Annette Boissieu

November 4th, 1943

Partisan Base, Paris, France

---

“We’re okay!” I shouted at the wall of rubble, hoping they could hear me on the other side, “We’re just blocked in!”

I quickly took stock of those remaining. Only around five, including me, were left. We were all scattered across the hallway, one only just getting up and two simply sitting against the wall.

Actually, they were probably dead.

One of the partisans remaining yelled, “Keep going to the garage! We’ll find another way out!”

With that, we tried to get our group back on its feet. I stumbled over to where the two rebels were sitting against the wall and checked their pulse. I’d been correct.

Dead.

My eyes turned to the hallway we’d come from; now it was our only option.

“So how the hell are we going to get out, Alphonse?” a man, maybe in his thirties, asked the partisan who’d yelled.

“Good question,” Alphonse replied, “Not sure but I’m certain we’ll find a way.”

The man merely facepalmed.

I snapped the magazine out of my MP40, checking how many rounds I had left as I spoke, “We’re going out the main entrance.”

The two remaining partisans stared at me as if I had gone insane.

“It’s our best bet,” I explained, “The Germans probably entered through there and fanned out to cover the base, so going straight to the exit will be safest.”

Another explosion sounded out in the base.

“While that does make some semblance of sense, it’s still mad,” the man frowned.

Alphonse thought it over for a second, before sighing, “Well, it’s a way. She’s probably right, too. We ran into more Germans on the flanks than the center.”

The man stared at us both with wide eyes, “I think the fighting’s gotten to you both.”

“Listen, Edgar, it’s either that or you take on the flanks where they’re stronger and get killed.”

Edgar merely grumbled, “Fine.”

I gave a resolute, “I’m leading. Keep up.”

With that, I set off on a steady sprint. I didn’t bother looking back, hearing the two’s footsteps behind me. It wasn’t too long before we ran into a few Germans in our way, but we didn’t bother stopping. I gunned them down on the run, hopping over the mangled mess of bodies on the floor.

More explosions rocked the base, reverberating through the walls and ceiling. When it did, the blood that oftentimes painted the surfaces vibrated like some hellish wave.

I did my best to suppress all the rage I felt building up inside me at the sight of all the partisan corpses. Good men and women carelessly slaughtered for daring to fight back against the regime. It was all I could do to not run off and find some goddamned German to strangle with my bare hands.

I pivoted on my heel when I heard a gunshot go off behind me. Alphonse had his rifle raised in his hands, aimed just behind Edgar. A German corpse was on the ground, Kar89k still clutched in his hands.

“Don’t stop now!” Edgar chastised, continuing to run.

With one final cursory glance down the hall to see if there were any more Germans coming, I turned and continued running. So far I’d been proven correct. Most of the German soldiers were on the flanks, spreading out from the central entrance to look for partisans.

The center was relatively undefended, meaning we were free to sprint straight down and simply take out what little resistance we found. What would be on the other side once we got out, though, was a different matter entirely. I hadn’t thought that far, to be honest.

Hopefully, only a contingent force of Germans would remain and we’d be able to easily kill them.

“Jetzt feuern!” I only had a second to process that before the wall behind us exploded. We were all thrown back into the opposite one, with me narrowly avoiding having my arm amputated by a flying brick.

Others hadn’t been as lucky.

As my shaky gaze steadied, I realized Edgar’s head was now replaced with a bloodied pulp of bone and flesh. Alphonse screamed.

“Edgar!” the younger man quickly crawled over, tears beginning to form in his eyes.

I ignored the stinging in my heart, having heard that exact desperate tone so many times before, and kept myself together, “He’s dead. We keep moving.”

Alphonse fully turned to me, his face wet from crying, “Edgar’s dead. I won’t. I can’t.”

“He’s fucking dead,” I grit my teeth, trying to keep my mind off the rapidly growing hole I felt in my chest, “Nothing we can do for him now. Best thing we can do is survive for him.”

I staggered to my feet, taking a moment to reload.

“But… he’s dead! My brother’s dead! What use is there moving on now? I’ll grow old and he never will!”

Goddamn it. God fucking damn it.

“If he was a good brother, he’d want you to move your goddamn ass and live. I have no qualms dragging you out of here if I have to,” I grunted, keeping my MP40 trained on the end of the hallway.

I heard Alphonse sniffle behind me for a moment, before shakily breathing, “…you’re right. I’ll keep moving. For him.”

I glanced back at him, “You can grieve later. I promise.”

He stood up on shaky feet, staring at the corpse for a moment before tearing his gaze away, “Let’s go.”

Alphonse pelted off, seemingly running as fast as his feet could carry him. I tore after him, long gone the days of measured jogging to keep stamina up. Now we were just trying to get to the exit as fast as possible.

I slowly started recognizing the halls as the main structure which the base as built around. A small ray of hope began burrowing into my chest; we could make it.

A few more Germans showed up, but they were easy enough to put down. Before we knew it, we were clambering up the stairs to street level. Alphonse was in front of me while I pulled up the rear.

“The door is open,” Alphonse murmured, his voice still cracking.

I glanced up the stairs. He was right. I could see the ceiling of the building that served as a front for the main entrance.

“Keep going,” I replied, “But be careful. There might be more Germans waiting.”

He slowly stepped out the doorway. Judging by how a firefight didn’t immediately break out, it was safe. I followed suit, glancing around the small bar. It was vacant, but showed obvious signs of the Germans storming through here. The blinds were pulled, but I could see several German military vehicles outside the front.

“The side door,” I grunted. We both quickly made our way to the exit, Alphonse cautiously opening it and peeking out before slipping through. It opened up to the backstreets, with three or four story houses flanking us on either side of the slim path. We hurried down the alley before making a right turn, mistakenly not checking what was beyond it beforehand.

W ran right into the sights of the waiting Germans.

Alphonse didn’t even have enough of a second to react properly. The only sign anything was wrong was his eyes widening and mouth opening to shout.

And then the mowing sound of an MG42 began..

He was slammed against the wall by a series of gunshots, crimson smears staining the brick wall behind him. I dove to the side as the spray of bullets strayed my way, raking the brick wall behind me.

“Töte sie nicht! Wir sollen Gefangene machen!” a voice yelled out.

Just like that, the stream of bullets stopped.

“Weapon down and hand up or shoot!” somebody shouted in broken French.

I stared at my opposition; three armored APCs, nearly nine Germans and one with an MG. I wouldn’t be able to fight my way out of this one. No cover, either.

I begrudgingly dropped my MP40, raising my hands above my head.

The officer walked forward, a P08 pistol in his hands. He stepped behind me, “Ein weiterer Gefangener für den Grafen.”

I felt the grip of a pistol slamming against my head. I grit my teeth, trying to keep myself from grabbing at where I was hit or simply assaulting the damned Nazi. Even the language itself was making my blood boil, even if I didn’t catch a word. I managed to keep my outward composure, though. One wrong move and I’d have a gaping hole in my skull.

“Soldat! Wie sagt man ‘März’ auf Französisch?”

One of the soldiers replied, “Mars, Herr.”

“Gott sei Dank kennt einer von euch diese barbarische Sprache,” I heard the officer mutter, then state in French with the thickest accent I’d heard in a while, “March. Zum Fahrzeug..”

To punctuate the word, he poked my back with the barrel of his pistol. I didn’t move. I was spending too much energy trying not to jam my thumbs in the officer’s eye sockets. Sure, I’d die, but it’d feel amazing.

“Hast du französische Hure nicht richtig gehört? Ich sagte march,” he poked the back of my head this time with the barrel of his pistol more forcefully this time. It nearly made me stumble forward.

“Commander says march to truck. Now,” one of the soldiers stated in that same broken French.

I bit my lip to not shoot back an insult as I slowly began walking to the armored vehicle. When I got near the back, one of the soldiers opened the doors. I saw two other partisans sitting in the back. Their hands were bound and mouths gagged.

I barely had a moment to think before one of the soldiers forced my hands before my back, roughly tying a rope around my wrists. Unable to fight back, he quickly slid a cloth over my mouth before roughly shoving me into the vehicle.

“Sit,” the soldier glared down at me in the floor of the truck.

I just glared back.

The man, seemingly already growing impatient, clambered in. He easily lifted me over his shoulder, harshly dropping me onto the wooden seat next to another captured partisan.

I could only scowl at the fascist fuck as he shut the truck doors, plunging us in darkness.

Malte Heissler

November 5th, 1943

Temporarily Occupied Portes de Versailles Café, Paris, France

---

“The orders were to capture as many partisans as you could,” I stared at the three officers that had been placed under my command for this operation with hardened eyes, “Not to turn the whole street into a smoking pile of rubble.”

“I’m sorry, Herr Heissler, but in my defen-”

I raised my hand as I straightened in my chair, “No excuses. You explicitly ordered the use of demolition charges both before they were supposed to be used and much more than were supposed to be used. Now the entire street is caving in on itself.”

I stood up, leaning on the desk, “You’re all lucky that the only buildings effected were residential and not historical landmarks or—god forbid—material storage depots. If that were the case, all our jobs would be on the line.”

The officers merely nodded, with the one on the left, a man by the name of Bechtel, stating, “It won’t happen again, Herr Heissler.”

“So what are the casualties?”

“Thirty-one of our own, Herr Heissler. As for the Judeo-Bolsheviks of the partisan cell, we estimate about sixty-seven killed or wounded, and a further forty-nine captured.”

“Did you ID the captured?”

Hasselhoff, the officer on the right, nodded, “We are currently finishing up identifying all the partisans, both dead and imprisoned. Oddly enough, some of our own citizens were among them.”

I quirked an eyebrow, “Anyone by the name of Feldpetzer?”

The final officer, Kӧrte, shuffled through the clipboard in his hands. After a minute, he shook his head, “We have no captured Bolsheviks by the name of Feldpetzer, Herr.”

Damn it. I hesitantly added, “And the dead?”

Another minute before the man replied, “None dead, either.”

I blinked at the three officers for a moment, before shouting, “What!?”

“We have no dead or captured by the name of Feldpetzer, Herr Heissler.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying not to blow my top. If Konrad wasn’t killed or captured, he must’ve escaped. But how? We had covered every entrance, and strategically fanned out to cover the entire base.

My gloved fist slammed down onto the table. This thorn was taking much more effort to remove than I had originally thought.

“…uh, Herr Heissler?”

I glared at them, hissing, “What?”

The officers were undeterred, with Bechtel speaking up, “We could interrogate our captured partisans. If he’s German, as his name implies, he must’ve stood out in the cell. Perhaps we could uncover more information on him.”

I stayed quiet for a moment, thinking it over.

“Fine. Transport all the captured to the SS outpost and get Heinsohn over there ASAP. I’ll be watching the interrogations personally.”

The three officers saluted, “Jawohl!”.

I gave a dismissive gesture with my hand, and they all filed out of the room that served as my temporary office. Finally having some quiet, I stepped over to the window that looked out on the neighboring street, thankfully untouched by the combat a few blocks away.

Once again, Konrad had disgraced my name and the Führer’s. I couldn’t let that stand. Being beaten by an Aryan who had bought into Jewish lies was an affront to everything the Reich stood for. It was my duty as both a military commander and a citizen of the glorious Fatherland to wipe this stain off the face of the Earth.

If only that Bolshevik rat could stay still.

I sighed, turning around. I grabbed the files and paperwork scattered around on my desk, neatly sliding them into a portfolio, before walking out of my office.

It was time to get some answers.