Post by obrian on Jan 29, 2009 8:40:15 GMT
Accepted. ;D
~Dan
Account E-Mail: 'Tis Hidden by Ye Gods!
Name: George O’Brian
Nationality:
American
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
US
Character History:
Ever since his birth in 1918, into a relatively wealthy family, his father the owner of a large business, a man of Irish decent who had made it in the United States. There were almost certainly Mafia connections with his business, but George took this in his stride. His mother died when George was a young boy about 8, run over by a speeding motor car.
His Father's business soon went bust, but with what little money was left, George was thrust in to college, where he began a course in Radio Telegraphy.
Pearl Harbour. The Japanese decimation of the United States Navy and the cause of the USA being dragged into a war with the Asian Empire, and, perplexingly with Nazi Germany in Europe. O’Brian didn’t fully understand the politics behind the Nazi part of the war, but he knew his country had been attacked, and, perhaps most importantly for himself, he had a way out of the life that was facing him, stuck behind a desk. Now, his desk would be a foxhole in the middle of nowhere, his stationary a knife and bayonet, and the paper, the enemy of the United States.
A few days after the declaration of war, a letter arrived, informing him he had been drafted in to the US Army. The next day, a bus took him to Fort Stewart for basic training, before being sent to the frontline with the 3ID.
At Fort Stewart, he received the toughest training the US Army had to offer, and he bloody well lapped it up, absorbing every thing, and enjoying everything, two things in particularly; radios, and rifle drills.
With the training complete, the group of men that had entered as boys were ready to fight, to show the Germans what they could do. Eager to get to the frontlines, they boarded the Troop Ships ready, for their generation’s great adventure.
Military Rank:
Sergeant
Writing Sample:
A crackle. What is it? A bird, a fox, a tree, or a German? It could just as easily be any of them, but only one was worth worrying about. If one of Hitler’s finest was lurking in the trees just feet from the nose of Sgt. O’Brian, it wasn’t going to be a nice day out for either of them. Indeed, it could get quite messy.
The American brought the M1 Garand rifle up; securely gripping the front of the rifle with is left hand and threading his right hand trigger finger through the small trigger guard. He kept the butt retracted, no need for any extra problems, and he wanted to minimise the profile he gave out. Staying hidden wasn’t just about blending in colours, admittedly that was a big part, seeing as a bright-pink parachute would stand out in a forest, but also hiding shape and distorting what was on show.
That’s where the Ghillie suit came into effect, changing the shape of him in the dark shadows and folds of the material, in the half-light of the forest; he was damn-near invisible. He carefully put a foot forward, lightly probing the ground first before placing weight onto his boot. He repeated with his other foot slowly moving around the bush in front of him, keeping his body and shoulders hunched and his rifle hidden from view, even though the dark wood of the barrel was hard to see, it was still an unnatural shape in the surroundings.
He stopped for a second, thinking before reaching down carefully and wrapping the fingers of his hand over the hilt of his knife sheathed on his belt. He slowly pulled it out of the leather and carefully slipped it over the tip of the barrel, waiting for the faint ‘click’ to indicate it was locked in position.
He heard it again, the same rustling noise, and ahead of him, he saw the cause, rushing between the trees. A grim smile spread across his face as it moved barely a yard in front of his face. He dived, stabbing forward with the rifle, plunging it into the windpipe of the target, twisting, and pulling the blade fully removing the head. It fell the ground, with a small thud, disturbing a couple of leaves on the ground. Then, there was silence.
He stood back up and held the lifeless form of the chicken in his hand. He plucked the tiny radio off of his belt and spoke into the cutting-edge technology it represented. ”Meat’s back on the menu, boys!”
~Dan
Account E-Mail: 'Tis Hidden by Ye Gods!
Name: George O’Brian
Nationality:
American
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
US
Character History:
Ever since his birth in 1918, into a relatively wealthy family, his father the owner of a large business, a man of Irish decent who had made it in the United States. There were almost certainly Mafia connections with his business, but George took this in his stride. His mother died when George was a young boy about 8, run over by a speeding motor car.
His Father's business soon went bust, but with what little money was left, George was thrust in to college, where he began a course in Radio Telegraphy.
Pearl Harbour. The Japanese decimation of the United States Navy and the cause of the USA being dragged into a war with the Asian Empire, and, perplexingly with Nazi Germany in Europe. O’Brian didn’t fully understand the politics behind the Nazi part of the war, but he knew his country had been attacked, and, perhaps most importantly for himself, he had a way out of the life that was facing him, stuck behind a desk. Now, his desk would be a foxhole in the middle of nowhere, his stationary a knife and bayonet, and the paper, the enemy of the United States.
A few days after the declaration of war, a letter arrived, informing him he had been drafted in to the US Army. The next day, a bus took him to Fort Stewart for basic training, before being sent to the frontline with the 3ID.
At Fort Stewart, he received the toughest training the US Army had to offer, and he bloody well lapped it up, absorbing every thing, and enjoying everything, two things in particularly; radios, and rifle drills.
With the training complete, the group of men that had entered as boys were ready to fight, to show the Germans what they could do. Eager to get to the frontlines, they boarded the Troop Ships ready, for their generation’s great adventure.
Military Rank:
Sergeant
Writing Sample:
A crackle. What is it? A bird, a fox, a tree, or a German? It could just as easily be any of them, but only one was worth worrying about. If one of Hitler’s finest was lurking in the trees just feet from the nose of Sgt. O’Brian, it wasn’t going to be a nice day out for either of them. Indeed, it could get quite messy.
The American brought the M1 Garand rifle up; securely gripping the front of the rifle with is left hand and threading his right hand trigger finger through the small trigger guard. He kept the butt retracted, no need for any extra problems, and he wanted to minimise the profile he gave out. Staying hidden wasn’t just about blending in colours, admittedly that was a big part, seeing as a bright-pink parachute would stand out in a forest, but also hiding shape and distorting what was on show.
That’s where the Ghillie suit came into effect, changing the shape of him in the dark shadows and folds of the material, in the half-light of the forest; he was damn-near invisible. He carefully put a foot forward, lightly probing the ground first before placing weight onto his boot. He repeated with his other foot slowly moving around the bush in front of him, keeping his body and shoulders hunched and his rifle hidden from view, even though the dark wood of the barrel was hard to see, it was still an unnatural shape in the surroundings.
He stopped for a second, thinking before reaching down carefully and wrapping the fingers of his hand over the hilt of his knife sheathed on his belt. He slowly pulled it out of the leather and carefully slipped it over the tip of the barrel, waiting for the faint ‘click’ to indicate it was locked in position.
He heard it again, the same rustling noise, and ahead of him, he saw the cause, rushing between the trees. A grim smile spread across his face as it moved barely a yard in front of his face. He dived, stabbing forward with the rifle, plunging it into the windpipe of the target, twisting, and pulling the blade fully removing the head. It fell the ground, with a small thud, disturbing a couple of leaves on the ground. Then, there was silence.
He stood back up and held the lifeless form of the chicken in his hand. He plucked the tiny radio off of his belt and spoke into the cutting-edge technology it represented. ”Meat’s back on the menu, boys!”