Realistic or Modern Snuff the Rooster (Vietnam war rp)

[Midrick]

1968. Vietnam. The jungle consumes the numerous camps and FOB's in Quang Tri, the only place it hadn't was Khe Sanh. Word had reached the marines that the Viet Cong, along with the North Vietnamese army had violated the ceasefire observed for the new year celebration of Tet. Marines in the various cities and large scale bases take the news with grim expressions and white knuckled grips on their weapons, they know what this means, more fighting, more killing, and more death. The marines in FOB Firestorm. What follows is combat against a faceless enemy. The marines are not expected to survive, and each one of them knows that.

Kabboom Trappy ONI Pilgrim59 Minyari

 

[Pilgrim59]

Cpl. J. Bearanger
RTO (Radioman)
1st Battalion, 3rd Marines Division, USMC
Quang Tri, 1968
​

The light breeze of the midday climb provided the weary faces with certain respite, to which they have accepted with their hearts, while their silence guarded a sacred pact between the themselves and the enemies.

No words were exchange, as the Marines paced themselves toward the far side of the camp, where a multitude of service vehicles bathed in the sun's delight.

A few whisk and cracking noises emitted across the camp, as a figure in green approached the netted depot. His helmet unstrapped, and his radio continued to sing briefly, before his hands move forth to silent the thing. His spear of war - a wooden-furnished rod with no magazine attached fell behind his left shoulder, as he reach out for the battery packs that sat upon the rugged table. Before long, he was caught in a trance, in an attempt to piece together a few strands of fibers and portholes that dotted the inside of an open PRC 10. His hands went to work, salvaging what he could from the station, and dwelled upon his notebook - an inseparable pair that keeps him busy throughout his time in the country. The notes were partly instructions and illustrations that facilitated his work.

The young man tended to his work, disregarding his surroundings. Perhaps something or someone would fish the occupied out of his work, but he, himself would digress. His eyes attentively fixed upon his work, like any other day.

(open for interaction with anyone)

 

[Trappy]

LCpl. Carranza
Elliot fixed the rifle on his hands as the midday breeze washed over the young man. It was just another day in the tropical heaven they've grown accustomed to, what with gorgeous, untamed nature, a radiant sun, and the highlight of all of it, of course, great locals. Well, they were quite the people, Elliot admitted, it just so happens that when you couldn't really tell the enemy from the ones you were supposed to protect, mixed feelings were bound to take their place. The young man yawned as another breeze passed by him, finally decided to relieve his arms of the tool of war, and slung it over his shoulder instead. The camp was . . . peaceful, the silence was much appreciated by Elliot, and his comrades no doubt felt the same, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't quite get onto him. It felt like the calm before an angry, ravaging storm. Scanning his eyes nervously across the area in front of him, Elliot shook himself off the thought. After all, it wouldn't do any good, so best enjoy a little break for another chapter when it was still available.

The man began making his way into the shade. Elliot was looking to sit back and get some rest, with the calm breeze and the midday sun, a nap sure sounded appealing. There wasn't anything occupying him anyways. As the man entered the depot, he noticed a figure at the table, busy at some tools, and called out with a friendly offer. Perhaps some tinkering work could help him fight back the emerging sleepiness.

"Corporal. Need any help?"

Interacting: Pilgrim59

 

[Kabboom]

Sgt. Gray

The last few days had been... interesting, to say the least. It was a lot more fun and intense than anything that Gray ever experienced back in West Virginia.

That is to say, he'd been shot at by malnourished farmers with rusty AKs, eaten ripe bug-infested dirt in the middle of noon in a tropical climate while wearing full gear and humping a backbreaking amount of ammo and gear, and endured about a week's worth of little to no sleep while looking out for small yellow guerrilla fighters in the dark. Half the people he talked to have been shot dead, and the other half had gone batshit insane.

He really wanted to go back to the convenience store.

As it stood, however, he is approximately a fuck-ton of miles away from any vacant job positions in a place that hasn't been bombed to the 49th dimension of shit. FOB Firestorm has been taking in a steady amount of harassing fire, and Gray was up on the wall with his M60. The heat meant he was now sitting without a shirt, and using a tattered captured Viet Bac flag as an umbrella to shield himself from the sun. The flies hadn't let up on him, of course, and his little guard duty was now consisting of a whack-a-mole game, but instead of a mole to whack, he has to swat away flies, and then quickly go back to tending to his foot. The humidity and long marches really did a number on his toes.

But contact came soon enough.

A sharp crack reverberated through the air, flying above the watch tower. Gray immediately grabbed hold of his M60, and kept his eyes peeled on the surroundings. The thick forest had mostly been cut away, but there was a line of hard-to-displace thick trees out just about 200 meters. His eyes could make out a bit of movement, vaguely humanoid in silhouette, and that was enough.

More cracks of bullets whizzing by punctured the air in the FOB as his Pig roared, loosing a burst at the treeline, eliciting some unintelligible screams from the VC. His trigger finger squeezing further, Robert began put suppressing fire on the treeline, but the gunfire was still incoming.

"We got hostiles! Get the fuck up here!" the Sergeant managed to yell back onto the rest of the base occupants inbetween his frantic bursts.

Trappy Pilgrim59 ONI Minyari

 

[ONI]

HN (FMF). Angula, Yannes A.
United States Navy, Hospital Corps.
Marine Force Reconnaissance.​

Since his return to country the corpsman had seen nothing but contact after contact. Straw hat farmers, black pyjama wearing tunnel creepers and formal military types alike were all out to fill him and every other American with holes. But whilst he sat on the throne mindlessly glossing over the words of a comic book, Angula let the world gradually filter out into background noise. At times the latrine was a place where even the lowest of grunts could feel like a king for all of five minutes and, if you could ignore the cracks and whizzes of incoming fire, enjoy relative peace and quiet. Today was a good day, he'd managed to spend a good ten minutes doing nothing.

So engrossed in the book he almost didn't hear desperate knocking and the whiny pleas on the other side. His few kingly minutes were up. "Ye-Yeah.... Yeah, I'm moving. I'm moving!"

Not too long after trading places with a comrade desperately in need of bowel relief Angula was back in the world of mere men. Off to the base medical centre. Angula had time though. A couple minutes at least, and so took a little detour. He rounded the corner of his squads quarters and waved to his Marines "Ayy. Any of you seen Garret from third? The guy still ain't gi-" the corpsman was cut short. Throwing himself to the deck as rounds were inaccurately walked in a few metres away. Distance yelling was heard but over the steadily discharging pig it always almost unintelligible to him.

Laid out on his back he dug his heels into the dirt and rapidly wriggled on into a some cover, grumbling in dissatisfaction, before rolling onto his front to bring his rifle to bare. The empty jerry cans and piled boxes out front weren't ideal but they at least provided a degree of defilade. Using a foot he swatted the flap to their tent open to quickly peer inside as he called out "Everybody up?!"