Post by Dirk Riedel on Mar 22, 2010 17:34:54 GMT
Country: Outside Tripoli, Libya, in North Africa
Current Time: 14:15 pm, August
Weather Conditions: Hot and dry.
The Leutnant sighed in mild frustration, his arm spread in a horizontal position to the sun in front of his steel-grey, emerald-green eyes, half-opened and half-closed, as the sunlight was glowing upon the hand of his palm in almost blinding glory, staring at it, and not knowing whether the salt on his skin was from seawater or plain sweat. He was certain it was sweat. With the hot air hanging heavily around the Libyan wilderness, walking around the makeshift tents that worked as barracks for the Deutsches Afrika Korps just a few kilometres outside Tripoli, one would catch the unmistakeable smell of sweat mixed with the stench of canned meat, beer and tobacco, combined with a strong whiff of gasoline, lubricants, the tinkling of metallic plates and the roaring sounds of engines, all of which were surrounded by a general buzz from the soldiers as they rested during those minimal days of leave. A Gefreiter had made a hammock and was presently dozing off, shirtless and with the military cap covering his face; other men had been for a swim in the Mediterranean Sea while those who had remained in the barracks were lazily strolling around or lying down, relaxing or taking a nap. The general image of the Wehrmacht at this hour was one of a pack of lions resting on the savannah after hunting down a good meal, only instead of a meal it had in fact been a victorious battle – though they had lost men (a number of them had been sent to a third-rate hospital in Tripoli while those minimally injured were presently being tended to by the medics in the barracks), their objective of keeping their lines intact had been accomplished, and apparently, that was the only thing that mattered.
It would be dreadfully imprudent for Leutnant Dirk Riedel to take off his military uniform, despite the inconvenience of heat that scorching summer’s day; the fact was, Leutnant Dirk Riedel, come rain or high water, come an earthquake or tide, never removed his uniform, which hardly posed any problem whatsoever or raised any suspicions in any way, shape and form: the superiors did not even have the remotest time at their disposal to waste in observing such trivialities from one of their many commissioned Officers, and even if they did, they would not care less, perhaps even accounting such conduct to eccentricity or the desire to appear ‘authoritative’; the inferiors were not in the position to judge a Leutnant’s habits or issue enquiries as to such a tradition, for it was not within their place to do so, and, most importantly, it was well known that the Leutnant was a man of order, discipline, protocol and formality. Wearing his military uniform was in every sense a way of imposing his authority and power upon the others, though little did they know the unfeigned motivation was more technical rather than command-oriented, for Riedel had never been nor would ever be seduced by the sirens of power as had often corrupted other Officers, a natural by-product of one’s holding an authoritative position in the armed forces and be only too keen and delighted in exploiting such positions for their own vested interests. At any rate, there were several – endurable with great difficulty – consequences to tolerate from such behaviour, beginning from the problematic and awfully bothersome amount of sweat accumulated underneath the Leutnant’s uniform, sweat glued to his skin in every inch of his body, coating the insides of his uniform, sweat slowly trailing down the pores of his white face underneath the Libyan sun, slowly journeying across the cheeks and travelling downwards to reach his neck, sweat dampening his dirty blonde hair and covering the top of his cap which he was wearing to prevent a further headache from the sun, though he soon realized it was causing more inconvenience than it was worth.
Kneeling down on the ground, momentarily distracted by the sweat drops across his palm, he threw the wet sponge inside the bucket and pulled his cap off, carelessly tossing it on the side, and returned his attention to the Leichter Panzerspähwagen. Two soldiers had been slaughtered and one of them fatally injured during the attack, and as a result the armoured car was now resting on the sand, blood-stained and mud-washed – the blood had dried in several places, small corners, tubes and holes, which were difficult to spot at first, and the car had been left grimy for many hours to pass which only served to require further scrubbing. This was not a job for a Leutnant, but Dirk was a simple man. He once more plunged the sponge into the bucket of water, in which detergent and fresh hydrogen peroxide had been dissolved, and scrubbed the stains, which immediately began bubbling up, his fingers across and through the tube’s length, and then blotted it with a clean rag. He had been doing this for hours, and had even skipped lunch, despite the fact appetites on such a ridiculous weather were running considerably low; but he was determined to finish this task, the sheer inconvenience in the chest notwithstanding: he was wearing a thin metal plate across his torso which straightened out the bust and gave him proper masculine appearance as befitting a soldier of the Reich, an Aryan leader obeying superior Aryan leaders.
As most of the soldiers were just lazing around and dozing off, or wolfing down canned beef and potatoes, Dirk might have removed the plate to spare himself the trouble of having it attached to his body every second of his day for the past few years, but he was always cautious, guarding and on the lookout, never to risk having one of his comrades curiously ponder on how his Leutnant had suddenly grown some upper baggage. With his free hand he brushed his fingers through his hair – from the prolonged days of the attack he had not had the time nor interest, or focus, to return to the state of his previously shaved head, and as a result it had slightly lengthened, now locks of golden brown still considerably short but not short enough for his taste. He planned to give himself a cut in the evening, as soon as he was finished with this scrubbing. Frustrated, he unbuttoned his collar, his forehead ablaze and his body burning from the heat, his eyes fiercely glaring at the red stains that seemed to have absorbed his own determination to remain on the car, the bucket’s cold water the only source of relief to his current state of weariness.
Current Time: 14:15 pm, August
Weather Conditions: Hot and dry.
The Leutnant sighed in mild frustration, his arm spread in a horizontal position to the sun in front of his steel-grey, emerald-green eyes, half-opened and half-closed, as the sunlight was glowing upon the hand of his palm in almost blinding glory, staring at it, and not knowing whether the salt on his skin was from seawater or plain sweat. He was certain it was sweat. With the hot air hanging heavily around the Libyan wilderness, walking around the makeshift tents that worked as barracks for the Deutsches Afrika Korps just a few kilometres outside Tripoli, one would catch the unmistakeable smell of sweat mixed with the stench of canned meat, beer and tobacco, combined with a strong whiff of gasoline, lubricants, the tinkling of metallic plates and the roaring sounds of engines, all of which were surrounded by a general buzz from the soldiers as they rested during those minimal days of leave. A Gefreiter had made a hammock and was presently dozing off, shirtless and with the military cap covering his face; other men had been for a swim in the Mediterranean Sea while those who had remained in the barracks were lazily strolling around or lying down, relaxing or taking a nap. The general image of the Wehrmacht at this hour was one of a pack of lions resting on the savannah after hunting down a good meal, only instead of a meal it had in fact been a victorious battle – though they had lost men (a number of them had been sent to a third-rate hospital in Tripoli while those minimally injured were presently being tended to by the medics in the barracks), their objective of keeping their lines intact had been accomplished, and apparently, that was the only thing that mattered.
It would be dreadfully imprudent for Leutnant Dirk Riedel to take off his military uniform, despite the inconvenience of heat that scorching summer’s day; the fact was, Leutnant Dirk Riedel, come rain or high water, come an earthquake or tide, never removed his uniform, which hardly posed any problem whatsoever or raised any suspicions in any way, shape and form: the superiors did not even have the remotest time at their disposal to waste in observing such trivialities from one of their many commissioned Officers, and even if they did, they would not care less, perhaps even accounting such conduct to eccentricity or the desire to appear ‘authoritative’; the inferiors were not in the position to judge a Leutnant’s habits or issue enquiries as to such a tradition, for it was not within their place to do so, and, most importantly, it was well known that the Leutnant was a man of order, discipline, protocol and formality. Wearing his military uniform was in every sense a way of imposing his authority and power upon the others, though little did they know the unfeigned motivation was more technical rather than command-oriented, for Riedel had never been nor would ever be seduced by the sirens of power as had often corrupted other Officers, a natural by-product of one’s holding an authoritative position in the armed forces and be only too keen and delighted in exploiting such positions for their own vested interests. At any rate, there were several – endurable with great difficulty – consequences to tolerate from such behaviour, beginning from the problematic and awfully bothersome amount of sweat accumulated underneath the Leutnant’s uniform, sweat glued to his skin in every inch of his body, coating the insides of his uniform, sweat slowly trailing down the pores of his white face underneath the Libyan sun, slowly journeying across the cheeks and travelling downwards to reach his neck, sweat dampening his dirty blonde hair and covering the top of his cap which he was wearing to prevent a further headache from the sun, though he soon realized it was causing more inconvenience than it was worth.
Kneeling down on the ground, momentarily distracted by the sweat drops across his palm, he threw the wet sponge inside the bucket and pulled his cap off, carelessly tossing it on the side, and returned his attention to the Leichter Panzerspähwagen. Two soldiers had been slaughtered and one of them fatally injured during the attack, and as a result the armoured car was now resting on the sand, blood-stained and mud-washed – the blood had dried in several places, small corners, tubes and holes, which were difficult to spot at first, and the car had been left grimy for many hours to pass which only served to require further scrubbing. This was not a job for a Leutnant, but Dirk was a simple man. He once more plunged the sponge into the bucket of water, in which detergent and fresh hydrogen peroxide had been dissolved, and scrubbed the stains, which immediately began bubbling up, his fingers across and through the tube’s length, and then blotted it with a clean rag. He had been doing this for hours, and had even skipped lunch, despite the fact appetites on such a ridiculous weather were running considerably low; but he was determined to finish this task, the sheer inconvenience in the chest notwithstanding: he was wearing a thin metal plate across his torso which straightened out the bust and gave him proper masculine appearance as befitting a soldier of the Reich, an Aryan leader obeying superior Aryan leaders.
As most of the soldiers were just lazing around and dozing off, or wolfing down canned beef and potatoes, Dirk might have removed the plate to spare himself the trouble of having it attached to his body every second of his day for the past few years, but he was always cautious, guarding and on the lookout, never to risk having one of his comrades curiously ponder on how his Leutnant had suddenly grown some upper baggage. With his free hand he brushed his fingers through his hair – from the prolonged days of the attack he had not had the time nor interest, or focus, to return to the state of his previously shaved head, and as a result it had slightly lengthened, now locks of golden brown still considerably short but not short enough for his taste. He planned to give himself a cut in the evening, as soon as he was finished with this scrubbing. Frustrated, he unbuttoned his collar, his forehead ablaze and his body burning from the heat, his eyes fiercely glaring at the red stains that seemed to have absorbed his own determination to remain on the car, the bucket’s cold water the only source of relief to his current state of weariness.
