Post by Deleted on Jun 16, 2014 16:40:54 GMT
Brest
Mid-August, 1944
Hauptmann Ernst Bahn rubbed his eyes and let out a long sigh, The non-coms huddled around his desk, eagerly awaiting his input on the map laid before him. He had been making tough decisions for five years and was mentally exhausted from it. He had sent many silly kids to early graves with nothing to show for it.
They lay in neat rows all over Europe. Beaten to death by Cretan villagers as soon as they landed, or dropping dead from dehydration on a long march through enemy-held North Africa. Tortured to the brink of death by Soviet captors, only to be brought back to life to enjoy the experience a second and third time before finally expiring.
And now he was being asked to make even more hard choices. He pulled his fingers from his eye sockets and studied the map once more, scratching the tip of his nose. The urge to speak his mind was unbearable. Those three deadly words that could destroy a company's morale quicker than dysentery... I don't know.
Ernst fought back the urge as he had done since he started his military career. His finger hovered over the map for a moment, searching for the perfect location to send his men. It finally rested on a small marking on the edge of town.
"There."
There was some cheering and back-slapping. Ernst shrugged. This was the last night they would have to party before having to focus on the siege. The city had been completed surrounded by Americans since the 7th. Fighting spirit was at an all-time low. Even the two platoons from 1.SS-Panzerdivision 'Leibstandarte-SS Adolf Hitler' knew that the fighting about to begin would likely be their last.
Only the men of 2.Fallschirmjägerdivision made the defense possible. They were being spread out to reinforce the lesser-quality troops of two Heer divisions, and it worked. Troops from 343. and 266.Infanteriedivisionen, along with numerous support elements and FlaK batteries, showed a marked improvement in fighting spirit and ability.
The long walk to the pub was quiet and dark. The sound of artillery could be heard in the distance but no shells landed in the city. The American bombardment had slackened in the past few days and Ernst suspected that their ammunition was running low. They seemed to be concentrating their fire on the dual-purpose Flak defenses on the hills surrounding Brest. Ernst would have done the same.
They passed the twisted wreckage of an American observation plane, one of many that circled the city during the day. One of the noncoms spit on it as they passed, and Ernst looked away. As much as he hated getting shit on by artillery day after day, he found the show of emotion to be unprofessional. The man was not Fallschirmjäger, but a Jäger from 16.Luftwaffe-Felddivision which had been destroyed in Normandy.
They crossed a bridge as they moved from the Civil to Military Port District, the departure point for many of Germany's submarine fleet. They caught several glimpses of U-Boat pens on the waterfront, but were not allowed to approach them without authorization. Ernst had been permitted to tour them soon after arriving at Brest in July, but saw little. The submerged fleet was quickly dying.
As they neared their destination the mood brightened. Several French hussies were working the lit street corners and Unterfeldwebel Schultz, the leader of 2.Squad/2,Platoon, took the opportunity to trade innuendo with the women. Schultz was a fine soldier, but had been given several demerits due to his womanizing. He would have been executed for desertion in Italy if Ernst had not covered for him.
"Come on, Sergeant! You'll miss your last chance at free booze!" Feldwebel Richter jeered good-naturedly. Schultz gave a friendly smack on a friendly French bottom and ran to rejoin his mates, his equipment rattling as he ran. Richter was a reliable sort. A highly respected platoon commander, he was one of the few men Schultz obeyed. It might have something to do with Richter saving his ass in North Africa, but Ernst could never be sure. They were both odd ducks in any case.
"Is this the place? It doesn't look like much."
That was Obergefreiter Jetter, the baby of 2.Platoon. He had been with them since the Dodecanese in late '43 but Ernst hadn't even noticed him until Normandy. The kid usually kept pretty quiet, and clammed up in large crowds. He was a quick and innovative thinker, and was called 'Baby Genius' on occasion. Usually just "The Kid". It was widely known that he pretended to shave every day despite having no evidence of facial hair.
"Yeah, this is it. The Wild Ass," Ernst replied, looking at the sign of a bucking jackass. Just as his brother Felix had described. They looked for an entrance for a moment before finding a set of narrow stairs leading to a basement. They shuffled inside in single file, feeling like giants in full combat dress. The last man inside was carrying an MG34 and enough ammo to level a small forest.
Oberfeldwebel Jürgen Kriegshammer didn't talk much. He had been the leader of 1.Platoon off an on since Belgium in 1940. Every single officer appointed over him had been killed in his first combat action. Kriegshammer would be left in charge of his platoon for a few battles before another officer would arrive to repeat the process. No one officer lasted more than one battle. After his involvement at Cassino, High Command stopped sending officers at all and left the platoon to the Oberfeldwebel
Ernst was not a superstitious man, but nevertheless always sent his orders in the form of a request to an equal. Kriegshammer had divine protection, seeing through tough situations since the beginning of the war, never having so much as a scratch in combat. The loss of so many friends did have a strange effect on him, and he had become almost a mute. He rarely spoke, always frowned, and had a strong I-Will-Kill-You atmosphere around him.
Ernst ducked his head through the short door as he entered and examined at their drinking quarters for the evening. Only a few patrons were seated inside, most of them Army. There were a few private dark dining areas with curtains for privacy, but Ernst could not tell if they were occupied. The few Army men were staring with mouths agape at the walking arsenals shuffling inside. They had come in more proper formal uniforms, while the Fallschirmjäger looked ready to invade England.
The owner stepped forward, slightly speechless, looking them up and down. "Welcome, may I take your...?" the man gestured at their uniforms, not knowing what to call them. "Smocks. And yes you may," Ernst replied at the funny little man. He was fat and balding, somewhere in his forties, with a curly white moustache and blank expression. Also just as Felix had described.
The group unbuckled their ammunition pouches and removed their camouflage smocks, taking their helmets off and piling the lot into the arms of the hapless owner. Kriegshammer tossed his helmet on the pile, but growled when the fat man offered to help with his smock. He chose a table at random to set his MG34 on, facing an empty wall. Ernst retained his handy Luger, while the others stacked their weapons in a nearby corner.
They now looked somewhat presentable, except for Kriegshammer of course, who looked homicidal. The first order of business was to get everyone set up with a drink. Gustav, the pub owner, was all out of Schnapps. This was no surprise since shipments had been erratic since before the Normandy landings. There were now 40,000 Germans in Brest, all yearning for Schnapps.
Richter ordered Lager for himself and for Schultz, more likely to monitor his alcohol intake than anything. Kriegshammer would take a bottle of whiskey, 'whatever hits hard'. The Kid had never drank before, so Ernst ordered him a scotch and cranberry juice. For himself he requested a bottle of Cortón 1865. It had been highly recommended by Felix during his stay in 1941. Ernst considered asking Gustav if he remembered his brother, but decided against it.
When the drinks arrived, Ernst prepared his and the Kid's glasses for a toast. Jürgen had already downed a shot of whiskey and was pouring his second when he realized what they were doing. Ernst stood, wine in hand. "There are no words for our year so far. Crete!" he toasted. "Crete!" the four men replied as they drank. Only Richter and Kriegshammer had been there with him, but all airborne forces knew the story of the Battle of Crete.
A load roaring came from the Kid as he belted his first alcohol burp. "Whoa. Kind of warm going down," he said, his eyes bulging humorously. They laughed as Ernst poured a second toast. "And to the Three-Hundred and Fourty-Third! Those Bastards Never!" he toasted the men the next table over, who slapped their hands on the table. "Hear hear!"
He was referring to a recent comment made by the Division Commander of 343.Infanteriedivision. Upon hearing that the city was surrounded, an aide suggested they lay down their arms and surrender the city. The Commander, who had been working to fortify the city since 1942, was heard to say "To those bastards? Never!"
Ernst thought for a moment about the other groups having similar parties all across Brest. The Leibstandarte men stuck to themselves pretty much and had declined his offer to join them in favor of having their own private booze fest. The NCOs from 16.Luftwaffe-Felddivision had wanted to come but had orders to man anti-aircraft defenses that night.
It wasn't long before Schultz discovered a deck of cards. He licked one and stuck it to his forehead with a sly grin. There were two groans.. "Well, are you in?" Schultz asked, taking out four more cards and waving them in everyone's face. Kriegshammer looked at him like he wanted to murder him, and Richter swilled his beer disinterestedly. "Every time we drink we play the same game over and over," Ernst chided. The Kid was the only one to show any interest. "What're those for?"
"Ohhh my dear little Geniusfaced Baby, you've never played?" Schultz asked incredulously, taking a pen out of his pocket. "No, what is it?" Schultz laughed, popping a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. "Only the greatest game for refined alcoholic nutjobs like ourselves," he slapped Kriegshammer on the back and ruffled his hair. Jürgen looked from MG34 to Schultz and back again, taking another shot.
"You write a name on a card, pass it to the guy on your right. Lick it, stick it, and ask some questions to guess the name on your card. It's great!" Schultz enthused, waving his arms wildly. Jürgen had turned and was staring at him like he was a steak. Ernst snorted, shaking his head at the Kid. "He only plays it because he doesn't mind losing. I, on the other hand, am not dragging his piss-covered self back to camp for roll call tomorrow." A sentiment shared by Richter and decided by Kriegshammer, who suggested he drink more beer and shut up.
Mid-August, 1944
Hauptmann Ernst Bahn rubbed his eyes and let out a long sigh, The non-coms huddled around his desk, eagerly awaiting his input on the map laid before him. He had been making tough decisions for five years and was mentally exhausted from it. He had sent many silly kids to early graves with nothing to show for it.
They lay in neat rows all over Europe. Beaten to death by Cretan villagers as soon as they landed, or dropping dead from dehydration on a long march through enemy-held North Africa. Tortured to the brink of death by Soviet captors, only to be brought back to life to enjoy the experience a second and third time before finally expiring.
And now he was being asked to make even more hard choices. He pulled his fingers from his eye sockets and studied the map once more, scratching the tip of his nose. The urge to speak his mind was unbearable. Those three deadly words that could destroy a company's morale quicker than dysentery... I don't know.
Ernst fought back the urge as he had done since he started his military career. His finger hovered over the map for a moment, searching for the perfect location to send his men. It finally rested on a small marking on the edge of town.
"There."
There was some cheering and back-slapping. Ernst shrugged. This was the last night they would have to party before having to focus on the siege. The city had been completed surrounded by Americans since the 7th. Fighting spirit was at an all-time low. Even the two platoons from 1.SS-Panzerdivision 'Leibstandarte-SS Adolf Hitler' knew that the fighting about to begin would likely be their last.
Only the men of 2.Fallschirmjägerdivision made the defense possible. They were being spread out to reinforce the lesser-quality troops of two Heer divisions, and it worked. Troops from 343. and 266.Infanteriedivisionen, along with numerous support elements and FlaK batteries, showed a marked improvement in fighting spirit and ability.
The long walk to the pub was quiet and dark. The sound of artillery could be heard in the distance but no shells landed in the city. The American bombardment had slackened in the past few days and Ernst suspected that their ammunition was running low. They seemed to be concentrating their fire on the dual-purpose Flak defenses on the hills surrounding Brest. Ernst would have done the same.
They passed the twisted wreckage of an American observation plane, one of many that circled the city during the day. One of the noncoms spit on it as they passed, and Ernst looked away. As much as he hated getting shit on by artillery day after day, he found the show of emotion to be unprofessional. The man was not Fallschirmjäger, but a Jäger from 16.Luftwaffe-Felddivision which had been destroyed in Normandy.
They crossed a bridge as they moved from the Civil to Military Port District, the departure point for many of Germany's submarine fleet. They caught several glimpses of U-Boat pens on the waterfront, but were not allowed to approach them without authorization. Ernst had been permitted to tour them soon after arriving at Brest in July, but saw little. The submerged fleet was quickly dying.
As they neared their destination the mood brightened. Several French hussies were working the lit street corners and Unterfeldwebel Schultz, the leader of 2.Squad/2,Platoon, took the opportunity to trade innuendo with the women. Schultz was a fine soldier, but had been given several demerits due to his womanizing. He would have been executed for desertion in Italy if Ernst had not covered for him.
"Come on, Sergeant! You'll miss your last chance at free booze!" Feldwebel Richter jeered good-naturedly. Schultz gave a friendly smack on a friendly French bottom and ran to rejoin his mates, his equipment rattling as he ran. Richter was a reliable sort. A highly respected platoon commander, he was one of the few men Schultz obeyed. It might have something to do with Richter saving his ass in North Africa, but Ernst could never be sure. They were both odd ducks in any case.
"Is this the place? It doesn't look like much."
That was Obergefreiter Jetter, the baby of 2.Platoon. He had been with them since the Dodecanese in late '43 but Ernst hadn't even noticed him until Normandy. The kid usually kept pretty quiet, and clammed up in large crowds. He was a quick and innovative thinker, and was called 'Baby Genius' on occasion. Usually just "The Kid". It was widely known that he pretended to shave every day despite having no evidence of facial hair.
"Yeah, this is it. The Wild Ass," Ernst replied, looking at the sign of a bucking jackass. Just as his brother Felix had described. They looked for an entrance for a moment before finding a set of narrow stairs leading to a basement. They shuffled inside in single file, feeling like giants in full combat dress. The last man inside was carrying an MG34 and enough ammo to level a small forest.
Oberfeldwebel Jürgen Kriegshammer didn't talk much. He had been the leader of 1.Platoon off an on since Belgium in 1940. Every single officer appointed over him had been killed in his first combat action. Kriegshammer would be left in charge of his platoon for a few battles before another officer would arrive to repeat the process. No one officer lasted more than one battle. After his involvement at Cassino, High Command stopped sending officers at all and left the platoon to the Oberfeldwebel
Ernst was not a superstitious man, but nevertheless always sent his orders in the form of a request to an equal. Kriegshammer had divine protection, seeing through tough situations since the beginning of the war, never having so much as a scratch in combat. The loss of so many friends did have a strange effect on him, and he had become almost a mute. He rarely spoke, always frowned, and had a strong I-Will-Kill-You atmosphere around him.
Ernst ducked his head through the short door as he entered and examined at their drinking quarters for the evening. Only a few patrons were seated inside, most of them Army. There were a few private dark dining areas with curtains for privacy, but Ernst could not tell if they were occupied. The few Army men were staring with mouths agape at the walking arsenals shuffling inside. They had come in more proper formal uniforms, while the Fallschirmjäger looked ready to invade England.
The owner stepped forward, slightly speechless, looking them up and down. "Welcome, may I take your...?" the man gestured at their uniforms, not knowing what to call them. "Smocks. And yes you may," Ernst replied at the funny little man. He was fat and balding, somewhere in his forties, with a curly white moustache and blank expression. Also just as Felix had described.
The group unbuckled their ammunition pouches and removed their camouflage smocks, taking their helmets off and piling the lot into the arms of the hapless owner. Kriegshammer tossed his helmet on the pile, but growled when the fat man offered to help with his smock. He chose a table at random to set his MG34 on, facing an empty wall. Ernst retained his handy Luger, while the others stacked their weapons in a nearby corner.
They now looked somewhat presentable, except for Kriegshammer of course, who looked homicidal. The first order of business was to get everyone set up with a drink. Gustav, the pub owner, was all out of Schnapps. This was no surprise since shipments had been erratic since before the Normandy landings. There were now 40,000 Germans in Brest, all yearning for Schnapps.
Richter ordered Lager for himself and for Schultz, more likely to monitor his alcohol intake than anything. Kriegshammer would take a bottle of whiskey, 'whatever hits hard'. The Kid had never drank before, so Ernst ordered him a scotch and cranberry juice. For himself he requested a bottle of Cortón 1865. It had been highly recommended by Felix during his stay in 1941. Ernst considered asking Gustav if he remembered his brother, but decided against it.
When the drinks arrived, Ernst prepared his and the Kid's glasses for a toast. Jürgen had already downed a shot of whiskey and was pouring his second when he realized what they were doing. Ernst stood, wine in hand. "There are no words for our year so far. Crete!" he toasted. "Crete!" the four men replied as they drank. Only Richter and Kriegshammer had been there with him, but all airborne forces knew the story of the Battle of Crete.
A load roaring came from the Kid as he belted his first alcohol burp. "Whoa. Kind of warm going down," he said, his eyes bulging humorously. They laughed as Ernst poured a second toast. "And to the Three-Hundred and Fourty-Third! Those Bastards Never!" he toasted the men the next table over, who slapped their hands on the table. "Hear hear!"
He was referring to a recent comment made by the Division Commander of 343.Infanteriedivision. Upon hearing that the city was surrounded, an aide suggested they lay down their arms and surrender the city. The Commander, who had been working to fortify the city since 1942, was heard to say "To those bastards? Never!"
Ernst thought for a moment about the other groups having similar parties all across Brest. The Leibstandarte men stuck to themselves pretty much and had declined his offer to join them in favor of having their own private booze fest. The NCOs from 16.Luftwaffe-Felddivision had wanted to come but had orders to man anti-aircraft defenses that night.
It wasn't long before Schultz discovered a deck of cards. He licked one and stuck it to his forehead with a sly grin. There were two groans.. "Well, are you in?" Schultz asked, taking out four more cards and waving them in everyone's face. Kriegshammer looked at him like he wanted to murder him, and Richter swilled his beer disinterestedly. "Every time we drink we play the same game over and over," Ernst chided. The Kid was the only one to show any interest. "What're those for?"
"Ohhh my dear little Geniusfaced Baby, you've never played?" Schultz asked incredulously, taking a pen out of his pocket. "No, what is it?" Schultz laughed, popping a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. "Only the greatest game for refined alcoholic nutjobs like ourselves," he slapped Kriegshammer on the back and ruffled his hair. Jürgen looked from MG34 to Schultz and back again, taking another shot.
"You write a name on a card, pass it to the guy on your right. Lick it, stick it, and ask some questions to guess the name on your card. It's great!" Schultz enthused, waving his arms wildly. Jürgen had turned and was staring at him like he was a steak. Ernst snorted, shaking his head at the Kid. "He only plays it because he doesn't mind losing. I, on the other hand, am not dragging his piss-covered self back to camp for roll call tomorrow." A sentiment shared by Richter and decided by Kriegshammer, who suggested he drink more beer and shut up.
