Excalibur Squadron OOC Thread

[The Tiger Kingdom]

As you can see, Page doesn't hold back when he gets angry.
I'm pretty sure I responded to everything that needed to be dealt with there, but if I skipped over anything in the IC, let me know.

at least mine could have happened.
how about this an american, a brit, and a russian all walk in and hose the place with their respective SMg's (the thompson fitted with a 100rd drum mag of course)

Nah, the American entry would be Rambo carrying a water-cooled M1917 with 200-round belts and 2 dozen grenades slung over his shoulders and John McClane with an M16 and an Uzi head-butting the door down and beating everyone in the Fuhrerbunker to death in hand-to-hand combat, then walking away as the bunker explodes behind them, because it's Hollywood, fuck historical accuracy! 'MURRICA!

...Directed by Michael Bay.

PEARL HARBOR WAS A GREAT MOVIE AND YOU WILL NEVER PROVE OTHERWISE!11!111!!
...said no one.

And Balkens, Hitler likes ES? Not sure whether to be horrified or flattered.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

at least mine could have happened.
how about this an american, a brit, and a russian all walk in and hose the place with their respective SMg's (the thompson fitted with a 100rd drum mag of course)

Nah, the American entry would be Rambo carrying a water-cooled M1917 M2 fifty cal. with 200-round belts and 2 dozen grenades slung over his shoulders and John McClane with an M16 and an Uzi head-butting the door down and beating everyone in the Fuhrerbunker to death in hand-to-hand combat, then walking away as the bunker explodes behind them, because it's Hollywood, fuck historical accuracy! 'MURRICA!

...Directed by Michael Bay.

fixed now it is realistic movie wise

[Altito Asmoro]

I think we just found the plot for inglorious bastards 2: hitler had a clone.

You just been grounded for this operation.

[The balkens]

You never saw a downfall parody, have you tiger? (the actual movie is great)
Internet hitler: idiot, lives in the 21st century. Tormented by FEGELEIN! (slams desk)
Often claims he is the real hitler. Killed inglorous hitler.
Complete opposite of the RL hitler.


EDIT: i think Michael is the angriest he's ever been.
Should serve as a motivation for his redemption.

[French Indochine]

I'm currently working on a post in response to Page, but it may take a while since I have to get through an incomplete segment regarding Keatings' role during the hanger fire that I started during the week.

---

436758 KEATINGS, S.T.                                     Page  1   of  4 

RECORD OF PERSONNEL - CONFIDENTIAL
for War Office & Army Department of Records internal use ONLY

Name:  KEATINGS, Simon Thames                  Service Number:  436758 
Date of Birth:  17   August      19 12      Place of Birth:  Aviemore, Scotland, United Kingdom            
Gender:  Male     Height:  5 ft.  9 in.    Weight:  10 st.  5 lb.
Choose: Male, Female        Round to nearest inch               Round to nearest pound
Hair:   Blonde (Amber)                   Eyes:  Green (Blue)               
Note details and variations in shade/colour in parentheses
Nationality:  British                                                         
Permanent Residence:  Cooper Ct, Aviemore, UK                                                 
Marital Status:  Married     No. of Dependents, [No. of Dependent Minors]:  1 , [ 2 ]
Choose: Single unmarried, Single divorced, Married, Widower/Widowed
Addendum & Erratum:  -Person of description is currently holding a Warrant Commision to Second Leftenant, 

expiration of commision still to be set                                                  
    X                                                                   


Date of Enlistment:  11   September      19 39 
Place of Enlistment:  S. College Street Army Recruiting Station, Elgin                                                 
Branch:  Regular Army                                                              
Choose: Regular Army, Royal Navy, Regular R.A.F., Auxiliary, Women's Auxiliary, Volunteer Reserve, Medical Services, P.M.R.A.F.N.S., Other (list details)
Rank & Date of Seniority:  Sergeant                                            
    3 May, 1940                                                                   
Date of Separation:  -    -          19 -  
Reason for Separation:  -                                                                       
Choose: Expiration of enlistment term, Retirement, General demobilization, Hardship/Medical grounds, Disciplinary action,
    Resignation of commission, Other (list details)

436758 KEATINGS, S.T.                                                            Page  2   of  4 


UNIT POSTINGS:

 A Section, Second Platoon, Second Company, First Battalion - Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders (Alexandria, Egypt); B Section, First Platoon, 11th Patrol - Long Range Desert Group (No. 143 Forward Support Base, Egypt); First Platoon, 11th Patrol - Long Range Desert Group (El-Arouk, Egypt)                                                                                                       

AWARDS, DECORATIONS, HONOURS, ETC.:

 N/A                                                                                                     

DISCIPLINARY RECORD:

 11 January, 1940 - received a minor infraction for excessive talking within the ranks during morning parade. No other disciplinary actions recorded                                                                                                     

TRAINING & QUALIFICATIONS:

 Basic Field Training, Minor Basic Warrant Cadet Course,                                                                                                     

436758 KEATINGS, S.T.                                                            Page  3   of  4 


SERVICE RECORD:
11 September 1939: Conscripted into Regular Army in Elgin, Scotland, UK; posted to No. 244 Army Basic Training Camp with the rank of Private, effective 13 September 1939. 

27 October 1939: Passed basic training, posted to First Battalion - Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders with rank of Private, effective 31 October 1939. 
Assigned to territorial garrison duties in the time therein. 

16 May 1940: Deployed to Alexandria, Egypt. 
Unit assigned to guard and patrol frontier railway lines around the city. 

10 June 1940: Deployed to Madinat Sittah Uktubar, Egypt. 
Unit assigned to guard and patrol various high-traffic roadways on the outskirts of the nearby city of Cairo.      

26 June 1940: Volunteered for application for newly founded Long Range Desert Group; a force intended to undertake long-range reconnaissance patrols and raids behind the enemy lines. 

30 June 1940: Application into Long Range Desert Group accepted, transferred from First Battalion - Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders to 11th Patrol - Long Range Desert Group with the rank of Lance Corporal, effective 2 July 1940. 

27 July 1940: Participated in Operation Gold Rod: operation involved two platoons of 11 Patrol - Long Range Desert Group assaulting the encampments of an Italian artillery battery presumably  of the 60th "Sabratha" Infantry Division. 
Enemy casualties were reported to be consisting of about a dozen killed and more wounded around that number. 
11 Patrol suffered a total of six wounded and four killed during the operation, which was ultimately successful in its main objective in disabling at least six Italian 'Obice 149/19, Model 37' artillery pieces. 
During the operation, Lance Corporal Keatings and his section of four had the distinction of planting an explosive charge on one of the howitzers, resulting in its timed destruction.

31 July 1940: Promoted to Sergeant for combat actions and experience.  

7 August 1940: Participated in Operation Axiom: operation involved 11 Patrol in full strength of three platoons assaulting an encampment of the 1st Italian Libyan Colonial Division. 
11 Patrol was successful in its objective of gathering intelligence on enemy troop strength and neutralizing a number of enemy armored fighting vehicles. 
The destruction of a total of 10 enemy vehicles were accounted for: 
four L3/33 tankettes, two Fiat 3000 light tanks, three Lanzia IZM armored cars, and a single Fiat M13/40 medium tank. 
The vehicles were destroyed using the method of dropping hand grenades and explosives down their open hatches while parked in the camp. 
Sergeant Keatings and his sections were responsible for the neutralization of a single Lanzia IZM armored car during the operation. 

10 August 1940: Offered and accepted a temporary warrant commision to the rank of Second Leftenant after the wounding of the commanding officer of First Platoon in a minor skirmish with Italian troops earlier on 5 August. 

13 August 1940: Subsequently transferred along with unit to the outpost of El-Arouk, Egypt to await furthur orders regarding future operation(s).

436758 KEATINGS, S.T.                                                            Page  4   of  4 



MISCELLANEOUS NOTES:

  Enjoys hunting, hiking, and various outdoor activities as hobbies. Possesses impressive marksmenship skills. Also an excellent bowler in cricket, and as well as a strong swimmer.                                                                                                     

[Kouralia]

I'm currently working on a post in response to Page, but it may take a while since I have to get through an incomplete segment regarding Keatings' role during the hanger fire that I started during the week.

You better mention coffee, or the Major won't get any more later on!

[The balkens]

Jesus french, great detail. I'm actually embarrassed

[Kouralia]

Fleeting Memories of a Madman: Part One 'FIX SWORDS!'

Spanish Civil War - Trenches

"Get the fuck in cover you useless shits!" Smythe bellowed over the sound of the incoming fire to a pair of Frogs, cowering in the open like they'd never experienced mortars before. Well, they had only been in the trenches for a day, so it could have been really. Groaning in frustration - and picking up the slight hint of a round of differing trajectory from the cacophony of screeches and blasts, the Officer threw himself into a small dug-out section of the trench, shared only by the blasted corpse of another soldier. Suddenly there was an all-mighty whoomph and the trench was filled with hurtling globlets of dark brown mud and small pieces of Frenchman. "Oh for god's sake..." The British soldier thought in his head as he turned over int he mud and glanced down himself. His polished boots were scuffed and coated with mud, his trousers and shirt torn and similarly attired with mother nature's bounty. Now they had blood on them? And...he considered it...not even a small amount. The French didn't get into cover: so what? Now he'd have to spend ages getting the dark liquid out of his clothes - that was the only thing really registering as negative in his mind. Suddenly, after a few seconds of quiet bemoaning, he recalled his task, and promptly stepped out into the trench into the incoming, and began running along. Well, running - there was a short hop over the de-limbed body of a horrifyingly screaming Frenchman, but the rest was running. You'd have to be mad to try and get 20 meters in that 'weather' - 'Bastian made 200 on top of the 300 traveled that far.

Running, and bellowing at the feckless morons caught out in the rain takes it out of a man, so as soon as the door opened in the XIV Battalion's command bunker he practically tumbled through it. "Uh, oi! What are you doi..." The Private demanded to the sodden, muddy, bloody form which careened past him. With not a moment's hesitation, the Lieutenant folded himself back to standing and brushed some of the mud off of his tunic with one hand, holding his rifle with the other. Glaring at the young private, he gently inclined his head to the rank insignia on his shoulder. "Uh... What are you doing here... sir?" The Private said again, saluting and with a much less irritated tone of voice.

"Lieutenant Sebastian Smythe." He stated simply, "Where is that useless cunt? We've been radioing him for the last 30 minutes and we haven't had a single response." The Private looked dumbfounded - partially at realising that this was the original crazy fucker who ran 20 meters into no-man's land at night to cut the throat of a dying man because his sobbing was disturbing his sleep, and partially because he wasn't expecting that kind of question. "Oi!" 'Bastian yelled, a far cry from the soft and received pronunciation of his previous statement, "Where is the little shit?" He grabbed the junior soldier by the lapels and shoved him bodily against the wall, "Colonel Pwaviti wants to know why he hasn't radioed confirmation of the battle plan!" The private just managed a gesture with his head toward the other rooms. With a slight nod, and without a second thought, Smythe let go of the soldier and pushed his way into a small and illuminated office room. One bunk for the batman - unoccupied. One desk for the batman to cook and work at - unoccupied. One desk for the Senior Commander of the Battalion - unoccupied. The Junior Officer cast his eye about, angrily turning to the Junior soldier to offer a beat-down when he realised he was staring fixedly at the small door to the officer's quarters.

With a sigh he strode up to it and pulled the handle - which didn't do anything. It was locked. A normal man might think 'An officer four levels higher than me doesn't want to be disturbed', guess who wasn't a normal man? In a second he had brought his boot to the door with all the force he could muster, and had sent it flying back into the room, the frame splintering as the lock was torn asunder. Inside the room was a some planking with a curtain on it as a carpet. Against one wall was a single bed set into the rich earthy walls - but with some planks set against the encroaching mud. Sitting, slumped on the bed was the Colonel his shirt off and lying on the bed next to him while he fingered his Browning Hi-Power pistol. He looked up mournfully at the entrance of the Lieutenant, before staring down at the weapon. Without a moment's ado, the Lieutenant strode in and crouched down in front of the obviously disturbed older man, "Sir. Where are your orders? What would you have your men do? What will you command if you cannot even rouse yourself from the perils of your mind?" He demanded, glaring at the man's face. Suddenly, he raised the pistol to his head and cocked back the hammer.

Without a word, the Officer's tone of voice changed, "No. No, there's no need to do that, sir. This can still be salvaged..." He murmured and reached slowly for the gun, "Please, sir: hand me the weapon?" His hand closed around the barrel of the pistol and pulled it slightly, the resistance of the officer melting away as he let go. It was obvious to anyone that the Colonel couldn't command his senses - let alone a Battalion. So Smythe shot him in the head before walking out. He quickly grabbed the private, who was backing away at the sound of the gunshot, and shoved him bodily down into his chair. "Get the Company commanders on the line. Inform them that 'Sebastian Smithington-Smythe is now in charge of this Battalion. Inform them that as soon as the barrage stops they should get out into the trenches and get onto the firing step to prepare to engage, but to not show themselves until my signal of a whistle blast. Inform them that on the second whistle blast - they should have already fixed swords by now - they are to commence an attack. Do it, do it now, do it fast, and then stay here by the phone."

The Brit sighed before strolling back into the commander's room and rolling the corpse off of the bed. Without even glancing at it, he laid himself down on the bed and began to look at the pistol - eventually tucking it into his belt for later usage.

-=-

The Lieutenant glanced at the ceiling of the small room. The mud shook with every impact, a tiny amount of dust trickling ethereally down in the air like the souls of the condemned seeking their way down. He reached over the body and pulled up his Lee Enfield rifle. It was beautiful, varnished, polished, buffed, cleaned, scraped, oiled. The only dirt on it was that which he hadn't cleaned off over the last hour of waiting. He carefully pulled the bayonet out of his scabbard and held its handle in his thumb and forefinger, gently balancing the tip of the blade against his thumb. He slowly turned the blade, almost entranced by the way its steel caught the light, oblivious to the way the twisting of the point cut his skin and dripped a small amount of blood onto his sleeve. Sighing, he slid it almost-sensually onto the rifle before looking the weapon itself over. He slid the bolt back, deftly catching the ejected round and pushing it into the internal magazine before inspecting and running his finger over and around the chamber. He glanced down the barrel, noting the way the light wasn't blocked by a single piece of debris. Finally, he snapped the bolt forward again and held the rifle to the length of his body - like the sword of a post-mortem bust of a knight in a church - and turned his gaze away from his beloved rifle again. The ceiling was gentle and calm, with not a single trickle of dust ethereally tumbling.

"Are they ready?" He called to the private as he strode into the main office, rifle in hand. Receiving a tense nod, he stepped out into the trench and looked down its length. While it was not possible to see far because of the way it zig-zagged, he was pleased to note the some-times raggedly dressed Foreign Legion soldiers pouring into the firing line and stepping up ready to engage. They looked rather bewildered and tired. Though an artillery barrage would do that for most people. Smythe glanced the other direction and was pleased by the same happening in the same manner on that side too. He risked a glance over the top - maybe a few thousand Spaniards were filing the gap between the trenches, pouring from their holes like worms or other bugs. Well, it was time for them to be crushed. He waited - they filled out and approached cautiously, there was no fire. They began to relax at about 100 meters away. At 50 meters away they were walking along like they were in the park. He smiled. If Smythe was mad... The next minute was going to well and truly be a... mad minute.

Gripping the whistle in a hand, he stuck it between is lips and blew on it as hard as he could - the sweet shrill note playing out among the almost-silence of the battle line. The Oncoming troops' expressions were comical. One of them was so filled with shock and horror that 'Bastian nearly laughed as he put a round through the man's chest and dropped him. He racked the bolt and fired again, and again, as the rifle fire rippled across the line. Men fell, stumbled, twirled, tripped, tumbled - and died. The Defenders racked their bolts and fed their belts and fired their rounds - and cut the enemies down in their hundreds. Smythe fired and fired and fired - crying out exultantly as the attackers slowed, lost momentum, faltered and turned. Now, it'd be madness to begin an attack now. But...

He blasted the whistle again and scrambled up onto the parapet, bellowing out to the men, "FIX SWORDS YOU SHITES! LET'S GO STICK A PIG, EH?!" as he knelt and fired off the last few rounds of his third magazine in a minute. With a roar of rage and joy, he threw himself forward at a run, a half-glance behind him showing that the other men were following behind - the spearhead of a wave of men. A thousand angry Spaniards and Foreigners screaming and baying from high heaven to the furthest depths of hell for your blood is scary enough - but when they're charging at you to come and take it from your cold, dead, torn, shattered form? That's what night-mares are made from. The sure knowledge that a thousand men are coming to mercilessly savage your form 'til it lies lifeless on the ground: and naught between here and Hong Kong - going either way around the world - will stop them. The distances closed, exultantly joyful in the anticipation of a good fight, the Brit grabbed his rifle and held it in the position to gut the first man he came across.

He knew not what they looked like. Most were fleeing with their backs turned, a few were firing and a few had even dropped their weapons in fright to make them run faster. Smythe didn't care. He picked his man: a small-looking chap, skinny and unarmed. The fellow stumbled and Smythe was on him in an instant as he turned onto his back, his hands up begging for mercy - a young boy of sixteen or seventeen? 'Bastian slapped his arm aside with the muzzle and jabbed the blade forcefully into the enemy's eye-socket before pulling it out and continuing running. In moments he was standing on the parapet of the trench. Without a second thought he fired the rifle and cycled it twice into the heaving mass of men below. Realising that wasn't going to kill fast enough, he reached into his belt and raised the Hi-Power to eye-level, firing the weapon again and again and again into the men until it was empty. With a groan of disgust, he tucked the offending piece into his belt before jumping into the trench - following the example of some of the other troops already. Quickly his body entered an almost mechanical routine - lunge, stab, withdraw, move on, lunge, stab, withdraw... He didn't know how long he was fighting for, he wasn't sure when he had dropped his rifle in the gut of a Spanish Captain and taken out a straight razor to finish the job on a few grenade-injured Spanish.

That didn't matter. What mattered was the enemy were dead. His orders were followed. His job was done.

Safe in that knowledge he backtracked in the trench until he found the weapon and pulled it out. Dragging it to a small dug-out in the wall he watched as Spaniards began to reinforce the new front-line, Machine guns and mortars and men and stretchers moved past as the shockingly blood-soaked soldier began to clean his rifle, his blades and his pistol with all the care of a museum curator restoring the only known example of some antique. Another day...another fun-filled day in some man's army.

Crits and comments welcomed! Anyone guess what the theme of Smythe's chapter headings is?

[The Two Jerseys]

Fleeting Memories of a Madman: Part One 'FIX SWORDS!'

Spanish Civil War - Trenches

"Get the fuck in cover you useless shits!" Smythe bellowed over the sound of the incoming fire to a pair of Frogs, cowering in the open like they'd never experienced mortars before. Well, they had only been in the trenches for a day, so it could have been really. Groaning in frustration - and picking up the slight hint of a round of differing trajectory from the cacophony of screeches and blasts, the Officer threw himself into a small dug-out section of the trench, shared only by the blasted corpse of another soldier. Suddenly there was an all-mighty whoomph and the trench was filled with hurtling globlets of dark brown mud and small pieces of Frenchman. "Oh for god's sake..." The British soldier thought in his head as he turned over int he mud and glanced down himself. His polished boots were scuffed and coated with mud, his trousers and shirt torn and similarly attired with mother nature's bounty. Now they had blood on them? And...he considered it...not even a small amount. The French didn't get into cover: so what? Now he'd have to spend ages getting the dark liquid out of his clothes - that was the only thing really registering as negative in his mind. Suddenly, after a few seconds of quiet bemoaning, he recalled his task, and promptly stepped out into the trench into the incoming, and began running along. Well, running - there was a short hop over the de-limbed body of a horrifyingly screaming Frenchman, but the rest was running. You'd have to be mad to try and get 20 meters in that 'weather' - 'Bastian made 200 on top of the 300 traveled that far.

Running, and bellowing at the feckless morons caught out in the rain takes it out of a man, so as soon as the door opened in the XIV Battalion's command bunker he practically tumbled through it. "Uh, oi! What are you doi..." The Private demanded to the sodden, muddy, bloody form which careened past him. With not a moment's hesitation, the Lieutenant folded himself back to standing and brushed some of the mud off of his tunic with one hand, holding his rifle with the other. Glaring at the young private, he gently inclined his head to the rank insignia on his shoulder. "Uh... What are you doing here... sir?" The Private said again, saluting and with a much less irritated tone of voice.

"Lieutenant Sebastian Smythe." He stated simply, "Where is that useless cunt? We've been radioing him for the last 30 minutes and we haven't had a single response." The Private looked dumbfounded - partially at realising that this was the original crazy fucker who ran 20 meters into no-man's land at night to cut the throat of a dying man because his sobbing was disturbing his sleep, and partially because he wasn't expecting that kind of question. "Oi!" 'Bastian yelled, a far cry from the soft and received pronunciation of his previous statement, "Where is the little shit?" He grabbed the junior soldier by the lapels and shoved him bodily against the wall, "Colonel Pwaviti wants to know why he hasn't radioed confirmation of the battle plan!" The private just managed a gesture with his head toward the other rooms. With a slight nod, and without a second thought, Smythe let go of the soldier and pushed his way into a small and illuminated office room. One bunk for the batman - unoccupied. One desk for the batman to cook and work at - unoccupied. One desk for the Senior Commander of the Battalion - unoccupied. The Junior Officer cast his eye about, angrily turning to the Junior soldier to offer a beat-down when he realised he was staring fixedly at the small door to the officer's quarters.

With a sigh he strode up to it and pulled the handle - which didn't do anything. It was locked. A normal man might think 'An officer four levels higher than me doesn't want to be disturbed', guess who wasn't a normal man? In a second he had brought his boot to the door with all the force he could muster, and had sent it flying back into the room, the frame splintering as the lock was torn asunder. Inside the room was a some planking with a curtain on it as a carpet. Against one wall was a single bed set into the rich earthy walls - but with some planks set against the encroaching mud. Sitting, slumped on the bed was the Colonel his shirt off and lying on the bed next to him while he fingered his Browning Hi-Power pistol. He looked up mournfully at the entrance of the Lieutenant, before staring down at the weapon. Without a moment's ado, the Lieutenant strode in and crouched down in front of the obviously disturbed older man, "Sir. Where are your orders? What would you have your men do? What will you command if you cannot even rouse yourself from the perils of your mind?" He demanded, glaring at the man's face. Suddenly, he raised the pistol to his head and cocked back the hammer.

Without a word, the Officer's tone of voice changed, "No. No, there's no need to do that, sir. This can still be salvaged..." He murmured and reached slowly for the gun, "Please, sir: hand me the weapon?" His hand closed around the barrel of the pistol and pulled it slightly, the resistance of the officer melting away as he let go. It was obvious to anyone that the Colonel couldn't command his senses - let alone a Battalion. So Smythe shot him in the head before walking out. He quickly grabbed the private, who was backing away at the sound of the gunshot, and shoved him bodily down into his chair. "Get the Company commanders on the line. Inform them that 'Sebastian Smithington-Smythe is now in charge of this Battalion. Inform them that as soon as the barrage stops they should get out into the trenches and get onto the firing step to prepare to engage, but to not show themselves until my signal of a whistle blast. Inform them that on the second whistle blast - they should have already fixed swords by now - they are to commence an attack. Do it, do it now, do it fast, and then stay here by the phone."

The Brit sighed before strolling back into the commander's room and rolling the corpse off of the bed. Without even glancing at it, he laid himself down on the bed and began to look at the pistol - eventually tucking it into his belt for later usage.

-=-

The Lieutenant glanced at the ceiling of the small room. The mud shook with every impact, a tiny amount of dust trickling ethereally down in the air like the souls of the condemned seeking their way down. He reached over the body and pulled up his Lee Enfield rifle. It was beautiful, varnished, polished, buffed, cleaned, scraped, oiled. The only dirt on it was that which he hadn't cleaned off over the last hour of waiting. He carefully pulled the bayonet out of his scabbard and held its handle in his thumb and forefinger, gently balancing the tip of the blade against his thumb. He slowly turned the blade, almost entranced by the way its steel caught the light, oblivious to the way the twisting of the point cut his skin and dripped a small amount of blood onto his sleeve. Sighing, he slid it almost-sensually onto the rifle before looking the weapon itself over. He slid the bolt back, deftly catching the ejected round and pushing it into the internal magazine before inspecting and running his finger over and around the chamber. He glanced down the barrel, noting the way the light wasn't blocked by a single piece of debris. Finally, he snapped the bolt forward again and held the rifle to the length of his body - like the sword of a post-mortem bust of a knight in a church - and turned his gaze away from his beloved rifle again. The ceiling was gentle and calm, with not a single trickle of dust ethereally tumbling.

"Are they ready?" He called to the private as he strode into the main office, rifle in hand. Receiving a tense nod, he stepped out into the trench and looked down its length. While it was not possible to see far because of the way it zig-zagged, he was pleased to note the some-times raggedly dressed Foreign Legion soldiers pouring into the firing line and stepping up ready to engage. They looked rather bewildered and tired. Though an artillery barrage would do that for most people. Smythe glanced the other direction and was pleased by the same happening in the same manner on that side too. He risked a glance over the top - maybe a few thousand Spaniards were filing the gap between the trenches, pouring from their holes like worms or other bugs. Well, it was time for them to be crushed. He waited - they filled out and approached cautiously, there was no fire. They began to relax at about 100 meters away. At 50 meters away they were walking along like they were in the park. He smiled. If Smythe was mad... The next minute was going to well and truly be a... mad minute.

Gripping the whistle in a hand, he stuck it between is lips and blew on it as hard as he could - the sweet shrill note playing out among the almost-silence of the battle line. The Oncoming troops' expressions were comical. One of them was so filled with shock and horror that 'Bastian nearly laughed as he put a round through the man's chest and dropped him. He racked the bolt and fired again, and again, as the rifle fire rippled across the line. Men fell, stumbled, twirled, tripped, tumbled - and died. The Defenders racked their bolts and fed their belts and fired their rounds - and cut the enemies down in their hundreds. Smythe fired and fired and fired - crying out exultantly as the attackers slowed, lost momentum, faltered and turned. Now, it'd be madness to begin an attack now. But...

He blasted the whistle again and scrambled up onto the parapet, bellowing out to the men, "FIX SWORDS YOU SHITES! LET'S GO STICK A PIG, EH?!" as he knelt and fired off the last few rounds of his third magazine in a minute. With a roar of rage and joy, he threw himself forward at a run, a half-glance behind him showing that the other men were following behind - the spearhead of a wave of men. A thousand angry Spaniards and Foreigners screaming and baying from high heaven to the furthest depths of hell for your blood is scary enough - but when they're charging at you to come and take it from your cold, dead, torn, shattered form? That's what night-mares are made from. The sure knowledge that a thousand men are coming to mercilessly savage your form 'til it lies lifeless on the ground: and naught between here and Hong Kong - going either way around the world - will stop them. The distances closed, exultantly joyful in the anticipation of a good fight, the Brit grabbed his rifle and held it in the position to gut the first man he came across.

He knew not what they looked like. Most were fleeing with their backs turned, a few were firing and a few had even dropped their weapons in fright to make them run faster. Smythe didn't care. He picked his man: a small-looking chap, skinny and unarmed. The fellow stumbled and Smythe was on him in an instant as he turned onto his back, his hands up begging for mercy - a young boy of sixteen or seventeen? 'Bastian slapped his arm aside with the muzzle and jabbed the blade forcefully into the enemy's eye-socket before pulling it out and continuing running. In moments he was standing on the parapet of the trench. Without a second thought he fired the rifle and cycled it twice into the heaving mass of men below. Realising that wasn't going to kill fast enough, he reached into his belt and raised the Hi-Power to eye-level, firing the weapon again and again and again into the men until it was empty. With a groan of disgust, he tucked the offending piece into his belt before jumping into the trench - following the example of some of the other troops already. Quickly his body entered an almost mechanical routine - lunge, stab, withdraw, move on, lunge, stab, withdraw... He didn't know how long he was fighting for, he wasn't sure when he had dropped his rifle in the gut of a Spanish Captain and taken out a straight razor to finish the job on a few grenade-injured Spanish.

That didn't matter. What mattered was the enemy were dead. His orders were followed. His job was done.

Safe in that knowledge he backtracked in the trench until he found the weapon and pulled it out. Dragging it to a small dug-out in the wall he watched as Spaniards began to reinforce the new front-line, Machine guns and mortars and men and stretchers moved past as the shockingly blood-soaked soldier began to clean his rifle, his blades and his pistol with all the care of a museum curator restoring the only known example of some antique. Another day...another fun-filled day in some man's army.

Crits and comments welcomed! Anyone guess what the theme of Smythe's chapter headings is?

Hard to judge a pattern off one sample, but I'll venture to say it's either bayonets or the Manual of Arms.

[The balkens]

We moving into the desert? I hate to ask.

[United Kingdom of Poland]

here is one that will help describe my characters hatred for cutler. you see he is not the first arrogant, stuck up SOB XO that Matt has had to deal with.
title: In one's hands

September 16th 1939, Warsaw Poland
“Great, what form of hell does he have in store for me now” Podporucznik (second Lieutenant) Matthew Polanski thought as he watched Major Joseph Bolevski approach him.
Hell was the only way to describe the time since Bolevski took over from the previous XO, killed in a bomb blast. Gone were the duty shifts of 4-8 pilots which gave the pilots a little rest, now the base was always on alert with the men catching 2 hours of sleep or less. Not only was this wearing down the planes but it was also pushing the pilots well past the limits of their endurance. This was reinforced by stiff punishment for even nodding off. The final straw though had happened 2 days before.
It had all started with a fellow Podporucznik named Yuri Glasonski. He had been on the receiving end of two Me-109’s and had come back to base on a barely useable PZL.11 and a right arm limp and dripping with blood. As he walked towards a truck taking fellow wound to a local hospital the major approached him. Matt, who was helping to guard the truck, followed.
“Where do you think you are going Glasonski?” the Major started to say. Yuri, still in a state of shock, simple ignored the comment and walked towards the truck. “So, trying to desert aye” the major added “well I’ll make an example out of you then.” He then drew his 1895 nagant revolver and aimed it at Yuri.
Matt acted immediately. There was no way in hell that he was going to let this stuck up, arrogant asshole of an officer kill a wounded comrade. He proceeded to hit the major in the back of his head with the butt of the rifle he was holding before the major could fire a shot. He then grabbed the Major’s limp body before it could hit the ground, not wanting to tarnish the airstrip with the man’s blood. He then placed the major on his bed in the officer’s barracks.
That incident now lead up to the events unfolding now. Bolevski forced Matt into his office in the main area. “So Lieutenant, Do you wish to plead your case before I throw you to my commanders? Or do you wish to say any last words before I kill you myself” he said as he went to his holster. His hand stopped though when he heard the distinct sound of a pistol being cocked. He turned around to see a figure pointing a gun at him saying “there is no need for that major Bolevski.”
Matt smiled “good afternoon general Sikorski.”
”yes general” major Bolevski started to stammer out “I was just arresting this man for unwarranted assault...”
“Save it major, Lieutenant Polanski acted well within his right to stop you from murdering a wounded airmen, and don’t say that that’s not how it happened because I watched it myself. You are being charged with attempted murder, treason, and will be court marshalled at the first possible chance.”
As he was lead away Bolevski screamed “this is not the last word Polanski I will get back at you”
General Sikorski replied “not as long as I am in charge Major”

[The balkens]

I have compiled a chart about my characters feelings about the group.
1. Page: Michael currently dislikes page for Insulting him.
2. Talbot: Michael respects talbot and looks up to him.
3 Matthew polanski: Michael admires Polanski as if he were an older brother.
4. Alix noble: Michael often thinks of her as a older sister.
5. Pat: micheal respects pat for him being an American willing to fight.
6. Nils: michaels views about him are unclear.
7 Edward: Michael sees Edward as a younger brother.
8. Monroe: Michael, being half irish, sees Monroe as a brother in arms.
9. Cutler: michaels hatred for him knows no bounds. The reason for this is unknown.
10 AJ : Michael has yet to form an opinion on him.
11. Smythe: Michael views smythe as a good leader, he admires his hand to hand abilities.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

You never saw a downfall parody, have you tiger? (the actual movie is great)
Internet hitler: idiot, lives in the 21st century. Tormented by FEGELEIN! (slams desk)
Often claims he is the real hitler. Killed inglorous hitler.
Complete opposite of the RL hitler.


EDIT: i think Michael is the angriest he's ever been.
Should serve as a motivation for his redemption.

Yes, I have seen the Hitler parodies. I made one myself, actually, in order to win an election (of sorts). Long story.
FI, I'll link up Keating's profile in a little while.

We moving into the desert? I hate to ask.

Yeah, I'm moving it now. Sorry FI, but I don't think I can let us just stay here any longer.

[Felkland]

When is Robin able to jump in? Feel like an arse just sitting here...

[The Tiger Kingdom]

When is Robin able to jump in? Feel like an arse just sitting here...

Unfortunately, there's really no way to fit you into the current op we're doing, at this point.
So feel free to kick back, no need to feel bad about it. Robin can be introduced over in the Tempsford thread when the op is done.

And Altito, you "gave me the choice" of retiring Zilorski? It was already the plan.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

In summation, some people's characters in this RP apparently have a maturity level and comprehension of military decorum and behavior standards that wouldn't get them accepted into the Boy Scouts, much less an elite special-forces group. Weeeeeeeeeeeird.

[Kouralia]

In summation, some characters in this RP apparently have a maturity level and comprehension of military decorum and behavior standards that wouldn't get them accepted into the Boy Scouts, much less an elite special-forces group. Weeeeeeeeeeeird.

Hey! At least the ability to make tea from other characters makes up for it!



Yeah, think of Smythe as like Willikins from Discworld (i.e. battle butler). He has no right or wrong beyond what society constrains him with. Thus, the military chain of command etc. is his morality. So, he'll likely do whatever he's ordered to do, no matter how unpleasant. On the upside, he has taken the military training and regulations to heart. It is his ability to shine his boots, iron his shirt, oil his rifle etc. which provides a semblance of normality to him - it keeps him focused on the job at hand. And completing the job at hand is the most important thing for him.

He does, indeed, and will, shave in the field, make tea in the mornings and possibly have a newspaper with him. He likely has teabags, cups, water and a kettle on him. No tea with milk - too hard to do in the field (I don't think things like creamer were in use) but green tea is very refreshing.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

In summation, some characters in this RP apparently have a maturity level and comprehension of military decorum and behavior standards that wouldn't get them accepted into the Boy Scouts, much less an elite special-forces group. Weeeeeeeeeeeird.

Hey! At least the ability to make tea from other characters makes up for it!



Yeah, think of Smythe as like Willikins from Discworld (i.e. battle butler). He has no right or wrong beyond what society constrains him with. Thus, the military chain of command etc. is his morality. So, he'll likely do whatever he's ordered to do, no matter how unpleasant. On the upside, he has taken the military training and regulations to heart. It is his ability to shine his boots, iron his shirt, oil his rifle etc. which provides a semblance of normality to him - it keeps him focused on the job at hand. And completing the job at hand is the most important thing for him.

He does, indeed, and will, shave in the field, make tea in the mornings and possibly have a newspaper with him. He likely has teabags, cups, water and a kettle on him. No tea with milk - too hard to do in the field (I don't think things like creamer were in use) but green tea is very refreshing.

Smythe is fine, so far. You may insist he has no morality beyond what society dictates he have, but he made coffee/tea when no one asked him to (and when they desperately needed it as well). Page already trusts him likely more than he should, at this point.

[Kouralia]

Smythe is fine, so far. You may insist he has no morality beyond what society dictates he have, but he made coffee/tea when no one asked him to (and when they desperately needed it as well). Page already trusts him likely more than he should, at this point.

^_^

Trust him - he's unlikely to turn on you, but say if someone shoves him up against the wall and starts to lay into him then Smythe'll cut them. And won't feel an ounce of remorse.

Also, could you put the Origins Part I of Smythe in the OP, please?
Fleeting Memories of a Madman: Part One 'FIX SWORDS!' - Smythe is forced to make a change in management to hold the trench-line.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Done.

[Kouralia]

Done.

^_^

Hard to judge a pattern off one sample, but I'll venture to say it's either bayonets or the Manual of Arms.

Close, but no tea.

I'll upload another later today.

I have compiled a chart about my characters feelings about the group.
1. Page: Michael currently dislikes page for Insulting him.
2. Talbot: Michael respects talbot and looks up to him.
3 Matthew polanski: Michael admires Polanski as if he were an older brother.
4. Alix noble: Michael often thinks of her as a older sister.
5. Pat: micheal respects pat for him being an American willing to fight.
6. Nils: michaels views about him are unclear.
7 Edward: Michael sees Edward as a younger brother.
8. Monroe: Michael, being half irish, sees Monroe as a brother in arms.
9. Cutler: michaels hatred for him knows no bounds. The reason for this is unknown.
10 AJ : Michael has yet to form an opinion on him.

OI! Where's Smythe!

[Neu Engollon]

Hey! At least the ability to make tea from other characters makes up for it!



Yeah, think of Smythe as like Willikins from Discworld (i.e. battle butler). He has no right or wrong beyond what society constrains him with. Thus, the military chain of command etc. is his morality. So, he'll likely do whatever he's ordered to do, no matter how unpleasant. On the upside, he has taken the military training and regulations to heart. It is his ability to shine his boots, iron his shirt, oil his rifle etc. which provides a semblance of normality to him - it keeps him focused on the job at hand. And completing the job at hand is the most important thing for him.

He does, indeed, and will, shave in the field, make tea in the mornings and possibly have a newspaper with him. He likely has teabags, cups, water and a kettle on him. No tea with milk - too hard to do in the field (I don't think things like creamer were in use) but green tea is very refreshing.

Smythe is fine, so far. You may insist he has no morality beyond what society dictates he have, but he made coffee/tea when no one asked him to (and when they desperately needed it as well). Page already trusts him likely more than he should, at this point.

By the way, Kouralia, Smythe would be a sociopath, not a psychopath. Sociopaths do their best to fit into society even though they don't understand morality and have no real sympathy for anyone. They pretend to have feelings and morals, even though they feel almost nothing. See 'Dexter'

Psychopaths completely rebel against society, they usually fall afoul of the law real fast and often. More often they don't last very long as they're the homicidal-suicidal rage type, and have to vent fast. They don't make any pretensions about how they feel and don't have a high success rate of fitting into society.

Just thought I'd clear that up.

[Kouralia]

By the way, Kouralia, Smythe would be a sociopath, not a psychopath. Sociopaths do their best to fit into society even though they don't understand morality and have no real sympathy for anyone. They pretend to have feelings and morals, even though they feel almost nothing. See 'Dexter'

Psychopaths completely rebel against society, they usually fall afoul of the law real fast and often. More often they don't last very long as they're the homicidal-suicidal rage type, and have to vent fast. They don't make any pretensions about how they feel and don't have a high success rate of fitting into society.

Just thought I'd clear that up.

Oh. Thanks! I had previously thought that the distinction was that a psychopath and a sociopath were the same, just that a psychopath was worse.
I'll check anywhere I've labeled him a psycho and correct it, thanks!

[The balkens]

You guys may be wondering why michaels acting the way he is
He suffers from PTSD. From what has happened to him last year (IC) most likely.
and combine that he hates the heat of the desert.
Tiger maybe if page can re-read his dossier(the fact the he suffers from a traumatic event)

Besides I plan on getting the Italian commander somehow
(does commandeering his tank to destroy the rest of the armored unit sound realistic?)

I plan on updating that chart as we go along.

[Kouralia]

You guys may be wondering why michaels acting the way he is
He suffers from PTSD. From what has happened to him last year (IC) most likely.
and combine that he hates the heat of the desert.
Tiger maybe if page can re-read his dossier(the fact the he suffers from a traumatic event)

Besides I plan on getting the Italian commander somehow
(does commandeering his tank to destroy the rest of the armored unit sound realistic?)

I plan on updating that chart as we go along.

Only if he has help, or is very fast. Remember, the driver of the Carro Armato would need to be filled, the Gunner and loader and commander would also be empty if he commandeers it. Two people is the minimum you'd need. (Smythelol)