Cat and Mouse [Schell, closed]

[Deleted]

"We're approaching our destination, sir." SS-Scharfuehrer Friedrich Hautt rubbed his eyes and closed the folder on his lap, bouncing in his seat as a pothole was struck. He was in the right rear passenger seat of a VW Schwimmwagen on his way to arrest a Jew partisan. Four BMW R 75 motorcycles lead the way, his escort for the mission.

How it happened was a bit of a blur. He had been at morning mess when he was interrupted and ordered outside by men obviously belonging to the local Geheimestaatspolizei. He had been taken to a police station, where he was placed in an empty room and left scratching his head for hours on end.

He wondered if he was going to be shot. Interrogation was probable, and equally undesired. After a long wait, he was given a briefing on his situation. The Gestapo needed him, a man with both hard combat experience from his time in the Waffen-SS, and skill in hunting Jews, which he learned in his time with the Sicherheitsdienst.

A German Jew was believed to be hiding out in a farmhouse in the nearby countryside. Possibly armed, he was to be taken to the Gestapo if possible and killed if not. Taken behind the station, Hautt was introduced to his command.

They were a mixed lot, and equally disgruntled at having been 'enlisted' by the Gestapo. Three men were SS, taken from a 4th SS recon platoon for their experience in anti-partisan warfare. They brought with them four rifles, one for Hautt, and their Schwimmwagen, armed with an MG 34.

The rest were Army, reservists by their appearance. Eight riflemen, four motorcycles, and two MG 34s. They brought with them an obvious dislike of the SS. Hautt disliked them, so the feeling was mutual.

With little choice in his command, their armament, and their transport, it was a shitty situation. Hautt would have a few hours to go over a small police file though, so he applied himself to it as soon as they left. It wasn't much to go on. A name, a grainy picture, and a short paragraph on past history. He had apparently had a run-in with Franz Albrecht, a man Hautt had come to know during the Heydrich affair. He had memorized the photograph, and was going over the paragraph for the third time when they reached their destination.

The farmhouse was a small one-story building that appeared, by the ground-level windows, to have a basement. The farm itself wasn't much, maybe six acres, but it was well-tended suggesting plentiful labor. Also visible from the road was a small tool shack beside the house, and a barn in ill-repair. A tractor could be seen through the open doors, unused due to petrol shortages. Hautt could not see any animals, making him wonder how the farmer plowed his field. There were numerous other farms nearby.

Pulling in slowly, their engines announced their arrival more than the cloud of dust that followed them. Facing the house, Hautt climbed out of the Volkswagen, stretching his legs and grabbing his rifle as the men joined him. "Alright, time to work, gents," he announced with a grimace, his legs asleep due to the cramped ride. "I want two of you Army boys to guard with the vehicles. Keep near your MGs. You six walk the grounds and search for any sign of this rat."

He motioned the SS men closer. "You three are taking the house. Check each room while I speak to the farmer." Hautt started walking toward the front door. "Everyone, move aggressive and be thorough. We'll be back in time for a keg!" With that, he walked up to the door an knoecked, the Army lads already raiding the toolshed and tearing up the flower beds...

[Aaron Hroda Schellenburg]

The crisp winter frost chilled the abandoned farmhouse, tracing every known corner with its unforgiving chill, a texture that was familiar to the young man yet so distant. It has been a good few months since he and his French Resistance partner, Jean-Luc, had daringly settled beyond the Germanic border. Indeed it was a foolish prose, for both men were neither of Aryan crimson nor under the pledge of the nation’s God- but so far they have gained a friendly foot with the nearby village members that held a similar taste in on their tongues.

”Aaron, you must keep going if one of us falls…”

The last remnants of his partner’s voice traced his memory, the last he had seen his face was months ago; there was a bitter emotion that trailed separation, but if the angels permit they would find each other once more; something that the young German-Jew prayed for with many souls, but the grotesque talons of war ripped through their flesh and took their heartbeats. But that was warfare, that was the gamble of life, and so far fate has been dealt in his favor despite the crushing odds. Alone the young Partisan sat, using his switchblade to cut through thin wire, wrapping the end on the SIP Grenade. Wisps of white nicotine trailed from the burning stick dangling from in between his cracking lips, with the constant pulls of relentless witch hunts, a good deal of toxins have invaded Aaron’s gaunt frame, but not that he would give the decision a second thought, the only gear that was turning was survival.

Once he completed his trap, with careful movements, he created the trip wire at the front door and rear door. Both grenades were angled carefully to insure the glass to shatter upon impact on the dusty ground. Luckily with the helpful words of the nearby farmers, they notified his ears that lately the Gestapo has upped their motivation to eliminate all “undesirables”- well it was only a matter of time until these men would make their move to his front door. Aaron made his movements inside the home, packing his lighter, a small metal case, and a box of Chesterfields on his pants pockets. His footsteps made their way down into the dingy cellar, grasping needed sunlight and air with the opening of the creaking door. With a comfortable pace, he made his way over to Herr Acker’s farm home.

” Ich möchte den vielen Dank, dass sie mir zu verbergen Das Fluchtauto und Waffen hier.”
”I would like the thank you for allowing me to hide the getaway car and weapons here.”

Aaron spoke with as much warmth the he could muster, not that ice corrupted his veins, but with the constant fatigue and anxiety the wrecked his being it was rather difficult to remain too optimistic.

” Ah nicht danken es mir, ich bin einfach nur krank diese verdammten Nazis zerstören das Land. Sie sind eine sehr mutige Seele, ich wünsche das beste.”
” Ah don't thank me, I am just sick of these damned Nazi's destroying the country. You are a very brave soul, I do wish for the best.”

A hearty laugh bellowed from Herr Acker, something that was a first since Aaron had the pleasure of meeting him through his partner. A small smile was returned from Aaron’s lips, he gave the older man a solid hug before reaching in one of his pockets, pulling out a metal case. With a serious tone etched on his features, his deep browns met the aged blues of his ally.

” Ich brauche keine von diesen, sollten Sie sich eines ist, was es ist ... Wenn diese nicht schießen Sie zuerst, lassen Sie nicht zu, dass sie dich fangen.”
” I have no need of these, remember one is what it takes... If that don't shoot you first, don't let them capture you.”

For a moment, the older man held a questioning look but as he grasped the metal in his rough hands an understanding flowed in his thoughts.

” Wenn ich es richtig verstanden habe, und Sie brauchen sich keine Sorgen sich junge müssen sie nicht.”
” I understand, and don't worry yourself boy they won't.”

A smile was painted on his thin skin, as he placed his aged yet firm hands on Aaron’s shoulders. It was rather reassuring that the farmer was not fearful of the stare of death. With a nod Aaron made his way to a large crate nestled in the corner of the kitchen. He opened the lid, exposing a fraction of the stashed weapons in the home, with careful hands and brisk movements, Aaron pulled out a stolen StG 45 from a last raid at the chateau. He handed over the weapon, before pulling out a Lee-Enfield bolt action for himself.

” Sie wachen.”
”Keep watch.”

With a nod, Herr Acker got into his position outside on his porch, resting himself in his homemade rocking chair, watching the noisy dust cloud approach the former residence of the German-Jew some moments ago. A good number of SS and riflemen surrounded the home and began a hostile search, it was difficult to actually pinpoint what they were doing, but it was close enough to notice that they surrounded the perimeter. Acker just sat in his chair, rocking calmly watching and waiting. Aaron made his way throughout the home, finding the hidden spots where the rest of the stashed weaponry were, keeping hidden until the moment called for him to attack.

---

ooc: sorry for the late reply and the rushed ending, but i set it up where they can do their thing, i hope it is alright.

[Deleted]

Hautt knocked again impatiently. "Excuse me sir, but why don't you just walk inside?" asked the man to Hautt's left, a young SS-Sturmmann. Hautt turned his head to face the boy, studying him for the first time. "Because, Lance Corporal, I find it descpicably rude to enter without permission. You don't want me to find you despise you, do you?" When the man did not answer, Hautt nodded. "I didn't think so. Walking in uninvited, it's such an... Army thing,"
he muttered as he shook his head. He was about to knock once more when a muffled explosion rang from the rear of the house, shaking the windows. There were cries from the rear of the house, and Hautt smiled joylessly.

"Right on cue. Those Army boys sure know how to find them," he laughed, as the SS men shared panicked looks. "Now we may enter... Ah! No no," he chided the Sturmmann, who was reaching for the door knob. Hautt wagged his finger. "Didn't you just hear the welcome mat being unrolled? We enter through the back." They walked around to the rear as two men rushed from the tool shed toward the cries. 'Shit, It's Zoll!' 'Zollenkopf's down!' they yelled as Hautt turned the corner, reaching the rear of the house where five cyclists crowded a bloody sixth.

They obviously had dragged him from the detonation site, as evidenced by blood-stained drag marks in the grass. They attempted to treat the man as Hautt investigated the rear of the house. The splintered wooden door was lying flat, blown of its hinges by the device. The grass outside was sprinkled with jagged pieces of glass, apparently devised to cause extensive secondary wounds.

'We've got to stop the bleeding!' 'Hahn, hand me your water!' 'Put some pressure on it!' the Recon men jabbered, as Hautt cautiously stepped inside, his boots crunching on glass and wood. There was something forsaken about the old farmhouse. It had not been inhabited by reputable folk for some time. The fireplace was cold, the funiture dusty. This is not his nest, Hautt guessed, disappointed. There was a lingering smell in the air, which Hautt took a moment to analyze. Cigarette smoke. Recent, too. How disgusting.

"Lance Corporal! he shouted. "Sir?" "Tell them to put the wounded man in one of the unarmed motorcycles. I want someone to take him back to town." The SS-Sturmmann nodded, turning to leave. "Wait," Hautt stopped him, having an idea. "Tell the driver that I want him to contact my company in the 3rd. Give them our location and tell them I want a platoon of combat engineers, flamethrowers if possible."

Hautt took a last look at the interior of the abandoned farmhouse before returning to the rear. He wouldn't be searching the building when there was a chance of getting his balls blown off. A motorcycle started, and two cyclists returned in blood-stained uniforms. Hautt called everyone to gather by him, and the men shuffled before him, their faces white.

I don't have to convince any of you that this is already turning out to be quite the clusterfuck," he started, a few men nodding in agreement. "I've sent a request for combat engineers to join us and if we're lucky, they'll be here before nightfall. If your friend survives the ride he'll be taken to a field hospital and treated." He gesturing at the shattered rear of the house. "We know from our warm welcome that our arrival was antiipated. This... Jew... terrorist, has already shown that he has skill when dealing with explosives. We know now that he was here, and is likely nearby." He looked at each man in turn. "Perhaps even watching us right now."

Hautt took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before giving the bad news. "Waiting for the engineers is not an option. I wish it were, but by the time they arrive our prey would be long gone. We can not allow this terrorist to escape." He gestured at the nearby farmhouses. "We don't have the time or manpower to search every building, and I don't think we were sent out here for the purpose of tripping booby traps."

"Someone is harboring this fugitive, and it is our job to weed them out. We are going to question everyone within sight of this and nearby farms. Pull up and order the evacuation of one house at a time. I do the questioning with my SS-Polizei colleagues while you boys stick to your guns and watch for trouble. If you see any, shoot it dead. Is that clear?" After a resounding affirmation, he pointed at the nearest residence.

"We start there. I want good spacing between vehicles. Let's go!" Hautt climbed into the rear of the Schwimmwagen, reaching between his feet for an ammo box there. Hoisting it over the seat to the man in front of him, Hautt tapped him on the shoulder. "Ready your MG, Obergrenadier! We're going to find out what that old bastard knows!" Hautt cried, referring to the old geezer rocking on his front porch.

They pushed through a half-rotted fence into a field, and the Obergrenadier shouted that his MG was ready as the crossed the field towards the old man, their vehicles spaced ten meters apart. Rifle held upright between his knees, Hautt watched intently as they neared the house, 80 meters away. The hunt had finally started.

[Aaron Hroda Schellenburg]

The rumble from the adjacent abandonment only spoke of one thing: one of his traps had detonated. Just the thought of whoever was foolish enough to wander precariously through the bleak abandonment was beyond him, but nonetheless Aaron hoped that the blast and debris took out a number- more realistically one. A slight smile prayed upon his cracked lips for a second, before his mind traced over the thread of situation after situation. It was like a web, a spiraling chain of events- each had an endpoint, whether his brown eyes could dine on another sunrise beyond the gunpower haze, or his would be consumed; for some bizarre reason Aaron accepted either fate, allowing the skeleton hand to brush against his flesh once or twice, yet held the urge to live and breathe once more.

With a sigh, the German-Jew rested his bolt action against the wall, watching from a dusty attic window the tiny swarms of Nazi flies tend to the downed man. Flies that is how they appeared, Aaron truly did not care about the rankings anymore, they all were a blended heap of grey and black- blind machines that held one vendetta. In the beginning, his youthful mind cared about how high the ladder was, which slot each SS junkie fell into but as time wore on and the people he cared about either fell by the bullet or went awol, his mindset shifted focusing on the gear of survival than trivial facts. Since the disappearance of Jean-Luc the SOE’s backed away from the German, finding other “meaningful” moles that would carry on their weight. And now, Aaron is dancing around in enemy territory, reeling for an escape to wherever the wind drops him at next, but now- actually getting out of this situation with his heartbeat still in his palms was on his mind. Without any utterance of any word, he turned away from the sunlight, resting himself beyond view next to his Lee-Enfield.

Multiple shots jolted Aaron from his slumber; he blinked his tired eyes a few times to compromise for his shifty vision. Once his sight was sharp, he tilted his head above a little bit- ’late afternoon’ he thought to himself. The hours of how long he was out cold was unknown, and also the cause and effect of the multiple shots but he knew that those men broke the silence. Aaron gripped his gun, switching the safety off, waiting for the right moment to pull the cold trigger, but for the moment his ears perked searching for any giveaway sounds and noises.

” Suchen Sie für das verdammte Ratte, Sie brauchen sich keine Sorgen um Schlimmeres erlebt ihn auf.”
“Search for the damn rat, don't worry about roughing him up.”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed a bit, he heard heavy footfalls directly below him and various breaking objects. After a few moments the footsteps became louder, how many where there? Ten… eight… five… it was difficult to tell, but he would soon find out. Like clockwork, the footsteps had reached the door, some noise and give as the voices decided on who would partake in the unknown first. It would have been a comical moment, if only there were less weaponry involved. Of course Aaron left the door unlocked to catch the vermin off guard, but to also give himself an easier escape, which prompted one of the men outside to laugh a bit and drop his guard. As soon as Aaron saw his cheesy face he planted a couple of bullets in his head, causing a trembling reflex for the two accomplices to fumble at their lazy weapons attempting to pop off a few rounds. A few metal bullets grazed Aaron’s flesh, bruising the wall behind him. He shuffled quickly, pulling the trigger causing one to catch a few bullets to the shin. Cries of agony resounded, and the third one lost his focus for a moment; before he could retrace his eye contact, a bullet caught his chest, piercing through the beating organ beneath.

’Only three’… Aaron breathed under his jittery lungs and blood. Silence blanketed the tiny attic room for a moment, but this was the calm before the storm.

[Deleted]

ooc: the long-awaited reply, lol!

The old man did not put up much of a fight. While admittedly surprised at the sudden spray of bullets aimed at his head, Hautt was more surprised at the speed with which it had ended. The young SS man in the seat next to him had taken a bullet in the head, accompanied by a wet popping sound, his brains spread over the rear like confetti. A cry of alarm escaped Hautt's lips before he ordered fire to be returned.

And then it was over.

Brushing bits of skull and scalp off his uniform, he dismounted and took cover with the driver as two cyclists crept cautiously on to the porch. "Well?" he shouted to them as they stood up and waved him in. "One down! He's disarmed." Motioning the driver to follow, Hautt eyed the windows as he ran to the porch. The old man was down alright. A quick burst from a motorcycle MG had taken him below the waist, shredding his legs and shattering a kneecap. Hautt laughed at the sight, unsympathetic to the man's plight. He considered ordering someone to staunch the bleeding, but poked the wounds with his booted foot instead.

Looking up at the house, Hautt wished he had a flamethrower. Fire was a fascination of his. He had shot, strangled, and stabbed dozens of Jews personally. He had hanged them, gassed them, and decapitated them. At his hands, Jews had been crushed into paste, drowned in swamps, and used for grenade practice. For all his experience in the art of exterminating filth, he had never once used fire.

Sighing wistfully, he gestured at the house. "You might as well search the place for anything valuable," he said diffidently. Three soldiers unslung their rifles and moved cautiously into the darkness of the house. Hautt could hear their boots scraping and shuffling, and items of nonvalue being thrown aside in search for something more precious.

Walking to the Schwimmwagen, Hautt opened the door and pulled the dead SS trooper from the seat. As he hit the ground, more brains spilled from his head, staining Hautt's emaculately-polished boots with gore. He was not going to share a vehicle with a dead body, particularly one so messy as that.

He had just climbed into position behind the MG when the first shots were fired. His head jerking upright, Hautt hesitated only a few seconds before pulling the MG's charging hammer. The buttstock familiar on his shoulder, he took aim at the top floor as more firing sounded from within. "On your MGs, fast!" he barked, motioning Army soldiers away from the building with his left hand before squeezing the trigger.

He had a 250-round box feeding ammunition to his MG, and three more on the seat next to him. Each motorcycle MG had 500 rounds. Two thousand rounds in total was plenty of ammunition to turn the house into sawdust.

The MG34 fired between eight- and nine-hundred rounds per minute. Even with brief pauses in firing, it took less than thirty seconds for the three MGs to send seven-hundred and fifty bullets through the house. The old man, already bleeding to death, and ripped apart by stray bullets. The noise was deafening, and Hautt heard the world through severely muffled ears as an SS soldier climbed into the seat next to him, acting as assistant gunner and helping him load the second belt.

Motioning the MGs to hold fire, Hautt realized suddenly that he had opened fire with troops still inside the building. Not something the Army smiled on but then again, who cared what the Army thought? Shrugging it off, Hautt called to the house, his finger ready on the trigger.

"Jew! You have no chance, no possibility of escape. Surrender now or we will eliminate you!" If we haven't already done that, Hautt thought to himself. There was something thrilling about uninhibited destruction. Blasting away at the house had quickened his pulse, and he shook slightly from the adrenaline rush. It had started as a shitty day but was quickly turning into a time that he hoped would never end. The Army were less enthusiastic, most likely hoping to kill the terrorist and return to their unit before the mad SS NCO got them all killed.