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Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime
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<blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2852210" data-attributes="member: 26473"><p>Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele...[sblock]Ferrand chuckles at Normand. <span style="color: sienna">“Politics. Yes, indeed.”</span>. He looks up at the big Frenchman. <span style="color: sienna">“I know better than to ask where a legionnaire is from, but your French would sound right at home on the wharves of Marseilles.”</span> The lieutenant accepts a brick, places it in the course. <span style="color: sienna">“I lived in Nice for a little while, after I got out of the Army the first time. I heard that accent many times.”</span></p><p></p><p><span style="color: sienna">“You’re a <em>rappelé</em>, <em>mon lieutenant</em>?”</span> Nedjar asks.</p><p></p><p>Ferrand nods. <span style="color: sienna">“<em>Oui</em>. 1<em>er Régiment de Cuirassiers</em>, stationed in Landau, in 1952. I commanded a tank platoon. I returned to active duty last fall.”</span>[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]A woman’s voice floats through the carpet hanging over the doorway. <span style="color: sienna">“A moment, <em>s’il vous plait</em>.”</span> After a dozen seconds, the carpet is drawn back and a European face peers out.</p><p></p><p>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. <span style="color: sienna">“You’re who, now?</span> she asks, her full lips pursed. <span style="color: sienna">“Legion paras?”</span> There’s a hint of reproach in her voice as she says the last.</p><p></p><p>Sister Courcy listens as Marcel repeats his orders. <span style="color: sienna">“I see,”</span> she replies. She steps aside, motioning with her head for the medic to enter the <em>mechta</em>. 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?</p><p></p><p>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. <span style="color: sienna">“I need someone who can speak Arabic more than I need a medic,”</span> she says. <span style="color: sienna">“I don’t suppose you’re useful in that regard?”</span>[/sblock]</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="The Shaman, post: 2852210, member: 26473"] Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele...[sblock]Ferrand chuckles at Normand. [color=sienna]“Politics. Yes, indeed.”[/color]. He looks up at the big Frenchman. [color=sienna]“I know better than to ask where a legionnaire is from, but your French would sound right at home on the wharves of Marseilles.”[/color] The lieutenant accepts a brick, places it in the course. [color=sienna]“I lived in Nice for a little while, after I got out of the Army the first time. I heard that accent many times.”[/color] [color=sienna]“You’re a [i]rappelé[/i], [i]mon lieutenant[/i]?”[/color] Nedjar asks. Ferrand nods. [color=sienna]“[i]Oui[/i]. 1[i]er Régiment de Cuirassiers[/i], stationed in Landau, in 1952. I commanded a tank platoon. I returned to active duty last fall.”[/color][/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]A woman’s voice floats through the carpet hanging over the doorway. [color=sienna]“A moment, [i]s’il vous plait[/i].”[/color] 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. [color=sienna]“You’re who, now?[/color] she asks, her full lips pursed. [color=sienna]“Legion paras?”[/color] There’s a hint of reproach in her voice as she says the last. Sister Courcy listens as Marcel repeats his orders. [color=sienna]“I see,”[/color] she replies. She steps aside, motioning with her head for the medic to enter the [i]mechta[/i]. 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. [color=sienna]“I need someone who can speak Arabic more than I need a medic,”[/color] she says. [color=sienna]“I don’t suppose you’re useful in that regard?”[/color][/sblock] [/QUOTE]
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