"B-m. These straps are never comfortable." Barzini grouses as he adjusts his web-gear and demo kit. He smiles leeringly at his comrades "It must be how a busty girl feels about her brassiere; very uncomfortable but essesntial equipment!" Barzini checks to make sure he's ready for the reconnaissance (full canteen, a snack, ammo, etc.) and awaits orders to move out.
Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime
- Thread starter The Shaman
- Start date
The Shaman
First Post
Capt. Martini reaches into his own pack and pulls out an old map case in brown leather that he slings over one shoulder. A few of the veteran legionnaires smile. “You’re bringing your sketch book, sir?” Nedjar offers respectfully.
The captain nods. “Depending on where these tracks go, we may be near a marabout that Lt. Ferrand described.”
“Sir,” Sánchez interjects, “Barzini here is a pretty talented artist.” The Spaniard reaches into his pack, pulls out the neatly folded drawing he tucked away after the card game, and presents it to the officer.
Le Capitaine studies the picture, then looks at Raffaele. “This is very good, légionnaire. Much better than my hasty efforts.” He hands the drawing back to Sánchez with a smile, and hefts his MAT-49. Kat calls out, “David, on point with Vidal,” and the section begins climbing the slope.
Vidal studies the ground as the line of paratroopers advance. The tracks are easy to follow at first, holes punched in the soft crust of the thin soil, until the legionnaires reach the rocky ridgetop, forcing Vidal to backtrack once or twice to pick up the trail. The trend is north- and eastward, following the undulating ridge for a time before descending once again. Dropping back down the far side, the trail leads across a small wash and up a taller slope on the far side. After reaching a small spur on the side of the ridge, Capt. Martini calls a halt, removing a map and compass from the old leather case. “Water break,” Kat orders, dispatching Pamuk and Asmussen as lookouts. The legionnaires settle in the tiny patch of shade offered by the rocky outcrop as the captain consults his map.
The captain nods. “Depending on where these tracks go, we may be near a marabout that Lt. Ferrand described.”
“Sir,” Sánchez interjects, “Barzini here is a pretty talented artist.” The Spaniard reaches into his pack, pulls out the neatly folded drawing he tucked away after the card game, and presents it to the officer.
Le Capitaine studies the picture, then looks at Raffaele. “This is very good, légionnaire. Much better than my hasty efforts.” He hands the drawing back to Sánchez with a smile, and hefts his MAT-49. Kat calls out, “David, on point with Vidal,” and the section begins climbing the slope.
Vidal studies the ground as the line of paratroopers advance. The tracks are easy to follow at first, holes punched in the soft crust of the thin soil, until the legionnaires reach the rocky ridgetop, forcing Vidal to backtrack once or twice to pick up the trail. The trend is north- and eastward, following the undulating ridge for a time before descending once again. Dropping back down the far side, the trail leads across a small wash and up a taller slope on the far side. After reaching a small spur on the side of the ridge, Capt. Martini calls a halt, removing a map and compass from the old leather case. “Water break,” Kat orders, dispatching Pamuk and Asmussen as lookouts. The legionnaires settle in the tiny patch of shade offered by the rocky outcrop as the captain consults his map.
Bobitron
Explorer
Taking a few moments before resting to make sure all the men are settling in without trouble, Marcel leans back on the broadest rock he can find. "It's no pillow," he grumbles goodnaturedly. Drinking from his canteen, he nudges Pyotr on the arm and hands him a piece of dried apricot from his kit.
Ambling easily near the lounging doctor, Normand approaches him with a smile, and a few sips from his own canteen.
"Marcel, mon ami.. You are giving us frenchmen a bad name amongst all those foreigners! This was barely a walk. Surely, nothing to need a nap for."
With a grin, he moves his weapon up and down a bit.
"Then again, this is all I'm carrying, no heavy medical kit."
"Marcel, mon ami.. You are giving us frenchmen a bad name amongst all those foreigners! This was barely a walk. Surely, nothing to need a nap for."
With a grin, he moves his weapon up and down a bit.
"Then again, this is all I'm carrying, no heavy medical kit."
shadowbloodmoon
First Post
Pyotr takes the offered dried fruit with a nod of thanks. "That new kid sure can draw. Waste of talent, if you ask me." He removes and checks his weapon for dust and dirt before replacing it on his back. "You know, not all of us are as big and strong as you are, Normand." Pyotr gives the Frenchman a light shove on his arm.
Bobitron
Explorer
Marcel tosses Normand a piece of apricot as well, grinning at his comments. "The complete and utter lack of thoughts for anything other than your next meal and a big-titted maid leave your mind without the need for rest, mon ami." He stands and stretches. "My own thoughts are laden with the weight of the world."
He strides over to Martini where her looks at the map and speaks respectfully. "What do you think, Captain? How far from the supply route?" He extends a hand with the last of his fruit. "The men we have tied up, sir. What will become of them? Do we keep them in custody until we reach the end of the deployment?"
He strides over to Martini where her looks at the map and speaks respectfully. "What do you think, Captain? How far from the supply route?" He extends a hand with the last of his fruit. "The men we have tied up, sir. What will become of them? Do we keep them in custody until we reach the end of the deployment?"
The Shaman
First Post
Karel Syrovy looks over at Pyotr. “We’re all wasted talents, don’t you know? That’s why we’re in the Legion.” He opens his silver cigarette case and lights a Gauloises.
Silvio Ortu snorts at Marcel’s “weight of the world” remark. “Cafard already?” he says derisively.
David Nedjar looks up, scratches his scruffy beard. “I’m betting it’s a certain nurse,” he replies, grinning. Ortu rolls his eyes as he checks and rechecks the AAT-52, resting the machine gun on its bipod mount.
Marcel approaches the captain with his questions. “Over this ridge here, and north, about a kilometer,” the company commander replies, replacing the map and compass in the worn leather case. “Lt. Ferrand – the SAS officer – suggested that the ALN is moving supplies along an old route used by Arab insurgents about seventy years ago. The tomb of a marabout, a holy man, named Abd-el-Hamou, was built on the route after he and his followers were defeated by the Army in the 1880s.” Capt. Martini reaches for his canteen and takes a swig, then mops his face with a scarf made from a swatch of old camouflage parachute cloth draped around his neck. Marcel notices the faded lighting bolt tattoo, and the vicious scars, on the captain’s forearm. “It’s a rough, dry march away from the douars, but that’s precisely why the insurgents used it back then. The lieutenant believes that hasn’t been forgotten by the ALN.”
Asked about the prisoners, the captain replies, “The father wasn’t carrying his carte, but that’s a minor offense. I don’t believe those donkeys wandered all the way out here, however. In the winter perhaps, when there’s water and forage, but not now. If we find they were involved in supplying the ALN, caching water or food, they will be turned over to the gendarmerie when we return to camp.” Capt. Martini pulls his binoculars from their case, and with one hand shading the lenses to keep light from reflecting off the glass he quickly scans the rugged horizon.
Silvio Ortu snorts at Marcel’s “weight of the world” remark. “Cafard already?” he says derisively.
David Nedjar looks up, scratches his scruffy beard. “I’m betting it’s a certain nurse,” he replies, grinning. Ortu rolls his eyes as he checks and rechecks the AAT-52, resting the machine gun on its bipod mount.
Marcel approaches the captain with his questions. “Over this ridge here, and north, about a kilometer,” the company commander replies, replacing the map and compass in the worn leather case. “Lt. Ferrand – the SAS officer – suggested that the ALN is moving supplies along an old route used by Arab insurgents about seventy years ago. The tomb of a marabout, a holy man, named Abd-el-Hamou, was built on the route after he and his followers were defeated by the Army in the 1880s.” Capt. Martini reaches for his canteen and takes a swig, then mops his face with a scarf made from a swatch of old camouflage parachute cloth draped around his neck. Marcel notices the faded lighting bolt tattoo, and the vicious scars, on the captain’s forearm. “It’s a rough, dry march away from the douars, but that’s precisely why the insurgents used it back then. The lieutenant believes that hasn’t been forgotten by the ALN.”
Asked about the prisoners, the captain replies, “The father wasn’t carrying his carte, but that’s a minor offense. I don’t believe those donkeys wandered all the way out here, however. In the winter perhaps, when there’s water and forage, but not now. If we find they were involved in supplying the ALN, caching water or food, they will be turned over to the gendarmerie when we return to camp.” Capt. Martini pulls his binoculars from their case, and with one hand shading the lenses to keep light from reflecting off the glass he quickly scans the rugged horizon.
Normand grins even wider at Marcel's comeback.
"But me, mon ami I'll keep those maids happy all night long... The world? It'll go back to
after an hour."
Munching on the fruit, Normand then goes through a serie of stretches, and takes off his boots, making sure there's no blisters starting to form.
"But me, mon ami I'll keep those maids happy all night long... The world? It'll go back to
after an hour."Munching on the fruit, Normand then goes through a serie of stretches, and takes off his boots, making sure there's no blisters starting to form.
The Shaman
First Post
As Normand stretches, Manolo Sánchez speaks up. “Mon capitaine,” he says, “will permissions be available when we return to camp after this operation?”
Capt. Martini finishes his scan of the hillsides before answering. “Perhaps. The mayor demands assurances that there will be no more incidents.” Sánchez glances at Normand but says nothing as the captain continues, “If we provide a police militaire presence and keep the numbers small, perhaps.”
“What do you care, Le Daronne?” Ortu says to the Spaniard, working the slide on the AAT-52 to keep the action clear. “There’s no brothel in Portemonte.” Syrovy laughs, but Sánchez ignores the jibe and replies, “Merci, mon capitaine.”
Capt. Martini finishes his scan of the hillsides before answering. “Perhaps. The mayor demands assurances that there will be no more incidents.” Sánchez glances at Normand but says nothing as the captain continues, “If we provide a police militaire presence and keep the numbers small, perhaps.”
“What do you care, Le Daronne?” Ortu says to the Spaniard, working the slide on the AAT-52 to keep the action clear. “There’s no brothel in Portemonte.” Syrovy laughs, but Sánchez ignores the jibe and replies, “Merci, mon capitaine.”
shadowbloodmoon
First Post
Pyotr smiles at Karel. "Perhaps some of us are." He taps the rifle on his back to emphasize his point.
