Sharks and Minnows [Erik]

[Dietrich von Kriegstahl]

Time: 1100 hrs, September 14th, 1940
Location: Northern French Seaboard
Weather: Overcast, minor gusts of wind issuing up from the West.

(OOC: This thread is currently for me and Erik, but if anyone else wishes to join PM me and I will discuss it with Erik. Gestapo agents and sadistic officers encouraged)

***In Character***

The ride in the staff car was rather uncomfortable for the rather rugged Leutnant. He preferred his open air Volkswagen Kübelwagen to the rather swanky interior of the Porsche that was sent for him, the leather seats and polished black exterior humbling the open-air vehicle that he usually rode in. The driver was a Wehrmacht Obergefreiter of about nineteen with windswept golden locks and friendly blue eyes and a overseas service cap cocked on his head. He had introduced himself as Shelton Krauss earlier, but Dietrich could not care less. The Obergefreiter maneuvered the Porsche rather well, deft hands quick to steer clear of obstacles left behind by the lightening-fast Blitzkrieg only a few months before.

Kriegstahl was dressed in the usual Wehrmacht officer’s apparel, the collar of his pure white dress shirt just peeking up beyond the collar of his grey-green tunic. A matching cap was glued to his steely blond hair, the leather brim pulled down close over his alarmingly blue eyes. His eyes held inside of them intelligence and depth in the crystal blue irises, but also a cold, calculating factor, as if you were looking into a machine instead of a man. A dusty black leather trench coat hung on the passenger seat’s headrest so that Dietrich could easily reach up and snatch it from his perch in the back seat. On the seat directly to the Leutnant’s sat an MP-40 sub-machine gun, unloaded with an open action. A single black magazine sat next to the weapon, and five more were stashed in the pouches on Kriegstahl’s belt. A small pile of leather folders embossed with a gold Nazi eagle sat next to the MP-40, bound together by a single strip of cloth to make for easy carrying.

The forest paths that the Porsche was navigating began to dwindle down, the large needle-bearing trees that made up the woodlands gradually became more sparse as they moved closer and closer to the seashore. The gusts of wind also became more frequent, forcing Krauss to turn on the windshield wipers as droplets of rain splattered annoyingly against the glass. Kriegstahl was beginning to get anxious, fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat. The Leutnant stared through the back window, hoping that the roadway was becoming a slick track of mud, masking any trace of the car’s trip. Technically, what was going to take place in just a few hours would never really happen. The Wehrmacht would simply erase all records of the incident, deeming it nothing but an accident in the choppy waters of the Atlantic. Technically, no war crimes would be commited. Technically.

Much to the delight of Dietrich the staff car soon broke free of the woodlands and came upon what looked to be a temporary German command center set up on a beach, with small tents set up and at least a hundred Wehrmacht soldiers milling around in the wet sand. A massive barbed-wire enclosure sat to the side, guarded by several heavily-armed Germans. Inside the fence was a motley assortment of prisoners of war, drenched and miserable. They looked to be mostly British, with a few dull blue French uniforms here and there. Many of them were missing shirts and boots, freezing in the cold Autumn temperatures. On the opposite side of the camp was a large graveyard, full of recently-dug holes containing the corpses of brave German soldiers who fell in the Blitzkrieg.

But the main, rather strange feature of the camp was the medium-sized Kriegsmarine Patrol Boat anchored off of a long, peninsular concrete dock. The ship was barely afloat and it showed obvious signs of being in a naval battle. Normally, a ship in this condition would either be scrapped or sent for repair, depending on the condition it was in, but the Heer had purchased this one from the Kriegsmarine for a low price. Large red, white, and black Swastika flags decorated every inch of the ship, making it look like it was ready to sail in the yearly Nuremberg rally. It would obviously be the target of every plane and ship in the English Channel if it went afloat, and that was just what the Wehrmacht was aiming at.

“Wo Sie würde mögen, dass ich Sie, Herr Leutnant herausließ?” Krauss asked, turning the Porsche into the encampment. “Genau hier, ist Gefrieter fein. Ihr Fahren ist am befriedigendsten gewesen.” “Jawohl” Krauss replied, swinging the Porsche around and halting it. Kriegstahl smacked the magazine into his MP-40 but left the bolt open, not wanting to seem too hostile. He also put on the leather coat, leaving the front unbuttoned to expose his tunic. [Where would you like me to let you out, Herr Leutnant? Right here, Gefrieter. I found your driving most enjoyable]

With one quick motion the Leutnant stepped out of the car and swung his MP-40 so that it hung off of his shoulder by its sling. As the car drove away Kriegstahl halted for a moment, filling his lungs with the salty sea air. “Gott verzeiht mir...” Dietrich whispered to himself, smiling cynically, a heavy storm rolling in from the sea framing his tall, broad figure. [God forgive me...]

[∬: Erik Schneider]

(OOC: For the length of this thread, Schneider will be a Untersturmfuhrer.)

The weather in Northern France wasn't hideously atrocious on the cool Autumn day, despite the slight overcast. Dozens of gray clouds obscured the sky, bringing with them minor gusts of winds that mercilessly assaulted the Totenkopf soldiers with little to no effect. If you could call them soldiers. Most of the men in the 3rd SS Panzer Division had been plucked from their concentration camp guard duties under the SS-Totenkopfverbände, hence their name. Fanatical bastards, not unlike the Untersturmfuhrer himself, but poorly equipped and trained to fight the French. Most of the Totenkopf men were equipped with ex-Czech weapons and had been thrust into their first experience of combat, which greatly contrasted their mundane lives as guards. It was not to the junior officers surprise, who had only just received his battlefield commission shortly after the Polish campaign, that most of the division had been slaughtered during the French campaign.

Untersturmfuhrer Schneider, commander of the 4th Platoon under the 2nd Infantry Company, was a rather tall, young soldier carrying the traits of a pure German. He had a long face, light blond hair, glistening blue eyes and a tall, muscular build. The natural leadership ability predominant in the Nordic people, the modern day representatives of the Aryan race, could be found in the young officer. This natural leadership among the Aryans is what distinguished them from the inferiors that plagued the world, which is why they were viewed as the "master race". A strong believer of the Aryan propaganda diffused in the Germanic people since the Nazi party had come to power in the 1930s, the Schutzstaffel officer's mind had been affected from a young age. An early member of the Hitler Youth, thoughts of a superior race and anti-semitic views had corrupted the young man's mind and warped his personality.

The twenty-seven year old man was by now a veteran of the Polish and French campaigns, the Battle of France having long since ended in June. The division was currently heading south along the coast, to rest and refit near the Spanish border. Hopefully, they would recruit through better means and receive proper equipment so that they may live up to the reputation of the Waffen-SS being an elite unit. Having encountered stiff resistance in France, by Anglo-French forces, the division had also picked up an excess of prisoners. A detachment of the 3rd SS had been running a POW camp in the meantime, however now the Untersturmfuhrer was tasked with escorting a convoy of French and British prisoners north to the coastline for the Heer to deal with. Apparently, they had a "disposal" method, which Schneider did not care much to hear. Perhaps they would be sent to camps in the Low Countries, or remain in Northern France. The Untersturmfuhrer was more concerned with ridding the division of the POWs so that they may head south.

Wind intensified in the open air Kübelwagen, the wind making a mess of Schneider's finely oiled hair. Beside him in the rear of the Volkswagen vehicle lie his peaked cap, the Schirmmütze. The skull and crossbones insignia of the division, now growing in its infamy, rested below the Nazi eagle which distinguished him as a Totenkopf man. He was dressed in the typical mouse gray uniform of the Waffen-SS with his collar tabs and shoulder boards in silver, identifying him as a SS-Untersturmfuhrer. His left sleeve displayed an officer sleeve eagle as well the "Totenkopf" cuff title. Seated beside the Untersturmfuhrer was his trusted platoon sergeant, a Feldwebel by the name of Kurt Hauff. Much like Schneider, Hauff was a Wehrmacht soldier who found his way into the SS after the invasion of Poland. The two soldiers, only a year apart in age, had lead very similar lives that intensified their friendship that had been forged by combat. They often regaled each other with tales of their feats in Poland, mostly comical stories, as well as their days in the Hitler Youth.

Schutze Kruger, the young boy from Saxony, eased up on the pedal of the vehicle as soon as they broke free of the woodlands that flanked the long line of vehicles on either side. He slowly pulled off to the side of the road. The convoy of trucks following the Kubelwagen, some few of Totenkopf infantry and some full of the Anglo-French POWs, continued on down the dirt road that lead to a temporary German outpost on a French beach. The area was littered with Wehrmacht tents but also hosted a POW camp enclosed with barbed wired fences and German guards. Off to the side, a graveyard of freshly dug grave gave the men a place to bury their dead. As the line of trucks halted at the entrance of the German encampment, Schneider and his men gathered their belongings and climbed out of the Kubelwagen.

By now, a light drizzle of rain had begun, wetting Schneider's golden, windswept hair. He quickly brought up his right hand and slicked back his hair into a comfortable position, before placing the Totenkopf cap over his head. The Feldwebel tossed the Untersturmfuhrer an unloaded MP40 that had rested below their seats, before taking a hold of his own weapon. Schneider scrounged for a clip of ammunition on the floor of the vehicle, tightening his fingers around the clip and bringing it up to the MP40. He jammed the ammunition into the gun before he flung the strap of the sub-machine gun up around his right shoulder. In all honesty, it felt like the men were heading into combat once more, which wasn't far from what Schneider believed the men would be committing that fateful Autumn day. Not much could be ascertained with ink on a paper, but the Untersturmfuhrer believed he knew what the "disposal" of their prisoners would be today.

Walking alongside the dirt road that led to the beach, Schneider was flanked by the loyal Feldwebel and followed shortly behind by the Schutze. To their left, they spotted some of the soldiers climbing out from the back of the trucks in order to stretch their legs after the journey. The prisoners were kept hidden in the back of the trucks, a few all too eager guards pointing their weapons towards the trucks. Schneider cocked his head to the left and observed briefly, before facing front again as he passed the lead truck of the convoy. An NCO, dressed in the grey-green uniform of the Wehrmacht, stood awaiting the Untersturmfuhrer. The man saluted first, with Schneider returning the salute. He preferred the regular military salute over that of the Nazi salute. "Ich bin Untersturmfuhrer Schneider der 3. Abteilung SS-Panzer. Ich verstehe, dass ich den Offizier im Befehl hier berichten soll?" Schneider inquired, slightly eager to get the ordeal over with. The NCO quickly replied, "Herr Untersturmfuhrer, mein befehlshabender Offizier ist mit Ihnen kurz. "

Translations:

Ich bin Untersturmfuhrer Schneider der 3. Abteilung SS-Panzer. Ich verstehe, dass ich den Offizier im Befehl hier berichten soll?
- I am Untersturmfuhrer Schneider of the 3rd SS Panzer Division. I understand that I am to report to the officer in command here?

Herr Untersturmfuhrer, mein befehlshabender Offizier ist mit Ihnen kurz.
- Herr Untersturmfuhrer, my commanding officer will be with you shortly.

[Dietrich von Kriegstahl]

After signing a small book Dietrich had at least a half an hour to wait for the remainder of the prisoners to arrive. The Leutnant had commissioned the sturdy leather-bound log himself, making it mandatory for each ranking officer to sign in when they arrived at the site. The enlisted men had their own, spread out next to the CO’s on a small collapsible table set up near the entrance. It was crucial that no one unauthorized was let into the compound, for the entire operation and could be put in jeopardy if just one cocky private loosed his lips to his cheap French girlfriend. That was one of the things that had mesmerized Kriegstahl; why were his men so tempted by the lure of French women when fine German girls waited for them back home? Perhaps Dietrich was past the age of romance and attraction, but he knew what the French were like; no dignity. Exposing themselves in public, getting drunk in the presence of children, and using coarse and vulgar language in common speech. Their disrespect knew no ends. German girls do not smoke, do not drink, and wore their fine blond hair in braids. What could be more attractive than that?

Kriegstahl had taken a small break from the hustle and bustle of military life when the trucks arrived. The Leutnant was seated on a low stone wall at the edge of the beach, keeping the woodlands from encroaching on the delicate sand. He had lit a cigarette and was gently puffing away at it, watching the smoke curl up past the brim of his dress cap and up towards the ominous sky. An oak tree bent over the wall protected him from the small squalls of rain, but he could hear the splatter of droplets hitting green leaves intensifying with each passing moment. The MP-40 sat next to him, black metal starkly contrasting light gray stone and mortar. It was again unloaded, the black magazine laying next to it for easy access. Instinctively nervous about the oncoming storm, the middle-aged Leutnant drummed his black leather jackboots in the sand and fingered his collar. The tabs sewn onto the green material were bright red, matching the border of his silver shoulder tabs. The color red was representative of his officer rank, and, although not visible under his black leather coat, usually announced it to the world. Apart from his silver-bordered cap he could very well be an enlisted man by the way he was dressed.

Kriegstahl heard the rumble of trucks from where he was sitting when they were still a quarter-mile down the road. As they started to unload Dietrich watched, amused, as a SS-Untersturmfuhrer started to question the NCO stationed at the entrance to the compound. By the impatient look on the junior officer’s face he could tell he was probably itching to get out of here and back to whatever the SS did. Kriegstahl was wary of the branch, for he feared that they were better propagandists then they were fighters. The NCO waved the Leutnant over. Kriegstahl waved a gloved hand in a lazy reply, jolting the magazine back into his MP-40. Dietrich spit the burned nub of his cigarette as he held the bundle of leather folders in his other hand, an ironic mixture of weaponry and paperwork dominating both of his arms.

When Dietrich arrived at the check-in point he slapped both the MP-40 and the eagle-embossed folders down onto the collapsible table, relieved to be free. He stretched his fingers as he looked the three SS men in the eyes, raising his hand to his blond eyebrow in an informal salute to all three of the soldiers. “Heißen Sie willkommen, Kraken-1 zu mischen. Ich bin Leutnant Kriegstahl, Kommandant und führend CO von diesem Betrieb. Bitte unterzeichnen Sie das Buch, es ist erforderlich für alle Soldaten hereinkommend und aus der Zusammensetzung. Ihre Soldaten auch.” Dietrich spoke curtly, his words directed at the Untersturmfuhrer. [Welcome to compound Kraken-1. I am Leutnant Kriegstahl, commander and leading CO of this operation. Please sign the book, it is mandatory for all soldiers coming in and out of the compound. Your soldiers too.]

After waiting for the three SS soldiers to sign the book Dietrich made a second request for them. “Wenn Sie nicht bedenken, glaube ich, dass Sie einen gewissen Major Lewis James Worthington der britischen Armee gebracht haben. Ich werde Ihnen seine Datei sogleich geben...” He produced a leather folder from the stack and handed it to the Untersturmfuhrer, a picture of a jolly-looking fat man in a British uniform paper-clipped just above the Nazi eagle’s head. “Finden Sie ihn und bringen Sie ihn der kleinen Einrichtung auf der Ecke des Strands. Und bitte Schlag, bevor Sie hereinkommen.” Kriegstahl commanded, pointing to a small shed on the corner of the beach with curtains drawn and an armed guard surrounding it. With a mysterious smile Dietrich took off towards the shack, a youthful step in the middle-aged man as if he was about to have a great joy. [If you don't mind, I believe you have brought a certain Major Lewis James Worthington of the British Army. I will give you his file in a moment... Find him and bring him to the small establishment on the corner of the beach. And please, knock before you come in.]

[∬: Erik Schneider]

A middle-aged man hurried over to the entrance of the compound, armed with an MP40 and folder of paperwork. Judging by the seniority in age, Schneider expected to find a senior ranked officer in charge of the compound. Instead, he found a forty something year old Leutnant rushing onto the scene. The Untersturmführer smirked in order to keep from laughing, intrigued as to how such an elder man had not advanced past the rank of Leutnant. Perhaps he spent too many days fumbling around a prison camp with his clutter of documents and MP40. Looking relieved to set the sub-machine gun and folder down upon the collapsible table set up before the compound, Schneider began to wonder if the old man was even capable of carrying such weight. The Leutnant gave off a hurried, informal salute to the three SS men, who swiftly returned the salute before dropping their hands.

The Untersturmführer's eyes glanced down to the two small books sitting side by side on the table, inches away from the Leutnant's MP40 and assortment of documents packed within several folders embossed with the insignia of an eagle. Within grasp of the books, which lay open to the newest page, were two black ink pens. Being right-handed, Schneider grabbed one of the pens with his dominant hand and jotted down his name and rank upon an empty line in the log book. Feldwebel Hauff did the same in the enlisted men long, followed shortly by Krüger. The Leutnant kindly asked his SS counterpart to bring a certain British Major to a small shed in the corner of the compound, producing a file with an image of the jolly, fat Major clipped to the corner of the page. Schneider had already become acquainted with the man, Lewis James Worthington, a Major within the British Expeditionary Force. In fact, the Major had been the man to surrender to the Untersturmführer.

The Wehrmacht Leutnant practically skipped off to the shack like a small child, amusing the Untersturmführer with his boyish walk. Holding the file tightly under his left armpit, with his MP40 slung over his right shoulder, the Untersturmführer lead the two SS men away from the collapsible table. He handed the file off to Krüger, instructing him that he would find the Major in the third truck and insisted that the young Saxon hurry back to the compound's entrance with the Major in his possession as soon as possible. While waiting for the Schutze to return with the desired Brit, Schneider turned to face his most trusted of NCOs. "Informieren Sie die Männer, dass sie das ' innen unterzeichnen sollen; Gast book'. Berichten Sie dann zurück zu mir," he spoke in a hushed town, as if he didn't wish for anyone to overhear is conversation. Hauff nodded, muttering "Jawohl."

While the Untersturmführer paced a little near the entrance of the compound, he had lit a cigarette and was taking drags on the nicotine laced tobacco. The smoke gently eased its way out of his lips and disappeared into the atmosphere, the Untersturmführer savoring the sweet taste of a German cigarette. Hauff returned to the entrance first, followed shortly by the Schutze who had his Kar 98k rifle pointed at the back of the British Major. Attached to the end of the rifle was the large Imperial bayonet, ready to put the Major down should anything get out of hand. Schneider behaved with courtesy when dealing with some of the higher ranked British soldiers, regarding the British as worthy opponents. After all, the British people did share some Aryan ancestry with the Germans. The French and Welsh, however, were deemed "Celtic" and treated without respect by Schneider's men.

Grabbing the Major's left arm in his firm grip, Schneider lead the Major forward through the compound "Kraken-1". He ordered Krüger to stay behind with the trucks, while Hauff followed behind him with his MP40 at the ready. They caught the intention of some of the Wehrmacht soldiers, who were venturing out of their tents into the damp sand and light drizzle that the overcast skies began to pour down on the French landscape. Approaching the shack, which had its curtains drawn as if to suggest the inside of the walls were meant to be private, Schneider nodded at the armed guard who promptly stepped aside. Releasing Major Worthingon from his grasp, he made sure that Hauff had taken a hold of him before turning to face the entrance of the beach shed. Straightening up as if by instinct, the Untersturmführer let out three sharp knocks on the door and waited for the reply.

Translations:

Informieren Sie die Männer, dass sie das ' innen unterzeichnen sollen; Gast book'. Berichten Sie dann zurück zu mir.
- Inform the men that they are to sign in the 'guest book'. Then report back to me.

[Dietrich von Kriegstahl]

Dietrich maintained his rather boyish gait as he walked across the beach despite his encounter with the rather cocky SS-Untersturmfuhrer. Schneider had obviously smirked when he saw Kriegstahl’s rank insignia, as did many of the young men making up the core of the Junior Officers. Although a middle-aged Leutnant was something of a novelty, many people underestimated the strength and cunning of a more experienced man. Forty is a rather magnificent age. The life experience and gained wisdom of a senior was mixed with the body of a man just outside his thirties. Many older men were still holding Non-Commissioned Officer ranks, and there were even soldiers in support platoons fifty-five years and possibly even a bit older.

Kriegstahl’s boots sank deep in the wet sand as he walked quickly to the beachside cabin, slinging his MP-40 over his back and shifting his grip on the pile of folders, sans Major Worthington’s file. The drizzle was starting to pick up, becoming a full-blown rain. Dietrich arrived at the shack’s door rather soggy, his cap sticking to his water-smeared blond hair as he waved aside the two soldiers standing guard. The building was small and squat, its external planks painted a dull canary yellow with peeling paint and shingled with decaying brown tiles. It had been a wealthy French yacht-owner’s boathouse before the Blitzkrieg, when its patron was killed by a Stuka dive-bomber attack when the Germans arrived at the North shore. The stretch of beach holding the shack was set aside for Kraken-1 and the small building came with it. Other then the two machine-pistol wielding Unteroffiziers the cabin had only one adornment: a single white metal sign hung on the doorway. It read Achtung! Kein Unbefugtes Personal Hat Vorbei Diesen Punkt Erlaubt! Verletzer Werden Bestraft Werden! In thick black block letters. Stamped into the metal above the warning was a skull and crossbones in the style of a Totenkopf, giving a subtle hint at what the punishment would be. [Achtung! No Unauthorized Personnel Allowed Past This Point! Violators Will Be Punished!]

The Leutnant completely ignored the sign and walked directly up to the door, his gloved hands swiftly turning the doorknob. He opened it only enough to let himself in; he did not want anyone questionable seeing the inside in case there was still some questionable evidence of the acts that were committed in the boathouse.

The interior was plain, but furnished nicely. A large oak desk with a single chair of matching wood dominated to one-room shack, a single rain-splattered window contributing half the illumination; the other half going to a small, uncovered light bulb hanging lowly from a chain directly above the table. In one corner sat a small piece of furniture about the size of a bed stand. On it sat a gramophone, playing a static-filled rendition of “Deutschland Uber Alles” from a propaganda record. In the opposite corner sat a single Karbiner 98k rifle, propped up and unloaded, the bolt hanging loose like a broken jaw. A spindly wooden coat rack stood to the left of the door, holding nothing but an enlisted man’s greatcoat.

The only thing that made this small establishment stand out any more than a regular beachfront bungalow was rather morbid. A Stabsgefrieter by the name of Willie Karminkle was hard at work with a white rag and a bucket of soapy water, attacking the large wooden table with the fervor of a madman. Dry blood was caked on both the chair and table, making it seem that someone had their throat slit and was left to bleed dry while slumped over the flat surface. Karminkle looked up from his frothy bucket and saw that Kriegstahl had entered, the corporal straightening up and snapping off a quick salute to the brim of his field cap.

“Guten Tag Herr Leutnant.” Willie said as he started working again, scrubbing at a brownish-red clot dried onto the hardwood. “Und guten Tag Ihnen auch, Karminkle.” Dietrich replied, setting his folders next to the gramophone. [Good day, Herr Leutnant./And good day to you, Karminkle.]

“Was ist alle von...dies...von?” Dietrich asked, motioning to the bloodstains before swinging his MP-40 off of is back, pressing the release button, and taking out the magazine. Kriegstahl returned the 30 rounds encased in black tin back into the empty space in one of his belt pouches. As the Leutnant walked his machine pistol over to where Karminkle’s was propped up the corporal started to answer his superior’s question. “Oberfeldwebel Baur hat einen Besucher heute Morgen gehabt. Ein verdammt ekelhafter Schotte mit einem großen Bart, Herr. Gehaltenen der Rang des Kapitäns, hat er gemacht” Karminkle said in a Bavarian accent, the former farm-boy finishing up the mess on the table and moving onto the chair. [What is all of…this…from? / Oberfeldwebel Baur had a visitor this morning. A terribly disgusting Scot with a big beard, sir. Held the rank of Captain, he did.]

“Warum wurde er ohne meine Zustimmung verhört, Karminkle?” Dietrich asked sternly, calculating what punishments the men responsible for this act would receive in his mind. “Er hat Meyer angegriffen, Herr. Hat ihn auf dem Arm gebissen, als Meyer versuchte, die Gefangenen zuzuführen. Ist rechts durch die Haut gegangen. Meyer wurde lieber, Herr, und gerechterweise so gepisst. Wollte den Schotten rechts dort schießen. Aber Baur hat nein gesagt, und dass wir versuchen sollten, etwas aus ihm zu erhalten. Offensichtlich ist nicht es zu gut, Herr gegangen.” Karminkle explained, waving his hands and showing where Meyer had been bit. Dietrich narrowed his eyes dangerously at the Corporal, even though he was not the one responsible for the killing. “Ich will nicht dieses Ereignis wieder. Sowohl Baur als auch Meyer wird behandelt werden.” Dietrich hissed, looking the Stabsgefrieter directly in the eyes. Karminkle nodded quickly and stared into his soapy bucket. [Why was this prisoner interrogated without my consent, Karminkle? / He attacked Meyer, sir. Bit him on the arm when Meyer was trying to feed the prisoners. Went right through the skin. Meyer was rather pissed, sir, and rightfully so. Wanted to shoot the Scot right there. But Baur said no, and that we should try to get something out of him. Obviously it did not go too well, sir. / I do not want this happening again. Both Baur and Meyer will be dealt with.]

Kriegstahl turned his back to the young corporal and faced the closed door, wriggling off his black leather coat and hanging it on the rack along with his cap. After stuffing his leather gloves into his coat pocket the venerable Leutnant scurried over to the window, where he gently fixed his graying hair with deft fingers in his rain-splattered reflection, his dexterity defying his years. While fixing his appearances he asked distractedly “Ich vermute, dass der Schotte tot ist, korrigiert?” He heard the slosh of water as Karminkle plunged his rag into the bucket. “Ja Herr. Baur schlitzen Sie seine Kehle auf.” Dietrich grimaced as he fixed a silvery strand of hair, imagining the blood spilling from one’s bearded chin.

Kriegstahl turned around, facing Karminkle once again. “Wie wurde sein Körper über verfügt?” The older man asked, unfastening his belt and hanging it next to his coat. “Sie haben ihn rechts aus der Haustür getragen. Niemand Säge ihn, wenigstens denke ich nicht, dass sie gemacht haben. Hat ihn über die Steinmauer geworfen und hat ihn dort verlassen. Sie haben keine Scheiße gegeben.” Karminkle said, gesturing to the door. “Verdammte Idioten…” Dietrich whispered as he unbuttoned his grey woolen tunic, irritated by the stupidity of some of his troops. [How was his body disposed of? / They carried him right out the front door. No one saw him, at least I don't think they did. Threw him over the stone wall and left him there. They didn't give a shit. / Fucking imbeciles…]

After freeing himself from his tunic he hung that also on the coat rack, relaxing after being held by the rather constricting wool. The white officer’s dress shirt that he wore under his overgarment gave Kriegstahl an air of formality. Should he have put on a tie and a jacket he could have easily passed for a businessman walking in the streets of Berlin. Karminkle finished cleaning and opened the window a crack, pouring the pinkish, soap-diluted water outside and onto the sand. Dietrich paced impatiently around the boathouse, waiting for the Untersturmfuhrer to arrive. He was eager to get this over with.

Soon enough three good, solid knocks on the hardwood door wafted into the ears of Dietrich and Karminkle. Kriegstahl walked to the door and quickly opened it, seeing the SS men with the Major waiting outside in the rain. “Ah, SS-Untersturmfuhrer Schneider und Firma. Bitte kommen Sie herein. Binden Sie den guten Major in jenem Stuhl auch wenn Sie bitte fest. Ich glaube, dass Karminkle ein gutes stabiles Seil hat. Kann ich Sie erhalten, den etwas zu trinken?” Kriegstahl asked with a broad smile on his face, welcoming the Kraken-1’s guests into the shed. [Ah, SS-Untersturmfuhrer Schneider and company. Please, come in. Tie the good major in that chairif you please. I believe that Karminkle has a good stable rope. Can I get you something to drink?]

[∬: Erik Schneider]

(OOC: Not the best of posts. I didn't want to disappoint and prolong this any further, so I decided to throw a post together in my tired state. ;D

As time passed, the gentle drizzle that had been nagging at Schneider began to intensify into a downpour of rain. Most of the soldiers with any sense, retreated from the beach and into their tents. Gray storm clouds blotted out the sun's gaze and the waves began to crash violently against the coastline. The door to the beach shack opened ever so lightly, just to allow their guests admittance into its mysterious interior. Readjusting his footing, Schneider settled into a casual stance, holding the MP40 by the barrel and ammunition clip so that it pointed down below his waist. The visor of his Schirmmütze was pulled forward and down near his eyebrows, so that the flow of rain soaking his cap flowed down the length of the visor and away from his face. In peace, the vivid red light emanating from the tip of his cigarette continued its short existence whilst avoiding the deadly drops of rain that now drenched the beach. The damp collection of sand had already begun to soak in the Untersturmführer's boots, as if trying to suck him below the surface.

Cocking his head to his right, his eyes coldly signaled for the Major to be lead into the shack. An odd feeling told Schneider that the coming ordeal would not fair well for Worthington. Feldwebel Hauff guided the British Major through the narrow opening, digging his fingers into the man's upper arm. Eying the Major closely as he passed, he turned on his heels and followed Hauff into the shack. Without a word, he quickly pulled the door shut behind him. The middle-aged Leutnant greeted them warmly, an eager smile painted across his lips. Schneider pointed his finger toward a vacant chair, ordering the Feldwebel, "Binden Sie den Major oben, nett und fest." He tore off this soaked officer's cap, revealing a mess of the wet golden locks concealed beneath it. "Weinbrand würde gut sein, wenn Sie ihn haben. Für mich und das Feldwebel hier. Wenn nicht, so sei es. Alles genügt," Schneider suggested, his favorite drink being brandy. Placing the wet cap on its respectful spot among the coat rack, he slicked his hair back and straightened the mess out with his bare hands.

By the time the Leutnant had returned with the drinks, Hauff was finishing his task of tying the Major up. The interior of the room, furnished averagely, appeared more as an interrogation room than that of a peaceful beach shack. One light bulb dangled from a cord and illuminated the area surrounding the oak table, the center of focus in the dim room, whilst a small window allowed a limited amount of daylight through its water stained glass. Schneider accepted both of the glasses in his hands, murmuring a quick "Danke" through his cigarette. Hovering behind the Feldwebel, who was fiercely tightening the ropes along the back of the chair, Schneider handed him one of the glasses as he finished. By now, a large blood-stain on the surface of the oak table had caught the eye of the Untersturmführer and the Major. Their facial responses contrasted greatly in the darkness. Worthington glared at the blood, utterly petrified of the events that had previously been carried out in the small confines of the room. Schneider on the other hand, had a much more amused look on his face, his lips curling up into a sly grin.

The broken and static filled playing of the propaganda song that was being spewed from an aged looking gramophone sitting atop a small, wooden table, “Deutschland Uber Alles”, broke the silence in the room. Schneider was enjoying himself slightly, smoking a fine cigarette as he occasionally took a swig of his drink. His gaze fell upon that of Lewis James Worthington, studying the horror in his eyes. He was a fighter though, not one to be intimidated by violence or anger. Schneider had conversed with the Major frequently, usually in situations such as this. But he had never had the pleasure of interrogating the man in a dimly lit, shack where a fresh killing had been carried out. The aroma of death practically still lingered in the area, its putrid smell clogging the nostrils of the Untersturmführer. He enjoyed the way the Leutnant did his business, however much it went against any code of war. It was practical and efficient, albeit cruel and horrifying. That was the way Schneider liked. "So Leutnant. Ich nehme an, dass Sie beabsichtigen, etwas dieses Majors zu erhalten. Mag ich mich erkundigen, was das sein kann?" he spoke, averting his gaze to Kriegstahl.

Translations:

Binden Sie den Major oben, nett und fest.
- Tie the Major up, nice and tight.

Weinbrand würde gut sein, wenn Sie ihn haben. Für mich und das Feldwebel hier. Wenn nicht, so sei es. Alles genügt.
- Brandy would be good, if you have it. For me and the Feldwebel here. If not, so be it. Anything will suffice.

So Leutnant. Ich nehme an, dass Sie beabsichtigen, etwas dieses Majors zu erhalten. Mag ich mich erkundigen, was das sein kann?
- So, Leutnant. I suppose you intend to get something of this Major. May I inquire what that may be?

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The following CP has been issued:

Kriegstahl - 6CP

Schneider - 5CP

-JT