Operation Typhoon
Posted: 2004-12-16 12:02pm
A little WW2 alternate history I've been working on. It's my first serious fic, so any criticisms/suggestions would be greatly appreciated. 
I'll put up the prologue now, and if you guys like it, I'll write more.
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Suburbs of Kaluga, the winter of 1941.
The young German officer stood rigidly in the cold, trying hard not to shiver in front of his superior officer. He kept his face down, partly because of shame, partly because of the cutting wind coming out of the east. "Leutnant Keitler, you have disgraced your platoon, your battalion, your regiment, and your country!" Hauptmann Gerald spat angrily. Keitler bit his lip. "Sir, I..." he said, at a loss for words. Gerald leaned close. "I should have you shot, Leutnant, for your failure," he said, malice and disgust thick in his voice.
Keitler swallowed hard and dared to look up at Gerald's face. He met a pair of smoldering eyes, partially obscured by a thick scarf. "But you'll be more useful elsewere. In a penal battalion, perhaps, along with the rest of your fellow cowards and traitors. How would it feel to be used as a minesweeper, Leutnant?" He laughed bitterly.
Keitler shuddered. He had heard about the things penal battalions went through, minesweeping among them. Gerald turned on his heel to face the steely
faced guard at his side, who stood even more stiffly than Keitler. "But division head quarters is somewhat busy with battle plans at the moment. Take him to the execution range." The guard snapped a salute, then grabbed Keitler roughly by the arm.
"Come on, let's go." Keitler was dragged over to the side of the ruined apartment building, and stood up against the wall. The guard walked back ten paces, then cocked his submachinegun. Keitler stayed silent. He deserved this, and that feeling was only reinforced by the discipline the Wehrmacht had ironed into him. The guard shouldered the gun, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.
I'll put up the prologue now, and if you guys like it, I'll write more.
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Suburbs of Kaluga, the winter of 1941.
The young German officer stood rigidly in the cold, trying hard not to shiver in front of his superior officer. He kept his face down, partly because of shame, partly because of the cutting wind coming out of the east. "Leutnant Keitler, you have disgraced your platoon, your battalion, your regiment, and your country!" Hauptmann Gerald spat angrily. Keitler bit his lip. "Sir, I..." he said, at a loss for words. Gerald leaned close. "I should have you shot, Leutnant, for your failure," he said, malice and disgust thick in his voice.
Keitler swallowed hard and dared to look up at Gerald's face. He met a pair of smoldering eyes, partially obscured by a thick scarf. "But you'll be more useful elsewere. In a penal battalion, perhaps, along with the rest of your fellow cowards and traitors. How would it feel to be used as a minesweeper, Leutnant?" He laughed bitterly.
Keitler shuddered. He had heard about the things penal battalions went through, minesweeping among them. Gerald turned on his heel to face the steely
faced guard at his side, who stood even more stiffly than Keitler. "But division head quarters is somewhat busy with battle plans at the moment. Take him to the execution range." The guard snapped a salute, then grabbed Keitler roughly by the arm.
"Come on, let's go." Keitler was dragged over to the side of the ruined apartment building, and stood up against the wall. The guard walked back ten paces, then cocked his submachinegun. Keitler stayed silent. He deserved this, and that feeling was only reinforced by the discipline the Wehrmacht had ironed into him. The guard shouldered the gun, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.
