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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Operation Ganymede - 15. Chapter 15 - The Trial of Duty
The next day, Arnfried Klein and Heissler set off in a van for their first mission at Oflag VII-A Murnau. Klein, unsettled by the previous day’s interview with Oberleutnant Dettmann, opens his orders at 7:15. They arrive at the camp in a tense atmosphere, guided by a contact who assigns them a demanding task.
The Next Day. 7:10 a.m.
The rickety van rattled its passengers along for nearly an hour, its tyres crunching over gravel, the occupants perched on rough planks that jolted with every bump—a grim reminder of their stolen youth. Beyond the open sides, the landscape rolled by: mountains bathed in the soft glow of morning light, a sight that might’ve been stirring if they’d had the luxury to take it in. Roused at 5:30, the boys had wolfed down a hasty breakfast, their stomachs barely settled before being herded into their assigned vehicles. Arnfried Klein and young Heissler had drawn the short straw—a weathered, greying Ford from the ‘30s, exposed to the elements, their close-cropped hair whipping in the breeze. Eiseinmann and Moebius, the lucky blighters, had landed a gleaming sidecar, which the Oberleutnant had promised to pilot himself once he’d barked out his orders.
- Klein, here are your instructions. You’ll read them at precisely 7:15. Verstanden?"
- JAA VOLL, MEIN OBERLEUTNANT!”
7:13. Two minutes to go. Heissler and Klein sat wrapped in a taut silence, the kind bred by anticipation, the weight of reality pressing down on their shoulders. What would their mission be? Arnfried clutched the envelope like a talisman, his eyes darting to it since the journey began, keeping him on edge. A mission—his first—his very first, and already saddled with the role of team leader! All those years of sweat hadn’t been for nothing, then. The Hitlerjugend myth of moulding leaders was proving true.
Heissler shot him a glance. 7:14. One minute left.
- Got any guesses? Heissler asked, eyeing the envelope like it held some riddle to crack.
Arnfried shook his head, his thoughts too tangled for a proper answer. He had to wait, keep a grip on himself, not show a shred of weakness—not in front of his men, even if today it was just one Pimpfe at his side. He turned his gaze to the Bavarian mountains, their snow-capped peaks looming like sentinels of a winter gone by, though the memory lingered sharp and clear.
As the van lumbered on, its steady jolts lulling like a forced cradle song, Arnfried’s mind drifted. Yesterday’s memories crept in, heavy as a lingering scent. He saw it again—the scene in the Oberleutnant’s office, that bitter taste of humiliation, sharp as a wound. Dettmann’s hand, probing with a precision he’d called clinical, had felt like a trespass into his very core. Why that personal rummaging? His heart thudded in time with the engine’s growl.
Every lurch of the van brought it back: Dettmann’s deliberate moves—pinching, prodding—each one weaving a shroud of shame and confusion. Why that touch, that forced closeness? Was it to toughen him for the Mission?
He sought solace in Heissler’s face, but the younger boy stared out at the scenery, lost like a stranger in his own skin. Arnfried tried to mimic that detachment, drawing in the crisp mountain air, but his thoughts circled back to Eiseinmann. How had he dodged that shame? Sure, he’d had to strip bare—a raw vulnerability—but without that intimate violation. Without those fingers Klein had felt on his privates. The difference gnawed at him. Was it a test of his grit?
The landscape blurred past, each judder of the van echoing those moments when he’d felt stripped of his own body—a puppet in what they’d pitched as Mission prep.
7:15. Time at last. Arnfried tore open the envelope, his mind still snagged on yesterday’s ordeal, but he knew he had to focus on what lay ahead. The Mission—his first—beckoned.
“Oflag VII-A Murnau. Contact at 8:30 in front of the Quartermaster’s office. CODE: you must say ‘birds,’ and your contact must reply ‘migrants.’ Once the message is read, destroy it!”
Dropped off a kilometre from the camp, the boys stepped into the shadow of Oflag VII-A, an air thick with suspicion clinging to every breath.
- There it is, Heissler muttered, nodding toward the post office shack.
A quick glance at their watches—8:20. Ten minutes to spare. Wait it out or circle back on the dot? Their pondering was cut short by a truck rumbling past.
- What d’you lads want? the driver snapped, his voice sharp with impatience.
- Er… Arnfried faltered.
- What outfit are you with?
Outfit? What did he mean? A figure in a brown shirt and polished boots strode up, his gaze raking over them with an intensity that seemed to peel back their secrets.
- Well, boys? he pressed, his tone hovering between curiosity and challenge. Need directions? Or have you got something to say?
Arnfried swapped a look with Heissler, then turned to the man, hands clasped behind his back. O… birds?
- Ah, there we are! Jolly good! The man grinned. And if I say ‘migrants’, does that suit you?
Crikey, did it ever!
- Right, follow me.
The gate creaked open. We’ll cross the camp. If anyone asks, say you’re here for the delivery detail. Got it?
- JAA!
Inside, the air felt queer—a stew of silence and simmering tension. Behind barred windows, prisoners watched them, their eyes tracking the only souls free to move.
- They won’t come out till ten, the contact said. Till then, it’s just us about.
Their target was a barrack, its stark lines whispering recent history. The man kept talking as they walked.
- I’ll introduce you to a French officer—eight months here. Suspected of being a linchpin in the escape network. You’ll help him with his librarian duties. Every week, a chap from the nearby town drops off and picks up books, but today we’ve told him to stay put in his library. We’ll say he sent you instead. Understood?
- JAA… mein…? Arnfried trailed off, uncertain.
But the man was already at the door, missing Klein’s half-murmured question. Stepping inside, a whiff of raw timber and ageing paper hit them square. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, neatly lined, brimming with books—bright spines promising escape for the captives. A broad reading table sat in the centre, ringed by chairs worn by time. Through a window, the camp’s courtyard flickered into view—a patch of fenced-in freedom under a sky slowly brightening. To the left, the librarian’s desk stood modest and practical, stacked with books to sort and an open logbook waiting for entries. The room lay empty—the trio had arrived early; the French officer wasn’t due till 9:00.
- Oh, nearly forgot, the contact added, turning sharp. We know Captain Lefeuvre nearly landed in hot water back home—nasty business with some perverse, degenerate tricks on his pupils at the school where he taught. But he pulled strings to wriggle out. Archh… I want you to get him talking, dig up proof. Clear?
The boys nodded, their eyes shifting from unease to resolve, but a question lingered for Klein, freshly minted HJ Scharführer since yesterday: how?
- Archh… KOMMENTTT? he blurted.
Double shake of heads.
- With this! The man’s hand slapped hard against the front of Arnfried’s short, a brutal jolt tying their mission back to the raw edge of duty.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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