Duncan The Incomprehensible

"We have been defeated. We are beaten; we have lost the battle."
- Paul Reynaud

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

Coordinates : 21 13

A flat plain of short grass stretches out around you, broken by the occasional bush or tree. It is rather exposed out here, the grass being too short to hide in, and cover too sparse to hide behind.

It is currently dusk.

Sub-Rooms :
1. Slit Trench

Bailey - 1. Slit Trench
Duncan - 1. Slit Trench
Rupert - 1. Slit Trench
Underwood - 1. Slit Trench
(#17277) Destroyed Matilda 2

West <W> East <E>
South <S> North <N>

Rupert is standing in the slit trench, staring glassily eastwards. He doesn't really look like he's observing the line so much as sleeping on his feet; his battle dress is soiled, his helmet has holes in it and his books look torn. Definetely seen some action since that uniform was issued. (repose)

Underwood is sitting at the edge of the trench, mostly staring off at the eastern sky with his tired eyes. His uniform is in better shape then Rupert's, as he got brand new pants on, but the rest is melting into the colours of the trench pretty well.

Rupert murmurs absent-mindedly to Underwood, "Have I ever told you that you have the devil's own luck, lance-corporal?"

Duncan lumbers across the lines, keeping his head down as he mutters underneath his breath in Glasgwegian slang. He grunts as he jumps down into the trench line, lifting a hand to just the shallow brim tin helmet on his head. "Ah, me bawbag." He grunts, adjusting his webbing around his crotch.

Bailey is limping in from another part of the trenches. He dumps down an ammo-belt and looks at it with some disdain. "Evening, lieutenant, lance-corporal," he grunts and then puts the Bren Gun down as well as he's hauled it around.

"Luck sir?" Underwood questions the statement, "No you haven't, and I'm not sure if I have noticed much of this luck you're talking about." He nods a greeting to Bailey while giving Duncan a quick eye.

Rupert nods at Underwood, "I'm sure of it, Underwood. Whenever I see people take a freak hit from a howitzer or lose their heads to a grenade, I'm confident that it's not your parts flying through the air." He smiles at his own morbid quip, nodding to Bailey. His watery blue eyes then slide to Duncan, brow furrowing, "Excuse me? Are you a replacement?"

Bailey just squints at Rupert with little humor. He lights up a cigarette, without offering any of the few remaining cigarettes in his pack to the rest. "How're we on ammunition, Sir?" he asks while taking a look at Duncan with some curiosuty.

Duncan over at Rupert, his flat slate gray eyes studying the officer as he seems to strain to understand what the man is saying to him. He then suddenly nods, a particularly feral grin finding his lips, "Away wi ye, blivet. I's frum the Bruckers. Ah gave 'im a glasgow-kiss so's they punch my ticket to yer squad. So I pick up me idiot stick an ah come over." He hefts his rifle, as if to offer proof, before suddenly adding a rueful salute. "Ye be litty Rupert, eh?"
To just about any proper Englishman, the Glasgwegian dialect is practically incoherent. Yet a few years away from home seems to made it a bit better…

Underwood rolls his shoulder, "Maybe you're right" he mumbles as a reply to Rupert, "Haven't really noticed." He looks up at Bailey, "I got some spare clips as always, also there's some left down in Arras, better not let it go to waste."

"We have an ammo dump at 15,3, I think we're fine on rifle ammo. Low on grenades, both AT and AP, but I'm going to beg the battalion supply officer for a few crates of both. So, things could be worse." Rupert turns to Duncan, squinting at him in polite incomprehension, "I don't understand a word you're saying, private. I'll take that as a yes?" He adds, "And yes, I'm Leftenant Orm-Herrick. This is 1st platoon, captain Harris' company."

"So, we get the ammo here," Bailey says. His accent is definitely of some London area, but hardly any fancy neighborhood. He smokes his cigarette intently, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs as if wanting to get as much out of it as possible while it lasts.

Duncan continues to grin at Rupert, his bushy reddish gold mustache giving his features an almost malevolent amusement. He straightens his shoulders to add a more crisp salute, though it almost comes across as more desultory than the lazier one before. "Aye then. Ahm Privet Duncan MacDuff. But ye ken call me Duffy." His features then take on an more sober note. "Put me wherever I can tickle the krauts." He looks around to the other soldiers sharing the trench with them, "Lads."

"I think we have a few crates of M68's left down at our old lines." Underwood nods south, while digging up a cigarette himself, "Don't think we have many Mills though, I had to ask around just to get enough to toss a couple yesterday." He looks up at Duncan, "Think you'll have to swim back home to avoid them, here you can stand anywhere and get into the thick of things."

"That would be, as you would say, 'nicking'. It's the battalion's dump. We take what we need and leave the rest there, private." Rupert ducks down as Duncan salutes him, "Christ, don't salute, private!" He remains down below the rim of the trench, breathing hard. It looks like he's been through a lot lately. "So, private… Duffy? Right. German snipers like officers, so we don't salute on the line. If you do it again, I'll have cause to think you hate me." He offers Duncan a lopsided grin, glancing at Underwood, "We do? We'll have to send some men to get those AT grenades, then. I wouldn't mind some more Mills either, even if the AT can blast a man dead equally well."

Bailey looks at Duncan with an unreadable expression, but the greeting makes him nod in a friendly enough manner towards the newly arrived soldier. He just listens to Rupert and nods again to show his understanding. Not a very talkative one, is he.

Underwood looks like he understands French better then whatever Duncan is speaking and just stares blankly at him for a few seconds before turning looking back east.

"A… Chanty wrassler." Rupert stares blankly at Duncan, scuttling a little to the side before straightening again. Danger passed. "Anyway, truth to tell, not a lot of snipers around here mainly. The Hunn has been less than subtle lately. It's been artillery barrages, followed by panzers and infantry. You've picked a hell of a time to get sent into action."

Bailey takes a seat on a crate and begins cleaning up the machine gun. He looks less worn than the others but that's cause he's not been fighting in the last few larger battles this group has been in. He finishes the cigarette and drops the butt into the mud at the bottom of the trench. "There any tea?" he asks of anyone that might have an answer. Ammunition, tea. Top priority items.

Duncan is a wonderous testament to the diversity of the British Empire. He leans against the side of the trench, casually removing a dark brown rolled up cigarette from inside the case where his gas mask should be. He places it between his lips before nodding towards Bailey with a knowing smile as the other man takes a seat. "Ye get me a lawt, lad?" He regards his fellow private in an almost conspiratorial manner, gesturing to his cigarette. He glances back to Rupert, seeming agreeable, "Ah was there inne breakout. Pure damn brilliant." His demeanor turns a fraction more serious. "So ye need some crackers choried up 'ere?" He wonders. He refers to the business of nicking ammunition and grenades.

Rupert looks at Bailey as if he were mad, "Of course there's tea. Dugout in the back, I think Sergeant Wallace has the kettle on." Rupert stares hard at Duncan, trying to decipher what he said. There's a long silence, then he says, "No, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't understand a word you're saying. Bailey?" Apparently asking him to translate.

Bailey is watching Duncan with something close to suspicion as he leans in and smiles at him. "He's saying that he thinks you're a good looking man, Sir, and that we should go have tea together and carry it back up here," he explains, dead pan. No, he doesn't understand either so he's taking the chance to be funny. At least he thinks it's funny. "And something about the grenades, I think. He volunteered to carry them here, I believe."

Underwood comes out of his own little world after a while, eyes focusing a bit closer again, "Sir, I think we might as well scrap the 2 pounder down south too, it took a beating during the counter attack on the trench, and it is probably as likely to blow up as blow anything else up."

Duncan clasps his hands together in what seems to be quixotic praise of Bailey's translation, "Tha's jus berries." He reaches around in his various pockets, until he manages to come up with a match. He strikes it against a nearby, conveniently rough surface before raising it to crisp the end of the cigarette. He watches it burn a moment longer before killing it with a shake of his wrist, breathing in the smoke. He looks to Rupert expectantly. "Ah chorrie ye crackers." He assures the lieutenant in an almost comforting manner.

Rupert glances from Bailey to Duncan, "Wait, do what with my crackers? My crackers are fine, thank you. He takes a deep breath, as if trying to regain control of the situation. As Underwood speaks up, he nods to the lance-corporal, "Fine, you know something about demolitions. Take Bailey and Duncan south, get rid of the two pounder, and shift the 88 around so it's a little north of its current position, in the two pounder's current emplacement."

Underwood nods and crawls to his feet before adding, just to keep the mood up, "Not sure if we're out of ammo for the 88 yet or not. Guess I better check. It wasn't firing a whole lot yesterday, so hopefully we got some shells left."

Duncan gives his shoulders a stretching beneath his webbing as he pushes away from the side of the trench, huffing on his cigarette. He glances towards Underwood, muttering, "Gaun yerself. We snicked an 88?"

Bailey gives Underwood and Duncan both a 'look what you did'-look and slowly climbs to his feet. "And the M68s? Move some of those up here too?" he asks, so he's volunteering himself up for more work despite his seeming reluctance to do anything.

Rupert nods. "Yes, get the AT grenades too. Fine. I'll stay here to watch the line. Good job, men." And with that absent-minded utterance, he digs out some binoculars and starts birdgazing.

Underwood drags his feet as he starts his way to the southern trenches.

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

Coordinates : 22 11

Like a golden sea, the wheatfield stretches out with forest in the distance, or far off farm houses. The land is flat and open and anyone moving through it is easily spotted. Here and there some weed has conquered an area, mostly thistles which adds splashes of green amidst all the yellow.

It is currently night time.

Sub-Rooms :
1. Front Line Trench

Underwood - 1. Front Line Trench
(#17264) Matilda 2
(#17276) 88mm FlaK 18 - 1. Front Line Trench
(Item 1) FM 24-29 Ranged Weapon
(Item 2) Flare Equipment / 1. Front Line Trench
(Item 3) .303 British x 101 Ammo / 1. Front Line Trench

West <W> East <E>
South <S> North <N>

Duncan nudges Bailey as he lumbers along by him. "Dinnae be fash, lad." He nods to him in an confiding manner before hurrying onwards with a surprising swiftness, following after Underwood. He continues to smoke, pufts of it fading over his shoulder.

Underwood eyes the 88, and the total lack of ammo for it, "Well, won't do us much good, and the Germans got ammo for it once they take these trenches back." And instead he starts rigging it up so they can just wreck it, "And the captain said to leave nothing behind intact."

"Do you know English?" Bailey responds to Duncan, a pained expression on his face as he moves along with Duncan. He favors his left leg in a slight limp that doesn't slow him down too much. "I understand the French better than I understand you, I swear." He makes a grunting sound as he climbs into the trench, looking around at what's here.

Duncan offers Bailey a good natured scowl, "Amur spakin the Queenie's fish." He then looks over at Underwood, whom he nods to in an agreeable manner. "Aye, biddy be spikin it."

"The lt is an optimist, thinking we'll be holding here any longer." Underwood mutters to the other two creatures as he works on the 88, "After yesterday it wouldn't take much to break through." He nods at the ammo crate, "And if anyone need to fill up, might as well do it now."

Oh, look, ammunition! Bailey perks up a little and wanders over to grab that ammunition, least what he can carry. "Back home to old England soon," he says, as if Underwood's words makes him feel better, chosing to look at it on the bright side.

Duncan reaches around to feel the cartridges strapped to his webbing before shaking his head, "Ahm fin." He decides, considering that he is already weighed down with as much Enfield ammo as a man can humanely carry, his pockets bulging with it.

"You think?" Underwood looks at Bailey, "That we are getting pushed around is pretty clear, and that we'll get pushed into the water somewhere, but you think we'll be heading for the coast at once?" He then picks up and looks at the flare gun before putting it down again, "Flare gun if anyone wants one." He looks over to Duncan, "Make sure you get some clips for the Bren too, not like you need that much for just the rifle."

Duncan glances over the lip of the trench, a brief glimmer of curiousity in his flat slate eyes. He turns his head at the last minute, so that when he breathes in, the cherry glow won't give him away. He aims his chin towards Underwood in an companionable manner, "Ah will." He looks about to see if there is anything to 'chorie'.

"Yes, I think," Bailey tells Underwood stubbornly. "But we'll be the last to go, won't we. Bloody bad luck ending up in this company," he mutters and stalks about looking for more useful things to move. "Where's the grenades?"
Duncan rumbles over his shoulder to Bailey with an untoward amusement, "First in the fash, last out."

"Don't complain" Underwood takes a step back from the 88, "I heard some of us got sent down to the Maginot Line. Don't think there is much hope for them, marched off to some POW camp or tossed into a grave is all that is left for them if not some kind of miracle happens." He looks out over the road, "The grenades are even further south, at our old lines."

"I complain if I want to," Bailey replies sourly. "We moving the big gun first, get grenades later?" He picks out his cigarettes but changes his mind and pockets them again, in a sudden worry he'll run out.

Duncan glances over at Underwood, lifting a hand to casually rub at his reddish gold mustache. "Aooer lads won't get slagged iffen it can be 'elped." Though, something in his tone suggests he's mentally consigned those poor bastards to their fate. He finishes off his own cigarette, dropping it to the ground and crushing it with the heel of his black pigskin boot.

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