Post by Alik on Dec 8, 2013 4:03:32 GMT
Character Name: Alik Aleksandrov
Nationality: Russian
Allegiance: Russia
Military Rank: Myditsinskoy Ryadovi (Private)
History:
Born and raised in Novosibirsk by his father, Armand. His childhood was spent frequently on a boat that his father owned. They fished almost daily, including weekends. At a young age, Alik was expected to fish with him. This was their income. They lived in a small one-bedroom apartment that his father struggled to maintain, whilst also keeping food on the table. They lived on only breakfast and dinner, there were no lunches for the Aleksandrov family. His mother always told him that he was the quietest of the three children, always smiled, always quiet.
At the age of thirteen, his mother passed away from a rare case of the then-gone 1918 flu. It was almost twelve years since the supposed flu had deceased, but every now and again a rare case would crop up. His eldest sister moved out of home to live with their grandparents whilst his mentally challenged brother struggled with day-to-day life. His father always told him he was what was keeping everything together. Not to mention, the 'favorite' child, but of course he wasn't allowed to tell anyone else that.
He went through his school years relatively easy, but his brother was forced to drop out after a school yard brawl broke out when they were fifteen. Upon finishing his school years at the age of eighteen, he joined his father for full time work. He worked for nine months, of which six months he spent living on his own with he money he earned. Perhaps the highlight of his life. He had made many new friends, and met a few girls.
With the early beginnings of the war, he was drafted into the military along with any other able bodied men aged 18-51 in his town. Luckily, his father was 52. He was trained as a field medic, passed through basic training and shipped to the frontlines. It was not a good time to be a Russian, least of all with Order 227 looming overhead. To retreat would result in capital punishment. Die or try. That was all there was to it.
Writing Sample:
0950 HOURS, NOVEMBER 19, 1942 (LOCAL TIME) \
62ND ARMY, 308TH RIFLE DIVISION
Alik Aleksandrov scrambled to hide.
Bullets sprayed the wall where only moments ago he had stood. The coming winter was harsh, even harsher was the inner-city fighting. A chill shot down his spine 'Это могло бы быть мне' (That could have been me) he breathed. The constant thunder of artillery, and hailstorm of bullets was enough to send some men mad. Today was the day, the Russians were pushing back. It was only a matter of time that the Battle of Stalingrad would be decided. The fine whistling followed by a shake of the earth only furthered his cause for want of survival.
'медик!' (Medic!) the Corporal called from down the corridor. He had no time to think, only react. He pulled the Mosin–Nagant M59 Carbine tight against his chest and poked his head from around the corner. He saw them; Germans. Quick smart he retracted his head. Time was of the essence here, but he didn't want to die either. The Germans were on the Corporals six, and if Alik shouted, they'd be on his heels too. Slowly and quietly he got onto his knees, placing his elbows down he lay prone.
He edged himself closer to the open doorway, perhaps laying down would give him a better chance of survival if a firefight broke out. He closed his left eye, and moved only enough for his right eye to see around the corner, they were closing in on the Corporal. He lay his carbine before him, and hunkered his gaze to peer through the iron sights. This was it. Fire.
Pchht!
A German fell and the two others quickly dropped into a crouch. Alik fumbled with the bolt, pulling it up and then back. His eyes cast between bolt to iron sight, and then noticed. They'd seen him. He fired off a quick and careless round, a splatter of blood burst from a Germans left shoulder, befalling him. He was not dead, but at least he was not ready to fight this instant. Before he could fire another shot, bullets burst along the floor. Tat tat tat tat!. His rifle was struck and thrown from his grip. He was lucky it wasn't his hand. Alik rolled back into the room and reached down to the holstered Nagant M1895; a revolver. His breathing became rapid, adrenaline pumped through him. It was a waiting game, and this medic had no time to play. Die or try. He stood himself up and moved to the door, a second later he turned the corner.
Bang bang bang
He fired without looking, but his bullets had struck clear, two of them had hit the German in his upper torso. Now to get to the Corporal. He raced down the corridor, approaching the wounded German he fired, head turned. It wasn't a fight, but an execution. The German had been rolling on the ground in pain, whimpering and crying. Yet, if he let him live, he might come back to kill him. There was no room to take chances in war. He rounded the hallway and entered the stairwell, the Corporal hunched over a wounded rifleman. 'Он был ранен в ногу' (He was wounded in the leg) Corporal Anton Smirnov informed Alik.
There squad had been separated within this apartment complex. It was a relatively new construction but the war had made it look as though it were a century old. Covered in dust, and walls collapsed. Alik fell to his knees, tossing his pistol aside. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a pair of scissors. Without asking or warning the man, he gripped his leg with one hand and raised it, while the other raised the scissors against the cloth and began to cut away at it. He lowered and tilted his head, inspecting the leg. There was an exit wound, the bullet was likely not inside him. Yet, some shrapnel could still be in the leg. He couldn't do much here near the frontlines, but he could do the next best thing.
'Обложка рот' (Cover his mouth) he asked of Anton, who placed his hand over the injured man's mouth. Clamping his hand tight to prevent him from being heard if he screamed. Alik reached to his left pouch that contained the field tourniquet, wrapping it around the mans leg, 10 inches above the wound. He tightened the tourniquet, preventing much circulation in that leg. He took out a canteen of water, and popped open the lid. With two fingers he gently widened the entry wound. The man screamed, but was muffled by the hand. He poured the water into the widened entry wound. Once more, the man screamed.
He closed the canteen and took out a roll of field dressings, wrapping it around and around the wound, until it was tightly secured. Dabs of blood began to soak through, but until they were safe, this would do.
Username: Cataris
Nationality: Russian
Allegiance: Russia
Military Rank: Myditsinskoy Ryadovi (Private)
History:
Born and raised in Novosibirsk by his father, Armand. His childhood was spent frequently on a boat that his father owned. They fished almost daily, including weekends. At a young age, Alik was expected to fish with him. This was their income. They lived in a small one-bedroom apartment that his father struggled to maintain, whilst also keeping food on the table. They lived on only breakfast and dinner, there were no lunches for the Aleksandrov family. His mother always told him that he was the quietest of the three children, always smiled, always quiet.
At the age of thirteen, his mother passed away from a rare case of the then-gone 1918 flu. It was almost twelve years since the supposed flu had deceased, but every now and again a rare case would crop up. His eldest sister moved out of home to live with their grandparents whilst his mentally challenged brother struggled with day-to-day life. His father always told him he was what was keeping everything together. Not to mention, the 'favorite' child, but of course he wasn't allowed to tell anyone else that.
He went through his school years relatively easy, but his brother was forced to drop out after a school yard brawl broke out when they were fifteen. Upon finishing his school years at the age of eighteen, he joined his father for full time work. He worked for nine months, of which six months he spent living on his own with he money he earned. Perhaps the highlight of his life. He had made many new friends, and met a few girls.
With the early beginnings of the war, he was drafted into the military along with any other able bodied men aged 18-51 in his town. Luckily, his father was 52. He was trained as a field medic, passed through basic training and shipped to the frontlines. It was not a good time to be a Russian, least of all with Order 227 looming overhead. To retreat would result in capital punishment. Die or try. That was all there was to it.
Writing Sample:
0950 HOURS, NOVEMBER 19, 1942 (LOCAL TIME) \
62ND ARMY, 308TH RIFLE DIVISION
Alik Aleksandrov scrambled to hide.
Bullets sprayed the wall where only moments ago he had stood. The coming winter was harsh, even harsher was the inner-city fighting. A chill shot down his spine 'Это могло бы быть мне' (That could have been me) he breathed. The constant thunder of artillery, and hailstorm of bullets was enough to send some men mad. Today was the day, the Russians were pushing back. It was only a matter of time that the Battle of Stalingrad would be decided. The fine whistling followed by a shake of the earth only furthered his cause for want of survival.
'медик!' (Medic!) the Corporal called from down the corridor. He had no time to think, only react. He pulled the Mosin–Nagant M59 Carbine tight against his chest and poked his head from around the corner. He saw them; Germans. Quick smart he retracted his head. Time was of the essence here, but he didn't want to die either. The Germans were on the Corporals six, and if Alik shouted, they'd be on his heels too. Slowly and quietly he got onto his knees, placing his elbows down he lay prone.
He edged himself closer to the open doorway, perhaps laying down would give him a better chance of survival if a firefight broke out. He closed his left eye, and moved only enough for his right eye to see around the corner, they were closing in on the Corporal. He lay his carbine before him, and hunkered his gaze to peer through the iron sights. This was it. Fire.
Pchht!
A German fell and the two others quickly dropped into a crouch. Alik fumbled with the bolt, pulling it up and then back. His eyes cast between bolt to iron sight, and then noticed. They'd seen him. He fired off a quick and careless round, a splatter of blood burst from a Germans left shoulder, befalling him. He was not dead, but at least he was not ready to fight this instant. Before he could fire another shot, bullets burst along the floor. Tat tat tat tat!. His rifle was struck and thrown from his grip. He was lucky it wasn't his hand. Alik rolled back into the room and reached down to the holstered Nagant M1895; a revolver. His breathing became rapid, adrenaline pumped through him. It was a waiting game, and this medic had no time to play. Die or try. He stood himself up and moved to the door, a second later he turned the corner.
Bang bang bang
He fired without looking, but his bullets had struck clear, two of them had hit the German in his upper torso. Now to get to the Corporal. He raced down the corridor, approaching the wounded German he fired, head turned. It wasn't a fight, but an execution. The German had been rolling on the ground in pain, whimpering and crying. Yet, if he let him live, he might come back to kill him. There was no room to take chances in war. He rounded the hallway and entered the stairwell, the Corporal hunched over a wounded rifleman. 'Он был ранен в ногу' (He was wounded in the leg) Corporal Anton Smirnov informed Alik.
There squad had been separated within this apartment complex. It was a relatively new construction but the war had made it look as though it were a century old. Covered in dust, and walls collapsed. Alik fell to his knees, tossing his pistol aside. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a pair of scissors. Without asking or warning the man, he gripped his leg with one hand and raised it, while the other raised the scissors against the cloth and began to cut away at it. He lowered and tilted his head, inspecting the leg. There was an exit wound, the bullet was likely not inside him. Yet, some shrapnel could still be in the leg. He couldn't do much here near the frontlines, but he could do the next best thing.
'Обложка рот' (Cover his mouth) he asked of Anton, who placed his hand over the injured man's mouth. Clamping his hand tight to prevent him from being heard if he screamed. Alik reached to his left pouch that contained the field tourniquet, wrapping it around the mans leg, 10 inches above the wound. He tightened the tourniquet, preventing much circulation in that leg. He took out a canteen of water, and popped open the lid. With two fingers he gently widened the entry wound. The man screamed, but was muffled by the hand. He poured the water into the widened entry wound. Once more, the man screamed.
He closed the canteen and took out a roll of field dressings, wrapping it around and around the wound, until it was tightly secured. Dabs of blood began to soak through, but until they were safe, this would do.
Username: Cataris
