When one is about to be shot, one may be forgiven for a slight lack of inner decorum. In fact, the experience may inspire some ungentlemanly thoughts from even the most upstanding individuals in His Majesty's armed forces. Thoughts such as:

-fucking Nazis; I wish I could kill all of you instead of just one smarmy bastard-

And

-stupid cow, why on EARTH in a basement, the American was right-

And

-please, please, PLEASE, not my balls, for the love of Christ shoot anywhere but there!

But one must remain an officer and a gentleman to the last. One must smile and take a last sip of blessed whiskey and pause their angry mind to, for a moment, think God bless the King.

And then one may give the order, and when everything goes to Hell in the space of a second and everyone around you is rapidly turning into bloody pulp and the woman beside you is screaming and there are bullets tearing into one's thighs and shins-

Well, one may be forgiven if his last conscious thoughts are Oh thank God, he missed.

It was like a dream, really. An incredibly painful, paralyzed sort of dream. Archie was on the floor, he knew that. It was cold and hard under his back, through his stolen uniform, the bumpy cobblestones digging into his shoulder blades, though he barely registered that it was hurting, or even uncomfortable. He could feel his skin growing tacky with warm blood- not all his, he was sure. And his legs were in agony- indescribable agony. Though being able to feel them at all was probably a blessing, considering.

Despite his best efforts, his eyes wouldn't open. His mouth wouldn't move. He tried to curl his fingers, but nothing happened. All he could do was lie there, slowly bleeding out onto the floor of an anonymous French tavern as he listened to the young German soldier- Walter? Wilfrid?- bark nervously up the stairs. The voice of the American drifted down into the room, slower and more measured than usual. His accent seemed to have grown even stronger as he drawled his words, negotiating.

Von Hammersmark was alive- that was good. She was the only one who had any information about this damned operation. Operation Kino. He thought it was a bloody stupid name, and he was a film critic. Should have been something more cryptic, he thought to himself absently as Aldo started descending the staircase. Good God, man, his thoughts drifted, This is no time to discuss the mechanics of a Western.

Von Hammersmark shot the soldier. Wilhelm, he finally remembered. Poor bastard. Wrong side of the war, old chap.

Was being this calm a sign that he was dying? He was almost definitely in shock. And the feeling was starting to leech out of him slowly. He could no longer feel his toes. It was actually rather dreadful. Maybe I'm dead already, he thought as Aldo shuffled down the tin staircase, followed by two of the others- the small one (Omar something) and the Bear Jew. Archie could hear them talking a few feet away, arguing. Maybe that's why I can't move or speak. Because I'm already dead. It would explain quite a bit, wouldn't it?

Someone counted to three, and Von Hammersmark screamed. "Oh, stop whinin'." The Bear Jew snapped. "It's only a bullet."

"Let's get out of here." Aldo muttered. "This place'll be swarming with Jerries any minute. You the last one?"

"Ja." Von Hammersmark's voice was thin and quaking, another scream waiting to happen.

"How about Stiglitz? He dead?"

"Ja, ja. And the other one."

"Wicki?"

Von Hammersmark groaned, and there was a clatter. "Yes, him! Please, God-"

"He's got nothin' to do with it, lady." The Bear Jew said grimly.

"Well, shit." Aldo's scowl was audible. "That's two of our best men. The Limey's gone too?"

"He was the first down. Took out the Gestapo swine, though." Von Hammersmark sounded regretful.

Not as regretful as me! Archie thought, desperately willing himself to show some sign of life. I'm still bloody here, you idiots! For God's sake, just come over here and check my pulse! I'm still here!

There was a pounding of footsteps and a clamor of unintelligible voices outside. Aldo swore again. "We've gotta go. Find someplace to work on your leg, lady. And you're gonna tell us everything you know, gettit?"

She gasped in pain. "Du arschgefickter Hurensohn! Leave my leg alone, you pigs!" Her swearing continued up the stairs, fading slowly until he couldn't hear it anymore. Archie's heart sunk as the numbness crawled up into his bullet-riddled shins.

The voices moved down the street rapidly, into the rooms above ground, and then down the stairs to the basement. It was so dark, behind his eyelids. The occasional bursts of reddish yellow from the still-swinging lamps grew blacker with each passing second. The closer they got, the more he could pick out, though his sense of hearing was fading fast. They weren't speaking German- the few phrases he understood were in English. Maybe the Basterds came back?

Somebody cursed colorfully. "Jesus, what a mess." An American voice swam into focus. "It looks like someone painted the walls with catsup."

"Chunkier than catsup, Morita." Someone muttered. "Looks like it's just German soldiers, though- all the same uniforms. What the Hell were they doing, shooting themselves up like this?"

There was a smattering of rapid French. One man chuckled.

"Wait just one moment, lads." A careful voice said, RP accent strong and low with a hint of grit one didn't usually hear in the upper crust. "I know this one."

There was a moment of contemplative silence. Then:

"Shit, that's Hugo Stiglitz."

"Well he's certainly not a Nazi."

"Something's fishy here, guys."

"Alright, let's get this figured out before the Gestapo get here." The British voice said again. It sounded strangely familiar, but Archie couldn't quite place where he knew it from. An actor, maybe? The radio? "Let's look around, see if there are anymore chaps we recognize. Sound good?"

A murmur of agreement rose from the men. Archie was starting to feel like he was floating above the ground. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. The sounds of searching faded around him, the clump of heavy military boots growing dull.

And then there was someone beside him, a hand on his chest, then his legs. The pain flared back with astonishing violence and he felt his lungs open, his blood-coated lips crack, and his eyes flood with grungy yellow light. There was a dark figure hovering over him, a red beret the only feature visible where the light from the dangling lamps bled through the fabric and made it glow. "We've got a live one!" Someone shouted.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." The Englishman gasped. "Archie."

And then everything was black and nothing mattered.