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Message: <blockquote data-quote="ledded" data-source="post: 1504658" data-attributes="member: 12744">[PLAIN]We were like gods once... [An Enemy's Mind][/PLAIN]…… Untersturmführer Berchtwald Deitz was having a bad day. A bad week, really. Well, on second thought, a bad year. Hell, to be honest, the whole verdammt war was not going well for him lately. Deitz thought fondly back to his first encounter with the Nazi party in the early 1930’s; the beer hall days, full of promise and plans for a new era for the German people always filled him with pride and feelings of unrestrained, nationalistic joy. A child of prosperous parents frustrated with the political situation in Germany, the Nazis provided an adolescent Deitz with an outlet for his petty grudges and perceived slights. He happily joined them on the Kristallnacht, The Night of Broken Glass. It was then, with a euphoria bordering on the religious, that he found joy and purpose for once in all of his eighteen years of idle affluence. The old rabbi begged them, on his knees, to spare his relics as his laughing fellows smashed the windows and doors of his precious synagogue and hurled flaming brands inside. Everything that Goebels and Himmler had told them for years about the hated Jews came crashing to him in a torrent of rage and he struck the helpless old man with his axe handle. Filled with righteous glee at the sight of the rabbi, bleeding on his hands and knees, Dietz gave in to his animal instincts and began brutally beating him, screaming curses and racial epithets. His fellows soon joined in, and they spent the whole night in an orgy of purging destruction. Deitz soon came to garner a reputation for ruthlessness and efficiency in service to the new ideals. He joined the SS as soon as he could, and because of his father’s wealth and connections he was promoted to Untersturmführer.  Deitz gladly led his squads of SS in Warsaw and many other polish towns, freeing the people from their hardship under those of lesser blood; the communists, the gypsies, the Jews, anyone who did not submit to the new order. He happily gathered them up into ghettos, sent them to work camps, and executed anyone who resisted or merely looked at him the wrong way. Like animals, he cared nothing for their fate or their bleating for mercy. There were many riches to be had, too, and soon they had grown fat and wealthy plundering those that were not aligned firmly with the Aryan ideal. He was so efficient that he quickly made Hauptsturmführer, and was on the fast-track for a promotion to Sturmbannführer. Life in the SS was good for Deitz, and the privileges of an SS Major were near at hand. But then the eastern front beckoned, and his units were pulled from their duties and sent to the coldest, most hellish place he had ever imagined. Never in his wildest dreams did he expect the verdammt communists to be such a tenacious and murderous foe, willing to sacrifice five of their people for every German they could kill, and the experience of actually being shot at was not one that Deitz savored in the slightest. Even worse a foe was the winter, the killing frost doing as much to grind the German war machine to a halt as the Russians themselves. Then the accusation came. Coward.  In one instant, he went from being a patriot to a pariah. I was only going for help, thought Deitz, only trying to get reinforcements to stave off the waves of Russian crazy-men piling up at their position. We needed ammunition, too, yes, that was it. Ammunition was what he went for. But no, those lazy arschloche he had the misfortune of commanding had let themselves be overrun. So he had lost his entire command, and been demoted, because he had the foresight to think ahead. Only his father’s connections saved him from further embarrassment, but they also served to get him transferred back to Germany, to serve near Belgium and Holland. At least he wouldn’t freeze here, though his career was virtually over now.  And none of it his fault. Or so he whined to himself night after night. He had served Hitler as well as he could, had exhorted himself and others to all manner of horrible tasks in the ghettos, ferreting out and destroying Hitler’s opposition wherever it lay. The blood of hundreds, maybe even thousands, were on his hands and still they were not satisfied that he did his duty. And now, to beat all, some crazy Amerikanischer schweinehund sniper was taking pot-shots through the holes in this bombed out building at them. He had led his men forward after the British surrendered in the face of their ferocious counter-attack, hoping to get ahead of the other SS commanders and regain some of his former glory. Having held back at the bridge, his men were fresh, and they had intelligence from the Gestapo that a small allied force may be attempting to rendezvous with the Dutch underground near this very spot. He set up several MG42 nests and sent the remaining squads forward.  As soon as they saw one of the Amerikanischer fools at the end of the street he ordered all of his men to open fire, hoping to overwhelm them. Not ten seconds after the machine-gun began firing there was a plink sound and blood sprayed from a neat hole in Hans’ helmet, his spasming body toppling to the side. Deitz pushed himself further back into the corner, scurrying away from the damaged and open wall sections, and ordered the loader to take up the gun. His spotter, a grizzled Scharführer whose name he couldn’t remember, peered over the destroyed section of wall to try and find the sniper. The former loader yanked the tripod-mounted machine gun back from the crumbled wall’s edge and crouched as low as possible before opening fire once again. Splack, a round hit the ground by the new gunner’s leg, showering his thigh with painful bits of masonry. And what did the fool do then? He leaned forward, looking up and to the left through the hole to try and see where the round came from, looking ready to wrangle the MG42 around to fire back. Deitz opened his mouth to warn him, but his shout caught in his throat as the young man’s helmet flew off and he fell back heavily on his buttocks, the top of his head looking like nothing less than a broken jar of fruit preserves. The Scharführer dropped into a squat, taking cover and looked at Deitz as if he was about to say something. Before he could suggest that Deitz do something stupid or even suicidal, Deitz screamed at him in German. “You! Idiot! Take the gun! Return their fire! Now! For Hitler! For the Fatherland! I am your Lieutenant! Do it now!”, gesticulating wildly with a drawn pistol as he did so. TheScharführer gave him a curious half-smile, then grunted and took position. The gun was jammed, and he motioned for Deitz to move from his corner to help him clear and load it. Deitz merely shook his head no, oh hell no and waved the pistol at him. The veteran immediately snarled at him, leaping for the nearby ammo box. A round hit the floor right in front of him, and the Scharführer leapt back, overbalancing with the heavy ammo box. As he fell backwards he straightened suddenly to get his balance, and then tried to drop back into a crouch, ammo in hand.  Too late. He had stumbled in front of one of the many holes in the bomb-shattered second storey walls of this building, and the sniper’s bullet hit him in the throat as he tried to lean forward. Even shot, spewing and pumping his blood all over, the Scharführer cleared the MG42 and managed to load a new belt, rounds occasionally hitting within inches of him, before he coughed one last time and fell over the gun with a sighing, gurgling sound. Deitz was in a tough spot. The Fatherland called, and his family had answered. He knew he needed that machine gun; he could hear his men screaming in the street below. Hitler needed him, and he needed him now more than ever. He shakily crept up on the gun. He had cleared the body when a bullet whizzed by, spanging straight through his hand and into the MG42, sparking, as he reached for the bolt to prime it. Screw Hitler. He isn’t here, thought Deitz in surprised agony over his shattered hand after he finished his shrill scream of pain, the first wound he had taken in service to the Reich. He immediately grabbed the body of the Scharführer, and sliding it backwards with him into the corner, pulled it over him. The stench of blood and evacuated bowels was incredible, but much better than being shot again. Deitz would tell them about his bravery, how he had taken the machine gun and mowed down the Americans until they focused their fire on him, his men failing to suppress them as they broke through the lines. How his stupid spotter had foolishly taken a wound and fell onto him, knocking him unconscious during Deitz’s heroic defense of their lines. How it wasn’t his fault. If he could just stay still and avoid the verdammt Amerikanischer affe he heard yelling down in the street he could make his SS superiors believe him, though it was hard to control himself with his whole body shaking and a pool of urine slowly spreading under his chosen hiding spot. … Half a block away and one storey up, Smitty cycled the bolt on his Springfield.  " 'Bout time they took the hint", he muttered to himself. He had seen Hank floating over the street, and the kubelwagon come skidding and firing out of an alley towards Moose. Smitty had also seen the Tiger's shot hit and Moose disappear.  Dammit, Moose, damn it all to hell. Smitty gritted his teeth and fired another shot near where he last saw Moose, and another German died. The sound of explosions near the tanks came to him, bringing his attention back up the street. He noted the church next door was on fire now as John leapt through the window and out into the street, but before he could do anything a bullet spracked off of the stone crenellation he was taking cover behind. Searching with his scope, he caught the glint of afternoon sun in a building several blocks away. Another scope. That meant German snipers. Oh great, this day is just getting better and better. Had he not been so intent on what was going on, he might have seen the halftrack pulling around the church and into the alley, elevating its gun to get a bearing on his position. …</blockquote>

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