Green As Hell

[rubes]

He had said good bye to whatever he had for a mom and dad at the time, his foster parents in Pennsylvania. He had taken care as to tell his girlfriend he was leaving forever, and not to wait for him, since he knew that the war was something that would either change him or kill him off. He had released his favorite bird, a crow he had had for a year sitting at his house. He was indeed ready to face the fact that Europe was either going to be his mental grave, or physical grave.

Three different rides, one by jeep to a transport ship to take him to Europe, then one more jeep ride to take him to his base. Overall this took a matter of days, and was not too much of an enjoyable trip for Ruben, seeing how easily he got sea sick. But when he was at the base he had a moment to himself. Automatically he went to the barracks, carrying his issued gear and his over-seas bag.

To any surprise, Ruben looked a wee more different in overall figure, where most soldiers were muscled-built killing machines, Ruben was not even a hair passed an athletic build. His skin was halfway between tan and ghost-white, since much of his time he had spent in school, working on getting his position reserved in the Army. Shaved black hair was covered up by an OD toque he used as an underlying, under the helmet liner. Olive Drab issue uniform he had on at the moment was nice and clean, looked like he was ready to head off into battle already. On his hips was his belt, holstering most of his gear, minus his M1, which he had in his offhand, with safety on, and its clip safely ejected, and out of his gun.

He carried a bunch of crap to begin with, just some old books he carried around from school and a bundle of novels he kept at the far bottom, a few spare uniforms; somehow he managed to always get his clothes dirty, a photo of his so called ‘family’; one of him and his class; and one of him and his girlfriend, to top it all of, too, he was carrying around a few spare bucks. Though all of these somehow represented his person, and somehow made him feel alive against the ages, they were essentially worthless to him too.

Ruben was ready to get moving, get assigned somewhere, and help liberate Europe from Nazi-Tyranny.


((OOC NOTE: I thought at one point in time I should somehow introduce Ruben a bit to the population of any Allies who would want to yell at him, mess with him, talk to him, or such and such.))

[Nicholas Ealing]

The 3rd Infantry Division Base in Michigan was unspectcaular; exactly the same as the many that flecked the American mainland, as well as the handful across England and Wales. And while Lieteunant Nicholas Ealing knew that it was...unspectacular...it still felt like home. He had been there for the past three months, training up recruits and the like and it had been but hours since he had recieved news that he was being transferred to the Eastern Front to fight. And presumably, also to die.

He had recieved no orders that morning and it was, in all respects, set to be an early holiday of sorts. The Lieteunant was set to be transferred back into the mist of battle within the week and he deserved a break - at least, in his opinion.

Nevertheless, he knew that a new platoon was being drafted into the division from all four corners of the Allied world to make way for the most recent addition to the 3ID; the Foxtrot Company. And so, he had decided that, seeing as he had nothing else to do and his boredom levels were worryingly high, he may as well go and meet up with the boys who would soon become men. He snorted. He wasn't going to hold his breath. Most of the bright-eyed recruits he had met on his travels were dead now, the majority killed in their first wave of combat. There were very few men he knew who had risen through the ranks through their own skill and merit. The others...well...they tended to end up dead.

The Lieteunant selected a door at random. He rapped on it heartily, painfully remembering what he had seen the last time he had barged into a dorm without knocking.

"Open up, Private," he grinned. "This is First Lieteunant Nicholas Ealing. Welcome to the 3ID,"

[rubes]

Ruben was just getting situated, head in his hands, ready to think about writing home already, when he heard a rap on the door. Maybe it was meant for him to answer, receive orders. Ruben was naturally skittish of things he had no idea about, so he timidly answered the door, being sure to leave the M1 on the bed with the rest of his crap, didn’t want to make himself look crazy by totting his gun around with him everywhere.

Quite a few things ran around in Hartley’s head as he approached the door, he thought of a few things about his current predicament, maybe it was someone with orders, or maybe he was in the wrong room, he was unsure. “Only one way to tell,” he thought as he rested his hand on the door. His conscience said ‘Don’t Open It’, but when he heard the name, a Lieutenant.

Gently he opened the door, and immediately snapped into a salute. “Sir, thank you,” he added to the salute. Ruben remembered hearing from someone that people like him went around and gave orders, officers, Lieutenants were Junior Officers though. “Lieutenant, would you, by chance, be carryin’ my orders with you? I feel odd bein’ completely clueless about my presence here, I mean I was told that someone would be around to notify me what I was goin’ in to do,” he added, rambling somewhat, “And I know it is bad, but I have been rearin’ to fight, ya know, get the world off my shoulders.”

[Nicholas Ealing]

"Glad to hear it, Private," Nicholas grinned. "But, unfortunately, I don't have any orders for you at the moment. I just wanted to see how you were coming along," he patted the man on the shoulder and entered the room. "Who knows? If I like what I see, maybe I can reccommend you be drafted to the front line,"

Nicholas entered the poky room and memories of the squalor of being a private soldier suddenly struck him. He knew what it was like to be the lowest of the low; being bullied mercilessly by senior NCO's and officers' alike, barely getting any free time for themselves when they weren't doing PT, being forced to run cross country or, alternatively...getting shot at. Ironically, that was Nicholas' problem. He had too much free time. Like the seemingly frustrated young private before him, he ached to get back onto the front line. It was horrific, of course it was, but nothing got the adrenaline pumping more than a good old-fashioned shoot-out.

He noticed the well-handled rifle on the bed with approval, before rounding back to turn to the private. The man hadn't seen battle - real battle, at least - that much was sure. There was something in the eyes that soldiers...killers...had that wasn't there. And perhaps that wasn't neccessarily a bad thing.

"At ease, private," he said. "So, tell me, what is your name? You do have a name, I trust?"

[rubes]

When Ruben heard he could be drafted at the front, he lit up, a smile now. “Thank you, sir, bein’ on the front is something isn’t it,” he noted as he shut the door after him when he was told to be at ease. Ruben indeed tended to keep privacy, since he grew up with little of it. Already things seemed in working order, nice and clean. Ruben then moved to the cot or bed or whatever was set up for sleep there. His hands then went to his bag and pulled out a box of cigarettes, somewhat bent.

“Name, sir? Yeah: Private First Class Ruben Tiel Hartley or R.T. Hartley, whichever you like more; either works. It ain’t much either; I don’t remember my real name, just the name that my first foster family called me, Ruben,” he then cut himself off as he looked to the officer. “So no orders for now, eh? Well, I guess I can live with that for now, give me a chance to get around my gun,” he added as he looked at his cigarettes, then turned to Ealing.

“You want a cigarette, Lieutenant? I wasted what I had left on a few boxes in America… So they still got that Shop Smell to them,” he offered as he presented the pack to him

[Nicholas Ealing]

Nicholas grinned and without hesistation withdrew a single cigarette from the packet. He was not, as people said, an obsessive smoker - there was only one man Nicholas had ever heard of who could claim that title –but he would never say no to a cigarette. And, truth be told, cigarretes had been sparse and far between during the past few months and this worried Nicholas. If common frivolties couldn’t come through, then what of supplies?

The Lieteunant patted at his pocket and withdrew a simple lighter; it was to his credit that he always carried a lighter with him but never a packet of cigarettes.. He was about to light the slender object but decided that Hartley needed all the personal effects he could get. The Lieteunant brought the lighter back to his pocket and handed the cigarette back to the private.

“Don’t worry about me, private, enjoy yourself,” he said in reply. “You look older than most Junior NCO’s, Hartley,” he observed a second later,

Recent Axis superiority in Europe had forced the deaths of hundreds of young privates in the 3ID – not least because of the ineptitude of a certain Second Lieteunant in Western Europe – and so many surviving privates had been promoted to Corporal ranks and the like to make up for it, major battle experience or no. And so, most of the Junior NCO’s were little more than privates, promoted above their abilities, all of whom no older than perhaps twenty-five. Yet this man…he seemed older.

“So, Mr Hartley,” said Nicholas with a smile. “Why did you join this war in the first place, then? Patriotism, friends, wanting to prove something to yourself? Or did you just want to blow up some Nazis!?”

[rubes]

When he took the cigarette, Ruben diverted attention to another photograph. He had so many shoved in there, probably wasted a good nickel or two getting them developed. After a moment of staring at it, he tore it up, and dumped the scrap into a small bag. He was wearing a mask of guilt about the photos that had his girlfriend in them. Something in his eyes when he ripped it up, a glitter, happiness, freedom from a wench who tried to keep him down.

When he snapped back to reality again, hearing someone talking, he turned to see the cigarette being handed back to him. “Erm… If you insist sir, but I’ll tell ya now I ain’t much of a smoker. I quit when I was goin’ through Belvoir; so now days I just do it when I’m nervious. And,” he then cut himself off again, realizing he was rambling. So he just shoved the cigarette back into his pack, and shoved the back into his pocket. Was he really older than most Privates? He didn’t know, so he just shrugged, “Spent my time studyin’, not kissin’ my CO’s ass. I kept to myself, and tried my hardest not to stand out. One of the guys I talked to said they always go after the Sergeants and Officers so the Privates run around like chickens with their head cut off…”

When he was finally reaching into his bag to grab something he really wanted to see, a bottle of Coke he had hidden in his undergarments, he heard the question he had been running from...

“So, Mr. Hartley; why did you join this war in the first place, then? Patriotism, friends, wanting to prove something to yourself, or did you just want to blow up some Nazis!?”

He sort of jerked upwards, and then snapped to look at Ealing again. If he could he would tell him his life story, and then probably get smacked down into prison. “Well sir… It was more or less my lack of a social life. I was not the one who ran around and talked, I was an Orphan, so I always kept to myself. So I guessed with this Second World War I could lose myself in it. I read stories from the Great War Veterans, how they got a commission and got to live their life in peace after the war. So I figured: I hate my life as it is, I got nothin’ waitin’ for me now I’m out of school, and my ex was too clingy, why not do the world a favor and help Liberate Europe? So I tried my best to get a job in the Army, and here I am,” he rambled, leaving out the part of the night of his graduation.

He then looked down at his boots, “Plus, as far as I am concerned, every German I shoot is one more thing they can write on my grave when I die. That is Immortality in my book.”

[Nicholas Ealing]

"Bravo," said Nicholas, smiling faintly. "Good for you, lad good for you.

Yes, for all its foibles, war was good for running away. The phrase out of the frying pan into the fire sprang to mind but it was true. War caused havoc, on and off the battlefield. It wasn't hard to slip away; the only problem was, people tended to be found again in a casual list of the dead.

"This is room...13B, is it?" said the Lieutenant, his eyes glancing momentarily to the ugly door that was at this moment half-open. "I think Patterson...the good Captain, that is,...I think he said something about 13B..." Nicholas removed his cap and scratched his head for a second before suddenly remembering. "Ah, yes, that's it. You'll be getting a roommate, as of tomorrow evening. A Mr Josef Claude; a decent sort of chap by all accounts. Been through a lot, though, poor fellow. Taken prisoner by the enemy, tortured...cut up...who knows what that kind of treatment can do to you?"

Nicholas placed his cap back onto his scalp and sighed. Since his little meeting with the enemy up in Belgium, he had become increasingly aware of the sanctity - and the fragility - of life. Life was precious and so many were cut short by the all-devouring war, or otherwise were utterly ripped apart by grief as a direct consequence of it.

He was by no means a pacifist - far from it - but he just...he just...well...he didn't really know what he wanted. He wanted not to die, he supposed. And that was good enough for him.

"Anyway," he said bracingly. "I should be off; meeting at the officers' mess in a few minutes. Should be discussing how to wipe Hitler out of Europe. I tried to point out to them that that was easier said than done but they were so excited about the prospect..." Nicholas gave Hartley a small, glancing salute with a smile and left the room.

Rueben Hartley, he told himself, as he continued down the corridor. A good man, it seemed. Rueben Hartley...he would have to remember that name...

OOC: Can this be closed, please?

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod-Post

Eh, WTF, Rhys? In my first ever neutral on this thread I moved into Dorm room 13A!

CP:
Ealing: 6CP

Hartley: 6CP

~Dan

[Aksel Bavenn]

Damn, knew it was 13 something.

The photograph of Brennan's girflriend stands on the wardrobe. DUN DUN DUN.