Blunt Force Trauma to the Head

[Deleted]

With shaky hands Sanson picked up his glass of beer, swallowing several large mouthfuls before putting it back down on the table. He stared at the glass of wine he had brought with the beer. It sat in front of him in the center of the table, silent and still, it seemed to stare back at him. The images of the dream wouldn’t leave him, they kept flashing back randomly causing him to flinch and shake even more. He downed the rest of his beer and waved to a waitress, who came quickly past and collected his glass before disappearing into a back room of the pub. Sanson looked around with tired, bloodshot eyes at the other patrons. It was almost a full house, most of the people where soldiers on leave for the weekend and they seemed to be enjoying their time off. Sanson was comforted to notice their where a few Italians mingling around as well. It was a welcome change to the sea of grey uniforms that he was getting use too. He was a little discomforted by how much time he had to spend around the Germans, much preferring the company of someone who at least spoke his own language.

The waitress brought out a fresh glass of beer and placed it down in front of him.
“Sie haben genug auf Ihrer Registerkarte für eine weitere nach dieser links.” She said with a smile. Sanson nodded and waved her away. She left politely and went about collecting glasses from other tables. Sanson took a long drink of his fresh beer and stared at the wine glass. Somewhere in its depths it held the secret of his torment. His nightmares had become less frequent but when they did come they hit him like a tank, and he usually ended up like he was now. In a pub, drowning the memory of the dream, and staring at a glass of red wine trying to figure out why it haunted him so.

Sanson looked around at the other drunks in the room, one small group stood out from the rest, simply because it a group of Germans and Italians talking together. They weren’t laughing or being joyful in any way, witch gave Sanson the impression that what they where discussing was a rather serious topic. He turned back to his drink and drained some more of the bitter liquid. The foam clung to his lip and he licked it off as he resumed staring at the wine glass. One day he would find out why he had nightmares about the wine. That day would not be today though. Without warning a fight broke out at the table with the Germans and Italians, apparently the Germans thought they where twice the match for the Italians in hand to hand combat and the Italians had decided to put that boast to the test.

Sanson huddled up into his little corner and just tried to stay out of everyone’s way, the waitress and other staff where screaming for the men to stop the fight and the bar tender was trying to pull people away. In the melee a bottle was thrown into the middle of the fight, weather to aid the fight or try and break it up is unknown but the bottle didn’t hit anyone who was fighting. Instead it arced through the air and smashed on the side of Sansons head. He cried out in pain and shock and jumped to his feet, holding his head with one hand he grabbed his pistol from its holster with the other and fired off a warning shot into the ceiling. The sound of the shot cut through the noise of the fight and the pub went deathly silent. The fighters where bloodied and bruised and all had their hands out in front of them clearly in sign of surrender. There was an unspoken rule in pub fights that weapons where not to be used. Sanson was not aware of that rule. Pointing the gun at everyone Sanson made his way towards the door, ignoring everyone’s words telling him to put the gun down and calm down. Blood was flowing quite freely over the hand he had to his head, and he was in no mood to be talked down.

Once out of the pub he lowered the pistol to his side and stumbled down the street, his head hurt and his vision was blurry and he struggled to get the pistol back into its holster. He had to stop in order to concentrate enough to get it into the holster without it going off before he continued stumbling about the street. He knew there was a small military run hospital near by. He had seen it when he had been driven in and was trying to remember exactly where it was when he fell against the wall of a building. The combination of the alcohol and the blow to the head had left him feeling quite out of it, even though, he struggled to get back to his feet in order to continue in his search for help.



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[Franz Albrecht]

A thick cloud of grey smoke twirled around the lavish hotel room. Mozart's "Requiem" blasted from a corner of the suite. Slouched over in a chair in front of a window sat a half drunken Franz Albrecht. When the music would climax he would gesture wildly with his arms, flailing them about. On a table to his right sat two bottles, one was dry and the other half filled. The label on the large bottles clearly read, "Whisky." On the table top between the bottles was an ashtray filled with cigarette buts, aswell as a lit one resting on it's edge.

The SD Untersturmfuhrer wore his grey officers breaches, tall glossy black boots and a brown shirt unbuttoned at the top. Beads of sweat poured from his forehead, slowly he lifted his lit cigarette from the ashtray and brought it to his lips, taking a puff he stared off in space. With his left hand he ran his fingers through his hair for a brief moment. After the pause he crushed the lit smoke in the ashtray and lifted his glass in the air as if to propose a toast. When the song ended Franz got to his feet and stumbled across the room to change the radio station. "Something to lift the spirts is in order." he mumbled. Suddenly the sweet sound of the song "Lili Marlene" came over the airways as Franz twisted the knob on the radio.

Smiling to himself Albrecht slowly crossed the hardwood floor with bottle in hand. This song reminded him of a girl back home in Austria, Inga Bergmann, who he wished would wait for him as the girl in the song. There was only one problem with this though, Franz had not made Inga love him yet. While pondering the fact the Untersturmfuhrer paced back and fourth taking constant sips from his bottle. The song matched with the thought of Inga had lifted him from the dark mood. Drink was the only thing he could count on these days. It turned out to be the only escape from what his world had become.

Hours were spent reminiscing on passed times, usually during the night. The last trip East had really taken a toll on Franz's rest habits during the evening. If he did not drink before bed the nightmares would return. The difference between the nightmares of Franz Albrecht and anyone else was simply this, Franz's nightmares held some realities while those of others were just a dream. As Albrecht stood still in the center of the room, the phone suddenly rang. After placing the bottle on the small table the Untersturmfuhrer cleared his throat and lifted the receiver, "Albrecht." he said in a rough tone. The voice on the other end was that of a female, she spoke clearly. "Untersturmfuhrer Albrecht, a gun shot has been fired by a uniformed Italian at the local bar. The police had been notified." Franz glanced at the clock then replied, "Right, I shall head downstairs. Have my car ready at the door." The woman on the other end replied, "Heil Hitler Untersturmfuhrer."

Franz placed the receiver on the hook and dashed towards the bedroom to dress properly. A few minutes later Albrecht emerged, smartly dressed in his SD officers uniform, cap tucked under his left arm. On the way out the door Franz looked around the flat for anything he may have forgotten when suddenly he noticed his Lugar holster laying on the floor at the base of the chair.

He went to go get the gun, upon lifting the holster the pistol slid out of the open top and hit the polished wood floor with a bang. "Mein Gott, come on.." he said under his breath before grabbing the pistol and stuffing it back in the black leather holster. Gripping it in a gloved hand he exited the room shutting the door behind him. Quickly moving through the corridors Franz secured the black belt around his waist and closed the flap of his holster. The SD officer crossed the foyer of the hotel giving the desk clerks a nod. Upon exiting the building a Black Mercedes 500 waited on the street, the driver saluted and opened the rear door. Franz returned the Nazi salute, lazily lifting his arm as he slid in the back of the vehicle.

The driver shut the rear door and took his place in the front. "To the bar sir?" he said while pulling away from the Hotels entrance. "That right, move it." Franz replied. After ensuring the driver was not looking Albrecht slid a silver flask from inside his jacket and unscrewed the top. He lowered his head till it was out of view, Franz drank from the small container before replacing the cap. After a few minutes of driving the SD officer looked from his window to see a uniformed man passed out next to a wall, "HALT" he yelled. The SS driver locked up the brakes causing the Mercedes to screech to a halt, the driver then shifted into reverse sending the black car crusing backwards. After stopping Franz opened his own door, stepping out into the night air. Slowly he approached the man who lay still before him, Franz signaled to the driver to keep the car running. The man appeared to be conscious but wounded. He was wearing a uniform that was not familiar to Franz, "Sir, are you alright?", Albrecht rested a hand on his own holster as he spoke.

[Deleted]

The wine, the damn wine! Why did it affect him so? Even as he was lying against the wall, struggling to get up the images of his nightmare swirled in his mind. The long graveyard full of wineglass tombstones, the red liquid bubbling up through the shaft of the glass before overflowing the lip an pouring out onto the dry grass. Puddles growing larger and larger until they began to slither like a liquid snake towards him. Hands reaching out to grab at him before a massive wine barrel rolled over them and exploded.

He took his hand from his head and pushed against the wall, still trying to get up, his head was hanging from his neck as if it wanted to roll off, free from the burden of having a body. He looked up and saw his bloody hand on the wall, and for a second thought that the wine was trying to force its way into his skin, he dropped back down and tried to wipe the wine off but only managed to spread it.

In the lights of a car fell over him and he could see that it wasn’t wine that was trying to get into him, it was blood that was flowing out of him. He shook his head to try and clear it but the movement caused pain to stab into his brain, and he slumped against the wall, unmoving as he waited for the pain to subside enough for him to try and get up again. It was a strange pain; it seemed to cut so deep into him that he could even hear his skin screeching at him. Why did it sound like tires though?

What seemed like a roar followed soon after and Sanson tried to look over to the road. Was someone coming? Had someone seen him and where they about to rescue him? Could he be that lucky? A voice cut through the pain in his head and Sanson grabbed at it like it was a lifeline to a drowning sailor. As the words slowly sunk into his mind he realised they were spoken in German. Sanson was good at speaking German, thankfully. He had met many other officers who couldn’t speak a word of it. Sanson could understand enlisted men not speaking German, but Officers should learn the language, if only to know when to shut up and keep their heads down while the Germans were running about shouting at things.

What a funny thought, the Germans shouting at things, Sanson let out a small, painful chuckle as the image of an angry German shouting at a table passed through his mind. Weird. He fought to bring his mind back to what was happening, what his situation was. Well that easy, he was lying in the street, bleeding from the forehead with some German asking him if he was all right. Of course he was, he was having the time of his life. Wait, no he wasn’t, he was hurt.

Sanson tried to speak, but it came out in a mumble, he shook his head and started again.”I think I’m in trouble.” He managed to say in Italian, but then remembered that he was speaking to a German, who probably didn’t know the language. He had yet to meet a German who did. He repeated his words in German before turning his head, showing his blood-coated face to the man standing over him. He peered up through his blood at the man; the first thing he noticed was the grey uniform of the Sicherheitsdienst, the second thing he saw was the SD officers hand on his holstered pistol.

Panic rushed through him; he had heard stories of the SD, how they arrested people seemingly at random and how those people seemed to just disappear. Maybe Sanson really was in trouble, maybe he shouldn’t have fired that shot into the roof of the pub, and maybe this SD officer in front of him was here to black bag him and remove him from the world. Sanson tried to reach for his gun, if he was about to vanish he wanted to go out fighting, but he was so disoriented that while he thought he was grabbing for his holster he actually looked like he was trying to reach out for help.

After a few attempts to find his holster he gave up, at least his head would stop hurting once they put a bullet in it. But something flagged his attention. The mans words, the way he’d said them. He didn’t notice before but they tumbled through his brain some more and he realised that they weren’t threatening words, nor were they said harshly. Could a man who specialised in death and violence actually be offering him help?

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The following CP has been issued:

Cleto - 4

Albrecht - 2

-JT