Fdr

"USMC: FDR"

Who: Grant, MacIntyre, Marchand, Robby, Rothschild, Kathleen, Joey & Lissie,
with special guest star NPC FDR
When: July, 1918, after the last battle of the Aisne-Marne counter offensive
Where: Lucy-le-Bocage, France

What: A ceremony is held to award medals and honor the Marines who survived
the carnage of the Battle of Belleau Woods and the Aisne-Marne Counter
Offensive. Franklin Delano Roosevelt pays a visit.

Lucy-le-Bocage
==============================================
[The Grid]-----— THE LOST GENERATION


Lucy-le-Bocage lies along the road leading north into the forest of Belleau
Wood in the Aisne sector of France. Like most of the villages in this area
it is small, old and, as of yet, holding up well given the destruction in
the rest of the country. Once neat and narrow streets are littered with
debris, and the roads, such as they are, have been torn up by shellfire. The
locals are only rarely seen, mostly staying indoors, the less stout hearted
ones have left completely. A market square is situated in the middle of
town, but the only market here is in war, and the only people to be seen on
it are Marines and US Army personnel. The homes are well-kept, if modest,
most women keeping a garden to try and ease the shortages across the
country.

Marchand carefully walks with some of the other wounded into the ville of
Lucy-le-Bocage, dubbed Lucy Birdcage by many United States Marines. He's
tried to clean himself up, but his uniform's tunic is left open at the chest
by the nurses for ease of tending his bandages wrapped and applied there.

Marchand's Desc
A lanky young man of average height, light brown hair with a close-cropped
cut as is standard with Marines. He's likely still in his teens, and has the
build of someone active and athletic in a general way. Marchand's youth is
likely the reason for a few spots and blemishes around his slender nose, the
oily skin there shining a bit. The young guy carries himself fairly upbeat,
most of the time, generally easy to smile though with a reputation of being
a bit too free to speak out to the brass.

The soldier is clad in the standard-issued workmanlike woollen khaki jacket,
which is loose-necked and baggy, and detailed with blackened metal buttons.
The lower part of the body is covered by baggy woollen trousers topped
sturdy, lace-up, ankle-length boots made entirely of leather and hobnailed
for extra grip. Puttees are bound around the legs of the pants from ankle to
knee and useful in preventing water and mud from sloshing within, if
constrictive at times. He is wearing a wide doughboy helmet on his head. He
has a pack on, canteen on his rear, and of course, a gas mask hanging from
his neck at all times.

Apparently a visit from someone senior is in the air. Weary marines are
being prodded by their NCOs towards the village square. While its not
exactly parade ground standard, the marines have been making an attempt to
duplicate it. Despite the mud 'n blood.

Grant has gotten himself something to drink, it seems, and since he's been
off duty right now, he's been drinking a bit of it. Still he makes his way
to the village square, looking around a bit lazily.

Grant's Desc
The young man in front of you seems to be in the late parts of his teen or
the early twenties. He's not quite tall, only standing at about 5'6", and
quite slender, yet still a bit muscular. He's got short, black hair, that is
more often than not rather well taken care of, and is carefully kept away
from his forehead and eyes. Slightly triangular facial features helps give
him an almost predator-like look, especially together with blueish green
eyes that seems to watch the world a bit calculatingly. Other facial
features include a slightly hawk-like nose, that appears to have broken at
some time or the other, thin, rather pale lips that seems more often than
not to be set in a bit of a smirk, and the rather white teeth hiding behind
those lips. His ears seems to be slightly larger than the average, and
stands out a little bit from the rest of his head. When he speaks it's with
the accent of someone from Philadelphia.

The soldier is clad in the standard-issued workmanlike woollen khaki jacket,
which is loose-necked and baggy, and detailed with blackened metal buttons.
The lower part of the body is covered by baggy woollen trousers topped
sturdy, lace-up, ankle-length boots made entirely of leather and hobnailed
for extra grip. Puttees are bound around the legs of the pants from ankle to
knee and useful in preventing water and mud from sloshing within, if
constrictive at times. He is wearing a doughboy pot helmet on his head. He
has a pack on, canteen on his butt, and of course, a gas mask hanging from
his neck at all times.

Rothschild has got himself a shower, shave and laundered uniform and is
looking as spic and span as a man can, in these parts. He got through the
last battle on the Aisne untouched, except for the corporal's bars now
weighing now his neck. He isn't smoking, a rare sight. He doesn't do much
prodding of his fellow soldiers. The sight of Marchand up and about, if
bandaged, makes him smile. He jogs over to join the younger man. "Did they
let you out of hospital for the spectacle?" he asks dryly.

Rothschild's Desc
Private Benjamin Rothschild isn't the typical rough-tough Marine that
usually comes to mind when one thinks of the American devil dogs. He's
medium height, with a lean form made of long arms and legs that make him
seem both taller and lighter than he really is. He's got some muscle to him,
but his build is taut and wiry rather than hulking. A middleweight in a
world full of heavies. His straight brown hair is short, a well-trimmed cut
that could pass for stylish if he had time to comb it a little neater. He
has a lean, clean-shaven face, light skin tanned by the sun, with dark hazel
eyes and a long, beaky nose. It's slightly crooked, as if it's been broken
sometime in the past. His hands are long-fingered, dexterous, with neatly
trimmed nails, and look made for more subtle work than firing a rifle. He's
in his early or mid-twenties, still young, but older than a lot of the kids
on the front lines. When he speaks a light accent tinges his voice, marking
him as New Jersey born to those who listen closely.
He's clad in the standard-issue workmanlike khaki that clothes every other
American soldier. The patches and other small details denote him as a member
of the United States Marine Corps. A doughboy pot helmet covers his head
most of the time and his canteen and gas mask are typically close at hand. A
pair of chevrons on his sleeves and collar mark him as corporal in rank.

Flight Officer Joey Battlecry seems to be assisting marchand's walk to
here, The pilot has healed up alot for last weeks but he still has a wound
at his right hand. He given a sholder for marchand to walk eazily as his
body is wounded worse than him. The pilot stands on his right side to assist
his wounded lung and chest, "They have under my protection." he points out a
nurse walking behind them by a few feets, "She is here if anything goes
wrong. We can carry him back fast."

Joey's Desc
In front of you is an english gentelman, he is wearing a leather jacket and
brown pants, white shirt. His black shoes are polished and looks good. His
blonde hair is short, he seems to have a small mustache. He is wearing a
brown hat. His Blue eyes looks around. He is around 175 CM long and 60
Kilos. He doesnt seems to have any sign of scars on his face…

Normally hardassed sergeants seem weary themselves, as they prod soldiers
into a loose lineup. The other allies here are vastly outnumbered, but there
are a few French gunners and RAF types off to one side, in their own sort of
order. Being pilots, thats basically almost no order.

Marchand is making use of RAF flight officer Battlecry's shoulder, resting
his arm over it on the right side when the exertion of the walk from the
hospital villa fatigues him. "Thank you, sir.", once they're able to stop in
the gathering place within the ville. A nod of his head to Joey before his
eyes shift to spot the corporal. He manages a smile, spirits lifting in
humor. "They ordered us over here, but I really don't mind. Anything that
new and interesting's fine with me." Surprise forms as he spots the bars on
Rothschild's sleeve, "A promotion? Congratulations there. Hoo rah" and
smiles.

"Yeehaw," Rothschild replies softly dryly to Marchand's congrats. He's
clearly not celebrating it. He does return the man's smile, though. "Thanks.
It was a battlefield thing. I think the commander was desperate. Come on.
Let's get lined up." He gives Joey a quick salute and "Thanks, sir" for his
help, offering Marchand his own arm to lean on as he moves into formation
with the other Marines.

Suddenly a major is on the scene, and almost has an apoplexy at the sight of
the ragged rows of walking wounded. He heads down the line, prodding at
stomachs, nudging at slouched shoulders, scowling at unpolished buttons.
"What the hell is this, marines? You think fighting lets you off parade?"

Joey nods his head but than shakes his head, "This guy needs to sit down. I
am aware that he needs to stand but I am not going to be responsable to get
him harmed unnececerly." he says to the corporal. He calls a random (npc)
soldier, "Get a chair for Mr Marchand." he says to the soldier. "You may sit
down to it Marchand. If they object to it, I am going to speak with them."
he says with a grin and a small smile.

Marchand's smile warms with that, nodding. His other arm lifts to rest on
Corporal Rothschild's shoulder. "I hope you can find the kraut flyers some
day they're not looking, flight lieutenant Battlecry. I'd really not mind
seeing an Ace about."

MacIntyre stands a little straighter as the major comes down the line, not
wanting to be singled out.

MacIntyre's Desc
A young man in his early twenties, Gil MacIntyre has a wholesome, clean-cut
look about him. His black hair is cut short, his bangs just a little longer
than the rest. His square jaw seems incapable of growing even the slightest
stubble. His blue eyes are bright, not yet dulled by the horrors of war.

MacIntyre is dressed in the olive green woolen uniform of the USMC. It seems
a little baggy on him. His doughboy helmet is a askew on his head. Tan
puttees are wrapped over his standard-issue Pershing boots. His web gear is
fairly weighed down with pouches, a bayonet scabbard, and canteen.

Rothschild stands as straight as he can under the officer's inspection,
trying to help Marchand do the same. The major's words bring a smirk to his
lips, and it takes a concerted effort for him to wipe it off his face.

Grant is also somewhere down the line, for once keeping completely quiet.
Yes, it's a miracle.

The major is apparently mollified, if only slightly, by the efforts of the
guys in the lines. Whatever, its out of his hands now, as a black motor
truck drives up the road slowly, avoiding the shell holes and broken paving
stones as it goes. It draws to a halt, and a squad of marines climb out the
back, their sergeant holding the front side door open, as thecommands all
stand rigid to attention with their men in the square (telnet, it blows)

Kathleen stands nearby in case Marchand - or any of the other walking
wounded - should need anything. She watches him with concern, but otherwise
just stands quietly.

Kathleen's Desc
Small but wiry - that's the usual impression folks get looking at this
woman, who appears to be in her mid-twenties. Slim and standing just over
five feet, she might at first glance seem somewhat frail. A closer look
reveals a hint of strength behind that compact frame, and weathered hands
that look like they've done some honest work in their day. Her face bears a
light tan, her sandy-blonde hair bleached almost white by too much sun. The
harsh, bright color seems almost at odds with her dark brown eyes and
delicate, features. Her looks are rather plain, a situation not helped any
by the unflattering bun her hair has been pulled up into.

She is dressed in a nurse's uniform. Light gray in color, the heavy dress
has brass buttons up the front and a large white collar. Over the shoulders
is draped a small cape with the word "Australia" on the epaulette.
Occasionally visible beneath the hem of the long dress are well-worn
ankle-high boots. On her back, a short, dark blue cape is thrown over one
shoulder. A drab brown floppy hat completes the ensemble. Around her neck, a
silver cross hangs from a plain chain. Her only other jewelry is a simple
gold band on her left ring finger.

Lissie is standing a bit off to the side, smiling a little as he sees
theproceedings, keeping quiet for now.

Lissie's Desc
He's rather tall, this young man in his early twenties. He seem to be
standing at a few inches above six feet, and is quite broad-shouldered and
muscular. His hair seems to be of a sandy brown color, and is cut very short
at the moment. Other facial features includes blue eyes that seems to be
watching the entire world a bit seriously, but still holds the occasional
moments of merriment and mischief, a slightly larger nose than the average,
and thin, pale lips that frame two rows of teeth that seems to be quite well
taken care of. When he speaks, it is with a bit of a Welsh accent. He's
currently wearing the blue-grey uniform of a RAF pilot. The uniform seems to
be tailored to fit him rather well.

Marchand seems to be standing okay, just needing to rest his arms on the
shoulders of one or two others to stay straight. When a low-ranking mechanic
fetches an old wooden chair at Joey Battlecry's command, Marchand quietly
declines. "That major would never let Corporal Rothschild hear the end of it
if I sat down while all the others stood." He looks to Joey, "Thank you for
offering it, though." and nods to him before turning to straighten as best
he can for the USMC major. His lung wheezes slightly with each deep breath,
but all in all he's looking much better.

Joey is standing at attention with his wounded hand, he seems to have kept
his uniform clean and in good shape, his polished boots shine at sun. He
nods as a soldier brings a chair for Marchand, He says to himself almost as
a whisper, "Nothing is more important than life of a soldier." he doesnt
care major's anger, which he will probably going to yell at him, But making
a soldier standing with wound like that is brutal. He sighs and nods his
head to Marchand, "Call for help if you feel anything wrong." he says and
gets to his place as Lieutenant.

MacIntyre overhears Marchand's comment and risks the wrath of the major as
he mumbles back encouragingly, "That's the way to show 'em." Marines don't
need no stinking chairs. Even the badly wounded ones. He quirks a grin
before straightening back up again.

Rothschild turns to watch Joey take this place with the other RAF personnel,
then quickly snaps his head back to attention. He snorts at Marchand's
comment. "I can handle the major," he says. But he says it real quietly. He
straightens his back, doing his best to look all devil doggy.

Grant is unable to hold back a half-smile as he hears the words being said,
keeping quiet for now.

Marchand smiles hearing the words of the other men, lifting his chin as he
tries to draw the corners of his lips back down and look more solemn and
serious. He does have to grab onto Rothschild's shoulder once, to keep from
falling over when his balance becomes shakey. The Marine Corps private keeps
his eyes forward after that as best he can, ears perked to try to hear any
comments the major might make.

A thin, fairly ascetic man climbs out of the truck, and walks over to the
marines on parade, if anything looking slightly awed as he goes. The major
who was giving 'encouragement' earlier, does the announcement. "The
Secretary of the Navy, Franklin Roosevelt!".

And lo, it is He. He heads for the line, and begins to slowly make his way
down it, shaking hands, having a few words, and occasionally, distributing
medals. He soon finds himself before Marchand, and is passed a purple hard,
and a citation star, which he pins upon his chest. "Good afternoon, marine."
he says, with a warm smile. He bows his head slightly. "I've read the report
on you, your wounds were suffered during the recent offensive, no? On the
Ource?"

Marchand jerks his chin up proudly, eyes registering a split second's
surprise as the citation star's added to the expected Purple Heart. "Thank
you sir!" comes out, not really fitting established protocal, and after a
quick cough clamps the lips shut and stands at attention again with the
bandages wrapped around his chest.

Marchand adds after a swallow. "In taking the bridge on the Ource, sir." as
the question registers.

Rothschild sucks in a breath of surprise at the appearance of Secretary
Roosevelt. He squares his shoulders again, for good measure. He snaps off a
respectful salute, switching his gaze sideways to Marchand as the man
receives his medal. The sight brings a smile to his lean face.

MacIntyre slants a glance down the line to see the Secretary and then goes
back to attention - a little straighter than before, perhaps.

The Secretary of the Navy nods. "Right. Good work, Marine. The papers back
home are filled with talk of this division, you know… you're all heroes.
You certainly impressed me, anyway.". And with a final smile, he moves along
to… Rothschild!

Grant looks up and down the line as Mr. Roosevelt makes his way, unable to
hold back a half-smile. He then looks back to the front again, eyes
narrowing a bit thoughtfully.

Rothschild tries to smooth at smile off his face when Roosevelt moves his
way. Marines don't smile. He doesn't have to work too hard. He's not in a
smirking mood just now.

Marchand is standing in the line formation of US Marines, wearing his dress
uniform except for the tunic which is opened for tending the bandages
stretched across his chest. His breathing is laboured, evidentally one lung
still not yet healed, currently trying to put on a proud and attentive face
and posture with a shiney new citation star stuck to his uniform, along with
a Purple Heart award. Just passing from him, a somewhat frail well-dressed
civilian is stepping ober to Rothschild. The Secretary of the Navy visiting
the battlefield.

Robby stands stiffly at attention. If this was anyone else other than the
Secretary of the Navy, he'd be cursing the fact that he had to be all
dressed up and standing at attention, precariously keeping those knees
unlocked, lest he fall forward in a faint. But this was Mr. Roosevelt! Maybe
he could get some questions in later…

Robby's Desc
Robby doesn't stick out much in a crowd, that's for sure. He's got dark
brown, almost black hair, tanned skin, green eyes, and is, on first glance,
quite average in every way. Around 5 foot 8 inches, 170 pounds, with the
average absence of fat, and it's replacement by lean muscle shown in every
Marine. His physical appearance isn't the only reason one might ignore him.
He carries about him a quiet demeanor, not prone to boasts nor lamentations,
and without much reaction, as if he's simply watching life being preformed
on stage for an aloof audience. Weather this is because of the specter of
war or something previous is unsure.

Robby is clad in the standard-issued workmanlike woolen khaki jacket, which
is loose-necked and baggy, and detailed with blackened metal buttons. The
lower part of the body is covered by baggy woolen trousers topped sturdy,
lace-up, ankle-length boots made entirely of leather and hobnailed for extra
grip. Puttees are bound around the legs of the pants from ankle to knee and
useful in preventing water and mud from sloshing within, if constrictive at
times. He is wearing a doughboy pot helmet on his head. He has a pack on,
canteen on the back, and, of course, a gas mask hanging from his neck at all
times.

On his chest, he does wear a single medal, for service in the Dominican
Campaign.

FDR shakes Rothschild hand, and pins a purple heart onto his chest. "I
understand those stripes are a new addition to your uniform." he says. "You
must have been through a lot. I hear you were involved in the fighting for
Belleau Wood, in one of the early waves."

MacIntyre quirks a smile as FDR mentions Roth's new stripes. Clearly the
secretary's done his homework.

Joey doesnt seems to be in any kind of excitement. Others may have been very
happy to see the Secretary of Navy, But this Pilot doesnt seems to be. He
keeps his heart beat low and just stays at attention

More or less non-excited as well, Lissie stands there with the other pilots.
Eyes following the Secretary, but not because of excitement. It's simply
interesting to observe that man.

Rothschild is surprised by the handshake. He pumps the Secretary's hand
instinctively back in return, doing his best to keep it together. "Yes,
sir," he affirms, as to the stripes. He's caught off guard even more by
that. "I…I just did what I had to do, sir. Everyone went through a lot in
the wood." His eyes flit briefly to Marchand, expression growing somber. A
great many of the guys who went through the most never left the wood.

Marchand tries to turn his head slightly to observe the Secretary of the
Navy pin the Purple Heart on Corporal Rothschild's uniform beside him.
Though his eyes still carry a hint of surprise at his own Navy Commendation
Star, the young Marine Corps private can't help but smile for just a moment
over at the corporal, before turning face forward and back at attention as
he feels the gaze of the Marine Corps Major and others on the line.

Robby lets his eyes briefly leave front to scan the side of the receiving
line, catching the hand shake. And then the eyes move back to front. What
would he say, what would he say… No somber look appears on his own face.
This was the Marine Corps. You weren't supposed to show anything but
hardassness at attention.

FDR is a professional handshaker and swayer of The People, he can handshake
with the best. He nods at Rothschild. "We certainly paid a price for this
war, make no mistake. But we will make sure to remember it, after the war is
over, and we have won peace finally.". He then heads on at a steady pace, to
Macintyre. No medals for him it seems, but he does reach out, to shake Mac's
hand.

MacIntyre meets FDR with a firm handshake, eyes focused straight ahead.
"Thank you, sir," he says in his best tough-Marine voice, trying not to
sound too awed. It's not everyday a farmboy from Maryland gets to shake
hands with the Secretary of the Navy.

So, next on the short walk is Grant. No medal for him either, but he gets
his hand clasped and shaken like all the rest. Its not all that formal, but
given what you had to do to get even a handshake, you earned it!

Marchand keeps his attention forward as the politician goes down the line,
the wounded man still a bit overwhelmed. He's not really that tough looking,
certainly not the gruff bulldog his older brother had passed himself of as,
but at eighteen years old he's standing proud with his bandages.

Joey stands there quietly and calmly does nothing at all

MacIntyre glances over to Rothschild once FDR moves along, eyeing the other
man's new stripes and medal. His expression seems to say, 'Way to go!'
though he remains dutifully silent.

Robby waits pateintly. Again, if this wasn't the Secretary, there would be a
lot of cursing and gripping after this for what brass thought it was a good
idea to get everyone together and have them stand at attention for such a
damn long time! As it is, he just stands at attention, eyes front, hands at
his sides, waiting for his fellow marines getting their honors.

Rothschild catches MacIntyre's glance, shrugging and flushing in a very
un-Marine-like way.

Grant sleeps RL! So the scene moves on. There is only Robby left. His hand
is gripped, and shaken, by the great man. Greater in the future than he is
now! "Well done marine."

Robby takes the hands, and gives it two, firm pumps. "Thank you, sir."
That's all he's got? Damn. Robby thought for a minute that he might be able
to say something important to the Secretary. Perhaps the thank you would be
enough.

Well, he doesn't immediately bolt, so you could say something!

Marchand 's lips remain closed, trying to hide any expression, but the look
in his eyes is bright with excitement. They glance to the other Marines he
can see without turning his head too much, but the laboured breathing starts
to get the best of him and he has to drop both hands down to his knee thighs
and cough. A little shakey, a few breaths are taken before he can straighten
himself without any outside help.

Robby suddenly manages to think of something! "Sir. You mentioned something
about after the war. What do you plan on doing after the fighting is done?"

FDR pauses at that question, and smiles. "Well, I really think its a bit
early to talk about that. There will be the demobilisation to organise after
the war - probably a lot of politics. I know there are some who are talking
about scrapping the Navy completely after the war, I don't agree with that.
So I guess I'll have to try and do something about it. We'll see - who knows
what the future will hold?". And on he goes.

Robby runs those lines over annd over and over through his head, commiting
them to memory. He didn't have his notebook, unfortunatly, so the words
would have to remain in his head until the ceremony was over. And then
they'd be on there way to San Diego.

Rothschild shoots a look down the line to Robby, giving him an admiring
little nod. Nicely done.

Kathleen stands quietly in the background, a slight smile on her face. Not
her marines, not her country, not her Secretary of War… so her enthusiasm
is muted somewhat. But she's still happy for the brave boys getting their
recognition.

Marchand speaks quietly once he's standing upright again, his breathing
settled. "This star's going to be for both me and my brother Mark. He gave
his life for his country, here in France in Belleau Wood. He deserves it
just as much as me." His gaze is to no person in particular, ignoring the
Major's sharp look.

Kathleen gives Marchand a concerned look when he starts coughing, ready to
step up to help him. But then he recovers on her own and she relaxes a bit.
Still keeping an eye on him.

Robby eyes swing left again, briefly catching Marchand in view. The man
certainly earned that star on his own. If his brother was thrown into the
mix, maybe it should have been a Navy Cross, instead.

Rothschild turns toward Marchand, nodding in firm agreement at those words
about his brother. He looks like he wants to say something, even half opens
his mouth to try to, but he words stick in his throat. He swallows hard,
eyes blinking rapidly. He keeps it together, but it takes a real effort.

MacIntyre gives a quiet nod. Not really knowing anything to say to that, he
just sets his jaw in a solemn expression.

Joey is just standing and waiting for ceramony to finish

Marchand swallows, his adam's apple lifting as if his throat were thickened
for a moment. The young Marine tries to settle down, to keep his feelings to
himself and not look week in the eyes of a commanding officer on this day a
leading politician from Washington is present. He says no more, trying to
avoid the eyes of others.

FDR returns to his motor truck, and is quickly packed away by his
bodyguards. And then… its back to normal. The major dismisses the lineup,
once the Secretary of the Navy has departed.ooc alright, its late, so I
think that'll be it from me!

Marchand turns to make his way back towards the hospital villa, along with
the other wounded Marines who could be present, likely with the assistance
of a nurse for them all. He's quiet now, and has to walk more slowly than
the easier stride that brought him here.

Kathleen does indeed help along the wounded soldiers. She sticks close to
Marchand and murmurs kindly to him, "I'm very sorry to hear about your
brother."

Rothschild doesn't meet the gaze of his fellow soldiers, either. His eyes
are still a bit moist. He shakes his head slightly, as if giving himself a
mental slap. Marines don't cry, dammit. He's grateful when they're
dismissed, moving out of formation. He offers an arm to assist Marchand, not
saying anything either.

MacIntyre offers his congratulations to the soldiers who received medals,
and remarks to Grant, "None for us, eh, Philly?" Judging from his grin, he
doesn't seem too broken up about it.

Robby does the customary 'Aye aye, sir!' and about-face, before moving off
at a walk toward his breathing. That line needed to get down on paper.
Still… He heads along to see Marchand and Rothschild. "Well, that was
something, eh? Not everyday you get to see the damn Secretary of the Navy."

Marchand speaks quietly to Kathleen. "My brother Mark. I so wanted to serve
with him him, but …" The man clears his throat, not finishing the words.
As Rothschild offers an arm, Frank Marchand offers him a nod even if their
eyes don't meet, a knowing sort of nod of thanks as the young man gets a
shoulder to grasp for a moment. MacIntyre's comment does draw his gaze,
"Philly?" asked over. "Where are you from?" Another nod's given to Robby as
he closes in to join.

MacIntyre chuckles as Grant wanders off, and then turns his attention to
Marchand. "Me? Maryland. He's from Philly." He jerks his thumb in the
direction of the soldier who just left. "You doing okay?" he asks Marchand.

Kathleen nods solemnly and continues to walk along with them back to the med
station.

Joey sighs, "I have to return to medic bay." he says and starts walking..

Marchand speaks quietly, needing to take careful breaths in between while
walking. "You're from Maryland, and he's from Philadelphia?" with eyes
widening a little in surprise. "I'm from right between you both. Across the
border in Delaware, in Newark. You know, where Delaware College is?" He
pauses to catch his breath. "Small world." offering a nod.

"'fraid I don't," Macintyre replies. "Not firsthand, anyhow. I've heard of
it." His eyebrows go up a bit. "Newark, you say? Aren't you from Newark,
Roth?" He didn't think it was Delaware, though.

Rothschild clears his throat before he speaks, nodding Robby. "Yes, that was
definitely something," he agrees. He sounds a little awed, though that's
tempered by somberness. "My dad will get a kick when I tell him I met the
man. And the boys at the paper back in Trenton will probably turn
collectively green." He manages a grin at Robby. "I can't believe you got a
question out the man." He nods to MacIntyre, doing some more quick blinking.
"That's right. Born and raised, in New Jersey version."

Marchand manages to smile a moment, nodding. "Well, maybe after the war…."
and just nods with that moment's smile, as if leaving it unsaid. He grunts a
moment, his hand drawing to his chest. "I need to get back with the nurses."
as he starts moving towards the hospital villa once more. "Newark, New
Jersey? You don't say." to Rothschild, offering him a parting nod as well.

MacIntyre grins, "That's funny - two Newarks. What're the odds?" Well,
probably pretty good, actually, but that doesn't seem to occur to Mac. He
offers a wave to the folks heading for the med station and veers off to head
back to the Marines' area.

"Yeah," Rothschild says, returning Marchand's smile. "It's a small world,
Delaware." He pauses a moment, clearing his throat again and adds, "Take
care of yourself." He then heads off himself. Not toward the med station, or
back where the other Marines are gathering. He needs some time alone just
now.

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