Recruitment Efforts (1)
“Damn it.”
They’d stripped me down to my underwear and made me change. The prisoner jumpsuit was stiff and odorless, and in its own way surprisingly comfortable—but being watched like a hawk just because I could craft anything I wanted was not a good look.
Every last possession had been confiscated. All I could do was stand there and watch the escape tools I’d so carefully prepared get sorted into the scrap pile as “scrap metal.”
“Number 0032. Step forward.”
I stood in front of a white wall marked with centimeters and was made to hold up a board that read Asiate 0032.
A flash went off.
“Turn to your right.”
I twisted this way and that while more flashes burst in my face.
“Sign here confirming that the above physical characteristics are accurate.”
“….”
I flicked my eyes sideways. Printer. Computer. The fact that they were bothering with paperwork instead of just grabbing people and working them to death suggested the Reich had already settled into some kind of stable phase.
Fantastic.
“Number 0032. Effective today you will be assigned to the Production Division. Sturm… Stum, Shturm….”
“Just call him Major.”
“Ahem. You have been placed under the direct command of Major Hans Schulz. All orders and schedules will come from Major Schulz.”
They couldn’t even pronounce the German ranks themselves, and they still insisted on using them. From what I knew, some of the titles had been lifted straight from the old SS.
So the ones in those greenish uniforms were regular troops, and—
—clack, clack, clack, clack. Thud.
—the ones in black, heavy ballistic armor that covered their shoulders and thighs, with the SS insignia proudly fixed to their collars and solid, powerful builds, were the Schutzstaffel.
“H-Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler.”
A quick Nazi-style salute passed between them.
“Registration complete, Soldat?”
“Yes. Final signature is done. He’s just been entered into the system.”
“Sturmbannführer Schulz has summoned him. We’ll take him from here.”
“Yes. Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler.”
Judging by Hans’s attitude yesterday, the SS put on a show of obeying the rules—but in practice they did whatever they wanted. Especially the ones under Hans’s direct command.
“This way.”
I followed the gesture and started walking. Soon a high, wide ceiling opened above us.
A massive watchtower rose in the center like something out of a prison. People hurried back and forth organizing documents, or—
—someone was making announcements into a microphone.
The space was huge, the lighting decent; power was being rationed, but not desperately. Under the watchtower sat living areas that looked like a mess hall. Armed squads of three or four moved in and out of the various corridors. A few “inferior elements” hauled supplies under heavy guard, worked like pack animals.
—hissssss…
“Ah, for fuck’s sake. The pipes are shot again!”
“Grab any laborers you can find and get them fixed. If the heating lines stay like this we’re sleeping on freezing floors again.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do with those useless bastards? All the good ones get stolen by the SS.”
“…Not much choice. Just tell them to tighten whatever’s loose.”
Most of the soldiers were the ones in green uniforms. Completely different from the men escorting me. Shabbier, somehow.
“If I have questions, am I allowed to ask?”
“Sturmbannführer ordered us to cooperate with information within reason.”
“Is fixing things like those pipes going to be my main job?”
“Sturmbannführer will assign primary and secondary duties personally. Number 0032 is currently assigned to the Schutzstaffel—the SS. You are under no obligation to answer every request from Wehrmacht personnel.”
“Wehrmacht meaning the green uniforms?”
“Correct.”
“…Even though I’m a prisoner?”
“Correct.”
“Huh.”
We walked along the railing. The SS troopers escorting me didn’t so much as blink. Even when officers in peaked caps barked orders at Wehrmacht men, even when we passed officers carrying folders on their way to deliver reports—
“….”
—it was the officers who stepped aside. The SS soldiers never slowed.
Their gear told the same story.
“…Heil Hitler!”
A Wehrmacht soldier snapped to attention so hard his voice cracked. The weapon in his hands had no attachments and looked like it might fall apart if you stared at it too hard. The men flanking me, by contrast, had optics, grips, even tactical lights and lasers.
Was the supply gap between the Wehrmacht and the SS really this extreme? Even if the SS handled internal security and headquarters protection as a special unit, expanding outward and conducting recon was still the Wehrmacht’s job.
“This way.”
The corridor we turned into had a completely different atmosphere. SS troopers stood guard at every door. And the people sweeping and mopping the hallway… maids? Laborers?
Outside it had been almost all green. From here on, everything was gray. Every face was clean-cut. Even the air quality felt different.
“Go in.”
The door opened. I followed the lead soldier inside.
Unlike the Nazi-style salutes outside, these men gave ordinary hand salutes.
“Brought him as ordered.”
“Well done. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
—crackle.
The retreating boots hadn’t fully faded when a radio on the desk crackled to life.
“Reply that the heating technician is currently occupied with my work. If they protest, tell them we’re having facility problems of our own and leave it at that.”
Hans switched the radio off and removed his glasses.
“I apologize for putting you through a busy schedule first thing in the morning. I hope the floor of the holding cell wasn’t too cold?”
“It was fine.”
“A body needs to be comfortable to work well. Starting today you’ll have a private room.”
“The Major handles all the personnel?”
“Both Wehrmacht and SS fall under my hand. Keeps me busy, of course.”
“You don’t look busy at all.”
“Intentional dereliction of duty. If the Wehrmacht—who only know how to follow orders from above—grow too content with the current situation….”
A coup becomes difficult.
Hans smiled faintly and picked up one of my paper cartridges.
“The performance of these improvised rounds was quite impressive. At close range they punched straight through body armor.”
I’d made them to kill a Giant Spider. Of course they did.
“The reliability of paper casings, however, left something to be desired. So.”
—rrrk.
A drawer slid open. Standard shotgun shells landed on the desk.
“If I supply you with casings like these, could you manufacture the same design?”
“I’ll need a workspace.”
“I can give you a private room. You think I can’t arrange a workshop?”
Then what? Skim a little powder here and there? Pick the lock and run?
But leaving a Zeroth Reich that had already grown this large alone was a problem in its own right. And more than anything, Hans Schulz sitting right in front of me—I had no intention of letting that one live.
“When would you like work to begin? Or—perhaps you’d prefer to sample the meals I can provide first?”
“…Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
“Excellent. Shall we start with sausage and sauerkraut?”
Of course. German food. At this rate, rice and spam were going to remain a distant dream.
—crackle.
“I already told you there is no technician available.”
Before the sentence finished, a dull crash echoed from outside.
“…Say that again. What exactly keeps requiring my attention?”
While Hans was occupied with the radio, I stood, opened the door, and quietly stepped toward the crowd packed against the railing.
“Well.”
Several laborers lay sprawled on the floor. Steam was blasting from a ruptured pipe. Wehrmacht personnel flapped around in panic; officers shouted into their radios.
“Get people down here now! God damn it, how many times has this fucking pipe blown—”
The SS reaction was different. Officers leaning on the railing watched as if it were someone else’s problem, snickering among themselves.
“Blanket requests are going to pour in. Poor bastards.”
“Should we tell them to wear two pairs of socks?”
“What, so their feet can stink twice as much? Not like those filthy animals wash anyway.”
Same side, and they still treated it like a spectator sport. No wonder someone was eyeing a coup.
“The hell is this? Look at this jaundiced little shit. Hey. Yeah, you.”
And of course the bastard had to pick a fight with me for standing still.
“Eyes as filthy black as the rest of you, and you still got the nerve to stare? Get back to your post.”
“…Wait, Markus—the men said the Asian prisoner transferred today was—”
“Leave it. I was bored anyway. Perfect timing. Hey. Get over here.”
This is why you don’t deal with Nazis.
I tried to knock away the hand that grabbed my hair. What I got instead was a kick. Pain sharp enough to force tears shot through me.
“Ghk!?”
“Head up. Look straight at me. See those countrymen of yours collapsed in front of the pipe?”
People whose faces had gone past red from the burns into white blisters were screaming. Someone in a white coat approached, kicking tools out of the way. Red armband, white cross—a doctor. Blonde, though.
She checked the laborers carefully and reached into her pocket, only to be stopped by a Wehrmacht officer. Furious at having her arm seized, she shook free and seemed to argue with him.
But—
“You think we have resources to waste on inferior scum like that?! Shoot them!”
Two gunshots cracked through the vast space. Blood spilled across the floor. Laborers who’d been hauling cargo were dragged out to collect the bodies.
…The doctor, though, was trembling from head to toe.
“Even those Wehrmacht dogs have the authority to execute inferior elements on the spot. And you’ve got the guts to loaf around in an SS sector?”
In the end the doctor turned and fled.
A doctor of the Zeroth Reich—
“Gahk!”
A fist drove deep into my gut. I hadn’t eaten anything, but I still had to spit up white saliva.
“No idea why they even posted trash like this here. Maybe Personnel needs an audit too.”
I heard a pistol being racked.
Hans. Tell him Hans Schulz sent me. How do you say Major in German again? Stu, Shturm, Shturm—
“Attention, all hands!”
Bootsteps filled the entire corridor. But the muzzle tapping my skull showed no interest in stopping. The soft click of a hammer being thumbed back whispered right beside my ear—
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
A cold, familiar voice cut through.
“Sturmbannführer, my apologies. This inferior element was engaging in sabotage.”
“And that gives you grounds for summary execution in my sector?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll correct it immediately—”
“…That ‘inferior element.’ Get him up.”
I couldn’t even clutch my burning stomach before someone hauled me up by the scruff of the neck so I was facing forward.
Ha.
The faces of the soldiers who’d brought me here went paper-white. Hans’s expression was pretty good too.
“Sergeant. No.”
Hans clenched his teeth. The air turned ice-cold. The hiss of steam from the pipe was gradually dying, and with it the noise. Even the breathing around me seemed to stop.
“Unterscharführer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Unterscharführer. Hand that ‘technician’ over to me.”
“Y-yes. Understood.”
The hands holding me grew a fraction gentler. No—actually, the two soldiers who’d been attending Hans stepped in and supported me themselves.
“Unterscharführer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is the difference between an inferior element and us?”
“We are competent. Inferior elements are not, Sturmbannführer.”
“What is the difference between the Third Reich and us?”
“We are competent. The foundations of the Third Reich were not, Sturmbannführer.”
“Ability is what matters most. Is that not so?”
“It is, Sturmbannführer.”
“Then what is the difference between an inferior element and a technician?”
“Inferior elements are incompetent. Technicians possess the knowledge to build the Reich, Sturmbannführer.”
“….”
“Sturmbannführer, but that technician—”
“Hyunwoo.”
Hans bent slightly, matching his face to mine as I was still half-doubled over, and spoke. A faint web of bloodshot veins stood out in his eyes.
“…Sturmbannführer.”
“No. Please. Call me Hans. You are enough of a technician for that. Aren’t you?”
“….”
Rough breathing rasped right behind me. The sergeant who’d just taught me never to deal with Nazis.
“You there, Sergeant.”
“Yes, Sturmbannführer.”
“What did your colleague do to my personal technician?”
“…Your personal… technician, sir.”
“Yes. My personal technician.”
“That is—”
“Did you take part as well?”
“No, Sturmbannführer. Sergeant Markus seized the technician by the hair, swept his legs, and struck him in the abdomen with his fist.”
“I see. Are there personnel who can corroborate that?”
Hands shot up in perfect unison. Enough strength had returned to my legs that the soldiers supporting me turned me so I could look at the sergeant.
“I see.”
—creeeak.
Leather gloves stretched tight. Everyone nearby took a full step back; the sound of their boots echoed down the corridor.
“Sturmbannführer, this will never happen agai—”
A dull impact, and the sergeant hit the floor. A tooth bounced across the tiles.
“Eyes that cannot distinguish the competent from the incompetent have no place in the SS.”
Hans personally tore the rank insignia from the unconscious sergeant, then drew a long breath in and let it out.
“Reassign Markus to the labor camps.”
“…Sturmbannführer.”
“If he is competent, he will survive while doing his work. If he is not, it will prove he was a useless creature who rose on appearance alone. Is that not so, Sergeant?”
“It is, Sturmbannführer.”
“Get him out of my sight.”
Urgent bootsteps followed. Handcuffs snapped onto the fallen sergeant’s wrists. They dragged him away by both arms, and from the stairwell came the repeated sound of a body striking steps. Before long the sergeant vanished into the corridor where laborers shuttled back and forth beyond the railing.
“How is your body?”
Hans carefully brushed dust and loose hair from my clothes as he asked.
“…You don’t need to worry that much.”
“You were kicked while someone held your hair and punched in the stomach. I find that difficult to believe.”
The soldiers who had been supporting me stood at attention beside Hans, waiting.
“Notify Supply. Have work clothes prepared immediately in place of the prisoner jumpsuit. Worker badges with SS markings as well—immediately.”
“Yes, understood.”
“You—set your radio to my frequency and take Hyunwoo to the infirmary. If anyone objects, tell them he is under my direct command. If anyone expresses dissatisfaction—even if it is my superior—report it to me.”
“Understood, Sturmbannführer.”
…Interesting.
I understood the grand little performance was meant to win me over. But if I’d been that important from the start, he would have given me a special badge on the spot instead of labeling me Number 0032.
The one thing that still stuck with me, though, was the woman doctor who’d tried to treat even an “inferior race.”
I wonder if I’ll get the chance to meet her.