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August 17, 1941 (continued)
As soon as our entourage of gray halftracks noisily pulled
into the main square in Orbstecz I deployed three
machine gun squads to seal off the main exit routes out of the village. Our maps showed there were two stone-paved roads,
one each to the east and west, and an unpaved farm road to the south. A fourth
squad was ordered to patrol the village perimeter on foot with orders to shoot
any escapees who refused to turn back.
Once the village perimeter was secure, all village males
not working in the fields were ordered from their bungalows, rounded up, and
marched under armed guard to a nearby covered livestock corral, a sort of large
swine stable if you will, which was currently empty of pigs and cows.
Putting important things first, the men were first ordered
to hand over any gold they might have in their possession. Surprisingly, a
number of these peasants actually possessed a few gold coins.
The gold coins my sergeant collected this morning were
placed, as usual, in my personal, securely padlocked, strongbox. Yes, rank does
have its privileges. You see, unlike these icon worshiping peasants who would
only waste this precious gold on hopelessly worthless prayers from the local
priest, I, on the other hand, am a very practical man. Should this war not go my way, I will have
enough funds to start a comfortable new life in South America, joining my
cousin Karl in Buenos Aires.
After the village men freely gave up their gold rings and
coins, they were ordered to strip completely, pile their clothes at their feet,
and stand at attention with their hands atop their heads. My soldiers then carefully searched each
man’s person and clothes, finding that one man had failed to turn over a gold
coin from his pockets. We all make mistakes in life, the odd wrong decision
here and there, but few are as costly as this one.
The naked gold hoarder was brought to the front and
interrogated in full view of the others. Making an example of someone promptly,
in front of others, always works best because the others are then so terrified
that they will tell everything they know without any further effort on my part. It’s so easy, and a big time saver. Efficiency, isn’t that what National
Socialism is all about? Those paper
shufflers in Berlin should give me a medal! But giving up their gold is just the
beginning. Before I am done with them, they always freely give me everything
that is precious to them.
Along the interior of the outer wall of the corral,
supporting the shed-like roof, were a series of tall, vertical, rough hewn
wooden posts, each slightly less than a meter apart. The naked gold hoarder was
tied spread eagled across three wooden beams, with the middle of the three
posts aligned with his torso. When he
failed to give us the name or location of a single resistance operative, who we
know were among the villagers, I had my men aligned his spine with the middle
post and tie his waist tightly to it with a rope. I then
sent a soldier to my track truck to fetch a machinist’s hammer and a handful of
long rusty gutter nails. I must say,
this method works every time. And using the machinist’s hammer seems so much
more appropriate when performing this task in the worker’s paradise of the
Soviet Union.
Needless to say, the poor man’s testicles were slowly
nailed to the middle post with a number of the sharp gutter nails. But I must
admit, my men are getting better. This
time the hammer only missed once, firmly striking his penis.
Once the nails were set, they untied the waist and limb
ropes all at the same time, and, well, the poor man lost something in the
subsequent fall.
I let him lay there screaming for a few minutes, then, not
being one for drama, mercifully unsheathed my Lugar and shot him in the head as
the others looked on in horror.
Everyone in the giant swine pen began babbling at once. My
trusted field translator, a former seminarian from Munchen who speaks five
languages, informed me that the men were all saying that a number of local
women, including the mayor’s wife, daughter, and two other female
schoolteachers, were resistance operatives working for the Russians.
They even insisted that these women had a radio transmitter
hidden in the woods behind the mayor’s house which they used to give Moscow daily
briefings regarding German troop movements in the area. We will go see for ourselves.
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Will the Krauts find the radio transmitter in the woods?
Will the two school teachers be young hotties or old hag
school marms?
What’s the mayor’s wife fixing for lunch?
Does his daughter wear a baboszka?
Tune in next time folks for Chapter 3 of Jill Crokett’s “Diary of a Nazi Rape Squad”
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