Post by coleman on Mar 25, 2009 9:12:18 GMT
I feel there are too many allied CO's at the moment, so I'm accepting you as a Corpsman Class 1.
~Dan
FYI, O'Brian is going bye-bye, and I've watched too many medical dramas.
Account E-Mail: locked_down@hotmail.com
Name: Bradley Coleman
Nationality:
American (No swearing this time to show enthusiasm )
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
German American:
Character History:
Coleman was born in 1904, ten years before the First World War to an inner-city family from Boston. It was here he discovered an interest in medicine, as he lived just around the corner of the hospital in which his father was a cook. Not the most glamorous job, but the days which Bradley was taken to work with his father allowed him to lurk the corridors and observe the intricate, and quite bloody, events unfolding. Some may have been scared, some disgusted, but Bradley was only intrigued.
When he was thirteen, America entered the First World War, and thousands of young American's ventured over seas to fight the vile Hun in Europe. This also meant that hundreds of them were coming back in various states of health. Bradley just lapped it up, and began asking dozens of questions to the doctors and slowly his knowledge of medical procedures grew. He even began doing small jobs around the stretched hospital, from cleaning bedpans to helping bandage wounds on some of the less serious patients.
As he reached an appropriate age, he enrolled for medical school to learn in depth the trade that he had grown up loving. It was a good time for it as well, as Medical Sciences were reaching their zenith, with dozens of new innovations every year, and Bradley enjoyed writing the details of every one of them in his neat script inside a battered notebook he carried with him always.
He passed with flying colours, and began doing his rounds at several hospitals in the peace that followed. When the Great Depression hit in 1929, he was secure with his job, and safe from the ravages it brought to millions of Americans. In those times, Bradley's job seemed to be at its hardest, with what seemed like hundreds of people admitted daily into his A&E ward. Work came fast and thick with the desperate people looking for a warm bed and food by inflicting small wounds on themselves. It proved good practise, and easy work. The overtime was quite generous as well, and it was in this time he met his sweetheart, Annette Rose.
Soon after, as the country clambered back to its feet, he married Annette and fathered a son, James. Life was pretty sweet for the next few years, a comfortable out-of-city house, a nice car, and a promotion into surgery, but he yearned something, something his protected childhood and withheld from him. He yearned adventure of the highest kind.
And this came, in 1941 with the assault on Pearl Harbour. His country, one he had lived in and loved for years, was attacked, and Coleman just wouldn't stand for it. He enlisted with the army, and was taken on as a battlefield surgeon.
Military Rank:
Medical Officer (First Lieutenant) (Bear in mind who you will come begging to when you've got a bullet in your chest... Jokes!)
Writing Sample:
Scenario:you’re alone behind enemy lines and you get the eerie feeling someone’s watching you. You’re trying to remain quiet, stay low, work your way back to the frontlines - but you can’t help but feel you’re being followed… (How does your character React? What’s running through their mind?) I cannae be bothered with this. It bores me. I'll mess things up, eh?
With a sigh, Coleman stepped backwards, wiping blood from his sleeves with a small cloth and flicking away the latex gloves on his hands. They landed in the small bin, and the medic couldn't help but smile as he stepped outside breathing fresh air. He heard the orderlies behind him sorting out the poor GI he had just saved, and he reached under his apron, forcing apart his jacket and extracting a small cardboard box. With his thumb, he flicked it open and grabbed a cigarette with his teeth, pulling it out and replacing the box, pulling a silver lighter out in it's stead. He ran his fingers along the inscription on the side Good luck, Dad! and smiled as he lit the stick.
He puffed gently, letting the deadly fumes calm him. After a few breaths, he held it outwards and exhaled, feeling the pressures just roll away. Barely seconds later, a jeep rolled up, and from the bottle of plasma held high, he had a feeling his break was over. He spat the cigarette out and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. He walked in to the tent and reached into a bag, pulling out another pair of gloves. He took a last look at the dry skin on his hand; the clothes were a dermatologist’s nightmare! "Orderly," he called out, "Clean gear we're about to have a-"
He was cut off as the flap of the tent was flung open, and a bleeding soldier carried in. The Staff Sergeant holding him explained quickly. "Bullet wound to chest, serious lacerations to leg, and lots of cuts 'n' bruises."
"Thank you, Sergeant, any pain relief?" Was the reply, as Coleman ripped open the shirt of the dying man to survey properly.
"No sir."
"Alright. Thank you."
Bradley thumbed the soldier's dogtags, reading out info. "Corporal Andrew Jacobs. Eighty, that's eight zero, kilograms, twenty-four years old. Blood type O." He called out the facts, and instantly morphine was drawn up if it was needed, and a runner went for more plasma. Bradley turned to a Technical Sergeant, and began giving orders. "You, sort his legs. If it's only cuts, bandage, if not it will have to wait."
He turned to the face of Corporal Jacobs and slapped it, hard. "Corporal, look at me. You're at the aid station and you're gonna be OK." As he said this, he stretched out a small canvas screen and placed it over the neck of the patient. He reached out in to a tray and squeezed his hand around a scalpel and sliced along the soldier's chest. A cry of pain came out, good. If he was screaming, he was breathing. "Sorry there, had to make sure you were awake. Morphine!" A needle was injected, and Coleman waited a few moments for it to take effect.
He came back with the blade, opening the wound so he could see in. The bullet was there, quite obviously, and he grabbed a pair of forceps, blood-stained fingers slipping slightly on it. He tightened them around the small piece of metal, and pulled it out with a sickening sucking sound. A small tray was placed in front of him and he dropped it in.
"Legs are good," was muttered into his ear, and Coleman nodded. He probed slightly before speaking.
"Ribs are completely shattered. He needs to go back and have surgery; we don't have the stuff here. Write a note, I'll do what I can."
He reached in again with the forceps in one hand, and a torch in the other. He pulled at small pieces of bone, pulling them out and putting them to the side so they could be put back in. Satisfied it was empty; he pulled back, stepping away so another orderly could descend with stitches. He exhaled, the tricky part done. Shame that all cases weren't as straight forward as this.
~Dan
FYI, O'Brian is going bye-bye, and I've watched too many medical dramas.
Account E-Mail: locked_down@hotmail.com
Name: Bradley Coleman
Nationality:
American (No swearing this time to show enthusiasm )
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
Character History:
Coleman was born in 1904, ten years before the First World War to an inner-city family from Boston. It was here he discovered an interest in medicine, as he lived just around the corner of the hospital in which his father was a cook. Not the most glamorous job, but the days which Bradley was taken to work with his father allowed him to lurk the corridors and observe the intricate, and quite bloody, events unfolding. Some may have been scared, some disgusted, but Bradley was only intrigued.
When he was thirteen, America entered the First World War, and thousands of young American's ventured over seas to fight the vile Hun in Europe. This also meant that hundreds of them were coming back in various states of health. Bradley just lapped it up, and began asking dozens of questions to the doctors and slowly his knowledge of medical procedures grew. He even began doing small jobs around the stretched hospital, from cleaning bedpans to helping bandage wounds on some of the less serious patients.
As he reached an appropriate age, he enrolled for medical school to learn in depth the trade that he had grown up loving. It was a good time for it as well, as Medical Sciences were reaching their zenith, with dozens of new innovations every year, and Bradley enjoyed writing the details of every one of them in his neat script inside a battered notebook he carried with him always.
He passed with flying colours, and began doing his rounds at several hospitals in the peace that followed. When the Great Depression hit in 1929, he was secure with his job, and safe from the ravages it brought to millions of Americans. In those times, Bradley's job seemed to be at its hardest, with what seemed like hundreds of people admitted daily into his A&E ward. Work came fast and thick with the desperate people looking for a warm bed and food by inflicting small wounds on themselves. It proved good practise, and easy work. The overtime was quite generous as well, and it was in this time he met his sweetheart, Annette Rose.
Soon after, as the country clambered back to its feet, he married Annette and fathered a son, James. Life was pretty sweet for the next few years, a comfortable out-of-city house, a nice car, and a promotion into surgery, but he yearned something, something his protected childhood and withheld from him. He yearned adventure of the highest kind.
And this came, in 1941 with the assault on Pearl Harbour. His country, one he had lived in and loved for years, was attacked, and Coleman just wouldn't stand for it. He enlisted with the army, and was taken on as a battlefield surgeon.
Military Rank:
Medical Officer (First Lieutenant) (Bear in mind who you will come begging to when you've got a bullet in your chest... Jokes!)
Writing Sample:
Scenario:
With a sigh, Coleman stepped backwards, wiping blood from his sleeves with a small cloth and flicking away the latex gloves on his hands. They landed in the small bin, and the medic couldn't help but smile as he stepped outside breathing fresh air. He heard the orderlies behind him sorting out the poor GI he had just saved, and he reached under his apron, forcing apart his jacket and extracting a small cardboard box. With his thumb, he flicked it open and grabbed a cigarette with his teeth, pulling it out and replacing the box, pulling a silver lighter out in it's stead. He ran his fingers along the inscription on the side Good luck, Dad! and smiled as he lit the stick.
He puffed gently, letting the deadly fumes calm him. After a few breaths, he held it outwards and exhaled, feeling the pressures just roll away. Barely seconds later, a jeep rolled up, and from the bottle of plasma held high, he had a feeling his break was over. He spat the cigarette out and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. He walked in to the tent and reached into a bag, pulling out another pair of gloves. He took a last look at the dry skin on his hand; the clothes were a dermatologist’s nightmare! "Orderly," he called out, "Clean gear we're about to have a-"
He was cut off as the flap of the tent was flung open, and a bleeding soldier carried in. The Staff Sergeant holding him explained quickly. "Bullet wound to chest, serious lacerations to leg, and lots of cuts 'n' bruises."
"Thank you, Sergeant, any pain relief?" Was the reply, as Coleman ripped open the shirt of the dying man to survey properly.
"No sir."
"Alright. Thank you."
Bradley thumbed the soldier's dogtags, reading out info. "Corporal Andrew Jacobs. Eighty, that's eight zero, kilograms, twenty-four years old. Blood type O." He called out the facts, and instantly morphine was drawn up if it was needed, and a runner went for more plasma. Bradley turned to a Technical Sergeant, and began giving orders. "You, sort his legs. If it's only cuts, bandage, if not it will have to wait."
He turned to the face of Corporal Jacobs and slapped it, hard. "Corporal, look at me. You're at the aid station and you're gonna be OK." As he said this, he stretched out a small canvas screen and placed it over the neck of the patient. He reached out in to a tray and squeezed his hand around a scalpel and sliced along the soldier's chest. A cry of pain came out, good. If he was screaming, he was breathing. "Sorry there, had to make sure you were awake. Morphine!" A needle was injected, and Coleman waited a few moments for it to take effect.
He came back with the blade, opening the wound so he could see in. The bullet was there, quite obviously, and he grabbed a pair of forceps, blood-stained fingers slipping slightly on it. He tightened them around the small piece of metal, and pulled it out with a sickening sucking sound. A small tray was placed in front of him and he dropped it in.
"Legs are good," was muttered into his ear, and Coleman nodded. He probed slightly before speaking.
"Ribs are completely shattered. He needs to go back and have surgery; we don't have the stuff here. Write a note, I'll do what I can."
He reached in again with the forceps in one hand, and a torch in the other. He pulled at small pieces of bone, pulling them out and putting them to the side so they could be put back in. Satisfied it was empty; he pulled back, stepping away so another orderly could descend with stitches. He exhaled, the tricky part done. Shame that all cases weren't as straight forward as this.