General Kleber

"General Kleber"

Who: NPC General Kleber, Konstantinov, O'Callaghan, Gonzales, Marchand, Janoslav, Rothschild and Elizabeth
When: October 1936
Where: Plaza de Toros, Spain

What: General Kleber comes to inspect the International Brigade. Rothschild and Marchand meet again for the first time since Belleau Wood in World War I.

Plaza de Toros
The Grid-----> > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <

The bullring of Albacete resembles the Colosseum of Rome, and in truth its function is not too different. Of classic design, it has a central open space of hard packed earth on which in happier times bullfighting was performed, surrounded with tiered rows of stands for the spectators.

The bullring has been commandeered by the XI International for use as a barracks. The winter nights under the stars are deathly cold, and in the absence of a barracks the soldiers huddle together for warmth. During the day, in theory, training goes on here.

It is currently daytime.

Sub-Rooms :


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

At the front gate a soldier stands there armed with one of the few weapons in the camp. The private grabs a small piece of wood off the ground and sticks it into the barbwire gate. Using the piece of wood, he pulls a large chunk of the tangled wire out of the way from the road. The Soldier then having some military discipline and familure with some basic customs steps back away from the road in the position of attention. His rifle sits on his left shoulder and his right hand touches the brim of his dusty cap to form a salute.

Entering through the front gate arrives a military staff car. Two small International Brigade Flags wave from the front and the vehicle has a special liscence plate on it denoting someone of importance. Inside are three uniformed men.

Konstantinov has emerged from the Head Quarters tent. Not exactly a common sight. He has a tendency to lurk in the shadows of the bullring. But he's out now, and has cleaned and pressed and shined himself until he's the very picture of a Russian officer. He waits for the Irish Captain to join him before moving any further, watching the incoming car with great anticipation.

The Irish Captain is only a step behind the Commissar. O'Cal clears his throat a bit in preperation and ensures his uniform is in proper order. The old battered uniform that he typical wears has been mended up and and ironed to look respectable for the day. Giving a short glance to Konstantinov, "You know much about the General?"

Having come to do some 'promotional photographs', Elizabeth has her camera on hand as she pauses in the open area, turning towards the car. It's hard to miss the sound, one she hadn't expected to hear in the area. Tilting her head to the side, the reporter reaches out to snag the arm of the man she'd been walking with, halting his forward motion. "Ben," she murmurs to Rothschild, cocking her head towards the entryway, and then towards the two officers stepping out of the command tent. She really doesn't need to say anything else.

Gonzales is outside as well, sitting a bit off to the side, and looking around carefully. Seeing the officers come out, he keeps his attention on them for the moment, rather quietly.

The driver brings the vehicle up to a hault infront of the HeadQuarters tent. Killing the vehicle's engine, the driver steps out from the vehicle and lights up a cigarette. The passenger seated in the front seat is a crusty old Sergeant. The man steps out from the vehicle armed with a submachine gun which hangs from a leather strap around his shoulder. The man knows how to carry the weapon proving his experience and his comfort level with it.

The last person to exit from the vehicle is General Kleber. The General stands there for a moment adjusting his prestine uniform for a moment before doing anything else.

Konstantinov holds himself perfectly straight as he watches the car approach. As if getting to attention early. "I know little of the man, myself," he admits. Not a thing the commissar admits very often. "But he is no doubt a great man, to have achieved the position he is in. You would do well to make certain your 'troops'…" He still says the term dubiously, in description of the soldiers here. "…treat him with the proper respect. Command would not look kindly on it if the general found this visit…embarrassing." The second Kleber exits the vehicle, Konstantinov snaps to attention and issues an almost painful proper salute. "General! Welcome to our brigade. It is an honor to be in your presence."

Elizabeth may not know many people, but -that- is a face she recognises. Inhaling sharply, Elizabeth's reaching for her camera before she realizes she's even doing so. Her husband is left in the dust as the photographer starts across the compound towards the command tent and the trio of officers there. Her newest camera is so much better than her old one! She's actually able to snap a photograph during the briefest momentary pause on her path across, her skirt barely catching up with her enough to swish against her knees before she's starting forward once again.

Rothschild is in Elizabeth's company, notepad out, glasses adjusted over his beak. The arrival of the general definitely isn't something he misses. He blinks as Elizabeth runs off to take her pictures, but he isn't far behind. He keeps to the sidelines of the whole affair, taking notes, and watching the brass shebang get underway.

Captain O'Cal glances at Commissar Konstrantinov briefly while saying, "It'll be a bit hard not to look embarrassing with out proper equipment and uniforms. I hope he'll have some words for us about our problem." The Captain then glances about the camp at the various soldiers wearing a variety of old uniforms and civilian clothing. "Half of 'em dont even have boots." The Captain states quickly as the car rolls up to a stop in front of him.

In unison with the Commissar, the Captain raises his hand to a salute as he comes to attention. "General." he simply states.

Marchand walks up to the barracks formed within the arena, wearing a uniform that looks distinctly like a doughboy uniform from the Great War, aged and faded in spots. He has no weaponry at this time, nor much gear beyond some surplus bits. His walk is confident, though, and firm as with the belief he's involved in something world-affecting and for the good of Humanity. Spotting the man outfitted with the brass regalia of the general, though, leads him to quickly step into the masses and not interrupt the high officer's ceremony.

Both the Driver and the Guard keep their post at the vehicle over watching events unfold. Even though in the camp, the Sergeant continues to hold his submachine gun keeping a close eye on any of those getting close to the general.

General Kleber assess the two Officers in a brief moment before raising his hand to return their salute, "Captains." The General takes notice of the Head Quarters Tent then points towards it, "Lets talk inside, I have a great deal to discuss with you."

"The state of your men is your responsibility, Captain O'Callaghan," Konstantinov says in that cool, oh-so-cordial tone he favors. "You are in charge of them because it is believed you can lead them. And make them into something worthy of the great cause they are involved in." That is said in an undertone, before he has to focus all his attention on the General. To Kleber, he's all proper politeness and protocol. "Of course, General. This way, please." He waits for O'Callaghan to open the tent again and see them properly inside.

Paying little attention to whether Rothschild is following after her or not, Elizabeth is making good time towards the tent. Winding the film in her camera with quick, skilled motions, she pauses perhaps fifteen feet away from the car and the tent door to lift the camera and sight another photograph, framing the trio in the shot.

If Captain O'Cal had anything to say in responce to the Commissar comment, he kept it to himself. "This way Sir." O'Cal says as he lifts the tent flap open. Spotting two privates on his staff working inside, he juts his thumb over his shoulder. In a ruff and authority driven tone, he states "Scram."

The two privates instently drop what they are doing and rush out from the tent saluting the General as they make their exits.

The Captain then motions inside, "After you Sir."

Gonzales looks up again, shrugging a little to himself. 'So that is the man leading us,' he says to himself, in Spanish, shrugging a little bit to himself again.

Marchand watches quietly, not interrupting those of visible importance attending to their duties and ceremony with the visiting dignitary. His eyes glance over to review the others present, of the many different nationalities, ages, and manner of uniform. Spotting the journalist pair, he noticeably blinks and strains to get a better look their way.

Rothschild continues to lurk and write and attempt to look like he has every right in the world to be there. As out of place. He frowns with some annoyance when the general gets ushered away. But he uses the time to go over his notes, and take a longer look at the soldiers that've assembled. Marchand's uniform makes him do a double-take. He blinks, squinting behind his glasses, as if unsure he's seeing it right. "Well I'll be damned…" he mutters under his breath. It's unclear if he recognizes the man or not, but the Marine threads are definitely familiar.

Konstantinov prepares to follow into the tent. After General Kleber, but before Captain O'Cal. He seems to assume that is his proper place.

The three officer march into the tent and the flap is closed behind them to provide moderate privecy as military matters are discussed.

The older Sergeant catches a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, he turns around to face the approaching woman. His left hand raises in front of him showing his the palm of his hand. Something is then muttered in Russian with a thick accent. The command sounds like an order and a warning at the same time.

"Sorry, mate," Elizabeth returns in her Australian accent, grinning as charmingly at the guard as she can manage, winding the camera and snapping a picutre of the glaring figure. "No clue what you just said." As if to prove her point, she windwindwinds the camera and winks.

Marchand offers a simple nod of greeting to those international volunteers nearest to him after the officers have entered the tent. From his age, and the faded uniform, he's likely a veteran of the Great War. The words come out in English, "Are those our commanding officers?" to where Gonzales and Jarmo are, a motion in the direction of the HQ tent.

Rothschild blinks, giving his head a shake and taking his eyes of Marchand. Elizabeth and her encounter with the sergeant gives him something else to focus on. "Relax, pal," he says, grinning at the Russian soldier. "The lady just needs to get a good picture. The General's visit to the Brigade is big news. Could make the papers back in London, Paris, New York…hell, Moscow, too. By the way, is that Kleber with a 'C' or a 'K'? I'm lousy with names."

The Crusty Sergeant doesn't understand a single word from the woman. His hand motions for the woman to back up as he states another single word order to the woman. While his voice is stern, it has calmed down from his earlier statement. His left hand returns to the magazine of the weapon keeping it their with a stern grip. He watches the woman carefully ensuring she keeps her distance from the tent.

While Lizzie can't reach out and touch the tent, another step or two and she could. She reaches into the pocket of her jacket, and pulls out a PRESS pass, the word translated into the appropriate language beneath the english. "S'alright, mate, don't go getting your knickers in a knot." She lifts the camera, tapping the top lightly. "See? I shoot, but it doesn't draw blood."

Marchand turns to Gonzales's response. "Thanks…err…merci?" He squints a moment, as if trying to recall even a base level of speech in Spanish. "Non, nada, Espanol. I'm sorry." A hint of frustration appears with that admission of lacking the ability to speak in the national language, "Frank Marchand" with a hand lightly gesturing to his own chest. The English language might drift across to those accustomed to it, though the speech is the bland Mid-Atlantic East Coast American variety of it.

Rothschild reaches out to put a hand on Elizabeth's arm. Companionably, but the gesture is meant to draw her back. He just shrugs when the sergeant doesn't answer his questions. "Come on. Why you get a few pictures of the recruits, while the General is occupied? See the brave men called from across the world to fight for Spain, and all of that." He manages to keep most of the sarcasm out of his voice. He'd rather not get shot just now. On that note, his gaze drifts back to Marchand. In time to catch the name this time. For a second, all he can do is stare. "I'll be damned…"

Gonzales grins a little. "Gracias," he corrects the other man a bit lightly. He then chuckles, talking in a slightly accented English, "It's not that many who knows our language here, it would seem." He then offers a hand in greeting, "Nice to meet you, Marchand. I'm Miguel Angel Gonzales."

Blinking, Elizabeth allows herself to be drawn back by Rothschild, head tilting to the side as she catches his final exclaimation. "Damned about what?" she wonders more quietly, her attention following his gaze to seek out.. "It can't be." And she narrows her eyes, squinting ever so slightly in Marchand's direction.

The Sergeants eyes fix on the woman glaring at her. Not appearing to care for the woman's pass or camera he shouts another order in russian. His voice is harsh and filled with authority. For the first time the submachine gun is swung towards the woman. The weapon is aimed low at the ground, possible a foot or two infront of her feet. Another single word order is states and repeated.

Marchand smiles in a friendly way to Gonzales's patient manner of changing to English. "Senor Gonzales, Comrade Miguel, It's nice to meet you too. Glad you know English." He lets out his breath in relief. A glance over to the fancy car appropriated by the General's staff. "I expect they'll want us on the parade grounds soon, to offer a display of how we stand as a unit." He lifts an arm to wipe off his forehead with his sleeve. "It's been a while since I was in uniform. I don't know the .." He catches himself, and just lets the words drift to smile again. "I forget English is foreign to you." He glances up towards the photographer's camera again. "That man…with the woman and the camera. Is…he is an American?"

Marchand 's smile fades as he spots the submachine gun pointed uot, and the Sergeant's tone heard turning angry.

"Easy!" Rothschild breaks in when the Russian soldier points a gun at Elizabeth. More forcefully than is probably wise. Marchand is forgotten for the moment. "We are Press. Reporters. Your Commissar already put us through the ringer." He gestures a thumb to the tent, while trying to ease Elizabeth further back from it.

Having had guns pointed at her before, and triggers pulled, Elizabeth is only too eager to avoid it again. ALlowing her camera to drop, caught by the strap around her neck, she lifts her white-gloved hands in a gesture of non-aggression, palms out. "Easy does it, lad," she murmurs, voice soft, calm and surprisingly soothing. "No need to be pointing that thing towards anyone."

Gonzales looks over at the commotion by the tent, blinking a little bit, as he sees the gun and all that. He then nods to Marchand, "I believe so, yes," he replies, after a few moments.

The submachine gun continues to be aimed at the ground infront of the woman even after she shows her hands. The Russian's non-shooting hand is once again raised to his chest and pushes out and away from him. This motion is made several times as he keeps an eye on the press reporters. His facial expressions are hardened as he glares between the two reporters.

Rothschild's accent confirms that he's American. Even if it has been softened by years on in Europe, a Jersey boy still lurks deep down in it. Especially as, since he doesn't speak Russian, he's fallen back on the universal language of English Spoken Loudly and Slowly. "You got it, comrade," he says dryly to the gesturing Sergeant. He tries to guide his wife back from the tent. Back, back, back. This takes him in Marchand's direction. Not that he notices that right now.

Marchand doesn't interrupt the Sergeant, but he is staring towards the woman's face and that of her companion. "I know him…and her…I think I know her too." and blinks with surprise. "Rothschild?" and turns to Gonzales, "That man, he served in Belleau Wood with me, and was my brother's friend." The head turns back to squint towards Elizabeth, trying to place her too.

Gonzales blinks a bit as he hears that, "Really? You fought in the last war?" he asks, after a few moments.

Keeping her hands up, Lizzie turns her back on the sargeant only when she's taken a good four or five steps back out of the way. As she turns, she sends a look towards her husband. "Uptight, slightly, isn't he?" she murmurs softly, words not meant to carry to anyone beyond Rothschild himself. "I've -got- to learn some Russian." is added in a little more firm a voice.

The HeadQuarters Tent flap opens as the General exits from inside. This action causes the Driver and Sergeant to come to the position of attention as the Gerneral passes beside them. He stops short of the vehcile waiting for the Commissar to arrive to introduce him to the troops that have collected.

"I believe that translates to 'get the hell back or I'll shoot you', Lizzie," Rothschild says to Elizabeth wryly, keeping a hand on her arm. "We had Russian neighbors when I was a boy. Albeit not -quite- such well-armed ones." He misses the General's exit, turning his head to regard Marchand when the other man says his name. For a second, he just stares. Then, he reaches up to take off his glasses. He's gotten older, but he's still recognizable. "Delaware…" He chuckles in disbelief. Gonzales question goes unanswered. Maybe even unheard. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Marchand smiles warmly in return when Rothschild looks his way. "Jersey. That's what Mark called you, right?" He lets out his breath, straightening up to scratch the shadow of whiskers formed since an early morning shave. "That woman's…your partner?" His head tilts a bit, looking towards Elizabeth again. "The reporter from that newspaper?" The jaw drops a little. "I remember you too, though can't remember your name. You'd better come over here, that general's stepping out." A quick comment back over to Gonzales, "Yes, si. I knew them both."

Konstantinov follows the general out of the tent, following a pace behind the General, posture straight and respectful. "Men!" he barks. "Assemble! Assemble like the troops that you are. You are in the presence of your commander in this great cause, General Emilio Kleber!"

Rush yawns a bit as he steps out of the Hospital building. Having had an already long day as it is, the Doctor isn't really inclined to participate in the political propoganda meetings. Doctor Rush tugs idly on his stethescope, peering over the crowd of international soldiers as they gather together.

"Partner…I think you're the first person who's considered me to be anything more than someone to stay home and cook dinner," Elizabeth offers in Marchand's direction with a grin, though the niceties are put on hold as he informs her of the General's return. "S'cuse me," she murmurs, turning around and starting forward once again, camera up and in use.

"Nice," Gonzales offers, with a bit of a grin. He then hears the order, and hurries to move to the right place to be in at the moment. He might not be much of a soldier yet, but he knows when to follow orders.

Marchand reaches out to offer Rothschild a quick cup of the man's shoulder with one hand, "Gotta get moving. Generalissimo El Cid over there wants the troops to be presented." He starts moving, but calls back, "Looks like you're a civie this time, Jersey." and again smiles before quickly stepping into line with the others, beside Gonzales.

Rothschild clears his throat when Marchand mentions his brother, nodding. "Yeah. Yes. It is. Though I haven't been a Jersey man in a long time. And she's…dammit, Lizzie!" Those are the parting words Marchand gets, before Rothschild has to follow the photographer. He attempts to take notes and watch the guards at the same time. In case they start handling those guns again.

Janoslaw arrives from the East.

Rush holds his hand out casually, accepting a martini from one of his nurses. The doctor nods simply, taking a sip as he watches the General speaker, clearing his throat a bit before tasting some of the nectar of the gods, two hours ago was a very good year indeed!

Shooting a shot from a distance of the troops rapidly lining up, Elizabeth shifts her path to take her almost into the General's shadow, aiming to get a 'classic' shot of the man in charge surveying said troops. She ignores Rothschild's call, something she's rather good at doing.

The General Stands in front of his staff car watching the soliders gather into their respective platoons and squads. For the first minute, General Kleber remaines silent as he reviews the formation from where he stands.

The Russian Sergeant moves to intercept the cammra woman that has brought him quiet a head ache in the short time knowing her. He stands ruffly 15 feet away from the General ensuring that the reporter doesn't get to close. While the weapon isn't held in the same aggresive posture as before, he believes the point has been made from the earlier encounter.

At this point the General speeks up, "Soldiers of the ninth International Brigade." His voice carries throughout the area after having much experience commanding troops. The Canadian General pauses a brief moment beforing continueing, "You all come from different nationalities, social backgrounds, speek different languages, grew up in poverty or wealth, yet you are here fighting under a single banner…."

"You all come from different nationalities, scovial backgrounds, speek different languages, grew up in poverty or wealth, yet you are here fighting under a single banner of freedom against the oppresive facist government of Nationalist Spain. This curroptive Government must not the war, it will continue to suspress its people with facisism which will inturn spread throughout Europe, from Europe it will spread to Asia, Africa, and even the Americas. It is our duty to stop this here and now. I have spoken to your commanders, I have faith in them as well as you that the right caliber of soliders have stepped up for this worthy cause."

Rolling her eyes at the Sergeant, Elizabeth stops short. "Good picture," she offers slowly, giving him a thumbs up and then pointing to her camera. "The world sees, da?" She pushes up onto her toes, peeking over his shoulders before trying to step to the side to give herself a better shot.

Konstantinov stands near the general, making certain that the soldiers see him associated with this figure of authority. His cold little eyes drift out over the assembled men as Kleber speaks. Assessing them all. He may give the impression of being able to see right through them. He notes the reporters as well. But, as long as they're kept back, he doesn't make any move to interfere with them.

Simply one more face among the others, drawn up by squad and platoon, Janoslaw stands, straight backed and still, brown regard riveted upon the general as words are given to the assembled solidery. A tight little smile tugs at his expression during the speech.

Rush yawns a bit as he sips his martini, "Little too much vermouth." he says to the nurse with a chuckle, "I think i'll be going to sleep…" he says, disappearing within the hospital, heading for his bunk.

Gonzales keeps his face rather passive as he listens to what's being said.

Rothschild is used to being ignored by Elizabeth. He just keeps lurking nearby, to try and keep her from getting herself shot. And he takes notes. He writes bits of the speech down rapidly, in a chicken-scratch reporter script that only he can probably decipher. He doesn't appear to find it worthy of perfect notation, or particularly stirring. The general's accent makes him pause with some surprise, then get going again even faster with his pencil.

Marchand too keeps upright and attentive, the old routine of review coming back to the nearly middleaged man. Looking straight ahead, his old khaki uniform showing its age, the figure presents itself in line with no rifle nor weapon issued to be held at ready.

When General Kleber is finished with his speech, he steps out to walk among his men. Man of the proletariat that he is. Konstantinov follows not far behind him. Practically on his heels. But it's the men the general concentrates on. He comes to Gonzales first. "I thank you for volunteering to defend your country from the scourge of fascism, comrade. Your countrymen will one day cheer you, as a hero, when all are free."

As she just can't seem to get by the tense sergeant, Elizabeth grunts softly in frustration. "Fine, we'll play your way, mate." And she steps back, and then lifts her hand to wave, pristine white glove catching the light. "General! Photo for the papers? Great public relations!" When in doubt, go straight to the talk, though it is rather forward for a woman, isn't it?

You paged Elizabeth with 'She is /not/ going to get a close-up picture of him. His guards wouldn't be letting that happen. She can roam freely and snap all the photos she wants of the soldiers, as long as she doesn't get too close to the general.'.

"Gracias, Senor," Gonzales replies as he hears that, bowing his head a little. "I mean… Thank you, sir," he adds, quickly.

Marchand is beside the soldier Gonzales, lined up in review. He keeps a serious face now, the older man seeming to be a veteran of military service. Though not turning to gawk at the general, his eyes do try to make out the man's expression as Gonzales is addressed, though not speaking out of place himself.

Janoslaw stands further still down the line from Marchand; less diciplined perhaps, the young man's attention is plainly fixed on the high officers.

The shouting from the female photograph gets General Kleber's attention, but it only makes him snap something to Konstantinov. The commissar nods sharply and moves off to intercept her. Meanwhile, the general continues to make his way through the line of men. He nods approvingly of Gonzalez, moving on to Marchand. "You are American? Yet you have come all this way, to fight for a people whose language you do not even speak. We are all brothers, comrades. This cause binds us, and it is with the bond of right that we will prevail."

Konstantinov, meanwhile, attends to the media. "Mrs. Rothschild." He smiles at her. "Mr. Rothschild." Smile. "The general has only a short time with us. He must speak with his men. Do not cause a bother and you will get all the information you need. Remain in place. You make take your pictures from here." That is aimed mostly at Elizabeth.

Marchand lifts his head back just a bit, acknowledging the general's words with an attempt at disciplined formality. "Yes, sir. Comrade", with the latter mode of address added in the manner typical of the Marxist ideal of equality of the proletariat. "I fight not just for Spain, but for democratic peoples everywhere. Tyranny left to grow will spread, oppression unchecked." He clears his throat a bit at the end, and straightens once again.

General Kleber nods deeply to Marchand, as if warmed and cheered by his words. He even reaches out to clap the American on the shoulder. "Yes, comrade. You have spoken for all of us. We make our stand here, against tyranny. Not just for Spain, but for all the world." Once he's done with that, he moves on to Janoslaw. "Where do you come from, comrade?" The question is asked in English, but slowly, and he eyes the young man in search of signs of his nationality.

Janoslaw draws a hand smartly to his brow in a salute. He knows that much at least.. Posture parade-stiff, he swallows once. A moment's hesitation in between breath drawn and words spoken, before the young man intones, "Private Janoslaw Staszak. I.. not speak English."

Marchand lets his jaw lift, pride filling his features with the words of the general. One hand slips into his shirt pocket, for a moment seeming to hold a small memorable item out of view. His eyes seem to brighten with the enthusiasm and idealism of youth for a moment before realisation of this display hits and he tones it down so as to not stand out from his comrades in the line.

As Konstantinove speaks with her, Elizabeth smiles widely up at him. "I'm sure something a little closer, from behind the General, showing just how pleased his men are to see him, would be good for moral if it were to make the papers, Captain. I won't be the slightest bother, he'd hardly know I was there." She's trying to ignore the impulse to look past him. "Not all that close, either, really, but from back here, they're just one giant mess. It hardly does justice to the cause."

The general notes Janoslaw's accent, and switches to smooth Polish instead. He speaks it as well as he does English. As he did before, he thanks the young man for joining them to stand against the tide of fascism, helping spread freedom throughout the world, and all of that.

Gonzales keeps his attention mostly towards the front, although he glances over at Marchand for a few moments, as the older man reaches for his pocket.

"Thank you, General," Janoslaw notes with a brief, relieved smile, and dip of his head. "I will fight very hard." Plainly nervous, the young man restrains his smile without much success, and drops the saluting hand again to his side.

Konstantinov just keeps standing Elizabeth's way. The sergeant with the gun not far from him. He smiles at her. "I am afraid the general cannot be bothered with such things just now. He can only be among us for a short time. And he would know, Mrs. Rothschild. I can assure you of that. I am sure your pictures will show the cause just as well from here." There is a note of finality in his voice.

A heavy sigh, and Elizabeth shakes her head, reaching to put a cap on the lense of her camera before clipping down the top of the hard case protecting it. "Hardly. No point in wasting film from back here, either. One mass of grey is what they'll end up as." And she shakes her head, one hand settling on her hip, gloved fingers drumming lightly against it, the only outward sign of her annoyance.

Rothschild isn't far from Elizabeth and the commissar but, seeing as his wife hasn't been shot yet, he concentrates on getting some notes of his own. The general's words with Marchand make him roll his eyes, in spite of himself, but he takes it all down. Along with some extrapolatory notes of his own, many with little '?' marks around them.

Marchand hands what might be a case, perhaps the size used for cigarettes, just for a moment in his palm from his pocket. Only the closest might notice it, as he's not making it a display. Finally, after the general's moved much further down the line, he glances over a little more relaxed to Gonzales. "Never met a general before", muttered quietly.

Kleber moves on from Janoslaw, and one down the line of men. All of them get much the same glad-hand and inspiring bit of socialism. When he's made it all the way through, the general motions to Kleber. The commissar, and the general's guards, cluster back to him, to guide him to his car. "Soon we will march to Madrid, comrades!" he shouts, as he ducks into the vehicle. "And glory and freedom will follow us."

As the general turns to make his leave, Elizabeth realizes her chance. Of -course-! How could she possibly have been so stupid! Her hand drops from her hip, she moves to quickly unbuckle the camera case, pull out the camera, wind it and lift it in preparation to take the shot. She knows she'll likely only get one chance as the man is ushered away like a child needing protecting, but that doesn't phase her. All she needs is one shot. And she plans to get it!

"I haven't either," Gonzales replies with a bit of a grin, before he hears the last few words of the General, "Someone else can have the glory, I just want my country free from the Fascists…" Yes, even if he's spent the last 20 years living in one of the Spanish colonies, Spain's still his country.

Janoslaw looks back down the line with a brief grin toward Marchand and Gonzales, at quiet exchange. Shrugging one shoulder to shift the weight of the strap upon it, the young man waits a moment for a dismissal before falling out of formation.

Konstantinov is occupied with seeing General Kleber off, so he doesn't pay much attention to photographer, or the men, again until he his head is ducked out of the car. "Stand at attention!" he orders the men sharply, stepping back and doing so himself. He salutes as the general's car is driven off, looking coolly out at the men to make sure they follow his example.

Marchand slowly nods back to Gonzales, though then takes a moment to try to make out which men present might be NCOs. "Fascism seeps in. Slowly. One moment you turn to look the other way. The next moment, you wonder how you let it in." There's a slow nod, as if the words relate back to some previous experience, perhaps. But then the American manages to allow his face to relax more gently without dropping his stand in the line. To Gonzales, "Maybe you can teach me Spanish some time." As he hears the political Commisar issue an order, he immediately turns face forwards at attention, and closes the lips to tight silence.

Elizabeth grins to herself as she gets the shot. It may not be perfect, but a profile of the man ducking his head to get into the car is better than nothing. Looking inordinately pleased with herself, she steps back and offers Rothschild a bright, rather impish, grin. As she comes to his side, she murmurs, "We should invite our old friend to our room for some wine and catching up, hmm?"

Janoslaw snaps his head back to gazing straight ahead, posture losing whatever slackness it had developed, and drawing his hand back up to salute. Brown eyes track the motion of the general's car.

Gonzales nods a little bit as he hears Marchand's words, "I can try," he offers, before he hears the Russian give the order, and gets back to attention, rather quickly.

Marchand doesn't lift his hand to salute, and looks over towards the Commisar with surprise as if the expectation is not something he was expecting from the political leader. He does keep his stance alert and on guard, held at attention, as the general's car then passes. A moment's brief smile with a nod is offered to Gonzales, delayed till after the staff car is almost out of sight through the arena's exit.

Konstantinov stands stiffly until the car has disappeared. He then turns back to the men. "Dismissed, comrades!" he barks, heading back to the head quarters tent to whatever it is the commissar does when he's not interrogating his fellow soldiers.

Rothschild slouches while all the soldiers are standing at attention. Partially because it's easier to write like that. And in part, because he doesn't want to stand up straight just then. He flips the notebook closed when they've been dismissed, looking anxiously at Elizabeth. Or, more specifically, at Elizabeth's camera. She damn well better have gotten something. He grins back, when he catches her expression. Damn good. His expression does moderate when she mentions his old friend, turning wistful. But he nods. "Sounds like an interesting little dinner party. Later, though. I want to get this dispatch out by the end of the day. Besides, looks like Delaware's busy with his new comrades." He smirks, shaking his head.

Marchand relaxes with the Commissar's dismissal of the troops, offering a smile over to Gonzales. "Adios, amigo. For now, I need to unpack and get settled into a bunk." He chuckles in amusement, and as he's walking on towards the barracks, looks up for signs of Rothschild and Elizabeth, the journalist and photographer. He offers a wave from the distance, "Siesta time tommorrow, Jersey, yeah?" while walking.

Returning the wave to Marchand, Elizabeth offers her husband a nod as she turns to head out, slipping her arm through his. "Another time," she agrees. "And…yes, we'd best get you back to your typewriter." That said, the pair start off on their way.

Rothschild returns Marchand's wave, watching the old Marine walk off, before he heads out in the opposite direction. Away from the barracks.

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