"I'm just dandy" (7AD Thread)

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Time: 13:44pm
Weather:[/b] Cloudy with sunny spells.
Location:[/b] Buzzing market within the East-End of London.


“Two-buy-a-sixpence! Two-buy-a-sixpence!”[/b] a scruffy old man bellowed with a hoarse voice, fingerless cotton gloves pitted with holes, outspread to the passing crowd as he flaunted his fruit’n’veg. Similar hoarse cries echoed down the cobbled street from numerous stall merchants, flogging their dwindling goods due to the war rationed materials. Most of the stalls had resorted to homely goods being sold or early commemorative souvenirs of the war on-going; a Jerry helmet taking pride amongst the many berets and tin hats on display, most of the missing liners from within or decals upon the side. All in all, the market seemed nothing more than a buzzing boot-sale or yard-sale, there were even a few people exchanging their ration books for long lost luxuries from a vendor or two.

The war had certainly hit home and Captain Brentwood stifled an awkward cough into his tightened fist, his eyes differing from the rear window of the vehicle to avoid the desperate stares of the woman or prideful men who saluted and whacked him on the back with the common ‘Well done son’ or ‘You’re doing this nation proud’ every time he walked down the street. If only the old buggers knew the truth about Captain Brentwood, he wasn’t doing this arduous fighting for them, this arduous and bitter conflict for the country even. No, he was beginning to do it for himself, just for fun almost. He enjoyed the hunt, the thunderous sounds of whirling Junker-bombers overhead, the German tongues whispering mere yards away across the battlefield. It was just one big game now to him and he bloody loved it for all intents and purposes; he was once prideful and fearful, Dunkirk was a memorable moment for him personally, but things had changed since then. A bitter taste swelled within his mouth each time a French tongue whirled foreign words, a deep anger scorched his stomach each passing moment a tabloid spoke of the Germans. Speedily, he was descending into a inner-turmoil of hatred…

The cabby pulled up against the curb just outside of the market, along a row of Victorian houses, battered by the bombings of the Germans. For a moment, Liam’s eyes wandered dead ahead out of the front windscreen and down the street, where kids played in the middle of the road with a football, surrounded by mounds of bricks on either side where households once sat. It was a peculiar feeling, as if they were dancing in a graveyard? Surrounded by destruction and most probably death, yet they seemed oblivious to any of it. Liam grinned to himself, knowing he could relate to them now. Surrounded by death, destruction and turmoil, yet he felt oblivious too it now. Just like the kids were enjoying a random game of football in the street, he was enjoying a game of his own.

Handing a few bob over the front seat to the cabby, who politely gestured with a “Cheers mate”[/b], Captain Brentwood unlatched the backdoor and climbed out onto the cobbled road. His shined boots clacked against the stones and his hair ruffled in the stiff breeze blowing down the street, due to no real buildings blocking the gustily winds now. Turning up his officer’s cap from under his arm, he corkscrewed the tight band of the hat down against his skull and swept any loose strands of his irregular long hair under the hat. Stepping away from the cab as it pulled away, Captain Brentwood fastened his look onwards to the market ahead, before pulling back his left sleeve and checking the time beneath the fabric of his uniform. He was to be acquainted shortly with a few fellows from the division, but he wasn’t quite sure whether he was late or early; nor did he know what was planned for the afternoon - a stiff drink wouldn’t go a miss, he thought to himself.

Whilst he stood quietly, he shuddered as he heard a voice from behind himself; “Captain!”[/b] Turning steadily upon his heels, he faced onwards towards a field-bunker, where a vicker’s machinegun crew suppressed the advancing Afrika-Korps across the molten hot desert. The gurgling sound of engines rumbling in the nearing distance, small black outcrops of blobs appearing over an eastern cliff to their right flank. “Captain! We’re out of high-explosive rounds for the mortars!”[/b] Corporal Jonathan Francis reported in a desperate tone, but soon followed by an unpredictable explosion just outside of the canopy in which Captain Brentwood stood with a few shrouded faces of those left in command on the line. The Vickers machinegun went silent. “Tanks on our arse sir!”[/b] a voice shouted from outside of the tent, as Sergeant Buckley approached the tent in a fierce run across the sand. “Vickers crew is kaput too Captain, shall we establish a line across the fallback trenches sir? We can take the bloody bastards where we stand”[/b] the Sergeant queried, whilst Corporal Francis gave a feared look to both men. “We need to retreat! We’ve got eight six toners that would carry everyone the hell out of here. The panzers wouldn’t even follow, they know that area is blackballed by British artillery”[/b] the Corporal butted in, with Sergeant Buckley sneering in the background, who simply looked onwards to the Captain with; “Well then Sir?”

Coming back to reality, Captain Brentwood stared into the face of a well dressed gentleman before himself, with a newspaper tucked up under his armpit and a walking-cane being held under the opposite armpit as he patted Captain Brentwood on the arm. “Well then sir?”[/b] he repeated, causing Liam to stiffen at the words, his pale sweating face glaring at the gentleman with a hard stare. “Well then what…?” he questioned, the gentleman pulling a quizzed look as he inhaled. “Well then sir are you feeling alright?”[/b] the gentleman repeated once again, simply being faced with a shaky nod from the Captain who slurred out. “I’m just dandy” before walking away quickly, flapping a handkerchief from out of his pocket to smear across his sweating face.

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

If truth be told, this wasn’t the kind of place Oswald would choose to spend his spare time. He preferred the peaceful rolling turf of a Home Counties golf-course to the stinking, crowded cobbled streets of London’s East End. He firmly believed each class should keep to themselves, or there was bound to be conflict. The workers should stick to their factories and cramped terraced houses, and the more affluent and successful businessmen should remain in their Georgian homes and their offices. That was how the Lord had chosen the world to be, and it was dangerous to go against His will.

Oswald’s ammo boots scraped the stone each time his hob-nailed soles touched the ground. He walked at a steady pace, swerving in around market stalls, fat old women and children running amok. The air stank of sewage, rotting fish and the collective sweat of hundreds of filthy people. Who would want to live their lives in this squalor? At one point some little urchin stopped right in front of him, and Oswald had to smack the boy on the back with his cane to get him to move out of the way. The faster he could get out of this hell hole the better.

When the suggestion of an informal meeting had been brought up, Oswald had imagined a small drink and cigars in the officer’s club. But instead of a nice civilised afternoon, he was probably going to be spending it inside some loud, dirty public house. The pains of an officer.

He passed a uniformed man who quickly snapped his hand up to salute, and Oswald simply raised his cane and nodded his appreciation. Oswald checked his uniform over, half wondering if someone had thrown the contents of their chamber pot out a window and caught him. He kept his jacked pushed and his brass buttons polished. His Sam Brown belt was fitted and tightened, and his Webley revolver sat nicely in its holster. The toes of his ammo boots gleamed after the vast amounts of beeswax which had been expended upon them. Finally, the silver end of his can sparkled against the black of his leather gloves.

Feet after feet, yard after yard, he closed on the meeting spot. Oswald moved by countless market stalls, each with some man trying to make quick few bob. Oswald noticed a newspaper stand and decided to humour the man behind it. He stood at the end of the queue, keeping constantly vigilant for thieves and pickpockets who could be lurking. The line edged forwards, and when Oswald did reach the front, he had very little choice. In the end, he settled for a copy of The Times and a small pack of cigars, which were always useful for breaking the ice.

He left and continued to move through the sprawling bazaar, until he finally spotted its edge. This ramshackle jungle of beings seemed virtually endless, and he was pleased to see the end. Oswald passed the last few stalls, mostly just collections of fruit, which had been stolen from the nearby docks no doubt. Standing blindly in the centre of the cobbled street was a rather gormless soldier, but Oswald recognised the three pips and was shocked to see he was an officer. What shocked Oswald more, was that this man was the only uniformed man in sight, he was a Captain, and thus he had to be this Brentwood fellow…

Oswald cautiously approached him, the man seeming totally empty behind the eyes. The Second Lieutenant stood directly in front of him, and cleared his throat loudly hoping to attract this man’s attention. What was this Captain playing at?
“I was thinking we could maybe move away from this area, sir? Maybe somewhere a little more civilised? What do you think?” Oswald asked, hoping this would grant some kind of reaction. Instead, the man still appeared to be in his trace, and Oswald sighed. “Well then sir?” he said, finally patting the Captain’s arm as a last resort.

This did achieve something, bringing the Captain back to reality, but all Oswald got for his troubles was a hard stare. The Captain snapped at Oswald, and the junior officer fought to control his annoyance. Were they giving commissions to the retarded now…?
“Well then, sir, are you feeling alright?” Oswald replied, trying to stop his voice becoming terse with this man. Whoever he was, he was Oswald’s superior and therefore deserved respect. But there’s a difference between respect for the rank, and respect for the person.

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Wiping his pale sweating face, Captain Brentwood mopped the cold sweat from off his brow in a long fashioning swipe, before heavily heaving a long winded sigh from the depths of his lungs. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened just then, he’d heard rumours that post-dramatic-stress relating to combat was common amongst the men sooner or later, but Captain Brentwood was hard as a coffin nail and quite the coffin dodger at that, but combat stress wasn’t something he had time to deal with, nor think about. Perhaps it was the surroundings? Liam was born and bred in the East-End of London, he was a cockney fellow and perhaps it wasn’t so much to do with the stress of combat, but rather a feeling of his past creeping up on him. He made a bold move today, appointing a gathering in the East-End for his fellow officers, it was far from their likely privileges to being an officer, but if he was to serve with these men of old - then they had to get to know Liam for who he was at heart.

Folding the handkerchief in half, he sniffed hard to himself to clear his airways and replaced the fine piece of cloth back into his chest pocket. Adjusting his brown waist belt and holster to a more comfortable and suited line across his hips, his eyes vaguely glanced back at the gentleman he’d walked away from, only to apparently notice the uniform and pip. Hesitantly, he motioned his body to face the gentleman he’d so rudely darted away from and grinned weakly as the dawning realisation of who the man was fell upon himself. “Second Lieutenant… Oswald?” he questioned with a miffed squint to one eye, as if his brain had to set an extra cog into motion to recall the name of the man; the face wasn’t familiar in the slightest, other than the rank and profile of the man’s military history. He wasn’t expecting to meet any other Second Lieutenants this evening, so it was a hunch at most.

Wryly grinning by now, Captain Brentwood retraced his steps back towards the fellow officer and outstretched a hand in mid motion for a handshake. “I’m awfully sorry dear ol’ chap, I’m not quite feeling myself today” he apologised in a meaningful tone, awaiting the officer’s firm grasp for a shake; the whole while Liam’s eyes slithered across the Second Lieutenant’s features, his tongue rolling around inside of his mouth to parch a dry patch. “I’m guessing you’re not quite accustomed to the East-End either ol’ boy?” he said in a humorous tone, hoping the man wasn’t for starters. It was Captain Brentwood’s devilish plan to knock the accompanying officer’s down a notch for the acquaintance this evening, not only was it the Captain’s home turf - so to speak - but a place in which he hoped to curve their understanding of himself a little better. Liam was never the upper class type, nor a middle class gentleman, he lived the life of an astounding gentleman in a sheer bid for his respectable military position and wealth even; he would never be one at heart however. This was his true heritage, the good old East-End, where he began the climb as a Lieutenant within the Royal Commandos, those days seemed to dwindle further and further away now.

After a friendly handshake, he lolled the thought of what the gentleman must have been thinking for a brief moment. Liam was always one for the first impressions, there wasn’t many faces who had seen his secretive side. Fowl tempered, yes. Psychotic nutter, no. So first impressions meant everything to Captain Brentwood, he had a cover to keep - per say, but most of the time he was genuinely himself on the surface.

The wry grin formed on the Captain’s lips once again, as he reminisced over a few memories to himself; even back when he was a Lieutenant in the Royal Commandos, he used live ammunition during training, that subsequently entailed a casualty or even how he most probably drove Edward McMillan to extremism with his views. The grin was fading by now, as the thought of Edward McMillan perhaps deflecting to the Nazis were most probably true, he recalled how he personally had the dentures checked, because of one body being missing at the site and how he prevailed in attempting to convince everyone at Edward’s funeral, that simply lead to him losing his temper instead and thrashing out. A lot had changed since then, Liam was more cold and calculated now, with a deeper scent for justice…

Looking towards the Second Lieutenant, Liam shot a long stare before speaking again. “Cigar?” he gestured with a quirked brow, as he fumbled a hand under his tunic opening, to withdraw a small carton pack of German Stumpan brand cigars; which may have been highly peculiar for a British officer to carry, but Liam merely grinned to himself and opened the carton to slide one out and clench against his teeth, whilst protruding the carton forwards within his hand to offer the Second-Lieutenant one. “You could say they’re a souvenir from a friend” the Captain said with a slight humorous tone to his voice once again, hoping to dampen any suspicions as to why he was carrying German brand cigars. If anything, Liam was telling the truth. They were a souvenir from a short acquainted friend, his name was Heinrich Muller and happened to be quite the mummy’s boy when faced with a eight inch slice of cold steel from a ‘fanny’ (knuckleduster-blade) he kept from his commando years.

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

The Captain took a few paces away from Oswald, before mopping his brow very meticulously and seeming to treat his small piece of cloth better than his inferior. He folded it carefully, before tucking it away carefully in his jacket like a much loved companion. Oswald wondered if it was like a child’s comfort toy to this rather peculiar gentleman.

The man then moved to his belt an adjusted it, making Oswald’s mind race. Lunatics were not necessarily bad or nasty people, in fact he’d met the mother of a bastard child just last month in an asylum and she seemed practically sane. But they could be very unstable, and giving them firearms was a totally illogical concept to Oswald. The Captain simply adjusted his belt, but Oswald kept his hand hovering over his own pistol. It at least made him feel a little safer.

Oswald began to wonder if this man really was Brentwood. He knew of several people who would had been put in asylums who were ex-army. Colonel Alfred Oswald, Oswald’s grandfather had been placed in one when he began seeing ‘Fuzzy Wuzzys’ everywhere, and shot dead his gamekeeper with a shotgun. A pity; he’d won the Distinguished Service Cross. But he was a prime example of why the insane should not be allowed to wield fire arms. For all Oswald knew, this man could start hallucinating, think he was in some kind of battle, and blow Oswald clean away. That would be embarrassing for the army…

‘Brentwood’ by this time had taken a few steps away, almost totally forgetting Oswald’s existence. But as if remembering some task one forgot, he turned around and smiled shyly at his inferior. He took a few tentative steps back towards Oswald, and extended his hand out. Oswald met it, and tried to avoid eye contact as he gave a firm shake. The last time someone had acted like this around him, Oswald had had the best night of his life, and later married that person and had two kids with them. She was pregnant with their third now. Oswald became slightly hot under the collar he realised this man may be attracted to him… If he was ‘that way inclined’ he really should be locked away.

He asked if Oswald to confirm his identity, and Oswald nodded quickly. ”Captain Brentwood?” he spoke, hoping the man would say he was mistaken and this was one big misunderstanding, and that Oswald would not have to work with him or even see him ever again. That said, how else would he know Oswald’s name if he wasn’t Mr Brentwood?

The man apologised and asked if Oswald was from around these parts. “No, I come from the Home Counties,” Oswald lied. When he’d become an officer, so many years ago, he’d changed his outlook on life, and did his best to fit in with the other gentlemen. Being gruff and hard was what got you places in the ranks, but now knowing which knife to use at the dinner table was far more important than knowing how to use it in a brawl. He’d picked up trends and mentalities, and felt better as middle class officer than the homeless orphan boy he’d been in his childhood. Oswald could close that book, and continue with is life now, living off his wife’s money…

Brentwood seemed to smile to himself as they released hands. Oswald had the toe curling thought that Brentwood was imagining him unclothed and… Oswald stopped himself before the bile had a chance to rise. “You seem rather happy, sir.” he commented, again hoping the Captain would prove Oswald’s thought process wrong.

The man stared for a while, and again Oswald felt uncomfortable around this man. He’d only been in his presence for barely two minutes, and yet Oswald was becoming seriously concerned about his CO’s sanity. He’d be civil today, and then quickly find Brentwood’s superior. A man like this seemed in no fit state to be free, let alone commanding men. If he could, Oswald would try and get his hands on Brentwood’s revolver; then at least if the Captain suddenly thought he was in Berlin, he wouldn’t kill everyone in sight. It would make the Police and the Doctor’s jobs easier too.

Oswald was offered a cigar, and decided to take it. If he refused it may seem rude and provoke this insane homosexual. He noticed rather surprisingly that he had German cigars. If an inferior had had them, Oswald would have demanded to know why they were supporting the German economy, immediately after confiscating them, and putting the man on one very nasty charge. This approach was maybe not the best one to follow in the case of Captain Brentwood…

The Captain explained they were a souvenir ‘from a friend’, and Oswald’s mind felt ready to burst, as his breathing rate increased and he broke out into a sweat.
What was this man? A lunatic? A homosexual? A Nazi spy?!

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

OOC: Wow, I didn’t realise being jovial came across as being homosexual and a lunatic. Thanks.

Folding the carton lid back down upon his carton of cigars, he un-crumpled a bending corner on the pack with a slight perfection, as he endured the man’s presence; feeling somewhat uncomfortable himself, funny enough. The fellow officer’s false stature and canny appearance was to be expected, but there seemed to be an underlying awkwardness, that didn’t quite seem like nerves, but rather something else. Perhaps it was the cigars? Perhaps he’d heard rumours about himself? Perhaps - well, the suggestive track of thought could have carried on, but Liam began to bore himself with the dull ache of thought and simply began to pat down his uniform tunic pockets for his lighter; the cigar wasn’t about to light it’s self now was it?

The second lieutenant questioned the Captain’s mood, a question that seemed to arouse suspicion for an apparent reason? Wasn’t he happy that his superior was in a jovial mood about the acquaintance? Liam gruff’d silently beneath this breath, as he chewed off the smoothed over butt-end and spat the tobacco leave dog-end off into the gutter; heathen! “Rather happy… Indeed Second Lieutenant, indeed” he confirmed, a false pretence of a grin forming behind the cigar wielding lips, as he finally withdrew his lighter. Sparking the flint against the wick of his Zippo, he rolled the flame across the end of the cigar and puffed until the tobacco lit up nicely for it’s self. Clamping the lighter shut, with a swift hand movement, he gestured it forwards for the Second Lieutenant to use - not quite knowing if the man had a lighter for himself.

Taking a long drag on the cigar, he puffed a plume of smoke wayward. “Married?” he abruptly questioned himself now, gesturing to the officer’s wedding band with a hinted point from his cigar. “Children?” he continued, perhaps not giving enough time for the first question to be answered. “I can’t stand little brats…” he ‘fessed up quickly with his own opinion, a distaste taking to his mouth as he dulled his senses with another long drag on the cigar; slit eyes peering through the drifting smoke in the lazy breeze. The Captain was apparently becoming a little inquisitive with the Second Lieutenant, feeling as if he saw through the façade of a miserable man, making appearances. Perhaps they were far more alike than he first entailed? Whatever the case was, Liam felt as if the man had a skeleton or two within his closet and the unquestionable vibe Liam felt, suddenly had him on his heels.

Watching the Second Lieutenant for dividend telltale signs from his posture and otherwise due to his questioning, Captain Brentwood exhaled another plume of thick smoke and decisively slid the carton of cigars back into his pocket; having remembered he was still holding them idly. The fellow officer didn’t entirely seem his cup of tea, but alike most officers he’d acquainted - they never were. Married, children no doubt, leading a double life with a missus or two, sending their wages home by the petance to appease their darling wife, whilst shacking up with Shelia from number forty-two, who even has a double postal round to her address. Yes, Liam was already making subtle judgements on impressions of his own, but it was human nature to do so and unfortunately the Second Lieutenant fell into a category of male chauvinists he’d known over his time; perhaps it was the whole middle class aspect? There was hardly any wealthy to-do men who carried an allure of wealth or what-not, that he didn’t class as male chauvinists; right rotters in his mind.

Dragging back his sleeve, he noted the time to himself needlessly. “Well I’m not quite sure about you, but it seems it’s just me and you this evening” Captain Brentwood stated, not quite unravelling the fact no-one else had turned up or even worse, running late still. As for Second-Lieutenant Oswald, well, it was early days to place any stone carved judgements of the officer on pure hunched impressions, perhaps the man would turn out to be a good fellow officer, beneficial to the division and perhaps a fine friend over time even? Liam wondered… Liam hoped so.

[♠ Christopher Oswald]

As Oswald went to remove a penknife from his breast pocket, he watched as the Captain fiddled with the German carton and placed it away. Oswald’s slightly shaking hand delved into the pocket and pulled out the small tool, flicking open the blade. It shone in the light as he tried to place it at the end of the cigar. He had to relax, and not slice his thumb off. What kind of impression would that make?

Oswald wouldn’t lie to himself; he couldn’t bite the end off a cigar cleanly, and so pushed the blade through the tobacco and towards his right thumb which held it in place. He flicked the knife shut, and placed the short cigar end into his pocket, but the Captain decided to spit it into the gutter. Oswald’s lips tightened. Spitting spread diseases like TB, and was a filthy habit. Certainly something an officer should not do. But alas, being an officer today did not necessarily mean one was a gentleman. Maybe it was a German habit, or some kind of signal to other homosexuals in the area, or maybe it was sign of insanity, or some kind of mental disorder?

He had to calm himself down and think more clearly. Brentwood could be one of four things. One; insane. Two; a German spy. Three; a homosexual. Four; perfectly fine. One and three were probably quite alike, now that Oswald thought about it. So… what made him insane?

Brentwood nodded and confirmed his happiness, and Oswald gave an uneasy smile. Brentwood seemed dethatched, almost as if he was watching and interacting with life from behind a glass screen. Evidence; he failed to acknowledge Oswald’s presence earlier, and seemed to have a thousand-yard look in his eyes, almost as if he’d seen all the bad bits of life, but none to the good. Hmmm… disturbed but maybe ‘insane’ was too strong a word.

Now for the spy theory.

The Captain produced a lighter and brought it up to his face before lighting the brown tube. Rather weirdly, Oswald watched as the orange flame flickered in the man’s eyes. The man was a spy working for Germany. Evidence; he carried German cigarettes and said they were from a friend. Brentwood offered the lighter and Oswald graciously accepted, realising he hadn’t purchased any matches earlier and had no other way of igniting the tobacco. This ‘friend’ Brentwood spoke of could have been a genuine friend who’s stolen them off a German soldier. Maybe Brentwood could have even stolen them himself. And anyway, would a German spy really flaunt the fact he was a spy, especially to man he had only just met?! Oswald felt reassured that he knocked down two of his three concerns.

From the way the Captain puffed on his cigar, Oswald could tell the man enjoyed his tobacco. That was something worth storing away for the future. Wife? Children? Hates ‘little brats’…? That wasn’t a great sign for the sexuality theory. Oswald needed to answer the question, before pursuing his chain of thought. “Yes, I’m married, sir. Six years, and two little ‘uns later, here I am: a broken man!” he spoke, giving an awkward laugh. Well at least now Oswald had asserted his sexuality.

The man was a homosexual. Evidence; Odd and slightly awkward behaviour. Hatred of children. Seemingly happy to be around Oswald. The behaviour could be linked to his ‘disturbance’, and the sense of euphoria around Oswald may not have been caused by the presence of another man. The hatred of children and the way he curtly inquired about women seemed slightly odd through…

Only the two of them? Great.

“Do you have a… significant other? Oswald asked trying to make the question seem as ordinary as possible. He waited for the replay with baited breath, hoping this would sort everything out. Maybe the man was married and just a little rough around the edges? His hatred of children could stem from his ‘inability to fire live rounds’ and have his own children. Or he could be one of these men who enjoyed to sleep around and not stay too long in one place? Or maybe he even had his own kids, but simply beat them and left the wife to provide.

“So then sir, did you have a certain place you wanted to go? We could go to the flicks or have a drink somewhere? I’m easy going.” Damn; maybe not the best turn of phrase…

[Moritz Erichsen]

Lieutenant Moritz Erichsen had not exactly found himself wandering upon the busy and irritably loud cobbled streets of the London’s East End with the intention of getting himself a nice round of Gravensteins and Sturmers on his haversack on a picnic in the Southern part of the bombarded Jolly Old. Indeed, he had absolutely no idea why a man such as Liam Brentwood would pick a market out of all places to meet new members amongst their division, perfectly cognizant of the fact the Captain was completely bonkers but on a rather psychopathological manner rather than one involving soldiers meeting up amongst all the “Four pounds a tanner!” and “For you, pretty lady, a threepence only, corymbs as fresh as from his Majesty’s gardens!” Nevertheless, the Lieutenant had agreed to accompany the Captain and close friend upon greeting the new fellow soldiers in what was certainly to be a rather interesting and perhaps even eventful afternoon should the circumstances provide; in the way people such as Brentwood and Erichsen defined as interesting, no less, which, truth be said, was not precisely what was to be accepted by common social etiquette or the average Tom and Stanley for that matter. Nonetheless, there was mutual perception between the two men as to each of their backgrounds which stemmed from a common understanding as to human nature and the convergence of ideologies as to what was considered ‘appropriate’ and what ‘inappropriate’ at the given time, often exhibiting dangerous tendencies towards maddening situations, an exuberant spirit and raw, animalistic savagery.

But right now, in the daylight, and amongst the crowd, everything was to be controlled. Wearing his military overcoat, the rifle across his shoulders, the officer’s cap on his head and with his jackboots clicking against the stoned path on each side of which the market vendors convened to sell their goods, livestock and commodities, the Lieutenant searched around him for the familiar figure with whom he had a meeting, a pair of hawk-like, black eyes scanning the area in almost military command as he walked down the boisterous road of a city which he loathed for its despicable rambunctious quality, the quick pace of life and the lack of peace of mind it provided, by sheer contrast to the Scottish wide plains of the North – until he eventually gazed upon the tall, imposing stature of the Captain, standing right next to a shorter, moustache-laden, brisk-looking man whom the Lieutenant knew as Second Lieutenant Oswald; they had not spoken before but Moritz had one time observed the man from the short distance and asked one of his Sergeants to pinpoint who exactly that man was.

As he walked closer towards the small group, he shoved his hand through the coat’s pocket and removed a packet of cigarettes from within, while searching the other pocket for his silver lighter; he quickly lit a cigarette as he finally approached the Second Lieutenant from behind. “Go to the flicks?” he questioned in a sharp, raspy tone, his voice hoarse and the black mark of his burn across the neck – an unfortunate event of the past – shining through the beaming sunlight as he came around and nodded at the Captain in greeting. “Why, Captain Brentwood, I had no idea the Desert Rats were made up of such fops. Good to know, I’ll keep my back on the wall next time they get near,” he clearly mocked and chuckled crudely under his breath as he drew on deeply from the cigarette that burned through his throat and pierced down his lungs.

He went to stand next to the Captain and sharply patted him on the shoulder in a brisk, curt manner of greeting. “And what is this I hear of your significant other?” he asked him, the cigarette pushed in the corner of his mouth as he spoke, one hand shoved inside the pocket of his greatcoat in an indifferent manner. “Unless the Second Lieutenant means the lassies we met at the cathouse the other day,” he said in a gravelly voice and eyed the Captain meaningfully; then his shoulders shook with the light, mirthless and cold laughter that escaped his thin lips. “How do old folks call it … a house of ill repute?” he jeered, and scoffed with an unpleasant smirk. Pulling the cigarette from his mouth and standing on his full height, his powerfully built figure tall, imposing and domineering, he proceeded to stare down upon the Second Lieutenant with his black, cold eyes, surveying him from head to toe like a carnivore did to its prey, a forbidding aura collected around the Lieutenant and the Captain which would without a question let the inferior-ranked soldier know he was a lamb standing amongst wolves.

“Lieutenant Erichsen, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he finally introduced himself, his stare arctic and sinister, but there was something sardonic in his face which was quite indefinable and yet ever so authoritarian upon his facial features. Then he turned to Liam. “There’s that old pub down the road, The King’s. I say we waste our shillings in a good old pint, I’m thirsty like hell. What do you say?” he told him as he looked over at him. “And he can go watch Casablanca another time with his sister,” he added in a satirical tone, wanting to escape this hideous place of a market in which the vendors had become progressively louder upon luring potential customers into their lair and the customers even more difficult to bargain. Moritz could not tolerate the lot of them. They got on his nerves.