FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

DISCLAIMER: This is a story involving Nazis and furthermore, it contains scenes set in a concentration camp (a made-up one, but a concentration camp just the same). This is no sex. Nor is there any glorifying of the Nazis and what they do. Rather this is the beginning of my attempt at redeeming one of them, Spitzohr in this case, by making him realize, in the bluntest way possible, that what they are doing is monstrous and wrong. The Holocaust was a horrible thing, and I just wanted to write a story told from the point of view of a halfhearted, uncertain Nazi who has chosen until now to look the other way....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ikol Spitzohr removed his hat as he entered the field headquarters of the SS Skorpiongeschwader, which was an abandoned office building the Nazis had appropriated. His boots clomped noisily on the wood floor as he approached the makeshift front desk with a weaselly-looking canine in field gray sat looking rigid as a statue.

"Stan--" he stopped himself, wincing, then hastily added, "Hauptsturmführer Spitzohr to see Standartenführer Belzig."

The receptionist nodded. "Yes, Hauptsturmführer. He is expecting you. Go right in."

Ikol nodded and proceed down a long, deserted hallway to where Belzig's office was. He knocked but found the door ajar, and, taking this as a wordless invitation to enter, pushed the door open and walked inside. There he beheld his former subordinate, now superior, Standartenführer Belzig. He swallowed nervously.

It had been nearly a year since "the incident" in which Ikol had been violated by the three American soldiers who'd captured him, and the loss of almost all of the Skorpiongeschwader's tanks. Although at the official inquest with Oberstgruppen-Führer Hauser, both Ikol as well as his senior tank commander "Moptop" had only mentioned the latter. Nothing was said of Ikol's treatment at the hands of the Americans.

Nevertheless, the results of the inquest had been positively devastating for Spitzohr's career. Nevermind that he was already something of a failure in the eyes of his SS superiors, with a reputation for running rather than fighting. Nevermind that unlike most of his own underlings he'd never won an Iron Cross for battlefield heroism. His monumental blunder of allowing his and Braunschwieg's tanks to be tricked into an ambush by the wily Americans was something Hauser considered unforgivable.

The result had been swift and brutal. The inquisitors stripped Standartenführer Spitzohr of his rank, demoting him to a mere Hauptsturmführer, promoting Sturmbannführer Belzig into his place. Ikol had been horrified. Belzig had been a vicious brute who was even more unfit for command than him, because whereas Spitzohr's main shortcoming in addition to his cowardice had been his arrogance, Belzig was the sort of commander who threw everything he had at the enemy. As a Standartenführer, Belzig had no sense of strategy. He was best used as a more competent commander's blunt instrument.

And yet, here he was, relaxing in what used to be Ikol's office, and commanding what used to be Ikol's men. He greeted Spitzohr with mock friendliness, saying, "Ah, Spitzohr, do come in. Have a seat."

Determined to save face, to never allow his former subordinate to have the pleasure of seeing him squirm, Ikol clicked his heels and extended his arm in the salute to their Fuhrer, presently squirreled away in his bunker somewhere in Berlin. "Heil Hitler!" he bellowed.

Belzig looked annoyed but returned the gesture. "Heil Hitler," he grumbled drly, then gestured at a chair. "Sit."

Ikol sat. He was fuming, determined to know what this bushy-eyebrowed numbskull wanted of him now. Lately Belzig had seemed content to send Spitzohr on a variety of petty errands, treating him as if he were his own personal coffee boy. But he remained silent. Wisest to let the brute speak first.

"I've called you here because I have a special errand I want you to run," Belzig said at last. Spitzohr rolled his eyes and didn't try to hide it. Noticing this, Belzig added, "No, no, no, this time it's for real. I have some important documents that I would like you to transport to my opposite number Standartenführer Shreck over at Spriggenfeld."

Ikol felt his blood run cold. Spriggenfeld was a concentration camp in the region, outside of a small town called Clermont, to which all of the countryside's Jews and other naysayers, undesirables and generally anyone the SS didn't like sent for "safekeeping." Or at least this was what they told the French townspeople. Ikol knew better. He didn't join the SS just yesterday. It was a death camp. A place where enemies of the Reich were sent to die.

Despite his dedication to his country and his love of orderly battlefield victories, to say nothing of his membership in the National Socialist Party, Ikol Spitzohr was uncertain of his attitude towards the Reich's "undesirables," Jews in particular. He believed they were little more than primitive savages to be sure, and had never objected to Himmler's decree that they should be exterminated without delay, but regardless, his weak tolerance for violence off of the battlefield had led Spitzohr to do his best to avoid ever having to visit one of those camps. Savages or not, he didn't want to be around when the camp guards disposed of them.

Belzig knew this. Had known, in fact, for some time. Back when he had still been only a Sturmbannführer and Ikol's subordinate, he had pressed the issue regarding Standartenführer Spitzohr's attitudes towards the camps, and Ikol had flatly told him he found them necessary but distasteful, and that he never wanted to visit one. And now, he knew, this was coming back to haunt him. Standartenführer Belzig the idiot, the bully, was going to order him to go to the one place in the entire region that he dreaded to go, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it, except nod numbly.

Reaching down, Belzig retrieved a leather briefcase from underneath his desk and plunked it down in front of Ikol with a wide, sharklike grin. "It'll be just a quick errand, to and from. You'll be back before supper."

Despite himself, Ikol made one attempt to back out. "Is--Isn't there someone else you can send, s--sir...?"

Belzig smiled and actually nodded. "Of course. But...you're the one I trust most." He barely stifled a laugh, acting like one of the mean-spirited boys from one of Ikol's classes about to play a prank on another student. "Arm."

Sighing, Ikol extended his right arm and rolled the sleeve up. The briefcase was then attached to his wrist with a pair of handcuffs. Just to stick it to him, Ikol immediately grabbed the case and walked for the door. Belzig chuckled but didn't try to stop him. He merely called after him. "Just be sure Shreck gets those documents! They're important orders from Minister Speer himself and it'll be your neck if they get lost!"

Ikol didn't bother replying. Putting his cap back on he marched swiftly out of the building, ignoring the receptionist, still hearing Belzig's laughter in his ears.

~*~

Spitzohr's stomach was knotted with dread as the open-topped Wanderer 901 trundled along the muddy, unpaved road that led to Spriggenfeld. It was a gray, cloudy day, and Ikol was feeling more than a bit carsick. His stomach's noisy complaints were amplified by the mounting dread of what he was about to experience.

The car had been sent from the camp as a courtesy by Standartenführer Shreck himself. The driver, a young tabby with a helmet that seemed comically a size too large, occasionally glanced over at him. Seeming to note the Hauptsturmführer's discomfort, he said, "Nervous?"

Ikol, in the front passenger seat beside him, whipped his head around, blinking. "What do you mean?"

"You just seem a bit nervous, is all," the driver said. "Uh, if you'll pardon my saying so, sir. But don't you worry, Hauptsturmführer. Plenty of guys are nervous their first visit. Which it must be, am I right?"

Ikol thought for a moment before replying with a nod, wishing the car would shut up.

"Thought so," the driver said. "I always feel a little better when I see an officer who gets nervous. Shows you're not the sort of detached, deranged lunatic Shreck is. The Jews are animals, savages. And what's got to be done has got to be done, but the things Shreck does to 'em...well, even when you're extermnating vermin there's lines I don't think ought to be crossed."

Suddenly he became nervous and realized his his error. "Um, sorry, sir, I shouldn't have been speaking about the Standartenführer like that. Y-You won't report me, will you...?"

"No, of course not," Spitzohr replied. And it was the truth. He was no tattle-tale.

The driver seemed relieved, and the remainder of the car ride proceeded in blessed silence until the Wanderer slowed at the front gate of Spriggenfeld, all barbed wire and plywood. Beyond the gate lay the main compound. Ikol shifted, trying to see, but all he could see for the moment were several drab-looking wooden buildings. A humorless-looking doberman guard approached the car, a rifle slung over one shoulder. Apart from him the only other living soul in sight was the other gate guard, who remained at his post. The first guard spoke to the driver.

"Hauptsturmführer Spitzohr to see Standartenführer Shreck," the feline reported.

The doberman eyed the uneasy-looking red squirrel, but didn't speak to him. Instead, he turned and yelled at the gate. "Coming in! Open up in there!"

Four or five guards appeared seemingly from nowhere and got the gate open, which took a while. Doubtlessly the gate was designed to keep people out was well as in. Once it was opened the driver pulled the Wanderer through and drove around to what Ikol assumed was the main building of the camp. Now, Ikol could see other people. Dozens and dozens of prisoners in striped gray uniforms milled about aimlessly, overseen by guards of various species, mostly dobermans, like the one at the gate. And like the gate guard, these SS soldiers seemed equally without humor. They naturally did not speak to their charges, but, even stranger, they didn't converse with one another, either. This struck Ikol as odd, as he was so used to the close comraderie of the Skorpiongeschwader.

The prisoners themselves were also of varying species. Mostly mice, Jews as Ikol knew they were, but a few felines, canines and more than a few squirrels, which unnerved Ikol. Prisoners of German descent meant that these were political prisoners; Germans who had opposed Hitler and the SS and were now paying the price for their disloyalty. They were a few poodles as well and Ikol surmised them to be French Resistance members, or perhaps people from Clermont and the surrounding villages who opposed both the German occupation as well as the building and maintaining of Spriggenfeld.

The Wanderer stopped and the driver cut the engine. "That's the main building there," he said, pointing and confirming Ikol's assumption. A little quieter, he added, "You'll probably find Shreck in there but he's prone to wandering around a lot. I'll wait out here for you until you're ready to leave, sir."

Spitzohr nodded, thanked the driver, and got out. Briefcase in hand he trumped up the front steps and entered the building. He didn't intend to keep his feline friend waiting. He wanted only to find Shreck, give him the briefcase, and leave as quickly as possible. But Shreck was nowhere to be found. Instead, a short, compact-looking rottweiler with a Obersturmführer's insignia approached him.

"Hauptsturmführer Spitzohr?" he asked politely. Ikol confirmed he was indeed who he was. The rottweiler gave a knowing smile. "Ah, welcome to Spriggenfeld. I am Standartenführer Shreck's assistant, Obersturmführer Schmidt. If you'll follow me, please?"

He gestured, and, nodding, Ikol followed him, back out into the main yard of the camp. He led him around to the far side of the compound where Ikol finally beheld Standartenführer Shreck himself. He was, like the majority of his guards, a doberman. Tall, sleek and handsome. And very young. Around Spitzohr's own age or possibly younger. He was standing alongside a collapsible table of some sort and as Schmidt led Ikol over the squirrel noticed there was a tea tray and servings of biscuits and sandwiches placed there, as well as two silenced Luger handguns. Shreck himself was idly sipping tea as the squirrel and rottweiler approached, and, despite acknowledging them almost immediately, didn't turn to face them just yet.

"Welcome, Hauptsturmführer, I've been expecting you," Shreck said.

Knowing what was expected of him, Ikol clicked his heels and saluted. "Heil Hitler," he said.

Finally Shreck turned to face him. For a moment the doberman seemed surprised, even besed, but then he set down his teacup and halfheartedly returned the salute. "Oh, yes, heil Hitler, of course," he said, his voice practically a mumble.

Ikol frowned, liking this less and less. He hadn't ever seen an officer so bereft of enthusiasm for his Fuhrer before. What's more, Shreck seemed actually amused more than anything. Shifting so he held the briefcase in one hand, Ikol started to explain why he was there but Shreck interrupted him midsentence.

"Look at them," he said, gesturing to the various prisoners. "Pathetic, isn't it? To think that I and my men should be reduced to being jailers for a bunch of vermin and trash is insulting. All they do is wander and around and mope. They don't even try to escape anymore. Some might say that it is always best to take the fight out of an enemy, but I say that once you've beaten him, once he knuckles under and passively submits, it just isn't as fun anymore. Still, I find ways to amuse myself..."

Seeming to focus on one individual in particular, Shreck grabbed the Luger from the table and took aim, firing. The Luger's silencer ensured it made only a soft "pffut" sound, audible only to the three of them. The prisoner, an elderly Jewish mouse, reeled as the bullet penetrated and shattered his shoulder. He staggered but didn't fall, he only wailed in pain. Shreck scowled.

"Damn it, missed," he snarled, and fired again.

This time the mouse was hit in the head, and the back of his cranium exploded in a small shower of gore. He collapsed. A few of the prisoners ran to hide. Others turned numbly towards where they knew their jailer and his entourage had been standing while still more just went about their business, numb as always. The guards, for their part, never even seemed to notice or care. Ikol covered his mouth.

"I like using silencers," Shreck explained. "It's more amusing when they don't know the hit is coming. I enjoy seeing out the react."

Ikol nodded dumbly and watched as the doberman took aim again, more carefully this time. Due to line-of-sight, Ikol could not determine who or what Shreck was aiming at until he fired, and a female mouse took a bullet in the head. She died instantly and fell down. Shreck chuckled.

"Got her!" he enthused, acting like a sportsman at a pigeon shoot.

Ikol was wanting more and more to just leave the briefcase on Shreck's tea table and run back to the car, but fear kept him firmly rooted to his spot. Turning, Shreck put his Luger down on the table and took another sip of tea.

"Ah," he said, seeming to notice the briefcase for the first time, "is that the parcel from Belzig?"

Spitzohr nodded and, with his key, unlocked the handcuffs and handed the bag over to Shreck. The doberman turned and set the case down on the table, opening it, and began perusing the documents inside.

"Ah, yes, from Speer," he muttered, to no one in particular. "Requisition orders for work detail," he said. "Well at least Speer continues finding use for these savages and naysayers." Producing a pen, he set about scribbling his signature on the papers. Then, absently, he said, "Hauptsturmführer, I understand this is your first visit to one of our...pleasant little camps."

He glanced up from the paperwork with a look that made Ikol's blood turn cold. It was the same look that he had seen in the American, Danny Bitterman, before. The look of a cold, detached and violent individual who could, and would, kill someone as easily as they would order lunch at a restaurant. But whereas Bitterman had been an excitable lunatic lacking in self-control, driven by his hormones and by a desire to assert himself over others, Shreck, it seemed, was different.

Unlike the American he was not the type to lose his temper or even raise his voice. Ikol had heard stories of such SS officers and even encountered a handful, but had never seen one so far gone as Standartenführer Shreck. He concluded, in that instant, that Shreck lacked a soul. Or, if he had a soul, he certainly never utilized it. It was as if the doberman were a shell emptier than the pathetic prisoners he guarded.

They stared at one another for a few moments before Shreck said, "Hauptsturmführer, would you be so kind as to pick up that other gun?" With the pen, he pointed at the second Luger sitting on the table.

Ikol swallowed. A million different possibilities raced through his mind. Did Shreck expect him to follow his example, and use the prisoners for target practice? Out of the question. Savages or not, Ikol found the notion of personally executing an unarmed civilian disgusting, which was why he preferred to leave it to men like Shreck. Or had Belzig instructed Shreck to kill him? What if, the moment Spitzohr picked up the Luger, Shreck shot him using the other, only to later claim self-defense?

"Why?" he asked.

Shreck seemed puzzled by the question. He smirked. "I want to see how good your aim is."

So. It had been the first one. Deciding to play if safe, Ikol managed a small smile and gently shook his head. "Uh, no sir, thank you, sir, but I'll have to politely decline. Savages or not, using people as target practice isn't my idea of fun."

He suddenly wished he hadn't said that. As it turned out he hadn't played it safe after all. He watched as finally Shreck's face showed a new emotion: anger. The doberman's features contorted, making his once handsome face look positively ugly.

"That wasn't a request, Hauptsturmführer," he snarled. "Now, pick up the gun."

Ikol looked at Obersturmführer Schmidt standing beside him, hoping to find an ally. Instead the rottweiler merely smirked at him. He was fully aligned with his Standartenführer it seemed. Deciding he could stomach one quick kill from a distance, Ikol stepped forward, trembling, and grabbed the Luger. He hefted it and aimed it towards a small group of Jews at the opposite end of the compound from where he and the other two stood.

"It doesn't matter which one," Shreck instructed.

Ikol licked his lips. His hand was shaking, and consequently, so was the gun. When he fired he missed by a mile. The bullet hit the dirt. No one noticed it.

He hoped this would be the end of it, that Shreck would chastise him for his poor marksmanship and send him on his way. Instead, the big doberman moved behind the smaller squirrel and Ikol felt Shreck's large hands on his shoulders, kneading them, massaging them.

"Relax," he cooed. "Just take your time. And hold the thing steady."

Under the expert massages of Standartenführer Shreck, Ikol relaxed. His rational mind was telling him to stop this nonsense. Why should he let this sociopathic madman tell him what to do? All he was supposed to do was give the imbecile the documents, and he'd done that. But Shreck's voice was smooth and melodic. It soothed Ikol and made him think that maybe this wasn't so bad after all. This time when he fired, he hit middle-aged Jewish mouse in the stomach. The mouse screamed in agony, clutching his bleeding stomach, and fell. But he didn't die, instead he writhed in the mud screaming.

Taking his hands off of Spitzohr's shoulders, Shreck commended him. "Excellent shot. Not an instant kill, but you still put your man down, eh, Hauptsturmführer?" He chuckled. Beside him, so did Schmidt.

Spitzohr was still reeling from the realization of what he just did when Shreck signaled to two doberman guards. The pair hurried over to the mortally-wounded Jew and dragged him over to where the three officers stood, and he was flung at their feet, panting and moaning in pain. Ikol stared down at him, aghast. He'd never seen a Jew in such a state before. Certainly the Skorpiongeschwader had sent their fair share of Jews to Spriggenfeld and other camps, but Spitzohr had made a point to forbid his men from executing the Jews themselves, because it would be a waste of ammo. To say nothing of a pile of bodies lying around that they neither needed nor wanted.

But now, watching this mouse writhe at his feet, Ikol felt suddenly ill. As if the pain had renewed the once-apathetic prisoner's will to live, he groped with one hand and seized Ikol by the ankle, pleadingly. Ikol reflexively shook him loose and stepped back, almost dropping the gun.

"Well?" said Shreck.

"Well, what?" replied Ikol, never taking his eyes off of the mouse.

"Go ahead and put a bullet in his brain," the doberman said absently. "I didn't drag him over here just so you could enjoy watching his death throes. He's beginning to annoy me."

Finally the mouse looked up, with sunken, bloodshot eyes, scraggly hair and a desperate expression on his face. In a hoarse whisper, he said, "Please," as blood trickled from his mouth.

Ikol had had enough. He shook his head fiercely. "No," he said firmly. "No, I won't. If you want to kill this man, you do it yourself, or get one of your men to do it. I didn't come here to do your dirty work, Shreck."

There was a clicking sound and Ikol suddenly felt the barrel of a Walther handgun held against his head. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Schmidt was the one holding it. He gulped nervously.

"Not my dirty work, Hauptsturmführer," said Shreck. "After all, you're the one who shot him. If I finished him off, I'd be doing your dirty work." He chuckled. "How's that sound? Now, either you finish him and walk out of here...or else you'll join him in the mud. You have five seconds before Schmidt pulls the trigger."

Ikol shivered but kept looking down at the Jew. What should he do? He'd already shot the poor bastard, and unless he received immediate medical attention, which Shreck, being Shreck, wasn't like to give, he would die a very slow and painful death. Ikol had seen enough of his own men die agonizing deaths from such wounds. And if he didn't do as Shreck demanded, he himself would also die an agonizing death. Slowly, be brought the Luger up again and aimed down at the mouse.

At this, Schmidt lowered his own weapon, but did not put it away just yet.

Ikol aimed carefully, determined to kill the poor soul as quickly and painlessly as he could. His arm steadied and he fired. The bullet penetrated the rodent's skull and he instantly collapsed with a sound, having apparently died instantly. Spitzohr breathed a deep sigh of relief. Turning, he flung the Luger onto the tabletop as if it were something filthy and tried to compose himself. The guards picked up the limp form and took it away. Nearby Ikol should see they were also cleaning up the bodies of the two Jews Shreck had shot. Shreck himself was back at the table, finishing with the documents.

Obersturmführer Schmidt smirked and holstered his sidearm, then went to stand beside his commandant. After a moment, Shreck scribbled his signature on the last of the requisition forms and then replaced them neatly inside of the briefcase. This he handed to Spitzohr, who took it, but didn't both re-cuffing it to his wrist. He merely stood there, blank-eyed, seeming to be worn out or in shock.

"There you go," Shreck said. "'Yes' to an order of two-hundred Jews to help with Minister Speer's latest project. Tell Standartenführer Belzig I'll have them ready within the week."

Ikol nodded but said nohing. Schmidt looked mildly concerned.

"Are you okay, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine," Ikol replied.

"Well, I trust your first visit was an enjoyable one," said Shreck with a broad smile. "By the way, my wife and I are having a party this Saturday, Hauptsturmführer. I'd be delighted if you were to attend. I think I'd like to get to know you better."

"I'll--I'll see what I can do," Ikol replied, then turned and strode as quickly across the yard as he could, back to the car, without so much as a "Heil Hitler."

Five minutes later, Ikol was sitting in the front passenger seat once more as the Wanderer sped down the gloomy unpaved road. Spitzohr said silent and vacant-eyed, pale as a sheet, severely worrying his driver.

"Are--Are you all right, sir?" he asked uncertainly.

Ikol suddenly felt his stomach do flip-flops. "Stop the car," he ordered.

"What? Why?"

"I said stop the car!" Ikol bellowed.

Obeying, the driver pulled the Wanderer onto the side of the road. Throwing open the door, Ikol stumbled out, dropping the briefcase, then staggered a few feet away and vomited violently. Having had a small breakfast, there wasn't much to throw up, and so he bent over dry-heaving for a few moments, tears welling up in his eyes. From the car, the driver watched with a mixture of concern and something that may have been amusement.

Spitzohr remained where he was for a few minutes even once he was done, bending over and gripping his knees, wobbly. A couple of troop carriers carrying numerous German soldiers sped past at one point, the troops riding in back glancing at the odd scence of the parked staff car and the SS officer bent over in the bushes. After a moment, Ikol regained what little of his composure he could, and, wiping his eyes, walked back to the car.

Stooping to pick up the briefcase he tossed it into the backseat and then slid indifferently into the passenger's seat, shutting the door. He gave a small motion with his hand and the driver pulled the Wanderer back onto the road, and they resumed their journey, heading back to the airfield where Spitzohr's plane awaited him.

Ikol felt hate welling up inside him. Hate for Shreck, the sadist. Hate for Belzig, for putting him in this position as a petty act of revenge for nothing in particular. And most of all, hate for himself, for having submitted to the will of madmen and committed an atrocity that he just knew was going to haunt him for the rest of his life. He had always had a hand in sending the Jews to the camps. He was SS. It was part of his job. But now that he had been forced against his will to actually participate, he was even now beginning to re-evaluate the situation.

He hated Shreck. And he hated Belzig. And he decided then and there that he was never again going to do what he just did back there, and that from now on, his view of Jews and others whom the Fuhrer and Himmler deemed "undesirable" had been changed forever...

To Be Continued...