Ducking Out Of The Rain [Hautt/Open]

[∬: Felix Odegaard]

Rottenfuhrer Felix Odegaard of the Waffen-SS stretched out on the leather sofa, reclining his tired back upon the overstuffed back of the massive piece of furniture. The small radio blared on the table, blabbering out the freshest news from both the Russian front and the daily struggles of life in Nazi Germany. Apparently, the Germans are continuing their all powerful war against the inferior Russians at Stalingrad, and the price of butter is skyrocketing. Felix paid particular attention to the news on the siege of the factory district in Stalingrad, for only about one month ago Odegaard was there, drinking his precious clean water rations instead of a hot cup of coffee. The fight against the Russians was dirty and door to door, except for the ever-present danger of getting picked off by Soviet sharpshooters. Although only there for three weeks, Stalingrad was living hell. He had seen men picked off by a sniper only three feet away from him, blood spurting from the unlucky Private’s neck onto the front of Felix’s dirty white smock. He had smelled the rough gastric gasses from a Russian’s stomach as he stabbed his steel Imperial bayonet into his stomach. The Norwegian pushed such images from his mind as he swallowed another gulp of coffee, his icy blue eyes darting around the coffeehouse’s main room.

Odegaard was the only patron in the deserted restaurant, the only other sound other than the radio came from the clerk brewing another pot of hazelnut coffee. Felix loved the small Berlin coffeehouse, and became a regular patron during his time on leave. It was called “The Perfect Brew”, a name coined off of their signature chocolate-cream coffee mixed with mysterious liquor that Felix was sipping now. It was quite expensive due to the rare ingredients in wartime, but the young man let himself indulge in it on that particular raining evening. He rose from his chair, taking another sip from his cup and prodding the hot liquid around his mouth with the tip of his tongue. He really loved the brew, and would order at least another cup if it weren’t so expensive. Three tall windows lined the coffeehouse’s north wall, broadcasting the dreary scene from outside. Dark rain pattered against the window pane and only a handful of lights where visible from the windows. Felix dreaded the walk back to the barracks where he was staying on leave, and he lingered on his coffee just a bit longer than the Norwegian normally would.

When Felix finally finished off the coffee, he drained the bottom of the cup and set it on the oak table where the drinks coffee was made. The clerk quickly snatched the empty cup up and began to clean it with a rag, and the young Rottenfuhrer turned to the coat rack beside the big ornate door. He pulled his standard issue greatcoat off one of the prongs and slipped his arms through the sleeves, the dark fabric of his tunic and coat melting together into one. Felix waved a quick goodbye at the clerk, who smiled back gratefully. Rottenfuhrer Odegaard was the most generous tipper in all of Berlin.

As soon as Felix walked into the rain he was immediately chilled to the bone by the freezing downpour. The cold etched its way into his very bones, making the soldier shiver in his polished jackboots. He walked briskly down the abandoned cobblestone streets that made up Berlin’s roadmap. The clack of hobnails on the pavement echoed, and every few feet a blast from a stray puddle would shoot up from underfoot. Felix reached behind the brim on his cap to scratch a part of his scalp, but found both his cap and his hair soaked. The Norwegian could not take it anymore. It was at least twenty more blocks to the SS barracks where a warm bunk was calling Felix’s name, but he could not do it with the pounding rain. He looked for a suitable place to take shelter from the pelting water from the heavens, and saw nothing but unlighted residential buildings. If he must, Felix could burst in and take their beds in the name of the Waffen-SS, but he was not feeling particularly cruel that night. But about twenty paces away a welcoming light shone through the rain. Seeing it as his savior, Felix jogged up to it and read the large sign that dangled from a pole protruding from the side of the large, square building. It read “The Rowdy Hunter’s Tavern”. The name alone offended Felix’s more aristocratic side, but considering the alternative, the Norwegian trotted up the creaking steps to the porch. He threw open the rickety door and was immediately blasted by a bright wave of light, sound, and smell. Stunned for a moment, Felix led his way into the bar.

The Rowdy Hunter’s Tavern smelled of vomit, liquor, and cigar and cigarette smoke. Giant clogs of people milled around the interior, barely visible past the thick smoke. Cries of pleasure echoed throughout the walls, the only audible sound above the loud chatter of voices in conversation. Felix pushed his way passed several drunken men and women, one of them a Wehrmacht private clumsily dancing with a barmaid. Odegaard, out of breath from jogging and smoke, collapsed on the bar and seated himself on a stool, removing his soaked jacket and putting it under his bottom, separating his bottom from the hard seat of the stool. He called over a bartender with a wave of his hand, a big brute with a black eye and several tattoos of various provocative items on his enormous biceps. “A house beer, please. Whatever is cheapest.” Felix said, almost yelling over the enormous roar of conversation. The bartender just grunted, making his way to the kitchen to fulfill Felix’s order. Odegaard reached inside his pocket, removing a small pack of cigarettes and sticking one in his mouth. Lighting it quickly, he took long drags as he waited for his drink to arrive.

The bartender burst out of the kitchen, a massive frothing glass of beer in one of his massive hands. He smashed it down on the bar with a massive crash, and Felix worried it would break for a moment. Felix didn’t dare take a sip until the brutish barhand had stalked away, turning to a group of drunkards asking for a free round of brandy. For the first time Felix realized the mug was shaped like a boot, not like the jackboots of the Waffen-SS, but of the hunters in the woods of Norway. A note of homesickness struck at the same time as humor as Felix took the first sip. It was wonderful! Even better than the Perfect Brew at the coffeehouse! It had just the right balance of flavor. Felix’s lips where practically glued to the top of the glass as he downed it. He was about to ask for another round when a sight that astonished the young Nazi Corporal burst from the drunken crowd.

Two drunken Wehrmacht privates bounded from the crowd, throwing wide punches at each other. Felix leapt up from his sitting position, knocking over his stool in the process, and grabbed the two privates by the collar. By the time they saw the SS runes of Felix’s collars, even their drunken minds could tell the two where in trouble.

[Deleted]

Scharführer Friedrich Hautt frowned and stood up from his wobbly folding stool, rubbing his eyes. Yawning, he stretched for a moment before folding the stool and putting it in a small corner of his tent. He had been going through field reports for the past three and a half hours, stamping what he thought was important enough to pass on to his superiors, and tossing the rest in a small pile, to be sorted at a later date, and put in archives for ease of access. It seemed as if every shot fired had to be assessed and sorted, viewed and reviewed, debriefed or deemed unsubstantial. Sighing, he neatly stacked the reports on his desk before heading for the tent flap, grabbing his rifle and an umbrella on the way out.

Looking up at the sky, he shook his head and slung the rifle over his shoulder, keeping the umbrella in hand before starting his long walk. It had been threatening to rain for almost a week, drizzling just enough to keep everything damp. Spirits were low with the news of another defeat on the Russian Front. All in all, the atmosphere in Berlin was fairly bland. Many took to drinking as a solution for thei problems, and that left Friedrich with a lot of work to be done. Three days hadn't even passed since he was forced to beat a soldier of his battalion, drunk at his post. Friedrich had blindfolded him and tossed him in the back of an old amy wagon. He had then dug up a few low-ranking soldiers from Ukraine, and he had convinced them to have a conversation in Russian as they drove. The blindfolded man sobered quickly, thinking he had been turned over to the Russians, a fate worse than death. After a short period, Hautt had let him loose, telling him that he should consider it as a warning. As it turned out, the man never touched alcohol again, lest something worse happen to him.

Stepping to the door of a nearby shop, he knocked on the door twice, waiting fifteen seconds before knocking again. The curtains were closed, and big letters on both the door and the window read: "Geschlossen!"... closed of course. The shop had supposedly gone out of buisness before the war, but he knew better. Smiling, Friedrich knocked four times, and the door creaked open, a small bespectacled man ushering him in. Ah, Scharführer Hautt! Hereingekommen, kommen Sie herein!" the small man said, running an ancient rag over the counter, which, as far as Friedrich could see, was having no effect on the thick layer of dust, which coated pretty much everything in the room, from near-empty shelves, all the way to what appeared to be a dead cat lying in a corner, bones protruding from several places. He shivered, turning his attention back to the shop-owner. "Was haben Sie für mich heute, Karl erhalten?" he asked inquisitively, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a thick wad of bills. Karl, whom many call Karl the Penniless, or just Karl the Shopowner, and even sometimes both, disappeared beneath the counter. A clattering noise could be heard, and the creaking of old hinges of the door leading to the hidden basement. The faint voice of Karl humming drifted to Hautt's ears, along with a shuffling and clinking of glasses.

Slowly, Karl reappeared, inch by inch, coated in dust, carrying a fairly small box, laden to the top with all kinds of goodies for an NCO. Taking the box from Karl's weathered hands, he looked it through, making sure everything was satisfactory. Nodding, he parted a few bills from his wallet and tossed a handful to Karl, who smiled widely, tipping his hat to the aging SS man. Hautt nodded solemnly, putting his wallet in his back pocket before scooping up his precious package, heading for the door. "Ich habe Ihnen etwas Änderung, alten Mann, in den Hoffnungen gelassen, die Sie… Aufenthalt im Geschäft, bis wir uns wieder treffen, " he said, opening the door, the package held in hand by a thin, but sturdy rope. "Gott segnen Sie, Hautt," Karl said, saluting improperly.

Closing the door behind him, he looked at the sky once more. A few drops started to fall, but it was nothing serious yet. Tightening the belt of his thick brown leather overcoat, he marched on, the umbrella in one hand, and his goodies in the other. His next stop was 'The Perfect Brew', whom many, Military and Civilian alike, had recommended to him. Hautt had noticed one soldier in particular, a certain Rottenführer Odegaard making frequent stops at the coffee shop. Friedrich's reasons for stopping, though, were entirely different than those of
the men in the Division. The reason Friedrich had stopped at Penniless Karl's was to obtain rare, tradeable substances, worth quite a pretty penny on the streets of Berlin. He was going to the Perfect Brew to see if he could grab some of their famous coffee, ground or unground. Since it was so popular with the men, Hautt figured that having a few pounds on-hand would benefit the troops greatly.

Snapping out of his thoughts, a loud rumble sounded, and a few moments later, a flash appeared on the horizon. Then something hit his leather coat, and he ran for cover, dropping his package and unslinging his rifle. At first, denying all logic, he had thought that somehow, the enemy were in Berlin, and a sniper had barely missed him. A few seconds later, a large downpour of rain began, and he stood up slowly from his cover behind an abandoned vendor wagon. Laughing, he slung his rifle and ran back for his package, brushing it off and opening his umbrella. Glad that he brought it, he continued onwards down the abandoned Berlin streets.

Occasionaly, he would see someone making a dash for their houses, and that fairly amused him, making him laugh boomingly at the sight of one extremely fat woman, she must have weighed a few hudnred pounds easily, running through the streets in high heels, he dress soaked. What sent more laughs from his lips where when that same woman tripped over her own enormous feet and landed in a muddy puddle next to a pile of dog excrement. Wiping tears from his eyes, he leaned against the wall for a moment to support himself, weak with laughter. He hadn't laughed this hard since he heard Hitler proclaim Germans the master race.

Righting himself once more, still fairly wobbly, one person caught his eye, another soldier, SS by the looks of his tunic collar, running into a seemingly deserted building. Curious, he walked up to the door of the building, passing a sign that read "The Rowdy Hunters Tavern". Shaking his head, he thought for a moment, all the while rain pouring off of his umbrella. Shaking his head, he opened the door and stepped in, almost shocked at what he saw. A few soldiers, all of them Heer, sat drinking and laughing and joking, and playing with ugly barmaids, who took the attention very well. Some sat on laps, others stood by stroking their soldiers, all of them who had undoubtedly taken the soldiers' drunken promises of marriage seriously. Stepping to the back of one man, slumped over the table, Hautt poked him none too soft, and the man slid out of his stool, landing hard on the wooden floor and began puking all over himself.

Disgusted, he was about to leave when he saw an SS soldier, a Rottenführer, grab the collars of two soldiers. They had been fighting only a moment before, but Hautt did not really think anything of it until now. Something clicked. Soldiers... German soldiers... drunk as hell... fighting one another? German soldiers did not right each other, did they? ''No!'' He thought. German soldiers do NOT fight one another, drunken or not. They were the emblem of Germany, in all aspects, to be honored and trusted. To see them fighting here sent rage clawing at Friedrich's insides.

Setting his package on a table, he closed his dark umbrella, marchine foreward, his boots clicking on the wooden floor ominously. He started with the man closest to him, reaching the curved wooden handle of the umbrella around his neck. Yanking hard, he pulled the man out of the Rottenführer's grasp and to the floor, kicking him hard as he lie on the dirty wooden floor, bringing a sharp intake of breath as the pain shot through the ribs of the man. Turning to the other, he swung his umbrella horizontally, cracking the man on the side of the head twice, leaving him in the SS man's grasp.

"Dieses ist widerlich," he said to the Rottenführer, spitting angrily on the man on the ground, disgusted.

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Translations:
"Ah, Hautt! Hereingekommen, kommen Sie herein!"
"Ah, Scharführer Hautt! Come in, come in!"

"Was haben Sie für mich heute, Karl erhalten?"
"What have you got for me today, Karl?"

"Ich habe Ihnen etwas Änderung, alten Mann, in den Hoffnungen gelassen, die Sie… Aufenthalt im Geschäft, bis wir uns wieder treffen, "
"I have left you some change, old man, in the hopes that you will... 'stay in buisness' until we meet again."

"Gott segnen Sie, Hautt."
"God bless you, Hautt."

"Dieses ist widerlich,"
"This is sickening,"

[Heiko Alkema]

Heiko hated the city of Berlin. A symbol of fading glory, the once beautiful city and heart of the German Empire was now a festering rat hole, overrun with the vermin infestation that was the SS and the National Socialists all while being bombed at night by the aptly named British Mosquitoes. Berlin was the epicenter of the greatest impending disaster that Heiko could imagine: The ultimate defeat of the Fatherland. Every day, the radio waves were congested with stories of German heroics and future victory and glory. It all sounded so nice but Heiko knew the truth. The Americans and British were at Italy's throat in Africa while the Soviets were lurching forward toward Germany in the east. Most were blinded to the obvious. Germany was losing this war. An unthinkable concept only a few months ago when the glorious armies of Germany marched so easily over the soil of her enemies.

The bartender placed another mug in front of him without having to ask. Heiko's platoon were regulars here at the Rowdy Hunters, because of this the barkeep knew the habits of more or less everyone. Loewe for instance refused to drink more than one two mugs a night, thus the barkeep always had a few larger than normal mugs ready for him. For Heiko, the drinks kept coming without request or question. Heiko's family ties insured that he always had enough money to pay his tab. It was all necessary, Heiko drank to excess whenever he was in Germany now. The extreme boredom provided no stimulation to distract from the reality of Heiko's experiences. Drinking didn't keep the ghosts away, it merely allowed him the solace of not having to remember the encounter. No matter how much he drank, Baumgartner's head still rolled across the floor toward him and the burning bodies still danced around him. Fortunately, he'd pass out sooner or later and forgot the whole experience.

Taking the mug in front of him, Heiko spun in his bar stool to view the room. It was nothing out of the ordinary. A few of his men, lead by Amsel, were sitting in a corner enjoying a rather loud game of poker. Another clique occupied the adjacent table and the men were exchanging war stories in an attempt to impress the barmaids in their laps. Their were a few smaller groups or two or three scattered about the room engaging in various activities.

Then two men caught Heiko's eye. They were sitting alone in a secluded corner with eyes locked on Heiko. One had no face aside from a mass of muscles and four holes were the eyes, nose, and mouth would have been. His uniform was charred and flaking off of his body revealing a similar mass of fleshless muscle underneath. Jochim Kaufmann; age 20; KIA in Safi, Morroco. Killed by a exploding flamethrower which doused his body in flames. The one next to him simply sat in a dusty uniform with streams of blood seeping down from his neck creating long streaks down his chest. He had no head. Heiko would no doubt find it later in a most inconvenient place like beside his beer mug or at his feet. Tobias Baumgartner; age 18; KIA somewhere in Algeria. Killed by a sniper's bullet ripping through his neck and completely removing his head.

It was very unpleasant whenever this started happening. He had two options: ignore them or react and lose the faith of his men. Of course his choice was to ignore them, the army was his life now and losing the respect of his men may actually kill him. Heiko downed the entire mug in a one go, slamming it down on the counter behind him without bothering to look at what he was doing. Apparently it knocked over Loewe's drink, as he let out long sigh.

"You need to stop doing this. It doesn't solve anything, Unteroffizier." Heiko turned his head just enough to see, Loewe shaking his head as he reached over the counter and produced a towel from the barkeep's side and began to clean up the mess. Heiko said nothing, bringing his attention back to the men around the room. The Kaufmann and Baumgartner were gone, but everything seemed to be moving. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of his own, though his was of relief rather than concern. The room started getting a louder forcing Heiko's eyes open to observe.

Two more men at the poker table were arguing louder than usual, though the alcohol prevented their names from coming to mind. The argument heated up and one swung at the other knocking over half the drinks and tossing the cards and money across the table. Both stood and began wrestling, running into the flirting table knocking over more drinks. At that moment the door to the tavern opened and uniformed man walked in making his way to the bar. the fighting pair stumbled and tossed their way over toward him, drawing the newcomer's attention, who turned and grabbed their collar's mumbling something as he did so. A second uniformed man entered, immediately taking notice of the conflict and grabbing one of the soldiers himself throwing him to the floor and rapping his head with an umbrella.

"Oh shit..." mumbled Loewe out of Heiko's sight, It took a moment for Heiko to take in what was happening but it all clicked into place a moment after the umbrella struck his man's skull. Heiko's mind finally registered the uniforms as SS and the first SS man's face was familiar as well. Regardless of the possible acquaintance, Heiko's face instantly began blazing, in his condition rational thought was simply out of the question, he didn't even notice the sudden silence that paralyzed the room. "Unteroffizier... Heiko," Loewe's voice rose as Heiko stood up and nearly feel over with the effort, "Heiko, we don't need the trouble." Loewe's plea fell on deaf ears, more due to alcohol than Heiko's rage.

Heiko's fingers brushed against the bayonet at his hip as he made his way toward the SS men. It was tick he'd developed over the years. The cold steel was strangely comforting. Heiko smiled as he drew the long blade from its sheath and watched it glitter in the light. You'll have more blood soon, dear...

"You will let go of him, rat," Heiko's voice boomed with the last word and ran the shining blade across his fingers bringing out a sobering pain. The man holding his soldier was the one with a familiar face, it twisted in shock in way that Heiko knew he's seen before but the haze of alcohol... Odegaard. Heiko couldn't suppress the surprised "Oh" from escaping his lips. It was the Scandinavian sheep he'd run across in Russia. "We meet again, Imposter," Heiko spat and flashed a devilish grin as he played with the bayonet threateningly.

[∬: Felix Odegaard]

“God damn you…” Felix muttered under his breath to the two Heer soldiers within his grasp, giving both a quick jerk of the collar, painfully pulling their sore necks. One, with dull amber eyes and tousled hair the color of wet sand looked up at Rottenfuhrer Odegaard pleadingly, and blubbered out “P-p-please…*hic…don’t…h-hurt…us…we-e-e…we where just t-trying…to…have a g-g-good t-time.” His voice was thick and slurred, but truly terrified of the towering Rottenfuhrer. “You call shaming Germany a good time! You clearly have no place in the brilliant Aryan world.” Felix spat out, giving them both another quick jolt to their collar. The next, a man with short-cropped blond hair and sky blue eyes opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly silenced by Felix smashing his face against a bar chair. He hardly noticed as a Scharfuhrer opened he creaky door of the Rowdy Hunter’s, ducking in with a large umbrella in one hand and a small package in the other. His face was sharp and angular, with a high forehead and a cloven chin. The Scharfuhrer’s thinning blond hair was parted delicately on his scalp, giving the impression of a well dressed and aristocratic fellow. As he saw the gruesome sight of Felix with the two privates in hand, he quickly set his small package down on a table and withdrew his umbrella, turning it over so the leather-coated handle looked like some sort of Grim Reaper’s scythe. He quickly swung the handle, and Felix thought for a moment the blow was aimed at him. Bit it whizzed directly past him and wrapped its curve around the brown-haired private, yanking him from Felix’s grasp, the Norwegians fingernails leaving small scratches along his neck. The Wehrmacht private hit the floor hard, gasping for lost breath as the Scharfuhrer’s boot made its way into his ribs. As the private writhed in pain, the new-coming SS man took careful aim at the side of his head and then lashed out two times, making the private groan in pain.

Felix took this as an opportunity to wreak havoc upon the other private, and quickly threw him down against the flat, slightly sticky top of a nearby empty table. He brought up one of the empty boot glasses against his face, blood streaming out of the cuts it made. He then threw the frightened private to the floor, kicking into his breathless ribcage repeatedly. That’s when he saw the other man rise to his feet.

The man rising from the bar was one of the more quiet ones, Heer collar tabs and the shoulder boards of a Unteroffizier where barely visible in the light. Another Wehrmacht soldier tried to restrain him mildly, but then just cursed as the NCO pulled a look of wickedness onto his tired face. Felix stopped the kicking as the Sergeant walked closer, face bright red with drunkenness and his eyes wild with alcohol. On his face was the most twisted, sneering, utterly terrifying look that Odegaard had ever seen on a human being. Behind all the drunken contempt though, the face was familiar. As the Wehrmacht Sergeant drew closer and called him imposter, it hit the Scandinavian: Unteroffizier Alkema. Felix had met with the fool briefly in Russia, when they battled a ragtag partisan group after Odegaard unwillingly sparked outrage within the village. Alkema slowly drew his bayonet from its leather frog, the polished, shining blade running against the Sergeant’s fingertips, small amounts of crimson residue remaining on his fingers and the long edge. As Felix stepped back in surprise, he reached for his equipment belt, but found nothing. He then remembered the small switchblade in his lower tunic pocket, and fumbled with the tin button, before tripping over a chair, smashing its fragile frame and ending up on his backside. He finally and desperately ripped the tin button off and threw open the flap protecting the contents of the pocket and quickly felt the switchblade. He withdrew it, still crawling away from the threatening Alkema. Felix unfolded the blade and held the bone handle, engraved with scenes of a Norwegian hunt and decorated with a mosaic of the Norwegian flag. He held it out as he tried to scurry to his feet, but he had a feeling Alkema would already be descending upon him. “Damn you! Damn you damn you! I will…I will…stay back! I will kill you! Stand down!” Odegaard shouted pitifully, fearing for his life.

[Deleted]

A moment after Friedrich had dispatched one of the two soldiers, the SS man, whom he had not yet recognized, dealt with the other, smashing a glass mug on his face, starting a steady stream of blood from multiple cuts on the Private's face. Turning back to his own disgrace, still whimpering on the floor, he poked him with the heavy toe of his boot, before raising his left leg, and bringing it down on the right hand of the private with a resounding crunch. The pivate shouted in pain, and Hautt twisted his foot, further breaking the beaten man's hands. "Das ist, also können Sie ein Gewehr, achtbar in der Verteidigung Ihres Landes nie wieder abfeuern," he said, slowly letting the anger slide away. The man would never be able to use his hand properly again, effectively taking him out of the war.

Turning to the SS man, he immediately recognized him as Felix Odegaard, the man who stopped at the coffee shop so often. Wiping a small amount of blood from his umbrella, he kept it in hand, thumbing the engraved SS insignia on the fine handle. "Er ist er ist nicht in den SS glücklich. Wenn hier in meiner Abteilung waren, würde ich ihn völlig getötet haben," he said, brushing off the shoulders of his dark brown leather overcoat. The place was so filthy, it seemed to be attracted to anything semi-expensive, and Hautt's finely made coat had picked up a fine layer of dust in the few short moments he had been inside.

He was about to grab his package and leave, but something else happened that prevented him from doing so. A man at the bar stood up, his dark eyes flashing ominously. A blade appeared in his hand, sliding from it's sheath silently and gracefully, and the intent was obvious. Frowning, Hautt's eyes slid to the shoulder boards of the murderous man, ecognizing him as an Unteroffizier, a fairly low rank, meant to bridge the gap between fresh recruits and experienced soldiers. "We meet again, Imposter," the man said, spitting and waving the blade around playfully, clearly meant to intimidate Odegaard.

It was then that Felix began fumbling for his own blade, tripping and sending wood splinters everywhere, and pulling off a button before bring the knife into hand, unfolding the blade, his eyes wild. “Damn you! Damn you damn you! I will…I will…stay back! I will kill you! Stand down!” Odegaard said, bringing a rising ange in Hautt's chest once more. Walking foreward calmly, he drew his hand back and lightly cuffed the Norwegian on the head, grabbing his collar roughly and yanking him to his feet before brushing the Rottenführer's coat lightly. "Sie stehen, Odegaard hoch!" he said, stepping back a pace before speaking again, his voice cold and calm. "Ich sehe nicht einen Mann in den SS, die auf einem wimmernden Irren verringert werden!"

Glaring at Heiko, he stepped foreward, blocking him from reaching Felix, his deadly umbrella still in hand. "Ich würde nicht den tun, wenn ich Sie war. Anhaltende Vorgehensweise kann zu Ihre etwaige Entladung und/oder Durchführung, durch meine Hand oder die Hände von jemand anderes führen," Hautt said calmly, staring into the dark pits of the Unteroffizier's eyes. He was more than willing to dish out the punishment himself, even though it would mean more paperwork. As sad as he was to admit it, he would have no other choice if Heiko decided on any course of action other than walking away with his dignity.

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Translations:
"Das ist, also können Sie ein Gewehr, achtbar in der Verteidigung Ihres Landes nie wieder abfeuern,"
"That is so you may never again fire a rifle, honorably in the defence of your country,"

"Er ist er ist nicht in den SS glücklich. Wenn hier in meiner Abteilung waren, würde ich ihn völlig getötet haben,"
"He is lucky he is not in the SS. If here were in my division, I would have outright killed him,"

"Sie stehen, Odegaard hoch!"
"You will stand tall, Odegaard!"

"Ich sehe nicht einen Mann in den SS, die auf einem wimmernden Irren verringert werden!"
"I will not see a man in the SS reduced to a whimpering madman!"

"Ich würde nicht den tun, wenn ich Sie war. Anhaltende Vorgehensweise kann zu Ihre etwaige Entladung und/oder Durchführung, durch meine Hand oder die Hände von jemand anderes führen,"
"I would not do that if I were you. Continued course of action may lead to your eventual discharge, and/or execution, by my hand or the hands of someone else,"

[Heiko Alkema]

Odegaard stumbled backwards fumbling for something to defend himself, spilling plenty of beer and destroying a stool or two in the process. The spectacle brought an indescribable joy to Heiko's heart and he couldn't resist letting loose howling laughter. He wasn't alone either, the entire room joined in and the chorus of drunken jackals filled the tavern. Heiko himself laughed so hard that tears began welling up in eyes as the poor Norweger struggled to his feet, stuttering, and produced a woefully inadequate blade to counter the Imperial Bayonet in Heiko's hands. Then the other SS man stepped in placing himself between the true German and the impostor.

"I would not do that if I were you. Continued course of action may lead to your eventual discharge, and/or execution, by my hand or the hands of someone else," The room fell silent in anticipation of Heiko's response. Instead of the expected fire and rage, Heiko blanched for a moment lowering his blade. He stood there for a moment studying the man in front of him and then the blood smeared blade by his side. This SS man didn't seem to possess any real authority apart from the delusion of self-importance that ran rampant in their ranks. He wasn't particularly well built, probably a paper-pusher by nature. Satisfied with this analysis, Heiko decided on his "course of action".

After a moment's hesitation, a broad grin grew on Heiko's lips. "You have a decent point, my friend. Perhaps I was a little hasty in my decision. If it were not for clear thinking men like you, who knows where our great Germany would be." Heiko moved closer trying his hardest to be cordial. "Like my friend told me," Heiko motioned with the blade toward Loewe who immediately averted his eyes and hid behind his newly refilled drink, "We don't need the trouble," he motioned this time toward his men scattered across the tavern. and taking a step closer and placing his free hand on the man shoulder which naturally tensed at the contact. Heiko winced in insult. "Do you fear me? Why need you fear your fellow German?" Heiko used the pain in his fingertips to produce a pained expression on his face. His grip on the soldier's shoulder tighten and he spoke softly in the friendliest voice he could possibly muster in his state of intoxication, "If you don't relax it will hurt far more than necessary." A puzzled look shot across the SS man's face and Heiko enjoyed every second of it, letting his words sink into the man's soul.

The blade came up in a flash, Heiko's eyes locked on his victim's. It pierced the uniform and flesh so easily, slipping through the man's ribs as if it were nothing but empty air. Heiko waited for a moment, the bayonet firmly embedded in the opposite sergeants chest, letting the moment burn itself into the memories of everyone present. For just a moment, Heiko would have sworn that the person in his hands was the American corporal responsible for Baumgartner's death and instinctively twisted the blade until it further movement was blocked by a rib. The face faded with the scream of pain and Heiko removed the soldier from his blade by shoving the man's shoulder away rather than withdrawing the blade directly, then flinging the man down.

"Fool, this fight is none of your business. Your threats me nothing to me or my men." Heiko spat on the man's face and turned to Odegaard. "Would you like to see how far your luck will carry you, Impostor? You can take your friend here and leave without any more trouble... or we can continue if you wish. I, personally, would prefer the second option."

OOC: Yeah I God-modded the ever-loving s*** out of that, but you were asking for it. If you're not comfortable with it I'll change it to something a little less... lethal.

[Annabella Auerbach]

[OOC : Mind if I peep in guys?]

Obergrenadier Edrien Bruus was off duty at the moment. He sat in the barracks staring fiercly at Rudolph, his close friend, whom was begging like a madman saying words such as - "Kommen Bruusy! Ein Getränk? Kommen Sie heran, Sie Sie viel Spass! den ganzen Tag gearbeitet haben! Gerade ein Getränk." Actually, Edrien thought his friend was drunk for some reason. Rudolph knew that Edrien didn't drink. He only drank on important occasions and this certainly was not an important occasion. Edrien kept shaking his head. "Nicht heute.." Edrien said. "Sie betrunkener bastard." He added underneath his breath. The last thing Edrien felt after speaking his words was him being lifted off chair by the arms by his drunk friend and being pushed outside the door that led the barracks. Edrien couldn't help but roll his eyes at him. Rudolph was probably going to get into another bar fight again. Fool - Edrien thought. [Translations: Come on Bruusy! One drink? Come on, you'll have fun! You've been working all day! Just one drink. [2] Not today. [3] You drunk bastard.]

He found himself being pulled into the local tavern. He was then seated on a stool. The place smelt horrid. Why the hell did Rudolph come to this place anyway? To get rid of all his troubles? Edrien thought this place was the place he would never come to get rid of all of his troubles. Actually, this place built up all of his troubles and he did not need any of them at the moment. He didn't order anything. Alcohol sickened him. He bloody hated it. He just watched a couple of his friends drink, drink, drink and drink more. They were such low-lives. They looked like a bunch of weak men. They were girls. Weak girls. He ordered a glass of water and chugged it down in one drink.

All of a sudden, he heard a growl break out from one of his friends. Actually, both his friends. Rudolph and Eckhart. Edrien knew what a growl meant nowadays. It simply meant a fight. Drunkies fighting for no reason to be reasonable. He started hearing a few insults from one another and before he knew it they began lunging hits at each other. Imbeciles. He watched them fight for about a minute until Rottenfuhrer Odegaard had caught both by the collars. Edrien knew all the officers around the camp. It wasn't very hard to forget them. Edrien rolled his eyes once more. Bloody idiots.

He then glanced at another officer that had walked in. Scharfuhrer Hautt. Again, Edrien knew all the officers. He did more than just kick them. He created humiliation for both the soldiers. Edrien couldn't but give out a low chuckle at Rudolph. Actually, Edrien thought his friend deserved this sort of treatment. Rudolph Mensberg was a douchebag. A loser. A bastard. All of the above. Edrien never knew why he had become friends with him. It was probably because Edrien was being friendly. Yet, Edrien was never friendly.

He watched another officer strike into action. This made Edrien smirk. One could do so much that it would cause such a great big commotion. He knew the man as Unteroffizer Alkema. Edrien was quite shocked at what the man said. It was quite an odd and awkward moment actually. He noticed how the man twisted his bayonet between his fingers. He noticed how Hautt stepped in front of him and kept giving him an icy glare. It was seriously an awkward moment now. He slightly got himself up. He kept watching Alkema and Hautt. He decided to sort of break the tension apart. He stepped near Hautt and saluted him giving him a nod of respect. "Ich habe die Aufgabe vollendet Sie haben mich Herr gesetzt. Derjenige über die russischen Waffen." He was actually given this task. Edrien did not dare lie in front of his superiors. [Translations: I've completed the task you've set me sir. The one about the Russian weapons.]

[∬: Felix Odegaard]

OOC: Let the god-mod wars begin...

Unteroffizier Alkema threw back his head manically, cackling like some sort of creature from the deepest pits of hell. The Sergeant readied his blade, the shiny steel gleaming, ready to puncture Felix’s tender pale skin at any time. He had began to whisper his last prayers as a hand grabbed a handful of his hair, just managing to grab onto the short, slicked back cut, and quite painfully too. Felix looked up and saw the Scharfuhrer’s hand wrapped around his scalp, and the other SS man quickly spat out an insult at Odegaard, which Felix realized was true as he looked at what sorry shape he was in. Small wooden splinters and dust covered his uniform from the fall, and his left sleeve was doused with beer. His hands where ruddy and bleeding from falling in the splinters, and left a bloody smear on his forehead when he rubbed it, trying in vain to relieve the painful pounding. Every person in the room, let it be one of the hideous barmaids cackling with their toothless mouths or one of the drunk soldiers, they stared at the sight and laughed at the two SS men.

Hautt released Felix, stepping between him and the dangerously intoxicated Unteroffizier. “I would not do that if I were you. Continued course of action will lead to eventual discharge, and/or execution, from my hands or someone else.” The Scharfuhrer spoke bravely and calmly, staring Alkema directly in his eyes. Felix strained to hear what the Unteroffizier said as he leaned in close to Hautt, putting his hand on his shoulder and whispering in his ear. It was a chilling sight, and Odegaard could think of nothing but how glad he was to not be in Hautt’s place. Felix watched in morbid fascination as Alkema slipped his blade into the Sergeant’s chest, twisting it, until its movement was blocked by a rib. Hautt fell to the floor, badly wounded, but could be easily patched up by a field doctor. Felix had seen them save men from much worse situations than the one Hautt was in now.

Felix shivered as Alkema turned his glare at him, approaching and saying in a slurred voice “Would you like to see how far your luck will carry you, imposter? You can take your friend here and leave without anymore trouble…or we can carry on if you wish. I, personally, would prefer the second option.” Felix said nothing as his blue eyes stared into Alkema’s, as if they where locked in a staring contest that only one could survive from. But then a young, sober private got up from the bar and approached Heiko. The Unteroffizier turned away, distracted by the private who said something about Russian weapons. Felix saw his chance to indulge Alkema in his preferred choice.

Odegaard grabbed a beer glass from a nearby table and threw it as hard as he could with his left hand, the glass shattering on the base of Alkema’s skull. A fraction of a second later Felix lunged, digging his blade into the Sergeant’s lower back. The switchblade sliced through the grey-green fabric of Alkema’s Wehrmacht tunic, entering the flesh, the very tip poking his kidney. His hand slid off of the decorated handle, letting it stay buried in the flesh, and threw a wounded Heiko against the floor of the bar, hoping the fall would inflict more damage on the man. In a fit of blind anger, he grabbed up one of the chairs and smashed it against the side of the Obergrenadier’s face, and then quickly grabbed his longish blond hair and smashed his face upon one of the posts holding up the open beam ceiling, blood leaving a smear on the post. He leaned in as close as he dared to the private and quickly whispered with a laugh “This will teach you to cut your hair more often, child.”

[Deleted]

OOC: Sorry... weird post... O.x

The room went quiet, and Hautt knew what was about to happen. The Unteroffizier leaned in close, his whisper sending a happy thrill up Hautt's spine. "Do you fear me? Why need you fear your fellow German?" Heiko said, and Friedrich went along with it, even tensing on cue. A moment later, the pain he had been expecting exploded in his ribs, the blood-crusted blade scraping bone, and with a twist sideways, sent Hautt to the floor in a pool of blood. Gasping with the exquisite pain, he blacked out for a moment, going limp. He woke a second later, in time to hear Heiko's hateful voice. "Fool, this fight is none of your business. Your threats me nothing to me or my men." It was then that Hautt smiled, coughing up a bit of blood, most of it thankfully reaching his leather uniform rather than his newly-cleaned tunic.

In the next few moments, Felix bravely sprang into action, throwing a beer glass which took Heiko by surprise, and Rottenführer sprinted foreward, stabbing the switchblade into Heiko's back, the blade staying stuck in the Unteroffizier's flesh. Odegaard shoved roughly, and Heiko went sprawling onto the floor, and next, he struck out at someone he hadn't noticed until now, a blonde-haired Obergrenadier, smashing a wobbly chair against him, doing more harm to the chair than to the actual man. Grabbing his umbrella, he used it as a support and very wobbly-like, stood up, clutching his chest, applying pressure to the gash. Smacking Felix in the back on the legs with it lightly, he spoke, his voice slightly gravelly from coughing up blood. "Jetzt jetzt, spielen Odegaard, freundlich," he said, patting the younger man on the back. "Ich beneide durchaus den jungen Mann. Wenn Sie erhalten, um mein Alter zu sein, ist Haar eine knappe Sache, und nicht einfach wiederzugewinnen," he sighed, patting the top of his head pointedly.

The whole atmosphere of the room was slowly returning to normal, and Hautt turned to Heiko, shaking his hand and unslinging his rifle. Sliding the bolt back, he reached in his pocket for a clip and slide the five rounds in, still shaking his head. Pausing for a moment, a new wave of pain wracked his body, making him wince and sit on a stool next to a table for a moment fto regain his breath. He layed the rifle on his lap, the safety off, his umbrella hooked around his arm and his package nowhere in sight. He was steadily losing blood, and he was getting tired, just wanting the days madness to end. Coughing for a moment, he motioned for Felix to cover the Unteroffizier.

After another coughing fit wracked his body, he walked over to the Obergrenadier, helping him up and dusting him off. By this point, Hautt didn't care what happened, only that the fighting end and he be able to deliver his package. Seeing his package under a table, he slowly got on his knees and picked it up, ignoring the protests of his body, straightening upright and slinging his rifle. From the sounds outside, it had stopped raining, and he could make his way back to the barracks to get patched up. A few stitches, and a roll of gauze, plus a few hours in his bunk and he would be alright, albeit more than a little sore. Silently, he walked to the tavern door and opened it, stepping outside and leaving its problems to the lunatics inside it.

Collapsing onto the damp pavement just outside the door, he paused for a minute, his breath ragged. His ribs felt as if they were on fire. Looking down, he saw the knife still stuck in his chest. "Fluch," he said cursing under his breath. He would have removed it, but that was about the worse thing he could do until he recieved prope medical attention. He was about to just walk back into the tavern and ask the young Obergrenadier to help him back, but pride kept him from it. Slowly standing up, he began his feet
shuffling in a gaiting limp, taking him very slowly in the direction of the barracks. Bah… Fall es aller," he said, drained. He had just about had all he could handle...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Translations:
"Jetzt jetzt, spielen Odegaard, freundlich,"
"Now now, Odegaard, play nicely,"

"Ich beneide durchaus den jungen Mann. Wenn Sie erhalten, um mein Alter zu sein, ist Haar eine knappe Sache, und nicht einfach wiederzugewinnen,"
"I quite envy the young man. When you get to be around my age, hair is a scarce thing, and not easy to regain,"

"Fluch,"
"Damn,"

Bah… Fall es aller,"
"Bah... hang it all,"

[Deleted]

OOC: Tick, tock! Can we finish this?

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod Post

Wow. Some fantastic posts here, guys. The thread didn't last very long, but I'll stick in a bit extra CP because of the length of the posts.

CP:
Corporal Odegaard: 9CP

SS-Scharführer Hautt: 9CP

Sergeant Alkema: 8CP

Rury: Bet ya wish ya hadn't deleted Edrien, eh?!?!


~Dan