(no subject)
((OOM: June 6, 1944: night and day, and night again.))
Lieutenant Lewis Nixon steps down the three steps and opens the door, expecting a tiny pub, bursting at the seams with noisy American soldiers.
Well, he's at least a little right.
A man of average height in dark green uniform - pant cuffs tucked into the tops of heavy brown boots, jacket covered in handy pockets, M-1 rifle slung casually over one shoulder - stands just inside the door. If one knew such things, one might recognize it as the uniform of a soldier in the United States Airborne, circa 1944. It's difficult to tell too much about his features; his face is streaked with black pitch and grime.
Nixon's expression is probably funny, if you aren't Nixon. He looks like someone just punched him in the gut and he can't decide how best to curse them out. Another soldier might go for a weapon. This one seems to have forgotten that he has one.
He slowly lifts off his helmet and leaves it to dangle from his fingers in awe, his black hair flattened against his head.
Time passes before he finally speaks. "Uh. Uh, Dick, you seeing th-" He looks over his shoulder. No Dick, just a closed door.
"No-" He pauses, staring at a passing patron, and then he mutters, "No, I guess not."
Nix closes his mouth, tightens his hand on the strap of his M-1 and - does not move another muscle.
Lieutenant Lewis Nixon steps down the three steps and opens the door, expecting a tiny pub, bursting at the seams with noisy American soldiers.
Well, he's at least a little right.
A man of average height in dark green uniform - pant cuffs tucked into the tops of heavy brown boots, jacket covered in handy pockets, M-1 rifle slung casually over one shoulder - stands just inside the door. If one knew such things, one might recognize it as the uniform of a soldier in the United States Airborne, circa 1944. It's difficult to tell too much about his features; his face is streaked with black pitch and grime.
Nixon's expression is probably funny, if you aren't Nixon. He looks like someone just punched him in the gut and he can't decide how best to curse them out. Another soldier might go for a weapon. This one seems to have forgotten that he has one.
He slowly lifts off his helmet and leaves it to dangle from his fingers in awe, his black hair flattened against his head.
Time passes before he finally speaks. "Uh. Uh, Dick, you seeing th-" He looks over his shoulder. No Dick, just a closed door.
"No-" He pauses, staring at a passing patron, and then he mutters, "No, I guess not."
Nix closes his mouth, tightens his hand on the strap of his M-1 and - does not move another muscle.