Multiple Settings Liberty or Death: Battle Cry

[Rogue-47]

Los Angeles, California, United States
April 9, 1937, Friday

Prologue: A night to remember...​

Tag: Rusty of Shackleford Pilgrim59 Jackson123 SpazTheButcher

The air was filled with the smoke of cigarettes at Martini’s. The bar itself was rather packed tonight with the usual local crowd and newcomers from out of town. A musician was playing an old piano at the far corner subsequently as dozens of patrons were speaking with one another. Despite the ongoing Depression and the growing unrest, that doesn’t stop people from trying to have a good time.

The eldery bartender Anotino Martini went back and forth from one side to the other, filling and refilling drinks as he did so. Being in the business for a very long time he barely broke a sweat over this kind of situation. If there was any strain he didn’t show but just smiled and nodded at the customers, giving them their desires filled in glass cups. They wanted to forget their troubles so who was he to deny them that...as long as they behave themselves.

Coming through the front door was a young man in a service dress uniform of olive grab with his service cap tucked under the right hand. His eyes were brown, hair raven, eyebrows thick with a long curved nose and light skin, hinting at his Armenian heritage. Corporal(USMC) Petros Sahakian paused, examining the crowded room before him with a stoic expression before a small smile surfaced.

“This joint hasn’t changed much since I left.” Petros said to himself. As much as it pleased him that Martini was still in business finding a spot will be difficult. Shrugging his shoulders the corporal thought.

If I can handle the streets of Shanghai then this shouldn’t be too much of a problem.

With that in mine Petros walked forward, heading for the bar stand itself. Navigating his way through occupied tables the twenty two year old noticed several others in marine uniforms like himself and a few sailors spread out over the place. He chose to ignore them for the time being, since they were all off duty. Finding an open spot on the right hand side Petros waited.

Martini was cleaning an empty glass with a red rag when noticing his latest customer. The old man for a moment narrowed his eyes, silently investigating who this is exactly. Seconds later realization came to Martini with his eyes beaming and jaw forming a smile. Placing the glass down he exclaimed.

“Petros my boy! It is good to see you.”

“Believe me Martini the feeling is mutual. How is the family?”

The bartender sighed before confessing. “Well things could be better but they’re not worse either. Well in comparison to others at least. Anyway what can I get you for a drink?”

In response Petros handed Martini some money before replying. “Beer would be nice, thanks.”

“Coming right up you just stay there.”

Saying so the barkeep went to fill a new glass for Petros who leaned on the stand, waiting. Still can’t believe it’s been four years since I left here.

 

[Pilgrim59]

Sigrid Muller
Martini's, Los Angeles
Rogue-47 ​

A white silhouette, among the tans and khaki fatigues that occupied the worn leather and wood. Eyes were upon the fair lily that bloomed amidst the drunken and disorderly fatigues. An illustrious pair of ruby glance met the bartender, the prior of whom were quick to acquaint themselves with a vacant barstool over the company of the rowdy servicemen and white-collared suits. Their aura of firm grace kept the gawking eyes at bay, sparing some, of whom were occupied with their leisure of shuffled cards. Perfumed breath trailed her audible heels. An aromatic splendor to behold, yet her vigilant countenance yearned for nothing more than a stroke of pungent malt. A foreigner, by her odd choice of attires that seemed far too extravagant than that of the local folks - particularly the greyed faces that surrounded her. The seemingly delicate creature nonchalantly puckered her glossed lips and finally raised her voice.

"A Sidecar, straight. Please." she said softly, tucking the stray red locks of hair behind her right ear.

She possessed a foreign, yet comprehensible accent. Despite her rough inclinations, she managed to make the order with ease. Crossing her legs, she studied the bartender closely, before veering across the reflected countenance within the bottles upon the shelf. Countless eyes upon her, yet she did not stir. Only a poised set of eyes that kept watch on her surroundings. Before long, she turned to a certain man to her left, whose dark pair of eyes spoke much of a venturing and enduring soul. From the careless shimmer of his beaded necklace, she concluded that he was like any other within the room. His tanned hands mismatched his paler neckline - an indication of a seafarer or at least one with an extensive stay in a sunny location. His smiles towards the bartender dictated their shared acquaintances. His beverage's choice was the typical preference of most servicemen, particularly the enlisted ensemble. For no sane commissioned officer would give up their privileges of whiskey and cognac. Simplicity over sophistication. The biggest tip-off was his distressed fatigues, unlike the fresher ones. A marine from overseas perhaps, and one of a foreign lineage, based on his complexion, she concluded. As the cocktail vessel finally made it into her hands, she continued.

"Welcome home, marine." she finally brokered words with the man, raising her glass slightly with a reserved smile.

 

[Jackson123]

Teetering on his stool at the Martini’s Bar, Karl-Heinz von Behrendt peered through the fog of cigarette smoke at the loud, manic crowd. There must be over 200 people crammed into this humid room.

He shook his dizzying head and marvelling at the clamour. He wonders how many lies could be told per minute in this place, how many rumour could start, reputations slandered or bet being placed every minute in this confusion of drunken mess of human gathering.

This reminds him of his home country down south, it seems these guys are just a pair of lederhosen short of being a proper Bavarian. Okay, nun, vielleicht, maybe also some Schweinsbraten, Weißwurst and Currywurst...but the part of not being a functional member of society are all the same.

Personally, when it’s not Oktoberfest, Karl likes to enjoy a good Abendbrot for dinner. Quick and cold with a quarts of beer. The good old rye-wheat (Roggenmischbrot), toast bread (Toastbrot), whole-grain (Vollkornbrot), wheat-rye (Weizenmischbrot), white bread (Weißbrot) or other multigrain. He can almost feel nostalgic just thinking of these names, he remembered those days back home in Thüringen, in camping or just normal daily lives, the whole family would gather and have dinner, with breads and tilsiter cheese, Schwarzwälder Schinken (Ham), Jagdwurst...it would be even more sumptuous if they are assorted by pickled cucumbers. The breads are always strictly, neatly cut to 0.8cm thick each, with ingredients on top of the bread ideally match the shape and size of the slices of bread and shall not exceed or under-cover them, as this is the only way to keep the meal in order.

Thinking about these things only makes Karl realise even more so that he is now thousands miles away from home, alone. He couldn’t really get any of those things here — just the breads they sold in the United States are already absolute heresy, how could they have the audacity to call those soft, tender fluffy things “bread”? They’re just wasting yeast! Breads should be substance and heavy!

Alas, as one of his superior in the Abteilung III b once taught him, “facts can be so misleading, where rumors, true or false, are often revealing.” This could be a decent place for his task of gathering information for the Empire. The American have fairly loose tongues especially after they’re drunk. He saw a guy in marine uniform entered the bar and place order for a beer. Two stripes, a Corporal......the equivalent of a Obergefreiter or Unteroffizier in the German Army. The owner of the establishment and the marine seemed to have known each other. 4th Marine Regimental Patch. China Marine?

Then he saw a redhead woman came in and seated next to that Marine corporal. OK, this one might be interesting.

 

[SpazTheButcher]

Jack enjoyed himself a pint of what the bartender had claimed was, "Straight from Australia". This bloody shite was New Zealand, but Jack cared less. It was close enough, he thought. He took a sip and scanned the room from under his slouch hat. He was most likely the only man armed in the room, for in the pack next to him he had an Owem gun, and tucked into his pants was a well worn Colt M1911. He noticed one other foreigner, a german, but decided to keep his distance.

 

[Rogue-47]

Pilgrim59 SpazTheButcher Rusty of Shackleford Jackson123

Martini slid the beer glass to Petros’ left side. Immediately the young man grabbed it with one hand. “Thanks Martini.” Petros said in gratitude to which the old man shrugged his shoulders. “It is my pleasure it’s the least I can do.”

The old man hadn’t changed. He silently noted. Like himself, Anoninto Martini came from immigrant stock but was born here and raised in this area. He was an old friend and a former neighbor to Petros’ uncle. Petros smiled to himself, remembering the time the bartender allowed him to drink a round before he enlisted with the marines.

Taking a gulp the Armenian American let out a satisfied sigh. Then out of the corner of his dark eyes he noted red hair. Turning slightly to get a better look Petros blinked. She’s definitely not from this part of town. When the stranger welcomed him and raised her glass Petros paused for a moment before doing the same.

“Thank you ma’am.” He said, a habit that was vigorously enforced by his aunt since childhood. Subsequently Petros consumes another gulp. Strangely enough the marine found that accent kinda familiar. Back in Shanghai there were a great deal of foreigners, especially Europeans, in the city’s international settlement.

It’s certainly not French nor British or even Spanish. Perhaps Scandinavian or even...German.

“My name is Petros Sahakian, corporal usmc though you are already figured out that last part. May I know your name?”