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Post by Wiktor Boguslaw on Jan 15, 2010 18:20:39 GMT -5
Wiktor listened intently as the soldier introduced himself as Fuery Campellone, and began telling a bit about himself. Wiktor nodded that his statements did verify that Fuery was indeed part of the air force, and indeed an Italian. Wiktor knew that many would take the Italian part harshly, as Italy was one of the major Axis powers opposing the Allies. However, Wiktor had no problem with Fuery being an Italian; all that mattered was that this man was now an allied soldier, someone fighting for justice. It did not matter where he came from.
Fuery offered Wiktor a glass of schnapps. Wiktor took a glass and spoke a grateful thank you as he lifted the glass to his lips. He drank down the whole shot glass as he felt the liquid stink against his throat. He placed the drink back down on the table. The schnapps painfully reminded Wiktor of his own homeland, Poland. He truly did miss his old lifestyle, and wondered why this gruesome war could have happened. Wiktor snapped back from his thoughts and into reality. The war was happening, but it was his job to stop it.
Fuery then asked Wiktor if he was from Poland, following up closely behind this question was Fuery’s request to learn more about Wiktor. Wiktor smiled as he looked up at Fuery. “Yes indeed Fuery, I am from Poland, hailing from the city of Warsaw. As for a little about me, when Poland was invaded my family and I were attacked, as a maneuver too ‘cleanse’ the country. My family was slaughtered, but I alone managed to escape. I fled across the sea over to the country of America; I had spent my college years there so I had some ties with the nation. After that, I joined the American army as soon as I could, and after months of training, you find me here where I stand before you.”
Wiktor sat back as he finished his brief overlook of himself. He waited to see what Fuery’s reaction would be too the little information he just received. Most likely it would go down smoothly, except the part about his family. There would probably be some shock, followed by sympathy. Either way, Wiktor seemed too like this man already, even after knowing him for only a few minutes. “Well Fuery, now that you know a bit about me, how about you? I would greatly like to know a bit about your history. Also, if you don’t mind, and please, I mean this in no offensive way, but why did you join the Allies?”
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Post by Furey "Blondie" Campellone on Jan 24, 2010 0:46:18 GMT -5
Furey listened to Wiktor, the information that he told him, the brief summery of his life, was all too familiar to a few other poles that he had met. He was very angry at the Germans, for what he did to these once proud people, the once proud people of Europe, actually. A Wiktor inquired about his own life, he thought for a minute, before speaking. "Well, you already know that i am Furey Campellone, thats important. I suppose you should know, I was born in Palermo, Sicily. In the 30's, 1936 to be precise, i moved to America, I brought along my Grandparents, for my Mother and Father wanted them safe and sound, and they knew i had a job prospect as a manager in a woolworths store in New York, this was much to the anguish of my two Little Brothers, who, by now, were getting caught up in Hitlers Grande Sceme. The day i flew off, the last thing they both said to me, was 'Traitor'. That was the last time i talked to those two brothers of mine. I hate to say it, because they are my brothers, but they are scum. One is a, I believe, a Lieutenant in the Italian SS, that dirtbag. And the other, is a Sniper in the German Army based in Italy. My parents tell me of how my brothers are, reluctantly ofcourse, because of the fact that my Brother in the SS doesnt trust anyone, especially his family." He paused, and continued. "Inbetween the letters i was working, as i said before, as a Manager at a store in New York. I sent my checks to my Grandparents, who owned a home on a little island full of other old Italians in the state of New Jersey. A few years before the war came, i told them that i was going t join the Army Air Core, they were hesitant, but i told them it was what i had to do, to stop people like my brother, they agreed, and thats pretty much where my story ends, now i sit here, speaking with you, and drinking Schnaupps out of a Bottle taken from a German Field Marshal, in France, and owning a collection of German Visor caps that i keep in my footlocker." He smiled, and Jokingly said "I apologize for my whole life story, but you did ask"
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Post by Tech Sgt. John Whitmoor on Feb 8, 2010 16:58:26 GMT -5
(I have no idea how to write the barkeeper's accent, so just use your imagination)
It was a beautiful day on the island of Britian, and John was ready to enjoy the whole day on his weekend furlough, and for a while, it worked. Of course, there was a nearby bar, featuring a big blue barrel on the front of it, and John needed a drink. So, after a hard day of sleeping, fishing, reading, and all around laziness, John entered the bar. He had never been to the Blue Barrel before, and was eager to try it. Members of the 1st Armored, who were stationed nearby, were very quick in recommending it, as were the other units in the area, so it must be good.
John looked around, not seeing anybody else from the 101st, which wasn't a surprise, since John was lucky to get out of mainland Europe for the weekend, but somehow, a miracle had happened, and John was now here. But, he did see many people from the 1st Armored, so many in fact, that it seemed like it was their personal bar. But, a few men from other divisions were scattered around, and they made the bar seem more open to members of other divisions. John walked to the bar, tucking his cover into the belt of his uniform. "Good day, sir," John said to the barkeeper. "How are the spirits here?"
"They're great here, sir. You can call me Mr. Hardley. I don't think I've seen you here before."
"No Mr. Hardley. I am Technical Sergeant John Whitmoor, 101st Airborne. I'm on a weekend furlough, and I've heard great things. Do you have any, Stroh, perchance?" Mr. Hardley, shook his head. "No, I don't. But I do have some Schnauppes, if you would like that."
"Thank you, Mr. Hardley. I would like a shot of that, and a pint of Guinness." Mr. Hardley prepared the drinks, while John got out some English currency, mixed in with French Francs, German Reichsmarks, and American dollars. "Here you go. Thank you for the drinks," John said, handing Mr Hardley the proper amount of English currency. He nodded, and John left to find a table. It looked like the only open spot was with three men, all higher ranking than John, the closest to John was a 1st Sergeant, and the highest being a Staff Sergeant. John walked over to them. "Good day sirs. I was wondering if this seat was available, and if is, if I may sit down with you."
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Post by Wiktor Boguslaw on Feb 14, 2010 8:15:26 GMT -5
Wiktor listened intently as the Italian Air Officer told him his life story, from his time in Italy to where he was sitting now. To Wiktor it sounded like an unusual case, but that did not matter to him. As long as the man across from him was a good hearted Allied soldier, it did not matter where he came from. After all, his commanding officer was from Germany, and he had let his armored division to victories against the German war machine. This truly showed that in war, it did not matter where you come from, your ethnic background. All that matters is your goal, your feelings, and you’re moral for joining the war.
As the Italian finished speaking, Wiktor lifted his head up, looking at the air officer, waiting for any last remarks from his story. After the Italian finished speaking he shyly apologized for his long, and very in depth life story. Wiktor laughed slightly at this remark. “Of course it is fine, I did ask you, and you gave me a good and thorough answer.” Wiktor leaned back, felling the soft padding of the chair’s backboard. All of them were silent, enjoying an icy cold beverage, or just glancing around the smoke covered room. It appeared as if the bar was at the peak of its service. Most of the tables and booths had been taken, and Wiktor could not believe that anyone else could come in at this time. By now, if you weren’t on leave already, there would be field training and possibly briefing and deployment.
Wiktor glanced back at the air officer and the sergeant that he had talked to earlier. “Well, thank you both for telling me a little about your self’s. If we are going to head into combat together, I like to know the man who’s fighting next to me, the one carrying my life in his hands. I also enjoyed your company, you are both fun men who enjoy a good talk, and I can definitely respect this.” Wiktor was about to go on when a newcomer stepped into the bar. By the look of his uniform, he was an average ground soldier, but Wiktor could not identify his rank or his divisional insignia, as it was covered by the dim light, and partially by a couple of men standing in the way.
The newcomer walked over to the bar counter, and Wiktor forgot about him for a second, looking back at their table. Wiktor folded his hands, thinking about the training he had to initiate on his men this evening. Wiktor dreaded it as much as his men, maybe even more after such an excellent day. Wiktor enjoyed his day of leave, but unfortunately it could not last forever, and at this moment training was as bad as if he had to go and massage his commander’s feet. Wiktor heard some foot steps to his left as he mind flowed back into the real world. Wiktor glanced over and saw the soldier that had come in, just minutes ago.
Wiktor studied the newcomer, attempting to get some information on him as he walked across the room, obviously looking for a table. The soldier wore a standard issue forest green uniform, typical of a standard ground trooper. Wiktor glanced at the yellow and black rank insignia, noting that this soldier was at the rank of Technical Sergeant. Wiktor also noticed his divisional insignia, by the sight that was available, Wiktor barely made out an insignia that looked like an airborne divisions. He was very surprised, wondering how an airborne soldier could get some leave, as they were extremely busy at this time with the war in Europe against Hitler’s regime.
The soldier turned to face their table, and began walking toward it. He stopped right in front of the table, with a look of slight shyness, obviously because he was the only one in his division at the bar, most of the occupants were indeed from the 1st armored, as practically the entire division was on leave, sort of like a “day of rest”. Either way, this soldier was here, and Wiktor figured he was enjoying every last minute of his leave. The soldier inquired if he could sit at their table, seeing as if this was one of the few tables that were actually open with one seat or more, and this was most likely the only table available were men were not extremely drunk, in fact all of them were sober having only had one or two drinks.
Wiktor stood up and faced the soldier, shaking hands with him as a proper introduction. “Hello, my name is Wiktor Boguslaw, 2nd Lieutenant of the 1st Armored Division. I do not think that any of us have a problem with you sitting here?” Wiktor glanced back, waiting for some signal or word from the other members of their table, either protesting or agreeing with the new soldier’s admission to their table.
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Post by Harry Hamilton on Feb 18, 2010 19:55:26 GMT -5
Harry walked into the Blue Barrel, extremely grateful for his furlough. Every time he got one, he treasured it, as they were the only respite he had from the horrors of war. Early on in the war, he spent his furloughs in the barracks writing to his parents. But as the shy young man began socializing with the other soldiers, he'd often go to town with them. This time, he was going to try out the Blue Barrel. He'd never been to this place before, but it had been recommended to him by other members of his division, the 1st Armoured Division to be precise. He'd just been transferred to this division, after a brief tour of duty in North Africa. In North Africa, he'd been a part of Operation Torch, and had battled both hostile French forces as well as the German army. He'd been injured during Operation Torch, after being shot in the arm. Lucky for him, it hadn't been fatal, nor did it cause infection, so he got to keep his arm ( how else was he going to play football? ). A beautiful nurse by the name of Elsa had patched him up. To this day he had never forgotten about her and her kindness. He would see her, every now and then--mostly when he got sick, which wasn't that often. It was a pleasant day, and he couldn't help but to think of what it was like back home in Pennsylvania. Home. Harry thought, yearning for that far-off place. He came from a small town where everyone knew each other. He remembered that when he was growing up, he wanted to leave town and see the world. Well, he'd gotten his wish, and it wasn't what it was cracked up to be. When he entered the bar, it was packed. There were British and American soldiers drinking beer, singing bar songs, and just having a good time. He smiled slightly and headed up to the barkeeper. "Good evening, sir. Might I purchase a drink please?" he asked courteously. He may have been a country boy but he did have manners. "Of course, lad." the older man replied kindly in his English accent. "You must be new around here, the name is Hardley." "Oh, I'm very glad to know you, Mr. Hardley. I'm Sergeant Harry Hamilton." "What division are you from, Sergeant?" "The 1st Armored. I, uh, just got transferred here from the 1st Infantry Division." The Big Red One. He'd made many friends there, and seen many of them die in combat. He didn't like leaving them, but he went where the Army needed him, and apparently the Army needed him as a junior NCO in the 1st Armored Division. "Well, then you must know those men over there." Hardley said, referring to West and Boguslaw, who were seated with two other men. "I don't think we've been introduced...I'll have to go over and talk with them." Harry stated, looking over at the men briefly. "Well, welcome to the Blue Barrel. What can I get for you?" the man asked cheerfully. "Uh, just a glass of beer, please." Harry dug in his pocket and withdrew the strange British money. He counted out the amount carefully and handed it to the barkeeper. "Here you are." "Thank you, lad. Enjoy your drink." "Thank you, sir." Harry tipped his hat to Hardley before leaving and walking out into the dining area. There were plenty of tables, but it looked as if the customers sitting at those tables were a tad bit inebriated. He looked around again and spotted a table with three men and one more men standing next to it, apparently talking. He made his way over to them, taking off his garrison cap to expose his thick brown hair, and straightening his tie, hoping to make a good impression. The tall, awkward, and blue-eyed youth was dressed in an olive drab dress uniform. "Excuse me," he timidly addressed all of them. "I-I don't mean to intrude, but I wonder if, if I might be permitted to sit with you folks. I'm Sergeant Harry Hamilton of the 1st Armoured Division."
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Post by Furey "Blondie" Campellone on Dec 24, 2010 12:10:48 GMT -5
MODERATION POST CP Distribution and Closing of Topic! Wiktor Boguslaw - 8
James Thomas West - 7
Furey Campellone - 6
Harry Hamilton - 4
John Whitmoor - 3 This decision was made by Myself and Mike. If you have any problems, PM myself or him with them.
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