If there was one thing Merriell “Snafu” Shelton could do in the middle of a war, it was sleep.

He has no problem settling down and playing the long game, like now for instance.

“Wake me up in four hours. If anything moves, shoot it.” Is what Snafu had said to his mortar squad before laying down, in their foxhole—placing his helmet over his face.

A lot more than four hours later, the sun had set and the Cajun Corporal was still silently asleep—he never snored.

Bill Leyden had been telling you, Hamm, Sledge, and whoever-the-hell-else was around to listen about a childhood story.

Snafu, however, was less than interested in the situation—hell, the curly haired soldier probably wasn’t even conscious enough to process anything.

“Shut the fuck up, y’idiots.” Snafu demanded groggily, lazily shifting onto his side—his arm bent beneath his head in substitute of a pillow.