Backyard Adventures: The Great Escape Part 1

“Steel, Sergeant, United States Army, 3-44-44-33.”

I sat with my back against the concrete wall behind my family’s car port; my arms stretched out and held by imaginary chains. Hid from the world, and more importantly from my mother thanks to the large tree that blocked the kitchen window from the backyard, I underwent torturous interrogations. Only three days prior my grizzled World War II persona had been captured following a disastrous trampoline drop behind enemy lines, and now, locked in a dark room deep within a Nazi POW camp, I was paying the price.  

“Uuse zee metal pipe. This time akross zee face.”

A uniformed guard wearing the dual lightning bolt patch of the SS obeyed the order. He walked slowly to a nearby table, picked up an old copper pipe from an array of tools, needles, and knifes and then, facing me again, raised his arm to attack.

I smiled and laughed, “Ha! You think I’ve never been beaten before? Never tortured?”

Down came the copper pipe striking me flush against the cheek. Pain seared from loosened teeth and a lightly fractured jaw, but I only laughed again and raised an eyebrow to the Gestapo officer performing the interrogation. “Where’d you find this guy, the flag corps?” 


Then turning to the soldier with the copper club I mockingly offered advice “This isn’t baton twirling, sweetheart. If you want to hurt me you’re gonna have to generate some power behind your swing.  Do that by rotating the hips and following through the hit. You know, this is pretty basic stuff and frankly I’m a little dissa . . .” The smashing force of a second blow from the aggravated SS private interrupted my critiques with a jarring trauma.

The near playful mood that had encompassed the solemn interrogation room just a moment before erupted into seething anger for both parties. “Tell us vhat vee vant to know! Tell us now!” The Gestapo agent screamed as he slammed a fist down on the table.  

“Hit me again, Jerry! Hit me all you want! You’ll never get me to talk about High Command or any of my secret missions!”

I yelled defiantly as strawberry soda fizzed from my mouth and dripped down my chin “Never!”
 

A third strike caught me near the eye causing an instantaneous swelling to partially block my vision.

“Beat me all you want, fraulein. You’ll get nothing outta me ‘cept this here blood.”  

Collecting what remained of the strawberry soda that was in my mouth I spat it rebelliously at my imaginary oppressor. I hated to waste such a valuable commodity as strawberry soda in playing the part of my blood, but it was all we had. I had combed through our pantry searching for some red Kool-Aid or something similar without success, so strawberry soda it was.

“Your torture serum has carbonated my blood and made me burn all over, but it’ll do you no good. Name, rank and serial number is all I’m authorized to tell you. Steel, Sergeant, United States Army, 3-44-44-33.”

Despite the tension that still strangled the invented room the officer gave a little chuckle and said almost pitifully, “Ah, jew Amerikanz alvays makes me laf. Jew are oll zee same:  Stubben, tuff, ant foolish.”

Then, with a look of exhausted frustration, he slowly stood and sighed.  “Vell, Herr Shteel, I am off to bet. Vee vill continue vitt this en zee mornink. Shleep vell en zee prisoner barraks.” 

He was laughing as he said this last sentence, slapping a pair of black leather gloves against his thigh as he walk out of the cement-encased cell.

“I wasn’t lying.” I calmly called after him. “You’ll never break me.”

He turned in the doorway to look at me. My face was battered and bruised, as were my sides where they had hit me with 2x4s, and fizzing blood still bubbled from my wounds. Amused, he smiled then turned again to walk down the hallway, speaking over his shoulder as he reached the exit, “Vee chall see.  Vont vee, Herr Sergeant Shteel. Yes, vee chall see.”

“No,” I thought to myself as an inconspicuous smile crossed my face, “you won’t.” 

To be continued . . .

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