A tough captain was trying to interrogate a captured German. He had the German trussed up in a camp chair in his tent. The captain spoke only English. The German shook his head, indicating no understanding. When the captain saw the Troop “X” commandos, he said, “Talk to this bloke. I want to know where the minefields are. And see if you can find out his rank.”
Lipscomb glanced at the prisoner and said, “He’s a Hauptstramfuehrer, a captain like you, sir, and he’s SS.”
“Well, ask him where the bloody minefields are and I don’t have time to waste with him.”
Lipscomb noticed a hint of a smile on the German’s face. “Ah, Herr Hauptstrumfuhrer, we understand English, do we not?” The German remained impassive. “Herr Hauptstrumfuhrer, wo sind de minenfielder?” (Where are the minefields?).
“Ficken sie, Jude.” (Fuck you, Jew).
Stallings’ face became a maniacal mask. He stuck his face inches from the German and said, “Listen, you SS cocksucker, you’re going to tell me where the fucking mines are or you’ll wish you never heard the name Heinrich Himmler.”
The German spit in Stallings’ face and said “Ficken sie, Jude bastard.”
“Our Aryan Superman has a limited vocabulary, but I think I can broaden it for you, sir,” Stallings said as he wiped his face. “Give me a moment. Noel, take off his boots and socks. It’s time to play five little piggies.”
Stallings returned three minutes later with a hammer and said “O.K. Aryan Superman, we’re going to play ‘five little piggies.” Tapping each of the German’s toes lightly beginning with the large toe, he intoned, “this little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy ate roast beef, this little piggy had none . . . and this little piggy cried wee, wee, wee, wee all the way home.” With that, he slammed the hammer on the German’s little toe, crushing it.
The prisoner yelped loudly and strained against his bonds.
“Wo sind de minenfielder?”
The German leaned forward in his chair, groaning and breathing heavily.
“Wo sind de minenfielder? No? Then say Auf Weidersehen to the next little piggy.” The hammer came down hard, crushing the second smallest toe.
The German shrieked like a wounded animal, arched his back and almost levitated in the chair. He leaned forward, blinking rapidly, breathing hard and moaning loudly. Saliva ran down his chin.
“I think you know where this Jew is going with this, Herr Hauptstrumfuhrer. After I finish with all of the piggies, I’ll work my way north. Before this little Jew is done with you, you will be forever denied two of life’s simple pleasures, namely, walking and fucking. Soooo, if the honor of the vaunted SS is worth more to you than those pleasures, stay silent. Otherwise, one last time: wo sind de minenfielder.”
“Auf den zwei straben fuhrend in stadt vom norden” (“the two roads leading into town from the north”), he gasped.
REVIEW:
“If you’re a World War 11 history buff, or even vaguely interested, especially in the European theater, you need to read Black Ops, volume 1, and/or Black Ops, volume 2. The war itself has been documented and written in great detail. The part that is much less known is the great sacrifices of the secret agents of US, British, and French decent who were dropped on beaches, or parachuted into France to work with brave members of the French resistance. The sacrifices of these people are at times difficult to comprehend, except for their willingness to give their lives for their country. These are truly heart-wrenching stories!” — Jerry F., Seattle, Washington