Tag: POW

Correspondence

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Letter from Joachim Peiper to former colleague William Jones from September 30, 1973.


Dear William,

Thank you for the photos, they really brightened my day.

As for your question about the events at Malmedy and whether I had been abused in a similar manner as you have have heard from other prisoners’ testimonies. You have asked me before and I had previously construed the question as simple curiosity in a matter of some public debate, but I’ve now come to understand that you have asked out of genuine concern for my well being. I have decided to tell you the truth as you’ve been a good friend. I don’t want to lie to you and don’t like being evasive. I trust that you will keep the matter entirely to yourself as I have no intentions of bringing my experience to public attention.

Rest assured that none of the things that were inflicted on me could compare to the horrors I have witnessed on the Eastern front. I have seen with my own eyes the disgusting things the Russians will do to surrendered soldiers of the Schutzstaffel. We found corpses of German soldiers which were used for target practice, violated with knives, gutted like pigs or burned alive. You have seen yourself what happened to the German girls who were unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of the Red Army. Many Americans had no manners but they also had no malice.

Generally the behaviour towards me from the investigators, especially Mr. Ellis and even the Jewish prosecutors, was fair. They did not beat me during interrogations or ever threatened to do so. Their swords were purely verbal. They tried to undermine my character with trickery and lies. Some of these performances were at the expense of my subordinates who had to serve as actors in their plays. They were made to accuse me, beg me to lie or were simply displayed to me so I could see how low they had sunken at the hands of their torturers.

There was one incident of assault however, which I will describe to you in as much detail as I can recall. I will leave it to you to decide if you want to proceed reading. Read it all or none of it, it makes no difference to me.

One day in early January my prison cell was opened and four guards entered. This was at a time when I had been moved to a more remote but also more comfortable hospital cell. Usually one person would suffice to transport a prisoner to their interrogation cell. Another one might also come along to pick up a second prisoner, who would then be interrogated in the same or a nearby room. They did however carry with them at least one of the black hoods we were always made to wear on our way to the interrogation rooms. So I assumed this would be another one of those madhouse interrogation where I would now be made to see even more of my former comrades. But I quickly learned the guards had other plans. I say plans because whether the things they did to me were by order or by their own volition I can not tell, but they enjoyment they took in their actions suggested to me it was the latter.

I should mention that I had seen these guards before and they had always acted very harshly towards me, kicking me as I crossed the prison courtyard on the way to the interrogation room, shoving me up and down stairs and making liberal use of their batons. I believed them to be Slavic, maybe Polish from their looks and their accented German.

I followed the usual procedure of standing with my face to the wall and my hands behind my back in case they wanted to restrain me as the weaker guards sometimes did. I heard them walk into the cell and close the door behind them. One of them fastened the hood over my head. It reeked of blood. I can confirm this much from the other inmate’s accusations. He then removed the belt from his pants and tied it around my wrists, which you can imagine was absolutely not standard procedure.

Having restrained me in such a manner, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me on the cell floor. I managed to turn on my side so that at least my face didn’t make contact with the concrete. They insulted me in broken German. They called me a “disgusting pig”, a “dirty dog” and “degenerate queer.” The irony made me chuckle which enraged them more. One of them with a nasal voice, I believe he must have been the ringleader, said they would teach me humility. I refrained from telling them how any barbaric behaviour would have the opposite effect on me.

Nonetheless they weren’t satisfied with just verbal abuse. While taunting me further for not dying a warrior’s death, having been captured, not having followed my Führer, being at the mercy of them and the Americans and so forth they also started to kick me. First hesitantly as if they were testing the thickness of my skin, but soon hard enough to drive the air out of my lungs. Being restrained, blinded, surrounded and in increasingly more pain I had no way of protecting myself.

One kicked me in the stomach with enough force to make me throw up. They proceeded to kick and pummel me. Lying on my back I was unable to rid myself of the spit in my throat. The matter was worsened by the wet hood clinging to my face. I choked on my own vomit, wheezed for air and struggled to remain conscious. After excruciatingly long seconds I found myself turned on my belly and the hood pulled off my head. I could clean my throat and breathe again. I was panting for breath, dazed and disoriented. Although my body would later turn red and blue and black I felt no more pain, just a numb warmth swelling under my skin.

With the hood removed I could now get a better look at the men staring down on me. In their expressions there was no reason, hate or anger, just pure delight in the destruction of others. I can always tell a sadist by that glimmer in his eyes, the redness of his cheeks, the shortness of breath. I realised the gravity of my situation.

Two of them pulled me up by the arms into a kneeling position. The one with the nasal voice grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face into his crotch. He said something along the lines of  “I’ll make you choke on something good” which elicited some dirty laughter from the other men. He asked me whether I was going to be a “good Nazi boy”. As I didn’t reply he slapped me across the face and asked again. This was repeated several times, but a slap wouldn’t make me budge.

I told him quite calmly that I was not afraid. This was partially true. At this point I considered myself a dead man walking, with a noose around my neck. My only concern was preserving my honour, that is to endure to my end with the dignity becoming of a Prussian officer. You will not be able to understand this but in a way the struggle was thrilling to me. The memory of the battlefield still lingered with me; a wild hunt through the night, the low humming of bombers overhead, a firework of muzzle flashes and screams. I’m not made for a comfortable life. The boredom was eating at my core.

The ringleader called me an “arrogant cocksucker” and said something to the others in Polish. To me he said: “Don’t try anything funny”. Despite centuries of Prussian occupation the Poles evidently had very little understanding of German dignity. One of the others, the heavy one who had previously tied my hands, undid his belt and freed my hands. He grabbed my tunic, trying clumsily to get it off my body. I took the matter into my own hands. I only had the clothing I wore on my body and did not intend to get any of their filth on it. Watching me put the clothing carefully under my bed seemed to amuse them. They burst into laughter and called me “kurwa”, whore.

I had to strip naked. They grabbed me by the arms, one man each, and pushed me face first on the bed. They spread my arms, each man pressing down on it with his body weight, so that I was bend over the bed and barely able to move. The heavy one stepped forward and hit me across the back with his belt.

Flogging is a matter entirely different from beating. There is only so many kicks or punches a body can take before it breaks irreparably, but you can whip a man for hours and only break his soul. It’s a completely different pain too. You will not grow numb, you won’t get used to it. Every hit cuts like a blade and rends you deep inside. The pain doesn’t fade, every hit with the belt just pushed the blade deeper into me. I counted to 40 hits when my brain stopped functioning. Everything turned white. I’m counting confirmed kills, prisoners, horses, gallons, miles. I’m being carried by now dead comrades, my back is dotted with shrapnel. I lie in the charred remains of my Tiger tank, my back is covered in burning oil. The blade has cut every nerve in my body. My thoughts turn red and then only black.

The next thing I remember is lying curled up on the bed, my back warm with blood. I was too weak to raise my body off the mattress. Still the flogging wasn’t enough to satisfy them. They took turns sodomising me. It was less painful than the belt. They became angry at my lack of anguish and tried find ways to humiliate me. One of them rubbed his filth in the wounds on my back. Another pushed it down my throat. They choked me with the belt. I thought of my brother Hasso who had come to me to cry his eyes out when something similar but less damaging had happened to him. I liked him, but he was too weak. I didn’t cry.

Once they had gotten their sexual satisfaction, the guards left me. I don’t think anyone was aware of what they had done to me. The doctors didn’t work at that time of the day. Four hours later a nurse returned to duty. She patched me up and didn’t ask questions.

My dear Sigurd knows of course and now do you. I expect neither pity nor sympathies.

I would like to talk to you about more joyful matters like the wonderful weather or the start of the hunting season but I have run out of paper. You know I try to avoid going to the shops, we are always short on the necessities here.

Looking forward to hear from you.

Sincerely,

Jochen

Kurt Meyer is captured by members of the resistance and before they get him a doctor they have some fun with him

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

aus-der-traum:

Three Belgian partisans in shorts and stolen tunics who look more like schoolboys than soldiers drag their latest catch, SS-Brigadeführer Kurt Meyer, into a dusty kitchen. They had treated him a little roughly, shot him when he didn’t surrender – or so they would say once they hand him over to the Americans – for now the wound in his shoulder needs to be treated.

The room is lit only by a bright lamp hanging over the kitchen table. The table has been swept clean and standing next to it is an old man with round glasses in a blood-spattered white coat who watches with a nervous expression as they boys throw Kurt at his feet and then push and kick him to make him crawl onto the table. Once Kurt is on it, lying on his back and breathing heavily, they decide they won’t let the doctor do his work just yet. They tell him to leave and he does so looking very relieved.

When they are alone with Kurt the boys cut open his uniform to have a good look at his wound: a small bullet hole oozing blood. They touch it and laugh at the way it makes Kurt twitch and they try to outdo each other, putting their dirty fingers on it and in it, giggling as they move them in and out and they say “excuse-moi” as if their fingers simply slipped. Kurt has something to remark about their filthy minds, but the pain takes his breath and he holds on to the table and grits his teeth grinning at them instead.

That puts them in the mood. They pull off his boots and trousers and put Kurt on his stomach. One crawls onto the table and one stretches Kurt’s arms out holding him still with his bloody hands around his wrists. Suddenly remembering that their prisoner is not their toy but a dangerous Nazi soldier the third one holds a pistol to his back. The one on the table lifts Kurt up by the hips. He tries he to get his excited little penis into Kurt’s arse, a task that he has evidently no experience in as he struggles with the weight of Kurt’s body and a lack of compliance. With an amused look over his shoulder Kurt sniggers at the boy’s attempts, which he shouldn’t have done, it rather upsets the young man who gets his revenge when (after begrudgingly lubing himself up with some spit) he screws Kurt as if he hoped he could kill him that way. He succeeds in shutting Kurt up first and then in coaxing tired groans out of him, mostly though only due to the way the boy’s enthusiastic thrusting makes Kurt’s upper body and that bleeding shoulder rub over the table. Only the third one with his admirable stamina and some natural talent manages to make Kurt spill more than his blood. It’s a painful orgasm that comes so slowly, his tired body barely able to muster the strength for it, and it lasts so long that by the end of it he’s coming dry and his captors get confused and worried thinking they might be witnessing the man’s death throes.

When they realize what they’ve done to Kurt they naturally see his enjoyment of the situation not as opportunism but some deep rooted defect and they mock him and they call him a Nazi whore and other more creative insults that Kurt has never heard before but he barely takes note of it. Feeling tired and utterly content now, the buzzing pain of his shoulder snuffed out by a numbness of his whole body, he just sighs and arches his back a little more, waiting for the proceedings to come to an end.

It is however rather humiliating when the doctor returns to patch him up and he has to lie in his own ejaculate and suffer the old man’s raised eyebrows.

@reichblr-ficathon

your secrets are safe with me

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

aus-der-traum:

He’s tapping his cigarette box on the flat, metal table, he’s counting out one, two, three and with each tap he looks at

Max Wünsche‘s face and he knows the smile on his own face (it’s his face that’s pleading, not Max’s, his face that is blushing, bashful, that can barely meet Max’s eyes) is ingratiating and Max isn’t looking at him either, he knows the best he can hope for is that Max will look at the cigarette between his fingers with desire (never him) and how it makes his hand tremble as he tries to formulate his questions. 
At some point they leave them alone together and when that happens he gets down on his knees and rests his face against Max’s thigh and apologises over and over and over, he brings a square of good chocolate out of his pocket and tells him how the Russians will never take him away, don’t worry, says he’s sorry and still Wünsche looks down at him with disdain, with disinterest, with mild amusement.
He knows where Max was when the massacre happened, no one else has worked it out so far, no one has put the time lines together; Max hadn’t meant to give it away either but he had despite himself and how his stomach had lurched when he’d heard Max let the detail slip that gave the game away – but he’ll never tell, all he can do is beg forgiveness for his country winning the war. 

@reichblr-ficathon 

You never kiss a whore on the mouth

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

aus-der-traum:

It
wasn’t something he ever meant to tell Kurt, there were things you
could take to your grave, lots of things really, men did that all the
time, and for a time (time is a thing that goes on and on, you can
stretch it as small or as long as you like)  it seemed more sensible
to do that anyway, a tactical decision based on a theory he had
cobbled together in his bed alone at night, that if he buried this
long enough inside himself, without oxygen or light, it would
disintegrate to nothingness, a memory that was no longer real, just a
faint smudge, residue like the grease spot from a dead body that’s
been moved, out of sight and out of mind, the idea is limitless –
move as many bodies as you like, stamp over the freshly trodden earth
and enjoy the sweet scent of pine, nothing is moving beneath your
feet.

It’s
been so long but there’s no way he could forget the
promise/threat/insinuating impregnation of heat that comes when Kurt
lets his hand rest on the nape of his neck, the way Kurt smiles, two
fingers stroking where they could be pinching, right where his hair
becomes fuzzy and light and delicate and those two fingers might as
well be digging at the back of his throat where his gag reflex is
delicate and then he vomits it all up, this confession, what they did
to them, those English, what he begged of them – some of these
things he had forgotten, but now the sluice-gates have opened they
keep pouring forth, on his knees, sitting pretty, begging them to
piss on him, it’s more than he deserved, oh god please let someone
stick their cock down his throat because maybe then they’ll stroke
his hair for a moment and he can imagine he’s a person again, not a
urinal, not a thing, he’ll whimper eagerly if they’ll only look him
in the eye but they never do.

And
after all this dirtied gauze has been unwound from his wounds, for a
moment he feels relief, and the expectation of absolution (it was so
hard to strip himself bare, perhaps he can even be called brave for
doing so) makes him hopeful for the same sort of touch Kurt had given
him before the end of the world,  but Kurt has drawn back, his brow
furrowed, he seems to be considering, and at the last moment he
actually laughs, disappointed, and says you should have let them
shoot you before pressing his face into the mattress so there’s
no worry he might be kissed while he’s fucked.

Red Army officer and his secret harem of young German men

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

aus-der-traum:

They called him Ivan, not because that was his name but because it amused him, the irony of it, to hear his Germans stutter the name they had chosen as surrogate for all of their hated enemies from the east, those Mongolian hordes, and to hear them say it with desperate affection, begging Ivan not to be terrible, begging him to please be good and please be kind and please don’t send them to Russia, anything but that.

He kept them in the basement of the little villa he had seized for the duration of his stay in Berlin, two or three of them in each room, they needed some company after all when he was gone for the day, he was was no monster, he took good care of his boys, especially the young ones in their little shorts, they were the first to get some blankets and he brought them big cups of warm milk every time he came to play with them – he really did feed them well, better than any of their comrades outside, who were fighting over scraps of food like wild dogs, by comparison it was a comfortable life, he thought, they lived more like their wives and sisters who made pretty eyes at their liberators and that was a luxury for men who should rightfully be in Siberia providing food for mother Russia.

He had quite a zoo assembled in those cold cells, besides the Berlin boys there were two East Prussian SS men, brothers that looked like twins (he could make them do all sorts of fun things to each other), with them he kept a scrawny young officer of the same company, then he also had three jolly Bavarians, Gebirgsjäger who were brown like Italians, a group of drab looking and very damaged nobodies he rarely visited, a tall Swede with hair almost as white as his skin and deep-set blue eyes (no doubt an eager volunteer with those splendid racial assets), also a man from Alsace with long brown eyelashes who was good with his tongue but wept at an annoying frequency and his personal favourite: a stern and bitter old officer with a crooked nose who had once – before Ivan took them – worn nearly as many medals on his tunic as he had fencing scars on his cheeks; but all good things must come to an end and eventually the harem had to be disbanded, the young ones he let go first and they ran away into the ruins of their city like little mice, most of the other Germans he sent to the Siberian camps, a blinded one from Hamburg he brought to the train station so he would find his way back home, the Alsatian he gifted to a friend in the French occupation zone,

before he had decided what to do with the Swede that one had managed to slit his wrists and bled out down the drainage, and the arrogant old man he took along to Moscow where they hanged him for war crimes.

@reichblr-ficathon

Otto Skorzeny is the tol bean in this fandom! Prove it!

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

aus-der-traum:

He’s a clever one, he knows his life is on the line; like treading between sleeping snakes his words and movements are slow, only his eyes dart left and right, batting eyelashes at every interrogator, guard or nurse – strange to see such a huge man act like just a little boy. 

When you first put the collar on him he smiled shyly, his lips brushed gently against your hand, planting docile little kisses on the back of it. 

Today he’s been a very good boy and he deserves his treat, you call him over with a pat on your leg and he comes crawling to your feet, a beautiful fighting dog, thick with muscles, but so very nervous and there is no reason to be nervous, you have always been kind to him, you pet and stroke him and run your fingernails along his scalp and again you grab him by the hair and pull his face between your thighs and make him taste you.

@reichblr-ficathon

prideful POWs (brought low)

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

aus-der-traum:

Hans was a handsome, manly kind of guy, a bit of a Siegfried maybe, tall and strong with pink scars on his chest, speckles like paint drops, and a nose like an eagle’s beak, always held high, glaring down at me with steely eyes when I made him mop piss off the floor or clean out the shit house and it was that haughty look that made me want to fuck him. 

I knew if I got him alone he’d be fighting me off and he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks but he’d still win and then he’d be punished, send to the dark cell or the hot cell or the gallows, but I wouldn’t get to fuck him, so I got myself another friend – a yappy, strong fellow by the name of John – and each of us got a knife and we cornered Hans in his cell and I was straight with him, telling him I wanted to fuck him and such, and that came as quite a shock to him, he stammered that wasn’t what he was and then that it wasn’t what he wanted to be, which sounded like quite a different story to me, but we weren’t patient with him, weren’t waiting for him to come to terms with it, I just told him we’d rape him if he didn’t comply, then I beat him and John beat him too and I put the knife to his throat and to his eyes, and that did the trick, when I ordered him to strip, to turn around, to spread his legs and put his hands on the wall he actually did it. 

I greased myself up and told him to grease his own hole, fuck himself a bit since he’d never been penetrated and he did that too, and then I went in very gently and very slowly stretched his tight asshole open, he was a virgin no doubt, he groaned and moaned and wouldn’t stop saying that it hurt, sometimes in one language and then the other, and I had no doubt that it did, the way he was clenching around my dick and I even pulled out a bit, fucked him only with shallow thrusts, I wanted this to be our thing, something I could do to him again, maybe eventually he’d like it too – but this was a joint venture, John wanted his turn and he got it before I finished myself (it’s hard to get off when you’re getting your dick squeezed off), I had to let him have his go and he didn’t hold back, he fucked Hans like some loose hand-me-down and Hans didn’t moan no more, my dear friend got so carried away, I had to tell him to slow down, I didn’t want him to break poor Hans – well, he didn’t break him, just broke him in a bit and made him wet for me; we took turns fucking him to the end of our shift and he was rather tame to me afterwards, once you’ve allowed someone to fuck your ass that’s just kind of what you do, you don’t get to change your mind.

@reichblr-ficathon