The Vaclav and Lind Saga

I'm collecting all the logs in one document rather than spreading them out in many different. These logs show the love story of Vaclav and Lind up until August 1937 (the Modesto's Mission log.)

Falling

Road
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The Grid THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Coordinates : 8 3

A main thoroughfare going through the city of Madrid, the road is a busy place, with people on some sort of business at all times of the day. Revolutionary banners hang from the walls, and the citizens are out in force, building barricades, fortifying the houses, moving back and forth with supplies, or in some cases just standing around wide eyed, looking for ways to help.
It is currently night time.

Vaclav steps with his purposeful stride from the command post to the west, frowning and scowling as his blue eyes scan the street before him. A light machine gun is carried across the corporal's shoulders, and he pauses a moment at the crossroads to simply regard Madrid at large for a moment.

His rifle slung casually over his shoulder, Jase meanders along the road, a somewhat relaxed expression on his young face- well, as relaxed as anyone can be with the though of impending Stuka raids.

Lind is making her way hastily in the other direction, perhaps on her way to a guard post, or to find a late dinner after a guard shift somewhere. Once in awhile, she pauses and listens, looking up at the sky; there's that paranoid action of someone who expects to be bombed from the sky.

Vaclav draws and lets out a short breath, eyes catching on the pair of divergant Brigadiers, "comrades," he voices loud and curt. "On duty, or no?" he questions in a flat tone. See, this is why many folks dread running into officers..

"Off duty, Comrade," Jase reponds somewhat quietly, "I was just relieve from sentry duty, and I though I'd take a little bit of a walk." He casts a quick glance at Lind, not really recongizing the woman but giving her a brief nod.

Lind comes to a halt near Vaclav, turning an intense gaze on him. "Comrade," she greets in her melodious, pleasant voice, raising her fist in the traditional saluted greeting. "I too just got off duty." She shifts her rifle up further on her shoulder, nodding back at Jase, watching him as intently as Vaclav for a moment. Her English is accented but she speaks it well enough, easily understood. Once again, she looks up at the sky, listening for a moment, before she wipes a hand over her hair, smoothing back an escaped lock of hair. "I am Lovisa Lind."

Vaclav inclines his head to each in turn as the pair approach. "Both of you. Ask that you stand duty for moment. Not long, less one hour. Guards posted to Aid station called off. Pursuing fifth Columnist. Need comrades to stand in post until return. You can do this?" His own measure of speech is deep and even. Short, staccatto in rhythm. The corporal still frowns.

"Jason Morris," Jase says by way of introduction, his own english flawless as long as you consider American english to be the proper way of using the language, before he gives a nod towards Vaclav, "Of course, Comrade. I'll report on the double."

Lind nods curtly at Vaclav, no protests from her on it. What could she protest about, anyway? There's still, despite the horrors of the war, a faint feverish intensity to her gaze, one of true conviction to the cause. "I will go, comrade," she agrees, then looks around to get her bearings. Madrid is a big city.

Vaclav nods curtly to both in turn. "Good. Very good. Comrade Morris, take post, road south of Field Hospital. Comrade Lind, take post here. Restrict all civilians, expect Medic personnel. No exceptions." The woman's intesnity of eye is met in the big czech's.. Less bright and feverish, perhaps, but no less full and unyielding. "Understood?"

"Understood," Lind says with yet another nod and she straightens up and salutes with a closed fist again. She then checks her rifle with a habitual gesture, making sure it's loaded and now not swinging it back up on her back, instead holding it in both hands, pointing it at the ground.

"Good," Vaclav notes curtly with a short nod, as he returns the salute, blue eyes still fixed on the brigadier before him, noting her check of the rifle, with another approving nod. Without further ado, the corporal turns and starts toward the Aid station, to see the guards there put in order..

Lind watches Vaclav turn around and leave and takes a few steps off to the side of the street, to take up her guard position at a more convenient space. She smooths that lock of hair away again, with a trembling hand. Everything is suddenly beginning to swim and she can't see straight, cold sweat forming on her brow.

There's a thud behind Vaclav as the brigadier falls to the ground, followed by the clatter from the rifle hitting the street.

Vaclav turns to stare back over his shoulder at Lovisa's post, at the clatter, "what in Hell?" the big czech growls, promptly looking around at the rooftops, to see if some sniper sits in wait, as he hurries the steps back toward where Lind toppled to the cobblestones, crouching swiftly beside, and looking for apparent injuries..

There's no evident blood on Lovisa's too-large uniform. Her pale face has that unhealthy sheen to it though, one of fever and exhaustion; that feverish look earlier wasn't only of conviction, probably. And she's hardly dead - she makes a groan and rolls her head to the other side, about to wake up again, just a momentary fainting.

Damn. It's so hard to tell the fanatics from the malnourished these days.

"Comrade!" Vaclav's curt, growling tone barks, to gain her faded and elusive attention, one hand to the brigadier's shoulder, giving a hard shake. His expression is dark, grim and glowering.

Lind pops her green eyes open and stares at Vaclav with eyes that are blank and shiny, that feverish look even more obvious now in close regard. It takes her a moment to realize her predicament and her paleness turns if possible more pronounced as she realizes what happened. Her tongue is tied, she just stares at Vaclav while she shivers violently.

"What in hell wrong?" Vaclav demands shortly.. the woman's difficulties impossable to overlook up close, and apparent as they are. Frowning and scowling, he holds off further words just long enough to hear Lind's answer..

Lind attempts to reach for his arm now with a grasping hand, in a try to sit up, needing his support to do so. "I'm fine," she tries to lie, badly. "I just have a little, little fever." She runs a hand down her uniform, searching for her bottle of water. "I'm hungry," she admits, voice cracking. "I'm sorry."

"You stand post, hungry and sick, guarding wounded comrades, and you FALL at SENTRY?" Oh, Vaclav does lend a hand to help Lovisa rise to an upright seat, but that only brings her nearer his angry blue regard. "This is NOT 'fine'."

Lind got no excuses for it. Her green eyes meet Vaclav's with an open but tired look. "No comrade," she agrees. Conviction and fanaticism can only carry you so far and it's been too much for too long. "What will you do?"

"Get off duty," Vaclav growls lowly. "Hospital, now. And HOPE that doctors say you badly off. When able to stand post without falling down, resume duty. NOT let this happen again, Comrade Lind."

Lind takes a few gulps of water to strengthen herself before she begins to climb to her feet with slow deliberate motions. "I won't. I promise," she says solemnly, knowing fully well that she got off lightly. People get executed for less. The rifle is picked up and carefully slung over her shoulder. Though still shaky, and still shivering from the fever, she'll probably make it to the hospital. "Thank you."

Vaclav dismisses the thanks with a snort and toss of his head toward the Aid station. "No thanks. You may yet take lashes, Comrade. Once able to stand again." Remaining curt, and stern, the czech's narrowed ragrd meets Lind's for as long as those words last, before he takes her place at the post on the corner. So much for down time.

"Yes, Comrade," Lovisa replies quietly, looking at him with wide, blank eyes. She pulls her coat closer around herself, freezing from the fever, then she makes the fisted salute, turns and walks off. There's no spring to her steps now, but she manages to keep her back rather straight as she makes her way south. Before disappearing from sight, she turns around and looks back at the corporal that took her sentry duty, staring at him for a swaying moment before she is gone.

Aid Station

This log happens after the Suicide Hill log.

Lind only succumbed to treatment after it was absolutely sure she would be taken to the same place as the others, Vaclav in particular. With a concussion and a lot of confused raving, that was the only way to calm her down. She was lucky, that bullet to the head just left a burnt hair in a straight line right across her scalp. A few millimeters from death. Now she's sitting on a chair, keeping an eye on things from a pale face.

The recent fascist offensive has packed the Field Hospital once again- even after the commandeering of the Madrid hospital, there are just too many wounded. One among such stirs with a wordless growl, and gritting of teeth, as Vaclav is raised to sit upright so that the bandages around his torn torso can be changed. The bleeding still has'nt stopped fully. Blue eyes narrowed in anger, pain or both are clenched shut as a breath is drawn through closed teeth. Yet as the man's scowling expression settles back into something more neutral, the big czech becomes a bit more aware of those about him..

Movement from Vaclav and the attendance of the nurses immediately brings Lind's attention on the corporal. She stares wordlessly at him with an intent, interested gaze.

The lack of adrenaline makes everything worse. A muttered inquiry after the dispatch Vaclav had sent off the night before is answered that 'Yes it was sent', and after more staunching and wrapping is undertaken (so far, no signs of infection), the corporal is leaned back onto the cot, to continue clotting. Narrowed blue eyes eventually take note that someone is looking at him, and in his usual, deep curt manner, greets, "Comrade Lind."

Lind's expression softens and she smiles at Vaclav. "Comrade," she greets him back in a quiet but melodious tone. Then she's awkwardly quiet for a moment, shifting position on the chair. "I would say that you look well, except, you don't. But you will be fine?"

Vaclav sniffs out a short, sharp laugh at the comment, his frown slipping into a short lived expression of dry amusement (one of the seven signs, no doubt). "You would be a liar then," he notes to Lovisa's first words. "Doctors say if I was going to die, I'd have done it before now. I think they say so, because I waste so much of thier time." A low rumbling snort. "You? How is head?" A pause, before he asks, in much more fluent french, "You speak this language? Better for me, than english."

Lind smiles more broadly at his amusement. She touches her head, feeling along the scalp where that bullet traced. "I have a bad headache," she explains, in French, "but a few days of rest will take care of it. The arm's going to be as good as new too," she adds, holding it up slightly, showing the bandage around it. Her French is about the same quality as her english though she obviously choses more simple words, vocabulary not as good. "What happened after I got taken out?"

Vaclav rumbles back after a pauir of curt nods to Lind's condition, "Three moros came on us from the west, coming along the stone fence. One of them killed Thompson.. A bayonet through the chest. He died quickly." Small mercies.. "Engaged them, along with Marchand, bloody, but they went down." From the look of him 'bloody' may not be a fair enough description. "More fascists opened fire from the west.. the vickers and rifles returned. Damn germans in east opened fire again.. Ordered a charge. Took them, and then the Fourteenth lost the field to our north. Had to abandon the Breda to pull out in time." A breath slowly drawn and released, "All machine guns empty. No rifle with more than three shots unspent."

Lind blinks slowly at him, as if her own memories of the battle now seem like a bad dream. Hearing about Thompson, she swallows, quite well remembering how he tended to her arm there in the midst of the chaos. "You pulled me out of there," she says quietly, half a question, half a statement. If nobody had, she'd have faced a brutal treatement from the ascists if caught alive.

Kalle comes walking down from the road with a few tools and a disgruntled look, he walks over to the pieces that once were an armoured car and rubs his ear before he grabs some of the twisted metal and pulls it to the side.

"We all pulled each other out," Vaclav rumbles back, still in french. "I would'nt have made it out, if not leaning on Drensby, and Marchand. Comrades look after each other. As best we can." A slowly drawn breath. "Everyone on that hill took a wound. Most took more, but only Thompson died there. Could have been much worse.. Would have been worse without the guns running as they did."

Lind nods at Vaclav, but she's already hero worshipping him since earlier, this only strengthen it. Still, it's a hero worship colored by realism and some fatalism. "Could have been much worse," she agrees with conviction. "We were doing well. It was that we had no ammunition…" she murmurs, then bites her lip, looking around hastily. Flippant comments like that shouldn't be heard by the wrong ears.

Kalle is ignoring the French for the most part, dragging some more of the twisted metal to the side of the wreck. Not being all that strong it is a lot of grunting and groaning involved, along with some whispered curses.

"Your fault," Vaclav rumbles deadpan. "If the guns had'nt been firing so fast, the bullets would have lasted all day. Blame you entirely." After a moment of continued forwning, the czech sniffs again in dry humor. "We needed more bullets. As at Corunna- the Republic did not send what we needed."

Marchand is seated in a wooden chair, inside the medical tent. He'd apparently dozed off there with a blanket around him rather than taking up a bed where more critically wounded soldiers are recovering.

Lind shows a faint blushing at that, her pale face getting some more life as colour returns to it. "We worked well together, didn't we?" she says, smiling at him again. "I told you, I am good at that. I can't shoot the machine gun though, not yet anyway." She turns more serious again and nods at Vaclav. She's sitting on a chair not far from his bed. "It's… getting harder," she murmurs. Just a nicer way of saying that the leadership isn't as it could be. "Conviction only goes so far. It doesn't kill the enemy."

Rothschild is hanging around the aid station, smoking. Not an uncommon sight, in either case. He waits until he's nearly through with the cigarette before he starts moving toward the medical tent. He almost passes by Marchand before he spots the man dozing in a chair. He winces. Not even enough beds for all the wounded. Heck of a place, this. "Delaware?"

Marchand lifts his head with a start, blinking his eyes then rubbing them with his left hand. The right hand and arm are heavily bandaged and in a sling, though it too moved by reflex. "Huh? Uh?" squinting with his left eye while the right eye gets a further rub. "Oh, Jersey." The American lets out his breath, managing a smile as he relaxes. "Good to see you've been in Madrid and not out playing circle the wagons."

Vaclav nods once. "You can't shoot for shit-" the big corporal notes with an even look. "But I have never seen a better gunner's mate." Blue eyes fixed on Lind's for those words, expression grave, lest any levity be suspected. Looking away then, he snorts and voices on the latter subject, "Courage and conviction will sustain a true solider." A pause.. "But bullets fucking well help." A slow shake of his head. "The Republican arsenal should have long ago been in the hands of the soviet quartermasters.. Instead, all the munitions they bring are handed to men who know not where to put them."

Rothschild smirks. It's the best he can do for a smile. "Yes. I'm here. Such as it is. Good to see you back in Madrid, too. Even if you do look a little worse for wear. What happened?" What got Marchand shot up, he no doubt means. "You and yours were on 'Suicide Hill' then? I've heard the story, if not the details."

Lind most certainly isn't insulted. "Can't be good at everything," she says with a lopsided smile. "And don't get me wrong, comrade. I am as convicted as ever. But as you say - bullets sure do help." In comparison to him, she doesn't add a curse to those words. "And better… transporting."

Vaclav corrects a small measure of Lind's french, "As 'convinced' as ever. Or as firm in your convictions. 'As convicted as ever' means you are going to prison," he notes idly, with a nod. "But you are right. Need better supply. Oh-" he adds, lowly, "And the truck is lost."

Marchand scratches an itch on his cheek. "Suicide Hill. Didn't know the name, but that definitely fits." He tries to smile, but it doesn't really manage to pass. "We were surrounded. I was manning a machine gun captured from the Germans, with the Swedish model party member…" He pauses to grin, eyes obviously giving a look to Lind in good humor, "assisting. She did really good helping out." Then back to Rothschild. "Anyways, that painted a target on my gun arm. Even afterwards, I managed to lead with the corporal…" a nod over to Vaclav, "An assault on a fascist machine gunner that was firing up at us from between the hill and the road. We took them on, hand-to-hand and bayonet to bayonet, nearly out of ammunition." A firm nod. "We managed to overrun it. All the bastards, German-looking as well as Moros, were fought off so we could break free when the order came."

"Convinced," Lind repeats, memorizing the slight change to the word that gets an entirely different meaning. She sighs, hearing that the truck is lost. "That is bad. But we are alive, to fight another day. Will we get another truck?"

"Don't know yet," Vaclav rumbles in reply. "Send requisition for munitions.. Have heard no answer yet." A short toss of his head, "But the answer would go to Comrade Captain O'Callaghan. Not to a corporal who can't fight." Overhearing that last snippet of Marchand's conversation, his blue regard shifting to the two americans, the czech raises his voice to interject sharply (lapsing again into curt english), "They were Wehrmacht. Not look German- Were."

Rothschild's gaze follows Marchand's when he mentions Lind. He can't help but blink at the young woman. He's seen more than a few female soldiers knocking around the brigades, of course, but it still takes him aback. "Model party member…" he mutters under his breath, with a slight shake of his head. He clears his throat, frowning at the rest of Marchand's account. "At least you got out of there. Is it bad?" He gestures to Marchand's sling.

"Well, we have nothing now so if they want to send us out we have to get /something/," Lind murmurs. She follows Vaclav's gaze towards the two Americans and she turns a friendly smile in their direction, nodding at them. "Hello, comrades." She squints at Rothschild, recognizing him from somewhere.

Marchand furrows his brows first, hearing the words of the corporal. "Wehrmacht. Germany Regulars?" and blinks, having to rub the right eye again. "Are we officially at war, Spain that is, with Germany now?" His head turns to crane, intent on an answer. In the mean time he responds to the fellow American. "You can take a look at it. Bullet in the arm, bullet in the hand. Bayonet sliced pretty deep into the hand as well. But I think I won't be losing it."

William enters the newly rebuilt aid station, as a replacement from the devastated British battalion in the International Brigades. It would appear they are just folding in the units to boost much needed manpower. He looks around for the Corporal in charge, who he was told to report to for reassignment. Clearing his throat, he calls out in a typical British accent, "Comrade Corporal… uh.. Va… Vaclav?" It is apparent that he has trouble with the name.

Vaclav nods curtly once to Lind, eyes going back shortly to the americans. Gritting his teeth, and raising himself up onto a healthy elbow, to answer Marchand with another nod, repeating, "Wehrmacht. Official or not, I not care-" Turning his narrowed regard toward the newcomer, who is trying to call out his name. "Corporal Vaclav Hagen," he voices shortly. "Here, Comrade. You butcher fascists as well as you butcher names?" Frowning as he speaks so, and eyeing William, the horribly torn solider waits for reply.

No Parasan

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The Grid > > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Coordinates : 8 2

Off to one side of the busy road there is a makeshift aid station, a small grouping of tents. A steady flow of minor and major injuries are brought here from all around Madrid. The Republic's medical facilities are as stretched as its military ones.
It is currently night time.

The medical attention of the hour is the corporal's left leg. All the other hurts have at least stabilized, and while Vaclav's torso will be a colorful tapestry of scars, it's the leg that remains troublesome. Every time the bandages are changed (as at present) the injuries start bleeding fresh, leading to curses on behalf of patient and doctors alike. It's been stitched and sutured, and all that remains now is for more time. Thus, the frowning czech sits upright on his cot, arms crossed, reading over one of the pamphlets Konstantinov had left for the fortieth time. It's enough to make one's eyes cross.

Lind has actually been relieved but isn't put back into the fray of combat before tomorrow. But she can leave the tent if she wants, and she has for a moment. She slipped off earlier and is now returning with a content expression on her face. Pausing to watch Vaclav from the entrance for a moment, she then shoots a quick look around before quietly walking over to him. "Hello, Comrade," she says with a smile. "How're you doing?"

"Comrade," Vaclav greets back, looking up with a faint frown that lessens after a moment. Closing the pamphlet, as setting it on the cot beside him, the corporal rumbles, "Will be better when I can walk again.. Could get a decent drink. Or at least a bad drink that passes for decent here." A short sniff, before adding later, "Well. I'm doing well. You? Your arm is good? Head is good?" Blue eyes take in Lind's condition, noting, "New uniform.. Good. Last one was dirty." The edge of a faint dry smile tugs at his expression with those last words.

Lind pulls a chair up close to his bed and takes a seat. She glances around again, as if not wanting anyone to look their way. Reason why? She pulls out a bottle from under her coat and smuggles it over in under Vaclav's blanket. "My headache is almost gone. Arm is healing well," she says. She pokes at a hole in the uniform. "Clean, yes, but I need to…" She can't remember the French word for sewing, so she shrugs and gives Vaclav a sheepish smile. The bottle is Spanish, hard to tell what it is - cognac, perhaps. It's not wine, at least.

A tight, brief curl of the corporal's lip at the spotted bottle. Suggesting aloud to the absent word, "Reparer?" with a low rumble. Frowning again as he eyes thier surroundings, Vaclav grits his teeth a bit and leans to one side to pick up the canteen that had sat nearby untouched since his arrival. "I don't read spanish.. you?" he queries, turning a blue eye back to Lovisa. Whatever her answer he adds, with a dryly amused snort, "Only one way to see what that bottle says.. Pour it in," he instructs after tipping the canteen sharply upward to gulp the last stale mouthful of water from the vessel, then holding it low toward Lind.

"Oui, reparer," Lovisa says with a quick nod. "And I only know a little Spanish. Can't read it very well," she admits. She leans closer and takes the bottle with undetermined booze, to cover their sneaky actions from view as she pours the bottle into the canteen. "A friendly civilian wanted to give it to me when hearing of the plight of the wounded," she explains with a bit of a mischievous smile. "It's for the cause." Hey, it is!

Vaclav sniffs back, though in place of the typical frown, a tight smirk lingers on the czech's expression. "A good patriot, this civilian. The only proper action is to communalize such assets. Therefore, you must share it with me." Eyeing the bottle as Lind pours- if it looks full, he'll have to send some around to the others of the company, later..

"The best of patriot," Lind agrees. She doesn't get all of the bottle into the canteen and has to tuck it away in hiding. "So, taste it," she says, now very curious. "You first. If it kills you, I'll know not to drink it."

Vaclav laughs curtly aloud once. "If it kills me, that was no patriot.. it was a fascist spy, and this is not drink, it is arsenic.." Drawing the canteen to his lips and taking a swift, short drink of the stuff, the czech tastes the stuff for a moment, before swallowing, and drawing a fresh breath..

Lind watches Vaclav intently and almost holds her breath in anticipation. "So?" she asks encouragingly, smiling hopefully. "Can we drink it? Or should I get the rifle and go find the fascist that try to kill us with bad drink?"

Vaclav's lip curls upward again, "Stand down, Comrade," he rumbles with the short grin. "It's good enough." The canteen is passed to the scandinavian. "This civilian was a true patriot after all. Drink," he voices, before adding, "To our bretheran, to the Cause, and to the Workers of Spain."

Lind isn't much of a drinker, but she's not going to tell anyone. "To the cause," she agrees. She accepts the bottle with a bright smile and lifts it up for a big gulp. It is quickly lowered and she has to wheeze, eyes watering.

One brown brow climbs at the gulp taken, and a low rumbling chuckle stirs in Vaclav's chest as he reaches with his nearer (and intact) left hand to take the canteen back as Lovisa wheezes for a moment. "To the cause," he echoes, taking a second swallow, blue eyes still on the afflicted Lind. "Best thing about such drink- if the trucks run dry, they can run on the stuff."

Lind wipes her eyes and coughs a few times to clear her throat. "Strong," she says coarsely, then clears her throat again, looking back at Vaclav. "But it warms," she admits, with a little sigh. "Where are you from?" she then asks abruptly.

"Pilsen, in the free country of Czechoslovakia," Vaclav returns without pause or confusion. The canteen is offered to Lind for a second swallow, before he replaces the cap. "At the foot of the Sudety mountains, near the Bavarian border. Not far west of Prague." Regard still on the swede he returns, "You?"

Lind listens attentively and she nods. She seems to have an idea of where that is in Czechoslovakia, not an uneducated woman. "I am from Sweden. A bit north of the middle of the country, from a small town called Kramfors." She does accept the bottle again and takes a smaller sip, managing to not either wheeze or cough this time as she's now prepared. It's promptly handed back and she doesn't protest that it's being closed up. "It's wood country. Saw mills everywhere."

Vaclav nods once to the answer. "I don't know it," he rumbles to the name of the town. "You've come a long way to spain.. must think it funny to hear all the comrades complaining of the cold, hrm?" A short sniff of amusement, before his expression sinks into stoicism again. He draws a breath, but pauises in it's speaking, opting for silence instead.

Lind grins at him at that. "It's actually rather cold in the nights. But not like home, no," she says. "But you get cold weather in Czechoslovakia too, don't you? Anyway… it is just a small town. But even there, the fascists were active."

Vaclav nods once, and then again. "Yes. Not so much as Sweden, I think, but it gets cold." A slowly drawn breath, through the nose as he rumbles quietly, "This fascist poison seeps everywhere." A snort, "But after this, there will be many thousand less fascists," a tight smirk again tugs at his gravity.

"What will you do… after the war?" Lind speaks quietly, a near whisper. And she noticeably doesn't say 'when we've won the war'. It's not a conscious exclusion of words, but still a testimony to growing doubts.

Vaclav pauses a moment at the quiet question. Something he has'nt considered in quite some time. "Go back home. I worked in the Skoda factory, before.. But not again." A pause. "Join Czech Army, probably. Be ready to fight off the germans.. They will come, but they will lose. My country is much stronger than they think.. The army is very modern. Tanks, planes, artillery.. And the strongest border fortresses in europe."

Lind's eyes widen at him. The attack of Germans, though she's seen it herself here, is a bit daunting on her. "I'll go back home too. I can't be in an army there, but there are volunteery organisations and there's the communist party… I will have so much to do." She actually smiles at the prospect.

"Tell me," Vaclav prompts with a nod, head canting to a very slight angle as he regards the woman, "Tell me what work you will have to do, in the party. Back home." For a wonder, the corporal's manner is'nt scowling, or angry. It could'nt be accurately called warm, but the typical frown has faded into something of a more neutral expression.

"The workers in Sweden had a hard time before I left, I don't think it's much better now. We were organizing strikes, protest marches, we were recruiting… I'll go back doing that again. And there's so many that need help, that are poor and who needs someone to fight for them…" Lind stops, hesitating. She glances around at all the wounded. "I never thought I would be here, carrying a rifle, fighting like this. I thought that we could make people see without violence. It doesn't work like that, does it?"

Vaclav's blue eyes narrow, in a small frown. "No, wars do not work like that.." The puzzled frown deepens. "What did you expect, comrade- if not fighting? Fascists with guns are not often moved by marches and protests.." Something in her words has rather puzzled the corporal.

"I thought, that they'd see their own people march for their freedom and they'd see that… that there was…" Lind falters there, staring helplessly at Vaclav. "And that people from all over the world supported them… Vaclav, what if we lose? What will happen to the people?"

"These are not thier own people," Vaclav rumbles quietly, levelly in reply. "These are muslim killers, and greedy spaniards who forsook thier nation in pursuit of power. These are germans and italians, come to murder honest workers and make a new class of slaves." At the latter half of her quiet inquiry, Vaclav draws a slow breath and looks away. "If the fascists take control of the country, they will begin by murdering the government workers. And the leaders. Then they will murder the union leaders, and any man who wore badges of rank against them." A slowly drawn breath, as the czech's narrow regard comes back upon the woman. "That is why we can't lose-" He pauses, realizing something. "Comrade, what is your first name?"

Lind isn't a defeatist but she's not stupid either, now that the glow of the communist fanaticism has faded somewhat. She swallows and nods at Vaclav, taking those words in with a grim manner. His abrupt personal question, much like her earlier similar question to him, takes her by surprise. "Lovisa," she tells him.

Vaclav nods slowly, once. "Lovisa," he echoes, his words quiet, and even, "The world will not suffer such evils as fascism. Why they are not here already, I do not know.. But they will come. Whatever victories our enemies gain, will only be thier undoing.. For with every honest worker who dies.. every brave brother in arms who is slain, the others will see: they will see that a fascist victory in Spain would spread.. would threaten thier doors one day. They will see what comrades from Kramfors, and Pilsen already know: that the front lines of freedom are here. We must not lose."

Lind is the one that tries all the time to inspire others, but this time, she is the one needing it. And his words take effect, making her smile again, the spark of conviction returning to her eyes. "We must not lose," she echoes him. "Let's drink to that, hmm?" she suggests, turning the serious topic to more lighthearted manners.

Vaclav's expression turns in a tight smile, "To that, I will drink again," A short sniff of amusement, adding, "So cold in this spanish weather, that you need drink to warm again?" as he uncaps the canteen and offers it, prompting the rallying cry of Madrid as a toast, "No pasaran."

"It might be my last drink ever. No pasaran," Lind says, taking the flask for another sip. At least she's not chugging the booze down, like some would. The canteen is promptly returned to him. "Will you really be alright this time? Your leg… I know it is not healing well."

Vaclav snorts once, tossing his head, as he takes a short sip, before returning the stopper. "It looks worse than it is. Doctors stopped talking about cutting it off, so that's good. Will be fine." A tight grin tugs at his expression. "I wonder if the fascists think they killed me. See thier faces to come back.." Wonder of wonders, a short chuckle accompanies the sentiment.

Nowakowski is up and moving about again. His chest still bandaged up a bit, he is able enough to work at the stove, much to the relief of the Brigade. A few days of hash and gruel is enough to make even the most hardened man give in. Shrugging aside pats and sly jeers, the Cook is back at it again, churning a pot of fresh stew, at least it'll be something warm for the bellies of the wounded.

"I don't think you can die," Lovisa says with a broad smile his way. She sniffs the air. "Do you smell food?" she says dubiously, "or did I drink too much already?"

"Hrm," Vaclav rumbles to that first, a dry smirk tugging at his expression. "Maybe not-" Turning after Lind does, and drawing a deep breath through his nose, the corporal mutters, "No.. I smell cooking." A short glance toward where Nowakowski had lately been laid up, to see another man in the cot. "Hah! Russian is back."

Plans for a Raid

Aid Station
================================================================================
The Grid THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Coordinates : 8 2

Off to one side of the busy road there is a makeshift aid station, a small grouping of tents. A steady flow of minor and major injuries are brought here from all around Madrid. The Republic's medical facilities are as stretched as its military ones.
It is currently night time.

Marchand stirs, looking up from a paper for a moment. He grimaces and rubs his right arm where it's bandaged, the right hand still very bandaged as well.

Vaclav lays back on his cot. The creaky wooden wheelchair nowhere to be seen as the corporal tries without much luck to get a couple hours of shut eye. Letting out a terse breath and giving up for the moment, blue eyes crack open, frowning.

Lind has kitchen duty for a few days, aiding Nowakowski. Lots of chopping of this and stirring and whatever else that Nowakowski tells her to do. Now she's here to get food to the wounded however, bringing in a large iron pot that steams, some kind of hot stew being on the menu together with bread.

Marchand rubs his eyes as he sits up straighter. "Food." There's a slight groan, working the muscles of his neck and the joints of the spine for a moment with movements of his head. "Smells good." and manages a small smile.

Nowakowski seems to be the king of the mountain these days. Though with the food shortages, rationing has become much more evident. The best of foods go to the wounded of course. Most of the soldiers on the front get whatever is left, and are left to forage for whatever else they want to supplement their diet with. The Russian cook presides over a pair of stewpots, each bubbling with a morass of ingredients, some better left unsaid.

William sits back on a crate, stomping in rhythm with a few American Brigadiers playing some blues. He is enjoying his rest and taking advantage of a lack of military action to reduce the combat stress. Some odd reason he seemed to like the blues music very much, maybe due to the Depression or just that it just seems like watching the world go by and just plain chilling. Along with them, he howls some lyrics out.

Vaclav mutters wordlessly under his breath, bracing both hands on either side of the cot, to hike himself up into sitting upright, teeth clenched. An eye and ear are turned toward William and his comrades in rhythm, but the czech says nothing to encourage or interrupt. "Comrade," is rumbled toward MArchand, as the american is among those nearer. *Sniff* Yup.. food.

Lind sets the large pot down on a table near the entrance to the tent and then begins to spoon up into bowls, while another kitchen-aid is moving about giving out pieces of bread to the wounded. Lovisa turns a smile upon those in the tent. "You all hungry?" she asks of everyone, speaking English. "Nowakowski has done it again. It tastes wonderful."

William looks up and quickly stop singing as food arrives! Yes, food is the key to getting his attention. He quickly stands up, and heads into the quickly developing line. Of course, they are serving those who can't walk first, but it would be smart to get in line anyways.

Marchand offers a simple nod back to Vaclav in response. "Comrade corporal." He turns to where the pot of stew's been brought by Lind. "Yes, thank you."

Vaclav nods curtly to Marchand, before turning his own attentions toward the food-bringer. Yes, putting more people on KP was definitely one of Nowakowski's better ideas. "Hrm," he rumbles, nodding to Lind's inquiry. Adding aloud, with a small shake of his head, "When we are eating our own boot leather, Comrade Nowakowski will manage to make it smell good," he decides aloud, with a sniff od flat amusement.

The bowls are handed out by Lind and the other kitchen 'volunteer', together with spoons. She's been generous, the bowls are filled to the brim. "Hush you," she tells Vaclav as she brings his bowl over, setting it down next to his bed. "He'll hear you and you'll only eat old bread from now on."

Nowakowski bustles about in his makeshift kitchen, built in the ruins of an old house. Stews and soups seem to be the easiest, and the tastiest. Perhaps if he could take another under his wing for instruction, somewhat hardier meals could be in order, Steak perhaps? Regardless, the cook does his best, sprinkling some herbs and spices into the fresh concoction.

Marchand lifts a spoon, scooping up the cook's preparation and lifting it to his mouth. Not speaking much while eating, he does manage a "The rest of the fellows still in the Jarama?" as he looks around to see if anyone can answer.
William continues waiting in line, with his mess kit.

"What?" Vaclav returns to Lind's light scolding. "Was good thing. Not want to eat foul smelling boot leath.." the czech mutters, curt manner of speech intact despite the very faint look of amusement which interrupts his frowning. It has passed by the time he mutters, "Thank you," with a short nod, accepting the full bowl in his left hand. A sidelong look to Marchand, and a curt nod. "Yes. Artillery hitting trenches. Wire going up."

"Oh, I misunderstood," Lind says, smiling sheepishly at Vaclav. Is that a blush? She hurries off, making sure that the rest who're waiting in line gets food. She nods at William, spooning up a large portion for him. "I liked the music," she tells him, having noticed that he was sitting with the musicians earlier. She looks curiously at him as if expecting him to explain more about it.

William smiles at Lind. "I like it too. In America, they call it the blues. The Negros came up with it; they seem to have the talent for music. With the Depression going on, it's a wonderful way for people to express themselves." He takes in the smells and sights. "I cannot play the instruments, but I can howl as well as the rest of them."

Marchand lifts a brow at something William says, but just slurps the stew intead of saying anything to comment. He continues eating, finally muttering in Vaclav's direction. "May their hearts prevail. That place seems cursed."

"Oh, blues… I've heard about it," Lovisa says with a nod, looking curiously over at the muscicians. She spoons up food for the next person in line. "Music is cheering us up." She shoots a glance at Vaclav. "Well, most of us anyway."

Zale is probably just sitting around somewhere in the mess hall or kitchen or whatever, with numerous bandages covering one arm, one leg, and his head. Just enough to hopefully stop any bleeding. He's eating what remains of his stew.

William chuckles as he follows Lind's eyes to the Comrade Corporal. "Well, I guess the Corporal cannot let us see his human side," he whispers, winking at Lind. He sips some of the stew. Yummy, sodium and electrolytes and all that goodie for some hard workin' soldiers.

Vaclav regards Lind at the swede's apology with a small shake of his head. As she steps away he waits a moment before looking back to Marchand, offering by way of eloquence a rumbled, "Hrm!" Eating for a moment, soaking the dry and slightly stale bread in the stew to soften it, and chewing before commenting further, "Will be push soon. Fascists will try to take road. Cut off Madrid."

Marchand looks up to Lovisa and nods to that person. "Blues aren't quite the same as jazz. Jazz can be lively, fast and good dancing. Blues …aren't quite the same."

William scoffs as Vaclav says something about Fascists trying to take the road. "We will slaughter them as we have done so before, Comrades," he says nudging himself into the conversation with the Comrade Corporal and Comrade Marchand.

William chuckles at Marchand. "Unfortunately we hardly have the instruments for jazz music. Unless we use our mouths as brass?" He tries to use his mouth as a trumpet, blaring out a couple tunes.

"Slaughter is not enough," Vaclav rumbles curtly, turning to eye William. "Company slaughtered the Fascists at Boadilla. We slaughtered the Fascists at Suicide Hill. They have fallen by dozens and hundreds… Yet still they hold these places. They will come, and be slaughtered.. But we must throw them back, comrade."

William hmms a bit at Vaclav. "Well, Comrade Corporal, they will eventually run out of men to send." He grins, hoping to encourage the Corporal, but the Corporal most likely needs no encouragement. Maybe it would make the others feel better though.

Marchand speaks quietly after Vaclav rumbles the comment. "We have to keep the Spanish worker's heart in this war. Right now, it's the fascists that have the outside support. Only only chance is for the ordinary laborer, peasant, factory worker to spread resistance."

William sighs as Marchand's pragmatic response makes him think. Yes, the enemy has outside support while we have little. He crosses his arms. "So, has the majority of Spaniards taken up the cause of defending their country and government from the rebel Nationalists?" It is asked as a real question, to gain more information about the current situation.

Lind listens to the conversations in silence. She looks at Vaclav with a serious expression, then looks away and concentrates on her work, patiently filling bowls with stew. It's soon enough empty though and she directs the rest of the people in the queue to another pot over near Nowakowski.

Vaclav states simply, "Not know. See only the Company and Brigade. Resistance strong in Catalonia. With Basques, also. " Frowning he voices next, "They will rise. We show them victory, they take heart, and they will rise. And Europe will follow."

Marchand quietly pauses to spoon more of the stew, shallowing. He gives a nod to what Vaclav states, and adds to William. "Spain is not one people, on homogenized nation. Catalonia, Asturia, the overseas colonies. Each group has its own interest, and not all of them place their allegiance with the elected Republic." The American draws up a breath to sigh. "It's clear the coup has support in the African colonies and the Canary Islands. They seem to have support in the south, because they were able to smash through there so fast with Guards units turning to support them." He nods then back over to William. "But here, and in the North, the Republic has support. And in the East."

William looks grim now, contrasted to his more cheerful appearance before. "I don't think it is right that the majority of Spanish people would sit on their butts and not fight when so much is at stake. And ditto for the rest of Europe and Americas. Hopefully our continued fight will inspire them to fight alongside us." He gulps down another mouthful of stew.

William nods at what Marchand says, adding it into his cultural intelligence databank in his brain. "I see."

Nowakowski dosen't really pay all that much attention to political talk. Afterall, if you appear a-political, people are less likely to shoot you. Nevertheless, the Cook does his best. Bending down, he pulls a few potatoes from his ever shrinking supply, picking up a knife and beginning to peel, resting his tush on an old oil drum as he listens to the banter.

Lind gets her own bowl of food. Ever since she met Vaclav she's been very sure of getting food whenever she could and not give it to someone else. She moves to sit down near his bed on the usual chair, leaning back and resting for a bit and enjoying the meal.

Marchand swallows a spoonful. "I don't have much of an idea what's really going on." He tries to manage a smile. "So many of the local newspapers support the Repubic and the PCE so strongly, it's hard to find the actual results of battles."

"Hrm!" Vaclav repeats, with a sniff, and frown. "We do our part. Others do thier part. Cause will prevail." Another bite of bread quickly swallowed, as the czech's regard shifts to Lovisa as the other nears. Back to the others, he states, "For now, our part is holding Jarama valley. Keeping road open. Stop bleeding, and get out to kill more fascists."

Nowakowski finishes peeling the potatoes, cutting them into quarters and dropping them into the bubbling stew to simmer. The cook wipes his hands on a well-used rag, tucking it into his belt as he steps outside. The Russian spies Vaclav, turning to make his way towards him, "Comrade Corporal, About the food supplies…"

Yuri walks in from southern path, with a german rifle of Kar98k and looks the surroundings he walks inside the aid station and looks for the officer whom he was sent to report… "Greetings Comrades. I am looking for Officer Vaclav…"

Vaclav turns his blue regard toward the russsian as Nowakowski makes his way closer. "Comrade Nowakowski," he aknowledges. "What of supplies? You had word?" he queries bluntly. At the arrival of another, he raises his voice to bark out, "Here! Come and wait moment," before looking back at Nowa, to hear the cook's answer.

Nowakowski nods, "Yes, it's getting worse. We will be down to hard tack and gruel within two days. That stew used up the last of the fresh food, the rest is rotten and being eaten by rats… we need resupply or else I am afraid we will be forced to lay into the pack horses and donkeys."

Marchand chuckles hearing the cook's words and Vaclav's reply. "The cook is the backbone of the infantryman. Make him disgruntled, and victory in battle won't feel nearly so good in the belly." He motions Yuri towards Vaclav with a wave.

Lind uses some bread to wipe up the last of her stew from the bowl. Setting it aside, swallowing the last and washing it down with water, she turns a quick smile at Vaclav, then turns attention on Nowakowski in sudden alartness,.

Yuri nods and walks twards vaclav as he calls out for him, he gives a fist salute and waits their conversation to end.

"Two days," Vaclav echoes frowning. "How long on gruel, hardtack?" Not that the notion is an appetizing one, but it helps to know these things.. Blue eyes tick more narrow, expression stern as he considers quietly.

William frowns at hearing that this would be the last fresh meal the unit will be having until resupply. "Great." He now sips slowly and in smaller quantities, in an effort to enjoy whatever he had left before it would not be offered for however long it may be.
Fritz Yakov has connected.

Nowakowski rolls his eyes up a little, doing some calculations. "About four days, a week if we went to half rations… maybe two if we went on quarter rations. Normally we have more, but they have been using the gruel foodstuffs to feed the horses and such.."

"We should raid for supplies," Lind suggests, continuning her trail of thought from yesterday. "THe fascists need to eat too. Can we get information of their supply runs from somewhere?"

William looks into the barrel where Nowakowski is dumping the potato skin. "Oh, wonderful." He pulls out potato skin from the barrel and dumps them into his metal mess bowl. Potato skins, baked, will be a nice aftermeal snack.

Marchand grimaces a little. "Or…" and he takes a breath, "We could return to the Jarama River with nets, and draw them across it with ropes to harvest some of what's left. It's winter, so the fish would be deep, in the holes." He nods, "Just target them. Dynamite will work if the nets don't."

Vaclav frowns deeper and nods. "Hrm. Rail lines.." he muses under his breath. "Someone! Paper. And pencil." Voice raised to carry, before dropping back to more curt conversational levels to voice, "Will see how sloppy Fascist supply lines are. If not. Send word to MAdrid, before go fishing," he looks toward Marchand adding, "Fascists have crossed river. Catch a Moro before catching a fish."

Fritz Yakov Is mostly listening, while helping Nowa cut the potatoes up. 'Yes, lets advertise our problems with explosive fishing. In fact, let me go politely ask the Fascists for food, so they can confirm we are low..' He Muttered loudly to him self in English before resuming his rant in German. ' In fact, I suggest we resort to cannibalism, as the french are the most well fed and wined, we eat him first..'

Phillip walks back to where he belongs, pausing some to stare at Fritz. Oh yes, he understood that quite well. Yet, he knows better than to speak.

Marchand chuckles. "Let the Fascists think it was the start of an offensive. Explosions rumbling in the distance. Demoralizing, maybe?" then sighs. "But corporal is right. The dynamite must be saved for using against the Germans sent to fight for the generalissimo." He looks over to the Russian, Novakowski, "But in a choice between starving and fishing with dynamite, I know I won't go hungry. Always a chance a Moro's trying to swim across and infiltrate." A chuckle comes, "Though I think most of them can't swim."

Lind is on her feet immediately and rushes to find paper and a pencil. She returns with a little notebook and a short pencil, which she hands over, pulling the chair up closer so she can look at what Vaclav will do now.

Nowakowski smirks a little at Fritz, shaking his head. "Best I can think of is a raid. Either that or send wagons into countryside for rations, farmers always have things lying around, find empty farmhouse and look for food…"

Phillip ahs some clearing his throat. Even so he speaks quietly. "I have a cart of meat." he whispers to Nowa. "I butchered it earlier…it is…horse." He points over to a small cart, one that has a ton of sawdust and ice in it, but beyond that he leaves it up to the Cook to speak.

Fritz Yakov Pats his Machinegun solidly at the mention of raiding, or looting. 'Yes Comrade, of course. The French smell terrible, you are correct.. Perhaps we shall find perfume for him in the farmer's hands..and I can..appropriate it.' He grinned broadly, now they had Fritz dead set on looting people.

Vaclav shakes his head to Nowa, "No farmers. Ground only grows rocks, brush and thyme." A short nod, and muttered thanks as Lind provides the paper. The writing is ugly, but legible. 'Cpt. Probe Nat. lines, possable supply raid. Req: driver to accompany squad. Will have list of suitable comrades for approval, if permitted. Require answer haste. Cpl VH'

William intentionally mishears Phillip. "I'm sorry, did you say you butchered whores for meat?" It is an attempt on humor, apparently. Even if crude.

Marchand frowns a little and grumbles, "Great way to get the People on your side. Downtrodden peasants aren't exactly getting fat. Why not follow the example set by the Carlists and steal from them…." He looks away, not letting the others see his expression formed on the face.

Phillip looks at William, raising a single eyebrow. The british, they are so strange. Even so, he smiles and then shakes his head. "Non." Is all the legionnaire says.

Fritz Yakov Grunts a bit, and looks upset that he isn't allowed to loot any thing. 'I suppose raiding their supply lines is better then fishing with explosives…besides..we can question that young Fascist..Konrad..he'd surely know where his food comes from..'

Yuri Hrms and nods his head to Fritz, "That actually might work." he says, "The supply road shouldnt be too far away from here…"

Nowakowski nods towards Fritz, "Best thing that's come out of him all day." he comments in Russian to Vaclav, "And search their dead, they will have some rations on them as well."

Phillip blinks some…not quite sure that he likes the idea of dishonoring the vanquished dead. Shaking his head slowly, the young man slowly backs up, keeping clear of the conversation while close enough to still hear.

Marchand sighs, still looking away. "Wish we had a vehicle to get out there. A truck, armoured car, something. Hard to carry a load of supplies back if the truck you intercept gets damaged from a long battle." He looks then to the corporal. "The driver would likely try to speed away. You need something to stop the truck."

William pipes up, "And maybe they will have extra clothing and medical supplies…" He grins evilly. "They won't be needin' any of it."
William hmms at Marchand. "Probably we might be able to trick um' into stopping somehow?"

Vaclav snorts once, as he signs the bottom of the dispatch, "Comrade Yakov- If you were asked by enemy to tell what times supply trucks come from Madrid, would you know?" A short shake of his head. "Prisoner will know nothing. We look ourself." A nod to Nowakowski, "The dead will be useful. I'll pass that on to O'Callaghan for official policy.." Lapsing back to English he rumbles, "We need to take enemy truck intact. Driver go with squad, take truck loaded. Follow rail tracks back."

Yuri shakes his head to marchand, "A well placed tree blockade will not damage the truck. We can just stop the truck dead with two trees blocking the way." he says…

Fritz Yakov Smirks a bit at the corporal. 'Yes Comrade, I would tell them, we are fueled by Communist fury, and we have never seen food..' He chuckles softly to him self, but realizes he may not make others as happy. 'Comrade Vaclav, may I have permission to accompany brave expedition?' He Asks, now in Russian, trying to keep every one guessing at what langauge he'll use next.

Marchand gives a nod to Yuri. "Good idea. Now all we need is an axe, or saw. Using dynamite would raise alarms." He then adds, "I can drive a truck."

Phillip speaks up, this time so he can be heard now. "Mon Corporal…" (no comrade? He's not used to it yet) "I am a…" pausing, he seeks the word before saying. "Grenadier? How do you say it…demolitions?"

"What makes a fascist truck driver stop if not using force?" Lind asks thoughtfully, looking around at the others.

Marchand nods then to Lind. "You would have to cut off his retreat with another tree felled. It must be a point on the road where it's too thick for him to drive off and bypass the roadblocks."

William turns his head at Lind. "Perhaps a beautiful woman? Around them, men think with their penises, but not with their heads." It is another attempt at humor. Gosh darn, he has to work on it!

Fritz Yakov looks up at William, and suddenly grins. 'William, that my friend is the most capital idea ever..' He Says in English. 'We just need to have Lind scantily clad, and laying in the road, pretending she has a twisted Ankle..' He Nods to him self. 'Then as the idiot Fascist gets out..we'll just shoot him dead..'

Yuri hrms, "I think one of the farmers around should have at least one axes or something we can use as an axe. They use wood to heat themselves at winter you know." he says, "We can borrow one or two. The second one will not be needing silent cover a dynamite or a satchel charge may work out." he says to marchand.

Marchand grins, "Most likely, the driver will check his wallet to see how many pesos he has to afford her." and winks from where he's seated. A nod, then, to Yuri's words.

Phillip reaches out at William's comment, smacking the back of the man's head for suggesting they make use of Lind in a very un gentlemanly manner. He doesn't however say a word, expecting William to know WHY he was smacked.
William grins at Fritz. "I never said the female Comrade would do it. She's probably not pretty enough?" He winks at Lind.

Lind looks sharply at the suggestions. THen she frowns thoughtfully, and turns to Vaclav. "If there is no better idea, I will do it. But it has to look believable."

William 's cap falls to the ground as he is smacked in the head. "Ouch." He bends down to pick it up and turns to look at Feeleep. "Yeah, well, I only speak the truth." He says, grinning without blushing or embarrassment.

Vaclav scowls at William, with that, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing as he rumbles through gritted teeth, "Comrade Lind is a solider. And worthy of respect. NOT being spoken of as whore, or used as some common trollop." A sharp look to Yakov, and back again to William. "She has proved herself to this Company in way you have not, and such talk as yours ends now. Understood?"

Fritz Yakov Grins broadly and stands up, stretching. 'Comrade Lind, if you were to look like you were being beaten for not servicing a client, would it be a bit more believable? I'm not afraid of being shot by the Fascists..' He rambled on, despite Vaclav, apparently, formulating what for Fritz, is considered a complex idea.

Phillip blinks, leaning close to William to whisper in broken english. "What is a…trollop?"

William nods, then goes to attention and salutes Vaclav. "Of course, Comrade Corporal. I did not mean it that way. I apologize."

Marchand shakes his head a little, and keeps mum now. He turns it to regard Yuri, looking him over for a moment as he considers the man and the manner of his expression.

Lind just glares at Fritz Yakov and doesn't even answer. As Vaclav turns the idea down she looks relieved, but she wasn't lying; she'll do it if there's no better ideas. "Perhaps we should go back to other trails of thought," she suggests pleasantly, smiling again, not taking it to heart. "You were talking about logs over the road. Isn't that a bit obvious? It will force the truck to stop, but they'll also expect a trap."

Phillip raises his hand much like a child before speaking up. "There is a trick we were taught in the legion. A way to drop trees across a road to trap supply vehicles…if you wish Mon Corporal? I can elaborate?"

Fritz Yakov Grunts a bit, and takes his Machine gun, and throws it down with a heavy thump. 'Yes, of course, but what if we smash the log through the cabin of the Truck? I doubt a driver..would enjoy being smashed to death with a Log..would you?' He Says, grinning a bit.

Vaclav barks angrily at Fritz, "Are you afraid of being shot by me?" The volume of the sudden shout is such that even slow wits wont prevent the russo-german from hearing the corporal. Blue eyes fierce in thier stare, he adds an instant later. "Such talk ends NOW comrade!" Having made that point abundantly clear, he will wait for Yakov's aknowledgment before proceeding with the plans.

Fritz Yakov Snaps to attention, and snaps a salute to the Corporal. 'Yes Comrade Vaclav!'

Marchand takes a look back over to Vaclav for a moment, his own expression turning neutral. Then, hearing Phillip, he tilts his head and looks curiously over to him. "But Comrade Lind is correct. Anything obvious and they will suspect a trap. Good military supply lines don't have their trucks travelling alone. Either in a convoy, or with armoured cars in escort."

William picks up his mess cup that is filled to the brim with potato skins. "Boy, the Corporal isn't fun," he thinks to himself. "But it makes for excellent discipline." He notes not to make crude jokes anymore, as it is not funny to the Brigade. Lessons learned, right? He looks around, not looking embarrassed, and continues listening to the rest discuss ways of setting an ambush. As they speak, he takes mental notes, adding to his tactical repertiore.

Vaclav nods curtly, fixing his stare on Fritz for a moment longer before addressing the gathered wounded at large, "Comrades!" His temper is settling, but ire has not wholly been forgotten. "If this raid is approved- IF," he emphasizes, "We need kit ready immediately. Two woodcutting axes, Full squad, comrade MArchand as driver, and by all the Blood in Spain, it done WITHOUT pitched engagement. Stop truck, ambush escort, return to lines. No man who cannot manage to keep cover will go!"

Nowakowski raises an eyebrow at the corporal, "Woodcutting axes? Did I miss something?" he inquires. "You plan on driving the truck full of supplies back, yes?"

Fritz Yakov grunts, his idea is being ignored, he'll simply help bury more dead when the Supply Truck is cut to pieces by the Fascist Convoy Escorts.

Phillip ahs some and then smiles. "Non. there is an easier way." he says speaking up now, trying to explain or be heard. "You cut the tree halfway through, then place a small charge, perhaps a one minute fuse and when the truck approaches, the tree falls upon the vehicle or before it. It is so simple, even a German could do it." having said that he grins at Fritz. No, he doesn't mean anything by that…"

Marchand gives a firm nod when Marchand as driver is mentioned. "Where is Comrade Jason, who fought in the Great War too? He is skilled in demolitions and combat engineering. I'm sure he could rig up something."

Phillip coughs some, looking to Marchand. "I…I am a sappeur." still he leaves it at that.

Fritz Yakov Looks up at Marchand, and then retrieves his machine gun, and leaning on it. 'I will not be accompanying them, unless they decide to destroy the armoured cars..'

"Comrade Drensby is dead," Vaclav voices evenly to Marchand's query, before nodding to Nowa's words. "Yes, comrade. Drive full truck back. If Comrade Captain approve raid."

Lind is turning quiet again, as the plans are formulating. But her determined expression suggests that she'll be one of those going if the plans are approved.

Phillip just listens some and then ahs before looking at Vaclav. There is so much he needs to ask the man, but some of the other soldiers have said things like gruff, grumpy, and claim that he shot the last person who asked him a question. This worries the legionnaire, causing him to consider getting the czech drunk before asking his questions. Then again, he could ask Marchand, since he doesn't trust the british either.

Marchand offers, "Oh" softly, nodding to the statement Phillip makes. "A French sapper. If you have the training, you are better at it than me." bowing his head slightly. As to Fritz Yakov's statement. "The key is patience. Waiting and not attacking the armoured car in the lead, but keeping silent, and hidden, and felling the tree when a lone truck, a straggler, is spotted near the end." He takes a breath then, his expression not alltogether as confident in the plan as his words. His eyes lower a bit as the corporal explains the comrade's death. "He served well." is his only spoken response, but his expression is downcast.

Phillip thinks some more as he stands there and nods. "Oui. That is one way. Another is Caltrops."

Fritz Yakov Grunts, and shakes his head at Marchand. 'No, the key Comrade, is to blow the entire convoy up..then simply steal what we need and kill any fascists yet alive..we can both steal supplies..and keep them from getting any..'

"Will recieve word from Command, on this," Vaclav states curtly. "Until then! Comrades. Keep guns and full bullet kit. Fascist artillery in Jarama means fascist infantry behind. Be ready to do duty. Give Spain a victory."

Phillip looks around and then sighs. Walking over to Vaclav he clears his throat first to ask the Corporal something. He doesn't hem or haw about it but gets right to things. "Mon Corporal, this legionnaire has for you a question if you are willing to answer it for him. It is something bothering him for some time.

Marchand grunts, then looks to his right arm in the sling. "Wish my arm and hand were better so I could fire my rifle and not just hit air." It's muttered really to himself, fretting a bit. "I can drive if needed, though."

Lind glances at her rifle at that which is leaned up against her chair. One of the first thing she learnt was to keep her rifle close. It's also the third rifle she has since the beginning of the war so she's not done such a good job of it - but it's because it's been looted from her unconscious body in the past.

William checks his combat utility belt for the amount of rounds he has. "Eh ha…" he says to himself. Next, he checks his rifle. 3 rounds. He sits down on a nearby crate and dutifully reloads it.

William slings his rifle after reloading, and goes off to the quartermasters to procure some more ammunition. He leaves, taking his tin mess cup filled with potato skins with him. Those would be cooked later and shared with the comrades in the Company later on.

"Ask," Vaclav replies curtly to Phillip's polite manner of address. Frown still twisting his expression, from the discussion prior.

William opens the flap and steps out.

Phillip nods and then says clearly. "This legionnaire was wondering mon corporal, why it is that those of this brigade do address each other by the term…comrade." He hopes he says it right. "It was not such prior to my transfer from the French brigade, and thus the legionnaires there in. I have been told, that my training of addressing officers is wrong. Please mon corporal. Instruct this legionnaire how he may be a better soldier."

Fritz Yakov Comes back, several Drum clips hanging from his shoulder on a strap he has jury rigged. 'Comrades, if these fascists have .303 Munitions..I must demand we steal them..'

Marchand waits quietly, rubbing his arm in the sling and the bandaged hand.

Vaclav narrows his regard on Phillip, letting out a slow breath to reply flatly, "Because no one among us is greater than the others. We do not name each other by imperialist honorifics. No empty accolades. I am 'Comrade', or 'Comrade Corporal'. This is because the Comrade Captain chose me to take such place, to give order in his absence. Not because I greater than others; am still one among comrades. That is why."

Phillip ahs and then nods. "In the legion…" he says thoughtfully. "We are taught that everyone is equal. Even if you are but a legionnaire such as myself, or the highest general. You are still a legionnaire. I think, I understand. It will take some time for me to become accustomed to the ways, and for that allow this legionnaire to appologize should he irritate the corporal." Standing up he snaps to attention. "By your command?" meaning he needs dismissed.

Marchand mutters softly, "Sir comes from sieur, meaning Lord. We do not have aristocratic nobility sitting above the proletariat in a modern civilized nation of equals."

Lind gives Phillip an encouraging smile as he's asking Vaclav those questions. "We are glad you are here, comrade," she tells him. "We're all here for the cause. We've taken different roads to get here, and we're coming from different countries but we're united here in Spain under the red flag and we all fight the fascists. So, you are my comrade. And I am yours."

Phillip doesn't move. He actually can't until Vaclav dismisses him. Even so he does dart his eyes at Lind, making mental note to explain once he's finally dismissed.

Vaclav inclines his head to the frenchman's words. "Dismiss," he voices after a moment, before the czech looks aside to Marchand, and inclines his head again. "Well said, comrade." Looking then toward Lind at the swede's words to Phillip, the czech draws a breath and nods once more.

Phillip nods. "By your command, I am leaving." he says and turns on his heel. He doesn't go far really, just relaxes before smiling some at lind. "Merci mon…comrade." He figures he can modify much of what he was trained to be more effective."

Marchand nods to Vaclav's appreciation, then looks back to Phillip. "Mon comrade. Do not worry so much about the discipline of salutes and formal march. This is Spain, and we're a mix from a number of different home nationalities." He adds in French, "You'll do fine."

Phillip ahs some, looking at Marchand he reflexively quotes the creed. "Proud of your status as legionnaire, you display this in your uniform which is always impeccable, your behaviour always dignified but modest, your living quarters always clean…"

Marchand lazily smiles with a light shrug to what Phillip says, not saying anything to contradict the Frenchman. He remains in the chair, his right arm bandaged along with the hand.

Marchand falls back to sleep as the doctor makes his rounds. He goes quiet, eyes going vacant as if lost in thought before they close.

Just a Drink

Aid Station
================================================================================
The Grid > > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Coordinates : 8 2

Off to one side of the busy road there is a makeshift aid station, a small grouping of tents. A steady flow of minor and major injuries are brought here from all around Madrid. The Republic's medical facilities are as stretched as its military ones.
It is currently night time.

Nearly a full month after the stand on Suicide Hill, Vaclav has at last been reissued a fresh uniform. One of the charcoal grey outfits that came with the latest crates of russian arms and munitions. Buttoning up the shirt, and eyeing the shoulder placards that mark him as s corporal, the czech stands upright on his own for the first time in too long, and lets out a slow breath.

Lind has been assigned elsewhere for several weeks now and is only now returning to the aid station, a chance to see if familiar faces are still here. She's looking much the same but she's got a new uniform once more, this one fitting much better and with the freshness of not being used in /this/ war much yet. Seeing the Czech, she immediately smiles and just watches him from the entrance under silence.

Vaclav hobbles on his left leg, turning in place and frowning with the same gravity that has become typical of the czech's manner. Still bandaged up beneath the uniform, but looking greatly improved, the grim corporal takes a slow breath, and mutters a few low words to the nearby orderly. A first pair of hobbling steps carry Vaclav toward the south before narrowed blue eyes spy, "Comrade Lind," with a curt nod.

Lind might as well not have been gone, she meets him and takes up position on his left side, slipping into the habit of being his assistant. "Comrade Hagen," she replies quietly and warmly. "You're walking. No need of the wheelchair now, hmm?" she asks, chosing French to speak.

Vaclav sniffs once, before rumbling in french, "It would be wasteful to ignore any resources. The wheelchair can be well used to bear comrade Nowakowski's potatos." The words are spoken without letting hsi frown slip in the slightest, as Vaclav continues his slow, hobbling pace out of the Aid Station.

Lind stops smiling and watches him from the side, biting on her lip as if wanting to say something but holding it back for now. "I am glad to see you are recovering," she instead says, suddenly a bit reserved even if she's friendly. "Where are you going?"

Vaclav glances back sidelong at Lind, blue eyes narrowed and intent. "Hrm?" he rumbles under his breath, at something. Looking back to the road ahead he answers after another moment. "Stretching legs. Stopping there.." a motion of his tightly wrapped hand toward La Tasca. "Promised a drink in Madrid, remember?"

Lind gives him a surprised look, mixed with some confusion. "A drink? We will go get a drink?" she asks, to be sure she understood him right. Habitually, she glances to his legs as he walks, but she's not offering any support - it'd be insulting to him, at this stage. "If I get drunk, will you manage to carry me back?" she asks teasingly, nevertheless.

Vaclav snorts. "Is that why you fell over at that fascist bullet? You were drunk?" Vaclav jests back flatly, a dry upward curl lightening his frown. The pace is slow, but Vaclav has'nt fallen over yet. "Depends where you need carrying to," he rumbles, keeping to french. "Nearby, yes. Barcelona?" a shake of his not. "Not going to manage that."

Lind smiles again when seeing that upward curl of his lips, feeling more like 'old' times, though it's only been a few weeks since she saw him last. And once more she bites her lip to blurt out something she wants to say but keeps it under wrap. "I really do have no doubts that you could carry me anywhere, even if you can barely walk yourself," she simply replies. The bar draws closer and the noise from it draws her curiosity - she hasn't set foot there yet. "So if you take me to wherever you go, I'll be safe." Having said that, she suddenly blushes as she realizes how that could be heard as.

"You're not that heavy," Vaclav returns with a short roll of his shoulders in a shrug. As she goes on, he makes no comment either on her words of blushing. After a moment, he rumbles simply, "Care to try those words over again?" After a moment, Vaclav does look back at Lind, beside him. He'll look away agin if her composure looks shaken.

Lind is indeed looking a bit shaken and quite embarassed for letting her tongue slip like that. As he looks sideways at her, she's looking back and meets his gaze for a moment before she hurriedly looks straight ahead at the road again. "Yes, I meant… that the safest place to be is where you are, since obviously, you can't die," she says, trying a joke of the thing instead.

And so Vaclav obligingly looks back toward the road before them, and the nearing door of La Tasca (only slightly marred by the bomb that had hit the cantina months ago). "If I can't die, then standing behind me is the safest place to be," the czech observes simply. "But you are always standing beside. Never behind." A slowly drawn breath, "Keep that up, and I'll have to carry you again."

La Tasca
================================================================================
The Grid > > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Music fills the air of the common room, always a merry tune that keeps the spirits light and the money flowing in an establishment that thrives on the wealth and loose purse strings of others. The daylight hours tend to draw smaller crowds usually found at the tables. Lush accommodations attempt to put a polish on the vices men and woman alike come here to indulge in. Thick, red velvet curtains cover the windows, blocking out all indication that an outside world exists, making it all the easier to fritter away the hours and one's inheritance. Even during daytime, lanterns are lit over the table due to the lack of natural light. A small bar sits along the far wall.
It is currently night time.
Sub-Rooms :
1. The bar
2. A large table
3. A private table
4. Table by the window

"Always beside you, comrade, always," Lovisa Lind agrees quietly but wholeheartedly, regaining her composure and looking at him with a calm conviction. Reaching the bar, she pushes the door open and steps in, curiously glancing around. "How about that table?" she asks, indicating the one near the window.

Vaclav inclines his head slowly to her first words, looking back to return Lovisa's regard as she speaks. "Would have it no other way, Comrade," the czech voices in return. Turning his blue eye toward the indicated table, he nods once, more curtly. "That will do." Hobbled steps close the distance soon enough, and the pair draw near the table.

Lind pulls out her own chair and sits opposite of the corporal. She shrugs off her uniform jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair, sitting in the simple grey-scale button-up shirt on her upper body. "So, what do you recommend for me to drink?" she says, jumping to more lighthearted talk again. Lind isn't flirty, perhaps because she doesn't have the practice, and in a crowd she's often quiet - but not because she's shy, but rather because she choses to speak when she has something to say. But with Vaclav, she's a mixture of teasing, serious and awkward. Still, she's never been afraid of him, like some - perhaps to her detriment.

"Like the canteen, did you?" Valcav asks first, one brown brow raised slightly. While Lovisa's manner goes in turns, the czech's remains steady. Low, gruff, and sparing in the number of words. "If it burned too badly, then beer. They have no wine, anymore. If you liked it, then whiskey. Small bit."

"I can try a whisky," Lovisa says, cocking her head in brief thought before answering. "My grandfather had a whisky every day and he lived till he was 90," she remembers with some amusement. "What do you prefer… Vaclav?" She choses his first name, perhaps because they're in a bar and it's somewhat unofficial and also to encourage him to use her first name.

"Hrm. Right now? I prefer whiskey," Vaclav replies with a short sniff. "Grandfather had right idea. Drink enough, it makes you bulletproof. Stupid, but bulletproof." Okay, so it's dry humor, but it's a start. "Thier whiskey is not so good, but the beer is worse. Spoiled back home." Voice raised for the barkeep's attention, at two fingers held up for a pair of short glasses.

Lind leans over the table on her arms, she listens with intense interest to everything Vaclav says. "They have good beer in Czechoslovakia?" she asks curiously, being a bit of a sponge when it comes to learning about other countries. "We make vodka, back home."

Vaclav chuckles deep in his chest, before the big man's lip curls in a tight smirk. "Where did you think Pilsner lagers get thier name? We czechs invented pale beers.." Head canting to a slight angle, he observes, "You don't seem the sort to drink vodka. Then again, I would'nt have said you seem the sort to make machine guns run, but I'd have been wrong," is added with a shrug, and short lived grin.

"You're right, I don't drink vodka. Not /earlier/, anyway," Lind replies with a bright smile. "Most young women back home don't drink. Good thing I'm not at home," she jokes. The barkeep sends over two glasses of whiskey and Lind reaches out for hers. "Cheers, Vaclav, for the victory of the communists."

Vaclav chuckles lowly again and shakes his head, raising the glass and echoing, "Cheers, Lovisa. For the victory of the People." The glass is put down quickly, and the czech draws a deep breath. "What did you do earlier, Lovisa? Before coming to see the olympics, and becoming a solider?" Blue eyes are intent on the swede's with the inquiry.

Lind takes a careful sip of the whisky in the toast, having learnt her lesson last time she drank it. "I went to school, gymnasium," she replies, a bit vaguely. "In a nearby town to ours. I joined the party while in school, and now I'm here." Obviously, she doesn't want to go into much detail. "And you?"

A slow shrug, "Went to work in the munitions factory when I was old enough. Joined the Party there.." A moment's thought, "Seven years ago? Hrm. About that." A tight grin as he rumbles, "When you're big, people think you're stupid. Never went to secondary school."

"Funny. When you're a woman, people also think you're stupid," Lovisa replies dryly. "Add blonde hair to it and a woman can get away with murder and they'll just say it's cause she's not all there…" She raises the glass. "A toast to… us." She chugs down a bit more of the whisky.

Vaclav barks out a short laugh at Lovisa's dry comment. Volume control must be something they taught at secondary school, because at the curtailed amusement at least one eye is turned toward the oft-scowling corporal. "Add in not eating until you fall over, and you'll have everyone fooled," he teases under his breath, echoing the toast, "To us, then." While the barkeep is looking Vaclav motions toward the table, voicing in spanish, "More."

Lind swallows down the first glass and puts it down to be refilled. Her cheeks are getting color from the alcohol and chances are she'll be intoxicated before long. "Well, that was pure stupidity and not intentional," she says and smiles sheepishly. "I still feel like I owe you… I let everyone down, doing that. But I learnt my lesson."

"Good. Because if you do that again, you get flogged," Vaclav replies, with a small smile, and arched brow. A shake of his head follows, "Anything you owed was paid back at Suicide Hill- That's what our post at Jarama River has been called.. We counted the badges of three brigades among the fascist dead," he adds as a brief aside. "So, when war is over, you go back to Kramfors, and become party officer?"

"I won't do it again," Lovisa promises solemnly. "And yes, I suppose I will go back and be a party officer. Unless there are other parts of the world where my work will be of more use." She takes a deep breath. "I admit it though - coming home would be nice."

Vaclav hrms and leans back in his chair, nodding to the barkeep as the glasses are refilled. Currency is passed over (soliders not having much credit by this point), and the pair are left to converse once again. "You'd be good at it. Good way with words.. People like listening to you." A pause, "How long since you were last home?"

"Almost a year," Lovisa says, after a thoughtful frown, counting backwards. She takes another sip of the strong alcohol, making no grimaces - she's getting used to it and looks like she likes it. "How different home will look now that I've seen this," she muses, looking over at him. "All little problems at home will seem so small in comparison."

Vaclav sniffs dryly, and nods twice. "Everything will look different. Sweeter, though.." the czech voices. "After a fight like this, even the smallest piece of freedom will be precious." A slow breath, drawn and released.

"Yes," Lovisa says, nodding slowly. She holds up the glass and looks at the whisky, then chugs it down in one go. "Most Swedes don't realize how sheltered they are. And yet, there are so many problems there too. Just a few years ago, military shot at workers in my hometown. An older sister of a friend of mine died. She was only twenty, and wasn't even in the demonstration, she was just watching. Four others were killed, and five more injured."

Vaclav lowers his eyes briefly, the czech's blue regard coming back up to Lind's before he speaks, "Much the same everywhere. The workers demonstrate.. they demand what they deserve, and everywhere the rich and corrupt cling to thier ancient, rotten power. Just as here: Franco betrays and murders his own people simply to snatch more power for himself." A snort and shake if his head. "They do not see that everything has changed. A new world: the old royalties are smashed forever. The People stand or fall on thier own quality, and not on what name or blood they were born with. Now is *our* time, Lovisa.." he voices firmly, an edge of conviction adding it's weight to his words.

Lind nods at him in response, as if unable to say anything inspirational of her own right now, which is odd coming from her. She gives him a thin smile and spins her now empty glass around on the table. "People don't change easily," she quietly says after awhile. "Sometimes it takes something truly… life altering to change a person. Like an accident. Or a friend dying."

"Or a war," Vaclav adds, with a slow nod to Lovisa's sentiment. "You're right. Takes much to change people." A deep breath drawn and let out. "What did you study in school, Lovisa?"

"Languages, of course," Lovisa replies with a broad smile. "Type-writing, writing… Nothing special, the usual things you learn in a school for girls. I was torn about going to school, you see. Because so many girls don't get the chance, they start working at the age of fifteen. But on the other hand, should I throw away the chance when I had it?" She looks curiously at Vaclav. "And you? What school did you go to?"

Vaclav leans forward again, setting his elbows on the table, and answering, "Primary school.. Same as every one. After that, as I said: I went to work. Father learned french, he taught it to me. Picked up some bad english on my own.. much like I'll have picked up some bad spanish by the time we're done here. So close to Bavaria, everyone learns german as well. Russian is easy, much like czech."

Lind smiles. "You learn languages easily then?" she asks. This time, she's the one waving at the bartender for another two shots of whiskey, digging out money for it. "I learnt Russian in the party, they didn't teach that in school." She undoes her braid and combs her fingers through the long blonde locks, then begins to redo the braid with practiced ease.

"Easier than some," Vaclav notes with a shrug, and a tight little smile. "You know you're going to be drunk, yes?" A short chuckle. "Back home, there are so many languages.. You pick up a bit of everything. A few words in polish, a few more in Hungarian.. Polish is much like czech- but never let a Pole hear you say it." He smirks briefly with the notion, blue eyes catching and holding on the un- and re-weaving of Lovisa's braid.

"That's fine, I've never been drunk before, I should try it out. Just make sure I don't get too drunk, please?" Lovisa asks of Vaclav with a broad smile, already a bit tipsy. The bartender refills the glasses, looking between Vaclav and her, snorting amusedly and shaking his head as he wanders off again. Braid finished, she throws it over her shoulder and picks up the glass for another sip. "This makes you all warm inside," she
notes, about the strong brew. "And the more I drink the better it tastes."

Vaclav chuckles quietly, and nods assent to her first words. "Lot of things are like that; have enough and you start to like it. Start to forget how it could ever have been otherwise.." A sniff, and Vaclav's expression curls again into a faint smile, "Some day, you'll have to drink good whiskey. None left in Madrid, but some day.."

"Oh, you're inviting me for a drink somewhere else? Where do they have the /really/ good whiskey then?" Lind asks, holding back another gulp for now, savoring it a bit longer. "Wherever that is, maybe I'll go there after the war and try it out."

"In Czechoslovakia, of course," Vaclav answers dryly. A slowly drawn breath, the aftertaste of the last drink still strong, "The Czechs should have conquered europe if we did'nt like our drinks so well," he jests dryly. A moment before he rumbles, "And maybe I am."

"Sounds too much like the Swedes. They did basically conquer the world and I'm almost convinced we lost it cause they drank too much," Lovisa jests back. When he replies to her question like that, she smiles more widely. She's gained some liquid confidence now and isn't blushing at the mere idea. "For now, we'll settle with this SPanish variant of whiskey," she says quietly, now taking another sip. "What about one more glass and then we'll call it an end? I'm feeling a bit dizzy already."

Vaclav sniffs again, "It's not even spanish. They put a spanish label on a cheap bottle of scotch.." the czech is still grinning a bit, mood having warmed slightly with the drinking. "One more, then done. But this is good- if fascists attack, you'll stagger around so much they can't hit you again.." Lowly, under his breath, Vaclav chuckles at the idea.

"That is a very good point," Lovisa agrees, finishing off her fourth or so glass of whiskey and waving for another refill. Her eyes are now rather blank. Getting the refill, she takes the glass and in a fit of inspiration, she stands up, then climbs up on the table and raises the glass in the air, to the rest of the people in the bar. "To the people!" she calls out loudly in Spanish. There's a few surprised blinks, then everyone stands up and cheers.

Because when pretty girls shout party slogans, people cheer.

Truth be told, Vaclav is first among them, looking up and roaring in his deep voice "La Raza!" along with the others.. if a bit louder. Glass raised toward the swede, Vaclav takes the last gulp of whiskey, and thuds the glass back down on the tabletop, climbing to his feet thereafter.. and still looking up at the tabletop elevated Lovisa.

Lind chugs down that last drink of whiskey like she's a used drinker, then grins out over the crowd that laugh. She makes the fisted salute, then begins climbing down from the table, setting her foot down on the chair Vaclav was sitting on, putting a hand on his shoulder for support as she's now rather intoxicated.

Vaclav claps a hand briefly over the one Lovisa puts on his shoulder to steady herself (Leg still hurts like hell, but the shoulder is nice and hale) as the swede steps down. "Right," he rumbles, "Now, where do you stagger off to?" a grin tugging once again at the corporal's expression.

Lind ends up standing close to him and instead of responding to him with words, she impulsively leans in in an attempt to kiss him right on the lips. It's not a planned gesture and it'd never happen had she been sober, because she'd never have had the guts for it then.

Vaclav does'nt draw back as Lovisa leans in across the short distance. If the action itself were'nt ample proof of the amount the swede had been drinking, the strong taste of whiskey on both thier lips would erase any doubt. After an instant's idleness against the impulsive endearment, Vaclav presses back into the kiss, hard enough to move the woman back. Drawing a hard, fast breath, he rumbles, "You really are drunk."

Lind doesn't care about the audience of other bargoers, but there's a few whistles and jeers thrown at the two soldiers, all in good nature though. As he presses into the kiss, it forces her to take a step back and curl her arm around his neck for support. She kisses him back enthusiastically, the taste of whisky strong on her lips. Her eyes are closed and she opens them slowly when he breaks the kiss and speaks. "I'm just drunk enough," she agrees quietly, leaning her head back and focusing on his face, not moving away yet.

Vaclav pays no more heed to the whistles or hoots than Lind does. One hand sets at the back of Lovisa's shoulder, fingers curling to settle on top, as blue eyes fix on hers. Low and deep, he rumbles back, "'s get out of here."

Lind nods wordlessly to him, now blushing hotly, drunk or not drunk. But she's not backing away, instead taking his hand in hers and being the one leading the way out of the bar in search of a private space somewhere.

The Secret Place

The sun has already set over Barcelona, leaving only a dull red in the west fading quickly to purple. The view out the window would likely be striking, if the draperies were'nt drawn across the broken glass pane. A breath, deeply drawn, and slowly released, before Vaclav turns his head to regard "Lovisa.. What you think of all this?"

The room must've been quite nice at one point. Now there's dust settling everywhere and there's no furniture left, it's all looted. Except, oddly, the large bed on which she and Vaclav resides. The woman stretches lazily and turns to her side, propping herself up on her elbow so she can watch his face. "Of this room and you and me, or about the war?" she asks, still a lazily content expression on her face.

Vaclav's lips curl up at the lazy inquiry, a short sniff of amusement as he threads his nearer arm above her propping elbow, to draw Lovisa's head closer. A short kiss, after which he leaves the arm about her long haired head, blunt fingertips running through the blonde locks. "Should probably pay more mind to you and now," he rumbles. "The rest will be back soon enough.. But my head was wandering."

Lind hasn't brought up what happened. Their first meeting in several days, she didn't speak at all until they'd exhausted themselves thoroughly. But now is a good time for talking. The kiss is responded to with one of her own together with a warm smile, caring smile. "About you and me, I think we should cherish what we have. About the rest…" She pauses, turning more serious. "It is hard, Vaclav. Do you have doubts? Do you feel like a hero still?"

On both sides, these are probably the first coherant words in quite some time. "I never felt like hero, Lovisa. Came here like all the others.. Like you. Wanted to fight the fascists, and free Spain. Only ever did as I was told.. Never thought I'd shoot one of own men for a moment's panic. Or to flog another into a bloody mess for going hunting." His muttered words just flow once started. "We're soliders, I know.. there must be dicipline. there must be obediance. I feel.. like I *should* have doubts. But I not let myself feel them. What the swedish word for 'confused'?" he wonders briefly.

"Forvirrad," Lovisa says, saying the Swedish word first, leaning in to nuzzle his neck for a moment. "You are confused then? I certainly am. But I focus on one thing… the real and honest and pure wish to fight the fascists. But then, I have not been in an execution squads or having had to flog a man. I wish you didn't have to do that," she says softly and earnestly. "It is not easy to kill an enemy. To kill someone who was your comrade the day before…" She shudders and suddenly hugs him tightly.

"Forvirrad," Vaclav echoes, muttering in swedish then, "Mycket forvirrad." For an instant suprised the the sudden hug, Vaclav's arm shifts to go about her back and shoudlers returning the embrace. Lapsing back into french, he murmers evenly, "Yuri made stupid mistake.. cost us all much blood. But he came. When the call went out, he answered. There is no choice, the Republic will fall to parts if the dissidents fight us.. And Yuri's life is thier price. It is bad.. very bad, but I wonder: what if I'm ordered to shoot Morris, or O'Callaghan. Or you. When do I stop obeying without question.."

Lind is pleasantly surprised that he says another Swedish word. She can't remember having taught him that and he is given a quick smile, which quickly disappears at his serious words. Her eyes widen at the implications. "Vaclav… just survive. Just stay on top of things, keep your head cool, and /live/. But don't let it get to you. Keep your… heart. Don't let all the killing make you cold. Perhaps outwards, it is not bad for a man in charge to seem hard, but please, do not truly be cold."

"The killing's easy," Vaclav replies quietly. "Battle is the one place everything makes sense. No questions, no doubts.. No forvirrad. Well," a small, tight smile touches his grim face once again, as his free hand is drawn up to brush back Lovisa's hair from her face, "Right here makes sense, too. Hrm."

"Ingen forvirring," Lovisa says automatically, since he seems to pick it up so easily, which means 'no confusion'. "Yes… there is something simple and straightforward about it. When you come face to face with a man that will either kill you or you must kill him, there is a moment of pure clarity. You never feel so alive as when you are so close to death," she says quietly, contemplatively. "But if we start liking it… enjoying it… I think we have strayed from our course."

"Ingen forvirring," Vaclav echoes, shaping the words. "Never ask me to spell int his language of yours," he sniffs dryly. Reaching the back of the swede's head, he draws his hand to her forehead again, fingers running back a second time. Briefly, the thumb stirs against her temple. "You're right. I think.. Yuri enjoys it. The other man we shot, the canadian. He too. Enjoyed it." Lips drawn into a tight line, the czech lets out a short breath through the nose. "The greater good. What we do is for the greater good."

Lind turns her head so she can kiss his fingers before he withdraws the hand. She's surprisingly relaxed and at ease with him despite her not being an experienced young woman when it comes to men; she's not self-conscious about it. "I'll teach you Swedish if you teach me Czech?" she suggests, always eager to learn. Like him, she has a knack for picking up languages. "I think that men like Yuri and that canadian are drawn to wars like these. Perhaps they justify it with their political leanings but in the end, it's that they enjoy killing." She sighs and drops her head down on his shoulder, curling up closely. "Perhaps we think too much about it, or I do."

Vaclav chuckles shortly at the first. "Well, if you learned russian, it's not impossable." A snort to clear a bit of stubborn dist from his nose, before the sinews of his arm tighten around Lovisa's back as she curls in close. For a moment of silence, he simply holds her, before rumbling lowly, "Perhaps. Thinking is good.. we should'nt be mindless.. but sometimes-" His shoulder stirs with a short chuckle beneath Lind's head, "What is swedish for 'shut up and kiss me'?"

"Var tyst och kyss mig," Lovisa says and then, to emphasize, she rises up slightly so she can indeed kiss him deeply and slowly. "It just might work, with me. If I talk too much, you can always try that…" she murmurs against his lips. "Would you like to visit Sweden?"

Vaclav's lips curl in a short smirk against the endearment. "I'll do that. 'Var tyst kyss mig'?" he echoes slowly. "If you start laughing, I'll know I got it wrong." Taking another moment to kiss her back, Vaclav considers a long moment. "Never have had good vodka.. Maybe," he voices simply to the last. "It's a long way."

"It's a long way from here," Lovisa agrees, and there's more to those words than simply talking about distances in miles. She laughs and shakes her head. "See, now I don't listen to my own advice, to focus on the here and now. To cherish what is now and not worry about the future. Right here and now I am happy, with you."

"Right, lets try this.." Shifting his weight to narrow blue eyes intently on Lovisa's, Vaclav affects a frown and voices curtly, "Var tryst kyss mig." He manages to keep any trace fo a smirk out of his expression.

Lind stifles a giggle at that and nobody would normally call her a giggly type. She affects a mock-serious expression and nods curtly at him, and without saying anything - as asked - she leans in to kiss him again, this time more passionately. Talking certainly is no longer on her mind.

Secrets

Park
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The Grid > > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Coordinates : 1 2

A neat park in the middle of the city, there to break up the urban sprawl with some pleasant looking greenery. The wildlife knows nothing of war and so the birds sing as they would in peace time, though the gardeners seem to have been on strike for a while and the park is beginning to look unkempt.

Lind is in the park today, assigned with some inventory of existing ammunition and weapons. There's not enough of it, of course. Each box looked through and counted is noted down on a list she's got.

Captain O'Callaghan steps out of one the houses being used as his lodging while here in Barcelona. The mans looks as if just having woken up from only a few hours of sleep. Such was the burdon of command. As he staggers out of the building waking up more with each step, his sight falls upon Lind counting ammunitions. The Irishman sighs at the thought of the paper work involved in getting more ammunition for the Company.

Vaclav is frowning. Though this is hardly noteworthy, or exceptional, the corporal has stalked over to recieve the munitions counts, in the unlikely event bullets suddenly appeared from nowhere. "Comrade Lind," the czech rumbles in curt aknowledgement. "What is present count?"

Lind is so concentrated on her counting, that Vaclav's appearance makes her fumble with a box and almost drop it on her toes. Blushing, she puts it down on the rickety table used for the purpose and despite the professionalism of Vaclav's query, she's giving him a dazzling smile as if she's very happy to see him. She presents him with the paper. "All noted down there, Comrade," she says with her pleasant, warm voice.

The Captain walks over the the collection of ammo crates and the two other soldiers. The Captain flops down onto one of the creates that he has assumed already had been counted. The Captain looks between the two soldiers giving each a groggy nod. "Morn'in." The Captain says in his thick Irish accent.

Vaclav accepts the paper with his typical frown, narrowed blue eyes going from Lind to the paper, as the numbers are ticked over. A short muttered "Hrm," before he looks back up. "Once finished with counting, may go off duty, comrade." Looking then toward the irishman, the corporal nods curtly, offering a crisp salute and rumbling, "Comrade Captain.. Fewer bullets than should be. Even with shots fired. Think riflemen carrying more shots than permitted."

Marchand returns from a venture alone into the city, his rifle still slung over his shoulder and not at the moment held ready. His uniform seems a bit damp, though not actually dirty, but his boots seem to be caked with some stinking muck that's not yet been scraped off. Once able to see the corporal, captain, and a couple others clustered, he stops and steps aside to take a moment to try to clean off his boots some more.

Lind's dazzling smile to Vaclav is wiped off when O'Callaghan takes a seat nearby. She nods and salutes at him with the raised fist. "Good morning, Comrade Captain," she says and then pulls up the next box for counting. She steals a glance at Vaclav though and nods at him. "Thank you, comrade. I'll go eat as soon as I am done."

The Captain motions for the soldiers to continue with their business. What Vaclav mentions causes the Captain to wake up a bit more, "Any soldier found with accessive ammo will be placed on extra duty. They can dig latrine holes or anyother shitty details that needs to get done around here Corporal. When people carry more then what is supposed to be issued, it hurts the entire team."

Vaclav nods curtly, "Understood, Comrade Captain." The words are even and flat in thier cadence. "Will make clear, to comrades. Will take count tomorrow. See how many bullets turn up." At this rate Vaclav is going to run out of shitty details to stick men on..

Marchand takes a moment scraping the boots with a stick, finally rubbing it with a bough of pine nettles to minimize the dirt left on them. Rising back up, he approaches where the others are, making for the direction of the corporal. A salute presented with raised fist.

The next box that Lind counts is sadly almost empty so she does quick work with it and moves those bullets to another half-full one, putting the empty box on a pile of other empty ones. She seems to have made a system out of it all, to make it all more effective. The boxes that are full are all noted with a X. Marchand is saluted and greeted. "Comrade Marchand." Another glance is given to Vaclav and in doing so she forgets where she was in the counting of her next box and has to start over, biting her lip.

The Captain nods as he listens to Vaclav, "I am serious Corporal. You better find these scum bags before I do, because if I catch them. There will be hell to pay for the both of you." The Captain was riding the Corporal hard, but that was what was demanded of the NCO Corps. The Captain was far to busy to be dealing with the smaller taskings of the unit.

Vaclav nods curtly, voicing in return to O'Cal: "Comrade Captain. I never expect joke. Comrades will keep in line." Yeah, 'cause we all know O'Callaghan: the merry irish joker. Vaclav then returns the american's salute. "Comrade Marchand," the czech rumbles in aknowledgement. His regard fixed on Frank's, the corporal awaits the solider's words.

Marchand lowers the outstretched arm after the corporal returns his salute. There's no reaction to Lind until after that's done, and he presents her with a quiet little nod, but not speaking to her yet. To Vaclav, "Food requisitioned from Supply and distributed to civilian camp as requested, comrade Corporal. A place in the sewers where some refugees were living was found when I returned to search this morning." His eyes do not shift to regard the captain.

Lind is almost finished, picking up the last of the boxes and concentrating. She's been at this for hours together with a few others and she's rather tired from it, mentally so rather than physically since it's hardly exhausting work.

The Captain looks between the three soldiers gathered looking them over briefly. "There is rumor that we might be withdrawing from Barcelona soon. There isn't much talk about us being here after next week. Could be back in Madrid by then."

"Sewer work complete? Dissident sabotage undone?" Vaclav prompts at the end of Marchand's words. A short nod is given to the american's report. Once Frank has answered his most recent prompts, the corporal will turn his regard back to the captain, drawing a slow breath and inclining his head once again. "Will be sure Company ready to move, Comrade Captain."

Marchand responds, "The sewer system of the entire city of Barcelona has not yet been cleared, comrade corporal. However, no clutter that is left…" the phrasing seems carefully chosen and deliberate, "has any appearance of being a result of deliberate sabotage. There is evidence the larger storm sewer mains near the port have been used in the recent past as bomb shelters by the Catalan militias. The primary shelter for the port was utterly destroyed by the fascist Condor wing's bombings." He then goes silent, waiting. His eyes to look to the captain hearing the man's statement, and the American only allows himself a silent nod of appreciation to the news. His lips don't open to comment upon it, though.

Lind finishes the last box and instead of writing an X on it, she simply writes down the number of bullets inside of it. It's put together with the rest and she notes down the final count on the paper. "All done," she says and presents it to Vaclav. She looks curiously at O'Callaghan, but like Marchand, she doesn't ask anything or comment on their possible move from Barcelona.

The Captain responds to Vaclav, "Well dont get the ball rolling till I give you offical word on it. No need to have the company all packed up if Command changes their mind….whicht they tend to do more often then not." The Captain pauses a moment as his hands rub his eyes, "To much intervention from Russia for my personal taste. If I could just have a few of these puppet string removed, things would be moving a bit more smoother."

Vaclav nods curtly to Marchand's clarification. He accepts the inventory from Lind without more than a sidelong look, eyeing the paper. A short nod. Blunt words go then to O'Callaghan, "Understood. Unless have new order, Comrade Captain, am now at end of hours on duty. Permission to fall out?" As he turns, the corporal's blue eyes linger for a moment on Lind, inclining his head once, before stepping southward, and leaving the park.

Marchand does furrow his brows at the captain's comment about Russia, his head turned to regard him again as if unable to hold back the curious look to the man. As Vaclav moves to exit, the Private momentarily salutes him again. Just a moment's dutiful recognition of the man. He then lowers the hand, and turns to quietly watch Lind doing her paperwork, as if purposefully trying not to be watching the captain directly.

"I too am off duty now, comrades," Lind says, saluting them again. She's offering them an inspiring, warm smile before she turns and heads on southwards as well, in the direction of where Vaclav left.

A Bath

Park
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The Grid > > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Coordinates : 1 2

A neat park in the middle of the city, there to break up the urban sprawl with some pleasant looking greenery. The wildlife knows nothing of war and so the birds sing as they would in peace time, though the gardeners seem to have been on strike for a while and the park is beginning to look unkempt.
It is currently daytime.

Lind has had a session of melee training and is just finished, walking into the park and heading over to where she can wash off behind some blankets put up for some privacy. She's humming to herself, some tune that is haunting and beautiful and very Scandinavian.

The sun is full in the sky over Barcelona, and the midday shifts of sentries are winding down by the time Vaclav makes his rounds of the city.. In the wake of the latest riots, sentries posted on the vehicles to the south, the stockade to the west, and the Brigade camp iself are all still doubled. letting out a long breath, the corporal eyes the surroundings and fills his canteen at the kitchen with more water.

"Vem kan segla forutan viiind, vem kan ro utan arooor," Lind sings, raising her voice somewhat, perhaps from the cold water splashed on her body. Her voice carries in the area; she's definitely a shower-singer and her voice isn't that bad either.
Elizabeth has partially disconnected.

William looks up from his letter writing from within the squad bay. Singing can be heard somewhere. He looks around, but sees no singer. Maybe it's in his mind. Has he already gone crazy? Is that his guardian angel? Everyone else seems to be looking around confused as well. So, he leaves his letter and writing utensil nearby his rack and takes a stroll outside to investigate the source of the singing.

Vaclav takes a long draught of the canteen, eyeing the improvised bathing stall sidelong, as he passes the back of one hand across his mouth after the drink. "Hrm," he mutters under his breath, blue eyes narrowing as he picks over the sing-song words. His head cants to a faint angle, as the corporal frowns lightly, listening.

Phillip wanders along, coming back from whatever duty he had. Hearing the singing he blinks and looks up as well. This causes a notable bit of distraction on his part, which is only ended when he trips over an ammunition box and falls head over heels into another group of soldiers. Much cursing in various languages ensues, the general discord being that they can't hear the music now, though having a frenchman drop in on them suddenly doesn't help either.

William sees the improvised bathing stall, and the voice sounds like that of Comrade Lind's. He clears his throat. "Herm, did you know that the Comrade Corporal hates music?"

The song, clearly not something sung for happy occasions, is one of those that still manages to not be sad despite the haunting tones. Lind finishes the song, humming something else for awhile before starting in on another one, this also in folktones but with a more hopeful tone to it even if it's still a ballad. There's some splashing of water and a few sharp intakes of breath - that water is cold - and the singing continues.
Then, a towel is pulled quickly off where it's hanging over one of the blankets and standing on her toes, Lind peers over the edge at William, her hair a wet mess. "Really?" she asks, blushing a little though her voice carries an incredulous tone to it.

Vaclav notes flatly, "Shut up, Engelbretson," as he crosses his arms (canteen still carried in one hand), feet spread to shoulder width, and glaring sidelong at the Company clown, and the noise Phillip has made in tripping over his comrades.

Phillip grumbles some, shoving one guy off him. In pained french he tries to explain that no, it wasn't a come on, so the big guy had best quit looking at him that way if he wants to keep his balls in tact. Furthermore, he'd like whoever has a hand on his rear to remove it post haste, thank you very much. Disentangling himself now, he stands straightens his jacket and shirt and says in crisp english. "Barbarians." before walking on his way.

William smirks, ignoring the Corporal. "Really." he says to Lind. He cooly eyes Lind with her messy hair and towel wrapped about her. Suddenly, he remembers that his entire uniform is still dirty after digging graves yesterday. He would have to clean that later. "So what were you singing? Some Scandanavian folk song?" His arms are crosses as he asks, curious.

Lind realises she has an audience now and glances around. Seeing Vaclav nearby she cocks her head and looks at him squarely, as if daring him to comment on her singing - but there's something glittering in her eyes, as if she's amused by something too. "Yes," she replies to William, looking back at him. "It is a love song. A very popular Swedish poet wrote it."

Vaclav turns a glare on William, sniffing once and rumbling, "You not have something to do, Comrade?" Arms still crossed, the czech tosses his head with a snort at the exchange, before eyeing the swedish shower-singer again at her square look.

Phillip dusts off and wanders over to his own tent. Taking a few minutes he removes his weapon from his person and puts it down while taking off his great coat. The coat is religiously dusted, making sure to clean it very well and let it hang before he turns to sit. His boots come off and he spends several minutes polishing them, working out scuff marks and everything before returning them to his feet. Lastly, he begins to strip his rifle down and clean it. Every last bit of it.

William grins at the Corporal. "Yes of course, Comrade Corporal." He turns to head off to go back inside the squad bay, but before doing so, motions Lind to follow with a subtle eye movement and head incline. That is if she wants, since he is already walking off, not looking back.

Lind is reaching for her clothes as William turns to leave, but she still sees that subtle eye movement and head incline. She freezes to the spot for a moment, staring after William with widening eyes. Then, quickly, she looks over at Vaclav to see if he too noticed, while hurriedly putting the rest of her clothes on, trying to make eye contact with the corporal.

Eye contact is had, without difficulty after a few moments.. Still frowning, narrowed blue eyes on William as the other solider smiles and meanders off, before Vaclav returns his eye to Lind; arms remaining crossed over his chest, rising with a slowly drawn breath.

Phillip looks up at William, raising a single eyebrow before he shrugs. Kids these days…(though, apparently he and Will are about the same age) Going back to his rifle, he reassembles the thing and then suddenly finds a single screw. OH this is not good…where could that thing have come from?

William walks deliberately but smoothly as well, a bit slower than he usually walks. Probably to give time for Lind to follow if she wants. But since he doesn't sense her presence, he just continues until he ends up in the barracks to finish writing his letter.

William stops as he reaches Phillip. "Ah Comrade, how are you feeling today? Better I hope?" He gestures to the ear and nose.

Lind ducks out from the makeshift bathroom once it's certain that William has left. She begins to comb through her wet hair to unentangle it, pausing hesitantly while glancing around. Then, she glances pointedly at Vaclav again before meandering off towards the south, leaving her hair free rather than braiding it as she usually does.

Phillip looks up at William, nodding some. "Oui." he states and then sighs. "I feel well, but I think I may have a problem. I am not sure where this goes." Gesturing to the screw he shrugs and debates testing to see if the rifle works without it. It may not be important. Raising the empty rifle, he moves to cock it; only to have the bolt come of clean in his hand. "Ah…so that's where it goes." he mutters, putting the screw back, AFTER putting the bolt back in place. "Never mind."

William chuckles. "I think that battering you took yesterday has damaged your brain, Comrade. As for me, I still have slight bruising to my right arm and my torso. I really must get some more hand-to-hand combat training."

City
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The Grid > > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Coordinates : 1 1

Barcelona is a beautiful city, all the more so in summer. Full of wide sunny streets, lots of greenery, and if you're in the right place an urban waterfront with a sparkling beach, it isnt surprising in more peaceful times that its such a tourist hub.
Though evidence of the war and unrest is everywhere. Black or red flags hang from buildings, revolutionary graffitti adorns the walls, the occasional Nationalist bombing raid ruins the ambiance, and anarchist militias on leave from the front wander the streets.
It is currently daytime.

Lind has obviously just had a 'bath' at the makeshift bathroom in the park, her hair is wet and let loose to dry as she walks down the streets in a southward direction, looking a bit tense but also anticipatory.

Elena is perched on the front of hte ammo truck, the hood of the great beast up. She's leaning over the engine, arms thrust into the very guts to her elbows as she works on completing a patch job. She's humming softly to herself as she does so, head bowed to her work. Nearby, a set of crutches rest, fallen over onto the ground.

Lind turns about to walk backwards, scanning the street behind her intently, as if expecting someone or something to be there. Doing so, she doesn't notice the crutches on the ground and stumbles on them, falling with an 'oof' to her backside, catching herself with her hands and scraping them on the cobblestones. "Sablar!" she curses, some Swedish swearword.

Elena squeaks at the tripping. And the swearing. HEr head jerks around, eyes wide. "Senorita!" she squeaks as she climbs down from the front of the truck, limping over towards Lind. "Are you alright?" she asks in rapid fire Spanish as she kneels down to check.

Enter another complication: Vaclav stalks in from the camp to the north, frowning and glaring as usual. The sight before him deepens that frown as the hobbling Elena hurries toward the cursing Lind. Curt and deep his words are barked, "What in Hell?"

Lind turns a reassuring smile upon Elena almost immediately. Though she's hardly fluent in Spanish, she does understand those rapid-fire words well enough. "Yes, yes," she replies in Spanish. She holds her hands up - they're just slightly scraped, nothing that won't be as good as new in a couple of days. "Only hands, no bad," she assures, then begins to climb to her feet. She switches to English in the hope of being able to make herself better understood. "I think my pride is the only thing wounded," she says, then blinks up at the barking Vaclav, sitting promptly back down as if she's a dog that was told to sit. "Oh… Comrade Corporal. I just… stumbled."

Elena chuckles softly as the other woman begins to climb to her feet, lending what assistance she can to the taller woman. "Pride," she echoes, also switching to thickly accented English. "It gets wounded much here, si?" she offers with a laugh and a shake of her head. Granted, the laugh dies down as she hears a certain someone enter the area, and the little Spaniard pales a bit. "Ummm…" is her oh so eloquent reojoinder. "Buenos noches, Corporal?" she ventures, still staying down on the ground. She sits back on her feet with a bit of a grimace beofre giving him a wide-eyed 'I wasn't doing anythign I wasn't supposed to' sort of looks. "Truck doing muy better."

Vaclav continues his steps up to where the two women sit. His narrowed blue eyes go from swede, to spaniard, and back the Lovisa. A moment's pause. "Then get up. Both." Elena gets another look. Frowning deeply, expression grim, the curt instruction is punctuated with a hand offered to each of the two to hasten the 'getting up' process.

Lind shoots a glance at Elena to see her reaction. She doesn't seem particularly afraid herself, but there's a tenseness to her shoulders even as she accepts the offered hand from Vaclav, easily pulled up from the ground. "Yes, comrade corporal," she replies curtly. She holds his hand a bit longer than needed before releasing it. "I am Comrade Lovisa Lind," she introduces herself to Elena. The truck is eyed curiously. "You repair the truck?"

Oh. Get up. Elena flushes darkly as she looks down at her leg. "Ummm…" comes once more as she glances up. She gnaws on her lower lip as she eyes that hand, trying to figure out if she /can/. She clears her throat lightly, placing both of her hands in his one. A deep breath, and she gets her good leg beneath her. Eyes are squeezed tightly shut as she hauls herself upwards. "Elena Guerrero," she grits out tightly. It's not a pretty process, but she /does/ manage to get to her feet, shifting her weight off her right leg and onto her left, breathing a bit hard. "Si. Fix truck." She grimaces, peeking open one eye and going for a weak smile. "Pleasure to meet you, comrade," she says, at last releasing the corporal so she can hobble towards the truck and lean against /it/ rather than the Czech - it's cuddlier.

Vaclav shrugs one shoulder with a short roll, to resettle the weight of his gun, as the mechinica and swede exchange introductions. When Elena hobbles over toward the truck, the czech eyes Lind once again, making a short motion of his head away toward the south, frown unsoftened.

Lind watches Elena hobble with concern on her features. "You be careful with your leg, Comrade," she says with a small friendly smile. She battles with her concern for the mechanica and the subtle order from Vaclav; in the end, Vaclav wins out and she simply gives him a simple nod. "It was nice meeting you, Elena Guererro." She makes the fisted salute and then turns about, walking with firm, long steps southwards again.

//Shortly after… //

Lind is heading directly to their little hideout, the abandoned and mostly bombed out hotel not a place anyone would enter voluntarily. Thankfully, the part they are using is stable enough and it was pure luck they found it. Still, they're going to have to find another place soon enough, not a good idea to use the same one for a longer period of time. While waiting for Vaclav to join her, she hurries to tidy the place up a bit, draping her uniform jacket over the end of the bed, removing her boots and leaning the rifle up against a wall. She combs through her hair again in an attempt to make it more presentable, starts to braid it - but changes her mind and leaves it out.

Vaclav's heavy footfalls are not long behind, and by about the time Lind is deciding how to leave her hair, Vaclav has stepped into the doorway, stepping in and closing the door behind him, as his blue regard passes again onto, "Lovisa.." Shrugging off the shoulder strap of the german '34, and leaning the long barrel against the wall, eye contact not slipping.

Lind turns to face him as he enters, watching him with a longing expression. His gaze is met with her own, and there's also something searching there; though he keeps his emotions in check she isn't very good at hiding hers from others. "Vaclav…" she says quietly and warmly. With a deep sigh, she steps up to him and into an embrace if he wants to.

The embrace is met, accepted, and returned; Vaclav's arms closing about Lovisa's back , and holding her to him for a long moment, before his chest stirs slightly with- what a moment's inspection would determine to be laughter. The frown has fully slipped from Vaclav's face by the time she looks up, and a low chuckle rumbles in his throat.

Lind hugs him tightly and relaxes into his arms. She'd worried about what he'd think about the scene with William earlier but that dissipates as soon as he hugs her back. But the chuckling, that's unexpected and she leans her head back to look at his face, surprise etched on her features. Not only because he is laughing, she's never seen him laughing like that before, but also because she has no idea why. But he is given a broad smile. "You're laughing."

Vaclav draws a deep breath, before taking a firm kiss from Lovisa. Words come a moment later, "Yes. I even eat, and sleep sometimes, too.." A small shake of his head. "You have to admit.. it's funny. To think: Engelbretson would shit himself if he knew.." A small shake of his head, as the tension of weeks in a city where every person on the street might be trying to kill you bleeds away in restrained laughter, and a second kiss.

Lind is left breathless from the kiss which was quite eagerly responded to. "Oh…" she says and wrinkles her nose in thought. Then she too sees the amusement in it and she laughs out loud before it is muffled with another kiss. She's not late to take advantage herself, being the one to kiss him as soon as he breaks the second one. "Poor William. He probably just wanted to save me from your wrath…" she says and then laughs again.

Vaclav takes the kiss given back with relish, before sniffing once and echoing with dry humor, "My wrath." Seen so close, a fading bruise along his left jaw is the last mark of the recent riot upon Vaclav. Bending down a bit to bodily pick Lind up, arms going around her waist, Lovisa is not a short woman, but Vaclav is tall enough to take her off her feet by standing up, a few steps taken deeper into the mostly stripped room.

Lind is literally swept off her feet and isn't protesting. Afterwards, she's stretching out lazily and curling up close to him as usual, giving his ear a nibble. With featherlight touches of fingertips she touches the bruises on his cheek. "You don't hate music, do you?"

Vaclav's lips quirk in a brief grin. "Sing more, and find out," he answers with eyes closed against the light nibbling at his ear. Blue regard cracking open, and his head half turning to look at her again, one arm is stretched around to hold Lovisa against him lightly, as she curls up at his side. Chest rises and falls slowly with a deep breath.

"I'm not sure that I dare," Lovisa says teasingly. "You might put your wrath on me again…" She kisses his cheek then ponders for a moment on what to sing, then begins singing another soft ballad, this one with a very old sound to it. She doesn't sing with a strong voice now, not wanting to alarm someone on the outside.

A short, rumbled sniff of amusement at the dread of 'wrath'. "So scared of me, are you?" Vaclav teases right back, even if it is in a more dry manner. His words still as Lovisa begins singing quietly.. Half turning toward her, one thick leg twining with hers as he listens, expression turned solemn.

The question goes unanswered until she's finished the song. Smiling at him, she leans in for another kiss, a tender and slow one. "Sing something for me," she asks instead. "Something from Czechoslovakia." She pauses and then adds in a quipping tone; "Or will your singing voice be the thing that does scare me?"

Vaclav smiles faint, and brief against that slow, tender kiss. Eyes narrowing at her first words thereafter, a short toss of his head where it lies on the mattress, before he rumbles, "It might. But the dancing is what would send you running in fear. Much wrath in dancing," he adds with a dry smirk, before drawing a deep breath and thinking. "I'm really not a singer, you know.." he adds with a short chuckle before drawing a slow breath, and indulging her.. The simple sound of the czech language in musical measure might shed some light on Vaclav's staccatto pattern of speech.. "Kdyz jsem- ja jel- do Kotejcan, do Kotejacan…" Deep, and strong, his voice is none too sweet.

Lind listens with fascination and her attention never wavers. With her head on his shoulder she can hear every word clearly and she soaks up the tune and even some of the words, especially those that are very similar to the Russian words for the same thing. Having never really heard him speaking Czech before, she's truly fascinated as only someone who loves the intricacies of new languages can be.

The deep verses do not go on for long, only a couple verses, before Vaclav goes quiet again following a long, drawn out deep note. "Not as sweet as your 'Love song'," he rumbles with a faint grin, as attention goes from the rafters, and onto Lovisa again. "But the good part being I could be reciting poetry, and comrades would think I was screaming at you.." A short chuckle.

"It is just a matter of tone of voice," Lovisa agrees with an amused smile. "But it is a nice song and I would love it if you taught me to sing it. I'll learn some Czech from it as well." With that said, she begins kissing him again, now rested from their first time and aiming for a second before the two have to go seperate ways again.

A Little Blood

This time it's not a hotel, but an abandoned house, the buildings having been looted, the occupants long since having left in this part of the town. It's a bit out of the way, not near the center of anything so there's really not much reason for anyone to be here - except for a couple of lovers needing a place to hide while still being able to come back to. Lind's washed up before going here, her hair once more wet. The rabbits have been given to the cooks. Her rifle is leaned up against the wall and she's spread out a blanket on the floor, the luxury of a bed not theirs this time around.

The door to the house remained intact (even if the lock had been broken), the sound of that portal opening and closing being the first clue that Vaclav had found the place. The '34 is leaned against the wall beside Lind's rifle, as the big czech fixes his attention on "Lovisa.."

Though fairly sure it's Vaclav, Lind does turn her attention with some wariness on the door, only relaxing in full when she sees that it is indeed the corporal. With a noise of joy, she moves up to him for the embrace and first kiss. "Vaclav…" she murmurs.

Vaclav's arms go firmly around the swede's back, holding her close as the first kiss is firmly joined. It lasts long enough, that he needs to draw a breath through his nose, before parting slightly. Bending shoulders, neck and head down for the endearment, Vaclav touches his forehead briefly to hers, and muttering lowly, "Your hair's clean."

Lind is a bit out of breath after the kiss and suitably distracted. "I am allowed to be a bit vain when I am to meet you, right?" she says with a somewhat and uncharacteristic shy smile. "I smell like death," she then murmurs, more seriously. "I don't want the smell of dirt and blood and death on me when I am with you."

A small smile lingers awhile on Vaclav's face at her answer. Though it soon fades as she goes on. "Well.. you forgive a little blood, I hope? Or else, I'll need to leave," its a dryly voiced jest, but once the corporal shrugs off his heavy coat, the left sleeve, just below the shoulder, is marred with a palm sized bloodstain. It's been washed since the injury- an almost laughably small nick in the muscle of his arm.

Lind wrinkles her nose in mock-distaste. "Hrrmph. Alright, just a little blood then," she agrees, then gives him a broad smile. She takes a step back and tugs on his hand in a suggestive gesture, to lead the way to the makeshift 'bed'.

Vaclav had smirked briefly to her answer, leaning nearer, in the same moment Lind chose to step backward, tugging at his hand. The smirk briefly deepens, as Vaclav takes a swift pair of steps to catch up, taking a second kiss, as they draw up to the blanket spread over the floor. "You don't smell like death," he rumbles quietly, afterwards.

Lind is doing the usual lazy stretching and curling up, but the blood in his arm is catching her attention and she sits up to the wound, reaching for her uniform jacket to get out a small bandage. "Neither do you," she replies, leaning in to give him a soft kiss, then sniffs at his neck, inhaling his scent deep into her lungs while tracing one of the scars on his chest with a finger. "I like how you smell. It makes me… tingle," she says, unable to find a more fitting word.

Vaclav's lips curl in a small smile. His chest under her touch stirs with a low, "Hmmm. 'vzruseni'," he supplies, wondering a moment later, "What's the swedish word?" A breath slowly drawn, and slowly let out. "Swear I'd be half mad by now, Lovisa," Vaclav murmers lowly.

Lind has to think for a moment. "There is no good translation. The best I can do is the word for 'shivering', which is 'rysa'," she explains, lying back down on his shoulder, one leg draping over his body. His last statement confuses her, not fully understanding what he means. "Why would you be half mad?"

Vaclav shifts his arm, to serve as a better pillow, rough fingers idly drifting up and down Lovisa's side. "Rysa," he echoes, nodding once. A moment later his chest rises with another drawn breath, and he answers, "Without this. Without smelling life. Without rysa." A smort smirk, and quick nip of his lips against hers, before looking to the ceiling, and rumbling, "You heard? Bilbao fell to the fascists."

"I know what you mean, I feel the same," Lovisa murmurs against his shoulder. "I had not heard that," she says, sounding sad. "That is a hard blow." She bites her lip, forcing herself to not say anything that isn't hopeful. "But it will be retaken, yes?"

Vaclav nods once to her earlier words. At the latter, he pauses for a long moment. "Republic still holds Asturias. Aragon. So long as they hold, the North is not finished. We break the fascist ring around Madrid.. And Bilbao will be retaken."

Lind is satisfied with that answer. And having rested a bit, she's not going to waste this precious time with discussing the tactics of war. Instead she moves closer and begins kissing him.

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