（１）
Sitting in the leather swivel chair behind the huge hardwood desk, I scrutinized the typical rococo interior of the office, which looked so noble and elegant, and the faint fragrance of the red pine wood burning in the fireplace, which made people feel sleepy, made me feel that I was in a fantasy.
In years gone by, it seemed that it was always the cramped space of the tank cockpit, the pungent smell of engine oil and the choking smoke that stayed with me. Ever since I graduated from the SS Officers’ School in Stuttgart in 1934, I have been the best first-line tank detachment commander in the Third Reich no, I should say in continental Europe. From Warsaw to Paris and under Moscow, I have served the Third Reich and the Great Führer with distinction.
Until the summer of 1942, in the battle of the Kursk Bulge, I created a miracle in the history of warfare, but also ended my career as a tanker. When the great German army had to turn to a strategic retreat, as a major commander of an assault tank battalion of the SS division Adolf Hitler, I was ordered to lead fifteen V (Panther) tanks to defend the right flank of the main force. When the great German army had to turn to a strategic retreat, I, as a Major Commander of the Assault Tank Battalion of the SS “Adolf Hitler” Division, was ordered to lead fifteen V (Panther) tanks to defend the right flank of the main army.
On the second day of the retreat operation, I encountered the main body of the Soviet Ninth Kintetsu Tank Group, which was attempting to effect a division of our right flank, and for the next two days the fifteen V-tanks under my command repelled the rounds of one hundred and twenty-four Soviet T-34 tanks, and by the time the Second Tank Cluster, under the command of General Hort, arrived in support of me, in front of my position the remains of seventy-six T-34s remained. For this I received my third Iron Cross with Oak Leaf and became the only soldier on the Eastern Front to receive three such medals.
However, the great honor came at an equally great cost to me I suffered severe burns to my back, a comminuted fracture of the fibula and tibia in my left leg, and even more so because my right eye was hit by a piece of disintegrating material from the inside wall of the tank, which reduced the vision in that eye to less than zero-point-four, which meant that I could no longer quickly spot and hunt down targets from the tank periscope; in other words, I couldn’t work as a tanker any more.
Of course, the Reich and the Führer would not let the heroes of the battle go idle. After I had spent five months recuperating in the pleasant Mediterranean climate of southern Italy, Böhring wanted me to take up the post of Assistant Director of Operations on the General Staff of the Eastern Front, but the army generals, who were in the traditional spirit of the “Teutonic Knights,” were not interested in the “black-shirted mob” (as the orthodox Wehrmacht officers had been calling the Führer’s close-guard troops since 31 years, no matter how much we had fought in the battlefield). “(Since 31 years, orthodox Wehrmacht officers have been referring to the Führer’s close protection forces as such, no matter how good we were on the battlefield.) Inexplicably disgusted, they vigorously resisted the appointment, emphasizing that my physical condition, and especially my eyesight, was absolutely incapable of heavy graphic work, a view apparently shared by the Chief of the General Staff, Admiral Yoder, and my appointment was rejected.
All of this so infuriated the higher echelons of the SS that our leader, Heydrich Himmler, personally issued an order transferring me from the SS combat unit to the defense unit, the much-talked-about Calvary unit. Himmler himself issued an order transferring me from the SS combat unit to the defense unit, the dreaded Calvary, and promoting me to the rank of Major General in the SS as commander of security in the occupied Polish district of Kolakow. Obviously, this unconventional promotion was a form of retaliation and demonstration on the part of the SS leaders. But I doubt that it had any effect, and in fact the officers of the Wehrmacht would not have felt even an ounce of dismay at such a promotion.
Now, on the first winter morning of my official inauguration, I am sitting in my luxurious office, savoring a cup of pure Brazilian coffee and enjoying the view from my window. My commanding officer’s headquarters and official residence is a huge “E.”
The font was a three-story building, with the main building and the right wing being the commanding officer’s headquarters, and the left wing being my private residence. It was the mansion of a local lord in the sixteenth century, and before the Third Reich took over, it was owned by the most successful Jewish entrepreneur in the area, and it was his study that I was sitting in now.
Perhaps because of this, I suddenly had a strange thought: what would that successful Jewish tycoon have done on such a winter morning if there had been no war? Would he be sitting around the fireplace with his children or reading a document behind his desk? It’s an unanswerable question!
Just as I was rambling on, the low voice of Lieutenant Halls, the adjutant, came out of the answering machine, “Sir Commander, Miss Hansen, the labor battalion supervisor, has arrived.” I gathered my thoughts and replied, “Ask her to come in.”
Before I came to Krakow, I knew there was a thirty-six-year-old female executive here. Truth be told, most of the female administrators in the SS or the Reich Security Directorate were, in the jest of us front-line officers and soldiers, hopelessly spinsterish, old-fashioned and unemotional. But when the heavy oak door was opened, what appeared in front of me was such a beautiful woman’s elegant and slim physique, pure Aryan blue eyes with clear skin and blonde hair coiled at the back of the head, slightly upturned corners of the mouth to show her confidence, it was really fascinating.
“His Excellency the Commander, Ingrid B. Hanson reports to you.”
“Well, Ms. Supervisor, you can call me Carl, and I don’t suppose you’d mind if I called you Ingrid?”
The charming headmistress smiled a sweet smile : “Of course, Carl.”
“So. Ingrid, can you tell me the status of the labor camp? We’re an important munitions production base here!” Getting to the point is the hallmark of tankers, we never beat around the bush.
“Yes, Carl.” The headmistress said, “Our labor battalion provides clothing for the troops on the entire Eastern Front, and while it may seem to the average person that down sleeping bags and cotton coats are much less important to the war effort than tanks and bombers, you’ll understand how important they actually are, especially in the Russian winter.”
“Of course.” My expression turned somber: “I’ll never forget the nightmarish winter of 1941 under Moskva, and your work is very important! Can you tell us about the situation in the labor camp?”
“We have three quilt factories and a small enamelware factory, and in view of the work, the labor force is predominantly female, with three thousand four hundred and thirty-two workers, and four hundred and sixteen male workers, the vast majority of whom are Jews, and some Russian prisoners of war.” She gave those figures off the top of her head, what a shrewd woman, I thought.
“Thanks, I’d like to visit a labor camp in a few days.” I said.
“It’s an honor,” she said with a sweeter smile on her face, “I’ll be ready. You have a lot of local officials to meet today, so I guess I’ll take my leave.” She said as she stood up.
“Well then, we’ll see you next time.”
I also stood up and watched her walk towards the door. Suddenly I remembered something and busied myself again, “Please wait.”
“What?” She asked, twisting back from the door and looking at me.
“May I ask you if we are responsible for the ‘final solution’ for the Jews?”
“No, we don’t.” She replied immediately, “Our mission is to settle supplies for the frontline troops, and we value our labor. Sure we punish and even execute errant prisoners, but we don’t settle them on a large scale, that’s a task for Auschwitz or Hausen further east. We don’t have ‘bathrooms’!” Then she added, somewhat ambiguously, “And saying ‘Zyglon B’ is not my style.” I didn’t understand her remark and didn’t pursue it, but just joked, “It seems my job is to defend some artisanal workshops, which seems a bit boring.”
“No, you’ll find new pleasures and challenges here.” Her voice edged a bit mysteriously: “Trust me, His Excellency the Commander no, Karl.”
（２）
For the next three or four weeks I was consumed by administrative work, and I realized now that the so-called Security Commander was not only dealing with the partisans and the underground resistance, but that I had to devote 60 percent of my energies to the tedious correspondence and coordination of the various functions – something that might make a politician from Berlin feel like a fish out of water, but for a tankman who had just left the Russian front it was almost an eternal torture. But for a tankman who has just left the Russian front, it’s almost a never-ending torture.
But I was fortunate to have the unselfish help of Ingrid, who chose for me the ablest of secretaries, who showed me how to maneuver among the wide variety of officials representing the various powers – from the agents of the Reichsführer’s General Security Service to the confidants of the Chief Administrator in Poland – and who even chose for me two maids from her labor battalion – Susan and Mary, who had been trained as such before the war – and who, in their long black dresses and white aprons, made my private parties look very colorful. The long black dresses and white aprons of the maids enhanced the private parties I gave, naturally, without the yellow Star of David that marked their status.
The sincere assistance from my supervisor deepened my friendship with her, and subtle changes began to occur, until one day I did realize that I had really fallen in love with this wonderful woman. From that moment on, I actually felt an inferiority complex that I had never felt before – for my disabled body that I had once been so proud of: my left leg, which was two centimeters shorter than my right leg, my partially-sighted right eye, and the horrible burn scars on my back.
Was I in a position to pursue a beautiful, noble woman? I kept telling myself: she’s a mature and decisive career woman and not a middle school girl who thinks of her hero as Prince Charming, so for the sake of the tankman’s poor self-esteem, don’t let her know what’s on your mind.
Just as I was trying my best to bury my admiration, things went off in a direction I didn’t expect.
It was a spring evening in the year ’44, and I was attending a social dinner in town, a commonplace banquet given by the local magistrate, the thousand and one proceedings of which were practically lulling me to sleep. So I excused myself early, pleading indisposition.
As I walked out of the ballroom, I saw Intelli standing on the side of my armored Big Benz, she was so ravishing in a bright red evening gown.
“Hey, kind sir, can I get a ride?” She joked.
“Of course,” my heart was beating faster: “It’s my honor.” I walked over to the car, pulled the door open, and she gracefully sat in the passenger seat.
As I drove the car (I always kept to my own driving; having a tank captain sitting in the back seat of a car watching someone else take the wheel would definitely call for distraction), I was distracted by the encounter and wondered why she had come into town.
Ingrid’s place was about nearly a kilometer from mine, a fine little cottage, and she seldom came to town; I think she was as unsocial as I was.
“I’ve come to buy a record, Wagner’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, mine’s worn out.”
It was as if she knew what I was thinking.
“You like opera?” I asked.
“Yes, and you?”
“I don’t know anything about that, I’m a rough tanker who just likes the mechanical rumble.” I joked.
“Maybe I can see how rough you are.”
“I hope not, that would scare you.”
“Maybe I’ll scare you!”
With that, we talked and laughed the whole way, and soon we could see my plush commanding officer’s quarters. I was planning to turn left at the next fork in the road and drop Ingrid off at her place before returning.
The hostess suddenly said, “Why, Your Excellency the Commander, won’t you invite me to enjoy some real vodka in your plush little parlor?”
I turned my head to look at her, “Do I have that kind of honor?”
The small living room was extremely well-decorated, and the light beige furniture was covered with a faint light, revealing a bit of an ambiguous atmosphere. We were almost halfway through the bottle of vodka, and I recounted to her my experiences on the battlefield, while she listened with her head turned sideways, letting out a giggle from time to time.
Suddenly the dull chiming of the self-timer clock in the corner interrupted our small talk, and the room became silent, and she looked at me with a smile on her face, and her gaze seemed to begin to burn. Feeling a rush of heat, I pulled my tie loose with my hand, and unbuttoned my shirt collar, but I felt at once that this was rude, and tried to fasten it again, but at that moment Ingrid’s hand stopped me, and she began to unbutton my uniform, and then my shirt.
I swallowed laboriously and tried to say something, but she seemed to have anticipated it, she put her slender fingers on my lips and whispered in my ear, “Don’t say anything, listen to my command, I’m the commander now.”
Her words were like a spell over me, and I just sat there on the couch and let her undress me. Soon, she removed all my clothes and I was naked in front of her.
That’s when she started kissing me, her hot wet red lips running over my face and stopping at my lips. She slipped her tongue into my mouth and I responded by sticking mine out, the two flexible objects were entwined together for almost three minutes when she began to move downward and I could feel her mouth and tongue sliding over my chest and turning towards my back. I jerked my body as I remembered the scars on my back.
But by this time, she had begun to caress my mottled scars with her tongue and murmured, “Poor child.” I felt a sense of happiness at being loved, a feeling that made me completely relax and accept her caresses.
Ingrid continued her actions on me as she gradually moved to the core. She took my already hardening prick in her hand and kissed it gently and licked it from the tip of the glans down to the scrotum, then she took it into her mouth and scraped her teeth lightly against the coronal groove, by this time all my senses were focused on my lower body, the feeling of moisture and warmth was transmitted from the shaft to every nerve ending in my body, giving me a craving to be melted.
Just as the sensation was hitting my nerve centers again and again, Ingrid left my lower back, stood up, turned gracefully as she always did, turned the zipper of her evening gown to me, and said, “Undo it.”
I eagerly pulled down the zipper, and she relaxed her body, letting the long skirt unload from her body like a waterfall─she didn’t use a bra, only a pair of narrow panties wrapped around her rounded hips, and she turned her front towards me, displaying her beautiful to the core torso. Her body was slim, her breasts and hips not voluptuous, but perfectly formed.
I gently lifted up her bouncy breasts and took turns sucking on the rose-colored nipples, feeling how hard that lovely little thing was getting in my mouth. I could clearly feel her breathing quicken, and her heart beat “plop, plop” from her soft chest.
I moved down her cleavage, letting the tip of my tongue cross over the smooth belly, holding the lace of her panties in my teeth, and then continued down, and as the thin fabric peeled away from her, the tip of my nose passed through the sparse blonde hairs on her pubic mound, and a rush of cheesy femininity intoxicated me deeply.
I kept pulling the tiny piece of silk down to her feet, then tilted my head up to see her square inch. The pink petals were tucked between rounded thighs, and the not-quite-closed hole glistened with water-she was already wet.
I pulled Ingrid down onto the thick carpet and buried my head between her legs, occasionally wandering my mouth and tongue over the blossom, sometimes gently rubbing my teeth against the engorged pearl, the Head Girl began to let out a low moan, her hips twisting back and forth as she made further demands of me I braced myself on my elbows so that I had my manhood lined up with her privates, and then it was time for a gentle entry, an entry into a beautifully tender world, I could hardly begin to twitch, I wanted to just stop and enjoy the sweet sensations of that little wet hot place.
But the person underneath me clearly couldn’t agree, and Ingrid urged me on with her body movements as I began to move with all my might, and she rhythmically swung her hips and waist to match my actions.
After a series of hard strokes, she and I both reached the peak of our pleasure at the same time; this was followed by gentle caresses, then more strokes… and so on, until we were too tired to move, and then we embraced each other and fell asleep.
(to be continued)