Posted by Ric delCampo on January 06, 2004 at 20:25:31:
Soldat und Ubersoldat
By Ric delCampo
Part One: Der Soldat.
‘Young and Foolish’ never had a truer meaning. I was so worried that the war would be over before I could be in it I ran away from the orphanage three times while I was still seventeen. Three times they dragged me back kicking and screaming. On my eighteenth birthday they let me go.
After basic I was assigned to the 106th Infantry Division; one of the last divisions to be formed. Most of the original members had already been shipped overseas as replacements, so the entire division was made up of young, untested recruits, just like me. Average age was eighteen.
We reached France early in December, 1944 and were immediately shipped west to Belgium, to replace an experienced division just coming off the line. It was common knowledge that the Germans were beaten, that the spring offensive would finish them. Our division was to hold the line during the winter, the coldest winter in Europe for the past 40 years, while the experienced divisions rested and re-supplied.
They could trust us green troops to hold the line because nothing would happen until the spring thaw. I was infuriated; I was being denied my war.
I was an idiot.
Herr Hitler had other ideas.
The German break-out started December 16th, two days after we arrived in Belgium. The ‘beaten’ Germans threw 20 fresh divisions at ten allied divisions. It would come to be known as the Battle of the Bulge, the largest and costliest battle in the west. The 106th Infantry Division would be annihilated. Of its ten thousand troops, 7,500 would surrender: the largest mass surrender in US Army history. Most of the rest were killed, wounded, or driven into panicked retreat. Two of the division’s three regiments simply ceased to exist and were never reconstituted. The third, having some survivors, was later reconstituted and attached to another division. The 106th Infantry Division was never reconstituted.
The German offensive ultimately failed; but that’s another story.
On December 16th we didn’t have any idea what was happening. Rumors started drifting up from the south about something very bad.
They hit us on December 18th.
Even before the sun was up we could hear the Panzer tanks coming. It was even worse in the dark. In the dark we imaged tens of thousands of Panzers.
The hundreds which came were bad enough. They hit us at full throttle, firing every weapon imaginable.
My entire company was wiped out in a matter of three minutes. The tanks were on top of us as the sun rose.
I fired my weapon till I expended all my ammo. To this day I don’t know if I hit any one. Then a German tank ran over me. My Sergeant saved my life; he had insisted we dig deep foxholes in spite of the frozen ground. I was lucky. The Panzer straddled me. Others were not. They were mashed, screaming in horror, into bloody pulp as the tanks ran over them.
The Panzers didn’t even pause.
Behind the tanks came the German infantry. Thousand of white-clad, ghostly figures rising up out of the snow to charge at us, shrieking like banshees and firing their weapons.
It was then I blew my top. I threw away my useless rifle. I screamed like a madman. And I ran like hell.
Two other panicked survivors followed my lead. The rest of the company was dead or wounded and crippled.
We fled west; in our headlong panic we didn’t even realize we were following in the tracks of the very Panzers which had just assaulted us. German troops riding on the back of some tanks leapt off and clubbed us to the ground. The infantry caught up to us and pounded and kicked and stomped us into the snow.
We didn’t surrender. We were beaten into captivity. The front line troops passed us off to some rear echelon troops behind them, who, in turn, passed us onto another group of rear echelon troops behind them. The funny thing was, the German army was moving west so fast, even as we were being passed along to the rear, we were still moving west.
After three days we found ourselves in a barn somewhere in Belgium with about 100 allied prisoners. Most were wounded, all were freezing slowly to death, none of us had eaten for three days, and the few who tried to eat snow for moisture usually died of hypothermia.
I listened intently as our guards, there were about ten of them, discussed taking us out back in groups of ten and shooting us. There were too many of us to risk shooting all of us at once.
I shared this piece of information with a few of the American prisoners, then walked up to the Sergeant in charge.
“You take any one out back,” I told him, “And the rest of us are going to kill you.”
“Sie sprechen Deutsch,” the sergeant said dumbfounded. “You speak German.”
“Du Arschloch!” I said. Then I added a few more things which my dear grandmothers never taught me.
It was while I was cursing this Wehrmacht soldier that an officer stepped into the barn to investigate. He wore a black uniform with the death-head insignia. Waffen SS.
“Sergeant, why haven’t you shot these prisoners?” the SS Major asked.
“ ‘Cause we gonna fucking kill you if you try,” I spat in his face.
He coldly examined me.
“Sie Sind Deutscher?” “You are German?”
“Nein, Ich bin Amerikanischer Soldat!” I shouted at him. “No, I am an American soldier.”
“But you look like such a perfect specimen of Aryan manhood, and you speak perfect German. You must be an Aryan.”
(I was, at that time, six foot two inches, two hundred pounds, blue eyes, blonde hair, fair skin, and, except for a few dozen bruises and a recent lack of food, in near perfect health.)
I didn’t have the slightest idea what Aryan meant. “You look like a perfect specimen of shit.”
“Was ist Ihr Name?”
“Soldat John Miller.”
“Ach, Johanes Mueller.”
“Nein, es ist nicht Mueller; es ist Miller!”
“We shall see.” He mention to a couple of his men. They hauled me outside and beat me until I talked.
There was no Uniform Code of Conduct in 1944. In fact no one had told us what to do if we were captured. Hell, no one expected us to be captured. It was out of pure stubbornness that I held out as long as I did.
I finally realized I wasn’t quite ready to die, not yet, not over this; so I told him my story:
About the time the Franco-Prussian War kicked off, my paternal grandfather, whose name really had been Mueller, and his best buddy decided they didn’t want to be cannon-fodder in the Prussian army. So they grabbed their girlfriends and headed to Denmark. From there they took a streamer to New York. (At Ellis Island Mueller became Miller.) From there they went south and settled in San Antonio, Texas, which actually had a large German-American community.
The greatest day of their lives was when their first born children, my parents, married. Two days later the US declared war on Germany. It was 1917.
My father found himself in France a year later, just in time to be gassed. He came home a complete cripple. He spent the next seven years in bed. He accomplished just one more thing before he died. I was born eight and half months after he died.
The day after she gave birth, after the midwife had left, and my grandmothers were occupied elsewhere, my mother placed me in a cradle at the foot of her bed, took out my father’s revolver, laid down on the bed, placed the muzzle in her mouth, and blew out her brains. Depression was little understood then and no one had even imagined such a thing as post-partum depression.
I spent the next twelve years with my grandparents, six months at a time with my paternal, six months with my maternal grandparents. There were no other relatives, two unmarried uncles had also died in the First World War, and an aunt had died as a teenager in the great flu epidemic. I grew up speaking German at home. I didn’t speak English until I went to school. By the time I reached twelve, all of my grandparents had passed away. I spent the next six years in a state orphanage.
“Ach! So you are indeed German, a pure-blood Aryan,” The SS Major declared. “We must save you from these negrified, jewified half-breeds. I have just the place for you. I will save you from these decadent Americans.”
They tied me up, blind-folded me, and threw me into the back of a truck.
Along with a driver and two guards, we traveled east or south east into Germany.
The driver took great pains to hit all the ruts so I would bounce around on the steel deck of the truck. The guards just laughed at me when I pleaded to take a piss. I pissed and defecated, but only once, then there was no more, in my own pants and lived in it for three days.
On the third day we started up a mountain road and once, through my blindfold, which had slipped a bit, I caught a glimpse of a mountaintop castle. It was dark, cold, and sleeting when we arrived and pulled into a courtyard. The guards tossed me out of the truck and stood me up. I was too weak and sick to resist.
The guard was handing some papers to some one. I couldn’t see well in the dark, and one eye was still covered; but it looked like a woman,
Two new guards approached. They wore ankle-length, black leather overcoats, steel helmets, and carried Schmeisser 9mm sub-machine guns. But from the tailored cut of their coats, they were definitely women.
“Kom’ mit,” said the female officer, a Major Karlotte; and the two female soldiers lead me into the castle and down a series of stairs, passageways, and stone steps, deep into the dank bowels of the castle.
They lead me to what had to be the dungeon. It was a damp, dark, cold room with a sixteen foot ceiling. It was lit with torches. There was no other heat source. There were ten iron-barred cages, ten feet square. Each one had a wooden bucket for a toilet and a pile of moldy straw for a bed. There was a single man, if you could still call them men, in each cage. They had translucent skin stretched tight over a skeleton. They were dressed in rags, stank like a sewer, and had long ragged hair and beards. Most lay comatose or motionless. A couple were softly moaning. Most were silent.
They took me to the last cage on the right. The turnkey was also a shapely young woman, in a white blouse, black leather skirt, and a black tie. She wore a red armband with a swastika. Her name was Danielle and she was very sexy looking.
Danielle locked me in. She smiled and licked her lips while she examined me. “We clean this one up, girls, and he’ll be a pretty one.”
“Yes, but does he have a big cock?” one of the guards asked. Her name was Jessika, and she was one hot and horney bitch. Jessika was so beautiful to look upon that a man, upon spying her, would end up walking on his knees.
“Why don’t you come in here and see?” I said as defiantly as I could muster.
The turnkey grinned. “Ach! I definitely need to clean you up!”
The man in the cage next to me was tightly gripping the iron bars of his cages and banging his head against the bars. He was doing that when we came in, we was still doing it when the guards left, and he continued to do it all night long and the next day, and the next day, and the next.
I tried to talk to him, but he didn’t even seem to acknowledge my presence.
“It’s no use, he’s insane,” said the man across from me. He wore a tattered German uniform.
“What did they do to him?”
He didn’t answer that. “Why are you wearing an American uniform?” he asked instead.
“Because I am an American,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I am a deserter,” he said. He’s name was Peter and he was the only other prisoner capable of speaking. We didn’t trust each other at first, and our conversations were stilted, at first.
The head-banger never quit and it was hard to sleep that first night. I was sick, starved, freezing, near-scared-to-death, and damned lonely. It took me several days to get used to the head-banger, and it wasn’t until the third or forth day I realized that in spite of his self inflicted violence, his head seemed to be uninjured.
I asked Peter about that.
“You’ll see,” was all he’d say.
They gave me a bucket of cold water, a bar of lye soap, and a sponge the first day there. They took my uniform and washed it. Gave it back to me still damp.
The turnkey Danielle smiled approvingly as she examined me. “That’s a nice one!”
They fed us black bread, which was twenty-five percent sawdust, potato soup, or broth. Sometimes there were a few pieces of meat in the soup, sometimes there were some greens, mostly it was only greasy water.
Most of the prisoners couldn’t eat. Peter spied me staring longingly at the head-banger’s food. “Go ahead,” he said, “take it. He won’t eat it.”
Whenever I could reach it, I would pull head-banger’s bowel into my cell. And wolfishly devour it. He never complained.
My first clue as to what was going on came during the second day. The turnkey, a couple of guards, and a young woman in a starched white blouse, white skirt, and a Red Cross armband came into the dungeon. The nurse, whose name was Ariel, carried a stainless steel tray with a hypodermic needle. Ariel had shoulder-length, auburn hair and hazel colored eyes. Her sexy nurse’s uniform was always tightly stretched across her shapely body and was immaculately clean and pressed. She wore white high-heel pumps. The sway of her hips was so sexy when she walked.
They opened Peter’s cell.
“Do you have to, again?” Peter asked, dejected, resigned to his fate.
“Kein Sprechen, scheisskopf!” Jessika ordered. “Shut up, shithead!”
Peter rolled up his sleeve. Ariel daubed alcohol on his arm and injected into his arm. He immediately sat down and began to whimper in pain. “It burns! Mein Gott! It burns!”
“What are you doing to him? I asked.
“Shut up,” Jessika hissed at me, “Your time is coming.” She turned back to Peter. “You tell him nothing!”
The next day I got another clue. There was a dark skinned woman, with silky, jet-black hair, who cleaned out our honey buckets every day. At first I thought she was a Gypsy; though I couldn’t understand why a Gypsy would wear a Nazi uniform. When she spoke, and just a few words, her German was awful.
On the third day she bumped into me and spilled shit on my leg. “Excuse me,” she said. In English.
“You speak English?” I asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Where’d you learn English?”
“From my parents, they were Cherokees, from Oklahoma.”
“You’re an American? What the hell’re you doing in that Nazi uniform?”
“I am not an American. I am Cherokee!”
Her name was Vanessa. Her parents had been in a Wild West Show traveling through Germany. The Germans were really big on Cowboys and Indians in the 1930s. The show had gone bust and Vanessa had been abandoned.
“I was saved by Frau Doktor Viktoria,” Vanessa said. “She taught me my place in the world, gave me purpose. She introduced me to the wonderful Herr Hitler, the savior of mankind and the prototype for the Aryan race. If only I could have been born an Aryan, I would be happy. I must be content in my place, serving the Master race.”
I asked her about this Aryan race shit I kept hearing about. She didn’t like my attitude, and was even angrier when she discovered I was an American soldier; not a German “volunteer”—like Peter.
I come from Texas. A lot of whites look down on Negroes, (that’s what we called them then,) Indians, and Mexicans; but as long as every one respected every one else, we all got along. My grandparents, on the other hand, really believed that line in the Declaration: “. . . that all men are created equal . . .” and that’s how they raised me.
“Hell!” I told her, “All the Cherokees I know think they’re superior to the white man.”
That set her off again. Her decadent cousins would all have to be exterminated if they didn’t recognize their true place in life: to serve the Master Race, the Aryans.
Vanessa was really strikingly beautiful. Very tall and regal. If it hadn’t been so incongruent, I should’ve recognized her as an Indian sooner. She had nice firm breasts, didn’t need to wear a brassiere. Her black leather skirt was so short as to be scandalous for the times. (I wouldn’t see another like it until the 1960s.) And she wore pantyhose. Claimed to have invented them. She lifted her short skirt to show me she wasn’t wearing silk stockings; but rather something new and exciting. She never wore panties, she declared. It was fine with me. She had really long, beautiful legs and her fashion showed them off.
Later, Vanessa introduced me to another word I’d never heard before: Lesbian. She described in great detail exactly how she served the Master Race. That was something a Texas country boy wasn’t quite ready for.
My third day in the cell I was introduced to the Frau Doktor Viktoria Mengele. She was a very elegant, distinguished woman, old enough to be my mother, but very beautiful. Very youthful. She obviously knew how to take care of herself. She was very tall for a woman, about 5’10”; with very juicy breasts in a tight white blouse. She too had long legs, but wore the more traditional silk stockings. Black. Her skirt was a tad longer than Vanessa’s. But not by much. She was another one who had legs to show off and enjoyed doing it.
She examined me with a critical eye.
“They tell me you speak perfect German.”
“Sie urteilen.” “You be the judge.”
“You are a perfect Aryan specimen. I just hope the Jews haven’t contaminated you too much.”
I was about to ask what all the fuss was about concerning the Jews. But decided to keep my mouth shut.
“My brother is conducting al his experiments on the dirty Jews. Der Dummkopf! They are not even human. How can that have any bearing on advances for true humans? I perform my experiments only on real humans: Aryans.”
Jessika held her Schmeisser on me while Danielle, the turnkey, opened the cell. The Frau Dokter and Ariel, the nurse, came into my cell.
They performed an intensive medical exam. Even drew several blood samples. “To test to see if (I was) a true Aryan,” the Frau Doktor said.
“Now I need a sperm sample,” she said, and handed me a small glass jar.
“What’s this for?”
“I told you, I need a sample of your seed.”
I looked at her dumbly. Remember, I was a naďve Texas country boy then. “Dummer Amerikaner! Jessika, help the stupid American.”
Jessika handed her weapon to another guard. She came into the cell and unbuttoned my pants. She took out my cock.
“Vanessa.”
Vanessa brought in a bucket of water and a sponge and washed me.
Then Jessika placed my stiffening cock into her mouth.
I was so surprised I pulled back. The guard with the submachine gun poked me in the back. Viktoria ordered me to submit.
So I got my first blow job. As I said, I was a country boy. I’d only had sex once before: Just before we had shipped out, a bunch of us kids had got together and visited a whorehouse in New York City. The prostitute was a real pro, she took special care of me when she found out I was a virgin; she taught me as much as she could on how to do it just right, just what a woman wanted, in the forty-five minutes we were together. She even refused payment when she learned I was shipping out. That was her way of doing her part for the war effort.
Jessika was really good at blow jobs, she didn’t bite. Just as I was about to release, she withdrew her mouth and held the jar in place. I ejaculated directly into the jar. I guess that was her part of the German war effort.
Later in the day Jessika, the turnkey Danielle, and another guard, Anna, came into the dungeon. Danielle opened my cell while Jessika held her weapon. “Don’t try nothing stupid!”
Anna was a sexy brunette. About 5’7”. Nice firm breasts under her white blouse. She immediately unbuttoned my pants.
“What did I tell you?” Jessika said.
Anna stared longingly. “The Frau Doktor told us we’d be having lots of sex when we signed up,” Anna said to me. “But the only one fucking us so far is that dirty bitch Indian Vanessa. I’m tired of licking pussy. I want a real man in me. You won’t tell The Frau Doktor, will you?”
Jessika aimed her gun at me. “Will you!”
“Do it, man!” Peter said. “Do it. You can ask for a blanket or extra bread, if you do it well enough.”
“What he said,” I told the girls. “For an extra blanket and bread, for both of us.”
“Wundervoll!” Jessika said.
So I fucked Anna. I did right as the New York prostitute had instructed me. Slow and easy. Nice long delicate movements. Seek out her sensual spots and kiss and caress them. I gently opened Anna’s blouse and kissed her nipples. I kissed the back of her neck. She moaned in pleasure as she came.
“Meine Umdrehung!” Jessika insisted. “My turn!” and added, “Don’t spend him out!”
She pulled Anna off of me and threw herself on me. When she had finished, it was Danielle’s turn. As I had blown my wad into Jessika’s cunt; there wasn’t much left for Danielle.
“I’m coming back tomorrow night,” Danielle said. Danielle was a very pretty girl and I looked forward to the next night.
Later, Anna returned and threw a blanket and a hunk of dried bread into my cell.
“What about me?” Peter pleaded.
“Fucking traitor!” Anna spat at him. When she was gone, I broke off a piece of the bread and threw it to him.
“Danke!”
In the morning the Doktor returned for more tests. In the evening Danielle returned. She brought Eva and Justina with her. Two more sexy young guards and they fucked me all night long. Danielle went twice.
After Danielle’s second orgasm, Justina became jealous and came into the cell for a second time. But I was spent and couldn’t get it up. She sexily stripped off her blouse and, kneeling, placed my cock between her gorgeous breasts, and squeezed. “Tit fuck me,” she requested. She was very patient, talking dirty to me; she knew a few dirty words in English. “My name means Jocelyn in English,” she said; “would you rather fuck a Jocelyn or a Justina?” Well, by the time I finished with her, I’d fucked both.
On her third visit the Frau Doktor Viktoria pronounced me a true Aryan, worthy of her experiments.
Ariel swabbed a bit of my arm; but it was the Doktor who wished the privilege of injecting me for the first time.
The injection burned like acid. As it spread through my body it seemed as if my blood was on fire.
“Was ist dieses?” I cried out in pain. “What is this?”
“It will pass,” Peter said after they left. “The first one is the worst. Just be glad you don’t end up like them.” He indicated the other prisoners. “She’s improved her serum considerably since her first Guinea pigs.”
“Frau Doktor is a genetic engineer,” Vanessa proudly announced to me the next day. She really wanted to show off her vast knowledge. “The Frau Doktor is a true genius. She is years ahead of her colleagues. She knows more about genetics than any living human being.”
“You are being genetically engineered, improved. She is rewriting your genetic code. She is making you stronger, healthier, smarter; you will live years longer. When she is finished you will no longer be a perfect Aryan man; you will be an Aryan Superman.”
“Ein Ubersoldat!” Peter chimed in. “A Supersoldier.”
Each day brought another injection. Each day the burning agony was worse. But at least it didn’t last as long each time. By night time the pain had subsided; and the girls would arrive for their fun. I fucked them in secret. I wasn’t supposed to be fucking them yet. As Vanessa later explained, their job was to become impregnated with my super seed and produce super children.
Still, I fucked Julie and Sara Johana, Eva and Justina, Jessika and Danielle, all sexy and horney Nazi Girls. Even Ariel, the nurse, snuck down for a poke.
A few weeks later Vanessa complained about her lack of action She was down to servicing the Frau Doktor alone.
About three months into my captivity the Frau Doktor brought some guests to show off her handiwork: Fellow Fascists:
There was Sandy, (not her real name, rather her nickname which referred to her sandy blonde hair,) she was a Greek Fascist. Very voluptuous, with a dark Mediterranean look. There was Kristina, (again not her real name, “You cou’n’t pronounce my rea’ name,.” she condescended.) She was Japanese. She wore an elaborate Japanese officer’s uniform. Her hair was long and silky. The third visitor was a redheaded Fascist from Ireland. Her name was Sinead. She hated the English even more than Americans.
“Our German allies smashed through the American lines in Belgium,” she told me with a vengeance; retook Antwerp, and divided the allied armies. The British and Canadian armies in the north were cut off and surrounded. They surrendered. England is negotiating its surrender. Churchill killed himself! Soon, all of Ireland will be free.”
Vanessa couldn’t contain herself. “Rosenfeld killed himself too!”
“Who?”
“You know: Rosenfeld, your Jew President!”
“That is enough,” Major Karlotte, the officer instructed. “We are here to witness the Frau Doktor’s magnificent work.”
“Vanessa, take off the prisoner’s shirt.”
Vanessa came into my cell and removed my shirt.
“Observe!” Major Karlotte said. She drew her Luger and aimed it at my heart.
She fired.
The bullet bounced off. Oh, it hurt alright. But not as much as the beating I’d received in December. And the pain faded away quickly. All that was left was a bright red bruise. In a mater of minutes it too had faded.
The visitors were quite excited. Each one took her turn shooting me in my chest. Sinead put one point-blank behind my left ear. Not a one penetrated my skin.
To demonstrate my strength, Major Karlotte had me lift the visitors, two on each arm.
“I must get this formura to my government,” Kristina confided to Sinead in English.
“We will beat the English yet!” Sinead agreed.
“In two weeks,” Frau Doktor Viktoria announced; “I will taking this specimen to show him to our Glorious Fuhrer. Then I shall start the breeding program. Already I have begun gathering fertile, young Aryan women to my castle.”
As Danielle was locking my cell, as they were leaving, I took her hand, pulled her close to me, and whispered, “Come back tonight, I have a treat for you.”
She surreptitiously nodded.