The man knew how to be still. That alone made him watch as he was taken away. "Gerhardt," he called to the Captain of the guards, "remember - we are not barbarians."
He turned away after he said it. No, they weren't barbarians. They were just all killers, Allied or German. There was no chance, no escape. And thus, burdened once again by his thoughts, he returned to the airfield, the men staring in awe at the Rittmeister who could so down men in cold blood. If only they knew. He slept fitfully, and was awoken the next morning by a telegram saying that the man they had captured had escaped the guards. Without fatalities, though a few guards would be smarting for a while.
And he thought no more of it. Because the war went on. And on. And on. The darkness unfolded until the last act. And then...and then he faded, retreating from a society he could barely understand. Until his country, until there were lives for him to protect again. And so he served under the regime he despised, and watched his country die for the third time.
Time went on. Almost before he knew it, it was 1968. He almost never left the castle now - a tired old man on his last legs. He knew that the tiredness he had been feeling was going to be it, even though the doctors said otherwise. A few more months, a year perhaps. Then he could rest. But there was the anniversary, the 50th anniversary of the end of the first war. The airmen had gathered, and he had been invited.
Honour alone had dictated he had come. He had, and had shaken hands with old comrades and enemies alike, and had been forced to excuse himself, to weep in his room like a child to see peace between old adversaries. He was to give a speech later, and he wondered idly if his sentimentality would allow it.
He sat, hands resting on his cane, in the hotel garden, watching the sun set.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-06-06 05:21 am (UTC)He turned away after he said it. No, they weren't barbarians. They were just all killers, Allied or German. There was no chance, no escape. And thus, burdened once again by his thoughts, he returned to the airfield, the men staring in awe at the Rittmeister who could so down men in cold blood. If only they knew. He slept fitfully, and was awoken the next morning by a telegram saying that the man they had captured had escaped the guards. Without fatalities, though a few guards would be smarting for a while.
And he thought no more of it. Because the war went on. And on. And on. The darkness unfolded until the last act. And then...and then he faded, retreating from a society he could barely understand. Until his country, until there were lives for him to protect again. And so he served under the regime he despised, and watched his country die for the third time.
Time went on. Almost before he knew it, it was 1968. He almost never left the castle now - a tired old man on his last legs. He knew that the tiredness he had been feeling was going to be it, even though the doctors said otherwise. A few more months, a year perhaps. Then he could rest. But there was the anniversary, the 50th anniversary of the end of the first war. The airmen had gathered, and he had been invited.
Honour alone had dictated he had come. He had, and had shaken hands with old comrades and enemies alike, and had been forced to excuse himself, to weep in his room like a child to see peace between old adversaries. He was to give a speech later, and he wondered idly if his sentimentality would allow it.
He sat, hands resting on his cane, in the hotel garden, watching the sun set.