Upgrade your account to a Community Supporter account and remove most of the site ads.

Reply to thread

Message: <blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2854988" data-attributes="member: 26473">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]</blockquote>

Verification