All the 12 candidates chosen for the monthly SS training program had failed, except for 2 rekruts awaiting judgment. The first was Erich Schufle, the son of a wealthy slave owner from the holy capital of Berlin. His name had been used in only high regard from the  Supreme Oberführer Reinhard. Erich supposedly was chosen for candidate school for his heroics against rebel forces, but most of the senior and above ranking officers often deliberated whether his exotically rich father had any leverage in the decision. His hair was parted down the middle, and the oil from its shiny surface reflected the sun’s rays that filled the tightly cramped room. Oberführer Reinhard looked over the documents on his desk as wide-eyed Erich Schufle nervously peered over the scene and watched his future being decided before his eyes, while he sat with his hands clenched, as a silent spectator. Schufle loosened his firmly buttoned collar away from his adams apple as sweat began streaming down his Order of the Iron Cross medal hanging underneath his neck. His breast felt heavy from the medals that were fastened onto his light gray candidate jacket. He did in fact have a well-heeled father figure, but the awards he boasted were earned through long nights of trudging through sunken mud, dodging bullets from unseen rebel adversaries whose only objective was to take as many of his units heads as they could. Erich just wanted to let his knees buckle from under him as the tension that was being emitted from his anxiety invaded the room. Reinhard grabbed his disk-shaped glasses by the hinge and pulled them lower onto the bridge of his nose so that his eyes could capture a better view of the sweaty mess that was standing before his desk. “Are you alright Schufle? Nervous I won’t send my recommendation to Himmler, are ya?” Reinhard asked in an attempt to gauge the emotions that were brewing in the skittish mans chest.

“Uh-, well, Supreme Oberführer Reinhard, every candidate all day has been turned down, so the feelings should be expected.”

Reinhard let a laugh out from his thin lips, then abruptly flipped one of the papers over.

“That’s funny Schufle, for I have told you nothing but praise! Your escalation to an S.S. member should have no doubts in your mind. Tell me, honestly, what has you doubting?” he asked with forced curiosity skewing his tone of voice. Erich swallowed heavily, almost as if pain were shooting throughout his body.

“This is a big moment in my life Kamadan, why such the interest in my dissonance?”

Reinhard adjusted his posture in the leather chair and tightened his spine straight, while he speared a few blocky keys on his bright red telephone.

“Just let me make a quick phone call, then it will become clear.” He said with a mocking wink, crushing a sudden realization upon Erich. See, Erich was not a very loyal candidate of the SS program. On paper it looked as if this man was a near perfect match for what the organization needed, but he had an agenda of his own. A few months before he had accepted a heavy bribe from French revolutionaries to pursue a career in the SS and give intell to the French Commanders. Although he’s spent years combating the very same militia, he had sympathized with the cause of the freedom fighters and fell into traitorship; the money didn’t help sway his decision either. It had dawned on Erich that somehow the devious Supreme Oberführer  had discovered his plans, and was now making the final phone call to end his life. The phone rang repeatedly, and with each ear-piercing ring Erich’s heart rate jumped. He had to know. Or was it paranoia?  If he sprinted for the door now there would surely be shock troops waiting for him on the other side. If he unveiled the thin stiletto knife he had tucked under his wrist cuff and sliced Reinhard’s windpipe open, he could have a chance to take his weapon and make a final stand. This was his only option. Erich coughed into his clenched fist, and with one glance to make sure Reinhard was consumed in his call, fished his fingers into his cuff and tightly pinched the handle of the blade between his fingers. The inharmonious ringing went dead, and the line was answered with a mumbled,  imperceptible greeting.

“Guten tag Reichsführer Himmler, I have that candidate Erich Schufle standing in front of me. Please discuss with him what we discussed earlier, please.”

“Yes..”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s the one.”

Reinhard ripped the phone away from his ear and held it out to Erich. “Himmler himself wishes to talk to you!” he said, emphasizing the fact it was Himmler, the military commander of the S.S. himself. Some say he had more political influence then the Führer through the rogue agents and espionage maneuvers he had at his disposal, but conspiracies run rampant through the introspective mouths of the S.S faculty. Erich staggered to take the phone, and Reinhard noticed his hesitation and shoved it closer to his still body. “Take the phone, Erich.”

    Erich reached his sweaty palm out and grabbed the phone tightly by its neck, swallowed down his uneasiness, and placed the speaker in front of his ear.

    “Reichsführer Himmler, it’s an honor to speak to you.”

    “Yes, yes-, save the sentiments, we don’t have time for any of that now, son. We have suspicion that the last candidate to the SS training program is doing undercover maneuvers for some of the local rebellion tribes. Your Oberführer Reinhard will supply you with a letter you must deliver to him. You will go back to your quarters and deliver this message to him, as he patiently waits to know your results to whether you’ve received acceptance or not. Then as he is distracted, dispose of him appropriately.”

    The fluidity at which Himmler spoke was remarkable; its as if these words had been lingering on his mind for centuries waiting to be vocalized. There was a sense of trust that followed his orders, and without thinking twice, “yessir” slipped from Erichs chapped lips.

    “Great, we will talk again after the deed is done and discuss your place in my umbrella. Auf wiedersehen, rekrut.” And with that Himmler ended the conversation.

    “Be quick, meine fruend.” Reinhard whispered with an envelope extending from his outreached hand. With a disoriented mind Erich retrieved the message and stumbled back from the mahogany desk. The walk to the door seemed like ages, and the fact that it felt as if the Oberführer’s stare was pounding on the back of his head didn’t help the situation. Finally on the other side, Erich was faced with a difficult decision; two hallways stood before his weary eyes. One would lead him through the kantine and out to the main exit of the office building. Then he could walk from there to his military-commissioned truck waiting outside in the parking lot for him, and exit the military base to never be seen again. He would find safety in the French militias dwelling in man-made caves carved into the sides of the Alps, they wouldn’t take the news of his failure very well, but they would never turn down a person in need of being harbored from the Nazi regime. Or, he could take his chances and go down the second corridor towards his quarters to complete Himmlers request and potentially infiltrate the most covert entity on the planet. If he could appease the French commanders he could have enough retribution to live like a king among his peers, a dream Schufle had envisioned many nights after his dad spent the afternoon binge drinking and scolding him for relying off of his parents wealth. This was his chance to escalate his status from weak to powerful, quarried stone to a holy monolith, dependent to a lord. It seemed as if a fog had been cleared from over the horizon, and every trivial moment that Schufle had been faced with before was leading up to this very moment. His fate was finally coming to fruition. The misguided rekrut scuffled down the hallway towards his quarters with false-enlightenment and misinterpreted signals powering his stride. His cheeks filled with trepidation in the last moments before entering the sleeping quarters his unit was assigned to, and was immediately suppressed into a stern glare as he absorbed the sight of the final rekrut Kasper Dietrich, patiently waiting on his bunk with his eyes roped into a magazine with “Nazi-Wissenschaft” in red, bold letters serving as its title. Kasper nonchalantly raised his eyes from the text and made brief eye-contact with Schufle, then returned his attention to the science essay he was enthralled in.

    “You’re not even gonna ask if I made it or not?!” Schufle asked casually, trying to keep his built up emotions from skewing his normal high-pitched voice. Kaspar inhaled deeply and threw one leg over his knee,

“well telling by the fact you’re back here without your insignias, you must have failed. Is he ready to see me now?” He asked bluntly, without taking his eyes from the paper. Usually Schufle would have rebuttled with a sarcastic remark, but there was no time for that.

“Reinhard wanted me to deliver this to you; maybe its some good news, or just an automatic denial. Good luck, though.” He said with a forced smile, and tossed the envelope onto Kasper’s lap. Kasper slapped the magazine off the wood floor and took the 3 by 2 letter into his hands. From his calf-high jackboot, Kaspar revealed his Hitler Youth knife he had picked up from his journey through the simplified military training that served as majority of his juvenile education. The blade shined in Schufles eyes and his hand quivered into his sleeve for his own stiletto. Kasper had a quick eye and caught the movement, but kept his enlightenment hidden and continued to slice open the roof of his envelope.

“How’s the weather outside?” Kasper suddenly asked, breaking the pressure that was pulsing in between the few feet that separated the two.

“Well- uh, I suppose it’s pretty chilly still. There’s supposed to be some heavy snow tonight though, so I better hurry up and get my stuff.” His voice cracked as he walked around the Kasper’s bunk bed to retrieve the dufflebag that housed his civilian clothes. Behind his head he heard the paper shuffle in Kaspers hands as he withdrew the note.

Kasper sniffed loudly as his eyes glanced over the unanticipated contents of the page.

“Dear Kasper Dietrich, I’d like to initially thank you for your service to the reich. After reviewing your background and accolades, me and my fellow officers have decreed that you have what it takes to enter our regime. To ensure your placement in the Schutzstaffel, you must first eliminate the rekrut Erich Schufle that is currently in the room with you. But be weary rekrut, he has the same orders to dispose of you. If both of you fail to best the other in 10 minutes, the shock troops on the outside of the door will fill this room with lead. Good luck.                                                               Supreme Oberführer Reinhard Kaufmann”

Kasper rose his head and caught a glimpse of Erichs silhouette manifesting from his peripheral vision; it appeared as if he were simply searching through his bag, but he was in fact readying his stiletto to lunge into the back of Kasper’s spinal cord. Both men suddenly rose from their lowered positions with knives in their clutches, each wearing their own crooked face of bewilderment. Kasper removed the thin leather sheath from over his blade, and tucked it into his backpocket. Each movement he made was slow and appeared well-planned. One of these men was going to die today. Erich slowly scooted his foot behind his dufflebag, and punted the knapsack through the air; throwing up a wave of clothes to cover his approach. Schufle ran in with his stiletto leading the way, slicing through the clothes wildly to catch the surprised Kasper off-guard. Kasper stepped to the side and dropped his weight to the floor with the heel of his boot striking Schufle directly between where his leg and foot meet. Erich’s ankle joint snapped from the momentum pushing him forward, and gravity pulled his body to the ground effortlessly, smacking Schufle’s face off the tiled floor. Kasper flicked his blade 180 degrees so it pointed towards the ground, and mounted Schufle’s back as if were breaking a wild-steed. In a barrage of stabs to Schufle’s upper-back, Kasper squinted in an attempt to keep blood from hitting his eyes. Erich’s hands reached out for some sort of safety as strike after strike boomed through his back and chest. Tissue split apart and blood pooled to fill the gaps. After the adrenaline coursing through Kaspers veins slowed, he realized he was only torturing his opponent; it was time to end his misery. He took a wad of Erich’s hair into his grip as he rose his head into the air. Erich peered wild-eyed towards the door as his skull was forcefully redirected towards the heavens. All this time. All this hard work. And for what? Kasper set the edge of the blade softly against Erich’s throat, and applied more and more pressure as he slid it from one side to another, spewing blood from the opened-windpipe as air escaped from his lungs. Consciousness immediately faded, and Kasper let the sorry mans head loose to plunge to the ground under its own weight. Erichs face sat in a pool of his own blood as faint attempts at breathing only accomplished in flooding more blood down his esophagus. It had been done. Kasper rose like a champion from the ground with a bloody knife serving as his trophy. He looked down upon the mess he had made and cringed, it had been a sloppy job, but when your future is at the stake you don’t want to take any chances. The moment began to slow, and the victory began to taste bitter; he had to sit. Kasper stepped back from the body and sat back down onto his bunk bed where he resumed reading the magazine that now had stains of blood littering the front.

After 10 minutes had passed, there was a faint beep of an alarm that played from the other side of the door. Without letting a second pass from the future, 5 shock troops invaded the room wielding compact submachine guns with the intentions of letting their clips loose. Posing like action figures, the soldiers paused with their weapons readied, taking a few moments to realize that there had in fact been a victor. The uniformed men all lowered their guns as if defeated, and the silent Kasper revealed a disgruntled face from behind the magazine.

“Everything’s finished, now can I finish this article?” He said, throwing up a front that the murder he had just brutally committed had no effect on his conscious. His chest felt twisted, but so does every empathetic soul after killing a brethren.

The shock troops awkwardly looked at eachother, then one of the unreserved soldiers lightened up,

“Our orders are to retrieve the body of whoever lost and report the results to the Oberführer, and your new orders are to head to Sherman’s Inn on the outskirts of Mangeburgh, and not leave until further notice. Reinhard said you’ll receive a dinner delivery around 7 o’clock sharp.”

“You mean we gotta’ clean up ‘dis shit?” One whined to the other. The complaining soldier immediately received a smack to the back of his head.

“Yeah, an orders an order; it’s his first damn kill, congratulate the kid.” One snickered back. The man rubbed his head with embarrassment filling his cheeks, but was too prideful to send Kasper even a congratulatory nod. Kasper exhaled a sigh as he rose from the bed smoothly and folded his booklet under his armpit.

“No need bruders, combat is not foreign to me. I am no stranger to taking another mans life. What’s done is done.” With that all conversation ended, and the soldier proceeded to unfold a plastic body bag and lay it over the fallen Schufle’s back. It was almost more difficult for Kasper to see Schufle being swept away into a bag then actually taking his life; like the reality of the deed he had done was now dawning on him. But there was no time to ruminate on it, for that would accomplish nothing but throw unnecessary pain on his mind. There’s too much stress thrown at a man on a daily basis to worry over things out of their control. He was now in the hands of whatever entity rules over this sad empire, and if Kasper were to reserve space in his thoughts for Schufle it would allow his spirit to have revenge on his mental stability by worming a permanent spot.