Copyright 2004 by Carl Mason
All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written permission of the author. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at carl5de@netscape.net.
This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between a young adult male and young male teenagers. Nevertheless, "Out of the Rubble" is neither a strictly "suck and fuck" exercise nor is it a story that focuses on the "love of adults for the young"...often without sex or with the mere suggestion of sex. If you are looking for these types of erotic fiction, there are fine examples of each on Nifty. Further, despite television, those who are directly familiar with European problems, especially problems in Germany, during later 1945 and the year 1946 are few in number and decrease each and every year. Hence, the first part, in particular, must provide some of this background. Expect a few suggestions of that which is to come sexually, but be patient for a bit longer. It's coming - and in a format that may provide a few surprises.
However based on real events and places, "Out of the Rubble" is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Further, this is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults. If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, remember that maturity generally demands that anything other than safe sex is sheer insanity!
Part l
"Oh, God, how would I feel if this were my hometown?" Ashen-faced, the young American stood on a hill overlooking the small German city of Tieferwald am Main. Destruction met his eyes at every turn. Housing a prewar population of about 85,000, the town was located southeast of Frankfurt in the American Occupation Zone. Now mid August in 1945, he had fought his way across Europe since D-Day with great courage. A Distinguished Service Cross, two Purple Hearts, and a field promotion to Captain when fighting with Patton in the Battle of the Bulge marked his valor. Perhaps the fact that Sam Peters was still alive was an even greater reward. His days at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire seemed so very far away. Fate...so strange! He might have been sent to the Pacific, or even back home, but no. The newly organized United Relief Agencies (URA) had intervened with the War Department in Washington. In light of his service record and academic preparation, his working knowledge of German, the fact that he had no dependents, and his instinctive liking of Germany (sans Nazis), the Army had allowed him to retain his rank and military standing while accepting a primary appointment as the URA's advance representative in Tieferwald. After all, the peace had yet to be won. Given what he had seen of a ruined city and a population on the brink of starvation and despair, that would take some doing.
Sadly, the handsome, athletic twenty-four year old climbed on his bike and headed back towards the city. (The rubble that still choked many streets and roads often led to Sam's choosing the bicycle over his Jeep for local transportation.) A fair number of downtown buildings remained. Though many apartment buildings and other dwellings had been destroyed, those that remained were only moderately damaged. On the other hand, the industrial districts and the homes of their workers on the far side of the River Main had been pulverized. To make matters more difficult, many who had fled the town due to the bombing and the American advance, as well as other Germans and a growing tide of refugees, mainly from the East, were flooding into the area. As yet, he had only seen a small trickle of returning German servicemen.
Fortunately, "his town" remained relatively peaceful. Thus far, the "Nazi Guerilla" movement had been little felt in the Tieferwald area. In fact, relative order had been maintained since U.S. tanks rolled into the area during the spring. While the standard of living was very low, basic nutritional needs were beginning to be met, the water supply had not been compromised, and one civilian hospital remained open, albeit ill staffed and equipped. True, electricity was "on again, off again," for several dams up river had been severely damaged. U.S. Army Engineers were helping to knock down buildings that were in imminent danger of collapse. The women of Tieferwald were busy opening the streets, performing other basic services, and keeping themselves and their children alive. Housing and food remained major problems for Americans and Germans alike. The summer's vegetable gardens had helped. Perhaps due in part to the civilian focus on simply surviving, there seemed to be only minor resentment of the Americans. The Denatzification effort among civilians had barely begun, although it had been announced that the Nuremberg Trials would begin in November. All Europe was still catching its breath.
Waving to a few children and their mothers whose homes he had visited during the past couple of weeks (and happily receiving quite a few waves in return), he finally reached the city's main administrative building in the center of town. Two floors up, he entered his one-room office and slid into the desk chair. His wry grin seemed to say, "Well, it sure ain't much, but it's all mine!" Pausing for a moment, he greeted a secretary from downstairs and signed for the afternoon mail. Returning his gaze to his "elegant" office, his eyes passed over the desk and two chairs, the old typewriter, the phone, the lamp, and the damaged filing cabinet. "Wow - but I asked for it," he muttered. In truth, his office was anything but commensurate with his responsibilities. For instance, his was the office that would coordinate all American charitable relief to the people of Tieferwald. Even more sensitive politically, at least in real terms, he was also charged with coordinating civilian relief efforts with those of the One-Star (General Mark Clemens) who commanded the area's military district (Too bad he didn't have access to as many chocolate bars and cigarettes, he thought.) As soon as they set up their Frankfurt and Munich offices, URA promised him one or two secretaries and a second staff member. Unfortunately, he'd been in Germany long enough to know that it would happen when it happened! For the time being, his instructions had been quite explicit: "Show the flag" and "Stick your finger in the nearest dike that's threatening to give way." He'd been doing that since arriving in Tieferwald some 15 days ago. He'd talked long and frequently with the military command and with the Army medical team that was stationed in the city. Freed from the "No Fraternization" policy, he had talked with locals - older men such as the Buergermeister, women slaving in a variety of hard occupations, and a host of children and younger teens. For instance, the German hospital staff had been ecstatic when he managed to scrounge a fairly large supply of drugs and other supplies from the Army base in Frankfurt. Naturally, there were problems such as the time he accepted an invitation to a German home (actually, a small decrepit apartment occupied by three families!) and came away with a major infestation of body lice! And he didn't do anything other than to sit in a few chairs and bounce a few little ones on his lap! Oh, well... Thank all that's holy for the Army medics - even if they did laugh their fuckin' heads off as they deloused him!! He grinned as he surmised that the word had come down the grapevine that he was one of the "good guys." One thing was for sure: The spigots of cooperation would not be nearly as open had it not!
After completing his second report to URA and preparing it for Army mail, he moved on to a meeting with German civilians. Given long-range weather forecasts plus food and housing problems, they were already concerned about challenges they would face during their first peacetime winter since 1938. Finally, he was able to reclaim his bike and head for home - a nicely furnished private house about a mile (1.6 km) away that had been commandeered by the Army. (When his assistant arrived, he would also be quartered there, but for now the house was his.) Cutting across the corner of what had been a large city park, he noted anew that most of the trees were gone, their remnants undoubtedly carted away for firewood. A few flowers still bloomed amidst the weeds in ruined beds. Nevertheless, it was a daily relief, an oasis of sorts, in the midst of desolation.
Suddenly, almost out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape in the ruins of a small stone structure - perhaps the setting for a statue in happier times. There sat a youngster propped up against the remnant of a column, his face lowered onto his upraised knees, his shoulders shaking. Maybe 16, 5'-7" or so (176 cm), something less than 150 lbs (68 kg), soft, very light brown hair... He seemed rather muscular which was quite rare for a DP (displaced person) or a city kid. His clothes were so thin and ragged as barely to deserve the title of clothing. One trouser leg, for instance, was ripped a good two-thirds of the way up the leg from the cuff, revealing a sparsely furred calf and a nearly hairless, beautifully muscled thigh. A farm boy? That might also account for the teen's well developed shoulders and upper arms.
In the rays of the late afternoon sun, the dark-haired young American knelt close by and quietly asked, "Kann ich helfen, mein Freund?" [Can I help, my friend?]
(To be continued)