“Maybe he can play dead,” says the heavyset major. He rips the Luger from Wünsche’s teeth and wipes the spit off it on the front of his trousers. With a theatrically exaggerated gesture he pulls a long magazine from one of the pockets of his tunic and holds both pistol and magazine up like a magician presenting rabbit and hat before performing his famous trick. He replaces the pistol’s empty magazine with the loaded one and then pulls back the striker to feed a bullet into the chamber. “Ah, beautiful German engineering!” he exclaims with a wink directed at Wünsche who is still kneeling at his feet. The other men chuckle. They fall silent when the major holds the pistol to Wünsche’s head, and they hold their breath and Wünsche does too looking down the end of the barrel and it all becomes very quiet, like that moment in the cinema when the lights go out. Despite all the years of service it’s still frightening, the sight of that tiny black hole and knowing death was just a pull of the trigger away. Sometimes it’s easier to be a dog than man. He bares his teeth and snarls. The major laughs, deep and jolly. “Well I’m afraid that is a trick he can do only once and wouldn’t that be a waste?” The men exchange murmurs of approval. “But there is one other trick he’s very good at, very good indeed. And I didn’t even need to teach him!” He lowers the barrel of the gun to Wünsche’s lips. “Suck it.”
calamari a la fascismo
Himmler was utterly plain and normal, an ordinary blend of small town police officer and school teacher, friendly, strict and a little neurotic in just the way that it was acceptable, maybe even called for, to be neurotic when one carried so much responsibility.
To his adjutant it was reassuring at first, how mundane he was, even his ugliness and unimpressive stature adding to the impression of the man as office and duty rather than an autonomous agent. It became worrying later, with schedules and appointments out of the picture, in the private moments, in quiet offices that smelled of disinfectant, on the long rides to strange places, in the back seats of cars loud enough for all the privacy if one just whispered quietly enough, and in grey hotel rooms and in the infinite span between dusk and dawn.
But then it was too late to escape his grasp and his young adjutant found himself trapped by things mundane, like contracts and obligations and expectations, and otherworldly too, dark secrets left best unspoken, old rituals and lost artifacts and things that came crawling out of a deep darkness that had never seen a single star.
At night his captor came quietly as if invited into his bed. He spoke to him with familiar voice and touched him with familiar hands and touched him also with unfamiliar parts like he’d seen only in books and museums on creatures of the sea, long tentacles, not wet but smooth like snake skin except for the suckers on them with their many teeth, cephalopod arms that slid over his body and under his nightshirt as he lay there frozen and mortified, mortified not by the terrible organs but the man they belonged to, that very plain man at the centre of all these horrors.
Himmler talked to him like father to son. He held him tight in his arms only to calm and comfort him as the tentacles slid up his legs like snakes seeking warmth, slid around his thighs and his abdomen and touched his limp sex briefly, disinterested.
They weren’t content with just touching him from the outside and sought entry in his body, sliding between his legs, thick as ship ropes. First the thin ends prodded at his anus, two or three or four, like the small fingers of curious children. They weren’t wet like one would imagine them to be and it wouldn’t have made any difference. When they first broke into him they stretched him so wide it tore his sphincter and it ripped the skin of his perineum to his balls, clean and quickly, as if it was snipped with scissors. One or two or three, he couldn’t tell, pushed deep into his guts, penetrated far too deep and deeper still, not inches deep but feet, so deep he’d would have thought they might come out of the other end soon, had he had the mind to think and do anything but feel the mind numbing pain and the heavy weight inside him, moving like many creatures, wiggling, and the pressure of it, like being slowly lowered onto a stake.
Other arms came sliding up his heaving chest and caressed his mouth that stood wide open from the pain of it all, breathlessly gasping beyond screams. Himmler kissed him on his quivering lower lip, intimate but without lust. One tentacle slid inside his mouth and down his throat. The invasion was so brutal he couldn’t even gag.
He thought he would die then, suffocate on the limb, and it was a relief to know the torment would end. In that moment the tentacles pumped their seed inside of him, twitching for many long seconds. They ejaculated into his guts and into his stomach and it was too much for his body to keep, gallons of sticky, bitter, thick ejaculate. It was so much it filled his stomach to the top. He didn’t even throw up, it just spilled over and it came running out of his mouth, and his nose and his ass and he was covered in it inside and outside.
Worse than the pain and the filth was the way Himmler whispered to him all throughout it, about new Germany and new soldiers, new men and how he would breed him each night until they would make that new man together, his good soldier, his favourite womb.
Pilfered Goods
Max, built from pride and snarled watchfulness, never killed a soul in his life before he knew Meyer, still bristling with the need to prove himself.
In the ditch of some godforsaken village with a name that doesn’t bear pronouncing, Kurt has seen from afar, the misty silhouette of Wünsche pushing a blade down into the sweet spot of a man’s chest, careful not to waste a bullet that doesn’t need to be wasted.
Bringing back half a packet of cigarettes with a child’s smile.
Turning over a sodden body with the heel of his boot, Meyer spots the pack of rubbers and snorts. Thinks for a moment and then pockets them himself.
Max sleeps like the rest of them do, snatching the best rest they can on ragged blankets, always one eye open, like wolves. Ready for the next fight, ready for the smell of blood on the air. Restless even in their dreams, half wasted away to nothing.
Just a touch at Max’s temple and he’s wide awake, red rimmed eyes fixing on Kurt in the dark. Meyer gives him the comfort of his palm, stroking his cheek.
“Good boy,” he murmurs.
Produces from his pocket the tangled balloon, sticky with the cunt slime of the girl he’s last fucked, sometimes streaked dark brown with blood. A winning smile on Meyer’s face that fills Max’s heart with contempt for any woman who beat her fists against his chest or sobbed with regret and not ecstasy.
Max opens up his mouth and lays his tongue out into the cold air stinking of dysentery from the soldier shivering next to him.
The semen drops, clotted, thick into his mouth as Meyer pushes it down out of the condom. Max won’t swallow until Kurt gives him the go ahead, he lays there, panting, spunk oozing between his teeth and seeping toward the back of his throat.
Sometimes Kurt brings more than one, a handful of party favours that Max can stretch out his tongue and beg for, silently. Kurt will pincer his tongue and pull and wonder if a knife in the right place wouldn’t do better. Until Max is begging to lick every filthy part of his body clean, lapping at places that haven’t seen water for days.
Pervitin II
It’s called Pervitin and it comes in red and blue tablet container with friendly round letters on it, like chocolate. Two days has now been in his veins, running like a mad horse, pale and starved. At rest he couldn’t rest, he heard that rhythm in his blood, hooves pounding. His own words came out too fast, stumbling over one other like a stampede. Everyone else was reading their lines too fast. Sounds were stretched short. The speed of his own jerky movements made him nervous. He was not in control, the stupid animal was.
In the third night, under the influence of the fifth dose, the horse fell silent, dead and eaten. He was the hunter now.
First came the urge to fuck someone, fuck like a blade rending flesh. A cold desire to destroy.
The want to rip someone’s face off tickled in his finger tips. Visceral visions of soft flesh under his nails and warm juice to lick up. He took his gloves off. His hands were red and swollen, freezing. From the inside, he knew it, it could only be that. A clever trick played by his body, he would not be able rip with hands like that, only crush and squash. The thought was amusing to him and he laughed to himself. An officer, whose name he had forgotten and could only remember as fuck and destroy, looked over to him and seemed worried.
One time when no one was looking he rolled in the snow like a dog. It felt warm.
The good kind of killing, combat, helped a little. In the quaint backyards, the windy barns, in dark basements, where tortured faces appeared in flashing lights. Always he crawled closer on his belly like a wild beast, dragging his uniform through the mud, strangling the blood flow to his obnoxiously demanding sex. Just close enough to see their eyes when he blew their lights out.
The waiting was the worst. Waiting for artillery shelling to end, hiding from planes, always hiding from something, cramped together with his comrades in dark basements, waiting to soon be someone else’s tortured faces. In situations like that comrades were no longer comrades but a mass of bodies and eyes that asked to be fucked and destroyed. Some more than others. Harrowed faces and dull eyes, men just waiting for their soon demise. He avoided them, they spoke to something in him that made it harder to control the slippery fingers.
The friendly round chocolate container was empty. He shot two Australian prisoners when no one was watching. They died disappointingly. Then he caught himself one of his own men. Out on watch he jumped the young officer. Tall one, but so frail, couldn’t get his spider leg fingers on the trigger of his Luger in time. He broke the officer’s wrist and twisted the weapon out of his hands with another crack and then he hit the man with the grip of the pistol until he stopped moving.
The officer’s nose was broken in three pieces, the lower half of his face covered in steaming red, as if a hungry dog had ripped the jaws out. He was wheezing loudly from the blood running down his throat, his mouth was wide open, dumb and agape and his gaze was fixed on his assailant with horror like he had never seen in a man’s eyes. He slid a finger into the officer’s mouth, over the broken teeth. There was something sensual about it like you could only find in symbols, sexless imitations of sex. The man whimpered and closed his eyes. His mouth was a warm, wet hole. It made a sucking motion, which peculiarly turned into a bite; peculiar, because he could see where the remaining teeth dug into his skin, but he couldn’t feel it. He considered fucking that mouth but it frightened him, there was no end to it, a dark maw that would eat him up.
He flipped the officer over on his stomach and sliced his trousers open. He cut too deep, sliced the man open too, the skin split like an overcooked sausage, yellow stuffing spilled out. The officer screamed, flailed, cried, crawled away from him. He dragged him back by the ankles, spread his legs to see where he could make his way in. The obvious choice was beneath him, dirty, not good. It needed to be clean, a pure white and red, crystalline. He felt like that now, white and bright, euphoric. Yet there remained some curiosity too. He had heard about it, men who did that sort of thing.
He put his bayonet in the officer. It went into his anus like it was made to take it, like labia parting, sliced and split open to receive his blade. The officer howled. When the bayonet went in deep enough to pierce his intestines he made a sound like a strangled cat. He tried to trigger it again by jabbing into that exact spot, meticulously, pounding him open, irreparably destroying. The blade came out red and redder. He could feel it, like a part of himself, breaking into the body, could feel the flesh giving way. He couldn’t have fucked him better himself.
The officer wouldn’t repeat the sound for him, he was eating mud and clawing at the earth, hoping maybe he could dig a way out of this fate or choke to death on dirt.
He wasn’t done yet. He wiped the bayonet on a patch of snow and grass. Clean again. He would make himself a hole of his liking. He flipped the officer on his back again. The man’s face was covered in a grotesque mask of red and brown sludge. The only visible features were his eyes, bright little spots and that black maw, panting and babbling about mercy and death.
It was a little harder to get through the abdominal wall, but he was very determined. Logically he thought the bellybutton would be the easiest way in, but it was messy, irregular, not as pretty. He liked the clean white slate of the belly next to it better. The tip of his blade pushed a dent into the soft flesh of it, stretching the skin like a balloon ready to pop. The officer spoke of god, or gods. His belly didn’t pop, the bayonet suddenly just went in, smoothly, without a sound from the officer. He looked a while at the funny image. How deep it could go in unhindered. If he let go of the handle it swayed back and forth with every breath.
The screams and the flailing picked up tenfold again when he grabbed the blade and turned it around like a drill, making the slit into a bigger hole. He didn’t want to look inside, something not right about seeing a man’s guts if they weren’t hanging out. The amount of blood gushing out of the hole he’d made prevented such an uncomfortable incident.
When he had decided the hole was good enough to fuck he found himself incapable of holding an erection. It was utterly frustrating. He could stuff his limp genital in the hole but what good was it. It didn’t hurt the officer, it didn’t satisfy any of his cravings, it just taunted him, the absolute lack of feeling, just a bit of meat where it didn’t belong.
His vision was ruined. The officer’s sobbing annoyed him. It would not stop. Once he had let get of him the officer rolled around in the puddle of his own blood, curled up in the fetal position, as if that would stop the blood flowing from his guts. He was just a tangled bag of bones, and he howled like a baby.
A heavy weight came down on him then, an overwhelming disgust with that pathetic creature and an endless fatigue. He slit the officer’s throat. He washed himself clean in the snow and walked less than a mile to surrender to the Americans.
Pretty
“He’s pretty enough to be a lady, no?“
Himmler’s new favourite intendant Fräulein Kant pointed at Jochen, who froze mid movement, like the rabbit spotting a familiar silhouette in the sky. She smiled only in the corners of her full red lips, her eyes were detached from that smile, dull and calculating. She examined him, estimating his measurements, her professional gaze lingering on his lowered eyes. He’d make a fine addition to her entourage, a wonderful sacrifice of the solstice, a shy little bunny to douse in red blood for Himmler’s silly make-believe. How glad she was now that she had agreed to make those tacky white robes just a bit more sheer and so very short.
Himmler turned to see who Fräulein Kant had chosen to replace her sick actress. The young woman had cancelled at the last minute and thereby completely ruined his wonderful Germanic feast. He was surprised to find Fräulein Kant pointing at his adjutant. He pushed his round spectacles up on his nose, into that small rosy ridge where it usually rested and looked more thoroughly at his adjutant than he ever had. He noticed the small circumference of Jochen’s waist, cinched further by his belt, the slender fingers holding Himmler’s own briefcase, neatly manicured fingernails pressing into the soft leather, his deep set eyes, that clear blue he envied so much, hidden behind dark long lashes and for the first time he also noticed an uncharacteristic red tint to Jochen’s cheeks that was quite becoming. Yes, she was right, he was certainly pretty enough.
Himmler reached out to grab Jochen’s free hand and held it between his palms, one thumb stroking the back of Jochen’s hand. The touch made his adjutant queasy, as did Himmler’s cordial smile when he said: “Will you be so good and save the day, Jochen?” It wasn’t just that he was spoken to like a child, he was used to that, could swallow being treated like this, even in front of the intendant, but having to agree to be humiliated as a mere favour, for the evening entertainment of Heini and his highly decorated guests, it turned his stomach upside down.
Jochen threw a desperate glance at Fräulein Kant who surely must have been joking. She answered his call for help with a sardonic smirk. Himmler wouldn’t accept no for an answer and neither would she.
Crossing the T’s
The doctor skims the report with a disinterest that’s tempered only by his irritation at having to deal with such nonsense in the first place. By the time the guards lead the inmate into the room his mind is already almost completely made up.
There’s been trouble from this Joachim Peiper previously – fanciful accusations of mistreatment of him or his men. Cynical gambits to save their own skin or merely petulant efforts to waste everyone’s time, taking advantage of the better nature of their victors. It is, in his opinion, an unfortunate and rather senseless notion that they have any responsibility towards these people. Such compassionate considerations are alien to the nature of the German people and even if they were not, they surely have forfeited them now entirely as a whole let alone in the case of such specific smirking little war criminals.
The issue at hand this time is particularly distasteful and the fact that Peiper is standing before him at the moment with his back straight and his head upright and his thin lips pressed firmly together, aloof and composed, only confirms his original verdict. If these allegations were true there would naturally be some sort of stamp of shame upon him. He does not believe such things don’t leave an obvious change in any real man and even if he does perhaps detect, peering from the report to Peiper and back again, a slight quiver in the jaw behind that carefully controlled aspect, well then that’s simply evidence of the nervousness of a liar worried he’ll be caught in his falsehood.
“Do you need him uncuffed, sir?” asks one of the guards.
He shakes his head. “Not at the moment. Perhaps presently.”
He rises from his stool, approaches Peiper and says in slow, loud English. “Do you understand why you are here?”
It garners no response, just the divot of a frown in the middle of Peiper’s brow. The doctor sighs. He turns and stabs the piece of paper on his desk and begrudgingly switches to German if only to forestall any complaints about the fact later.
He explains that an examination is necessary in order for him to supply an opinion on the allegations Peiper has made concerning certain misconduct directed toward his person. He thinks he notices a twitch this time. The crease between Peiper’s eyebrows deepens.
“I’d appreciate your assistance,” the doctor says. Not looking at Peiper any more. Addressing the men flanking him on either side.
He instructs them how he wants Peiper stripped from the waist down. No need to untie him after all. Peiper starts back as the button of his trousers is snapped open, tries to take over the operation himself, clumsily, hands bound in front of him but a rough grip on the back of his neck and another at his wrists puts paid to that quickly. He raises his chin as if it were the prow of a boat determined to bear on through the inevitable and doesn’t struggle any more. Still, that first instinctual, human response to protect his dignity might also be termed: signs of an ‘uncooperative nature’ and those are the two words the doctor jots down on his notepad as Peiper raises a foot for his sock to be removed, before knocking his pen against the examination table.
“Up on here,” he says. “On his back I think.”
The guards manhandle Peiper up onto the cold, steel surface. The doctor strolls to the door and swings it open so it bangs back against his hinges and a rush of air from the corridor rustles the flimsy paper curtain hanging next to, though not yet drawn around, the examination table. Peiper makes a startled noise of protest and the doctor glances over his shoulder to see him struggling to hunch over himself, as if he were entitled to any sort of privacy.
“Will you hold him down,” he says, casting his eyes heavenward at the display.
The guards force Peiper’s shoulders back down to the flat of the table. The doctor shakes his head and reminds himself to underline his previous note. He whistles down the corridor to catch the attention of the nurse sipping coffee at her desk.
“Sarah, can you fetch Whitford for me, please?”
He leaves the door propped open and returns the table. Peiper’s chest is rising and falling in a conspicuously slow and deep manner, obviously a conscious effort on his part. The doctor cranes his head to check under the table and hums a thoughtful note.
“We don’t have time for difficulties, let’s have him secured.”
He shows the guards the curved hook at the underside of the head of the table, a small loop of metal meant for securing and tidying IV lines when patients are in transit. Tugging the chain of Peiper’s cuffs over it draws his arms above his head, impossible to dislodge without assistance. As the chain pulls tight Peiper’s hands clench into fists but the rest of his body is still lying docile enough on the table.
“What’s the problem?”
His colleague, Whitford, joining him now as they both look down, considering Peiper.
The doctor shares a long suffering look with his peer.
“He says that he’s been abused by some of the staff.”
He taps the inside of Peiper’s leg with his pen, just above his knee.
“Forced anal penetration,” he continues.
There’s a rather long silence. The clock on the wall makes the loud progress of a minute at least. The doctor observes the blotchy red colour that flushes over Peiper’s skin and feels satisfied that at least now perhaps their criminal is feeling some shame. Whitford snorts and he waves his hand in the air.
“I know, I know, but procedure…”
He instructs the guards how to position Peiper’s legs properly, heels pressed up to his buttocks, folding him open. Possibly he notices the tail end of a shared smile between the two men grasping Peiper’s ankles and the thought occurs to him that there were no names in the report indicating who exactly the inmate had accused.
“I say,” his colleague interjects on his thoughts. “I hope this isn’t going to become a habit amongst this lot. We’ll have to commandeer a gynie table from the women’s section.”
The doctor snaps on a pair of beige latex gloves and sneezes into the crook of his arm from the little puff of talcum powder that hangs momentarily in the air. Whitford follows suit. They both peer down at the exposed area between Peiper’s legs.
The hairs on the back of Peiper’s thighs are already standing on end and when the doctor touches his fingertip to the rim of his anus the muscles in each leg bunch in resistance.
“Could you get his knees back further,” the doctor instructs the men. “Steady grip if you please.”
There’s a brisk tap of heels from the corridor. He glances over his shoulder through the open door, fingers still on Peiper, to see if it’s one of the nurses and save them the trouble of sending to fetch one later, but it’s only Sarah heading off toward the commissary.
“So what do you think?” Whitford asks.
He turns back. His colleague has helpfully spread Peiper’s buttocks further apart so they have an unimpeded view of the site.
“Hard to say,” he replies. He uses his middle and index finger like a pair of calipers, pressing in on either side of Peiper’s anus, dragging at the rather swollen looking tissue surrounding Peiper’s opening as he widens them; first horizontally and then, with his thumb digging into the perineum, vertically. “I suppose it seems a little inflamed but of course that could merely be signs of a poor prison diet.”
“Or self abuse.” the other doctor offers.
He nods and moves his index finger to the centre of Peiper’s anus, pushing a little to feel out the resistance of the muscle. There’s a hiss from the body below him, a full body flinch, but he notices with approval that the guards have Peiper held well in place.
Whitford goes to a cabinet and rummages around while he gradually, firmly works his dry, rubber finger into Peiper’s anal canal up the first knuckle, twisting back and forth, slowly screwing it inside. There’s not another sound from Peiper but the increase in his breathing rate is obvious from the rapid rise and fall of his breast and his stomach muscles are visibly trembling beneath his shirt with the effort to keep it under control. When he glances further up he sees that the prisoner has his eyes shut and frowns deeply.
“Attention please, inmate,” he snaps, jabbing his finger the rest of the way home. “You’re not here to daydream.”
The pain flashes in naked shock over Peiper’s face for a second as his eyes fly open and then quickly becomes battened down again behind the bite of his teeth into his blanching lower lip. The doctor regards the theatrics of it coolly, it offends him more than a little that this young man thinks he’s going to have any influence on the outcome of things here with such blatant ploys for sympathy. This act of biting one’s lip in particular reminds him of the behaviour of some supercilious schoolboy.
Whitford returns to the examining table with a tray of instruments and sets it on the table beside them.
“You didn’t want this?” he asks, holding up a tube of surgical lubricant.
“It would just confound the assessment. I want to appraise how easily he allows himself to be penetrated.” He works his finger in and out of Peiper as he speaks. “Even without lubrication the muscle tone here does feel rather slack.”
“May I?”
“Of course, in fact…” He takes a step to the side and allows Whitford nearer so that he can push a gloved finger in beside his own. “I’ll hold mine still. Try and stretch his sphincter further apart, how much effort does that seem like?”
Together they’re able to produce a fair gape between their probing fingers. The table quivers a little along with a rasp of metal that tells Peiper’s wrists are jerking against the place they’re hooked but they both ignore the noise for now. The doctor uses his free hand to pluck his penlight from his pocket and shine it down into the space they’ve made.
“So you do think there’s something to this complaint of his?” Whitford asks, inserting a second finger to widen their area of investigation further.
The doctor chuckles. “Now you must think more before you speak sometimes, Whitford. So far I’ve seen nothing that would lead me away from the far more sensible conclusion that this is all indicative of a habitual sodomite.”
“But not from-”
“From regular congress with his superiors far before we picked him up. I think it’s considered well known how rampant that sort of business was with this lot. Another pathology to add to the whole sickening mess. After everything you’ve heard would you really be shocked to learn of any new depravity?”
“Well…no,” Whitford replies. He’s still inspecting the rim of Peiper’s anus as they speak, pinching the angry red flesh between forefinger and thumb as his other fingers remain prying him open. The tip of the rubber glove thins against the pressure of his thumbnail as his palpitations grow more rough.
He gives Peiper’s face a considering look while continuing to pinch him. “I suppose that’s why the pretty ones have so many medals,” he says.
The doctor huffs and shakes his head. “At any rate, we’ll have to be thorough. Hand me the speculum would you?”
His colleague pulls his fingers out of Peiper and fetches the tool. He takes it and as he holds it up, considering the length and width of the long silver blades still clasped together, they catch the light and shine a stripe over Peiper’s eyes making him wince and turn his head to one side.
“Fetch the larger size,” the doctor says.
In this instance he does take the time to give the instrument a rudimentary once over with a finger’s worth of lubrication before setting the tip of the bill at Peiper’s anus. A stifled whine seems to emanate from the general direction of Peiper’s throat and a tremor runs through him. Whether it’s a reaction to the deep cold that inevitably embeds itself in these sorts of heavy steel tools or whether the sore pink rosette of his anus is feeling especially tender by now is hard to tell. The doctor braces his left hand on one of Peiper’s shivering thighs and finds it slick and clammy with sweat, the back of his shirt must be soaked with it.
The process of penetrating Peiper with the instrument is slow and methodical. The doctor does not want to cause any unnecessary damage, but more importantly he has no wish to speed things up regardless. It is a punitive operation as well as a medical one. Not only is it vital to make it clear that making an allegation like Peiper has done is a decision not to be taken lightly, but ideally to produce a less defiant inmate in general. Which really, he thinks, unpleasant as it may be, like any bitter medicine will be the best for Peiper’s health too in the long run.
So he slides the blades deeper into Peiper’s rectum incrementally, millimetre by millilitre, glancing briefly at the spasmodic curling of Peiper’s toes. Gradually, so that Peiper can properly appreciate the physical sensation of having his body manipulated this way – deeply, humiliatingly intimately and beyond his control, at the leisurely disposal of those who wish to view him this way.
When he begins to open it with the same incremental pressure it sounds as though Peiper has been struck by the hiccups. Then it becomes clear the furious bobbing motion of his Adam’s apple in his throat is an attempt to hold back his sobs. The doctor allows himself a small, satisfied smile and squeezes the handle of the speculum tightly open before ratcheting in the screw that will keep it so until he sees fit to remove it.
The opening of his anus has been stretched so wide that its previously puffy, red aperture looks ironed flat and almost bloodless. The doctor shines his light inside again and hums to himself.
“Anything of note?” Whitford asks.
“Still rather inconclusive I’m afraid,” the doctor says, tapping his pen thoughtfully against the instrument keeping Peiper agape. “In my professional opinion there is no convincing evidence to verify this man’s particular….story.”
“Surely even if he had been penetrated recently it’s more likely he was just trading willing favours.”
“Oh you can’t think any of our boys would go in for that,” the doctor says reprovingly. “Besides, it would need to be reported too.”
“Yes, yes, but with all the paperwork redone…” Whitford sighs.
“Ah! Speaking of,” the doctor straightens up and snaps his fingers together. “We need Sally.”
“I know where she’ll be, won’t be a moment.”
While Whitford is gone he apologises to the men holding Peiper for the amount of time all this has been taking and commending them on what an excellent job they are doing. Neither of them seem to be particularly put out about it and one even volunteers that they’re happy to wait exactly as long as he needs, an attitude the doctor can’t help but feel a little national pride in.
Sally looks momentarily startled when she enters the room with her little camera, but she’s an excellent nurse and not much can break her out of her stride. Peiper looks destroyed, sickly wan and then flushing violently crimson. Everyone in the room can hear the tell tale rattle of his handcuffs . The doctor imagines the urge to try and hide oneself in such a situation is almost impossibly strong.
“There’s been an official complaint so we need photographs for the case file,” he explains. “Please make sure you include his face, I’d hate to open ourselves up to further accusations that we merely performed an examination on a separate patient or something equally as ridiculous.”
Sally trots over and begins to peer through the lens of her camera.
“It’s his rectum that is the point of interest,” the doctor interjects. “But you’re a bright girl obviously I don’t really need to point that out.”
Whitford is busying himself with some swabs and a handful of plastic pockets. The doctor raises an eyebrow in query.
“Naturally I agree that our boys wouldn’t go in for that sort of business,” Whitford begins.
“But?”
“But. It can’t hurt to check if he’s clean. In case he has been whoring around. Public safety notice and so on and so forth.”
The doctor waves a hand for him to get on with it and Whitford approaches Peiper from the side while Sally is still busy making sure she’s getting enough light to capture the spread, twitching picture of Peiper’s anus in sufficient clarity. He takes the soft, limp shaft of Peiper’s penis firmly in his hand and pulls back the foreskin. The delicate shade of his glans looks far more pale than the colour on his cheeks at present. The manner in which Whitford pushes the end of the cotton swab down into his urethra is decidedly not so delicate. Ever since Sally entered the room Peiper’s jaw had been clenched so hard the doctor would only have been half surprised to find he’d cracked a tooth, but now he finally gives up a sharp, agonised little cry.
“Tsch, don’t fuss,” Whitford says.
He leaves the swab inside of Peiper’s member and wanders over to the office table, apparently to cast an eye over the details of Peiper’s complaint himself. His lips move silently as he reads for a moment before he picks it up and strolls back over and slaps the papers lightly on Peiper’s stomach while shaking his head.
“Now, now, we can see there’s nothing the matter with you. No more of this sort of thing, alright?”
He leaves the papers piled on Peiper’s midriff where the distressed heaving on his body soon sends them drifting to the floor. Taking up the tip of the swab, Whitford twists the slim stick one way and then the other, pushing it up and down at the same time.
One of the guards snorts at the noise Peiper makes at that and the doctor gives him a stern look although he can’t really bring himself to put too much gravitas into it. Whitford pulls the swab free. The cotton at the end is tufted from where the fibres have scraped themselves loose against the sensitive lining inside Peiper’s penis. He repeats the process a few more times, until the entrance to Peiper’s urethra looks rubbed raw, and then packages the swabs up.
“I’m done, doctor,” Sally says.
“Thank you, Sally. I’d like the prints as soon as possible, please.”
As she leaves, Whitford is picking up the scattered papers.
“You know,” he says, tapping a page. “I think they wanted you to comment on the bruising he got around the wrists from where they’d tied him while they- I mean, while they supposedly…”
They both turn to look at Peiper, eyes following the lines of his arms to under the table to where he’s bound for the duration of the examination.
“Well…” Whitford begins.
The doctor yanks the paper from him and stares between it and Peiper with an expression of indignation that only grows to more thunderous proportions when Peiper stares back at him with glassy, uncomprehending eyes as if to purposefully stonewall him.
“So that’s why you’ve been wriggling around on there so much you little worm. Trying to muddy the waters by giving yourself something to show. No, indeed!” his head snaps back to Whitford. “I tell you, you can’t trust these beasts as far as you can throw them.”
He points a finger at one of the guards. “You.”
The man looks startled. “Yes, sir?”
“Did this prisoner have any marks on his wrists before you brought him up here?”
There’s a long pause.
“Nothing different than you’d expect from having the cuffs on and off day to day?” The doctor prompts impatiently.
“Ah right. Uh, no, sir. Nothing different than that.”
The doctor claps his hands together. “Excellent. There we all are then. You can let his legs down now.”
As soon as Peiper begins to relax his feet back down toward the surface of the table, the end of the speculum still cranked wide open and protruding from his body knocks against it with a loud, hollow clang. He groans, clearly desperate to twist his body into some shape no longer designed to expose and hurt and shame him.
“Let me finish up here,” the doctor says to the guards. “Take a break, you can come fetch him in an hour or so.”
Whitford motions to the speculum. “Do you want me to take care of this?”
The doctor shakes his head. “Don’t bother yourself. I’ll deal with it once I’ve finished writing up my notes.”
Inpatient
They led Erich to a metal table with a white sheet on it. It laughed at him, the absolute pristine whiteness of it, clean and cynical like the rubber gloves the doctor wore, when she did it to him. She had brought three guards, all of them wearing their drab uniforms with white gowns over them. Comical had it not also been so daunting.
The humiliation came first, later the pain. The fat one held him by the legs, wrapped his big hands around Erich’s ankles and held him as still as metal would. The big one held his wrists, pressed them down on the table as hard as he could and leaned on his hips. Another one held his head and smiled a crooked smile down at him. There was no need for all this. Erich could not fight even one of them off. Small men made for good pilots. Starvation did the rest. He was at the mercy of brutes.
The doctor had the tube. It was red, with a funnel at one end, and much too thick. They didn’t want to feed him, they wanted to punish him. She would make it fit. It would not go through his nostrils at first but the doctor shoved and pushed until with a ripping sound it slid in and then it was easier, blood lubricating the rest of the way. Erich wanted to scream but that foreign thing slid down his throat, blocking all sound except for his desperate wheezing for air. He could still cry, tears mixing with the blood, which came gushing out of his nose each time the tube penetrated deeper, scratching and ripping.
When it had reached his stomach Erich thought the worst was over. Then the doctor poured the milk down the funnel. His head was already heavy with pain, a dizzying wet hot kind of pain, but the milk was cold and the pain sharp. Burning filled his chest and clutched his racing heart. His vision became blurry, the faces above were swallowed by their own shadows. In the distance there were doors opening and closing, nearly as loud as the sound of the liquid fed down his throat. It sounded like litres going down the tube, much more than his body could fit. Erich started to sweat cold and tremble, from his fingers to his toes. He wasn’t resisting, just suffering and no longer in control of his body, but the men became heavier, the hands tightened around his limbs, he could not move, nor scream. One of them laughed. “Good Russian milk for the little German boy,” said the doctor in heavily accented German and poured more and more of the cold liquid down the funnel.
The procedure lasted only a couple of minutes. When the doctor pulled the tube out of him, she tore Erich’s esophagus further. The milk that he threw up seconds later was mixed with his blood. The men grinned wide. They’d have to do it again. Until he could keep it in. They wouldn’t let their famous prisoner die like a common animal.
Facade
Max was all facade and nothing but insecurities behind it. He could be charming of course if he knew who he was dealing with and what he was allowed; and sometimes brutal if he did not. Looking down the familiar lens of a camera he could strike an impressive figure. He practised his grin every morning. He fixed his hair in every mirror if no one was looking and he hated when Jochen tousled it with a sly smile. No amount of preparation could get rid of his nagging doubts and in unfamiliar surroundings he often fell back on silence, smiling stupidly and hoping that breeches of a fine material or a pair of shiny boots would be defence enough; and usually they were, when Jochen wasn’t kicking his feet apart and pushing his hand down the back of his trousers. It was always a pleasure for Jochen to see Max’s phony grin freeze and his body stiffen, when he ran his thumb between Max’s buttocks. He preferred to do that to him when Max was drunk, as he often was. The alcohol induced loss of control made for a delicious difference in power. Then the slightest sexual touch made Max bend at the knees to make up for the different in size between them, eagerly presenting himself to be fucked with an arched back and moaning like a versed whore. He became an unintelligible mess as soon a Jochen made him feel his cock – not fucking him just yet, only pressing it between Max’s ass cheeks, rubbing it on his asshole, prodding, teasing, but not giving him what he needed. Max also looked very photogenic when he was sucking on Jochen’s fingers to get them wet and even better when Jochen shoved them into him and the facade crumbled and fell and he just looked so pale and weak and ugly. Eventually the fingering wasn’t for the sake of preparation anymore, Max became well-accustomed to the size of Jochen’s dick, it was however useful to make him beg for his cock, especially if Jochen wasn’t actually feeling like fucking him and could just easily walk off. Jochen occasionally called Max ‘pretty’ and ’a doll’, usually when his dick was inside of him all the way and he was spreading Max’s fat ass to get in just a little deeper, never too often to make the insult lose its weight. It was a good way to get Max’s ass to tighten, so Jochen could to be done quicker, when there were knocks on the door or steps around the corner of a hallway. Once Jochen had been transferred to the Eastern front he did miss Max a little. He wouldn’t have done that sort of thing to any of his comrades, who were good, honest men like him. So he was rather happy to find that even in the Russian tundra he managed to run into Max now and then and as it turned out war hadn’t affected Max’s most useful traits a bit.
Subject
You remind me of a small rodent. It’s the teeth of course. I would have compared you to any other pathetic little creature with big moist eyes if it wasn’t for that tooth gap that you display so proudly every time you smile.
How often you smile. It’s unseemly for a man of science. It’s one thing to fool patients into a false sense of security but I’m not your patient. We should be equals, colleagues, but you can’t behave yourself.
Men like you smile when they are scared and when they want to be loved. There is nothing to love about you. You’re small and ugly and weak.
You can be my laboratory mouse. Would you like that?
I thought so. You strike me like the type. Can you squeak like a mouse?
Very good. Now do it again and look me in the eyes.
Don’t blush, you’re doing well. Come closer.
Closer.
Kneel.
No. Don’t present yourself like that. Like a prostitute. I don’t want to have sex with you. You’re vile.
Yes, that’s better. Now I am going to conduct a little experiment and you will be my test subject. Hold still.
You’re so chubby.
If you don’t stop squirming it will hurt more.
Don’t moan like that, it’s nauseating.
You’re even uglier when you cry.
Don’t get me dirty.
We’re almost done. Just a little longer. I promise it won’t kill you.
See, that wasn’t so bad. And you were good for something after all.
In his dreams Friedrich still marched to the tunes of his youth, wearing that grey uniform with the freshly shined boots. Curled up in his bed he could feel the rucksack heavy on his sweat drenched back and the grass soft under the hobnails of his soles. His ears were filled with the beat of a hundred boots hitting the ground in perfect unison. Hours passed within seconds and days within minutes. His feet started to bleed, his lungs to burn and then his entire body ached and his brain screamed to stop, stop, stop but he could not for the beat like the dance of the dead pulled his exhausted body forward until he would inevitably stumble and fall to the ground. As he lay there that maniacal tune that had pushed him on still pounded in his ears and through the ground and throughout all of his body. And then he could feel the weight of his comrades on him. A single beast of a dozen limbs and mouths. The moistness of their breaths pained him but the touch of so many hands is never gentle, only tugging and tearing and scratching. They broke into him, ripped him open. They ate his guts, his lungs, his heart. They peeled off his face and then cracked his skull and fought over his brain like wolves. They chewed on his bones, swallowed the tiny bits of it and before his blood could soak the soil they greedily lapped it up. Only when the last remains of him were consumed was he able to open his eyes and come to the crushing realization that he was still there, his body intact, staring at a ceiling.
Bunker Archives 