Clibanarius
Banned
So I kinda went off half-cocked in the first version and it needed a lot work so. . .
Again, comments and critique are welcome.
May 1946.
Hundreds of thousands of men in US lend-lease uniforms waited patiently inside the Ami sea-lift ships the Americans had been kind enough to lend to their french masters.
Reinhard Bergmann, formerly of the Brandenbergers and after Valkryie the Grossdeustchland Divsion, leaned back against the steel wall, or the Bulkhead as the sailors called it, not that he cared, let the sailors worry about making up new and confusing terms for a perfectly good wall, and mopped sweat from his forehead.
While Indochina was hot, a thick pervading heat that surrounded you like a blanket, 'balmy' one of the americans had called it, he'd fought in the Afrika Korp where blistering heat in the day and sub-zero nights were a fact of life and so this didn't bother him.
He'd been a little surprised when the frenchman who ran the prison camp had offered him and several others like him a choice, fight under France's flag until we have no more use for you and be granted your freedom. . . or see how long it'll take for us to work you and your friends to death.
Not much a choice but compared to being worked to death by the french while the russians carved up the Fatherland. . . his lip curled in disgust.
"Move! Get your shit and prepare to disembark." Bellowed the french Officer they'd been stuck with, Bergmann stood, shouldered his duffel bag and joined the seething mass of former german soldiers as they made their way up out of the ship's hot confines on to the deck where it was only marginally less hot.
He paused and blinked, he could see hundreds of Panzer IV's Shermans being off-loaded, even a few Panthers and once he saw a handful of Tigers. Stuka Dive-bombers and transport planes were being off-loaded by the dozens but what really caught his attention were the masses of german soldiers on the docks.
"They're not using a few veterans to support their forces they're planning on using us to fight their whole damn war for them."
Reinhard turned to see who'd spoken, the man was little under six feet and had a rippling scar that covered most of the left side of his face. The man grinned, making the scar ripple grotesquely. "Johan Brasche, formerly of the Waffen-SS Panzer-Grenadier Division Gotz von Berlichingen."
Reinhard shook his hand and despite of his distaste for the Waffen-SS he found himself liking the man. "Pleased to meet you, I am Reinhard Bergmann formerly of the Brandenbergers and Grossdeustchland."
They walked down the gangway and continued down the docks. Brasche waved a hand at the organized chaos around them. "Damn, when you look at all this material, all these vehicles. . . just all of it, it's no wonder the americans are so generous," he chuckled, "they'd be crushed under a pile of their products if they didn't share."
Looking around at the crates of weapons, ammunition, parts and everything else Bergmann had to agree, and to think that this was only a fraction of what the americans were capable of. Granted, he'd been on the receiving end of the endless waves the russians had thrown at them but this was. . . impressive.
"I just wish the americans had kept rolling and did to the russians what we couldn't." Said Brasche with another chuckle.
Bergmann raised an eyebrow, he'd killed because he had to do, because he had a duty to the Fatherland and since the enemy had been trying to kill him and his comrades, the lives he'd taken didn't bothered him. But apparently the SS man was one of the ones wholiked it.
He shrugged mentally, it mattered not, he'd had plenty of men like that on his own unit, they weren't insanse and they weren't sadists, they just enjoyed combat.
"It's the only time I truly feel alive, that I feel I am doing something meaningful." An old friend had told him on the one the rare occaisons when they talked about it.
He sighed and suddenly very old, that friend, like most of his friends had been killed at Kursk when they'd been sent straight into the teeth of hell.
"I've told this is just the beginning."
Bergmann shook himself from his reverie and glanced at Brasche. "Oh, yes?"
Brasche nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, mein herr, the americans alone turned over more than than seven hundred thousand german prisoners to the french."
Either not knowing or not caring what the french had planned for them. Bergmann thought. "Well," he said, "it would nice to see some old friends again." Assuming any of them are still alive.
Brasche's grin got wider, if that were possible. "Oh yes, mein herr, I think that we'll have a grand old time, as the americans say."
Bergmann watched bemusedly as his companion took a deep breath of the vietnamese air and laughed like a delighted child.
"Oh yes, a wonderful tropical climate, beautiful women," Brasche blew a kiss to pair of giggling whores, "friendly natives. . . and our charming french hosts are going to give us an in-depth tour of this wonderul country and its beautiful scenery."
Bergmann smiled at the irrepressible SS man's antics and realized that it was the first time he'd done so in many months.
Again, comments and critique are welcome.
May 1946.
Hundreds of thousands of men in US lend-lease uniforms waited patiently inside the Ami sea-lift ships the Americans had been kind enough to lend to their french masters.
Reinhard Bergmann, formerly of the Brandenbergers and after Valkryie the Grossdeustchland Divsion, leaned back against the steel wall, or the Bulkhead as the sailors called it, not that he cared, let the sailors worry about making up new and confusing terms for a perfectly good wall, and mopped sweat from his forehead.
While Indochina was hot, a thick pervading heat that surrounded you like a blanket, 'balmy' one of the americans had called it, he'd fought in the Afrika Korp where blistering heat in the day and sub-zero nights were a fact of life and so this didn't bother him.
He'd been a little surprised when the frenchman who ran the prison camp had offered him and several others like him a choice, fight under France's flag until we have no more use for you and be granted your freedom. . . or see how long it'll take for us to work you and your friends to death.
Not much a choice but compared to being worked to death by the french while the russians carved up the Fatherland. . . his lip curled in disgust.
"Move! Get your shit and prepare to disembark." Bellowed the french Officer they'd been stuck with, Bergmann stood, shouldered his duffel bag and joined the seething mass of former german soldiers as they made their way up out of the ship's hot confines on to the deck where it was only marginally less hot.
He paused and blinked, he could see hundreds of Panzer IV's Shermans being off-loaded, even a few Panthers and once he saw a handful of Tigers. Stuka Dive-bombers and transport planes were being off-loaded by the dozens but what really caught his attention were the masses of german soldiers on the docks.
"They're not using a few veterans to support their forces they're planning on using us to fight their whole damn war for them."
Reinhard turned to see who'd spoken, the man was little under six feet and had a rippling scar that covered most of the left side of his face. The man grinned, making the scar ripple grotesquely. "Johan Brasche, formerly of the Waffen-SS Panzer-Grenadier Division Gotz von Berlichingen."
Reinhard shook his hand and despite of his distaste for the Waffen-SS he found himself liking the man. "Pleased to meet you, I am Reinhard Bergmann formerly of the Brandenbergers and Grossdeustchland."
They walked down the gangway and continued down the docks. Brasche waved a hand at the organized chaos around them. "Damn, when you look at all this material, all these vehicles. . . just all of it, it's no wonder the americans are so generous," he chuckled, "they'd be crushed under a pile of their products if they didn't share."
Looking around at the crates of weapons, ammunition, parts and everything else Bergmann had to agree, and to think that this was only a fraction of what the americans were capable of. Granted, he'd been on the receiving end of the endless waves the russians had thrown at them but this was. . . impressive.
"I just wish the americans had kept rolling and did to the russians what we couldn't." Said Brasche with another chuckle.
Bergmann raised an eyebrow, he'd killed because he had to do, because he had a duty to the Fatherland and since the enemy had been trying to kill him and his comrades, the lives he'd taken didn't bothered him. But apparently the SS man was one of the ones wholiked it.
He shrugged mentally, it mattered not, he'd had plenty of men like that on his own unit, they weren't insanse and they weren't sadists, they just enjoyed combat.
"It's the only time I truly feel alive, that I feel I am doing something meaningful." An old friend had told him on the one the rare occaisons when they talked about it.
He sighed and suddenly very old, that friend, like most of his friends had been killed at Kursk when they'd been sent straight into the teeth of hell.
"I've told this is just the beginning."
Bergmann shook himself from his reverie and glanced at Brasche. "Oh, yes?"
Brasche nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, mein herr, the americans alone turned over more than than seven hundred thousand german prisoners to the french."
Either not knowing or not caring what the french had planned for them. Bergmann thought. "Well," he said, "it would nice to see some old friends again." Assuming any of them are still alive.
Brasche's grin got wider, if that were possible. "Oh yes, mein herr, I think that we'll have a grand old time, as the americans say."
Bergmann watched bemusedly as his companion took a deep breath of the vietnamese air and laughed like a delighted child.
"Oh yes, a wonderful tropical climate, beautiful women," Brasche blew a kiss to pair of giggling whores, "friendly natives. . . and our charming french hosts are going to give us an in-depth tour of this wonderul country and its beautiful scenery."
Bergmann smiled at the irrepressible SS man's antics and realized that it was the first time he'd done so in many months.
