Post by Wolfram on Dec 27, 2010 2:31:25 GMT
Account E-Mail: This is Wolfram.
Name: IVAN (Surname undisclosed)
Nationality: Russian
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath? Soviet Army
Character History:
Where would you start with Ivan? A birthday would be most preferable or detailed place of birth, but neither are known by Ivan himself and in regards to any family or friends whom may have bore witness to the knowledge of Ivan’s fresh youth are unknown or deceased. Ivan, his name and the one piece of information he did come to realise he also knew, was that he was born in Russia or at least considered Russian from an early age, having endured his youth and upbringing within the small rural city of Penza; a close neighbour to Moscow, but dormant within Moscow’s shadow at least and it was here Ivan remembered his first memories and started life as a young Russian boy and a place he considered his hometown, at the very last.
He was brought up by a man known as Gorya, a very old man. He must have been clocking on sixty-eight by the time Ivan was five years old and wasn’t in the most mobile of conditions or health to be dealing with a youngster or even a baby. Ivan never knew if Gorya had reared him since birth, but the man was adamant he was not his father and neither his grandfather, but a patriot and old fool who couldn’t see a young life go to waste or be reared by an orphanage with too many troublemakers and irresponsible carers; once the boys reached a certain age, they were inevitably put to work and the young girls, well, it was a blessing if they ever saw the light of day. So maybe Gorya understood that Ivan may not have survived being put into an orphanage as a baby? Maybe Gorya was forced to rear Ivan? Perhaps Ivan was a grandson of Gorya’s, but never admitted it because his son or daughter had a bastard child? Gorya was patriotic and traditional, so the possibility stood, whatever the answer was, Ivan didn’t know and was too young to be curious enough about his real parents at the age of five. He asked questions now and again, but Gorya’s irritation shown by the questions asked soon made Ivan learn to keep a steel-tongue on the matters.
When Ivan turned eight, he was long at work within a stable’s blacksmith, even though the work demanded him to fulfil private contracts within his local town, such as building materials, moulding tools and repairing anything metal orientated that could be fixed. He was a fast learner and at the age of eight, he didn’t do much to start with, merely carrying heavy materials, helping with the cooling process of the smouldered metals and tending to the horses on the ranch with new shoes and helping to build a whole manner of contraptions on the ranch: bear traps, maintaining saddles, helping to repair the roofing of the barn - it was by the time Ivan was ten years old he truly began to get the grasp of becoming a blacksmith’s apprentice and was shunned into the limelight of taming the elements of metal and creating, to begin with, shoddy masterpieces, but like all perfectionists of the trade, they learned through experience and Ivan never complained of the demanding work required, not even when Gorya had turned seventy-eight and needed more help with his daily routine, Ivan kept a wise head and firm pair of hands tamed to the ropes.
When Ivan eventually turned fifteen; presumed he was fifteen, not entirely knowing his birthday, Gorya passed away having contracted hyperthermia on a particularly bad winter and died at the age of eighty-three. Ivan was astounded by the man’s sheer iron will to have lived to such an age, despite the poverty Gorya lived in and the stress of having to bring up a young boy, Ivan. It was one extra mouth he could ill afford to feed, but nonetheless achieved it daily and it was within the last five years of Gorya’s life that Ivan paid the debt to his adopted father by repaying the gratitude and looking after him. It was with Ivan’s weekly wage he brought food to the table for the both of them and it was with Ivan’s heart that Gorya lived as long as he did. The thought of running away and abandoning the old fool had crossed his mind many times, he was old enough to look after his self now and he was earning enough to perhaps pay some rent? Ivan wasn’t fantastic with the numbers, but he knew he didn’t need the old man anymore, the old man needed him and it was with Ivan’s love he stayed for the last bitter years the old fool lived. There wasn’t many personal belongings to be had though and so Ivan kept the one thing he could remember Gorya; he took the old man’s silver necklace, that did bare a wedding ring to drape at Gorya’s chest, but Ivan placed that upon Gorya’s wedding finger to be buried with. It didn’t seem right stealing from family, the only family he felt he had.
The years passed smoothly and Ivan grew immensely overtime, progressing his work and position at the stable’s blacksmith and his own reputation within the town slowly. He was at one stage considered the town’s drunk and to hold that title was quite astounding, considering everyone in the town drunk daily and almost everyone was either too drunk or over the limit during the daylight hours of work, but Ivan regained his composure from the bad patches and soon became the town’s local, a feared local. The rumours started when Ivan was ganged up on by three young men one night after his working hours - Ivan knew nothing of fighting, the odd brawl, but nothing - so when Ivan brutally murdered one boy and left the other two on the roadside one night, a whole can of worms were opened. Ideally, Ivan was only using self defence and his large physic from working the furnaces and dealing with heavy materials had given him a broad bodied scale, opposed against three men perhaps half his size was no match, but it always seems the way that no-one would be stupid enough to take on someone twice their size; in this case, that was the case and Ivan was entirely innocent, despite the authorities thinking otherwise.
Perhaps the men had dealings with the authorities? Ivan didn’t know and he was promptly sentenced for a stretch in prison and he was by now, twenty. Ivan served all but six months before he was released, he didn’t entirely understand why he had been released, but never complained and figured the authorities had seen cause to their mistake perhaps? Either way, no questions were asked and Ivan was good at keeping a shut-mouth after Gorya not liking his probing questions. So Ivan was a free man and the six months in a state prison was rather hard. He homed in on his skills to survive during a fight and left with a few scars under the shirt, but they were all learning curves and as far as Ivan was aware, he was alive and he intended on staying that way. Six months extra prep on your body also worked wonders for Ivan, who was by now, looking like more of a brick-house then well defined male, he even towered over the guards and the few fights he did get in prison were nothing compared to the average slack a prisoner went through daily. He was lucky, born lucky.
All sense of time had faded for Ivan and never truly knowing his age, he wasn’t entirely aware he was twenty-five when the second-world-war had broken out. At this stage in his life, he had turned to more gruelling work with both blacksmithing and learning how to engage with mechanics. Perhaps Ivan should have concentrated on one or the other, but he was lured by the notion of motor-vehicles like many males, but also kept to what they knew best and for Ivan, that was his blacksmithing. So perhaps learning mechanics was a hobby for Ivan, but he did manage to hold down two jobs, working a full seven day week and enjoying everything he put his hand too - that was until he was conscripted into the military, being prepared for the war. Russia had already invaded Poland alongside Germany and a feud was brewing between the fatherland and motherland, a feud that saw Russia being stepped on by Germany. A raw and very bold move. It was at this point that Ivan realised the true extent of what was to be for Russia, for the world, a war had broken out and he was drafted to be a part of it, regardless.
Military Rank: Serzhant (Sergeant)
Writing Sample:
A twin-engine Junkers Ju 88 aircraft loomed dangerously low overhead, the screaming of the engines screeching through the heavy wind as the aircraft kept dropping in altitude, the gap between the ground and the aviator’s steel nerve for keeping stability of the aircraft were incredibly thin, particularly at the rate the pilot stooped down from the sky, at such a pace and speed it amazed Ivan who stared in sheer awe at the superiority of the German engineered aircraft and pilot a-tow who quite boldly and perhaps foolishly, rather than performed with experience, made such cocky movements as he lined up for a strafing run on Ivan’s troop of twenty men garrisoned to hold a small river crossing on the Eastern front. The show the Nazis were putting on, it did hold quite a significance and the looming Ju 88 overhead only made it all the more realistic and frightening as the aircraft strafed directly for their held position.
Throwing his arm out, having finally snapped from the deathly gaze towards the aircraft, Ivan bellowed out from the depths of his lungs towards those surrounding him: “GET DOWN!” it was a warning that wasn’t intentionally required, as the screaming of the aircraft’s engines could have been heard a hundred miles away from a seasoned veteran and most of the men had seen enough action in one week to be considered a five year veteran. They had suffered far more than anyone could have expected of them and shed more blood, sweat and tears than each of them knew they could have shed. Between them, they were a whole army, rather than a platoon sized force and built bonds that kept them together and fighting strong.
Everyone dropped into their dugouts, despite the snow made holes being anymore than a barrier of water between themselves and M/88 calibre bullets that would come ripping through any moment and prayed for protection from the big man himself. As the Ju 88 swooped dangerously low to get an accurate strafing run, Ivan protruded the barrel to his Mosin-Nagant bolt action rifle out from his dugout and began popping off rounds alongside several or more various soldiers also taking the chance to try and hit the ‘within range’ aircraft that cockily stooped within the infantry’s range. To no avail however, the bullets merely ricocheted off the fuselage and the baring machineguns on the Ju 88 roared like a thousand thunders at once, blowing huge ploughs of snow up from out of the ground like a tidal wave of molten steel bullets that was making it’s path through the troop of men garrisoned along the road in front of the river crossing.
Blood spewed like fireworks with chunks of flesh and even a limb or two as the roaring machineguns, within seconds, strafed straight through the troop of twenty men diagonally and took out just under half of the manpower they once had. Ivan had evaded being hit by the skin of his teeth, as the overhead strafing passed five foot to his right and ripped straight through Borya in the dugout beside him, his left hand falling into Ivan’s lap almost as he barely made a noise during the metal rain that tore straight through his body - it was instantaneous despite having seen it coming. Ivan could barely hold back the aggression as he gripped into his rifle and kept his head down, not knowing whether the bullets had hit him or not for the briefest of moments. It took several seconds after the strafing had finished for Ivan to raise his head and peer from out of his dugout with a bloodied face from the spraying blood of Borya’s tattered body, lifelessly, unrecognisably laying there in his small hole. Faint cries attracted his attention soon after, as Ivan watched whomever was able bodied, wounded or not, climb out of their dugouts and drop into another, most probably attending to those seriously wounded or checking to see if their friends were alive or dead.
A shouting, louder than the commotion of cries and yells for help caught his attention swiftly; Foka Jaska, a conscript, ryadovoi and familiar face in the platoon came running over quickly towards his dugout. “Ivan! Ivan!” he constantly bawled as he closed in on the dugout, falling into the hole without much grace and hurting Ivan’s legs as he fell down. “The Mladshii Leitenant is kaput!”[/I] he started between catching his breath, punching Ivan on the chest and pointing into his face with a serious look bestowed upon his features “You, you lead us now!”[/I] he finished and broke the cold gaze as he looked to those still milling in and out of dugouts, some dragging bodies with them as they attended to their comrades. Ivan could only watch in awe once more, what did he do? The Panzergrenadiers would be coming through the forest to their east pretty soon, the strafing runs were just to weaken them, batter them down, hell even accomplish the job and clean up any resistance for the ground troops moving in fast. Then, then and only then would the armour move through. The Nazis were very wary of the Russians since they began to use dogs as anti-tank mines and shooting the fast fiends was a competition for any tank who could even spot it, let alone shoot it. So they were careful now.
Nodding to Foka Jaska and looking once more to Borya’s remains, he made a rash decision and jumped out of his dugout quickly, brushing the snow from off his overcoat as he jogged quickly across the snowy plain. “We fallback across the river! Take all spare ammunition and place all spare grenades under the bodies of those fallen. Those wounded and able to walk, help them! Those wounded beyond help, shoot them! The Nazis will get no prisoners” he yelled out, watching a few of the faces he regarded as friends, glare irritably at the orders of placing grenades under the men already dead and to shoot those who can’t be helped. “You three” he pointed towards three men sitting in one dugout, looking anxious. “Prepare a tripwire for the Nazis on the road twenty yards from here, using some of the mortar rounds” he ordered, knowing they could slow the enemy whilst they prepared to regroup and rearm their positions on the opposite side of the river. Making a simple tripwire with grenades and hiding a few mortar rounds under them would inevitably cause a bigger bang and bigger problem that would slow the Hun.
The three men sprouted from their dugout immediately, the remaining few began to carry their wounded comrades or search bodies for spare ammunition, doing as they were told afterwards by placing a grenade under each body sheepishly having rigged the pins and releasing mechanisms that would trigger the fuse inside of the grenades. It was a cunning war they fought, but a cunning war they were made to play and Ivan knew the game well by now.
How did you find us? If you found us via a link somewhere, where was it? If someone pointed you here, who was it?: I’m considered a part of the furniture on IO.
Name: IVAN (Surname undisclosed)
Nationality: Russian
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath? Soviet Army
Character History:
Where would you start with Ivan? A birthday would be most preferable or detailed place of birth, but neither are known by Ivan himself and in regards to any family or friends whom may have bore witness to the knowledge of Ivan’s fresh youth are unknown or deceased. Ivan, his name and the one piece of information he did come to realise he also knew, was that he was born in Russia or at least considered Russian from an early age, having endured his youth and upbringing within the small rural city of Penza; a close neighbour to Moscow, but dormant within Moscow’s shadow at least and it was here Ivan remembered his first memories and started life as a young Russian boy and a place he considered his hometown, at the very last.
He was brought up by a man known as Gorya, a very old man. He must have been clocking on sixty-eight by the time Ivan was five years old and wasn’t in the most mobile of conditions or health to be dealing with a youngster or even a baby. Ivan never knew if Gorya had reared him since birth, but the man was adamant he was not his father and neither his grandfather, but a patriot and old fool who couldn’t see a young life go to waste or be reared by an orphanage with too many troublemakers and irresponsible carers; once the boys reached a certain age, they were inevitably put to work and the young girls, well, it was a blessing if they ever saw the light of day. So maybe Gorya understood that Ivan may not have survived being put into an orphanage as a baby? Maybe Gorya was forced to rear Ivan? Perhaps Ivan was a grandson of Gorya’s, but never admitted it because his son or daughter had a bastard child? Gorya was patriotic and traditional, so the possibility stood, whatever the answer was, Ivan didn’t know and was too young to be curious enough about his real parents at the age of five. He asked questions now and again, but Gorya’s irritation shown by the questions asked soon made Ivan learn to keep a steel-tongue on the matters.
When Ivan turned eight, he was long at work within a stable’s blacksmith, even though the work demanded him to fulfil private contracts within his local town, such as building materials, moulding tools and repairing anything metal orientated that could be fixed. He was a fast learner and at the age of eight, he didn’t do much to start with, merely carrying heavy materials, helping with the cooling process of the smouldered metals and tending to the horses on the ranch with new shoes and helping to build a whole manner of contraptions on the ranch: bear traps, maintaining saddles, helping to repair the roofing of the barn - it was by the time Ivan was ten years old he truly began to get the grasp of becoming a blacksmith’s apprentice and was shunned into the limelight of taming the elements of metal and creating, to begin with, shoddy masterpieces, but like all perfectionists of the trade, they learned through experience and Ivan never complained of the demanding work required, not even when Gorya had turned seventy-eight and needed more help with his daily routine, Ivan kept a wise head and firm pair of hands tamed to the ropes.
When Ivan eventually turned fifteen; presumed he was fifteen, not entirely knowing his birthday, Gorya passed away having contracted hyperthermia on a particularly bad winter and died at the age of eighty-three. Ivan was astounded by the man’s sheer iron will to have lived to such an age, despite the poverty Gorya lived in and the stress of having to bring up a young boy, Ivan. It was one extra mouth he could ill afford to feed, but nonetheless achieved it daily and it was within the last five years of Gorya’s life that Ivan paid the debt to his adopted father by repaying the gratitude and looking after him. It was with Ivan’s weekly wage he brought food to the table for the both of them and it was with Ivan’s heart that Gorya lived as long as he did. The thought of running away and abandoning the old fool had crossed his mind many times, he was old enough to look after his self now and he was earning enough to perhaps pay some rent? Ivan wasn’t fantastic with the numbers, but he knew he didn’t need the old man anymore, the old man needed him and it was with Ivan’s love he stayed for the last bitter years the old fool lived. There wasn’t many personal belongings to be had though and so Ivan kept the one thing he could remember Gorya; he took the old man’s silver necklace, that did bare a wedding ring to drape at Gorya’s chest, but Ivan placed that upon Gorya’s wedding finger to be buried with. It didn’t seem right stealing from family, the only family he felt he had.
The years passed smoothly and Ivan grew immensely overtime, progressing his work and position at the stable’s blacksmith and his own reputation within the town slowly. He was at one stage considered the town’s drunk and to hold that title was quite astounding, considering everyone in the town drunk daily and almost everyone was either too drunk or over the limit during the daylight hours of work, but Ivan regained his composure from the bad patches and soon became the town’s local, a feared local. The rumours started when Ivan was ganged up on by three young men one night after his working hours - Ivan knew nothing of fighting, the odd brawl, but nothing - so when Ivan brutally murdered one boy and left the other two on the roadside one night, a whole can of worms were opened. Ideally, Ivan was only using self defence and his large physic from working the furnaces and dealing with heavy materials had given him a broad bodied scale, opposed against three men perhaps half his size was no match, but it always seems the way that no-one would be stupid enough to take on someone twice their size; in this case, that was the case and Ivan was entirely innocent, despite the authorities thinking otherwise.
Perhaps the men had dealings with the authorities? Ivan didn’t know and he was promptly sentenced for a stretch in prison and he was by now, twenty. Ivan served all but six months before he was released, he didn’t entirely understand why he had been released, but never complained and figured the authorities had seen cause to their mistake perhaps? Either way, no questions were asked and Ivan was good at keeping a shut-mouth after Gorya not liking his probing questions. So Ivan was a free man and the six months in a state prison was rather hard. He homed in on his skills to survive during a fight and left with a few scars under the shirt, but they were all learning curves and as far as Ivan was aware, he was alive and he intended on staying that way. Six months extra prep on your body also worked wonders for Ivan, who was by now, looking like more of a brick-house then well defined male, he even towered over the guards and the few fights he did get in prison were nothing compared to the average slack a prisoner went through daily. He was lucky, born lucky.
All sense of time had faded for Ivan and never truly knowing his age, he wasn’t entirely aware he was twenty-five when the second-world-war had broken out. At this stage in his life, he had turned to more gruelling work with both blacksmithing and learning how to engage with mechanics. Perhaps Ivan should have concentrated on one or the other, but he was lured by the notion of motor-vehicles like many males, but also kept to what they knew best and for Ivan, that was his blacksmithing. So perhaps learning mechanics was a hobby for Ivan, but he did manage to hold down two jobs, working a full seven day week and enjoying everything he put his hand too - that was until he was conscripted into the military, being prepared for the war. Russia had already invaded Poland alongside Germany and a feud was brewing between the fatherland and motherland, a feud that saw Russia being stepped on by Germany. A raw and very bold move. It was at this point that Ivan realised the true extent of what was to be for Russia, for the world, a war had broken out and he was drafted to be a part of it, regardless.
Military Rank: Serzhant (Sergeant)
Writing Sample:
A twin-engine Junkers Ju 88 aircraft loomed dangerously low overhead, the screaming of the engines screeching through the heavy wind as the aircraft kept dropping in altitude, the gap between the ground and the aviator’s steel nerve for keeping stability of the aircraft were incredibly thin, particularly at the rate the pilot stooped down from the sky, at such a pace and speed it amazed Ivan who stared in sheer awe at the superiority of the German engineered aircraft and pilot a-tow who quite boldly and perhaps foolishly, rather than performed with experience, made such cocky movements as he lined up for a strafing run on Ivan’s troop of twenty men garrisoned to hold a small river crossing on the Eastern front. The show the Nazis were putting on, it did hold quite a significance and the looming Ju 88 overhead only made it all the more realistic and frightening as the aircraft strafed directly for their held position.
Throwing his arm out, having finally snapped from the deathly gaze towards the aircraft, Ivan bellowed out from the depths of his lungs towards those surrounding him: “GET DOWN!” it was a warning that wasn’t intentionally required, as the screaming of the aircraft’s engines could have been heard a hundred miles away from a seasoned veteran and most of the men had seen enough action in one week to be considered a five year veteran. They had suffered far more than anyone could have expected of them and shed more blood, sweat and tears than each of them knew they could have shed. Between them, they were a whole army, rather than a platoon sized force and built bonds that kept them together and fighting strong.
Everyone dropped into their dugouts, despite the snow made holes being anymore than a barrier of water between themselves and M/88 calibre bullets that would come ripping through any moment and prayed for protection from the big man himself. As the Ju 88 swooped dangerously low to get an accurate strafing run, Ivan protruded the barrel to his Mosin-Nagant bolt action rifle out from his dugout and began popping off rounds alongside several or more various soldiers also taking the chance to try and hit the ‘within range’ aircraft that cockily stooped within the infantry’s range. To no avail however, the bullets merely ricocheted off the fuselage and the baring machineguns on the Ju 88 roared like a thousand thunders at once, blowing huge ploughs of snow up from out of the ground like a tidal wave of molten steel bullets that was making it’s path through the troop of men garrisoned along the road in front of the river crossing.
Blood spewed like fireworks with chunks of flesh and even a limb or two as the roaring machineguns, within seconds, strafed straight through the troop of twenty men diagonally and took out just under half of the manpower they once had. Ivan had evaded being hit by the skin of his teeth, as the overhead strafing passed five foot to his right and ripped straight through Borya in the dugout beside him, his left hand falling into Ivan’s lap almost as he barely made a noise during the metal rain that tore straight through his body - it was instantaneous despite having seen it coming. Ivan could barely hold back the aggression as he gripped into his rifle and kept his head down, not knowing whether the bullets had hit him or not for the briefest of moments. It took several seconds after the strafing had finished for Ivan to raise his head and peer from out of his dugout with a bloodied face from the spraying blood of Borya’s tattered body, lifelessly, unrecognisably laying there in his small hole. Faint cries attracted his attention soon after, as Ivan watched whomever was able bodied, wounded or not, climb out of their dugouts and drop into another, most probably attending to those seriously wounded or checking to see if their friends were alive or dead.
A shouting, louder than the commotion of cries and yells for help caught his attention swiftly; Foka Jaska, a conscript, ryadovoi and familiar face in the platoon came running over quickly towards his dugout. “Ivan! Ivan!” he constantly bawled as he closed in on the dugout, falling into the hole without much grace and hurting Ivan’s legs as he fell down. “The Mladshii Leitenant is kaput!”[/I] he started between catching his breath, punching Ivan on the chest and pointing into his face with a serious look bestowed upon his features “You, you lead us now!”[/I] he finished and broke the cold gaze as he looked to those still milling in and out of dugouts, some dragging bodies with them as they attended to their comrades. Ivan could only watch in awe once more, what did he do? The Panzergrenadiers would be coming through the forest to their east pretty soon, the strafing runs were just to weaken them, batter them down, hell even accomplish the job and clean up any resistance for the ground troops moving in fast. Then, then and only then would the armour move through. The Nazis were very wary of the Russians since they began to use dogs as anti-tank mines and shooting the fast fiends was a competition for any tank who could even spot it, let alone shoot it. So they were careful now.
Nodding to Foka Jaska and looking once more to Borya’s remains, he made a rash decision and jumped out of his dugout quickly, brushing the snow from off his overcoat as he jogged quickly across the snowy plain. “We fallback across the river! Take all spare ammunition and place all spare grenades under the bodies of those fallen. Those wounded and able to walk, help them! Those wounded beyond help, shoot them! The Nazis will get no prisoners” he yelled out, watching a few of the faces he regarded as friends, glare irritably at the orders of placing grenades under the men already dead and to shoot those who can’t be helped. “You three” he pointed towards three men sitting in one dugout, looking anxious. “Prepare a tripwire for the Nazis on the road twenty yards from here, using some of the mortar rounds” he ordered, knowing they could slow the enemy whilst they prepared to regroup and rearm their positions on the opposite side of the river. Making a simple tripwire with grenades and hiding a few mortar rounds under them would inevitably cause a bigger bang and bigger problem that would slow the Hun.
The three men sprouted from their dugout immediately, the remaining few began to carry their wounded comrades or search bodies for spare ammunition, doing as they were told afterwards by placing a grenade under each body sheepishly having rigged the pins and releasing mechanisms that would trigger the fuse inside of the grenades. It was a cunning war they fought, but a cunning war they were made to play and Ivan knew the game well by now.
How did you find us? If you found us via a link somewhere, where was it? If someone pointed you here, who was it?: I’m considered a part of the furniture on IO.
