Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime
- Thread starter The Shaman
- Start date
shadowbloodmoon
First Post
"Stole our kills more like it. Pyotr says, almost under his breath. "That would explain why that thrice-cursed airboy wouldn't stop talking about his boys. I wouldn't be surprised if MI said they knew it was going to happen." Pyotr catches one of the flying cigarette butts in his hand. "Wouldn't want to leave a trail for our friends." Pyotr sits back, going silent.
The Shaman
First Post
Burhan waves a hand dismissively. “Some officers talk like grandmothers.” He seems content to let the subject rest as he settles back and gazes at the scenery passing by.
____
The road twists through the steep mountains and deep gorges of the Massif de l’Ouarsenis, the rocky slopes mantled with grey-green shrubs and scattered cork trees, the canyons filled with dense growth of oaks and firs. After several hours the truck enters a broad, rolling plain, les Hauts Plateaux, bordered by mountains to the north and the south – stands of thick brush give way to sparse grasslands and the occasional reedy marsh. The winding roads turn to long straight-aways and the truck makes good time, passing through pieds-noir towns surrounded by tidy farms and orchards, each with its Muslim village négre, separated from one another by vast open spaces.
The truck passes through checkpoints manned by bored soldats or gendarmes – at one outpost however the men are clearly on edge, and as the legionnaires and the drivers take on water the soldiers report that the FLN killed an inspector from the police judiciaire last night in nearby Saida, slashing his throat so deeply that his head was nearly severed from the body. After driving through the city the truck heads south, the bulk of the Saharan Tell rising as they reach the far side of the plateau, until late in the day green and white road sign appears: “PORTEMONTE 55km.”
The truck pulls into Portemonte shortly after sunset. From the vantage of the bed the town itself looks like most of the colonial villages in Algeria – headlights illumine white-washed houses with red tile roofs and wrought iron accents, fronted by arcades facing on dusty macadam streets. The truck passes through the town and stops near what appears to be a soccer pitch – two dozen tents and a half-dozen vehicles are situated beyond the far goal. The truck stops at a sentry post manned by two legionnaire paras, submachine guns slung at their sides – one steps around to the rear of the truck and shines his flashlight inside. “Burhan!” he says with a smirk. “Tired of wiping rappelé arses already?” The Turk gives a small shrug but says nothing. The legionnaire slaps the rear of the truck with his hand and the driver pulls away, leaving the two sentries illuminated by the red glow of the tail-lights.
Finally with a loud squeal the truck rolls to a stop and the legionnaires gather their gear and hop over the tailgate. Another legionnaire is waiting. He is short, with red hair and freckles – on his sleeve are the three green bars of a caporal-chef. The driver hands him a mail satchel, and the legionnaire motions toward the end of a row of tents that can be seen by the glow of the headlights. “The mess tent is on the end. Park there and we’ll arrange bunks for you for tonight.”
He turns back to the newly arrived legionnaires. He grins at Burhan. “Couldn’t stay away, could you, Pamuk?” he says warmly. Burhan nods again, the same slight smile. “Follow me,” continues the sous-officier. “Le Capitaine is up.”
The caporal-chef leads the legionnaires to one of the tents nearby – tied above the flap is a small cardboard sign that reads “PC” in block letters. Inside a propane lantern burns brightly, suspended from a roof pole. There are two desks arranged facing the center of the room from opposite sides of the tent. Behind one of the desks sits a legionnaire writing on a tablet, the three gold bands of a capitaine on his shoulders. His face is youthful, but a spider’s web of deep creases mark the corners of his eyes and his black hair and pencil mustache are flecked with gray. His skin is deeply tanned save for two jagged white scars on his right forearm, scars that partially obscure a faded tattoo of a lightning bolt over a pale blue shield.
“Attention!” barks the caporal-chef as the legionnaires enter. The capitaine looks up from his paperwork, expressionless, as the legionnaires snap to attention. “Mon capitaine, the replacements have arrived.” He hands over the satchel to the officer, who replies, “Thank you, Gaston. Would you find sergent Müller for me?” The sous-officier breaks off a sharp salute and disappears through the flap. “At ease, légionnaires.”
The captain opens the satchel and removes several folders – he spends a moment glancing at the contents as the legionnaires wait. At last he looks up at Burhan, a twinkle in his eye. “Welcome back, légionnaire Pamuk. What did you think of the school at Arzew?”
“Too many rappelés, sir,” Burhan replies solemnly.
The capitaine’s head tilts slightly to the side. “So you broke a captain’s arm?” he asks.
“He lead his men into our ambush, sir, so we ambushed them.” Burhan answers, impassive. “He fell and broke his arm from surprise.”
Faint hints of a smile can be seen at the corners of the capitaine’s mouth. “Well, the centre is supposed to provide realistic training for the reservists. Did you see lieutenant Gauthier while you were there?”
“Yes, sir. He sends his regards, sir,” Burhan replies with a slight nod.
The capitaine's attention turns to the others. “Welcome to the 1st REP, légionnaires. I understand you had an interesting training exercise.” He looks closely at each of the replacements.
____
The road twists through the steep mountains and deep gorges of the Massif de l’Ouarsenis, the rocky slopes mantled with grey-green shrubs and scattered cork trees, the canyons filled with dense growth of oaks and firs. After several hours the truck enters a broad, rolling plain, les Hauts Plateaux, bordered by mountains to the north and the south – stands of thick brush give way to sparse grasslands and the occasional reedy marsh. The winding roads turn to long straight-aways and the truck makes good time, passing through pieds-noir towns surrounded by tidy farms and orchards, each with its Muslim village négre, separated from one another by vast open spaces.
The truck passes through checkpoints manned by bored soldats or gendarmes – at one outpost however the men are clearly on edge, and as the legionnaires and the drivers take on water the soldiers report that the FLN killed an inspector from the police judiciaire last night in nearby Saida, slashing his throat so deeply that his head was nearly severed from the body. After driving through the city the truck heads south, the bulk of the Saharan Tell rising as they reach the far side of the plateau, until late in the day green and white road sign appears: “PORTEMONTE 55km.”
The truck pulls into Portemonte shortly after sunset. From the vantage of the bed the town itself looks like most of the colonial villages in Algeria – headlights illumine white-washed houses with red tile roofs and wrought iron accents, fronted by arcades facing on dusty macadam streets. The truck passes through the town and stops near what appears to be a soccer pitch – two dozen tents and a half-dozen vehicles are situated beyond the far goal. The truck stops at a sentry post manned by two legionnaire paras, submachine guns slung at their sides – one steps around to the rear of the truck and shines his flashlight inside. “Burhan!” he says with a smirk. “Tired of wiping rappelé arses already?” The Turk gives a small shrug but says nothing. The legionnaire slaps the rear of the truck with his hand and the driver pulls away, leaving the two sentries illuminated by the red glow of the tail-lights.
Finally with a loud squeal the truck rolls to a stop and the legionnaires gather their gear and hop over the tailgate. Another legionnaire is waiting. He is short, with red hair and freckles – on his sleeve are the three green bars of a caporal-chef. The driver hands him a mail satchel, and the legionnaire motions toward the end of a row of tents that can be seen by the glow of the headlights. “The mess tent is on the end. Park there and we’ll arrange bunks for you for tonight.”
He turns back to the newly arrived legionnaires. He grins at Burhan. “Couldn’t stay away, could you, Pamuk?” he says warmly. Burhan nods again, the same slight smile. “Follow me,” continues the sous-officier. “Le Capitaine is up.”
The caporal-chef leads the legionnaires to one of the tents nearby – tied above the flap is a small cardboard sign that reads “PC” in block letters. Inside a propane lantern burns brightly, suspended from a roof pole. There are two desks arranged facing the center of the room from opposite sides of the tent. Behind one of the desks sits a legionnaire writing on a tablet, the three gold bands of a capitaine on his shoulders. His face is youthful, but a spider’s web of deep creases mark the corners of his eyes and his black hair and pencil mustache are flecked with gray. His skin is deeply tanned save for two jagged white scars on his right forearm, scars that partially obscure a faded tattoo of a lightning bolt over a pale blue shield.
“Attention!” barks the caporal-chef as the legionnaires enter. The capitaine looks up from his paperwork, expressionless, as the legionnaires snap to attention. “Mon capitaine, the replacements have arrived.” He hands over the satchel to the officer, who replies, “Thank you, Gaston. Would you find sergent Müller for me?” The sous-officier breaks off a sharp salute and disappears through the flap. “At ease, légionnaires.”
The captain opens the satchel and removes several folders – he spends a moment glancing at the contents as the legionnaires wait. At last he looks up at Burhan, a twinkle in his eye. “Welcome back, légionnaire Pamuk. What did you think of the school at Arzew?”
“Too many rappelés, sir,” Burhan replies solemnly.
The capitaine’s head tilts slightly to the side. “So you broke a captain’s arm?” he asks.
“He lead his men into our ambush, sir, so we ambushed them.” Burhan answers, impassive. “He fell and broke his arm from surprise.”
Faint hints of a smile can be seen at the corners of the capitaine’s mouth. “Well, the centre is supposed to provide realistic training for the reservists. Did you see lieutenant Gauthier while you were there?”
“Yes, sir. He sends his regards, sir,” Burhan replies with a slight nod.
The capitaine's attention turns to the others. “Welcome to the 1st REP, légionnaires. I understand you had an interesting training exercise.” He looks closely at each of the replacements.
Bobitron
Explorer
The Shaman said:
"Yes, we did." Marcel steps forward. "Marcel Fortier, Sir. Most recently stationed at Zeralda under Lieutenant Raoul Olivier."
Marcel tilts back his head in recollection of the training jump. "We stumbled upon a large section of fells after our jump. There were probably 50 of them against out dozen. Sgt. Duval pulled us through it, but we took casualties. Two dead, and many wounded."
Normand, is slightly taken by surprise by Marcel pretty informal manner, but quickly overcomes it. Pulling his orders with his left hand from a pocket in his fatigues, he takes a step forward, comes to attention, and salutes crisply.
"Sir! Légionnaire Mador, reporting for duty sir!"
"Sir! Légionnaire Mador, reporting for duty sir!"
shadowbloodmoon
First Post
Pyotr waits as the capitaine looks them over. When he reaches Pyotr, the Russian hands his orders to him without hesitation.
"Legionnaire Pyotr Kerenin, sir."
Snapping a quick salute, he then let Marcel be the storyteller of the battle at Oued Baraba.
"Legionnaire Pyotr Kerenin, sir."
Snapping a quick salute, he then let Marcel be the storyteller of the battle at Oued Baraba.
знаток
First Post
When Vidal joined the Legionnaires, he was anxious and somewhat uncomfortable with all the formations, drilling, courtesy, and other garrison trappings, but he quickly came to appreciate and even enjoy them, as it gave him a solid sense of feeling that he was part of something bigger. He listens closely to all the conversation between the Captain, the Corporal, and his comrades while observing the office and the officer.
He patiently waits until last, and introduces himself as well. "Legionnaire Gaspard of Portugal, sir. Communications."
He patiently waits until last, and introduces himself as well. "Legionnaire Gaspard of Portugal, sir. Communications."
The Shaman
First Post
The captain accepts the orders without comment. “Légionnaire Fortier, you might be interested to know that the after-action report indicates sergent-chef Duval’s training section faced more than eighty ALN moudjahiddine, according to the RAV provided by the army air observer.” His finger taps one of the folders on his desk. “I’m not sure if you had a chance to look at a map, but that action took place about eighty kilometers southeast of where we are right now. The engagement is one of the reasons that the company was dispatched here to Portemonte.”
He places his hands flat on the desk. “I’m Capitaine Martini, your company CO. Légionnaire Fortier, you are assigned to the headquarters platoon with the other medics – the first medic is caporal-chef Bestebreurtje, and you’ll report to him. The rest of you are assigned to sous-lieutenant Ramadier’s platoon – sergent Müller will be along shortly to take you to your quarters. Légionnaire Pamuk, I’m assigning you to Third Platoon as well – we replaced you in Fourth Platoon and your experience will needed in Third. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Burhan answers immediately.
The captain leans forward as he continues, “Third Company is an intervention unit. The sector troops and the gendarmerie are responsible for protecting the settlements. Our mission is to hunt down the ALN, to eliminate their capability to wage terror against Algerians. To that end we maintain law and order by military action, gather intelligence, maintain friendly relations with the population and the political leaders, and support civil and military administrators in their functions. These are your standing orders at all times.”
As the capitaine speaks the red-haired caporal-chef returns, accompanied by a blond legionnaire wearing sergent’s stripes. “The company has been in action here in Algeria since the spring. Listen to your sous-officiers. Learn from their experiences. Many of them saw action in Indochina, and some were veterans even before that, correct, sergent?” He looks up at the blond non-com, who replies with a smile, “Oui, mon capitaine.”
The captain stands and addresses you, his face grave. “As a legionnaire of the 1st REP, you will wear the yellow-and-green fourragère of the Médaille Militaire on your parade uniform, France’s highest military decoration. The fourragère represents the four combat unit citations received by the regiment. The men of the First are among the most decorated in the history of the Legion. Many of those decorations were earned posthumously, in Indochina, on the road to Cao Bang, at Dien Bien Phu, and now in Algeria. It falls to you to venerate their memory and to maintain the honor of the regiment and the Legion by your conduct.”
Captain Martini looks intently at each man. “That is all.”
The blond sergeant snaps, “Attention!” Boots slap together, hands are quickly raised in salute. The capitaine returns the salute. “Gaston, show Fortier to the aid tent. Sergent Müller, first section. Dismissed.” He sits down behind his desk and returns his attention to his paperwork.
Grabbing gear, the legionnaires are lead into the night by the two sous-officiers.
Marcel...[sblock]The caporal-chef introduces himself almost immediately. “I’m Gaston Vieux, the company clerk.” His accent unmistakably puts him from somewhere in northwestern France. “Your foot lockers will arrive in next day or two with our supply convoy. We can get you a clean uniform tomorrow if you need it.” He stops before a large tent with a red cross pinned over the flap – a lantern is burning inside. “Dutch should be inside – check in with him. Good night.”
Through the flap is a small infirmary – a half-dozen cots, all empty at the moment, a couple of storage cabinets, a gurney, a wheelchair, a pair of canvas stretcher leaning against a wall. The tent is partitioned about two thirds of the way down its length, and the light is shining from the space beyond. Passing through the partition, Marcel sees three bunks and a table along with more cabinets filled with medical supplies. On one of the bunks is a legionnaire, still in his uniform, snoring softly on top of his blankets. Seated at the table is a man in a tee-shirt and skivvies – he appears to be writing a letter. He looks up as Marcel enters. “Who the devil are you, and what do you want?” he asks impatiently.[/sblock]Normand, Pyotr, and Vidal...[sblock]The blonde sous-officier motions for the legionnaires to follow. “Broke a captain’s leg the first week at Arzew, eh?” he asks Burhan mirthfully as they walk. His French carries a noticeable German accent.
Burhan shakes his head. “He broke his arm. He fell.”
The Geman sergent looks at Burhan. “He fell when you knocked him down with your rifle, yes?” The Turk shrugs his shoulders and says nothing.
The sergeant glances at the rest of the legionnaires. “I’m sergent Müller, platoon sergeant. You’ll be assigned to first section – your section leader is sergent Katsourianis. All four of you will be assigned to the choc group.” He taps Burhan on the shoulder, points to the next row of tents over. “Fourth Platoon is over there. You can stop by in the morning.” He stops at one of the tents, pulls back the flap. “Kat, your new boots are here.”
Entering the tent, the legionnaires see a double row of cots running along the canvas walls, ten in all. Legionnaires are scattered around the room – one is listening to a transistor radio through an earpiece, another reads what appears to be a bible printed in a Scandinavian language. One legionnaire is adding polish to a pair of jump boots – another appears to be writing a letter. One is stretched out on his cot, sound asleep despite the light and the noise. As you enter, a curly-haired legionnaire with a thin mustache stands up from where he was seated on one of the bunks. He has a tiger tattooed on his left forearm, a banner that reads “LEGIO PATRIA NOSTRA” on his right. A red scar is visible above his right eye.
“I’m sergent Katsourianis,” he says. “If that’s too much for you, I’ll answer to sergent Kat.” He points to a black legionnaire seated on the same bunk. “That’s caporal Sembène, my second – he answers to ‘Babaye’.” The black legionnaire smiles.
Katrourianis points at different legionnaires as he speaks. “The guy with the radio is Ortu. That’s Syrovy – ” the legionnaire writing the letter, a thin blonde man “ – Asmussen – ” the legionnaire with the bible “ – Nedjar – ” polishing his boots, he nods at the newcomers “ – and that body over there is Sanchez.”
He gestures toward the five empty bunks around the room. “You can take any one of those. Your footlockers will be here in the next day or two, with our supply train. If you need a clean uniform, we can get that, otherwise borrow from these guys until then. In the meantime get situated as best you can.”
Ortu, a husky young man with a gold catholic medal hanging around his neck and tattoos covering both arms below the sleeve of his tee-shirt, says “Hey, Pamuk, Fourth Platoon is over there somewhere.”
Burhan shrugs. “Le Capitaine put me here now.”
Sembène speaks up. “He’s taking your spot, Ortu, so you can drive a truck instead of a machine gun.” Ortu shakes his head and reaches for a magazine under his bunk.
Nedjar, the legionnaire with the boot polish in hand, looks at the new arrivals with interest. “Are these the guys, sergent? Are you the guys? From the training jump?”[/sblock]Please respond using either {spoiler} tags or {sblock} tags, replacing the braces with brackets of course – obviously Barak, Shadow, and знаток can read each other’s posts.
He places his hands flat on the desk. “I’m Capitaine Martini, your company CO. Légionnaire Fortier, you are assigned to the headquarters platoon with the other medics – the first medic is caporal-chef Bestebreurtje, and you’ll report to him. The rest of you are assigned to sous-lieutenant Ramadier’s platoon – sergent Müller will be along shortly to take you to your quarters. Légionnaire Pamuk, I’m assigning you to Third Platoon as well – we replaced you in Fourth Platoon and your experience will needed in Third. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Burhan answers immediately.
The captain leans forward as he continues, “Third Company is an intervention unit. The sector troops and the gendarmerie are responsible for protecting the settlements. Our mission is to hunt down the ALN, to eliminate their capability to wage terror against Algerians. To that end we maintain law and order by military action, gather intelligence, maintain friendly relations with the population and the political leaders, and support civil and military administrators in their functions. These are your standing orders at all times.”
As the capitaine speaks the red-haired caporal-chef returns, accompanied by a blond legionnaire wearing sergent’s stripes. “The company has been in action here in Algeria since the spring. Listen to your sous-officiers. Learn from their experiences. Many of them saw action in Indochina, and some were veterans even before that, correct, sergent?” He looks up at the blond non-com, who replies with a smile, “Oui, mon capitaine.”
The captain stands and addresses you, his face grave. “As a legionnaire of the 1st REP, you will wear the yellow-and-green fourragère of the Médaille Militaire on your parade uniform, France’s highest military decoration. The fourragère represents the four combat unit citations received by the regiment. The men of the First are among the most decorated in the history of the Legion. Many of those decorations were earned posthumously, in Indochina, on the road to Cao Bang, at Dien Bien Phu, and now in Algeria. It falls to you to venerate their memory and to maintain the honor of the regiment and the Legion by your conduct.”
Captain Martini looks intently at each man. “That is all.”
The blond sergeant snaps, “Attention!” Boots slap together, hands are quickly raised in salute. The capitaine returns the salute. “Gaston, show Fortier to the aid tent. Sergent Müller, first section. Dismissed.” He sits down behind his desk and returns his attention to his paperwork.
Grabbing gear, the legionnaires are lead into the night by the two sous-officiers.
Marcel...[sblock]The caporal-chef introduces himself almost immediately. “I’m Gaston Vieux, the company clerk.” His accent unmistakably puts him from somewhere in northwestern France. “Your foot lockers will arrive in next day or two with our supply convoy. We can get you a clean uniform tomorrow if you need it.” He stops before a large tent with a red cross pinned over the flap – a lantern is burning inside. “Dutch should be inside – check in with him. Good night.”
Through the flap is a small infirmary – a half-dozen cots, all empty at the moment, a couple of storage cabinets, a gurney, a wheelchair, a pair of canvas stretcher leaning against a wall. The tent is partitioned about two thirds of the way down its length, and the light is shining from the space beyond. Passing through the partition, Marcel sees three bunks and a table along with more cabinets filled with medical supplies. On one of the bunks is a legionnaire, still in his uniform, snoring softly on top of his blankets. Seated at the table is a man in a tee-shirt and skivvies – he appears to be writing a letter. He looks up as Marcel enters. “Who the devil are you, and what do you want?” he asks impatiently.[/sblock]Normand, Pyotr, and Vidal...[sblock]The blonde sous-officier motions for the legionnaires to follow. “Broke a captain’s leg the first week at Arzew, eh?” he asks Burhan mirthfully as they walk. His French carries a noticeable German accent.
Burhan shakes his head. “He broke his arm. He fell.”
The Geman sergent looks at Burhan. “He fell when you knocked him down with your rifle, yes?” The Turk shrugs his shoulders and says nothing.
The sergeant glances at the rest of the legionnaires. “I’m sergent Müller, platoon sergeant. You’ll be assigned to first section – your section leader is sergent Katsourianis. All four of you will be assigned to the choc group.” He taps Burhan on the shoulder, points to the next row of tents over. “Fourth Platoon is over there. You can stop by in the morning.” He stops at one of the tents, pulls back the flap. “Kat, your new boots are here.”
Entering the tent, the legionnaires see a double row of cots running along the canvas walls, ten in all. Legionnaires are scattered around the room – one is listening to a transistor radio through an earpiece, another reads what appears to be a bible printed in a Scandinavian language. One legionnaire is adding polish to a pair of jump boots – another appears to be writing a letter. One is stretched out on his cot, sound asleep despite the light and the noise. As you enter, a curly-haired legionnaire with a thin mustache stands up from where he was seated on one of the bunks. He has a tiger tattooed on his left forearm, a banner that reads “LEGIO PATRIA NOSTRA” on his right. A red scar is visible above his right eye.
“I’m sergent Katsourianis,” he says. “If that’s too much for you, I’ll answer to sergent Kat.” He points to a black legionnaire seated on the same bunk. “That’s caporal Sembène, my second – he answers to ‘Babaye’.” The black legionnaire smiles.
Katrourianis points at different legionnaires as he speaks. “The guy with the radio is Ortu. That’s Syrovy – ” the legionnaire writing the letter, a thin blonde man “ – Asmussen – ” the legionnaire with the bible “ – Nedjar – ” polishing his boots, he nods at the newcomers “ – and that body over there is Sanchez.”
He gestures toward the five empty bunks around the room. “You can take any one of those. Your footlockers will be here in the next day or two, with our supply train. If you need a clean uniform, we can get that, otherwise borrow from these guys until then. In the meantime get situated as best you can.”
Ortu, a husky young man with a gold catholic medal hanging around his neck and tattoos covering both arms below the sleeve of his tee-shirt, says “Hey, Pamuk, Fourth Platoon is over there somewhere.”
Burhan shrugs. “Le Capitaine put me here now.”
Sembène speaks up. “He’s taking your spot, Ortu, so you can drive a truck instead of a machine gun.” Ortu shakes his head and reaches for a magazine under his bunk.
Nedjar, the legionnaire with the boot polish in hand, looks at the new arrivals with interest. “Are these the guys, sergent? Are you the guys? From the training jump?”[/sblock]Please respond using either {spoiler} tags or {sblock} tags, replacing the braces with brackets of course – obviously Barak, Shadow, and знаток can read each other’s posts.
Last edited:
shadowbloodmoon
First Post
[sblock]Pyotr sighs as the other legionnaire asks his question. "Oui, that's us." He then takes his gear and stows it under a bunk, figuring that he would sort it as soon as the new footlockers arrived. "I'm Pyotr, that's Normand and that's Vidal," Pyotr says, indicating each of them. "So, what did you hear about us?"
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