Hallucinations of The Third-Reich.

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

OOC: Just a small thread to get warmed up role playing again. I would only like one person to enter this thread, if that's alright with everyone... Sorry if my writing isn't great, I haven't role played in a very long time and my mind is still else where right now, but I would like to make an effort to return now, not later.


Time: 1805hrs
Weather/Conditions: Winter, partially snowing and blistering cold outside.


Slouched against a small round table neatly tucked away into an adjacent corner of the room, the Sturmbannführer idly ran a finger across the table's stained surface with ring marks from beverages and particles of salt from lunchtime meals served warm daily, almost as if he were admiring the distaste of those whom came to make such a mess of the table he was acquainted at. The Sturmbannführer waited no longer, before his idle hand merely clasped the nearby beverage upon his table, taking a swigged lashing from his diluted whisky, before clumping the heavy glass back against the table top with a thump, adding to the patterned trend of stains, marks and dents edged into the surface of the table. Mildly he murmur something from his breath as the hot whisky swiveled it's way down along his gullet, warming his stomach quite elegantly.

For the first time in a month, he began to feel his own left arm again, but the feeling was mutual towards his once tattered limb, as the scar and unusual sensation of using his nimble fingers again, only brought back the memories of what had happened in Munich. His son was long gone, a figment of what will always remain a mere memory and part of his curiosity; What if Wolfrick survived? Depressing thoughts was all that clouded the Sturmbannführer's mind now, but his judgement had only grown stronger unto' the Fatherland. The Third-Reich will prevail justice in all manners necessary, the final solution is all that mattered now...

Rubbing the back of his left hand whilst he was momentarily caught up in thought, Sturmbannführer Wolfram soon pulled out the black sling from his tunic pocket, neatly folded at the ends to make a neat little parcel look. The Doctor wanted to throw the stained piece of cloth away, but the single piece of stained cloth meant more to him than it would anyone else. His blood stained the crevices of the fabric and in some places, the musk dirt from his Panther Tank reminded him of his real children safely stored in the garages. His beloved tanks were no less than his real children now, but the eerie thought of them always being his real children begrudgingly phased through his mind - he neglected poor Wolfrick all too often, what father rarely wrote home and put their idealistic dreams before their own family? The SS had truly taken his heart.

Cuffing his wrist against the tip of his nose, he sniffed away the relishing pain of mourning for his long lost son and quietly dipped his head. No longer will he mourn after tonight and no longer will he relish his mind in the past; The Fatherland needed his strength, Wolfrick will always represent the devotion and loss he paid in respect to Germany. A worthy corse. Grabbing at his drink one last time, he quietly mumbled "Zu Ihnen Wolfrick, mein geliebter Sohn"[/i] and with no more hesitation, he plunged the whisky into his mouth with one quick swig, before placing the emptied glass against the tabletop; No longer will the death of his son be seen in vain.

Licking at his lips, Sturmbannführer Wolfram slowly arose from his seat, leaving the tattered piece of black cloth used for a sling to his injured left-arm, upon the table. Moving the emptied glass onto it, to act as a paperweight, he moved from out behind the table and shuffled in the chair behind himself. Unfolding his Officer's hat from beneath his armpit, he adjusted the tight fabric against the grain of his skull, before briskly walking towards the entrance. He'd forgotten his coat, but the thought of walking amongst the cold weather seemed prosperous for a daunting reason; As his hand out-reached to open the door, he stepped back to allow the cold wind to rustle against his eyelashes, before a young boy in the short distance outside caught his gaze. The road was desolate, dark and cold, very quiet to say the least, but straight ahead of him across the road, stood the outline of young Wolfrick - the spitting image of him.

As if he'd seen a ghost, the Sturmbannführer froze at the doorway, staring straight ahead, unable to move in any sense or way. The pale complexion taking to the officer's face as the blood drained quickly and the pupils dilated - was it really Wolfrick!?


Translation:[/b]

Zu Ihnen Wolfrick, mein geliebter Sohn
- To you Wolfrick, my beloved son.

[∬: Erhard Strumfelder]

Rain and snow. Was that all this country could offer this winter? Or any other... Strumfelder was bored beyond belief, with little to do. He did have a lot of paperwork about, most of it about a tattered platoon whose halftrack column had been hit by the French Maquis. They’d been sent back to their homeland, stunned and bruised, but otherwise unharmed. None the less, the paperwork still had to be filled in, joy of joys.

The Doctor had decided to explore the officer quarters, now he was staying in them. They had small entertainments, but he felt young and vulnerable again, being at the rock bottom of the new society. It was an odd feeling between happiness and worry. The scars on his face however scared away most who would have even come near him. He walked the pavements of the small town, trucks rumbling up and down roads, as the snow fell but failed to really settle. There were small piles forming in colder places. Strumfelder dressed in his usually tight leather trench coat, with his dark leather gloves, and shined boots. The few flakes that hit him quickly melted and found there path down the impenetrable surface.

Apparently Wolfram had returned, but it was just a rumor circling through the men, and Strumfelder wasn’t convinced. Wolfram might have sent him a memo come to think of it, but he had checked his desk a few hours ago and there was nothing there. None the less, it gave him a reason to go walk about, and he could do with some air. Most buildings right now were heat beyond belief and he hated stuffy rooms which one could hardly breathe in. He moved down the street, passing other men, a few smoking.

The thought had occurred to him that Wolfram might have stepped over a cliff, seeing how badly he had taken his sons death. Strumfelder hoped he hadn’t, he was an interesting man, a man most kept their distance from but who he’d become rather close to. Strumfelder did still feel rather responsible for Wolfrick’s death, but he doubted Wolfram knew too much about the event, and as long as it stayed that way, he was happy. He had tried to protect the boy, but it was the ultimate fault of the Gestapo who had failed to track down the Slavic group. If they had, the group’s attack might never have taken place and a few people would have been better off. But you can only crack so many heads, and even when every one is fractured, you don’t feel any better.

The quarters appeared ahead, a slightly drunk man standing outside starring into the distance, and a pair of men deep in discussion talking. As Strumfelder neared, he noticed the sling of the of the drunkard, and upon closer inspection realised the rumours were true. Wolfram stood there, looking five years past his age, as white as a sheet. Strumfelder followed his gaze, and found nothing but an empty pavement. He approached, slowly, and gently rested his hand on Wolfram’s shoulder. “ Gutenabend, alter Freund. Warum don' t gehen wir nach innen und sitzen uns hin?”

Translation:

“ Gutenabend, alter Freund. Warum don' t gehen wir nach innen und sitzen uns hin?”
~ Good evening, old friend. Why don't we go inside and sit down?

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

Stiffened by the shock and frozen by the cold, Sturmbannführer Wolfram's body etched awkwardly towards the doorframe beside himself; The daunting glare of the young boy piercing straight through his skull, the pearly blue eyes of young Wolfrick concealed by the dark night, his ash blonde hair looking nothing more than tattered grey through the fog of darkness. It couldn't be his son, yet his mind and heart yearned onwards to adjoin the youngster awaiting him a mere stone's throw away, the deathly essence of the young boy seeming no more than a conspicuous piece of reality - he must be real, his heart told him so, but his mind consciously objected, he'd witnessed the tattered corpse of Wolfrick laid before his own eyes, it couldn't be real!

Unknowingly, Sturmbannführer Wolfram's left foot draped from the concrete step, touching ever so slowly down against the next concrete slab in line, his body moving forwards quietly, as if he were amerced in a comatose dream, nothing mattered anymore, his young boy was awaiting him. Then, a figure grasped the superior officer's shoulder with a gentle squeeze, alarming him considerably, as his footing caught momentarily in mid-spin to face the male who'd approached him and dared to touch; It wasn't a pretty sight, but ironically, a calming one. The presence of Erhard Strumfelder lynched him back to reality, breaking the dream, but was it a dream!?

Standing there quietly, as if stunned by the touch made upon his shoulder, the Sturmbannführer hesitantly looked at the fellow junior officer, before suddenly strafing his gaze back off across the street, towards that empty place... Nothing stood there, nothing but a settled foot of snow and street lamp lighting the way for those lonesome souls on patrol tonight. Moistening his throat from the dryness, Sturmbannführer Wolfram was completely shocked, was he delusional now? Was he unfit for duty!? The smell of alcohol on his breath neither helped the judgement of how he was feeling, he'd lost the way completely now, yet he was trying so hard to let go. Perhaps he wasn't trying hard enough.

Slowly, he turned to look upon the fellow Unterärtzlichführer, proudly promoted after all this time. A feeling of guilt further sunk into the superior's stomach, was he neglecting his fellow comrades now? He knew just how well Erhard Strumfelder had fought within the prior months. Nothing but victories. Yet he'd been deprived of his commission for too long, he wasn't just failing himself now, but those around him; Things had to change from now on. "Strumfelder...." he murmured quietly, as if the breath in his throat couldn't carry out the words properly, a dizziness overcoming his persona ever so briefly. "Ja, Ja wollen wir ein Getränk bekommen" he said weakly again, reaching out to softly hold at the Junior Officer's arm, as he stepped back into the building softly, completely drained and demoralised by what he'd just seen - was Wolfrick calling for him? Haunting him! Why did he deserve this?

Taking a few steps inwards, he soon stopped to turn his head and look back for the fellow friend. "Promotion... Glückwünsche, Sie haben es verdient" he said stiffly, feeling awkward about not being the one to have provided the decoration himself. Turning away, he simply stepped onwards towards a nearby cabinet in the room, filled with divine bottles of substances. He'd had enough to drink already, but it seemed no quantity could dull his pain. Unhooking the catch, he opened the glass cabinet and stood there, looking at the bottles upon each of the shelves with a thousand-yard stare, the effort to even act or pretend being someone better than whom he was had completely left him; He was nothing more than a uniformed stiff upper lip. He hadn't even seen combat in many months, the lure of more menacing things had kept him preoccupied; The effort in serving justice wasn't by fighting the war effort anymore, but the final solution, it was the one true way of making a more prosperous Fatherland - a safer one.


Translations:[/b]

Ja, Ja wollen wir ein Getränk bekommen.
- Yes, Yes let's get a drink.

Promotion... Glückwünsche, Sie haben es verdient.
- Promotion... Congratulations, you've deserved it.

[∬: Erhard Strumfelder]

The official pair entered the large quarters, Strumfelder keeping a close eye on his superior. Something was seriously wrong with him, he was sluggish in his movements, he didn’t seem to really care about his appearance, and he had a tattered piece of blood soaked cloth hanging around his left arm. He did look a state.

They moved towards a drink cabinet, and Wolfram looked the bottles over, still tired, and wrapped in his thoughts. This wasn’t the Wolfram Strumfelder knew, this was a scared and wounded man, battered and bruised by life’s effects on him. Wolfram was a man who would let no one judge him badly, but now he looked like a damaged lion, crawling back to its lair.

Strumfelder wasn’t sure if Wolfram should even be allowed a drink. He didn’t smell overly sober as it was, and he looked mentally unstable. He had a dead son, for whom he wanted cold hearted revenge, yet also wanted back alive. Strumfelder had witnessed him murdering a Jew, not a bad thing, but he had gone form civil to killer in barely ten seconds. Was this man even fit for service? Maybe he should take a break, go to the Alps or to the south of France. His life didn’t seem to be in the best of shapes right now, and he was a danger unto himself.

“Schauen Sie ziemlich müde, vielleicht Sie sollten sich hinsetzen an?” Strumfelder said grimly, glancing around at sme of the rooms few seats. Wolfram couldn’t have been any more than a few years older than him, but the man was not in a good state and required some attention and TLC. He wasn’t about to give the man medical tips, that would not have been too good a thing at all, knowing the Sturmbannführer’s reputation when it came to doctors.

The medic could tell that his superior was being bothered by something, and he was sharp enough to know exactly what that was. He could understand why, but this grieving was doing more damage than good, and Wolfram need to take stock of life, or it would all fall away around him. Strumfelder was prepared to try a risky move, hitting the nail on the head, but he had reacted strongly when the subject had been tackled before so bluntly. Hopefully he was so tired it would have no effect?

“ Ihr Sohn ist toter Rafael, und der kann nicht geholfen werden, aber Sie müssen versuchen gehen und dich entspannen zu lassen. Er würde nicht Sie in den Schmerz sehen wollen.”

Translations:

“Schauen Sie ziemlich müde, vielleicht Sie sollten sich hinsetzen an?”
~ You look rather tired, maybe you should sit down?

“ Ihr Sohn ist toter Rafael, und der kann nicht geholfen werden, aber Sie müssen versuchen gehen und dich entspannen zu lassen. Er würde nicht Sie in den Schmerz sehen wollen.”
~ Your son is dead Rafael, and that cannot be helped, but you must try to let go and relax. He would not want to see you in pain.

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

OOC: It doesn't look like you understood my first post, Wolfram has had the black-sling removed, but kept it for personal sake. So he isn't wearing it, just has it folded up.


Standing idly in front of the drink's cabinet, Sturmbannführer Wolfram blew a short breath of air from between his wet lips, a shiver coursing through his spine as the thought of seeing Wolfrick haunting him appeared within his mind's eye. The young boy suffered a cruel fate, something the Sturmbannführer blamed himself for, if he hadn't of returned home, if he hadn't of offered to take young Wolfrick to the toy shop that day; Nothing would have come from the tragic event for himself or his associate officers. It would just have been another piece of bad news you only read in the paper or hear on the radio, nothing that would have included himself - a selfish thought to say the least.

As the Sturmbannführer ran his finger along a couple of the bottle tops, he listened half heartedly as the junior officer, yet experienced combatant for a medical unit, proposed a seat for the weary superior. Brushing it off, he dragged a bottle of whisky from the rack' and sluggishly turned to face the junior officer to whom opened his mouth with a very blunt slurry of words. The Sturmbannführer's eyes narrowed and his chest heaved ever so slowly, whilst his fingers coiled around the bottleneck tightly, with the whites of his fingernails glowing from the pressure against the cold glass.

Angrily, the Sturmbannführer glared at Erhard Strumfelder and spat out "Wie Sie herausfordern...", flaring his nostrils, Sturmbannführer Wolfram uncontrollably launched the bottle of whisky at the wall and hardly flinched as the spattered glass cascaded across the wooden floor in chunks. "Wer tut, denken Sie, dass Sie sind, mich erzählend, mein eigener Sohn ist tot, sich zu entspannen..." he continued angrily, feeling insulted that the junior officer confronted him with such a blunt tone; His superior of all people, regardless to the friendliness between the two.

Unable to stand there much longer, the Sturmbannführer aggressively and under the influence of drink to a degree, shoved over a nearby chair in frustration. He was in pain, he was hurting inside, but being confronted by it touched a raw nerve and the Sturmbannführer was tender to say the least. "Warum... Warum nicht Sie könnte, meinen Sohn geschützt haben, wie ich Ihnen auch erzählte!" he suddenly blurted out, glaring at the junior officer in sheer anguish, appointing the blame upon his head, but the Sturmbannführer was in no frame of mind to be speaking about the matter appropriately, with a mix of tender emotions and drink fore-playing with his restless mind; Although, it seemed the Sturmbannführer wanted the guilt to be shared...

Sniffing back the pain, he stumbled backwards and leant against the wall with his left arm, what was he doing!? He couldn't seem to let the death of his son go and nor' could he deal with it without making matters worse. Was he truly fit to be coming back right now?


Translations:[/b]

Wie Sie herausfordern...
- How dare you...

Wer tut, denken Sie, dass Sie sind, mich erzählend, mein eigener Sohn ist tot, sich zu entspannen...
- Who do you think you are, telling me my own son is dead, to relax...

Warum... Warum nicht Sie könnte, meinen Sohn geschützt haben, wie ich Ihnen auch erzählte!
- Why... Why couldn't you have protected my son, as I told you too!

[∬: Erhard Strumfelder]

Strumfelder glared at Wolfram, his one eye unblinking, attempting to control the rage this man had just placed in him. This was ridiculous. This man may have been Strumfelder’s superior, but this was crossing a line. Finally the medic could stand it no more, and his anger was released. “Sie Selbst zentrierter Bastard!” he roared, his pain and anger pouring from his mouth. “Denken Sie Sie sind die einzige Person haben verloren jemand?! Wir sind am Krieg; Leute sind getötetes tägliches. Und hinter jeder Person ist eine Familie, die den Schmerz und Leid glauben muss. Sie sind nicht allein, Sie sind nicht speziell, Sie sind eins von Million. Tägliche Leute in Ihrer Abteilung glauben den gleichen Schmerz wie Sie, aber sie kämpfen an, durch ihn. Sie dont-Umdrehung in einen slobbering Säufer, der kaum sich steuern kann. Sie sind der Meister einer Abteilung. Sie haben Verantwortlichkeiten, wie alle wir. Kampf durch ihn!”

Strumfelder stared at Wolfram, his chest slowly rising to regain his lost breath. How could Wolfram be acting like this?! He was meant to be controlled, and yet he was a complete mess of a man. What example was he setting to the men? The minute you loose someone turn to drink and forget everything life is to you? Wolfram was a figure, renowned, but he would soon loose that respect, if he hadn’t already. How could he become this?

The medic wasn’t sure how Wolfram would react, but frankly he did not care. No body spoke to Wolfram in the manner he just had. It was a slap in the face. A well needed slap in the face. This man in front of him was not who he should be or like. He might have anger and hatred tucked away inside him, but Strumfelder would get to it anyway he could. He would bleed it out. Because while it was in this man, it attacked him and destroyed him from within.

Wolfram was rightly shattered by his son’s death, but he was not alone. People were losing their brothers, fathers, sons, nephews in this war, and Wolfram seemed to think that the death of his son was above everybody else’s needs.

The medic kept eye contact, using his body language to look as threatening as possible. He was daring Wolfram to attack, like a bull in a ring. He wasn’t any fitter the Strumbannführer, but if it came down to it, he would take on Wolfram. This man needed to know where he stood in the world, and be taken down a peg or two.




Translations:
“Sie Selbst zentrierter Bastard!”
~ You self-centred bastard!

“Denken Sie Sie sind die einzige Person haben verloren jemand?! Wir sind am Krieg; Leute sind getötetes tägliches. Und hinter jeder Person ist eine Familie, die den Schmerz und Leid glauben muss. Sie sind nicht allein, Sie sind nicht speziell, Sie sind eins von Million. Tägliche Leute in Ihrer Abteilung glauben den gleichen Schmerz wie Sie, aber sie kämpfen an, durch ihn. Sie don' t-Umdrehung in einen slobbering Säufer, der kaum sich steuern kann. Sie sind der Meister einer Abteilung. Sie haben Verantwortlichkeiten, wie alle wir. Kampf durch ihn!”
~ Do you think you are the only person has lost somebody?! We are at war; people are being killed everyday. And behind each person is a family who must feel pain and grief. You are not alone, you are not special, you are one of a million. Everyday people in your division feel the same pain as you, but they fight on, through it. They don't turn into a slobbering drunkard, who can barely control himself. You are the master of a division. You have responsibilities, like all of us. Fight through it!

[Daniel Brennan]

Moderation Post


CP:

Strum: It's damn lucky you didn't get around to finishing this thread, or you probably would have been demoted... 7CP

Wolfram: 8CP


~Dan