MEAT MACHINE: BLOOD AND SOIL
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An excerpt from the novel in which our hero, Soviet spy Ivan Kublev, while undercover in his German Hans Decker identity, embarks on a wartime mission of a prurient nature
The meteorologists had forecast rain. The pilot of the Fieseler-Storch was eager to leave under clear skies. There was no time for a briefing. For all I knew, they were going to parachute me into Winston Churchill’s back garden for tea and cucumber sandwiches.
‘Nervous?’ asked the pilot. ‘Don’t be ashamed. I’ve taken dozens of you to Camp Honeypot, and they all had performance anxiety, and they all survived… just.’
‘Camp Honeypot?’
The man gave me a hard look, which altered to a mixture of amusement and sympathy.
‘Why, you poor sucker, they really haven’t told you what you’re in for, have they? Well, bear up, comrade. Remember what Nietzsche said? “If it doesn’t kill you it will harden you up!”’
Once again, the favorite proverb of the favorite philosopher of the sauerkraut-eating supermen. If I heard it once in the Third Reich I must have heard it a thousand times. There is no limit to the Germans’ craving for hardness.
The machine droned on through the dusk. Storchs are super-stable machines, they can land and take off on a postage stamp, but they’re not fast. My companion continued to handle the controls with casual competence. He had some odd mannerisms, though. Every half hour or so he’d turn around, wink at me, then stroke his joystick. Once he produced cigars and a flask of brandy.
‘Help yourself!’ he urged. ‘There’ll be none of that where you’re going.’
‘Er… just where am I going?’
But he wouldn’t answer, just grinned and fondled the joystick again.
Late in the night I finally made it to Camp Handlpart (that was its proper name). A smartly uniformed driver met me at the air strip. He smiled when he saw my collection of weapons. Besides my faithful old Colt, I had been issued a KAR-98K battle rifle and an MP-40 submachine gun.
‘Don’t think you’ll need those particular weapons on this particular assignment, Untersturmführer. Would you like to check them into the armory?’
‘Thanks, I will. Except the revolver. That old friend always stays with me.’
‘Fine. If I might suggest, though, Untersturmführer…’
‘Yes?’
‘Keep it unloaded for safety. We have civilian personnel here who have no experience with weapons… er, guns… I mean firearms.’
‘Fair enough.’ I emptied the revolving chambers and put the bullets into my tunic pocket. ‘Now if you would lead me to a place where I could lay my head… It’s been a long day.’
I had a room to myself. The bed looked unusually wide and comfortable for a military establishment. I hung up my uniform, put my Colt under the pillow, and sank into deep sleep.
I dreamt – or thought I dreamt – that a beautiful woman smelling of jasmine – or was it lavender? – had wrapped her arms around my chest – or was it my back? In my half-conscious state it seemed obvious what had happening. I was going to have sex with a succubus. That is to say, one of those dream-women which our old village priest had warned about.
‘They float into bedrooms through half-open windows and molest young men who have sinful thoughts,’ he had told us. I’d been sleeping with the window half-open ever since. And now, after twenty-four years, the habit had paid off. In four dimensions too, I dreamily thought. How else could the same woman wrap four legs around me or press four breasts against me? I gave myself up to the experience. I swam through an ocean of scented skin and hair. If only I had four hands to match my partner. At least I had an enormous erection…
‘Ooh,’ cried the jasmine aspect of the succubus, ‘I do love these new arrivals.’
‘Yes,’ answered the lavender aspect. ‘We’ll get his seed for the fatherland before any of the others.’
This last remark sounded more like a Hitler-maiden than a dream-spirit. Without slacking off my efforts, I entertained an alternate hypothesis. Unlikely though it might be, I appeared to be in bed with two women, with identical bodies but different perfumes. Very good. If the honor of the Soviet secret service was being challenged, I would make sure they both got a good quality orgasm. I think I succeeded, because they both gave grateful sighs and subsided into sleep. And so did I.
As Sherlock Holmes so wisely said, after one has eliminated the impossible, the improbable remains. The dawn light revealed me, in bed, with a beautiful identical twin on either side. They were still asleep, with cute little identical snores. Each had long blonde hair, snub nose, breasts like pomegranates and buttocks like peaches. It was fortunate that I was a good Marxist who didn’t subscribe to religion, or I might have supposed that I’d died and gone to heaven. I cautiously extricated myself from their eight limbs, hauled on my pants, and tiptoed out to the bathroom.
I returned to find them both awake too.
‘Good morning!’ they cried in unison.
‘I’m Wilhelmina.’ That was the lavender twin, with the serious patriotic sentiments.
‘I’m Ramona.’ That was the jasmine one, with the giggle.
‘I’m Hans.’ And Ivan too, I thought. We were well matched, for I had two identities. A good thing, I thought, that both of them loved pretty women.
‘Good to meet you, Hans.’ They spoke in unison again. ‘You may call us Mina and Mona.’
They politely shook hands with me, to complete the introduction. I reflected that this was a vastly superior way of conducting relationships. Sex first, talk second. The way to go.
I watched the two of them make up and dress in very distinct styles. So different were their body languages that, had I not seen them asleep, I would not have noticed their identical shape. Mina wore her hair pinned up, a high-necked blouse with a brooch fastener, a long black skirt and sensible shoes. Mona let her hair hang loose, and wore a low-cut pink dress and high-heeled shoes. She wore lipstick, Mina didn’t.
I sat on the bed, gazing silently at their beauty, and wondered what I’d done to deserve such good fortune.
‘Come on, Hans,’ said Mona. ‘It’s nearly breakfast-time and you haven’t even shaved. I know we’re gorgeous, but you’ll get plenty more chances to look us over.’
‘Right,’ said Mina. ‘The Sturmbannführer will be addressing all new arrivals at nine o’clock. We must have you looking sharp.’
When I returned clean-shaved, they had laid out my uniform and a clean shirt, and had polished my boots.
‘You’re so kind’ I said. ‘How can I thank you?’
‘Don’t worry’ said Mona. ‘We’ll find a way.’
‘Besides,’ said Mina, ‘it’s the duty of German womanhood to stand by their fighting men.’
‘Is this paradise?’ I asked. ‘And is there a catch?’
‘This is an Aryan reproduction unit of the Lebensborn project,’ explained Mina.
‘Or Sex Camp for short,’ said Mona. ‘The catch is that you mustn’t slack off in keeping us ladies satisfied. Did you say that you were a sausage maker in civilian life?’
‘Yes, Mona.’
‘Good sausage you’ve got there!’ They giggled.
I sat shyly in the assembly hall with the other newly-arrived men. While we awaited the Commandant, I studied the slogan painted on the far wall. In golden Gothic letters, it proclaimed: “Man will be trained for war, and women for the recreation of the warrior. Men – let the beam of a star shine in your love. Women – let your hope be to give birth to a Superman.” The author of this saying? Nietzsche – who else?
There will be more to come from Hans Decker soon! In more ways than one! This was an excerpt from David Playfair’s book hopefully to be published later this year. A wonderful Salon Kitty/Private Schultz vibe to it. Splendid!
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