# Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime



## The Shaman (Jun 16, 2005)

Marcel...[sblock]_Capitaine_ Villiers’ orders arrive in the form of a flashlight in the eyes before sunrise. “Grab your gear,” says a legionnaire, faceless in the dark. “We’re heading back to Blida.” He moves on to Gonzalez, who rouses slowly.

Marcel finds himself back among the rest of his trainees, the men who jumped the day before Sgt. Duval’s section. The paras ply him with questions about the action at the _oued_ as they pile into the back of the deuce-and-a-halfs for the long drive back to the training facility. There is plenty of opportunity to reflect on the events of the previous day before the convoy of trucks jostles into the para base a couple of hours after dark.

The next day is the ceremony. Marcel stands at attention in his khaki parade dress – white _kepi_, red and green _epaulettes de tradition_, blue sash and white belt around his midsection, and white gaiters over his polished shoes – as the school’s commanding officer, _Commandant_ Bernelle, pins a pair of silver and gold jump wings over the _légionnaire_’s right breast pocket. A few words are said about the gallantry of the trainees distinguished themselves in action – legionnaires Marcel Fortier and Pedro Gonzalez are mentioned by name, as are Gustav Berg and Igor Martinez. The ceremony is followed by a quick change into walking-out dress as the paras descend on the bars of Blida.

The rest of the week is spent at Blida – five jumps earn the paratroopers’ wings but another four are required for assignment to a combat unit. There are two low-level jumps – canopies snapping open at 150m – and two night jumps – one at the standard 500m, another at 150m; the landings are simple, boots digging into plowed fields just a few kilometers from the base. Five days later, completed certificate and orders in hand, Marcel is on board a Ju-52 bound for _Alger_.

There is no time for sightseeing, for relaxing on the beach or sipping an _espresso_ in a _café_ – Marcel’s orders are to report to the 1_er Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes_ in Zeralda within 48 hours, but as one of the _moniteurs_ at Blida reminded him, it’s not wise to keep the Legion waiting. Asking around the terminal gets Marcel a lift in a supply truck headed west, and by 1500 he’s standing at the gates of the base of the 1_er REP_.

The brick walled barracks, mess halls, and rec halls of the First Foreign Parachute Regiment base are arranged around a central parade ground, joined by concrete walkways lined with leafy plane trees. In the foyer is a mural depicting the history of the regiment, starting with the legionnaires’ infantry heritage, progressing to the 1_er BEP_, including its destruction on _Route Coloniale_ 4 in October 1950 and again at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954, to the subsequent formation of the regiment and its present service in the Maghreb. A clerk in khakis directs Marcel to report to Lt. Olivier at the infirmary.

_Lieutenant_ Raoul Olivier is tall and thin with light blond hair – at first look he resembles a stork in fatigues, right down to his long thin nose underneath a pair of gold wire-rimmed spectacles. He welcomes Marcel warmly and arranges for one of the orderlies to show Marcel to his barracks. “Meet me at the mess hall at 1800,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch, “and we’ll discuss your duties then.”

The base is quiet – the regiment is in the field and only the support and administrative functions are present at the moment, along with a small handful of ill or injured paras in the patient ward of the infirmary. Over a hearty meal Lt. Olivier explains that Marcel will spend the next couple of weeks at Zeralda, an orientation period, before being attached to one of the regiment’s six combat companies. Though technically assigned to the medical platoon under command of the regimental surgeon, Dr. Maurice Remy de Fauvres, while in the field Marcel will take his orders from the senior medic assigned to the company’s headquarters platoon, Olivier explains. [color=sienna[/i]“There are only two to four medics per company, Fortier, for over a hundred and forty men,”[/color] he says, sipping his wine. “Most days you will be their doctor, their psychiatrist, and their confidant. You will need to be cool under fire when no one else is. It is a great responsibility.” He smiles. “It’s my job to make you ready for that responsibility. We’ll start in the morning.”

It would take a dour man indeed not to like Lt. Olivier. Professional at all times, he exhibits an easy familiarity that never undermines his military presence. The nurse, Sister Lucie, and the two orderlies, the German, Manfried and the Greek, Konstanopoulous, speak of their regard for the lieutenant. Olivier is true to his word, and Marcel is immersed immediately. There is no busy work in the lieutenant’s world: restocking medical supplies becomes a lesson in maintaining medical field kits, how to predict expected casualties and order in dressings and bandages and plasma so that there is never too much nor too little when needed – taking vital signs becomes an exercise in patient triage and rapid assessment under battlefield conditions. There is time spent preparing a patient for transport by ambulance, by jeep, or even by helicopter – the latter Olivier calls “The most significant technological advance in battlefield medicine since plasma, Fortier” – identifying environmental hazards like bad water or heat-related illnesses, and the maintenance of patient records to insure proper treatment on one end and fitness for duty on the other. Though there are only a handful of patients in the ward, Marcel is required to interact with each one under the lieutenant’s vigilant eye.

The most unusual and perhaps unexpected of Marcel’s duties is assisting Lt. Olivier on his weekly rounds of _la puff_, the regimental brothel. “The women’s hygiene is of utmost importance in insuring that the paras remain fit for duty,” Olivier explains as he examines the girls for signs of venereal disease, drug use, and normal menstruation. The prostitutes, recognizing Marcel as new to the medical platoon, give him the full force of their ribald humor, challenging his manhood, his stamina, and his proclivities in the rawest terms and a variety of languages, often accompanied by graphic gestures that leave little doubt as to the subject of the joke. “Pay attention, Fortier,” Olivier instructs. “When the men don’t have access to _la puff_, you’ll need to watch that the local girls aren’t passing a half-dozen diseases around the paras of your company. Keep contraceptives available at all times and make sure they get distributed, and used.”

The weeks at Zeralda pass quickly under _médicine-lieutenant_’s tutelage. Marcel is greeted one morning after catching the night duty in the ward by Lt. Olivier – he holds a mimeo form in his hand. “Your orders, _légionnaire_. Third Company – report to _Capitaine_ Martini’s headquarters. They’re bivouacked in the town of Portemonte, on the _Hauts Plateaux_. There’s a truck leaving in two hours. Get your equipment and good luck.”[/sblock]Pyotr...[sblock]“_Légionnaire_ Kerenin.”

The arduous ride across the desert leaves everyone in the convoy spent. A hasty bivouac in El Abiodh is established and Pyotr, all of the _sous-officiers_ in his section lying in the makeshift infirmary, looks for a quiet corner to curl up in the _train_ unit’s barracks. An abrupt voice intrudes upon the Russian’s quietude.

“_Légionnaire_, the _capitaine_ orders you to join up with the patrol headed back to the _oued_ in the morning.” Pyotr looks up at the _moniteur_ – the _sergent_ is one he’s seen around the base at Blida but never learned his name. “You’ll report to Lt. Ben Barka at dawn, to act as a guide and to describe what happened. Do you understand your orders?” Acknowledging the _sergent_, Pyotr resumes his search for sleep.

 A rough hand wakes him before dawn. It’s one of the _tirailleurs_, an Arab with pocked skin and a brushy mustache. “The _sergent_ said you are coming with us today. We leave in fifteen minutes. We have tinned rations this morning, but we have hot coffee if you would like. I’m Youssef Mehdi.” Without waiting for an answer, the _tirailleur_ turns and heads outside. Gathering up his meager gear, he joins the _tirailleurs_ in the pale pre-dawn light. The rest of the trainee paras are loading up a convoy of deuce-and-a-halfs – Pyotr glimpses Gonzalez boarding one of the trucks for the ride back to Blida. A tap on the shoulder – it’s Youssef with a tin cup of steaming coffee. “The _lieutenant_ would like to see you.”

Lt. Ben Barka wears a quilted jacket over his fatigues to ward off the morning chill. He eyes Pyotr, then says to Youssef, “Find a spare pack and make sure he has field rations for four days. And a _djellba_.” The lieutenant looks at Pyotr again. “I hope you don’t mind Arab rations, legionnaire. No wine.” From his pocket he withdraws a map. “Senior sergeant Duval marked the location for me, but he offered to send you as a guide as well. My orders are to secure the area. There will some kind of official inquiry.” He folds up the map, stuffs it into the pocket of his jacket. “Youssef will make sure you have supplies for the march.” Lt. Ben Barka turns away, signaling the end of the conversation. Youssef returns a short while later and helps Pyotr fit the rucksack to his shoulders – the Arab also offers the Russian a spare canteen as well.

The _tirallieurs_ tick off the kilometers in quiet conversation, mostly in Arabic. Walking with Youssef, Pyotr learns that most of the men are from the area around Saida, in western Algeria. Some, like the lieutenant and a couple of the sergeants, are veterans from Indochina, the rest more recent recruits. The company lost eight _soldats_ to an ALN ambush a few months ago, and Youssef indicates that the men are eager for an opportunity to exact revenge – unfortunately, the _tirailleurs_ spend most of the time on garrison duties scattered throughout the _pieds-noirs_ towns of their sector, this march being the first time that some in the hundred-twenty strong company have seen each other in almost two months.

The vultures are the first sign that the _tirailleurs_ are getting close to the battlefield.

Hanging suspended in the sky against the late afternoon sun, the great birds climb in broad spirals as they fly for their roosts, the bellies full of fresh meat, their red heads and ivory bills stained with blood. Pyotr sees the low hill where the paras made their stand – a jackal is silhouetted against the sky not far from where the legionnaire dueled the ALN gunners the day before. The Russian overhears the lieutenant speaking to one of the men, and a shot rings out, sending the jackal scurrying. Taking no chances, the lieutenant halts the column and deploys the men for a tactical advance – Pyotr is ordered to stay with Ben Barka toward the rear as the _tirailleurs_ sweep toward the battlefield. A few vultures, a white marabou stork, and a family of jackals provide no contest for the Algerians. Dispatching scouts toward the _oued_, Lt. Ben Barka orders one of his sergeants to collect weapons and make an accurate count of the dead – Pyotr assists by outlining the ALN movements the day before as the _tirailleurs_ go about their grisly task before the sun sets. The Algerians make camp under a dome of stars in the lee of Hill 162 – Pyotr sleeps in the open, wrapped in a hooded wool _djellba_ like the Arab soldiers, the sound of the jackals yipping and barking away in the darkness.

The roar of a Dakota’s engines shatters the peaceful morning – the transport rushes past disgorging a dozen parachutists in the early morning light. The men in the stick land cleanly in the desert east of the _tirailleurs_ and assemble their gear. Lt. Ben Barka motions to Pyotr to accompany him and together they join the paras. Pyotr listens as the new arrivals make curt introductions to the Muslim lieutenant – a _commandant_ from the 10_e_ Parachute Division general staff, a _capitaine_ from the 2_e REP_, another _capitaine_ without any unit identification who declines to introduce himself to Ben Barka, a _lieutenant_ in the uniform of the French Air Force, and a _sous-lieutenant_ from the division signals company – the rest are _sous-officiers_ along to assist. Pyotr is introduced and perfunctorily congratulated by the _commandant_ – the REP _capitaine_, Laperre, is much warmer in his sentiments, shaking Pyotr’s hand with a firm grip, saying, “Your action here is in the finest traditions of the Legion, _légionnaire_ Kerenin. Well done.”

The officers settle in together to discuss their inquiry. The _sous-lieutenant_ is in charge of documenting the scene, and he coordinates the _adjudants_ and _sergents_ responsible for taking photographs and making measurements. Pyotr is asked to walk through the firefight again – the _Armée de l'Air_ officer is especially interested in the Mistrals’ strafing run while the _commandant_ asks few questions as Pyotr provides his narrative. After the second tour is done, Laperre pulls Pyotr aside and again commends him – he nods in the direction of the no-name captain and says quietly, “_Deuxieme Bureau_. Military intelligence. He may have some questions for you later.”

The work continues through the day, then resumes the following day. Pyotr is interviewed twice, once by the _sous-lieutenant_, once by the 2_e Bureau capitaine_ – the intelligence officer is most interested in the interrogation of the prisoner on the DZ after the trainees landed. A trip to the paras’ drop zone is discussed and discarded as unnecessary to the inquiry. Late in the afternoon four jeeps arrive – apparently the officers won’t be walking back in the morning.

The fourth day is spent returning to El Abiodh. The _tirailleurs_ carry the recovered weapons – the bodies of the _fellaghas_ are left to the desert. Before the officers leave in the morning, Laperre instructs Pyotr to find him when the _tirailleurs_ get back to El Abiodh – he’ll arrange to get the legionnaire back to either Sidi-bel-Abbès or Blida. The march is uneventful, the Arabs reserved, the sun relentless. The wounded are gone, taken by ambulance to Mecheria for flight to Algiers. _Capitaine_ Laperre is gone too, as are all of the officers and their men – orders have been left with the _adjudant_ of the supply company to get Pyotr back to Blida by land or by air as soon as possible.

Four days later Pyotr steps out of a Dakota on the tarmac of the parachute school at Blida. The Russian’s class has graduated and moved on to their assignments – an orderly in the base commander’s office informs him that he will be able to join another class the following week to complete his final jumps. In the meantime he is assigned to the parachute barn under the watchful eye of the chief rigger, an _adjudant-chef_ named Calvi from the 2_ème Régiment de Chasseurs Parachutistes_ – Pyotr is surprised to discover that Calvi, on detached duty to the school from his parent unit, learned some Russian while stationed in West Germany, and the two spend hours in the barn, Pyotr cleaning, airing, and drying parachutes, the senior warrant officer practicing his atrocious Russian on the legionnaire.

The following week Pyotr is folded into a training class to complete his final four jumps. Walking into the hanger where the trainees are assembled, Pyotr sees two familiar faces: Normand Mador and Vidal Gaspard, recently escaped from the _Hôpital Maillot_ in Algiers. The legionnaires join a class of colonial paratroopers – the story of the firefight at _Oued Baraba_ has started making the rounds, and there are many curious questions from the other trainees. The conclusion of the legionnaires training includes  two low-level jumps – canopies snapping open at 150m – and two night jumps – one at the standard 500m, another at 150m; the landings are simple, boots digging into plowed fields just a few kilometers from the base. Five days later, jump wings pinned above the right breast pockets of their fatigues, completed certificates and orders in hand to report to the 1_er Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes_ in Zeralda, Pyotr and the other legionnaires board a Dakota headed for Algiers. From Maison Blanche Airport the legionnaires catch a lift in a supply truck headed west, and the trio are deposited at the gates of the base of the 1_er REP_.

The brick walled barracks, mess halls, and rec halls of the First Foreign Parachute Regiment base are arranged around a central parade ground, joined by concrete walkways lined with leafy plane trees. In the foyer is a mural depicting the history of the regiment, starting with the legionnaires’ infantry heritage, progressing to the 1_er BEP_, including its destruction on _Route Coloniale_ 4 in October 1950 and again at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954, to the subsequent formation of the regiment and its present service in the Maghreb. A clerk in khakis directs the legionnaires to report to a Lt. Jenci at the headquarters building.

Lt. Jenci is a short man with dark hair framing a round Slavic face. Pyotr recognizes the man’s accent as Magyar as the 1_er Bureau_ officer studies their orders, repeating the words under his breath as he reads, then flips through a file on his desk. He takes the paras completed jump certificates, to be placed in the legionnaires’ jackets. “Welcome to the 1_er REP_,” he says at last. Reaching into another folder on his desk, he pulls out three mimeo sheets. “Your orders, _légionnaires_. Third Company – report to _Capitaine_ Martini’s headquarters. They’re bivouacked in the town of Portemonte, on the _Hauts Plateaux_. There’s a truck leaving at 0800 tomorrow. Check in with the quartermaster to draw your equipment. You’ll be in B Barracks for tonight.” He looks at his watch. “You’ve only got a couple of hours before the quartermaster leaves for the day. You’d better get moving.”[/sblock]Normand and Vidal...[sblock]The makeshift infirmary set up in the _Service d’Itendence_ depot in El Abiodh is quiet and dark. An orderly sits in a corner, filling out a chart by the light of a flashlight. Neumann and Dinter are asleep – Lavareaux is talking softly with _Capitaine_ Villiers, pointing to various locations on a map in the captain’s hands, also illuminated by battery-powered torch. Sgt. Duval was rushed into a field surgical theatre set up less than an hour after the surgeon arrived, to remove the bullet that lay somewhere inside his chest – that was four hours ago.

IVs dangle above the wounded legionnaires, replacing blood and plasma left on the _hammada_ during the firefight and pumping in antibiotics to prevent infection. Normand’s wounds were assessed by the nursing sister: the bullet in his calf will need to be removed, but the round that struck under his arm passed through the _Latissimus dorsi_ without striking the thoracodorsal artery or nerve, she tells him – it’s going to hurt to use his arm for awhile, but the prognosis for a full recovery is good.

One of the orderlies gives Vidal a thorough neurological check under the nursing sister’s attentive gaze. There is no apparent loss of function, no sign of intracranial hemorrhage – a head X-ray will be taken in time to be sure, but in the meantime it appears that a painful bump and an acute headache from a moderate concussion are the only immediate concerns.

The sound of trucks outside accompanied by shouted orders intrudes upon the stillness of the infirmary in the early morning. Sometime after everyone was asleep Duval was brought in with the rest of the men and he continues to sleep off the effects of the surgery oblivious to the noise outside. An orderly checks on the legionnaires, bringing water, recording on charts, tapping IV tubes – he says the wounded will be loaded on ambulances for the trip to Mecheria later this morning then flown to Algiers for surgery and recovery.

The ride to Mecheria is nearly as bad as the trip across the desert in the back of the weapons carrier – Dinter vomits repeatedly in the four-stretcher ambulance, and while mercifully he is in a lower berth, the stench is horrendous. Several stops are made to check on the men – concern over Dinter’s fluid loss results in him being moved to the front seat of the ambulance, leaving the odor to Normand, Vidal, and Lavareaux in the back.

The drive takes all day and into the night before the men are removed to a clean hospital ward at the airfield. The night passes without incident and in the morning the six wounded paras are placed aboard a Dakota casevac ship for the flight to Algiers, followed by another ambulance ride along the coast to the _Hôpital Maillot_. Through the rear windows the legionnaires can see the deep blue arch of the Bay of Algiers on the left, the white colonial facades of the city waterfront on the right, as they travel to the hospital – the contrast with the desolation of the desert landscape could hardly be more striking. 

Maillot Hospital is a military hospital, which is another way of saying that it combines the best and worst features of both the martial and healing arts. The nurses are coolly efficient, the doctors brusque, the orderlies indifferent, the sheets clean and rigidly tucked, the food abundant but relentlessly bland. The day after arrival Normand is taken into surgery to debreed his chest wound and remove what prove to be bullet fragments from his calf – the next couple of days are a medicated blur for the big Frenchman. Vidal is treated to several head and neck X-rays and a more thorough neurological assessment – the diagnosis is a concussion, the treatment bed rest.

By the end of the first week both legionnaires are up and around, walking on the grounds, looking out over the bay at the ships coming and going from the port, listening to the seagulls above the thrum of city traffic. The Maillot Hospital sits at the northwest corner of the city, near the community of Bab-el-Oued, a working-class neighborhood of _pieds-noirs_ families. Beyond the rooftops of the “water gate” suburb is the Casbah, home to the majority of the Muslim population of the city – from the hospital it looks like a whitewashed beehive, surrounded by block upon block of French colonial apartments and offices.

Pierre Lavareaux joins Normand and Vidal one afternoon, the Picard still in a wheelchair after his second surgery. He shakes his head as he speaks. “It’s going to take me another two months to get back to Blida at this rate,” he says, the impatience clear in his voice as he looks out toward the Mediterranean. “I talked with a buddy of mine yesterday. There’s another class of trainees about to make their final jumps in a little bit more than a week, then no one will be getting certified for at least two months, or so he’s told.” He studies Normand and Vidal. “If I were you, I’d find a way out of here and back to jump school soon, unless you want to end up in an infantry battalion without your wings.”

The next day Normand and Vidal buttonhole Dr. Orlov as he makes rounds of the ward – he’s the one physician in Maillot who seems to have a current of humanity flowing through him. Orlov listens to their plight, studies their charts, peers in Vidal’s eyes, checks Normand’s scars. “I’ll let you boys in on a little secret,” he says finally. “It sometimes happens that a soldier will report back to duty without proper discharge papers. Usually the soldier is returned to the hospital until the discharge paperwork is straightened out. But every once in awhile,” he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “the discharge is just sent up to the unit instead. It depends on who gets the paperwork.” He leans back and smiles. “It’s a crap shoot, but what do you want? That’s army life. Good luck to you, boys.” He stands up, smiles, and continues his rounds.

It takes a few days to figure out how to get to Blida without orders in hand – eventually it’s decided that the best way is to simply buy a bus ticket. Sneaking out in old U.S. Army fatigues liberated from a basement storeroom, Normand and Vidal catch a taxi to the bus station – they step off the coach in Blida the next day. The guard at the gate looks at them skeptically when they approach but places a call to _Capitaine_ Villiers – surprised by the response, he allows them to report to the captain. Villiers is no less surprised to see them.

“Shouldn’t you boys still be in the hospital? Where are your travel orders, and your discharge papers?” he asks, his eyes narrowed.

“Lost in transit, sir” replies Vidal. “You can check with Dr. Orlov at the hospital, sir,” continues Normand.

“I see.” The captain scrutinizes the duo for more than a minute without saying a word. Normand and Vidal stand at silent attention. “See the quartermaster about new uniforms, and burn those things you’ve got on.” He taps one finger on his desk for a moment. “If there’s no discharge order, you’re done with the paras, legionnaires. Dismissed.” Reporting to the quartermaster as ordered, the pair is outfitted with new smocks and trousers. Normand and Vidal wait as long as possible before returning to Villiers office – the captain is gone, but taped on the door frame is a typed list of the names of the jumpers for the following day, with their names penciled in at the bottom.

Walking into the hanger where the trainees are assembled, Normand and Vidal see a familiar face: Pyotr Kerenin. The legionnaires join a class of colonial paratroopers – the story of the firefight at _Oued Baraba_ has started making the rounds, and there are many curious questions from the other trainees. The conclusion of the legionnaires training includes two low-level jumps – canopies snapping open at 150m – and two night jumps – one at the standard 500m, another at 150m; the landings are simple, boots digging into plowed fields just a few kilometers from the base. Five days later, jump wings pinned above the right breast pockets of their fatigues, completed certificates and orders in hand to report to the 1_er Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes_ in Zeralda, the three legionnaires board a Dakota headed for Algiers. From Maison Blanche Airport the legionnaires catch a lift in a supply truck headed west, and the trio are deposited at the gates of the base of the 1_er REP_.

The brick walled barracks, mess halls, and rec halls of the First Foreign Parachute Regiment base are arranged around a central parade ground, joined by concrete walkways lined with leafy plane trees. In the foyer is a mural depicting the history of the regiment, starting with the legionnaires’ infantry heritage, progressing to the 1_er BEP_, including its destruction on _Route Coloniale_ 4 in October 1950 and again at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954, to the subsequent formation of the regiment and its present service in the Maghreb. A clerk in khakis directs the legionnaires to report to a Lt. Jenci at the headquarters building.

Lt. Jenci is a short man with dark hair framing a round Slavic face. The 1_er Bureau_ officer studies their orders, repeating the words under his breath as he reads, then flips through a file on his desk. He takes the paras completed jump certificates, to be placed in the legionnaires’ jackets. “Welcome to the 1_er REP_,” he says at last. Reaching into another folder on his desk, he pulls out three mimeo sheets. “Your orders, _légionnaires_. Third Company – report to _Capitaine_ Martini’s headquarters. They’re bivouacked in the town of Portemonte, on the _Hauts Plateaux_. There’s a truck leaving at 0800 tomorrow. Check in with the quartermaster to draw your equipment. You’ll be in B Barracks for tonight.” He looks at his watch. “You’ve only got a couple of hours before the quartermaster leaves for the day. You’d better get moving.”[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Jun 16, 2005)

*Glossary*

*Glossary*
_aïn_: spring
_Alger_: city of Algiers
_ancien_: veteran
_Armée de l'Air_: French Air Force
_baksheesh_: gratuities
_battaillon de marche_: a temporary 'marching' unit or task force
_baroudeur_: brawler; refers to NCOs who become officers or those of modest social backgrounds in the officer corps - a sign of respect among legionnaires toward their officer
_blé_: (argot) 'dough', money
_bled_: the Algerian backcountry
_bourdj_: small fort or outpost
_cabane_: (argot) jail
_carte nationale d'identité_: national identification card - issued to all French citizens
casevac: casualty evacuation
_casseur_: (argot) mug, strongarm, muscleman, thug
_castor_: GMC deuce-and-a-half; also transport truck generally
_la chat et le souris_: cat and mouse
_choc_: 'shock' - refers to (1) the five-man assault team in the standard 12-man section and (2) battalions of para-commandos (i.e., 11_e Battaillon de Parachutistes de Choc_)
_commérage_: (argot) gossip
_commissaire_: chief detective
_copain_: (argot) buddy
casevac: casualty evacuation
_Deuxieme Bureau_: French military intelligence bureau
_djebel_: mountain, mountainous terrain
_djellba_: hooded robe - traditional Arab garment
_douar_: small village or nomad’s camp
_failek_: ALN battalion (roughly 330 soldiers)
_fell_: abbreviated form of _fellagha_
_fellagha_: bandit; also FLN soldier or terrorist (derogatory); plural _fellouze_, _fellaghas_ (informal)
_fissa_: quickly
_flics_: (argot) cops
_fourragère_: a braided cord worn around the left shoulder that signifies a unit citation for valor - the colors of the _fourragère_ correspond to the ribbon associated with a particular decoration, such as the _Legion d'Honneur_ (red), _Croix de Guerre_ (red and blue), and so on
_frigo_: (argot) 'cooler', jail
_katiba_: ALN company (roughly 110 men)
_képi_: a cap with a flat circular top and a visor
_képi blanc_: the traditional white kepi of the French Foreign Legion - the 'Beau Geste' hat
_kufi_: Muslim prayer skullcap
_hammada_: rocky desert plain
_Hauts Plateaux_: High Pleateau region of Algeria
_Hôpital Maillot_: Algiers military hospital
_inspecteur_: detective
lit up: wounded by gunfire
_mal jaune_: literally "yellow fever"; refers to legionnaires and soldiers who adopted customs and lifestyle from Indochina
_milieu_: (argot) French criminal underworld
_moghaznis_: Muslim villages militia 
_moudjahiddine_: ALN regular soldiers (sing. _moudjahid_)
_moussebiline_: ALN irregular guerillas
_nana_: 'chick', woman
_oued_: _wadi_ or canyon
_paras-colos_: colonial parachutists
_PC_: command post
_pieds-noirs_: Algerians of European descent (literally 'black feet')
_piste_: track or trail
_pourvoyeur_: ammunition carrier
_rappelés_: recalled conscripts - reservists
_ratissage_: literally, 'raking' - used to describe sweeps across the _bled_ to locate _fellaghas_
_reconaissance à vue_: visual reconnaissance; abbreviated 'RAV'
_régiment étranger de cavalerie_: foreign cavalry (armored) regiment; abbreviated 'REC'
_régiment étranger de génie_: foreign engineer (sapper) regiment; abbreviated 'REG'
_régiment étranger d'infanterie_: foreign infantry regiment; abbreviated 'REI'
_régiment étranger de parachutistes_: foreign parachute regiment; abbreviated 'REP'
_régiment de tirailleurs algerienne_: Algerian native infantry regiment; abbreviated 'RTA'
_régiment parachutistes de coloniaux_: 'colonial' (marine) parachute regiment; abbreviated 'RPC'
_régiment de chasseurs parachutistes_: light infantry paratroop regiment (French Air Force); abbreviated 'RCP'
_relégué_: (argot) small-time criminal
_savate_: French martial art that resembles kick-boxing in part
_Service d’Itendence_: French Army quartermaster corps
_Sidi-bel-Abbès_: town in western Algeria, home of the French Foreign Legion beginning in 1848
_soldat_: French Army private (also, any soldier generally)
_sous-officiers_: non-commissioned officers
_spahis_: French North African native cavalry
_téléphone arabe_: word of mouth among Arabs and Kabyles; syn. with "bush telegraph"
_tirailleurs_: French North African native infantry
_unités territoriales_: _pied-noir_ home guard or militia units; abbreviated 'UT'
_videur_: (argot) bouncer
viet: abbreviation for Vietminh; soldiers and legionnaires who served in Indochina occasionally refer to _fellouze_ as "viets"
_voltiguer_: rifleman


*French Army ranks and their equivalents*
--Enlisted
_Légionnaire_ (private)
_Légionnaire première classe_ (private first class)
_Caporal_ (corporal)
_Caporal-chef_ (senior corporal)
-- Non-commissioned officers
_Sergent_ (sergeant)
_Sergent-chef_ (senior sergeant)
_Sergent-chef-major_ (senior sergeant-major) – rank rarely awarded
_Adjudant_ (warrant officer)
_Adjudant-chef_ (senior warrant officer)
--Commissioned
_Aspirant_ (cadet officer)
_Sous-lieutenant_ (sub-lieutenant)
_Lieutenant_ (lieutenant)
_Capitaine_ (captain)
_Commandant_ (major)
_Lieutenant-colonel_ (lt. colonel)
_Colonel_ (colonel)


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## The Shaman (Jun 16, 2005)

The deuce-and-a-half idles noisily as Marcel carries his pack and his musette bag across the parade ground. The rear tarpaulin is pulled up on the sides, and he can see other paras waiting inside. He reaches the tailgate and tosses his rucksack and musette bag up to a waiting legionnaire. A hand is extended to Marcel from inside the back of the truck – one hand on the tailgate, one foot on the bumper, he grips the other man’s wrist and pulls himself up into the truck, and suddenly finds himself face-to-face with Normand, Pyotr, and Vidal. A fourth legionnaire is asleep in a corner next to the rear of the cab, his feet resting on his pack, arms crossed over his chest.

The engine revs, and the truck begins to roll.


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## Barak (Jun 16, 2005)

Normand grins as Marcel comes aboard, yet someone else he knows.  Once the transport gets underway, he looks at the four other man in the back, and satisfied of the company, pulls out a leather satchel.  From it, he first pulls a small metal canister, which he unscrews, and then pulls out of _that_ a rather cheap looking cigar.  Rescrewing the canister, he puts it away, next pulling a cutter, with which he snips the end of the cigar, and puts it in his mouth.  putting the cutter away, he pulls out a lighter, and slowly, trying to keep the flame from actually touching the cigar as much as possible, he lights it.

After taking his first drag, and exhaling it, he smiles contentedly.

"Do you know they frowned at me in the hospital when I wanted to light up one of these?"

Pulling a hip flask out of his rucksack, he then takes a long swallow from it.

"And alcohol?  Fuggetaboutit."  Looking a Marcel, he tips his head sideway. "Don't you medical-types know the value of creature-comfort?"

Putting the flask away, he lays back on the side of the truck, and concentrate on his cigar.

"So now you guys know the horrors Vidal and I went through.  And you don't even wanna know how hard it was to come back to risk our lives.  Did you guys have more fun?


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## Bobitron (Jun 16, 2005)

Marcel grins back at Normand as he enters the truck. "Normand! Pyotr! Vidal!" Each of the legionnaires gets a hearty embrace from the medic. "I'm so glad to be back with you all! I was worried I would end up with a new group."

Marcel winks at the ex-boxer as he comments about the hospital's policies. "If I'm ever in charge, I'll let you sneak out for a smoke, Normand," he says conspiratorially.

He leans back on the bench, savoring the company of his old companions.

"I've been studying, pretty much. The normal stuff, which end of the scalpel goes in first, make sure you don't leave gauze inside the wound when you close it up, save the large condoms for the French legionnaires..." Marcel smiles widely at Vidal and Pytor.

"How about you, Pyotr? What have you been up to?"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 16, 2005)

Pyotr, still overwhelmed at all the activity he has endured in the last week, barely registers Marcel's question. Especially going back to the place that all that combat occured at, seeing the scavengers loot the bodies. And no, Pyotr wasn't thinking about the animals.

He looks up at his companions. "Let's just say I'm glad to be back with you lot. Though this thing," Pyotr pulls out the _djellba_ he received, "is actually quite comfortable. I'll have to see if I can get one for each of you." His half-smile betrayed something else in his mind, but Pyotr kept quiet about whatever it was.


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## знаток (Jun 17, 2005)

Vidal fought the dullness and discomfort in the hospital by reminding himself constantly of how effective it really was, and how thankful he was to be alive to experience it.  In less than an hour in the desert with the Legionnaires, they had gone from occupational acquaintances to unconventional friendships with perhaps even deeper bonds than family.  They had even bled on and for each other, he often thought, which constitutes a blood-bond inarguably more significant than many (if not all) familial ones.  _It's silly to compare, really,_ he had written to a friend in Portalegre.  _Nothing of my love for my parents or dear sister has changed, but these men are a part of me now, and I a part of them and the Legion.  I feel the same for those who have perished, and I know my heart will remain with all of them - even beyond the time I share with them here or in the future.  _

Even with this sentiment, his heart had dropped when Lavareaux presented the possibility that they might be assigned separately from their comrades.  With the uncertainty of his future in the Legion, the news also provided him with a bit of hope.  He was determined to complete the training and get back to them at nearly any cost.  Before even packing for the final training jumps (he knew how unpredictable those could be), he wrote a brief letter of sincerest gratitude each to CPT Villiers and Doctor Orlov in vague dialogue.  Soon, he felt at home-away-from-home again in the back of a deuce-and-a-half with his new brothers.  


			
				Bobitron said:
			
		

> Marcel grins back at Normand as he enters the truck. "Normand! Pyotr! Vidal!" Each of the legionnaires gets a hearty embrace from the medic. "I'm so glad to be back with you all! I was worried I would end up with a new group."



"What's up, Doc?"  Clearly delighted, Vidal settles easily into the comfortable chatter and loving insults.  "You know those goons didn't want us jumping?  What kind of life would that be?!?"


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## Bobitron (Jun 17, 2005)

"Life without jumping out of airplanes? Sounds like being in the infantry!" Marcel laughs.

"So, any of you keep track of Duval, Lavereaux, or Dinter? Catch up with any of them in hospital? I was in Zeralda at HQ, didn't hear a thing about them."

Marcel glances at the sleeping man. "Who's our companion?"


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## The Shaman (Jun 17, 2005)

The unknown legionnaire continues to sleep peacefully despite the bouncing of the truck and the animated conversation. His beret is tilted down over his eyes, obscuring his face but revealing a shock of black hair that stands up like bristles on a brush. His legs are crossed as they rest on his pack – the wear and tear on his jump boots is only thinly disguised by a recent application of polish.

The truck rolls through Zeralda and begins climbing the steep hills that back the Mediterranean coast of Algeria. A thin crescent of sandy beach separates the blue water from a narrow strip of farms before the foothills begin. The road begins to wind and the engine pitch rises with the elevation.


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## Barak (Jun 18, 2005)

Normand relaxes as the warmth from his drink spreads through his body, and he folds his arms in front of him, his cigar tilted at an angle in his mouth.

"So..  Any of you guys have any idea what's next for us?"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 19, 2005)

Pyotr makes another smile, this one more genuine. "Whatever it is, remind me to check you for lead magnets before we head out, yes?"


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## Barak (Jun 19, 2005)

Normand turns to Pyotr, and frowns "menacingly", although he's smiling.

"Hey Pete, gimme a break, will ya?  I'm big, you know, even _you_ would prolly manage to hit me!"


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## Bobitron (Jun 19, 2005)

Barak said:
			
		

> Normand turns to Pyotr, and frowns "menacingly", although he's smiling.
> 
> "Hey Pete, gimme a break, will ya?  I'm big, you know, even _you_ would prolly manage to hit me!"




"The less Swiss cheese I have to deal with, the better. I dealt with some nasty wounds in the hospital, and I would appreciate if you guys don't get shot this time around." Marcel grins at his friends. "So what about Duval, Lavereaux, or Dinter? Nobody knows where they are?"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 20, 2005)

Pyotr smiled at Normand. "At this rate, I'd be surprised if I _haven't_ hit you already."

Laughing, he then turns to Marcel, the smile slowly fading. "I haven't heard a thing since I got back. I'm surprised you guys didn't see them in the hospital." Pyotr then shrugs to illustrate his point.


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## The Shaman (Jun 20, 2005)

Before Marcel can respond, the stranger stirs slightly, then tilts back the beret drawn down over his eyes. The face that looks out is swarthy, with a thick black mustache that clearly toes the line on regulation under a long, straight wedge of a nose. His brown eyes are alert as he looks at Pyotr.

“_Govorite li vy po russki?_” he asks. His Russian carries a distinct accent – it reminds Pyotr of the soldiers from the Caucasus during the war. Without waiting for an answer he reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a grey Thermos bottle, pours himself a cup of steaming liquid as he looks over his companions.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 20, 2005)

Pyotr's eyes light up as he listens to the other man. It was strange, knowing how Pyotr felt about home at this point in time, that he felt a sense of comfort at hearing his own language spoken to him again, and not butchered like many others. "_Da! Ya iz vy'Ukrainski. Vy?_"


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## Barak (Jun 20, 2005)

Normand looks at Marcel and Vidal, and raises his eyebrows.

"Great..  _Another_ russkie.  Now I know we'll never survive our next little skirmish."


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## The Shaman (Jun 20, 2005)

The stranger’s deep-set eyes look out from under thick brows at Normand, their expression impassive, then return to Pyotr. “_Turkski_,” he replies in a deep voice, taking a sip from his cup.

“Replacements?” he continues in French, the accent still strong.


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## Bobitron (Jun 20, 2005)

Barak said:
			
		

> Normand looks at Marcel and Vidal, and raises his eyebrows.
> 
> "Great..  _Another_ russkie.  Now I know we'll never survive our next little skirmish."




"Hey, what's that all about? Pyotr did a great job last time."

Marcel extends his hand to the stranger, introducing himself. "Pleased to meet you."


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## знаток (Jun 20, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> “Replacements?” he continues in French, the accent still strong.



"We had to take a short break from combat to finish jump school, but yeah, I guess we're replacing somebody."  Vidal thinks of Berg and Martinez at the mention of the word, solemnly introducing himself and extending his own hand to the man.  
"We did see Sergeant Duval, Dinter, Neumann and Lavareux at Maillot," he says to Marcel.  "I'm actually surprised not to see Neumann here, but Duval and Lavareaux needed more time to recuperate, and I expect Dinter met the fate Mador and I avoided by making it to the last of the jump training for awhile."


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## The Shaman (Jun 20, 2005)

The stranger shakes Marcel’s hand with a firm grip – his hands are rough and scarred. “Burhan Pamuk. First Legion paras. You are joining Third Company?” he asks.


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## Bobitron (Jun 20, 2005)

"Looks like! Third Company, under Capitaine Martini, that's what the orders say." Marcel sighs, then continues with a wide smile. "Oh well. All that time in the brothel was getting old, anyhow."



			
				знаток said:
			
		

> "We did see Sergeant Duval, Dinter, Neumann and Lavareux at Maillot," he says to Marcel.  "I'm actually surprised not to see Neumann here, but Duval and Lavareaux needed more time to recuperate, and I expect Dinter met the fate Mador and I avoided by making it to the last of the jump training for awhile."




"I'm glad to hear they are safe, regardless. I wish they could be here, but the fate of the soldier is to follow orders, I suppose. It will take a tough fils de pute to live up to what Duval did at the fight. Merde, he was a tough bastard."


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## Barak (Jun 21, 2005)

Marcel said:
			
		

> "Hey, what's that all about? Pyotr did a great job last time."




Normand looks at Marcel, and shakes his head.

"Well yeah, I suppose, for a russkie."  Keeping his eyes on the doc, he continues. "I was kidding, Marcel."

Looking at Vidal, but speaking to the others, he goes on.

"And yeah, we sorta had to fudge a couple things to make it back here, but we'd appreciate if it went unmentioned."


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## Bobitron (Jun 21, 2005)

Barak said:
			
		

> "And yeah, we sorta had to fudge a couple things to make it back here, but we'd appreciate if it went unmentioned."




"Never leaves this truck, Normand," Marcel says solemnly.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 21, 2005)

Pyotr held a slight smile at Normand's comment. When he finished explaining to Marcel that he was just joking, Pyotr spoke up. "Besides guys, he's not technically Russian, he's Turkish. Of course by that logic, I'm not Russian either, but you get my point." He trails off as he extends his own hand to the man. "Pyotr Kerenin, unsung sniper." He then grins at Normand. 

Returning his gaze to Burhan, he continues. "Don't mind them, they haven't figured out the difference between 'duck' and 'shooting gallery duck' yet either." 

Smiling, more to himself than anyone else, he sat back against the rumbling truck wall. This was a great bunch of guys he had gotten to know. He hoped that when he was granted citizenship in France, he wouldn't lose touch with them.


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## The Shaman (Jun 22, 2005)

The legionnaire nods at Pyotr as he shakes hands. “Burhan.” He downs the last of his beverage in a swift gulp and returns the Thermos to his rucksack. From a pocket on his tunic the Turk removes a cloth bag and what looks like a small leather envelope – from the envelope he produces a thin paper, from the sack thick-cut tobacco, and he skillfully rolls a cigarette which he lights with a wooden match. The smoke is dense and strong.


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## Bobitron (Jun 22, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> From a pocket on his tunic the Turk removes a cloth bag and what looks like a small leather envelope – from the envelope he produces a thin paper, from the sack thick-cut tobacco, and he skillfully rolls a cigarette which he lights with a wooden match. The smoke is dense and strong.




"Hmm. It's been a good five minutes since I last smoked," Marcel said jokingly. He pulls it the trademark blue package with the winged helmet and lights a Gauloise inhaling deeply.


"Anyone know what the plan is once we get to Portemonte? I haven't heard anything about what Third Company is up to these days."

ooc: Is the correct word in this case _Gauloises_ or _Gauloise_?


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## Barak (Jun 22, 2005)

Still happily smoking his cheap cigar, Normand shrugs.

"Hey, I didn't even know we had joined third company until a minute ago.  I'm sure they'll let us know when they figure we need to know.  Might even be before we get fired upon, if we're lucky."

ooc:The last 's' denotes plural, so it would be _gauloise_ in this case.


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## Bobitron (Jun 22, 2005)

Barak said:
			
		

> "Might even be before we get fired upon, if we're lucky."




Marcel laughs openly at Normand's joke. "Are you telling me we might be sent into the field _prepared_ for being shot at? Ciel interdit! I've never know the military to be so intelligent."


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## знаток (Jun 22, 2005)

Vidal chuckles at the jokes as he takes a seat next to Pyotr.  "Anyone know how long this ride is supposed to be?  I don't mean to be unappreciative of the motorized transportation, but if I'm not flying, I'd prefer to be on my feet.  These monsters make a fine target."  He knows he's setting himself up for a crack or two at that, but the jokes aren't hurting anyone, and he's glad to contribute.  

He reaches for one of his own generic cigarrettes and pauses, the rich smell of the Turk's smoke tempting him.  "Say, Burhan, would you roll me one of those?"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 22, 2005)

Marcel said:
			
		

> "Are you telling me we might be sent into the field prepared for being shot at? Ciel interdit! I've never know the military to be so intelligent."




Pyotr smiles. "The military is not intelligent, but the training makes us believe otherwise. Besides, one would think that our recent training exercise would make you used to being shot at by now."


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## Bobitron (Jun 22, 2005)

shadowbloodmoon said:
			
		

> Pyotr smiles. "The military is not intelligent, but the training makes us believe otherwise. Besides, one would think that our recent training exercise would make you used to being shot at by now."




"Fortunately, the fells didn't have your skill with a rifle, my friend. They called me 'Lucky' at the hospital. I'm still not quite sure how I had that much ammo come at me and not get hit."


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## The Shaman (Jun 22, 2005)

"Say, Burhan, would you roll me one of those?"

The Turkish legionnaire looks at Vidal for a moment, then shrugs and prepares another from the pouch and the envelope. As he hands the cigarette over, Vidal notices that Burhan is missing half of his left pinky – the scar looks old.

“It is a long trip. A full day, I think.” Burhan puts away his tobacco as he talks, stretches his legs across his rucksack once again. “The company was in Kabylia, in the east, with the rest of the regiment. They moved to  Portemonte because of an ambush. Some sector troops were killed.” He takes a drag on his cigarette. “This is what I heard in Arzew.”

He looks over the legionnaires. “You have seen action?”


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 23, 2005)

Pyotr looks at the Turkish man and then at his friends. "Yeah, you could say that. 'Lucky' here managed to save a few of our number after an ambush by _fells_. Needless to say, it's a good thing Lucky was on our side.". Not wanting to be interrogated much more about the battle for the millionth time, Pyotr left it at that.


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## Bobitron (Jun 23, 2005)

shadowbloodmoon said:
			
		

> Pyotr looks at the Turkish man and then at his friends. "Yeah, you could say that. 'Lucky' here managed to save a few of our number after an ambush by _fells_. Needless to say, it's a good thing Lucky was on our side.". Not wanting to be interrogated much more about the battle for the millionth time, Pyotr left it at that.




Marcel shrugs at the compliment. "Just doing what I can. I sure as hell can't shoot, so I need to do something!" He pats the new medical bag at his hip. "Wish I had this out there, though. Hopefully we won't need it."


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## Barak (Jun 23, 2005)

Normand looks at Pyotr, and then Marcel, and raises an eyebrow.

"My friends, I understand the need to be understated when talking to civilians, but our friend here is a fellow legionnaire, and entitled to know what happened."

Turning to their new companion, the burly frenchman goes on.

"Well, you see, we were on our first real training jump, and we somehow ended up tangling with a whole bunch of fells.  Thre must have been..  Oh, I dunno, fifty or so of them, at least, to our.. What, ten, twelve?  So we mostly huddled down in some ravine, trading shots with then when we could, and Pyotr here took out their big-gun shooter person.  Vidal there, the quiet one, managed to work the radio well enough to call in some air support, which came in, as usual, in the nick of time.  Me, well, I did manage to catch some bullets, with my size doing most of the work, you know.  Then we mopped up, and here we are."


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## The Shaman (Jun 23, 2005)

A flicker of recognition flashes over Burhan’s face. “I heard of this. A few weeks ago, yes?” He shifts position slightly as the truck hits a bump on the winding mountain road. “It was discussed at Arzew. By the instructors.”

Burhand looks out at the rugged mountains beyond the truck. “With _Le Capitaine_, you will see more action.” The determination and pride in his voice are unmistakable.


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## знаток (Jun 23, 2005)

Vidal leans over to accept the cigarette, taking it from the Turk with a pronounced nod and smile.  "Don't worry, this won't become a habit."  Still smiling, he settles back in next to Pyotr and draws his lighter, but pauses with the items in each hand before lighting up, a perplexed look on his face.  "You know, I don't seem to remember being briefed on all this."  He scans Buhran's uniform for insignia of rank (read _privilege_ in this case).  "And I'd sure like to hear what the almighty training corps had to say about our mistakes and heroics!"  He chuckles softly at himself.  Nodding at the legionnaire's hand, he adds in a quieter, private tone, "But by the looks of it, I guess you'll have some wisdom of your own to depart on we lost souls."   He hides his expectancy of a response by turning his attention to igniting the cigarette.


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## Bobitron (Jun 24, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Burhand looks out at the rugged mountains beyond the truck. “With _Le Capitaine_, you will see more action.” The determination and pride in his voice are unmistakable.




"You mean, more than getting into a major firefight on our training jump?" Marcel laughs nervously, but you can all see the humor in his eyes. Finishing his cigarette, he flicks it out the open back of the truck onto the dirt road. 



			
				Vidal said:
			
		

> "And I'd sure like to hear what the almighty training corps had to say about our mistakes and heroics!"




Marcel laughs. "Me too! Were we the textbook example of how to get in trouble during a routine operation?"


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## The Shaman (Jun 24, 2005)

Burhan shrugs. “Just talk. A section of paras, trainees, that fought _fellaghas_ in the desert.” He finishes his cigarette, sends the butt over the side of the truck. “An officer said the Air Force rescued the paras. Strafed the fells with jets.”

As he speaks Vidal steals a glance at Burhan’s left sleeve – he wears the same black diamond and embroidered green grenade insignia of a first-enlistment _légionnaire_ as the others in the truck, along with his jump wings and regimental badge, the latter pinned to a leather fob suspended from the button of his right breast pocket.

The Turk leans forward slightly. “The regiment is best in the Legion. Third Company is best in the regiment. We do our duty.” He smiles slightly. “It is good to go back.”


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## Barak (Jun 24, 2005)

Normand sits up a bit straighter, and frowns.

"Rescued?  Is that what they say?  Considering we took on the enemy 5-to-1, that's a bit unfair.  I might have to talk to that officser at some point.  Off-duty, of course."


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## Bobitron (Jun 24, 2005)

Marcel shrugs. "The air support did show up at a good time, but I'm proud of what we did and how we handled the situation."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 24, 2005)

"Stole our kills more like it. Pyotr says, almost under his breath. "That would explain why that thrice-cursed airboy wouldn't stop talking about _his boys_. I wouldn't be surprised if MI said they knew it was going to happen." Pyotr catches one of the flying cigarette butts in his hand. "Wouldn't want to leave a trail for our friends." Pyotr sits back, going silent.


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## The Shaman (Jun 24, 2005)

Burhan waves a hand dismissively. “Some officers talk like grandmothers.” He seems content to let the subject rest as he settles back and gazes at the scenery passing by.
____

The road twists through the steep mountains and deep gorges of the _Massif de l’Ouarsenis_, the rocky slopes mantled with grey-green shrubs and scattered cork trees, the canyons filled with dense growth of oaks and firs. After several hours the truck enters a broad, rolling plain, _les Hauts Plateaux_, bordered by mountains to the north and the south – stands of thick brush give way to sparse grasslands and the occasional reedy marsh. The winding roads turn to long straight-aways and the truck makes good time, passing through _pieds-noir_ towns surrounded by tidy farms and orchards, each with its Muslim _village négre_, separated from one another by vast open spaces.

The truck passes through checkpoints manned by bored _soldats_ or _gendarmes_ – at one outpost however the men are clearly on edge, and as the legionnaires and the drivers take on water the soldiers report that the FLN killed an inspector from the police judiciaire last night in nearby Saida, slashing his throat so deeply that his head was nearly severed from the body. After driving through the city the truck heads south, the bulk of the Saharan Tell rising as they reach the far side of the plateau, until late in the day green and white road sign appears: “PORTEMONTE 55km.”

The truck pulls into Portemonte shortly after sunset. From the vantage of the bed the town itself looks like most of the colonial villages in Algeria – headlights illumine white-washed houses with red tile roofs and wrought iron accents, fronted by arcades facing on dusty macadam streets. The truck passes through the town and stops near what appears to be a soccer pitch – two dozen tents and a half-dozen vehicles are situated beyond the far goal. The truck stops at a sentry post manned by two legionnaire paras, submachine guns slung at their sides – one steps around to the rear of the truck and shines his flashlight inside. “Burhan!” he says with a smirk. “Tired of wiping _rappelé_ arses already?” The Turk gives a small shrug but says nothing. The legionnaire slaps the rear of the truck with his hand and the driver pulls away, leaving the two sentries illuminated by the red glow of the tail-lights. 

Finally with a loud squeal the truck rolls to a stop and the legionnaires gather their gear and hop over the tailgate. Another legionnaire is waiting. He is short, with red hair and freckles – on his sleeve are the three green bars of a _caporal-chef_. The driver hands him a mail satchel, and the legionnaire motions toward the end of a row of tents that can be seen by the glow of the headlights. “The mess tent is on the end. Park there and we’ll arrange bunks for you for tonight.”

He turns back to the newly arrived legionnaires. He grins at Burhan. “Couldn’t stay away, could you, Pamuk?” he says warmly. Burhan nods again, the same slight smile. “Follow me,” continues the _sous-officier_. “_Le Capitaine_ is up.”

The _caporal-chef_ leads the legionnaires to one of the tents nearby – tied above the flap is a small cardboard sign that reads “PC” in block letters. Inside a propane lantern burns brightly, suspended from a roof pole. There are two desks arranged facing the center of the room from opposite sides of the tent. Behind one of the desks sits a legionnaire writing on a tablet, the three gold bands of a _capitaine_ on his shoulders. His face is youthful, but a spider’s web of deep creases mark the corners of his eyes and his black hair and pencil mustache are flecked with gray. His skin is deeply tanned save for two jagged white scars on his right forearm, scars that partially obscure a faded tattoo of a lightning bolt over a pale blue shield.

“_Attention!_” barks the _caporal-chef_ as the legionnaires enter. The _capitaine_ looks up from his paperwork, expressionless, as the legionnaires snap to attention. “_Mon capitaine_, the replacements have arrived.” He hands over the satchel to the officer, who replies,  “Thank you, Gaston. Would you find _sergent_ Müller for me?” The _sous-officier_ breaks off a sharp salute and disappears through the flap. “At ease, _légionnaires_.”

The captain opens the satchel and removes several folders – he spends a moment glancing at the contents as the legionnaires wait. At last he looks up at Burhan, a twinkle in his eye. “Welcome back, _légionnaire_ Pamuk. What did you think of the school at Arzew?”

“Too many _rappelés_, sir,” Burhan replies solemnly.

The _capitaine_’s head tilts slightly to the side. “So you broke a captain’s arm?” he asks.

“He lead his men into our ambush, sir, so we ambushed them.” Burhan answers, impassive. “He fell and broke his arm from surprise.”

Faint hints of a smile can be seen at the corners of the _capitaine_’s mouth. “Well, the centre is supposed to provide realistic training for the reservists. Did you see _lieutenant_ Gauthier while you were there?”

“Yes, sir. He sends his regards, sir,” Burhan replies with a slight nod.

The _capitaine_'s attention turns to the others. “Welcome to the 1st REP, _légionnaires_. I understand you had an interesting training exercise.” He looks closely at each of the replacements.


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## Bobitron (Jun 24, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> The _capitaine_'s attention turns to the others. “Welcome to the 1st REP, _légionnaires_. I understand you had an interesting training exercise.” He looks closely at each of the replacements.




"Yes, we did." Marcel steps forward. "Marcel Fortier, Sir. Most recently stationed at Zeralda under Lieutenant Raoul Olivier."

Marcel tilts back his head in recollection of the training jump. "We stumbled upon a large section of fells after our jump. There were probably 50 of them against out dozen. Sgt. Duval pulled us through it, but we took casualties. Two dead, and many wounded."


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## Barak (Jun 25, 2005)

Normand, is slightly taken by surprise by Marcel pretty informal manner, but quickly overcomes it.  Pulling his orders with his left hand from a pocket in his fatigues, he takes a step forward, comes to attention, and salutes crisply.

"Sir!  Légionnaire Mador, reporting for duty sir!"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 25, 2005)

Pyotr waits as the _capitaine_ looks them over. When he reaches Pyotr, the Russian hands his orders to him without hesitation.

"_Legionnaire_ Pyotr Kerenin, sir."

Snapping a quick salute, he then let Marcel be the storyteller of the battle at _Oued Baraba._


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## знаток (Jun 26, 2005)

When Vidal joined the Legionnaires, he was anxious and somewhat uncomfortable with all the formations, drilling, courtesy, and other garrison trappings, but he quickly came to appreciate and even enjoy them, as it gave him a solid sense of feeling that he was part of something bigger.  He listens closely to all the conversation between the Captain, the Corporal, and his comrades while observing the office and the officer.  
He patiently waits until last, and introduces himself as well.  "Legionnaire Gaspard of Portugal, sir.  Communications."


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## The Shaman (Jun 26, 2005)

The captain accepts the orders without comment. “_Légionnaire_ Fortier, you might be interested to know that the after-action report indicates _sergent-chef_ Duval’s training section faced more than eighty ALN _moudjahiddine_, according to the RAV provided by the army air observer.” His finger taps one of the folders on his desk. “I’m not sure if you had a chance to look at a map, but that action took place about eighty kilometers southeast of where we are right now. The engagement is one of the reasons that the company was dispatched here to Portemonte.”

He places his hands flat on the desk. “I’m _Capitaine_ Martini, your company CO. _Légionnaire_ Fortier, you are assigned to the headquarters platoon with the other medics – the first medic is _caporal-chef_ Bestebreurtje, and you’ll report to him. The rest of you are assigned to _sous-lieutenant_ Ramadier’s platoon – _sergent_ Müller will be along shortly to take you to your quarters. _Légionnaire_ Pamuk, I’m assigning you to Third Platoon as well – we replaced you in Fourth Platoon and your experience will needed in Third. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Burhan answers immediately.

The captain leans forward as he continues, “Third Company is an intervention unit. The sector troops and the _gendarmerie_ are responsible for protecting the settlements. Our mission is to hunt down the ALN, to eliminate their capability to wage terror against Algerians. To that end we maintain law and order by military action, gather intelligence, maintain friendly relations with the population and the political leaders, and support civil and military administrators in their functions. These are your standing orders at all times.”

As the _capitaine_ speaks the red-haired _caporal-chef_ returns, accompanied by a blond legionnaire wearing _sergent_’s stripes. “The company has been in action here in Algeria since the spring. Listen to your _sous-officiers_. Learn from their experiences. Many of them saw action in Indochina, and some were veterans even before that, correct, _sergent_?” He looks up at the blond non-com, who replies with a smile, “_Oui, mon capitaine_.”

The captain stands and addresses you, his face grave. “As a legionnaire of the 1st REP, you will wear the yellow-and-green _fourragère_ of the _Médaille Militaire_ on your parade uniform, France’s highest military decoration. The _fourragère_ represents the four combat unit citations received by the regiment. The men of the First are among the most decorated in the history of the Legion. Many of those decorations were earned posthumously, in Indochina, on the road to Cao Bang, at Dien Bien Phu, and now in Algeria. It falls to you to venerate their memory and to maintain the honor of the regiment and the Legion by your conduct.”

Captain Martini looks intently at each man. “That is all.”

The blond sergeant snaps, “Attention!” Boots slap together, hands are quickly raised in salute. The _capitaine_ returns the salute. “Gaston, show Fortier to the aid tent. _Sergent_ Müller, first section. Dismissed.” He sits down behind his desk and returns his attention to his paperwork.

Grabbing gear, the legionnaires are lead into the night by the two _sous-officiers_.

Marcel...[sblock]The _caporal-chef_ introduces himself almost immediately. “I’m Gaston Vieux, the company clerk.” His accent unmistakably puts him from somewhere in northwestern France. “Your foot lockers will arrive in next day or two with our supply convoy. We can get you a clean uniform tomorrow if you need it.” He stops before a large tent with a red cross pinned over the flap – a lantern is burning inside. “Dutch should be inside – check in with him. Good night.”

Through the flap is a small infirmary – a half-dozen cots, all empty at the moment, a couple of storage cabinets, a gurney, a wheelchair, a pair of canvas stretcher leaning against a wall. The tent is partitioned about two thirds of the way down its length, and the light is shining from the space beyond. Passing through the partition, Marcel sees three bunks and a table along with more cabinets filled with medical supplies. On one of the bunks is a legionnaire, still in his uniform, snoring softly on top of his blankets. Seated at the table is a man in a tee-shirt and skivvies – he appears to be writing a letter. He looks up as Marcel enters. “Who the devil are you, and what do you want?” he asks impatiently.[/sblock]Normand, Pyotr, and Vidal...[sblock]The blonde _sous-officier_ motions for the legionnaires to follow. “Broke a captain’s leg the first week at Arzew, eh?” he asks Burhan mirthfully as they walk. His French carries a noticeable German accent.

Burhan shakes his head. “He broke his arm. He fell.”

The Geman _sergent_ looks at Burhan. “He fell when you knocked him down with your rifle, yes?” The Turk shrugs his shoulders and says nothing.

The sergeant glances at the rest of the legionnaires. “I’m _sergent_ Müller, platoon sergeant. You’ll be assigned to first section – your section leader is _sergent_ Katsourianis. All four of you will be assigned to the _choc_ group.” He taps Burhan on the shoulder, points to the next row of tents over. “Fourth Platoon is over there. You can stop by in the morning.” He stops at one of the tents, pulls back the flap. “Kat, your new boots are here.”

Entering the tent, the legionnaires see a double row of cots running along the canvas walls, ten in all. Legionnaires are scattered around the room – one is listening to a transistor radio through an earpiece, another reads what appears to be a bible printed in a Scandinavian language. One legionnaire is adding polish to a pair of jump boots – another appears to be writing a letter. One is stretched out on his cot, sound asleep despite the light and the noise. As you enter, a curly-haired legionnaire with a thin mustache stands up from where he was seated on one of the bunks. He has a tiger tattooed on his left forearm, a banner that reads “LEGIO PATRIA NOSTRA” on his right. A red scar is visible above his right eye.

“I’m _sergent Katsourianis,”__ he says. “If that’s too much for you, I’ll answer to sergent Kat.” He points to a black legionnaire seated on the same bunk. “That’s caporal Sembène, my second – he answers to ‘Babaye’.” The black legionnaire smiles.

Katrourianis points at different legionnaires as he speaks. “The guy with the radio is Ortu. That’s Syrovy – ” the legionnaire writing the letter, a thin blonde man “ – Asmussen – ” the legionnaire with the bible “ – Nedjar – ” polishing his boots, he nods at the newcomers “ – and that body over there is Sanchez.”

He gestures toward the five empty bunks around the room. “You can take any one of those. Your footlockers will be here in the next day or two, with our supply train. If you need a clean uniform, we can get that, otherwise borrow from these guys until then. In the meantime get situated as best you can.”

Ortu, a husky young man with a gold catholic medal hanging around his neck and tattoos covering both arms below the sleeve of his tee-shirt, says “Hey, Pamuk, Fourth Platoon is over there somewhere.”

Burhan shrugs. “Le Capitaine put me here now.”

Sembène speaks up. “He’s taking your spot, Ortu, so you can drive a truck instead of a machine gun.” Ortu shakes his head and reaches for a magazine under his bunk.

Nedjar, the legionnaire with the boot polish in hand, looks at the new arrivals with interest. “Are these the guys, sergent? Are you the guys? From the training jump?”[/sblock]Please respond using either {spoiler} tags or {sblock} tags, replacing the braces with brackets of course – obviously *Barak*, *Shadow*, and * знаток* can read each other’s posts._


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 26, 2005)

[sblock]Pyotr sighs as the other _legionnaire_ asks his question. "_Oui_, that's us." He then takes his gear and stows it under a bunk, figuring that he would sort it as soon as the new footlockers arrived. "I'm Pyotr, that's Normand and that's Vidal," Pyotr says, indicating each of them. "So, what did you hear about us?"
[/sblock]


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## Barak (Jun 27, 2005)

[sblock]
Walking to one of the free bunks, and dumping what few gear he has with his in front of it, Normand turns towards his russian companion, a grin on his face.

"Cripes Pyotr, you know what they heard.  Even though we're fresh recruits, we're twice the légionnaires that they are, we spit bullets at the fells, and would just as soon rip your head off as look at you, as mean as we are."

Pausing, Normand's grin gets slightly bigger, and he continues..

"Or...  They might be saying we got lucky, but that would be a terrible, terrible lie."
[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Jun 27, 2005)

[sblock] Marcel peeks into the tent before entering, taking in the scene. He thanks Gaston with a freindly smile, and steps in.



			
				Impatient man said:
			
		

> “Who the devil are you, and what do you want?”




"I'm looking for Duke? Marcel Fortier, reporting."[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Jun 27, 2005)

Marcel...[sblock]"I'm looking for Duke? Marcel Fortier, reporting."

The man sitting at the table throws his pen on the floor, fumbles for a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that are hastily slipped on. “_Nom de Dieu!_ ‘Duke’? What the devil is ‘Duke’? You mean ‘Dutch’? French _batards_.”

From behind the lenses his pale blue eyes light on Marcel. The man appears to be in his early thirties, with strawberry blonde hair worn short but lacking the typical Legion buzzcut and a thin beard. In the tee-shirt it’s easy to see his farmers’ tan – nut brown arms and face, pale white body and legs. He’s thin but the ropy muscles on his arms and legs suggest that he is stronger than he looks. His French is clean, with a slightly northern accent.

“_Putain_ French like to have their _putain_ jokes,” he continues. “Call me ‘Dutch’, or ‘_Duc_’, again and you’ll get a ground-glass enema, and then we’ll see how funny you are. _Batards_,” he finishes lamely. He stares a Marcel for a moment, as if something is registering itself in his consciousness. “Reporting for what?”

He looks Marcel over, perhaps seeing the musette bag with the red cross stenciled on it hanging from Marcel’s shoulder for the first time. “You’re a new medic? You have orders?”

He tilts the glasses up on his head to read the mimeograph. “About damn time. This lump of _merde_ – ” he motions at the sleeping form on the next cot “ – can’t handle one platoon, let alone two. Finally Olivier sees this.” He shakes his head, lets the glasses fall onto his nose. “Joep Bestebreurtje. I’m the senior medic. That’s Bazyli Zawadzki.” He jerks his head in the direction of the empty cot. “That’s yours. Normally this is our operating theatre, but if someone’s badly hurt we’ll take him to the doctor’s office in town. Better light.” He gets up, hunts for his pen on the canvas floor.

“The CO is taking three platoons into the field tomorrow morning. Third platoon will be staying here. You can stay with them. Get to know where everything is while we’re gone, take care of sick call.” He pulls off the glasses again, tosses them haphazardly on the table, and gets down on his hands and knees, finally locating the pen under his own cot. “Now I have a letter to finish,” he says, resuming his seat. As he holds the pen over the paper, he adds, without looking up, “I’m Belgian. Not Dutch. French _batards_.”[/sblock]I’m giving *знаток* a chance to post before updating the other legionnaires’ convo.


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## знаток (Jun 28, 2005)

[sblock]







			
				Barak said:
			
		

> Even though we're fresh recruits, we're twice the légionnaires that they are...



Vidal moves toward a bunk near Asmussen and starts unloading what he's got, placing his spare jump boots neatly under the bunk before tossing his bag on top.  He makes eye contact with Asmussen and laughs quietly at Normand's remark, under the assumption that it was a bad joke.  "I'll rack up here for now, if it's good with you." 
He's somewhat glad not to have his footlocker just yet, looking more forward to a good night's sleep without all the unpacking and settling in.  [/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Jun 28, 2005)

Normand, Pyotr, and Vidal...[sblock]The husky legionnaire, Ortu, snorts derisively at Normand’s joke. “_Bandarra,_” he mutters, stuffing the copy of _Paris-Match_ under his pillow as rolls on his side, away from the newcomers.

Nedjar, the boot-polisher, raises his eyebrows at the comment. “From what’s been said, it was the Air Force that saved your section out there. Either way, look around – everyone here has made two combat jumps already this year, so you have some catching up to do.” He dips the rag in his hand into the can of polish and resumes his work on the boots.

Vidal looks to Asmussen, a muscular blond kid. "I'll rack up here for now, if it's good with you." The legionnaire glances at Vidal and gives his concurrence with a quick tilt of his head.

_Sergent_ Kat speaks up. “Listen up. The rest of the company is moving out in the morning, and Third Platoon is guarding the camp in their absence.” Ortu mutters something unintelligible from his cot. “The lieutenant has a run planned in the morning and we’ll be policing the camp in the afternoon. You, big man – ” he points at Normand “ – you’ll be with Corporal Kovic to learn the grenade launcher.” He glances at his watch. “I don’t know what the lieutenant has planned, but it’s going to be hot early so get some sleep.” He nods at Sembène and ducks out of the tent flap. The legionnaires settle into their own thoughts.[/sblock]


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## Barak (Jun 28, 2005)

[sblock]
Normand keeps his grin on as the others respond to his attempt at banter, and then it disappears.

"Yeah, seriously, it was not the most fun I've had ever had..  And yeah, it was very, very nice to see those planes fly by."

Once the assignment is explained, and his own part in it given, Normand nods.

"Aye, aye, sarge.  Grenade launcher sounds good to me."

Sitting on his bed, he then unlaces his boots, swings his legs up on the bed, and lays down, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling quietly.
[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Jun 28, 2005)

[sblock] 







			
				Dutch said:
			
		

> As he holds the pen over the paper, he adds, without looking up, “I’m Belgian. Not Dutch. French batards.”




"Hey, sorry. I didn't give you the nickname." Marcel heads wearily to the bunk, tossing his gear underneath. "Where are you all headed tomorrow?"

"I'm going to get some sleep. It was a bumpy ride. Good night, _caporal-chef_". 

_I need to get that damn Vieux back, throwing me under the bus like that,_ he chuckles to himself. Pulling out a Gauloise, he lights it and sits on the edge of the cot. When the cigaretter is done, he takes off the majority of his uniform and falls into a restful sleep.[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Jun 28, 2005)

Marcel...[sblock]“We’re going to walk up and down the mountains while the sector infantry sits on their arses in their trucks waiting for us to flush some _putain fellagha_ with a rusty shotgun and a switchblade out of the hills.” The medic looks at Marcel. “It’s called _ratissage_. You’ll get your turn very soon.” The _caporal-chef_ returns to his letter without further comment.[/sblock]


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 28, 2005)

[sblock]Pyotr half smiles at the interaction between his friend and his platoon mates. It was going to be interesting to see what got them first, being shot or one-upmanship. Barely stopping to unlace his boots, Pyotr kicks them to the floor and then straightens them neatly under his bed. Removing his top shirt and folding it squarely, he then straightens his under shirt before lying back on the rack. He hoped that for once he could get more than an hour or two of sleep. [/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Jun 29, 2005)

The echoing call of the bugle cuts through the quiet of the early morning, rousing the legionnaires in their tents. Corporal Sembène’s voice can be heard before the final clear notes of the _clairon_ sound. “Alright, fall in for roll call. No smocks. We’re running this morning.” His French is melodic, pleasing to the ear.

The legionnaires are quiet as they grab their boots and trousers and in a few minutes Third Platoon is assembled before the watchful eyes of Sergeant Müller. The rest of the company is up and moving as well, but as Third Platoon calls the roll and performs some warm-up calisthenics, the other paras are loading up on the company’s small supply of trucks, combat gear in hand. With a raspy roar, the deuce-and-a-halfs roll out of camp, leaving the men of Third Platoon and a handful of the headquarters platoon, including one newly arrived medic, to the drab tent-city.

Sgt. Müller leads the run at a brisk pace along a dusty road that runs past the farms on the outskirts of Portemonte. The men sing as they run the 5km: _Contre les Viets_, the _chant_ of the 1st REP leads off, followed by _Le Boudin_, _Les Képis Blanc_, _Aux Legionnaires_, and _Ich hatte einen kamaraden_, the deep voices of the men carrying the melody as their thudding boots beat rhythmically on the dry earth. From fields and farmhouses, workers stare and little children, and the occasional young woman, wave at the legionnaires as they pass. The run includes two leaps over an irrigation ditch – a couple of the paras end up in the dirty water, to the clear amusement of their comrades.

In the infirmary Marcel is left to his own devices – after a hasty introduction to Bazyli, the third medic, he awaits sick call. Only one man arrives, his left wrist in a plaster cast. He introduces himself as Ivo Kovic, a _grenadier_, and reports that Bestebreurtje gave him until the end of the week before the cast is removed. After checking the man’s fingers for sensation and circulation and learning that the injury came in a fall from the back of the company’s weapons carrier, he bids Kovic well and enters his notations on the Austrian legionnaire’s chart.

Back at camp following the run, _sergent_ Müller addresses the legionnaires as they recover their breath. Third Platoon is responsible for guarding the camp, he explains. There will be a rotation - each section will take its turn: one day policing the camp and performing kitchen patrol, one day of sentry duty, one day of local patrol. Third section draws the first shift as sentries while second will head for the hills outside town – first section draws KP and trash pick-up. Everyone in the platoon secretly believes that his unit has drawn the short stick.

Vidal and Pyotr are sent off with cloth bags and sharpened sticks to pick up trash around the camp – Normand finds himself tapped for scrubbing latrines by _sergent_ Katsourianis. At lunch the replacements find themselves scrubbing trays while the rest of the men jaw and smoke. After lunch, a simple affair prepared by the one remaining cook in camp, Vidal and Pyotr are sent to sweep the officers’ tents while Normand is entrusted to the care of _caporal-chef_ Ivo Kovic, the platoon _grenadier_ – the two men spend the afternoon on the practice range firing dummy grenades from the MAS-49/56 over various obstacles. Kovic wears a cast, an injury from a fall, he explains - the _grenadier-chef_ is a pleasant and patient instructor and soon Normand feels comfortable, if not completely at home with, the rifle grenades that will be his to use in battle.

Marcel orients himself to the infirmary, checking the supplies, Lt. Olivier’s instructions fresh in his mind. Whatever Bestebreurtje’s failings as a human being, the infirmary is a model of efficiency.

The men are released at 1700 from their duties after a final perfunctory formation, where first section learns it will make a patrol on Wednesday, and retire to the mess tent for supper. Marcel finds himself in line behind his three comrades from Blida.


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## Barak (Jun 29, 2005)

Still pretty keyed up with the grenade-launcher training, which had came as a huge relief from the extremely boring tedium of the day, Normand was in the process of telling Vidal and Pyotr all about it when he spots Marcel getting in line being them.

"Hey doc!  Nice to see you again.  I see you've been stuck in the camp like us, eh?  How are things going in the medical world?"


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## Bobitron (Jun 29, 2005)

Normand said:
			
		

> "Hey doc!  Nice to see you again.  I see you've been stuck in the camp like us, eh?  How are things going in the medical world?"




"Hey Normand! Hey guys! Yeah, stuck here. Nothing special at the tent. It's a tightly run ship. The head medic is a bit of a hard ass", Marcel says glumly, "but he does run a nice infirmary."

Marcel rocks back ond forth from leg to leg as he speaks. "I'll be honest, I'm looking forward to our leave coming up! I heard about some beautiful local girls in Portemonte. And hey, maybe they have a football league set up! I'm not very good", he shrugs, a bit ashamed, "but it still would be nice to play."

Marcel's trademark grin once again surfaces. "But first things first. The ladies call. I'm sure the girls back at Zeralda are still crying about my departure."


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## The Shaman (Jun 29, 2005)

A voice comes from over Marcel’s shoulder. “You like football? That’s your man right there,” says a legionnaire, pointing at a husky blonde man sitting down at one of the tables. “Silvio Ortu is a backup striker on the Legion team. He’s always looking for players around camp. There’s a scratch league in town that plays on Thursdays, and I know he’s there when we get a _permission_ for the day.”

The speaker sticks out a hand. “You’re the new medic? I’m David Nedjar, Third Platoon.” The legionnaire has dark curly hair and a thin, somewhat scruffy beard – a star of David on a pendant hangs around his neck.


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## Barak (Jun 29, 2005)

Normand turns towards the légionnaire, and before Marcel can even respond, he speaks up.

"What about boxing?  Any matches that can be set-up?  I'd be all over _that_!"


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## Bobitron (Jun 29, 2005)

David said:
			
		

> The speaker sticks out a hand. “You’re the new medic? I’m David Nedjar, Third Platoon.” The legionnaire has dark curly hair and a thin, somewhat scruffy beard – a cross of David is visible around his neck.




Marcel grips the mans hand and pumps it up and down. "Yeah! I'm Marcel Fortier. Just came in last night. We were assigned to Third as well! Looks like we are going to be seeing a lot of each other. Hey, this is Pyotr, Vidal, and Normand. We went through training together."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 29, 2005)

Pyotr nods to Nedjar as he is introduced. Slide-footing his way down the chow line, he listens to them talk about sports and women and his mind wanders to a certain Ukrainian farmgirl he once knew in another life. Smiling, he says, "At this point, anything is better than cleaning up after the rest of the platoon. Right, Normand?" He then jokingly bumps the boxer's shoulder.


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## The Shaman (Jun 29, 2005)

Normand turns towards the _légionnaire_, and before Marcel can even respond, he speaks up. “What about boxing?  Any matches that can be set-up?  I'd be all over _that_!”

Marcel grips the man’s hand and pumps it up and down. “Yeah! I'm Marcel Fortier. Just came in last night. We were assigned to Third as well! Looks like we are going to be seeing a lot of each other. Hey, this is Pyotr, Vidal, and Normand. We went through training together.”

Nedjar nods as he shakes Marcel’s hand with a firm grip. “There are regular matches put on by the Army,” he answers Normand, “and sometimes units in the field will put a bout together, for fun.”

The legionnaire looks Normand up and down as he reaches for a ladle of green beans. “You look like you can handle yourself, but a word of advice: watch out for _sergent-chef_ Verdurand. He likes to pick out the big guys during hand-to-hand training.” He grins. “He’s a _savate_ expert, and he was the French national champion last year. Verdurand turned down the chance to be an instructor at Sully, so he tends to practice on the guys in the company.” Another grin. “Especially the new guys.”


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## Barak (Jun 30, 2005)

Normand grins back at Nedjar, and shrugs.

"Acknowledged and understood..  And thanks for the warning.  My experience is mostly in boxing, and while I can certainly hold my own in a regular fight, I expect a savate expert..  Could probably kick my _derrière_."


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## знаток (Jul 1, 2005)

Vidal listens to all the conversation about athletics from a short distance.  He couldn't shake his discomfort at the whole thing.  _Didn't we come here to fight?  To do a job?_  He justified it all by telling himself that the activities would keep them fit and boost their morale, but didn't have any immediate plans to participate.  He reminds himself to keep his ears open for something that may actually suit him, but expects that the running and rucking will be the extent of his sport.  
He remains silent throughout the conversations, listening and smiling, until an idea occurs to him.  "Does anyone teach martial arts around here?"  Quiet excitement overwhelmed him at the thought alone.


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## The Shaman (Jul 1, 2005)

Normand grins back at Nedjar, and shrugs. “Acknowledged and understood..  And thanks for the warning.  My experience is mostly in boxing, and while I can certainly hold my own in a regular fight, I expect a savate expert…could probably kick my _derrière_.”

From behind Normand comes another voice. “How good are you, exactly? What’s your record?” Turning, Normand sees the speaker is Sánchez, from his own section. Whereas most of the rankers in the platoon appear to be in their early to mid-twenties, a graying, receding hairline and deep folds in the corners of his mouth suggest that Sánchez is older than many of the non-commissioned officers in the unit, yet the insignia on his sleeve is that of a simple _légionnaire_. He looks intently at Normand, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, a pack of Ideales peeking from his pocket.

“Does anyone teach martial arts around here?” asks Vidal. Nedjar nods. “A couple of the _sous-officierss_ are pretty good, but _sergent_ Verdurand is the best by far. You’ll learn a lot, if you can stand the bruises.”


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## Barak (Jul 1, 2005)

> From behind Normand comes another voice. “How good are you, exactly? What’s your record?” Turning, Normand sees the speaker is Sánchez, from his own section.




Normand looks at the man for a bit, and especially after having noticed the intent look, his easy manner disappears.  He actually seems uncomfortable, and shrugs.

"Record doesn't mean as much as you'd think in the Marseilles circuit I fought in.  I was at 9-1 before I decided it was time to leave."

Turning back to the chow line, he then concentrates on putting food on his tray.


OOC
Shaman, Normand would like to try a sense motive on Sanchez..  I have a couple ideas, and would like to try and confirm one of them..
Sense Motive: 16


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## The Shaman (Jul 2, 2005)

Normand studies Sánchez as he replies. The _légionnaire_ is looking over Normand as well. There’s something familiar in the look, like the faces of the touts that gathered around the sparring ring or filled the bleachers at a bout.

“Occasionally these little towns like to put on an exhibition,” Sánchez says quietly, glancing around. “Some local farm kid who thinks he’s Marcel Cerdan against a legionnaire from the garrison.” He shrugs, ash falling from the tip of the smoldering cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes there’s a little wagering on the side.” He picks up his tray. “If you’re interested, I might be able to put something together. If you think you’re good enough.” He nods to Normand and takes a seat at one of the tables in the mess tent.

Normand notices nothing overtly untrustworthy about Sánchez.


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## Barak (Jul 3, 2005)

_Remember who you are with now, Normand.  There is no Le Gros Rat here.  At least as far as I know, eh?_

Recovering his grin, Normand shrugs.

"Sure..  I wouldn't mind doing a bout or two in my spare time.  As long as the wagering remains on the side, of course."


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## Bobitron (Jul 4, 2005)

"I'm not exactly a pugilist," Marcel chimes in. "I'd love to watch, though."  

He suddenly gets excited as he recalls Normand's hand-to-hand in their encounter with the fells a few weeks back. "You should have seen Normand in our last battle! He ran out of ammo, but that didn't stop him from taking down this fell. Probably broke a couple of his ribs with that punch, eh?" 

Marcel laughs. "Maybe I could be your promoter!"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 4, 2005)

Pyotr smiles as he sits down to eat. His friends were all finding some sprts to do, things to keep them busy in the downtime. He himself wondered if there were any shooting matches. Pyotr decided to wait and see if he caught wind of anything before he mentioned it though. 

Settling in to eat, Pyotr made a quick prayer to his mom and dad. Once he did so, he immediately dug in.


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## The Shaman (Jul 5, 2005)

"Maybe I could be your promoter!" says Marcel to Normand. 

Sánchez looks at Marcel for a moment. He takes a bite of his bread and chews it slowly before answering. “You want to leave that to me, I think,” he replies, sipping wine from a tin cup. “Maybe we’ll use you in the corner, yes?”

“Give me a week or so,” Sánchez continues to Normand. He pops a slice of Gruyere in his mouth with a nod.


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## Barak (Jul 5, 2005)

_I hope this doesn't turn into anything big..  I'd just like to go a couple rounds against someone of similar skill is all.._

Normand nods to Sanchez, "Sounds good to me, assuming we ain't gone on some outing or something."  Turning to Marcel, he smiles.  "It's been a little while since I fought, my friend, I'm sure I could use a real doc in my corner."


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## знаток (Jul 6, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Nedjar nods. “A couple of the _sous-officiers_ are pretty good, but _sergent_ Verdurand is the best by far. You’ll learn a lot, if you can stand the bruises.”



"Sounds fantastic!  If you could point me to him sometime I'd appreciate it.  You know what they say about bruises and pain - weakness leaving the body."   
Vidal fills his plate as much as the cooks will allow and finds a seat with his peers.  _After that encounter with the rifle-butt in the desert, I owe it to myself and everyone else to make an effort to improve my survivability.  _


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## The Shaman (Jul 7, 2005)

“Sounds fantastic!  If you could point me to him sometime I'd appreciate it.  You know what they say about bruises and pain - weakness leaving the body,” Vidal tells David Nedjar.

The legionnaire smiles as he replies, “Sgt. Verdurand is hard to miss. He carries a cane with him just about everywhere he goes, something he brought back from Indochina I hear.” He wolfs down a forkful of beans. “He tends to introduce himself by hitting you across the shoulders or the back of the thighs with it if he catches you making a mistake. I don’t know how he does it. It’s like he appears out of thin air the moment you screw up. Hand to G_d.” He shakes his head – to clear a memory perhaps? “He’s old Legion. Morocco, before the war. A real _ancien_.”

Supper passes with more small talk – Nedjar stands out as the most affable among the legionnaires in the mess hall. An undercurrent of disappointment at being left in reserve during the _ratissage_ is heard in the conversations among the legionnaires – apparently Third Company was in reserve when the regiment was on maneuvers in the Kabyles as well, and the paras are affronted by the slight – “...left sucking hind teat again,” Sylvio Ortu is overheard to complain to anyone in earshot.

As supper winds down, Cpl. Sembène appears at the table. “See me after you’re done,” the black legionnaire tells Pyotr, Normand, and Vidal. He looks at Marcel. “You’re the new doc, right? You should come, too. You’re with us on the patrol tomorrow.” He excuses himself with a curt nod.

Sembène is waiting outside the mess tent when the legionnaires exit. He motions the replacements to follow him, and he talks as they walk to a set of wooden bleachers at the edge of the football pitch. “The sergeant asked me to cover a few things with you, before tomorrow,” he begins.

“Our section is made up of the _choc_ group and the support group. You three – ” the _caporal-chef_ points at Pyotr, Normand, and Vidal “ – are assigned to the _choc_ group with _légionnaire première classe_ Nedjar. He’s first _voltiguer_ in the section – if you’re not sure what to do and the _sergent_ or me aren’t around, follow his lead. Ortu, Syrovy, Sánchez, and Asmussen make up the support group – Ortu is on the AA-52 and the rest are _pourvoyeurs_.” Sembène looks at each one in turn. “Usually replacements aren’t assigned to a _choc_ group, but _Le Capitaine_ says you’re ready.”

Sitting on the unpainted wooden bleachers, Sembène continues in his flawless French, “If we are on the attack, the support group lays down a base of fire and the _choc_ group usually flanks and makes the close assault. We typically lay down smoke on the enemy and then advance and mop up.” He smiles, his teeth white and straight. “At least that’s how they taught you in basic. The _fellaghas_ are rarely so cooperative.”

“Mador, when the platoon is together the _grenadiers_ answer to _caporal-chef_ Kovic if Lt. Ramadier orders it. Usually this is to concentrate fire on some position.” Sembène looks serious. “Where we operate we rarely have mortar or artillery support, and the company has just one RCL, so the _grenadiers_ are our direct fire option. Stay alert for orders from Kovic – if he tells you something, treat it as coming from the lieutenant himself.”

The _caporal-chef_ sits back slightly, revealing a gold crucifix around his neck as he does so. “Doc, you’re coming with us tomorrow,” he says to Marcel. “_Le Capitaine_ doesn’t like anyone sitting around camp too long. The lieutenant will give us the details in the morning, but we’ll probably be on an all-day hike in the hills. The truck pulls out at 0630.” He rubs his hands together. “All clear?”


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 7, 2005)

Pyotr listens as Cpl. Sembene tells them their assignments for the next day. As he explains the _choc_ group, Pyotr wonders if he had been misassigned. He was used to sniping from a distance, not jumping in some _fell's_ face and shooting. _The Captain knows what he is doing I suppose._ When the _caporel-chef_ finishes, Pyotr nods in reply to describe his understanding.


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## Barak (Jul 8, 2005)

Normand simply nods, knowing that an answer is not strictly necessary, but probably acceptable.

"Aye aye, caporal-chef.  Been practicing some with the grenade-launcher.  Can't say I'm a hundred percent comfortable with it yet, but I figure that'll only come with real use under fire.  Looking forward to it, I suppose."


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## Bobitron (Jul 9, 2005)

Sembène said:
			
		

> “Doc, you’re coming with us tomorrow,” he says to Marcel. “_Le Capitaine_ doesn’t like anyone sitting around camp too long. The lieutenant will give us the details in the morning, but we’ll probably be on an all-day hike in the hills. The truck pulls out at 0630.” He rubs his hands together. “All clear?”




"So I'll be part of the support group, right? Sounds good, Corporal. I wasn't too interested in making rounds of the infirmary for the next week."


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## The Shaman (Jul 13, 2005)

Sembène rises from the bleachers. “Full kit tomorrow,” he concludes. “Drink water before we leave in the morning. It will be a hot day.”

The men of the first section are quietly going about their routine when Pyotr, Normand, and Vidal return to the tent – pack straps are adjusted, weapons cleaned, tins of foot powder placed next to socks and boots. There is no fumbling, no nervous chatter, only a mechanical regimen followed like the gears in a precision watch.

In the medical tent the night is quiet, leaving Marcel alone with his thoughts.


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## The Shaman (Jul 13, 2005)

*The Farm*

In the back of the GMC the eleven legionnaires cling to their seats as the truck bounds along the washboard road. A cloud of dust swirls behind the deuce-and-a-half – any time the truck slows the grit wafts in through the open sides and rear of the canvas tarp covering the bed where the paras sit. The faces of the paras are already crusted with dust and crossed by rivulets of sweat after the long days’ march.

Make a DC 12 Fortitude save to avoid fatigue.

- / -​
The sound of the bugle cut through the stillness of the camp, rousing the legionnaires to action. The men of the first section, along with the new medic, gathered their packs and weapons. Foot powder was dusted onto feet, shaken into socks and boots. Helmets were lashed to packs – all of the paras wore the green beret as they assembled outside the tent. Sgt. Katsourianis waited outside – beside him was Sgt. Müller and another para, a young man, tall and athletically built, with the single gold bar of a _sous-lieutenant_ on the shoulder straps of his tailored fatigues. The young man watched the legionnaires gather – he stood straight, his broad shoulders back, one arm held behind his waist. His hair is neatly trimmed, reddish-brown and highlighted by the sun.

“Good morning,” said the officer, looking toward the new faces in the group. “You new men, I’m Lt. Ramadier, your platoon leader. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to meet before now. We’ll make time to talk tomorrow. For today, listen to your sergeant’s instructions carefully.” He motioned to Sgt. Müller. “You’ve met your platoon sergeant, _sergent-chef_ Müller. He’ll be accompanying your patrol today, and you can ask him questions as well.”

The lieutenant shifted his weight slightly as he addressed the section. “The company is conducting a _ratissage_ in the hills about 50km away, with a battalion of motorized infantry and a unit of _gendarmes_. We want to maintain a patrol presence in the area around Portemonte while we’re stationed here, to keep the fells from raiding the farms nearby.” Ramadier knelt down on the dirt, drawing his combat knife from his belt. “We’re here,” he said, digging the tip into the ground and leaving a small indentation. “There’s a road here, and power lines here.” The tip of the knife scraped at the dun-colored earth. “You men will follow these power lines as they reach the crest of a ridgeline here, to look for signs of _fellagha_ activity and to provide a visible presence in the area.” He rose from his knee, cleaned the blade of the knife against his trouser leg before returning it to its sheath on his belt. “Stay alert and good luck.” He nods to the men, then to Sgt. Müller. “Take over, _sergent-chef_.”

“_Attention!_” barked the German senior sergeant, and the legionnaires quickly snapped to as the young lieutenant saluted and walked away. “All right, you lot, let’s get going,” Müller continued. “We’ve got a long day.” From a musette bag he pulled a handful of bright blue scarves. “Blue’s the color of the day. Put ‘em over your right shoulders.” The legionnaires lent each other a hand running the scarves under the armpit and through the shoulder strap and tying them in place. “To tell us from the fells,” Nedjar explained as he fastened the scarf around Vidal’s shoulder.

- / -​
At last the dirt road gives way to the graveled road that leads through the farms to Portemonte and the company camp. The bumps fade and the dust thin even as the truck picks up speed – the relief is immediate on tired backs and sore kidneys.

The legionnaires sway slightly in their seats as Sánchez, driving the truck while Sgt. Katsourianis rides in the cab, guides the GMC along the winding road. Most have eyes closed – a few watch the passing landscape lit by the golden glow of the impending sunset.

- / -​
A narrow dirt track followed the power lines as they crossed the _djebels_, climbing ridgeline after ridgeline. The legionnaires followed the track arranged in a loose diamond, warily watching the brush and rocks as they marched up and down the stony hills under the relentless white sun.

In the lead walked David Nedjar, the Jewish legionnaire from Oran. As attentive on point as he was affable in the mess tent, he scanned the terrain diligently as the patrol advanced, raising a hand to call a halt from time-to-time as he some feature or another caught his eye.

Beside him walked Sgt. Katsourianis, the Greek _sous-officier_ commanding the section. On his wrist he wore a large steel chronograph, a Swiss Heuer, somewhat incongruous with his fatigues. At a break he flicks open a switchblade carried in a pocket to slice off a hunk of cheese from his pack.

Behind Nedjar and the sergeant marched Vidal, his radio strapped around his shoulder, and Burhan Pamuk. The Turk was as reticent on the march as he was on the drive from Zeralda, mostly communicating in nods and shrugs. At each stop he rolls a cigarette from his bag of tobacco and sips hot, sweet black tea from his ever-present Thermos.

Next in line came Normand and Pyotr, rounding out the assault group.

Behind the _choc_ group walked Silvio Ortu, the big Sardinian _tireur_, the AA-52 machine gun draped casually over one shoulder. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing brightly-colored tattoos – the shield of the 1st REP on his right forearm, a half-naked belly dancer on his left who shakes her hips as he moves his hand. At a break he removed his smock revealing two more – a Virgin Mary on his left bicep, a heart with a dagger through it on his right – beneath the impaled heart is a scroll with the word “Maria.” Ortu seemed to have two expressions on his face over the course of the day: one that looked like he was about to cause mischief, one that looked likes he was about to cause pain. He spent most of the march complaining about one thing or another.

Beside him marched Karel Syrovy, the blond Hungarian _pourvoyeur_. The lean, angular _légionnaire_ was quiet, aloof – his few comments were directed at telling Ortu, in so many words, to shut up or otherwise reflecting on the Sardinian’s ancestry and foul proclivities. Syrovy carries an ornate chased silver cigarette case in the pocket of his smock, expensive-looking, especially for a legionnaire.

Next came Asmussen and Sánchez, the remaining _pourvoyeurs_. The Scandinavian legionnaire is tall and strongly built with bright blond hair, blue eyes, and a square jaw, like some Aryan poster child from the war. He said the least of all the patrol – it wasn’t hard to notice that his command of French is poor, and Cpl. Sembène made sure he had eye contact, backed with appropriate hand gestures, whenever he gave Asmussen an order.

Manolo Sánchez wasn’t much more voluble than the Scandinavian, but it was clear at least that he understood what was being said. Sánchez appears to be the oldest man in the section, older than both Sgt. Katsourianis and Sgt. Müller – the other paras referred to him _Le Vieux_ or _El Viejo_, all except Ortu who called him _Le Daronne_. Sánchez was never without a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, the Ideales box protruding from his chest pocket of his smock. The Spaniard labored hard as the legionnaires crossed the rocky ridges along the track, but he never fell back, keeping pace with the younger men throughout the patrol.

The rear of the column was brought up by Marcel, Cpl. Sembène, and Sgt. Müller. “Babaye” Sembène, the Senegalese assistant section leader, studied the legionnaires as closely as he watched the surrounding terrain for _fellouze_ – at each break he checked with each legionnaire in turn, making sure that everyone was drinking water and grabbing a bite to eat over the course of the long march.

Hans Müller, the German platoon sergeant whom Nedjar said was once in the _Luftwaffe_, was relaxed as the paras made their way across the hills. It seemed as if he was taking a stroll in the Harz Mountains of his youth, until he would casually point out likely ambush points or pinpoint their location on the tactical map simply by looking at the ridgelines and the position of the sun in the sky. Ortu asked several pointed questions of the _sergent-chef_ regarding “Ursula’s hairy arse,” which strangely enough didn’t seem to bother Müller – it took several moments to realize that Ortu was referring to Müller’s pet monkey, a souvenir of Indochina and the mascot of the platoon.

The section covered more than 30km, the last five cross-country, before reaching the GMC. Tired, dusty, and thirsty, the paras piled in the back, save _Le Vieux_ and Sergeant Kat, for the drive back to camp. There'd been no sign of the _fellouze_, just a dusty track through rocky hills under a relentless sun.

- / -​
The deuce-and-a-half is making good time as the first farms on the outskirts of Portemonte come into view, thus it’s something of a surprise when Sánchez slows suddenly, gears grinding and brakes whining, and the truck lurches to a stop. The legionnaires, those who are awake, hear the passenger door to the cab swing open with an audible squeak. Sgt. Kat’s voice floats back to the bed.

“_Légionnaires_, en avant!” he says firmly. “Fall in! Doc, get up here.”

Exiting the truck, weapons in hand, the paras see Sgt. Katsourianis pointing his MAT-49 ahead of the GMC. A jeep and a small truck, a Skoda 706, are stopped blocking the road. On the ground are two figures in the blue uniforms of the _gendarmerie_ – both lie in pools of blood.

All: Spot and Listen checks please.


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## Barak (Jul 13, 2005)

In the truck, Normand had his eyes semi-closed, getting himself in the zone.  He was used to heat, having found out long ago that training hard in the hottest part of the day was a great way to enhance his endurance.  Now it was paying off.  

Finally, they reach their destination.  By this time, Normand has entered the zone, all senses alert.  Seeing the bodies only enhance his attention, and he scans his surroundings.


OOC
Fort save: 19
Listen check: 18
Spot Check: 20

Holy crow.  With such rolls, I had to go back and re-write my whole post.


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## Bobitron (Jul 13, 2005)

Marcel keeps up a nearly incessant chatter for the length of the truck ride, shrugging off the heat and dust in a casual manner. “Moi? Hot? I suppose. Nothing to be done about it, though.” He constantly rattles off bad jokes and tales of his _conquêtes de l'amour_ back in France, pining for the attentions of a beautiful woman here in this barren land. 

Once the march began, Marcel kept up a quiet stream of comments as they followed the power line through the ridges. Ortu gets a smart-assed reply to every complaint until the point where the big Sardinian flashes Marcel a look of pure murder. After that, Marcel decides to back off a bit. _No use making enemies my first time out in the field,_ he muses. _The fells will fill that roles quite nicely without help from within our own ranks._

When the truck grinds to a halt, Marcel, sensing the tension, speaks before Sgt. Kat has a chance to rouse them. “Hey. Be careful out there, everyone. I only have a couple bandages left, and I don’t want to waste them on this sorry lot,” Marcel says with a wide grin. He gives a quiet, personal nod to Vidal, Normand, and Pyotr before leaping out of the back. 

ooc: I use my Coordinate talent here, if possible.

Hearing Sgt. Kat call for him, Marcel responds quickly. “Oui, Sergent ?” There is no need for a response once Marcel sees the two bodies on the ground. Marcel shoulders his M1A1 Carbine in a smooth motion, switching the safety off and scanning the area. 

“Am I clear to go up and check on them?” 


ooc: 

Fort save: Marcel rolls 1d20+2, getting [20,2] = (22)
Spot Check: Marcel rolls 1d20+3, getting [7,3] = (10)
Listen Check: Marcel rolls 1d20+3, getting [7,3] = (10)
Coordinate Check: Marcel rolls 1d20+2, getting [12,2] = (14) 

The Coordinate check should give everyone +1 on attack rolls and skill checks for three rounds, if you allow it.


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## знаток (Jul 13, 2005)

Vidal suffers throughout the day, tired and somewhat ill-prepared because he stayed up late writing to his sister, then checking his equipment for today’s march.  It was easy to get carried away when writing home, and he ended up sleeping for less than four hours.  He had little trouble keeping up with the march.  He enjoyed it, and keeping the rhythm was natural and easy, even if his mental capacity was hampered by fatigue as it was.  The day went acceptably for him, he thought as he settled into the truck, thinking briefly about his bunk back at camp.  After a good day of marching, though, the monotony of the truck ride attacked his will, and he closed his eyes to sleep, waking only a time or two and lacking his senses when he did.  
The mechanical cacophony and sudden halt of the truck yank him from his slumber as he’s nearly tossed to the floor, confused and nearly in a panic.  He hears the sergent-chef’s voice from outside as he looks at his comrades’ faces for an idea of what’s happening.  Eyes wide, he groggily checks his weapon and other equipment numerous times, waiting for everyone else to get to the tailgate before heading out in order to give himself as much time as possible to physically and mentally collect.  He stumbles out of the tailgate, nearly falling due to a not-quite-awake gluteus.  

Fortitude: 7+3(AP)=10
Spot: 7
Listen: 3


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 13, 2005)

As the morning dawned, Pyotr knew he was in for a long haul, but apparently learning to endure the cold of Russia also meant learning to endure the heat of Algeria. He watched as some of his fellow legionnaires fought off the sleepiness usually caused by extreme heat, while he himself simply whiled away the time thinking of home and a beautiful Russian girl from a long time ago. 

As they marched, Pyotr remained quiet, as he was wont to do. Unless spoken to, he usually remained that way. He remembered a member of his old unit that wouldn't shut up. It eventually got him killed. He hoped the same didn't happen to their machine gunner. It was rough for him to trust someone that had been in the Luftwaffe, but the war was over, and the German came to the Legion for a reason. 

When the truck suddenly stopped, Pyotr knew something was up, his MAT-49 scanning the area with him. He was too interested in the bodies that lay ahead of them to notice anything else, however.


Fort save: (1d20+2=19)
Spot check: (1d20+4=10)
Listen check: (1d20+4=5)


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## The Shaman (Jul 13, 2005)

Sgt. Kat gives orders quickly. “Ortu, cover that truck.” The Sardinian moves to the left rear of the GMC and lies down on the road behind the rear wheels, the AA-52 trained on the Skoda – Syrovy takes up position next to Ortu, a belt of ammo around his neck, his rifle in his hands.

“Joseph, your group, rear guard. Watch those fields.,” the section leader says to his second. The Senegalese corporal grabs Asmussen and points to the fields, waving his arm back and forth, before taking a knee and training his own submachine gun on the summer wheat. “Nedjar, Kerenin, Pamuk, move up to that jeep on the right side.” He gestures with his hand, then grabs Marcel’s shoulder. “Doc, you follow them. Stay clear of the machine gun’s field of fire. Mador, Gaspard, cover the others. Stay low.” As he speaks his eyes never leave the field of fire before them, his MAT-49 pressed tight against his shoulder.

As Normand moves to take a position where he can cover the advancing legionnaires, his eyes scan the drainage ditch to the right. Half-submerged in the blood-tinged water is another blue-uniformed body.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 14, 2005)

Pyotr nods at his orders. Quickly scanning the area, he follows the othe two legionnaires to the jeep, trigger finger resting outside the trigger guard of his submachine, ready to rain lead in any direction.


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## Bobitron (Jul 14, 2005)

Marcel moves behind the group, careful to be aware of each of his companion's field of fire. In his mind, he is already assuming the worst; he had yet to see the slightest movement from any of the casualties.


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## Barak (Jul 14, 2005)

Normand, his safety off and finger loose on the trigger, continues to scan the perimeter, ready to fire at the first sign of aggression.  Without looking at anyone in particular, he speaks up.

"A third body in the ditch guys, looks like another _gendarme_.  Let's make sure none of us makes the fourth, I'm not that eager to play bridge in Heaven."


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## The Shaman (Jul 14, 2005)

The four legionnaires – Nedjar, Pamuk, Pyotr, and Marcel – hustle along the edge of the road to the jeep. Nedjar motions with his hand for everyone to stay low, taking a knee and pointing his submachine gun over the top of the jeep toward the truck.

A _gendarme_ lies on the ground behind the jeep – Marcel crouches down next to the man and gazes into unseeing eyes. A bullet, probably from a rifle, struck the man in the throat – a large pool of blood has spread from the pale, still body across the gravel road surface.

Marcel: If you’d like to get a rough idea of how long the _gendarme_ has been dead, make a DC 20 Treat Injury check.

Pyotr watches the truck – there is no sign of movement. There are, however, a number of bullet holes – automatic weapons fire? – across the grille and hood of the truck. A puddle of fluid lies underneath the front of the Skoda.

Sgt. Katsourianis glances at the irrigation ditch, toward the third body in the water. “Mador, keep an eye on the culvert and the other side of the road there, past the junction. Gaspard, follow me.” The _sergent_ leaves the cover of the GMC and dashes forward to the jeep, to join the rest of the _choc_ group. Normand feels someone move up behind him – Sgt. Müller, who waits with the big Frenchman beside the OD deuce-and-a-half.

As he watches the road and the ditch, a movement, a shadow on a shadow, catches Normand’s eye. Something is moving in the culvert where the irrigation ditch crosses under the road.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 14, 2005)

Pyotr catches sight of the fluid underneath the truck. It could be oil. It could be coolant. It could even be... "Fuel! _Amis_! I think that is fuel underneath the truck, I don't think it's safe to be sitting here right now." He thinks of where else to be. "We might have to watch our fire near it."


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## The Shaman (Jul 14, 2005)

Pyotr: The liquid is acutally under the front of the Skoda truck, not the jeep - sorry if I didn't make that clear.


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## Bobitron (Jul 14, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> A _gendarme_ lies on the ground behind the jeep – Marcel crouches down next to the man and gazes into unseeing eyes. A bullet, probably from a rifle, struck the man in the throat – a large pool of blood has spread from the pale, still body across the gravel road surface.
> 
> Marcel: If you’d like to get a rough idea of how long the _gendarme_ has been dead, make a DC 20 Treat Injury check.




ooc: Treat Injury check is a 15.

Marcel looks carefully at the wound and reaches out a finger to check the casualty for a pulse, but it is more a formality than an actual hope that he might be alive.


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## Barak (Jul 15, 2005)

Out of nowhere, Normand's voice comes booming out, a tone of command unmistable in it.  

"You in the culvert!  Show yourself, hands up, or I open fire!"

As he shouts, his weapon follows his eyes and targets the movement he noticed.


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## Bobitron (Jul 15, 2005)

Upon hearing Normand's shouted command, Marcel repeats the same words in Arabic in a rush.
"أنت في المجرور للمياه القذرة!   عرض نفسك, ترفع أيادي, أو أفتح نارا!"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 15, 2005)

guess I missed that you said truck three times.... Went back to edit post.


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## The Shaman (Jul 15, 2005)

A hand appears from the mouth of the culvert, streaked with mud. “Please help me,” a voice calls, echoing in the corrugated metal pipe. “I’m hurt.” A arm follows the hand, and then a face emerges from the shadows – a man in a gendarme’s uniform, soaked and covered with grime, crawling to the mouth of the culvert, face contorted with pain.


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## Barak (Jul 15, 2005)

"Sacrebleu!"

Still scanning the area for any enemy forces, Normand advances towards the culvert.

"Marcel!  Over here, I got a live one!"

Holding his heavy weapon one-handed, Normand clasps his hand on the _gendarme_'s arm, pulling him out.


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## Bobitron (Jul 15, 2005)

"Wait!"

Marcel rushes over to Normand slinging his rifle as he moves. Leaping down into the culvert, he inspects the situation carefully to make sure the man is safe to move in such a manner. Once he is confident the man is safe, he assists Normand in moving the gendarme up into the road, spreading out his nylon poncho on the ground first for the man to lie on. Once the gendarme is in position, he inspects the man's injuries, pulling out supplies from his musette bag.

ooc: Treat Injury: Marcel rolls 1d20+9, getting [7,9] = (16)


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## The Shaman (Jul 15, 2005)

Normand makes his way down the bank to the irrigation ditch, Marcel close behind him. Together they slosh through the water to the gendarme, who looks up at them with a mixture of pain and relief on his face. “My leg is broken,” he says softly.

On the road, Sgt. Kat looks to Sgt. Müller, who motions toward the Skoda with a toss of his head. “Right then,” the Greek mutters, “Nedjar, Pamuk, Kerenin, clear the rear of that truck. Gaspard, after they signal clear, you and I take the cab. Go!”

The three legionnaires of the _choc_ group break from the cover of the jeep and head for the rear of the truck as Vidal and Sgt. Kat cover the cab with their submachine guns. There is no movement of the worn grey canvas cover as they approach, but it makes it impossible to see inside – at the rear, the canvas flap hangs loosely over the rear, obscuring the bed from view.

The _gendarme_ gasps as Marcel and Normand gingerly extract him from the narrow culvert. A quick check by the medic suggests that it’s not a broken leg, but rather a dislocated knee – the patella is rotated sideways, Marcel discovers, as he gently palpates the injured man’s extremities.

“When they opened fire, I fell backwards into the ditch, and that big bastard Henri fell on top of me. Must’ve thought we were both dead.” The words come in a rush, and then his eyes are searching Marcel’s. “The others?” he asks quietly.

Nedjar motions to Pyotr and Pamuk to each grab a corner of the canvas and life it out of the way. He sets himself with his MAT-49 at the ready, then gives a sharp nod. Pyotr and Burhan whip the canvas back.

Using a poncho as an impromptu stretcher, Normand and Marcel carefully lift the injured _gendarme_ from the irrigation ditch to the road behind the GMC, away from the jeep and the other casualties. The _gendarme_ is quiet, his eyes closed, as Marcel slices away the pant leg to visualize the injured knee. Applying gentle traction, the knee pops into place – the look of shock on the _gendarme_’s face is sudden and brief, followed by a sigh of relief.

The truck bed is in shadows due to the canvas tarp – the legionnaires train their guns on the darkness as their eyes adjust.

Pyotr: Spot check, please. Marcel: How many hit points did the check restore?


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## Bobitron (Jul 15, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> “When they opened fire, I fell backwards into the ditch, and that big bastard Henri fell on top of me. Must’ve thought we were both dead.” The words come in a rush, and then his eyes are searching Marcel’s. “The others?” he asks quietly.




Marcels shakes his head slowly back and forth, grasping the man's shoulder in an attempt to comfort the gendarme.

Once the man's knee is back in place, Marcel hands the man a canteen and gives him a brief moment to collect himself.

"We need to know what happened here, mon amis. I know the last thing you need right now is to give a report, but I'm sure you understand."



			
				The Shaman said:
			
		

> Marcel: How many hit points did the check restore?




ooc: Oops, that would be a 2.


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## Barak (Jul 16, 2005)

As soon as they are done moving the _gendarme_, Normand forces himself to pull his attention away from the man, and to resume his sentry duties.  At this point, he doubt the fells remained in the area once they were done doing whatever it is they did, but one never knows.

And so, weapon at the ready, his eyes scan his given area, establishing the perimeter.


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## знаток (Jul 16, 2005)

Vidal quietly obeys each of Sgt. Kat's orders as he forces himself back to lucidity.  As they approach the truck, the stories come to mind of secondary attacks on a target after responders to the first attack have arrived at the scene.   Increasingly wary, he nervously and angrily scans the area - buildings, fields, ditches, and vehicles - while he awaits the outcome of the truck-bed clearing.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 17, 2005)

Pyotr's adrenaline forced his heart to pound in his chest. He was so used to calming himself when he was preparing a shot at a target that was far away, but this was different. There could be someone inside this truck. Someone training a weapon at him right now. At Nedjar's command, he pulls the flap with Pamuk then retrains his weapon inside the gloom. 


Spot check: (1d20+4=8)


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## The Shaman (Jul 18, 2005)

The glare of the sun as it dips behind the hills deepens the shadows beneath the tarpaulin over the bed of the Skoda – it takes a tense moment for Pyotr’s pupils to adjust to the darkness as he searches for signs of danger to himself and the other two legionnaires.

Aside from a couple of empty burlap sacks, the bed of the truck is vacant.

Nedjar leans around the back of the truck and waves his arm, signaling all clear to Sgt. Katsourianis. He then turns back to Pyotr and Pamuk. “Get down and keep an eye on those fields,” he instructs.

Back at the _gendarmes_’ jeep, the _sergent_ leans toward Vidal. “Cover me,” he says, pointing at the cab of the truck. Slipping around in front of the jeep, the Greek approaches the Skoda warily – he reaches up to yank open the door, which is ajar, revealing the unoccupied cab. He looks around the interior carefully.

From over Vidal’s shoulder comes the voice of Sgt. Müller. “_Légionnaire_, see if you can raise the camp,”  orders the German non-com. “They’re Tango 3, we’re Tango 31 Blue. Get the lieutenant.” Vidal: Knowledge (technology) skill check to work the radio, please.

Beside the GMC, the _gendarme_ clears his throat. “We were on our way back to quarters when we came upon that truck. The driver flagged us down. An Arab. Looked like a laborer.” He clears his throat again. “The driver said he wanted to know if the road was safe. Then suddenly two more Arabs came out from behind the truck. One had a shotgun, the other a rifle. They fired at us before we could get out of the jeep. Jacques and Henri were in front, Philippe and I – ” he glances at the body of the first _gendarme_ that Marcel observed, lying on the road at the back of the jeep with his throat torn open “ – that’s Philippe Argaud, there, we were in back. I jumped out and fell into the ditch – Henri was hit and fell on top of me.”

The _gendarme_ pauses a moment, collects his thoughts. “Jacques must’ve survived the ambush – I heard his machine pistol fire.” He clears his throat once more. “They shot Henri again as he lay on top of me, even though he was already dead, and they took his machine pistol, too. Somehow they missed me, and I dragged myself into the culvert when it got quiet.”


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## Bobitron (Jul 18, 2005)

Wounded gendarme said:
			
		

> “Somehow they missed me, and I dragged myself into the culvert when it got quiet.”




Marcel nods as the man speaks in an effort to keep him going. Once he finishes, Marcel claps the man on the shoulder and speaks. "Don't feel like you could have done more. No one will blame you for staying put down there after they ambushed you." Marcel pauses and straightens his helmet, reaching out to get back his canteen. "I'll let the sergeant know what happened here. You will be okay, I think. Just be gentle with that knee for a while," he says, a grin coming back to his face. He stands and squints into the bright sunset. "It will be dark soon. I don't suppose you saw or heard where the batards went from where you were? Do you know about how long ago they attacked?"

Walking over to Sgt. Kat, Marcel once again checks the safety on his rifle to ensure it is ready to fire. Once he reaches the tattooed man, he gives a quick salute and relays the _gendarme's_ story.


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## The Shaman (Jul 18, 2005)

The _gendarme_ shakes his head. “I’m not sure how long ago. Not long, I think. They didn’t come past me, and they didn’t continue north along the road.” He lifts himself on his elbows and peers under the legionnaires’ deuce-and-a-half. “That’s the Rubiera farm, across the field. That could be their truck, I think. It looks familiar.”  He cranes his neck to look at the Skoda. “I’m not positive. I think it might be theirs.” The _gendarme_ sighs as he looks into the ditch. “Henri would know for sure – he knew _Monsieur_ Rubiera pretty well.”


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 18, 2005)

Shaking his head and clearing his eyes, Pyotr turned to scan the fields of the farm. A few of the _fells_ could still be in there. Or a whole group of them. Or they could be long gone by now. Sighing, he simply let the muzzle of his MAT-49 follow the rows of the fields back and forth in an effort to pick out something, _anything_, out of place. As he did so, his nervousness about the truck caused his feet to shuffle him forward away from it a few meters.


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## знаток (Jul 18, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> From over Vidal’s shoulder comes the voice of Sgt. Müller. “_Légionnaire_, see if you can raise the camp,”  orders the German non-com. “They’re Tango 3, we’re Tango 31 Blue. Get the lieutenant.”




After clearing the immediate threat of the truck, Vidal is relieved somewhat to have a task more tailored to his specialty.  "Roger, _sergent_," he responds as he quickly brings up the radio.  "Tango 3, this is Tango 31 Blue, over."

Knowledge check (technology): 20


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## The Shaman (Jul 18, 2005)

There is a hiss of static as Vidal tries the radio, then a scratchy voice answers, “_Tango 31 Blue, Tango 3, go ahead._”


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## Barak (Jul 18, 2005)

While keeping his eyes open for anything out of the ordinary, Normand had been keeping an ear on the conversation between Marcel and the _gendarme_.  As Marcel goes to tell their superior about the gleaned information, Normand gives the _gendarme_ a quick look, and smiles reassuringly, before returning his attention to his surroundings.

_Ambush wasn't that long ago..  They left in the direction of the farm, and that truck very possibly belonged to the farmer.  The gendarme says the farmer was known to that Henri fellow..  So he very possibly was a victim as well in all this.  10-to-1 we find them holed up in there, with the occupants dead or hostages.  I hate hostage-situations.._


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## Bobitron (Jul 18, 2005)

"Sgt. Kat! This was a pretty straightforward ambush, sir. There were at least three Arabs, all armed by now." Marcel kicks at the dirt in frustration and motions at the injured man. "That one fell into the ditch, followed by one of the dead officers. They left him for dead after pumping his buddies full of ammo. He hid in the culvert until we arrived. He isn't sure how long ago it happened, but thinks it wasn't long. I would assume from his description that they went to the farm. The farm belongs to a Monsieur Rubiera. One of the dead gendarmes was a close friend of Rubiera, so we have to assume he might be in trouble. He thinks the Skoda might be from the farm, but can't say for certain." Marcel takes off his helmet and wipes his brow with a sleeve, then replaces it. "Your orders, sir?"


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## The Shaman (Jul 19, 2005)

Sgt. Katsourianis is attentive as Marcel gives his report – Sgt. Müller listens as well while Vidal raises the camp on the section radio. The Greek section leader looks west, where the sun hangs suspended, it’s lower limb separated from the hills by a sliver of blue, then glances at the big steel chronograph on his wrist.

“Sunset is about ten minutes away, Hans,” says Kat to the _sergent-chef_. “It’ll be dark not long after. If they’re still on the farm, they may be waiting to slip away in the night.”

Müller gazes at the farm in silence. When Vidal gets a response on the radio, the German taps him on the shoulder and holds out his hand for the Motorola. “Tango 3, get the lieutenant,” he snaps. Müller glances at the wounded _gendarme_ before he replies, “They’re probably long gone. Headed for the hills.”

“_Tango 31, Tango 3...port._” The voice is Lt. Ramadier’s, broken and faint over the small section radio.

Müller keys the mic. “Sir, we’ve found a _gendarmerie_ jeep with three KIA, one WIA, approximately seven kilometers west of town. _Gendarmes_’ weapons are missing. WIA reports three _fellaghas_ in a truck ambushed them. The truck is still here, and the WIA believes it belongs to a farm a short distance away.” 

“_Ack...ged, Tango 31. Any sign of...fells?_” asks the lieutenant.

“No, sir,” Müller replies, his voice dispassionate. “No activity in the area at all.”

A brief pause. “_Tang...1, search the farm to make...nd secure...til help arrives_,” the lieutenant orders. “_I’ll noti...darmerie...racks. Warn any civili...ay inside, and keep me pos..._”

The platoon sergeant’s face is blank as he signs off and hands the radio back to Vidal – if he has any misgivings about Lt. Ramadier’s orders, there is no sign on his countenance. “You heard the lieutenant, Kat. We search the farm.”

Sgt. Katsourianis wastes no time on questions. “Section! Form up on me! Tactical column!” he calls to the legionnaires. “Sánchez, you stay here with the _gendarme_ and the truck. Keep alert.” Looking around at the assembled paras, he continues, “Lieutenant wants us to check out that farm and warn the farmers about fells in the area. Keep alert,” he repeats. “Sun’s going down soon. Move out.”

The paras resume their marching order as they set off across the wheat field toward the farm.

All: Another set of Spot and Listen checks, please. There’s no penalty for darkness to Spot – yet.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 19, 2005)

Pyotr knew he was already getting tired. His normally sharp eyes were growing too heavy for him to see in the setting sun's fading rays. His ears were barely any better, registering only the crunch of dirt underneath his boots. Pyotr would be surprised if he caught sight of an explosion in his immediate vicinity. The only sense that seemed to be working for him was smell. As the arid air cooled, it wafted the scent of dried blood past his nose. 

Pyotr the Sniper is now officially Pyotr the Deaf and Blind...
Spot check: (1d20+4=6)
Listen check: (1d20+4=8)


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## Bobitron (Jul 19, 2005)

Marcel gives a soft sigh as the orders to search the farm comes through. _It's the right thing to do,_ he muses. _Even if we don't like it. That farmer deserves as much._

Marcel quickly checks on the wounded man while the group gathers gear and arranges itself. "Sanchez, make sure he doesn't move. Keep off that knee for a while, Comprenez?" He turns and jogs to get into position, his eyes scanning the feathery tops of the wheat for motion.

ooc: Spot is 16, Listen is 12. How high is the wheat in the field? Here's the marching order, so nobody else has to look it up.

David Nedjar and Sgt. Katsourianis
Vidal  and Burhan Pamuk
Normand and Pyotr
Silvio Ortu and Karel Syrovy
Asmussen
Marcel, Cpl. Sembène, and Sgt. Müller


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## Barak (Jul 19, 2005)

Normand silently falls into position, his face set, and weapon at the ready.  After one nod to Pyotr, his attention swings to his side of the column, looking for anything out of the ordinary.


OOC
Spot:1
Listen:2

Wow.


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## знаток (Jul 21, 2005)

Vidal stores the handset and follows the Turk to the head of the formation, checking his weapon one more time before scanning the target zone with the others.  "How far do you think we are from camp, Nedjar?"

Listen: 8
Spot: 25


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## The Shaman (Jul 22, 2005)

The patrol sets off across the field, each man with his weapon at the ready. The wheat is still green and about stands knee-high, sussing softly with each step the paras take toward the cluster of farm buildings. The wheat field offers one-quarter concealment (10% miss chance) and no cover.

The farm looks like many that surround Portemonte, perhaps a bit more prosperous than most. To the north along a low hill stands an orange grove, the trees fat with young fruit – a gray steel water tank overlooks the farm from among the citrus trees.

Clustered around a dirt yard are several structures. Ahead of the paras is a tall barn, painted white like all the buildings, with a red shingle roof. The west end, facing the paras as they cross the field, has both a lower set of double-doors and an upper loft entry, above which hangs a pulley from a cantilever beam. The lower doors are closed, but the door to the loft is open – shadows lie beyond.

A small goat shed and fenced enclosure is just north of the barn – several brown and black goats can be seen lazing in the pen, seemingly unconcerned by the armed men stalking through the field.

Northeast of the barn is the farmhouse, a two story clapboard structure with a tile roof surrounded by a low stone wall, maybe five feet high. Several small trees can be seen behind the wall at the back of the farmhouse – two large oaks dominate the front, one sporting a leafy green canopy, the other dead and bare. White lace curtains can be seen through the windows of the house.

Across the yard to the east is a stable – a pair of horse stand idly in two corrals made of steel pipe. A trough is situated between the farmhouse and the stable. Around the yard are parked a wooden wagon and a horse trailer, nearest the stable, and a utility trailer, south and east of the barn.

Beyond the yard are several haystacks and a low, mud-brick building with whitewashed walls and shuttered windows – not far away is what appears to be a small shed or outbuilding of some kind, the purpose of which is not immediately apparent.

To the south of the yard, immediately across from the farmhouse, is the entrance drive, lined with arrow-straight poplars sporting green leaves that shake and rattle with the slightest breeze. The farm itself is still, bathed in golden light by the setting sun.

As the patrol advances, Vidal asks Nedjar, “How far do you think we are from camp, Nedjar?” “Five or six kilometers, maybe.” the legionnaire replies, glancing about at the countryside. “Not too far.” Vidal scans the farm as he walks, and a slight motion catches his eye – from the loft of the barn, something moving in the shadows.


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## знаток (Jul 24, 2005)

_What the hell was that?_  Vidal increases his pace to catch Sgt. Katsourianis.  "Don't stop us _sergent_, but I just saw some movement up in the loft.  Should I call it in yet?"


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## Bobitron (Jul 24, 2005)

Marcel notes Vidal's head jerk slightly toward the barn and his conversation with Sgt. Katsourianis. _He must see something..._

Slowing his pace a bit, Marcel carefully looks over the area ahead, focusing his attention on the buidlings.

ooc: Spot 7, Listen 6 from our favorite deaf and blind medic.


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## The Shaman (Jul 25, 2005)

“Don't stop us _sergent_, but I just saw some movement up in the loft.  Should I call it in yet?” Vidal asks Sgt. Katsourianis as the patrol crosses the field.

Kat’s eyes look toward the barn, but before the section leader can answer, a shot rings out from the loft.

Initiative checks, please – Vidal is -2 Str and Dex due to fatigue, so no bonus to his Init roll.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 25, 2005)

A shot rings out and Pyotr instinctively hits the dirt, eyes scanning out of the wheat field to see where it came from. Unfortunately, the grains are too high this time of year and Pyotr can only see the movement of his fellows in front of him. 


Initiative: (1d20+2=13)
Spot check: (1d20+4=6)
Just put me in a tower....


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## знаток (Jul 25, 2005)

_Guess not..._
Initiative: 8
I'll post actions when the order is determined.  

What is our distance from the loft at the time of the shot?


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## Bobitron (Jul 25, 2005)

Marcel drops to his knees and raises his rifle as the shot echoes over the tips of the wheat. He raises his carbine to his shoulder and peers through the iron sights through the swaying grains.

ooc: Init is an 8.


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## Barak (Jul 25, 2005)

OOC: 
Will do action once order is determined as well..

Init check: 1

Good Lord, my last three rolls were 1,2,1.


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## The Shaman (Jul 26, 2005)

The report of the rifle echoes across the field as the legionnaires drop prone among the wheat stalks, all but Sgt. Katsourianis who spins and falls in a heap.

Nedjar and Pamuk both fire their submachine guns at the open door to the loft, the staccato followed a moment later by a long burst from Ortu and the AAT-52. Wood splinters fly from the side of the barn as the bullets pepper the walls around the doorway. Vidal’s eyes search the shadows beyond, but no sign can be seen of the rifleman.

“Medic!” comes the call from Nedjar over the din. “Wait, Fortier,” orders Sgt. Müller, his hand raised. “Ortu, suppression fire!” the German calls out to the _tireur_.

Initiative order:
Fellagha 16
_Choc_ (Nedjar, Pamuk) 15
*Pyotr 13*
NCOs (Müller, Katsourianis) 12
*Marcel, Vidal 8*
MG (Sembène, Ortu, Syrovy, Asmussen) 4
*Normand 1*

Range to the loft doorway is 110’ for Vidal, 160’ for Normand and Pyotr, and 260’ for Marcel. Sgt. Katsourianis is about 20’ from Vidal, 150’ from Marcel.

There’s no new map since no one’s moved yet.


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## знаток (Jul 26, 2005)

*Idiot, Portuguese, 1 each*

Vidal dives wide-eyed to the ground and scrambles for his radio.  At seeing the sergeant fall, his first thought is of his own terrible failure at making a timely, wise decision in response to the now obvious warning his senses had provided for him.  The fatigue may have made his sight a little more sensitive (now apparently similar to the effect of a horrendous hangover) but as also with a hangover, it hadn't been very forgiving with the sharpness of his mind.  In the moment of confusion one word screamed in his mind..._HELP!_  Frantically he keys the radio, his voice reflecting well his state of mind as he looks around for the best options for position and other threats.  _"Tango 3, this is Tango 31 Blue!  MAN DOWN AT THE FARM!"_

Knowledge Check (Technology): 12
Knowledge Check (Military Science): 17
Spot: 16


			
				The Idiot Rookie...Who Else? said:
			
		

> What is our distance from the loft at the time of the shot?



I also must have been suffering from fatigue when I viewed the map, as I failed to notice the tiny dots that are we (or the scale apparently).  I was assuming we were grouped closely (within about 50-75') and that we were 400-500' or more from the barn, or I probably would've reacted more defensively.  Pay attention to detail you Portuguese fool!  Sorry all (especially Sergeant Kat).


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## Bobitron (Jul 27, 2005)

ooc: Marcel will delay his action until the MG section fires.

Marcel leaps to his feet and prepares to bolt towards the spot where Sgt. Kat dropped, but Sgt. Müller's authoritative voice interrupts his motion as surely as a brick wall. Dropping back to a runner's crouch, Marcel waits for the chatter of the machinegun before moving his fastest towards the casualty. His mind is already racing as he considers the contents of his medkit.

ooc: Marcel will run 120' towards Sgt. Kat's position once the covering fire is on, which should get him a +2 bonus to Defense (+3 total).


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## Barak (Jul 27, 2005)

Normand's first reaction is to switch is weapon to the grenade launcher, but just as he is about to fire, he realizes that he's pretty far out for his skill level, and that, well, as far as they know, there's hostages in there.  Returning fire is one thing, lobbing a grenade, another.

By the time he switches his weapon back to rifle, the suppressing fire has already been well-established, and so he sees little point in wasting ammo adding his own.  Instead, he stands, runs forwards, and falls back prone.


OOC
Move action to stand, move action to go 30' forward, free action to go back to prone.


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## The Shaman (Jul 28, 2005)

Ortu continues to fire at the loft, more controlled bursts now, and over the din Marcel hears Sgt. Müller’s voice. “Doc, up front!” the German calls out as he rises to his feet and weaves his way forward, MAT-49 carried at the ready as he advances. The medic breaks into a dead run through the ripe wheat, his boots sinking into the plowed earth of the field.

Pyotr scans the fields and the farm, looking for movement, looking for a target, but aside from the machine gun bullets whizzing past and the splintering wood, all is still.

Vidal listens for a response on the radio, clutching the handy-talky to his ear, but there is only static as a reply to his impassioned call.

Normand heaves himself up and forward, running through the wheat, then diving back to the earth again among the stalks. To his right is Burhan Pamuk, the Turkish legionnaire resting on one knee, submachine gun trained on the barn. End of round 2.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 28, 2005)

Frustrated, Pyotr makes a quick decision. He stands and runs as fast as he can towards the edge of the wheat field and drops prone again. 

Stand and move 30 ft then drop prone.


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## Bobitron (Jul 31, 2005)

Marcel finshes his run by Sgt. Kat's prone form, dropping to his side in the wheat. Reaching over, he turns the man to face him. "Sergent? Where are you hit? Can you hear me?"

ooc: Move the remaining 30 feet and fall prone. Check Kat's wounds. Treat Injury check: 12. Try again next round. :\


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## Barak (Jul 31, 2005)

Laying down next to the turk, Normand is unsure as to what to do.  Since that one shot that took down the sergeant, there has been no fire from the farm.  For all he knows, the shooter was by himself, and taken down in the return fire.  Of course, he could just be laying low, and waiting for another easy shot.

Turning his head towards the turk, he speaks up in a loud whisper.

"Well, Burhan, what do you think we should do now, eh?"


OOC
Normand will train his weapon on the barn from where the first shot come, with a ready action to shoot should any fire come from there.


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## знаток (Aug 1, 2005)

Seeing Fortier take control of Sergeant Kat, Vidal gives up on the radio and starts moving toward the left side of the barn in order to help clear it.  He moves cautiously in a crouch, watching the loft and the rest of the farm for movement.  

Spot: 21


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## The Shaman (Aug 2, 2005)

Pamuk shrugs slightly at Normand’s question, like the big Frenchman never taking his eyes from the barn. “Wait for the _sous-officiers_,” he says flatly.

As Pyotr rises and moves forward, he hears footsteps crashing through the wheat not far behind, then the voice of Sgt. Müller. “Silvio, watch your fire! Babaye, security on that house!” calls the German _sergent-chef_. Pyotr dives into the wheat, only to hear the sergeant snap, “Get up, Kerenin! Keep moving toward the barn!”

Marcel hits the ground near Sgt. Katsourianis. The Greek _sergent_ is fumbling with the pistol holster on his web belt. “I’m all right,” he says, wincing. “Bastard hit my sidearm.” A quick glance at the _sous-officier_’s belt reveals a jagged tear to the leather holster – the pistol knocked clear by the round is lying on the ground among the wheat stalks. “Knocked me over,” Katsourianis finishes. He glances about, taking in the scene, sees the legionnaires advancing without him. “Let’s get out of this field, Doc. Head for that barn,” he orders.

Vidal rises from the ground and moves forward cautiously, watching the entrance to the loft, but there is no sign of movement in the shadows beyond the splintered doorway. End of round 3.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 2, 2005)

Pyotr yells back as he stands up. "That was my plan, sergeant! I just didn't want to be lead bait." Rushing forward through the field of wheat, Pyotr tries to angle himself towards one corner of the barn while keeping an eye out for anyone other than his squadmates.

Rise from prone, move forward 30 ft. Looking for movement other than our own.

Spot check: (1d20+4=24)

I can see clearly now, the wheat is gone....


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## Barak (Aug 3, 2005)

Normand remains in position, rifle trained on the barn, looking for any sign of movement within as he struggles to hear anything out of the ordinary as well, while waiting for the _sous-officiers_ to catch up and order him differently.


OOC
spot check: 18
Listen check: 18


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## Bobitron (Aug 3, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Marcel hits the ground near Sgt. Katsourianis. The Greek _sergent_ is fumbling with the pistol holster on his web belt. “I’m all right,” he says, wincing. “Bastard hit my sidearm.” A quick glance at the _sous-officier_’s belt reveals a jagged tear to the leather holster – the pistol knocked clear by the round is lying on the ground among the wheat stalks. “Knocked me over,” Katsourianis finishes. He glances about, taking in the scene, sees the legionnaires advancing without him. “Let’s get out of this field, Doc. Head for that barn,” he orders.




Marcel lets out a low whistle at Sgt. Kat's luck. "If you need me to check it out, let me know later. You might get some nasty bruising or even broken bones from that sort of hit."  Marcel glances over at the pistol. Reaching over and picking it up, he hands it to the officer. "Lucky, though, that's for sure," Marcel says with a wide grin. 

Once Katsourianis gives the order to advance, Marcel responds with a short "Oui, Sergent", and advances toward the barn, his carbine leveled toward the door. He walks in a low crouch, trying to keep only his head and shoulders above the tips of the wheat.

ooc: Move toward the barn as ordered. Stop at the edge of the wheat before I lose concealment. Spot 23 (!) Listen 4


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## знаток (Aug 5, 2005)

Vidal glances back in his approach to the barn to see the squad leader stand unharmed.  It's enough of a relief to calm his nerves back to their state in the moments before the incident, though the fatigue still tugs at his mind as he continues cautiously toward the northwestern corner of the barn.


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## The Shaman (Aug 5, 2005)

“_En avant!_ Let’s go, let’s go!” cries Sgt. Müller as he races toward the barn. The legionnaires scramble to catch up, but the _sergent-chef_ is the first to reach side of the barn – reaching for his grenade pouch, he lobs a smoke canister up into the loft through the open doorway as the rest of the section approaches. White smoke billows from the opening as the Sgt. Kat and the _choc_ arrive at the west wall of the barn – eyes strain to catch movement at the barn, the house, but all is tranquil and quiet but for the sound of the legionnaires’ boots on the ground and the rattle of their gear.

The double-door that closes the west entrance to the barn is closed and padlocked. As Pyotr and Vidal arrive, Sgt. Müller points to the southwest corner. “Cover the south side,” he orders. Normand and Pamuk are assigned to cover the northwest corner, Nedjar the open loft. Marcel and Sgt. Katsourianis are the last to arrive – Marcel notices a slight limp in the section leader’s gait as they race out of the field and across the yard to the barn.

Across the farmyard Cpl. Sembène joins Syrovy and Asmussen behind the goat pen, their rifles trained on the house – Silvio Ortu hustles toward the barn through the wheat field, the AAT-52 smoking in his hands.

Sgt. Müller wastes no time. “Nedjar, take Kerenin and Gaspard, move along the south wall, cover the east door and the farmyard. Go!” Nedjar looks to Pyotr and Vidal. “Follow me,” he says as he slips around the corner of the barn.

“Kat, set up Ortu at the northwest corner, to cover the house and the yard,” Müller continues, glancing up toward the smoke-filled loft entrance above. “You, me, Pamuk, and Mador will clear the barn. Doc, you stay here and cover that opening,” says the German, motioning toward the loft with his MAT-49. “Mador, shoot that lock off,” he finishes.

End of rounds four and five – I compressed time slightly during the run for cover since there was no fire directed at the legionnaires in either round.

Normand: Roll to hit the padlock – any number other than a 1 hits. Roll damage normally.

Revised initiative order as of round 7:
*Pyotr 13*
NCOs (Müller, Katsourianis), _Choc_ (Nedjar, Pamuk)  12
*Marcel, Vidal 8*
MG (Sembène, Ortu, Syrovy, Asmussen) 4
*Normand 1*


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## Barak (Aug 5, 2005)

With a nod to the sergeant, Normand position himself to avoid ricochet, aims, and fires at the lock.


OOC
To hit:11
Damage:13


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## Bobitron (Aug 5, 2005)

Marcel nods his assent to Müller and raises his carbine to cover the loft, his eyes squinted to block out the sun to adjust for the dim light inside the barn. He can't help but recoil slightly at the report of Normand's rifle, but he manages not to blink.

ooc: Kneel and cover the loft as ordered. Hold my action and fire if I spot any movement. 

Spot: 15 

If a shot is needed, here's my attack roll.

Attack: 5


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 5, 2005)

Pyotr sticks close to the wall of the barn, following Nedjar close enough to cover him, but far enough to stay out of a grenade's blast radius. He continually scanned the area, the muzzle of his submachine gun swaying left to right.


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## The Shaman (Aug 5, 2005)

Revised game map attached - thanks again for the suggestion, *Bobitron*!


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## знаток (Aug 6, 2005)

Vidal follows a couple meters behind Pyotr.  He checks the south wall of the barn for cracks or other openings as they pass by, then scans the trailer, wagon, and stables for other fells, surprised a little that they would leave only one behind on as ineffective a suicide mission as this.  

Spot: 20


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## The Shaman (Aug 6, 2005)

Nedjar leads off along the south side of the barn. Tall shuttered windows look down from the wooden wall as the legionnaires warily slink past. Across the farmyard a horse stirs in a corral alongside the stable opposite – an old wagon and a newer horse trailer both sit empty nearby. Near the low mud-brick building south and east of the barn are four large haybales, cured golden by the sun.

The lock shatters under Normand’s round. Sgt. Müller glances at Ortu as Kat points to the northwest corner of the barn then makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. The Sardinian nods and drops prone at the corner, the machine gun resting on its bipod. Müller says softly, “Kat, you and Pamuk go up the left side, Mador and I up the right.” He looks directly at Normand. “You stay right behind me. I’m looking low, you’re looking high, understand?”

Marcel watches the opening to the loft, carbine trained on the splintered doorway. The thick white smoke from the canister wafts down, only partly obscuring the damage done by the machine gun rounds to the wood framing. As he watches, Sgt. Müller grabs Normand’s shoulder, and motions at the door, pantomiming pulling it open together. The burly Frenchman and the short German each grip the door and pull. Normand: Strength check, please.

Pyotr and Vidal creep along behind Nedjar as they approach the corner. Suddenly a figure comes into view, running across the farmyard toward the stable, a rifle clutched in his hands – he glances back, sees the legionnaires, and races for cover behind the old wooden wagon. End of round 6. Normand and Müller are not visible on the map due to the overhanging beam above the loft entrance.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 6, 2005)

Pyotr's gun instinctively rises up aiming in the general direction of the running man. "Nedjar! There by the wagon!" He nods in the direction of the escaping man. "Should we take him down?"

Pyotr will come up closer to Nedjar and kneel as he speaks.


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## Barak (Aug 7, 2005)

Normand simply nods at the sergean't words, feeling that speaking would be superflous, and possibly even distracting. 

He then moves to take his side of the door in his strong hands, and attempts to pull the door open.


OOC
Strenght check: 6

Ahh geez.


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## Bobitron (Aug 7, 2005)

Marcel continues to watch the loft.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 8, 2005)

Just so as you guys know, I'll be on my way to Colorado soon, so I wanted to leave some notes for Shaman to NPC me while I'm away. If the _fell_ that is by the wagon gets too far away, Pyotr will want to switch to his rifle. But if he stays in medium range, Pyotr will stay with his smg. Other than that, he follows orders to the best of his ability. Thanks guys, and especially Shaman for an awesome game. See you in a week.


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## знаток (Aug 11, 2005)

Vidal sees the figure dart behind the wagon.  He determines that no farmer would have trouble recognizing the legionnaires, so this must be a hostile individual.  He bolts for cover behind the trailer near the southwestern corner of the barn as he reaches for a grenade and readies it to throw at the near side of the wagon.  

Unless Nedjar barks some quick intentions otherwise, Vidal plans to immediately throw the grenade after arriving at the trailer so as to disable the wagon and hopefully stun the fella into submission.


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## The Shaman (Aug 12, 2005)

Nedjar answers Pyotr by firing a quick burst from his submachine gun at the fleeing man, who dives behind the wooden trailer – there is a loud **PLINK-PLUNK!** as the bullets hit the iron pipe rails of the corrals by the stables. The horse in the far pen squeals and rears in fright. “Suppressing fire!” exclaims Nedjar.

Vidal runs across the space between the barn and the trailer, taking cover behind its reassuring metal sides. He readies a grenade and eyes the distance to where the fleeing rifleman is hiding. Vidal: The trailer provides 1/2 cover. Distance to the hiding _fellagha_ is about 130’.

Marcel hears the gunfire from around the barn, sees Normand out of the corner of his eye as the big Frenchman heaves against the heavy door to the barn. It opens slowly, issuing a thick cloud of white smoke as it swings on its hinges, and the German _sous-officier_ dives inside quickly, keeping to the right, followed by Sgt. Kat and Pamuk who move left – all hold weapons at the ready. The legionnaires become vague, amorphous shapes in the smoky interior. Normand: DC to open the barn was 5 – hard to miss that one. End of round 7. Spot checks from everyone, please.


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## Bobitron (Aug 13, 2005)

Marcel keeps his concentration and follows his orders, covering the loft. He moves slightly back to try and get a better angle of fire on the spot. _Last thing we need is that guy dropping a grenade out the opening on Normand's head._

ooc: Move twenty feet or so away from the barn to get a better view of the loft holding my attack in case I spot movement. Spot check is a 22 (!)


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## знаток (Aug 17, 2005)

Vidal looks back at the men near the barn, heart racing and sweat pouring. _ "Give me covering fire!  I'm going to get closer!"_  He pauses for a moment to receive acknowledgement of his request - either by word, motion, or action - then bolts around the south side of the trailer toward the _fellagha_, grenade still in hand.  

Vidal will run at 4X speed toward the dot at trailer #2.  I estimate that 120' of movement should be just about enough, but correct me if you disagree.  His next turn will be used to make a brief move to the southeast and a throw from concealment, hopefully with enough fuel left to retreat a few feet in case of a fumble.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 17, 2005)

Pyotr nods at Nedjar's command. Pointing the MAT-49 at the wagon, his finger quickly tightens on the trigger, sending rounds flying towards the escaping _fell_.

Suppression fire towards the _fell_ by the wagon. Full round action, five rounds used.


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## The Shaman (Aug 17, 2005)

Pyotr’s submachine gun rattles, spitting bullets across the farmyard at the wooden trailer, trying to keep the rifleman pinned down. Nedjar dashes across to the trailer where Vidal waits. The radioman looks to _voltiguer_ and says, _“Give me covering fire!  I'm going to get closer!”_

“Go!” he replies, and fires a long burst at the wagon. Vidal sprints from behind the trailer, racing across the dusty farmyard, MAT-49 in one hand, grenade in another.

Marcel watches the barn as Normand moves inside. Out of the corner of his eye the medic sees the legionnaires moving to the east, hears the long peals of automatic fire, as the smoke billows out of the barn. A voice – Ortu, calling his name – “Doc, what the devil’s going on over there?” he implores.

Inside the barn the smoke and the hastening twilight make it difficult to see anything, but Normand can make out a strip of light at the far end of the barn through the haze – the opposite door is part-way open. The interior of the barn is like a maze – Normand can just make out the shape of a tractor and a stack of filled burlap sacks as he follows Sgt. Müller. The German holds his submachine gun pressed tightly against his shoulder, swinging the barrel from side-to-side as he scans. “Kat!” he hisses, and Sgt. Katsourianis, followed by Burhan Pamuk takes off for the far end of the barn, moving quickly but deliberately to reach the far door – once across Kat peers out through the open doorway as Pamuk looks back into the barn, toward the loft over Normand’s head.

Normand looks up toward the loft as well – he can faintly make out the wooden platform that extends some six or seven meters across the barn’s interior, some four meters above his head. His ears strain to catch a creaking board, his eyes to see a puff of falling dust, anything that might betray their ambusher, but the billowing smoke and the roar of the guns outside make it impossible.

As Vidal runs across the farmyard, the air around him is suddenly filled with the whiz and crack of bullets. Vidal: Reflex save, DC 15, to avoid autofire – if you fail the check, please make a Cool check for me as well. If you make either the Reflex save or the Cool check, Vidal will reach the trailer. If not...


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## Barak (Aug 17, 2005)

Inside the barn, Normand is once again tempted to switch his weapon to grenade-launcher, and just lob one in the loft.

_Think, idiot!  That'd bring the freakin' barn on your own head.  Just because you got a new toy.._

Instead, he puts himself close to the tractor, and keeps his eyes and ears open.


OOC
Spot check: 17
Listen check: 1


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## Bobitron (Aug 17, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> A voice – Ortu, calling his name – “Doc, what the devil’s going on over there?” he implores.




Marcel responds in amazement. "Radio ran after a fell! The guy broke cover and took off toward the house with Vidal running after. The guys are covering him, but he is under fire now!"

ooc: Marcel continues to watch the loft until ordered otherwise, holding his actions to fire if needed. 

To be honest, Barak, I would have grenaded the hell outta the barn before going in. Maybe Sgt. Kat hit his head when he fell...


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 17, 2005)

_Chyort!_ Pyotr swears out loud. _That fool Radio is going to get himself killed._

Shaking his head and saying a silent prayer for Vidal, Pyotr continues to rain lead in the direction of the _fell_.

FRA to keep suppressing fire on the trailer. 5 more rounds used. 22 remaining I believe.


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## знаток (Aug 18, 2005)

Vidal charges toward the far trailer, the distance seeming to lengthen as his worn muscles struggle to push him forward.  He focuses on the trailer and listens only for the voices of his comrades.  Over the din of discharging ammunition he hears a thud from his own body, feeling the pain only after a second or two, but still charging on.  His determination allows only one brief thought to enter his mind before resuming the task of reaching his destination, _I know Pyotr's aim is better than that._

Reflex Save (with no modifier due to fatigue):  1
Cool Check:  20+3+3=_26_

(The roll at the url for the reflex is wrong because I mistakenly took a -2 penalty to my roll vs. the attribute.)


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## The Shaman (Aug 18, 2005)

Pyotr: When I revised the Suppressing Fire rules, I forgot to include the “must hit DC 10” note – I rolled for Pyotr: 17. Good shooting!

Despite the sharp sting in his upper arm, Vidal doesn’t miss a step as he races through the whizzing bullets to the horse trailer on the far side of the farmyard, his heart savagely pumping adrenaline into his arteries. Damage: 3. The horse trailer provides nine-tenths cover until Vidal acts, three-quarters cover if he fires, throws a grenade, attempts a Spot check, _&c_. End of round 9.

Pyotr continues to blaze away at the wooden trailer where the rifleman conceals himself. Splinters fly as the rounds strike home – the Russian gets a glimpse of the man as he peeks out, then pulls back frantically to avoid the legionnaire’s bullets. In his peripheral vision Pyotr sees Nedjar crouching behind the service trailer, swinging his own weapon around and shooting in the direction of the farmhouse.

Inside the barn Sgt. Katsourianis strains to look outside from the open door of the barn. “They’re firing from the farmhouse,” Normand hears him say as the Frenchman peers through the dissipating smoke in the loft, seeing no movement amid the bulky sacks and crates stored above. Normand feels a hand on his arm, sees Sgt. Müller looking up at him. “Follow me,” he orders, striding out of the west door of the barn.

Marcel sees the _sergent-chef_ emerge, Normand a moment behind – “Doc! Find some cover!” he calls as the German _sous-officier_ and the _grenadier_ move up behind Ortu at the corner of the barn. Before the medic can react, a string of rifle shots – Syrovy, behind the goat shed, firing toward the rear of the farmhouse, followed a moment later by Cpl. Sembene.

At the corner of the barn, Ortu triggers a short burst toward the farmhouse as Sgt. Müller and Normand approach – he is answered by a gout of flame erupting from the front doorway, directed across the farmyard. “Lousy field of fire here,” he yells.

Behind the trailer Vidal hears bullets pinging off the metal walls and the ground, mixed with the squealing of the horse near the stable.

End of round 10. Initiative order beginning round 11:
*Pyotr 13*
NCOs (Müller, Katsourianis), _choc_ (Nedjar, Pamuk) 12
*Marcel, Vidal 8*
_Fellagha_ in house 7
MG (Sembène, Ortu, Syrovy, Asmussen) 4
_Fellagah_ at wooden trailer, *Normand 1*


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 18, 2005)

Pyotr shook his head as he sees Vidal make it to the next trailer. _Lucky Frenchman._ Then he sees Nedjar open fire past Pyotr's face towards the farmhouse. _They're all over the place! May as well keep that one from getting to Vidal._

FRA to continue keeping the fell behind the trailer under cover. 
To hit: Suppression Fire (1d20+2=18)
17 rounds remaining in clip. 

I was wondering about that rule. I had thought there was supposed to be a roll in there somewhere.


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## Barak (Aug 19, 2005)

Normand moves just far enough past the corner of the barn to get a clear view of the farmhouse, as he toggles a switch on his weapon.  Eyeing the situation, he thinks it over.

_Well, they wouldn't bring any hostages near the door anyway, that'd be just daft._

And so, having reassured himself, he fires a grenade, attempting to hit the doorway of the house.


OOC
I figure with minimal movement, I have a clear shot within 70'..  
to-hit:13
Damage:15 assuming anyone's there to be hit..


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## Bobitron (Aug 19, 2005)

Marcel waves a hand at Sgt. Müller in a half salute, then runs quickly along the side of the barn towards Pyotr. Reaching the Russian, he lays a hand on his shoulder. "Did you see if Vidal was hit? I couldn't tell from back there."

ooc: Double move to Pyotr.


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## знаток (Aug 20, 2005)

Vidal moves toward the rear of the trailer and pulls the pin from his grenade.  He glances back to the barn for situational awareness, then lets it cook for a two-count.  
_This is it hombre.  You charged out here into isolation.  Deal with it.  _
He's not aware of closing his eyes, but the second after he releases the grenade he can't remember seeing anything.  

Throw: 3+2(AP)
Damage: 2+1+5=8

I posted the individual die rolls for damage because I rolled 3d6, but I suspect that's wrong.  Just use what you want or, if the die are different, you can roll for me.


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## The Shaman (Aug 20, 2005)

A swell of automatic fire crashes over the farm. The clattering submachine gun in Pyotr’s hands peppers the trailer again, quick bursts that splinter the wood or ring off the metal pipes of the horse corral beyond. Nearby, Nedjar fires toward the farmhouse, a short burst, then moves around behind the trailer, swapping for a fresh magazine for his MAT-49. From somewhere to the left of Pyotr and Marcel, more automatic fire can be heard.

Across the farmyard Vidal moves behind the horse trailer and tosses his grenade at the man crouched near the corral. The explosive falls short and wide to the right, but it is close enough, sending metal splinters and dry earth through the air toward the hiding man. Damage 12 – fragmentation grenade damage is 4d6, rifle grenades 3d6.

He rises unsteadily to his feat and leaps for the corral fence, straight into Pyotr’s sights. Pyotr gets a ranged AoO on the fleeing man – remember this is separate from his actions in the next round. The attack is rolled normally. You can post it in the METAGAME thread if you like.

Vidal has no time to react to the effects of the grenade – he hears a loud report followed by the sound of metal on metal from the horse trailer beside him. Vidal: Spot check, please.

Behind the barn, Sgt. Müller grabs Normand’s shoulder. “Put a grenade on that doorway,” he orders. Normand aims and fires, the kick hard against his shoulder as he shoots directly rather than arcing the projectile, and a second blast, quick on the heels of Vidal’s grenade, shakes the front of the farmhouse. Wood splinters and glass breaks.

Müller wastes no time. “Follow me. Short run,” he says, gesturing toward the corner of the stone wall surrounding the farmhouse, opposite the barn. End of round 10 – really, I mean round 10 this time... :\


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 20, 2005)

"Did you see if Vidal was hit? I couldn't tell from back there."

"I'm not sure, but I think he got hit in the shoulder. Didn't seem to affect him though." Pyotr yelled above the din of the gunfire.

As if in reply, Vidal's grenade flushed out the _fell_ that the trailer was hiding and Pyotr's muzzle tracked the running man towards the fence, sending rounds flying into the dirt. The cloud of dust obscured Pyotr's vision enough to hide whether he hurt the man or not. 

Releasing the trigger, Pyotr decided to wait to see if the man moved again. 

AoO: +2 dex, -2 range increment
Attack of Opportunity (1d20=15)
Damage (2d6=4)
Ready action to fire again if the fell takes any action other than lie still.


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## Bobitron (Aug 20, 2005)

Marcel lifts his carbine in the direction of the running fell flushed out by Vidal's grenade. _I won't let his bravery go to waste._ He carefully aims through the thin smoke still rising from the explosive, bringing his front sight over the moving man. _Can't get a clear shot. Merde!_

"Pyotr, I'm going to Nedjar. You okay here on your own?", he asks rhetorically. 

Turning to the south, he runs to where Nedjar is ducked behind the cart and drops prone, swinging his rifle to the doors and windows of the farmhouse. "Nedjar, you all right?"

ooc: Hold my fire until I see movement at the farmhouse.


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## Barak (Aug 20, 2005)

Normand nods to himself as the grenade lands pretty much where he was aiming for.  Right after, Müller taps him on the shoulder, and gives his order.  Nodding to him this time, he follows as he switches his weapon back to rifle, keeping his weapon trained on the doorway of the farmhouse.


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## знаток (Aug 23, 2005)

With all the lead and explosives flying toward the fell, Vidal decides it would be best not to get any closer.  He leans against the corner of the trailer and aims his MAT-49 at in the direction of the fell, also ready to fire if the man isn't already incapacitated or submissive.  Chest heaving and ears ringing, he strains to see through the sweat falling from his brow and the dust from the assault.  "Throw down your rifle and you might live!" he yells.


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## The Shaman (Aug 23, 2005)

The man behind the trailer leaps up to make a break for the corral and steps straight into Pyotr’s burst. He crumples like a rag doll to the ground and is still. Pyotr studies the motionless figure, as does Vidal across the yard. The radioman shouts a warning - “Throw down your rifle and you might live!” – but there’s no response as Vidal seeks cover behind the horse trailer.

Behind the utility trailer, Nedjar has no time to answer Marcel’s question. “Radio, look out!” he yells as a sustained torrent of fire pours from his submachine gun – puffs of dust erupt from the walls around a window frame of the mud-brick building past where Vidal lies in wait. “Doc, put some cover fire on that window!” he says quickly. Marcel and Vidal: the window is in the square directly opposite Vidal's current position.

To the north of the barn, Sgt. Müller leads off, running quickly across the space between the barn and the stone wall, crouching behind the rock barrier. Normand hears a step behind him, followed by the voice of Manolo Sánchez. “I’ll cover you,” says the Spanish _légionnaire_, pointing his rifle at the house. Gripping his rifle, the Frenchman follows the _sergent-chef_ across the gap, taking a knee next to Müller when the German motions him to stay low. “Over the wall and find cover,” the platoon sergeant orders. Normand: DC 12 Jump check to get over the wall.


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## Barak (Aug 23, 2005)

_This is great..  I love leading assaults.  Yeah._

Normand nods once more, then holds his rifle in one hand, as he places the other on top of the wall to help himself vault over it.  At the last moment, his foot catches on the ledge, and it's all the man can do to keep himself from tripping and falling face-first into the courtyard.  

Having managed, however, he quickly makes his way to the dead tree in the corner, and kneels behind it, taking the doorway into his sights once more.


OOC
jump check: 12
Wee!


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 23, 2005)

Pyotr looks around, knowing that turning his back on an enemy he wasn't sure was dead would be suicide. Hearing Nedjar yell for Radio to get down, he knew also that there was more _fells_ still off in that direction. 

_Middleman_, Pyotr thought. _I hate being the middleman. Once the boys close the gap, any remaining fells will come running towards me._ Sighing Pyotr shuffled up to the corner of the barn so he could not only get a view of the farmhouse, but also keep in peripheral view the building where the _fell_ he dropped was. _Would be nice to have a machine gun for this._

 5 foot step (?) to move to the corner of the barn to get a better view while trying to remain behind cover. At least from any fire coming from the farmhouse.


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## знаток (Aug 24, 2005)

Pinned indefinitely, Vidal hunkers down behind the trailer.  He looks around at the legionnaires to the northwest and near the barn, trying to get a sense of where the fells are focusing their fire so he can plan his move to better cover.  He easily decides that he won't challenge the mud-brick gunman without support from his comrades, so he checks his wound while he waits for the suppressive fire from them.  

I assume the mud-brick building you're talking about is the gray one to the southeast?


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## Bobitron (Aug 24, 2005)

Marcel shifts to get a clear shot and opens up with his carbine, releasing a burst of rounds toward the window.

ooc: Attack roll is a 13.


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## The Shaman (Aug 25, 2005)

Pyotr shifts position slightly, moving toward the corner of the barn to get a better view of the farmhouse. Peeking around the corner he sees Burhan Pamuk break from cover inside the barn, running across the loading platform at the front of the barn, then hopping down and taking up a position behind the wall at the southwest corner of the farmhouse.

As Marcel raises his carbine and aims toward the house, David Nedjar breaks from cover as well, sprinting across the yard toward where Vidal lurks behind the trailer. Seeing Vidal picking at the torn sleeve of his uniform blouse, he asks “Are you hit? Are you alright?”

Pulling apart the tear, Vidal sees a shallow laceration – a bright red scratch, really. Some blood has run down his arm, but the wound appears superficial.

Marcel squeezes off several quick shots at the window of the brick building, scattering more dust from the mud walls. There is no sign of movement in the shadows beyond the narrow opening. The wooden door stands closed.

Laboriously hopping over the wall, Normand takes cover behind the dead oak, looking toward the farmhouse. As he watches, there is the sound of boots on twigs as Sgt. Müller comes over the wall and races across the yard to the corner of the house. The _sergent-chef_ looks back at Normand, first pointing to Normand, then to his eyes, and then to the windows along the front of the house. Normand: Spot check, please. Note that Normand is not visible on the map due to the tree branches.


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## Barak (Aug 25, 2005)

Normand once again nods to the sergeant in acknowledgment, and then carefully scans the doorway, and those windows visible from his spot, his rifle following the movement of his eyes.


OOC
Spot check: 14


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## Bobitron (Aug 25, 2005)

Marcel rushes back to Pyotr's position after looking across and seeing that Vidal seems to be in good shape.

ooc: Ammo 10/15/15, Hit points 9. Run, giving a +2 bonus to Defense, bringing Marcel to +3.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 25, 2005)

Pyotr will continue to watch the area. Sorry, not much to really post for him just watching....


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## знаток (Aug 26, 2005)

Nedjar said:
			
		

> “Are you hit? Are you alright?”



Vidal snickers at the sight of his wound.  "Thanks for stoppin' by Ned.  Yeah, I'm alright...though I don't feel so classically masculine for saying it's only a scratch."  He waves to Marcel as he sees him peek around the trailer to check on him.  He nods at his arm, then the mud-brick building.  "So did you just come to kiss my wound or are we gonna do something about this guy?  Seems I'm pretty useless as a radioman at the moment."  He draws his smoke grenade and peeks around the edge of the horse trailer at the building.

Spot Check: 19


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## The Shaman (Aug 26, 2005)

A quiet settles over the farm as grenade blasts and bursts of automatic fire die away – even the horse, panicked by the fire a short time ago, has settled to walking agitatedly around its corral. Pyotr takes in the farmyard, the legionnaires huddled behind the horse trailer, the body of the man lying on the ground near the corral.

At the horse trailer, Nedjar looks at the smoke grenade in Vidal’s hand, then across the yard to Pyotr. “Through the door, you look left, I’ll look right, _oui_?” he asks the radioman as he waves his arm, beckoning Pyotr to cross the yard to the trailer. Vidal inspects the façade of the brick building – there is one window to the north of the door, three to the south, all narrow slots in the wall. The wooden door looks sturdy enough, but not unusually so. There is no gun barrel protruding from the northernmost window now, no sign of movement at all in fact.

Standing behind the tree, Normand looks up at the windows on the farmhouse, the glass reflecting the sky or the setting sun – inside lace curtains prevent a view of the interior. As he looks down, he sees Sgt. Müller moving carefully along the front of the farmhouse toward the front porch and the door, past a stand of rose bushes with a handful of fading pink blooms. When he reaches the porch, he looks back and motions to Normand to come across.

At that moment there is a peal of submachine gun fire from the back the house, shattering the stillness again like an angry snarl. Looking north, Normand sees Cpl. Sembene go down in a heap as he races toward the stone wall from behind the goat pen.


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## Barak (Aug 26, 2005)

Hunched over to offer a smaller target, Normand jogs over to Sgt. Müller.  Seeing the question in the sergeant's eyes, Normand realizes that he couldn't see what had happened from here.

"Fell-fire from the back of the house.  Sembene went down.  We need to take them down quick so the doc can get to him, Sarge."


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## знаток (Aug 26, 2005)

Vidal nods again.  "Sounds good to me.  If we can't see he's down, you wanna flush him out before we actually go in?"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 27, 2005)

Pyotr quickly nods and books toward the trailer, nearly tripping over his boots as he hears the submachinegun clatter in the distance. Getting to the trailer, he looks at Nedjar and Vidal. "Going for the one in the shack over there?"


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## Bobitron (Aug 27, 2005)

Marcel reaches Pyotr just to have Nedjar wave him back. Hearing the rattle of the SMG from the farmhouse, he decides that the three men by the trailer can handle themselves and heads back toward the western edge of the barn.

ooc: Double move, next round I will run to where Amussen is.


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## знаток (Aug 28, 2005)

shadowbloodmoon said:
			
		

> Getting to the trailer, [Pyotr] looks at Nedjar and Vidal. "Going for the one in the shack over there?"



"That's right.  Not sure if a lucky shot put him down or what, but he's out of sight now.  I say a smokescreen for a fast approach, then take no chances...flush him out with a frag."


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## The Shaman (Aug 28, 2005)

Nedjar listens to Pyotr and Vidal, his face grim. “There could be innocents in there, too,” he replies. The _légionnaire première classe_ looks back toward the barn, then toward the brick building again – it’s clear he’s troubled by the choices. “Smoke, then go through the door hard and fast,” he says at last. “In case.” He doesn’t sound eager about the prospects.

As Marcel comes around the barn he hears a voice, but it’s silenced by the detonation of a grenade from the direction of the farmhouse. As the echoes die away, the voice returns – it’s Asmussen: “Medic! Medic!”

At the edge of the porch, Normand looks up at the damage caused by the rifle grenade – the narrow windows on either side of the door are shattered, and the wood doorframe is cracked and broken. Müller says nothing about Cpl. Sembène, merely whispers, “Look right and high as we go through the door. Go!” The German leaps up the stairs to enter the farmhouse.  Normand: Spot check as you enter the house, please.


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## Bobitron (Aug 28, 2005)

Marcel runs to Asmussen's position, fear of what he will find slowly building in his chest.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 31, 2005)

Pyotr nods in agreement to Vidal and Nedjar, preparing himself to make a run for the door. "Let's get this guy."

 As soon as the smoke pops, Pyotr will move as fast as he can towards one side of the doorway, as soon as Vidal is on the other side, he'll be ready to burst in.


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## Barak (Aug 31, 2005)

Trusting the sergeant to take care of the left side, Normand does as told as he enters the building, his rifle following his eyes as he scans.


OOC:
Spot check: 16


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## The Shaman (Sep 1, 2005)

*At the farmhouse*

Marcel races past the goat pen to where the Scandinavian _légionnaire_ behind the shed. Asmussen looks back and motions with his head, keeping his rifle trained on the space enclosed by the wall surrounding the farmhouse. “_Caporal_ Sembène is hurt,” he says in thickly accented French.

Peeking around the corner, Marcel sees the prostrate form of the Senegalese _sous-officier_ about ten meters away. Sembène isn’t moving even as Burhan Pamuk and Karel Syrovy are firing over the wall into the yard to the rear of the farmhouse.

Sgt. Müller hustles up the stone and concrete steps of the farmhouse, MAT-49 held low at the ready, and Normand follows close on the German’s heels. Coming through the doorway, Normand sees an entrance hallway and a stairway, with rooms opening to the left and right. Just inside the grenade-damaged doorway Normand notices a deep maroon stain has soaked the carpet runner.

The Frenchman is forced to his right immediately – just beyond the stain on the runner is a sideboard. The cabinet has been situated to provide cover from fire entering through the doorway – the cherry-stained walnut of the sideboard is pocked with bullet holes and splintered by grenade fragements.

Following the platoon sergeant’s orders, Normand looks up the stairs, then to the room on his right opening off the hallway. The stairs of the landing above are empty – as he looks right, he sees a dining table turned on its side – crouched behind the table is man, aiming a submachine gun at the legionnaires. A long tongue of flame erupts from the barrel as he fires. The roar is deafening inside the confines of the farmhouse. Normand: Reflex save (DC 15) to avoid autofire, +1 to save from cover provided by the sideboard.


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## знаток (Sep 2, 2005)

Vidal nods approval and tosses the smoke grenade toward the building, aiming to position it about 2/3 of the way to their destination (about a 60' ranged attempt).  Then he readies his weapon and waits for the smoke to accumulate.  

Smoke throw: 10+4 (AP)-12(?) for range = 2


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## Barak (Sep 2, 2005)

Ref Save:8
This post assumes I'm hit, but still standing.


As soon as Normand sees the fell, he's hit.

"_Batard de merde!_"

Dropping to one knee, Normand pulls out a grenade, seriously pissed-off, and attempts to throw it right under the shooter, taking cover behind the cupboard.


OOC
Drop to one knee, and try to lob a grenade over the cupboard
to-hit:4
Oh darn.
damage:19
Geez!  Will Normand kill himself with a grenade?  Stay tuned!


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## Bobitron (Sep 2, 2005)

Barak said:
			
		

> Geez!  Will Normand kill himself with a grenade?  Stay tuned!




ooc: Hold on, buddy! 

I'm going to hope that Pamuk and Syrovy's cover fire will keep me safe. _Mary, full of grace..._

Marcel takes a deep breath and runs around the corner to Sembène's still form. Falling prone next to him, he quickly turns him to get a face to face view, looking over his body for the injury and doing what he can to help.

ooc: Treat Injury 22


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## The Shaman (Sep 2, 2005)

Vidal’s smoke bomb flutters out of his hand like a dying quail, landing well-short of its mark. Striking the ground just ten or twelve meters distant, it immediately spills a grayish-white cloud about half-way between the legionnaires and the brick building hiding their assailant. Nedjar says nothing about the errant toss as the three paras wait long seconds for the cloud to grow, then says quickly, “I’ll go for the window and fire inside, then you two go in the door.” A few seconds pass as the smoke cloud gathers – “_En avant_!” he yells.

Breaking from cover, racing through the thick haze, boots thudding on the ground as they run, the three legionnaires charge across the yard to the brick building. There is no sign of movement as they approach the now-bullet marked façade of the low structure. Nedjar hits the wall next to the window where the gun barrel was seen as Vidal and Pyotr array themselves on either side of the door. The Algerian _légionnaire_ nods and pokes the barrel of his MAT-49 in the window, aiming high, and triggers a short burst through the narrow opening. Vidal and/or Pyotr: Strength check to open the door. If they work together, take the higher strength bonus and an additional +2 to the roll (for aiding another). Opening the door is an attack action – whoever opens the door cannot fire in the same round. If both of you attempt to force the door, then nether of you can attack in that round. Also, if you work together or if Pyotr takes a ready action, Pyotr’s initiative drops to the same count as Vidal’s. This post covers two rounds – one round waiting for the smoke cloud to grow, one to run to the building.

To the west of the farmhouse, Marcel jumps out from behind the goat pen and runs to where Babaye Sembène lies in the dirt. Carefully rolling him on the _sous-offficier_ on his back, Marcel sees a quantity of bloody mud clinging to the front of the _caporal-chef_’s uniform smock. Pulling open the wounded man’s fatigues, Marcel finds a bloody bullet hole in the legionnaire’s right chest – tearing open a dressing with his teeth, he presses it into place, hard, and with his other hand feels for a carotid pulse in Babaye’s neck. His fingers are rewarded with a very thin, very faint tapping from the artery. Sembène is stabilized. Additional checks are required to revive him and to restore hit points.

Normand and Sgt. Müller each duck for cover behind the sideboard in the hallway as bullets pour through the doorway, tearing up wood and plaster, shattering a framed photograph on the wall. The Frenchman feels a sudden stinging pain from his neck as he drops to one knee behind the wooden cabinet. The German _sergent-chef_ returns fire with his own submachine gun, his face a mask of cold fury, as Normand pulls a grenade from a pouch. Yanking the pin, he tosses it over the sideboard toward the overturned dining table.

The grenade arcs through the air, striking the top edge of the table and rebounding back toward Normand as it explodes. Normand: Damage 3 from the autofire. Reflex save (DC 15) for half-damage from the grenade blast, +3 to save from cover provided by the sideboard.


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## Bobitron (Sep 2, 2005)

"Asmussen! Pamuk! Syrovy!" Marcel calls out to the legionarres. "Keep up that covering fire! Sembène's alive, but I need some time!"

Marcel hurriedly tries to get the man ready to move. "Hold on, Babaye!" He reaches into the man's shirt and pulls out his golden cross, placing in Sembène's hand and clutching it to a closed position. Using a pair of small scissors, he cuts away the rest of the uniform to expose the wound, then starts to work.

ooc: Treat Injury to restore hp- 18, restoring 4.

Okay, this luck is just holding out too well...


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## Barak (Sep 3, 2005)

Come on..  Mamma needs new shoes!
Reflex save: 20
Wee!


First the bullet grazing his neck..  And then, adding insult (and injury!) to injury, his own grenade going off next to him, Normand really doesn't feel too good.  Luckily, at the last second, he realized what was happening, and avoided some of the blast.

"Merde!  Enfant de chienne de bordel de merde!"

Bloody from numerous wounds, his face itself a mask of his own blood, Normand, enraged, throws caution to the wind, and raising from behind the cabinet like a madman, fires at the fell.


OOC
Yeah, it's sorta dumb, but it's what Normand would do.
Move action= Stand up
Standard action, shoot: 13
damage, if hit: 8


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 3, 2005)

Shaking his head as he tromps through the smoky ground, Pyotr presses himself as close to the wall outside the door as possible. He sees Vidal on the other side and nods to him, silently counting to himself. _One... Two... Three...._ 

Nedjar's submachinegun tears up the inside and Pyotr turns to kick in the door. 

Between the two of us, I hope we can get this door down... It would look pretty bad if two legionnaires were defeated by a door...

Strength check (1d20=17)

I hope that's enough to let Vidal shoot of necessary.


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## The Shaman (Sep 5, 2005)

Reaching into his bag, Marcel withdraws a bottle of plasma, a length of tubing, and a needle. Cradling Babaye’s arm on his elbow, the medic’s fingers palpate the skin of the African’s wrist, feeling for the vein beneath the skin. Locating the ribbon-like vessel, he pinches the skin and slides the needle in – Marcel is rewarded by a blush of red in the tube, and holding the wire cage of the plasma bottle in his teeth, opens the stopcock to let the life-giving plasma flow into the unconscious man. He reaches for a gauze bandage to secure the blood-stained dressing on the _caporal_’s chest.

Pyotr pushes against the door and feels the latch spring, sending the door crashing inward, and Vidal steps through immediately, submachine gun poised to fire. The interior of the building is shadowy, but not so dark that the radioman can’t see a man with a shotgun in his hands directly opposite the door. He raises the shotgun to fire at the legionnaires but not before Vidal can squeeze the trigger of the MAT-49. A scarlet flower appears on the man’s shirt, just above the line of his belt. Attack 18, damage 10.

The man howls, a mix of anger and pain, as he pulls the trigger – the shotgun roars, and Vidal feels a blow on his thigh. Damage 4.

Inside the farmhouse Normand can hear little but feel much as the grenade explodes, sending metal fragments, splinters of wood and chunks of plaster crashing into his body. Bleeding and bruised, he nonetheless stands and aims his rifle. On the floor behind the broken table lies the body of a man, covered in blood, the submachine gun lying next to him. Normand doesn’t hesitate for a moment, sending a bullet into the man’s chest. The body remains motionless as a new wound adds to the damage done.

Normand feels a hand on his arm – it’s Sgt. Katsourianis. “Easy, _légionnaire_,” he says – to the battered Frenchman the _sergent_ sounds as if he’s speaking from the bottom of a deep well. “Sit down, Mador,” he continues, supporting Norman’s muscular arm. The Greek _sous-officier_ reaches for a first aid kit. No map this time.


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## Bobitron (Sep 5, 2005)

With Babaye stabilized, Marcel considers his next act as the plasma starts to flow. _Hmmm... let's get him awake first._ Speaking softly, he shakes the African and pats his cheek. "Come on, Babaye. Time to get out of here." When the injured man doesn't respond, Marcel raises his voice.

"Sembène! Up up up! We need to move you!"

ooc: Treat Injury to awaken is a 15. If that Treat Injury check isn't needed, let me know. I'll do something else this round.


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## Barak (Sep 5, 2005)

Normand sits heavily on the ground, his back to the cabinet and his weapon cradled in his lap.

"That's..  A good idea, sarge.  Always wanted to know what a grenade felt like, you know.  It..  hurts."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 5, 2005)

The blur of activity surrounded Pyotr. Vidal's shots hit the _fell_, but didn't cause enough damage to drop him. In response, the _fell_ let buckshot fly into Vidal's leg. _Checking on him will have to wait,_ Pyotr thought as he lifted to muzzle of his gun to fire a burst into the man with the shotgun.

Firing a short burst into the man.
To Hit: +2 (1d20=20)
Damage (2d6=7)

I think that was supposed to be a Nat 20 up there, but I believe I filled in the wrong field for the bonus to hit. I'll let you confirm it, Shaman.

If he goes down, Pyotr will put his boot on the man's firing arm and put one round into his head, for good measure, scanning the room for more after. If he doesn't go down, Pyotr will then, if close enough, try to knock him down with a bull rush.


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## The Shaman (Sep 6, 2005)

The MAT-49 jerks in Pyotr’s hands, and the man drops the shotgun – hands clutching at his throat, blood seeping through his fingers, he sinks to the floor beside the wall, eyes staring blankly at the two paras. Vidal swings the barrel of his own weapon down the length of the room, his gaze probing the shadows.

The interior of the brick building is one long room – to the left is a table and chairs, a wood stove with a stack of cut fuel nearby, a sink, and an icebox, to the right a double-row of blanket-draped beds, each with its own storage trunk and nightstand, and another wood stove. On a shelf over the sink, along with several tins of Samar coffee, is a transistor radio, a cord stretching out a window at the rear of the building.

Vidal spots movement in the southeast corner – a man, sitting on the floor, crowded back against the walls with his knees drawn up to his chest. He locks eyes with Vidal and throws his arms straight in the air, crying, “Please, don’t shoot!”

Marcel quickly rubs his knuckles across the African’s sternum, and Babaye stirs slightly then opens his eyes, blinking several times. “_Mon Dieu_,” he gasps weakly, then grimaces. “Am I going to die?” he asks between clenched teeth.

Around the farmhouse the gunfire and explosions have stopped. From the dining room smoke and dust billow through shattered windows and into the hallway where the legionnaires crouch. Sgt. Müller keeps watch through the haze as Sgt. Katsourianis checks over Normand. “Babaye’s hit, Kat – doc is with him,” Müller tells the Greek _sergent_. Katsourianis registers the comment with a nod and scowl.

“David and the replacements killed one, and they were taking more fire from that brick house on the right,” answers the Greek, carefully opening Normand’s smock. “Ortu is covering the stable with Sánchez. How bad is Babaye? We need the doc for this one.” He pats Normand on the thigh, carefully. “Hold on, _légionnaire_, and we’ll get you some real help.”


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## Bobitron (Sep 6, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Marcel quickly rubs his knuckles across the African’s sternum, and Babaye stirs slightly then opens his eyes, blinking several times. “_Mon Dieu_,” he gasps weakly, then grimaces. “Am I going to die?” he asks between clenched teeth.




"You'll be fine, Babaye. Try to move on your own. They might need my help inside." Marcel pats the man on the head softly. "Go back to Asmussen. He's back there. Not far, you should be okay. If you can't make it, just stay put and we'll collect you soon."

Marcel quickly gathers his gear and gets to his feet, crouching to keep from giving too much of a target. He rushes toward the wall, following Pamuk toward the house's entrance. Reaching out with a hand, he attempts to vault over the wall the same way he saw Normand do it earlier.

ooc: Jump check is a 7.


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## Barak (Sep 6, 2005)

Still cradling his weapon, Normand attempts to grin at Sgt. Katsourianis.

"I'm..  Pretty sure it's just flesh wounds.  Thing is, there's a..  Whole lot of them."


OOC:
Note that this isn't a comment on the HP system, just Normand trying to make light of his injury.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 6, 2005)

Pyotr turns to look as Vidal finds another person in the room. "Make sure he doesn't have a gun too Vidal," he says offhandedly. He then kicks the shotgun away from the slumped body and leans down to check the man's pulse. Remembering the radio, he calls out to Nedjar. _Premiere_, you may want to get in here."


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## The Shaman (Sep 6, 2005)

The shotgun rattles across the rough wooden floor as Pyotr reaches down to check the pulse of the Arab slumped against the wall, submachine gun pointed at the man’s head for good measure. There is no pulse in the Arab’s neck, but this is no surprise to the Ukrainian as blood pumps from the wound in the man’s throat, staining his denim work shirt a bright crimson. He looks to be in his late twenties, dressed like many of the farmhands that Pyotr has seen working the fields and orchards around Portemonte – his hands are brown and rough, a worker’s hands, something the former partisan knows well.

In the far corner the second man, dressed similarly to the first, continues to cower in the corner, pleading for his life. “Please don’t kill me!” he says, holding out his empty hands in supplication. “Please, I had nothing to do with this! Please!” Vidal moves toward him, the MAT-49 trained on the man’s heart. As he approaches, his thigh throbbing, the radioman sees another body, then another, lying between the bunks – blood stains the floorboards from their slashed throats as they lie as still as statues, their eyes wide and unmoving. “Get down on the floor, now!” orders Vidal. “Face down! _Plus vite!_” Trembling, the man sinks to his hands and knees, then prostrates himself of the floor, arms outstretched, still beseeching mercy from the paras.

David Nedjar appears at the door. “Are you both all right?” he asks. He looks at the dying man in the floor, then at Vidal and his prisoner, and then the bodies between the bunks, and shakes his head slightly.

Normand sees a shadow in the doorway of the farmhouse – Burhan Pamuk. His bushy eyebrows furrow slightly when he sees Normand on the floor. Sgt. Katsourianis looks up. “Anyone else hit?” he asks, clearing the blood away from Normand’s face with a dressing.

“Babaye. Doc is with him.” the Turk replies. He looks around at the destruction impassively, like he might read an advertisement in a bus depot. “Syrovy got one with a submachine gun. Out back.”

“We need to clear the rest of the house,” orders Sgt. Müller. “Pamuk, you’re with me. Kat, watch that landing upstairs.” With a tilt of his head, the German heads into the room where the gunner lies on the floor, Pamuk behind him.

As Normand sits on the floor, he has a chance to take stock of his injuries. Somewhere on his head there is a bloody gash, judging from the amount of blood in his eyes. There is a pain in his neck and shoulder – both are bloody but he’s able to move his arm and fingers. The motion brings a spasm of pain to his arm and side, however. He tastes dust and smoke in his mouth.

Glancing about the _grenadier_ sees the torn and smoldering wallpaper exposed to the blast. Framed photos once hanging on the wall now lie in broken frames on the floor of the entryway, knocked loose by the concussion and metal fragments and the pieces of plaster generated by the two grenade blasts. At his feet is the maroon stain on the carpet that he noted on the way in. Normand: Please make an untrained Knowledge check – add your INT bonus to the roll and a +2 circumstance modifier as well.

Marcel hands the plasma bottle and IV tubing to Babaye and directs the wounded legionnaire to hold it up to keep it flowing,  before grabbing his medic’s bag and heading for the house. Syrovy is crouched by the stone wall, rifle pointed toward the farmhouse. The medic reaches the wall, places a hand on the top, and vaults over – then finds himself face down on the ground on the other side, his beret falling off, his carbine barrel striking him in the back of his head. Recovering, he looks over toward Syrovy, sees the Hungarian shaking his head slightly, a smirk on his face. Marcel also sees a body, an Arab in work clothes, bloody and motionless, lying on the ground near a couple of fruit trees along the back wall. Gathering his gear, the Frenchman rises and makes his way carefully to the front of the house.

It’s a scene of considerable devastation – the entry of the once-tidy farmhouse is covered with pieces of wood and plaster and glass, and smoke and dust swirl through a series of shattered windows to the east. Inside he sees Normand seated on the floor amid the wreckage, covered in dust and blood, leaning against a piece of battered furniture placed across the hallway. Sgt. Katsourianis is next to him, his submachine gun pointed toward the stairs. “How’s Babaye, Doc?” the _sergent_ asks.


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## Barak (Sep 7, 2005)

Normand, not having much else to do, sits there bleeding and looking around. 


Int check: 18


He then hears footsteps, turns his rifle towards the doorway, but decides not to shoot when he sees it's Marcel.

"Hey Doc.  I hear we got a wounded."


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## Bobitron (Sep 7, 2005)

Marcel stands up emabarrased from his fall and responds to Syrovy's smirk with a shameful smile. Rushing into the house, his figure is framed in the doorway as Sgt. Kat speaks.



			
				The Shaman said:
			
		

> “How’s Babaye, Doc?” the _sergent_ asks.




"He needs to get into hospital. He's hit badly, but I think I was there quickly enough to save him. Out of the fight, for certain."

He returns Normand's comment with a quick "Smart ass!" and his trademark grin. "Stop getting shot and blown up, okay? Doctor's orders." Opening his bag again, he searches for gauze to stop the bleeding. Inspecting the wounds, he sighs and gets to work. 

ooc: Treat Injury is a 17.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 7, 2005)

Pyotr absolently nods at David's question. He was busy looking at his own hands, comparing them to the ones belonging to the man that was certain to die. It was one thing to kill a man at long range, but this... Pyotr slowly regained his feet, looking to where Vidal found more bodies, time slowing for him. He looked down at his submachinegun, then at Nedjar, who seemed to be reading his mind.

"I'm.. fine. Vidal got grazed in the leg I think. We got bodies over there too," he nods towards the ones in the bunks. "There is a radio there too, but I'm not sure if it's for comms or not." He then stands back to allow the _premiere_ to get a closer look.


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## The Shaman (Sep 8, 2005)

Nedjar looks down at the bodies with disgust. “Throats slashed. That’s typical.” He looks over to where Vidal waits with his prisoner. “I’m going to check in with Sgt. Kat. See what you can find here and stay alert.” The Algerian para steps to the door and peeks out carefully, searching the farm yard before heading out.

Vidal holds the MAT-49 to the back of the man’s neck as he pats him down. The Arab has grown quiet and still as the Portuguese para stands over him. Reaching a pocket of the man’s dungarees, Vidal withdraws a large folding knife – there is blood on the handle and the blade. As he bends down, he sees something else as well – under one of the beds a couple of meters away, a rifle. Search and Spot checks 14 each (taking 10).

Marcel looks over Normand. The big man is covered in blood and dust. A shell fragment, or a piece of glass perhaps, has laid open Normand’s scalp just above his right eye – the wound is shallow but like all head wounds bled profusely. Working his way down the medic finds another laceration on Normand’s neck – the wound is shallow but without the ragged edges of the scalp lac, suggesting a bullet rather than a something jagged. It too has bled profusely but not as badly as it could have – a couple of centimeters toward midline and the round would have severed the carotid artery.

There are some minor cuts and scrapes on Normand’s face and arms, but it’s under his arm that Marcel finds the most serious wound – a large shell fragment, buried in the tissue of the latissimus. Pulling a pair of forceps from his kit, the medic carefully withdraws the chunk of iron, covers the wound with a dressing, and wraps a bandage around Normand’s chest and shoulder to hold it in firmly place. He then sets about cleaning up the lesser wounds. Normand recovers 3 HP.

As Marcel works, Normand studies the discoloration on the carpet in the entryway. The boxer has seen enough blood stains to recognize this one – more than that, he realizes that this particular bloodstain is a couple of hours old.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 8, 2005)

Pyotr nods as Nedjar leaves and then begins to search the room for something to tie up the prisoner with. "Keep him there for a moment, Vidal. I'll see if I can find something to keep him occupied."


Taking 10 to Search the room for rope or something.


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## Barak (Sep 10, 2005)

Normand grins at Marcel once the doc starts putting his stuff away.

"Starting to know me too well, eh doc?  I'll try and be more careful.  Thanks."

Growing more serious, he adresses Sgt. Katsourianis.

"I don't think there's much need to worry 'bout hostages, sarge.  That blood is some hours old.  We should let the others know."


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## Bobitron (Sep 10, 2005)

Marcel finishes his work with Normand and stands, wiping an arm across his brow. "I'm somewhat serious, Normand. Be more cautious. I'm not one to critique your throwing arm after my tosses in the desert last time, but damn, that was close. You could have killed yourself!", he chided.

He looks out the door to see if Babaye has moved to safety yet, then looks to Sgt. Kat expectantly for orders.


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## The Shaman (Sep 13, 2005)

“I don't think there's much need to worry 'bout hostages, sarge.  That blood is some hours old.  We should let the others know,” Normand tells Sgt. Katsourianis as Marcel finishes treating the _grenadier_’s wounds.

The Greek glances at the stain on the carpet in the entry, then returns his attention to the upstairs landing – he says nothing but his face is grim.

Satisfied at last that Normand isn’t going to bleed out from his wounds, Marcel steps outside toward the front wall, to check on his other patient. He is almost bowled over by David Nedjar as the Algerian runs through the gateway and ducks behind the wall. “Hey Doc, that stable hasn’t been cleared yet,” he says, motioning with his submachine gun. “Watch yourself.” Nedjar studies the stable for a moment, then looks back at the farmhouse, the broken glass, the wood splinters and the plaster chunks. His eyebrows rise slightly, then he continues “I’m looking for the _sergent_.” Told that Kat is inside the farmhouse, he nods and bounds up the steps.

Marcel looks back toward the goat pen and sees Asmussen supporting Babaye with his shoulder as they move slowly back toward the small shed, the Scandinavian holding the plasma bottle aloft, the Senegalese leaning heavily on the legionnaire.

In the bunkhouse, Vidal keeps the barrel of the MAT-49 aimed at the back of the Arab’s head. “You move and your dead,” he says simply, clearly. He raises his voice slightly. “Pyotr, there’s a rifle on the floor under this bed, and I pulled a bloody knife outta this guy’s pocket.”

Pyotr rummages around the stove and the icebox, finding a small spool of thick wire on a shelf. Pyotr: I’ll make your Use Rope/Dex check to secure the prisoner for you - no need to roll. I’m adding a +4 circumstance modifier to your check, FYI.

Sitting on the floor of the entrance hall in the farmhouse, Normand sees Nedjar come through the damaged doorway. The Algerian’s eyes open wide as he sees the big Frenchman covered in blood and bandages. “_Sergent_” he says, acknowledging Kat, then looks again at Normand. “Hand to G_d, you are a sight, Mador,” he announces. Before he can continue, Sgt. Müller appears through the far doorway to the dining room, stepping over the corpse of the Arab.

The German _sergent-chef_’s face is expressionless. “Doc!” he calls out, and Marcel, at the front steps, hustles inside. “Come with me,” says Müller peremptorily. Sgt. Müller leads the medic through the blasted dining room and over the battered body of the Arab, through the doorway beyond. Nedjar watches as they go, then gives his report to Kat – four dead including two combatants, one prisoner, Gaspard slightly wounded, the stable as yet unsecured. Katsourianis listens and replies, “It’s getting dark. Get the prisoner back to the barn with Silvio and Manolo, then take Nedjar and Gaspard to clear the stable.” He glances at his watch. “Get it done quickly – I’ll be along as soon as we’re done here.” Nedjar turns and bustles out the door again.

Kat looks at Normand. “How are you doing? Can you move?” he asks.

Passing through the doorway, Marcel follows Sgt. Müller into the farmhouse kitchen. Pamuk is there, leaning against a counter, rolling a cigarette. To the left is an open doorway – through the doorway an electric light illuminates a set of stairs leading down. “The _colons_,” Müller says, his voice emotionless. He tilts his head toward the stairs.

Stepping through the doorway, Marcel descends a creaking stairway lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling - a second light shines from a fixture in the basement below. The stench of blood is immediate. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Marcel see four bodies lying on the packed earth floor, the tan soil dark and discolored around each still figure. One is a man in his mid-forties, stocky, mustached. He lies on his back, his mouth and eyes open, the front of his shirt torn. Beside him is a younger man, late teens perhaps, laying face down, his head turned to one side away from Marcel. Beyond the two men is a woman, late thirties, bottle-blond, in a simple floral-print dress once cream-colored but now stained the color of old wine. The last body is huddled in a corner, a young girl, fourteen or fifteen at most, her head tilted at an awkward angle, long brown hair hanging over her face.

Marcel stares at the last figure for a moment, puzzled by the odd position of her head – as his eyes adjust to the shadows in the corner he realizes that her throat has been slashed from ear to ear, nearly severing her head from her body and canting it over her shoulder. The other bodies display similar injuries.


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## Barak (Sep 13, 2005)

Normand uses his rifle as a cane to gingerly help himself stand up, and then he takes a few careful steps.

"I..  I reckon so, sarge.  Wouldn't wanna get in a fistfight just yet, but I should be alright to move around some.  Damn I feel dumb, though."

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he stands at attention, ready to be ordered.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 13, 2005)

Pyotr brings the wire over to the Arab that Vidal has covered. "He moves, kill him."

He then proceeds to tie the man up as best he can with the wire, then grabs the rifle that Vidal mentioned was under the bed. Taking it over to where the shotgun was, he stacks both in a corner, away from the front door or any other entrance. "Keep the knife, Sarge may want to see it. You want to check this radio? See if it goes anywhere special?"

Not sure how long that will take but after all that, I want to search the room for more weapons, after that take a closer look at the bodies.


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## Bobitron (Sep 13, 2005)

Marcel smiles his thanks to Nedjar as he peeks out the door, careful to watch for movement at the stable. Seeing Asmussen supporting Babaye, he nods his head with a satisfied expression and turns back into the room as Sgt. Müller calls for him. _Uh oh. This doesn't bode well for what I will find._ 

Walking down the stairs, Marcel covers his nose with an arm as he descends. _Merde, the stench._ Reaching the floor, he notes the wound on the young girl with disgust, then quickly and angrily checks the other bodies. Once finished, he slowly makes his way upstairs, suddenly weary with the weight of what he has seen, his eyes smoldering with a desire to see justice done.

"You don't need me to tell you they are all dead, Sergent." He spits on the floor, eager to get the taste of bile out of his mouth. Glancing over at Pamuk, still smoking, he lights his own Galouise. _Good idea,_ he thinks. He looks out the window, noting the rapidly dimming horizon. "It's getting dark. We should wrap this up and get back, or start planning to spend the night." Throwing the half-finished cigarette onto the floor, he swears softly to himself, too softly to hear the words, as he stomps it out with a booted foot. "If I find the bastards who did this, Sergent..." The end of his statement trails off, but there is no doubt as to his intent. 

He pulls out another cigarette and puts it in his mouth, not even bothering to light it.  "What's going on out there? I heard gunfire; a shotgun?"


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## The Shaman (Sep 14, 2005)

Pyotr wraps the wire several times about the man’s wrists, then twists the ends together to hold it in place. The Arab resumes his appeals as the _légionnaire_ binds him. “Please, it’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything. Please. They’ll blame me.” He cranes his neck, trying to catch Pyotr’s eye as he speaks. A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead.

"Keep the knife, Sarge may want to see it. You want to check this radio? See if it goes anywhere special?" Pyotr asks Vidal. “In a minute,” the radioman replies, sitting on the edge of bed. “Cover him for a moment.” He tugs at the small rip in the thigh of his pants, finds a tiny hole in his thigh where the shotgun pellet entered. The marks is small, and feeling around his thigh he can find no exit wound – _the pellet is still in there_, he thinks glumly. There is a little blood, but not much. _Two close calls_. He picks up his MAT-49 again, trains it on the Arab.

“Get on your knees and stay there,” he orders. The man whimpers as he brings himself to a kneeling position. “Please, I don’t want to die. I didn’t do anything...”

Pyotr reaches under the bed to retrieve the rifle. The bolt-action is reminiscent of the many Mausers he’s seen – the rifle is old but well-kept. Stamped at the base of the barrel are the words, _FABRICA DE ARMAS OVIEDO 1915_. He walks it back over to the door and places the rifle and the shotgun together, then begins to search through the bunkhouse. Flipping open cabinets and trunks, the Ukrainian finds what one might expect among farm hands – work clothes, a few tools, traditional Arab clothing folded neatly away, a couple of sturdy pocket knives but no guns. Four of the trunks by the beds are nearly empty – what contents remain appear disturbed, as if hastily gone-over.

He turns his attention to the bodies next. Both men are dressed in European work clothes, though it appears that one was wearing the woven knit caps that Pyotr has seen on Arab men wherever he’s gone in Algeria. Looking at the positions of the bodies, he notes that both have their legs tucked under them, as if perhaps they were kneeling before they died. A handful of flies attracted to the blood buzz fitfully as Pyotr searches the bodies – both of the men have strings of beads tucked in pockets, and one carries a small pocket knife.

Vidal yanks the prisoner up from the floor, and pushes him toward the door. Reaching the entrance again, he pushes the man down on his knees, facing him toward the wall, away from the door. The Arab’s pleas become more strident, imploring the legionnaire not to kill him, insisting on his innocence. “_Fermez la bouche!_” Vidal orders sharply. Moving so that he can keep his eyes on the Arab, he approaches the transistor radio the shelf. It’s an Oceanic Surcouf – he recalls seeing an almost identical radio belonging to one of the jumpmasters in the parachute barn in Blida, apparently a popular model. A makeshift antenna aerial extends out one of the windows. Flipping the switch reveals only static. Vidal shuts the radio off.

There’s a soft call, “Take care, it’s David”, from just outside the door. There’s a pause, then Nedjar pokes his head in, looks over the prisoner, the guns, and the legionnaires. “Kat wants us to clear that stable before it gets any darker. Find anything important?”

“I…I reckon so, sarge.  Wouldn't wanna get in a fistfight just yet, but I should be alright to move around some.  Damn I feel dumb, though.” Katsourianis looks Normand over, then jerks his head in the direction of the stairs. “Let’s clear the first floor,” he replies. “Follow me.” He glances back as the pair start up the stairs. “And no grenades this time, understood?”

The two creep up to the landing as quietly as the creaking stairs will allow and carefully work their way from door to door, Kat leading and Normand covering. To the west are two bedrooms – one is clearly a young man’s room, from the décor of football pictures, trophies and ribbons. The other has two twin beds and pink floral wallpaper – dolls and a dollhouse, pinned-up fashion photos from _Paris-Match_, and a dressing table with a large mirror and a collection of hair ribbons and combs. Neither room appears disturbed, allowing for the clothing on the floor in the girls’ room.

A linen closet and a bathroom are the next two rooms – in the bathroom the legionnaires find traces of blood around the wash basin, and on the floor are a pile of damp towels, once white but now stained pink.

Finally they enter the master bedroom to the east. Immediately Kat stops on hearing the crunch of broken glass beneath his feet and both men pause as they search the deepening gloom. The room is silent and at last they move forward and learn that the glass came from the shattered doors of a gun display case. The case is empty – only a few cartridges and shotgun shells remain, scattered about the floor. Satisfied that the rooms are empty, the pair returns downstairs, meeting Burhan Pamuk at the bottom of the stairs.

“The farmer and his family are dead. Throats cut.” the Turk informs them quietly. Kat nods and turns to Normand. “Go get Sánchez and bring the truck up – he’s in the barn with Silvio. Keep your eyes open – that stable on the other side of the yard hasn’t been secured yet.” He turns to back to Pamuk. “Where’s Babaye? And where’s my radio?”

"If I find the bastards who did this, Sergent..." Marcel pulls out another cigarette and puts it in his mouth, not even bothering to light it.  "What's going on out there? I heard gunfire; a shotgun?" Müller listens to Marcel without comment. “Pamuk, search that body over there. We need to collect the weapons,” the German says. As the Turk moves into the dining room, Müller looks Marcel in the eye.

“I asked you to check on them so that when I’m debriefed for the after-action report I can say truthfully that my first action on discovering the bodies of the _colons_ was to summon a medic.” His gaze bores into Marcel’s for a moment, then he looks away. “As far as finding who did this - ” he tilts his head in the direction of the body on the floor in the dining room. “That’s done. Even if it’s not. Understand?”

He glances out the window. “Finding a couple of killers means nothing, Fortier. Four dead _colons_, three dead gendarmes, at least four wounded legionnaires, and for what? To kill three or four guys and recover a couple of machine pistols?” Müller shakes his head, a grim smile on his face. “Not very good odds for us in the long run, is it?” He looks Marcel straight in the eye. “This was a waste of time and good men, doc, nothing more.” he says flatly.


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## Bobitron (Sep 14, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> He glances out the window. “Finding a couple of killers means nothing, Fortier. Four dead _colons_, three dead gendarmes, at least four wounded legionnaires, and for what? To kill three or four guys and recover a couple of machine pistols?” Müller shakes his head, a grim smile on his face. “Not very good odds for us in the long run, is it?” He looks Marcel straight in the eye. “This was a waste of time and good men, doc, nothing more.” he says flatly.




"Yes, Sergent." Looking Marcel in the face, Müller can see that his opinion hasen't changed in the least amount. He takes a breath and opens his mouth as if to speak, then thinks better of it and stays silent for a moment, lighting his cigarette. "Do this for me, Sergent Müller. Keep the other men away from the basement. They don't need to see that..." He searches for the right words, shaking his head. "...barbarous scene. I'll clean things up down there. Please, sir?"


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## The Shaman (Sep 14, 2005)

Müller smiles without warmth. “They’ve seen worse. So will you, if you have the stomach for being a legionnaire,” he replies darkly. The platoon sergeant glances out the window. The sun has dipped behind the hills and the colors of the farm are leaking away into the gathering darkness. “No one else goes down there until the _gendarmerie_ arrive in any case.”

Müller looks back to Marcel. “What’s our full count of wounded? How serious is Babaye’s condition?”


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## Barak (Sep 14, 2005)

Normand makes his way to the barn, and he can't help but to grin as the men there react to his apperance.

"Yeah, so I've had a bad day.  Just don't piss me off more, will ya?  Sanchez, with me, the sarge wants the truck brought up."

As Sanchez gets ready to go with him, Normand takes the time to cut and light a cigar.

"Now _that_'s nice.  Alright then, let's go."


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## Bobitron (Sep 14, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Müller smiles without warmth. “They’ve seen worse. So will you, if you have the stomach for being a legionnaire,” he replies darkly. The platoon sergeant glances out the window. The sun has dipped behind the hills and the colors of the farm are leaking away into the gathering darkness. “No one else goes down there until the _gendarmerie_ arrive in any case.”
> 
> Müller looks back to Marcel. “What’s our full count of wounded? How serious is Babaye’s condition?”




"Whether they've seen worse or not, there's no need to see it again." He retorts. "Err... sir."

He turns and looks out the window again, peering at the sky. "Bayabe will be okay once he gets to hospital. He's hit bad in the chest. Out of the fight. You could prop him up in a doorway or window or something, but that's about it. I saw Vidal get hit when he crossed the courtyard to go after that running fell, but he's not in bad shape. It'll only take me a minute or two to get him bandaged up. Sgt. Katsourianis took a bullet, but his pistol took the brunt of it. I'll need to look closer. There might be a broken bone, and I'm certain there's some serious bruising. You know about Normand." He once again looks out the window.

"Sir, I assume we are waiting here until the _gendarmerie_ show up? We should start setting up for a long night." He salutes and motions to the door. "I'll go check on Vidal now, unless..."


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## The Shaman (Sep 14, 2005)

Sánchez and Ortu stare at Normand as he approaches across the farmyard. “Yeah, so I've had a bad day.  Just don't piss me off more, will ya?  Sanchez, with me, the sarge wants the truck brought up,” says the Frenchman.

“And what am I supposed to do?” replies Ortu. “Sit here with my thumb in my arse until the end of my contract?” He shakes his head disgustedly. “The _sergent_ hates me, that’s what it is. He hates me.” The Sardinian looks at Normand again. “What the devil happened in there, anyway?”

Sánchez chimes in, “I heard someone calling for a medic. Was that for you, or was someone else hit?”


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## The Shaman (Sep 14, 2005)

The _sergent-chef_ returns Marcel’s salute. “He should be with Nedjar, clearing the stable over there. Find out if he’s in radio contact with the _lieutenant_.”


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## Bobitron (Sep 14, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> The _sergent-chef_ returns Marcel’s salute. “He should be with Nedjar, clearing the stable over there. Find out if he’s in radio contact with the _lieutenant_.”




"Oui, Sergent." Marcel moves quickly outside, hoping to reach the legionnaires before they start clearing the stables. As he runs, he takes a mental inventory of his medkit. _I'll need some clean linens from the closet before this night is over, I just know it._


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## Barak (Sep 14, 2005)

Normand grins broadly at Ortu.

"Look at me, you dumb italian, if he hated you, he'd send ya with me!"

His grin fading, he adresses Sanchez's question.

"Well, Sergeant Katsourianis got hit before we even made it to the house, and it's pretty bad, but the doc sorta fixed him up.  Then some fell bastard shot me in there, and I sorta fell on a grenade, afterwards.  But he's dead now."

Spitting some blond on the ground, he continues.

"Alright, enough bull_merde_, let's go get that truck.  I need to get ready for a boxing match."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 14, 2005)

It's all Pyotr can do to keep from hitting the pleading man in the back of the head with the butt of his submachinegun. He is relieved when Nedjar peeks his head, taking his attention away from the pathetic creature in the doorway. 

"Just those bodies and him." He almost spits out the last word. "I stacked the two weapons in the corner. Vidal here looks like he caught some shot in the leg. Might want to get Doc over here while we clear out the stable." 

He turns, looking at Vidal. "You good, Vidal?"


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## The Shaman (Sep 14, 2005)

Ortu seems anything but mollified, muttering expletives under his breath as the Frenchman and the Spaniard set off across the wheat field for the truck. “A bad business, this,” Sánchez says as they walk. “The farmer?” he asks. On hearing the answer he frowns.

As the legionnaires reach the truck, Sánchez looks over Normand again. “You need to take care of yourself,” he says. “We can help each other, but you must stay healthy.” He pulls back a flap of canvas. “It’s the legionnaires, Jean. How are you?”

The _gendarme_’s voice sounds hollow from the back of the truck. “I’m all right. What happened? I heard grenades.” Sánchez gives the wounded policeman a quick summary as Normand climbs in the passenger seat. Finally the Spanish legionnaire settles in behind the wheel, starts the truck, and backs along the road to the curve to the north. “We can’t move those other vehicles until the _gendarmerie_ arrive,” he explains.  “We’ll have to cut across this field.” He snaps on the headlights to cut through the gloom. “Keep an eye out for me, will you? Make sure I’m not driving into a ditch or something?” Normand: DC 10 Drive check to aid Sánchez, please.

“I’ll manage,” Vidal replies. Nedjar shakes his head. “Take the prisoner over to the barn and find the doc,” the Algerian says. “We’ll take care of the stables.” He looks at the rifle and the shotgun leaning against the wall. “Take those, too, and give them to Ortu.”

Nedjar turns his attention back to Pyotr. “It’s going to be pretty dark in there. Ortu is covering the west door with the machine gun – we’ll go in through the east. Vidal, let Silvio know what we’re doing. Any questions?”

Vidal appears about to object, then reconsiders and reaches for the prisoner instead, dragging him roughly to his feet. “Let’s go,” he says. “Not a sound or you’re dead.” The Arab shakes his head mutely. The two cross the yard at a jog. As they reach the barn they see Ortu ensconced behind a couple of crates just inside the doorway. Before Vidal can speak, he hears a crackling sound from his radio. “_...ngo 31, repor..._” Vidal: Knowledge (technology) check to improve the signal.

Pyotr and Nedjar watch as Vidal shuffles the prisoner across the farmyard, their submachine guns pointed toward the stables. “We’ll go to the southwest corner of the stable, then see if we can find our way in. You want to go first?” he asks Pyotr.


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## Barak (Sep 15, 2005)

Normand enjoys the relative comforts of the truck and of his cigar as Sanchez talks to the gendarme and then drive the truck.

"I know I messed up with the grenade, Sanchez.  I'll carry my weight, not to worry."


OOC:
Drive check: 10


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 15, 2005)

The words dark, Ortu, machinegun and dark danced around Pyotr's head as he listened to Nedjar speak. Upon seeing him awaiting an answer, Pyotr speaks, "Do I have a choice? Just tell Ortu to not get trigger happy and I'll be fine." Pyotr then takes the lead towards the southwest of the stables.


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## The Shaman (Sep 18, 2005)

Sánchez picks his way along carefully over the toe of the tree-covered slope, the truck swaying sharply. The Spaniard casts a sidelong glance at Normand. “All that talk about dying gloriously for the Legion, Camerone and all that, is fine for the _bleus_,” he says, “but believe me, it’s better to sleep in your rack at the end of the day.”

The truck pulls to a stop behind the goat pen – Asmussen is there with the wounded Sembène, and together the three legionnaires gently lift the wounded _caporal_ into the back of the truck.

Nedjar glances across the farmyard toward the barn where Ortu waits. “Silvio’s not a bad guy. He’ll make _sergent_ if he ever learns to shut up,” he says. “Still a good idea not to make him angry, though. You haven’t, have you?” Nedjar grins wryly as Pyotr takes off, then follows a few steps behind.

Dashing past the outhouse to the corner of the barn, Pyotr can see the horse in the near corral. The animal is lying on its side – a long bloody trail leads down one haunch into the straw and mud on the floor of the enclosure. The horse stirs, a guttural whicker coming from deep in its throat, as the two legionnaires creep toward the east doors of the barn.

One of the big sliding doors is slightly open, just a few inches. Darkness lies beyond the narrow gap. Pyotr: Spot check, please.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 19, 2005)

Pyotr curses under his breath after Nedjar. The joke would have been funny in another situation, but not here. Looking over at the half-dead horse, he wanted to go over and end its suffering, but he had a mission to do first. 

Taking a short breath and becoming one with the wall, Pyotr peered into the darkness beyond the doorway. 

Spot check: (1d20+4=23)


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## The Shaman (Sep 20, 2005)

As Pyotr’s eyes scan the space between the doors, he sees a movement in the gap. A small hand appears and rests lightly on the edge of one of the doors. Pyotr has surprise – take an action and roll for initiative. He is five feet from the opening in the doors – the gap is about four to six inches wide. A Strength check is required to open to door.

Good roll, by the way!

Marcel, Normand, and Vidal are busy with other things at the moment – we’ll return to them shortly after Pyotr catches up a bit...


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 20, 2005)

Seeing the hand, Pyotr knows there's someone there. Thinking quickly he reaches out and grabs the hand, intent on pulling its owner's arm through the door, pinning their shoulder against the gap in the door. However his hand doesn't quite reach....


Touch Attack (1d20=7)
Don't think that's gonna grab it...
Initiative: (1d20+2=3)
Wouldn't you know it.....


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## The Shaman (Sep 22, 2005)

Stepping outside the farmhouse, Marcel sees Vidal and the prisoner at the barn. Running across the farmyard, he is greeted with a curt, “Stay the devil out of my line of fire!” from Ortu, couched behind a small stack of crates, the AAT-52 pointed at the barn.

Vidal is intently fiddling with dials on the squad radio, producing little more than static at different volumes. He looks at Marcel, tugs at his bloodstained pant leg, and shrugs slightly.

Pyotr quickly reaches for the hand but misjudges the distance, and with a shrill shriek from inside the stable the hand disappears. The voice has a decidedly child-like quality that matches its small size.

From over Pyotr’s shoulder comes Nedjar’s voice. “What happened?” he asks urgently.

Normand is riding in the truck across the fields at this time – we’ll pick him up again shortly.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 22, 2005)

"_Chyort!_", Pyotr swears. "There's a child in there, Nedjar. You want to help me with this door?" Pyotr then slings his gun, preparing to open the door.


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## Bobitron (Sep 23, 2005)

Marcel casts a venomous glance at the prisoner as he approaches Vidal. "Keep an eye on him while I work." His voice is curt and hard, very unlike his normal tone. 

Taking out a small knife, he splits Vidal's pant leg and does his best to clean out the metal, dirt, and cloth from the wound.

ooc: Treat Injury 28, healing 3 hp.

Standing up from his crouch, he pats Vidal once on the shoulder, then spins and faces the prisoner, striking him across the back of his head with an outstreched hand.

عد أكثر من ثلاث سنوات من الترجمة الآعلى الإنترنت أصبح الدخول إلى موقا عبر الاشتراك فق*

Marcel's eyes flash with anger and his arabic words are yelled rather than spoken.

*Who the hell are you, bastard? What have you done to this family? You know what I will do to you!


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## The Shaman (Sep 25, 2005)

Cleaning and binding the pellet wound is a simple matter for Marcel – removing the pellet later will be trickier. Vidal continues to fiddle with the radio knobs when suddenly a voice comes through the static. _“Tango 31, Tango 3, report!”_

The prisoner is quiet as Marcel works, staring at the floor and swaying back and forth very slightly. The slap brings his head up immediately. His watery eyes are wide as he looks at the medic. <اللغة العربية, العربية>


Spoiler



Please, I don’t know anything! I had nothing to do with this! You must believe me!


 </اللغة العربية, العربية>. The Arab licks at dry lips.

Babaye is quiet as he is carefully loaded into the truck by Normand and Asmussen, next to the injured _gendarme_. The Senegalese _caporal-chef_ settles onto the floor of the truck with a deep sigh, then looking at Normand asks, “What happened, Mador? Are there more casualties?”

“A child?” Nedjar says with surprise. He puts a hand on Pyotr’s shoulder before the Ukrainian can push on the door. “Be careful,” Nedjar says flatly, “it could be an ambush. They use the children...” The Algerian places his hands on the door, then nods to Pyotr. “Be ready.”


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## Bobitron (Sep 25, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> The prisoner is quiet as Marcel works, staring at the floor and swaying back and forth very slightly. The slap brings his head up immediately. His watery eyes are wide as he looks at the medic. <اللغة العربية, العربية>
> 
> 
> Spoiler
> ...




Marcel places his boot on the man's back and shoves him face down in the dirt with a kick, his lips curled into a snarl. Bringing up his carbine, he places the barrel firmly against the back of the man's head.

Speaking in arabic again: اللغة , العربيةاللعربيةغة العربية,لعربيةاللغة العربية, العربية>"Don't lie to me! You will pay for what you did! Tell me the truth, or I will get the gendarme who's friends you killed over here!"<العربيةاللعربيةغة العربية!"

ooc: Sense Motive check is a 6.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 26, 2005)

Pyotr nods absently at Nedjar, knowing full well about using children in warfare. The memory of one instance in particular threatened to overcome him, but he shook his head clear of it. _She was crying, sobbing._ He put his hands on the door, ready to open it with Nedjar. _Yevgenny went to pick her up, I saw it._ With a deep sigh, he tried to pull open the doors.  _Grenade taped to her hands._ Pyotr dropped into a crouch, submachinegun ready. _Tried to warn him._ For anything.

Strength check (1d20=10)
I think I'm _assisting_ Nedjar here....


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## Barak (Sep 26, 2005)

Normand grins at the wounded man, happy to see him conscious

"Nah Babs..  From what I know, only you and I were seriously wounded from our unit.  I do get the feeling the farmer and his family were killed much earlier, but that was out of our hands."

Tapping him gently on the shoulder, as far from the man's wound as he can get, Normand turns his attention back to the outside, weapon still at the ready.


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## The Shaman (Sep 26, 2005)

Babaye frowns at Normand’s words but says nothing. The injured _gendarme_ sits up on one elbow, however. “The Rubieras are dead?” he asks. He looks at Normand. “_Légionnaire_, make sure that nothing is touched that doesn’t need to be,” he continues. “The _commissaire_ will want to protect the crime scene.”

Pyotr and Nedjar tug at the door and with an audible squeal it slides back on its metal tracks, revealing the interior of the stable. The inside of the stable is in deep shadow, and eyes strain to make out details. Running the length of the stable on your right are three stalls, each with a Dutch door, solid below, a metal grille above. Two more stalls are on the left. The doors on the first two stalls to the right stand open, while the lower half of the Dutch door is closed on the stall furthest from where Pyotr and Nedjar stand. Both stable doors to the left are closed, top and bottom.

At the far left, occupying the southwest corner of the stable, is what appears to be a tack room, judging from the saddles and bridles hanging from the hooks that line the wall. A narrow door stands open – darkness lies within.

Glancing toward the ceiling, Pyotr sees a loft filled with baled hay at the far end of the stable, accessed by a tall wooden ladder. Another pair of sliding doors occupies the west wall – they are closed tight. Nedjar pulls back to the edge of the doorway, pointing his MAT-49 at the interior, eyes and ears searching the shadows. Pyotr: Listen and Spot checks, please.

Marcel: An Intimidate roll, if you please, before I continue with the prisoner’s response. I’ll also handle Vidal’s reply at that time.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 26, 2005)

Pyotr scans the barn, trying to look through every corner, pretending he could see through walls. "The child can't have gone far, " he whispers to no one in particular. He stays crouched beside the door, just enough to get a good view of the place.


Spot check: (1d20+4=21)
Listen check: (1d20+4=17)


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## Bobitron (Sep 26, 2005)

ooc: Marcel gets a big fat 4. Two bad rolls, my next one better be a freakin' 19. :\


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## The Shaman (Sep 27, 2005)

Marcel presses the barrel of the carbine against the back of the Arab’s head. The prisoner’s head sinks, trying to pull away from the hard steel of the M1A1, but he says nothing, staring at the floor and breathing heavily.

Vidal keys the section radio. “Tango 3, Tango 31, we are on a farm belonging to someone named Rubiera. We took fire from at least three fells and captured one prisoner. There are at least two dead here on the farm.” He looks over at Marcel as he releases the mic button.“Do we have a complete casualty count?”


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## The Shaman (Sep 29, 2005)

As he crouches in the doorway, Pyotr hears a slight creak and a faint rustle. Looking to the furthest stall on his left, the Ukrainian sees a head of straight brown hair above a pair of eyes peeping through the bars of the Dutch door to the stall.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 29, 2005)

Taking note of the person in the stall, Pyotr quickly moves his head to face another direction while his eyes stayed on that stall. He didn't want to alert the person, probably the child, that they had been seen yet. He then looked at Nedjar and quickly held out his palm and using it as a map, pointed out where the person was to him, hoping the entire time that the person didn't realize what he was doing. Pyotr then waited to see what Nedjar wanted to do.


Bluff check: (1d20+1=21)
Oooh.. Natural 20....


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## Barak (Sep 30, 2005)

Normand frowns at the gendarme, thinking the man needs to get his priorities straight.

"I'm sure the légionnaires in charge will know what to do, sir.  But this is more than a crime scene, and the important part is to make sure it's secure."


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## The Shaman (Sep 30, 2005)

“_Merde_,” Nedjar whispers, with a slight shake of his head. “This place is a death-trap.” Without looking up, he continues in the same hushed voice, “Stay close to the left wall, and watch the stalls on the right.” The door to the stall is 25' up on the left. It opens out and the hinges are on the left side. The door appears to be unlocked - the deadbolt on the outside of the door is drawn back.


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## Bobitron (Sep 30, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> He looks over at Marcel as he releases the mic button.“Do we have a complete casualty count?”




Marcel looks darkly at the prisoner, then grabs Vidal by the shoulder and takes a few steps away. Once they get about 5 yards away, he speaks loudly, keeping his carbine trained on the man. اللالعربيةاللع ربيةغة العربية لعربيةاللغة العربية العربية "I'll happily shoot you. Don't move." 

Glancing at Vidal, he sighs. "Look, I didn't want to talk in front the prisoner. We've got one hurt badly, Bayabe. He won't be much use in a fight. A couple minor wounds; yours and Sgt. Kat. Then there's Normand. He took the brunt of a greanade. He's a tough bastard, so he'll fight on, but it was a bad sight." Flashing his angry eyes up to meet Vidal's face briefly, he continues."The family is dead. All of them. Women and children, everyone." He spits loudly onto the dirt, as though there is a bad taste in his mouth. "I don't know how many fells there are dead. Radio it in, and then we get this dog back to Sgt. Muller."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 1, 2005)

Pyotr nods, while in his mind he was shaking his head. He stayed crouched, submachinegun swaying back and forth as he low walked inside the barn, staying as close to the wall as possible. He watched the right side, but was ready to jump in the first stall if necessary. Taking a chance, he told himself that the person in the second stall was the little child, so he wanted to make his way to her as soon as possible. He then scolded himself for jumping to conclusions and kept moving.


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## The Shaman (Oct 1, 2005)

“I'm sure the _légionnaires_ in charge will know what to do, sir,” Normand replies to the _gendarme_. “But this is more than a crime scene, and the important part is to make sure it's secure.”

Normand catches a slight crinkling of the wrinkles at the corners of Sanchez’s eyes as a ghost of a smile crosses the veteran’s round face. “You. Up in back,” the Spaniard says, motioning to Asmussen, who nods and climbs into the bed. “I want to pull behind that barn,” he continues to Normand, “until we get the word from Kat.” Climbing into the cab, Normand hears Sánchez mutter, “_Putain flics_,” as he starts the engine and puts the truck in gear.

- / -​
Vidal glances at the prisoner and nods. “_Batards_,” he says with feeling. 

Before he can continue, the radio squawks, _“Tango 31 in person, Tango 3 in person?”_ The voice sounds like that of Lt. Ramadier. “He wants Sgt. Müller directly,” Vidal says quickly. He keys the mic again. “Tango 3, stand by.” Releasing the button, he asks, “Where is he, Marcel?”

- / -​
Pyotr creeps along, placing his boots carefully on the dirt-and-straw floor of the barn, Nedjar a few steps behind. Passing the first stall on the left, he can hear the injured horse in the corral outside, breathing heavily – on the other side of the stable, the first two stalls on the right appear empty.

He feels a tap on his hip – Nedjar points to Pyotr and motions him to the far side of the door to the stall, then points to himself and the door and makes an opening motion. FYI: I made a Move Silently check for Pyotr.


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## Bobitron (Oct 1, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Releasing the button, he asks, “Where is he, Marcel?”




Marcel motions toward the house and walks back to the prisoner, kicking him again and telling him to get to his feet. Standing ten feet behind him, he orders him to go to the house. Before they reach the door, he calls out.

"Coming in with a prisoner! Sgt. Müller, the LT is on the radio for you."


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## Barak (Oct 1, 2005)

Normand looks at Sanchez from the passenger's seat, and grins.  Sotto voice, he mimics the gendarme.

"_Don't touch anything.  Protect the crime scene._  Geez.  What he thinks, he'll get fingerprints of Santa Claus?  I sure hope my grenade didn't erase any _clues_ as to who did it!"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 2, 2005)

Pyotr nods and quietly makes his way to the other side of the door, preparing to pounce when David opens the door. 

You know, I had a nagging suspicion you were going to ask me for an MS roll... I want to, if it's possible, have Pyotr prepare to grapple whoever is behind the door, child or not, and cover their mouth to prevent sounds from escaping. Tell me what you need for me to do that or if it's even possible.


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## The Shaman (Oct 2, 2005)

Sánchez’s watches the uneven ground ahead as he drives the truck behind the barn. “Six or seven months ago we were operating around Constantine and we were ambushed by some fells. Nedjar and Rivoli – one of the guys you replaced – were wounded.” The brakes squeak as the truck rolls to a stop. “The _putain flics_ showed up in the infirmary asking if they wanted to file a criminal complaint for assault against the fell we captured.”. The Spaniard twists the key and the engine falls silent. He shakes his head, then reaches in his pocket to retrieve another cigarette.

- / -​
The prisoner looks up at Marcel and struggles to his feet without a word. The three cross the barnyard quickly. Pamuk waits just inside the wall around the farmhouse, watching the stable. The Turk glances at the prisoner but says nothing. Reaching the stone steps to the farm house, Marcel calls out, “Coming in with a prisoner! Sgt. Müller, the LT is on the radio for you.”

The German platoon sergeant steps out of the shadows of the front door and without a word stretches out a hand to Vidal for the radio. “Tango 3, Tango 31. We have six KIA civilians from _fellagha_ activity at a farm near the junction with the KIA _gendarmes_. We have killed five fells and recovered several weapons, including two machine pistols taken from the _gendarmes_. We are continuing operations to secure the farm.”

_“Copy that, Tango 31. We are en-route to your location.”_ The lieutenant pauses. _“ETA about five minutes. Confirm that it’s a farm belonging to Rubiera?”_

Müller keys the mic again. “Affirmative, Tango 3.” The German reaches into a pocket and pulls out a photograph. “Fortier, take a look at this.”

Looking at the picture, Marcel sees the family whose bodies lie in the basement, smiling at the camera – the husband, presumably _M_. Rubiera, and his wife, the teenage boy and girl...and another girl, younger than the other two children, a moppet with long brown hair and a big smile.

- / -​
Nedjar holds his submachine gun in one hand as he reaches up to pull open the stable door with the other. With a look to Pyotr to make sure the Ukrainian is ready, he grabs the latch and pulls hard. The door squeaks on its hinges as it swings open, revealing a young girl kneeling on the straw covering the floor of the stall, just inside the doorway. She looks up in terror as Pyotr lunges toward her. Pyotr: Melee touch attack and opposed grapple check – if both are successful, Pyotr gets a hand over her mouth.


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## Bobitron (Oct 3, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> “Fortier, take a look at this.”
> 
> Looking at the picture, Marcel sees the family whose bodies lie in the basement, smiling at the camera – the husband, presumably _M_. Rubiera, and his wife, the teenage boy and girl...and another girl, younger than the other two children, a moppet with long brown hair and a big smile.




"Huh." Marcel stares at the picture in silence for a long moment. "Where the hell..." His head snaps up to meet Müller's eyes. "We have to find her, Sergent. She must have run and hid. Maybe she's in the fields and we missed her or..." He sets his jaw in firm determination. "Night is coming, and we can't leave her alone out there in the dark, sir."

"What should we do with him?" He motions toward the prisoner. "He claims he has nothing to do with anything." Marcel rolls his eyes and lashes out once again with a boot to kick the man on the shin. ثلاث سنوات من الترجمة! On the floor!


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 3, 2005)

With a finger to his lips, Pyotr's legs propelled his reaching hand forward to cover the girl's mouth to prevent her from screaming. He didn't want her alerting anyone else that may still be in the barn. "Shhhh," he whispers. 


Melee Touch Attack: (1d20=10)
Grapple check: (1d20=13)


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## The Shaman (Oct 4, 2005)

"We have to find her, Sergent. She must have run and hid. Maybe she's in the fields and we missed her or..." He sets his jaw in firm determination. "Night is coming, and we can't leave her alone out there in the dark, sir."

Müller is stone-faced. “_Légionnaire_, your job is to see to our wounded. The girl is the _gendarmes_’ responsibility, not ours.” He holds his hand out for the photo.

"What should we do with him?" Marcel continues. "He claims he has nothing to do with anything."

Vidal fishes in the pocket of his smock. “I found this in his pocket when we caught him, _mon sergent-chef_, where we found those two Arabs with their throats cut,” he says, holding up the bloodstained folding knife. “There was a rifle under the bunk next to him.”

The German looks down at the Arab. “Hold onto him for now. Have all these buildings been cleared and the weapons secured?”

- / -​
"Shhhh," Pyotr whispers as he slips his hand over the girl’s mouth. Her eyes are wide, her skin pale as she recoils from the legionnaire’s touch. She starts to pull away, grabbing at Pyotr’s hand with her own, and the Ukrainian must grip her firmly to keep her from escaping. The girl’s cry is muffled by the para’s palm. Pyotr must make another opposed grapple check in the next round.


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## Bobitron (Oct 4, 2005)

Marcel flashes a dark look at Müller, but nods and gives an affirmative _oui_. Turning away, he heads toward the barn he noted Pyotr and Nedjar going in.

ooc: Is it dark yet?


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 4, 2005)

Pyotr doesn't want to hurt the girl, but he knows that if she screams, anyone else in the barn will hear them. Not letting go, he whispers to her. "Shhh... We're not going to hurt you. Is there anyone else in here?"


Grapple check: (1d20=19)


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## The Shaman (Oct 5, 2005)

As Marcel passes through the gate and starts moving toward the stable, he hears Burhan Pamuk’s voice from over his shoulder. “Wait. David and Pyotr are in there.” He tilts his head toward the barn on the right. “Ortu is there. Crossfire. And it’s getting dark.”

Indeed, the sun has disappeared behind the distant mountains and the sky is fading from blue to indigo. Three or four of the brightest summer stars are visible now and the shadows about the farm are deepening quickly.

Inside the stable the darkness grows as well. The little girl’s face is illumined by the light from the open door to the corral outside the stall. She struggles a moment, then stops – Pyotr can feel her relax a bit, and she shakes her head slightly in answer to his question.

She looks to be about eight years old, with long brown hair gathered in pigtails. The girl wears a simple blue dress stained with mud and manure, with bits of straw caught in the lace hem. She pulls at Pyotr’s hand, more gently now, without panic, as her big brown eyes look into the Ukrainian’s.


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## Bobitron (Oct 5, 2005)

Marcel stops. "Right."

He sits on the wall, checking his carbine again nervously and taking quick stock of his ammunition. Taking out a flashlight from his bag, he switches it on and off a few times, shining the light onto his hand to make certain the batteries are good.

"The LT said five minutes, right? Are they coming to extract us and turn this over to the gendarmes, or are we spending the night, sir?" He looks to Müller for an answer.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 5, 2005)

Pyotr knows better than to fully trust the sense of a frightened child, but he lets himself relax a bit anyway, the tension getting to him. "Listen," he whispers. "I'm going to take my hand away, but you have to keep quiet, okay?" Presuming she nods her head here in agreement, if not, I'll change it. Once the girl nods her head in agreement, Pyotr slowly removes his hand and then looks at Nedjar, as if to shrug. Turning back to the girl, Pyotr tries to look as gentle as possible. "What's your name?"


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## The Shaman (Oct 6, 2005)

"The LT said five minutes, right? Are they coming to extract us and turn this over to the _gendarmes_, or are we spending the night, sir?" Marcel asks Müller.

The platoon sergeant’s face is a pale blur in the shadows. “You’ll know when I know, _légionnaire_,” he replies. “Burhan,” he continues, “move around to the back of the house and stand sentry with Syrovy. Watch the trees up on the hill and those fields to the east.” The Turk nods and heads around the corner, crunching broken glass from the dining room windows strewn in the yard beneath his boots.

- / -​
Sergeant Katsourianis appears at the driver’s window of the truck where Normand and Sánchez wait. “Where’s Asmussen?” he asks.

“In back,” the Spaniard replies.

The _sergent_ looks inside the cab. “I want a sentry post on that entry drive, over by those trees,” he says to the legionnaires, pointing to the poplars lining the gravel driveway. “Mador, are you up to that?”

- / -​
Pyotr pulls his hand away from the girl’s mouth and asks softly, "What's your name?"

“Angelique,” she replies in a whisper. Her eyes shift from side to side, taking in Pyotr and Nedjar. “I want my mommy,” she says.


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## Bobitron (Oct 6, 2005)

Marcel sighs softly at the platoon sergeant’s response, giving a weak "Oui, sir" in reply. "I'm going to check on Pyotr and Nedjar. Haven't heard anything form there in a while."

He starts slowly walking out into the space between the two outbuildings. "Ortu! Don't shoot me, you lug! It's Marcel, I'm heading to the stables!"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 6, 2005)

Remembering what he saw earlier, Pyotr sincerely hoped against hope that this girl's mother was still among the living. "Well, Angelique, my name is Pyotr. We, " he points to David and then back at himself before continuing, "have to finish looking around the barn. As soon as we're done, we'll see if we can find mommy, alright?"


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## The Shaman (Oct 8, 2005)

“As soon as we're done, we'll see if we can find mommy, alright?” Pyotr finishes. The little girl’s face betrays no feelings, but he can feel her tense up beside him.

“Where’s Moulai?” she says softly. “And where’s my mommy?”

“You sit still here and be quiet, little lamb,” Nedjar says quickly, “and we’ll be right back for you.” He looks up at Pyotr as Angelique nods. “We’ve got to move before it gets any darker in here.”

Pyotr follows Nedjar out of the stall and into the shadowy stable. The Algerian legionnaire leans over to Pyotr and whispers, “Her family...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

Motioning to Pyotr to stay to the near wall, Nedjar cuts across the stable to the far wall, and the two legionnaires resume their creep through the shadowy stable.

Outside Marcel calls out to the machine gunner, “Ortu! Don't shoot me, you lug! It's Marcel, I'm heading to the stables!”

“_Collons_!” the medic hears Ortu reply – the distance doesn’t hide the exasperation in the Sardinian’s voice. “Go!” he replies, then more quietly continues, “_fill de puta_!”

Marcel cuts across the yard to the stable doors, carbine at the ready.


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## Bobitron (Oct 8, 2005)

Casting a dark look at the spot where Oru sits on overwatch, unaware if the Sardinian can even see his expression, Marcel reaches the doors and knocks softly. "Coming in."

Entering the room, Marcel sees the Russian standing with the young girl and his heart suddenly skips a beat. "Thank God!" he says, crossing himself in thanks. "Are you okay, young lady?" He rushes up to her and inspects her carefully for wounds.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 9, 2005)

Pyotr tenses as he hears Marcel trotting up to the barn. _Damned fool will get himself killed doing that._ "Nice of you to join us, Doc. Angelique here is brave, but still a little scared, so be nice." Showing a half smile, he leaves Marcel to his work. Too curious for his own good, Pyotr returns to Nedjar and whispers to him. "What do you think they'll do with her?"


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## Bobitron (Oct 9, 2005)

"Brave little Angelique." Marcel smiles warmly at the young girl. After looking her over, he asks her to stay put for a moment and takes Nedjar and Pyotr aside, speaking quietly. "I think things are pretty much clear out there. We should get her over to Müller. But make sure the prisoner is out of sight and close off that damn basement." He looks over at the girl with a nod and wave to come over, crouching down to meet her eyes.

"Dear, some terrible things have happened, and we need to sort out what happened. I know it is very frightening, but we are here to protect you now, and I swear I won't let anything happen to you. Even our Russian was a little scared!" Marcel points at Pyotr and smiles, then looks her firmly in the eyes. "Now can you walk on your own or should I carry you?"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 10, 2005)

Pyotr glowers at Marcel, but then understands what he is trying to do. "I'd suggest letting her walk, she jumps if you grab her." He then winks at Angelique, smiling. Pyotr then starts walking out of the barn, watching for any other surprises. "Hey Ortu, we're coming out."


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## The Shaman (Oct 10, 2005)

"What do you think they'll do with her?"

Nedjar looks over at the little girl. “Hopefully she has some family close by, someone who can take her in,” he replies quietly. “The _inspecteurs_ will have questions for her, maybe _Deuxieme Bureau_, too.”

Angelique recoils slightly “terrible things”, but shakes her head at Marcel. “I can walk,” she replies, then continues, “Moulai told me to hide here, and not to come out until he came back.” Stepping outside, she turns toward the farmhouse. The gathering darkness doesn’t quite conceal the damage done by the grenades. Angelique stops, takes a step back.

“Mommy?” Her hand rises to her mouth. “MOMMY?”


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## Barak (Oct 10, 2005)

Katsourianis said:
			
		

> “Mador, are you up to that?"




Normand starts to get out of the cab of the truck as he answers.

"Sure thing thing sarge.  I'll make sure no surprises come in as we finish up here."

Jogging to the trees, the légionnaire takes up position slightly behind them from the road, hoping to see anything that attempts to come in before it sees him.


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## The Shaman (Oct 10, 2005)

Normand hustles across the open space between the barn and the drive, eyes searching the gloom between the trees. Reaching the nearest poplar, he sees a movement, then another – three figures, kneeling beside the road. Normand: Initiative, please. I rolled a Spot check already.

Neither Pyotr nor Marcel can see the figures in the shadows.


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## Bobitron (Oct 10, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> “Mommy?” Her hand rises to her mouth. “MOMMY?”




Marcel grimaces as she calls out. "Look, Angelique. You have to be quiet. The Sergent is a cranky sort, and he'll not look kindly on yelling girls." He steps to her and offers his hand, motioning for Hedjar to go ahead, hopefully to close off the basement.


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## Barak (Oct 11, 2005)

OOC
Didn't post any actions or anything, as they may act before me..
Init check: 10


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## The Shaman (Oct 11, 2005)

Initiative -
*Normand 10*
Mysterious trio 8

Have at it.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 12, 2005)

Pyotr shakes his head. "Where is the old sarge anyway? This quiet is giving me chills, if you know what I mean." As if to emphasize his statement, Pyotr checks the safety on his submachinegun and adjusts the rifle on his shoulder.


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## Barak (Oct 12, 2005)

_Et merde..  Please don't be fells._

Taking better cover behind the poplars, Normand yells as loud as he can, hoping to be heard by his companions as well as the unidentified people.

"THIS IS THE LÉGION!  COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP RIGHT NOW, OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.  YOU ARE SURROUNDED!"

As he speaks, Normand switches his weapon back to grenade launcher mode.


OOC:
Ready action to fire a grenade at the trio if they fire at me.


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## The Shaman (Oct 13, 2005)

Angelique looks at Marcel and pulls away slightly as he offers his hand. She picks up her pace as her little legs carry her toward the farmhouse.

“Where is the old sarge anyway? This quiet is giving me chills, if you know what I mean.” Before anyone can answer, Normand’s shout comes across the farmyard from the driveway.

“THIS IS THE _LÉGION_! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP RIGHT NOW, OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES. YOU ARE SURROUNDED!”

“Easy, legionnaire,” comes the reply in French. It’s an older man’s voice – the accent is pure Alsatian. “Name’s Mantz. I own the farm ’cross the road.” One of the crouching shadows stands slowly, a rifle held high overhead, and steps into the driveway. “These’re my boys. We’re with the UT.” The shadow moves slightly and the voice gets softer. “Stand up slow, boys, an’ raise your rifles up so’s he can see ’em.” Again he addresses Normand. “Can we come up?”

Pyotr and Marcel can hear Normand’s words – they can hear the farmer’s voice but not what he’s saying.


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## Barak (Oct 13, 2005)

Normand doesn't aim his rifle away from the man just yet, but his voice is much calmer as he answers.

"Yes sir, you may.  Slowly, and with your hands up for now.  Sorry about this, I do believe you, but there's fells about.

As the men come up, Normand makes sure to keep from focusing too much on them, making sure he stays aware of what else goes on, in case it would turn out to be a diversion.


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## Bobitron (Oct 13, 2005)

When Normand calls out, Marcel immediately runs forward and grabs Angelique by the arm, rushing toward the door of the house. "Hush now, and hurry!" he hisses quietly.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 13, 2005)

_Chyort!_ Pyotr watches Marcel take Angelique to the farmhouse, something he himself would have suggested, then drops down into a crouch before moving to be beside the barn, scanning wherever Normand is looking.


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## The Shaman (Oct 14, 2005)

Pyotr cuts across the farmyard as a fast trot, eyes straining through the gloom, struggling to see what triggered Normand’s outburst. Closer by, he sees Sgt. Katsourianis moving forward as well, hustling toward the trees lining the driveway.

Normand keeps his rifle trained on the three men as the voice replies firmly, “Sure thing. Get up, boys. Keep them rifles high.” The crouching figures stand and all three walk forward slowly, holding their rifles overhead.

As they get closer Normand can see that each appears to be a _colon_ – the speaker, in the lead, looks to be in his early fifties, with a grizzled beard and gray hair sticking out from under a beret. The other two are younger, one in perhaps his mid-twenties, the other in his late teens – their wide eyes are visible in the fading light as they get close. All are dressed in work clothes. Each carries a MAS-36 rifle held high at Normand’s order, and wears a bandolier strapped over a shoulder.

“We’re with the UT,” he repeats, still holding his weapon overhead. “We heard the firin’ an’ got our guns.” The farmer looks Normand up and down. “Anybody else bad hurt? Where’s Rubiera?”

Gripping her arm, Marcel hustles Angelique through the gateway to the farmhouse yard. Inside the wall. Vidal is crouched down, his submachine gun pointed at the back of the kneeling prisoner’s head. Sgt. Müller stands on the steps of the house, looking south toward the voices heard faintly in the distance. Marcel feels Angelique suddenly jerk to a stop and hears her gasp as she sees the prisoner on the ground. The little girl throws her arms around Marcel's waist and buries her face in his jump smock


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## Barak (Oct 14, 2005)

Normand relaxes a bit more at the men's appearance, and points his weapon slightly away from the men.

"Alright sir, you and your boys can put your arms down now, but keep those weapons in an unthreathening position, so that the others don't get too excited once they get here.  As for your questions, I'll let my sergeant decide what you may or may not be told."


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## Bobitron (Oct 15, 2005)

Marcel catches Angelique's gaze turn as she walks past the wall and groans inwardly at the sight of the prisoner on the ground. _Stupid, Marcel. Very stupid._ He turns her back to the prisoner and faces Sgt. Müller, dropping down into a crouch and bringing the girl to rest behind the stone wall. "Sgt. Müller, this is Angelique. She was in the stables, brave little thing. Normand called out, he has somebody out there. Should I move to him?"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 16, 2005)

Pyotr stays where he is, trying to see what Normand is up to. He is tempted to dig out his rifle to look through his scope, but denies himself, waiting to see what is going on.


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## The Shaman (Oct 16, 2005)

Müller glances down at Marcel and the little girl. “No, take care of her for now.” Apparently Angelique’s reaction was not lost on the platoon sergeant, as he continues, “David, get him out of here – take him over to the barn.”

Nedjar responds by grabbing the prisoner by his wire-bound wrists and yanking him to his feat, then leading him by the arm across the farmyard to the barn, past where Pyotr crouches watchfully.

Angelique continues to clutch at Marcel’s smock as the medic moves her away along the wall. “Where’s mommy? I want my mommy now!” she repeats in a hoarse whisper as she glimpses the blasted windows that once looked out from her family’s dining room.

- / -​
The grizzled farmer tilts his head slightly at Normand, then says, “Sling your rifles, boys.” All three slip the rifles over their shoulders, and Mantz, the farmer, holds out his hands as if to say, _Happy now?_

From over Normand’s shoulder come footsteps followed by the voice of Sgt. Katsourianis. “_Légionnaire_ Mador, report?”

Mantz quickly interjects, “We’re UT, _sergent_. Name’s Mantz, and these here’re my sons. That’s our place ’cross th’ road.”

The section leader’s face is expressionless as he steps forward, next to Normand, his MAT-49 in his hands. “I see,” he says. “You know the family here?” he asks.

“O’ course,” Mantz replies, “Joseph Rubiera, an’ his wife an’ kids.” He pauses a moment, then continues, “They dead?”

The _sergent_ nods. “There are four bodies in the basement, and two more in the farmhands’ quarters.” The Greek gestures toward the road to the west. “And three dead _gendarmes_ over there.”

The farmer shakes his head. “_Putain melons_,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Knew it would come t’ this sooner or later. Can’t trust ’em.” Mantz seems about to continue when the sound of engines can be heard approaching and headlights cut through the darkness along the road from town. A trio of vehicles draw near, then turn up the drive, advancing slowly and drawing abreast of where Normand, the _sergent_, and the _pieds-noirs_ stand waiting.

In the lead is a Dodge command car, with the markings of the _gendarmerie nationale_, followed by a pair of deuce-and-a-halfs. The command car stops and a mustached figure in a blue uniform and combat harness leans across from the passenger seat. “I’m _Capitaine_ LaCroix,” he snaps, drawing a salute from the legionnaires. “Who’s in command here?”

“_Sergent-chef_ Müller, _mon capitaine_,” Kat replies. He turns to Normand. “_Légionnaire_, go get Sgt. Müller at the farmhouse,” he orders.


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## Barak (Oct 17, 2005)

After giving the arriving _gendarmes_ a look, Normand answers his sergant.

"Sure thing, sarge."

Jogging to the farmhouse, the légionnaire enters it, and quickly finds sergant Müller.

"Sarge, you're needed at the gate.  A trio of UTs showed up, and now there's some _gendarmes_, led by a captain LaCroix, who wants to see the légionnaire-in-charge."


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## The Shaman (Oct 18, 2005)

Sgt. Müller is standing at the gate to the farmhouse when Normand hurries up. “Radio, on me,” he says to Vidal, then continues to Normand and Marcel, “You two stay here and keep an eye on her,” tilting his head toward Angelique.

The _sergent-chef_ strides quickly toward the men gathered around the trucks – the headlights illuminate both _gendarmes_ in their blue uniforms and olive drab webbing and helmets and more Legion paras, including the tall, athletic form of Lt. Ramadier, who is talking with Sgt. Katsourianis. As he passes Pyotr’s position, Müller orders the Ukrainian to fall back to the farmhouse as well.

Angelique is sobbing, tugging at the medic’s arms, as Pyotr, Normand, and Marcel find themselves standing together in front of the battered farmhouse.


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## Barak (Oct 18, 2005)

_Et merde, a little kid here.  This sucks._

Normand drops to a knee in front of the little girl, and tries one of his goofy grins on her.

"So what's _your_ name?  Jonathan, maybe?  Me, they call me Sarah.  Yeah I know, it's weird.  I look more like a Monique."


OOC:
Diplomacy check to try and get her to cheer up, maybe?
check= 2
Crap, I should have left her alone.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 18, 2005)

Pyotr nods at Sergeant Muller as he heads back to the farmhouse. Noticing the officers, he is curious but decides to leave well enough alone. Hearing Normand's attempts to cheer up the girl, he smiles and claps him on the shoulder, "You know big guy, I think she's had enough for one day, _n'est pas?_"

I apologize here and now if my French is misspelled, it has been forever since I took French...


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## The Shaman (Oct 19, 2005)

Angelique recoils from the hulking Frenchman and tugs hard against Marcel’s grip. Suddenly she squeals and the medic feels a sharp pain as the little girl bites down on his forearm.

Marcel: Opposed grapple check, please.


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## Bobitron (Oct 19, 2005)

"OUCH!" Marcel grabs at the girl. "Damn it, Normand! No more talking from you, you lout!" Marcel's expression is good-natured until he reaches out and tries to grab the girl and misses her sleeve, clutching thin air. "Merde!"

ooc: Hahaha, result is a 3.


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## The Shaman (Oct 19, 2005)

Slipping out of Marcel’s grasp, Angelique breaks for the stairs to the farmhouse...

Initiative checks, everyone.


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## Bobitron (Oct 19, 2005)

Marcel leaps up from his crouch with a swear, his cigarette falling from his mouth as he rises to run after the girl.

ooc: Initiative is a 7.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 19, 2005)

Pyotr swears under his breath and takes off after the frightened child, but he can see he is too late. 

Initiative: (1d20+2=3)
I can see it now, all three of us hanging our heads in front of the company commander. 

"All three of you, the best the military has to offer, let a tiny, frightened little girl escape? Three big, strong men." The CC can't help but to laugh hysterically as he assigns us to potato duty.


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## The Shaman (Oct 20, 2005)

Initiative for Angelique is 5 – Marcel may yet have a chance to catch her...


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## Barak (Oct 20, 2005)

OOC
Init:13


_Aww geez._

Feeling responsible, and pretty bad about it, Normand attempts to grab the girl.


OOC
Will try for a grapple..
Touch attack:25!
Great, a natural 20 when it's not that useful.
Grapple check:6!
And then a natural 1.


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## Bobitron (Oct 20, 2005)

As Normand lunges forward, Marcel matches his movement with his own grab.

ooc: Melee touch is an 18. Grapple check is a 15. Whoo hoo! Marcel to the rescue! Hopefully the rugrat rolls low...


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## The Shaman (Oct 20, 2005)

Angelique dashes past the surprised Pyotr but finds the towering Normand blocking her path. She shrinks back from his outstretched arms and straight into Marcel’s grasp. The little girl struggles mightily to free herself, screaming “_MAMAN!_” at the top of her lungs as she fights.

Across the farmyard several of the paras and _gendarmes_ look up at Angelique’s shriek.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 20, 2005)

Pyotr cringes as Angelique screams. He knows that Marcel wanted to keep her from the basement for some reason and he rushes past them to block it off, knowing full well that if ahe wanted free from Marcel's grasp, she'd be free.


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## Barak (Oct 20, 2005)

_Kids..  Are not my forte._

Seeing that Marcel has Angelique in his grasp, Normand moves into the doorway, weapon at the ready.


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## Bobitron (Oct 22, 2005)

Marcel uses his body weight to press the girl's back to the stone wall, making soft shushing noises as he forces her to stay put. "I'm sorry, angel. I'm so sorry. Your mother is gone. You can't be with her again until you see her in heaven." He is obviously having trouble controlling his emotions, his voice quavering slightly.


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## The Shaman (Oct 22, 2005)

Undaunted by the three armed paratroopers, little Angelique struggles as Marcel presses her back against the stone wall. At the medic’s words however, her anger drains away as looks of disbelief, then fear, and finally anguish cross her face, followed by deep, wrenching sobs. She doubles over as if struck, and Marcel finds himself supporting her, to keep her from falling to the ground, rather than restraining her.

As Marcel holds Angelique, Pyotr and Normand see the _gendarmes_ dispersing by the light of the headlamps on the trucks and the command car, arms at the ready, heading for the stables, the barn, the farmhands’ quarters. A small group cuts cross the farmyard to where the paras wait at the farmhouse. Normand recognizes Captain LaCroix – he is followed closely by Lieutenant Ramadier and sergeants Müller and Katsourianis, with a handful of _gendarmes_ and Mantz, the grizzled farmer, trailing behind.

“Legionnaires, stand down,” the _gendarmerie capitaine_ snaps coldly. He looks back to the farmer and says, “_Monsieur_ Mantz, please see to the child,” then walks up the steps pat Pyotr and Normand, who must step quickly to get out of his way, and into the house.

Marcel feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks up into the face of a civilian with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The older man says nothing, simply reaches out his hands and gently takes Angelique from Marcel, lifting her up in his arms. “My missus’ll see to her, son,” he says quietly with a thick Alsatian accent.

“Assemble back at the truck, legionnaires,” orders Kat, “behind the barn.”

“Good work, _légionnaires_,” adds the lieutenant, then the three men continue around the farmhouse. Gathering their gear, Pyotr, Normand, and Marcel trudge across the farmyard and behind the barn as ordered.

All but Pamuk and Syrovy are waiting at the GMC, along with the newly arrived paras of 3rd Section. Sánchez speaks to a few of the men while Ortu is bending the ear of another legionnaire at the rear of the truck – “...damn near blew himself up!” the gunner says as they approach, gesticulating with his hands. Pyotr and Normand recognize the listener as Sgt. Szabo, the 3rd section leader.

“Go ahead and get yourselves loaded up on the truck,” Szabo, the youngest of the _sergents_ in the platoon, says as the trio arrives. “The lieutenant wants you to head back to town.”

With the two wounded men, Babaye and the _gendarme_, in the back, space is cramped as the legionnaires board the deuce-and-a-half. After a few moments, Burhan Pamuk and Karol Syrovy arrive as well. As everyone settles, Lt. Ramadier sticks his head in the back of the truck. “Good job, men,” he says, looking at the dusty, bloody paratroopers, then focusing on Marcel. “Fortier, the doctor in town is waiting for you,” he says. He steps back and pounds his hand twice on the rear of the truck, then turns away into the darkness. _Sergent_ Szabo’s voice rises as he calls, “Third Section! On me! Listen up...” His words are lost in the sound of the big diesel engine starting, and the truck surges forward.

In addition to Marcel, Normand, and Pyotr and the two casualties, Nedjar, Pamuk, Syrovy, Asmussen and Ortu are riding in the rear of the truck – Vidal rides up front with Sánchez and Sgt. Katsourianis.


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## Bobitron (Oct 23, 2005)

Marcel leans back heavily on the bench, allowing the bouncy road and surging engine to lull him inoto a calm state. He thinks back on Mantz's words and allows himself a sigh. _At least she will be cared for,_ he thinks. Looking carefully at the faces of his fellow legionnaires, he can't help but feel they got away from this situation easily. 

"What do you think he meant by the comment about the doctor? For surgery, perhaps? There are many fragments in you I still need to remove, Normand. The chance of infection is very high."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 23, 2005)

_Not the first time, and not the last._ Pyotr sighs out loud. "Still gets me everytime I see it," he says to no one in particular. He then simply shrugs at Marcel's question.

"Could be anything, Marcel. Maybe he wants you to assist holding him down when they yank the rest of those pellets out." He cracks an obviously forced smile.


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## The Shaman (Oct 23, 2005)

Nedjar is talking quietly with Babaye, but looks up at Marcel’s words. “The doctor in town helped with our wounded before,” the Algerian says, “when Rivoli and Guzman were hurt.” Nedjar glances at Normand and Pyotr. “The legionnaires you replaced,” he adds.

Pamuk pulls his Thermos out of his pack as the conversation continues and pours himself a cup of sweet, lukewarm tea – Asmussen stares out of the back of the truck, his face in shadow. Babaye lets out a slight gasp as the truck bounces through a pothole.

Next to Pyotr sits Karel Syrovy – the Hungarian legionnaire holds a slim cigarette case in his hand, and offers a cigarette to Pyotr before slipping the case back in the pocket of his smock. A match flares, briefly lighting up the rear of the truck. “Where else have you seen action like this?” Syrovy asks the Ukrainian, exhaling a cloud of smoke.


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## Barak (Oct 23, 2005)

"If it's someone to hold me down he's after, I don't see why he'd want Marcel.  The doc's smart, but he's als damn skinny."

Normand grins at the doc.

"I did learn something though.  Even when you're real tired, never take a nap on a pineapple.  Some of 'em blow up, right Ortu?"


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## The Shaman (Oct 23, 2005)

Ortu turns slightly in Normand’s direction. “Try not dropping it on your own feet next time.” There’s no malice in the Sardinian’s jibe.

“How many fells did we get, anyway?” the gunner continues.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 24, 2005)

Pyotr waves away Karel's offer. "I try not to do that anymore." He then thinks back, deciding just how much to answer the question. 

"Many farms and villages in the Ukraine were attacked and seized by Nazi forces. They would come in and..." Pyotr paused, almost choking on the next word, "replace the population with their own. I was with a group of those sent to clear them out."


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## The Shaman (Oct 24, 2005)

Syrovy takes a drag from his cigarette, the glowing tip bright in the darkness. “Perhaps my uncles might say the same things about the Russians, and Ukrainians, who destroyed Budapest,” he replies. “If they’d lived, that is.” The orange ember dances as Syrovy waves his hand. “Then again, they were both in the Arrow Cross, so they were fascists, too. But now,” he finishes, “we’re all one happy Legion, and the Arabs kill the French, and us when they can. Everyone has blood on their hands some time.”

His voice rises slightly at Ortu’s question. “I got the one that shot Babaye, out behind the farm house.”


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 26, 2005)

"Everyone has blood on their hands some time."

Pyotr nodded. A simple "Yeah.", was all he could offer. He wasn't there when Budapest was taken, but he couldn't help but feel the Hungarian's anger. He had to admit to himself that no side was completely innocent. Not even Pyotr himself.


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## Barak (Oct 26, 2005)

"Well, the sarge got one in the farmhouse, after I had heroically distracted him with a grenade."

Normand then looks around, and grins.

"I think the gendarmes will be mad at me for that.  So many important clues _destroyed_."


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## Bobitron (Oct 26, 2005)

"There's only one clue that really matters; the bastard we captured." Marcel has a fierce expression as he mentions the prisoner. "I'm not a bloodthirsty man, but that one deserves anything he gets, and probably more." His eyes glaze over for a moment. "That poor girl..."

He turns to look at Ortu. "Hey, Ortu. Don't give me sh*t for doing my job. I needed to get to that stable. Take it up with the Sarge if you trouble with what I'm doing, don't curse at me for doing what I need to do." He leans forward, extending a hand. "I'm sorry, that came across bad. It's been a long day. I just want to work together well, you know?"


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## The Shaman (Oct 26, 2005)

Ortu takes Marcel’s outstretched hand and gives it a firm, if a bit perfunctory, squeeze. “I figured they stopped training replacements not to walk in front of machine guns,” he replies. There’s no ice in his voice this time. “Don’t get yourself killed, doc. We need you in one piece.”

“Pyotr and Vidal got the one that ran from the barn,” says Nedjar, “probably the one that lit up Kat. They also got one more in the farmhands’ quarters, along with the prisoner.” The Algerian shifts slightly in his seat. “And I saw that fell in the farmhouse, Normand. You didn’t just drop that pineapple on your own feet.”

“So that’s five,” he finishes.

The truck bounces along past the outlying farms as twilight turns to night, and soon the GMC rolls into the outskirts of town.

Portemonte looks like any of a thousand other colonial towns in Algeria, with pale brick walls and tile roofs. The streets are mostly dark and quiet as the truck rolls past. Sánchez slows as the legionnaires reach the center of town.

The clinic is located just off the square that marks the heart of Portemonte, a small park with scraggly oaks shading wrought-iron benches and the _monument aux morts_, a small bronze statue of a _poilu_ on a marble pedestal and a pair of marble slabs each bearing a handful of names of the town’s honored dead. Around the park a handful of businesses, bars and restaurants and coffee houses with doors wide open on the June evening, throw their light on the streets, illuminating a considerable crowd as the GMC rumbles by.

A couple of dozen men with rifles in hand or slung over shoulders are assembled on the small green in the town square, antiquated leather harnesses and ammunition pouches worn over civilian clothing. A few wear helmets, some of WWII French vintage, others of American make. Groups of _pieds-noirs_ men and women survey the scene from the narrow sidewalks around the square or cluster in the entries of a bar of coffee house. Sánchez drives through the square and around a corner where the clinic is located and brings the deuce-and-a-half to a stop.

The passenger door swings open with a squeak and Kat peers up through the wooden slats at the legionnaires. “David, Silvio, come inside and give me a hand with the litters. The rest of you wait here.” Nedjar and Ortu hop down from the back of the truck first and follow the section leader up a small flight of steps and through the door of the clinic.

Asmussen and Syrovy climb down from the back of the truck as well, Asmussen stretching his arms and back and Syrovy lighting up another cigarette as they wait. From up the street come voices and several figures can be seen approaching from the direction of the town square.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 26, 2005)

Pyotr sighs as he sits back, staying silent at the moment, trying to reflect on their recent battle. _What could I have done better?_


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## Bobitron (Oct 29, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> “Don’t get yourself killed, doc. We need you in one piece.”




"Yeah, I suppose so. I would hate to think what might have happened to Babaye if I hadn't gotten to him in time."  

Once Ortu and Nedjar leave, Marcel steps out of the truck along with the others, lighting up another Gauloise and offering one to each of the others. He notices Pyotr's reflective expression and calls out. "Pyotr! Long day, no? Take a nap if you want, I'll wake you in a while."


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## Barak (Oct 29, 2005)

Realizing that he'll probably have to receive some more medical attention once the more seriously wounded of the légionnaires have been attended to, Normand decides to just relax in the back of the truck for the time being.  He uses the space freed by the departed to stretch his legs some more, and to get somewhat more comfortable.  One thing he learned in his short time in the Légion is that one relaxed when he could, because once things started moving, they moved _fast_...


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 30, 2005)

Pyotr peeks an eye at Marcel. "Not tired, _frere_. Just thinking." He pauses, "Thanks though."


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## The Shaman (Oct 31, 2005)

As the figures walking up the street from the square get closer, the door to the clinic opens and the legionnaires return, carrying a pair of litters, followed by a tall, thin man in a long white coat. “Syrovy, Asmussen, carry the _gendarme_,” Sgt. Katsourianis instructs as Nedjar hands over one of the litters to the Hungarian.

“Carefully, now,” says the tall man. In his white lab coat the lanky figure looks like a giant marabou stork. By the light spilling from the doorway of the clinic he appears to be in his early to mid-sixties, a fringe of gray hair around the back of his head and a bushy gray mustache beneath a long, narrow nose on which are perched a pair of wire-rimmed bifocals. A stethoscope dangles from around his neck.

First, Babaye is gently moved onto the litter carried by Nedjar and Ortu under the watchful eye of the doctor, who gives the wounded man’s dressings a quick once over. “Inside, in the surgery,” the doctor says with a curt nod.

As the _gendarme_ is moved forward to the edge of the bed, a booming voice cries out, “Who’s in charge? Tell me what happened!”

Stepping into the light is a group of a half-dozen men. In the lead is a short, portly man in a gray suit coat and slacks and white dress shirt open at the neck – his dark hair is slicked straight back. A pair of large horn-rimmed glasses gives him a slightly bookish appearance, but his ham-like hands clenched into fists and weathered skin suggest that he is anything but an academic.

Beside him is another man, older, much taller and heavily built – he looks like a man who could at one time break an axe-handle in his bare hands, now gone to paunch. He has thick gray hair and a full beard – slung over his shoulder is a rifle and around his ample waist is a bandolier. The other men trailing along behind are similarly armed and attired. All are _pieds-noir_.

The doctor turns at the sound of the booming voice. “Jean-Marie, I have wounded to attend to first,” he says in Italian-accented French, “then you may ask your questions.”

The short man, apparently the speaker, looks up at the doctor with a scowl, then spies the _gendarme_ being loaded onto the second litter. “You there, tell me what happened.”

“We were ambushed, mayor,” the _gendarme_ replies as he attempts to lie at attention on the litter, “near the Rubiera place. _Sergent_ Teller is dead, sir, along with Phillipe Argaud and Henri Moret. I injured my leg...”

“What about the Rubieras?” interrupts the taller man. His voice is deep and calm.

The _gendarme_ shakes his head. “All dead, _Monsieur_ Girard. All but the little girl.”

A murmur runs among the men like a wave receding on a shingle beach, their words punctuated by sharply-spoken expletives. The mayor turns toward the legionnaires. “And this is our PROTECTION?” he spits angrily. “What were you doing? Where did they come from? How did they get to the farm?”

“Not now, Jean-Marie,” interrupts the doctor forcefully. He looks up at Normand. “Can you walk? Good. Inside.”

The _pieds-noirs_ speak angrily amongst themselves, the voice of the mayor the most audible, as the legionnaires are hustled into the clinic. A small waiting room greets the paras. The doctor gestures to the litter bearers and directs them through a set of double-doors to a treatment room on the right. He turns to Normand. “Sit down a moment, son,” he instructs, then spends a moment assessing the legionnaire’s wounds. “You’ll need clean dressings, and penicillin, but otherwise you look like you’ll live. You come last.”

The doctor converses quietly with Sgt. Katsourianis for a brief time. The _sergent_ looks up at Marcel. “Fortier, you assist the doctor,” he orders. The tall physician nods and tilts his head toward the back of the clinic.

Marcel...[sblock]“I’m Dr. Bruzzi. Have you any experience with assisting in a surgery?” he asks, his long strides carrying him quickly down the hall.[/sblock]

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]The lobby grows quiet, but outside the hubbub of voices seems to be growing.[/sblock]Please post your replies in spoiler blocks.


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## Bobitron (Oct 31, 2005)

Marcel stays quiet as the town officials rant, but all present can tell it is tough for him to hold back. The scene in the basement had affected him strongly, and any attempt to blame any party other than the insurgents gave him a sour taste in his mouth.



			
				The Shaman said:
			
		

> *Marcel...*[sblock]“I’m Dr. Bruzzi. Have you any experience with assisting in a surgery?” he asks, his long strides carrying him quickly down the hall.[/sblock]




[sblock]"Marcel Fortier, doctor. Yes. I studied in Paris at Broussais-Hôtel-Dieu. I could do this myself, if I had a field hospital." He speaks very matter-of-factly, with confidence in his ability.[/sblock]


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 31, 2005)

Pyotr pops one eye open as the voices outside the truck get louder. _Who the hell is this upstart?_ Stepping down from the truck, he eyes the group enough to commit them to memory then follows the rest inside. 

[sblock]
"See Normand? Doc says you'll live. That suicide arm of yours failed you again." Smiling to the big man, his ears perk to listen to the outside gathering. "I don't suppose you know what that is all about?"
[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 2, 2005)

[sblock]
Normand grins as Pyotr jokes, but doesn't respond, just shakes his head.  As Pyotr asks the serious question, however, he grows serious as well, and responds with a shrug

"Not anymore than you, really.  But if I had to guess, I'd say the mayor isn't too fond of the Légion to begin with, and will use this to "show" that we don't do much good."
[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 3, 2005)

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]“They expect us to be sector troops and stand guard over their houses,” Kat replies, overhearing Normand’s comment. His face is pensive. “David, you and Pamuk stand a post outside. Be careful – remember, no confrontations.”

As the two legionnaires move toward the door, it swings open, and in strides the mayor and _Monsieur_ Girard, accompanied by a woman this time – she appears to be in her mid- to late thirties, and wears a simple housedress. Through the open door a considerable crowd can be heard outside.

“_Sergent_, a word with you, now,” says the mayor, his voice echoing off the walls of the lobby.

Kat glances at Nedjar and Pamuk, who slip out the door as the mayor continues, “I want details, _sergent_...” Before he can continue, the woman interrupts, “Marie Rubiera is my sister – is she all right? Her children?”

The Greek legionnaire takes a deep breath – his face is grave. “_Madame_, the _gendarmes_ are at the farm now...”

“Don’t give me that, _sergent_,” the mayor breaks in angrily. “The _gendarme_ told me they’re all dead,” – the woman recoils slightly at the words – “You were right there when he said it!” The short man glares at the legionnaire.

Kat stands as if at attention. “We found four bodies belonging to _colons_. We also found a little girl alive.”

The woman’s hand rises to her mouth at Kat’s words and she shakes her head as tears begin to flow. The mayor helps her to a seat and Kat kneels down beside her. “The little girl is with a neighbor...” he says quietly.

The heavy-set bearded man with the rifle over his shoulder turns to the other legionnaires as Kat talks softly to the woman. “My name is Jacques Girard, and I’m the leader of the _Unités Territoriales_ for Portemonte,” His voice is a bass rumble, his face composed behind the thick gray beard. “Joseph Rubiera is a respected man in the community, and this is a shock for many,” he continues. “I spoke with him myself this afternoon, when he was in town. It’s difficult to comprehend.”

He looks to Normand. “Obviously there was a fight. How many were killed? Were they Arabs? Where did they come from?”[/sblock]

Marcel...[sblock]“A surgical student?” the tall physician replies. “The Legion seems an odd place for you.” He leads Marcel down a hall past three examining rooms and into the surgery. It’s little more than a large examining room itself, but looking over the setup Marcel can see that’s it efficient if a little austere.

Babaye is stretched out on the table, his eyes closed. A nurse in a clean white uniform is laying out surgical instruments on a tray, assiduously protecting the sterile field. She is short and curvy...plump...fat, actually, with bright red curly hair that peeks out the back of her white veil.

Dr. Bruzzi points to a wash basin. “Scrub there while I start the anesthetic.” The doctor prepares a syringe and an IV as Marcel takes a sponge and vigorously scrubs at the blood and grit crusted on his hands, stripping the skin bare and pink. “I was a military surgeon myself, during the war,” the physician continues as he inserts a needle into a vein in Babaye’s wrist. “How did you come to be in the Legion?”[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Nov 3, 2005)

[sblock]Marcel shrugs as he preps by carefully cleaning up and removing any excess clothing that might be a cause of contamination. "I joined a little while back. I enrolled at Broussais-Hôtel-Dieu at eighteen. I studied for a few years, but I decided I could do more good here. In Paris, I saw a future looking at old men's bunions and dealing with kid's coughs. Here, I save lives. Babaye would be dead if I wasn't there today. I'll finish school someday, but not now. Not while this is going on." Marcel sets down the soap, rinsing his hands one last time, and turns, finished with his preparations. "I'm ready, doctor."[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 4, 2005)

[sblock]
Normand looks at the sergeant, not overly comfortable at having to answer to any non-légionnaire without having been prepped as to what he may or may not reveal.  However, the sergeant is busy, and Normand figures that refusing to answer right away might end up doing more damage than good.  With a sigh, he answers, keeping his voice low.

"We were on a routine sentry drive when we came upon dead gendarmes.  We found one that was merely wounded, and information we got from him led us to believe the men who attacked them, which he told us were _fellaghas_, might be at the Rubiera farm.  We decided that we had to go there right away, because we feared if we waited they would leave and disappear.  And, of course, we were worried about the Rubiera family, since we knew they were in no way sympathizers.  Upon arriving, it was obvious that something was very wrong.  We did manage to take the farm, going in carefully in case some members of the family were being held as hostages.  I'm..  Not confident about the numbers at this time, but I believe we killed three or four.  We also took one prisoner.  And..  We found the bodies of the Rubiera family, except for one little girl who avoided being found, thank God.  As for who they were, it was pretty obvious they were fellaghas.  As for where they came from, I have no idea, as I haven't spoken to the prisoner.  I'm sure that is being done as we speak."

Normand pauses, and shakes his head, looking at the floor.

"I speak for myself when I say this, sir, and not the Légion, but I'm really sorry we weren't able to prevent the others from being killed.  From what I heard, however, they were killed before we even found the gendarmes.  Perhaps even before the gendarmes themselves were killed, since I think the truck used by them in the ambush belonged to Mr Rubiera."
[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 4, 2005)

*Barak* to the white courtesy phone, please - your opinion is needed in the [METAGAME] thread.


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## The Shaman (Nov 4, 2005)

Marcel...[sblock]“Pauline, help the medic with his gloves, _s’il vous plait_,” Dr. Bruzzi says to the little round nurse. She joins Marcel at scrub basin and after sizing up the medic’s hands with a glance, removes a pair of surgical gloves from a drawer. She checks to make sure that Marcel’ gown is in place and slips a cloth mask around his neck before tearing open the paper and deftly placing the gloves on his raised hands, smiling a pretty smile at the Frenchman as she does.

As this little ritual is performed, Babaye drifts off to sleep as the anesthetic takes hold and the doctor in turn dons his gown and scrubs in preparation. “I’m sorry to hear about Rubiera,” Dr. Bruzzi says as he works the sponge between his fingers. “A good man. Not an educated man, but not a bumpkin like some of the dear citizens of our fine metropolis here in the wilderness.” He shakes his head. “We’ve been spared the depredations of the FLN before now,” he continues in his Italian-tinged French, “though one only has to look to the Arabs in the _medina_ to know that this was inevitable.”

Completing his ablutions, he stands patiently as Pauline assists the doctor with his mask and gloves, standing on tip-toes to reach the tall physician’s head and hands. His voice muffled by the cloth, Dr. Bruzzi says to Marcel, “Let’s see what the Broussais-Hôtel-Dieu is teaching its students these days.”

Make a DC 20 Treat Injury check to give Dr. Bruzzi a +2 aid another bonus during the surgery.[/sblock]Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]Girard listens intently to Normand, nodding at the end. “Joseph dropped his car off here in town for repairs this afternoon, so only the truck would be on the farm.” The large man is lost in thought for a moment. “What about the hands? Rubiera had a half-dozen Arabs working his farm.”[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 4, 2005)

[sblock]
"Sir, I wouldn't know anything about that.  If you have anymore questions, I'd recommend that you wait for my sergeant to be done talking to this poor bereaved woman, and ask him."

Normand then looks up, and gives Girard a lopsided grin.

"Mean no disrespect, of course, sir."
[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Nov 5, 2005)

[sblock]Marcel moves into position, the gloves and surgical gown making him feel a bit awkward. It had been a long time since he had worn the garb. _Too accustomed to working in the dirt,_ he thought. The doctor's administrations are practiced, and Marcel finds himself standing there for much of the procedure. "I don't see I am of any more use here than a nurse, Doctor." He hands him another swab.

ooc: Urgh. A crappy roll, just in time to impress the doc. My result is an 11. At next level, I would just take 10 on this to get the results I need. Speaking of which, how are we doing for XP?

It looks like if the doctor fails, we can re-attempt it, anyhow. :\ 
[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 6, 2005)

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]Girard’s eyes narrow slightly, but the big man says nothing, merely looks at the reluctant Normand and the silent Pyotr. “All right, _légionnaire_,” he says at last and turns away.

From across the lobby the woman’s sobs grow louder as Kat, still kneeling beside her, finishes speaking. The mayor sits on the edge of his chair beside her, tapping his sausage-like fingers furiously on his knee, glaring at the _sergent_. Suddenly the woman pulls back a hand and swings it at Kat, who, perhaps anticipating the moment, catches her hand in his own. “This didn’t happen until you came!” she shrieks as she struggles with the Greek legionnaire. “You brought them here!” she spits vehemently.

Before Kat can respond, from outside comes the sound of breaking glass.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]Marcel finds himself hard-pressed to keep up with Dr. Bruzzi’s rapid pace. The Italian’s technique is a model of efficiency as he enters Babaye’s chest and extracts the 7.5 mm bullet from its resting place in the _caporal-chef_’s sixth rib and debreeds the tissue around the wound site, suturing minute tears in a slowly leaking artery in the process. Gone are the minute incisions of the surgical theatre, replaced with deft cuts that leave Marcel fumbling with sponges and clamps.

“A military surgeon,” Dr. Bruzzi intones, “must be efficient above all else. You must work with the certain knowledge that another wounded man is waiting for you. Retractor. No, here, at the base of the lung,” he corrects.

“I served in Abyssinia and across North Africa during the war,” he continues. “Benghazi, Tobruk, El Alamein, Mareth. Until I was captured by the British, and then I was a surgeon in a PW camp in Tunisia. Pauline, wipe.” He leans down as the plump nurse mops his brow, then looks over the top of his glasses at Marcel. “Like your _Capitaine_ Martini. Did you know he was an Italian paratrooper?”[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 6, 2005)

[sblock]
_Merde Alors!_

Normand exchange a glance with Pyotr, then stands up, and takes a step toward the door.  Stopping, he looks toward the busy sergeant.

"Hmm sarge?  Want me to go out there and help?"

[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Nov 8, 2005)

[sblock]"_Capitaine_ Martini, a paratrooper in Italia?" Marcel shrugs. "I don't have any skeletons in my closet, but I'm sure that others might. I don't dig too deeply, Doctor. That's a good way to make enemies within my own men." His eyes rise to meet Bruzzi’s. "Not that serving in the Italian military is a skeleton. Monsters served on all sides. I knew a resistance fighter named Pierre who would abuse the Germans fiercely with lit cigarettes. I hated him for it. Good men served on all sides. Even the Germans probably had a few," he said with a grin. "Actually, I met some a while back. Our last mission was with a German _Sergent_ named Neumann and a couple of _légionnaires_ named Dinter and Berg. Good men, every one." He pauses in reflection. "I couldn't save Berg. He was dead before I got to him."

He sighs and attempts to keep with the surgeon's pace. "My speed is an issue. Probably my biggest shortcoming, to be honest. I don't make many mistakes, but when I am rushed, I find it difficult to dot the i's and cross the t's, you know?"[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 8, 2005)

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]Before the _sergent_ can answer, Ortu interjects, “Kat...my gun...it’s in the back of the truck.”

“_Χριστός_!” he says, disengaging himself from the distraught woman and rising. “Secure the truck,” Kat orders, then turns to Girard. “Can you control your people?” he says bluntly. The UT leader’s reply is lost as the legionnaires walk out the doors of the clinic.

The crowd has grown to some three score, but they are no longer clustered directly in front of the clinic – something up the street has caught their attention. Nedjar and Pamuk stand beside the door, weapons slung and magazines folded forward – in the back of the truck, Sánchez can be seen, with the AAT-52 beside him.

Several shouts come from up the street now. Normand and Pyotr: Spot checks, please.[/sblock]

Marcel...[sblock]“It’s a rare legionnaire,” Dr. Bruzzi replies, nimbly suturing the leaking artery, “that doesn’t have skeletons in his closet, young man.”

“Giovanni was a platoon leader in Abyssinia and commanded a para company in Greece and North Africa, before he was wounded and captured at El Alamein,” he continues, threading the silk through the artery wall. “Suction. After the armistice he volunteered to serve in the Royal Italian Army, fighting alongside the Allies.” The surgeon leans over and studies Babaye’s face for a moment. “He takes the gas well. Keep a close eye on him, Pauline. We don’t want him waking up in the middle, _oui_?” The chubby nurse nods.

“Your _capitaine_ fought for his country. It is a soldier’s duty to serve, something the politicians use to their ends, for better and worse.” Dr. Bruzzi pauses a moment as he ties off the suture. “Unfortunately speed comes from too much experience with this business, Fortier. I’m sorry to say that you will develop it in time. The Arabs will not stop fighting any time soon.”[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 8, 2005)

[sblock]
Hearing talk of a gun having been left in the back of the truck, Normand tries to hurry to it, not paying too much attention to anything else.


OOC
Spot check:1

[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Nov 8, 2005)

[sblock]Marcel stays quiet during Dr. Bruzzi's comments about Capitaine Martini. The man's service sounded commendable, and the Legion wouldn't put him where he was without a degree of competence above the average soldier. 

The surgeon's rapid and accurate work is studied carefully by the young medic, his eyes following Bruzzi's every move with interest. When he speaks about speed coming with experience, Marcel nods. "I know." He looks around for a clock, curious about what the rest of his unit is up to. "I don't see the fighting coming to a abrupt halt. Both sides are a bit too stubborn to give up right now. I can understand why the Arabs are willing to fight, but not the methods they use. We do not fight soldiers, Doctor. These are murderers and madmen." Marcel's expression is grim. "The prisoner we took at the farm will find a fate far worse than the crimes he committed when he reaches hell." Marcel once again looks for a clock. "Doctor, how long have we been? Tempers were rising outside as we came in." 

ooc: Your "mob gathers" comment has me sooo nervous. Normally I'm not a fan of the sblock things, but it's working very well in these circumstances.  [/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 8, 2005)

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]As Normand moves toward the truck where Sánchez waits with the machine gun, Pyotr looks down the street at the crowd. Spot 23. In front of what appears to be a brightly-lit café a man lies on the sidewalk, surrounded by broken glass – judging from the shattered window at the front of the shop, it appears the man’s exit was direct and abrupt. Several _pieds-noir_ men and women, including a couple of the home guardsmen, are gathered around the man on the ground, shouting epithets.

Sánchez looks at Normand as he approaches, followed closely by Ortu. “Forget something, Silvio?” the Spaniard says, his voice deadpan. The machine gunner says nothing as he climbs into the back of the truck.

“An Arab?” Pyotr asks Nedjar, standing on the steps of the clinic. The Algerian nods. “I think so. I heard the crash but I didn’t see him until he was on the ground.”[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]“About forty minutes so far. The clock is behind you,” Dr. Bruzzi replies. The surgery takes an hour to complete – in all likelihood suppressing the riot...uh...I mean, the events outside the clinic will be over long before the operation is finished. Think of this as Marcel’s opportunity to gather some local intelligence... 

“Murderers and madmen, perhaps,” the surgeon continues, “but many ex-soldiers have joined the FLN.” He glances at Marcel. “Now they are the _maquisards_, and the French are the Occupiers.”

I’ll try to use the spoiler blocks sparingly – in this case, given the separation and the differing timeframes, it seemed to make sense.[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Nov 8, 2005)

[sblock]Marcel glares across the operating table with level eyes. "I grew up in the midst of the Resistance, Doctor. Neither the Germans nor the French committed crimes akin to what I saw in that farmhouse. I have seen Frenchmen turn on their daughters for having a relationship with a _soldat_. A German soldier kicking a young boy so hard in the stomach that he sh*t blood for a week. War brings out the evil in many men. But never have I seen a soldier slit the throats of a family for an unjust occupation of land. I do not doubt that there are soldier amongst the enemy. The battle we fought after our first jump was much like the fights in other wars, on other continents, against other men. Those men fought and died in battle against France's sons, whether adopted or native. The men we killed at Rubiera's farm were not soldiers. Perhaps I am naive or unrealistic, but those men are murderers, not soldiers." Marcel's eyes finally leave the doctor's face. "I do not mean to rant on, Doctor. But the men I knew during the Resistance were not murderers."

ooc: I didn't mean to complain about the sblocks, working very well in this case. [/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 9, 2005)

Marcel...[sblock]A slight smile plays over the doctor’s thin lips as he listens to Marcel. “Soon I’m going to be an old man,” he replies thoughtfully, “and I’m not as passionate as I once was. I’ve seen too many men die much too young,” he continues, “young men much like yourself, and the memory of it is painful. It colors my view of the world.”

He pauses as he resets Babaye’s ribcage, with Marcel’s help. “The Arabs want independence, but they’re years away from being able to manage the country without the French – they simply haven’t the capacity for it now. The Europeans, like our dear mayor out there, refuse to accept that the Arabs will breed them out of existence in Algeria, and instead of looking for a compromise, they expect the army to hold the country for them by force.”

Dr. Bruzzi looks over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses at Marcel. “Eventually the barbarians overcame Rome. And it was followed by a darkness that lasted centuries.”

He hands Marcel a needle and a length of delicate silk and shows him where to begin suturing to close the incision in the Senegalese legionnaire’s chest. After watching the medic’s technique for a few moments, the physician moves to Babaye’s head, to check the anesthetic. “Pauline, see to the other patients. We’ll get that ball out of the legionnaire's thigh next.”

“Yes, doctor,” the nurse replies, casting a heavy lidded glance at Marcel as she exits the surgery.

Dr. Bruzzi watches Marcel’s suturing vigilantly. “The Rubieras’ youngest daughter – Angelique, isn’t it? Was she injured? How did she escape?”[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Nov 9, 2005)

[sblock]Marcel catches the nurse's glance with his own eyes as she leaves, but quickly brings his attention to the work at hand. 

"_Pauvre fille_." He pauses his speech as he pushes the needle through Bayabe's flesh one last time to finish closing the wound. "She hid, simple as that. I don't know for how long, or how she kept from calling out once things quieted down. But she did. Saved her life, for certain." Marcel sets down the needle and silk, wiping the affected area with a clean cloth and inspecting the sutures. "No injuries except those up here." He taps a finger to the side of his head. "I can't imagine having to live with what she must." He shrugs. "But she is young, I suppose. She will grow up, fall in love, marry some farmer or shoemaker, and have many babies. It is the way of things."

Marcel moves to the sink, washing his hands vigorously. "I find folly in thinking that the French and the French alone can govern these people. Before we arrived, they lived their lives, did they not? True, the departure of the Europeans would leave Algeria in a time of strife. But eventually things would settle back to how it was. As deaths mount, the French people will not stand for it. The days of colonialism are over, doctor. I fight for the Legion and my comrades, not some ideal that France should rule over these people. If I can stop a person, be they French, Algerian, German, Italian, whatever, from dying an unjust death, I will do all in my power to do so." He speaks with conviction, his clear voice filling the surgery.[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 9, 2005)

[sblock]
Normand lifts himself unto the back of the truck, and turns, intending to be seen and noticed.  He's sort of glad all the blood hasn't been clean from hi, and that some of the minor cuts he suffered haven't been treated yet, as he believes it will give his image extra strenght.  While he keeps his rifle pointed to the ground, and makes darn sure it doesn't point at anyone, he doesn't attempt to hide it either.  He talks in a relatively soft voice, intending to be heard by the people closest to the truck, but not trying to be heard by the whole crowd.

"Come on now, people.  All you're destroying is your own homes, by acting like that.  And you're making it harder than it has to be for us to try and protect you.  I've bled for ya'll enough today, I really don't want to do it more."



OOC
I guess it's more Diplomacy than Intimidate, sadly.
Diplomacy check:9
Aww crap.  I hope I get some modifiers. 

[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 9, 2005)

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]A dozen or so faces look up at Normand as he speaks. One of them, a woman in a yellow print dress, yells back shrilly, “You don’t have to live with these Arabs, _légionnaire_!” Her face is a mask of fury. “You have guns and sleep behind a barbed-wire fence with guards. These - ” she hesitates “ – these MURDERERS live right among us! And you say you’ll protect us? Like you protected the Rubieras, no doubt!” Several shouts of agreement accompany her words.

Up the street, the man on the ground, framed by the light spilling from the shattered café window, is taking a terrific beating as the crowd roars its approval.

OoC: The good news is, at least this time Normand didn’t make things _worse_...  [/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]“The Algerians haven’t ruled themselves for centuries,” Dr. Bruzzi replies quietly as he checks over Marcel’s sutures. “If the French were to suddenly decide to leave, the vacuum would be disastrous.” He looks directly at Marcel. “Do you have any idea how few non-European doctors there are in Algeria? Here in the southern territories there are just thirty-five physicians, and only two of them are Muslims.”

The physician sighs deeply. “In any case, right now it is _Algerie francaise_, for which I suppose I should be grateful. I’m a _colon_, too, with a farm and my practice. I’m too old to want to uproot myself again.” He smiles. “And I must admit, Africa is in my blood.”

Dr. Bruzzi directs Marcel to start an IV of antibiotics as he removes his gloves and washes his hands and arms. “What happened to Rubiera’s hands? He had a half-dozen Arabs working his place.”[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Nov 9, 2005)

[sblock]Marcel connects the IV as directed and looks up as Bruzzi mentions the farmhands. "I don't know," he says quizzically. "I suppose they may have run. We didn't find any Arabs that seemed friendly to the Rubiera family. The one I suspect did the deed says he is innocent, but I doubt him with all my heart. He was carrying a bloody knife, for God's sake." He finishes the IV and steps back. "Would you recognize the workers if you saw one?"

ooc: Man, I would hate to find out that guy was a worker, and the one we killed with the shotgun as well. I guess I would have fired if the door was kicked in after hearing gunfire and grenades going off, as well. :\ 

Whatever happened to the prisoner, anyways? [/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 9, 2005)

[sblock]
Normand shrugs slightly and half-grins at the woman.

"Do I really look like I've been staying safe behind barbed-wire, ma'am?  And one of my companions is in there being operated on, and he might die, too.  And the ones responsible for the Rubieras are dead."

_Or arrested, but I don't think I want them to know that._

"And that," he says, pointing at the man being beaten, "sure won't help anything."


OOC
Let's see if I can make it worse -this- time!
Diplomacy: 11


"Ahh hell.  I can't just stay here and look."

Normand hands his rifle, as well as his grenade pouch to Ortu, and then jumps off the truck, headed straight to where the arab is laying down.

"Alright, alright.  He's had enough now.  Break it up before you kill him, and I have to punish _more_ killers today."

Normand frowns as he talks, rolling his shoulders as he always did before a bout.


OOC:
Well I figure -that- one can be intimidate. 
Intimidate: 3
Aww man.  Now I'm gonna get the crap beaten out of me.

[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 9, 2005)

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]The woman simply waves her hand disdainfully at Normand, and turns to watch the commotion up the block.

Ortu takes Normand’s gear with a puzzled look on his face – it’s not until the big Frenchman hops down from the deuce-and-a-half and strides away that the grenadier’s intent is clear. “Will you look at this guy?” Normand hears from over his shoulder.

Wading through the throng, Normand reaches the Arab lying on the ground. A busboy or a cook perhaps, his white apron is stained with blood – even with hands raised to ward off the kicks and blows of the mob, the Frenchman can see that the boy’s face is a mass of welts and bruises, his arms lacerated from his trip through the window.

The perpetrators are nonplussed by Normand’s order to disperse. “Stay out of it, legionnaire,” says one of the home guardsmen. “This isn’t your concern.”

“Since when does the Legion side with the wogs, anyway?” says another, a young man in his mid-twenties in civilian dress, his pinched face drawn up in a nasty sneer. “You queer for Arab boys?” This draws a laugh from the crowd.

OoC: Normand is about sixty feet from the front of the clinic where the truck is parked. He’s in the midst of a crowd of about forty or fifty people, with his back to the busted window of the café. Sneering Guy is 15’ away.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]The doctor towels his hands dry and unties his mask. “Just by sight, from trips to town...wait, there’s Moulai – short fellow, dark complexion. Worked there for a few years, now.” He thinks for a moment. “And Ferhaz – I treated him for blood poisoning last fall. Strong fellow. Former _tirailleur_, I believe – had a couple of scars on him. Old wounds.”

OoC: Roll a straight Wisdom check.[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 9, 2005)

[sblock]
Normand pauses in the motion of reaching for the beaten arab, straightens up to his full height, cracks his neck, and looks at the young man who spoke to him last.

"Sir, I dare say the two I had to kill today at the Rubiera's farm would disagree with you on that point.  As you can see, I came here unarmed, to stop ya'll from killing the boy who was cleaning your table earlier today.  Now, if you don't back the hell up, I'll make you eat your teeth."

Normand looks at the assembled crowd, and sneer in turn.

"Sure, there's enough of you to probably stop me.  But I sure as all hell will take down a couple first.  So who wanna start?"


OOC
Well, here goes nothing, I guess!
Intimidate check: 19
Well, that's a lot better!  Let's hope it's enough...

[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 9, 2005)

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]The sneering man’s expression changes to one of confusion, then of fear, and he takes an involuntary step backwards at Normand’s glare. There’s a vague sense of the crowd around the grenadier leaning back on its heels, unwilling to force a confrontation with the bloody legionnaire. The tension hovers for what feels like minutes but is really only a score of seconds when a deep voice carries over the crowd, “That’s enough.”

_M_. Girard steps into the pool of light, followed by Sgt. Katsourianis – Pyotr, Nedjar, and Ortu are close behind. “Until we know more about what happened, it’s best if you stay in your homes,” Girard says, addressing the mob. Turning to one of the home guardsmen standing nearby, he continues, “Assemble the men at the _monument aux morts_ – we’re going to assign patrols. Claude,” he says, catching one of the guardsmen by the sleeve, “take Maurice and Tomas and carry this one - ” he motions toward the Arab boy “ - home to his people. Keep alert. We’ll be close behind you.”

Girard looks at Normand for a moment, then turns to Kat. “It might be best if you keep your men off the street for the time being,” he rumbles, then turns to follow the rest of the guardsmen toward the plaza as the crowd slowly disperses.

“Back to the truck,” Kat says firmly, and the five legionnaires walk to the doors of the clinic. Murmurs flutter among the _pieds-noir_ as they pass.

Ortu can scarcely contain himself. “You really thought you were going to fight the townies over that Arab?”[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 9, 2005)

[sblock]
Normand looks at Ortu, his frown still on his face, and he takes a step towards him.  

Then he stops, and breaks into a grin.

"My friend, do you know how _long_ it's been since i got into a good brawl?  Seemed like decent odds to me."

And with a wink, he turns towards the truck, and swaggers to it, then hops back on.
[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 10, 2005)

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]The Sardinian makes no reply, just shakes his head in wonder.

Back at the truck, the rest of the section waits. “Nedjar, Pamuk, and Sánchez, as you were,” Kat orders. “Everyone else inside.”

Normand climbs into the truck to retrieve his gear. Sánchez says nothing – he seems to be studying the grenadier. Nedjar leans in over the tailgate. 

“Mador, see me before you go inside.” He’s waiting off to one side when Normand exits the truck.

Normand only...[sblock]“Mador – Normand – you have to be careful,” he begins, speaking softly. “You’re French, yes? Your accent isn’t hard to place.” He smiles slightly. “Remember that most of the men in the Legion are foreigners, and the idea of a foreigner taking the side of an enemy of France against a French citizen is serious business. These people don’t see you as a Frenchman, or me as a French citizen – they see us foreigners in a French army uniform.” Nedjar looks up at the big man. “_Le Capitaine_ is very serious about this. Keep that in mind.”

The Algerian looks around and lowers his voice still further. “Just between us, that was a good thing you did. A _mitzvah_, we call it. Jews aren’t treated much better than Arabs by most of the French here. I’ve seen many beatings like that, where no one stepped in to stop them until it was too late.” He claps Normand on the shoulder, gently. “Go inside. Hopefully the doctor will be ready to see you soon.”[/sblock][/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Nov 10, 2005)

[sblock]Marcel reflects on the doctor's descriptions as he washes his hands once again.

ooc: Wisdom check is a 21! Whoohoo! Hopefully it is good news...[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 10, 2005)

[sblock]
Normand takes his gear, returning Sánchez's look, an half smile on his face.  Then he jumps off lightly.

                                    ---------

"Thanks Nedjar, I'll try to keep that in mind.  But..  Between you and me?  I really couldn't have just stood there and watched.  In a way, I got in the Légion to get away from people who have other beaten for _stupid_ reasons.  If it's an issue..  I'll deal."

Normand then winces, and presses a particularly tender spot on his arm.

"Good thing they backed off, too."

And with a last smile, he goes back inside the clinic.
[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 10, 2005)

Marcel...[sblock]_Strong fellow_. _Wound scars_. Marcel ran the scene in the dining room at the farmhouse through his head again. The _fellagha_ that Normand and Sgt. Müller had killed – well-built, and a jagged old scar on his shoulder where the man’s shirt had been torn away by the grenade blast.

The medic shares a description of the dead fell with the doctor. “That sounds like Ferhaz, yes,” he replies, his brow furrowed. “Wounded by mortar fragments in Indochina. In the shoulder, and in the side. He was lucky to keep his arm, actually.”[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Nov 11, 2005)

[sblock]Marcel moves quickly to his gear, gathering up his belongings. "Excuse me, doctor. But I need to speak to my _Sergent._" He pauses, walking to face the doctor and extending his hand, then kissing both cheeks. "Thank you for sharing your surgery with me. Your advice will not be forgotten, Doctor." Making sure his carbine is on safe, he leaves the hospital, hustling to get the information to his unit.[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Nov 11, 2005)

The mayor and the sister-in-law have left the clinic when the paras return to the lobby. It’s quiet now, the crowd gone, the UTs walking off the streets of the colonial town.

“Now what?” Ortu asks Sgt. Katsourianis as the Sardinian swings a wooden chair around and sits down, resting his arms and head on the backrest.

The section leader glances at his big chrome chronograph. “The lieutenant said to bring the wounded here. We still need to get Gaspard and Mador looked at, then we’ll head back to camp.” Kat reaches for his canteen. “Szabo’s section was going to make a patrol of the surrounding farms to look for more _fellaghas_. I don’t expect they’ll be back for awhile.”

Taking a long pull from his canteen, the _sergent_ continues, “We may not be done yet, so make sure you’re ready to go back out. I’m going to see about refilling these.” He holds up the canteen, then pushes through the double-doors leading to the examination rooms. The weary paras methodically check their gear.

Asmussen is assigned to collect canteens and fill them when Kat returns, carrying the section radio slung over his shoulder. After this is done, the Greek _sergent_ steps outside to talk with Nedjar and the others standing guard, leaving Normand, Pyotr, and the rest of the section to wait in the lobby: Asmussen seated a chair, his rifle held upright beside him; Syrovy, slumped in a chair in the corner; Ortu, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, head on his chest asleep.

The room is quiet when Marcel emerges from the double doors.


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## Bobitron (Nov 11, 2005)

Marcel bursts through the door in a rush, his eyes flickering over the room. "Where's Sergent Kat?" he asks, his paced uninterupted as he makes way for the door. "Bayabe is fine," he calls back over his shoulder before he exits. "Vidal should go into surgery next."

Stepping outside, he looks for Kat, eager to explain what he had heard.


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## The Shaman (Nov 11, 2005)

Sgt. Katsourianis is waiting on the steps with David Nedjar when Marcel arrives. “How’s Babaye, doc?” the section leader asks immediately.


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## Bobitron (Nov 12, 2005)

"He'll be fine. Bruzzi knows what he is doing. Old war acquaintance of the Captaine, apparently." He shakes his head. "Look, sir, it's not important. I have something to tell you. The fell we killed in the farmhouse. You remember the one with the big scar on his shoulder? Turns out he was named Ferhaz, and he was one of Rebiera's farmhands. Who knows about the others. The doctor said that Rubiera had half a dozen Arabs working for him." Marcel shrugs. "I suppose the difficult thing is to decide whether they were part of what happened in the basement or not, but I would have to assume they were." He looks into Kat's face, looking for some insight into the man's thoughts. "But it is up to the gendarmes to decide now, right?"

ooc: If Nedjar and Kat are not alone, Marcel will get them away from any people not in the unit then explain the situation.


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## The Shaman (Nov 12, 2005)

The section leader listens closely to Marcel’s account. “So you think the _fellagha_ in the house was one of the farmhands?” Kat thinks for a moment, and turns to Nedjar. “David, what about the farmhands’ quarters?”

“Kerenin and Gaspard searched inside,” the Algerian replies, scratching his beard. “There were two dead Arabs that I assumed were farmhands,” he says thoughtfully, “but there were beds for eight or ten.” Nedjar thinks for a moment. “All of the fells that I saw were dressed in work clothes – no uniforms, and no _djellbas_. The prisoner, too.”

Kat nods. “That’s right,” he replies. Turning on his heel, the _sergent_ says “Come inside.” Back in the lobby, he approaches Pyotr. “Kerenin, tell me about what you found in the farmhands’ quarters.”


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## Barak (Nov 12, 2005)

Normand found himself a half-comfortable spot, and sits in that corner he claimed for himself, eyes half-closed.

He doesn't really want to let it show too much, but his wounds, compounded by his activities outside the clinic, took out quite a bit out of the burly frenchman.  And so, when the sergeant reenters with Marcel, and starts talking to Pyotr, he doesn't do much more than pay half-hearted interest.


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## The Shaman (Nov 14, 2005)

Sgt. Katasourianis listens as Pyotr runs down his observations – the two men in work clothes lying on the floor, their throats slashed; the dead _fellagha_ with the shotgun; the prisoner and the rifle under the bed; the empty lockers. The Greek nods.

“When Mador and I searched upstairs,” Kat says, jerking his head in Normand's direction, “we found a broken gun case. I thought the fells stole the rifles after they attacked the farm, but perhaps they took the farmer’s guns before they met the _gendarmes_...” He trails off, lost in thought.


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## Barak (Nov 14, 2005)

Reacting to his name, Normand speaks up.

"Matters little, really.  They fired on us before we fired on them.  By my book, that makes them bad guys.  And we already know more bad guys are out there, anyway.  Let those #$^& gendarmes figure the rest out, they were itching to anyway."


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## Bobitron (Nov 15, 2005)

Marcel counts off the fells on his fingers, then ponders the figures for a moment. "Wait." He turns to Pyotr counting off the enemies on his fingers. "There were four casualties, plus the prisoner. How many lockers were there? You said four, right? That leaves one man unnaccounted for, who must not have been from the farm." Marcel looks to Kat. "Do you think he inflamed the farmhands to the point where they would do such a hienous act?" He looks toward the door with anxious eyes. "Angelique would know who the dead are. I can't believe we didn't notice this at the farm..."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 15, 2005)

Pyotr nods, seeing where Marcel is going with this. "You think it was a set-up? I wonder just how long those hands were working for Rubiera before this happened. The real question though, is why." He stops, trying to piece together what he's heard so far. "As key of information she would have, I think our chance to ask questions is long past. I really don't think the neighbor she's with would take kindly to legionnaires interrogating a small child."


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## The Shaman (Nov 16, 2005)

Kat glances at his watch again. “The _gendarmes_ will probably talk to the girl tonight or tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll tell the lieutenant what you found when he gets back to camp.”

The double-doors leading to the exam rooms swing open, and a short, chubby nurse in snug-fitting scrubs appears, red curls protruding from beneath her cap. She surveys the legionnaires with big blue eyes, then approaches Marcel.

“Dr. Bruzzi would like to know if you are going to assist him with treating the other wounded legionnaire – Gaspard, _oui_?” she asks. “Also, he asked me to tell you that the _caporal_ should stay here for the night and be evacuated in the morning.” She smiles, a coquettish grin, and adds, “Oh, there is another wounded legionnaire as well?” The nurse looks around and spots Normand, bloody bandages and torn uniform looking like a pile of rags slumped in the corner. “_Légionnaire_, the doctor would like me to clean you up before he sutures your wounds,” she says. She motions toward the double-doors. “Do you need help standing up?”

As Normand gathers himself together, the plump nurse shakes her head. “It’s terrible about _Monsieur_ Rubiera and his family,” she says to no one in particular. “They were nice people.”


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## Barak (Nov 16, 2005)

Normand grins at the nurse, working hard once more at hiding his fatigue now that there's a non-légionnaire in the room.

"Ma'am, with you here, I find getting up _real_ easy."

Moving his wost-wounded arm gingerly, his grin fades, and he winces.

"And, really, it looks worse than it is.  Mostly scratches and what not.  Had to jump on a grenade to save my sarge, dontcha know."

As he walks through the double doors with her, he brings back the subject at hand.

"So..  You knew the Rubieras, then, I take it?  Terrible thing, that's true.  Their helpers too, I'd say.  D'you happen to know if they had been working there long?  Be a terrible strike o' bad luck if they had just started, I'd say."


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## Bobitron (Nov 16, 2005)

The medic waits for Kat's permission then leaves. He follows Normand into the surgery, a slight smile on his face as he hears his attempts at flirting. Catching the big Frenchman's eye, he winks and nods his approval. "Pauline, meet Normand Gaspard, saviour of the Legion and hero of the _Paras_." He reaches out with a hand, clapping Normand's shoulder softly to avoid his wounds. "He has proven a fine soldier and excellent friend."

Reaching the surgery, he sets down his gear and preps again. washing his hands just as thoroughly as when they where filthy before.


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## The Shaman (Nov 16, 2005)

“Oooh, a big, brave _légionnaire _,” the nurse replies playfully, patting Norman on the arm. “We’ll have to get you back into shape quickly, yes?”

As they walk into the examination room, Pauline continues, “The Arabs on their farm, you mean? Were they killed too?”

She thinks for a moment. “Moulai worked for them for sometime – years, I think. He brought the son in when he fell and broke his arm – it’s been at least two years since then.” The nurse readies a syringe, then looks up. “Then there was another Arab – we treated him a few months ago for a blood disease. A _tirailleur_.” She bites her lip. “He had a bad scar on his shoulder, from overseas. _Mon dieu_, why can’t I remember his name? I saw him in town this afternoon!”

The pudgy nurse looks at Normand with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, brave legionnaire, it’s time for you to strip down now.”
____

In the lobby Kat watches the two legionnaires and the nurse head to the back. “This is taking too long. Kerenin, run back there and find out how much longer the doc needs. If it’s going to be awhile, then let him know we’ll leave him here and send a jeep for him later.”


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## Barak (Nov 16, 2005)

Normand turns to Marcel as he shakes his head sadly, starting to remove his clothes as he talks.

"Always like this, _mon frère_.  I think they're after me for my sharp mind, my bravery, my wit.  But no, all they want is my body."

Despite his words, the légionaire keeps his underwear on, and smiles at the nurse.

"I kid, I kid.  I won't prevent you from doing your work with unwanted advances.  But believe me.  It'll take _all_ of my willpower."

As the nurse starts to clean the various wounds, amidst various intakes of breath and muttered curses, Normand continues the conversation on the other tack.

"To be honest, I'm not all sure who bought it and who didn't.  I did see a couple of them who'd I'd take to be the hands lying there dead, though."

_Yeah, after we shot the poor dumb bastards dead._


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 17, 2005)

_"Oui, sergent,"_ Pyotr acknowledges Kat's orders and makes his way to the back room. 

Seeing Normand bared down, he allows himself a slight smirk. "I do hope I'm not interrupting something important." The smile fades. "Kat wants to know how long this is going to take."


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## Bobitron (Nov 17, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> She bites her lip. “He had a bad scar on his shoulder, from overseas. _Mon dieu_, why can’t I remember his name? I saw him in town this afternoon!”




"Ferhaz." Marcel states the name clearly, calling over his shoulder as he shakes the excess water off his hands. "You saw him earlier today? Odd. How far are we from the farm? I'll confess, I wasn't paying much attention on the trip back."



			
				shadowbloodmoon said:
			
		

> The smile fades. "Kat wants to know how long this is going to take."




"Might be a while, but ask Dr. Bruzzi." He shrugs. "Could take a few hours."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 18, 2005)

"Hours? I'll let Kat know. He said he'd send a truck for you if it was going to take that long."  Pyotr turns to Bruzzi to get confirmation. "So is my friend right doctor? This could take hours?"


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## The Shaman (Nov 18, 2005)

The chubby nurse flashes Normand a look as she carries a basin of clean water and surgical sponges, setting them on a stand beside the examination table. “Flatterer,” she says, obviously pleased. “Now try to hold still.” She carefully removes the soiled dressings Marcel applied in the field.

As she works at the wounds with the sponges, Pauline answers Marcel. “The Rubieras’ place is out a ways, I think,” she replies, “a few kilometers at least.” The nurse dips a clean sponge in the water, and scrubs at Normand’s forehead, sidling near the legionnaire as she works – Normand can feel the warmth of her skin through her cotton scrubs as her ample figure presses close. “Ferhaz. That’s it. He was waiting with that big yellow tuck that _Monsieur_ Rubiera drives.” Pauline’s face crinkles slightly. “Or drove.”

Pyotr wanders in as the nurse finishes speaking. She confirms Marcel’s estimate. “The doctor is in with Gaspard, to look at his wounds. He said he would like to remove the bullet from Gaspard’s leg tonight,” she says to Pyotr, giving him a bright smile in the process, then looks at Marcel. “_Légionnaire_ Fortier, you’ll be arranging for an army ambulance to take the _sénégalais_ to Géryville in the morning, _oui_?”

The Ukrainian legionnaire sees the tall, lanky doctor standing in the doorway. “A couple of hours? Most likely, yes,” he replies to Pyotr’s question. “This one,” he says, nodding at Normand, “gets sutures and antibiotics before we go in the other one’s thigh, Pauline.”

“Yes, doctor,” she replies.  The nurse lifts Normand’s injured arm to access the jagged shrapnel wound, resting the limb across her shoulder. “Doctor, did you see _Monsieur_ Rubiera in town this afternoon? I saw one of his farmhands with that yellow truck of theirs.”

Dr. Bruzzi moves closer to Normand, eyeing the wounds. “No, no, I didn't, I'm sorry to say. Jacques Girard told me that Rubiera was here today, with his son. He said Joseph and the boy dropped off that Citroën of Marie's at the Moroccan’s garage, and picked up some feed at Girard’s store before going back to the farm.”


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 19, 2005)

Pyotr nods and says, "I'll let Kat know to send the truck back for you guys." He then returns back to the front lobby where Katsourianis is waiting for him. "Hours. He wants to get Normand done up and then get that round out of Gaspard's leg tonight."

Pausing for a moment, he gathered his thoughts before speaking again. "Sergeant? Does it strike you as odd that Rubiera was here this morning with his son, but then later this afternoon, a farmhand was here in the same truck? I mean, usually all the supplies are retrieved in one shot, right?" His face frowned in thought.


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## Bobitron (Nov 19, 2005)

Marcel moves over to Normand, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Good question, Pyotr. Do you think he might have made a second run into town to collect the other unknown at the farm?"

He assists Dr. Bruzzi in patching up Normand's wounds.

ooc: Assist is a 23.


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## Barak (Nov 19, 2005)

Normand opens his mouth to add in his two cents, then closes it again as he winces in pain when an alcohol swab cleans one of the wounds.  After that, he remains silent, deciding to think about things some more by himself before offering any opinion.


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## The Shaman (Nov 20, 2005)

Kat shrugs in response to Pyotr’s question. “No idea. I’m sure that the _gendarmes_ will work all that out.” The section leader frowns slightly. “I don’t want to wait around here for two hours. Let Fortier know that we’ll send a jeep for him. We’re going back to camp.”

Done cleaning Normand's wounds, Pauline waits with her hand resting on Normand's uninjured thigh, as the doctor looks over the ragged gash left by the shrapnel under the Frenchman's arm. “Pauline, my tray,” Dr. Bruzzi says as he inspects the wound. The plump nurse fetches a tray of instruments and a stand and places them beside the exam table, then retrieves an ampule and a syringe from one of the cabinets along the far wall.

Dr. Bruzzi readies the hypodermic and injects it in three places around the wound – Normand feels the burning pain of the laceration fade away, replaced by a slight tingling, as the doctor readies a curved needle and silk for the sutures.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 21, 2005)

Pyotr nods at Kat, "Already done, sergeant.  I'm ready to go, unless you want me to stay here and keep an eye on the boys." , he says with a slight smile.


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## The Shaman (Nov 21, 2005)

“No, I want to get back to camp, in case the lieutenant needs us,” Kat replies firmly. His voice rises as he continues, “All right, back on the truck. Doc and the wounded are staying here, and we’re returning to quarters.” 

The small group of legionnaires gather their gear.

Uh-oh, Pyotr, the _sergent_ isn’t convinced. Got a good reason to stay? Let him hear it, and throw a Diplomacy check on there.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 21, 2005)

Unfortunately, Pyotr can not think of a good reason other than they are his friends and he's sure the sergeant won't go for that. That and my Diplomacy bonus is not that great...

Pyotr, obedient as ever, shrugs. "_Oui, sergent._" He then makes sure he has his things and helps the other legionnaires onto the truck.


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## Barak (Nov 21, 2005)

Normand looks at the nurse, the germ of an idea coming to his head.

"So.. What garage is it that Mr Rubiera patronized, anyway?"


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## The Shaman (Nov 22, 2005)

Pyotr...[sblock]The legionnaires in the lobby trudge out the doors of the clinic. The street is quiet now – a man is sweeping up broken glass while another prepares to nail a sheet of plywood across the shattered window of the café up the street.

“Kat, you’re limping.” It’s Nedjar, watching as the _sergent_ hobbles down the steps, favoring the hip where the sniper’s bullet hit his holster. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” the Greek replies, but the grimace on his face suggests otherwise. “Just stiff.” A closer look reveals that his web belt is unbuckled, hanging from his suspenders rather than snug around his waist.

“You should have the doc check you over,” Nedjar continues. Before the _sergent_ can answer, the Algerian adds, “You’ll slow the rest of us down.”

Kat’s head snaps up, and he looks at Nedjar, his face clouded. Then the Greek nods and cracks a small smile. “Wanna try a ten kilometer night hike and see if you’re right?” he asks, but he stops short of the truck.

“Manolo, take Burhan and see if that café owner can part with something to eat, huh?” Nedjar says, ignoring the section leader’s taunt. Sánchez nods, and the Spaniard and the Turk turn up the street. “The lieutenant ordered us here, right?” the Algerian says to Katsourianis. “He knows where to look for us. And he said to get all the wounded checked.” Nedjar looks Kat in the eye. “All of them, _sergent_, _oui_?”

Kat doesn’t answer, handing his MAT-49 to Nedjar and slipping his web gear off his shoulders. The legionnaires say nothing, simply clamber down from the truck and reenter the clinic.

“Pyotr, find the doc and let him know there’s one more patient,” Nedjar tells the Ukrainian.

Okay, I’ll bail you out this time... [/sblock]Marcel and Normand...[sblock]Pauline smiles at Normand, and leans toward him slightly as she answers. “The Moroccan’s place,” she replies sweetly, “the Esso station a couple of blocks from here.”

“Tahar Zefzaf,” Dr. Bruzzi adds, tugging at the needle, drawing the silk through Normand’s skin. “He doesn’t own the station, just runs it for a man in Géryville. Does decent work.”[/sblock]


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## Barak (Nov 22, 2005)

Normand gives the nurse a grin, and then tears his eyes away, looking at Marcel as he speaks.

"Well, far as I see, one mystery is easily solved.  Mr Rubiera dropped the car for repairs, and bought supplies.  He needed to get them back to the farm, so of course he'd have had one of his hands drive the truck in town, to get him back to the farm.  A quick check at the garage to see if the citroen is indeed there would confirm that, but I think it's a fair assumption.  What I wonder about is..  Where was the truck going?  They were going north, then ran into the gendarmes, attacked them..  And then returned to the farm, on foot, why?  Surely their whole goal was not to kill a few gendarmes."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 22, 2005)

[sblock]
Yeah yeah, I feel bailed.... 
Pyotr nods to his sergeant, he hadn't seen the wound earlier and Kat had been hiding it rather well. He thens makes his way back inside.
[/sblock]

Pyotr pushes the doors open to the medical room, as if he had every reason to be there. "Change of plans Doc. Sergeant Katsourianis needs to be looked at too. He took a round in the hip and it's holding him back."


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## Bobitron (Nov 23, 2005)

Marcel swears softly under his breath. _I knew Kat was worse than he was letting on,_ he thought. "Bring him in. I can look at his wound while the Doctor finishes with Normand."

"Okay, so we go to the Esso and see what this Tahar Zefzaf has to say. Or maybe he's the prisoner. I'm sure answers will surface if we just keep looking." He frowns. "I wish I had asked the right questions of Angelique, though. I was so concerned about her fear that I never asked her about the man we captured. Stupid move," he sighs.


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## The Shaman (Nov 23, 2005)

“I’m here.”

Sgt. Katsourianis stands in the open doorway to the exam room. “It’s a bruise, doc, that’s all,” he continues, scowling. He removes his smock and lifts up his undershirt to reveal a large reddish-blue patch on his hip at the belt line – the skin is abraded as well, marked by tiny coagulations of dried blood. “Now why do you need to go to the Esso?”

“That Arab, Ferhaz?” Pauline interjects, her eyes narrowing as she speaks. “The garage is across the street from my seamstress. I’ve seen that Ferhaz talking to the Moroccan before.”

Dr. Bruzzi straightens up after tying off the suture. “Everyone talks to everyone in town, Pauline,” he says.

“_Oui_, of course,” she replies, “but...” She trails off, and busies herself with readying the next needle and thread for the doctor.

The physician looks at the wound on Normand’s arm. “Tahar was a mechanic in the army. It’s where he learned his trade.” He glances at the legionnaires. “I take it that Ferhaz was involved in the attack on the farm?”

Katsourianis winces as Marcel checks the wound. “Who are you talking about? And what does this have to do with the Esso station?” he asks impatiently


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## Barak (Nov 23, 2005)

Normand looks at Kat, unsure of how the sergeant will react to their wonderings.

"We're just trying to figure out how things happened, sarge.  'Cause the whole thing's..  Weird.  Mr Rubiera dropped his citroen at the Esso station, apparently to have it repaired.  That's why, I figure, Ferhaz was in town with the truck, you know?  To bring him, his son and the supplies back to the farm.  And the mysterious fifth man, we gather."

Normand shakes his head, and repeats what still bothers him.

"But that truck..  When it ambushed the gendarmes, it was headed away from town.  Where were they going?  That's what I want to know."


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## Bobitron (Nov 23, 2005)

Marcel walks to Kat, inspecting the wound. "I told you this might be worse than you thought," he chides. "Let's see what we can do."

ooc: Treat Injury check is a 24. I don't think I used Treat on him when the wound was found. If I can use Surgery instead, go for it.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 24, 2005)

"A lot of it doesn't make any sense. Our only witness is a frightened eight year old and that prisoner who may or may not tell us anything. There's more to this..somehow." Pyotr goes to take a seat, then thinks better of it, resolving to stand by the door.


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## The Shaman (Nov 27, 2005)

“I told you this might be worse than you thought,” Marcel chides Sgt. Katsourianis. “Let's see what we can do.”

“I had other things on my mind, doc,” Kat replies with annoyance as Marcel scrubs the scrapes with iodine swabs. Satisfied that the abrasion is clean, the medic looks for ice packs to place on the contusion.

“They were leaving the farm when they met the _gendarmes_,” the section leader agrees, “on their way to meet other _fellagahs_, maybe? Out in the _bled_ somewhere?” Kat gasps slightly at Marcel applies the first ice pack. “My lower back, too,” he says quietly. Marcel heals 3 points of damage. Kat’s injuries are relatively minor – the medic can undertake Surgery but can add at most only a few more hit points while incapacitating the _sergent_ for upwards of twenty-four hours.

“Mador, you think that one of the fells came from here in town? From the Esso?” Kat asks. “This army mechanic – Tahar, right? Is he an FLN sympathizer?” He winces as Marcel palpates his lumbar spine, and Pauline quietly directs the medic to a syringe and an anti-inflammatory.

Dr. Bruzzi has finished injecting Normand’s neck and stands with the curved needle ready to piece the anesthetized flesh. “The vocal separatists were chased out of Portemonte by the UT and the Army some time ago,” he replies, adjusting his glasses before starting the sutures. “Jacques Girard saw to that. The Arabs locally tend to keep to themselves. No one looks for trouble.”

“But if that Ferhaz fellow and the Moroccan were friends,” Pauline interjects, a hint of excitement in her voice, “maybe they were working together?” The plump nurse preps the hypodermic for Marcel and hands it to him primly, then returns to Dr. Bruzzi’s – and Normand’s – side at the examination table.

“Pauline, you don’t really know that they were ‘friends’, do you? There are three times as many Arabs in town as there are _colons_. Is anyone who ever spoke to Rubiera’s farmhands a _maquisard_ now?” replies the physician, the reproach plain in his voice. The nurse’s chubby cheeks turn crimson but she says nothing. Dr. Bruzzi's tone softens as he continues, “These are complicated and dangerous times, dear. Speculation and rumors only makes things worse.” 

Marcel slips the needle into the _sergent_’s lower back and slowly depresses the plunger. Kat stiffens slightly as the medic works, then looks around at the legionnaires. “What do you think?”


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## Barak (Nov 28, 2005)

Normand shrugs, which brings a wince to his face.

"Well sarge, to tell you the truth, what I think is that right now we're making lots of wild guesses based on very little solid information, and on circumstancial crap.  _But_ a lot of it could be easily checked out, and it would probably be worth the trouble.  A simple visit to that Esso station, for example, would let us know if that mechanic is still there or not.  And of course, that prisoner could have interesting informations, if we could talk to him."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 28, 2005)

"Speaking of, where did they take that prisoner? I'd like to be there when they interrogate him. Maybe we can get some solid answers. I'd like to have Normand along too, for..inspiring.. him to answer the questions." Pyotr grins a bit. 

"We have a saying in the Ukraine. When the bear leaves, the wolves eat. We'll probably have to wait until the locals are done with him first to get anything good out of him."


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## Bobitron (Nov 29, 2005)

Marcel grimaces a bit at Pyotr's comments about the wolves. _Oui, like the way the Russians are eating in Europe ever since the Germans left._ He keeps his thought to himself for once, though; Pytor was a friend and fellow legionnaire. 

"I agree with Normand and Pyotr, Sergent. We should get to the petrol station and question the prisoner." 

Marcel finishes up with Kat, motioning that he can dress. "Dr. Bruzzi. While I respect your opinion, Pauline is right to suspect in this situation. We are tasked with looking in to any connections regarding the insurgency. Looking into these sort of loose threads and hunches is how it is done. I know it sounds harsh, but you weren't there. You didn't see that family lying on the floor in blood." Marcel's eyes are fierce and flash with anger.

Marcel turns back to his commander. "Sgt. Kat, can the three of us take a truck out to the station, then over to the jail?"


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## The Shaman (Nov 30, 2005)

Kat slips on his smock carefully. “Maybe you’d like to a helicopter instead of the truck, _Commando_ Fortier?” the Greek replies icily. “If this Moroccan actually knows anything, we should find where he lives and let the _gendarmes_...”

“Oh, he lives at the station!” Pauline interrupts, “in a flat in the back.” She smiles triumphantly, 

The _sergent_ considers the information as Dr. Bruzzi ties off the last suture in Normand’s neck. “Okay,” Kat says at last, “we’ll take a look.” He looks up at Normand. “I’m not going to ask, ‘cause I’m sure you’ll say yes. Doctor,” he continues, “my radioman, can he to return to duty?”

Dr. Bruzzi shakes his head. “I’ve already given him an anesthetic for his leg and started an IV with antibiotics. He won’t be able to walk for at least another two hours.” The physician wipes his hands on a towel. “I appreciate the young _légionnaire_’s enthusiasm and dedication,” says the Italian, nodding to Marcel. “I’ve seen more blood spilled in my years than I can remember, and I don’t care to see more, tonight or any night. I ask you to reconsider, _sergent_.” He takes off his glasses and cleans them with an edge of his scrubs as he speaks. “This is a delicate time in relations between the _colons_ and the Arabs in Portemonte. The death of the Rubieras has inflamed the town already. I do not wish to see a massacre fueled by innuendo.”

Kat looks at the doctor. “We saw those ‘relations’ earlier, doctor,” he replies evenly. “If there is a connection, I don’t want it to slip away in the night.” The _sous-officier_ closes the last button on his tunic, them slips his beret from the shoulder strap and puts it on his head. “I take your point. Is there a way to get to the Esso without taking the main streets?”

The doctor sighs quietly and says nothing for a moment, then, his face resigned, he replies, “There is an alley...”

In the lobby of the clinic is a surprise – David and Burhan returned with a large basket of bread, cheese, and olives along with two bottles of wine and hot coffee in a silver ewer. The legionnaires bolt the food eagerly as Kat outlines the plan. “It’s a garage with an attached flat, one story. Two big sliding doors in front, same in back, with a chainlink fence enclosing the rear of the building. The nurse says this Moroccan keeps a big dog back there, so we’ll approach from the front.”

“Manolo, you’ll take Babaye’s group, and I’ll take the _choc_ group. Take care of perimeter security.” He frowns slightly. “We’ll figure out entry once we get a look at the place.”

“We want to avoid contact with the townspeople if we can. We’re taking an alley about two blocks, from behind this row of buildings opposite. I want light and noise discipline the whole way. If we make contact with the UT or other civilians, let me do the talking. Got that, Fortier?”

The _sergent_ glances at the big metal chronograph in his wrist. “The moon won’t be up for several hours. Know what you’re shooting at. Burhan, you’re on point – everyone else, tactical column on me.”

The paras slip out the door and cross the street, stealing between two buildings across from the clinic into the alley. The high desert air is already cold, and windows and curtains are closed against the chill – little light intrudes on the shadows of the alley, save from the back door of a bistro which the paras quickly pass. After a couple of blocks darting between pools of darkness Kat raises his hand and the column stops behind a tidy _pied-noir_ house – in the dim light beyond is the cyclone fence marking the rear of the service station.

The section leader grips Sánchez by the sleeve and whispers in his ear, then motions to the _choc_ group – Nedjar, Burhan, Pyotr, and Normand – to follow him. The four men backtrack a short ways until a path between two homes is found – slipping between the houses, hoping there are no dogs or curious citizens, the legionnaires make their way to the street, and jog the short distance to where they can see the front of the Esso station. 






The Esso station in Portemonte – see the attached map for details.​
All: Spot, Listen, Hide, and Move Silently checks, please! Marcel is with Sánchez, Ortu, Asmussen, and Syrovy near *O20* on the map. Pyotr and Normand are with Katsourianis, Nedjar, and Pamuk near *E20*. Note that none of you are on the map proper yet.


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## Bobitron (Nov 30, 2005)

Marcel grins at Kat's comments regarding his running mouth, nodding his agreement and making a zipping motion with his hand across his lips. The smile doesn't leave his face as he washes his hands once again and gathers his gear.

The taste of the wine and cheese still strong in his mouth, he follows Sánchez closely, checking his carbine reflexively as he moves. Removing the safety, he keeps the short rifle's dangerous end aimed at the ground and his finger outside the trigger guard as his eyes sweep left and right, squinting into the darkness. He can barely make out the large square shape of a dumpster behind the fence, swearing under his breath as he peers into the night. _I can't see a thing..._

ooc: 
Spot 5
Listen 15
Hide 20
Move Silently 15


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## Barak (Nov 30, 2005)

Normand had simply shrugged with a grin at the nurse when the sergeant declares there was no need to ask him if he wanted to go.  Bending down, he had whispered in her ear..

[sblock]"This way, maybe I'll get shot or something, and I can come see you again.."[/sblock]

And a little bit later, he finds himself in front of the Esso station..


OOC
Watch:8
Sneak: 12


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## The Shaman (Nov 30, 2005)

Pauline's reply to Normand...[sblock]“I'd rather you came back in one piece, _légionnaire_,” she replies, softly running her fingers on the inside of Normand’s arm before moving to assist Dr. Bruzzi.[/sblock]


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 2, 2005)

Pyotr silently moves along with the group, looking for anything that might give them away. Finding little cover, he uses what shadows he can to hide in, keeping his hands close to the submachinegun he carries.


Sneak: (1d20+7=19)
Watch: (1d20+4=11)

Sorry for the lack of response last day or so.. Just trying to catch up on some things...


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## The Shaman (Dec 2, 2005)

In the alley behind the service station, the legionnaires huddle by a low wooden fence enclosing the tiny garden of the house adjacent to the gas station. From somewhere inside the house Marcel can faintly hear the sound of music playing, a radio or a phonograph perhaps. A little light can be seen peeking around the curtain on the window in the back door, but otherwise the alley is in deep shadow.

“_Joder Cristo_,” Sánchez whispers profanely. He cranes his neck slightly, carefully, attempting to peer around the corner of the fence at the yard of the Esso station. “I can’t see a _putain_ thing. Everyone stay still.” The Spaniard immediately ignores his own direction and shifts his weight, first toward Ortu and then back to Marcel – a knee pops like a champagne cork as _Le Vieux_ changes position, and he utters a small, frustrated grunt. “Silvio, Karel, watch the far end of the alley,” he says, his voice barely audible even above the faint sound of the music from across the garden.

Leaning back, he places his lips close to Marcel’s ear. “If shooting starts,” Sánchez says softly, carefully, “keep an eye on this house, okay? I don’t want some citizen to do something stupid like shoot at us by mistake. Understand?”

For Pyotr and Normand, the street at the front of the garage seems almost bright by contrast with the Stygian darkness in the alley. Starlight mixed with a faint glow from the streetlights along the main street a couple of blocks away provides a shadowy light that is dimly reflected in the glass panes of the large garage doors. The diffuse light isn’t strong enough to penetrate the deep shadows under the porte-cochere, however, where two gas pumps stand on a low island at the edge of the darkness. Through the windows of the garage doors themselves is an impenetrable inky blackness.

“Listen,” Sgt. Katsourianis whispers hoarsely, quickly, to the men kneeling on the dirt sidewalk at the front of the house, “we have to move fast, short runs. Stay low, watch the windows and doors. David, you and Burhan first. Near corner, then move to the far corner. Go.”

Nedjar and Pamuk run in a crouch to the corner of the building where a large tree stands. Both peer in the windows briefly, then quickly move along the front of the service station – Nedjar stops and crouches down in the shadows beneath the porte-cochere, disappearing into the dakness, while Pamuk continues to the far corner, peeking around the edge of the building.

“All right, you two now. And you,” the _sergent_ says, pointing a finger at Normand’s chest, “it’s a gas station. No grenades. Now go.”

Cutting across the side alley, boots crunching on the dirt, the two replacements reach the corner of the garage, in the shadows beneath a leafy eucalyptus. In the shadows are a stack of boxes, piled haphazardly against the wall – at the corner an air nozzle for inflating car tires hangs from a rubber hose coiled on a rack affixed to the wall.

All: Sneak and Watch checks, please. Normand and Pyotr’s positions are relative – feel free to describe moving to a different position if you like. Note that Marcel is still off the map at the moment.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 3, 2005)

Pyotr hunkers down at the corner, trying to fit his body into the shadow it creates. Peering around the corner, Pyotr tries to see through the gaps in the boxes stacked against the wall. Hearing his own heartbeat pounding, he tries to slow his breathing, to quiet himself. 


Sneak: (1d20+7=15)
Watch: (1d20+4=23)


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## Barak (Dec 3, 2005)

Normand nods to the sergeant, and moves out quickly, doing his best to stay crouched and silent.  Once he gets to his spot, a niggling doubt creeps into his head, and he can't help looking at his weapon, to make sure it's not set to launch grenades, instead of looking for the enemy.

_Well, at least now I won't blow us all up._


OOC
Watch:3
Sneak:17


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## Bobitron (Dec 3, 2005)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Leaning back, he places his lips close to Marcel’s ear. “If shooting starts,” Sánchez says softly, carefully, “keep an eye on this house, okay? I don’t want some citizen to do something stupid like shoot at us by mistake. Understand?”




"Oui." Marcel keeps an eye on the house, but most of his attention is on the station. _I'm not looking away from where the bullets might come from until we have trouble,_ he reasons. His attention is distracted, however, and he finds himself looking back and forth between the station and the surrounding area, but seeing little.

ooc:

Sneak 13
Watch 4


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## The Shaman (Dec 5, 2005)

As Normand checks his rifle, Pyotr peers at the low stack of crates, straining against the shadows to see what, if anything, lies beyond – he sees and hears only stillness, no sign of movement or activity, no odd shapes among the shadows.

Sgt. Katsourianis dashes across the alley to where the replacements lurk in the shadows of the tree. “Follow me,” he whispers, “one at a time.” Staying low, the _sergent_ scrambles past the window panes of the big garage doors toward the porte-cochere.

Pyotr and Normand each follow in turn. Passing the doors, each notes a slight hint of smoke in the air. Kat motions them to stop and stay low – he points to his eyes and then the garage doors before turning his attention to another door hidden in the darkness beneath the porte-cochere.

In the alley behind the house, the legionnaires are quiet and still, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.

Another round of Sneak and Watch checks, please – remember, you have the option of rolling the different checks separately if you like.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 5, 2005)

Pyotr crouches down, moving his way towards one side of the garage door. 

Sneak and Watch (1d20+7=26, 1d20+4=11)


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## Barak (Dec 5, 2005)

While Normand is still concentrating on his weapon, he manages to follow Pyotr while making no noise whatsoever.


OOC
Watch=3
Sneak=20


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## Bobitron (Dec 6, 2005)

Marcel stays crouched in the alley, a new song by some Belgian named Brel he had heard on the radio before leaving base camp, "Quand on n'a que l'amour", running through his head over and over.

_When one only has love
as a give and take
at the dawn of the great journey
of this our great love;
when one only has love,
my love, you and I,
to make burst with joy
every hour of every day..._

He sighs softly. _I need a girl to romance. My skills are wasted looking around in an alley._

ooc: 

Sneak 15 
Watch 18


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## The Shaman (Dec 6, 2005)

In the stillness of the alley, Marcel hears the sound of footsteps on a wooden floor from inside the house – a light snaps on in a back window, followed by the sound of water running from a tap. Peering at the curtains, the medic sees a shadow illumined against the cloth, followed by the sound of voices, one faint and indistinct, the other – an old woman’s, judging by the pitch, emanating from the shadow in the back room – replying. The words themselves are lost in the night.

Pyotr and Normand maintain their position adjacent to garage door. “Tsst!” comes a soft whisper. Glancing back, the legionnaires see Sgt. Katsourianis motion with his hand to hold their position – he turns away and moves to the corner of the service station as Nedjar and Pamuk disappear around the west side of the building.

Looking back toward the glass, Pyotr sees a brief flash of light from inside the garage.

Watch checks for everyone! You need to make an additional Sneak check only if you move from your current position as part of your action.


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## Bobitron (Dec 6, 2005)

Marcel taps the Spaniard, motioning toward the house. He puts two fingers to his eyes and silently assures the man that he has a vigilant watch on the activity.

ooc: 

Watch is an 18.


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## Barak (Dec 7, 2005)

Keeping his weapon trained on the ground, but at the ready, Normand looks at the station intently, trying to see or hear anything out of the ordinary.


OOC
Watch Check: 11


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 8, 2005)

Pressing himself as close to the wall as he can, Pyotr cautiously watches as activity begins to ensue. His mind distracts him however. _Were we spotted? I hope not, we tried to stay quiet. Shhh._

Watch: (1d20+4=6)


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## The Shaman (Dec 8, 2005)

Normand stares at the darkness inside the garage, and is rewarded with a tiny flicker of light, its source unknown.

Everything else is status quo - Watch checks again.


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## Barak (Dec 8, 2005)

Normand raises his weapon sligthly, in the direction in which he saw the flicker, and concentrates there while he looks.


OOC
Watch check: 12


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## Bobitron (Dec 10, 2005)

Marcel stays focused on the house.

ooc: Watch is a 21.


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## The Shaman (Dec 10, 2005)

Pyotr’s Watch 20 – please forgive me for playing through!

Pyotr and Normand gaze into the shadows beyond the glass. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, both men can vaguely make out the outline of a vehicle parked in the far bay, near the east wall of the garage. 

Normand sees a flicker of light again – a reflection, perhaps? – from somewhere in the vicinity of the car. 

Pyotr is sure of it – the image of a flame reflected in a window of the car. The faint smell of smoke grows stronger.

In the alley, Marcel sees the shadowy figure move away from the curtains and another lights snaps on inside the house, this time illuminating the window in the back door. The old woman’s voice can be heard again, coming from just the other side of the door now – the medic catches the words “..._à la poubelle_” – “to the garbage can.”

Normand and Pyotr: If you make another Watch check, please add a +4 circumstance bonus to your check. The last Sneak check continues to apply until a character (1) moves or takes some other action or (2) wants to try for a higher value.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 10, 2005)

Pyotr's eyes go wide as recognition hits him. "Fire!" he whispers loud enough so only Normand can hear him as he points to the building. He then quickly scans the building to see if smoke has started to come out of it. Or anyone else for that matter. 

Watch(+4 bonus): (1d20+8=9)

You know, it figures....


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## Barak (Dec 10, 2005)

_Fire?_

"_Bordel de merde_!  This is not good, Pyotr!", whispers the burly frenchman.

He tries to determine how bad the fire might be, and how little time they might have.


OOC
Watch check _with_ +4 bonus: 17


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## The Shaman (Dec 10, 2005)

As Pyotr looks in vain for smoke in the darkness, Normand sees the small flash of flame reflected in the glass of the car window. It lasts for several seconds, then disappears – a moment later it begins again, a brief flicker of orange light.

The sputtering flame and the vague hint of smoke wafting around the doors of the garage suggest that whatever’s burning is rather small, and that it’s burning intermittently.

If your characters continue to observe, make another Watch check with the same +4 circumstance bonus – if they move or attempt to get the _sergent_’s attention, make a Sneak check as well.


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## Bobitron (Dec 11, 2005)

Marcel taps Sanchez hard on the shoulder and motions toward the door. "I'm going!" he hisses through closed teeth. He moves in a crouch, shuffling down the alley. His hand drops to his pocket to remove a small but bright flashlight, ready to flip the switch on at a moment's notice.

ooc: Sneak +0, Watch +3. Short on time, Shaman, so if you could roll for me I'd appreciate it. Marcel's intention is to flash the light in the person's face and attempt to get them back in the house. Does the accent sound local or like someone from France?


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## The Shaman (Dec 11, 2005)

Marcel steps over the low fence at the rear of the house, slipping quietly past a lemon tree as the back door swings inward and light spills into the garden. A little old woman wrapped in a heavy coat with a small bundle in brown paper in her hands slowly pushes open the screen door and carefully steps out on the tiny back porch of the house. Marcel crouches near the hedge at the rear of the house and clicks on his flashlight.

Nothing happens.

Again he slides the button back and forth, but the light is dead.

Sneak 19, Watch 22 – ranged touch attack with flashlight 1. Her accent is definitely from the south of France.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 11, 2005)

Quickly looking to see if Kat has seen the flames, Pyotr attempts hand signals in the sergeant's direction to point to where the flames seem to be coming from. 

Sneak; Watch: (1d20+7=23, 1d20+4=6)

Pyotr is now medically blind....


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## Barak (Dec 12, 2005)

Seeing that Pyotr has taken up the task of getting the sergeant's attention, Normand continues to concentrate on the fire, attempting to determine what exactly could burn weirdly like that.


OOC
watch check (1d20+4=23)


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## Bobitron (Dec 13, 2005)

_Merde,_ Marcel swears inwardly. _Ah, well. Might have caused a scream anyhow._

He slings his carbine as he stands, holding both hands out with palms forward. His voice is clear but soft. "La Madame, restent svp tranquille. Je suis avec la Légion, et j'ai besoin de vous pour rester à l'intérieur."


ooc: Diplomacy is +7 if needed. 

*Madame, please stay quiet. I am with the Legion, and I need you to stay inside.


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## The Shaman (Dec 13, 2005)

Apparently trusting that the replacements have his back, Sgt. Katsourianis continues to look around the corner of the building, oblivious to Pyotr’s gestures.

Looking in the windows inset in the garage door, Normand sees the flame reflected in the glass again, and then darkness. Seconds pass, and then a different glow appears, a yellowish light that radiates from somewhere near the northwest corner of the garage. For a moment the glow fades then a narrow beam of light flashes in the darkness – a flashlight, perhaps? Through the glass the Frenchman hears a soft bump, its source difficult to discern.

Marcel rises from the shadows, little more than a meter from the old woman – she is visibly startled, rasing the bundle of trash in front of her as if to ward off an apparition. “_Mon Dieu!_” she gasps softly. Her head cranes toward the medic as she peers at the legionnaire faintly illumined by the light spilling from the open doorway, clutching the paper bundle close to her chest like a talisman. “You nearly scared me to death! What are you doing in my garden in the middle of the night?” she says, her tone accusing.

Diplomacy 10 – perhaps Marcel should stick to younger ladies...?

Attached are exterior and interior maps – Normand may view the interior map. Note that the northwest of the garage interior is obscured from his view by a large storage cabinet in the middle of the west wall. There wasn’t enough light for him to identify details, only the rough placement of objects around the room.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 13, 2005)

Swearing to himself, Pyotr quickly and quietly makes his way towards Kat, putting a hand on his shoulder to let him know that he is there. He then whispers, "Sergeant, we spotted flickering light from inside the station and are presuming it to be flames. Normand is keeping watch on it now."

Sneak: (1d20+7=26)


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## Bobitron (Dec 14, 2005)

"I am sorry, Madame. I didn't mean to frighten you. Please keep your voice low and step inside, I'll explain as best I can." He covers the flashlight with a hand and toggles the switch back and forth with a frown. "You are not safe here right now, but you will be inside."


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## Barak (Dec 14, 2005)

Normand swears under his breath, and then turns to Pyotr, who is gone.

_Darn it all to Germany._

Normand then moves to the door of the station, and through the window, looks at the lock on the inside.  

_Well this won't work._

From this new angle, Normand looks into the garage again.


OOC


Okay..  Take the second roll as a crappy Watch check, then. 

sneak, move silently (1d20=14, 1d20=5)


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## The Shaman (Dec 14, 2005)

The lock on the front door does require a key to unlock from the inside, and the key is not in the lock. Go ahead and edit your post with a different choice if you like.


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## The Shaman (Dec 15, 2005)

Pytor glides silently along the front of the service station to where the _sergent_ keeps watch around the corner. Kat listens the the Ukrainian’s whispered message, then motions to Nedjar and Pamuk to return.

Normand backs away from the garage door and moves into the shadows of the porte-cochere. Unable to locate a key in the locked door, he looks around the room beyond the glass instead.

The old woman glares at Marcel, her brow furrowed. “You are sorry, you say? What are you doing sneaking about in my garden?” she repeats quietly. Despite her demeanor, Marcel notes that she is keeping her voice down as she studies his uniform, and the carbine slung over his shoulder.

“These two saw a light of some kind inside the garage,” Kat tells Nedjar and Pamuk, jerking a thumb at Pyotr. “Anything up there?”

Nedjar shakes his head. “A couple of windows with drawn curtains,” the Algerian replies, “but no other doors that we could find.”

Still lurking in the shadows, Normand gazes through the glass at the space beyond – he can vaguely make out some furnishings scattered around a long narrow room, but no real detail to speak of.

Her expression a mix of anger and puzzlement, the old woman at last turns toward the door, then hesitates. “Just a moment,” she says grumpily, holding up her bundle then hobbling off the steps and toward the small trashcan next to the landing. She steps on a pedal and the lid pops up, squeaking loudly in the stillness. She drops the bundle of trash into the can with a clatter, and steps back. The lid falls.

If Marcel wants to catch the lid before it slams down, make a melee touch attack against DC 8. If he wants to prevent her from getting to the trash can in the first place, make an initiative roll and describe what action he takes, and I will edit my post - the initiative roll to beat is 17!


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## Bobitron (Dec 15, 2005)

_Merde._

Marcel leaps forward, stretching out his arm to grab the falling lid, but can't reach it in time. As it clatters to the ground, he speaks out in a firm voice. "Inside. NOW." He places a hand on her shoulder and steers her toward the door. "There's trouble at the garage. Move quickly. Get everyone on the floor, and stay down until a legionairre gets you."  

Swinging the carbine off his shoulder, he removes the safety and rests his hand on the outside of the trigger guard, looking down the barrel toward the garage while putting the flashlight away with his other hand.


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## The Shaman (Dec 16, 2005)

The lid falls down with a clang. From behind the garage a dog barks. Loudly.

No Listen or Watch check needed for this one.


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## Barak (Dec 16, 2005)

Normand spares a look in Pyotr's direction, and sees him talking to Kat.

_Ahh well.  Might as well wait and see what the sarge thinks we should do, I guess._

He then returns his attention to the inside of the garage, hoping his new angle will give him new insights as to the source of the intermittent flame.

And then, a loud clang is heard, followed by a dog barking.

_What the heck are those fools doing back there?_


OOC
Watch check (1d20=1)


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 17, 2005)

Pyotr's senses tell him of the loud clang and he stifles a swear word or three inside as he hugs closer to the wall. Shaking his head he looks back to Kat, shrugging.


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## The Shaman (Dec 19, 2005)

The old woman glares at Marcel. “You are a very rude young man,” she replies curtly as she slowly climbs the steps. At the top step, she pauses and looks toward to garage. “Bruno, be quiet!” she calls – after a moment’s hesitation the dog continues to bark, though with less vigor now.

“Doc, what in hell are you doing?” hisses Sánchez, peeking over the back fence at the medic. The old woman glances at the Spanish legionnaire lurking in the shadows, and turning re-enters the house, muttering as she does so.

Kat’s head snaps up at the sound of the barking dog. “_Merde_!” he whispers. “Show me this light you saw, Kerenin,” he says softly, directing Nedjar to watch the back windows and Pamuk the space behind the front door then grabbing Pyotr by the shoulder and pulling him toward where Normand lurks.

“Where’s this flame, Mador?” the Greek whispers as the Frenchman’s gaze adjust to the darkness again. The section leader leans forward to look through one of the panes in the garage door. The sound of the gunshot and the breaking glass seem to come at once.

Initiative please, everyone.


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## Barak (Dec 19, 2005)

Normand had just pointed out the area of the garage where the flame is at when the sound of the gunshot reverberated, putting him quickly in a state of alert.


OOC
Initiative (1d20=8)


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## Bobitron (Dec 19, 2005)

Marcel's temper is starting to flare, but he stays calm after a deep breath. "Look, Madame.  I don't care what you think of me right now. I'm trying to keep you safe. Inside and on the floor, please!"

Turning away, Marcel looks toward the garage just in time to hear the gunshot and the sound of shattering glass.

ooc: initiative is an 11.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 20, 2005)

"_Chyort!_" Pyotr is unable to stifle his swearing this time. Bringing his Mat-49 up the bear he scans around for any sign of where the shot came from.

Initiative: (1d20+2=11)


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## The Shaman (Dec 20, 2005)

Initiative order -
Sgt. Katsourianis 19
Mysterious assailant 17
*Marcel, Pyotr 11*
Legionnaires – support (Sanches, Ortu, Syrovy, Asmussen) 10
*Normand 8*
Legionnaires – _choc_ (Nedjar, Pamuk) 6

A hole appears in the glass just above Kat’s head, scattering tiny fragments over the _sergent_’s head and shoulders. The _sous-officier_ doesn’t hesitate, raising the barrel of his submachine gun and returning a long burst through the glass.

Normand is in a position to fire but he must either make a Spot check to locate a target or guess and fire blind. Pyotr must move to a position where he can see inside the garage to look for a target.


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## Barak (Dec 20, 2005)

Normand automatically drops to one knee, trying to offer a smaller target.  As he does so, he scans the area from which the shot appears to have come from, but, unable to see anyone, he holds his fire.


OOC
spot check (1d20=1) 
I..  Figured that wasn't high enough.


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## Bobitron (Dec 20, 2005)

Marcel rushes back to where Sanches and the rest of the support group is positioned, swearing softly under his breath as he runs in a crouch. Once reaching the group, he looks for signs of movement around the garage.

ooc: Watch 19.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 21, 2005)

Thinking quickly, Pyotr quickly scans the ground for a pebble or rock, then he makes his way underneath one of the windows so he can get a view of the inside without being seen. As soon as he can, he tosses the pebble at a window farther away. 

Pyotr's plan is to get a view of where the gunfire is coming from by causing the person to fire in another direction so Pyotr can scan for muzzle flash without being seen. Did you need me to roll a Search for the pebble or Ranged Touch attack for the window?


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## The Shaman (Dec 21, 2005)

Pyotr’s attempt to create a diversion is lost amid the sound of broken glass falling from the shattered window pane to the concrete driveway. There is no answering fire from inside the garage as Normand, blinded by the muzzle flash of the _sergent_’s MAT-49, struggles in vain to locate a target.

Kat doesn’t wait, triggering another peal of fire into the darkness. “Get that door open!” he orders over the din.

Sánchez ducks at the sound of the gunfire. “_Joder Cristo_,” he says again through clenched teeth. “Stay down! Make sure you know what you’re firing at.”

As Marcel looks across the alley separating the garden from the rear of the garage, he can make out the shadowy form of a large dog – the animal is barking furiously as it runs around the fenced yard of the service station.


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## Barak (Dec 21, 2005)

Normand nods, and stands back up, turning to the door.

"_Consider the door opened!_"

Then using the butt of his rifle, he breaks the glass and clears it from the door.


OOC
open door (1d20+3=15)


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 21, 2005)

Pyotr quickly moves to cover Normand as he opens the door.


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## Bobitron (Dec 23, 2005)

"Can't see anything to shoot at anyhow, Sánchez," Marcel says glumly. "Just that damned dog."

ooc: Keep up the Watch at +3 as needed.


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## The Shaman (Dec 23, 2005)

Normand moves quickly to the door, Pyotr close behind, as Kat again cuts loose with the MAT-49. As Pyotr and Nedjar look on, the Frenchman knocks the glass from the frame to create an opening – the shards cascade to the floor in glittering pieces.

The legionnaires can barely make out a desk and some other furnishings in the faint light from outside – doors at each end of the room are dark patches against the gray walls.

In the garden across the alley, Marcel hears a small noise above the _sergent_’s submachine gun and the barking of the dog – the old woman, on hands and knees, peeks out of the screen door at the back of the house. “What are you doing?” she calls, her eyes wide, her voice quavering. “What is happening?”


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## Barak (Dec 23, 2005)

Normand bursts into the garage, rifle at the ready as he sweeps the room, looking for the presence of any hostiles, paying particular attention to the area in which he had seen the fire before.


OOC:
spot check (1d20=19)


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## shadowbloodmoon (Dec 23, 2005)

As soon as Normand enters, Pyotr follows behind, moving to room clearing position on the left, staying crouched low.


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## The Shaman (May 18, 2006)

Sunday morning finds the paras lugging their gear as all four platoons pile into the company vehicles. Normand gets a visit from Cpl. Bestebreurtje, who checks the Frenchman’s various wounds as well as his vital signs and pronounces him fit for duty. Pyotr gets the nod from Kat to bring Ekaterina. Raffaele receives the musette of _plastique_ from the armorer and adds it to his gear. Marcel is similarly loaded down with his medical and surgery kits, and all of the legionnaires carry their field packs, with rations for four days.

It makes for a snug fit in the back of the deuce-and-a-half. “Tighten it up,” Kat orders. “Make room for the lieutenant.” The platoon headquarters – Lt. Ramadier; his radioman, Benoit Joachim; and Georg von Krenzl, the lieutenant’s runner – plus Marcel join First Section in one truck, while Sgt. Altmeier and Sgt. Szabo cram their respective sections into a second 6x6. The other platoons do the same in the cool morning air, and with engines roaring, the column of trucks and jeeps sets out.

The convoy of vehicles heads west, away from Portemonte, past the farms and fields and orchards, the wheat and trees green against the dun-colored hills and plain. It’s Ortu who catches first sight of the Rubiera farm – “That’s where we were,” he says simply as the trucks pass the double-row of poplars lining the driveway. The windows and doors of the farmhouse are boarded up and the goats and horses are gone from their pens. “I wonder how that little girl is doing,” says Nedjar to no one in particular as the convoy whips past.

“Hey lieutenant,” Ortu asks, breaking the quiet among the paras again, “where are we going?”

Lt. Ramadier looks up from a map on his lap. “About forty-five kilometers south of town,” he answers. “A recon flight spotted what they thought was _fellaghas_ moving through the mountains, near one of the Arab villages.”

“_Ratissage_?” Kat asks. The lieutenant nods.

A couple of the veteran legionnaires shake their heads.

Marcel asks about _ratissage_.

Karel Syrovy looks at Marcel with a wide grin. “_Ratissage_ means a lot of humping up and down hills for days dodging snakes and scorpions, with the chance that we may confiscate an old Lebel from some wog shepherd,” the slender Hungarian says with obvious disdain as he reaches for one of Raffaele’s proffered cigarettes.

Lt. Ramadier tucks his map into a pocket on his smock. “It also means denying the _fellouze_ the use of an area during the time we’re operational,” he says, glancing at Syrovy, “which can prevent them from moving men and supplies, and limits their offensive capability.” The young officer glances at his watch, then looks out the back of the truck at the column trailing along behind. The lieutenant’s French is clear and clean, with a slight accent that’s hard to place.

Marcel introduces himself to Raffaele, and Silvio Ortu, the husky gunner, chimes in, “What I want to know is, did you have to stand on your toes during the physical?” He grins sardonically at the diminutive legionnaire.

The banter dies down and legionnaires are quiet as the convoy follows a winding route through the foothills of the Saharan Tell. The trucks turn off the paved highway onto a graveled road, and soon the air is filled with choking dust that swirls up and through the raised canvas sides of the big trucks. Eventually stifiling heat proves preferable to the grit rising from the road and the sides are dropped and lashed tight.

The trucks bounce and tilt for more than an hour before slowing and stopping. Eventually the idling engine falls silent and a moment later a green-bereted head appears under the canvas, announcing, “Lieutenant, _Le Capitaine_ wants you.” As Lt. Ramadier exits the truck, the paras get a glimpse of rows of ramshackle stalls and striped tents outside. Ortu nods to Pamuk, and together they roll up one side of the canvas cover – the other follows shortly after.

Surrounding the convoy the paras recognize the familiar sight of a country _souk_. The weekly market is clustered on the bank of a wide _oued_, amid a scatter of date palms surrounded by the barren, rocky peaks of the Tell. The stalls and tents envelop the gravel road and radiate outward from it. In the nearest stalls the paras see bolts of dyed cloth as well as finished goods – _djellbas_ and _gandourahs_, colorful carpets in rolls. Beyond the textiles are tents with baskets and metal goods, including some odd-looking bits of scrap. Crates and boxes filled with dates, citrons, and other produce, or baskets of beans and peas, stand in front of some tents, while nearby vendors offer bits of cooked meat and steaming urns of coffee to the throng of shoppers. Along the periphery are temporary pens made of ropes woven together, in which are gathered clusters of sturdy donkeys and ungainly camels.

The smell of dust and manure, of strong coffee and roasting lamb, flows over and around the paras as they watch Arab men in long robes, or veiled women followed by dirty, inquisitive children, make their way up and down the alleys between the temporary storefronts. Only the children seem interested in the trucks full of legionnaires.

A jeep is parked off to one side. Two French soldiers in khaki shorts and shirts with the sleeves rolled up slouch against the fenders, MAT-36s slung over their shoulders as they watch the busy market, their faces shaded by their soft bush hats and cheap aviator sunglasses.

“Legionnaires?” one of them says as he looks up at the truckload of paras. He waves at a fly buzzing around his face, then leans forward. “Par-lay-voo-fran-say?” he asks with exaggerated slowness, a grin splitting his face.

His companion smiles as well. “Don’t you mean, ‘_Sprechen-sie Deutsch_’?” the second _soldat_ replies.

The first raises his right arm in stiff-armed Nazi salute. “_Ja, ja, Sieg Heil!_”

Pyotr climbs down and gives the French soldier a shove.

The _soldats_ smirk turns into a look of surprise as the Ukrainian accosts him – a wave of catcalls and jeers erupts from the trucks as the paras voice their approval.

The second soldier takes a step toward Pyotr and the jeers take on an ominous note that stops the _soldat_ in his tracks.

At that moment Sgt. Verdurand’s voice bursts over the tableaux. “Legionnaire, back on the truck!” he snaps. The burly first sergeant casts a withering look at the two soldats, then looks up at Kat. “Keep you men together,” he says evenly, then his voice rises again, booming, “_Sergents_, keep your men on the trucks.” He glances at Pyotr, then resumes his walk toward the tail of the convoy.

Pyotr is greeted warmly by his section mates as he returns to the truck. The two _soldats_ by the jeep glower in silence.

It’s Sgt. Müller who pokes his head in the rear of the truck first. “The _SAS_ lieutenant we were supposed to meet here is in some village in the mountains,” he tells Kat as the rest of the legionnaires listen. “He was supposed to provide an intelligence briefing before our rat hunt.” The German platoon sergeant looks up at the blue sky. “_Le Capitiane_ is sending the whole platoon.” Müller pounds a hand on the tailgate, then turns to rejoin the second and third sections in the other truck.

The lieutenant returns a few minutes later – an extended hand helps him into the back of the truck, the engine revs, and the deuce-and-a-half lurches forward, carrying the paras out of the market and onto a dusty, bumpy road.

The two trucks jostle along the rough track for some thirty minutes, crossing and recrossing a small dry streambed several times in the process. The swaying and jolting make conversation impossible, and the legionnaires cling to seats and roof stays to keep from being tossed to the floor.

The GMCs grind to a halt at last. The _oued_ the trucks were following opens out slightly, and a cement blockhouse and watchtower stands beside the road. Next to the tower are a jeep and a large tank truck, both painted olive green – several French soldiers in their khaki summer uniforms and sun hats watch the legionnaires with expressions ranging from curiosity to boredom.

“Kat, get your section ready,” Lt. Ramadier instructs, climbing down from the rear of the truck, followed by his radio and runner. “Make sure canteens are full, and bring your packs. We’re walking the rest of the way.”

Kat looks around at the paras. “You heard the lieutenant. Let’s go.”

Recap: Following the firefight at the farm and rooting out the FLN terrorist at the Esso station in Portemonte, the company has been sent into action in the mountains south of town, to search for _fellaghas_ spotted by an Air Force patrol plane. As the company stages in an Arab village, Lt. Ramadier's platoon has been dispatched to locate a _SAS_ lieutenant in order to get an intelligence briefing - the paras have arrived at road's end, and are preparing to continue on foot to find the SAS officer somewhere in the hills beyond the last army checkpoint...


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## Bobitron (May 18, 2006)

Marcel is among the first out. Standing at the truck's gate, he offers a hand to each man coming down. Once they are all on the ground and gathering their gear, he walks around to every member of the group, shaking their canteens and making certain everyone is full. Satisfied, he checks his own bottle before joining Pyotr and Normand. 

"Finally out of the truck. That bench was almost as hard as Normand's skull, I think."


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## shadowbloodmoon (May 19, 2006)

Pyotr hops down out of the truck, moving out of the way of the rest of the platoon as they exit. He takes a look around to get an idea of his surroundings before checking his gear and meandering towards his friends. "Something tells me we get the leftover equipment when the army gets their cushy seated transports," he says conspiratorily.


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## The Shaman (May 19, 2006)

The thirty-seven legionnaires of Third Platoon, 3rd Company, 1st REP disembark the two _castors_. The three sections form up on the _sous-officiers_ – a legionnaire from Sgt. Szabo’s section is sent to each man with a jerry can of water, topping off canteens. Marcel circulates among the paras in their leopard-pattern camoflage – conversations are muted, some in French, more in German, as the men adjust pack straps, retie boot laces, and check weapons. A couple of the khaki-clad conscripts talk with paras in Sgt. Altmeier’s section – Marcel overhears one of the French conscripts offer, “…a carton of Troupes for one pack of Gitanes.”

Pyotr looks around the small outpost. A blockhouse made of cement bricks adjoins a small watchtower – the building looks like it could hold an infantry platoon, but there appears to be only a dozen or so _soldats_ stationed here at the moment. A couple of men are visible on the roof of the tower – a vintage _fusil-mitrailleur_ 24-29 machine gun noses over the edge, pointed at the _oued_ beyond the legionnaires. The parapet is lined with sandbags, and the front door of the outpost is similarly secured with a sandbagged firing pit. Above the door is a crudely-lettered carboard sign that reads, “_Gare de Lyon_.” A half-track is parked alongside the building, next to a large water trailer – the latter is also protected by sandbags. Lt. Ramadier, with his radioman at his side, is talking to a lanky _sergent_ over by the entrance to the blockhouse. The idling trucks make it impossible to hear the conversation.

Low barren hills, baked brick red by the relentless sun, surround the outpost – on one hill a faint track follows a ridgeline to a high point. Taking a quick glance through Ekaterina’s scope, Pyotr can make out a small wall of native rock at the top of a spur – an observation post, with a sun-hatted head peering down at the legionnaires.

The first section gathers around Sgt. Katsourianis as Pyotr approaches. Silvio Ortu hefts his machine gun onto a brawny shoulder – “Yeah, another _putain_ low-level jump,” the _tirailleur_ replies to the Ukranian. Kat glances at Ortu, then at the big steel chronograph on his wrist, and finally up at the sun burning in the clear blue sky. “It’s not too late to join the infantry,” the Greek _sergent_ opines.


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## Barak (May 19, 2006)

Normand shrugs.

"I don't think that would turn out too good for me.  I tried to join the Navy and I ended up here."


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## The Shaman (May 20, 2006)

Normand’s quip elicits smiles – Ortu opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off as Sgt. Müller’s voice rises above the chatter. “Settle! Quiet for the lieutenant!” Lt. Ramadier steps forward as the legionnaires fall silent.

“We have about a ninety minute march along this track here.” The _sous-lieutenant_ gestures across the _oued_ at a narrow path worn into the dusty earth. “Our objective is a village about ten kilometers to the southeast of here. The _sergent_ over there says we should find _Lieutenant_ Ferrand at the village.” 

Lt. Ramadier’s gaze travels the length of the platoon. “We know the fells are active in this area. Stay alert and dispersed. Tactical column on me, by sections. Sgt. Katsourianis, you have the point.”

Kat looks at Pyotr. “That’s you, Kerenin. Look sharp.”

Sgt. Müller taps Marcel on the arm. “Fortier, you stay back with me.”

The column of legionnaires snakes out along the narrow, dusty _piste_, Pyotr in the lead. The platoon commander, along with his radioman and runner, join Kat’s first section up front, followed by Sgt. Altmeier’s men – Sgt. Szabo’s section, with the platoon sergeant and Marcel, bring up the rear.

Thudding boots raise a low cloud of fine dust while squinting eyes in sweat-streaked faces flick back and forth between rocks and scrub as the platoon follows the track. There is little conversation as the legionnaires spread themselves out, three or four meters between each man, to avoid presenting a tempting target. After thirty minutes the sections rotate – Sgt. Altmeier’s men move into the lead as Sgt. Katsourianis’s men fall back to the rear. Eventually Sgt. Szabo’s section takes the lead as the track, marked only by desiccated clumps of donkey droppings and the occasional rock cairn, threads its way through the hills, crossing and re-crossing the _oued_. Lizards scurry across rocks as the paras march by, and flies buzz in the legionnaires’ ears and eyes at every pause.

A pair of scrawny goats gnawing on a bare shrub are the first sign that the village is near at last. Rounding a bend, a cluster of mudbrick buildings comes into view, overlooking terraced fields. The green of the fields and scattered trees is startling in its vibrancy against the backdrop of ochre and terracotta hills. A pair of Arab boys sitting on a rock, desultorily watching a handful of goats grazing nearby, spring to life as the legionnaires come into view. Both leap up and bound off the rock, to race up a stony path toward the village.

Sgt. Szabo’s section peels off the track, taking up a covering position at the base of the terraces. Lt. Ramadier motions to Sgt. Katsourianis to bring up his section – “Watch those windows and doorways,” Kat orders as the platoon advances on the village.

WATCH checks, if you please.


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## Barak (May 21, 2006)

Normand's mind is back at where he spent his "freetime", rummaging over the treatment he got.

_It really was an overreaction on their part, bunch of idiots.  As if I should have let those amateurs run the show.  I'd do the same thing again, and they can beat me all they want._

As such, his mind is not really where it should have been.

_
OOC: Watch check: 2
_


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## shadowbloodmoon (May 22, 2006)

"Yes, Sergeant." Pyotr is happy to get put on point. It is one of the things he does best. Adjusting his gear he moves ahead of the platoon, proud of himself. 

Then comes time to switch out. When it does, his tired eyes strained to continue looking around, almost expecting the other pointmen to miss something. That's when they came upon the village and the two younglings that ran to it. Adrenalin wanted to jump through him. Something wasn't right. His thoughts raced to what might be wrong, so much so that he failed to see the rock in front of him as he tripped over it. Embarassed, he looked around to see of any of his squadmates noticed.

They did.

Watch: (1d20+4=5)
Forgot to mark it under Pyotr's name... mea culpa.


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## Bobitron (May 22, 2006)

Marcel's thoughts are troubled as he follows Müller, a dozen steps behind the blond German. Normand's sullen expression during the march to the village showed he was still dwelling on the past, despite his joke when exiting the truck. 

Seeing Sgt. Kat's section move ahead into the village, Marcel's eyes sweep across the terrain, hoping to spot trouble before it starts. _Pyotr's got sharp eyes,_ he thinks, _but maybe I can get a better angle on things from here._

ooc: I doubt it. Watch result was a 7.


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## shibata (May 23, 2006)

"B-m. Up the hills, down the hills, and another dirty _douar_; probably full of _fels_; they'll know we're coming, too, with those kids running off to tell someone . . . .  Hey, what . . . ?"

OOC:Raffaele's on the ball with his watch roll of d20+3= 20+3 = 23
http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=459581


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## The Shaman (May 24, 2006)

As Sgt. Szabo’s squad takes up a flanking position, the rest of the platoon follows the trail taken by the two Arab boys into the village.

Mudbrick _mechtas_ with white-washed walls perch along a rocky shelf ringing the fields and date palms in the _oued_. Kat’s section follows Lt. Ramadier along a path worn into the stony hillside that skirts the edge of the _oued_, leading to the east side of the _douar_.

The voices of the two boys running along the trail carry back to Raffaele as he studies the scene – “_Les bérets vert! Les bérets vert!_” they call excitedly in thickly-accented French, and the legionnaires are greeted by the stares of scores of Arabs.

The villagers peer from doorways and windows or stand still as statues on the hillside as the Legion paras approach. Passing a clump of date palms, the legionnaires see a half-dozen Arab men digging a long, narrow trench stretching along the edge of the _oued_ while another group lays the foundation for a wall – lengths of iron pipe and stacks of mud bricks stand ready.

The two boys race down the slope to where the men are working on the wall and the trench – the boys call and point at the paras as the Arabs look up from their shovels and picks. A figure seated on one of the piles of bricks, another Arab, dressed in khaki with crimson shoulder boards and _bonnet de police_ cap, stands and raises a rifle above his head, waving it slowly from side to side as the legionnaires draw closer, then walks carefully up the slope to the trail.

“Benoit, notify _Le Capitaine_ that we’ve reached the village,” Lt. Ramadier says to his radio – Benoit Robbrecht, standing at the _sous-lieutenant_’s hip, reaches for the handset of the Motorola hanging at this shoulder.

The Arab in khakis approaches, a smallish man with a thick mustache. He salutes Lt. Ramadier. “_Moghazni_ Zabana,” he says, “SAS.” The Arab militiaman’s eyes play over the legionnaires, his face impassive.

“We’re here for Lt. Ferrand,” Lt. Ramadier replies, looking around the village. The tall, athletic officer towers over the Arab.

The _moghazni_, Zabana, nods, and turns to the two boys who’ve inched up the hill to get a closer look at _les bérets vert_. <اللغة العربية, العربية>


Spoiler



Go get the officer,


 </اللغة العربية, العربية>, he says, and the boys race up the path once again.

Pyotr, Normand, Raffaele, and the rest of Kat’s section listen to the exchange and look around warily at the expressionless faces of the villagers. A few whisper comments to one another, too low for the legionnaires to hear – others duck quickly out of sight as the paras pause at the _douar_’s edge. Marcel feels a tap on his arm – Sgt. Müller motions for the medic to follow as the German makes his way to the platoon leader’s side.

Lt. Ramadier turns to Kat. “_Sergent_, I want a house-by-house search for weapons,” the young officer officer orders. “_Sergent_ Altmeier’s section will secure the villagers.”

“_Oui, mon lieutenant_,” Sgt. Katsourianis replies. He looks at the section. “David, Burhan, Mador, Barzini will make entry– the rest of us secure the exterior.” He motions toward a two-story _mechta_ on the edge of the hill above the trail.

It’s clear that the villagers built the brick _mechtas_ for defense – the slope is steep and the approach exposed. Eyes probe the shadowy windows of the house – from an upper window a young boy looks out, then disappears as the paras advance on the door. The legionnaires fan out, the _choc_ element – David Nedjar and Normand on one side, Burhan Pamuk and Raffaele on the other – taking up position on either side of the entrance, the heavy wooden door standing open, the interior in darkness. From where he waits with the platoon sergeant, Marcel watches as the second section moves up the path, weapons pointed at the Arabs working on the wall.

“Ready?” Nedjar asks as the rest of the section moves to cover the corners and windows of the building. Before he can give the order to enter, however, a voice calls out, “Legionnaires, wait!”

Another khaki-clad figure, this one with arms and legs covered in mud, strides down the _piste_. He points to the legionnaires poised at the door, and repeats, “Wait!”

The blue dot on the map is Kat’s section, including Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele. The red dot is the platoon command and Marcel. The green dot is where the Arabs are working. The yellow dot is the person who called out, “Wait!” The grid on the map marks ten-foot-by-ten-foot squares.


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## Barak (May 24, 2006)

Normand turns his weapon in the way of the running figure.

"I bet that doorway is booby-trapped.  Keep an eye on it guys, I have that idiot in my sights."


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## shadowbloodmoon (May 25, 2006)

Pyotr glances sidelong at the approaching figure, but doesn't want to completely take his eyes away from the building he is supposed to be watching.


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## Bobitron (May 25, 2006)

Marcel takes a single step forward, raising one hand high above him with the palm out in the universal symbol to stop. His other arm holds his carbine, a finger resting outside the trigger guard after removing the safety. "Stop where you are and identify yourself!" He then repeats the statement in Arabic if the man doesn't reply immediately.


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## shibata (May 25, 2006)

"M. Nedjar!  There was a boy on the second floor looking at us.  I'm going to look around the corner to make sure no one's running away or getting ready to attack."

Barzini runs the thirty or forty or so feet to the eastern-most (if the top of the map is North) corner of the two-story building, goes down on his right knee, and kneeling close to the building leans his head and muzzle of the ready-to-fire MAT49 forward, looking to the North and North-west.


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## The Shaman (May 27, 2006)

Raffaele whips off around the corner of the _mechta_ as Nedjar hesitates, looking up at the window, then at the open doorway at Normand’s warning. Racing around to the rear of the building he surprises a pair of goats that scamper, bleating as they scramble up the rocky slope. Peeking around the building, Raffaele sees an Arab woman with an armful of laundry, watching the tableau unfolding down slope. She glances up at the sound of the goats and spies Raffaele – with a gasp she drops the clean clothing to the dusty ground, standing stock-still in surprise at the sight of the Legion para.

“Stop where you are and identify yourself!” Marcel calls to the approaching figure. He stops and sees the weapons pointed in his direction by the medic and the grenadier, then glances down at his own mud-caked uniform. “_Lieutenant_ Thierry Ferrand,” he replies with a smile, “_Sections Administratives Specialisées_.” The officer rubs a mud-crusted shoulder board, revealing twin gold bars.

A hand grips Marcel’s shoulder firmly. “It’s a little early in the day for shooting officers, doc,” says Sgt. Müller. The _sergent-chef_ continues quietly in German, and Georg von Krenzl, Lt. Ramadier’s runner, chuckles softly.

Kat and Vidal draw close to where Pyotr, Normand, Burhan and David wait at the doorway. “What’s this all about?” the _sergent_ says impatiently. 

Lt. Ferrand walks up to Lt. Ramadier and extends a grimy hand. “I received word yesterday to expect paras. Please excuse my appearance.” Marcel gets a closer look at the SAS officer. He stands a full head shorter than Lt. Ramadier, but then many men do. Ferrand’s skin is deeply tanned on his face, arms, and legs where his pant legs and sleeves have been rolled up. The pale blue kepi of the SAS is nowhere to be seen, and the lieutenant’s scalp is burned pink beneath his closely-trimmed brown hair. Ferrand’s face is open and frank, his smile genuine. He looks to be in his early thirties.

“Lt. Ramadier, 1st REP,” replies the platoon commander, saluting. Ramadier glances up at Kat’s section, waiting at the house. “We were preparing to search for weapons, _mon lieutenant_...”

“The villagers’ weapons were inventoried when we arrived,” Ferrand replies. The smile is still there, but his eyes are hard. “There’s no need to inconvenience them again over a couple of shotguns and an old Lebel that was an antique before the Marne.”

Lt. Ramadier shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Sir,” he replies after an awkward pause, then turns to the German platoon sergeant – Müller nods without a word and whistles to Kat, motioning to the section leader to pull back. At the _mechta_ Kat grimaces. “What the devil?” he says again, looking at the house once more. “Fall back,” the Greek orders impatiently, warily watching the windows and doors.

“_Mon lieutenant_,” Lt. Ramadier resumes, “My CO _Capitaine_ Martini was expecting you to meet us this morning in El-Biya, to provide an intelligence briefing.”

“I won’t be back in El-Biya for at least two more days,” Ferrand replies. “We are covering the village cistern and building a new pen for the goats, as you can see,” he continues, gesturing at the workers and supplies, “and there are inoculations to finish.” The SAS officer is courteous but firm.

Lt. Ramadier stiffens. “Sir, my orders come from _Capitaine_ Martini...” he begins, but Ferrand cuts him short.

“And mine come from _Colonel_ Marchand in Géryville,” Ferrand answers firmly, like a schoolteacher’s remonstrance to an outspoken pupil. “I was informed that the paras would be operating in the area. I received no orders about an intelligence briefing. We have a great deal of work to complete here, _sous-lieutenant_ - ” the emphasis on Ramadier’s junior rank is subtle “ - before I can return to El-Biya.” Ferrand tilts his head slightly. “Unless you care to help us.”

The platoon leader’s face is dark as Pyotr, Normand, Raffaele and the rest of Kat’s section rejoin Marcel and the platoon command. “Help you how?” Ramadier replies with annoyance, abandoning military courtesy.

If Ferrand is offended, he doesn’t show it. “With your legionnaires’ help I believe we can finish the projects this afternoon and return to El-Biya by nightfall. If you leave two sections with me to finish the cistern and the goat pen,” he continues, “you can take the third section on a patrol with Zabana here - ” he nods to the _moghazni_ “ - and he’ll give you a first-hand look at a new route the ALN is using to move men and supplies between sectors.” The SAS lieutenant looks at the platoon leader expectantly.

Lt. Ramadier draws a deep breath and holds it, then exhaling slowly he nods. “_Oui, mon lieutenant_.”

Sgt. Müller steps close to Lt. Ramadier. “_Mon lieutenant_, this officer - ” the word is an epithet coming from the _sergent-chef_ “ - is not in your chain of command. Our operational orders are clear, including conducting searches for weapons and viets.” The German glances at Ferrand, who shows no reaction.

“Our orders were to rendezvous with Lt. Ferrand and return with him to the company bivouac,” Ramadier replies quietly. “I’ll square it with _Le Capitaine_. You know how he is, Hans,” he adds, almost under his breath.

The platoon sergeant says nothing, his face blank. “_Oui, mon lieutenant_” he answers evenly. “Who do you want? Altmeier?” The last is clearly a suggestion, and apparently the young officer is bright enough to recognize it. Lt. Ramadier nods his assent.

It takes a few minutes to sort out the duties. Lt. Ramadier and Sgt. Altmeier’s section join the _moghazni_, Zabana, to look over a tactical map – the Arab is clearly pleased to be doing something else other than watching the construction of the goat pen. Sgt. Müller remains with the other two sections, amidst much grumbling from the legionnaires.

“What was he thinking, Hans?” Kat asks Müller. The German _sous-officier_ says nothing, just shakes his head as the SAS officer approaches. Lt. Ferrand explains what he wants to Müller: Sgt. Szabo’s men will assist with building the rock-walled goat pen, while Sgt. Katsourianis and his section join Lt. Ferrand to complete an enclosure for the communal cistern. After these projects are completed the legionnaires will lay the pipe from the cistern to the goat enclosure.

Marcel is given a different job. “Our nurse, Sister Courcy, is conducting examinations and vaccinating the children for smallpox. I’m sure your assistance would be appreciated,” Ferrand explains as the legionnaires walk through the village. The eyes of the Arabs village are glued to the paras as they arrive at the cistern.

An Arab boy is enlisted as a guide for Marcel. Before the medic can depart Sgt. Müller pulls him aside and slips his sidearm into Marcel’s hands. “Keep it on you, under your smock,” the _sergent-chef_ says quietly, “and sling your carbine so it can’t be pulled away from you.” When he’s ready, Marcel turns to the wide-eyed boy, who leads him quickly along a stony path to one of the _mechtas_.

The cistern is built at the mouth of the spring that feeds the village fields. The bottom is carved from the native rock by years of weathering – Lt. Ferrand’s project is to expand the capacity by raising the walls, then covering the whole thing to reduce evaporative loss. A pipe will be extended to the goat pen to keep the animals away from the water source – “Cholera is a scourge in these villages,” Ferrand explains, [colors=sienna]“so protecting the water supply is very important.”[/color] The indifferent expressions worn on the faces of the paras doesn’t deter the enthusiastic officer as he shows the paras what he wants, laying the brick courses to create a low dome over the cistern.

When Ferrand finishes, Kat turns to the section. “Sánchez, take the AA-52 and secure the rest of the section’s weapons. You and Kerenin are on watch.” Ortu’s mouth drops open, but Kat cuts him off. “Not a word. Put your muscles to work instead of your mouth. Barzini and Mador, give Sánchez your satchels.” The section leader unslings his own MAT-49, locks the magazine forward in the safety position, and hands it to Sánchez before removing his jump smock. “Let’s get this done,” he says without enthusiasm.

Marcel...[sblock]The boy leads Marcel to a _mechta_ and points at the doorway, which is blocked by a drapery of some kind, then turns and runs away as if from the Devil himself. A few curious Arab women watch the medic as he stands before the entrance.[/sblock]

Pyotr, Normand, and Raffaele...[sblock]Lt. Ferrand speaks quickly in Arabic to the assembled villagers, and work on the cistern resumes. The Arabs watch the legionnaires carefully, their expressions inscrutable. They say little.

The SAS lieutenant, on the other hand, is voluble. “I enjoy meeting legionnaires,” he says earnestly, standing up to his calves in the warm spring, setting bricks in place. “My uncle was an officer in the Legion during the Twenties, stationed in Syria. Such a rich history.” He wipes his forehead, leaving a trail of dirt. “How do you men find the life of a legionnaire?”[/sblock]


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## Barak (May 27, 2006)

[sblock]
Normand starts to talk, stops, then shrugs and starts up again.

"I'm thinking that if I had stayed home and became mayor, I would have had to deal with politics a whole lot less, sir.  Might have ended up being shot at a whole lot more, though, so it's a wash."

He then looks up at the lieutenant, and grins broadly.

"_Légionnaire_'s humor, of course.  It's really great."

Then, he shuts up and puts his back into the work, making sure he takes on as much of the heavy lifting required as he can.
[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (May 27, 2006)

Marcel apologizes to Ferrand with a smile and a casual salute before stepping back to let the discussion run its course. Sgt. Müller's comment draws a grin that exposes his straight white teeth, even brighter than normal amidst his dusty face.

Once his role is decided, he turns to follow the young boy when Müller stops him. Nodding slowly and listening carefully to his advice, Marcel slings his carbine across his back, securing it tightly, and tucks the automatic pistol into his web belt, sliding it under his jump smock and pulling the cloth back into position to disguise its bulk. Thanking Müller, he leaves his unit.

[sblock]The lad's pace raises Marcel's heart rate as he scrambles down the stony path. He ruffles the kid's scruffy hair as he passes by, rushing off after pointing out the door. _What's he scared of?_ Marcel reflects on his own fear of the hospital as a young child. _Poor kids. They suffer, regardless of the side they are on._ He can't help but see the vision of the dead children in the basement of the farm. Shaking his head, he snaps back to reality. 

"Sister Courcy?" he calls out. "I am Marcel Fortier from the Legion. Lt. Ferrand asked me to help. I have experience with vaccination and medical examination." He steps just outside the curtain, off to the side in case someone exits unexpectedly.[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (May 27, 2006)

Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele...[sblock]Ferrand chuckles at Normand. “Politics. Yes, indeed.”. He looks up at the big Frenchman. “I know better than to ask where a legionnaire is from, but your French would sound right at home on the wharves of Marseilles.” The lieutenant accepts a brick, places it in the course. “I lived in Nice for a little while, after I got out of the Army the first time. I heard that accent many times.”

“You’re a _rappelé_, _mon lieutenant_?” Nedjar asks.

Ferrand nods. “_Oui_. 1_er Régiment de Cuirassiers_, stationed in Landau, in 1952. I commanded a tank platoon. I returned to active duty last fall.”[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]A woman’s voice floats through the carpet hanging over the doorway. “A moment, _s’il vous plait_.” After a dozen seconds, the carpet is drawn back and a European face peers out.

Bright blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face framed by shoulder-length chestnut hair gaze at Marcel. She appears to be in her mid-twenties, with good skin starting to show signs of sun exposure – tiny wrinkles materialize at the corners of her eyes while she looks over Marcel, as if inspecting a basket of day-old fish in a market. Her upturned nose wrinkles slightly, adding to the impression. “You’re who, now? she asks, her full lips pursed. “Legion paras?” There’s a hint of reproach in her voice as she says the last.

Sister Courcy listens as Marcel repeats his orders. “I see,” she replies. She steps aside, motioning with her head for the medic to enter the _mechta_. The room is in deep shadow and anxious seconds pass as Marcel’s eyes adjust to the darkness. Seated on a pile of carpets is a trio of Arab women – all three are veiled, but from the eyes peering intently at Marcel it appears that the three are of different ages. Generations, perhaps?

The nurse is dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of uniform trousers in the leopard-pattern camouflage of the paras, the latter tucked into a pair of heavy lace-up boots. Both the shirt and the trousers hang loosely on the nurse’s slight frame – at first it appears to be simply a poor fit, to be expected in the French Army, but a closer look suggests that they may have fit at one time and she has simply lost weight. She runs a delicate hand over her face. “I need someone who can speak Arabic more than I need a medic,” she says. “I don’t suppose you’re useful in that regard?”[/sblock]


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## shadowbloodmoon (May 28, 2006)

Pyotr listens as the orders are given out. He smiles inside as he is given watch. "Yes, Sergeant." A part of him feels for his squadmates and he goes about his duties apprehensively, helping Sanchez secure the men's weapons and tripodding them nearby. If the Lieutenant trusts this little sideshow, Pyotr would have to as well.


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## Barak (May 28, 2006)

[sblock]
"Nice, eh?  We'll have to play some _pétanque_ later on then.  I've heard _niçois_ are under the false impression they know how to play.
[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (May 28, 2006)

[sblock]Marcel bows slighty, the gesture out of place among the simple surroundings and in a combat uniform. He smiles broadly at Courcy as she inspects him. _Well isn't this nice! I travel all the way out here just to find a lovely lady, lonely and obviously in need of attention._ Marcel lets her take the lead in the conversation for the time being. 

At her inquiry about his language skills, he nods and turns to the gathered women, greeting them in perfect Arabic and asking for the purpose of thier visit.[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (May 29, 2006)

Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele...[sblock]“But of course,” Ferrand says with a hearty laugh. “Every _Nicois_ is a Bourbon pretender, yes? Ah, a _jeu de boules_ sounds very good right now,” he adds, accepting a brick from Asmussen to add to the course.

“I’m not _Nicois_ myself,” he continues, “as I was reminded several times during my tenure at the _Lycée Imperial_. I’m from Languedoc, in the southwest of France.” 

The Arab villagers, dressed in their striped burnouses, seem impervious to the oppressive heat, but several of the legionnaires quickly doff smocks and t-shirts as the sun hangs at zenith. Silvio Ortu’s array of tattoos – the shield of the 1er REP on his right forearm, a risqué belly dancer on his left forearm that swings her hips when he flexes his muscles, a heart with a dagger through it on his right bicep, the Virgin Mary on his left bicep, and a heart with the name “Maria” scrolled through it on his chest – elicit grins from the Arabs. The Sardinian, to the surprise of everyone in the section, actually seems to be enjoying the work, skillfully laying the courses and, perhaps even more shocking, keeping his mouth closed.

Karol Syrovy takes up the slack.

“Altmeier gets the patrol and we get this,” the slender Hungarian says to Sgt. Katsourianis, as he hefts a bag of cement over his shoulder. “The goddamn German _mafia_ looking out for one another again.”

Kat ignores the comment, but Nedjar looks up from the pan where he mixes concrete with a hoe. “Well, we may be the only section in the Legion that doesn’t have any Germans in it,” he says with a grin.

“We have Asmussen,” Syrovy replies, tilting his head at the tall blond legionnaire hefting bricks.

“Jens is Danish,” Nedjar answers, “not German.”

Syrovy shrugs. “Same thing.”

Jens Asmussen looks up, blinking back confusion. “Danish,” he says. “I am Danish. I am not German.”

Syrovy laughs sharply. “You’re a legionnaire,” Kat replies.

The conversation carries over to Pyotr, warily watching the villagers who seem to be just as warily watching the legionnaires. Most of the Arabs going about their business seem to be women or children, or the elderly – the adult men all seem to be working on the goat pen, or the cistern. There seem to be fewer males than one would expect, judging from the size of the village and the families present.

Pyotr’s gaze wanders to the high hills surrounding the village. A couple of children with a herd of goats are picking their way along one of the slopes – the others appear to be deserted, silhouetted against the bright blue sky. The Ukrainian’s eyes return to the village in time to see an Arab man duck quickly into a shadowy doorway.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]The Arab women remain silent. “They won’t answer you,” Sister Courcy offers, her tone sanguine. “They’re in purdah, and you are a man who has improperly entered their home.” She wipes a wisp of brown hair out of her eyes. “I’m sure my bare arms offend them, too, but I’m too bloody hot to care.”

“I want to give the daughter a gynecological examination,” she continues, “and I need you to translate my instructions for me. Can you do that without being rude?” She looks about the room, and picks up a small rug. “Turn away,” she instructs. “Face the wall there, and I’m going to put this over you to give her as much privacy as possible. Do you understand?”[/sblock]


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## shadowbloodmoon (May 29, 2006)

Pyotr stares for a moment, hoping to get another glimpse of the Arab that was attempting to hide. Not seeing him, he quickly motions to Sanchez to get his attention. Pointing his two fingers to his eyes and then in the direction of what he saw, he stands up, checking his submachinegun before starting to head in that direction.


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## Bobitron (May 31, 2006)

The Amazing and Mighty Marcel:

[sblock] Marcel's grin fades as he sees her intent. "I don't have a problem with the translation, miss. The rug, though..." He shrugs. "Ah well. We do what we must. For medicine, no? Is there anything you need for supplies? I overstocked before leaving base." The grin returns as he puts the unlit cigarette in his had into his shirt pocket and swings the heavy musette bag off his shoulder. "I won't let you sweep my under the carpet forever, though, mademoiselle. When this is over, I think you could use some relaxation. And, of course, my company." [/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Jun 1, 2006)

Normand, Raffaele, and Pyotr...[sblock]Pyotr watches for the Arab to reemerge, but there is no sign of him after he disappears through the doorway. Sánchez nods at Pyotr’s alert, and quietly gets Kat’s attention as Pyotr moves to take up a better position.

I need a rough idea of the route that Pyotr is following. The green dot on the map is the location of the doorway.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]A flicker of gratitude crosses the brunette nurse’s face at the offer of supplies, but the look is quickly replaced by something between annoyance and boredom. “It’s ‘sister’, not ‘miss’,” she says flatly as she tosses the rug over Marcel’s head.

The examination takes only a few minutes – translating Sister Courcy’s examination is challenging, doubly so without being able to see the patient. Finally the rug is whipped away. “In my bag is smallpox vaccine, legionnaire” she says perfunctorily, pointing at her field pack on the floor – strapped to the side is an M1 Carbine, identical to Marcel’s. The nursing sister calls for the children of the household in pidgin Arabic, and two girls and a young boy appear, the latter dragged by the arms by his sisters as Marcel withdraws syringes and ampules from the pack.

Sister Courcy vaccinates the girls as Marcel tends to the boy, a big-eyed child of about five years old. “Legionnaire,” she says as preps a syringe, “Lt. Ferrand would not allow you to address me disrespectfully in his presence. He’s a good man and a kind man, but he’s also a French Army officer.” The nurse inserts the needle into the older girl’s upper arm.

“You’re new to the Legion, yes?” she asks Marcel as she presses the plunger. Satisfied that the vaccine has been administered correctly, she looks at the medic’s uniform. “The new pattern camouflage,” she says, “and still in good condition.” She glances at her own uniform pants, faded and worn. “If I notice it, so do these Arabs, and they will take advantage of it if they can.”[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Jun 1, 2006)

Marcel speaks!

[sblock] Marcel submits to the rug without comment and gets about the business of medicine, efficiently translating as best he can and helping with the vaccination. Once they finish and Sister Courcy comments on the fresh uniform, he opens back up, rubbing the uniform self-conciously where it covers the pistol. "Yeah, I know." He shrugs again. "Nothing to be done except wear it in or swap it out, I guess, but I can't imagine I'll find a veteran in my size that would be willing to do so. Maybe one of the guys back at the base can find me a jacket, anyhow."

Looking the woman in the eyes, Marcel smiles softly. "Hey, umm... no offense meant, Sister. It is just nice to see a beautiful face out here. Easy to forget you have a title. I'll be careful not to do it again. If I start to overstep the professional boundries, let me know." The smile goes wider. "But I'm sure you will. You don't seem like the type to let others fight your battles for you."

Walking to the small cistern of clean water near the wall, Marcel removes a small bar of soap from his jacket and washes his hands. As he rinses, he takes an extra cake still in the wrapper and leaves it on the edge.

"So, Lt. Ferrand. You have been here with him long? He seems a good enough sort. He was busy butting heads with my LT when I left to meet you. Apparently his strength of personality won out. Our mission was to search the homes for weapons. Lt. Ferrand assured us the weapons have been inventoried, but we do have our orders. Seems they are to be ignored for now." He looks back over his shoulder as he wipes his hands dry. 

"You have been amongst this group for some time now? Are you confident there is no insurgent activity?"

[/sblock]


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## shibata (Jun 1, 2006)

Barzini is obviously not happy about the order to turn over his weapons to Sanchez in the middle of an unsecured village.  Even as Barzini tries to explain a better way to lay the bricks, he is distracted by the feeling that something bad is about to happen; his words come out jumbled and unhelpful, inspiring no one.

Charismatic Leadership attempt to aid Craft (structural)of Lt. Ferrand = 1 + 1
http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=467069


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 2, 2006)

Pyotr cautiously approaches the building the Arab disappeared into, scanning the door and any windows as he makes his way to the low rock wall that is directly between him and the doorway. He waits for a moment, scenarios quickly going through his head as he makes sure he is being watched by Sanchez. _You're getting paranoid out here. Why is he hiding from me then? Never seen a Legionnaire before? Shouldn't we wait for back up? Sanchez is watching right?..._ 

I'm presuming that the two lines between the doorway and the building behind them are low walls or parts of a fence or something. Correct me if I'm wrong, please.


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## The Shaman (Jun 2, 2006)

Raffaele, Pyotr, and Normand...[sblock]Lt. Ferrand listens carefully to Raffaele, nodding as the legionnaire finishes his convoluted explanation for fitting the pipe for the goat pen into the wall of the cistern. “Why don’t you show us what you mean, legionnaire?” he offers helpfully.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]Sister Courcy offers a thin smile to Marcel. “If I took offense at every overly familiar soldier, leggionnaire, I wouldn’t last very long.” She finishes packing her gear and cleans up, nodding to Marcel for the cake of soap.

After taking their leave of the family, Sister Courcy leads Marcel to the next _mechta_. As they walk along the hillside, she replies, “I’ve been part of Lt. Ferrand’s unit since September. His family owns a farm in Pézenas, in Languedoc,” she continues. “He grew up alongside Arab workers. He understands their way of life. I think that’s why he volunteered to return to active duty and chose the SAS.”

“This is our second trip here,” the nurse goes on. “We’re responsible for twenty thousand Arabs in dozens of _douars_ like this one.” She looks around the village, then at Marcel – she hesitates, seeming unsure of herself for the first time. Her voice is low as she speaks. “The FLN is active in all of these villages, _légionnaire_ Fortier. About half of the men from this _douar_ are _moussebiline_, irregulars. Several have gone off and joined the local _katiba_ since the last time we were here.”

She looks cautiously at Marcel. “The _fellouze_ killed the _caïd_ in this village over a year ago, for speaking out against the FLN. The villagers must support the _fellouze_ to survive. Can you understand that?” Sister Courcy runs a hand over her face again. “If we expose the FLN in the village, these people will be killed for collaborating with the French, and if we don’t then they may be brutalized by the French Army for giving aid to the enemy.” She looks away.[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Jun 2, 2006)

Normand and Raffaele...[sblock]At a word from Sánchez, Sgt. Katsourianis steps out of the muck around the cistern and joins the Spanish legionnaire where the section’s weapons are cached. He returns a moment later, his face serious.

“Vidal, go find Sgt. Müller, and take your weapon,” the section leader orders when he returns – his submachine gun is slung around his shoulder. The radioman puts down the brick in his hands with a crisp, “_Oui, mon sergent_,”  and retrieves his MAT-49 from Sánchez before heading for the goat pen.

Ferrand looks quizzically at Kat. “Sir, one of my men spotted something,” the _sergent_ says, his voice grave.

The smile disappears from Ferrand’s face. “All right, _sergent_. You men keep working,” he says evenly, repeating the phrase in Arabic. “Legionnaire - ” he addresses Raffaele again “ - see if you can get that pipe set, won’t you?” The lieutenant wipes his hands on his shorts and beckons the sergeant to follow.

“What the devil is that about?” Ortu asks, breaking his silence as he watches the officer and the non-com walk to wear Pyotr waits behind a low wall a short distance away. “Are these _putain_ wogs up to something?” The Sardinian glares at the Arabs, who seem to be no less concerned that the legionnaires, staring about nervously.[/sblock]Pyotr...[sblock]Glancing back from his position behind the low wall that, judging from the dried feces on the ground, appears to have been a livestock pen until recently, Pyotr sees Manolo Sánchez talking to Sgt. Katsourianis – the section leader looks at Pyotr then returns to where the other section members are working at the cistern.

Observing the house once again, the Ukrainian searches the doors and windows for signs of activity until he is alerted by the sound of footsteps of Lt. Ferrand and Sgt. Katsourianis’s approach – Kat is carrying his MAT-49 again. “Légionnaire, report,” the _sergent_ orders.

WATCH or Spot check – your call as to which.[/sblock]


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## Barak (Jun 2, 2006)

[sblock]
Normand shrugs and continues working.  Finding himself next to Ortu, he addresses him quietly.

"Ortu, my friend, I may not have been a _légionnaire_ that long, but even I have learned that my superiors will let me know wether or not we should wonder as to what's going on.  And then, they'll make sure not to tell us.  And _then_, they'll ask why we didn't do anything."
[/sblock]


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## Bobitron (Jun 2, 2006)

[sblock]Marcel listens quietly to Courcy as she explains the situation. He walks alongside, slowing down to to pause while the FLN's influence.

"Look." He scans the area before continuing. "I appreciate your honesty, I do. But what you are describing isn't anything we don't know. We can't wipe out entire populations, nor control the amount of ground we're looking at here. I just want to skim off the worst offenders." He removes his helmet, tousling his hair and lacing the helmet's strap into his belt. Reaching into his front pocket for a cigarette, he lights up after offering one to the nurse.

Exhaling a large cloud of smoke, he sighs. "Our last field mission put us near a farm. The more violent of the fells killed the entire family. The mother. The children. I found them in the basement, throats slit to the point where the heads were barely attached." He flicks the half-smoked butt onto the dirt and lights another, shaken by the memory. "I'm not going to push some poor guy who is forced to show support for the cause into a fight. I just want to stop things like _that_, and keep my squad alive." Her looks searchingly into Courcy's eyes. "Do you understand?"[/sblock]


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## The Shaman (Jun 3, 2006)

Marcel...[sblock]The nurse listens as Marcel relates his experiences, refusing the proffered cigarette. “Fortier, about a month ago a patrol of French soldiers was passing through a _douar_ about thirty or forty kilometers from here. One of the _soldats_ tripped over a goat, so he shot it in anger. The owner of the goat, an elderly man, reached out to stop the _soldat_ from killing another – the owner was killed by another member of the patrol.” Her face is hard, her voice matter-of-fact. “The patrol opened fire on the villagers, shooting indiscriminately. They killed men, women, children. Afterwards they cut off villagers’ heads and carried them on sticks.” She takes a deep breath. “The official report says that the patrol fired when villagers attempted to take the soldiers’ weapons away. Self-defense.” Her eyes lock on Marcel’s. “Eleven Arabs were killed, another two dozen wounded. I treated a little girl who was maimed, her leg amputated by bullet, her mother and brother dead. Over a goat.”

Sister Courcy glances over her shoulder. “You are young and eager, and you are a new recruit,” she continues. “The legionnaires among the worst, Fortier. _Les anciens de Indochine_.” The Indochina veterans. “To them an Arab or a Kabyle is a ‘viet’, some thing less than human.” She pauses, and tugs at the strap of the pack slung over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ve said too much. I don’t mean to give offense.” A small smile accompanies the last.

“I watched you with that family back there. You have a good way with your patients,” she says. “Respectful and professional. Hold onto that.”

At the doorway to the next _mechta_, she announces their presence with a few rote phrases. A little boy pulls back the curtain covering the doorway, and Sister Courcy steps inside.[/sblock]


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 5, 2006)

Pyotr tries not to take his eyes off of the building as he tells his report to the Sergeant. "There was an Arab male keeping a close eye on us as we were talking to the SAS officer. As soon as I noticed him, he disappeared into this building. Figuring all the village's men were out here helping us, I let Sanchez know what I saw and proceeded to head over here to check it out." Noticing the lieutenant's brass he added, "Sir."


Spot check: (1d20+4=7)

The sand in his eyes causes him to blink once too often....that or the LTs brass is really bright.

EDIT: Can you remind us again of the difference between Spot and Watch checks? I think that post was lost in the database crash.


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## Bobitron (Jun 5, 2006)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Marcel...
> 
> The nurse listens as Marcel relates his experiences, refusing the proffered cigarette. “Fortier, about a month ago a patrol of French soldiers was passing through a _douar_ about thirty or forty kilometers from here. One of the _soldats_ tripped over a goat, so he shot it in anger. The owner of the goat, an elderly man, reached out to stop the _soldat_ from killing another – the owner was killed by another member of the patrol.” Her face is hard, her voice matter-of-fact. “The patrol opened fire on the villagers, shooting indiscriminately. They killed men, women, children. Afterwards they cut off villagers’ heads and carried them on sticks.” She takes a deep breath. “The official report says that the patrol fired when villagers attempted to take the soldiers’ weapons away. Self-defense.” Her eyes lock on Marcel’s. “Eleven Arabs were killed, another two dozen wounded. I treated a little girl who was maimed, her leg amputated by bullet, her mother and brother dead. Over a goat.”
> 
> ...




"I'm not that innocent to think atrocities don't happen on both sides." Marcel's voice is a bit chiding at first, then softens. "I'm here to do whatever I can to ensure it doesn't happen. I'm not so idealistic that I think I'll change the war. But if I can stop what happened on that farm or the village you described even once, I'll feel like I've accomplished something."

He smiles broadly at her comment on his nature with patients. "Yeah. No candies to give to the kiddes, unfortunately, so I work with what I have."


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## The Shaman (Jun 6, 2006)

Lt. Ferrand and Sgt. Katsourianis listen as Pyotr describes the Arab ducking into the doorway. The SAS officer is sanguine.

“Some of the men in the _douar_ refused to help,” he replies patiently. “They don’t want to be seen as aiding the French Army. They are afraid of retribution should word reach the FLN.” Ferrand turns to Kat. “_Sergent_, the sooner we finish the cistern and the pen, the sooner we can get back to El-Biya and brief your captain, yes?” Without waiting for a reply, he turns on his heel and starts back to where the men are watching and waiting.

Kat watches the _mechta_ for a moment, then quietly tells Pyotr, “Find someplace where you can keep an eye on that house without being noticed. And watch your back,” he adds. “This _putain_...” The section leader pauses, seems to think better of what he’s about to say, and finishes with, “Stay alert and keep me informed,” before starting back to the cistern.

At the cistern Syrovy laughs derisively. “That _lieutenant_ is a pain in the ass,” the Hungarian replies to Normand. “But you have no problem fighting for these wogs, do you, big man?” The skinny legionnaire looks up at Normand with clear eyes.

“Forget about it and let’s get this done, eh?” Nedjar interjects.

Marcel follows Sister Courcy into the _mechta_. “I’m sure the children are enthralled by a French soldier speaking to them in their own language, Fortier,” she answers. She asks Marcel to translate once again, to explain to another veiled woman about the inoculations for the children. After four small boys are rounded up, the nurse looks over at Marcel as the medic draws the vaccine into a syringe. “Your French sounds like you’re from the metropolis,” she says. The question is left unstated.


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## Barak (Jun 6, 2006)

Normand looks at Ortu with a surprised look on his face, then gives him his most innocent grin.

"Me?  Fighting for them..  Fighting _them_..  Heh.  As long as I'm fighting and getting paid for it, what do I care?"


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## shibata (Jun 6, 2006)

Raffaele is embarassed by his inability to explain what he means.  His desire to save face overwhelms his concerns about the security situation of this workplace and he bends his will to the work at hand - fitting the pipe from goat pen to cistern as quickly and efficiently as possible.

_I've done this before.  This is not difficult.  That brick should be turned just so . . . ._ 

Craft (structural) 17+4=21 http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=470179


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## Bobitron (Jun 6, 2006)

"I don't know if would consider Avignon a metropolis. Too dusty." He smiles. "Please, call me Marcel. I would like that." He quickly describes his actions to the boys, hoping to put them at ease as the needles come out. "I studied in Paris at the Broussais-Hôtel-Dieu. So, yes, I suppose I'm not the average farm boy."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 7, 2006)

Pyotr nods and slowly stands to look at his Sergeant. "I'm on it, Sergeant.

Shouldering his rifle, he then starts to meander a path through some of the other buildings, but making sure to always keep that building in sight. He doesn't want to miss anything else, so he keep his eyes walking to and from every shadow, nook and cranny he can see. When he finds an out of the way spot to keep watch on the building the Arab vanished into, Pyotr settles in. 

Watch: (1d20+4=18)


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## The Shaman (Jun 7, 2006)

Raffaele settles down to the task at hand, fitting the bricks to hold the pipe that will feed water to the goat pen. The mortar is grainy and the handmade bricks uneven, but he manages to lay the courses, one on the next, encasing the length of iron pipe and making it fast. 

Raffaele catches Nedjar looking over his shoulder as he scrapes away excess mortar and strikes the joint with the wooden handle of his trowel. “Lt. Ferrand, you should take a look at this, sir,” he says, raising his head.

The lieutenant returns and peers over Raffaele’s shoulder as well. “I wish we’d had you here from the start, legionnaire,” he says warmly. “You make the rest of us look sloppy.”

Sgt. Katsourianis follows a moment later, his face clouded. On seeing the _sergent_, Ortu pipes up, “Kat, Mador’s big as me. Why don’t you give him the _mitrailleur_ and let me carry the potato thrower?”

“I’m gonna take both your weapons away and give you each a bag of rocks, Silvio,” Kat replies before moving off to join Sgt. Müller, standing next to Sánchez a short distance away. The two _sous-officiers_ keep their voices low as they talk – the faces on both men are grim, but there is little time to dwell as the pace picks up once again with Ferrand’s return.

Pyotr settles in to watch the _mechta_. Villagers still observe the paras warily as they move about the _douar_, stopping to gather in small groups, to point and talk quietly amongst themselves. A young boy, maybe six or seven, emerges from the house and looks about before running off to the east, in the direction of the _mechtas_ on the other side of the _oued_. Otherwise the building is still as Pyotr watches, flies buzzing in his ears and eyes..

Sister Courcy smiles as Pyotr describes his schooling. “I spent almost a year and a half at the Sorbonne for my nursing training, before the army field hospital school in Lyon.” She rubs an alcohol swab on a boy’s arm before delivering the vaccination. “I lived in Paris for about five years altogether, before the army.” The boy winces slightly as the needle penetrates his arm, while Sister Courcy describes her favorite bistros and cafés in the _Quartier Latin_, mostly little family places, several that Marcel has visited. “What I wouldn’t give for a decent cup of coffee at the Café de la Paix,” she says with feeling as she cleans up her gear before moving on to the next house.

The work on the cistern and the pen takes about four hours to finish – it’s late-afternoon as the tired, sweating legionnaires are rejoined by their comrades from Sgt. Altmeier’s section, along with Lt. Ramadier, back from their patrol. The two officers, Ferrand and Ramadier, confer privately as the paras clean up and Zabana, the SAS _harki_ readies a string of donkeys with now-empty packs for the trip back to the outpost at the bottom of the _oued_. Marcel and the nursing sister finish the vaccinations, examining several of the villagers along the way for various ailments and injuries, from pink eye to broken bones, before joining the gathered legionnaires and the SAS lieutenant’s stock for the march back to the trucks.

Most of the paras are subdued as they pull at pack straps or weapon slings. Sister Courcy draws lingering looks from most of the men – if she notices she doesn’t react, pulling on her own pack after unstrapping her carbine from the webbing. Lt. Ferrand is speaking with several of the Arabs from the village as Lt. Ramadier announces, “First section, lead off...”


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## Bobitron (Jun 7, 2006)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Sister Courcy smiles as Pyotr describes his schooling. “I spent almost a year and a half at the Sorbonne for my nursing training, before the army field hospital school in Lyon.” She rubs an alcohol swab on a boy’s arm before delivering the vaccination. “I lived in Paris for about five years altogether, before the army.” The boy winces slightly as the needle penetrates his arm, while Sister Courcy describes her favorite bistros and cafés in the _Quartier Latin_, mostly little family places, several that Marcel has visited. “What I wouldn’t give for a decent cup of coffee at the Café de la Paix,” she says with feeling as she cleans up her gear before moving on to the next house.




"I haven't had a decent croissant in ages. Once we have some free time, I'll take you to a small cafe in Algiers. I know the man who runs it. He is crippled by the supplies he can get locally, but he has very good coffee and breads." Marcel smiles. "Even some decent cheese not made from goat's milk!" He helps her with the gear, then packs his own bag carefully to ensure everything is in its exact place. He glances over during the clean-up, hoping to catch her eye. "Sister. I know these are difficult times. But you and I have much in common. Perhaps we could be friends? I will write you, you write me, maybe a soiree for dinner in the city once in a while..." 

Back with the group, Marcel does a quick check over the men, making certain there are no blisters, splinter, or busted knunckles or toes to worry about. He does his best to ignore the longing looks from his peers at the nurse, but can't help but scowl at the least discrete.


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## shibata (Jun 7, 2006)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> The lieutenant returns and peers over Raffaele’s shoulder as well. “I wish we’d had you here from the start, legionnaire,” he says warmly. “You make the rest of us look sloppy.”




Raffaele smiles very broadly, showing an expanse of teeth; very happy to be praised.  "Thank you, sir.  I like building things!"  Raffaele wipes away the rivulet of sweat cutting a path through the dust on his cheek and continues working with a smile.


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## The Shaman (Jun 7, 2006)

The nursing sister’s smile fades slightly. “You’re sweet, Marcel, but I’m here to do my job, and that’s all,” she says gently, a hint of sadness in her eyes.

Back with the rest of the platoon, Marcel works his way among the men, checking on the myriad small injuries that accrue from working in rough country. As he passes, a legionnaire with a thick Italian accent calls out, “_Sergent_ Szabo, I want a transfer to the medical company!” Laughter ripples down the line of paras.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 7, 2006)

When the men gathered up, ready to move on, a word echoed in Pyotr's mind. _Paranoid_. Memories began to rush back to him, but he brushed them away with the flies feasting on his sweat. He said nothing as the column began to march.


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## Barak (Jun 8, 2006)

Normand silently prepares himself for the march ahead, feeling somewhat contented.

_Wasn't shot at, didn't kill anyone, probably didn't get in trouble, helped some people..  Yeah, I guess we have a good day once in a while._


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## Bobitron (Jun 9, 2006)

Marcel smiles, but calls out a retort anyhow. "Wait! Then you would have to spend your afternoons looking at Normand's hangnails! Think about the consequences, man!"


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## The Shaman (Jun 10, 2006)

The platoon, tired but no less wary, navigates the twisting track back to the _bourdj_ where the GMCs are parked. Again Sgt. Katsourianis’s section leads the way, with Lt. Ramadier near the head of the column. Sgt. Altmeier’s section brings up the rear of the paras, followed by Lt. Ferrand, Sister Courcy, the _harkis_ – and the donkeys. Marcel again follows at the back of the platoon – the nurse and the SAS officer are deep in quiet conversation covered by the sound of the hooves of the donkeys and the curses of the skinner, leaving the medic to listen as Sgts. Müller and Altmeier growl at one another in German for ninety minutes.

At the front of the column, the legionnaires of the first section pick at the mud and cement clinging to their skin – a hasty wash at the cistern wasn’t enough to remove the caked-on dirt of the day. Sgt. Katsourianis addresses Lt. Ramadier as the column leaves the village. “Sir, was the lieutenant’s intelligence any good?” His tone is skeptical.

The tall platoon leader nods. “Yes, it was,” Ramadier answers. “That village back there is in one sector and El-Biya, where we left the rest of the company? That’s in a different sector.” His looks ahead at the hills bordering the _oued_ as he talks over his shoulder to the _sergent_. “This is the only trail. The commander of the sector won’t send his troops up here because there’s no road in, and the _commandant_ of the battalion in El-Biya won’t send his men up here because it’s not his sector.”

“That outpost where we left the trucks – those _soldats_ have never been up here. They patrol the boundary between sectors, and that’s it.” The platoon leader shakes his head as if in disbelief. “How did it go with Lt. Ferrand?” he asks, lowering his voice slightly.

Kat gives him a rundown of the work in the village, along with Pyotr’s observations. “Sir, I think we should have tossed the houses,” he offers at the end.

“Yes,” Lt. Ramadier agrees. “These _rappelé_ officers who never served overseas, never lived in the colonies – ” He doesn’t finish the thought. “_Le Capitaine_ stresses cooperation with the SAS, Kat. So we cooperate.”

“_Oui, mon lieutenant_,” Kat replies, apparently satisfied that he made his point to the platoon leader.

The sun has dropped below the hills as the platoon arrives at the trucks. Lt. Ferrand speaks with the _adjudant_ at the blockhouse – the _harkis_ and the stock will spend the night at the outpost and be picked up in the morning. The paras climb aboard the deuce-and-a-halfs – Lt. Ferrand and Sister Courcy ride in the cab of the lead truck. The drive back is no less gut-wrenching than the trip out, perhaps more so due to the day’s exertions.

It’s full dark when Third Platoon rolls into El-Biya once again. The rest of the company has pitched their shelter-halves alongside the barracks belonging to the sector troops garrisoned in the market town. _Le Capitaine_ appears almost as the trucks roll to a stop. As the paras unload, they can overhear Lt. Ferrand enthusiastically praising the legionnaires to the company commander for their hard work in the village.

Marcel suddenly finds himself face-to-face with Sister Courcy – standing in the glow of the headlights of the deuce-and-a-half, the slender nurse’s battered fatigues and combat boots are covered in dust, her dark hair tucked up inside her khaki sunhat.

She offers hims her hand. “Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie de Courcy. Remember what I told you, Marcel.” Her heart-shaped face breaks into a smile – for the first time it seems to spread across her face, lifting the tip of her nose, crinkling the corners of her blue eyes. “About the fatigues.” She turns and walks away toward the blockhouse.

The weary paras take up their primitive quarters for the night.


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## Barak (Jun 11, 2006)

Normand, as usual, takes the time to stow his gear properly in the appropriate place before even thinking of finding some water available to remove the worse of the grit off of himself.  His minimal ablutions completed, he thinks of what to do next.

_Alright, I need to find something to do.  I know..  Ortu.  He thinks I'm a arab sympathizer, and maybe I am, but having him think that is not overly healthy._

An informal plan in his head, he walks around, looking for his fellow _légionnaire_.  Once he finds him, he loses no time going up to the man.

"Hey, _mon frère_!  I was looking for you.  We have some free time tonight, correct?  What is there to do around here?"


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## The Shaman (Jun 11, 2006)

Slivio Ortu is seated on his bedroll, relacing a boot when Normand approaches. “Here?” he says with surprise, looking at the garrison barracks and around the dark village. “Not much.” The Sardinian tugs at the laces and slips the boot over his foot. “I missed the match this afternoon. AC Milan and Juventus,” he continues, tapping the transistor radio in his pocket. “What do you have in mind?”


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## Barak (Jun 11, 2006)

Normand guffaws.

"If I had anything specific in mind, I wouldn't be asking what there is to do.  As you said, I doubt anything real fancy would be around here.  But surely, a place to have a few drinks, play some cards, _something_."


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## The Shaman (Jun 12, 2006)

“Drinks?” Silvio answers with a derisive snort. “The wogs don’t drink alcohol, remember?” The _tireur_ finishes tying his boot and inspects his handywork, then looks up at Normand. “So was jail worth helping that Arab? Y’know, he’d probably kill you if he had half a chance. Every one of ’em is a killer, Normand. Every one.” He looks down at his boots again. “Anyway, even if there was anything to do here, there’s no way we’d get a _permission_ tonight. I overheard the lieutenant say we’re moving out at dawn.”


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 12, 2006)

Pyotr finishes stowing his gear, wearily cleaning his rifles as he overhears his squadmates talking about what to do the rest of the evening. Deciding that he needed to get the day's activities out of his head, he pulls a deck of cards out. 

"Somebody say cards?"


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## Barak (Jun 12, 2006)

Normand shrugs.

"I thought I got solitary for keeping those local idiots from ruining the crap out of our raid.  If it was for saving that kid, I don't feel so bad.  In the end, if he had died, it would have riled up all the wogs even more, making _our_ lives even worse.  Think 'bout it, Ortu."  With a smile, he adds. "And I did learn that I'm probably the only one in the whole outfit who knows how to give a _real_ beating, which is good to know.  Anyway, water under the bridge and all that."

Pulling his cigar-gear out of his bag, he shrugs.

"So no alcohol and no going out.  We can still stay in and take Pyotr's money.  The russkies, they don't know how to play.  What do you say, _mon frère_?"


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## Bobitron (Jun 13, 2006)

Marcel, still prone in his bunk while he thinks on the days events, sits up and shakes his head, clearing it of the reflections. 

"Cards, you say? I'm not very good, but someone needs to play and make sure Normand doesn't cheat," he says with a grin, pulling out his pack of smokes. "Cigarettes?"


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## The Shaman (Jun 13, 2006)

“Talk to some of these guys who were in Indochina,” replies Ortu, unlacing his boots again. “They’re like fish in a net. The Communist thing.”

“Fish in the sea, Silvio, not a net.” Manolo Sánchez rolls over from where he’s lying on his bedroll, props himself up on one elbow. “It’s Maoist doctrine. ‘The guerrilla must move amongst the people as a fish swims in the sea.’”

Ortu waves his hand. “Whatever.” He sprinkles foot powder liberally in his boots, then sets them aside. “No cards for me, thanks.” He slides into his bedroll, pops the earpiece from his transitor radio in an ear, and lies back with his head on his hands.

Sánchez sits up and reaches into the pocket of his smock. “Room for one more?” the veteran legionnaire asks, a tidy wad of _francs_ in his hand.

Sánchez settles in, declines Marcel’s proferred cigarette, pulling an Ideales from his own pocket instead. The Spaniard watches as the cards are shuffled. “In Indochina you could never be sure who was Vietminh, and who wasn’t. After awhile they all became ‘viets.’ It was the only way to stay alive – treat every one of ’em like he was going to cut your throat if you turned your back.” He takes a long drag from his cigarette – the lines on the veteran's face are deep in the glow of the flashlight lighting the cards. “The _fellaghas_ use the same tactics. Some of ’em learned ’em from the viets themselves, in prison camps. That waiter - ” he focuses on Normand “ - could’ve been working with that mechanic back in Portemonte, for all we know.” He flicks a bit of ash from his cigarette and takes another pull. “The Arabs, the Berbers - they're no better or worse than anyone else. But you can’t trust them either, not completely. Even in the best of times they’re a shrewd people. Cunning. And these are not the best of times.”


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## Barak (Jun 14, 2006)

Normand shrugs, and starts shuffling the deck.

"Wanna play _au beigne_, then?  Since it works with any number of players anyway."  After shuffling some more, he starts to deal.  "Me, I don't care much about the politics, you know?  But that waiter, coulda been an informer working for our side, too.  I don't know.  One thing for sure though, I had stood there with everybody and watch the crowd beat him, he would have been a _fell_ in a month, if he wasn't already.  They kill him?  His whole family would have hated us then.  Me, I don't think about it, I just don't let a mob beat up a kid who did nothing."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 14, 2006)

A quick jab to Normand's shoulder is used by Pyotr to accept his challenge at cards. Pyotr waves away Marcel's proferred cigarettes as he listens to Sanchez attempt to explain Communism to them. He could only smile. A muttered "Tiy nye znaiyesh...", escapes in his native Russian. 

He then looks at his cards with a grin. Normand's cheating again...


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## The Shaman (Jun 14, 2006)

Manolo studies the _grenadier_ thoughtfully. “There is that,” he answers, looking down at his cards once again. “That’s what _Le Capitaine_ says, too, Normand. That’s probably why your discipline was so light.”


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## shibata (Jun 15, 2006)

As the soldiers play their card game, Raffaele works in his sketchbook near-by.

"Hey guys!  You can fight over this.  It'll be worth a lot of money someday when I'm famous!"  Raffaele tosses a charcoal sketch of the card-players in their _tenue de leopard_, as serious as if they were in battle.

craft(visual art) charcoal sketch of card-playing camouflaged legionaires = 17 + 4 = 21 http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=478179


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## The Shaman (Jun 17, 2006)

*The Tomb of Abd-el-Hammou*

Manolo gazes Raffaele’s drawing. “This is very good. May I?” He points the drawing in the direction of his field pack.

The legionnaires pass a pleasant half-hour at cards, until Kat orders lights out. “Reveille at 0430,” the _sergent_ intones.

The biting cold of the pre-dawn darkness digs deep into the flesh of the Legion paras as they gear up, a mockery of the heat that will come as the sun climbs to zenith. The paras are loaded into trucks once again and after a bouncing ride down a rocky _piste_, the company is assembled for a quick inspection and an even briefer sick call – none of the legionnaires fall out, apparently less intimidated by a four-day march in the desert than eight days in prison for malingering. Inspection completed, the company jumps off down a lonely canyon. The rat hunt begins.

The pace of the march is blistering – in contrast to the exaggerated slow steps of the Legion’s parade, the _ratissage_ is conducted at a near-run, uphill and down, from the chill of the morning through the furnace of the afternoon. This is no mere race across the countryside, however, but rather an exercise in maneuver, the four platoons and the company headquarters performing an intricate dance over the rocky, dusty landscape – advance, support, reserve, the platoons cycle through the motions like a clockwork orrery.

The _ratissage_ offers an opportunity to study the platoon commanders in action. Lt. Bloch commands First Platoon – he is the most respected officer in the company after Captain Martini, a _baroudeur_ who fought in the Resistance as a teen, then enlisted after the war and rose to the rank of _adjudant_ before being selected to attend the academy in Strasbourg. Bloch’s platoon is a precision machine in action, seemingly a step ahead of the rest of the company. Sgt. Santos, the platoon sergeant temporarily commanding Fourth Platoon pending the arrival of a replacement for the transferred Lt. Gauthier, is another veteran, with twelve years in Indochina as an infantryman and paratrooper – he is efficient, no-nonsense, and expected to be promoted to _adjudant_ very soon.

The _sous-lieutenants_, Binard and Ramadier, command the second and third platoons respectively. Both are St.-Cyrians, one of the six officers selected from each graduating class for posts in the Legion. Binard, known as “BiBi” among the other officers, is an Olympic skier, a member of the French national team – after graduation he served as a staff officer in an Alpine regiment in order to train for the games in Cortina d’Ampezzo this past winter. Following the Olympics he received a transfer to the Legion that, according to the scuttlebutt around the mess, was facilitated by his father, a colonel and Officer of the Legion of Honor, on the General Staff in Paris. Lt. Binard leans heavily on his platoon sergeant, Sgt. Bachman, during action in the field – BiBi is the newest officer to the company, and it shows.

Lt. Ramadier joined Third Company a little more than a year ago, David Nedjar says at the evening meal after their exhausting first day in the _bled_. “He took over the platoon after Lt. Dicommet was rotated back to France,” the Algerian explains as the legionnaires dine on tinned sardines and green beans from their field rations. “He was as greener than grass, of course,” he continues, his voice dropping a bit, “but he was willing to listen to Müller and the other _sergents_, and that’s the difference between a good officer and a bad one, hand to G_d.”

Ramadier is a colonial, Nedjar adds. “Guyana. His family owns a plantation there.”

The fourth lieutenant in the company is Lt. Degasser, the executive officer. He is something of an unknown quantity, aloof, methodical – it’s rumored that he is being groomed for a position on the General Staff, and his assignment to the Legion paras is simply to validate his credentials before he is promoted and installed behind a desk.

The greatest respect among the legionnaires of the company is reserved for their company commander. He is “Captain Martini” only when protocol dictates, and never, ever just “Martini” – to the paras he is _Le Capitaine_, as if he defines the word itself. “_Le Capitaine_ was an Italian paratrooper,” Silvio Ortu offers with more than a touch of pride, assiduously powdering his boots the second night in the field, “and joined the Legion after the war.”

“_Le Capitaine_ survived RC4,” Sgt. Katsourianis adds, referring to the battle of _Route Coloniale_4 in 1950 from which just twenty-three legionnaires of the 1_e_ BEP escaped the Vietminh in the gorge at Coc Xa, “when he was a _sergent-chef_. He got his commission after and was a _lieutenant_ at Dien Bien Phu – spent seven months as a PW before repatriation.”

The legionnaires resume the rat hunt for a third day. Shortly after breaking camp shots are heard from the head of the column, where Lt. Bloch’s platoon has taken the lead, followed by cheers. The paras hit the dirt, warily eyeing the terracotta hills and the tufts of grey-green vegetation scattered along the slopes. The word passes back down the line – Bloch’s paras bagged a gazelle. One of the company cooks, a German named Stuber, quickly butchers the sleek animal as the paras advance. That night the paras’ soup packets are pooled and chunks of fresh gazelle meat added to make a thin stew – the flavor is strong and sharp, but no one states a preference for another night of tinned salted fish.

Lt. Ramadier calls the platoon together as the stew bubbles and the sun passes below the hills. “We’re not returning to the trucks tomorrow as planned,” he begins. The legionnaires are quiet – Sgt. Müller’s stern gaze makes it clear that any outward sign of discontent would be unwise and probably unhealthy. “Based on the intelligence we received from Lt. Ferrand, we’re moving east. There will be a resupply drop in the morning to deliver additional rations.”

The blond lieutenant reaches into a pocket of his smock and withdraws a black case. “_Légionnaire_ Mador, front and center,” he orders. Normand steps forward and snaps to attention. “Legionnaire, on behalf of a grateful France, I present you with the _Médaille des Blessés Militaires_ for wounds sustained in action at _Oued Baraba_.” Lt. Ramadier pins the medal to Normand’s dusty fatigues and offers a smart salute as Müller calls the platoon to attention: “_Fixe!_” After the men are dismissed, the platoon sergeant hands Normand the case – “Put it away someplace safe until we get back,” he advises, “and stay out of trouble so we can do this right next time.”

Around mid-morning the company is brought to a halt as a tri-motor AAC.1 Toucan appears overhead – a half-dozen parachutes spill from an open door and are retrieved by a detail from Lt. Binard’s platoon. Canteens are refilled or topped off, ration tins stuffed into packs, then the march is resumed.

The day passes uneventfully – aside from an occasional trail that may or may not be made by wild game, there is no sign of the _fellaghas_, nor Arabs. The fourth night in the _bled_ finds some of the legionnaires restless. “_Putain_ desert,” Ortu swears for the third time in as many minutes as he removes the laces from his boots to let them air out. “We climb these worthless hills while the fells are back in town,” he mutters. “_Merde_.”

“That SAS officer told the lieutenant that the fells stay clear of the villages here,” Kat replies. “The Arabs are too scattered and the villages are too small – the fells can’t blend in like they can in the north. We have to follow the springs, like they do.”

“_Putain_ desert,” Ortu repeats, pulling the now-nearly empty can of foot powder from his pack.

The fifth morning finds Third Platoon leading the company’s advance, with Kat’s section at the sharp end of the platoon. The sun is no more than a hand’s width above mountains, still casting long shadows as the paras wind their way along a twisting _oued_...

WATCH or Spot and Listen checks, please. Feel free to add some background to your post if you feel so inclined.


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## Barak (Jun 17, 2006)

After receiving his medal, and the comment by Lt. Ramadier, Normand cannot help a smirk coming to his lips.

"I'll do my best, sir.  But I can't say I hate receiving the medal in the field instead of base camp.  Seems..  Fitting.  But as I said, point taken, sir."

He then puts the medal in it's case, and the case safely at the bottom of his pack.

---

_Now, this is what I signed up for.  Marching through the desert, putting my body against the elements, searching for enemies of the mother country._

With a shake of his head at Ortu's whining, Normand falls easily into place, not overly fatigued by the heavy marching at all.  His hand cradles the Grenade-Launcher rifle easily, with the ease that has come from carrying it often, keeping his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary.


OOC
spot check (1d20+1=17)
listen check (1d20=6)


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jun 18, 2006)

Pyotr collects his cards, replacing them in his pack and thanking the crew for a good game. As the days of hunting and searching wore on, he found himself checking and rechecking every strap, buckle, lace and whatnot he could find on his gear. It was better than staring at the empty hills. At times, he thought he heard something or maybe even saw something, but he started to believe his mind was playing tricks on him when it turned out to be nothing or one of the other platoons messing around. That's when he really did sense something... Pyotr was sure of it this time. 

Watch: (1d20+5=19)


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## shibata (Jun 19, 2006)

Raffaele swears terrible oaths, sweats, marches, and swears terrible oaths.  He watches the experienced NCOs and attempts to copy their fieldcraft and their bearing.  Raffaele wants to be liked, and noticed, and respected. In this facet, he is unlike many of the professional soldiers who keep their head down and hope not to be "picked-on".  Raffaele even breaks one of the cardinal rules and <gasp of horror> volunteers for things!  Always with a cheerful attitude, even as he says things that would make a member of _la Marine francaise_ blanche; what is it with this one?

Watch roll d20 + 3 = 14 http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=483159


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## Bobitron (Jun 20, 2006)

Marcel relaxes during the game, losing most hands with a smile, but his mind is elsewhere. He retires shortly before the others, writing a letter and finishing just as Kat closes them down for the night. The next morning, he rushes to get the note to the post before reveille.







Marcel's mood is bouyant on the march, even days in. He whistles softly as they walk, just loud enough for those closest by to hear. His eyes sweeping the rugged terrain, he takes a short pull from his canteen, balancing his carbine across his chest.

Listen is a 9, Spot is a 20.


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## The Shaman (Jul 1, 2006)

Around a bend in the _oued_, some twenty meters ahead of the advancing paras, two figures dressed in striped _djellbas_ lead a pair of donkeys along the dry streambed. Both men stop short in obvious surprise at the appearance of the camo-clad legionnaires. Hurried words are exchanged between the two, too soft to hear.

Walking at the head of the column, David Nedjar raises a hand and the paras drop to one knee amid the rocks and scraggly scrub at the bottom of the streamcourse. “_Qif!_” Nedjar calls out – Stop! – to the two men as the legionnaires quickly glance about; the hillsides overlooking the _oued_ appear empty. The two men in the hooded robes stand still as statues, one pulling the harnesses of the two donkeys to bring them to a halt as well. One of the dun-colored animals has a simple woolen bag draped over its back – the other donkey is unladen.

“_Choc, en avant!_” Sgt. Katsourianis orders, and Normand, Pyotr, Raffaele join Nedjar and Pamuk, moving toward the men and their livestock as the rest of the section takes up covering positions.

The distance is about sixty-five feet. There is scattered brush and rocks for cover and concealment all along the streambed. Marcel is at the back of the platoon again and unable to see the men – he is aware that the column draws to a halt, and a check of the surrounding hillsides reveals nothing but more rocks and brush.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 2, 2006)

Pyotr instinctively pulls the rifle from his back as he advances with his group, keeping his senses peeled for any sign of bad news.


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## Barak (Jul 2, 2006)

Normand quickly brings his weapon into firing position, and keeps it trained on one of the men as he moves towards them, allowing himself only short glances to the surrounding area, looking for other people.  As he advances, he repeatly yells one of the few arab words he recently picked up.

"_Down, down, down, down!_"


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## Bobitron (Jul 2, 2006)

Marcel concentrates on his immediate surroundings rather than rushing up, guarding the rear in case another possible threat appears. Swinging down his carbine, he holds it at his hip, slowly scanning the hills.


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## shibata (Jul 2, 2006)

Raffaele follows Kat's order; moving toward the _fells_ and their animals with MAT-49 ready, conscious of available cover and keeping an interval of at least 3m from other members of the _choc_.


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## The Shaman (Jul 3, 2006)

The two men drop to their knees and raise their hands at Normand’s shouts - as the legionnaires rush forward, one of the donkeys brays and tosses its head, yanking the lead rope from the hand of its owner. Both of the animals scurry away from the approaching paras.


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## Barak (Jul 3, 2006)

_Aww crap._

For about a second, Normand considers dropping a grenade in front of the mules, in an attempt to get them to turn back towards the group.  Luckily, he quickly thinks better of that hare-brained plan.  Pointing to the fell that wasn't holding the rains previously, he says, softly.

"Pamuk!  Keep that one in your sights!"

To the other arab, Normand attempts to talk in his native language.

"_You!  Get mules back now!  Me follow you._"


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## The Shaman (Jul 4, 2006)

The paras get a good look at the faces of the two Arabs in their striped robes as they draw near the kneeling figures. The elder appears to be in his thirties, the other a teenager. The family resemblance is strong.

The older man looks at Normand in puzzlement, then glances back at the donkeys. Apparently able to decipher enough of the Frenchman’s pidgin, he stands slowly, hands still raised, and nods in the direction of the donkeys which are standing a dozen meters away, ears and tails twitching. The Arab keeps his eyes on Normand as he turns and takes a couple of tentative steps toward the animals. Satisfied for the moment that he is not going to be shot in the back, he cautiously calls out to the donkeys, speaking softly and holding out his hands to gently take the lead ropes of the nervous animals.

As the platoon spreads out, Sgt. Müller grabs Marcel’s shoulder. “Follow me. Stay low.” The _sergent-chef_ advances in a crouch toward the head of the column, his head pivoting from side to side as he checks the disposition of the men in the platoon. The _sous-officier_ and the medic join Lt. Ramadier just behind where Kat and the rest of the section have taken up their covering positions.


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## Barak (Jul 4, 2006)

Seeing the mannerisms of the man, Normand is starting to relax a little bit, starting to doubt he's actually a fell.  When he glances at him again, after catching the reins, he smiles at him gently, and attempts a few more words in arabic.

"_Ok, ok, me no shoot.  Need look at you and stuff, then you go on, yes?_"


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## Bobitron (Jul 5, 2006)

Marcel follows Müller, tapping whichever legionairre is left at the back on the shoulder and motioning for them to take up watch over the rear of the column. Crouched low, his finger hovers over the safety on his carbine as he weaves through the men.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 5, 2006)

_Well, if they didn't know we're here, they do now._ Pyotr, seeing that Normand has things well in hand, takes another moment to look around, keeping his ears perked up for anything that seems out of place. _It's too quiet. You're getting paranoid again. This is just a coincidence. Be quiet, I'm listening._


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## The Shaman (Jul 7, 2006)

With lead ropes in hand, the Arab man walks slowly back to where the teen kneels on the ground – his eyes flicker from Normand’s face to the rifle in the grenadier’s hands.

Nedjar takes the lead ropes from the Arab and motions for the man to raise his hands once again. “Normand, search him, okay? And Burhan, this one.” Nedjar motions towards the boy. “Barzini – Raffaele – check the bag on this donkey here. Be careful.” The Algerian legionnaire looks at Pyotr, and tilts his head up-canyon

Marcel crouches near Lt. Ramadier and Sgt. Müller as his comrades search the Arabs.

Normand and Raffaele: Search checks, please. Pyotr and Marcel: Figure out any checks you might need to make depending on your actions.


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## Barak (Jul 7, 2006)

Feeling confident that the other _légionnaires_ have everyone covered with their weapons, Normand slings his own weapon on his back to free his hands, and nods at Nedjar.

Keeping what he hopes is a reassuring smile on his face, he starts to pat the man down, looking for any weapons, or anything else that shouldn't be there.


OOC
search check (1d20+2=10)


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## shibata (Jul 7, 2006)

Barzini looks around the area, trying to determine the source of his uneasiness.
spot = d20 +4 = 18 http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=508906

Barzini inspects the bag on the donkey and seeing nothing unusual, flicks open his Laguiole pocketknife http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=24952&stc=1 and slices open the bottom of the bag.
search = d20 +5 = 9 http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=508879


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## Bobitron (Jul 7, 2006)

Marcel curses softly under his breath. _Barzini's sure to win the love of the men with that._ 

He calls out in Arabic. "Please stay still. What's in the bag?"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 8, 2006)

Pyotr returns Nedjar's nod and starts moving further up. Once he disappears from view of the other legionnaires, he starts to move slower, letting his breath become a guide to his movements. If anyone was out here, best not to let them know he was too. Pyotr cradles his rifle tightly as his eyes dart to every shadow and crevasse. 


Stealth and Watch:
Stealth Roll: (1d20+9=16)
Watch: (1d20+5=14)

I'm so good I can't even see myself...


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## The Shaman (Jul 9, 2006)

“Fortier, shut up,” Sgt. Müller snaps at Marcel.

 Lt. Ramadier looks the medic in the eye. “Sgt. Katsourianis and his men can handle this, _légionnaire_,” the young officer adds, his voice flat. A few meters ahead, Kat glances back at Marcel but says nothing.

The older Arab looks in Marcel’s direction, then at the Raffaele. <Arabic>“It’s food,”</Arabic> he says, looking around at the legionnaires. <Arabic>“Our donkeys got away, and we found them and are taking them home,”</Arabic> he adds.

Raffaele slits open the goat’s wool bag and finds a tin of couscous in olive oil, an old British Army canteen, and length of rope woven from hair, just like the ropes leading the two donkeys standing anxiously by. Raffaele: Handle Animal check, please.

Normand pats down the Arab man as he speaks to the paras – from a pocket in the drover’s robe the Frenchman removes a string of prayer beads and a small rusty pocket knife. Pamuk does the same to the teen – pulling back the young Arab’s sleeve, the para reveals a rag wrapped around the teenager’s forearm, tinged with reddish-brown blood. “This one’s injured,” the Turkish legionnaire tells Nedjar.

“Kat, the young one has a cut or something on his arm. Can you send Marcel over?” Nedjar calls back to the platoon. The section leader looks back at Lt. Ramaider, who gives a curt nod. “Vidal, Marcel, let’s go,” the _sergent_ orders, and the three cross the gap to where the Arabs kneel on the sandy ground.

Up the _oued_ a short distance, Pyotr slinks along from shadow to shrub, his senses working overtime. A thin breeze provides the only sound or movement disturbing the parched landscape. Looking down the Ukrainian sees the donkeys' hoofprints stretching along the streambed.


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## Bobitron (Jul 9, 2006)

Fortier winces internally at the stinging comments from his superiors, keeping quiet as the inspection continues. When asked to move forward, he slings his rifle and follows Muller, keeping low.

Reaching the boy, he first makes certain Nedjar is done before speaking to him in Arabic. <Arabic>"Be still, young man. I'm going to help you with this. What happened?"</Arabic> His voice is low and calm.

Peeling off the rag, Marcel takes a moment to inspect the wound, cleaning it as well as possible at a rapid pace.

ooc: Treat Injury is an 18.


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## Barak (Jul 9, 2006)

Normand hands back the prayer beads to the older man.  Holding the rusty pocket knife, he glances at Nedjar, shrugs, and hands that back as well.

"Seems clean, Nedjar."

He then steps back from the man a few steps and unslings his weapon once more, keeping it at the ready but pointing at the ground.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 11, 2006)

_That's odd._ The thought echoes in Pyotr's head. _There are hoofprints, but no footprints. _ Shaking his head, he continues, but not much further so as to be in earshot of the rest of his platoon.


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## The Shaman (Jul 13, 2006)

The young Arab looks up at Marcel, then at the older man, who replies <Arabic>“The boy fell and cut open his arm on a rock.”</Arabic> Looking at the wound, the medic decides that the story is consistent with the boy’s injury. The laceration and abrasion isn’t deep, but it is dirty, and Marcel reaches for a bit of gauze to use as a sponge, then sets to cleaning the wound. The boy winces but says nothing.

Raffaele shows Kat the supplies taken from the bag – the food and the canteen, and the extra lead rope and harness. Nedjar repeats the Arabs’ story about searching for the lost donkeys to Kat. The section leader looks at the pair. <Arabic>“Where are your identification cards?”</Arabic> the _sergent_ asks.

<Arabic>“I left in a hurry to find the donkeys,”</Arabic> the man replies, <Arabic>“and left my card behind. My son is too young for one yet.” </Arabic>

Pyotr continues to see rocks and scraggly brush.


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## Bobitron (Jul 14, 2006)

Marcel finishes his work on the wound and passes the youth a candy bar. <Arabic>"You have sisters? Brothers? Share this."</Arabic>

Standing into a crouch and moving back to the waiting superiors, he gives his report. "As far as I can tell, the wound is consistent with his story. He simply fell down. Not a wound caused by violence." 

ooc: Sense Motive 22 on the father.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 14, 2006)

*Shaman*, is it possible to climb the sides of this canyon so that Pyotr can get a higher vantage point? If so, that's what he would like to do. Otherwise, he'll wait a bit before returning and reporting that he didn't find anything except hoof prints.


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## Barak (Jul 14, 2006)

Normand mutters under his breath.

"Unless the _fall_ was caused by violence.."

_Not that I believe it was._

Moving the strap of his rifle on his shoulder a tad to change the tension point, Normand looks at Nedjar and shrugs.


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## The Shaman (Jul 14, 2006)

shadowbloodmoon said:
			
		

> *Shaman*, is it possible to climb the sides of this canyon so that Pyotr can get a higher vantage point? If so, that's what he would like to do. Otherwise, he'll wait a bit before returning and reporting that he didn't find anything except hoof prints.



With a bit of scrambling on the steepest, loosest parts, Pyotr can to asecend to a ridgeline on either side.


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## The Shaman (Jul 17, 2006)

Ahead of the company, Pyotr scrambles up the bank of the _oued_ then atop a low rise – mountains stretch in all directions, bleak and inhospitable. The Ukrainian’s eyes detect no sign of movement on the ridgetops, but most of the canyons are screened from view, creating an incomplete picture.

Looking up the sharpshooter sees a pair of black wings – a vulture, gliding through the air, riding the thermals offered by the rough landscape.

Marcel listens to the Arab’s words as he bandages the lacteration on the boy’s arm – there’s a nagging sense that something isn’t right, that he’s not telling the whole story. Finishing the dressing, he pulls a candy bar from his pocket and offers it to the boy.

The young Arab takes the candy bar without a word, clutching it in his raised hand and staring at the ground ahead of him. The medic rises and turns to find Lt. Ramadier standing behind him. Marcel gives his report – the platoon commander says nothing.

As Marcel works, Kat looks about then leans over to Nedjar. “Take Burhan and go find Pyotr,” he says softly. Nedjar nods, taps Burhan on the shoulder – the two slip up the _oued_ with weapons held at the ready.

Lt. Ramadier looks at the rope recovered from the bag, then at the two men. “Ask him why he has an extra,” the young officer says to Kat. The _sergent_ repeats the question to the older man.

<Arabic>“We could not find the third donkey,” </Arabic> he replies with a shrug, his eyes shifting away momentarily as he answers.

This time Marcel is sure he’s hiding something.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 17, 2006)

_Can't see anything up here either._ Pyotr starts to inch his way back to his platoon when he spots the black bird. _Something died out here._ He watches to see if it seems to be circling anywhere in particular.


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## The Shaman (Jul 17, 2006)

The vulture's broad wings twitch as it catches the updrafts rising from the rugged hills, allowing the bird to make its way in long spirals to the northeast.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 18, 2006)

Do the donkey tracks lead towards the northeast through the canyon? I know Pyotr doesn't have Survival as a skill (next level maybe...). Also, does the direction the bird is headed seem to be inside the canyon or on the ridges? Pyotr is suddenly very curious. And he was told to go see what he could see....


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## Bobitron (Jul 18, 2006)

Marcel glances across to Lt. Ramadier, shaking his head ever-so-slightly to indicate the man's dishonesty. "Sir, a word, please?"

ooc:Assuming he agrees. I'll explain the same to a Sgt if he would like.

Standing aside with the officer, Marcel explains his doubts, keeping his voice low but not looking back to the locals. "Sir, something is not right. They boy has obviously been instructed not to speak. I don't doubt the injury was caused by a fall, but they are leaving out something from the story. At first I thought he was just nervous... hell, I would be in his position... but now I'm sure he's holding back, Sir." He shrugs. "What should we do, lieutenant?"


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## The Shaman (Jul 18, 2006)

Pyotr: Navigate check, please.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 19, 2006)

Navigate defaults to Int, so: 
1d20=18
Not bad, but I don't think I made the DC20 that it normally is...


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## The Shaman (Jul 22, 2006)

Pyotr follows the flight of the vulture, soaring and dipping by turns, across the rough mosaic of canyons and ridges. The _oued_ twists away from the course of the black bird and disappears behind a low rise – the vulture could be flying the same way, but the jumble of hills makes it difficult to be sure.

From down in the streambed comes a low whistle – David Nedjar and Burhan Pamuk are crouched low in the shadows.

Lt. Ramadier listens to Marcel without replying, looking at the boy and the man in turn.

“Lieutenant, your report?” _Capitaine_ Martini appears beside Ramadier. The platoon leader salutes and explains the legionnaires’ findings so far, including Marcel’s belief that the older Arab is less than forthcoming, adding generously, “I concur with _Légionnaire_ Fortier, _mon capitaine_.”

Capt. Martini studies the two men for a moment, then speaks quietly to Lt. Ramadier. <English>“Have Mador take the father away. Tell him to do it forcefully, but without serious injury. Then we’ll talk with the boy here.”</English> The lieutenant nods and strides over to where Normand waits beside the Arab.

“_Légionnaire_, take this prisoner to the rear,” Lt. Ramadier orders Normand loudly, then under his breath adds, “Make it rough, but no blood or broken bones, understood? Just get him out of sight and make it look serious to the kid.” Normand: Intimidate check, please.

As Normand plays his part, _Le Capitaine_ turns to Marcel. “Giving out candy, Fortier?” he asks, tilting his head to the young Arab kneeling on the sand.


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## Barak (Jul 22, 2006)

_Well, I've played this game before for worse reasons.._

Normand grins and nods his head a few times.  After slinging his rifle to his back once more, he slips an hand in his pocket, and it comes out wearing his brass knuckles.  After making a bit of a show of adjusting them properly on his hand, he shoves the older man forcefully in the direction he wants him to go.

"<arabic>Come on you!  I talk to you a bit more away, yes?  We chat.<arabic>"


OOC
intimidate check (1d20+2=15)


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## shadowbloodmoon (Jul 23, 2006)

Pyotr takes one last look around before coming down to meet the two other Legionnaires. 

"There are mule tracks, but I don't see any other tracks. They lead back up the canyon aways. Other than that, just a vulture flying around. Could mean a carcass is near or could mean nothing."


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## Bobitron (Jul 25, 2006)

Marcel nods. "Yes, Captain." 

He watches Normand bullying the father from the corner of his eye, thinking back to that day on their first combat jump where a fell was taken around the corner and shot. While he knows Normand is doing this for show, it is still hard to keep that event from his mind.

"He is hurt, Sir. Standard procedure. Légionnaire Mador has eaten a dozen by now."


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## The Shaman (Jul 26, 2006)

The Arab man, roughly jerked to his feet and pushed toward the paras’ line by the big grenadier, glances back fearfully at Normand, then at his son still kneeling on the ground. Another hard shove and he stumbles, forcing his attention to the sandy, rocky streambed and the waiting muzzles of the legionnaires’ weapons.

Sgt. Müller rises from a crouch as Normand approaches with the prisoner. “I’ll take him, Mador. Get back up there with Kat,” he orders. The German _sergent_ reaches out and grabs the man by the scruff of the neck as he calls for two of Sgt. Szabo’s men to bring a length of parachute cord.

Away up the _oued_, Nedjar glances up as Pyotr describes the vulture, then down at the tracks in the dirt. “The Arabs had an extra bridle – maybe one of their donkeys got away or died.” He looks about. “Kat wants us back with the rest of the section,” he continues, scratching his beard thoughtfully as he looks up at the dry hills.

_Capitaine_ Martini looks at Normand, then at Marcel. “A few more candy bars and we’ll need to drop Mador with a cargo ’chute,” he offers with a slight smile that makes his pencil mustache rise at the ends. Once Sgt. Müller takes charge of the father, the Italian turns to the boy, taking a knee beside him.

<Arabic>“Put your hands down, son,”</Arabic> Capt. Martini says kindly but firmly. Marcel notices immediately that the captain’s Arabic is clean, his accent clear. The boy’s hands droop tentatively, then hang loosely at his sides as he stares at the ground.

<Arabic>“Son, I must ask you some questions, and I require your honest answers,”</Arabic> Capt. Martini continues calmly. <Arabic>“If you are truthful with me, I promise that no harm will come to you or your father. Do you undersand?”</Arabic>

The boy says nothing, continuing to stare at the ground. The captain lets the question hang in the air for what seems like several minutes, sitting as still and quiet as a statue. Normand slips up behind the other legionnaires who form a silent backdrop to the interrogation.

<Arabic>“I will not expect you to betray your father’s trust,”</Arabic> the captain says patiently. The Arab boy glances up at Capt. Martini – Marcel and Normand can see anger and fear and confusion in the boy’s eyes. Meeting the captain’s gaze, the young man gives a small nod.

The Italian asks the boy his name, and his _douar_ – Hamid, from Sifez, come the low, sullen replies. <Arabic>“How did you hurt your arm, Hamid?”</Arabic> the captain asks. I fell, the boy replies, offering no details. <Arabic>“You fell in the dark?”</Arabic> Capt. Martini continues. The boy says nothing, shifting his weight slightly as he kneels on the streambed.

<Arabic>“It is a half-day’s walk from Sifez to the _marabout_ of Abd-el-Hamou, Hamid?”</Arabic> The boy’s head twitches, and he shifts his weight again, resolutely staring at the ground. _Capitaine_ Martini reaches out and pats him on the knee, then rises.

Pyotr, Nedjar, and Pamuk return as the boy is guided away to the rear – another legionnaire from the headquarter’s platoon, a wiry, red-faced _sergent_ named Morelli, leads away the two mules as the officers gather and confer. Second Platoon takes over the lead and Third Platoon rotates to the rear of the column. The legionnaires wait to fall in line as the company moves out.


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## Bobitron (Jul 28, 2006)

Marcel takes his place near the back, a lingering eye watching over the locals and a sharp ear focusing on any conversation that might rise between them.


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## The Shaman (Aug 4, 2006)

The company moves out and Third Platoon falls in at the rear, immediately behind the headquarters platoon – the legionnaires see the two Arabs, father and son, their wrists bound with parachute cord which is in turn looped around their necks then tied around the waist of a bulky legionnaire from _Le Capitaine_’s section. The two donkeys lay bleeding on the sand, their throats slashed by another legionnaire – a cloud of flies have already descended on the dying animals’ wounds.

Lt. Ramadier talks quietly with Capt. Martini as the column advances. David Nedjar catches Lt. Ramadier’s attention and recounts Pyotr’s observation about the animal tracks on the streambed, and the vulture.

Vidal jumps in when Nedjar is finished. “Sir, the Arabs were leading the donkeys, so they covered their own tracks. It’s an old trick, _mon lieutenant_.”

“_Légionnaire_,” Capt. Martini asks thoughtfully, “could you track those donkeys over rough ground? Across the ridges, if they traveled that way?”

“_Oui, mon capitaine_” Vidal replies determinedly. The captain nods and thanks the radioman, then after a quiet word to Ramadier, the CO picks up his pace to overtake the paras marching ahead.

The company continues along the _oued_ for another hour when the word snakes down the column to halt. The wary legionnaires spread out and crouch down. A runner appears after a few minutes and instructs Lt. Ramadier and Kat’s section forward to the head of the column. “Fortier, you too,” the platoon leader instructs Marcel.

At the head of the column Fourth Platoon has taken the point – Capt. Martini waits along with Sgt. Santos’ men as the hulking Sgt. Verdurand and _Le Capitaine_’s radioman, a legionnaire named Asturas, hover nearby. “Gaspard, over here,” the captain directs.

The CO points to the ground. “The tracks leave the streambed here,” he says, gesturing at a low spot in the bank, “and continue up that ridge into some rocky ground. Can you follow them?”

Vidal looks up at the rocks scattered along the ridgeline. If he has any doubts he doesn’t share them. “_Oui, mon capitaine_,” the radioman answers firmly.

“_Sergent_,” Capt. Martini says, turning to Kat, “assemble your _groupe_ for a patrol. The medic, too. Drop packs here - weapons and ammo, water, and a tarp or a _djellba_ if they have them, understood?”

Kat quickly relays the order to the legionnaires. Packs are dumped on the sand, to be retrived by paras from the rest of the platoon – Ortu pulls out his can of foot powder, shakes it, and sticks it back in his pack with an oath, while Burhan Pamuk retrives his thermos bottle and tucks it inside the front of his jump smock. Capt. Martini appears a short time later, with Asturas the radioman and Sgt. Verdurand in tow.

“Do you want me to come with you, _mon capitaine_?” the first sergeant asks as they approach.

“No, Bruno,” the captain replies. “Tell Lt. Degasser to keep the company moving toward the assembly area as planned, with First Platoon in the lead. We’ll let him know what we find.”

Sgt. Verdurand nods without comment, and the captain turns his attention to the section. “We’re going to follow these donkey tracks as far as we can. If we lose them, we will continue cross-country to a point about two kilometers to the east of where we are now, to a point where we expect to find an ALN supply route. If we find signs of insurgents, we’ll sit on them and move the rest of the company up to begin a cordon-and-search. Any questions?”


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## Barak (Aug 4, 2006)

Normand cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, adjusting himself to not having the weight of his pack on his back.  At the demand for any questions, he simply looks over his weapon, making sure it's in working order, with no sand in any of the mechanisms, and remains silent.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 6, 2006)

Pyotr remains silent as he listens to the Captain's orders. His internal dialogue turned to patting himself on the back for knowing that something was up with the tracks. Stretching out his back after removing his pack, he adjusts his rifle over his shoulder and secures the djellba he had from earlier. Making sure his canteen is full, he readies to move out.


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## Bobitron (Aug 6, 2006)

Casting a long glance at the prisoners before starting to break down his kit as asked, Marcel kneels and seperates his gear. His mussette bag, water, and ammo are the only thing he brings aside from his rifle. Moving up to join the others, he nods to Sgt. Kat to display his readiness.

"Everyone make sure they have water," he says, checking each man in the group for a full canteen, tightening straps and boots where needed. "Ortu, I've got an extra tin." He points to the man's pack.


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## shibata (Aug 7, 2006)

"B-m.  These straps are never comfortable." Barzini grouses as he adjusts his web-gear and demo kit.  He smiles leeringly at his comrades "It must be how a busty girl feels about her _brassiere_; very uncomfortable but essesntial equipment!"  Barzini checks to make sure he's ready for the _reconnaissance_ (full canteen, a snack, ammo, etc.) and awaits orders to move out.


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## The Shaman (Aug 11, 2006)

Capt. Martini reaches into his own pack and pulls out an old map case in brown leather that he slings over one shoulder. A few of the veteran legionnaires smile. “You’re bringing your sketch book, sir?” Nedjar offers respectfully.

The captain nods. “Depending on where these tracks go, we may be near a _marabout_ that Lt. Ferrand described.”

“Sir,” Sánchez interjects, “Barzini here is a pretty talented artist.” The Spaniard reaches into his pack, pulls out the neatly folded drawing he tucked away after the card game, and presents it to the officer.

_Le Capitaine_ studies the picture, then looks at Raffaele. “This is very good, _légionnaire_. Much better than my hasty efforts.” He hands the drawing back to Sánchez with a smile, and hefts his MAT-49. Kat calls out, “David, on point with Vidal,” and the section begins climbing the slope.

Vidal studies the ground as the line of paratroopers advance. The tracks are easy to follow at first, holes punched in the soft crust of the thin soil, until the legionnaires reach the rocky ridgetop, forcing Vidal to backtrack once or twice to pick up the trail. The trend is north- and eastward, following the undulating ridge for a time before descending once again. Dropping back down the far side, the trail leads across a small wash and up a taller slope on the far side. After reaching a small spur on the side of the ridge, Capt. Martini calls a halt, removing a map and compass from the old leather case. “Water break,” Kat orders, dispatching Pamuk and Asmussen as lookouts. The legionnaires settle in the tiny patch of shade offered by the rocky outcrop as the captain consults his map.


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## Bobitron (Aug 12, 2006)

Taking a few moments before resting to make sure all the men are settling in without trouble, Marcel leans back on the broadest rock he can find. "It's no pillow," he grumbles goodnaturedly. Drinking from his canteen, he nudges Pyotr on the arm and hands him a piece of dried apricot from his kit.


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## Barak (Aug 12, 2006)

Ambling easily near the lounging doctor, Normand approaches him with a smile, and a few sips from his own canteen.

"Marcel, _mon ami_..  You are giving us frenchmen a bad name amongst all those foreigners!  This was barely a walk.  Surely, nothing to need a _nap_ for."

With a grin, he moves his weapon up and down a bit.

"Then again, this is all I'm carrying, no heavy medical kit."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 14, 2006)

Pyotr takes the offered dried fruit with a nod of thanks. "That new kid sure can draw. Waste of talent, if you ask me." He removes and checks his weapon for dust and dirt before replacing it on his back. "You know, not all of us are as big and strong as you are, Normand." Pyotr gives the Frenchman a light shove on his arm.


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## Bobitron (Aug 14, 2006)

Marcel tosses Normand a piece of apricot as well, grinning at his comments. "The complete and utter lack of thoughts for anything other than your next meal and a big-titted maid leave your mind without the need for rest, mon ami." He stands and stretches. "My own thoughts are laden with the weight of the world."

He strides over to Martini where her looks at the map and speaks respectfully. "What do you think, Captain? How far from the supply route?" He extends a hand with the last of his fruit. "The men we have tied up, sir. What will become of them? Do we keep them in custody until we reach the end of the deployment?"


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## The Shaman (Aug 14, 2006)

Karel Syrovy looks over at Pyotr. “We’re all wasted talents, don’t you know? That’s why we’re in the Legion.” He opens his silver cigarette case and lights a Gauloises.

Silvio Ortu snorts at Marcel’s “weight of the world” remark. “_Cafard_ already?” he says derisively.

David Nedjar looks up, scratches his scruffy beard. “I’m betting it’s a certain nurse,” he replies, grinning. Ortu rolls his eyes as he checks and rechecks the AAT-52, resting the machine gun on its bipod mount.

Marcel approaches the captain with his questions. “Over this ridge here, and north, about a kilometer,” the company commander replies, replacing the map and compass in the worn leather case. “Lt. Ferrand – the SAS officer – suggested that the ALN is moving supplies along an old route used by Arab insurgents about seventy years ago. The tomb of a _marabout_, a holy man, named Abd-el-Hamou, was built on the route after he and his followers were defeated by the Army in the 1880s.” Capt. Martini reaches for his canteen and takes a swig, then mops his face with a scarf made from a swatch of old camouflage parachute cloth draped around his neck. Marcel notices the faded lighting bolt tattoo, and the vicious scars, on the captain’s forearm. “It’s a rough, dry march away from the _douars_, but that’s precisely why the insurgents used it back then. The lieutenant believes that hasn’t been forgotten by the ALN.”

Asked about the prisoners, the captain replies, “The father wasn’t carrying his _carte_, but that’s a minor offense. I don’t believe those donkeys wandered all the way out here, however. In the winter perhaps, when there’s water and forage, but not now. If we find they were involved in supplying the ALN, caching water or food, they will be turned over to the _gendarmerie_ when we return to camp.” Capt. Martini pulls his binoculars from their case, and with one hand shading the lenses to keep light from reflecting off the glass he quickly scans the rugged horizon.


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## Barak (Aug 14, 2006)

Normand grins even wider at Marcel's comeback.

"But me, _mon ami_ I'll keep those maids happy all night long...  The world?  It'll go back to  after an hour."

Munching on the fruit, Normand then goes through a serie of stretches, and takes off his boots, making sure there's no blisters starting to form.


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## The Shaman (Aug 14, 2006)

As Normand stretches, Manolo Sánchez speaks up. “_Mon capitaine_,” he says, “will _permissions_ be available when we return to camp after this operation?”

Capt. Martini finishes his scan of the hillsides before answering. “Perhaps. The mayor demands assurances that there will be no more incidents.” Sánchez glances at Normand but says nothing as the captain continues, “If we provide a _police militaire_ presence and keep the numbers small, perhaps.”

“What do you care, _Le Daronne_?” Ortu says to the Spaniard, working the slide on the AAT-52 to keep the action clear. “There’s no brothel in Portemonte.” Syrovy laughs, but Sánchez ignores the jibe and replies, “_Merci, mon capitaine_.”


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 15, 2006)

Pyotr smiles at Karel. "Perhaps some of us are." He taps the rifle on his back to emphasize his point.


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## Barak (Aug 16, 2006)

Normand frowns, then shrugs.

"I can volunteer as a MP.  There's usually no problems when I'm around."

At the various looks thrown his way, his frown deepens.

"What, what?  Oh.  _Ohhh_.  Hey, that doesn't count, I was on duty anyway when it happened, both times."


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## The Shaman (Aug 16, 2006)

Syrovy exhales a cloud of smoke. “Yes, we are quite the bunch of cold-blooded killers. Unfortunately for us,” the skinny Hungarian continues, “so are the fells, which doesn’t help our reputation much. Still, we can take pride in our ruthless lethality, yes?” He smiles a mirthless smile at Pyotr.

Kat looks up at Normand’s offer. “The _PM_s are _sous-officiers_,” the _sergent_ replies mordantly. “Otherwise you’d be the first person I’d pick for the job.” The veteran legionnaires laugh – even the captain smiles a bit.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 16, 2006)

Pyotr smiles understanding at Karel's words. "Something like that." He nods to indicate the cigarette the man is smoking. Though he wasn't much for smoking, he remembered the things had a calming effect and Pyotr was getting jittery. "You mind?"


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## Barak (Aug 16, 2006)

Normand shakes his head, but he smiles as well.

"Why thanks sarge.  Not to worry, I've heard through the grapevine that I'd be up for promo pretty soon anyway."

Becoming a tad more serious, he adds.

"Hey, I'm not an idiot though.  I know I didn't act quite right once or twice, but I learned.  Just..  You know, had to get used to remembering that when I wear the uniform, I don't just act or talk for myself, but all those people view _me_ as _La Légion_.  Now that I realize that, it'll be easy to behave.  I'm very proud to be in this outfit."


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## The Shaman (Aug 16, 2006)

Syrovy fishes the cigarette case out of his pocket and holds it open for Pyotr. The case is beautifully decorated with arabesque, intricately interwoven geometric designs and what appears to be Arabic calligraphy chased into the silver. The Hungarian offers Pyotr a light.

“_Trinxeraire_,” Ortu mutters at Normand’s expression of Legion pride. Sánchez responds by hitting the big Sardinian with a rock. “You speak Catalan like a _rital_,” the Spaniard growls – “a wop.” Ortu shrugs as he replaces the box magazine on the machine gun.

“_Sergent_,” the captain interrupts, “how many of your men speak Arabic?”

Kat looks around at the _groupe_. “Me, David, Karel, and Manolo,” the section leader replies. “And Barzini,” he adds, the newest replacement an afterthought.

“Normand’s picked some up,” Nedjar adds, “and Marcel is fluent,” tilting his head toward the medic.

“_Mon capitaine_, my accent is quite noticeable to the Algerians, I’m told” Syrovy interjects. Nedjar agrees – “Karel sounds like a Syrian. So does Kat, but not as much.”

“Nedjar, you speak Kabyle?” Capt. Martini asks. The Algerian nods. “And Hebrew and Tetauni, _mon capitaine_,” he adds.

“What about Pamuk?” Ortu asks. “He speaks Turkish, you ignorant wretch,” Sánchez replies. “Well, he’s a Muslim,” Ortu counters. The Spaniard answers by hitting him with another rock.

The captain takes another sip from his canteen then spins the cap shut. “Most of the platoons have two or three Arabic speakers, and here we have one _groupe_ with six. Plus our medic. That’s good to know.”

I'm going to give Marcel and Raffaele a chance to join the discussion before we move on.


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## Barak (Aug 16, 2006)

Normand appears a bit surprised when his name comes up when they are discussing arab speakers.

"I..  I know when they call me names, and that sort of thing, but I couldn't fool anyone into thinking I'm arab!"

And while finishing to check his boots for sand, he arranges to finsih somewhat close to Captain Martini.

"_Capitaine_..  I..  I'm sorry if I embarassed you through my actions.  I assure you I always thrived to do what I thought was right.  I understand now that I didn't consider all the repercussions."


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## shibata (Aug 16, 2006)

"I don't think my talents are wasted here; the Legion needs every one of us, and all the capabilities we have in order to defend France, and more specifically to keep Algeria French! declaims Raffaele, not smiling for once.

_"Mon capitaine_, I do speak Arabic without accent, and I also can speak the Berber dialect" Barzini offers.  "When we return, I think we could build connections with the locals and increase the public respect for the Legion by doing some community service activities.  I heard the mechanic at the Esso station in Portemonte got killed;  I'm pretty good at fixing things, so I could work on their cars and trucks as a 'thank-you' project from the Legion.  Some of my mates could come along and exploit other intelligence-gathering angles."


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## Bobitron (Aug 16, 2006)

"Mine is clean, Captain. The accent is a mix of Algerian and Syrian. My teachers at the University were very good," Marcel states matter-of-factly. "I've heard Barzini's, it is excellent as well." Marcel listens to Barzini's comments and tries very hard not to roll his eyes at the patriotism. Unlike Normand's, it sounded false and overly done, even though he didn't doubt the man's intentions. At the idea of working as a mechanic he raises an eyebrow skeptically. 

He holds his opinion to himself, though. The medic wasn't in a good enough position to comment on Legion public relations. Stories he had heard from across the colony had left a very bad taste in his mouth about how the Legion had treated the locals, and his own unit had seen hints of the behavior. Building a relationship of trust with the local population was something every member would have to strive for on thier own, as the leadership with ranks far above Martini seem not to care.


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## The Shaman (Aug 17, 2006)

“Your Arabic is about as good as Asmussen’s French,” Syrovy quips to Normand.

The quizzical look on Syrovy’s face suggests he can’t decide if Raffaele is serious or joking. “It seems we have a patriot among us,” he says at last. “Heaven preserve us from the true believers.”

Raffaele’s remark about service projects in Portemonte elicits a derisive chuckle from Syrovy and a growl from Ortu, “Leave that to the blacks!” The latter earns a sharp rebuke from Sgt. Katsourianis: “Stuff that _merde_, _légionnaire_!”

“Tell that to Babaye when he gets back, Silvio,” Nedjar adds angrily.

“Babaye’s a legionnaire, not a _marsouin_,” responds Ortu, nonplussed. Nedjar just shakes his head in annoyance.

“We will provide assistance to the local population and authorities when we can, doing whatever that entails,” Capt. Martini says coolly, then focuses his attention on Raffaele. “What you’re describing is an important tactic in counterinsurgency, Barzini, perhaps the most important tactic. The intelligence that someone like Lt. Ferrand or the local sector troops can gather requires building a relationship with the community and earning their trust over time. We rarely have that luxury, unfortunately. Our mission is to engage the insurgents in the field and give the civil and military authorities the space to see to the needs of the populace.”

“And how well is that working, sir?” asks Vidal. Kat looks up in surprise at the directness of the radioman’s question.

_Capitaine_ Martini thinks for a moment before answering. “The Army continues to call up more reservists and extend the terms of enlistment for the conscripts, _légionnaire_. Attacks on Muslims and _pieds-noirs_ are increasing in the towns and cities. With the French protectorate over Morocco and Tunisia ending, the FLN now has a safe haven on both the eastern and western borders of Algeria. And Nassar is training and supplying the ALN in Egypt.” He smiles slightly. “Clearly there are some challenges to overcome.”

“We are a small part of a large conflict,” the veteran officer continues, addressing the _groupe_ once again, “and to do our part we must follow our orders and perform our mission diligently and effectively. And right now, our mission is over that ridge. _Sergent_?”

“On your feet,” Kat orders, and the paras dutifully pull themselves together. Normand sees an opportunity to catch the captain’s ear. _Le Capitaine_ listens to the _grenadier_, and replies, “No one should fault you for wanting to protect the boy from the mob, but you must consider your orders and your mission before you act. Could you have done the same thing without provoking the citizens?” With a pat on the shoulder, Capt. Martini turns away, leaving Normand to ponder the question as the legionnaires prepare to resume their march.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 17, 2006)

Pyotr accepts the light from Syrovy wordlessly. A small cough as he inhales the first time tells them that Pyotr is no expert at it, but his lungs eventually adapt. As they resume the march, he curls his lower fingers around the fire of the cigarette, so as to hide its glow.


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## Barak (Aug 17, 2006)

Normand silently falls into position when the order is given, thinking of what Martini said. When his gaze crosses Ortu's, he just shakes his head, unbelieving that someone would work so hard at being disliked.


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## Bobitron (Aug 21, 2006)

Marcel moves through the column as they march, checking the men's water supplies and condition. His thoughts are on the insurgency and the potential for a battle, which seems to loom large everytime they are in the field. _Well, if I didn't want a fight, I shouldn't have joined the Paras!_ he thinks.

Seeing the Hungarian giving Pyotr a cigarette, he gestures at the pack. "Syrovy, what are you doing? Dragging our poor Russian into the dirty habit? At least give him a decent cig," he says jokingly.


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## Barak (Aug 22, 2006)

Normand shakes his head.

"Cigars' the way.  Gotta smoke 'em when ya got time to enjoy 'em, keeps ya from smokin' em on the go like this.  'Course, I could outwalk all of ya anyway, bunch 'a wimps."


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## The Shaman (Aug 28, 2006)

Syrovy smirks at Marcel’s question. “Dirty habits are my business,” he replies as he slips the silver cigarette case into his pocket. “And I’ll get rid of these French fags as soon as I can stock up on Players again.”

“That doesn’t sound better.” The deep voice of Burhan Pamuk comes from behind the legionnaires as the two lookouts rejoin the section.

Syrovy adjusts the ammunition cases around his waist that hold spare box magazines for Ortu’s machine gun – the bulky cases hang awkwardly from the Hungarian’s slight frame. “My father always kept Players in our house, even when we lived in Amman and Baghdad. He thought it impressed his British masters. I’d steal them from his desk when I was a boy.” He waves a slender hand dismissively. “Like I said, dirty habits.” He winks at Marcel as he shoulders his rifle.

Ortu glances at Normand at the “outwalk” comment – the _tireur_ snorts derisively but says nothing.

_Capitaine_ Martini takes the _djellba_ wrapped around his waist and slips it over his uniform, as does David Nedjar. “We will bump across this ridge,” he says, looking up the steep slope to a low spot in the crest. “The _marabout_ should be down the other side. When we reach the _col_ there, Nedjar and I will continue down to the tomb. The rest of you take up covering positions along the ridge until I give the all-clear. Understood?” Satisfied that his orders are acknowledged, the captain leads out the section.

The slope is a mix of rocky outcrops and loose sand, making for slow going – no longer concerned about following the donkey tracks, which can still be found in the softer patches, the legionnaires nonetheless struggle to keep a quick pace across the broken, exposed terrain.

At last the paras reach the top of the slope. Capt. Martini motions the men to stay low as the legionnaires look for covering positions and peer down the far side.

WATCH and SNEAK checks, please.


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## Bobitron (Aug 28, 2006)

Marcel's mood is bolstered by the conversation, enjoying the talk of days past and Syrovy's rememberances. He shares the Hungarian's smile as they march.

As the Captain describes his plan, Marcel nods to indicate his understanding, but inside he has his doubts about the people headed down. _Of all those here, Nedjar and Martini?_ he thinks.

Staying low as they make the approach, the medic keeps his eyes sweeping the terrain and his boots planted carefully, avoiding the shuffling that often accompanies a crouched movement.

ooc: Watch 19, Sneak 9


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## shibata (Aug 29, 2006)

_"These fellows are likable enough, but where is their enthusiasm?  We're all here to win this, aren't we?"_ Barzini muses to himself as the team marches.

When the captain gives the orders, Barzini checks the magazine in his MAT49 and slightly straightens the safety pin on a grenade and moves carefully toward the crest of the hill, lowering himself deliberately near the top so as not to silhouette himself at all, and peeking over the crest from behind a rock with a scrub plant next to it, peering through the plant's growth which makes vision difficult.

Watch 8
Sneak 17
http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=586185


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## shadowbloodmoon (Aug 30, 2006)

Pyotr thumbs the fire end of his cigarette out as the platoon moves. He places it in one of his smock's pockets and readjusts the rifle on his back, as if to make sure it was still there. As they reached the top of the rise, Pyotr found a place to keep his silhouette from being skylit and laid down prone. Quietly removing Ekaterina from his back, he lay her down in front of him, ready to cover his CO's advance.

Watch: (1d20+5=14)
Sneak: (1d20+9=23)


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## The Shaman (Aug 31, 2006)

The paras spread out along the ridgetop and peer cautiously over the side, taking in the scene.

The steep wall of the ridge falls away into a rocky gorge, the bottom a hundred meters below where the paras lurk. A narrow trail, barely the width of a pair of boots side by side, snakes its way down the steep wall of the gorge to the rolling floor of the defile.

Perched on a small rise in the bottom of the gorge is a small white structure with a dome perched on top. From the ridge the paras can see what appears to be low stone or brick walls, perhaps, or maybe the ruins of another structure, a dozen meters from where the tomb sits on its tiny rise.

Narrow streambeds cut deep into the sandy floor of the gorge. Hugging the base of the wall are lonely palms, while scattered shrubs dot the thin terracotta soil.

A flash of movement catches the eyes of Pyotr and Marcel – black vultures perch on rocks near the bottom of the slope, the object of their attention lost amid the boulders. Marcel sees a jackal skulking around as well, eyeing the vultures warily.

As the rest of the paras take cover, the captain and Nedjar gather their striped robes around them, concealing their submachine guns – only their combat boots give away their true association as they set off down the narrow trail, picking their way carefully down the steep slope. It takes several minutes for the two men to reach the bottom – watching their progress from the top of the hill, the paras can see that the trail passes just above where the jackals and vultures have gathered. In fact the two men are close enough that a pair of the vultures spread their wide wings and leap from the rocks where they rest and fly away with slow, heavy wingbeats. The _capitaine_ and the _légionnaire_ pause briefly to observe the animals then continue on toward the tomb and the cluster of low walls. The two men conduct a quick search of both structures, then Nedjar sweeps back his hood and raises his submachine gun high overhead.

“Let’s go,” Kat orders, and the ragged line of paratroopers descend the steep, narrow trail. Reaching the spot above where the scavengers hang about, the paras see the object of their atttentions: a dead donkey lying in the rocks, legs awkwardly askew. A pair of jackals with bloodstained maws stare up at the men on the trail cautiously, their meal interrupted – another vulture takes flight, but several more wait patiently for the jackals to eat their fill before gorging themselves on the donkey’s torn flesh in turn.

“Lost donkeys, my ass,” says Ortu as he glances at the scene, then looks up at the ridgetops overlooking the gorge. “_Putain fels_.”

Reaching the lower end of the trail, the legionnaires cut across the rolling ground to the tomb. The whitewashed bricks are pitted and the paint flaked. Drawing near to where Capt. Martini and Nedjar stand, the paras get a closer look at the low walls - constructed of unpainted mud bricks, two appear to define the outline of a building that has since disappeared while the others enclose a small cemetery with crooked and broken headstones. The walls of the gorge loom silently over the funereal tableau.

“The _marabout_ of Abd-el-Hamou,” Capt. Martini says, nodding at the old white tomb.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 3, 2006)

Pyotr felt uncomfortable leaving his perch, but orders were orders. He continued to scan the area as he trudged along the trail with the rest of his unit. 

Upon hearing the Captain, his mind races trying to remember the name. "Pardon sir, but who was that?"


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## Bobitron (Sep 3, 2006)

Marcel makes his way to the others with carfeul steps, doing his best to stay quiet. While Pytor asks the Captain for a little of the history behind the tomb, he is watching the donkey and the scavengers. "We should clear the jackals. I would like to see what caused the donkey's death, just to be sure we are clear."  

He removes the safety on his rifle and tentatively steps forward. "But how? I don't want to fire."


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## The Shaman (Sep 4, 2006)

_Capitaine_ Martini holds up a hand at Pyotr’s question. “César, contact Lt. Degasser and tell him we’ve reached our objective,” the captain directs his radioman. César Asturas looks up at the cliffs on either side of the gorge. “_Oui, mon capitaine_,” the slender Spaniard replies, “if I can get out from this hole.” He reaches for the handset dangling from his shoulder.

The captain turns to Pyotr, sweeping back the hood of his _djellba_ as he does so – the native garment, his olive skin and dark hair, and the five-day growth of beard on his face give Capt. Martini the look of an Arab himself. “Abd-el-Hamou was a _marabout_, a Muslim holy man, and a leader of an insurgency against the French in the 1870s and ‘80s. The Army tried for seven years to capture him before they managed to lure him into an ambush in 1883 or 1884.” He looks up at the crenelated roof of the tomb. “The colonel of _zouaves_ who finally ran Hamou to ground by bribing one of hi followers announced he was going to put Hamou’s body on display in Algiers, but the Arabs stole it away in the night, right out of the encampment, and several years later this appeared. No one knows for sure if Hamou is here or not, but tradition holds that this is his burial site. The tomb is a shrine to the faithful, for those seeking _baraka_ – good fortune.”

Burhan Pamuk looks over at the jackals following Marcel’s question, then picks up a rock from the ground and offers it to the medic. “They’re jackals, not lions,” the Turk opines. David Nedjar chuckles, and adds with a smile “I think that donkey may be too far gone even for you, doc.”

“Hold on, Fortier,” Sgt. Katsourianis breaks in. “Your orders, _mon capitaine_?” the section leader asks Capt. Martini.

The captain looks around the gorge for a moment. “If Lt. Ferrand’s intelligence is correct, there is a supply cache around here somewhere, buried perhaps. Gaspard, can you look for tracks here?”

Vidal glances down at the sandy floor of the gorge. “_Oui, mon capitaine_, should be easy with this soft ground, as long as no one tramples the sign, sir.”

“Get started, and we’ll hold position until you say otherwise,” Martini replies – Vidal turns his attention to the dry soil, walking gingerly in a wide circle around the tomb and the ruins. “_Sergent_, after we get the go-ahead from your man, post lookouts and scout the approaches” the captain resumes to Kat. “We have the trail we followed in, up or down the gorge – what about that far wall?”

“_Oui, mon capitaine_,” Kat answers, quickly issuing his orders: Manolo Sánchez and Jens Asmussen as lookouts, Silvio Ortu and Karel Syrovy to select a covering position, Pyotr and Nedjar to scout the approaches, Marcel and Normand to check on the dead donkey, Raffaele and Pamuk to search the tomb and the cemetery –

“Be careful,” Capt. Martini interjects as Kat hands out the last assignment, “all of you. Beware of booby traps, and stay alert. Remember we may want to place an ambush here, so avoid making too much of a disturbance and watch your trash – leave as few traces of our presence as possible.”

Vidal walks wider and wider circles around the tomb as the legionnaires look up at the stone walls of the gorge, or study the chipped and fading paint on the walls of the tomb, or check gear that’s been checked and rechecked throughout the day. The tracker stops and starts several times before finally returning. “Sir, there are hoof prints and footprints around the area, but they don’t seem to lead anywhere. They may have covered their tracks, sir.”

The captain nods and looks at Sgt. Katsourianis. “All right, get to work,” the section leader orders.

Remember, it’s a Spot check to look around an area, a Search check to examine a specific feature up close. I will give circumstance bonuses or drop DCs if you give specifics about where your characters are looking or what they are looking for – this has the effect of making the things they aren’t looking for a bit harder to find, however.

The attached photo gives an idea of the layout of the tomb and the ruins and cemetery, but it sould not be taken as an actual depiction of the area – the first photo is an exact depiction of the terrain and features.


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## Bobitron (Sep 4, 2006)

Marcel grins at Nedjar and Pamuk's comments. "I've seen a jackal attack victim once early in my career. The guy barely survived. The mouth is full of bacteria from decaying meat. Not to mention they can snap a thigh bone in half if they get your leg right." He shakes his head. "Well Normand, let's go. Cover me." He slings his rifle and starts toward the beasts, throwing rocks and speaking with sharp tones. "Scram!"

Reaching the carcass, he gives it a glance over before dropping to his knees to search the body for booby traps, an ugly, messy task.

ooc: I'll take 10 or 20 on my Search check, whatever's allowed. Maybe Normand can Aid me? Then try to determine the cause of death.


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## Barak (Sep 4, 2006)

Normand had taken note of the _tireur_'s look earlier on, and is getting tired of the other man's crappy attitude.  So, with a smile he calls out..

"Hey Ortu, why don't you help Marcel and I chase them?  I once heard those jackals don't attack each other."

As the rather predictable man throws him a dark look, Normand then winks at him with a sneer on his face.

_Alright, enough for now.._ 

He then walks up to the beasts with his brass knuckles slipped on, heading straight for the bigger one, rather confident they'll scatter, but knowing that if they attack, punching out the leader should be enough to make them back off.  He then stands next to the body, looking it over as best as he can from a standing position while Marcel is being more thorough.


OOC: I'll take 10 on my Aid another for Marcel


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## The Shaman (Sep 5, 2006)

“What’s the matter? Afraid of a couple of _putain_ dogs?” Ortu snaps as the grenadier and the medic walk toward the base of the cliff where the jackals and vultures gather.

“Don’t let him get under your skin.” Manolo Sánchez walks a few paces behind the pair, on his way to take up a position down the gorge from the other paras.

“Silvio is ten litres of _merde_ in a five litre bag,” he continues, keeping his voice low as he speaks, “but a _tireur_ needs to be arrogant like that. In a real firefight his life expectency is about twenty seconds – he better believe he’s the toughest _putain_ bastard around, or he won’t do his job. And he’s a Sardinian, so he’s stupid, too.” Sánchez smiles, but beneath his thick stubble, the old legionnaire’s face is gray with weariness. He dips his head and continues past as Marcel and Normand confront the jackals.

The scavenger pair observes the legionnaires’ approach, heads low to the ground. At first they are reluctant to give ground, darting back and forth in front of the rocks that conceal the carcass, but a few well-thrown stones discourage them at last, and the two tawny canines withdraw a short distance away to watch the men, wary and dejected.

Flies swarm over the remains of the donkey – torn flesh, growing ripe in the oppressive heat, hangs in loose tatters from the animal’s ribs. The jackals have ripped open the donkey’s abdomen, spilling its intestines on the ground and digging out the organs protected by the ribcage.

Hands wave frantically to keep the flies at bay while the two paras inspect the corpse. There are no obvious signs of trauma, but with the damage done by the scavengers it’s difficult to be sure why the donkey died. Marcel notes that the fur on the pack animal’s snout is gray, and the skin around its ribs pulled tight, suggesting age or perhaps ill-health. There's blood and fur on the rocks, suggesting that it fell from the trail above, and unless it twisted around as it plummeted, the donkey was most likely ascending the trail.

Marcel carries the stench of dead flesh about him as they finally step back from the carcass. Vidal Gaspard studies the ground a few meters away. “Find anything?” he asks.

The radioman waves an arm at the scene in the gorge. “Does this remind you of anything?” he asks. “A dozen paras alone in the desert, searching for fells? Feels like we’ve done this before.” A wry grin turns up a corner of his mouth.


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## The Shaman (Sep 5, 2006)

The jackals.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 5, 2006)

Pyotr considers the Captain's explanation as he stalks off with Nedjar on their assigned task. As they reach a fair distance, he looks back at the others, goes to say something and then thinks better of it. At the moment, Pyotr had more important things to do. 

Watch: (1d20+5=19)
Sneak: (1d20+9=23)


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## shibata (Sep 8, 2006)

"Gaspard, have you finished looking around here, the cemetery and tomb?"Barzini calls.  Upon Vidal's affirmative response, Raffaele moves cautiously to the edge of the cemetery.

"What do you think, Monsieur Pamuk?  Did they tell you anything useful at Arzew?  I think we should maybe look for bootprints that Vidal may have missed; because an unfamiliar bootprint might indicate main force irregulars have been here, eh?  Of course you've probably already seen that kicked over dirt-clod, or that bent grass or that different colored patch of dirt over there.  Any of those might be signs of mine emplacement, trap building, or the supply cache for which we're to keep an eye out.  Or it might be a sign that it's time for a few bottles of wine to take the edge off.  Let's inspect the cemetery and the area around the tomb carefully, so we can eventually get to the drink.  Keep your gun handy."

OOC: This is Raffaele exercising Charismatic Leadership. 
DC10 +1CHA result is 12 http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=607034

Am I correct that Pamuk gets +1 to all attack and skill rolls as long as he's within 30 feet of my friendly directions?  

How many Search rolls do you want for looking for 1: unfamiliar bootprints, 2: mines/traps/caches as evidenced by hardware, earth displacement, color/moisture difference, vegetation variance, etc.?

Raffaele's intent is to examine the cemetery, then the area around the tomb (watching out for windows and doors, then think about entry into the tomb.


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## Bobitron (Sep 10, 2006)

Marcel reports back to Sgt. Kat. "Can't tell anything for certain about the donkey, Sergeant. The scavengers have done too much damage. I would guess it fell." He shrugs and wanders over to where Normand and Vidal speak. 

"Haha! True, Vidal. But this time is different in two ways. First, Normand hasn't been shot or peppered with shrapnel, and we are days in. And second, we have a beautiful and seemingly revered tomb as our backdrop. I just hope that the fells don't think we are here to set up camp in their holy place."

He pauses, thinking aloud as he washes his hands in water from a canteen. "If this place is a shrine, shouldn't we be concerend about pilgrims? I don't want Ortu blasting away at the first guy he sees in robes."


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## Barak (Sep 11, 2006)

Normand spits before talking.

"_Fils de Pute_ Ortu.  Wouldn't be surprised to learn he wear robes himself."

Looking around, he then shrugs at the rest of what Marcel said.

"True pilgrims wouldn't be much of a threat, I'd think.  And I doubt they come here that often, and two of them just left.  Why did those idiots lie, though?  They obviously came here, and lost a donkey somehow.  Why not say so?  This is all nonsensical.  We're missing something."


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## Bobitron (Sep 13, 2006)

Marcel grins, a strange sight considering he still has a streak of fetid blood on his face. "Mon ami, I'm not afraid of pilgrims. I'm just afraid of what the wolves..." he motions to the paras... "might do to the sheep." 

"You're right though. We need to unearth the reason they would lie. Search the tomb with me?"


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## Barak (Sep 13, 2006)

"Sure doc, that's what they pay me the big bucks for, eh?"

Headed towards the tomb, Normand frowns.

"You know..  A tomb would make an awesome place to hide weapons. if you were a fell."


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## The Shaman (Sep 13, 2006)

“Gaspard, have you finished looking around here, the cemetery and tomb?”

Vidal looks down at the ground. “_Oui_. There were tracks all around, but it looks like they brushed them away before they left.” He reaches down for a handful of sand, lets it play through his fingers. “The wind helps, too.” He nods to the diminutive legionnaire, and heads off to where Normand and Marcel are examining the dead donkey.

Pamuk considers the scene before the two legionnaires. “Arzew?” The Turk shrugs. “Lt. Gaspard, my platoon leader, took me with him to train _rappelé_ officers arriving from France. Try to keep them and their men alive.” He shakes his head. “A lot of talking about the viets. Not enough soldiering.” Pamuk nods toward the cemetery, and the two legionnaires walk carefully around the low walls.

The cemetery is small, with a total of thirteen headstones – two of the graves are raised sarcophagi constructed using stone slabs. Searching (as opposed to simply looking around) the whole cemetery would require forty-eight Search checks in total. Taking 10 on each check would require roughly five minutes to search the area – taking 20 would require about an hour-and-a-half. You can also divide up the checks, taking ten on bare ground and taking twenty for specific features, for example. Let me know how Raffaele wants to approach this.

Pyotr glances back at the captain and the other legionnaires, opens and closes his mouth, and looks up to see Nedjar looking straight at him. “Something wrong? Did you see something?” the Algerian asks. I’ll resolve the results of Pyotr’s skill checks shortly.

Normand and Marcel will have to hang out for a moment until I hear from Raffaele and Pyotr.


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## shibata (Sep 13, 2006)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> The cemetery is small, with a total of thirteen headstones – two of the graves are raised sarcophagi constructed using stone slabs. Searching (as opposed to simply looking around) the whole cemetery would require forty-eight Search checks in total. Taking 10 on each check would require roughly five minutes to search the area – taking 20 would require about an hour-and-a-half. You can also divide up the checks, taking ten on bare ground and taking twenty for specific features, for example. Let me know how Raffaele wants to approach this.




Raffaele will take 10 on every Search roll in the cemetery except the sarcophagi where he will take 20 on each of them.  SEARCH bonus = +5.  

OOC:I eagerly await the tripwire I missed . . . .


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 14, 2006)

Pyotr looks at Nedjar. "No, I was going to say something about our current situation but thought better of it. We have other things to worry." He then pointedly returns to his watchful routine.


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## The Shaman (Sep 15, 2006)

Nedjar looks at Pyotr quizzically but doesn’t press the issue. The two legionnaires follow the far wall of the gorge, both men scanning the terrain carefully. Warily picking his way along the toe of the slope, the Ukrainian spots another narrow trail, little more than a couple of boot-widths across, descending the rock wall from the clifftop overhead. Looking at the Algerian para, Pyotr sees that Nedjar has noticed it as well.

Following the narrow footpath with his eyes, Pyotr sees that it climbs the cliff without switchbacks, strking  down the exposed face – unlike the trail that the legionnaires followed into the gorge, there is little cover afforded by the rocky slope. There is no sign of movement either along the trail or on the clifftop overhead.

Arriving at the tomb, Normand and Marcel find the captain and the sergeant in quiet discussion. Both listen as Marcel reports his findings. “Give those two a hand,” Kat orders when the medic is finished, tilting his head toward the cemetery where Raffaele and Pamuk are searching. “See what you can find over there,” he continues, pointing at the ruins marking the spot where a building once stood.

Approaching the ruins, the outline of the small structure can be made out from the remains of the walls that form the only remaining corner of the building. A small tree, wizened and stunted by the desert heat, stands were another corner may have been at one time, the brick walls all but vanished down to their foundations in the sand. Spots checks, please.

“Watch your step,” Capt. Martini warns. “It’s likely that there is, or was, a cistern under the floor, probably in one of the corners. It may be filled in, or it may just be covered up.” The officer and the _sous-officier_ resume their conversation, Capt. Martini pulling a map from his leather case as they speak.

Raffaele and Pamuk walk cautiously through the small cemetery, examining the graves in turn. Drawing close to the first sarcophagus, Raffaele sees that it is in decent shape, the rocks slabs that make up the sides and top chipped but not broken. Not so the second sarcophagus – the top and one side are cracked. Crouching beside the stone, Raffaele notices that one of the pieces on the broken side of the grave appears that it could be removed from the slab, possibly opening a hole in the side of the sarcophagus.

“Barzini.” A few meters away Pamuk holds up two rifle shells, covered in dust. He rubs them against his pant leg, and holds them up again – the shining brass glints in the sunlight.


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## Barak (Sep 15, 2006)

Normand silently follows orders, watching his steps, making sure the ground is solid under each foot before putting on his full weight down on it.  


OOC
spot check (1d20+1=9)


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## Bobitron (Sep 15, 2006)

Marcel stands slightly behind Normand, his eyes sweeping over hte area as he slowly follows.

ooc: Spot is a 19.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 17, 2006)

Pyotr stops to look at the trail, scanning for any boot prints or other tracks. Not seeing any, he turns to Nedjar. "I'm going to follow it, see what's up there," he says quietly. 

Search: (1d20=4)


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## shibata (Sep 20, 2006)

Still crouching Barzini nods affirmatively to Pamuk and points emphatically to the apparently removeable stone in the sarcophagus.

Barzini waves to Normand and Marcel and Kat and points emphatically to the apparently removeable stone in the sarcophagus.

Barzini takes a look around for enemy observation of his activity, but is far too interested in the sarcophagus to actually see anything.
SPOT = natural 1 +4  http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=627799

Waiting for the _choc_ to close up, Barzini looks for traps around and in front of the apparently removeable stone in the sarcophagus.
SEARCH = 19 http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=627791
OOC: Raffaele knows construction techniques (Craft Structural +4) as well as camoflage (Hide +5) and demolitions (Demolitions +5) if any of these would be synergistic bonus skills.


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## The Shaman (Sep 24, 2006)

Nedjar gives Pyotr a quick nod of assent, and Pyotr begins picking his way up the narrow trail. It’s not quite steep enough to require his hands, but the Ukrainian feels the steepness in his quadriceps and gastrocnemiuses nonetheless. It takes a few minutes to reach the top, with Nedjar following a half-dozen meters behind, making the utmost attempt at quiet as he moves. There are no signs of previous passage in the thin soil other than the occasional tiny footprints of some animal, perhaps the small lizards that scramble over the rocks as Pyotr makes his way to the top. Reaching the rim, he crouches down and inches forward, using the rocky ground for cover as he peeps over the edge.

The top of the ridge is a bit flatter than the one to the west from which the paras approached the gorge, topped with scattered rocks and a small bush in a hollow here and there. Looking along the length of the ridge in either direction reveals no sign of movement. The former partisan notes that the ridges on either side of the gorge extend to the crest of the hills the legionnaires have been following all day, about a kilometer or so distant – if one wanted to reach the tomb from the crest, Pyotr observes, one would have to descend along one of the two ridges to avoid the steep cliffs at the upper end of the gorge.

Pamuk sees what Raffaele is pointing to, and nods, shoving the rifle shells into a pocket, and crouches down. With backs turned to the cemetery, neither Normand nor Marcel can see Raffaele’s wave, but the motion catches the _sergent_’s eye, and he begins walking toward the Algerian’s position, as the captain watches from near the tomb itself.

Raffaele turns his attention to the stone itself, and the ground beneath it. Observing carefully, he can find nothing that suggests a trap.

Normand and Marcel step carefully into the ruins of the building, expecting at any moment to feel the ground slip away beneath their feet. Instead Marcel catches sight of something much more sinister – the sand moves near Normand’s boot as the big legionnaire takes a step, revealing the shape of *a snake under the surface*. Marcel and Normand: Initiative, please.


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## Barak (Sep 24, 2006)

OOC 
initiative check (1d20+0=2) 
Aw geez.


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## Bobitron (Sep 26, 2006)

ooc: Init is a 3. 

"Normand!" The words seem to escape Marcel's mouth in slow motion as the big Frenchman gets close to the viper. He swings the butt of his rifle down in an attempt to crush the snake, but he fears he is too late!

ooc: To hit is a 3 as well, dang it!


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## shadowbloodmoon (Sep 26, 2006)

Pyotr notes his observations and turns to Nedjar, confirming them. "If anyone came down this way it'd be from either of those two ridges, " he says, emphasizing them with his fingers.


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## The Shaman (Sep 29, 2006)

The snake strikes at Normand before the warning can leave Marcel’s lips. The boxer’s reflexes work faster than conscious thought, and the viper’s fangs find air where the grenadier’s calf was a moment before. Melee attack – bite 10.

The snake withdraws quickly from its hiding place under the sand, sidewinding across the shifting ground toward the base of one of the rock walls, its scales rasping against one another with a sound like sandpaper rubbed together very rapidly. Even coiled into an S-shape as it undulates, the legionnaires can see the snake is easily some 75 cm long. Normand may take an attack of opportunity against the snake as it withdraws.


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## Barak (Sep 29, 2006)

"Gah!  _Bordel de merde_!"

Purely by reflex, Normand attempts to crush the head of the reptile with his boot.


OOC
to-hit (1d20+7=19) 
damage (non-lethal) (1d6+4=9)


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## The Shaman (Sep 29, 2006)

The grenadier’s boot heel catches the reptile square on the head, crushing it with a sound like twigs snapping. The body of the snake writhes wildly around on the sand, then lies still.


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## Barak (Sep 29, 2006)

Normand quickly pulls out his knife, and plants it in the snake's head.  Looking to Marcel, he shrugs.

"Hope ya ain't a snake-lover, doc.  Me, I hate the suckers."


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## Bobitron (Oct 1, 2006)

"Ahh... no. Can't say I am." Marcel notices his heart is racing even faster than in the last combat. He laughs nervously. 

"Haha! Well that's that. Careful where you step." Swinging up his rifle, he wipes the butt clean where he had slammed it into the ground then falls back into place behind Normand.

ooc: Whew!


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## Barak (Oct 2, 2006)

Normand wipes off his knife on the ground, and then on his pants before re-sheating it.  He then grabs the corpse, and drops it in his pack, thinking he might make some money out of the corpse.

"Ahh Doc, ya need to drop a grenade at your own feet, and have it blow up.  I'm telling ya, it puts a viper into perspective.  That, and sharing a barrack with Ortu."


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## shibata (Oct 4, 2006)

Barzini readies a smoke grenade and a fragmentation grenade (by straigtening the safety pins, ensuring the fuzes are screwed securely to the bodies, and making sure of their location so they can be had without looking) and as he waits for the sergeant, he checks the operation of his flashlight and hooks it to the suspenders of his webbing; the magazine of his submachinegun is removed, visually inspected for dirt and damage, manually checked for spring action and capacity, and reseated in the well of the trusty MAT49.


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## The Shaman (Oct 8, 2006)

Nedjar looks to where Pyotr points, nods, and reaches for his canteen. Spinning off the cap he offers the first swig to Pyotr, then downs a gulp himself. The Algerian turns his attention down toward the tomb at the bottom of the gorge. “That would be some kill zone, if we could catch them down there, hand to G_d,” he replies absently, scratching at his beard. “I remember places like this in Indochina, in the highlands, only we were down there usually, and the viets were up here.” A grim smile creases his face.

“I have six more months,” he adds abruptly, staring off toward the far side of the gorge, “six months and _la quille_ for me, then home.” He offers the canteen once more to Pyotr before slipping it back into it pouch. “Surely the fells will call it quits by then, _oui_?” Another unhappy smile.

“That’s a good-size one.” Vidal looks over the wall at the lifeless snake in Normand’s hands as the grenadier struggles to stuff it into a pouch. “Better strip the skin off first, or it may rot and get damaged. I’ll show you, if you’d like.”

Intent on Raffaele, Sgt. Katsourianis misses Normand’s bout with the viper. The Greek walks carefully toward the sarcophagus where the diminutive legionnaire waits, and crouches down beside him. “What’ve you got?” he asks.


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## Barak (Oct 8, 2006)

Normand grins sheepishly at Vidal.

"I was sorta thinking of just putting the whole thing in Ortu's bed..  But you're right, probably not worth it.  Sure, if ya wanna skin it, go right ahead, my friend."


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 9, 2006)

Pyotr nods, swallowing the sip of water from Nedjar. "One would hope that they would eventually realize the futility of it. Though I don't think that'll happen before your time is through though. I hear these guys are pretty set in their ways." He puts on a furtive smile before he continues. "I like to think of it as job security."


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## Bobitron (Oct 11, 2006)

"Ha! I like the idea of Ortu's expression more than the prospect of a nice new belt," Marcel laughs. "I guess it's best not to piss him off any more than we have to though."


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## BlackGlobeGenerator (Oct 12, 2006)

Vidal lays out the viper on top of one of the remaining walls of the building and draws his knife. Inserting the tip of the knife into a small opening in the snake’s abdomen, he slices the snake open to its neck, then gripping the skin at the back of the neck peels the scaly hide away from the muscle, bones, and viscera. Another quick slice of the tail leaves the skin in one hand and the rest of the carcass in the other. 

“I hate to waste all this meat,” Vidal says sadly, “but I don’t want some jackal walking up on me in the dark because of the scent.” He puts the carcass aside and sets to scraping away the rest of the flesh clinging to the underside of the skin. He doesn’t appear satisfied until the skin appears white, whereupon the edge of the knife moves to a different patch and begins the process again. Marcel and Normand: How do you plan to search the remains of the building?

Nedjar listens to Pyotr and nods, his face forlorn. “_Oui_, an ending seems too much to ask.” He turns to look up the ridge to the crest of the hills once again. “My family owns a bakery in Oran. So far there haven’t been many attacks in our community, hand to G_d, but _Le Capitaine_ is right: it’s getting worse, not better.” Nedjar shakes his head. “C’mon, I wanna take a look up this ridgeline before we go back.”

It’s exceedingly difficult to move along the ridge without silhouetting one’s self. The legionnaires hug the side of the slope, eyes darting from rock to scraggly shrub. A hundred meters or so and Nedjar’s hand shoots up, then after a moment of motionless crouching, waves Pyotr forward. The Algerian points to a spot a short distance ahead, a hollow in the dirt nestled behind a pair of rocks. “Observation post,” he says softly. Pyotr: WATCH check, please.

Kat looks impatiently at Raffaele. “Cat got your tongue, Barzini?” he snaps. Turning to Pamuk, the _sergent_ says to Pamuk, “Go see _Le Capitaine_. He’s got something for you to do.” Kat turns back to Raffaele, waiting for a report.


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## shibata (Oct 12, 2006)

"Sergeant," Raffaele begins, "the first sarcophagus there is in decent shape, but this second sarcophagus is cracked. This piece appears that it could be removed from the slab opening a hole in the side.  Pamuk found two shiny rifle cartridges on the ground right over there.  This might be the cache we were told about.  I have examined the area and I found no signs of booby trap. What do you want me to do?"


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 13, 2006)

Pyotr crouches low, attempting to stay hidden with Nedjar. As the Legionnaire motions him forward, he carefully picks his way among the rocks to get a look at what Nedjar points to. He hoped that whoever was down there wasn't observing them as well. 

Watch: (1d20+5=14)


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## Barak (Oct 13, 2006)

"Wow thanks a lot, Vidal.  That's going to be awesome!"

Normand then turns towards the doctor.

"Well doc, this is fun, but we better get on with our job, or we'll get chewed out something fierce."

OOC: Normand will do a complete walkaround of the building, poking in the sand here and there with the bayonet, and looking for anything out of place.search check (1d20+2=22)

While he looks, a disturbing thought comes to him.

"Hey doc, why did they pair you up with me anyway?  Do I really get hurt that often?"


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## The Shaman (Oct 13, 2006)

Kat looks closely at the stone. “The fells cache weapons wherever they can,” the _sergent_ muses. “Let’s take a look.”

The observation post reminds Pyotr of a badger’s burrow, just big enough to fit one man lying prone, able to peer out between the rocks at the tomb site below. Blown sand and a line of lizard tracks on the dirt suggest that it hasn’t been used recently, Nedjar says, but the eyes of both legionnaires run back and forth over the tortured terracotta hills nonetheless. The landscape is still and quiet.

I’ll cover Normand’s Search check when we hear from Marcel.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 15, 2006)

Pyotr makes mimicks walking with his fingers as he nods towards the tiny post. Then he makes a small circling motion to indicate Nedjar should come from the other side of it. He waits for a response or better idea before moving on. 

If Nedjar agrees: 
Sneak: (1d20+9=14)


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## shibata (Oct 15, 2006)

Barzini turns on the flashlight clipped to his webbing, and crouches to the left side of the slab on the second sarcophogus, and with his right hand locks the MAT49 forward against the sling over his right shoulder, knowing that a "one-handed spray" will be inaccurate but will at least disrupt any activity in the structure.

"B-m," Barzini exhales as he pulls the apparently movable piece of stone away with his left hand, bracing with his left foot and stepping back to keep his balance when the stone moves, still in a crouch, with his right foot.


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## The Shaman (Oct 15, 2006)

Nedjar nods and creeps forward as Pyotr keeps his eyes on the burrow. There’s a sudden clatter as Nedjar steps on a loose rock, upending it and sending a small cascade of pebbles rattling against one another. He grimaces in frustration, then glances about quickly before continuing to a point not quite opposite where Pyotr sits.

Nedjar points to himself, then the hole, and with Pyotr’s assent he leans over the edge and thrusts his MAT-49 toward the hole.

A moment later he looks up. “Empty.”

Raffaele places his finger tips against the rock and gingerly applies pressure. At first it doesn’t yield, then suddenly pivots and falls away from the side of the sarcophagus, leaving a roughly triangular opening about ten centimeters on the longest side. The space beyind lies in deep shadow.


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## Bobitron (Oct 16, 2006)

Barak said:
			
		

> While he looks, a disturbing thought comes to him.
> 
> "Hey doc, why did they pair you up with me anyway?  Do I really get hurt that often?"




"A wise man once said: Don't think too hard, Normand!" Marcel's trademark grin is back, the incident with the snake fading. "You're likely to strain your smallest muscle."

Helping his friend look about the room, Marcel's mind starts to wander to the last few months. _I wonder what my nurse is up to right now,_ he muses with a smile.

ooc: Assist Normand, roll is a lowly 8.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 17, 2006)

Pyotr nods as Nedjar describes the vacant observation post. "Let's just see if anyone's been here recently. Besides us." He then takes a moment to search inside of it with his eyes. Instead of evidence of _fels_ that he was expecting, a sudden gust of wind blows sand into his eyes, sending his hands to his face. 

Search: (1d20=1)


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## The Shaman (Oct 18, 2006)

As Pyotr rubs away the grit in his eyes, Nedjar studies the ground in the hole, and around the post. “The sand doesn’t look like it’s been disturbed in awhile.” He looks down and points to his own tracks, and Pyotr’s. “We’ll need to clean up our own sign,” the first-class says. Using the hem of his _djellba_ he lightly brushes the ground, back and forth, sweeping away his boot prints. Once done, and with a final look around the hills, Nedjar says, “We’d better report back to _Le Capitaine_.”

Normand and Marcel carefully make the circuit of the ruins, ending up at the scraggly tree in the corner. The ground is sunken here, suggesting to Normand that the tree might actually be growing up from the now-sand-fillled cistern. Looking at one of the branches, he sees that some of the bark has been stripped off, a meter or so off the ground – it appears to have been torn or perhaps gnawed away. As he steps closer, something shiny appears on the ground by his boot: a rifle shell.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 19, 2006)

Pyotr nods. "Yeah, they'll be wondering where we've gone to shortly." He then goes about assisting Nedjar in covering their tracks as they make their way back to the rest of the section.


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## Barak (Oct 19, 2006)

Normand calls out to Marcel.

"Hey doc!  Come take a look at this!"

Crouching next to the shell, Normand takes care to fix in his head it's exact position.  Next, he stands up and look closely at the branch, without touching it, trying to find claws or teeth marks.


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## Bobitron (Oct 19, 2006)

"Huh."  

The word lingers in the air as Marcel surveys the scene. Reaching over and picking up the shell, he turns it over in his hands.

ooc: Has the shell been fired? Is it old or new? What sort of round is it?


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## The Shaman (Oct 23, 2006)

Normand rises from his crouch and inspects the branch closely – it looks decidedly chewed, but by what he can’t say for sure. Knowledge (life sciences) 11 – if you think a different skill should apply, let me know.

Marcel looks at the shell in his hand. Rubbing away the dust, the brass shines in the light – a 7.5x54mm Mle. 1929, the same model the legionnaires carry for their MAS-49/56 rifles. It looks as if it came straight out of the box.

Kat leans over Raffaele’s shoulder, snaps on a flashlight and shines it inside the low mausoleum. Peering throught the narrow hole, the legionnaires see an empty space, thick with dust. Raffaele: Search check, please.

Pyotr and Nedjar have some hiking to do – if there’s something Pyotr wants to check out on the way back, let me know, otherwise we’ll pick up with their return to the rest of the section shortly.


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## shibata (Oct 24, 2006)

Raffaelle "takes a knee" and, with SMG braced in right hand and flashlight in left, looks carefully.
Search=15 http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=694491


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## shadowbloodmoon (Oct 24, 2006)

Pyotr is pretty confident they've seen what they could see up there, so no worries.


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## Bobitron (Oct 24, 2006)

Marcel taps Normand on the shoulder and hands him the round. "Fresh one, looks straight from the box." He looks about with a hint of nervousness. "Couldn't have been here too long, it was dusty but unblemished."

He turns to peek at Normand's branch. "What's that? Looks like it has been chewed..."

ooc: Knowledge (Life) is a 20.


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## Barak (Oct 24, 2006)

Normand stands and shrugs, accepting the round.

"Beats me.  My best guess would be that some pack animal got tied there for a bit, and the bullet slipped from a bag or something, while the animal chewed on the branch.  Probably while fells unloaded some stuff to hide somewhere or something.  But.. that's just a wild guess.  We should tell the boss."


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## The Shaman (Oct 25, 2006)

Examining the branch, Marcel sees markes left by big, blunt teeth – an herbivore definitely, a donkey possibly.

Raffaele peers inside the small hole, flashing the light around the inside of the low mausoleum. Aside from a thick layer of dust and sand at the bottom, it appears empty. Playing the light up to the lid, the legionnaire sees that the top appears cemented in place. Just to make sure we’re working from the same visual here, the mausoleum is roughly six feet long, about three feet wide, and about two feet high. It’s possible for Raffaele to reach in through the hole created by moving the loose stone, but his reach will be restricted to about half of the interior and he won’t be able to see what he’s doing while his arm is inside.


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## Bobitron (Oct 25, 2006)

"You're probably right, Normand. A donkey." He curves his fingers into teeth and rakes them through the crevices left by the beast of burden.

"If they unloaded from here, it seems they wouldn't have gone far to dump the cargo. Want to search this area a little more thoroughly first, or leave it up to the Sergeant?"

ooc: If you want to search first, Barak, let's take 20.


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## Barak (Oct 25, 2006)

Normand looks around and speaks up.

"Place's pretty deserted, and the sarge ain't far.  Why dontcha poke around a bit, and I'll go let him know and come back."


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## shibata (Oct 27, 2006)

The Shaman said:
			
		

> Raffaele peers inside the small hole, flashing the light around the inside of the low mausoleum. Aside from a thick layer of dust and sand at the bottom, it appears empty. Playing the light up to the lid, the legionnaire sees that the top appears cemented in place. Just to make sure we’re working from the same visual here, the mausoleum is roughly six feet long, about three feet wide, and about two feet high. It’s possible for Raffaele to reach in through the hole created by moving the loose stone, but his reach will be restricted to about half of the interior and he won’t be able to see what he’s doing while his arm is inside.




Can the hole be enlarged?  Does the top appear to be recently cemented in place?  Is there any other sign or place of entry?


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## The Shaman (Oct 28, 2006)

shibata said:
			
		

> Can the hole be enlarged?



While the stone side of the mausoleum is cracked, it does not appear that other pieces may be removed to permit entry into the mausoleum itself without further breaking down the stone.







			
				shibata said:
			
		

> Does the top appear to be recently cemented in place?



No - Raffaele recognizes immediately (taking 10 on Craft - structural) that the work is rather old by the quality of the cement.







			
				shibata said:
			
		

> Is there any other sign or place of entry?



Negative - the little hole seems to be it as far as Raffaele can tell.


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## shibata (Oct 31, 2006)

"B-m. Well _sergeant_, it looks like the _fells_ cached their weapons elsewhere.  What now for me, _sergeant_?"


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## Bobitron (Oct 31, 2006)

Barak said:
			
		

> Normand looks around and speaks up.
> 
> "Place's pretty deserted, and the sarge ain't far.  Why dontcha poke around a bit, and I'll go let him know and come back."




"You got it." Marcel begins carefully looking around the area.


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## The Shaman (Nov 3, 2006)

Marcel squats down and gingerly sifts the sand where Normand kicked up the shell, then widens his search bit by bit. A meter or so away, another shell, identical to the first. The medic begins anew, and finds a third and fourth, a dozen centimeters further along. Glancing back Marcel realizes that they seem to be following a ragged line.

As Raffaele pulls back from the hole in the mausoleum, Kat leans forward, shading his eyes as he peers into the shadows. The _sergent_ is interrupted when Normand arrives and announces finding the shell in the ruins. “Burhan found two more, over there,” the section leader replies with a tilt of his head. “Give me a hand.” The two legionnaires follow the _sous-officier_, and he instructs them to fan out and start looking. Immediately Raffaele finds another shell a couple of meters away.

Marcel continues in the direction suggested by the lost or discarded ammunition, eyes searching for the curve of a viper under the sand as well as the glint of a brass casing. There’s nothing for a couple of meters, and then two more cartridges just under the surface of the sand. Glancing up the medic sees Raffaele, Normand, and Kat all poking at the ground near the wall surrounding the cemetery – looking back at his line of travel, he realizes that it’s a meandering path that leads from the tree toward the graves.

Normand finds another shell, standing on end in the sand, and looks up to see Marcel moving slowly toward him, kicking up another shell as he approaches. Raffaele and Kat locate another a meter away, then two more, now moving away from the cemetery slightly, turning around the wall and heading west.

“_Sergent_.” Capt. Martini walks toward where the four legionnaires are spread out along the line of the scattered rifle rounds. “Pamuk says you found ammunition.”

“_Oui, mon capitaine_,” Kat replies, offering one of the rounds to the officer, “scattered in the dirt from here to that tree over there. It looks like they were dropped and buried. Mador says that it looks like stock was tied up at that tree, and the ammunition we found so far stretches from there to here.”

The captain looks back toward the tree, and turns to Raffaele. “Barzini, I saw you searching that grave there. Why?” The veteran paratrooper listens as Raffaele describes his observations, looking at the low stone mausoleum while the Algerian speaks. When Raffaele is done, the captain says, “_Sergent_, follow me. You too,” he adds to Normand, Marcel, and Raffaele.

At the mausoleum the _capitaine_ kneels down carefully and examines first the stone that Raffaele dislodged, then the hole in the side of the mausoleum. He shines his flashlight into the darkness, playing it about and peering through the opening, then reaches in as far as he can, up to his shoulder. His brow furrowed in concentration, he twists slightly, back and forth as he reaches around inside the grave, then abruptly withdraws his arm, now covered in grimy dust. He opens his palm and reveals another shell, this one quite different from the rifle rounds the legionnaires have found – it is old and spent, the brass corroded and pitted, a vintage Lebel rifle cartridge ravaged by time.

Capt. Martini peers inside the tapered opening of the shell, then taps it into his palm, discharging a slip of paper. “A message drop,” he says, looking around at the assembled legionnaires, displaying the corroded shell and the tiny roll of paper.

Descending the east wall of the gorge along the narrow path, Pyotr and Nedjar see a small knot of legionnaires clustered in the cemetery below. “Looks like they found something,” Nedjar says quietly as the two legionnaires concentrate on keeping their footing down the steep, exposed trail.

Palming the casing, the captain unrolls the paper. It appears to be a small piece of torn newsprint, upon which Arabic script has been written in a plain hand. The officer smiles slightly as he reads aloud, <Arabic>“We bring forth green foliage and close-growing grain, palm-trees laden with clusters of dates, vineyards and olive groves, and pomegranates alike and different. Behold their fruits when they ripen. Surely in these there are signs for true believers.”</Arabic> Martini looks up at at the legionnaires. “Any of you know the Quran?” he asks.


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## Barak (Nov 3, 2006)

Normand frowns and shrugs.

"Isn't that their weird bible, _mon capitaine_?  Why's it talk 'bout food so much?  Or is that a code?"


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## Bobitron (Nov 3, 2006)

Marcel smiles at Normand's comment, but keeps his comments to himself for the time being. He is curious how Martini might react.


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## shadowbloodmoon (Nov 7, 2006)

Pyotr replies to Nedjar with a short nod. Noticing that most of his squad mates are clustered around the building and slim and none are actually on watch, he scans the horizon to make sure they won't be surprised by any visitors.


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## shibata (Nov 15, 2006)

Barzini nods in the affirmative to the captain.

"Sir, that's one of the 165 verses of _Al-An'am_; 'The Cattle' in Arabic; one of the chapters of the Koran."

Knowledge(theology/philosophy) = natural 20 +3= 23
http://invisiblecastle.com/find.py?id=727457

OOC  smart class character


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