I was a female Allied Agent, working in Nazi Germany. Hitler shot himself at a kind of mountain camping retreat. The setting was dark, there was a two story wooden bunkhouse structure -- the wood was dark, with some dingy whitewash between rough timbers.
Hitler's office was about eight by eight. I'd heard a gun fire, and I slowly crept up stairs and looked into his office window. Through dream logic, he'd been dead long enough for his face and hands to turn dull blue (sort of a coper patina color). "Yep," I thought. "He's dead alright."
I went downstairs, in my double-agent role as a German beurocrat, to inform the next-in-command (whom I'm thinking in waking life looked a little like General Hoffsteader from Hogan's Heros).
There's a gap... The office and military staff at the German Mountain Campground went for a dip in the local pool. They didn't bother to take off their clothes or put on swim suits, they slogged right in.
It was a moonless night. I think the pool was also an airfield because I have a sense of aircraft floating in the dark water. Every now and then, methane bubbled up, and in a case of dream-wishing, I hoped that it would catch on fire and it did. The smale flame hovering over the water was dim and blue.