NAME: Geoffrey Stone AGE AT DEATH: 22 YEAR OF DEATH: 1917 Zebekia SUMMARY A builder, who joined the British army in 1914 and was "killed" in battle. BACKGROUND Geoffrey was a builder, with dreams of one day designing buildings rather than merely constructing them. He had the talent for it, and for all forms of engineering, but he lacked the learning, having left school at 14. He was the youngest member of the building company, which meant he had to drive the steam-lorry. Building isn't a field for specialization at this point. Geoffrey soon learned a bit about plumbing and electrical work, even if his main job was making sure the walls stayed upright. After work, it was down to the pub for a pint or several. At weekends, he played football with the local reserves. This was the period of tranquility before the storm: he could have gone on like this for years. Then, in 1914, what would later be called the "Great War" broke out. Geoffrey was young, he was patriotic, he wanted to smash the Hun... so he signed up. With his civilian skills, he found himself in the Royal Engineers, helping to build the trench systems and fortifications - and to mine those same fortifications if they had to be abandoned. Even engineers are expected to fight. Geoffrey witnessed the carnage of the Somme first hand, and counted himself lucky to get through alive. Throughout the war, he saw friends and comrades cut down around him; or crippled by trenchfoot from having to stand in waterlogged trenches, yet he sustained nothing worse than minor shrapnel wounds. "Roll On Duration" was the cry. Then his luck ran out during the slaughter known as Passchendaele. Geoffrey was in the 96th Field Company, Royal Engineers, 20th Division [the only Field company I can positively identify, though I don't know if they actually charged anything!] *** "Once more over the top" That dreaded cry. The order that meant soldiers had to charge again against the machine guns of the Hun, to try to gain a few yards of muddy ground. Geoff gripped his rifle, the heavy bayonetted rifle. *What is the use of the bayonet?* he mused, and not for the first time, *We never get close enough to use it*. A loud whistle. Scramble up the slippery side of the trench, and into the view of the enemy. Run forward. The rubbery stench of the claustrophobic gas-mask. Lenses misted up from the harsh roar of warm, exhaled breath. Shells bursting around, tossing soldiers like rag dolls. Mud, ankle-deep... knee-deep. Struggle onward, hauling out first one leg, then the other. The burning sting of mustard-gas, as it settles over the marshes. Skin blistering. A soldier who's lost his mask claws desperately at his throat, his eyes, before falling. Now crawling through the soft mud. Ooze. Slime. A corpse's cold hand. Advance! Crawl up that ridge, that slippery ridge so firmly set with machine-guns. The death-rattle of the spandaus. Wire! Stuck! Must try to get free! Struggle. The impact of bullet after bullet. Spasm and jerk with each one. Darkness... ***************************************************************** I. THE PROLOGUE Patting good-bye, doubtless they told the lad He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face; Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,- Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. Perhaps his mother whimpered how she'd fret Until he got a nice safe wound to nurse. Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse; Brothers- would send his favourite cigarette. Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut, Because he said so, writing on his butt Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim And misses teased the hunger of his brain. His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand From the best sand-bags after years of rain. But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld For torture of lying machinally shelled, At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok. -from "S.I.W.", Wilfred Owen The world wasn't made in a day, And Eve didn't ride in a bus, But most of the world's in a sandbag, And the rest of it's plastered on us. -Soldiers' doggerel No pen or drawing can convey this country- the normal setting of the battles taking place day and night, month after month. Evil and the incarnate fiend alone can be master of this war, and no glimmer of God's hand is seen anywhere. Sunset and sunrise are blasphemous, they are mockeries to man, only the black rain out of the bruised and swollen clouds all through the bitter black of night is fit atmosphere in such a land. The rain drives on, the stinking mud becomes evilly yellow, the shell-holes fill up with green-white water, the roads and tracks are covered in inches of slime, the black dying trees ooze and sweat and the shells never cease. They alone plunge overhead, tearing away the rotting treet stumps...annihilating maiming, maddening, they plunge into the grave which is this land; one huge grave, and cast upon it the poor dead. It is unspeakable, godless, hopeless. -Paul Nash But War, - as war is now, and always was: A dirty, loathsome, servile murder-job:- Men, lousy, sleepless, ulcerous, afraid, Toiling their hearts out in the pulling slime That wrenches gum-boot down from bleeding heel And cakes in itching arm-pits, navel, ears: Men stunned to brainlessness, and gibbering: Men driving men to death and worse than death: Men maimed and blinded: men against machines - Flesh versus iron, concrete, flame and wire: Men choking out their souls in poison gas: Men squelched into the slime by trampling feet: Men, disembowelled by guns five miles away, Cursing, with their last breath, the living God Because He made them, in His image, men... -Gilbert Frankau ............................................................................ September 20, 1917 A.D. Passchendaele, Belgium Cold dawn breaks over the Passchendaele ridge. Field Marshall Haig intended this to be a swift and decisive attack on the German front line, which would sweep them back to the Belgian coast. During the planning stages, it somehow mutated into a joint effort to accomplish that first objective while also emphasizing the capture of the Passchendaele ridge itself. Haig's determination to capture the "high ground" in Flanders turned an all-out attack, initiated on July 31, into a protracted, agonizing battle that, almost two months later, has bogged down into miserable trench fighting across a terrible, muddy front, and shows no sign of ending soon. Lieutenant General Gough's Fifth Army has advanced, slowly, during the course of this campaign, but for the thousands of lives expended for every yard of territory gained, the benefits of this "multi-stage" offensive are becoming questionable even to GHQ...and to the men wallowing in an ocean of bloody mud, it's hard to think of this as anything but an impersonal hell in which the only objective is survival. It's cold, and you shiver with the chill, and the horror of last night's renewed offensive. "Over the top!" A virtual death sentence, fix bayonets and climb over the top of your trenches, to charge a line of German machine guns which will cut down nine men in ten before they get halfway. Artillery shells raining down indiscriminately and sending geysers of black mud and body parts into the air, raining down in a gory spray on all combatants....the officers say that the BEF's artillery is taking a heavy toll on the Germans, far more than the other way around, but a mortar shell has no friends, and the Germans have enough artillery to make their statistical inferiority a matter of importance to the strategists, but not their targets. Your Royal Engineer company had the "honour" of leading the charge...it was your task to cut through the barbed wire barriers to let the 11th Durham and the 10th and 11th King's Royal Rifle battalions, behind you, break through unimpeded. Crawling and squishing through the mud, trying to see through the blackened, fogged lenses of your gas mask, you became aware of the wire only as you became snagged in it. German machine guns roared, far too near, as you desperately tried to free yourself. Then pain exploded up and down your body, as bullets tore through your shoulder, your neck, your side, your thigh...you distinctly remember seeing your knee explode as a bullet smashed through your leg, and then it felt like you were drowning in your own blood, darkness closed around you and you could only wonder belatedly if you should have been more religious....but surely God won't send you to Hell, when you've already spent a year there..... Yet you've woken up, and terror grips you, because you smell smoke, and mud, and blood, and the afterscent of mustard gas drifting across the field. You're definitely not in Heaven....maybe Hell IS eternal conflict on the battlefield where you died. Your leg responds to your attempt to move, and you're surprised that you can breathe, and with no pain you're aware of, though that may be shock. Struggling to lift your head, you look down at your bullet-tattered, blood-soaked uniform. Your bare knee, whole and healthy to all appearances, protrudes whitely from the ragged edge of your trousers leg, virtually ripped off above the knee. Someone nearby exclaims "'Ey, Brian! Over 'ere! T'another live one! Caught on the wire, 'e musta been...." A corporal with an RAMC field ambulance insignia hanging poorly- stitched on his sleeve kneels next to you, looking at you with a sort of detached sympathy. "Easy fellow, we've found you, we'll try'n get you back to the field 'ospital, soon's can be." He begins looking you over, and you can see in his face he's trying to make a quick determination- how bad are you, what are your chances of survival, is it worth rushing you? <><><><><> "Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead." -- Wilfred Owen, "Greater Love" Geoffrey Stone: Bullet after bullet slammed into him. Whoever said that getting shot was a quick and clean way to die had never taken a bullet: he could feel each impact, each stab of agony. The warm rush of blood from each hole, contrasting with the cold wetness of his soaked uniform. The gradual dimming of vision, as his life drained away. It had to come. The luck that had seen him through the Somme had to run out some time. He'd seen so many friends killed in the mud of Flanders, trying to carry out impossible orders produced by Generals who'd never even seen the front line. As his consciousness ebbed, he hoped that one particular person was choking to death on his dinner: the joker who'd decided on using a preliminary artillery barrage for a battlefield that depended on fragile underground drains. *** *Still alive? How?* Those are Geoffrey's first thoughts when he regains consciousness. Then the smells of the battlefield reach him: the stench of death, the burning odour of mustard gas, and the ever-present oozing smell of mud. His body is whole, even the knee that he *saw* being shot apart. Which can only mean one thing. *Just my luck. There is life after death... but it's the same one.* He looks up at the RAMC corporal. "How did you get down here?" he asks, "When did you die?" <><><><><> [GM] "When d' I die?" The corporal squints at you, then laughs mirthlessly. "Sorry mate, you're not dead....jus' stuck in t'same hell on earth as the rest of us. D'you hurt anywhere?" Mud squishes around his boots as he moves to your other side, still looking for hidden injuries. "Cripes!" he exclaims, seeing your bloody, bullet-perforated uniform. Your canvas web belt hangs loosely around you, also shredded by the passing through of several bullets. He pulls at your mask. "You might's well take this off, it'll do you no good." His fingers stick through holes in the hose and filter. His voice is gentle; seeing the extent of your apparent injuries, for externally you give every appearance of having been caught directly in a stream of shells from a German Maxim gun, he's justified in concluding that you should be a goner. His own surprise at how lively you still seem to be is matched by your own. You *don't* hurt anywhere; actually, you feel quite fine, you're even rid of the persistent headache that was adding misery to your already miserable existence for the last few days. An artillery shell explodes off in the distance. "Bastards!" the corporal mutters. "They're s'posed to lay off while we collect our wounded." This is a common unspoken agreement between the two sides, in the wake of a battle; often the German and English front line troops move about in plain sight of each other on the battlefield following a particularly intense exchange, collecting their dead and wounded, with a mutual understanding that they will not notice one another until everyone is settled back into their trenches and the pointless carnage can begin once again. Of course, this "understanding" is not always strictly adhered to.... ***>>>KRAKABOOOOOOO<<<*** ***>>>OOOOOOOOOOOOO<<<*** ***>>>OOOOOOOOOOOOM<<<*** ***>>>!!!!!!!!!!!!!<<<*** The world explodes, consumed in a fiery blaze, a detonation at your very side sending flames and mud- and you- flying many yards, you feel yourself seared and blown apart and lifted into the air, your shredded carcass hurled across the barbed wire barrier to land broken in the mud, closer to your own line but oh, so far away. The light fades once again. ..... When you awake once more, you're lying on a cot, and hear groans, sometimes screams, of agony, all around you. Once more you suspect you're in hell, but opening your eyes, it looks very much like the tent of a field hospital. A blanket covers you up to the chin. If this is a divine joke, then God is having one great belly laugh at your expense, because once again, you feel all your limbs responding to your mental signals, fingers and toes wriggling on command, and no feeling of pain anywhere. This after being hit nearly dead-on by a mortar shell. You do immediately notice a ringing in your ears, however. <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: *I can't be alive. I felt the bullets tear me to pieces. This must just be another cruel joke played by the afterlife.* Then the shell explodes, almost a direct hit. He'd been knocked down by near misses before, but this was too close. Yet another cruel trick, trying to get him to believe he was still alive, only to kill him again. But Geoffrey knew he was already dead: he couldn't die twice. Perhaps this was all some sort of test, some sort of challenge in Purgatory. *What's its purpose?* he wondered, as his consciousness faded again. *** Hell. This was more what he expected, the screams of doomed souls. *Maybe the way God and the Devil choose souls matches the way the victim died - if I'd been bound for heaven, the stretcher party would have carried me off, but since I'm bound for hell, the shell exploded.* Then he opened his eyes, to further confusion. *This looks like a field hospital - another test?* Then he realises the ringing in his ears is back. He'd suffered it off and on from the deafening din of the artillery barrages, but now it seemed louder... as if an artillery shell had gone off next to him. But that couldn't be. The shell he remembered must have blown him to pieces. *If I'm not in Purgatory or Hell, then what happened? Maybe I was concussed by a shell, and I've been dreaming. Or perhaps I've gone mad.* He rewards himself with a wry grin. *Maybe insanity will be my ticket back to Blighty.* But he had to know what happened. Cautiously, he pushed himself up a little so he could look around. [OOC: I've heard one story about a WW1 soldier who had a mortar bomb land right between his legs - but it buried itself so deeply in the mud that all it did was to hurl him through the air, and he escaped with only a few bruises] <><><><><> [GM] If this is a test, it's an extraordinarily convincing one. You are, in fact, in a field hospital, as near as you can tell. Several cots over, you see surgeons working frantically at men who groan or gibber in mindless agony, if they make noise at all. The smell of blood is thick and heavy in the air. You see men with severed arms and legs lying on cots, groaning, so far treated only with a tourniquet and morphine [? is that anachronistic?] while the surgeons give priority to the patients who are about to die, of intestinal wounds or head injuries or wounds that are still spurting blood. How far has military medicine come in a hundred years? You'd swear you just saw a doctor holding a saw.... On your right are patients in dire straights. On your left.... The blankets are pulled up over their heads. Your own blanket is soaked with blood, enough to nauseate you. Your cot squishes wetly as you roll onto your side. But you feel no pain, and everything seems to be in working order. Throwing the blanket off, you see your uniform is shredded even worse than before, blackened and reduced to dirty rags. The impact of the explosion still echoes in your head. A mortar shell, burst right next to you....and there's not a wound on you. A nurse- a beautiful sight, the first woman you've seen in months, though she's rather old and not too pretty, pauses at the foot of your cot, looking at you in astonishment. "Nae then," she says gently, "you...you...." her eyes travel up and down your body, and widen. "What's this, where'd the other private go, the one mortally wounded by the shelling? What are you doing here?" <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: *What in the world is going on?* he wonders. His uniform is in rags. There's blood everywhere - it must be someone else's. Maybe casualties are so great that they're not getting the chance to clean the beds between patients. *Why don't I hurt? I must have been injured to end up here. Maybe they've got me so full of morphine I can't feel a thing. Yet I can feel the bed, the congealed blood* He sees the nurse, and forces a smile. Maybe she knows some answers. At least she doesn't look like suddenly turning into an explosion, a stream of bullets, or blood. "I dunno, I only just got here. I must have been knocked out by something... I've been having some very strange dreams. Have *you* any idea what happened to me?" <><><><><> [GM] The nurse looks you up and down, and leans forward to squint into your eyes. "Does it hurt anywhere?" she asks. "How did you get here? Were you wounded or not? You'd better not be trying to sneak your way out as a casualty! The man who was lying on that bed was brought in after a mortar shell went off directly next to him, he was all but dead already." She walks to the cot next to yours, and gently pulls back the blanket to look at the man beneath it. "No, this is the head-shot one," she sighs. <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: "I don't know how I got here; the last few hours are just a confused muddle. Someone must have brought me, because I didn't walk - I must have been out cold for hours. Maybe one of the stretcher bearers knows what happened." He lay back, trying to order his thoughts. The images were still stark in his mind: the wire, the bullets, the shell. Yet they had to be dreams - no, nightmares! - or else he wouldn't be uninjured. Whatever had rattled his head hard enough to make his ears ring must have also rattled his brains. Maybe a shell had gone off near him while he was asleep, deafening and concussing him. That would account for everything. If it didn't... well, he'd have to be insane, and he didn't want to think about that. <><><><><> [GM] The nurse leans over you. "Well, are you wounded?" she demands. "Let me check you. If you're not, you'd better get your arse off this cot and out of this tent. My God, your uniform is a wreck, you're *wearing* enough blood for ten men!" <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: "Well, can someone find me a uniform that's less likely to fall apart when I stand up?" Odd, very odd. How could his uniform get so badly damaged, while he remained uninjured. He had a nasty suspicion that whoever had dragged him to the hospital had switched his clothes with that of a corpse, to trade to other frozen soldiers. There were enough around who'd sell their grandmothers' false teeth as pastry cutters. "I don't think I'm wounded. I can only think I got knocked out by a near miss, and someone brought me here to recover. Have you any idea who brought me in?" Back to the trenches. Back to the mud, the filth, the blood. Back to a battle, even a war, that seemed increasingly pointless with each passing day. Maybe he should fake amnesia, since his memories of the last day or so were clearly jumbled? No, there were others more deserving of the boat-trip home. His place was back on the line, fighting over that Frog town with the silly name - Wipers. Roll on Duration. At least he was still alive, for now. Maybe some of his mates knew what happened. [OOC: Yes, I know Ypres isn't pronounced Wipers, but that was a common nickname for it amongst British troops - who also had a tendency to lump Flanders in with France ] <><><><><> [GM] "Do you think I keep track of every soldier that's brought in here and by who?" the nurse says wearily. "You'll have to see the Quartermaster about a new uniform." She seems a bit disturbed by you, perhaps unsettled by the same questions that linger in your mind. Something isn't right, but when a story doesn't quite fit together, it's easier to pretend it doesn't matter and continue than investigate the inexplicable. You trudge to a supply tent, with a blanket wrapped around you. The line is ridiculously long, as usual. You hear from other soldiers that the High Command is calling last night's assault a victory. "Victory Bloody 'ell!" someone snaps. "Someone tell me that whether some bloody f***ing invisible line is drawn a mile further this way or that is going to make a bit of difference when this war is over?" "They say now that the Americans are in it, Germany is done for for sure and knows it," someone else comments. "Could've fooled me, they sure don't fight like they know they're done for." The conversations come much clearer from your left side than your right; your right ear still buzzes, and no other sound penetrates. You're very much afraid that you've become half-deaf. Unfortunately, that's not one of the "lucky wounds" that will get you sent home. Eventually, you get issued a new uniform, which doesn't fit well, but it's an improvement over the bullet-ridden, tattered rags that used to be your old one. You make the most of your all-too short time behind the lines, then make your way back to the muddy trenches, and your unit. Your platoon leader looks mildly surprised to see you. "Private Stone! I thought you were one of the casualties last night." The young lieutanant, no older than you but aged as much as you have during the past few months, lights up a cigarette and sighs. "Sergeant Fleming swore he saw you caught on the wire. Guess it was someone else, we're still missing more than a few. Where have you been?" <><><><><> "One more such victory, and we are lost" - Pyhrrus. Geoffrey: It was better now he had a uniform again. He wondered who'd half- inched his old one. Maybe he'd find them in the trenches and pay them in knuckles. Still, the new one didn't have the fleas and lice of the old one, so perhaps the thief had done him a favour. He shook his head to clear the buzzing, but it was no help. If he could survive this war with nothing worse than that, he'd be happy. Many of his friends - too many - either wouldn't be going home, or would be returning an arm or a leg short. *** "I don't know what happened. I think I was knocked out by a shell or something." Geoffrey smiles. "I had some very vivid dreams about being caught on the wire, then being hit by a mortar. Then I woke up in the field hospital, to find that someone had nicked my uniform. Maybe Sergeant Fleming saw *them* on the wire; it would serve the little tealeaf right." The smile fades. "What happened? Did we win a few more yards of mud?" <><><><><> [GM] Lieutenant Pauley frowns, slightly- he likes to be called "Sir", though discipline about such things has become lax and he's learned to be less stiff-necked about it than when he first arrived to the unit, bright-eyed from Officer's School. Months of trench fighting has had the same toll on him as everyone else, and unlike the field-grade officers, he's down here in the mud with the rest of you. "Yes, almost a mile, actually." He tries to make it sound like something to be pleased over, but you can see in his eyes, he has no more illusion than you that a mile of territory gained will bring the war any closer to a finish. He flips his cigarette to the ground with a sigh. "Well, best get back to your position, private. We've still a war on." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: "Yes, Sir!" He saluted smartly, and walked back to his position. Or, rather, trudged back to his position through mud and broken duckboards. What had happened? Presumably concussion from a nearby shell explosion - and the ringing in his ears seemed to bear this out - and yet he had no head wound. The only `memories' he had of the past few hours - days? - were impossible, just horribly real dreams created while he was unconscious. Yet the lieutenant said he'd been caught on the wire... just as in his dream. A strange coincidence. The front-line wasn't a place for deep thought, though. Best to just lock it away as one of those mysteries. Perhaps its was just one of his mates, setting up an elaborate practical joke. Chalky White was fond of that sort of thing. He sighed... then wondered where his rifle had gone. Unfortunately, there were no shortage of dead bodies able to supply a replacement. <><><><><> [GM] The day, and the next, drags on like most of those before the night battle. You're missing a few more comrades (you've become loathe to call too many of them friends, when friends can die at any moment, and too often do), and more men show up to replace them. There is no major action that night, just the usual distant (and occasionally not-so-distant) shelling. You aren't ordered to make another rush, for which you're immensely grateful. You are concerned the next morning when you find that your ears are *still* ringing. There's a little bit of excitement stirring in the trenches as you slog through the mud to get another cold, tasteless lunch. You overhear from Lieutenant Pauley, talking to a master sergeant, that the Battalion Commander is coming to inspect your unit later this morning. That must mean the Germans really did take a shellacking the other night, you reflect bitterly, if their artillery is so far off now that a higher- level officer is going to come view the front lines. <><><><><> Geoffrey: The noise in his ears had never lasted this long before: maybe the explosion did something serious. He laughed mirthlessly. `Serious' was such a relative term. It wasn't serious enough to threaten his life; it wasn't even serious enough to get him his ticket home. If he came out of this slaughter with nothing worse than a ringing in his ears, he'd be happy... and lucky. And now Sir High-and-Mighty was descending, giving the troops a visit. He'd be better off spending his time finding some way out of this unholy mess. Were the Hun suffering the same conditions? It didn't seem that way, from the slaughter their machine guns inflicted. Geoffrey grinned. Perhaps they'll start shelling during the visit, and the Battalion Commander will get some mud on that neatly-pressed uniform of his. <><><><><> [GM] Some of the officers make a rather comical attempt to get your trenches "neatened up" for the battalion commander's visit. There is no shelling going on as you're alerted by the Sergeant Major that the field staff is approaching your company's dug-in position. Just a peaceful day on the front for an inspection. What does surprise you a bit is when Lieutenant Pauley comes sliding down the muddy slope and sloshes through the mud towards your line. He fixes his eyes on you and says "Private Stone!" Shouldering past the other enlisted men, who part to make way for him curiously, the young officer stops, and takes his hat off to smooth his hair back. "Stone, the battalion commander seems to have heard about that rumour going 'round, that you walked right into a hail of machine gun fire and weren't touched, and survived almost a direct hit with an artillery shell. He's wanting to meet you personally. Hell, maybe he wants to give you a medal or something. Anyways, make sure your uniform is, err, as presentable as can be." He looks down at his own uniform, now splashed with mud as is inevitable within minutes of putting it on, here in the trenches, and sighs. <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: "Yes, Sir!" He salutes, and gives an ironic grin. The only time the commanders listen to the men doing the fighting is to pick up a silly rumour that they can share over port by the fireside. Unfortunately, while the army has developed the Field Kitchen and the Field Hospital, it has yet to develop the Field Laundry. Geoffrey knows that polishing his boots would be a futile waste of time, but at least he can make sure his puttees are tidily wound and his buttons are all fastened through the correct buttonholes. He spits on his handkerchief - it's slightly cleaner than the mud - and does his best to polish up the buttons and other metalwear on his uniform (well, perhaps *polish* is an exaggeration - he at least cleans the mud off). Suitably spruced up, he awaits the Battalion Commander's arrival, passing the time by wondering if "accidentally" tripping the commander into one of the deep pools of mud would be worth the court-martial... <><><><><> [GM] As presentable as you can be, you wait for the battalion commander, Major General Sir Arthur Harold Cumberland, to arrive with his staff, to chat with the men over a bit of tea, perhaps. (Not likely!) When he does arrive, you get a quick glimpse of the man from a distance, several trenches over, a tall, bear-chested fellow with black hair and a handle-bar mustache, and a feral look about him that somehow doesn't match the image you have of a member of the aristocracy. You also notice that his uniform is not the nice, pretty red dress jacket you were expecting, with plenty of sparkling macaroni unblemished by mud. He's wearing the same combat trench gear as all of you- although his IS cleaner and looks like it's been pressed recently. As he gets closer, you feel a shiver start at the base of your spine and proceed upwards, and it doesn't stop. An eerie, tingling sensation suffuses your awareness, riveting your attention to the Major General. And his eyes, wide and frighteningly intense, lock onto yours as well, as if some unspoken recognition is passing between you. You manage to fight off the shivers, but the sensation persists. It's unlike anything you've ever felt before. <><><><><> "Good-morning, good-morning" the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "He's a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack. Siegfried Sassoon *** Geoffrey Stone: *No scrambled egg on his hat. I suppose he doesn't want to make himself too obvious a target for a sniper* thinks Geoffrey. Then the strange sensations start. Geoffrey tries hard not to show any reaction - *Why should I feel like this? He's only a senior officer. This is worse than my first night under fire.* When Major-General Cumberland stops in front of him, Geoffrey barely has the presence of mind to give him a smart salute. [OOC: "scrambled egg" is gold braid] <><><><><> [GM] Major General Cumberland stands, looking down at Geoffrey in his trench, for a long time, long enough to make not only Geoffrey, but the other officers surrounding him, nervous. "At last," Cumberland whispers. "What's your name, boy, and where and when were you born?" he asks. <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: "Private Stone, Sir. Born? July 15th 1895, Sir." The question takes him by surprise. Why on earth would the battalion commander want to know his age? Perhaps he'd gone mad... <><><><><> [GM] Cumberland smiles slightly, though you have no idea what you said that was funny. A Colonel who's with him says something that you can't hear, because of that infernal ringing in your ears. "I'd like to chat with you, Sapper," the Major General says. "I'll send someone from my staff to bring you back to the rear, this evening." He proceeds on with his staff, all of whom look just as puzzled as you. They look back at you with quizzical expressions. Lieutenant Pauley salutes the staff officers as they depart, then jumps back into the trench and runs up to you. "What on Earth was that about, Stone?" he exclaims, almost grabbing your shoulders. "Is he an old school chum of your father or something?" You feel that strange, unsettling sensation fade as Major General Cumberland disappears from view. <><><><><> Geoffrey: "Yes, Sir!" He salutes smartly, while his heart somersaults. Why on earth would a Major-General want to talk to him? Did he think that *he*, Sapper Stone, had made up those stories about being on the wire? Was the `chat' an in-joke for the Major-General, and meant a court-martial? Whatever it was, he felt better when the Major-General left. "No, Sir. I've no idea what this is about." He scratches his head. "Someone hasn't been playing a practical joke on me while I was unconscious, have they, Sir? Spreading some sort of stories, I mean." <><><><><> [GM] The Lieutenant shakes his head. "If this is a joke, it's on me too," he says. There isn't a whole lot you can do to get ready for dinner with a Major General while you're still entrenched on the front lines. With a uniform as clean as you can make it, you're summoned to the rear just before sundown. A Captain, looking down his nose at you and clearly wondering why you're here just as you are, escorts you to a spacious but utilitarian tent. You feel somewhat like a man walking towards a gallows, especially when you sense that unnerving, unnatural tingle in your skull again as you approach. <><><><><> Geoffrey: *What have I got myself into?* he thinks as he approaches the tent. When generals took an interest in lowly sappers, the interest was rarely benevolent. Then he feels the strange sensation he'd felt in the trench. *God struth, he scares me more than the Germans* <><><><><> [GM] "Come in," the general's voice says from behind the canvas screen, as your hand reaches to knock at the tent flap. Entering, you notice that the tent is neat and clean, far more so than any officer's quarters to be found closer to the front lines, but there are none of the luxuries rumored to exist in divisional officers' tents....card tables with staff officers playing poker, expensive cigars and liquor cabinets stocked with brandy and whiskey and other items scarce back in England, featherbeds and silverware...Major General Cumberland's tent is as spartan and military as your company commander's; it's just bigger and cleaner. So much for the wild fantasies of enlisted men spinning tales of the excesses of their commanders while crouching in the trenches beneath heavy fire. The unnerving buzz in your head is intense now. There can be no doubt that it radiates from the Major General. His piercing eyes sweep over you, taking in your uniform (which you couldn't free of caked mud, no matter how hard you tried), and your haggard appearance. You notice his black hair is longer and more ragged than you're accustomed to seeing in high-ranking officers, and his handle-bar mustache borders on being untrimmed. His rank must entitle him to certain eccentricities. You certainly aren't about to criticize his military appearance. Something about his gaze makes you want to kneel, as if he were not merely a divisional commander, but royalty. Before you can entertain such a movement, he gestures to a folding chair. "Sit down, Sapper Stone. We have much to talk about." You see no sign of the promised dinner; for that matter, you see no sign of anyone else. The Captain who brought you here did not follow you into the general's tent. <><><><><> Geoffrey: "Thank you, sir" he replies, sitting. Why did the General cause him such strange feelings? It had to be nerves - he'd never eaten with such exalted ranks before. <><><><><> [GM] Food is brought in, then, by an orderly. Major General Cumberland continues staring at you, like a cat watching a mouse. Finally, when your nerves are about to break, he says "What do you remember about the advance the other night? I understand you were....unusually fortunate." He spears a piece of meat with his fork as if making sure it's dead. The food is the most excellent you've had since you set foot in Flanders, but it's hard to enjoy it, feeling like it may be your last supper. <><><><><> Geoffrey: "I don't remember very much, sir," says Geoffrey cautiously, "I think a shell must have gone off nearby and scrambled my head a bit - I woke up in a field hospital. I'd had some strange dreams while I was out - well, nightmares really - but that's to be expected out here, sir." <><><><><> [GM] Cumberland leans forward so abruptly that it startles you. "What dreams?" he demands, eyes shining brightly. "Dreams of death? Being shot, perhaps, or too close to a mortar shell?" His gaze is making you increasingly uncomfortable...there is something about this man that goes far beyond eccentricity. <><><><><> Geoffrey: Geoffrey shifts uncomfortably. The way the General talks, it's almost as if he can see his dreams. "Just the same nightmares as everyone else, I expect, Sir. I dreamt I was trapped on the wire, being hit by Hun machine gun fire. I think we're all afraid that's what will happen next time, and we're relieved to survive. Then a bit later I dreamt I was on the point of being rescued, when a shell exploded right next to me." He laughs awkwardly. "It was a pretty frightening dream, sir. When I woke up in the field hospital, I felt like checking that I was still in one piece." <><><><><> [GM] "It wasn't a dream!" Cumberland snaps, eyes still bright and unnerving. "You WERE caught on the wire. You DID die! My God, what fools men are! How is it easier to accept that you hallucinated being killed than the reality, that you are alive by a miracle. Don't you believe in miracles, Sapper?" He brays laughter. "Do you think I'm mad? What do you sense about me, boy? Yes! That tingling at the base of your skull!" He stands and pulls back the flap of his tent, looking out across the headquarters camp, in the direction of the front lines. It's dark, of course, but you can see small pinpoints of light, and occasionally brighter flares, and hear a distant rumble, like thunder. "God has sent another Englishman into the fray," he mutters, as if to himself. "It's about bloody time." <><><><><> Geoffrey: *Oh Christ, he's flipped his lid* was Geoffrey's first thought. But the General's comment about the tingling in his head chilled him - how did he know? "If God was so keen on miracles, sir, I don't think we'd still be in France" he replies cautiously. The General's subsequent comment puzzled him even more. He'd been in the fray since 1914... anyway, what was one more man amongst the millions? <><><><><> [GM] Major General Cumberland says something else that you can't make out, with the rumbling in the background and the buzzing in your ears. He turns to you, waiting for an answer, then snaps "You don't understand! You refuse to see! I have no time for stoneheadedness!" He draws his service revolver. "You need proof!" And points it at you and fires, three times. The gunshots seem muffled, thanks to your diminished hearing, but the pain in your gut is very, very sharp, as the bullets knock all breath from you, and you tumble to the ground, curling into a ball as blood pours over your fingers, which instinctively moved to clasp your belly. <><><><><> Geoffrey: His eyes widen as the General pulls his revolver. *He really HAS flipped! He's a Bedlam case* "Sir, wait-" His words were rudely punctuated by the three gunshots, and he collapsed onto the cold floor. Sticky blood poured over and through his fingers, to pool on the ground beside him. He never expected his war to end thus, gunned down in cold blood in an officer's tent. [OOC: `Bedlam' was the common name for the Bethlehem Royal Hospital, London's main lunatic asylum since the 14th century. It has moved several times but, ironically, its home in Geoffrey's day is now the Imperial War Museum ] <><><><><> [GM] You are very conscious of the blood flowing out of your ruptured flesh, a thick gush of it surging with each heartbeat. You fancy you can hear it trickling onto the dirt floor under you, soaking into the earth and creating a little bit more mud amidst a sea of the stuff. The pain burns without cessation for long minutes, like the most agonizing stomach-pains you've ever experienced, or more like ALL the stomach-pains you've ever experienced, all hitting you at once. You can barely move, and each breath causes the agony to flare to unimaginable new levels, as your diaphragm pushes from above against your abdominal cavity. Through the bloody haze obscuring your vision, you are aware of movement, and a glimmer of pale light, and you think you hear voices. Cumberland *has* to be crazy....he fired three rounds into you right in the middle of GHQ; everyone must have heard the shots. And you're pretty sure that even a Major General isn't allowed to just shoot someone, even a lowly Sapper, out of hand, like a medieval lord dispatching a peasant. Your death is taking an awfully long time. Eventually you feel something hard, slick with blood, pressed against your fingers. Still clutching at your stomach, it takes a moment, and some tentative grasping with trembling fingertips, for you to register that it's a small piece of metal. About the size of a bullet. Another one tumbles over the back of your hand and rolls in the dirt. The pain is receding from all-consuming agony to a generally unpleasant distraction. Your breathing becomes normal. You sense Major General Cumberland leaning over you, and he says "Haven't you recovered yet?" <><><><><> Geoffrey: He tries to cry out, to accuse his murderer, but the pain is too great. Probably, the General is spinning some tail of being attacked and firing in self-defence. Death won't come. Well, soldiers have lingered for days with stomach wounds, but were nonetheless dead from the moment the bullet hit them. *What will happen, once I die?* he wonders. He'd believed in Heaven and Hell... but somehow Hell held fewer terrors after the battlefield, and the image of a caring God had taken a knocking by his being sent to France in the first place. Surely no caring God would have orchestrated the slaughter of the last 3 years? He waited for death to ease the pain... then suddenly realised that he could feel a bullet! Then another one! [OOC: And a third one? Or is it stuck inside] Was this some sort of trick? No, the bullets felt real enough. And he'd certainly felt them tear their way in: he'd never felt pain anything like it. But now, the pain was almost gone. He had a fleeting recollection of an earlier thought: that there *was* life after death, but it was no different from life before death. For a stunned moment, he tried to take stock. He'd been shot, and had survived. Not merely survived, but he was almost unhurt. That was impossible. Either he was dreaming - and this certainly didn't feel like a dream - or he'd gone mad - and he didn't want to believe that. The only alternative was that he couldn't be killed... which he also didn't want to believe. He'd seen too many soldiers whose belief in their invulnerability had been rudely punctured by a spandau. Geoffrey sat up, with a bewildered expression on his face. "I don't understand, sir." <><><><><> [GM] You feel another bullet tumbling inside your shirt as you sit up. The motion makes you wince, as torn stomach muscles, still mending, protest at being made to work again so quickly. But there is no denying the evidence of your senses; you were just shot, and now the wounds have already closed. Major General Cumberland is standing over you, arms folded, looking satisfied, like this is exactly what he expected to happen. "My name now is Sir Arthur Harold Cumberland," he says, his voice becoming deeper, more formal, as if reciting a litany he knows by heart. "But that is not the name with which I was christened, a long, long time ago." "I was born in Gloucester, in the year of our Lord 1610. I have served in the English army, under whatever name, for almost three hundred years. I have held every rank from waterboy to Major General. I am Immortal." He pauses, to let this sink in. "You died on the wire, Geoffrey Stone, but that was only your first death. You may die many times, but because you are an Immortal also, you will never die permanently...until someone takes your head." <><><><><> Geoffrey: *This is insane* thought Geoffrey *Have I gone mad? Has the strain of battle snapped my mind?* Yet he didn't *feel* mad. He looked down at his uniform, now dyed with his own blood. He picked up the last bullet, as if willing it to suddenly convert into some sort of trick bullet. It stubbornly remained a solid piece of lead. No, either he was so far round the bend that he'd never be able to live normally again, or else he was somehow able to heal his own wounds, even fatal ones. He listens to the General's life story. Five minutes before, he'd have been looking for a quick way of excusing himself from the presence of a raving madman. Now, the experience of being shot added a ring of truth to the General's amazing words. Mixed feelings of amazement, awe and disbelief were replaced by a sudden feeling of hope: if he was immortal too, then perhaps he could survive this horrible war. There was also a trace of guilt: he might survive, but how many others would? "Until someone takes my head? What do you mean, sir?" [OOC: If I haven't mentioned it already, Geoffrey always refers to Major- General Cumberland as `General Cumberland' and `the General' because that is the way the rank is actually addressed - like `Lieutenant Colonel' being `Colonel' or, at the other end of the scale, `Lance Corporal' being `Corporal'] <><><><><> [GM] "That's the only way you can die now," Cumberland says. "All other deaths are merely temporary, albeit unpleasant. But if your head leaves your shoulders, your life is over." He pats the hilt of the saber at his side. "That's why I always carry this. You'll have to begin carrying a sword also, and learn how to use it. There are others of our kind, you see. And they will try to take your head, for it's part of the Game." He grins, eyes sparking. "You think I'm mad, or are you ready to grasp the truth now? Don't make me shoot you again, I don't think I could explain another 'accidental discharge' in my tent." (You'd like to know how he explained THREE 'accidental discharges'!) <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey is still somewhat stunned, but he can't deny his own senses. Well, he could, but he'd prefer to believe that he was still sane. "I believe you, sir. I don't understand, though - how did I become like this? *Why* did I become like this?" *Carry a sword!* he thinks, *Who does he think I am, William-ruddy- Wallace? The others would fall about laughing if I turned up at the trench wearing something like that* <><><><><> [GM] Cumberland laughs. "You ask all the hard questions right away. God decides, lad. He chooses a select few to be blessed with immortality, and none of us know why he chooses those he does. Peasants, kings, Christians, heathens, Englishmen and Hun mongrels....Immortals are born among all the races of man. But your Immortality is only revealed when you die for the first time." You remember the machine gun shells tearing through your body, and wire digging into your flesh, and then the mortar shell that nearly blew you apart. And how you managed to delude yourself into believing it was all a dream. Cumberland seems to be looking into the distance, perhaps recalling his own death. "Now you're part of the Game. God has decreed that there can be only one of us in the end. So we hunt each other. We meet in single combat, according to ancient traditions, and the winner takes the loser's head. Someday there will be only two Immortals left, and they will fight each other. The winner, God will make ruler of the Earth." The older Immortal looks at you, eyes gleaming fervently again. "It is up to me to make sure that the winner is a good, God-fearing Christian....and preferably an Englishman." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey went pale, his mind going back to the wire. He could smell death again, feel the bullets tearing into him... then he remembered the mortar shell, and being blown apart. The chill visions faded again. Had he really survived all that? Apparently, yes - it explained a lot. Like how he had wound up in a field hospital in a uniform not fit to be buried in. "Are there many players to this Game, Sir?" Meanwhile, his mind is ablur. The idea of killing an enemy doesn't bother him unduly - he's been bayonet to bayonet with the Hun before now - but this idea of God setting up a special group of people to kill one another doesn't sit very well with the God he was taught about in church on Sundays. Still, *that* God wouldn't have let this war come about... The idea of going around with a sword still amused him, though. What was the point? Rather than waving a bit of sharp metal around, why not just shoot the b***** and take his head off with an entrenching tool before he could recover? [OOC: Indiana Jones meets Highlander ] <><><><><> [GM] "There are many," Cumberland says. "I do not know what the exact number might be. It seems every race, every nation, produces an Immortal every generation or two. Most do not survive a century, but some manage, and they join the growing ranks of the elder Immortals such as myself. Now that you've come into your Immortality, it's my responsibility to teach you so you won't lose your head to the first Hun or Moor or Viking, or worse, Frenchman, who comes along." "Of course we can't go into retreat where I could spend a few years in isolation, training you, because there happens to be a war on. It's inconvenient, but mortals get into these massive territorial disputes now and then, which can require a lot of attention if you've deeply involved yourself in their temporal affairs, as I have. Things will settle down in a few years, and England will be able to continue expanding with just a judicious application of military intervention here and there." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: He's still stunned, but he takes in the General's words. "Training, Sir? What sort of training?" Inwardly, he feels a much stronger surge of hope, and of guilt. He - Geoffrey Stone, common bricklayer and now sapper - has been given a chance to survive the war that probably hasn't been offered to any other soldier. He'd been given the gift that people had dreamed about for centuries: eternal youth. A chance to see how the world changes. A chance to make his dreams come true, to become an architect. Or to play for Woolwich Arsenal. Or even both... But Major-General Cumberland didn't look like he was living a dream come true. With eternal youth, life became that much more precious - and killers with swords became a reality. He'd have to be on guard all the time. <><><><><> [GM] "I told you," Cumberland says, annoyed. "You need to learn to use a sword, among other things." He scowls at your incredulous expression. "It's not a joke, boy! It's the way the Game is played. Firearms-" he pats the revolver at his hip- "are only for mortals. Our kind follows traditions older than any mortal invention, and you'll follow them too, if you don't want to be hunted by every last Immortal, including me!" His expression becomes very dark and very scary. <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: He shivers, and flinches slightly from the General. "But Sir, how do I learn to use a sword in a trench in the middle of France?" The question is asked with puzzlement, not impertinence. Meanwhile, he's thinking: everyone's hunting everyone else anyway, right? Sounds like some traditions need to be dragged into the age of the steam-lorry. He'd seen enough people die to know that death wasn't a game: dead was just dead. <><><><><> [GM] "You can't!" Cumberland snaps, as if annoyed at having the obvious repeated to him. "That's why I'm taking you out of the trenches. You need to be by my side so that you can learn what you need to, especially given how little time we have. The most expedient thing to do is give you a battlefield commission. You're now a 2nd Lieutenant. I'll let my Chief of Staff know tomorrow morning that you're my new Aide-de-camp." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey stands there looking like a stunned mullet. From lowly sapper to 2nd Lieutenant in one go. That's even more remarkable than being immortal... "Th-Thank you, Sir," he finally manages to stammer, when his brain successfully reattaches his vocal cords. He doesn't like to think of how his friends in the trenches will react to the news: they'll surely think he got it through bribery, somehow. Still, he isn't about to turn it down! "What sort of sword will I learn to use, Sir?" he asks. Meanwhile, visions of the local butcher cutting up meat with a cleaver go through his mind. <><><><><> [GM] Cumberland rubs his hands together. "Most older Immortals tend to use whatever sort of blade they first learned to wield well....back when it was normal for men to carry melee weapons around. Tradition, and familiarity. I'd recommend you get accustomed to something small and concealable, like an officer's saber." He touches the blade at his hip, which before this evening, you'd have assumed to be little more than an ornament. "True, it's at a bit of a disadvantage if you run into a damn fool Highlander swinging a Claymore around, but it's awfully hard to carry a Claymore anywhere in polite company nowadays." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: "I'll take your advice, Sir - I know nothing about swords. When and where do I begin?" All Geoffrey knew about swords was that they were the pointy metal things in the museums his father had dragged him round as a child. He was beginning to see that he'd have to learn very quickly. He vaguely recalled that a claymore was a Scottish broadsword, and wondered why the sabre would be at much of a disadvantage against it? [OOC: `claymore' is commonly used to describe 2 different Scottish swords - the massive 2-handed sword (something like Cleidach Mor in Celtic?) and the much later backet-hilted broadsword. OK, so Geoffrey is thinking of the wrong one ] It all went to show: you never can tell. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd have grumbled at bayonet training being out of date - though he'd been glad enough of that bayonet when they hit the Hun trenches that time! Now, he was about to learn swordfighting.