Karl reluctantly turned the radio off. After the Spartakus uprising in Berlin two years ago, talk had been amoung the Freikorpsmen that they would have their turn, and finally, when it had happened, here he was in backwater ex-Austro-Hungaria. It seemed like they were doing pretty well as a matter of fact, so that was certainly nice, hopefully he could return with a pretty Austrian on his hip to the Kaisar's palace. Have some grandkids for his mother to fawn over.

Still, that was his future, and right now, they had a job to do. Giving a quick salute, he walked almost in step with Josef, and he decided to strike up a conversation, or at least attempt to, the armoury door already looming. "Ten to one it's a bunch of communist thugs eh?" He said, glad to be speaking German. Before he had signed on with the count he had been with some Hungarian noble who refused to speak a word of the language, much to his dissapointment. 

Inside the armoury, what was his was very clear. The German equipment stuck out like a sore thumb amoungst the surplas gear. He hefted his Gewehr, on which a canvas strap had been attached, and tucked his combat knife into it's holster, following up with his luger, the gun snapping loudly when he slid the magazine in.