When the Hammer Falls

He stumbled in the darkness, picking his way through the stand of birch trees. Leaning against one of the pale trunks, he paused, hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. A black sedan crawled down the road, and he threw himself flat on the cold, hard ground as they combed the woods with a handheld searchlight.

As the beam sliced past him, he could see his breath suspended in the cold night air. But the SS troopers hadn't spotted him, and they drove away down the road to continue the hunt.

He lay on the frozen forest floor, too exhausted to stand. He was surprised the Nazis had found his abandoned motorcycle so soon, and wondered if they'd discovered the driver's corpse.

He wanted to close his eyes, wanted to rest his aching body, but even though he'd already come so far, he knew he had so much farther to go before he could sleep. He forced himself to his feet and brushed the dirt and the dried, yellow birch leaves from his dark suit. As he reached the edge of the woods, he saw the lights of the village he'd sought in the distance.

Watching to see if there were any sentries on the streets, he rubbed the stubble on his face and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. "Cal," he thought, "first thing you're gonna do when you're safely back in England is get a hot shave and a haircut."

Cal adjusted his uniform jacket, which had been altered so he appeared to be a civilian, and slicked his dirty hair back, trying to make himself invisible as he entered the German-occupied village.

He moved like a shadow through the quiet, cobblestone streets until he reached the church, its steeple towering above the small town. "Why couldn't my contact have been a priest," he thought, "it would've made things so much easier." Using the church as a waypoint, he followed the street it was on until he found the building he'd been searching for.

When he saw the three troopers smoking in front, he wondered again why his contact had to be in a brothel, of all places. He waited and watched the soldiers, thankful that they were Wehrmacht and not the SS goons hunting him.

A dark-haired woman dressed in a three-quarter-length skirt with a thigh-high slit and a half-buttoned blouse strolled out of the building and asked one of the soldiers for a cigarette. She was offered three and took one. While waiting for a light, one of the soldiers tried to grab her breast and she slapped his hand away. As his companions laughed, she took him by the hand and led all three of them back inside.

Hoping it would seem less conspicuous than sneaking in the back door, Cal casually walked in the front like any other paying customer. As soon as he did he wondered if he'd made a fatal mistake. The bar was littered with German soldiers and prostitutes; he was the only civilian in the place.

But, to his surprise, none of the troopers took a second glance at him; they were preoccupied by plenty of beer, tits and ass.

He sat at a table by the back wall and waited as the bartender warily eyed him before heading his way. Cal wondered if this was his contact. But then the front door opened and three men strode in -- he knew immediately they were SS.

The leader wore a black leather greatcoat over his uniform and Cal could see the silver death's head on his peaked cap. They signaled to the bartender and he hurried over to them.

Cal knew it was all over; there would be no more escapes. When he'd crawled in the dark through the narrow tunnel, he'd promised himself that he'd never allow them to put him back behind that barbed-wire fence. And he intended to keep his promise. He scanned the bar looking for an untended weapon, wondering how many of the bastards he could take with him. Suddenly, a steely grip seized his shoulder.

A German sergeant, with his suspenders down and his gray tunic unbuttoned so that his undershirt showed, glared at him.

"You will come with me," the sergeant slurred in German, and pulled him to his feet.

Before Cal could protest, he was dragged upstairs toward the second floor. He stumbled along, knowing it was the sergeant or the SS. "Where are we going?" he asked in his best German.

"Your

Deutsch

is terrible," the drunken sergeant said, "but it's better than my Norwegian." He laughed and slapped Cal hard on the back.

Cal was thankful he remembered any German at all. He'd spoken it with his grandparents when he was a boy, as they'd refused to learn English even after they'd emigrated. But they'd died when he was young and his German had faded along with his memories of them. However, it was amazing what a stay in a stalag could do as a refresher course.

"What is your name?"

"Hammerschmied." Cal lied, giving the original German version of his last name. "But they call me Hammer."

The sergeant threw open a door, walked into the room, grabbed a bottle of aquavit from the side table, took a deep swig and handed it to Cal.

He took the bottle, but was far more interested in the dark-haired, doe-eyed girl lying naked on the bed and watching them.

"I need your help, Hammer," the sergeant said. "I hope you hold your liquor better than my friend." He pointed to a passed out corporal, wearing only his underwear, facedown on the floor on the far side of the bed.

The sergeant took off his tunic and unbuttoned his trousers. "I paid her for myself and my friend but, now that he has had too much to drink, she will not give me my money back. So you will take my friend's place and fuck her for him."

"How old is she?" Cal asked the sergeant, as he watched him remove his holster.

"I am eighteen," she said in French, before he could answer.

"Bah, enough talk!" The sergeant climbed naked on the bed and playfully slapped the girl's tiny ass.

As he hung his Luger from a chair on the far side of the bed, the sergeant tried to focus his blurry eyes on Cal. "What are you waiting for?"

Cal undressed and listened as the SS banged on a door down the hall; a woman screamed as they entered and searched the room. Once he was naked, he turned toward the bed as the young girl stared wide-eyed at his huge erection.

"Now I know why they call you Hammer!" the sergeant laughed. "Let me go first, before you ruin her!"

He grabbed her legs and dragged her across the mattress toward him. He rubbed the helmet-shaped head of his cock against the dark thatch of hair between her legs, and when he pressed forward the tender lips of her pussy parted easily for him. As he pumped his stiff shaft in and out of her wet hole, he reached a hand out and squeezed her small breast, feeling her erect nipple pressed against the palm of his hand.

The girl let out a soft moan on every one of the sergeant's thrusts. As he fucked her, she looked up at Cal and whispered something in French. When he didn't understand, she reached out, wrapped her small hand around his thick cock and pulled him closer.

Cal kneeled on the bed beside her and felt the warmth of her tongue as she licked the underside of his cock. She wrapped her lips around the knob and started sucking on it, and he laced his fingers through her hair and slowly pumped his swollen shaft between her lips. She had a tiny mouth and Cal's huge cock was stretching it by the time he had half his length inside her. When he pressed against the back of her throat she gagged and he pulled out, his cock wet from her willing mouth.

"There's one thing the French are good at," the sergeant said, as he drove himself in and out of her pussy, " they train their women well."

She ignored the sergeant and focused on Cal, her tiny tongue circling the head of his cock as she pumped her cool hand along his swollen length. She tried to get more of his cock in her mouth, but gagged again and had to pull him out when he got too deep.

Her spit slipped off of Cal's purple knob as she reached under and fondled his rock-hard balls. He hadn't been with a woman since that young nurse in London, weeks before his plane had been shot down. He knew he wouldn't last long.

Someone hammered on the door, startling both Cal and the young French girl, but the sergeant didn't miss a stroke. He was still pumping away between her legs when the SS barged into the room.

"

Mein Gott

! What is -- " The sergeant froze when he realized the intruders were SS troopers.

The officer in the leather great coat stepped forward and calmly picked the sergeant's gray tunic up off of the floor. He rubbed the cloth between his fingers as he calmly eyed Cal and the sergeant before shifting his gaze to the Luger and second uniform draped over a chair on the far side of the bed. He took the door and pulled it toward him, as if checking to see if there was anyone behind it, but merely hung the tunic off a hook on the back of the door.

Without saying a word, he signaled to the two troopers and they followed him outside, shutting the door behind them as they went down the hallway to check the next room. They hadn't noticed the passed-out corporal lying naked on the floor on the far side of the bed.

"SS!" the sergeant laughed. "They don't even notice a naked girl unless she is blonde-haired and blue-eyed!"

Switching positions with Cal, he wrapped his fingers through the girl's hair as he rubbed his cock all over her face before finally forcing it through her lips.

Cal's heart was racing as he wondered if the SS would realize their error and return. Knowing he had no choice but to wait until they left, he walked to the far side of the bed. The sergeant tensed as he neared his Luger, but Cal reached over it and grabbed the bottle of aquavit.

He took a drink and nearly choked on the foul-tasting liquor. He was still coughing, with the sergeant laughing at him, when the young girl took the bottle, easily took a huge swig and went back to sucking the sergeant's cock.

"She holds her liquor better than you, Hammer!" he roared.

"Let's see how she holds this," said Cal, and moved between her legs.

The petite girl groaned as he plunged his thick prick into her tiny hole. He only had half his cock inside her and he could see her pussy was already as stretched as her mouth had been. He rubbed his fingers through her damp bush until he found her clit, and rubbed the little button as he slowly pumped his cock in and out of her.

The sergeant was still fucking her face, and she moaned around his shaft as her pussy got stuffed. He groaned that he was going to come and, as she tried to pull away, he held her head fast while he emptied his load in her mouth.

When he was spent, he backed away, cum dripping from the tip of his cock, and took another swig of aquavit as he tried to focus on the action on the bed.

Cal grabbed her narrow hips and pulled her small body underneath him, while she wrapped her hands around his neck to hold on as he fucked her hard and fast. The old bed rocked back and forth, banging against the wall as her cries echoed through the room with every thrust of his thick pole.

He could feel the tension, the fear and the despair that had mounted since his desperate escape melting away as he lost himself inside her. Their bodies rocked in unison as he drove his cock as deep as he could. Finally, his balls tightened and he pulled out, shooting hot cum onto her taut stomach. She grabbed his shaft and kept pumping him until he was finished, and then he collapsed beside her, both of them covered in a thin sheen of sweat and struggling to catch their breath.

The sergeant saw the puddle of cum on the flat of the French girl's belly and laughed. "My friend, you need to clean your gun more often!"

As the sergeant put on his uniform, the girl cleaned herself up and dressed the passed-out corporal. Throwing him over his shoulder, the sergeant staggered toward the door. "You two can share the rest of the bottle -- you have earned it!" he said, and left the room laughing and singing.

The girl stretched her naked body across Cal, her firm breasts pressing against his chest as she retrieved her cigarettes from the far nightstand. She struck a match, took a deep drag and offered the smoke to Cal. He took it, and listened while she used his cigarette to light a second for herself. The SS were gone; Cal knew he had to find his contact before they returned. "Do you speak English?" he whispered.

Her eyes opened wide in surprise and she nodded.

"I need your help, I'm looking for a man named Max who is supposed to be here. Do you know him?"

She shook her head no, but then suddenly realized who he meant and laughed. "Oh, Max! Yes, I can take you to Max."

After they both dressed, she led him down the hallway and down the outside stairs to the back lane. After checking to make sure no German soldiers were nearby, she crossed the alley and knocked on the cellar door of the building opposite.

From the other side of the locked door, a muffled voice questioned her in Norwegian. She whispered through the painted wood and stepped back as it opened an inch, and a cold blue eye scrutinized Cal from the depths of the doorway. The door abruptly swung open and an arm reached out and seized him by his dark jacket, dragging him into the shadows of the cellar. As the door shut behind him, the young French girl hurried back to her room and her next customer.

Cal was off balance and banged the top of his head against the lintel as he was pulled into the low cellar. He clapped his hand to his skull to try to stop the pain, and when he looked up he was staring into the barrels of four rifles.

"Who are you?" the man asked. "Why are you looking for Max?"

Cal hesitated, hoping they were the local resistance. If they weren't, no lie would save him, so he told the truth.

"My name's Calvin Hammer. I'm an American pilot with the RAF, and I've escaped from a German prison camp in Sagan. I was told to find a man named Max and that he could help me get to Sweden and to safety."

"You can't be him," a woman whispered, looking like she'd seen a ghost. She lowered her rifle and picked up a folded newspaper from the table.

"You're dead."

Cal was speechless as he read the account: fifty prisoners shot while trying to escape. He scanned down the list of the dead and was stunned to see his own name.

"They made a mistake," he said, "they've shot the wrong man. Or maybe the Gestapo is lying about it for propaganda purposes?

"I'm the real Cal Hammer -- Flight Lieutenant Calvin Hammer! Can you help me?"

The woman stepped closer and saw the desperation in his eyes; she knew he was telling the truth. "We can," she said, as she hugged herself against him. "I am Maxine, my friends call me Max."

As they brought him food and drink, he explained the details of his long, dangerous journey to Norway. The narrow escapes, the close calls, the people who'd helped him during his flight from Germany. He told them how he'd snuck on a ship bound for neutral Sweden and his dread when he realized it was actually bound for German-occupied Norway. Now, he needed to find a way across the border to Sweden, and back to England.

The partisans removed a false wall in the cellar that hid a small room with a bed in it. Cal fell into it and slept restlessly, knowing he still had many more miles to run. When he woke the next morning, Maxine was waiting at his bedside with bread and hot soup.

Maxine watched Cal dip the heel of the loaf into the clear, flavorless broth. "I need a favor from you," she said.

Cal knew he wasn't in a position where he could help anyone, and watched her warily. "What kind of favor?" he asked, through a mouthful of bread.

"I want you to take my sister, Astrid, with you, to England."

"Your sister? I don't even know if I can get myself to England."

"You can, we have already made contact with the British. A plane will be landing at a hidden airstrip just over the border sometime after midnight. I want you to take her with you on the plane."

"I don't know if there would be room and, even if there was, the decision would be the pilot's, not mine."

"I know, but please promise me you'll try to take her with you. If you don't, she'll die."

"I've been lucky to make it this far without getting killed, if I take your sister we'll both end up dead."

"And what do you think will happen to me if the Gestapo learn that I helped you escape? I've risked my life for you, but you won't risk yours for me?"

Cal sighed, knowing she was right. "Fine, I'll take her with me. But I ain't making any promises! Where is she?"

"They are holding her captive in an SS facility on the far side of the town."

He dropped the half-eaten hunk of bread into the broth. "Are you crazy? How are we supposed to rescue her from an SS prison?"

She held his hand, trying to calm him down. "It's not a prison, it's a brothel. And we don't have to rescue her, I need you to help me convince another to do it for us."

"And who do I have to convince?"

"Wolfgang Kepler -- an officer in the SS.

"Please, let me explain!" Maxine continued, as she saw the flabbergasted look on Cal's face. "My sister is being held prisoner in a brothel that is exclusively for use by the SS. She is not dark-haired like me; she has blonde hair and blue eyes and is their Aryan ideal. They have imprisoned her so they can use her to breed the future for the Third Reich.

"Kepler's job is to find women for the brothel, and he often comes here looking for suitable candidates. I want to make a deal with him so that he will free Astrid and bring her here, so you can take her with you."

"What kind of deal? Money?"

"No, Kepler has needs of a more...sexual nature. He has agreed to have Astrid released if he can watch you and I have sex."

"Why would he do that? Why would he risk everything just to watch two people fuck?"

"Because," she whispered, "he believes you're my brother."

"Jeezus!" Cal said, pushing his broth away. "What kind of a sick bastard would get off on watching a brother screw his sister?"

Maxine took a deep breath. "I can't even begin to tell you the stories I have heard about his...tastes. Believe me when I say that his obsession with incest is the least of his perversions."

"I won't do it," Cal said. "It's sick!"

Maxine grabbed his face in her hands and forced him to look into her eyes. "Calvin, you're not really my brother! Don't worry about what goes on in the depths of his depraved mind while he watches us. You were under my roof less than half an hour before you were fucking Sophie, and you didn't even know her name; is it so hard to force yourself to make love to me?"

Cal removed her hands. Maxine was an attractive woman; dark hair framed her beautiful face and her soft curves accentuated her full breasts.

"Why would he believe I'm your brother? I don't even speak Norwegian."

"He doesn't want to have an intellectual debate with you, he wants to watch you fuck your sister. I don't think he expects a lot of talking."

Cal reluctantly nodded in agreement, and Maxine leaned forward and kissed him on his mouth.

"But first," she said, backing away from him, "you definitely need a bath."

Later that evening, Cal paced the floor of Maxine's room, feeling like a new man after finally getting a shave and a bath. It had been so long since he'd last showered, that he was sure some of the dirt he'd washed off was from the tunnel. As he butted out his fourth cigarette in the ashtray, he heard footsteps coming down the hallway. The door opened and Maxine walked in, with Wolfgang Kepler at her heels.

Kepler was a toad of a man. As he removed his scarf, revealing a heavy double chin, he watched them with beady, too-close-together eyes while he nervously flicked his tongue across his thin lips. His fat fingers undid the buttons on his leather greatcoat, which was stretched tightly over his wide frame, and he placed it with his peaked cap on a hat rack in the corner of the room. He said something in Norwegian to Cal, who simply nodded in greeting.