Wishful Thinking ( Open )

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

( OOC: I apologize once again for my inactivity. I decided to start a thread to get writing again. It's open to all members of the 3ID )

November 14th, 1944
0615 hours
3ID Base--Mess Hall

If there’s one thing John had learned in his Army experience, it was to arrive early for chow. Even if he was an officer, which technically gave him the right to jump others in line, the early bird always caught the worm. Besides, he wasn’t that kind of a guy—he only pulled rank when it was necessary. That was the only way you gained the men’s respect. He knew a lot of people still resented him. He was the new guy, the replacement. Although he’d seen his fair share of hell, until his platoon actually went into combat he was still green in their eyes.

And rightly so, I suppose. After all, he’d only been here a few weeks, and the only combat he’d seen was a brief air attack on the base. He’d taken part in the defense of the encampment, but he hadn’t stood out in any way. He was just doing his job. And yet—he wanted to stand out. He wanted to prove his worth—not to his superiors, but to the men under him. He needed to gain their trust and respect. He needed them to follow him without hesitation. It was his sole goal to earn that trust and respect.

He’d never really ever thought of combat that way until now. When he first saw action with the Screaming Eagles, almost everyone had been a green. However, they’d all gone through the same training together and endured jump school. They’d bonded, they’d become a family. Those bonds were tested by fire when they’d jumped out of those C-47s into Normandy. Now the bonds had been severed, and he had to form new bonds with men he’d just met a few weeks ago—men who had been through hell together without him, men who’d seen their best friends get shot or blown apart without him present. He hadn’t seen what they had. He was an outsider to them.

But he’d began to form a relationship with his platoon. He knew them each by name. Most of the men directly under his command were young, inexperienced new recruits. So over the past few weeks he’d taken the liberty of whipping them into shape—not literally of course. He’d pushed them, he really had, but he knew their limits, their strengths, their weaknesses. The past few weeks had been a learning experience for him as well as them. He’d drilled them, but he’d also taught them the practicalities of war. He’d taught them how to survive. Many of them hadn’t been able to remember to constantly keep their heads down, but he’d etched the concept into their brain with the numerous field maneuvers he’d organized.

He’d be lying if he said that his training regimen wasn’t inspired by his own parachute training at Fort Benning. He knew they weren’t paratroopers—by God they weren’t—but he’d make them the best damn platoon in the regiment. He wanted them to take pride in their unit, so that’s what he’d told them. Not only did they need to trust him, but they also needed to learn to trust each other. They had a common identity as 3ID men, they were Baker Company men, but he wanted them also to realize that they were second platoon men—that they were worth something—because he knew, he knew how war could make a man feel insignificant. Often he would wonder what was the point to all this killing and suffering. But he believed that their efforts were worthwhile, that they were making a difference and that it was for the better.

After getting his chow and coffee he sat down at an empty table ( which wasn’t too hard to find since the whole place was mostly empty ) and began to eat. Reaching into the pocket of his fatigues he withdrew a blank sheet of paper and a pen and began to write. For once he had no idea what to write. For this wasn’t any ordinary letter. If it had been to his parents or his siblings he would have written in it no time. His letters to them were usually cheerful and jovial—they had to be. He couldn’t let them know what he really thought of the war. He couldn’t tell them that it wasn’t all daisies and roses like the pictures made it out to be. It was hell, plain and simply. Nasty, gory hell that neither he nor they wanted any part of. But it was his duty, his job, and he would do it the best he could.

Pushing these thoughts to the back of his mind he bit his lip and frowned in thought, tapping the pen against the table lightly. Never in his twenty-four years of life had he been at a loss for words until now. It was maddening. He didn’t even know why he was doing this. He’d met a WAC on a recent trip to Paris. He’d been quite taken with her and had flirted up a storm, and now he found himself with an address and nothing to write. Dammit. He set down his pen and shook his head in amusement. They were in the middle of a war and he was fretting over a silly schoolboy crush. It was ironic, really, how they’d spoken about what they’d do after the war. He’d wanted to become a doctor and save lives. Save lives…when I’ve taken so many… Yes, if he ever got out of this, that’s exactly what he’d do. He knew it had been wishful thinking, but just talking with the girl had made him forget, if for only a while, that they were at war. He’d never regain what he’d lost, but for once he’d felt hope and optimism, and the belief in it a better future. He’d felt human.

His dark eyebrows knit together in thought and his blue eyes brightened momentarily as he set the pen to his sheet of paper once again. Dear Lucy…

[Deleted]

A low haze of smoke filled the small tent like fog. It hung over the heads of five men who where seated around a round table playing texes hold’ em poker. There was a large pile of money in the middle of the table along with the cards for the game. The highest pair on the table was a pair of two’s but there was an Ace there as well. Everyone had placed their bets save for one person, a corporal who was sweating and kept glancing between the cards on the table and the cards in his hand. The other men where patiently waiting for him to make his decision. A second corporal with a nicotine stained moustache stubbed out the remains of a cigarette before pulling a fresh one from a crushed packet; he straightened it and lit before looking around at the table. Most of the other men where privates who where hoping to win a bit of extra cash for their weekend off base. But they where all looking at their cards as nervously as the other corporal, as if they where wondering if they had made the right choice in staying in the game. The pot was up to almost $600 already and this was the last round, whoever had the winning hand was going to walk away all the richer. The moustached corporal looked at the last man who placed a bet. He was a new guy to the area, a flyboy. The corporal couldn’t remember his name but he knew he had gotten in on the game when he overheard the privates talking about it out front of the mess hall.

Hr sized up the pilot quickly, trying to decide what he had. He was keeping it cool, his face was blank, his eyes where blank, he gave nothing away with any expression and he had hardly moved for the whole six hour game. Sunlight had crept in under the flap of the door and they had decided to make this hand the last one for the game. The moustached corporal wasn’t worried, he looked down at the two Aces he had in his hand. Together with the Ace on the table he was sure to win. Finally the other corporal made his move, matching the last bet and exhaling deeply. The final bet had been placed, now it was time for everyone to show their cards and see who would walk away with the pot. The moustached corporal watched as various hands where shown, so far all he had to contend with was two pairs. He laid his hand on the table and smiled as everyone groaned, his three Aces topped all the other hands, he was reaching out to take the money when the pilot places his cards on top of the pile. The corporal stared at the hand in disbelief. He had been beaten by a four of a kind of two’s. His hands shook as he brought them back empty and watched as the pilot scooped up the money and started sorting it into a wad, he pulled a rubber band from his pocket and looped it around the cash before pocketing the whole lot. The whole time his face remained blank and impassive. The privates and other corporal got up and shook hands before walking out of the tent grumbling about their losses. The moustached pilot walked around to the pilot when they had all left. He wanted to punch him, he wanted to scream abuse at him and throw him out of the tent and take the money, but instead he just shook his hand and left after the others.

Sam Coller walked out of the smoke filled tent and into the fresh day. He inhaled the clean air and coughed before spitting. He hated playing poker with smokers; just that one corporal had filled the whole tent with his smoke. He shook his head and pulled his flight jacket tighter around himself before making off towards the mess hall, he would grab something to eat before going to bed, he had today off and there was nothing he liked better then having a victory snooze after winning a long game. He rubbed his eyes and his face fell. It was tiring keeping a straight face through the whole game, when that last two had hit the table it had taken every fibre of willpower he had not to burst into laughter. The wad of cash was a comfortable lump in his jacket pocket and he rubbed his hand over it as he walked into the mess hall. He didn’t really care about the money; money had never really been an issue for him. He didn’t play to win; he played for the simple thrill of the gamble. That didn’t mean he wasn’t up for taking the money from the losers. It just meant that he was never put off by losing. He walked along the serving counter and selected his victory meal before turning and looking out over the mass of empty chairs that filled the hall. He spotted the familiar badge of the 3ID on the shoulder of a Lieutenant. Sam hated eating alone so decided to see if the Lieutenant was feeling friendly. He weaved his way over to the man and sat across from him, flashing the most charming smile he could manage after an all night game he extended his hand towards the officer.
“Hi, I’m Sam Coller. I hope you don’t mind if I join you?”
Sam didn’t noticed the sheet of paper sitting in front of the Lieutenant and the realisation that he may had just interrupted the officer while he was writing a letter was like a slap in the face. He made a move to get up and leave.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

[T/5. Joseph Shelton]

The two ton truck roared into the camp, churning up mud and flinging it several feet and into anyone who stood in its way. The driver pulled the handbrake and the truck slid to a stop, nearly throwing everyone in the back against the rear of the cab. The truck idled and men begin to pour out of the backside. One of them being Doc Shelton. He had gone away for a while to the rear, where he was assisting surgical teams and serving as a runner between mobile hospitals and other medical facilities, seeing as his unit wasn’t in direct combat, brass figured they could spare the boys in the back an additional medic.

During his time in the rear, Joseph had made some friends, and connections. One of his friends from the rear, a private who had access to weapons and ammunition was able to barter with Joseph and sell him an M-1 Garand, fresh from the case it came over in. Being a medic, it was not authorized for Joseph to use on in combat. However, after recent reports of medical personnel being executed, he didn’t want to take the chance. He figured he would sling the rifle behind him and only use it if attacked. He only had five clips of ammunition for it anyway, not like he could take on the Third Reich himself.

Rifle slung behind him, Joseph dismounted the truck. With his medic bag in hand, he started to wander away from the vehicle area and headed for the chow hall. He hadn’t eaten since nearly two days before and was certainly in need of something. Slinging his medic bag over his other shoulder, he walked up to the entrance of the mess hall and entered. Inside it was quiet and he could tell there were but a few people inside. He noticed two officers at one table. One appeared to be a pilot, and the other a Second Lieutenant who was writing on a piece of paper.

Joseph knew nearly everyone in his unit, but the Second Lieutenant was a fresh face. Considering the gold bar, Joseph thought to himself that this “El Tee” was just another replacement. But he wasn’t like his buddies, he didn’t knock on guys who hadn’t served previously with the unit. Everyone was in this together. Besides, he was a medic, not a leader. His job is was to provide medical care and part of that is respecting everyone you treat, or may one day have to treat. That being said, he kept his distance from the officers and made his way to the food line and prepped his food pan for whatever slop the cooks had mustered up.

Typical Army chow, of course, mystery meat smothered in mystery gravy, with a side of mystery vegetable and a cup of black coffee. But Joseph didn’t care at this point, he was starving. He took his food in his pan and carried it over to a vacant table in a corner. He sat himself down, removing his rifle from his shoulder and leaning it on the edge of the table. He placed his medic bag at his feet and pulled back on his sleeves before going nearly face first into the food, only to take a small break to collect some air, and sip on the coffee before it went cold.

Joseph was looking forward to seeing old friends, but for now, he was focused on the food, but kept a keen sense of his surroundings, something a medic acquires during his time in combat, you never know when you’re going to get that call. Not that Joseph was expecting something, but he had found himself becoming more aware of his surroundings, almost in an anxious state, just shy of paranoia, but it was under control, and he was cool. He took another bite of food…

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

( OOC: Sorry for the late reply. I've been pretty busy these past few weeks. )

John finished writing with a flourish and set his pen down with a sigh, studying his fairly neat scrawl.

Dear Lucy,
I hope this letter finds you well. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of you. My unit is in reserve and we haven’t been sent back to the front, which has given me time to think and write. I thought about the things we talked about in that beautiful café, and I thought about the way your even more beautiful eyes lit up as you spoke of peacetime. And then I realized that I didn’t want to spend peacetime without you. When we first met I felt a little signal go off in my head. It told me to stop looking, and that I’d found what was really worth fighting for—

He stopped reading and paused in thought. Was that true? Was that what he’d thought of Lucy, a woman he’d just met weeks ago, and now the world seemed to revolve around her. If not her, what else is there to live for? a cynical voice in his head asked. That was true. His life, all their lives could end at any time the moment they were deployed again. One didn’t think of these things in the heat of combat, but as he’d said in his letter, he’d had a lot of time to think. If he and Lucy did get married during wartime, like many of his colleagues had already done, then it was highly likely that she might become a widow when he did see combat again.

Marriage. They barely knew each other and he was thinking about marriage. He smiled in amusement at his naivety despite all he’d seen and done. He’d been in a few relationships before but none of them had really revolved around love. He thought briefly of Betty Lorraine, his high school sweetheart, and pushed the thought from his mind. No, that hadn’t been love. She’d fallen in love with Frank, his best friend, and married him, and he had died on Guadalcanal. At once he began to think of how Frank must have felt, knowing he had a wife back home, and that he might never see home again.

He’d never weighed the pros and cons of marriage during a war until now. Perhaps it was because he’d never really gotten a chance to do this much thinking. This was the longest he’d ever been in reserve, he was used to being on the frontlines and not thinking about anything but staying alive. When he was at the front, he didn’t think. He felt, he used his instincts. It was almost animalistic in a sense. That’s what combat did to people.

He read over his writing and smiled wistfully at how optimistic it was. Peacetime,God only knows when that will be—or rather if it ever happens at all. He’d only been over there since June and still it felt like a lifetime. He’d had all the idealism beaten out of him when he landed in France. Whatever hope, whatever faith in human nature he had before then was gone. War was monstrous and cruel, and if he survived this one he didn’t want any part in it anymore. He felt he didn’t even know himself any longer. At one time he had thought that he’d have a bright future—a wonderful career, maybe a family, seeing the world and all its sights. He wouldn’t ever regret going into the Army, he’d considered the experience rewarding, but he’d never expected it to be like this.

Is this how my father felt? Expendable? his mind asked. If he did fall in battle, then another would take his place—that’s how the Army worked. He’d simply be another name on a dog tag—John Patrick McCreary. He thought of all those under his command who had died. Had their sacrifices been worthwhile? Was all of this worthwhile? Yes. He had to remember that. Every time one of his comrades was killed he had to believe that.

John pondered what else to say to Lucy as he tapped his pen against the table. He raised his coffee mug to his lips and was about to start writing again when a man approached him. He’d never seen him before, but the man introduced himself as Sam Coller. “Lieutenant Jack McCreary.” John shook the man’s hand jovially with a friendly smile. “No, no by all means, that’s fine.” He folded his letter and tucked it inside the pocket of his field jacket. He looked over at the man’s uniform, and his insignia identified him as a Flight Officer. “What unit are you with, Coller?” he asked, attempting to make conversation. He also spotted an unfamiliar medic who had just sat down. He nodded over at him to get his attention in case he wanted to join them as he waited for Coller’s answer.

[Deleted]

Sam smiled again, he was tired thought and didn’t know how much more smiling he could do… but the lump of money would help to keep his grin up. He Shook John’s hand and got himself comfortable, still, he was slightly put off at the thought of interrupting the solider in the middle of writing a letter. Letters where very personal items, they held secrets and information that many would, and have, killed for, or died for. Sam remembered the last letter he had received, the cold words of his mother where with him still and would probably remain with him until he saw her again. That letter had not held information that was welcome. His father had been dead for two weeks before he had read that letter. Two weeks he had been without a father and he had never known about it. Such was the way of the world.

But the letter this Lieutenant was writing didn’t seem to hold any terrible news, the way he looked while he was writing it told Sam that his thoughts where not on the morbid side, at least that’s all Sam could tell just by looking at the man doing the writing, to know exactly what it was he was writing would mean reading the letter, and that was something Sam would not ask to do, even if offered, Sam would refuse, so personal where letters too and from home that he wouldn’t feel right poking his nose into another persons private life.

He was about to take a bite out of his meal when John spoke up. At John’s question Sam lowered his fork and lent back with a large smile, it seemed that Sam would be all grins this morning.
“Ah, sorry mate, I’m with the Forty Second fighter squadron of the Thirty third American Volunteer wing.” He rotated his shoulder to show the units patch, the flaming sword and shield with the words ‘Fire from the Clouds’ running along the shields base. Sam recognized the 3ID patch, but he didn’t know what part of the 3ID John served. Never one to be rude and always in the mood for a conversation, he put the question forward to John.
“How about yourself? Where they stationed you?” Sam was about to add a ‘Sir’ to the end of that, but he stopped himself and wondered if he had too. They where from separate companies, from entirely different divisions, and Sam didn’t know wether John outranked him or not. Still, better to be safe then sorry and he added a “Sir?” to the end of the question. The man was a Lieutenant after all.

Even if he didn’t have to say Sir to the other man, Sam still would have spoken to him with respect. The pilots and airmen normally got of easy in the war, they could go out and shoot at other planes, drop their bombs or transport cargo or infantry to where ever they had to go, but at the end of the day they got to fly back to an airbase, they got to sleep in warm beds with hot food and showers everyday. The only danger to them was when they where in enemy territory and had Anti-Air guns or enemy fighters trying to knock them out of the sky, the ground forces where in constant danger, they where always under the threat of death, it probably hung over them like a giant shadow, just waiting to snatch them away from their loved ones. No doubt the grim reaper had been busy, this war was meant to have been over years ago and yet it still seemed to be going strong.

Sam knew the chances of him surviving this conflict were good, but the soldier sitting across from him? Who knows when they might see each other again? He could be deployed tomorrow into a hot zone and be the unlucky one to catch the first bullet that flew past. So yes, Sam would call him Sir, he would speak with respect to the soldier sitting opposite him, not because of his rank but simply because he deserved it. A second question crossed Sam’s mind, but he was unsure of whether to ask it, combat had an effect on people, and calling up battles would also call up memories that where best left dormant. Still, in the spirit of conversation, Sam put forth his question.
“Seen much action?” Such a simple question, but the answers it could get could range from a simple “Yes” to a full description of an engagement.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

His mind kept wandering to that letter he’d been writing. The hardest letters he’d ever had to write were the ones to the families of his men who had been killed in action. And yet a simple letter to a woman was driving him mad. It’s not like he was shy or anything. If anything he’d become…dull. He used to be able to lay his feelings right down on the table. If he was angry he’d let someone know, if he was happy he’d show it, if he was sad people would be able to tell. But he’d become so cold, so distant, so reliant on himself. He’d had to. Out on the front you just couldn’t wear your heart on your sleeve. You’d be lucky if you made it back alive.

That’s what made this so hard. But even so when he actually talked to Lucy in person he’d felt…human. He hadn’t been afraid to speak of his future and what he wanted to do when this mess was all over. He couldn’t talk like that in front of his men. They could all die that very day or the next. He’d realized how precious life really was after seeing combat. The night he’d jumped into Normandy men had drowned in the flooded fields of the countryside. Some had gotten stuck in trees and were bayoneted or worse. They had not even gotten a chance to take a step, much less fire their weapons.

War made you feel so helpless. Like when a young Private, he’d never forget his name—Jimmy Mitchell—the first man he’d ever lost in combat, had gotten wounded by German machine gun fire. He’d been powerless to save him, and had had to watch him cry out in agony from his numerous wounds as he lay in the open. Finally a German soldier put him out of his misery, but this only angered the young lieutenant, and he shot him to death with his rifle. He’d felt an inhuman rage at the Germans as well as a sense of guilt for Mitchell’s death. There was really nothing he could have done—if he’d gone out to help they both would have been killed—but he still felt responsible. He was responsible. He was his commanding officer, he’d been counting on him, he’d trusted him. They all had trusted him—every single one of those men who’d been KIA.

But there were some things you just couldn’t help. Still every day he wondered, Why not me? Why hadn’t he been the one killed? Why wasn’t his family getting that letter? It’s not that he wanted to die but he’d seen much better men than himself fall in battle—chaplains, medics, people who had only wanted to save the lives of others. A paratrooper had tried to lift up a wounded buddy and carry him back to friendly lines but was mercilessly cut down by MG42s. Some of his best men had been killed by tank and artillery fire. Survival didn’t depend on skill, it was all about luck. Sure you could try to pay attention to your surroundings, try to be the best shot—hell you could be Audie Murphy himself and you still didn’t have a bigger chance than anyone else of surviving.

John nodded as Sam showed him the Forty-Second Fighter Squadron patch. “My friend from college joined the Air Corps…not sure what unit he’s in though.” Or if he’s even alive… He didn’t know if any of his classmates had survived, really. He knew some had been shipped off to the Pacific and a few others had joined the Air Corps like Tony. He didn’t know where his friend was stationed or how he was. He didn’t even know if he wanted to know—just like he didn’t want to know who hadn’t made it back from Holland in the 501st. It was foolishly idealistic, but he liked thinking they were all fine. For him, ignorance was bliss.

He waved a hand when Sam called him ‘sir.’ “There’s no need for that—flight officer’s close enough to lieutenant. Jack will do just fine.” he assured him with a grin. He wasn’t the type to pull rank on people on informal occasions such as this, and like he’d said, his rank was pretty much equivalent to his own as far as he knew. Besides, Sam seemed like a nice enough guy. It was hard making friends when you were in the Army, especially now that he was a replacement. Even some of the officers weren’t so keen on getting to know him, even though they knew about his military background and experience. But he sort of understood why. Just because he wore the same patch it didn’t mean he was one of them yet. He wouldn’t be until he went into combat again. “I’m with the 3rd Armor Brigade, Baker Company.” He assumed he already knew that he was with the 3ID from the patch but he added just in case, “3rd Infantry Division.”

He took a sip of his coffee and looked up at Sam’s question. “Yeah…I was with the 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne since ’42—I didn’t see combat until D-Day. I made the jump into Normandy and jumped into Holland for Market-Garden. I was transferred right before the operation turned FUBAR.” he explained with a shrug. They’d lost a lot of good men in Holland. It was supposed to be a simple operation and the war was to be over by Christmas, but he was certain that there was a very slim chance of that. They’d all be lucky to come home at all, never mind by Christmas.

[Deleted]

Sam’s eyes perked up a little when John mentioned that he had an old friend in the sky.
“A mate from collage aye? What’s his name? I might know him.” Sam had gotten to know a lot of other pilots since he had gotten here. When he first joined up he had known no one and was a stranger to the country he now fought for. Sam didn’t consider himself an American, he had no wish to live in the states or visit the capitals, but he would fight for them, simply because it guaranteed him a seat in the cockpit of a plane. Of course he had made friends quickly, the pilots in the war were almost too happy to bring him under their wings and he quickly found himself with more then a few friends. Of course, he was only accepted because there was less of a chance of him dieing. That was why it was so hard for most new recruits to find a place with the older vets, no one wanted to make friends with a dead man, it just hurt too much.

It was easy to sit back and compare people, such as Pilots and Soldiers; most of the people doing the comparing probably weren’t one of either. The Pilots where easy to chat too, more then willing to talk and laugh while most of the soldiers were quiet, talking amongst themselves in their own little squads, not really interacting with other company’s or regiments. There were the rare ones, who enjoyed chatting, but mostly they just kept to themselves and their own patches, it made sense of course. Same as before, no one wants to make friends with a dead man, and the fewer people you knew, the fewer deaths you would have to mourn.

He nodded and smiled some more as John waved off the formal speech.
“Sounds good to me Jack. Always good to meet someone who doesn’t let their badge shadow over people.” Sam had meet far too many of those kind of men. Most of the time, rank changed people. It was the power of the position that did it. The simple fact that you could tell people what to do and they would have to do it. Sam remembered meeting a Corporal a while back, he had only just been promoted and in only a few days in he had turned his old friends against him simply because he tried to abuse the limited authority his position had given him. Rather then leading those men and earning their respect, he had bullied them and automatically expected respect and obedience. It didn’t take long before the officer who had promoted him caught wind of his abuse and stripped him of his rank, putting him back in with the men he had been abusing. The last he heard about that particular soldier, he had gone into battle and had found himself facing the enemy alone.

Having friends by your side in a conflict is probably one of the most important aspects of surviving a combat situation. Not only did it give the enemy someone else too shoot at, but they supported you when things really got rough. They would carry you if you got hit, lift your spirits when you were depressed or demoralized. That is what made the soldiers so close, made them into brothers. Each platoon was a family unto itself, they trained together, ate together, fought and bled together, and most of the time, outsiders were not overly welcome into the family. Sam understood this, because he could see it, whenever soldiers of various units were put together, only a few mingled with the others, only a few reached out to the new hands offered. The rest stuck together, ignoring the others and looking out only for those men of their family.

Sam understood this brotherhood better then most would think. He and Greg were very close, they had known each other since the start of the war and had rarely been away from each other’s side. Greg had helped him through his father’s death, had covered him when he had been shot down and prevented his capture. They were brothers of the air, just the soldiers were brothers of the ground.

John had answered his other question, and Sam nodded while listening. “3ID aye? I’ve had some experience with you boys. Tough bunch of bastards you lot are too. I did some recon flights for a Second Lieutenant a while back; we surveyed a town and almost got blown out of the sky. The damage was so bad we crash-landed on the runway. Plus I dropped a stick of you boys into German lines not long after that. I heard that they managed to take out an artillery set up. Good stuff.”
He listened as John talked of his own combat experience in the 101st Airborne.
“I never got to fly with those boys, but I’ve heard enough about them to wish that I had. Do you keep in contact with your old unit?” Sam had been flying cargo planes during Market-Garden, he had hated it then and he hated it now… he just hated missing out on things like that.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

“Anthony Romano. Does the name sound familiar?” John asked hopefully. He didn’t know what had become of his roommate or any of his other classmates. After graduating in 1942 he was shipped off to Fort Benning and Romano was shipped off to who knows where. He’d always raved about his lifelong dream of flying a plane. His friend had been fascinated with Charles Lindbergh’s flight when he was a child. Because of his parents’ status he hadn’t had much of a chance to acquire flying lessons, which was why he joined the military. John couldn’t really understand the man’s love of planes. He supposed that the pilots had a relatively easier time than the ground troops, but after what he’d seen on D-Day he had no desire to pilot any planes.

Romano had been naïve—he’d wanted adventure when he’d joined the Air Corps—but then again, so had he. He’d wanted a fantastic career in the Army, he’d wanted to see the world. Not once had he thought about the killing, the dying, or the suffering that came along with such a career. He couldn’t have truly imagined war until he’d experienced it firsthand. Sure he’d played Army back when he was a child, but had he ever really understood what war was and what it did to people? He’d been changed. All his hopes and dreams and goals didn’t matter anymore. All he was worried about now was his ability to function as an officer and his own survival. He’d been afraid he wouldn’t make it out of France alive. When he did, he relaxed for a short time, and then he’d had time to think about the things he’d done and seen. Then he was shipped out again to Holland, and thinking ceased and instinct took over. War made men into animals. You showed no mercy to the enemy, it was kill or be killed. No human frailty or kindness existed.

“I know what you mean, Sam.” John answered with a grin to his comment about badges. Some of his colleagues in the Airborne had nothing short of a Napoleon complex. Power and authority made them feel good about themselves, and they had no qualms with mistreating the men just to prove that they could. They’d come up with dumb excuses for infractions—‘chickenshit’ as it was called—and threw men in the brig for the simplest of things. He took no excessive pleasure in power. He saw his authority as a responsibility, no more no less. It was his job to lead these men in combat against the Germans. It was his job to keep as many of these men alive as possible, but the first task always overshadowed the second. They had to complete their objective, no matter what the cost. However he did his damn hardest to make sure they accomplished their mission with minimum casualties. Some things however just couldn't be helped: a stray bullet or mortar round could end a man's life instantaneously. He couldn’t dwell on all the deaths there had been—deaths of men, boys, fathers, husbands, and sons. He did his duty and they did theirs.

It was so much different than civilian life. In civilian life he had time to care and to mourn and to grieve. Here you had to move on unflinchingly and unfazed. You couldn’t show your emotions, for it was a weakness. You could not have compassion, for it would burden you. He along with all other soldiers had been molded into a relentless killing machine. That was his function—to kill the enemy until he himself was killed. Not once had he tried to consider this when he’d decided to have a career in the military. As a bright-eyed kid these things didn’t ever cross your mind. He’d just remembered seeing his father’s medals and his old uniform, and he’d wanted to be just like him. He hadn’t seen the signs of the Great War’s effect on his father. He’d heard the screaming and the weeping during the night, and his mother’s patient attempts to console him. He hadn’t known what it was until now. Would he be that way if he ever returned from this?

He was frightened. They were all frightened. They hadn’t asked for this war, but whether they liked it or not they were here. Sometimes he did wonder if this would all be worth it when it ended. He believed it would—it was the only way he could justify the casualties and the losses of both body and mind. He’d seen better men than himself completely break down in combat, and he vowed never to let that happen to him. That’s why when he was at the front he didn’t think about the killing or the dying too much. He let instinct take over. It seemed when he was in battle he became a different person—a lot of people did. Some of the men in his old company—they didn’t look like they could have hurt a fly. But in battle they showed skill and finesse. It was all about survival, and in war you did whatever you could to survive. Surviving meant killing the Germans before they killed you.

He was barely twenty-four and he’d seen things some men might never see in a lifetime. He’d done things that no human being should ever have to do. He fought for his company, his platoon. He didn’t think about Uncle Sam or apple pie. He thought about saving the brave souls around him that he’d marched into hell with. At first that had been the only thing on his mind—fighting for his country and defeating the Fascist pigs. But now, after actually experiencing combat, he realized that it wasn’t about that. Yes, he knew that their actions would make a difference. The small firefights his platoon had were all part of a larger picture. He took pride at the fact that he had played a part, however small it was, in the Battle of Normandy and during Market Garden. But the only things that had been on his mind were his objectives and the lives of his men. Idealism didn’t suit him, but he had to have a small degree of it to stay sane. He had to believe that their sacrifices meant something to this gigantic cause they were all fighting for.

“Really? The 3ID has done combat drops?” John was surprised at Sam’s mention of flying some troops over enemy lines. He’d heard of commando raids and recon and such, but he had no idea that normal infantry units did that sort of thing. He smiled when Sam said that he wished he’d gotten a chance to fly with the Screaming Eagles. “They’re good men. I couldn’t have asked to fight with better men. I was very lucky to be assigned to that unit for so long.” At Sam’s question, he shook his head. “No…I’m afraid I haven’t spoken to any of them since I was reassigned. I just arrived here not too long ago, so maybe I will set up some kind of correspondence.” He did want to talk with his friends from the unit again, but now that he was reassigned, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to take it if some of them had been KIA. It was strange that he’d have a harder time coping with such losses because he wasn’t with them. Maybe it was because he felt guilty that he’d left them. He’d had to, there was nothing he could have done with a desk job. He would have felt even more guilty with that desk job. Why did they have to risk their lives when he didn’t? The ring. He glanced briefly at his West Point ring before looking back at Sam. Something occurred to him and he asked, “Your accent….where are you from exactly?” he asked. It sounded similar to a British accent but not exactly the same, and he couldn’t place what country it was from.

( OOC: Does Sam have an accent? Didn't want to seem like I was godmodding.. )

[Deleted]

(Yes he has an Accent, Its full on Aussie too.)

Romano… the name didn’t strike a bell. But then there was never a real chance that it would. There where hundreds of pilots and airmen around and lots of different units for them to disperse into. Good old Romano could be hundreds of miles away or he could have been on the next plane for all Sam knew. But still, despite all that. He would try and remember the name, if only for the chance encounter they could have.

That was how Sam had met so many people so far in his service. Chance encounters, randomly dropping down at table and talking to someone who was sitting alone, or overhearing talk about a game of cards and then getting in on the action. Sam was normally good with names and faces, but he found it easier to put a name to a face that he knew or had at least met before.
“No sorry mate, I don’t know him.” Sam didn’t want to say that, he heard the hope in John’s voice and Sam felt that my asking the name, he might have given that hope to him falsely. Sam hated false hope, that’s the kind of hope that soldiers get when Sam radios them to let them know they’re going to get a drop of supplies soon, but then gets ordered to a new area or comes under attack and has to turn back. Sam hated doing that

”I know what you mean Sam.”
“Damn straight buddy. You get these tough guys who think that a shiny badge will save their asses from a punch in the face, and the next thing you know. Smack!” Sam punched his fist into his palm. “They’re on the deck. Most of them deserve it too.” Sam paused for a moment, wondering if he might have gone too far. He settled himself back down, not wanting to put John off.
But as he started going on about the 3ID and combat drops, Sam guessed that he hadn’t crossed a line.

“Yeah, I believe they where 3ID boys. But not your normal cut and collar. I think they were dropping in to sabotage an artillery battery. If so they succeeded, I wasn’t told much about the mission, just told where to fly too and who to drop off.” That was the way it had been too. No one ever really told Sam much about the mission he flew on, and whenever he asked about resistance the answer he got more often then not was “Be prepared for the worst.” What the hell did that mean? Were they flying into an area that was full of anti-air or swarming with fighters? Would they have escorts? Would the plane even get off the ground? Those where all pretty bad situations and Sam guessed that he just had to pick the worst of them and go with it.

Sam listened to John’s response and asked his questions, but when John said that he hadn’t been keeping up with his old mates, Sam’s smile faded a little. He knew why though. He’d spoken to soldiers who’d recived bad new in letters just before going into combat, some of them said it helped them to fight, that they used the anger of their loss to fuel their battle. Others said it took the fight right out of them, made them slower then they should have been. Most of the men like that had spoken to Sam about it from a bed in a medic’s tent. Oh yes, Sam got around.
He believed that you had to know as many people as possible, yes some would die and you feel sorry for them, but you would get over it and move on, otherwise it would eat away at you until there was nothing left but cold, hard shell of the former person.

As John asked his next question Sam’s smile returned to its full shine, almost as shiny as the ring on Johns finger.
“Where am I from? Hehehe, I knew most of you yanks weren’t up with the lower half of the earth. I’m from Australia. Born and bred and proud of it.” Sam was about to stop there, but he felt chatty and decided to continue. “I landed a job hauling freight between Aussie and the US before the war came around, and when it did hit I was stuck in the States. So rather then sit around like a wuss I signed up and now here I am.”
He spread his hands out as he said the last part, as if posing for John’s inspection, to see if he made the cut. What for Sam had no idea, but he was a showman, and was enjoying the conversation, plus, deciding that old Johnny had asked a question of origins, Sam would too.
“That’s a nice ring you got their mate. Were you the old collage footy star?”

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

“Oh.” John tried to hide the disappointment in his voice, but he wasn’t able to. He knew he should have known better than to have gotten his hopes up, but he couldn’t help it. Perhaps his soul wasn’t completely torn apart by this thing yet. Still in war optimism was a dangerous thing—a deadly thing, even. The replacements were like that—overly excited, cocky, confident. They didn’t realize just how expendable they were. They were just a tiny component of Uncle Sam’s Army, a little piece of something much greater. They didn’t have more of a chance of survival than anyone else, and neither did he. For all he knew Tony could have died—and he was just another casualty, just like Frank. This war had cost him so many friends-- good men, better men than himself had been killed in action. And he always wondered why he had survived and they hadn’t. Every time he saw a comrade fall, he constantly asked himself that question.

He kept telling himself that it was random, just chance. There was no rhyme or reason to how things happened, they just happened. His faith taught him differently but the war had almost stripped him of that as well. Sure he still clutched his rosary during the shelling, but did he truly believe that there was a guy in the sky controlling this? He didn’t know, he didn’t even know if he cared to know. He visited the chaplain like everyone else but he felt that each man had to deal with the strains of combat himself the way he saw fit, and for him religion wasn’t how he coped. He knew he had a job to do and promised himself he’d do it. He wasn’t brave, he wasn’t patriotic—he just wasn’t going to let his men down. That was why he fought. Winning meant survival, and survival meant killing the enemy to complete your objective, and that’s what he intended to do. He couldn’t think about those who had died, or why he hadn’t. He couldn’t dwell on things, he couldn’t show any kind of emotion, for he was a soldier—a machine built to kill.

That’s what the war had done to him. At times he felt so…inhuman. He found no joy in killing his fellow man, he hated it. He had been aware of the possibility of a war when he’d matriculated to West Point, but had he really, truly believed that it would happen? No. And when it had happened, he’d so foolishly wanted to fight and kill as many Japs as he could. When he’d really thought about the things he’d seen and done for the first time, they seemed sickening. He’d nearly keeled over from nausea after his first kill, but he’d moved on. He’d had to. He was in occupied France with nary a friend in the vicinity—if he hadn’t gone on and fought he would have died. That was the last time he’d ever truly felt remorse. He’d grown cold and uncaring. What would his family think of him if he ever returned? He supposed—he hoped—his father would understand, as he’d been through the same things he had during the Great War, but his mother and siblings? They’d never understand.

John chuckled a bit at Sam’s comments about officers who let power get their heads. “Yeah, I had a few colleagues like that back in the 101st. Real gung-ho—young guys who thought they could take on the world—and they’d rub their brass in the men’s faces. Of course when they got into combat they were usually the first ones down.” Most of them had been OCS men, but some had been West Point as well. To him it didn’t matter what training they’d gotten in order to earn their rank—nothing but common sense, luck, and instinct could save you.

He nodded as Sam spoke about the 3ID. “I’ve heard a great deal about their exploits in Anzio—and the landings in Southern France.” At the time it’d only been passing interest, but when he was transferred here he’d dug up the reports on the campaigns, and was very impressed at what he saw. The air raid had convinced him that these were good men, and he was lucky to be among them. He felt almost guilty for taking on the same attitude as his brothers in arms in the paratrooper regiment he’d served with. They saw themselves as better than all the other troops because of the extra training and jump wings. While he of course prided himself on completing the training, the reality of it was a regular soldier’s job was just as hard as a paratrooper’s—it just didn’t usually involve combat jumps. There was something about jumping out of a plane that thrilled him, ever since that first jump in Georgia. It’d all been so beautiful and serene then—the cotton fields and the rolling hills on the ground below, such a far cry from the Normandy countryside blazing with ack-ack and artillery fire. It wasn’t at all how he’d pictured France. He’d been to the country once before this whole mess began, but he’d only visited Paris, and it was beautiful. He’d returned to the city several times since then with weekend passes, but for some reason it wasn’t the same. Though Paris was liberated there was this strange…emptiness in the people’s eyes, not unlike the emptiness he saw in his own. They’d suffered—perhaps even more than him—as a result of this war. They’d seen death, destruction, and humiliation. Men, women, even some of the children had that same look. He couldn’t stress how grateful he was that the war hadn’t affected his family in the same way.

“Australia? Wow…what’s it like down under?” he asked out of curiosity. He really was interested, as even the war hadn’t taken away his desire to see the world. Maybe someday when all this was over and done with, and if he was still around, he’d get his chance to see it in peace. “I’m from New York—I was born and raised in Queens.” he explained. What he wouldn’t give to sit on the porch of the family home again. Things had been so much simpler then, his ideas about the world had been so much more optimistic. He’d had the gleam of youthful ambition in his eyes, he was so sure of everything—where he was going, what he’d do with his life—and now…now it seemed like he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

“Oh? My ring, thanks." It took him a while to respond, as he was lost in thought. "Yeah, I did play some football at West Point. I was the quarterback.” he stated with a grin. “I played a little baseball too--just for fun. Did you play any sports in school?”

( OOC: Sorry it's so late, my muse has been evading me for a while :/ )

[Deleted]

(All good man, no rush on it.)

Sam was beginning to feel a bit more awake, despite the all night game he was getting a second wind, he drank some of his coffee and took a bite of his food while John talked. He didn’t know if it was rude to eat while someone was talking too you, it never bothered anyone at his home, but the Yanks and Pommies had different ways… still, he didn’t each much, just a bite, plus the food and drink were waking him up some more, he would crash out later, he was beginning to get into this conversation and he listened intently as John talked.

When John asked about his homeland Sam’s eyes visibly brightened, no one had asked him about home before, they had asked how he grew up and what not, but about the actual country, the land and its people. He was about to answer when he realised that he hadn’t really seen much of his own country.
“I’ve flown all over it plenty of times and the vast expanses of land are beautiful, the sun cresting over the Blue Mountains in the morning is a sight I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of. Plus no matter where I land, there are always people who are ready to have a drink with you, or help you out if your lost.”

He fell silent for a moment, for the first time he was at a loss for words. He didn’t really know much about his own country, plus from what he had seen of the States and Europe, the land and rivers, the tree’s and people, where mostly the same. People lived in houses, cooked in kitchens, and worked their jobs in Australia just as they did everywhere else. Sam felt a little depressed at how similar the world was to Australia; he thought he was from some place unique, the only unique things in Australia where some of the animals. He began to feel a strong longing for home, he had seen more of the States and Europe then he had of his own country. He vowed that when he did return, he would explore his country; he would get down into the bush and dirt rather then just fly over it.

Sam looked at John for a moment at the mention of being a quarterback and had to think for a little before remembering that it was a position in the American version of Footy. A strange game where forward passes were how you got the ball forward rather then running it. At the mention of sports played in school Sam’s shoulders dropped a little more, but he took it in his stride, John wasn’t to know, and its not like Sam was ashamed of his lack of schooling, but it did make it harder to talk to educated guys.

“Heh, I never went to school mate. Never had a chance, my family moved around a lot, and when we finally did settle, we were too poor to afford schooling, everything I know I learnt from mechanics, my parents where too busy working to put food on the table to really be able to teach me or my sister anything. I taught her how to read and write, how to count and all that, but yeah. Never played sports, I was too busy learning what I could about engines, I lied on all my applications that asked for schooling, and they thankfully didn’t check into it otherwise I wouldn’t be here now.”
Sam wondered if he should have said that, and his mouth snapped shut as he finished talking. He had just told an Officer that he had lied his way into the military. Stupid move, Stupid! He froze up as he looked at John, wondering what would happen now. Would he march off to the head office and get him shipped out? Or court-marshalled where the end results could have him rotting in a cell until the end of the war, maybe even longer? He wouldn’t be able to run, he would never make it off base, maybe he could bribe John to keep quiet? He did have a nice little sum of money in his pocket…

(Sorry for it being so short... my muse is wavering too.)

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

( OOC: No problem. Sorry this is late. )

John listened intently as Sam spoke about his homeland. It sounded so different than America—or at least, New York. Everyone was so worried about themselves, and the only people you sat down to have a drink with were family, friends, or the neighbors next door. There were no wide open spaces, just miles and miles of office buildings and skyscrapers. It had its own charm, and was beautiful in a way as it was his home, but he’d always loved the country. On weekends when he was a child, his father would drive him and George upstate to the Finger Lakes region to go hunting. The forests were so serene and ethereal. Everything was so calm and peaceful, only to be interrupted by a rifle shot. He’d never thought of it that way until now. He’d always admired nature and its beauty, but after going to war and seeing the destruction it exacted upon natural—as well as manmade—beauty, he began to have a new appreciation for it. Someday after the war, if he survived that is, he would build himself a house far away from the city where he’d live in peace.

And when he did, he wasn’t going to hunt. He’d had enough of killing. It was ironic, really—between him and his brother he’d always been the better shot. It made him grateful that George had been designated 4F—he wouldn’t do well out here. Sure, both of them had been equally athletic, competitive, and energetic, but he’d always seen George as the smart one, even though he’d been more studious as a child. George had a future—a wife and a baby on the way. He was vice president of their father’s company, and one day when the man retired he’d take over. He had a life, a wonderful life ahead of him. John frankly had no idea which way his own life was going. Perhaps it was because it could end at any time. He hadn’t really given too much thought to what he’d do after the war. Only God knew when this mess would end. And he didn’t even know if he’d survive it—it was pointless for him to think about the future, but it was also unavoidable. He’d told Lucy that he wanted to become a doctor, to help heal people. Instead of killing them. But would he survive to do that?

He wanted a future, a peaceful career. He’d been so excited about going to West Point back in ’38, and he’d been planning on it for years. He’d wanted to be just like his father, he’d wanted to earn medals, to see the world, to be some kind of a hero. Now all he wanted to do was get out of Europe alive. Even after his best friend was killed in the Battle of Guadalcanal, he’d still thirsted incessantly for combat. He’d wanted to avenge Frank’s death and kill as many Japs as he could. He hadn’t known how horrible things were over there. It was hard to imagine or believe, but he’d heard the stories—it was even more hellish there than in the ETO. He knew now he wouldn’t last a day over there—he was lucky to have even lasted as long as he had here. Of course that didn’t mean he was confident in his own abilities as a soldier and an officer—not at all. He’d received the best training the Army could have given him, he had a bright and eager mind, he was a fairly good tactician, he was excellent with a rifle—but those things didn’t matter. Sure of course they helped but they didn’t mean anything. It all depended on whether or not Lady Luck decided to smile upon you. He’d seen better men than himself die from stray bullets or mortar rounds. There were some things you just couldn’t help.

One of those things was how the war seemed to ruin the beauty of the landscape. When each day could be your last, you began to notice these things. The forests of France were beautiful, and now they were haunting. They reeked of death and destruction, and you could never tell when a Kraut was going to pop out from behind a tree and start spraying you with his submachine gun. You never knew when a grenade was going to fly through the air and hit the foliage beside your feet. The reflexes he’d developed from spending so much time at the front would follow him for the rest of his life, he was sure of it. He slept with a knife under his pillow and his pistol near, even while in reserve. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t paranoia, and it certainly wasn’t fear—it was instinct. He vaguely wondered if his father had ever done the same thing.
He’d never understood him until now. He hadn’t been able to figure out why he never carried a rifle when he took him and George hunting, or why he’d hear him screaming and crying at night and his mother’s soft voice consoling him. But now he knew, as he was going through some of the same things he’d went through more than twenty years before. He had a new respect and appreciation for his father, and he felt guilt for being angry with him when he tried to stop him from dropping out of school and enlisting. He’d wanted to protect him for as long as he could. Even his mother had known what the war would do to her son—she’d seen what it had done to his father. She was trying to protect him as well when she’d discouraged him from joining the service. He knew now she was proud, but he also knew that she worried herself sick about him, hence why he frequently wrote letters home.

After a few moments of thought he realized that he hadn’t answered Sam. Smiling, he commented, “That sounds wonderful. I’ve lived in the city all my life…I’ve never really spent too much time in the country except for hunting trips and picnics here and there. I’d very much like to see Australia someday.” He’d wanted to see so many far off places as a child, and he still did—but not like this. If there was a next time, he’d earn the money himself and travel peacefully without having to kill to have a bite to eat or lay down his head to rest. Of course what he wanted most was to see his own home again before he went gallivanting anywhere else, but the war surprisingly hadn’t taken away his love of travel and exploration.

He was surprised when Sam said that he hadn’t been to school, but then again you didn’t really need a college degree to get a decent job in America. His parents, however, had encouraged all three of their children to work for a degree, and had always taught them that education was one of the most precious things you could have. Still, he wasn’t one to think that education made one person better than another. He knew good men within his unit who hadn’t even finished high school, and some of them were his close friends. He saw the look of horror on Sam’s face and couldn’t help but chuckle good-naturedly. “Relax, your secret’s safe with me.” he assured him, taking another bite of the eggs on his plate. If he’d lied just to serve in another country’s military when he didn’t have to, John respected him. Not many people would do that. “Still, I’d be grateful if you could help me with something."

[Deleted]

(Sorry its another short one.)

He was beginning to feel a little uneasy at John’s silence, maybe he really had made a mistake by letting his lack of proper education slip. But it wasn’t like he was stupid, he had learnt well from the mechanics, he could read the schematics of an engine better then most could read a book. Of course it wouldn’t matter if he was found out, they would still lock him up or kick him out, and poor old Sam hadn’t even seen proper combat yet.

Sam wasn’t nurturing ideas of making it out of the war alive, not that he was looking to die, he just knew the odds. It was the greatest gamble anyone could take where the players bet their lives. But it was more then just a game between men, it was also a game between countries, the whole world was playing this game and every player in it, from the greatest commander to the lowest private was taking the gamble, they were playing their hands and each round was costing not money, but the lives of men, women and children.
Sam inwardly shuddered at the thought, that the brass who were running the war used chips that represented people rather then money. Of course money was a big deal as well, you couldn’t fight if you couldn’t buy the weapons, but of course few people ever looked at the money, they were all too concerned with the lives of those fighting.

Blinking away the thoughts he was a little shocked at himself, the lack of sleep must really be getting to him, even though he felt like he was getting a second wind, he didn’t often get dark thoughts like this and he forced them out by taking a bite of his food again, he looked at John wondering just how much it might take to keep the man silent about Sam’s lack of education.

He listened while John talked about his city life, and Sam actually found that he felt a little sorry for him. Being forced to live in a concrete jungle of glass and roads was not Sam’s idea of fun. The rush of the people, the smell of the streets choked with car exhaust, it made Sam cringe just thinking about it.
“I couldn’t do it, Jack. Living in a big city like that, it’d crush me.”

The next words John spoke though sent a wave of relief through him, as he said that he would keep his dirty little uneducated secret Sam visibly relaxed. But as John asked for help with something, he began to grow suspicious again. A favour for a favour made sense, and maybe it was Sam’s slight paranoia but he was beginning to suspect that John was about to ask him for something that he wouldn’t enjoy doing.
Still, he put his poker face into action and masked his uneasiness, so far John had come off as a good, down to earth sort of bloke, and Sam was thinking that is wouldn’t be in his character to be up too no good. But he had been wrong before.

There had been a mechanic who Sam had been working with a while back; Sam had thought he was a good guy, honest, always laughing and just generally likable. Sam had warmed to the man almost instantly, but he always seemed to be broke. That had never bothered Sam, as he always had a roll of winnings in his pocket he would often buy the man drinks at the pub. At one point Sam was even showing him how to play poker better.

They had slowly become friends until the mechanic came up too him one morning and asked to borrow a couple hundred dollars. Normally Sam didn’t lend out such large amounts, but he felt that he could trust this man, and so had given over the money without question. That night Sam had been called into the MP’s station. The Mechanic had tried to double the money Sam had lent him in a game of cards, and then when he lost, he stole what he could and made a run for it. Since then, Sam had been a little more cautious about whom he trusted.

Nevertheless, his poker face was calm and friendly, he would see if he was right in judging that “Jack” was a good bloke or not. He simply said. “What do need a hand with?”

[Nathan Whyte]

McCreary: 15CP
Coller: 14CP
Shelton: One good post, 2CP