Post by logancastle on Mar 17, 2009 1:19:22 GMT
Allied Base in Northern France
It was Middle March, but snow piled up along the narrow dirt roads and icy Fields of Northern France. Warrant Officer 1st Class Logan Castle sat in the driver's seat of an old French truck he had found, deserted in the forest. The leather seats wear split at the seams, and the engine coughed and the fuel dial, it's protective glass was long gone, teetered dangerously above the red "E" printed on one side of it. The old automobile would serve until the huge Scotsman arrived at the British base at the French town of Mapple, where he would ditch it and hope to have better transport methods next time. Logan had been promised a warm room and some fine tobacco for his pipe at the base, and the soldier was eager to get there.
The old, cracked windows of the truck did little to protect Logan from the frigged air swirling about outside. The Warrant Officer had popped the collar to his woolen coat to help to protect his neck from the cold air whipping through a particularly large hole in the back left window, which also let in snowflakes that caught on Logan's sideburns and hair, which stuck out from underneath the unbuckled helmet that stood atop his head. It was miserable weather, but Logan kept reminding himself about the warm room and smoke of his pipe.
Rounding the truck into the small town's outer streets, Logan looked for an English flag fluttering above any of the buildings. At last he found it, a stout, ugly gray building covered with the new fallen spring snow. Logan parked the old truck in between two houses, where he would leave it forever. Unfortunately, the Scotsman had to walk back to the base, and that was not enjoyable. Logan busted through the door, his red face burning with cold and frustration, highlighting the jet black sideburns gracing his cheeks.
"Excuse me, sir. Are you Warrant Officer Castle?" A young soldier asked, holding a clipboard and pen in his hands. Grunting and nodding his head, Logan watched as the man scribbled something on the clipboard and muttered "Follow me" in his London accent. Boots clacking on the stone floor, Logan followed the soldier down one of the ugly concrete tunnels to a room with a plaque that said "OFFICER'S MESS" mounted on it's steel door, and the soldier opened the door with a grunt, motioning to go in.
Logan stepped inside, and immediately felt warmer. Several soldiers and officers stood around drinking, sat on sofas, or played pool or cards. Logan slipped off his snow covered coat and helmet and hung both on a small hook next to the door. His hands and face tingled from being exposed to the cold, and Logan rubbed his hands together quickly. Clack. A purple pool bar slipped into one of the nets, and several soldiers grouped around it cheered and laughed. Logan walked over and said "Ye mind if I join, boys?"
It was Middle March, but snow piled up along the narrow dirt roads and icy Fields of Northern France. Warrant Officer 1st Class Logan Castle sat in the driver's seat of an old French truck he had found, deserted in the forest. The leather seats wear split at the seams, and the engine coughed and the fuel dial, it's protective glass was long gone, teetered dangerously above the red "E" printed on one side of it. The old automobile would serve until the huge Scotsman arrived at the British base at the French town of Mapple, where he would ditch it and hope to have better transport methods next time. Logan had been promised a warm room and some fine tobacco for his pipe at the base, and the soldier was eager to get there.
The old, cracked windows of the truck did little to protect Logan from the frigged air swirling about outside. The Warrant Officer had popped the collar to his woolen coat to help to protect his neck from the cold air whipping through a particularly large hole in the back left window, which also let in snowflakes that caught on Logan's sideburns and hair, which stuck out from underneath the unbuckled helmet that stood atop his head. It was miserable weather, but Logan kept reminding himself about the warm room and smoke of his pipe.
Rounding the truck into the small town's outer streets, Logan looked for an English flag fluttering above any of the buildings. At last he found it, a stout, ugly gray building covered with the new fallen spring snow. Logan parked the old truck in between two houses, where he would leave it forever. Unfortunately, the Scotsman had to walk back to the base, and that was not enjoyable. Logan busted through the door, his red face burning with cold and frustration, highlighting the jet black sideburns gracing his cheeks.
"Excuse me, sir. Are you Warrant Officer Castle?" A young soldier asked, holding a clipboard and pen in his hands. Grunting and nodding his head, Logan watched as the man scribbled something on the clipboard and muttered "Follow me" in his London accent. Boots clacking on the stone floor, Logan followed the soldier down one of the ugly concrete tunnels to a room with a plaque that said "OFFICER'S MESS" mounted on it's steel door, and the soldier opened the door with a grunt, motioning to go in.
Logan stepped inside, and immediately felt warmer. Several soldiers and officers stood around drinking, sat on sofas, or played pool or cards. Logan slipped off his snow covered coat and helmet and hung both on a small hook next to the door. His hands and face tingled from being exposed to the cold, and Logan rubbed his hands together quickly. Clack. A purple pool bar slipped into one of the nets, and several soldiers grouped around it cheered and laughed. Logan walked over and said "Ye mind if I join, boys?"
