The Metal Man: An Account of a WW2 Nazi Cyborg

by Ben Stevens

  The Metal Man

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Suddenly the moon broke through the clouds, illuminating the dark figure marching towards the Soviet soldiers. It moved in a curiously ‘steady’ manner, and appeared to be fully covered in some sort of gleaming, jet-black armor, head to toe.

  What the hell is this? thought Commander Georgy Krylov frantically.

  Aloud, he said, ‘Fire!’

  A multitude of weapons opened up, more and more Soviet troops spreading out behind the ruined walls and buildings.

  Whatever it was barely paused as the bullets ricocheted off its armor.

  Krylov now observed that the black-armored figure was carrying its own weapon. This was cradled in its right arm with the left, thickly-gloved (was that a glove?) hand holding the area close by the muzzle.

  But this gun looked huge – more like something you’d expect to see hanging from the underside of a wing of a fighter-plane…

  Slowly, as though in a nightmare, Krylov saw the figure (bigger than any man he’d ever seen, although maybe that was the effect of the armor) bring this strange, outsized gun up to bear...

  ‘Keep firing – use your grenades!’ screamed the Soviet officer, as the massive gun erupted into life.

  Instantly a man to Krylov’s left began shrieking, his left arm gone at the shoulder. Other men began desperately trying to stem the spurting blood, calling out for a medic.

  The commander gave a wild yell, firing his own pistol until the hammer was clicking on an empty chamber…

  The old walls and torn-down buildings, used as cover by Krylov’s men, were being blown apart by the incredible weapon the armored figure was wielding.

  Krylov snatched a wild glance around. Everywhere his men seemed to be falling. Screaming as the nightmare figure clad in that impenetrable black armor continued its remorseless march forward, firing all the while…

  *

  …The orders were such as might have been given to a mechanical infant. Simple and direct –

  ‘March forward’, ‘Fire’, ‘Destroy’, ‘Return when finished’.

  It saw the world with a large –

  +

  – in the centre of its vision. If it could now see almost as easily in darkness as it did in light, then it did not consciously realize this.

  Its orders were given and it fulfilled them. Every time the ‘+’ alighted on one of its designated targets, its finger applied a precisely-determined amount of pressure on the trigger of the weapon it carried, and that target ceased to exist.

  It heard the screaming, yelling and shouting that always accompanied this part of its mission, but such sounds stirred nothing within it.

  It only responded to its orders. Given by men in uniform and peaked hats stood in front of it, their men stood around. And when it was done – when its mission was complete – the same men sometimes crowded around it, grinning, perhaps slapping its arms and back as though in –

  It didn’t know. Immediately it discontinued this line of thought as being irrelevant. Always the next order came, from the man or men it recognized as being in authority –

  ‘Get back in the lorry.’

  And so it was returned to the one whose authority it recognized most of all. The man it knew had constructed it; who had spoken to it and implanted his voice deep into its conscious.

  And if one day this same voice was ever to speak and give a direct order…

  Then, above all else – it would obey that order.

  Whatever it was…

  1

  ‘…I can’t promise you that you’ll enjoy this, you little bitch. But you can rest assured that I will, anyway,’ declared SS Sturmann Rudolf Baer.

  With one meaty hand, he was attempting to open the fly of his dirty camouflage combat trousers. The other hand was around the throat of the young, dark-haired woman he’d found hiding here in the barn, crouched behind some old, rotting bales of hay.

  So that the woman couldn’t cry out (not that Baer expected any of the inhabitants of this wretched village to come to her aid – not if they knew what was good for them), the SS trooper’s powerful hand was also keeping her jaw tight shut. She was making a strange mewling noise, her eyes screwed tight shut as the tears coursed down her cheeks.

  Baer liked that; in fact, it made him even harder.

  ‘Oh yes, here it is,’ he told her, leaning down to almost whisper in her ear.

  He was now holding his enlarged organ in his hand, the tip of it slimy with pre-cum. He’d already torn away most of this young slut’s clothes; all he needed to do was locate her hole, stick it in, and then thrust away for all he was –

  Baer’s lustful thoughts were abruptly curtailed, as he was pulled off the woman by the collar of his combat jacket. He spun around, attempting to locate this sudden attacker. He snarled as he saw the pale face with the shiny scar that ran from underneath the right eye down almost to the mouth.

  He clenched his fist, uncaring that he was about to strike an officer. This wasn’t his officer, after all. He answered to another – one who was far more tolerant of the types of recreation required by certain SS troopers…

  With his right hand, he swung a hard punch. But the officer with the pale face and the shiny scar used his left arm to block the blow, before it could connect with his jaw. Almost simultaneously, he put his right forearm around the back of Baer’s neck, pulling him forward into a vicious headbutt which broke the SS trooper’s nose with an audible crack.

  ‘Those are the sort of moves you learn when you’ve seen some real combat, you piece of shit,’ Lieutenant Colonel Karl Brucker curtly informed Baer. ‘Now, get the hell out of here while you can still walk.’

  The SS trooper crouched over, swearing, blood dripping from between the fingers which covered his crushed nose. With a venomous glance at the officer who’d hurt him, Baer then made for the entrance of the barn…

  Brucker briefly watched him go, before turning his attention to the young woman who was starting to stand. She’d done the best she could at redressing herself in her old, torn clothing; she stared at Brucker almost with disbelief.

  ‘It’s all right – you’re safe now,’ Brucker told her tiredly. But she only continued to stare at him.

  Brucker sighed, fatigue making his vision swim slightly.

  He knew what this young, not-unattractive woman was seeing – and hearing. Another dirty, bearded man, hard-eyed and dressed in a ragged c
amouflage uniform. Speaking in a guttural and utterly incompressible language. There was a Mauser M712 pistol worn in a holster on his belt; an MP 40 submachine gun carried on a strap on his back.

  How was this woman to know that she was hardly much younger than Freda, the name of Brucker’s wife whom he’d last seen at their home in Mainz almost two years before? She’d been pregnant then; and since that time Brucker had received several letters – and also a small photograph.

  A boy, Max. His son. The ultimate reason for Brucker having fought tooth and nail to survive these many cold, bitter, hungry, lonely months.

  The photo showed a smiling Freda holding Max in her arms. Brucker always kept the photo close on his person. Undoubtedly, it was his most treasured possession.

  One day, vowed Brucker, he’d also hold his son in his hands and actually see him in the flesh…

  One day…

  He just had to stay alive…

  Alive…

  ‘You have to come outside with me – out… side…’ said Brucker, pointing towards the entrance of the barn as he slowly enunciated the last word. As though this might somehow make her understand what he was saying.

  But she only shook her head, and then began to cry again as she muttered something in her own language. Brucker knew what she was afraid of. Outside was more of the scum exactly like the man who’d just tried to rape her. Brucker would have liked to inform her that he and his men were entirely different…

  But there were only five of them left, now…

  ‘Brucker!’

  Brucker turned his face sharply back towards the barn door, to see who’d just called out his name and was now advancing rapidly towards him.

  ‘Ackermann,’ he said guardedly.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, striking one of my men?’ demanded Ackermann.

  Brucker stared hard at the fellow officer, who stopped just a couple of feet away from him. Ackermann’s narrow, wolf-like eyes blazed with fury.

  ‘That… man… was about to rape this woman,’ said Brucker levelly.

  Ackermann gave the young peasant an uncaring glance.

  ‘And for that you have to break his nose?’ he then barked at Brucker, spittle spraying from his thin lips. ‘Because he’s just fooling around with this little tramp? Who cares!’

  Brucker took a deep breath. Already, he’d realized that Ackermann and his soldiers possessed a type of morality wholly different from his own – and that of the four men under his command

  ‘Ackermann, my men and I may have been ordered to join forces with you and your… soldiers,’ he began, attempting to keep his voice calm. ‘But I’m buggered if that means I’m going to stand by and watch as a girl gets raped – or indeed, if your men do anything that contravenes the rules of war.’

  “The rules of war’,’ repeated Ackermann, barely keeping the sneer out of his voice. ‘We are engaged in dealing with dangerous partisans, in hostile territory. If you and those few men you still command wish to remain alive, I suggest that you remove these extremely naïve blinkers of yours.’

  ‘This is some God-forsaken village lost somewhere in Poland, where the people are too busy starving to death to concern themselves with becoming ‘partisans’, stated Brucker angrily. ‘Maybe you would like – as my men and I did – to spend two years fighting along the Eastern Front. Then perhaps you can talk to me about having ‘blinkers’.’

  ‘You think my unit hasn’t seen real combat?’ inquired Ackermann, his voice dangerously calm even as his eyes became clear with hatred.

  Realizing that this whole situation was threatening to spiral out of control, Brucker steeled himself to say something placatory…

  There came a sudden cry from the entrance to the barn –

  ‘Sir!’

  Both Ackermann and Brucker looked to see who it was. One of Ackermann’s men, carrying something in his hand. As the SS trooper got nearer, Brucker saw that the item was a small dagger. It looked blunt, a little rusty and distinctly undangerous.

  ‘I found this on one of the men, sir,’ reported the trooper to Ackermann, giving Brucker a suspicious glance.

  Ackermann nodded, and took the weapon from his subordinate.

  ‘Very good. Separate the partisan who was carrying this dagger from the rest of the villagers. Have you assembled them all together yet?’

  ‘Nearly, sir, though we think a few may still be hiding in some of the larger buildings…’

  ‘Okay, then – hurry up the search.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  As the trooper left the barn, Ackermann stared triumphantly at the other officer.

  ‘So there are no partisans here, eh?’ he said sarcastically.

  Brucker shook his head with sheer disbelief.

  ‘And that’s it – that’s your proof?’ he demanded, pointing at the small dagger. ‘You’d have trouble cutting bread with that.’

  Ackermann shook his head.

  ‘The man on whom this weapon was found will be shot, and –’

  ‘ – then you’ll set fire to the whole village, just for good measure,’ Brucker said between gritted teeth, sudden rage threatening to overwhelm him. He was so goddamn tired of this war; sick and tired of all the death and of having to deal with men like Ackermann. Soldiers who were supposed to be on his side, but who were more akin to animals than humans…

  ‘After all, shooting and raping peasants and burning up buildings is about all your men are good for, isn’t it?’ hissed Brucker then, wholly unable to stop himself. ‘The lousy bloody set of cowards…’

  Ackermann’s eyes widened slightly as he took a step backwards, his right hand moving towards his holstered pistol.

  ‘Damn you, Brucker, you’ll take that back or – ’

  Instinctively, Brucker’s hand also went quickly towards his own pistol. The young woman stood near them was now completely forgotten.

  But before either man could act further, they were startled by a shrill scream coming from outside.

  ‘Your men, again?’ growled Brucker, who then walked quickly towards the barn’s entrance.

  Ackermann’s wolf-like eyes watched his retreating back just for a moment, as there came another scream – and now the smell of smoke.

  Before Ackermann followed Brucker, almost without thinking, he secreted the dagger inside his combat jacket…

  2

  ‘Are you insane, Captain Reinhardt?’

  Adolf Hitler asked the question quietly. But still Reinhardt blanched at the fury barely concealed in the Fuhrer’s steel-blue eyes.

  ‘No – no, Mein Fuhrer. Absolutely not… I assure you that this is a feasible plan,’ stammered Reinhardt, wondering if he dared produce a handkerchief to wipe his perspiring brow.

  Hitler motioned at the pile of folders on one side of his large desk.

  ‘After you requested this meeting with me,’ he began in the same, dangerously even tone of voice, ‘I made a point of reading up on the work of your department.

  ‘And,’ continued the Fuhrer, with a slight nod of approval, ‘there is no doubt that this work is excellent, and of great importance to the Reich. That is why you are sitting here now.’

  At this, Reinhardt began to breathe slightly more easily.

  ‘Yes, I’ve read many of the documents contained within these folders – most of which, as you are of course aware, are subject to the highest security classifications,’ declared Hitler. ‘And I’ve found it all fascinating – jet engines, sloped armor, infra-red radar, guided missiles…

  ‘And now,’ concluded Hitler, ‘you say that you – or rather, this department of yours – can build Germany a… robot?’

  The ill-disguised look of angry disbelief was back in his eyes. Reinhardt swallowed thickly, by now sweating freely.

  ‘Not exactly just a… robot, Mein Fuhrer,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But I have some… details, here.’

  Reinhardt put the folder that had until now been lying on his lap onto the desk. Hitler picked it u
p with an almost detectable air of reluctance. Clearly, he considered this meeting to be a waste of his time.

  Still, he at least opened the folder and began to read some of the documents contained inside. An array of schematics and blueprints, all carefully annotated by the same, neat hand.

  As Hitler read, Reinhardt found himself wondering exactly where the hell he was. Deep in a bunker located somewhere in western Berlin, was as close as he could call it.

  When the three members of Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler (‘LSSAH’) – Hitler’s personal bodyguard – had arrived to pick him up, he’d first been given a thorough body- search, with accompanying, polite apologies for the discourtesy. He’d then been asked to sit in the rear of a black Mercedes 260D, curtains drawn across the back windows, and had also been made to wear a blindfold.