The man’s arms and legs were broken, and the wounds where the nails had been driven into his hands and feet were grotesque and bloated. A string of barbed wire had been pulled tight around his neck and crotch. He looked like he’d been hanging there for at least several hours, maybe even a day.
Fitz made a quick sign of the cross, and not entirely to keep in character.
The four soldiers burst out laughing.
“Look familiar?” the senior officer asked him.
Fitz tried to say something, but couldn’t.
The second officer kicked him hard on the back and then pulled out his pistol.
“Start digging,” he ordered.
Thirty minutes later, Fitz had carved out a shallow grave.
The officers had departed briefly, returning with two slave laborers from the base. With Fitz’s help, these men went about the grisly duty of removing the battered victim from the cross, using a ladder, ropes and crowbar. Not wanting to witness the gruesome task firsthand, the four soldiers had walked about fifty feet away where they spent the time smoking cigarettes and talking.
Once the limp body was down, Fitz steeled himself and studied the man’s face. He was probably no more than thirty years old, with red hair, close cropped, and a hint of a beard. His hands were calloused and dirty—not with soil but with grease. He was wearing tattered and burnt blue coveralls.
“He was not a prisoner, was he?” Fitz whispered to the workmen.
“No, he wasn’t,” one of the workmen replied under his breath.
“Was he an American?” Fitz asked them.
“Yes, he worked here, on the base,” the other man hastily whispered. “He was on the crew of the helicopter repair unit.”
Fitz was surprised. “Why would they do this to such a valuable man?”
“He was a saboteur,” came the hushed reply. “They caught him putting water into the gas for their helicopters. One of their big ones crashed up north last week. They traced the contaminated fuel back to him.”
Fitz looked down at the man. His face was covered with dirt and dried blood.
“So he was a hero,” he whispered, thinking back to his art class with the kids earlier. “Another hero …”
“They are in short supply these days,” the first workman said.
They hushed as one of the Fourth Reich officers walked over.
“Are you not going to say a prayer, holyman?” he asked Fitz in thick, German accented English.
Fitz almost gagged. He’d buried more than a dozen people in the past few months. It was yet another one of his duties. But this was the first time he’d been asked to do a eulogy. In the past, the Nazi soldiers were loath to such religious necessities.
But now the workmen stopped and suddenly all eyes were on Fitz. He felt numb. A man was about to be laid to rest and a false priest was praying over him.
It was no way to leave this world.
“Take care of his soul, Lord,” Fitz finally murmured, making up the prayer as he went along. “Take care of all our souls.”
He looked at the victim’s cracked and broken face; it was so dirty. Too dirty to be buried. Fitz took a canteen from one of the workers and pulled a rag from his pocket. Wetting the piece of cloth, he gingerly began to wipe the bloody grime from the man’s face.
Suddenly the man’s eyes opened.
The two workers yelped in unison and one fainted dead away. The Fourth Reich officer was frozen in place, hand grabbing his mouth, unable to move.
Fitz himself was absolutely stunned. It was as if the man had come back from the dead.
“Water …” the man gasped weakly. “Please give me water …”
Fitz quickly poured some water into his shaking hand and fed it into the man’s caked and cracked lips.
“Am I dead?” the victim wheezed.
Fitz could only shake his head no.
Alerted by the workers’ cries, the remaining soldiers had run over by this time.
“This man is still alive,” Fitz informed them. His tone was one of disgust for the fascist troopers. They couldn’t even kill a man correctly.
The four soldiers were wide-eyed and trembling at the strange turn of events.
“This is impossible!” one of the officers said. “I was here. I saw him die!”
“As did I,” the other officer declared.
There was a long moment of silence as Fitz directed more canteen water into the man’s mouth.
“What shall we do?” one officer asked the other in thick German.
The first officer was furious. Like all of the Fourth Reich soldiers, he was a slave to the curse of Absolute Efficiency. If something was not done right, it called for an investigation, to correct the imperfection. As such, expediency was not his virtue. The thought of simply putting a bullet into the man’s brain never crossed his mind.
“Bring him to the hospital, of course!” he shouted at the others.
Instantly, three other soldiers pushed Fitz and the workmen aside. They lifted the seriously injured man into the back of the scout car. Then without another word, they climbed aboard and roared away toward the Aerodrome infirmary.
Chapter Three
THE 747 JUMBO JET circled the Bundeswehr Four Aerodrome once before coming in for a less than textbook landing.
For anyone remembering what the gigantic but graceful airliner looked like before World War III, the sight of this jumbo was an assault on the senses. Garishly painted in black and red, from the hundreds of square feet of flame decals on its wings right down to the enormous Flying Tiger-style, shark mouth painted on its nose, it managed to look both silly and demonic.
No sooner had the 747 set down when its two escort aircraft—a pair of ancient F-105 Thunderchiefs—landed behind it. They too were painted in almost obscenely showy colors: one was covered with black and Day-Glo orange checkerboard squares, the other was a swirl of X-rated tattoos. The Thuds rolled up next to the 747, and all three aircraft slowly taxied toward their appointed parking stations.
An edgy delegation of Fourth Reich officers was waiting for the trio of airplanes, surrounded by a company of heavily armed NS. They watched nervously as the jumbo jet screeched to a halt barely twenty feet in front of their review stand. Its huge, cartoonish mouth looming over them, as if to devour them whole.
The F-105 pilots popped their canopies and slowly disentangled themselves from their safety harnesses and life support systems. They emerged, both dressed in identical black leather flight suits, heavy flight boots and decal plastered helmets. Retrieving their AK-47 assault rifles from a special storage space underneath the F-105’s seat, the pilots climbed down from the airplane and walked around in front of the jumbo jet.
Several NS men instinctively raised their own rifles as the armed flyers approached, but their officers waved them away.
“They’re not stupid,” the senior Fourth Reich officer crackled in German. “Let’s make sure we’re not either.”
The two pilots yanked off their black helmets to reveal two long manes of gnarled, stringy hair, and scruffy beards to match.
“I’m Bone. He’s Itchy,” one of the pilots said by way of crude introduction. “First Squadron, Cherrybusters.”
“Luft Seerauber,” one of the Fourth Reich officers whispered to another who didn’t speak English. “Air pirates.”
“Do you have the cargo, my friend?” the senior Nazi officer, major, asked the air pirate named Bone.
“Do you have the blow, man?” Bone asked back.
The Fourth Reich officer turned and nodded to his second in command. This man in turn signaled the driver of a jeep waiting nearby. The vehicle lurched ahead, circled underneath the jumbo jet and came to a stop near the second F-105. The air pirates accompanied the Fourth Reich major around to the back of the jeep, where three suitcases had been placed.
The major snapped the buckles off the first of the suitcases and opened it. Inside was 75 pounds of pure cocaine.
Bone dipped hi
s finger into the sea of white powder, tasted it and pronounced it good.
The second suitcase was opened. It contained 98 pounds of pure heroin. Bone picked up a pinch and put it into his right nostril. He sniffed, sneezed and then gave a thumbs-up signal.
The third suitcase was snapped open. Inside were ten football-size chunks of crack. For this test, the pirate named Itchy stepped forward. Using an enormous Bowie knife, he cut off a small piece, put it between his filthy teeth and gave it a crunch.
“Aces up,” he assured Bone. “Fine as wine.”
Bone immediately raised his hand over his head and snapped his fingers. Instantly, the two large cargo doors installed on the 747’s port side creaked open.
Inside were two hundred and eleven very frightened girls, ranging in age from young teens to early twenties. They were all wearing ill fitting T-shirts and baggy pants. Each one had their hands bound together.
“Well?” The air pirate Bone asked, turning back to the Fourth Reich major wearing a snide smile, “Can we do business?”
Chapter Four
Early the next morning
FITZ WOKE UP TO the sound of someone screaming.
He rolled out of his bunk, falling to the dirty floor. Beside him, gleaming in the dull light of dawn, was an empty bottle of bad wine. Next to that, scattered on the floor, were the notes of his fledgling sabotage plan.
He was horrified. It had happened again: he’d started working on the plan, got drunk, passed out, leaving himself foolishly exposed. If the NS had found his place in this condition, they would have shot him on the spot, or more likely, slowly, painfully crucified him.
“Help! Please help us!”
Fitz was suddenly going in three directions at once. He was gathering up the two dozen or so notes of his plan, stuffing the empty wine bottle under his bunk and grabbing his clerical collar—all at the same time. Outside he knew the Wabash River was up and raging—the fog and spray were all over his cracked and stained windows.
“Help us …”
He burst out of the door and saw two people—an old man and a young woman—floundering in swift moving waters near the opposite side of the river.
“Hang on!” he yelled to them, running to the small building which held the controls to the drawbridge. “Hang on!”
He punched the bridge release valve and was relieved that the thing worked on the first try for a change. Slowly the battered drawbridge clanked its way down, landing on the opposite side with a mechanical thud.
Armed with a thick coil of rope and two life preservers up and ready, Fitz was running across the rickety fifty-foot span even before it had secured itself on the other side. He tossed one of the life preservers into the water, nearly beaning the old guy in the process. The man was struggling to hold on to the young girl, but her slight frame made her particularly vulnerable to the rushing waters. The old man managed to grab the life preserver, but in doing so, lost his grip on the young girl. It was at this moment that Fitz knew that the rope and life rings wouldn’t do it this time. Hungover and still groggy from the night before, he climbed up onto the bridge railing and plunged into the rapid chilly waters—clothes, collar, and all.
The two potential victims were about twenty feet from the shoreline at this point. Fitz hit the water with a mighty splash about ten feet further out. He allowed the cold, violent current to sweep him into both of them, hooking the old man with one arm, and getting a firm hold on the young girl with the other. Together, they all rode the current. Fitz kicked his feet madly in an attempt to gradually steer them all toward the safety of the bank.
But the water’s current was stronger than all three of them.
Several times Fitz found himself underwater, being dragged along the river’s rocky bottom, all the while trying like hell to hang on to the pair without drowning in the process. It quickly became a losing battle. He was gagging on mouthfuls of water and gasping for breath. The girl was screaming, the old man was gurgling and Fitz could feel the strength drain out of him as the mighty river violently tossed them about.
Is this how it ends? he thought in his last flash of life. A pilot all my life and I wind up drowning?
Now his lungs were filling with water. He was sinking fast. Everything was quickly going to black.
He closed his eyes and felt the world crash in on him….
The next thing he knew, he was carrying the two drowning people to shore.
More than a quarter of a mile away, a pair of NS sentries were watching the drama unfold from atop their watchtower.
“I don’t believe this,” one soldier said. “Did we really just see that?”
The other could hardly speak. “One second they were gone. But now …”
“Now, they’re alive,” the other soldier gasped. “But I don’t know how.”
“Was it a trick? Just for our benefit?”
“Impossible … yet.”
The two guards felt a rising panic between them. Like most NS guardtower sentries, these two were forced to work—or at least stay awake—for eighteen hours at a time, six days a week. No surprise then that these men were drug abusers, amphetamine pep pills being their choice.
Were they now paying the price?
“We must we must report this,” the second soldier said.
“How?” his partner asked. “What words could we possibly use?”
Shaken and confused, the two soldiers stared at each other and then back to where the incident had happened. They could see the man who’d jumped into the water helping the two near-drowned victims back across the bridge.
“It is the drugs,” the first sentry declared. “We’ve used too many, too long …”
“Yes,” the other replied, his voice shrill with numb fear. “It was an hallucination. A trick of the eyes.”
Right then, they made a solemn pact. Never again would they discuss with anyone that they had seen a man walk on the water.
Chapter Five
The Reich Palast
THE CELEBRATION HAD LASTED all through the night and now into the early morning.
It had begun as a rather stately gathering. The Fourth Reich had carried a passion for such things with them from Europe, and so they never missed an opportunity to create a formal affair. The excuse this time: the air pirates—Itchy, Bone and the crew of twenty from the jumbo jet—were to be fêted at a welcoming dinner.
As soon as the initial business overtures were completed at the airport, the air pirates found themselves riding in a string of stretch limousines, roaring through the small quaint streets of Bummer Four. A full military escort of NS motorcycle troops and scout cars led the way, sirens screaming.
The short parade ended at the Reich Palast—loosely, the “Empire Palace”—which was the ceremonial seat of the Bundeswehr Four government. Huge, ornate, and imposing, the white concrete building was the first structure built by the Fourth Reich after establishing Bummer Four. Modeled after the late 1930s’ Reichstag, the Reich Palast was by far the largest building within the thousands of square miles of the military district.
The ceremony was held inside the building’s main dining room. A long white marble table had been set for the fifty participants, half being members of the Cherrybusters, the other half high officers of the Fourth Reich. At the head of the table was the perilously thin, ghostly pale man of sixty who was the supreme commander of the entire Bundeswehr Four, the one they called the Erste Herrscher, or First Governor. His face and mind bearing scars from a half dozen major wars, the First Governor was known far and wide as the most tyrannical of all conquered America’s Fourth Reich military rulers. He frequently bragged about having no conscience, no shame, no fear. His life, he said, was of total service to the Fourth Reich. Nothing else mattered.
He read a long, rambling welcoming statement, one which arrogantly recapitulated his fairly substantial contribution in organizing and executing important elements of the Fourth Reich’s secret invasion force. Then he lectured the air pirat
es on the benefits of living the fascist life. Finally he announced that he would soon be leaving for a trip. His destination was Fuhrerstadt, the city to the south that was once known as St. Louis and Football City, but that was now the capital city for all of Fourth Reich America. His purpose for the trip was to attend the wedding ceremony of the Amerikafuhrer, the top Nazi official in the occupied lands.
Once his speech was done, a lavish meal of broiled lamb, boiled cabbage and potatoes steamed in apple jelly was laid on. The wine flowed fast and furiously during the meal, and afterward, tankards of ale were brought on for the hosts and guests.
Crude and unschooled in the art of diplomacy, Bone and Itchy nevertheless knew a return gift was in order. They had a brief discussion and then Bone broke out one of the many two-pound bags of cocaine he’d just traded for. Tapping out two enormous lines of the nose candy, he offered his gold-plated coke spoon to the nearest Fourth Reich officer.
At first, the high-nose fascists were taken aback by the act. For many, the only benefit of cocaine was in its trade value. It was something only the Tower forms of human life indulged in.
But then the First Governor, drunk on wine and ale, stepped up to Bone’s place at the table, leaned over and took a long noisy sniff of cocaine.
“Fein als wein,” he declared, signaling that snorting the drug was politically correct—at least on this night.
The two-pound bag was gone in less than an hour.
It was around midnight when the First Governor called for the young girls.
There were thirty of them in all, selected for their beauty, their innocence and their vulnerability from the load of more than two hundred brought in by the Cherrybusters. Just where the air pirates had captured them, none of the Nazis knew or cared. The only thing that mattered was that each girl had what the Nazis called Erziehung eigenschaft—“breeding quality.” The purpose for buying the two hundred young women was to eventually match them with the perfect breeding males, impregnate them, and start the new American Aryan race.
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