It started in Bastogne.
Eugene Roe had been doing his usual rounds, going from foxhole to foxhole; collecting syrettes and supplies and giving people blankets, boots, and bandages. Somewhere along the way, he felt a presence following him in the shadows of trees. Whenever he'd turn, there wouldn't be anyone or anything there, other than trees, snow, and... Is someone snickering? Eugene brushed it off as fatigue and continued on, trying his hardest to ignore the feeling. After Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere lost their legs, after Skip and Penk vanished, after Buck Compton left, after all of the shelling and fighting and bleeding, it disappeared. But only for a little while. This ghost knew when to play.
It followed him to Haguenau.
This time, it was physical. He felt a boop on his head but there wasn't anyone in sight. Whatever it was, it was fast. After Jackson died, it stopped. But again, only for a a few days, then it would happen again. It's like this thing knew when it should do it, when Doc was okay, and sometimes, when he needed to be cheered up. There would be a tap here, some quiet chuckling, and another bop on the head. Eugene had no idea how or why or who was doing it, but some part of him was thankful for it. Sometimes, it even made the other guys a bit happier when they'd see his confused face.
It went on like this for a very long time. In Landsberg, it let up, but circumstance brought everything to a bit of a halt. The one time it did happen, there was a small token along with it; a blue piece of cloth.
He should have known, really. Edward had gotten closer to him in Bastogne, just before it started. He had become Babe now, not just Heffron, and he knew that the other man understood him. When he looked up at him back in that basement in Haguenau, Babe didn't need words to know what Gene was feeling. In Landsberg, Babe helped him take care of the people in the camp. Actually, whenever the ghost game was on hiatus, Babe appeared more. How he didn't recognized the South Philly giggle, no one would know.
So, before it could happen in Berchtesgaden, he knew what to do. He crept up behind his ginger friend and poked him in the middle of his back.
"If you're gonna play, you gotta do it right. It don't count if you ain't been tagged back."
For kitten-miester from tumblr. Thanks, dear, for the prompt. It isn't as lighthearted as I originally planned. I don't know if I should be sorry about writing so much for BoB, or proud as hell... Woot.