligan said, with a wan smile.

The captain's face reflected a ghost of a smile before continuing with his story.

"Yeah, I didn't leave him there—though he told me to. Wasn't easy; I had to carry him since he couldn't walk, and we were a much bigger target. We had more than a few near misses. And there are moments when even the adrenaline isn't enough. And then, all you can do is call on your angels."

"Huh?"

"Something my mother told me when I was a kid," the Skipper said. "She said that there'd be times when you can't do what you have to do on your own. When those times come, call on your angels—the ones you know who'll help you. For me, that night, it ended up being Harris; he convinced the lieutenant to let him leave his post at the radio and go after me. Evans wouldn't have pulled through if Harris hadn't helped me get him back safe."

"…Call on your angels…" Gilligan repeated, quietly. In the end, isn't that what had happened with him, too? His despairing cry for the Skipper to help him… and then the Skipper and the Professor ended up saving him, just like he'd hoped…

"Yeah," the Skipper sighed, looking back out across the water once more. "Evans and I were lucky. But not everyone was. There were buddies I knew while I was at the Academy in Annapolis who never came home when the war ended. Wish I could've helped them… Maybe if I'd been with 'em, they'd have made it home, like Evans did."

"For what it's worth," Gilligan said. "I'm glad you made it home."

The captain exchanged a glance with the first mate.

"And I'm glad you made it back from Kinkaid's hunt."

"I had a lot of help," Gilligan insisted.

The Skipper gave him a nod of acknowledgement, and managed a smile.

"You know what sounds good right now, Little Buddy? Those gull eggs and fish that Ginger said was on the menu."

"Yeah!" Gilligan said, as he and the Skipper got to their feet. He paused for a moment before following the Skipper back to the hut area, casting one last glance over the peaceful waters before turning away.

Harris hadn't been the only angel that night on that war-torn island. Evans had another angel, one who was just too modest to accept it. And Gilligan was forever grateful that he could call that angel his friend.