The Sand Castle [Mature Content/OPEN]

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Location: Allied forward base, North Africa.
Time: 1202hrs


The heat was slowly becoming unbearable and the lack of a cool breeze demoralised everyone all the more, as the humidity and heat continued to rise throughout the day. Gazing skyward, Captain Brentwood noted simply by the sun’s positioning that it was indeed midday, even looking downwards he noticed their shadows had shrunk beneath their feet considerably, as the sun peaked at it’s highest pinnacle point within the brazen clear sky of Africa.

The Seventh Armoured Division or at least part of it were entrenching themselves into a new forward base and fortified position. The rest of the Seventh Armoured Division were going to move up in due-course, once they’d stabilized their entrenched position; Captain Brentwood had his first platoon hard at work, majority of the soldiers were getting stuck into the soft golden sand as they pummelled away at the grit and sand with their entrenching tools and began digging downward with their vigorous might. Most of the men were becoming highly frustrated however, as the sand seemingly began to refill the hole with every working depth they made into it.

“Fuck this bollocks!”[/I] one of the soldiers cried out in sheer frustration, as he launched his entrenching tool a good several feet away into the sand, with a hefty swing outwards having lost his temper. “Oi! You git, Captain’s orders are to dig in”[/I] a Corporal piped up from a nearby hole he’d managed to dig into the sand, only his torso and head were exposed above normal level as he stood straight and stiff within his dugout. “Grab your fucking shovel and carry-on, or I’ll wrap it around your bleeding head!”[/I] The Corporal berated with a firm tone to the soldier, his brow forming low and his brown eyes looked sunken as he stared the soldier out. It didn’t take much convincing, as the frustrated soldier grumbled under his breath and dragged his heels in the sand to fetch his thrown entrenching tool.

A few of the men were tasked with handing out planks of wood roughly a meter in length to help support the entrenched positions from caving in, but most of the planks had already been used and a few nights prior, a squad within the platoon thought it would be a good idea to use some of the planks to make a camp-fire during the cold dead of night. Now they were suffering for their incompetence and Captain Brentwood let them get on with it - he wasn’t getting involved. This was partly their punishment and own-doing in his own eyes for burning their wooden struts used to support dug-outs and entrenched positions, now they were paying the price of digging somewhat aimlessly to their dismay. It didn’t matter how far down they dug, some of the sand would just simply creep back in and if they weren’t careful enough climbing in and out of their dug-outs, they could easily knock even more sand into their holes.

A short distance away, a squad of several men began filling empty potato sacks with sand and knotting the ends once fully filled to create sandbags for their more important positions needing better cover. Captain Brentwood had requisitioned some thirty-calibre Browning Machineguns for some MG positions and had them well under way to being built; one of the machinegun positions had already been completed and another three were in slow construction. The good old Bren guns would be used on their convoy trucks and up-front in the frontline dig-outs where most of the men were stationed, for quick and heavy duty of fire from the thirty-round magazines.

Lighting a cigarette for himself, Captain Brentwood observed his platoon getting well under way to fortifying their position and grinned to himself slyly. Puffing on the tobacco, he took a slow walk down the side of several stationary convoy trucks and inspected the men as they either filled sandbags or fiddled with some equipment from within the trucks. One of the men openly pissed into his canteen and then poured his urine over his legs, in hope it would keep him cool - horrendous as it was, Captain Brentwood couldn’t help but admire the innovative and imaginative concept. “Tony you sick bastard…” one of the men exclaimed in horror, whilst a few others simply laughed and muttered “Not a bad idea”[/b].

Reaching the last convoy truck, Captain Brentwood stood in the slim trimming of shade behind the truck and exhaled heavily as he flicked the ash to his cigarette into the sand below. He was simply letting the men get on with their orders and staying out of trouble, despite the urges of wanting to crack a few of their skulls together, but his reliant non-commissioned-officers seemed to be working well though, as their husk voices were constantly yelling every so often at one of the soldiers either doing something ridiculous or being unruly having gotten hot and bothered by the heat.

[William Reid]

The heat. The blasted, bloody heat. No amount of time in Africa could prepare one for it, the constant oppressive weight on the shoulders. Not even night brought relief, the soaring temperatures plummeting, shattering man and morale. Men would voluntarily endure this, but not a single one of them appeared to be amongst the Seventh Armoured Division as they toiled under the sun, digging in to the loose sand in attempted to find some protection, hiding themselves from the inevitable barrage of German fire, and the ever present barrage of the sun’s fire. The yellow orb toiled in the azure sky, slowly drifting towards its zenith.

Lieutenant Reid inspected a patch of sunburn on his arm as he took a momentary respite. One of the drawbacks of the shortsleeves and shorts of the desert uniform, but the rest of his skin appeared to be bronzing up after months of abuse from the desert sun. Wiping his brow under his service cap, he continued observing his men moving about. With Battalion’s heavy machine gun teams on the line, the trenches were being adapted to create strong firing positions. Private Johnson was running out with a 500 foot length of string, marking the arc boundaries for one such machine gun, whilst Reid watched through his binoculars, the Yorkshire accent of the machine gunner a staccato as the Private provided a running commentary. ”Sir, can ya tell ya men to move a little t’left. There’s rock on the horizon I might be able to cover wit’ t’30.” Nodding, Reid raised a length of wood over his head, waving it to the left as Johnson adjusted his angle. ”Champion,” came the reply from the gunner, swinging his machine gun left to right to check he had good angles.

Lowering his binoculars and signalling the Corporal in charge of this section to take over, Reid began working through the trench. A quick glance at his watch told him it was just after midday, soon enough rations to last until the evening would be coming around. But disturbingly, in the sunlight behind the trenches, Reid could see a large jerry can, full of litres of valuable water. Feeling himself about to boil over at this sheer stupidity, he called out to Sergeant Toye, who came over, where Reid simply had to point at the jerry can before Toye’s calm composure turned beetroot. ”Wilson. Bruce. Arses here, right now!”

Walking away, the Lieutenant could hear the berating, with the Sergeant offering to rearrange several body parts and put other parts where they don’t belong. The two unfortunate Privates ran out to the water, where the container had already started to heat up in the sun and they moaned as the hot metal burned their skin as it was dragged in to the shade and safety of the trenches. Sliding a hand in to his breast pocket, Reid pulled out a silver cigarette case, family crest embossed upon the top surface, and slipped a cigarette out in to his mouth, drawing an American zippo lighter and lighting up.

He was making a bee line towards the parked up trucks, looking for a moments shade and recovery. Depending who you asked, leading was a lot more or a lot less stressful that following. Naturally, the first view was taken by officers and NCO’s, the riflemen preferring the second view. Rounding a final corner, he found himself face to face with Captain Brentwood, the Captain also enjoying a cheeky cigarette in the meagre shade given by the canvas sides of the truck. ”Sir,” he acknowledged, not saluting, not standing to attention. Nobody did, not in the field. They didn’t want to light their superior up for the sniper which could always be watching.

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Drawing a long puff on his Dunhill branded cigarette, he felt his lungs engulf the sweet essence, before they prinked full capacity and a low exhale was allowed to escape from his nostrils slowly. Ironically, Captain Brentwood seemed to be having an easy day today, despite the commotion and pressure of getting their forward base of operations and entrenched position completed as soon as possible; word of Rommel rushing with blitzkrieg tactics through Africa spread like a wildfire of paranoia through the Allied lines and the men weren’t the best happy already, the climate and weather of the African desert just wasn’t within their British bones to suffice without a good moan, so the rumour of Rommel fast approaching only added to their frayed tempers and frustration.

It wasn’t long until Captain Brentwood caught glimpse of a shadowed figure approaching from down one side of the truck he was standing behind and caused him to turn instinctively and look as Lieutenant Reid came walking around the corner, looking a little surprised to have bumped into his Captain perhaps. Nodding to the Lieutenant as he acknowledged him, he simply took another puff on his cigarette and flicked a light dousing of ash down by his side idly. “Fancy seeing you here” he jested, a mild grin forming his lips shortly after he spoke. “’Ows the lads gettin’ out there?” he questioned calmly, seeming a little detached from the actual works happening, although most of the men knew that Captain Brentwood blew hot and cold within an instance, so his momentary lapse of calmness probably went unnoticed anyway.

Inhaling sharply, he suddenly remembered something he needed to show and tell Lieutenant Reid. Plucking his cigarette between his lips, he freed up both hands and began fumbling through the pockets on his karki shorts, before patting his left breast-pocket and sliding out a small folded piece of paper. “I had a telegram from the brass upstairs about--” glancing to his wristwatch for the time, he counted backwards in his head for a brief second “forty-five minutes ago” he said with a stifled tone to his voice as he held onto the cigarette between his lips still. Unfolding the small parchment of paper, he smoothed his hand over the regal crest at the top of the page, as if it were an OCD of his and turned the piece of paper around to between his hands to face the Lieutenant - handing it to him the right way up.

Waiting for the Lieutenant to take the piece of paper from his hand, he removed the cigarette from his lips and blew out a winded puff of smoke before speaking once more. “The rest of the seventh [armoured division] has been held back another twenty-four hours, give or take. Supposedly our lads are needed to help defend against a couple of raids made by Jerry at one of the compounds. Brass seem to think Rommel’s flanking us and he won’t bother coming this way now” He shrugged to himself and puffed on his cigarette for comfort, he didn’t like sharing the burden of bad news, as far as he was concerned, it was his job to harbour it and not let the men worry about it. They needed this forward position up and running as soon as possible, telling them that the rest of their battalion isn’t coming to reinforce them, nor would there be any replenishing in rations for the next twenty-four hours, definitely wouldn’t go down well.

“Looks like we’re in the shitta’ for now mate. We’re either hit by Jerry with our kacks down and no seventh to back us up or Jerry fucks off around us and cuts us off completely. Typical brass wants us to stand our ground still though, but if it’s one thing we know, that fucker Rommel is a good’un at the cunning bullshit stunts he pulls” Captain Brentwood gave Lieutenant Reid a stiffened look, it wasn’t good news either way, but they had to stick to their original plan and perhaps set up some extra perimeter defences to further fortify their position for the next twenty-four hours, at least until the Seventh Armoured arrived to help reinforce their positioning. Still, there was always the thought that the brass were just panicking over nothing and the Axis didn’t rear their ugly head anywhere within the next day. Only time would tell.

Flicking his cigarette off into the sand, he rubbed his hands together and awaited the Lieutenant’s opinion on the matter. “I don’t want the lads worrying over this, fuck, I ain’t even worried. We just need to set-up shop as soon as possible and prepare for the worse. We could get the sappers to plant some of those S-mines a few clicks out and we’ve got a couple of stags [staghounds] we can ferry regular patrols in over those dunes to the north” he pointed off northwards to a few high dunes in the distance, a good visible vantage point to scout the surrounding area. “Perhaps you and me can take the first tour in one of the stags? See what else we can fix-up - whatcha’ think?” The Captain was open for suggestions, they needed to cook-up some good defensive ideas and fortify their position to the best of their knowledge. It was unlikely Jerry would attack, but they had to be prepared - best prepared.

OOC: We can discuss where this thread goes in PM if you like? I’m seeing several different avenues we could take here to make a series of threads. If you’re up for it. Sorry about late reply by the way, I didn’t even notice you had posted until today.