Mittelfinger

[Dirk Riedel]

Country: Paris, France
Current Time: 19:20, June 1940
Weather conditions: Warm, with a light breeze forming outdoors as the night approaches.


“Drei Lilien, drei Lilien,
die pflanzt’ ich auf mein Grab! Da kam ein stolzer Reiter
und brach sie ab!” the German soldiers sang loudly in their drunken voices and raised their glasses high, clicking them against one another in strident, tingling noises that rang through the air that was thick with the breathing voices and the overwhelming smoke. The French pub, Le Baron Rouge, was swarmed with the Schutzstaffel members that warm summer’s late afternoon as, upon the glorious conquest of Paris, the soldiers of the Reich had resolved to spend the rest of their leave with alcohol, dances and the most affordable and pleasant company of women. Of these, the very last was not as easily accomplished, considering how it was forbidden to a German soldier to engage himself with someone of non-German descent in terms of marriage (notwithstanding the fact illegal relationships were to flourish, still, or, most usually, ones contracted under monetary terms), neither were French women particularly interested – at the time – to provide company to a group of men they only regarded as savage monsters who had pervaded upon their land. Nevertheless, one of them at present, a rather young waitress by the name Isabelle, had been cornered by two tall soldiers of the 2. SS Panzer-Division Das Reich across the bar stools and been forced to gulp down two large mouthfuls of wine even if she had at first timidly protested against this, under the reasoning that “she did not drink”. The soldiers had heartily laughed at her, announced that they would make certain her parents would not forward any form of discord afterwards, and held the large bottle tightly with their hands as the girl almost curved her head and wholly arched backwards from the pressure.

“Juvi valle ralle ralle ralle ra! Juvi valle ralle ralle ralle ra! Da kam ein stolzer Reiter
und brach sie ab!” the singing continued, and more glasses tinkled against one another. Dirk smiled, and closed her eyes as she tilted her head backwards to take a gulp from the glass of red wine, half-choking upon opening her eyes back again when she saw the little waitress flailing her arms around in despair as the two SS soldiers kept pouring more alcohol into her mouth despite her obvious reluctance, the wine trickling down into her neck from the corners of her lips, and it was in the next moment as the men took the bottle away that the girl, lightheaded and wobbly, was to fall down on the floor with a breathless sigh had they not rushed to pull her back up from her arms, laughing. “Ach Reitersmann, ach Reitersmann,
laß doch die Lilien stehn,
die soll ja mein Feinsliebchen
noch einmal sehn!” they sang along all together, most of the verses coming in a comically unmusical, well-oiled tune, and the woman sang along with them.

A few other soldiers almost held their stomachs from the laughter that made them shake their shoulders vigorously. “He, Klemmer,” one of them asked in amusement his comrade, who had been, at the peak of his intoxication, singing at a completely off-key tune, “wer lehrte Sie das gut singen? Mozart?” And they all burst in drunken laughter. With wine it was relatively all the more easier for anyone to become inebriated at an earlier time as compared to beer, and as they all indulged to the barrels the pub had to offer, then it was so. At one point a brown-haired SS-Rottenführer stumbled his way at her direction, his face flushed from the alcohol and holding an empty bottle in his right hand. “Sie haben eine schöne Schwester,” he told her, and Dirk smiled. “Kann ich ihren Namen wissen?” he asked her, eyes widening from the sheer anticipation and adrenaline her response would offer to him, and yet the woman could only laugh.

“Sie sind betrunken,” she told him, her shoulders shaking from the amusement and her eyes glinting from the laughter.

“Ich bin nur erfahrener … nicht betrunken …” he slurred, and then collapsed onto the floor. The woman chuckled under her breath and leaned her back against the wall in the corner, her right hand holding the glass of wine as she looked over at the pub, locks of golden hair falling down upon her shoulder on the black fabric of her dress. There were a few reasons that would explain why the woman had chosen to appear in such form at present, but perhaps the most dominant was the supreme exhilaration and sense of protection and achievement upon such triumphant victory over France which, combined with relative victories in Poland, Norway, the occupation of Czechoslovakia, the defeat of Luxemburg, Belgium and the Netherlands all served to bring her to the appropriate pitch of delight and accomplishment which, while perfectly controlled by her unwavering caution and alertness, made her wish to celebrate after such a long time of preparing and forwarding offensive plans in her true form, as if intoxicated by the drunken aroma of victory. Nevertheless, she was attentive enough as not to prolong this more than it ought to last, and knew very well – she had strictly forbidden herself – not to appear like this more than once or twice, enough to be able to pour out the burden and pressure of living in an otherwise different form but as not to arouse any suspicion. Her green eyes were calmly looking at the soldiers around the pub, mumbling the words to herself with a half-smile.

“Juvi valle ralle ralle ralle ra! Die soll ja mein Feinsliebchen
noch einmal sehn!”


Translation

Hey, Klemmer, who taught you to sing that well? Mozart?

You have a lovely sister. Can I know her name?

You’re drunk.

I’m not drunk … only experienced …

[Aldarik Moldenhauer]

Along the streets, Swastika flags were pouring down the streets of France. The losers of a war that had just started seemed to be reeling with delight, some of them anyways. As Unterscharführer Aldarik Moldenhauer walked down the street, he saw those spoiled by loss and those who proclaimed themselves proud National Socialists alike in the streets. He laughed as a few women would occasionally nod to him, his field cap was situated in the back pocket of his trousers, and he almost didn't feel it when a rather touchy lady grabbed his backside and then the cap. She went prancing around him holding it, causing the battle hardened SS NCO to smile a bit.

"Donne-moi ça!" chided Aldarik in the middle of laughter.

"Vous pouvez venir la chercher dans ma chambre, monsieur soldat!" yelled the giggling woman as she pranced around him.

"Que diriez-vous que je vous échange un baiser?" negotiated Moldenhauer. He wasn't keen on going to bed with an enemy that was recently conquered. It spelled getting killed.

"Bien, bien. Être têtu, il ya beaucoup plus de toute façon les soldats!" The Woman taunted as she leaned in for the kiss.

Aldarik came up good on his part and planted a soft kiss, grabbing his field cap from her hands and laughing hard. She pranced off and he slipped the cap back on his head. The street lights made the small emblem on the cap shine brightly, Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe, SS; all of them were in the streets proudly shouting and drinking. It made the Unterscharführer proud to be in the country. At least he was away from Belgium, the spot on his forearm where a bullet had passed clean through the meat was still tender, a bit of scarring had even formed. He continued down the streets toward a place he had been told of by a few of the men under his command. It was called Le Baron Rouge, it was a good place to get a drink. They had also spread it around to as many of the SS men as they could. They truly wanted everyone there.

Making a left through a side street, Aldarik saw a young Luftwaffe pilot "getting friendly" with a French woman. He did not bother to look and just kept moving, he really didn't want to appear to be some creepy voyeur. Finally, rounding another corner he saw a place with what looked like ten SS soldiers outside of it, more flocking in. Aldarik saw an Obersturmführer smoking a cigar. The man's coke bottle glasses flashed as he turned toward Aldarik and smiled. His face was scarred and his unit was apparently the 1st SS Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler. Aldarik smiled back and saluted him, his hand at a 45 degree angle.

"Heil Hitler!" exclaimed Aldarik proudly. The man returned the salute and smiled again.

"Ich hörte deine Männer haben auch in Belgien," said the Obersturmführer.

"Das ist richtig, Herr Obersturmführer. Viele Eiserne Kreuze," replied Aldarik with a smile as he went inside. He didn't mention how many deaths there had been.

As he entered the bar, cigarette smoke, the smell of alcohol and food filled his nostrils. The smells prompted him to light his own cigarette. Taking one of the tobacco-filled, white paper tubes out of his silver case. He struck a match and lit it, the gracious tobacco smoke filling his mouth and lungs. Aldarik's blue eyes circled the room, there were so many SS men that it looked like a swarm of dark-clad bees. He smiled, it was a great sight. He crossed through the front room and towards the bar, once getting there he ordered a bottle of whiskey. The Frenchman handed him the bottle and Aldarik saw it was Irish. He read the English label and laughed. He slid the man some marks and took the bottle to a table. He popped open the top and began drinking.

He joined in on a few songs, singing a little off key, but still manageable. After all, Aldarik was not an opera singer. He saw a young Schütze walk by and he tapped the boy on the shoulder. The kid was from his platoon, Aldarik thought his name was Franc, but wasn't too sure. The kid smiled to his platoon leader.

"Wie gehts?" asked the Schütze.

"Gut, gut. Betrinken, wie Sie tun sollten!" chided Aldarik. He handed the young man the whiskey bottle. He watched as he took large gulps and made a terrible face.

"Sein irischer, erhielt seinen einige gewöhnungsbedürftig. Aber seine immer noch gut," explained Aldarik. The kid smiled and walked off to go join other junior enlisted men at a table.

The Unterscharführer stamped out his cigarette on the ground and leaned against a wall, taking more gulps of the strong Irish whiskey. The burn didn't bother him, after all he was already drunk with pride and victory.

---

Translations:
"Donne-moi ça!" - "Give it here!"
"Vous pouvez venir la chercher dans ma chambre, monsieur soldat!" - "You can come get it in my bed, Mister Soldier!"
"Que diriez-vous que je vous échange un baiser?" - "What about a kiss?"
"Bien, bien. Être têtu, il ya beaucoup plus de toute façon les soldats!" - "Fine, fine. Be stubborn, there are plenty more soldiers!"

"Ich hörte deine Männer haben auch in Belgien," - "I heard your men did well in Belgium."
"Das ist richtig, Herr Obersturmführer. Viele Eiserne Kreuze," - "That is correct... Many Iron Crosses,"
"Wie gehts?" - "What's up?"
"Gut, gut. Betrinken, wie Sie tun sollten!" - "Good, good. Getting drunk, like you should be!"
"Sein irischer, erhielt seinen einige gewöhnungsbedürftig. Aber seine immer noch gut," - "Its Irish, it takes some getting used to. But it is still good,"

[Deleted]

A sea of white collar tabs.

The first thing he had noticed when he had walked into The Red Baron was the sheer number of Schutzstaffel troops there. At first he had considered looking for somewhere else for a drink, but in the end his weariness got the better of him, and he took a seat in the corner next to an older Scharführer. While the rest of the pub celebrated the capture of Paris, the Scharführer and Jan ordered their drinks, and spoke rather quietly of the war and their experiences thus far. The Scharführer, whose cuff-title placed him in the 2nd SS Division, and whose insignia the Sicherheitsdienst, was somewhere in his late twenties, or early thirties, perhaps.

He politely inquired if Jan had seen any combat, to which he replied that he had, and went on for a short time to describe the three-day hell which had been the fighting at Stonne. "Die Stadt von Stonne und die waldigen Hügel von Mont-Dieu. Das einzelne Gebiet, das das Französisch uns anhalten konnte," the Leutnant said to the man, his tone weary. His Regiment had lost many men. Much too many. His platoon alone suffered eleven dead and fifteen wounded. The town itself had changed hands seventeen times between the 15th and 17th of May.

"Auf dem sechzehnten hatten wir zwei Panzer vier, elf Panzer drei und zwei Pak sechsunddreißig. Sie führten durch Stonne in eine Anstrengung, hinunter auf der Stadt für Guten zuzuschnappen, eine Säule. Irgendwann griff eine französische Panzergesellschaft diesen Morgen die Stadt ohne Infanterieunterstützung an. Ein B1bis... man, das einzelner verdammter Panzer aus unserer ganzen Säule herausnahm. Unsere Schüsse prallten nur ab," Jan said, taking a small drink of his wine and pulling out his pipe for a quick smoke. "Wir erlangten die Stadt wieder und verloren es einige weitere Zeiten. Es war nicht unseres für Gutes bis zum zwanzig-Fünftel," he said indifferently, reaching into his breast pocket for a book of matches.

Looking around the rest of the pub which he had been ignoring until now, the young Nordmann watched as a young Frenchwoman teased an SS NCO, for all the world seeming like the occupation was welcome by the local populace. Jan knew better, however. He had marched around Paris with his Regiment. He had seen for himself that for every smiling sun-kissed face there was another streaked with tears.

It didn't matter to him either way. He had enlisted in the Army to serve his country, and to be with his friends. If the French disliked the Germans so bad, they could, in Jan's opinion, fight and die for their country. Jan had no intention of dying for his. Through force of arms, he would make the enemies of the Fatherland bleed.

He saw also, in the corner of the pub a rather beautiful blonde woman.

In a hushed tone, he spoke once more, not taking his eyes off the woman.

"Ich habe im Eisenbahn buisness in Stuttgart einen Freund. Er sagt, daß sich unser Verkehr vom Weg nach Osten bewegt, werden wir jeden Tag jetzt mit den Sowjets anfangen."

"Es würde mich nicht überraschen. Wenn jeder es mehr als andere verdient, ist es die Russen. Jene Bastarde sind fast so schlecht wie die Juden. Alle von ihnen sind... Unter-Mensch," the Scharführer replied. He had rather aristocratic facial features. There was something rather unhealthy about the man, as well.

Jan said nothing more to the man. Let the pathetic weasel think his thoughts, and believe the garbarge Himmler and his SS clowns fed them! The SS had always struck him as an odd organization. Too arrogant and full of bluster. If they spent their time focused on winning battles rather than dreaming of Teutonic knights and Aryan blood, then Germany might actually achieve something.

As the now-quite-drunken SS soldiers broke out in song once more, Jan was reminded of his time in Munich training with his friends in the 35th Panzer Regiment, 6th Company. He considered leaving and heading to the comfort of his bunk, he he sat motionless, staring as if in a trance at the tabletop. The Scharführer joined in the singing, and had a better voice than most. Jan mumbled a few of the words occasionally, puffing his pipe. Deep in thought.

Thinking about his friends who he would never see again. The men under his command who had died, and how he would have to write the parents of each, describing how they had done their duty to their country and died proudly. The truth was that they had died bloodied and barely recognizable. Crying for their mothers in a ditch, or for a drink of water. The voices were silent now.

And the capture of Paris seemed a hollow victory indeed.

His eyes wandering over the crowd once more and fell upon the young blonde woman. He put out his pipe, drank the remainder of his wine, and excused himself. Standing up, the 6'2'' Norwegian straightened his Feldmütze älterer Art over his medium-brown hair. He had gotten a chance for a haircut and a shave just after taking Stonne, a luxury he had been denied for the several weeks of fighting. He looked the fine image of a Leutnant, if he dared say so himself.

Threading slowly through the singing mass of soldiers, Jan stopped next to the young woman, pointing at the Unterscharführer with a grin. "Dieser Jungtiere-Mann scheint die Beute des Krieges zu genießen."

He offered the woman his hand, his bright smile genuine. "Ich würde nicht glauben, daß viele Frauen den Mut hatten, vom Schutzstaffel voll in eine Bar zu treten. Die meisten von diesen sind weg von der Wärme einer Frau so lang gewesen, daß wenn sich mit Getränk gefüllt hat, ihre Handlungen sind wahrscheinlich, zu werden... unvorhersehbar," he said, his gray-green eyes glistening.

"Ich bin Leutnant Nordmann, Fräulein, bei Ihrem Dienst. Was werde ich Sie nennen?" asked Jan politely. He was, admittedly curious as to the origins and motivations of the young woman for being in such a place. The singing in The Red Baron was raucous, and most of the men fairly well-off in terms of drink.

------------------------------------------------
Translations:

"Die Stadt von Stonne und die waldigen Hügel von Mont-Dieu. Das einzelne Gebiet, das das Französisch uns anhalten konnte,"
"The town of Stonne, and the woody hills of Mont-Dieu. The single area the French could stop us,"

"Auf dem sechzehnten hatten wir zwei Panzer vier, elf Panzer drei und zwei Pak sechsunddreißig. Sie führten durch Stonne in eine Anstrengung, hinunter auf der Stadt für Guten zuzuschnappen, eine Säule. Irgendwann griff eine französische Panzergesellschaft diesen Morgen die Stadt ohne Infanterieunterstützung an. Ein B1bis... man, das einzelner verdammter Panzer aus unserer ganzen Säule herausnahm. Unsere Schüsse prallten nur ab,"
"On the sixteenth, we had two Panzer IV, eleven Panzer III, and two Pak 36's. They were leading a column through Stonne in an effort to latch down on the city for good. Sometime that morning a French armor company attacked the town without infantry support. One B1bis... one single pesky tank took out our entire column. Our shots just bounced off,"

"Wir erlangten die Stadt wieder und verloren es einige weitere Zeiten. Es war nicht unseres für Gutes bis zum zwanzig-Fünftel,"
"We regained the town and lost it several more times. It wasn't ours for good until the twenty-fifth,"

"Ich habe im Eisenbahn buisness in Stuttgart einen Freund. Er sagt, daß sich unser Verkehr vom Weg nach Osten bewegt, werden wir jeden Tag jetzt mit den Sowjets anfangen."
"I have a friend in the railroad buisness in Stuttgart. He says that from the way our traffic is moving east, we'll be starting on the Soviets any day now."

"Es würde mich nicht überraschen. Wenn jeder es mehr als andere verdient, ist es die Russen. Jene Bastarde sind fast so schlecht wie die Juden. Alle von ihnen sind... Unter-Mensch,"
"It wouldn't surprise me. If anyone deserves it more than others it is the Russians. Those bastards are almost as bad as the Jews. All of them are... sub-human,"

"Dieser Jungtiere-Mann scheint die Beute des Krieges zu genießen."
"That young man seems to be enjoying the spoils of war."

"Ich würde nicht glauben, daß viele Frauen den Mut hatten, vom Schutzstaffel voll in eine Bar zu treten. Die meisten von diesen sind weg von der Wärme einer Frau so lang gewesen, daß wenn sich mit Getränk gefüllt hat, ihre Handlungen sind wahrscheinlich, zu werden... unvorhersehbar,"
"I wouldn't think many women had the will to step into a bar full of the SS. Most of these have been away from the warmth of a woman so long that when filled with drink, their actions are likely to become... unpredictable,"

"Ich bin Leutnant Nordmann, Fräulein, bei Ihrem Dienst. Was werde ich Sie nennen?"
"I am Lieutenant Nordmann, Miss, at your service. What shall I call you?"