Carl vs. The Nazis Ch. 9 Invasion

"Carl vs. The Nazis Ch. 8 Get Buff" 
Nazi Invasion

I was restless with the pace of a summer resort town in winter. I told Thomas.
“It’s the time of year,” he said, looking out at water dripping down the eves from the melting snow. “It’s March, and it’s gray and muddy. But in spring, things will heat up and get exciting. Just be a little patient and soon . . .”
We froze to the sound of thunder filling the large lobby where we were sitting. Rushing toward us were booted feet marching to martial music. We slipped behind the counter and peaked out. Hundreds of rifle-toting fat men goose-stepped down the hallway in jack boots and Nazi SS uniforms. Two men marched in front, one carrying a flag with a swastika, the other carrying, on a large silver tray, a boom box blasting the music. The man with the flag was Damon. The man with the boom box was Police Chief Hoggleton.
It seemed to take hours for them to pass, and the wait was made longer by their atrocious singing:
“We are the masters of the master races,
We’ll show other vermin where their place is,
We know that no one can be quite right,
If his or her skin isn’t so white.”

As frightened as I was, I noticed the men actually weren’t very white. Irregular bathing combined with years of drinking and smoking had turned their flabby faces pink and yellow.

“It’s time to begin our world again,
We have the guns and we have the men,
What’s good for the goose is good for the gandah,
They’ll learn the truth through our propaganda.
When we rid the world of those we don’t need,
We’ll fill it up with our new noble breed!
When races intermarry it’s a genetic loss,
That’s why our bloodlines often cross.
We must squish the scum who are not like us,
Or send them back in an emigrant bus.
By killing all those who aren’t inferior,
We will, quite logically, prove superior!
Forever and throughout the earth,
This is the day of fascism’s birth,
To make sure we get the plan mostly right,
We’ll work out details in the bunker tonight!

“I think those guys are up to no good,” Thomas whispered after the Nazis had passed.
The Immortals gathered in a guest house across the road from the Manor.
“Why don’t we just call the police?” asked Gwen.
“The police chief is one of their leaders, and he is the police department,” I replied. “I mean, there aren’t even any other police officers in town.”
“You could call the Sheriff,” suggested Robert.
“No good,” I replied. “Who would believe such a fantastic story? Anyway, he could be in on it too.”
Thomas stared out the window, lost in thought.
“Carl,” he said.
“Yes?” I replied.
He paused. “Carl!” he said again, looking away thoughtfully.
“Still here,” I responded.
“Carl!” He shouted, now looking at me intently with his wide, white smile.
“Sir, you’re skipping like an old record player.”
“Carl, you must go to their meeting tonight and discover their plan.”
“That’s a good idea, except for one problem: They would kill me, which would prevent me from sharing the information with you or anyone else in the world of the living, in addition to causing me a lot of inconvenience.”
“Not if you’re one of them,” said Thomas, excitedly. “Just wear a uniform.”
“Another good idea, but I don’t want to execute it. Why don’t you wear the uniform and crash the party?”
“Don’t you think I would be a little conspicuous?” he said, still smiling.
I had to admit each of the soldiers appeared to be under one hundred years old.
“And just how to propose to get a uniform?” I asked.
“Soldiers are almost always subject to a woman’s charms,” he responded. “All the great spies were lovely women. We’ll send in our own Mata Hari.”
Near the guest house where we gathered was the old theater. Gwen found a faded flower print dress, a heavy black shawl and a cane. Hunched over, she shuffled across the street toward the hotel. She looked her age. Dr. Waller and I followed, and took position in the bushes.
She walked the sidewalk in front of the hotel, as a lone, rifle-toting uniformed guard peered nervously on from the shadows of a threshold. She stumbled and fell.
“Young man!” she called to the guard. “I believe I have injured my hip! The pain is most dreadfully acute!”
Hesitantly, the guard walked toward her. “Are you going to be alright?” he asked hopefully. “Can I help you up?” Gwen shot him a glance that could peel paint.
“Listen, you oversized Boy Scout, one does not just ‘shake it off’ when one’s hip is broken. Would you please demonstrate the good sense and courtesy to call an ambulance for me?”
“I’m sorry ma’am. I’m not supposed to leave this spot. Anyway, I don’t have a telephone.”
“Very well. I shall take matters into my own hands, you incompetent young lout.” Gwen took a slow, deep breath, then screamed with such force the guard almost fell over.
“Help! Police! Fire! Ambulance! War, plague and famine!”
“Lady, please, please stop! Calm down! I’ll try to help you. I just don’t have a telephone.”
“Well, you foolish young festering boil on the face of civilization, are you too idiotic to inform my husband of my plight so he can take me to the hospital?”
“Your husband? He’s around?” said the guard, obviously relieved to have a simple solution at hand.
“Does the steel of your helmet permeate your head entirely? My husband. I left him sitting on the bench by that azalea thicket. He’s deaf as a fire hydrant, so you will have to walk over to him.”
She gestured to Dr. Waller, barely visible in the distance, sitting near the woods.
The guard jogged over and arrived red and sweating from his brief exercise.
“Sir,” he said, huffing, “It’s your wife.”
“What?”
“YOUR WIFE!”
“My wife. Wife. Yes,” Dr. Waller said wistfully. “You know we honeymooned here? Those were different days. The hotel had a swing band that played every night. The Manor was surrounded by gardens, and after dancing ‘til the wee hours we would walk the stone path that wound through the roses . . .”
“Your wife is hurt!” snapped the guard.
“Of course she is!” shot back Dr. Waller. “It’s hard enough growing old. Your vision goes, then your hearing, then your joints. And everything changes! Just look at this beautiful resort all boarded up!”
“She’s having a hard time with her hip!”
“Well it is hard to be ‘hip’ when you’re old!” the Doctor replied angrily. “What, we never know if we’re supposed to stuff ourselves into tight jeans or wear those baggy bell-bottoms and look like tea bags! And this body piercing and tattoo nonsense. Always filling yourselves with holes and pictures like human bulletin boards! No respect for your bodies! ‘Oh, I have skin like a baby’s butt,’ you say. ‘Why not stick a nail through it!’ When your skin gets all wrinkled, you’ll appreciate . . .”
“Listen! Your wife hurt her hip! She needs help!”
“Where is she?” said the Doctor, suddenly concerned.
“By the hotel. On the sidewalk.”
“Where?” said the Doctor, looking confused.
“Look, you can even see her. She’s right over there!” shouted the guard. He turned and pointed, in an broad, exasperated gesture.
Quick as a flash, Dr. Waller pulled out the largest hypodermic needle I had ever seen. It glimmered like a mirror in the sun before disappearing through the guard’s uniform, penetrating deep into his fleshy behind. The guard’s eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth to shout, but his eyes quickly glazed and his lips turned up in a serene smile. He rocked gently before crumpling on the ground. We dragged him into the bushes and removed the uniform.
That evening I walked into the building wearing the Nazi uniform, the other soldiers taking no notice of me. I went to the Manor’s cavernous basement, where I had seen the Nazis headed earlier.
I felt foolish and afraid. How would I keep Damon and Hoggleton from recognizing me? I bit my cheek to stop myself from shaking as I went through the basement door. To my surprise, there were no Nazis. The room was empty except for broken rocking chairs, Christmas decorations, National Geographic magazines, instruments stored from the music camp, and banquet tables. It was dark, cold and musty. Just as I turned to leave, I heard a noise. From somewhere in that room came the faint, distant sound of martial music.
I walked slowly about the room, hearing the noise becoming louder in some spots, but I couldn’t find the source. Standing where the noise seemed to be loudest, I looked down. There was a manhole cover.
After using an old shovel to pry the cover, I went down on the iron rungs into the darkness. I had no idea how deep this hole was and I dared not use a flashlight. My hands were shaking, and my thundering heartbeat seemed to rattle my skull. Down I crept. I don’t know if it was five minutes or thirty. I began to wonder if the hole had a bottom, and started to panic, to hurry. My foot missed a rung, and my sweaty hands slipped. Falling into the night, I whispered my last goodbye, and prepared to meet my maker.
“Whee-hee! You’re going to love this place,” I heard him say after I reached what seemed to be the bottom, and was bouncing up from the floor.
After recovering my senses enough to see I was in one piece, I examined my surroundings. I was in a small room, sitting on a pile of old mattresses. Instead of my maker, I met a skinny, skinheaded teenage boy in a uniform, who was leering at me in the light of a kerosene lantern.
“Hi, I’m Lars!”
“I’m Carl.” I decided not to use a fake name. I’d probably forget it, and be as brainless as a rock when someone called me.
“People love that part of coming here!” he exclaimed. “I’ve climbed back up about a dozen times to jump. The first time is the best. Where you from?”
“Indiana,” I replied.
“Oh, neat. I’m from right next door in Ohio, Hicksville, Ohio. Do you know Rick Munson? He’s from Indiana too. He owns a lot of snowmobiles.”
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“How about Albert VanHutton? He’s from Martinsville. His dad owns a diner. They’ve got the best biscuits and gravy in the whole Midwest!”
“No, sorry. Indiana’s a big state. Could you tell me where to head from here? I’m a little disoriented from the fall,” I asked, trying to sound respectful and self-assured.
“Yep. Go straight down this pipe. Watch your head.”
He took out a key and unlocked an iron grate covering a thick steel pipe. As I bent to kneel and crawl in, he spoke.
“Forgetting something?”
“What’s that?”
He stood up and raised his hand high. “Heil, Damon.”
“Heil, Damon,” I replied with a half-hearted salute. The words choked me. I crawled into the tunnel.
Clearly, from the way the pipe smelled and felt, it used to move something beside people.
I emerged in a brightly light concrete room. It smelled of unbathed fat men, french fries, tobacco and sour, spilled beer. I almost puked.
The Nazis took no notice of me as they sat at small round tables near a stage. I milled around to explore their headquarters.
The complex was tremendous. The main room was the size of a basketball court. Opposite the side I had just come out stood the stage, surrounded by rows of folding metal chairs. Jutting from the four walls were hallways. One was an armory, with rifles and ammunition, and small artillery. The others were a cafeteria, an area for sleeping, and an infirmary. The concrete floor was covered with a swastika made of three widths of duct tape. The men had signed their names and hometowns on the swastika, with comments like, “We are thrillin’ to do some killin’” and, “If it ain’t white, it ain’t rite.”
Posters of severe looking young men in brown shirts, black ties, and red armbands covered the wall. Behind the stage was a white movie screen and huge banner with an idealized portrait of Damon. He looked ten years younger and forty pounds lighter. He had far more hair, and his chin was longer and square, with the slightest hint of a cleft. He glared at the viewer with a self-satisfied smile. In large letters above him, it said, “Working Toward the Furher: He has Enough Will for All.”
The men milled about the main room, talking, smoking, eating onion rings and French fries, spitting on the floor, and drinking beer and coffee. It was a motley crew of middle-aged men with dirty, thick beards, bursting out of their uniforms, belts tucked below their bulging bellies, and scrawny, pimply, bald-headed teenagers.
An amplifier’s feedback echoed through the room. Damon mounted the stage. “Friends, let’s get started. Please take your seats and we’ll get our meeting underway.”
The men promptly sat. I chose a chair in a rear corner, and kept my face down so that Damon would not recognize me.
Damon began to speak. At first he seemed to be so shy and nervous that he could hardly carry on. He spoke slowly, stammering in a weak voice.
“My . . . my fellow Aryans. My friends. My brothers. My sons. My family . . .”
The audience stood and applauded, waving flags and shouting, “We love you too, Damon!” and, “We will follow you to the death!”
Damon wiped a tear, then waved for the audience to be silent.
“Around eleven or twelve score years ago, give or take a few years . . . By the way, when I researched this speech I looked up the definitions of ‘score,’ and one of the definitions is, “Twenty people or objects,” and that is the definition we are using today.” He paused to touch the keys of his laptop computer, and this definition was projected onto a screen behind him, along with twenty identical babies, draped with “Happy New Year” banners and twenty icons of the old year, with his hour glass and long beard.
“So a long time ago, our ancestors . . . white ancestors (applause). . . started a new nation. It was a nation where people . . . white people (applause) could succeed if they worked. Sometimes they had to even work hard to get rich. They could do the important things like leading armies and inventing, while other people did the nasty little chores. Friends, I must ask you, is this the nation we have today?”
“NO!” boomed the crowd.
“That’s right,” said Damon, speaking faster and louder.
“It’s not the same. We are competing with other people, people who are not like us. People who aren’t as good looking or as smart. And these people are taking your jobs. Many people of other races are becoming doctors, computer programmers and insurance actuaries: Jobs that were meant for you. Many of these jobs are even being done by lazy foreigners of other races living abroad in other countries who will work harder for less money!”
“Boo!” shouted the men. “We want our jobs back!” others called.
Damon pointed his finger at the audience, and then began to wave it rhythmically. “Now the only way Aryans can have a decent job is by getting a good education, being polite, having good personal hygiene and working hard every day, and that’s not fair!”
The crowd stood and cheered again.
“Three heils for the Furher!” Hoggleton shouted.
“Heil, Damon! Heil, Damon! Heil, Damon!”
Damon smiled as he waived the men down to their seats. Then, just for a moment, he looked in my direction and stopped smiling. My heart stopped beating. He continued.
“The world needs to change,” he said softly. “Who will do it?”
The crowd cheered again. “We will!”
Damon shook his head. “You are the best this world can offer, but you are not enough. Where are the brothers who share your plight and your glory, who can help us to throw off our heavy yoke?” Damon fell silent, and looked beseechingly toward his audience. They sat silently before a man timidly spoke.
“Well, my brother Bubba, he stayed home to watch wrestling.”
“Why aren’t you watching wrestling, Jeffery?”
“Well, I’m not allowed at his house anymore since I ruined his sofa, and I couldn’t swing my cable bill, so they cut my service.”
“My point exactly!” screamed Damon. “Our race is being pacified, held back, tranquilized by television. All across our once-great nation, we sit and eat snacks and stare at screens while our world is stolen from us!” He pushed a button on the computer, and up popped a photograph of the world, surrounded by smiling children from other lands. Beneath the world was a fat, white man tied up in television cables, desperately reaching up.
“We must attack this enemy! We must end our dependence on television. We will begin by blowing up television cable companies and digging up their wires! Only by disrupting television service can we be free.”
Silence. The men stared at him.
“Without television, our Aryan men will have nothing to do except listen to their wives, read to their children, repair their homes, exercise, work, walk in the park, floss, shave and bathe. They will soon be discontented with that sort of life and will swell our ranks. They will join us in our rebellion and our nation shall be, will be, reborn!”
The men began to murmur unhappily at these prospects. They began to look about. Two in the back began to leave.
There is no other way to be free,” Damon whispered hoarsely. “This is the price of your freedom. Of course, we will need to kill and hurt a lot of people, too. We are going to blow things up, and we can stab or shoot anyone who tries to stop us.”
That was different. The crowd cheered, “We’re with you Damon,” one shouted. “Heil, Damon! Heil, Damon! Heil, Damon!” they called together.
“Men, we are few, but we are strong, and we are safe,” Damon said. “This bomb shelter was built by rich New Yorkers in the 1950s as a refuge from atomic war. They arranged to be informed before the masses, so they could hide here. It is fully stocked to support us for forty years or more! We have added guns, beer, deep-fryers, food and country music. There is room for us and many more!”
The crowd cheered again.
“Before you return to your seats, I want to introduce a new member,” he said. “Carl Schmidt, thank you for joining us!” he greeted me with a smile.

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