Mariusz winced slightly at the sound of the voice on the radio. he hadn't been expecting it and every time it had given them instrustions recently, more of the tattered band of partisans had died. He let his leader, Stanislaw, deal with the transmission and continued to keep watch.

His AK-74 was cradled in his arms as he searched for potential danger. Nothing appeared to be out there, that was good. He smoothed the plastic housing of the rifle, he loved his rifle, he'd taken it from one of the warlord's guards when Stanislaw's band had freed him, he'd been bound for a training camp to swell the bands of marauders in the area, but now he was free and fighting foe Poland, not some huge Communist monster, or for the glory of a petty bandit, but for the mother country herself.

He glanced around to look at Stanislaw in a mixture of awe and worship. The kindly man with a core of steel had changed his life for ever. the rifle made him a fighter, but the monk had stopped him being a victim. He resumed his watch and buried his chin deeper into the thick roll-top of the sweater he wore under his jacket. The jacket and trousers were both a drab khaki colour and over the jacket he wore a kevlar vest and he carried the helmet at his side. On his head he wore a plain West German forage cap with a Polish cockade and the white eagle on a red background on both sides.

The woods were quiet and Mariusz heard the transmission end. He swivelled slightly to see the boss. "So, what do our leaders tell us to do next, Boss?"

Gregorz sits against a tree nearby, sharpening a large and rather nasty looking hunting knife. His vissage is equally nasty looking. Under his trademark Soviet tanker's winter helmet (black leather and fur lined) is set a pair of coal-black eyes in a long, flat face, covered in bushy, brown beard. His clothing is an ad-hoc mixture of civilian and military gear. His only concession to self-preservation is a bulky Russian flak vest festooned with ammo pouches, grenades, and other peripherals of warfare. Alongside his outstretched leg is his "baby"- a much-used RPG-16. His "look" could be described as "demonic St. Nicholas". He is a great bear of a man, much skinnier now than he was in peacetime life, but no less imposing. His nickname, however, is derived not from his appearance, but rather from him life's consuming passion: killing Communists.

He's a proven fighter, brave to the point of stupidity. His body is a patchwork of scar tissue and he still carries at least a few ounces of shrapnel and bullet fragments under his leathery skin. The only reason he survived the bridge attack is that he was knocked unconscious by a grenade blast and dragged to safety before he could get himself killed. Since then, Brother Switek has kept him on a short leash.

"Bear' speaks little English and he doesn't care to learn more. In repsonse to Mariusz' querry, he adds,

"Don't matter to me as long as it means killing Soviets, heh-heh."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:05, Tue 27 Nov 2007.

Jason rubbed the back of his head. Unsure of what the message meant, he was sure of two things. One the Agency was still active, and two, they still spoke English.  He stretched his legs, watching Gregorz sharpening his knife. The man was forever sharpening blades. Must be some sort of relaxation technique.

Walking across the bivouac, he stares out into the October sky. The fog was rolling across the ground, giving the area an almost gothic atmosphere.

"So whats the meaning of the message? I assume they are sending someone, but who?"

He didn't really expect to get an answer. He always felt left out of the loop with Gregorz team. They still considered him a pilot, even if he lacked a vehicle, and an outsider, no matter how many men he killed for their cause.  Whatever the outcome however, one thing was certain. They would be moving out soon. Taking one last look, he walked over to corner of the shelter and prepared to start his packing.

"With you around, Bear, that's always a possibility," Mariusz chuckled, "just stop catching grenades with your teeth, it's not big, it's not funny and it's not clever."

He moved back from his lookout post and started to gather his gear, what little there was of it. His small backpack went on and then his sleeping bundle was slung to fit over his left hip and a mussette bag hung over his right.

He watched the Boss deciphering the radio message and he looked at the camp. The partisans had never had much but with the swingeing losses they'd suffered yesterday, there was a lot of surplus kit lying around. His load was already pretty heavy but he'd probably have to hump some more.

"Bear," he spoke again to the big man, "you've been keeping inventory, is there anything in the deaders' gear that we need to hump?"

He turned to Kasparov, "More walking, eh? One day you can give me a ride in a helicopter, fly me to somewhere where, all of this is a dream."
This message was last edited by the player at 18:05, Mon 26 Nov 2007.

Jason nods to Mariusz. "I'm afraid the helicopter has gone the way of the Dodo." Jason said half hearted. He doubted the boy even knew what a Dodo was, so just like him, his comment was outdated.  "What are we doing for breakfast this morning. He should be at that for another twenty minutes."

Jason picks up his pack and hefts it on his shoulder. Winter was coming, it would be nice to be in a town before then. Or a city. Perhaps even a ride home.

Mariusz bent over the basket of fresh food and raised the cloth. they all had a few days of MREs but those were for emergencies. Thanks to Kasparov's skill and bravery when getting what he referred to as the lawn dart down, these were good Ammerican rations too, not the PACT ones that resembled dog food.

Inside the basket was the remains of the food they had traded for at a local farm a few days ago. He rummaged around for a moment, looked up at Bear and Kasparov and smiled.

"We are in luck, my friends," the young man said, "there's a lot here that needs eating now or it will go off. We have white bread, a little butter and some jam for breakfast. The sausage and black bread will serve as lunch. On top of that there's enough fortified buckwheat porridge for two or three meals each. Bear, may we have heat for some tea? Old Ben had a hexamine stove in his pack, he'd been hoarding it and some tablets for it. If I remember right, he had a little pot of honey too. Mmm, tea and honey, that would be fine."

He picked up the clean mess tins proffered to him and divided the breakfast stuff between them. Carefully, he spread the butter, only a little off but still better than nothing on the chunks of bread. He then smeared some of the thick, sweet berry jam on each one. He set the mess tin at Brother Switek's elbow and returned to do the same to his breakfast. As Bear prepared the tea, the three men sat and waited for the Brother to pause in his work. he looked up absent-mindedly and smiled. Pausing in his endeavours he offered a swift grace.

Mariusz finished his "Amen" and fell to the food. The supplies would have been parsimonious shared amongst the whole unit but now they were a generous breakfast. He chewed hard, enjoying the texture of the bread, the butter's richness and the sweet, gloopy jam. he blinked momentarily as the contentment of good food brought back memories of his parents. He could picture them once more, short, plum and happy. Even in his memories they seemed obscenely fat given the scarcrows that passed for people these days, but he knew that by the standards of the time they were just plump. It was the feast of St. Wenceslas and his mother had cooked a roast goose and there were crisp roast potatoes...

He blinked again, more fiercely, there was no room for the soft, overweight kid he'd been, no room for gentle teachers who tried to make people understand that we were all the same despite politics, now only the wolf prospered and criminals were becoming Barons. Mariusz still believed in caauses, that was why he'd stuck with Brother Switek's band but now his causes were backed by bombs and bullets, not words, smiles and ideals.

He filled his mouth with bread and jam and pushed the memories of happier times from his mind.

Bear flashes a gap-toothed grin, the result of Soviet grenade fragments "caught" in nearly such a fashion years ago.



"All the ammo's been divied up already and we's eating their food right now. Heh! You make a pretty good cook 'little brother'!"

His gruff laughter brings to mind the odd image of a geriatric bear with a three-pack-a-day habit.

[Private to Mariusz Tokarski: OOC: Just to clarify, the bridge attack was a few months ago. Of course, other of our comrades could have been killed recently in a skirmish with an enemy patrol. No need to change anything.]
This message was last edited by the player at 23:10, Sat 01 Dec 2007.

Jason nodded to Mariusz and took some of the bread and jam. "Thanks Mariusz, that sounds great." he said, and sat down at the edge of the bivouac. "Some hot tea would be nice." He reached into his pocket and pulled some sugar packets he had found a few months back.  "I've been holding onto these for a special drink. I have come to realize that as time moves forward, any drink you have time to enjoy is a special drink. So care to indulge?"

Jason chewed the sweet jam and bread, waiting for the tea.  Bear had stopped laughing at his private joke and Stanslaw went back to the message.  Jason would finish his breakfast and, if time permitted, start to clean his weapons.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:16, Tue 27 Nov 2007.

Brother Switek grunted and nodded in in appreciation at the mess tin placed before him.  He had already transliterated this morning's encrypted message.  Although distracted with the unexpected arrival of friendly radio traffic, the monk he was never too busy to give proper thanks for even the most meager of bounties. Nor to acknowledge the sacrifices of the many that had fought beside them.

"Heavenly Father, we thank you for this meal, and for your preserving care over us. Bless those that have fallen before us and guide us in our struggle. Continue to grant us the strength and wisdom to accomplish the mission for which you have placed us on this Earth. Let always our cause be just and our aim be true. Amen."

It had become rote by this time, and on some days rang hollow. But it inspired the men and they had grown to expect no less of him.

He bit into a large piece of jam-slathered bread and was instantly reminded of berry-picking season at the monastery in the Tatras.  He nodded again in approval and, licking the tip of his pencil, returned to his handwritten codebook.  As he flipped back and forth, struggling with the block key, he stopped to assess the remaining members of his ragtag band of partisans.  They each had made him proud, but he pondered how his colleagues from divinity school would have interpreted the improbability of this woodland scene and the the motley crew assembled herein.

He then began the tedious process of encoding and keying in his response in English:

AUTHENTICATION:
ALPHA TWO NINER THREE
ACKNOWLEDGE PITCHFORK.
QUITTING DEER PARK.
DESTINATION RHUBARB.
RSVP FOR THREE PLUS
ONE SPECIAL DELIVERY.
TEA TIME PESSIMISTIC.
BUDDHA OUT

After the transmission had been confirmed, Switek stood and tore the transcript from his notebook, setting it afire with a Zippo lighter that he had taught himself through relentless practice in his youth to open and ignite in one swift snapping motion.  He twisted the page in his hand as the flame spread and it burned all the way down to the last corner at his fingertips, before letting go at the last possible second.  He watched the charred ash float to the ground and then stomped it out under his boot and twisted it into the dirt.

Switek stuffed the Zippo back in the front pocket of his trousers and reached for the RPKM propped against his lean-to.  The matte black weapon looked sinister if not somewhat out of place in his grasp.  It was heavy, especially with the bipod and 75-round drum attached.  The extra weight worked in his favor, for the perceived lack of recoil almost made up for his actual lack of marksmanship. He approached his crew as they finished the remains of their breakfast and cycled the cocking lever on his machinegun.  That always got their attention.

"Listen up," he bellowed.  "That was radio from our American friends, code-named PITCHFORK.  I do not know him, but I have been previously told to expect him.  We are to reconnoiter the bridge at Szczucin.  They are arriving by river and want no surprises.  ETA is local noon.  Today.  We must break camp in fifteen minutes in order to make that rendezvous.  We have much terrain to cover, so move like you have a reason. Now go!"

There.  That sounded like real leadership.

Satisfied with his call to rally, Switek motioned to Kasparov, the American helicopter pilot.

"Jason, my son, bring me the map.  It looks like you are going home."

He wondered how many more would die getting him there.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:10, Tue 27 Nov 2007.

 Going Home. The words rang in his ears as if whispered from the angels themselves.

Where the hell is home? he thought. He reached into his pack and pulled out the misfolded map, stained with both mud and blood. Handing the map to Stanislaw, Jason smiled briefly. "Home you say? I'm intrigued. Whats the op?"

Cleaning his weapons would wait. If it was possible to get him back to the Agency, he was willing to follow Stanislaw and his crew into the pits of Hell.

Mariusz finished the last of his breakfast and stood cradling his tea mug in his hands. He stood and shook slightly to ensure he had no serious rattles. He looked around the scruffy bivouace, he'd be glad to be on the move.

"I'm ready when you are, Boss," he said, "is there anything else you want me to carry or shall I take point?"

He drained the last of his tea, dried the mug and stored it. He checked there was a round in the chamber of his AK-74 and that the magazine was fitting tightly. He stood and looked expectantly at the Brother.

Brother Switek takes the map from the pilot, unfolds it and with his gloved finger traces a rough course that will bring them down out of the forest and into the rolling hills below.

"We will cross routes 73 and 79 here, and ... here."

He makes reasonably sure to pick locations that circumvent known occupied settlements.

"This should allow us to maximize speed and minimize our chances of any ..."  He stops to eye Bear before continuing, as if to punctuate the next word, "... unnecessary ... delay.  We must traverse twenty kilometers of rugged terrain before noon.  We will approach the north bank of the Wisla to the west of Szczucin and observe the bridge.  There we shall await further instructions from our American friends.  I am afraid I only know this PITCHFORK by his codename.  Details of his mission have not been made available to me other than that he will make a riverine approach and the bridge must be secured."

He nods to Jason, knowing the pilot has risked more with less information many times prior, but still hopeful he has illustrated his point.

"That is the operation."

He pulls a spare 75-round machinegun ammo drum from his pack and hands it to the teenager.

"Mariusz, I am afraid my back is not what it once was.  May I trouble you to stow this among your things?  Of course, I will want you on the point.  Don't wander off too far ahead.  I hope the fog will continue to work in our favor, but I won't have you getting lost out in front.  Bear and Jason will follow and I shall guard the rear.  This is a sound plan, we are in agreement yes?"

After soliciting input and reaching consensus on any suggested modifications to the chosen approach vector, Brother Switek tends to his bedroll and continues the hustle to pack up and break camp.

[Private to Cap'n Rae: All of this assumes I know anything about the surrounding area. :)]
This message was last edited by the player at 12:27, Tue 27 Nov 2007.

Mariusz smiled at his mentor and took the drum, he shook it and it rattled a little. He opened his mussette bag and pulled out a sweater and wrapped it carfully in it. He placed it in the bag and closed the straps.

He moved to the edge of the camp and double checked the directions his Boss had given him. He stood, scanning the distance and waiting for his leader to tell him to advance.

"We will approach the north bank of the Wisla to the west of Szczucin and observe the bridge.  There we shall await further instructions from our American friends"
 Jason nodded at Stanislaw's words, a smile crossing his face at the mention of the Americans.  Still, he knew all too well that securing a bridge meant more than just sitting on the riverbank and watching the ducks swim by. Any bridge, no matter how small, served as the lifelines of every last town in exsitance.

"Do they know the size of our unit Stanislaw? They may not be aware of how our numbers have decreased."  Jason didn't like mentioning the obvious, especially when it came to Stanislaws men. He mourned every man he lost as one would their own children.  Jason may have enjoyed the thought of getting closer to being back among his own, but he had come to see these men as his brothers.

Checking his M177, he shouldered the weapon and his pack. He smacked Mariusz on the shoulder. "Don't worry, young one. I'll cover your six. Can't let anything happen to you, especially with those sausages you promised for our lunch."

Brother Switek grimaced and nodded in respose to the airman's inquiry.

"PITCHFORK is advised both of our numbers and itinerary."

He swallowed hard at the though of losing another fighter.  Another brother.

"And he knows to expect you.  It will be a bittersweet rendezvous if it means losing you, Jason.  You have become family.  I understand your need to return to the fight alongside your fellow countrymen, but these last few months you have honored the noblest of our warrior traditions. Poland is proud to consider you her son."

With that, the grizzled monk slung his machinegun and embraced the American pilot in a manly bear hug with two solid thumps placed squarely on his back.

"Well, enough misty-eyed girl talk," he sniffed as he regained his command posture. "We don't have all day - move out!"

Mariusz set off like a young hound unleashed from a grizzled pack. he laughed in the early morning light.

"OK, comrades, follow me, don't let your dinner get too far ahead."
He moved of at a ground swallowing lope, not to fast, but quick enough to him about a hundred meters in front of his brothers, close enough for them to support him but far enough away to ensure that if he sprung an ambush, the others had a chance not to get caught. He swivelled his head like a falcon searching for prey and strained every sense he had to it's limit. He was getting better at point duty, and certainly he was about the best they had left, although that didn't say much given the company he kept.

With Mariusz on point, your small, rag-tag partisan group leaves the familiar, comforting cover of the woods, emerging into rolling pasture land.

The grass is overgrown here. It's wet with condensation and soon your trousers, from the knees down, are soaked through. Large herds of sheep used to roam these fields, keeping them neatly trimmed. Now, only a few bleached bones remain among the wavy sea of green to remind passersby of the area's bucolic history. The mist hangs heavily over the ground, cutting visibilty to about 20 meters. As you've noted, this is a mixed blessing. You're not likely to be seen, but, likewise, your not likely to see danger until you're right on top of it. The poor visibility also forces you to bunch up closer than you'd like in order to maintain visual contact with one another.

You move west-southwest angling towards the southern edge of Szczucin. You want to avoid the town. You've seen firsthand what "Polish Plague" does to a person and you have no interest in discovering the half-life of the bacilli.

About a kilometer out from the woods, Mariusz slows as the burned out hulk of a BMP-2- remnant of a Soviet attempt to clear you out of the woods in the wake of the bridge attack- looms out of the fog ahead. Good. You're still on course.

Bear speaks up from his spot in the patrol line low but loud enough to remind everyone, "Ha! I remember this one. Nice shooting, eh?"

After pausing a few minutes to rest and admire the big man's handiwork, you continue on past the destroyed IFV, keeping the same steady pace as before.

Suddenly, Mariusz is brought up short by the sound of rustling in the mist ahead. Whatever it is, it's close- just on the other side of the thick fog wall that's been keeping pace with you, always about 20 meters ahead.

Actions?

OOC: Brilliant RP/writing so far, all of you. It's a joy to read.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:22, Tue 27 Nov 2007.

A rustling ahead brought Mariusz up short. He crouched silently and hoped that the others behind him saw the white of his jumper, which he had pulled down behind him like a rabbit's scut go still. He strained his ears to identify the sound better and swiftly rested his AK-74 on his thigh as he used his left hand to tuck the scut out of the way.

This done, he grasped his rifle firmly once more and listened behind him to see if his comrades, yes it was the right word he thought, despite the dirty communist overtones, had stopped moving and gone to ground as they would normally do if the point man froze.

[Private to Cap'n Rae: Mariusz has been moving as stealthily as the pace will allow, he thinks he's been like a ghost slipping between the shadows, but he's sixteen and not necessarily the best judgeof these things. He'll stay here trying to determine the sound. If he cannot do this, he'll lie down and try sneaking towards it, again with a stealth that would make an Apache proud. He'll freeze at any other sounds however.]

Sloshing through the wet grass, Jason was lost in his thoughts. Could he really be heading back? Did he really want to? For the first time in this war, he felt he served a purpose, and sadly it wasn't helping those of his own homeland. These men had embraced him as a brother and they were perhaps even considering him an equal.

He ripped open a sugar packet with his teeth, and poured it in his mouth. The sweetness reminded him of his youth, the straws of sugar he bought at the Krausers corner market. He let it melt on his tongue, the powder liquifing into a runny paste that slid down his throat.

Mariusz had stopped, and he didn't notice. He may have took another three steps when reality slapped him in the eyes, and his knees buckled on instinct. Dropping to the ground, he raised his weapon to his eye, and scanned the horizon. The fog was still too thick to completely see Mariusz, but he held up his fist as a warning to the others anyway. Of course as far as he knew, they had stopped long before he became aware.

"Bear," he whispered. "Whats the situation? You smell anything?"

Jason Kasprov
Weapon at the ready, down on one knee
Waiting on instructions
This message was last edited by the player at 11:15, Wed 28 Nov 2007.

At Mariusz' signal, Bear stops, crouches low and sweeps his eyes and weapon across his assigned security arc.



Bear literally sniffs the air before whispering,

"No, nothing. What you got?"

[After Jason's reply]

Feeling an almost paternalistic concern for the young guerilla on point, Bear creeps forward as stealthily as he can, closing the gap between himself and Mariusz to about five meters in order to provide support if needed.

Bear
AKMS (full auto)
Moving a bit closer to Mariusz

Jason whispers to Bear as he moves off, "Be careful, I'll wait for Stanislaw." Crouching low, Jason flips the safety off his weapon and moves the selector switch to semi-auto. Dropping to a prone position, he lays the M1777 aside and pulls out the night vision binoculars he recovered from the crash. Powering them up, he scans the fog, hoping they might pierce the fog cover.[Private to GM: Should I perform a recon roll to see if the NV picks anything up?]

Switek is pleased with the general progress and time the crew is making on their march to the river.  That the ground fog has remained so low and dense this far into the morning pleases and comforts him.  The concealment of their movement has thus far proven worth the cost of additional orienteering checks.  The same march on a clear day might have been faster but would have left them much more exposed.  From his position at the back of the group, he occasionally loses sight of the young pointman in the mist ahead, which - while to be expected - is unnerving to his overly paternalistic nature just the same.

The monk stops for a moment to sweep their rear approach and beholds the still and silent calm of the morning, punctuated only by their own heavy breathing and the rustling of their gear as they trudge across the overgrown field.  Satisfied that they are still quite alone, he takes a sip from his canteen and replaces it in the pouch on his belt.

Rejoining the march, Switek steps into a clearing in the fog and observes that the forward teammates have suddenly stopped and dropped.  He immediately lowers himself to one knee and reflexively unslings his pack.  The monk brings the RPKM machinegun, already charged, to the shouldered and ready position and begins to scan the area before him.  He crouches in the tall wet grass, listening intently for any signal of what may be amiss.



[Switek]
Kneeling in the clearing.
RPKM + 75rd Drum 7.62mmS at the ready
Waiting.

Striving for stealth, Mariusz edges forward a couple of meters, the thick fog and wet earth combining to muffle his footfalls. The mist abruptly opens up in front of him to reveal a magnificent buck a mere 15 meters ahead, its impressive rack gleaming with condensation. The still air and heavy humidity must be neutralizing your scent and it's looking away from the young point-man, intently watching and listening for something futher on into the mist.

Actions?

OOC Notes: I may be wrong, but I think standard NVGs simply amplify ambient light and do not pick up thermal signatures. Therefore, Jason's NVGs would be pretty much useless under the present environmental conditions. If I'm wrong about this, please let me know. Also, can you tell I'm not a hunter?
; )

[Private to Jason Kasparov: Yes, if you'd like to take the M60 barrel with you, that's fine. I have no idea how much it would weigh but it can't be over 10lbs., right?]
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:39, Fri 30 Nov 2007.

Mariusz paused for a moment and enjoyed the magnificent beauty of the deer. He could feel the damp fog enshrouding him and trickles of icy water were already forming and finding their way through the layers of clothes that he was wearing.

Any other day, the buck would be doomed to end its days in the stew pot. Today, it was lucky as the tiny group didn't have the time or carrying capacity to butcher, dress and haul the meat. Mariusz was more interested in what was interesting the buck.

Inch by inch, he crawled forward. Eventually, the buck would either run, or Mariusz would be able to see what the buck was focusing on. If the buck did run, that might flush out any suprises anyway. Mariusz kept his rifle pointing forwards with the selector on fully auto. If he saw any targets, he'd be able to get a controlled, aimed three round burst thanks to the AK-74s advanced muzzle break. After that he could lay down suppressive fire to cover the advance of the rest of his team. Inch by soggy inch, he closed in on the buck.

Switek crouches down and crawls slowly forward through the damp, tall grass until he is alongside Kasparov.  He cocks his head to the side and strains to see beyond the young point man.

"What's he got, Jason?" whispers the grizzled monk.



[Switek]
Prone in the clearing.
RPKM + 75rd Drum 7.62mmS at the ready
Waiting, wondering.