Konrad Feldpetzer
September 24st, 1943
The Parisian Underground, France
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“I call that one the RC10,” Reuben gestured to the abomination of a weapon in my hands, Achille’s temporary stand-in grinning like a Cheshire cat.
It was such a weird weapon that it’s rather hard to describe. The stock was similar to that of an American Garand, but was much rounder than what I’d seen in the field manuals. And the firing mechanism had been switched out for the bolt of a rifle I didn’t recognize. The front was a nightmare of sheet metal roughly bent into shape, with three or four layers of duct tape shielding the user from cuts that said metal could produce.
“Just means Reuben’s Custom 10. Didn’t get too creative with it since I made it back in March of ’42, I think. We were going through a bit of a resource shortage in the first half of the year, and the RC10 was me trying to make a relatively cheap weapon out of whatever I had on hand at the time,” the Brit explained.
Well at least that gave me a reason for the Frankenstein of a weapon’s existence.
“I think I’ll go with one of the more traditional weapons,” I gave an awkward smile, placing the RC10 back on its shelf on the wall.
Reuben nodded, “Probably best. I’ve been meaning to turn that model into scrap for other projects for a while now. Never got ‘round to it. The bolt had a tendency to mess up and cause the whole mechanism to explode for some reason.”
I gave the weapon on the wall a wary glance before turning my gaze to some other models.
“What about SMGs?” I asked, taking my experiences on the raid to heart. I hadn’t ever actually fought in urban environments before that, since I’d only been in Paris for a week or so as part of the war effort before the whole resistance business kicked into gear.
The Brit gave a hum, “Well, you’ve already seen the MP40s and some of the Beretta models. Other than that, all the SMGs are Frankensteins of whatever I got laying around.”
“What about an FG42? I saw a few of those when I first came in here,” I had just remembered them, but I was already getting a bit excited. They were only used by Fallschirmjäger units, meaning that I had never actually ever gotten to use one despite the fact that I’d seen them in use during my short time as an impromptu medic.
“The two standard ones you saw are non-operational, but I do have a few custom variants that may interest you,” Reuben grinned, leading me over to one of the corners of the “lab”.
He produced a modified FG42 out of one of the drawers of a workbench. It didn’t look too different from the original, apart from one glaring feature. The port where the 20 round box magazine on the side was fed was jury-rigged, with 9x19MM PARABELLUM carefully written atop it.
“It’s meant to feed out of this MP40 magazine,” Reuben fished said magazine out of the drawer, “You get more rounds in exchange of less stopping power. Plus, the magazine itself is pretty common.”
Before I could open my mouth, he placed them both on the table, pulling another drawer and grabbing another model, this time with a proper box magazine and minimal duct tape, “Or you could use the .308 I have here. Packs a bigger punch but I had to scale back the firing rate to adjust for it. Heavier too. Magazine is also common, had to jury-rig the port though.
“I’ll take the .308 one,” I held my hands out, Reuben handing it over.
He wasn’t lying when he said it was heavy. While it may not have been heavy heavy, it definitely carried some heft behind it compared to other weapons I’d used.
I closely examined the rifle, making sure everything seemed to be in working order. Bipods were attached to the front, and it seemed that the barrel was clean. The stock was also in decent condition, though some dust had accumulated.
“Great. I’ll have it ready for you by tomorrow,” Reuben grinned.
I perked up, confused, “It’s not ready to take now?”
The Brit shook his head, “Nah, it’s still missing a firing pin and the bolt has some trouble switching between modes. Tends to clog up a lot. Shouldn’t be much trouble now that I actually have a reason to do it, though you’ll have to wait after I finish all my other requisition requests.”
“If you say so,” I gave Reuben back the rifle, watching him place the 9mm one back into a drawer with the .308 taking its place on top.
I was about to turn around and walk out, but the man began talking before I could do so, “Speaking of trouble, shouldn’t you be resting?”
I quirked my head, not offering an answer.
“You and Annette went out on that mission with Bastien and Maxime, right? The one where Annette got shot?” Reuben asked, glancing back at me.
“Yes, and I didn’t. So why would I be resting?”
“Well, if what Achilles told me is true, that mission went spectacularly wrong. I assume you didn’t get enough rest during that time, so you should be resting,” Reuben turned around, now with a wrench in his left hand and chuckled, “Erhardt and I butt heads over this all the time since I keep pushing for people to rest after missions.”
“I’ll consider it,” was all I could really respond.
“Just a friend looking out for a friend,” he chuckled, spinning the wrench around in his hand absentmindedly.
I blinked at the phrase, “Well that’s the first time I’ve ever been called a friend by a Brit.”
“I’d assume so,” he grinned, walking off to work on whatever else he had on his list. So I, a German in the midst of a war, now had a fellow German and a Brit as a friend, with a Marxist as a reluctant acquaintance. And also possibly a Frenchie.
I lived in confusing times.
Perhaps Reuben was right about the whole rest thing, since even though I had slept for nearly a day after the fact, the mission still had me exhausted. When I had flopped into my cot, it felt like heaven.
And, to my surprise, Annette was in her own cot. She’d usually spend her waking hours off doing whatever, and only lay down when it was actually time to sleep.
“Let me guess; you were henned into bed,” Annette piped up.
“What makes you think that?” I quirked an eyebrow, facing her.
Thankfully, after the whole ordeal, we were close enough that I could securely call her a friend without having her belt me with the buttstock of a rifle.
One perk that came with it was actually seeing Annette without so much malice in her eyes. It didn’t suit her. While she seemed to have an underlying anger that was always there, sometimes she was more irritable, other times she was calmer.
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Made sense; nobody could stay consistently angry on the surface without burning themselves out.
“The resignation in your eyes as you walked in,” this time, she gave a half-laugh, half-snort.
I’d heard lots of laughter in the past few months. None of it genuine. I’ve heard it from commanders staring down at the troops with condescending eyes, laughing in pity. I’ve heard it from soldiers being thrown into battle, nervously giggling. I’ve heard it from the throats of dying men, finally breaking down as they faced the pearly gates.
But that genuine laugh made me feel safe and secure, like there was a future worth fighting for and that I wasn’t just fighting out of necessity for my own survival.
I really don’t know how much sentimentality could be packed into one snort-laugh, but it seemed near limitless at the moment.
Trying to ignore the overwhelming desire to crush her in a hug, I glanced back at the ceiling.
“Reuben convinced me,” I choked out, voice hoarse.
She gave a small noise of understanding, “Sounds like him. Cares about people about as much as he cares about his guns.”
There was a small lull of silence as I laid in my cot, staring at the ceiling. I eventually broke it, “So how’s your wound?”
“Healing well. Should be back in action within a week or two,” she replied.
I sighed out of relief despite the fact that I knew it wasn’t serious since the start, “Good. I’m glad I managed to clean it so soon otherwise that’d be an extra week at least.”
When I glanced over, her face was scrunched up, “Really? I don’t remember much after I got shot up until I woke up in the guestroom.”
“Well, we got a truck and drove it through the streets of Paris at top speed while I tried to clean your wound in the back,” I very neatly let out the part where I got an eyeful. I was just hoping the dim room was enough to hide my blush, though it probably wasn’t the case.
“Must’ve been fun,” she commented, letting out another half-laugh, half-snort afterwards.
I reveled in the noise until it died down.
“And what’s so funny?” I asked after she had quieted.
I saw her give the ghost of a smile, “The idea of you trying to bandage me while being thrown around like a doll.”
“That… sums it up pretty nicely,” I grinned, rolling over in my cot. Looking back, it was rather funny. The risk of getting my skull slammed against wooden planks still put a bit of a dampener on it, but retrospect was a powerful thing.
Silence followed. Judging by how her breathing evened out, she’d fallen asleep. That rather hastily reminded me of Reuben’s request; rest.
Oddly enough, I didn’t feel that tired anymore. I just felt… calm. The same calm that had overtaken me when I’d shared a bed with Annette, even if muted. But it was ever so slightly different.
I glanced over at her to make sure she was actually asleep, and my heart picked up a little bit when my eyes landed on her peaceful face.
Wait… don’t tell me.
Fuck.
---
Malte Heissler
September 25th, 1943
Veste Noire Gentlemen’s Club, France
The room had no color; only varying shades of black and grey. An empty desk sat in the middle, with a wooden chair in front. Half-blinded windows letting streaks of the pale early morning sun’s rays shine onto the desk.
It smelt of ink, the scent so potent that I felt my nostrils itch as I breathed.
“So, you’re Malte Heissler, correct?” the man asked me. I hadn’t gotten a good view of his features, the brim of his military cap neatly hiding them as he sat behind the desk, a clipboard and pen in his gloved hands.
“Yes, sir,” I nodded. He scribbled something down.
“As per the military records I’ve perused, you were friends with Konrad Feldpetzer?”
I felt my blood begin to boil at the name. The damned traitor.
“Yes,” it felt like an insult to my nation and heritage to say as much as I dragged it out of my clenched jaw.
A small smile crept onto the man’s thin lips, not looking up from his clipboard as he spoke, “I can quite easily tell you’re not fond of him.”
“No, sir. I feel nothing but hatred at his name after he showed his cowardice. I was notified along with the rest of the soldiers there when he defected to the communist Jews’ side. I’ve never once felt so angry, both that he turned his back on his nation and people and that I once considered that subhuman trash a friend.”
“Good,” the man nodded, finally looking up. When I stared at his eyes, I was met with a piercing grey. It was the color of steel, fashioned into a drill that could bore into your very mind. I could barely hold back a small noise of surprise with how intense they were.
“Uh, sir, if I may ask… who are you specifically?” I choked out, my voice meek compared to the seething a few seconds earlier.
The man merely quirked an eyebrow, “The details aren’t quite so relevant, Herr Heissler. Some things need to remain hidden, especially in my line of work. All that is relevant as of now is that I’m a very important figure, who holds a lot of… sway in German military affairs.”
I didn’t know if that made me feel worse or if that just opened a whole new set of questions. Both. Definitely both.
“But if you need a name to pin to the face,” the man gave a snake-like smile, “Grünfeld will do.”
There was a small pause as he scribbled something down on his clipboard, quickly continuing, “So, if you had the option to do something to… rectify the situation, would you? And what would you do?”
“I would,” I gave a resolute nod, my answer firm, “Ideally, I’d simply shoot him so that, even if I have to live with the knowledge that I fraternized with such a trashpile, I can sleep well knowing I wiped him off the face of the earth for it.”
Grünfeld gave another small smile, and if I squinted, I could almost see fangs, “Good, good. Just what I was hoping to hear.”
I blinked, confused.
“I’ve been called in to personally oversee the… investigation of this entire situation. Rebel hits are nothing new, but an SS officer falling into the hands of some Partisan hacks? That’s both a black mark on our track record and a failure we cannot allow to happen again.”
“This is about Klugmann?” it was weird that I hadn’t registered him as part of the whole ordeal yet. He disappeared a month back but we were never told what happened, just that he’d been moved to a different post.
“Yes and no. With the mindless rage that these Jews and Bolshevik-sympathizers display, it is safe if not unfortunate to assume that Klugmann has been killed. I never knew the man in person, but from the reports I’ve gathered, he’s as tight-lipped as they come,” Grünfeld stated.
“So what do I have anything to do with this?” I had several situations that flashed in my mind, too many to go in-depth before he told me the rest.
“You were friends with Feldpetzer,” I bit back a grimace at the blunt statement that came from his mouth, “and from some eyewitness accounts and cross-referencing, the partisans he… got away with belong to the same sect that the Jews who got to Klugmann are in.”
Realization dawned upon me, “And I’m a lead.”
The man gave a somewhat muted “you got it” gesture with both his hands, “Correct. Feldpetzer has family back in the homefront, but I’m rather hesitant to drag them into this due to the sensitive nature surrounding this whole situation as well as the irreversible damage this would do to otherwise upstanding members of the Reich.”
I nodded in understanding.
“Leading, I hope you comprehend the, as I said, sensitive nature of this situation. No telling any of your fellow soldiers any of this. Doing so would result in swift and immediate punishment.”
“No need to worry, sir, I won’t let a syllable of this slip,” I stated, meaning every word I said.
“Good. Now, your goals and mine coincide. You want revenge on the traitor out of personal pride and loyalty to the Führer and Fatherland. Said traitor happens to belong to the same cell of Judeo-Bolshevists that got away with a high-value SS officer.”
“Sir, are you suggesting that we partner up?”
“Indeed.”
“But I’m just a soldier.”
Grünfeld let another one of those eery smiles crawl across his face, “If we partner up, that could change very quickly. Like I said, I hold a lot of sway in the military. So much so that my authority can transcend the separations between branches and ranks.”
I stayed silent, my mind processing the words.
“If we conjoin our efforts, you may find yourself rising the ranks of the SS very quickly, even if you weren’t in it originally. We both get something out of this arrangement. I get someone who’s enough of a face in the crowd to be able to go around and find information without much worry, and you get promotions at a, some might say, accelerated pace, allowing you greater freedom to act of your own accord.”
I stared at the ground, putting my hand to my chin in thought, “But the higher up I go, the more responsibilities I’d have. I’m not sure I’m cut out for them.”
“Not necessarily,” the man shook his head, “You’ll be under my command, allowing you as much freedom as I can get you to go about things with your own accord. This’d leave you with little more work than hunting down the Judeo-Bolshevists and the paperwork that comes with it. And even if there were more responsibilities, what’s it matter? You aren’t in this for the promotions, you’re in this for pride and loyalty.”
“Fair point,” I stayed silent for a moment, my eyes absently following the piercing rays of light cutting through the darkness. After taking a second to ponder, I nod, “I’m in.”
“Great. Your transfer should come in within a day, and you’ll be given a starting rank of Gruppenführer, allowing you to have a few soldiers at your disposal should you need them. You can let me know if you find this rank… suitable to your liking and wish to halt your accelerated progression.”
“Thank you, sir,” a smile began to form on my features. I was finally getting a chance to take out the traitor and to wipe him off the face of the Earth for good.
The man nodded, “Very well. That is enough for today. When you’re officially given the rank of Gruppenführer, I’ll brief you on the basics of the situation. After that, I’ll give you relative freedom, with the… caveat that you report to me directly. I trust that won’t be an issue though, since we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
I nodded, “Thank you for giving me this opportunity, sir, I’ll be sure not to waste it.”
“I trust you won’t, Heissler.”