All Men Will Become Brothers...

I called Elga. When I had her attention, not knowing the German for urinate, I tried wiggling my hips. She just grinned teasingly and shook her head. She thought I wanted another ride. I imitated the sound, "Shhhhh..." and bit my lip anxiously. Maybe she'd untie me.

No such luck. She figured out what I wanted, and brought a pan. She held my little feller over the pan, but her touch made him a big man again. She clicked her tongue at me playfully. I really needed to go. Spying an empty milk bottle on the table, I gestured toward it, and said, "Moo! Moo!" Hans laughed and made snarky comments at the silly Amerikaner, but it didn't take Elga long to figure out. Soon, despite my erection, I was relieving myself inside the bottle.

Elga sat on the sofa and read the afternoon away. For lack of a better thing to do, I started whistling. Hans got angry and growled at me in German. I whistled Yankee Doodle, God Bless America, and every other patriotic tune I could think of. Hans started whistling Germanic tunes, and I was surprised at what a sweet tone he made. He was quite talented, and I stopped to listen. Then he started something more familiar - "Chattanooga Choo-Choo"! I grinned from ear to ear, and I began snapping my fingers in time. When he finished, we both laughed. I told him sincerely, "Ist gut, Hans. Mach gut." He guffawed at the way I mangled his language, but I could tell he was flattered.

After Elga fed us soup and dry bread for dinner, she came to me and tried to tell me something softly. I shrugged, and shook my head. She made a circle with the finger and thumb of one hand, and thrust the index finger of the other hand through the hole. She nodded toward Hans. Yeah, I got it. I nodded my understanding, and winked with a sly grin. She sighed, happy that I wasn't going to create a fuss like he had.

Spreading her dress again, she sat astride his thighs, rocking back and forth on his long, thin peenie to tease herself open, then she mounted him. Not to be outdone by the Amerikaner, he took my cue and raised his knees, and began ramming himself upward into her as fast as a 20mm cannon - bam-bam-bam-bam-bam! Elga was squealing and laughing.

I began goading him on: "Go, Hans! Yeah, you stupid damn kraut! Give it to her! Give it to her good Ja! Ja! Gut, Hans! Gut! Gut! Mach schnell! Faster, you blonde-haired, blue-eyed Teutonic bastard - ja! Gut!"

It didn't take long before both of them were yelling like wildcats, busting a nut on each other. Elga collapsed on top of him, out of breath and giggling. To be honest, it sounded to me like she faked it, though.

When she got up off of him, I congratulated him. "Ja, Hans. Ist gut, mein Herr Hans," I said, elevating the reference to him. The sweet talk worked. He was grinning at me proudly and nodding as he bragged something incomprehensible.

Night fell, and Elga was smart enough to avoid using any candles. After she tended to my head wound, she sat by me in the dark for a while, and she would point to things - the parts of our bodies, the milk, the bread, and other things - and we would trade words for the object, she in German, me in English. Through a complex mix of words and motions, she explained that when I'd shown up, she'd knocked me out with a board, and she showed me the old tackle at the end of the main ridge timber that she'd used to haul me up to the loft by my belt while I was out cold.

Then she went to Hans and talked with him for a while. I picked out a few words that made me think he was talking about his home somewhere in the north.

Sometime during the night, I awoke to the sound of soft weeping. It appeared to come from the direction of the bed where Elga slept. It didn't take much imagination to think of the things she must have seen, the people she'd lost. Eventually, the crying stopped, and I fell back to sleep.

After breakfast the next morning, the lovely blonde squeezed another helping of baby juice out of me after I rang her bell again with some steady, powerful hip action. Hans behaved himself, and I even heard what sounded like encouragement.

After cleaning up, Elga left for a couple of hours. I talked to Hans as best as I could, and he even responded patiently. He tried to explain some things to me, but we both got frustrated - hey it's hard for an Italian like me to talk without their hands.

The pretty warden of our little prison camp returned around noon with another sack of food. She made peanut butter sandwiches and fed each of us with some fresh milk, and I mean fresh from the udder. Then she curled her legs under her next to Hans and talked to him. She was quiet, and appeared to be asking him questions. Several times, I heard Elga use the phrase, "...nicht kriegen" - not war. He became excited, but was desperately trying not to show it, and kept looking anxiously at me. He nodded agreeably or shook his head with a whiny, "Nein" every time she asked a question. I got the impression he was trying to convince her of something.

Finally, Elga got up and went to the table. She returned to him with the large knife. She asked him something again, and there was that phrase, "nicht kriegen". Hans nodded, "Ja, Ja," then seemed to promise something. To my eyes, his sincerity seemed dubious, however, and the way he kept glancing over at me gave me the willies.

My heart started thumping wildly as she began sawing at his ropes. Soon he was free, shaking his hands out and staring at me. Eff a duck! I was screwed.

Elga stood and came toward me with the knife. Hans jumped up and grabbed her wrist. She protested, screaming, "Nein, Hans! Nein!", but he twisted her wrist and soon the knife was his. Elga clasped her hands together, shaking and crying, terrified, "Nein, Hans. Bitte! Bitte, Hans!" as he came toward me, an icy coldness in his eyes.

I was done for. I closed my eyes and prayed to Mother Mary and St. Michael for a miracle. I felt his weight settle on my lap, skin to skin, and the chilly, steel blade pressed against my throat. I opened my eyes.

Hans wore an inscrutable grin. I was helpless, his for the taking, and he knew it.

"Pohl ist eine gut mann, ja?" he asked. It was an odd question; what did he mean, 'was I a good man?'

"Ja," I croaked, my Adam's apple fluttering against the sharp edge. "Paul has lived a good life." I thought of the despicable things I had done, all the lives I had taken, and hoped that St. Peter would agree when I met him.

"Ludvig von Beethoven?"

The bizarre question caught me off guard.

"Ja," I answered suspiciously. "Beethoven" I repeated.

Then, as if the nightmarish circumstances weren't already strange enough, he began singing. His full, rich tenor filled the barn, singing the German lyrics to the familiar melody from the Ninth Symphony.

He finished the verse, and looked at me expectantly, still holding the large knife at my throat.

"Bettler werden Fuerstenbrueder," he sang the penultimate line softly. It was almost a whisper. "All mann vill be bruder, ja?"

A glimmer of hope lit up in my chest. Was he serious? "Ja, Hans. Bruder."

He appeared unsure whether I was still a threat. I couldn't blame him. He told me, "Elga say nicht kriegen -'no var' vith Hans und Pohl. Verstehen?" he asked if I understood, pressing the knife a little more firmly to emphasize the gravity.

"Ja, Hans. No war," I said earnestly - my life depended on it. I would agree to anything.

He nodded, satisfied. "Ist gut." He crawled behind the post, and I felt the knife sawing between my wrists, cutting the ropes. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and praised God and Mother Mary and a host of saints, but mostly Elga.

Hans stood up while I shook out the stiffness in my arms. He offered his hand, though I could tell he still was no more convinced of my sincerity than I was of his. We locked wrists, and he hauled me up to my feet. Immediately, I pulled him close, our noses inches apart, our hands gripping each other's arms. Elga squealed in terror. The point of the knife was poking just under my rib cage. This was his chance - a single, quick thrust upward and it would be done, if that's what he wanted..

We glared at each other with threatening eyes. Then I flashed a furtive glance toward Elga, still frozen in fear, and winked at Hans. He winked back. We both turned slowly toward our former captor. She started backing away as we marched toward her, then she broke and ran for the ladder, but it was too late. We were both on her in seconds, lifting her and tossing her onto the bed. She shrieked and struggled, though not too strenuously, while Hans held her arms down and I began unlacing her dirndl. Elga arched upward and raised her arms so I could pull it over her head, leaving her in only her sexy white lederhosen. Lying just below the golden curls of her rug, the lips of her joy hole were pink, wide and juicy.

With a nodded agreement, Hans and I switched places; I held her forearms down while he climbed between her widespread legs. As I anticipated, he slid into her easily, and her knees rose slowly into the air. She smiled up at me, and I kissed her lips, then slowly down her neck to feast on those huge, delicious globes, squeezing, nipping, and sucking while Hans drilled her energetically.

After he emptied himself, it was my turn. I knelt between her legs while she and Hans cuddled. Despite the kraut cream tricking from her gash, my mouth watered at the sight of her freshly-effed muff. When I bent over and licked her small, white oyster, Elga gasped.

"Pohl! Nein!"

So I licked her gain, and she arched, sucking for air.

Hans exclaimed an amazed, "Mein Gott!" and Elga grasped at my hair and rattled off a string of German intended to dissuade me

I pulled her hand out of my hair, and my tongue lashed out again and again. Her hips twisted and writhed, and she spread her thighs wider as I sucked and licked at her muff. Looking up over her belly, I saw that she was holding the young kraut's hands over her stout teats, guiding him to manhandle them. Her hand came down to my head again, except now she was content to caress it and direct it gently from side to side.

As worked up as she already was, it didn't take long before I heard the now-familiar squeaks signaling the onset of her climax. Suddenly, with a sharp inward breath, she froze, then began shaking. Keeping a finger softly circling her erect little button, I sat up on my knees and buried myself to the hilt. Elga shrieked, grabbed Hans's head, and crammed his mouth onto her breast.

I began ramming my roger into her ferociously. She cried and whimpered with each lunge, pressing her hands flat against the bedstead to prevent her head from hitting it. Hans did his job well of keeping her covered in kisses, and soon Elga's love came down again, shivering and gasping, "Ja! Ja! Oh, mein Gott, Pohl!" In the midst of her joy, I punched hard and delivered a fresh load of Italian jizz as deep as it could go in her hot little oven.

I fell beside her, and she cuddled both of us in her arms, one on each side, kissing us back and forth. Then she wrinkled her nose and said something. Hans laughed. I looked perplexed, and she held her nose, saying, "Pew!" and pointed at each of us. She was right. We stank.

Elga led us down the ladder and we hand-pumped a washtub full of water. We took turns washing each other, though Hans and I kept a mostly-hands-off attitude.

Hans asked her something, and she didn't answer, giving him a suspicious look. "Bitte, Elga?" he asked again, nicely. She looked at me, gave an annoyed shake of her head, and led us to a large, old blanket in a corner of the barn. She pulled it up and showed us our weapons and packs. Hans and I looked at each other, shrugged, and shook hands. For the duration of our stay, this barn would remain neutral, our little Switzerland.

Back in the loft, we dressed lightly and the three of us enjoyed a nap together – as cramped as we were, it was the first time I'd slept in a real bed in months. Afterward, Elga worked on dinner while Hans and I tried to bring down a little more of the language barrier with help from my little book. He related how much he had hated the Nazis when he was studying music at college. He had stayed hidden for a long time, but they had forced him into the army only a few months before. As dusk fell, we ate another small meal of watery soup and bread, and went to bed. Hans screwed her to the mattress again, but I was content just to enjoy the warmth and closeness of her body, and she fell asleep in my arms.

In the night, Elga's crying woke me, as it had the night before. I held her, and she settled into my neck and let the tears flow. We didn't talk, but when she calmed, I felt her hand caressing me, and quickly grew hard again. I pushed my pants off and we made slow, easy love in the dark, careful to avoid waking Hans. If he was conscious, he didn't show it. Elga purred, we kissed softly and lovingly as our bodies moved together, and the melodious sigh she emitted when I filled her was as sweet as pure, fresh honey on a warm, spring day.

In the morning, I was alone in the bed. The guttural grunts and groans wafting up through the ladder entry told me where my bedfellows were. I grinned.

A distant buzz caught my attention. It grew louder. I knew immediately what it was. I jumped out of bed and slid down the old wooden ladder, getting splinters in my hands and nearly landing on top of Hans and Elga. Hans jumped up as I ran to the blanket and found out my jacket and pack, then ran outside just as the first of two P-51s roared low over the barn.

The tiny brains on those bird jockeys would see the barn as a perfect hiding spot for a Panzer or a Tiger. I'd seen what those .50cals could do, and now they had rockets, too. Naked from the waist down, I waved my green jacket and Allied flag as the second fighter came over. He tipped his wing, and they both turned to make a second pass. Hans was at the door, but I shooed him back inside. The planes wagged their wings to acknowledge me as a friendly, and headed off to the west, searching for another target.

Elga fell on me when I went back inside. My hands were bleeding. They helped me up the ladder, then carefully pulled the splinters out and bandaged both hands.

When Elga left, as she'd done each day, I motioned to Hans and we followed her surreptitiously. She picked some of the April wildflowers along the path down the hill, and veered off a few hundred yards from the barn. Suddenly, her head went down, and even above the spring breeze and the twittering of the birds, we could hear her plaintive sobbing. We kept a safe distance away.

She got up and continued on her way down the hill. We followed the path to where she'd been crying, and found four graves - two big ones, marked with crosses that said 'Mama' and 'Papa', a smaller one for 'Jurgen', maybe three feet long, and a tiny mound of no more than a couple of feet for 'Issa'. Wildflowers had been lovingly laid on each grave, and the death date painted on each of the crosses was the same, about a month ago. The boy had been three years old, and the girl barely one.

We followed the path, and as it crested a hill, we ducked behind a tall hedge to watch Elga talking to an older woman in the yard of a small cottage that was in poor repair. The cottage was nestled in a small depression, with no apparent roads leading into it. An armed company following the main routes would probably not find this hidden, little vale.

Suddenly a young, blonde-haired girl appeared, perhaps ten or so, skipping around from the corner of the house in her white dress. She ran to Elga and jumped into her waiting arms. They hugged and kissed, then talked for a while before going inside with the older woman. Shortly, Elga came back outside, carrying a gaunt, wrinkled old man in her arms. She sat him in a chair in the sun, and fed him from a bowl, talking with him while the young girl played around them. He seemed hardly able to raise his shaking hand.

Hans and I looked at each other and shrugged. We carefully made our way back to the barn.

Elga returned shortly, carrying her sack, as usual. She smiled happily as she placed a capped bottle and several other items on the table. Hans seemed delighted. She didn't appear to know that we'd followed her, and we both kept quiet.

For dinner, we enjoyed a small slice of some sort of breaded pork. Though it was little more than a taste, it was scrumptious. Hans called it a 'schnitzel'. For dessert, she served chunks of a small, sugar-coated pastry that she called a 'schnecken', and then she opened the bottle. Hans and I shared the best beer I'd ever had. Elga drank milk.

What a night we had. We fucked, furious and passionately, Hans first, then me. Then we bathed each other in the gathering darkness, and later I licked Elga to a thrashing climax, and we made soft, sensual love. I tried to sleep while Hans banged her like the piston on a steam train. In the morning, Hans and I tied her to the bed and had our way with her a couple of times, each.

The war was never far away, and now it was approaching. The night before, I kept hearing distant explosions and the echoes of gunfire. It gradually grew more frequent, and closer. Hans and I would look at each other. We knew the time would come when we could not be friends and co-lovers any more. I wondered how I would handle that, and what he would do.

Elga left for her mid-day excursion – I told her to be careful. In the yard, Hans found a small ball. He kicked it, adeptly bouncing it on his knee and his head. He called it a 'football', but it was nothing like the football I'd thrown as a quarterback in high school. He showed me how to manipulate it with my feet - no hands - and we were playing keep-away in the yard when we both froze at the same time. Our ears perked up. It was the unmistakable roar of a German 251 half-track, and it was coming toward us, fast.

With a muttered, "Scheisse!" Hans grabbed my arm and jerked me into the barn. I stood, helplessly watching as he began dressing in his uniform, but left his jacket off. He came to me and motioned toward his right forearm, and then made a strange gesture. I thought I knew what he wanted, but couldn't bring myself to do it. Obviously thinking that I didn't understand, he broke off a piece of wood from a stall and snapped it across his knee, then pointed insistently at his arm, looking anxiously toward the door as we heard the halftrack getting closer.

He put a piece of wood between his teeth. I held his arm with both hands, and he cried out painfully as I gave him a neatly broken arm. He found a small plank and I took off the bloody rags on my hands and wound them around the plank and his arm in a makeshift splint. He pointed upstairs, whispering urgently, "Schnell! Schnell!" as he pulled the blanket back over my uniform and rifle. Hans draped his jacket over his shoulders, and I hurried up the ladder, covering myself as well as I could with the hay behind the wardrobe, and gripping the large knife in sweaty hands.

The 251 stopped outside. Even over the running motor, I could hear agitated shouting, and Hans's crisp, military responses. When two krauts came up the ladder, I knew he'd given me away. I could see them as they rifled through the armoire, checked under the bed and in the dark corners. It seemed a cursory search - they didn't appear to be looking for anything, or anyone, in particular. One of them held Elga's dress in front of himself and paraded around playfully, beckoning his partner in a falsetto. They laughed, finished off the last sips of beer in the bottle, and climbed back down. A few minutes later, I heard the half-track rev up and continue down the road.

I hadn't heard shots, and that was a good thing. I waited for ten or fifteen minutes, listening for any sound that they might have left a sentry behind. Carefully, I made my way downstairs. The tracks of the vehicle were embedded in the dirt, and there was no blood on the ground, but Hans was gone.