story was written in response to the Yankee Swap Plot Bunny Challenge offered
on the HH Smartgroup's list. This challenge consisted of HH authors offering up
plot bunnies to swap with other HH authors. A Yankee Swap Official (Patti)
collected all the bunnies and then randomly distributed them to participating
authors. The actual rules are listed in our author's notes at the end of this
The plot bunny obtained for this story was a rather difficult one... After a mission, Hogan and his men have become separated. When they finally get back to camp, they find out some disquieting news. Some towns' women have been attacked and they all say the culprit is an American. Could one of the new men or even one of his trusted group be the man? An escaped or downed airman? OR could it be another of Hochstetter's plots? That's what Hogan wants to find out.
Sorry that this story was so long in coming. Here's hoping though, that we have done this plot bunny proud as we took liberties on how the plot could be interpreted. As always, we do not make any claims on the original Hogan's Heroes' characters. All other characters are ours. But again, those characters are free for anyone to use, if you so choose.
Our rating for this story is M for it contains strong language, violence, instances of rape, war rape, and other sexual content. This story is a departure for us, as we’ve always tried to stay within the generalized rating’s categories for our stories, but thought that in accepting a challenge, we should complete the challenge to the best of our ability. Our research into what ‘women have been attacked’ might have actually meant in Nazi Germany sent us on a disturbing odyssey of discovery, and might have pushed us well-beyond the original intent of this plot bunny. But as we delved into the research, we just couldn’t let go of what we found.
Alas, the adult-only rating for this story. So, if you find the thought of any of this distasteful, please avoid this story. Honestly though, we have chosen to write this story as a first-person personal retrospective with the intent to describe the more adult sections of this story with as much aplomb as possible. Hopefully, we’ve succeeded. If you choose to read this story, we would like to hear what you think, for this is new territory for us as writers.
The episode entitled, “The Battle of Stalag 13” and the pilot episode entitled, “The Informer”, were both used in creating the narrative for this story.
World War II was the turning point for me. I began to see what people were capable of doing. Anyone who moved through those years without understanding that man produces evil as a bee produces honey, must have been blind or wrong in the head. Sir William Gerald Golding
An excerpt from New Jersey State Senator Todd Jackson's autobiography, “A Life Fulfilled”,
Chapter Three, "Love Sprung from Hate",
First Printed July 25th, 1981, from Holloway Press, Newark, New Jersey
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...
That time-honored beginning of Mr. Dickens well-known novel is an apt description of the most terrifying part of my military career during World War II. Actually, the story I'm going to tell you had an indelible effect on my entire life, militarily and beyond, and on that of my late wife Paula's, as well. Actually, this story is as much hers, as it is mine. Maybe even more so. It's a story of love and hate, of heroes and villains, of decency and depravity, and finally of how one's self worth can be lost forever.
Paula always credited me with helping her cope with the after affects of that dehumanizing loss. But I always knew that it was her who helped me deal with the impact that that horrendous nightmare had on me. For it was I that stood by and watched as she was branded a “whore for Hitler’s troops” by our Nazi captors, the Waffen SS, who were considered the most feared of the elite front-line German Wermarcht troops. It was most definitely the worst of times. So, I'm sure you're asking yourself, how can any of that be considered the best of times?
Well, Paula and I lived through the ordeal, and we learned to love each other with a passion that will never be equaled, even if I do say so myself. So for us, it was the living and the loving that came afterward that was most definitely the best of times. Although sadly, it did not turn out that way for most others entrenched in the Nazi injustice of brothels, imprisoned prostitutes, and slave labor. And probably would have been devastating to us, had we not happened on, and been pulled out of the fire by, the most infamous spy World War II had known, the one and only Papa Bear, then Colonel Robert Hogan, US Army Air Corp, and now more widely known as the United States Ambassador to West Germany. Like I said though, most others were not as lucky as Paula and myself. But I can't tell you their stories, only the one that Paula and I lived through.
So I guess I will just start at the beginning. It was the early part of 1943 and I'd answered the draft just five days past my 18th birthday. After basic training, as a Corporal, I was stationed in North Africa, which served as the staging ground for an allied attack on Italy, known as Operation Husky. It was that operation that started me on this journey of a lifetime.
I'd never seen anything quite like Husky. I wasn't a sailor, yet there I was, on one of over 2,700 ships all rendezvousing near Malta for the opening assault on Sicily to begin July 10th, 1943. These ships carried seven and a half divisions of US might, and we were all going to be pitted against the over 350,000 mixed German and Italian troops on land. On the day of the landing, the weather was awful. The wind was whipping the waves into 10-15 foot swells. Any sane commander would have called the invasion off, but the Germans weren't expecting us under those conditions and that fact alone made it worthwhile to go ahead.
My unit was part of the assault on the beachhead named 'Joss' which was located between the towns of Sicili and Licata. There were two other beaches, known as 'Cent' and 'Dime', under assault as well. Although, my unit's objective was to take out the Gela airfield. Even as unexpected as this attack was to be, the beach landing was horrific and the details are better left in memory. I'll just give you a quick overview, so you'll know what we came up against. Out of the 310 guys in my unit, only three of us lived to the end of the day. And those two others were sent back to North Africa with the wounded. The final toll of Operation Husky was 31,158 American soldiers either killed, wounded or missing. Although, in the overall scheme of things, it was a victory of sorts, as the Allies did secure their foothold on the Italian peninsula within two weeks of the beach landing.
At just about that same time, as an obviously displaced serviceman, I was assigned, along with another displaced soldier, Craig 'Red' Smith, a 26-year-old Army Air Corp Lieutenant, to escort one of the smallest troupes of USO performers then touring the European theater. The troupe consisted of four wonderfully attractive and talented women, Faye Donovan, a fiery Irishwoman from Missouri, Jane Porter from Chicago, who did a fine line in dance, Alice Nelson, who had an alto range that wouldn't quit, and last but not least, the eventual love of my life, Paula Clark, who did a bit of just about everything. She had already boasted a life-long career in vaudeville and radio by the time we met, thanks to her parent’s theatrical roots. But I guess that’s a story for another time.
Accompanying the girls was a three-piece band, known as the Tony Hall Players. The band itself consisted of Tony Hall and two brothers, Peter and David Anderson. You would think that a stint as escort would have consisted of some light duty. Well think again. It was just the beginning of the aforementioned nightmare that changed the lives of everyone in our little group.
Red and I had collected our USO troupe from the Destroyer Shubruk. And after a number of shows traversing the allied controlled areas of southern Sicily, we began to move north following our frontline troops, who had quickly become entrenched throughout Sicily, and were readying for an assault on mainland Italy.
Red was our driver and I rode shotgun with the troupe and all of their gear in the back of a half-track. Red and I'd thought we had seen enough of the front lines through Operation Husky, and clearly the USO troupe had experienced it first hand as they had been touring for a while. They'd been in England for four months, and then North Africa for three before being sent with the second wave of destroyers for the Italian push. They'd been in dozens of air raids and understood the dangers. So while it was still indeed dangerous driving along behind our own front lines, we'd all accepted the risks involved and were quite content not to be in the trenches, as they say. But for all intents and purposes, we would have been much better off driving along in the midst of our front line troops.
Things remained rather uneventful, until mid August that is. We'd been on the road for a month, with another to go before the troupe headed back to the States, and of course, before Red and my eventual re-assignments. I guess, I should take a step back here and say that during that first month together; a certain young soldier and a beautiful USO performer fell madly in love. Or maybe as I look back at it now, it was more of falling into puppy love. I was only 18 and Paula, 22. Granted a big difference back then, but with the war raging around us, and both of us living with our hearts on our sleeves. Well, for us, it was real love, and an undying love at that.
But, I digress...
Our luck ran out after we pulled into the small town of Mazzarino, where we were planning to stay for a few days at a quaint little inn just on the outskirts of town. We were due to perform four shows beginning the next evening for our troops bivouacking nearby. Only those shows never happened. By early the very next morning, three of our number were dead, and the rest of us hijacked and heading God knew where. Knowing now what happened, I’d like to think even the terror of the unknown was preferable to the truth of what we'd been taken for. Some wise man once said that 'ignorance is bliss'. Well Mr. Gray didn't know the half of it.
Before we knew what had hit us that morning, we'd lost Tony, Peter, and David. Our only thought at the time, was that the Italian innkeeper might have had something to do with it, as there was hardly any noise, and the rest of us found ourselves rousted from our beds and forced into the main lobby at gun-point by men speaking a mixture of German and\or Italian. We actually never realized that Tony, Peter and David were gone, until three additional men, more obviously of German descent, appeared in the lobby dressed in their clothing and carrying their belongings.
We were never told what actually happen to our companions, and it wasn't until years later, when using my influence as Senator, that I learned that Tony, Peter, and David's bodies were never found and subsequently never returned to their families. It was after communicating with those men's relatives that I thought I should tell the world the story I'm telling you now, especially since those families were never given a full accounting of what happened to their loved-ones.
Only, after explaining my intentions to my wife, Paula begged me not to tell, as she couldn't live through the scrutiny that was sure to follow. You see, Paula, on our safe return to the states went back to school and became a psychotherapist. Eventually, becoming a well-known rape counselor. In some ways, I forced her into the limelight, as my post-war career went from law student to lawyer, and finally to Senator. She never wanted to hold me back, so she did the very best she could, and did exceptionally well. She was able to help many victims of violent crimes deal with the aftermath of those indecencies. And even though she had finally made peace with her own experience, Paula had never openly admitted the details to anyone and was mortified that she hadn’t completely come clean, as they say.
Well, neither had I for that matter, and I already told you how much I loved my wife, right? The only reason this story is being told, is that my Paula, during a long bought with cancer, wrote her own account of this story in her own words. She handed those pages to me from her deathbed, and said I could tell the story, but only if her own words were used to describe the more intimate details of the ordeal. You will hear from Paula, as we move this story along.
Anyway, back at that Inn in Italy. The German imposters for Tony, Peter and David were definitely the men in charge of our kidnappers, as clearly the others immediately deferred to them when they appeared. Nobody in our party spoke German, and my Italian was of the high school variety and therefore sparse. Though after a month in Italy I had picked up more of the language by necessity, but still no one could figure out why the Germans were taking us. Or even why our small group was singled out so quickly, especially after only arriving in town barely ten hours earlier.
My only thought had been, that the whole ordeal might have started because of the rapid pull out of German troops happening simultaneously with the massive advancement of Allied troops throughout Sicily. I thought that maybe we were hijacked by some German troops of the Waffen SS separated from their units, who only wanted to use the USO cover for a way out from behind enemy lines. But how we ended up where we finally did, I have no explanation. It could easily have been, just being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and crossing the path of the wrong people.
Anyway, we left Mazzarino before daylight that morning. Again, Red was driving and I was riding shotgun in the back of our half-track. Of course, this time though the proverbial shotgun was in my face as a deterrent against any tricks. We traveled for three days, locked up in that truck. And only occasionally were we stopped at US checkpoints. Clearly both our USO credentials, and our kidnappers sense of direction, were helping in our forward progress. It was more than apparent that the three men with us knew exactly where they were headed.
And now that I’m writing this, I’m finally realizing that maybe there was more to our capture, than just the happenstance of our kidnappers escaping from behind enemy lines. For certainly, my companions and I ended up embroiled in what was, most definitely, a well-established network, although also a deeply held secret, of Nazi degeneracy.
Before I continue, it is here where I need to apologize, in advance, to you, my readers. It is from this point on that I will be describing the events that changed my, and my wife’s, life forever. I wanted you to know that I am going to try and write about these events as dispassionately as possible, and from an historical perspective. I’m not trying to belittle any of what comes next, but I do want you to understand that even as I prepare to write the words, old feelings and memories that I had suppressed for very many years are threatening to overwhelm me. There are just not enough words in the English language to properly describe the mental, emotional, and physical torment that Paula and I survived.
There have been many times where I have convinced myself, over the years, that I should be proud to have lived through the ordeal, but just as many times that I convinced myself that I was a coward for not fighting back. I still ask myself would fighting and dying have been better? I’m still not sure. You wouldn’t think it a hard decision to make, to choose between life and death, whether for yourself or for others. The only thing I came away with from the whole dreadful situation, was that the right to live or die is a personal choice, and is a very very important right for an individual to have. Although, a number of my New Jersey constituents have never agreed with me on that point.
Okay, I’m sorry. That long fought-battle of political minds is covered in another chapter of my autobiography. I will let it go for now and get back to the story at hand.
So where were we. Yes, in the truck for three days. Hunger and thirst are the most prominent memories I have. We were never fed but we were given water twice a day, all the while watching our kidnappers enjoy the rations they had commandeered from the inn in Mazzarino. Fear played a part, but I think at the time, we were expecting to be treated as POWs in conjunction with the Geneva Convention. So we mostly sat quietly. Red was actually the voice of reason for the rest of us. As the senior member of our group, in age and rank, we sort of looked to him for guidance. When he was finally replaced as driver, and joined us the in the back of the truck, he made us believe that there was a way out, and that we just needed to bide our time. His choice was clearly, life. And it rubbed off on the rest of us.
Finally at the end of the third day, our kidnappers dumped the truck. I had to assume that they did so, because we were no longer in Allied territory, for it had been hours since they had moved Red into the back with us. Well, as you might expect, we continued on foot for some time. After what seemed like days for our small, hungry, and tired group, we met up with additional Waffen SS troops. We had actually caught up with Hermann Goering's retreating Panzer Division in northeast Sicily near the Messina Straight that connected Sicily with mainland Italy. Of course at the time, I had no bearings at all, but at that point, I still knew what the date was. So a little research, years later, helped me pinpoint our general location for this manuscript.
After another two days traveling by truck in the midst of the panzer division, no food or water this time, we were transferred from our kidnappers custody into the arms of another unit of the Waffen SS at the Firenze, Italy train depot. We stood in shock on the platform watching hundreds of other allied POWs being loaded into rail cars and became even more shocked when the men already loaded on the first rail car were unloaded and scattered throughout the rest of the train. My assumption at the time was that these POWs were being relocated because of the advancement of US troops.
Anyway, after watching the last POW change cars, was when we were loaded, alone, onto that empty first rail car. Obviously, another hint that we were somehow being, forgive the awful pun, railroaded for a specific reason. But honestly, all I really remember thinking was that I was glad I wasn’t in one of those other over-crowded cars. Granted, the hunger, thirst, fear, and exhaustion were playing havoc with my sensibilities. Or maybe I would have thought about what a bad situation those men were in. In the heat of the moment, though, I was relieved I could just stretch a little, instead of again being cramped, as we had been, in the back of that small truck. Little did I know though, how bad the situation would become for us all.
The rail car itself was mostly dark. There were several slats of its construction however that didn't fit against the others tightly and through these cracks and fissures light and shadows appeared, but never was there enough light to see clearly, nor fresh air to breath deeply. Food had become a distant memory. There was minimal water available, in a large barrel on that train car, but it didn’t last long. Remember that it was mid-August at this point. So, while the train moved, the temperature in the car was almost bearable, but when the train stilled or even when allied bombs dropped around us, the temperature skyrocketed.
The train traveled for what I think was two days, but it was at this point that time and space lost any meaning for me. I regret now my obvious self-obsession during this period. I had assumed the quiet surrounding me in that rail car, meant everyone was trying to conserve energy. Until that is, I heard sobbing from the other side of the car. It was Paula, cradling the lifeless body of Jane Porter. Obviously, the heat, no food, not enough water, and the squalid conditions had been too much for Jane. Paula told me later that Jane had been doing okay, until the heat in the rail car overwhelmed her. She remembered quietly holding Jane for hours before she died, just trying somehow to comfort her friend, in her last hours.
It could have been almost a day later, when the train finally stopped and the doors flung open. The rest of us were in very poor condition, hungry, dehydrated, and so weak, that we were barely able to stand. But it was almost a blessing when those doors did open. God forgive me. But the fresh hot air of the August morning was glorious compared to the stench of decaying flesh, urine, and vomit that was now overwhelming the rail car where we had spent the last few days.
Soon though, our dwindling group, was standing, side-by-side just outside the car, and had to watch as two German soldiers removed Jane's body, and dumped it unceremoniously onto the station platform. There was no reaction from our small assembly, as most of us were on the verge of passing out. Honestly, fear, and our close-knit bodies, were the only things keeping us on our feet. Then, we were all startled by the train’s loud whistle.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. But that’s when our rail car’s doors were slammed shut, and the train continued on to another destination. It was eerie, as there was hardly any noise coming from the other cars. I couldn’t tell whether they were empty or full, as the train had made a few stops along the way. I was hoping in my heart, that at least some of the other cars were emptied en route. I remember that I was focusing on what those crowded cars were like, if actually, still full of men, when everything turned dark for me.
And dark for the others, as I was to learn, what had to be, days later, when I awoke, as a changed male. I probably should have used the word man instead of male here, because as an eighteen-year-old, I awoke to find that everything I felt made me a man had been stolen from me. Only now, looking back from the perspective of a fifty-seven-year-old, I probably could have easily used the word, boy, for although it took me many years, I finally realized that what had been taken from me, was only a small part of my becoming a man. But you see, male actually works better, for castration should only happen to animals, and male animals at that.
So to put it bluntly, I was neutered, as a dog would have been.
Please, again I ask you to bear with me. I want you to remember that I’m trying to write this section dispassionately. It’s not easy. But, I do want to tell you that the first time that I put the word neutered down on paper, I was assaulted by a incredible wave of nausea, followed by uncontrolled shaking, that finally culminated in a mad dash to the bathroom where I lost the entire contents of my stomach, which was almost what occurred when I first found out what had happened to me. The word, almost, is relative though. For then my world was coming to an end. And today, I would not change how my world finally played itself out and it still had that effect on me. Perception is everything, I guess.
So, how did I find out, you may be asking. Well I awoke, slowly, groggily, and clearly still drugged. My body was numb, and I was unable to move. The first thing I noticed, as clarity emerged, was the very high domed and ornate ceiling above my head. Some sort of castle, was my first thought. Although, some sort of hospital was my next thought, after I moved my head from side to side and took in what looked like other beds with much of everything covered in white, and people dressed, as I would have expected in a hospital. Although, a makeshift hospital at that. From my vantage point I could see that there were electrical wires strung haphazardly along the walls and ceilings. Obviously, we were in a very old building.
Architecture aside, it was then that I finally remembered my predicament. I so wanted to believe that wherever I was, that my companions and I were being treated for any injuries sustained in our long arduous trek into Germany, and that we would be eventually moved into a POW facility. That, of course, wasn’t going to be the case. Although, I learned our captors did prefer us healthy, in a twisted kind of way, for what they had planned for us. Only that knowledge was gleaned much later.
I remember trying to move and stretch a bit after waking, but I found myself heavily restrained, strapped down at the ankles, the knees, the waist, and chest. I finally gave up trying to move and just laid my head back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. Remember now, at this point, my body wasn’t giving me any signs that anything was a-miss, as I was still completely encompassed by a drug-induced numbing sensation. Although, from my perspective, clarity of thought had returned to me.
My movement though, did get the attention of what could have easily been a physician, or an orderly. I wasn’t quite sure on the first approach. This man came up to me, felt my head, and stared into my eyes. All I heard, as he turned away, was him yell something loudly in German. After he walked away, instead of me trying to make sense of his abrupt approach and departure, I just tried to take in more of my surroundings, as obviously I wasn’t going to glean much else until he returned.
Clearly, I was in some kind of castle-like building that had at least this room converted into a hospital wing. I couldn’t make out from my perspective if any of my companions were in the same room with me, though. All of them were. Well, except for Alice Nelson. But I’m sorry, that’s jumping ahead. It was quite a while before any of us knew she was missing.
So back to me having watched that man walk away. Scarily, at that point, curiosity was more my focus, than anything else. I had many of the “who, what, where, why” variety of questions running through my brain. No fear though, which now really surprises me. But maybe that just means that I wasn’t as lucid as I remember being.
It was not too long after the first man left my bedside that another man approached carrying a glass jar filled with ‘something’. His demeanor was such that I thought he was just going to tell me everything would be fine. There was no emotion in his demeanor, nor tension. He acted as if he did this sort of thing everyday, which did not prepare me for what happened next. The first words out of his mouth were ‘die Hoden’, and he placed that jar in front of my face. He repeated himself and pushed the jar closer to my face.
I’m sure my expression was one of pure confusion, as I truly had no idea what he was trying to tell me. For now, I will give myself the benefit of the doubt and assume that I wasn’t just stupid. For at eighteen years old, I had never seen testicles floating in a jar of formaldehyde before. It wasn’t until he placed his hand on my crotch and said “sterilisation” that I even had an inkling of what he meant. Everything became crystal clear though when he loosened the strap at my waist and move my own hand down to where my testicles should have been. And I realized they weren’t there.
I think I remember screaming. Although, I most assuredly remember the cold sweaty terrified panic that engulfed me, as I tried to flail around with my unrestrained arms, trying desperately to get loose, and get away. Where I thought I was going, is still a mystery. Of course, terror and panic don’t leave much room for logical thought. Anyway, as you can imagine, my flailing was to no avail. Two additional orderlies helped the first to again restrain me. It was then that the contents of my stomach decided they shouldn’t stay where they were. Looking back now, there was a little sweet revenge in that, as I projectile vomited and hit two of the three orderlies. All I remember next is having my head forced into a pillow, facing sideways, so any more projectiles would hit the floor and not my tormentors.
I have a lapse in memory after that. My assumption is that I was again drugged after the vomiting stopped. How long it was until I awoke again, I’m not sure. Only this time, I awoke to a very smallish older Frenchman sitting by my side. I vaguely remember that he was talking softly to me. Whether in French or English at first, I’m again not sure. But as my eyes made contact with his, his words, although heavily accented, were English. “Do not fight, son. It’s not worth it,” were the first words I actually heard. “Your life is no longer your own. To keep your women alive, you and your friend have work to do here.” He pointed to my left where I could see that Red was lying motionless in a bed just next to me.
Relieved, I had to assume Red was just sleeping. For the Frenchman did say we had jobs to do and those jobs would keep Paula, Faye, and Alice alive. I accepted that Red had probably been ‘neutered’ as well, and only hoped that his realization of that fact had already happened. I didn’t think I could handle seeing him that vulnerable, as he had been the steadfast optimist, and older brother, of our group. As to how this would affect him, I just didn’t want to know, especially if my reaction was any indication. Well anyway, I only remember shivering and blurting, “What jobs?” The answer itself though, wasn’t what I would have expected in one-million-years.
So, as not to belabor the point. The word ‘eunuch’ best describes what Red and I had become. We were expected to be bed chamberlains in a Nazi brothel. Our jobs were to take care of the women who would become “whores for Hitler’s troops”. I guess I don’t need to tell you of which women I speak. Although, I will tell you now that we found out from our French counterpart – yes, he too was a eunuch, and had been for over a month taking care of his wife and three daughters – that Alice Nelson died as a result of the surgery performed on her. She, Faye, and Paula were also castrated, or maybe I should use the word ‘spayed’ in their case. All were subjected to ovarian tube ligation surgery. Naturally, our German captors, had no intention of fostering children of mixed heritage with these women. Forced and frequent sex was all they desired.
Soon, I’d like to turn the story telling over to Paula, but I thought before I did that, I should give you a little more background information on our situation. Please remember though, that this information I’m going to tell you now, was not something I knew at the time. It’s information I learned later on, after our rescue, and even some of it, only very recently when I spoke with Robert Hogan in an attempt to flesh out this chapter.
We were indeed being held in a castle on the outskirts of Hammelburg Germany. It was an old, long abandoned castle that laid half in ruin, either from the war or from non-use. The still usable and hastily upgraded areas of the castle had only recently been commandeered by a small 30 odd-man contingent of the Waffen-SS. We were being held there as recreation for the small contingent while a larger facility, being referred to as a soldier’s rest home, was being located. Which in itself brought us, thankfully, into the realm of the infamous Papa Bear. Robert Hogan told me that General von Kattenhorn, the commanding officer of the contingent, had plans to take over Stalag 13, and create a soldier’s rest home of it. Of course, in reality, it would have become a combination rest home/brothel. After all, recreation was a necessary part of every soldier’s recovery. Sorry for the sarcasm.
It would be almost a month hence though, until we we’re rescued, as the German’s were still organizing the command post at the castle, and it would be almost that long, until word traveled to Stalag 13, about their impending closure. I will leave the specifics of everything that culminated in our rescue for Robert Hogan to tell you, in his own words, when we approach that juncture in this story.
But before I continue, I want to thank Robert Hogan, publicly. For he, in our last conversation about this manuscript, absolved – not all – but most of my guilt and insecurities, as to why I had stood by, taking no action at all, and just accepted all that had happened to myself and the others. I probably should have known what he told me all along, but it was much easier to keep the guilt close by. He was the first and only person I’d talked to openly about this, other than Paula, ever since our homecoming to the states, those many, long years ago. Even our personal physicians had been given a cover story, as clearly my situation could not be hidden completely.
Anyway, Robert Hogan’s honest, unmitigated opinion was a Godsend to me. I wish that Paula could have heard his words in person as well. My only hope is, that maybe, from her present vantage point, she has.
The last thing that the Ambassador said to me was… Listen to me, Todd. I’ve spent a long time now answering your questions, and dredging up old memories. Some of them good, most of them bad. And during our many conversations I couldn’t help but notice the deep-seated guilt that’s still with you. I understand guilt, believe me, I do. It’s just that you have nothing to be guilty about. Sure I know you think you should have done more. We all do. But you need to realize that you were a victim. And maybe that’s the crux of the problem, as nobody wants to be a victim.
But I’ll tell you something. At barely eighteen, and an innocent in the ways of the world…
Don’t look at me like that. Just listen.
You told me you grew up in Hoboken, NJ, where I’m sure evil didn’t lurk around every corner. And I’m fairly certain, it didn’t lurk at all. Small town America, at it’s best, I’m sure. It’s just that when you hit Nazi Germany, after the fairly traumatic events of Operation Husky and the loss of your comrades, you were severely out-matched by evil incarnate.
I’m sorry. But, I know, you know, it’s true. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Not very many were ready for that face of evil.
Actually what I saw in your face, your wife Paula’s, and the Trudeau family’s, when we got you to Stalag 13, was pure catatonia. How any of you were still on your feet, I couldn’t imagine. But you survived, when too many did not. That’s what important to remember. Look at where life has taken you. You can be proud of your accomplishments. Even I knew of Senator Todd Jackson before he came and took me on this odyssey of recollection. You have made your mark, and I know that those lost, so long ago, would be proud of the young man who made good. And who has made a difference in this world. You may have not been able to save them then, but you have fought for them, and other victims, ever since. You did not fade into oblivion, which most would have. Be proud of that.
Thank you, Ambassador, I will.
Sometimes I think you need to hear things from someone outside your realm. I hadn’t realized I had wallowed in as much guilt as I had. Of course, my realm consisted of Paula and myself. We only had each other. A rather limited worldview in that regard. Now, I feel as if I have emerged from some dark cave. Again, my heartfelt thanks go to Robert Hogan.
Well, this was where I was going to turn the storytelling to Paula, only I realized after including the statement above that I probably need to explain why Robert Hogan mentioned neither Red nor Faye in his comments. That’s because we lost both Red and Faye in a related incident, almost two weeks after officially starting our ‘jobs’. It was probably then that the catatonia, of which Robert Hogan spoke, set in completely. I was lost without Red. I hadn’t lied when I said he had become like a big brother to me. I had depended on him being there. When I watched him machine-gunned down practically 20 feet from where I’d been standing, well, I thought my life ended with his.
The whole incident happened swiftly. I was at my watch station, having been assigned to Paula and Yvette, as their eunuch. Red had Faye and Lynette under his care, while Jacque took care of his wife Yvonne, and youngest daughter, Suzette. The specifics of our jobs, I will leave to Paula to explain. Suffice it to say though, that the night both Faye and Red were killed, Faye had been servicing an SS Captain who, from Paula’s description to me later on, would become sexually aroused by cutting off the air-supply of his partners. Clearly with Paula and the others, he had been able to restrain himself. Faye was not as lucky.
It was when Red had gone in to check on Faye, just as the Captain left, that he found her strangled to death. Charging out of the room, he catapulted himself at the retreating SS Captain, and grabbed him by the neck. All I remember then was hearing a grotesque snapping sound as Red twisted the German’s neck beyond its limit. As the German’s body fell to the floor, the guard stationed nearest me open-fire on Red. I never ducked, nor cringed. I only stood and watched as his body absorbed the impact of a round of machinegun fire. It wasn’t until the five additional Germans being serviced emerged from the other rooms, in various states of undress, that I even registered what had occurred to Red.
Of course, I did not get the whole story until later, as Jacque and I had been quickly forced into our own room, and I assumed at the time that Paula and the others would stay confined to their rooms. They had, only they were left strapped to their beds, prone in whatever position had been desired by the men they were servicing. It wasn’t until six hours later that Jacque and I were released and could relieve them from their bondage. Which honestly did not give the woman much relief, as it was by then, almost time for the next shift to be serviced.
Okay, that’s enough from me. For now, as she asked, I will turn this story over to Paula.
I have always wondered what the first question would be from someone who learned of my and Todd’s ordeal. I imagined it would have been a question of our physical relationship and/or whether our life together was forged only as a matter of convenience. So I thought before I delved into more hurtful memories, I would address this imagined question of mine.
Believe me, the life that Todd and I forged together, could not have been more fulfilling. Todd is my companion, my friend, my confidant, my savior, and my one true love. And as of this writing has been so for more than 30 years. It’s been my experience, that not many of the women I’ve been in contact with, whether professionally or personally, could ever openly say, or believe that of their life-mate.
Honestly though, maybe in the beginning our union was one of convenience, but not in the sense that you would suspect. Clearly both Todd and I needed recovery time from the depravities leveled at us. Not having to explain our limitations to anyone else only strengthened our bond. But please know that we had already forged a loving-relationship before any of that happened.
Societal pressures of the era aside, Todd and I had come together physically and emotionally during our first month together on the road. We both have fond memories of our virgin meeting, and a most special memory of our last rather climactic union. The latter occurred two nights before we fell captive to the Nazis, during an air raid of biblical proportions. At least that’s what it seemed like to us. Between the heightened sexual arousal, our nearly simultaneous climax, and the fear that death was hovering just overhead, Todd and I could not have asked for a more invigorating memory, one that has lasted a lifetime.
And one that had gotten us through some of the more trying times when we, still practically babies, were first dealing with the physical losses suffered. It’s amazing how one gains a new perspective with age. Anyway, “love’s caress” is how we always termed our continued physical relationship. For although, Todd had indeed lost the ability to achieve an erection and I was never again to feel the arousal that my husband’s vaginal penetration could bring… together as burgeoning adults, we discovered ways to achieve a shared heightened physical sensuality.
Our only regret was that we would never conceive a child together. But even that regret has long since been forgotten. Todd and I raised four wonderful, exquisite, intelligent, well-rounded children. Even if I say so myself. Karen, John, Christine, and Stephen were adopted of course, but all have fulfilled our life – with so much love – that we could not conceive of living without them.
A life fulfilled is every human being’s wish. For Todd and I, our wish came true.
Well, maybe that was more than anyone reading this wanted to know. If so, I apologize. I just wanted to make sure everyone understood why Todd and I have remained soul mates for life. I only regret that my time with Todd will be cut short by the cancer that is ravaging my body. I just want him to know how much I love him. It’s why I chose to tell the more intimate parts of this story.
So, I guess, I cannot stall any longer. I will now delve more deeply into the six-week ordeal that changed our lives forever. I need to state that I will be looking back at this whole incident with the world-weary eyes of one who knows the end of her life is near. On the one hand, I want to give an unemotional account as a professional victim’s advocate. And on the other, I don’t want to – as a victim – gloss over my feelings, which have been re-awakened by this whole writing process. I can only make a promise, to those of you that are reading this, that I will do my best to choose my words with care.
As I’ve told my many clients over the years, compartmentalizing the painful events of your life can sometimes make them easier to deal with. Meaning that you can take on, one small hurt, at a time. I never realized how many compartments I’d created for dealing with the devastating loss of my own self-worth during WWII. You just wouldn’t think six weeks would be enough time to ruin that, but it was.
So where do I start? Which compartment do I open first?
Maybe I will just start with the day my job as a “whore for Hitler’s troops” began in earnest. It was two weeks after the ovarian tube ligation surgery. Ten days after instruction in the art of Nazi whoredom. One week after finding out what had happened to Todd and Red. Three days after finding out what had happened to Alice. And then only one day after having the words “a whore for Hitler’s troops”, in German obviously, tattooed on my left inner forearm. Can you say, “emotional turmoil”?
It was early morning, when Faye and I were escorted from the makeshift hospital to another floor, some three-stories up. At least. I remember the walk to be excruciating. Terror played a significant part, but shear exhaustion was the end all and be all of the entire experience. After starvation, dehydration, unexpected invasive surgery, and finding out that you were to spend the rest of your life as a Nazi prostitute, well I barely made it to that third story, without passing out. And if the look on Faye’s face was any indication, it was true for her as well.
Although, if one could find a bright spot in all of this, it was when we emerged onto the well-guarded third floor and saw both Todd and Red standing close enough to the entrance, so that we could tell that they were clearly waiting on our arrival. The bubble of relief and joy at seeing both men for the first time since we were incapacitated at the train station was burst immediately though, once my eyes came in direct contact with Red’s, and most especially, Todd’s.
That’s when my world finally came crashing down. I do realize that my world had already collapsed, but I had kept a secret fleeting hope that I would see something in Todd or Red that would force some optimism in me, however minute. Only what I saw in their demeanor mirrored my own level of despair. And physically, if either Faye or I resembled the emasculated men standing in front of us, I’m very glad I never got to look at myself in the mirror. Clearly though, the look in Todd and Red’s eyes expressed the same, equal, and reflective opinion. Why or how any of us were still coherent, I’m not really sure.
Without preamble, nor even time for me to look away from Todd, I was shoved into his arms, while Faye was unceremoniously shoved into Red’s. Todd grabbed hold of me with such a shaky and frail grip, that I immediately looked up into his eyes with a worried question poised upon my lips. His only response was to gently turn, and herd me to a door a little farther down the hall, whispering only ‘please be quiet’.
I glanced around the long, wide hallway as Todd slowly opened the large heavy ornate wooden door we were standing in front of. I didn’t get to see much, only that there were other doors of similar construction and that Red had just disappeared with Faye into a room just across the hall. Little did I know that that would be the last time I’d ever lay eyes on either of them. For the next four weeks, until our rescue, my world was that room and only that room. Todd, an occasional medical professional, and the men I serviced, were my only contact to the world that lay beyond that large heavy door.
So, you might now be thinking about some very basic survival issues. I don’t blame you. It’d be the first thing I’d be thinking of.
Well, even though my room had been given electrical light, with wires strung unevenly about the ceiling, no other amenities existed. There was a bed, a chair, a washbasin, and a couple buckets. But that’s all. Unfortunately though, that was where Todd’s job came into play. He was responsible for my life. He brought food and water on as regular a schedule as he was allowed. He was responsible for removing and replacing the buckets full of urine and feces. He brought me wash water and a towel daily. I think I can honestly say though, that Todd had easily accepted these tasks without reservation.
But it was his functionary job as mediator – between myself and the men I serviced – that took the largest toll. I’m sure I’m the only one that saw him vomit after he released me from bondage as each of the first few men completed their task at hand and had retreated from the room. Actually it was a mutual event for the first couple days, until neither of us had anything more in our stomachs to vomit. Todd’s mediator job, to be more descriptive, was to pose, bind, and sometimes gag me into whatever position would please the man being serviced. Or even do nothing, if that was the whim of the serviceman. He was also charged with making sure I was ‘cleaned’ between visitors.
Servicing occurred in eight-hour intervals. One man, from each duty shift, for one hour, every eight hours. I know that there were some thirty-odd men in the Nazi contingent. And remember when both Faye and I joined the rank of the whore, there were already four other woman providing this service. The woman of the Trudeau family had been held captive for at least a month longer than us. Anyway, it appeared that six women was a good round number for our Nazi captors, as no others joined our rank while we were there.
And I’m fairly certain that I’d seen no more than fifteen men in the first two weeks. My assumption that only the higher-ups got the chance at ‘recreation’ was confirmed later. And I clearly remember that I was on my third go-round with the same man, actually the commanding officer, one General von Kattenhorn, on day thirteen, when things went from unbearable to horrific. You wouldn’t think it could, but it did.
The turning point came the night that both Faye and Red were murdered.
But maybe I should take a step back and be more specific about my part in this ordeal. Up until this point, I’ve only described my vision of Todd during those first two weeks, and have glossed over the intimacies of my job. This, although, is where my compartmentalization is in full effect. Looking back now, I realized I lumped the men being serviced into categories. And surprising myself now as I try to write this, each category has to do with levels of pain; not painful, somewhat painful, moderately painful, very painful, and excruciatingly painful.
Clearly no pleasure was involved in any scenario. And I think that ‘pain’ covers not only physical pain, but also psychological and emotional pain. So maybe I will just try to describe each level of pain. Hopefully that will give you all a proper picture of the events. If not, I again apologize, I’m not sure how else to tackle this.
I will start, though, by saying that excruciatingly painful is reserved only for General von Kattenhorn’s behavior following Red and Faye’s deaths. He was clearly in a class all by himself by that point.
So, I guess I will start my personal vocabulary lesson with…
There were two men, who never gave Todd any marching orders, and who entered my room obviously only to pleasure themselves. Neither man touched me. I don’t know why, I’m only grateful. I was left unbound and when I chose not to look at either man, neither objected. I was left only having to hear the sounds of a man masturbating until the resulting climactic moment. For the balance of each session, these men would relax in the chair provided, obviously not wanting to leave too early. Both would eventually depart without comment, though.
An additional two men, although they never physically touched me with their genitals, found tools to aid them in their sessions. In both cases I was lashed to the bed, lying face up, but not gagged. The first man explored every inch of me by running his hands all over, and then he’d probe every orifice, squeezed every body part that could be squeezed, and would even constrict my airway until I almost passed out. All of which caused him to become quite aroused. And all of which was done with gloved hands, and no speaking.
The second man was unique in his approach, but still he fit into this category. Instead of his genitals, he chose a cooked knockwurst sausage to do his bidding. He relegated his knockwurst only to vaginal and anal penetration. He would alternate sessions, but never did he change my position to aid in anal penetration, so those sessions were a bit of a physical challenge, as I was never given much leeway when lashed down. Although, he did succeed in his private sexual fantasies. In one scenario, he’d force the knockwurst in me as far as it would go, and spent the rest of the hour slowly extricating it, by sucking on it, and biting off small pieces. And for the other scenario, well he would just use it, as he would have his penis during intercourse.
I’d say this category is a little bit mixed as far as the intensity, the techniques, and abilities of the men being serviced. But the one thing that did lump the men into this category, was the fact that by the time each had entered my abode, all were clearly very deep into an erection. Some never even got close enough to me to get inside before their climax. Others got in me, just in time to reach a climax. And some did accomplish the task at hand to their own satisfaction. Not many of the less capable, were happy with their performances, though. It was each ones reaction to his miscalculation that stands out most in my memory. Some chose to beat me, some chose to threaten me with a weapon. I’ll have you know that having the muzzle of a handgun thrust in your vagina, is not something I would recommend. Knives were used indiscriminately, and I was often cut open and left bleeding. One man even urinated all over me.
I should have been terrified for my life, but, as I learned from one of the medical technicians, there was an unwritten rule that I could be hurt, but not be too hurt. After all, I had a job to do that aided the entire company. And a lot of manpower was expended in retrieving me. It wouldn’t have been fair to the others in the company to take me out of service.
How important do you think that made me feel?
And poor Todd, he always had the harder ‘cleaning’ duty when these men departed the premises. I remember the intense anger and pain in his eyes, when he would see me bloody or bruised. I do remember asking him not to do anything vengeful, for that would surely have left me all alone in Nazi Germany. By the time he would help me get cleaned up and had gotten the room restored to a normal order, the anger dissipated. At least enough to keep him from doing something stupid, but always the pain remained.
The men in this category were the older, more mature Nazi. Clearly taking national pride in conquering the enemy, through rape. The men in the other categories were only reacting to the sexual act. These men wanted to cause pain to the enemy. And I personified that enemy. Even Todd was forced to take part in some of these sessions. Most of the men wanted him in the room to watch as they forcibly drove their genitals into me… through any orifice they desired.
I can only remember feeling how large, hard, swollen, and hot these men’s penises were during my victimization. These men took pride in their sexual prowess. The phrase cock-sure comes to mind. And they all enjoyed watching an eighteen-year-old boy cringe at every move they made, as well as seeing the pain in the eyes of their twenty-two-year-old victim. Not to mention thoroughly enjoying the infliction of as much of that pain as possible while striving for their own pleasure. Although, maybe pleasure is not the right word, instead domination was more their intent.
I would have left General von Kattenhorn in this category, but his bad behavior soon escalated. I actually think it was finally triggered by the events surrounding the murders of Red and Faye, as well as one of his underlings. Like I said earlier, things changed drastically at that point.
On the night of the murders, General von Kattenhorn was engaging me. Todd had been instructed to bind me in a kneeling position on the floor with my hands and legs tied together behind my back, and to finally to lash me to the side of the bed. Todd was then ordered to leave. This was actually the General’s favored position for me. He found oral sex more enjoyable. He would thrust his penis fast, hard, and deep into my throat until his erection reached a crescendo. Mostly I just tried to control my gag reflex until I had to swallow his cum.
Only this night was different. Machine gunfire startled both of us. The General thrust hard in response to the noise, and I bit down even harder. Obviously not a good thing to have done. After a wail of pain, he extricated his now bleeding penis from my mouth, retrieved his pants from around his ankles, covered his injured extremity, and limped quickly from the room to answer the call of the machine gun fire.
And I was then left for hours, tied to the bed, and gagging on the remnants of the General’s blood still in my mouth.
Whew, I felt like I’d been holding my breath while writing that entire diatribe on pain. Although, after having caught my breath, I went back and read the section again. From a personal standpoint, I feel that it was somewhat sterile in it’s description. Although, from a professional one, not so much. But I came to the realization that I couldn’t explain it any other way. On the one hand, it’s been a relief to finally get this out in the open. On the other, well maybe I’ll just say that I can still taste that bastard’s blood in my mouth, and leave it at that.
Todd finally returned to rescue me, after I don’t know how long. I was very tired, sore, and disoriented. So much so, that I had never noticed that I had urinated and defecated, not to mention vomited, during my continued bondage. I vaguely remember being released, with Todd gently lowering me to the floor, and then having his gentle touch clean me, until he finally put me back in bed. From that point on, I slept. For how long I’m not sure. I was only woken by Todd’s next appearance with some food, water, and a disturbing message.
As it turned out, General von Kattenhorn decided that he preferred my company to that of any one else, and had commandeered me as his private whore. From that moment on, I was to be at his beck and call, and only his call. But as much as that message, in and of itself, made things go from unbearable to horrific for me. Implementation of that order turned Todd’s and my world topsy-turvy. For you see, the General had decided that Todd was now to be part of his captive personal audience. One would have assumed, that he wanted Todd available for the same reasons the other officers’ had… to humiliate him as he observed the Nazis’ sexual deviancy.
Only that wasn’t the case, for it was at that very moment, that Todd became the whore, and I became the observer…
I’m so sorry, my Love. Please forgive me, Todd.
There was never any need for Paula to be sorry. And I had told her that many times over the years. So much so, that I probably shouldn’t have included her words here. But, they did lead me onto my next stop in this odyssey I’d taken. You see, guilt in this instance was a two-way street. I was guilt ridden having not been able to stop the assaults on Paula, and she felt guilty that her final assault on the General’s genitalia triggered the assaults on me. I know that for both of us, the guilt was unbearable. And at first, I accepted the sexual abuse, as punishment for my inaction. And Paula accepted the unwanted visuals of my sexual abuse – being forced on me by another man – as her punishment.
But you see, the guilt and punishment, the punishment and guilt, became a never-ending psychological cycle of abuse that we inflicted upon ourselves. Paula and I had thought that we had divested ourselves from it along time ago. Certainly we tried, only we must have covered it well. I will tell you now though that we were able to make a final break from that guilt. Only it happened after I first read those words, above, scribbled on Paula’s last draft of this manuscript. She had purposefully left them off all other iterations.
I took her in my arms, and we cried until we could no longer cry. It was something that we had never done before. Private tears were one thing, but together, never. Why? I don’t have the answer. We were always stoic in the way we faced adversity. Always the steadfast ones. Maybe it was because nothing ever came our way again that was quite as bad. I’m just sorry that this cleansing of guilt, for me anyway, was washed away with sorrow. For you see, my Paula passed away the very next day. Do I have to say to you, that I still miss her so?
And I’m hoping I don’t need to supply any more information about my aforementioned sexual abuse. Actually, hope has nothing to do with it. I made the choice not to include anything more descriptive here. I thought Paula clearly described General von Kattenhorn’s heighten sex drive and personal preferences. I wanted to leave the visuals of me, in Paula’s stead, to the imagination.
Okay, so onward. To the rescue…
Well, it came as a complete shock to us. And it came in the form of a Gestapo raid on the castle. And it happened so quickly, that the only thing I remember as the raid began, was grabbing Paula, and praying that God would take us both into heaven together, for there was never any way we thought we’d survive a raid. There was not an iota of a thought. And our Gestapo captors were pretty convincing too. They never let their façade waiver. Until that is, we were being unloaded from the back of a truck, after only a relatively short ride from the castle.
And suddenly, English and French were the languages being proffered … Who’da thunk it?
Well, I don’t know about Paula… but when I heard the words, “Take it easy, son. You’ll be on your way home in no time,” my first thought was that God had called me into heaven. Clearly I was a little disoriented, but at least it was in a good way.
And that’s basically all I ever knew about the rescue, really. Our time in Papa Bear’s den was relatively short, and I know they didn’t go telling procedural techniques to every fly-by-nighter that wandered into their realm. So that’s why I contacted Ambassador Hogan for this manuscript. He was able to fill in the gaps for me. Only I realized that, by the end of his story, I did have one question left about my short time at Stalag 13, which the Ambassador graciously answered.
Amazingly enough, that answer gave me the title of this chapter, “Love Sprung from Hate.” And I thought it a suitable ‘happy ending’ for this portion of my manuscript. But I’ll let the Ambassador tell his tale first.
Well Todd, this incident occurred relatively soon after we’d taken my operation from rescue only into full-time espionage, sabotage, and rescue mode. Unfortunately, at the time, we were experiencing some growing pains. Or I should say, we made some mistakes, which lost us some valuable team members. Thankfully, they all were rescued before the Gestapo could do them harm. It was a close call, all around, though. But, we did learn to keep a lid on our over zealousness.
At the same time, your General von Kattenhorn showed up to announce his takeover of Stalag 13 and his desire to make it a rest home. For us, it was going to be devastating. I had no plan in place. And I couldn’t even think of one. Not a good place for me, personally. But, we got a little reprieve when a Gestapo Colonel named Feldcamp showed up, wanting to use Stalag 13 for interrogating the aforementioned team members, recently captured.
With the two Nazis in a battle of words, it gave me the time to think; and the notion to play them against each other. Everything still happened very fast, though. Within a couple days, Stalag 13 was surrounded with SS and Gestapo troops, squaring off for possession of the camp. The war of words had almost escalated into a full-scale battle. It was nuts, and dangerous. Especially, since the SS had liberated our captured team members from the Gestapo. Actually, it was my own team of SS, but it most certainly did not endear von Kattenhorn to Feldcamp, which of course is exactly what I expected.
I’m sure you’re wondering where you all came into the picture. Well, I never expected to hear what I heard about you when I heard it. But you should know that you owe your lives to a Luftwaffe Captain, named Dingle. He had recently become a member of my expanding team. A good man, for sure. He ran the Hammelburg Supply Depot. And well, he got himself, as a supply officer tends to do, in the good graces of General von Kattenhorn and his company. And in return for some favors, was offered a little recreation.
He swears, and I believe him, that he had no idea, what form that ‘recreation’ would take. Until that is, he was escorted into one of the ladies’ rooms at the castle. Dingle told me the woman was French. So, obviously, she was a member of the Trudeau family. I want you to believe how mortified he was when he had to explain this to me. But know, he did the only thing he could think of at the time. He promised me, that he never touched the young lady. But, he knew that he could not leave the room as he came in. Not with the Nazi vultures outside waiting with baited breath to hear of his sexual exploits. So, keeping his back to her, he masturbated. He was afraid trying to fake a story in front of his SS audience, would make his life, a living hell, especially if a lie were discovered. This way, he could at least be recovering from an erection, and would have some basis for his story.
Anyway, the first thing he did after making his way back to the supply depot, was get in touch with me, and explained the situation. Dingle’s word came in just before Stalag 13 was besieged by the opposing Nazi troops. Timing is everything, I guess. We hatched our plan and set it into motion. Basically, for a start we stole and planted explosives in both Germans’ staff cars. The day of the siege brought both men together into camp, each accusing the other of stealing their cars. Well, we conveniently located both cars for them from within Stalag 13. They were so angry at each other, that they never even thought there was another explanation for the missing vehicles. Good thing for us. It was when each man left Stalag 13 in a heated huff, that both men met their maker. While still within earshot of Stalag 13, both cars exploded.
And that’s when it became a race to retrieve you all. We knew that most of Kattenhorn and Feldcamp’s contingents were stationed outside of Stalag 13. And we just hoped the resulting confusion from the explosions would give us the time we needed. It did, but boy was it only by the skin of our teeth. Getting out of Stalag 13 was a little hairy. Myself and twenty-five other men went out after you in two trucks, in the middle of the day. Trust me that was not as easy as it might have seemed. Ten of us were dressed as Gestapo, the rest as prisoners. Our cover story, my team of Gestapo was moving prisoners that day.
You see, the reason so many of us had to go, was that Dingle couldn’t give me any specifics about the number of captives being held at the castle. Nor could I be sure of how many SS would be still there when we arrived. We only knew that the were thirty or so men station there, and at least one captive. So we needed to be ready for anything.
Turned out, thankfully, that when we arrived at the castle, there were only a few left stationed there. It actually turned out to be rather simple to eliminate them and move you out. You were then loaded into my ‘Gestapo only’ truck and returned to Stalag 13. Getting back in for us wasn’t much trouble, for by that time, the enemy action was centered on the explosion sites.
Although, for my men in that second truck, well they, and I, had a few anxious moments. Make that like three hours of anxious moments. Their truck broke down after we went our separate ways, and each man had to make their way back to camp on foot. They all came staggering in, one by one, within the next few hours. To look as inconspicuous as possible, the operation rules required them to split up. Especially since most of my men in that truck were dressed in Allied uniforms; which is not a good thing to be wandering the Hammelburg woods dressed in. All I can say is, thank God, we had an incredible network of team members to help them back.
Well, does that tell you what you wanted to know, Todd? If I recall, you were barely at Stalag 13 another couple days. I remember thinking that after a little medical checkup, some food, water, clothes, and a little sprucing up, that you all needed to get out of Dodge as quickly as possible.
It was then that I startled out of a little reverie, and I’m sure glad that I had taped our conversations, because that first time through I had stopped listening at about the time Robert Hogan told me he had blown up General von Kattenhorn. It’s hurtful to me now that I had harbored so much hate. But, to be honest, just the vision of that man being blown to smithereens, with body parts being strewn helter-skelter all over the landscape, well, it felt so, so good to imagine.
I quickly responded to the Ambassador, saying what I hoped was a proper response, in that I’m sure we all looked like Hell warmed over by that point. I then took the opportunity to thank the Ambassador for his time, and my life. For without him and his operation, there would have been no life to live. Paula and I would certainly be dead and buried along side Red, Faye, and Alice, somewhere, where no one would ever find us.
But then, before ending our session, I quietly offered up my final question. Robert Hogan’s reply seemed rather sheepish for a man considered an American hero…
I didn’t think you knew about that.
Where should I start?
I guess I should just jump right in.
Well, the whole scenario certainly didn’t show my team at it’s best. Actually, I had tried to keep that whole situation completely out of you and your companions’ earshot. Mistake number one. I guess I should say quickly though, before I start, that everything worked out for the best in the end.
It had all started during that three hours of waiting for my men to return to camp after your rescue. With all the Nazi radio equipment, walkie-talkies, etc. surrounding camp, we were experiencing heavy static on our own underground radio frequency. We weren’t worried about having it traced though, since communication was running rampant outside camp. Anyway, when I contacted our German physician, asking him to come and examine you, I could tell he was anxious, and was barely listening. Between that and the radio interference, I misinterpreted his anxious communication to me. Mistake number two. The only thing I heard before the connection was lost was that one of my men, an American, had attacked some of the town’s women.
Do I need to explain why I would keep that from you? I didn’t want to believe that any of my men I trusted would do such a thing, especially during an important retrieval mission. So after all my men returned, I went on a little tirade, rounding up all my ‘American’ soldiers that were out of camp that afternoon. Rape just wasn’t something I was going to tolerate. Needless to say, those men completely denied ever doing such a thing. And I spent the rest of the day stewing about how I was going find out who did do it.
I knew I needed more information, and since the radio wasn’t too reliable at that point, I waited on the doctor’s visit. It was when the doctor arrived late that night that the true story emerged. The whole scenario had been a series of miscommunications, conclusion jumping, anger, frustration, and despair.
You see, one of our contact’s daughters – and thank God, it was a friendly enemy’s daughter – announced that she was pregnant to her father. But did not at first announce the identity of the baby’s father. Through a series of heated arguments, over the course of a week, the unwed mother-to-be finally spouted that the father was an American from Stalag 13. Well hell, her father knowing that the physician was in close contact with us, in a fit of pique, told the doctor that his daughter had been attacked by an American from Stalag 13, which is how it turned into my hearing town’s women being attacked by an American over the static radio waves.
Obviously though, this could no longer be considered a recent incident, as the baby was due within the month. Which, thankfully, had been confirmed during a medical examination of the pregnant woman earlier in the day. Only, unfortunately for my berated men, that was after my original conversation with the doctor.
Well, the resolution came quickly when I gathered those same men together, apologized, identified the woman in question, and explained that I was now looking for an expectant father. I was glad for what I saw in the face of the only man in camp, I suspected, had enough opportunity while outside of camp to do the deed. His genuine surprise turned to joy, and I was relieved.
I should stipulate here, that I found out that the deed done was done consensually. Most assuredly, a consensual union. You see, my man, Sergeant Olsen, was our ‘outside’ man early on. During the rescue only phase of our operation, his job had him swapping places with incoming prisoners, so the head count in camp would be correct. Well, we never kept track of his movements at that point. I trusted him. Mistake number three (or not, depending on your perspective).
Well, Olsen had struck up a relationship with a young lady during his ‘outside’ time. Marta was her name. They fell in love, and had consummated that relationship. Then I did the unthinkable; I expanded my operation, which rather abruptly cut off Olsen from Marta. His original job was no longer essential. And he kept any hint of that relationship to himself. So obviously, their relationship broke off quite unexpectedly, and Marta found herself pregnant, husbandless, and alone. She kept her secret as long as she could… until everything came to a head.
Only unfortunately, it was during your rescue.
Well, like I said, everything worked out for the best. Olsen married Marta, became the father of a beautiful little girl. And at his request, we moved Marta and her father out of Germany, and to America. A collection was made to give Olsen’s family a good start in the states. Unfortunately, there was almost another two years before Olsen could join his wife and child, as he knew his commitment to the operation took precedence.
But, I’m glad to say that they did get to live happily ever after. Actually, I saw them a couple years back, at one of our bi-annual reunions. Olsen and Marta told me they were waiting on the arrival of the seventeenth grandchild. Whew. Seven children, seventeen grandkids. It’s kind of nice to hear a happy ending occasionally. I guess you could say that for them that their love sprung from hate.
I finally shook the Ambassador’s hand, saying, “You most certainly can, Ambassador. You most certainly can”. But was actually thinking that the same was true for Paula, and myself, as well.
Thanks for Reading
Patti and Marg
Lower your flags and march straight back to England, stopping at every home to beg forgiveness for a hundred years of theft, rape, and murder. Do this and your men shall live. Do it not, and every one of you will die today. Mel Gibson, Braveheart, 1995.
Author's Note One:
To our Plot Bunny Author...
We want to apologize for taking a tangent from your Yankee Swap Plot Bunny. Your suggestion for this story took us a little aback, at first. With what we found out about war rape, our first thought was that Hochstetter would never care about an attack on a civilian female, nor would he even hatch it as a plot to catch Hogan. It just wouldn't matter, and we could easily see him playing the same game as the Germans in this story.
Secondly, our feeling about a downed airman doing the deed... well we thought he'd be too anxious to go about attacking females when he was fighting for his own life. So that left us with one of Hogan's men, an American, doing the attacking. For the most part though, Kinch & Carter are the only Americans that consistently go out with Hogan. And clearly Kinch would be identified quickly, and we couldn't do that to Carter or any of the other American's in our game universe.
So that's why we took this tact with Olsen. He's the only one that was consistently out of camp early on, as well as being an American. We hope you can accept this as enough of a plot twist for your bunny, as we thought we needed a happy ending after dealing with the subject matter of this story.
Author's Note Two:
Plot Bunny Adoption Papers
Criteria for Adoption:
Interested authors signed up by submitting a plot bunny to the coordinator. Because there was a possible word limit of 5, 000 words, there was an attempt to try and keep the bunnies simple. There was a deadline of May 31, 2005 to submit your bunny, so that there would be a fixed amount of authors participating.
The plot bunnies submitted were randomly assigned to each author who entered. One had to submit a bunny to get a bunny. The bunnies submitted were assigned to participating authors anonymously. That author had to agree to write a story based on the plot bunny assigned to him/her.
A deadline of August 31, 2005 was established for authors to submit their fic, which gave the authors three months to complete their stories based on the plot bunny given to them. The fic need not be of more than 5,000 words, but could be longer if the authors so chose. The fiction written in response to this challenge would be posted in all of the usual places and Webstalag13 at all stories have been posted, the author of the plot bunny offered for adoption will be identified in a post to the HH Smartgroup's List.
Author's Note Three:
With the successful North Africa Torch landings behind them and the gradual clearance of Axis forces from Tunisia underway the resources were becoming available to undertake a series of amphibious landings in the Mediterranean. The ambitious "Round Up" (Normandy) was still not feasible so the objective of the next phase in the conduct of the war was to tie down Axis forces thus relieving pressure on the Eastern (Russian) front, and to force Italy out of the war. This was agreed at the Casablanca conference of January 1943 although for a while the Americans were inclined towards increasing pressure in the Pacific and later attacking Germany directly. In the end it was agreed to plan for a large-scale assault via the periphery of Europe, or as Churchill preferred to call it "the soft underbelly of Europe" - initially Sicily.
General Guzzoni had 12 divisions - two German and 10 Italian to defend the island; five of the latter were infantry and five immobile coastal defense divisions. The garrison was 350,000 strong but included only 35,000 Germans and even they were not fully mobilized. Beach defenses, including pillboxes and barbed wire, were less formidable than those encountered in Normandy the following year and modern tanks were relatively few in number. However the rugged rolling country favored the defenders.
The Allied Commander was General Eisenhower supported by Admiral Cunningham the Sea Forces Commander. General Alexander was Land Forces Commander and Air Marshal Tedder was Air Forces Commander.
Excerpted from: http://www.combinedops.com/husky.htm
Author's Note Four:
Fascist Italy: German SS/Waffen-SS
Of all the German organizations during WWII, the SS is by far the most infamous - and the least understood amongst average historians. The SS was in fact not a monolithic "Black Corps" of goose stepping Gestapo men, as is often depicted in popular media and in many third rate historical works. The SS was in reality a complex political and military organization made up of three separate and distinct branches, all related but equally unique in their functions and goals. The Allgemeine-SS (General SS) was the main branch of this overwhelmingly complex organization, and it served a political and administrative role. The SS-Totenkopfverbande (SS Deaths Head Organization) and later, the Waffen-SS (Armed SS), were the other two branches that made up the structure of the SS. The Waffen-SS, formed in 1940, was the true military formation of the larger SS, and as such, it is the main focus of this section. Formed from the SS-Verfungstruppe after the Campaign in France in 1940, the Waffen-SS would become an elite military formation of nearly 600,000 men by the time WWII was over. Its units would spearhead some of the most crucial battles of WWII while its men would shoulder some of the most difficult and daunting combat operations of all the units in the German military. The Waffen-SS is sometimes thought of as the 4th branch of the German Wehrmacht (Heer, Luftwaffe, Kriegsmarine) as in the field it came under the direct tactical control of the OKW, although this notion is technically incorrect as strategic control remained within the hands of the SS. To this day the actions of the Waffen-SS and its former members are vilified for ultimately being a part of the larger structure of the political Allgemeine-SS, regardless of the fact that the Waffen-SS was a front line combat organization.
Excerpted from: http://www.feldgrau.com/a-italy.html
Author's Note Five
Ruth Seifert: War and Rape: Analytical Approaches
Thesis 5: Orgies of rape originate in a culturally ingrained hatred of woman that is acted out in extreme situations. Apart from all the other motives, rape remains an extreme act of male violence against women, which would not be possible without feelings of hostility towards women. Ines Sabalic, in her "Report from Zagreb", also pointed to the amount of anger and hatred directed against women without which the specific sexual violence could not be explained. In particular she drew attention to the quasi-ritualized atrocities, which were aimed at the femininity of the body - like cutting women's breasts off or slashing their stomachs open after the rape (Sabalic 1992).
The oft-repeated thesis that the purpose of this is first and foremost to take revenge on the enemy accepts, for one thing, that women are "war material", and is, for another, refuted by reality. The victims of rape in May and June of 1945 were not only Germans, but also Jewish women who had survived the Nazi terror, and women from Eastern Europe whom the Nazis had used for slave labor. In Kuwait, too, the women raped were not exclusively Kuwaitis, but also immigrant workers from the Philippines, Egypt and other countries. Susan Brownmiller draws the conclusion that women are raped in war not only because they belong to the enemy camp, but because they are women and as such are enemies (Brownmiller 1978:69).
The "enemy" concept, however, is problematic in this context. Enemies usually know that they are enemies to each other, and they also have a theory why this is to. Someone who is attacked by an enemy usually fights back. None of this is true for the relationship between the genders. Neither do women normally expect to be attacked on a massive scale, nor do they know why this is done. As women from former Yugoslavia reported, they had felt safe until insanity was unleashed upon them (cf. Benard Schlaffer 1992:190). Starting from the above definition, the conclusion to be drawn is that women are raped not because they are enemies, but because they are the objects of a fundamental hatred borne in the cultural unconscious that comes to the surface in times of crisis.
We must obviously face the fact that in our societies there is a varying degree or hatred of women smoldering beneath a brittle surface. But these feelings of hatred and contempt manifest themselves already in peacetime. They are, for instance, cultivated in the socially accepted pornography that celebrates physical violence of men against women in peace time and provides a consistent system of hate values (Dworkin). As a result, most men and many women come to regard these hate-filled images as "normal" or neutral or at least not worth mentioning (cf. Dworkin 1990:35). Against this background, war also becomes "an adventure where fantasies of destruction unconsciously directed against women are encouraged and acted out" (Pohl 1992:161).
Soldiers of Nazi Germany also committed rape on a massive scale. It is furthermore known that the Wehrmacht ran brothels where women were forcibly made to work (Trial of the Major War Criminals before the International Military Tribunal, Nuremberg 1946; testimony of Jan. 31, 1946, Vol. 6:404ff; Vol. 7:456f; see also Hilberg 1961:126ff; Brownmiller 1978:55ff). In the Eastern territories the Wehrmacht used to brand the bodies of captured partisan women - and other women as well - with the words "Whore for Hitler's troops" and to use them accordingly.
Excerpted from: http://www.wilpf.int.ch/publications/1992ruthseifert.htm
Author's Note Six:
"Not knowing something is often more comfortable than knowing it."
This proverb resembles "What you don't know cannot hurt you." It figures in a passage from "On a Distant Prospect of Eton College," by the eighteenth-century English poet Thomas Gray: "Where ignorance is bliss, / 'Tis folly to be wise.'"
Excerpted from: http://www.bartleby.com/59/3/ignoranceisb.html
Author's Note Seven:
History of the USO
Six decades ago, President Franklin Roosevelt conceived an organization--the USO--for the singular, but enduring purpose of reaching out directly from the American people to those in military uniforms who serve them. Non-governmental, but civilian and voluntary in make-up, the organization would serve as a link of compassion and reassurance from the ordinary citizen, that America cares, remembers, and supports the service and sacrifice of those who defend her. It would deliver morale enhancing programs and services around the world. Put simply, through its unique and selfless personality and character, the USO would deliver "America" to those far from home.
Throughout World War II, USO was the channel for community participation in the war effort. In over 3,000 communities, USO centers were established to become the G.I.'s "Home Away From Home". Between 1940 and 1944, U.S. troops grew from 50,000 to 12 million and their need for a variety of services grew accordingly. USO facilities were quickly opened in such unlikely places as churches, log cabins, museums, castles, barns, beach and yacht clubs, railroad sleeping cars, old mansions and storefronts.
USO programs were as varied as the places that housed them. While most aimed to provide off-duty recreation for the mostly male and fairly young service personnel, some were designed for women in uniform, while others provided childcare for military wives. USO's could be many things to many people: a lively place to dance and meet people; a place to see movies or find religious counsel; a quiet place to talk or write letters; or, of course, the place to go for free coffee and doughnuts.
The USO truly made history when it came to entertaining the troops. From 1941 to 1947, USO Camp Shows presented an amazing 428,521 performances. There were sometimes 700 or more performances each day, all over the world. Over 7,000 entertainers, "brave soldiers in greasepaint" traveled overseas, from the biggest movie stars to unknown vaudevillians. Some never returned, having fallen beside the fighting men or perished en route in plane crashes.
By the end of the second World War, the USO could claim that more than 1.5 million volunteers had worked on its behalf.
Excerpted from: http://missionbf.tripod.com/USO.html
Author’s Note Eight:
Nazi Persecution of the Mentally and Physically Disabled
The "Sterilization Law" explained the importance of weeding out so-called genetic defects from the total German gene pool:
Since the National Revolution public opinion has become increasingly preoccupied with questions of demographic policy and the continuing decline in the birthrate. However, it is not only the decline in population which is a cause for serious concern but equally the increasingly evident genetic composition of our people. Whereas the hereditarily healthy families have for the most part adopted a policy of having only one or two children, countless numbers of inferiors and those suffering from hereditary conditions are reproducing unrestrainedly while their sick and asocial offspring burden the community.
Some scientists and physicians opposed the involuntary aspect of the law while others pointed to possible flaws. But the designation of specific conditions as inherited, and the desire to eliminate such illnesses or handicaps from the population, generally reflected the scientific and medical thinking of the day in Germany and elsewhere.
Nazi Germany was not the first or only country to sterilize people considered "abnormal." Before Hitler, the United States led the world in forced sterilizations. Between 1907 and 1939, more than 30,000 people in twenty-nine states were sterilized, many of them unknowingly or against their will, while they were incarcerated in prisons or institutions for the mentally ill. Nearly half the operations were carried out in California. Advocates of sterilization policies in both Germany and the United States were influenced by eugenics. This socio-biological theory took Charles Darwin's principle of natural selection and applied it to society. Eugenicists believed the human race could be improved by controlled breeding.
Still, no nation carried sterilization as far as Hitler's Germany. The forced sterilizations began in January 1934, and altogether an estimated 300,000 to 400,000 people were sterilized under the law. A diagnosis of "feeblemindedness" provided the grounds in the majority of cases, followed by schizophrenia and epilepsy. The usual method of sterilization was vasectomy and ligation of ovarian tubes of women. Irradiation (x-rays or radium) was used in a small number of cases. Several thousand people died as a result of the operations, women disproportionately because of the greater risks of tubal ligation.
Most of the persons targeted by the law were patients in mental hospitals and other institutions. The majority of those sterilized were between the ages of twenty and forty, about equally divided between men and women. Most were "Aryan" Germans. The "Sterilization Law" did not target socalled racial groups, such as Jews and Gypsies, although Gypsies were sterilized as deviant "asocials," as were some homosexuals. Also, about 500 teenagers of mixed African and German parentage (the offspring of French colonial troops stationed in the Rhineland in the early 1920s) were sterilized because of their race, by secret order, outside the provisions of the law.
Although the "Sterilization Law" sometimes functioned arbitrarily, the semblance of legality underpinning it was important to the Nazi regime. More than 200 Hereditary Health Courts were set up across Germany and later, annexed territories. Each was made up of two physicians and one district judge. Doctors were required to register with these courts every known case of hereditary illness. Appeals courts were also established, but few decisions were ever reversed. Exemptions were sometimes given artists or other talented persons afflicted with mental illnesses. The "Sterilization Law" was followed by the Marriage Law of 1935, which required for all marriages proof that any offspring from the union would not be afflicted with a disabling hereditary disease.
Only the Roman Catholic Church, for doctrinal reasons, opposed the sterilization program consistently; most German Protestant churches accepted and often cooperated with the policy. Popular films such as Das Erbe ("Inheritance") helped build public support for government policies by stigmatizing the mentally ill and the handicapped and highlighting the costs of care. School mathematics books posed such questions as: "The construction of a lunatic asylum costs 6 million marks. How many houses at 15,000 marks each could have been built for that amount?"
Excerpted from: http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/disabled.html
Author’s Note Nine:
A eunuch is a castrated human male -- that is, a man who has had his testicles removed. The term eunuch can also refer to a man whose penis and testicles have been removed, or even to one who has had only his penis cut off. But while all of these conditions can be referred to as Castration, a man is not a true eunuch as long as his testicles remain intact. As long as the testes function, his body will continue to produce testosterone as well as sperm and he will still (theoretically) be capable of fathering children. In short, a eunuch might be able to get an erection, but he will never be able to reproduce.
The word eunuch comes from the Greek word "eunouchos" and the Latin word "eunuchus" -- both meaning "keeper of the bedchamber". And while the word may have originally referred to a person filling this specific career description, the more relevant concept contained within the word is "one who can be trusted to watch over the inner household". Or more to the point, a male servant who won't let anyone (including himself) knock up your wife and daughter while you're away.
The idea of the eunuch effectively guarding the household may seem laughable to some. But although eunuchs have endured more than their fair share of scorn and ridicule over the centuries, many ancient cultures acknowledged that despite their literal "lack of balls", eunuchs were not (necessarily) cowards. In fact, the eunuch could often be relied upon to be fierce and loyal guardian of the master's home and family. Like the masters castrated ox, a castrated man could also be strong and well-muscled -- and just as steadfast in the face of danger or adversity. And while a lessening testosterone (through loss of testicles) did not significantly lessen the eunuch's courage or his strength, it did however tend to make him calmer and more even-tempered. (Again, like the ox.) As a manservant he was therefore less prone to outbursts of irritability and rage.
But while some castrated men were muscular warriors, the once common stereotype of a eunuch -- the she-male with soft features, a limp dick, a soft body, and a high falsetto voice -- does have some validity. That is, if a male is castrated before puberty, usually before age 10, his body will never experience the normal changes ushered in by the pubescent rush of testosterone. As a result, the castrated boy will retain many of his childlike qualities into adulthood - including the inability to get a full erection, and a lack of body and facial hair. He will also have trouble putting on muscle mass.
Additionally, pre-puberty castration can cause a condition called macroskelia -- meaning very long arms, legs, increased height, and tendency to obesity. A person castrated in infancy may have arms that reach to his knees. When riding horseback, the individual’s feet may stretch almost to the ground. On the plus side however, the individual will never experience male pattern baldness -- even if his genes call for it.
Interestingly enough, the Carrib Indians (for whom the Caribbean Islands are named) were well aware of the effects of early castration and took unique advantage it. That is, because early castration kept the flesh fattier and prevented the muscles from becoming tough and wiry, the Carribs made the habit of castrating their young male captives. They then fed them amply until such time as they were deemed ready to be eaten. (An ugly embellishment on the Hansel & Gretel story.) Not surprisingly, the word "cannibal" is said to derive from the tribe's name.
Dining peculiarities aside, most boys ushered into eunuchhood were made thus in order to become members of an exotic "third sex". In Italy the practice reached its pinnacle in the form of the "castrati", the young she-males who lent their angelic voices to the choirs and operas of the Catholic Church. Dolled up in their foppish clothes, with their rounded faces, and pale complexions, they were said to exude a profound sense of "otherness" -- to the delight of some and the horror of others. Their voices, raised in song, were unlike any other human voice. They sounded neither male nor female - nor even like that of a child. They were unique. They were “castrati”.
Although the musical ability of eunuchs had long been recognized in other cultures, and had no doubt been part of the Catholic music scene itself for quite some time, the Catholic Church did not officially acknowledge these boy “castrati” until 1599 when Pope Clement VIII became smitten with the sweetness and flexibility of their voices. Women were banned from singing in the Church, therefore it was the high vocal range of the castrati that gave devotional music its appealing angelic quality.
While some Church officials suggested it would be preferable to lift the ban on women singers than to continue endorsing the castration of little boys, the Pope disagreed, quoting Saint Paul, "Let women be silent in the assemblies, for it is not permitted to them to speak." Of course since it was illegal to perform castrations (transgressors could be excommunicated), all castrati presenting themselves for the choir claimed to have lost their genitals through tragic “accident”.
After the Pope’s official acknowledgement and acceptance of castrati, the number of these "accidents" increased dramatically. Parents seeking upward mobility towed their little lads down to a barber or butcher who separated them from their testicles for a fee. However, mere ball lopping did not a singer make. One still had to have a remarkable voice to qualify for the choir (and later, the operas). As a result, many boys found themselves needlessly lightened of their rightful loads. Still, few were left completely out in the cold. Since celibacy and pre-pubescent castration went hand in hand, many of these lads eventually found other places within the Church. As a result, all the churches in Italy soon had castrati staff.
Meanwhile, although castration achieved some measure of glamour in the persons of the castrati, most eunuchs were seen as an abomination to the man on the street -- for it was taking a man (made in the image of God the Father) and turning him into something else, something strange and exotic. Something tainted with female qualities. Little wonder that fully endowed men saw the castrated as some kind of third gender, and perhaps even as a frightening reminder that “there but for the grace of God go I”. For against his own will, here was a man made to look and act unmanly.
This intense repellance makes it all the more bizarre that eunuchs have such a long history within the human race. Just how long is hard to say. But while human beings may have been mutilating each other’s genitals since time immemorial, most historians believe that organized castration probably began some time after the domestication of animals (which occurred roughly 10,000 years ago.) The theory here is that once human beings had explored the possibilities of cutting genital parts off their animal friends, they were eager to explore the practice with their neighbors.
Whether this theory is true or not, we do know that 6,500 years ago human beings were castrating cattle in Eastern Europe, and 6,450 years ago (i.e. 50 years later), images were inscribed on the walls of an Egyptian tomb that displayed dancing women guarded by eunuchs.
Oddly enough (or maybe not) the same parts of the world that first developed “civilization” -- writing, agriculture, organized government, armies, taxes -- also developed organized castration. Namely, Egypt, the Middle East, the Mediterranean, and China. Although there is considerable variation from culture to culture as to how and why castration was practiced, all seemed to share its use as a punishment for adultery, rape, and homosexuality.
Additionally, the Persians, the Assyrians, the Medes, the Hebrews, the Egyptians, and the Ethiopians all castrated their vanquished enemies - unmanning them in order to demoralize and further subdue them. Baskets of severed penises became war trophies. In 1300 B.C.E., the Egyptian King Meneptah allegedly took 13,230 penises from an invading Libyan army (with six of those belonging to generals). And when it was the invaders themselves who were victorious, such grisly trophies were augmented by the capture of and castration of children. Specifically, the invaders would select the most attractive young boys to be made into eunuchs. (Girl children were also taken away to serve the king).
Certainly a sadistic need to demoralize the vanquished was motive enough for these proceedings. But there were other reasons for creating these young eunuchs -- as slaves they were not only more even tempered but also exotic and sexually sterile. And because they could not reproduce, eunuchs made not only ideal guardians of the harem, but also excellent bureaucrats and priests. That is, unable to fulfill the normal dream of siring a family and becoming a great patriarch (surrounded by children, wives, and flocks) the eunuch was thought to devote himself entirely to the service of the master - whether king, nobleman, merchant, or temple priest.
While being wrenched from home and family and physically brutalized, these child eunuchs did receive some benefits that other children did not. They often became playmates of royal children (who lived in the harem), forming tight bonds that led to their being appointed to jobs of great prestige and responsibility. In fact, the mere presence of the eunuch in the harem gave him opportunities to form bonds with the royal family that outsiders bitterly envied.
Certainly loyalty and sterility were the eunuch's ticket into the harem. However, their lack of conventional sexual equipment did not always ban exclude them from sexual activity. In fact, some eunuchs had an expressly sexual relationship with their masters. Homosexual slave owners, or especially those with pedophilic leanings, expressly enjoyed the effeminate or eternal boy look of slaves castrated before puberty. In fact, sometimes the manner of castration left the testicles crushed but not removed, precisely because it was hoped that the boy would retain erotic sensation (while losing his reproductive ability).
But dirty old men were not alone in their appetites for eunuchs. Many rich women preferred the hard shafts of those ox-like men castrated after puberty. If still able to achieve an erection, such a eunuch could pleasure the mistress without impregnating her. And being the slave, it was his job to satisfy her (while in the marriage bed it was the woman who was the utility). Such goings on were typically very secretive, not because of modesty, but because they were often punishable by death. By contrast however, certain religious orders (such as the cult of Cybele) had eunuch servants who participated openly in naughty revelries dedicated to their deity.
Just as behavior toward eunuchs varied from one culture and era to the next, so too did the manner of creating a eunuch. In certain cultures, as in China and Egypt, it was preferred to so radically emasculate the boy that he had nothing left but a hole to squat and pee through, a hole which was not always easy to maintain control of - leading to the need to carry some form of plug, to prevent wetting accidents.
Cultures also varied as to how harsh or gentle the emasculation process was. Among the Ancient Egyptians for example, the boy was strapped to a table, his genitals were bound with yarn, and his penis and testicles were cleanly sliced off - total, radical castration. The wound was then cauterized in one of various messy ways (including burning with hot tar), and then a metal rod was inserted into his urethra to keep it from sealing shut. Next the young eunuch was buried up to his navel in hot sand or mud and left for five or six days - with no food or drink allowed. Not surprisingly only 20 to 40% of the boys survived.
By contrast one of the gentler methods was practiced in Southern India where the boy or man was given opium. Then while seated, his organs were clamped in bamboo and removed with a razor. The wound was washed and sterilized in hot seed oil and covered with an oil-soaked cloth. The eunuch was fed milk and allowed to rest until healed. The survival rate was exceedingly high. Kindest of all was an approach recorded in Catholic Italy in which the boy was drugged (often with opium), and then placed to soak in a tub of very hot water until he was nearly unconscious. The surgeon then merely cut the ducts that lead to the testicles, which later shriveled up.
Given the pain, interruption of sexual and reproductive function, and the overall repellence of the balled to becoming the de-balled, it is easy to understand how castration was at times reasoned to be an effective punishment for adultery, rape, or homosexuality. In addition, all through the Middle Ages and on into the Reformation, it was popular to have one’s enemies falsely accused of such crimes, and thereby castrated, for in this way you could “kill” them and still have them live to see you gloat.
But by the 19th Century it appeared that organized castration was on its way out. In 1857 the slave trade was banned in the Ottoman Empire. And in Egypt, shortly thereafter, both slavery and castration were outlawed. In 1902 the Vatican had banned the use of castrati in all church music. And in 1924 the palace eunuch system was ended in China. Finally, in 1955, eunuchs (and harems) were outlawed in India. And although castrating criminals and undesirables had a brief comeback among the Nazis (not to mention the Klu Klux Klan), this practice too has been abandoned.
One might expect then that (accidents with farm equipment and grenade shrapnel aside) the eunuch is nothing but a cultural anachronism, a way of life that will soon be no more. But of course no practice, no belief, exists for six thousand years unless it is deeply rooted in the human psyche.
The tendency to demand “eye for an eye” style justice is experiencing resurgence as various groups, in countries scattered all over the globe, clamor for a harsher deterrent to crimes of rape and child molestation. Certain states within the U.S. have actually successfully instituted new laws demanding or offering chemical or surgical castration to criminals convicted of rape or child molestation.
While there are certainly many fans of this development, it would be a mistake to assume that either method of castration effectively removes the sadistic fantasies and tendencies that actually lead someone to commit rape. Like courage, sadism exists in the mind and the character - not in the testicles. And as a thorough reading of any sadist’s biography will inform one, it doesn’t require a sperm-squirting penis to violate another person’s sexual parts.
Meanwhile whether or not the U.S. actually gets around to castrating criminals, Americans are already witnessing the creation of 21st century eunuchs in the persons of Male-to-Female transsexuals. In this new twist on an old theme, the men bidding good riddance to their balls are not seeking (necessarily) operatic musical careers or even a cushy job in a harem, but a chance to express who they feel they really are inside - female. Now, thanks to hormone treatments and further advancements in modern surgery, every guy who’d rather be a gal can have his weenie whacked off and delicately transformed into a tunnel of love - complete with pulsating orgasmic potential.
Recent medical advances are also coming to the aid of another type of modern eunuch - those who have lost their balls to cancer (and other mishaps and diseases). Now those longing to restore virility to their testicle-free lifestyle can find help through testosterone implants, chemical and mechanical erection enhancers, and even implanted testicle prosthetics. That’s right, now women and men can have a pair of silicone falsies to jiggle around.
Finally, this being the Rotten Library, we simply can’t conclude a discussion of eunuchs without mentioning the most bizarre 21st Century eunuch of them all, the self-un-made man. In a era of expanding tolerance and education, where political correctness often stays the hand of angry Klan members, Hell's Angels, and assorted other bigots, certain unusual individuals (who surely would have been targeted in an earlier era) have taken it upon themselves to maim and mutilate their own bodies.
With kitchen knife or Cuisinart in hand, they liberate themselves of toes, fingers, and yes even cocks and testicles - effectively removing themselves from further contribution to the gene pool. Unlike self-un-made men of earlier centuries, they do not seek chaste lives in the clergy. Instead, mutilation is their art form. Their body is the canvas. And the gallery is your own computer, surfing the web. Make of it what you will.
One cannot help but wonder: is such behavior an example of stifled human creativity seeking negative outlet in order to thwart the uniformity of modern life and conditioned expectation, or …is it simply Darwinism in action?
One thing is certain, the persistence of the eunuch (as a social role) over countless millennia of human existence suggests to us that the human psyche longs to express itself in forms more complicated than the simple dualism of “male” and “female”.
The Incas of Peru also practiced slave castration. White eunuchs were "gelded" (balls only), while black eunuchs were "docked and gelded”(meaning also the penis was removed).
Normally obliged to squat like women in order to urinate without wetting themselves, many eunuchs developed the habit of carrying silver quills in their turbans, which, when inserted, enabled them to urinate at a distance as males do.
In the United States and elsewhere, the female Hermaphrodite (one who has a penis or testicles in addition to vaginas and ovaries) is castrated to more closely resemble the female norm. Even if the operation reduces or eliminates her capacity for sexual pleasure.
Early European Christians thought themselves superior to the Jews for cutting the genitals of male children - seeing it as a vulgar, barbaric custom. (Meanwhile the Catholic Church turned a blind eye to the castration of Christian boys for choir and operatic careers.)
Although banned in India in 1955, eunuchs have made a big come back in that nation where they now have their own political party.
According to Greek legend, Aphrodite, Greek goddess of love and fertility, was born from the white foam which spread out around from the groin of her father (Uranus) after he was castrated.
Excerpted from: http://www.rotten.com/library/sex/castration/eunuch/
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