Baise peuple français - (Mac)

[Sgt. John Walters]

(If anyone else would like to join, ask Mac as I don't really care.
Oh and be aware of the cursing below!)

Time: 2100hrs
Location: Paris, France


The taste of Whiskey, quickly traveled down John's esophagus. It's flavor became something he couldn't resist, that and women. With another glass finished, John looked up to the barman and signaled him for another glass. The bartender was wearing a black apron, a white dress shirt, and a phony looking mustache. After pouring another glass, John looked up and gave him a quick nod. He was delighted to finally be in a peaceful place, not having to worry about loosing one of his men in the heat of combat. While he was taking another sip, a man beside John had noticed something on his uniform.

"Well, your from the rats are you?", said the distorted man.

"I believe were called the Desert Rats, to be correct."

"It doesn't matter, your still a dirty Brit."

"Actually I'm Canadian, and whats your god damn problem?"

"Oh a Canuck you say, even fucking worse", shouted the man.

As the french man ended his sentence, picked up his glass and tossed the dry rum towards John. It impacted right into his face, dripping down to his uniform as well. With no hesitations, John wiped the alcohol of his face. Reaching down with his other hand, he grabbed his glass of tasty whiskey, finished it in a matter of seconds and passed it back to the bartender. As soon as he turned back, he crunched right hand into a fist and rifled the french man right in the nose. The force of the blow seemed to have fractured his nose, as blood slowly began to trickle down from his nostrils. After the hit, the frenchy came back with a counter strike, landing his left fist into John's right cheek. In retaliation, John grabbed the man and tossed him to the ground. It had only taken seconds until the two throwing punches into each other. Some people in the bar were watching, while others were running out in terror for their own lives. Despite this, word had gotten out rather quick to the local police. Just as the police were running into the bar, John had made a final blow into the french man's face, connecting his punch right between his eyebrows. The frenchy was knocked out cold, laying helplessly as John slowly got up from his body. As he got up, the french authorities quickly ran over to John, grabbing by his arms and dragged him out of the bar. The blood on his hands were clearly visible to the french Policeman, and John knew that he was going to get in a lot of shit.


It hadn't taken long until John's head was slamming into the trunk of the police car. It's cold was just as painful to feel as the contact of the trunk to John's face. While he was down, the policemen behind him open up his cuffs, placed them on John and locked them tight. The tightness of the cuffs, gave the feeling of wearing a watch for the first time, but a lot more painful. After the cuffs were locked, the officer leaned John back standing him up. As this was happening, another officer opened the back of the police car up, showing the terror of having to sit behind two skunks. The officer controlling John placed his hand on top of his head, shoving it down towards the interior of the car, forcing John to enter the back seat. As John finally was placed inside, the officer slammed the door behind him along with locking it shut. The smell of lingering shit slowly traveled up towards John's face, quickly lingering down his throat and finally back to his mouth as he exhaled. Not only did he smells the lingering shit, but he seemed to have a taste of it as well. John was not very impressed, and hoped to get out of the dung hole very soon. In a matter of minutes, the car was moving towards the station. On both sides of the street, people could be seen walking down the block, passing soldiers and french entrepreneurs alike. After admiring the beautiful scenery, John was abruptly interrupted by the shear dump of the French jail. It wasn't much of an architectural fascination, but more of a common building, with several barred windows. On the bright side, John was sure that it was only a police HQ, and not the city jail.

After driving past the front entrance, the french policeman drove the vehicle around the building, into the back parking lot. Several other police vehicles were parked, along with some civilian vehicles as well. The french policeman then drove the vehicle at the rear entrance, wear another officer was waiting. As the vehicle stopped, the second policemen in the car got out, unlocked the back door and pulled John out from the back seat. It was awkward enough to have his hands drawn to his back, and trying to move himself out of the car at the same time. When he was finally on his feet, the second police officer shut the door, and walked John to the rear entrance. The car that transported John drove away soon after, blowing more Carbon Dioxide into the atmosphere. The tall french officer standing guard at the rear, began to unlock the back door. When he did, the officer controlling John began to move into the police headquarters. Inside the back of the building at first was a small room, followed by a large seating area. Along the seats were several other people, either waiting for their loved ones bail, or waiting to stop their sadistic shaking. None the less, John didn't want to be sitting with the rest of the public, and by suprise he got what he wanted. After taking a quick turn, John was directed into a small cell, capable of holding several people. As he entered the cell, the Officer behind him whipped out the keys to his cuffs. In a split second, the cuffs were unlocked. There after, the bars behind John were slammed shut, and John was finally left alone. With only a couple of rusty benches, John sat down only to wait and see what would happen next.

[Charles Norris]

((I’m fine with someone else joining.))

While his men were on their second day of sightseeing, resting, drinking, and other, less legal activities in the City of Lights, for Captain Norris it had so far been a working vacation. He had spent the first half of his three day leave in various meetings and debriefings with his superiors and other officers of the Army Air Force. But, eventually Charles was released from his obligations to the Army and was allowed to experience Paris on his own. Unfortunately by that time, the sky was growing dark, curfew was approaching, and he needed to find a place for the night.

This proved to be difficult. As Chuck shuffled through the crowded streets, moving from packed hotel to crammed hospitable private residence and back again, it started to seem like Paris was host to all the combined Western Allied forces, plus the entire refugee population of France. By the time curfew rolled around, and the MPs and local police were out roaming, Charles had wandered away from the main streets, and ended up alone on an uninviting side street a few blocks away from the designated area for visiting troops.

Fortunately, as Chuck peeked onto the street, checking for the police, he instead saw two men, both dressed in tan trench coats, climbing up the steps to an apartment. The American rushed up behind them, hoping they had a bed they could rent him. Answering his prayers, the civilian waved him in and held the door open. Chuck thanked the good Samaritan with a nod and moved his cap from his head to under his arm as they both stepped inside. The stranger instantly strolled over to the front desk and laid his money on the counter, while Chuck took a moment to look around his potential residence.

From the outside, the barrage curtains had made the building look dark and menacing, but inside, mellow light flooded the room, making it’s occupants seem younger, fresher as the men and women sat on the velvet furniture and chatted in a soup of French and English. Most of the lights were pointed at the mirrors and pictures on the walls, the latter being nothing more then giant versions of French post cards. Although Chuck didn’t see much reason for them, with all the lovely young women lounging in the room. But he had no time for that, he came there for a room, and he still needed to get one.

So, ignoring his impulses, Chuck walked over to the front desk and the women standing behind it.

”Any availabilities? Everywhere else I‘ve been has been full.” Charles asked the woman, who answered in a rough French accent, and with a smile that, because of her dark lipstick, seemed to stretch across her worn face, “Oh of course, I’ll always have room for a brave American.” Although she was probably around 60 years old, from all her makeup and the way she dressed, she must have thought she was still 21. “I haven’t had many officers visit my humble establishment, and I’m a sucker for a man with a moustache, so I’ll make sure you get a nice clean one.”

As the women turned to grab a key from a peg on the wall, Charles zoned out. Suddenly, he could hear a high pitched whistling, it wasn’t so much a sound as a feeling. He was so focused on the whistle that he didn’t notice the woman placing a key on the counter, “There, number 12, she’s still pretty fresh.”

It was at that moment that Chuck realized he had made a terrible mistake. As fast as he could, he slammed his cap onto his head and ran backwards to the front door. Throwing it open, he came face to face with a short French policemen carrying a large truncheon. And at that moment, the back door of the brothel burst open, and stream of barely dressed men and women poured out, followed by an American MP blowing a whistle.

Had Chuck been picked up for being out after curfew, he would have went quietly, the jail couldn’t have been any worst then whatever crummy hotel he could have found a vacancy in. Then in the morning, he would have had his superiors explain the situation to the MPs or Paris police, and that would be that. But this was different. Charles was stuck between a rock and a hard place. So he chose the rock.

Quickly grabbing the Frenchman’s wrist as he raised his baton, Chuck slammed it into the policeman’s face. With that stunning him, Chuck gave him a clean punch to the stomach, followed by a kick to the kneecap. The frog’s legs buckled, and he fell down the steps leading down to the street.

Chuck leapt over the tumbling man, right into the path of a French paddy wagon. It’s passenger jumped out and leveled a sawed off shotgun at the American, Slowly he raised his hands above his head, Charles knew when he was beat. The driver of the van walked over to him, and as the policeman sitting on the steps shouted French nonsense at them, the driver took his own black jack and slammed it into the back of Chuck’s head. Because of the other policeman’s double barrel shotgun, the only resistance Chuck gave was clenching his fists, preventing the small French handcuffs from fitting. Instead, the driver went back to the truck to get rope to tie his hands behind his back, before dragging the prisoner into the truck.

From that moment until they reached the police station, Captain Norris’s world was in darkness, then they pulled him out, hit him with the baton again, frisked him, hit him a few more times, then dragged him down into the basement of the station. Down there, before opening the cell door, one of the policemen grabbed Chuck’s tied wrists and started a nonsense conversation with his partner, who ended it by opening the cell and throwing the American in.

[Sgt. John Walters]

(Sorry for taking so long Mac, next time won't be so long. )


The dark shadows of the dirty cold cell, slowly began to swallow John. It's nasty atmosphere, gave the impression of a sadistic man living inside a cardboard box. With such a terrible condition, John didn't really wanna be sitting in the cell much longer. As he looked around, the spotted several things in the room. In front of him were two steel framed beds, attached by two chains to the wall. Reinforced nuts were driven into the underbelly of the frame, ensuring that both the top bed and the bottom bed would not fall. The sheets blanketing the mattress, was a wool combat green. It seemed to be the same as the U.S Army Issue, but surely it was just similar

To the left of the beds, sit a small stainless steel toilet. It's leftovers from the previous cellmate could be seen still laying in the bowl. Along with the wrenched smell of shit, the smell of piss and overall bad odor that was lingering around the room. Despite the bad odor, the sink that was located on the opposite side of the toilet was rather clean than regularly. The one thing in the cell that was actually clean compared to everything else. Even though it did seem clean, John was not tempted to take any risks.

As John finished looking around the room, he slowly got off the bench that he was sitting on. The soft creeks of wood, could be heard just louder than a slap on the wall. As he stood up, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out his wallet. Several pieces of leather sewn together, that was capable of holding many small things. When he pulled out his wallet, he slowly began to open up his wallet, which quickly revealed a picture of his family. The old battered photo, seemed to look like coffee had been spilled on it. The edges of the paper, were ripped and tattered from rummaging in his wallet. On the photo itself, John could see his nuclear family. His father standing in the middle, his mother to his right and John and his little brother Derrick in front of them. The family looked so well, despite the terrible quality of the photo itself.

After a few minutes of staring into the photo, John was quickly alerted by the sounds of someone down the hall. As the sound became increasingly closer, John quickly kissed his family's photo and placed it into his wallet. The leather wallet was placed back into his pocket soon after, following by his hands. As John stood there with his hands in his pockets, he was suddenly approached by several men. To his interest, was the new so called criminal in the police's possession. From what John could see, was an American soldier. His uniform was displaying several things to help identify his unit. Even with these extra patches, John was unsure of exactly what unit he was from.

As the police began to open up the cell, John took a couple paces back away from the cells bars. With a couple seconds of turning the key in the lock, the cell door quickly opened. The Yank was quickly tossed into the room, and the door was slammed behind him. As the french police began to walk away, John quickly looked to the man that had entered the room. As he slowly began to make his presence, John stuck his right hand out to the man, hoping for a well greeting.

"Greetings Sir, my name is Sgt John Walters 7AD".

[Charles Norris]

As Norris was tossed into the cell, the first thing that hit him was the stink, followed by the cold cement floor. For the time it took the policemen to lock the cell and walked back upstairs Chuck laid still in the dirt, nothing moving but the blood drooling out of his mouth. then the moment they were gone he leapt back up onto his feet. And there was a British soldier, hand outstretched, standing by him. "Greetings Sir, my name is Sgt John Walters 7AD".


Chuck turned to show his cellmate the condition his wrists were in, "Captain Charles Norris, American Volunteer Wing. I was out after curfew when they arrested me." Chuck didn't think the Canadian needed to know any more about why he was in the cell, he didn't care why the Canadian was there, anyway. At least he hadn't been tied up, so he probably was less violent then Charles himself.

"You wouldn't happen to have a knife on you to cut these ropes?" Chuck asked, already assuming the answer was no and began ignoring the Tommy to instead search the cell for something to slice the ropes with before his cellmate answered. Chuck's first attempt at freedom used the cell itself, by rubbing the rope across the rough brick walls that imprisoned them. He tried to not catch the Canadian's eyes as he swayed with his back to the wall, like doing an odd form of the hokey pokey. After only a few minutes he stopped, stepped back from the wall and tried to tear at his binds. But even as fire built up in his forearms, the rope held. The only thing he wore away was the skin of his palms.

Charles then took inventory of the room, to try and find another way to cut the ropes. He first inspected the beds, feeling around, kicking, and jumping on them, trying to find a sharp piece of exposed metal, or bend a piece by himself. Unfortunately though, the bed frame was solid. It was made from sturdy prewar iron, worn and rusted with age yet still thick and strong. He wouldn't be able to force anything from that.

The sink was a different story, however, he found out when he moved to inspect it. The bowl and it's faucet were newer and cleaner then the other few furnishings the cell offered. As Chuck bent down to look it over, he could see that it had been replaced, it's smooth steel not quite lining up to the brick that was cut to allow the plumbing. First Chuck tried to grab the sink and pull it from the wall, it was still securely attached to it's pipes, plus with his hands behind his back, he couldn't get any leverage. So he lifted himself onto the bowl and sat on it, to try and use his weight to bring it down. Chuck could feel the metal slowly shifting under him, it's cheap occupation quality steel slightly bending away from the older pipes. But he didn't want it bent, he needed to be completely sheared off, so Chuck stood back up and again addressed his cellmate for help, "Do you have any ideas to get us out of here?"

[Sgt. John Walters]

John stutter stepped, he didn't really know what to do next. He was standing inside the cell, hands free. His equipment was stripped and the only thing available to him was his wallet, and the uniform on him. For all he knew, he wasn't going to get out of this for a while. When he did, he was sure he was fucked.

"Captain Charles Norris, American Volunteer Wing. I was out after curfew when they arrested me."

He was a Captain, that would explain the decoration and shiny objects on his uniform. Of course John wasn't an idiot though, he was able to understand insignia and ranks. However, he had never heard of the American Volunteer Wing. Either way, he found it to be safer than with any other person. An officer in a uniform, was much better than a stinking muppet from the sewers.

"You wouldn't happen to have a knife on you to cut these ropes?"

John patted himself down, trying to find anything he could to help. As he did, he couldn't help but watch the Captain sit on the sink. He began to giggle, and wonder what in hell he was trying to do. As he watched, he slowly came down to his feet, and realized something. As he reached down to his ankle, he quickly jolted back up towards the captain, and noticed the sink starting to cave in. The sound of the cracking pipe was quite noticeable, and John was hoping that it wouldn't alert the guards.

"Do you have any ideas to get us out of here?"


John nodded, and reached back down to his ankle. Back in training, John was taught several things. How to fire his weapon, how to drive a motor vehicle but most importantly hand to hand combat. Along with that, John never left anywhere without his trusty bayonet. He pulled some favours back on base to get a second one issued to him. He remembered the way the Irish wore theres, a Blade sheathed and placed into their socks. It was brilliant, and pretty cool looking. John couldn't pass up on the idea, and decided to create his own. He took the bayonet out of it's sheath, and moved towards the Captain.

"Well heres a Start sir, let's cut you loose."

John went to the back of the Captain and began to cut the thick rope bounding the Captain's hands together. It was a thick weave, a rope similar to a Ships equipment. As he began to finish cutting the rope, he continued to look around for anyone watching. He didn't want someone to spook the guards, and let them know what was going on. When the rope was finally cut, he quickly put his bayonet back into it's sheath. He didn't want to risk someone seeing it. He sat down rather slowly, rubbed his head and looked up towards the captain.

"Well, now what Sir? These frenchies aren't just gonna let us walkout."