Sunburn

[kessel]

Boots hitting and thumping the muddy ground hard, James Kessel kept running around the quarter mile track. This was his fifth lap, and he was beginning to feel the strain on his legs. He wore his uniform, as well as his bergan, webbing, and had his weapon hanging over his shoulder on a strap. He wanted to complete at least twelve laps which constituted three miles. Doing this every other day kept him fit and healthy, but also pushed him towards his limit. There was fit, soldier fit, then para fit. He needed to be at the very end of para fit, and unfortunately running, soaked to the skin in your own sweat was the only way to do it. After all, a bit of effort here, might just save your life in the field.

He looked down at his now mud splattered boots, which would need at least half an hour to scrub and shine. But he wouldn’t have to take a parade for at least a few days, so he’d have more than enough time. He wondered when all this transfer stuff would be over. The bureaucracy in the military these days wasn’t as terrible as it had been in years gone by, but it was still far from perfect. Why did things have to take so long, when all that was needed were a few scribbled signatures?

Kessel neared half way around the track and moved the heavy straps around on his shoulder; they were beginning to rub. It was a hot day, and he didn’t want more pain than he had to. He reached for his water bottle and took a long drink until it was nearly empty, before pouring the remaining contents over his head and light blonde hair. It was a nice relief against the warm of the sun, even if it would give him sunburn.

[logancastle]

"One, two, three, four, five..." Logan grunted as he pushed himself up off of the ground with his hands five times. Push ups were demanding, but the Warrant Officer did at least fifty of them each day he was at base. He preferred Anaerobic exercise much more than running. Logan loathed running, and he had for as long as the Scotsman could remember. But thick layers of heavy muscle coated his arms, chest, and stomach, a result of the excessive strength training he had forced himself into since he had joined up in the service. "Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen..."

The hot sun beat down, making the mud he was lying in warm and making his pale, burly arms feel tingly. Logan hoped he would not get sunburn, for he had never tanned in his life. It was one of the cons of living in rainy, dark Scotland. By the time Logan had hit fifty for push ups his white undershirt's front had been coated with a layer of black, sticky mud. Logan sat up and walked back to his barracks, walking through the open door. All the bunks lay empty, all soldiers were out training or at the local pub. Logan liked it that way. Sitting down on the white bedding of his bunk, Logan unscrewed the cap of his old, dented canteen. Taking several long sips, the NCO caught his breath as he screwed the cap back on the canteen. Time to get into uniform thought, rolling his eyes almost unnoticeable. Changing his soiled undershirt, Logan changed into his tan tunic and trousers. The soldier only clipped his belt on, not the straps. His shovel, bag, and canteen hung from it, slapping limply on his thighs. The soldier itched his large sideburns while looking for his helmet, which he found nestled between the wall and his bunk. Plopping it on top of his head, the Scotsman lit the pipe he kept in his bag at all times with the tobacco from a spare cigarette. Sticking it between his lips, the Warrant Officer walked out of the bunk and toward the training area.

A officer, looking red in the face, emptied a water bottle's contents onto his blond hair, making it just a bit darker. Logan trotted up to the man, and spoke in his Scottish accent playfully "Eye, sir, ya know yur gonna get sunburned."

[Niamh Dunlevy]

The kitchen was a terrible place to be in the summer heat. Sweat trickled down Niamh's face, the woman taking deep breaths as she leaned against the wall outside of the French base's kitchen, relieved to have gotten away from the ovens for a while. They were going full blast, preparing a load of buns and bread for lunchtime, which was only in a couple of hours. Sooner or later, Niamh would have to back in there, lest she be faced with angry, hungry soldiers and an even angrier Section Leader Fell.

Wiping off her brow with one arm, Niamh sighed tiredly, then shook off her hand. The land around her was quickly drying in the sun, having been soaked by a heavy rain a couple of days before, but the nearby running track was still muddy. It seemed as if God was trying to give the soldiers a hand, challenging them as they tore around that track like racehorses in a steeplechase. In fact, there was a man out there now who challenged himself, a fellow Commonwealth member by the looks of his uniform. A small smile pulling at the edges of her lips, Niamh strode over to the track. Another soldier was also doing so, but Niamh paid him little attention.

As soon as she reached the end of the track, Niamh halted, and sat down on a nearby overturned crate. The boys had a habit of making bets on the track - who could run the longest, who could crawl through the mud the longest...the list was, amusingly enough, endless. Thus, when word got around that quid was being passed, the soldiers flocked to the track, and they needed somewhere to sit; crates from the kitchens were a perfect solution. They were even left behind for future use, so that was a bit of a relief in this case.

Sitting down on a crate, Niamh crossed her legs and watched quietly from afar, still smiling. If she was lucky, then the two men would become like colts and go head-to-head, providing some much-needed entertainment. If not, the Pavee was perfectly fine with just keeping silent and watching.

[kessel]

A soldier moved up beside Kessell as he kept on jogging. The man didn’t look anywhere near as hot as Kessel felt, but the water was helping mildly, evening if his armpits stung like unbeknown hell. The NCO glanced at him, an RSM, and spoke to him in what sound the accent of a Scotchman. The Captain nearly grinned at the comment. “When you’ve had every cell of your face burnt, in the unyielding deserts of Africa, Sergeant Major, your skin becomes leather. I’ve been burnt more times than you’ve had hot meals.”

Kessel upped his pace slightly, as he chest began to hurt, and he began to feel a stitch coming on. He needed to finish this soon and get out of the heat. What he’d said about Africa was true. Sunburn and scorching temperatures were so systemic you simply became used to them, or you we sent back. It was as simple as that. There was no place for a weak man in the British Army. Because Germany would make sure they didn’t have any weak men either. Those men were sent back for menial tasks, guarding barracks, pushing paper, that sort of thing.

Kessel had covered nearly another eight of a mile, keeping at his steady pace, his boots still thumping the damp earth with the same vigour as they had at the beginning. Stitches were a mere annoyance, but the German pursuing you through the desert would not stop simply for a stitch, and so you would have to learn to deal with it. It was all self-motivation, even if it was remarkably close to the truth.

[logancastle]

“When you’ve had every cell of your face burnt, in the unyielding deserts of Africa, Sergeant Major, your skin becomes leather. I’ve been burnt more times than you’ve had hot meals.” The Captain spoke, jogging around the track. [Hotshot, Logan thought. The man's light blond hair bounced on his head as his boots hit the ground, kicking up mud. A young woman walked over, sitting on a nearby crate.

"Aye, aye, Ah can see yer face is quite leaithery." The Sergeant Major said, winking. "Sae, ye up fur race? Ah will nae gang hard oan ye, sairrr. The man said, hoping to kindle the officer's pride and get him angry. That would be fun. If he dared demote Logan, the officer would be dead within a week. But if Logan played his cards carefully, he could make it so he had no reason to demote him. The NCO walked over to the officer, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his tunic and tossing his helmet into a patch of grass. "Ye want tae race ur nae, laddie?" Logan said, jogging up beside the officer and raising his hand to his head in salute. The officer would probably win, but Logan would hopefully come up close. If not, the officer would have bragging rights.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Through the thick Scottish brogue the one soldier was speaking, Niamh could decipher he wanted to race. Like a young stallion, wringing its tail and prancing around anxiously, the man wanted to fight his superior. The fight would not be one of blows, however - it would be a fight to see who was the fastest, who had the most stamina. It wasn't hard to see why Niamh sometimes found people predictable; they often acted like horses, whether a person be lass or lad, young or old, fresh meat or veteran soldier.

With a cocky stride, the Scotsman unbuttoned the top part of his tunic, and threw his helmet to the side. His long, muscular legs carried him over to the other soldier, and the Scot kept his pace at a jog. He asked the other if he wanted to race then and there, and Niamh snorted quietly in amusement. How daring, thought the Pavee, the words in her head dripping with sarcasm. The sight brought back memories of her childhood, when many of her relatives often competed with each other. Her uncle Daragh's four oldest boys - Cillian, Radclyffe, Hiram, and Brian Dunlevy - were especially notorious for being proud and competitive. To that day, they still were, even though being in the army had humbled them a bit.

Deciding that no one was looking, Niamh's hands reached up to the bun in her hair, which kept her shoulder-length hair back. With no hesitation, the Pavee undid the bun, her hair falling down onto her shoulders. The Auxiliary Territorial Service - the British army's female branch, and the branch Niamh served in - had strict regulations on hair, just like the men's branches did. If it went past a woman's collar, then that woman would be reprimanded, and ordered to shorten it. Many women simply cut off any excess hair, but there were a few like Niamh who had decided to just put it in a bun or a high ponytail. Their reasons for such varied, but many, including Niamh, did it simply because they liked long hair. Ironically enough, Niamh was mostly practical by nature, and the length and tangles of long hair could be quite the opposite. This was especially true in wooded areas, Niamh found, and more then once had her hair snagged on a branch.

With a content sigh, her hair spilling onto her collar and tickling her cheeks and neck, the Pavee waited for the show to start. Hopefully, there would be a little amusing trash talk during the run, including some rather...creative insults Niamh could giggle at later. Things like that often tickled the young woman's sense of humour - that, and some rather quirky things, such as someone sticking straws up their nose and pretending to be a walrus.

Her cousin Brian always did it at someone's birthday if there were straws lying around.

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The following CP has been issued:

Kessel - 3

Castle - 2, had a short post.

Dunlevy - 5

-JT