B L U T U N D E H R E
T H E R A V A G E D M A L E
During the war,
I had been promised a projectile.
I had been given a rifle.
I had been given a sight.
I had been given a scope.
I had not been given the will to kill.
T H E C O M M E N C E M E N T O F L I F E
A war-torn gentleman had endured far too much within the womb of a female; her innards had announced his conception in the year MCMXX, in the month of July, a day of the numerals of the XXV, in Berlin, Deutschland, The Fatherland of the Global Universe of the very existence of humanoids, of such screams that only prolonged the tolerance of the father, a well-known combatant, a sovereign of the land, of the farm that they owned. Nurtured and naturally adapted, the little boy, growing to be the most idyllic gentlemen of all, soon had been delivered the cruelty of one’s own vitality, at the age of five, where he had been told, merely shouted, by his mother, to flee the place he had so much as recognized as his home.
Assaulted, ravaged and deteriorated by the passing of the First of Global War, the diminutive idol scurried away with his minimal feet across the wheat fields of his farm, with the explosions and implosions of violence surging all around his environment of innocence, pretending, with a wooden plane in hand, that he was soaring above them all, safe and sound, producing, with the small maw of his expressive face, the sounds of its engine, reverberations only recognizable by that of his own mentality, arms extended, sprawled, only to take flight. The projectiles ignored him entirely, for they despised him too much to make contact with him.
They had told him to run for the forest.
And, as such, he had accomplished the ordeal of the century.
He hid beneath the rubble of the trees, mud covering his face, no fear present, yet that speck of innocence remaining where it belonged. He had been informed that his grandparents would come for him, for the best meal a grandmother could ever offer his grandson.
They never came, for as long as the hours passed, and they never did, until he perceived the sound of a familiar vehicle, a truck destined for the ownership of a couple he would never forget after burying them--the parents of his mother. The boy had been saved! A miracle had been elicited! No answer would be given! The mother had been raped. The father had been killed. The mother had died afterwards due to bleeding out from the wrists. The bodies were never found. The boy, when he had turned eighteen, remembered them not, for they were only a blur of time and space, conflicting with his passive ways of pondering.
Where he lived now, with eight years of age, was where he would be educated, the gigantic, expensive farm-house establishment, and academy, of his grandparents. Not a single day passed where he did not know an apparent and newly introduced subject. Twenty-four hours hadn't been enough, either way, for the boy that sat beside other children learning. He ventured into unknown realms of schools of thoughts, of psychology, of philosophy, where he gained the virtue of a man too precisely capable of manipulating the understanding of others. He was broadly enlightened with an immense amount of knowledge—varying from basics to math, science, history and much more. Additionally, they also taught him how to paint, draw and play a limited amount of instruments (piano, violin and cello, mainly). Of course, he was also educated in the Christian doctrine. He ended up skipping four grades total given his intellect and ridiculous capacities—he had exceeded all expectations in school. At fourteen, he graduated from high-school with immense honors. At the same age, however, his grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and, unfortunately, passed away in only a few months. The news devastated Heinrich but did not impede his progression and success.
At the pace he learned, the years passed, leaving him alone, in charge of the school, of its education, of the farm, of its animals and of its crops, and so he cared for them all, until the tractor that had served him for so many years rusted underneath the exposure of the radiant orb of the firmament. Heinrich, that brave boy, was now twenty-one, with the care of his inheritance, unbeknownst. With such a fortune in hand, he went to study in a college everything he could, starting off with the most intriguing of subjects, the math that related itself to everything, to the beginning of time and its objects. He became an engineer, a mechanic, a philosopher, a musician, a painter, an illustrator and an archer, all throughout his stance in college; but no dreams last forever, do they? The war was eminent. No dreams last at all. Hitler announced himself as the land's ruler by 1938, and the recruitment had begun by then. Heinrich had not been spared at all.
With haste, he graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree, majoring in Psychology and minoring in Philosophy along with all his other concentrations. At eighteen, soon after his graduation, he joined the military due to mandatory enlistment, opting to join the Nazi Party’s SS, armed wing—Waffen-SS. Seeing that Heinrich was of Aryan ancestry, the supposed, perfect Germanic origin, he was quickly admitted to it thanks to the referral of his now-deceased father’s friend, Friedrich Gunther, an Lieutenant within the party.
The year was 1940, when Germany stepped by the door of France, in July, the Summer of Bolstering and Scorching Fervency. Heinrich had begun to serve just in that damned and forsaken year, by the side of his comrades, Matthaeus Sieg, an elaborate male with a certainty in his aim, Richthofen Schuyler, a brute with a machine-gun, and Schubert Schumann, a medic with the innocence of a boy, caring and attentive to his friendlies. The war had commenced, yet Heinrich had yet to see it at a first glance. They had been man that one could rely on.
France had not received the most pleasant of marches, nor the most pleasurable of instances and occurrences--no, it had relied on the Resistance to fend off the masculine men of grey from their lands, but they had so much as failed to accomplish it.
The Iron Rose had died by the door's frame, just particularly at that moment of action, of malign intentions. She had died, and none could revive her anymore. The Wehrmacht and the Waffen SS had strode in and out of France by the time the Resistance stood any chance at all. None could stop them. Heinrich's men delivered the success of their objectives as a squad, and the years passed. Poland had already fallen. England was soon to fall. Russia was at the feet of the Grey Men. Africa's deserts were rule by Rommel.
The Grey Men ruled everything. Heinrich, Heinrich ruled everything, until the turning point made its way into his mind, until Matthaeus became an imaginary being, until Matthaeus was adopted as a pseudonym to guard Heinrich's true identity from others and their chase on him. Matthaeus Schultz Sieg equaled Heinrich Wilhelm Schultz. Matthaeus had never, not ever, existed. Heinrich's rifle, given by the non-existent Matthaeus, had been conceived with the name of Zerstörer der Männer, Destroyer of Men, a rifle of dysfunction, of anarchy, of chaos, of turmoil, predicted for the fall of men, for their downfall, for their own potential doom as men.
During the war, additionally, Heinrich served in various other fronts, parting ways from his comrades after conquering France, continuing with the North African Campaign on June 28th, 1940. He was trained to mainly operate in tanks, commandeering a Pz. Kpfw. IV for one whole year before he was relocated to serve in the Eastern Front around July 29th, 1941, where he remained most of his time up until the Battle of Kursk—he was issued a Pz. Kpfw. Tiger Ausf. H1. During the horrendous battle, he saw the true horrors of the war through the lens from his commander’s cupola. In that dreadful battle, a shot pierced his monstrosity of a tank and disabled it completely, forcing him to abandon his tank, his dead crew and take arms with a lonesome, infantry squad of seven men belonging to Heer (the regular army). Once they identified him as a member of the Waffen-SS, they immediately granted him the role of their temporary leader and revealed to Heinrich their mission. Unexpectedly, these men that had granted him the role of their squad leader turned out to be his comrades from 1940. From them on, they became a loyal band of brothers and, ultimately, their interaction changed Heinrich’s perception of the war. They were quite different from Heinrich. The once innocent Heinrich, as every other fanatic of the Nazi party, was scathed by the philosophy of a greater race. Heinrich participated in the murder of millions of Jews, as expected from a member of the Waffen-SS. Yet, the German, whilst against the murder, was thrown off the edge of sanity, promising to help those Jews in need, offering to betray Deutschland in exchange for the safety of many Jews. Unknowingly, these Jews, female and males alike, fell for his wretched lies and were brutally murdered by Heinrich. In the many intermittences of the war, he was stationed at concentration camps with his fellow squad, jumping from one and the other in search of prey. He served with them up until the last, few months of 1945, where he was separated from them at last to commandeer a brutality of a tank—Pz. Kpfw. Ausf. B. Tiger IIH—to defend nothing more than Berlin itself from the clutches of the Russians. The fall had come to them, for the war's end came too soon, with Germany's utter surrender, and Heinrich's departure from Europe, towards elsewhere, towards the safety as long as it included the final resting place of a homeless, fortune-splattered male. Coins of blood filled his pockets.
Eventually, Heinrich settled with fleeing to South America like most Nazis did and there he remained in hiding before he moved over to the United States of America. There, he found out about his fortune and became wealthy immediately. Then, he discovered his love for killing, the Eves and set himself of the path of doom.
The man disappeared before the others could tell of his abandonment. He was characterized as MIA, by the end of the war, awarded the ghostly, phantom medals of Iron, of Bravery, of Honor, of Service, for he had accomplished what others had failed to do as soldiers of a country.
Heinrich Wilhelm Schultz; Matthaeus Schultz Sieg.
Men of Equality. Gentlemen of Gentility.
One man. One Soul.
A Portrait by August Sander.
SS-Rottenführer. 1942, 22 years of age, as of now.
5'7", Spheres of Turquoise
Obscure Mane, German
For he had been too different from the rest,
Apart from a part of lesser conjurings,
A male distinctive by the spectacles of a female.
Lest we forget his name.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
The potency of a soldier is always too prone to a particular fluctuation in a period, even after the bullets have passed, even after the explosions have ceased their occurrence. The Man is utterly bold in any given circumstance that entangles him and others. When confronted, he is a tactician, mildly silent and observant, with few words to say. Therefore, the inaudible mouth of the soldier shall never move under any pressure or heavy thought. He ponders before, and then the action comes. After the war, none of this changed; however, he became much more observant, much more silent, and much more hard to manipulate.
He is more than determined upon any objective and capable of being optimistic in even the most difficult of situations. Persistence is the trait that encompasses his ability to remain calm and focused on the tasks at hand, and this is what specifically separates him from other soldiers. His headstrong spirit is followed by the methods and tactics that he employs on himself and on the surrounding reality, where nothing escapes him due to his observant, subtle and silent nature.
However, not everything is solemnity for this male, for he is also very kind and caring for those that he cherishes as his own. He is very curious, positive, honest, patient, timid and encouraging with others as well. Not only is he a helping hand, he is also humble, obedient and trustworthy of any soul
P H Y S I Q U E
At 22 years of age, Heinrich is only but a young man, a boy fleshed out of a womb, still learning to become the potential build of a potent male. Even so, he sports the body of a soldier, a strong, tall individual with a certain amount of strength. His hair is of black, entirely darkened, shaggy and loosened, but shaven and concisely adhered to his cranium during the war. His hairy arms, although covered most of the time or shaven, are also a trait of his, highly repulsed and avoided, but sometimes welcomed. His stamina surpasses that of others, and his endurance correlates to this in a manner. While being averagely tall at about 6'0", blue eyed and young in build, he is not much of a show to others. The tainted skin that he holds is unblemished, but also tanned at times.
A N U N B R E A K A B L E B A N D
O F A L L I E S
A N D
C O M R A D E S
(Right to Left: Heinrich, Schubert, Matthaeus and Richthofen.)
"Never shall we fall. Never shall we lose. Never shall we fall back and retreat from the faces of ours enemies. We are soldiers. We are Germans. We have pride. We have might. We shall prosper. We are brothers. We are united. We are together as one. United until the end we shall stand in front of our enemies, and we shall kill them all, no matter what."
Richthofen H. Schuyler
"You're not bulletproof, that's one thing for sure, but one thing that I do know is that I am as compact as a rock. I will intertwine between my friends and I will kill anyone who threatens their lives. I am strong, I am hard, I am a shell, I am unstoppable, I am unbreakable. Those who fight by my side will see the fire in me, for it never burns out."
"Silence. Silence. Silence. It is all I hear in the middle of a cold and long night. My friends are away in the front lines. I am here, away in the back of the battlefield, killing my enemies and protecting my friends. Don't mistake me for a coward, for I am a snake whose bite is strong and deadly."
Field Medic Operative
"To care for, to look out for, to pay attention to. That's me, the Shoe Man. Name the wound, I take care of it. Blood? Bandage. Bullet? Pincers. Dead? Honor. I'll never forget a man on the battlefield. I never leave my friends behind. I look after them, all of them. Even the ones that I hate. I'm a medic, I never quit."
T H E I N C O R R U P T I B L E H O U N D
Oswin, a German Shepard.
Fully Trained, Military Hound.
During the war, Matthaeus and Heinrich found a dog stranded and alone near a fallen building. Matthaeus, since he didn't like dogs that much, gifted it to Heinrich the day they found it. This dog is a German Shepherd and Heinrich named him Oswin. Oswin is a very smart dog and tends to help out Heinrich in many ways. He can endure the weight of a few bags, one rifle and ammunition as well. Oswin wears the classic German helmet over his head just for basic protection. His fur is mainly dark, with a few whitened spots by his ears and face. The dog was trained by Heinrich himself in his own spare time, adding up to the hound's skills with detecting peculiar aromas or scents to track enemies or adversaries, as well as gunpowder, located mainly in landmines. The hound became a dear friend of Heinrich's. After the war, not much is known about the hound's whereabouts.
"Oswin is not just an ordinary and normal animal, he is more than just a creature. He is Oswin... He is my companion, my friend, my savior, my danger indicator. I care for him, he cares for me. I am by his side at all time and so is he. I always known that he will never leave my side in the face of danger. He is very special and one can clearly say that the species Canis lupus familiaris isn't only a name to place it over a dog's head, indicating that is it that. Nein, nein, nein und nein, mein freunde. He is more than just a creature, for he is a true and loyal friend, not an artificial and plastic-made one.
I can just remember the first time I actually brought him with me into the deadly battlefields. It was close to dawning; the air was cold and the night would be soon settling in on my friends and I at the camp we all had made with our bare hands. Every single one of my allies -- Schumann, Sieg and Schuyler -- were there with me. We had been all talking and gossiping about the past three days within the depths of the forest. The day before, Monday, was the day a carriage guided and controlled by two mules walked by us with fresh milk. Schuyler, as always, wasn't in for the milk because he had said that he had plenty of milk in his pants. Besides that fact, Schuyler was more focused on the individual who had the ropes tightened around the mules. He had said that she was one of the hottest and attractive women he had seen in a good while. Successfully, we all managed to stop her and Schuyler made his way into the dragon's cave, coming out burned and not carrying any precious jewels in his hands. For his imprudent actions, we weren't given any milk, but I managed to steal a whole box of it once the woman had commenced marching away into the distance.
All the night of that day we drank milk like never before. We talked like men and just had a bit of fun overall. Today, Wednesday, we heard chattering across the signal radio that was set in the middle of the camp. They had only called on my name and mine only telling to scout the area for hostile, Russian activity. I doubted that the Russians were held responsible, thus far, for Berlin's Countryside border; I was just following my orders.
Just when I had gotten up, picked up my rifle and a few simple resources, Oswin nudged on my leg with his nose, looking up at me with those deep brown eyes. I was suddenly dumbfounded and startled by the actions of the dog. The dog was wanting to follow me in this mission that I had. . For the first time. I left the camp with my companion, reached the point that I had to go to, scouted for about three hours or so with my rifle, the dog always being by my side, lying over the grass. I noticed nothing but the quiet and silent environment around. Later on, I returned from the mission, making it safely back to camp to tell the things I had saw during the mission. In the end, Oswin was rewarded with a bone that had a few left-overs of meat attached to it--he deserved it truthfully."
He had been borne a gentleman from the very beginning, and he had been conceived by none-other than the parents of gentility, but that had only been a story for another time, another course of memories, another paradox of the life of the Grey man that onward went into a new era of technology, ideologies and philosophies. With the advancement of the war and its final termination, Heinrich, with Germany's win in the war, became an utterly wealthy man of grace, tranquility and virtue. But, if defeated in the Second World War, he would be encountered wandering the depths of the planet in order to evade the hunting of the Nazi's.
However, with beautiful graces, he was granted the ability of receiving the fortune delivered by the inheritance of his grandparents soon after selling the farm-house, the academy and the many other possessions. Due to his service in the war, he also received countless advantages and awards that permitted him the ascension of the ladder of rank and position. With economy, with politics, with education, with his knowledge, he became an organized gentleman in society. Often required for the pursuit of power, he is only ordered to assist compulsory reunions of veterans, meetings of discussion, and many other activities where no other normal civilian can persist.
It had been the beginning of the months of 1946.
Afterwards, even so, with the life of a rich-man, located in a hill in the outskirts of Argentina, in a rented cottage with a car of his own, he trained as a killer to dispose of invaluable assets in Argentina and all over the world. With his early, military training, he transformed such knowledge and comprehension into the skills of an assassin, a hitman, a professional expert in the art of blood. Occasionally, he practices it every so often, but also has a preferred focus for the absorption of mathematics, philosophy, psychology and other subjects of Universities.
It had been the year of 1950.
But, currently so, he dedicates the entirety of his time in playing games of the mind with women and men, as well as savoring the minds of others. For entertainment, he participates in a variety of parties, weaponry shoot-outs, mascarade balls and the cinema. Heinrich, or Matthaeus, is no simple man, but a man of respect, of courtesy, of ideals, of analysis, hard to crack and vaporize.
He appears without the slightest sign or symbol of a Waffen-SS soldier. He harbors a few blemishes and markings, or scars, due to momentary and terrible incidents and accidents that occurred to him during and throughout the war itself. Before the war, he had been flawless and outwardly impeccable to the eye of the females. For his usually loosened, black and long hair, he holds the refined and iconic hair style of the era that most men adopted as their own if they ever imagined a humble and well-organized way of combing their hairs without any difficulty or deprived of the occurrence consuming too much of the available time. This hairstyle consists of grooming the main, upper-section of a male’s mane to either lateral—these being left and right—, and then constructing an aperture, or a fissure, depending on the first chosen side, in the opposite side of the hair. Although, even with such a displayed hairstyle, he does tend to let loose his hair at certain times or events. He will release it if he's home, if he's practicing at a gun range, if he's walking down a street in search of a particular shop, of even if he simply wants to feel the wind fluctuate throughout the filaments of his hair.
He was a gentleman, and as a Gentleman of Grey he shall linger and persist, for no matter the circumstance, he will remain as the same. He is not to be dealt with in the most passive of ways; his past haunts him perpetually and there is no ounce of the past that expresses happiness or joy, or even the slightest amount of content. He's personality is rugged, fierce and serious. An aura of mystery harbors his atmospheres and ambiances. The Enigma is all that he has come to known and comprehend of himself. He is a man, a Man of Grey, and that repetition shall revolve around him, repeatedly, consecutively, without a termination or a conclusion. Why would it cease? Why would it dare to halt if he has had all of this fall upon him, if he has led himself to his demise?