The Organised Author

Nazis On Mars

Warning, it's very silly :)

Nazis on Mars

September, 1942. Acidalia Planitia, Mars.

Whoever said that space exploration was amazing, thrilling, the last frontier for human exploration and blah, blah, blah, had never been stuck in a base on Mars for nine stinking months.
Wolfgang kicked a red rock with his heavy boot and sent it rolling away on the red dust that covered Mars. He squinted at the glaring sun, the light magnified by the glass of his oxygen-controlled helmet. And to say that he’d like red. Now he’d give anything to see any other colour or something that wasn’t the giant Nazi eagle on the  space shuttle with which he’d landed.
When he’d accepted the job NAZA, the Nazi Space Agency, had offered, he’d hoped for something more exciting than roaming around a base that had the shape of a swastika—go figure—in a suit that weighed a ton, on a planet with nothing but red rocks, red dust, and red mountains.
He shuffled his feet toward the base, leaving a set of footprints a gust of wind erased like a zealous maid. Dirt soiled the panel of the rotund door that led to the base, and Wolfgang brushed it off with his gloved fingers.  A swishing sound resounded, a green light flicked, and the door hissed open.
Wolfgang stepped inside the acclimation chamber and winced at the picture of the Führer staring down at him from the grey wall. In the picture, Hitler’s beady eyes seemed to drill into Wolfgang’s soul as if Hitler knew his secret, that he hated the Nazis, the Führer, and the entire darn war. Perhaps the Führer had really discovered Wolfgang’s true nature, and that was why he’d been sent here to rot.
“Pressure stable,” a metallic voice announced over Wolfgang’s head.
He shivered as that gaze followed him, unlocked the second door, and walked into the common room wide enough to accommodate two hundred people. As if aside from him and Johann there was someone else in this corner of the universe.
Pressing a button on the helmet’s side, he removed it and took a deep breath. The smell of antiseptic and dried krauti hit his nostrils.
He used to love krauti, the marinated cabbage leaves that had a nice nutty flavour, but after nine months of nothing but krauti and potatoes, he’d eat Mars’s rocks for a change.
A door swung on the other side of the room, and Johann hurried toward him, sidestepping grey tables and metallic chairs.
“Captain.” He joined his legs, straightened, and stretched out his right arm in the Nazi salute stolen from the Romans.
Wolfgang huffed and waved a dismissive hand. “Any news?”
Johann shifted his weight, fiddling with the swastika on the hem of his black jacket. “A message from Berlin. Herr Führer wants to talk to you immediately.”
Bloody hell. Following Johann along the dimly lit corridor, Wolfgang trudged to the communication room. His boots screeched on the metal tiles and left a trail of red soil. Johann punched the button of the com-room and slid inside. NAZA’s logo—a swastika with an orbiting moon around it—floated on the screen of the connecting machine like a billiard ball that couldn’t find a hole to roll into. Just like Wolfgang.
Johann took the seat in front of the screen and typed on the large keyboard. A moment later, grey and black lines filled the display until a face half covered by a military hat appeared.
Johann leaned closer to the microphone. “Mission control, this is base Naz One on Mars. Captain Wolfgang is here and ready to talk to Herr Führer.”
The man in the screen nodded. “Please, stay connected.”
Wolfgang paced in front of the window offering a view of Acidalia Planitia. Not that there was much to see, just flat red land with mountains at the sides. NAZA’s anthem played, filling the air with strong, harsh notes.
“Captain,” Johann muttered. “We’re ready.”
Wolfgang turned to the communication machine, and a shiver crept up his back despite the heavy suit. The Führer glared back at him from the screen, his ridiculously small moustache twitching.
Wolfgang swallowed the hard ball of fear clogging his throat. This was it. Hitler was going to say he’d discovered information about the family of rebels Wolfgang had helped escape, and thus he would be sentenced to death.
The Führer arched a brow, one eye half shut. Johann coughed into his closed fist and jabbed a thumb at the screen.
Wolfgang blinked and lifted his right arm. “Heil Hitler!”
The Führer’s moustache twitched again. “Captain, I’d like a report.”
“Well,” Wolfgang exchanged a glance with Johann, “we’ve searched the area extensively, and no form of life has been found, mein Führer.”
A muscle on the Führer’s jaw pulsated. “No form of life. Are you sure?”
“Most definitely, Führer.”
Johann pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.
Wolfgang wiped his clammy hands on his trousers. Their mission was null, and the Führer would order them back to Berlin. Wolfgang stifled a groan. Perhaps staying on Mars was better.
“No men to subjugate?” The Führer’s left eye twitched. “No beast to vanquish? No virus we can use as weapon?”
“A plant to weed?”
“No plants, Führer.” Wolfgang refrained from shifting his gaze skyward.
“An insect to squash?”
Oh bother. The man was obsessed. Wolfgang exhaled sharply. “No, Führer.”
“But… but…” The Führer chewed his fingernails. “There must be something we can subdue there.”
Only stones. Wolfgang rocked back and forth on his heels.
The Führer’s lower lip quivered, then he snarled, clenching his fists. “You must search harder.” He pointed a finger at the screen. “Turn every darn rock, search every grain of sand, but I want a new people to crush on Mars. Since I conquered the Americas and Great Britain, Earth has become boring, and the British have a weird sense of humour. I can never understand when they make fun of me. I need something new, something exciting!”
Wolfgang shot a glance at Johann who gave the slightest shrug.
“You are going to dig underground. That’s it,” the Führer thundered.
“What?” Wolfgang jolted. “Herr Führer, we’re only two here. We need…” Now, that was a good idea, indeed. He forced his lips to not curve into a smile and cleared his throat. “Can you send us a team of slaves? We can let them do the hard work, you know, digging.”
“Ah!” The Führer smirked. Even his greasy hair seemed to lift. “Excellent idea, Captain. I have a band of particularly annoying Italian Jews that idiot of Mussolini sent me. I’ll ship them to you as soon as possible. With our space jet, they should be here in three weeks.”
Johann raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
Wolfgang lifted his right arm. “Heil Hitler!”
Three weeks later, always Mars

Wolfgang and Johann stood right outside the entrance of the base as a space jet with NAZA’s symbol plummeted from Mars’s red sky. Dust lifted and twirled around, battling with Mars’s wind.
Johann tilted his head up. “What if they attack us and take the base, Captain?”
Wolfgang shrugged. “And then what? They’ll send another space jet filled with stormtroopers to kill all of them.”
“You know we won’t find anything underground.” Johann waved a hand. “This place is a desert.”
Wolfgang grinned. “Oh, we’ll find a lot of interesting things, my friend.”
The space jet’s shadow grew around them and landed in the middle of Acidalia Planitia, shaking the ground.
A door slid open, smoke hissed from the exhausting pipes, and silhouettes appeared. A metal gangplank unravelled. A man in a NAZA suit with the symbol of the Stormtroopers marched toward Wolfgang. He recoiled, staring at the assault rifles in the soldier’s hands. Behind him, a group of people dragged their feet forward.
The man stopped in front of Wolfgang and stretched out his right arm. “Heil Hitler!”
Groaning inwardly, Wolfgang replied with the same salute. “Heil Hitler!”
“We’ve escorted the prisoners.” The Stormtrooper’s voice came distorted through the intercom microphone stuck inside Wolfgang’s helmet. “They’re in good health and ready to work.”
Wolfgang peered past the Stormtrooper at the men, women, and children gathered in front of the space jet, holding each other, their shoulders trembling. He straightened. “Excellent job. Will you and your men be stationed here with us?”
The Stormtrooper grimaced. “No, sir. Our orders are to leave after the shipment. We’re heading  to Jupiter. The Führer wants to start a new colony there.”
Of course he does. Wolfgang offered another, “Heil Hitler!”
The Stormtrooper marched back toward the space jet. His boots left a trail of swastikas in the dust.
Wolfgang smiled at the newcomers and rubbed his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Naz One.”
A man lifted a hand. “Are we going to start digging straight away?”
“What’s your name?”
Wolfgang swatted Mario’s shoulder. “No, Mario. You’re going to learn how to speak Martian.”
“So you want us to do what?” Mario asked, sipping a cup of coffee in the common room. “If they discover us, we’re all dead.”
The other Italians sat in the chairs and murmured their assent, curious stares gauging Wolfgang.
Johann held up his hands. “No one will ever know, and we have no intention to start digging. There’s nothing out there. It’s wasted time.”
“But,” Wolfgang chimed in, “unless we give a result to the Führer, he’ll send us back. All of us. So all we need is you folks playing the part of Martians.” He smirked, expecting excited yells or roars of approvals. Instead the Italians moved their closed hands back and forth in that gesture meaning “What the heck are you talking about?”
“I volunteer.” A child missing a few teeth lifted his hand. “I want to be a Martian.”
“Atta boy!” Wolfgang gave the child the thumbs-up.
A murmur spread, and more hands rose.
Wolfgang punched the air. “Let’s start amassing some red dust.”
They had to do some digging, after all, for his plan to work.
In the com-room, Wolfgang checked that his grey uniform didn’t have any creases and stared at NAZA’s logo turning into blurry stripes. Behind him, five Italians, skin covered by a thick layer of red dust and wearing a suit made of metal plates, formed a semicircle. With red dust caking their hair, not even their mothers would recognise them, and by all the frankfurters in Berlin, they looked like an alien species.
“Everything will be fine,” he whispered to the squirming Martians.
The stripes in the screen blurred until the Führer’s face materialised.
Wolfgang saluted. “Heil Hitler!”
The Führer waved dismissively. “Well? News. How’s the digging going?”
“My Führer, you were right.” Wolfgang bit his tongue to not laugh. “We found the Martians.” He beckoned the Italians forward.
“Ah!” Hitler clapped his hands. “Finally, a new people to fight and conquer. Excellent. Do they speak?”
“They speak Martian, but we’re teaching them German.”
The Italians shook their fists and blathered gibberish in an Italian dialect that sounded like a song.
The Führer sniggered. “Did you torture them?”
Wolfgang spread his arms. “Alas, the Martians are immune to bullets. Knives don’t hurt them, and electroshock makes them giggle.”
The Führer scowled, his shoulders stooping like a child who had broken his brand new toy.  
“But,” Wolfgang lifted a finger, “after weeks of research, we’ve discovered they suffer terribly when we give them wine.”
“Or beer,” Johann added.
“Or frankfurters.”
“Sacker torte.”
“Champagne,” Wolfgang completed. “Unfortunately, we’ve finished everything.”
The Führer’s eyes glinted. “Excellent. I’ll send you a supply of these things.”
“And we need more slaves, Führer, many more slaves.” Wolfgang clasped his hands behind his back.
“Of course, Captain.”
Wolfgang laughed so hard his belly ached, and the Italian grappa, a liquor similar to vodka, helped him laugh harder. Among plates filled with spaghetti, baklava, latkes, and sufganiyot doughnuts, the Italians danced, ate, and celebrated Hanna-yucca, no wait, Hanukkah. He and Johann had saved two hundred Jews from all around Europe, and more would come.
He gulped down another grappa, then a-another, and a… another, and an…
“Captain.” Johann staggered toward him, a black yarmulke cap sitting askew on the top of his head. “Herr F-führer wants to talk to you.” He removed his cap.
Oh bother. “What the heck does he want?”
Johann shrugged, but lost his balance and smacked against the wall. “Usual crap, I guess.”
Sipping the last of his grippa… gruppa… who cared, Wolfgang stood up, ignoring his spinning head. As Eight Little Candles played, he shuffled his feet toward the com-room, Johann following him.
Wolfgang rubbed his face and yawned. He needed some sleep and more baklava, and more grappa.  
Johann poked him in the ribs. “Cap.”
Johann rolled his eyes and pointed to Wolfgang’s head. “The yarmulke cap? You’d better remove it.”
“Oh right.” He took it off and scratched his head right when the Führer’s face appeared in the screen. Wolfgang lifted his left arm. “H—” Crap. He lifted his right arm. “Fail Hitler! I mean, Nail Hitler!” Oh bother. “I mean, Jail Hitler!” Damned grappa.
The Führer narrowed his gaze. “What did you say?”
Wolfgang burped. “Whatever.”
“How’s the colonisation going?”
“Very well, Führer. Very well. The Martians are almost completely subjugated.”
“I confess I’m curious to meet these Martians.” The Führer’s eyebrows knitted together.
How funny. Wolfgang had never noticed that the Führer had four eyebrows. Odd.
“That’s why I’ll be on Acidalia Planitia shortly.”
Wolfgang tilted his head. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not in Berlin. I’m travelling on Naz Jet One, my personal jet. In less than an hour, we’ll land on Mars.”
Johann let out a squeal and darted out of the room, or tried to. He smashed against the wall, hit his head hard, and fell over.
Wolfgang glanced at the floor to be sure it wasn’t moving up and down.
“Be ready.” The Führer interrupted the communication.
“Crap.” Wolfgang tottered to the bathroom, opened the cold water tap, and splashed his face. When the reflection in the mirror became only one, he rubbed his chin. The Führer is coming here.
He sprinted to the common room and waved his arms. “Folks!”
Someone put another glass of grappa in his hand, and he gulped it down because, why not? “Folks, Hitler is coming here!”
The music, the munching, and the clicking of glasses stopped.
Che?” Mario said. “What?”
Wolfgang raked a hand through his hair. “He’ll be here in the less than an hour to meet the Martians. Clean everything up, hide the booze, hide the baklava. I’ll keep him busy for as long as possible.” He scooted to the exit, slid on a suit, and stepped outside.
A yellow glow in the sky announced the arrival of the Führer’s jet. Wolfgang inhaled deeply the artificial air provided by the air bottles of the suit. He’d take his responsibilities. The whole farce had been his idea. If he had to die to save those poor men and women, so be it.
The jet’s roar drew closer. Vortexes of air lifted dust like snakes coiling around Wolfgang. A loud thud resounded when the jet touched down. A panel slid aside, revealing dark silhouettes.
Escorted by a Stormtrooper, the Führer marched toward Wolfgang in his dress uniform, no space suit as if he were strolling along the Under Der Linten in Berlin. Wolfgang arched a brow. That proved it. The Führer wasn’t human at all.
“Dear Captain Wolfgang, I wish to see a native.”
Wolfgang cast a glance at the base, hoping the Italians had cleaned up the mess. “Führer, there was a mishap…”
A tall red-skinned man wielding a long spear advanced from behind a boulder.
Wolfgang recoiled. “How are…” Was that Mario? How did he manage to get into a Martian costume and leave the base without a suit? “Mario?”
The man stopped in front of the Führer. “Uk-mat-kirsmk-tur.”
The Führer laughed. “Marvellous, marvellous.”
Wolfgang flinched at the harsh, deep voice of the man. This wasn’t Mario or any other of the people of the base.
The man smacked his spear on the Führer’s arm. “Tuk-mar-fitt-batik.”
“Ouch!” The Führer rubbed his arm. “How dare you?”
A Stormtrooper clicked his gun and shot a series of bullets against the man. Wolfgang shouted and covered his hearing devices on the helmet.
The red man didn’t move. The bullets bounced off his skin and dropped on the ground.
“Oh.” The Führer’s mouth hung open. “Marvellous.”
“Maas-fink-optikn.” The red man grabbed the Führer by the neck and shook him like a hound that had caught a rabbit. Then he opened his mouth and swallowed the Führer, dress uniform and all.
“Gah!” Wolfgang jumped back.
The Stormtrooper lowered his rifle, his arms shaking. “Führer?”
The red man burped and spat out the Führer’s hat. “Not bad.”
The Stormtrooper tossed his rifle and ran toward the shuttle.
Wolfgang shrank backward. “You speak German?”
“I do now.” The red man rubbed his engorged belly. “What was the thing I just ate?”
“A Nazi.”
“Delicious. Are there more?”
Wolfgang angled toward the jet. “As a matter of fact, yes. What’s your name, fella?”
“Curk, do you have a family or friends?”
Curk shrugged. “Underground there’s an entire city of what you call Martians.”
Blimey, the old fart was right. “Do you fancy a trip to Earth where you and your friends will find more of these Nazis?”
Curk smirked, showing a row of pointed teeth. “Jawohl.”

Berlin, Earth, 1944
Wolfgang and Johann strolled along the Unter Der Linten in Berlin. The tall lindens that boarded the wide and long avenue had been cut years ago to accommodate the Nazi parades. Not anymore. The new German chancellor had ordered that new lindens were to be planted to restore the beauty the Nazis had destroyed after the Martians had wiped out the Gestapo, SS, and Stormtroopers.
“Who would’ve said that Martians existed, uh?” Wolfgang said, sitting on a bench.
“What I find amazing is the Martians’ ability to identify evil humans.”
Wolfgang snorted a laugh. “They say the good ones don’t have any taste at all.” He glanced at the statue that rose in the middle of the avenue, the branches touching it. It was the statute of Curk swallowing the Führer.