Post by ∬: Erhard Strumfelder on Feb 22, 2009 19:27:25 GMT
Country: Nazi Germany
Current Time: 10:45
Weather Conditions: Bright, but cold and below freezing.
The city of Berlin was a wonderful place at this time of year. Although cold, the frost and snow turned dark grey concrete blocks into shimmering mirrors of light. It was just such a pity that the underground Gestapo cells allowed none of it in to their doomed inmates. Strumfelder found the prison an amazing place, a work of architectal art, just as the streets were above. But these were a rabbit warren on three separate levels, with different part of the prison more intimidating than the others. Some parts granted limited luxuries such as toilets and showers. Others were nothing more than bare rooms were inmates were give stave rations for months, with no hygiene and only the comfort of a bloodstained uniform. They were told that if they revealed information, their life might improve, but inmates knew their information was the only thing which kept them alive. Once they had given it all, they were shot.
Strumfelder moved up from the basement’s first floor and into the centre of the busy Gestapo station. He wasn’t to stay here for long, a day at most. His job was to execute a man captured by a Hitler Youth unit, but that would only take two or three minutes with a firing squad. Strumfelder had a boring day ahead so decided to make it slightly more painful for this British bastard. A man who probably had never known true pain was going to receive a morning long lesson, followed by death. It would good thing to pass the time.
He moved through several busy corridors and towards the rear of the building. There he exited into a small parking area, full of jeeps and large trucks, bordered on three sides by a four metre high fence topped with razor wire. One checkpoint allowed vehicles to move in and out, and was guard by a squad of SS storm troopers. A convoy of vehicles moved up to it from the outside. A converted Opal Blitz truck sandwiched between two motor bikes. The barrier rose and the vehicles moved in, before parking in an empty part of the compound. Strumfelder moved over to it, and greeted his Sergeant as he stepped from the cab of the truck. Karl Jonsen grinned. “Sechs britische Gefangene, Herr Unterärtzlichführer, wie Sie verlangten. Wer ist die luckly fünf?” Strumfelder smiled at the comment.
The four men on the bike dismounted and flung open the floors on the back of the truck. It had ironically been an ambulance before a new occupation was found for it. Six men were dragged out, their hands handcuffed in front of them, their ankles shackled. However, they did seem to be being typically British, and were in a jolly mood. The four soldiers lined them up in a row and Strumfelder stepped forward. He pointed to the first man. “One.” he spoke. He moved to the second. “Two.” Then he pointed to the third. The man caught on and spoke his number. Strumfelder carried on until all were numbered. He then reached inside his jacket and removed a small die. He grinned and rolled it along the ground. Everybody watched. It finally stopped, with two facing upwards.
Strumfelder nodded to the guard who dragged the second man in the line away from the others. By now, all smiles had vanished. The other five men were herded over to a high wall which was part of the exterior fence, and was missing large chunks of its original plaster. They were lined up, and Strumfelder looked over to Jonsen. “Mag ich?” Jonsen handed over his MP40. Strumfelder checked the magazine and then drew back the cocking handle with a satisfying clunk of metal. He then cut down the five men with a short three second burst of fire. One of the soldiers put a bullet a bullet in each of the bodies’ heads with his pistol, while Strumfelder turned to the survivor. “I am Doctor Strumfelder. You are about to feel extreme pain, and you will wish that the die had picked death for you.”
Translations:
“Sechs britische Gefangene, Herr Unterärtzlichführer, wie Sie verlangten. Wer ist die luckly fünf?”
~ Six British prisoners, Herr Unterärtzlichführer, as you requested. Who will be the lucky five?
“Mag ich?”
~ May I?
Current Time: 10:45
Weather Conditions: Bright, but cold and below freezing.
The city of Berlin was a wonderful place at this time of year. Although cold, the frost and snow turned dark grey concrete blocks into shimmering mirrors of light. It was just such a pity that the underground Gestapo cells allowed none of it in to their doomed inmates. Strumfelder found the prison an amazing place, a work of architectal art, just as the streets were above. But these were a rabbit warren on three separate levels, with different part of the prison more intimidating than the others. Some parts granted limited luxuries such as toilets and showers. Others were nothing more than bare rooms were inmates were give stave rations for months, with no hygiene and only the comfort of a bloodstained uniform. They were told that if they revealed information, their life might improve, but inmates knew their information was the only thing which kept them alive. Once they had given it all, they were shot.
Strumfelder moved up from the basement’s first floor and into the centre of the busy Gestapo station. He wasn’t to stay here for long, a day at most. His job was to execute a man captured by a Hitler Youth unit, but that would only take two or three minutes with a firing squad. Strumfelder had a boring day ahead so decided to make it slightly more painful for this British bastard. A man who probably had never known true pain was going to receive a morning long lesson, followed by death. It would good thing to pass the time.
He moved through several busy corridors and towards the rear of the building. There he exited into a small parking area, full of jeeps and large trucks, bordered on three sides by a four metre high fence topped with razor wire. One checkpoint allowed vehicles to move in and out, and was guard by a squad of SS storm troopers. A convoy of vehicles moved up to it from the outside. A converted Opal Blitz truck sandwiched between two motor bikes. The barrier rose and the vehicles moved in, before parking in an empty part of the compound. Strumfelder moved over to it, and greeted his Sergeant as he stepped from the cab of the truck. Karl Jonsen grinned. “Sechs britische Gefangene, Herr Unterärtzlichführer, wie Sie verlangten. Wer ist die luckly fünf?” Strumfelder smiled at the comment.
The four men on the bike dismounted and flung open the floors on the back of the truck. It had ironically been an ambulance before a new occupation was found for it. Six men were dragged out, their hands handcuffed in front of them, their ankles shackled. However, they did seem to be being typically British, and were in a jolly mood. The four soldiers lined them up in a row and Strumfelder stepped forward. He pointed to the first man. “One.” he spoke. He moved to the second. “Two.” Then he pointed to the third. The man caught on and spoke his number. Strumfelder carried on until all were numbered. He then reached inside his jacket and removed a small die. He grinned and rolled it along the ground. Everybody watched. It finally stopped, with two facing upwards.
Strumfelder nodded to the guard who dragged the second man in the line away from the others. By now, all smiles had vanished. The other five men were herded over to a high wall which was part of the exterior fence, and was missing large chunks of its original plaster. They were lined up, and Strumfelder looked over to Jonsen. “Mag ich?” Jonsen handed over his MP40. Strumfelder checked the magazine and then drew back the cocking handle with a satisfying clunk of metal. He then cut down the five men with a short three second burst of fire. One of the soldiers put a bullet a bullet in each of the bodies’ heads with his pistol, while Strumfelder turned to the survivor. “I am Doctor Strumfelder. You are about to feel extreme pain, and you will wish that the die had picked death for you.”
Translations:
“Sechs britische Gefangene, Herr Unterärtzlichführer, wie Sie verlangten. Wer ist die luckly fünf?”
~ Six British prisoners, Herr Unterärtzlichführer, as you requested. Who will be the lucky five?
“Mag ich?”
~ May I?
