Private Svoboda, The Naked Truth

I have been working on a new book about a true story that happened to a 14-year old boy. The book is about the survival of a young boy drafted along with his eight-grade school class in 1944 and drafted into Hitler's army. The boys were trained to kill or be killed and sent off to the brutal fighting on the Eastern Front.
Here is a sample of the first chapter of this new action adventure book:

 

Private Svodoba

 

The Naked Truth

 

Winter 1944 - Jumping down from the train, we line up outside the military induction center. The train station, done in polished oak, cut stone and glass, has historically received the wealthy and powerful of Europe to the mineral bath resort of Bad Ischl, Austria. The station has been converted to receive recruits headed for military boot camp, which is located on the side of the tracks opposite the station. This morning my school mates and I are part of two hundred and fifty excited and apprehensive 14-year old boys from three Austrian middle schools. Anxious and heroic, we are about to become soldiers in the war against the enemies of the fatherland. Nervous laughter takes our minds off the deep snow around our boots and the freezing cold of the morning.

A sergeant, stiff and creased, appears and shouts orders bullying us into four ragged rows. We stand in place tall and proud, feet together, skinny chests forward, our backs straight as we were taught last year in the Hitler Youth camps. The sergeant steps back inside the dull green colored building and we stand without instructions for an hour. The windows of the one-story building with a snow covered roof are blocked off with paper so we can’t see what is going on inside. The cold wind dulls our enthusiasm a bit. Smiling and grinning at our friends, we stomp our feet to help circulation and rock side to side sometimes bumping into each other. A boy two down the row to my right is hit in the back of the head with a snowball, and a shoving match breaks out knocking two of the rows out of order. A kid somewhere down to my left has the nervous giggles and eventually falls to his knees. Teenage excitement. As for me, I need to pee.

The door to the large barracks-like structure opens with a bang against the outer wall and a different sergeant, this one short with glasses and the stepped-on face of a bulldog, struts out on the front deck and paces back and forth. His worn black leather jacket is creased like his face, his dark olive colored helmet the shade of his pressed trousers.

“Stillgestanden!” (Attention) clips the sergeant. Dead quiet happens. My nerves are growing tighter. I confirm my alignment out of the corner of my eye.

 Turning slowly, the bulldog stares at us in disgust clicking the heels of his long black boots. Squinting, as if fixing his gaze on me alone, he stands and pounds his swagger stick over and over into the palm of a leather glove.

“You will now undress!” he shouts. “You will remove everything, fold your clothes and set them on top of your boots. We will dispose of these items in the village. Those who survive screening will be issued uniforms of the Wehrmacht, the greatest army in the world.”

Already trembling in my clothes, I turn and look down the row to make sure I’d heard the command correctly. There is a moment of mutual hesitation followed by a flurry of activity as we all stand in place and undress. Naked and shivering in the freezing winter wind, the snow oozes between my toes. I am surprised at this initial lack of civility. Finding the situation so bizarre at first as to be amusing, some smile broadly and stretch their arms toward the sky then fold them tightly against their chests. Most of us hold our arms straight down and tight to the body, clasping our hands in front of our privates. Standing between Hans and Karl, two friends from my eight-grade class at Halstatt, I sneak a nervous smile as the sergeant goes back inside the building, letting the door slam shut.

Fifty Years and Still Laughing

The Other Side of Hell

Last fall I got introduced to a WWII vet who fought on the Eastern Front. In the winter of 1944 a school official walked into Alex's 8th grade class and drafted the entire class of 18 boys into the German Army. Here is a short ecerpt from the first chapter of my new in progress book called "Private Svoboda."

Winter 1944 - Jumping down from the train, we line up outside the military induction center. The train station, done in polished oak, cut stone and glass, has historically received the wealthy and powerful of Europe to the mineral bath resort of Bad Ischl, Germany. The station has been converted to receive recruits headed for the military boot camp located on the side of the tracks opposite the station. This morning my school mates and I are part of two hundred and fifty excited and apprehensive 14-year olds from three Austrian middle schools. Anxious and heroic, we are about to become soldiers in the war against the enemies of the fatherland. Nervous laughter takes our minds off the deep snow around our boots and the freezing cold of the morning.

A sergeant, stiff and creased, appears and shouts orders bullying the new recruits into four ragged rows. We stand in place tall and proud, feet together, skinny chests forward, our backs straight as we’ve been taught last year in the Hitler Youth camps. The sergeant steps back inside the dull green colored building and we stand without instructions for an hour. The windows of the building are covered with paper so we can’t see what is going on inside. The cold wind dulls our enthusiasm a bit. Smiling and grinning at our friends, we stomp our feet to help circulation and rock side to side sometimes bumping into each other. A boy two down the row to my right is hit in the back of the head with a snowball, and a shoving match breaks out knocking two of the rows out of order. A kid somewhere down to my left has the nervous giggles and eventually falls to his knees. Teenage excitement. I need to pee.

The door to the large barracks-like structure opens with a bang against the outer wall and a different sergeant, this one short with glasses and a stepped-on face of a bulldog, struts out on the front deck and paces back and forth. His worn black leather jacket is creased like his face, his dark olive colored helmet the shade of his pressed trousers.

“Stillgestanden!” (Attention) clips the sergeant. Dead quiet happens. My nerves are growing tighter. I confirm my alignment out of the corner of my eye.

 Turning slowly, the bulldog stares at us in disgust clicking the heels of his long black boots. Squinting as if fixing his gaze on me alone, he stands and pounds his swagger stick over and over into the palm of a leather glove.

“You will now undress!” he shouts. “You will remove everything, fold your clothes and set them on top of your boots. We will dispose of these items in the village. Those who survive screening will be issued uniforms of the Wehrmacht, the greatest army in the world.”

Already trembling in my clothes, I turn and look down the row to make sure I’d heard the command correctly. There is a moment of mutual hesitation followed by a flurry of activity as we all stand in place and undress. Naked and shivering in the freezing winter wind, the snow oozes between my toes. I am surprised at this initial lack of civility. Finding the situation so bizarre at first as to be amusing, some smile broadly and stretch their arms toward the sky then fold them tightly against their chests. Most of us hold our arms straight down and tight to the body, clasping our hands in front of our privates. Standing between Hans and Karl, two friends from my 8^th grade class at Halstatt, I sneak a nervous smile as the sergeant goes back inside the building, letting the door slam shut.

GobbleGobbleFourMile

November in Florida so I signed up for the Gobble Gobble Four Mile. Went down to Gulf Shore Drive for a practice run and made it. Awaited Thanksgiving morning and the chance to justify
overeating in the afternoon but woke up quite ill, the flu. Had to forego the run but managed
to get upright for the eating part in the afternoon. Now shopping for a new belt.

I Made It Overseas (river) and Back

Freezing at the start last Sunday but better later, I made it through the 13.1 miles of the Detroit International Half Marathon. At road runner speed we traveled up across the Ambassador Bridge to Canada as the sun rose over the city, toured lovely downtown Windsor and plunged down into the tunnel under the Detroit River and back to the U.S. Our number bibs served as passports and the Canadians were quite friendly.

As one of the sweet Canadians handed me a cup of water I whispered, "Please call me a taxi."

She smiled and said, "Hey everybody, he's a taxi."

Half Marathon Prep

Ran 10 miles yesterday in prep for the Detroit International (over the bridge and back the tunnel from Canada) Marathon next week. I've run in the event for several years but never as far as 13 miles. Hope I don't break down in Canada and can't get back. Of course they have good beer over there.

Honor Bound, Chapter 1, Freedom Flight

Honor Bound

Terror on the F Train

 

“Some men are born great, some achieve greatness,

and some have greatness thrust upon them.”

William Shakespeare

Twelfth Night

 

Sam struggled to keep his emotions in check that morning.  He managed to get through the sting of tears, clinging hugs and kisses with the family on the porch including frigid moments with his wife, Wendy. His cheeks were suddenly wet as he glanced at the house through the cab’s rear window. His mother waved stoically from her upstairs window, tears streaming down her dark, weathered face. Wendy was sitting on the top step of the porch, head in her hands, their son and daughter sitting close and holding their mother. Wendy had been tearing-up for a week with intermittent periods of anger and defiance. Neither could sleep as they lay close to each other in silence during Sam’s last nights at home. He vowed to grab some sleep on the flight.

“Damn it Sam,” Wendy had said, her brown eyes flattening her husband’s face. “Haven’t you done enough? Haven’t you suffered enough?” At breakfast she had confessed to being disgusted with her husband, the government and even God.

“It’s for the best,” Sam said, studying his bowl of oats. “Trust me.”

“Not this time,” Wendy said. “The idiots running the CIA are taking advantage of your compromised condition. You beat the stupid disease before and you can do it again and besides, the mission is insane.  If you don’t come back how am I supposed to afford to keep this house and raise Austin and Rayen? Have you thought of that?”

“Hon, my condition is different this time,” Sam said. “For one thing, my brother is dead and you know that’s part of the reason I have to go. As to the finances, just trust me and know you will be okay.”

Sam had confirmed that half of the money in his contract had been deposited in their savings account. Wendy wouldn’t know this until the monthly statement came from the bank.

“All I know is your papa, if he were alive, might be gung-ho over this mission but your momma has more sense,” Wendy said. Sam had been up to his momma, Winona’s room after breakfast to say goodbye. She hugged him hard and told Sam she preferred to cry alone in her room on his parting day.

 “Sammy, shake your head and get it right,” Winona had said. “You need to lead this tribe, not run off to solve somebody else’s problems.”

To Sam, his papa’s final actions rang truer. As a black man trying to survive in a white world, his father, Sawyer, provided a better place for his family for years by staying under the radar. But in the end, when the world turned on him, Sawyer stood up and took his own kind of revenge.  Growing up, Sam had also worked at getting along and staying out of trouble at all costs. His attitude had changed on his way to becoming a man.

The timing for Sam’s exit from the family was due to a dramatic change in his chances for a long life, a reoccurrence of the cancer he had been fighting for six years. In his fading days, Sam’s goal at home had been to leave in one piece, not as a shadow of a man convulsing and gasping for each labored breath. Not as a husband and father who didn’t remember any of their names. Not as an invalid who couldn’t even wipe his own ass.

 

Flying out of Detroit Metro, headed for the Middle East, Sam’s mission was to stop a unique terrorist plan to shut down the American economy and lifestyle in a way designed to start the most widespread religious war since the crusades.  Sam’s mission was complex and frankly held only a middle-hope of being successful. But, even compromised from drugs, Sam’s skill set and personal situation made him the best man for the job. He’d done the impossible before, only this time he would have an unwelcome assistant holding a stop watch.

 The CIA had been tipped off weeks earlier to the planned terrorist attacks in the U.S.  A customs agent working at Boston Logan accidentally discovered partially assembled bomb components hidden inside a shipment of band instruments on an incoming flight from Cologne. The bombs had not been stopped by the country’s latest, 1988, bomb detection equipment or the canine agents protecting our borders. Extensive interrogation of the shipment receiving suspect had obtained information that the deadly devices were being assembled by a terrorist cell of suicide bombers who were either in the U.S. or on their way to deploy the bombs in U.S. commuter trains. Sam’s mission was to make his way into the terrorist cell, find the bomb lab and the deployment plan so the attacks could be stopped.  

 

The cab had been scheduled early that morning so Sam could have a last look at the home town that had been so important in his family’s life. They drove up Outer Drive past Dearborn High, the cemetery and the country club where it all started. With Sam’s coaching, the taxi driver worked his way to the freeway and turned south toward the Ford Rouge plants where Sam had worked a summer installing Mustang door handles. A billowing red cloud of brick like dust and industrial perfume was rising into the morning sky out of the Ford manufacturing complex. In the distance above the trees to the west was the towering sight of Oakwood Hospital where Sam had spent too much of his remaining time this past year. He closed his eyes and exhaled, checking for the two pill boxes in his navy blue blazer pocket. 

Samuel Nahuel Cotton, 37, touched the silver talisman hanging under his open-collared white shirt. The silver eagle had been a gift a long time ago from his momma, Winona. She was a tall, sturdy woman whose family had been part of the remnants of the Seminole tribes from the green mountains of Georgia.  Sam a, buff 6’2” lawyer with straight shoulders from his military days gave the illusion of health. His black piercing eyes and thin slightly hooked nose had caused his momma to give him his middle name, which in her tribe meant Eagle. If he’d been wearing a tie, lawyer Sam could be flying to meet with a client. The only difference in this scenario was that Sam was intent on killing the client during the meeting.

More info on: www.steverroberts.com