Post by Martyr on Dec 25, 2022 15:57:49 GMT -7
RED SKULL in
The Christmas Truce
December 25, 1942
"Twenty-eight years ago today, the soldiers across the Western Front put aside their arms, and conversed, feasted, played football, in the spirit of both the season and camaraderie. Germans, Austro-Hungarians, British, French, Russians, they all took part. So, this is why I, a member of the Master Race, deign to dine with each of you."
He spoke as snow fell softly from the sky, a grand château, appropriated by the Third Reich from the fallen French nation, as his backdrop. He had an ornate wooden table brought out from the manor to the stables, a knowing nod to the time of year.
The Red Skull's uniform was a very dark green. Its cut was not unlike that of the Waffen-SS. However, his traded a sinister skull for a multiarmed octopus. This symbol also replaced the swastika on the armband of his heavy black coat. His face was inhuman, a bright red skull.
He was on one side of a Christmas meal. On the other side were prisoners of war: two French partisans, and man and a woman, and a Brit. They were afforded warm clothes and blankets. Most of their bruises and cuts were healing well given the circumstances.
Before them was a spread of food. Goose, rabbit, and pork. The last of these was purposefully included. Bratwurst and cabbage and dumplings. Stollen for dessert. He did have one thing that was not of the Reich: a nice French wine.
"A meal worthy of the day has been prepared for each of you. It is a feast of German foods and French drink."
Silence.
"You may speak."
The Brit spoke.
"John Evans. Midshipman. C830349D."
"Come now, that is hardly in the spirit of the season."
Evans repeated the same. So be it.
The Red Skull turned to the partisans. "What do either of you have to say?"
The woman spoke.
"This wine," she said, "it is from Monsieur Dumas."
"Good eye. Fortunately, Dumas will not miss it."
"Bâtard!"
The Red Skull's brow furrowed.
"Eat."
It was a long and silent meal. Utensils scraped and food was chewed. The male partisan did not even eat.
When all was finished, the Red Skull dabbed his napkin against his lipless mouth before dropping it among the grass and dirt. From the loft above them, among the strands of straw emerged a figure.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Each of the three, the partisans and the Brit were shot dead. The gunman above held out his arm.
"Heil Hydra!"
The Red Skull finished the stollen.
"Heil Hydra. This is delectable. It pairs very well with the wine."
The gefreiter descended a ladder.
"Sir, was your order because they were so rude to you?"
"No, gefreiter. It would have been your order even if the dining experience had been the height of manners. The meal alone was my mercy. Death was their only possible reward."
The gefreiter shivered.
"Does the cold bother you, gefreiter?"
"Yes, sir."
"You should be stronger."
"Yes, sir."
The Red Skull took the knife meant for carving the ham and plunged it into the gefreiter's neck. He came in from the cold.
The Red Skull's uniform was a very dark green. Its cut was not unlike that of the Waffen-SS. However, his traded a sinister skull for a multiarmed octopus. This symbol also replaced the swastika on the armband of his heavy black coat. His face was inhuman, a bright red skull.
He was on one side of a Christmas meal. On the other side were prisoners of war: two French partisans, and man and a woman, and a Brit. They were afforded warm clothes and blankets. Most of their bruises and cuts were healing well given the circumstances.
Before them was a spread of food. Goose, rabbit, and pork. The last of these was purposefully included. Bratwurst and cabbage and dumplings. Stollen for dessert. He did have one thing that was not of the Reich: a nice French wine.
"A meal worthy of the day has been prepared for each of you. It is a feast of German foods and French drink."
Silence.
"You may speak."
The Brit spoke.
"John Evans. Midshipman. C830349D."
"Come now, that is hardly in the spirit of the season."
Evans repeated the same. So be it.
The Red Skull turned to the partisans. "What do either of you have to say?"
The woman spoke.
"This wine," she said, "it is from Monsieur Dumas."
"Good eye. Fortunately, Dumas will not miss it."
"Bâtard!"
The Red Skull's brow furrowed.
"Eat."
It was a long and silent meal. Utensils scraped and food was chewed. The male partisan did not even eat.
When all was finished, the Red Skull dabbed his napkin against his lipless mouth before dropping it among the grass and dirt. From the loft above them, among the strands of straw emerged a figure.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Each of the three, the partisans and the Brit were shot dead. The gunman above held out his arm.
"Heil Hydra!"
The Red Skull finished the stollen.
"Heil Hydra. This is delectable. It pairs very well with the wine."
The gefreiter descended a ladder.
"Sir, was your order because they were so rude to you?"
"No, gefreiter. It would have been your order even if the dining experience had been the height of manners. The meal alone was my mercy. Death was their only possible reward."
The gefreiter shivered.
"Does the cold bother you, gefreiter?"
"Yes, sir."
"You should be stronger."
"Yes, sir."
The Red Skull took the knife meant for carving the ham and plunged it into the gefreiter's neck. He came in from the cold.
"Wherever there was injustice, tyranny, ruthlessness,
the RED SKULL was there leading the attack
on the weak and helpless!"
the RED SKULL was there leading the attack
on the weak and helpless!"