Post by Chrisoswald on May 21, 2010 10:37:35 GMT
Notes: This application was originally posted, but under the name James Kessel. My account was deleted because of inactivity. I have simply changed the name of my character to Christopher Oswald.
Account E-Mail: EDITED OUT!
Name: Christopher Oswald
Nationality: British
Unit: Special Air Service
Military Rank: Captain
Character History:
Oswald was born in 1911, the first son of a Russian ambassador to the German Empire. They lived in Stuttgart, where a second child, Emily was born in 1913. Their mother was a British journalist, working for the Daily Mail and reporting on internal German affairs. When war broke out in 1914, their mother was killed when reporting on the Kaiser and his family. Fearing for his and his children’s lives, the Father fled to Petrograd, and subsequently lost his job. He took a job as a dishwasher in the Kremlin, which gave him enough to keep his children feed and watered. Christopher slowly grew, being able to speak limited German and now Russian.
But again they had to flee their home in fear of their lives. In 1917, they fled from the revolution to Britain by ship, but a torpedo from a German U-boat struck their passenger liner. The children were passed aboard a lifeboat, but their father had to remain on the ship, where he perished. Two days later, a Danish fishing boat rescued the occupants of the lifeboat. They remained in Denmark for two years, living inside an orphanage, where they could only use their limited German to communicate.
In 1919, Christopher stole the Orphan master’s Remington revolver, the man’s father being a veteran from the Second Schleswig War. He had little clue how to use it properly, but was able to rob a baker’s and butcher’s shop in the nearby town. Christopher wanted to travel to Britain and to his mother’s family with his sister, but realised returning to the orphanage would most likely heed his capture by the police. Instead, very reluctantly he made the long journey through Denmark and towards Calais. He moved south, using the money sparingly to buy food and a map, and new cloths.
Christopher crossed the Danish border and continued to move through Germany, where he began to encounter problems. The Danish money he had was worthless, but so it seemed was the German money. He was forced to throw away the paper, and live off the land, which became harder as the cold German winter set in. Christopher continued on struggling, but still kept the revolver, of which he hadn’t fired a single shot.
As spring 1920 began to appear, he travelled across the French-German border and headed north. Six months after setting out, he reached Calais. But getting across was much harder than it looked. People were not allowed on board a ship without certain papers, papers which Christopher didn’t have. To get around this, he hid inside a crate he knew was bound for Britain. The journey in the dark hold of the ship took longer than he thought, but finally he reached England. However, after exploring the port city, he realised he certainly wasn’t in Dover. He was in Liverpool.
With no where really to go and with no clue where his mother’s family lived, he began living on the streets and begging, trying to learn the English language. Three months later he was picked up by an orphanage, and forced to live on gruel as he was taught and beaten. He lost the pistol the night they found him. For years he wondered how his sister was while his life was hellish. Speaking both Russian and German made him an object of all too much interest, and he became used to being picked on because he was a ‘barbarian’ or a ‘communist’. He knew neither of what they words meant, except hate.
On the day of his fourteenth birthday, in 1925, he was tossed back out onto the streets and told to find work. Christopher found a job in a hotel as a shoe shine and bell boy, using his wages to pay for a filthy bed in a boarding house and buy poor quality food. He spent four more years at the hotel, slowly climbing up the ladder, until he had enough to rent a small flat as a room cleaning. However he was laid off after the Wall Street crash, and was desperate to find work. Christopher was evicted from his flat and ended up sleeping on a bench in Newsham Park. After a week, he happened to read an article in the newspaper he was using as a blanket. It talked about the remembrance parade in London which had happened a few days ago. Looking at the pictures of smartly dressed men in uniforms and with weapons, Christopher decide to join the Army, and end his problems.
He was sent for basic training, in which he met many people in his situation. Because of the vast numbers of volunteers, the Army had to be selective with who was let in and therefore training was harsh. Even with a poor diet, the eighteen year old proved himself, and was one of just five who passed training from his platoon. He was assigned to the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. Using his skills and drawing from his tough experiences, he slowly advanced. Christopher, now well fed and with a roof over his head, had nothing else to invest his pay in. He became married to the army.
By the time the war broke out in, he had become a Second Lieutenant and was transferred to the Queen's Own Royal West Kent Regiment to command a platoon. In 1941 they joined British V Corps and became part of the Eight Army. After heavy fighting, Oswald became a Lieutenant after being wounded, followed quickly by another promotion, because of the death of the company’s 2IC after his position was bombed by Stukas.
Now as a Captain who had earned his position from the bottom, he was head hunted by the SAS. He accepted the invitation and went through their rigorous training program, before being given command of his own company of raiders.
Writing Sample:
The wind was beginning to get up, blowing dust and sand along across the desert plains, which tore at rocks, metal, skin as it went about it journey. But at least he was out of the worst of it here. Oswald had tucked himself up in a wadi, no larger than three metres across. Here, with his shemagh rapped around his face and his goggles fixed around the gap, he was roughly protected. He was in his kaki uniform, with shorts and a short-sleeved shirt clinging to him. The cool night desert air kept him cold, but he had faced worse problems.
Oswald kept a hand on his Thomson sub-machinegun, while feeling along the side of the dried up river bed with his other. He kept his head low and moved forwards through the soft sand. It was hard to see in this weather, anything further than twenty metres seemed to be nothing more than a blur. The wind however wasn’t that loud or deafening.
For a moment he stopped, and looked down at the weapon he held. It was a nice piece of machinery, but it looked like it had been sand blasted, and the wood didn’t look too good either. The whole mechanism was probably jammed as well, making it impossible to fire without a lot of time and cleaning. Dead weight. Oswald dropped it, then quickly split the weapon into its two main sections. He removed the recoil rod and disconnected the spring, before tossing it far into the desert. Oswald then took the bolt, and buried it in the sand. Finally, he put the weapon back together while walking slowly, still trying to make up ground. Once it was complete, he carefully placed it down, making it obvious to spot. Even if the was weapon useless, it was a nice little reminded to Jerry.
As he lowered it, he spotted something, slighting darker the way he had come. Oswald looked, unsure what he might have seen. He gently lowered himself down and watched. A man staggered forward from the sand, stopped then glanced around as if he was looking for something. He was certainly a German, judging by the distinctly shaped helmet and boots. He too had goggles, but nothing covering his face. Carefully and slowly Oswald reached down to his hip, and removed his revolver. He cocked it.
He took aim and fired two shots. The first went straight over the German’s head. The second kicked a chunk out of the rock next to him. Instinctively, the German dropped to the ground and went for his own weapon. With the man down, Oswald quickly picked himself up and fought to climb up the bank of the wadi. The German returned fire, one bullet missing by far, the second striking the back of Oswald’s thigh. He screamed as his felt the red hot metal hit home. Using his other leg, he pushed himself up and out, quickly limping across the desert, trying to keep low but not slow himself down. Each time he dragged his leg forward, the pain doubled. Finally he reached far enough out that he could barely see the dried up river, and hopefully the German couldn’t see him.
Oswald lowered himself gently down, and watched as the dark helmet bobbed up and down moving up the small channel. It stopped, probably examining the Thompson. This lapse of concentration gave Oswald some time. He slowly pushed himself forward, snaking to remove the strain on his leg. He crept closer, keeping his revolver up and out of the sand floor. The sand storm probably wasn’t helping, but it was a death sentence to burry this in sand. It took him longer than expected to near the wadi again, but the German seemed intrigued with the weapon, and probably thought that the Brit had legged it, not wanting to face more rounds.
Oswald raised himself as quietly as he could to his knees and took aim with his weapon. However, the helmet stopped a direct hit, and it would probably save his life. He also didn’t feel good about shooting a man in the back. It felt cowardly. He examined the sand with his left hand, until he found a small and jagged rock, about the size of a crown coin. He lifted it up and threw it hard. He’d never been too good a throw, but it hit the German square in the back of the helmet. The man spun out of instinct, and Oswald fired. The bullet struck him in the chest, knocking him backwards. Oswald fired once more, aiming slightly higher, it hit the German in the mouth, and exited through the back of the head. He crumbled into a mass of limbs.
Oswald, slipped himself back down into the wadi and examined the body. He removed the German’s helmet and placed it over the body’s face. War was brutal, but respect for the enemy made it a bit more bearable.
Account E-Mail: EDITED OUT!
Name: Christopher Oswald
Nationality: British
Unit: Special Air Service
Military Rank: Captain
Character History:
Oswald was born in 1911, the first son of a Russian ambassador to the German Empire. They lived in Stuttgart, where a second child, Emily was born in 1913. Their mother was a British journalist, working for the Daily Mail and reporting on internal German affairs. When war broke out in 1914, their mother was killed when reporting on the Kaiser and his family. Fearing for his and his children’s lives, the Father fled to Petrograd, and subsequently lost his job. He took a job as a dishwasher in the Kremlin, which gave him enough to keep his children feed and watered. Christopher slowly grew, being able to speak limited German and now Russian.
But again they had to flee their home in fear of their lives. In 1917, they fled from the revolution to Britain by ship, but a torpedo from a German U-boat struck their passenger liner. The children were passed aboard a lifeboat, but their father had to remain on the ship, where he perished. Two days later, a Danish fishing boat rescued the occupants of the lifeboat. They remained in Denmark for two years, living inside an orphanage, where they could only use their limited German to communicate.
In 1919, Christopher stole the Orphan master’s Remington revolver, the man’s father being a veteran from the Second Schleswig War. He had little clue how to use it properly, but was able to rob a baker’s and butcher’s shop in the nearby town. Christopher wanted to travel to Britain and to his mother’s family with his sister, but realised returning to the orphanage would most likely heed his capture by the police. Instead, very reluctantly he made the long journey through Denmark and towards Calais. He moved south, using the money sparingly to buy food and a map, and new cloths.
Christopher crossed the Danish border and continued to move through Germany, where he began to encounter problems. The Danish money he had was worthless, but so it seemed was the German money. He was forced to throw away the paper, and live off the land, which became harder as the cold German winter set in. Christopher continued on struggling, but still kept the revolver, of which he hadn’t fired a single shot.
As spring 1920 began to appear, he travelled across the French-German border and headed north. Six months after setting out, he reached Calais. But getting across was much harder than it looked. People were not allowed on board a ship without certain papers, papers which Christopher didn’t have. To get around this, he hid inside a crate he knew was bound for Britain. The journey in the dark hold of the ship took longer than he thought, but finally he reached England. However, after exploring the port city, he realised he certainly wasn’t in Dover. He was in Liverpool.
With no where really to go and with no clue where his mother’s family lived, he began living on the streets and begging, trying to learn the English language. Three months later he was picked up by an orphanage, and forced to live on gruel as he was taught and beaten. He lost the pistol the night they found him. For years he wondered how his sister was while his life was hellish. Speaking both Russian and German made him an object of all too much interest, and he became used to being picked on because he was a ‘barbarian’ or a ‘communist’. He knew neither of what they words meant, except hate.
On the day of his fourteenth birthday, in 1925, he was tossed back out onto the streets and told to find work. Christopher found a job in a hotel as a shoe shine and bell boy, using his wages to pay for a filthy bed in a boarding house and buy poor quality food. He spent four more years at the hotel, slowly climbing up the ladder, until he had enough to rent a small flat as a room cleaning. However he was laid off after the Wall Street crash, and was desperate to find work. Christopher was evicted from his flat and ended up sleeping on a bench in Newsham Park. After a week, he happened to read an article in the newspaper he was using as a blanket. It talked about the remembrance parade in London which had happened a few days ago. Looking at the pictures of smartly dressed men in uniforms and with weapons, Christopher decide to join the Army, and end his problems.
He was sent for basic training, in which he met many people in his situation. Because of the vast numbers of volunteers, the Army had to be selective with who was let in and therefore training was harsh. Even with a poor diet, the eighteen year old proved himself, and was one of just five who passed training from his platoon. He was assigned to the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. Using his skills and drawing from his tough experiences, he slowly advanced. Christopher, now well fed and with a roof over his head, had nothing else to invest his pay in. He became married to the army.
By the time the war broke out in, he had become a Second Lieutenant and was transferred to the Queen's Own Royal West Kent Regiment to command a platoon. In 1941 they joined British V Corps and became part of the Eight Army. After heavy fighting, Oswald became a Lieutenant after being wounded, followed quickly by another promotion, because of the death of the company’s 2IC after his position was bombed by Stukas.
Now as a Captain who had earned his position from the bottom, he was head hunted by the SAS. He accepted the invitation and went through their rigorous training program, before being given command of his own company of raiders.
Writing Sample:
The wind was beginning to get up, blowing dust and sand along across the desert plains, which tore at rocks, metal, skin as it went about it journey. But at least he was out of the worst of it here. Oswald had tucked himself up in a wadi, no larger than three metres across. Here, with his shemagh rapped around his face and his goggles fixed around the gap, he was roughly protected. He was in his kaki uniform, with shorts and a short-sleeved shirt clinging to him. The cool night desert air kept him cold, but he had faced worse problems.
Oswald kept a hand on his Thomson sub-machinegun, while feeling along the side of the dried up river bed with his other. He kept his head low and moved forwards through the soft sand. It was hard to see in this weather, anything further than twenty metres seemed to be nothing more than a blur. The wind however wasn’t that loud or deafening.
For a moment he stopped, and looked down at the weapon he held. It was a nice piece of machinery, but it looked like it had been sand blasted, and the wood didn’t look too good either. The whole mechanism was probably jammed as well, making it impossible to fire without a lot of time and cleaning. Dead weight. Oswald dropped it, then quickly split the weapon into its two main sections. He removed the recoil rod and disconnected the spring, before tossing it far into the desert. Oswald then took the bolt, and buried it in the sand. Finally, he put the weapon back together while walking slowly, still trying to make up ground. Once it was complete, he carefully placed it down, making it obvious to spot. Even if the was weapon useless, it was a nice little reminded to Jerry.
As he lowered it, he spotted something, slighting darker the way he had come. Oswald looked, unsure what he might have seen. He gently lowered himself down and watched. A man staggered forward from the sand, stopped then glanced around as if he was looking for something. He was certainly a German, judging by the distinctly shaped helmet and boots. He too had goggles, but nothing covering his face. Carefully and slowly Oswald reached down to his hip, and removed his revolver. He cocked it.
He took aim and fired two shots. The first went straight over the German’s head. The second kicked a chunk out of the rock next to him. Instinctively, the German dropped to the ground and went for his own weapon. With the man down, Oswald quickly picked himself up and fought to climb up the bank of the wadi. The German returned fire, one bullet missing by far, the second striking the back of Oswald’s thigh. He screamed as his felt the red hot metal hit home. Using his other leg, he pushed himself up and out, quickly limping across the desert, trying to keep low but not slow himself down. Each time he dragged his leg forward, the pain doubled. Finally he reached far enough out that he could barely see the dried up river, and hopefully the German couldn’t see him.
Oswald lowered himself gently down, and watched as the dark helmet bobbed up and down moving up the small channel. It stopped, probably examining the Thompson. This lapse of concentration gave Oswald some time. He slowly pushed himself forward, snaking to remove the strain on his leg. He crept closer, keeping his revolver up and out of the sand floor. The sand storm probably wasn’t helping, but it was a death sentence to burry this in sand. It took him longer than expected to near the wadi again, but the German seemed intrigued with the weapon, and probably thought that the Brit had legged it, not wanting to face more rounds.
Oswald raised himself as quietly as he could to his knees and took aim with his weapon. However, the helmet stopped a direct hit, and it would probably save his life. He also didn’t feel good about shooting a man in the back. It felt cowardly. He examined the sand with his left hand, until he found a small and jagged rock, about the size of a crown coin. He lifted it up and threw it hard. He’d never been too good a throw, but it hit the German square in the back of the helmet. The man spun out of instinct, and Oswald fired. The bullet struck him in the chest, knocking him backwards. Oswald fired once more, aiming slightly higher, it hit the German in the mouth, and exited through the back of the head. He crumbled into a mass of limbs.
Oswald, slipped himself back down into the wadi and examined the body. He removed the German’s helmet and placed it over the body’s face. War was brutal, but respect for the enemy made it a bit more bearable.
