Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime

[The Shaman]

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]The woman simply waves her hand disdainfully at Normand, and turns to watch the commotion up the block.

Ortu takes Normand’s gear with a puzzled look on his face – it’s not until the big Frenchman hops down from the deuce-and-a-half and strides away that the grenadier’s intent is clear. “Will you look at this guy?” Normand hears from over his shoulder.

Wading through the throng, Normand reaches the Arab lying on the ground. A busboy or a cook perhaps, his white apron is stained with blood – even with hands raised to ward off the kicks and blows of the mob, the Frenchman can see that the boy’s face is a mass of welts and bruises, his arms lacerated from his trip through the window.

The perpetrators are nonplussed by Normand’s order to disperse. “Stay out of it, legionnaire,” says one of the home guardsmen. “This isn’t your concern.”

“Since when does the Legion side with the wogs, anyway?” says another, a young man in his mid-twenties in civilian dress, his pinched face drawn up in a nasty sneer. “You queer for Arab boys?” This draws a laugh from the crowd.

OoC: Normand is about sixty feet from the front of the clinic where the truck is parked. He’s in the midst of a crowd of about forty or fifty people, with his back to the busted window of the café. Sneering Guy is 15’ away.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]The doctor towels his hands dry and unties his mask. “Just by sight, from trips to town...wait, there’s Moulai – short fellow, dark complexion. Worked there for a few years, now.” He thinks for a moment. “And Ferhaz – I treated him for blood poisoning last fall. Strong fellow. Former tirailleur, I believe – had a couple of scars on him. Old wounds.”

OoC: Roll a straight Wisdom check.[/sblock]

 

[Barak]

[sblock]
Normand pauses in the motion of reaching for the beaten arab, straightens up to his full height, cracks his neck, and looks at the young man who spoke to him last.

"Sir, I dare say the two I had to kill today at the Rubiera's farm would disagree with you on that point. As you can see, I came here unarmed, to stop ya'll from killing the boy who was cleaning your table earlier today. Now, if you don't back the hell up, I'll make you eat your teeth."

Normand looks at the assembled crowd, and sneer in turn.

"Sure, there's enough of you to probably stop me. But I sure as all hell will take down a couple first. So who wanna start?"


OOC
Well, here goes nothing, I guess!
Intimidate check: 19
Well, that's a lot better! Let's hope it's enough...

[/sblock]

 

[The Shaman]

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]The sneering man’s expression changes to one of confusion, then of fear, and he takes an involuntary step backwards at Normand’s glare. There’s a vague sense of the crowd around the grenadier leaning back on its heels, unwilling to force a confrontation with the bloody legionnaire. The tension hovers for what feels like minutes but is really only a score of seconds when a deep voice carries over the crowd, “That’s enough.”

M. Girard steps into the pool of light, followed by Sgt. Katsourianis – Pyotr, Nedjar, and Ortu are close behind. “Until we know more about what happened, it’s best if you stay in your homes,” Girard says, addressing the mob. Turning to one of the home guardsmen standing nearby, he continues, “Assemble the men at the monument aux morts – we’re going to assign patrols. Claude,” he says, catching one of the guardsmen by the sleeve, “take Maurice and Tomas and carry this one - ” he motions toward the Arab boy “ - home to his people. Keep alert. We’ll be close behind you.”

Girard looks at Normand for a moment, then turns to Kat. “It might be best if you keep your men off the street for the time being,” he rumbles, then turns to follow the rest of the guardsmen toward the plaza as the crowd slowly disperses.

“Back to the truck,” Kat says firmly, and the five legionnaires walk to the doors of the clinic. Murmurs flutter among the pieds-noir as they pass.

Ortu can scarcely contain himself. “You really thought you were going to fight the townies over that Arab?”[/sblock]

 

[Barak]

[sblock]
Normand looks at Ortu, his frown still on his face, and he takes a step towards him.

Then he stops, and breaks into a grin.

"My friend, do you know how long it's been since i got into a good brawl? Seemed like decent odds to me."

And with a wink, he turns towards the truck, and swaggers to it, then hops back on.
[/sblock]

 

[The Shaman]

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]The Sardinian makes no reply, just shakes his head in wonder.

Back at the truck, the rest of the section waits. “Nedjar, Pamuk, and Sánchez, as you were,” Kat orders. “Everyone else inside.”

Normand climbs into the truck to retrieve his gear. Sánchez says nothing – he seems to be studying the grenadier. Nedjar leans in over the tailgate.

“Mador, see me before you go inside.” He’s waiting off to one side when Normand exits the truck.

Normand only...[sblock]“Mador – Normand – you have to be careful,” he begins, speaking softly. “You’re French, yes? Your accent isn’t hard to place.” He smiles slightly. “Remember that most of the men in the Legion are foreigners, and the idea of a foreigner taking the side of an enemy of France against a French citizen is serious business. These people don’t see you as a Frenchman, or me as a French citizen – they see us foreigners in a French army uniform.” Nedjar looks up at the big man. “Le Capitaine is very serious about this. Keep that in mind.”

The Algerian looks around and lowers his voice still further. “Just between us, that was a good thing you did. A mitzvah, we call it. Jews aren’t treated much better than Arabs by most of the French here. I’ve seen many beatings like that, where no one stepped in to stop them until it was too late.” He claps Normand on the shoulder, gently. “Go inside. Hopefully the doctor will be ready to see you soon.”[/sblock][/sblock]

 

[Bobitron]

[sblock]Marcel reflects on the doctor's descriptions as he washes his hands once again.

ooc: Wisdom check is a 21! Whoohoo! Hopefully it is good news...[/sblock]

 

[Barak]

[sblock]
Normand takes his gear, returning Sánchez's look, an half smile on his face. Then he jumps off lightly.

---------

"Thanks Nedjar, I'll try to keep that in mind. But.. Between you and me? I really couldn't have just stood there and watched. In a way, I got in the Légion to get away from people who have other beaten for stupid reasons. If it's an issue.. I'll deal."

Normand then winces, and presses a particularly tender spot on his arm.

"Good thing they backed off, too."

And with a last smile, he goes back inside the clinic.
[/sblock]

 

[The Shaman]

Marcel...[sblock]Strong fellow. Wound scars. Marcel ran the scene in the dining room at the farmhouse through his head again. The fellagha that Normand and Sgt. Müller had killed – well-built, and a jagged old scar on his shoulder where the man’s shirt had been torn away by the grenade blast.

The medic shares a description of the dead fell with the doctor. “That sounds like Ferhaz, yes,” he replies, his brow furrowed. “Wounded by mortar fragments in Indochina. In the shoulder, and in the side. He was lucky to keep his arm, actually.”[/sblock]

 

[Bobitron]

[sblock]Marcel moves quickly to his gear, gathering up his belongings. "Excuse me, doctor. But I need to speak to my Sergent." He pauses, walking to face the doctor and extending his hand, then kissing both cheeks. "Thank you for sharing your surgery with me. Your advice will not be forgotten, Doctor." Making sure his carbine is on safe, he leaves the hospital, hustling to get the information to his unit.[/sblock]

 

[The Shaman]

The mayor and the sister-in-law have left the clinic when the paras return to the lobby. It’s quiet now, the crowd gone, the UTs walking off the streets of the colonial town.

“Now what?” Ortu asks Sgt. Katsourianis as the Sardinian swings a wooden chair around and sits down, resting his arms and head on the backrest.

The section leader glances at his big chrome chronograph. “The lieutenant said to bring the wounded here. We still need to get Gaspard and Mador looked at, then we’ll head back to camp.” Kat reaches for his canteen. “Szabo’s section was going to make a patrol of the surrounding farms to look for more fellaghas. I don’t expect they’ll be back for awhile.”

Taking a long pull from his canteen, the sergent continues, “We may not be done yet, so make sure you’re ready to go back out. I’m going to see about refilling these.” He holds up the canteen, then pushes through the double-doors leading to the examination rooms. The weary paras methodically check their gear.

Asmussen is assigned to collect canteens and fill them when Kat returns, carrying the section radio slung over his shoulder. After this is done, the Greek sergent steps outside to talk with Nedjar and the others standing guard, leaving Normand, Pyotr, and the rest of the section to wait in the lobby: Asmussen seated a chair, his rifle held upright beside him; Syrovy, slumped in a chair in the corner; Ortu, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, head on his chest asleep.

The room is quiet when Marcel emerges from the double doors.