[b]Name:[/b] William Staice

[b]Gender:[/b] Male

[b]Nationality:[/b] British 

[b]Age:[/b] 19

[b]Physical Appearance:[/b] Staice is small and wiry, shorter and thinner than average. With his dark hair and olive complexion he might pass for Greek, though this is his first time outside Merseyside. He never quite seems to be shaved to military standard, and at the moment is sporting a bit of stubble. His khakis are also dirty and ill-maintained as well, and he seems to have misplaced his tin hat.

[b]Rank:[/b] Private

[b]Weapon and Ammunition:[/b] Lee-Enfield Mk III, 20 rounds .303 British, 2 Mills bombs, bayonet

[b]Brief Background:[/b] Will Staice hasn't done too much with his life. With a vanished mother and an alcoholic father, as a child he simply wandered the streets of Liverpool, getting into trouble and making the odd shilling through petty theft or graft. When the war broke out, it stirred something previously unknown in Will- not necessarily patriotism, but more indignity. He didn't care to see the people of his country pushed around. He signed up for the Army, reasoning that squaddies were at least supposed to get clothes and food, things that were getting hard to come by for an uneducated and unemployed lad. The Army promptly shipped him off to Crete, which Will reckoned a pretty good posting, at least until Jerries started falling out of the fucking skies and he got separated from his company in the confusion. A few hours of blindly wandering through olive groves dropped him into the welcoming arms of the irregular platoon, who needed every man who might hold a rifle.