@majormeyer // ♥
Ovation came in whistles and heckles the moment the feldgendarmerie had placed the tip of their boots in the old Kosatka.
Like hounds out for a hunt. Fromm thought without twisting his neck to look at them and confirm something that the nickname Kettenhunde floating near his ear already had.
The place was lackluster. Seedy but fancy for the pathetic low caliber town they had added to Germany’s map; good enough too for men whose pay felt like a winter’s crop, scarce and ungiving. Almost obscene yet sanctuary offering for a day that had been too hot, and for they who were weary and bored.
They are screaming because they are children placed on curfew. They are screaming because some just want out, infected by defeatism. And they are screaming too because they are drunk mad.
Puffing away at his cigarette he continued to stare outside the window for a while more. Drumming his fingers on the table he quietly addressed one of them.
“Are you looking for someone, gentlemen?”
He’s a bit drunk. A bit high. A bit trying to maintain serenity and his responsibilities from falling to the floor, because he still has his men and is still meant to command even if he ceased to give a fuck about ranks, partisans, law and order an hour ago.
“Or is it that you are wasting your time on piety insubordinations that fall into ridicule once again?”