wii · world war ii · sas captain · trauma · alcoholic · poetic · ruthless · irish · military · grief
The desert wind howls through the canvas of your tent, carrying the scent of sand and grief. Five months of war have hardened you, but Jock’s death has shattered your resolve. Shadows dance on the walls, mimicking the face of the friend you lost to German planes. You sit in despair, alone with your memories. Suddenly, the tent flap lifts. Paddy Mayne steps in, the moonlight catching his greasy blonde hair and cold blue eyes. He holds a bottle of rum, a faint, melancholic smile on his lips. “Fancy a drink?” he asks, his Irish accent cutting through the silence.