Rain...rain...go away (Maria)

[Stephen Colly]

Rain. Why did it always rain in England? It never seemed to rain in France…but England was always subjected to rain…even in the summer it rained, and it always rained in the winter, with snow in January/February time.
Stephen remembered when he was much younger that it snowed in the middle of May; he had been extremely young then and remembered running home from school in it. The trees and fields of Devon had looked beautiful, so peaceful, but now that peace had turned to war-fare…

The wetness that ran down his face brought him back down to earth, the beautiful snowy fields disappearing and the rain replacing it.

He was standing in the shelter, facing the track that he had ran around so many times before, one of the first had been with Edward…lovely Edward…that was what had brought him out on this miserable day. He had sat on this exact bench the first time he had met, looking at a photo of his horse, Joey. And Edward had come to say hello and they had hit off really well together, and then they had had a run together, Stephen winning only by an inch but he still believed that Edward had made sure he had won….

His thoughts were on Edward yes, he would be meeting him in under a weeks time, seeing him again would just be magical, and he hadn’t seen him since Italy, which had been truly terrifying just because he was in a war zone with bullets flying at him.

He just sat there, staring out at the rain, the bench seemed wet beneath him…why couldn’t he be at home now? He couldn’t face going back to the barracks, all those men, all laughing at him…they seemed to be mocking him almost when he went in there the other day…fucking idiots. It wasn’t his fault that he…that he….felt differently to other people?

He just stared out at the rain, remembering.


OOC – Just to say, this is BEFORE Stephen went to Germany.

[Moritz Erichsen]

The beautiful and mature woodlands of Surrey absorbed all the rain pelting down that cold May’s evening, as the birds scattered and the foxes were running away into their refuges with the store acorn. The oldest untouched area of natural woodland was Surrey’s Box Hill, and was one of the oldest in Europe, from which Lieutenant Moritz Erichsen had passed several times on his way to Witley Camp, through the heathland of Puttenham and Crooksbury Commons to the one of the Frensham Ponds (he had oftentimes found himself glancing scornfully at its scheduled ancient monument, the King’s Ridge Barrow), across the naturally beautiful Newlands Corner and Leith Hill from the South West. There were a number of rural leisure activities this time of the year said to be catered for by Surrey but which had been cancelled this day due to the downpour. He usually travelled there with the South West Trains from Waterloo Station whenever he took a leave and went to London with his comrades – if indeed they could be called that for him – to spend time in midnight pubs and cabarets, and engage himself in illicit acts with the promiscuous dancers, those ugly-faced women with the plastered faces and the ridiculous dresses, the shrill voices that spoke vulgarities to strangers and the black stockings slightly ripped on their thighs from their licentious nights. He really abhorred them, but Moritz Erichsen was a physical type of man, and little did he care of their character, personality and state of affairs, rather whether they could satisfy his assorted pleasures and then bugger off without being bothersome, as they oftentimes chanced to be.

Along with Bordon and Bramshott, Witley Camp in Witley Common, Surrey, was one of three facilities in the Aldershot Command area established by the Canadian Army.Witley Common was the mother of several ancient burial mounds dated back to the Bronze Age, sites which would naturally attract a great many tourists and historians, or an everyday British man with love for his country, except that Moritz was too uncouth and non-cultivated to ever experience the sheer tremor of realization at the place’s age and historical value. There were up to twenty thousand soldiers currently based on the camp, thus using the land the townspeople had exploited for grazing, turf-cutting and iron workings for their own military purposes. Moritz was holding his Bolshevik cigarette with his right hand in a tight fist as though he wished to punch someone and scratching a wound in his wrist as he was walking across the field, his heavy booths making splashing sounds as he strode through small pools of muddy water every once in a while, dressed in a greatcoat over his military uniform and swearing every five seconds on pretty much nothing that could make sense from an outsider’s point of view.

Once at the camp, he looked at the Corporal from the near distance sitting on the bench, by the name of Stephen Colly. He had never appreciated the boy, but then when did Moritz ever appreciate anyone? He considered Colly to be too subtle, appearing softened and vulnerable, a perfect target; with those golden-brown strands of hair and rosey lips, the pale and youthful face that showed it once was innocent, the beautiful complexion of his facial features – but to the Lieutenant he really was bland and common. However, little did he know this was far from the truth. Being his superior he would bark orders and talk to him unkindly, brusquely, putting him down, devaluing his worth perhaps in ways which oftentimes disheartened, for Moritz was hardly the empathetic and warm leader, in his attempt to toughen him up and make him ‘a true soldier’. Moritz was always so hard with the younger boy, and obstinate as he was, he refused to compromise with the fact not every soldier was meant to be the same. There were so many positive aspects of the Corporal’s personality, mental and physical capabilities and military self-awareness as would raise him up in any superior’s eyes, except for Moritz. He wanted more. He wanted better. He wanted, truthfully, many things. “Why the blues, Colly?” he spoke to him with a ringing force, his tone brusque, his voice hoarse and raspy, through which the German accent was not very subtly hinted but directly revealed, and with a trace of Scottish intonation.

He noticed the perfectly artistic, melancholic look as he was looking at the rain pelting down, and sneered with disdain. He shoved the wet cigarette in his mouth and lit it. From his hardened and scarred face to the scabbed hands, Moritz Erichsen appeared to be a man of life’s fatalities. He stared at the rain himself, but he really found no beauty in it. With a grimace he turned to the Corporal.He noticed the cigarette would not light up due to its wetness, and it was the last one in his pocket at the moment. “Fuck,” he muttered briskly, and grumbled in his throat with animalistic fashion. He tried again, then a third time, each time becoming more irate at it for he had quite a short temper, until it finally lit. “Bleeding fucker,” he swore again, and then took a deep drag, the fume entering through his throat and piercing his lungs. He coughed, and then smoked again. “Dead frog for dinner?” he said with a complete lack of interest, his tone half-mockery, half-serious. “I hate them when they smell,” he muttered, and smoked once more. The rain had strengthened considerably.

[Stephen Colly]

Oh bugger.

One of his superior officers – what was his name…? – Lieutenant Erichsen – was striding across the sodden grass towards the shelter, what did he want? The young boy did not like this Lieutenant, having said that he never really liked any of his superiors, especially the ones by the names of Liam and Tyler Brentwood, and those two terrified him. But having said that, he was extremely good friends with Daniel and Nathan, and of course Edward, both of them were higher rank than he but treated him like he was their equal, unlike Lieutenant Erichsen who had now entered the shelter and was staring out at the rain, a cigarette in his hand.

Don’t talk to me….don’t talk to me…

”Why the blues, Colly?”[/i] the man was now staring at him.

Go away! was all he could think, Go back to your hole and leave me alone. of course, that was easier thought then said and even easier compared to the task being performed.

The boy glanced up at the Lieutenant, whose eyes were piercing into his own like a hawk’s. He sort of shrank back but decided that if he was ever going to get anywhere, he better say something.
Before he could however, the man next to him had begun to swear at his cigarette lighter, the stick wasn’t lighting…well, it wouldn’t what with the rain falling down.
It finally lit and the man muttered something that the boy could not hear, he watched the superior – he could see the bones protruding from the man’s neck, his short, neat, hair under a cap, his watchful and dangerous eyes – scary.

”N-Nothing is wrong, s-sir…” he muttered, ”Just sitting, enjoying the rain…thinking to myself.” he added, shrugging his shoulders, ”Just thinking about life and how it has changed…” he shrugged his shoulders again, his voice forever holding that strong Devonshire accent that so many men had had but now were dead in the fields of France.

[Moritz Erichsen]

Moritz smoked from his cigarette, and was just about to ask the young Corporal what he could have possibly been thinking about, until the Devonshire boy answered him beforehand, and thus set his queries aside. Life and how it had changed? Life had certainly changed for everyone, even for someone like Moritz. Throughout the entire pathetic life he had been leading thus far – and which it was certain he was to continue leading – he had been used to always catering for himself, to resorting to indecent, often sadistic and inappropriate means as to the completion and satisfaction of his personal needs and wants; he had been thoroughly accustomed to the cat-and-mouse chase with the authorities, the fights, the shouting, the screaming of victims, the almost military-led lifestyle, and then of course being sent by the social services to a military school, for it was considered as the best solution for his case, and one where he would be most useful in. And what about Stephen Colly? Did he possess no soul, was he not a human being utterly influenced and furthermore exploited for this war nobody he knew seemed to feel warm towards – exploited like a pawn, like a toy, for the nation’s ‘benefits’ and ‘global standing’? Was he not overwhelmed by wishes and desires, dreams he once must have dreamed, and songs he once must have sung, now to be facing death in the eye in protecting abstract ideas while experiencing the sheer visceral terror that grasps you from the guts and shakes you wholly inside once you feel the gun’s cold steel against your temple? Was he not, at the end of it, a mere boy who was fighting for King and country? Was he, too, not meeting the same pathetic old end they all would, when the end would indeed come to pass? Of course he was. And did Moritz ever care? Of course he did not.

Such an egotistical and self-conscious man as Moritz Erichsen could hardly empathize for the other creatures, but he was utterly and awfully mistaken to believe – if indeed he ever could believe – in the prospect of gaining a soul throughout the ordeal, which, perhaps unconsciously, was what he could be craving. People like him bore no soul, and no purpose, and people like him believed they found these in war. War, however, was a two-faced monster that loved to deceive and sneer at its victims and he, a king at his throne, would watch all the slaves of destiny suffer and weep. Why could no one see this? He smoked from his cigarette quietly for some time, looking at the rain. Moritz grimaced. “Enjoying the rain …” he mocked. “What’s to enjoy?” he said, but it sounded more as though he was speaking to himself. However, he did not mind the rain. He hated the sun, for it made things too light and cheerful … and because it made him thirsty. He hated the sun because it gave him fatigue even though he had not worked, and because he resented heat. He resented the beaches, and the images of exultant families enjoying themselves by the sea, playing with balls, rackets and Frisbees, those cheerful little voices of the children as they screamed in delight whenever their feet touched the waves splashing against them. And though he had almost drowned in a river once during a rainstorm in one of Germany’s woodlands, he still preferred winter to summer. Summer was just too jovial and smiling, too noisy, people were dull and bland, laying about and listening to Edith Piaf or Marlene Dietrich. Yes, he preferred the rain. At least it made things quieter, and gave more serenity. In a way, it was cathartic and cleansed the Earth from all of its sins and impurities; and God knew he needed catharsis.

[Stephen Colly]

No. Stephen was not one to think war was glorious like he had been told. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori….what did that mean again….? It is sweet and right to die for one’s country….what a lie….and that was the whole point of the line…or how Wilfred Owen had interrupted the line back in the Great War in his poem.

“Enjoying the rain …” the man mocked the boy, ”What’s to enjoy…?” The man did obviously not get sarcasm. Idiot.

Silence between the two as Stephen tried to think of a way to respond and his superior was puffing away on the cigarette he had finally lit. The boy ran a hand through his hair; it was wet even though he had been under the shelter for some time.

There was no point in this war! Everybody knew that, well everybody who had any brains could see that the Nazis had a better weaponry then the Allies, better tactics…but they were evil….but then again Ed wasn’t evil, he would never be evil in Stephen’s eyes.

The rain kept coming down, the field that Stephen would most likely have to run in tomorrow – was getting even muddier than it had been a few seconds ago.

Stephen shuffled his feet, not really knowing what to say, not really wanting to say anything. ”What are you doing down here sir? Shouldn’t you be inside…?” he muttered, his straying from the field to the officer’s face.

[Moritz Erichsen]

“Yeah, I should,” Moritz mumbled in his hoarse rasp, his tone indicating how absolutely bored he was to engage himself with anything not involving military tactics, trollops or canned meat. It was important he should show up inside and help with some report – he was vaguely aware, he had only been informed of this on a last minute basis by a third party, since he had originally been dispatched to another camp to give some freshly enlisted soldiers a lesson or two about the war, but which had been cancelled the last moment due to the worsened weather condition. He took a deep drag from his English cigarette, and looked at the rain pelting down on the fields but, unlike the Corporal, he was far from enjoying it. Rain always posed a load of difficulties, starting from the muddy-brown ground the following hours which would hinder the intense training sessions planned beforehand by the Captain, or Moritz’s intent on testing a new gun that had come to his possession. His frustration with the rainy weather notwithstanding, at least it would provide for better seasonal crops, as distributed in the army.

He grumbled inside his throat, and then, with a last drag, he threw the cigarette on the ground and extinguished it by crushing it with his jackboot. “Boring shit,” he swore under his breath, and then with a final glance at the heavy rain, he turned around and looked at the Corporal, who was still staring at the scene with dreamy-like eyes, it was almost revolting, to the Lieutenant’s view at least. He furrowed his eyebrows and glimpsed at Colly as though the young man was the strangest creature on this planet; he could not understand these young at heart soldiers with their dreams still intact despite the wartime troubles and difficulties (but that was only because they had not lived through the war yet), their hopeless romances, their love letters, their optimistic glances upon the future, their idealism and hunger to prove themselves, their incapacity to understand what it was all about, for they were young and unknowledgeable – but Moritz was certain, in time, Colly would learn; learn through the hard way, just as he had, just as they all had. He turned to leave to the office, but then stopped halfway, and turned sideways to look at Colly. “And Colly … keep your head down low, and your feet on the ground. No one ever got an advantage from flying in the clouds; the only thing they got was a damn lightning that struck them with common sense. A god-damn lightning, that’s all,” he said, patted him sharply on the shoulder, and then left.

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod Post

CP:
Lieutenant Erichsen: 5CP

Corporal Colly: 3CP


~Dan