I wanna fuck up everything you've ever loved (1)
The hatred he felt burning inside was almost all consuming, and even better, ever present. It was raw, pure and, foremost, treasured….in a weak moment he'd probably admit it made him happy. He never had a weak moment though.
He knew he infused fear, even on his fellow Basterds – he could see it in their eyes – but he simply couldn't bring himself to care. He had learned to focus on his prey's eyes, observing the change in colour as fear set in, as they realized the last thing they'd ever see was him. It secretly made him proud….he was willing to admit that much.
He didn't know where the hatred came from, what had set it off, he just knew it had always been there. Hidden. It had not been until now he could let it out, could act upon it, could dwell in the tingling feeling it gave him; it was not until now he had found a reason to laugh. And he laughed. He laughed as he watched Donny bash a Nazi's brains in with his Louisiana Slugger; he laughed as he watched the bullets from his gun cut through human flesh like his knife cut through butter; he especially laughed as he watched Hirschberg and Zimmerman try to hang a German up by the balls. He didn't laugh though as he cowered next to a kraut to take his scalp. As he let his knife smoothly cut through the skin he just grinned, trying to keep the warm, tingling sensation in his stomach to himself as long as possible. Oh fuck, what the hell, he'd admit it, at times like that he was happy.
I want to lose my head, go for the bat, and crush your head (2)
His fingers gently stroked the bat he almost lovingly held in his hand, carefully following the outlines of all the names carved in the wood. He could only hope the people behind the names would someday know how many Nazis they'd help to kill. He liked to think they already did, that they felt him every time he swung his Slugger, just as much as he felt them.
He thought of his mom and dad. His dad had been the first to sign his bat, and as they'd said their goodbyes, he admired the amount of names on the wood, telling him how proud he was of his son. His mom had remained silent, as she had been since the day he told her he was going to Europe, and he'd noticed she avoided looking at the bat, like it being something sinful. He saw the hurt in her eyes, but knew he couldn't linger, he had to go. Unexpectedly, just as he'd turned around, she'd grabbed him by the arm and had taken the bat out of his hand. Without saying a word, she had motioned him to give her his knife, using it to carve her name in the wood. And that was the name he was most proud of.
"Donny!" He looked in the direction the sound had come from. "Yeah?" "Got us a German here who wants to die for his country. Oblige him." He smiled as he noticed the amused tone in the Lt.'s voice. The boys were ready for another show. He started walking towards the exit of the tunnel he was in, hitting his bat against the wall as he went along. "This one is for you ima." Batting time.
relax for a while, think it over (3)
He didn't think about it often, but in that narrow tunnel, being all by himself, a question had risen in his mind. Why was he doing this? "Simple", he thought, "Nazis kill Jews, someone has got to kill those Nazis." Nothing wrong with that. Stupid question.
But now, as he almost reached the exit of the tunnel, he smiled. He realized that the question he'd answered wasn't the real question he had asked himself. Not 'Why was he doing this' – but rather 'Why was he killing Nazis with a baseball bat?' And as he stepped out into the sunlight he sported the biggest grin…..hell, he was allowed to have some fun on the job, right?
all the vicious circles I'm trembling in are going further down (4)
B.B. That's what people back home called him. Baby Boy. In the beginning it had bothered him. He was smaller than the other boys, not as muscular as the other boys, not as good at studies as the other boys, and definitely not as fast and strong as the other boys. He'd been the odd one out, no doubt about it. But the name B.B. had grown on him and he'd assumed it would stick with him, even among the Basterds.
But it hadn't. It was Utivich most of the time, sometimes Smithy, but never B.B., despite the fact he knew for sure Kagan knew. As he sat alone at the river bank, cleaning blood of his hands and face, he decided he liked this new situation, which to him was almost like a new beginning. He felt comfortable around his new friends, he felt comfortable with their important mission and the fact he might never return home. He counted on that last part, really. He was comfortable for once in his life, and despite how strange it sounded at first as he realized it, he didn't want it to end. That's why he never lingered on the subject too much, he was too afraid it would be left exposed, vulnerable, he was too afraid it would all end. He just focused on his tasks, too much reminiscing and thinking had never done anyone any good. And besides, he didn't care whether it was because they were all strange characters – outsiders -, or because out here his tiny posture proved useful while ambushing Nazis and he didn't need strong fists or a quick mouth cause his gun did all the talking for him; all he cared about was how great his new life sounded, summed up in one simple word…..Smithy.
the last words you ever spoke still echo in my head (5)
Ten years old, he had just gotten back from school. "Run Hugo, run!" The last words she screamed at him, just before his father bashed her brains in with a sad iron. But Hugo just stood there as blood spatters landed on his shoes, his shirt, his face, as his father kept hitting. "I swear I'll kill you next, boy, go on, run," his father shouted. Hugo turned around, slowly walked to the kitchen and got his mom's meat knife out of a drawer. His hand firmly clutched the knife as he cautiously re-entered the room. Calm and deathly.
Stoic, emotionless, heartless, cold, indifferent , brutal, cruel…..Hugo had heard it all before, and frankly, he really didn't care. He had taught himself not to care. Those features had saved him more times than he cared to remember, and that was all that counted. Gave him more time to get even. But sometimes, on rare occasions, he wondered how different his life would have been if he'd only listened to his mother's last words. And ran.
the world has turned and left me here, so stiff and cold
find hope, find a cure, find happiness for my ragged, tortured soul (6)
During the day he never paid much attention to the thoughts that occasionally popped up in his mind; it was very easy to push back lingering thoughts and questions whilst busy slaughtering off squealing Germans. But at night, laying in silence on the cold, damp forest floor, it was not as easy to escape his own mind; and he often wondered if this was it…..hate, violence, cruelty, corruption…..he wondered if this world was worth fighting for. It felt like the world failed to learn the lesson, time and again. It felt like the word could only hate, blame and accuse, instead of love and show gratitude. And as the sunrise slowly started to push the night away he decided, for as far he was concerned, the world could go to hell.
The new day brought a familiar routine as the Basterds set out for a 2 days march towards the next village. Their journey would lead them through vast forest terrain so they hadn't really expected to bump into a Nazi convoy…as Hirschberg had nicely put it, they were "fucking lucky at this game." Lucky indeed, cause if Ulmer hadn't tripped over his own feet he would probably have emptied his gun inside the back of the truck without looking, killing the woman sitting inside. But he had tripped, and as Donowitz had picked him up he had heard the woman's muffled screams. That's luck.
He listened to the woman as she rapidly spoke to him in what he thought was Spanish, one of the few languages he did not understand. But he didn't have to, for gratitude sounded the same no matter what language was spoken. And as he softly placed his hand on her shoulder, he realised these were the things that were worth fighting for, things that saved the world from going to hell.
I can feel the weight of the world on my shoulders
and it's crushing me (7)
Particular. That's what the headmaster at school had always said. "Archie is a particular young boy." Not understanding what those words meant, Archie had simply learned to smile at them, brushing them away as the man continued with a stream of compliments, all equally meaningless to Archie. Smart. Athletic. Handsome. Brave. Promising. Archie had heard this speech so many times before that it became totally meaningless, it was already a given, so why repeat it over and over? Everything came naturally to Archie, there literally wasn't a care in his world.
That it was not as much a given as they had taught Archie to believe, he discovered the moment he was send to the mainland for the first time. All the givens in his life became meaningless , being replaced with the uncertainties of war and violence. This was the decisive moment, or as the general put it, "this was what separated men from boys, heroes from cowards, the givers from the takers." And despite the fact he had pulled his weight this was something Archie thought about a lot. When the time came, would he really be brave enough? Not gun-in-hand-blasting-brave, but the kind that proved you were altruistic, and fearless in the wake of certain death. Would time prove him brave enough that in that all important moment he would be capable to act for them, instead of for himself?
faith is not enough, give me strength so my heart can keep pounding on (8)
He realised this was it….and smiled. It was perfect, and he'd never been more ready than he was at that moment.
He proudly spoke what he knew would be his last word…."Stiglitz"…knowing damn well what the man's reply, and the consequences, would be. He grinned to himself as he saw Hellstrom's face turn white as the man slowly realized what Stiglitz growled at him…."Say auf wiedersehn to your Nazi balls!"
it's time to step back a minute or two to think it over (9)
He knew he probably wasn't supposed to be – he was almost certain the man sitting next to him wasn't – but he was scared, he was really scared. And this was messed up, wasn't there another way? He sighed as he looked around at all the laughing people, using every ounce of self-control in his body to remain seated. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he remembered what his father had told him so many times when he was younger and he had gotten scared of all the weird sounds coming from the attic of their old Victorian home…."it's okay to be scared son, as long as you don't wonder off the path." He wondered if his father would say the same had he been the one sitting next to him right now. His eyes shot open as he realized what the answer was.
Standing on the balcony, emptying his gun at the crowd below, he briefly peeked at the man standing next to him. "No, he's definitely not scared…and neither am I." He started laughing out loud, still shooting, killing. "I'm not scared," he shouted inside his head, "I'm not scared and I will not wonder off the…."
all the vicious circles I'm trembling in are going further down (10)
He washed his hands thoroughly, almost ritually, as if together with the blood stains, stains of his past could be washed off as well. He knew damn well that wasn't going to happen, and he couldn't even bring himself to care. The present was pleasant. It was violent. It was bloody. It was fine. He chuckled to himself. He could feel himself slip further down, and he simply loved it, not wanting it to end. "B.B. is no more", he thought, "it's Smithy….and Smithy wants blood."
tell the world I'm sorry for blowing it all away
tell the world I'm sorry when I'm out of your way (11)
He had done some pretty messed up things in his life and he was sure this wasn't the worst of them, by far, but still he felt a bit awkward as he escorted the German back to the truck. Something inside of him told him this was just not right, and, well, he didn't feel to good about that. This was exactly why he preferred to be around good 'ol country men, ordinary men…just like himself. Never cared much about those stuck up politicians, doing nothing more than money grabbing, and… "You okay sir?" He looked at the young man standing next to him. "Just thinking about this whole mess here son, something just ain't right about this." The German started to mutter protests but the young man pushed him against the back of the truck. "Get in and shut up, pig. No one asked you nothing." He watched as the young man closed the back of the truck…..this just wasn't right.
They spend a good ten minutes in silence, just driving along the deserted dirt road, heading for the allied camp to drop of the German. Suddenly, on a whim, Raine put his foot on the break, stopping the truck in the middle of the road. He smiled to himself as he saw the young man flinch. "Whatthe….?" "Get out. Now. Start walking into the forest, do not look back. You know nothing about this." "But sir…" "No 'but sirs' son, go." The boy sulked, but left the truck anyway, seemingly obeying the order not to look back as he made his way into the forest. He watched him for a while, thinking about the extent of trouble he would get the boy in with his planned actions. He figured it wouldn't be too bad – and the boy probably wouldn't mind – and he got out of the truck. He hit the cold metal side with his hand as he made his way to the back, pulling back the canvas with an almost ceremonially swing. "Change of plans. Now play nice." Picking up a piece of rope, he approached the German cautiously, expecting….anything. But all he got was a smart-ass remark. "You're bound by the deal we made, dear man, remember that." He smiled as he tied the German's hands behind his back. "About that…..now I'm just a simple man, nothing fancy like yourself, but I do know this here just ain't right. And if I think anything more important than honouring a deal, it's setting things right. And that's exactly what I plan to do." He picked up a canister of fuel and jumped out of the truck, leaving a yelling and cursing German behind. He looked back one more time, looking straight into two blue, fear-filled eyes…."letting you go would have been the worst thing I'd ever done in my life….by far….and I ain't want that, not for me, but for all those people."
He watched the fire from a distance, musing away on the screams and cries of the German inside the burning truck. A sudden sound startled him. "Damn boy, almost got yourself killed there," he snapped at his young friend, continuing on the same breathe "now what did I tell you?" He was taken aback by the naughty twinkle he saw in the young man's eyes when he looked up at him. "And let you have all the fun….don't think so sir."
1 Hugo Stiglitz
2 Donny Donowitz
3 Donny Donowitz
4 Smithson Utivich
5 Hugo Stiglitz
6 Wilhelm Wicki
7 Archie Hicox
8 Archie Hicox
9 Omar Ulmer
10 Smithson Utivich
11 Aldo Raine