Oi! (Rhys + Brentwood [Possibly])

[♠ Aaron Mitchell]

Aaron stood just outside the briefing room, a cigarette in his mouth. The sun had set a few hours ago, but it was still barely eight in the evening, which meant a lot of work was still in progress all over the makeshift camp. The Seventh Armoured Division had temporarily been placed in France, and it was barely a camp. They had taken over the corner of a village, and the various houses all had different uses. Some were barracks, some garages for vehicles. Conveniently, the Officers had access to some of the nicer buildings, which, also conveniently, had some of the nicer alcohol hidden in their basements. How the Germans hadn’t found it was beyond Aaron, but he didn’t say no to a wee break with a cigarette and a glass of wine. It wasn’t his favourite drink, but it would do after a hard days work. He still liked to give the Squaddies a hand around base, which was one of the reasons he was so popular.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth, tapping it and letting some glowing ash fall to the ground as he took a mouthful of wine. He placed it back on the window ledge and had a look at his watch. Almost time to go back inside and fill a few more forms. Oh the sheer, unadulterated joy! Since he had told Sergeant McAlister, the highest ranking man in his platoon to go and be merry, he had been on his own, drowning under tonnes of paperwork. Every time somebody lost a rifle, he had to fill out a form, and it seemed like the joke of the month was to lose your rifle. Every time something was broken in one of the buildings, which was quite common, he had to fill in a form. It was a bloody pain in the arse.

He glanced around, vainly looking for something, or someone, to save him from death by pen and paper. The street seemed abandoned, apart from one man. He strained his eyes in the dark, before giving a little smile. Rhys Bevan, a Staff Sergeant in his company that he had yet to meet. As Aaron’s second in command, he probably should get to know him. He had been reading the man’s file earlier, and he didn’t seem the most boring of people. He’d do. Taking a quick puff on his death stick, he called out to the man. ”Bevan. Staff Sergeant, yes, you. Come here for a minute will you?”

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Within the short distance, the burly noise of a engine smoothly roared down the quiet French road, cascading a whole manner of different shadows along the walls from the jeep’s beaming headlights along the way. Descending a small hill, the jeep rolled down the opposite side and passed the local French pub littered with soldiers inside, merrily singing their hearts out and happily enjoying the night. No one had suspected they would be in France again so soon, after the fall of Dunkirk and the supreme power of fisherman putting their own lives at risk, they just about managed to get their boys home, enough manpower to put up a final fight for when Jerry invaded… The day never came.

Now they were in France again, but for Captain Brentwood, the feeling was mutual to say the least. The fighting in Africa and Egypt is where he longed to be, the Americans and British Infantry had France covered, it was up to units such as the “Desert Rats” that fought Rommel and the Afrikan Corps, so their little trip to France wasn’t being quite enjoyed by the Captain. He was out of his element.

“Nearly there Sir…” Corporal White spoke up from the deemed silence, trying to provoke the Officer into feeling better or talking. “So I see Corporal. Just pull up outside” Captain Brentwood requested, giving a brief look to the junior NCO driving the jeep, before noticing a more familiar figure outside of the building through the dim glow of the jeep’s headlights. Second-Lieutenant Mitchell hadn’t been in the “Desert Rats” for too long and neither had Captain Brentwood had the deemed pleasure of meeting him properly, the junior officer was always running errands, a shame for someone who had such a bright report for having enthusiasm and a bright future in the military, concerning battle tactics. It looked as if he done well during his period as a cadet in training.

The jeep’s break-pads screeched quietly as the vehicle rumbled up side of Second-Lieutenant Mitchell and the intelligence building. “Second-Lieutenant!” shouted out Captain Brentwood from the passenger’s seat, as he slowly climbed out from the hatch-back jeep, his finely polished boots clacking against the pavement’s kerb. Standing straight, he smiled at the fellow Officer, before looking back toward Corporal White in the driver’s seat - “Take in my briefcase would you Corporal and make yourself a cup of tea - you can sit in my office” he added nicely, but also displayed the fact he wasn’t finished with the Corporal to be dismissed just yet. “Yes Sir”[/I] he responded faintly, turning the ignition to the car off and climbing out, reaching into the jeep’s rear-side for the Captain’s brown briefcase, saluting the two officer as he passed them to enter the building.

Finally, Captain Brentwood faced Second-Lieutenant Mitchell properly and held his hand out “Nice to see you again Second-Lieutenant, how’s things?” he asked politely, watching the man before him juggle a cigarette and bottle of wine against the window ledge. “Night-cap?” he asked curiously, raising a brow at the bottle of wine, before winking. Stripping his scalp from the Officer’s hat, he ran a hand through his short length hair and licked at his lips, already mentally hearing the kettle brew inside.

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys leaned against the steady bark of the oak tree, deep in thought. The tree offered decent shade; he was cloaked in shadow. Rhys ran a hand through his raven-like hair and slumped pathetically against the trunk. He had grown more and more dissilusioned with the war that was eating away at the world with every passing day. The shadow was growing, creeping across the continents, withering all that was good and green. It was like...a vulture encircling its prey. And Rhys Bevan...well...he was right in the middle.

A man had fallen today during the attack on the village, shot down by a German sniper as he charged up to the main gates. Just one man. An insignificant figure in the grand scheme of things, just a private. Rhys hadn't even known his name. But he was still dead. And was even one life, one seemingly insignificant life, worth the hollow victory of winning the war? His parents would grieve over his death, his family, his friends. Every man who fell, every passing figure Rhys had seen descend into the darkness, left someone behind. How many had died? And how many were now alone?

Rhys was suddenly thrown from his thoughts by a sudden ungentlemanly shouting from the direction of the improvised officer's mess. Second Lieteunant Aaron Mitchell. He knew the man from sight but had never spoken to him, or had had any intentions to doing so. Mitchell it seemed had other ideas.

"Sir?" he echoed, a tad dazed at the sudden dragging from his thoughts. "Umm...yes, sir, of course,"

Rhys was about to step up to join the officer but was cowed into obsurity by the sudden appearance of Captain Brentwood. The Staff Sergeant stepped back into the shadows, awkwardly between his two superiors. He knew Brentwood well of course; the man had practically saved his life during the London Blitz, but he would never describe him as his friend. Despite this, he liked Brentwood a lot more than most of the other NCO's and private soldiers and liked to think that he was held in a vaguely high regard by the officer.

The Staff Sergeant retreated back to his tree and withdrew a slightly battered volume of Bleak House although he knew he wouldn't be able to read anything that day. The death of the private would see to that.

[♠ Aaron Mitchell]

Looking up at the approaching Jeep, semi-interested in the inhabitants, wondering if it was anybody of particular interest. Sod’s law said that it was going to be some twit of a General with a rod so far up his arse that it was practically coming out of his mouth. Indeed, it was a nice surprise when the passenger turned out to be Captain Brentwood. Dropping the cigarette, and snapping to attention, stamping out the glowing stick with his boot in the process, he saluted his CO. He’d met the Captain in passing, and once had even asked him to pass the salt in the mess hall, but never had he been given the chance for a proper conversation with the man.

He went to remove his hat before noticing that it was still on his desk, he began the politeness with Brentwood. ”I’m fine this evening, Sir, yourself?” Raising his eyebrows briefly, at the nightcap question, he responded, trying to look a little put out for the man in front on him. ”I certainly wish, sir, I’ve got a heap of paperwork inside that needs seeing to, just thought I’d pop out here for a little break. Could you excuse me for a second?”

He turned back towards Bevan, leaning against a tree without a care in the world from the distance. ”The tree doesn’t need holding up, Staff Sergeant,” he’d heard that line so many times when he was fresh, and he’d never really had chance to use it, or one of the many variants it had, ”Come on, over here.”

He turned back to Brentwood. ”Where are my manners, sir? Would you like to step inside for a minute? I have some more glasses if you’re interested, some cigarettes as well if you’re partial to a smoke.” He raised his eyebrows as he said this, and reached out behind him, pushing the door open to allow his superior to enter if he so wished. There wasn’t much wind that night, but that wasn’t to say it wasn’t chilly outside. The winter that had landed upon them in the last few weeks had been a ferocious one, and the relatively mild evening was a nice change of pace. It still wasn’t short sleeve weather, which was what he had been promised when he transferred to the Desert Rats, but he consoled himself with the fact that it was a lot less drastic than Russia, which, the last he had heard, was where his old regiment, the Lincolnshire Regiment had been deployed. The poor sods.

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Running a hand across the flat surface of his karki’ coloured officer’s cap, he brushed off any imperfections of fluff and quietly listened to the Second-Lieutenant respond to his questions. If it were one thing he could sympathise with the junior officer, was the knack for getting paperwork, although, it didn’t get any better as you worked your way up the ladder - Captain Brentwood had already signed off several deceased letters to numerous soldier’s families within the day, the poor sods had been rotting cold for a few days and only now their paperwork had been pushed through to notify the families; A cruel thing was war, but so was the red tape.

“Good, Good…” he replied with a faint tone, after hearing the officer was all alright, before speaking up for himself. “Yes I’m quite fine thank you” was the simple answer he always gave when questioned with his health, when it came to the woman however, he milked it for what it was worth. Abruptly the Second-Lieutenant bided to be excused and called over to a Staff-Sergeant lurking within the distance; A sneaky little bugger to say the least, he hadn’t noticed anyone else around.

Squinting, Captain Brentwood strained to look through the dark, barely making out the man’s features, until it dawned on him. “Staff Sergeant Bevan?” he questioned strongly, a puff of cold air escaping his lips from the partially muggy night. “Do come in Sergeant, you’ll catch a cold” he invited with a grin, hoping to entice the male for some quality time away from the weather and thoughts. Returning his gaze unto’ the Second-Lieutenant who’d already opened the door and encouragingly enticed himself, Captain Brentwood broadened his smile and took a longing step onwards towards the door. “Don’t quite mind if I do” he added in a cheery tone, perhaps the first time he’d been reasonably happy all week. .

Brushing past the Second-Lieutenant and dipping his head in through the door, he noticed a young private jump from his seat and salute him; The young man was nothing but a boy, most probably a typist or errand boy of sorts. Saluting back more casually than the stiff youngster to attention, he looked back for the Second-Lieutenant and hopefully the Staff-Sergeant to follow. “Nice and warm in here” he complimented to the atmosphere, planting his Officer’s hat upon a nearby coat rack against the wall. “Sir, would you like a drink at all - sir?”[/I] the youngster asked nervously, before noticing the others coming in after the Captain. “We have tea, coffee, whisky”[/I] he read off mentally, but Captain Brentwood shook his head. “Why don’t you go make yourself a tea lad, it’ll do you no good sitting by the door all night - oh do keep an eye on my jeep outside though” he requested, smiling somewhat. Liam was never the type of person to be at attention, he liked people to feel comfortable around him now - he was quite the menace back in the Royal Marine Commandos though.

Moving in through a nearby door, after telling the youngster to take a break and keep a wary eye out-front, he licked his lips and gazed around the room at the cabinets and leather chairs; Most of which were abducted from neighbouring cottages and buildings to be placed here. “So - Mitchell, fancy grabbing me that glass?” he asked with a mischievous grin, rubbing his hands together to burn some warmth, before his devilish fingers began to undo some tunic buttons for comfort.

[♠ Aaron Mitchell]

All the while, Mitchell was watching Brentwood, trying to get a better understanding of the man. He seemed nice enough for a CO, trying to get on with his subordinates, which always helped. If your men respected you and trusted you, then they were more likely to obey your commands.

He followed him through the door, and made a turn, walking down to the far end of the room to a wooden cupboard. It was covered in dust and cobwebs, but when he opened it up, several freshly cleaned glasses sat upon the wooden rack. Selecting one, he carefully pulled it out, and reached down to the wooden frame below and selected a bottle at random. A red, with a peeling label, slightly water damaged. But the cork and wax was intact, so it would serve the purpose. He span on his heels and marched back across to Brentwood, holding the bottle in such a manner as the label was being displayed. He looked vainly for a bottle opener on the desk, so instead drew his knife, and used the tip to pull out the cork. ”Just leave that to breath for a minute,” he said as he stepped backwards, looking for some chairs where they could it in reasonable comfort without spilling alcohol over the paperwork. If he had to do it again, Mitchell honestly would choke somebody.

”So, is there any word from command about what we’re going to do? Is play suspended for Christmas, or are we going to give Jerry a Yule-time thrashing?” As he asked this, he picked up a large stack of papers and moved them over to a filing cabinet, where they wobbled precariously for a second before settling down. ”Please,” Aaron said, ”Take a seat sir.”

”Our Italian friend has decided to stay quiet, thus far, I’m going to take a ride back to HQ and see him in the morning, see if he’s feeling a bit more chatty. I can’t help but feel that Hitler is planning something, and our man may know when and where. It seems a bit peaceful of him to take this retreat, eh?” A bit informal, the whole ‘eh’ business, but he wanted to give the impression that he was completely comfortable here, and so could the Captain be.

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

Softly pacing across the room casually, Captain Brentwood wriggled two of his nimble fingers into his chest pocket and slipped out a small sterling silver case that homed his tobacco and cigarettes. Gazing off towards the window, he mentally noted on having some black drapes or boards put up, as the building was reasonably lit up like a Christmas tree to any scouting Nazi aircrafts overhead. The least he’d want was his second-in-command being blown sky-high by a lack of thought from his superiors or subordinates for that matter.

Glancing briefly at the Second-Lieutenant the moment he brought over some wine and shifted some paperwork, he made himself busy and unclipped the small catch to his silver case, preciously held between the light dimples of his fingertips. Opening it slowly, he pushed some of the loose dry strands of tobacco back into their place and slipped out a pre-made roll-up neatly slid beneath one of the plastic strands within the case. “Cigarette?” he offered curiously, stepping closer to the desk to place the silver case upon it, as if to subliminally say; “Help yourself” whilst he made himself busy in fishing out a matching silver lighter.

Listening the whole while Second-Lieutenant Mitchell spoke, Captain Brentwood fell down into one of the seats appointed to him courteously and grinned. “Oh you know the routine Secound-Lieutenant…” he said mildly in response to his question about a Christmas time thrashing. “Dear old Churchill will report a blessed peace this Christmas time to the papers, whilst us lot slug it out. You can guarantee there will be a Christmas surprise in store” he entailed out after, not giving too much away, as it was wise to keep everyone happy until the last moment - there was no real need in worrying your men now right? Restless night sleep didn’t do anyone a bag of good.

Rolling the cigarette between his fingers, he eventually placed it upon his lips and lit it up. Taking a well needed puff, he relaxed back into the chair and folded his leg up, looking quite comfortable to say the least. “Our Italian friend eh?” he repeated after the Second-Lieutenant had spoken for the second time, pulling a look of curiousness at the gesture of him perhaps knowing something? Thoughtfully taking another puff on his cigarette, thinking over the matter for a few seconds, he tipped his head to look at the Second-Lieutenant and nodded softly. “It could be possible, but the Italians know very little of the Nazi’s intentions. It’s predicted they will fall flat by this time next year, before even. Those Italian bastards are like the French Mitchell! Give them half a chance and they’ll turn their coats inside out, swapping sides like this was a big ol’ game” he bantered, Captain Brentwood despised the French and Italians more over the Germans - He was a mere Lieutenant himself during the period of Dunkirk, damned French, they bent over to the Germans the moment they were considered to be losing the battle.

Sighing, he took another puff on his cigarette and realised that the drinks hadn’t been poured yet. “Do pass us a glass of that wine, I’m quite parched” he said thirstily, not wanting to seem pompass, but since he’d been promoted to Captain, he’d quite gotten used to taking it easier than he did when he were a Lieutenant. “So how’s the family Mitchell?” he asked politely, fluffing open his tunic some at the top, getting a little warm. “They getting everything they need? I would be quite happy to have an extra ration book sent to them if not” he offered, knowing with the superiority of being a Captain, it wasn’t so hard to have a dead-man’s ration go to better use; It was Christmas after-all.

[♠ Aaron Mitchell]

Aaron smiled as the officer pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and he flicked the pack open, offering a cigarette to his superior first before pulling himself one out and lighting it up, puffing slightly to get it burning. He took a puff and pulled it out to allow him to speak. He let out a little grunt at the Christmas remark as if to say ’Oh, won’t that be a load of fun.’

”No surprises there then, seems like, well, just about every other Christmas out here really.” He lapsed back into silence to allow the Captain to continue, gently puffing away. He felt the Captain was keeping something quiet, but he didn’t want to push him, he had a relatively pleasant life at the moment. A Gentleman’s war so to speak, even though he had to go out to a godforsaken French hell hole in the next few days.

He carried on listening to his CO and his opinion over the Italian’s, smirking a little bit at the French comment. Was it to much to ask for an Ally to that would actually stay with them throughout the war? ”Still, I’ll keep at him, there’s always a chance he could tell us that one small detail that’ll save our guys. We don’t want another Bevan happening do we?” The Staff Sergeant had died under mysterious circumstances in Africa. The only way they had ID’d the man was a tattered rank slide and the dead soldiers littering the area around him. He’d gone down with a fight, and taken a load of SS bastards with him, but it was still a tragic loss.

As the Officer went on about wine, Aaron rested the cigarette on an ash tray and stood took a few steps to the wine, pouring out two glasses full of the liquid. It looked a very rich drink, quite a nice way to spend the evening as he passed the first glass to the Captain, and rested his on the table. ”My family? They’re fine. I’ve been trying to get back to see them for a few weeks now, but I haven’t had a chance to go. Rushed off my feet and all that, but I should hopefully see them in the New Year. They haven’t seen me since my promotion to Officer, and they’re a bit disappointed.” As Brentwood talked about ration books, the Lieutenant took a sip of wine. Very nice, it was, and as he swallowed it he shook his head. ”Oh, they’re fine for food and that. They own a Butchery, so there are always a few spare sausages at the end of the day or whatever. Not many bombs going up to Lincoln either, and all those RAF bases their keep them safe. They’ve got a pretty easy war, really.” He thought it would be best to keep the conversation in a nice light manner for now. Perhaps they could forget the war for a bit. ”And how is your family back home, Sir? London’s a bit of a rough place these days, I hear.” He’d picked up on the accent the first time he’d met the Officer, but it occurred to him after saying that the Officer’s parents could well be dead, or maybe not even live in London. He took a large suck on the cigarette instead of speaking again. He may have just stuck his foot in a rather large pile of shit.

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Um...yeah...old might cover it

Mitchell - 9CP

Brentwood - 7CP

Bevan - 3CP (will go to Ealing since you are dead)

-JT