Old Chapter, Fresh Blood. [Rated]

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

OOC: Only enter this thread if you know the back-story of Wolfram and the coined Munich Riots that took place a year ago. I’m looking to open up an old chapter for a while and I’m looking for people who know the story. If you wasn’t here when it happened, but have a vivid understanding, you may enter. Whilst we’re on the subject, this thread is rated R and there will be explicit language and content to follow.
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Lighting a Salem No.6 brand cigarette, the Sturmbannführer pinched the handmade ivory cigarette holder between his index finger and thumb whilst he inhaled the nicotine with a sense of relief. The street stank of faeces, death and engine fumes. A peculiar combination of smells that adhered only to that of vermin, not even the sewers smelt this bad and the Sturmbannführer could only drown his lack of moral beliefs and senses behind the shroud of his cigarette lightly parched between his wet pink lips, feeling as though his mind and soul were being infected by all that surrounded him. He didn’t want to be here any longer than he needed to be, but a deep desire, urge and addiction compelled him otherwise. He needed blood, he needed relief and he most certainly needed some sort of justice for those who had wronged him six months ago today.

Beside him stood Rottenführer Gerwulf, cradling a Maschinenpistole 40 between his arms as though the stainless steel and hunk of metal forged with the power of taking life were his baby, but Sturmbannführer Wolfram merely related, only he cradled a sixty-eight ton mistress known as Christ. Yes, the fowl humour didn’t go down well amongst the religious esteem of a few subordinates having called his lead tank Jesus Christ, but since when did mass murder or the abomination of life go down well with any of them to start with upon this vendetta? Hypocrites.

Flicking the ash from his cigarette, Sturmbannführer Wolfram turned his glazed eyes towards a set of double doors opening up beside him; out belched two middle aged men from within, falling into the street before the Sturmbannführer’s feet. Their gaunt looking eyes wandered aimlessly until they saw the Sturmbannführer’s fine polished jackboots amid their noses, followed by his lavished ironed trousers and neatly tucked tunic behind the black leather belt as they gazed upwards in awe to finally meet the Wolf’s eyes. “Herr Sturmbannführer, zwei Ungeziefer wie bestellten Sie”[/I] a young, tight jawed soldier reported as he stepped out from the doorway the two Jews were thrown out off, a look of distaste upon the soldier’s face as he stepped over their bodies to adjoin the other soldiers nearby.

The Sturmbannführer didn’t even acknowledge the soldier, his eyes fixed with a translucent stare towards the two Jews at his feet who were fearful of even moving. Without words Sturmbannführer Wolfram handed his cigarette towards Rottenführer Gerwulf beside him to hold, whilst he had a brief swig of cognac, the bottle clasped tightly within his other hand. Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform, Sturmbannführer Wolfram unclipped the holster to his Luger and yanked it out without much grace, angrily waving the bottle of cognac about as he yelled: “Stehen Sie auf! Stehen Sie auf!” towards the two Jews who fearfully staggered to their feet, backing away from the madman with their hands raised apologetically almost. “Gehen Sie! Geführt!” he bellowed out, ordering them to run away, skip or dance, however they ran he didn’t care. It didn’t take much persuasion though, as the two Jewish men began to run manically down the street, causing a couple of the soldiers to bafflingly watch as the intoxicated Sturmbannführer took another swig from his bottle calmly, raising his Luger pistol to outstretch with his arm and aim at the two bobbing bodies getting smaller down his iron sight as they ran.

Pulling the trigger twice, the muzzle flashed with a split second interval and one of the Jewish men hurdled forwards against the brick cobbles with a toe-cringing crack as the man’s head coherently thumped against the ground with a heavy thud. The Sturmbannführer slowly adjusted his target with a small movement from his arm and aimed for the now frantic second Jew who was looking over his shoulder as he ran; small plumes of smoke exhaling from his panting breath. Pulling the trigger once this time, the Jew staggered a few more steps and then tumbled forwards onto the ground. “Gerwulf, stellen Sie sicher, dass sie tot sind” he nonchalantly ordered to his right hand man and loyal subordinate, who done as he was told without question and with haste to his movement, but was stopped in his tracks by the Sturmbannführer’s gloved hand wrapping around his shoulder to tug back sharply. “Meine Zigarette Gerwulf, reichen Sie es hier” he said with a dawning realisation that Gerwulf was still holding it, snatching it from the man’s hand irritably to place upon his lips for a wholesome drag.

Turning away, Sturmbannführer Wolfram knocked back another mouthful of his cognac and soon became deep in thought once again. His son’s face charred by the molotov thrown through the shop window, the heretic urgency of Erhard Strumfelder to save young Wolfrick; doubts soon followed, perhaps the man used his son to protect himself? Angrily the Sturmbannführer gripped the bottleneck of his cognac, causing his gloved hand to go numb. Why wasn’t he there with his son? Why didn’t he choose to protect his young boy himself and send Erhard to face the partisans on that eventful day in Munich? Questions, all he could do was question himself and six months later upon the anniversary of his young boy’s death he was still questioning everything, the thoughts soon faded as Gerwulf opened up fire with his submachine-gun on the two Jews laying dormant against the cobbles. This wasn’t near enough blood for justice, Wolfram wanted more.


Translations:[/b]

Herr Sturmbannführer, zwei Ungeziefer wie bestellten Sie.
- Herr Sturmbannführer, two vermin as you ordered.

Stehen Sie auf! Stehen Sie auf!
- Get up! Get up!

Gehen Sie! Geführt!
- Go! Run!

Gerwulf, stellen Sie sicher, dass sie tot sind.
- Gerwrulf, make sure they’re dead.

Meine Zigarette Gerwulf, reichen Sie es hier.
- My cigarette Gerwulf, hand it here.

[William Luther]

Luther never liked going to the ghetto. The entire place was almost a tribute to the decadence of German society that the Jewish population caused. The filth that had caused the mighty Imperial Germany to lose the First World War, that had collapsed the nation in to near bankruptcy. They had just smiled, laughing at hard working Aryan families losing everything whilst large Jewish enterprises flourished, making money throughout the dire situations honest Germans had to deal with. Was the right solution to keep them in these impoverished areas of great cities? No, they should be wiped out before there influence could drag down the now growing Third Reich of Germany.

If these people - and the term was used loosely - had pulled their weight and supported Germany, then perhaps it wouldn’t be here in this war? If over the centuries, they had seen that loyalty ultimately lied with one’s country, then Germany would be the dominant world power, no doubt. Luther had no doubt that his father, a valiant soldier from the First World War would not have been killed in that conflict if all German had fought together in defeating the Triple Entente.

The ground did not seem worthy of Luther as his SS boots shone in the waning light. This was the same floor which every day Jews, Slavs and other undesirables walked. Now they were inside, afraid as they should have been. The Third SS Division owned these streets as soon as the curfew began, and woe betide any that felt they should break this law. Beatings were usual for a first offence. After that, it would be taken out on the family to make sure the message got across. For some reason, there was seldom a third time when these rules were broken.

Grey trousers had a millimetre perfect crease running from belt-loop to ankle, exactly what was to be expected from such a high-ranking NCO in the finest military in the world. Discipline and uniformity were important in the entire organisation, from the lowliest rifleman to the highest flag officer. It went as far that Luther did not consider one who had a subordinate iron there uniform a true soldier. The uniform was part of the culture, after all. Luther had two sets of this grey uniform, both for off the field, and both in perfect condition. When he was fighting, it was the state-of-the-art camouflage pattern of the SS combat tunics which he wore. Whilst they did not require as careful attention in ironing, and those boots did not require hours of polishing, it was still a beautiful uniform, and there was no doubt that when the entire division was assembled in it, the sight was indeed impressive.

At his belt sat a black leather holster, inside the Browning Hi-Power handgun he had wielded for years. Whilst the Belgium Browning factories were now German controlled, and it was issued amongst soldiers known as the P.640, this particular model had been manufactured in Canada and had served as a sidearm in the British army before being liberated by Luther in Africa. It was his only weapon tonight; he had not felt the need to carry his MP40.

Tucked in to the belt was his tunic, grey yet by no means drab. Over his left pocket were a few ribbons indicating his participation in various campaigns, and showing some of the roles he had played in the SS over the years. His collar tabs, two diamonds over silver strips showed his rank on the right, whilst the twin lighting runes of the SS sat on the right. Finishing off the uniform was a peaked cap, which as such a senior NCO Luther was authorised to wear.

His dog, Lucifer or known as Lucy to some, walked beside him no leash in case she had to chase down somebody daring break the curfew. She knew not to stand too close to her master when he was wearing his uniform, the dog hairs showed up easily and it was entirely unacceptable.

Really, Luther shouldn’t have been here, it was not a night where he was in charge of a patrol, but he had been restless, and was only a few people he needed to talk to before he was given permission to wander the streets of the ghetto. Unfortunately, this meant he could not be heavily armed, but the sidearm and two spare magazines tucked in to his pockets meant that he was safe. Lucy could also inflict an extraordinarily painful bite, something that nobody would wish to experience more than once. So now, Luther was patrolling on his own, looking for a chance to take out his anger on the vile, inferior sections of German society.

He stopped on a street corner, listening. There was the usual hubbub from the German part of the city, separated from the Ghetto by a large wall preventing the Jews from seeing out, and saving Aryans from having to be subjected to these parts of society on a daily basis.

The night air was rent by several gunshots. An infantryman, Luther could recognise firearms by the sound, and this sounded like the unmistakable Luger of the German army. Looking down at his dog, Luther made a clicking noise with his mouth. ”Kommen, Lucy.” She responded with a small bark before padding alongside Luther, who set off with a brisk pace, reaching up and unfastening the clip securing the flap above his Browning.

He followed the noise of a throbbing engine, taking two left turns then a right before the night was broken again, an MP40. Luther knew where this noise came from, and quickly rounded a corner, to be met by two dead Jews. He looked down at the growing puddle of blood, momentarily knowing that these two men deserved what they had just received. He looked up, recognising the wielder of the MP40. ”Guten Abend, Rottenführer Gerwulf”

The Rottenfuhrer responded politely, as he should to a man of Luther’s position. This meant that no doubt Sturmbannführer Wolfram was here, presumably down by the vehicle at the side of the street. Refastening the pistol holster, he walked down the street, stopping near the Sturmbannführer. He halted in a position of attention, before swinging his right arm up in a salute. ”Sturmbannführer-Wolfram. Gibt es ein Problem hier, mit welchem ich helfen kann?”

As his arm returned to his side, he looked the officer up and down. Naturally, his uniform was in a position to rival Luther’s, but the bottle of cognac and the no-doubt expensive cigarette in his mouth was slightly worrying. Wolfram had a reputation of being a very serious officer, and drinking alcohol in public streets was not something which the upper echelons of the SS looked kindly. Although, Luther had no doubt that whispers of such behaviour would stay between the men here. The Sturmbannführer was known to have a bit of an angry streak, and nobody wished to be on the receiving end of a bollocking from their commanding officer.


Translations

Kommen, Lucy – Come, Lucy.

Guten Abend, Rottenführer Gerwulf – Good evening, Rottenführer Gerwulf

Sturmbannführer-Wolfram. Gibt es ein Problem hier, mit welchem ich helfen kann? - Sturmbannführer Wolfram. Is there a problem here with which I may assist?

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

OOC: I just made a small post on Gerwulf’s part, I won’t do this too often, but just felt like playing through his eyes for a small part of the post to attempt to reflect his view on the situation regarding Wolfram. Nothing major, just something different.

BTW: This is quite a large post, sorry. You've captured my muse now.



Rottenführer Gerwulf slanted his head to the side of his tunic collar as his finger squeezed against the trigger in short successions over the dormant and strewn bodies of the Jewish men in the street. A soft spray of blood spurting like plumes of spores from the flesh, lightly decorating the Rottenführer’s once polished jackboots like a soft drizzle of warm rain. Grimacing to himself the Rottenführer lowered his weapon back at his side and adjusted the strap to his maschinenpistole, his eyes wandering off towards the Sturmbannführer who was chugging from a bottle of cognac and smoking his cigarette, a solemn mood hanging over the Sturmbannführer like a rain cloud once again.

Fastened footsteps caught the Rottenführer’s attention and his hands drifted quietly towards his weaponry, his eyes slitting as he strained to see through the darkened curfew street as a person approached, the outline of a silhouette soon becoming visible from beneath the odd few lit street lamps to that of a soldier and animal alongside. Letting go of his weapon he straightened up and adjusted the field cap he wore, not necessarily having the need for his helmet at this moment in time and nodded towards the now clearly apparent and recognizable non-commissioned officer who walked by. Sturmscharführer Luther? The face was very familiar, everyone knew infamous Sturmscharführer in the Third-SS for his combat antics and the Rottenführer was only too glad to have him onside.

Feeling the urge to catch the man’s attention, Rottenführer Gerwulf opened his mouth to say something, but sharply closed it again. Perhaps it was wise to keep his mouth closed? He was worried about the Sturmbannführer greatly, the officer was his friend, as well as his commander-in-chief. Perhaps now wasn’t the best time to insinuate insubordination that the Sturmbannführer wasn’t fit for duty, fit to be walking the streets more precisely. No. This was the Sturmbannführer’s problem and Rottenführer Gerwulf couldn’t save him this time, he wasn’t sure anyone could. It’s one thing to shoot a hostile and save your officer’s life, but another to get personally involved. He was here to serve the Fatherland, despite the Sturmbannführer being his friend, the ranks still stood, the man was his commanding officer and this wasn’t his place to speak out of term.

Noticing the dog however, the Rottenführer knelt down and caught her attention, giving her a loving stroke and pat on the back, watching as the Sturmscharführer approached the Sturmbannführer. At least he could save the dog from getting involved, he knew the Sturmbannführer well and the officer too loved animals, but taught them tough love. With an intoxicated vision, he wouldn’t put it past the officer to get the dog to chase down some more vermin. The Sturmbannführer was on a rampage and this was only the start of it.

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Further down the street a working column of Jews after a day’s grafting in the ghetto were being lead back to their quarters, there must have been a column of twenty-five or thirty Jews with a Scharführer leading the penal column and an entourage of four or five soldiers surrounding the motley crew as they tiredly walked along out of sync to the common marching beat. The noise of their unbalanced feet irritated the Sturmbannführer’s ears like a marching column of retards or possessed whores, the imaginary cackling of their voices cutting through the Sturmbannführer’s mind like a hot iron, their hoarse breaths as they marched sounding as if they were laughing under their breath, the fake smiles they produced to the guard made them seem sarcastic, funny?

Grinding his teeth, knocking back a mouthful of cognac and glaring at the approaching column of marching rats, the Sturmbannführer snorted under his breath and watched; the feeling of being watched himself soon invaded his senses however and the apparent presence of someone before him caused the Sturmbannführer to stricken his neck straight and stare at Sturmscharführer Luther with a glazed shocked look from beneath the visor of his cap, having been a little startled.

The Sturmscharführer spoke and the words took a moment to digest with the Sturmbannführer who’s eyes glared, the red pupil to his left eye seeming almost nonexistent through the shade of dark, his single blue eye clearly apparent however. Simply staring at the man before himself, Sturmbannführer Wolfram grinned as he placed the cigarette back upon his lips, the ivory cigarette holder pinched between his gloved fingers whilst he took a long inhale. Exhaling the smoke with a calming to his nerves, the Sturmbannführer simply couldn’t help seeing his son before himself; blonde hair, blue eyes, with an extravagant tight face of an adolescent Aryan in his prime.

Placing his hand upon the Sturmscharführer’s shoulder and gripping, Sturmbannführer Wolfram leant in to face the man and simply said: “Sie helfen bereits Sturmscharführer, meinem Sohn” and with that he leaned away and let go of the man’s shoulder, wobbling a little in his place as he burped under his breath, replacing the wind pocket from his stomach with another quick mouthful of cognac from the soon to be empty bottle. Wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, he placed the bottle of cognac on the front bonnet of the service vehicle, VW Kubelwagen and noticed the penal column of Jews now passing them by, the noise of their feet louder than ever now and their hoarse breaths from exhaustion panting like bitches on heat.

Closing his eyes for a split second, Sturmbannführer Wolfram aggravated by the noise, faced Sturmscharführer Luther and gave a look of complete distaste. “Diese Scheißratten wissen nicht, wie man spazieren geht!” he drunkenly spouted, getting very apparent with his anger, the intoxication of drink now setting into his system, engulfing his self perception of any reasonability. Staggering around the front of the vehicle behind himself, Sturmbannführer Wolfram gestured for Sturmscharführer Luther to follow as he motioned with his arm whilst stepping alongside the column and yelling “Halten Sie AN!”. By now Rottenführer Gerwulf came running down the road and stood beside Sturmscharführer Luther, watching with anxiety as Sturmbannführer Wolfram stopped the column, the Scharführer leading the penal group walking from the front backwards towards the Sturmbannführer with a salute and questioning look as he spoke towards the officer. “Herr Sturmbannführer, wie ist das Problem?”[/I] the Scharführer asked with a firm tone, looking a little irritated by the inconvenience of being stopped.

Glancing to the Jews who dropped their work gear for a brief rest or leant against their back foot, slouching, Sturmbannführer Wolfram only got all the more aggravated by their lack of discipline. “Das Problem Scharführer? Das Problem ist diese Scheißbauern wissen nicht, wie man in einer Säule spazieren geht! Wo ist die Disziplin Scharführer?” he berated, causing the Scharführer to close his mouth and tighten his jaw, looking rather annoyed. “Sturmscharführer, ziehen Sie zehn dieses Ungeziefers heraus und disziplinieren Sie sie sofort. Ich nicht und mich mit solchem unfähigem Verhalten nicht befassen werden” he ordered with a slight slur to his voice, the smell of alcohol very intense. Upon making these orders the Scharführer stepped forwards and spoke towards Sturmscharführer Luther quickly, completely ignoring the Sturmbannführer standing before him, “Sturmscharführer, dieser Offizier ist betrunken, und diese Männer sind für wichtige Arbeiten an der Munitionsfabrik gefragt!”[/I] he insubordinately protested, looking towards the Sturmscharführer for some reasoning, before being knocked down by the hilt of Rottenführer Gerwulf’s weapon before he was shot, attempting to protect the man from saying anymore that would have him dead, Rottenführer Gerwulf’s eyes drifting towards Sturmscharführer Luther quickly and then Sturmbannführer Wolfram who had just unclipped the holster to his Luger once more.


Translations:[/b]

Sie helfen bereits Sturmscharführer, meinem Sohn.
- You're already assisting Sturmscharführer, my son.

Diese Scheißratten wissen nicht, wie man spazieren geht!
- These fucking rats don't know how to walk!

Halten Sie AN!
- STOP!

Herr Sturmbannführer, wie ist das Problem?
- Herr Sturmbannführer, what is the problem?

Das Problem Scharführer? Das Problem ist diese Scheißbauern wissen nicht, wie man in einer Säule spazieren geht! Wo ist die Disziplin Scharführer?
- The problem Scharführer? The problem is these fucking peasants don't know how to walk in a column! Where is the discipline Scharführer?

Sturmscharführer, ziehen Sie zehn dieses Ungeziefers heraus und disziplinieren Sie sie sofort. Ich nicht und mich mit solchem unfähigem Verhalten nicht befassen werden.
- Sturmscharführer, pull out ten of these vermin and discipline them immediately. I will not and shall not deal with such incompetent behaviour.

Sturmscharführer, dieser Offizier ist betrunken, und diese Männer sind für wichtige Arbeiten an der Munitionsfabrik gefragt!
- Sturmscharführer, this officer is drunk and these men are needed for important works at the munitions factory!

[William Luther]

OOC: Long posts? Two can play at that game! But seriously, I have no problem with long posts, Raf, they're fun to read from you.

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Luther turned his head, observing the apparently marching group of Jews, under the close supervision of an anonymous Scharführer. He had very little control of the group; they were shuffling, talking and further disgracing their country. Was it that the Scharführer was talking to them? An SS soldier conversing with Jews? It was completely unacceptable. He left it, though, not wishing to step on to the Sturmbannführer’s shoes.

Wolfram himself definitely did not seem quite right. The smell of alcohol off of the officer’s breath was almost overpowering, despite attempts to block it out with cigarettes. Despite this, the uniform was immaculate, apart from the cap being slightly off skew. Possibly from shooting? The smell of cordite was strong here, and the fact that Wolfram had a Luger sat in his holster. It looked more and more likely that Wolfram had been the killer. Good, the man’s back-story hadn’t been public knowledge, so naturally, within two weeks of the events in Munich the year before, the entire division knew what had happened, and the loss of Wolfram’s son, Wolfrick.

The hand on his shoulder was unusual, Wolfram wasn’t a man overly famous for displays of emotion, and it served to confirm that a large amount of cognac must have been consumed. Referring to Luther as his son… The Munich event must be playing on his life, was Wolfram projecting the image of Wolfrick on to Luther’s face? It was a slightly perturbing thought, but one not unheard of for people grieving. Luther resigned himself to ignoring it, not wanting to upset his commanding officer. Not only would it be a serious career limiting move, but the man was drunken, armed, and always dangerous.

After a disgusted comment about the marching Jews, Wolfram staggered around the waiting Kubelwagon, and Luther followed, assuming a position behind and a pace to the left of Wolfram. Rottenführer Gerwulf joined him, still cradling the MP40. They both stood in silence, working out what was going to happen as Wolfram called for a halt. Whilst unsure of what would happen, they knew it would not end well for these Jews. Wolfram famously had little patience for them whilst sober, and now they just didn’t have a chance. The Scharführer had the cheek to sound put out by Wolfram, a move anybody with half a brain knew was bad. The relaxing Jews set Wolfram alight, burning with rage at the unfortunate Scharführer. The venom in the words seemed almost solid.

The Scharführer approached Luther, thinking he would be the acting commander with Wolfram’s state. Luther’s face remained straight, disapproving as Gerwulf knocked him to the ground, for the man’s protection. Luther looked down, shaking his place. ” Lernen Sie Ihren Platz, Scharführer! Wenn Sie in Anwesenheit von einem Sturmbannführer sind, reden Sie ihn, nicht mich an. Ihr behavious ist ganz unannehmbar, an Ihrer Stelle würde ich dankbar sein, dass Sie noch die Uniform tragen, die ich so heilig halte. Jetzt, auf Ihren Füßen und still sein.”

He walked forwards, towards the assembled Jews. He had to choose ten out of the twenty five, an easy task. Drawing his Browning, Luther stepped forward, quickly browsing the selection. He pointed at ten men, slightly weaker looking ones as not too effect the production of munitions too much. ” Hier. Stellen Sie sich schnell auf. Und wenn Sie wissen, was für Sie gut ist, haben alle von Ihnen Ihr Zahnrad an und sind an Aufmerksamkeit.” Very quickly, all of the Jews put their equipment back on, and locked their arms besides their thighs. Luther looked down at his Browning, pinching the serrations on the slide before dragging it back a centimetre, checking their was brass in the chamber before flicking off the safety catch. ”Stellen Sie Juden sicher, dass Sie jeden erzählen, was geschieht, wenn ihr keine Disziplin ist. Sie, sollen und leider für Ihre Art bestraft werden, die ich nur in einer Art der Strafe glaube.”

One Jew, stood at the end of the line spoke up, daring to look Luther straight in the eye. ”Wer sollen Sie sich so höheres Gefühl machen? Sie sind der Schaum hier irgendwo!” There were a few mumbles amongst the Jews, and before any serious reaction could be considered, before they realised they out numbered the Germans seven to one, Luther raised his Browning, briefly took aim, and fired once, the round hitting the Jew on the nose, entering through the soft part of the skull there, and right in to the brain. He was dead before he hit the floor. The others got the message, and quickly silenced themselves. Luther nodded satisfied. ”Mein Blut lässt mich Vorgesetzten fühlen. Ich kann versichern, dass seit den letzten einhundertfünfzig Jahren mindestens meine Familie rein ist. Arisches Lager baut starke Charaktere. Verschieden von Ihnen.”

He let it sink in, let their final thoughts be of fear. Fear for their lives, their family’s lives. And fear was infectious. Let it spread throughout the factories, throughout the camps, and soon every Jew would know their only right was to be in constant fear. Luther nodded to himself again. Nine of them left. ”Ich konnte Sie zu einem Todeslager senden lassen. Aber warum Verschwendung die Zeit, der Brennstoff und das Gas? Nein, Sie sollen alle in dieser Straße, getötet wie die Tiere geschossen werden, die Sie, das Ungeziefer sind, das Sie sind. Und die Ruhe von Ihnen, wenn glücklich, kann hier getötet werden.” He was shouting now, making sure everybody in the surrounding buildings looked out and watched. Once the ghetto got the message, compliance would be easier. He stepped backwards, turning towards the Sturmbannführer. ”Herr, möchten Sie einige ihrer jämmerlichen Leben beenden, oder ist das Vergnügen alles meinig?”

Translations[/u]

Lernen Sie Ihren Platz, Scharführer! Wenn Sie in Anwesenheit von einem Sturmbannführer sind, reden Sie ihn, nicht mich an. Ihr behavious ist ganz unannehmbar, an Ihrer Stelle würde ich dankbar sein, dass Sie noch die Uniform tragen, die ich so heilig halte. Jetzt, auf Ihren Füßen und still sein. - Learn your place, Scharführer! When you are in the presence of a Sturmbannführer, you address him, not me. Your behavious is wholly unacceptable, if I were you I'd be thankful you are still wearing the uniform I hold so sacred. Now, on your feet and be silent.

Hier. Stellen Sie sich schnell auf. Und wenn Sie wissen, was für Sie gut ist, haben alle von Ihnen Ihr Zahnrad an und sind an Aufmerksamkeit. - Out here. Line up, quickly. And if you know what is good for you, all of you will have your gear on and be at attention.

stellen Sie Juden sicher, dass Sie jeden erzählen, was geschieht, wenn ihr keine Disziplin ist. Sie, sollen und leider für Ihre Art bestraft werden, die ich nur in einer Art der Strafe glaube. - Make sure, Jews, that you tell everyone what happens when their is no discipline. You are to be punished, and unfortunately, for your kind I only believe in one kind of punishment.

Wer sollen Sie sich so höheres Gefühl machen? Sie sind der Schaum hier irgendwo! - Who are you to make yourself feel so superior? You are the scum around here!

Mein Blut lässt mich Vorgesetzten fühlen. Ich kann versichern, dass seit den letzten einhundertfünfzig Jahren mindestens meine Familie rein ist. Arisches Lager baut starke Charaktere. Verschieden von Ihnen. - My blood makes me feel superior. I can guarantee that for the last one hundred and fifty years at least, my family is pure. Aryan stock builds strong characters. Unlike you.

Ich konnte Sie zu einem Todeslager senden lassen. Aber warum Verschwendung die Zeit, der Brennstoff und das Gas? Nein, Sie sollen alle in dieser Straße, getötet wie die Tiere geschossen werden, die Sie, das Ungeziefer sind, das Sie sind. Und die Ruhe von Ihnen, wenn glücklich, kann hier getötet werden. - I could have you sent to a death camp. But why waste the time, the fuel and the gas? No, you shall all be shot in this street, killed like the animals you are, the vermin you are. And the rest of you, if lucky, may be killed here.

Herr, möchten Sie einige ihrer jämmerlichen Leben beenden, oder ist das Vergnügen alles meinig? - Sir, would you like to end any of their miserable lives, or is the pleasure all mine?

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

OOC: You should like this post, I’ve made it quite entertaining for us both.


Stepping back, Sturmbannführer Wolfram watched as his loyal friend - subject - Rottenführer Gerwulf swing the heavy stainless steel back of his Maschinenpistole into the mutinous bastard’s face with a over handed drop from shoulder length height. The blow knocked the insubordinate Scharführer off his back feet, landing flat on his back in the middle of the road, claret oozing from the left side of his head and trickling from an apparent open wound just under his hairline. The Rottenführer looked sheepish, he’d after all just assaulted a higher ranking man in front of his commanding officer, but Sturmbannführer Wolfram sought the action as justice; despite his intoxicated state, the man may have suffered far worse and deep down the Sturmbannführer clarified the actions made by the Rottenführer as a bid to protect both himself and the foolish man stepping out of line.

Regardless, Sturmbannführer Wolfram brandished his Luger once more, the withdrawal of the weapon unseen due to the commotion that momentarily lapsed and looked to Sturmscharführer Luther who dealt with the insubordination of the Scharführer nicely. Sturmbannführer Wolfram would have said something on the back of what was said, but found himself burping under his breath once again, the drink repeating on his system a little. Nevertheless, he stood dangerously atone with his Luger upholstered in one hand and cigarette in the opposite, glaring towards the column of working rats who were now being filtered out for punishment and discipline by the Sturmscharführer, his attention averted momentarily however as the Scharführer attempted to climb to his feet with a wobbly set of hands against the cobbled road. Shoving his boot out, Sturmbannführer Wolfram knocked the man back down and flicked his ash over the man, grinning. His place was on the floor right at this moment in time and the Aryan fool needed to be punished himself yet; yes, Sturmbannführer Wolfram wasn’t done with him just yet.

A gunshot rang out and the Sturmbannführer once again looked faintly surprised, his senses dulled dramatically by the drink and his reactions slightly tethered by the weight of deep thought he carried. Raising the Luger a little, he realised the shot came from Sturmscharführer Luther and relaxed. These Jews deserved far worse than being shot, they needed eradicating by any horrendous mean necessary, a bullet wasn’t even worth their weight in gold, not by a mile. A couple of windows overhead opened up, attempting to see what was happening below on the street, but many more closed and a dozen lights went off with it. Fucking rats ought to be scared shitless, he wasn’t even sure why these vermin still had electricity or the luxury of a roof over their heads, when every day one of their Aryan brothers shed blood in sacrifice of the Fatherland. The land in which these vermin still currently lived, harboured and bred. The sooner Himmler and Hitler were done with these hideous monstrosities, the better.

Sturmscharführer Luther turned for one last request, a notable one at that and Sturmbannführer Wolfram pulled back the heavy chamber on his Luger to expend a random last bullet left in the magazine. Fishing out a fresh magazine from a pouch on his belt, the officer released the empty ammunition magazine onto the ground with a hardy clunk and began to replenish his Luger with fresh ammunition; slapping the magazine in, clicking the safety off and already having a round in the chamber, he was set. “Töten Sie sie, töten Sie sie alle. Die Verantwortung ihrer Todesfälle wird die Scharführer's Schuld hier sein, dieses Ungeziefer sieht passend genug nicht sogar aus, um sogar ihre eigenen Gräber zu graben, als Arbeit in einer Munitionsfabrik!” the Sturmbannführer announced in a loud tone, so everyone could hear clearly, causing the Jewish peasants to stir amongst themselves a little and shuffle in their places nervously.

The Scharführer had by now risen to his feet quietly and held a hand to his bleeding head, his helmet laying in the gutter from where he had fallen. Once again he protested, weakly this time however. “Sie können nicht diese Männer schießen! Diese sind gute Arbeiter mit einem Handel, sie dienen einem wertvollen Zweck zum Heimatland!”[/I] he cried out, but during his plea, the Jews started whispering to one another and stirring amongst themselves a little. Then, before the Sturmbannführer could either retaliate to the mutinous bastard’s words or begin ordering the mass execution of the vermin, the Jews sprung into life with remarkable hidden energy and began sprouting outwards for any guard that was closest to them within the column. Immediately, two guards were overwhelmed before they could even know what was happening, let alone raise their rifles and were forced down to the ground by an angry and desperate mob of Jews swarming them like flies on a piece of shit.

Staggering backwards, Sturmbannführer Wolfram raised his Luger and shot in quick succession as two of the Jews made haste in darting straight for him, their working gear in hand, comprising of a shovel in one man’s hand and a brick laying tool in the other man’s hand; both made from iron or steel and heavy enough to cause damage. The first Jew toppled over and fell beside the Sturmbannführer’s body, the second mangled his hands onto the Sturmbannführer’s tunic and attempted to jab his brick-laying tool into the officer’s side, but was prized off easily and shoved to the ground, a quick shot to the face finishing the desperado before he had a chance to raise himself.

Looking towards Sturmscharführer Luther, he yelled: “TÖTEN SIE SIE!” but the order wasn’t needed, as one of the German soldiers guarding the column broke free of the mob before he could be overrun and popped off at least two shots from his rifle, running backwards and shooting hastily, working the bolt mechanism of his rifle with quick ease - the training must have kicked in. Rottenführer Gerwulf sprayed with his maschinenpistole into the large crowd, noticeably hitting at least two of the Jews, but was suddenly sprung upon by one of the Jews who’d slipped into his blind sight and jabbed a punch at the side of his face. The Rottenführer staggered, but didn’t falter, reacting with an aggressive jab from his elbow and successive kick from his boot. Unfortunately the Jews were everywhere and each man was incredibly outnumbered by now, as two of the five Germans guarding the column were most definitely dead from the start, their rifles being snagged from off the corpses and even their bayonets. These Jews just suddenly became dangerous.

Popping another few shots with his Luger, Sturmbannführer Wolfram moved backwards and bumped into the Kublewagen behind himself, again another Jew made a desperate plea for the Sturmbannführer and managed to get a grip this time. Forcing the Sturmbannführer down against the bonnet of the vehicle, the Jew started hitting hard into the Sturmbannführer’s body, not quite knowing how to kill him, before he realised the Sturmbannführer brandished his Luger still; forcing the gun against the Jew’s face, the two began to struggle with whom the power of the weapon resided in, the barrel of the weapon dangerously wavering between the Sturmbannführer and the Jew’s face, both men struggling with every might of their strength. Ironically, the Sturmbannführer was on his back foot being pushed down against the vehicle and didn’t retain the full strength of a sober man to deal with the situation as he would have usually, besides, the Jew had eaten well and the long hours working had packed him out with a braun to fit. Excuses, perhaps, but nonetheless the struggle continued and the Luger even popped off a round aimlessly into the air, a shriek emerging from nearby but the wounded was unknown, as the two men fought to stay alive - if the Sturmbannführer didn’t break free, he’d be swarmed by reinforcing Jews any moment, who would certainly outnumber him.


Translations:[/b]

Töten Sie sie, töten Sie sie alle. Die Verantwortung ihrer Todesfälle wird die Scharführer's Schuld hier sein, dieses Ungeziefer sieht passend genug nicht sogar aus, um sogar ihre eigenen Gräber zu graben, als Arbeit in einer Munitionsfabrik!
- Kill them, kill them all. The responsibility of their deaths will be the Scharführer's fault here, these vermin don't even look fit enough to even dig their own graves, than work in a munitions factory!

Sie können nicht diese Männer schießen! Diese sind gute Arbeiter mit einem Handel, sie dienen einem wertvollen Zweck zum Heimatland!
- You can't shoot these men! These are good working men with a trade, they serve a valuable purpose to the fatherland!

TÖTEN SIE SIE!
- KILL THEM!

[William Luther]

Mutinous whispers floated around the Jews, as they nervously looked between their guards, Luther, Wolfram and Gerwulf. Luther turned towards them, raising his Browning for a second kill. Luther looked the Jew straight in the eye, the man having enough self-respect to meet Luther’s gaze, to die like a man. Feeling the corner of his mouth twitch in to a smile, his took up first pressure on the trigger. He winked at the Jew, perhaps trying to trick some confidence in to him before he brought the trigger fully home.

The Jews charged forward, followed by the rest of the group. Luther’s shot went off, hitting the man in the shoulder and causing him to stagger slightly, before finding his feet again and continuing to charge. Luther swung out with his pistol hand, the barrel of the weapon crunching the nose of the Jew, making him stop, and stumble backwards. Quickly, Luther brought the Browning up, firing again, putting in a fatal shot causing the Jew to collapse.

Stepping backwards, Luther tried to assess the situation as quickly as possible. Every single Jew in the formation was attacking; two guards were dead, leaving Luther, Wolfram, Gerwulf, the Scharführer and two others. The Jews had already acquired two rifles, and it didn’t take a genius to use a bolt-action. Quickly, shots came, but with so many Jews in the assault, there was not a clear line of sight.

A cry from Gerwulf to Luther’s right caught his attention, one Jew attempting to disarm him of the MP40. Luther jumped to the side, punching one Jew in the stomach, causing him to buckle over before raising a knee, simultaneously smacking the head of the target on to it, causing him to limply fall to the ground. Luther’s left hand reached for the leather frog on his belt, before slapping the material – he wasn’t in fighting order, so his knife wasn’t there to provide the finishing blow. He quickly twisted the Browning, aiming down at the Jew. He wouldn’t be unconscious long, so Luther fired once, quickly moving alongside Gerwulf who was just finishing his attacker. They exchanged almost casual nods before weapons were raised, quickly moving on to the next target. They were lucky really; the Jews were tired, starved and weak. The German soldiers on the other hand, had never been fitter; in the prime of life from their intense training they had been given.

Luther whistled, and Lucy barked merrily, bounding to his side. There was a faint red trickle coming from the side of her mouth, she had obviously shown somebody her bite was as bad as her bark. They quickly kept moving, trying to get around the body of Jews to the riflemen, but they had formed a circle around them, keeping them from harms way, the two shooters obviously the best chance at inflicting damage. Swearing, Luther fired a double tap towards the Jewish mass, a scream of pain identifying a target.

One man came running out, wielding the bayonet from the dead German guard. He was a large man, thick arms and legs not having been too worn away by the work camp. That wasn’t good. Luther tried to swing the Browning, but he was too slow, instead hitting the man on the side of the head. Throwing his left arm in the air to avoid the thrust of the blade, he heard material rip - so much for the flawless uniform. His left hand balled in to a fist, finding the side of the Jews head, hitting it on the opposite side of the head. The Jew slowed slightly, and Lucy leapt up, sinking her powerful jaws in to the man’s thigh. He shouted out, swearing and staggered. Luther stepped backwards, twisting the knife arm, getting another shout out. The knife clattered to the floor, and Luther kicked, his shiny boot finding the gut of the Jew he stepped backwards. Stooping, Luther grabbed the knife, spun it so the blade was pointing downwards and finished off the Jew.

Browning in his right hand, knife in the left, Luther swung his head, searching for Wolfram. He was leant backwards over the bonnet of the Kublewagen, engaged in a fight with a single Jew. Luther ran over, shooting off twice as he came to Wolfram’s side. He narrowly missed being hit by a blind Luger shot, and kicked out at the Jew’s ankle. It caused his concentration to falter slightly, and Luther brought the knife up, jamming it in to the back of the Jew before throwing him to the ground. He stuck a hand out to his Commanding Officer, offering to pill him up to his feet. From behind him, he heard a door being un-barricaded, reinforcements from the Jews, people wanting to make sure this minor coup was a success. Shit.

Luther turned, they had killed at least half of the Jews, but if more were coming very soon they would be out of ammunition. They weren’t wearing fighting order; they had two rifles left and one submachine gun. He turned quickly to Wolfram looking at the still warm car. ”Herr, kommen Sie im Auto. Es gibt mehr von ihnen die Ankunft, wir haben genug Munition nicht.” He didn’t wait for an answer, reaching to the passenger door and tearing it open. He half-pushed Wolfram in to the back seat seat, Lucy taking the initiative and jumping in just before Wolfram and lying on the floor in the back. Gerwulf came over, backing up towards the driver seat and the two surviving guards – Luther had lost track of the last one – pulled themselves in to the rear. Luckily, the solid-top version of the Kubelwagen afforded some protection for the passengers in the rear, and Luther climbed in to the front passenger seat, Gerwulf already turning the ignition key. As he sat down, Luther scanned for the Scharfuhrer. His eyes met the glazed over stare of a dead man, lying a few metres down the street, having been shot in the back whilst running. Whether it was by the Jews or by the real SS soldiers Luther did not know.

Herr, kommen Sie im Auto. Es gibt mehr von ihnen die Ankunft, wir haben genug Munition nicht. - Sir, get in the car. There are more of them coming, we don't have enough ammo.

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

OOC: Just to remind you, remember that Wolfram is quite intoxicated at the moment.

The vein throbbed in Sturmbannführer Wolfram’s temple, his peaked cap rolling from off his head and tumbling onto the ground beneath their scuffling feet as both men struggled for the ultimate power of the Luger pistol groped between their bodies and wavering uncontrollably in short spouts as either man had a wave of adrenaline pumped energy to exert. The barrel of the Luger was smouldering a little from an expended round that was aimlessly popped off by the Sturmbannführer’s finger being squeezed by the Jew’s rotten claws, the man’s sweaty hands slithering all over his flesh and curling around the Luger like a squid suctioning for a grip; the struggle would have gone on longer if it wasn’t for Sturmscharführer Luther who intervened, knocking the Jewish man’s balance off course and giving Sturmbannführer Wolfram enough time to push the vermin from off his body with an enormous push, causing the Jew the collide with the knife being plummeted into his flesh.

Sliding down against the Kubelwagen’s front bonnet a little, Sturmbannführer Wolfram gasped for a quick breath and reached out to the extended hand with a fearsome tight grip and leveraged himself up with a wobbly stance, the alcohol still very much in his system. The Jewish workers were sprawled all over the street, a few random rifle shots being popped off, but no real harm being made as littering bodies faltered any real means of shooting the few Germans currently engaged with the Jews in close combat. One of the guards nearby swung the butt of his rifle dead pan into the side of a Jew’s head, a momentary pause to regain the momentum of his rifle to swing back in the opposite direction and hit another Jew coming at him square in the face; the vermin’s reaction speed and stupidity played fowl to their easy demise, their only real means of strength coming from the surprise attack at the beginning, now the Jews merely outnumbered them. Sturmbannführer Wolfram couldn’t help but feel like they still held the upper hand, like foxes in a hen house.

Without a breath’s notice, he was ushered into the Kubelwagen with haste, barely catching note that more Jews had grown the brass to join the mutiny. His fumbling numb hands loaded the Luger pistol as he climbed into the vehicle, a dog brushing past him in the process, causing him to lapse and fall into his seat with an unbalanced drunken collapse against the leather. His eyes wandered aimlessly around himself, looking out of the windows as the guards came hurrying over and tumbling into the vehicle, Rottenführer Gerwulf diving into the driver’s seat and coiling the vehicle keys from his pocket, having been the driver for the evening to start with. The vehicle started up without a hitch and all the doors slammed shut, one of the guards rolling down the rear window and pointing his rifle out to pop off a shot towards what seemed to be two large warehouse doors flying open; men, woman and even what seemed to be midgets - but were actually children - came hurling out from inside with customary weapons equipped.

Laughing a little, Sturmbannführer Wolfram pointed past the guard aiming out the window next to him and shot one of the midgets (children) ahead of the motley group angrily storming towards the vehicle and popped off another few rounds over the German soldier’s shoulder, angrily snarling at them as the vehicle pulled away quickly. “Kommen Sie Sie dann Scheißratten heran! Sie Scheißminiaturgeliebte! Ungeziefer!” he roared out, laughing hysterically to himself as the vehicle picked up speed. Rocks and debris bouncing off the vehicle, something heavy in particular cracked the small rear window, but nothing shattered. “Sturmscharführer, nennen Sie--” he started, but felt sick come up in his throat from all the thrashing about and swallowed hard, continuing with his drunken slur of speech “Nennen Sie Befehl und lassen Sie sie meine Zisternen hier unten bringen, ich werde mich damit persönlich befassen... Ja. Sorgen Sie sich mit der Polizei nicht. Sie sind nutzlos” he slurred out, one of the guards next to him avoiding any real eye contact as he reframed from laughing, covering his mouth a little in the process, despite the shock of just being engaged in a horrific fight for his life.

Rottenführer Gerwulf looked to Sturmscharführer Luther and shook his head subtly, hoping the NCO didn’t take the officer’s words as a direct order, the man was indeed drunk and contacting any type of high command would result in the man’s dismissal for being drunk on duty. In actual fact, he wasn’t even on duty, so the sheer embarrassment of the man’s behaviour would be enough for the Sturmbannführer to be punished alone. They needed to get him home and pronto, but Sturmbannführer Wolfram started up again in the back, a click grabbing all their attention as Sturmbannführer Wolfram began to change the magazine in his Luger, fumbling out his last strip of ammunition, a slight incoherent mumble coming out of the man’s mouth as he reloaded his weapon. “Ich hasse Zwerge” which in turn caused both guards in the back to stifle any laughs under their breath, both men pumped up on adrenaline and undoubtedly going to reflect on day’s events later, but right now, their spirits were high for still being alive.

Then, Rottenführer Gerwulf began to slow the vehicle down, looking rather worried. “Sie blockieren die Straße!? Aber wie sie tat…”[/I] he trailed off the last part under his breath though, not quite knowing whether any of them knew how the rebellious Jews had gotten in front of them? Perhaps the commotion had stirred more than just the small strip of street they was on, perhaps the Ghetto was about to roar into life? Perhaps the Jews had just had enough now and decided to fight back? Whatever or however the Jews had conveyed a mob down the opposite end of the road, Rottenführer Gerwulf shifted the vehicle into reverse and began backing up, before seeing an alley to their left and quickly turning the car down it. A huge crowd running behind them, distant shots ringing out, it seemed like the Jews were rising up…


Translations:[/b]

Kommen Sie Sie dann Scheißratten heran! Sie Scheißminiaturgeliebte! Ungeziefer!
- Come on then you fucking rats! You fucking midget lovers! Vermin!

Sturmscharführer, nennen Sie--
- Sturmscharführer, call --

Nennen Sie Befehl und lassen Sie sie meine Zisternen hier unten bringen, ich werde mich damit persönlich befassen... Ja. Sorgen Sie sich mit der Polizei nicht. Sie sind nutzlos.
- Call command and have them bring my tanks down here, I'll deal with this personally... Yes. Don't bother with the police. They're useless.

Ich hasse Zwerge.
- I hate midgets.

Sie blockieren die Straße!? Aber wie sie tat…
- They're blocking the road!? But how did they...

[William Luther]

Slamming shut the door, Luther quickly wound down the window, twisting in his seat in the Kubelwagen and emptying the remnants of his Browning’s magazine in to the crowd of Jews. When the weapon finally clicked empty, although he could barely heart it over of the loudly revving engine of the car, Luther reached in to the pocket of his uniform, pulling out another magazine and smoothly slipping it in to housing, before recocking the weapon and pocketing it. ”Maschinepistole?” he asked Gerwulf, who’s hand quickly slipped to his side and lifted the MP40 a few inches out of the footwell. Luther reached down, pulling it out so Gerwulf’s hands could return to the steering wheel.

The car went around a corner too fast, tyres protesting loudly but eventually regaining grip on the road, Gerwulf switching through gears to get as much power to the wheels as possible. Luther braced his feet in the foot well, pushing himself back in his seat as the MP40 was brought up to the window. As Wolfram was shouting orders to kill everybody, Luther happily obliged. Not too worried about aiming with the speeds at which the car was travelling down the narrow streets, Luther leant out of the window, twisting so he could see towards the rear of the vehicle and began letting off bursts of fire. But the next slurred comment caused some concern, wanting to bring in the tanks. Even Luther knew that this was going too far, calling the tanks? High command would surely strip Wolfram of all power, launch a full enquiry…

Exchanging quick glances with Gerwulf, they both shook heads, agreeing on the fact that Wolfram needed to be stopped. Thinking quickly, Luther twisted to face Wolfram. He had to buy some time for the Sturmbannführer to sober up at least. ” Herr, wir haben ein Feldtelefon nicht. Wir werden von hier zuerst flüchten müssen dann senden die Zisternen hier, wenn wir zum Lager zurückkehren. Aber sorgen Sie sich nicht, sie sollen bestraft warden.” Unseen to Wolfram, Gerwulf nodded, satisfied. It was hard to take the office seriously, but with Wolfram’s reputation not doing so was not an option.

The firing slowed and eventually stopped as they left the mob behind them. Gerwulf didn’t slow, and Luther carefully reached across to the MP40 magazine holders, extracting fresh ammunition for the weapon cradled in his arms. He was an NCO in the infantry, weapons were his thing, and Luther didn’t even need to look as he reloaded, instead scanning for targets. Surely support would be coming in from the main gate; they must have heard the commotion. Crack members of the SS should be storming in; machine gun nests should be on alert, snipers should be in position, taking out Jews one by one. Why wasn’t there any help?

As the car slid round one last corner, there was an answer. A large mob of Jews was in front of the main gate, preventing it from being opened. The MG towers had effectively been rendered useless, the large pile of rocks on the ground next to it indicating that the occupants had been stoned out. It was inconceivable; the Jews were staging an entire uprising. Gerwulf broke hard, the vehicle veering to a stop. Almost as a single entity, the Jews turned, looking towards the car. Luther could see what they were thinking, and slowly, like a wounded animal, the Jews began charging. Gerwulf swore, reversing the car looking for a way out. Trying his luck, he pulled the car in to an alley. Dead end.

Luther took his turn in swearing, opening his door and stepping out, getting a full view of the area. One way in, one way out, with a massive angry mob of Jews blocking it. Kneeling behind his open door, aiming through the window, he shouted towards the guards in the back of the car. ” kommen Sie heraus. Die Zündung von Positionen!”

He had a plan of sorts. With such a narrow alleyway, the Jews would be at a choke-point, and be easy enough to kill. If enough of them came, it would either scare off any further attack, or allow some halftracks or something to get through the gates, bring assistance to the besieged SS men. But Luther knew that the numbers were well and truly against them, with the two massive mobs of Jews converging. But if the MG nests could get back in to position, then they would change the battle. Plenty of Jews must have died already for them to take out the Machine Gun positions.

As the first men rounded the corner, wielding knives, frying pans, anything vaguely resembling a weapon, Luther fired a burst, causing two to crumple to the ground, the third to hesitate long enough for a 98k to bark and end his life. If the battle was going to be like this, it wouldn’t be too hard for the Germans to win.

Translations

Herr, wir haben ein Feldtelefon nicht. Wir werden von hier zuerst flüchten müssen dann senden die Zisternen hier, wenn wir zum Lager zurückkehren. Aber sorgen Sie sich nicht, sie sollen bestraft warden - Sir, we don't have a field phone. We will need to escape from here first then send the tanks here when we return to the camp. But do not worry, they shall be punished.


kommen Sie heraus. Die Zündung von Positionen! - Get out, out. Firing positions!

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

The vehicle darted and jarred, causing Sturmbannführer Wolfram to begin feeling a little queasy from the hectic bumps felt throughout the road’s surface, the alcohol swirling inside of his stomach felt as if it was starting to produce chunks. Pushing the feeling aside, he regained his posture and reframed from hurling vomit across the interior of the vehicle; that classic wry grin spreading across his face as he felt the intoxication of the alcohol fuel his veins once more, easing the pain of what could have been a very upset stomach and particularly upset passengers. By whom standard weren’t that too chuffed to begin with, seeing their commanding officer rather tit-faced and out of control, it wasn’t just his own neck he was putting on the line, but those willing to suffice their own standards to keep him protected. The guilt would emerge after he’d had a nap and snippets of the evening’s events began to reply themselves like small projected teasers to a movie within the back of his mind, leaving him to piece the rest together as the day progressed.

For now however, Sturmbannführer Wolfram fiddled with his Lugar pistol like an idle child and didn’t have much to say when Sturmscharführer Luther responded to the order he’d given about calling in the tanks. Somehow in Sturmbannführer Wolfram’s very intoxicated state, his mind concurred to the reasoning that they did indeed not have a field radio on them and that it was most probably wise for them to report the actions required once they got themselves to safety - god knows how he processed the thought, but he nodded all the same and continued to play with the Lugar, chambering a new round and stiffening the bolt catch with a wiggle and twist.

The vehicle soon began to back up and veer down an alley, causing Sturmbannführer Wolfram to lurch forwards and almost kiss the dog that was at his feet. Before he could make sense or protest to the reckless driving, the doors swung open and everyone jumped out, popping rounds off down the alley. It took a few seconds for the Sturmbannführer to really understand what was happening, as he sat there facing the front window screen and watched as a tidal wave of people came flooding down the bottleneck of the alley. Scrambling to get out of the vehicle instantly, his dreary eyes looked about at the walls surrounding them and the dawning realisation that they were trapped and making a possible last stand shot a electrical current through his nerves that made him momentarily sober from the adrenalin and understanding of the predicament they were indeed stuck in. The predicament that could see the end to their lives, a slow painful death at the hands of a Jew - no, this was Sturmbannführer Wolfram’s worse nightmare, to die at the hands of a vermin, a fucking rat! That was not going to happen.

Twisting wobbly upon his jackboots and watching as the four men spurred gunfire down the alley, he quickly began to look for an escape route or something they could tide into their advantage. It was this part of Wolfram that made him a good commander, a tactful thinker and resourceful user of the environment. His eyes trailed along the walls to the buildings cooping them in and then his gaze turned upwards to the rise of the walls surrounding them; there was a cascade of small balconies that moved upwards, perhaps back-doors to the Jews’ homes, the verandas weren’t large, but he wasn’t worried about that. They could climb, easily. Well, easier said than done considering his intoxication, but at least he was going to save the men’s lives if not his own, it was worth a damn good shot, but then he realised - hearing the commotion at the opening of the alley - they didn’t have an awful lot of time, they needed something to give them a head-start.

Without saying a word the whole time Sturmbannführer Wolfram was in ’think mode’, he worked quickly and moved towards the kubelwagen, noticing the bottle of cognac that was stuck against the spare tire on the bonnet (having caught a glimpse through the window, being behind the vehicle) and quickly tapped Gerwulf on the shoulder to stop firing for a brief moment as he staggered to the front of the vehicle and grabbed the bottle. Immediately Gerwulf’s face dropped, thinking that the Sturmbannführer was only interested in getting a drink, rather than help. “Sturmbannführer! Gerwulf angrily snapped, attempting to reach out for the officer and drag him back, but missed as Sturmbannführer Wolfram moved back from the front of the vehicle and with a hard swing of the arm, tossed the bottle of cognac through the front window, the glass shattering from both the heavy bottle and window-screen as it imploded inwards. By now, they must have through he was driving mad or seriously out of his mind drunk, especially as he began to take off his immaculate tunic with driven force; a few buttons popping off in the process, to bundle up between his hands and toss through the vehicle’s window.

Noticing the men weren’t shooting as much now, he swaggered his pistol at them and yelled “Setzen Sie fort zu schießen!” if Sturmbannführer were more toxic, he would have told them what he was planning to do, but didn’t have the mental capacity in this state to pull together too much of an intelligent sentence to tell them, without wasting anymore time. So he continued to break his plan into action, staggering back around the vehicle to it’s side, standing beside Luther, merely dressed in his trousers and plain shirt worn beneath his tunic, with his field-cap looking rather odd on his head with the loss of the tunic in-between.

Pulling a zippo lighter out of his trouser pocket, he flinted for a light and threw the lighter into the vehicle. It took a second or two for the alcohol and fabric to catch aflame, but as soon as it did, he realised he needed to release the handbrake. Grumbling under his breath, he fell against the frame of the door with haste, reaching in and releasing the handbrake, before falling backwards out of the car as the flames began to grow inside rather quickly. Before Sturmbannführer Wolfram could tell what was happening, he watched as the flames began to lick out of the vehicle’s windows, catching rather quickly and snapped towards Luther from his place on the ground saying: “Stoßen Sie das Fahrzeug an ihnen!” he commanded, whilst climbing to his feet and roughly pointing his Lugar downrange towards the crowd getting closer, shooting a few rounds in a bid to slow them down, as he moved towards the back of the vehicle to lend a hand in pushing it. His body crumpling against the exterior as he wedged his weight into it, praying the thing rolled quickly towards them, they were on a small piece of high ground, hopefully the leverage of the ground would help keep it going the rest of the way - just long enough for the second part of the plan to work.

“The balcony, we can climb up!” he said to Luther as he continued to push the vehicle, slipping from the back of it just after he spoke, his feet giving way as he coughed, the smoke from the rear window packing into his lungs as he sucked in a mouthful accidentally.

OOC: You can god-mode Raf in the next post, assuming you climb the balcony or whatever.

Translations:[/b]

Setzen Sie fort zu schießen!
- Keep shooting!

Stoßen Sie das Fahrzeug an ihnen!
- Push the vehicle at them!

[William Luther]

Despite the relatively cool conditions of the night, a sheen of sweat plastered the blond loctks of Luther's fringe to his forehead. At some point, his peaked cap had fallen off, probably in the car – something he would have to retrieve later. Of course, he could always claim another from uniform stores, this was probably one of the reasons the quartermaster would deem as acceptable. Quelling Jewish rebellions was possibly an excuse for lax uniform standards.

Crouched behind the door of the car, window rolled down, he was in a relatively safe place. Safety was entirely relative in a battle zone. If you stood out in the open, you were not safe, but behind an appropriate piece of cover you were. With the Jews only armed with melee weapons, the door was enough to stop them reaching him and keeping Luther an arms width away. Safe, and enough to give him a grim smile as he very carefully fired, letting off only a few shots each minute. Ammunition wouldn't last long, and unfortunately the Jews would realise this soon.

The metal grip of the pistol was slick in Luther's right hand, his palms were sweating and this was only going to be a bad thing. Mentally, he was keeping a count of ammunition – four left in his weapon and a fresh thirteen round magazine in his pocket. If he had chance, he could siphon ammunition from Gerwulf's MP40 magazines, refill his own magazines to continue the fight.

Shouts from behind Luther almost made him turn his head to investigate, an angry address from Gerwulf to his commander. Given the intoxicated state of the Sturmbannführer, Luther was not going to chew out Gerwulf for his tone, but more importantly a group of four Jews took the chance to sprint around the corner, knives held menacingly in their hands. Shuffling slightly in his crouched position, Luther fired twice, hitting two targets, causing two Jews to crumple to the floor, light red mist spraying in to the air before the bodies hit the floor. Gerwulf's MP40 kicked in, dropping the last two.

Luther took the brief respite to twist his head around, looking back at Wolfram. He was now missing his smart SS tunic, instead standing in his shirt wrestling a Zippo from his pocket. Luther took the order to keep shooting with grace, the Jews were still hiding around the corner and nobody was trying to make their way around. The Germans could just not afford to waste the ammunition for the sake of suppression.

With the brief click of a lighter, the vehicle began to burn, causing Luther to leap to his feet, stepping away from the doorway before the entire vehicle burst in to flames. The handbrake was released, and Luther quickly realised the plan, stepping behind the vehicle. Flicking on the safety catch so the Browning didn't have a negligent discharge, Luther rammed his shoulder in to the car, pushing hard to get it moving. Slowly, the wheels began turning, and the smoking chassis began accelerating, rolling down the hill towards the Jews. The smell was spreading, and the faint crackling of flames caused a few heads to appear around the corners of the alley. These were quickly withdrawn.

Wolfram pointed towards a low balcony, and Luther ushered him forwards. “Sie zunächst Herr!” Luther looked around, spotting Lucy near his feet. She couldn't follow them, but he loathed to let her go. He choked slightly, maybe the smoke, maybe the fact that this decision was just painful “Lucy, lauf.” Barking, she ran off, following the burning vehicle. Shaking his head, Luther returned himself to the alley. He pushed his Browning in to the brown leather holster on his belt. Gerwulf had backed himself up against the wall, shouldered the MP40 and dropped to one knee, a good firing position to cover Luther and Wolfram.

Luther jumped, wrapping his hands around the balcony and began pulling himself up. Once his arms were bent, he swung up one leg, and pulled himself on to the, getting himself in to a standing position and drawing his weapon. He looked around, gathering his options. The best place to go was the wooden door behind them, so Luther turned, kicking it in. With a loud crash, it gave way revealing a squalid house. A few women and children screamed, running in to a side room. Luther turned, and offered Gerwulf a hand, pulling up the other NCO.

Waving his hand, Luther entered the building, Browning now back in hand. It was pitch dark inside the building, but cracks of light betrayed the position of the front door ahead. Luther made a bee line, looking left and right to make sure nobody tried interfering. The women didn't try anything, they were smart enough to stay away from the uniforms. Luther carefully opened the door, revealing an empty back street.

The mob could be heard, moving, realising where the Germans must have gone and manoeuvring around to cut them off. But another sound sparked in to life. The unmistakable roar of an MG42. This had to mean that the support was finally here, attempting to retake the ghetto. No doubt several halftracks full of heavily armed soldiers would be attempting to open the gate, perhaps even the tanks Wolfram wanted. Looking to each side, Luther weighed his options. Straight towards the gate, where they would be behind the crowd and open to crossfire from a trigger happy SS soldiers, or turn left, head away from the gate and navigate around, trying to avoid the Jews and let the stormtroopers enter. That was the best option. Statrting a brisk jog to the left, Luther called out behind him. “Kommen.”


Translations

Sie zunächst Herr - You first, Sir.

Lucy, lauf – Lucy, run.

Kommen – Let’s go.

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The following CP has been issued:

Wolfram - 9

Luther - 9

-JT