"Room With a View of Hell!" [Kyle/Punk]

[Tristan Herman]

South side of Bohdanova Street
Sevastopol, Ukraine
July 3rd, 1942
Apartment Block 2
Floor 3, Apartment 2
1543 Hours



”Probably nothing extraordinary about him. He just sits there everytime we hunker down someplace, and watches the line. It's weird. Kinda' creeps me out.” It is hard to determine if one should consider it insulting, unsettling, or simply rude when people begin to talk about you when you're in the same room as them. Granted, Herman was that quiet, creepy guy by the window all the time. Why it was considered “odd” was a matter beyond his means of perception though.

Perhaps it was the price he paid for being intelligent enough to keep watch while everyone else was dicking around eating lunch or playing cards; this was a war zone, not their grandmother's den. As if that wasn't made obvious by the rounds constantly pattering the wall outside. One would normally have been irked by the blatant disregard for personal safety, but Tristan had taken a liking, almost sadistically, to awaiting the unfortunate accident that would befall someone so foolish as to goof off under fire.

There were at least a few in the apartment who, along with him, shared the view that they need to be on alert. The Russians, while evidently not well trained (seeing as to the fact that every last one of the lax Wehrmacht troops was still carelessly trifling away), were still a threat should they advance on the building. In such a scenario, Smile's only consolation was a shiny new Gewher 41. Granted, breach-loading was still something of a trifling pain, but the ten, semi-automatic shots would give him a significantly higher chance of survival in close quarters over his Karabiner wielding cohorts. At least, in theory.

As the buffoons on the far side of the room dithered about, the Stabsgefreiter pressed his body harder to the surface of the wall. The platoon had been holed up in this building for the past two hours, waiting for an "okay" for the higher ups to advance further into the city. Everyone was worried. Rumors were going around that the Russians were not exactly keen on letting the city fall, naturally. What worried them more was the standing order for the Russians to "fight to the last man". He'd heard tales already of entire hordes of troops advancing upon units of Wehrmacht troops, only to overwhelm them in hand-to-hand combat. Not because they had run out of ammunition, but because they didn't even have rifles.

This didn't paint a picture of an easy fight in Tristan's mind. It was beyond likely, already for him, that he would die on the Ostfront. And if he did survive, it would cost him a part of his own soul at this rate. An entire nation willing to throw their lives away to defeat him and his countrymen? Yes. He would die here, on this front. As unextraordinary as those men and his father purported.

Snapping back to reality, the shattered window before him was an ominous portal to the possible embrace of death. All the same, he would have to force himself to check every now and then for the opposition. And as much as the sane, civilian portion of his mind was telling him “no”, the soldier in him was saying “it's just about time to take a peek”.

Just like training. A quick pop up out in the open, only enough time to register movement in the courtyard below, and back down before a shot could be made off against him again. Easy, simple, done it a hundred times before.

Herman shot up on the balls of his feet, peeked quick, registered nothing, and then caught a seven-six-two with his helmet. Nigh instantly, the nineteen year old man was knocked on his back. The force from the round snapped his helmet's chinstrap clear off, and sent the metal pot tumbling across the room, while his Gewher escaped from his grip, clattering on the floor-boards. It took a few, dazed moments to realize he was still alive, and roll his head around the room to confirm the fact.

Instead of instantaneous aid, however, he was met with laughter and awe by the pigs he so despised. Chuckles of “So he's a dumbass too” echoed through the room. Smiles contemptuously blew his matted black hair from his forehead, and rolled up onto a knee, sending a glance down the line. There were a few looks of concern or sympathy present, but no one particularly intent upon risking getting shot to help him get his bearings and back on his feet; understandable, he supposed. Just another casualty waiting to happen; perhaps it was the price he paid for a year of fighting frogs and limeys.


[[I believe every unit requires an officer. Perhaps Kyle could be perched beneath one of the windows or moving through the hallway. The set up I have in mind is that there are clearly Soviet troops on the far side of the courtyard, and we wither defend or assault their position. Alternatively, a stray German shell could nick the building and send everyone down a level; just enough to keep us from being too terribly injured.

If you have something else in mind, or want me to change up the post to any degree just let me know. First time in a while I've started a thread, and the first time on this site in particular, so here goes nothin'.]]

[☠ Kyle Steinbeck]

OOC: Not entirely sure how tall the building is, but I’ll improvise and attempt not to elaborate too much on the structure of the building. Don’t want to ruin any environment details you have in mind for the thread - great post too by the way.



The wind blew elegantly and effortlessly through Anne’s long blonde hair, the soft curls unfolding and reaching outward, following the wind’s path as the cool summer’s breeze passed on by her young face. Her green eyes, inherited by her mother, glistened tantalizingly within the shimmering midday sun moving across the sky above and her soft white pale skin melted away in the sun’s light, detailing her beauty and elegance. Leaning in for a soft kiss, Kyle closed his eyes and eloped his arms around her small petite middle holding her tight, close and locked away within his masculine arms; her warm breath bathed his lips as they broke their bond momentarily, their kiss. “Ich liebe Sie”[/I] she whispered, placing her small petite hand against his chest, before travelling it up across his collarbone and resting it against his cheek. “I love you too” he responded to her whisper, smiling.

A loud gunshot echoed through the confines of the building and Oberleutnant Steinbeck inhaled sharply, un-holstering his Luger pistol and pointing it towards the empty doorway. Regaining his current senses and surroundings, he blinked several times and lowered his pistol down by his side, wetting his cold dry lips with a long lick; he’d been asleep for an hour, maybe less. He could tell by the mantle clock sitting idly on a desk at the far side of the room he was in, it was almost four o’clock now.

They were taking turns getting some rest-bite, but it didn’t help much, not many of the men could carry themselves off to sleep within the current predicament. Arousing himself from the stupor of sleep, Oberleutnant Steinbeck sat-up straight and pulled his wool greatcoat tighter around himself, the silver dimple buttons were icy to the touch and Kyle knew it was going to get even colder by nightfall. There wasn’t much they could do to gain warmth, they were somewhat pinned within their positions and lighting any means of a fire would prove costly, giving the Russians an insight to their movements and whereabouts exactly.

Rising to his feet, the Oberleutnant staggered to the doorway with a dead-leg - numbed from the cold and having laid heavily on it the past hour and walked slowly, almost gingerly, down a long narrow corridor leading to the opposite side of the building. Vainly he brushed a few specks of dirt from off his officer’s field cap and cork-screwed it down onto his skull, sweeping the loose strands of blonde hair under the hat with his leather gloved hands as he done so. Eventually reaching a doorway, he peered into the room to see several soldiers sitting against one side of the room, primarily beneath a few of the windows within the room. One of the soldiers had just rolled onto his knees, presumably having been stunned by a ricochet bullet (the one that woke him up) the Oberleutnant guessed, but looking to the soldier’s helmet rolling idly on the wooden floorboards he realised the soldier had just either lost one of his nine lives or used all his luck up.

The helmet had distinctively been shot, a clean curved indent shaped through the side of the helmet, with the strap remarkably cut clean off by the support. Looking to the bereaved soldier, Oberleutnant Steinbeck lowered his posture - glancing to the windows briefly - and moved into the room with an evident caution. “You fools, stop your laughter and help me!” Oberleutnant Steinbeck seethed with a piercing husk tone behind gritted teeth to the hyenas on the far side of the room; one of the men bounced up from his position and moved over to where the Oberleutnant was headed. Kneeling down beside the stunned soldier, Oberleutnant Steinbeck grabbed the soldier’s Gewher from off the floor and grabbed the man under his arm, whilst the helping soldier done the same on the opposite side. Dragging the man back against the wall and beneath the window, Oberleutnant Steinbeck fell down beside him and with a heavy handed demeanour, both dropped and jabbed the man’s rifle onto his abdomen with a meaningful manner. “Keep a-hold of that Stabsgefreiter” he said with an ordering tone and firm stare.

He wasn’t angry with the soldier, not one bit, everyone got shot at and he thought the man was one lucky bugger for having evaded imminent death had the shot been mere centimetres more accurate. He was however, somewhat disappointed the rest of the detail didn’t bother to help him; although he was only a Stabsgefreiter, he was one of the last ranking NCOs amongst the dwindling group. They neither respected him or cared whether he lived or died, it seemed as though their morale and comradeship was hanging in the balance now. The Oberleutnant even pondered if the men would listen much more to his own orders and commands, they were becoming unruly fast.

Looking to the soldier who’d just helped him, Oberleutnant Steinbeck nodded in thanks and watched as the soldier moved back to his original position. Staying sat next to the stunned soldier, Oberleutnant Steinbeck pulled his legs in and sniffed hard, already feeling his nose beginning to block up from the cold air. “Are you injured or hurt?” he questioned the soldier, not having noticed any apparent wounds on the man, but thought he’d ask all the same nonetheless.


OOC: Not my best post, I’m incredibly tired as I’m typing this and this is my second RP post in perhaps a year. I’m a bit rusty at the moment!

[Tristan Herman]

[[Sorry 'bout that; the building is four stories tall. And that was not a bad post, mate. Dreaming dreams of dreamy women, I see?]]



”Thank you, herr Oberleutnant,” were the first words out of Tristan's mouth; a quick, passing glance at the officer's collar conveyed this information to him. One of the few forced habits he could always thank his father for in childhood were the installation of manners and a respect for elders to his vocabulary, through threat of work or beating naturally. The army had doubly solidified this habit. So much so, that he found himself addressing civilians during leave as “herr”, “frau”, and so on.

As soon as his internals had settled, and his heart stopped skipping beats, he took the time to notice that it was, in fact, his own platoon commander, Oberleutnant Steinbeck, that had aided him with such haste. They had not formally met in the past few months he'd been in the twenty-first panzer division, but it wasn't exactly to be expected at the rate they were advancing through soviet territory; such a lacking in formal acquaintance had been common during his time in France earlier in the war.

“No, sir, I'm fine,” was Smiles' answer to the inquiry. At least, not visibly. There was a definite level injury to his pride, but nothing a well placed Russian artillery shell couldn't solve later. There is definitely something wrong with me, he concluded as to the thought. His eyes strayed down to the Gewher he so prized, checking briefly to ensure its integrity and a lack of damage, being relieved upon confirmation.

A once over of the Oberleutnant impressed the Stabsgefreiter that he was exhausted, or at the least tired, as much as anyone else. It was indeed difficult to sleep with the consistent shelling by their own batteries just a few kilometers to the north. And the roaring engines of Stukas and Messerschmitts above didn't make it any easier. Regardless, one had to find the time to sleep, lest he befall a fate worse than the incident he'd experienced moments prior.

Herman pushed himself to the wall again, tightly, and let himself fall into a bottom-down crouch, a single leg against and folded upon the ground. For a brief moment, he considered moving for his helmet, but determined that it was likely unwearable in it's present state, and, instead, turned to a corpse adjacent him to procure the cadaver's with his free right hand.

As he affixed the new helmet to his head, Tristan turned again to Oberleutnant Steinbeck.

“Stabsgefreiter Tristan Herman, herr Oberleutnant,” he quickly introduced himself whilst fiddling with the leather strap.“Everyone calls me 'Smiles” though. Anything new, sir?”

[☠ Kyle Steinbeck]

Oberleutnant Steinbeck looked to the soldier beside himself as the man seemingly done a routine check of his limbs and torso, as if he were unsure to being hurt or not, but soon conveyed a message of ‘all clear’ that he wasn’t hurt in any way, shape or form. The Oberleutnant simply nodded to the man’s response and glanced down the room to the various other soldiers poised up against the windows and walls, a couple of the soldiers on the far-end of the room weren’t even bothered by their surroundings, as they played with a deck of cards and traded cigarettes as wagers from their burrowed defensive positions below the window they were meant to be manning.

It seemed as though the men were slowly becoming lax, comfortable even and disregarding of their current duties. The Oberleutnant wouldn’t care much if they were a few miles away behind the frontline, but the Russians were simply a stone’s throw away across the street and these men acted irresponsibly on their duties. Perhaps he was to blame? He had been away from the platoon for an hour, having trying to catch some sleep or perhaps they felt inclined to sit the war out? Whatever the cause, there was no justification for their actions now and the Oberleutnant seethed with annoyance under his calm façade.

Noticing the Stabsgefreiter acquire a new helmet and speak once more to him, Oberleutnant Steinbeck quirked a look to the soldier. “Oberleutnant Steinbeck, but let’s forget the formalities --” he gestured with a hard tone, trying to sound nice, but the annoyance boiling below the surface was beginning to show. “Stabsgefreiter - Smiles, where is the platoon Unteroffizier?” he questioned, not entirely spotting the Unteroffizier amongst the motley platoon scattered both dead and alive within the apartment; before the Stabsgefreiter could reply to his own question, he noticed a body strewn face-down across the opposite end of the room with the apparent blooded collar tabs and shoulder boards to that of the Unteroffizier; the platoon’s Unteroffizier he’d left in charge before he took a rest-bite.

Dropping his head a little, he sighed heavily and corrected himself to the Stabsgefreiter. “Nein… I see the Unteroffizier” they had to do something about the Russian sharpshooter/s, he knew full well the Russians weren’t experienced nor properly trained combatants, yet someone on the opposite side of the street was making accurate rifle shots. They must have an experienced sharpshooter, sniper even and they had to try and deal with him sooner rather than later. It seemed as though the Stabsgefreiter was nearly his next victim just moments ago. Perhaps the sharpshooter was just trying to take out the chain of command? It was textbook style to do so.

“Stabsgefreiter, you’re now the platoon’s senior ranking non-commissioned officer” he stated quite clearly and a bit louder, so the other soldiers heard their commanding officer speak. The men didn’t seem to respect the Stabsgefreiter an awful lot, but he had to earn his place and the Oberleutnant was already scheming their next plan of action; the longer they sat hunkered down waiting and doing nothing, the more men they seemingly lost to Russian sharpshooters. “Stabsgefreiter - Smiles, pick two of the best shooters from the platoon. We need to do something about those Russian marksmen and I have a plan. Schnell! Hurry!” he ordered to the Stabsgefreiter.

He planned to take the men onto the roof, he’d already been up there when they first arrived, having scouted their surrounding area with the obvious height advantage point. There was a maintenance shed, elevator pulley system (another small enclosed room), air-ducts and a low profile wall (three foot roughly in height) that ran across the perimeter of the roof on all sides. They had ample cover up there and with low profiles, would easily be concealed enough to hopefully scout the enemy positions and find where the marksman were hiding - he prayed there was only one of them giving them trouble, if the enemy had various marksman zeroed in onto their position, it could prove deadly taking them all out.

In his mind, his plan was a better option than attempting to assault the enemy position or worse, sitting idle and being picked off one by one still. It was worth a shot at least and plus, he could do another recognisance scout of the area whilst he was up there; a lot of fighting was occurring in the distance and the Oberleutnant hadn’t received any word from command recently to the Axis movements or even their own orders. For all the Oberleutnant knew, they were on their own for now and had to make the best of their situation.



OOC:
Hope you don't mind me improvising some in my post. Not sure whether you wanted to do anything personally for the storyline? If you did, let me know and I can always change my post, just figured I'd get things moving a little here.

[Tristan Herman]

Whether the men liked him or not, Tristan took pride in the fact that he knew the capabilities of the men in his own squad. He made it a point to discern those who would and would not be helpful based on their mannerisms. Chiefly, how one behaved outside of combat. And if there was one thing that rang true for every marksman he'd met in the past year, it was that every last one of them had a steady hand. Almost unnaturally so at that.

Two of the men from his own squad came to mind. Not quite worthy of the title of “sniper”, but certainly shots of considerable note. One, Schutz Luitiger Steihalt, two men down from him on the right, had given himself quite the name when, late in the invasion of France, he'd taken up arms in a company shooting contest on one of the off days during the blitz. The boy had, surprisingly, dispatched a rather terrifying bottle of Chateau '39 at just over four-hundred meters. Everyone, while impressed, acknowledged that it was likely a skill non-transferable to an engagement (Luitger himself testified to it). All the same, it was a memorable feat.

The further individual, Schutz Adelhard Nacht, was slightly more impressive. He hadn't made a stunning, four-hundred meter shot like Luitger, but had performed what the company now referred to as a “two-of-spades”. Earlier in the company's advance on the ostfront, there was a brief skirmish in one of the various Soviet town scattered throughout the countryside. While Adelhard and his squad (which coincidentally included the stabsgefreiter) were setting up a base of fire along a cobble-stone wall, the Schutz took aim on a solitary soldier that was in the process of moving down his own line of defense. The schutz patiently waited, and fired just as the man passed in front of the other. A clean headshot on the man, which then continued onward to kill the other behind him. Two men with one shot. A “two of spades”. Much of the company insists that Nacht's actions were nothing short of sheer dumb luck, but it earned him enough clout to nestle up in Tristan's memories, especially considering the fact that Tristan witnessed it with his own eyes.

It was lucky, really, that Tristan had men of such a caliber at his disposal. Rather, at his command. It was an ugly thing to say "at one's disposal". The pure implication of the phrase was horrible. Not that slaughtering men en mass needed to be prettied up for anyone, but the journey to one's own demise ought to have as little stress as humanly possible.

Smiles dropped forward onto a knee, craning his neck and body to shout at either man:

“Nacht, Steihalt, with me! The rest of you, take up positions and quit dicking around!”

[☠ Kyle Steinbeck]

The Stabsgefreiter quickly made a couple of decisions upon whom could crack a good shot and would be worthwhile taking up to the roof to help scout and possibly pinch a few hairs off the Russian’s heads. In their absence however, the Oberleutnant didn’t want the rest of the group to slack even further into procrastination or false sense of security, so he took the moment to outline a few reminders for the rest of the men stationed in the apartment room. “We are heading up to the roof to see if we can’t scout the buildings up front and see what these Russian bastards are sitting so comfortably in. I want every man to be vigilant, if you hear gunfire, make the most in noting their positions and retaliate if possible. We may need your covering fire to get off the roof if they zero in on us ---” the Oberleutnant made sure he gave the men a stern look, cutting short his speech slightly prematurely as he noticed the men straighten up a little and fondle with their rifles idly. Acknowledgement enough for him to know they had listened.

Nodding to the Stabsgefreiter with a mannerism to follow, he cautiously arose into a crouched position and strode a quick gaze over his shoulder to the windowed positions, before dipping his head and scurrying quickly to the doorway with a quick patter of his jackboots against the dry and hard wooden flooring beneath his feet. Moving through the doorway, he grasped his MP40 resting against the wall in the corridor and swung the brittle leather strap over his head and onto his shoulder, priming his weapon to rest against his right hip comfortably. Casting another quick glace behind himself, he made sure the Stabsgefreiter and his chosen men were following close behind, before he ascended an old wooden staircase at the opposite end of the corridor, his feet causing the wooden steps to squeak and groan under the weight of each carefully treaded foot.

(OOC: Not sure how high the building is, but just assumed there was a couple of extra levels above us until it reached roof level)

Ascending the staircase skyward, the Oberleutnant stayed on point as they moved up another couple of levels - all of which had been successfully cleared during their garrison of the building and even manned by the odd soul within a few rooms, their bulk manpower laid below however. Eventually reaching the last strand of stairway that lead directly to a metal looking door above, Oberleutnant Steinbeck evidently slowed in his pacing up the stairs and slowly made his way to the tightly sealed door before them. Pressing his gloved hand against the centre of the door, he simultaneously lowered his posture and pushed the door open gingerly and slowly, just enough that it broke a gap two or three inches wide.

A cold gust of wind shot into the enclosed stairway and almost made the Oberleutnant lose his officer’s flat-cap from the velocity it shot through the door. Blinking a few times to clear his eyes and vision, he peered through the gap and notably recognised the roof just beyond the door. Snow had fallen upon the roof recently and the surface was covered in a thick white layer of snow. Closing the door gently, he turned to look at the three men behind him on the stairway and spoke somewhat quietly, as if he were worried the enemy could somehow hear them from across the street. “Achtung… Follow my lead and keep low, stay behind any cover possible” he ordered, trying not to show the nerves he was experiencing - he was also trying to prove a point, he was a capable leader and willing to take the lead, despite being more than capable of making someone else do it.

Pushing the door open a little further this time, Oberleutnant Steinbeck semi-crawled out of the doorway and into the snow laying just beyond. Sprawling his hands down into the snow, he supported his body down into a prone position and carefully dug his elbows into the soft, cold and wet snow, combat crawling his way along the roof and towards a large exterior ventilation system sitting on the roof. It was enough cover for all three of them to get behind and the Oberleutnant headed directly for it, his eyes scanning the surrounding buildings that towered over their smaller garrisoned building - thankfully, the enemy were on the opposite side, where structures were perhaps just as tall or smaller than their current garrisoned structure.

It took a good few minutes for the Oberleutnant to reach the large box shaped ventilation system sitting idly and approximately within the centre of the roof. Turning onto his bottom and pushing his back up against the cold icy metal of the vent-system, he grasped onto his MP40 and held it against his middle. Shivers ran down his limbs and spine, as the cold easily began to set-in. Looking over towards the others, he awaited for them to make their way to his position; he was being extra careful, but they couldn’t risk losing their heads just yet…

OOC: Not the best post, I know and I sort-off god-modded our journey to the roof, just to get things moving in the thread - hope you don't mind.

[Tristan Herman]

[[Aye, there are; I kept forgetting to mention the apartment building was four floors in my posts. Sorry. :S And don't mind the “god-modding”; we had to get up to the roof, and it's not exactly like Tristan was going to to run downstairs, out the door, and assault the Russkies single-handed. As far as I'm concerned, as long as it makes sense, it isn't really a “god-mod”. C; ]]




Clasping the freezing cold white powder as he moved across the otherwise barren rooftop (save for the air-conditioning equipment) was one of the occasions that he rued the climate of his hometown in the Bavarian province; while it did snow, it was never so bitter and foreboding as it was in Russia.

What's more was the unseasonable snow for that time of year, especially so close to the Black Sea. It seemed, as time progressed, that the very Earth was conspiring against Tristan, and the rest of the German army. Even if their assault deeper into the nation was going smoothly, Tristan could not help but bear the ominous feeling that their attempted occupation of the Russian people would go the way of Napoleon.

Trying his utmost to ignore the freezing temperature with the aid of the dark gray muffler that kept falling beneath his chin, Tristan finally shimmied up to the short wall that was riddled with pockmarks on either side; a testament to the Russian's ability to hold and retake territory. The Stabsgefreiter turned onto his back and propped his head up against the obstruction, once more checking his weapon out of paranoia that he'd one day pull the trigger to find the chamber empty.

Steinbeck seemed to be calmly and confidently preparing for any possible future engagement with the enemy. Reconnaissance had a tendency to be fatal after all. All the better the fatality landed upon their opponents.

As Luitiger and Adelhard took position, with the former using an additional piece of roof utility and the latter scooting up next to Tristan, the young man located a small hole just a meter to his left carved in the concrete face of the wall. Cautiously, Herman took the initiative and shimmied toward it. He mustered the courage, and took a glance through the portal.

Ivan was certainly going to give them a hard time. It took Tristan some moments to spot even the faintest of shadows in the uppermost floor of the three-story across the way; a single man (apparently) perched with his rifle. No scope. A floor down he spotted another sporting identical characteristics. There were inevitably more, occupying the structure like wasps in a hive.

“Herr Leutnant,” Tristan called in his loudest possible whisper, “Across the street. Third floor, fifth window from the right. Second floor, third window from the left.” He backed each indication with numeric gestures. There was the distinct feeling of his stomach packing into a tight knot as every second passed. Anxiety and tension combined proved to be something he rued rather than anticipated. While he was an adrenaline junkie at heart, the twenty-year-old still despised the build up to it, as it often implied the possibility of death. But death wasn't what scared him at the end of the day, in truth. It was the possibility of nobody remembering that he'd ever existed.

[☠ Kyle Steinbeck]

Stabsgefreiter Herman and his small detail of men ventured onto the roof soon after himself, moving longer and quicker across the plain of the roof and more abundant and direct to the roof’s short-walled perimeter trimming each side of the precarious roof-edge; the Oberleutnant admired their courage and bravery to move-up so quickly, whereas he held his distance from venturing too far to danger. Perhaps it was an officer’s instinct to hang back, watch, observe and more-so, command from a safe distance? It didn’t stop the Oberleutnant from feeling somewhat guilty in allowing the others to take all the danger of the recognisance, but sadly, this was how the chain of command worked.

Edging his body slowly to the side of the large ventilation system on the rooftop, Oberleutnant Steinbeck leaned his torso out and watched the men several feet ahead take up their positions and to begin carefully scout over the enemy position. Stabsgefreiter Herman conveyed a quick message back to himself, having spotted at least two shooters in the adjacent building; it was most definitely a start and Oberleutnant Steinbeck lowered his MP40 down by his side and against the low mound of snow that had settled against the ground, to sharply grapple his binoculars hanging about his neck and take a look ever so carefully as he arose from his position into a semi-standing stance to look over the roof’s edge and down towards the windows and openings the Stabsgefreiter had pointed out.

“One, two, three…” he murmured under his breath as he counted along the windows and down the levels of the building to the exact point in which a shooter was spotted; “there you are” he murmured once more, laying his eyes upon an idle Ruskii whom was manning his position, before spotting the second idle soldier seconds afterwards just below. As the Oberleutnant lowered his binoculars and strafed a gaze over to the Stabsgefreiter and drew a breath to what would have been his next words - ‘I see them, keep looking’ - a bullet suddenly cut straight passed the Oberleutnant’s right cheekbone and barely missed his ear altogether in the process, before sparking off the metal ventilation in front of himself with an almighty loud clang of slamming metal as sparks flew and the bullet imbedded with a large puncture hole.

Deafened in his right ear almost instantly, bleeding, stunned and quite literally knocked from off his feet in the process, Oberleutnant Steinbeck fell sideways from the shock of the bullet cutting passed his head so narrowly and hit the ground with a good thump, his body sending blooded snow skywards as his head hit the ground in the process. Dazed under the circumstances, he felt his head turn from chilling cold, to burning hot in a matter of seconds as blood poured from his cheek where a nice and neat sliced gash made by the bullet now made it’s self clearly apparent as blood oozed easily from the wound and down his face. The sheer white snow surrounding his head immediately soaked up the hot red claret blood oozing out of him and made his wound look a lot worse than it actually was; as if he were bleedding profusely with major blood loss.

Oberleutnant Steinbeck laid there for what felt like minutes, his right ear ringing incredibly loudly, stunned and shocked by what had just happened, his eyes squinting as blood ran across his face, meeting with gravity’s needs - opening his mouth to speak, shout or yell he instead winced as pain shot across one side of his face as the muscles in his cheeks seized up from the wound he’d just incurred. In frustration and anger, he yelled with an almighty roar “Arschloch!”

A second bullet zipped through the air, imploding a mound of snow feet away from the Oberleutnant’s strewn laid out body, causing him to draw his limbs in during impact. “Du Hurensohn! he yelled once more, realising the shooter was still trying to take pot-shots at him, but more so that the shooting was coming from behind their position and not ahead from the building they were actually scouting. Rolling onto his side with a forced effort, he attempted to drag himself behind whatever cover he could find, a third bullet now zipped through the air and missed completely, but the fact remained that they were still trying to shoot him! “Stabsgefreiter! Behind us!” he yelled, but the soldier most probably knew what was happening already, as their Oberleutnant dragged himself onto their side of the roof and laid behind the ventilation system on the opposite side now.

Cuffing his forearm against his cheek, he swore under his breath even more as he smeared blood up his coat-sleeve. Most of his face was now covered in his own blood, a minor wound at that, but a wound that just seemed to bleed a lot! By now the building they were scouting suddenly opened fire, bullets being exchanged by both parties, as their comrades below shot at the adjacent building in return fire. It seemed as though everything was going to hell all of a sudden and now they were pinned on the roof by a supposed lone marksman zeroed in on their position from the rear. Although the marksman was making shots on their position, he wasn’t particularly accurate…


OOC: Thought I’d get the ball rolling on this thread. Just to clarify, the lone shooter is BEHIND their position somewhere, presumably on a taller building, his not one of the soldiers in the building they’re currently scouting to their front.

[Tristan Herman]

An action that was now instinctive to him: returning fire. An action that never would be: watching one of your own get pegged. Smiles didn't see it occur per say, but he caught just enough of a glimpse to realize that the Oberleutnant had gone down. The extent of his injury was unclear immediately, until Steinbeck cried out (with palpable intent and anger): “Arschloch!” He was hit, but he'd be fine.

Nonetheless, Smiles scurried across the rooftop as the building below them began to spool up with fire. It was akin to a thousand truck engines sputtering on fuel. Cacophony and onomatopoeia in Tristan's more literary mind. A second curse from the officer's mouth was muffled as Tristan practically slid across the rooftop, slamming his body against further ventilation equipment. Before he could inquire of Steinbeck's injury, he was already crying out the man's apparent location as further rounds peppered the gravel and tar beneath their feet. Smiles was unsure as to whether the shooter was simply a bad shot, or the sudden eruption of fire had spooked him.

Moving and acting quickly, Tristan followed suit with his commander and dove across the open ground between ventilation pieces only to shack up behind a further, directly adjacent Steinbeck. A quick adjustment of his helmet, and Tristan was reminded of how much he despised wearing the damned thing. It protected his cranium from some well aimed shots (as he was very much aware), but the tradeoff in maneuverability and comfort was steep; his neck always had a crick in it after hours of peering down range.

“I am guessing you're still fit for fight-,” Tristan struggled with the concept of of calling him by his preferred name for a moment, “Kyle?” As he uttered the inquiry, a further misplaced shot ricocheted from the rooftop, missing them by a few feet. Steihalt and Nacht were already in the process of picking off (or at least attempting to) the enemy combatants in the far building.

“I know it may be tempting fate, sir, but it may be in our best interest to try and close on him! We can't very well see him from here, and, he has over-watch on us. Sooner or later, he'll get lucky!” As if to prove Tristan's point, a shot finally came within an inch of his leg, forcing him to retreat his limbs further behind the ventilation.

“Unless you have a better idea, sir!”