Post by Jonathan Strange on Dec 15, 2009 23:47:31 GMT
Location: Medical Outpost in Normandy, France.
Time: 16:00
The figure of Lieutenant Strange wasn't a very inviting one. The man stood leaning against one of the sturdier supports of one of the medical tents. Due to a wound inflicted the day before, he only had his uninjured right arm through its sleeve. The right side of the tunic only draped over his bandaged left arm. At his feet lay his helmet, a carbine, and a small mountain of cigarette cartons.
The head surgeon had told Strange that his heavy Thompson would be too much for his wounds and advised acquiring a lighter weapon to avoid damaging his arm any further. So, when Strange caught the envious gaze of an artilleryman, one Corporal Armatige, he proposed a trade. He'd had over the machinegun in exchange for the Corporal's carbine, ten cartons of cigarettes, and a bar of chocolate. To Strange's surprise, the soldier returned with the requested items fairly quickly. Strange didn't even like chocolate.
But now here he was chain-smoking his spoils, wishing he'd asked the soldier to scrounge up some alcohol. The alcohol wound have helped with his non-physical wounds. Yesterday, the day he received his wound, he had attempted to liberate a French town. He had failed and in the process gotten the better part of a dozen men killed, even abandoning a half-track after it struck a mine. It weighed heavily on him.
Strange pulled the last of his current cigarette into his lungs, and flicked the bud into an ever growing pile down by his feet. He had sent a messenger to Captain Patterson for further orders a few hours ago but had not heard anything yet. He entertained the idea of asking to use the camp's radio but his isolation here was pleasant for the time being; the still, French countryside around him was rather comforting as the light of day began to fade.
Time: 16:00
The figure of Lieutenant Strange wasn't a very inviting one. The man stood leaning against one of the sturdier supports of one of the medical tents. Due to a wound inflicted the day before, he only had his uninjured right arm through its sleeve. The right side of the tunic only draped over his bandaged left arm. At his feet lay his helmet, a carbine, and a small mountain of cigarette cartons.
The head surgeon had told Strange that his heavy Thompson would be too much for his wounds and advised acquiring a lighter weapon to avoid damaging his arm any further. So, when Strange caught the envious gaze of an artilleryman, one Corporal Armatige, he proposed a trade. He'd had over the machinegun in exchange for the Corporal's carbine, ten cartons of cigarettes, and a bar of chocolate. To Strange's surprise, the soldier returned with the requested items fairly quickly. Strange didn't even like chocolate.
But now here he was chain-smoking his spoils, wishing he'd asked the soldier to scrounge up some alcohol. The alcohol wound have helped with his non-physical wounds. Yesterday, the day he received his wound, he had attempted to liberate a French town. He had failed and in the process gotten the better part of a dozen men killed, even abandoning a half-track after it struck a mine. It weighed heavily on him.
Strange pulled the last of his current cigarette into his lungs, and flicked the bud into an ever growing pile down by his feet. He had sent a messenger to Captain Patterson for further orders a few hours ago but had not heard anything yet. He entertained the idea of asking to use the camp's radio but his isolation here was pleasant for the time being; the still, French countryside around him was rather comforting as the light of day began to fade.
