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<  Europe  ~  Achtung

PostPosted: Sun Jul 13, 2003 12:53 am Reply with quote
Get your clan name here - PM JuliusPosts: 0Joined: Sun Jul 13, 2003 12:49 am
((I am ressurrecting this loon for some sadistic fun. He will probably end up going over to the Scroll thread unless someone joins in here with an appropriate character))

Douaumont, France: 26 February, 1916.

The line of men came marching into the rear of the lines around mid-day singing in cadence as they were wont to do in that day and age. They all belonged to the 105th Saxon Infantry, which was raised in and around Auerbach. These were young men of 19-24 who still believed in the cause of the Kaiser. Still believed they were the fighting for justice and that God was with them. For the most part they all knew at least somebody who had gone off to the Great War. It was still popular, fashionable almost, to wear the field-gray wool of the Imperial Army.
The tune kept them in high spirits. The Officers and NCOs of the unit knew that they would need every ounce of that high spirit in the days to come. Unlike the rank and file troops who made up the replacement corps of the 105th, they KNEW what the business of war really was. They needed the men to believe that those stacks and stacks of rough-cut pine coffins they had just passed were for the French… or at the least, some other regiment. Not theirs. And so the song continued, accented now and again by the distant rumbling of artillery:

[i:caf658a7e6] Soldaten sind immer Soldaten
Die kennt man an Blick und Schritt.
Die gehn hinterm Pflug als Soldaten,
Mit denen geht Deutschland mit.
Ihr Wort ist der Sprung schon zu Taten,
Ihr Schweigen ist stolzer Verzicht.
Sie sind nicht zum Schachern geraten,
Sie kennen ja nur ihre Pflicht. [/i:caf658a7e6]

The TRAMP, tramp, tramp, tramp and clicking and clanking of accoutrements blended perfectly with the singing. So, carrying his GEW88 slung over his shoulder and 29 kilos of gear, Gerhardt Fallen made his entrance onto the stage of Verdun. He was invincible, at 19 he was one of the Kaiser’s Iron Youth….
He knew most of these men from his boyhood. They had played together along borders of the Erzegebirge. They spent pleasant summers in the Beer Gardens discussing everything from sport, to women, to the inevitable discussions on the outbreak of the War. When they completed their studies, they did the next logical thing. They volunteered.
The next morning at 3:45am the regiment awoke to the sound of artillery. It thundered much closer and much more intensely than the day before. The ground of their bivouac shook as each shell exploded into somebody’s lines several kilometers away. With each report came a rain of fine dust from the ceiling of the shelter. Then came the shouts of “ONE HUNDRED-FIFTH SAXONY. STAND TO!!!” The urgency of the shouts instantly drove the comfortable fog of sleep from their eyes. Gerhardt heard a lot of words and French sounding names. So he was in France… for some reason he had thought he was in Belgium. His comrades were animated with suggestions and observations. “We are winning, we are pushing through, the war will be over.” The officers got the men into a march column and they headed off through a gap in the wire towards the front.
The sky was still dark. This combined with a heavy downpour made the darkness feel as if it was encroaching upon the regiment. They began to feel claustrophobic. Off to the south west they could clearly see the fireballs shell upon shell exploding into the French soil, or exploding 20 or so meters above the ground raining white hot metallic death upon those poor souls whose lot it was to man that position. The explosions were several kilometers away, yet they could not escape the feeling that the shells were creeping towards their position. It seemed as if they were a stationary island of humanity in this dark night and that the world was moving around them. It did not matter if their feet were moving over the ground or not, the world was slowly caving in around them. Those searing white flashes were coming closer.
The soldiers looked around them into the night. The explosions lit up the countryside around them. Straight ahead as they marched westwards loomed a town. They did not know its name. Gerhardt vaguely remembered the word Douaumont spoken in the excited buzz of the officers shouting in the rear. That was nearly 45 minutes ago. The flashes silhouetted broken steeples and wrecked houses against an inky black background.
They marched into the town. All about them wreaked the scent of cordite, sulfur, wood, rubber, and flesh. All of these scents combined to form a sweetish smell that would haunt the survivors for the rest of their days. It was the robust smell of death: to some a herald of victory, to others the epitaph of defeat. Still to others this smell was merely a way of life that they had known for the previous two centuries that were 1914 and 1915. Passing numerous broken down bistros, cafes, and boulangeries that had long since been cleaned out of palatable, and not so palatable, meat, the 105th Saxony made its way to the fortified western edge of the town. There they stayed unmolested for several hours.

The sun rose and blossomed into a dreary day. Gerhardt occupied a small section of wall that made an acute angle around him. To his parochial thinking this angle made his position a very strong and safe place. Around noon some large men carrying a largish gun on a tripod came to the apex of the angle. Gerhardt had never seen a weapon such as this. The men spoke with the accent of Bavaria. A lovely place of mountains and thick forests. Just 2 years ago he had been at the Haufbrau Haus in Munich for Oktoberfest. Never had he seen such indulgence before. Never had he seen such merry making. Never had he seen such boxom women who were so free in offering their wares.
Shaking the pleasant thought out his mind he leaned his chin upon his hand which rested on the firing wall. From over a hill several kilometers away appeared a group of men in dark jackets and pants that looked as if they were once red but were now weather beaten and worn. One of the Bavarians said something about “the French.” So there was the Great Enemy. Gerhardt saw no reason why he should not expect a grand victory this day. Had not his grandfather strolled with the Prussian Army into Paris only 40 or so years before as if he were a tourist on holiday? Surely this would be as grand an event. But it seemed as if a never ending supply of Frenchmen traversed the hill. They just kept coming. All of France must be here. Well, so much the better. Now that the Saxon men were here the War would be over.
From off to the south west he saw a line of sharp flashes followed moments later by an eerie screeching sound. Dreary daylight suddenly turned to a night filled with the blazing light of hundreds of enormous stars flashing and twinkling all about him. All he could remember was being thrown to the ground by a hot wind. A score of screeches would sound, then all would flash and then go black as the grounds shook to the very pillars of the earth. In his ear he heard only an odd whooshing sound and his own heart beat. The noise outside rose to a crescendo so loud that it could not be heard. It was incomprehensible, like being inside a blast furnace, or perhaps even Hell itself.
After an eternity silence fell with a horrifying heaviness. All about him men began to uncover themselves from the rubble. Gerhardt looked about him in a daze. His once safe and protected position was strewn with broken concrete, bent steel bars and what looked like sides of beef that had been twisted about, or ground up, and even sliced for schnitzel. It was not until he saw a boot attached to some of this ground beef into which field gray cloth had been mixed that he realized what he saw. Even then it did not really hit him. He looked at himself slowly and patted his body to see if all was well. He had no wounds. Somehow he made it out unscathed. To his left the group of Bavarians joked as they redeployed their big gun. One of them flicked a string of meat off of his shoulder with a smirk and a joke about having more food to eat later that night. On the hill the Frenchmen were no longer visible. They had descended into the fosse that made up the outer defenses of this rather Vaubanesque fortification.
The next few hours passed almost uneventfully. The French artillery did not hit their lines anymore but for the occasional poorly aimed round that fell well behind them. Around 4pm, as the sun was beginning its decent to the horizon, whistles blew and the cries of “STAND TO” again echoed throughout the German lines. The first helmets began to appear above the great fosse still 500 meters away. The late winter afternoon sun glinted orange on enormous fixed bayonets. He could hear the Frenchmen singing something he could not understand. It was an odd melody as well. Not like those of his homeland. Sporadic cracks began to sound around him as his comrades began to fire their weapons. CRACK, chickchick, CRACK, chickchick. At first the sound was separated and distinct, but soon the volume of fire increased to a steady cacophony. He saw Frenchmen falling down in strangely contorted positions. Some held their heads, others clasped their hands over other areas of their body. Already he could hear the screaming from outside the fort. Already began the slow, but steady, retreat of the maimed. Some would make it to their lines…. most would crawl a few meters to expire as the bullets flew over their heads. The lucky ones never moved or twitched ever again.
From Gerhardt’s left came a deep and throaty TUK,TUK,TUK,TUK,TUK in rapid succession. The Bavarian’s gun had finally come to life. He had never seen or heard a gun like this that pelted out such a deadly hail of lead so indiscriminately. He stopped firing for moment and watched in horror and awe as the single gun decimated the oncoming French. Row up row fell screaming and clutching themselves. The attack continued for another 10 minutes and then the French began to fall back to their lines. To Gerhardt’s right an Officer jumped onto the wall with pistol in hand blowing a whistle. At first he did not know what this lunatic wanted. Get down from the wall you ass, it’s much safer here. Then as his comrades began fixing their own bayonets and mounting the wall, realization dawned on him. He was to cross into the ditch? Are they fucking nuts? His body however did not seem to be listening to his mind and was already on top of the wall with everyone else’s.
At a moderate trot they began to cross the field towards the hill. They could clearly see the French cresting the hill and disappearing behind it. Words cannot describe the horrors of that field, writhing young Frenchmen lay strewn about like so much garbage. He could see Germans bayoneting fallen Frenchmen, yet he continued unhindered. The first line of Germans began to crest the hill and fall into misshapen lumps on the other side. As he neared the crest he heard whistling and whipping sounds followed often times by a meaty thumping sound and a scream. Over the crest he ran with bayonet thrust forwards screaming in stark terror. He felt like he was riding a wave destined to break on the perilous rocks of the French lines. He could see them jumping into a long and menacing looking trench. Muzzles were pointed at him and he felt a light pressure touch his upper left thigh. He could not seem to walk anymore. Try as he might he could not stop the ground from rising to meet him. He landed face first in the mud and spit out a mouthful of French soil. Then came the screaming pain. He knew he was screaming but could not hear himself doing it. Then all went black…
Hours later he opened his eyes, or thought he did. He could see nothing. Then a flash in the distance lit up the countryside a bit. He was left in the middle of the field, about 50 meters from the French lines. Far enough so they could not see him without launching a flare but close enough so he could hear every thing they were saying. His thigh still burned but it seemed that the hot lead had cauterized the wound. He could make out a ruined building away to his right. Slowly and painfully he began to creep over to it with his heart pounding in his head every inch of the way. He crept towards a low cement wall. He climbed over it and found shelter for a moment next to a thin stone slab rising vertically from the ground. He took off his helmet and rubbed his head. This could not be happening. He heard the distinct sounds of troops moving in the darkness and the jingly sound of wire being laid. The troops passed him in the darkness. He heard them speaking French. With a horror he realized that they were in between his position and the German lines. He had been cut off.
He looked about him a bit more and it dawned on him where he was. All around him rose thin stone slabs and obelisks. He was in a graveyard. He peered over the gravestone against which he leaned and saw the chapel. He crawled over to it and entered it through a breach in the wall. Inside he saw several sarcophagi. All of them but one was cracked or damaged in some way. They bore dates and French names. The undamaged one bore the name Col. Gerard Talbotier 1815. He crawled up to it and laid his head against it for an eternity.
Sometime later he was roused by very near explosions. The walls shook with each one. The light cast eerie shadows within the chapel as it shone through the glassless windows. He hobbled to his feet and looked out. They were German shells landing on the French position. Did they not know he was here? Did they not know he was alive? Did they not care? Were they not going to search for him. In his heart he suddenly felt a resounding NO in response. Death fell from the sky all around him…. He knew it was coming for him this time. With each explosion his silent prayers grew more and more desperate. They went from “God please help me,” to “ANYBODY!!! I DON’T WANT TO DIE!!!” He looked feverishly about the chapel, the last undisturbed sarcophagus had been disturbed. He saw that the top had been blown off it somehow. Instinctively he moved towards it thinking he would be safer inside it. As he neared it he saw that there was no corpse inside. So much the better. He started to climb in it as the wall behind him crumbled and fell from a very near explosion. He could hear shrapnel ricocheting around the room. The force of it pushed him half over the sarcophagus. He held on with his right hand and tried to bring his left arm up to break the fall. Only it did not come up. He heard a strange sound from his left and suddenly he was being pulled upright very forcefully. He turned and saw that instead of an arm, he now had a pale faced man wearing an old-fashioned military uniform attached to the stump where his arm should have been. He screamed as the man sucked the blood out of him with gruesome speed. At the same time however, a great peacefulness seemed to surround him as his life slipped away. Then the tranquility was disturbed as a shell landed right outside the door of the chapel blowing both men over. The pale Frenchman fell on top of him with great force. Gerhardt screamed in terror as he saw that the Frenchman had no head and that thick and foul tasting blood poured from the open neck and into his mouth as he screamed. He involuntarily swallowed some of it and suddenly he was no longer fading from life. God seemed to have answered his prayers…… or had he?

He looked around him a moment. All that was to be heard was an eerie swooshing sound. Over and over and over. Swoosh swish swoosh swish swoosh swish. The sound started to take on a familiar form. Something from his childhood from his time in the Erzgebirge. Yes... that was it. He could smell wildflowers growing on the mountain side. The pleasant smell of schnitzel frying on the stove. That sound must be his mother sweeping. But..... no. He screwed up his eyes as another sound came to mind. The savage chatter of rifle fire, the sickeningly comforting sound of raw meat getting slapped. Then the pain... good Lord the pain was intense. Rising from the very bowels of his soul, it exploded in a torrent of silent screams that caused swirls to appear in his eyes and pressure to build in his head. He screamed for hours, days, weeks. It seemed as if he was purging his very soul. Suddenly it stopped.

He looked about him and in a rush he was standing in a bright meadow. It looked oddly familiar.

"The contours of that hill.... yes.... I've seen that before. Those trees to the left, weren't they? Hmmmm...."

He walked towards the crest of the hill suddenly noticing that the light in the sky was changing rapidly. It grew bright, reached a zenith, grew dim, went black, took on a shimmering quality in the darkness, then grew bright again. All of these changes took place in the period of less than a minute. It happened over and over again.

He reached the crest of the hill and looked about him. There was a low grassy mound straight ahead of him about a kilometer away. The mound formed an acute angle at one point and swept off into the distance where it made a turn in towards itself. It looked like a rough star shape on the ground. The area within the low mound was enormous. You could fit an entire....

"Town?"

As he stood there facing the star shape, he noticed low mounds inside of it at regular and squarelike intervals. They were reminiscent of the old Gallo-Roman ruins he had seen along the Elbe River one summer when he and his friends went on an excursion. He felt a light wind blowing on him and saw a bright yellow ball rising from the horizon and race over his head to sink below the horizon behind him, then a pale white ball rose from the same spot and chased the bright ball across the sky. He looked around him in all directions and saw nothing but grass, trees, and finally directly behind him.....

"My God.... the very chapel."

He turned to face it and began to walk towards it again feeling a strange force pulling him. This force did not feel pleasant. He stopped walking yet still he moved towards it... sliding across the ground effortlessly. The chapel was ruined still. Rafters stuck out of the shattered roof and the windows were without glass. He drew nearer the fire scorched stone walls and noticed that the grave stones were missing.... actually, the grass was missing as well. A patch of earth about a hectare square still seemed to have the destruction of the previous day's battle. It seemed as if the grave stones no longer stood. In their places someone had dug perfectly rectangular pits into the ground.

A mounting fear grew swelled within Gerhardt, and pain. As he drew nearer this place it seemed as if his insides were decaying. Yes... they were... he could feel it. He looked at his right arm and saw that it was covered with maggots and worms that burrowed and ate into his flame scorched flesh. Suddenly he was inside the chapel again screaming and choking. With every push of breath came pain and suffering. He coughed and hacked up maggots, beetles, and rotten flesh from inside of him. All manners of carrior eating beasts were about him biting and gnawing. He could not take it anymore. With all of his might he screamed out "GOD TAKE ME PLEASE!!!"

A low and gurgly sounding voice, like one speaking through bloody vocal chords came from behind him...

[i:caf658a7e6] God will not take you, you have fallen, you are not in His light. [/i:caf658a7e6]

With one final effort to expel the horrors welling up within him Gerhardt fell on to his knees holding himself up with his remaining arm. He vomited a thick and putrid smelling liquid for a few seconds. After a few more wretches nothing more would come forth. Then everything changed suddenly.

He remained in his gore covered and powder blackened Heer uniform, yet the chapel had changed. He became aware that the walls were translucent. The walls remained solid, but he could see the outside like a ghostly image. The floor too had changed. No longer scorched by fire, the Caen stone shone with a brilliant, unearthly white. The dimensions of the room seemed different. The chapel seemed as large and open as a cathedral, but one made of ice, not of stone.

Again a powerful pain welled up and he screamed and pounded at his forehead with his one hand. For an eternity he remained curled up in a fetal position screaming and pulling at his hair. Suddenly he became aware that his screams resonated with a crystal like sound and with that awareness, all the pain stopped. He sat up onto his knees, still holding his head with his right hand.

Then something moved.

Away in front of him towards the entrance to the Cathedral of Crystal men were moving. They looked like they were made of clay. They moaned quietly and all the more piteously because of its quietness. Some were missing arms, some hobbled on their comrades missing legs, several had parts of their heads shot off and looked at him with sightless eyes. Some of these eyes were not quite where eyes should have been, as if some insane scientist had restructured their faces. It became clear to Gerhardt that these poor souls had been killed somehow. They moved about him in a wide ring and came to a stop. Who WERE these men? Some appeared to have the pantalon rouge of the French Army, others had on the field gray of the Heer. All of them swayed and moaned piteously at him. Chains with hooks descended from the ceiling of this beautiful edifice. Gerhardt forgot his pain as he watched in terror as the old uniforms seemed to decay off the bodies of the soldiers leaving only their nude and mangled skin to cover them.

With a solemn silence the men began to insert the hooks into their flesh. A sickening sqwilsching sound came each time a hook sank into the flesh. Those who had arms began to methodically help those without onto the hooks. Black ooze sloshed out of the wounds and dribbled down their naked gray flesh to the crystal floor beneath. Then, like so many gruesome marionettes the chains pulled them up into the air where they began to spin in slow circles about Gerhardt. Their mangled limbs moved up and down by the chains, being controlled by some invisible diabolic puppeteer. Still the black ooze dripped down to the crystal floor. Each drip sounded like a slightly different pitch. Musical almost. It WAS musical. A tune began to take shape in that ghastly place, a familiar one. Yes…. That was it, he sang it the previous day as he marched with his comrades into the front lines. Proud. Invincible. The Iron Youth.

[i:caf658a7e6] Soldaten sind immer Soldaten
Die kennt man an Blick und Schritt.
Die gehn hinterm Pflug als Soldaten,
Mit denen geht Deutschland mit.
Ihr Wort ist der Sprung schon zu Taten,
Ihr Schweigen ist stolzer Verzicht.
Sie sind nicht zum Schachern geraten,
Sie kennen ja nur ihre Pflicht.
[/i:caf658a7e6]
Over and over this tune ran round him. It echoed maddeningly throughout that beautiful room. Then he noticed somebody sitting to the side of a crystal altar. He wore an immaculate dress uniform of French Blue, he had on tall black gaiters, flawless linen breaches, and blood red epaulettes. Upon his head sat a tall bearskin shako. Altogether he appeared to be the soul voice of reason in this now profane place. He stood up and began to walk in a proud manner towards Gerhardt. As he drew closer it became apparent that there was something odd about him. It looked as if he had a rather large gash going right across his neck. He stopped a few meters from Gerhardt and gazed down at him.

“What? Where… am … I,” asked Gerhardt.

The man in the uniform said nothing, he merely put his hands behind his back and bounced up and down slightly on the balls of his feet as if he were waiting for something.

“Am I…..,” began Gerhardt?

[i:caf658a7e6] “DEAD?!?!” [/i:caf658a7e6] boomed the man.

Gerhardt flinched a bit as he watched the man turn his head slightly to the left and to the right looking in satisfaction at the odd carousel of carnage still circling them to the ghastly music of their lifeless blood dripping on the crystal floor. With one swift motion the uniformed man removed his own head and held it forth in his hands to Gerhardt who fell backwards screaming in terror. The head laughed uproariously. Laughter and screams and sickening music filled the Cathedral of Crystal. Gerhardt scrambled towards what looked to be the way out of the building, dragging himself along with his one arm. The uniformed man walked towards him with slow and deliberate steps, his severed head laughing insanely in his hands.

Making it to the outside, Gerhardt found that the odd sunrise, sunset, moonrise, moonset routine continued rapidly. He became aware that it was raining from a clear sky. Flashes issued forth from the distance and what looked like the ghostly bodies of soldiers fought back and forth across the field surrounding him. He scrambled along in the much and slid into a pit. To his horror he saw that it was filled with mangled corpses in various states of decay. As he fell onto them, his weight caused their bloated bodies to burst asunder sending out a sickening cloud of filth and death. Still screaming he in terror he turned and saw the uniformed man standing on top of the grave holding his severed head aloft above him. Then the grave began to close in on Gerhardt.

He struggled in vain to free himself of the dead flesh about him and the wet earth falling on top of him but to no avail. He was buried alive. All went black again…….


[i:caf658a7e6] Ger’ardt….. Gerrrrrrr’aaaaardt. Why deed you ‘ave to do zeess to me? Mmmmmm? I nevair deed anysing to you, and yet ‘ere we are, a fine mess you’ve made of sings. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“But….. you would have done the same to me if you had the chance,” responded Gerhardt.

[i:caf658a7e6] Ahhh yes. Zat excuse, well, I suppose it is a fine delusion, but it is a delusion nonezeless. Merely somesing to make ze keellair feel good about killing ze killed. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Hullo….. what is this? Leave me be, can’t I be dead in peace?”

[i:caf658a7e6] Dead? So zat’s what you sink you are. Hmmmm, interesante. Well, you are not alive I’ll warrant, but dead? You are most assuredly NOT dead. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Yes I am… see, I am in the ground. Buried. God knows where my arm is, but it is not buried with me here.”

[i:caf658a7e6] Hmmm, yes you are in the ground zat is true. But wair you dead, do you really sink we would be ‘aving zis conversation? [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Yes, that is a good point you make.”

[i:caf658a7e6] And as for your arm, I’m not all zat certain zat God knows where zat is. At least not ze bulk of it. I sought I saw a nahsa plump grub feasting on somesing zat was arm-like in ze mass grave next door. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Oh leave me be. Let me at least enjoy what little remains of my UNdeath then. And what in the name of God is all of that racket?”

[i:caf658a7e6] Ze rumbling and jarring of zee airss? Would you like to know? [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Yes, please. I would…. “

[i:caf658a7e6] I suppose I could tell you. It is ze least I could do seeing as you will be stuck wiss me for company for a VERY long time. Until uzzers come to keep me company. Hmm, yes, I suppose it would be best to keep up a modicum of civilite even though we are now bound together in insanity. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Wha..?”

[i:caf658a7e6] Zose are explosions, Ger’ardt. From ze sounds of it I should sink zose are ze shells of your countrymen landing on MY countrymen. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Shells? Countrymen?”

[i:caf658a7e6] Oh goodness, you did not forget ze War did you? ‘Ow do you sink I comeded to be in ziss predicament in ze fairst place, mmm? Ze War yet rages. It ‘as been going on in ziss place for sev’ral weeks now. I believe ziss is ze prelude to a great push on ze part of ze Kaisers glorious army. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Then, we are both dead? And we are in Hell?”

[i:caf658a7e6] Well, we are not BOHSS dead, nor are we in Hell. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Purgatory then?”

[i:caf658a7e6] Ah, we are Cassoleek are we? Interesante, zat could be useful sometime. At least I know you ‘ave a rahzair well developed sense of guilt. But alas, we are not in Purgatorie. One of us, and it is not I, is still a part of ziss…..ziss…. tomfoolery. As for me, I was your fairst victim. I zerefor get to watch your decline into madness and desparation from ze beginning to ze end. Wiss each step you take, more alive I shall become as you move from your pitiful world into mine. I suspect I shall have a great MANY comrades in ze struggle before too long. Ah yes…. I see great sings in you…. GREAT sings. We shall ‘ave many adventures you and I before I own you completely. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Wha…? Why? How?”

[i:caf658a7e6] But mon chere Ger’ardt, don’t you feel it yet? Are you not FAMISHED? Surely by now you must feel SOMEsing. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“I… I do feel it. Like a gnawing, I thought it was merely pain from my wound healing. But no…. it is different all together.”

[i:caf658a7e6] Mais oui. You need to break your fast, to cut your teess as it were. Do you not sink zat some warm blood would do you good? Yes, zat would do nicely eh. To feel ze life flow into your body…. Mmmm…. Yes… you can feel it non? Burning, biting, begging for more. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“But I am...”

[i:caf658a7e6] Trapped? Non, you are merely beneass a few meetairs of dairt. It would take but one or two jolts of your body to claw out of it. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Yes…. Yes… I must, I must eat. I MUST EAT!!”


Two French Red-Crossmen moved in the darkness. They carried a stretcher out of a field hospital located several kilometers behind their main lines. The walked among freshly dug graves and among freshly filled graves. At the head of each stood at least a ragged branch.. Other graves were marked with crude crosses. Still others were merely wooden placards with the name of the occupants scrawled out in barely legible chalk. Upon some sat a French helmet, upon others (though not in the same section of course) sat a German helmet. While upon still others, sat no helmet. They had no clue WHO was in it or to which army he belonged. Or even if it is was one whole man or merely parts of a man or various combinations of men mixed into a box like so much ground beef. So it was to this section they carried these little bits of remains. They had just passed the German section when an odd sound issued from the ground.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est ca?” mused one to the other.

“Rien, c’est gaz des cadavres,” answered the other to the one.

The one shivered a bit at the thought of the gas from the decomposition of dead bodies seeping up through the thin graves. They knew they would have to rebury many of them come spring time, but at the moment…. well, they had to stay as they lay. The niceties of Christian burial could not generally be observed during a major offensive.

They had passed down a muddy row to an open pit and had not noticed that a hand had begun to push through the surface of the ground. Then a head. Then first one, then another shoulder. Soon the muddy and spindled form of a one armed man rose to his full height and took a step. He fell with a loud wet splat onto the ground. With an excited yell, the two Frenchmen dropped their burden and looked at the form struggling in the muck. They could clearly see that the man was injured so they rushed over to render assistance. In a flash the one armed man grabbed and rolled one of the Frenchmen down onto the ground and bit him on the neck with razor sharp fangs that had suddenly appeared where his regular cuspids should have been. The other Frenchman stood rooted in horror for a moment not sure he had just seen what he had seen, then he began to scream and run towards the field hospital. The one armed man had ripped the throat out of the one Frenchman and then grabbed a spade sitting nearby and began to chase the survivor. In only a few steps he caught the fleeing Frenchman and a nearly cleaved his head from his shoulders with the blade of the shovel.

Men from the field hospital began to flash lights out into the mire to see what the commotion was. They saw a man hunched over the body of another. They shined the flashlight on the man and saw that he was a German, and that he had killed a French Red-Cross member. From that distance it appeared that the German had blood dribbling down his chin. One man raised a rifle and shot at the German, hitting him in the chest. The German clutched his wound and skulked off into the night. The French soldiers chased him but he seemed to have just disappeared. They never saw a trace of him again.
---------------------------------------------------------

[i:caf658a7e6] Ahhhh, bon soir mes amis, bien venue….. You see Ger’ardt, I did not ‘ave long to wait before you obtained for me some company. Ah yes…. Ziss will work out just grand. [/i:caf658a7e6]



Munich, 1933

Ominous laughter and dirty sounding bootfalls resonated throughout the dark and deserted alley way off Hildergardstrasse. Then came the crash of someone banging into a refuse bin followed by the sound of a dog barking. A group of four men were standing around a dumpster beside which a homeless man was trying to sleep.

“Go away and let me sleep,” came a groggy voice.

A rather malicious laugh was all that responded to this request.

“Go now, leave me be,” said the man again.

“Well, lads? What say you? Leave him be? Or clean up the refuse as Herr Hitler wishes?” intoned one rather jolly sounding voice.

“I think that he should be ‘rehabilitated’ Herr Fallen,” responded one of the group of men
in an equally jovial voice.

The group of happy men fell upon the homeless man, kicking him anyplace their feet could find purchase. With a yelp, the homeless man staggered to his feet and stumbled into the darkness followed by the four young men. As the homeless man came out the other side of the alleyway onto Hernnstrasse and ran down the street a bit, he saw the four men walk into the light of a streetlamp. They were dressed in dark pants, tall leather boots, a light brown shirt, and leather waist and cross belts.

“Come back Herr Müllkutscher, we just wish to help you. What have you to fear? Are you a Jew? A homosexual?” called Gerhardt.

One of his compatriots laughingly called out, “Perhaps he is a retarded homosexual, nein…. A retarded JEWISH Homosexual.”

All four Brownshirts laughed uproariously and maintained their steady dignified stalking of the poor homeless man. He stood under a street light shouting at them.

“I am not a homosexual, I am a veteran of the War. A VETERAN. I am GERMAN,” Herr Müllkutscher implored.

[i:caf658a7e6] He lies Gerhardt, see his huge nose and swarthy complexion? He is a filthy rat loving Jew. KILL HIM…. BRING HIM TO ME. WE NEED MORE FOR THE CAUSE. [/i:caf658a7e6]

The four men remorselessly marched on, in perfect step. They had crossed the street marching in line abreast. Poor Herr Müllkutscher backed up cowering away from them. They were close enough to see his scared eyes clearly as he stumbled against a box on the ground and fell.

“Please, I am a veteran, I want what you want. I was hurt at Verdun. I am not Jewish,” pleaded Herr Müllkutscher.

At the word Verdun, Gerhardt stopped short for a moment. Instantly, he stood in that perfect square of scorched earth surrounding the Cathedral of Crystal. The same race of night and day continued ceaselessly. In front of Gerhardt stood the Headless Frenchman holding his head like a football under his arm. Behind him stood five people. Two men in French uniform wearing the arm bands of the red cross, a Catholic Priest, a young child, and a beautiful woman still dressed in her burlesque dancer outfit. All of them stared at Gerhardt speaking in tongues that were completely incomprehensible, yet perfectly articulate at the same time. [i:caf658a7e6] Just bring us the Jew and we can have peace. That is all we require. We shall leave you forever if you give us the Jew. [/i:caf658a7e6] “But he isn’t Jewish he says.” [i:caf658a7e6] LIES, TREACHERY, DECEIT!!! HE IS A JEW, DESTROY HIM, BRING HIM TO US [/i:caf658a7e6].


A moment later Gerhardt look at his three companions and began to sing softly. They were not all that familiar with the words, but he was all TOO familiar. He sang it in his youth, marching onto the field of Verdun. His comrades looked at him oddly as he walked over to Herr Müllkutscher and put his arm around him. The homeless man eased up a bit as he too knew this song and nervously hummed along with Gerhardt as the two walked down the street a little bit and turned into an alley.

Several minutes later Gerhardt returned from the alley alone. He wore a smile upon his face and a dribble of blood on his chin. His friends laughed.

“What did you do with him Gerhardt? Where is he?”

Gerhardt looked at them with his smile, and answered without laughing, “I drank his Jewish soul and set him free.”

The three other Brownshirts stood looking at him with puzzled expressions on their faces. One started laughing, a bit nervously, and was joined by the others. They linked arms and marched off into the night.

[i:caf658a7e6] A fine attempt Ger’ardt. But you did not bring ‘im to me in ze proper mannair. You see? ‘E is useless. I cannot do much wiss him. But we shall try. We have all ze time in ze world.


WARNING THIS CONTAINS RATHER GRIZZLY STUFF INCLUDING RAPE AND TORTURE, PARENTAL GUIDANCE IS ADVISED.

Berlin: Winter,1939

The symphony had just finished playing the Overture to Wagner’s Tannhauser inside the Opera House as Hauptmann Gerhardt Fallen, resplendent in his black uniform, led a troop of the SS Totenkopfdivision up to the building. These hand picked psychopaths were Adolph Hitler’s private hit squad. Gerhardt merely walked past the ticket agents and other theater attendants. The mere sight of the black uniform, patent leather accoutrements, Nazi arm-band, all topped off with the shiny silver skull grinning ominously from the peak of his crisp cap, cowed any people who would otherwise thwart their movements. He came to the head attendant and spoke in a gracious tone, “we are looking for a Herr Ernst Baumann. He is to be ‘detained’.”

With a great deal of trepidation, the head usher stammered, “Y-y-yes Herr Hauptmann. Let me look at the master seating roster to see where he might be found.” He motioned for Hauptmann Fallen to accompany him over to the main ticket desk. Nervously rifling through papers, with a Fallen looking on pleasantly humming that age old German Marching tune, the usher found the page. “Ah,” he said. “He is in G-14.”

“Thank you Herr Attendant,” said Gerhardt, half nodding and bowing whilst clicking his heels together smartly. The head usher fidgeted a little bit, and swallowed as if making up his mind about something.

“H-H-H-Herr Hauptmann, could you and your men please wait until the first intermission? T-t-the Opera has just begun.”

“What is playing Herr Attendant?” asked Herr Fallen cheerfully.

“T-t-tannhauser Herr Hauptmann,” responded the quaking usher.

“Excellent, one of the Fuhrer’s favorites. We shall stand inside the doors and take him at the end of the first act.”

The head usher smiled with great relief and expressed his utmost gratitude. Moments later, he and his squad of men had all the exits covered. Gerhardt himself looked with a flashlight on a small plan of the theater to see where G-14 was. Up the center aisle and to the right, near the stage.

As the Opera progressed, Gerhardt made his way silently and slowly up the center aisle in full view of whomever happened to look to the side. On occasion, his silhouette evoked a slight gasp, or some nervous whispering. His arrival did not go unnoticed by his quarry. Herr Baumann glanced over his shoulder and saw the tall one-armed SS man standing in the aisle looking at him periodically.

[I] Is zat ‘im? Not sure, looks like ‘im, and ‘e is in ze right place where we wair told ‘e would be. I would also get zat lovely girl sitting next to ‘im. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“Yes, but she is not required,” whispered Gerhardt to himself.

[i:caf658a7e6] Do you wish to get ze acclaim of your superiors? You know ze mission, ze task set before you. So you grab an extra one. So much ze bettair. I ‘ave told you zat you are being watched by our kind, zey ‘ave plans for you, in zis campaign for Der Fuhrer, and in ze continual campaign of our kind. We need more souls, we are starving in here, you starve us. Do you not see zat you ‘ave an obligation to us? Do not disappoint me. You ‘ave come so far already. [/i:caf658a7e6]

Gerhardt stood there at the end of row G and waited for the house lights to come up. As they did, he made eye contact with Herr Baumann and motioned for him to come. He stood up and began to make his way.

“Please do not forget your coat Herr Baumann, nor let your escort forget hers,” intoned Herr Fallen in a sociable tone. The two gathered their things and stood up and began to follow the SS Officer towards the exit.

“Where are we going,” asked Herr Baumann nervously. “I have done nothing wrong.”

Gerhardt merely smiled and said, “Of course you haven’t.”

The two captives and Gerhardt got into a staff car while the others piled into a truck and they drove off into the night. Shortly after, they arrived at Spandau Prison, a grim looking citadel nearly as old as Berlin itself. Gerhardt opened the door and held out his hand to the lady, for her to take. She looked up at him, white with fear, and took his hand and alighted from the car with a faint “Thank you.” Once inside the building she was taken off to a room “to wait” for Herr Baumann. Gerhardt took Herr Baumann down into a cell where he left him unattended. Dawn came and the day went by and still he was neither interrogated nor even visited, except to be given a glass of water which he did not drink

The next night his cell door opened with a creak. Bright lights were shined into the room. “You are the pet of one Signe Albrecht are you not?” asked a voice. Herr Baumann looked into the lights with a confused look upon his face. “YOU ARE THE PET OF ONE SIGNE ALBRECHT ARE YOU NOT?” demanded the same voice. After another moment the soft and measured voice of Hauptmann Fallen sounded from behind the bright light. “Herr Baumann, you know that we will get this information from you one way or the other, make it easy on us, make it easy on yourself….. make it easy on HER.”

With that, the lovely woman who accompanied Herr Baumann was thrust into the room wearing only her undergarments. She had a collar about her neck and was held with a chain that ran from her neck, down to her wrists and to her ankles. She had plainly been crying but had not been physically abused, yet.

“Now we know that injuring you will do nothing to loosen your tongue, but perhaps your love for this girl could give you the urge needed to tell us a few things eh?”

[i:caf658a7e6] YES, c’est BRILLANTE Ger’ard. Utterly brillante. [/i:caf658a7e6]

With that the clothes were ripped from her body. Her handler threw the chain up and over a pipe on the ceiling and hoisted her off the ground. She lay suspended in a horizontal position by her arms and legs a little over a meter off the ground. The poor girl screamed and kicked wildly but to no avail.

“Please,” begged Baumann. “You know I cannot betray my regent. I want to, but I cannot.”

“So, then you are the pet of the Ventrue slut. We make a little progress. But to keep the progress going, we shall give you a little more motivation.”

With that Gerhardt strode forward with a drawn knife. He gently ran the blade along her left calf, scratching the skin slightly. The girl screamed more in terror and apprehension of pain than in genuine pain. Baumann merely closed his eyes and turned away.

“Shhhhh,” soothed Gerhardt. “Save your strength Fraulein. Now then, we know that Albrecht is in the city, and that she is assisting the Opposition in aiding Jews, and other politically undesirables, to escape. Our Cause cannot permit this. Look inside yourself Herr Baumann, you seem of proper Aryan stock. Surely you can see the folly of this effort.”

Baumann closed his eyes tightly and tried to drift away mentally.

“Hiller, help Herr Baumann to keep his eyes open,” commanded Gerhardt. Two burly men came forward. One held Baumann’s head, while the other (presumably Hiller) pulled out a scalpel. As Baumann had been chained to a chair all of this time he could not move at all. Hiller took the knife and grazed Baumann’s eyelids. Blood spurted everywhere. The room resounded with his screams of anguish and the screams of terror of the hanging woman. Cloths were brought forth to stop the bleeding. Baumann’s supernatural healing powers aided this effort. He could see again within minutes. Hiller withdrew from the scene and stood by the right leg of the woman, behind Fallen. The other man continued to hold his head so that he could not turn it away from the grizzly scene.

“Now then, where can we find your Mistress?”

Silence.

“Very well Herr Baumann, you make me sad,” said Gerhardt, with what sounded like sincerity.

He sliced deeply into her thigh with the knife causing her to convulse with pain and scream frantically. In a single motion he drew the knife down her thigh and across the small of her knee cutting her hamstrings. She wailed piteously and cried, begging for them to stop. She begged Baumann to tell them what the wanted to know.

“Tell us Herr Baumann, and it all stops.”

Herr Baumann tried to look away but could not. He screamed in frustration and anger but could not break the hold of his captor. This slow torture of the woman he loved went on for hours. It was not until they had inserted the knife into her vagina and began to sodomize her with it that he mustered the will power to tell them what they wanted to know. She was still alive but no longer screaming. She convulsed every once in a while and groaned piteously. With the information divulged, the torture stopped.

“Thank you Herr Baumann, you have done the right thing,” said Gerhardt with a smile. He pulled out his Luger, pointed at her head and pulled the trigger. Baumann screamed in rage and terror.

“Well, I said I would stop this as soon as you told us what we wished to know. Thank you Herr Baumann, you have been of great service.” With that, Gerhardt pointed the gun at Baumann’s temple and ended his life. “Now then, remove his head and place it in the storage facility for safe keeping. Get rid of this garbage and clean up the cell please.”

[i:caf658a7e6] Very good Ger’ardt. I like ziss woman, she has a VERY strong personality. We ‘ave already struck up a wondrous acquaintance. Zough I am slightly annoyed zat you brought ‘er lovair ‘ere to be wiss us. Ziss is not of consequence. Alors, it seems we are going to Krakow eh? Yes, zat does make sense doesn’t it. Well, ziss will improve your standing among our kind immensely. I am proud of you. We are ALL proud of you. [/i:caf658a7e6]


Krakow, Winter 1939-40

This had not been a good year for Poles. Bad crop yields, a horrid economic situation that had not yet pulled out from the crash of the early thirties, and now this. Not one, but two powerful nation-states, bent on securing land and a buffer zone from the other had invaded virtually simultaneously. Poland had become the playground of two megalomaniacs: Adolph Hitler and Iosef Djugasvili known to the world as “Stalin”… the “Man of Steel.” The poor Poles had only recently gotten their own suzerainty after hundreds of years of occupation by Russians, Germans, Swedes, Austro-Hungarians, and various Baltic States. The result was a divided people with very little infrastructure to support it. Indeed, the only thing the Poles had was a national identity as the last bastion of Catholicism in North Eastern Europe.

Camarilla Kindred had no easier time in Poland as they were a distinct minority to the Tzimisce overlords who ruled the country. For the most part they had left, with the exception of a few Malkavians who were so psychotic that they pleased the Tzimisce, a smattering of Ventrue, who tried desperately to build a foundation with which to isolate Western Europe from further Tzimisce inroads, the Nosferatu who still ruled the ancient tunnels and sewers, and a few Toreador who braved the perils to protect the rich artistic community and the works created by those artists.

As the Nazi occupation continued and their infrastructure was put into place, things began to run more efficiently. There was still discontent to be certain. Nobody likes to live under the yoke of a foreign power whose soldiers stand on every corner with loaded guns and steely eyes. For the most part the Poles and the Germans lived in relative peace and businesses began to operate again. After a time things returned somewhat to a state of normality; a people used to subjugation bounce back rather easily. But then the disappearances began to be noticed. First one, then a little while later… another. At first it was the thought in the back of the mind that it seemed that something was not right. It could not be narrowed down at all, just a general feeling was all. Then came the shadowy reports of people of Jewish descent being evicted from desirable abodes. Then came the the outright proclamations that those of Jewish descent were to move into a walled community east of the Vistula River. Once inside the ghettos, Gentiles pretty much lost all contact with them. They just seemed to disappear into a different world, but then again, they were Jews… they had always been in a different world.

As has become a stereotype in modern society, where went the Jews so went wealth and prosperity. As parasites, even though they did not like to think of themselves as such, the Kindred have always lived at the whim of the tides of economics and fortune. With the Masquerade came an increased difficulty in earning a living and maintaining fortunes amassed during “less stringent” times. It used to be that a Vampire could more openly flaunt their power and opulence in mortal society, now however…things were different. The rounding up of the Jews into the ghettos disturbed the natural flow of commerce for Kindred who were deeply in tune with such matters. The more social variety, in particular the Ventrue and Toreador for the Camarilla experienced great difficulties in maintaining their lifestyles. The elders of the clans banded together in an effort to salvage their immortal way of life. Being the pragmatic creatures they were, they saw that dealing with the Nazis was preferable to dealing with the Bolsheviks. So this they did. Ventrue and Toreador agents infiltrated the Nazis in an effort to gain access to the Ghettos. Aided by the few Nosferatu who remained behind, they were able to come and go from the Ghettos with relative impunity from mortals. However, their machinations did not escape the eyes of the Sabbat, nor did it escape Kindred who worked as part of the Nazi infrastructure, seeking power for themselves and their clans aided by Krupp Steel and the Iron Youth.

As has been told earlier, one such Kindred who worked with the persecuted Jews to maintain her fortunes was the Ventrue, Signe Albrecht, who was herself a Jew in mortal existence. Signe had existed for nearly 1,000 years. Born in the German Rhineland she had been witness to the excesses of Christian zeal in her youth. Her town was the first stop of the Crusading armies on their way to Jerusalem in 1094. Call it a practice run if you will. The Crusaders marched in, rounded up over 500 Jews and burnt them alive. Somehow she survived. Over and over again through the ages she saw this, the Jews would manage to build themselves up through the industriousness that seemed inherent in their race, would live comfortably for a generation or two, then they would get their legs hacked out from under them by jealous Christians, all in the name of Christ. Being the childe of Gustav Breidenstein of Berlin had its benefits. Once embraced, she had enjoyed relative immunity from persecution even though she tried her best to uphold the teachings of the Torah. But not even the power of the Breidenstein dynasty could openly withstand the onslaught of Adolph Hitler and his jackbooted thugs. In this onslaught came a host of highly placed Malkavians, including a potential Methuselah, several elders, scores of ancillae, and one particularly haunted neonate named Hauptman Gerhardt Fallen.

Albrecht knew that she had come to the attention of a powerful Malkavian highly placed somewhere in the Totenkopf Division of the SS. She also knew that her most faithful ghoul had been destroyed somehow and that they were most likely on to her. She was running out of time, and could not save very many more of her mortal kinsmen before she had to flee, probably to Scandinavia and eventually England. Gerhardt and his crew of thugs had been in Krakow for several weeks now, but had not made any headway in finding Albrecht. The Ventrue Elder was proving quite elusive.

[i:caf658a7e6] Gerhardt, you are failing us. We are all here watching you, witnessing your abominable mediocrity. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“I’m doing the best I can.”

[i:caf658a7e6] Your best? We do not care about “Your best” I can assure you. All we want are results. The same as der Fuhrer, not that that really matters all that much, but what DOES matter is “der Graff.” HE will most assuredly be displeased by your lack of enthusiasm for the job at hand. If HE gets displeased, WE will be displeased and you do not want that now do you mon cher Gerhardt. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“No, of course not.”

[i:caf658a7e6] Well then, it is settled. You will find her and complete your mission. We are all depending on you Gerhardt. Look around at the ever growing family we have now. Just look. We are all getting very familiar with one another. Did you notice that you are no longer having any difficulty in understanding me? I am now speaking your language like a native. We all are. And that is the point now isn’t it? We ALL are. WE….. ALL. [/i:caf658a7e6]

“We…. all,” said Gerhardt under his breath.

“You said something Hauptmann Fallen?” asked a soldier sitting next to Gerhardt in the car as it headed towards the gates to the Ghetto.

“Mmm?” intoned Gerhardt looking over at the man in the gloom.

“Sorry, Herr Hauptmann, my mistake,” said the soldier looking at Gerhardt who was again gazing out the window at the darkened Polish streets.

The car passed through the entrance way of the Ghetto


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Get your clan name here - PM JuliusPosts: 0Joined: Sun Jul 13, 2003 12:49 am
The yellow Star of David was everywhere. Jew upon Jew all climbing over each other in this fetid squallor like rats. Or so it seemed to Gerhardt. The car came to a halt along a main roadway that spilt the Ghetto into two sections. He was responsible for checking the eastern section to look for Signe, the elusive Ventrue. A fine mist fell upon the soldiers as the platoon of mortal schutzen fell out behind Gerhardt. Their feldgrau helmets glinted sinisterly in the rain as they marched off in step.

The Jewish populace parted to let the soldiers in. They had grown used to these incursions into their domain. Gerhardt moved over to a phone booth and dialed a number. It was the number of a nosferatu collaborator. As with everything inside the walls of the Krakow ghettos, the phone lines ran only within the walls. The nosferatu spy was somewhere nearby. "Ja," said a deep scratchy voice.

"Where is the Albrecht woman," asked Gerhardt.

"Above the pharmacy on P___ Street," came the voice followed by the click of him hanging up.

Gerhardt smiled and hung the phone up. He returned to his platoon and issued the necessary orders. Off they tramped towards the pharmacy. They encircled the building so that she could not escape without their noticing. Gerhardt and a small squad of men went into the entrance and up the stairs. There was only one entrance by the stairs and the fire escapes were all watched. They had her.

Gerhardt reached the door and knocked lightly. "Fraulein Albrecht?" he asked in a congenial tone. "Would you please have a word with me?"

The sound of highheeled foot falls came closer to the door and the door opened to reveal a short and frumpy looking woman with a rather large nose. He could tell from her aura that she was indeed Cainite, and rather old. She did not look like his picture of what a powerful ventrue elder should look.

"Yes?" asked the woman.

"Would you please come with me for a chat?" asked Gerhardt.

The woman looked at the squad of soldiers and their still dripping ponchos and steel helmets. They looked particularly grim, even for Germans. She nodded once and came with him. They piled into the car and drove back out of the ghetto and to the German base.

He led her into a small room where a man sat in the shadows, his face hidden in the dark.

"Who is this you have brought me?" asked the man.

"Signe Albrecht, Herr Graff," said Gerhardt proudly.

"I see," said the Graff. "Did you not look at the photographs in the file of Fraulein Albrecht?"

"Yes," said Gerhardt.

"And yet you brought me this person?"

"Yes," said Gerhardt.

"Did nothing tip you off that this was not the same person in the photographs?" asked the Graff.

"Yes, mein Herr," answered Gerhardt. "She did not look as I thought she would, but she was the one who came when I asked for Signe Albrecht."

The man in the chair placed his head in his hands and shook it. "You naive dolt. You took the first person who claimed to be Signe Albrecht, not bothering to find out if she actually WAS infact Signe Albrecht?"

Gerhardt answered, "Evidently, Mein Herr."

"Evidently, Mein Herr," repeated Der Graff. "Wait for me in your chambers Hauptmann Fallen." With that Gerhardt turned and left the room to dutifully confine himself to his quarters.

[i:cb1090656a] "You didn't even bother to find out that she was not the right woman? You fucking retard," said the voice of the Frenchman in his head. "Even Frau Bauman knew she was not the right person. Now you've gone and done it. I want you to take your clothes iron and heat it up." [/i:cb1090656a]

Gerhardt began to warm his iron.

[i:cb1090656a] "When it is hot I wish you to place it to your face and burn yourself. Perhaps der Graff will be lenient on you if he sees that you have made an act of contrition. [/i:cb1090656a]

The screams the issued from Gerhardt's cell echoed through the corridors. Passing soldiers looked at the door briefly and then sped up to get away from the scene as quickly as possible.


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PostPosted: Fri Dec 31, 2004 7:11 am Reply with quote
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((....part of the "sorry couldn't resist" ploy :)



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(( tee hee



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((couldn't resist?


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((nope



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((resist what?


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(( making the Europe section read "Achtung Baby!"



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(( yeah..that



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