What the...? A Russian? [Jaroslava]

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Country: Allied France. The setting takes place at a base for the famous 3rd Infantry Division, 3rd Armour Brigade, better known as the 3ID. It is in the middle of the French countryside, not too far from newly-liberated Paris. Tank tracks surround the area, leaving ugly, muddy scars upon the land. The buildings of the base are in mostly good condition - except for the nasty leaks.

Time: 13:22
Weather Conditions: Raining cats and dogs at most points, then lessening to a gentle, light rain. The ground is muddy and traps feet like quicksand, and the mercury hovers at thirteen to fifteen degrees Celsius.


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Another pot was slid across the table, the metallic clang of water droplets against metal heard as the water ceased hitting the good wooden table. Silvia Westley - a quiet Londoner who mostly worked instead of talking - nervously eyed the roof, hoping a leak wouldn't form over the bread loaves cooling nearby. Section Leader Sally Fell's loud writing could be heard over the rainfall on the windows, the woman writing down something on her clipboard at a rapid pace. Another Londoner, a Cockney named Peggie Crocker, was mumbling incoherently to herself, measuring the nearby counter tops to see how many pots could be fitted on them at once. Lenore Louis-MacNamara, a Canadian with a love for collecting stamps, was flipping through a small book of them she had had mailed from home. And, of course, Niamh Dunlevy was there too, staring out the window at the waterlogged scenery.

Whitney Lyne had not been transfered along with Niamh. She had remained at the other base, and was most likely doing something interesting at the moment. According to the soldiers, Whitney's neck of the woods was bright and sunny; all the storms had quickly passed over it, as opposed to a couple weeks beforehand. Now, Niamh's temporary workplace was going to get pounded with rainfall, and sooner or later, the Pavee would have to venture outside to work. And, judging by the leaks in the kitchen, her bed would probably be sopping wet, since she had been given a top bunk in the women's rooms.

What a lovely thought.

"You know," Fell began, "I think we should go and complain to not just that Patterson fellow, but high command. Their word is law, but we shouldn't have to complain to them anyway. This is ridiculous, now isn't it girls?"

"Wot?" said Peggie, "Do ya mean 'cause of the bloody leaks, or 'cause there's nuffin' for us to bloody do?"

"Don't be smart, Volunteer Crocker," said Fell sharply. "I'm talking about the leaks. We didn't bloody come here to be rained down upon, for God's sake! Everything - food, equipment, sanitation - will be ruined by this blasted rainwater. Unless they think we can feed the men bread with black mold, they'll have to let us into the tool shed to fix this mess."

"I t'oughth we 'ad t'e keys tho t'e shed already," piped up Niamh, raising her eyebrows slightly. "Whath's t'at abouth, Secthion Leader?"

"A large number of engineers were assigned here a while back," replied Fell, looking over her clipboard at her subordinate. "And, thanks to a couple of rookie gits, there is now one tool shed instead of three. And, it has so much equipment crammed into it, that it needs to be counted carefully to make sure nothing has been stolen and/or lost. According to the volunteers already here, Volunteer Dunlevy, the 3ID's on a shoestring budget ever since they had to replace something broken in one of the tanks. They can't afford to lose anything vital to the proper workings of their tanks; they are an armoured division, after all...or company. They keep calling themselves a division, I can't bloody remember."

Silence came upon the scene once more. Fell flipped through a few more pages, and Peggie began measuring walls, trying to figure up where she could put more shelves. After hearing Fell's "black mold" comment, Silvia had grown visibly nervous, and was trying to find a drier area to put the cooling bread. It was only when Fell snorted amusedly did everyone start talking again.

"Whath is ith, Secthion Leader?" asked Niamh. Fell glanced up at the Pavee again, eyebrows raised and a know-it-all's smile on her face.

"It seems you'll be having company, Dunlevy. According to my bunking chart, you'll be getting a new roommate, along with Westley and that rookie, Grant. Her name's...give me a sec here...Jaro - "

Fell paused, her face portraying slight confusion. She leaned in closer, as if she was having a hard time reading the page.

"Jaro...Jaroslayva? Slahva? Sleva? Zolnjaro...Jero...Zolnjero...vich? It looks to be a Russian name, for God's sake! Of course I'm not going to pronounce it properly!"

"A Russian?" piped up Peggie, quickly glancing over her shoulder. "What's a Russian doin' in an American division?"

"I don't know," replied Fell, "but as interesting as it is, Dunlevy's got to meet her at the gates."

"In t'is weat'er?" said Niamh. "T'at's a load o' blarney! Why can'th she come in 'erself?!"

"No whining, Dunlevy - you're one of our best workers, so get to it," barked Fell. "You can dry yourself off later. Orders are orders, now get your coat."

Grumbling, Niamh nodded, and slid her chair back. After stretching her arms and legs for a moment, cracking her back afterward, she sauntered toward the door. She had met a Russian before - he had been a kindly fellow, if not a little...uptight - but the fact that she was having a Russian woman as a bunkmate sounded rather strange. Perhaps it was a Russian-American, hence the hard-to-pronounce name and her being in the 3ID? She probably wasn't a soldier, though; just another volunteer, assigned to the 3ID to help cook and make coffee, and other such activities.

[☭Yaroslava Zolnyernova]

This was it. This was the rain that old Yuri Ivanovich was talking about. How could Yaroslava have been so stupid to not trust him when she got off the plane. She had come to the headquarters of the 3ID and had been assigned to a bunk house while she was waiting for an official transfer into the unit. She was allowed access to the mess hall, the headquarters, the vehicle garage, and most importantly, the firing range. Today though, she was walking down the side of a muddy road. She wore her brown gymnastiorka and her long brown wool coat to keep warm. Her boots came to her knees and her skirt's hem was just below her knees. All the time, she was carrying her rifle very gingerly.

She was jogging slightly, hoping that it would get her to the barracks as soon as possible. The rain was just terrible. Her hands were cold and her face was getting whiter than it usually was. Soon, she was coming to the gate. It was a raunchy old thing, almost completely rusted over. A makeshift sign declared the buildings in the distance to be "3ID Women's Quarters" Of course, that meant that there was an open shack and room for some beds in it. In her short time in France, Yaroslava had observed the gender inequality that all Russia's allies was rife with. Women were expected to cook, and clean, and brew coffee. Not Yaroslava. She was a soldier, no less.

Finally, she arrived at the gate and pushed it open. It squeaked in and the Soviet soldier stepped in. She turned and shut the gate before jogging toward another figure who was bent over and coming toward her. Yaroslava met up with the woman and the two went back into the shack the hunched figure had come from. Finally inside, Yaro had still not gotten away from the rain. Drippings of water continued to stream from the roof of the shack.

Standing at the door, Yaroslava saw three pairs of eyes staring her down. She looked around at them and spoke, "I am Yaroslava Zolnyernovich, of the People's Army of the USSR. I have been assigned to this barracks." She looked around again, the eyes still hadn't moved. Was there something on her face? She put her left hand up touched the red gleaming star on her pilotka cap before she took her rifle off her shoulder and set the butt on the ground. She would have to clean the weapon soon.

She spoke again, hoping to get an answer this time, "Where should I stow my bag and rifle?" Her accent was heavy. Maybe they didn't understand her. Her 'r' was rolled and she had a peculiar habit of saying 'ye' instead of 'e.' She sighed and set her her rifle against the wall as she took her bag off. It was heavy. It had her dress uniform in it, something unusual for her, but it was necessary since she was serving with an allied power. The air was silent, even with the rain, as a single thought occurred to Yaroslava, "Что за хуи?!"

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Over the sounds of the storm, the rusty old gate that led into the base's grounds squealed as it opened. Niamh didn't know why they hadn't fixed it already; it looked like just nudging it with a tank would knock it over. Was the 3ID underfunded, perhaps? Or had Patterson broken his bank somehow? She was thinking pessimistically again; the rain and cold was getting to her. That, and thinking back on Fell's comments about mold, Niamh realized her bedsheets would probably be ruined within the week by the leaks. Stupid war, and stupid higher-ups for not fixing leaky quarters....

Hunched over, trying to keep as warm as possible by hugging herself, Niamh ran over to the half-jogging figure that had through the gate. "WELCOME, STHRANGER!" the Pavee boomed, her watered-down Irish accent from years of living in England evident in her speech. She had a tendency to use "th" instead of "t" and vice-versa, all thanks to the pronunciation of some words in the Irish brogue. That pronunciation had leaked into her speech, and for a few years, she had had that quirk. "C'MON, ITH'S BLOODY COLD OUTH 'ERE!"

Not bothering to take a look at the woman, the pair dashed back through the mud, squelching sounds accompanying every step. There were a few times Niamh almost slipped, but luckily, years of horseback riding had given her a good sense of balance. With fingers made half-numb by the cold, and metal made slippery by the weather, Niamh fumbled with the doorknob for a few moments. Soon enough, though, she got it open.

"Righth...come in!" said Niamh cheerily, somewhat breathless from her sloppy run. Everyone in the room turned to face her as she walked in, but Niamh was surprised to see them looking well...so surprised. In fact, Silvia was blinking like an owl, Peggie had a dirty glare in her wide eyes, and Niamh had almost never seen Fell's eyebrows raise so high.

"Whath's t'e mathther..." began Niamh, her own eyebrows raising a little. She turned to look at the new girl, to see if something was wrong with her -

She was a Soviet. And, by the look of the sleek rifle held gingerly in her arms, she was also a soldier - a female soldier. An awkward silence descended upon the room.

"I am Jaroslava Zolnjernovich, of the People's Army of the USSR. I have been assigned to this barracks."

Peggie and Silvia glanced nervously at each other. Fell shot the woman a disbelieving and dirty look, similar to Peggie's. Jaroslava looked a little nervous for a moment, seemingly fixing her cap and setting down her rifle afterward. She then spoke again, saying, "Where should I stow my bag and rifle?"

Everyone still kept quiet. Fell, however, twitched and blinked after a few moments, as if some invisible force had startled her out of her daze. Fumbling through the papers on her clipboard, the Section Leader cleared her throat and said, "Erm, right...well, erm...Jaroslava, bunks are in the back, behind the wooden door. The grey one leads to the NCO Mess. Dunlevy, would you help her with her...."

The Section Leader glanced at Jaroslava's rifle, and Niamh swore she could see a hint of nervousness in Fell's face.

"...Belongings?"

"Yes'm," replied Niamh, turning toward Jaroslava. She took the bags the Russian held, grunted a little at the heavy weight. The bags weren't that bad, though; Niamh had hefted heavier grain sacks over her shoulders before. "Righth...follow me, Miss Zolejerovick, an' I'll show you ya room."

[☭Yaroslava Zolnyernova]

The word 'awkward' could not even begin to explain the feeling that filled the heavy, humid air. Jaroslava took her cap off and slid it into her pocket. Her hair was tied up in the back. It was a light brown-blonde colour. She quickly picked up her rifle again and headed behind the Pavee into a barracks that was in dire need of repair. Its roof was leaking and the top bunks were obviously soaking in the water. It was ridiculous.

Jaroslava stowed her bag underneath one of the bunks and leant the rifle against the wall. She took the bayonet off her belt. The blade was huge, almost 50cm long. It was a sword in its own right. Jaroslava hoped could soon get her hands on a Finnish bayonet. It was about a third shorter. She continued and took her ammunition pouches off and set them on the mattress. By now, she was getting hungry. She remembered, the Pavee had told her the NCO mess was just next door.

Well, she was an NCO. Why shouldn't she try to get a meal. She was told the American food was worse than the Soviet rations. Of course, that was only to keep the Red Army conscripts from complaining. To finish, she took her canteen off and checked her bag for her most valuable possession, a one-litre bottle of Moskovskaya Vodka. Of course, she would have to share it with her bunkmates. They couldn't be bunkmates without a drink; it was a Russian tradition.

She set the bottle delicately on the bed as well. It was the official brand of the Soviet government, which was rather obvious from the red coat of arms flanked by wheat on the front. It was 40% alcohol. Perfect. Jaroslava stepped away and looked to the other woman. "It looks like you have a roofing problem. It think we should fix that before we get some supper. Do you have any tent canvas? We can cover the roof for tonight and repair the roof tomorrow."

She stepped back into the main room. The women had returned to what they were doing. One of them was rearranging the pots on the counter in the room. Another was off scribbling away at her paper. One was going through a small book. another woman was working on various jobs all at once. Jaroslava felt out of place. these were all volunteers who had come to support their American troops. She stopped behind the woman with the book who was sitting right next to the door way at a small table.

She had stamps in her book. They all depicted a man's profile. He must have been King George. Jaroslava couldn't help but speak - "King George? I hear he is a good man. I have some stamps of Lenin and Stalin, if you would care for a pair of them?" Perhaps if she shared a bit of Russia with them, the women would open up and share England with her. It was worth a shot, as it were.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Any bags Jaroslava still had were thrown under a bunk in the corner, only four or five steps away from the NCO Mess. Niamh followed en suite, getting down on her knees and making sure the Russian's luggage was pushed fully under. The Pavee then gave the woman-soldier a wide berth, giving a silent, "Oooooh," at the long knife the woman carried. Did the Russians really carry bayonets that long? It looked to be as long as a hunting knife one of her uncles had. She'd feel sorry for any soldier that decided to get on Jaroslava's bad side - or any of the volunteers, for that matter. Cat fights were not uncommon amongst the women.

The bayonet was placed on the bed, a not-so-special canteen also placed there. Niamh would have turned to leave, but the flash of something beige and red caught her attention. There was a bottle of something in Jaroslava's hands, taken from one of the smaller bags, and held as gingerly as the rifle had been. It, too, was placed upon the bed, just as Niamh walked over.

"I'd be careful wit' t'at, if I were you," said the Pavee. "We aren'th allowed havin' alcohol in t'e bunks. T'e men aren'th, eit'er."

Satisfied that she had done her duty, Niamh quickly stepped toward the door, but was interrupted by a question from Jaroslava. So, the woman wanted tent canvas, eh? The Pavee couldn't help but snort. All the tent canvas was in the tool shed, which, of course, Fell hadn't been given a key to. Niamh answered with, "Ask Paththerson. We 'aven'th been given a key tho t'e thool shed. Ith's t'e lasth one we 'ave, accordin' tho Fell - someone ran o'er t'e ot'er sheds wit' a thank, so t'e 'igher-ups are thryin' to keep e'eryt'ing in place."

Now she was done. Niamh walked into the kitchen/women's quarters without another word, and went over to assist Silvia with moving the bread and other baked goods into a drier area. Silvia nodded and smiled in thanks, muttering a rare and quiet, "Thank you," to her comrade. The Pavee nodded back and smiled as well, quietly saying, "You're welcome."

After a few moments, Jaroslava entered the kitchen area again, looking around at everyone for a moment. She looked to be a bit lost - Niamh couldn't blame her. A Russian amongst the other Allies would've turned heads anywhere, whether it be in the women's barracks or out at the firing range. Niamh wouldn't be surprised if the Russian would visit that place often, being a soldier and all. She still couldn't get over the fact that a female soldier - a female soldier would be sharing a space with the volunteers for who knows how long.

Jaroslava suddenly made a beeline for Lenore. The Canadian woman was caught off guard by the approach, jumping a little when Jaroslava spoke. Not only did she compliment the good King George, but she also offered a couple of stamps that had her leaders - Stalin and Lenin - on them. Well, a leader and a former leader; hadn't Lenin been overthrown?

"Uhhhh...s-sure, I guess..." said Lenore, blinking. She hadn't expected the woman to offer...well, anything; it was said the Russians were a very uptight people. The others in the room were also surprised, glancing over at Jaroslava with an interested look on their faces. Perhaps the women of Russia were a different kind of folk, compared to the supposedly-rough Russian men?

[☭Yaroslava Zolnyernova]

The woman seemed surprised. Perhaps the British were as uptight as Yaroslava had heard. She slipped the stamps out of her front chest pocket. They were still dry. One showed Stalin's face, his moustache all a curl. Lenin was on the other one, it was shaded in blue as opposed to the shaded orange one with Stalin. The letters CCCP were labelled at the bottom of each stamp. They stood for Союз Советских Социалистических Республик, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Already the regime was more that twenty-seven years old, since before Yaroslava was born. Yaroslava offered a rare smile as the woman took the stamps from her hand and looked at them.

She turned her head tot he other woman, Niamh was it? She wasn't sure. She turned back to the woman, Lenore, and said "Keep those, they are a gift." She turned and looked at the grey door that led to the NCO mess. She would have to get in there. "Are they still serving supper in there? she asked as she pointed to the door. She was famished.

Yaroslava opened the door and looked into the mess. It wasn't large. NCOs didn't make up the bulk of the army. There were about three men still sitting in the room, a Master Sergeant, a First Sergeant, and a Corporal. She looked back at the women in the room and walked back into the bunk room, grabbed up her bottle of vodka, and set it on the counter next to the door before heading in.

She collected a tray from the serving area and went down the line. A young private looked up at her with awe as he sloshed food onto the tray. He was a little too surprised to challenge her for not having any insignia. Yarolsva quickly walked back into the room the other women were in and sat in one of the chairs with her tray sitting in front of her. "I'm sorry to be eating in front of all you lie this, but I've been travelling for more than 36 hours without any food. You won't mind will you?"

She took a small bite from the bread roll on the tray without waiting for the answer. Even the white bread of the westerners was good to her now. The other women had begun their staring again. Was there something impressive, or different about her? How chould she know? She would have to ask. "Is something wrong? Do you not like me? Have I been too brash?" She ate as she waited for the answer.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

They had all nodded when Jaroslava asked if the mess was still open. Sure, the food would probably be stone cold, but they weren't about to tell the Soviet that. Lenore was still quite shocked the woman had even smiled at her - had that look been genuine? Or rather...had the woman been sizing her up? The volunteers there all felt nervous, what with a rifle being so close by. Sure, the men carried their guns around...but they weren't allowed in the barracks. What if the woman got mad and started using everything as a target range? Even worse, what would happen if her moods started swinging?

Oh dear Lord... thought Fell, sharing a similar train of thought with Lenore and Silvia. Peggie had just gone back to work, deciding standing around wouldn't get anything done. The mood swings. God forbid the mood swings....

The mess door swung open, and Jaroslava re-entered. With a tray in her hands, she moved over to the table, sitting down and stuffing her face as fast as she could. The poor woman looked famished; why hadn't she been fed in almost two days? She was probably some sort of diplomat from Russia, so why had they not fed her, like every person of some importance in the military had been? Better yet, why had Niamh had to meet the Russian at the gates?

As much as the girls despised the thought, it was probably because their new bunk mate was just like them: female. Women weren't supposed to fight - all they were asked to do was to repair things and keep morale high. Sure, it was an honourable job, but some of the volunteers wanted something more. They wanted to go in place of their brothers, their uncles and nephews, their fathers and sons, all so they wouldn't end up with a near-insane family member, or no family at all. And yet, they were kept at bay, not allowed to touch a gun, not even permitted to fire the anti-aircraft guns they took care of so well.

Suddenly, Jaroslava piped up, saying in that thick accent of hers, "Is something wrong? Do you not like me? Have I been too brash?" She then resumed eating. The volunteers looked at each other, then back at Jaroslava, then back at each other again. Obviously, the Soviet didn't see the major differences in the gender roles she and them filled. Jaroslava had a gun, for starters - they did not. Jaroslava could fire it - they could not. Jaroslava had probably seen the front lines and shot people - they had not.

Finally, Fell piped up.

"Well...Miss Jarozlava," she began, mispronouncing the Soviet's name once more, "we...erm...we've never had a...a gun in the bunks before."

"Or a female soldier," added Niamh. "We're always asked to cook an' clean, an' fix t'e anthi-aircrafth, buth never fire a gun. So ith's a liththle...um...."

"Odd," finished Peggie out of nowhere. Niamh looked over at her, then at Jaroslava with a small, hesitant smile.

"Yeah...odd. We're...we're noth quithe sure whath tho t'ink o' ith."

[☭Yaroslava Zolnyernova]

Yaroslava stoppped eating as the women spoke to her. It had finally come out. They had confirmed what she had known to be true. They were Women of the West. It was pointless to argue against that... at least to a point. Yaroslava stopped eating as the women quieted down. She spoke, still in her accent, "Two years ago, the Nazis invaded Russia. They pillaged the land and surrounded the city I lived in, Leningrad. As the Soviet army moved back toward Stalingrad, they burned everything behind them to prevent the Germans from getting it." She took a deep breath.

The memories came back to her. "I was smuggled out of Leningrad, stuck between a false truck bed and the hard floor with only a pistol to shoot any German that found me. I fled to Stalingrad." She stopped again, looked at her vodka, and put her left hand on it as she continued. "When I arrived in Stalingrad, I stayed with a family who had three young children. They were both factory workers. Only two weeks after I arrived, the Germans attack. They dropped a bomb on the factory that the Ivanovichs worked in and killed them both. At the same time, their oldest child, Natascha, was killed by a piece of shrapnel."

She looked at the bottle again and twisted the top off before continuing. "I was left with two children who had lost their parents and their oldest sister. I helped them onto the boat that took them across the Volga and behind the Urals. Then, I joined the Soviet army where I was given ten hours of training, handed a rifle, and sent to the front line." She put her nose to the bottle. Not a scent. Just perfect. She stood up and looked over to find glasses lying upside down on one of the counters as if placed there just for her.

She as she moved around, she continued her story. "I was lucky. My sergeant was a good man and a smart one at that. He kept me alive. Throughout the battle of Stalingrad, I killed more than twenty men. I shot them, I bayoneted them, and I blew them up. You cannot understand the desperation of me until you know what it is to sit with two children and tell them that their parents are gone and never coming back, that their sister is gone...and never coming back.

If you want to understand why I carry a rifle. It's because I had no other choice. Who else other than the women of a country will protect the children of a country? No-one. The end. I will kill every last German there is if it means that I will never have to hear about children losing parents to such atrocity.

She poured six glasses with a small bit of the vodka and looked up at the woman. "Now, I understand; it's hard for you to understand me. But, we can put that aside. I Russia, when you want to seal an agreement or welcome others into friendship, you drink with them. Now you ladies seem like exactly the right kind of people for friends. what do you say to a small drink?"

She pushed the glasses of vodka on the counter a bit. the room was dead silent. the rain was just background noise. She certainly knew how to sober a group.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Jaroslava's story struck an envious nerve within the other women. They could understand why she protected, and understand what she was fighting for, and frankly, the girls wanted to do the same. Sure, they could cook and clean for morale's sake, but what would happen if the men could no longer fight? What would happen if the Germans somehow brought down all the fit, Allied men in the world, and only women were left? The laws were clear - women could not fire a gun. They were reduced to being the maids of the soldiers.

The Russian woman then explained that a drink was a Russian's way of welcoming friends. Her comment about the girls being the "right kind of people" brought a smile to Niamh's face, as well as the face of the others'. Now, the Pavee was a teetotaler, but just a hint of alcohol wouldn't hurt, now would it? If she started getting dizzy, then Niamh would just explain to Jaroslava how she felt. And thus, she responded with, "Sure, why not?"

"But alcohol's not allowed in the bunks, Dunlevy!" snapped Fell. Niamh looked over at her superior dryly.

"We're in t'e kithchen, Secthion Leader. I t'ink we can call t'at a loop'ole, now can'th we? Pour me a glass, Jaro - "

Crreeeaaakkkkkk....

Niamh couldn't help but pause at the ominous sound above her, and the feeling of a long, thin stream of cold water splashing onto her neck's back. The roof had cracked slightly, and another leak had sprouted, and the girls looked nervously up at the ceiling.

"That doesn't sound quite wite..." began Peggie. A loud keeer-RACK then split the air, and suddenly, water began pouring down from a horizontal crack that went across the entire ceiling. Water flowed onto the table, floors and food, and Jaroslava's blonde hair would most likely be turned dark by the large leak.

And then, the roof buckled ever-so-slightly. Nonetheless, the women screamed, and Fell screeched, "EVERYONE OUT, SHE'S GONNA BLOW!!"

The women scattered, heading into the NCO mess as fast as they could. Niamh stayed behind to grab Jaroslava, dragging the poor Russian out by her collar. Once Jaroslava had been shoved into the mess, the Pavee would then bolt into the bunks, taking several moments to search frantically for her journal and the Soviet's rifle.

Further did the roof buckle. Torrents of water were now spilling onto everything, and whatever food was on the counters was ruined. As fast as she could, Niamh sprinted out of the bunks, heading for the mess as fast as her legs could carry her. Several times did she slip and slide, nearly loosing her balance in what was now two centimetres of water on the floor....

[☭Yaroslava Zolnyernova]

Yaro could not have capped the vodka soon enough when she was done pouring the small glasses. She got a tight enough grasp on it that when the roof fell in and Niamh grabbed her, the bottle went with her as well. Without knowing it, she was pushed into the mess hall as the Pavee flew back into the kitchen and received a few items, one of them Yaro's rifle, bayonet and all.

Without thinking, the strong-minded Russian woman grabbed the rifle from the Pavee. She didn't care if it was rude. She looked it over then it dawned on her, the ammunition was still in the bunk-room. Her bag was full of the Russian ammunition. Again, without thinking she rad out and got to the bunk-room, grabbed the heavy bag and rushed back into the mess hall as a flood of water hit her back. She held the bag tightly to her chest and went even farther into the room, setting the bag on the table and lying the rifle next to it.

She wasn't going to stand for such poor living conditions. There was still some minor shrieking, but the Russian didn't pay any attention. She took a stripper clip from her bag and pushed it down into the fairly dry and very resilient rifle. She then loaded other stripper clips into her belt that she put on again. She then tied up the bag and stepped back to the group of women in the room.

"Right," she began. "I'm going to the 3ID headquarters to complain and get us some new quarters. I refuse to allow men to put us in such a position." She looked at the women again, and pulled the bolt back on her rifle, speaking as she did it. "We should have no problem getting there. One look at the rifle should sufficiently get us through. Of course, we need to be ready for Germans if they're anywhere near here." She stopped again and made sure the bayonet was properly fixed. 50cm of steel would be enough to scare the shit out of an American soldier who might want to stop her from getting the quarters that all the woman rightfully deserved.

She looked to the woman a last time. "Who's coming with me?" It was a silly question really, but Yaro didn't know that.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Niamh was about to reply in agreement, but at that moment, a torrent of water splashed onto her from above. She just managed to jump out of the way as a piece of roof fell in, the entire woman's barracks about to topple to the ground. With an irritated growl, she nodded, brushing her sopping wet fringe out of her face.

"Yer righth, t'is is insane!" she snapped. "Damn ith, t'ey said ith was sound, buth evidenthly, ith ain'th!! We have righths, thoo!"

Niamh then promptly stomped over to the door to the kitchen, and after fumbling with the doorknob, managed to get it open. Water spilled out onto the mess floor, and behind her, more and more pieces of the roof fell in. The other women looked at Niamh hesitantly as she walked in, backing away slightly when they noticed the look of bloody murder on her face. Well, except Fell, of course; she looked as sour as Niamh did, arms crossed indignantly as she shook her head at the floor in disgust.

"And they told me it was sound...riiiiiiiight. So, anyone want to go and chew Patterson's head off? Or do you girls want to sleep in the NCO Mess tonight?"

"Nah, I say we kill 'im," Peggie replied, her tone rather blunt. The other girls nodded and grunted in agreement, and quickly began walking toward the door to the rain-soaked outside. However, before they could reach there -

"HOOOOOOOOLD ITH!"

Everyone stopped, and turned around to face whoever had yelled. Niamh was standing there, the door still open and her motioning for Jaroslava to get out of the collapsing barracks. After she did, or if she had already, Niamh would then point to her and say, "Woman's goth a sword fer a bayoneth. She'll acth as crowd conthrol."

"Aaaaaah," said the other women, shuffling aside so the Soviet could take her place at the front of the group. Nearby, those left in the mess were staring at the girls incredulously, trying to figure out what had just happened beyond the serving counter.

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod Post

Nice thread... you guys make a nice team.

CP:
Yaroslava -I won't even try to spell your surname-: 10CP

Niamh Dunlevy: 10CP


~Dan