Wait For the Train [Open]

[Leeroy Atherton]

Country: Lovely, lovely England, in the southeast near the Bristol Channel. The town is a market town, bearing the name "Highbridge", and is six minutes southwest of Burnham-on-Sea. Click me for a map of the RP's setting!

Time: 11:37
Weather Conditions: Overcast, with some light rain. The thermometers read between fifteen and seventeen degrees Celsius.

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Leeroy stood soundlessly, hands in the pockets of her anorak, a neutral expression upon her face. The soft pitter-patter of England's near-constant rain could be heard lightly hitting the shelter above her. Quickly glancing at her watch, she frowned at the time - eleven thirty-seven. A few people stood nearby, waiting for the next of the trains that came to the Highbridge station in fewer and fewer numbers. It might have been a time of war, but there were faster routes for supplies to get through, and the lines in the area could be notoriously slow.

It made sense, then, that the people she was waiting for were more than an hour and a half late. However, whether there was a good reason or not, missed deadlines always made things inefficient. And, Leeroy was an efficient person by nature. At the Traveller, so many guests depended on deadlines being met - the fees for stays had to be paid attention to to avoid overcharging a customer, food had to be done by a certain time, and time for laundry duty was often crunched to a few hours in the early morning and early afternoon. There were more examples Leeroy could think of, but she didn't want to; instead, she wanted the train to arrive. Apparently, the local Land Girl farms were shipping out a large delivery of supplies to Allied British bases, and Leeroy's farm had sent her as a representative. She was to negotiate how much of the vegetables and other produce to send and where to send it.

However, she could not do that if the man she was meeting with came any later. It was her turn to buy grain for the dairy cows again, and she had a six-hour shift at the Traveller at five in the evening. Negotiations would probably take a couple of hours, which only gave Leeroy limited time to do a petrol run (her motorbike was running low), buy a few groceries, and go to the tailor's to pick up a few of her skirts. Foot tapping impatiently, she looked around, then glanced at her watch again.

Three minutes had passed. Three minutes that, if she could add, had been shaved off of her schedule. This was ridiculous; did the army know nothing of punctually? Weren't they the ones who were always going after the new recruits to be on time? Or had someone found out she was a Romanichal and were taking their sweet time in meeting what some people called a "thief" and a "witch"? Leeroy wouldn't put it past the Gorgio; they could be a self-centered lot. Not all, but most.

[Hosp. Aid Patrick O'Connors]

As Patrick walked to the train station or at least what he thought was a train station. He walked to the waiting area and looked to the people waiting. He looked to leeroy and asked her a question "Excuse me M'am is this the train station and how would i get to a tavern from here?". Patrick smiled while asking this and before she answered he looked to the other people and the clothes they wore. He than looked back to leeroy. After her answer he nodded and replied with "Thanks, are you waiting for someone also?". He than reached into his medical feeling around to make sure he had everything.




After realizing he had everything and completely ignored her answer to the question, he looked back up to her and nodded and pretended that he heard her response to the question. "My names Patrick by the way M'am". Nodding while he said this, he didn't have his watch on him and was wondering the time. "oh and M'am do you have the time?".

[Nikolai A. Syratov]

Kolya breathed in deeply as he exited the small inn were he was staying, taking in the fresh English air. The Russian looked like a regular Son of the Cossacks, his blond hair slicked and combed back fashionably, blue eyes sparkling, the same shade of the small droplets of rain that pelted on the town of Highbridge. A small cap adorned with a red star sat slightly cocked on his head, the same tan fabric as his Red Army tunic and trousers. The tin buttons shined brilliantly, for Kolya had polished them many times on the long trip to England. His collar was adorned with the Soviet emblem and his shoulder boards showed the rank of Praporshchik, not that any Briton would be able to decipher two stars and red border. His black boots were slick with polish, and the hobnails made tiny clacks as he walked against the British pavement. England was such a fresh land, untouched by war, small children still walked the streets, no dead bodies strewn across frozen rivers, no women being recruited into full military service. Shudders and floorboards had not been ripped up for firewood, nor where cannibals luring people into their apartments to butcher them for supper. It was a refreshing reminder the world was not all torn to shreds by fascist bastards.

The trip to the English Isles had been long and dangerous, the fear of being caught or blown up by the Germans always etching at the back of your mind. Kolya had been trapped in besieged Moscow, fighting Germans by day and criminals by night. He was ecstatic when his old employer, The Red Star Army newspaper, had offered him to travel to Britain to do research for an article on Russia’s island ally. He had left by air at noon, just when the Nazi anti-aircraft guns were least attentive. His plane had narrowly missed certain death exiting Moscow, and took a route over Axis occupied Scandinavia. The plane had landed in Free Scandinavian territory, where they smuggled Kolya onto a small fishing boat that was headed to Britain. They weaved their way through the sea, before landing and stepping into Allied territory for the first time in weeks.

Kolya reached in his chest pocket and pulled out the small pad of paper he wrote his reporting on. A stub of a pencil was thrust through the wire binding the notebook, and he took it out with nimble fingers and flipped open the Hammer-And- Sickle adorned cover flap. He flipped past four pages of the Russian language, information gathered from his first three days in Britain. He paused in the rain and looked around for any people he could possibly interview, and saw a small covered hut filled with people to his left. He couldn’t read the sign, but it was next to a stretch or train tracks, and he assumed it was a train station. He walked briskly over, rubbing his clean shaven chin out of habit. He stuck the pencil behind his ear as he trotted up a small flight of stairs leading to the station. The British citizen’s eyes became glued to the strange Russian, all wanting to ask him a question but none daring to. A man in an American uniform chatted with a young woman, so he walked over and as curtly as he could ask his standard first question. “Hello, my name is Nikolai Alexandrovich Vlasov, but you can call me Kolya. I am with the Red Star, the Russian army’s fantastic weekly newspaper. If you want, I can show you some papers, but I think there is no need for that, comrades. I am reporting for an article about your motherland, Britain, and am wondering if I may ask you a few questions?” He said in remarkably good English, but made no attempt to mask his heavy accent.

[Hosp. Aid Patrick O'Connors]

Once he finished talking to leeroy he heard a man speak with a heavy Russian accent. He thought to himself "A Russian here? in Britain?". He turned and looked to the Russian " Nice to meet you Koyla, I'm Patrick O'Connors but you can call me Pat. Yes you may ask me some questions about this country but i must warn you, i'm not from here." After he spoke to the Russian he looked back to Leeroy. "Sorry M'am but i must answer this gentleman". Patrick than turned back to Koyla. "Well what to say of Britain, the women are nice the booze is great and the people are kind and have nice accents and Britain is very beautiful. Does that help you Koyla?"




While waiting for a response Patrick thought of home and how he would run around on the farm and wondered who was taking care of the farm since his grandparents died. He thought of each Sunday morning waking up and taking care of the animals. He thought of harvesting the crops in the fall and slaughtering a couple chickens for food every so often, but what he thought most of was hanging out with friends around town and how life was before the war. He loved the smell of the farm every morning and hearing his grandpa tell him stories of the first world war. He wanted to break down and sob but he tried his best not to.

Every so often Patrick would peek back at Leeroy and see if the person she was waiting for arrived yet. He than looked back to Koyla and said "Britain has many good things but the best thing here is having you buddies from your company to be with you when you need to talk to someone. Their also good for when you want someone to drink with, now koyla where in east Europe are you from? yes i have noticed your heavy accent and if you don't mind me saying good English for being from a non English speaking country". Patrick waited to here what Koyla was going to say next. Instead of listening to what he said he looked back to leeroy.

[Leeroy Atherton]

Leeroy turned her head towards the sound of approaching footsteps. She politely smiled in greeting at the man coming towards her, the lad dressed in an American military uniform. From what she could gather from his white bag and its red-circled cross, he worked with the Red Cross; a noble profession. And from the hesitant, slightly confused look on his face, he was also lost.

"Yes, thiz be the train station," replied Leeroy. She could not help but feel slightly hesitant herself, seeing him stand there; it was most likely he was not of Romani blood, and he could be just another Gorgio that went on about the "filthiness" of her people. However, as long as she gave no indication of her heritage, he would most likely leave her be. "And I be believing there is a tavern not too var vrom here, either. I apologize, I cannot be recalling its name at the moment."

"Are you waiting for someone also?" the Red Cross man then said, completely changing the subject to small talk once he had an answer. Leeroy nodded.

"Yez, I be waiting for zomeone 'ere. They bizt a bit late, but I be not blaming them; 'e's a zlow one, the train coming thiz way."

After a brief moment of silence, the Red Cross man piped up again, saying his name was Patrick. Once again, Leeroy nodded, making an "mhm-hm" sound. She then introduced herself, saying, "And mine bizt Leeroy. It bizt a pleazure to make your acquaintance, Patrick. Oh, and the time? It be...."

The woman glanced down at the watch on her wrist. "...Cloze to twelve."

Quicker, heavier footsteps came to Leeroy's ears, as if they had more purpose. She glanced up, and like the rest of her countrymen there, her eyes widened and her eyebrows raised up. The blue-eyed, blond-haired fellow wore a cap adorned with a hammer and sickle, wearing a heavy coat adorned with military-esque badges and insignia. "Communist" was the first thing that popped into Leeroy's head, and her suspicions were confirmed when the man spoke with a heavy, foreign accent. He called himself "Nikolai Alexandrovich Vlasov", or "Kolya" for short, and he was apparently writing an article on Britain. Leeroy leaned back slightly as Patrick excused himself, the Romanichal slightly intimidated by the Soviet man.

As the American talked, he often glanced back at Leeroy, and this made her a little more nervous each time. Was something wrong? Had the man guessed her ethnicity already? There wasn't a need to stare at her, in Leeroy's eyes. She was just another Land Girl, helping Britain like all the other grown women did, and was waiting for a train to come.

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OOC - So does this mean the new posting order is Patrick, Leeroy, Kolya?

[Nikolai A. Syratov]

The man in the American uniform turned to Kolya, revealing a white band wrapped around his left arm, enclosing a small red cross. The soldier also had the same insignia on a small leather pouch slung over his shoulder, and the Russian assumed he was with the American Red Cross. Well enough, it would give a good ring to the article. He met Kolya with a cheery smile, his mouth forming an introduction. “Nice to meet you Kolya, I’m Patrick O’Connors, but you can call me Pat. Yes, you may ask me some questions, but I must warn you, I’m not from here.” Kolya nodded slightly and said “That is fine, comrade, it will be nice to get another foreigner’s opinion.”

The young American turned to the woman he was chatting with before and excused himself politely, before turning to Kolya again. Meanwhile, Kolya had begun jotting down the man’s name in Russian, the angular characters forming from the tip of his stubby pencil. “Well what to say of Britain, the women are nice the booze is great and the people are kind and have nice accents and Britain is very beautiful. Does that help you Kolya?” The Russian nodded as he scrawled down the American’s words: good women, alcohol, kind, accents, and beautiful land. Didn’t sound like all that bad of a place. The Praporshchnik’s blue eyes drifted up from the notepad to the American again, and saw that the medic looked withdrawn, as if he was thinking of something distant. Kolya could not blame him, for he too longed for Mother Russia. What a patriotic bastard I am, Kolya thought, but could not help daydreaming about his homeland too. But now it was ravaged by the Nazis, the great cities wiped out, ancient monuments toppled and covered in graffiti.

Kolya was awakened from his distraction as the American spoke to him again. "Britain has many good things but the best thing here is having you buddies from your company to be with you when you need to talk to someone. Their also good for when you want someone to drink with, now kolya where in east Europe are you from? Yes I have noticed your heavy accent and if you don't mind me saying good English for being from a non English speaking country" The American asked, leading Kolya to jot down more words. He was slightly stunned by the last question about where he was from, and cleared his throat to mask his surprise. “I am from Russia, Leningrad to be more specific. Beautiful land, you should visit it sometime. Well, not so beautiful anymore, now that the fascists are crawling all over everything.” Kolya said, listening to the soft drum of rain on the roof. “Now excuse me comrade medic, for I shall like to speak to this young lady. Get some different viewpoints, yes?” Kolya thanked the young American and walked over the woman.


“Hello, you are from Britain, if I am not mistaken, yes?”

[Hosp. Aid Patrick O'Connors]

Patrick nodded to Koyla. Before Koyla talked to Leeroy Patrick quickly said to her "it is nice to meet you but i must get going perhaps i'll see you around sometime". Patrick than walked off down the road and stopped. He quickly thought of the words that Koyla had said about Leningrad being beautiful and thought to himself "Ha beautiful? mhm maybe long time ago but with them krauts invading hell no". Patrick than laughed to himself.


Patrick looked back to Koyla and Leeroy they looked tiny now but he still waved toward them and walked off. He looked for the nearest tavern. He did not see one in sight, so he continued to walk down the street. After getting lost he decided to head back toward the train station. He kept mumbling to himself "Shit shit lost again". Once he arrived back at the train station he looked to Koyla and Leeroy talking. He interrupted politely, "Excuse me M'am if you don't mind me asking again what street was that tavern on again? I seem to get lost easily here". Patrick chuckled a bit. After getting which street the tavern was on he nodded and said "Thank you M'am for helping me and for your time". He than nodded to Koyla and walked down the road. He headed toward the direction the tavern was located.

[Leeroy Atherton]

"It a-bist a pleazure to be a-meeting you az well," Leeroy replied, giving a polite nod and a smile to the retreating form of the American. Despite the pleasant, comfortable look on her face on the outside, Leeroy was becoming more anxious by the moment. The many questions she was receiving reminded her of her questioned ethnicity, of all the "Gypsy" slander that came in some answers. What was this man, a prying little snitch for someone?! The current times were a time of war, and one side was said to lock up almost anyone, including Roma!

But instead of voicing her feelings, the Romanichal nodded and said, "Yes, I be a Britizh lady. I assume 'ee 'ave zome questionz vor me, good zir?" Hopefully, the man was true in saying who he was, and there were no ulterior motives beneath his friendly surface. Everyone could have a hidden side; it was just one of human nature's little quirks. It was what made people dishonest, or hesitant, like Leeroy there and then.

"Zir, iv I may azk, what art 'ee be lookin' vor?" asked Leeroy after a brief pause. "Do you want to be knowing of my home, or maybe Britain 'imself? I be a bit confuzed to what you be talking about - "

Suddenly, the American reappeared out of nowhere, looking more confused than he had been before. Leeroy watched him carefully as he spoke, although she forced herself to look neutral with every inch of her being. The American was repeating his tavern question, and again, Leeroy could not help him. She shook her head and said, "There be no tavernz I can recall in Highbridge, lad. Maybe there be some in Burnham-on-Zea I can recall, but I be not recalling them vor here."

[Nikolai A. Syratov]

“Yes, I be a Britizh lady. I assume 'ee 'ave zome questionz vor me, good zir?" The young woman said, looking up at him. Her dark hair was pulled up into a bun on the back of her head, her bangs hanging over her tan skin. Her brown eyes looked at him as an awkward pause fell over their interview. He hoped he wasn’t frightening her, as he had learned over the past few days that the British had some strange ideas about the Russians, and thought them nothing more than “Commies”. Some of them even had the twisted ideas that they were baby-killers, women beaters, who where just as bad as the fiends lead by Hitler. The Soviets were far from it in Kolya’s opinion, and he had no idea were they got their evil visions of the Russians from. As he silently contemplated in a state of something like fear, his hand moved to brush off unseen flecks of dirt from his damp jacket, a chill from the near constant rain running down his spine.

After a few tense seconds the woman piped up. She questioned what he was asking about; let it be here home, the land itself, or anything else. Kolya searched his mind, thinking of an answer. She was the first person he had talked to that asked that, and he thought that maybe she was a particularly intelligent one. After finally thinking of an answer Nikolai opened his mouth again, before being cut off by reluctant footsteps behind him. He turned on his boot heels to see the American Medic again, a look of defeat on his face. “Ah, Comrade O’Connors…” Kolya muttered, before the Red Cross Man asked the where a tavern was. The man chuckled as the woman replied to him again, telling him that there was only a tavern in another town. Kolya felt sorry for the man; for he would probably have to hike over to the next settlement to just get a nice glass of liquor.

“Comrade, please, if you wish, you may buy yourself a train ticket with a few of my bills…” Kolya said, rummaging through his pocket for a few marks of the British currency which name eluded him. “Ah, here you go. Keep the extra, buy yourself a nice drink.” Kolya said, plopping a wad of bills into his hand. What the hell, he wouldn’t need them anyway. He was leaving for Russia in two days, and all the food he needed was provided by his hotel. “As for you, ma’am…” The Russian muttered, bringing out his pad again. “Just tell me your opinion of Britain. Do you like its current government?”

[Hosp. Aid Patrick O'Connors]

As the bills were put in Patrick's hand he looked to Russian. "No thanks, Koyla i don't need the money i'll just look for any place with liquor where i can buy it. perhaps if you ever come back to Britain or ever visit Columbus, Georgia after this war i buy you a drink yes?. that is if i or you survive this war." Patrick said. He than handed Koyla back the money. Patrick than turned and faced Leeroy. "M'am, is there any place in town that sells liquor or anyone in town who has liquor that you know of?."





After he got a response he thanked Leeroy for her help and Koyla for offering his money. He than told them bye and walked off. This time he tried not to get lost and searched around town a bit. After a couple hours he gave up and walked back to barracks. He than told his CO he was going to look for some Liquor. After searching a bit and asking people he found an elderly man who had some liquor. Patrick offered the man a rather large sum of money for this bottle of liquor. Patrick headed back to the Train Station with the bottle of Liquor not yet open.



Patrick reached the train station once again and stood by Leeroy and Koyla. He than read the label on the Liquor bottle. "Vodka, Finally some good Liquor!" He looked to Leeroy and Koyla talking, He offered both of them some Vodka. "M'am, would you like some Vodka?, What about you Comrade Vlasov?". Patrick than popped the cap off the bottle of vodka and looked to the two. He than took a swig out of it and put the top back on it. He set it on the ground really quick to do another inventory check.



Patrick checked off his equipment like his medical bag, helmet, issue knife, ETC. He than opened up the Medical bag letting Leeroy and Koyla continue their conversation. He starting counting the quantity and things in his Medical Bag. Patrick thought to himself, Yep All there.
He than closed up the bag and picked up the bottle of Vodka, He held it out for anyone to take a swig of it.

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod Post

CP:
Leeroy Atherton: 6CP

Patrick O' Conners: 6CP

Nikolai Vlasov: 7CP


~Dan