Meet Ivar Strand

Fisch is apparently helping in his off time at the aid station, lugging boxes. His camo shirt is open and it looks like the Corporal's been at it awhile. He stops to wipe his brow from time to time. "So damn hot," He mutters.

Strand seems to be ambling about. He mumbles something to a few soldiers, who nod and point towards the aid station. Strand shuffles over there, looking a bit like a turtle, hunched under the weight of his gear. He pokes his head into the tent. "Lookin' for a Corporal Fischer," he mumbles to anyone in earshot. Texas accent.

Andrew is lying in a empty cot, catching some shut eye. It's a nice place to sleep, compared to the hard ground atleast. He snores sort of loudly, so it's a wonder that anyone else gets sleep. He's finally awoken when a nurse comes by and wakes him. He holds back an obsecenity and sits up, rubbing his eyes as he looks around. He offers a nod to Fischer, and is grabbing a cup of water when Strand pokes his head in. "The Corporal is right over there." He returns in his own Southern accent.

Fischer smiles and nods to Andrew, helping set a box of gauze down. A nurse seems to happily point the grunt about. He pauses, as someone pokes his head in and someone mentions the Corporal. Well, they don't seem to have tacked 'that damn' in front of Corporal so things are starting off well. He turns easily and smiles at the man in the doorway. He offers a wave. "That'd be me. Most people here call me Fish. You needed to see me?"

"Yeah," Strand says. He speaks pretty softly for a Marine. "Guess my Captain and your Captain made some sort of trade, and now I'm transferring in from Baker Company. Cap'n Christie sent me to some sar'nt who assigned me to your squad." He shrugs. "So, here I am. PFC Strand, at your service, Corporal."

Andrew finishes off his cup of water and moves over to his gear. He grabs his rifle, and slings it over his shoulder. He grabs his helmet, flips out over his head, and walks into the awaking Dawn. He stretches before making his way towards the Sandbag Redout.

"Ah, I see," Fischer smiles and nods. "Well, welcome to our little slice of Paradise," He comments a bit wryly. He motions to Andrew, "He's one of the fellows you should meet sometime too." He doesn't seem to stop Andrew, though he does wave. A look back to Strand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. For now, several of us are off watch. We normally take a lot of the night watches," He explains. "You got a nickname you prefer?"

Strand shrugs. "PFC Strand's good enough for me," he mumbles. A glance around the aid tent. "Heard you guys took some hits lately. My condolences." A pause. "Uh, this isn't our barracks too, is it? Where should I stow my gear, Corporal? And what watch arm I on?"

"Strand," Fischer replies. "Sure thing." Fischer looks sad and troubled for a moment. "Yes. But I am sure it is not only our squad," He remarks quietly. "Thank you. And no, um - barracks are - I'll show you, it's hard to describe where we sleep. I usually stow my stuff near the station here, but I get shot a lot so they know me. Often it's wherever you can find that's reasonably safe. We do night watches usually unless you just really want a day arm."

"Don't really care what watch I'm on, Corporal," Strand says. "Just as long I can kill myself a bunch of Japs. Kill kill kill, that's what they taught us in recruit training, ain't it?" He smirks. "So where should I stow my gear? I don't need most of this shit. Reckon I was one of the lucky few who got all the stuff he was supposed to get. Fine and dandy until they tell you to move to another comp'ny, then it's a pain in the ass." He adjusts the load on his back.

Fischer motions to a flamethrower and a BAR resting near some kit. "I keep mine there if you'd like to stash yours near mine," He offers. "One of the nurses usually watches it for me." Fish's stuff has a camera, some dried flowers and other things near it. He pauses as Strand mentions wanting to kill. His face twists. "Oh. Yeah, you'll get plenty of that. They don't surrender. Often they'll hold a grenade close and pull the pin when a medic walks by to look at them. So even if they lay down…" He shakes his head. "And you probably are." Lucky, that is.

Strand shakes free of his pack and sets it down next to Fischer's gear. He picks up his rifle - a scoped M1903A1 - and slings that behind a shoulder. "Figure I got everything I need," he mumbles. "Too damn hot for blankets. And I was issued two." He kicks his discarded pack. "So you've seen much fighting? I ain't seen any. They had my platoon on the beach, in whatever passes for the 'rear' on this island." He considers Fischer's flamethrower and BAR for a moment. "Wait… they made you squad leader, even though you've got the support weapons? What happens if you get shot?"

"Yes, because it means I know how to work together and pay attention most of all to the situation and not my aim," He explains. A smile at Strande. "Really? And yeah. No need for blankets here." Says the man with the opened jacket. "A lot of it," Fischer admits quietly. "You'll get to before you know it. And don't go to the river alone, they've snipers sometimes." He pauses. "If I carry the flamethrower when I get shot, I may explode. Even if I'm shot, I often issue orders a little ahead of time. If more than one or two of us are wounded, I generally advise falling back unless the fight is nearly over," Fischer admits. "Being shot doesn't stop me from giving signals. … often, cept for that second time I got shot in the head," He admits. There's an ugly scar behind his right ear. "I keep thinking that can't be good for me."

"You been shot before? And you haven't exploded? And you're okay with that? Christ," Strand says, shaking his head (but smiling a little). "Say, Corporal, is it true if you get three Purple Hearts, they send your ass home and give you a parade?" He smirks. Obviously doesn't believe that himself. He lifts the sling of his slung M1903A1. "Oh yeah, the platoon sar'nt told me somethin' about Jap snipers, said that's why he wanted me with you fellas on patrol and such. Ain't been on a patrol yet. Hell, ain't lost sight of friendly lines yet. Hell, ain't even fired this here rifle yet. But hell, you talk to all the boys in the rear, unloading supply ships and shit, buncha them are all itchin' to pop their cherries and bag themselves a Jap or two."

Fischer laughs softly and smiles, "Hell, if it were just being shot three times…" He seems amused. "Don't I wish. But no, long as you can shoot a gun and move around after, they keep you here. And no, no explosions yet. I don't really have a say in it. Can't go runnin' off when my squad needs me," He shakes his head. "Katana, bullet or fire. It'll all get you," He looks over to Strand and nods. "Don't go alone. Always take a buddy. The Japs have a nasty habit of flanking and ambushing. They have no qualms about inviting friends to the party. Worst guests on the planet," He remarks wryly. He pauses, considering that Strand hadn't fired the rifle. A bemused look. "It sounds glamorous. Then you see it. See it while they try to tear you a new one. Like I said, you'll get yourself a shot before you know."

Strand snorts. "You make 'em sound like the fuckin' boogeyman, Corporal. If they's so tough, we'd all be dead already, wouldn't we?" A pause. "What the hell's a katana?"

"Lots of boys have passed on, you'll see the bodies if you go to the ridges and outposts. We bury them as best as we can but…" Fischer goes quiet. "I'm just saying don't treat it lightly, you know?" A shrug. "Sword. Like, a long, slender sword. Yes, they have swords and guns. It's kind of surreal really," He admits. "But we're damned good fighters and so far we've been doing well repelling them. I think." He seems unsure. But hopeful. "And the Cactus boys tend to keep the bombers away." Nod. Fish isn't all doom and gloom. "By the way, you like fishing?"

Strand nods in agreement. "Well, next time you're putting together a patrol, be sure to come'n get me," he says. He stares at Fischer, beady eyes narrowing (even more) in suspicion. "'Fishing?' Whaddya mean, 'fishing?' This one of those NCO tricks, where I answer and either way I end up doing some goddamn chore?"

"Sure," A smile at Strand. "… like, fishing. With a rod and string. You put it in the water and you get a fish," Fischer gives Strand a really confused look. "I don't get full up on the rations here," And Fischer is not a small fellow. "So sometimes I gather fruits and go fishing on my off time. Beats being hungry. Figured you might like to tag along." Then a pause. "I don't really assign chores. I'm mostly a squad leader. Not quite to the level of that," He grins. "Not that I can think of many good tricks anyway."

"Yeah, sure, Corporal," Strand says. He's still eyeing the big kraut. "Where do you go fishing? And where do you gather fruit? You ain't worried 'bout them Jap snipers in the trees?"

"There's plenty along the beach," Fischer explains. "You can call me Ryan or Fish if you want, easier to yell at me," Fischer smiles and looks over towards Strand. "We've pushed them back a bit so you should be alright - just don't cross the river alone. I usually catch mine on this side of things. We got to go fishing in a boat with one of the natives once. Pretty fun."

"Eh, the beach is nice and all, and this island is hot, but sometimes relaxing and even peaceful, but it ain't what I'd call fun," Strand says. "Hell, I can't look anywhere without seeing another Marine. As soon as we kill the Emperor and end this war and I get outta the Corps, I'm gonna go someplace cold. Like Michigan. And I'd rather call you 'Corporal,' Corporal. Don't want the sar'ent chewin' my ass out for not following protocol."

Fischer shrugs. "You do what you can to entertain yourself or you go mad with boredom." A pause and a soft laugh. "That's fine," Fischer looks amused. He pauses, "I do miss the snow. It's not like Chicago." As if that German accent is fooling anyone. But he can /try/. "You'll have to meet the talking birds too. But regardless, welcome to our squad. I doubt anyone'd fuss over you calling me Fish," He admits. "Oh. And um, if someone named Slayback picks on you too much… let me know?"

"Talking… birds?" Strand shakes his head. War is surreal, after all. He doesn't want to know. "Uh, who's Slayback?" Strand asks. "Eh, I can take a little razzin' from other Marines, Corporal. I made it through recruit training, din't I?" He grins.

Fischer just nods. "Another PFC. Likes to play a bit rough I suppose," A smile. "I have no doubt. I just don't want anyone to get too harassed you know?" Fischer tilts his head. He grins back. "So, where are you from then?"

"From a small town in Texas… just off the center of Texas," Strand says. "So yer from Chicago? Not a fan of the cities myself. I took the train to Los Angeles on a weekend pass after recruit trainin' o'er in San Diego. By Sunday afternoon, I was glad to be outta there."

"Ah? Another Texan? Hm. It'll be turning into the wild west out here soon," Fischer smiles at Strand. He nods. "My family works at one of the car plants there mostly. It has its ups and downs. Some of the best pizza around though. Kind of miss it," He tilts his head. "What did you see in Los Angeles?"

"Hollywood, mainly," Strand says. He makes a face. "Too many cars, too many people. And not as glamourous as the rags make it out to be. Didn't see any movie stars. Ain't approached by any producers to star in their movies, neither," he mumbles. "Don't think I've ever tried a pizza. More a meat'n taters kinda guy. My family's Norwegian, so I grew up eating some stranger stuff."

"Oh. I see. They must have missed out," Fischer offers a smile. "It's dough, tomatoes, cheese and whatever else you'd like on it really. I like to put meat on mine," He admits. "I eat a lot…" He rubs the back of his head. "It does seem a bit crowded. And nothing is wrong with meat and potatoes," Fischer nods. Not that German food has a lot to do with that. "Norwegian? That's interesting." It is. Fischer seems curious. "Never met anyone who had family from Norway." Nor does Fish mention his German cousins who may or may not be trying to invade the shit out of it at some point.

Strand hrms. "Sounds interesting, gonna have to try it sometime when I get outta this war." He shrugs. "I was born'n raised in Texas. Lotta people from Norway from my town, but mosta the kids're born Texans," he mumbles. "My folks spoke English, can't rightly say I unnerstand Norwegian, maybe bits'n pieces." He pulls a tin of tobacco out of his pocket and opens it. "Wanna plug, Corporal? Never used to chew, but chew more now that I'm here. Almost as good as smokin', but doesn't break that light discipline that the sar'ent chews yer ass out for. I find it keeps me awake and alert."

"Yeah, definitely," Fischer smiles. "Ah. That must be different," Fischer replies. On the subject of languages, he pauses. "I apologize… if my English is not perfect. It's a work in progress." And thus, a clue. Fish might not be entirely American. DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUN. He looks to the plug and shakes his head, "Ah, no thanks. I don't smoke either." The flamethrower might provide a convincing reason. "It's good to have a vice that doesn't get you picked off by a sniper, yes," He wrinkles his nose. "Had a guy smokin', damn near got got his face blown off. They'll even do things like just shoot or yell to get you to try to shoot back. But don't. Not until you can see them. We learned that the hard way." A shrug. "You should be fine here near the aid station though."

"Yeah, definitely," Fischer smiles. "Ah. That must be different," Fischer replies. On the subject of languages, he pauses. "I apologize… if my English is not perfect. It's a work in progress." And thus, a clue. Fish might not be entirely American. DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUN. He looks to the plug and shakes his head, "Ah, no thanks. I don't smoke either." The flamethrower might provide a convincing reason. "It's good to have a vice that doesn't get you picked off by a sniper, yes," He wrinkles his nose. "Had a guy smokin', damn near got got his face blown off. They'll even do things like just shoot or yell to get you to try to shoot back. But don't. Not until you can see them. We learned that the hard way." A shrug. "You should be fine here near the aid station though."

Fischer nods. "Sure. I suggest somewhere," He points at the slightly less damp areas just north, "Kind of on the edge of where the dry beach sand is. Less damp and crap. We've outposts along the way but I don't suggest sleeping anywhere near those than you have to." Fish seems to know the good spots. He looks sad for a moment and nods. "Yeah. We should be up for a patrol or something soon."

Strand shuffles off.

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