The Black Lion [Open]

[Cpl. Joe Claude]

The man in front of him was actually beginning to show signs of life as he lowered his newspaper to the table and looked up at Joe. Joe gave a friendly wave at him as if to encourage him to speak, and when he did the smile faded slightly, not getting the joke or trying hard to find a way of returning it.
The man stuck his hand out to Joe and Joe took it, shaking it firmly, and the smile returning. ”I’m Joe Claude, Special Air Force Division, Paratrooper. Ha…jeez…he seemed happy enough to talk to me, slightly out of it though….” he glanced over at the door in which Dan had disappeared.

”So Mr Bevan of the 7th Armoured Division, how is the war for you then?” Joe said, trying hard to make some sort of conversation as he leant in towards Rhys, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of his drink as he did so.
He hoped Bevan was in a good mood, well if the man was willing to talk to Joe then surely he would be, ”You look a bit….damp…” he added, glancing Rhys up and down, he had noticed the wetness of Rhys when he had entered the bar and wondered how the hell the man had got soaking….fallen in a water bucket maybe?

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys followed the corporal's eyeline and knew that he was referring to the decidedly noticable wetness that had clawed its way over his entire body.

"You don't want to know," said Rhys dismissively, taking a sip of the brimming mead, surprised that his guess of the man's division had been accurate. He was actually a little surprised at the lack of proffesionnalism the man took in his position; the SAS blokes he knew tended to be quite secretive - and at times a little scary - but he wasn't about to take it up with the man. It was well-reported that most members of the SAS could break a man's neck in a second. Rhys didn't think the lad in front of him was capable of it but he wasn't prepared to find out.

"The war?" echoed Rhys, raising an eyebrow, wondering why everyone always picked the ever so slightly depressing subject of thousands of men being needlessly slaughtered every week - thanks to a small, German-Austrian bloke who clearly had some sort of inferiority complex and a not-very-effective moustache-trimmer - as opposed to...cheerful things like...like...like... Rhys strained his mind. He couldn't think of a single topic of conversation other than the war. The Staff Sergeant sighed. The conflict was eating away at the world. It wasn't a cheery thought. "I signed up straight away, thought I'd look after my little brother. Bloody good soldier but thick as shit...saw some action in France, some in Poland, some in Africa...and that's about it..."

Rhys trailed off lamely. He didn't like talking about the war. On the plus side, even if it did put his life at risk, it did at least give him a chance to go out into the world and meet new people. It was just a shame that most of them were trying to kill him.

"And yourself?" asked Rhys, breaking off from his thoughts and trying to convey the image of...well...a soldier. "Seen any action? You must get bucketloads of the stuff in your...line of work..."

[Cpl. Joe Claude]

”Really?” Joe said, slightly disappointed that the Staff Sergeant didn’t go on to say about why he was so wet. ”Yeah, the War.” Joe said again, watching the man who seemed to have gone off into some thought and then began to speak…wow this man had been everywhere it seemed…France, Poland, Africa, the Allies had done pretty well if that was what the man had seen before Joe had even stepped foot on English soil.

”Jeez mate, you’ve been everywhere.” Joe commented, watching as Rhys as he went into thought again before snapping out of it and asking the paratrooper a question which he wasn’t expecting, the man didn’t seem to want to talk much about the war, maybe that was what war did to people who had seen a lot, it made them draw into their shells.

”Me? Nah, not done any bloody action yet. Been in bloody training for the last half year, had a horrible Captain who used to make us do all sorts of drills and runs, he even made us run up a hill just after we had finished our supper so half of us were vomiting all over the place, and you know what…he isn’t even out here! He hasn’t even seen any action in his whole life and he was the one who made us do all the training! Bloody git, so no I haven’t, for the last year I’d say, I’ve been jumping out of rubber planes onto sandbags trying not to “break my legs”” Joe finished his sentence with a roll of the eyes and annoyance flashed through his eyes.

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys smiled at the corporal. He was enthusiastic, that much was certain and his apparent distaste towards officers was a sure sign that he would do well in the NCO capacity. Nevertheless, it wasn't particularly comfortable to know that the Special Forces were made up of bluff old captains and bushy-tailed recruits. Men who hadn't seen enough Winters and men who had seen too many. Young men shouldn't fight in the war. Rhys sighed. It was too late now. The streets of Europe ran red with their blood and it looked like the Pacific would follow.

The Staff Sergeant thought for a second and drew a single item from his pocket, before withdrawing it with a jingle. He inspected the pristine dog tag that he carried everywhere with him and could make out the spidery name easily enough. William Luther. He had taken it from him while the man had been under his captivity and kept it with him always as a sort of a good luck charm. On the other hand, it seemed that Luther had worn it for most of his military career, and he hadn't been the recipent of much luck, unless being crippled was fortunate in some way. Maybe he got into the cinema for free or something, he mused. Rhys gave a sigh and placed the dog tag on the table, pushing it towards the American.

"Know what, corporal," he grinned. "Take it. Took this from an SS Sturmscharführer in Karachzt forest near Szczecin in Poland. Take that around with you and say you butchered an SS Non Commisoned Officer. Impress your mates...ah...buddies...ah...whatever you guys call them. And maybe, if you're lucky, you'll be able to get a couple of tags of your own,"

[Cpl. Joe Claude]

Rhys was thinking, Joe could tell that. He then drew a single item from his pocket, from this angel, Joe could not see exactly what it was, the tag flashed in the light from the lamps and the name William Luther was inscribed on the tag. Rhys then placed the dog tag on the table and pushed it towards Joe, who frowned and took it, looking it over in his hands.

Rhys started to speak, and Joe looked up, his eyes wide. ”You serious?” Joe said, looking down at the tag and then back up at Rhys, ”But don’t you want it, I mean it was you who caught this Luther guy, surely…” he tailed off and a smile spread across his face as he looked down at the tag and then pocketed it, ”Cheers.” he said, he glanced at his watch, ”Dam, I’ve got to get going.” he said, standing up he called out to the room, ”Easy Company! Move out.” a few heads turned and then other soldiers from the mass of people approached the Corporal and started to shuffle out. Joe turned back to Rhys, ”Thanks for this, it means a lot.”

[Rhys Bevan]

"You're welcome," said Rhys, with a bland smile. "You'd best get going, mate. From what I've heard, you won't like Jacka when he's angry, if you get my drift,"

Despite the overwhelming cheerfulness of the American corporal, Rhys still couldn't feel happiness. He knew as well as anyone that, as likely as not, the corporal wouldn't live to see his thirtieth birthday and a German's dog tag wouldn't change that. Mind you, he mused. If the man were to die, at least he'd find a way out of the war. And with every passing day, there seemed less of a chance that Rhys would ever escape its clutches.

Rhys sighed and turned again to his newspaper. The instant he saw it, he let out a moan of protest. It was sopping wet, coated in a thick layer of water; presumably beads of water had dribbled down from Rhys' every body part and onto the broadsheet. No one would be able to read it now, it seemed.

The Staff Sergeant muttered something under his breath, borderline depressed that he would not get to read the paper. If he was going to die, he would quite like to have a couple of facts on topical affairs under his belt so he could make conversation with St. Peter if by some miracle Heaven existed. But, no, he would probably die in a ditch somewhere and spend the rest of the afterlife talking about a sandwich or something.

He leaned back in his chair and raised the glass to his lips. There just wasn't any justice in this world...

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The following CP has been issued:

Brennan - 8CP, nice posts

Bevan - 9CP, this will be transferred as instructed by PuNk!

Claude - 6CP, gotta bring them up to par buddy

-JT