Deep Operations Part Five: Plan 9 From Alt-Reich Space

Last time on Deep Operations

Yes, it’s that time again, SWS. Prepare yourselves

Before we dive further into Furred Reich, we’re going to have a little talk about the author’s delusions of grandeur.

You’d think a self-proclaimed Nazi would have accepted the fact that he’s the bad guy. But given his latest whining spiel on his blog, it seems that lesson hasn’t quite sunk in yet.

He starts with whining about how other people have kinks he doesn’t share with some unveiled homophobia (he can take my futa when he pries it from my cold dead hands), and how surprised he was that his Evopsych gender bullshit wasn’t flying in furry circles.

But the crux of it is basically he thinks that talk of tolerance and acceptance means that his Nazism is no less objectionable than a foot fetish. He characterizes his fic as “Furry fiction story involving some German veterans from WWII.” Yet for someone who seems so proud of his alt-right politics, he is actually quite shameful about his own story.

Because it’s not just about German veterans. It’s about lionizing a mass murdering Nazi war criminal. It’s about justifying the Nazi world view and all the crimes committed in service to it.

He has entered this war under the rather childish delusion that he was going to throw shit at everybody else, and no one was going to throw shit back. At furaffinity, livejournal, wordpress and half-a-hundred other places, he put this rather naïve theory into operation. He has sowed the wind, and now he is going to reap the whirlwind.

Chapter 20: Cry Crocodile Tears for the Nazi Invaders

Now back to the main event. We return to the frozen steppes of Kharkov.

Generalmajor Postel had a bad feeling when the 320th Infantrie Division was pulled from its sleepy position in France a few months ago, and thrown in to reinforce the collapsing Eastern Front.

Just following orders, amirite?

All around Kharkov, Postel saw the German army buckle under the awesome firepower of the Soviet offensive: A white wall of never-ending rocket fire which showered men under yards and yards of earth; and menacing attacks from T-34s, which often simply ground Landsers under their treads. Both had taken their toll on those still clinging to hold on.

The Soviets are finally being treated as a competent adversary using something other than waves of men. Let’s see how long this lasts.

There was only one hope for Postel, his division, and all those wounded men:

Only if you assume the Soviets will treat you as barbarically as you treat their POWs.

A telegraph sheet instructing him to wait for an SS Panzer Grenadier battalion under Sturmbannfuehrer Peiper, which would somehow cross the Udy creek, break through the Russian line, into enemy territory, cross the Donetz river, and pull them all out, wounded and all.

Jochen Peiper, Aryan Ubermensch! These parts are indeed just pulled from the history books, with Gilbert’s typical brand of Neo-Nazi whitewashing, so that’s not surprising. What is left out, of course, is that burning entire villages and all their inhabitants is apparently what it takes to get Peiper hard. Their fucking heraldry is a fucking blowtorch for Chrissakes.

If I wrote a villain in my novel project with Peiper’s predilections, readers would think him unrealistic and cartoonishly evil.

From his transport wagon he could hear the attempt to rescue his stranded division: The distant thunder of assault guns. Then nothing. After just twenty minutes, the Leibstandarte’s rescue attempt was over. He couldn’t blame the Leibstandarte SS for trying.

Their honor is loyalty! (and murdering people based on Nazi racial ideology)

If the Leibstandarte couldn’t break Postel out, then no one could.

Muh elite Waffen-SS, cuz everyone knows political fanatics with more zeal than sense make prudent soldiers and battlefield leaders.

Postel sighed to himself as morning rays began pushing onto the gloomy horizon. The rest of his life, in a labor gulag no doubt, would be short and brutal. To say nothing of the fate of the rest of the 320th.

Now, I’m the last person on Earth to minimize, defend or negate the history of Stalinist atrocities. But I will give to the Devil what he is due: the historical record of the actual Eastern Front, not the fantasy version in Len Gilbert’s mind, presents some stark, dreadful, inescapable facts for the Nazi apologist: a Soviet soldier in German captivity was ten times more likely to die than a German soldier in Soviet captivity. The only reason Postel would fear a visit from Basili Blokhin is if he assumed the Soviets would do to him what he and his had done first Soviet soldiers.

Just as Postel is about to despair, he hears news that Peiper has arrived, and his men will be evacuated.

Somehow, miraculously, there they were. The Leibstandarte, and Major Peiper. He looked dapper despite the bulky winter camouflage. Almost 6’ tall, wiry and with steely eyes.

I think Gilbert is gay for Jochen Peiper. Not that I can fault him for it, aesthetically he is quite attractive if you can get past the whole murderous sociopath part.

The withdrawal begins after some mishaps, and Postel behaves unprofessionably in front of his subordinates.

Chapter 21: The Gallows is Too Good For Him

This chapter is literally called Blowtorch. It’s like he’s taunting the victims in their graves.

We’re treated to a long paragraph describing the plight of these poor Wehrmacht starvelings. I’ll spare you from the maudlin bullshit, and simply note that there has not been a single solitary sentence devoted to the plight of the millions of innocent civilians murdered and brutalized under Nazi occupation. We only learn of the plight of the murderers, war criminals, rapists, and Just-following-orders, never their victims, as though those atrocities never happened, and these blond Aryan warriors are all as pure as the driven snow.

Well they are now, thanks to the hypothermia.

What we do get, though, is a description of how effete Generalmajor Postel is.

It was at moment Jochen remembered Postel’s clean uniform. The Generalmajor even still had his white, detachable collar on. Jochen wasn’t the only one who noticed the disgraceful paradox.

“Those poor Landsers. In much worse shape than their manicured general,” Dinse mumbled to Peiper.

“Men such as Postel must never get in the SS.” Jochen murmured back to his subordinate.

Now, I don’t know much about Postel, as counting the stitches on German uniforms ain’t exactly my idea of fun. General-lieutenant George-Wilhelm Postel’s page on Wikipedia is short and perfunctory, so he must not endear to the Wehraboo brigades there. But the man was a decorated career soldier across both World Wars, awarded numerous medals including the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords, so I’m not inclined to buy the story Gilbert is selling me.

It is weird that such Prussian military professionalism is being treated with disdain here, with the sort of description one might see a homophobe use to characterize a gay man.

The chapter continues, describing the treatment of the wounded, the travails of being deep in enemy territory. We come across a burned out German ambulance on the road back to friendly lines.

Three German ambulance drivers had just been torn to pieces. Two were unrecognizable. One driver’s face was smashed open with an ax.

“Watch out! There could be mines!” A lieutenant shouted to the Landsers.

Word passed from mouth to mouth. Soldiers stopped at the second ambulance and looked in without daring to enter. Two ambulance men, who had been stripped naked and mutilated, were lying in pools of black, congealed blood. The Bolsheviks amputated both of their genitals.

As I’ve stated, I know the history of the Eastern Front in broad strokes, I don’t count the stiches on the soldier’s uniforms. So I don’t care to speculate whether this was lifted from someone’s memoirs, an AAR, or was invented from whole cloth by Gilbert.

The point is that Gilbert tries to have his cake and eat it too. He hides his political convictions, and downplays his fervent Nazism on his blog, and then writes fiction filled with tortured excuseologies for Nazi criminal behavior. The problem with writing historical fiction is that history happened; what you choose to show and not show is no less important than what the historian must select in preparing a history text. Showing only bad behavior by the Soviets and whitewashing your Nazi heroes is disgusting historical negtionism

The German column immediately comes under attack by Soviet light infantry from the nearby village. What follows beggars belief. Your master is a monster

Without hesitation, and despite the obvious danger, Peiper calmly mounted the flamethrower onto his halftrack. Jochen simply gave one motion of his hand, and with that, the halftracks left the ambulance column exposed and charged the village at top speed with all guns firing.

The Russians broke into a panic within minutes. Peiper’s vengeful flamethrower went into action, as did several other mounted blowtorches. Fires spread only slowly from one isba to the next; the winter cold made a house-to-house battle necessary. After what the battalion had seen, they were more than up for the task.

Machine gun fire from the halftracks chewed up wooden walls and threw off thatched roof after thatched roof. And Bolsheviks panicked and scurried out, some with their hands up. But if Jochen had told his men to take prisoners, his men just might have just shot him as well. Another Bolshevik came out with a white flag in hand and was promptly shot in the skull. One of Jochen’s lieutenants snarled and trained his rifle onto one another surrendering Bolshevik.

There were at least 500 Bolsheviks in that snowshoe battalion. None of them lived. The whole time, Jochen hardly even noticed that the adversary had reduced that planked wooden bridge to a pile of rubble.

The abyss gazes also

This is how he chooses to describe the massacre of the village of Krasnaya Polyana. No mention of civilians or non-combatants is made. Every person in that village is somehow a Red Army soldier. Surrendering “soldiers” are machine gunned without mercy. The entire town is burned, and the inhabitants are mercilessly put to the sword.

And after instituting this charnelhouse, Peiper has the gall to worry that he’d be killed to if he sought to restrain this orgy of cruelty.

I normally don’t approve of vigilante justice, but it sounds like those French urban guerillas who murdered Peiper and burned his body thirty years after he escaped the gallows did a fucking favor to the universe.

The chapter wraps up with the successful rescue of the 320th, and a very emotional Peiper thanking his commander for requesting a Gold Cross for him bravely murdering a village full of civilians.

Chapter 22: Hans the Murder Hobo

Mercifully, we return to Hans in Furryland. Hans is taking a ship to the Northern Continent cuz apparently the allure of a hard Aryan pilot in the cockpit of the Bf 109 is enough to cancel the allure of sex with two girls at once.

He seems to be enjoying himself. This has thusfar been a vacation, though most things would compared to the Battle of Kursk.

“Mom, why is that Human wearing potato mashers?” A red-furred canine child pointed out at Hans.

Glorious Aryan technology my boy!

Hans slept continuously, for the next few days only waking up to eat and relieve himself. His diet was just a few hard-tack vitamin biscuits from home and dried lamb meat. The jackal crew were friendly. The ‘foxen’ were anything but. Whenever Hans tried to ask one of them about the Messerschmitt, the foxen either ignored him or sneered at him.

This sex, sleep and relaxation are going to ruin his military discipline. Like the crew of the HMS Bounty he’s not going to be able to return from such indulgence.

Compared to where they had come from, Ostia was underwhelming. It was a line of sturdy docks, a storage silo and a brick-lain wall, all the same color as the sand…As their vessel was pulled through the dark waters, Hans saw that the inhabitants of Ostia were indeed foxen.

Man, this world building sucks. This is really all we get about Ostia. It’s a port town, sandy colored.

“Passbook or diplomatic entry…” The yellow-eyed foxen officer looked suspiciously Hans.

“I, uh, sorry. I didn’t know I needed anything.”

You’d think a kid who grew up in Nazi Germany would be familiar with the phrase “papers, please.” The foxen guard begins to go fascist on Hans, and he begins to wonder what it will be like to be on the receiving end of the Gestapo.

Deciding he doesn’t like that, he decides it’s time to go gun blazing. Showing a lack of forethought and subtlety befitting a d20 rolling preteen, hee shoots the guard, grenades a couple more, and blasts through the wooden door in the town wall with his other grenade.

Chapter 23: Of all the Nazis to pick, he picked perhaps the most incompetent flag officer of the bunch.

It is dangerous to go any further. Take this with you.

Sepp Dietrich and the two wolfesses walked in the snow toward the setting sun. The girls led him through several forests and glades, and the three of them took turns carrying their fawn.

You heard that right, tovarisch. SS-Oberst-Gruppenführer Josef “Sepp” Dietrich, war criminal, murderer and military dunce extraordinaire, has entered Furryland too. The Motherland calls us.

Now, he previously made an appearance as Peiper’s CO at Kharkov, but now suddenly and inexplicably he’s made it to furry land.

Sepp is unfamiliar with their tribalism and appears to commit a faux pas (pun unintentional. Anyone who points it out will be shot as a counterrevolutionary Trotskyite wrecker saboteur kulak and English spy).

“Come Sabrae. This human does not wish to be our Alpha.”

Muh red pill

Sabrae drooped her ears and looked to Sepp, then to her sister. The younger wolfess reluctantly stood up and walked away with Valvela. Sepp watched the two sisters begin to leave into the cold night. Was Valvela angry with him?

“Wait…” Sepp got up and strode in front of the wolves. “I’m from a different world that’s all. Uh, in my world only Humans can talk. I’ve never seen wolves like you and I don’t know your customs.”

That was true, and it was the best chance he had at keeping the girls around, which he wanted to do.

Sounds like Sepp has caught the yiff fever too. This of course leads to a big gigantic fucking questions: why would Nazis, who couldn’t even stomach treating certain human ethnic groups as humans, have any respect for anthropomorphized animals?

Sabrae looked up at him first, the royal blue markings along her thigh glowing gently. She smiled and her tail wiggled to and fro, and she looked at her big sister for approval.

Fucking hell, neon furries.

Sepp agrees to protect them from outsiders. We learn that he killed a Raider all by himself, which I can only assume to mean a Grimeskin of some sort. The girls begin to fawn over him as this fic continues to limbo under my continually lowering expectations.

While many brave Victors have perished in the course of this campaign, I am confident that history will absolve me. I will continue to spend your lives at my discretion. Soldiers of the 1st Meme Front, Operation Cyka Blyat will continue until the Furzie-Fascist invaders are scourged from the Earth. Onward, fellow Judeo-Bolshevik Conspirators. Fight hard for our Motherland, SWS. But most of all, do it for the lulz.