Post by Tyler D. Brentwood on Dec 15, 2010 3:56:11 GMT
Location: Small town, Libya.
Time of Day: 5:30
Weather Conditions: Early morning, the sun has not risen yet. As the sun rises, a cool breeze fades and the desert begins to heat up.
OOC: Heiko and I have agreed to remove the river. Instead, it is dried out ditch about 3-4 ft deep.
EDIT: Green- Pvts, Blue- Brentwood, Orange - Bren Gunner, Yellow - Sniper
Map
The grimy fingers of a pale, meek young solder grasped the Staff Sergeant by the shoulder. Jacob Merton, the owner of the fingers, tightened his grip on the company NCO. Roused from his slumber, Brentwood shot up and swiftly knocked the Private's hand from his shoulder before shoving him against the wall. His right forearm secured the boy's chest against the wall, as his left hand searched frantically for his bayonet. Only a few brief moments had passed before the Staff Sergeant realized his error and retracted his arm. "Sorry, Merton. I wasn't having a pleasant dream," Brentwood mumbled to the man. Merton only nodded his head in silent agreement; he was preoccupied with his anxious thoughts. Standing upright, he briefed his commander about the situation, "It's 0530, sir. I woke you as per your request as well as the rest of the men. Lance-Corporal MacGregor has taken his men into the trench and two men have been assigned on our flanks."
Baker Company; First Battalion, King's Royal Rifle Corps. The Staff Sergeant commanded the 3rd Platoon, a tight-knit group of well-trained and semi-experienced men. Tyler had been posted in North Africa for several months now, under his brother in the 7th Armoured Division. As Merton spoke, Tyler scooped his helmet from the dusty floor and positioned upon his head. He was adorned in the 8th Army's tropical uniform and from the middle of his shin to the knee cap, his skin was exposed to the elements. His sleeves were rolled up to just above his elbows, revealing skin tanned by the harsh African sun. Merton, on the other hand, was a relatively fresh recruit. He was new to the platoon and new to the desert, his skin was still relatively pale with some sporadic areas of sun burnt skin. "Good work, Private. Go grab my Bren for me and load in a new clip, please," Brentwood commanded, stretching in an attempt to relieve himself from his grogginess.
Always obedient, the Private rushed off to a table where the light machine gun lay with its bipod deployed. The previous night, it had been cleaned to remove any dirt or sand. Adjusting his uniform, Tyler removed a clip of ammunition from his belt and tossed it to the Private who caught it clumsily. As he loaded it into the weapon, the Staff Sergeant lazily strolled across the room to the only door in the building. The earliest signs of sunlight peeked into the house, unobstructed by the open door. Brentwood's gaze focused on the trench that had been dug by the previous occupants of the small African town. Apparently, the town had been the sight of some small skirmish only weeks beforehand and was probably forgotten about after some degree of bloodshed. In the trench an experienced L/Cpl, Daniel MacGregor, was in command of three Privates. Before the trench was a tiny, wooden bridge over a ditch which had previously been a river. Now, the river had run dry and there was a three or four foot deep ditch in its place. MacGregor had been with the Staff Sergeant since the beginning and Brentwood placed a great deal of trust within the man. He could be relied upon to hold his ground. With the burly Scottish man were three privates: Peter Jones, Llion Thomas, and Harry Carter.
On MacGregor's right flank sat a lonely looking building which housed a similarly lonely looking man. Reece Elliot was a mysterious, reclusive marksman who had been in the platoon for a number of weeks now. Most of the men reckoned he was one of the strong, silent types. Brentwood, however, believed him to just be a shy, awkward boy with a knack for killing things further than the human eye could see. Accompanying him was Llyr ap Gwilym, a Welsh man who had been placed beneath Brentwood's command months ago. He was the exact opposite of Elliot, a warm-hearted, jovial man who loved the art of conversation. Most of the men found it amusing that the two were so often put together. Even though the platoon wasn't aware, the two men got along extremely well. They had grown to be best of friends in a relatively short period of time.
Finally, to the north, Michael Sullivan and Richard Hawk kept each other company as they defended a bridge on their own. Both of them were Privates and had been with Brentwood since he had taken command of the platoon. They were well acquainted, the three of them, and very good friends. Hawk was not as timid as Merton, instead he was a bit of an arrogant, prankster. He maintained horrible behavioral problems which had set him back from promotion time and time again. Sullivan was the oldest man of the platoon, which actually wasn't saying much. All of the men were rather young and somewhat inexperienced. Sullivan was wise and mature and often stayed up late many nights discussing the war and politics with the Staff Sergeant.
Content for the moment, Brentwood felt reassured that his men would hold against any attack the Germans or, laughably, the Italians could throw at them. He spun around on his heels to face Merton, who was carrying the Bren over. Before reaching to grab the Bren, the Staff Sergeant closed the door behind him. They weren't expecting guests anytime soon. Brentwood took his LMG from the Private and carried it to an open window, setting the bipod up so the weapon was secure in its firing position. Placing his finger over the trigger, ready to fire, he had an excellent view over two of the bridges. "We're expecting the Huns, today, Private. Are you ready?" he inquired in an attempt to ease the Private's tension. "Absolutely, sir," Merton replied, his Lee Enfield in his hand as he gazed to the north, watching over a bridge. It was a good day to fight.
Time of Day: 5:30
Weather Conditions: Early morning, the sun has not risen yet. As the sun rises, a cool breeze fades and the desert begins to heat up.
OOC: Heiko and I have agreed to remove the river. Instead, it is dried out ditch about 3-4 ft deep.
EDIT: Green- Pvts, Blue- Brentwood, Orange - Bren Gunner, Yellow - Sniper
Map
The grimy fingers of a pale, meek young solder grasped the Staff Sergeant by the shoulder. Jacob Merton, the owner of the fingers, tightened his grip on the company NCO. Roused from his slumber, Brentwood shot up and swiftly knocked the Private's hand from his shoulder before shoving him against the wall. His right forearm secured the boy's chest against the wall, as his left hand searched frantically for his bayonet. Only a few brief moments had passed before the Staff Sergeant realized his error and retracted his arm. "Sorry, Merton. I wasn't having a pleasant dream," Brentwood mumbled to the man. Merton only nodded his head in silent agreement; he was preoccupied with his anxious thoughts. Standing upright, he briefed his commander about the situation, "It's 0530, sir. I woke you as per your request as well as the rest of the men. Lance-Corporal MacGregor has taken his men into the trench and two men have been assigned on our flanks."
Baker Company; First Battalion, King's Royal Rifle Corps. The Staff Sergeant commanded the 3rd Platoon, a tight-knit group of well-trained and semi-experienced men. Tyler had been posted in North Africa for several months now, under his brother in the 7th Armoured Division. As Merton spoke, Tyler scooped his helmet from the dusty floor and positioned upon his head. He was adorned in the 8th Army's tropical uniform and from the middle of his shin to the knee cap, his skin was exposed to the elements. His sleeves were rolled up to just above his elbows, revealing skin tanned by the harsh African sun. Merton, on the other hand, was a relatively fresh recruit. He was new to the platoon and new to the desert, his skin was still relatively pale with some sporadic areas of sun burnt skin. "Good work, Private. Go grab my Bren for me and load in a new clip, please," Brentwood commanded, stretching in an attempt to relieve himself from his grogginess.
Always obedient, the Private rushed off to a table where the light machine gun lay with its bipod deployed. The previous night, it had been cleaned to remove any dirt or sand. Adjusting his uniform, Tyler removed a clip of ammunition from his belt and tossed it to the Private who caught it clumsily. As he loaded it into the weapon, the Staff Sergeant lazily strolled across the room to the only door in the building. The earliest signs of sunlight peeked into the house, unobstructed by the open door. Brentwood's gaze focused on the trench that had been dug by the previous occupants of the small African town. Apparently, the town had been the sight of some small skirmish only weeks beforehand and was probably forgotten about after some degree of bloodshed. In the trench an experienced L/Cpl, Daniel MacGregor, was in command of three Privates. Before the trench was a tiny, wooden bridge over a ditch which had previously been a river. Now, the river had run dry and there was a three or four foot deep ditch in its place. MacGregor had been with the Staff Sergeant since the beginning and Brentwood placed a great deal of trust within the man. He could be relied upon to hold his ground. With the burly Scottish man were three privates: Peter Jones, Llion Thomas, and Harry Carter.
On MacGregor's right flank sat a lonely looking building which housed a similarly lonely looking man. Reece Elliot was a mysterious, reclusive marksman who had been in the platoon for a number of weeks now. Most of the men reckoned he was one of the strong, silent types. Brentwood, however, believed him to just be a shy, awkward boy with a knack for killing things further than the human eye could see. Accompanying him was Llyr ap Gwilym, a Welsh man who had been placed beneath Brentwood's command months ago. He was the exact opposite of Elliot, a warm-hearted, jovial man who loved the art of conversation. Most of the men found it amusing that the two were so often put together. Even though the platoon wasn't aware, the two men got along extremely well. They had grown to be best of friends in a relatively short period of time.
Finally, to the north, Michael Sullivan and Richard Hawk kept each other company as they defended a bridge on their own. Both of them were Privates and had been with Brentwood since he had taken command of the platoon. They were well acquainted, the three of them, and very good friends. Hawk was not as timid as Merton, instead he was a bit of an arrogant, prankster. He maintained horrible behavioral problems which had set him back from promotion time and time again. Sullivan was the oldest man of the platoon, which actually wasn't saying much. All of the men were rather young and somewhat inexperienced. Sullivan was wise and mature and often stayed up late many nights discussing the war and politics with the Staff Sergeant.
Content for the moment, Brentwood felt reassured that his men would hold against any attack the Germans or, laughably, the Italians could throw at them. He spun around on his heels to face Merton, who was carrying the Bren over. Before reaching to grab the Bren, the Staff Sergeant closed the door behind him. They weren't expecting guests anytime soon. Brentwood took his LMG from the Private and carried it to an open window, setting the bipod up so the weapon was secure in its firing position. Placing his finger over the trigger, ready to fire, he had an excellent view over two of the bridges. "We're expecting the Huns, today, Private. Are you ready?" he inquired in an attempt to ease the Private's tension. "Absolutely, sir," Merton replied, his Lee Enfield in his hand as he gazed to the north, watching over a bridge. It was a good day to fight.
