Post by isaac on Jan 17, 2010 21:46:17 GMT
It is a bit on the short side, but I honestly think it was an excellent application. I'll give you 2nd Lieutenant.
~Dan
Account E-Mail: Is this really, really needed? I’m very conscious about giving away information on the internet. The account name is “isaacbarker”
Name: Lt. Isaac Benjamin Barker
Nationality: Anglo-Irish
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath? The United Kingdom’s
Character History:
Isaac Benjamin Barker was born on April 13th, 1916, in Ballycastle, Northern Ireland, to an Irish Catholic housewife and a Protestant English father. Isaac’s father was a reserve soldier who was stationed in the nearby city of Belfast, who drilled and lived in the barracks there during the week and was allowed to visit his family on weekends. The soldier was not sent to fight in the soul-consuming Great War because of the need for part-time soldiers to help the recruiting effort and supply the endless churn of young men to mainland Europe. Isaac was but just a wee child during the Great War, but was fed tales of daring and adventure in far off places of the world, and this sparked a childhood wanderlust that would stick with him for his entire life.
As Isaac grew up he became a typical, daring little boy, playing with his friends while skinning his knees and bruising his skinny body. Ballycastle was and idyllic childhood romping ground. Isaac swam daily in the sandy beach just a half a kilometer from his home with his companions, and even hiked the mountain Knocklayde a handful of times with his and several of his friend’s fathers. His father agreed to let him be brought up in the Irish Catholic background, and Isaac and his mother routinely attended the church of the Holy Trinity. His father taught him firearms use with a Colt 1911 he had been given as a souvenir from a close American friend, practicing on the rabbits and squirrels that pranced around the local glens. Later the boy graduated to an old shotgun. He had two pets growing up, one a aloof wolfhound named Wallace, and the second a sleek female feline named Skald. They played with him, keeping up his spirits when he was knocked around in a playground brawl or his pocket pennies were nabbed by some tough kid.
Isaac’s teenage years were dominated the opposite sex. He progressed from “cooties” to “cute” much quicker than most of his pals, and already had his eye out at the age of ten. At sixteen he had a relationship with a girl named Mary-Jane Jones, a redhead whose family had moved from Dublin a few years ago. His future looked bright both romantically and intellectually. He maintained the steady average of 4th or 5th in his class and was well muscled and tall, but still a bit on the scrawny side. Upon graduation he was engaged to Mary-Jane, and their wedding date was set. But just a few months before, the demon of alcohol had beckoned its drunken finger at him.
He routinely visited local pubs and often got completely sloshed with his friends and stumbled home in a drunken stupor. Mary-Jane, who had grown up with an alcoholic father, could not stand this and forced her engagement ring into Isaac’s palm and left him for good. Barker lived in denial of his alcoholism, and took great offense when he was arrested for public drunkenness and only saved when his mother paid bail. Just a few weeks after the incident he was offered a job from Shell Oil Company to work in Eastern Africa as the supervisor of a small hut of workers. The pay was meager, but it sparked his longing for travel and a chance to escape his criminal history.
Isaac traveled to Somaliland by steam liner, and arrived much later than expected. It was 1936 then, and he set to work. His new job was a joy, for all he had to do was to make sure all the workers were accounted for, cook for them, and make sure they maintained good health. It was thrilling, for once he was almost bitten by a venomous snake that had crawled into his shaving kit, and on another instance, during a hike with two workers, was nearly mauled by a lion. He worked in East Africa for three years, until the earth-shattering events of 1939. Nazi Germany had invaded Poland and France and the UK had declared war on the superpower, which meant also warring with Italy, the owner of Somaliland. Isaac lost his job when Shell oil’s holdings were seized by the greedy Italians and most of the workers murdered by Mussolini’s troops. Isaac looked at himself and thought that he looked like a good enough military man, and enlisted for King and Country.
Isaac was placed under Lieutenant-Colonel Arthur Chater’s army and was sent to fight against the Italians in small hit-and-run attacks; for that was what the bulk of their native African armies were accustomed to. Barker’s tactical brilliance was recognized after he cleared an Italian bunker with just grenades and a bayonet after his rifle had ran out of rounds. He was promoted to 2nd Lieutenant and fought for three more months in Somaliland, before he was transferred to the famed “Desert Rats” division and fought against the Afrika Korps in North Africa, earning him another promotion to full Lieutenant.
Isaac stands about 6’1, 174 pounds, and has copper colored hair with a dabble of freckles across his pale skin. Living in a mixed population of Irish, British, and African has given him a unique accent, sort of a cross between traditional Gaelic and English, with a splash of Middle-Eastern, and perhaps something more exotic. His arms and ears are usually pink from sunburn, and he usually has a good deal of scratches on his hands and forearms from fighting and repairing small items.
Military Rank: Lieutenant
Writing Sample:
The defenses were growing by the second. It had started out as nothing but a large plantation owned by the minor African warlord Pukk, and was only garrisoned by a small conjuring of his thugs that did little more than keep other Somali lords from plundering crops or stealing women. But now this African riff-raff had turned from henchmen into patriots, given rifles, and to prepare against the oncoming waves of Italian soldiers instead of rival warlords. In a meeting in Pukk’s great hall where there were some winks and some nods and a few hundred pounds “slipping” out of pockets, and he had agreed to let his plantation be converted into a defensive post for the British King’s African Rifles.
Lieutenant Barker gazed with intelligent eyes on the mixture of African patriots and British troops unloaded planks of timber from a beaten old truck. The original color of the automobile was nearly undeterminable, but under all the rust, scrapes, and dust Barker guessed that it was once dull robin’s egg blue. It was driven by one of Pukk’s men, who blabbered in his native language to a Kenyan in a British uniform, who nodded and pointed at the men carrying away the logs. The wood would be sharpened into stakes and placed at the perimeters, hoping to primitively halt the oncoming Italian troops and light tanks that would undoubtedly be here in a few days, but Isaac doubted that they would be of much help. Over in one corner of the plantation a few men, pouring sweat, instructed bare-chested patriots on how to use a bayonet usefully on a few straw-and-cloth dummies with clumsily drawn stripes of red, white, and green to try to symbolize Italians. Barker could tell that the patriots could hardly understand there instructors, who were trying to get an African to stab forward instead of straight down, but to no avail. A sad lot, Isaac thought lazily, but then remembered that he was doing nothing but standing here in a pith helmet and shorts criticizing his hardworking men mentally.
Isaac was awakened from his self-incriminating thoughts by a sharp shake on his shoulder, and he looked down to see a dusty hand on his shoulder. “The Major told me to tell you that you are wanted in the library, Sir.” The heavily-accented voice of Sergeant Qwasi Zowli, a native Ethiopian who had served with Lieutenant Barker for several years, chimed. “Thank you, Sergeant, dismissed” Isaac said with an authoritarian tone, and Zowli snapped off a salute and jogged away. Despite the officer’s confident tone he was somewhat anxious about the meeting in the library, for it was not often that a lowly Lieutenant was let into the manor except to sleep in one of the many guest rooms. He turned on his heel and walked up the dry path to the house, his pistol holster slapping at his thigh.
The manor had obviously once been a establishment of great beauty, but it had been befuddled by age and war. The great teal walls sagged in a way that made it loom over the small incline it was perched on, as if it sat upon Mount Everest itself. The glass of its windows were removed and replaced by Vickers Machine Gun nests, and the great shingled roof was discolored by rain and curtained by a great camouflage webbing that Pukk had provided to protect against “ The great Italian buzzards in the sky”, but Isaac had his doubts about how well it would actually work. A small network of shrubbery and small savannah trees were blotted around the grounds, and tired looking soldiers acted as sentries and roamed around like forlorn spirits. Isaac nodded to a dark-skinned private and pushed away the netting as he made his way up the warped porch and into the manor.
Upon arrival Barker was issued into the library by a tongue-tied servant, and was met by a large room lit by picture windows and crammed with bookshelves. A large teak table stood in the center of the room, backed by a roaring fireplace that made the room even hotter than outside. Isaac removed the grimy white scarf around his neck that he would sometimes use for protection against dust and opened the first two buttons of his short-sleeved officer’s jacket. Around the table were a collection of officers and Pukk’s lead men, plus the warlord himself in all of his elaborate clothing and great powdered wig, sitting on a raised platform. Pukk waved a bejeweled hand for Barker to sit down and Isaac obeyed, scooching in his wooden chair. Pukk raised his hands for silence, his robe’s sleeves drifting down to reveal heavily tattooed forearms. “Da meeting, it is now in da session!” He said regally, narrowing his eyes. He began to talk about the problems, how one of his rival warlords was aiding the Italians, and how some of his soldiers were talking about a traitor in their ranks. Isaac was astounded by the garb of Pukk, for he looked as if he had stepped out of the 1700’s, with his great rolling white wig and deep purple robe with various African characters sewed in gold fibers.
”Ad now, da meetin’ dis adjourned!” Pukk said, once again raising his arms over his head. At just that moment the door behind the warlord opened and a patriot stepped in, dressed in a fine linen shirt and woolen trousers uncommon for a former henchman. Isaac was aggravated by the boldness of this patriot, and he stood up to look him in the eye. “What is the meaning of this, soldier! I might not be your commander but-“ Isaac was interrupted by a sharp crack coming from the bold soldiers hand. Pukk’s wig tumbled off and one of his earrings dropped from were a bullet had passed straight through his earlobe and into his head. The warlord’s mouth foamed and his eyes rolled back into his head, and a great goblet of some liquor that he had been sipping clattered on the ground. There was a sickening smack as Pukk’s forehead hit the table, spilling blood on the papers in front of him. Isaac gaped and drew his pistol, but the assassin was too fast. A bullet sped towards Barker and grazed his forehead, causing little bodily harm but causing him to double over out cold, knocking over his chair on the way down. His head lolled, and the officers at the table mistook him for being dead. They leaped on the assassin, holding him down until the sentries from outside could take a hold of him.
Two days later, Pukk’s body had been burned and Isaac was completely fine, with only a bandage around his head reminding him of the close shot. A smile graced his lips as a firing squad executed the assassin the next day.
~Dan
Account E-Mail: Is this really, really needed? I’m very conscious about giving away information on the internet. The account name is “isaacbarker”
Name: Lt. Isaac Benjamin Barker
Nationality: Anglo-Irish
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath? The United Kingdom’s
Character History:
Isaac Benjamin Barker was born on April 13th, 1916, in Ballycastle, Northern Ireland, to an Irish Catholic housewife and a Protestant English father. Isaac’s father was a reserve soldier who was stationed in the nearby city of Belfast, who drilled and lived in the barracks there during the week and was allowed to visit his family on weekends. The soldier was not sent to fight in the soul-consuming Great War because of the need for part-time soldiers to help the recruiting effort and supply the endless churn of young men to mainland Europe. Isaac was but just a wee child during the Great War, but was fed tales of daring and adventure in far off places of the world, and this sparked a childhood wanderlust that would stick with him for his entire life.
As Isaac grew up he became a typical, daring little boy, playing with his friends while skinning his knees and bruising his skinny body. Ballycastle was and idyllic childhood romping ground. Isaac swam daily in the sandy beach just a half a kilometer from his home with his companions, and even hiked the mountain Knocklayde a handful of times with his and several of his friend’s fathers. His father agreed to let him be brought up in the Irish Catholic background, and Isaac and his mother routinely attended the church of the Holy Trinity. His father taught him firearms use with a Colt 1911 he had been given as a souvenir from a close American friend, practicing on the rabbits and squirrels that pranced around the local glens. Later the boy graduated to an old shotgun. He had two pets growing up, one a aloof wolfhound named Wallace, and the second a sleek female feline named Skald. They played with him, keeping up his spirits when he was knocked around in a playground brawl or his pocket pennies were nabbed by some tough kid.
Isaac’s teenage years were dominated the opposite sex. He progressed from “cooties” to “cute” much quicker than most of his pals, and already had his eye out at the age of ten. At sixteen he had a relationship with a girl named Mary-Jane Jones, a redhead whose family had moved from Dublin a few years ago. His future looked bright both romantically and intellectually. He maintained the steady average of 4th or 5th in his class and was well muscled and tall, but still a bit on the scrawny side. Upon graduation he was engaged to Mary-Jane, and their wedding date was set. But just a few months before, the demon of alcohol had beckoned its drunken finger at him.
He routinely visited local pubs and often got completely sloshed with his friends and stumbled home in a drunken stupor. Mary-Jane, who had grown up with an alcoholic father, could not stand this and forced her engagement ring into Isaac’s palm and left him for good. Barker lived in denial of his alcoholism, and took great offense when he was arrested for public drunkenness and only saved when his mother paid bail. Just a few weeks after the incident he was offered a job from Shell Oil Company to work in Eastern Africa as the supervisor of a small hut of workers. The pay was meager, but it sparked his longing for travel and a chance to escape his criminal history.
Isaac traveled to Somaliland by steam liner, and arrived much later than expected. It was 1936 then, and he set to work. His new job was a joy, for all he had to do was to make sure all the workers were accounted for, cook for them, and make sure they maintained good health. It was thrilling, for once he was almost bitten by a venomous snake that had crawled into his shaving kit, and on another instance, during a hike with two workers, was nearly mauled by a lion. He worked in East Africa for three years, until the earth-shattering events of 1939. Nazi Germany had invaded Poland and France and the UK had declared war on the superpower, which meant also warring with Italy, the owner of Somaliland. Isaac lost his job when Shell oil’s holdings were seized by the greedy Italians and most of the workers murdered by Mussolini’s troops. Isaac looked at himself and thought that he looked like a good enough military man, and enlisted for King and Country.
Isaac was placed under Lieutenant-Colonel Arthur Chater’s army and was sent to fight against the Italians in small hit-and-run attacks; for that was what the bulk of their native African armies were accustomed to. Barker’s tactical brilliance was recognized after he cleared an Italian bunker with just grenades and a bayonet after his rifle had ran out of rounds. He was promoted to 2nd Lieutenant and fought for three more months in Somaliland, before he was transferred to the famed “Desert Rats” division and fought against the Afrika Korps in North Africa, earning him another promotion to full Lieutenant.
Isaac stands about 6’1, 174 pounds, and has copper colored hair with a dabble of freckles across his pale skin. Living in a mixed population of Irish, British, and African has given him a unique accent, sort of a cross between traditional Gaelic and English, with a splash of Middle-Eastern, and perhaps something more exotic. His arms and ears are usually pink from sunburn, and he usually has a good deal of scratches on his hands and forearms from fighting and repairing small items.
Military Rank: Lieutenant
Writing Sample:
The defenses were growing by the second. It had started out as nothing but a large plantation owned by the minor African warlord Pukk, and was only garrisoned by a small conjuring of his thugs that did little more than keep other Somali lords from plundering crops or stealing women. But now this African riff-raff had turned from henchmen into patriots, given rifles, and to prepare against the oncoming waves of Italian soldiers instead of rival warlords. In a meeting in Pukk’s great hall where there were some winks and some nods and a few hundred pounds “slipping” out of pockets, and he had agreed to let his plantation be converted into a defensive post for the British King’s African Rifles.
Lieutenant Barker gazed with intelligent eyes on the mixture of African patriots and British troops unloaded planks of timber from a beaten old truck. The original color of the automobile was nearly undeterminable, but under all the rust, scrapes, and dust Barker guessed that it was once dull robin’s egg blue. It was driven by one of Pukk’s men, who blabbered in his native language to a Kenyan in a British uniform, who nodded and pointed at the men carrying away the logs. The wood would be sharpened into stakes and placed at the perimeters, hoping to primitively halt the oncoming Italian troops and light tanks that would undoubtedly be here in a few days, but Isaac doubted that they would be of much help. Over in one corner of the plantation a few men, pouring sweat, instructed bare-chested patriots on how to use a bayonet usefully on a few straw-and-cloth dummies with clumsily drawn stripes of red, white, and green to try to symbolize Italians. Barker could tell that the patriots could hardly understand there instructors, who were trying to get an African to stab forward instead of straight down, but to no avail. A sad lot, Isaac thought lazily, but then remembered that he was doing nothing but standing here in a pith helmet and shorts criticizing his hardworking men mentally.
Isaac was awakened from his self-incriminating thoughts by a sharp shake on his shoulder, and he looked down to see a dusty hand on his shoulder. “The Major told me to tell you that you are wanted in the library, Sir.” The heavily-accented voice of Sergeant Qwasi Zowli, a native Ethiopian who had served with Lieutenant Barker for several years, chimed. “Thank you, Sergeant, dismissed” Isaac said with an authoritarian tone, and Zowli snapped off a salute and jogged away. Despite the officer’s confident tone he was somewhat anxious about the meeting in the library, for it was not often that a lowly Lieutenant was let into the manor except to sleep in one of the many guest rooms. He turned on his heel and walked up the dry path to the house, his pistol holster slapping at his thigh.
The manor had obviously once been a establishment of great beauty, but it had been befuddled by age and war. The great teal walls sagged in a way that made it loom over the small incline it was perched on, as if it sat upon Mount Everest itself. The glass of its windows were removed and replaced by Vickers Machine Gun nests, and the great shingled roof was discolored by rain and curtained by a great camouflage webbing that Pukk had provided to protect against “ The great Italian buzzards in the sky”, but Isaac had his doubts about how well it would actually work. A small network of shrubbery and small savannah trees were blotted around the grounds, and tired looking soldiers acted as sentries and roamed around like forlorn spirits. Isaac nodded to a dark-skinned private and pushed away the netting as he made his way up the warped porch and into the manor.
Upon arrival Barker was issued into the library by a tongue-tied servant, and was met by a large room lit by picture windows and crammed with bookshelves. A large teak table stood in the center of the room, backed by a roaring fireplace that made the room even hotter than outside. Isaac removed the grimy white scarf around his neck that he would sometimes use for protection against dust and opened the first two buttons of his short-sleeved officer’s jacket. Around the table were a collection of officers and Pukk’s lead men, plus the warlord himself in all of his elaborate clothing and great powdered wig, sitting on a raised platform. Pukk waved a bejeweled hand for Barker to sit down and Isaac obeyed, scooching in his wooden chair. Pukk raised his hands for silence, his robe’s sleeves drifting down to reveal heavily tattooed forearms. “Da meeting, it is now in da session!” He said regally, narrowing his eyes. He began to talk about the problems, how one of his rival warlords was aiding the Italians, and how some of his soldiers were talking about a traitor in their ranks. Isaac was astounded by the garb of Pukk, for he looked as if he had stepped out of the 1700’s, with his great rolling white wig and deep purple robe with various African characters sewed in gold fibers.
”Ad now, da meetin’ dis adjourned!” Pukk said, once again raising his arms over his head. At just that moment the door behind the warlord opened and a patriot stepped in, dressed in a fine linen shirt and woolen trousers uncommon for a former henchman. Isaac was aggravated by the boldness of this patriot, and he stood up to look him in the eye. “What is the meaning of this, soldier! I might not be your commander but-“ Isaac was interrupted by a sharp crack coming from the bold soldiers hand. Pukk’s wig tumbled off and one of his earrings dropped from were a bullet had passed straight through his earlobe and into his head. The warlord’s mouth foamed and his eyes rolled back into his head, and a great goblet of some liquor that he had been sipping clattered on the ground. There was a sickening smack as Pukk’s forehead hit the table, spilling blood on the papers in front of him. Isaac gaped and drew his pistol, but the assassin was too fast. A bullet sped towards Barker and grazed his forehead, causing little bodily harm but causing him to double over out cold, knocking over his chair on the way down. His head lolled, and the officers at the table mistook him for being dead. They leaped on the assassin, holding him down until the sentries from outside could take a hold of him.
***
Two days later, Pukk’s body had been burned and Isaac was completely fine, with only a bandage around his head reminding him of the close shot. A smile graced his lips as a firing squad executed the assassin the next day.
