Post by Stefan Varek on Jun 14, 2008 11:26:25 GMT
Yes, yes, yes! Accepted
Quite frankly, it's brilliant. I'm more than happy to give you the rank you asked for and I compliment you on your idea. Just don't forget to make an account
Account E-Mail: CaratacusCaradog@hotmail.com
Name: Stefan Varek
Nationality:
- Polish
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
UK
Character History:
Born in Reykjavík in 1914, Steffan Varek was an intelligent boy of both Polish and Icelandic descent. He mastered a number of European languages from a very young age -including German, Polish, English, Icelandic and Norweigan - and eventually moved back to his native Poland in 1927 at the age of thirteen. Ambitious and headstrong, he aspired to be a mathamatician and was accepted into the world-renowned Jagiellonian University by the age of eighteen in 1932.
Varek's comfortable life was destroyed in 1939 when his homeland was invaded by Germany, thus setting the wheels in motion for the Second World War. Varek defiantly joined the Zwi¹zek Walki Zbrojnej, an undeground resistance army. Varek fought bravely in Poland until 1940, where he was forced to flee the country, his identity revealed by the dominant German invaders.
Varek succesfully fled to Great Britain and was soon accepted into the RAF. Varek commanded a small portion of fellow pilots during the Battle of Britain and was instrumental in the British victory. He was commended undeservedly for his prowess and commanding abilities and rose to the rank of Flight Sergeant in the year of 1942.
Military Rank:
-Flight Sergeant
Writing Sample:
The foul smell of smoke ripped through the air and burned in Stefan's nostrils. His eyes watered, but not just from the foul-smelling fumes. His plane was gone.
The dog-fight had been fierce; never had Stefan fought in such a battle. Forty planes had hurtled from the safety of the winds onto the unmerciless ground below. Explosions of tens of planes had been heard from the air but Stefan knew he had to keep fighting. As the sweat trickled down from his cheek, he promised himself that he would keep fighting until the bitter end. A promise he had been unable to keep.
He had been shot down, it was as simple as that. He had dropped like a stone, spiralling past the clouds at a breath-taking speed. He could hardly breathe...he couldn't breathe!
And then he had made contact. Thumping down into a small clearing, his entire body burning in agony. He opened his eyes. His plane was there next to him. Burnt to the ground.
Stefan rose to his feet, trying to drown out the agony by mumbling to himself and hobbled towards the wreck. It looked almost graceful, beautiful even. Stefan would miss her...
Suddenly, voices rang out from the trees to Stefan's side. German voices. Panicking, the Flight Sergeant ducked down behind the plane's main body and waited. And waited some more.
Two minutes later, two ugly figures appeared from the woodlands. They looked around at the crash in wonder as one scratched his head.
"Bloody hell!" he swore, his voice almost comically accented. "What's happened here, then?"
"I'll search the plane, soldat," said the second figure, who seemed more composed. Stefan guessed he was his superior. "This is a British plane. We must pick off any survivors. That is our mission."
Swallowing nervously, Stefan ignored the frantic beating of his heart and dived out from behind his cover. He sent a multitude of bullets in the direction of the surprised newcomers and within seconds, two Germans lay dead at his feet.
Stefan breathed deeply. There were bound to be more of the enemy wandering about. Taking one last look at the fallen plane, Stefan withdrew his rifle and continued down the well-trodden path. If there were more of the foe nearby, it looked like he had a job to do.
Quite frankly, it's brilliant. I'm more than happy to give you the rank you asked for and I compliment you on your idea. Just don't forget to make an account
Account E-Mail: CaratacusCaradog@hotmail.com
Name: Stefan Varek
Nationality:
- Polish
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
UK
Character History:
Born in Reykjavík in 1914, Steffan Varek was an intelligent boy of both Polish and Icelandic descent. He mastered a number of European languages from a very young age -including German, Polish, English, Icelandic and Norweigan - and eventually moved back to his native Poland in 1927 at the age of thirteen. Ambitious and headstrong, he aspired to be a mathamatician and was accepted into the world-renowned Jagiellonian University by the age of eighteen in 1932.
Varek's comfortable life was destroyed in 1939 when his homeland was invaded by Germany, thus setting the wheels in motion for the Second World War. Varek defiantly joined the Zwi¹zek Walki Zbrojnej, an undeground resistance army. Varek fought bravely in Poland until 1940, where he was forced to flee the country, his identity revealed by the dominant German invaders.
Varek succesfully fled to Great Britain and was soon accepted into the RAF. Varek commanded a small portion of fellow pilots during the Battle of Britain and was instrumental in the British victory. He was commended undeservedly for his prowess and commanding abilities and rose to the rank of Flight Sergeant in the year of 1942.
Military Rank:
-Flight Sergeant
Writing Sample:
The foul smell of smoke ripped through the air and burned in Stefan's nostrils. His eyes watered, but not just from the foul-smelling fumes. His plane was gone.
The dog-fight had been fierce; never had Stefan fought in such a battle. Forty planes had hurtled from the safety of the winds onto the unmerciless ground below. Explosions of tens of planes had been heard from the air but Stefan knew he had to keep fighting. As the sweat trickled down from his cheek, he promised himself that he would keep fighting until the bitter end. A promise he had been unable to keep.
He had been shot down, it was as simple as that. He had dropped like a stone, spiralling past the clouds at a breath-taking speed. He could hardly breathe...he couldn't breathe!
And then he had made contact. Thumping down into a small clearing, his entire body burning in agony. He opened his eyes. His plane was there next to him. Burnt to the ground.
Stefan rose to his feet, trying to drown out the agony by mumbling to himself and hobbled towards the wreck. It looked almost graceful, beautiful even. Stefan would miss her...
Suddenly, voices rang out from the trees to Stefan's side. German voices. Panicking, the Flight Sergeant ducked down behind the plane's main body and waited. And waited some more.
Two minutes later, two ugly figures appeared from the woodlands. They looked around at the crash in wonder as one scratched his head.
"Bloody hell!" he swore, his voice almost comically accented. "What's happened here, then?"
"I'll search the plane, soldat," said the second figure, who seemed more composed. Stefan guessed he was his superior. "This is a British plane. We must pick off any survivors. That is our mission."
Swallowing nervously, Stefan ignored the frantic beating of his heart and dived out from behind his cover. He sent a multitude of bullets in the direction of the surprised newcomers and within seconds, two Germans lay dead at his feet.
Stefan breathed deeply. There were bound to be more of the enemy wandering about. Taking one last look at the fallen plane, Stefan withdrew his rifle and continued down the well-trodden path. If there were more of the foe nearby, it looked like he had a job to do.