Post by 2nd Lt. John P. McCreary on Jan 22, 2013 2:08:26 GMT
Character Name: Alistair Cromwell
Rank: First Lieutenant
Nationality: British
History: Alistair Daniel Cromwell was born November 5th, 1917 to Matthew and Mary Cromwell, Lord and Lady Grantham of Yorkshire, while his father was still fighting the Germans in France. He is the firstborn of two sons—his brother, James, was born two years later. As the son and heir of the Earl of Grantham, Alistair and his brother led extraordinarily privileged lives. Although the power of the aristocracy had considerably diminished since before the Great War, Alistair’s family residence was one of the few that retained its strict sense of tradition. Lord Grantham had made some choice investments in America that allowed the family to continue living in their extravagant lifestyle. Though Alistair was very young at the time, he remembered the 1920s as a time of joy, excess, and luxury. His parents would throw dinner parties—which the boys of course weren’t invited to, but instead observed from upstairs. He learned to ride a horse at an early age, and it eventually became his favorite activity aside from reading. Alistair was a brilliant child, learning to read at age five with relative ease, and skilled in arithmetic and French. James and Alistair were as different as could be. Alistair was quiet and bookish, with a pale complexion and golden hair. James was boisterous, strong, and athletic with dark hair and suntanned skin.
Unfortunately the Cromwells’ excessive standard of living didn’t last forever. It was crushed with the stock market crash of 1929, along with the lives of countless others across Europe and the world at large. Grantham Hall was devastated. The earl and his wife had to dismiss all of the staff save for a cook and a few cleaning maids. Lord Grantham blamed himself for the sacrifices that had to be made. After all, he had invested nearly everything he had overseas. The money that was left simply wasn’t enough to live as they had. The Cromwells lived comfortably compared to the middle and lower classes, but Matthew Cromwell, a product of his time, couldn’t face his more well-off relatives, and those families who had managed to escape at least some of the ravages of the Depression. His wife was far more open to change than he was. She tried to convince him that the world hadn’t ended, but the earl simply wouldn’t listen. He began drinking his sorrows away. Then one cool morning when Alistair was twelve, he heard a single shot ring out. He heard his mother weeping, and ran downstairs, James right behind him. The two boys found their father lying on the parlor room floor, having taken his own life.
His mother was understandably devastated, but she rose to the occasion of becoming the family’s matriarch, despite the scandal as a result of her husband’s suicide, and the still raw pain of losing him. She learned to cook and clean and took a job as a nurse, having trained for the profession during the previous war. During the day, the boys’ grandmother acted as a governess. When Alistair was old enough, he managed to find work as a mill in Ripon.
He wasn’t able to go to a school like Eton, but he made exceptionally good marks at a small academy in the city. He became a prefect and the top of his class. In his spare time, he studied business. He managed to make a smart investment in the plastics industry with the spare money he had—without telling his mother—and made a killing. When he finally revealed his success to his mother, she was disappointed that he hadn’t told her of his plan, but proud and overjoyed. He put all of winnings in a bank, save for what was needed to hire a few servants for Grantham Hall and to pay his way to Oxford. The young Earl of Grantham’s actions not only saved Grantham Castle and the family’s livelihood for future generations, but also saved his family name.
When Alistair left for Oxford to study law, there was talk of a conflict with Germany. He had been reading about how Germany had managed to transform itself after its crippling defeat twenty years before, thanks to its Fuhrer. Alistair didn’t want a war. He considered himself a rather peaceful person, preferring to read and write poetry instead of shoot and hunt. He didn’t like guns in the first place—not after what his father did to himself. He never expected nor wanted to kill another human being.
However Oxford, like many universities, was a temple of ideas. Alistair came to Oxford with his own view of the world, but was exposed to many different others. His father probably would have hated him for it, but one of his best mates at Oxford was a socialist named Edgar from Manchester. Ed hated Germany, Italy, Franco, and fascism vehemently. He wasn’t keen on a Soviet-style state, but had dreams of transforming Britain into a nation dedicated to the welfare of its citizens. He told Alistair constantly that one day he was going to be Prime Minister. Alistair would simply laugh and nod, joking that he’d campaign for him.
Eventually Edgar began to rub off on him, and he became convinced that something needed to be done to stop Germany’s rise to power. Chamberlain’s foreign policy upset him to no end, and America’s inaction disappointed him even further. He and Edgar began publishing pamphlets about their rather outspoken ideas, and making speeches on the university’s campus. They’d often meet in the village pub with a small but enthusiastic band of followers that seemed to grow as Chamberlain continued to appease Hitler. They began to voice their support for an outspoken statesman named Churchill, who of course would later become Prime Minister.
When Alistair graduated, he went to work at a firm in Ripon so he could stay close to his mother, while James was at Cambridge ( studying literature of all things ). The two would tease each other over whose school was better, but Alistair was proud that his brother had decided to get an education in the first place. He kept in touch with Edgar and the old gang, occasionally joining them for a demonstration or two, but his life after Oxford was, for the most part, quiet. That was until Germany’s tanks rolled into Poland.
Edgar asked him to sign up with him the day after war was declared. Alistair was initially hesitant. Making speeches and passing around pamphlets was one thing, but fighting was completely different. But he did have a duty to his country, and if he truly believed in all the things he preached in his university days, then wouldn’t it be best for him to join up?
He told his mother of his intentions, and although she was understandably heartbroken to see him go, she respected his decision. Alistair also made James promise not to follow him, and to take care of their mother should anything happen to him, before taking a train to Oxford. He and his circle of friends met at their pub one last time before buying their commissions the next day. At age twenty-one, Lord Alistair Cromwell, Earl of Grantham, was off to war.
Writing Sample: “How many do you see, Dickens?”
“A platoon sir…at least twenty-five…thirty men.”
Alistair rubbed his chin, holding out his hand for the binoculars and staring at the column of men marching below them. He had been ordered to take a patrol of twelve men and a squad of Bren gunners to engage the remnants of German observation post supposedly staffed with an infantry squad. The post had apparently been reinforced, or intelligence had been horribly confused, because the ‘squad’ was staffed with a motorcade. There were three halftracks and a column of trucks. He and his men were perched on a hill across from the bridge the observation post was guarding. The German base was no doubt beyond that bridge. If they could destroy it, they’d cripple the remaining German forces in the area.
This was Alistair’s first taste of combat. He hadn’t so much as fired his weapon at a real live enemy yet. They had advanced through the French countryside from their encampment with little difficulty and virtually no enemy contact. He had proven himself to be a fine leader in the eyes of his superiors during training, and had been promoted to 1st lieutenant just before disembarking for France. He was proud to wear his country’s uniform. Not only did it earn him a kiss—his first, which he’d never admit to anybody— from the normally frigid heiress he’d had his eyes on since his schoolboy days at Oxford, but he did feel as if he was doing something grand and worthwhile. His mother had been proud of him, of course, but she also gave him a warning before he left. She had told him not to change, no matter what happened. He had promised that he wouldn’t—he had heard stories of men coming back from the previous war not quite like that had been before, but he wasn’t going to let it change him. How could it if he didn’t let it?
He glanced over at Dickens, the sergeant, and muttered, “Get your Brens set up and get ready to lay down a suppressive base of fire on my command. “
“Yes sir.”
“Edgar!” Edgar, his second-in-command, crawled over to him. “What have I missed?” He was always so laidback about things, but when the situation called for him to be serious, Edgar never failed to get the job done. He was happy to have him at his side. Not only was he his best mate, but he was an excellent shot with his Enfield. “Take half of the men and flank right. I’ll take the other half and hit them from the left while Sergeant Dickens and his Bren gunners mop up the center.”
“Sounds like a plan. Be careful.” Edgar said soberly.
“You too.” Edgar clapped him on the shoulder and gathered his men, while Alistair prepared to do the same. “Get ready to follow me on my command.” He glanced over at Dickens, who was waiting for the command to open fire. He signaled to him and he and his men started pelting the Jerries below with lead. “Forward!” he yelled, rising and charging down the hill, throwing a grenade. It exploded, killing two Germans instantly and wounding a third, who clawed at his bloody, torn apart face. Bile rose in his throat, but he kept running. He squeezed the trigger of his Enfield at one of the Germans who was trying to climb up onto the halftrack guns. “Keep them off the machine guns!” he yelled to his men, following his own orders. He heard something whiz by him and a gunshot. One of the privates had saved him from an untimely death at the hands of a young German soldier who had been aiming at him. He nodded gratefully, but then the boy fell down and lay still, apparently shot by another German. He ducked behind one of the cars and broke the windows, firing through at the soldiers running directly in front of him. He stopped at one point to reload and then continued, advancing steadily toward the middle of the outpost. He could see Edgar in the distance doing the same. The few surviving Germans tried to make a run for it, but he and his unit managed to cut them down. Cheers erupted as soon as the area was clear.
“Well done. Set up an aid station—I’ll need a runner to go back to command and—“ he was cut off, or at least he thought he was, since he couldn’t hear his own voice. What was it that man in the pub said? It’s okay if you can hear them. But if not…
Mortars! his hazy mind realized before losing consciousness.
He felt as if he were falling into an endless abyss. He couldn’t see or feel or hear anything. Good God, was he dead?
“You need to cut down on the shepherd’s pie, Al, you’re way too heavy for this.”
“Eddie…” he managed to croak, his eyes slowly opening. He was draped across the shoulders of his best friend—he recognized the blonde, unruly hair of his comrade sticking out from his helmet.
“I have a feeling I’m going to be making a habit of this, so just so we’re clear, this is the first time I’ve saved your life.” Edgar joked as he set him down behind a car and crouched down himself. “There’s shrapnel in your side, let me take a look at it.”
“What do you know about medicine?”
“My dad was a doctor, now let me see.”
Alistair reluctantly obliged, and Edgar lifted his jacket and shirt, examining the wound. “Lucky for you it’s not that bad.” He reached into his bag for his first aid kit and then his canteen. Alistair cried out when he poured some of the contents on the wound. “Sorry, chap, this is just until we get you to a hospital.” He bandaged the wound and then picked up his rifle. “Now to drive off this Hun counterattack. Give ‘em hell! Not one step back, boys!” he roared, firing his rifle. It was terrible for Alistair, just lying there watching, helpless to do anything. It hurt to move, and he knew he couldn’t lift his rifle. A few minutes later (or was it longer? ), the gunfire stopped. “Corporal Barrow! Take the lieutenant back to base. He needs immediate medical attention.” he ordered the enlisted man authoritatively. “I’ll hold the fort and wait for further orders.” Edgar told Alistair in a gentler voice. “You just focus on getting better.”
Alistair nodded as Barrow picked him up. They began to leave, but Barrow stopped when Alistair called, “Eddie!”
Edgar turned around, and Alistair managed a weak grin. “Thanks.” The other man smiled back and saluted him as he was carried away.
Rank: First Lieutenant
Nationality: British
History: Alistair Daniel Cromwell was born November 5th, 1917 to Matthew and Mary Cromwell, Lord and Lady Grantham of Yorkshire, while his father was still fighting the Germans in France. He is the firstborn of two sons—his brother, James, was born two years later. As the son and heir of the Earl of Grantham, Alistair and his brother led extraordinarily privileged lives. Although the power of the aristocracy had considerably diminished since before the Great War, Alistair’s family residence was one of the few that retained its strict sense of tradition. Lord Grantham had made some choice investments in America that allowed the family to continue living in their extravagant lifestyle. Though Alistair was very young at the time, he remembered the 1920s as a time of joy, excess, and luxury. His parents would throw dinner parties—which the boys of course weren’t invited to, but instead observed from upstairs. He learned to ride a horse at an early age, and it eventually became his favorite activity aside from reading. Alistair was a brilliant child, learning to read at age five with relative ease, and skilled in arithmetic and French. James and Alistair were as different as could be. Alistair was quiet and bookish, with a pale complexion and golden hair. James was boisterous, strong, and athletic with dark hair and suntanned skin.
Unfortunately the Cromwells’ excessive standard of living didn’t last forever. It was crushed with the stock market crash of 1929, along with the lives of countless others across Europe and the world at large. Grantham Hall was devastated. The earl and his wife had to dismiss all of the staff save for a cook and a few cleaning maids. Lord Grantham blamed himself for the sacrifices that had to be made. After all, he had invested nearly everything he had overseas. The money that was left simply wasn’t enough to live as they had. The Cromwells lived comfortably compared to the middle and lower classes, but Matthew Cromwell, a product of his time, couldn’t face his more well-off relatives, and those families who had managed to escape at least some of the ravages of the Depression. His wife was far more open to change than he was. She tried to convince him that the world hadn’t ended, but the earl simply wouldn’t listen. He began drinking his sorrows away. Then one cool morning when Alistair was twelve, he heard a single shot ring out. He heard his mother weeping, and ran downstairs, James right behind him. The two boys found their father lying on the parlor room floor, having taken his own life.
His mother was understandably devastated, but she rose to the occasion of becoming the family’s matriarch, despite the scandal as a result of her husband’s suicide, and the still raw pain of losing him. She learned to cook and clean and took a job as a nurse, having trained for the profession during the previous war. During the day, the boys’ grandmother acted as a governess. When Alistair was old enough, he managed to find work as a mill in Ripon.
He wasn’t able to go to a school like Eton, but he made exceptionally good marks at a small academy in the city. He became a prefect and the top of his class. In his spare time, he studied business. He managed to make a smart investment in the plastics industry with the spare money he had—without telling his mother—and made a killing. When he finally revealed his success to his mother, she was disappointed that he hadn’t told her of his plan, but proud and overjoyed. He put all of winnings in a bank, save for what was needed to hire a few servants for Grantham Hall and to pay his way to Oxford. The young Earl of Grantham’s actions not only saved Grantham Castle and the family’s livelihood for future generations, but also saved his family name.
When Alistair left for Oxford to study law, there was talk of a conflict with Germany. He had been reading about how Germany had managed to transform itself after its crippling defeat twenty years before, thanks to its Fuhrer. Alistair didn’t want a war. He considered himself a rather peaceful person, preferring to read and write poetry instead of shoot and hunt. He didn’t like guns in the first place—not after what his father did to himself. He never expected nor wanted to kill another human being.
However Oxford, like many universities, was a temple of ideas. Alistair came to Oxford with his own view of the world, but was exposed to many different others. His father probably would have hated him for it, but one of his best mates at Oxford was a socialist named Edgar from Manchester. Ed hated Germany, Italy, Franco, and fascism vehemently. He wasn’t keen on a Soviet-style state, but had dreams of transforming Britain into a nation dedicated to the welfare of its citizens. He told Alistair constantly that one day he was going to be Prime Minister. Alistair would simply laugh and nod, joking that he’d campaign for him.
Eventually Edgar began to rub off on him, and he became convinced that something needed to be done to stop Germany’s rise to power. Chamberlain’s foreign policy upset him to no end, and America’s inaction disappointed him even further. He and Edgar began publishing pamphlets about their rather outspoken ideas, and making speeches on the university’s campus. They’d often meet in the village pub with a small but enthusiastic band of followers that seemed to grow as Chamberlain continued to appease Hitler. They began to voice their support for an outspoken statesman named Churchill, who of course would later become Prime Minister.
When Alistair graduated, he went to work at a firm in Ripon so he could stay close to his mother, while James was at Cambridge ( studying literature of all things ). The two would tease each other over whose school was better, but Alistair was proud that his brother had decided to get an education in the first place. He kept in touch with Edgar and the old gang, occasionally joining them for a demonstration or two, but his life after Oxford was, for the most part, quiet. That was until Germany’s tanks rolled into Poland.
Edgar asked him to sign up with him the day after war was declared. Alistair was initially hesitant. Making speeches and passing around pamphlets was one thing, but fighting was completely different. But he did have a duty to his country, and if he truly believed in all the things he preached in his university days, then wouldn’t it be best for him to join up?
He told his mother of his intentions, and although she was understandably heartbroken to see him go, she respected his decision. Alistair also made James promise not to follow him, and to take care of their mother should anything happen to him, before taking a train to Oxford. He and his circle of friends met at their pub one last time before buying their commissions the next day. At age twenty-one, Lord Alistair Cromwell, Earl of Grantham, was off to war.
Writing Sample: “How many do you see, Dickens?”
“A platoon sir…at least twenty-five…thirty men.”
Alistair rubbed his chin, holding out his hand for the binoculars and staring at the column of men marching below them. He had been ordered to take a patrol of twelve men and a squad of Bren gunners to engage the remnants of German observation post supposedly staffed with an infantry squad. The post had apparently been reinforced, or intelligence had been horribly confused, because the ‘squad’ was staffed with a motorcade. There were three halftracks and a column of trucks. He and his men were perched on a hill across from the bridge the observation post was guarding. The German base was no doubt beyond that bridge. If they could destroy it, they’d cripple the remaining German forces in the area.
This was Alistair’s first taste of combat. He hadn’t so much as fired his weapon at a real live enemy yet. They had advanced through the French countryside from their encampment with little difficulty and virtually no enemy contact. He had proven himself to be a fine leader in the eyes of his superiors during training, and had been promoted to 1st lieutenant just before disembarking for France. He was proud to wear his country’s uniform. Not only did it earn him a kiss—his first, which he’d never admit to anybody— from the normally frigid heiress he’d had his eyes on since his schoolboy days at Oxford, but he did feel as if he was doing something grand and worthwhile. His mother had been proud of him, of course, but she also gave him a warning before he left. She had told him not to change, no matter what happened. He had promised that he wouldn’t—he had heard stories of men coming back from the previous war not quite like that had been before, but he wasn’t going to let it change him. How could it if he didn’t let it?
He glanced over at Dickens, the sergeant, and muttered, “Get your Brens set up and get ready to lay down a suppressive base of fire on my command. “
“Yes sir.”
“Edgar!” Edgar, his second-in-command, crawled over to him. “What have I missed?” He was always so laidback about things, but when the situation called for him to be serious, Edgar never failed to get the job done. He was happy to have him at his side. Not only was he his best mate, but he was an excellent shot with his Enfield. “Take half of the men and flank right. I’ll take the other half and hit them from the left while Sergeant Dickens and his Bren gunners mop up the center.”
“Sounds like a plan. Be careful.” Edgar said soberly.
“You too.” Edgar clapped him on the shoulder and gathered his men, while Alistair prepared to do the same. “Get ready to follow me on my command.” He glanced over at Dickens, who was waiting for the command to open fire. He signaled to him and he and his men started pelting the Jerries below with lead. “Forward!” he yelled, rising and charging down the hill, throwing a grenade. It exploded, killing two Germans instantly and wounding a third, who clawed at his bloody, torn apart face. Bile rose in his throat, but he kept running. He squeezed the trigger of his Enfield at one of the Germans who was trying to climb up onto the halftrack guns. “Keep them off the machine guns!” he yelled to his men, following his own orders. He heard something whiz by him and a gunshot. One of the privates had saved him from an untimely death at the hands of a young German soldier who had been aiming at him. He nodded gratefully, but then the boy fell down and lay still, apparently shot by another German. He ducked behind one of the cars and broke the windows, firing through at the soldiers running directly in front of him. He stopped at one point to reload and then continued, advancing steadily toward the middle of the outpost. He could see Edgar in the distance doing the same. The few surviving Germans tried to make a run for it, but he and his unit managed to cut them down. Cheers erupted as soon as the area was clear.
“Well done. Set up an aid station—I’ll need a runner to go back to command and—“ he was cut off, or at least he thought he was, since he couldn’t hear his own voice. What was it that man in the pub said? It’s okay if you can hear them. But if not…
Mortars! his hazy mind realized before losing consciousness.
He felt as if he were falling into an endless abyss. He couldn’t see or feel or hear anything. Good God, was he dead?
“You need to cut down on the shepherd’s pie, Al, you’re way too heavy for this.”
“Eddie…” he managed to croak, his eyes slowly opening. He was draped across the shoulders of his best friend—he recognized the blonde, unruly hair of his comrade sticking out from his helmet.
“I have a feeling I’m going to be making a habit of this, so just so we’re clear, this is the first time I’ve saved your life.” Edgar joked as he set him down behind a car and crouched down himself. “There’s shrapnel in your side, let me take a look at it.”
“What do you know about medicine?”
“My dad was a doctor, now let me see.”
Alistair reluctantly obliged, and Edgar lifted his jacket and shirt, examining the wound. “Lucky for you it’s not that bad.” He reached into his bag for his first aid kit and then his canteen. Alistair cried out when he poured some of the contents on the wound. “Sorry, chap, this is just until we get you to a hospital.” He bandaged the wound and then picked up his rifle. “Now to drive off this Hun counterattack. Give ‘em hell! Not one step back, boys!” he roared, firing his rifle. It was terrible for Alistair, just lying there watching, helpless to do anything. It hurt to move, and he knew he couldn’t lift his rifle. A few minutes later (or was it longer? ), the gunfire stopped. “Corporal Barrow! Take the lieutenant back to base. He needs immediate medical attention.” he ordered the enlisted man authoritatively. “I’ll hold the fort and wait for further orders.” Edgar told Alistair in a gentler voice. “You just focus on getting better.”
Alistair nodded as Barrow picked him up. They began to leave, but Barrow stopped when Alistair called, “Eddie!”
Edgar turned around, and Alistair managed a weak grin. “Thanks.” The other man smiled back and saluted him as he was carried away.
