Post by Guest on Oct 19, 2009 15:43:53 GMT
Fantastic Application, I'll five you the rank of Lieutenant (UK equivalent of 1st Lieutenant).
~Dan
Account E-Mail: femme-noir@live.com
Name: Moritz Erichsen
Nationality: Scottish, German
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
UK, US or Soviet: UK
Character History:
Graham Alasdair Buchanan, son of Kentigern and Elspeth Buchanan, was born to a prosperous and notably privileged Scottish family one wintry November’s morning in 1887, in their country house at Aberdeen. Suffice it to say, he attended one of the most prominent boarding schools in the country, Fettes College, under the Kimmerghame House. It is there that he met his peers and future partners-in-crime: Barclay Dwyre, Fergus Mulligan, Malcolm Scarborough and Roderick Wimund. Graham was a spoiled child, whose incessant caprices, incommodious eccentricities and peculiar whimsicalities came to pass with such an obtuse and tenacious nature from his part, as made it impossible for his parents to ever refuse him anything, should they have wished to do so. Indeed, Elspeth Buchanan was largely responsible for Graham’s impertinence, on the grounds of her being incapacitated of a feeling remotely different than almost vicious adoration – she had been impregnated at the age of forty-seven and, thus, had considered Graham’s arrival as nothing short of a miracle, having once lost hope on ever giving birth to her own child. For a woman who had been spending her time by painting porcelain and playing with cats, it was a variation that altered her life forever. Kentigern Buchanan came from a family involved in matters of business and finance throughout the generations, resolving at an old age to participate in politics in a more energetic way than simply funding the Tory Party (the Conservatives), and thus became a Member of Parliament in the late 1880s. He, too, doted upon his son and initially planned for him to attend the same boarding school he had: Duke of York’s Royal Military School in Dover, with the ambitious prospect of Graham becoming one day Minister of Defence (his wife, however, had to ‘kindly’ intervene, as she would be pained to part with her precious son). Kentigern’s father, Wallace, had been a close contact of Prince Frederick Augustus, the Duke of York and Albany, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, and even received certain civil liberties from this acquaintance, as the Duke never failed to mention to his father, King George III, of Wallace Buchanan’s generosity of heart in subsidizing the costs of the army for the Battle of Waterloo. For these services he was awarded the Most Noble Order of the Garter. Throughout the generations, the Buchanans received distinguished recognition by technically using the monetary aspect to ascend in social status. Kentigern died in 1910, when Graham was twenty-three years old.
Graham unquestionably involved himself with politics (the Conservative Party), being a power-hungry and incredibly greedy man; he was possessed by illusions of becoming Prime Minister one day, and even schemed ways with which he could neutralize (a fancy word for ‘exterminate’) political opponents and silence the opposition. At the age of twenty-eight, when he had ascended the ladder, gaining the position of Financial Secretary to the Treasury. While such a promotion helped to boost his ego furthermore, he was restless and even disappointed that this position was not a Cabinet office and was only used on occasion, feeling envious for his school peer, Fergus Mulligan, in becoming Permanent Secretary to the Lord Chancellor’s Office. Graham used his position to embezzle with government funds and avoid taxes for a short period of time, in secret agreement with Lord John Stevenson from the HM Customs and Excise, who owed his family a favour after his name had been cleared on allegations of conspiracy and espionage. Graham once had a dinner with Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister for Pensions, Arthur Griffith-Boscawen, early in 1916, to secure provision for his own pensions, something that needed not be occasioned, since he would without a doubt be provided for at any rate – Graham, however, had several plans in mind, revolving around state embezzlement, and deemed it necessary to receive intelligence as to the terms and conditions of the pension, should John Stevenson’s illegal activities be exposed and thus affiliating Graham with him, and blackening his name and reputation, not to mention his ambition of becoming Prime Minister. Graham, of course, failed to inform Boscawen of such confidential information; he excused it to ‘natural curiosity’. Such is the world of politics.
Graham gained his position one year after the outbreak of the First World War, for which he was satisfied; he had secured a harmless place in the British government, in which he would not be forced to participate in the battlefield, for he was, simply enough, a coward and feared for his life. The very thought of being a private gave him migraines; he enjoyed the comfort of his own luxurious house, with the company of his elderly mother on occasion (which he usually avoided, as he considered her dull and unexciting; he had never appreciated her in his life), and the intimacy of several women throughout the week. He had no plans to marry and have children, until he became at least Chancellor of the Exchequer and was in his late forties. These plans were shattered with one mere visit to Germany. As early as 1919 (he had been made Member of the Parliament for Edinburgh North & Leith), he made a business trip in Berlin to receive information on the country’s economic status (post-war reparations repayments were disastrous for the country, which was subsequently incapacitated of purchasing goods; the currency rate had destabilized, also) and ascertain the repayments were implemented as accorded, accompanied by his four school peers, who had all gained envious positions in governmental departments. After his professional visit, he spent the night with his peers in cabarets, and that is when he met Dietlinde Erichsen.
Dietlinde Erichsen, daughter of Gerhard and Gretchen Erichsen, was born to an impoverished and notably underprivileged German family one warm April’s evening in 1902, in their cottage at Kaarst. Dietlinde’s parents were poor and unable to pay the numerous debts they owed here and there. Gerhard had been deadly wounded during the First World War, during which he had served as Private, climbing up the ladder and reaching the status of Sergeant with his hunting skills and ambush abilities. In 1917 Gerhard was imprisoned, under allegations of secretly being a Communist and thus an ‘enemy of the state’, and murdered in prison. Devoured in poverty, Gretchen and her only daughter had to live poorly since that incident, with Gretchen growing desperate day after day. As a family of farmers, they had been growing wheat, but due to Gretchen’s health problems, and despite Dietlinde’s help, they were left helpless and uncatered for. In 1918, Gretchen had applied to work as an assistant to a nurse in the Rhineland, recently occupied by Allied troops, leaving her daughter behind. Several weeks later, Gretchen found her abrupt death when an impassioned French soldier attacked her savagely, while throwing her a stream of invective for being German, after he had had a surgery to mutilate his leg on the account of gangrene. Dietlinde was left alone in the world, but never – except once – did she leave Kaarst, for she had seen no other part of the country, she was naturally introverted, and feared to travel.
The occasion called for it when she found out from a neighbour, who made visits to Berlin to sell various goods, that there were several open positions in a factory, where she could find work placement for twenty cents an hour. She had no other choice, on realizing she would die of hunger and poverty. Wearing nothing else but rags, she occupied a small space (skinny as she was) in her neighbour’s carriage and together set off for Berlin; delayed by the storm, she only arrived in the city at nine o’clock in the evening, where she found herself lost and troubled by the change of setting. She was a rural, country girl, not used to the lights, buildings, cement, and noise. She eventually found the factory, where the workers were still naturally doing their jobs respectively, and wasted half an hour at simply staring around her, baffled by the atrocious conditions of their work; not that there was any room for complaint, of course, and not that she was able for something better. She found the owner, who had stopped by on his way to a cabaret in order to check everything was running accordingly; he was a stout, short, elderly man with a German hat and a white mustache, looking particularly smug and joyful. Dietlinde approached him, and stammered her request; at first he looked at her with keen interest, his mind wandering on different diversions than what she allowed for, and finally agreed to taking her, despite the fact she had no previous knowledge or work experience, in his attempt to exploit whichever service of her he could get, even paying her less than the average female worker. Dietlinde had no other choice but agree.
Wandering the streets at night, trying to find the spot where she and her neighbour, Albert, had agreed to meet once each had finished with their business, she fell into Graham’s sight, on his way to the cabaret. She was nothing extraordinary, but she was a pretty girl, and it was screaming miles afar that she was a country girl, with absolutely no experience in city life. Graham seized the opportunity to exploit her. Graham was one of these people who prided themselves upon being ‘pure’ and of excellent quality; while he showed no interest in inferior creatures, he would devalue them, make them feel substandard, on the grounds that he believed that they should be painfully aware of their place. When he met Dietlinde, he immediately saw in himself the power over her, especially as she had nothing. She could easily be exploited, and that is what he did. When Dietlinde walked in the narrow, dark streets of Berlin, Graham, accompanied by his friends, followed her closely, insulted her, laughed at her, treated her like dirt, like she was not worth anything. She had of course no awareness of his identity, so she considered him a fool with airs for brains and would not even look at him when he chased after her just to taunt her. This caused such frustration to Graham that he went after her alone, grabbed her, and violated her in the dark. Dietlinde was eighteen years old when she was raped. After the incident, Graham had prided himself to his group of men that accompanied him to the dispatch; all of them had laughed and drank beer in his manhood. The dispatch was over and they were no longer needed, hence their return to England. They left that very day, while Dietlinde, injured and broken, tightened the rags around her, and stood in the street, secretly weeping alone for hours; the next day she walked home, a journey that drained her off any strength she might have had, stopping in small towns to relax herself. When she returned in Kaarst, several days later, she would not talk to anyone. Graham was utterly shocked to find out months later from strictly confidential people who worked for him undercover that the girl he had harassed had been impregnated and had given birth to the child. Graham was aiming to become Prime Minister and if information about his scandals leaked out, it would not only get him thrown out of the government but he would also receive public outcry and be imprisoned. Terror rising in his heart, he secretly travelled to Germany in search of the girl and her bastard, with the intention to eliminate both. When Dietlinde received intelligence of his arrival, scared of her son’s life, she hid him in the neighbour’s house. Graham soon found her, anger exploding inside of him; he literally burned her alive in the night, the refuge of sinners. Her body was found two years later. She had only been eighteen years old.
Graham tried to find the boy but could not. He returned home, always with the fear that he would turn up in years and destroy what he had built so far; Graham would never rest until the boy was found, which is why he always had his people on the lookout. Moritz, the baby, who took his mother’s surname, grew up with the people of the streets. He had never known his mother, never known his father, but he had been told his story, and there was no need for further explanations. Moritz never attended any school, which explains his brutal and severe manners, his lack of elegance, culture, education and etiquette. He is a strong and persistent person, with a fierce personality and tough psyche. He never compromises. If there is any hint of sarcasm, teasing, jest, irony, attempt to degrade in one’s tone, he is a good as reduced to tatters. Moritz doesn’t like jokes at his expense and he certainly doesn’t appreciate them. He is extremely short-tempered and quite easily enraged. He has no sense of decency, morality, obedience, he follows no orders. He is a man of his own fate and wishes. He does not follow anyone. He has no religion; he’s not an agnostic, he’s a complete atheist. He has no values, no principles, but only hatred and fury in his tormented soul. Moritz was not a love child. He does not know or understand love. He does not respect people, especially women. He does not even respect the memory of his own mother. He treats women as toys, to be played with, used, and then thrown like empty cans. He is a lover only to daily cold showers and one-night stands. He has a dirty, foul mouth and is not the least embarrassed. He is a difficult person, guarding, impossible to approach spiritually. He does not reveal what is on his mind, or what he plans to do, he is rather secluded. He only fights for himself. No country, no family, no religion, no bonds. Nothing to tie him with people, so nothing to break him with them. Rotten to the core, a soul of downright psychopath, hardcore, a true sadist. A man with a foggy past and an even peculiar future. He hates it when people look at him in the eye. He was born in Kaarst but throughout growing up he wandered around places, catering for his survival, hunting down, killing, and stealing. The neighbours took pity on him whenever he was to be found around, and gave him food and clothes from the remains, for which Moritz was never grateful. He lived alone and had to survive by himself, which made for a rather difficult life. He first drowned an Italian boy around his age (who had come to Germany with his parents for vacations), on being called a ‘bastard’; that is a very sensitive subject. He is usually swearing at his parents, but will not endure others so much as referring to that point of time.
Moritz never had any friends but before he had turned into a monster, when he still was just a homeless mongrel, he had exploited the ‘companionship’ some older guys gave him in order to survive in a world which was impossible for him to live in. He learned the tricks himself, he stole, he walked in pools of dirt and filled his unwashed and torn clothes with mud and chicken feathers; but when circumstances were severe and he had no way to resort to other than drown himself in the Ruhr, these boys gave him a piece of bread and a dirty glass of water, maybe a patched-up piece of clothing if he was lucky. He would snatch these from their hands and never thank them; he never understood why they wanted to help him, he could not realize they were simple, rural boys who due to life’s circumstances had been left orphans and wanted to create a boy’s tight-knit group as a form of substituting family. There were three boys: Wolf Brecht, Franz Schering and Albin Kross. For several summers Moritz stayed with them, they roamed around the West part of the country and lived off Albert Brauer’s farm; Brauer had been as kind as to offer them the essentials they needed. Wolf’s family had become incredibly worried at their son’s disappearance, and they never saw him again. Albin Kross died of leukaemia at the age of seventeen. The boy’s group never was the same again. Moritz had never been in that group, he had never felt part of that group, he had needed no one, wanted no one in his life, and felt disconnected, but he had survived. In 1930 it was known that Franz Schering had been seriously yet accidentally wounded from gunshots, during an incident involving the Freikorps. He refused to talk to them, and since then never saw him again. Wolf Brecht went abroad, and broke every contact. He never went to foster home, as he always escaped from the authorities (despite enforcement from social services), who intended to place him in an orphanage, and thus lived his life in the streets, being a vagabond, a scavenger; due to his name being affiliated with certain murders even before he had become an adult, a warrant was issued. However, due to excessively sharp hunting skills and animalistic survival, he was always able to escape them and remain free, wandering the country.
That was until 1935, when he was apprehended by special forces. After a long trial, he was sent to a military school, where it was considered he would be most useful, while being closely monitored by the social services as well, lest he should escape and return to his days as a criminal. In the year 1938, when he was eighteen, it was compulsory for Moritz to join the German Military Service, serving a two-year tour of duty; during the first year he murdered two officers on the account of self-defence; they had intended to ‘teach’ him about mediocrity and subservience, and had ended up in body bags instead. The following year, he abandoned the army and travelled to England, found his father, strangled and stabbed him; he did not feel revengeful because Graham Buchanan had murdered his mother – in any case, he had never known her. He just felt so unspeakably angry. He strangled him, so that he could feel the air leave the older man’s body. In September 1st, 1939, the Second World War began, and Moritz never bothered to return and fight for the Fatherland. He does not believe in countries, and has no connection with Germany – or England – but what functioned subconsciously was a deeply fed desire to harm his mother for deserting him; hence, harm Germany in itself. In his twisted perspective, Germany symbolized his mother. When conscription was introduced, he signed up, but not without having taken his measures first; he forged forfeit papers, which proved what he could not verbally: he was part Scottish, part German, and had thus every right of fighting for ‘Mother England’. After all, Graham Buchanan was dead, and the news of his scandals had reached the public several months previously; bureaucracy, however, would hardly permit for new papers to be issued, officially stating that Moritz Erichsen was his son. The government wanted to drive attention away from Buchanan, and refused to make official what was true. Therefore, Moritz had had no other option but forfeit papers. He started as a mere private, and through his skills ended up being promoted to a Corporal in 1943, being sent in various battlefields to fight for a war he did not believe in.
Military Rank: Corporal
Writing Sample:
“Hope to God you boys know your prayers, as now would be a good time.”
Private Lloyd had uttered such words while remaining low on the ground, pointing his M1 Carbine at a target that was bound to arrive, words warped and twisted not from nature but from the sadistic way they had been spoken, as he had cast an overt glance at the rest of the soldiers, facing along with them the prominent attack on the French frontline against the ‘impious Krauts’. That had been the expression of one Private Carter, who had sworn revenge for England and for freedom. It was curious, seeing how Moritz hardly believed in the ideal of fighting for justice; he had signed up for the army on several reasons, but belief in abstraction (‘freedom’, ‘justice’, ‘integrity’) was unquestionably not one of them. It was curious, how war could warp time in such an unnatural and distressing tactic, as would masterfully construct the frustrating illusion that words uttered only half an hour ago belonged to a different century, a time during which he had no place on Earth, a time of ambiguity and – “Ich kann es nicht glauben!” a German soldier’s hoarse voice snarled from feet afar, a bone-chilling crack vibrating throughout Moritz’s body as the enemy was cocking the hammer of his MP40: he was pulling the trigger – each time in a progressively agitated manner – but no shot would be fired, so he reloaded it, with the same outcome. He swore impatiently under his breath, then drew the hammer to half-cock, freeing the cylinder to rotate with his eyes furrowed, thumbing open the loading gate at the right rear of the cylinder, and pushed the bullet in fiercely, his fingers trembling even as he was rotating the cylinder clockwise. One, two, three, four, five bullets, each for the wretched enemy. He drew the hammer back to full cock with agonizing intolerance, allowing the cylinder to rotate on its own as he ignored the fresh droplets of sweat travelling down the back of his neck, his eyes bloodshed as he was putting the empty chamber under the hammer. He pulled the trigger. Nothing. He growled a stream of invective, the vein in his neck popping out.
(Translation: I can’t believe it!)
Corporal Erichsen was watching this like a wolf that had been hungry for a long time, and who was sensing that the hour of his meal was growing near; he was lying across the muddy ground with the dead flowers and the yellow grass, against a deserted Bantam BRC-40 jeep, and waiting patiently. His steely, glassy eyes were an abyss of blackness, tinted with red from all the lack of sleeping, the wintry nights and the over-exertion, now fixed unblinkingly towards his target, who was trying to load his gun. Time passed so slowly, it seemed to have frozen: the German was rotating the cylinder, pushing in the bullets, one, two three, four, five! More rotating, swearing, and cocking. More frustration and edginess … The concentration was almost tangible, and if stares could kill, the German soldier would have dropped dead moments ago. The sweat from his back was also on Erichsen’s hands and nose; the same profusion of perspiration on the scarred and branded skin, bearing wounds that told stories of courage and yet stories of cowardice at the same time. Therefore, how were they so different? There was a low mist, the headlamps standing dull near the high-voltage cables beside the street, the asphalt wet even though it had not rained, small puddles of mud here and there. The road drew alongside the railway line, as the breath of the enemy’s camp could be felt even from feet afar. The camp’s fence could be seen through the mist: never-ceasing lines of wire strung between posts reinforced with concrete. He could almost smell the concrete, and the piss in the bucket lying several feet in the near distance. He could smell a German from feet afar. His thin lips curled into a hateful smirk, his eyes dilating, and the veins of his hand popping out from the prospect of murder. There was hardly a choice to be made. It was either him or the German.
His eyes were dead and unresponsive, his body rigid and strong; his muscles were unmoving, his heart was hardly pumping. He only watched the enemy, like a corpse that had been revived for only one purpose. His eyes never left him. He continued watching him like a guard dog, the veins in his neck popping up sometimes from lacerating anger. His eyes, bloodshot and seemingly coming out of their sockets, were fixed on him, and hardly ever blinked. His pupils were widened in the coldness, his irises black holes of impenetrable abyss. The fingers that locked around his De Lisle Carbine did so with resentment, and their bones were stiff out of the pressure he was putting in them to control his fury. His lips were thin, unmoving, tense; his jaw was strong and hard. His feet standing tough across the ground, immobilized, waiting. The blood channeled throughout his body in waves of loathing and revulsion. The muscles in his neck rigid, and stiff, hard-pressed, a vein popping out, again in his endeavour to muster his fury. The breaths dissolved into the air and danced into the wind in circles and different other shapes, surrounding him first, and then mixing with the breeze that had strengthened minutes ago.
He would not wait for the eventuality that both these men’s paths would be converged into one significant and ultimate point; he was decided to act on his own, against all forces that pushed him on the other side. The wind entered through his nostrils, went down his throat and pierced into his lungs, overfilling him. He breathed slowly, fixated. Consumed. He was behind him, in the close distance, and the German had his back facing him. He had stopped his attempts, moments now, and he was standing there, smoking. A rush of anger burst inside his head, and his fingers pressed hard against the rifle, his knuckles whitening; his teeth gritted, bared.
He bore no relief, nor the wish to capture salvation within his hand. It had forever gone, and would never re-appear from its shadows, but complacent in its throne of power it would remain, and watch him fail in his own worthless mortality. In his hand was the rifle, not expecting fate to turn the wheel. He remained hidden. Fuck, he thought, as he had just been ready to attack; the German had just then turned around, now handling an MP43. Therefore, why all this detestation for the German soldier, other than the fact he was just another enemy on an endless list of enemies? No, he symbolized Germany, and Germany symbolized his mother, a mother who needed to be punished, and thus a German soldier who needed to be punished. He gritted his teeth even more, watching him closely, and slowly began to crawl across the ground, behind the jeep, feeling some pins and needles cut through the flesh of his hands, the droplets of blood trickling down the skin and tinting the ground with a violent red. He paid no notice. He crept carefully and hid behind a naked tree, feeling his body limp, as though it was not his own. As though he were almost dead. That strategic spot gave him a remarkably improved overview of the target, whereas the one held previously was suitable for an overview of his surroundings; the German had his back turned on him, cleaning his gun quickly. Erichsen slowly raised his rifle, carefully across the tree’s trunk, his vision clear, his eyes bloody, waiting for the wind to cease for one second; he could tell from the grass’s pointing direction that the wind came from the Northwest. He did not have to wait long; the wind stopped piercing on his lungs through his nostrils, and it took only a nano-second that he cocked the rifle –
The only problem was, someone had cocked his own rifle at him, and was standing right behind him.
Erichsen remained calm, not once losing his temper or composure. “Drehen Sie sich um!” the German private called in his own language; from the shadow at his right, Moritz could see he was pointing his Mauser Karabiner 98k right at his head. The other German soldier – the one he had been watching – was not aware of this new turn of events due to the distance between them: it was around a hundred feet, give or take. “Drehen Sie sich um!” he hissed, and he need not have said it thrice. Very slowly, Erichsen did as was told, and for the first time faced the German private: a tall and lanky young man in his mid-twenties, attempting to appear rough and unyielding, but the way he was pointing the rifle at him gave Erichsen the idea he had only joined the army several weeks ago; more people had conscripted due to the army’s death toll, and Erichsen knew he was one of them.
(Translation: Turn around.)
“Ich werde Sie im Kopf schießen, Sie – ”
(Translation: I will shoot you, you –)
“Nein, werden Sie nicht,” Erichsen cut him off calmly in German, and the private was at first shocked to hear the enemy talk in his own language; unless it was not the enemy, of course – which hardly made any sense as to his pointing the rifle at another private. The German probably thought this man was trying to confuse him (and yet the accent had been dead-on, and he had a German streak about him), as he had not lowered his rifle an inch. “Ich bin einer von Ihnen,” he said next, very seriously, holding the gun by his side, and showing he had no interest to harm the private.
(Translation: No, you won’t / I am one of you)
The German’s eyes widened in shock and fury. “Sie fickend Lügner! Sie wollten Lehmann schießen!” he snarled, and cocked his gun, ready to shoot at Erichsen.
(Translation: You fucking liar! / You wanted to shoot Lehmann!)
“Lehmann ist ein Verräter zu seinem Land!” Erichsen said in German, still calm and collected, and he could see this statement now caught the Private’s attention, as he only slightly lowered his rifle, looking angrily confused. He opened his mouth to say something, but Erichsen continued speaking. “Ich habe ihm für die vergangene halbe Stunde zugeschaut, hat er mit den Gewehren für die Deutsch, zu verlieren, und die andere Seite herumgefummelt, zu gewinnen.” he added, his free hand reaching for the pocket of his coat (the Private was eyeing his action suspiciously, pointing his rifle at him, but now more reluctantly) and pulling out a yellowed piece of paper, wet by three quarters, the black ink having run throughout the surface. “Ich habe auch ihm dieses adressierte gefunden. Brief von einem Feldwebel Matthew Beatty, den ihn gibt, ordnet an, uns durch Überraschung zu nehmen,” he informed him, but did not hand it over; instead, he put it back in. “Ich bin Stebsgefreiter Erichsen – ”
(Translation: Lehmann is a traitor to his country! / I have been watching him for the past half hour, he has been messing with the rifles for the Germans to lose, and the other side to win / I also found this addressed to him. Letter from one Sergeant Matthew Beatty, giving him orders to take us by surprise / I am Corporal Erichsen)
“Ich habe nie Sie gesehen!” the German Private now cut him off impatiently, half-convinced by the story, due to his being a ‘newbie,’ and yet being terrified over potentially insulting his superior.
(Translation: I have never seen you!)
“Ich war in einer Absonderung von einer deutschen Einheit in der östlichen Front – sie haben mich heute bewegt,” Erichsen replied in the same tone. “Und Sie sollen Ihrem überlegenen etwas Rücksicht zeigen,” he sneered. “Sie sind neu. Wann haben sie Sie gebracht?”
(Translation: I was in a detachment of a German unit in the eastern front – they moved me today / And you had better show some respect to your superior / You are new. When did they bring you?)
The German private was at this point convinced, but still looking scared. “Vor ungefähr drei Wochen,” he said in a weaker voice, lowering his rifle. “Ich bildete in einer militärischen Schule aus, bevor sie zu meiner Stadt gekommen sind, und habe um Einberufung gebeten –”
(Translation: About three weeks ago / I was training in a military school before they came to my town and asked for conscription)
“Schließen Sie ab und führen Sie mich zur Scheune,” Erichsen commanded briskly, taking a last glance at the German Gefreiter – but he was not to be found at the spot Erichsen had been watching. He slightly furrowed his eyebrows, and decided to deal with this later. The German private (his name was Schuler, and once he was convinced of the Corporal’s identity, he became more open and jittery; it was an after-effect of shock and fear, as was usually present in the young blood that enlisted with the army, totally inexperienced of what real war meant) walked with him across the deserted area for several feet, until they finally reached a gambrel-roofed barn. Erichsen motioned for Schuler to go inside, and then followed him. The barn was not large, but it held several bridles and saddles, a silo, and sacks of hay and grain. Private Schuler turned to Erichsen, looking disappointed. “Es ist nicht viel, aber Sie erhalten durch den Tag – ”
(Translation: Shut up, and lead me to the barn / It’s not much, but we get through the day)
“Nicht heute werden Sie nicht,” Erichsen said from beside him. Private Schuler frowned, and turned to look at him once more, a puzzled expression in his youthful face.
(Translation: Not today you won’t)
“Was sagen Sie, Stebsgefreiter?”
(Translation: What are you saying, Corporal?)
Three shots through the chest later, and Private Schuler was lying dead on the floor, his mouth and eyes wide open, his arms and feet spread-eagled, blood wetting his coat and the floor. Erichsen approached him, and with his foot slowly moved the Private’s face to the other side. “Ich sage,” he said in German, “dies ist, warum ich Körperlich bin, und Sie sind ein Ficken Privat.” His voice was razor sharp, brisk, terribly hoarse, and rough, uttered with a ringing force, commandingly. His eyes narrowed as his eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth was contorted into a hateful scowl; the vein was still popped out in his scarred neck, inside of which the chords were savagely pressed as he spoke, and could not say anything else, but there was nothing else to say.
(Translation: I’m saying / this is why I’m Corporal and you are a fucking Private)
He pushed the door open, but not so much to his surprise, a livid Gefreiter Lehmann appeared right in front of him; he had expected something like this would happen, ever since he had observed the Gefreiter leaving the scene secretly and quietly. “Stebsgefreiter Erichsen, ja?” he growled at him sarcastically, and without saying anything else, he punched his face with the rifle’s butt, pushing him back inside the barn. The Corporal spat blood on the floor, and hit him with his gun across the chest, once, twice, and then a disgusting ‘crack’ was heard as he punched Lehmann’s jaw, followed by a growl from his part – that gave Erichsen seconds to take control, and give him another skillful blow in the head with his rifle. “Was kann ich sagen?” Erichsen said, and smiled sickly. “Er war ein Verräter!” He was almost enjoying this sadistically, as he cocked his rifle. Gefreiter Lehmann had stumbled backwards against the wall, feet away from where Schuler’s corpse was lying, but he was an experienced military figure that was not to be trifled with. He quickly pulled a bayonet from inside his boots, and plunged at Erichsen’s leg; the man grimaced and swore at him, feeling the steel cut through flesh, but he was not of the men to lose his composure. He had suffered much worse throughout his pitiful life, and now he was really furious. He grabbed the man’s neck forcefully with one hand, while the other pulled the bayonet off his leg and threw it away, and crushed it against the wall three times, and then pointed the rifle at his head.
(Translation: Corporal Erichsen, yes? / What can I say? / He was a traitor!)
“Sind Sie ein Verräter?” Lehmann asked him hatefully through gritted teeth, and repeated the question with a commanding shout, such as the ones he had been used to giving his inferiors, trying to fight against all odds, but Erichsen had kicked his rifle away, and was strong enough to maintain a firm grip on him, making certain the Gefreiter’s body was creating a painful friction against the wall’s surface. “Die einzige Frage, die ich beantworten kann, ist das, ja, sind Sie tot!” Erichsen spat at him, and pulled the trigger. It was one shot through the head, and the Gefreiter’s body fell limp on Erichsen’s arms. He threw him on the floor like a sack of potatoes, and then undressed him. Moments later, he was wearing the Gefreiter’s uniform, whilst his lay on the floor. In that way, by wearing the German uniform, he would not raise suspicions of being the enemy, especially since his features would hardly be noticed from inside the jeep. Above all, there was survival, and Moritz did not care about etiquette and decency. He tore a piece apart from his own, and found a pair of keys inside Lehmann’s uniform, which he presumed to belong to the jeep he had previously used to hide himself. He grimaced, and then knelt down to patch up his injured leg; the wound was not deep, but he needed to get to base to avoid infection. He pulled the cloth around the blood and made a tight knot to prevent further bleeding. He swore again.
(Translation: Are you a traitor? / The only question I can answer is that, yes, you’re dead)
The sun poked at his automatically narrowed eyes as he walked out of the barn, and he shielded them with his hand. He could not see anyone within the near distance, which gave away the fact the soldiers were on the other side of the combat. Whether the combat had ceased or not, Erichsen could not tell with certainty, even though he could hear the fainted cry of bombshells and gunshots in the distance. His leg was now beginning to annoy him, and he thought he found a tendency to slightly limp, which made him even angrier. He noticed something coming out of his coat’s pocket, but it was only the letter he had previously showed Schuler; it had indeed been Sergeant Beatty’s letter, only addressed to Erichsen instead of ‘traitorous’ Lehmann. The Gefreiter must have heard Schuler’s protests at Erichsen and witnessed the scene quietly, possibly resolving not to shoot at Erichsen given the state of his rifle; he would give away his position and endanger Schuler as well; thus, he had secretly followed them to the barn, where he would tackle Erichsen on an equal level. Moritz could not wait until he told the ‘traitorous gun’ story to his privates; it was laughable to him, but at this point he was too focused on the pain from the injured leg to actually laugh. Were had Lehmann’s comrades been, to help with? In the combat, possibly, or some in the base, far away for them to know what Lehmann was up to. Erichsen shook his head impatiently, intending to rid his mind of these thoughts and instead concentrate on finding his way back to the frontline. He tugged the letter back inside forcefully, and scanned the area around him. The frontline was Southeast, about three thousand and five hundred feet where he was currently situated, in the Northwest.
He went back to his former spot, the one while he had been watching Lehmann; the surrounding area was still deserted, but there was shouting in the distance, people barking orders, others screaming in pain. Without a doubt as to his actions, he conveniently slipped inside the jeep, and started the engine. It growled just like its owner, but this one at least obeyed to him. He drove across the fields, until he could see a storm of soldiers running towards the opposite direction. He could hear cries of “Rückzug! Rückzug!” and the sounds of Soviet tanks from the West breaking through the silence he had been used to. He gritted his teeth. “That’s right, rückzug, you fuckers,” he muttered under his breath. He soon reached the front lines, and halted the engine as his comrades came with their rifles pointed at him. “Don’t piss your pants, Carter, I’m not happy to see you,” he told his Private, who immediately lowered his gun, and spat some phlegm on the floor, throwing the rifle in the air for Carter to catch. Lloyd was amongst them. “I prayed alright,” he said sarcastically, and then walked to the medics with a limp. He needed some bourbon.
(Translation: Retreat)
~Dan
Account E-Mail: femme-noir@live.com
Name: Moritz Erichsen
Nationality: Scottish, German
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
UK, US or Soviet: UK
Character History:
Graham Alasdair Buchanan, son of Kentigern and Elspeth Buchanan, was born to a prosperous and notably privileged Scottish family one wintry November’s morning in 1887, in their country house at Aberdeen. Suffice it to say, he attended one of the most prominent boarding schools in the country, Fettes College, under the Kimmerghame House. It is there that he met his peers and future partners-in-crime: Barclay Dwyre, Fergus Mulligan, Malcolm Scarborough and Roderick Wimund. Graham was a spoiled child, whose incessant caprices, incommodious eccentricities and peculiar whimsicalities came to pass with such an obtuse and tenacious nature from his part, as made it impossible for his parents to ever refuse him anything, should they have wished to do so. Indeed, Elspeth Buchanan was largely responsible for Graham’s impertinence, on the grounds of her being incapacitated of a feeling remotely different than almost vicious adoration – she had been impregnated at the age of forty-seven and, thus, had considered Graham’s arrival as nothing short of a miracle, having once lost hope on ever giving birth to her own child. For a woman who had been spending her time by painting porcelain and playing with cats, it was a variation that altered her life forever. Kentigern Buchanan came from a family involved in matters of business and finance throughout the generations, resolving at an old age to participate in politics in a more energetic way than simply funding the Tory Party (the Conservatives), and thus became a Member of Parliament in the late 1880s. He, too, doted upon his son and initially planned for him to attend the same boarding school he had: Duke of York’s Royal Military School in Dover, with the ambitious prospect of Graham becoming one day Minister of Defence (his wife, however, had to ‘kindly’ intervene, as she would be pained to part with her precious son). Kentigern’s father, Wallace, had been a close contact of Prince Frederick Augustus, the Duke of York and Albany, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, and even received certain civil liberties from this acquaintance, as the Duke never failed to mention to his father, King George III, of Wallace Buchanan’s generosity of heart in subsidizing the costs of the army for the Battle of Waterloo. For these services he was awarded the Most Noble Order of the Garter. Throughout the generations, the Buchanans received distinguished recognition by technically using the monetary aspect to ascend in social status. Kentigern died in 1910, when Graham was twenty-three years old.
Graham unquestionably involved himself with politics (the Conservative Party), being a power-hungry and incredibly greedy man; he was possessed by illusions of becoming Prime Minister one day, and even schemed ways with which he could neutralize (a fancy word for ‘exterminate’) political opponents and silence the opposition. At the age of twenty-eight, when he had ascended the ladder, gaining the position of Financial Secretary to the Treasury. While such a promotion helped to boost his ego furthermore, he was restless and even disappointed that this position was not a Cabinet office and was only used on occasion, feeling envious for his school peer, Fergus Mulligan, in becoming Permanent Secretary to the Lord Chancellor’s Office. Graham used his position to embezzle with government funds and avoid taxes for a short period of time, in secret agreement with Lord John Stevenson from the HM Customs and Excise, who owed his family a favour after his name had been cleared on allegations of conspiracy and espionage. Graham once had a dinner with Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister for Pensions, Arthur Griffith-Boscawen, early in 1916, to secure provision for his own pensions, something that needed not be occasioned, since he would without a doubt be provided for at any rate – Graham, however, had several plans in mind, revolving around state embezzlement, and deemed it necessary to receive intelligence as to the terms and conditions of the pension, should John Stevenson’s illegal activities be exposed and thus affiliating Graham with him, and blackening his name and reputation, not to mention his ambition of becoming Prime Minister. Graham, of course, failed to inform Boscawen of such confidential information; he excused it to ‘natural curiosity’. Such is the world of politics.
Graham gained his position one year after the outbreak of the First World War, for which he was satisfied; he had secured a harmless place in the British government, in which he would not be forced to participate in the battlefield, for he was, simply enough, a coward and feared for his life. The very thought of being a private gave him migraines; he enjoyed the comfort of his own luxurious house, with the company of his elderly mother on occasion (which he usually avoided, as he considered her dull and unexciting; he had never appreciated her in his life), and the intimacy of several women throughout the week. He had no plans to marry and have children, until he became at least Chancellor of the Exchequer and was in his late forties. These plans were shattered with one mere visit to Germany. As early as 1919 (he had been made Member of the Parliament for Edinburgh North & Leith), he made a business trip in Berlin to receive information on the country’s economic status (post-war reparations repayments were disastrous for the country, which was subsequently incapacitated of purchasing goods; the currency rate had destabilized, also) and ascertain the repayments were implemented as accorded, accompanied by his four school peers, who had all gained envious positions in governmental departments. After his professional visit, he spent the night with his peers in cabarets, and that is when he met Dietlinde Erichsen.
Dietlinde Erichsen, daughter of Gerhard and Gretchen Erichsen, was born to an impoverished and notably underprivileged German family one warm April’s evening in 1902, in their cottage at Kaarst. Dietlinde’s parents were poor and unable to pay the numerous debts they owed here and there. Gerhard had been deadly wounded during the First World War, during which he had served as Private, climbing up the ladder and reaching the status of Sergeant with his hunting skills and ambush abilities. In 1917 Gerhard was imprisoned, under allegations of secretly being a Communist and thus an ‘enemy of the state’, and murdered in prison. Devoured in poverty, Gretchen and her only daughter had to live poorly since that incident, with Gretchen growing desperate day after day. As a family of farmers, they had been growing wheat, but due to Gretchen’s health problems, and despite Dietlinde’s help, they were left helpless and uncatered for. In 1918, Gretchen had applied to work as an assistant to a nurse in the Rhineland, recently occupied by Allied troops, leaving her daughter behind. Several weeks later, Gretchen found her abrupt death when an impassioned French soldier attacked her savagely, while throwing her a stream of invective for being German, after he had had a surgery to mutilate his leg on the account of gangrene. Dietlinde was left alone in the world, but never – except once – did she leave Kaarst, for she had seen no other part of the country, she was naturally introverted, and feared to travel.
The occasion called for it when she found out from a neighbour, who made visits to Berlin to sell various goods, that there were several open positions in a factory, where she could find work placement for twenty cents an hour. She had no other choice, on realizing she would die of hunger and poverty. Wearing nothing else but rags, she occupied a small space (skinny as she was) in her neighbour’s carriage and together set off for Berlin; delayed by the storm, she only arrived in the city at nine o’clock in the evening, where she found herself lost and troubled by the change of setting. She was a rural, country girl, not used to the lights, buildings, cement, and noise. She eventually found the factory, where the workers were still naturally doing their jobs respectively, and wasted half an hour at simply staring around her, baffled by the atrocious conditions of their work; not that there was any room for complaint, of course, and not that she was able for something better. She found the owner, who had stopped by on his way to a cabaret in order to check everything was running accordingly; he was a stout, short, elderly man with a German hat and a white mustache, looking particularly smug and joyful. Dietlinde approached him, and stammered her request; at first he looked at her with keen interest, his mind wandering on different diversions than what she allowed for, and finally agreed to taking her, despite the fact she had no previous knowledge or work experience, in his attempt to exploit whichever service of her he could get, even paying her less than the average female worker. Dietlinde had no other choice but agree.
Wandering the streets at night, trying to find the spot where she and her neighbour, Albert, had agreed to meet once each had finished with their business, she fell into Graham’s sight, on his way to the cabaret. She was nothing extraordinary, but she was a pretty girl, and it was screaming miles afar that she was a country girl, with absolutely no experience in city life. Graham seized the opportunity to exploit her. Graham was one of these people who prided themselves upon being ‘pure’ and of excellent quality; while he showed no interest in inferior creatures, he would devalue them, make them feel substandard, on the grounds that he believed that they should be painfully aware of their place. When he met Dietlinde, he immediately saw in himself the power over her, especially as she had nothing. She could easily be exploited, and that is what he did. When Dietlinde walked in the narrow, dark streets of Berlin, Graham, accompanied by his friends, followed her closely, insulted her, laughed at her, treated her like dirt, like she was not worth anything. She had of course no awareness of his identity, so she considered him a fool with airs for brains and would not even look at him when he chased after her just to taunt her. This caused such frustration to Graham that he went after her alone, grabbed her, and violated her in the dark. Dietlinde was eighteen years old when she was raped. After the incident, Graham had prided himself to his group of men that accompanied him to the dispatch; all of them had laughed and drank beer in his manhood. The dispatch was over and they were no longer needed, hence their return to England. They left that very day, while Dietlinde, injured and broken, tightened the rags around her, and stood in the street, secretly weeping alone for hours; the next day she walked home, a journey that drained her off any strength she might have had, stopping in small towns to relax herself. When she returned in Kaarst, several days later, she would not talk to anyone. Graham was utterly shocked to find out months later from strictly confidential people who worked for him undercover that the girl he had harassed had been impregnated and had given birth to the child. Graham was aiming to become Prime Minister and if information about his scandals leaked out, it would not only get him thrown out of the government but he would also receive public outcry and be imprisoned. Terror rising in his heart, he secretly travelled to Germany in search of the girl and her bastard, with the intention to eliminate both. When Dietlinde received intelligence of his arrival, scared of her son’s life, she hid him in the neighbour’s house. Graham soon found her, anger exploding inside of him; he literally burned her alive in the night, the refuge of sinners. Her body was found two years later. She had only been eighteen years old.
Graham tried to find the boy but could not. He returned home, always with the fear that he would turn up in years and destroy what he had built so far; Graham would never rest until the boy was found, which is why he always had his people on the lookout. Moritz, the baby, who took his mother’s surname, grew up with the people of the streets. He had never known his mother, never known his father, but he had been told his story, and there was no need for further explanations. Moritz never attended any school, which explains his brutal and severe manners, his lack of elegance, culture, education and etiquette. He is a strong and persistent person, with a fierce personality and tough psyche. He never compromises. If there is any hint of sarcasm, teasing, jest, irony, attempt to degrade in one’s tone, he is a good as reduced to tatters. Moritz doesn’t like jokes at his expense and he certainly doesn’t appreciate them. He is extremely short-tempered and quite easily enraged. He has no sense of decency, morality, obedience, he follows no orders. He is a man of his own fate and wishes. He does not follow anyone. He has no religion; he’s not an agnostic, he’s a complete atheist. He has no values, no principles, but only hatred and fury in his tormented soul. Moritz was not a love child. He does not know or understand love. He does not respect people, especially women. He does not even respect the memory of his own mother. He treats women as toys, to be played with, used, and then thrown like empty cans. He is a lover only to daily cold showers and one-night stands. He has a dirty, foul mouth and is not the least embarrassed. He is a difficult person, guarding, impossible to approach spiritually. He does not reveal what is on his mind, or what he plans to do, he is rather secluded. He only fights for himself. No country, no family, no religion, no bonds. Nothing to tie him with people, so nothing to break him with them. Rotten to the core, a soul of downright psychopath, hardcore, a true sadist. A man with a foggy past and an even peculiar future. He hates it when people look at him in the eye. He was born in Kaarst but throughout growing up he wandered around places, catering for his survival, hunting down, killing, and stealing. The neighbours took pity on him whenever he was to be found around, and gave him food and clothes from the remains, for which Moritz was never grateful. He lived alone and had to survive by himself, which made for a rather difficult life. He first drowned an Italian boy around his age (who had come to Germany with his parents for vacations), on being called a ‘bastard’; that is a very sensitive subject. He is usually swearing at his parents, but will not endure others so much as referring to that point of time.
Moritz never had any friends but before he had turned into a monster, when he still was just a homeless mongrel, he had exploited the ‘companionship’ some older guys gave him in order to survive in a world which was impossible for him to live in. He learned the tricks himself, he stole, he walked in pools of dirt and filled his unwashed and torn clothes with mud and chicken feathers; but when circumstances were severe and he had no way to resort to other than drown himself in the Ruhr, these boys gave him a piece of bread and a dirty glass of water, maybe a patched-up piece of clothing if he was lucky. He would snatch these from their hands and never thank them; he never understood why they wanted to help him, he could not realize they were simple, rural boys who due to life’s circumstances had been left orphans and wanted to create a boy’s tight-knit group as a form of substituting family. There were three boys: Wolf Brecht, Franz Schering and Albin Kross. For several summers Moritz stayed with them, they roamed around the West part of the country and lived off Albert Brauer’s farm; Brauer had been as kind as to offer them the essentials they needed. Wolf’s family had become incredibly worried at their son’s disappearance, and they never saw him again. Albin Kross died of leukaemia at the age of seventeen. The boy’s group never was the same again. Moritz had never been in that group, he had never felt part of that group, he had needed no one, wanted no one in his life, and felt disconnected, but he had survived. In 1930 it was known that Franz Schering had been seriously yet accidentally wounded from gunshots, during an incident involving the Freikorps. He refused to talk to them, and since then never saw him again. Wolf Brecht went abroad, and broke every contact. He never went to foster home, as he always escaped from the authorities (despite enforcement from social services), who intended to place him in an orphanage, and thus lived his life in the streets, being a vagabond, a scavenger; due to his name being affiliated with certain murders even before he had become an adult, a warrant was issued. However, due to excessively sharp hunting skills and animalistic survival, he was always able to escape them and remain free, wandering the country.
That was until 1935, when he was apprehended by special forces. After a long trial, he was sent to a military school, where it was considered he would be most useful, while being closely monitored by the social services as well, lest he should escape and return to his days as a criminal. In the year 1938, when he was eighteen, it was compulsory for Moritz to join the German Military Service, serving a two-year tour of duty; during the first year he murdered two officers on the account of self-defence; they had intended to ‘teach’ him about mediocrity and subservience, and had ended up in body bags instead. The following year, he abandoned the army and travelled to England, found his father, strangled and stabbed him; he did not feel revengeful because Graham Buchanan had murdered his mother – in any case, he had never known her. He just felt so unspeakably angry. He strangled him, so that he could feel the air leave the older man’s body. In September 1st, 1939, the Second World War began, and Moritz never bothered to return and fight for the Fatherland. He does not believe in countries, and has no connection with Germany – or England – but what functioned subconsciously was a deeply fed desire to harm his mother for deserting him; hence, harm Germany in itself. In his twisted perspective, Germany symbolized his mother. When conscription was introduced, he signed up, but not without having taken his measures first; he forged forfeit papers, which proved what he could not verbally: he was part Scottish, part German, and had thus every right of fighting for ‘Mother England’. After all, Graham Buchanan was dead, and the news of his scandals had reached the public several months previously; bureaucracy, however, would hardly permit for new papers to be issued, officially stating that Moritz Erichsen was his son. The government wanted to drive attention away from Buchanan, and refused to make official what was true. Therefore, Moritz had had no other option but forfeit papers. He started as a mere private, and through his skills ended up being promoted to a Corporal in 1943, being sent in various battlefields to fight for a war he did not believe in.
Military Rank: Corporal
Writing Sample:
“Hope to God you boys know your prayers, as now would be a good time.”
Private Lloyd had uttered such words while remaining low on the ground, pointing his M1 Carbine at a target that was bound to arrive, words warped and twisted not from nature but from the sadistic way they had been spoken, as he had cast an overt glance at the rest of the soldiers, facing along with them the prominent attack on the French frontline against the ‘impious Krauts’. That had been the expression of one Private Carter, who had sworn revenge for England and for freedom. It was curious, seeing how Moritz hardly believed in the ideal of fighting for justice; he had signed up for the army on several reasons, but belief in abstraction (‘freedom’, ‘justice’, ‘integrity’) was unquestionably not one of them. It was curious, how war could warp time in such an unnatural and distressing tactic, as would masterfully construct the frustrating illusion that words uttered only half an hour ago belonged to a different century, a time during which he had no place on Earth, a time of ambiguity and – “Ich kann es nicht glauben!” a German soldier’s hoarse voice snarled from feet afar, a bone-chilling crack vibrating throughout Moritz’s body as the enemy was cocking the hammer of his MP40: he was pulling the trigger – each time in a progressively agitated manner – but no shot would be fired, so he reloaded it, with the same outcome. He swore impatiently under his breath, then drew the hammer to half-cock, freeing the cylinder to rotate with his eyes furrowed, thumbing open the loading gate at the right rear of the cylinder, and pushed the bullet in fiercely, his fingers trembling even as he was rotating the cylinder clockwise. One, two, three, four, five bullets, each for the wretched enemy. He drew the hammer back to full cock with agonizing intolerance, allowing the cylinder to rotate on its own as he ignored the fresh droplets of sweat travelling down the back of his neck, his eyes bloodshed as he was putting the empty chamber under the hammer. He pulled the trigger. Nothing. He growled a stream of invective, the vein in his neck popping out.
(Translation: I can’t believe it!)
Corporal Erichsen was watching this like a wolf that had been hungry for a long time, and who was sensing that the hour of his meal was growing near; he was lying across the muddy ground with the dead flowers and the yellow grass, against a deserted Bantam BRC-40 jeep, and waiting patiently. His steely, glassy eyes were an abyss of blackness, tinted with red from all the lack of sleeping, the wintry nights and the over-exertion, now fixed unblinkingly towards his target, who was trying to load his gun. Time passed so slowly, it seemed to have frozen: the German was rotating the cylinder, pushing in the bullets, one, two three, four, five! More rotating, swearing, and cocking. More frustration and edginess … The concentration was almost tangible, and if stares could kill, the German soldier would have dropped dead moments ago. The sweat from his back was also on Erichsen’s hands and nose; the same profusion of perspiration on the scarred and branded skin, bearing wounds that told stories of courage and yet stories of cowardice at the same time. Therefore, how were they so different? There was a low mist, the headlamps standing dull near the high-voltage cables beside the street, the asphalt wet even though it had not rained, small puddles of mud here and there. The road drew alongside the railway line, as the breath of the enemy’s camp could be felt even from feet afar. The camp’s fence could be seen through the mist: never-ceasing lines of wire strung between posts reinforced with concrete. He could almost smell the concrete, and the piss in the bucket lying several feet in the near distance. He could smell a German from feet afar. His thin lips curled into a hateful smirk, his eyes dilating, and the veins of his hand popping out from the prospect of murder. There was hardly a choice to be made. It was either him or the German.
His eyes were dead and unresponsive, his body rigid and strong; his muscles were unmoving, his heart was hardly pumping. He only watched the enemy, like a corpse that had been revived for only one purpose. His eyes never left him. He continued watching him like a guard dog, the veins in his neck popping up sometimes from lacerating anger. His eyes, bloodshot and seemingly coming out of their sockets, were fixed on him, and hardly ever blinked. His pupils were widened in the coldness, his irises black holes of impenetrable abyss. The fingers that locked around his De Lisle Carbine did so with resentment, and their bones were stiff out of the pressure he was putting in them to control his fury. His lips were thin, unmoving, tense; his jaw was strong and hard. His feet standing tough across the ground, immobilized, waiting. The blood channeled throughout his body in waves of loathing and revulsion. The muscles in his neck rigid, and stiff, hard-pressed, a vein popping out, again in his endeavour to muster his fury. The breaths dissolved into the air and danced into the wind in circles and different other shapes, surrounding him first, and then mixing with the breeze that had strengthened minutes ago.
He would not wait for the eventuality that both these men’s paths would be converged into one significant and ultimate point; he was decided to act on his own, against all forces that pushed him on the other side. The wind entered through his nostrils, went down his throat and pierced into his lungs, overfilling him. He breathed slowly, fixated. Consumed. He was behind him, in the close distance, and the German had his back facing him. He had stopped his attempts, moments now, and he was standing there, smoking. A rush of anger burst inside his head, and his fingers pressed hard against the rifle, his knuckles whitening; his teeth gritted, bared.
He bore no relief, nor the wish to capture salvation within his hand. It had forever gone, and would never re-appear from its shadows, but complacent in its throne of power it would remain, and watch him fail in his own worthless mortality. In his hand was the rifle, not expecting fate to turn the wheel. He remained hidden. Fuck, he thought, as he had just been ready to attack; the German had just then turned around, now handling an MP43. Therefore, why all this detestation for the German soldier, other than the fact he was just another enemy on an endless list of enemies? No, he symbolized Germany, and Germany symbolized his mother, a mother who needed to be punished, and thus a German soldier who needed to be punished. He gritted his teeth even more, watching him closely, and slowly began to crawl across the ground, behind the jeep, feeling some pins and needles cut through the flesh of his hands, the droplets of blood trickling down the skin and tinting the ground with a violent red. He paid no notice. He crept carefully and hid behind a naked tree, feeling his body limp, as though it was not his own. As though he were almost dead. That strategic spot gave him a remarkably improved overview of the target, whereas the one held previously was suitable for an overview of his surroundings; the German had his back turned on him, cleaning his gun quickly. Erichsen slowly raised his rifle, carefully across the tree’s trunk, his vision clear, his eyes bloody, waiting for the wind to cease for one second; he could tell from the grass’s pointing direction that the wind came from the Northwest. He did not have to wait long; the wind stopped piercing on his lungs through his nostrils, and it took only a nano-second that he cocked the rifle –
The only problem was, someone had cocked his own rifle at him, and was standing right behind him.
Erichsen remained calm, not once losing his temper or composure. “Drehen Sie sich um!” the German private called in his own language; from the shadow at his right, Moritz could see he was pointing his Mauser Karabiner 98k right at his head. The other German soldier – the one he had been watching – was not aware of this new turn of events due to the distance between them: it was around a hundred feet, give or take. “Drehen Sie sich um!” he hissed, and he need not have said it thrice. Very slowly, Erichsen did as was told, and for the first time faced the German private: a tall and lanky young man in his mid-twenties, attempting to appear rough and unyielding, but the way he was pointing the rifle at him gave Erichsen the idea he had only joined the army several weeks ago; more people had conscripted due to the army’s death toll, and Erichsen knew he was one of them.
(Translation: Turn around.)
“Ich werde Sie im Kopf schießen, Sie – ”
(Translation: I will shoot you, you –)
“Nein, werden Sie nicht,” Erichsen cut him off calmly in German, and the private was at first shocked to hear the enemy talk in his own language; unless it was not the enemy, of course – which hardly made any sense as to his pointing the rifle at another private. The German probably thought this man was trying to confuse him (and yet the accent had been dead-on, and he had a German streak about him), as he had not lowered his rifle an inch. “Ich bin einer von Ihnen,” he said next, very seriously, holding the gun by his side, and showing he had no interest to harm the private.
(Translation: No, you won’t / I am one of you)
The German’s eyes widened in shock and fury. “Sie fickend Lügner! Sie wollten Lehmann schießen!” he snarled, and cocked his gun, ready to shoot at Erichsen.
(Translation: You fucking liar! / You wanted to shoot Lehmann!)
“Lehmann ist ein Verräter zu seinem Land!” Erichsen said in German, still calm and collected, and he could see this statement now caught the Private’s attention, as he only slightly lowered his rifle, looking angrily confused. He opened his mouth to say something, but Erichsen continued speaking. “Ich habe ihm für die vergangene halbe Stunde zugeschaut, hat er mit den Gewehren für die Deutsch, zu verlieren, und die andere Seite herumgefummelt, zu gewinnen.” he added, his free hand reaching for the pocket of his coat (the Private was eyeing his action suspiciously, pointing his rifle at him, but now more reluctantly) and pulling out a yellowed piece of paper, wet by three quarters, the black ink having run throughout the surface. “Ich habe auch ihm dieses adressierte gefunden. Brief von einem Feldwebel Matthew Beatty, den ihn gibt, ordnet an, uns durch Überraschung zu nehmen,” he informed him, but did not hand it over; instead, he put it back in. “Ich bin Stebsgefreiter Erichsen – ”
(Translation: Lehmann is a traitor to his country! / I have been watching him for the past half hour, he has been messing with the rifles for the Germans to lose, and the other side to win / I also found this addressed to him. Letter from one Sergeant Matthew Beatty, giving him orders to take us by surprise / I am Corporal Erichsen)
“Ich habe nie Sie gesehen!” the German Private now cut him off impatiently, half-convinced by the story, due to his being a ‘newbie,’ and yet being terrified over potentially insulting his superior.
(Translation: I have never seen you!)
“Ich war in einer Absonderung von einer deutschen Einheit in der östlichen Front – sie haben mich heute bewegt,” Erichsen replied in the same tone. “Und Sie sollen Ihrem überlegenen etwas Rücksicht zeigen,” he sneered. “Sie sind neu. Wann haben sie Sie gebracht?”
(Translation: I was in a detachment of a German unit in the eastern front – they moved me today / And you had better show some respect to your superior / You are new. When did they bring you?)
The German private was at this point convinced, but still looking scared. “Vor ungefähr drei Wochen,” he said in a weaker voice, lowering his rifle. “Ich bildete in einer militärischen Schule aus, bevor sie zu meiner Stadt gekommen sind, und habe um Einberufung gebeten –”
(Translation: About three weeks ago / I was training in a military school before they came to my town and asked for conscription)
“Schließen Sie ab und führen Sie mich zur Scheune,” Erichsen commanded briskly, taking a last glance at the German Gefreiter – but he was not to be found at the spot Erichsen had been watching. He slightly furrowed his eyebrows, and decided to deal with this later. The German private (his name was Schuler, and once he was convinced of the Corporal’s identity, he became more open and jittery; it was an after-effect of shock and fear, as was usually present in the young blood that enlisted with the army, totally inexperienced of what real war meant) walked with him across the deserted area for several feet, until they finally reached a gambrel-roofed barn. Erichsen motioned for Schuler to go inside, and then followed him. The barn was not large, but it held several bridles and saddles, a silo, and sacks of hay and grain. Private Schuler turned to Erichsen, looking disappointed. “Es ist nicht viel, aber Sie erhalten durch den Tag – ”
(Translation: Shut up, and lead me to the barn / It’s not much, but we get through the day)
“Nicht heute werden Sie nicht,” Erichsen said from beside him. Private Schuler frowned, and turned to look at him once more, a puzzled expression in his youthful face.
(Translation: Not today you won’t)
“Was sagen Sie, Stebsgefreiter?”
(Translation: What are you saying, Corporal?)
Three shots through the chest later, and Private Schuler was lying dead on the floor, his mouth and eyes wide open, his arms and feet spread-eagled, blood wetting his coat and the floor. Erichsen approached him, and with his foot slowly moved the Private’s face to the other side. “Ich sage,” he said in German, “dies ist, warum ich Körperlich bin, und Sie sind ein Ficken Privat.” His voice was razor sharp, brisk, terribly hoarse, and rough, uttered with a ringing force, commandingly. His eyes narrowed as his eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth was contorted into a hateful scowl; the vein was still popped out in his scarred neck, inside of which the chords were savagely pressed as he spoke, and could not say anything else, but there was nothing else to say.
(Translation: I’m saying / this is why I’m Corporal and you are a fucking Private)
He pushed the door open, but not so much to his surprise, a livid Gefreiter Lehmann appeared right in front of him; he had expected something like this would happen, ever since he had observed the Gefreiter leaving the scene secretly and quietly. “Stebsgefreiter Erichsen, ja?” he growled at him sarcastically, and without saying anything else, he punched his face with the rifle’s butt, pushing him back inside the barn. The Corporal spat blood on the floor, and hit him with his gun across the chest, once, twice, and then a disgusting ‘crack’ was heard as he punched Lehmann’s jaw, followed by a growl from his part – that gave Erichsen seconds to take control, and give him another skillful blow in the head with his rifle. “Was kann ich sagen?” Erichsen said, and smiled sickly. “Er war ein Verräter!” He was almost enjoying this sadistically, as he cocked his rifle. Gefreiter Lehmann had stumbled backwards against the wall, feet away from where Schuler’s corpse was lying, but he was an experienced military figure that was not to be trifled with. He quickly pulled a bayonet from inside his boots, and plunged at Erichsen’s leg; the man grimaced and swore at him, feeling the steel cut through flesh, but he was not of the men to lose his composure. He had suffered much worse throughout his pitiful life, and now he was really furious. He grabbed the man’s neck forcefully with one hand, while the other pulled the bayonet off his leg and threw it away, and crushed it against the wall three times, and then pointed the rifle at his head.
(Translation: Corporal Erichsen, yes? / What can I say? / He was a traitor!)
“Sind Sie ein Verräter?” Lehmann asked him hatefully through gritted teeth, and repeated the question with a commanding shout, such as the ones he had been used to giving his inferiors, trying to fight against all odds, but Erichsen had kicked his rifle away, and was strong enough to maintain a firm grip on him, making certain the Gefreiter’s body was creating a painful friction against the wall’s surface. “Die einzige Frage, die ich beantworten kann, ist das, ja, sind Sie tot!” Erichsen spat at him, and pulled the trigger. It was one shot through the head, and the Gefreiter’s body fell limp on Erichsen’s arms. He threw him on the floor like a sack of potatoes, and then undressed him. Moments later, he was wearing the Gefreiter’s uniform, whilst his lay on the floor. In that way, by wearing the German uniform, he would not raise suspicions of being the enemy, especially since his features would hardly be noticed from inside the jeep. Above all, there was survival, and Moritz did not care about etiquette and decency. He tore a piece apart from his own, and found a pair of keys inside Lehmann’s uniform, which he presumed to belong to the jeep he had previously used to hide himself. He grimaced, and then knelt down to patch up his injured leg; the wound was not deep, but he needed to get to base to avoid infection. He pulled the cloth around the blood and made a tight knot to prevent further bleeding. He swore again.
(Translation: Are you a traitor? / The only question I can answer is that, yes, you’re dead)
The sun poked at his automatically narrowed eyes as he walked out of the barn, and he shielded them with his hand. He could not see anyone within the near distance, which gave away the fact the soldiers were on the other side of the combat. Whether the combat had ceased or not, Erichsen could not tell with certainty, even though he could hear the fainted cry of bombshells and gunshots in the distance. His leg was now beginning to annoy him, and he thought he found a tendency to slightly limp, which made him even angrier. He noticed something coming out of his coat’s pocket, but it was only the letter he had previously showed Schuler; it had indeed been Sergeant Beatty’s letter, only addressed to Erichsen instead of ‘traitorous’ Lehmann. The Gefreiter must have heard Schuler’s protests at Erichsen and witnessed the scene quietly, possibly resolving not to shoot at Erichsen given the state of his rifle; he would give away his position and endanger Schuler as well; thus, he had secretly followed them to the barn, where he would tackle Erichsen on an equal level. Moritz could not wait until he told the ‘traitorous gun’ story to his privates; it was laughable to him, but at this point he was too focused on the pain from the injured leg to actually laugh. Were had Lehmann’s comrades been, to help with? In the combat, possibly, or some in the base, far away for them to know what Lehmann was up to. Erichsen shook his head impatiently, intending to rid his mind of these thoughts and instead concentrate on finding his way back to the frontline. He tugged the letter back inside forcefully, and scanned the area around him. The frontline was Southeast, about three thousand and five hundred feet where he was currently situated, in the Northwest.
He went back to his former spot, the one while he had been watching Lehmann; the surrounding area was still deserted, but there was shouting in the distance, people barking orders, others screaming in pain. Without a doubt as to his actions, he conveniently slipped inside the jeep, and started the engine. It growled just like its owner, but this one at least obeyed to him. He drove across the fields, until he could see a storm of soldiers running towards the opposite direction. He could hear cries of “Rückzug! Rückzug!” and the sounds of Soviet tanks from the West breaking through the silence he had been used to. He gritted his teeth. “That’s right, rückzug, you fuckers,” he muttered under his breath. He soon reached the front lines, and halted the engine as his comrades came with their rifles pointed at him. “Don’t piss your pants, Carter, I’m not happy to see you,” he told his Private, who immediately lowered his gun, and spat some phlegm on the floor, throwing the rifle in the air for Carter to catch. Lloyd was amongst them. “I prayed alright,” he said sarcastically, and then walked to the medics with a limp. He needed some bourbon.
(Translation: Retreat)
