When he heard his name said, Karl offered a lazy salute. "Swiss eh? I can tell that accent from a mile away. We get all sorts around here, don't worry about it." He grinned and rubbed a metallic stain on his helmet. When he was handed the shackle, he hooked one end of it to his belt, noticing he had no keys. "Some poor bastard's gonna have to get this off, and I'm glad it's not me. We just get to do the fun part eh?" He chuckled. Hopping out of the back of the truck, he craned his neck around, loading a magazine in and locking the bolt shut firmly. "Ready to return fire should the crowd get rowdy. Which, honestly," he shrugged. "Seems kind of likely, no?"

He ducked as a half brick came flying at him, before swearing. "Does that not count as them firing..." he paused to smash the butt of his rifle into a burly man's head, sending him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Kneeling down, he clipped the shackles around his wrists, and stood up, a bottle shattering by his foot and peppering his calf with glass shards. Someone in the crowd shouted out "Freikop scum!" And he laughed, although he was getting nervous. 

"Hauptman, I do think it might be wise if we start running to cover. Sometime about now, before the bullets start flying I would think?"