Hot as a bastard (7AD)

[Harry Machin]

Harry, seperated from the rest of the replacements, followed some hasty directions to his new home, a sand-strewn barrack block. He stood in the doorway awkwardly for a moment, the feeling of trespass preventing him from crossing the threshold. But he was lucky - no one was in at the moment, though evidence of their passing was everywhere. He walked slowly down the line of bunks, looking for an empty space.

Finding one, he kept his head down and stowed his gear, slamming the heavy kitbag onto the bed and unpacking clothes, mess tin, wash kit, blackball, all the rest of it. God, but it was hot. He'd only walked from the airstrip on the base and he'd drank half his canteen. That'd have to change, he knew, but he wondered how anyone could get used to this heat.

He stood in the shade of the barracks doorway and watched as lines of soldiers marched to and fro. A company was assembled on the parade ground and he saw them snap off a crisp salute together. It was hard to imagine that crispness surviving the intensity, the frought panic of contact. He wondered why anyone bothered with that stuff after that, but there must be some reason, because everywhere he saw the uniform he knew the salutes and the marching would be close by.

It was certainly better than being chased through the woods like a scared rabbit, he had to admit.

[Marek Czajkowski]

Being a native of western Poland, Marek was far from used to this kind of heat. By now his canteen was emptied and his face and khaki uniform were both covered in sweat. He rolled-up the long sleeves as far as was comfortable, and even a bit of his shorts were rolled-up. He had also taken off his helmet to use as a makeshift fan on his way to the barracks. He had recently arrived from a POW camp in Russia, and still skinny enough to prove it. While there Marek had been invited to join a group of other Poles that were forming an army. He had of course, immediately joined them.

They were then taken to Africa for training from the British, but not Marek, he was training with the British. He had received orders for the 7th Armored Division. Unlike the rest of the Poles who were forming their own divisions. Marek was trying to find out why, after receiving no satisfactory reply from the divisional HQ. So now the young man was making his way to his assigned barracks.

It didn't take him too long to find the barracks, he stopped in front of the door, trying to get the last drop of water out of his canteen. Failing, he entered the building hoping to find someone, anyone, who could help him with his plight. As he walked in he stopped, turned around, and went calmly back to the door. Realizing he had just passed someone. Opening back up the door he pointed at the man standing next to it. "You there! I need your help." Marek held out the papers with his orders on it. "Why the bloody 'ell have I been assigned to this bloody division! I'm Polish, I shouldn't be here!" He was still learning the English language, and liked using the new words he learned. Even if he didn't fully understand them yet.

[Harry Machin]

Hearing the sharp tones in the newcomer's voice, Machin leaped to attention, assuming it was a sergeant or worse, an officer. His worry turned to confusion when he saw the blustering papers waved in his face, and noted the corporals stripes on the man's uniform.

"Bloody hell fella, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

Harry took the offered papers and inspected them with a wince. It was the standard transfer letter issued to everyone - in fact, except for the names of the relevent officers, it was a carbon copy of his own transfer papers. He looked at some of the funny names and frowned.

"You're one of them Polacks aren't you? Funny, you look just like a Tommy in that getup..." Accordingly, Harry started to speak slowly and louder, the defacto British response to foreigners in their midst. He handed the papers back and grinned. "Well, you're stuck here now. I wouldn't fancy your chances of getting out of this mess. Looks like we're both a long way from home. Have you been here long?"

He tapped his watch and spread his hands.

<EDIT: to bolden text where text was not boldened before>

[Marek Czajkowski]

Marek took a step back as the soldier proclaimed he had almost been given a heart attack. Slowly dropping his hand as the man took the papers. Watching the soldier's frown he didn't think it was looking good for him. "So you think I'm stuck here 'eh?" Marek frowned. Then he noticed a change in the mans tone of voice. "Polack? I am Polish. And uh... yes I suppose I do look like one of you blokes in all this... getup."

Marek motioned for the man to follow him. "I've left the rest of my getup back with the trucks near HQ, you mind coming with me to it? I will need your help." He started to walk out of the barracks, looking back to make sure his new acquaintance was following. "No, I haven't been here very long." Marek grinned. "Big difference from Poland's weather!" By now the trucks were in sight off in the other side of the base. Marek was still using his helmet as a fan. "Say, I don't believe we've properly been... err... rightly introduced. My name is Marek Adamski." He looked ahead to see how far away the trucks were and then turned back to the man awaiting his answer.

[Harry Machin]

Machin had assumed the textbook expression of someone prepared to understand a foreigner - a slight lean forward to maximise hearing, an open face with raised eyebrows and the beginnings of a smile as if to disguise the blatant patronism. He was pleasantly surprised to find the Pole speaking excellent english. He adjusted his tone accordingly, relaxing back into his northern British gait.

"Yeah I'll help you get your stuff mate." He extended a hand after Marek's introduction. "The name's Machin, Harry Machin."

The Tommy left his gear on the bed and hastily covered his 'valuables' - a cadbury's bar and a crafty hipflask of whiskey - from view. Then he followed Adamski outside into the blazing sun.

"Too right about the weather, eh? And to think me mother wanted us to go somewhere sunny for our holidays after the war...not bloody likely." The pair walked back toward the trucks, and Machin wasn't sure whether it was the done thing to greet passing soldiers, or whether he had to salute them, or what. So he didn't bother, he just kept his head down under the shade of his helmet and tried not to feel out of place with the Pole at his side.

"Do you reckon there's water round here somewhere?" He asked, tapping his canteen idly and scanning the base as Adamski hauled his gear off the truck. He noticed he was ignoring the struggling Pole and leaped in to assist.

"Here, let me grab that for you..."

[Marek Czajkowski]

"Is nice to meet you Harry!" Marek shook the man's hand and grinned. "The truck is up there." He pointed to a truck ahead and slightly to their left. The heat had by now become almost unbearable to Marek. Sweat was trickling in small streams down his face. Harry's quip about not vacationing in the heat after the war made Marek keep grinning. But he stopped when he found his canteen still empty. Despite the heat Marek's gait had relatively loosned-up. Now that he found someone who he at least knew the name of, and who he hoped would turn out to be a valuable friend among the many strangers.

By now the pair had reached the baggage truck. So Marek quickly began set about the task of unloading his gear. Slinging his Lanchester Sub-Machine-Gun over his right shoulder and a bag of clothes over the other. "Here take this one." Marek said, handing Harry a bag of web gear, grateful for Machin's offer of assistance.

"No idea mate... perhaps they have some water at the place everyone get's their food at." The young Pole panted hopefully. "We can go there after delivering the bags to the barracks." He said, motioning for Harry to follow him.

Deciding their walk back to the barracks needed to be livened-up a bit, Marek decided to attempt to start a conversation. "So... where did you live before the war Harry?"

[Harry Machin]

"Blimey, what have you got in here - bricks?" Machin muttered as he dragged the sack off the truck. But he stopped complaining once the bag was brought to his shoulder and Adamski was talking again. The mess hall did sound like the next logical step, and he was relieved to have someone to go exploring the base with. There was no way he'd have ventured over there alone - far too awkward.

Although there were many replacements on the ship he had come in on, it seemed like this was the only other who had been sent to the same barrack block - undoubtedly that would change in due course, but for now Marek was the Tommy's best friend. He would never have imagined meeting a Pole before leaving England, let alone befriending one. Even posted in France with the BEF it seemed a remote part of the world. It occured to him as he chased his own meandering thoughts that he was being spoken to.

"Where did I live? Oh, well I'm actually from the midlands myself. A place called Stoke-on-Trent. The bloke who invented the Spitfire is from there, but other than that its a shit-tip."

He grinned as he imagined the smouldering chimney stacks and grim terraces appearing in some tourism advert for the region, and shook the absurdity away. It was unlikely anyone outside England had ever heard of the place, even though its industrial contribution to the war and the difficulty the Luftwaffe had interfering with it made it a steadfast bulwark in Britain's supply war. Where planes were made faster than the pilots who flew them, and steel was always in high demand.

"I don't know Poland at all, but I imagine its a pretty interesting story from being there to arriving here. Dump your gear and you can tell me all about it in the mess hall."

They slammed the bags down on the nearest empty bunk and Harry waited while Marek sorted through his things.

[Heiko Alkema]

Moderation

Marek Adamski - 5CP

Harry Machin - 5CP