“Apologies, Hauptmann. Apologies,” the Major gets out between laughs. “Still, if you had been British intelligence, turned, as it is, your reaction would have been markedly different. You'd have protested, no?”

>Apology accepted, Major. Although I'd appreciate it if you didn't do such a thing again. I nearly had a heart attack.
>Major, please. So what's the purpose of the visit, if I'm not under suspicion?

>Major, please. So what's the purpose of the visit, if I'm not under suspicion?

We're under suspicion.

>>41732665
>Major, please. So what's the purpose of the visit, if I'm not under suspicion?

It's not suspicion, just a keen interest?

Good to have you back TF.

>>41732665
>Major, please. So what's the purpose of the visit, if I'm not under suspicion?

>Major, please. So what's the purpose of the visit, if I'm not under suspicion?

>>41732657
>Major, please. So what's the purpose of the visit, if I'm not under suspicion?

“Apology accepted, Major-”

“Please, call me Alfred, if you'll let me call you Fritz.”

“I'm not in any position to refuse, Alfred,” you reassure him.

“Excellent,” he says, and takes the seat across the table from you, politely ignoring the fact that you're still in a defensive position. “So! This isn't merely a pleasure visit, Fritz. I have something of vast importance to ask you.”

“Oh?” You cock an eyebrow and go about putting the chair back up, taking the seat across from the Major. His aide leaves the room, leaving a briefcase of nondescript brown leather with the Major and yourself.

“You managed to evade British forces and suspicion for over four months. You were in a hostile nation at a time of war, with no friends and quite a few enemies. How did you do it?”

“To put it simply,” you start, to buy yourself time to think of something, anything, the harsh glare from the electric light making it hard to think-

“I speak English, so it wasn't hard to pretend to be a downed airman with shell-shock. No one questioned me wandering the country-side, getting ever closer to the southern coast. From there it was fairly easy to break into a police station and steal the two pistols you found on me. I was going to steal a boat, but the British police picked me up. I broke out and made it to the docks in London, where I stole a boat. Our e-boat picked me up,” you tell him, and he holds up a hand.

“Excellent. We've correlated the last part with our men in London, and everything checks out. So!”

“So?” You ask, and the Major, no, Alfred, glances furtively to the side.

“I wonder.. would you be willing to attend a hunt with me, tomorrow? We're going after deer, in one of the large forests that sprang up after the previous war, with no people living there.”

>I suppose.
>I'm afraid not, Alfred. My grandmother is still alive and I'd like to see her as soon as I can.

>>41733431
>I'm afraid not, Alfred. My grandmother is still alive and I'd like to see her as soon as I can.

>>41733431
>I suppose.
We have time between now and the hunt to meet our people. And agreeing to join the hunt will help make us seem like one of theirs, rather than an infiltrator.

>>41733431
>I'm afraid not, Alfred. My grandmother is still alive and I'd like to see her as soon as I can.

That's normal reaction for any normal INNOCENT person.

>>41733431
>I'm afraid not, Alfred. My grandmother is still alive and I'd like to see her as soon as I can.

File: 1438947995690.jpg (22 KB, 142x160)

22 KB JPG

>>41733588
But you're not innocent, are you, Anon? You and I both know you're filthy British intelligence, looking to subvert and defeat the Reich, aren't you? AREN'T YOU?

>>41733654
We are so good at convincing people that we are German that we run the risk of CONVINCING OURSELVES that we are a German.

This is high risk for a reason.

>>41733431
>I suppose

Except our statement should be "DUDE, FUCK YEAH!"

Include a story about being taken prisoner by an angry farmer with a shotgun after you first landed, and how he let you go after twenty minutes after deciding that no German would be able to swear in English that fluently.

File: 1393211014655.png (108 KB, 480x480)

108 KB PNG

>>41733685
Truly the finest intelligence agent the Crown could ask for.

>>41733431
>I'm afraid not, Alfred. My grandmother is still alive and I'd like to see her as soon as I can.

Always say goodbye to grammy

File: 1438693126951.gif (598 KB, 438x750)

598 KB GIF

>>41733685
>we're not actually British Intelligence
>we've actually been brainwashed to infiltrate the Reich we've actually been a part of for years
>everything we know is a lie

How deep does the rabbit hole go?

File: 1403940466412.jpg (10 KB, 285x287)

10 KB JPG

>>41733812

>>41733812
"I've got to kill the Nazis!"

"No Jack. You are the Nazis!"

Ah,” you try to begin. “I'm sorry, but I'm afraid not. My grandmother is French, you see, and I'd like to see her. She wrote me and said that she'd love for to have me visit her, and that's what I intend to do. Still,” you continue. “I feel that while the hospitality here has been lacking, I'm sure your personal hospitality is excellent. Perhaps I could take a rain-check on that, and we might go another time?”

“Simply capital,” Alfred says, and slaps the table once more. He's a big fellow- tall and broad shouldered and handsome, in a middle-aged statesman or officer sort of way, and he wears the uniform well. “I'll arrange for a Luftwaffe car to take you to your grandmother's residence, then.”

You thank him, and suddenly everything is quite affable; you're plied with tea and pastry, because it's almost midnight and there's nothing open, and then you're put up in a hotel room for the evening. Alfred let you know that he'd be drinking and playing cards with his fellow officers for the area into the early morning at the house they're quartered in, if you felt you couldn't sleep and needed something to do.

Once your bag is unpacked, you step into the washroom and set the water running, pretending you're showering. Instead, you start looking for places to run a listening device. The fireplace is the first spot you check, with the dresser, wardrobe, bedside table, and chairs all next. Finally, you check in and around the bed. Nothing. It seems, for all intents and purposes, you're being allowed free reign of the northern occupation Zone of France, and that will only serve your purposes.

>>41734032
Listening device. In WW2 times. Yeah, suuure...

>>41734103
They existed back then SOE and a large amount of infiltration units used them. They were also used by people trying to get evidence on suspected spies.

>>41734103
they had them.

File: 1435531452694.png (197 KB, 294x256)

197 KB PNG

>>41734103

are you

>>41734103
It'd need to be manned at all times, and you'd need to be in the next room over or under, but it was entirely possible.

Alternatively, you could accept that I'm using it for atmospheric effect, Anon.

Your grandmother, Claudia Sartre, lives in an established and old house quite a bit outside of Chartres, the city in Eure-et-Loir. She doesn't know you're coming, but she had previously extended an invitation to her grandsons, yourself and Fritz, to visit any time for any reason. You're going to do so, and use her house and land as a secure base for the Resistance. When the invasion of Europe begins, you want to have one of the premier light infantry companies in all of France. For now, though, you'll settle for blowing up bridges, destroying rail lines, killing German officers, and blowing up train engines.

Those thoughts take you to sleep, but it's the telephone that wakes you in the morning, around eight am. It's Alfred, your new friend in German intelligence, and he appears to either have never gone to bed, or to be extremely hung over.

“Fritz,” he starts, after you exchange pleasantries. “I've arranged for your car to pick you up around eleven am. If there's anything you need to do, such as shopping, I'd suggest getting it done. If there's too much to take with you, I'll have everything shipped to you. Be sure to write me when you've settled in- I hear the deer love the grain down in Eure-et-Loir.”

“I will, Alfred. Thank you for everything, friend. Hopefully I shall see you soon.”

>You can go shopping. No one will question a German officer picking up flowers or chocolates for a lady, even if she is your grandmother.
>Alternatively, you can attempt to scout out the situation in Occupied France, for a report back to England once you're secure.

>>41734103

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Thing_%28listening_device%29

Used in 1952 based on a patent filed in 1941.

>>41734172

Correction - the bug was DISCOVERED in 1952, but planted in 1946!

>>41734170
>You can go shopping. No one will question a German officer picking up flowers or chocolates for a lady, even if she is your grandmother.
It's also a good chance to get some sense of how things are going for the French civilians.

>>41734170
>>You can go shopping. No one will question a German officer picking up flowers or chocolates for a lady, even if she is your grandmother.

cause grandmother is a classy lady an deserves a classy gift

So what do you guys want to get dearly beloved grandmother?

>>41734170
>>You can go shopping. No one will question a German officer picking up flowers or chocolates for a lady, even if she is your grandmother.

>>41734527
Some nice flowers?

I have no idea when it comes to gifts.

>>41734527
flowers and some wine

>>41734677

This.

>>41734677
Yeah, this sounds good. We should also get a flask.

You need to get a gift for your grandmother. You've only seen her once before, and that thought troubles. You shrug it off, for now, and dress. Alfred had been a dear and had a shop send you a suit. It fits, but it's nothing like a tailored suit would. Thankfully, all of Fritz's things fit you like they'd been made for you, and they're being brought out of storage.

The city itself, Le Havre, has suffered from the war. There are a few bombed out buildings and bullet marks in walls, marking where the French Army had put up a stiff resistance, not amenable to the idea of letting Germany run rampant over their homes. A burnt out armored car lies half-on, half off the street you wander down, guns securely hidden but reachable, and the French civilians gaze at you with hostility and suspicion; they've already heard about the German pilot pulled from le Manche, it seems, and they appear to wish that you had drowned.

You shake the gazes and stares off. Your war is a quiet one, one fought in the shadows and silence with knives and daggers and silenced guns, assassinations and murder and hate and fury, hate and fury of a repressed populace lending any aid possible.

For now, your cover means that you can't let them know that you're on their side, that you're going to put your life on the line once more for them. You had been infantry before Dunkirk. An early bullet wound had knocked you out and then you'd transferred to the RAF in time for that Battle, but now you were back. You wonder what your father would think of you, fighting in the same nation he had fought, possibly dying in that same nation, and then you decide it doesn't matter.

You try to settle on what do for a gift, before finally decided to give up the goat. You eventually settle on some flowers and a bottle of expensive wine, paid for with Reichsmarks, of course, because you're not a heartless bastard. An infantry patrol passes you, German Shepherd glancing at you as you pass. You kneel and let it sniff your hand, greeting the patrol. The dog licks your hand and the patrol lets you pass without incident, and a Luftwaffe car rolls up next to you, Sergeant leaning out the window.

“Hauptmann,” he attempts to salute without stalling the car. You return it bemusedly, and he grins. “I'm your car, sir. Figured I'd show up early, but you weren't at the hotel, so I asked where you were headed. Receptionist said you were out shopping, so I hunted around until I found you and here you are! Unterfeldwebel Ludtke, sir.”

“Morning, Unterfeldwebel. Do you have my things?”

“Yessir,” he says easily. “Are you ready to go?”

>You're ready to go, yes.
>No, you need to do [thing?]

>>41735223
>>You're ready to go, yes.

File: allo allo, what's all thi(...).png (71 KB, 321x150)

71 KB PNG

>>41735223
>You're ready to go, yes.
Oooh, this looks like a nice quest.

>>41735223
>>You're ready to go, yes.

>>41735223
>>You're ready to go, yes.
Lets do this shit.

be back in about twenty minutes, dinner

QM told me there were witches. Did he lie to me?

File: wibble-me-my-wibble.jpg (49 KB, 1200x675)

49 KB JPG

>>41736001
>He's been misinformed
Looks like the SOE got to you first, guv.

>>41736087
God dammit. I need to talk to Ridire

>>41736001
>The Law of Cycles

... interesting. What quest do you write?

>>41736001
Wrong quest, this is SOE.

File: Corbis-TG002154.jpg (88 KB, 640x431)

88 KB JPG

“Yes,” you say. “I'm ready to go.” He nods, brown eyes glinting with some inner mirth, and you get into the Schwimmwagen. That's when you find out that he drives like a maniac. “So how long are you to be my driver, Sergeant?”

“Until I'm recalled to my unit, sir. I was a tanker in Poland and Russia, but I lost a leg when we bailed out of the Panzer, so they transferred me to the Luftwaffe as a driver.”

“Ah,” you say sympathetically, and the Sergeant shrugs.

“It's not a bad gig. I don't have to shoot at anybody, I get to hang out and drink wine with the officers, and nobody shoots at me.”

“That doesn't sound too bad,” you tell him, as he turns out of Le Havre and onto the road for Chartres. “You know where we're going?” You ask him, and he shrugs.

“I'm just supposed to take you to Challet, where you'll direct me to the place you're going?”

“Exactly. It's not hard, just get us there.” The two of you lapse into silence and the two hundred kilometers or so pass quickly.

The coast turns into farmland fairly soon, mostly pasturage for cows and sheep, but as the car goes southwards, it turns into pure farmland, grain and hay and orchards. It's pretty, in a pastoral sort of way, but you grew up on a farm, and you suspect you'll always have a weak spot for farming.

>>41736101
two ded quests and a lewdfic

>>41736142
>two ded quests and a lewdfic

Almost the same score as me, then. Except I've never finished a lewdfic.

Fuck.

Which quests? Madoka quests? I want more magical girls, but all the quests running with them now disappoint me.

>>41736189
Including MGNQ?

File: Ravelordin.gif (1.01 MB, 400x400)

1.01 MB GIF

>>41736001
Is there ever a time TF speaks the truth?

>>41736314

MGNQ is great, but I view it as Hot Operator Quest, personally.

Ludkte drops you off at the gated road to your grandmother's farm, and you open it as he putters off to find a room to sleep in. You step in, flowers and bottle of wine bundled in one arm, then close the gate gently. Stepping forward, you're confronted by a group of French infantrymen.

They're wearing an assortment of different clothing. Nothing is standardized, save the rifles, Berthiers that you suspect they 'liberated' from their armory as they fled the defeated French army, streaming into the countryside, and caps. They all wear the dark wool French beret, with tricolor cockades, representing their loyalty to the fallen Republic.

“Gentlemen,” you greet them quietly, slowly moving the bayonet aimed at your throat to the side. Your mind struggles to switch from German to French, but it does so, you hope, quickly.

“Boche,” their leader, wearing a dark blue armband with a lieutenant's insignia on it. “Tell me why we shouldn't skewer you here, then have Mrs. Sartre claim you never showed up?”

“Gentlemen, I am in a quandry. For one, I can continue to pretend that I am, in actuality, a German,” you say fast. “Or I can tell you that I'm actually English, but you hate the English even fucking more.”

“Oui,” the Lieutenant shrugs. “This is so. Continue,” he says, amused at your logic.

“But I'm not actually English, my friends,” you declare, and his eyes shoot up. He waggles an eyebrow at you.

“Non? You are what, then, Canadian?”

“Irish. But if I spoke to you in Gaelic, but then you won't understand a single fucking word I say, and then I'd wind up insulting your alcohol, and then you'll kill me and it'll be fucking terrible.”

The Lieutenant grins at his comrades as you pinch your chin, thinking hard. Then you snap your fingers.

“I know what a Lysander sounds like when you stand under it,” you say blankfaced.. “It's NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE AND IT'S FUCKING ANNOYING!” You finish in English, and the Frenchmen laugh at your impression of the special operations plane, buzzing helplessly as it circles a field, trying to land in the rain.

“Okay, okay, you are Irish,” the Lieutenant finally allows. “But why should we all you to see la patronne?”

>Business. I represent British Intelligence.
>Social. I'm paying my respects.

>>41736453
>Social. I'm paying my respects.
Shit, is Grandma dead?

>>41736453
>>Social. I'm paying my respects.

trust no one even our self

>>41736453
>Business. I represent British Intelligence.

>>41736496

ital ital

>>41736453
>Social. I'm paying my respects.
Damn do I hate talking to froggie spooks.

>>41736491
Too soon anon

File: I'll remember you, fucker.png (40 KB, 576x695)

40 KB PNG

>>41736491

File: 1407083134647.jpg (97 KB, 427x327)

97 KB JPG

>>41736491

>>41736453
>>Social. I'm paying my respects.

“Social,” you lie. You're not sure if they're on your side quite yet, but you do need an excuse to be here. “I'm paying my respects.”

“Ah-hah! You want to see if she'll let you use us in battle, for le patrie?”

“Ah, yes,” you say agreeably. You realize that these men are probably from around here, grew up around here, and grew up knowing your grandmother as the lady in the big house, that helped pass out food in bad harvests, helped buy Christmas gifts, all of that. Noblesse Oblige in its finest form. And in return, these men, instead of fleeing to Britain, where they would have been folded into the British Army or Free French Forces, returned home, to fight and possibly die to help your grandmother.

“We will take you to la patronne,” the Lieutenant decides. “But if she doesn't like you, you're not leaving here alive.”

“That's fine,” you shrug, and they lead you forward in a combat patrol formation, one man about ten meters ahead, the rest staggered in two lines behind him, sweeping the forest and road with their rifles and a few precious submachine guns, notably MP-40s, probably from ambushed German patrols. There's fourteen men in all, you note. A good start for a resistance cell, but what if you wanted to aim big? A flying column, living off the land and friendly populace, hunting the Germans wherever they went?

File: claudia sartre, grandmother.jpg (74 KB, 622x724)

74 KB JPG

That's being a hero, something you're not supposed to do, but still. It appeals; this is your grandmother's home, was your mother's home. You can't help but feel a sense of bitter, helpless rage at the thought, a France lying prostrate and helpless before the rapacious German Army. And the worst part is, you can't even hate Fritz for his part in it, because he'd been flying on the Eastern Front until his transfer to France for the Battle of Britain.

The sound of two rifle shots in quick succession reaches your ears, and you almost grasp for your Hi-Power, in the back of your waistband. Instead you force your hand to still at your pocket, slipping in and stroking the Walther. Christ but this is tense work, you think.

As you reach a clearing past the forest sheltering the road, a woman standing on the back of a horse comes into view. She's using a double-barreled hunting rifle to kill empty wine bottles set up on the top of a fence, another infantryman handing her cartridges. She turns when he glances at the approach of your group, and the men melt into the forest, leaving you, the Lieutenant, and the woman.

She cocks an eyebrow at the Lieutenant, then turns to you. “You seem familiar,” she says, “but I can't quite place you. You are...?”

>Your grandson, grandmother, (Truth.)
>I'm wondering if you'd allow me to use your home as a base for the Resistance? (Dodge the truth.)
>No one important. (Lie.)

In steps a Major, impeccable in an Infantryman's uniform, hat tilted at a jaunty angle, salt and pepper goatee trimmed neatly, with flecks of gray in the hair at his temples.

Goatee? A fucking goatee. *Close Window*

In the Third Reich-era Wehrmacht, facial hair beyond a small neatly trimmed moustache was against regulations, though such regulations were often relaxed under field conditions. The latter was particularly true in the case of the Kriegsmarine and Gebirgsjäger.Growth of a full beard was the norm for U-boat crews on active duty, though facial hair was expected to be shaved off soon after reaching port

>>41737171
>Your grandson, grandmother. I'm wondering if you'd allow me to use your home as a base for the Resistance? (Truth and Business)
I guess I was wrong.

>>41737171
>>Your grandson, grandmother, (Truth.)

>>41737171
>Your grandson, grandmother, (Truth.)
Oh man, that's a looker if i ever saw one.

>>41736118

“Until I'm recalled to my unit, sir. I was a tanker in Poland and Russia, but I lost a leg when we bailed out of the Panzer, so they transferred me to the Luftwaffe as a driver.”


Is there any historical precedence for this? Sounds very suspect to me.

>>41737171
>Your grandson, grandmother, (Truth.)

File: 1429399405712.png (42 KB, 446x373)

42 KB PNG

>>41737297
>Is there any historical precedence for this? Sounds very suspect to me.

ASSIGNING A CRIPPLE TO REAR-ECHELON DUTY? MY GOD, HOW VERY FUCKING SUSPECT. I'M SURE THEY'D WANT HIM OPERATING THE GAS PEDAL OF A FUCKING 30-TON TANK THAT HE CAN'T ACTUALLY FEEL WITH HIS STEEL PROSTHETIC.

AS AN AUTISTIC WWII FANSPERG, I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN I IS AN AUTISTIC WWII FANSPERG WHO DOESN'T ACTUALLY KNOW WHAT HE'S FUCKING SPERGING OVER. FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK, FIND SOMETHING WORTHWHILE TO GRIPE ABOUT

File: 99-vases-on-the-wall.jpg (95 KB, 500x361)

95 KB JPG

>>41737431
Oi, oi, no need to give the poor laddie a lesson in evading 20 mm fire, now.

>>41737171
>>41737236
>Your grandson, grandmother. I'm wondering if you'd allow me to use your home as a base for the Resistance? (Truth and Business)

Like this, but with flair.

File: 1433993603618.jpg (185 KB, 500x666)

185 KB JPG

>>41737218

So make it a Major with a relative in the SS. Very difficult. Much writing. So history.

Fucking seriously. Off the top of my head - just off the top of my fucking head - I recall a man from the 101st, Easy Company, who had his throat cut by an SS officer in a brawl. He survived and made a full recovery, but his windpipe was left a bit crooked, so he received a doctor's note exempting him from wearing neckties. This same man was later zeroed in on by General fucking Patton himself. The soldier triumphantly produced his doctor's note and left the good general speechless.

Considering this Major has salt-and-pepper hair - and that he's a Major - he's probably a part of the old Prussian Aristocracy, which formed a good chunk of the officer corps and were kind of the privileged children of the old-school German officer corps culture, dating back to when Germany wasn't unified and Prussia kicked everyone else's asses and, you know, unified them.

Fuck I want to kill everyone in this thread so much it's starting to fucking hurt

>>41737431

I was referring to transferring branches of service. From Werhmacht to Luftwaffe for an injury.

>>41737431
>REAR-ECHELON DUTY? MY GOD, HOW VERY FUCKING SUSPECT. I'M SURE THEY'D WANT HIM OPERATING THE GAS PEDAL OF A FUCKING 30-TON TANK

Tanks use two levers left and right side to drive tank you use your hands not feet. There are foot Pedals are in turret on German tanks to traverse left/right.

File: Gorgeous, delicious, decu(...).gif (1.38 MB, 512x288)

1.38 MB GIF

>>41737588
Calm down chief!

>>41737588
>idering this Major has salt-and-pepper hair - and that he's a Major - he's probably a part of the old Prussian Aristocracy, which formed a good chunk of the officer corps and were kind of the privileged children of the old-school German officer corps culture, dating back to when Germany wasn't unified and Prussia kicked everyone else's asses and, you know, unified them.


WTF is your rambling bullshit story about. The fucking jerries love regulations. When doing historical fiction, well historical details matter.

File: 1340291145365.jpg (10 KB, 190x251)

10 KB JPG

>>41737700

Not really a big fucking deal, bro. It happens, even in this day and age where every first-world military has a hilarious ratio of fry cooks, truck drivers and noncombatants to its fighting personnel. It's especially common if he was enlisted in one service, and was offered an officer's commission in another service. That's exactly what you'd expect if he was a decorated or accomplished tanker/tank ace; the promotion is a reward and compensation to the family, since he'll have trouble finding work without a leg, so the officer's pension helps. (Germany still thought they could win at this point, remember, and they weren't throwing old men and young boys into ad-hoc units in desperation till much later.)

>WTF is your rambling bullshit story about

It's about the culture of the Wehrmacht's officer corps and how old-school European class privilege determined a lot of things in it. For instance, Erwin Rommel didn't give a fuck about Nazism - to the point of participating in a plot to waste Hitler, in the end - but he sucked up to it because kissing Nazi ass was a political way to bypass the Prussian aristocratic circle-jerk that he wasn't part of; and pretty much the only way for him to advance his career. Don't fucking believe me? Check wikipedia:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erwin_Rommel#Career_between_the_world_wars

MAYBE YOU SHOULD KNOW YOUR FUCKING HISTORY BEFORE YOU TRY TO CRITICIZE HISTORICAL FICTION, YOU COCKSUCKING FUCKWAD. READ A FUCKING BOOK, ASSWIPE.

>>41737700
The Luftwaffe was part of the Wehrmacht.

>>41737967
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wehrmacht

"Wehrmacht" was the name for the entire armed forces. The Heer was the army. The Luftwaffe was organized as its own arm from the getgo; it wasn't like the "Army" Air Corps.

“Jack,” you say. “McSorvan. Da was Patrick McSorvan, Captain, Connaught Rangers, British Expeditionary Force. Killed 19-”

She cuts you off with a sharp gesture, then descends from the horse swiftly, handing her rifle over to the infantry corporal. She crosses over to you, looks into your eyes, and hugs you sharply. “Oh, how you've grown,” she crows delightedly. “Let grandmother get a look at you, now. You look so much like your grandfather, it's stunning. He was so, so handsome, you know,” she says and then slaps you.

“That's for not visiting me, my boy,” and then she hugs you again. “Why, if I were forty years younger...” You wriggle out of the hug and hand her the flowers and wine.

“So if you already knew who I was, why the armed reception?”

“Oh, they think they're doing me a favor by 'protecting me', but I let them, because it lets me feed them and keep them sheltered from the Germans. I feel so bad for your cousin, you know, but he's safe in Britain, now, isn't he?”

“Yes,” you say. “Defected after we recovered him from his fighter. I think the RAF have him giving guest lectures on Luftwaffe tactics. He's falling for a nurse taking care of him.”

“Ooh,” she tsks. “Those don't always work out, you know.”

“I know,” you shrug. Don't you know it. Beth swims to the forefront of your mind, warm eyes and soft hair, and you think of the cold, lifeless letter you left her, and you regret that. Should have offered more, but duty, always duty, calls.

>>41738012
>https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wehrmacht
>The Wehrmacht was the unified armed forces of Germany from 1935 to 1946. It consisted of the Heer (army), the Kriegsmarine (navy) and the Luftwaffe (air force).

learn 2 read

“So let me guess. You're here to use my home as a base?” Your grandmother takes you by the arm and leads you inside the house through the kitchen entrance, giving orders to one of the servants in quick French, the two of you having switched to English. Tea and some light sandwiches are on the menu, apparently.

“If you'll let me,” you say, as she leads you into a room with some couches and a large fireplace. Over the mantel of the fireplace there's a portrait of a man dressed in the style of the 1890s, wearing your face, but with a neatly trimmed mustache, and about ten more years than you have right now. He's well-dressed, standing behind a chair in which your grandmother, aged twentyish, sits in a dress, two daughters on her knees.

“Your grandfather gave his life as a Colonel of Infantry in the first war, for this nation. Your father gave his life for this nation. You're risking your life for this France, even though she's not your home. If I can let the Resistance and British intelligence use my home as a safe place, then I shall,” she declares, and looks at the portrait hanging over the fireplace.

“Roland,” she addresses it. “Goddamn you for dying, but you'd be proud of your grandsons, even if one is an enemy of France.” She turns back to you, and smiles. “Of course we'll hold a ball in the city, you know. It's not every day my prodigal grandson returns to me.”

>Grandmother, we can't do that!
>Are you sure about that? What if one of Fritz's friends recognize me as not Fritz?

File: 1434861925184.jpg (100 KB, 400x400)

100 KB JPG

>>41738076

Are you fucking serious, retard? That is literally what I just fucking said. The Heer is the army, the Luftwaffe is the air force. They were separate service branches; "Wehrmacht" means the same thing as "United States Armed Forces," you dumb fuckwaffle.

>>41738095
>Are you sure about that? What if one of Fritz's friends recognize me as not Fritz?

>>41738095
>>Are you sure about that? What if one of Fritz's friends recognize me as not Fritz? He didn't leave any girls behind, did he?

>>41738095
>>Grandmother, we can't do that!

>>41738095
>Are you sure about that? What if one of Fritz's friends recognize me as not Fritz?
If so then the mission is fucked beyond all recovery.

>>41738095
>Are you sure about that? What if one of Fritz's friends recognize me as not Fritz?
Proeperly paranoid is the term, madame.

File: Really.jpg (20 KB, 330x327)

20 KB JPG

>>41738115
How does "the Wehrmacht consists of parts, one of which is the Luftwaffe" equate to "the Luftwaffe is not part of the Wehrmacht?"

>>41737949

So there are documented examples of German officers in a garrison environ wearing goatees? Other then Kreigsmarine and mountian troops None of what you are posting has any revelance on grooming standards.

>>41737949
Show picture of goateed Prussian officers or gtfo you spaz. It wasn't the style circa 1940 nor within regs.

>>41738247
>How does "the Wehrmacht consists of parts, one of which is the Luftwaffe" equate to "the Luftwaffe is not part of the Wehrmacht?"

So fucking what, moron? That's like saying North America is a continent and part of Earth. It has no fucking bearing on the conversation at hand, I.E. how difficult it would be for a soldier to transfer between service branches of his military. All your statement established was that the Luftwaffe was, indeed, part of the German Armed Forces.

>>41738293
>>41738348

I've never seen autism this fucking horrid before in my fucking life. You think the fucking quest writer - who's trying to write your free entertainment as we speak - must drop everything and provide DOCUMENTED EXAMPLES that SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE in the German Heer got away with wearing a goatee? What if he can't? Will you shout MY SCENARIO STANDS?

But hey, here you go, a thread full of images of soldiers from every service wearing beards, fresh of the line and in staged glamor portraits too: http://forum.axishistory.com/viewtopic.php?f=76&t=5192&start=45

As a practical matter a lot of this rides on the discipline and preferences of each unit commander. As an example - and this is just one example - Robert Mason's book "Chickenhawk" describes the author's transferring from the 1st Air Cav to another unit and being shocked at how much more lax his new unit was. His old unit, they'd hang you by the balls for not being clean-shaven and shipshape and shit, even in the field, but his new unit's commander had traded to get an Army ambulance they used to smuggle in South Vietnamese whores for a monthly fuck-party for the troops.

File: staff ncos.gif (65 KB, 700x355)

65 KB GIF

>>41738540
Go ask any currently serving US Armed Forces servicemember if that sounds like shit that any unit, in any service branch, is likely to let fly, and they'd say "no." And when you're dealing with garrison troops... they're garrison quality. Your D team. Which is why you use them to march around a pacified countryside; to free up the A, B and C teams to actually fight. These are the people MOST likely to get up to shenanigans if they have a lax officer in charge. And for every lax officer in the rear you have just as many strict ones on the frontline making asinine demands of their troops (DIS IS WHAT COMES OF IGNORIN DA GROOMIN STANDAHDS) who thinks that enforcing petty rules usually ignored on the frontline somehow improves discipline.

See attached picture. You are literally a new staff NCO; a person who believes that these pedantic fucking rules are followed universally, everywhere, regardless of era and local context. Actual soldiers have many names for staff NCOs. One of them is "fucking morons." Think about that.

>>41738293
>>41738348
The guy's out hunting all day and drinking all night during a war, I'm sure facial hair regulations rank pretty low among his present concerns.

>>41738540
Anon claimed transferring from the Wehrmacht to the Luftwaffe was suspect. That's impossible, you can't transfer "out of the Wehrmacht" and end up in the Luftwaffe, because it's part of the Wehrmacht.

About that, Göring was pretty bad about swiping soldiers from other services: the Luftwaffe had over one and a half million men at its height, which is pretty bad for a service that only had four thousand aircraft at the time. It was pretty easy to end up in the Luftwaffe from the Heer or Kriegsmarine, especially if you were injured, but getting out was hard.

What are you talking about?

“I don't think that's quite wise, ma'am,” you say respectfully. “What if one of Fritz's friends recognize me as, you know, not Fritz? Or worse, he left behind a girlfriend?”

“Psht,” she scoffs. “Nonsense. Presumably they closeted you with him for the months between his going down and you showing up, yes?”

“Well, yes,” you allow.

“Then you bloody well be able to be Fritz, or you might as well give up the whole charade and march yourself to la geste, proclaiming yourself to be what you really are, which is an Irishman fighting for a nation that's not his, which is fighting a continental European war that they could have prevented by pushing in on the Germans back in '38 or '39.”

You ignore the fact that your grandmother probably knows classified information, chalking it down to 'servants talk between each other' and 'she had friends in the general staff.'

“So you throw this party in the city. Why?”

“Why? So I can show you off, of course. You're 26 and Fritz is 21. It's high time the both of you found wives and gave me great-grandchildren. Preferably some French ones, I think, and just think: All those German generals getting drunk will make your job easier, because what is it the Americans say? Loose lips burn bridges, assassinate generals, and ambush patrols? Ha!” She laughs, and you get the feeling she just made a joke of your deadly occupation that could leave you crucified in the French country-side if you're not careful.

File: German officer with a goatee.jpg (77 KB, 400x598)

77 KB JPG

>>41738293
>>41738348

>>41738825
>That's impossible, you can't transfer "out of the Wehrmacht"

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wehrmacht#Origin_and_use_of_the_term

>In English writing Wehrmacht is often used to refer specifically to the land forces (army); the correct German for this is Heer.

As someone who has written WWII fiction myself, I submit that this isn't fucking worth bitching about, especially when published authors have made the mistake themselves.

>>41738885
Hey, isn't one of the Tiger Aces with a goatee as well? Knispel, was it?

File: Kurt_Knispel.jpg (43 KB, 335x400)

43 KB JPG

>>41738918
>Knispel
Yup

>>41738885
>those eyes

Those are the eyes of a man that's seen everything. He's seen his buddies shot, blown up, and stabbed beside him. He's seen them starve and freeze to death, still trying to fight the enemy one last time, for the Fatherland.

He's seen civilian women whore themselves for enough food to feed their children, shivering in the cold. He's seen partisans throw themselves onto the guns of an advancing murder squad, to buy their women and children time to flee. He's seen a pilot plunge his flaming plane into an enemy flak position, trying to save his friends with one last breath. He's seen the best and worst of man, often in the same instant. He is tired and dirty and smelly and hungry and cold and he just wants to go home, but he can't.

He can't go home because duty calls him; there are enemies of his nation to be fought, one last effort to be given, one last push to be made.

He is a soldier for a losing army, and he just wants to go home.

File: NAZIS.jpg (1023 KB, 743x1150)

1023 KB JPG

>>41738917
>In English writing Wehrmacht is often used to refer specifically to the land forces (army); the correct German for this is Heer.

Common mistakes are still mistakes.

>As someone who has written WWII fiction myself, I submit that this isn't fucking worth bitching about, especially when published authors have made the mistake themselves.

Agreed.

“Still, you're here now. Tell me about Ireland and growing up and the war, for you personally.” That's... That's a tough one to answer, you think. Ireland was Ireland; bucolic and pastoral until the revolt and then the civil war, which all ended when you were eight, in 1923. Still, there was a low level of internecine violence until the war really called a halt to it. De Valera had expanded the powers of the police to combat the terrorist IRA, in light of the “Emergency,” and it showed in their lying low.

You had joined in 1939, motivated not by any thoughts of saving Europe from the Fascist menace, but by understanding what had made your father give his life for the British people and Crown. You still don't understand, and you don't think you ever will. But you know what you'd give your life for. The men next to you, swearing and muttering in a trench, waiting for a German assault during the Fall of France. The fellow in the bunk above yours at the aerodrome, waiting for another wailing siren to send you both tumbling out of bed, yelling at the wall to stop bloody screaming.

The women and children in London, cowering every night in air raid shelters as the Blitz reigns, RAF moving heaven and earth to stop them. You swallow as you contemplate your grandmother, secured from the War by her loyal French soldiers, by the distance, by her simple wealth. And you shrug.

>Nothing much to tell. I signed up '39 to keep the Huns from reaching Ireland eventually.
>War's been okay. Wasn't captured at Dunkirk, didn't die during the Battle.

>>41739092
>>War's been okay. Wasn't captured at Dunkirk, didn't die during the Battle.

>>41739092
>>War's been okay. Wasn't captured at Dunkirk, didn't die during the Battle.

>>41739092
>War's been okay. Wasn't captured at Dunkirk, didn't die during the Battle.

File: Hotel Ghostrider, Loyal S(...).jpg (779 KB, 3000x2000)

779 KB JPG

>>41739092
>Nothing much to tell. I signed up '39 to keep the Huns from reaching Ireland eventually.
I think the other option is too condescending, to be honest.

>>41739092
>>Nothing much to tell. I signed up '39 to keep the Huns from reaching Ireland eventually.

>>41736189
A CYOA on /a/, the failed and disgraced SuWQ (yay drama), and actually, I'm in the middle of writing the lewdfic.

“War's been... Well, not okay, but....” You shrug again, wordless. Your grandmother raises an eyebrow at you, silently demanding more, and you comply with a sigh. “Wasn't captured at Dunkirk, didn't die during the Battle. Where's the nearest German garrison?” You change the subject. Recognizing it for what it is, she doesn't ask. Instead, she calls for the Lieutenant and his Sergeant, and they both come in, removing their hats and trying to keep from tracking mud on your grandmother's floor.

“My grandson here wants to know where the nearest German unit is, gentlemen,” she tells them, and the Lieutenant cocks an eye.

“About, hrmm... Five? Definitely five kilometers from here, at Gonville,” the Sergeant supplies. “I had Thierry scout it out in civilian clothing, sir. He said there's two infantry squads and a weapons squad. I think we could take 'em, if we lured 'em into the road and then hit 'em from both sides.” He's a tall man, with big, broad-shoulders, a drooping mustache that gives his face the appearance of a sad dog, a scar down the side of his face, and an air of deadly competence, something that tells you he could kill a man with any weapon he was handed, and quite a few improvised ones, as well.

“Excellent,” you say, and your grandmother retires, leaving the three of you with the tea and sandwiches, ham on day-old baguette. “So what do you think, Lieutenant? This is your operation. I wouldn't dream of usurping command from you. I was only line infantry, myself.”

“Hrm,” he says. “Sergeant's idea has merit. There's something to be said for keeping it simple, non? But we are Frenchmen, and a half Frenchman,” he grins at you apologetically. “We can do better than simple for our beloved conquerors, non?”

“Oui,” the Sergeant says. You haven't gotten his or the Lieutenant's names yet, but you don't think you'll need them. These men don't need names; they ARE their ranks. “What if we got word to the families the Germans are quartered with, had them leave in the middle of the night, then set fire to the buildings and shoot down anyone that comes out?”

>Not tonight.
>Too brutal.
>It works. When are you men ready to go?
>Not brutal enough. [Suggestion time!]

>>41739508
>>It works. When are you men ready to go?

File: Char-human-sacrifice.jpg (81 KB, 800x623)

81 KB JPG

>>41739508
>It works. When are you men ready to go?

>>41739508
>Too brutal.
The Germans will know that the families were complicit and they'll suffer for our actions.

>>41739508
>>Too brutal.
Send messages to lure them out, one house at a time.

Kill them silently, no collateral damage, then take their stuff, make it look like some deserted and killed the others, preferably in the direction opposite grandma's.

>>41739508
>>41739666
This works.

>>41739666
So, unloaded rifles, fixed bayonets blackened by ash so they won't glint in the night light, and boots covered with rags so they won't stomp?

10/10 planning

(Also, you guys will probably be able to loot the MGs and SMGs from the squads, plus all the ammo. It might be smart to have your Frenchmen switch from their Berthiers to Kar98ks, so as to be able to use looted German ammo.)

>>41739773
Sounds good chief.

>>41739773
Let's do this.

“Too brutal,” you opine. “They'll know it was resistance, us. They'll know the families were complicit, too, and we want to try to keep collateral damage to a minimum, whether that's German hostages being shot, or families turned out of their homes and left to starve. We won't stoop to their level, gentlemen.”

“So what do you suggest, sir?” The Lieutenant asks, and you pause for a moment, thinking. “Cover of darkness.... What's the moon?”

“Full,” the Sergeant responds promptly.

“Excellent,” you say, and start thinking aloud. “We'll light a fire in a bit and blacken our bayonets with the ash, then. We'll have one of grandmother's serving girls approach from the north of the garrison, asking for help. They'll come up the road, we'll take them with blackened bayonets and unloaded rifles. We'll do the weapons' squad first, then one of the infantry.”

“How many men have you got, gentlemen?” You ask the two, and they glance at each other.

“Willing to follow military discipline from before the Fall? Sixteen or so. Men that will fight the little war, the blade in the dark, the sniper at mid-day, melting back into the population? Quite a few. Our problem is that we only have enough rifles and ammunition for the sixteen or so.”

“All right,” you say. “We'll leave six men here, with grandmere, and we'll go with ten. Does one of you want to stay here, to lead the defense, if it's needed?” They glance at each other, and a silent conversation ensues. The Sergeant shakes his head. The Lieutenant nods. The sergeant glances at you, then back to the lieutenant. The Lieutenant shakes his head. The Sergeant slumps his shoulders.

“I will,” he says, defeated.

“We'll leave you with two of the MP-40s,” you reassure him, and that eases his mind, at least partially.

“Okay, mon amis,” he says. “I'll do it. It will be an honor,” he tries to reassure someone. You turn to the Lieutenant, and he grins.

“I will assemble the men, hand out orders, and see about collecting some rations from your grandmother's pantry. Baguettes, some ham, and cheese, you think?”

“Full canteens and ammo pouches as well,” you nod. “I'll change into the clothing I came over la Manche in, if one of your chaps can find me a beret and cockade, so you don't think I'm the enemy."

“Will do, sir,” says the Lieutenant, and he leaves. You find the bundled clothing you had worn, sweater, and trousers and boots, and throw it on. You bundle the suit neatly and leave it hidden beneath a couch in the room. You find your mother's armory, such as it is, and refill your ammo. You've got two pistols. The Hi-Power has four magazines spare, and the Walther two. Hopefully you don't need them, as it's supposed to be a night for quiet work.

The fighting knife, the Fairbairn-Sykes, moves from your boot to your belt, in easy reach. Also in the armory is a sword, a Swiss saber.

>Take the sword.
>Don't take the sword, you'll pick up a Kraut rifle soon enough.

File: ISHYGDDT The Clanking.png (144 KB, 253x275)

144 KB PNG

>>41740339
>Take the sword.
Shouldn't it be a shillelagh instead?

>>41740339
Swords are baller as fuck

>>41740339
>Take the sword.

part of me says dont take the sword the other says do it bitch

>>41740339
>>Take the sword.

>>41740339
>>Don't take the sword, you'll pick up a Kraut rifle soon enough.

>>41740339
>Take the sword.

You pick up the sword from its place of honor, unsheathing it as you do. The edge is still sharp, and the maker's mark reads somewhere in Switzerland, 1799. So the Napoleonic Wars, then, you think, and you get the feeling that this is a piece of your family history, forged over a century and ago, quenched in the blood of your family's enemies. And now you're going to add another chapter to that tome.

You sling the sword onto your belt, tightening it as you. One of the Frenchman, a small wormy fellow with squinty eyes and a hooked nose pops up beside you, bearing with grave deference one of the wool berets, a tricolor cockade, and an armband with the insignia of a British Captain sewn on it. With grave deference, you take them. He steps back as you place the cockade on the beret and then place the beret on your head in the French fashion, and nods solemnly as you put on the armband. He snaps off a loose salute, and then leads you to where the other men are assembling. The ones chosen to stay behind are those with leg or foot injuries and the biggest men. The action tonight calls for swiftness and silence, something neither is suited for.

You understand the gravity of the situation. A Sartre man had returned to lead the men of his land to battle once more, wearing clothes made by the women, with food prepared by the loving hands of the women. There's something almost medieval to the atmosphere, as your grandmother watches from a balcony, waving a handkerchief. You wave back and then turn back to the march, men automatically falling into a patrolling march formation.

The man in front was a woodsman, a poacher, from before the war, but now he leads the eleven of you through the forest with a swiftness belying the pace, an easy afternoon stroll, and the deadly earnestness of the mission.

File: p1030715_med.jpg (53 KB, 743x557)

53 KB JPG

>>41740751
>forgot image

goddamn it

>>41740779
Dat pommel

File: rommel-p[1].jpg (40 KB, 298x433)

40 KB JPG

>>41740797
You rang?

“So what's the story on Mr. Silent?” You ask the lieutenant, and he shrugs. Mr. Silent, as you'd called him, is the poacher leading the group

“Nothing much to tell. Was waggling his tongue at another fellow when shrapnel from a German shell took it from him. Good luck he survived, bad luck he cannot service a woman with his mouth anymore.”

You shrug, nothing to say to that, and the Lieutenant laughs. “You shrug very French-like, Irishman.”

“Mam was a Frenchie,” you say, unsentimentally.

“Oh? I suspected, from your grandmother,” he says, then laughs again. “Still, you are not really French,” he says, and you suspect he doesn't really mean any insult by it. “You were not born breathing her air, eating her food, loving her women,” he grins. “So of course you cannot be really French, but perhaps we can make you mostly French?”

You laugh as well, and the afternoon passes into the night easily. You'd made the five kilometers to Gonville quickly and easily, and there had been no German ambush waiting to cut down you and your men.

>Start the attack now, just after sunset. They'll be fat and happy from dinner and their whores.
>Wait to attack in the middle of the night, when men are at their tiredest and make the most mistakes.

>>41740971
>>Wait to attack in the middle of the night, when men are at their tiredest and make the most mistakes.

>>41740971
>>Wait to attack in the middle of the night, when men are at their tiredest and make the most mistakes.

>>41740971
>Wait to attack in the middle of the night, when men are at their tiredest and make the most mistakes.

>>41740971
>Wait to attack in the middle of the night, when men are at their tiredest and make the most mistakes.
Easier to escape under cover of darkness is things go wrong, too.

>>41740971
>Wait to attack in the middle of the night, when men are at their tiredest and make the most mistakes.

We'll wait,” you decide. “Night operations are best. The girl knows when to go, yes, Lieutenant?”

“Oui,” he says laconically. What he doesn't say is that you can either trust him to know his business and shut up, or prove yourself a chattering fool. Wisely, you shut up. Some of the men eat all the food they'd been given, deeming it wiser to retreat on a full stomach than an empty one. Someone produces two bottles of wine and it's shared among the group as the men smoke and play cards, some sleeping.

You accept a cigarette gratefully, one hand clenched on the hilt of the sword. You try to recall everything your Irish grandfather had known about sword fighting and tried to teach you, but basically it all boils down to “Point beats edge, and stab them with the pointy part.” Still, better than nothing, you think.

The evening winds down into the night, and the men put out their cigarettes, not wanting to let the bits of light give them away. The scout, Thierry had gotten the towns mixed up, and the Germans are actually in Clevilliers, not Gonville. Still, it means that that's something to work on: information gathering. You lead the men back west a bit, and settle into the forest outside larger town, men on both sides of the road, waiting for the signal of a girl running past.

Finally, when it seems your tense nerves are about to give out, she comes, running as fast as possible, shrieking about wicked British plunderers. A nice touch, you think, even as the men around you slip their bayonets onto the rifles. A German sergeant or such, toting an MP-40, comes hauling down the road next, yelling for her to stop. One of the men steps out and takes him in the gut with his blade, before the German can try to stop his headlong rush, and the Frenchman pulls him into the bush on the side of the road, where he sets about looting the corpse.

Two more Germans come next, one carrying an MG-34, the other a Kar, and they're taken just and hauled aside just as swiftly. That's when the plan breaks apart, because the rest of the ten man squad comes up, all seven of them, and they're moving at a more cautious pace. You step out in front of the lead man, sword drawn, and swing at him as fast as possible, hacking down into the space where his arm meets his shoulder. The sword leaves a deep gash and he screams, before you're jerking it back and stabbing into his throat. He goes down with a watery gurgle, and you want to vomit. Instead you're moving to the next man as the French infantry flood the road around the squad. They don't die hard; taken by surprise and brutality, they go down fast.

When it's over, you and your men pull them off the road and into the brush, where you strip them of their salvageable uniforms, weapons, and ammunition, as well as any cash. That gets bundled up and cached, marked with a rough cross on the tree it's hidden beneath.

The girl returns, and one of the men keeps her away from the bodies. He gives her a sip of wine and some bread, then sends her back to town. You settle in to wait again, and the night goes on.

All right, I think we're done for the night, guys. That last update took entirely too goddamn long to finish, and that's terrible on my part. We'll pick up again either Sunday or Monday afternoon, depends on stuff. See ya around!

>>41741587
See ye next time boss! We'll continue givving Jerry what for then!

>>41741587
Entertaining so far, keep at it!

>>41741587
So how much loot we get exactly?

>>41741257
Good show, looking forward to the next one.

>>41741662
About a squad's worth of gear, including an MP40 and an MG34.

We'll know the true numbers next time.

>>41738853
>It's high time the both of you found wives and gave me great-grandchildren.
We're already well on the way working towards that so don't try to set us up grandma

>>41742697
You're a bit late there friend.

>>41742725
Well aware, which is why I saged my post. Still my point stands, we've got our Beth to come home to.