The Metal Man: An Account of a WW2 Nazi Cyborg

by Ben Stevens

  So it was in total darkness that the approximate half-hour journey had taken place. Despite his rank and his involvement with highly-secretive scientific and research operations, Reinhardt was having the precise location of the Fuhrer kept secret from him.

  Only when they’d entered the elevator that went deep into the bowels of the cavernously large bunker, had Reinhardt’s blindfold finally been removed. He’d been escorted along any number of winding corridors, before being shown into the room with the ornate wooden desk where Hitler was sat working.

  Reinhardt had assumed he’d have to talk to Germany’s ruler in the presence of at least one bodyguard. But to his surprise, Hitler had ordered that he and his guest be brought coffee before being left alone.

  Initial conversation had been polite, if a little strained. And then Reinhardt – quickly ‘encouraged’ to come to the point of his secretive and highly unusual visit – had cautiously begun to detail his department’s most ambitious plan to date.

  Which was precisely when Hitler’s demeanor had become a little chilly…

  …Several minutes passed as Hitler slowly turned the pages. The ticking of the large clock on the wall the only noise in the room. Reinhardt sat bolt upright in the chair, an empty cup on a saucer on the desk in front of him. He wished he hadn’t drunk his coffee so quickly. He had a weak bladder anyway – add coffee along with his current, extreme state of nervousness, and there was the potential of having a most embarrassing accident in the presence of the Fuhrer himself.

  Finally, Hitler slowly put down the file Reinhardt had given him beside the cup of coffee he’d not yet touched. For several long seconds before he spoke, his icy blue eyes bored into Reinhardt’s own.

  ‘You wish me to authorize your department to build something that will cost as much as three battleships to construct – and which also appears to require some of the… remains… of a dead soldier?’ asked the Fuhrer levelly.

  Reinhardt swallowed again.

  ‘Yes, Mein Fuhrer,’ he replied. There didn’t seem to be any other answer he could give.

  ‘And why, exactly, should I wish for this… alleged ‘super-soldier’ to be built, in any case?’

  Careful, Wilhelm Reinhardt instructed himself. Be so very, very careful here. There was to be not the slightest suggestion that Germany might be losing the war – even if everyone (save for Adolf Hitler and a handful of diehard Nazis) was by now fully aware that this was exactly what was happening.

  ‘Mein Fuhrer,’ Reinhardt began. ‘My department intends to construct – something – that will be virtually indestructible. Nothing fired by a conventional firearm – not even a heavy-duty machinegun – will be able to penetrate its armor. And whereas a grenade thrown directly in its path may possibly succeed in blowing it over, it will then just stand straight back up again…

  ‘Mein Fuhrer,’ Reinhardt repeated, unconsciously leaning forward slightly in his chair, his eyes alight with passion. ‘Mein Fuhrer this… this Metal Man… It will be a true marvel of German technology. It will do the work of one hundred German soldiers. It will make the Allied forces cower before it. That is why I wish you to authorize its construction.’

  Reinhardt sat back, suddenly concerned that he’d said too much. And why on Earth had he suddenly labeled this proposed project ‘Metal Man’? He’d no idea: such a name had come almost without conscious thought. It had just sprung naturally to his lips, all at once.

  Hitler continued to stare at the thin, facially-disfigured Captain with the metal-framed glasses and the imploring hands. But Hitler now wore the faintest of smiles. Gone was the previous impression of barely-contained rage.

  ‘‘Metal Man’,’ said Hitler softly, almost to himself. ‘‘Der Metallmann’ – yes, perhaps…’

  A few more seconds of silence… Then he spoke directly, brusquely, to Reinhardt –

  ‘Very well, Captain; consider this project of yours authorized.’

  ‘Mein Fuhrer…’ Reinhardt began, his eyes widening with grateful surprise.

  Waving a hand to silence him, Hitler continued: ‘You will receive a phone call presently, after you have returned from here to your departmental headquarters. This call will tell you exactly how and when you are to make your reports, concerning the progress of this… project.

  ‘From this moment on, you are to treat it as being subject to the highest possible security classification. Is this understood?’

  ‘Yes, Mein Fuhrer.’ Reinhardt gulped yet again. He now had to broach the most delicate and potentially dangerous part of his request.

  ‘There is just one more thing…’ he began.

  ‘Yes?’ returned Hitler impatiently. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There is just one man who is capable of building the – well, the Metal Man. My finest scientist; indeed Germany’s, perhaps Europe’s finest…’

  ‘Captain Reinhardt,’ broke in Hitler, his voice once again dangerously calm. ‘I would be grateful if you would say exactly what it is you want…’

  ‘This scientist was arrested yesterday, Mein Fuhrer,’ blurted Reinhardt.

  For the first time, Hitler appeared slightly surprised.

  ‘Arrested?’ he questioned. ‘By whom?’

  ‘The Gestapo, Mein Fuhrer.’

  Hitler raised his eyebrows slightly; and then the look of surprise was gone.

  ‘And what was this… scientist of yours arrested for?’ he asked.

  ‘I repeat he is my best scientist, Mein Fuhrer,’ said Reinhardt quickly. ‘This whole project – like so many others carried out by my department before – is almost entirely his idea. Without him, there is no chance that…’

  ‘Captain Reinhardt!’ Hitler almost shouted, placing a clenched fist on the table. ‘I asked you – What was he arrested for?’

  For a split-second, Reinhardt closed his eyes and saw his life flash before him. He felt he’d lose control of his bladder at any moment. He must have been insane to come here, to make this request…

  And now he was going to have to tell the leader of the Nazi party himself that the Reich’s finest scientist was…

  ‘He is half-Jewish,’ Reinhardt almost gasped, as Hitler’s icy blue eyes widened and the upper-lip below the famous moustache curled with startled indignation…

  3

  One of the sagging, rotting wooden buildings in the village had been set on fire. Two of Ackermann’s men were stood by the flames, laughing and looking up at the woman’s head that had appeared, just below the roof.

  She’d opened a shutter to look out, had seen the fire, and then started screaming with fear. (When closed, this shutter had disguised the fact that there was a second floor to this building – at least when it was viewed from the outside.)

  ‘What the hell is this?’ demanded Lieutenant Colonel Karl Brucker as he approached.

  The SS troopers stopped laughing to stare darkly at him.

  Brucker returned the look, and between gritted teeth said, ‘I asked you a question…’

  ‘We had an idea someone was hiding up there… sir,’ replied one of the troopers tightly. ‘I was sure I heard a cough, when I was searching the ground and first floors.’

  ‘And this means you had to set fire to this building?’ spat Brucker, the reflection of the flames nearby making the facial scar on his pale face seem even shinier.

  The other SS trooper replied: ‘The staircase to this second floor has obviously been concealed in some way, with a false wall or something of the sort. Standard partisan practice… sir.’

  The woman screamed again, staring down at the three soldiers gathered some thirty feet below.

  ‘Reckon she’ll jump for it?’ mused one of the SS troopers.

  ‘Looks like she’ll have to,’ sniggered the other man. ‘Silly bitch is bound to break a leg, or both.’

  Ackermann joined the group. His two soldiers stiffened and greeted him formally.

  ‘The entrance or stairs up to the second floor of this building has been disguised in some way, s
ir, so you’d never know it was there,’ snapped out one of the troopers.

  ‘Yet more evidence of partisan activity in this village, wouldn’t you agree Bru – ’

  Ackermann’s sneering question was cut short as he turned his head to look at his fellow officer, only to discover that the man was no longer stood in the place he’d occupied just a few moments before.

  Then Ackermann saw Brucker disappear around the side of the large building, the front entrance of which had been used to start the fire. It had spread rapidly; viewed through the cracked, curtain-less windows, it seemed as though the entire ground floor was now ablaze.

  ‘Okay, Brucker,’ hissed Ackermann, as he moved to follow the man he’d so quickly grown to hate. ‘Let’s play hero…’

  *

  …The backdoor of the building was already open. Smoke billowed out from inside, making it difficult for Brucker to see if there was any way he could enter.

  Then a strong breeze momentarily blew the smoke back inside, and Brucker saw that the flames hadn’t quite yet reached the staircase that was only a few feet beyond the entrance.

  He moved quickly, starting to mount the stairs. Then he sensed rather than heard someone close behind him.

  He turned round, and his expression tightened even further at the wolf-eyes gleaming back at him.

  ‘Let’s get upstairs quickly, Brucker,’ said Ackermann almost amiably. ‘It’s getting a little too warm here.’

  There was little Brucker could do but to act as Ackermann suggested. A moment later they were on the first floor, quickly peering into several squalid rooms that possessed little more than bare floorboards and a few sticks of furniture. There were no flames, yet; but the smell of smoke was strong.

  It was Brucker who first realized the significance of the large wardrobe. Pushed flush against a wall in one room, it looked heavy.

  ‘Help me move this,’ Brucker said to Ackermann. He wondered why the SS officer should have followed him into this inferno in the first place – and then, for now, let the mental question go. There were other, more pressing matters to attend to.

  The two men took hold of either side of the wardrobe. Grunting with effort, they succeeded in pushing it away from the wall.

  And there was the door. So that it could be fully concealed by the wardrobe, the handle had been removed. Brucker guessed that the door was bolted on the inside. Obviously, other people had helped whoever was upstairs to hide, moving this wardrobe into position before leaving the house…

  Smoke was billowing upwards now from the gaps between the floorboards. Both men began coughing fiercely, and as Brucker heard the woman scream again he gave the door a hard kick with the heel of his boot.

  A panel splintered; he kicked again and succeeded in making a hole large enough for him to insert first his hand and then his forearm.

  He felt up and down along one side of the door (opposite the side which he knew was hinged), and located the large bolt. He tugged it open and the door immediately opened outwards of its own accord.

  A short, narrow staircase ahead, at the top of which was the ‘hidden’ room. Taking the stairs and emerging into this room, Brucker quickly took in the scene. A Jewish woman wearing an old, dirty floral-print dress, who was despairingly moving between the open shutter and the bed that was placed against one wall.

  The man lying on this bed (also obviously Jewish – the woman’s husband or brother, reasoned Brucker), covered by a ragged blanket, was clearly in the last stage of some illness or disease. Cancer, tuberculosis or whatever it was had already given him the appearance of a wispy-haired corpse. The only sign that he was, in fact, still alive was when his bony face suddenly contorted and he gasped with pain.

  ‘A bunch of dangerous partisans here, wouldn’t you say, Ackermann?’ Brucker grunted at the other German man.

  Ackermann’s eyes narrowed still further, but he said nothing…

  The woman had screamed again at the two soldiers’ abrupt entrance. Now, Brucker held up his hand as he looked at her, repeating: ‘It’s okay… It’s okay…’

  As he said this he moved towards the opened shutter. He looked out and there, stood in uneasy proximity to the two SS troopers, he saw his own men.

  Brucker knew that they’d previously, reluctantly been assisting with guarding the men, women and children assembled in the village square. He reasoned that they must have come here to investigate what all the commotion was about.

  ‘Mayer!’ shouted Brucker out of the window. A large man with a flat, open face looked up, startled out of the apparent argument he’d been having with one of the SS troopers.

  ‘Sir!’ he returned. ‘We tried to get inside, but the flames…’

  By ‘we’, Brucker knew that Mayer was referring to the three other men under his command.

  ‘Listen,’ said Brucker. ‘There’s a woman up here and a man who’s sick – looks like he’s dying. I – well, Ackermann and I – are going to have to try and drop them out of this window down to you. There’s bugger all else we can do…’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mayer.

  Moving away from the window, Brucker then approached the bed. The woman gabbled something at him in Polish.

  ‘Christ, this kike is giving me a headache,’ muttered Ackermann, who remained stood by the top of the staircase. Despite what Brucker had told his second-in-command, Ackermann showed not the slightest indication of helping.

  Then Ackermann suddenly started, as though realizing something, Brucker’s back towards him…

  Brucker himself was now leaning over the bedridden man. The smell was putrid. He realized that there was not a chance in hell of ‘dropping’ this man out of the window, down to the arms of his men. The man’s arms and legs were so thin, Brucker suspected they’d snap like twigs at the slightest impact. Any attempt to move him from this bed would just cause him to scream with pain.

  ‘Ackermann,’ Brucker began, still looking down at the sick man. ‘I don’t know what – ’

  Brucker’s words were choked as something sharp penetrated the side of his chest. He gasped and sank to his knees, feeling the blood pumping from the wound.

  Already his sight was starting to dim, yet he saw perfectly the small, rusty dagger being held in front of his eyes.

  It was covered in blood.

  His blood.

  No! Brucker fought desperately to remain conscious, to try to stem the flow of blood with his hands…

  To try and call out to his men stood below…

  But his efforts were hopeless; he could not speak and that foul, impenetrable blackness was spreading all the while across his eyes…

  ‘Oh,’ rasped the voice in his ear. ‘Looks like this weapon is rather effective, after all. Wouldn’t you agree, Lieutenant Colonel Brucker?’

  With these last words, Ackermann sank the blade two more times hard into Brucker’s chest. He knew exactly where to strike.

  Just before Brucker collapsed to the floor, Ackermann said into his ear: ‘That’s for calling my men cowards, Brucker.’

  ‘You… Mayer…’ Brucker at last managed to rasp, although his voice was little more than a whisper as a final image of that photo he’d always kept close on his person – that one of a smiling Freda holding Max – briefly showed in his mind’s eye…

  …Ackermann was surprised that his fellow officer was even still alive – but also gratified that this was so. It meant that the last words Brucker would ever hear had been Ackermann’s perfect parting-shot…

  The SS officer looked up at the woman, who’d been watching what had taken place with her hands covering her mouth and her eyes wide with shock.

  She started to scream as Ackermann grinned mirthlessly at her, drawing his pistol from its holster.

  ‘Time to shut you up, bitch,’ said Ackermann quietly.

  Then – in a much louder voice – he cried out: ‘No! Brucker, look out! She’s got a dagger! Shit!’

  With that, Ackermann fired a single shot, straight into the
woman’s forehead. She fell to the floor, near to where Brucker lay still.

  Ackermann adopted an expression almost of shock before he moved over to the window and stuck out his head. There was no chance that anyone could have seen what had taken place in this room, from down there on the ground.

  ‘Brucker’s been stabbed – the little bitch had a dagger,’ Ackermann shouted. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Pass him down to us,’ returned Mayer.

  ‘He’s… he’s dead,’ Ackermann replied.