Stranger's Blood On My Hands (Open)

[George O'Brian]

September 3rd, 1944
Paris


Fresh uniform, weary body, Sergeant O'Brian was just glad of the chance to get away from the front line. After weeks of fighting the relief they had been promised finally had arrived, and almost instantly, members of the 3ID had descended upon Paris.

O'Brian was in a rather dank establishment, underground with no natural light. He was in a corner, directly under a ceiling mounted light, giving everything an unnatural lack of shadows. The wooden table and chair he occupied sat snug against the wall, allowing him to lean back and rest his weary head against the cream-painted chipboard, covering the strong concrete walls and foundations which had allowed the building to survive the battles of Paris.

He had excused himself from his squad, citing tiredness and a headache as reasons not to follow them to the bigger, louder bars around Paris. In reality, he had needed time to himself, time to think and reflect.

A notepad sat in front of him, and with a dark-blue fountain pen, he scratched down a letter, spidery handwriting crawling over the paper. He was writing back home, to Mom and Dad to be precise. Trying to convince them that he was doing fine, that the war was treating him well. Perhaps he was trying to convince himself this as well?

He knew he was not the only person feeling like he was feeling, everybody had been through similar experiences to him. They had done terrible things to others, to themselves in the name of patriotism. What had Corporal Stuart said? “Patriotism was making the other motherfucker die for his country before he did the same for you.”

George laid down his pen, and reached in to the pocket of his uniform. It was something that had felt so strange to him a few years ago, but now it felt natural, a second skin. He pulled out a small gunmetal case, and flicked it open, exposing cigarettes and allowing the extraction of one. He replaced the case, and reached in for a lighter. He tucked the cigarette between his lips and raised the lighter.

He paused. Looking at his hand, he could see what was ingrained in the ridges. Blood, blood which he knew was not his own, nor was it from the hands of one of his men he had attempted to save. No.

He could picture it in his head, what has happened not even forty-eight hours ago. His patrol had stumbled over a German force, and caught them unawares. After a quick chat with base over the radio, O'Brian's men had been told to go ahead, eliminate all of the Germans.

The plan almost went perfectly. Almost. Right before the Americans opened fire, one German left the main group, heading away somewhere. O'Brian didn't know, the German never made it. After a few steps, mercifully out of sight of the rest of the German force the splitter had halted, seeing the Americans.

He didn't make a noise, but turned to ran. O'Brian being nearest ran after him, and tackled the German. He had placed a hand over the mouth of the German, not allowing him to speak as he drew his knife.

In the bar, O'Brian stopped himself there, not willing to rethink what he had done. He quickly lit the cigarette, and returned the lighter to his pocket, but he lifted his hand again, staring at it.

[♔ Rupert Crawford]

Lieutenant Crawford felt his head swarm, his vision blur and a very real sense of disorientation overcome his senses as uniformed bodies flocked on by himself, left, right and centre. A better term of word for the current situation he was facing would undoubtedly be that of chaos and disorganization, a very real uncanny feeling of being a miniscule particle in such big numbers, not even his ‘prestige’ officer rank carried him far through the crowd anymore; if being a lieutenant could be seen as being prestige, Rupert liked to think so. Nonetheless he’d requisitioned a military vehicle and driven himself forth with the flocking crowds, pushing on forth through the dampening slug and slurry of refugees still fleeing along all major roads going the opposite way, away from the conflict of war.

Fuel… It didn’t last long and Lieutenant Crawford found himself ditching the vehicle and hitching a ride with a third-armoured-brigade infantry truck heading into Paris, already packed to the rafters, but Rupert insisted he didn’t fancy walking the last couple of miles by foot through the slug and slurry. Yanks! Rupert wasn’t one for their continuous lack of tone and monologue, but found their company rather entertaining anyhow and remained eerily silent as he sat beside a first-sergeant, who’s war torn face spoke a thousand words with every crease and crinkle along the hardened surface of his skin. Perhaps the dawning realisation of being at war had finally dawned on Rupert? It’s not as if he had seen much combat or action since his posting into France and with so many soldiers now milling around and talking of their current combat experiences to one another, he wondered when his time would come…

When the truck finally found it’s destination, Rupert was once again thrown amongst flurries of bodies and vehicles. The Americans he was riding with didn’t seem to have a problem with the heightened activity and made speed in coursing off into all different directions, each of them seemingly being pulled by their own thoughts, desires and orders, none of them sticking around any longer than they had too; but as Rupert jumped down from the back of the Bedford truck, his mind went blank. Where did he go from here? In actual fact, where was he even? Rupert was completely disorientated and to make matters worse, he wasn’t even sure where his company was stationed, not when so many American uniforms owned the streets. Perhaps he was lost? Perhaps the British were stationed somewhere completely different? Great.

Attempting to make motion into a random direction, hoping to find a senior officer or someone who knew where they were exactly, Rupert instead found himself becoming disorientated by the crowded litter of soldiers - predominately Americans - moving with a fashion of their own across the road sides and along the road. Biting his lower lip, Rupert sewed his way through the bodies streaming his way, before a sudden anxiety overcame his steel nerves and the Lieutenant darted sideways, moving down a narrow few steps towards an open doorway that alluded the smell of alcohol and dampness. Attempting to catch his breath, Lieutenant Crawford removed his officer’s hat and leant back against the moulding stonework behind himself, bowing his head slightly to get some blood pumping where it needed to be.

“My god Rupert, get a grip on yourself” he muttered under his breath, sucking in a sharp inhale of air through his nostrils. Standing straight, his eyes wandered from the sidewalk above to the gloomy bar to his side slowly, feeling his dry mouth quench a thirst, just by the smell of alcohol. “I guess one wouldn’t hurt old chap…” he muttered once again, convincing himself that he deserved to take a rest-bite from the flocking crowds above and to recluse into a bit of quietness for a while. Gather his thoughts and feelings, as they would say.

Walking in through the low doorway, his toes curled in inside of his shoes as a wisp of cold air travelled along the back of his legs and his jaw tightened as he quietly observed the room or lack of an open space. A few tables and chairs littered the main floor, with a bar dead ahead against the inner wall, with a shifty old barman spreading a rugged tattered dishcloth against the bar-top. Lieutenant Crawford didn’t pay much attention to any inhabitants within the establishment and made pace towards the empty bar, taking a seat upon a waist-height stool that creaked under his bodyweight, unnerving the lieutenant a little. “Monsieur de soir, que puis-je faire pour vous ?”[/I] the French barman spoke, his greying hair looking a tad more greasy with a closer gaze. “Do you speak English old boy?” Rupert queried, as he placed his officer’s cap upon the bar-top in front of him, watching the old barman shrug and say “Oui, un peu…”[/I] before his eyes rolled and his hands outstretched graciously to repeat himself “I mean yes, a little” he corrected himself.

Smirking, Lieutenant Crawford pointed towards a bottle of scotch behind the bar with his long nimble finger, saying as he done so; “a glass of scotch would you?”. The barman nodded and turned, attending to the duty of making a drink, whilst Rupert sat idle for a brief moment, noticing someone against the wall to his left who seemed to have caught his attention. The man was writing, or so it seemed, but Rupert couldn’t make much out about the fellow as he sat eerily quiet within the shadows. The barman clunked the glass of scotch in front of the lieutenant, that inevitably made him jump a little and grinned. “Thank you, I’m here for a little while yet, so make a tab” Rupert said without concern, clasping the cold glass of scotch in one hand and his hat within the other, to move away from the bar and towards the quietly sitting gentleman - who was apparently an NCO upon closer inspection.

“Evening sergeant, don’t mind if I join you? - Thanks” Lieutenant Crawford said with a self invitation, placing his scotch upon the table and hanging his hat against the back of the chair as he sat down in front of the NCO, tucking his legs in under the table. “Awfully quiet in here; anyhow, I’m Lieutenant Crawford, was wondering whether you could help me actually?” he said with a dim smile, raising the glass to his lips to take a sip of his scotch. “Ol’ Jerry got me confused with the sabotage of road-signs earlier today and I don’t know whether I’m coming or going at the moment” Rupert said with a stiff laugh, seeming rather talkative as he continued without pause “you wouldn’t happen to know where we are exactly, do you?” he finally nailed, perhaps allowing the sergeant to tell him to bugger off or kindly acquaint him.

Translations:[/b]

Monsieur de soir, que puis-je faire pour vous ?
~ Evenings sir, what can I do for you?

Oui, un peu…
~ Yes, a little…

[George O'Brian]

With the arrival of a stranger at his table, O'Brian was returned to the room with a sudden and violent jerk, his thoughts seemingly left hanging as he was pulled down to the table again. Self-conciously, he flicked the notebook in front of him closed, not completely willing to share his messages with any newcomer. After all, a man's thoughts were the final fortress in which he could take solitude, and by only sharing them with who he trusted, he could keep some part of himself preserved, despite events occuring around him.

He gave the newcomer a quick once over. The pip's on his shoulders indicated that he was an officer with the British officer. A Lieutenant, an officer with some combat experience and enough common sense to have kept himself alive. The man was handsome, no doubt about that, with a strong, almost cliche'd British face, a few wrinkles showing his age and stress. A mole sat on his left cheek, a minor blemish which somehow drew the eye. His hair was rather thick and no discernable parting, no unfortunate balding for this gentleman.

But the uniform was slightly creased, indicating travel, perhaps in the back of a troop lorry. Slightly reddened eyes, with deep shadows underneath them revealed a toll the field had had on him, had had on everybody, really. Overall, he seemed like a rather average person, but obviously looks could be very decieving.

After inviting himself to sit, George could only give a small "feel free, Sir." Lieutenant Crawford, as he introduced himself as, seemed more than eager to get off his feet, as well as to show his dominance by taking it upon himself to sit. The scotch in his hand showed him as a more refined person, putting the honey-coloured beer (which had obviously been watered down) in O'Brian's glass to shame. He was polite in his questions, not overly so, putting it in a manner which seemed expectant of a good answer.

"Well, Sir, I believe we're at the corner of Rue Gallon and Rue Saint-Augustin. How this relates to the rest of the city, I really could not tell you, though. I'm about as knowledgeable of the surroundings as you appear to be, Sir, all I know is that I have to find a certain 'Rue do Jarry' befor fifteen-hundred tomorrow, or I'll be stuck in this city." He was possibly going a bit too far here, but it was almost a test of Crawford, seeing whether or not the Looey, or "Rupert" as the Brits called them would be engaged in a conversation, or take his drink and new knowledge over to the other side of the room.

Until, he knew this, O'Brian held his name back. It could give Crawford something to strike a conversation over, and it prevented George from, hopefully, overwhelming the Lieutenant. Options. It was something George had to provide enough in his active role as a non-commissioned officer in the US Army, and now that training was having another effect, albeit one completely unintentional when he was taught this.

[♔ Rupert Crawford]

Puckering his lips after a soft taster of scotch, Lieutenant Crawford embellished the man’s persona with a long daunting gaze, observing him silently from across the table whilst he gently set his glass of scotch back down upon the table. The man before himself reminded him awfully of the chap he’d seen on his journey down into this god forbidden city, the eerie quiet type, etched by the unfolding of the war. He didn’t blame the sergeant for being well conserved, it wasn’t quite ordinary for an officer to be so forthcoming anyhow, but Rupert was thankful for the company and any help, not to forget a glass of scotch to settle his tired nerves from travelling with strangers and a complete different unit. The fear of being completely lost in France wasn’t quite relished at the moment, as Rupert was indeed separated from his company.

Listening intently as the sergeant spoke, Rupert’s eyes flickered between the man’s mouth and his eyes, not quite knowing whether he could understand more about the man before himself; his eyes or his words? The sergeant was indeed tired, fed-up and better acquainted to a bed for a good day, but the war had such little pleasures, not that Rupert hadn’t noticed the lack of these pleasures yet, he’d only arrived - again. Rupert did foreplay a boding part during the retreat of Dunkirk during his infancy of being an officer, so he had little combat experience against Jerry.

After the sergeant speaking, Rupert softly nodded his head and bowed his head gently, having a good think about his options. “Right, I see sergeant” he vaguely spoke against his chest, looking down at the crooked table, mulling over a few things within his mind, before he groped a hand into his breast pocket and snagged a neatly folded map from out of his tunic. “We‘re near Rue Gallon or Rue Saint-Augustin did you say sergeant?” Rupert asked with a polite tone, spreading the map out across the table, pinning a rebellious folding corner down with his glass of scotch. “Well sergeant, I guess this is us here…” he pointed at the map, shifting a hand into his tight trouser pocket to coax out a silver tobacco case, unlatching it to freely slip out two cigarettes. “Care for a smoke sergeant?” he asked, placing a cigarette upon the table in front of the NCO, whilst caressing his cigarette between his own lips and replacing the tobacco case back into his pocket.

“By the looks of things sergeant, Rue De Jarry is along Stratsbourg junction, here” Rupert pointed again at the map, showing a gap between where they supposedly are and the sergeant’s destination. “I guess we may have found your way sergeant, but I’m still at a loss. If only I spoke the bleeding language eh?” he said with a slight enlightening humour to his tone, grinning whilst he stroke a match against the expendable match-case and lit his cigarette with the flickering flame, before waving it out and dropping the burnt end onto the floor graciously. Sliding the matches across the table towards the sergeant, Rupert continued to observe the map and puffed on his cigarette quietly for a brief moment. “So what unit are you with sergeant?” Rupert curiously asked, his eyes glued to the map as he spoke, determining his means of travel whilst he pondered on the man’s outfit and perhaps even experiences he’d had since being deployed - although the Lieutenant was never really one for pondering those questions out-loud.

Flicking his ash onto the floor and taking another soothing drag, Rupert’s eyes finally lifted from the map and he faced the sergeant behind the alluding cloud of smoke from his breath. Reaching for his drink, he took a long sip and began to observe the man once again, momentarily getting distracted as a young Frenchman walked through the entrance carrying three mess tins that clanged together involuntary. His red-cross armband signifying his expertise as a doctor, perhaps coming for some brandy to use for the wounded men? Rupert pushed back the thoughts of where he could end up and kept his focus on the sergeant, puffing on his cigarette again.

[George O'Brian]

George was slightly surprised when an entire map was pulled out of the Lieutenant’s pocket. Nothing more dangerous than an officer with a map, he thought. The enlisted ranks were full of little titbits like that. He suppressed his smile by tactfully taking a drink from his glass. He nodded in agreement as Crawford pointed out there location on the map, it looked right, at least. Why this couldn’t have the simple, First, Second, Third Street design like New York was beyond him. Obviously urban planning was up with waging wars where the French were ineffective.

With an offer of a cigarette, Sergeant O’Brian looked at the still smouldering contents of his ashtray. With a small shrug, he came out with ”I could go for one, Sir.” Accepting the small white stick from the table, he lifted himself in his seat slightly, feeling for his lighter in the race of manners. Both men wanted to offer the other a light first.

He lost the race as Crawford pulled out a small book of matches, so George settled back in to his seat. To wait for the book, he traced the route from the bar to Rue de Jarry. It seemed simple enough, whether it would be when he got up to street level would be a completely different story. Paris was currently the world’s biggest party, despite the fact the war was still being fought not too far from the famed city of lights. It was essentially the stereotyped drunken orgy that France had tried so hard over the centuries to get a reputation for, which was exactly what a lot of the younger and more energetic soldiers wanted. As for George, all he wanted was a bit of time to get over what had happened recently – maybe then he’d go join the drunken orgy.

As he picked up the box of matches, he gave a laugh at Crawford’s joke, but before anything else could be made of it Crawford pulled the conversation along. ”Unit? I’m with the Third Infantry Division. Specifically, Charlie Company, Seventh Infantry Regiment. Yourself, Sir?” As he answered, he twisted his right shoulder forward, displaying his divisional flash, the blue and white striped surrounded by the green border, something he was very proud to wear.

He struck a match, lighting his cigarette and puffing away slightly to make sure the cigarette caught. He nodded his thanks at the Lieutenant as he placed the book back on the table, atop the map. He noticed the Lieutenant gazing over his Sergeant, and George looked, seeing a rugged looking red-cross bearing Frenchman making too much noise as he came in to the building. He shook his head slightly as he reached for his dark beer, and took a cold mouthful.

[♔ Rupert Crawford]

Taking a long inhale on his cigarette, Lieutenant Crawford rested his forearms back upon the table and smoothed his tunic sleeves over either side of the map spread out before himself, diminishing any little wrinkles in the paper. Truth be told, he wasn’t fantastic at reading maps, but he’d been a fast learner when thrown into the muffled confusion of being in foreign territory, where there was only one way forwards towards the enemy and one way back towards your friends; it didn’t seem too difficult anymore, the language was still a problem however, he could hardly pronounce the names of well known towns, than pronounce street names or famous places. That was to be expected though, he wasn’t French and by god was he thankful of that.

The Sergeant spoke of his division and flashed the fancy insignia of the third-armoured-brigade stitched to the height of his arm and shoulder. It was a famous division already and Rupert felt a little embarrassed by the man’s presence already, he’d heard enough stories of the Yanks already, he never doubted they wasn’t true, but couldn’t help but feel the British were lacking a stamina to keep up? Hope maybe? His nation had been at war since nineteen-thirty-nine, perhaps there wasn’t much hope left in the ol’ Tommy these days, they were done fighting, sick of the war. The Yanks though, they had fresh blood and wits, a majority of them he’d seen on his journeys were happy to be in the European fray. There was certainly a contrast of differences between the British and the Americans, but having said that, the Sergeant before himself didn’t look too keen to be in this war. He wasn’t like the others, the other Americans who boasted about their experiences, no, he seemed wise to the war, not cocky.

Nodding to the Sergeant, he dropped his head to look at the table for a moment and took another puff on his cigarette. “Good place to be boy, I’ve heard a lot about the third-armoured-brigade already” he complimented with his thoughts at hand. Making a similar move to the Sergeant, Lieutenant Crawford twisted his body slightly and draped the fabric to his arm around, showing the red insignia of a desert rat cast on a black patch background. “Desert Rats” he simply said, letting go of his sleeve and shuffling to sit straight back in his chair once again. “Don’t even ask what I’m doing in France” he soon snuffed afterwards, taking a swig of his drink and plonking it back down onto the table. In all honesty, he didn’t know what he was doing in France. Perhaps it was a detour to his initial assignment in Africa? God knows what Monty was up too or any of the other British constabulary governing this war for Britain.

Leaning against the table he aimlessly looked at the map and pulled a smirk at it, feeling as if he wanted another drink. “I don’t suppose you have any plans for this evening sergeant?” he asked randomly, more curious than anything, but also attempting to make some kind of small-talk. It wasn’t easy making small-talk with a stranger, let alone an enlisted man and a Yank. He was going against his personal vendettas this evening against the Americans or even mixing with the working class, perhaps the fellow before himself had some interesting stories to tell? He didn’t doubt that much.