The Metal Man: An Account of a WW2 Nazi Cyborg (19 page)

And…

Brucker had also muttered something about how he’d used that gun too much already. Seemed like he was tired of all the killing, despite the impressive jet-black armor and the shiny red swastikas on his shoulders that made him appear like the ultimate machine of destruction…  

Bach had seen the tank drive into Brucker. Brucker had tried to move out of the way but – given how relatively slowly he walked – that had proved to be impossible.

So approximately twenty-five tonnes of metal had smashed into Brucker at around thirty kilometers an hour. There was a hideous rending, grinding noise of ruptured metal as Brucker disappeared underneath the tank’s tracks…

But now the tank was stuck. Unable to drive forwards as Brucker was pushing the front of it upwards with his mighty arms. Bach thought he heard Brucker actually yell out, that previously emotionless voice now actually registering the sheer effort of what his mechanical body was trying to do – and perhaps also the pain it was feeling…

Slowly – as Bach took cover, fired and then took cover again, the two other tanks now smashing through the outer barbed-wire fence, their shells obviously exhausted – Brucker pushed the tank that was on top of him over onto one side. The top of the turret opened, the five-man Panzer crew yelling as they attempted to get out before the machine completely turned turtle…

Bach emerged from behind cover once more. He had a clear shot – he could shoot down all of those five men with just one burst from his sub machinegun…

Yet something was stopping him. The men were yelling with fear – they appeared to have no weapons, except perhaps a solitary pistol carried by the tank commander. To open fire, now, whatever the circumstances, felt too much like murder for Bach’s tastes –

Then he gasped, several bullets tearing into his own body. He turned to see three of Ackermann’s men running towards him. They’d got into the camp behind these tanks and spread out, and he’d been so busy looking on at Brucker’s own battle that he’d failed to notice them creeping up on him…

Stupid, stupid…

He raised his gun, somehow managing to fire off a second-long burst. He had the satisfaction of seeing one of Ackermann’s men stumble and fall, before more bullets ripped into him – also coming from
behind
him, now.

He fell to his knees, his sight dimming. Feeling a curiously
distant
sort of amazement that he was even still alive. He put his hands to his belly and then removed them.

Yep – stained bright-red, just as he’d thought.

And –

‘He’s dead,’ grunted one of the SS troopers who’d first caught Bach unawares. He prodded Bach’s bloody body with the toe of his boot.

‘There’s only three of them left, now,’ continued the trooper. ‘We shouldn’t have much – ’

‘Look!’ cried out another soldier – one of the ones who’d fired at Bach from the rear.

The other soldiers looked in the direction the man was pointing, and then swore and staggered backwards.

The Metal Man was advancing upon the camp. His chest armor split in several places, smoke billowing from a great metallic rent near his right shoulder. His face was expressionless; but a short distance behind him lay the bodies of two of the tank crew, their heads smashed almost to pieces. The three remaining men were running in the opposite direction, away from the camp…

‘Quickly,’ said the soldier who’d prodded Bach’s body with his toe. ‘Get further into the camp – we can lose him in there.’

‘But how do we
stop
this bastard, if a bloody tank can’t?’ demanded another soldier, his face white as he stared at the ever-advancing figure. ‘And where’s his gun?’

32

He was angry. Angrier than he’d ever thought possible. He’d gone out with the intention of talking peaceably to the man who’d murdered him – in his previous existence – and instead a tank had been driven into him. Ackermann presumably wanting only his destruction – again.

Along with the destruction of everyone in the camp. The inmates; Mayer and the three other soldiers…

He’d crushed the heads of two of the men fleeing the tank. Had managed to get hold of them and smashed them together. He felt no regret about this. He’d thought he would but he didn’t. They’d been bad men – just as their commanding officer was a bad man…

Like attracting like.

Now he wanted only to get back inside the camp and protect those prisoners, and in doing so to fight alongside his own men. Again. And if doing this would result in the destruction of all of Ackermann’s men, then so be it.

Fool to have left his gun behind. What had he been thinking? He fully recalled what sort of man Ackermann was and still he’d told Mayer and the others that it would be best if he just went out to ‘talk’.

So now he’d suffered considerable damage, from having had that tank driven into him. He couldn’t
feel
anything – this word ‘pain’ – but still he could somehow
sense
the ruptured, torn armor and the damaged internal mechanisms and wiring. Some sort of difficulty operating the fingers of his right hand. They
felt
slow – sluggish.

But he could still walk, talk, think – and fight. As he entered back into the camp he saw those soldiers belonging to Ackermann’s unit flee before him and then…

He saw something else. A few bullets, fired by the retreating soldiers, bounced harmlessly off his armor as he bent down and almost tenderly used his still fully-functioning left hand to turn the bloody body of Bach over onto its back.

Then he again stood back up, his expression unchanging but still somehow terrible as he resumed his advance after Ackermann’s unit.   

33

Amsel groaned, trying to hold in his intestines with blood-stained fingers. He wasn’t having much success.

‘Ah, shit…’ sighed Mayer, crouched over the stocky radioman.

‘Get… out of here… Mayer,’ rasped Amsel, gritting his bloody teeth against the pain. ‘It’s all… over… with me…’

‘I’ll help you up,’ began Mayer; but instantly he knew how stupid his words were. Amsel was dying; he just didn’t know how long that death would take.

‘Ackermann’s men… they’re coming,’ declared Amsel, his face contorting with the sheer effort of speaking. ‘You should – go… No use… just to stay here and… watch me die…’

He was right. Had their roles been reversed, Mayer would have said exactly the same thing. But to just go, and leave his colleague to bleed out in the middle of this hellish camp, sprawled out in the foul sludge that passed for ice and snow…?  

‘Wait…’ said Amsel then. ‘Have you… a grenade…?’

‘Two,’ returned Mayer quietly.

‘Give me one… and go.’

‘But – ’

‘Mayer… just shut… up… and do… it…’

Mayer gave Amsel the grenade, and patted him twice on the shoulder before leaving.

34

Weber was busy trying to shepherd the group of inmates towards the back of the camp. Something had been said about hiding out from Ackermann’s men in the forest – but still that required cutting through the two barbed-wire fences. Also many of the inmates were in wretched condition, starving and shaking from fever and cold…

As such, Weber’s group was making slow progress. 

They were cutting along a narrow path between two large buildings, near the towering chimney and its half-demolished twin, when two of Ackermann’s men suddenly appeared behind them. They gave a yell of triumph at their find and opened fire, hitting several of the inmates.

Weber moved away from the group and raised his own weapon to return fire – and discovered that his sub machinegun had jammed. It would take only a second or two for him to put this right – but this was a second or two he didn’t have…

Ackermann’s men grinned at him, one mouthing the word ‘Traitor’ as he aimed his gun in Weber’s direction –

Then he gave a grunt of pain, hitting the ground. His partner looked around quizzically, and the portly, slightly Jewish-looking man who Weber and the others had seen accompany the Metal Man (or rather, Karl Brucker) out of the large military lorry, smashed the length of wood he held in both hands into the soldier’s side.

That man, too, fell to his knees…

And at once the Jewish inmates were upon them, kicking, punching, clawing and scratching at the two soldiers who’d been firing upon them just a few moments earlier. Weber looked briefly away, hearing the shrieks of agony as one of the men had his eyes torn from out of his head…

‘…You don’t like me,’ said the portly man, advancing upon Weber with the length of wood still held in his right hand.

‘I like you better than I did before,’ returned Weber simply. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m Schroder.’

‘Weber.’

‘So – what do we do now?’

‘The plan is to try and get as many people out the back of the camp as possible – through the fences there that are still standing, and into the forest behind. But…’

‘But what?’

Weber shrugged fiercely as he cleared his weapon. He looked at Schroder with dark, sweat-smeared eyes.

‘We won’t do it, Schroder. I’m the only one armed – ’

‘We’ll take those soldiers’ weapons – they won’t be needing them,’ cut in Schroder. He motioned at the bloody and, by-now, very-dead bodies lying nearby. The inmates were starting to move away, panting with their recent exertion. Many had their hands and in some cases even their mouths and faces stained red.

Weber couldn’t help but feel a chill of fear as he realized he was wearing almost exactly the same uniform as the two men who’d just been stamped, punched and torn to death…

But when he met the inmates’ eyes, there was only that same plea for leadership he’d seen before.

‘Over there!’ cried out one inmate, pointing towards the front of the camp.

A number of the buildings had been flattened and destroyed by the rumbling tanks, and the shells they’d first fired before entering, which had opened up a much wider field of view. And there was Brucker, walking through the destruction as bullets deflected off his damaged armor. A machine with a face: implacable, determined. 

‘Son of a bitch,’ murmured Weber almost admiringly. ‘Hit by a tank and he’s still
alive
.’

He glanced at Schroder.    

‘You made him almost as tough as he was – before.’

‘I did my best,’ replied the half-Jewish scientist. ‘Now, let’s get these soldiers’ weapons and move on. We’ll all get to this forest – or die trying…’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ returned Weber grimly.

35

Mayer ran between the smashed buildings. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his torn, filthy jumpsuit.
What the hell had Amsel wanted that grenade for?
No way of knowing. Amsel dead now. Unless Amsel, too, somehow came back from the dead, just as Brucker had –

‘Snap out of it,’ growled Mayer to himself. He had to stay alert and
sane
, if he was to have one chance in a hundred of getting out of this situation alive.

Those tanks… There were only two of them, but still they seemed to be
everywhere
, crushing first the buildings and then the rubble beneath their squealing tracks, Ackermann’s men spreading out around them. Bursts of machine fire, cries of the wounded… Smoke and fire… The chimney and its half-smashed brother stark against that grey wintry sky…