Author's Notes: Hey there, so… Give my shit a shot, I know you wanna. Who can say no to a nice Nazi killin' story? Well, I can't.
Disclaimer: I'd be really honored to own em all, but sadly don't, I'm just borrowin' em for a bit of playin' and will gladly return em without too much damage.
So sorry, I accidentally uploaded an old version which I wrote kinda drunk... This one is looked over and the mistakes which are obvious to me were removed.
Sullivan Lake, Minnesota, USA March 1944
19-03-1944, 5-30pm
The shack was surrounded to all cardinal points by a high hedge and was situated in the middle of a grassy green landscape. Sullivan Lake was extending itself at a distance in southeastern position of it. A storm was gathering and the strong gusts of wind promised a first class storm. If one saw the building by passing by, one could think it was an abandoned farm, but that was far from the truth.
Lt. Aldo Raine marches to and fro in front of a row of soldiers. He is about 6'2" tall, has a beefy well trained physique. His pitch black hair is short, still longer than the a few of the other men's, but considerably shorter than he was used to it. His face isn't raw, that would be an unfitting term through and through, but masculine with sharp edges and a slightly too prominent nose. The cold light blue eyes stand high in his face. There's a scar which graces his skin from his right eyebrow to a bit under his ear and another one on the front side of his neck which could be considered his trade mark. The slightly darker complexion is often mistaken to be a sign of a lot of work outdoors, but in truth is a sign for his unusual inheritance. He doesn't wear a uniform - a thing that would be expected from people his rank - but a dark green jacket, a black shirt and equally dark green pants which are tucked into jet black combat boots. On his belt there is a holster for a Beretta - strange enough for an American - and another one for his beloved knife, the one with the carved handle.
Standing before him are soldiers, not exactly newbies, but… It's war - that's all the Secret Service has to offer at this moment in time and he is sure, completely convinced, that these men are qualified. Behind him, his most qualified man and a person he would consider a friend, somewhat. He knows what this job is going to be like: waiting to strike and to strike hard. Another thing he knows is that soldiers don't like waiting - it makes them feel stuff they can gladly live without: remorse, anxiety. That's why he wanted Jewish recruits - it keeps the remorse to a minimum and consequently makes his job easier. Not that he looks for easy, no. He just doesn't like unnecessary complications such as human emotions. Luckily the men look eager, a thing that sometimes - often even - makes up for lack of experience. Then again, the krauts aren't really expecting them, a tremendous advantage which he doesn't plan on wasting. He has a three weeks' time to get them combat-ready.
As he finishes his speech, he can't help thinking that he could have gotten far worse. As far as he can judge by now he hasn't gotten any overeager sick idiots nor any crazy fuckers. Those tended to catch his eye in a matter of minutes. Okay… His right hand man, Sgt. Donowitz is at the verge of insanity sometimes, but he knows that deep down the lad is a good one. He looks at the men and dismisses them for the rest of the evening. They just arrived and he wants them to settle down before he has his fun with them tomorrow. Donowitz and him had decided that they are going to see what the men can handle tomorrow. For now the two of them are helping themselves to a meal and a good glass of whiskey - each problem will be handled at a time and for now his top priority was his stomach demanding food.