IP: 82.14.67.140
Posted on January 14, 2012 at 11:24:04 PM by william
| Name: William
Gender: Male Appearance: Average height, average build; straight brown hair which is a little too fast-growing for his liking; brown eyes; the typical white 'English' skin tone, neither pale nor tanned; hard, calloused hands and strong limbs from a life of manual labour. Handsome enough, in his own way, but hardly going to win any modelling competitions. Age: 22 History: Born in 1895 in Devon and has one older sister. Spent most of his time living and working on his parents' farm. His father died when he was 14 of tuberculosis, but he maintains a close relationship with his mother and sister, both of whom he lives with. In 1914 he enlisted off-hand for the war, thinking he'd be home by Christmas, but was reported missing in the field, presumed dead, in early 1917. Player: Georgia Sample: The Western Front February 1917 “Jones!” Rickman slapped his shoulder brightly. “Git up, you lazy sod. Mail arrived this mornin’ – yer mam wrote.” Will rolled tightly over onto his back and, with surprising agility for someone who had apparently been asleep, snatched the letter from his colleague’s hand. The writing on the crumpled envelope was not his mother’s hand, but his sister’s; his mother’s literacy skills left a great deal to be desired and, despite only being educated to the age of ten, his sister had a natural gift for such things. Simultaneous feelings of joy and dread swept over him as he turned the envelope inside-out, revealing, not a letter, but a solid block of tiny, scrunched-up text on the inside of the envelope itself. Will’s own literacy skills left a great deal to be desired, too. Rickman was unusually quiet while he squinted at the words, a fact for which he was glad; deciphering the scribbles was difficult enough without distractions, however amiable they were. A great thudding sound and the creak of rocking wood heralded the arrival of Green, the final resident of their cabin since Smith got called up for machine-gun duty four days ago. Rickman said that all they’d managed to find was Smithy’s bloody infected toe, but the Sergeant had insisted that his intact remains had been sent back to his mother in England. “Good read?” Rickman asked when he finally put the letter down. “Figured I’d give you tha’ first, seein’ as I go’ some more news for you an’ all. I go’ word from Thompson tha’ there’s gonna be a push at dawn. We’re goin’ over the top. At bloody last.” When dawn broke that morning, the blood-red sky had never felt heavier. Even Rickman was quiet as they laced their boots and checked their guns for the fifth time. Green sat in the corner absently polishing his weapon while Will clutched his sister’s letter, staring at the shape of the words. Amelia was – had always been – a very precise young lady; she dotted her I’s and crossed her T’s with such ferocity that the ink had stained through to the other side of the envelope. He’d read the letter so many times by now that he knew it by heart, but the sight of the black handwriting was just as reassuring as the words themselves. Somewhere, sometime, she had sat down – probably with his mother at her shoulder – and taken the time to pen him a letter. Explanations about the adventures little Sammy and little Joey had gotten up to that winter were followed by motherly warnings to take care of himself and a sincere hope that they would see him soon. When the first whistle sounded, Will folded the letter neatly and tucked it inside his shirt before following Green out into the trenches. “C’mon,” Rickman muttered at his shoulder, slightly ashen-faced. “Git goin’. Last one to Berlin is a bloody rotten egg.” The squelching mud underfoot seemed to slow Will down more than usual. When he finally made it to the bank he squeezed himself between Green and a private from another bunker. Rickman was muttering something on Green’s other side; Green himself looked as though he might throw up if he were to open his mouth. Will stared straight ahead at the mud-bank, imagining that he could see his sister’s face in the shadows. The gun’s metal shaft felt cool and comforting in his hands. “Have you prayed?” The private to his right asked quietly. Will nodded. “To God?” Will nodded again. “God will help us.” “Believe me,” the private muttered, “she would if she could. She’s doing everything she can.” This was such a curious statement that, for a moment, Will forgot about the push. He waited until the Sergeant passed by them before glancing at the private out of the corner of his eye to get a good look at him for the first time. He was smaller than Will by almost a foot, and unlike the rest of the soldiers he held his gun slackly and had his helmet tilted back. Because of this, Will was able to see his face which, although slightly feminine, was nothing out of the ordinary – except for the startling blue eyes which were now regarding him with a solemn expression. There was an age in these eyes which defied the smoothness of the private’s pale cheeks; they reminded Will of his grandfather, except that they held none of his warmth. Will shifted his feet, feeling oddly uncomfortable and suddenly wishing he’d pushed his way between Green and Rickman. “What do you mean?” He asked, earning himself a slap on the back of the head as the Sergeant walked passed again. The private shrugged. “It’s all a bit complicated,” he replied vaguely. “Legalities…” Insane, Will thought, turning back to stare at the mud-bank. It wasn’t the first case he’d seen. Everyone had their different coping mechanisms, and for some people those just weren’t strong enough. As long as it didn’t lead to disobedience, insanity wasn’t a good enough reason to send someone back to England. Losing your mind wasn’t good for your soldier’s instincts, though; this poor bugger would probably be dead before he got anywhere near Gerry. Perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. Apparently, the mad private hadn’t finished with him. “What’s your name?” “Private Jones.” “No, no, not the inferior title they shout when they want you on latrines. I mean your name. What do people call you, back home?” Will hesitated, but only for a moment. “William. What about you?” “William. Good name,” the private replied thoughtfully, ignoring the question. “Remember that. When someone asks you your name, you tell them ‘William’. Nobody wants to live in a world where soldiers are needed.” Before he could respond, the second whistle blew. The time for thinking was over. Will heaved his gun up to his chest and ran forward with the rest of the line, scrambling up the mud-bank in time with Green and the unnamed private, who was surprisingly agile. Will had no time to register anything else that was happening around him, because at that moment the world exploded. The ground rumbled beneath their feet and the sound of gunfire seemed to tear the skies apart. Several feet to his left, the earth erupted and Green vanished. Will thought he heard Rickman’s shouts piercing through the noise of machine-gun clatter. Grey smoke concealed the enemy line. Without pause analysis, without a thought to break his solid focus, he plunged straight through. The noise was such now that separate sounds couldn’t be distinguished, although it seemed to be getting quieter. Blind and half-deafened, he continued running until the inevitable happened – an obstacle in the form of a bullet slowed him. Slowed, but not stopped. Will crashed to the ground and, ignoring the sharp pain in his thigh, continued crawling forwards. The grey smoke was now white and all sounds had vanished. The wound must have been worse than he thought; it must have made him delirious, because he imagined he could feel sand under his fingers. The white smoke seemed to be thinning to reveal an impossible scene: a brilliant white-sandy beach, the kind that Will had only seen in pictures before, with no sign of the enemy. It even felt warm. Cautiously, he propped himself up and rolled into a sitting position, facing in the opposite direction. Where the trenches had been was now a rolling green meadow with copses of trees gently swaying in the breeze. Unnerved, Will pointed his gun at one of the trees and pulled the trigger, holding firm through the buck; one of the tree’s branches exploded in a flurry of bark and leaves. Slowly, he lowered his gun and leaned down to inspect the bullet wound. Blood was already spreading down his leg and the pain was making him feel dizzy. “If this is Heaven,” he muttered, “I’ve been bloody screwed.” |
Replies:
- accepted - By Merlin January 15, 2012 at 03:32:05 AM
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