Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime

[The Shaman]

Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele...[sblock]Ferrand chuckles at Normand. “Politics. Yes, indeed.”. He looks up at the big Frenchman. “I know better than to ask where a legionnaire is from, but your French would sound right at home on the wharves of Marseilles.” The lieutenant accepts a brick, places it in the course. “I lived in Nice for a little while, after I got out of the Army the first time. I heard that accent many times.”

“You’re a rappelé, mon lieutenant?” Nedjar asks.

Ferrand nods. “Oui. 1er Régiment de Cuirassiers, stationed in Landau, in 1952. I commanded a tank platoon. I returned to active duty last fall.”[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]A woman’s voice floats through the carpet hanging over the doorway. “A moment, s’il vous plait.” After a dozen seconds, the carpet is drawn back and a European face peers out.

Bright blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face framed by shoulder-length chestnut hair gaze at Marcel. She appears to be in her mid-twenties, with good skin starting to show signs of sun exposure – tiny wrinkles materialize at the corners of her eyes while she looks over Marcel, as if inspecting a basket of day-old fish in a market. Her upturned nose wrinkles slightly, adding to the impression. “You’re who, now? she asks, her full lips pursed. “Legion paras?” There’s a hint of reproach in her voice as she says the last.

Sister Courcy listens as Marcel repeats his orders. “I see,” she replies. She steps aside, motioning with her head for the medic to enter the mechta. The room is in deep shadow and anxious seconds pass as Marcel’s eyes adjust to the darkness. Seated on a pile of carpets is a trio of Arab women – all three are veiled, but from the eyes peering intently at Marcel it appears that the three are of different ages. Generations, perhaps?

The nurse is dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of uniform trousers in the leopard-pattern camouflage of the paras, the latter tucked into a pair of heavy lace-up boots. Both the shirt and the trousers hang loosely on the nurse’s slight frame – at first it appears to be simply a poor fit, to be expected in the French Army, but a closer look suggests that they may have fit at one time and she has simply lost weight. She runs a delicate hand over her face. “I need someone who can speak Arabic more than I need a medic,” she says. “I don’t suppose you’re useful in that regard?”[/sblock]

 

[shadowbloodmoon]

Pyotr listens as the orders are given out. He smiles inside as he is given watch. "Yes, Sergeant." A part of him feels for his squadmates and he goes about his duties apprehensively, helping Sanchez secure the men's weapons and tripodding them nearby. If the Lieutenant trusts this little sideshow, Pyotr would have to as well.

 

[Barak]

[sblock]
"Nice, eh? We'll have to play some pétanque later on then. I've heard niçois are under the false impression they know how to play.
[/sblock]

 

[Bobitron]

[sblock]Marcel bows slighty, the gesture out of place among the simple surroundings and in a combat uniform. He smiles broadly at Courcy as she inspects him. Well isn't this nice! I travel all the way out here just to find a lovely lady, lonely and obviously in need of attention. Marcel lets her take the lead in the conversation for the time being.

At her inquiry about his language skills, he nods and turns to the gathered women, greeting them in perfect Arabic and asking for the purpose of thier visit.[/sblock]

 

[The Shaman]

Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele...[sblock]“But of course,” Ferrand says with a hearty laugh. “Every Nicois is a Bourbon pretender, yes? Ah, a jeu de boules sounds very good right now,” he adds, accepting a brick from Asmussen to add to the course.

“I’m not Nicois myself,” he continues, “as I was reminded several times during my tenure at the Lycée Imperial. I’m from Languedoc, in the southwest of France.”

The Arab villagers, dressed in their striped burnouses, seem impervious to the oppressive heat, but several of the legionnaires quickly doff smocks and t-shirts as the sun hangs at zenith. Silvio Ortu’s array of tattoos – the shield of the 1er REP on his right forearm, a risqué belly dancer on his left forearm that swings her hips when he flexes his muscles, a heart with a dagger through it on his right bicep, the Virgin Mary on his left bicep, and a heart with the name “Maria” scrolled through it on his chest – elicit grins from the Arabs. The Sardinian, to the surprise of everyone in the section, actually seems to be enjoying the work, skillfully laying the courses and, perhaps even more shocking, keeping his mouth closed.

Karol Syrovy takes up the slack.

“Altmeier gets the patrol and we get this,” the slender Hungarian says to Sgt. Katsourianis, as he hefts a bag of cement over his shoulder. “The goddamn German mafia looking out for one another again.”

Kat ignores the comment, but Nedjar looks up from the pan where he mixes concrete with a hoe. “Well, we may be the only section in the Legion that doesn’t have any Germans in it,” he says with a grin.

“We have Asmussen,” Syrovy replies, tilting his head at the tall blond legionnaire hefting bricks.

“Jens is Danish,” Nedjar answers, “not German.”

Syrovy shrugs. “Same thing.”

Jens Asmussen looks up, blinking back confusion. “Danish,” he says. “I am Danish. I am not German.”

Syrovy laughs sharply. “You’re a legionnaire,” Kat replies.

The conversation carries over to Pyotr, warily watching the villagers who seem to be just as warily watching the legionnaires. Most of the Arabs going about their business seem to be women or children, or the elderly – the adult men all seem to be working on the goat pen, or the cistern. There seem to be fewer males than one would expect, judging from the size of the village and the families present.

Pyotr’s gaze wanders to the high hills surrounding the village. A couple of children with a herd of goats are picking their way along one of the slopes – the others appear to be deserted, silhouetted against the bright blue sky. The Ukrainian’s eyes return to the village in time to see an Arab man duck quickly into a shadowy doorway.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]The Arab women remain silent. “They won’t answer you,” Sister Courcy offers, her tone sanguine. “They’re in purdah, and you are a man who has improperly entered their home.” She wipes a wisp of brown hair out of her eyes. “I’m sure my bare arms offend them, too, but I’m too bloody hot to care.”

“I want to give the daughter a gynecological examination,” she continues, “and I need you to translate my instructions for me. Can you do that without being rude?” She looks about the room, and picks up a small rug. “Turn away,” she instructs. “Face the wall there, and I’m going to put this over you to give her as much privacy as possible. Do you understand?”[/sblock]

 

[shadowbloodmoon]

Pyotr stares for a moment, hoping to get another glimpse of the Arab that was attempting to hide. Not seeing him, he quickly motions to Sanchez to get his attention. Pointing his two fingers to his eyes and then in the direction of what he saw, he stands up, checking his submachinegun before starting to head in that direction.

 

[Bobitron]

The Amazing and Mighty Marcel:

[sblock] Marcel's grin fades as he sees her intent. "I don't have a problem with the translation, miss. The rug, though..." He shrugs. "Ah well. We do what we must. For medicine, no? Is there anything you need for supplies? I overstocked before leaving base." The grin returns as he puts the unlit cigarette in his had into his shirt pocket and swings the heavy musette bag off his shoulder. "I won't let you sweep my under the carpet forever, though, mademoiselle. When this is over, I think you could use some relaxation. And, of course, my company." [/sblock]

 

[The Shaman]

Normand, Raffaele, and Pyotr...[sblock]Pyotr watches for the Arab to reemerge, but there is no sign of him after he disappears through the doorway. Sánchez nods at Pyotr’s alert, and quietly gets Kat’s attention as Pyotr moves to take up a better position.

I need a rough idea of the route that Pyotr is following. The green dot on the map is the location of the doorway.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]A flicker of gratitude crosses the brunette nurse’s face at the offer of supplies, but the look is quickly replaced by something between annoyance and boredom. “It’s ‘sister’, not ‘miss’,” she says flatly as she tosses the rug over Marcel’s head.

The examination takes only a few minutes – translating Sister Courcy’s examination is challenging, doubly so without being able to see the patient. Finally the rug is whipped away. “In my bag is smallpox vaccine, legionnaire” she says perfunctorily, pointing at her field pack on the floor – strapped to the side is an M1 Carbine, identical to Marcel’s. The nursing sister calls for the children of the household in pidgin Arabic, and two girls and a young boy appear, the latter dragged by the arms by his sisters as Marcel withdraws syringes and ampules from the pack.

Sister Courcy vaccinates the girls as Marcel tends to the boy, a big-eyed child of about five years old. “Legionnaire,” she says as preps a syringe, “Lt. Ferrand would not allow you to address me disrespectfully in his presence. He’s a good man and a kind man, but he’s also a French Army officer.” The nurse inserts the needle into the older girl’s upper arm.

“You’re new to the Legion, yes?” she asks Marcel as she presses the plunger. Satisfied that the vaccine has been administered correctly, she looks at the medic’s uniform. “The new pattern camouflage,” she says, “and still in good condition.” She glances at her own uniform pants, faded and worn. “If I notice it, so do these Arabs, and they will take advantage of it if they can.”[/sblock]

 

[Bobitron]

Marcel speaks!

[sblock] Marcel submits to the rug without comment and gets about the business of medicine, efficiently translating as best he can and helping with the vaccination. Once they finish and Sister Courcy comments on the fresh uniform, he opens back up, rubbing the uniform self-conciously where it covers the pistol. "Yeah, I know." He shrugs again. "Nothing to be done except wear it in or swap it out, I guess, but I can't imagine I'll find a veteran in my size that would be willing to do so. Maybe one of the guys back at the base can find me a jacket, anyhow."

Looking the woman in the eyes, Marcel smiles softly. "Hey, umm... no offense meant, Sister. It is just nice to see a beautiful face out here. Easy to forget you have a title. I'll be careful not to do it again. If I start to overstep the professional boundries, let me know." The smile goes wider. "But I'm sure you will. You don't seem like the type to let others fight your battles for you."

Walking to the small cistern of clean water near the wall, Marcel removes a small bar of soap from his jacket and washes his hands. As he rinses, he takes an extra cake still in the wrapper and leaves it on the edge.

"So, Lt. Ferrand. You have been here with him long? He seems a good enough sort. He was busy butting heads with my LT when I left to meet you. Apparently his strength of personality won out. Our mission was to search the homes for weapons. Lt. Ferrand assured us the weapons have been inventoried, but we do have our orders. Seems they are to be ignored for now." He looks back over his shoulder as he wipes his hands dry.

"You have been amongst this group for some time now? Are you confident there is no insurgent activity?"

[/sblock]

 

[shibata]

Barzini is obviously not happy about the order to turn over his weapons to Sanchez in the middle of an unsecured village. Even as Barzini tries to explain a better way to lay the bricks, he is distracted by the feeling that something bad is about to happen; his words come out jumbled and unhelpful, inspiring no one.

Charismatic Leadership attempt to aid Craft (structural)of Lt. Ferrand = 1 + 1
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