Post by Vaccine1 on Oct 24, 2011 4:21:25 GMT
Account E-Mail: iancotham@gmail.com
Name:
Tristan Herman
Nationality:
German
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?:
Wehrmacht/German Army
Character History:
You don't wake up one day and decide you're going to do something extraordinary. Okay, maybe in some instances. You know, things like deciding you want to break a world record, or make a nice cake, run for mayor, something of that sort. But, then again, only buffoons and simpletons consider such things “extraordinary”.
“Extraordinary” as in waking up on a Tuesday, jumping out of bed, and deciding that you are going to conquer the better part of Europe in mere months. You just don't. It's just like the thought of Winston Churchill sitting down to tea one afternoon, pushing a thought through his mind, and instantly coming to the conclusion that he would become Prime Minister and help lead the British people through one of the darkest hours in human history.
Yet that is still not the kind of “extraordinary” we are pontificating upon. No. “Extraordinary” as in you don't wake up one morning in a fox-hole, and arbitrarily make the decision to crawl through the mud after already being shot twice to save some guy from “B” company that you've never even heard of who's just about down and out, then go back for his buddy, only to die on the way back. That is the kind of “extraordinary” I speak of. You don't wake up and plan something like that. No one ever does. And the even more ironic part is that when something as “extraordinary” as that occurs, it is by the will of a meaningless, petty man with nothing to his name, and no defined place in history. Where as Winston Churchill gets all the praise in the world for sitting behind his desk and spouting words written by a clerk paid five-pound fifty an hour.
The only thing more “extraordinary” than such a man as he who dies a tragically unknown and heroic death, is the man who wakes up from his cot, and is hit by an artillery shell before he can finish his first breath. He dies right there. In his cot. Nothing special about it. No amazing super human feats. No surmounting of any odds. Not even a fight to be put up by him. He simply dies.
Now, the man who accomplishes the daunting task of trading his life for that of his fellow man's is heralded as a hero. He is “extraordinary” because he dies fighting for the life of someone else. But the funny this is he ended up no better off than the man who died in his cot; the outcome was exactly the same. Both of them die, in “extraordinary” ways.
That is the plight of a young man under the banner of Nazi extremism in twentieth century Europe. Hell, that is the plight of any man: the plight of making a name for yourself before you die. Making sure your name is sung through the halls and written in books and told in tales and that a big copper statue of you is erected in some city somewhere. The plight that was suffered by the hero and the man in the cot, even in death. That is the plight of Tristan Herman.
You see, much like the man who died in his cot, and the man who was named a hero, there is nothing particularly “extraordinary” about Tristan. There never has been, and never will be. He is just a young, eighteen year old boy who is scared of death, scared of being forgotten, scared of being alone, and scared of being insignificant. That's all he is. That, and a resident of a small town home in Königsberg, Germany. He grew up that sad little boy in the back of the class that didn't talk much, didn't have any friends, and was, quite frankly, a worthless bag of meat that would be better off not existing.
His father seemed to think so too. Geoffrey Herman would actually tell the boy that quite frequently and colorfully; it was very polite of the man to remind him all the time. Because, evidently, being a factory worker was the most astute, honorable profession in all of Germania, available to only the most intelligent of men. So, Tristan, having no other reason to continue his existence as an art student (like it could ever amount to anything), sets off to make something of himself...
But, let's backtrack a bit; I've gotten ahead of myself. As usual, it seems.
Tristan Herman, as we stated prior, was a meaningless and insignificant German boy born in October of nineteen twenty-three, to Geoffrey Herman and Lizbet Haldis in Königsberg, Germany. He was born in his parent's bedroom, under the watchful eye of none other than his father; they hadn't the need, Geoffrey felt, to have a doctor administer the birth—-- a waste of money --- as his wife was more than capable. And she was, aside from slipping into depression post-partem, which festered and lasted the rest of her life.
As Tristan grew up, he had few friends. His father told him to go to the library and read; to gain knowledge, to become smarter, and make a good living for himself later in life. And so, the young boy would. He'd spend hours daily in the library, reading old tales and having little internally orchestrated adventures. Only on one occasion did he return home claiming to be bored. The beating he received encouraged him to return without question ever again.
When the young Tristan finally attended school, he learned so very little; his father's pushing had drilled into him every last ounce of fathomable knowledge possible; perhaps an exaggeration. He had no trouble passing exams, and equally had no trouble receiving beatings for being that much more intelligent than his classmates. It was a pattern that continued throughout his life up until he finally gave up on (at his own discretion) education in general. At least, institutionalized education.
So, while the rest of the German youth was slowly being persuaded to the ideals of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party in the class room, a careless, inverted, and frustrated boy took it upon himself to make a living of his own. Behind his father's back of course. And so he did. Reading, drawing, and writing in spare time between work at a newspaper. He earned himself a fair amount of wealth by the time he turned fourteen. So he applied himself to the Vienna school of Art, in Austria, at an absurdly young age, and running away from home to do so.
There is no “happy, humble beginning” to this man's story, if you cannot tell. It would only figure in that Tristan would be denied entry to the university based on the scores of his entrance exams (much like a certain, up and coming dictator). Upon his retreat home, the beating and lecture he received was barely memorable. That is not to imply it was not severe. Just so much so that it was lost in the annals of his mind. His father, within the next week, had him working at the factory alongside him, earning a wage for the family.
Which brings us to the year nineteen fourty-two, when an eighteen year old boy has now decided that he's had quite enough of his meaningless, backwards, pitiful, insignificant life. He's done with the rabble and the dithering on of the factory worker's existence. Tristan Herman wants to be “extraordinary”. He wants to do great things, and become someone that history will remember. He wants to be like all the other young men in the Wehrmacht, and become a hero for Germany and it's people.
“Extraordinary” is what Tristan wants to become. Our young Herman wants to be a hero among heroes. Whether or not he will, is yet to be seen...
Military Rank:
Gefreiter, but I would prefer you suggest a rank for me, please; I'm not really in a position to dictate what rank my character should take up.
Writing Sample:
Scenario: Your character is on the frontlines during a massive attack by the enemy. His leader takes a bullet to the chest leaving your character in charge... (What does he do? What is running through his mind?) Must be at least 15 lines of text.
“You tell me, Gresshomme: how the Hell do the communists drink vodka? That scheisse burns going down half as bad as it does coming up.” The Feldwebel, Hans Gresshomme, looked to his Unteroffizier, Ulrich Masst, who had come up with the comment, and responded, quite wittily.
“The same way the rest of the platoon drink that crap you call coffee.” There was a raucous laughter around the squad, even by Ulrich. That is the effect boredom has on men on the front line; you begin to shoot the breeze and tell more jokes than should be humanly possible. You talk about which way a man dresses, how he takes his coffee, where he was born, what his first girl was like, berating him as to the appearance or name of said girl. Just general, friendly (or as friendly as it can be) banter.
As their laughter died down, they broke into small, two and three way conversations between each other. Ulrich went back to making his crap coffee, while Gresshomme looked out of the trench, down the way. There was nothing particularly going on that night. Just the usual eerie, lonely quiet and darkness of the North African desert. Without the smell of the bodies, the sound of the distant artillery fire, and slinking of tank treads across the desert sands behind them, the scene would be beautiful.
Hans looked up at the stars briefly; so very many of them to count. Not that he would, but the scope and number of them was almost baffling. What if there were other places out there like his planet? But Hans cast the thought aside from his mind. It was of little to no import at the time. Be they striking, the war was not something you could cast from your mind. Certainly not with boots full of sand and a face caked with dirt. A hot shower would be lovely.
“Hey,” Ulrich muttered to Hans, only a short distance from him, “what's with the replacement kid?” The Feldwebel turned his gaze to the young Gefreiter, fresh to his platoon. There was nothing special really about him. You know, short of the part where he never really spoke to anyone, hardly blinked, and kept staring out into the black with his rifle aimed down range.
“I dunno'...think I'll try talking to him.” Ulrich shrugged at the thought.
“Careful. Kid might bore you to death.” Hans trotted forward, deciding to lean against the wooden boards lining the inside of the trench, just next to Tristan. Before the NCO could even get a word out, Tristan's mouth shot the phrase:
“Nothing to report; the line is quiet.” Hans raised his eyebrows at the instant response.
“Kid, you been standing there a while. We're not going to be shot at tonight; I'm pretty positive.” Tristan chose not to respond, allowing an awkward silence to drift into the conversation. Hans inhaled uncomfortably, looking away as he searched for something to coax the boy into speech.
“Why did you join the army?”
“To make something of myself,” Tristan responded; again, almost instantaneously.
“Well, that's generic sounding; the instructor drill that into you?”
“No. I mean it.” Tristan kept his gaze focused on the blackness of the desert, still not blinking.
“Really? Well, if you haven't noticed you're in the middle of nowhere, and nobody is after our bums right now, kid. You're not going to make much of a name for yourself by sitting there watching the horizon.” Tristan's brow furrowed at the comment.
“Look, the Army isn't one hundred percent serious. We get to have a good time, you know? I mean, we could die at any moment. Try to live a bit.” There were a few gears visibly turning in Tristan's mind. Almost as though he was solving an extremely complex equation pertaining to likeness of an ostrich and a bunch of bananas; whatever that meant. But as the gears slowed down, finally, Gefreiter Herman eased up on his weapon, slung it, and shuffled toward the group, eying the coffee.
“Look who it is,” Ulrich announced, “'replacement Gefreiter A'. Kid have a name, Feldwebel?” Hans nodded, squatting down around a meager fire they had set up in the trench (is was a wider section). He nudged at Tristan, beckoning him. The boy didn't know to speak or sit, so he did both.
“My name is-”
“Wait, no, we need to give you a name.” Tristan's brow furrowed again. This was all very...odd. The present men of the platoon, mainly first squad, began to shout out nicknames for the recruit. “Oddball”, “Spooky”, “Somber”, “Raincloud”. Until someone shouted it out.
“Smiles! We'll call him smiles!” There was more laughter and appraisal, accepting the names unanimously. Tristan spoke up, gently.
“W-why smiles?” Ulrich grinned, and Hans answered.
“Because you've been here two weeks and nobody has seen you smile yet.” There was some chuckling as a look of bewilderment spread over Tristan's face. What was even going on? Basic had taught him that life in the Army would be rigid and stoic. There would be no friendliness or good times. Only killing, fighting, brutal and bloody combat. Instead, he was in a vast desert with a bunch of rowdy young men who were drinking coffee and talking about nothing in particular.
“Smiles,” one of the men shouted, “Where are you even from?” He responded.
“Königsberg.” Everyone nodded in some vague form of approval.
“The Unteroffizier has been there, hasn't he?”
“Yeah,” Ulrich acknowledged, “got a nasty rash on my balls.” Again laughter.
“You should've known better than to drink that much; Hilda turned out to be Hendel.” There was a storm of laughter now, with the exception of Ulrich who was now going on about “crossing a line”. Nobody seemed to care though. And so the night slowly drifted on. On until the earliest hours of the next morning. Half first squad was asleep, and the other half was performing some bastardized form of keeping the watch, Tristan included.
He was against the trench-wall again. Of course, he was a bit more relaxed with his gun in his arms this time as opposed to mounted like fixed artillery on the trench. His unwavering gaze continued into the blackness, seeing nothing in particular, short of the sand slowly starting to drift into the gaining wind.
From the the sleeping mass of troops, Ulrich stirred, and tapped Herman on the shoulder.
“'Smiles', I gotta' take a piss. Make sure I don't get my dick shot off,” he said tiredly, climbing out of the trench and marching a little ways up to the minefield; the Tommies had yet to find a way past it, but everyone was sure that Montgomery has something up his sleeve.
There was a slight rustling of fabric as Ulrich unbuttoned his trousers, and began to drain himself. Coffee was, after all, a diuretic. As the patter of urine on the sand ran in 'Smiles' ears, his eyes reverted to the blackness of the desert. There was still the same serenity of the landscape and the stars there. The same eerie peace. Except for a sudden, distinct pop from a considerable distance. His eyes has barely enough time to catch a flash in the corner of his vision.
The sound that followed this “pop” and flash was fairly indescribable. The closest one could compare it to, was the sound you get when dropping a rotten apple. Only with a considerably greater audibility, and a certain snapping noise that was buried in it. Blood pattered Tristan's face as Ulrich toppled backward, twisting and falling on his belly, with his head ripped open just along the top. There were bits of skull, brain matter, and other assorted tissue trailing out of the wound; his body was shaking quite violently as his head spurt blood into the sand, solidifying and caking it. He was in that disturbing state where your body is just barely clinging onto life, forcing all the energy you have left into remaining alive.
Before he'd even hit the ground, Hans was shouting to the others:
“Everyone up! Up! We're being attacked! Up!” From behind, there was clamoring of equipment and men as everyone rushed to their positions, readying themselves to receive the Tommies with big, open arms. And, likewise, the Tommies had a clear intention of not turning back, as a series of shells, presumably from tanks, exploded along the ridge behind first squad's position in the trench network. A man cried out in agony from above, and machine guns fired up on either side, yellow and red tracers lighting up the night.
Down across the way, columns of tanks were barely visible in the darkness, with little silhouettes scrambling across the ground in front of them, covered by machine gun fire overhead, picking out and disarming the AT mines the battalion had so painstakingly placed. Amazingly, none of the mine-sweepers were taking fire.
Tristan was, meanwhile, still affixed on the dying body of Ulrich. He couldn't removed his eyes from the sight of the gushing blood and his convulsing form. It was a horrifying spectacle; one has trouble looking away the first time they see it. But an affliction of the sort was of no news to a man like Hans, being an old acquaintance. He shook Herman violently.
“'Smiles', snap out of it! We have to move! Follow me!” The young Gefreiter did as ordered, mustering all the strength he had to work the muscles in his legs, and obey his commander. The two pounded the packed sand with their feet, hustling down the trench line, missing bullets by centimeters as they did so, toward the rest of squad one.
“Squad, sound off,” Hans shouted as he slid down into cover, picking up his rifle and checking it. He pulled back the bolt on the Kar98, loading a round into the chamber.
“Montaque!”
“Liebner!”
“Geir!”
“Kallem!”
“Steiner!”
“Wier!”
“Herman,” Tristan called out. Hans nodded slightly.
“Alright, listen up! Kallem, Steiner, Montaque: you move down the line and set up the MG! Fire on those mine-sweepers! Everyone else, spread out, and hold the line!” With that, everyone got into a crouch, and bolted down the trench, taking up position wherever they felt necessary, and proceeded to fire on the British troops.
Tristan took up position adjacent Hans; he felt safest with him, it seemed. The man obviously had some experience. And if not, then he was definitely collected and very in control of himself naturally.
As everyone around him began firing, however, Tristan found himself unable to peek out over the top. Even to glance at the enemy. There were so many rounds flying overhead, and he was so scared. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to end up like Ulrich, laying on the ground, writhing around in his own blood and piss, privates hanging out. He wanted to live. He wanted to go home. He wanted his Dad to beat him and tell him he was a failure, and just go back to working in the factory again. He wanted desperately to forget this all, and just return home.
“'Smiles'! Get up! You've got to fight, or they'll kill you anyway!” Herman wouldn't budge. His mind heard the Feldwebel, but his body refused to answer his orders.
“Dammit, Gefreiter! Return fire!” His body still refused. And as the fighting intensified with Flak-88's leveling out to fire on the approaching British Army, he wanted even more to turn and run. It was more than any man should eve have to endure! So much blood. So much screaming. So much-
Hand grabbed him by the back of the collar, and stood him upright. The Felwebel pushed Tristan's rifle up, and shook him:
“Fire your weapon, verdammt!” And just like that, he did. He pulled the trigger, and let the round fly. It impacted somewhere in the distance.
“Good,” Hans yelled, “now trying hitting them!” Tristan hesitated as the NCO rushed back to his position, and continued firing, now yelling to one of the other men. He pulled the bolt up, then back, forward, then down, and pulled trigger once more. Another shot, and he felt his adrenaline spike. He was practically swimming in epinephrine up to his eyeballs. He repeated the motion. Up, back, forward, down, fire. Up, back, forward, down, fire. Up, back, forward, down, fire. Up, back, forward, down, fire. Reload.
Tristan knelt down in the trench, pulling a clip of bullets from his belt, and pushing it hastily into his rifle, and loading another round. He began to rise once more, when the same apple-smashing sound whispered into his ear. He saw Hans take a round. It was just below his collar, knocking the wind out of the man, and sending him on his back.
Gresshomme screamed some very interesting obscenities, followed by a call for a medic, as he pushed himself up against the wooden boards, pressing on his wound. 'Smiles' rushed over to him, one hand on his rifle, the other holding down his helmet.
“Feldwebel, are you alright?” Hans winced, and spat at the boy.
“No, I've been shot in the chest you idiot!” He groaned, and looked to the young Tristan.
“Listen to me carefully, 'Smiles'! The Tommies are going to move up the minefield and try to take out the eighty-eights when their tanks are in range. We need to get off flares so the gunners can spot the tanks and take them out,” he swallowed, hard, “take the squad, and get to Bunker 'C'; there is a box of flares in the storage locker. Get them, and light up those tanks for the eighty-eights, understand?” Tristan nodded eagerly. “Okay, get going then! Now! Go!”
'Smiles' rushed down the line, tapping each man as he moved, and motioning them to follow. The line behind them would be able to hold while they retrieved the flares. As soon as the squad had regrouped, Tristan took his six men and moved up the trench network rather effortlessly, keeping low and letting the machine guns do most of the work.
Upon arriving at Bunker 'C', built into the ridge, Tristan instructed one of them men to retrieve the flares while the rest of the squad held their ground; his name was Geir, as he recalled. All was going amazingly well as far as Tristan was concerned. Everything was very straightforward, simple, effortless almost. Until there was a cry from several of the men: “they've taken the first trench!”
Sure enough, several British infantrymen were crawling in on their bellies to the first trench line, and firing at the men in the rear trenches, caught completely off guard. Tristan observed their position relative to the advancing Englishmen, and ordered the machine-gunner to set up the MG thirty-four in the trench, intent on catching the Tommies as they ran up the network; a straight shot to cut them down in a felled swoop.
Sure enough, as the Brits cleared the first trench, the moved on to try and take the second one. The gunner opened fire as the first few rounded a corner. They were peppered with rounds, and blood spurt from their wailing bodies as they fell. A total of four men killed. Sensing an inevitable further slew of troops, Tristan ordered the gunner and the rest of the squad to push forward as Geir returned with a small crate with a flare gun and ammunition in hand, and set up a more denfendable position as far forward as possible, from which to fire off the the flares.
Tristan let the machine-gunner take up point, keeping their heaviest firepower in front to clear the way in the long trenches; their rifles were designed for range and accuracy, not close quarters. A decision that was, thankfully, wise, as the MG shredded several advancing troops that would otherwise have outgunned the squad.
As the group continued onward, it was becoming increasingly apparent that the Mareth line was going to be overrun rather soon if the German forces did not receive additional support. The eighty-eights were going to make all the difference in the world right now.
“Gefreiter, they're pushing on the second trench-line! We need to get the flares out now, before they're reinforced,” one of the men instructed, rather frantically. He was right. It was now or never. Tristan ordered Geir to fire the flares at the approaching tank column, and surrounding area. The Schutze got down on one knee as the squad took up position to defend him in the trench. Geir was loading the flare gun when there was yet another sound new to Tristan. It was a series of “clinks”. Not of rifle shells, but something heavier. It had landed right next to Geir.
“Grenade,” someone shouted, just as the explosive went off, flinging small fragments of metal at insanely high velocities at the men. Geir was reduced to a pulpy mess of flesh, while three others were killed. A fourth lay screaming on the ground, his eyes gouged and his chest spewing blood like a series of tiny little fountains as he heaved in pain. Tristan blinked a few times, a haze about him, and the feeling of warmth running across his skin various places. He couldn't hear very well either; there was a loud, obnoxious ring dampening and drowning out all sound.
As the Gefreiter tried to move again, he found that he couldn't very well. Or at all, for that matter. His body was refusing him once again; it wouldn't let him advance. He couldn't fight. He couldn't make something of himself. The back of his mind registered a hand on his collar, pulling him back, away from the advancing British troops. But he didn't want to go. He wanted to fight. He needed to fight. He couldn't die. Not here. Not now. Not yet. And as he thought this, his mind wandered away, feeling his feet bump against debris, shell casings, and weapons as he was dragged along. Soon, all was dark, and there was silence. Tristan had missed his opportunity. He wasn't good enough. Wasn't strong enough. There was nothing “extraordinary” about him...
At least...not yet.
[I'm sure you get this all the time, but I apologize if this was unpleasant to read or sub par. It has been some time since I have applied for an RP; I have had the misfortune of settling for some less than stellar ones in the recent past. If you would like me to display any kind of historical knowledge, deeper writing, or better format, then please let me know, and I will see to it. Thank you for taking the time to read all of this. And, one last thing, if things got dry toward the end of the sample, it was partly because it's 2:00 AM here, and partly because I had trouble wrapping things up; I work better when I am responding to someone, or I have a long, more developed objective for my plot.]
How did you find us? If you found us via a link somewhere, where was it? If someone pointed you here, who was it?: I was referred here about a year and a half ago by a friend who had been looking for a forum RP. He never joined, and this link just sat in my bookmarks the entire time. I was cleaning them out, and clicked on this, wondering what it was, and was quite instantly interested again.
Name:
Tristan Herman
Nationality:
German
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?:
Wehrmacht/German Army
Character History:
You don't wake up one day and decide you're going to do something extraordinary. Okay, maybe in some instances. You know, things like deciding you want to break a world record, or make a nice cake, run for mayor, something of that sort. But, then again, only buffoons and simpletons consider such things “extraordinary”.
“Extraordinary” as in waking up on a Tuesday, jumping out of bed, and deciding that you are going to conquer the better part of Europe in mere months. You just don't. It's just like the thought of Winston Churchill sitting down to tea one afternoon, pushing a thought through his mind, and instantly coming to the conclusion that he would become Prime Minister and help lead the British people through one of the darkest hours in human history.
Yet that is still not the kind of “extraordinary” we are pontificating upon. No. “Extraordinary” as in you don't wake up one morning in a fox-hole, and arbitrarily make the decision to crawl through the mud after already being shot twice to save some guy from “B” company that you've never even heard of who's just about down and out, then go back for his buddy, only to die on the way back. That is the kind of “extraordinary” I speak of. You don't wake up and plan something like that. No one ever does. And the even more ironic part is that when something as “extraordinary” as that occurs, it is by the will of a meaningless, petty man with nothing to his name, and no defined place in history. Where as Winston Churchill gets all the praise in the world for sitting behind his desk and spouting words written by a clerk paid five-pound fifty an hour.
The only thing more “extraordinary” than such a man as he who dies a tragically unknown and heroic death, is the man who wakes up from his cot, and is hit by an artillery shell before he can finish his first breath. He dies right there. In his cot. Nothing special about it. No amazing super human feats. No surmounting of any odds. Not even a fight to be put up by him. He simply dies.
Now, the man who accomplishes the daunting task of trading his life for that of his fellow man's is heralded as a hero. He is “extraordinary” because he dies fighting for the life of someone else. But the funny this is he ended up no better off than the man who died in his cot; the outcome was exactly the same. Both of them die, in “extraordinary” ways.
That is the plight of a young man under the banner of Nazi extremism in twentieth century Europe. Hell, that is the plight of any man: the plight of making a name for yourself before you die. Making sure your name is sung through the halls and written in books and told in tales and that a big copper statue of you is erected in some city somewhere. The plight that was suffered by the hero and the man in the cot, even in death. That is the plight of Tristan Herman.
You see, much like the man who died in his cot, and the man who was named a hero, there is nothing particularly “extraordinary” about Tristan. There never has been, and never will be. He is just a young, eighteen year old boy who is scared of death, scared of being forgotten, scared of being alone, and scared of being insignificant. That's all he is. That, and a resident of a small town home in Königsberg, Germany. He grew up that sad little boy in the back of the class that didn't talk much, didn't have any friends, and was, quite frankly, a worthless bag of meat that would be better off not existing.
His father seemed to think so too. Geoffrey Herman would actually tell the boy that quite frequently and colorfully; it was very polite of the man to remind him all the time. Because, evidently, being a factory worker was the most astute, honorable profession in all of Germania, available to only the most intelligent of men. So, Tristan, having no other reason to continue his existence as an art student (like it could ever amount to anything), sets off to make something of himself...
But, let's backtrack a bit; I've gotten ahead of myself. As usual, it seems.
Tristan Herman, as we stated prior, was a meaningless and insignificant German boy born in October of nineteen twenty-three, to Geoffrey Herman and Lizbet Haldis in Königsberg, Germany. He was born in his parent's bedroom, under the watchful eye of none other than his father; they hadn't the need, Geoffrey felt, to have a doctor administer the birth—-- a waste of money --- as his wife was more than capable. And she was, aside from slipping into depression post-partem, which festered and lasted the rest of her life.
As Tristan grew up, he had few friends. His father told him to go to the library and read; to gain knowledge, to become smarter, and make a good living for himself later in life. And so, the young boy would. He'd spend hours daily in the library, reading old tales and having little internally orchestrated adventures. Only on one occasion did he return home claiming to be bored. The beating he received encouraged him to return without question ever again.
When the young Tristan finally attended school, he learned so very little; his father's pushing had drilled into him every last ounce of fathomable knowledge possible; perhaps an exaggeration. He had no trouble passing exams, and equally had no trouble receiving beatings for being that much more intelligent than his classmates. It was a pattern that continued throughout his life up until he finally gave up on (at his own discretion) education in general. At least, institutionalized education.
So, while the rest of the German youth was slowly being persuaded to the ideals of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party in the class room, a careless, inverted, and frustrated boy took it upon himself to make a living of his own. Behind his father's back of course. And so he did. Reading, drawing, and writing in spare time between work at a newspaper. He earned himself a fair amount of wealth by the time he turned fourteen. So he applied himself to the Vienna school of Art, in Austria, at an absurdly young age, and running away from home to do so.
There is no “happy, humble beginning” to this man's story, if you cannot tell. It would only figure in that Tristan would be denied entry to the university based on the scores of his entrance exams (much like a certain, up and coming dictator). Upon his retreat home, the beating and lecture he received was barely memorable. That is not to imply it was not severe. Just so much so that it was lost in the annals of his mind. His father, within the next week, had him working at the factory alongside him, earning a wage for the family.
Which brings us to the year nineteen fourty-two, when an eighteen year old boy has now decided that he's had quite enough of his meaningless, backwards, pitiful, insignificant life. He's done with the rabble and the dithering on of the factory worker's existence. Tristan Herman wants to be “extraordinary”. He wants to do great things, and become someone that history will remember. He wants to be like all the other young men in the Wehrmacht, and become a hero for Germany and it's people.
“Extraordinary” is what Tristan wants to become. Our young Herman wants to be a hero among heroes. Whether or not he will, is yet to be seen...
Military Rank:
Gefreiter, but I would prefer you suggest a rank for me, please; I'm not really in a position to dictate what rank my character should take up.
Writing Sample:
Scenario: Your character is on the frontlines during a massive attack by the enemy. His leader takes a bullet to the chest leaving your character in charge... (What does he do? What is running through his mind?) Must be at least 15 lines of text.
“You tell me, Gresshomme: how the Hell do the communists drink vodka? That scheisse burns going down half as bad as it does coming up.” The Feldwebel, Hans Gresshomme, looked to his Unteroffizier, Ulrich Masst, who had come up with the comment, and responded, quite wittily.
“The same way the rest of the platoon drink that crap you call coffee.” There was a raucous laughter around the squad, even by Ulrich. That is the effect boredom has on men on the front line; you begin to shoot the breeze and tell more jokes than should be humanly possible. You talk about which way a man dresses, how he takes his coffee, where he was born, what his first girl was like, berating him as to the appearance or name of said girl. Just general, friendly (or as friendly as it can be) banter.
As their laughter died down, they broke into small, two and three way conversations between each other. Ulrich went back to making his crap coffee, while Gresshomme looked out of the trench, down the way. There was nothing particularly going on that night. Just the usual eerie, lonely quiet and darkness of the North African desert. Without the smell of the bodies, the sound of the distant artillery fire, and slinking of tank treads across the desert sands behind them, the scene would be beautiful.
Hans looked up at the stars briefly; so very many of them to count. Not that he would, but the scope and number of them was almost baffling. What if there were other places out there like his planet? But Hans cast the thought aside from his mind. It was of little to no import at the time. Be they striking, the war was not something you could cast from your mind. Certainly not with boots full of sand and a face caked with dirt. A hot shower would be lovely.
“Hey,” Ulrich muttered to Hans, only a short distance from him, “what's with the replacement kid?” The Feldwebel turned his gaze to the young Gefreiter, fresh to his platoon. There was nothing special really about him. You know, short of the part where he never really spoke to anyone, hardly blinked, and kept staring out into the black with his rifle aimed down range.
“I dunno'...think I'll try talking to him.” Ulrich shrugged at the thought.
“Careful. Kid might bore you to death.” Hans trotted forward, deciding to lean against the wooden boards lining the inside of the trench, just next to Tristan. Before the NCO could even get a word out, Tristan's mouth shot the phrase:
“Nothing to report; the line is quiet.” Hans raised his eyebrows at the instant response.
“Kid, you been standing there a while. We're not going to be shot at tonight; I'm pretty positive.” Tristan chose not to respond, allowing an awkward silence to drift into the conversation. Hans inhaled uncomfortably, looking away as he searched for something to coax the boy into speech.
“Why did you join the army?”
“To make something of myself,” Tristan responded; again, almost instantaneously.
“Well, that's generic sounding; the instructor drill that into you?”
“No. I mean it.” Tristan kept his gaze focused on the blackness of the desert, still not blinking.
“Really? Well, if you haven't noticed you're in the middle of nowhere, and nobody is after our bums right now, kid. You're not going to make much of a name for yourself by sitting there watching the horizon.” Tristan's brow furrowed at the comment.
“Look, the Army isn't one hundred percent serious. We get to have a good time, you know? I mean, we could die at any moment. Try to live a bit.” There were a few gears visibly turning in Tristan's mind. Almost as though he was solving an extremely complex equation pertaining to likeness of an ostrich and a bunch of bananas; whatever that meant. But as the gears slowed down, finally, Gefreiter Herman eased up on his weapon, slung it, and shuffled toward the group, eying the coffee.
“Look who it is,” Ulrich announced, “'replacement Gefreiter A'. Kid have a name, Feldwebel?” Hans nodded, squatting down around a meager fire they had set up in the trench (is was a wider section). He nudged at Tristan, beckoning him. The boy didn't know to speak or sit, so he did both.
“My name is-”
“Wait, no, we need to give you a name.” Tristan's brow furrowed again. This was all very...odd. The present men of the platoon, mainly first squad, began to shout out nicknames for the recruit. “Oddball”, “Spooky”, “Somber”, “Raincloud”. Until someone shouted it out.
“Smiles! We'll call him smiles!” There was more laughter and appraisal, accepting the names unanimously. Tristan spoke up, gently.
“W-why smiles?” Ulrich grinned, and Hans answered.
“Because you've been here two weeks and nobody has seen you smile yet.” There was some chuckling as a look of bewilderment spread over Tristan's face. What was even going on? Basic had taught him that life in the Army would be rigid and stoic. There would be no friendliness or good times. Only killing, fighting, brutal and bloody combat. Instead, he was in a vast desert with a bunch of rowdy young men who were drinking coffee and talking about nothing in particular.
“Smiles,” one of the men shouted, “Where are you even from?” He responded.
“Königsberg.” Everyone nodded in some vague form of approval.
“The Unteroffizier has been there, hasn't he?”
“Yeah,” Ulrich acknowledged, “got a nasty rash on my balls.” Again laughter.
“You should've known better than to drink that much; Hilda turned out to be Hendel.” There was a storm of laughter now, with the exception of Ulrich who was now going on about “crossing a line”. Nobody seemed to care though. And so the night slowly drifted on. On until the earliest hours of the next morning. Half first squad was asleep, and the other half was performing some bastardized form of keeping the watch, Tristan included.
He was against the trench-wall again. Of course, he was a bit more relaxed with his gun in his arms this time as opposed to mounted like fixed artillery on the trench. His unwavering gaze continued into the blackness, seeing nothing in particular, short of the sand slowly starting to drift into the gaining wind.
From the the sleeping mass of troops, Ulrich stirred, and tapped Herman on the shoulder.
“'Smiles', I gotta' take a piss. Make sure I don't get my dick shot off,” he said tiredly, climbing out of the trench and marching a little ways up to the minefield; the Tommies had yet to find a way past it, but everyone was sure that Montgomery has something up his sleeve.
There was a slight rustling of fabric as Ulrich unbuttoned his trousers, and began to drain himself. Coffee was, after all, a diuretic. As the patter of urine on the sand ran in 'Smiles' ears, his eyes reverted to the blackness of the desert. There was still the same serenity of the landscape and the stars there. The same eerie peace. Except for a sudden, distinct pop from a considerable distance. His eyes has barely enough time to catch a flash in the corner of his vision.
The sound that followed this “pop” and flash was fairly indescribable. The closest one could compare it to, was the sound you get when dropping a rotten apple. Only with a considerably greater audibility, and a certain snapping noise that was buried in it. Blood pattered Tristan's face as Ulrich toppled backward, twisting and falling on his belly, with his head ripped open just along the top. There were bits of skull, brain matter, and other assorted tissue trailing out of the wound; his body was shaking quite violently as his head spurt blood into the sand, solidifying and caking it. He was in that disturbing state where your body is just barely clinging onto life, forcing all the energy you have left into remaining alive.
Before he'd even hit the ground, Hans was shouting to the others:
“Everyone up! Up! We're being attacked! Up!” From behind, there was clamoring of equipment and men as everyone rushed to their positions, readying themselves to receive the Tommies with big, open arms. And, likewise, the Tommies had a clear intention of not turning back, as a series of shells, presumably from tanks, exploded along the ridge behind first squad's position in the trench network. A man cried out in agony from above, and machine guns fired up on either side, yellow and red tracers lighting up the night.
Down across the way, columns of tanks were barely visible in the darkness, with little silhouettes scrambling across the ground in front of them, covered by machine gun fire overhead, picking out and disarming the AT mines the battalion had so painstakingly placed. Amazingly, none of the mine-sweepers were taking fire.
Tristan was, meanwhile, still affixed on the dying body of Ulrich. He couldn't removed his eyes from the sight of the gushing blood and his convulsing form. It was a horrifying spectacle; one has trouble looking away the first time they see it. But an affliction of the sort was of no news to a man like Hans, being an old acquaintance. He shook Herman violently.
“'Smiles', snap out of it! We have to move! Follow me!” The young Gefreiter did as ordered, mustering all the strength he had to work the muscles in his legs, and obey his commander. The two pounded the packed sand with their feet, hustling down the trench line, missing bullets by centimeters as they did so, toward the rest of squad one.
“Squad, sound off,” Hans shouted as he slid down into cover, picking up his rifle and checking it. He pulled back the bolt on the Kar98, loading a round into the chamber.
“Montaque!”
“Liebner!”
“Geir!”
“Kallem!”
“Steiner!”
“Wier!”
“Herman,” Tristan called out. Hans nodded slightly.
“Alright, listen up! Kallem, Steiner, Montaque: you move down the line and set up the MG! Fire on those mine-sweepers! Everyone else, spread out, and hold the line!” With that, everyone got into a crouch, and bolted down the trench, taking up position wherever they felt necessary, and proceeded to fire on the British troops.
Tristan took up position adjacent Hans; he felt safest with him, it seemed. The man obviously had some experience. And if not, then he was definitely collected and very in control of himself naturally.
As everyone around him began firing, however, Tristan found himself unable to peek out over the top. Even to glance at the enemy. There were so many rounds flying overhead, and he was so scared. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to end up like Ulrich, laying on the ground, writhing around in his own blood and piss, privates hanging out. He wanted to live. He wanted to go home. He wanted his Dad to beat him and tell him he was a failure, and just go back to working in the factory again. He wanted desperately to forget this all, and just return home.
“'Smiles'! Get up! You've got to fight, or they'll kill you anyway!” Herman wouldn't budge. His mind heard the Feldwebel, but his body refused to answer his orders.
“Dammit, Gefreiter! Return fire!” His body still refused. And as the fighting intensified with Flak-88's leveling out to fire on the approaching British Army, he wanted even more to turn and run. It was more than any man should eve have to endure! So much blood. So much screaming. So much-
Hand grabbed him by the back of the collar, and stood him upright. The Felwebel pushed Tristan's rifle up, and shook him:
“Fire your weapon, verdammt!” And just like that, he did. He pulled the trigger, and let the round fly. It impacted somewhere in the distance.
“Good,” Hans yelled, “now trying hitting them!” Tristan hesitated as the NCO rushed back to his position, and continued firing, now yelling to one of the other men. He pulled the bolt up, then back, forward, then down, and pulled trigger once more. Another shot, and he felt his adrenaline spike. He was practically swimming in epinephrine up to his eyeballs. He repeated the motion. Up, back, forward, down, fire. Up, back, forward, down, fire. Up, back, forward, down, fire. Up, back, forward, down, fire. Reload.
Tristan knelt down in the trench, pulling a clip of bullets from his belt, and pushing it hastily into his rifle, and loading another round. He began to rise once more, when the same apple-smashing sound whispered into his ear. He saw Hans take a round. It was just below his collar, knocking the wind out of the man, and sending him on his back.
Gresshomme screamed some very interesting obscenities, followed by a call for a medic, as he pushed himself up against the wooden boards, pressing on his wound. 'Smiles' rushed over to him, one hand on his rifle, the other holding down his helmet.
“Feldwebel, are you alright?” Hans winced, and spat at the boy.
“No, I've been shot in the chest you idiot!” He groaned, and looked to the young Tristan.
“Listen to me carefully, 'Smiles'! The Tommies are going to move up the minefield and try to take out the eighty-eights when their tanks are in range. We need to get off flares so the gunners can spot the tanks and take them out,” he swallowed, hard, “take the squad, and get to Bunker 'C'; there is a box of flares in the storage locker. Get them, and light up those tanks for the eighty-eights, understand?” Tristan nodded eagerly. “Okay, get going then! Now! Go!”
'Smiles' rushed down the line, tapping each man as he moved, and motioning them to follow. The line behind them would be able to hold while they retrieved the flares. As soon as the squad had regrouped, Tristan took his six men and moved up the trench network rather effortlessly, keeping low and letting the machine guns do most of the work.
Upon arriving at Bunker 'C', built into the ridge, Tristan instructed one of them men to retrieve the flares while the rest of the squad held their ground; his name was Geir, as he recalled. All was going amazingly well as far as Tristan was concerned. Everything was very straightforward, simple, effortless almost. Until there was a cry from several of the men: “they've taken the first trench!”
Sure enough, several British infantrymen were crawling in on their bellies to the first trench line, and firing at the men in the rear trenches, caught completely off guard. Tristan observed their position relative to the advancing Englishmen, and ordered the machine-gunner to set up the MG thirty-four in the trench, intent on catching the Tommies as they ran up the network; a straight shot to cut them down in a felled swoop.
Sure enough, as the Brits cleared the first trench, the moved on to try and take the second one. The gunner opened fire as the first few rounded a corner. They were peppered with rounds, and blood spurt from their wailing bodies as they fell. A total of four men killed. Sensing an inevitable further slew of troops, Tristan ordered the gunner and the rest of the squad to push forward as Geir returned with a small crate with a flare gun and ammunition in hand, and set up a more denfendable position as far forward as possible, from which to fire off the the flares.
Tristan let the machine-gunner take up point, keeping their heaviest firepower in front to clear the way in the long trenches; their rifles were designed for range and accuracy, not close quarters. A decision that was, thankfully, wise, as the MG shredded several advancing troops that would otherwise have outgunned the squad.
As the group continued onward, it was becoming increasingly apparent that the Mareth line was going to be overrun rather soon if the German forces did not receive additional support. The eighty-eights were going to make all the difference in the world right now.
“Gefreiter, they're pushing on the second trench-line! We need to get the flares out now, before they're reinforced,” one of the men instructed, rather frantically. He was right. It was now or never. Tristan ordered Geir to fire the flares at the approaching tank column, and surrounding area. The Schutze got down on one knee as the squad took up position to defend him in the trench. Geir was loading the flare gun when there was yet another sound new to Tristan. It was a series of “clinks”. Not of rifle shells, but something heavier. It had landed right next to Geir.
“Grenade,” someone shouted, just as the explosive went off, flinging small fragments of metal at insanely high velocities at the men. Geir was reduced to a pulpy mess of flesh, while three others were killed. A fourth lay screaming on the ground, his eyes gouged and his chest spewing blood like a series of tiny little fountains as he heaved in pain. Tristan blinked a few times, a haze about him, and the feeling of warmth running across his skin various places. He couldn't hear very well either; there was a loud, obnoxious ring dampening and drowning out all sound.
As the Gefreiter tried to move again, he found that he couldn't very well. Or at all, for that matter. His body was refusing him once again; it wouldn't let him advance. He couldn't fight. He couldn't make something of himself. The back of his mind registered a hand on his collar, pulling him back, away from the advancing British troops. But he didn't want to go. He wanted to fight. He needed to fight. He couldn't die. Not here. Not now. Not yet. And as he thought this, his mind wandered away, feeling his feet bump against debris, shell casings, and weapons as he was dragged along. Soon, all was dark, and there was silence. Tristan had missed his opportunity. He wasn't good enough. Wasn't strong enough. There was nothing “extraordinary” about him...
At least...not yet.
[I'm sure you get this all the time, but I apologize if this was unpleasant to read or sub par. It has been some time since I have applied for an RP; I have had the misfortune of settling for some less than stellar ones in the recent past. If you would like me to display any kind of historical knowledge, deeper writing, or better format, then please let me know, and I will see to it. Thank you for taking the time to read all of this. And, one last thing, if things got dry toward the end of the sample, it was partly because it's 2:00 AM here, and partly because I had trouble wrapping things up; I work better when I am responding to someone, or I have a long, more developed objective for my plot.]
How did you find us? If you found us via a link somewhere, where was it? If someone pointed you here, who was it?: I was referred here about a year and a half ago by a friend who had been looking for a forum RP. He never joined, and this link just sat in my bookmarks the entire time. I was cleaning them out, and clicked on this, wondering what it was, and was quite instantly interested again.
