Ein Volk, Ein Reich (IC)

[The Australian]

Lieb' Vaterland, magst ruhig sein...

Sitting in the passenger seat next to the driver of a silver, open-top Horch 930, Dietrich Frotscher looked at the idyllic French countryside. The fields went on forever and were spotted with trees, and the River Garonne was flowing beside him. The driver, who had the rank stripes of a Oberschütze, seemed preoccupied with getting him there and back. He was, after all, assigned to a separate unit that was usually attached with the regiment. Dietrich was glad to be assigned to such a tucked-away place, far away from the East and the Soviets, and in the middle of the beautiful French landscape. It was a dream come true! He was quite glad to be out of the 20th Infantry Division, in which he was assigned to. Elements of that division, including his former regiment, were being moved to the border with the Soviets, which shook him up greatly. He had faced the Soviets once before, and with the uneasy peace, wasn't just ready to do it a second time.

The car came to a halt in front of the town-hall of Ville de St-Jean, and Dietrich stepped out and picked up his Schirmmütze and stuck it on, giving the driver the current salute of the Wehrmacht. It was the arm stretched out 90 degrees, with the hand open. The driver nodded as he turned the engine to neutral, and Dietrich proceeded up the stone steps to the tan-coloured bricks of the town hall, with two guards standing on either side of the wide doors. He opened them, and was greeted by Hauptmann Konrad Gauglitz, the commander of the company, who was talking to a French police officer.

"Congratulations, again! Now, this is the new commander of the first platoon that I must talk to, you are dismissed." The Hauptmann said, with the officer giving a salute and walking off. Konrad ushered Dietrich into an adjacent hallway, and into an office, which was a rather simplistic one. There were three chairs in front of a desk which had a type-write and stacks of paper on it, with a window behind it. Konrad offered Dietrich a seat, which he took and Konrad took the one behind the desk.

"Hauptmann." Dietrich said, nodding his head in salute. He took off his cap and put it on his lap.

"Welcome to Ville de St-Jean, Oberleutnant," Konrad started, "I quite enjoy it here, and I hope you will too. I understand that you have much experience in leading men?"

"I started in my command track during the Battle of France, yes." Dietrich replied, "I led a squad during Operation Barbarossa and Operation Sea Lion."

"Good!" Konrad smiled, "Your platoon is billeted in a building not far from here. It's a civilian building, and I believe it was the old bank. It closed down not long before the beginning of the war, and we took control of it, rather than build a barracks. The other platoons are billeted the same. Now, you're dismissed."

Dietrich left the room and stuck his cap back on, leaving the building and headed back into the car, "I've gotten directions from the guards to the first platoon's billet. Only a minute's drive, sir." The driver said, smiling as Dietrich got in and started the car. As the car drove to the old bank, Dietrich found himself looking at the civilians. They seemed to be returning to normal. It wasn't anything like the last time he was in France, where there was almost no civilians out. It was good to see things returning to such a good state.

The car pulled up in front of the old bank, which was in relatively good shape. Two men walked out as the driver got out and helped Dietrich with his two bags.

"Oberleutnant?" One asked, and both saluted Dietrich.

"Ja, now, go and tell the rest of the platoon that their new commander has arrived." He said, with the two men running inside. The Horch 930 had just driven off, and Dietrich stood and looked around, seeing some civilians pass by him with one bag at his foot, and the other in his hand, "Hm, this will be very interesting..."

[Byrd Man]

Hugo was sitting on his cot with a notebook and pencil in his hands and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. The notebook was dirty and warped from dampness. The inside of the book showed that it was complied with notations, journal entries, and other scraps of writing Hugo had thought to put down. The idea to keep a journal had come to him just before leaving training. He wanted to be the next Ernst Junger, create the definitive German text on the war. Now, as Hugo thumbed through it, all he could think of was death.

June 23rd, 1941
We have crossed the frontier into the Soviet territory. The site of our mighty soldiers and powerful Panzers send the Communist running scared. The high command says we will be in Moscow before the autumn. If this is the best the Soviets can do, then there may be truth to the general's boasts.

July 9th, 1941
Karl and Albert are dead. They were killed by a rabid soviet woman who shot them both down with a pistol. She killed herself before any of the squad could return fire. These dogs fight with no honor.

September 30th, 1941
Gunther, Manfried, and Werner are all dead. On a patrol, they were butchered by the Soviet partisans.

October 25th, 1941
On the way to Minsk, we saw the first snowfall of the campaign. Still dressed in our summer gear, we had to raid a nearby village for clothing. Hauptmann Kruger tried to rape a Russian girl. She clawed his eyes out before the other men could put a bullet in her head.

November 12th, 1941
The cold is unbearable, the Soviets fight like beasts. I do not believe in the propaganda like others, but they seem to be nearly subhuman in their actions. I do not know what will kill me first: the cold, or the enemy.


Hugo put the notebook down on the cot beside him and flicked the ashes from his cigarette. He could mourn the dead and relive his nightmares later. For now, he had to finish his letter home. He had only written twice since they had invaded England, and he still hadn't gotten any letters back. He hoped his father was alright. In the last letter, Mother had said that he was having trouble with a terrible cough. Hugo pulled a fresh sheet of paper from his notebook and used the book to bare down on the paper with his pencil. He had just started the letter when he heard excited footsteps coming down the way.

"Hugo," Markus said in a hurried voice as he came into view. "The new commander is here."

Hugo sighed a bit and placed his notebook down again. Stubbing out his cigarette, he stood from his cot and began to make sure he was at least semi-presentable. They had been waiting on a new commander since they had arrived in France. Satisfied with his shirt and pants, Hugo picked his jacket off the cot and slid it on. He brushed the dust off his coat and let out a deep, anxious breath.

"Go spread the word to the others," Hugo said to Markus. "Make sure they don't look like slobs."

Markus nodded and hurried off while Hugo began to walk towards the front of the bank.

[rpg101]

One person's craziness is another person's reality.-Tim Burton

He was Soldat Wilhelm Kerrl. He was in his mid-twenties, and had enlisted only several months before. According to the paper, he suffered from a fear of needles and had arrived at the field hospital after his squad returned from patrol. He was suffering pain in his ankle, and couldn't put weight on it.

Soldat Kerrl was sitting on a table, drumming his fingers on the wood while he waited. A brown haired man that needed a bath, he had a sort of rugged, backwoods look to him. He gave Panzergrenadier Streithorst a small smile when he approached, to show that he wasn't in any severe pain.

“Soldat Wilhelm Kerrl?”

“Yes sir.”

Streithorst nodded, “It says here that you’re suffering pain in your ankle.”

“Yes sir. I twisted it when on patrol, I stepped in a hole on the road.” He shrugged, “I guess I wasn't looking where my feet where going.”

“Please lift your leg,” he spoke bluntly, and without passion. He had dealt with too many screaming men on the table to really offer sympathy to a man who had twisted his ankle because he hadn't bothered to watch where he was going. When the Soldat lifted his leg, Streithorst felt around with his fingers. The injured flinched, but Streithorst made no move to apologize.

“Nothing seems broken, just a twisted ankle.” Twisted ankles and upset stomachs, that was all he got to see anymore. “You can lower your leg now.”

“Yes sir.”

Streithorst picked up the clipboard and scribbled something on it. “You need to take it easy for a bit, and stay off that ankle. No more patrols for a while.” He turned and waved an orderly down, “Get that ankle wrapped up. Remember, snug, not tight. He needs good circulation or the healing will be slowed.” Technically, Streithorst should have been wrapping the man’s ankle himself, but he had been a medic for so long, he had gained an unofficial superiority in the field hospital. He'd leave all but the exciting tasks for the others.

As he left Soldat Kerrl, he met Panzergrenadier Bachmeier. Bachmeier was just a rifleman, but he and Streithorst had gained a sort of friendship during Barbossa when Bachmeier had fallen ill due to the freezing winter. He looked well enough at the moment, so Streithorst wasn't sure why he was in the field hospital.

“Good afternoon Reinhardt.”

Streithorst nodded, “I wish it was a good one. I have to go deal with a Panzerobergrenadier that’s been shitting water for days.”

Bachmeier smirked, “Have you heard? Our new commander has arrived.”

The medic smirked, “Good, I suppose I’ll have to clean up his shit soon as well.” Not that he’d be the one cleaning it up, he’d have an orderly do that.

[Gunther]

4. Juli 1942: The machinegun staccato, five to nine round bursts raked across the highway. The occasional belch from the panzerkampfwagon VIs demolishing British Sherman tanks, purchased from the mongrels across the ocean punctuated the deafening roar of so many MG42 Machineguns. Burnt gunpowder, diesel fuel, gasoline, exhaust, sweat, body odor and the damp soil all mixed to fill nostrils south of Leeds, England as infantrymen of second battalion, 46th motorized infantry hugged the dirt waiting for something to happen.

The soldiers of No. 5 Company all heard the Hauptmann's whistle. Every man in the company stood up and sprinted across the highway. The machineguns proving supporting fires all fell silent to allow the Wehrmacht infantrymen to cross the open ground. The Bren and Vickers machineguns on the far side were not as courteous. The Tigers aided the assault by targeting those buildings that provided the highest volumes of fire.

The sounds were deafening. Günter watched the men running in the open. Fear enveloped him, but instead of paralyzing him as it would a new soldier, it propeled him to move forward as quickly as possible. He didn't want to be stuck in that killing ground any longer than needed. He remembered slipping on a pool of blood. His brothers were dropping rapidly. He reached the far side of the road. He spied a Sherman tank trying to maneuver closer to him and his squad for a shot. Karl Faust lay lifeless on the far side embankment with a Panzerfaust gripped in his hands. Günter pried the anti-tank weapon from his cold dead fingers and readied it for use.

The Squad machine gunner lay in the prone near the edge of the road with bipods extended pouring fire into a nearby structure. The other riflemen were doing the same, placing rounds into the building. The Sherman was almost around the corner. Günter ran up to the corner of the building and waited for the 30-ton beast to get closer. When he exposed himself, he found that he was looking at a side profile of the tank. He didn't question this luck. He dropped to one knee, shouldered the weapon, aimed it at the panzer just twenty yards away and squeezed the trigger. The warhead struck the rear of the vehicle where its engine and fuel are located. Since the Sherman uses regular gasoline, the tank burst into flames in seconds. The entire vehicle was consumed in fire. The tank's crewmen attempted to get out of the vehicle, but were engulfed in flames as well. Günter could see the flames licking at their clothing and flesh as they flopped around on the dirt. They floundered on the ground trying to extinguish themselves. Günter brought his MP40 Schmeisser up to bear and let a few three round bursts spray at each of the British Crewmen. His actions ended their suffering.

He saw his squad rush to him. There were only six left, including Unteroffizier Lang. They ran into the nearest building and found a squad of British infantry. Fortunately, the riflemen had already fixed their bayonets on their Kar-98k rifles and set about putting them to use. Upon entering the room, Günter ran to the right side corner and began firing the remnants of his Machine pistol magazine into the British Squad.

The British were taken just as surprised as the Germans. There was a mad minute of blasting from both sides. Bayonets were plunged into flesh and a few hand grenades were tossed in close proximity of one another. In less than sixty seconds, the rooms went quiet. A dark heavy cloud of burnt cordite filled the space. Günter could not hear. He was defeaned by the sound of the explosion. His hands shook. He fiddled with the magazine on his Machinepistol, accidentally dropped it, he was so nervous and quickly shoved a full one inside the well.

He held the MP40 up to his shoulder and searched the rest of the building. He heard other members of No. 5 Company enter the building while he conducted his search. The building was empty of soldiers. When he returned to the first floor he saw the corpses of his squad and the enemy dead. Some soldiers were decapitated or missing limbs. One soldier had both his eyes popped out and blood oozed out of both opening and the ears. The stench of the recently deceased began to fill the confined spaces.

~~~~~~

He woke up from his sleep in a sweat. He could still smell the death from that day, even though it was a year and a half ago. It was one of the worst days of his life. He never wanted to experience that again, yet here he was reliving it every day in his mind. He wanted to sleep because he was physically exhausted, but didn't want to sleeping knowing that he would have to relive the death and carnage of that day.

He woke up hearing someone from the platoon yelling about a new Platoon Commander arriving at the barracks--barracks, an old commandeered bank the Frenchies weren't using. It was the barracks as far as Günter was concerned.

Günter stood up and began tidying up his uniform. He reached for his cap and tucked it under his belt. He checked the buttons of his blouse and gave himself a once over in the mirror. His hair was short and he had shaved this morning. The Iron Cross at his throat another reminder of July 4, 1942. He quickly marched out into the lobby of the bank.

"Herr Oberleutnant!" unteroffizier Lang yelled. "It is a pleasure to meet you sir." Since they were in doors, there was no reason to salute. He stood at attention and introduced himself. "Ich bin Unterfeldwebel Günter Lang, Erste rottenfuhrer!" He clicked his heals for emphasis. [Tr: I am Sergeant Günter Lang, first squad leader!]

[Orion86]

Maaz had never been able to work out why the food in the army was always so bad. While on tour he could except that you weren't going to get gourmet food, seeing as it had sometimes been cooked in a spare helmet. However, he didn't know why they couldn't get some decent food while they were based at a static base, especially as they now controlled most of western Europe. They had found several stashes of fine wine when they had moved through France the first time but now they had either already been looted or hidden by their owners. So Maaz was now poking around his plate the remains of what he had been told was lamb stew, although it tasted more like goat, and washing it down with a glass of milk, which again he thought tasted like goat. Their occupation of France was relatively easy but there were still elements of the French resistance remaining but they weren't very active in their current area. Despite this lack of activity they were still being blamed for the poor quality food, raids on supply wagons being the favored excuse. Putting what was left of his meal away to be cleaned he put his chair back under the table and headed for his billet.

As he moved through the town he picked up a newspaper and wondered slowly back to his room. Maaz wasn't on duty until the evening and he was going to make the most of the time off that he got. His plan was to go back to his room, pick up his sketch pad and then head down to the quite spot by the river that he had found the other day. Painting was one of the few things that he had managed to keep up while he had been in the army, thankfully for him a few scraps of paper and some charcoal were relatively cheap things to barter for. As he approached the billet he noticed that their was a lot of activity and he was worried that they had suddenly received some urgent orders to move out.

Maaz looked around until he saw someone that he knew,

"Hey Klaus what the hell is going on?! Don't tell me that we have been called up somewhere?"

Klaus, a stocky, blonde haired man from Munich looked up at Maaz and smiled,

"Don't worry Maaz we ain't going anywhere. It is just that the new CO or something has showed up so everyone is running around trying to get ready for an inspection."

Maaz's face fell slightly, it looked like he wasn't going to get down to that spot by the river today after all. With a new CO arriving they would need to go through the laborious process of setting out the ground rules and establishing the dominance of the officer over his new men.

"Thanks for the heads up Klaus, don't forget that you owe me a couple of packets of smokes. You have really got to learn to play cards better or I am going to soon own everything but your underwear."

Maaz smiled at Klaus and then headed off to see what he could do before the CO turned up for an inspection.

[The Australian]

Dietrich was startled at first by the Unterfeldwebel, who had a shining Iron Cross around his neck. The professionalism of the platoon was something to be admired, if all of them were like this man. Of course, Dietrich wasn't exactly the most professional soldier. He had suspected that he had been assigned here simply because of his apathetic view on a war, especially with the Soviets. He had seen too many comrades get butchered down in Russia to want to do it again. The Soviets were blood-thirsty, without a shred of honour, chivalry, or courage.

He extended his hand to Günter for a handshake, smiling, "Guten morgen, Unterfeldwebel." He spoke, his voice stern and commanding, "I assume the platoon is up to your standards? I know you were temporary commander until I arrived."

[Gunther]

Günter took the Lieutenant's hand and shook firmly. He quickly considered the question and responded in text book fashion, "Jawohl, herr Oberleutnant! Most of the platoon consists of relatively new and inexperienced soldiers. There may be a handful of veterans from Sea Lion and earlier operations. The 46th sustained a high turnover rate in Britannia, as did the rest of the 30th Division." Günter didn't know how much to tell the new Platoon Leader. He reserved himself to answering the man's questions.

This Lieutenant showed promise in his initial appearance. He also wore the Iron Cross. That told the first squad leader that the man had actually chewed on some dirt; possessing experience to back up his knowledge of the military. He wondered if the Lieutenant had met Hauptfeldwebel Ackerman, his new Platoon Sergeant yet.

[Byrd Man]

It had only been a few minutes since had stubbed out his cigarette, but Hugo was already in need of another smoke. Anything to calm his nerves. He was anxious to meet the new CO, mostly out of fear. Fear that this man who would lead them would be the wrong sort of man. A lazy or incompetent officer would be trouble. The 46th had its share of layabouts and nincompoops, but nearly all of those men were all enlisted, none of them above Obergefreiter. They could be disciplined. A worthless officer was a different sort of problem all together. A poor soldier gets himself killed, but a poor officer gets many men killed.

"To hell with it," he said to himself as he walked down the halls of the old bank. He stopped and pulled out his cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth, lit it up and inhaled deeply. Two men quickly passed by as he blew out the large cloud of smoke. Oberfunker Müller and Soldat Schnider. Hugo nodded at both men as he started back up down the hall. With the cigarette still in his mouth, he came to the lobby of the bank and stopped at the entrance leading into the lobby. Lang was talking with a man that had the marks of an Oberleutnant. Hugo took one long drag off his cigarette and watched Lang talk with the man, unsure of when to introduce himself.

[Vuurvos]

Johan felt uneasy as they were driving through the French landscapes. It seemed so idyllic, nothing like he'd expect from.. being in the army. And why was he being sent here, and not towards the front? He gripped his karabiner 98k tighter as they drove through a hole in the road. It all seemed so strange. He, Johan the new guy, was being sent off to France to sit around and wait for the enemy to come. He looked at the other men in the back of the Kfz. 305 blitz transport truck. They seemed eerily quiet as well. He jokingly tried to start conversation with the man next to him. “So what's the deal with army food, mein Kamerad?”

The man simply looked at him and shook his head. Johan looked down at the floor of the truck again and decided it was better to shut up. Then suddenly he was almost flung into the man he tried to talk to. He quickly gripped the bottom of his ''seat'' and managed to withhold himself from ramming into the already pissed off man. “Entschuldigung!” he murmured as a man walked up and opened the backside of the truck. They were finally free.. sort of. Johan waited untill the men in front of him had gotten out and then followed suit, jumping outside and immediatly noticing that the area wasn't that bad. He could get used to it.

“This is nothing like Russia.” Another recruit walked up to him and slapped him on the back. “Ofcourse it isn't, this is France, where we drink wine and eat bread.” he said while laughing and walking away to get some orders. Johan had received orders while he was still in the Hague. He grabbed the slip of paper from his back pocket and read carefully what it said.. Ville de St. Jean.. or otherwise, village of Saint Jean. Johan had heard of that village before in geography classes when he was still in school. Supposedly there wasn't much going on. Oh.. where to go next?

“Entschuldigung meinherr! I have just arrived in this village, herr. May I ask you where the barracks are?” he said with a thick Dutch accent. The man with the stripes didn't bother to talk back to this green as grass recruit, and instead pointed towards the bank. He continued his walk around the village while puffing on a cigar and reading a newspaper, half folded, in his hands. Johan greeted the man, throwing his right hand up in a ninety degree angle with a stretched out hand. “Viel dank, herr Oberleutnant!” He turned around and slung his rifle onto his shoulder and adjusted his helmet. He marched off towards the bank, or otherwise the barracks. Once inside he noticed two important looking men talking to eachother.

He decided not to bother anyone lest he wished to repeat the situation he had just minutes ago. People here didn't seem interested in new recruits so he just had to earn his spot amongst the soldiers. Most of these men looked rugged, but still maintained a good personal hygiene. Must be because they're in France.. the unlucky bastards on the Ostfront probably weren't so lucky to have time to shave. Then again the beard might be useful against the cold. He smiled stupidly at his own ''joke'' of sorts. He remembered when he first heard about Operation Barbarossa. It was terrible. The Russians were attacked during a peace treaty, a cowardly action from the, at that time, Führer Adolf Hitler. But they managed to defend themselves in a more or less effective manner. ''Scorched Earth'' his father called it. A total retreat with the burning of everything useful. Partisans around every corner. He started smiling even more when he realised that he was probably one of the few lucky recruits who wasn't send to the Ostfront, but rather to an already occupied and relatively calm place.

Despite this uneasy treaty he had confidence the Russians wouldn't wage war on the Reich again. Russia was strong, but Germany no longer had to fight at two fronts if they did decide to attack. Russia was smart enough to know that. Johan took a good look around and walked through a door, what used to be the waiting area was transformed into a barracks, complete with bunk beds and some chests to store items in. He decided to sit down on a non claimed bed and wait for something to happen. Suddenly people started running around and Johan heard whispers about “an inspection” of sorts. He quickly realised what it was when people started violently cleaning their buckles and such. He managed to jump up in time to get to a mirror and quickly adjusted his collar and helmet, again. He patted down his pants and jacket in order to look as clean as he could, but he didn't have much practice at this so he missed most spots. He grabbed his rifle again and rushed over to the lines that had started forming by now, still a bit unorganised. Johan was unsure if there was even an inspection going to happen but he'd rather not be that new guy that missed the que.

As he rushed over to the line he tripped over the leather cord of his karabiner 98k and fell flat on his face, but the Wehrmacht was no place for crybabies. He shuffled himself around a bit and managed to get back up, and stood in line, his chin held up proudly and his weapon held to his shoulder. The wait for the inspection began.

[rpg101]

Streithorst stepped into the barracks where most of the soldiers in his platoon were billeted. A large portion were away on duties, patrols, posted as sentries, working with the local populace, there was any number of jobs to do, even in a peaceful little posting like theirs. The rest of the platoon sat around the barracks though, gathered around tables or laying in their beds. A few played a game cards while another group listened to a story about one young man’s meeting with a local French woman. In the corner, a record was playing Die Wacht am Rhein.

The medic stepped over a discarded bottle of wine and approached the table of card players.

“Interested in a game Panzergrenadier?” One of the men asked.

“Can’t, the new Oberleutnant has arrived.” He left the table and walked to his bed. “I suggest that you all get dressed.” Most of them were stripped down to their trousers and undershirts, not exactly the model of professionalism.

Streithorst pulled on his M41 field tunic. He had left it off during his work in the hospital because of the risk of blood or stains getting on the tunic as he worked, well, that and it frankly was rather hot in the field hospital. No one said much when you operated without standard dress on, so he figured it was easiest to take advantage of that.

“Have you met the new Oberleutnant yet?” One of the men asked.

“Nein, I’m on my way now. I believe that as platoon medic, it is proper for me to greet him upon arrival.” He dropped to his knees and felt around under his bed. After a moment, he found the Iron Cross (2nd class) that had fallen under there. He shined it on his sleeve and pinned it to his uniform. He wasn’t overly fond of wearing it, but he supposed that it was best to wear to meet the new Oberleutnant.