The Story of the Lone Sentry

 Hello. My name is Michael Francis Ellis, but my friends call me "Elsie." I am a British soldier and a combat veteran who fought in many British Wars. I have served in the British Special Air Service (SAS), and even the Parachute Regiment. I have been trained in feats of sniping, unarmed/hand-to-hand combat, knife fighting, and basic gunfiring. But this is when I was first a recruit who, out of almost none, made into into the SAS. I remember bayoneting a young Argentine soldier through the stomach, and crying after. I was fighting in the Falklands then, just my mates and I......

I felt the wind cold on my back and my neck, a cool breeze just drifting away, blowing from across the seas. Rifle and machine-gun fire ripped through the air, causing numerous British casualties but not serious damage to the soldiers' morale or the boats we were in. My family is half-Jewish, my maternal grandparents coming from the Ukraine and Poland to the United Kingdom to escape the Russian Empire, while my father was a native Englishman of Irish, Scottish, and German descent. I kissed my necklace, the one that my girlfriend Maggie Lewis gave to me. I was the squad machine-gunner at the time, carrying my own weapons- an M1919 Browning machine-gun I bought at an auction, nine or ten German stick grenades my father captured from Waffen-SS soldiers in the Second World War, and a HK P7 pistol that I specially modified and chambered to shoot .44 Magnum, .45 ACP, and .50 BMG rounds, huge-caliber rounds that could blow a man's head off clean with one shot. I used .45 ACP, the round that goes in a Tommy Gun or Colt .45 pistol, for this mission, since it was toughest in the water, while my huge Browning shot .30-06 Springfield rounds that could mow the enemy down. I was thinking about how I would fight when an Argentine shell hit our ship and I flew out. I was smoking a cigarette at the time, and I said "Holy shit. Blast it- I've ruined me perfectly nice fag." I came from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, a rough neighborhood in northern England with many Irish immigrants, and I said "Let's show these big-shot East London boys how it's done!". I cocked my machine-gun and let loose on the enemy. I sprayed the hilltop rounds, killing or seriously wounding many Argentine soldiers, the recoil slightly juddering against my shoulder. Damn, that was a good gun. My commander, Lt. Col. Daniel Walker, said "Ellis- spray those hills up there. That damned sniper's kissin' our men goodnight!" I ran over to the hills, pretty hard with a gun like the Browning, and let fly. The sniper got shot right in the arm, making him drop his sniper rifle off the cliff. I picked up a dead British soldier's rifle, an SA80 assault rifle, which could fire up to 800 rounds per minute, twice what my Browning could fire, just with less powerful ammunition. I fixed a bayonet, a rare occasion in 1980's British colonial wars. I then charged at the sniper, and in the mist of the gunfire, saw it was a 14-year-old boy, just about eight years younger than me. I shouldered my rifle and looked back, like "Damn." As I turned back, I saw the young sniper had his sidearm aimed, cocked, and ready at my head. I ducked hard, but rolled back down the cliff over rocks. Boy, did it hurt. I heard the sniper coming, so I hid below an earthen mound just under the cliff. I could see through a peephole, and saw that the young soldier holstered his weapon, a semi-automatic pistol. I made sure my bayonet was on tight, and I screamed "Got 'em, lads!" He drew his pistol and fired nine shots at me, but ran out of ammo. I charged and thrust my bayonet through his belly. I saw his stomach wound, and though "Shit- I can't believe I just did that." I quickly pulled my bayonet out, and the young militia soldier slumped to the ground. Artillery shells were exploding, men tangled in webbing and parachutes and caught in uncut barbed wire, charging forward directly into Argentine machine-gun fire. Through this fiery hell of pain and torture, I screamed "MEDIC!!!!!" Sergeant Dawson, the squad medic, was a professional, as only highly trained medical officers could work in the SAS. Dawson was working as hard as he could for five straight minutes on the poor soldier while I stared blankly at the soldier. He finally stopped breathing. I threw Dawson aside and looked at him. I tried CPR, but Dawson said "I tried everything." I tackled Dawson, and I said "That's all you can do?!?!!" Shepherd and Fletcher, two other of our squad's soldiers, came up with rifles pointed at said "Ellis-Dawson...that's enough of this rubbish!" I let go of Dawson, and I literally, even though I was a grown man, seriously wanted to cry. Finally, a tear streamed down my cheek, and I got down on my knees as Shepherd and Fletcher left. Dawson looked back, took off his rosary, and placed it on the chest of the dead enemy soldier. I cried and cried, and was begging the dead body for forgiveness, asking it for just one last word. But it said nothing. I saw his dog tag, and I picked it up out of the ground. It said "Private First Class Ramon Blanco Dominguez, 17th Argentine Rifle Brigade, Date of Birth: 9/24/1968." I then shed one last tear before wiping my face with a my handkerchief. I took the body in my arms, threw down my rifle, and shed my heavy equipment, wearing only my uniform with nothing else. I took off my shirt, since it the heat was excruciating. I wrapped my shirt around my waist like a sash. I took my entrenching shovel and carried the body up the soft, woven fields, feeling like cotton on my feet. I finally took the body all the way up the hill at twilight. I cut down a tree and built a coffin, and by the time I was done, the British had moved into the forest nine miles ahead of me. I spent all night digging, and just before the dawn, a beautiful time when the moon is already down and the sun is coming up. I finally placed the body in the coffin and rested it at the bottom of my ditch. I threw my rosary, his dog tags, and his picture of his family in with him. I finally covered it up, and took the spare wood to build a cross. I took some dirt and made paint, then taking a large twig and painting his name, roughly, on the cross. I planted the cross down and put my uniform back on. I picked up my gear, weapons, and equipment, and saluted the grave as the sun just arrived. I took the soldier's rifle and helmet. Planted the muzzle into the ground, and rested his helmet on top. I then carried on down the hill, and trekked all the way back. As I finally saw my men, Dawson shouted "Colonel Walker- that's Elsie!" Men greeted me, and Walker said "Good work, Ellis. With fighting like that we could win this war within months. We then continued on, and the enemy were now counter-attacking. We entrenched ourselves in, and Shepherd and Fletcher, as well as Dawson, Walker, and Parker were with us. Just as we finished loading up our weaponry, the enemy finally counter-attacked us. Walker, with his roaring voice and ferocious sense of courage, bravery, and leadership, said "FFIIIRRREEE!!!!! Machine-guns, heavy and light artillery, assault rifle, bolt-action sniper weapons, and grenades opened fire and mowed the enemy down in their reckless charges. Right then Walker was shot square through the forehead by an enemy sniper. Parker, Shepherd, and Fletcher, furious as ever, opened fire with heavy machine-guns and inflicted heavy devastating losses on the soldiers. Shepherd went out under heavy fire with a grenade, but was shot and it exploded in his hand, killing him. We called for Dawson, but found him shot through the chest. Finally Fletcher went out, but was shot in the upper thigh, passing through his groin. I called for Shepherd, and he and I went out with a stretcher. We carried Fletcher back while the assistant surgeon, Dr. Kleiber, operated on him. We came back and found a bullet in my arm. Finally the enemy was at close-quarters, and I saw the most fearful sight. Right then, Shepherd was gunned  down and killed with a combination of flamethrower and submachine gun fire, bursting into flames. I then saw the bloodiest and most spine-tingling, unflinching fighting in my whole life. Savage close-quarters fighting with crude weapons like bayonets, axes, spiked clubs, knives, revolvers, and even hammers made me shiver. As I though, standing up against fire, a soldier came at me from behind and slashed at my belly with his knife, and hitting me with a spiked club on the legs, crippling me permanently. As he closed in for the kill, a soldier named Hemingway shot him three times in the chest with his rifle. He helped me up, but my legs were weak. He put me on a stretcher, and I blacked out into shock and a coma for a whole week. Hemingway and the other soldiers though that I was dead. But a week later I slowly woke up in a hospital bed in Germany. The nurse said "Hello. Soldier. Or should I say, hero".........

 I received the Victoria Cross, Britain's highest military award and decoration, two weeks later. I was haled as a national hero, but, unknown to the rest of Britain, I visited the hill were I buried the young Argentine soldier, Ramon Dominguez, and planted both the Argentine flag and the Union Jack. I then laid down my medal there, and did a final salute. I now have Cameron Ellis, who was born in Germany several years after. I am in a wheelchair now because of my close-quarters encounter with a veteran enemy soldier. Ellis and I later immigrated back to the U.K., where I live in a small cottage in Cheddar, England, picking strawberries and smelling the cool, fresh air and wet dew every bright morning. I still remember the fellows who died alongside me, and, even decades after, I still remember the proud boy soldier Ramon Dominguez. Ellis is now a lieutenant in the 79th British Infantry Regiment, comprised of almost entirely Irish and Scots immigrants under British officers. It also known as the Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders, or, as I call it- Cammy-Scots. I later named the hill Ramon Hill, after the proud soldier who felt more like a friend than an enemy, and overlooking the graves of over 750 combined British and Argentine soldiers who were killed or mortally wounded in combat, defending their native country at Ramon Hill. It was a story- of a flying eagle who flies into blazing glory as he defends his friends, a hero and brave man- the story of a lone sentry. 

Horace Kane Vs. Polish Special Forces

 Horace Kane Vs. Polish Special Forces is the final episode of Deadliest Warrior.

 Horace Kane= Born Harry Campbell-Cline, this highly trained British operative and former British Army officer formed a specialized group of elite mercenaries who led daring special missions and raids of assassination, striking fear into the hearts of the Russian Spetsnaz.

VS.

 Polish Special Forces= Poland's elite rifleman who spearheaded many offensives and are still known for their reckless charges, charging with bayonets directly into the machine-gun fire of the Taliban. These aggressive tactics make Poland a major European power today.

 Weapons:

 Horace Kane=
 Long-Range: Barrett .50 (High-Caliber Anti-Materiel Rifle)
 Mid-Range: Mini-Uzi (Submachine Gun)
 Short-Range: Walter PPK (Semi-Automatic Pistol)
 Blade Weapons: Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife
 Machine Guns: Browning M2 .50 (High-Caliber Heavy Machine Gun)
 Explosive Weapons: Model 24 Grenade (Stick Grenade)


 Polish Special Forces=
 Long-Range: Walther WA2000 (High-Caliber Anti-Personnel Rifle)
 Mid-Range: Kbs wz. 1996 Beryl (Assault Rifle/Mounted Carbine)/ HK MP5 (Submachine-Gun)
 Short-Range: Heckler and Koch USP (Semi-Automatic Pistol)
 Blade Weapons: WA2000 (Fighting/Combat Boot Knife)
 Machine Guns: PKP Pecheneg (Portable Light Machine Gun)
 Explosive Weapons: RPG-76 Komar (Anti-Tank/Rocket Launcher)

 Battle:

The battle starts out when Horace Kane is leading his mercenaries through a devastated city square. Meanwhile, PSP operatives see Kane himself. They move both a sniper and a machine-gun team forward. The sniper team picks off one of the mercenaries with his WA2000, and the MG team opens fire. A mercenary sniper sets up his Dragunov sniper rifle and counter-shoots the PSP sniper. The MG then opens fire, killing the mercenary counter-sniper. Kane then orders his men forward as the PSP members take up defensive positions. A mercenary throws two stick grenades, killing a PSP, but is shot with an operative's Beryl rifle. The .50 caliber machine-gun opens fire on the PSP operatives, but an operative blows it up with a rocket launcher, and is shot with a Mini-UZI. Kane and his man are now the only mercenaries, and the PSP leader and two riflemen are left as operatives. Suddenly, Kane hears the PSP leader coming with his riflemen. Kane's rifleman shoots the machine-gunner, and then shoots the PSP rifleman before being shot with a USP by the PSP leader. Kane then jumps out with a knife, and a fistfight occurs. Both Kane and the PSP leader engage in a nasty CQB, but Kane finds his pistol and opens fire, as the PSP leader responds by opening fire with his pistol. The PSP leader apparently shoots Kane with a bullet. He goes to find Kane's body, and yells a victory cry. However, Kane, faking his death, jumps up with a knife and stabs the PSP leader in the neck with his knife as blood spurts out. Kane then washes his knife, adjusts his scarf and cleans himself. He then lights a cigarette and bows in respect saying: "Sorry, I don't have enough time", and walks away smiling.

Winner: Horace Kane

Are English People Actually German?

 A debate has been held for many years if most English people (English-English) are actually German. English is a Germanic language, and the Anglo-Saxons and Jutes were from northern parts of Germany like Schleswig-Holstein in Denmark. There were Viking-Norse settlers in northern England, and the Normans who conquered the British (English) were in fact descended from Germanic-stock Vikings who settled in Normandy and mixed with the native French peoples. Vikings originally came from Poland into Scandinavia. So the early stages of English history was Polish conquering Scandinavians, Vikings conquering French, French conquering Germans, and Germans conquering English people. But what about the original Celts? But, you see, the Celts from the "truly Celtic" parts of the United Kingdom (e.g. Northern Ireland, Scotland, or Wales), were Britons, descended either from Austrian or Swiss Celts, another Germanic people, or the fishing tribes from Spain who conquered Ireland. So the Spanish defeated the Irish and Scottish. The Bretons in the King Arthur Legends were from Wales, different the Irish or Scottish Celts (Gaels, Picts, Hebrideans, Dalriadans, etc.), and came as native French people- from Brittany. It is confusing as the Brittany people conquered Wales, yet the Welsh Britons/Celts conquered Brittany. The native French people, however, not Brittany people or Normans or Vikings, were still Germanic, as were the Spanish: Once France was only inhabited by- you said it- Italians, such as the names Leon, etc. These Italians were conquered by literally German people, a French-Germanic tribe called the Franks, originally from Asia and descended from the Huns, a marauding Asian tribe who conquered Germany and the Saxons, Bavarians, and Prussians. So, in fact, English people can be Celtic, Pictish, Viking, Norman, Frankish, French, Polish, Gaelic, or even Asian (Huns.) It is confusing, but it is the truth.

Halbritter's Journal

Lander's Journal, the Story of  Siegfried Halbritter, a WWII German sniper and his courage on the Front Line. 

In 2012, archaeologists were excavating the scene of a brutal WWII battle in Poland. They found the blood-stained war journal of Feldwebel Siegfried Halbritter, a German sergeant in the Blitzgewehrs (meaning "lightning rifles"), a specialized unit of the Wehrmacht during the Second World War. The unit specialized in desert and jungle warfare, and Lander was a silent but deadly soldier, trained to be as stealthy and lethal as a panther. Together, with ruthless sniper and fanatical Nazi Feldwebel Kurt Lander, a handsome, charming, and extremely polite, yet cold-blooded Bavarian woodsman, Halbritter, a softened but fair-fighting and battle-hardened WWI veteran, will not only fight the combined might of the Allies, but also the creeping evil of the brutal Waffen-SS shock troops and their merciless officers. Fully grown men still shudder and cower in fear when they picture a sinister figure, Lander, sitting in his hideout near the German trench in Nazi uniform with a scoped bolt-action rifle, picking off individuals while looking like a terror with his gas/welding mask over his face, and Halbritter with a Luger pistol with his signature chestnut brown mustache and auburn hair. This is his story.

July 1, 1942 in El Alamein, Egypt, North Africa=

Hello. My name is Siegfried Halbritter. Feldwebel Siegfried Halbritter. I am writing this journal to describe my adventures in fighting on the German side. I am a battle-hardened, highly decorated, and well-disciplined WW1 veteran. I can still picture the onslaught, the stalemate, and the deadlock of those dirty, muddy trenches. Good German and British soldiers being thrown away in pointless counter-offensives, charging forward with bayonets attached to rifles, ready for a brutal melee. But this war is even dirtier, especially with- the Waffen-SS. The SS are stuck-up, snooty, and ruthless officers and their elite shock troops, originally formed to be Hitler's elite bodyguard, but grew to over 10,000. This morning, there was news of an SS shooting of over 90 French men, women, and children in Paris, including harmless, unarmed civilians and badly wounded French Resistance members. It is disgusting, and I have developed actually a hate for Hitler and the SS. Then there is the Gestapo, Nazi thugs and battle police, even more disgusting in behavior. They run the extermination camps in Austria, Germany, Poland, and France, mass-murdering and killing Jews, homosexuals, Gypsies, and other people deemed "unfit" by our disgusting little bitch of a leader, Adolf Hitler. He believes that Germans are the master-race, superior to everyone else. Those who are truly "Aryan" (blonde-haired, blue-eyed and Teutonic), are praised by Hitler, like my "friend" Kurt. Kurt Lander is a ruthless SS sniper now serving in the Afrika Korps. He can hit a deck of cards nine times out of ten at 200 yards with his deadly and extremely accurate weapon, a scoped bolt-action rifle, and so his nickname is "Crackshot." He is extremely polite, handsome, charming, and womanizing, a truly Aryan man with bleach-white pale skin, strawberry blonde hair, and watery, flowing blue eyes, but brutal, cold-blooded, and merciless. We met in Berlin, but while I am a Bavarian secretly coming from an Austrian Jewish family, Lander was born in Strasbourg, Alsace-Lorraine in France, now part of Nazi Germany. He is pure-blooded, German man coming from a wealthy and filthy rich Aryan family with roots in Prussia and Poland. Whenever Lander gets a confirmed sniper kill, with his razor-sharp combat knife, named "Blood-Drinker", he carves a straight line onto the butt of his rifle. His rifle is named "Johanna" after his amazingly sweet and pretty wife, a true Danish beauty. Lander's father was a highly decorated WW1 veteran who received the Iron Cross, but was killed at Vimy Ridge. He was in my stormtrooper unit. 

Nominees for Highland Clans

 The Scottish Highlands clans have always been the stuff of legend. Dashing and daring, romanticized, Victorian portraits of brave men who came from Gaelic, Celtic, and/or Norse origins, wearing a beautiful, patterned kilt with a handsome face and a long, sharp sword, ready to strike English soldiers who cower in fear, literally running into musket fire. Some are originated Pictish-Scottish clans like MacDonald, some are originally Irish clans from Dal Riada like MacLachlan or Matheson, and some of Norse or Viking origin like Gunn or MacLeod. The rose-red, blushy cheeks, fiery red hair, sparkling, watery blue eyes, and feathered hats make these men look sweet and handsome, but in fact waged awful, bloody civil wars against each other in territories. Using romanticized, Victorian-era paintings by famed 19th-century Scottish painter and artist, R.R. McIan, we will determine these brave men and women, how they fought, and how they became the beautiful clans in popular culture today.


 Most Dashing Clan Nominee: MacBain
 
 Above: A very handsome but dashing MacBain warrior charging into action against English troops, striking fear and terror in the enemy's heart as he prepares to slice them with his deadly sword.

Most Daring Clan Nominee: MacMillan

 Above: The shirtless MacMillan warrior charges at English soldiers with a war face on, preparing to send this Englishmen's tiny little head into orbit and out of Scotland.


 Most Poetic Clan Nominee: MacDonald of Glencoe 
 
 Above: This handsome yet philosophical, sophisticated, and poetic MacDonald man slumps near a large rock engraved in Scots Gaelic, thinking about what the world seems like, and how it never ends.

 Most Warlike Clan Nominee: MacLachlan 
 
 Above: This member of an originally Irish clan descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages, but yet extremely in Scottish garb, this MacLachlan warrior wants to fight the English and nothing else.

 Most Handsome Clan Nominee: MacKinnon 
 
 Above: Yet another Scottish warrior descended from Irish settlers, this MacKinnon, most likely from the Hebrides Islands, seems to look on in the valley, gazing at the sunset.

 Most Womanizing Clan Nominee: Forbes
 
 Above: This Lowland Scottish but Highland-looking warrior thinks of the English as his ancestors but yet now his enemies, as women sigh and look on as he walks through the town.

 Most Fierce: Tie (MacKenzie and MacFarlane)

Above: A Mackenzie warrior scrambles for his weapons as an English skull flies by, hoping to attack.

 Above: An experienced, wise, yet extremely fierce MacFarlane warrior waits to raid an English settlement.

Deadliest Warrior Final Episode

 The Deadliest Warrior Final Episode pits two of history's most legendary fictional warriors against each other in a fight to the death- no rules, no mercy-just blood-to find out-who is the DEADLIEST WARRIOR!

 Darkie's Mob= The fictional suicide squad from Battle Picture Weekly, led by battle-hardened, badass, and tough-as nails British WW1 veteran Captain Joseph "Joe" Darkie, who leads a small unit of regular misfits and deserters to brutal, ruthless, bloodthirsty raiders who go in a personal war against Axis Japanese forces in southeast Asia in the Second World War.

VS. 

 White Anglo-Saxon Protestant (WASP) Squad= The fictional squad, formed by colonists in the 17th century. It is made up of strong, muscular men from New England who stretch themselves to the perfection of a soldier, and they make up the most highly trained operatives and skilled assassins who come from strictly Protestant or Roman Catholic prominently wealthy families of Irish and British descent. 

 Darkie's Mob Team: Pat Mills (Writer of Darkie's Mob) Teddy Whitaker (Former WWII Commando)

 Darkie's Mob Weapons:

 Rapid-Fire Weapons= Bren (Light Machine Gun)

 Long-Range Weapons= Scoped MK.III Ross (Bolt-Action Sniper Rifle)

 Mid-Range Weapons= Thompson M1928 (Submachine Gun)

 Short-Range Weapons= Webley-Fosbery .455 (Revolver)

 Blade Weapons= Fairbairn-Sykes (Fighting Knife)

 Explosive Weapons= Sticky Bomb (Improvised Explosive)

 Special Weapons= Winchester Model 1897 Trenchgun (Trench Shotgun)

 WASP Squad Team: Alexander McCloskey (Former WASP Squad Leader) Jack Lee (U.S. Army Ranger)

 WASP Squad Weapons:

 Rapid-Fire Weapons= M60 (General-Purpose Machine Gun)

 Long-Range Weapons= .50 Caliber Barrett M82 (Sniper Rifle)

 Mid-Range Weapons= Panther M16 (Assault Rifle/Carbine)

 Short-Range Weapons= Colt M1911A1 (Semi-Automatic Pistol)

 Blade Weapons= KA-BAR (Fighting Knife) 

 Explosives Weapons= C4 (Explosive)

 Special Weapons= Franchi SPAS-12 (Combat Shotgun)

 A squad of 7 Darkie's Mob are patrolling a small forest near the Thai-Burmese border in southeast Asia when a WASP operative spots them. He alerts the WASP leader, who calls up a sniper. The sniper then sets up his anti-materiel rifle on the roof of a hut and shoots two mobsters dead, which alerts Joe Darkie. A mobster armed with a scoped Ross rifle then counter-shoots the WASP sniper, who falls dead. As Darkie's mob takes up positions, a WASP operative shoots his assault rifle into the air, but is shot by a mobster, and Darkie's Mob and the WASP squad split up, with one soldier guarding each leader. The mobsters take up positions in a small hut, and a WASP operative armed with a shotgun and a pistol opens the door and throws a grenade inside, killing one and wounding two. The operative shoots a wounded mobster dead, and then pulls out his pistol, as well as the other wounded mobster, but the operative shoots the wounded mobster, who, holding a primed grenade, explodes, killing both him and the operative. Only Darkie himself and his soldier remain, and they give chase to the WASP leader and his three soldiers, who all fire at Darkie and his mobster. The mobster shoots an operative dead, but is gunned down by the operatives. Darkie then fires at the two remaining operatives with his pistol, killing both of them, and Darkie gives chase to the WASP leader.  The WASP leader then takes up a position in a large building, and when Darkie enters, the two fire at each other with their pistols. Once the two run out of ammo, Darkie tackles the WASP leader and the two engage in a brutal and lengthy fist fight, with Darkie gaining the upper hand. However, the WASP leader pulls out his knife and stabs Darkie, who falls down the stairs.

Winner and the Deadliest Warrior: WASP Squad

Alexander Bettencourt

 Doctor Alexander Theodore Bettencourt was a British soldier, explorer, adventurer, politician, and statesman. He has received the Victoria Cross two times, one during his military service, and one posthumously. He was killed in action in early October 2011 near the outskirts of Kandahar, Afghanistan. He is known as a combat veteran of the special forces, and ranks as the most highly trained operative in human history. He was an elite assassin trained to kill an enemy with any threatening object ranging from a pen to a paper towel. He reached the highest physical and mental challenges in the British military.

 He was born on September 24, 1972 in Manchester, Lancashire, England, in the United Kingdom, to two wealthy British politicians Jacques Guillaume and Veronica (nee MacLaren.) He was raised in a French-speaking family with origins in Strasbourg, Alsace-Lorraine, France, at the time part of the German Empire. His paternal great-great-grandfather was a French general and at one time, infamous Marshal of France. His maternal grandfather, Alexander Jonathan MacLaren, was a British officer in the British Royal Marines. He is of French, German, Scottish, and Irish descent. He was raised a devout Roman Catholic, although he actually usually refused to show it, and changed to Anglicanism. His family descends from Clan MacLaren.

 Bettencourt has fiery red hair, an auburn (reddish-brown) mustache, pale, light skin, and freckles. His main weapons of choice are an L96 bolt-action sniper rifle, as well as a Browning HP pistol. He also sometimes uses an HK MP5 submachine gun. He was a veteran of the British Royal Marines, Special Air Service, and the Special Reconnaissance, as well as all of the special operations branches and special forces groups in the British military. He was a special agent for the MI6 for a while, and infiltrated a Russian nuclear program. He was a former hand-to-hand combat instructor in the British Army. He proved to be an excellent marksman, as well as an expert knife thrower with quick wits and a deadpan sense of humor. He is a skilled drummer and an amazing dancer. Despite his sometimes rather bookwormish appearance, he is a skilled gunfighter with an M1911 pistol. Throughout the series franchise The Archduke of Prussia, he wears different clothes matched with different weapons throughout the series, including, but are not limited to:

 1. White, clean lab coat and khaki pants with glasses and a tucked-in red shit, with a nickel plated double-barreled shotgun, and a Webley Revolver as a sidearm in a brown, leather holster slung from his right hip.

 2. A standard issue Ghillie suit with a white and black mask and an L96 or M21 sniper rifle as a main weapon, and a SIG Sauer P226 pistol as a sidearm in a holster, faced forwards, on his left hip.

 3. An SAS counter-terrorism raider outfit with a gas respirator and a black and purple jumpsuit with a black vest and bullet-proof jacket, armed with an HK MP5 and a Browning HP pistol as his weapons.

 4. A plain white shirt with a black turtleneck and tight, blue jeans with a black belt, and running shoes, and a scoped M1903 Springfield rifle as a main weapon and an HK USP semi-automatic pistol as a sidearm.

 5. A WW1-era British khaki uniform with puttee rolls and a Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifle with a bayonet, as well as an M1 Garand with a bayonet, and an M1911 pistol and a Mark I trench knife as a sidearm weapon.

 6. A DPM Smock Windproof and trousers, as well as an SA80 bullpup assault rifle, as well as an HK UMP and/or an HK G36, with an HK45 pistol as a sidearm.

 He received the Victoria Cross and many other military decorations and awards. He was killed in action while serving with a group of British Army riflemen while securing defensive position in an assault on Taliban positions, near the outskirts of the city of Kandahar, Afghanistan. His death is described by fellow Victoria Cross recipient and automatic rifleman Francis Doherty:

 "Personally, I literally thought that Doctor Alexander Bettencourt was a god. I was born in Ireland, and raised a devout Roman Catholic in a British family with Irish Catholic descent from Derry. Bettencourt was fluent in his native English, as well as his family's French, and German, Latin, Gaelic, Swahili, Mandarin, Japanese, Korean, Italian, Spanish, Russian, Czech, Afrikaans, Dutch, Maori, and even Comanche. I am an ordinary automatic rifleman. I took my machine-gun out there and blasted the hell out of the Taliban. But they just kept on coming towards us. I threw down my machine-gun and went for a rifle. In took my rifle, mounted a bayonet on it, and charged forward with Bettencourt. We then put some burst fire on a machine-gun nest, and I gave a grenade to Bettencourt. He is just an army medic, but hell, can he fight! He threw that grenade probably about 80 feet, and it exploded right in front of the Taliban machine-gunner. He dropped dead, but a man came out with a suspicious-looking fuel tank on his back, and he was armed with a flamethrower. He set fire to the grass, and we took cover in the field. Bettencourt ran for his stretcher, and we saw our wounded, burning lieutenant colonel, Lt. Col. Winchester, on the ground in flames. I gave Bettencourt some cover fire, and shot at the fuel tank, exploding the man holding it. I then finally went for the stretcher and Bettencourt and I carried it back to a small, dug-out style trench. Bettencourt got shot, but kept on going. We took him back, and nursed him back to health. I then saw Bettencourt spitting up blood, and he dropped dead. I was devastated that my best friend that I had known since I was a young boy was just killed, but the Queen had blessed me with my gift and my machine-gun, and I had to carry on."