The Forum Heroes in Berlin: Operation Titmouse
As the infamous revisionist Dr. Pritsky seems bent on spreading the reactionary, Englander propaganda tale of my mission to Berlin, I thought it only fair to tell you, my dear friends, the truth about that mission.
It is my hope that these revelations will end the dissemination of slanderous, anti-Soviet lies and speculation on this somewhat obscure topic. Many false legends have grown about “Operation Titmouse” and I feel that it is my duty, as one of the few living participants, to describe it in detail.
As usual, any resemblance between the characters in this story and anyone now living is purely accidental and tragic.
“NO?” Comrade Stalin thundered in disbelief. “You said “No”! You are refusing to carry out this mission?”
Colonel Valery Sonofobich broke into an icy sweat and slumped in his chair. Commissar Davidov’s reply to the Boss had come as a deep shock to him, to say the least. Visions of a firing squad swam through his head.
Comrade Stalin unclenched his fists and sat back down behind his desk. He grasped the globe in front of him, putting one hand, claw like, over Antarctica to hold it steady. With the other hand he picked his brush back up and painted another section of the world a bright red. He appeared to be concentrating on the lines denoting the borders of the world’s countries as he carefully avoided those areas that the Glorious Red Army had not yet conquered.
Commissar Davidov was unrepentant and not fooled by this apparent shift in the Boss’s attention. From long experience, he knew that Comrade Stalin was truly enraged by his answer and was simply biding his time by painting the world globe until he had thought of a suitable punishment for the Commissar’s obstinacy.
Stalin placed the artist’s brush back into the small jar of red paint. He peered at the globe. Satisfied, for the moment, with his handiwork, he stood up and grabbed the globe with both hands.
Valery instinctively ducked.
With a slight leap, Stalin hurled the globe at the hoop in the corner, above the wooden stand.
The world flew straight through the hoop–all rim–and came to rest in its stand across the room.
“Ha!” Stalin exalted, “Three points!”
Valery quickly nodded in agreement.
Stalin turned to the Commissar, his bushy eyebrows knit together.
“Commissar Davidov, do you still refuse the mission?” Stalin said in a deceptively soft voice.
“No, I will not go on the mission”, Commissar Davidov replied.
“You said “No” to me again?” Stalin flew from behind his desk, but the Commisssar was already on his feet.
Valery cringed as the Commissar seized Comrade Stalin by the lapel and bitch-slapped him across the desk.
“I said Hell No! You redneck, Georgian peckerwood!” Commissar Davidov screamed at the prostrate Comrade Stalin.
At that instant, two NKVD men with submachineguns burst into the office.
(Probably to be Continued.....)
Best Regards,
~D, the EviL
The Forum Heroes in Berlin: Operation Titmouse
Moderator: Commissar D, the Evil
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Commissar D, the Evil
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The Forum Heroes in Berlin: Operation Titmouse
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
- to be contined!-
Commissar D, the Evil
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Operation Titmouse (Part Two)
Commissar Davidov screamed.
Colonel Sonofovich stared at him.
The Commissar’s eyes fluttered open and Valery turned his gaze back to the road ahead, gripping the steering wheel firmly as little American jeep bounced over the potholes.
“I had that dream again Valery”, Davidov said.
“Again?”
Davidov rubbed his eyes and straightened in his seat. “That’s three nights in a row, every since we were ordered to report to Moscow.”
“A man should listen to his dreams, Commissar, especially the bad ones”, Valery offered.
Davidov nodded slightly.
“But I don’t understand why you’re worried. We’ve had a splendid year. The Boss can only be happy with our performance.”
Davidov had never divulged the details of his dream to Valery, for reasons obvious to anyone living in the Soviet Union. It wasn’t in his nature to worry about a possible assignment, but the dream had feed vague feelings of dread on his part. These were actually aggravated by being ordered to Moscow after his precious Guards Tank Corps had enjoyed a successful series of campaigns. In his experience, success only breeds harder assignments.
“Well, we’ll be there soon”, Valery said. “So, no sense in worrying anyway.”
Still, the Commissar couldn’t put the bizarre dreams out of his mind.
It took an eternity of searches, document verifications, more searches, order-signings and counter-signings, followed by still more searches before the two were admitted to the Boss’ offices. By the time they reached Stalin’s secretaries desk, they had been strip-searched three times, photographed twice and forced to submit to a body cavity search in between.
But, on the other hand, they had also received brand new uniforms, complete with the decorations they were entitled to wear, so Col. Sonofovich counted the procedure as an overall
success. The Commissar hadn’t said much of anything throughout the ordeal. But Valery could tell that he was apprehensive.
The great wooden doors swung open as Davidov and Valery waited in the ante-chamber. Lavrenti Beria emerged. An old crony of Stalin’s, Beria was as notorious a mass-murderer as anyone in Russian history.
It so happened that Beria was an veteran antagonist of Commissar Davidov. In fact, some years before, Davidov had escaped--by a near-miracle--from a firing squad arranged by the Beria protege Judge Clarence Thomasky
For a moment their eyes locked. Valery was slightly unsettled by the look of outright defiance and hatred Davidov aimed at the secret policeman. For his part, Beria simply chuckled and walked away.
The secretary led them into Stalin’s office.
As dictator’s offices go, Stalin’s was modestly furnished. It was a very large room, wood-paneled and with various paintings hung at intervals on the scarlet-painted walls. Two soft chairs were arranged in front of the Boss’ desk. Commissar Davidov and Colonel Sonofovich saluted stiffly.
Comrade Stalin greeted them with a smile and removing the pipe from his mouth, gestured for them to have a seat.
Valery settled into the chair, which was amazingly soft, and found himself literally sinking into it.
Commissar Davidov, however, sat on the edge of his seat. From past experiences, he knew that his cunning Commander-in-Chief staged everything for a purpose. If the chairs were soft, Stalin wanted them to relax and let their guard down.
Looking around the room, Davidov noted that it was exactly as it had appeared in the dream.
A huge portrait of Lenin loomed on the wall behind Comrade Stalin’s desk At the far end of the room was a globe on a wooden stand. Above the globe was a pair of curtains. The casual observer might think that these drawn curtains covered a window not in use. But Davidov knew that, beneath the curtains, was a portrait of Stalin himself, twice as large as that of Lenin and hung above rows of hidden candles. This was Stalin’s hidden shrine and Davidov was aware that he could be executed for simply knowing about it, so he quickly shifted his gaze back to the Boss.
Comrade Stalin was still smiling effusively, another bad sign.
“I have an assignment for the two of you”, Comrade Stalin said amicably as he slid a pair of files across his desk.
Valery retrieved the files and handed one to the Commissar. Valery opened his, but the Commissar placed the other in his lap.
“You’re not interested, Comrade Commissar?” Stalin asked softly. Without waiting for an answer, he continued:
“It is really a simple matter, we need you to go to Berlin. The Nazi bastards are working on a new tank.”
“Berlin?” Valery blurted, interrupting the Boss.
“Yes, Berlin–undercover of course.”
Wide-eyed, Valery looked at the Commissar, who stared intently at Comrade Stalin.
“But CaCaComrade Stalin”, Valery stuttered. “Surely this is a job for our spys–we have no training in this type of operation.”
Stalin ignored him and continued on topic. “The Nazis have invented a tank code-named the “Titmouse”. Apparently it is huge and, it lifts and separates.”
Valery looked puzzled. “Lifts and seperates?”
“Yes”, Stalin replied. The turret lifts off from the hull. Its armor is very thick and we believe that it is the latest “vengeance weapon” designed by the Nazi fanatics. We need you to intercept the plans.”
Commissar Davidov crossed his arms over his chest and the medals pinned to it.
“Comrade Stalin”, Commissar Davidov said after a moment, “I must agree with Colonel Sonofovich. I am not trained for this assignment. Nor do I believe that I am Aryan enough to stroll down the streets of Berlin in search of a set of blueprints. I’m afraid I must decline this mission.”
Comrade Stalin lit his pipe and took a puff. Pointing the end of it at the Commissar, he said,
“So you are saying “No” to me?”
“Comrade Stalin, I must decline this assignment”, Commissar Davidov repeated.
Valery felt an icy sweat break out over his entire body. The Commissar’s reply had come as a shock--to say the least--to him and he had visions of a firing squad in his immediate future.
Comrade Stalin blew a puff of blue smoke into the air. “Well”, he said, “I’ve always found that a good smoke refreshes a man after a long trip and makes him think clearly. Retire to the antechamber, have a smoke and reconsider your decision.”
Commissar D and Valery walked out of the room and went back to the secretary’s office. The secretary was not there. But two submachine gun-toting guards were. On the secretary’s desk were two packs of cigarettes–Lucky Strikes from America–and two pistols.
Commissar D lit a cigarette and picked up the pistol. The guards regarded him cautiously, but didn’t move. As the Commissar suspected, there was one round in the gun. He handed it to Valery, who quickly put it down.
“Perhaps your decision was a bit hasty”, Valery said nervously. The Commissar smoked a cigarette, thinking of dreams and nightmares.
NEXT EPISODE: "Bitch-Slapped"
Commissar Davidov screamed.
Colonel Sonofovich stared at him.
The Commissar’s eyes fluttered open and Valery turned his gaze back to the road ahead, gripping the steering wheel firmly as little American jeep bounced over the potholes.
“I had that dream again Valery”, Davidov said.
“Again?”
Davidov rubbed his eyes and straightened in his seat. “That’s three nights in a row, every since we were ordered to report to Moscow.”
“A man should listen to his dreams, Commissar, especially the bad ones”, Valery offered.
Davidov nodded slightly.
“But I don’t understand why you’re worried. We’ve had a splendid year. The Boss can only be happy with our performance.”
Davidov had never divulged the details of his dream to Valery, for reasons obvious to anyone living in the Soviet Union. It wasn’t in his nature to worry about a possible assignment, but the dream had feed vague feelings of dread on his part. These were actually aggravated by being ordered to Moscow after his precious Guards Tank Corps had enjoyed a successful series of campaigns. In his experience, success only breeds harder assignments.
“Well, we’ll be there soon”, Valery said. “So, no sense in worrying anyway.”
Still, the Commissar couldn’t put the bizarre dreams out of his mind.
It took an eternity of searches, document verifications, more searches, order-signings and counter-signings, followed by still more searches before the two were admitted to the Boss’ offices. By the time they reached Stalin’s secretaries desk, they had been strip-searched three times, photographed twice and forced to submit to a body cavity search in between.
But, on the other hand, they had also received brand new uniforms, complete with the decorations they were entitled to wear, so Col. Sonofovich counted the procedure as an overall
success. The Commissar hadn’t said much of anything throughout the ordeal. But Valery could tell that he was apprehensive.
The great wooden doors swung open as Davidov and Valery waited in the ante-chamber. Lavrenti Beria emerged. An old crony of Stalin’s, Beria was as notorious a mass-murderer as anyone in Russian history.
It so happened that Beria was an veteran antagonist of Commissar Davidov. In fact, some years before, Davidov had escaped--by a near-miracle--from a firing squad arranged by the Beria protege Judge Clarence Thomasky
For a moment their eyes locked. Valery was slightly unsettled by the look of outright defiance and hatred Davidov aimed at the secret policeman. For his part, Beria simply chuckled and walked away.
The secretary led them into Stalin’s office.
As dictator’s offices go, Stalin’s was modestly furnished. It was a very large room, wood-paneled and with various paintings hung at intervals on the scarlet-painted walls. Two soft chairs were arranged in front of the Boss’ desk. Commissar Davidov and Colonel Sonofovich saluted stiffly.
Comrade Stalin greeted them with a smile and removing the pipe from his mouth, gestured for them to have a seat.
Valery settled into the chair, which was amazingly soft, and found himself literally sinking into it.
Commissar Davidov, however, sat on the edge of his seat. From past experiences, he knew that his cunning Commander-in-Chief staged everything for a purpose. If the chairs were soft, Stalin wanted them to relax and let their guard down.
Looking around the room, Davidov noted that it was exactly as it had appeared in the dream.
A huge portrait of Lenin loomed on the wall behind Comrade Stalin’s desk At the far end of the room was a globe on a wooden stand. Above the globe was a pair of curtains. The casual observer might think that these drawn curtains covered a window not in use. But Davidov knew that, beneath the curtains, was a portrait of Stalin himself, twice as large as that of Lenin and hung above rows of hidden candles. This was Stalin’s hidden shrine and Davidov was aware that he could be executed for simply knowing about it, so he quickly shifted his gaze back to the Boss.
Comrade Stalin was still smiling effusively, another bad sign.
“I have an assignment for the two of you”, Comrade Stalin said amicably as he slid a pair of files across his desk.
Valery retrieved the files and handed one to the Commissar. Valery opened his, but the Commissar placed the other in his lap.
“You’re not interested, Comrade Commissar?” Stalin asked softly. Without waiting for an answer, he continued:
“It is really a simple matter, we need you to go to Berlin. The Nazi bastards are working on a new tank.”
“Berlin?” Valery blurted, interrupting the Boss.
“Yes, Berlin–undercover of course.”
Wide-eyed, Valery looked at the Commissar, who stared intently at Comrade Stalin.
“But CaCaComrade Stalin”, Valery stuttered. “Surely this is a job for our spys–we have no training in this type of operation.”
Stalin ignored him and continued on topic. “The Nazis have invented a tank code-named the “Titmouse”. Apparently it is huge and, it lifts and separates.”
Valery looked puzzled. “Lifts and seperates?”
“Yes”, Stalin replied. The turret lifts off from the hull. Its armor is very thick and we believe that it is the latest “vengeance weapon” designed by the Nazi fanatics. We need you to intercept the plans.”
Commissar Davidov crossed his arms over his chest and the medals pinned to it.
“Comrade Stalin”, Commissar Davidov said after a moment, “I must agree with Colonel Sonofovich. I am not trained for this assignment. Nor do I believe that I am Aryan enough to stroll down the streets of Berlin in search of a set of blueprints. I’m afraid I must decline this mission.”
Comrade Stalin lit his pipe and took a puff. Pointing the end of it at the Commissar, he said,
“So you are saying “No” to me?”
“Comrade Stalin, I must decline this assignment”, Commissar Davidov repeated.
Valery felt an icy sweat break out over his entire body. The Commissar’s reply had come as a shock--to say the least--to him and he had visions of a firing squad in his immediate future.
Comrade Stalin blew a puff of blue smoke into the air. “Well”, he said, “I’ve always found that a good smoke refreshes a man after a long trip and makes him think clearly. Retire to the antechamber, have a smoke and reconsider your decision.”
Commissar D and Valery walked out of the room and went back to the secretary’s office. The secretary was not there. But two submachine gun-toting guards were. On the secretary’s desk were two packs of cigarettes–Lucky Strikes from America–and two pistols.
Commissar D lit a cigarette and picked up the pistol. The guards regarded him cautiously, but didn’t move. As the Commissar suspected, there was one round in the gun. He handed it to Valery, who quickly put it down.
“Perhaps your decision was a bit hasty”, Valery said nervously. The Commissar smoked a cigarette, thinking of dreams and nightmares.
NEXT EPISODE: "Bitch-Slapped"
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Bitch-Slapped
Valery idly looked through the file on “Operation Titmouse” as the Commissar chain-smoked his way through the pack of Lucky Strikes. Inevitably, the door to Comrade Stalin’s chamber swung open. Only this time, a lovely young lady beckoned them to enter.
The two men exchanged surprised glances–they were sitting next to what they reckoned to be the only entrance to the room and the woman hadn’t passed them, nor, certainly, had she been in the room when they left.
But there she was, youthful and pretty, wearing a fine tailored black skirt and a starched white blouse. She directed them back to their seats and stood quietly off to the side.
“So”, Comrade Stalin inquired, “Have you reconsidered your decision.”
Colonel Sonofovich squirmed in his chair. He had no idea what the Commissar would say and thought of answering for him, until it occurred to Valery that the question had not been directed at him.
Commissar Davidov watched as Comrade Stalin tamped down the tobacco in his pipe.
“I will consent under two conditions”, the Commissar said boldly.
Comrade Stalin arched an eyebrow. “And those are?”
Valery gulped. As a professional soldier, he wasn’t used to a demonstration of patience on the part of a superior. And Comrade Stalin, of course, was the ultimate superior, so, logically, he should possess the ultimate impatience.
Commissar Davidov pressed ahead, vowing to himself that he would bitch-slap Comrade Stalin before he was shot if it came to that.
“First, I would like to know who requested us for this mission. Secondly, I would like to know how you plan to make it possible for me to walk the streets of Berlin.”
Comrade Stalin smiled. The smile itself caught Davidov by surprise. It was as though he were a party to a joke that had not been explained to them.
“As for the first question”, Comrade Stalin said, “Your presence was specifically requested by Commissar Fridolineev who is already in Berlin. He is a good friend of yours, if I remember correctly.
Commissar Davidov appeared to be puzzled.
As for the second question. Well, have you ever heard the American term “make over”?
Davidov shook his head. Stalin gestured to the young lady who took a step forward.
“This”, Comrade Stalin said, “Is a member of SMERSH–he used the Russian acronym for the organization named “Death To Spies". You may call her ”L”. She works in “M”s department and reports directly to “Q”. "L", what do you think?”
The woman placed her hand under Valery’s chin and lifted his face towards her.
“No problem”, she said. She walked over to the Commissar and put her hand under his chin, but he wouldn’t oblige by moving his head, so she bent slightly over and studied his face to catch his features.
“A challenge”, she said finally. “But it can be done.”
“Very well,” Comrade Stalin said. He darted a glance at the Commissar. “Since you have agreed to accept the mission, I leave you in the highly capable hands of “L”. I can only say, Comrade Commissar, that you may trust me when I assure you that she will make you able to walk the streets of Berlin.”
Valery idly looked through the file on “Operation Titmouse” as the Commissar chain-smoked his way through the pack of Lucky Strikes. Inevitably, the door to Comrade Stalin’s chamber swung open. Only this time, a lovely young lady beckoned them to enter.
The two men exchanged surprised glances–they were sitting next to what they reckoned to be the only entrance to the room and the woman hadn’t passed them, nor, certainly, had she been in the room when they left.
But there she was, youthful and pretty, wearing a fine tailored black skirt and a starched white blouse. She directed them back to their seats and stood quietly off to the side.
“So”, Comrade Stalin inquired, “Have you reconsidered your decision.”
Colonel Sonofovich squirmed in his chair. He had no idea what the Commissar would say and thought of answering for him, until it occurred to Valery that the question had not been directed at him.
Commissar Davidov watched as Comrade Stalin tamped down the tobacco in his pipe.
“I will consent under two conditions”, the Commissar said boldly.
Comrade Stalin arched an eyebrow. “And those are?”
Valery gulped. As a professional soldier, he wasn’t used to a demonstration of patience on the part of a superior. And Comrade Stalin, of course, was the ultimate superior, so, logically, he should possess the ultimate impatience.
Commissar Davidov pressed ahead, vowing to himself that he would bitch-slap Comrade Stalin before he was shot if it came to that.
“First, I would like to know who requested us for this mission. Secondly, I would like to know how you plan to make it possible for me to walk the streets of Berlin.”
Comrade Stalin smiled. The smile itself caught Davidov by surprise. It was as though he were a party to a joke that had not been explained to them.
“As for the first question”, Comrade Stalin said, “Your presence was specifically requested by Commissar Fridolineev who is already in Berlin. He is a good friend of yours, if I remember correctly.
Commissar Davidov appeared to be puzzled.
As for the second question. Well, have you ever heard the American term “make over”?
Davidov shook his head. Stalin gestured to the young lady who took a step forward.
“This”, Comrade Stalin said, “Is a member of SMERSH–he used the Russian acronym for the organization named “Death To Spies". You may call her ”L”. She works in “M”s department and reports directly to “Q”. "L", what do you think?”
The woman placed her hand under Valery’s chin and lifted his face towards her.
“No problem”, she said. She walked over to the Commissar and put her hand under his chin, but he wouldn’t oblige by moving his head, so she bent slightly over and studied his face to catch his features.
“A challenge”, she said finally. “But it can be done.”
“Very well,” Comrade Stalin said. He darted a glance at the Commissar. “Since you have agreed to accept the mission, I leave you in the highly capable hands of “L”. I can only say, Comrade Commissar, that you may trust me when I assure you that she will make you able to walk the streets of Berlin.”
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
Mmmm.... Clarke's persona trying to burst through layers of different personalities?Davidov had escaped--by a near-miracle--from a firing squad arranged by the Beria protege Judge Clarence Thomasky
You know, you can always count on him for providing fun!“Your presence was specifically requested by Commissar Fridolineev who is already in Berlin. He is a good friend of yours, if I remember correctly.
What we do in Life echoes in Eternity.
No quisieron querer a otra Bandera,
no pudieron andar otro camino,
no supieron morir de otra manera.
No quisieron querer a otra Bandera,
no pudieron andar otro camino,
no supieron morir de otra manera.
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Commissar D, the Evil
- Moderator
- Posts: 4823
- Joined: Sun Sep 29, 2002 7:22 pm
- Location: New Jersey
Operation Titmouse, Part 4
Agent "L" opened the secret doorway in Comrade Stalin’s office and lead Colonel Sonofovich and the Commissar down a winding, narrow staircase. After a few minutes, they found themselves in a brightly lit and very large subterranean room. The room was big enough, Valery calculated, to park at least two dozen T-34s and still have room for maintenance. It’s floor was concrete and painted a garish bright red, as were the walls up to the height of a man.
The Commissar recognized this as a standard SMERSH paint-job. The color being specifically picked, not as an ideological statement, but to facilitate interrogations and hide bloodstains. But the room wasn’t set up for interrogations. True, there was a line of holding cells on one wall with narrow metal doors and a small glass panel at their center for observing prisoners.
But the rest of the room was sectioned off into a series of unusual enclosures. To the Commissar’s amazement, their were what looked to be barber’s chairs and long clothing racks, as well as body length standing mirrors. There was a section that contained weapons, spread out on a linen tablecloth and another with neat lines of passports. He could also see cameras and radio equipment.
If anything, the room reminded him of a department store, except that no Moscow department store could boast of such a varied selection of consumer goods.
Agent “L” turned towards them. Immediately other young ladies emerged from the various sectors and joined her. Commissar D took a good look at her and found that she wasn’t at all what he would have expected, given the circumstances. She was certainly young and seemed to have that healthy energy of the young. Nor did her face possess the obligatory cynicism of a SMERSH operative. The overall impression he gained was of cheerfulness, held in check by the obligation of duty. She was dressed seriously, in black and white, as were the other operatives and her hair was pulled back into a “school-teacher’s bun”, but her smile appeared genuine.
“Let me introduce my comrades and myself, since we will be working together on this project”, she said. “My name is “L” although you may call me Locke. I am the Project Director. This is “A” who is in charge of our weapons section, “B” who handles identity, “C” who is responsible for dress, and “D” who is responsible for choreography.
The Commissar raised an eyebrow at the last introduction, but they shook hands all around. He couldn’t sense any malicious intent or deception on Locke’s part, but he wasn’t quite sure what exactly was going on.
Locke moved over to a chalk board on which the words “Operation Titmaus” were inscribed. Beneath the title was a drawing of a huge tank, with twin turrets and other names and words that he was unfamiliar with. Locke began her lecture.
“Doctor Ferdinand Porsche is a leading designer of Nazi heavy tanks. We have acquired information that he is personally designing a monstrous vehicle called the “Maus”, whose size and firepower dwarfs anything ever seen before. He is the subject of another of our programs”, Locke said quickly. “What concerns us is a variation on this vehicle, in development by a protege of Dr. Porsche named Doctor LeibLouse. This variant has been assigned the code name “Titmaus” and it is this project we are here to stop. You can see an artist’s rendition of the tank here on the board.”
At this point Locke gestured towards the picture of the twin-turreted machine. It seemed to carry two 12.8 cm. cannon, one in each domed turret.
“Our preliminary information indicates that the tank can lift and separate each turret from its body. We belief that this unique mechanism will create an insurmountable threat to our tanks.
So, Comrades, we must stop it.”
Colonel Sonofovich raised his hand. Locke nodded and he asked,
“Well, how much real information do we have on this tank and how are we to stop its completion?”
Locke smiled. “We know that Speer’s office has placed an order with Krupp for high tensile steel, so the project is advancing. We know that plans of the prototype are scheduled to be delivered in Berlin two weeks from now. You are to intercept and prevent the delivery.”
“And how are we going to do that?” Commissar Davidov questioned.
“Simple”, Locke answered, “We are here to give you a complete make-over. As Comrade Stalin indicated, we will transform you both into Berlin streetwalkers, so that you can accomplish your mission in anonymity.”
At this point Commissar D instinctively reached for his pistol–which, unfortunately for him, had been taken away hours ago.
Agent "L" opened the secret doorway in Comrade Stalin’s office and lead Colonel Sonofovich and the Commissar down a winding, narrow staircase. After a few minutes, they found themselves in a brightly lit and very large subterranean room. The room was big enough, Valery calculated, to park at least two dozen T-34s and still have room for maintenance. It’s floor was concrete and painted a garish bright red, as were the walls up to the height of a man.
The Commissar recognized this as a standard SMERSH paint-job. The color being specifically picked, not as an ideological statement, but to facilitate interrogations and hide bloodstains. But the room wasn’t set up for interrogations. True, there was a line of holding cells on one wall with narrow metal doors and a small glass panel at their center for observing prisoners.
But the rest of the room was sectioned off into a series of unusual enclosures. To the Commissar’s amazement, their were what looked to be barber’s chairs and long clothing racks, as well as body length standing mirrors. There was a section that contained weapons, spread out on a linen tablecloth and another with neat lines of passports. He could also see cameras and radio equipment.
If anything, the room reminded him of a department store, except that no Moscow department store could boast of such a varied selection of consumer goods.
Agent “L” turned towards them. Immediately other young ladies emerged from the various sectors and joined her. Commissar D took a good look at her and found that she wasn’t at all what he would have expected, given the circumstances. She was certainly young and seemed to have that healthy energy of the young. Nor did her face possess the obligatory cynicism of a SMERSH operative. The overall impression he gained was of cheerfulness, held in check by the obligation of duty. She was dressed seriously, in black and white, as were the other operatives and her hair was pulled back into a “school-teacher’s bun”, but her smile appeared genuine.
“Let me introduce my comrades and myself, since we will be working together on this project”, she said. “My name is “L” although you may call me Locke. I am the Project Director. This is “A” who is in charge of our weapons section, “B” who handles identity, “C” who is responsible for dress, and “D” who is responsible for choreography.
The Commissar raised an eyebrow at the last introduction, but they shook hands all around. He couldn’t sense any malicious intent or deception on Locke’s part, but he wasn’t quite sure what exactly was going on.
Locke moved over to a chalk board on which the words “Operation Titmaus” were inscribed. Beneath the title was a drawing of a huge tank, with twin turrets and other names and words that he was unfamiliar with. Locke began her lecture.
“Doctor Ferdinand Porsche is a leading designer of Nazi heavy tanks. We have acquired information that he is personally designing a monstrous vehicle called the “Maus”, whose size and firepower dwarfs anything ever seen before. He is the subject of another of our programs”, Locke said quickly. “What concerns us is a variation on this vehicle, in development by a protege of Dr. Porsche named Doctor LeibLouse. This variant has been assigned the code name “Titmaus” and it is this project we are here to stop. You can see an artist’s rendition of the tank here on the board.”
At this point Locke gestured towards the picture of the twin-turreted machine. It seemed to carry two 12.8 cm. cannon, one in each domed turret.
“Our preliminary information indicates that the tank can lift and separate each turret from its body. We belief that this unique mechanism will create an insurmountable threat to our tanks.
So, Comrades, we must stop it.”
Colonel Sonofovich raised his hand. Locke nodded and he asked,
“Well, how much real information do we have on this tank and how are we to stop its completion?”
Locke smiled. “We know that Speer’s office has placed an order with Krupp for high tensile steel, so the project is advancing. We know that plans of the prototype are scheduled to be delivered in Berlin two weeks from now. You are to intercept and prevent the delivery.”
“And how are we going to do that?” Commissar Davidov questioned.
“Simple”, Locke answered, “We are here to give you a complete make-over. As Comrade Stalin indicated, we will transform you both into Berlin streetwalkers, so that you can accomplish your mission in anonymity.”
At this point Commissar D instinctively reached for his pistol–which, unfortunately for him, had been taken away hours ago.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
-
Commissar D, the Evil
- Moderator
- Posts: 4823
- Joined: Sun Sep 29, 2002 7:22 pm
- Location: New Jersey
Operation Titmaus, Part 5
As generally happens in Forum Hero Tales, Commissar Davidov and Colonel Sonofovich weren’t the only ones doomed to be involved in the latest mission from Moscow. Yes, by a weird–but somehow logical– twist of fate, at the very moment Commissar D was questioned by Comrade Stalin, the German General Staff cut new orders for S.S. Panzerjager Abteilung 6969 z.b.V.–“DaneGeld”. By personal order of the Fuhrer, “DaneGeld” was upgraded to Divisional status with the incorporation of Johnny Wolftruppen’s Panther Battalion and the remnants of I/ I.R. “Wotan”. As these forces were, at the time, engaged in fierce fighting in Transylvania, the component parts of Division “DaneGeld” were withdrawn from the fighting and ordered to concentrate at the nearest railhead for transfer to a training camp near Berlin.*
(* The actual composition of Division “DaneGeld” during its formation is one of the enduring mysteries of WWII. In writing this story, I have consulted experts, such as Christoph Awender, Juha Hujanen, Doug Nash and Michael Avanzini. Tessin is silent on the Division, as are Tiecke, Zetterling and Nipe. But, from various bits of information supplied by our own Forum “Experten”, a picture of “DaneGeld” is slowly emerging. This would not be possible except for the unstinting and generous efforts of my friends.)
The crew of the scarlet StuG had barely finished chaining their vehicle to the flatcar for transport when the new commander of “DaneGeld” approached with his aide. S.S. Gruppenfuhrer Christian Anchorsson strode up to the railbed, thrust out his chest and placed his hands on his hips before he bellowed at them.
“You there! Do you know who I am!”
Leutnant Sam snapped to attention and saluted. Prit, Xavier and Adrian, still barechested and sweating, leaped to their feet on the engine deck of the scarlet StuG.
“Jawohl Herr Gruppenfuhrer”, Leutnant Sam shouted in his parade ground best voice.
“Then you know that I don’t like slackers!! You look like slackers to me!! Are you slackers?”
“Nein, Herr Gruppenfuhrer”, the forum heroes lied in unison. Prit stole a look at Craig and his dog “spam”, sprawled out asleep on the other side of the flatcar.
“There are no slackers in DaneGeld!” Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson roared. “Slackers will be shot!! Soldiers who help slackers will be shot!!! Soldiers thinking of being slackers will be shot!!! Where are your new helmets?”
Leutnant Sam glanced at Prit, who looked at Xavier, who peered at Adrian, who grinned back at Sam.
“As I suspected–you are all slackers!!!” The Gruppenfuhrer yelled.
Craig began to snore, but luckily spam heard him and licked his face.
The Gruppenfuhrer’ aide whispered something in his ear and quickly ran off. “And where are your vehicle’s shields?” Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson demanded.
In all truth, Leutnant Sam and the rest of the crew had forgotten “DaneGeld’s quaint policy of hanging Viking-style wooden shields on the superstructure of the unit’s StuGs. (This guaranteed a suitable “Viking’s Funeral” should the StuG be hit and the crew roasted alive, according to DaneGeld tradition.) Leutnant Sam stammered his apologies. Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson let him sweat for a few moments until his aide returned with a box.
“Dismount and take your DaneGeld helmets!” Anchorsson ordered.
The forum heros filed down off of the StuG and each of them dug int the box, retreived a helmet and placed it on his head before falling into line in front of the red-faced Gruppenfuhrer.
“That is more like it”, Anchorsson said. “We are an elite Divison--and you had better learn that! We are so elite that only we have been granted the privilege of wearing the Danedome!”
Leutnant Sam prayed for the opportunity to roll his eyes. The “Danedome” was a normal Whermacht stahlhelm, only with the addition of a bull’s horn on attached to each of its sides. It was very medieval “Viking” in its looks and much more cumbersome than a normal helmet.**
(**And a rarity. Today a Danedome in pristine condition fetches upwards of $5,000.00 on Ebay. See this forum’s “For Sale” section and buy your own today!!!)
Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson looked them over, walking past each man and commenting acidly about the state their uniforms. Finally, satisfied that he had brought order to this small portion of his command, he stalked off.
Fortunately, Tom in his Kelly-green Puma with the Shadow and Sam of the wee folk had witnessed the forum hero’s humiliation. With a gruff order, he had the wee Sam camouflage the Puma to resemble a boxcar and was spared similar abuse, as well as the chore of fitting a Danedome through his armored car’s tight hatches.
And so the heroes began their train trip to Berlin. The thought of spending a few days away from the front in the very heart of German civilization was, in itself, intoxicating and they would have worn a dozen Danedomes apiece to have that dream come true.
The train chugged away through forest and hills. All was peaceful and the StuG’s crew took advantage of the ride to nap and sunbathe. A few of the soldiers on the train joined them, lured no doubt by Prit’s supply of vodka and tinned food. Prit had no intention of arriving in Berlin without money, so he gratefully sold off most of his stash to the combat weary landsers.
All was going very smoothly and the trip would have been uneventful had the smoke from the train not been spotted by a pair of marauding fighter planes.
“Wild Bill” Caldric of the West Virginia Air National Guard signaled to his wingmate, Psycho Mike, the moment he saw the telltale smoke. The two big silver P-47s rolled over and dived steeply.
“Achtung!” A Landser by the name of Brig yelled.
Leutnant Sam looked up. Xavier grabbed the MG-34 from its shield above the loader’s hatch and canted it towards the sky.
“Mein Gott!” One of the soldiers screamed. “It’s der American Eagle!”
As generally happens in Forum Hero Tales, Commissar Davidov and Colonel Sonofovich weren’t the only ones doomed to be involved in the latest mission from Moscow. Yes, by a weird–but somehow logical– twist of fate, at the very moment Commissar D was questioned by Comrade Stalin, the German General Staff cut new orders for S.S. Panzerjager Abteilung 6969 z.b.V.–“DaneGeld”. By personal order of the Fuhrer, “DaneGeld” was upgraded to Divisional status with the incorporation of Johnny Wolftruppen’s Panther Battalion and the remnants of I/ I.R. “Wotan”. As these forces were, at the time, engaged in fierce fighting in Transylvania, the component parts of Division “DaneGeld” were withdrawn from the fighting and ordered to concentrate at the nearest railhead for transfer to a training camp near Berlin.*
(* The actual composition of Division “DaneGeld” during its formation is one of the enduring mysteries of WWII. In writing this story, I have consulted experts, such as Christoph Awender, Juha Hujanen, Doug Nash and Michael Avanzini. Tessin is silent on the Division, as are Tiecke, Zetterling and Nipe. But, from various bits of information supplied by our own Forum “Experten”, a picture of “DaneGeld” is slowly emerging. This would not be possible except for the unstinting and generous efforts of my friends.)
The crew of the scarlet StuG had barely finished chaining their vehicle to the flatcar for transport when the new commander of “DaneGeld” approached with his aide. S.S. Gruppenfuhrer Christian Anchorsson strode up to the railbed, thrust out his chest and placed his hands on his hips before he bellowed at them.
“You there! Do you know who I am!”
Leutnant Sam snapped to attention and saluted. Prit, Xavier and Adrian, still barechested and sweating, leaped to their feet on the engine deck of the scarlet StuG.
“Jawohl Herr Gruppenfuhrer”, Leutnant Sam shouted in his parade ground best voice.
“Then you know that I don’t like slackers!! You look like slackers to me!! Are you slackers?”
“Nein, Herr Gruppenfuhrer”, the forum heroes lied in unison. Prit stole a look at Craig and his dog “spam”, sprawled out asleep on the other side of the flatcar.
“There are no slackers in DaneGeld!” Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson roared. “Slackers will be shot!! Soldiers who help slackers will be shot!!! Soldiers thinking of being slackers will be shot!!! Where are your new helmets?”
Leutnant Sam glanced at Prit, who looked at Xavier, who peered at Adrian, who grinned back at Sam.
“As I suspected–you are all slackers!!!” The Gruppenfuhrer yelled.
Craig began to snore, but luckily spam heard him and licked his face.
The Gruppenfuhrer’ aide whispered something in his ear and quickly ran off. “And where are your vehicle’s shields?” Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson demanded.
In all truth, Leutnant Sam and the rest of the crew had forgotten “DaneGeld’s quaint policy of hanging Viking-style wooden shields on the superstructure of the unit’s StuGs. (This guaranteed a suitable “Viking’s Funeral” should the StuG be hit and the crew roasted alive, according to DaneGeld tradition.) Leutnant Sam stammered his apologies. Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson let him sweat for a few moments until his aide returned with a box.
“Dismount and take your DaneGeld helmets!” Anchorsson ordered.
The forum heros filed down off of the StuG and each of them dug int the box, retreived a helmet and placed it on his head before falling into line in front of the red-faced Gruppenfuhrer.
“That is more like it”, Anchorsson said. “We are an elite Divison--and you had better learn that! We are so elite that only we have been granted the privilege of wearing the Danedome!”
Leutnant Sam prayed for the opportunity to roll his eyes. The “Danedome” was a normal Whermacht stahlhelm, only with the addition of a bull’s horn on attached to each of its sides. It was very medieval “Viking” in its looks and much more cumbersome than a normal helmet.**
(**And a rarity. Today a Danedome in pristine condition fetches upwards of $5,000.00 on Ebay. See this forum’s “For Sale” section and buy your own today!!!)
Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson looked them over, walking past each man and commenting acidly about the state their uniforms. Finally, satisfied that he had brought order to this small portion of his command, he stalked off.
Fortunately, Tom in his Kelly-green Puma with the Shadow and Sam of the wee folk had witnessed the forum hero’s humiliation. With a gruff order, he had the wee Sam camouflage the Puma to resemble a boxcar and was spared similar abuse, as well as the chore of fitting a Danedome through his armored car’s tight hatches.
And so the heroes began their train trip to Berlin. The thought of spending a few days away from the front in the very heart of German civilization was, in itself, intoxicating and they would have worn a dozen Danedomes apiece to have that dream come true.
The train chugged away through forest and hills. All was peaceful and the StuG’s crew took advantage of the ride to nap and sunbathe. A few of the soldiers on the train joined them, lured no doubt by Prit’s supply of vodka and tinned food. Prit had no intention of arriving in Berlin without money, so he gratefully sold off most of his stash to the combat weary landsers.
All was going very smoothly and the trip would have been uneventful had the smoke from the train not been spotted by a pair of marauding fighter planes.
“Wild Bill” Caldric of the West Virginia Air National Guard signaled to his wingmate, Psycho Mike, the moment he saw the telltale smoke. The two big silver P-47s rolled over and dived steeply.
“Achtung!” A Landser by the name of Brig yelled.
Leutnant Sam looked up. Xavier grabbed the MG-34 from its shield above the loader’s hatch and canted it towards the sky.
“Mein Gott!” One of the soldiers screamed. “It’s der American Eagle!”
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
-
Commissar D, the Evil
- Moderator
- Posts: 4823
- Joined: Sun Sep 29, 2002 7:22 pm
- Location: New Jersey
Operation Titmaus, Part Six
“WAAAAAHHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!!” Wild Bill Caldric screeched into his radio as the heavy Thunderbolt dove for the train. “I got me a mess of German Nazis in my sights!!! I hate Nazis!! The only thing I hate more than them German Nazis is those damn Liberal Democrats and those Goddamned Russkie Commies!!”
“Roger that!” “Psycho” Mike, his faithful wing-mate answered.
All over the train men were screaming in disbelief and fear, “Der Verdamnt American Eagle!!”
Wild Bill and Psycho Mike were legendary “trainbusters” and hunting German troop transports was their specialty. The Whermacht had even issued a special advisory regarding the pair–the infamous “Duck and Run” order. For the poor train crews and their passengers unlucky enough to become the subject of the “American Eagle’s” destructive attention, this order simply restated the obvious course of action.
It was scant comfort that the pair was instantly recognizable from the ground by the brown jugs of homemade sour mash hung from their fighter planes’ pylons. “Psycho” Mike was responsible for this innovation. Normally a P-47 would carry a load of bombs or even rockets. But Wild Bill preferred to accomplish his mission through strafing. “Psycho” Mike felt that, since they didn’t use the pylons for ordinance, they might as well hang jugs of “drinkin’ Likker’ from them, claiming that the altitude and high “G’s” eliminated the sediments and resulted in a smoother home-made brew than normal moonshine. So each fighter carried four 50 gallon brown jugs of seriously inflammable 200 proof “white lightnin’”.
To this day, the P-47 Thunderbolt is affectionately known as “The Jug” due to Caldric and Psycho Mike’s legendary exploits (and the celebrations after the missions).
Xavier braced himself behind his MG-34, knowing that each of the Thunderbolts carried eight .50 Cal. Machineguns and that a single shell from one of them would slice right through the StuG’s side and top armor. Trying to shoot down a P-47 with a light MG wasn’t recommended procedure. The American fighter was uncommonly robust and extremely fast in a dive, but Xavier had seen the work of Ami jabos before and intended to reach Berlin alive.
Gritting his teeth he fired as soon as he saw the fighters begin their strafing runs.
“WWOOHHHAH” Caldric yelled as he let loose with the eight big fifties, chewing up several flatcars loaded with trucks and troops. Bits of steel, body parts and pieces of flatcar flew into the air.
The noise had finally woken a very hung-over Craig. Spam obligingly fetched his leather-cased sniper rifle from under the scarlet StuG as expended brass form Xavier’s MG pelted down on him.
“God-Damn it!” Craig cursed. “Can’t a fellow get some rest here?”
“Get your ass up here!” Leutnant Sam screamed back as he ripped an MP-40 from it’s mount inside the StuG..
Craig had no intention at all of climbing up on the StuG to make himself a better target. He quickly unsheathed his rifle and propped the muzzle up on the engine deck while he kept his head down.
The two American jabos swooped over and past the scarlet StuG, turning off in the distance to begin another run. Meanwhile, Tom, relatively safe in his boxcar-disguised Puma, was working hard to elevate the 50mm cannon in the direction of the approaching jabos.
By the time Wild Bill and Psycho began their second run, the forum heros were ready to give them a “Soldateheim” reception–heavy on the flaK and light on the sympathy.
The two planes bore in, one following the other.
“BRRRAAAAAPPPPPPPPPP!!! Xavier’s MG ripped a long burst at the first airplane.
“PAP! PAP! PAP”, Craig’s rifle fire punctuated the burst of MG fire.
"BLAM! BLAM" Tom's 50mm added weight to their objections to being strafed.
Leutnant Sam was forced to hold his fire until the planes were closer.
Then the unexpected happened. An explosion threw Wild Bill’s P-47 over on one wing.
“What the F***?” Caldric shouted, struggling to regain control. Another explosion on the opposite wing immediately righted the airplane, but threw his head forward so hard that his nose began to bleed.
Psycho Mike was having problems as well. He heard the “Ping” of small arms fire followed by a heavy explosion and saw smoke trailing from one of his wings.
“Well GOOODAAAMNN!!” Psycho Mike swore. “Those Horned Bastards are shooting our JUGS off!!”
Caldric pulled up and checked his wings. Sure enough, the two explosions had been caused by hits on his precious little brown jugs. His P-47 was barely flyable and only the handles of two of the brown earthware jugs remained.
“Nazi Bastards!” Caldric exclaimed. Psycho Mike brought his sturdy Thunderbolt up wingtip to wingtip with Wild Bill’s. His aircraft was in no better shape than Caldric's and the right wing was smoking fiercely.
Caldric looked down to catch a glance at a scarlet Stug, whose crew was still firing at them.
“It’s a goddamn pinko Nazi tank! I hate pinko nazis! There’s nothin’ worse than a pinko nazi!”
“We gotta be gettin' home”, Psycho Mike advised.
Wild Bill Caldric flung his canopy open, leaned out and waived his fist at the scalet StuG.
“I’ll hunt you down you pinko, horney Nazi freaks!! I’ll get you next time!!!”
The two jabos sped away with Caldric still screaming abuse at the scarlet StuG.
“WAAAAAHHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!!” Wild Bill Caldric screeched into his radio as the heavy Thunderbolt dove for the train. “I got me a mess of German Nazis in my sights!!! I hate Nazis!! The only thing I hate more than them German Nazis is those damn Liberal Democrats and those Goddamned Russkie Commies!!”
“Roger that!” “Psycho” Mike, his faithful wing-mate answered.
All over the train men were screaming in disbelief and fear, “Der Verdamnt American Eagle!!”
Wild Bill and Psycho Mike were legendary “trainbusters” and hunting German troop transports was their specialty. The Whermacht had even issued a special advisory regarding the pair–the infamous “Duck and Run” order. For the poor train crews and their passengers unlucky enough to become the subject of the “American Eagle’s” destructive attention, this order simply restated the obvious course of action.
It was scant comfort that the pair was instantly recognizable from the ground by the brown jugs of homemade sour mash hung from their fighter planes’ pylons. “Psycho” Mike was responsible for this innovation. Normally a P-47 would carry a load of bombs or even rockets. But Wild Bill preferred to accomplish his mission through strafing. “Psycho” Mike felt that, since they didn’t use the pylons for ordinance, they might as well hang jugs of “drinkin’ Likker’ from them, claiming that the altitude and high “G’s” eliminated the sediments and resulted in a smoother home-made brew than normal moonshine. So each fighter carried four 50 gallon brown jugs of seriously inflammable 200 proof “white lightnin’”.
To this day, the P-47 Thunderbolt is affectionately known as “The Jug” due to Caldric and Psycho Mike’s legendary exploits (and the celebrations after the missions).
Xavier braced himself behind his MG-34, knowing that each of the Thunderbolts carried eight .50 Cal. Machineguns and that a single shell from one of them would slice right through the StuG’s side and top armor. Trying to shoot down a P-47 with a light MG wasn’t recommended procedure. The American fighter was uncommonly robust and extremely fast in a dive, but Xavier had seen the work of Ami jabos before and intended to reach Berlin alive.
Gritting his teeth he fired as soon as he saw the fighters begin their strafing runs.
“WWOOHHHAH” Caldric yelled as he let loose with the eight big fifties, chewing up several flatcars loaded with trucks and troops. Bits of steel, body parts and pieces of flatcar flew into the air.
The noise had finally woken a very hung-over Craig. Spam obligingly fetched his leather-cased sniper rifle from under the scarlet StuG as expended brass form Xavier’s MG pelted down on him.
“God-Damn it!” Craig cursed. “Can’t a fellow get some rest here?”
“Get your ass up here!” Leutnant Sam screamed back as he ripped an MP-40 from it’s mount inside the StuG..
Craig had no intention at all of climbing up on the StuG to make himself a better target. He quickly unsheathed his rifle and propped the muzzle up on the engine deck while he kept his head down.
The two American jabos swooped over and past the scarlet StuG, turning off in the distance to begin another run. Meanwhile, Tom, relatively safe in his boxcar-disguised Puma, was working hard to elevate the 50mm cannon in the direction of the approaching jabos.
By the time Wild Bill and Psycho began their second run, the forum heros were ready to give them a “Soldateheim” reception–heavy on the flaK and light on the sympathy.
The two planes bore in, one following the other.
“BRRRAAAAAPPPPPPPPPP!!! Xavier’s MG ripped a long burst at the first airplane.
“PAP! PAP! PAP”, Craig’s rifle fire punctuated the burst of MG fire.
"BLAM! BLAM" Tom's 50mm added weight to their objections to being strafed.
Leutnant Sam was forced to hold his fire until the planes were closer.
Then the unexpected happened. An explosion threw Wild Bill’s P-47 over on one wing.
“What the F***?” Caldric shouted, struggling to regain control. Another explosion on the opposite wing immediately righted the airplane, but threw his head forward so hard that his nose began to bleed.
Psycho Mike was having problems as well. He heard the “Ping” of small arms fire followed by a heavy explosion and saw smoke trailing from one of his wings.
“Well GOOODAAAMNN!!” Psycho Mike swore. “Those Horned Bastards are shooting our JUGS off!!”
Caldric pulled up and checked his wings. Sure enough, the two explosions had been caused by hits on his precious little brown jugs. His P-47 was barely flyable and only the handles of two of the brown earthware jugs remained.
“Nazi Bastards!” Caldric exclaimed. Psycho Mike brought his sturdy Thunderbolt up wingtip to wingtip with Wild Bill’s. His aircraft was in no better shape than Caldric's and the right wing was smoking fiercely.
Caldric looked down to catch a glance at a scarlet Stug, whose crew was still firing at them.
“It’s a goddamn pinko Nazi tank! I hate pinko nazis! There’s nothin’ worse than a pinko nazi!”
“We gotta be gettin' home”, Psycho Mike advised.
Wild Bill Caldric flung his canopy open, leaned out and waived his fist at the scalet StuG.
“I’ll hunt you down you pinko, horney Nazi freaks!! I’ll get you next time!!!”
The two jabos sped away with Caldric still screaming abuse at the scarlet StuG.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
-
Commissar D, the Evil
- Moderator
- Posts: 4823
- Joined: Sun Sep 29, 2002 7:22 pm
- Location: New Jersey
Operation Titmaus, Part 7
Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson mopped up the last of his stew with a slice of bread before he tapped on the top of the table.
“I think you can come out now, if seems the Jabos have left.”
The tablecloth moved, dragging his bowl across the tabletop, but he caught it before it reached the edge. A mousy, buck-toothed man in a rumpled black suit emerged from under the table.
“My God”, the man aid, “is it always like this?”
Anchorsson took a swig of mead, the official DaneGeld drink. “No, sometimes it’s worse. The Americans are very good at air to ground attack, unlike their Communist allies. He took another drink before setting the mug on the table.
The little man in the black suit wiped the sweat off of his forehead, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. After a quick drink, he sat down.
“I want to thank you for sharing your accommodations with me”, he said. “I was lucky to escape Rumania before they betrayed the Reich and it is imperative that I reach Berlin.
Anchorsson nodded and looked at the metal briefcase handcuffed to the man’s left risk.
“That must be very important, Doctor LeibLouse.”
The good doctor clutched the briefcase closer to his chest. “Indeed it is. It will change a thousand years of German history. I was lucky to find the final components in Rumania.”
“Rumania!” Anchorsson scoffed. “What good ever came out of Rumania?”
Dr. LeibLouse took another drink. The combination of the alcohol and the recent excitement loosened his tongue. “I thought the same thing before I was assigned to the Reich Bureau for the Reclamation of Aryan Ideas for Defense.” Serving with RAID opened my eyes to the vast number of ideas stolen from us by inferior people.”
Anchorsson smiled, slightly amused. “Stolen?”
“Well yes, stolen–misappropriated really. It is well known that we Aryans are responsible for all of the good ideas mankind has conceived over the centuries. Unfortunately, since we didn’t have a true Aryan homeland until the birth of the Third Reich, these ideas were dispersed amongst the inferior races by the migration of our brilliant Aryan genes. RAID’s job is to return these ideas to the Reich–and, of course, give them proper credit as German ideas .”
Anchorsson looked skeptical. “I find it hard to believe that even a German idea could prosper in Rumania.”
“I thought so too, at first”, Doctor LiebLouse admitted. “But on my last trip, I managed to...acquire an ancient Aryan idea for a technological marvel. I believe you know it as the Hetzer.”
“The Hetzer?” Anchorsson slammed his mug on the table. “The Hetzer is a German invention!”
“Yes, of course it is”, Doctor LiebLouse replied. “But we had to obtain the details from the Rumanians, because it was part of our Aryan heritage stolen from us. They had the unmitigated nerve to call the concept the “Maresal". But no one will remember it now, they will only remember the Hetzer!”
He laid the briefcase on the table. “For this marvel, I’ve had to go to France, Sweden and finally Rumania to reassemble an object of Aryan brilliance.
Anchorsson poured himself another drink. Doctor LeibLouse scratched his head, then his back.
“So”, Anchorsson summed it up, “They steal an Aryan idea from us, we steal it back, rename it and call it ours?”
“Exactly!” The Doctor said. “That is what RAID does.”
Not having a pistol or any other weapon, it took Commissar Davidov a good half-hour to expend his anger verbally. Valery hadn’t thought that the Commissar knew a full thirty minutes of profanity, but in fact the Commissar only ran down when he grew hoarse from shouting obscenities.
Throughout this harangue, agent Locke and her comrades behaved with the utmost of professionalism, taking great care not to interrupt his venting. Agent “C” took the opportunity to pull up a chair and begin drawing on a sketchpad while he raged.
Finally, Locke said. “But Comrade Commissar, you accepted the mission–I was there when you did so.”
Thoroughly exasperated, the Commissar shot back, “I had no idea the plan was so idiotic. There is no magic you can summon that will turn a Black male into a White female!!!”
“But we are professionals”, Locke protested. “We have done many make-overs. My team was responsible for turning the captured S.S. man Kampfgruppe Meyer into a geisha and planting him in the Tokyo brothel used by the Imperial Japanese Navy’s General Staff!”
“Well”, that’s not much of a triumph”, Valery interrupted. “It’s not like he didn’t already have identity problems.”
“And, if you’ll pardon my language”, the Commissar added, “I don’t see how turning a pu**y into a woman counts for much.”
Locke blushed, but pushed on with determination. “Comrade Beria is of the opinion that the two of you are perfect for this disguise."
“Opinions are like ass*****s,” Valery countered, “everyone has one.”
“Even worse than ass*****s,” the Commissar joined in, “since it seems that every ass**** I know has an opinion.”
Agent Locke rolled her eyes. “It’s just a matter of dress, makeup and speech”, she said. “We can change all that, without doing anything drastic.”
“Drastic?” Valery questioned.
Locke picked up a pair of scissors, opened them and closed them with a “snip”.
The Commissar looked at Valery, who looked back at him in disbelief.
“I should have bitch slapped the pr**k”, the Commissar growled.
Valery didn’t understand the reference, but fully supported the sentiment.
“Very well”, the Commissar sighed. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Locke glanced at the sketch prepared by agent “C” and giggled. “Oh, that’s so cute!”
“And we can accessorize”, Agent “C” gushed.
Gruppenfuhrer Anchorsson mopped up the last of his stew with a slice of bread before he tapped on the top of the table.
“I think you can come out now, if seems the Jabos have left.”
The tablecloth moved, dragging his bowl across the tabletop, but he caught it before it reached the edge. A mousy, buck-toothed man in a rumpled black suit emerged from under the table.
“My God”, the man aid, “is it always like this?”
Anchorsson took a swig of mead, the official DaneGeld drink. “No, sometimes it’s worse. The Americans are very good at air to ground attack, unlike their Communist allies. He took another drink before setting the mug on the table.
The little man in the black suit wiped the sweat off of his forehead, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. After a quick drink, he sat down.
“I want to thank you for sharing your accommodations with me”, he said. “I was lucky to escape Rumania before they betrayed the Reich and it is imperative that I reach Berlin.
Anchorsson nodded and looked at the metal briefcase handcuffed to the man’s left risk.
“That must be very important, Doctor LeibLouse.”
The good doctor clutched the briefcase closer to his chest. “Indeed it is. It will change a thousand years of German history. I was lucky to find the final components in Rumania.”
“Rumania!” Anchorsson scoffed. “What good ever came out of Rumania?”
Dr. LeibLouse took another drink. The combination of the alcohol and the recent excitement loosened his tongue. “I thought the same thing before I was assigned to the Reich Bureau for the Reclamation of Aryan Ideas for Defense.” Serving with RAID opened my eyes to the vast number of ideas stolen from us by inferior people.”
Anchorsson smiled, slightly amused. “Stolen?”
“Well yes, stolen–misappropriated really. It is well known that we Aryans are responsible for all of the good ideas mankind has conceived over the centuries. Unfortunately, since we didn’t have a true Aryan homeland until the birth of the Third Reich, these ideas were dispersed amongst the inferior races by the migration of our brilliant Aryan genes. RAID’s job is to return these ideas to the Reich–and, of course, give them proper credit as German ideas .”
Anchorsson looked skeptical. “I find it hard to believe that even a German idea could prosper in Rumania.”
“I thought so too, at first”, Doctor LiebLouse admitted. “But on my last trip, I managed to...acquire an ancient Aryan idea for a technological marvel. I believe you know it as the Hetzer.”
“The Hetzer?” Anchorsson slammed his mug on the table. “The Hetzer is a German invention!”
“Yes, of course it is”, Doctor LiebLouse replied. “But we had to obtain the details from the Rumanians, because it was part of our Aryan heritage stolen from us. They had the unmitigated nerve to call the concept the “Maresal". But no one will remember it now, they will only remember the Hetzer!”
He laid the briefcase on the table. “For this marvel, I’ve had to go to France, Sweden and finally Rumania to reassemble an object of Aryan brilliance.
Anchorsson poured himself another drink. Doctor LeibLouse scratched his head, then his back.
“So”, Anchorsson summed it up, “They steal an Aryan idea from us, we steal it back, rename it and call it ours?”
“Exactly!” The Doctor said. “That is what RAID does.”
Not having a pistol or any other weapon, it took Commissar Davidov a good half-hour to expend his anger verbally. Valery hadn’t thought that the Commissar knew a full thirty minutes of profanity, but in fact the Commissar only ran down when he grew hoarse from shouting obscenities.
Throughout this harangue, agent Locke and her comrades behaved with the utmost of professionalism, taking great care not to interrupt his venting. Agent “C” took the opportunity to pull up a chair and begin drawing on a sketchpad while he raged.
Finally, Locke said. “But Comrade Commissar, you accepted the mission–I was there when you did so.”
Thoroughly exasperated, the Commissar shot back, “I had no idea the plan was so idiotic. There is no magic you can summon that will turn a Black male into a White female!!!”
“But we are professionals”, Locke protested. “We have done many make-overs. My team was responsible for turning the captured S.S. man Kampfgruppe Meyer into a geisha and planting him in the Tokyo brothel used by the Imperial Japanese Navy’s General Staff!”
“Well”, that’s not much of a triumph”, Valery interrupted. “It’s not like he didn’t already have identity problems.”
“And, if you’ll pardon my language”, the Commissar added, “I don’t see how turning a pu**y into a woman counts for much.”
Locke blushed, but pushed on with determination. “Comrade Beria is of the opinion that the two of you are perfect for this disguise."
“Opinions are like ass*****s,” Valery countered, “everyone has one.”
“Even worse than ass*****s,” the Commissar joined in, “since it seems that every ass**** I know has an opinion.”
Agent Locke rolled her eyes. “It’s just a matter of dress, makeup and speech”, she said. “We can change all that, without doing anything drastic.”
“Drastic?” Valery questioned.
Locke picked up a pair of scissors, opened them and closed them with a “snip”.
The Commissar looked at Valery, who looked back at him in disbelief.
“I should have bitch slapped the pr**k”, the Commissar growled.
Valery didn’t understand the reference, but fully supported the sentiment.
“Very well”, the Commissar sighed. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Locke glanced at the sketch prepared by agent “C” and giggled. “Oh, that’s so cute!”
“And we can accessorize”, Agent “C” gushed.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....