Someone Has To Do It

"Someone Has to Do It"

Who: Wallace & Llywelyn
IC Date: May 1940
OOC Date: Feb. 20, 2008
Where: Major road in France

What: Wallace and Llywelyn talk of war, England and why anyone would ever want to stay in the army.

Logger: Llywelyn

Major road
==============================================================
The Grid-----> > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Coordinates : 6 8

A wide road and a main thoroughfare, this road connects Arras to Calais. Calais lies to the northwest but the road continues straight north for a while, in the direction of Dunkirk.

It is currently daytime.

Sub-Rooms :
1. Aid Station

Contents
Alfred - 1. Aid Station
Llywelyn - 1. Aid Station
(#17159) Cards
Wallace
(#17288) Truck

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

«Game» Wallace moves into Aid Station.

Wallace slowly rolls to a sitting position as he waits for his mind to push away the clinging cloud of sleep that plagues it. With a forehead resting in the cup of a palm and elbow resting on his knee, he looks like many in this aid station… wounded, groggy, and none too excited to do anything at a speed considered 'swift'.

Llywelyn's right arm is still in a sling but his left has healed enough to be useable. And he's making use of it. He's sitting up on bed with a piece of paper and a pencil, writing awkwardly. He's obviously not a natural lefty.

Wallace lifts his head, looking around in bleary-eyed defiance, as if daring sleep to come calling for him once more. When it doesn't, he settles for a noncommital grunt and reaches up to rub at his face for a minute, as if that would help him spring to life. His left hand is still pretty banged up, but it seems to be the last wound the man has left. Finally he spots Llywelyn and gives a quick nod. "Llywelyn" he says, in way of greeting.

Llywelyn looks up from his writing, over at Wallace. "Morning, Sergeant," he says. "Or afternoon. Not that it matters much, I guess. You mending any better?"

Wallace looks down at his hand, all wrapped up in bandages and shrugs. "It all seems to be moving along… I think. I'm no doctor, after all." He glances over to Llywelyn then, "You?"

Llywelyn shrugs. "I can use my hand again. A bit." He puts down his pencil to awkwardly wriggle his fingers. "My wife can't complain about me not writing after this." An attempt at a joke, but he frowns down at his letter. "Not sure if this'll ever get to her, though." He hesitates a moment, looking down at the paper, then back up at Wallace. "You think we'll make it out of France, Sergeant?"

Wallace shakes his head quickly, then nods toward the letter. "That'll make it to her, and so will you, given enough time." When asked about making it out of France, he actually shrugs. "I don't know, really." He flashes a quick grin as he adds, "I find that thinking about it just makes it harder."

Llywelyn tries to grin back but all he can manage it a faint quirk of his lips. He puts the letter aside, picking the pencil back up just so he can fiddle with it between his mended fingers. "You've been in the army a long time, haven't you?"

Wallace manages his own small quirk of the lips at the question, and nods once. "Aye. I've spent more time -in- this army than out of it. Why?" He sits up straighter then, his own body finally giving up its attempt at sleep and waking fully to deal with the day ahead.

"I'm just trying to picture it. Twenty years of this kind of life." Llywelyn stops fiddling with the pencil, turning to look at the older man. "I'm not sure I could live a whole life like this, Sergeant. No offense met. Why've you stayed?"

Wallace takes a moment to look Llywelyn up and down, as if attempting to place something about the man. Finally, when his gaze settles on the man's left hand, he nods in understanding and grins. "Tell me, Llywelyn… what did you do before the War? Other than finding a pretty wife and maybe working on raising yourself up a few babies?"

Llywelyn grins a bit himself. "Not much of anything to account for. My father was a vicar. He wanted me to be one as well but that life didn't fit with me." He chuckles softly. "Standing up in front of folks for giving sermons frightened the daylights out of me. Thought of it still does, stupid as it sounds. Then I married Winnie. I was just seventeen and I had a wife to care for. I tried the coal mines but…that's no sort of life for a man. Ended up working for Winnie's father. He's got a little inn in Penclawdd, by the sea. Not a bad life but…I didn't want to be beholden to him all my days, you know? I wanted to be my own man. Not what my father - or hers - made me. Army pension seemed a better deal back in Wales than it is here, I have to say."

"See? You have reasons to go back." Wallace grinned at that, allowing himself a few minutes of mystery, before adding, "I've no sweetheart to return to." He pauses then, as if there is more to say, but instead switches gears. "And I never intend to set foot on the farm again. Staying with the army is better than returning to civilian life with nothing." He shrugs then, as if he doesn't really have a choice in the matter. "Besides, Fritz apparently likes to make trouble every decade or two, so someone has to be around to put them back in their place."

«Game» It is now dusk.

"You never married, then?" Llywelyn sounds a little surprised by that. He smirks, as to Fritz. "Seems that way. Da's told me a bit about the Great War. He did a bit of work as a stretcher bearer, and a chaplain. He didn't want me to join up. Said God never meant for men to do this to other men. I wanted to do my bit, but I'm starting to think he wasn't wrong."

Wallace shook his head quickly. "Nope, no real intention to now either… unless you're offerin'." He snorts in laughter at his own odd joke before adding quickly, "Someone has to, Llywelyn, someone has to. Man is an animal, at its heart, fighting over territory like some sort of large cat. We just have better tools to do it with."

Llywelyn laughs at that, shaking his head. "I don't think Winnie'd approve. Not that you don't seem a nice enough bloke, Sergeant." He grows more serious at that last, though. "Maybe. I never thought so, growing up. My father used to say all men have it in them to be their better natures. Show charity, compassion, faith. All of that. It seems many'd prefer to be devils, though. I've no heart for killing, Sergeant. And none to see men die. But looking at these poor French people…you're right. Someone has to do something. I just wish we could've done more for them."

"Damn right I am." Wallacr responds, chuckling quietly before he shook his head. "Maybe not, Llywelyn, maybe not. I just, like I said, don't think about it. I'm not a murderer, a killer of men. I neutralize the enemy through force." He shrugs then. "A fine line, you might say… but I sleep at night."

"A fine line. Aye…" Llywelyn trails off softly. He doesn't sound like he's come to terms with that line yet. "I suppose the army's something I'd best get used to. If we do make it back to England, it doesn't look like we're going to be done with the Germans any time soon. The way things going, I'm hoping it goes on horrible as it sounds. I hope England'll hold out."

"England will prevail" Wallace adds, giving a slow nod. "She's too tough an old bird to drop, don't you worry about that. Some of these other places though…" Wallace let his voice drop, lest any of the French soldiers hear him, and ends with a shrug.

Llywelyn smirks, nodding. "Aye, she is at that. It's funny. Back home, I never thought of myself as a true Brit. Or any Englishman as my countryman. I was always Welsh, first and fore. Doesn't seem to matter so much here. We seem to be all one to Fritz."

Wallace nods quietly at that. "That's what uniforms are for, lad." The left side of his lips curl up into a half-grin, "It's there so we all look alike, talk alike, think alike."

Llywelyn can't help but chuckle again. "I'm not sure it goes that far. Still, it's comforting in a way. To know you aren't in it alone. It's about the only comfort we've got, I suppose." He toys with his pencil again, looking back down at his letter. "I should finish this. Maybe it won't get to her before we're back to England…" Or ever. "…still, makes me feel better, trying."

Wallace stands up then, moving over toward Llywelyn and actually clapping the man on his uninjured shoulder. "The letter will get back, be certain of that." With that said, he moves away from Llywelyn and deeper into the tent.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 License.