Post by Katakaxmarshmallowarmyx on Oct 14, 2008 4:36:53 GMT
Accepted!
Terms; However, as much as I would love to embrace your character with an officer rank, there is currently a curfew on CO ranks. You can read about it Here.
CO ranks are quite popular on this website and they entail small privileges NCO ranks don't - then again, NCO ranks entail different privileges CO ranks don't.
Either way, we have too many Officers and the highest I can award you currently is a "2nd Lieutenant".
If you would be happy to accept it, just let me know.
Otherwise, if you can wait a matter of three days (roughly), a Captain spot may open up for the Axis. You're more than welcome to choose a NCO rank if you decided otherwise.
Anyhow, I'll let you mull this over and notify a staff member either via PM or in the chat-box once you've decided.
Thanks,
~Danny
Account E-Mail: xbootsnbracesx@yahoo.com
Name: Reinhard Nickolaus Dachser
Nationality: Aryan/German
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath? That of a Greater National Socialist Germany
Character History:
Reinhard was born 4 March, 1898, the third child of a socially connected and considerably well-off family in Halle an der Saale, Germany, a mere block away where from fate’s divine hand a future compatriot bearing the same name would be born in short years to come. In his early years he lacked a sense of male companionship, having only sisters and a hired nursemaid to look after them. Reinhard’s father dabbled in stock and personal investments, taking particular interest in the iron and steel industries, as the German Industrial Revolution loomed closer. The man knew well he could not ride the trust left by his father for life. Reinhard’s mother was a pseudo-socialite, lacking any considerable title and nobility, but carrying the attitude of a Fürstin. These circumstances began shaping Reinhard’s psychological self into a relentless introvert, as the games of girls and fancies of the many women who surrounded him held little interest for him. He retreated into his childish mind, and held to fantasies for what they were worth.
By the time he had entered Vorschule, most thought him mute from his almost surreal shyness and aloof nature, were it not for those gestures of minute polite conversation that had been instilled in him. He succeeded greatly in those three years, in all ways but socially, it was not until the summer before he was to enter Gymnasium that he attained any sense of friendship. His elder sister, Ingrid, had been insisting to an almost obnoxious degree for music instruction, hoping dearly that a few sweet sonatas might win a young man’s heart. Their father had for a few years been getting better acquainted with a man named Bruno Heydrich, who directed a Conservatory right in Halle. Reinhard accompanied his sister and their parents to the Halle Conservatory of Music to set up a lesson schedule. During the tedious bantering that ensued past the initial conversation, Reinhard did as any preteen, and wandered on his own, he ran into the middle son of the owner, a six year old, equally shy. Conversation began upon learning the two shared the same first name. Soon enough they had broken through each other’s shell and Reinhard had deemed the other something of an adopted little brother.
Within the next years Reinhard spent countless days with his protégé, and the younger Reinhard introduced the elder to a Nationalist ideal, the one upon which he was raised. The idea of patriotism intrigued Reinhard so much he began to obsess over the military, studying the history of war rather than paying attention to his schoolwork. The two Reinhards went out often with elder boys, protesting Jews, foreigners, Communists, and other supposed enemies of the Fatherland. Reinhard had it set that he would become a soldier, and upon revealing this ambition to his “younger brother” the other was most pleased, and expressed the idea that he wanted to “be just like him.” Reinhard needed wait for his opportunity, which came soon in 1914, when the Pan-Slavic Nationalist group known as the Black Hand assassinated Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand. On 3 August of that same year, Germany entered the war, and men, eager for glory and filled with patriotism, were signing up to fight. Yet, Reinhard was only 16 that year, two years too young to enlist. But the young man would not be deterred so easy. Eager to fulfill his dream and impress his young friend, he added two years to his age and enlisted in the army, without his parents’ knowledge or consent.
Training held true to all of his expectations, even the harsh disciplinary tactics, which were oddly reminiscent of his nursemaid of his toddler years. The thrill of holding a weapon was great, and Reinhard was certain he would come home a war hero. In December of 1914, his unit, the 80th Reserve Division, was sent to the Eastern Front to fight against the Russians. It was not until early February that the actual fighting began, and Reinhard learned what war was truly about. Blood on snow, Reinhard would always remember his first kill, how the Russian crumbled without so much as objection, how within that same instant a rain of bullets were sent howling back at him. He had seen men he knew die, men he had spoken with mere hours ago. It was either kill or be killed, and Reinhard was happy in the least that Germany was advancing on the Russians. That all ended, however, when a counterattack by the Russian Twelfth Army halted any further chance of a German advance.
In 1917 Reinhard’s division was sent to the Western Front, enjoying a short term as a reserve until he was sent out to fight again. Once the Battle of Arras had begun, Reinhard was in and out of trenches, barely surviving the “creeping barrage” tactic used by the advancing Canadians at Vimy Ridge. Nearing the end of the battle, Reinhard was captured at Scarpe by a particularly brutal British soldier. Taking his bayonet to Reinhard’s forehead, he expected his brain to be speared, and yet with a sadistic smile the British soldier dug his bayonet along Reinhard’s eye. The pain was worse than death, and Reinhard begged the man to kill him, and as the other aligned his sight to do just that, the British soldier fell dead, and a man from Reinhard’s regiment stood over him, pure hatred etched upon his visage.
Reinhard was taken to a field hospital, where for weeks morphine was his only salvation and soon after he was sent home, unable to fight with only half his sight. Upon his return he was greeted by his teary-eyed mother and sisters, and a Silver Wound Badge from the Kaiser. He examined the bitter irony of the situation: a family that paid him no mind until he nearly died, a family that never looked at him until he was disfigured, a family that never really loved him until his soul had already been robbed of such emotions. He was disillusioned for certain, and his hatred for the war only increased when Germany surrendered. Everything he had fought for had been in vain. His anger had only been mollified in the slightest by his friend Reinhard Heydrich, who was 14 by now. They shared anger, hatred for Germany’s enemies that had caused this hell and disgrace.
Then the depression hit. America’s economy collapsed, and a “domino effect” brought Germany the same fate, as the German economy was dependent on exports and loans (primarily from America) and without the demand a great many Germans were left unemployed. The effects of the depression hit Reinhard’s and his friend’s family hard, Reinhard’s father’s innumerable stocks worthless now. He had gotten letters from all of his sisters, each suffering, Ingrid so much that she needed move back home, taking her husband with her, as the two had lost their home. Reinhard was through with this new ‘Weimar Republic’ a shoddy excuse for a government set up by Allied specifications. He looked for new politics, any group that might share his interests in restoring Germany to the great nation he fought for. He delved into research again and stumbled upon a small, but growing organization called the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. He had intended to converse with them, understand their positions more clearly, but had shied away after the failed “Beer Hall Putsch.” Yet in 1925, with the publication of “Mein Kampf” Reinhard’s interest had piqued again. This man, Adolf Hitler, had stood for the same ideals he had retained since adolescence: a German Germany, strong from within. Soon after he left for Bavaria to see Herr Hitler speak, and it was all and more than he had absorbed from the man’s book. The way he held himself and with great passion poured his heart to even the smallest crowd made Reinhard certain his future was here, with this movement. He joined the Party thereafter.
Life had meaning again, and he had become more social than he had ever been within his lifetime. He spent most of his time campaigning for the Party, touring the country. Late in 1926, while campaigning in Westphalia, he met a woman sitting outside a café. She exemplified the Aryan ideal: blonde, blue-eyed, tall and thin. He sat beside her, casual as he could be and asked her name. Heidi von Essen. She was of nobility, though nothing so overwhelming it would be out of line for him to court her. So he did just that, and she accepted his advances until they had become a couple and two years later became husband and wife. 1928 had brought other happy news as well. Reinhard received a personal visit from the Reichsführer himself, inviting Reinhard to become a member of the Schutzstaffel. He was told “the Führer and I are very impressed with your dedication to the Party, and of course, your military service to the Reich in past years.” Reinhard agreed immediately, and not long after he and Heidi began touring with Hitler, their first child was born, a girl, Franziska. Reinhard promised his daughter then that she would see Germany even better than he knew it.
In 1933, all of the Party’s work seemed to be coming to fruition. Hitler was elected Chancellor. Reinhard’s own life continued to improve as his family had grown, he now had a son, Rudolf, who was four years old, and his daughter had turned five. A year later, Reinhard faced a difficult task, though he would commit the act without question, as his loyalty was first and foremost to the Führer. Ernst Röhm, head of the SA was manifesting himself as a threat to Hitler and the stability of the NSDAP. Thus the “Röhm-Putsch” would take its toll. But Reinhard’s sister Ingrid, who he had surprisingly grown close to within the time she had moved back in with him and their parents, was married to a member of the SA, and one, he learned, was set to be executed. His division, along with Göring’s Landespolizeigruppe, would be the executioners. He confided some guilt in an old friend, whom he was surprised to see had also joined the Party, and was even more surprised to see, outranked him considerably. Heydrich reinforced Reinhard’s belief that the deed need be done in order to protect the state. So in July of 1934 Reinhard arrested, and shot to death his sister’s husband.
He never told her the truth behind it, she knew only what the government released to the public and it destroyed her just as well than if he were to divulge the entire truth, or so he pacified that small guilt with. He never did see her again after that year, only receiving letters from his remaining sisters, Josefine and Margarethe, that she was living alone somewhere in Berlin, completely dependant on the bottle. But his guilt subsided over time, as he had the rest of his family to take care of without running after Ingrid. He had a third son by now, Thomas, all of his children pictures of the Aryan ideal. It made him proud, that to equal the pride that swelled with him when he stood as a part of the honor guard for Adolf Hitler at the famed Nuremberg rallies or wherever else his Führer sent him. Once Hitler was officially pronounced Führer of all Germany, the nation saw its greatest change, and the Fatherland rose from the ashes. Reinhard’s importance grew considerably then, and it continued to build his ego. His friendship with Heydrich remained ever the same, and the two were often seen out together.
Then, in 1939, war broke out and the Führer ordered Reinhard and the rest of the LSSAH to join the Army Group South to aid in the fight against Poland. Old fears of war resurfaced, recalling the hell of the Great War. But Reinhard would not disobey his Führer, and Reinhard’s love for the Fatherland was too great to let the past make him weak. He knew too, if he did not fight, his children would lose the Germany they were growing to know. He fought for the Führer, he fought for his nation, he fought for his children. So he moved in with the 17 Infanterie-Division to do battle with the Poles. The war was just as vicious as he expected, and he had already the trust and admiration of his comrades, especially the younger ones who had never seen war before. After pushing back both Polish Infantry and Cavalry at Pabianice, he was again transferred to the 4 Panzer-Division and within the next year was transferred to the border of Holland. Reinhard hated the constant reassignment, and hated more the feeling of letting his comrades down, as the LSSAH did continue to suffer heavy losses.
In summer of 1940, Reinhard was sent to a place of bitter memory. The LSSAH were in Arras, against the British. It was the same battlefield, the same enemy as the Great War, the same place Reinhard had lost his eye. He had learned well to shoot without it by now, and he vowed to slaughter each Brit with the same measure of brutality he was treated with. He did just that, although the Germans had seemed the apparent losers in the fight, he still had the satisfaction of plucking the eye out of a struggling British soldier. At Wormhoudt that same year, Reinhard took it upon himself to aid SS-Hauptsturmführer Mohnke in destroying British POWs for the supposed death of Sepp Dietrich. Upon learning that the report was false, Reinhard again wrote it off as satisfaction for destroying more Brits. In 1941, the LSSAH was transferred east again to fight in the Balkans and to take part in Operation Marita: to take Greece through Bulgaria and Yugoslavia. Reinhard took part in the Battle of Vevi, which resulted in a German victory. Thereafter, the LSSAH was sent to join Army Group South as it had for the Polish battles, to prepare for Operation Barbarossa. Initially Reinhard was attached to the LIV Armee-Korps then to Panzergruppe 1, and then back, involved in minor skirmishes until Barbarossa came into action on 17 September 1941. The battles in the harsh winter conditions were vicious, and Reinhard had seen many men freeze to death. He blamed the weather partially for Army Group South’s fall back to Rostov-on-Don, and they spent months fighting to recapture it.
However, during this time, Reinhard took leave, returning to Germany for the funeral of a very dear friend. Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, then Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia had been assassinated by Czech insurgents. This came as a devastating blow to him, as he had lost his first and most true friend. Reinhard, though he would never admit it, cried for days on end. He carried a picture of his friend with him everywhere thereafter, and kept it close to him just as he did the picture of his family. He would fight for his friend’s honor now as well; he would win the war for Germany so Heydrich would not have died in vain. He said goodbye to his wife and children, both of his son’s were in the Jungvolk by now, but his daughter, part of the BDM, rarely participated or showed any love for Germany at all. Not long after Reinhard returned to the East, he received a letter from his wife, saying their daughter had run away in defiance of the Führer and of a Germany she hated and (hopefully) just to inflame her parents, she wrote she had run off with a Jewish boy. This had taken another great toll on Reinhard, and that letter’s contents were quickly passed around the LSSAH. Most had sympathy for the man; other’s questioned what sort of environment the girl was raised in that would cause her to hate her own Volk. Some men even questioned Reinhard’s integrity on the matter, which was quickly put to rest with a few bloody noses. Relatively quickly, Reinhard denounced his daughter, as his love for Germany had outweighed that for anyone who was ungrateful for what he and the Führer were doing. He kept her in the back of his mind, and though he would not admit it, he was sure he would forgive her should she ever return. Partially broken, Reinhard set his attention on Kharkov, were the LSSAH’s next great advance would take place.
(I'm not quite sure how far the war has progressed here, so I left it open at 1943)
Military Rank: Whatever the admins see fit. I tried to leave him open for anything, though I’d love an officer rank to placate my character’s huge ego. LOL
Writing Sample:
Scenario: You’re alone behind enemy lines and you get the eerie feeling someone’s watching you. You’re trying to remain quiet, stay low, work your way back to the frontlines - but you can’t help but feel you’re being followed… (How does your character React? What’s running through their mind?)
The sky hung dismal, heavy and grey as if in an instant it may implode upon the earth, smothering the unfortunates beneath. The Soviet state was a wasteland in itself, and the environment seemed intent on the demoralization of the men that fought within it. Reinhard glanced upwards, catching patches of it through the dense woods. He called it perpetual twilight, as grey was a façade of true night, just as the pseudo-night created by the trees, stretching up so high as almost to create a fortress with their branches, giving shade where shadows and enemies may hide. Reinhard had not seen true night in years, not since the Great War, though he gave these pretenders due notation. Men could fear shadows as much as pure darkness. Vigorously shaking the thought from his mind he focused intently on the fragmented skyline where snowflakes wafted down, falling into his eyes, causing him to blink hard and finally tear his gaze away. He had been searching for low-flying aircraft, the echo of a mortar perhaps, or even the ricochet of a single bullet. The fallback from Rostov-on-Don had been a messy one as the entire Army Group South had been pushed back to the Mius River. The city had been captured in a month and seemed to have been lost just as quickly. Reinhard wondered where the Reds obtained their manpower, as they seemed to have a limitless supply of throwaway soldiers. They were a mechanized army, a bestial people, and Stalin could at will unbind them and release them in the world. He held the reigns, lives meant nothing to him. Reinhard spat at the ground at the thought of Stalin’s name, and glowed with pride for the man he fought for. The Führer cared for the German people, each and every one. He took special notice of his soldiers and thus every man that fought alongside Reinhard was the pinnacle of an Aryan. There was a certain loyalty and comfort in standing beside one’s Volk, rising up in the common cause to crush the opposition to the salvation of culture, and though his line had been pushed back to the defensive he knew the opportunity would arise again to battle the Reds when they returned, if he could find his division, or any hint of a German encampment.
Reinhard sank beneath an old tree and leaned into its frostbitten bark, contemplating how he had gotten lost in the first place. He and several others from his division had been separated from Panzergruppe 1 in the early stages of the fallback and clung to the nearest cluster of retreating soldiers, names and ranks and regiments all a vapid memory. Recalling now with bitter disgust there had been a dispute in direction over the fastest and safest methods of regrouping along the river. Reinhard chose against the younger men the path of experienced soldiers, many of whom had fought in the Great War just as he. But they proved to be little more than senile geriatrics who were too far gone for the battlefield. After what seemed like hours of wandering aimlessly through the Russian tundra, Reinhard had taken upon his wit and his map to find his way back to headquarters. But the trick was on him now, and it seemed he too was feeble-minded as hours had passed and he had not made any progress, though in his defense he could attest to the poor directions given by the old men. He spat at the ground again, fuming at the very thought they might have reached camp before him. There was no point in attempting to decipher the map now as he had no source of light, having used up his supply of matches on cigarettes. Reading by moonlight was no satisfying option either, for no matter how many years and how many activities he adapted to having only one eye this was not one of them. “Damnit,” he muttered to himself, throwing back his head again, allowing tiny snowflakes to drift of the branches onto his face. He played the directions over and over again in his mind. Camp will be along the river, deep enough into the woods as to slow those damn Reds, close enough to the city should we be back on the offensive within the week. There will be scouts everywhere in the forest, and more than likely you will run into a Panzergruppe. If you get lost, follow the river south. Reinhard’s compass had been pointing him south all day and still he had seen no sign of the Mius River, no German scouts, no Panzer units, not even so much as a deer. Thinking again, he would have preferred the company of the old men to his own thoughts as of now, the silence was eerie.
Rising and stretching exaggeratedly, Reinhard picked up his MP40 and slung it over his shoulder. He would get nowhere sitting still, not back to battle or camp. Trudging on, his boots kicked up snow and he could feel it through the leather. The uniforms provided were not exactly befitting of the weather, and this alone had killed men. Reinhard shivered violently as icy sinews gripped him, a gust of wind whipping at his exposed face. Perhaps he would die out here before the Reds would have a chance at him. He rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously and blew on them, his hot breath only a temporary relief as he tried to retain as much heat as possible. Thinking back to warmer times, happy memories to distract himself, he patted the pictures tucked safely away in his pocket, his family and friends. He wondered what Heidi and the children were doing, no doubt preparing for Christmas, decorating a tree in vibrant hues and singing carols beside the old piano his wife had inherited from her father. He thought of his friend Reinhard, no doubt cooped up in an office somewhere in Prague, as in his last letter he had told Reinhard he had been made Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia. Reinhard had promised that when he could take leave he would come visit the Czech lands and see how his old friend was reforming them. He wished he could be beside them always, but that was why he fought, so that may be obtainable and constant when the German Reich was at last at peace, standing Europe’s most strong and proud nation, as was always meant to be.
Reinhard broke from his reverie with a start; something had penetrated the silence with the snap of a twig. His reaction was swift with trained precision as he swung his MP40 to each point around himself, ready to return fire should any ensue. But nothing stepped out from the darkness. The silence was restored, though with each minute became more deafening, maddening. Reinhard quickened his pace for the next hundred yards or so before coming to a dead halt. Logic had crept up on him and he cursed himself. He had gone from acting an old fool to acting as an inexperienced young man might. Were an enemy tailing him he would have made it clear by now that he had caught them at it by the way he wildly wielded his weapon. He, too, would have made it plain that he was alone in how he quickened his step, a man followed by an army walked in confidence, he did not scurry away like a mouse from a stalking cat. He could only hope now that he was indeed alone.
So it seemed for the next mile as Reinhard tried to keep focus on direction, every so often fiddling with a compass that he could barely see until he gave it up as a bad job and sent it hurtling into the depths of the forest. Nevertheless he shot the occasional glance over his shoulder and pricked his ears up like a wolf, distinguishing his own sounds from those of his environment, discerning for foreign elements. But little came to his notice, save a false alarm of an owl rustling its wings, and Reinhard’s disquiet had begun to ease, until that same snapping sound resounded from behind him. Prepared, this time he kept to his wits, and continued forward as if taking no notice. The snapping sound continued with increasing frequency, and Reinhard was certain he could hear low voices whispering in harsh foreign tongues. A plan had begun to formulate within his brain but he would not take action until he could prove his creeping suspicions. As if in sync with his thoughts, a shadow crossed his line of sight: that of a man in combat uniform, though distinctively not German. Reinhard seized an opportunity of considerable darkness to duck behind the trunk of a large tree. The snapping stopped. The voices halted. Reinhard was certain they would start up again soon enough, he knew these Reds to be not so thick as to believe they had just crossed a ghost soldier, though his life was riding on their inability to differentiate the sounds of their own weapons from enemy fire. On a heavy sigh, Reinhard pulled his P08 Parabellum from its holster, aimed it facing the Russians’ path and pulled the trigger.
Reinhard issued a deep, guttural cry and collapsed in the snow face first, his pistol lying at his side. He lay still, still as death. Boots charged through the snow in a clamor, and Reinhard could barely suppress a smile. His tactic had worked, the Reds had believed him killed by one of their own, or so he gathered from their triumphant tones, cheering and jeering in their piggish voices. Reinhard felt a boot press up against his cheek, and kick his face aside. He could have killed the man then, but the time was not appropriate, it would only be a few more seconds. Opening his good eye just a sliver, he saw their backs turned to him, calling out triumphantly to nothing in the direction he had fired from. Now was the time. Springing up, he walloped the nearest man in the back of the skull, drawing blood with the sharp points of his knuckle dusters that he had slipped on in secrecy. They were not standard issue, and had not been used formally since the 1920’s when street brawls were commonplace, but Reinhard favored them nonetheless and carried them in concealment. Scum did not deserve the mercy of the gun when more pleasurable options were available. Reinhard’s opponent collapsed with a breathy moan and a thud, blood oozing profusely from his wound, painting the snow a vivid vermillion. The other men turned upon catching the noise, situating their weapons for redress. Reinhard had been too quick, however, and had already opened fire with his MP40, emptying nearly 500 rounds into the bodies of the Reds, though not before being clipped by a TT-33. Pain gripped him. He bit down hard on his lip to suppress it, nearly splitting it. His right hand was clenched tightly around his left shoulder, droplets of blood squeezing between his fingers, flowing like miniature rivers onto the snowy ground. Here Red blood mixed with blue blood, but they were all the same color to the eye, only a man’s heart could tell the difference. Bending down with a pained expression, Reinhard retrieved his MP40 and stumbled gingerly to replace his Luger. He had to make it back to camp now, lest the icy winds permeate his body and freeze his blood then and there. As he turned to continue forward he paused, and came to stand over the figure of a dead Russian, his face contorted, inhuman, Reinhard spat into his open mouth. He had to live, for no man could kill Reds from Heaven.
Terms; However, as much as I would love to embrace your character with an officer rank, there is currently a curfew on CO ranks. You can read about it Here.
CO ranks are quite popular on this website and they entail small privileges NCO ranks don't - then again, NCO ranks entail different privileges CO ranks don't.
Either way, we have too many Officers and the highest I can award you currently is a "2nd Lieutenant".If you would be happy to accept it, just let me know.
Otherwise, if you can wait a matter of three days (roughly), a Captain spot may open up for the Axis. You're more than welcome to choose a NCO rank if you decided otherwise.
Anyhow, I'll let you mull this over and notify a staff member either via PM or in the chat-box once you've decided.
Thanks,
~Danny
Account E-Mail: xbootsnbracesx@yahoo.com
Name: Reinhard Nickolaus Dachser
Nationality: Aryan/German
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath? That of a Greater National Socialist Germany
Character History:
Reinhard was born 4 March, 1898, the third child of a socially connected and considerably well-off family in Halle an der Saale, Germany, a mere block away where from fate’s divine hand a future compatriot bearing the same name would be born in short years to come. In his early years he lacked a sense of male companionship, having only sisters and a hired nursemaid to look after them. Reinhard’s father dabbled in stock and personal investments, taking particular interest in the iron and steel industries, as the German Industrial Revolution loomed closer. The man knew well he could not ride the trust left by his father for life. Reinhard’s mother was a pseudo-socialite, lacking any considerable title and nobility, but carrying the attitude of a Fürstin. These circumstances began shaping Reinhard’s psychological self into a relentless introvert, as the games of girls and fancies of the many women who surrounded him held little interest for him. He retreated into his childish mind, and held to fantasies for what they were worth.
By the time he had entered Vorschule, most thought him mute from his almost surreal shyness and aloof nature, were it not for those gestures of minute polite conversation that had been instilled in him. He succeeded greatly in those three years, in all ways but socially, it was not until the summer before he was to enter Gymnasium that he attained any sense of friendship. His elder sister, Ingrid, had been insisting to an almost obnoxious degree for music instruction, hoping dearly that a few sweet sonatas might win a young man’s heart. Their father had for a few years been getting better acquainted with a man named Bruno Heydrich, who directed a Conservatory right in Halle. Reinhard accompanied his sister and their parents to the Halle Conservatory of Music to set up a lesson schedule. During the tedious bantering that ensued past the initial conversation, Reinhard did as any preteen, and wandered on his own, he ran into the middle son of the owner, a six year old, equally shy. Conversation began upon learning the two shared the same first name. Soon enough they had broken through each other’s shell and Reinhard had deemed the other something of an adopted little brother.
Within the next years Reinhard spent countless days with his protégé, and the younger Reinhard introduced the elder to a Nationalist ideal, the one upon which he was raised. The idea of patriotism intrigued Reinhard so much he began to obsess over the military, studying the history of war rather than paying attention to his schoolwork. The two Reinhards went out often with elder boys, protesting Jews, foreigners, Communists, and other supposed enemies of the Fatherland. Reinhard had it set that he would become a soldier, and upon revealing this ambition to his “younger brother” the other was most pleased, and expressed the idea that he wanted to “be just like him.” Reinhard needed wait for his opportunity, which came soon in 1914, when the Pan-Slavic Nationalist group known as the Black Hand assassinated Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand. On 3 August of that same year, Germany entered the war, and men, eager for glory and filled with patriotism, were signing up to fight. Yet, Reinhard was only 16 that year, two years too young to enlist. But the young man would not be deterred so easy. Eager to fulfill his dream and impress his young friend, he added two years to his age and enlisted in the army, without his parents’ knowledge or consent.
Training held true to all of his expectations, even the harsh disciplinary tactics, which were oddly reminiscent of his nursemaid of his toddler years. The thrill of holding a weapon was great, and Reinhard was certain he would come home a war hero. In December of 1914, his unit, the 80th Reserve Division, was sent to the Eastern Front to fight against the Russians. It was not until early February that the actual fighting began, and Reinhard learned what war was truly about. Blood on snow, Reinhard would always remember his first kill, how the Russian crumbled without so much as objection, how within that same instant a rain of bullets were sent howling back at him. He had seen men he knew die, men he had spoken with mere hours ago. It was either kill or be killed, and Reinhard was happy in the least that Germany was advancing on the Russians. That all ended, however, when a counterattack by the Russian Twelfth Army halted any further chance of a German advance.
In 1917 Reinhard’s division was sent to the Western Front, enjoying a short term as a reserve until he was sent out to fight again. Once the Battle of Arras had begun, Reinhard was in and out of trenches, barely surviving the “creeping barrage” tactic used by the advancing Canadians at Vimy Ridge. Nearing the end of the battle, Reinhard was captured at Scarpe by a particularly brutal British soldier. Taking his bayonet to Reinhard’s forehead, he expected his brain to be speared, and yet with a sadistic smile the British soldier dug his bayonet along Reinhard’s eye. The pain was worse than death, and Reinhard begged the man to kill him, and as the other aligned his sight to do just that, the British soldier fell dead, and a man from Reinhard’s regiment stood over him, pure hatred etched upon his visage.
Reinhard was taken to a field hospital, where for weeks morphine was his only salvation and soon after he was sent home, unable to fight with only half his sight. Upon his return he was greeted by his teary-eyed mother and sisters, and a Silver Wound Badge from the Kaiser. He examined the bitter irony of the situation: a family that paid him no mind until he nearly died, a family that never looked at him until he was disfigured, a family that never really loved him until his soul had already been robbed of such emotions. He was disillusioned for certain, and his hatred for the war only increased when Germany surrendered. Everything he had fought for had been in vain. His anger had only been mollified in the slightest by his friend Reinhard Heydrich, who was 14 by now. They shared anger, hatred for Germany’s enemies that had caused this hell and disgrace.
Then the depression hit. America’s economy collapsed, and a “domino effect” brought Germany the same fate, as the German economy was dependent on exports and loans (primarily from America) and without the demand a great many Germans were left unemployed. The effects of the depression hit Reinhard’s and his friend’s family hard, Reinhard’s father’s innumerable stocks worthless now. He had gotten letters from all of his sisters, each suffering, Ingrid so much that she needed move back home, taking her husband with her, as the two had lost their home. Reinhard was through with this new ‘Weimar Republic’ a shoddy excuse for a government set up by Allied specifications. He looked for new politics, any group that might share his interests in restoring Germany to the great nation he fought for. He delved into research again and stumbled upon a small, but growing organization called the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. He had intended to converse with them, understand their positions more clearly, but had shied away after the failed “Beer Hall Putsch.” Yet in 1925, with the publication of “Mein Kampf” Reinhard’s interest had piqued again. This man, Adolf Hitler, had stood for the same ideals he had retained since adolescence: a German Germany, strong from within. Soon after he left for Bavaria to see Herr Hitler speak, and it was all and more than he had absorbed from the man’s book. The way he held himself and with great passion poured his heart to even the smallest crowd made Reinhard certain his future was here, with this movement. He joined the Party thereafter.
Life had meaning again, and he had become more social than he had ever been within his lifetime. He spent most of his time campaigning for the Party, touring the country. Late in 1926, while campaigning in Westphalia, he met a woman sitting outside a café. She exemplified the Aryan ideal: blonde, blue-eyed, tall and thin. He sat beside her, casual as he could be and asked her name. Heidi von Essen. She was of nobility, though nothing so overwhelming it would be out of line for him to court her. So he did just that, and she accepted his advances until they had become a couple and two years later became husband and wife. 1928 had brought other happy news as well. Reinhard received a personal visit from the Reichsführer himself, inviting Reinhard to become a member of the Schutzstaffel. He was told “the Führer and I are very impressed with your dedication to the Party, and of course, your military service to the Reich in past years.” Reinhard agreed immediately, and not long after he and Heidi began touring with Hitler, their first child was born, a girl, Franziska. Reinhard promised his daughter then that she would see Germany even better than he knew it.
In 1933, all of the Party’s work seemed to be coming to fruition. Hitler was elected Chancellor. Reinhard’s own life continued to improve as his family had grown, he now had a son, Rudolf, who was four years old, and his daughter had turned five. A year later, Reinhard faced a difficult task, though he would commit the act without question, as his loyalty was first and foremost to the Führer. Ernst Röhm, head of the SA was manifesting himself as a threat to Hitler and the stability of the NSDAP. Thus the “Röhm-Putsch” would take its toll. But Reinhard’s sister Ingrid, who he had surprisingly grown close to within the time she had moved back in with him and their parents, was married to a member of the SA, and one, he learned, was set to be executed. His division, along with Göring’s Landespolizeigruppe, would be the executioners. He confided some guilt in an old friend, whom he was surprised to see had also joined the Party, and was even more surprised to see, outranked him considerably. Heydrich reinforced Reinhard’s belief that the deed need be done in order to protect the state. So in July of 1934 Reinhard arrested, and shot to death his sister’s husband.
He never told her the truth behind it, she knew only what the government released to the public and it destroyed her just as well than if he were to divulge the entire truth, or so he pacified that small guilt with. He never did see her again after that year, only receiving letters from his remaining sisters, Josefine and Margarethe, that she was living alone somewhere in Berlin, completely dependant on the bottle. But his guilt subsided over time, as he had the rest of his family to take care of without running after Ingrid. He had a third son by now, Thomas, all of his children pictures of the Aryan ideal. It made him proud, that to equal the pride that swelled with him when he stood as a part of the honor guard for Adolf Hitler at the famed Nuremberg rallies or wherever else his Führer sent him. Once Hitler was officially pronounced Führer of all Germany, the nation saw its greatest change, and the Fatherland rose from the ashes. Reinhard’s importance grew considerably then, and it continued to build his ego. His friendship with Heydrich remained ever the same, and the two were often seen out together.
Then, in 1939, war broke out and the Führer ordered Reinhard and the rest of the LSSAH to join the Army Group South to aid in the fight against Poland. Old fears of war resurfaced, recalling the hell of the Great War. But Reinhard would not disobey his Führer, and Reinhard’s love for the Fatherland was too great to let the past make him weak. He knew too, if he did not fight, his children would lose the Germany they were growing to know. He fought for the Führer, he fought for his nation, he fought for his children. So he moved in with the 17 Infanterie-Division to do battle with the Poles. The war was just as vicious as he expected, and he had already the trust and admiration of his comrades, especially the younger ones who had never seen war before. After pushing back both Polish Infantry and Cavalry at Pabianice, he was again transferred to the 4 Panzer-Division and within the next year was transferred to the border of Holland. Reinhard hated the constant reassignment, and hated more the feeling of letting his comrades down, as the LSSAH did continue to suffer heavy losses.
In summer of 1940, Reinhard was sent to a place of bitter memory. The LSSAH were in Arras, against the British. It was the same battlefield, the same enemy as the Great War, the same place Reinhard had lost his eye. He had learned well to shoot without it by now, and he vowed to slaughter each Brit with the same measure of brutality he was treated with. He did just that, although the Germans had seemed the apparent losers in the fight, he still had the satisfaction of plucking the eye out of a struggling British soldier. At Wormhoudt that same year, Reinhard took it upon himself to aid SS-Hauptsturmführer Mohnke in destroying British POWs for the supposed death of Sepp Dietrich. Upon learning that the report was false, Reinhard again wrote it off as satisfaction for destroying more Brits. In 1941, the LSSAH was transferred east again to fight in the Balkans and to take part in Operation Marita: to take Greece through Bulgaria and Yugoslavia. Reinhard took part in the Battle of Vevi, which resulted in a German victory. Thereafter, the LSSAH was sent to join Army Group South as it had for the Polish battles, to prepare for Operation Barbarossa. Initially Reinhard was attached to the LIV Armee-Korps then to Panzergruppe 1, and then back, involved in minor skirmishes until Barbarossa came into action on 17 September 1941. The battles in the harsh winter conditions were vicious, and Reinhard had seen many men freeze to death. He blamed the weather partially for Army Group South’s fall back to Rostov-on-Don, and they spent months fighting to recapture it.
However, during this time, Reinhard took leave, returning to Germany for the funeral of a very dear friend. Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, then Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia had been assassinated by Czech insurgents. This came as a devastating blow to him, as he had lost his first and most true friend. Reinhard, though he would never admit it, cried for days on end. He carried a picture of his friend with him everywhere thereafter, and kept it close to him just as he did the picture of his family. He would fight for his friend’s honor now as well; he would win the war for Germany so Heydrich would not have died in vain. He said goodbye to his wife and children, both of his son’s were in the Jungvolk by now, but his daughter, part of the BDM, rarely participated or showed any love for Germany at all. Not long after Reinhard returned to the East, he received a letter from his wife, saying their daughter had run away in defiance of the Führer and of a Germany she hated and (hopefully) just to inflame her parents, she wrote she had run off with a Jewish boy. This had taken another great toll on Reinhard, and that letter’s contents were quickly passed around the LSSAH. Most had sympathy for the man; other’s questioned what sort of environment the girl was raised in that would cause her to hate her own Volk. Some men even questioned Reinhard’s integrity on the matter, which was quickly put to rest with a few bloody noses. Relatively quickly, Reinhard denounced his daughter, as his love for Germany had outweighed that for anyone who was ungrateful for what he and the Führer were doing. He kept her in the back of his mind, and though he would not admit it, he was sure he would forgive her should she ever return. Partially broken, Reinhard set his attention on Kharkov, were the LSSAH’s next great advance would take place.
(I'm not quite sure how far the war has progressed here, so I left it open at 1943)
Military Rank: Whatever the admins see fit. I tried to leave him open for anything, though I’d love an officer rank to placate my character’s huge ego. LOL
Writing Sample:
Scenario: You’re alone behind enemy lines and you get the eerie feeling someone’s watching you. You’re trying to remain quiet, stay low, work your way back to the frontlines - but you can’t help but feel you’re being followed… (How does your character React? What’s running through their mind?)
The sky hung dismal, heavy and grey as if in an instant it may implode upon the earth, smothering the unfortunates beneath. The Soviet state was a wasteland in itself, and the environment seemed intent on the demoralization of the men that fought within it. Reinhard glanced upwards, catching patches of it through the dense woods. He called it perpetual twilight, as grey was a façade of true night, just as the pseudo-night created by the trees, stretching up so high as almost to create a fortress with their branches, giving shade where shadows and enemies may hide. Reinhard had not seen true night in years, not since the Great War, though he gave these pretenders due notation. Men could fear shadows as much as pure darkness. Vigorously shaking the thought from his mind he focused intently on the fragmented skyline where snowflakes wafted down, falling into his eyes, causing him to blink hard and finally tear his gaze away. He had been searching for low-flying aircraft, the echo of a mortar perhaps, or even the ricochet of a single bullet. The fallback from Rostov-on-Don had been a messy one as the entire Army Group South had been pushed back to the Mius River. The city had been captured in a month and seemed to have been lost just as quickly. Reinhard wondered where the Reds obtained their manpower, as they seemed to have a limitless supply of throwaway soldiers. They were a mechanized army, a bestial people, and Stalin could at will unbind them and release them in the world. He held the reigns, lives meant nothing to him. Reinhard spat at the ground at the thought of Stalin’s name, and glowed with pride for the man he fought for. The Führer cared for the German people, each and every one. He took special notice of his soldiers and thus every man that fought alongside Reinhard was the pinnacle of an Aryan. There was a certain loyalty and comfort in standing beside one’s Volk, rising up in the common cause to crush the opposition to the salvation of culture, and though his line had been pushed back to the defensive he knew the opportunity would arise again to battle the Reds when they returned, if he could find his division, or any hint of a German encampment.
Reinhard sank beneath an old tree and leaned into its frostbitten bark, contemplating how he had gotten lost in the first place. He and several others from his division had been separated from Panzergruppe 1 in the early stages of the fallback and clung to the nearest cluster of retreating soldiers, names and ranks and regiments all a vapid memory. Recalling now with bitter disgust there had been a dispute in direction over the fastest and safest methods of regrouping along the river. Reinhard chose against the younger men the path of experienced soldiers, many of whom had fought in the Great War just as he. But they proved to be little more than senile geriatrics who were too far gone for the battlefield. After what seemed like hours of wandering aimlessly through the Russian tundra, Reinhard had taken upon his wit and his map to find his way back to headquarters. But the trick was on him now, and it seemed he too was feeble-minded as hours had passed and he had not made any progress, though in his defense he could attest to the poor directions given by the old men. He spat at the ground again, fuming at the very thought they might have reached camp before him. There was no point in attempting to decipher the map now as he had no source of light, having used up his supply of matches on cigarettes. Reading by moonlight was no satisfying option either, for no matter how many years and how many activities he adapted to having only one eye this was not one of them. “Damnit,” he muttered to himself, throwing back his head again, allowing tiny snowflakes to drift of the branches onto his face. He played the directions over and over again in his mind. Camp will be along the river, deep enough into the woods as to slow those damn Reds, close enough to the city should we be back on the offensive within the week. There will be scouts everywhere in the forest, and more than likely you will run into a Panzergruppe. If you get lost, follow the river south. Reinhard’s compass had been pointing him south all day and still he had seen no sign of the Mius River, no German scouts, no Panzer units, not even so much as a deer. Thinking again, he would have preferred the company of the old men to his own thoughts as of now, the silence was eerie.
Rising and stretching exaggeratedly, Reinhard picked up his MP40 and slung it over his shoulder. He would get nowhere sitting still, not back to battle or camp. Trudging on, his boots kicked up snow and he could feel it through the leather. The uniforms provided were not exactly befitting of the weather, and this alone had killed men. Reinhard shivered violently as icy sinews gripped him, a gust of wind whipping at his exposed face. Perhaps he would die out here before the Reds would have a chance at him. He rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously and blew on them, his hot breath only a temporary relief as he tried to retain as much heat as possible. Thinking back to warmer times, happy memories to distract himself, he patted the pictures tucked safely away in his pocket, his family and friends. He wondered what Heidi and the children were doing, no doubt preparing for Christmas, decorating a tree in vibrant hues and singing carols beside the old piano his wife had inherited from her father. He thought of his friend Reinhard, no doubt cooped up in an office somewhere in Prague, as in his last letter he had told Reinhard he had been made Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia. Reinhard had promised that when he could take leave he would come visit the Czech lands and see how his old friend was reforming them. He wished he could be beside them always, but that was why he fought, so that may be obtainable and constant when the German Reich was at last at peace, standing Europe’s most strong and proud nation, as was always meant to be.
Reinhard broke from his reverie with a start; something had penetrated the silence with the snap of a twig. His reaction was swift with trained precision as he swung his MP40 to each point around himself, ready to return fire should any ensue. But nothing stepped out from the darkness. The silence was restored, though with each minute became more deafening, maddening. Reinhard quickened his pace for the next hundred yards or so before coming to a dead halt. Logic had crept up on him and he cursed himself. He had gone from acting an old fool to acting as an inexperienced young man might. Were an enemy tailing him he would have made it clear by now that he had caught them at it by the way he wildly wielded his weapon. He, too, would have made it plain that he was alone in how he quickened his step, a man followed by an army walked in confidence, he did not scurry away like a mouse from a stalking cat. He could only hope now that he was indeed alone.
So it seemed for the next mile as Reinhard tried to keep focus on direction, every so often fiddling with a compass that he could barely see until he gave it up as a bad job and sent it hurtling into the depths of the forest. Nevertheless he shot the occasional glance over his shoulder and pricked his ears up like a wolf, distinguishing his own sounds from those of his environment, discerning for foreign elements. But little came to his notice, save a false alarm of an owl rustling its wings, and Reinhard’s disquiet had begun to ease, until that same snapping sound resounded from behind him. Prepared, this time he kept to his wits, and continued forward as if taking no notice. The snapping sound continued with increasing frequency, and Reinhard was certain he could hear low voices whispering in harsh foreign tongues. A plan had begun to formulate within his brain but he would not take action until he could prove his creeping suspicions. As if in sync with his thoughts, a shadow crossed his line of sight: that of a man in combat uniform, though distinctively not German. Reinhard seized an opportunity of considerable darkness to duck behind the trunk of a large tree. The snapping stopped. The voices halted. Reinhard was certain they would start up again soon enough, he knew these Reds to be not so thick as to believe they had just crossed a ghost soldier, though his life was riding on their inability to differentiate the sounds of their own weapons from enemy fire. On a heavy sigh, Reinhard pulled his P08 Parabellum from its holster, aimed it facing the Russians’ path and pulled the trigger.
Reinhard issued a deep, guttural cry and collapsed in the snow face first, his pistol lying at his side. He lay still, still as death. Boots charged through the snow in a clamor, and Reinhard could barely suppress a smile. His tactic had worked, the Reds had believed him killed by one of their own, or so he gathered from their triumphant tones, cheering and jeering in their piggish voices. Reinhard felt a boot press up against his cheek, and kick his face aside. He could have killed the man then, but the time was not appropriate, it would only be a few more seconds. Opening his good eye just a sliver, he saw their backs turned to him, calling out triumphantly to nothing in the direction he had fired from. Now was the time. Springing up, he walloped the nearest man in the back of the skull, drawing blood with the sharp points of his knuckle dusters that he had slipped on in secrecy. They were not standard issue, and had not been used formally since the 1920’s when street brawls were commonplace, but Reinhard favored them nonetheless and carried them in concealment. Scum did not deserve the mercy of the gun when more pleasurable options were available. Reinhard’s opponent collapsed with a breathy moan and a thud, blood oozing profusely from his wound, painting the snow a vivid vermillion. The other men turned upon catching the noise, situating their weapons for redress. Reinhard had been too quick, however, and had already opened fire with his MP40, emptying nearly 500 rounds into the bodies of the Reds, though not before being clipped by a TT-33. Pain gripped him. He bit down hard on his lip to suppress it, nearly splitting it. His right hand was clenched tightly around his left shoulder, droplets of blood squeezing between his fingers, flowing like miniature rivers onto the snowy ground. Here Red blood mixed with blue blood, but they were all the same color to the eye, only a man’s heart could tell the difference. Bending down with a pained expression, Reinhard retrieved his MP40 and stumbled gingerly to replace his Luger. He had to make it back to camp now, lest the icy winds permeate his body and freeze his blood then and there. As he turned to continue forward he paused, and came to stand over the figure of a dead Russian, his face contorted, inhuman, Reinhard spat into his open mouth. He had to live, for no man could kill Reds from Heaven.