Ich brauche eine Mediziner...[Strumfelder]

[Aksel Bavenn]

Country: Secluded forest near Czêstochowa, Poland
Current Time:09:18
Weather Conditions: A blizzard rages; snow litters the ground. It is seven degrees below freezing.

Aksel whimpered pathetically as pain engulfed his entire body. His entire form was riddled with bullets and blood was seeping through his battered tunic. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes in agony. He was dying. He was dying. The boy felt oddly calm. If he was going to die, he thought to himself through the pain, then at least let me die quickly. Please, God, let me die quickly.

An entire battallion had been slaughtered before his eyes. A lightning ambush from American forces stationed in the country had ripped Aksel's companions to shreds; blood, guts and slivers of brain stained the lily-white slow crimson. Yet Aksel was alive. And he didn't want to be. He just wanted the pain to go away.

"Armes Kind ..." murmured a voice nearby. Aksel scrambled for the pistol of a fallen comrade to defend himself from the newcomer but he was shushed by the man before him. Through the tears that blinded him, he was just aware of an SS-Officer stood over him. He forced himself not to cry. Don't show any weakness, he told himself. Don't show any weakness...

"Medic! Medic! Ich brauche eine Mediziner hier!" yelled the newcomer, dropping his rifle and kneeling down next to Aksel. The boy could just about make out a smile on the man's face.

And then he was still.

The boy opened his mouth to say something but saw that warm blood was dribbling out of the man's open mouth. His last smile etched eternally on his face, the man staggered backwards and there he lay, spread-eagled on the cold, icy floor, twitching his last.

Barely able to assess what was happening, Aksel looked up to see an American Sergeant staring at him emotionlessly. The boy tried to scream for help but all that came out of his mouth was a pathetic choking sound. The man's finger hovered over the trigger of his pistol. Aksel closed his eyes in terror. Perhaps for the last time...

Translations

Armes Kind
- Poor child...

Medic! Medic! Ich brauche eine Mediziner hier!
- Medic! Medic! I need a medic over here!

[∬: Erhard Strumfelder]

The 12.5cm shells went screaming overhead, hidden by the thick snow fall. Nine passed over the ridge, followed closely by another salvo of nine, followed by another. Even through all the grey, Strumfelder could see the blasts, fired by the guns half a mile behind. A battalion of Hitler Youths had been sent forward, into an area know to contain several hundred Americans. The butchering had highlighted their position. Strumfelder lowered his binoculars pleased with what he had achieved. Few men could survive such a battering, and now he was off to make sure they didn’t.

Around him was a small group of men, with three Opal Blitz trucks with large wheels, and a Daimler-Benz G5. The small jeep was comfortable, and could easily negotiate the rough terrain. Strumfelder stepped inside it, as his men mounted their vehicles. Sitting next to him was a driver he had been assigned, who constantly seemed to be smoking, although it didn’t seem to be tobacco… Strumfelder said nothing on the subject however. The moment his door was shut, they were moving. They rode down from the ridge and had travelled only five minutes through the wood, before Strumfelder began to spot body parts staining the snow crimson.

Thirty seconds later, he spotted the first shell crater, and charred trees around it. The bodies had been thrown further than he had expected, considering the weather. They drove on through the moonscape, and reached intact bodies, which seemed to be moving. “Halt. Strumfelder spoke. It was a moment before the driver reacted. They stopped in the snow, and the men disembarked their vehicles. There were a few child bodies dotted around, but all seemed still. The American ones didn’t. “Beenden Sie sie alle. Sogar die Jungen.”

The men set about their business, the occasional gun shot cutting through the uneasy silence. Strumfelder drew his pistol and began walking. There were few bodies completely intact. He spotted one American soldier, trying to claw away, using only his hands. Strumfelder walked up to him quietly, and using the toe of his boot, flipped the man over onto his back. The man looked slightly shocked and tried to scream, but Strumfelder stamped the heel of his boot down on the mans testicles. Although that came out was a moan of anguish. Strumfelder shot him in the head, twice. He moved on, and came across a man on his front, his helmet tipped over his head, covering his face. Strumfelder drew his knife and slit the idiot’s throat. He wouldn’t be tricked.

Two minutes later and he came across and odd scene. A German officer had fallen in the snow, his back peppered with shrapnel, but a very definite bullet wound in his neck. Strumfelder looked around and saw a pair of legs in a green uniform. The right leg was missing its foot. Looking around further, he saw the other half of the American, lying in the snow, missing his arm and apparently his skull. He must have been standing up when the shells hit. Strumfelder turned to the officer and pulled him up by the back of the uniform, but was surprised by what he saw below. There was a boy he was covering.

Strumfelder tossed the corpse aside and levelled his pistol at the boys head. Then he boy blinked.

Strumfelder hesitated for a moment, and then crouched down. The boy was a wreck, but there were no shrapnel wounds, only bullets. Maybe the fact he had been lying down had saved him. His uniform was a mass of blood, and he was sure the boy was beginning to bleed out. But he was saveable. Strumfelder sighed, and holstered his weapon.

Translations:
“Beenden Sie sie alle. Sogar die Jungen.”
~ Finish them all. Even the boys.

[Aksel Bavenn]

Aksel looked up vacantly, the icy landscape before him blurry and almost painful to his eyes. He tried to move his arm to rub his tired eyes but the pain was so severe, so utterly horrific, that he was reduced to writhing in pain and even that sudden movement sent a shot of agony screeching up his spine.

He forced himself to concentrate on not losing conscioussness; he was only too aware that if he closed his eyes, he may never open them again. The boy was faintly aware of explosions hammering around him. They could have been the stamping feet of an elephant, for all he knew, or yet nothing more than feathers drifting to the ground. And then...the sounds stopped. If only the pain would end with it, thought Aksel, gritting his teeth in determination. Think about something else. Think about something else.

Aksel's eyes began to roll into the back of his skull and he suddenly realised he had never felt so at peace. He let himself gently drift away from the blood-stained snow all around him and...it was almost as if he was flying.

And then a memory struck. Like white noise it slashed into him causing him to scream in pain and return to his surroundings. A bomb in a rural house...a sheepdog...brothers...rain. The boy rolled over to his side and vomited through the agony, the pain evidently jutting out from a cracked rib, the nub of which seemed mmilimetres away from actually poking out of the flesh.

He looked up, even breathing now a chore, and looked into the face of a newcomer. He recoiled, or at least tried to. The man was horrifically battle-scarred; one-eyed, pointed and...and...almost inhuman.

Was he in Hell? Was the man before him Lucifer himself? He knew the things he had done was bad, or at least he thought he knew, although everyone said how good he was. He had killed so many people...he felt tears prick his eyes...he just wanted to go home.

But where was home? An image flashed in his mind of a farmyard but the vision soon passed and once again, he found himself back in the frozen wasteland of the Polish battleground. He looked up at the man and began to murmur weakly.

"Werden Sie mich begraben?" he asked faintly.

Translations

Werden Sie mich begraben?
- Are you going to bury me?

[∬: Erhard Strumfelder]

The boy’s comment was all too true of what Strumfelder wanted to have happen, but something drew him to this boy. This dying wreck who dared to serve the glorious Fatherland at such a young and fragile age. Maybe it was this very act. While thousands of brave German males decided to turn their back on the great Führer, this boy was laying down his life, and making the ultimate sacrifice. Around him their were hundreds of dead boys, their bodies missing limbs and heads, some lying in three or four pieces, a few with their ribcage and vainly beating hearts exposed to the freezing elements.

The body was a mess, as mass of black torn fabric and red torn flesh. It wasn’t a nice sight, but Strumfelder had seen far worse. There were lots of bullet holes, and Strumfelder wasn’t sure if he wanted to see the many exit wounds. He could give the boy something the remove the pain, but he already looked so much in shock that would have probably have no effect. He sighed, pondering over what action to take. An operation was needed, and Strumfelder wasn’t sure what was broken and what was still intact. But if an operation was needed, they would need to evacuate him.

“Sie, Soldat, hier!” He shouted to a camouflaged figure. The soldier jogged through the snow and over. “Ja?” Strumfelder pointed to the boy. “Erreichen Sie eine Bahre. Benutzen Sie eine der Bänke von einem LKW, wenn Sie müssen, dann, ihn hier zu holen. Wir müssen diesen Jungen aus hier heraus erhalten. Haben Sie die anderen suchen nach mehr Überlebenden. Auch haben Sie die Hilfsmittelstation hinteren in alarmiert und in den Ärzten oben gesendet.” The soldier nodded and disappeared back towards the trucks. Strumfelder set about the boy.

He delved into his bag and removed a pair of gloves and a pair of scissors. He slipped the gloves on, grudgingly removing his leather ones before hand and tucking them away. He looked at the boy, who now seemed to be slipping away. Strumfelder smacked him around the face with the flat of his hand, with a loud crack. “Aufenthalt wach!” He snapped. Next he took the blades and cut through the boy’s uniform, cutting the chest and arms open, and then through the bloodstained undershirt.

There were four bullet wounds. One in the left shoulder, one in the lower right breast, one in the stomach, and one in the groin. The most threatening was the stomach, but there was little which could be done. Strumfelder removed a large dressing, and placed it over the wound, and wrapped a long bandage around it, holding it firmly in place. The bullet in the breast would be the hardest problem though. It would have most likely hit ribs, which would need removing, and may even have deflated the lung. The only way not to do terrible damage would be to put this boy under the knife. And that could only happen if that bloody stretcher hurried up!

Translations:
“Sie, Soldat, hier!”
~ You, Trooper, here!

“Erreichen Sie eine Bahre. Benutzen Sie eine der Bänke von einem LKW, wenn Sie müssen, dann, ihn hier zu holen. Wir müssen diesen Jungen aus hier heraus erhalten. Haben Sie die anderen suchen nach mehr Überlebenden. Auch haben Sie die Hilfsmittelstation hinteren in alarmiert und in den Ärzten oben gesendet.”
~ Get hold of a stretcher. Use one of the benches from a truck if you must, then bring it here. We need to get this boy out of here. Have the others search for more survivors. Also, have the Aid Station in the rear alerted and medics sent up.

“Aufenthalt wach!”
~ Stay awake!

[Aksel Bavenn]

As Aksel thrashed weakly on the snow-flecked floor, a blinding pain seared throughout his pathetically-splayed body. He felt his form being overwhelmed by agony, engulfed by a cloud of horror - and he wanted out. He couldn't see anything. The boy had always supposed that blindness dragged you into a world of black but...but all he could see was white. A blinding white light that stung his eyes and slashed at every molecule of his being.

The boy forced himself not to cry but he couldn't help another liquid trickle down his body, whether it was blood or urine, he wasn't quite sure. He breathed in and out sharply, only vaguely aware that the man was still...was still hurting him. Perhaps the whiteness was a sign that he was approaching the gates of Heaven? He would be alright in Heaven, he knew that much. From the stories his father had told him, in any case. But...what if it was all a lie? What if everything was a lie?

Suddenly, he realised he didn't want to die. He wanted to live but to live...he would have to fight again. He didn't want to fight, to put anyone in as much pain as this was putting him in. So, what choice did he have? Die...or be a killer?

A new pain rippled through his body; different to the first wave - even more horrific. It throbbed in his chest like fire...he could feel the embers licking higher...the flames closing in on him.

Suddenly, almost without thinking, he clenched his bloody hand into a fist and swang up at the man who was causing him so much pain. "Steigen Sie mir, Sie Englisch Bastard!" he roared with his last ounce of strength. He was only vaguely aware as his fist made satisfying impact before he felt his head loll to the side and he began to drift dangerously closer to unconsciousness. If he fell asleep...what if he were to never wake again?

Translations

Steigen Sie mir, Sie Englisch Bastard!
- Get off me, you English bastard!

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod Post

Evil Strum.

CP:
Aksel: 8CP

Strum: 8CP


~Dan