K Company Therapist

Where: Main Street, Madrid
Who: Elena, Marchand, Matti, Phillip
When August 2, 1937

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


Theatre is : Caso de Campo

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.

Sub-Rooms :
1. Front Line Trench
2. Foxhole

Following Modesto's Mission…

Phillip smirks more at that. "I think, she suspects I am corrupting your young mind with my evil Parisian ways." he says, pouring some coffee for her and kicking over another ammo box. One of these days, something won't like being kicked over and explode on him.

Elena studies Matti for a moment longer before giving an incline of her head. She accepts the coffee, lowering herself to the ammo box. "Wanted to just make sure everything is going well," she says, lifting her cup to toast. "Salud," she murmurs before she sips of the coffee. "And the rest… what he said," she drawls out with a chuckle and a wink

"Go well? Well, we in middle of war, and people get dragged off the street every now and again for odd reason I no understand. We getting shelled every few hours, and leave for front line any day now. Aside from this, everything how you say… "Peachy"." Some stray irony must have rubbed off on the morose replacement… Possibly in Paris. He raises his impromptu cup to "Elina", muttering, "Terveydeksi." He looks sideways at Phillip, shaking his head. "Corrupting. I no understand what this means."

Elena arches one brow slowly towards Matti as he speaks, lips twisting into a wry smile. "Remind me to not ask again," she murmurs as she sips of the coffee. "Perhaps take that to mean 'relatively' next time, senor? Or we might have to compare tragedy to tragedy. My family is from here - I know very well what has occurred in the streets," she points out.

Matti shakes his head sadly, "I no understand what 'relatively' means, but I can guess. Well, I guess not bad. No complaints, or anything." He simply nods to Elina, muttering sourly, "Yes, I think I know what it like." He doesn't qualify this statement further, his face darkening… Apparently he's exploring some private sinkhole on memory lane. At any rate, he gets up rather jerkily, putting down the empty cup. "Thank you, comrade Phillip - coffee taste good. See you round, maybe. You too, Elina." He raises a hand in an absent wave, wandering away in the general direction of the sentry post, Mauser loosely clutched in one hand.

Phillip raises an eyebrow and looks at Elena. "He'll do fine. Though, I can't help but look at the replacements like kids. They seem so…innocent."

Elena watches Matti rise, studying him intently. She slowly nods at Phillip's words, looking away from the Finnish chap at last. "Si," she agrees. "Give it a week," she echoes.

Phillip hmms. "or one good battle." he says and then goes back to his work, which was of all things wrapping dynamite up. "As to that, yes, it came out of my pack. When the tank went up, I was running from it. The engine she blew."

Elena gives a slight nod, the necklace still in her pocket as she turns her full attention back to Phillip now. "At least your pack got most of the damage. I'm glad you're alright, Phil." She sips of her coffee once more. "I'm afraid to ask anyone else how they're doing," she mutters.

Phillip nods solemly. "I've been working here and there. With Marchand and my last action that I remember, we both took on two tanks and well, that what you have is the remains of one. It was a delaying action, to buy time and draw fire from the others."

Elena removes the necklace from her pocket once more, studying it. "And you thought of me. Thank you again," she says, turning her full smile back to Phillip as she holds the bit of jewelery to her chest.

Phillip smiles and shrugs. "You might be able to use those, then again, they make a nice souvinere, so if not; it's all good." Looking to his work he sighs. "I have to be honest though. In these types of actions; if what I do works there is a chance I'd never come back. Recently, when the retreat happened, we had one guy who had to do that. " exactly what that is, he leaves open, but the point is made.

Elena's brows furrow together as she studies him, head canting to one side. "Who had to stay behind?" she asks softly.

Phillip ahs some. "Jamieson." he says thinking. "Young blonde guy from america. He was working on planting a charge on a panzer one when he got shot through the leg. Waved us off and kept working. I remember, ducking down when the second panzer came by, only to hear a loud bang and see the tank he was working on pitch over into a ditch. I'm guessing he set the charge off with him atop it."

Elena pales a bit, but does nod slowly. "It happens," she murmurs. "I hate that it happens," she admits, closing her eyes with a sigh as she bows her head. "Happens far too often…"

Phillip laughs gently, if but to break the tension. "Well, you can rest assured, that many are willing to give their lives to protect your country. Though, some like the corporal are a bit beyond the idea of dying. That damn spy not withstanding. What was his name anyway?"

Elena's brows furrow for a moment beofre she shakes her head. "It's sad, but it was so long ago, I don't remember. Or maybe I'm just tired. Too much stress today," she mumbles as she lifts the cup to sip of it. "Rough, /rough/ evening."

Phillip hmms. "Avoiding the advances of the various troopers who all have designs on taking your honor?

BOth brows arch high, and she slowly smiles, shaking her head. "I think I can handle those who might have designs on my honor," Elena points out with a wink. "THough I think Nurse Inga is the popular one," she continues with a soft laugh. "No, no. A run in with Colonel… I think it was MOdesto?" she sighs, closing her eyes as she shakes her head. "I've never been more terrified in my life," she mutters, face flushing.

Phillip laughs. "That guy?" he says shaking his head. "Don't worry chica. He's a coward. Vaclav stood up to him and well, you didn't see him get shot. So, command must know."

Elena's lips press to a thin line as she looks up at him. "I know," she says tightly. "He was pissed enough to order the Iron Corporal, Comrade Lind, and myself to go into enemy territory and fetch back a fresh kill for him." she shakes her head, shuddering. "I think he meant to kill us."

Phillip laughs some at that. "And did you politely remind him that you are a civillian, and thus beyond his scope of command?" Shaking his head he ahs.
Phillip shrugs though. "That's the problem with commanders. Often they look at the grand scope of things and forget that some people can't be ordered. Others, as in our corporal's case…shouldn't be."

Elena snorts softly. "I don't think I was in the position to do such. At least I didn't get shot. Got shot /at/, but not hit. I have /no/ idea how I survived this evening," she mutters. "And he rather had a large number of friends with him, Phil. WIth guns. I rather not talk back at this point - execution didn't sound like a better option to me this evening."

Phillip hmms. "good point, but he woudn't execute you. Probably make you his personal assistant slash concubine to help shave his back or something." Or /something/. Turning he sets one charge aside and offers more coffee. "To quote an old Majer of mine, there are worse things than death. Far worse. For one, you could have been born German…"

Elena looks up at Phil, arching one brow slowly. THen lifts one hand to politely smack the Frenchman upside the head. "Let's come up with options that /won't/ make me anyone's concubine," she growls at him. "Don't make me get my tools out."

Phillip ows, reaching up to settle the kepi back on his head. "Yes dear." he teases, and then shakes his head; bursting into a fit of laughter. "Could be worse. I mean, Konst has some secretaries…wouldn't you hate to be one of them?" Having said that, he quickly switches out the Kepi with a scrounged steel helmet.

"Me? A secretary?" Elena shakes her head, laughing softly. "I think I'll keep to the vehicles, si?" she suggests, nodding her thanks to the fresh coffee as she sips at that as well. "Next topic," she orders. "I rather not any further of these images to haunt my nightmares."

Phillip grins. "I am evil and corrupting aren't I?" he asks and then adds over a sip of his own coffee. "William is quite taken with you…though, he's quite taken with any woman mind you."

Elena blinks at /that/ change of subject, a blush creeping into her cheeks. "I think we need yet /another/ subject," she says tightly. "Dio,"s he laughs, shaking her head. "I'm sure we can come up with /some/ other topic of conversation besides… those."

Phillip laughs. "What? He's not your type? Oh he'll be crushed." he teases.

"I don't believe that's a change of topic," Elena points out darkly, lifting her cup to sip of her coffee.

Phillip laughs some. "You're going to hurt me aren't you?" he asks and opts to change. "Nice weather we're having?"

Elena arches a brow. "I had considered it," she drawls out. "And, yes. Nice weather indeed," she agrees with a firm incline of her head.

Phillip chuckles. "At least I don't flirt." he says with a wink. "Not that it's by choice." he admits and then hmms. "You know, kidding aside, this weather reminds me of home?"

Elena arches both brows high. "With me or in general?" she returns. "The flirting bit. You're French. I don't think it's capable of you /not/ to flirt," she points out. "Or try, at least," she adds cheerfully, chuckling as she shakes her head. "As for the weather, you are not far from there. I can imagine much of Spain would remind you of France."

Phillip smirks gently, "I'm not allowed to flirt. It's the legion's way. In fact, we can't marry or have a girlfriend until we reach seargent; and then we have to have permission." he admits and then nods. "Oui. I spent much of my time on the coast. One of my forts was located almost right on the beach. After my duty, I would often climb up to the top of one of the old towers and dive off the cliff into the water."

Elena gives a slight nod, arching one brow. "I grew up around here," she says, gesturing about the area. "Or rather, not far. Nights like these remind me of entirely other things." She brushes the hair back from her face, sipping once more at her coffee.
Phillip hmms and grins. Oh that's the wrong kind of grin for him to have. William must be wearing off on him.

Elena blinks at that grin, both brows shooting upwards. She glances down at the coffee, almost thoughtfully, then up again. "Are you going to make me throw this on you?" she asks.

Marchand has arrived.

Phillip laughs and ahs, shaking his head. "No." he says trying so hard not to grin. "No. I'm not. You did, however say that." he adds and then looks for something to hide behind.

Marchand walks down the street alone, apparently having ventured into Madrid by himself, not on duty. The man's still looking not as fit as he was in earlier days, the engagement of two tanks by him and Phillip having left him permanently weakened and less physically able by the wounds suffered.

Elena snorts as she shakes her head. "That is /not/ what I meant," she says firmly. "/Not/ at all what I meant, you damn Frenchman," she growls darkly as the man gets up to find a place to hide. "I was talking about growing up out here, warm summer nights. We used to play out in the fields until we dropped, and… and…" she trails off, growling low in rapid-fire Spanish. No doubt something distinctly impolite.

Phillip laughs, shaking his head as he looks up. "I was just kidding." he says, adding with a smile. "And that's the Chica we all know and love." he notes, as she begins to curse him. Looking up at Marchand he waves the man over. "Come, sit a spell. I didn't see how you got out after all that, with the engine blowing on that first tank. You know, if man were meant to fly, he'd have given him wings, not just blow a vehicle up at his back."

Marchand smiles halfheartedly, looking a bit worn and perhaps fatigued. "You and me both, eh." He wanders over, coming closer to join the frenchman and the Spanish mechanic. "I'd say there's not alot left for us to do. Survive if we can, and hope this war ends without good working Spaniards having to live under a dictatorship."

Elena sends Phil another dark look as she sips at her coffee. Yup. Promises of death and torture. Pain! She mutters something else beneath her breath, the words lost to the coffee, but otherwise keeps quiet, listening for the exchange for hte moment.
Phillip nods at that. "We lost Jamieson." he says, not expecting March to know the blonde american boy from the other company he (phillip) had been tasked to assist. "He took a german tank with him though."

Marchand shakes his head a little. "Don't know the man." looking over to Phillip with an expression to match the words. "Was this another battle, or when the company had to pull out of Villaneuva de la Canada? I was still being cared for by the medical corps then." He bows his head a bit to Elena, "Comrade"

Phillip nods. "during the retreat." he clarafies.

Marchand slowly nods to their responses. "Fighting against the tanks knocked me out. Lucky I wasn't killed." He rubs where there are still a few bandages remaining under his tunic on his chest, despite the month that's now passed. "I just wanted to say that I'm proud to've served with you in Jarama and the battles against the fascists, comrade." He pauses there, and attempts to add more in meager Spanish, "You are good mechanic, good tough fighting woman. Daughter of Spain."

Elena's brows draw together curiously, head anting to the side. "Thank you," she says softly with a bow of her head, a blush creeping to her cheeks. "Why is everyone beign so nice to me?" she asks abruptly, chuckling softly. "Of a sudden, everyone, left and right, seems to be so nice." she shakes her head. "We are glad you are here to fight with us, /for/ us, Comrade."

Marchand lowers his eyes at that, as if something said brought a silent guilt or dismay. "I've done what I could. I think the officers, and the corporal, do not consider me a good soldier. Some party members probably think me a bad influence, being here, and I've seen some things which …" He lapses into silence.

Elena frowns even more, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. "Why? I got the impression you were doing a /good/ job, senor," she says softly, gently. "Remember back in Barcelona? Weren't you getting special orders and the like? Special assignments? I thought those were considered honors." She goes for an encouraging smile. "How are you a bad influence?"

Marchand shakes his head for a moment, "I was given an option, comrade. It was to prove myself in Barcelona, by …" There's a pause, and the American draws up his chest to take a slow deep breath. "I was picked out because I had a belief in the people of Spain as working together, all factions whether Communists in the PCE or not, to defeat the fascists and monarchists under Franco." There's a faint nod. "In Barcelona I'd chosen my conscience over the orders of the ranking officer of the brigade. That would have gotten me the firing squad if I'd not proven my worth in accomplishing the task."

Elena inclines her head slightly. "I remember some of that," she murmurs. "Arguements coming up about it. And so you accomplished your task. Why are you upset now?" she asks, straightening up so she can sip more of her coffee. SHe watches him curiously over the rim, waiting expectantly.

Marchand slowly shakes his head. "I'm afraid I may say things that would cause you to question, to not see the politics so clearly. I don't want to nuture anyone else's hopes that would only lead them to tragedy."

Marchand lowers himself to take a seat on a piece of broken pavement, near a bombed stucco wall.

Elena is sitting on an ammo crate herself, legs pulled up on the thing to fold beneath her. "So why are you fearing that everyone believes you a bad influence?" she asks. "I'm afraid I don't understand…"

Marchand speaks more bluntly, "I was told in Barcelona by the captain himself that he'd rather I'd been shot."

Elena blinks several times at that. "Oh," she says softly. 'I… I didn't know…" She shakes herself. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know about any of that. What hap-" she cuts herself off from the question, grimacing. "You just said you didnt' want to talk about that. Lo ciento, It just… came out."

Marchand draws in a breath, then closes his eyes and nods. "Please remember this, comrade. In your heart, even if it's not something popular to say. That freedom is for the People, every campesino, every worker, every young mother in the countryside struggling to raise her children without having a Church telling her what to dream of, nor a rich aristocrat sucking the lifeblood of the harvest of the land away from them." More quietly, "Nor a priviledged group of officers or politicians taking control. Just remember that, comrade, that you're fighting for your fellow Spaniards in this war, workers like yourself, not for any one particular political party or doctrine."

Elena's eyes narrow sharply, and she slowly frowns. "I think I know better than you why I am here," she says slowly, carefully. "I was born and raised here, senor," she points out, voice still low. "I think I have a pretty good idea of the /why/ behind what /I/, at least, am doing…"

Marchand gives a firm nod to that. "Then remember that. That which is in your blood." He scratches a place on his forehead. "Because there may come a time when words are not free to be spoken, and workers of Spain who do not hold to the philosophy of one dominant group are silenced, disappear, and said to be responsible for evil deeds and scandalous charges that in your heart you know are not true."

Elena's brows snap together once more. "I think you need to explain this to me better, senor," she says softly. "You're confusing me."

Marchand leans forward, "In Barcelona, my special assignment was to persuade the newspaper La Batalle, the publication of the Partido Obrero de Unificacion Marxista, the POUM, to close down and cease publishing opinions against the Republic, and for that closing down to only be temporary, for the period of one month." A short nod. "If I failed, it would be stormed by the Asaltos and the International Brigades just like the telephone exchange was, by force of arms. And I would be shot." He swallows. "It's been over two months now, over three even, since that May. La Batalle has stayed closed, and the POUM has been outlawed with every leader the PCE can find arrested. Dr. Dario Cortez, who you knew in Madrid, has been murdered. He'd given his support to the POUM." Marchand forms a frown. "A friend of mine, who was here to fight fascists, not fellow Republicans, is now on the run. He was a writer, not a provocateur. Every day that I live, I see my heart and hopes, the reason I came to Spain, crushed further."

Elena blinks several times as this confession comes bubbling forth. She rocks back on her seat, studying the Amercian as he speaks, but keeping her trap shut so that he is able to get all of it out. Slowly, she nods, lifting her cup to finish off the last of her coffee. "So /you/ are having doubts?" she asks, voice still low but gentle.

Marchand looks down and shakes his head. "Not doubts about whether the fascists are evil, and need to be destroyed, because I know that for certain. They will ruin Spain, and send it backwards, destroying and enslaving the working people in the name of power and greed." More softly, lifting his eyes to study Elena's eyes now. "I just want people to remember why they're fighting the fascists, what they're fighting to stop from happening here, and not to sacrifice the Right for the Popular, the Conscience for Convenience." His expression then sags a bit, seeming more glum. "Do you think I am bayonetting windmills, comrade?"

Elena smiles softly, shaking her head. "I think," she says slowly, meeting his eyes. "That different people fight for different reasons. Alot of people came to Spain to hide from their lives. HIde from events which were unravelling all around them. /Not/ for the people of Spain. Some came because they wished to promote the spread of communism, no matter the loss. Some came because they were simply against the fascists. Some even came because they felt sorry for us little Spaniards. Afterall, we can't make up our own minds or fight our own wars." Her smile turns sad as she shakes her head. "I know what /I'm/ here for. And I do not concern myself with what the others have come to my shore to accomplish. I know what's in /my/ heart. The others do not matter to me as long as I keep my goal there."

Marchand very slowly nods, watching Elena's eyes the whole time. "I'm not trying to patronize you, or your fellow Spaniards, comrade. But don't shrink from the responsibility of what happens in the future, and is happening now, else you will prove those who say the 'little Spaniards' can't handle their own affairs are right. If there are mass arrests, censorship, false charges and imprisonment for political reasons, and it's allowed to happen in silence, no one can blame the foreigners who came here for those many different reasons, and who will eventually leave." He nods his head, once, curtly. "I've been arrested in my own United States as a dissadent, because I wasn't silent when wrongs occurred. Please don't be silent if wrongs occur here, then."

Both brows shoot upwards. "In case you hadn't notice," Elena says in a low voice. "I'm /here/. Fighting. Doing what I /can/ to help. If I was a quiet little bird as you speak, I'd be dead in my cellar by now rather than out here, sometimes starving, having no idea what's going to happen next. I think, comrade, you are preaching this to the wrong person. /I/ know who I am. And what I am about. Because you are having doubts of your own, do not cast those same doubts in my direction. I am fully prepared to die for my people." She leans forward, elbows again resting on her knees. "More. I'm willing to /live/ for my nation. Can you say the same?"

Marchand gives a nod, and pushes off the broken slab of pavement to stand. "I will live for my nation, and speak up when it goes wrong. Not all fights are with a rifle." from where he'd been seated near Elena.

Phillip wanders back, from doing whatever it is he had to do. Moving back to sit in his little spot on his ammo crate, he mumbles something about coffee. Pulling out some new…yes, new, grounds, he goes about making more.

Elena throws her head back and simply laughs. "You're telling /me/ this?" she gasps. "I don't evne know how to /use/ a rifle!"

Marchand smiles slightly. "Not all fights are with a wrench, either. I do not believe the specific instrument or weapon or tool makes the meaning any less clear." He looks over as Phillip returns, offering simply, "Mon camarad" in French.

Phillip bows his head and then digs into his pockets. He's seeking one of those bloody (no pun intended) pills he keeps on him. Extending a small vial he smiles. "These will help you recover. I suspect the time in the infirmary left you anemic."

Elena continues to laugh, shaking her head. "Believe it or not, I don't /like/ to fight. Not in the least. I rather be left alone to work on my cars," she points out with a grin.

Marchand lifts his hand to wave a decline of the pill, "Thank you, but save it for the other wounded comrades, not me. The war will bring more broken bodies, and comrades needing medicine. I can survive." and smiles trying to appear to be pleasant, "The supplies are short. Don't worry about me." A step out, then he turns to offer a nod of affirmation to Elena, "You are good with cars, and engines, and trucks, and gears." The smile warms a bit, "Even tanks. Don't ever worry about feeling useless and unnecessary."

Phillip laughs some, shaking his head. "This is my own personal supply. I have to take them too." he says shaking the bottle again. "They'll give you energy."

Elena returns March's smile along with an incline of her head. "Gracias," she says, hands folding in her lap. "I will do what I'm good at. Which is beating the various vehicles into some semblance of shape. Keep everything running. See what happens from there. Though don't go about breakign any intentionally," she adds, giving him a frown, just in case, before breaking into the grin once more. Her attention turns towards Phillip, both brows lifting curiously.

Marchand takes a deep breath, acquiesing to Phillip's offer. "Okay. One or two pills, then, to fight anemia if that's what's slowing me down." He reaches out to accept just one or two of the medicine pills. A chuckle then to Elena as he accepts those. "I don't plan on driving any more tanks, or armoured cars, or even ambulances anytime soon."

Phillip puts the pills in his hand and then pockets the vial. Seeing the look from Elena he sighs. "ok, maybe I was hurt worse than I said."

Elena looks back to Phillip, arching both brows slowly. "Uh… huh… Sit?" she suggests, pointing at another of the crates.

Marchand slides the couple pills into his pocket. "Well, adios amigos. If something happens to me, and you don't see me again, just know that I am proud to've served with you both. In the trenches, on the field, in the armoured cars. Facing Morrocans and Italians and Germans and whatever else Franco's sent against Spain."

Phillip slowly sits and looks up at Elena. Yeah, he's been caught.

Elena's brows draw together as she looks back to March. "Be careful," she says softly towards March, inclining her head. "Please," she adds. "We would very much enjoy your company again, senor. And I cannot discuss anything further with you if you cannot return," she points out with a crooked grin. She glances towards Phil now, canting her head to the side as she studies him.

Marchand tries to smile with a nod of his head, but his eyes seem more distant, withdrawn to thoughts perhaps. He offers both a salute of the raised fist thrust forwards, then as he watches their response, begins to step away.

Phillip laughs some, shaking his head slowly as he settles down to his spot. He returns the salute, only to suddenly reach and grab at his own sleeve. It peeled back some, revealing what looked like the pink scars one would find with a burn victim.

Elena nods slowly to March, still watching him as he steps away. "Good night," she calls softly.

Marchand offers softly, "Good night" as best he can in Spanish. The man's steps take him eventually out of sight, into the ruined park through the gate of kings.

Marchand has left.

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