Post by Michael Gryphon on May 10, 2009 22:58:34 GMT
Hey Griff! 
Although it's a good app, I'm not going to give you the Squadron leader rank. Instead, I'll give you Pilot Officer. If you want me to give you the USAAF equivalent of it, then you can just tell me.
Account E-Mail: anmicgriff@gmail.com
Name: Michael Gryphon
Nationality:
United States(Southern)
Character History:
Michael, or “Gryph”, as his companions often call him, was born in the southern United States. His family, a world-hardened factory foreman and sunny, “Leave It To Beaver” mom, and his three, older brothers, lived in Northern Alabama at the peak of urbanization toward the beginning of the end of the great depression in the US. Growing up around his father and factory machinery, Gryph always had an advanced understanding of mechanics and engineering. As he grew, Gryph would often learn small tidbits of information about how to work and fix machines from his father, which often required skills in mathematics that were highly advanced for his age.
Because of his childhood experience with machines, it was no wonder that Gryph always had a high aptitude for mathematics in school. Numbers and base sciences always came very naturally to Gryph. When he made it into highschool, Gryph immediately began taking shop and mechanics classes. However, Gryph’s education almost ended there.
As Gryph prepared to graduate from highschool, being only the second person in his family to do so, it became painfully obvious that there was almost no way for him to make it into collage. Searching frantically for a way into higher education, Gryph found his way to the US military. Gryph would have preferred to avoid the military, with war looming just over the horizon in Europe, but he could see no other way to pay his way into collage.
Gryph enrolled in an air force academy at the age of 18 and began the study of aeronautics and aircraft design. Studying hard, Gryph graduated first in his class, with degrees in engineering and military technologies. From there Gryph began work as an technician in the US Air Force. Furthering his career, Gryph also began training to be a pilot.
Later, as the second World War began to engulf Europe, Gryph was one of the first pilots to volunteer to go and help the Allied forces. Striving for excellence on and off the battlefield, Gryph showed honor and distinction during several battles. When the United States officially joined the war Gryph was promoted to the rank of Squadron Leader for his achievements and experience against the Axis forces.
Military Rank:
Squadron Leader
Writing Sample:
The sky, the big blue, the great, wide open. Some people would give anything to be able to see the world from so high a place. Some would live their entire lives without knowing what it was like to look down on the clouds. And yet, there he was, praying for his time in the big, empty sky to be over.
He wasn’t too old, his mid twenties maybe. It was rather difficult to tell with the majority of his face covered by his scarf and jacket. His eyes just seemed to poke through the gap between his hat and scarf. Small, icy, orbs that glimmered slightly in the mid day sunlight, barely visible behind the half mask he wore. Still, they held a sense of anxiety.
Every now and again he’d nervously reposition himself in his seat, quickly glancing over his shoulder toward the tail of his plane. Then he’d look up and wince a little at the shower of sunlight that rained down from the sky above. Then another glance back and to either side, followed shortly by a glance downward on either side of his cockpit. All he could see, all that was possible to see, was deep, blue sky in any direction, or the sun smiling, in its melancholy way, down on him, or the green countryside below. Still he looked.
He was on his return trip and bore bad news. The mission HAD been a success, but at what cost? All of his wingmen were gone and he was left alone. How long had he been alone now? An hour? Two hours? It didn’t really matter. Any length of time seemed like an eternity to the young man, sitting in his lonely cockpit. Every once in a while he’d grunt, or groan, or let out a soft “hm…”, just barely loud enough to be heard over the steady roar of his mustang, just to break the seemingly silent flight home.
Yet, for all his looking, and glancing, and hmming and homming, he couldn’t shake that feeling that someone was behind him, following him, stalking him. Was it an enemy? Was it his lost wingmen, come back to haunt him? He didn’t know. He didn’t care either. All he wanted was to get home and get his feet back on the ground.
Reaching up with a gloved hand, he wiped the sweat and grease from his face and slid his goggles down over his eyes. His bright, shiny eyes became black, expressionless, almost mechanical. Then, almost unconsciously, he laughed. He laughed! A soft, chuckle that, like all the other noises he had made so far, was barely loud enough to be heard over the engine. Even then though, it seemed that it was impossible to hear the soft laughter, because it seemed like he laughed in rhythm with the engine, so it melted into the grumbling roar and was lost.
He felt ashamed almost, to have laughed like that, but he couldn’t help it. He had always been given grief about the goggles he wore when he flew. They weren’t clear, like most pilot’s goggles, but they were tented black. They were welder’s goggles, used to hinder the light from welding sparks from damaging a person’s eyes. He wore them because, from the moment he started wearing them, he seemed to always have good luck. Maybe THAT was why he was alive and his wingmen weren’t.
Although it's a good app, I'm not going to give you the Squadron leader rank. Instead, I'll give you Pilot Officer. If you want me to give you the USAAF equivalent of it, then you can just tell me.
Account E-Mail: anmicgriff@gmail.com
Name: Michael Gryphon
Nationality:
United States(Southern)
Character History:
Michael, or “Gryph”, as his companions often call him, was born in the southern United States. His family, a world-hardened factory foreman and sunny, “Leave It To Beaver” mom, and his three, older brothers, lived in Northern Alabama at the peak of urbanization toward the beginning of the end of the great depression in the US. Growing up around his father and factory machinery, Gryph always had an advanced understanding of mechanics and engineering. As he grew, Gryph would often learn small tidbits of information about how to work and fix machines from his father, which often required skills in mathematics that were highly advanced for his age.
Because of his childhood experience with machines, it was no wonder that Gryph always had a high aptitude for mathematics in school. Numbers and base sciences always came very naturally to Gryph. When he made it into highschool, Gryph immediately began taking shop and mechanics classes. However, Gryph’s education almost ended there.
As Gryph prepared to graduate from highschool, being only the second person in his family to do so, it became painfully obvious that there was almost no way for him to make it into collage. Searching frantically for a way into higher education, Gryph found his way to the US military. Gryph would have preferred to avoid the military, with war looming just over the horizon in Europe, but he could see no other way to pay his way into collage.
Gryph enrolled in an air force academy at the age of 18 and began the study of aeronautics and aircraft design. Studying hard, Gryph graduated first in his class, with degrees in engineering and military technologies. From there Gryph began work as an technician in the US Air Force. Furthering his career, Gryph also began training to be a pilot.
Later, as the second World War began to engulf Europe, Gryph was one of the first pilots to volunteer to go and help the Allied forces. Striving for excellence on and off the battlefield, Gryph showed honor and distinction during several battles. When the United States officially joined the war Gryph was promoted to the rank of Squadron Leader for his achievements and experience against the Axis forces.
Military Rank:
Squadron Leader
Writing Sample:
The sky, the big blue, the great, wide open. Some people would give anything to be able to see the world from so high a place. Some would live their entire lives without knowing what it was like to look down on the clouds. And yet, there he was, praying for his time in the big, empty sky to be over.
He wasn’t too old, his mid twenties maybe. It was rather difficult to tell with the majority of his face covered by his scarf and jacket. His eyes just seemed to poke through the gap between his hat and scarf. Small, icy, orbs that glimmered slightly in the mid day sunlight, barely visible behind the half mask he wore. Still, they held a sense of anxiety.
Every now and again he’d nervously reposition himself in his seat, quickly glancing over his shoulder toward the tail of his plane. Then he’d look up and wince a little at the shower of sunlight that rained down from the sky above. Then another glance back and to either side, followed shortly by a glance downward on either side of his cockpit. All he could see, all that was possible to see, was deep, blue sky in any direction, or the sun smiling, in its melancholy way, down on him, or the green countryside below. Still he looked.
He was on his return trip and bore bad news. The mission HAD been a success, but at what cost? All of his wingmen were gone and he was left alone. How long had he been alone now? An hour? Two hours? It didn’t really matter. Any length of time seemed like an eternity to the young man, sitting in his lonely cockpit. Every once in a while he’d grunt, or groan, or let out a soft “hm…”, just barely loud enough to be heard over the steady roar of his mustang, just to break the seemingly silent flight home.
Yet, for all his looking, and glancing, and hmming and homming, he couldn’t shake that feeling that someone was behind him, following him, stalking him. Was it an enemy? Was it his lost wingmen, come back to haunt him? He didn’t know. He didn’t care either. All he wanted was to get home and get his feet back on the ground.
Reaching up with a gloved hand, he wiped the sweat and grease from his face and slid his goggles down over his eyes. His bright, shiny eyes became black, expressionless, almost mechanical. Then, almost unconsciously, he laughed. He laughed! A soft, chuckle that, like all the other noises he had made so far, was barely loud enough to be heard over the engine. Even then though, it seemed that it was impossible to hear the soft laughter, because it seemed like he laughed in rhythm with the engine, so it melted into the grumbling roar and was lost.
He felt ashamed almost, to have laughed like that, but he couldn’t help it. He had always been given grief about the goggles he wore when he flew. They weren’t clear, like most pilot’s goggles, but they were tented black. They were welder’s goggles, used to hinder the light from welding sparks from damaging a person’s eyes. He wore them because, from the moment he started wearing them, he seemed to always have good luck. Maybe THAT was why he was alive and his wingmen weren’t.
