Banquet of the Ritterkreuz Holders. [Invite Only]

[Leon Wolfgang]

Country:[/b] Somewhere in Germany.
Weather:[/b] Clear-Skies.
Time:[/b] 7:45pm

OOC: This is invite only, so if you wish to take part in this thread, please PM me on this account and I shall get back to you. Thank you!


Smoothing his leather gloved hand across the open magazine laid upon his lap, Leon shuffled to get comfortable within his seat and made a notable look to his silver wristwatch for the time, whilst casually skimming over the block article he was reading from the Messerschmitt magazine. It wasn’t anything new to be had, just a bit of reader’s digest to keep him sane from boredom; the magazine was a popular and common read amongst the flying crew, in truth, it was a subtle piece of propaganda boasting the ingenuity and mechanized advancements of German engineering. Willy Messerschmitt, chief designer and engineer of the Messerschmitt franchise would boast about his creations of beauty; despite the major flaws to his earlier pieces of work being extremely faulty and unpredictable prototypes. Hans Hackman was amongst those who became casualties to the faulty and unreliable Messerschmitt prototypes, but such infant history is easily forgotten in the war.

Giving a long exhale, Leon glanced to his driver from the backseat and soon averted his gaze to the roadway up ahead, where some sort of protest was taking place. “Was diese Dummköpfe ist, die darüber schreien…” Leon mumbled to himself as he gradually began to feel his body slide back in the seat, not entirely wanting to draw attention to his vehicle by the motley crew outside, who were raving and ranting about something. An elderly man smeared his face against the pane of glass separating himself from the rowdy mod and Leon cringed, giving an aggravated tap against the window and looking to his driver with an even more fumigating look; “Halten Sie nicht an oder verlangsamen Sie sich” he jeered at the driver, prodding the back of the driver’s seat with the tip of his jackboot anxiously.

Eventually, Leon was delivered to the banquet awaiting him. The black metallic BMW 326 squeaked to a halt just outside of the grand hall that was engulfed with tranquil lighting and large draped swastika banners decorating the exterior of the large structural grand building. It was seemingly looking like a pricy event that was being hosted and no doubt brought together by the tax-payer’s money and war funds; the all important and crucial war funds needed by a state who had the largest economical growth and stability in Europe. Still, Leon couldn’t complain, it threw a good swill to having a great party and the German’s enjoyed a good knee’s up in style, especially at the expense of other’s. It just seemed to be the German way.

The rear door was opened for Leon as if he were royalty and obliging to the curtain-call, he withdrew himself from the backseat and stepped out onto the iconic red-carpet laid bare from the grand hall’s entrance, all the way down the marble stairway towards the main parking court for the new arrivals. Stepping out onto the red-carpet, Leon was dressed for the occasion with the appropriate classy walking-out-dress of fighter pilot uniform; his M40 officer’s fliegerbluse was decorated with numerous Luftwaffe accommodations and training badges of old and atop of his neatly waxed back hair stood a tanned green LW Schirmmütze peaked cap, embodied with the brass eagle of the Luftwaffe. Overall Leon was casually, yet smartly dressed for the occasion and even wore a distinguished M37 dress dagger that was hanging at the hip from his tanned leather utility belt.

Ascending the stairway towards the grand-hall’s entrance, Leon was formally invited inside by the doormen and upon entering the grand-hall, Leon was astounded by the huge size of the venue. Almost an entire orchestra was situated towards the end of the hall, playing a continuous melody of soft music to enthral the inhabitants with a relaxing mood for the opening of the banquet and dozens upon dozens of military orientated guests were littered amongst many of the well dressed dining tables; covered in silk white cloth, with silverware cutlery and chinaware. It took Leon small moment to realise his surroundings, a subtle pinch to the back of his hand being made, as he attempted to bring himself back to reality. He knew the Germans loved to throw an ‘all out’ party, but this was something else entirely and Leon began to fear the Fuehrer himself would be amongst the guests of honour tonight. With such lucrative fine detail put into place motion, it would be a sin not to have a bigwig amongst the guest-list to oversee the effort made.

A young waiter carrying a platter of Champaign glasses drifted past Leon slowly, just allowing enough time for guests to pluck a drink from the silver tray he was balancing. Grasping a glass, Leon sipped at his bubbly and slowly began to make progress into the grand-hall, feeling incredibly out of place and inferior for such a venue. He was merely a Hauptmann of the ranks, most senior officers and superiors of the ranks saw the rank and title of Hauptmann as a junior level of command; despite their equality of attaining a good stature of combat experience for the rank, I guess it couldn’t be compared to those whom only have to click their fingers for an entire army to move in one direction, whereas a Hauptmann would barely have a loose hold over a company of grunts at the best.

Feeling a little dishevelled by the atmosphere, Leon remained quiet and distant within the grand-hall, simply lingering on the outskirts and hugging the wall; it was unlike Leon to seem so enclosed and backed down, but faced with the magnitude of a grand venue and being completely unsuspecting to the severity of the banquet he was invited to attend, caught him unawares to say the least and Leon was slowly starting to feel like a sore thumb, standing out of place…


Translations:[/b]
Was diese Dummköpfe ist, die darüber schreien
- What are these fools crying about…

Halten Sie nicht an oder verlangsamen Sie sich
- Don’t stop or slow down

[Deleted]

They walked towards him, giant barrels on squat, short legs of wood. By all rights they shouldn’t have been able to move, nothing that big should be able to move. He watched as the giant kegs of wine slowly advanced towards him from across the field. He was standing on a hill, overlooking the vineyard he grew up on. The giant barrels strode towards him from the horizon. Unstoppable and unflinching as they smashed through trees and bridges that crossed rivers, the waters began to run red as they passed and the ground heaved and collapsed into flowing liquid. Sanson stood fixed to the hill, unmoving as they advanced. A roar overhead caught his attention as massive shells where fired from an unknown artillery position. The shells hit the walls of the giant kegs and exploded into blood and crushed limbs and bodies. They scattered on the ground, only to me stomped by the giant keg. The ground was giving way quicker and quicker, and soon the hill crumbled from under Sanson’s feet and he was left floating in the air above a raging ocean of blood red wine. Liquid fingers like tentacles reached slowly out of the ocean, writhing as their fluid skin glistened in the light. They reached for him, surrounding him in a cocoon before pressing against him, forcing its way into his body the wine overtook him, he screamed as he woke up.

The dream had stayed with Sanson all day, replaying through his mind as if on a loop. He shuddered as it began to run through again. Even in his waking hours he couldn’t escape from his nightmares. He gripped the sink tight, knuckles turning white with pressure and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was young, his face a little chubby but he was fit, he wasn’t ugly or deformed, and as far as he knew he hadn’t committed any sin or made a deal with the devil. So why was he having these dreams that followed him throughout the day? He couldn’t understand it, all his life it had always been something to do with wine. His father owned a vineyard when he was a boy; maybe something happened when he was a child. He struggled to remember, but nothing came to him, only the giant kegs walking towards him filtered through his mind.

He shook his head, taking off his cap and turning on the tap and soaking a hand towel in the water, he dabbed his face in an attempt to wash away the dream. As if the ice-cold water would keep it at bay, he continued dabbing his face, careful not to get his pressed, tan military suit wet. He looked at his badges in the mirror. Compared to those of the men outside the bathroom, he was severely lacking in medals. He had thought he would fit right in here; his suit was well ironed, clean and sharp. He thought he looked like somebody important when he had put it on. But that feeling had quickly been splashed to the four winds as soon as he had entered the building. He had been overwhelmed by the décor and the people who seemed to be quiet relaxed in such an atmosphere of light music from a live orchestra, polished silverware and high-ranking officials. The gold that hung from the shoulders and chests of most of the men inside has severely put him off mingling. He was a nerves person normally, soft spoken and generally quiet. But at the sight of all those medals, shining like beacons showing him a glimpse of a life he would never have, he had lost what nerve he had and had retreated to the bathroom. Thankfully it had been empty and he could have his miniature nervous break down without any witnesses.

He picked up his cap, looking at the badge on it showing his pathetic rank. He was after all only a Sub Lieutenant in the Royal Italian Air Force. He didn’t belong here. What right did he have to mingle amongst generals and admirals? People who could have him shot with the blink of eye, without question or hesitation. Sansons hands started shaking; he was freaking himself out even more with these thoughts. He clenched his hands into fists in an attempt to control them and keep them still. Exhaling a slowly he placed his cap back on his head, straightening it and fixing up his uniform, pulling it taunt over his chest and wiping the water from his face. All he had to do was avoid conversation, smile politely and walk around, look presentable, mumble Italian and people would leave him alone, they would assume he didn’t speak German. Most Germans didn’t speak Italian as they thought it was beneath them, he guessed that most of these men and women would never have even been to Italy. They wouldn’t have a need to learn the language; they’d have interpreters do all the talking. Yes, that was it. That was his plan. All he had to do was pretend he didn’t speak German and he would be left alone. With his plan set he had enough confidence to step out of the bathroom and into the chaos of shiny medals, classical music and inflated egos.

He spotted a waiter walking around carrying a tray of glasses, he made towards him but someone else grabbed the last glass and the waiter rushed off to refill the tray, collecting empty glasses along the way. Sanson stood their wondering what he should do. A few people approached him, but he didn’t stop to interact, simply muttered something about getting a drink in Italian and kept moving. He stole a glance back at them and smiled as they had moved on to someone else and where paying no further attention to him. Even though most would not consider avoiding conversation as a victory over anything, Sanson felt quite proud of himself for dodging the conversation. It meant he wouldn’t have to try and explain why a mere Sub Lieutenant was at such an illustrious event. They wouldn’t have to know that he was simply filling in for a Commander who was unable to attend due to a sever illness caused by a bullet to the stomach. In truth he was lucky to be alive at all.

Another waiter walked past Sanson with a full tray and he reached out and grabbed the closet drink to him. He didn’t look at it for a moment as he was trying to dodge people and not spill the drink on them. He made his way over to the edge of the hall, an empty area with very few people loitering on the outskirts of the main groups, either looking for people they knew or just taking a break from mingling. He was about to take a sip of his drink but froze when the familiar smell of the liquid wafted past his nose. The colour drained from his face as he stared down into the depths of the glass of blood red wine he held clutched in his shaky fingers.

[Leon Wolfgang]

Sipping from the tall glass of champaign lightly bubbling beneath the surface, Leon kept a subtle and low profile, simply observing those within the grand hall with a cautious glance from afar. A varied exchange of looks passed his way, but nobody paid any immediate attention to someone they did not recognise and rather made themselves more acquainted with the familiar faces they did recognise. A benefactor for Leon, but also a rather miscued deformity that didn’t enable him to make new friends. As soon as the demoralising thought of being a nobody had passed through the caverns of his crooked mind, Leon realised this banquet was never to be for the courageous hearted but rather for the reputable fascists. This was no place for a fighter pilot or any ranking man whom dared to carry his own weapon into combat, but more for the cloth of man who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and didn’t dare to carry out his own bidding; this banquet was far beyond Leon and each time someone brushed passed himself, they neither carried any level headed rank alike himself or were mere royally fat cats with their fingers in too many pies.

Shaking back the sleeve upon his left forearm, Leon made a note of the time and quirked a demoralising look to himself. The banquet had only just started an hour or two ago and would undoubtedly go on through the night. Even the orchestra were still looking fresh and most probably hadn’t have ventured far from the first pages of their music sheets; the night was to be a long winded affair and Leon embraced what little courage and strength he had left to pursue with keeping up a false façade of feeling he was someone important enough to be there, when truth be told, he wasn’t quite sure why he had been invited to begin with? Perhaps they were lacking numbers and needed more heads to fill the grand hall hired for the occasion or maybe the bigwigs needed a few lower ranked subordinates to keep the pecking order in tow? People to remind them of just how important they were.

Raising the glass of champaign to his lips one more, Leon sipped the bubbly casually, but soon quickly realised he’d drunken the whole glass already as his lips pressed against the empty pocket of the inner glass and all he sucked in, was air. Swallowing hard he savoured the last mouthful and sheepishly gave another long glance about himself, hoping nobody realised just how fast he had drunken his drink, which was primarily out of boredom and nervousness. Holding the empty glass against his chest and tucking his free hand into one of his trouser pockets, Leon stepped back a little as someone moved by in front of himself and out of sheer habit, Leon looked to the rank and uniform of the man passing by, like he had done to the twenty or thirty odd others who had skimmed by within close proximity for him to notice the fine details of their shoulder boards or stitched insignia. It had almost began to feel like a little game to entertain himself, wondering what the rank and stature of the next man to cross his path would be, however, Leon was a little astounded this time around.

To begin with, Leon noticed the unusual Italian rank and tanned fabric of uniform that he mistook for a British officer’s attire of wear for the slightest of seconds, followed by the man’s distinguished insignia that made him an Italian flyboy - pilot. Astounded by what he was witnessing, Leon attempted to reframe from staring, but couldn’t quite believe his luck on a scale of different reasons: to start with, the Italian officer was the first subordinate ranked man under himself he’d seen so far, secondly he was the first and perhaps the only Italian military orientated person to be at the banquet he’d seen so far and most of all, he was on Leon’s wavelength; or so he hoped. Another flyboy who was hopefully on his level, who’d witnessed combat first hand and been apart of the gruelling misery of war above and could speak freely of what he had experienced, unlike a lot of the toffs within the grand hall whom had never seen combat, but boasted a lot of their lack of experience regardless.

Watching the man quietly for a few minutes, Leon waited to see if it were wise to introduce himself or even make a steadfast move towards the fellow pilot. After a long deliberation to himself, Leon placed his empty glass of bubbly upon a windowsill to his side and slowly approached the Italian officer, until he stood before the man fully and gave a slight amused grin as he looked straight at him. “Ich denke, dass wir zur falschen Partei kamen” Leon joked amusingly, trying to break the ice a little. It was indeed rather an odd affair they was attending and he was sure the fellow pilot would agree on that respective level. Two fighter pilots dining with what seemed to be head of states; whatever next?

Nodding his head towards the Italian pilot’s uniform and giving a rough gesture with his hand towards the insignia, Leon stated the obvious by saying; “Der italienische Pilot?” he questioned, but rather stating the obvious instead. Leon quickly prompted another question to keep the conversation flowing, but he was also rather curious at the best of times also. “Ich nehme an, dass Sie für den Regia Aeronautica fliegen? Ich sehe Sie Ihre Flügel haben” he asked with a quizzing tone, whilst looking to the set of wings stitched on his uniform, an emblem of the man’s flight training and capabilities of handling an aircraft. Leon hoped he wasn’t intimidating the young officer, but it wasn’t hard not to come across intimidating; Leon was a cunning officer and his distinct Aryan looks didn’t help matters. Perhaps others were just thankful he wasn’t Schutzstaffel orientated. Leon’s firm upper lip could easily have been mistaken for a deadly stare that had you thrown into a bottomless-pit if they didn’t know otherwise - luckily, he wasn’t SS or Gestapo.


Translations:[/b]

Ich denke, dass wir zur falschen Partei kamen
I think we came to the wrong party.

Der italienische Pilot?
Italian pilot?

Ich nehme an, dass Sie für den Regia Aeronautica fliegen? Ich sehe Sie Ihre Flügel haben.
I assume you fly for the Regia Aeronautica? I see you have your wings.

[Deleted]

The drink seemed to be mocking him. Everywhere he went he was followed by it. No matter what he did he always found himself with a glass of wine that he could never drink. His vision was fixed on the glistening liquid as it rippled from the shake of his hand. The glass was short and fat and polished to a high shine. As he looked into the immeasurable depths of the wine he could almost see it taunting him. Daring him to drink from the glass, to take the wine into his body and let it consume him from the inside out, to let it control him, to let it become him. He felt his will power waning and he slowly began to bring the drink closer to his lips. He could not remember the taste of it, it had been so long since those days in the Vineyard, where he would have stolen a glass or two from the massive kegs, or been given a sip from his mothers glass at the dinner table. A forbidding feeling washed over him, and he lowered his hand. He could not take that sip.

It was just at that moment when a voice broke into his thoughts and brought him crashing back to reality. What was that he’d said, something about being in the wrong place? He glanced around quickly, remembering where he was and processing what was said to him.
“Ich denke, dass wir zur falschen Partei kamen”
The wrong party? It was a joke, an ice breaking comment that was meant to invite a conversation that Sanson had so far been avoiding; but the plan to mumble Italian and walk away was forgotten. The man before him wore wings. At the sight of that badge he felt safe. He didn’t know why, maybe it was the shiny medal hanging from this mans chest, or rather, the lack of shiny metal. He was a pilot, higher ranked then Sanson but much lower then everyone else in the hall. He needed to answer, if only to distract himself from raging sea of frothing, red wine that where his thoughts.

“Ich glaube, Sie haben Recht.”
Sanson mumbled the words, then closed his eyes for a second and repeated the words loud enough to be heard.
“Ich wäre glücklicher in einer ruhigen Ecke in einer Kneipe.”
He mumbled to himself before opening his eyes again and looking at the German Pilot. He seemed to be one of the less arrogant Germans that Sanson had met. He strained his memory back to the last man he had met and actually liked. It was a while ago; on a shooting range… he was the new face in town, as was Sanson. Perhaps they would meet again sometime. He forced his mind back to the present and back onto the German standing before him.

He let out a small smile as the German pointed out his wings and asked if he was a pilot. Sanson nodded, playing along as if the question needed answering. But he was worried about something, why was this man making small talk? Could it be he just wanted someone to talk too? As they where both pilots they would certainly have something to talk about. Or could this Hauptmann just want someone of lesser rank to boast too? No doubt he would have been on the receiving end of some egotistical remarks, perhaps he wanted to give his own ego strings a pluck and make himself feel important.
But the way he had approached Sanson, the way he was talking now, asking if he was a part of the Regia Aeronautica and again pointing out his wings - as if that badge alone made them friends – he started to think that the German was someone like him. Someone who didn’t belong in this crowd, someone who would maybe see Sanson as an equal, not in military rank, but by the fact that they where severely out of place at this function.

“Ja, ich bin Sottotenete Sanson Cleto. Es ist gut, Sie kennenzulernen Hauptmann...?“
Sanson stretched out his hand, then realised that he was still holding the glass, switching it to his other hand he repeated the gesture.
“Sie müssen mir verzeihen, weiß ich nicht erkennen Ihr Gerät Abzeichen.“
Sanson hoped the Hauptmann wouldn’t be aggressive over his lack of knowledge about German Fighter Units. Deciding to keep the conversation going… if only to keep his mind off the wine in his hand, he continued asking questions.
“Wie lange bist du schon fliegen?“





Translations:
Ich glaube, Sie haben Recht – I think you are right.

Ich wäre glücklicher in einer ruhigen Ecke in einer Kneipe – I’d be happier in a quiet corner in a pub


Ja, ich bin Sottotenete Sanson Cleto. Es ist gut, Sie kennenzulernen Hauptmann...? – Yes, I am Sottontenete Sanson Cleto, it is good to meet you Hauptmann...?

Sie müssen mir verzeihen, weiß ich nicht erkennen Ihr Gerät Abzeichen – you must forgive me, i do not recognise your unit badge.

Wie lange bist du schon fliegen – How long have you been flying?

[Nathan Whyte]

Wolfgang: 4CP
Cleto: 4CP