M.E. Brines's Blog, page 4
June 8, 2017
What a Difference a Day Makes
What a difference a day makes
(Or a few hours anyway)
By M.E. Brines
July 17, 1945
Heinrich Himmler sat behind his immense desk, his pince nez glasses perched precariously atop his nose. He threw the document he’d just signed into his “in” box as the door opened.
A young SS officer entered, halted exactly three paces in front of the desk, smacked his heels together and came to attention.
“Obergruppeführer Kurt Kürtz reporting, Mein Herr.”
“Stand at ease, Obergruppeführer. It’s good to see you again. I understand you’ve been quite busy at the front.”
“Yes, Reichsführer, the Reich has many enemies. They keep me very active.”
“From the reports I hear, it seems almost as if you are defeating all the Reich’s enemies single-handedly.”
“I am but a humble servant of the Führer,” the young officer said, although the smile that accompanied his remark demonstrated his appreciation of the truth in the words.
“As am I,” replied Himmler. “But I daresay, while I remain bogged down here at headquarters shuffling paperwork you are considerably more effective in battle. It is because of that that we indulge your preference for that unorthodox costume you prefer to a regulation uniform.”
“But sir, skintight elastic clothing reduces aerodynamic drag and the long cape helps stabilize me in flight. I do wear standard issue boots.”
“Yes, yes. I understand the reasons behind it. It just seems, well, it looks a bit too much like something a character from those American comic books would wear, like that ridiculous Captain Amerika.”
“But my cape is blood red, the same color as the flag of our beloved Fatherland, and I wear a large swastika emblem emblazoned on my chest.”
“Yes, that is a bit difficult to miss.” Himmler sighed and tapped his fingers on his desk blotter. “But that’s not why I’ve called you in from the front. As you know, our panzers stand poised for the final push against Washington. Most of the rest of New England is occupied and our Japanese allies are preparing to land troops along the Pacific coast. The Americans are close to surrender. Intelligence reports their only hope is something they call their Manhattan Project. It involves a secret weapon employing an exotic isotope of some kind, probably a uranium bomb developed by that traitorous Jewish physicist of theirs, Einstein. Agents have obtained the location of their laboratory in the desert of New Mexico. The Führer commands that you are to seek out and destroy the installation and put an end to any hope they have of further resistance. Do you have any questions?”
“No, Mein Herr.”
Himmler’s arm shot out, “Heil Hitler!”
The caped officer replied with the same salute, took two running steps toward the open French doors leading onto the balcony, then sprang into the air and sailed away up into the sky like a bird or a plane, rising over the building across the street in a single bound, faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive….
Himmler rose to his feet and stepped to the window, watching him until he disappeared from sight into the western sky. Then he shook his head, thinking to himself how lucky the Reich had been. As he returned to his desk and the stack of unending paperwork that filled his “in” box he mumbled to himself, “Yes, the war certainly would have taken a different turn if that child’s spacecraft had not landed in a farmer’s field in Bavaria. Only a few hours difference in flight time and he might have landed in the Ukraine or, worse, Kansas. Imagine if he’d have been brought up as an American?” He shook his head and reached for the top document in the never-ending pile. “Such a possibility is too awful to contemplate.”
***
The Man of Steel didn’t take long to find the American base. The very isolation that made it unlikely to be noticed by scarce passersby made it easy to spot from above. From the air it was obvious that the former girl’s school near Los Alamos had been converted into a military installation. He didn’t even have to resort to his X-ray vision.
As he swooped down to attack, an anti-aircraft gun engaged him. The first few shells were dead on target, but exploded harmlessly against his chest. They didn’t even slow his descent.
The garrison scrambled to meet his attack--hundreds of men to oppose one. But their bullets bounced off and their grenades exploded with less effect than if they’d been overripe tomatoes. A few of the more impetuous men tried to block his path, attacking with fixed bayonets. He bent their rifles into pretzels and tossed the men aside like rag dolls, before kicking down the door to the main laboratory and striding inside like the conquering superman he was.
There, a handful of scientists in white lab coats cowered behind a bald officer holding a strange-looking rifle.
The superman stopped and glanced about the room. There was no sign of the atomic pile he’d been led to expect. Maybe the Manhattan Project wasn’t a uranium bomb after all. Well, it hardly mattered. He would find out what it was and get the location of it out of one of the scientists. There seemed to be a half dozen here and he’d learned some very special techniques from the Gestapo. He’d probably only have to kill a couple of them before he discovered what he needed to know. But first he had to get rid of that one pesky soldier.
The army officer raised the rifle to his shoulder.
The superman chuckled and threw out his chest, “Go ahead and try, little man. Nothing from this world can harm me.”
The officer smiled, holding in his hands the deadly fruit of four desperate years of research and development. His M-1 rifle was identical to millions of others in the hands of American servicemen, but what made it special was the ammunition inside. He pulled the trigger and put a Kryptonite bullet through the superman’s heart, then followed that up with a couple more to the head, just to make sure.
And that was how Brigadier General Lexington Luthor became America’s greatest hero.
(Or a few hours anyway)
By M.E. Brines
July 17, 1945
Heinrich Himmler sat behind his immense desk, his pince nez glasses perched precariously atop his nose. He threw the document he’d just signed into his “in” box as the door opened.
A young SS officer entered, halted exactly three paces in front of the desk, smacked his heels together and came to attention.
“Obergruppeführer Kurt Kürtz reporting, Mein Herr.”
“Stand at ease, Obergruppeführer. It’s good to see you again. I understand you’ve been quite busy at the front.”
“Yes, Reichsführer, the Reich has many enemies. They keep me very active.”
“From the reports I hear, it seems almost as if you are defeating all the Reich’s enemies single-handedly.”
“I am but a humble servant of the Führer,” the young officer said, although the smile that accompanied his remark demonstrated his appreciation of the truth in the words.
“As am I,” replied Himmler. “But I daresay, while I remain bogged down here at headquarters shuffling paperwork you are considerably more effective in battle. It is because of that that we indulge your preference for that unorthodox costume you prefer to a regulation uniform.”
“But sir, skintight elastic clothing reduces aerodynamic drag and the long cape helps stabilize me in flight. I do wear standard issue boots.”
“Yes, yes. I understand the reasons behind it. It just seems, well, it looks a bit too much like something a character from those American comic books would wear, like that ridiculous Captain Amerika.”
“But my cape is blood red, the same color as the flag of our beloved Fatherland, and I wear a large swastika emblem emblazoned on my chest.”
“Yes, that is a bit difficult to miss.” Himmler sighed and tapped his fingers on his desk blotter. “But that’s not why I’ve called you in from the front. As you know, our panzers stand poised for the final push against Washington. Most of the rest of New England is occupied and our Japanese allies are preparing to land troops along the Pacific coast. The Americans are close to surrender. Intelligence reports their only hope is something they call their Manhattan Project. It involves a secret weapon employing an exotic isotope of some kind, probably a uranium bomb developed by that traitorous Jewish physicist of theirs, Einstein. Agents have obtained the location of their laboratory in the desert of New Mexico. The Führer commands that you are to seek out and destroy the installation and put an end to any hope they have of further resistance. Do you have any questions?”
“No, Mein Herr.”
Himmler’s arm shot out, “Heil Hitler!”
The caped officer replied with the same salute, took two running steps toward the open French doors leading onto the balcony, then sprang into the air and sailed away up into the sky like a bird or a plane, rising over the building across the street in a single bound, faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive….
Himmler rose to his feet and stepped to the window, watching him until he disappeared from sight into the western sky. Then he shook his head, thinking to himself how lucky the Reich had been. As he returned to his desk and the stack of unending paperwork that filled his “in” box he mumbled to himself, “Yes, the war certainly would have taken a different turn if that child’s spacecraft had not landed in a farmer’s field in Bavaria. Only a few hours difference in flight time and he might have landed in the Ukraine or, worse, Kansas. Imagine if he’d have been brought up as an American?” He shook his head and reached for the top document in the never-ending pile. “Such a possibility is too awful to contemplate.”
***
The Man of Steel didn’t take long to find the American base. The very isolation that made it unlikely to be noticed by scarce passersby made it easy to spot from above. From the air it was obvious that the former girl’s school near Los Alamos had been converted into a military installation. He didn’t even have to resort to his X-ray vision.
As he swooped down to attack, an anti-aircraft gun engaged him. The first few shells were dead on target, but exploded harmlessly against his chest. They didn’t even slow his descent.
The garrison scrambled to meet his attack--hundreds of men to oppose one. But their bullets bounced off and their grenades exploded with less effect than if they’d been overripe tomatoes. A few of the more impetuous men tried to block his path, attacking with fixed bayonets. He bent their rifles into pretzels and tossed the men aside like rag dolls, before kicking down the door to the main laboratory and striding inside like the conquering superman he was.
There, a handful of scientists in white lab coats cowered behind a bald officer holding a strange-looking rifle.
The superman stopped and glanced about the room. There was no sign of the atomic pile he’d been led to expect. Maybe the Manhattan Project wasn’t a uranium bomb after all. Well, it hardly mattered. He would find out what it was and get the location of it out of one of the scientists. There seemed to be a half dozen here and he’d learned some very special techniques from the Gestapo. He’d probably only have to kill a couple of them before he discovered what he needed to know. But first he had to get rid of that one pesky soldier.
The army officer raised the rifle to his shoulder.
The superman chuckled and threw out his chest, “Go ahead and try, little man. Nothing from this world can harm me.”
The officer smiled, holding in his hands the deadly fruit of four desperate years of research and development. His M-1 rifle was identical to millions of others in the hands of American servicemen, but what made it special was the ammunition inside. He pulled the trigger and put a Kryptonite bullet through the superman’s heart, then followed that up with a couple more to the head, just to make sure.
And that was how Brigadier General Lexington Luthor became America’s greatest hero.
