The Plan or The Dead End?

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

Watching quietly, Sturmbannführer Wolfram couldn’t help but notice the doctor’s mean, but positive demeanour. He barely had to look at the details in the folder handed to him, before he repeated their conscripts, as if he’d memorised the target’s location, name and brief recorded history. The Sturmbannführer grinned quietly to himself, knowing it was best not to purge the matter on how he knew such details from concealed files; Files locked away in the Final Movement[/I] cabinet, safe guarded by the Gestapo and the Loyal-SS. The movement that would eradicate the filth from their homeland and the genes from their once thriving heritage of the Aryan race…

Eyeing the Doctor upfront the moment he slurred out about Ivan Petrov being a dead man, Rafael grinned deviously against the high-rise of his collar tabs, glaring towards the Doctor in a manner that suggested - “Worse than Death”. Throughout the entire car-ride, the Sturmbannführer was silent, perhaps too quiet for his own good? Something that suggested the Sturmbannführer was in a very deep track of thought, he was no longer the humble man these men once knew, but a very much deeper portrayed image of the devil. His face hardly showed a complexion of any emotion, as his eyes laid stone cold, watching the road ahead from sitting in the middle; His left hand softly moved against the outer lining of his leather coat, idly playing with one of the buttons, but he was just getting some flood flowing into his fingers - his left arm was quite numb from being left in the sling for so long, the painkillers and alcohol didn’t help reside the pain much. By now, they were wearing off.

As the VW Kubel soon reached the guarded gates of the Ghetto, it hadn’t taken long for the guard to take a peek in, with a nervous look from the chauffer, before he swindled his hand out towards a partnering guard to open the gate. It was hardly any strict restriction to enter the Ghetto, but leaving it would prove much more time costly; With the Sturmbannführer at hand, it didn’t matter much if the men had their paperwork on them or not, but before the Sturmbannführer couldn’t get any confirmation from the chauffer of the whereabouts in the hell-hole, the Senior NCO by his side clunked the door open and stepped out - a small confrontation with one of the neighbouring Jews had the Sturmbannführer glaring in distaste towards the filth in the street. Why on Earth did they even bother to house them here? They all should have been shot the day the they were declared inferior to the Aryan race.

Looking to the Sturmscharführer’s hand, he grabbed it with an almighty squeeze and leveraged himself from out of the car. It was a little awkward being one handed, so he thankful for the spare hand to help him out. “Vielen Dank Sturmscharführer. Stecken Sie durch mich, gibt nicht diese nebensächlichen angeborenen Schmutz Ihre Zeit, brauche ich Ihren Konzentration für bessere Dinge” the Sturmbannführer said with a need of the Sturmscharführer to remain calm and thoughtful upon the matter of why they were actually there - becoming side tracked now, would cost them dearly. Looking over the Sturmscharführer’s shoulder into the general direction of where their target’s home laid, the Sturmbannführer took one last brief look around, before noticing the Jew on the floor still, that the Sturmscharführer had kicked over. He was mumbling and weeping incoherently to himself, a minor slurry of a crowd lingering behind him, staring towards the well dressed Nazis stepping out of the fine polished car.

Yanking out his P38, he gritted his teeth and mercilessly shot at the Jew on the floor, that was driving his patience with the mumbling and long-winded time of trying to gather his belongings. The Jew’s head snapped back as a spatter of blood hit the legs of the men and woman lingering behind him, sending the crowd in sheers of cries as they disburse quickly, making haste in getting away. Standing there, he lowered the P38 with the faint smouldering spiral of smoke coming from out of the barrel, welling up a mouthful of saliva to spit at the corpse. Clearly, he was sending a message to the on-lookers to stay away. “Kommen Sie! Wir müssen uns befinden und müssen dieser Ivan Petrov zurückhalten” he snapped loudly to the associates who he had been so kindly to drag along, as he took a stride off into the direction of where he was sure the scumbag would be living; He had little patience now, he wanted to get this man immediately. He needed answers, he needed to strive a small piece of justice for Wolfrick…


Translations:[/b]

Vielen Dank Sturmscharführer. Stecken Sie durch mich, gibt nicht diese nebensächlichen angeborenen Schmutz Ihre Zeit, brauche ich Ihren Konzentration für bessere Dinge.
~ Thank you Sturmscharführer. Stick by me, don't give these impertinent inbred filth your time, I need your concentration for better things.

Kommen Sie! Wir müssen uns befinden und müssen dieser Ivan Petrov zurückhalten.
~ Come! We must locate and detain this Ivan Petrov.

[∬: Erhard Strumfelder]

OOC: There’s a bit of god-modding here, but we need to get this walk over with, so I hope nobody minds.

The jeep came to a sudden halt as parked up inside the Ghetto, a foul smelling place if there ever was one. An guard opened the door for the high ranking officer, while Strumfelder stepped out unaided. The cramped jeep emptied, as sparkling and clean uniforms met with grime and squalor. It was a striking contrast. The Doctor looked out over a small crowd that had gather, mostly children and women. He ignored them and looked down the street for a street name, but there was known. The place wasn’t large, so it wouldn’t take too long to find Petrov. He just hoped Petrov hadn’t seen them arrive.

A sharp crack cut through the air, and the crowd immediately began to disperse with varying levels of fear. At first, Strumfelder thought that one of the guards might have put a bullet into the air, but as he turned to look, he saw that it was none other than the Strumbannführer who was holding the smoking pistol. Such an uncalculated action was not the man’s usual way of conducting himself. Maybe he just wanted to kill something, to ease the pain. Strumfelder could understand, but not repeat the action. He stepped around the front of the jeep, and looked down at the corpse for a few seconds, before using the toe of his boot to turn it over, and block the death stare, as if a slight mark of respect towards the guards.

Strumfelder had a rough idea of where Petrov dwelled. There was a street of tenement buildings to the east of their position, and he knew which block he lived in, but not actually behind which door. He’d ask a local, that was his plan. “Auf diese Weise, Herren.” Strumfelder motioned which his armed hand, taking a few uneven steps as he fought to balance his sight. Having only one eye would take a lot of getting used to.

They walked along one busy street, but there was a bumble around the group of five men where no Jew dared step. They turned right off the street to a small side road that was much quieter, and at the far end of the road stood the three dilapidated brick tenements, there outsides stained from years of nearby factory smoke. The three blocks stood in a row, Petrov’s sandwiched between the two end ones. The group entered through a pair of wooden doubled doors, one of the which had been ripped from its hinges and rested just inside. There were originally rooms on the ground floor, but the doors had been boarded up so anyone who lived in the building had to come down the central staircase. The fifth, and top floor had also been closed off, as in many Ghetto blocks, to stop suicides.

The men ascended the staircase, pushing past two women coming the other way. The second floor had nobody around, so they kept going to till the third floor, where they found a small boy of maybe eight, compensating for malnourishment. He had sandy coloured hair, and didn’t look too far removed from Wolfrick, except for the dirt and the poor quality clothes. He clutched hold of a small fur bear close to his face, and his large grey eyes watched the men approach. Strumfelder turned to him. “Wo tut Ivan Phasen Petrov, Junge?” The boy just kept staring up at him, his eye’s slightly quizzical, light he didn’t quite understand what was being asked of him. The men really didn’t have time for this; if Petorv had even just caught a glance of them, he would be packing up and leaving. Strumfelder reached down, and plucked the boy up by the ragged sweater he wore. The boy’s face became one of a alarm, and he dropped the bear as his feet dangled in mid-air. “Wo tut Ivan Phasen Petrov, Junge?” he repeated, shaking the boy a little. The boy’s eyes welled, and Strumfelder didn’t have to look to realise the boy had just emptied his bladder. “Großes… Großes Ivan lebt… leben dort.” He pointed to a door about ten metres down the corridor. “Danke.” Strumfelder said, before tossing the boy sideways, so he crumpled at the men’s feet.




Translations:

“Auf diese Weise, Herren.”
~ This way, gentlemen.

“Wo tut Ivan Phasen Petrov, Junge?”
~ Where does Ivan Petrov live, boy?

“Großes… Großes Ivan lebt… leben dort.”
~ Big...Big Ivan lives... lives there.

[William Luther]

Luther followed along the muddy streets, in some places the filth was so thick it would suck you in. It was those times where you beat the Jews, the Slavs and any other race you cared to name to death. He was surrounded by the poor, the ill, those unable to work. He knew he was surrounded by alcoholics, homosexuals and infirm. He knew he was surrounded by those hated by the Fuhrer, the ones that had no future in Germany, save and early death, aided by overworking, starvation and the bullets of the Third Reich.

Dr Strumfelder led the group into a shabby building, the inside was shabbily lit by a single naked bulb dangling from above. Large shadows were thrown against the walls by the occupants of the room, a group of SS men that had such an air of menace about them that even from upstairs, William heard the slam of doors and the scrape of metal on metal from the latches.

Luther just nodded as the boy pointed out the door. He stepped over the crumpled form, acting as if it didn’t exist. In the Führers ideal world, he didn’t. He stopped by the side of the door and double checked the safety was off of the pistol. He smelt a terrible concoction of urine, excrement and puke coming from behind the thin wooden barrier.
He signalled for Schneider to stand on the opposite side of the door to him. He made a small hand gesture, indicating for the man to follow him in. He raised his left hand and three of the fingers and began pulling them down one by one in countdown. When the final finger descended he put a bullet into the lock.

His boot connected with the door, not just opening it but completely knocking it off of it’s dilapadated hinges. His pistol was up at eye level. He span around a small corner from the hallway. There, in front of him was Petrov, an old bolt-action rifle in his hands. The man was very slight, with several day old stubble dominating his face, long untrimmed auburn hair descended over the man’s dark brown eyes. Shock registered over his face as he saw the metal sticking in his face giving Luther the chance he needed. His left hand came away from the two-handed grip on the handgun, connecting hard with the man’s nose, crushing the cartilage and starting a stream of blood to descend the mans face. He punched again, this time with the pistol, the metal slicing at the man’s cheek and hitting him in the eye, the metal posts on top of it poking the ball causing the man to scream in pain. The main was malnourished and over worked, while the Aryan was in the peak of physical health. He easily managed to pull the rifle out of the Slav’s grip and hit him hard about the head with the butt knocking him to the floor. ”Check the other rooms!” he called while throwing the rifle away. He picked up the Jew by his shirt collar, not requiring much more effort than Strumfelder had with the boy. Luther had a definite height advantage and pushed the man against the wall so that the wind was knocked from his lungs and the soldier’s pistol was touching the side of the man’s head. ”We’ve got a very important man behind us that would like to talk to you. Now, unless you want the rest of your life to be extremely painful, I suggest you talk with him. Hmm?

Luther felt something warm and wet touch his wrist and noticed the blood seeping from the Slav’s nose. Simultaneously, he pulled his knee up and forced the man down, connecting between his legs. He dropped the man to the floor again, leaving him in a small pile. He took a proper look around the room he was in. Water was everywhere or at least what certainly looked like water. The walls were covered in various stains damp working its way upwards. The same odour had smelt outside was in here, only worse. It pricked at his nose sending a wave of distaste over the German’s body. A particularly deep puddle lay in one corner and around it laid several oxidising copper pipes. Luther leant over and picked two of them up. ”Schneider,”, he called, ”Herr Obersturmführer, would you mind calling in the Sturmbannführer? Also, if there is some sort of stove in one of the other rooms, this could be heated up if our friend here isn’t too open to talking. I know how to use one of these to inflict untold pain on a victim while keeping them alive. It really is a fun little hobby to practise on those….. Impurities”

Without taking his eyes and pistol off of the enemy, Luther walked around the room and kicked every possible weapon over to the doorway before picking up a pair of long nose pliers off of the floor. He flicked them open and shut a few times before sliding one of the arms onto his belt.

He winked at Petrov. It wasn’t a friendly “You and I share a secret” wink, but more of a “If I wanted to, I could see what colour your insides are” wink. All he knew, was that unless Rafael Z. Wolfram wanted him, the Slavic man would not be leaving the room alive. Luther allowed himself a small chuckle as he envisioned the various ways he could kill the man. There would be no investigation; the SS had a way of covering these sorts of things up.

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

OOC:

I'll post in this tomorrow (Later today by my time).
Just remain patient and calm. Very sorry for any inconvenience though, my father was in hospital again with heart complications. I'd rather be honest than beat around the bush, making you think I'm an inactive "sod".

All is well now though. I'll post as soon as I can and edit this out with the post.
- Raf

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

OOC: Haven’t typed anything in a while, this could be a good post or a bad one. Either way, I’m sorry if it’s not up to scratch of what I’m capable off. Must get to grips with my character again.


Urine, death, vomit, damp, were the minor smells of what the Sturmbannführer’s nostrils retracted too; In actual fact, it brought back strange memories, of his father’s war ridden tunic from the great war. Why the man and beloved father of his wanted to keep such a stench pile of deteriorating fabric, blew his mind completely, but after serving for a good few years in the SS, he began to realise the true meaning of savouring the memories in any form imaginable. His father had very little chance of gaining any souvenirs, the great war, as barbaric as it may have been, was quite honourable in it’s own right - stories of his father only shooting the pesky British in the feet or stomach brought back undignified thoughts of why he didn’t finish them off; But that was another era and the Sturmbannführer grimaced to the smell surrounding his every being, it made him think of his father, the one man he aspired not to be. He wouldn’t be keeping his own boots after this small journey into the ghetto, let alone a fully blown tunic that’d been desecrated in night after night of shit in narrow slit trenches, for what, fond memories? It still baffled his mind.

Being the superior officer he was, he hung back after taking lead into the general direction, allowing the other’s to take the risk of being shot first or get the blame for getting them lost, but the true reason was that the thoughts of his father was playing on his mind quietly. He couldn’t help but feel he’d lost all reasoning for the war now, he was a murderer, cheat and cunning bastard. War wasn’t fair, but from the stories he’d heard from his father, it used to be at one time or another. Playing football on the mores of no-man’s land during peace time with the enemy? Or exchanging trades during the Christmas period; When war was suddenly declared “Off for the Christmas” had Rafael truly thinking. What had he become? What was he actually apart off?

His feet beat against the cold dull grain of a staircase, silently following the familiar faces he’d grown accustom too in such a short period, but the thought of contemplating them as either brothers or errand boys soon left his cavernous mind as the imagery of a young boy sitting atop of the stairs came into view. Stiffly, Rafael stood well behind the other men accompanying him, watching silently as the young boy was questioned by Strumfelder, who squeezed out the small knowledge they required. With that, the brute NCO dragged along for the ride, took pride in making haste to the door with Strumfelder. Readying for the infiltration. Slowly, as if he was in another world, Sturmbannführer Wolfram casually pushed by Obersturmführer Schneider hanging back idly - being another officer of the rank, it was their duty to survive, they were the superiors after all right?

Sturmbannführer Wolfram’s jackboots clunked against the boarded flooring, the commotion of a gunshot and kick to the door hardly caused him to flinch. The two men soon disappeared into the room and the Sturmbannführer suddenly felt alone. A cautious neighbour peeked from out of the crack in their door, but soon closed it at the glare of a Sturmbannführer upon the landing. Standing in front of the young boy, a crooked smile passed the Sturmbannführer’s lips and he slowly held his gloved hand out to the boy, his left arm tensing up inside the black sling, as the throbbing pain reminded him of the arduous battle in Munich. “Gekommen, mit mir kommen Junge” he requested firmly, the young boy apprehensive and nervously doing as he was told by an elder. Well taught by whomever his parents may have been.

Casually and slowly, the Sturmbannführer walked into the room, the moment Obersturmführer Schneider came to the doorway in being told to call him in. The fellow officer didn’t get a moment’s breath out to affirmatively say the coast-was-clear, as the Sturmbannführer cut past into the room. The smell was putrid, but welcoming for his thoughts. Holding the young boy’s hand, Sturmbannführer Wolfram grinned broadly towards the beaten down Slav who immediately acquired widened eyes, glancing about himself quickly, completely unaware to his circumstances; Why he was needed. “Работа III в заводе боеприпасов, я буду мастером, портноем, я имею искусства! Я могу сделать вам нужно я сделать! Пожалуйста… II не делало ничего неправильно.” he spurred out in Russian, completely forgetting his track of thought in the haste of the moment, his hands cupping at his groin from the pain he was suffering, about to rephrase himself in German quickly, but found himself nervously stuttering out dry notes.

Sturmbannführer Wolfram let go of the young boy’s hand and gently edged him forwards with his free hand. His gloved fingers pushing at the young boy’s shoulder, reassuringly making him stand in front of himself, almost like a human shield to his legs. “Vor Ivan Petrov, Mitglied des slawischen Widerstands, Teil des München Aufstands ein bloßes wenigen Wochen. Du liefertest sie sogar mit Munition, nicht tatest du? So technisch, bist du die Person, die jeder tötete, das Tag… Sogar mein Sohn” Sturmbannführer Wolfram said coldly, his voice cracking a little as he felt his emotions erupt like hot callous bubbles throughout his blood. Taking one slow step back, he retrieved his nimble hand up towards his hip and un-holstered the P38 he’d used to put a Jew from out of his misery in the street a matter of ten minutes ago. Leveraging his arm up, he felt his eyes water and the Slav knelt there before the boy, gagged for breath as he yelled angrily onward to the Sturmbannführer not to shoot his son. BANG![/I] he pulled the trigger and the young boy’s skull split in two, as the scalp seemingly stripped from it’s weak infertile head, sending blood and brain matter into the Slav’s face on the opposite end.

The young body of the boy lifelessly crumpled within it’s spot, collapsing upon it’s ankles like a sinking ship. The Slav cried out angrily, trying to reach over for his boy. “Du verwendetest sogar deinen eigenen Sohn als Ausblick, um deine schmutzigen Schienen zu bedecken… Er ist gerade so schuldig, wie du bist…” the Sturmbannführer said with a slight croak to his voice, his hand trembling softly as he struggled to hold onto the P38 in his hand, lowering his arm slowly from it’s arranged view upon the once protruding skull before him. “jetzt möchte ich alles deines Widerstands wissen. Sichere Häuser, menschliche Arbeitskraft, Waffenkammer…” His voice getting firmer, as his emotions began to turn over into anger, giving him the strength to carry on.

The Slav continued to cry, ignoring anything appointed to him, yelling incoherent abusive words in a bestowed language he couldn’t quite make head nor’ tail off. “Seine Augen herausnehmen, ihn Gespräch bilden, jetzt!” he angrily ordered to anyone within the vicinity of the room willing to do the job, whilst he turned upon the hinds of his heels to walk towards the doorway again, weakly holstering his sidearm to try and find a handkerchief to cover his nostrils and mouth with; The smell beginning to make him feel quite sick, rather than fond of reminiscing about his father…


Translations:[/b]

Gekommen, mit mir kommen Junge.
~ Come, Come with me boy.


Работа III в заводе боеприпасов, я буду мастером, портноем, я имею искусства! Я могу сделать вам нужно я сделать! Пожалуйста… II не делало ничего неправильно.
~ I-I-I work in the ammunition factory, I am a craftsman, tailor, I have skills! I can do whatever you need me to do! Please... I-I have done nothing wrong.

Vor Ivan Petrov, Mitglied des slawischen Widerstands, Teil des München Aufstands ein bloßes wenigen Wochen. Du liefertest sie sogar mit Munition, nicht tatest du? So technisch, bist du die Person, die jeder tötete, das Tag… Sogar mein Sohn…

~ Ivan Petrov, member of the slav resistance, part of the Munich riot a mere few weeks ago. You even supplied them with ammunition, didn't you? So technically, you're the one who killed everyone that day... Even my son...

Du verwendetest sogar deinen eigenen Sohn als Ausblick, um deine schmutzigen Schienen zu bedecken… Er ist gerade so schuldig, wie du bist…

~ You even used your own son as a lookout to cover your dirty tracks... He's just as guilty as you are...

jetzt möchte ich alles deines Widerstands wissen. Sichere Häuser, menschliche Arbeitskraft, Waffenkammer…
~ Now I want to know everything of your resistance. Safe houses, manpower, armory...

Seine Augen herausnehmen, ihn Gespräch bilden, jetzt!
~ Take out his eyes, make him talk, now!

[∬: Erhard Strumfelder]

Strumfelder wasn’t surprised by the effectiveness of the NCO’s actions. He was quick and brutal, like any SS man should be. Violence was generally the fastest way to achieve one’s means if you were swift enough. He entered the room after the man, who made quick work of Petrov. Again, Strumfelder was not surprised by the condition of the room; it mimicked the corridor perfectly. The Strumbannführer entered next, a little boy at his hand, the same little boy who he had just smashed into the floor. The Slav, now on his knees began to plead for his life, not something Strumfelder imagined partisans to do. With a loud clunk, Wolfram used his pistol for a second time this day, and the Medic wasn’t sure at first if he had executed Petrov. But then he saw the little body hit the ground. This did shock him.

Wolfram seemed to be getting more and more tense, and less controlled. He needed to loose that alcohol from his blood, but that would take a while and Strumfelder had nothing which would speed the process up. The Strumbannführer ordered the man to be put through pain, in an attempt to yield information. Eye removal? That wasn’t as painful as it sounded, and Strumfelder itched his eye patch with the thought. But medics have all manner of tools which can pain. Strumfelder just wasn’t sure if he should opt for Sodium Pentothal instead....

He slipped the medical bag off his shoulder and checked the inside. How instruments made for good health could be quite the opposite. He placed on a pair of disposable gloves, and removed a scalpel, spinning it in his hand. A large gash in an environment such as this would mean infection and a painful death within days. But if eye removal was what the Major wanted, it be eye removal he would receive. Strumfelder wasn’t in a talkative mood, and it was obvious to the Slav what they wanted.

Tossing the blade to his other hand, Strumfelder removed his pistol from its safe home and approached Petrov slowly, observing the pitiful man. With one swift movement, he raked the pistol grip across the Slavs face, sending out a small mist of blood as he broke the nose. Petrov fell backwards, his hands moving up to his face. Strumfelder holstered the pistol, reached down and lifted the heavy man by his collar, before swinging his arm sideways, and smashing the brute into a plaster wall. He hit at full speed, then stumbled backwards slightly, still standing. This time taking Petrov by the back, he tossed him sideways into a table. The legs couldn’t bare the weight and collapsed below him. With a thud, his body hit the floor. Strumfelder moved over to him, and spun him over with the toe of his jackboot.

Petrov was clearly dazed, but hardly injured. The Medic moved his boot over the man’s throat, and leant his weight downwards, crushing the Slavs windpipe. His body began to spasm as he tried to escape it. Strumfelder just leant further. After twenty odd seconds, the Slavs resistance began to die, until he was barely twitching. Strumfelder could see that he was breathing, but only just. At least now he would be safe. He crouched down by the side of the man, and saw he chest moving slightly. Placing one hand over the Slavs left eye, he opened it slightly, then pushed the scalpel straight into the eye, which released all manner of liquid. A few seconds later, there was just a deflated sack of white, blood, and some other material. Strumfelder reached in with one hand and scraped out the cavity, throwing the contents onto the floor. He stood back up and smiled. “Das kann wieder geschehen, wenn Sie nicht erbringen möchten.”



Translation:

“Das kann wieder geschehen, wenn Sie nicht erbringen möchten.”
~ That can happen again, if you wish not to yeild.

[William Luther]

OOC: Exams….tired….posted.

Luther flinched slightly as Wolfram’s gun went off, as the small child had his life ended in the squalid and filthy room. He carried on though, standing by the door ensuring that if the Slav attempted to escape, he would fail. He slipped a knife from its sheath and casually span it in his hand as he stared at the man on the floor. Strumfelder crouched down and removed the eye. As if trying to protect Luther, the doctor’s body was blocking the view. Luther noticed, though, that for the SS treatment, the man wasn’t screaming enough. He waited for the bad Doctor to remove his knee from the patient’s windpipe before jamming his knife into the foot of the Slav. He gave a wide smile to the room before he became aware of the hammering of footsteps on the door before a brief shout. ” Armee. Öffnen Sie!”

Luther stepped into the corridor to the apartments door. ” Nicht schießen. Wir sind SS. Ich werde Ihnen mein Personalausweis-Buch unter der Tür zeigen” He reached into a pocket on his trousers and slid the book under the door frame as yells continued from the room behind him. After a few second, a reply was sent back.
” OK, Herr. Ich bin Unteroffizer Ischia. Was wollen Sie, dass wir tun?”
Luther opened the door. Two private’s and a Sergeant were toting rifles and William nodded. ” Warten Sie hier. Wenn wir getan werden, wird es ein, wahrscheinlich zwei Leichname dieses Bedürfnis das Abräumen geben. Es gab einen tragischen Unfall, der das Sondieren einschließt. Verstehen Sie?”
A grim nod was given as Luther did an about turn, closing the door as he stepped in the room. ” Hat der Vogel noch gesungen?”

Translations

Armee. Öffnen Sie![/b] – Army, open up.

Nicht schießen. Wir sind SS. Ich werde Ihnen mein Personalausweis-Buch unter der Tür zeigen - Don't fire. We're SS. I shall show you my ID book under the door

OK, Herr. Ich bin Unteroffizer Ischia. Was wollen Sie, dass wir tun? - OK, sir. I'm Sergeant Ischia. What do you want us to do?

Warten Sie hier. Wenn wir getan werden, wird es ein, wahrscheinlich zwei Leichname dieses Bedürfnis das Abräumen geben. Es gab einen tragischen Unfall, der das Sondieren einschließt. Verstehen Sie? - Wait here. When we are done, there will be one, probably two corpses that need clearing up. There was a tragic accident involving the plumbing. Understand?

Hat der Vogel noch gesungen? – Has the bird sung yet?

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod-Post

CP:
Wolfram: 13CP
Schneider: 11CP (T'will go to Jonas)
Strumfelder: 10CP
Luther: (shorter posts) 8CP

~Dan