THE FORUM HEROES AND THE CASTLE OF HORROR
( The events you are about to read are true, as verified by previously unknown Russian and German documents. As usual, the names have been changed to prevent the guilty from suing. Any resemblance between any character living or undead and those who walk amongst us today is strictly unintentional.)
There is in the Transylvania Alps a castle of ruined grey stone perched in vulturous splendor amongst the crags and peaks of the mountains silently guarding a forested pass. Once it had a name. Once it held life. Once, armored horsemen led by cruel lords issued from its massive gates and steel-clad archers patrolled its sky-clawing spires in gloomy silence.
But that grim glory has long since vanished . Now it has no name, even to the dwellers of the villages in its shadow. All that remains are broken walls that even after centuries of decay and ruin vibrate with the screams of broken men and ravaged women. Its towers have long since collapsed. The great iron-framed gates have rotted away. Only the screaming winds play across its courtyard, howling as they blow the litter of dead leaves across its flagstones. Even the great hall, once the pride of mailed lords and their scented ladies, has collapsed in on itself and its tapestried walls fallen to decay.
No life remains. Not a flower grows in the dead soil of its garden.
But one door remains untouched by the centuries. One door from a hundred doors and behind it, one room from a hundred rooms. No human hand has touched this door since it was sealed, amidst shrieks and agonized screams, in those years beyond the memories of modern man.
And now war sweeps its bloody brush towards the castle. Slowly the tide of devastation laps through the valleys and passes below. Imperceptibly, the souls of men slain in the castle’s realm sweep skyward and march in an unending line across its ramparts as armies die in its shadows.
Tom’s Irish green Puma crunched its way through the thick pines. Unattached to any higher formation after the recent German defeats in central Russia, he and his crew had found themselves “volunteered” to another theatre as the high command threw in whatever resources it could find in an attempt to stop the Russian advance through Rumania. Not much of a coherent front remained in this region, only the remnants of shattered divisions and the ghosts of once-great Armies. Sixth Army, rebuilt after Stalingrad had simply ceased to exist. It was gone. Surrounded and obliterated in a great Russian offensive, vanishing like the morning dew in the killing fields beyond Bucharest. Eighth Army was in tatters, savaged by the Russians and then hunted for hundreds of miles in its desperate flight to Transylvania and the relative safety of Hungary. The mountain paths and dirt roads were graveyards of unburied bodies and the skeletons of burnt out trucks.
So Tom’s Puma stuck to the forest, safe from prowling jabos and scouting for the enemy armored columns. The Rumanians had turned traitor to the Reich, so anyone in arms they sighted was likely to be a foe. Like a lone knight the eight-wheeled armored car prowled through the trees, desperate to find the enemy and report back to what remained of the German Front.
If he had been given an atlas and a year to work at it, Tom didn’t think he could have chosen a more un-nerving spot on earth to fight. True, there were places in Russia that were utterly devastated and others that, in bad weather, seas of mud or cold enough to crack the rubber of the Puma’s tires.
But this place was oddly unsettling. They were high enough above the plains for a dusting of snow, and wisps of it drifted into any opening on the armored car. Far worse though, in Tom’s opinion, was the nature of the forest itself. It was an old forest, indeed an ancient one, and the trees were tall, straight and close together. Every path was coated by a centuries’ old covering of pine cones and needles, that, mixed with the light snow, gave uncertain footing to his vehicle. Moreover, the forest seemed to flow from the mountains downward and clung obstinately to their lower slopes, so that everything seemed tilted at an odd angle and beyond any single tree lurked a crevice or a boulder. It was all extremely claustrophobic, a feeling that Tom and his crew were unused to feeling, despite spending years encased in slanted armor plates. It was as if the terrain itself were cramped and pinched and closing in on them.
Keeping his head out of the commander’s hatch to preserve what little visibility he had, Tom whispered into his throat mike for O’Sullivan to stop the motor. Scouting was a dangerous occupation, especially since an armored car either impressed the enemy or tantalized them into firing on it. So Tom relied on his instincts to avoid surprises.
They sat there and the minutes passed. A dim sound echoed softly through the forest. Tom unclipped his MP-40 and dismounted, lying on the floor of the forest as the snow settled on helmet and shoulders. He heard it more distinctly now. A muffled and slow “crump, crump”. He slid forward quietly, pushing himself closer to the sound and allowing the snow to cover his arms and chest.
Two figures emerged into his line of sight. They were moving slowly, cautiously and stopping irregularly to crouch and look around. They held their rifles at the ready and every now and then looked at the forest behind them.
Waiting patiently, Tom gave a hand signal to his crew, who hand rotated the Puma’s turret, bringing its not inconsiderable firepower to bear.
“Halt”, Tom shouted at the two men.
Surprised, both pivoted in his direction, bringing their rifles up.
“You’re dead men if you fire”, Tom shouted, risking his position.
The two men lowered their weapons.
“What outfit?” Tom asked tensely.
“13th S.S. Gebirgsjääger”, the nearer one answered, “We were on patrol.”
Tom considered that they wore German uniforms and spoke German. He raised himself on one knee, his MP-40 ready. “Sling your rifles and come closer.”
The two troopers did so. They seemed to relax as they did and Tom stood up.
“Man we’re glad to see you”, the taller one said. “I’m Groscurth”. He removed his glove and offered his hand.
Tom gestured with the submachine gun. “And your buddy?”
“Lupo, Lupo Solitario,” the other said grinning.
“Austrian?” Tom asked.
Lupo removed his helmet, which had a small black plume tucked into its band.
“From Tyrol”, he replied.
Satisfied, Tom lowered his weapon and shook Groscurth’s hand. The Puma’s engine growled to life. Tom pointed over his shoulder at it. “We’re looking for the Reds, any idea where they are.”
“Well, we ran into some Rumanians, but they didn’t tell us and I don’t think they’re able to tell you”, Groscurth said bluntly.
Tom grinned.
Lupo dug a flask out of his jacket pocket and offered it to Tom.
Suddenly, a great black shape swooped out of the trees and over the three of them. Ducking and looking up reflexively, they saw the bird fly away.
“Raven”, Groscurth said softly. “Ravens carry the souls of the dead.” Groscurth took the flask from Lupo and sipped from it. He looked irritated. “Country’s full of ravens.”
“Ach! It;s just a damn bird”, Lupo said light-heartedly. “And, he’s not getting our souls, at least not yet.”
Tom took a step to the side and pointed at a peak in the distance. “My orders are to go there and establish an observation post.”
Both men followed the line of his outstretched arm to the castle and the dark mist clouding it in its heights. Groscurth snorted and pointed at a cut in the mountain. “There’s a path that leads up there at that cleft. If I were you, I wouldn’t take it.”
Tom nodded and then jogged back to the Puma, where he passed on the information to his crew. O’Sullivan consulted his map. “Could be”, he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Just might be, but it doesn’t show.”
“Can you get us there?” Tom asked.
“And why not, ye silly sod?” O’Sullivan answered with his usual friendliness.
Tom shook his head and gazed at The Shadow.
“What do you think? It’s not far.”
The Shadow pondered for a long minute. “I think that faith is a bullet.”
Rolling his eyes, Tom climbed back out of the turret and opened his mouth to say something to the two troopers.
But they were gone.
Instinctively, Tom hunkered down in the hatch with his MP-40 at the ready and only his eyes nd the top of his head exposed. He looked around, doing a 360 in his seat.
They were gone.
He looked back at the spot he had left them. His tracks and where he lay in ambush were clearly visible in the snow. Tom scratched his cheek nervously. There was no sign of the other two. The snow was undisturbed. Not even a footprint marked its surface.
“Get us out of here”, Tom ordered.
The Puma stalked off into the forest depths and the snow continued to fall.
The Forum Heroes and The Castle of Horror!!!
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Commissar D, the Evil
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The Forum Heroes and The Castle of Horror!!!
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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I'll probably regret this, but I think we should load up the red StuG with garlic and head on over to give the Puma a hand... come to think of it, I think I have a large sack of black market goods somewhere in the ammo locker that happens to contain a fair amount of garlic. Oooh, what's this? A mallet and a few ash stakes. Why have we got these in the StuG, Sam?
Prit
Prit
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Commissar D, the Evil
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THE FORUM HEROES AND THE CASTLE OF HORROR
Part 2
Prit was whistling merrily as he worked. In fact, the entire crew was in relatively good spirits. After their last mission, the Forum Heroes had stumbled across a conveniently located S.S. Carwash that accepted Wehrmacht script and credit cards. Being none too trusting of placing the scarlet StuG in other hands, the crew had insisted--much to the disgust of the Carwash SchmutzFuhrer--on doing the work themselves.
Accordingly, they were assigned a dingy corner in at the far end of the building. Although it was cluttered with the scavenged wrecks of German and Soviet armored vehicles, the oil-stained space suited their purposes admirably. After all, it was isolated and dirty, just the sort of place where they could find peace form prying eyes and over-zealous officers.
So, after a few hours of drinking and moving pieces of scrap out of the way, they put the scarlet StuG up on the grease rack and went to work.
They broke for lunch and raided the bountiful S.S. cafeteria, carrying off, as spoils, a side of beef, a large pot of mashed potatoes, a keg of beer, and a chocolate cake. Along with a couple of cans of Spam for Craig’s hound–who now went by the name of “Spam”–it all made for the type of lunch they could only dream about in the field. Life, they decided, could indeed be good behind the lines.
Refreshed, they got back to work, except for Craig who was content to play with his dog and polish his sniper’s scope. The scarlet StuG’s crew disassembled anything on the StuG that needed replacement and, of course, adding a few trinkets “borrowed” from the S.S. to make the StuG more habitable.
Which was why Prit was whistling. It took some doing, but he managed to mount a semi-automatic vodka dispenser in the driver’s area. Press one button and out popped a cocktail glass, which was automatically filled by a vodka bottle placed in the dispenser. It was a true work of art, years before its time, but Soldiers are natural improvisors and always thirsty.
But, sadly, what looked to be a good day went downhill quickly when Sturmbannfuhrer Sven Forkedbeard, Commander of DaneGeld Sturmgeschutz Abteilung. walked in on them.
“Ah, there you are”, Sturmbannfuhrer Forkedbeard said jovially. “We thought you died at that Russkie vodka distillery!”
Sam, remembering that they were technically AWOL for that mission, made a face and sort of faded back behind Prit, who was himself holding a half-empty bottle of vodka behind his back.
“Wonderful work, really”, the Sturmbannfuhrer enthused. “You held the flank of an entire Russian heavy tank regiment from enveloping Wolftruppen’s panzers!” At that, Forkedbeard slapped Xavier on the back.
“It’s a pity you can’t come with us”, the Sturmbannfuhrer said.
Sam stepped forward. “I don’t understand sir, we’re still part of DaneGeld aren’t we?”
The Sturmbannfuhrer smiled, only not so benignly. “Well, yes, in a way. The Battalion is moving South, the Russians have broken through in Rumania. Our equipment is being shipped there by railway today and you will join us, attached to the 13th S.S. Gebirgsjääger.”
Sam didn’t like the sound of the last part. “Join you sir?”
“Yes, well,” the Sturmbannfuhrer flushed. “You have first a small, tiny mission I volunteered you for. Come with me.”
The Forum Heroes fell into line and filed out of the building behind him. A few hundred meters away was a conveniently located airfield. Even from the distance, they could all make out a single huge aircraft sitting on the runway. It was the largest aircraft they had ever seen, an ME-323 “Gigant” with six engines and a wingspan of over 180 feet (55m). The fuselage of the massive machine was over 92 feet long (28.15m).
Prit whistled again, but this time in sheer amazement.
“Yes”, Forkedbeard said agreeably, “we Aryans are so smart!”
“Uh, I don’t understand sir, what has that thing got to do with us?” Sam asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“Its airframe has been specially strengthened”, the Sturmbannfuhrer said. “We believe it is now capable of carrying up to 24 tons. Which is, by coincidence, exactly what your Sturmgeschutz weighs.”
The Forum Heroes let out a collective groan, but Forkedbeard went on as if he hadn’t heard it.
“You see, the Fuhrer, in his infinite wisdom, wants to develop a Rapid Deployment Force that can be flown to any “hot spots”. We were going to test it in the Middle East, when Rommel was in Egypt, but that plan fell through. So, you will be the very first to test the idea of moving armored vehicles by air.
Xavier and Prit turned a ghostly white. Adrian cursed under his breath, while Sam stuttered trying to find the right words. Craig remembered how thirsty he continued to be, while Spam laid his head on the ground and covered his eyes with his paws.
“Now I know," the Sturmbannfuhrer said with finality, “that this will not be much of a challenge for heroes such as you. After all, you were brave enough to disobey a direct order from me during a battle. And what does this involve? Nothing but a long--or unfortunately short-- airplane ride. Think of it as an all expenses paid vacation, courtesy of Lufthansa.”
With that, the Sturmbannfuhrer chuckled and strode away, only to burst into laughter when he reached his staff car.
Part 2
Prit was whistling merrily as he worked. In fact, the entire crew was in relatively good spirits. After their last mission, the Forum Heroes had stumbled across a conveniently located S.S. Carwash that accepted Wehrmacht script and credit cards. Being none too trusting of placing the scarlet StuG in other hands, the crew had insisted--much to the disgust of the Carwash SchmutzFuhrer--on doing the work themselves.
Accordingly, they were assigned a dingy corner in at the far end of the building. Although it was cluttered with the scavenged wrecks of German and Soviet armored vehicles, the oil-stained space suited their purposes admirably. After all, it was isolated and dirty, just the sort of place where they could find peace form prying eyes and over-zealous officers.
So, after a few hours of drinking and moving pieces of scrap out of the way, they put the scarlet StuG up on the grease rack and went to work.
They broke for lunch and raided the bountiful S.S. cafeteria, carrying off, as spoils, a side of beef, a large pot of mashed potatoes, a keg of beer, and a chocolate cake. Along with a couple of cans of Spam for Craig’s hound–who now went by the name of “Spam”–it all made for the type of lunch they could only dream about in the field. Life, they decided, could indeed be good behind the lines.
Refreshed, they got back to work, except for Craig who was content to play with his dog and polish his sniper’s scope. The scarlet StuG’s crew disassembled anything on the StuG that needed replacement and, of course, adding a few trinkets “borrowed” from the S.S. to make the StuG more habitable.
Which was why Prit was whistling. It took some doing, but he managed to mount a semi-automatic vodka dispenser in the driver’s area. Press one button and out popped a cocktail glass, which was automatically filled by a vodka bottle placed in the dispenser. It was a true work of art, years before its time, but Soldiers are natural improvisors and always thirsty.
But, sadly, what looked to be a good day went downhill quickly when Sturmbannfuhrer Sven Forkedbeard, Commander of DaneGeld Sturmgeschutz Abteilung. walked in on them.
“Ah, there you are”, Sturmbannfuhrer Forkedbeard said jovially. “We thought you died at that Russkie vodka distillery!”
Sam, remembering that they were technically AWOL for that mission, made a face and sort of faded back behind Prit, who was himself holding a half-empty bottle of vodka behind his back.
“Wonderful work, really”, the Sturmbannfuhrer enthused. “You held the flank of an entire Russian heavy tank regiment from enveloping Wolftruppen’s panzers!” At that, Forkedbeard slapped Xavier on the back.
“It’s a pity you can’t come with us”, the Sturmbannfuhrer said.
Sam stepped forward. “I don’t understand sir, we’re still part of DaneGeld aren’t we?”
The Sturmbannfuhrer smiled, only not so benignly. “Well, yes, in a way. The Battalion is moving South, the Russians have broken through in Rumania. Our equipment is being shipped there by railway today and you will join us, attached to the 13th S.S. Gebirgsjääger.”
Sam didn’t like the sound of the last part. “Join you sir?”
“Yes, well,” the Sturmbannfuhrer flushed. “You have first a small, tiny mission I volunteered you for. Come with me.”
The Forum Heroes fell into line and filed out of the building behind him. A few hundred meters away was a conveniently located airfield. Even from the distance, they could all make out a single huge aircraft sitting on the runway. It was the largest aircraft they had ever seen, an ME-323 “Gigant” with six engines and a wingspan of over 180 feet (55m). The fuselage of the massive machine was over 92 feet long (28.15m).
Prit whistled again, but this time in sheer amazement.
“Yes”, Forkedbeard said agreeably, “we Aryans are so smart!”
“Uh, I don’t understand sir, what has that thing got to do with us?” Sam asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“Its airframe has been specially strengthened”, the Sturmbannfuhrer said. “We believe it is now capable of carrying up to 24 tons. Which is, by coincidence, exactly what your Sturmgeschutz weighs.”
The Forum Heroes let out a collective groan, but Forkedbeard went on as if he hadn’t heard it.
“You see, the Fuhrer, in his infinite wisdom, wants to develop a Rapid Deployment Force that can be flown to any “hot spots”. We were going to test it in the Middle East, when Rommel was in Egypt, but that plan fell through. So, you will be the very first to test the idea of moving armored vehicles by air.
Xavier and Prit turned a ghostly white. Adrian cursed under his breath, while Sam stuttered trying to find the right words. Craig remembered how thirsty he continued to be, while Spam laid his head on the ground and covered his eyes with his paws.
“Now I know," the Sturmbannfuhrer said with finality, “that this will not be much of a challenge for heroes such as you. After all, you were brave enough to disobey a direct order from me during a battle. And what does this involve? Nothing but a long--or unfortunately short-- airplane ride. Think of it as an all expenses paid vacation, courtesy of Lufthansa.”
With that, the Sturmbannfuhrer chuckled and strode away, only to burst into laughter when he reached his staff car.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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THE FORUM HEROES AND THE CASTLE OF HORRORS
Part 3
Nothing quite ruins a soldier’s day like the imminent possibility of death. And, in this regard, our beloved Forum Heroes were no different than any other group of landsers. It was a somber crew that returned to their corner of the S.S. Carwash and plopped down next to the StuG.
“There’s no way in God’s green earth you’re getting me up there in that overgrown glider”, Prit declared angrily.
“It looks like a goddamn barn with engines”, Xavier added. “If I ever wanted to fall from great heights, I would have joined the Fallschirmjaagers.”
Sam was pensive and decided to let them gripe, which they did in abundance.
Finally Adrian said, “Well, I don’t see the difference myself, the Man says “go here and die”, that’s what he always says. Besides, he could have had us shot for desertion.”
“But at least we’d have our feet on the ground”, Xavier commented.
“So does anyone know anything about the 13th S.S. Gebirsjaager?” Sam tried to change the topic.
Prit shook his head, “Never heard of them.”
“Me neither”, Adrian said.
“Well, I guess we’d better look them up. Prit, see what Yurger has to say.”
“Yurger”, Prit repeated the magic name with awe. He leaped up and trotted over to the StuG’s storage bin on the engine deck. Opening it, he held several books, all neatly wrapped in oilskin above his head.
“Yurger!” The Forum Heroes chanted as they bowed and made obeisance to the great writer.
Prit held a single volume out to them, lifted it above his head and reverently turned from right to left, displaying it to the assembled Forum Heroes.
“Yurger! Yurger!” The Forum Heroes beat their fists on the ground in an ecstatic display of hero worship.
Prit singled for them to quiet down and opened the book’s wrapper. He read the title aloud,
“Badges and Medals of the Bavarian Volunteer S.S. Cavalry.”
The Forum Heroes hissed, so Prit opened the next book.
“Underwear of the Waffen S.S!”
Everyone booed, so Prit opened another volume. “Obscure Gebirsjager Units of the Waffen S.S.!” He announced proudly.
They began clapping and Prit hopped down off the StuG. Everyone gathered around as he flipped to the index and found the right page.
“Hmmm”, Sam said, “Not much here. Their motto is apparently, “Always High”.
“Sounds like our kind of troops”, Adrian chuckled.
Prit turned the next page, but the glossy color illustration of the unit’s coat of arms didn’t provide much information. He turned another page.
“Ah, a picture of Knight’s Cross winner Otto Fallendown. Apparently he was decorated posthumously for heroically jumping off the highest mountain in the Caucasus.”
“Yes, and here’s a full page color photo of Adolf Airbourne, who’s rope heroically snapped while climbing a mountain in Greece.”
“Ooooooh!” The Forum Heroes were suitably impressed by the exquisite detail of the picture.
“And look at this”, Prit said, “a full page photo of a Gebirsjaager climbing rope!”
“Wow!”, Xavier exclaimed. “That’s awesome.”
“Doesn’t say much about the unit though”, Sam commented sadly.
Prit shut the book and Adrian grabbed it. Across the front of the book and below the price tag, was written in bold Gothic script the words “STEAL THIS BOOK!”
Puzzled, Adrian looked at Prit. “Steal this Book? What does that mean?”
Prit scooped the treasure back up. “Well, it does go for 50,000 Reichsmarks.”
“Yurger! Yurger!” Xavier chanted in admiration at the book’s price.“50,000 Reichsmarks!? Amazing!” Adrian said. “That’s more than my house cost! But what does “Steal this book” mean?”
“It’s an odd story”, Sam said. “It seems that one day Reinhard Heydrich was seeking some information and called up Herr Yurger to make an inquiry.” Herr Yurger replied that he should buy the appropriate one of his books. This kind of ticked Heydrich off, especially when he found out the price. Even worse for Yurger, Heydrich found out that the books were all printed by a Czechoslovakian publisher, Bentofer Press. Since Czechoslovakia was Heydrich’s turf–well, everyone knows how Heydrich was––he immediately ordered the publisher to print the instruction “Steal This Book” on every book Yurger published and saw to it that no one in Czechoslovakia was ever prosecuted for stealing it. Yurger wrote an angry letter to Himmler, because of this, but it arrived after Heydrich was assassinated. So, Himmler saw to it that Yurger was drafted into the Kriegsmarine. Last I heard, Yurger was stationed on a fishery protection boat up near the Arctic Circle.”
“Which is why Yurger never writes about Heydrich”, Prit added.
“Ho!” Adrian said, “The things people in high places can do and get away with!”
While they were having this conversation, no one noticed that Craig was packing up and filling his duffel bag with bottles of vodka and cans of spam. It was a hard choice for Craig: remain with the Forum Heroes and likely die in an airplane crash, or catch a fast train to Rumania. It took him a half-minute to make up his mind on the proper course of action. Spam, his hound, seemed to agree and trotted up to him with another tin of spam, the meat, for his sack.
“I’ll catch you guys in Rumania”, Craig said as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked up the sack. ““I’ve got a train to catch.”
No one argued with him. He was after all, a sniper, not a StuG crewman. Still, his exit threw the men into consternation. Prit pulled Xavier aside and they had a hurried conversation. Then they approached Sam with their idea.
“Your crazy”, Sam said to Prit after hearing their proposals. He then pointed to Xavier. “And you’re insane.” Then, changing his mind, he pointed at Prit. “No, you’re insane and Xavier’s crazy. Or maybe both of you are in cloud-cuckoo land.”
But Prit and Xavier were persistent. “What difference will it make?” Prit asked. “A little modification here, a little bit of safety there....”
“We’ll look ridiculous”, Sam countered.
“Well if it doesn’t work, we’ll all be dead anyway”, Xavier replied.
Sam considered for a moment. He wasn’t at all convinced, but it might be worth it just to shut them up and get them working on something that might take their minds off the upcoming flight.
“Okay, okay. But if this stuff gets in the way....”
“Thanks Sam!” They both said and hustled off to find the equipment they needed. As they were tearing through the wreckage of the abandoned tanks in their little corner of the Carwash, a thought occurred to Xavier.
“Say Prit,” Xavier said thoughtfully, “Do you think that we’ll get into any trouble if Herr Yurger ever reads the Forum Heroes?”
Prit laughed disdainfully. “Come on, Yurger reading the Forum Heroes would be like Patrick Agita writing a biography on Commissar Davidov.”
Xavier gave him a puzzled look. “Really? Patrick Agita is writing Davidov’s biography? I thought he was working on the Wittmann and Peiper biographies?”
Prit looked at him. “Just forget it, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Part 3
Nothing quite ruins a soldier’s day like the imminent possibility of death. And, in this regard, our beloved Forum Heroes were no different than any other group of landsers. It was a somber crew that returned to their corner of the S.S. Carwash and plopped down next to the StuG.
“There’s no way in God’s green earth you’re getting me up there in that overgrown glider”, Prit declared angrily.
“It looks like a goddamn barn with engines”, Xavier added. “If I ever wanted to fall from great heights, I would have joined the Fallschirmjaagers.”
Sam was pensive and decided to let them gripe, which they did in abundance.
Finally Adrian said, “Well, I don’t see the difference myself, the Man says “go here and die”, that’s what he always says. Besides, he could have had us shot for desertion.”
“But at least we’d have our feet on the ground”, Xavier commented.
“So does anyone know anything about the 13th S.S. Gebirsjaager?” Sam tried to change the topic.
Prit shook his head, “Never heard of them.”
“Me neither”, Adrian said.
“Well, I guess we’d better look them up. Prit, see what Yurger has to say.”
“Yurger”, Prit repeated the magic name with awe. He leaped up and trotted over to the StuG’s storage bin on the engine deck. Opening it, he held several books, all neatly wrapped in oilskin above his head.
“Yurger!” The Forum Heroes chanted as they bowed and made obeisance to the great writer.
Prit held a single volume out to them, lifted it above his head and reverently turned from right to left, displaying it to the assembled Forum Heroes.
“Yurger! Yurger!” The Forum Heroes beat their fists on the ground in an ecstatic display of hero worship.
Prit singled for them to quiet down and opened the book’s wrapper. He read the title aloud,
“Badges and Medals of the Bavarian Volunteer S.S. Cavalry.”
The Forum Heroes hissed, so Prit opened the next book.
“Underwear of the Waffen S.S!”
Everyone booed, so Prit opened another volume. “Obscure Gebirsjager Units of the Waffen S.S.!” He announced proudly.
They began clapping and Prit hopped down off the StuG. Everyone gathered around as he flipped to the index and found the right page.
“Hmmm”, Sam said, “Not much here. Their motto is apparently, “Always High”.
“Sounds like our kind of troops”, Adrian chuckled.
Prit turned the next page, but the glossy color illustration of the unit’s coat of arms didn’t provide much information. He turned another page.
“Ah, a picture of Knight’s Cross winner Otto Fallendown. Apparently he was decorated posthumously for heroically jumping off the highest mountain in the Caucasus.”
“Yes, and here’s a full page color photo of Adolf Airbourne, who’s rope heroically snapped while climbing a mountain in Greece.”
“Ooooooh!” The Forum Heroes were suitably impressed by the exquisite detail of the picture.
“And look at this”, Prit said, “a full page photo of a Gebirsjaager climbing rope!”
“Wow!”, Xavier exclaimed. “That’s awesome.”
“Doesn’t say much about the unit though”, Sam commented sadly.
Prit shut the book and Adrian grabbed it. Across the front of the book and below the price tag, was written in bold Gothic script the words “STEAL THIS BOOK!”
Puzzled, Adrian looked at Prit. “Steal this Book? What does that mean?”
Prit scooped the treasure back up. “Well, it does go for 50,000 Reichsmarks.”
“Yurger! Yurger!” Xavier chanted in admiration at the book’s price.“50,000 Reichsmarks!? Amazing!” Adrian said. “That’s more than my house cost! But what does “Steal this book” mean?”
“It’s an odd story”, Sam said. “It seems that one day Reinhard Heydrich was seeking some information and called up Herr Yurger to make an inquiry.” Herr Yurger replied that he should buy the appropriate one of his books. This kind of ticked Heydrich off, especially when he found out the price. Even worse for Yurger, Heydrich found out that the books were all printed by a Czechoslovakian publisher, Bentofer Press. Since Czechoslovakia was Heydrich’s turf–well, everyone knows how Heydrich was––he immediately ordered the publisher to print the instruction “Steal This Book” on every book Yurger published and saw to it that no one in Czechoslovakia was ever prosecuted for stealing it. Yurger wrote an angry letter to Himmler, because of this, but it arrived after Heydrich was assassinated. So, Himmler saw to it that Yurger was drafted into the Kriegsmarine. Last I heard, Yurger was stationed on a fishery protection boat up near the Arctic Circle.”
“Which is why Yurger never writes about Heydrich”, Prit added.
“Ho!” Adrian said, “The things people in high places can do and get away with!”
While they were having this conversation, no one noticed that Craig was packing up and filling his duffel bag with bottles of vodka and cans of spam. It was a hard choice for Craig: remain with the Forum Heroes and likely die in an airplane crash, or catch a fast train to Rumania. It took him a half-minute to make up his mind on the proper course of action. Spam, his hound, seemed to agree and trotted up to him with another tin of spam, the meat, for his sack.
“I’ll catch you guys in Rumania”, Craig said as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked up the sack. ““I’ve got a train to catch.”
No one argued with him. He was after all, a sniper, not a StuG crewman. Still, his exit threw the men into consternation. Prit pulled Xavier aside and they had a hurried conversation. Then they approached Sam with their idea.
“Your crazy”, Sam said to Prit after hearing their proposals. He then pointed to Xavier. “And you’re insane.” Then, changing his mind, he pointed at Prit. “No, you’re insane and Xavier’s crazy. Or maybe both of you are in cloud-cuckoo land.”
But Prit and Xavier were persistent. “What difference will it make?” Prit asked. “A little modification here, a little bit of safety there....”
“We’ll look ridiculous”, Sam countered.
“Well if it doesn’t work, we’ll all be dead anyway”, Xavier replied.
Sam considered for a moment. He wasn’t at all convinced, but it might be worth it just to shut them up and get them working on something that might take their minds off the upcoming flight.
“Okay, okay. But if this stuff gets in the way....”
“Thanks Sam!” They both said and hustled off to find the equipment they needed. As they were tearing through the wreckage of the abandoned tanks in their little corner of the Carwash, a thought occurred to Xavier.
“Say Prit,” Xavier said thoughtfully, “Do you think that we’ll get into any trouble if Herr Yurger ever reads the Forum Heroes?”
Prit laughed disdainfully. “Come on, Yurger reading the Forum Heroes would be like Patrick Agita writing a biography on Commissar Davidov.”
Xavier gave him a puzzled look. “Really? Patrick Agita is writing Davidov’s biography? I thought he was working on the Wittmann and Peiper biographies?”
Prit looked at him. “Just forget it, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
