Tell me a story... (Open)

[Christopher J. D'Dario]

(Here's the story, come help out with the interrogation, then we go attack their base. Simple.)

It had been only a few minutes since the gunfire had died down and the echoes had faded through the streets, the shouting had been mostly replaced by laughter as men realised they hadn’t been hurt in combat but a few were still shouting as they punched and kicked the few prisoners that had been captured. Three men in dirty uniforms cowered under the blows delivered from rifle butts and boots as their guards stood over them, their pleas for mercy heard but ignored or not understood between the thuds of impact. The other soldiers were too busy looting the dead to pay attention to the beatings while others still had lit smokes hanging from their lips or fingers and stood in groups talking about what had just happened.

D’Dario stubbed out his smoke and glanced around the street. The buildings had received only a minimum amount of damage from stray rounds but the road was slick with blood and bodies, a few windows had been broken but overall the damage wasn’t bad at all. Caporale Marcellus Illuiti and Caporale Davide Jaccobi were standing together talking quickly and pointing down the street where the Americans had come from. Ulissie Borric came forward with his scoped Carcano M38 hanging from his shoulder. Ulissie was the one who had spotted the American patrol and had the ambush area already scoped out for D’Dario and the rest of Pelican Company.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” D’Dario smirked at Ulissie, the sniper had always been a suspicious person, and he was always careful, always watchful. D’Dario liked Ulissie because of those qualities and always kept him close.
“Don’t know. Do me a favour though, scout down that street and set up at the next corner or intersection, take First squad with you.” He then turned and shouted over his shoulder. “First squad! Go with Ulissie.” The men rounded themselves up and moved out as Caporale’s Illuiti and Jaccobi came towards him.
“Sir, what should we do with the prisoners?” D’Dario looked over at the three captives and sighed, they couldn’t take prisoners, but rather then executing them straight away maybe some information could be pried out of them. “Guess we better stop the boys from beating them to death.”

He dismissed the two Caporale’s to secure a perimeter and link up with Ulissie down the street and calmly walked over to the prisoners.
“Enough, enough… They may have something useful to tell us.” D’Dario didn’t speak English very well and luckily he didn’t have too. Luka D’Risso stood over one of the men with bloody boots and sweat dripping from his nose, one of the three soldiers was already dead from the beating.
“D’Risso, tell them that I have some questions for them.” Luka translated D’Dario’s words and only one of the men responded.
“You’ll get nothing out of me you fucking Nazi!” After the translation D’Dario calmly smiled and pulled his pistol from its holster, placed it against the soldiers head and pulled the trigger, blowing his ear off. He wasn’t a Nazi but D’Dario had learned from them, and some of their methods worked better then just asking politely.

He addressed the other two soldiers. “As I was saying, I have some questions.”
“If we tell you will you let us go?”
“Don’t be foolish, you know I can’t do that. But I can promise you no more beatings.”
Luka translated everything.
“Firstly, where are you based?”
The soldiers gave each other pained looks and hung their heads. They began to speak…

[William Luther]

The column of halftracks brought the undersized second company of the Thirteenth Brandenburg Battalion down the narrow Italian roads, bouncing needlessly to the discomfort of the passengers. It was a tight knit unit of men, and Leutnant Luther, a man not normally known for being warm, considered every man around him a friend. They had earned that respect by the spilling of their own blood and the blood of others for the Fatherland.

That’s not to say he was too involved in the banter, sat by the doors of his halftrack swaying with the road, a well-thumbed copy of Mein Kampf in his hand. The men around him were covered in a layer of grime, faces looking tired after a long campaign, a few eyes shut under helmets as men enjoyed the rest. The rhythmic drone of the engine was only interrupted by the occasional exchange of gunfire in the distance, but Barbarossa on the MG42 kept swivelling his weapon to cover where any ambushes may be set.

Sighing Luther closed the book, taking his helmet off momentarily to wipe his brow before turning slightly to face Unteroffizier Bruno who was attempting to refill MP40 magazines on the bumpy road. He considered starting a conversation, but thought otherwise, enjoying the silence in the vehicle.

As they started to approach a village, the convoy slowed slightly, spreading out as everybody inside the halftracks woke up, standing over the edge weapons ready. Too many German vehicles had been taken out by brief contacts like this, but it appeared there was no need to worry. An Italian army unit had already established dominance over the village. The vehicles stopped, and Luther carefully left the vehicle.

The Panther behind him had its hatch open, the commander sitting out the top enjoying the breeze. He exchanged a brief nod as Luther got, followed by Frankfurter an Italian speaker, walked over to where the sound of a handgun shot had come from. Peaked cap on, ready to return a salute, he walked over, MP40 slung across his chest and with a tall, proud bearing. He hadn’t been an officer long, but he took the responsibility well, living up to the piece of parchment hanging in his house which stated he was officially an officer and a gentleman.

An American was clasping his head where his ear used to live, and his partner had seemed to wet himself. Luther walked up behind the holder of the still smoking Beretta and smiled. This was a man who knew how to get a job done. He didn’t say anything yet, instead resting his hands upon his MP40 and giving the American a chance to talk. He met the eyes of both of them, staring in with a steely cold gaze he had perfected. It said that he was not afraid to kill them both if they did not co-operate, and he knew that the Italians would soon notice him as he held the stare, the Americans’ mouths drying as they looked back.

[Christopher J. D'Dario]

Despite the violent reaction to the Americans reply to his first question, D’Dario could actually be a very patient man. At the moment there was no rush to move ahead, the American base would not likely have heard the skirmish in the streets and he had a strong perimeter set up just in case. The looting of the bodies had been completed quickly, with everything of low value being left on the bodies to rot. He looked over at the lifeless corpses and for a moment wondered if one of them would have been more forward with information. His thoughts didn’t last long as D’Risso nodded to something behind him. D’Dario glanced over his shoulder at the approaching Germans then turned back to his captives.

“Maybe you’d rather talk to them? Hmm?” D’Risso translated and the Americans looked up at the Germans with obvious horror. They were the real Nazi’s, and D’Dario guessed that the Americans knew it. Swallowing his fear one of them found his voice.
“We’ve set up an outpost five clicks down the main road.”
Progress, good. If only it could have been made without the Germans presence. Why didn’t the Americans fear the Italians the same way, maybe it was due to the lack of the Grey uniform? In any case the information would flow now.
“What was your mission in this village?”
The soldier who had his ear blown off found his own voice again.
“Shut up idiot! Don’t tell them anything!” D’Dario smiled after the translation and happily blew the mans other ear off.
“I wonder how many appendages he’ll have left when he finally learns to cooperate?” D’Dario said as he lowered his pistol again.

The resulting screams seemed to break the final bricks of will power in the other soldier and he began to weep as he spoke.
“We came here to scout and secure the village as a potential forward base and ambush site.” It really was a little pathetic to hear his whimpering words but in the end information was information. D’Dario was about to ask another question but the weeping solider continued talking; apparently he was a little chattier now.
“We’d received information about a German unit moving through the area…” his words caught in his throat and he began to cough.

Ignoring the soldier for now D’Dario finally turned to face the German officer, he gave the proper salute.
“Sergente Christopher D’Dario, Pelican Company, 185th Parachute Regiment Nembo, at your service sir. It seems like they were expecting you sir.” D’Dario spoke very little German and D’Risso began to translate his words into German for him but stopped when the German Officers own translator did it for him. At least the man came prepared. There was something different about this officer now that D’Dario was looking at him. His uniform looked a little different to the rest of the German army, but it was something more then just the uniform and the tank and halftracks idling on the road behind him, the man himself seemed to radiate a certain kind of power. Looking at this Officer D’Dario got the same feeling he got when he looked at a bomb, sleek and smooth, yet holding enough power to level buildings.

[William Luther]

Standing tall, Leutnant Luther’s arm swung open finding its place in a military salute and holding itself their comfortably for a second before falling back down to his side. Speaking through his translator, he addressed D’Dario. “Leutnant William Luther, 13th Brandenburger Battalion. It seems as if your men stole mine of their entertainment for the afternoon, Sergente. Never mind, we shall have to see what these Americans have to tell us, and perhaps find a new way to entertain ourselves from there.” He waited a second for the translator to move the conversation along, and making a point to draw a knife with show, making sure the surviving American saw it, a cold sweat no doubt sliding down their brows. “Are there no officers with your outfit, Sergente?” He had no complaints, this Sergente seemed to get the job done, the dead Americans all around could attest to that.

He waited for an answer before turning towards the American cowering on the ground. Luther spoke English; he had learnt to do so to help communicate with Leutnant McMillan. He crouched down next to the American, and spoke softly. “Listen to me, American. You are a soldier, I am a soldier, and there is a mutual level of respect at some point. It is my job to kill you, and your job to kill me, so naturally I do not take it personally that you were here to set up an ambush, I have done that enough times against American units.” He let the words sink in, the American realising the deadly force of the man in front of him, knife still in hand.

“Now, to do my job, I require information. This is information that you shall give me. You will tell me exactly where, firstly, your company command post is, then, your battalion command post. And finally, all the information you know about your division. Now, quickly, speak. You’ve been looking at my knife here, I wish I could tell you how many throats it has slit, but I have unfortunately lost count.” Each word was said slowly and carefully, enunciating very syllable so there was no confusion with the American, whose tears continued, before he nodded.

“Please, I have a family. I’ll tell you everything I need.”

Luther nodded, pulling a map from his pocket and spreading it out, next to a compass to help the American sort himself out. A shaky hand pointed out to a clearing in the forest, choking as he said “this is all I know. Please, I’m sorry. Don’t kill me.” More tears fell, and his hands clasped before him as Luther took a graphite pencil out and drew a circle around the location. The pencil went away, as did the knife and Luther straightened himself, standing up. He turned back to the Sergente, addressing the translator again.

“Well, Sergente, do you have any more questions for our American friend? If not, I have no means of taking prisoners, so the onus is on you whether or not to take him. If not, nobody will notice another dead body around here. Now… I need to know the strength of your unit so we can organise an assault on this company.”

[Christopher J. D'Dario]

The name Brandenburger seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it. D’Dario knew he’d heard of that Battalion before but just off the top of his head it didn’t ring any major bells. Not like D’Dario was told too much about German Battalions anyway, normally he was only told who to fight and who if anyone he would be fighting with. In either case the Leutnant didn’t seem to be as arrogant as other German officers he had encountered, most of them would have been kicking D’Dario’s ass for not showing the proper ‘respect’ and saluting as soon as they had come within sight. Maybe there was at least one German in Germany who could show respect as well as receive it. As far as fun for his men, D’Dario doubted it would have been all that joyful. Judging by the time these Brandenburger’s got here and how long the fire fight had gone the Americans would have been set up to ambush them. But it was only with pure luck that the Italians had been ahead of them and had unknowingly intercepted the Americans and prevented the ambush.

He watched the knife slide slowly out of its sheath before replying to his question, the Americans would no doubt be reconsidering their allegiances at the sight of that blade.
“No sir, unfortunately this is an undersized Company, no Officer has been assigned to command yet.” Secretly D’Dario hoped no one would be assigned, he would need a few more promotions first but he wanted to have command of Pelican Company. He had worked hard to get this far, and he wouldn’t stop until he reached the top.
“These men are loyal to me however, my rank isn’t a problem for them, sir.” Not yet anyway, D’Dario had known almost all of these men for years, they had all bleed together, but new recruits wouldn’t have that same bond, they’re trained to obey the rank, regardless of the man behind it.

He watched as the Leutnant spoke to the Americans, with D’Risso translating quietly to him he was able to follow the interrogation. As D’Dario listened he watched the horror sink into the American and remembered what it felt like when he had been captured. It was a long time ago, but he remembered the fear all the same. They hadn’t broken him, he had only given his name and rank, and had eventually escaped with the help of his Regimental Commander. Still he found himself wondering what the American would be feeling, those that had captured D’Dario had been soft to a degree, they hadn’t used cruel methods to try and extract information, sure they had beat him but they never used a blade. D’Dario considered it a weakness that would eventually make them loose the war. It surprised him however to hear this, Leutnant Luther talking about respecting the American, even on some small level. It was rare to see someone admit to respecting their enemy.

A small smile crossed his lips when D’Risson translated the Americans response to the Leutnant’s words. Of course he had a family, everyone here had a family somewhere, they all had someone hoping they would come home safe and unhurt. Too bad for so many soldiers, even some if not all of those standing here, they would never see home again. D’Dario watched as the American pointed out the location of the outpost and almost marvelled at how easily the Leutnant had gotten the information. If D’Dario had been left to his own devices one of them would probably be missing a hand and the other wouldn’t be able to hear the questions being asked. He would have to remember those words; perhaps he could use them later if he found himself in another situation similar to this.

“Yes sir, I have one more question for them.”
He wouldn’t try and copy Leutnant Luther’s method of implied threats and intimidation right now, instead he would use his own method of direct questioning and punishment for failing to answer.
“How were you meant to notify your Company Command Post when you had this village secured? Do you have a radio or were you meant to send a runner?”
The American choked on his sobs but managed to sputter out an answer, in that moment D’Dario truly felt a new level of contempt for him. What made him think that becoming a solider would be a good idea? He clearly wasn’t cut out for this kind of stuff.
“We… have a radio…”
“Do you know the callsigns and codewords?”
“…Yes.”
“What are they?”
“…The base is Foxtrot-Bravo, our unit is Alfa-One… The village is Delta-Hotel-Niner-Ait…”
D’Dario smiled and called out to one of his men to find the radio and bring it too him. It was found quickly and placed in front of the American.
“D’Risso, time to use your American accent, tell them the village is secure and under control.”
While D’Risso got into character and worked the Italian accent out of his speech D’Dario returned to Leutnant Luther to answer his question about Pelican Companies strength.
“Unfortunately I have only Twenty-Four men under my command sir. Of those I have a sniper, a medic, and a machine gunner. I sent a squad and my sniper to the next intersection to keep an eye out for any more enemy forces and the rest are here.” D’Dario looked at the Leutnant’s force, the vehicles and infantry all looked quite intimidating.

D’Risso came up to him with a smile on his face.
“They believed me, the village is under American control.”
D’Dario shared the smile. “Good, execute the prisoners.”