Building on wolfkin's excellent idea, here is, in brief, the biography of Sonderführer Qvist.
Born into a family of poor Pomeranian potato farmers in 1905, the young Qvist was raised in conditions of dire poverty. The Qvist family originated in Denmark, but finding their lot as poor Danish potato farmers intolerable, the father of the family, one Rasmus Qvist, decided to seek greener pastures in the year 1624. Consequently, he brought the family to Pomerania in that year to settle there. This turned out to be a less than prudent move, as Pomerania was utterly devastated by the Thirty Years War in 1625. The family left for Torun in Poland, where once more Rasmus Qvist's lack of foresight caught up with them, this time in the form of violent anti-protestant persecutions. Making their way back to Pomerania, they were in turn robbed by a roving band of cossacks, taken briefly into slavery by a Turkish expeditionary force before they changed their minds largely due to Mrs Qvist's monumental flatulence, and exposed to a highly humiliating bout of taunting by some passing French soldiers, from which they luckily escaped completely unscathed as they did not understand a single word of French. They returned to reviving Pomerania in 1628, rebuilding their simple hamlet stone by stone. In 1629, Pomerania was once more utterly ravaged by the Thirty Years war. And so on and so on.
This sort of thing having gone on for a good few centuries (including transatlantic emigration, hurrily aborted after a badly timed attempt to settle near the smallish town of Gettysburg in the late 1860s), it was not much the young Qvist had to look forward to in life. His forefather Rasmus having chosen possibly the least productive patch of peat bog in the whole of Northern Germany for the family potato farm, the annual yield rarely exceeded 12 potatoes. Even with government subsidies, this created a somewhat stretched financial situation for a family of 13.
One of the defining moments in his young life came in August 1914, when his father was called up for World War I. Upon his goodbye to the family, he took his son aside, and, with the air of one that would not return, imparted to him the condensed wisdom of his life and those of his forebears. "Son", he said. "Always remember this. A Qvist always goes by his instincts. That is how we have got where we are today. Also - a potato is as a potato does". It was indeed the last time Qvist saw his father. Seven months later, he tragically perished in Flanders, of gout, that eternal harvester of rear echelon troops in all armies. In later years, Qvist would often sit lost in reflection upon that last sentence of his father's last words to him, asking himself questions such as "What the heck was he on about?" and "Was he off his rocker?"
to be continued....
Forum hero biography: Qvist
Moderator: Commissar D, the Evil
Pomeranian potato's
Poor Qvist's family! I laughed quite heartily and enjoyed it a lot. Nice one Qvist.
adrian
adrian
thanks guys, here comes the next instalment.
At age 15, our young hero left the path trodden by his ancestors and went to Berlin to enlist, filled with the idealistic urge to give to the world what the world had always given to his family - misery, pillage, destruction and wanton cruelty. Generally regarded through the centuries by their neighbours, with some justification, as omens of bad luck, the Qvists had never really acquired a wide social circle. In fact, outside of the animal kingdom, they hadn't acquired ANY social circle. They still spoke archaic Danish at home, and if it hadn't been for compulsory education, would likely have known nothing else. They had, interestingly, also developed something in the way of a family religious twist, whose main tenet was that whatever happens to you, you eventually, God be willing, get to inflict on others. Doubtlessly, this was a notion that had brought forth many a warm smile around the fireplace in the family hamlet through the ages, and been of great consolation in otherwise merciless times. Qvist had always accepted it cheerfully and without the least cynicism or bitterness, believing it should be worth some good honest fun, especially seeing as God hadn't actually gotten around to the "willing"-bit as of yet. After all, fortune had always vomited on his family with disconcerting regularity, and whatever the opposite was, it could hardly be worse. As he left, his younger brothers taunted him, claiming that all he knew was potatoes and mud. This, he had to concede, was true, but he went anyway.
In those days, it was far from easy to gain entrance into the 100,000 man Reichswehr, and on top of that he had to lie about his age. He solved the latter problem by pioneering what would soon become an established scientific truth: If you wear a small black moustache, Germans will believe anything you tell them. Luckily, the army was as always short of experienced potato specialists, and his impeccable credentials in Mud Environment Labor also aided him. He was assigned to Nachschub kp., I.R. 324, as an Unterpeeler.
His terrific skills in peeling potatoes with minimal wastage, and his seemingly unbounded tolerance for mud, quickly found favor among his superiors. And so began his meteoric rise in the Reichswehr. He was promoted to Oberpeeler within six months, won distinction in the 1922 autumn manouveres for "indomitable courage in the face of some really nasty sleet and mud" and went on to achieve the dizzying rank of Regimental Kartoffelmeister at the age of 18. Soon, he was promoted to Suppenjunker, and started his officer training.
It was at this time that an unfamiliar restlessness started to come over him. Every day, he would excel at any potato-related task his instructors could throw at him. And yet, he felt strangely unfulfilled. "Surely", he mused, "there is more to life than just potatoes and mud?". Ashamed though he naturally was at this heretical thought, the very negation of everything his family had always stood for, it would not leave him.
And so it happened one Tuesday morning, as he was passing the canteen messageboard, that his attention was caught by a small notice down in the right corner. It read: "The SCHUTZSTAFFEL (no, not them, this is a different one, honestly, how many times do we have to explain this, will you just look at the insignia for God's sake?) needs YOU! Tired of your present duty? Looking for your niche in army life? Want to become a man of the world? Then join today!", and Qvist's replies were "Really?", "you bet", "I guess so", "yes, please" and "why not?" respectively. So, three days later, he found himself escorted by two extremely resentful-looking guards to a front office, where an extremely satisfied-looking Lieutenant instructed him to take a seat and wait, before turning his attention back to a pile of small photographs, which he described as his "homework". A small brass plate on the door read "Oberst von Mussnichtgenanntwerden"....
to be continued
At age 15, our young hero left the path trodden by his ancestors and went to Berlin to enlist, filled with the idealistic urge to give to the world what the world had always given to his family - misery, pillage, destruction and wanton cruelty. Generally regarded through the centuries by their neighbours, with some justification, as omens of bad luck, the Qvists had never really acquired a wide social circle. In fact, outside of the animal kingdom, they hadn't acquired ANY social circle. They still spoke archaic Danish at home, and if it hadn't been for compulsory education, would likely have known nothing else. They had, interestingly, also developed something in the way of a family religious twist, whose main tenet was that whatever happens to you, you eventually, God be willing, get to inflict on others. Doubtlessly, this was a notion that had brought forth many a warm smile around the fireplace in the family hamlet through the ages, and been of great consolation in otherwise merciless times. Qvist had always accepted it cheerfully and without the least cynicism or bitterness, believing it should be worth some good honest fun, especially seeing as God hadn't actually gotten around to the "willing"-bit as of yet. After all, fortune had always vomited on his family with disconcerting regularity, and whatever the opposite was, it could hardly be worse. As he left, his younger brothers taunted him, claiming that all he knew was potatoes and mud. This, he had to concede, was true, but he went anyway.
In those days, it was far from easy to gain entrance into the 100,000 man Reichswehr, and on top of that he had to lie about his age. He solved the latter problem by pioneering what would soon become an established scientific truth: If you wear a small black moustache, Germans will believe anything you tell them. Luckily, the army was as always short of experienced potato specialists, and his impeccable credentials in Mud Environment Labor also aided him. He was assigned to Nachschub kp., I.R. 324, as an Unterpeeler.
His terrific skills in peeling potatoes with minimal wastage, and his seemingly unbounded tolerance for mud, quickly found favor among his superiors. And so began his meteoric rise in the Reichswehr. He was promoted to Oberpeeler within six months, won distinction in the 1922 autumn manouveres for "indomitable courage in the face of some really nasty sleet and mud" and went on to achieve the dizzying rank of Regimental Kartoffelmeister at the age of 18. Soon, he was promoted to Suppenjunker, and started his officer training.
It was at this time that an unfamiliar restlessness started to come over him. Every day, he would excel at any potato-related task his instructors could throw at him. And yet, he felt strangely unfulfilled. "Surely", he mused, "there is more to life than just potatoes and mud?". Ashamed though he naturally was at this heretical thought, the very negation of everything his family had always stood for, it would not leave him.
And so it happened one Tuesday morning, as he was passing the canteen messageboard, that his attention was caught by a small notice down in the right corner. It read: "The SCHUTZSTAFFEL (no, not them, this is a different one, honestly, how many times do we have to explain this, will you just look at the insignia for God's sake?) needs YOU! Tired of your present duty? Looking for your niche in army life? Want to become a man of the world? Then join today!", and Qvist's replies were "Really?", "you bet", "I guess so", "yes, please" and "why not?" respectively. So, three days later, he found himself escorted by two extremely resentful-looking guards to a front office, where an extremely satisfied-looking Lieutenant instructed him to take a seat and wait, before turning his attention back to a pile of small photographs, which he described as his "homework". A small brass plate on the door read "Oberst von Mussnichtgenanntwerden"....
to be continued
The phone rang. The Lieuteneant picked up the receiver without taking his eyes off the picture he was currently holding, and, after listening to a short, barking order, distractedly put it down again. "Oberst von Mussnichtgenanntwerden will see you now" he announced, pointing in the general direction of the door without looking up. Qvist tapped twice on the door, and entered. Seated behind a long desk at the end of the room were three men. The one in the middle waved him towards the chair in front of the desk, stood up and said: "Good morning, herr Suppenjunker. Please sit down." "I am Oberst von Mussnichtgenanntwerden. This", he continued, indicating the man on his right, "is Hauptmann Scheisskopf. And this, is Oberleutnant Haltmaule". Qvist noticed Scheisskopf glaring disapprovingly at him, while Haltmaule was simply looking down.
"You have been called here because you want to join the Schutzstaffel, no, not them, this is a different one and so on and so forth. Let me ask you Qvist - what will decide the next war?"
Qvist thought quickly. "Artillery?", he suggested. "No." said von Mussnichtgenanntwerden, with emphasis. He stood up and started pacing the room. "The last war was one of attrition. You would have been to young to experience it, but as you know, the carnage was terrible, and in the end, we could not sustain it. We must look for better ways the next time. We must look for a way to smash the enemy decisively, to hit him where it hurts the most. " He stopped and turned towards Qvist. ""To hit him, as it were, in the balls. What Qvist, sustains a man through war and peace? What gives him the urge to live?"
Qvist was unsure what to say to this. "ehm...a sense of duty?", he replied. "HOGWASH!" bellowed the Oberst. "No. The answer is very simple. Women, Qvist. Women". "That is where we'll hit the enemy next time, and that is why this experimental staffel has been formed. Are you familiar with the work of the English theorist Basil Lecherous-Heart? No? In that case I shall explain. The theory is that small, highly trained groups of soldiers, parachuted into the enemy heartland, is capable of breaking the enemy's will to resist. How? By seducing their women. Think about it, nothing is more devastating to morale than to know that enemy is behind your back, inflicting damage where it hurts the most. It gives them a sense of inferiority, and a longing to get back home as soon as possible. There are different approaches. If we want to go for a quick decision, we go for obvious seductions and not infrequently publish the results. If we're working more long-term, we are more discreet, and aim rather to destroy the moral fibre of the enemy's society. It is of course a highly perilous type of operation. We go directly into the enemy's lair, armed with nothing more than a rather nice suit and a bag of contraceptives. We require men who who can listen to his brain as well as to his reproductive organ, but who is prepared to let the latter have the final word. Still interested Qvist?"
Qvist couldn't believe his luck. The Qvist family were, due to their social ostracism, generally compelled to rely on importing a cousin from the even poorer Danish branch of the family every generation or so, in order to keep the gene pool flowing. Of course, this meant that their particular pool was badly in need of de-mudding. True, he had been more successful in this area than most of his ancestors, but his experiences so far had been mainly confined to girls most people would describe as only marginally more appealing than one of the more pathetic samples from the family's annual 12-potato crop. "I am, herr Oberst" hesaid with a big smile.
"Herr Oberst" barked Hauptmann Scheisskopf. "I doubt his credentials. They seem to be mostly in potatoes and mud. where is the relevance of that?". The Oberst eyed him coldly. "Herr Hauptmann. This man can peel a potato with less peel wastage than you could achieve with a scalpel and grape. What does this tell you?". Scheisskopf looked at him blankly. "HANDS!" bellowed the Oberst." Have you any idea what sort of hand precision that requires? No, of course you don't, because you never peeled a potato did you, you and your champagne merchant family" he sneered. " I trust you do not require a lecture as to the importance of hand sensitivity in strategic female operations?". Scheisskopf glared silently, going slightly red. "Jawohl herr Oberst." he said. "But what about mud? How does that qualify this man for such duties?" "Some girls like mud", squeaked Haltmaule, whom everybody had more or less forgotten was there. Both the Oberst and Scheisskopf looked at him incredulously. "Sorry", he squeaked after a brief pause, looking down again. "I am sure I need not remind you Hauptmann", said the Oberst menacingly, "that currently, almost half of the men in your company are having performance difficulties with the lower end of the quality spectrum. These aristocratic losers that you insist on recruiting are so spoilt by beauty that before we know it, the only woman they'll be able to take on is Marlene Dietrich". "And that's assuming", he added, "that she goes over to the enemy, perish the thought. And I'd trust a man who can continue to peel his potatoes no matter how much mud you throw at him to handle any woman whatsoever. We need fresh blood. Qvist - bring your belongings and return tomorrow."
to be continued
"You have been called here because you want to join the Schutzstaffel, no, not them, this is a different one and so on and so forth. Let me ask you Qvist - what will decide the next war?"
Qvist thought quickly. "Artillery?", he suggested. "No." said von Mussnichtgenanntwerden, with emphasis. He stood up and started pacing the room. "The last war was one of attrition. You would have been to young to experience it, but as you know, the carnage was terrible, and in the end, we could not sustain it. We must look for better ways the next time. We must look for a way to smash the enemy decisively, to hit him where it hurts the most. " He stopped and turned towards Qvist. ""To hit him, as it were, in the balls. What Qvist, sustains a man through war and peace? What gives him the urge to live?"
Qvist was unsure what to say to this. "ehm...a sense of duty?", he replied. "HOGWASH!" bellowed the Oberst. "No. The answer is very simple. Women, Qvist. Women". "That is where we'll hit the enemy next time, and that is why this experimental staffel has been formed. Are you familiar with the work of the English theorist Basil Lecherous-Heart? No? In that case I shall explain. The theory is that small, highly trained groups of soldiers, parachuted into the enemy heartland, is capable of breaking the enemy's will to resist. How? By seducing their women. Think about it, nothing is more devastating to morale than to know that enemy is behind your back, inflicting damage where it hurts the most. It gives them a sense of inferiority, and a longing to get back home as soon as possible. There are different approaches. If we want to go for a quick decision, we go for obvious seductions and not infrequently publish the results. If we're working more long-term, we are more discreet, and aim rather to destroy the moral fibre of the enemy's society. It is of course a highly perilous type of operation. We go directly into the enemy's lair, armed with nothing more than a rather nice suit and a bag of contraceptives. We require men who who can listen to his brain as well as to his reproductive organ, but who is prepared to let the latter have the final word. Still interested Qvist?"
Qvist couldn't believe his luck. The Qvist family were, due to their social ostracism, generally compelled to rely on importing a cousin from the even poorer Danish branch of the family every generation or so, in order to keep the gene pool flowing. Of course, this meant that their particular pool was badly in need of de-mudding. True, he had been more successful in this area than most of his ancestors, but his experiences so far had been mainly confined to girls most people would describe as only marginally more appealing than one of the more pathetic samples from the family's annual 12-potato crop. "I am, herr Oberst" hesaid with a big smile.
"Herr Oberst" barked Hauptmann Scheisskopf. "I doubt his credentials. They seem to be mostly in potatoes and mud. where is the relevance of that?". The Oberst eyed him coldly. "Herr Hauptmann. This man can peel a potato with less peel wastage than you could achieve with a scalpel and grape. What does this tell you?". Scheisskopf looked at him blankly. "HANDS!" bellowed the Oberst." Have you any idea what sort of hand precision that requires? No, of course you don't, because you never peeled a potato did you, you and your champagne merchant family" he sneered. " I trust you do not require a lecture as to the importance of hand sensitivity in strategic female operations?". Scheisskopf glared silently, going slightly red. "Jawohl herr Oberst." he said. "But what about mud? How does that qualify this man for such duties?" "Some girls like mud", squeaked Haltmaule, whom everybody had more or less forgotten was there. Both the Oberst and Scheisskopf looked at him incredulously. "Sorry", he squeaked after a brief pause, looking down again. "I am sure I need not remind you Hauptmann", said the Oberst menacingly, "that currently, almost half of the men in your company are having performance difficulties with the lower end of the quality spectrum. These aristocratic losers that you insist on recruiting are so spoilt by beauty that before we know it, the only woman they'll be able to take on is Marlene Dietrich". "And that's assuming", he added, "that she goes over to the enemy, perish the thought. And I'd trust a man who can continue to peel his potatoes no matter how much mud you throw at him to handle any woman whatsoever. We need fresh blood. Qvist - bring your belongings and return tomorrow."
to be continued
The 4th part
The next day, Qvist returned to commence his training in strategic female operations. Thus began a career that would see him play a role in most major strategic female operations in Europe.
The significant contributions made by the Schutzstaffel to the early German victors have never been fully appreciated by most historians, who continue to be taken in by the elaborate smokescreen – the so called Blitzkrieg - designed to conceal this deadly effective new strategic weapon and to provide an adequate explanation for those startlingly succesful campaigns. The Schutzstaffel (no, not that one etc) had a tough baptism of fire in Poland. High casualties were suffered in some areas, where inexperienced troops came up against formidable Polish women, not infrequently sporting pronounced moustaches. Things went much better all around in Denmark the next year, where Qvist, partly due to his family background, played a central and highly enjoyable role in a campaign that demonstrated the awesome effectiveness of the new weapon. By the time German troops crossed the frontier, Danish moral fibre had collapsed completely. Norway was slightly more rough going, less due to any resistance encountered by the Schutzstaffel troops than to the lateness with which despondency could spread through the Norwegian ranks because of the poor and difficult communications. France was, as might be expected, a complete pushover. The only major problems encountered were extreme combat fatigue and logistical difficulties, as the Luftwaffe simply could not keep up a supply of contraceptives sufficient to meet consumption needs. It was not unusual for the advancing German troops to come across French soldiers simply sitting by the roadside weeping with despondency and self-depreciation. Many had to be given treatment for acute inferiority complexes after being captured. The Battle of Britain, however, would prove a rude awakening for the staffel. It was discovered that tactics that would get any French woman into bed and keep her there for three days were generally met with little more than a severe pout and a smack over the hand by their British sisters. Casualties were heavy, and morale plummeted. The entire staffel had to be withdrawn and retrained before sufficient confidence was restored to allow further operations. Britain was, in many ways, the Crete of the Schutzstaffel – never again would strategic female operations be attempted on such a scale.
But all of this lay in the far future as Qvist embarked on his training programme. Modesty forbids any closer description of this programme, which is rather a pity, as it was a fairly juicy affair. His company commander was the despicable Hauptmann Scheisskopf, who violently resented his selection by Oberst von Mussnichtgennantwerden against his own objections and seemed determined to prove the Oberst wrong by often assigning him to the least palatable cases. But it did not matter. Qvist found that there was always something to be loved in any woman, no matter how she compared to a shrunken potato. Whether it was the curve of her hips, a delicateness in her skin or the way the sun caught a gold tooth in an otherwise empty gum, there was always something. He had found his calling.
To be continued
The next day, Qvist returned to commence his training in strategic female operations. Thus began a career that would see him play a role in most major strategic female operations in Europe.
The significant contributions made by the Schutzstaffel to the early German victors have never been fully appreciated by most historians, who continue to be taken in by the elaborate smokescreen – the so called Blitzkrieg - designed to conceal this deadly effective new strategic weapon and to provide an adequate explanation for those startlingly succesful campaigns. The Schutzstaffel (no, not that one etc) had a tough baptism of fire in Poland. High casualties were suffered in some areas, where inexperienced troops came up against formidable Polish women, not infrequently sporting pronounced moustaches. Things went much better all around in Denmark the next year, where Qvist, partly due to his family background, played a central and highly enjoyable role in a campaign that demonstrated the awesome effectiveness of the new weapon. By the time German troops crossed the frontier, Danish moral fibre had collapsed completely. Norway was slightly more rough going, less due to any resistance encountered by the Schutzstaffel troops than to the lateness with which despondency could spread through the Norwegian ranks because of the poor and difficult communications. France was, as might be expected, a complete pushover. The only major problems encountered were extreme combat fatigue and logistical difficulties, as the Luftwaffe simply could not keep up a supply of contraceptives sufficient to meet consumption needs. It was not unusual for the advancing German troops to come across French soldiers simply sitting by the roadside weeping with despondency and self-depreciation. Many had to be given treatment for acute inferiority complexes after being captured. The Battle of Britain, however, would prove a rude awakening for the staffel. It was discovered that tactics that would get any French woman into bed and keep her there for three days were generally met with little more than a severe pout and a smack over the hand by their British sisters. Casualties were heavy, and morale plummeted. The entire staffel had to be withdrawn and retrained before sufficient confidence was restored to allow further operations. Britain was, in many ways, the Crete of the Schutzstaffel – never again would strategic female operations be attempted on such a scale.
But all of this lay in the far future as Qvist embarked on his training programme. Modesty forbids any closer description of this programme, which is rather a pity, as it was a fairly juicy affair. His company commander was the despicable Hauptmann Scheisskopf, who violently resented his selection by Oberst von Mussnichtgennantwerden against his own objections and seemed determined to prove the Oberst wrong by often assigning him to the least palatable cases. But it did not matter. Qvist found that there was always something to be loved in any woman, no matter how she compared to a shrunken potato. Whether it was the curve of her hips, a delicateness in her skin or the way the sun caught a gold tooth in an otherwise empty gum, there was always something. He had found his calling.
To be continued
Haven't you seen Toy Story?.....
In the meantime:
http://www.angelfire.com/ab2/ablpph/
http://www.nyse.com/events/NT00072BF6.html
And BTW, I'm LOVING this thread! LOL!!!!!!
Cheers
Molon labe