Post by Heinrich Zöhler on Jul 30, 2006 10:30:37 GMT -5
[OOC]
Come on, people, feel free to join in, don't be intimadated by my opening post...let's make this a mass thread to keep the activity rolling.
[BIC]
It had been six years to the day that a fighter pilot called Fritz Reihmann had died, and on that day on the bleak Russian front in 1945, a part of Heinrich Zohler had died with him. Fritz had been the only thing left for Heinrich in the middle of a battle that had been cursed for their side of things the day it had started. The two had been the best of friends, like brothers, the only grasp of sanity either of them--or, for that matter, most of their squadron who looked up to them as officers and friends--had left, and Fritz's death had changed his friend forever. He no longer stayed up late with his squadron-mates, but instead assigned himself to brutally long missions that most looked upon as suicidal, purposefully avoided his friends, and spent long hours up in the sky for no reason at all flying over the Front on the excuse that he needed some practice. The real reason, however, was clear to all that knew him well: Oberleutnant Zohler didn't want to live anymore.
That old feeling was starting to come back now through six years of fear and pain, and Heinrich had decided to try and shove it away by taking a walk along the river. A big, scruffy-looking German Shephard who had taken to hanging around his apartment complex called Sturm trotted along a few yards ahead, not quite the picture of an obedient pet but not one of an uncaring stray either. The dog could sense the human's mood, and it was clear he stayed with him only for support.
The water lapped quietly against the shore, mist brushing against its surface and skimming across the dark liquid to hug the banks. The cicadas were loud here, droning in unison with the chirps of the crickets and the occasional croak of a sleepy bullfrog. Staring into the white fog now, Heinrich was reminded of the morning frost over everything in a Russian winter--runways, planes, people.
Even now, I can't get away from that place, he thought angrily, glaring into the mist as if the sheer force of his gaze could part it to reveal the dark water below. There's a memory in everything.
Now the old pain was coming back: the glimpse of a flaming Messerschmitt out of the corner of his eye, the sight of a triumphant Russian YAK fighter circling the fighter as it fell, peppering it with ruthless streams of bullets, and the combined screams of stalling engines and the ME-109's pilot, trapped inside the flaming canopy as the hungry fire engulfed him. It hadn't been a slow death--the agony had gone on long after the radio cut out, leaving a horrified silence from the German squadron long after the shrieks had died away. And then, when the once-proud plane had fireballed in on the frozen, snow-washed ground far below, Heinrich had realized that Fritz was dead.
Tearing his eyes away from the water, Heinrich kept walking along the path, his vision still blurred as if he was still looking at the bottom of the river through the water. It took him a moment to figure out that he was crying, something he hadn't done since That Day when they had found him in his wrecked Messerschmitt's c.ockpit, bleeding from a gash ripped across his face and sobbing from the pain of a broken arm and the loss of his friend, his own plane barely discernable from the twisted remains of the YAK that he had rammed and brought down. Embarrassed at himself, Heinrich wiped his eyes on his sleeve and spat to rid himself of a foul taste rising in his mouth, stuffing his hands in his pockets and heading for the river bar.
Soon, the lights of it appeared through the gloom, and the ex-pilot silently slipped past the bouncers at the door to pull up at stool at the corner of the bar. The bartender, a large, burly man with a permanently annoyed expression fixed on his face, banged down on the wood before him.
"Well?" he snapped, irritated at the presence of a single person who wasn't likely to bring a few more customers in after him. In fact, the quiet dark-haired young man looked more likely to chase them away by the look on his face.
"Vodka." Heinrich found it ironic that he drank the same stuff as those who had killed most of his comrades, but the alcohol burned as it went down and it felt good to hurt on a day like today when he felt nothing but numbness. "Nothing else."
"Jeesuz, what kind?" the bartender said in exasperation. "We got Smirnoff, Absolut--name your brand, for Chrissakes. Ain'tcha never been in a d.amn bar before?"
He gasped in shock as the man slouching before him suddenly shot out a strong hand and dragged him close, his hot breath suggesting that this wouldn't be his first drink of the night. The bartender struggled, trying to knock him away, but the newcomer didn't even flinch when the other's fist slammed down on his arm.
"I want the real stuff," Heinrich snarled, his glittering eyes burning with rage. "None of your American s.hit. Give it to me straight up--you can leave the bottle and no more backtalk, understand?"
He released the bartender's shirt, and the man staggered back, fetching the order with trembling fingers. He slammed the glasses down before the leather-jacketed young man and moved off to his other customer's stares, shooting a nervous glance at the bouncers at the front. They might have to come into play later--this guy was hurting, and that made him dangerous.
Come on, people, feel free to join in, don't be intimadated by my opening post...let's make this a mass thread to keep the activity rolling.
[BIC]
It had been six years to the day that a fighter pilot called Fritz Reihmann had died, and on that day on the bleak Russian front in 1945, a part of Heinrich Zohler had died with him. Fritz had been the only thing left for Heinrich in the middle of a battle that had been cursed for their side of things the day it had started. The two had been the best of friends, like brothers, the only grasp of sanity either of them--or, for that matter, most of their squadron who looked up to them as officers and friends--had left, and Fritz's death had changed his friend forever. He no longer stayed up late with his squadron-mates, but instead assigned himself to brutally long missions that most looked upon as suicidal, purposefully avoided his friends, and spent long hours up in the sky for no reason at all flying over the Front on the excuse that he needed some practice. The real reason, however, was clear to all that knew him well: Oberleutnant Zohler didn't want to live anymore.
That old feeling was starting to come back now through six years of fear and pain, and Heinrich had decided to try and shove it away by taking a walk along the river. A big, scruffy-looking German Shephard who had taken to hanging around his apartment complex called Sturm trotted along a few yards ahead, not quite the picture of an obedient pet but not one of an uncaring stray either. The dog could sense the human's mood, and it was clear he stayed with him only for support.
The water lapped quietly against the shore, mist brushing against its surface and skimming across the dark liquid to hug the banks. The cicadas were loud here, droning in unison with the chirps of the crickets and the occasional croak of a sleepy bullfrog. Staring into the white fog now, Heinrich was reminded of the morning frost over everything in a Russian winter--runways, planes, people.
Even now, I can't get away from that place, he thought angrily, glaring into the mist as if the sheer force of his gaze could part it to reveal the dark water below. There's a memory in everything.
Now the old pain was coming back: the glimpse of a flaming Messerschmitt out of the corner of his eye, the sight of a triumphant Russian YAK fighter circling the fighter as it fell, peppering it with ruthless streams of bullets, and the combined screams of stalling engines and the ME-109's pilot, trapped inside the flaming canopy as the hungry fire engulfed him. It hadn't been a slow death--the agony had gone on long after the radio cut out, leaving a horrified silence from the German squadron long after the shrieks had died away. And then, when the once-proud plane had fireballed in on the frozen, snow-washed ground far below, Heinrich had realized that Fritz was dead.
Tearing his eyes away from the water, Heinrich kept walking along the path, his vision still blurred as if he was still looking at the bottom of the river through the water. It took him a moment to figure out that he was crying, something he hadn't done since That Day when they had found him in his wrecked Messerschmitt's c.ockpit, bleeding from a gash ripped across his face and sobbing from the pain of a broken arm and the loss of his friend, his own plane barely discernable from the twisted remains of the YAK that he had rammed and brought down. Embarrassed at himself, Heinrich wiped his eyes on his sleeve and spat to rid himself of a foul taste rising in his mouth, stuffing his hands in his pockets and heading for the river bar.
Soon, the lights of it appeared through the gloom, and the ex-pilot silently slipped past the bouncers at the door to pull up at stool at the corner of the bar. The bartender, a large, burly man with a permanently annoyed expression fixed on his face, banged down on the wood before him.
"Well?" he snapped, irritated at the presence of a single person who wasn't likely to bring a few more customers in after him. In fact, the quiet dark-haired young man looked more likely to chase them away by the look on his face.
"Vodka." Heinrich found it ironic that he drank the same stuff as those who had killed most of his comrades, but the alcohol burned as it went down and it felt good to hurt on a day like today when he felt nothing but numbness. "Nothing else."
"Jeesuz, what kind?" the bartender said in exasperation. "We got Smirnoff, Absolut--name your brand, for Chrissakes. Ain'tcha never been in a d.amn bar before?"
He gasped in shock as the man slouching before him suddenly shot out a strong hand and dragged him close, his hot breath suggesting that this wouldn't be his first drink of the night. The bartender struggled, trying to knock him away, but the newcomer didn't even flinch when the other's fist slammed down on his arm.
"I want the real stuff," Heinrich snarled, his glittering eyes burning with rage. "None of your American s.hit. Give it to me straight up--you can leave the bottle and no more backtalk, understand?"
He released the bartender's shirt, and the man staggered back, fetching the order with trembling fingers. He slammed the glasses down before the leather-jacketed young man and moved off to his other customer's stares, shooting a nervous glance at the bouncers at the front. They might have to come into play later--this guy was hurting, and that made him dangerous.
But I think maybe Yuri could tell, so...yeah, your choice. I personally think it's more interesting that he DOES notice it, which you already did, and that would be easier, so...yeah.