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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Operation Ganymede - 21. Chapter 21 - The Mask of the Lesson
An unexpected arrival disrupts the assembly at the manor, throwing Arnfried and Heissler into confusion. Under Dettmann’s authority, a familiar figure speaks, critiquing their morning efforts. Tension builds as an impromptu drill is announced to fix their mistakes.
The door flew open sharp, revealing an unexpected figure. Captain Lefeuvre strode into the room, but gone was the prisoner-of-war kit—now he wore a Hitlerjugend uniform, sporting the rank of Unteroffizier, a sergeant-major! Oberleutnant Dettmann waved him forward, and Lefeuvre, with unnerving ease, took his place beside him, his gaze raking the boys without so much as a wink at Arnfried or Heissler.
Arnfried felt like he’d been chucked out of his own world. What’s this lark? he wondered, his mind boiling over. How does a French prisoner turn Hitlerjugend under-officer? Confusion hit thick, a jumble of shock and bafflement swamping his thoughts.
Heissler, just ahead, looked equally rattled. His neck, in Arnfried’s view, showed tight strain, muscles knotted from the jolt. Arnfried, eyes locked on this mad scene, braced for the worst—though he hadn’t a clue what “worst” even meant here.
Then Dettmann introduced the newcomer:
“Here’s Unteroffizier Müller—some of you already know him.”
With that, Dettmann pointed at Arnfried and Heissler, still none the wiser. But there was no time to mull—Dettmann pressed on:
“I’ve asked the Unteroffizier to assist with the training you’ve been getting since yesterday. Especially in correcting the blunders from this morning’s test. Unteroffizier, over to you.”
Unteroffizier Müller, without a flicker of doubt, took the floor:
“I’m Unteroffizier Müller,” he said, voice firm and clear, not a scrap of feeling showing. “I’ll keep it short. I had the chance to size up some of you this morning at the Oflag.”
Not once did he glance at Arnfried or Heissler, keeping his eyes on the whole lot.
“For the team I handled, I spotted several gaps. First off, a total lack of prep. No ready answers to basic questions you could’ve seen coming—name, parents’ jobs, kin ties…”
He paused, letting his words sink in heavy. Then, for the first time, his eyes pinned Arnfried.
“Klein, you didn’t even try to quiz me—figure out who I was, what I was up to, who my mates were in the camp. You lacked curiosity, alertness.”
Arnfried froze, blood draining from his face. The truth slammed home: he’d been had, played in a test he’d botched rotten. Each of Müller’s words stabbed like a knife, showing how green he’d been. He’d have given anything to be a thousand feet underground, not stuck there on that chair with nowhere to hide, shame and letdown seeping into every bit of him.
Müller went on, merciless:
“This mission was a test of your knack for gathering info, adapting, and thinking ahead. You flunked all three.”
The silence after was thick, loaded with the sting of failure and Arnfried’s dawning that he’d not just been outfoxed—he’d let down his mission and duty to the Hitlerjugend. Müller, letting the quiet weigh on the flop, added a rare nod of credit:
“Mind you, there was one moment you nearly measured up. In the cellar, you showed a bit of grit, but you didn’t seize it. That was a tipping point—you already knew the chink in the chap you were meant to squeeze, since your contact made it clear when you arrived: his soft spot for lads your age. The second you twigged Lefeuvre was set to take advantage, you should’ve turned it, bargained what he wanted, used his urges to twist the setup your way. Instead, you let him have free rein without even a fight! You should’ve haggled, thought ahead, worked it to your profit. Sad to say, I was let down by how little craft you showed there!”
At that, the two Pimpfes reacted with looks you couldn’t pin down—fascinated, curious, or just plain stumped. The pair couldn’t help sneaking glances over their shoulders, eyes darting between intrigue and disbelief. Each peek piled more onto Arnfried’s shame, sat behind them, feeling more bare, the weight of their nosiness making his disgrace near unbearable. He kept his head down, unable to meet anyone’s gaze, wishing the floor’d swallow him.
But Müller wasn’t there to spare feelings—he ploughed on, heedless of Arnfried’s state:
“You,” he said, jabbing at Eisenmann, “I don’t know your name.”
Eisenmann shot up, rattling off with parade-ground snap:
“KAMARAD EISENMANN, UNTEROFFIZIER!”
“Good, Eisenmann, up here, facing the group,” Müller ordered. “Klein, you too.”
He fetched two chairs, setting them opposite the desks under the Pimpfes’ keen stares. He motioned the two Hitlerjugend lads to sit, telling Arnfried to park himself close to Eisenmann, like that morning.
The pair obeyed, facing the Pimpfes in a setup that stung Arnfried with echoes of his morning trial. They waited, breath held, for Müller to spell out what came next.
Müller stood before them, eyes flicking between the two, the hush ramping up the moment’s strain. Everyone hung on his words, braced for the rest of this surprise lesson. Then, as if done laying out his gripes, Müller announced:
“Right. Now we’ve sussed what went wrong, I’ll run through what I faulted Klein for—but it goes for the lot of you. I saw a glaring lack of craft, and that’s what we’ll fix now. We’re redoing the cellar scene, step by step, picking apart every stage, every reaction—or lack of it—that didn’t cut muster in my book. It’s a hands-on drill, key to teaching you how to make the most of a spot like that, even the trickiest.”
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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