We were like gods once... [You're In The Army Now]
England, July 1944, 9:24 am.
John slowly stirs from a dream-filled slumber, his sleep filled with disturbing half-images and vague rememberings of pain.
He looks around blearily, and notices the room is mostly white, and quiet except for the low hum of some kind of machinery.
John tries to raise his head, and realizes that he can barely move. His body is surrounded with a strange contraption of metal bracings, tubes, and wires, and the hum is coming from machinery just out of his limited field of vision. Something reminding him of pieces of an iron lung crossed with being in traction. There is the occasional hissss-pop of some device pumping fluids.
He is able to move just enough to notice that there are several other men in similar situations in the room; machinery and white beds, tubes feeding into and out of their bodies and their limbs restrained by some kind of framed-metal and wire harnesses.
There is movement near the door, and a British voice fuzzily penetrates the fog in his mind.
“Hey, one of ‘em’s coming ‘round. Go fetch the Captain, will you old boy?” the voice says as a blurry image of a man in a lab coat comes closer.
“It’s all right there, son, just stay still. You were in a terrible accident, and you don’t want to start moving just yet”. John can barely feel the pressure of a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Then, the voice continues softer, as if spoken to someone else, “Hurry, get a team in here, we need to get some energy readings while he’s conscious.”
“And get the guard in here, double watches… just in case”.
John struggles to make out more, but he can’t fight off the inky shroud of unconsciousness as it slowly wraps him once again in its firm, warm embrace, and the dreams begin again.
……
There are 7 of them in the room, all in hospital beds surrounded by a network of machinery, braces, wires, and tubes. All of them feel weak and strange, but after regaining consciousness this morning they have been hand-fed and are mysteriously without pain from their last injuries.
While the British nurses and orderlies have been friendly, they haven’t told them very much of anything at all, and with the limited amount of movement they have it’s growing a bit frustrating for them all.
The silent, armed MPs in all corners of the room are a bit nerve-racking too, especially since they seem even more nervous than the bed-ridden men caged in their hissing, popping contraptions.
They’ve managed to talk a little, and introduced themselves to John Brighton after the last nurse left and they gave up on trying to get the MPs to talk.
“Hey Smitty, ding-dangit, you alrighty there, danged ole buddy?” Hank calls down to the bed a couple down from him.
“Yeah, I’m swell. Cant move, and my arm and head are in some kind of bandages, but I’m not hurtin’ very much so it can’t be all that bad. Feel pretty strange though”, Smitty replies.
Smitty looks at the large form in the bed next to him and calls over, “How ‘bout you Moose? You ok?”
“Yeah, I’m ok, a bit sore, and I want outta ‘dis thing. But I’m ok, dontcha know”.
“You guys remember anything, ya know, like what happened to us dere? John, whatta ‘bout you dere?”, Moose inquires.
Before anyone can reply, the doors burst open and several men enter.
Two of them come to stand in the middle of the room, where the men in their beds can see them.
One of them is a large, stiff, scowling man, a thumb-thick, nasty scar running out of his short hair and down across his puckered cheek, disappearing for a moment under his eyepatch. His good eye is dark and intense as it sweeps, hawk-like, across the prone patients. He is obviously a man built for action from the way he moves, confidence and the promise of violence in every step. Like a big predator cat, Smitty thinks when he sees him. He is dressed in the uniform of an American paratrooper and a Captain’s insignia rests on his collar; a black glove covers his right hand and wrist.
The second man provides quite a counterpoint. He slouches slightly, a cigarette held loosely in one hand, the other in the pocket of his British paratrooper’s field jacket. His dark red beret is cocked at a jaunty angle, and a quirky smile turns his lip, as if he’s heard a joke that no one else has heard, or gets. He is impeccably clean, and incredibly handsome with clear, toned skin, flashing boyish eyes, and straight white teeth framed in his smile that just seem to say “hello love, it’s all in a bit of fun, there, hey?”.
The scarred man’s voice is a deep, commanding growl as he stubs out a cigarette and speaks.
“Gentlemen. My name is Captain Smith. Jonathan Smith, United States Army. This here”, gesturing to his British counterpart, “is Captain Errol Smith, we…”
“Smythe, old boy. Smythe. Long “i” sound”, interrupts the British Captain with a mocking smile and a foppish gesture with his cigarette.
Captain Smith spares him an annoyed glance before turning back to the men. “Smythe. We have good news and bad news”.
“The… explosion… that you witnessed killed nearly every man it reached. You are the only survivors. We aren’t quite sure exactly what it was, but is awoke something in each of you, and there are several doctors here that wish to interview you individually about the occurrence later. But, first things first.”
Captain Smith hesitates for a second, takes a deep breath, and continues. Even Smythe seems lost in thought for a moment.
“Well, there is no better way to put it. Each of you, I suspect, has always felt a little… different. There is something that has happened to you, or something you’ve done in the past, that you couldn’t explain.”
Hank swallows hard, and when he peers around the room he sees the others looking around in a similar nervous manner, as Captain Smith continues.
“Look, some men are survivors. Some men are great soldiers or great warriors. Some men are great leaders. Some men will do anything, give anything, for a cause that they believe is just.”
“And some men are something… more”, Smith lets the thought hang for a moment, then continues.
“Mythology, folk tales, movies, comic books, even religions are chock-full of stories about these kind of men.”
“Exceptional men. The Nazis call theirs Ubermenschen. Super-men. Proof of Aryan supremacy. Of course they leave out the part where they can come from all walks or life and all races, except that the Nazis have been gathering all that they could since the early 30’s, while assassinating every one that wouldn’t join with them.”
“To put in simple, people with enhanced talents, Supers, are real, and you are all one of them. As are Smyth and I.”
The room sits in perfect silence.
……
“Now for the bad news”, and with that he gestures at several nurses, who hold up for each man to read a single sheet of paper.
The heading is “United States Army”, it is addressed to “Mr and Mrs _________”, and begins with this sentence:
“We regret to inform you that your son, _______, was killed in late June in heroic action against German forces. He was a good…”
“Boys, you are dead”, Captain Smith’s growl interrupts their reading.
“One of those was delivered to each of your surviving family 2 weeks ago. You have been here for several weeks recuperating from your experience, and quite frankly, being studied and measured to make sure you are not a threat to Allied security. I know this is a harsh measure, but it has been taken quite frankly for your safety and ours.”
“Since there only exists rumor and innuendo about ‘super humans’ in our history and any that may have existed in the past have probably stayed underground for fear of oppression and whatnot. But now we know that many of our myths and legends are in fact, true. The last 20 years has apparently seen more and more activity of this nature. The public isn’t quite ready for this, but Hitler wants to show the world his supermen, claiming that it’s proof of his race’s purity or some-such horse manure. We want to stop that, and him, before it’s too late.”
“You see boys, your country needs you. Hell, the whole world needs you. Before we truly understood the implications of Super Talents, the Nazis had an entire program of them. And they are so far beyond us in their understanding and their technology. Actually, most of the technology in this program has either been smuggled or stolen from them.”
“We need you to join us, to keep this silent until we are ready. You have no more ties to your former life; like I said, everyone who ever knew you thinks you are dead. Here you will begin fresh as the spearhead against Nazi aggression. There aren’t many of us on the allied side, and the Nazi’s have technology and plans we don’t understand; they have at least dozens of Ubermenschen that we know of. It won’t be easy, but we need you. What do you say?”
Hanks looks to the others and begins to speak, “Ding-dangit, um, sir, jus’ whatcha want us ta do?”
John Brighton looks coldly at Captain Smith and asks, “Do we have a choice, sir?”
Another man immediately speaks up from the second bed, “Are you friggin nuts? I’ve had about ALL of this I’m gonna take there. Lemme go now, I think you’ve damn well had enough out of me.”
Captain Smith looks at him sharply and replies, “Son, let me state again just how much your services are gonna be needed. Now is not the time to be worried about your own hide. There’s a war on, or ain’t you heard?”
“Damn you and yer war, you old battle axe. I aint fightin’ for ya anymore, I just wanna go home. Now let… me… go…”, the man replies, venom dripping from every word. The others in the room feel an odd pressure at the man’s words.
Smith glances at Captain Smythe, who looks intently at the man for a few moments, lost in concentration.
“I say there, old bean, you quite sure about that”, he asks in quiet earnestness, all playfulness gone from him voice now. His voice sounds strange to the others, far off but really close at the same time.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I got nothing for ya. Now lemme go”, the man in bed two speaks through clenched teeth.
Captain Smythe glances down, sadness apparent in his features as his head gives a barely perceptible shake to Captain Smith. Smith, good eye as hard as ever, takes a deep breath and speaks in a quiet, even voice.
“Very well then son, that’s your choice. Orderly, let him go.”
A large man in a white shirt and pants calmly steps up next to the man in bed two and begins turning knobs and controls on the machinery encasing him. He looks at the scowling man in bed two, gives him a comforting smile, and then pulls a lever down. The popping and hissing of the machine slowly stops.
“’Bout friggin’ time, I was about to…”, he starts as he sits forward, then stares for a moment. This is a small cough followed by a wheeze of breath leaving his body before he thumps back into the bed, dull lifeless eyes staring in surprise at the ceiling above.
“Well, I think that, um, answers my question. Sir”, John Brighton says in a small, frightened voice.
Smitty looks on, trying hard to appear calm, while Moose has the wide-eyed, slack-jawed look of a man who just caught a two-by-four with the back of his head.
Captain Smith looks back to the group as Captain Smythe lights another cigarette, shaking his head.
“So. We have any more… dissenters?”
Hank pulls at the machinery encasing his right arm with his will, and the metal groans and peels away from his arm. He sits forward and offers his trembling hand in a handshake.
“D-d-d-ing-d-d-dangit, danged ole, g-g-glad ta be aboard, ITellYouWhat, sir, I’m yer man, iffin’ you jes don’t go an’ unplug me there…”, he sputters, eyes like dinner plates.
The captain reaches out to shake Hank’s hand, and Hank can sense the metal running through his body as he takes Hank’s hand in his cold grasp. A chorus of voices adds to the moment.
“Hey dere, me too, sir!”
“Yes sir, count me in.”
“Yup, I’m with the program, sir.”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n. Point the way.”
Both Captains look around the room for a moment as the orderly quietly and efficiently rolls bed two away and out of sight.
……
“All right then”, Smith continues, “I’ll tell you a little more about what we do”.
“We are a new division of the OSS, called the ESS. Enhanced Soldier Subjects”, pointing to the insignia patch on his right arm.
A shield-like patch with a dark green stylized “S” on an olive drab field, with a dark green border.
They all stare at the patch for a moment before Moose rumbles an opinion.
“Yer kiddin’, right?”
Smith opens his mouth to answer as Smythe merrily pipes up.
“Oh, we get that a lot, old bean. Rather stylish, I think”, he finishes with a mocking smile.
Smith just stares at him a moment before continuing.
“Yes, well, like I said, you are now members of an elite organization. Our job is to aid the Allies as much as possible against the Axis threat, and the Nazi’s have a pretty big head start on us.”
“Secrecy is our ally, and we operate under our own rules and answer only to our immediate command. Each of you has special talents, just like Smythe and I do, that we will be able to exert to gather intelligence and fight the Axis war machine.”
At this pronouncement, several orderlies begin removing bandages from several of the men, including Smitty, as they all are helped, shaking, from the machinery they are sheathed within.
Smitty looks down in shocked horror as the bandages are removed from his left arm.
Where there should be flesh and bone, there is a series of metal struts, pistons, and tiny clockwork gears in dark mockery of a human form. He feels that there are other metal braces in his shoulder, his ribcage, and other areas where the horrible fire of the giant Nazi had burned him; he can move it perfectly, even feel a little bit in it. His shoulder looks like something from a Frankenstein story where metal meets flesh in a series of stitches and bolts. Smitty’s hand moves to his eye, his shooting eye, and stops there, trembling as the bandage is removed from his head.
“Yes son. It won’t be easy for you with other people. Trust me, I know”, comes Captain Smith’s voice, coming to stand by Smitty’s bed. Smitty looks up at him as the Captain unbuttons his sleeve and removes his glove to reveal that his arm is also a garish technological contraption. He then flips up his eyepatch to reveal a dull red light encased in a metal shroud where his eye should be, making small whirring noises as it rotates to look around him in humorless parody of a human eye. “Think of it as a gift from Adolph.”
Captain Smith puts his glove back on and returns to the center of the room.
“Each of you will receive training and testing of your powers over the next few weeks. Once you are deemed ready you will be assigned your first mission.”
He takes a folder from a waiting man, one with the words “Top Secret” stamped on them in red ink, and uses his commando knife to cut the seal and toss the contents onto a table brought in for the men to sit at. Nurses bring in coffee and tea for the men as they gingerly take seats.
“These are from the 1936 Olympics, just a few days prior to the event at a sort of dress rehearsal. Hitler had planned on springing this on the world; his first Ubermenschen to compete, and show the world his power”.
The pictures show the crowds at the stadium full of German soldiery and citizens, all giving the heil Hitler salutes, as Hitler himself salutes a man in athletic clothing as he flies over the stadium, Olympic torch in hand.
“That is der Flieger, who I killed only 2 days before the Olympics. Smith and I..."
"Smythe, old bean", Smythe interrupts, smiling.
"Smythe and I were one of the first teams of Allied ESSes. We went in to prevent this display. Many didn’t come back, and some of us only partly came back”, he finishes, looking down at his metallic arm.
There are other pictures and notes showing burning French tanks and Polish soldiers being herded by men with a variety of fantastic abilities; flying, firing flames from their hands, giants throwing huge boulders.
“Read up on this information, and remember that this is all of the utmost secrecy now. When you are ready for duty your training starts. Good day gentlemen.”
Captain Smith snaps off a salute, and the sitting men all jump and salute him back. He does an about-face and stalks out of the room. Captain Smythe, slouching against the wall, gives more of a smiling wave than a salute and saunters out of the room.
He stops, turns, and mockingly tosses over one shoulder, “Well, then, old beans, it’s really not as bad as all that. I mean, at least you didn’t have to wake up to this in *France*.”
He smiles and walks away.
The men all just sit for a few moments, looking silently at the pictures of Ubermenschen horrors on the table, then at each other.
The only sound for several minutes is an audible gulp from Moose.
……
