'Til Death, Like the Workhorse - II [Dieter/Maria]

[Leeroy Atherton]

Country: Occupied France
Current Time: 11:00 in the morning, May 1944
Weather Conditions: Dry, breezy, a few clouds in the sky with another oncoming storm

She had not seen the cruel one, Herr Kaiser or the younger soldier since two days before. She did not want to see Herr Kaiser or the younger soldier since two days before. She continued her effort, toiling underneath the hot sun, another storm on its way to the quarry-camp where she was imprisoned. The last storm had only tinged the ground with rain, just enough to dampen it, and it was quickly drying out with the summer temperatures. Leeroy was not looking forward to potentially slogging through the mud, her feet held down by suction as she carried heavy load after heavy load; it might make her seem weak. She did not need that with Herr Kaiser hovering around.

It had only been through the interruption of a higher-ranking officer that Herr Kaiser left her alone. Some might have called it luck, some might have called it an act of God; both seemed like a cruel irony to Leeroy, and she dwelt not on the subject of such matters. Instead, as she hauled the bags of gravel up to the bangers of lorries moving out, she planned. She planned every move and every thought, every "Yes sir," and, "No sir," that came out of her mouth. She planned on how to block out any pain or emotion, thinking about the lovely seaside of Burnham-On-Sea, the rolling fields outside of town, the smell of salt on the English air. "Think happy thoughts," the old adage went, and Leeroy found that it helped time move faster.

Now all she needed was to stay out of trouble or worse confrontation with any of the Germans or prisoners around her.

[Rolf Jäger]

A man with an exceedingly proud swagger to his step, Rolf Jäger hardly seemed to be keeping a low profile, and if anything, any fleeting gazes passed at the Luftwaffe officer only made him tilt his slightly bristled chin higher, a sneer of open contempt rising to his lips when he knew that he was surrounded by a camp full of prisoners, the traitors, the cowards, the undesirables, and truly, the bane of all that was pure and German. He would have not endured the atmosphere of filth for a moment longer had it been his choice, yet regrettably, it was not, and he was headed for one of the barracks in the camp area to talk to a fallen British pilot - an unfortunate consequence of the man's knowledge of the English language. He was a pilot, and not an interrogator, and a lawyer as he might have been, he had no idea why someone had decided that he would possess any talent in getting information out of a prisoner. Still, he had decided not to appear taken back by this task the slightest, and so he walked along with the polished black riding boots catching the glint of the sun, and his dark-blue Luftwaffe uniform fitted over his tall frame to perfection.

Even through his overflowing arrogance, he did not fail to catch sight of a hauntingly familiar figure, the unexpected tone of the grey-green Wehrmacht uniform at first alerting him to a presence that was different from the SS-guards and from the bleak, tarnished grey of the prisoner's clothes. The way the Wehrmacht officer walked - decided and steadfast - was all too known to Rolf, and then when he caught a glimpse of the officer's face, his grey eyes narrowed and a mischievous smile lit up his face.

"Leutnant Riedel!"

Rolf was already catching up to the Wehrmacht officer, his steps hastening for the moments it took him to reach the Leutnant's side. "Leutnant!" the man barked hoarsely, flashing the Wehrmacht officer a wide smile the moment he had her attention - and the fact that the Leutnant in fact was a her and not a him was a secret duly guarded by Rolf. She allowed him a sharp, dissatisfied glance that bore all the tenderness of barbed wire, but Rolf was hardly taken aback by it for he was used to her regarding him in this manner, especially when she was so unexpectedly surprised by him. "Oh, nicht zu handeln wie Sie nicht zufrieden sind mich zu sehen," Rolf flashed the woman a lopsided smile and raised his eyebrows with the knowledge that this would only further stir her already agitated mood further.

And how he loved to stir her.

"Mach sie nicht Große Augen, es muss kein Zufall, dass Sie hier zu sein zur gleichen Zeit wie ich bin passieren. Konnte es einfach nicht zu halten weg von mir, ich verstehe," the man spoke in a low tone as not to have anyone hear them, the raspy edge to his voice only further strengthened by the hushed volume. Rolf was well aware of just how irritating she must have found his incessant teasing, especially in an environment and moment such as this, yet the more he saw the anger flaring in her eyes, the more he enjoyed it. The man's silver-grey eyes glinted with open challenge and mirth, and of course, he could not stop there and he stared at her as he walked alongside her, still, his mouth opened to offer the disguised woman another biting remark when the tip of his boot suddenly collided with something - or someone - and his knee was driven into the back of a prisoner currently crouched to pick up a heavy bag of gravel from the ground.

Fighting to maintain his balance, the man let out a rather unseemly curse in German, and in an effort to remain on his feet, he pushed his hands against the unfortunate prisoner, shoving her to the ground and into the dust and dirt.


Translations:

"Oh, nicht zu handeln wie Sie nicht zufrieden sind mich zu sehen."
"Oh, don't act like you are not happy to see me."

"Mach sie nicht Große Augen, es muss kein Zufall, dass Sie hier zu sein zur gleichen Zeit wie ich bin passieren. Konnte es einfach nicht zu halten weg von mir, ich verstehe."
"Should not look so surprised, it must be no coincidence that you happen to be here at the same time as I am. Just could not keep away from me, I understand."

[Dirk Riedel]

There were often times when one thought how everything that happened during one particular day … went wrong from the very beginning, all of it, turn after turn, everything should be spoiled and blighted with the harsh call of misfortune and trial that slapped at them with a brisk hand. Yes, all that could go wrong, had indeed gone wrong, and this had been the day of Leutnant Riedel as she held the signed papers on her hand and, after having examined them in seething quietude while she made her way past the gravel ground, she clutched and wrinkled the written communication into her fist and reached with a decidedly resolute stride across the southernmost area of the campsite under the prospect of vacating what ought to have been a rather miserable place the soldier did not quite fancy to find herself meddled in; certainly it was one of the necessary evils of war but a person of her life – and her deceit – was already troubled by too many worries as it was without this particular aspect of military life having to cling on to her like a veil from the dark shadows come to enshroud her with the despondent faces of the prisoners of war. Perhaps during one time – when she was younger and her military life yet untainted with the stench of death and illness, loss and fatigue – she would have handled this issue with a more tolerant mind, and she had indeed done when they had been stationed in the vastness of the African continent, what now appeared a time of a bygone era when it was really less than a year and a half ago. Perhaps a little more. Or a little less. The Leutnant did not like to think of it.

Her quiet furious eyes were transfixed on the gate that stood nearer upon her view and crunched the letter further into her palm as if from the prospect of leaving the camp that lingered so very real and welcoming around her mind; and she had almost briskly strode towards the exit gate, before a guttural voice – unmistakeably familiar – barked at her in a vibrant tone of a sandstone texture, and she need not turn around to know the person who had addressed her. Her stride stilled and her leave was cut short at the same moment that her eyebrows furrowed in half confusion, half disbelief, at the plain absurdity that he – he! – out of all people should have been here, within the prisoner of war camp, at the very same day, and during the same time as her. If she was not quite sure that chance was playing quite a mock game on her to turn the woman into its personal laughing stock, she would have been inclined to think that her superior commander the Major knew of the relation she held with the pilot and had arranged this little tête-à-tête for his own amusement.

He barked at her and it was as she slowly turned her head around to look at the Hauptmann with a frown that she was refamiliarised with his cocky arrogant complexion and that very characteristic wry smirk that so often played around his lips; before he teased her in that typical goading catchphrase she would have liked to slap out of his mouth.

Well, some people never changed.

Her expression changed from open confusion to downright disapproval the more he continued with such insolence, and the stern severity of her jaw’s sharp angular lines sufficed to pass the message that, truly, she were not impressed. With a weary sigh and a half roll of her eyes, the woman turned around and continued walking if only to forget his smug simper that only added fuel to the fire and poked at her irritation established already as it had been. She left him behind and indifferently ignored some curious thud she vaguely heard as she strode a few steps forward and furiously crunched the wrinkled paper into her fist. She suddenly paused and stole a fleeting glance around the area as if to examine something – before a small inaudible noise of surprise left her throat the moment a bulk collided against her back, and it was with eyebrows severely curved and a forbidding face that she turned around to see the man’s uniformed frame for a moment pressing at her own. She scowled at him, and then properly turned around to face the self-important pilot.

“Wie steht’s mit, anstatt Ihre Augen zu schließen, schließen Sie Ihren Mund stattdessen? Ich hätte ein intelligenteres Gespräch gehabt, wenn ich mit Ihrem Esel sprach,” she told him briskly and it was the strictness of her face which best attuned him to the fact she was not in the mood for any of his usual games.

“Was tun Sie hier?” she asked with a frown. “So, abgesondert vom stolzierenden Ihres Hinterteils vor Kriegsgefangenen … anscheinend,” she remarked with a brief glance at the female crouched upon the ground standing behind them a few steps in the short distance; it was not difficult to understand what trouble the man had caused for the stranger, after all. She turned her head from the sight and looked at him with a sharp, demanding stare, no less in bitter mockery.



Translation

How about rather than shutting your eyes you shut your mouth, instead? I would have had a more intelligent conversation if I was talking to your ass.

What are you doing here? Well, apart from swaggering your rump in front of war prisoners … apparently.

[Leeroy Atherton]

Leeroy took being driven into the ground with a grunt. She did not appreciate being stepped on like a bug, but what right did she have in trying to fight him? Everyone was stepped on in the camp, reduced to the worth of mere insects. Troubling and infuriating as such an outlook might be towards a certain group of people, she would not argue, clearly at a disadvantage. That, and Leeroy had always preferred the calm, civil route, even when cursed at and spat at.

With a grunt, the Rom grabbed as the sack of gravel that had fallen in front of her as she fell. She had been leaning down to try and pull it up better, evening out the weight it laid on her arms. Gritting her teeth, tired arms pushed under the sack and hefted it upwards, Leeroy's legs pushing up as well as she stood from a crouch. Balance slightly off, she staggered backwards, trying to pivot to face forward -

One Rolf Jäger stood in front of her, talking down a scowling soldier as if he owned the world. Leeroy tried to breathlessly give a, "Look out!" as she staggered forward, but Rolf's back rushed up too suddenly. She was about to knock into him, tripping over her own feet and the bag tumbling forward; if Rolf fell and the bag landed on him, he'd definitely feel the weight. Should he not move, Leeroy would end up falling onto him, her and the gravel bag's weight probably knocking the wind out of him. The way she would be splayed out, it looked like the Rom had tackled the unknowing pilot.