The Metal Man: An Account of a WW2 Nazi Cyborg (22 page)

On their knees a short distance away, their hands on the back of their heads, carefully watched over by two of Ackermann’s men, were Mayer, Weber and Schroder.

Ackermann (stood behind the kneeling Jews, his own pistol withdrawn) spoke in the direction of the three men –

‘Make sure you watch this, Mayer. All these
kikes
getting the sort of treatment they deserve. In fact, far too good for them – a waste of ammunition, really. But time is short, and I need to get my unit back into Germany. But not before I personally deal with you – for good.’

‘You’re a sick bast – ’

Mayer’s retort was cut short, as one of the two SS men (responding to a nod from Ackermann) gave him a kick to the face that nearly broke his jaw.

‘That’s enough from a traitor,’ declared Ackermann.

Then he addressed the men stood nearest him - 

‘You start from that end of the line, you from the other. When you run out of ammunition, you and you replace them while they reload. And
vice-versa
, until we’re done. I’ll start from the centre of the line, and work my way along to the…’

Ackermann shrugged.

‘…left,’ he finished.

The men he’d ordered to commence firing began walking to either end of the kneeling line of Jews.

Then, another soldier called out –

‘Sir –
sir
!’

Ackermann looked irritably at the man, who was pointing with an incredulous, but also fear-struck expression back into the camp.

Then Ackermann
saw
what was happening, along with his other men.

The Metal Man – Karl Brucker –
he
was almost half-way out of the thousands of bricks which should have buried him forever. Or at least for a good few months. His black metallic body was exposed from his chest up; his left hand was picking up the bricks around him and throwing them away. The Metal Man was methodically freeing himself from his tomb.

But Brucker was still a horrific sight to behold. His right arm hung limply from the shoulder; clearly he no longer had any use of the limb. And he had only half a face. On one side – the left – the synthetic skin had been mostly torn away, exposing a multitude of thin metal struts which had given the face its shape, and somehow ‘moved’ to allow Brucker to express a limited range of emotions. But both the artificial eyes remained, frozen in one position, some sort of camera doubtless situated behind each one.

The black armor, also, was no longer gleaming, but battered and split in various places. Smoke continued to escape from the great rent by the right shoulder.

‘Well, well, Brucker – or whatever the hell you are,’ called out Ackermann, shaking his head and smiling slightly, as though feeling somehow compelled to express his reluctant admiration. ‘You’re a hard act to kill – I’ll give you that. But let’s see if I can finally get it right
this
time.’ 

With that, Ackermann walked unhurriedly over to the tank that was also back inside the camp, but some distance away from where the Metal Man was continuing to make his determined efforts to free himself.

The bazooka – with one last rocket – was inside the tank, returned by Ackermann after he’d last fired at the Metal Man. Getting the weapon and loading it, Ackermann then walked back over to stand by the kneeling Jews.

‘This is it, Brucker,’ said the SS officer, his right eye squinting along the top of the bazooka, at its front sight, as he took direct aim at the Metal Man.

And then the frantic beeping of a car horn, coming from near the front entrance of the destroyed camp. Ackermann swore as he took his gaze away from the Metal Man, not taking the shot yet – momentarily distracted by whoever this lunatic was who’d suddenly turned up in this car that was screeching to a halt by the train track running into the camp.  

41

Leaving number eight, Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse – Gestapo Headquarters – had been simplicity itself. Only twice, making his way towards the rear of the great building, had Wilhelm Reinhardt encountered someone walking towards him. (Once on the stairs leading away from the torture rooms down in the basement, and then along a long corridor.)

On both occasions, dressed in the impressive-looking black uniform Reinhardt had taken from one of the men he’d shot dead, Reinhardt had simply covered his disfigured face while pretending to have a coughing fit. On the second occasion, the person walking towards him – a woman – had said sympathetically –

‘Poor you – you must have this flu bug that’s going around.’

And that was it. No need at all for Reinhardt to use the three pistols he carried on his person. He’d escaped out into the courtyard that was at the rear of the building, where several black, official cars were parked. Reinhardt started one, and approaching the manned barrier that was before the exit into the street again covered his mouth with one hand and pretended to cough. The guard raised the barrier, and Reinhardt drove off.

He stopped outside his apartment, and went quickly upstairs to grab a few items – clothes, mainly, and a treasured photo of his dead wife Helga. He was leaving Germany for a good while – at least until this war was over. Having just shot dead two members of the Gestapo, and his Jewish identity no longer a secret, he could hardly remain in this country.

The only course of action seemed to be to try and find Jonas Schroder. To see if that little, half-Jewish scientist had found his mother in that concentration camp that was just over the Polish border.

So Reinhardt left his apartment and got back inside the Mercedes 260 D. No one had seen him enter or leave his apartment; but then, it was very late. He set off for the border, already knowing the route he needed to take. With luck, it would be several hours before anyone found the bodies of Fleischer and the other thug – and first, they’d need to get past the thick door which Reinhardt had locked from the outside, using the key he’d found in the trouser pocket of the black uniform he was wearing.

Dawn had already broken by the time Reinhardt reached the border. He was questioned by the two soldiers manning the checkpoint, but he brusquely claimed ‘official business’, and the sight of the impressive black uniform stopped any further questions. He was permitted to drive on, passing the hordes of soldiers and refugees lining either side of the road.

He saw the same sign which Schroder had seen – with ‘Tornik’ written  upon it – and passed that ruined town a few minutes later. Then the camp appeared, a sense of horror growing within Reinhardt the closer he got to it.

But it had been destroyed. Smoke was billowing out from it, the buildings crushed and on fire. And at the side furthest from Reinhardt, by what looked to be a rocky cliff, there seemed to be a large mass of people…

Then he could make out the soldiers standing above the kneeling – prisoners? They had to be the inmates of this camp, wearing those ragged, striped uniforms…

Then Reinhardt realized the soldiers had their guns out and were going to shoot the prisoners. But they were looking over at something, something lying with only the upper half of its body protruding from a huge pile of bricks and rubble.

Reinhardt gasped as he realized that it was the Metal Man. Without his mask. And with what looked to be half a human face. And one of the German soldiers was now taking aim at the Metal Man with a bazooka…

Scarcely knowing what he was doing – but knowing that he had to do
something
– Reinhardt pressed the car-horn. That caused the soldier aiming the bazooka to take notice of him.

Reinhardt skidded the car to a halt beside the train track leading into the camp – close to the huge lorry Schroder had brought the Metal Man in earlier – and hurriedly got out. He entered into the camp and walked quickly across the shattered ground, noticing the two tanks abandoned and the bodies that were – everywhere.

He had three pistols on him. The man with the bazooka was looking suspiciously at him.

Reinhardt opened his mouth to speak…

To say something –
anything…

42

‘
Wilhelm!
’ cried out Schroder, turning his head to see what had captured Ackermann’s attention, and thus recognizing his superior.

Ackermann whirled his head back round to stare at the podgy man kneeling beside Mayer. He then stared back at the man walking across the ruined camp, wearing the black uniform of the Gestapo but…

Every instinct Ackermann possessed was screaming at him that this was a sham. Some kind of trick. That somehow this man was connected with the Metal Man, and anyone who knew the Metal Man thus knew Brucker, and so could possibly tell a story of how Ackermann had treacherously stabbed a fellow SS officer to death…

‘It’s a trap!’ yelled Ackermann suddenly, dropping the bazooka and grabbing for his pistol.

At first, the SS soldiers stared in startled amazement at their commanding officer. But when the black-uniformed man suddenly produced a pistol and began firing at them, it seemed to bear out the truth of their officer’s words. They raised their machineguns and began firing, the man diving behind a pile of rubble.

‘’Move forward – get him!’ screamed Ackermann, realizing that so long as the man remained behind cover, he was safe…

*

Mayer observed the commotion, and in a flash realized that the soldier guarding him was having his attention distracted.

That
all
the SS soldiers were having their attention distracted.

This was it – the only chance he and all the others currently down on their knees would get.

‘
Weber!
’ yelled Mayer, at the same moment as he sprang up and lunged for the guard stood a few feet away from him.

Weber, too, was quick to react. In a second he’d joined Mayer in bringing their guard down, Weber grabbing for his sub machinegun as Mayer repeatedly punched the man in the face.

Tearing the gun free from the shoulder strap, Weber then swung it in the direction of the kneeling Jews. But he saw that they’d already started to fight – to attack the soldiers guarding them
themselves
. The guards’ guns briefly chattered, and killed a few of the inmates – but then the inmates swarmed over the men wearing the camouflaged uniforms. Stamping, punching, biting, tearing, gouging… One of the guards screamed for mercy but there was absolutely none to be had.

Then his screams were muffled by the sheer weight of bodies upon him… 

Weber turned his attention away from the bloody revenge being exacted and transferred it back towards Ackermann. That man had realized what was happening and was firing his pistol at the inmates advancing towards him, sheer hate shining in their eyes like a feral light.

Three… four inmates dropped as Ackermann’s pistol barked; then the hammer was clicking on an empty chamber.

With trembling fingers, Ackermann tried desperately to reload… But he was too slow. In a moment the inmates were upon him, Ackermann falling as the wooden clogs began kicking at his thrashing body…

‘
Leave him!
’

The voice was so loud – so authoritative – that it somehow cut through the sheer pandemonium taking place by the steep quarry. The inmates who’d commenced attacking Ackermann briefly paused, staring over in the direction the shout had come from and seeing…

The Metal Man. Karl Brucker. Risen from the huge pile of bricks and now standing with his right arm hanging uselessly from his side. The half of the face he still had was implacable. Smoke spilt out from the numerous tears in his armor as he began a slow, limping march towards the quarry, his gaze fixed determinedly on Ackermann.