A/N: I was in a creative writing class a couple semesters ago and was told to write a characterization piece. I decided to experiment with the character of Col. Tavington by placing him in a different time period. Here's what I got. I might write more if I feel like it and make a whole short story out of it. I've been too busy writing other things lately, but now that it's winter break, I'll be finishing up "Hooked." Don't worry, I haven't abandoned it. I've also got an idea for a Doctor Who massive x-over fic that I'll probably start soon.
He stood beneath the shell-shocked tree and surveyed the day's carnage. Before him there lay the battlefield and the countless German dead. His nose, which wrinkled slightly at the strange odors of the scene, left no doubt as to his nationality. It gave him the unmistakable look of an Englishman. With a satisfied sigh, he looked down at his black boots and rolled his eyes in dismay. They were splattered with the battle's mud and gore and would be in need of a good scrub when he returned to the trenches.
The pants of his uniform were hardly better. They were solid brown until the knee at which point the mud receded and revealed beige. His matching jacket, on the other hand, showed few signs of combat. This might have seemed strange except for the numerous metals and insignia it bore. This was clearly an officer of great import. He certainly had not been in the thick of the battle. The brains of the operation never do their own dirty work.
On his right, an empty pistol hung from his belt and a shabby canvas bag hung on his left shoulder. It was standard issue, nothing but an ordinary army sac. But as he rummaged through it, his dependence and unspoken fondness for it were plain. After a moment of searching, he found his matchbook and a cigarette.
He held the cigarette before putting it to his mouth to gaze at it with his icy stare. For a split second his unfeeling heather eyes betrayed his regret as it was the last one. He would have to make it count; there was no telling when his unit would get another supply.
Before the war, he would not have thought of France as a warm country, but he would never forget how unforgiving her sun could be over the field of battle. The sweat on his brow became increasingly irksome as he puffed. His cap was the same khaki color of his trousers and jacket and the front was soaked through with perspiration. He removed it to wipe his brow on his sleeve, exposing a wealth of black hair. Though finely trimmed, it lay matted from the hat.
He had done his duty for King and country. Looking back at the open expanse of death one last time with little remorse, he turned to his men and signaled for them to move out.