The next day after darkness had settled over the Polish flatlands, Richard heard scratching sounds from the kitchen. Alarmed, he grabbed the bat by his bedside and snuck downstairs. But before he reached the ground floor, strong arms grabbed him and one big hand was pushed over his mouth.
Richard kicked at his attacker, but stopped at the distinctive click of a safety being released on an MP40, the standard German infantry weapon. While he racked his brain over whether he should identify himself as a German or not, someone flashed a lantern into his face. In the short moment the light swept across the room before blinding him, he caught a glimpse on the clothing of the submachine g*n holder. Definitely not Wehrmacht. So the weapon was booty.
“What’s going on down there? Richard?” Katrina
