The Metal Man: An Account of a WW2 Nazi Cyborg

by Ben Stevens

  ‘What is this?’ asked Amsel, his voice reflecting the confusion felt by everyone watching this curious scene.

  Then the back of the lorry suddenly raised slightly, as a figure much larger than a man followed the two scientists out of the green-colored vehicle, down three metal steps and onto the ground, a huge gun held in its outsized hands.

  ‘What the hell…’ murmured Weber.

  ‘It’s – him,’ began Bach uncertainly. ‘This ‘super-soldier’ we’ve been hearing about. The one they call the ‘Metal Man’.’

  ‘No way,’ said Mayer. ‘No way could any man wear armor like – that – and still be able to walk. It must weigh well over a ton.’

  ‘Hear that, though?’ questioned Amsel, the stocky radioman’s eyes wide and fixed on the jet-black, goggle-eyed figure. ‘The whining noise as it walks, I mean…’

  “It’?’ repeated Mayer, showing a slight, incredulous smile.

  ‘Well – you think there’s a man, somewhere in there?’ demanded Amsel. ‘You just said there’s not – there can’t be – because of the weight of that armor.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Mayer, staring back at the Metal Man. ‘But what else can that thing be?’

  The four SS soldiers were clearly able to hear what Ackermann said then, the officer raising his voice to address the Metal Man.

  ‘You’re to enter in there,’ began Ackermann, pointing with his finger towards the opened metal gate that led into the ghetto, ‘and level the place to the ground.

  ‘I want some prisoners, though – do not kill everyone. We will follow you in shortly.’

  The Metal Man inclined its head, the face (if indeed it did have such a thing) concealed by the black mask that was below the goggle eyes.

  ‘It doesn’t speak, then,’ observed Bach.

  ‘But that ‘grill’-type thing – there where its… mouth… should be,’ noted Weber uncertainly. ‘What’s that for, exactly? So it can breathe?’

  A hush descended across the approximate hundred-strong German force, as the Metal Man began walking towards the ghetto.

  A shot rang suddenly out, fired from one of the shabby buildings inside. It ricocheted harmlessly off the Metal Man’s chest. Then another shot, and another, more coming as the Metal Man now entered through the large, open gate.

  Its great arms moved (the red swastika showing on both shoulders), positioning the gun. It fired towards the source of the shot, in the direction of where the sniper was concealed.

  The gun spat fire, its bullets chewing up the rotten masonry and wood of the building. The gun firing at the Metal Man was abruptly silenced.

  But other snipers now opened up, driven in desperation to use the ammunition which Mayer and the others had already realized must be in such short supply.

  In return the Metal Man aimed its gun in various directions, firing all the time, the bullets punching through bricks, wood and cement.

  Someone screamed from inside one of the buildings. A woman.

  The screaming continued as the Metal Man stopped firing. It stood motionless, its head bowed slightly, as though it felt somehow confused.

  More shots bounced off that gleaming black armor.

  ‘Attack! Continue with your attack!’ bawled Ackermann at the armored warrior.

  The Metal Man again raised its gun, and once more began firing. The screaming stopped.

  Several figures ran suddenly in front of the jet-black figure, firing several shots in close range before attempting to dart back inside the buildings. The Metal Man fired and one man all but exploded, the other simply being cut in half.

  There was shouting now from inside the ghetto, muffled voices of those hidden inside the buildings and down in the sewers and dug-out tunnels.

  Telling each other to stand firm, to prepare for a final battle – to fight to the death. (Although none of the SS men listening spoke Polish, the meaning of the words was obvious.)

  No surrender.

  And then another sound, coming suddenly, the Metal Man again lowering its gun and head as it evidently heard this noise.

  A baby wailing.

  ‘Attack! Attack!’ yelled Ackermann again, his face red and spittle flying from his lips.

  Mayer and the three other men gazed alternately at the infuriated SS officer and then at the Metal Man, their faces becoming tight as the baby continued to cry. The only sound breaking an otherwise almost eerie silence.

  ‘Why’s he stopped?’ murmured Amsel.

  ‘How can a baby exist in a place like this? How can anyone live in a place like this?’ demanded Bach in the same low voice, his eyes dark and secretive as he shook his head.

  At once the Metal Man turned around and began walking back towards the gate, its mechanical parts whining. Ackermann was virtually shrieking at the black-armored soldier now, but still the Metal Man continued to advance – until it stopped barely two feet away from the SS officer.

  ‘You – whoever you are – whatever you are…’ began Ackermann, his rage almost choking him. ‘You are disobeying a direct order!’

  The Metal Man’s goggle eyes stared blackly at the officer who was jabbing his finger in front of him. Ackermann stood some six feet in height, but still the Metal Man dwarfed him.

  No part of the mechanical soldier moved, except for the large fingers of its left hand, which had previously cradled the barrel of its colossal gun. These fingers twitched just slightly, Mayer wondering what if anything this signified.

  Some sign of irritation – of anger? Could this thing (whatever the hell it was) actually feel any emotion? And if not, then exactly why was it disobeying a direct order from a superior?

  Such thoughts passed not only through Mayer’s mind, but also through the minds of a number of those other soldiers who were stood watching in awed silence...

  *

  Some hours later, after heavy fighting between the SS soldiers and those Jews who’d been imprisoned inside the ghetto, victory finally fell to the German side.

  The surviving Jews now stood in a line outside of the ghetto, their hands placed on top of their heads. Although one woman cradled a baby, attempting to hush the infant as it continued to emit the same cry which had, somehow, clearly caused the Metal Man to break off its earlier assault on the ghetto.

  The mechanical soldier stood motionless and silent by the lorry which transported it. It had stood like this ever since it had finally walked away from Ackermann, who – virtually apoplectic with rage – had consulted with his fellow SS officers about what they should do next.

  It was then that the SS troops had been ordered back inside the ghetto, with the final crushing of this rebellion costing the Germans the lives of another four soldiers…

  The baby cried again, and an SS soldier with a badly-broken nose stalked over to where the woman was stood holding her child.

  ‘Shut that brat up, bitch – or I will,’ said the Sturmann named Rudolf Baer.

  The woman now made frantic shushing sounds, juggling the infant in her arms, but still the baby continued to cry.

  ‘Give it to me,’ demanded Baer, his large hands trying to drag the baby out of its mother’s arms.

  ‘Please – please, he hungry… cold…’ said the thin, wretched-looking woman in bad German.

  ‘And I’m supposed to care?’ returned Baer, several troopers stood nearby – cradling sub machineguns as they guarded the captured Jews stood in a line – emitting harsh guffaws.

  ‘I know of one way to stop this kike kid from feeling hungry and cold – by wringing its bloody neck,’ continued Baer, making determined attempts to pull the baby away, and then using one hand to slap the woman around the face when she resisted.

  ‘Fuck this,’ growled Bach, bringing his machinegun which hung on a strap from his shoulder round to bear and starting to move towards the line of prisoners.

  ‘Bach!’ hissed Mayer, but his own eyes were flinty as he stared at the bearlike man who’d struck the captured woman, and who had by now alm
ost succeeded in pulling the baby from her grasp.

  ‘I’m with Bach,’ declared Amsel suddenly, the stocky radioman also taking a determined hold of his machinegun.

  For a moment Mayer’s face was an agony of indecision. The desire for rebellion lay hot and heavy in his guts, just as it did in the guts of the three other men.

  But he’d been a soldier from the age of fifteen… Incessantly it had been drilled into him to follow orders without question… From morning to night, always taught to obey his superiors no matter what the circumstances…

  But this woman… And these people… This isn’t soldiering…

  Then a whining sound caused the soldiers to look at the Metal Man. It was moving again, walking over in that curiously ‘steady’ fashion towards the line of Jews…

  Rudolf Baer whipped round just in time for a massive metal hand to catch him by the throat and lift him up into the air. His own, usually powerful hands clawed desperately – but entirely in vain – at the Metal Man’s black-armored wrist.

  Baer’s eyes looked almost as though they’d pop out of his skull, his feet weakly kicking as they hung a couple of feet above the ground.

  His voice rasped something unintelligible – a plea for the Metal Man to release him, perhaps…

  Everyone looked on, in shocked silence. Even the baby boy – safe for now in his mother’s arms – had suddenly stopped crying.

  ‘Let him go – release him this instant!’ shouted Ackermann, walking over accompanied by two other, shocked-looking SS officers.

  A slight whine as the Metal Man moved its head to stare for several long seconds at Ackermann, as though it was, somehow, once again trying to place this man…

  His voice…

  Then Baer was abruptly released, falling to the floor where he lay coughing blood and cradling his ruptured larynx. An SS medic at once ran over to attend to him.

  The Metal Man turned and walked back towards the lorry. This time it actually climbed the three steps and entered inside the back of the vehicle, as though not wishing to witness anymore of the scene taking place outside of the barbed-wire ghetto.

  Mayer met the eyes of one of the people stood in the line with their hands on their heads. A young man of no more than thirty – a few years Mayer’s junior – curly-haired, almost boyishly handsome and with eyes a startling blue. But still there lay in those eyes and that face a distinct toughness; a determination to fight and live no matter what…

  Mayer stared at the man for several long seconds, both confused and somehow slightly shamed by this strange, almost indefinable thing taking place between them...

  Then he looked away, cursing quietly and spitting on the ground, as a still shaken-looking Ackermann gave the order to move out, taking the prisoners with them.

  For now – some lorries were coming, to transport these Polish Jews to wherever it was they’d ultimately be incarcerated.

  Dark shadows again moved at the edges of Mayer’s mind as he considered this.

  He was a good soldier – one of the best.

  And yet, with every passing day, it was becoming steadily more apparent to him that he was fighting on the wrong side…

  13

  The other scientists had finished for the day. Only Wilhelm Reinhardt and Jonas Schroder remained in the cavernous room, located deep in a bunker in southern Berlin, where the Metal Man was returned for maintenance every few missions.

  It lay now on the metal table, the thick pipe running from one of the machines which lined the wall into the socket in its shoulder. The Metal Man had been officially deactivated, switched off like the machine it ostensibly was for the purpose of recharging its internal batteries.

  Otherwise, it was again ready for deployment. On this occasion, there was no minor damage (from grenade blasts and the like) which needed repair.

  But still there was a problem.

  The half-Jewish head scientist stood beside his creation, facing his superior. Both men appeared a little haggard.

  ‘I’m telling you, Wilhelm, there is little I can do here,’ said Schroder earnestly. ‘The glitch would appear to be in the Metal Man’s… organic… matter. I can only think that something remains which caused it to disobey the order it was given.’

  ‘Impossible,’ returned Reinhardt shortly, shaking his head. ‘You originally said that this ‘organic’ matter – as you refer to it – was necessary only for the Metal Man’s basic movements. You said absolutely no memory of its – his, whatever – life of before would remain.’

  ‘I remind you that this is a prototype model, Wilhelm!’ exclaimed Schroder almost angrily. ‘Constructed in some haste, and if I might say so years – decades – ahead of its time.

  ‘I confess that in regard to so much of the Metal Man’s construction, its very physiological make-up, I am working in areas I still barely understand. Areas anyone still barely understands. For this reason, I still don’t know if the Metal Man will ever speak, although it has the apparatus to.

  ‘But I –’

  With a wave of his hand, Reinhardt curtly dismissed Schroder’s excuses.

  ‘First a machine created by my department refuses an order it is given – then it attacks a German soldier!’ stated Reinhardt. ‘That man is in hospital now. It is doubtful he will ever be able to speak again, so badly was his throat crushed. He is fortunate even to be alive…’

  At Reinhardt’s words, both men glanced at the Metal Man’s outsized hands. The fingers on each one were almost twice as thick as the fingers of a normal man. In earlier tests, the Metal Man had with one hand reduced a deactivated grenade almost to powder. So it was indeed fortunate that the injured SS soldier should still have his head on his shoulders.

  ‘You understand, Jonas, that this can’t happen again,’ continued Reinhardt, his voice now quieter. Almost pleading. ‘I’m telling you something a little earlier than I should, but…’

  ‘But what?’ prompted Schroder.

  Reinhardt sighed.

  ‘I received a phone call earlier today from Hitler himself, about this matter,’ he then revealed. ‘I need hardly tell you how… concerned… the Fuhrer was to hear about the Metal Man’s – misbehavior? Especially after all it’s achieved until now. The various, successful missions it’s undertaken in Poland and so forth…

  ‘And now Hitler wants more.’

  It took Schroder a few moments to understand exactly what Reinhardt meant by these last words. Then his face became a little ashen as he shook his head.

  ‘No way,’ he said. ‘There’s no way I can…’

  ‘You will receive the funding, along of course with all the – parts – you require,’ continued Reinhardt remorselessly. ‘A new Metal Man a week, is Hitler’s request.’

  ‘A week?’ repeated Schroder incredulously. ‘Is… is the man mad?’

  ‘Be careful, Jonas – be so very careful,’ warned Reinhardt quietly, looking about him as though trying to detect a hidden microphone here in this great room. Such a suspicion was not entirely unfounded. Men and women labeled as ‘traitors’ to the Third Reich had been unearthed in such a way before – and consequently imprisoned or executed.

  ‘I need hardly remind you how your freedom depends upon your work,’ continued Reinhardt. ‘You have no choice in the matter. You will of course be given every assistance by this department…’

  ‘It can’t be done – not one a week!’ returned Schroder passionately. ‘The thing is impossible. This Metal Man is a one-off, impossible to repli – ’

  ‘You’re not hearing me, Jonas,’ interrupted Reinhardt almost harshly. ‘I am merely passing on an order from the Fuhrer himself. I repeat: you have no choice in this matter.’

  Schroder rubbed his face.

  ‘And my mother?’ he said then. ‘Did you mention anything about – ’

  ‘Goodnight, Jonas,’ said Reinhardt firmly. ‘I suggest you get some sleep soon. I will speak to you about Hitler’s order again tomorrow – for I’m to supply him with certain deta
ils as soon as possible.’

  With that the Captain of the secret research lab walked away, heading towards the double-doors which led into the large room.

  Schroder remained stood virtually in the centre, staring down at his creation as it lay on the metal table recharging, the only sound now the steady hum of the machinery lining the walls.

  14

  It should have been lying in unthinking darkness.