The Name is Mudd
06-05-06, 05:39 PM
((reregistering everyone's favorite WWII grunt. he had 800 exp and 290 gp. I don't remember what items he used or obtained, so I'm just listing the ones he started with))
UNITED STATES - DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
DATE: FEBRUARY 18, 1945
T E L E G R A M - T E L E G R A M - T E L E G R A M
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CLASSIFIED
Full Name: Grahm Percy Mudd
Rank: Private, United States Army
Gender: Male
Race: White
Age: 19
DoB (mm-dd-yyyy): 04-21-1925
Height: 5’11
Weight: 188 lbs
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
CHANGE IN STATUS: MISSING IN ACTION. JANUARY 2, 1944.
PRESUMED DEAD.
Appearance: Stocky and of average height. Mudd has a middle-class
physique, deep-set eyes, and a nose broken at its bridge. No scars or
defining marks of any sort stand out on his skin other than the tip
of a birth mark on his neck.
Personality: Optimist. He sees the brighter side of most everything;
in all other regards, a sarcastic wise-ass. If searching prisoner camps
for Pvt. Grahm P. Mudd, look for the one laughing his fool head off.
Weapons and Equipment: Last seen carrying a standard-issue
Steel 1905 Type 2 bayonet and a standard-issue steel trenching shovel.
Armor: Last seen equipped with a standard-issue M1 iron reinforced
combat helmet.
Items: Last inspection revealed a pair of extra socks, bedroll, canvas
tent, cigarettes, water-resistant matches, and a small cache of contra-
band explicit magazines. Pvt. Mudd is also suspected of stealing one
of Sgt. O’Grady’s personal bandage kits (without accompanying sulfa-
powder) as well as a single-use morphine syringe. Inquiry as to why
they had not been confiscated upon time of discovery has been cancelled.
Skills: Well versed in hand-to-hand and trench combat. Small squad tac-
tics and firearms are not his forte, although he could use them in a dire
situation. He has been unofficially lauded for atypical use of his trench-
ing shovel in combat.
Special skills: Uncanny luck. It seems as if Pvt. Mudd has a knack for
dumb Luck. It’s as if the fates have their hand on him, says Sgt. O’Grady.
In Ardennes he jumped on an enemy Stielhandgrenate (also known as a “Potato-
masher”) which turned out to be a dud. Other accounts have been reported
of him being shot by a German Fallschirmjäger, and having the bullet rico-
chet off of his belt buckle. It’s as if he’s cheated death once-a-day. I
suppose that’s easy to say when everyone in the 28th infantry has done
the same.
History: From Detroit, Michigan, Grahm P. Mudd comes from a family of
of machinists. He dropped out of high-school along with a few of his
schoolmates with the intention of a vocational career in the automobile
industry. When the draft hit, he and his friends were replaced in the car
plant by military wives to machine Sherman Tank parts, and enlisted in
the 112th Regiment of the 28th Infantry Division of the United States Army.
What became of him on the battlefield, however, is unknown. Speculation
is that Grahm (known to his friends as “Grampy”) has been captured and
subjected to German experimentation. Our intelligence hasn’t fully confir-
med this, but we have received information detailing a german project on
a machine that removes soldiers from the battlefield and dumps them on
other planets, heavenly bodies, etc.. Pvt. Grahm’s standard-issue M1 Gar-
and was found hanging from a tree branch covered in snow.
Black. The dim light of a hanging light came into focus, as did the chiseled visage of a kraut captain. The army private felt himself jerk to the right to sock him a good one on the nose, but the ropes restraining his wrists were tight and he was restrained to a metal chair; the kind with a missing foot that makes the whole thing wobble whenever you lean foreword. The ropes around his wrists felt wet and warm, as opposed to the pasty-pale cold sweat that had broken out on his forehead. His blood stood still in his veins, and he knew at that moment that he’d been captured.
“Du hast kein Glück mehr,” the Jerry smiled as he snatched Mudd’s tags from his neck; their letters and ribbings accented with mud and a gun-metal colored tarnish. Lifting his officer’s cap, the kraut’s monocle reflected light straight into the young private’s eyes. “Grahm Percy Mudd.” The captain managed before turning to what looked like a man in a lab-coat with rubber gloves that reached well past his elbows. “Er ist kein Unteroffzier. Dieser Junge könnte gar nichts erzählen, auch wenn er den ganzen Tag gefoltert wird. Mudd ist nutzlos,” the German said, the jagged scar under his eye smiling almost as broadly as the officer himself. “Er ist wegzuwerfen. Macht was ihr wollt mit ihm.”
The private didn’t have to understand German to know what they were saying, especially not when the captain walked off and the doctor wheeled some large machine down a grated ramp and began flipping switches. It was the archetypal torture scene. The doctor had white hair with a pair of black-mirrored goggles over his eyes, and a pale green lab-coat. An electric light struggled to stay lit as it faintly swung back and forth while the doctor injected some sort of fluid into the private’s arm. In the last few seconds of consciousness he had left, he remembered the arsenic pills he was given should he be captured that he kept sealed in his boot. Little did he know, that they had no intention of interrogating him.
The private woke up in Concordia. His belongings were intact, and his backpack still strapped to his combat harness. Boots were tied, belt as well. The only thing that remained, was to get down from the tree he was hanging in, some 40-50 feet above the ground. It didn’t look like the Black Forest or Ardennes at all. No snow was on the ground. It was warm for God’s sake. The only thing he didn’t have was his rifle and grenades.
UNITED STATES - DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
DATE: FEBRUARY 18, 1945
T E L E G R A M - T E L E G R A M - T E L E G R A M
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CLASSIFIED
Full Name: Grahm Percy Mudd
Rank: Private, United States Army
Gender: Male
Race: White
Age: 19
DoB (mm-dd-yyyy): 04-21-1925
Height: 5’11
Weight: 188 lbs
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
CHANGE IN STATUS: MISSING IN ACTION. JANUARY 2, 1944.
PRESUMED DEAD.
Appearance: Stocky and of average height. Mudd has a middle-class
physique, deep-set eyes, and a nose broken at its bridge. No scars or
defining marks of any sort stand out on his skin other than the tip
of a birth mark on his neck.
Personality: Optimist. He sees the brighter side of most everything;
in all other regards, a sarcastic wise-ass. If searching prisoner camps
for Pvt. Grahm P. Mudd, look for the one laughing his fool head off.
Weapons and Equipment: Last seen carrying a standard-issue
Steel 1905 Type 2 bayonet and a standard-issue steel trenching shovel.
Armor: Last seen equipped with a standard-issue M1 iron reinforced
combat helmet.
Items: Last inspection revealed a pair of extra socks, bedroll, canvas
tent, cigarettes, water-resistant matches, and a small cache of contra-
band explicit magazines. Pvt. Mudd is also suspected of stealing one
of Sgt. O’Grady’s personal bandage kits (without accompanying sulfa-
powder) as well as a single-use morphine syringe. Inquiry as to why
they had not been confiscated upon time of discovery has been cancelled.
Skills: Well versed in hand-to-hand and trench combat. Small squad tac-
tics and firearms are not his forte, although he could use them in a dire
situation. He has been unofficially lauded for atypical use of his trench-
ing shovel in combat.
Special skills: Uncanny luck. It seems as if Pvt. Mudd has a knack for
dumb Luck. It’s as if the fates have their hand on him, says Sgt. O’Grady.
In Ardennes he jumped on an enemy Stielhandgrenate (also known as a “Potato-
masher”) which turned out to be a dud. Other accounts have been reported
of him being shot by a German Fallschirmjäger, and having the bullet rico-
chet off of his belt buckle. It’s as if he’s cheated death once-a-day. I
suppose that’s easy to say when everyone in the 28th infantry has done
the same.
History: From Detroit, Michigan, Grahm P. Mudd comes from a family of
of machinists. He dropped out of high-school along with a few of his
schoolmates with the intention of a vocational career in the automobile
industry. When the draft hit, he and his friends were replaced in the car
plant by military wives to machine Sherman Tank parts, and enlisted in
the 112th Regiment of the 28th Infantry Division of the United States Army.
What became of him on the battlefield, however, is unknown. Speculation
is that Grahm (known to his friends as “Grampy”) has been captured and
subjected to German experimentation. Our intelligence hasn’t fully confir-
med this, but we have received information detailing a german project on
a machine that removes soldiers from the battlefield and dumps them on
other planets, heavenly bodies, etc.. Pvt. Grahm’s standard-issue M1 Gar-
and was found hanging from a tree branch covered in snow.
Black. The dim light of a hanging light came into focus, as did the chiseled visage of a kraut captain. The army private felt himself jerk to the right to sock him a good one on the nose, but the ropes restraining his wrists were tight and he was restrained to a metal chair; the kind with a missing foot that makes the whole thing wobble whenever you lean foreword. The ropes around his wrists felt wet and warm, as opposed to the pasty-pale cold sweat that had broken out on his forehead. His blood stood still in his veins, and he knew at that moment that he’d been captured.
“Du hast kein Glück mehr,” the Jerry smiled as he snatched Mudd’s tags from his neck; their letters and ribbings accented with mud and a gun-metal colored tarnish. Lifting his officer’s cap, the kraut’s monocle reflected light straight into the young private’s eyes. “Grahm Percy Mudd.” The captain managed before turning to what looked like a man in a lab-coat with rubber gloves that reached well past his elbows. “Er ist kein Unteroffzier. Dieser Junge könnte gar nichts erzählen, auch wenn er den ganzen Tag gefoltert wird. Mudd ist nutzlos,” the German said, the jagged scar under his eye smiling almost as broadly as the officer himself. “Er ist wegzuwerfen. Macht was ihr wollt mit ihm.”
The private didn’t have to understand German to know what they were saying, especially not when the captain walked off and the doctor wheeled some large machine down a grated ramp and began flipping switches. It was the archetypal torture scene. The doctor had white hair with a pair of black-mirrored goggles over his eyes, and a pale green lab-coat. An electric light struggled to stay lit as it faintly swung back and forth while the doctor injected some sort of fluid into the private’s arm. In the last few seconds of consciousness he had left, he remembered the arsenic pills he was given should he be captured that he kept sealed in his boot. Little did he know, that they had no intention of interrogating him.
The private woke up in Concordia. His belongings were intact, and his backpack still strapped to his combat harness. Boots were tied, belt as well. The only thing that remained, was to get down from the tree he was hanging in, some 40-50 feet above the ground. It didn’t look like the Black Forest or Ardennes at all. No snow was on the ground. It was warm for God’s sake. The only thing he didn’t have was his rifle and grenades.