The Furred Reich

by Len Gilbert

  Yes. Stupid men.

  Asril flicked out the dagger and jammed it through the armor into the furre’s thigh.

  “Ugh! You… Bitch!”

  The gurgling came from the other man. Asril’s heart leaped. Tari had done it, too!

  Asril hissed at her dying assailant, who was now splurting blood from his artery. She grabbed Tari and scurried off as low to the ground as she could.

  “Hey! What the fuck’s going on?” The lone remaining archer called out as he strode to the scene.

  An arrow hit him and went clear through his body. Then another. Soon the sky began to rain arrows; arrows coming from the other side of the river. Asril grabbed onto Tari and ran for a nearby tree. The two cowered in fear as flocks of arrows fell down on the dying assailants, and on Tanjung too.

  “Come out!” A voice came from across the river. “Come out or we’ll rain more down on you!”

  Asril stood and put her paws up. She gave up. There was no way that she and Tari could survive alone on this side of the river. Not without Tanjung.

  The archer hit by Hex’s cannon also stood up to surrender. He was chopped down by at least five arrows as soon as he got to his feet. No arrows came for Asril.

  “Hey! How many of you are there?”

  “Tw-three!”

  “We’re coming over!”

  A craft cast off from the other side. Asril sprinted over to where Tanjung was laying.

  He’d been hit in the chest, and it looked like the arrow pierced his heart. Asril turned him over. Tanjung’s eyes were still open, and it looked like he was trying to smile. For more than a minute she watched Tanjung die. Tari weaned herself out of the shock that left her a quivering mess and came over.

  About half-a-dozen soldiers stepped off the raft, their armor shining in the waning sunlight. The lead soldier, and the first Ahurani Asril had ever seen, lifted the visor off his close helmet. He was also a feline. Of some kind.

  “Your friend. Will you bury him on our side?” He asked.

  “Yes… please…” Asril sniffed and looked down.

  The ‘knight’ nodded. Asril and Tari carried their stricken friend onto the ferry, and Tanjung finally reached the land he knew was safe.

  Pearls and Swine

  “Joachim Peiper, is the most hated man in America…”

  It seemed even Jochen’s plans for tomorrow, plans of just being with his family and lending a room to his comrades, were over. He found himself seated before First Lieutenant William Perl of the United States Army. From across the desk, Perl grinned at him in a thinly-concealed snarl.

  Weeks-long solitary confinement had preceded the meeting with Perl. Solitary confinement was a curious thing. No matter the intensity, no combat could prepare anyone for being locked in a cell by oneself for so long. It was a trial of its own. Maybe not as stressful a trial as combat, but a different one. As days went by his mind recalled memories from various times: Some from the war, but some also episodes from childhood otherwise long forgotten.

  “Stand up!”

  Jochen’s solitude was interrupted and a black hood was drown over his head. The hood reminded him something of the Ku Klux Klan, which he’d only seen in films. The inside was smeared with fresh blood and the stench made his stomach churn. Though he couldn’t see anything, he could tell that he was being taken back and forth through the prison. When the hood came off he was in another cell. He could hear sobs and screams of his comrades, and the curses of interrogation officers. If the Americans were supposed to be different from those descendants of Genghis Khan that called themselves Soviets, Jochen couldn’t tell by how the former treated prisoners.

  That day an American officer badgered Jochen to remember everything about the Ardennes Offensive of late 1944. Jochen figured this grilling was all about his commander, Sepp Dietrich, for whom the western Allies were rummaging all through occupied Germany.

  Unfortunately, Jochen, the Leibstandarte, and even the Fuehrer himself were just as in the dark as the Americans were about Dietrich. He had mysteriously gone missing since December, and even if Jochen knew where Dietrich was, he wouldn’t tell the these people.

  But when the Americans transferred him yet again, Jochen soon realized that this was about far more than just his former commander.

  “The ‘incident’ at Malmedy Crossroads can no longer be ignored,” Lieutenant Perl scowled at him.

  In the captivity of Perl, Jochen quickly came to understand that he was a fixation to the Americans due to an incident where American prisoners were shot by soldiers under his command. Killing prisoners was not the Leibstandarte’s policy, but both sides sometimes did so after the landing at Normandy, depending on combat circumstances.

  Perl himself looked far less sharp than did the American military uniform which he wore, not least because of a five-o-clock shadow that seemed to crop permanently around his soft jawline. The interrogator looked at Jochen with looming, dark eyes a thick, pouty lips. Perl spoke German with an Austrian accent, he certainly didn’t look German, and that could only mean one thing. It was clear to Jochen that the ‘Malmedy Commission’ was only about revenge.

  “Even if you were an extraordinary soldier, you mustn’t forget today’s realities,” Perl wheezed out with a grin.

  “Your time is gone and will never come back. And look at things from our perspective. You’ll see it’s all just business. People listen to you, don’t they? Your men deify you. Surely you must see how dangerous this makes you to the occupying forces, am I right?”

  Jochen deadpanned.

  “Don’t wish to speak? No matter… You know, individual guilt was never something I cared for. Your only real crime is that you lost the war. But I give you my word that you will never again see the light of day. We’re going to eliminate the lot of you. And this trial will be the basis on which we declare the entire SS a criminal organization. So, why not just reconcile yourself to the inevitable? Confess that you gave the order as their commanding officer.”

  Jochen figured this was the Americans’ last move in casting a web of lies around he and his men. Jochen gave no such order, nor did anyone above him. The interrogator knew this, of course, but Lieutenant Perl was appealing to the responsibilities which a Prussian officer had toward his subordinates. Perl must have figured that Jochen would not shrink from this responsibility. And Perl would be right. Jochen finally looked right back at Perl and nodded.

  “I will agree to this… But only on the condition that you promise that all the soldiers in my regiment be let go.”

  Perl’s face lit up with hate as he began to laugh. “Your compromise is refused, and I’ll even tell you why. Even if you now committed suicide in your cell and left a declaration that you gave the order to shoot those men, I would contest this in court and testify that you had nothing to do with the shooting. You see? The Fuehrer’s loyal Leibstandarte isn’t going to get away that easily.”

  It was not hard to see what was coming. Jochen prepared himself to be executed in cold blood.

  He was thrown back into the dark cellar and later received word that he would be transferred permanently to an interrogation center in the American-occupied sector. What else the Americans could possibly plan to do with him, Jochen had no idea.

  The Breadhouse

  Hans walked away from foxen country for at least an hour. He no longer felt comfortable in open, broad daylight. Marching further from foxen country he saw no one, and avoided the odd country home that spotted the horizon. This side of the woods felt like the French countryside on a sunny day.

  The steady hum of woodpeckers beckoned Hans forward into the next patch of woodland. He made a beeline for the trees and slid out of plain sight. After about ten minutes of walking, he set up his bivouac, finally took off his worn boots and lay down to get the sleep he’d been deprived of that night. Only a few hours of sleep came before his body forced him to partake in the daylight. Stretching, he stepped out of the thicket to look around. There were fruit trees
all along the narrow, stone-lain road; a road that led to a gathering of stone buildings in the middle of a gentle valley.

  His stomach growled as if on cue. He hadn’t washed his clothes since getting on the boat, and the leg of his pant was still torn in the back from the battle near Kharkov. Now was a good time to fix that. He emerged from the woods and made his way toward the township, willing to take his chances on this new place. He paced along the road, past several fields, some of them mowed, some with green oat crops bending in the wind.

  The town felt kind of familiar, or, at least, much more like home than did the cities on the other continent, but the street leading to town was eerily devoid of furres. Maybe he should have been grateful enough not to be run out on first sight. Hans decided not to look around for others, though he got the distinct feeling that he was being watched.

  In the middle of the silent town Hans found one thing was looking for: A well with a faucet pump attached. He practically ran to it and began drinking from the pump, quenching his thirst and washing his face unashamedly. A figure peeked at him from behind a doorway, but quickly disappeared when Hans picked his head up.

  Now was as fine a time as ever. Hans cautiously unbuttoned his camouflage and tunic, and held them both under the faucet as he looked around. The rusty lever squealed as he pumped it. Once the clothes were soaked with water, he put them next to him and shouldered the Mauser. He took off his boots and rinsed his feet under the cold water. It felt like more eyes were watching him from some place he couldn’t see.

  Hans began to put his clothes back on. His pant leg needed to get a stitching, but that would have to wait for another town. He got the feeling he wasn’t wanted here, or worse. Boots in hand, Hans stood up and stared down the narrow cobblestone road.

  He laced up boots and began a tense walk between the rows of buildings, clutching the strap of his Mauser and trying to keep his head fixed toward the oat fields in the distance. As he approached the last line of buildings, he craned his neck around the corner of the last brick building.

  Neigh!

  It was only a horse standing there, and it clopped its light brown hooves twice in Hans’ direction. He sighed out loud in relief and walked by.

  Hans widened the distance between himself and the town, and then slinked back into the treeline toward the fig and apple trees. He took off his helmet and began depositing apples and figs into it. Nobody there seemed to mind, and eating this felt much safer than poking around in the streets. Once he had a helmet full of sweet fruits, he turned toward the bivouac, content to lounge there for the rest of the day. That was when a twig snapped behind him. Not again.

  A gray face was peering at him from behind the bushes. Hans turned around and caught her eyes. Both of them froze and stared at each other for a second before Hans raised his hand to wave.

  Cyan

  “He’ll get a marker sometime later.”

  Tanjung’s resting place was marked by an oval stone.

  “…Thank you.” Asril replied. Even her hushed voice bounced between the arid ridges around them.

  “Not a great time for introductions, but I’m Captain Cyan.”

  “Thank you Captain Cyan.” She slumped and stared at the ruddy ground, her eyes still avoiding him. “Do you have anything to eat?”

  “Well, I’ll make sure you and your friend get something. There’s a camp 70 paces south and west of here. For fleers. We’re going to put you there for the time being”

  Great. This was another country that intended to hold them in a cage until the Greenskins came for them.

  “NO.” Tari spoke up. She’d been silent until then.

  “We’ve already been through that in another country and the monsters came for us. I won’t do it again.” She almost shouted.

  “W-wait,” Asril piped up. “Um, Captain Cyan? We’ll agree to go if you think you can protect us from the Greenskins.”

  “Ma’dam, we’ve been here two thousand years, and since then we’ve only been conquered once. Even the Deltians tried a long time ago, and if they couldn’t do it, these savage monsters never will. We’ll try to find you both a permanent home, too.”

  Tari looked to Asril. But Asril had already made up her mind.

  “OK. We’ll do it.”

  Of course, the captain didn’t know that he was giving refuge to a thief. Theives couldn’t survive in a land ruled by bandits, and bandits were all they’d seen outside the borders of Ahuran.

  Captain Cyan took them up a hill until they reached a small look out post topped by a bright green flag that was almost as big as the paneled house it stood upon. He swung open the flimsy door and motioned them in.

  “Here, just have a seat,” he motioned to a modest table with a few chairs. Another soldier came out from another room and gave Asril and Tari a bowl gruel with a germ of grain she hadn’t seen before. The strange mixture was topped with a small lamb chunk. It was the best meal either of them had in weeks, so maybe this place was different. Their improvised bedroom was bare except for some swords, crossbows and a helmet sitting on the floor. To Asril it felt like they were depriving someone of their room for the night.

  The next morning Captain Cyan was waiting at the door of their room. He wasn’t able to bring them to the refuge personally, but two other felines showed up escorted Tari and Asril away from the lonely post on the border. After three hours of walking on the arid soil, they saw the familiar sight of a fence with furres behind it. This one didn’t seem to have as many, and this time there was a promise of food and possibly even work.

  “Is this it?” Asril asked.

  “Yes.”

  When the fence door creaked shut, Asril cringed and waited for the abuse to come. But this time there was no abuse. Like the last camp, in Miao, people huddled together, but here there were huts, tarps and holes in the ground. Nobody looked happy, but nobody looked desperate either.

  The races had changed, too. No big, stripped felines were here, mostly just equines and quite a few furless humans. She’d never seen a human before, and it was common lore that humans had fled from Asril’s own land a long time ago. She actually thought humans were extinct.

  There was also a mother cat with two kittens. It reminded Asril of the days in the caravan. Tari and Asril went over to the mother cat, and soon she looked even more familiar. It was Clara, the mother who led them out of Miao.

  “Clara?!” Tari squeaked.

  The woman looked up, instantly recognizing the travel-weary girls. It was Clara!

  “What? Is that you Tari?!”

  “H-how did you get here?! From Preena?!”

  “Oh, that. You wouldn’t believe it!” The mother exclaimed.

  “Another bunch, equines, came in from up north and it became too much for the soldiers to ignore. So they let us through if we promised not to stay. I’m afraid me and the kids were the only ones that made it. Besides you two of course!”

  “…Yeah.”

  Asril frowned. Clara had probably seen a lot of death, too. Maybe even more than Tari and herself.

  Clara stepped in and gave Asril a hug.

  Dachau

  Arndt Fischer’s cell door opened with a sudden clang. There was no need to yell this time. As had happened last time, the black hood was placed over his head. Whatever was in store, the American interrogators had likely done it to him before. At least that’s what he told himself. While he feared what was coming, he was also numb to it all at this point.

  The guard led Fischer out by the arm, but today there were no screams and cries from nearby cells. With a firm shove he was released. Then the hood was removed. He expected to see Lieutenant Perl, but instead saw his former Standartenfuehrer laughing before him.

  “What a sight for sore eyes you are, Fischer!”

  Commander Peiper was like that when he could afford to be.

  “They asked me who I wanted as my cellmate.”

  It had been at least a year since he’d seen his commander, or, for that matt
er, anyone else besides the interrogators. Peiper was certainly an upgrade.

  Their cell was little more than a rabbit hutch with a bunk bed. It was obvious what the Americans intended to do.

  Still, Fischer breathed a sigh of relief for a moment. He thought for sure he’d never see Jochen Peiper again. Yet, here the man was.

  “…Thanks, Herr Commander. I guess my plans to become a dentist are on hold.”

  Peiper stood there in oversized American boots and a uniform long torn from its decorations, yet somehow he managed to still look like a commander.

  “What they try to get from you?” Asked Peiper.

  “Dietrich. Those Ami’s still can’t find him, thank god.”

  “If so they’re no worse than the Gestapo.” Jochen sat in the bottom bunk and looked back at his former officer.

  “It’s funny,” he said. “Dietrich’s disappearance is one of those mysteries that I never got to think about. Even though I was the last one to talk to him.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. I was on the phone with him when he was back at HQ. The line just went silent and he was gone. No shots. No explosions. Phone didn’t even disconnect. Just silence.”

  “That’s… weird.”

  “I know. And since then it’s been Budapest, Balaton, Vienna. You know. So I never got the chance to really think about it.”

  “So what about you? What’d they want from you?”

  “The same.” Peiper answered. “But more about the murders at Malmedy Crossing, or the ‘Malmedy Massacre’ as they say. They knew I was already well ahead when the shooting happened. Obviously there was no order for that kind of thing. I’d just like to know who did it, to be honest.”

  “It was Poetschke, sir.”

  “Werner Poetschke?” Peiper snorted. “I know he’s dead now, but do you know why he’d do that?”

  Fischer shrugged. “The whole thing was bad. An American got confused and started yelling during sound off, and Felps in his infinite wisdom shot the man. Some of the Ami’s started running. Poetschke wasn’t in the mood for it. Now the Ami’s are out for blood. I just wonder why they don’t get it over with and shoot us all right now.”