The Metal Man: An Account of a WW2 Nazi Cyborg

by Ben Stevens

  It lay still for a few moments.

  As though dead.

  Then it put out one massive arm – a red Swastika gleaming on its shoulder – and pushed its body back up, the whining starting again.

  It still held its huge gun in its right hand; it pulled the trigger and again the soldiers cowering behind the low, ruined walls were chewed into so much blood and bone.

  Now those still alive were starting to drop back, shouting out that it was hopeless – that this was a type of soldier they’d never had to face before.

  It cannot be destroyed!

  Such was Commander Krylov’s very last thought. The next moment his body was split almost cleanly in two, horizontally along the stomach, the top half falling to ground, the guts spilling out like the contents of a burst sack.

  The legs continued to stand for a few seconds…

  Then they, too, collapsed into the mud and rubble.

  All around was the flash and noise of gunfire, the yelling and screaming of those trying desperately to flee from this awful, ever-advancing black figure…

  9

  ‘Brilliant, Jonas – brilliant!’

  Captain Wilhelm Reinhardt praised his senior scientist, the pair of them stood in the small workshop that was off from the massive room where the Metal Man was currently lying on the large table.

  ‘Seven operations in four days – and then back here for maintenance,’ continued Reinhardt happily. ‘How soon before…?’

  Schroder pursed his lips as he thought.

  ‘The left leg has sustained some minor damage from a grenade blast; I think a part of it will have to be replaced. In any case, some of the scientists outside are attending to that now – they hardly need me to oversee such a routine task.

  ‘Other than that, the titanium-alloy armor has proved even stronger than I thought. A few standard tests and then it can be taken away in the lorry again… ‘

  Schroder shrugged, and finished –

  ‘But in answer your question – the machine will be ready by this evening.’

  Reinhardt’s eyes now became a little brooding.

  ‘The military want to know,’ he began, ‘if it’s possible for the Metal Man to remain longer in the field – on active operation, as it were. Perhaps the lorry in which he is transported could be outfitted with more equipment? Just something that will mean the Metal Man doesn’t have to be returned to Berlin for maintenance every few days…’

  Schroder shook his head almost irritably.

  ‘Please understand, Captain,’ he said, unusually addressing Reinhardt by rank even though the two men were talking in private. ‘I have obviously never constructed anything like this before. So I have to keep a close eye on… it.

  ‘Also, you know how much this lab and all the equipment it contains cost to construct; you also know how much space and personnel are required. Also the sheer amount of electricity required to recharge the Metal Man. Clearly, the lorry which transports it only has room for the most basic of equipment – a temporary battery recharger, some spare parts, ammunition for the gun – and at the most two scientists to also ride in the back.’

  Reinhardt nodded.

  ‘The question was asked by a number of officers – I was merely relaying it,’ he stated. ‘So, by this evening the Metal Man will be ready to be transported back to Poland, anyway. To fight against the Russian advance.’

  ‘Wilhelm, I have to ask – my mother…’ began Schroder uncertainly.

  Again, Reinhardt’s heart sank. He cursed the day Major Fleischer of the Gestapo had chosen to inform him where Schroder’s mother was being kept. If indeed she was still alive. Many Germans had seen friends and acquaintances – Jewish, usually – ‘disappear’ from out of society; and many knew exactly the sort of places where they’d been taken…

  But the half-Jewish Schroder, almost cosseted down here in his subterranean world of invention and thought, seemed not to be aware of the existence of these places…

  Although, from previous conversations, he was clearly concerned by the strangely banal letters he was purportedly receiving from his mother…

  ‘I want to see her,’ Schroder continued, his voice becoming firmer. ‘I have built Germany this Metal Man, and in return I deserve to see my mother, if only once!’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Reinhardt muttered. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do…’

  With an uncertain nod, he opened the door of the workshop and exited out into the large room where the Metal Man was lying upon the metal table.

  A thick pipe ran from one of the machines lining the wall into a socket in its right shoulder – a socket usually protected by a square-shaped cover that had upon it a gleaming red swastika. Matching this was another swastika, on exactly the same place on the left shoulder.

  A white-jacketed scientist, wearing industrial goggles, was using a welding torch on an area below the Metal Man’s left knee. Other scientists were stood by the various machines placed against the walls, observing the flickering dials and talking closely.

  But only Schroder knew the ‘complete picture’, as it were…

  Without his involvement, all this machinery – the very Metal Man itself – was just so much useless junk…

  But Schroder would never get to see his mother. Such a thing was clearly out of the question.

  So it was down to Reinhardt to have to stall the genius, half-Jewish scientist’s request for as long as possible…

  10

  It felt nothing.

  Because there was nothing to feel.

  Pain, hunger, fear, cold – such sensations no longer existed. Had never.

  For a time it dwelt in darkness, conscious only of a faint humming sound coming from somewhere deep inside it.

  And then it was awoken, and instructed to leave the area where it lay and to makes its way, accompanied by those same two men wearing white jackets, to the vehicle.

  Sometime later (although it had no recognition of the passing of time – it could have remained immobile until Doomsday, if so ordered) it was told to leave the vehicle.

  Then more orders, which it recognized by slightly inclining its head – the only way in which it was capable of communicating.

  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.

  11

  The somewhat remote village of Hegensdorf lay to the east of Germany. It consisted mainly of a small train station and a modest town square, surrounded by fields and isola
ted little dwellings.

  That morning it was bright and sunny, despite the fact that it was well into autumn. Hans Greutmann, senior official and head record keeper at Hegensdorf town hall, waited nervously on the steps of the white building for his guest.

  The previous day, Major Fleischer of the Berlin Gestapo had curtly informed Greutmann by telephone that he’d be arriving at ten o’clock sharp the following morning.

  ‘I hope to receive your full co-operation, Herr Greutmann,’ Fleischer had said, that quiet, lisping voice somehow causing Greutmann’s spine to prick with fear.

  ‘But Major, of course – ’ Greutmann had hastened to assure him, before realizing that the Gestapo man had already ended the call.

  And here was the black Mercedes 260D, pulling up outside the town hall. Two men sat in the driver and passenger seats, both wearing black hats. The door on the passenger side opened and a man with a face like a skull got out.

  His bright little eyes burnt at Greutmann as he said –

  ‘Heil Hitler. I am Major Fleischer of the Berlin Gestapo. You are Hans Greutmann?’

  ‘Yes, Major, yes,’ returned Greutmann, trying and failing to make his voice sound firm.

  ‘I am pursuing a line of investigation that has led me here,’ began Fleischer, putting his arm across Greutmann’s shoulders and thus ‘guiding’ the white-haired, ageing official back inside the town hall.

  ‘I am interested in a man named Wilhelm Reinhardt…’ continued Fleischer.

  ‘I knew the Reinhardt family,’ said Greutmann, who then instantly wished that he hadn’t spoken.

  ‘The father was a much… respected… man,’ finished Greutmann uncertainly.

  ‘Indeed? And did you know his son – Wilhelm?’ asked the Gestapo Major, coming to a halt as his burning, curiously mocking eyes bored into Greutmann’s own.

  ‘No – that is to say, not well,’ stammered Greutmann. ‘They – the Reinhardts – kept themselves very much to themselves.

  ‘They had a large house near here, but because of the nature of Herr Reinhardt’s work – I believe he was a high-ranking bureaucrat – the whole family was frequently obliged to travel around Germany.

  ‘They were in a train crash, once, in which Wilhelm received severe facial injuries – he was still a baby, only a few days old, I believe… Really, the Reinhardts occupied their home here at only infrequent times of the year, such as Christmas…

  ‘So I did not know them very well, as I say,’ finished Greutmann.

  ‘You’re certain that is all you know?’ lisped Fleischer.

  ‘Really, Major, that is all,’ returned Greutmann, allowing his voice to register slight indignation.

  ‘And the records are…?’

  ‘In here, Major,’ returned Greutmann, leading the Gestapo man through the reception area and into a large, musty-smelling backroom full of shelving. It was in here that a mass of papers and documents, in some cases dating back a couple of centuries, were stored.

  ‘So, we begin our search…’ announced Fleischer, giving a smile that made Greutmann’s flesh crawl.

  Greutmann hadn’t been expecting that he’d be asked to assist the Gestapo member in any investigation. He thought it better not to mention this, however.

  Instead, he said, ‘May I ask, Major, what we are looking for?’

  His bright eyes already scanning the mass of documents filed on the shelves under the letter R, Fleischer returned –

  ‘Anything and everything to do with one Wilhelm Reinhardt, my dear Herr Greutmann.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ repeated Greutmann quickly. ‘Naturally, I will do everything I can to assist – ’

  ‘Oh, I know you will,’ smiled Fleischer, his eyes briefly moving from scanning the many piled documents to bore into Greutmann’s face. ‘I know you will, Herr Greutmann.

  ‘Now, shall we begin?’

  With a cowed nod, Greutmann reached up to take an armful of papers and documents from one shelf. Nothing here was in any special order; in his long career, Greutmann could recall only one other time when someone – a historian researching a book – had asked to examine these jumbled-up records concerning Hegensdorf and its inhabitants.

  Without doubt, this was going to be an extremely long day.

  12

  Mayer grunted and spat on the ground. He was sat with the three other men who’d previously been under Karl Brucker’s command.

  This group had placed themselves almost noticeably apart from the hundred or so other SS soldiers who’d assembled outside of the ghetto that had been formed on the edge of an already wretched-looking Polish town. (The name of which was quite unpronounceable to Mayer and the others.)

  A large gate set within the high, barbed-wire fences surrounding this ghetto was open, while a number of the old, sagging buildings were on fire and smoking.

  Bodies of slain men and women lay here and there, shabbily-dressed, alongside a few of them some crude, handmade weapons.

  ‘So they’ve been keeping the poor bastards stored away in here, then,’ remarked Bach quietly.

  ‘Looks that way,’ nodded Mayer. ‘Now they want to move them somewhere, and – Well, they’ve managed to get or make some weapons and they’re fighting back…’

  Ackermann’s unit had received the radioed order to come and assist with the attempted clearance of this ghetto several hours earlier. As they’d been only a few kilometers away, they’d been able to come relatively quickly, some of the SS men sat on top of the three Panzer tanks.

  But now, for some reason, all the assembled SS units (in reality a ragbag group of scruffy, hollow-eyed men, plus a few tanks that had little shells or fuel remaining) were being ordered to hold back.

  The two excursions made into the ghetto so far had cost the German force a surprisingly large number of casualties – the reason why several soldiers lay on the ground near Mayer and the others, their bullet wounds causing them to sweat and curse…

  But they were at least alive, unlike the corpses of five SS men lying elsewhere.

  ‘But where would these people even be moved… to?’ asked Bach quietly.

  The others shrugged, and avoided looking at one another.

  ‘Not our concern, Bach,’ said Mayer finally. ‘We’ve just got to go in there and try and get them out, next time the order’s given.’

  ‘Shaping up to be a hell of a job, even with the basic weapons those Jews in there have got,’ observed the radioman Amsel. ‘They’ve dug tunnels and are hiding down in them. Women fighting as hard as the men – even some of the children…’

  His words again caused the four SS men to look down at the ground, as though they felt ashamed.

  ‘Shouldn’t even be here,’ muttered Weber finally. ‘Just let these people get on with it, and get ourselves back to Germany.’

  Mayer glanced with narrow eyes over to where Ackermann was stood.

  The sole leader of their unit – now that Brucker was gone – appeared to be having a slightly ‘animated’ conversation with another officer, although neither Mayer nor the three others could hear what was being discussed.

  ‘He wants to get in there, I guess,’ growled Mayer, who then spat on the ground again. ‘Him and his men – get those buildings really burning; shoot a few of those poor bastards who’ve been virtually starving to death here in this… place.

  ‘But he probably doesn’t quite like the odds, yet – wants to make sure some more reinforcements arrive first…’

  Mayer’s voice then fell into silence, as he and the three other men sat in the small group exchanged uneasy glances.

  ‘So we are officially waiting for reinforcements, then?’ asked Bach quietly.

  ‘Not sure,’ returned Mayer. ‘All I know is – ’

  Mayer’s words were cut off by the sudden arrival of a huge military lorry. Its brakes squealed as it came to a stop near the four seated men. The driver – dressed in a smart grey uniform noticeably different to the shabby camouflaged overalls the SS troops
were wearing – jumped down from his seat, and saluted Ackermann and the other officer as they walked over.

  Some words were exchanged – again, Mayer and the others couldn’t hear what these were – and then the driver and the two officers walked to the back of the vehicle.

  The back was opened up; two white-jacketed men, who had the appearance of being scientists or something similar, got down.