The Metal Man: An Account of a WW2 Nazi Cyborg

by Ben Stevens

  The woman began babbling something in Polish, her voice high-pitched and hysterical.

  ‘…ten…’

  The crack of the pistol suddenly silenced the woman’s voice. Weber swore, and Mayer called out suddenly –

  ‘Ackermann, you – ’

  Again, his voice choked. No words could begin to express what he was currently feeling.

  ‘Surrender, Mayer, you and the others, and this stops,’ returned Ackermann. ‘The kikes can stay in this camp and wait for the Russians, and you and the other traitor can return with my unit into Germany – as prisoners.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ spat Weber, but his expression was as strained as Mayer had ever seen it. There seemed to be no choice, other than to do as Ackermann was demanding.

  It was as though Weber could read Mayer’s thoughts –

  ‘You really think he’ll do it?’ demanded Weber of the other bearded, exhausted SS soldier. ‘Just leave here with us as his prisoners – let the surviving inmates have a chance of being rescued by the Russians? That being the case, why did he even start shelling this place and tearing it apart in the first place?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mayer through gritted teeth. ‘I… don’t… know.’

  ‘A man and a woman so far,’ called out Ackermann. ‘I think another women, next. Ah yes – this one holding the baby. She’ll do fine. Two for the price of one, as it were.’

  There was a loud whimpering. Mayer screwed up his eyes and cursed as he pictured the gun being placed against the woman’s head.

  ‘Two lives this time, Mayer – two shots unless you surrender within the next ten seconds. One… two… three – ’

  ‘Ackermann – okay!’ yelled Mayer suddenly.

  ‘What?’ gasped Weber, Schroder and Aron also looking at Mayer in disbelief.

  ‘Well, what the hell would you have me do?’ demanded Mayer, as he laid down his gun, removed the belt which held his holstered pistol and one remaining grenade, and started walking away from the cover of a half-ruined building. At any moment, he expected to be shot.

  Hardly any building had escaped being damaged. A number of the long wooden huts were also on fire. Smoke stung Mayer’s eyes as he walked forwards, realizing that the other three men were now behind him.

  He could see Ackermann, now. Ackermann stood with all his prisoners on their knees, maybe fifteen SS troops in a loose ring around them. Least we got some of the bastards, Brucker thought Mayer, his brain whirling with shock and exhaustion.

  But then he realized this wasn’t good enough. Not remotely. He’d lost – Ackermann had won.

  And now…

  What, exactly?

  ‘Okay, Ackermann,’ said Mayer, as he picked his way over the rubble and burnt lengths of wood strewn across the snow-covered ground. ‘I’ve given myself up – all four of us have given ourselves up. So let’s leave these people to the Russians, and get back to Germany.’

  As he spoke, Mayer saw that Arnold and the four other Polish peasants were among the captured. Ackermann gave only a thin smile at the approaching SS soldier; then he suddenly took several steps forward, and smashed Mayer around the face with the barrel of his pistol.

  ‘Shut up, you treacherous bastard,’ spat Ackermann, his narrow, wolf-like eyes blazing. ‘You’re going to be hanging from whatever part of this camp is still standing, very shortly – I’ll string you up myself.

  ‘But first of all, you can watch each of these kikes you so foolishly tried to defend get shot in the back of the head, and thrown over that cliff there. That’s what the Russians are going to find, when they get here – a load of exterminated vermin, and a traitor to the Third Reich hanging inside the remains of this camp.’

  ‘You’re fucking nuts, Ackermann – you know that?’ growled Weber.

  ‘No – just loyal to the Fuhrer, unlike you, this bastard’ (he motioned at Mayer) ‘and the Tin Man who’s now lying under several tons of bricks.

  ‘But don’t you worry’ (Ackermann now addressed Mayer) – you and whoever this man is’ (he indicated Schroder) ‘will be coming back to Germany as my prisoners. As for the Yid here – join the others there, on your knees!’

  Aron walked over to the large group of prisoners, assisted by kicks coming from several of the SS men stood around. Then, Mayer realized that there were also a few more of Ackermann’s men working their way through the camp, searching for survivors – for those who were trying to hide…

  Pathetic figures kept being shoved over towards the kneeling group, which soon numbered over one hundred. But too many of the wretched scarecrows, dressed in the ragged, striped uniforms, were lying sprawled out across the camp. Some shot dead, others with their heads beaten in, or their bodies crushed by the tanks.

  We could rush them thought Mayer desperately. Then he realized such a thought was useless. These inmates had clearly abandoned all hope. A bullet to the head would at least grant them a final release from the perpetual cold, hunger and fear. Hope had briefly existed in the shape of the four renegade German SS soldiers, plus the metallic fighting machine Karl Brucker had become…

  But now Brucker was dead, plus Amsel and (Mayer had not the slightest doubt) Bach as well.

  So no point even to consider trying to attack the surrounding SS soldiers. They stood a little away from the group, sub machineguns held ready. Any sign of rebellion and the inmates, the five Poles, Schroder, Weber and Mayer himself would just be mown down.

  But then – what was the alternative? To just watch as all the Jews were executed, before he was strung up from whatever part of this camp was still left standing…?

  ‘Up, scum – up!’ barked Ackermann then. Several of the SS soldiers stepped forward, kicking at the inmates until they did as ordered. Mayer, Weber and Schroder also stood.

  Mayer tried to exchange a glance with Weber, wondering desperately if that man had any sort of plan which could be somehow communicated via eye-contact, but was then struck hard across the back of the head.

  ‘Keep your head down, eyes front, traitor,’ growled the soldier behind him.

  Across the wasteland covered in snow, ice and rubble, destruction and dense smoke lying all around, marched the group of over one hundred prisoners. Now being pushed over the torn-down barbed wire fences, heading towards the deep quarry and – for all the Jewish inmates, the men, women, children and one baby – their deaths.

  39

  He wasn’t dead…

  Not yet, anyway. Lying in darkness and a strangely muffled silence – yes. But this wasn’t death. Images kept flashing – that woman, holding the baby… The woman smiling… The warm feeling, coming even now, his metal body smashed and broken…

  Names…

  What were their names…?

  But the woman – she was no longer smiling. In his mind’s eye (he remembered that phrase now) she was staring desperately at him. Imploring him to somehow escape this tomb he was lying in and –

  Ackermann, outside… Had he won, he and his men? He would – kill – all the Jews. That was for sure.

  Wearily, he concentrated and felt himself. Right arm useless. Completely unresponsive. Might as well not even be there. Left arm fine. His left leg, however, was a different matter. He knew that it had sustained major damage from the explosion which had thrown him up in the air. He could, however, still move it. In theory, that was. Not much chance of moving anything right now, buried under all these countless bricks. But nearly every part of his leg proved at least vaguely responsive, right down to his metal foot. Whether he could still walk on this limb, though…

  That hardly mattered, anyway. He thought almost angrily to himself – exactly where are you planning to walk to, imprisoned and trapped here in the darkness?

  You are not dead – the woman holding the baby almost mouthed the words at him.

  Please, please, escape and – help…

  And then he knew – somehow, but also for sure – that Ackermann had taken control of the camp. Maybe all the Jews were a
lready dead.

  And his – Brucker’s – men?

  Determinedly, he started to move his left hand. The great metallic fingers opening and closing. Working their way with agonizing slowness through the pile of bricks lying on top of him.

  The woman – what was her name? – nodding, frantically imploring him to make greater efforts. To not succumb to the overwhelming fatigue he was feeling; the desire just to cease his efforts and to close his artificial eyes against the blackness – forever.

  Then, he realized that his hand had broken through the great pile of bricks lying on top of him. It was out there – in the light. Then his black forearm; he pushed and shoved away with it on either side, the bricks dislodged and slipping away. Making the hole ever bigger. His movements becoming stronger, faster. Certain now that he was needed outside – that everything depended on him escaping this tomb made by a collapsing chimney…

  40

  The Jewish inmates (plus the five Polish farm workers) had been made to kneel in a long line, right by the edge of the deep quarry. A few sobbed, but most seemed quiet and resigned to their fate. The woman hugged her baby boy tightly to her chest. He did not cry; he was silent, now.

  Behind them stood the remaining soldiers of Ackermann’s unit. They’d withdrawn their pistols, although their sub machineguns continued to dangle from shoulder straps.

  On their knees a short distance away, their hands on the back of their heads, carefully watched over by two of Ackermann’s men, were Mayer, Weber and Schroder.

  Ackermann (stood behind the kneeling Jews, his own pistol withdrawn) spoke in the direction of the three men –

  ‘Make sure you watch this, Mayer. All these kikes getting the sort of treatment they deserve. In fact, far too good for them – a waste of ammunition, really. But time is short, and I need to get my unit back into Germany. But not before I personally deal with you – for good.’

  ‘You’re a sick bast – ’

  Mayer’s retort was cut short, as one of the two SS men (responding to a nod from Ackermann) gave him a kick to the face that nearly broke his jaw.

  ‘That’s enough from a traitor,’ declared Ackermann.

  Then he addressed the men stood nearest him -

  ‘You start from that end of the line, you from the other. When you run out of ammunition, you and you replace them while they reload. And vice-versa, until we’re done. I’ll start from the centre of the line, and work my way along to the…’

  Ackermann shrugged.

  ‘…left,’ he finished.

  The men he’d ordered to commence firing began walking to either end of the kneeling line of Jews.

  Then, another soldier called out –

  ‘Sir – sir!’

  Ackermann looked irritably at the man, who was pointing with an incredulous, but also fear-struck expression back into the camp.

  Then Ackermann saw what was happening, along with his other men.

  The Metal Man – Karl Brucker – he was almost half-way out of the thousands of bricks which should have buried him forever. Or at least for a good few months. His black metallic body was exposed from his chest up; his left hand was picking up the bricks around him and throwing them away. The Metal Man was methodically freeing himself from his tomb.

  But Brucker was still a horrific sight to behold. His right arm hung limply from the shoulder; clearly he no longer had any use of the limb. And he had only half a face. On one side – the left – the synthetic skin had been mostly torn away, exposing a multitude of thin metal struts which had given the face its shape, and somehow ‘moved’ to allow Brucker to express a limited range of emotions. But both the artificial eyes remained, frozen in one position, some sort of camera doubtless situated behind each one.

  The black armor, also, was no longer gleaming, but battered and split in various places. Smoke continued to escape from the great rent by the right shoulder.

  ‘Well, well, Brucker – or whatever the hell you are,’ called out Ackermann, shaking his head and smiling slightly, as though feeling somehow compelled to express his reluctant admiration. ‘You’re a hard act to kill – I’ll give you that. But let’s see if I can finally get it right this time.’

  With that, Ackermann walked unhurriedly over to the tank that was also back inside the camp, but some distance away from where the Metal Man was continuing to make his determined efforts to free himself.

  The bazooka – with one last rocket – was inside the tank, returned by Ackermann after he’d last fired at the Metal Man. Getting the weapon and loading it, Ackermann then walked back over to stand by the kneeling Jews.

  ‘This is it, Brucker,’ said the SS officer, his right eye squinting along the top of the bazooka, at its front sight, as he took direct aim at the Metal Man.

  And then the frantic beeping of a car horn, coming from near the front entrance of the destroyed camp. Ackermann swore as he took his gaze away from the Metal Man, not taking the shot yet – momentarily distracted by whoever this lunatic was who’d suddenly turned up in this car that was screeching to a halt by the train track running into the camp.

  41

  Leaving number eight, Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse – Gestapo Headquarters – had been simplicity itself. Only twice, making his way towards the rear of the great building, had Wilhelm Reinhardt encountered someone walking towards him. (Once on the stairs leading away from the torture rooms down in the basement, and then along a long corridor.)

  On both occasions, dressed in the impressive-looking black uniform Reinhardt had taken from one of the men he’d shot dead, Reinhardt had simply covered his disfigured face while pretending to have a coughing fit. On the second occasion, the person walking towards him – a woman – had said sympathetically –

  ‘Poor you – you must have this flu bug that’s going around.’

  And that was it. No need at all for Reinhardt to use the three pistols he carried on his person. He’d escaped out into the courtyard that was at the rear of the building, where several black, official cars were parked. Reinhardt started one, and approaching the manned barrier that was before the exit into the street again covered his mouth with one hand and pretended to cough. The guard raised the barrier, and Reinhardt drove off.

  He stopped outside his apartment, and went quickly upstairs to grab a few items – clothes, mainly, and a treasured photo of his dead wife Helga. He was leaving Germany for a good while – at least until this war was over. Having just shot dead two members of the Gestapo, and his Jewish identity no longer a secret, he could hardly remain in this country.

  The only course of action seemed to be to try and find Jonas Schroder. To see if that little, half-Jewish scientist had found his mother in that concentration camp that was just over the Polish border.

  So Reinhardt left his apartment and got back inside the Mercedes 260 D. No one had seen him enter or leave his apartment; but then, it was very late. He set off for the border, already knowing the route he needed to take. With luck, it would be several hours before anyone found the bodies of Fleischer and the other thug – and first, they’d need to get past the thick door which Reinhardt had locked from the outside, using the key he’d found in the trouser pocket of the black uniform he was wearing.

  Dawn had already broken by the time Reinhardt reached the border. He was questioned by the two soldiers manning the checkpoint, but he brusquely claimed ‘official business’, and the sight of the impressive black uniform stopped any further questions. He was permitted to drive on, passing the hordes of soldiers and refugees lining either side of the road.

  He saw the same sign which Schroder had seen – with ‘Tornik’ written upon it – and passed that ruined town a few minutes later. Then the camp appeared, a sense of horror growing within Reinhardt the closer he got to it.

  But it had been destroyed. Smoke was billowing out from it, the buildings crushed and on fire. And at the side furthest from Reinhardt, by what looked to be a rocky cliff, there seemed to be a large mass of people…
/>
  Then he could make out the soldiers standing above the kneeling – prisoners? They had to be the inmates of this camp, wearing those ragged, striped uniforms…

  Then Reinhardt realized the soldiers had their guns out and were going to shoot the prisoners. But they were looking over at something, something lying with only the upper half of its body protruding from a huge pile of bricks and rubble.

  Reinhardt gasped as he realized that it was the Metal Man. Without his mask. And with what looked to be half a human face. And one of the German soldiers was now taking aim at the Metal Man with a bazooka…

  Scarcely knowing what he was doing – but knowing that he had to do something – Reinhardt pressed the car-horn. That caused the soldier aiming the bazooka to take notice of him.