A New Face In Town

[Wilhelm Schaefer]

(Just an introductory thread, and to help me get back into writing )

Country: Germany
Current Time: 5:00 PM
Weather Conditions: Light snow, cold


Wilhelm stepped out into the forest with his Mauser Karbine 98k slung across his back. He was freezing, even with his thick leather trench-coat on, but he didn't like staying inside all day. He walked along the snow covered trail, only slowing to pull the collar of his coat closer to him. "Verdammt ... Ich wünschte, ich hätte einen Hut gebracht." He mumbled to himself, running a black gloved hand through his black hair. All of his hats were back in his room, and he resented leaving them although he knew the weather wouldn't be kind to them.

Wilhelm slowly walked to shooting range, his boots leaving prints in the newly fallen snow. It had been snowing all day, piling up on trees and plants and covering the ground, although it only barely came above the soles of his boots. He positioned himself underneath the firing point: a little shelter made from four oak posts and a simple roof with an old table in the corner. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a cigarette and a match and struck it against the wooden post, the smell of sulfur momentarily filling the air. He lit the end of the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, watching for a few seconds as the smoke curled up into the air. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a tiny box of slugs.

Wilhelm loaded the rifle and looked down the sights. It felt awkward and different then what he was used to, but he quickly adapted to it's weight. He didn't care to much for bolt-action rifles, but it was all he had at the moment so it would have to do.

Wilhelm was new to the area, having spent most of his time lately on the Russian front. When time came to return to the Fatherland, he had loaded his equipment up on a separate truck and took a train back to Berlin. He had stayed a few days in Berlin before arriving here by car. Even though he had only been here a week, he would've expected that his equipment to have been here by now.
"Wissen sie, haben sie inzwischen verloren gegangen." He muttered under his breath and laughed.
He lined up the sights, and pulled the trigger. The shot splintered the silence of the forest as it hit it's target. He lowered the gun for a moment and glanced over his shoulder. He could see the buildings in the distance, and if he strained his eyes, he could even see a few people walking about outside.
I bet they all think I'm crazy... The new guy out in the cold, shooting targets...
Then again, he had seen several people come out into the woods this time of day. He had a feeling it wouldn't be long until more people decided to come to the Shooting Range.
Wilhelm turned and fired the rest of the clip into the target, slowly counting the shots off to himself. He reached into the ammunition box and reloaded. He surprised himself with his accuracy. He hadn't hit the bulls-eye, but at least he had managed to hit the target. That was good considering he still had stitches in his right shoulder, but it wouldn't be good enough.



---Translations---

"Verdammt ... Ich wünschte, ich hätte einen Hut gebracht." --- "Damn... I wish I had brought a hat."

"Wissen sie, haben sie inzwischen verloren gegangen." --- "Knowing them, they have gotten lost by now."

[Deleted]

The small bar was filled with a retched stench from the hundreds of cigars that had been lit in the building over the years, even the roof and tops of the support beams where black and yellow from the smoke that would cling to the roof, permanently staining the wood and giving the room a horrible smell forever more. The bar was old, feeling the wood Sanson could tell it was oak, cut from a proud and strong tree that had probably stood tall for centuries before the woodcutters set their sights on it. But that was the way of the world, nothing lived forever and if its death could be useful for others then it would die and few would care. The polished top of the old oak bar was covered in ringed water stains from the thousands of drinks that had been placed on its surface, the cold perspiring glasses filled with refreshing liquids would be paid for and then taken away to be consumed by the thousands of greedy, dry lips. Sanson licked his own lips, feeling the dry and cracked skin with his tongue. He had been thirsty for a while now but had not ordered anything despite the offers from the bartender. He looked up at the bartender now as he served another man, they where smiling like idiots at each other. The fat bartender smiling behind his thick moustache because he was about to receive payment for the cold, fulfilling beverage he had placed in front of the soldier, and the soldier smiling while he was giving his money away for that same glass of beautifully clear and fermenting beer. Sanson eyed the beer with this thirst for a moment, trying to imagine the taste of that bittersweet liquid as it filled his mouth.

It was almost too much and Sanson raised his hand to signal the large balding bartender that he was ready to buy a drink, but something stopped him from ordering the beer, oh how he wanted it, he wanted to taste that thick golden liquid and have it sloshing around in his mouth. But as the bartender came up to him and looked at him expectantly all Sanson could say was.
‘Ein Glas Rotwein bitte.’ As the roughly spoken German words left his mouth the bartender turned and walked to the end of the bar, bending down to collect the bottle. Sanson sat there a little dazed and disbelieving what he had just done. He had wanted a beer, he was going to order one but when the time came all he could do say the same words he had been saying for most of his life, he loved and hated the wine, for reasons he couldn’t comprehend he was always drawn too it but at the same time he was afraid. He knew it was only a liquid, basically the juice of crushed grapes kept in large oak barrels while it fermented and then aged. But even though he knew the wine was harmless, it couldn’t help fearing it. The bartender returned with a large, deep glass and popped the cork from the warm bottle before pouring the thick blood red fluid into it. The bartender had a large, gap toothed grin on his face as he poured.
‘Dies ist ein schönes trinken, Cleto Familie 1884 Jahre alt.’ Sanson looked at the bottle in the bartender’s hand, he looked at the hand inked label carfully written on the paper before being glued to the bottle and let out a deep sigh. No matter where he went his familes wine was everywhere. His father’s vineyard was one of the most succesfull producers of red wine in italy, Sanson had grown up on the vinyard and on the wine, he looked at the dark red liquid in the glass, its aroma flowing over the lip of the glass was so strong he thought he could almost see it. He slid his coins over the bartop and the bartender picked them up and pocketed them before walking off to serve someone else.

Sanson glared at the wine sitting in the sparkling glass for moment, he considered throwing it against the wall as he picked it up and swirled it around the glass, letting the scent of the wine flow up as he inhaled it. He got to his feet and walked towards the door, still swirling the wine as he opened the door and out into the snow. The glare of the setting sun reflected off the thin layer of snow that covered the ground. Sanson hated the snow, he hated everything about it, the coldness of it the whiteness of it the wetness and the feel of it. He pulled the zipper of his flight jacket up to his neck to fight off the cold and pulled his flight cap tighter against his head. He was even considering putting on his goggles but decided against it, he always went about in his flight gear almost everywhere he went, he liked people to know he was a pilot. His thoughts where interrupted by the crack of a gunshot that echoed around the quiet buildings, Sanson was grateful for the distraction as his thoughts where beginning to become as dark as the wine he held in a claw like grip. From his position he could see the shooter down at one of the firing points, the long figure continued firing, the echoes ringing out and seeming to continue on into the distance. Without thinking about what he was doing he started trudging down the slopes towards the soldier, his uniform wasn’t meant to keep out the snow but it held off the cold fairly well while he was moving. Half way down the slope he had a sudden change of heart and stopped in mid-step, half turning to head back up to the small pub. But as soon as he had changed his mind he decided against going back and continued walking down the slope towards the firing range, he couldn’t find a reason for his indecisiveness nor could he find one for wanting to come down here in the first place. He was simply, wandering about.

He started considering what he would say to the soldier once he got down there, he looked down at his Bereta M1934 that was hanging at his hip. Maybe he would say he wanted to test out his pistol, or see who was the better shot? He didn’t know and he almost turned around again but he thought the soldier had spotted him, he was too close to turn just turn back without it being odd so he decided to press on. He reached the firing point and stood just outside the area of coverage, he wasn’t sure on the protocol of this firing range and didn’t want to offend the soldier. Mostly Sanson was a little twitchy and a bit antisocial at times, he didn’t like being around more then one or two people at a time and kept to himself a lot. But every now and then he would strike out and talk to someone on a random impulse, normally those encounters ended quickly and awkwardly with the other person walking off muttering something about the strangeness of the Italians. It took a moment to realise that he was still just standing there, looking at the soldier without saying anything and he believed that this encounter would be like the others. He blinked a few times before licking his lips and clearing his throat.
‘Hallo.’ He said after a moment longer, he paused unsure of how he should proceed before smiling; having decided that in introduction would be the best way to go.
‘Ich Bin Sanson.’ He took a few steps forward and extended his right hand to the soldier, then he realised he still held the glass of wine in that hand so passed it to his left before re-extending his right one to shake the soldiers hand.

Translation

Ein Glas Rotwein bitte. – A glass of red wine please.

Dies ist ein schönes trinken, Cleto Familie 1884 Jahre alt. - This is a beautiful drink, Cleto Family aged 1884.

[Wilhelm Schaefer]

Wilhelm placed the rifle up on the rickety old table in front of him. He pulled a small, dust covered rag from his coat pocket and wiped the frost off the freezing metal barrel. He put the rag back in his left pocket, and held the gun up in the air as he looked down the sights, checking the make sure the sights were lined up. He could faintly hear footsteps behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder and saw a figure walking down the little trail towards the shooting range. He turned back towards the target, reloaded and lined up the sights. He fired a couple more shots, even though an occasional stab of pain made him cautious of moving his right arm. The footsteps grew louder, and he lowered his rifle, resting the barrel on the splintered, snow covered wooden rail that ran the length of the shelter.

The man was obviously a pilot, wearing complete flight gear, although Wilhelm doubted if it would do much good for warmth. He had considered being a pilot a long time ago, but heights made him nervous. He was quiet, almost seemed lost in thought, but at the same time Wilhelm could tell he was uneasy. But then again, Wilhelm wasn't very good around people himself. He hated crowds, and often found himself wondering just what exactly drove these people to congregate in one area like animals around a watering hole just to socialize. But at the same time, he disliked being completely alone. But even when there were people around, he found himself saying as little as possible.

The man spoke, and even though his German was good, he could still hear the faint tint of an Italian accent. And for a brief moment, Wilhelm wondered what brought him to Germany, especially to such a tiny little place like this. But it didn't really bother him because people tended to pass through little places like this, usually on their way somewhere else. Sometimes if he ran into them again, usually at a bar, they would exchange a few words before going their separate ways, but most of the time he never say them again. Whether they died or not didn't bother him. If they survived the battlefield, good for them. If they died, then at least they did well for their country.

Wilhelm smiled, and replied with "Hallo Sanson," He paused, then added. "Ich bin Wilhelm." His voice was quieter then he was comfortable with, although he thought he could faintly hear it echo through the shelter. He started to hold out his left hand to shake, before quickly shifting the rifle over to his left as he held out his right hand. He noted the glass of red wine in Sanson's hand, and briefly remembered the bar he passed on the way here. He made a mental note to stop by later in the evening for a quick drink, maybe even some Scotch.

"Aus der Kälte kommen." He spoke, the end of his cigarette clenched between his teeth as he moved over a few feet to give Sanson. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and book of matches, holding them both in one gloved hand. He waited a few seconds, unsure what to say. "Zigarette?" He asked, holding out the two boxes. Wilhelm laid the boxes down on the rough wooden table closest to Sanson, and turned his attention back to his rifle. He wasn't going to ask too many questions, or pry too much, but after seconds of silence he asked. "Scheußliches Wetter, nicht wahr?"

Wilhelm reloaded his rifle, aimed at one of the farther targets, and pulled the trigger. A small blast of snow and ice exploded from one of the outer rings of the target, and he quietly reloaded.

Translations---

"Aus der Kälte kommen."--- Come out of the cold.
"Zigarette?"--- Cigarette?
"Scheußliches Wetter, nicht wahr?"--- Horrible weather, isn't it?

[Deleted]

He stood silently in the cold wind, waiting for a response from the German solider, when it came his lips twitched into a small grin. ‘Schön, Sie kennen zu lernen. Wilhelm ’ The men shook hands, both of them having to juggle around what they where holding in order to do so. Once they had shaken hands Sanson withdrew his hand quickly, flexing his fingers and the strange warmth that had been transferred between the two hands. He wasn’t a big fan of physically touching other people, but he knew it would have been rude not to shake hands; it was customary to do so when meeting new people. Though historically it was to show that both people where unarmed, obviously that intention held little meaning here and now as both men where obviously armed. Sanson looked at the 98k rifle in Wilhelm’s hands, it was a hefty weapon, but accurate and powerful. He looked down the range at the target, so far none of the shots had hit the centre of the target but the damage done to it was impressive enough. The several large holes in the wood where testament enough of the weapons penetrating power. And even though the solider had a soft voice when he spoke, Sanson knew that he was a trained killer and would probably be able to put holes in people as easily as he puts holes in the wooden target.

He was grateful when Wilhelm invited him under the shelter, it wouldn’t do much to fight off the cold of the air but it would at least get him out of the falling snow that was drifting lazily down from the sky.
‘Danke.’ He said as he ducked under the roof and into the firing pit. He walked towards the firing line and pulled his Beretta from its holster on his hip, placing the pistol on the wooden rail and pulling out a small cloth from his pocket, covering the pistol with it to protect the weapon from the frost. He would have a few shots in a moment, test out his skills and compare them to Wilhelm’s shots. He already knew he would loose in a contest of power, when it came to brute force the Mauser 98k would outdo the Beretta without any trouble, but perhaps in accuracy Sanson had a chance. As Wilhelm offered a cigarette Sanson turned slowly, eyeing the boxes of cigarette’s and matches on the table with suspicion. There was nothing to be suspicious about though, he was just a careful and untrusting person who viewed almost every good deed as a possible trick. He licked his lips again, the cold hadn’t helped to ease the small, dry cracks and he still hadn’t taken a sip of his wine that he still held clutched in his left hand. He stepped up to the table and picked up the pack of smokes, extracting one and popping it in his mouth, rolling the end of it across his lips with his tongue. He placed his glass down on the table so he could pick up the matches, repeating his thanks to Wilhelm as he stuck the match alight before holding it to the cigarette and inhaling the sweet smoke. He puffed on the smoke a bit to keep the tobacco burning and put the matches and the pack of cigarettes back exactly as they had been placed by Wilhelm.

Sanson exhaled the smoke into the air, watching it drift lazily up from his mouth before being caught by the wind and dashed away. He turned to face Wilhelm, picking up his glass as he did so and swirling the dark red liquid that he had probably helped bottle back when his father owned the vineyard. He couldn’t remember much about that time of his life, but he sometimes had a dream where he was running though the rows of grape vines as they grew on their posts and wires. He would never reach the end of the rows though, no matter how fast or far he ran, then the ground would become soggy with wine and his feet would sink into the earth with each step, deeper and deeper until he was wading though a wine filled swamp. Then a wave would appear on the horizon and speed towards him, crushing him when it reached him and forcing him down in the thick sludge, that was when he would wake up, covered in sweat and crying. He pushed the dream back down into his subconscious and focused on the real world, Wilhelm was speaking again, something about the weather being horrid. Sanson couldn’t agree more, and he said so.
‘Ich kann dem nur zustimmen mit dir, macht mir wünschte, ich hätte eine dickere jacke.’ He patted his flight jacket and turned towards the firing range, he started walking towards the rail.

’Zumindest die Zigarette gibt ein wenig mehr Wärme. Nochmals vielen Dank dafür.’ He said as he ducked under the rail while Wilhelm was reloading, he truged out to the target. Sucking on the cigarette and wondered if the German soldier would shoot at him, use him for a little live target practice, maybe if Sanson started running sideways back and forth like a duck target and making quacking noises it would make things more interesting. Sanson burst out laughing at the thought, the image of him running back and forth yelling quack quack quack was too funny not to laugh at. He reached the target and calmed down, reaching up and setting the glass of wine ontop of it. Turning he walked back to the firing line and ducked back under the rail, turning and lifting the rag off his pistol and lifting the small weapon into his hands.
’Mal sehen, wer kann das Glas zu schlagen? Sollen wir?’ He waved his hand forward towards the target, indicating that Wilhelm could have the first shot. It wasn’t that he was trying to win something, but if they where consntraiting on something else, maybe they wouldn’t have to talk too much, Sanson didn’t really like talking, but sometimes he did. He was trying to figure out if this was one of those times that he wanted to have a chat.





Translation

Schön, Sie kennen zu lernen. – Nice to meet you. Wilhelm.

Ich kann dem nur zustimmen mit dir, macht mir wünschte, ich hätte eine dickere Jacke. – I coudln’t agree more with you, makes me wish I had a thicker jacket.

Zumindest die Zigarette gibt ein wenig mehr Wärme. Nochmals vielen Dank dafür. - At least the cigarette gives a little more warmth. Thank you again for that.

Mal sehen, wer kann das Glas zu schlagen? Sollen wir? – Let’s see who can hit the glass first? Shall we?

[Wilhelm Schaefer]

Wilhelm dipped his head in respect. "Meinerseits." A little ember of hot ash from his cigarette dropped and slowly fell to the ground, it's heat gone before it even reached the ground. He glanced over at the Beretta, a small smile creeping across his face. He morbidly wondered if it had ever taken life, if it had ever became it user's 'life saver', a clean gun with a bloody history. He doubted it, but then again, this was war and noone is innocent during war. His hand closed around his rifle, his finger idly resting on the trigger. He pushed that thought to back of his mind.

Wilhelm looked down at his rifle as Sanson took a cigarette, taking a few seconds re-familiarize himself with the bolt system. He had owned and fired bolt action rifles before, his first gun was a bolt action, so old that he had thought it was older then dirt when he was young. It was hardly an antique though; it was covered in scratches and it's iron components were dented and spotted with rust. Eventually he had sold it for a little spending cash, although his father had left more then enough to live on when he died.

Wilhelm gave a small twitch of a smile and replied. "Kein Problem" Honestly, he had felt rude being the only one smoking, but he had a practically endless stock of cigarettes even though he tended to practically chain-smoke if he could so he tended to offer one to company in a sort of peaceful gesture. His eyes snapped to the glass, and he momentarily watched the red liquid swirl around. However, the wine held no meaning to Wilhelm. To him it was just something to look at, something to watch.

He puffed on the cigarette as Sanson ducked under the rail with the glass. He tilted his head a little, wondering where he was going. He opened his mouth to ask, but decided it was none of his business. It was when the pilot started laughing that Wilhelm's curiosity turned into paranoia. Was he going to walk all the way out there, then shoot him? Impossible, he had left his gun back here on the rail. He could even see it's outline under the cloth. He eyed it cautiously, and started nervously fidget with a small pendant on his necklace.

The chain was silver, not incredibly long and most of the time it was hidden by his collar. The pendant itself was pewter, shaped like an x with rounded corners, almost appearing like a four leaf clover. Carved into the front was the profile of a strange dog-like creature. It was good-luck charm to him, a gift from his mother. He glanced back up at Sanson. He saw the bright red glass on top of the wooden target, and his paranoia started to fade. A smaller target for the pilot? A challenge to test his precision? He let go of the necklace, letting it dangle on the collar of his uniform.

Wilhelm's guess was close, but not spot on. A game, a shooting match... It vaguely reminded him of a carnival game. Step right up! Shoot the bottle: Win a prize! But it sounded like a challenge, and he liked challenges. "Klingt gut." He answered, and picked up the 98k. He took a few breaths, exhaling cigarette smoke as he wordlessly aimed for the glass. He wasn't much for conversation, and reverted back to his normal, quiet self. He pulled the trigger, feeling the familiar kick of the gun against his shoulder. He missed, the bullet missing the glass by inches and hitting the edge of the board below it, leaving a jagged hole. He nodded over to Sanson and started to reload. Once done, he propped up the rifle against the railing and looked across the field at the array of targets.

The cold nipped at his neck and he made a mental note to maybe move to one of the nearby businesses if it continued to get colder.


Translations---
Meinerseits. --- Likewise
Kein Problem --- No Problem
Klingt gut. --- Sounds good

[Deleted]

Inhaling deeply again from his cigarette Sanson watched the German Solider closely while pretending to fuss over his pistol, he picked up the rag and wiped the cold clean steal of his weapon to a high shine. He loved his pistol, though he had never fired it in combat he was a fairly decent shot on the ranges, but this was a rifle range and the targets where set up much further away then on the pistol ranges he was use too. He slid the seven round magazine out of the handle and inspected it, turning it over in his hand. It was fully loaded and he had two spare magazines in a pouch on his belt that sat nestled under his flight jacket. He looked at the small, rounded head of the first bullet in the magazine. Such a small thing, so little and yet when chambered into the barrel of a firearm it became powerful enough to rip through flesh and bone and cause pain and death almost instantaneously. Sometimes when Sanson was alone in his room he would just hold his Beretta, touching it gently and running his fingers over its grooves, feeling the metal against his fingertips, then he would place the tip of the icy barrel to his temple and tried to imagine what it would be like to pull the trigger. Would he feel the bullet bite into his skin? Would he even hear the shot before the round scrambled his brain? He shivered slightly at the memories of his alone time and looked back to Wilhelm, he noticed a small pendant or symbol hanging around his neck, it looked like a strange cross. Sanson decided that he would question the cross later if he felt like making conversation.

He held his tongue for the moment though, his jacket was thick enough to block the cold from reaching his chest but his legs where starting to feel the chill. He was beginning to miss the warm stench of the bar where he had picked up the wine. He watched Wilhelm as he cocked the bolt of his 98k and raised it, aiming down his sights towards the glass of wine and firing off a round. Sanson watched as the ejected cartridge spun though the air, the hot shell trailing an arch of smoke and mist from the cold, the copper shell landed in the snow with a hiss and sunk into the white ice flakes. He didn’t even know if Wilhelm had hit the glass or not because he had been watching the empty shell melt into the snow. He looked up as the German nodded to him indicating that it was his turn to take a shot. Sanson looked out at the target and saw that the glass was still intact an unmoved, he glared at it and stepped up to the rail, bringing his Beretta up as he did so. He had been taught the proper way to fire a pistol, keep your feet shoulder width apart and support the weapon with your free hand for better accuracy, don’t close one eye but keep them both open and focus on the target then place it in between the two ‘ghost’ images of the pistol sights then breath out and pull the trigger. Sanson knew this was the proper way to fire his weapon with any real hope of hitting the small target in the distance. He would also have to take the distance into consideration too, the 98k had enough power to put a bullet practically where you aimed it at this range, but the Italian Pilot would have to compensate for the bullet drop of his lower calibre.

With all this in mind Sanson turned side on to the target and raised his pistol, leaving his free hand to dangle by his side he closed one eye and aimed down the sights, lining up the small red wine glass with the front sight of his pistol. Just because he knew how to fire properly, didn’t mean he had too do it that way all the time. He squeezed the trigger and took what little recoil there was to be had from the pistol. The small bullet rocketed though the air and sunk into the bottom of the wooden target beneath the wine glass. Sanson scoffed and lowered his arm; his weapon had barely enough power to even reach the wooden target. It didn’t even look like it had sunk in that deep into the wood. He would have to seriously alter the angle of his shot if he wanted to have any hope to hit the glass.

Sanson breathed in deeply, sucking in the last of the smoke from the burnt out cigarette and took a few steps back from the rail, he took what was left of the cigarette and flicked it out into the snow. The hot embers where consumed by the cold ice that covered the ground and the Italian turned back to face Wilhelm, saying nothing and motioning with his hand that it was his turn. On a small level Sanson was beginning to like the German soldier, he had a wonderful gift of silence and seemed only to speak when it was absolutely necessary, and even then the words where short. So far Wilhelm was proving to be much better company then the chattering rabble of drunks in the bar that he had left. Sanson hated people who talked all the time, as if they where afraid of the silence, or felt uncomfortable around people without having a conversation with them. So few people could understand that you didn’t have to talk to be social, there was no need to converse about the dull lives they where leading. Small talk was good for getting a conversation going, but an entire conversation of nothing but small talk just drove Sanson mad. At least Wilhelm had used the snowy weather comment to open up a line of conversation and didn’t carry on about it, he didn’t press on with idle chitchat about frozen water falling from the sky and how cold it was, of course it’s cold, it’s frozen water. He let out a small sigh as he reigned in his thoughts and got them under control, he hated people sometimes.

He leaned against the table and wiped the barrel of his Beretta with his cloth as he watched Wilhelm take his next shot.

[Wilhelm Schaefer]

(OCC: Sorry it's a bit short, a bit pressed for time and I wanted to get it posted today. )
Wilhelm took the little stub of a cigarette from his mouth, idly looking at the end burn for a few seconds, then flicked it down to the ground and rubbed it into the dirt with his boot. He watched the steam rise from the remains of the cigarette, reminding him faintly of a silver finger waving in the air. He straightened his back and looked across the field, back into the snow covered forests. Between the trees he could see the outline of other wooden targets, facing sideways so there would be no danger of hurting another group. He looked to his right, and nested among the trees, almost hidden by a hill was another firing range made of the same old, weathered wood. It was empty from what he could tell, but normally it was used by longer ranged weapons and soldier wanting to show their accuracy.

The wind blew, kicking up a little plume of snow into a small pile against one of the lower targets on the left side of the field, covering up about half the targets painted red rings. His thick coat and uniform jacket blocked the cold on his chest, but the cold was starting to chill his feet through his jackboots. Wilhelm eyes the matches on the table, musing how easy it would be to strike one against the pole and just simply burn one of the other shacks. The wood was so dry, that it would still probably go up like paper even if it was covered in snow. He turned his attention back to Sanson.

The Beretta caught the faint sunlight and brought out the shine on the metal. It had obviously been cared for, and it's owner seemed comfortable using it. Wilhelm guessed that it's owner had at least a little respect for his weapon. He saw it kick back with the recoil, then he saw the bullet hole on the target under the glass. He grabbed his rifle around the barrel with his left hand, the cold metal chilling his leather glove and picked it up from the railing. He slipped his right hand around the trigger, and steadied the 98k against his shoulder, careful to avoid the stitches as much as he could.

Wilhelm peered down the sights, angling so that the glass lined up with his sights. He could barely see the snow falling into the glass, melting instantly once it touched the bloodred wine. The snow stuck to the rim, dotting the clear glass with white. He aimed above the glass a little bit, to try to avoid aiming to low like he had last time, then aimed lower, to avoid shooting over the tiny glass. He pulled the trigger, took the recoil, and watched as the target's corner erupted into dry splinters about half and inch away from the glass. The solider looked over at Sanson and nodded before laying his rifle on the rail. Wilhelm took the rag out of his pocket and wiped the snow off the rifle, then tucked the rag back into the pocket of his coat. He leaned on the rail, one arm resting on the wood, the other resting across the 98k.

His paranoia had faded completely by now. Sanson was an okay person, different the usual ignorant drunkards he was used to. He didn't constantly chatter about nothing, either. Most people would have been driven crazy by silence, or someone who isn't exactly like them, but it didn't bother him. It actually was a good thing in a way; He tended to say the wrong things at the wrong times, so he decided to just let his actions speak louder then his words.

[Deleted]

Sanson stretched his fingers and felt the stiffness in the joints from the cold wind that had started blowing across the firing range. He hadn’t had a look around before he or after he arrived so he believed that his range was the only one in the area, had he bothered to look around it wouldn’t have surprised him too much to learn that there where other firing ranges around all set up for various weapons. He might have considered moving off to the pistol range if he had of known of it but he had set his feet here, and at least with Wilhelm around he had something else to distract him from his thoughts and dreams. He licked his dry lips again, now slightly painful from the cold wind that was biting into them as he watched the German solider raise his weapon. There was something odd about how he was holding it. Sanson had watched soldiers fire rifles before, he’d even fired a few himself just to get a feel for the bigger weapons. But Wilhelm seemed to be doing something different, as he watched the soldier line up the shot he noticed that he had the stock of the weapon resting in a weird point on his shoulder. Sudden realisation struck him as he remembered one of the Italian soldiers holding his weapon a similar way when he had been stabbed in the shoulder. Had Wilhelm been wounded in battle? It was entirely possible, the man after all was a solider and soldiers where bound to be fired upon in combat.

Although he had never been in combat on a large scale, Sanson had spent a fair amount of his childhood in gang related fights and he knew that no matter how skilled or tough that a fighter was it was easy to fall into an unlucky situation. He remembered that one of his old gang friends had been involved in a robbery and was caught by a security guard, the guard had a baton and his friend had a small knife. Even though the guard had all the training he could get and had major advantages over the petty thug of a child such as size, strength, training and experience, the guard lost the fight. He had slipped on a sheet of ice just before landing a blow that would have knocked the his younger opponent out and had instead received a broken rib from hitting the gutter for his mistake, plus this let his friend escape into the night. The escape only lasted a few hours as later Sanson’s old gang tried to betray him when they raided a military airport and was betrayed in turn, thusly earning Sanson a place in the Italian Royal Air Force. Not the greatest way to earn a place somewhere but he couldn’t stay where he was, so it seemed to be the best way to leave.

He cracked his knuckles in an attempt to loosen them from the stiffness that had crept into his joints; he shook them out to get the blood flowing again and rubbed his hands together for warmth before shoving them into his pockets. He looked out at the target and noticed the glass was still sitting on top of it, the rim was starting to frost over though from the cold, but the shots from Wilhelm where getting closer to hitting the mark, within only two shots the German had closed the gap to within half an inch. Surly his next shot would take it out; Sanson was actually kind of hoping he would hit it. It was getting cold and he was beginning to miss the warm stench of the bar. He walked up to the rail and stood in the same stance as his first shot, side on to the target, aiming down the sights but he raised his aim to counter the bullet drop. He squeezed the trigger and lowered his arm just as the bullet struck the wooden target again; rather then hitting the glass as he was aiming for the round hit the centre of the target. Normally he would have laughed and smiled at the shot if it was on purpose and what he was aiming for, but the centre of the target wasn’t what he wanted to hit. He looked at the Beretta with disappointment, while it was a good sidearm for close combat it was just useless here in his hands. He looked up at the buildings and at the people milling around, a few of them where watching the pair down in the firing pit have their little competition but mostly they all just seemed to me milling around bored. At least they where warm. He looked over at Wilhelm and let out a small sigh as he motioned for him to have his shot, but just before the German picked up his rifle Sanson asked a question.

‘Was ist mit deiner schulter falsch?’


Translation
Was ist mit deiner Schulter falsch? – What’s wrong with your shoulder?

[Wilhelm Schaefer]

Wilhelm watched as Sanson hit the target's center, tempted to laugh at the dry irony at the situation, but instead he grabbed his own rifle and wiped a few lone dots of snow off the barrel with his hand. He was about ready to aim, hopefully to hit the glass this time around. He was actually kind of hoping one of them would hit it sooner of later, his fingers were starting to get a bit numb with the cold and he could only imagine how cold the man next to him was. When Sanson spoke again, he just listened and peered down the sights, aiming at the top rim of the glass. He waited until his sights were steady before talking.

"Nun, meine Mannschaft einen Hinterhalt gelockt und ich waren über in Skandinavien. Es war klein und kein Kausalitäten..." He let his voice trailed off as he took a slow breath to avoid from shaking his aim. He was starting to really hate those cold countries. He was starting to think of himself as cursed, the number of times he had ended up in something bad. Then again, that was how war worked wasn't it? It had only been weeks before this incident that he been shot and showered with glass in a one-on-one encounter with an American troop. The wounds from that had longed since healed, save for a few, tiny insignificant scars. "Ich war in die Schulter geschossen." Wilhelm felt a little humiliated that it had been obvious that there was something wrong, especially since it had been mostly since he had only himself to blame. He sighed, his breath clouding the air a little, then pulled the trigger, taking the kick of recoil.

The glass exploded into tiny shards, each probably as sharp as a razor's edge. He watched them briefly glint in the sun as they fell, disappearing into the snow in a blink of an eye. The liquid inside sprayed outward in a plume of red, reminding him briefly of blood before dotting the snow and staining the wood red. The bottom of the glass remained untouched, it's sides missing, perched on top of the target like a broken, glass bird. He wanted to just somehow push the last chunk of glass over the edge and into the snow as a final statement.

Wilhelm smiled, just enough to convey satisfaction without looking overly prideful. He lowered his gun, casting a blank glance at the glass remains, thinking briefly of the glass shards back in Scandinavia, then turned his attention back to more important things. "Gutes Spiel." He said with a nod, and turned back to his gun. He was uneasy again, for a reason that he himself wasn't really sure of. He quickly reloaded, and slipped the box of slugs back into his coat pocket. He looked over at the pilot, and could tell that he was also starting to feel the effects of the cold. He waited a few seconds, then asked quietly. "Es ist zu kalt zum draußen bleiben werden, vielleicht sollten wir irgendwo Unterschlupf zu finden?" Normally he would have offered the name of a bar or something to duck in out of the cold at, but he was unfamiliar with this area, he was lucky he could even find his way back to his own quarters. He picked up the cigarettes and matches off of the table and put them back in his pocket. He could see the people milling about the buildings. He could see them wondering about outside, illuminated by the yellow glow of electric streetlights and businesses.

Translations---
"Nun, meine Mannschaft einen Hinterhalt gelockt und ich waren über in Skandinavien..." --- My squad and I ambushed over in Scandinavia. It was minor, no casualties.
"Ich war in die Schulter geschossen." --- I was shot in the shoulder.
"Gutes Spiel." --- Good game.
"Es ist zu kalt zum draußen bleiben werden..." --- It's too cold to be staying out, maybe we should find shelter somewhere?

[Deleted]

(OOC: Sorry for the late reply, been busy with the country sinking and all that.)

As soon as the question left his lips Sanson regretted asking it, the slight hesitation in the other man, the time it took to answer, everything seemed to tell the Italian pilot that he had asked the wrong question. Perhaps it was too soon to be asking personal questions such as that, they had only just met after all, not even twenty minutes ago and had scarcely exchanged words in that time. Sanson didn’t want to alienate this man so quickly, he thought they where getting along quite well and seemed to have much in common, at least when it came to conversation. It was rare to find someone who didn’t just blabber on with meaningless talk about common topics that people gave automatic answers to anyway. Sanson hated conversations like that, they where easy to predict and quite boring. That’s why Sanson rarely spoke and when he did it was straight to the point, he didn’t mind the weather talk before simply because it opened up an opportunity for a conversation to begin, no matter how short worded that conversation was. He was about to apologise to the soldier for being to forward but held his tongue as Wilhelm started speaking of an ambush. Not only did Wilhelm answer the question asked, but also he continued with the details, telling where it happened and that where no deaths. It was a very good and informative answer and Sanson found himself liking this Wilhelm Schaefer even more, perhaps they would become friends.

Sanson’s thoughts where wiped from his mind as the gunshot from the 98k spit the cold air, for a second he thought he could almost see the bullet leaving the barrel and tried to follow its violent path as it sped towards its target. The glass shattered and Sanson’s blood went cold. The wine exploded out of the glass and seemed to form a hand that was reaching for him; in its dark red depths he could see a murderous intent that screamed to touch his flesh and consume it. An instant later the horror was gone, the liquid fell apart and cascaded down over the target and surrounding snow along with the shards of the icy glass that once held it at bay. Sanson blinked a few times as the image of the hand reaching out for him played over again in his mind. Why was he so affected by the wine, he had helped barrel that wine back when his father had owned the vineyard. He shouldn’t fear it. Of course Sanson had no memory of his mothers death, how a large fermentation keg had crushed her right in front of Sanson, how her blood had mixed with the spilled wine so perfectly that you couldn’t tell the difference, it was almost like she was bleeding wine. The repressed memory came back to hunt him ways that he would never understand.

Wilhelm’s words of a good game broke his trance and the real world came crashing back to him. He blinked a few more times to remove the residue of the thoughts before repressing his uneasiness and putting on a smile.
‘Sì, è stato ...’ he started saying in Italian, before catching himself and starting again in German. ‘Ja, es war, herzlichen Glückwunsch zu einem guten Schuss’ Sanson looked down at his pistol for a moment before sliding his thumb up to the safty catch and flicking it on, he then removed the magazine and worked the slide to eject the bullet that was in the chamber. He picked up the ejected bullet and reloaded it back into the clip before pocketing it and placing his pistol back in its holster. He woundn’t need it to be loaded for the rest of the day, and it always made him a little nervous carrying around a fully loaded weapon. He had heard too many stories about weapons going off on their own. An officer had apparently lost three toes because his sidearm decided that it would be a great time to fire.

As Wilhelm mentioned the bitter coldness again and suggested that they seek shelter Sanson looked back up the hill to the warm, lambent buildings. He could see the pub he had walked out of and felt a strong urge to be back in that stinking, watering hole. ’Es ist ein Pub gerade den Berg hinauf, da man das Spiel habe ich die erste Runde gewonnen kaufen muss.’ Sanson said as he started heading towards the pub, he stepped out from under the shelter of the range and into the snow. Even though the range could hardly be called a shelter, it had stopped the snow from falling on their heads. Sanson shivered as one snowflake slipped past his coller and touched his neck. He didn’t mind too much though, soon he would be back in the warmth of the pub and the cold outside would cease to exist.




Translation:
Ja, es war, herzlichen Glückwunsch zu einem guten Schuss – Yes it was, congratulations on a good shot.

Es ist ein Pub gerade den Berg hinauf, da man das Spiel habe ich die erste Runde gewonnen kaufen muss – there’s a pub just up the hill, seeing as you won the game I shall buy the first round

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The folloing CP has been issued:

Schaefer - 11

Cleto - 11

-JT