Tag: jochen peiper

Pretty

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“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

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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.”

Facade

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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.

Pervitin

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On the day of the last advance I found the Standartenführer curled up all alone in the back of his Kübelwagen. He had fallen asleep fully clothed. The hat with the death’s head was still set at exactly the same angle as always showing some of his light brown hair, which was now dark from pomade and sweat. His wrinkled leather coat clung to his body like a macabre nightgown fit for a butcher. His gloved hands were holding on to his binoculars in the tight grip I had seen so often on men killed in the moment of action. Maybe they were of use in his dreams that nervously fluttered behind his eyelashes.

Oh, his eyes, they always worried me. During the past weeks he had looked horribly sick, dying even. His skin was almost transparently white, marbled with pale blue veins, and grey in the hollows of his face. The corners of his eyes were red from days without rest and stood in stark contrast with the blue of his iris. A beautiful composition often found these days in the ranks of the SS.

It was early in the morning and the light was dim and pale. The smell of burned wood was still in the air and occasionally the wind lifted the ash of the charred remains of the village, which we had set ablaze last night in cold frenzy. The tiny particles seemed to gain a life of their own now, swirling like black spirits around the resting men. It was like a painting of Nordic myth with the Standartenführer at its centre, a scrawny greyhound with blood drenched fur resting after a good night’s hunt.

I woke our hound up with a light touch to his shoulder. He opened his eyes so abruptly that I froze under his stare thinking he might jump at my throat. When he recognized me his look softened and he gave me a tired smile. The dry leather of his coat crackled. He raised himself off the seat into a sitting position with slow, deliberate movements. His hands were shaking as he tried to rest his weight on them. I felt a pang of sorrow and averted my eyes. All the blood, brains and guts, the tears, piss and shit, but that small loss of control still bothered me.

“What time is it?”, he asked demanding my attention again. He was holding one hand with the other now in a pose reminiscent of prayer, evidently intended to suppress the shaking by force.

I looked at my clock. “It’s six ten”, I said, “in the morning.”

He scanned the surroundings, clever blue eyes jumping from tanks, cars and smouldering ruins to his men, who were huddled together in groups of two to a dozen, some still asleep, others munching on dry bread looking cold and miserable.

He loosened the grasp on his hand only to find the shaking return. He groaned quietly and clenched his fists but to no avail. The open acknowledgement of his condition took a burden off me. His stimulant abuse was an open secret. There were limits to the human condition even if the will wouldn’t falter.

“You need to do something for me”, he said with the intonation of a command. I snapped back into military posture and habits. “Jawohl, Standartenführer.” He could look quite charming when one gave him his due respect. Some people praised kind leaders who mingled with their men and treated them like equals, I had always been partial to the likes of our Standartenführer. His orders were clear and absolute. His word, his responsibility, my duty. I embraced this obedience, it brought a clarity to my mind that I had lacked in my teenage years. It is quite wonderful what man can do when he must.

“Do you have any bandages on you?”, he asked. I rummaged in my bags and found a couple. “Get in the car”, he said patting the seat next to him. I did as I was told. He was sitting almost comfortably now, legs crossed at the knees and his back resting on the seat. His hands however were digging into the edge of it as if holding on for his life.

“Open my coat”, he said. I took off my gloves and fumbled with the thick leather buttons until I had opened the front of the coat revealing the grey tunic underneath. The knight’s cross was pinned to his breast pocket. “The tunic too.” When I opened his tunic I realized something was wrong. The shirt underneath was dark brown. It felt starched. Dried blood. I hastily opened it too and found his undershirt drenched in blood, old and brown mixed with the wet shine of fresh blood. Learned instinct kicked in. I hurried to peel him out of his uniform to inspect the wound. He was weak under my hands, offering no resistance as I took off coat, tunic, shirt and undershirt. I had stripped his torso completely when he stopped me. “I’m fine”, he said with such clarity that I halted. “I’ll have a medic take care off it when we rendezvous with Kampfgruppe Werner. I just need you to change the bandage.”

I realized how much I had overstepped his boundaries. I had never seen him naked. He didn’t wash himself together with us, he hadn’t sunbathed on the hot summer days in Russia or went swimming on the days off in France. I felt an unseemly urge to see what he was hiding. He looked so fragile, bedded on his uniform like a doll thrown by a disinterested child. His body was as wiry and pale as his clothed appearance suggested. His left arm was dotted with large round yellow spots, bruises, more than a week old by the looks of it. His hands were still shaking and not just his hands, his arms too were affected by spasms, less frequent than his hands but when they came the blue veins of his underarms writhed like worms under the skin. The only part on his torso that had retained some fat was his chest which looked almost boyish except for the trail of brown hair running vertically across it down to his bellybutton, there it was swallowed by the waist of his trousers. Blood drenched bandages were wrapped around his chest and fastened under his armpits, where they cut into the flesh and trapped strands of his axillary hair. Blood and sweat made for a potent smell. The impression was difficult to reconcile with my memory of him as that fearless daredevil with unyielding haughtiness.

“It’s just superficial shrapnel,” he said with a smirk and I became aware again that he wasn’t as vulnerable as his body suggested. He had been observing me intently. “Just cut the bandage”, he said and pointed to the bayonet on my belt. To suppress the shaking he grabbed the seat with one hand and my thigh with the other. I slid the long blade under the cloth, careful not to cut into him. He watched, not anxiously but with interest. The bandage came off with a snip and I saw the wound. A wide gash across his right breast revealing the flesh like layers of an onion. It was diamond shaped and perfectly symmetrical. The skin was cut and peeled back by the force of the hit revealing the muscle underneath and in the middle of it was a deeper cut right into the flesh. It must have been a sharp thing, more piercing, like a bullet, which was lucky for him as it meant less tearing, crushing and chance of infection.

I threw out the dirty bandages and made sure to peel any remains of the cloth from the wound. Mindful of the cold I tried to act fast. A little too fast maybe. His grip on my thigh became painfully tight.

“The funny thing is, now it stops.”

He let go of me and raised his hands in front of his eyes. They were perfectly still. We stared at them for some seconds before the shaking started again and he threw them down in bitter anger. Then he turned to me, a curious glimmer in his eyes. “Do that again.” I looked at him in disbelief. His expression didn’t allow for disobedience. “Hurt me”, he said sharply.

I placed my thumb on the wound where it was the deepest and pressed lightly. He shook his head disapprovingly. “No, that’s nothing. Harder.” I obeyed. He exhaled sharply. His heart was racing under my thumb. He didn’t tell me to stop. His heaving breast pushed my finger deeper into his flesh, soaking it in fresher blood. His chapped bottom lip dropped. I could hear the shortness of his breath. His pupils dilated, swallowing up the blue of his iris, two black discs staring right through me. My hand was hot with his blood. It dripped down on him, tiny red pearls rolling over the concave of his stomach, downwards where they were sucked up by his waist band. I stared unashamedly, hypnotized by the twistedly erotic image.

“I said stop. That’s enough”, he barked. He grabbed me by the wrist and pulled my hand away roughly. I hadn’t heard him at all. That entranced expression was wiped off his face and he just looked mildly annoyed. “Clean the blood off and finish the job”, he said, “Don’t waste my time.”

I cleaned and wrapped him up. His annoyance with me didn’t run deep. “Good job”, he praised my work placing his hand on my shoulder – perfectly still. “See, it stopped.”

It wouldn’t go through my head that I had failed to hear a commanding officer’s order and violated his personal trust. I crawled out of the car while he was still dressing himself, now closing every button of his uniform with utmost control and care. “Go get some tea for me. And tell the boys to get ready, we leave in half an hour.” I snapped my heels and walked away, wondering if everything I had just seen was just a sick day dream. But there was still blood on my hand, a cold and sticky reminder.

More Schnapsideen

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More hourglass sand trickling down my back, rough but softly caressing. Silly me, I miss Jochen. No, more precisely I miss his hand around my cock. Fine, tight fingers on the base of it. Nicely manicured nails scratching the sensitive skin. And with the other hand cupping my balls and slowly but unrelentingly squeezing. He didn’t do that actually, not the part with the balls. But I wish he had and I can imagine it vividly when I jerk off into the bathroom sink while my girls outside just won’t stop knocking on the door, asking if daddy is okay.

Jochen still writes me letters like nothing happened. Friendly, soppy, heartfelt letters that don’t mention anything about the night in that hotel room. And I respect that because there is no way of politely asking whether he remembers jerking me off and possibly wishes to eventually repeat the experience. I imagine proposing this to his face and grind my teeth remembering the way his hands felt on my throat and I think about how nice it would sound if he closed them tighter, cutting off the air and called me a dirty old man and other such innocent words, quiet, softly, like he speaks when he is angry, so that the insult would eventually be drowned out by my own gasps for air.

There are no more happy events, the Leibstandarte only ever assembles when comrades die. One of these days I meet Jochen again. It’s like a kick in the balls, hard to describe why seeing him has that effect on me when the pain is still so sharp. He looks good in black. I am reminded of his uniform, the black Panzer one. I can’t control myself. When I greet him I grab him by his small waist. I could lift him up so easily, he seems as light as one of my girls. He jumps like something crawled up his back and still standing on tiptoes scolds me with a quiet look until I wrestle my hands back wishing he would have slapped me across the face instead.

I hadn’t expected it to be that bad, the intrusive thoughts are terrible. I should be mourning, but I’m just horny. I’m like a schoolboy in gym class, hiding the tent in my very expensive dress pants while I stand at the old comrade’s grave. And good, solemn Jochen stands on the other side of that hole in the ground. His hair is so neatly parted. His eyes are wet. I wonder if they ever made him cry in Landsberg and wonder if maybe I could make him cry if he was drunk enough to allow it. If I suck you off will you let me stick it up your ass?

They put our comrade in the ground. It starts to rain. His wife cries. I’m utterly disgusting.

It’s tradition to celebrate the dead with a feast. The HIAG helped out with the finances and it’s to our own benefit as we are both the financiers and the guests. In a small local restaurant we say farewell to our comrade and I say sorry for being such a swine. To my relief Jochen keeps his distance, talking to some younger men in a corner that I can’t see from my seat, and judging by the laughs entertaining them greatly. With increased alcohol intake the relief turns into anger. It’s just normal that I want what’s being withheld from me.

I watch Jochen as he walks out of the room, wandering off alone by himself. He is fiddling with his wedding ring, his nervous tick. It’s a sort of invitation. I follow him. He walks past the kitchen and out the back door leaving it open for the cold air to get in and me to slip out after him. It’s definitely an invitation.

It’s dark outside except for a light above the door. There is nothing here but mud, empty barrels and the edge of a forest. He is leaning on the wall next to the door, hiding from the rain under the overhang. I’m hardly drunk, but already so unrestrained. He has no excuse to be here, he’s not even smoking. When our eyes meet he smiles like he only smiles for me, affectedly coy. I grab him by the shoulders – he feels softer than I thought he would be, and push him closer to the wall, trap him with my body. Muffled conversations spill out of the door next to us. If he screamed they’d hear it, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just cocks his head and looks at me with something resembling curiosity and an underlying note that I can’t grasp but I remember from that night, knowing it should not be worn with such an innocent expression. He waits patiently, shifts his weight with a soft rustle, his knee rubs the inside of my thigh. The cold air bites my gums. I smell the alcohol on my own breath. I feel like I’m trapped there under my own heavy body, not him. Now that I have him I don’t know what to do with him.

“At a funeral service, Kurt?” he asks and there is no smile in his voice, it’s all cold and sharp like his eyes when he musters me up and down. “You’re shameless.” Shameless. What a wonderful poignant word. He drops it like a knife and it strikes me somewhere deep in my guts, leaving a queasy feeling, like blood spreading, horrible really, but also nice and warm and most of all deserved. I want him to say it again, rend me with words, cut me open, gut me like a pig and pull out all those rotten entrails.

I remember something stupid, something someone told me once who was nearly as good a disciple of Heini as Jochen. Maybe he’ll like that, I think, actually I am not thinking at all, just acting on quick reflexes, trying to get to him one way or another, preferably the hard way, make him angry so he shows his teeth. “Did you know the Saxons used to feast for three nights for each of their fallen warriors to..” Yet I hesitate, reflexively lick my lips, I think about fucking and placing my seed deep inside a girl, but I try to find better words for Jochen, who is so much more delicate than I am, “..ensure there would be enough babies to replace the dead?”

He tilts his head slowly to the other side not breaking eye contact for a moment, more snake than kitten now. “Kurt, evidently you haven’t paid much attention in biology class,” he says dryly, “The two of us are not going to pull that off.”

“We can still try,” I reply with a wink and I absolutely mean it, think about it too, him instead of that girl, back arched and dripping come.

He sighs, barely concealing an amused smile with this protest.

“Thank you for the offer, but I must reject,” he says and he pries my fingers from his jacket. I grab him by the wrists and slam them hard into the wall, clumsily, hurting myself just as much as him. The pain makes him wince. Disapproving folds appear between his furrowed brows. But he doesn’t fight me at all. His hands drop at an uncomfortable looking angle, such a theatrically emphasized lack of resistance. He must reject, but he must also not fight me. I can feel his heart beating under my thumbs. Not moving from my position I close the door with one foot, cutting off the distant mumble. Now it’s only the soft thrumming of the rain on the roof and the grass and the leaves. And Jochen’s heartbeat and his breathing, disappointingly calm, he doesn’t even look angry with me anymore.

“Aren’t you scared of the big bad wolf?” I say and show my teeth like a big bad wolf does.

He squints at me, flashing daggers from deep, dark eye sockets.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

I stumble at the question, answering it in my head. God, how much I would love it if he shivered before me. It’s not right, absolutely not right, to think like that about my dear old comrade in arms, yet here I am digging my nails into his skin and waiting for him to do something fun, like whimper or moan. I can see him grind his teeth and clench his jaw, the hard outline of his muscles jutting out. He tries to stare me down, but I’m not that easy, I won’t budge. Long, drawn-out seconds later the tension leaves his face, he lowers his eyes. I win. His smile is bittersweet.

“I thought you only fuck them to make them squeal,” he says and then looks up at me again, intelligent eyes behind dark eyelashes, his smile cocky now, calculated trick, just the right provocative expression, the kind that makes me aware of the weight of my cock, trapped by my pants, hard against my leg. Don’t ruin your outfit, Kurt. And he waits another moment, makes me think about the way he said ‘fuck’ and really shouldn’t have, good, innocent Peiper, makes me feel what it does to my dick. “I won’t squeal,” he says unflinching, begging to be proven wrong. I could drag him off into the forest, show him just how easy it is, I reckon it wouldn’t take much. He still keeps his hair that perfect length to hold on to. All I need is hand on the back of his head, one on his hip and he’ll be my piglet in no time.

I must stop my thoughts before actions follow all too quickly. He is my dear Jochen and I must remember how much he loves me and how good he is to me and how despicable I am for thinking of breaking this sacred bond between us, just because my dick is hard and I want to destroy something small and feeble; and small and feeble he is not, but maybe that’s why he riles me up so much.

“You’re abnormal,” he says so low it’s almost a whisper, the suggestion is barely audible over the constant drizzle of rain. It cuts right through me, splits me open, body and thought and all that lust now in his hands to play with. I know he’s doing it on purpose, a well calculated choice for words, twist the blade in my hand until it points back at me. I envy him for how good he is at it, reading me and finding that weak spot to probe, but that knowledge doesn’t help the fact that it does hurt and it hurts precisely where I need it to hurt now. My grip on his wrists becomes weak. I nod. “Yes, I am.”

“What are you?” he asks and he’s all kitten again, looking at least a decade younger than he is, like I remember him from the war, the doe-eyed admirer, practically begging to be allowed to taste my cock the way he looked at me then. Except of course, he never did want me like that, he’s just a tease and I’m the idiot falling for it over and over again. It is all so predictable. I know exactly what gets him off. He needs me to repeat his words, put me as the subject, make me say and really mean it, establish hierarchy by verbal submission.

I did want to be punished, did it not?

“I am a disgusting swine.” Anticipatory obedience, let’s get on with it. It does feel nice to say it out loud, that constant nagging thought, throbbing under my cranium. Like pulling a fat maggot out of rotten flesh. See, it’s still perfectly good to eat if just a little bitter.

“Yes, you are, Kurt,”I still like the way he says my name. It’s so affectionate, like he wants to swallow me whole. He slides his arms out of my hold and crosses them in front of his chest. The posture reminds me of my wife when she finds me nibbling on sweets. My arms, still caging him, are useless now without anything to hold on to, so I retreat and fold my hands behind my back. He must love that, I know I would.

It’s like a switch, sweet lovely Jochen to stern Standartenführer Peiper, to be addressed only with the full title, but preferably not addressed at all. “You’ve been fantasizing about me; at the burial,” he says, more statement than question. I nod.

“Tell me.”

My tongue becomes heavy, weighed down, too many things to say, all the nasty images clogged up in my heads, all of them likely to make him retch. I swallow them for him. It makes me sick. Even on fantasies I overeat.

He’s not patient with me. “Tell me,” he repeats with added emphasis, the anger barely concealed in the tone of it, but so apparent from the way his fingers dig into the fabric of his own suit. I have never seen him that unrestrained, but I should know better, the ‘flamethrower battalion’ moniker didn’t attest to a reserved character. Of course I don’t answer, just smile foolishly, knowing very well he wouldn’t accept that. He is so delightfully angry with me; his nails must by now be digging into his own flesh. Don’t hurt yourself, hurt me. I must have spoken out loud. Suddenly he lets go and smacks me in the face. The blow is harder than I had anticipated from his pretty hands, not as strong as my father’s were but enough to make my cheek feel warm and numb. The way Jochen looks at me then I can’t tell if he’s disgusted or intrigued or both, like when you see a particularly deformed animal in the wild and wonder how it can even live like that. Maybe he needs to see more of my depravities to come to a conclusion. I’ll show him how much I love pain. I can see his arms twitch to hit me again. I brace for it and am disappointed when he spares me. He sighs, glances over to the door and back to me.

“Get on your knees.”

I hit the ground before the downwards gesture of his index finger even points where he wants me. The grass under my knees is wet and muddy. Dirty water soaks my pants. I want to jump up again but I don’t, because he says “good boy” and says it as if it was a joke with a sarcastic edge and a smugness that makes my stomach twists. I’m not a good boy, I’m very bad and I need to be punished. I get on all fours, my hands sink into the wet grass, my sleeves are wet now too. There are steps behind the door, heavy, no heels, approaching. My heart is racing. To be seen like this, put in my place, they would all know what kind of a dirty pig I am. They stop, I freeze. They start again, going the other way, leaving us.

I am so relieved. I look up at Jochen, stick out my tongue and pant like a dog. I must look very silly. Jochen laughs just like you would if your pet did something absolutely adorable. He pats me on the head, two times, his hand remains there. Does he not see how vile I am? He strokes the back of my head, I barely feel the touch, too much pomade, it’s like an itch. I can’t stand his tenderness. It’s fake, he’s just toying with me.

“Hurt me,” I say with stifled anger.

He just quietly looks down at me, a hint of that laugh still remaining in the corner of his mouth. His fingers have gone through the slick strands of my hair, his nails scrape along my scalp, the sensation sends shivers down my spine. “Please hurt me,” I try again and twist my neck to give myself into his hand, knowing he will understand, hoping he will just grab my hair and pull. He hastily lets go of me, I’m not good enough to touch. He wipes the pomade off on my shoulder. I am as disgusted with myself as he is with me. I try to get up and get away, anywhere but here and on my knees.

“No,” he says, “stay.”

I am a good boy, I stay. Back on my knees again, closer now, getting accustomed to it.

“You’ll have to repay me,” he says. For what? I haven’t said anything, I’ve only been naughty in my mind. He can’t know that. “For when I jerked you off. Don’t tell me you forgot?” He puts on the face that I’m sure he uses on the girls, so understanding, so thoughtful, intense; he’s only got eyes for me. “No, of course not.” I sound like a bootlicker. “Good,” he says and grabs the hair on the back of my head, just like I wanted it. A slight pull snaps my head back, I stare at the lamp above us, little moths are trapped in its light. It’s blinding me too. I can’t see Jochen’s face when he says, “Now you suck me off.”

It’s only fair. My hands are too messy to touch his clothing, he unzips for me. He’s half hard, entirely unimpressed by my performance. A droll sight if I was fucking him, knowing he was getting off on it so little but just enough to be ashamed. Now it’s simply cruel. I try my best to excite him, I pull back his foreskin, lick the head, suck on it, stuff his dick in my mouth. He’s not dirty, but something about it still remains repulsive. I can not get used to the taste of his cock. Eventually I get him hard, when I try to go so deep down on him that I gag. He likes that. Precum rubs into the back of my throat, salty like blood. I would prefer it if he pissed on me, I think, I would feel less like a cunt. There is that look again, I’m his girlfriend now. He starts fucking my mouth, sharp jabs, always enough time between them to watch me squirm. I nearly forgot how much of a sadist he is. It’s cute. I gag again and taste sick on my tongue, he pushes deeper, as deep down my throat as he can go, and feeds me his spunk. A fitting punishment for a glutton. It’s kind that he doesn’t get it on my face, makes it a little easier to explain the condition of my clothing when I go back inside. I can taste him still, on the back of my tongue, all evening, the beer won’t wash it down.

Schnapsideen

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It’s strange to meet Jochen again after all those years. When I had last seen him we were both in uniform talking tanks and war and Germany. He addressed me so formally then, what was it again? SS-Oberführer Meyer? Dates and titles are hazy.

Now there he is in a room full of old men, alcoholic beverages and heavy food. For so many years I only had the words in his letters but my visual impression of him and the sound of his voice was still fresh in my mind.

Sometimes his letters sounded so bitter, even depressed. He would never say so of course, but the desperation for contact was clear in his closing words. The whole ordeal never struck me quite as severely as him. I’m not a man of intellect but cunning. The ramifications of my actions and circumstances aren’t quite as obvious to me as to him. He sees a darker future where I see a grey present.

He is different and all the same. Older of course. Unlike me he didn’t gain weight, it seems like he never really got the fat back on his rips after the war stripped it off him. He’s a little grey around the edges, but still as handsome as ever. And so very solemn. His face lightens up the moment he spots me. He embraces me and laughs. He stills sounds like Berlin royalty, his controlled choice of words is in pleasant contrast with the relaxed demeanour. And he has so much to tell, but even more so he wants to hear about me, about Canada, Britain, my plans of escape from the POW camp. I see he’s still glowing with the same admiration he had for me the moment we first met. He would still call me SS-Brigadeführer had I not literally shaken it out of him. I get nostalgic again. But no more ranks now, It’s just “Kurt” and “Jochen”.

Sepp is there too. Like the good old days. We laugh a lot. It’s a good night with plenty of alcohol to grease the tongue. We drink to the fallen comrades.

Time passes quickly. Jochen misses his ride home. As the meeting splits up I offer my hotel room. He gladly accepts. We throw ourselves on the bed in the gloomy bedroom. There is no space for sitting areas in old fashioned places like this.

I’m not tired and neither is he. I’m not even sure he’s really drunk, had it not been for the missed ride home. I feel tipsy and unfocused yet his eyes are so clear and so unwaveringly pinned on me. You need a pair of balls to withstand a look like that. It’s not like he means harm, but he’s just so damn intense in everything he does. So much will for such a small body. Well, I shouldn’t be talking.

He takes his jacket off. The fit of his pants is flattering around his hip. My mind makes two jumps.

“Probably the worst thing in there was having no decent German around. I heard you guys could really spend some quality time together?” He nods, his eyes are still glued onto mine. “I heard Sepp had a… special kind of friend.” His expression changes ever so slightly. I’m too drunk to read it.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

God, he sounds cold now. Where is that warm admiration? He makes it sound like I implied him in the matter. I wouldn’t dare. I need to win him back, think of something.

“The Americans. Did you ever?” I imitate a gun with my hand and make a shooting motion. He looks at my hand and back into my eyes. Is that a little curiosity maybe? I set the gun to his forehead. His body tenses visibly. “Did you see it?”

“I wasn’t present,” he says in a rehearsed manner and then a little calmer, “and if I was I had other matters to attend to.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.”

He looks intoxicated now. The red shows so easily on his pale skin. The tip of my fingers are still on his forehead. I’m not sure I understand his expression any longer. Is he flirting with me? I feel hot. When in doubt, keep talking.

“The Canadians… I’ve seen it all. When… I forgot his name… when he shot them. Every one of them. That moment when the light leaves their eyes and they spill their brains. Such a funny way to go.” The memory is still vivid. It brings a smile to my face. I feel dizzy.

Jochen holds his breath. He’s tense. I feel something I haven’t felt in years. The urge to grab his throat is suddenly unbearable. I could swear his eyes beckon me to do it too. I can’t refuse. I grab him by the neck and pin him to the headrest. To my surprise he lowers his eyes into an almost submissive expression. Then they shoot back at me again, warm, glowing with newly kindled adoration.

“I hated thinking about the noose,” he says. Slowly, carefully he also grabs me by the throat. Smaller hands but a firm grip. I can’t tell if this situation of mutual choking is comical or intimate. It makes me giggle either way.

“Did you ever think about what it would feel like if they don’t snap your neck immediately? To have your windpipe slowly crushed. Not enough air to live but enough to draw your death out for hours if they want to.” A sad smile. “What a disgrace, for a knight of the black order to dance and moan and soil himself in front of a common hangman.” There is something so much more vulgar about his choice of words than my plain vocabulary. My thoughts are too dirty for this. Does he even understand what he’s doing to me? I always grin when I’m horny.

Evidently he very much understands what he’s doing to me. His eyes flicker down. No way of hiding this. Oh, how will he deal with that? Himmler’s first man. Such a decent German couldn’t possibly accept sharing a bed with someone as degenerate as me? He lets go of my throat. I hastily follow. I expect some insult, disgust. Yes, I’m pathetic. Normally I would never. I’m not that kind of man. Just a little too much alcohol and dirty talk.

His hand drops on my chest. Heavy fingertips going up and down with every breath. One finger slips between the buttons of my shirt and rests on the sticky hair of my chest. I feel like a disgusting slop. His every move is so controlled. It seems silly, that he could seem so reserved when he places his other hand on the bulge in my pants.

“Tell me.” He stops to think. “Tell me about Russia.”

I know exactly what he means. I dig out my most exquisite memories. That church filled with Russian peasants, crammed in there like cattle to the slaughter. I give him every detail. Their screams as the fire starts to engulf them. That disgusting meaty sound as the grenades detonate between them. The wails, the smoke, the smell. God, that smell.

He listens as if I’m giving an interesting lecture. But his hand seems to be operate separately from his brain. He opens my pants, pulls out my cock. I’m leaking and desperate for touch. I don’t dare break eye contact lest I break the spell and make him stop. I keep talking. He jerks me off. More details, more horrors. I never told anyone any of this. I feel like a piece of meat, a little toy soldier, just pathetic. But I need this. I have to keep talking. Can I talk about the women, what we did to them? I’m so close. He stops.

“Do you think that is becoming of a German soldier?” he asks. He looks so angry. I buckle into his hand. Don’t do this to me now.

“This is disgusting, Kurt.” I can see the delight on his face as he says that. My name is a delicacy to him. Twisted little fuck, I always knew there was something wrong with him. No wonder he liked me so much. Sadistic little shit just like me. I want to hurt him, but I just rub my cock on his hand like a stupid teenage boy. I want to fuck him now. I imagine his cocky little face pressed into the sheets. Wouldn’t be so fucking arrogant with my cock up his ass. No more sarcasm, just muffled screams.

“Over my dead body,” he says and laughs. He looks like one of those Hitler Youth boys on the posters. His hand moves erratically. I wince. He’s hurting me. I close my eyes, think about tearing into him and come.

While I’m still catching my breath he stares at the pool of semen in his hands then back to me. “How can I make you lick this up?”, he asks innocently. Fuck that. I resist the urge to throw him out of the room in a fit of disgust. He cleans himself up and we just sleep next to each other like an old married couple. I’m glad he doesn’t touch me again. I don’t feel like I can trust my body any longer. God knows what he’d make me do.

Baton

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The contrasting black of my baton flatters Peiper’s features, the dark eye sockets and pale lips. I stroke him with it, poke his face, pressing into the hollow under his cheekbone. He looks bored, demonstratively, but I can tell he’s getting so excited already, his eyes scurrying when the tip of the baton grazes his lips. Implication of fellatio. His breathing halts. I apply light pressure to part his lips, a fraction of an inch like a whore does it to attract her customers. Now he stares at me, cold blue, hard steel, judgemental, disgusted. Ironic. I’m not the one getting off on this.

I drop the baton down on his chest. Disappointment flickers over his face. Now now, not so fast, I’ll give you what you need. I draw a vertical line down his torso. No condescending look can hide the tenseness of his body. He once took out a tank by climbing on it and dropping a grenade down the hatch. Hard to believe now, him being so small. Finally I find a warm, soft spot to rest the tip of my baton. There is recollection in his eyes and then expectation on the verge of want.

Remember me now? I gave his balls a good whack some time ago and fondly remember the sound of him panting, muffled by the hood, when he rolled on the floor, cramped up around the pain. Might do it again if he misbehaves. Until they pop. I was a little disappointed he couldn’t keep our little moment to himself, the braggart. Had to tell everyone what a brave soldier he was. But I’ve seen his hands shaking then, I heard his voice breaking.

Did you miss me? Emphasized with a light tap on the soft parts. He jerks forward. The good officer is so eager to earn his wound badge. All the others already have their medals. Black eyes, broken ribs and broken teeth and occasionally strangulation marks and pissed pants. Fine medals. But this prisoner here is too precious to break. Not even that Jewish butcher will touch him. It must be so frustrating, waiting every day for your turn.

The way he looks at me. Defiant doesn’t even come close to describing it. But every challenge is also an invitation. He knows that. Strip. More invitations in the curl of his lips and the red of his cheeks and the discovery that his body looks entirely too boyish for a man of his age. A crescent moon of dirt under my fingernail disappears into the flesh of his chest just below a white, circular scar. His heart it racing. He wishes he didn’t want it so bad. Left unattended it will tear him in two, tragically. I’ll make you feel better.

The baton connects with his face with a meaty thud. Once, twice. A red line pours out from between his lips. Sorry, sir, he fell down the stairs, no, practically threw himself. You know how they are. Another blow to his thigh. He stumbles and falls and cowers from me like an animal, crawling away on his hands and knees. Where are you going? We’re not done here. He’s hyperventilating. Sounds like he’s in heat. His back is bent so that his vertebrae stick out like nails stretching the skin, like they could break through if I made them. One hit on his back drives the air out of his lungs. I count the seconds until he draws breath. Like a drowning man, half a dozen times and increasingly more frantic. When I hit him again, the rhythm breaks, his arms give out, his forehead smacks on the ground. I stop. I mustn’t break him.

With weak arms he raises himself on all fours again and coughs, blood dripping from his mouth, speckling the concrete floor under him. He looks at it and laughs and then turns to look up at me. He’s smiling wide, euphoric. His teeth are pink with blood, his eyes wet with tears. Didn’t think the sourpuss could be that happy. Suddenly my urge to hurt him wanes. I feel drained like after a good fuck. Lazily I kick him in the balls. He moans. I realize he does that just for me. Sickening. “Thank you,” he says when I leave.

Intervention

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“Have you been getting carried away?”

Meyer’s voice, gentle, mild, and the rough packed earth scouring Peiper’s cheek. Meyer holds him against it, kneeling beside him. When he shifts his weight the crackle of his boots on the frozen ground reverberates against Peiper’s ear.

“I’ve only-”

He stops, scowling as his hair falls into his face. He tries to blow it away and Meyer helpfully assists, yanking him an inch off the floor by his roots.

“What about in here?” Meyer asks and rags his head from side to side as though he’ll shake Peiper’s thoughts out that way. “Isn’t it nice when they shiver and beg?”

“It’s disgusting.”

Meyer nods.

“I understand.” Pausing. “It’s no good you know.”

The water in the trough in front of them is thinly glassed with ice. Peiper sucks in a frantic breath as his head is slammed through its blistered surface  and held down, cold slicing like knives into his lungs. The fist in his hair pulls him free before shoving him immediately back under.

His knuckles scrap against the side of the trough, a distant hollow clamour. Expansive pain, like a flare glittering in his chest. Just as he’s starting to fear Meyer will drown him whether he means to or not, he’s tossed back onto the floor and slapped hard on the sternum, three times. Water sprays from his lungs in a bitter arc.

Puddles of water darken the earth around him. Meyer hauls him up to his knees, he sways a little. Meyer’s hard hand trails a line of tenderness across his cheek, draws back. Peiper doesn’t flinch. The creases on Meyer’s face when he smiles are well-worn and genuine. His eyes move over Peiper as if he’s studying a field map. Looking to see where he can inflict most damage.  

“Think of something nice,” Meyer says. “I know you can.”

He steps closer, tapping the holster of his gun. He smells like cordite and oil and a brute arousal that breaks through the antiseptic chill of the air like the steam of their breath. Peiper’s eyes are fixed on the pistol, the tap of Meyer’s finger. He thinks of blood on the barrel, not the messy blow back from a shot to the head but from hard steel flaying the back of a throat raw. He pictures himself with his finger on the trigger, someone else on their knees.

Meyer gives him a knowing look. “Going to share?”

Peiper tries to work his jaw free of the clench that’s come from the constant, crippling cold in the room. When Meyer touches him it isn’t to tip his head back or slide his palms into the hollows beneath his cheekbones. Instead, he puts a hand on Peiper’s left shoulder –  digging inquisitive fingers into the stressed tendon until Peiper’s forced to wince – and another on his left wrist and begins to apply torque.

“Tell me about the bad thoughts, Jochen,” Meyer says, peering into his face.

Reflexive tears make his vision swim. He feels a scream building that will stay in his skull long after his elbow has been forced from its socket, imagines Meyer prodding at his dislocated joint with all the callous curiosity of a child poking a stick at a dying animal.

Meyer lets go of his arm.

“Can’t have you coming to proper harm now, can we?” he says, jovial. Peiper, panting, barely registers the fractious rub of a thumb across his lower lip as Meyer continues. “I’ll just have to assume the worst.”

Jochen Peiper/OFC

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One last time to let the heat of the stew warm her shaking hands as she set the bowl down beside a platter of bread and potatoes for him. One last time to smooth a wrinkle on the tablecloth adorned with flowery prints for him. One last time to step back from her work to make sure that everything as perfect as it can be for him. It was not much, she had to admit. The meat in the stew was far too few, the bread old, and the potatoes lacking spices. Hell, the utensils did not even match each other! But that did not matter any more. This will be the last time she would ever do this for Jochen.

She knew that being involved with him was wrong. The man was married with children, for the love of god. How could she be so stupid to fall in love with him? And to actually believe that he loved her back? She was not even his only mistress. That was how much she was worth to him. Why would she even care about what he would think about her tablecloth? He had no right to do so, and, if he wanted to, he could marry her or at least leave his other mistresses for her.

Unbidden, tears stung her eyes, and she hastily blinked them away. Jochen was not worth the tears. There were other men – better men out there, men who would be faithful husbands. Yet, when a knock at the door announced a visitor, she bounded to it like the obedient pet she was and swung it open. The sight of Jochen flashing his charming smile at her was enough to burn away her previous thoughts, and she fell into his arms like dough – ready to be moulded in whatever form he wished.

In one swift motion, Jochen swiped down to kiss her on the mouth – a chaste kiss that reminded her of the carefree childhood years when there had been no war and when romantic relationships were nothing but light-hearted games. Perhaps that was what drawn her to Jochen, whose boyish demeanour and playful attitude reminded her of days gone by; but little did she know that his playfulness only meant that she was nothing but a toy to him.

Pressing his forehead against hers, Jochen professed how much he had missed her over the months, how much he had thought of her everyday; and she, caught in the moment, nodded and believed him, failing to note how he had smelled like another woman or how his eyes had sparked with mischief, instead of a certain depth reserved only for official duties. Was there truly anyone who has seen the hidden depths of his eyes? Or was Jochen that private of an individual that he hides it behind a blank stare in which shallow emotions only ripple through it like a stone thrown across an ocean?

She did not know as she kissed him again, content and amazed at how soft his lips were against hers. She had kissed other men before, but none of them were as delicate as Jochen. Many of them had short prickly hairs on their upper lip that, though not at all unpleasant, was quite distracting. But Jochen never had that, in fact, he was always smooth and so clean-shaven to the point that she wonders if he ever grew hair at all. Kissing him was kissing a sense of individuality in a world wherein rigid masculinity was advertised as the only sort of manliness, because, even if Jochen was softer than most men, he exuded an air of authority and unquestionable bravery that some of the most exorbitant men lack.

“Would you like to come in?” She whispered between pants, wanton desire pooled in her stomach and flooded her nether regions. Jochen nodded silently and followed her inside. He gave her no time to offer him a meal as his hand at the small of her back subtly pushed her to where he wanted her to be. He kissed her neck hungrily when they fell onto her mattress as his fingers tore recklessly through the buttons on her blouse. She moaned when he ran his palms down to her core, his thumb pressing her clothed clitoris when he reached the end of her midsection. Soon, her skirt and knickers were off, leaving her bare for Jochen to prey upon.

Yet, instead of forcing himself upon her, Jochen eased into the mattress and pulled her on top of him, smirking when she promptly undid the button of his pants and took out his erection from the restrictive confines of his underwear. She played with his cock as if she were in a trance, mouth slightly open, eyes dazed, and hips grinding down blindly for anything that can lessen the pressure in her core.

“Suck my cock,” Jochen muttered below her, voice low and even. With neither another word nor a complain, she slid her torso downwards until her mouth was positioned directly at the tip of his erection and then took the organ in. Jochen snorted in amusement at the sight – he, laying down on his back with someone above him, still remaining to completely in control of the whole situation. That was how he sought the favour of those around him – how he made everyone believe that he was their sweet little Jochen who can do no wrong.

With her mouth around his dick, she bobbed her head obediently, shifting between a slow deliberate pace and a fast shallow one. Jochen whimpered in pleasure, causing her to flick her eyes to his face in order to catch every second of his reactions. And, Jochen did what he knew she wanted. He moaned her name in that breathless tone she loved, told her how good it felt in between perfectly timed gasps, and shivered according to her actions. Jochen always knew that people desire to be validated, and that was exactly what he does to the people who matter in the course of history in exchange for unsaid rewards and consideration. Soon, she was moaning around his erection, sending thrums of vibrations from the tip to the base and making Jochen let out a rather embarrassing cry of pleasure.

“Enough,” he groaned, breathing deeply through his nose to stave off his orgasm, and pat his thigh as if beckoning a dog. Whispering an okay, she straddled him and let him slip through her entrance. She watched in delight as Jochen fluttered his eyes shut. It was a sight to behold – the face of ironic innocence. How a man so untameable, rough, and sinful be akin to a helpless and vulnerable puppy baffled her.

Mouth agape, she ran her hands through the dark blonde strands of his hair as she ground her hips against his. Jochen trembled and cursed softly when she began to move at a rate particularly favourable to him. Hearing Jochen curse always made her snicker. Such hideous things seemed completely out-of-place in his world – his accent was too aristocratic and clean, his choice of words proper, and his mouth delicate.

But what of the disturbing reports of Jochen in the front-lines? What of the horrible news she had heard of that delicate mouth commanding his subordinates to raze a village to ashes? What of the rumours about that aristocratic drawl being the reason why more than twenty unarmed prisoners-of-war lost their lives in a short span of ten minutes? Would simple swears be so out-of-place then?

She stared at the man beneath her and bent down to kiss him. She had wanted to kiss those horrid thoughts away, to assure herself that her Jochen could not have done such crimes; but he declined her that comfort. Instead, he canted his hips fervently and greedily took whatever pleasure her body can offer until he spilled his seed into her without a care for consequences. Feeling the warm rush of semen inside, she cried out in distress and tried to wrest herself away from him, but he gripped her hard until he was drained and breathless.

“I have to leave,” Jochen then said when not even ten minutes have passed since they had sex. She shook her head into his shoulder, but he pretended to not know as he pushed her away. She watched as he got dressed and felt her stomach drop when she realised that this would be the last time she would allow him to come see her, to let him use her like some cheap whore. Strengthening her resolve, she followed him to the door and tugged the sleeve of his coat just as he walked through the doorway. Jochen turned to her with a questioning gaze, and she opened her mouth to forever ban him from her home. Yet, no words came, even if she had practised this moment for months; because, in the end, Jochen Peiper always got what he wanted.

Peiper & pain

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One of these days, an hour into the fifth interrogation of this kind, I ask that bastard Peiper: “How much do you think you can take?”

He raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. We have spent a couple hours with each other already, we have grown accustomed to each other, almost fond, and I’ve gotten very good at reading his subtle little mood swings.

“How much pain do you think you can take?” I ask again.

He has his arms crossed in front of his body, hands tucked in. The uniform he is wearing is evidently not his own, it’s too tight. He wouldn’t be so poorly dressed if he had the choice. The posture isn’t helping, the fabric is pulling on the shoulders and straining at the seams. He reminds me of a little boy who wants his toys back. I have your toys now. I have your home, I have your family and I have you. And I’ll do with you what I want. I smile.

“You keep playing the tough one,” I say, “but you’re not tough, you’re just acting under the misconception that you are untouchable. You think I’m bluffing. You think you’re important. You think I care about your nazi ranks. I don’t give a shit. You’re all the same scum to me. If I want to I’ll have you beat to a pulp. If I want to I’ll beat you to a pulp with my own hands.”

He looks at me with enough loathing for three of those nazi bastards. He’s not even ashamed of the endless immensity of his ego. It’s like a medal, his very own cross of iron. Or a thick steel collar pushing up his chin to an ever arrogant expression. Some men are asking for it. I take a sip of my coffee. It’s cold. I push my papers into a neat little pile and place my pen on top at a thirty degree angle. I get up from my chair and circle around the table. On the way I wink at the dimwitted guard standing by the door. He winks back at me. I’m standing behind Peiper and Peiper still keeps looking at the same spot, two inches above the place where my eyes used to be. I put my hands on his shoulders. He almost doesn’t flinch. His shoulders are so small and bony, like a bird’s. They disappear almost completely under my hands. Maybe I could crush them. In 1918 they used to call me the Butcher. They thought it was funny that hands like mine held pens more often than guns and clubs. Some words need physical presence to back them up.

“Hands on the table,” I say and he obeys. His shoulder blades flutter up under the weight of my hands. I gently press his shoulders forward until his forehead meets the table. He doesn’t resist. The position exposes the appetising white of the skin that he hides under the high collar of his uniform. I could probably choke him with one hand. I put my right on his neck to test the feeling of it. It feels just right. His pulse is under my fingers. He can’t fool me.

“How much pain do you think you can take before you scream? How much until you cry? How much until you piss yourself? How much until you beg me to stop?” I enjoy the way the words sound, I enjoy the way they feel on my tongue, I enjoy the way they feel under my fingers in the rhythm of his blood. I let go of him. He exhales audibly and is embarrassed to do so. Following the mishap his breathing is of unnatural, forced regularity. Although his demeanour suggests he thinks himself cut above the ranks he is still a soldier and as a soldier he is well behaved, without verbal or physical corrections he knows not to move and until told otherwise to remain in the position I bent him into. I circle around the table, once, twice, and look at him, the torso almost touching the table, forehead resting on it, the slick hair dishevelled and next to it the delicate hands, palms pressed flat, a stiff kind of prayer. I light a cigarette, smoke it and watch him silently. In the end I stub the cigarette out on the back of his hand. His fingers dance over the smooth surface of the table. The pain would be easier to take if he could hold on to something or if it made any sense at all that. If there was any reason for it but my personal entertainment. When I make him look up his lips are bloodless and his eyes wet. For today I’ve made my point. He’s taken back to his cell. And I need a moment for myself to calm down and pull myself together.

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