hellstorm french


Millions murdered . . . Millions raped . . . Millions tortured . . . Millions of men, women and children cast to the winds. . . . No matter what you have read about the Second World War, no matter what you have been told about it, no matter what you believe happened during the so-called “Good War” . . . forget it!   Now, for the first time in over 70 years, learn what the war and “peace” looked like to those who lost. Discover what was done to Germany and her people. In their own words, in graphic detail, this is their story….this is their Hellstorm


Des millions assassinés . . . Des millions violés . . . Des millions torturés . . . Des millions d’hommes, de femmes et d’enfants jetés aux vents. . . . Peu importe ce que vous avez lu sur la Seconde Guerre mondiale, peu importe ce que l’on vous a dit à ce sujet, peu importe ce que vous croyez qui est arrivé au cours de la soi-disant «bonne guerre» . . . oubliez ! Maintenant, pour la première fois depuis plus de 70 ans, apprenez ce que furent la guerre et la «paix» du côté des vaincus. Apprenez ce qui a été fait à l’Allemagne et à son peuple. À travers leurs propres mots, à travers leurs descriptions détaillées, ceci est leur histoire . . . ceci est leur Tempête Infernale !


(order on or

Fun With Dumb

kup11Ted Bundy, Gary Ridgway, John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Danny Rolling, Dean Corll, Earle Nelson, Wayne Bonin, Andre Crawford . . . notice anything here?  No, not the serial killer part; I’m talking about the “law of diminishing name recognition” part.   

Since serial killing has become all the rage and ever so common, fact is unless you are in the big leagues and slay 50 or more you are just a silly nothing nobody.  Competition is keen; there are so many serial killers out there plying their trade—hundreds at work as I type—that they are mostly becoming just a blur, a yawn, a snooze, zzzzzzzzzzz.  Ever heard of Dick Biegenwald?  Didn’t think so.  Ever hear of Herb Baumeister?  Didn’t think so. These guys killed 20 or 30 people, maybe a hundred—who’s counting?—yet they are virtually anonymous.  Why?  Because their slaughter was generic, run-of-the-mill, nothing-out-of-the-norm stuff, just one boring murder at a time.

Now, since everybody wants to be somebody, and since everybody wants to be remembered for being the best at what they do, it stands to reason serial killers are no different.  So, what am I saying?  Just this: Vanilla serial killin’ don’t cut it no more.  Quantity’s out, quality’s in.  SK’s today have got to be imaginative; they must think out of the box and do something “out there” to capture the interest of the public and gain immortal infamy.  Look at “BTK”—Bind, Torture & Kill—he came up with a nifty nickname, he taunted police, he mocked the media, he ghoulishly tortured his victims in imaginative ways, and, as a result, he will be remembered for at least a year or two after his soulless vessel moves on to another port.

The lesson is clear: Don’t  just kill people serially, kill them memorably.

I feel pretty certain just such an approach is at work now.  Since there is no other explanation, I am confident there is a canal serial killer lurking down here in Florida; some innovative psychopath who is looking for eternal fame by grabbing geezers and tossing them into canals.  Only a serial canal killer at large can explain why so many of these old people end up floating dead in these otherwise unremarkable bodies of water.

I also suspicion that we have an innovative murderer loose up near Tampa who is skrewing with sky divers’ parachutes.  As noted some time back, three people dead of chute failure in a year at the same place is highly suspect.  No?

And speaking of chutes: Is some devil up yonder in the “Windy City” doing the same?  Last year a 16-year-old boy was found dead at the bottom of a high-rise trash chute in Chicago.  Just after that an eighty-year-old woman was also found at the bottom of a trash chute in the same city, same building.  It appears both were pushed.  Falling 15 or 16 stories in a dark narrow shaft is a horrible way to go.  And it is making news.  Is there a serial chute killer loose?

If SKs are indeed branching out, the possibilities are endless.  I personally could get behind a serial killer who murdered only Elvis impersonators.  In fact, I could get behind two or three such SK’s.


Boo-Hoo—John Mock was whining in our local paper a while back.  Seems he had purchased some very expensive property a few years ago that bordered an exclusive golf course (all Florida golf courses are—sniff, sniff—exclu$ive).  Well, turns out that the golf course in question was too exclusive.  How exclusive?  Well, it was so exclusive that it no longer accepts ANY members . . . forever.  It recently went belly-up bankrupt. Now, laments Mock, the fairway is just “a hayfield out back.”

“How did that make me feel after spending a considerable amount of money?” asks Mock.

Hmmmm?  Okay.  I can’t resist:  “Get off your pity potty, John. Thousands are living in the woods within a fifteen minute drive of your devalued place and they would give an arm, a leg, and maybe both ears and a few teeth, to have such property even at a dime on the dollar. Sorry your investment went south, John, and sorry your lots lost lots, but lots of folks have bought lots and have lost lots more than you on their lots.  Bear up.  Be a man.  Deal with it.”

Ironic Names Hall of Fame

John Mock, Grove City, Florida (mocked home owner)

There!  Now I feel better.


Mensa Members in the NewsScott Vansice of Port Charlotte was arrested on a sexual battery charge.  The 37-year-old man is accused of dallying with a child last year.  But heck, since there are so many more important cases in the local legal log jam-—jaywalking, littering, loud TVs, etc—the sympathetic judge released poor Scott on probation so that he wouldn’t need suffer any unnecessary trauma by being locked up in lock down.

So, with so much time on his hands, what does Vansice decide to do? He decides to get even with the detective that arrested him, that’s what he decided to do; Scott started stalking the detective.

In addition to tailing the cop in his car and driving by his home, Vansice actually rang the detective’s doorbell early Easter morning.  Now, of all the stupid things a person can do—setting fire to a fire station, burglarizing a home security business, ratting out an Aryan Brotherhood member—stalking a police detective ranks right up there.

And so, for the second time, this public servant was forced to arrest our local nuclear physicist and, for all I know, he may need to arrest him two or three more times before our dear judge decides Vansice should see the inside of a jail, poor fellow.

Do you wonder why cops secretly despise the American legal system? Do you wonder why inside every cop there is a “Dirty Harry” banging to get out?  And do you wonder why me, myself, I, and my, commiserate when cops feel that way?


Final note—Very tuff sledding when you are biking into a twenty MPH head gale, as per today on this narrow slip of sand.

A pure groove, however, when you are coming back the other way with a 20 MPH jet-like tailwind.  Feels fun.  Nobody passing me; I’m passing them.  I am not breaking the sound barrier but I am actually breaking the speed barrier.  Doing 30 in a 25.  Flying under one jungle canopy of palms, banyans, and oaks—HO, HO, HO—just as I passed, a huge limb of the latter landed two seconds behind me onto the road. Had I been going 1 MPH less, I would not now be here typing this blog trying to sound intelligent, interesting and witty.

Moral:  Sometimes speed kills, sometimes speed saves.

Game Changer

BookCoverPreview(4)90ikSince the release of my book, Hellstorm–The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944-1947, I have received scores of emails from those who feel the need to personally thank me. Many of these notes are from some who simply love historical honesty and truth. Others are from the children and grandchildren of those who passed through the evil described in the book. Among most who finish Hellstorm, however, one theme stands out.

Beginning in late 2015 with release of the German translation of Hellstorm, I made it my life mission to see that the book is available in virtually every language on earth. This year alone will witness the release of Hellstorm in Spanish, French and perhaps Greek and Russian.  Next year, I hope to see the book available in Portuguese, Dutch, Hindi, and Japanese. Impressive as this may seem, it is, in my opinion, slow, far too slow.  My hope, my ambition, my driving aim, is to make the book available world-wide within three years.  Why?   Why this rush for so much so soon?  Let me share several comments I have received just in the past two months:

“I just finished Hellstorm.  I want to personally thank you for writing this book.  As difficult as it was to read, I felt I owed it to the victims.  It was, indeed, a terrible book to read but I’m glad I finished it.  I must tell you this: There was me before Hellstorm, and now there is me after Hellstorm.  I am not the same person as before.  Now I see what must be done. Now I am totally committed.  Failure is not an option, that is clear.  If we fail, Hellstorm offers a very accurate and horrific account of what will be our fate, just as it was for those helpless, disarmed Germans. Once again, thank you for this terrible, but necessary book.  I am very certain that such will be the supreme sadness, anger and rage of anyone who reads this that, like myself, they will be ready to do whatever it takes.   ———-an Englishman

“Mr. Goodrich, thank you so much for your courage.  You changed my life.  As I read your book, between pages of shock and horror, I felt the scales fall from my eyes. For the first time in my life I could actually see the world as it is, not as I have been told it is. ”    

                                                                                                      ———-a Canadian

“This book is a game-changer.  If everyone on earth could read it, it would turn the tables over night and destroy the Jewish evil that now enslaves all of us.  What the Jews have done and what they continue to do to us, it is all here in this book, in unmistakable terms.  Make no mistake, this is our fate unless we act NOW!”   ———-an Australian

“I thought I knew everything there was to know about World War Two.  But I was wrong. Very wrong.  I never imagined that the Jewish enemy, and that includes the Allied leaders, was this vicious, this evil, or this depraved.  Unless you know Hellstorm, you do not know the real world.  And unless you know the real world, you are no better than a worm under a rock.  I am filled with rage.  I cannot think of one book more important to our survival than Hellstorm. Thank you!    ———-an American

Now, my plan may sound like a great money-making scheme to some, but I assure you, it is not. The translations of Hellstorm are very expensive and those good men and women—our brothers and sisters in this fight—they who do the actual translations must receive recompense for their time, trouble and talent.  And let me say this right now: Regardless of what happens, if I never receive a dime of support, as long as I live I will pursue this project until it is finished, or until I die, which ever comes first.  My hope, however, is to not spend the rest of my life on this project, but to complete it within the next three years so that I can finish one other very important book I have planned.

To help fund this project, to help reach the entire world in three years, I will be grateful for all contributions, of course, but below are some offers that can speed the process along.  The sooner I am funded, the sooner will I reach the world and the sooner the world will shift on its axis.

$100 donation———2 free copies of Hellstorm

$1,000 donation——10 free copies of Hellstorm and 5 DVD’s of Hellstorm–The Documentary

$10,000 donation-—100 free copies of Hellstorm, 10 DVDs of Hellstorm, and a personal dedication in the book

To help out on this personal project, please drop your contribution in my Paypal account (

My friends, we are winning.  Nothing is more certain in all the world.  The enemy is feeling the heat like never before.  Just as Jewish Communism and the Berlin Wall suddenly came down with a startling crash, no one knows what will trigger the ultimate Jewish fall from power, nor how swift it might occur.  But, as we all know, come it shall.  Help me make that fall come sooner, rather than later.

Cyber War 15


Anyone who has posted a political thought on a message board recently soon becomes aware that a raging cyber war is being waged for the hearts and minds of we whites. If the subject of a post touches upon race, or Jews, or Israel, or whether we need to fill more American body bags simply to make the world a bit safer for God’s Chosen Murderers in the Middle East, very quickly one realizes that there is a concerted effort to attack everyone and anyone who does not toe the Jewish party line on this board or that board.

Much/Most of this orchestrated pro-Israel activity comes from an entity known as “Hasbara.” This Jewish organization, nominally funded by Israel, but fully funded, in fact, by—who else?—yes, that’s right, Uncle Stupid and his slaves slaving in the tax mines—is an unabashed attempt to flood message boards with hundreds of pro-Israeli, pro-Jewish comments and thus kill all debate. Because so many of these hired haters speak and write passable English, the hope is to create the illusion of an American consensus for whatever anti-peace, pro-war policy Israel is backing that particular day. Recently, the Jewish cyber focus has been on Russia and Vlad Putin and Israel’s attempt to stoke a war between the US and Russia (Jews have never forgiven Putin—the “new Hitler”—and Russia—the new “Third Reich”—for putting the kibosh on their murderous plans for Syria and Iran a few years back after the CIA/Mossad manufactured a breathless report stating that Assad was gassing his own people).

These hundreds, thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, of Jewish “cyber warriors” are always very careful to never identify themselves as Israelis or American Jews.  Instead, they write and even imply that they are just your average Republican from Indiana or Ohio who is Red, White & Blue Through & Through and who is just tickled silly to send their kids to fight and die in the non-stop Middle Eastern wars fought for Greater Israel and who thinks that our trillions of dollars to Israel is money well spent.

If one is unfamiliar with the Hasbara folks, there are some quick rules of thumb on how to identify them:

A) Since they are apparently being paid by the number of comments they post and because they are thus always running from message board to message board, generally they post only a line or two, and never anything in depth.

B) Because they are in such a rush there is no room for serious debate on a subject.

C) Because of A) and B) a Hasbara’s comments usually devolve down to slurs, insults, name-calling, and, in keeping with the Jewish character and its fixation on bodily functions and matters carnal, some slinging of psycho-sexual imagery, i.e., very vile, very filthy shit about incest, bestiality, masturbation, goat-fucking, etc.

D) Pretty much any and all references to “Hitler” and the “Third Reich” are clear indications that a Jew troll is on the other end.  Apparently these people cannot resist the temptation to use these words even though they prove to be dead give-aways.

Odds are, if you encounter any of the above, or if you run into any anti-white, anti-gun, pro-minority, pro-“migrant” comments on the boards, then these are clear indications that Jewish cyber termites are hard at work.  Become a “Hasbara Hunter.”  Unlike their opponents, Hasbara Hunters—known among the select as “88’s”—do not get paid a dime for their efforts but they have a pretty big gun in their arsenal—-the Hasbara Jew calls it “hate”. . . “racism”. . . “bigotry”. . . and “anti-semitism”. . . . Whites call it “Truth.”

Any way, since at heart I am a collector—I have collected stamps, I have collected Olympic stick pins, I have collected odd or shocking surnames—I have amassed a number of comments on message boards that our fellow Truthers have fired off in their fight with these Hasbara trolls. Below, pretty much as they appeared, you will find a few of these comments.  Some are quite hilarious.  Some are spot on.  All are angry.  By the way, please feel free to cut and paste any of these and then next time you see someone arguing for World War Three with Russia, or next time you read that someone thinks the US should nuke Iran, or next time someone argues that Israel is Uncle Stupid’s only real ally in the Middle East, then you are armed for action.


Headline:  “Trump’s ‘America First’ Neo Isolationism”

of course the israel-first jewish media would blast Trump for placing the interests of America ahead of that of israel—if that day ever came to pass then their dear, dear israel might have to make peace with its neighbors and quit stealing palestinian land. as far as treating ‘isolationism’ like a dirty word and something to be avoided—ha, merely more jew-speak. i, for one, favor about a hundred years straight of isolationism. with these non-stop wars and our trillions-dollar national debt we found out what the opposite of isolationism is…. and it totally blows!

TRUMP / 2016

“America First….For A Change!”


HEADLINE: ” ‘White racism’ leading cause of black unrest”

We cannot live with these ‘people.’ This case, and a thousand other such cases, prove this conclusively. They rape and murder and loot and thug and they are never guilty. Nope, it’s always white racism. When we whites try to move away from them, yep, here they come again following us wherever we go, doing their drug deals, seeking sex with white women, living lives like dirty primates. When Trump builds that wall with Mexico, I hope he allows us to rebuild the old walls with the blacks. Those walls for the most part kept us safe from black crime and black hate and black ignorance and black envy and black filth and black failure and black decay and black ugliness and black. . . .


All these words by the Jewish press to convince us that Putin and Assad are evil, and the “popular uprising” (aka US/Israel ISIS mercenaries and murdering “moderates”) are good. Sounds much like the Jewish press’ attempt to convince we Americans that Don Trump is bad and the rest of those bozos—Cruz, Hill, Bern, Kasich—are good.

Sorry guys, but if you lying propagandists in the Jewish press now say “bad’ we Americans now think “good.”  Welcome to the new reality.


more anti-trump poison in the anti-trump jewish media.

the good news? the jewish media (and that’s ALL major media) is about as relevant today as smoke signals. clearly, no one pays any attention to the jewish media anymore, to its non-stop hate-trump hit pieces, to its non-stop rants about the so-called jewish holocaust and trials of 95-year-old germans, to its non-stop sob stories about poor, poor ‘migrants’ and how white nations need to flood themselves with the mud races, to what a great nation israel is and how lucky we are to be allowed to fight our non-stop wars for greater israel…..and so on.

thank god the bad old days of the jewish stranglehold on information are over. thank god for Alt Media.


Gutless Euro ‘leaders’……….They escort these primitive rapists cheerfully into Europe, then beat and imprison the white defenders of Europe and call them “extreme right-wingers”, “racists” and “haters.”  God bless all the extreme right-wingers, racists and haters. I hope they kill all invaders, then drag out their so-called Euro leaders and kill them too.


Ho, Hum. Another day, another Holocaust whopper from the MSM…..Even with WWIII hanging by a thread in Ukraine and Syria, Yahoo news categories always seem to be…..



“Evil Iranians”

“Gallant Little Israel”





“Nazi War Criminals”


“Gallant Little Israel”


“Iran Trying to Take Over World”

“Jewish Suffering”

“Poor Innocent Israel”

“Iranian Devils Still Trying To Take Over World”

“Poor Gallant Little Innocent Israel Will Stop Iran From Taking Over World”

“More Holocaust Items”

“Evil Palestinians”


“Neo-Nazi Racist Bigot Anti-Semitic White Gun Nuts”

“More Jewish Suffering”

“Recap of Holocaust Items”










In a free world, with a free press, these would be the categories….







“Holocaust–The Trillion Dollar Scam”

Israel Behind 9/11”

Israel Stages New False Flag in Paris”

“Illegal Aliens Swamping America and Europe”

“Cameron Sits Up and Begs Like A Dog For Israel”

“Israel Steals More Palestinian Land”

“Israel Stages New False Flag Operation”

“Mossad and CIA Stage Kiev Coup”

“Israel, With AIPAC Help, Direct American Foreign Policy For Decades”

“Poll: Netanyahou and Israel #1 Greatest Threat to World Peace”

“Hollywood and Jewish TV Destroy American ‘Culture’ “

“World Drowns in Jewish Porn”

“Holocaust Is A Trillion Dollar Jewish Racket Based on Lies”

“Jewish Power Floods Europe and US with Non-White ‘Migrants’ While Israel Kicks Them Out”

“Nations of World Vote to Build Wall Around Israel Until Jews Learn to Behave Like Humans”


HEADLINE: “Four-Fifths of US Senate wants to boost aid to Israel”

ONLY 4/5th of the US Senate? I’m surprised it was not 5/5ths.  This group of Israel-Firster traitors is the same body of sycophants that gave Netanyahou 30 standing ovations, the same that dutifully sends American troops to fight one Israeli war after another, the same that already “supports” Israel to the tune of $8,000 for every man, woman and child in israel annually.  And the Jewish media whines and wonders why the American people hate politicians.  Because of these loathsome Israel-First creatures, America is nothing more than a colony, a satellite, a milk cow of Israel.


HEADLINE: “Syrian regime kills 16 civilians”

“Regime”? more jewish code words in the jewish media. a ‘regime’ to me is some rogue nation like the US or Israel who attacks other nations like most people eat popcorn, then loots and guts it like the criminal regimes they are. Syria is a legitmate nation of this earth that neither began this war nor wanted it; therefore Syria is a legitimate nation and the US and Israel are criminal ‘regimes.’


HEADLINE: “Speaker Ryan thanked by Israel for taking on Trump” 

of course israel thanked this ryan creature. he is the israel-first neocon tool of the GOP. of course these gangsters thanks ryan for trying to kill off Don Trump. Trump is the only candidate who is not promising israel the moon.

Rant Therapy


Venting good.  Exploding bad.  Let us joice . . . then rejoice!  Let us venti-early and let us venti-late!

The US Coast Guard here in Florida recently returned a raft load of black and tan “freedom seekers” (criminals) to Cuba as the “poor, suffering, wretched refuse” was trying the reach Key West, then next stop, Key Easy Street.  Returned?  Tut, tut.  Mere window dressing.  Pure fol de rol.  The US Government has no more interest in stopping the illegal invasion of America than it does winning the so-called “War on Drugs” (which it has been losing now for upwards of fifty years).  Returning a few boat blacks looks good.  Reads well.  Keeps old Roy and Edna Crotchfield asleep in their rockers; convinces old Roy and Edna’s grown kids that something is being done about illegal immigration; tells them that America still works, still cares, still can.

Funny.  Odd.  If these “migrants” (as the Jewish media is wont to dub such criminals) from Cuba, Haiti, Jamaica, Trinidad, Bahamas, and thirty or more other impoverished black islands with Mexican-class birthrates can make it to the US and land on sand, they are here, dear, free and clear. Under the “wet foot/dry foot” understanding, anyone caught at sea is supposedly (cough . . . clear throat) sent back; any one lucky enough to actually set foot on dry land gets to stay, courtesy of the American tax-payers.  Lucky us!  Nice.  Lovely.  “Our” federal government in action.  There is your immigration law, folks.  Sounds precious much like the “law” that allows any latin vagina that can wade the Rio and who can thereupon squeeze out a frog here and who can thereupon claim that frog as a bona fide Red, White and Green Mexican-Merican, does it not? (yes, I know that technically only the frog is made a US citizen but hey, when was the last time you heard of an anchor baby staying and the criminal anchor baby maker being deported?)

As a resident of Florida I can say this: While most Americans think that the criminal invasion is mostly a Mexican/Central American thing, they fail to see what is going on in Florida.  From my observations, what this illegal black invasion by sea may lack in numbers it more than makes up for in criminality.  Judging by what I see locally, judging by what I hear locally, judging by what I sense locally, these people have zero, repeat, ZERO, zip, zest and zing for “honest” labor.  From what I see, hear, sense, the moment these “migrants” get here it is straight to social services for them to get some of that free shit they have heard so much about, enough shit, at least, until they can get both feet firmly planted into the drug and sex trades, which is where many/most/perhaps all gravitate.

Speaking of drugs, and the so-called “war” against: See any correlation?

Americans, most of you—those of you, that is, who are not snoring like Roy and Edna—most of you already sense this but for what it is worth here ‘tis: “Your” government is your worst enemy!  With democratic governments like this, who needs communist dictatorships?


Industrious Thieves—Over at North Port, the “Drug-Addiction, Spousal Abuse, Sexual Perversion, Petty Theft, Murder One, and Walmart Freak Show Capital of Charlotte County,” someone stole a fire hydrant last night. Now, I know that most of you probably have multiple opportunities each day to lift and move fire hydrants, but for those of you who don’t, let me state that these short metal things weigh a surprising three-hundred pounds.  How much is three hundred pounds?  Well, next trip to Walmart, check out one of those ubiquitous scooter blobs backing up, beeping and generally blocking the aisles in the “snacks and diet-pop” section of the grocery store.  Don’t bother with the really enormous blobs since they are off the charts huge and probably outweigh most Sherman tanks; no, just stick with the “smaller” blobs.  Imagine yourself trying to lift that load—that’s how much a fire hydrant weighs.

Although cops themselves are in no big rush to run into this thieving hydrant gorilla, they do have their tazers set for TTV (Triple Terminal Voltage), just in case.  They also warn the public to be on the lookout for the powerful perp.  He is described as “one humongous muscle-bound steroid freak with huge, hard hands that can bend railroad spikes like hair pins and that can rip off a car door with a single jerk.”

Aside: The going rate for three hundred pounds of scrap metal is $1,200.  Not too shabby for an hour’s worth of crime.  No wonder nocturnal joggers are pitching head-first into holes previously covered by manhole lids and no wonder fire trucks are reaching raging infernos only to find no hydrant and no water. 

Thought:  Just as there would be peace in the Middle East if Israel worked half as hard for peace in the Middle East as it does for war in the Middle East, so too if these thieves worked just half as hard at an honest job as they do at a dishonest job, they could 1) avoid all those embarrassing cameo appearances on “Cops,” they could 2) escape a dozen or more butt tazings per year, and they could 3) dodge those beastly conjugal visits from 300-pound scooter blobs that they end up marrying while in jail because those are the only things that will have someone doing 40 years-to-life behind state walls.


Lady of the Day—Seems some Sarasota seniors are having problems with sex in public.  I have mentioned in past blogs the kinky hairballs and dirty exhibitionists in this area, the lusty log-floggers, the creepo chicken-chokers, and the sleazy squid-squeezers, as well.  I have also noted the homeless and/or drug-crazed couples screwing on neighbors’ lawns, on public beaches, on park picnic tables, and under gazebos and boardwalks.  A while back, a Joan and her John were doin’ a trick in a truck—broad daylight, downtown, busy parking lot, no tinted windows, just a doin’ like dogs do.

Twenty-nine-year-old Whisper Morton—say what?—29-year-old Whisper Morton was spotted by Lust Cops giving a blow job to 54-year-old Wayne Withers.  Appropriately, the oral act was being performed in the Ringling Circus Museum parking lot.

When Officer Clancey and Officer Muldoon walked up to the truck, Officer Clancey observed, “And just what might ye be a doin’ down there now, and this one here with his pants down and you there with him in yer mouth?  And don’t deny it, we saw ya.  What, woman, what now can ye be a sayin’ for yerself?”

Whisper quickly popped Wayne out of her mouth and whispered nervously that . . . that . . . that they “wuz just a husband and wife wildly overcome with passion.”

“Ha!  And listen to her now!” said Muldoon in reply. “Even were this the case, and even if you knew the name of this poor dodger here with his pants down to his knees—which I’m a bettin’ my bonnet you don’t—it’s still against the law to do such sexual shenanigans in public, married or not, where anyone walking by, or biking by, or skate-boarding by, or a baby in a buggy, can take in the free circus act you two are puttin’ on.  And so now, out with the both of ya.  It’s off to Lust Lock-Up for you two love birds.”

Never a dull—or normal—moment down here among the swamp savages and stump grubbers.   Never dull, never normal.

Mad Dog Mad

2845488-34343-white-and-brown-chihuahua-on-the-black-background34d6What passes for “Spring” here in South Florida would, any place else, be considered the depths of summer.   

Thus, with the furnace of Florida stoked and the “Dog Days” already here with a vengeance it is only to be expected that the over-heated nut jobs, the gibbering idiots, the machete maniacs, the foam-flecked road rage-aholics, and the clinically mad meatball mental cases are coming out in droves. How mad are they?  Mad Dog Mad, that’s how mad.


Local loser and mental patient, Kevin Joesph Koscielniak (with a name like that, what else could he be?) broke into a garage recently where he formerly worked. Other than killing a dog which lived inside, there seems no other motive. Koscinelizcic took the canine from his cage, grabbed a tire iron, then beat the helpless animal’s brains out.  It was all caught on camera.  

Kocsieloviczh was nabbed a few days ago, mugged and jugged on some minor crap.  No doubt Kocesspoolivizc is out today stalking streets, hearing voices, answering voices, eating peach preserves and sardine sandwiches, flapping about as free as a rabid fruit bat; and why not?  Judges turn loose rapists, child molesters and violent thugs under the maxim “twenty-strikes-and-still-not-out,” so why not set free some poor screws-loose scrotum whose only crime was beating to death a mere dog? 

Call me a silly romantic, call me a hopeless dreamer, call me a sickeningly sadistic satanist, call me what you will, but personally I would be happy to hear that Kococrazysobzky had been taken out back and beaten to death with a tire iron, then, I would be equally happy to hear that his carcass had been dumped into a canal where the gators could eat him up and crap him out during tomorrow morning’s BM.  And yes, the murderer’s mug shot looks just as bat shit crazy as one might imagine.   


Heads, You Gonna Lose—Another local loony-toon, one Greg Cotton Boyd of Punta Gorda, had finally had it with the heat and stress and the Celtics losing in four during the NBA playoffs and . . . and local teens who supposedly tore up the street out front in their cars and called him names.

I’ll blow off your mother-fuckin’ heads!” yelled the temples-throbbing paranoiac as the kids supposedly sped by.

Finally, when the teens raced by again, Mad Dog Boyd reached for his trusty sub-machine gun.  Since he could not locate the gat, he grabbed a machete instead, then tracked down the kids at the local high school.

I’ll cut off your mother fuckin’ heads!” the wild-eyed nut threatened the trembling, terrified, and by now totally traumatized and pissin’-their-pants teens. 

Blow off?  Cut off?  Chop off? Hack off?  Burn off?  Dissolve off?  Pinch off?  Chew off?. . . Had this gone on much longer no telling how many more ways Greg was going to detach the teens’ mother-fuckin’ heads from their mother-fuckin’ bodies.  But alas, all good things must come to an end.   

After cops arrived at the school they conferred for some time among themselves before it was agreed that Boyd needed a few minutes of remedial tazing, just to settle him down a bit.  And, after that amusing electric chicken-dance on the asphalt in which half the school rushed out to see, Greg did indeed become “much more compliant” (which is to say, that after his electric chicken-dance on the asphalt in which half the school rushed out to see, Greg became much more nearly dead). Boyd was thereupon escorted w/o further incident to an air conditioned 6 by 9 where his murderous mania might chill out somewhat.


Up at Tampa a few ago, a dude and his squeeze were out blazing through time and space on their crotch rocket.  Flashing across the Tampa Bay Causeway under the motto of “Speed Thrills,” the 41-year-old motorcyclist didn’t see the slow scooter up ahead until waaaay too late.  The scooter man died then and there, forever 54.  The rocket man died pretty damn quick too. It was his birthday.  The female passenger lives yet, but barely, and so, the child she and the rocket man made, a three-year-old son, may soon be an orphan.

Speed Thrills. . . .  Wonder how popular that cute slogan is among those who hosed the blood and guts from the road. 


Meanwhile, Back at Punta Gorda—Seems there is never not nothing normal down here among the swamp savages. Over at Punta, at the local nose-to-hole hump-and-grind outdoor theater aka the doggie bark park, 57-year-old Joe Johns got all bent out of shape one steamy eve because some chap in a wheel chair could not, or would not, control his pooch. Seems the canine in question persisted in “jumping up” on JJ (that’s sissy-speak for “leg-fucking Joe’s leg”).  A normal person would have simply shook the dog loose and forgotten the incident in five minutes.  But hey, if Joe Johns was a normal, rational, mentally sound citizen I wouldn’t be blogging about him, now would I?

And so, mentally disturbed Joe—burning with indignity—and burning from the tears of laughter pouring from those who were watching the dog grind on his leg—slipped from the dog’s amorous embrace, walked over to the dog’s owner, then gave him a right sound rap on the beak.  Since that not only stopped the laughter but also felt pretty good too, Joe smote the man again.  And again.  By now, Joe was really warming to the idea of smiting someone who couldn’t smite back and so our boy then knocked the cripple from his wheel chair and really got down with the curb stomp.  Already helplessly confined to the chair, when the victim hit the turf he was as defenseless as an earth worm.  JJ continued to beat, kick and punch the leg-humping dog’s owner.  When the leg-humping dog’s owner’s girl friend’s mother stepped in, she too got a sound beating.

Meanwhile, the cops—on chariots pulled by only the swiftest of snails—eventually showed up.  Although JJ insisted that he was the victim, it was pretty hard to shake all that evidence—wheel chair turned over, cripple cringing on ground beaten black, blue and bloody and curled in fetal position, old woman knocked unconscious, cripple’s dog whimpering in sorrow and sadness for his fallen master while lasciviously leg-humping cop’s leg—and so, in spite of his pleas of innocence, the bark park bully was cuffed and carted away.

No doubt Joe Johns is now out on bond, presumably looking for more paraplegics and old ladies to beat on.

Who could make this shit up?

The Human Condition

tattoo_freaksSome super scientific thoughts on fame, infamy, finity, and infinity.

Sad fact is: The more there are of us the less significant we become.  And, the more insignificant we become the more desperately we strive for significance.

Take, for example, the modern mania for tattoos and body piercings. Are not these self-mutilations merely a manifestation of one’s desperate desire for relevance?  Is not skin discoloration and rivets in the nose a wild, maniacal scream in the night, as per “Look at me!  I am different!  I am cool!  I am sexy!  I count!  I do count, don’t I?  I don’t count?  You’re kidding me?  Please tell me I count!  Please tell me!  Please!  Help!”  Alas, when everyone does it, as they are doing now and as they always do, silly fads such as these become mere herd ritual, stale, staid, passé, boring, zzzzzzzzzz.  And when that happens, the more insecure and desperate among us look for other, even more outrageous and debasing, fads to run to.

Long hair, beads and sandals were the shock and awe scream of the Sixties generation announcing to the world that they were different.  But the clock was ticking and from the moment an idea is uttered it is never young again.  Soon, everyone was sporting long hair, beads and sandals until virtually everybody looked like everybody, again.  No sight was ever more ludicrous-looking than that of thousands of “rebelling” hippies all marching in lock step carrying signs and all looking just like the other hippies. . . .  Well, maybe no sight was more ludicrous-looking, that is, unless it was that of so-called outlaw biker gangs sporting standardized “colors” as predictable as any military uniform or any three-piece Wall Street business suit ever was.  So much for individuality, uniqueness or significance from those quarters. These large-scale attempts at relevance were just new forms of herd behavior.  When given the chance, virtually all humans opt for the safety of numbers and remain unthinking, unquestioning, unremarkable members of the mass.   When it’s freedom or protection on the line, most humans will choose protection every time even while they are shouting for “Freedom!”

After “flower power,” then came into vogue new attempts to shock such as spiked red hair, long purple hair, black lip stick, green lipstick, male earrings, female nose rings.  In their heart of hearts, no one wants the hassle of dying their hair continually green or pink or seeking new places to perforate their skin.  But in our mad quest to be relevant, money, time and pain are small obstacles in our path.

Ever seen full-body tattoos in which virtually every inch of a person is covered in ink?  Of course you have.  Obviously, full-body tats are not just a repellent waste of good ink and bad skin, they are a scream to the world, “Hey, Look at Me!  I am unique.  I’m different.  I am sexy!   I matter!  Love me!  Follow me!  Admire me!  Honor me!  Exalt me!  Worship me!  Deify me!  BOW DOWN YOU USELESS TURD AND DIE FOR ME!”

For shy followers, a simple tat on the breast or leg is a way of saying, “Hey, I’m up-to-snuff.  See my tat?  I’m cool too!  I’m a rebel.  I’m different.  I’m someone!”  Alas, when everyone is “someone,” no one is anyone.

Honestly, 99% of us are about as noteworthy as an ant on an ant-hill, tattoos or no tattoos. We shuffle through life, running from the light, going along to get along, fearing to risk, fearing to fail, fearing to fall out of step or fall from fashion. And we do this with all the mind-numbing anonymity of those professional street-crossers in Andy Griffith re-runs. We read history, we write history, but we don’t make history. For whatever reasons—guts, brains, talent—almost all of us lack what it takes to be remembered even 15 minutes after we are dead. We are intrigued, fascinated, and awed by those who take the risks and make the history. We live our lives vicariously through them.

My recommendation to anyone who totally lacks the brains, drive or luck to do mighty, memorable deeds and who wants to be remembered for maybe a month or more after their execution by lethal injection: Go postal!  Just do it!  Kill a noteworthy person, or massacre a bunch of unnoteworthy persons.  That should make you unique, different and remembered for at least as long as your trial lasts.  Unfortunately for you, your fifteen minutes of infamy will not be of much solace after you are put down.  You will be excoriated for the first ten minutes and in another five minutes you will be all but forgotten and as relevant as a hula hoop.

Or become a serial killer.  No, not just the run-of-the-mill serial killer who kills a hundred prostitutes for kicks or a serial killer who chops up and eats 50 young gay guys.  Boring!   No one will remember a follow-the-leader serial killer like that.  Be innovative . . . be daring . . . be bold! Start killing tele-evangelists.  Since all these sobbing suits and slick hair-dos are supposedly in such a rush to reach heaven and meet their maker, might as well speed up the process.  That should keep your name bouncing around for a few years after your execution.  Or how about following them back to their addresses and putting down those revolting cretins who run naked in front of crowds at sporting events in an attempt to garner a little relevance?  Well, you can help these pervs along too and make them relevant one final time by making them one of your 30 or 40 victims.   Time is short. The list is long.  I’m sure you can come up with your own new and innovative way to kill serially if you just put your diseased and disturbed mind to it.  Good luck.

The Savages Below


Though justice is a constant, the forms of punishment are innumerable. Case in point: While living in Greece, waiting months for a manuscript to arrive from the U.S., I spent several days watching ants at work. Curious little communists. They came spilling out of a crack on our veranda about dawn, set for a day of looting and plundering. Although their “run” was along a wall, scouts would fan out over the marble floor, seeking anything edible, animal or vegetable, living or dead. And after one of my many fly sorties during the day, the spoils were never wanting.

Probably only one fly in ten escaped my swatter after I drew down on it. And of those who were hit, maybe one in twenty tumbled to the deck just wounded. Better for them to have been slain outright or never spawned in the first place for the odds were slim indeed down below. Ants were waiting and there is no pity in the heart of an ant.

When an ant scout bumps into a wounded fly, he does one of two things: 1) He accelerates, runs in a crazy jigsaw pattern and leaves, or 2) he moves to the attack. Actually, this attack is nothing more than a suicide attempt to chomp onto the prey’s leg, hang on tight, then hope for reinforcements. The wounded fly, meanwhile, seems terrorized by the sudden assault. A violent shudder jolts its body. If the wings are still in order, it buzzes furiously. If the legs work, the fly runs, limps or crawls. Should the victim escape this first lunge, the tiny ant runs in a feverish, blind pattern trying to relocate the leg. Usually he does.

At first, it was amusing to watch the lopsided affair for the size ratio of the fly to the ant was about ten to one. And the little brutes don’t seem to be aware of the disparity, but attack with the mindless determination of a terrier to a bull. If the ant latches on, sometimes the fly will run off with his assailant bouncing and banging at leg’s end. Often, a startled fly can fling an ant three or four inches away with a blur of leg flicks. But usually the little ant hangs on like a vise, though he takes one terrible pounding in the process.

At length, maybe in a minute, maybe in an hour, a second scout stumbles upon the scene. At this point the fly really becomes panic-stricken. He goes through the same efforts as before but he is tiring and the odds of escape diminish. Latching on to an opposite leg or even the head, the second aids the first and together the little hyenas begin jerking and tugging the giant beast to earth. It seems to go quicker from here on out for invariably, as if guided by blood scent, a third comrade enters the fray. Then comes a fourth and fifth. After the sixth ant, the fly is as good as got. There never seems to be more than ten ants to a fly; as though they instinctively know that any more than this would just get in the way. Although the struggling continues mightily, and occasionally, in a burst of fear and desperation, the fly gallops away with three or four ants dangling from his limbs, the issue is settled.

Finally, as the trembling fly is slowly but surely held down, a “mechanic” makes his appearance. This ant is normal in body size, but its head is a rusty color and much larger than the others. He also has a tremendous set of jaws. Patiently, and with cool deliberation, the mechanic goes to work, first on one side, then the other, casually working under, over and around the holders, trying to locate the choice cutting zones. In fifteen or twenty minutes he has dismembered the prey until only a black trunk with stubs remain. At this point, the ants begin lugging their prize back to the cave.

Staring down the length of an ant caravan from floor level looks like of a tiny Egyptian procession, for waving a fraction above the surface is a piece of wing, a leg, a wing, a foreleg, and so on. Occasionally, an ant carried a bit of body or eye that was accidentally whacked off. Following the cavalcade comes four or five bearers dragging the living corpse. Killing the fly outright never seemed to be in the program. Just immobilization. My theory is that the little fiends intentionally keep the fly alive so that the flesh doesn’t rot or harden on the journey home. And thus, back at the ranch, the murderous horde can dine on fresh game at their leisure.

Of course, by now the exhausted fly is insane with pain and fear––shudders, spasms, leg stubs twitching in frantic, impotent bursts. It doesn’t take much imagination or a microscope to see the hundreds of rolling white eyes of the victim; nor does it take a tiny microphone to pick up the agonizing screams for mercy and a quick death. But the pitiless ants could care less. Such a hideous end—eaten alive one mouthful at a time!

Ants are really like tiny wolves, bringing down anything they set their collective mind to. Even wolves have feelings, however, and are careful lest pain and injury should occur. Ants seem afraid of nothing and never back off. I’m also sure that could we see their faces, we’d never see an ant pant. Like robots-–-fearless, tireless and utterly, utterly ruthless.

Postscript: Since Greece seems to be the matrix from which all the flies of the world are spawned, then sent flying out into the world to plague every living thing that walks, creeps, and crawls over the face of the earth, I found this graffiti fitting inside a toilet stall at the fly-infested Athens airport: “Ten trillion flies can’t be wrong: EAT SHIT!”

Low Places on the High Plains


A few years ago, one torrid summer’s eve, I was in North Platte, Nebraska. North Platte was the home of perhaps the most famous American of all time, William “Buffalo Bill” Cody. Searching for a water hole to cool my hot heels, I first slipped into a saloon called The Depot. Judging by the traffic, it was a popular place. Very quickly, however, I realized that The Depot was not for me. The huge amplifier directly overhead was blaring down some modern noise and the upscale pretension and plastic menu turned me off completely. I had spied another place coming into town and so I saddled and scooted.

From the outside, the Flat Rock Bar looks like one of those dirty, dingy, dismal dives that a “respectable” person might wish to avoid. And in truth, should such a featherless biped take a bet and venture in, their stay would probably be brief. Good. No upscale pretension here. Just a bar up front, a juke box in back, and a pool table smack in the middle. There are no waitresses with plastic smiles and recorded greetings in their heads to seat you; there are no yard-long laminated menus with fizzy names for plain old hamburgers to choose from. No, at the Flat Rock just cold beer and whiskey straight. Entertainment is strictly voluntary. It was a Poor Man’s Country Club; a place where the nuts and bolts of North Platte come together a dozen times or more a week to unwind and raise pure hector. It’s also a place where if one is not careful what one says one might end up looking like one of the clientele whose front teeth were missing.

But if one minds one’s manners, he’ll come out alright. I know the folks. The slim and serious fellow at the pool table, the one in the cowboy hat who is chalking slowly and studying each shot as if the entire place was waiting breathlessly-–no one was watching-–this fellow might try to cheat you at a game of eight-ball, but he’d never screw you in a business deal. He might try to steal your wife from you, but he’ll make his move right up front, and not through a back door. He is sometimes loud and profane in a drinking establishment like this but face to face with a stranger he is almost painfully civil and polite. Without a second thought he’d stop his pickup on a dead dark road any rainy night of the week and give you a lift after you’ve ran out of gas. I know the folks here. I was at ease . . . and then some.

Tonight, a Friday night, the rowdy patrons were in high galore. The racket ebbed and flowed but mostly flowed. The snatches of conversations I overheard were the usual: work (too much of it), alimony (not enough of it—“the sonofabitch is late again”) and the weekend rodeo. A short, fat Indian woman on her way to the restroom limped by my table on a crutch.

“I thought you was Jesse Ventura,” she laughed as she patted me softly on the shoulder.

“I wish I was,” said I with a smile.

A strong wind was blowing through the front door carrying the volumes of cigarette smoke out the back door. The juke box was loud, but not noisy, and every word Johnny Horton sang about “Big Sam’s” gold and a “gator’s bee-hind” could be clearly understood. The friendly old bartender made it over to my table when he could and I made it over to the bar when he couldn’t. After three or four such mutual visits, I decided that it was time to pack it up, satisfied that the Corona was as good or better here as at the fancy place.

Now starved, I drove out to Interstate 80 and found something called “Whiskey River,”  or maybe it was “Whiskey Creek,” I forget.  Like the first stop that night, this last stop was upscale, plastic, insipid. The only memory I have of the place is how far away I had to park, even though there were seemingly dozens of empty “handicapped” spaces right in front. The hobbled Indian lady didn’t seem to have any trouble getting in and out of the Flat Rock, even though parking there was strictly catch-as-catch-can.

When in North Platte next, believe I will slip on down to the Flat Rock oasis. Like Garth, give me friends in low places any day to the plastic people in high places. This segues into . . .

Comfort Zones

When I lived in Boston there was an M.I.T. (Massachusetts Institute of Technology) professor whose three-month summer vacations were spent bumming and slumming the mean streets and alleys of downtown Beantown, including the sordid “Combat Zone” (a sleazy porno-steamo-kinko neon section of sneaks and cheats, tricks and treats). Brilliant as he undoubtedly was, and accustomed as he must have been to the society of high places, this chap’s comfort zone was in low places. In this latter slot this man could truly be at ease . . . and be himself. No more pretense. No more stress and strain. No more smiling when he didn’t mean it. No more going along to get along. Hate to say it, but sounds a bit like me, though not to that degree, as per my piece above on the Flat Rock. The professor and me are not alone.

Cody, Wild Bill Hickok and the whole wild west wrecking crew went on periodic R&R’s to the seedier sides of Kansas City, Omaha, Dodge, Hays, Leavenworth, North Topeka, and other “sporting” resorts safely removed from the war zone, yet they always—always—returned to the wilderness when the time came. When Wild Bill was lured east by Cody to “perform” before the foot lamps of Schenectady, Poughkeepsie, Rochester, West Chester, East Chester, Horse Chester, and other such crazy places, it wasn’t long before this miserable man, this plainsman out of his element, returned to his wild west comfort zone. And even Cody, hustling huckster that he became, was not happy internally with his new found acclaim in the big cities. With every chance that came, Buffalo Bill returned again and again to the wilderness. . . . he came back to his comfort zone where he could inwardly be at peace.

I think all of us have a spiritual “oasis” . . . a comfort zone. Some of us may not want to admit it. But we all know it when we reach it . . . and we are at peace.

Sell Your Helmet Stock


Today, more than ever, I noticed on the bike trail the growing mania for helmets. Big people, little people, short people, tall people, old people, young people, male and female, straight and gay, fat and spare, all God’s chillen’ it seems, must now have protection for their coconut.

As a kid growing up in a small town, you might say I came from a biker subculture. All us kids took a spill now and then on asphalt or gravel, but no one ever came close to busting their head that I am aware of––and we are talking some serious biking hours here. Plus, as kids, we always rode hell-bent-for-leather (whatever that means). In a pinch, the first thing a person will do is try to save their noggin. It’s instinct. Should any force be strong enough to penetrate the protective arms and hard hands draped around a head-–-say a car, bus, train, or space shuttle–-then a helmet would be of absolutely no use in any case. Actually, some bikers are so snail-like on the trails that a helmet is totally unnecessary. I’ve seen youngsters, oldsters and fatsters creeping so slowly along that joggers, and even someone walking at a brisk clip, could probably pass them. The only way these slow-bots could receive blunt force trauma to the pate would be if they fell off their bikes and literally beat their heads against a rock.

And of all the rich sights this earth has to offer, few compare to that of an old fat person wobbling along unsteadily on a bike wearing a five-sizes-too-small helmet similar to image #5 above.   If one of these clumsy land whales should take a spill just about the only thing that won’t get damaged will be that tiny and ridiculous thing on the victim’s head.

Speaking of biking without helmets. . . . Oscar-winner, Gene Hackman, was riding his bike down in the Florida Keys a while back when a pickup truck plowed into him from the rear.  “Hackman was riding without a helmet,” sniffed the silly writer of the piece (because that’s what every other silly news writer without a brain writes).  What this young reporter failed to mention was, “Yep, Hackman was not wearing a helmet . . .  and it’s a damned good thing the 81-year-old actor was NOT since a blast from the past like that, and the additional weight of a helmet, could well have snapped his neck from whiplash.”  As is, this tough old bird—made famous by the hit movie, Bonnie & Clyde—was in and out of the hospital that day and was riding his bike again in no time . . .  sans helmet.

A Final Note on HelmetsIt has been noted by way more than your blogger that most men who wear helmets seem to be very slim and smallish and have fastidious feminine traits.  On the other hand, I have noticed that those who do not wear helmets seem to be large men with muscles, shaved heads and seem to be at home making with the macho.  Given that humans are far more sheep-like, lemming-like and goose-like than the sheep, lemmings and geese they mock, look for a radical swing downward in the number of helmets protecting the coconuts of sissy cyclists over the next few years.  Here in Florida that trend has already started.  My advice: Sell your helmet shares . . . Now!

Another Final Note on Helmets—Think about this my dear blogologists: From time immemorial, soldiers in combat have worn metal helmets to protect those personal computers we now call brains.  The Greeks and Spartans, the Romans, the Vikings, the Crusaders, the armies of the Middle Ages, the Spanish Conquistadors, Japanese Samurai, German Hessians and British Lancers, the soldiers of World War One and Two, and the troops of the present perpetual American wars fought to make the world safe for Israel.  With maybe the exception of American Indians on the warpath, in every age of combat, it seems, troops wore helmets . . . EXCEPT during the American Civil War.  What were they thinking?  Both sides during that mess either wore those little cloth kepis (below, left) which looked very natty when tilted on the head, or French fezs (below, right) with those cute tassels, or just simple brimmed hats to keep the sun out.  Of course, some troops during the American Civil War also wore red shirts.  I suppose they did this so that it would be even easier for the enemy to spot them, site them and shoot them.  Truly, this must have been the Age of Macho . . . Macho Madness.  With only cloth to protect the head, these troops might just as well have worn paper hats.


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Simon Sez: “Drop Dead!”

Image-321A handsome young baseball coach who is killed by a line drive in Arkansas. Two young workers fall a thousand feet to their deaths from the tower in Kansas. An elevator man in Iowa slips and literally drowns in a mountain of soy beans.  An old woman in Virginia is attacked and eaten by pit bulls. A Brazilian who is swallowed whole by an anaconda . . . an old man on a morning walk attacked and killed by an otter. . . .

No one really wants to die, but no one wants to die in pointless ways like the people above. There are good ways to die and there are bad ways to die. There is something unworthy, or unjust, or unfair, or just unnormal about a grown man diving to his death to simply catch a foul ball. Or how about the relatives of that man killed by the otter here in Florida?  What do they talk about at that funeral? Hmmm?  No one wants their obituary to read: “Elmer Fudd, 56, died at his home yesterday after choking on a chicken bone.” These sort of lousy deaths negate an entire lifetime simply because an odd or ridiculous demise sticks; it is the last, lingering thing we remember of the victim. No matter how many Nobel Prizes were won, no matter how many cancers were cured, the grand culmination of a valuable, productive life is: “Fred? Oh, yeah, he had his head chopped off by a helicopter blade.” That will be the last mortal act of the deceased and the first thing remembered about a person: “Marvin?  Ain’t he the one who tripped and drowned in an open septic tank?”

The way I definitely don’t want to go? “Poor Mike . . . he died of rectal cancer.” Or “Poor Mike . . . a piece of space junk conked him on the cocoanut stiffer than a mitten!” Or “Poor Mike, ha, ha, ha. . . . And to think, he was a vegetarian, and to be killed like he was . . . run over and smashed flat as a possum by a meat delivery truck as he crossed an Arby’s parking lot!”  No, if we must go down then let us go “in our sleep,” or just via a simple heart attack, or please, just with normal lung or brain cancer. Better still, let a man go down doing something grand, something heroic: Like dying while saving a bus full of crippled kids as the runaway vehicle is about to careen over a cliff, or clocking out while rescuing caged kittens and puppies at a burning pet store, or buying the farm in a gunfight after killing all three muggers attempting to rob and rape a woman. Now those are deaths I can live . . . rather, those are deaths I can die with.

 My dream death: To just drop down stone dead while I am walking along the banks of a river by myself. If I miss the stream and fail to fall in and am not flushed out to sea , that’s okay too, just as long as my body is never found. I will fertilize the tree I fall near, or provide food for some scavenging animals, will be no fuss or bother to anyone, and I will save my family about 10K in funeral expenses.


Our local economy blows.  That’s pretty clear.  No matter how much they dress up the gorilla with fluffy, frilly news about “recovery,” it’s still a gorilla.  The only growth industries that I see locally seems to be drugs, death and, of course, senior crime, both giving and receiving.  Not a hour passes in Florida without some greedy old loon being swindled from their life savings after being promised millions by some nice young man in Nigeria.  

Now, with so many wild and desperate drug addicts running loose like pit bulls, there is also a noticeable jump in strong-arm robberies.  Since seniors are weak, slow, and stupid, they have become the perfect targets for young cracker and nigger thugs. 

Up at Ellenton the other morning, an 85-year-old man, let’s call him Roy Ringworm, was out getting his dead-tree media off the driveway at either the Golden Years Mobile Home Estates or the Palm Breeze Mobile Gardens, I forget which.  Up walks a poor, disadvantaged city yuff in a hoodie.  He marches old Ring right back into the trailer, steals his billfold and Perry Como cassette collection, slaps him around a bit for kicks, then leaves without any risk to one inch of his worthless carcass.

A few days later, in the same area, a old woman was walking around at Sunset Bay Mobile Acres at midnight when a cyclist wearing a black hoodie knocked her down and stole her purse.

Walking around at midnight?  Purse?  Whatever. . . .

Thought:  Mobile Gardens? Mobile Estates?  Mobile Acres? . . . there’s that gorilla again.  No matter how fancy you dress a gorilla, it’s still a gorilla.  Although there is no comparison between the rather nice, palmy trailer parks down here and the crappy, crummy meth holes up north, seems crime, like F-5 tornadoes, are drawn to trailer courts no matter where they are or what they are called.

Wild Sex

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I live in South Florida. As I was laying on a Gulf Coast beach some time ago following a sweaty bike ride, I looked over in the dunes and saw what I thought at first were two gopher tortoises fighting. It seemed the smaller of the two (maybe four pounds) was trying to invade the larger’s (maybe eight pounds) hole, which was a few yards from my sweat bench. The big one kept bumping the smaller, hard enough to make a noise, then he even began biting the foot of the other (all this was followed by long pauses). Well, when the larger started bobbing his head up and down and sideways in a rhythmic way, it dawned that the two were going through the ritual . . . as in THE ritual. Modest, mild-mannered Midwestern man that maybe I mostly might be, and even tho I did muse to myself how they would do it with 99% of their body covered in armor, I quit watching and lay back down.

Ten minutes later, up came three noisy women, anxious to take photos of the “gophers.” When I politely mentioned that the two were mating (“two”? whoever heard of three mating?), it did not register and the ladies crowded even closer. Of course—POOF!—there went the romance; the moment of passion had passed. Although the frenzied male seemed to have no problem and would have probably put on a real XXX porn performance for the women, the demure female tried to flee these loud giants by crawling under the wooden barrier fence. Alas, her shell got stuck and the younger of the giants “helped” her.

What can one say? I considered chiding the ladies to leave the animals alone; but who made me Roger Ranger? It was one thing had the women harmed the beasts—I would not have sat for that—but they clearly were just curious. Still, the fact is that these well-meaning people interrupted an important natural process. It would be awful if this breeding female of this endangered species failed to lay eggs because of the understandable curiosity of the humans. Whether we are loving these creatures to extinction or curiosifying them to extinction the result is the same—we are bugging them to extinction.

Who has not seen the “nature” programs on TV in which some so-called scientist is running down some animal either from the air, land or sea, to dart, net, disable, clip, cut, prod, probe, and sample something? When they are finished, almost always these people “painlessly” tag the animals, then fasten on one of those obscene and god-forsaken “tracking” contraptions—or even cameras—so these gung-ho naturalists can trace the movements of some species as they avoid predators and death and try to resume normalcy. It all looks rather harmless, and we are assured that it all furthers our knowledge of the animal. But really, imagine the trauma you would suffer if space aliens ran you down to utter exhaustion, sedated you, stuck all manner of things in you, cut off pieces of you, then put an ill-fitting alien collar on you to follow your movements forever? My bet is you would be just as traumatized as the animals. You might even go crazy and avoid food, sex and even the light of day or the dark of night. It’s a safe bet you will never be the same person again.

I am all for protecting wild animals, but with minimal humanal, and that goes for the Steve Irwins of the world (above) who must fill half hour TV programs each week by capturing terrified animals, over-handling them and acting like Tarzan as they do. We certainly must start blinding or killing poachers in Africa, Asia and America, for the heartless, soulless beasts they are, but we must also stop studying these animals to death simply because some college yo-yo is curious about the sex habits of something and needs to feather his resume or because some ego-Godzilla wants to boost his ratings for his weekly TV program.

Game Changer

hellstorm englishSince the release of my book, Hellstorm–The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944-1947, I have received scores of emails from those who feel the need to personally thank me. Many of these notes are from some who simply love historical honesty and truth.  Others are from the children and grandchildren of those who passed through the evil described in the book. Among most who finish Hellstorm, however, one theme stands out.

Beginning in late 2015 with release of the German translation of Hellstorm, I made it my life mission to see that the book is available in virtually every language on earth. This year alone will witness the release of Hellstorm in Spanish, French and perhaps Greek and Russian.  Next year, I hope to see the book available in Portuguese, Dutch, Hindi, and Japanese. Impressive as this may seem, it is, in my opinion, slow, far too slow.  My hope, my ambition, my driving aim, is to make the book available world-wide within three years.  Why?   Why this rush for so much so soon?  Let me share several comments I have received just in the past two months:

“I just finished Hellstorm.  I want to personally thank you for writing this book.  As difficult as it was to read, I felt I owed it to the victims.  It was, indeed, a terrible book to read but I’m glad I finished it.  I must tell you this: There was me before Hellstorm, and now there is me after Hellstorm.  I am not the same person as before.  Now I see what must be done. Now I am totally committed.  Failure is not an option, that is clear.  If we fail, Hellstorm offers a very accurate and horrific account of what will be our fate, just as it was for those helpless, disarmed Germans. Once again, thank you for this terrible, but necessary book.  I am very certain that such will be the supreme sadness, anger and rage of anyone who reads this that, like myself, they will be ready to do whatever it takes.   ———-an Englishman

“Mr. Goodrich, thank you so much for your courage.  You changed my life.  As I read your book, between pages of shock and horror, I felt the scales fall from my eyes. For the first time in my life I could actually see the world as it is, not as I have been told it is. ”    

                                                                                                      ———-a Canadian

“This book is a game-changer.  If everyone on earth could read it, it would turn the tables over night and destroy the Jewish evil that now enslaves all of us.  What the Jews have done and what they continue to do to us, it is all here in this book, in unmistakable terms.  Make no mistake, this is our fate unless we act NOW!”   ———-an Australian

“I thought I knew everything there was to know about World War Two.  But I was wrong. Very wrong.  I never imagined that the Jewish enemy, and that includes the Allied leaders, was this vicious, this evil, or this depraved.  Unless you know Hellstorm, you do not know the real world.  And unless you know the real world, you are no better than a worm under a rock.  I am filled with rage.  I cannot think of one book more important to our survival than Hellstorm. Thank you!    ———-an American

Now, my plan may sound like a great money-making scheme to some, but I assure you, it is not. The translations of Hellstorm are very expensive and those good men and women—our brothers and sisters in this fight—they who do the actual translations must receive recompense for their time, trouble and talent.  And let me say this right now: Regardless of what happens, if I never receive a dime of support, as long as I live I will pursue this project until it is finished, or until I die, which ever comes first.  My hope, however, is to not spend the rest of my life on this project, but to complete it within the next three years so that I can finish one other very important book I have planned.

To help fund this project, to help reach the entire world in three years, I will be grateful for all contributions, of course, but below are some offers that can speed the process along.  The sooner I am funded, the sooner will I reach the world and the sooner the world will shift on its axis.

$100 donation———2 free copies of Hellstorm

$1,000 donation——10 free copies of Hellstorm and 5 DVD’s of Hellstorm–The Documentary

$10,000 donation-—100 free copies of Hellstorm, 10 DVDs of Hellstorm, and a personal dedication in the book

To help out on this personal project, please drop your contribution in my Paypal account (

My friends, we are winning.  Nothing is more certain in all the world.  The enemy is feeling the heat like never before.  Just as Jewish Communism and the Berlin Wall suddenly came down with a startling crash, no one knows what will trigger the ultimate Jewish fall from power, nor how swift it might occur.  But, as we all know, come it shall.  Help me make that fall come sooner, rather than later.

The “Greatest Generation”

Dachau, Germany, American soldiers posing in front of bodies of dead German сс

Every month, it seems, yet another movie is released based upon some real or some fanciful event of World War Two. Invariably, like some stylized Greek drama in which the actors all wear the same masks and all chant the same lines, the cast in these propagandistic morality plays are as predictable as the message. On one side are arrayed the Allies, the good guys; generally, these are the happy-go-lucky gum-chewing Americans who are heroically “fighting for freedom” and are striving to save the world and the folks back in Ohio from slavery; on the other side are the arrogant Germans, the evil Nazis; this is the dark force the world is being saved from, those over-bearing monsters who live only to murder, rape, torture, kill, and make lampshades and bars of soap out of poor, defenseless, harmless Jews.

It has now been over 70 years since the conclusion of the so-called “Good War.”  Thousands of books, articles and movies have been devoted to this pivotal period and the supposedly heroic sacrifice of the so-called “Greatest Generation.” Despite the sheer tonnage of material dedicated to the victor’s version of WWII, there has yet to be an honest, accurate and straight-forward retelling of that cataclysmic event and what it really looked like, not merely from the victors’ perspective, but through the eyes of the vanquished, as well.

The following is from my book Hellstorm—The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944-1947. To date, this book remains the only in-depth account of what the end of the war and the beginning of the so-called “peace” looked like from the German perspective.  To this day, what happened to Germany and her people, especially after the war, remains the darkest and best-kept secret in world history. And to this day, what happened to Germany and her people also remains, by far, the greatest and most sadistic crime ever committed in the history of mankind.

(above: Members of the “Greatest Generation” enjoying the “Good War” by defecating on the bodies of recently murdered German prisoners.)


Following its devastating defeat during the Ardennes offensive of December 1944, the Wehrmacht withdrew and regrouped behind the “West Wall,” a mostly imaginary line that roughly traced the Reich’s western border. There, as elsewhere, the German Army was a dim shadow of its former self, vastly outnumbered in men and materiel, but above all, totally overwhelmed in the air. While the end of Nazi Germany loomed in the east, the end also steadily advanced from the west. Unlike the howling savagery to the east, fraught with nightmarish ferocity, defeat in the west came methodically, inexorably and, judged by the standards of the east, almost silently.

“We felt powerless before the immeasurable material superiority of the Americans, without which the Russians and British would have capitulated long since… ,” revealed one German officer.

Nevertheless, the hard-pressed Landser was still more than a match for the American “GI” and the British “Tommy.” Whenever the two sides met on anything approaching equal numbers, the results were always the same. Defending its homeland reinvigorated the German Army, of course, but during the fighting in Italy and North Africa, the outcome was similar. Asked his opinion of American troops during the fighting in North Africa—a campaign where Germany’s ally, the Italian Army, had scattered and surrendered like sheep—one captive Landser told his US interrogators bluntly: “The Americans are to us what the Italians are to you.”

Though American commanders were understandably outraged by such sentiment, the panic created among Allied ranks during the Ardennes offensive only reinforced this assessment within the German Army. One reason for the Landser’s low opinion of his American adversary could simply be attributed to lack of experience. Sights and sounds that many German soldiers had long since become accustomed to were terrifying novelties to most GIs. Remembered a British sergeant:

The Americans will bunch, whereas we go up two sides of a road. . . . They were shouting at each other and firing at nothing…. It appeared that the American infantrymen were not trained in “battle noises.” They seemed to drop to the ground and fire, whenever shots were heard close by. When passing a burning farmhouse, there was a sound of what appeared to be a machine-gun; no one could have been in the house, because of the flames, and it was obviously ammunition burning; but it took some time to get the Americans up and on again. As we [proceeded] I saw a figure in a long German greatcoat rise to his feet from the center of a field, and walk towards us with his hands up. The man was Volkssturm [militia], about 50 or 60 years of age, a long, thin chap. Before we could do anything about it, three Americans let fly with their carbines and the figure fell. God, we were angry.

While small arms fire was frightening, green US troops found artillery barrages utterly horrifying.

“[S]hells would not only tear and rip the body,” said one frantic American, “they tortured one’s mind almost beyond the brink of sanity.”

“[T]he pure physical terror that savages you when loud and violent death is screaming down from the sky and pounding the earth around you, smashing and pulping everything in search for you” was, a comrade added, “emasculating.”  Recalled another American novice:

I asked [the sergeant] if he was hit and he sort of smiled and said no, he had just pissed his pants. He always pissed them, he said, when things started and then he was okay. He wasn’t making any apologies either, and then I realized something wasn’t quite right with me. … There was something warm down there and it seemed to be running down my leg….I told the sarge. I said, “Sarge, I’ve pissed too,” or something like that and he grinned and said, “Welcome to the war.”

Accustomed to the bloodless “clean” kills of Hollywood, sudden, hideous sights also worked to unman the average American newcomer. After taking direct hits, some saw their buddies vaporize in a spray of “red spots.” Others viewed comrades lying along roads, nothing more than “half a body, just naked buttocks and the legs.” With the war obviously nearing its end, and with sights like the above vivid in their minds, few GIs “went looking for a Purple Heart.” Also, and as was the case in 1917, many American soldiers suffered what some observers called “spiritual emptiness;” a seeming uncertainty as to what exactly they were fighting for … or fighting against.

Despite years of anti-Nazi propaganda and attempts to demonize the German soldier, front-line troops, as always, were first to discard hate. From released or escaped prisoners, it soon became apparent that Allied POWs were treated well and accorded all the rights of the Geneva Convention. Additionally, details that were seemingly trivial matters to politicians, propagandists and rear-echelon troops were all-important concerns to the actual fighters.

“One thing I’ll say for the Germans,” a British Tommy admitted, “they were better than we were with enemy dead; buried them properly and neatly with their equipment … over the crosses.”

Not surprisingly, “understandings” among the adversaries were quickly reached to make the war more tolerable to both parties. “We maintained very friendly communications with the Germans. . . ,” confessed an American major. “Before they shelled Homberg they would let us know in advance the exact time. Before we shelled Leverkusen we would let the Germans know in advance. So everybody took cover ahead and nobody got hurt.” On countless other occasions front-line troops met, mixed, traded trinkets, even socialized.

On more than one occasion, drunken American, British and German soldiers found themselves rioting together in the same bars and brothels and even standing in the same lines to use the same restrooms.

Such incidents as the above had a way of putting an all-too human face on the “evil Hun.” The same factors which worked on Allied attitudes of the German worked on German attitudes of the Allies. Unlike the East Front, German soldiers were well aware that their foe in the west was a signatory of the Geneva Convention. Under this agreement, Landsers were guaranteed by law the status of POW upon capture or surrender. And like their Allied counterparts, with the end of war in sight, many “Jerries” along the West Wall were unwilling to play hero. “I am neither looking for an Iron Cross,” a German soldier declared, “nor a wooden one.” Also, it was no secret that Landsers, high and low, considered the Western Allies the lesser of two evils. With the Red Army roaring across Germany from the east, many Germans were secretly hoping the Americans might occupy what remained of the Reich before the communists did.

Nevertheless, and although the war in the west was not characterized by the same “do or die” determination as it was in the east, thousands of patriotic German officers and men were committed to defend their homeland to the “last ditch.” As the Americans and British pressed the Wehrmacht back from the West Wall, then over the Rhine, a glimpse at the task faced is given by an English officer from the town of Rees:

They had been chased out of France, Belgium and Holland, into Germany, back over the Rhine, and now street by street across Rees into a corner. Yet they were still fighting it out…. The situation now was that the enemy were confined to the last hundred yards, at the very tip of the east end, but they were in a strong position with deep trenches and concrete and any attempts to get at it were met by heavy fire. I was going to make a last effort with C Company, when in came four or five prisoners, including a captain, who said he was in command. . . . He was marched in front of me as I sat at my table poring over the map, and he gave me a spectacular Hitler salute which I ignored…. He was a nasty piece of work, cocksure and good-looking in a flashy sort of way, but I had to admire the brave resistance which he had put up. The strain of battle was apparent in the dark black chasms under his eyes.

In spite of such fierce resistance, the massive weight of the Allied advance slowly ground all opposition into the mud. “[I]t must be stated that the morale of our men [in the west] is slowly sinking… ,” admitted propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels. “[T]hey have now been fighting uninterruptedly for weeks and months. Somewhere the physical strength to resist runs out.”


If morale among troops was “slowly sinking,” that of many civilians in the west had long since sunk. After enduring years of air attacks and now invasion, some Germans were more than willing to accept defeat. Unlike the terrified trekkers to the east, relatively few Germans in the west abandoned their homes. Despite the best efforts of Nazi propaganda, the racial and cultural ties with the Western Allies, particularly the Americans, was simply too strong to arouse the same depth of fear as did the Soviets. Hardly was there a German family that did not have at least one close relative in America and most felt that there was an essential goodness in any people who could give to the world a Mickey Mouse, Shirley Temple or Laurel and Hardy. Far from fleeing the advancing Allies, many civilians actually ran to greet them. Remembered a young German:

[O]ne very sunny morning we saw across the fields a convoy of vehicles coming, and as they came closer we saw they were Americans, with little white stars on the side. There was a jeep up front and then tanks and troops carriers, and the bloke in the jeep had both his hands up, and in one hand he had a loaf of bread and in the other a lump of cheese. They came on very slowly . . . and as they came the Home Guard threw down their weapons and rushed toward the Americans, and my mother leapt up and started racing over the fields, with me about two hundred yards behind her, straight toward the American column. The man in the jeep turned out to be a very fat American sergeant, and my mother threw her arms around his neck and kissed him and hugged him in absolute joy and relief. It was all over.

“Wherever we drove through the Rhineland those first weeks in April the feelings of the German people were unmistakable,” reported war correspondent, Leonard Mosley.

The war was not yet over but they knew it was lost, and they were engaged in an instinctive effort to save something from the wreck. The mass of the people were casting off National Socialism like an old coat, almost without grief or regret, determined to forget it and to work to recreate, in cooperation with their conquerors, the things that had now been destroyed. . . . The men and women we stopped on the streets to ask the way were polite and helpful; they gathered round in bunches when they heard us speaking German, and bombarded us with questions: “How far had we advanced? When would the war be over? Where were the Russians?”

When reports from recaptured towns and villages stated that the Americans (or, “Amis”) had treated civilians well and had not even engaged in looting, the desire among other Germans to surrender became overwhelming. Home Guard units were disbanded, white flags sprouted from doors and windows and many communities refused to aid the German Army in any way.

“Twice,” recalled a British POW, “I watched an SS corporal go to a house and ask for water and each time the housewife, having seen his uniform, slammed the door in his face. He meekly retreated.”

In a desperate bid to shore up crumbling resistance, Dr. Goebbels’s propaganda office warned citizens that “these Americans were combat troops whose only function was to fight; but after them come the rearguard service troops and especially the Jews, who have in all other cases acted ruthlessly against the population.” Unfortunately, the truth in these words became apparent once the front-line troops pushed on.


Unlike the wild and almost unmanageable Red Army, US military commanders might have prevented much of the excesses committed by their men against helpless civilians had they so willed it. In most cases, however, they did not. On the contrary, the words of some high-ranking officers seemed designed to encourage atrocities.

“We are engaged in a total war, and every individual member of the German people has turned it into such,” US general Omar Bradley announced. “If it had not been Hitler leading the Germans, then it would have been someone else with the same ideas. The German people enjoy war and are determined to wage war until they rule the world and impose their way of life on us.”

“[T]he German is a beast,” echoed Supreme Allied Commander, Dwight David Eisenhower, a man whose hatred of all things German was well known. In much the same vein as Soviet premier Josef Stalin and American president Franklin Roosevelt, Eisenhower advocated the outright massacre of German army officers, Nazi Party members and others. In all, according to the American general, at least 100,000 Germans should be “exterminated.”

“In heart, body, and spirit . . . every German is Hitler!” faithfully trumpeted the US Army newspaper, Stars and Stripes. “Hitler is the single man who stands for the beliefs of Germans. Don’t make friends with Hitler. Don’t fraternize. If in a German town you bow to a pretty girl or pat a blond child … you bow to Hitler and his reign of blood.”

Not surprisingly, such sentiment from above quickly worked its way down. Soon after combat soldiers moved out of a community and rear echelon troops moved in, the reality of occupation became clear. Wrote one shocked reporter, William Stoneman of the Chicago Daily News:

Frontline troops are rough and ready about enemy property. They naturally take what they find if it looks interesting, and, because they are in the front lines, nobody says anything. . . . But what front-line troops take is nothing compared to the damage caused by wanton vandalism of some of the following troops. They seem to ruin everything, including the simplest personal belongings of the people in whose homes they are billeted. Today, we have had two more examples of this business, which would bring tears to the eyes of anybody who has appreciation of material values.

“We were crazy with happiness when the Americans came,” one woman said, “but what [they] did here was quite a disappointment that hit our family pretty hard.”

They broke everything and threw it all outside. Later, we found only piles of rubbish. . . . Those who came in the first few days were fighting troops and they had seen something of the war. But those who came later … hadn’t seen anything at all. And many of these very young soldiers wanted to experience something, like repeat a little of the war. . . . We had original watercolors and so forth on the walls, which weren’t framed, and they wrote all over them. In the cellar we had bottles of apple juice. When we wanted to get some later, after the Americans had left, they’d drunk it all up and filled the bottles with urine. Or, in our cooking pots was toilet paper, used toilet paper.

In many towns, the invaders unlocked jails, prisons and concentration camps and invited the inmates to join the revelry.  “They just opened up the camps and let them go,” noted Amy Schrott, a young German raised in New Jersey. “The Russians and Poles were looting the houses and killing the shopkeepers. Then they began raping the girls.”

When a prison camp at Salzwedel was thrown open, a mob of various nationalities literally tore the town to pieces. Locating the mayor, a gang of Russians dragged the man, his wife and daughter to the cemetery. After lashing the mayor to a tombstone, a line of laughing men began taking turns with his naked wife as she screamed on her hands and knees. When a Mongolian started to rape his daughter, the father, in a final fit of rage, tore the tombstone from the ground, then fell over dead.

A glimpse at the anarchy unleashed is given by Christabel Bielenberg (below) of Furtwangen as she pedaled a bicycle near the town:

chritabelIt was like a drunken circus along the road. There were hordes of liberated Russian forced laborers, all dressed in clothes they had looted from all the ransacked shops, roaring with laughter and falling all over the road. And there were soldiers in huge army trucks tearing past all over the road in a crazy kind of way—it was a fantastic scene….

When we got to Furtwangen it was in pandemonium. All the radios had been requisitioned from their German owners and put in the windows facing out-ward toward the street—and each radio was playing a different program at full blast. All the freed Russians and Poles were waltzing down the street—it was just like a carnival going through the town. The Germans were walking round in a daze wearing white armbands as a sign of surrender. As for the French . . . [t]he troops were not French but Moroccan…. These were the men who occupied our area.

That was when the raping started. [They] raped up and down our valley in the first few days. Two people were shot trying to protect their wives. Then they moved out and another lot of French colonial troops moved in—Goums from the Sahara, tall, black, strange people in uniforms like gray dressing-gowns. They were terrifying. First they came into Rohrbach and stole all the chickens and my children’s rabbits. A few days later they came at night and surrounded every house in the village and raped every female between 12 and 80…. What was so frightening about them was the silent way in which they moved…. [T]hey came up to the door and one of them asked: “Where’s your husband?” I said that he was away and as I was talking to them I suddenly realized that one of them was standing right behind me—he had climbed in through a window and crept right up to me through that creaking wooden . . . house without making the slightest sound.

While Moroccan and other French colonial troops had an especially bad reputation and raped on a massive scale in Germany and Italy, American and British soldiers were not above reproach. “Our own Army and the British Army . . . have done their share of looting and raping… ,” a US sergeant admitted. “[W]e too are considered an army of rapists.”

“Many a sane American family would recoil in horror if they knew how ‘Our Boys’ conduct themselves . . . over here,” added another GI.

“We expected Russian lawlessness… ,” said one German, “but we once believed the Americans were different.”


In part because of propaganda and the attitudes publicly espoused by western political and military leaders that “the only good German is a dead one,” in part because of unfounded rumors of massacres and rapes committed at captured US field hospitals, in part because of genuine German atrocities, such as at Malmedy, wherein scores of American POWs were mowed down by SS troops during the Ardennes campaign—because of these and other factors, large numbers of captured or surrendering Germans were simply slaughtered on the spot.

Among many American units, “take no prisoners” was the motto. For those members of the SS, Wehrmacht and Volkssturm lucky enough to survive capture, death often awaited behind the lines. In the transit from front to rear, hundreds of prisoners were allowed to suffocate, starve or freeze to death in railroad cars. Upon reaching the prison camps, thousands more perished. Wrote an eyewitness from Rheinberg in April:

One inmate at Rheinberg was over 80 years old, another was aged nine. . . . Nagging hunger and agonizing thirst were their companions, and they died of dysentery. A cruel heaven pelted them week after week with streams of rain…. [A]mputees slithered like amphibians through the mud, soaking and freezing. Naked to the skies day after day and night after night, they lay desperate in the sand … or slept exhaustedly into eternity in their collapsing holes.

With General Eisenhower turning a blind eye to the Geneva Convention, only the threat of retaliation against Allied POWs still held in Germany prevented a massacre of prodigious proportions.


While the British were mopping up huge areas to the north, Americans were doing the same further south. For the most part, US forces were also greeted with white flags, cheers and tears of relief from a war-weary populace. When the Americans did meet determined defenders, it was often small pockets of old men and little boys. Reflected a GI: “I could not understand it, this resistance, this pointless resistance to our advance. The war was all over—our columns were spreading across the whole of Germany and Austria. We were irresistible. We could conquer the world; that was our glowing conviction. And the enemy had nothing. Yet he resisted and in some places with an implacable fanaticism.”

Those defenders who survived to surrender were often mowed down where they stood. Gustav Schutz remembered stumbling upon one massacre site where a Labor Service unit had knocked out several American tanks.

“[M]ore than a hundred dead Labor Service men were lying in long rows—all with bloated stomachs and bluish faces,” said Schutz. “We had to throw up. Even though we hadn’t eaten for days, we vomited.”

Already murderous after years of anti-German propaganda in the Jewish media and Hollywood, when US forces entered the various concentration camps and discovered huge piles of naked and emaciated corpses, their rage became uncontrollable. As Gen. Eisenhower, along with his lieutenants, Patton and Bradley, toured the prison camp at Ohrdruf Nord, they were sickened by what they saw. In shallow graves or lying haphazardly in the streets were thousands of skeleton-like remains of German and Jewish prisoners, as well as gypsies, communists, and convicts.

“I want every American unit not actually in the front lines to see this place,” ordered Eisenhower. “We are told that the American soldier does not know what he is fighting for. Now, at least, he will know what he is fighting against.”

“In one camp we paraded the townspeople through, to let them have a look,” a staff officer with Patton said. “The mayor and his wife went home and slashed their wrists.”

“Well, that’s the most encouraging thing I’ve heard,” growled Eisenhower, who immediately wired Washington and London, urging government and media representatives to come quickly and witness the horror for themselves.

Given the circumstances, the fate of those Germans living near this and other concentration camps was as tragic as it was perhaps predictable. After compelling the people to view the bodies, American and British officers forced men, women and children to dig up with their hands the rotting remains and haul them to burial pits. Wrote a witness at one camp:

[A]ll day long, always running, men and women alike, from the death pile to the death pit, with the stringy remains of their victims over their shoulders. When one of them dropped to the ground with exhaustion, he was beaten with a rifle butt. When another stopped for a break, she was kicked until she ran again, or prodded with a bayonet, to the accompaniment of lewd shouts and laughs. When one tried to escape or disobeyed an order, he was shot.

For those forced to handle the rotting corpses, death by disease often followed soon after.

Few victors, from Eisenhower down, seemed to notice, and fewer seemed to care, that conditions similar to the camps existed throughout much of Germany. Because of the almost total paralysis of the Reich’s roads and rails caused by around-the-clock air attacks, supplies of food, fuel, clothes, and medicine had thinned to a trickle in German towns and cities and dried up almost entirely at the concentration camps.  As a consequence, thousands of camp inmates swiftly succumbed in the final weeks of the war to typhus, dysentery, tuberculosis, starvation, and neglect. When pressed by a friend if there had indeed been a deliberate policy of starvation, one of the few guards lucky enough to escape another camp protested:

“It wasn’t like that, believe me; it wasn’t like that! I’m maybe the only survivor who can witness to how it really was, but who would believe me!”

“Is it all a lie?”

Yes and no,” he said. “I can only say what I know about our camp. The final weeks were horrible. No more rations came, no more medical supplies. The people got ill, they lost weight, and it kept getting more and more difficult to keep order. Even our own people lost their nerve in this extreme situation. But do you think we would have held out until the end to hand the camp over in an orderly fashion if we had been these murderers?”

As American forces swept through Bavaria toward Munich in late April, most German guards at the concentration camp near Dachau fled. To maintain order and arrange an orderly transfer of the 32,000 prisoners to the Allies, and despite signs at the gate warning, NO ENTRANCE—TYPHUS EPIDEMIC, several hundred German soldiers were ordered to the prison.

When American units under Lt. Col. Felix Sparks liberated Dachau the following day, the GIs were horrified by what they saw. Outside the prison were rail cars brim full with diseased and starved corpses. Inside the camp, Sparks found “a room piled high with naked and emaciated corpses. As I turned to look over the prison yard with unbelieving eyes, I saw a large number of dead inmates lying where they had fallen in the last few hours or days before our arrival. Since all the many bodies were in various stages of decomposition, the stench of death was overpowering.”

Unhinged by the nightmare surrounding him, Sparks turned his equally enraged troops loose on the hapless German soldiers. While one group of over three hundred were led away to an enclosure, other disarmed soldiers were murdered in the guard towers, the barracks, or chased through the streets. US Army chaplain, Captain Leland Loy:

[A] German guard came running toward us. We grabbed him and were standing there talking to him when . . . [a GI] came up with a tommy-gun. He grabbed the prisoner, whirled him around and said, “There you are you son-of-a-bitch!!” The man was only about three feet from us, but the soldier cut him down with his sub-machine gun. I shouted at him, “what did you do that for, he was a prisoner?” He looked at me and screamed “Gotta kill em, gotta kill em.” When I saw the look in his eyes and the machine gun waving in the air, I said to my men, “Let him go.”

“[T]he men were deliberately wounding guards,” recalled one US soldier. “A lot of guards were shot in the legs so they couldn’t move. They were then turned over to the inmates. One was beheaded with a bayonet. Others were ripped apart limb by limb.”

While the tortures were in progress, Lt. Jack Bushyhead forced nearly 350 prisoners up against a wall, planted two machine-guns, then ordered his men to open fire. Those still alive when the fusillade ended were forced to stand amid the carnage while the machine-gunners reloaded. A short time later, army surgeon Howard Buechner happened on the scene:

Lt. Bushyhead was standing on the flat roof of a low building…. Beside him one or more soldiers manned a .30 caliber machine gun. Opposite this building was a long, high cement and brick wall. At the base of the wall lay row on row of German soldiers, some dead, some dying, some possibly feigning death. Three or four inmates of the camp, dressed in striped clothing, each with a .45 caliber pistol in hand, were walking along the line. . . . As they passed down the line, they systematically fired a round into the head of each one.

“At the far end of the line of dead or dying soldiers,” Buechner continued, “a small miracle was taking place.”

The inmates who were delivering the coup de grace had not yet reached this point and a few guards who were still alive were being placed on litters by German medics. Under the direction of a German doctor, the litter bearers were carrying these few soldiers into a nearby hospital for treatment.

   I approached this officer and attempted to offer my help. Perhaps he did not realize that I was a doctor since I did not wear red cross insignia. He obviously could not understand my words and probably thought that I wanted him to give up his patients for execution. In any event, he waved me away with his hand and said “Nein,” “Nein,” “Nein.”

Despite his heroics and the placing of his own life in mortal danger, the doctor’s efforts were for naught. The wounded men were soon seized and murdered, as was every other German in the camp.

“We shot everything that moved,” one GI bragged.

“We got all the bastards,” gloated another.

In all, over five hundred helpless German soldiers were slaughtered in cold blood. As a final touch, Lt. Col. Sparks forced the citizens of Dachau to bury the thousands of corpses in the camp, thereby assuring the death of many from disease.

The Dachau Massacre (Public Domain)

The Dachau Massacre

Though perhaps the worst, the incident at Dachau was merely one of many massacres committed by US troops. Unaware of the deep hatred the Allies harbored for them, when proud SS units surrendered they naively assumed that they would be respected as the unsurpassed fighters that they undoubtedly were. Lt. Hans Woltersdorf was recovering in a German military hospital when US forces arrived.

Those who were able stood at the window, and told those of us who were lying down what was going on. A motorcycle with sidecar, carrying an officer and two men from the Waffen-SS, had arrived. They surrendered their weapons and the vehicle. The two men were allowed to continue on foot, but the officer was led away by the Americans. They accompanied him part of the way, just fifty meters on. Then a salvo from submachine guns was heard. The three Americans returned, alone.

“Did you see that? They shot the lieutenant! Did you see that? They’re shooting all the Waffen-SS officers!” That had to be a mistake! Why? Why?

Our comrades from the Wehrmacht didn’t stand around thinking for long. They went down to the hospital’s administrative quarters, destroyed all files that showed that we belonged to the Waffen-SS, started new medical sheets for us with Wehrmacht ranks, got us Wehrmacht uniforms, and assigned us to new Wehrmacht units.

Such stratagems seldom succeeded, however, since SS soldiers had their blood-type tattooed under the left arm.

“Again and again,” continues Woltersdorf, “Americans invaded the place and gathered up groups of people who had to strip to the waist and raise their left arm. Then we saw some of them being shoved on to trucks with rifle butts.”

When French forces under Jacques-Philippe Leclerc captured a dozen French SS near Karlstein, the general sarcastically asked one of the prisoners why he was wearing a German uniform.

“You look very smart in your American uniform, General,” replied the boy.

In a rage, Leclerc ordered the twelve captives shot.

“All refused to have their eyes bandaged,” a priest on the scene noted, “and all bravely fell crying “Vive la France!”

Although SS troops were routinely slaughtered upon surrender, anyone wearing a German uniform was considered lucky if they were merely slapped, kicked, then marched to the rear. “Before they could be properly put in jail,” wrote a witness when a group of little boys were marched past, “American GIs . . . fell on them and beat them bloody, just because they had German uniforms.”

After relatively benign treatment by the British, Guy Sajer and other Landsers were transferred to the Americans. They were, said Sajer, “tall men with plump, rosy cheeks, who behaved like hooligans.”

Their bearing was casual…. Their uniforms were made of soft cloth, like golfing clothes, and they moved their jaws continuously, like ruminating animals. They seemed neither happy nor unhappy, but indifferent to their victory, like men who are performing their duties in a state of partial consent, without any real enthusiasm for them. From our filthy, mangy ranks, we watched them with curiosity…. They seemed rich in everything but joy….

The Americans also humiliated us as much as they could…. They put us in a camp with only a few large tents, which could shelter barely a tenth of us…. In the center of the camp, the Americans ripped open several large cases filled with canned food. They spread the cans onto the ground with a few kicks, and walked away. . . . The food was so delicious that we forgot about the driving rain, which had turned the ground into a sponge….

From their shelters, the Americans watched us and talked about us. They probably despised us for flinging ourselves so readily into such elementary concerns, and thought us cowards for accepting the circumstances of captivity. . . . We were not in the least like the German troops in the documentaries our charming captors had probably been shown before leaving their homeland. We provided them with no reasons for anger; we were not the arrogant, irascible Boches, but simply underfed men standing in the rain, ready to eat unseasoned canned food; living dead, with anxiety stamped on our faces, leaning against any support, half asleep on our feet; sick and wounded, who didn’t ask for treatment, but seemed content simply to sleep for long hours, undisturbed. It was clearly depressing for these crusading missionaries to find so much humility among the vanquished.


While the occupation of Germany was in progress during the spring of 1945, a horror unimaginable was transpiring in Czechoslovakia. On May 5, when rumors swept through Prague that US forces were only seven miles away, the citizens of the Czech capital rose up against the Nazi occupation. Before the day was out most of the German garrison had been isolated and surrounded.

Meanwhile, the roundup of prisoners, including many refugees, began. Years of pent hatred for the German minority in their midst now had a free hand among the population. Wrote Juergen Thorwald:

Crowds of Czechs awaited the transports of German prisoners in the streets to pelt them with stones, spit into their faces, and beat them with any object that came to hand. German women, children, and men ran the gauntlet, with arms over their heads, to reach the prison gates under a hail of blows and kicks. Women of every age were dragged from the groups, their heads were shaved, their faces smeared with paint, and swastikas were drawn on their bared backs and breasts. Many were violated, others forced to open their mouth to the spittle of their torturers.

On May 9, with the fighting ended, the mob turned its attention to the thousands of Germans locked in prisons.   “Several trucks loaded with German wounded and medical personnel drove into the [prison] court,” Thorwald continues. “The wounded, the nurses, the doctors had just climbed from their vehicles when suddenly a band of insurgents appeared from the street and pounced upon them. They tore away their crutches, canes, and bandages, knocked them to the ground, and with clubs, poles, and hammers hit them until the Germans lay still.”

“So began a day as evil as any known to history,” muttered Thorwald.

In the street, crowds were waiting for those who were marched out of their prisons…. [T]hey had come equipped with everything their aroused passions might desire, from hot pitch to garden shears…. They … grabbed Germans—and not only SS men—drenched them with gasoline, strung them up with their feet upper-most, set them on fire, and watched their agony, prolonged by the fact that in their position the rising heat and smoke did not suffocate them. They … tied German men and women together with barbed wire, shot into the bundles, and rolled them down into the Moldau River…. They beat every German until he lay still on the ground, forced naked women to remove the barricades, cut the tendons of their heels, and laughed at their writhing. Others they kicked to death. 

“At the corner opening onto Wasser Street,” said Czech, Ludek Pachmann, “hung three naked corpses, mutilated beyond recognition, their teeth entirely knocked out, their mouths nothing but bloody holes. Others had to drag their dead fellow-Germans into Stefans Street…. ‘Those are your brothers, kiss them!’ And so the still-living Germans, lips pressed tightly together, had to kiss their dead.”

As he tried to escape the city, Gert Rainer, a German soldier disguised as a priest, saw sights that seemed straight from hell:

[A] sobbing young woman was kneeling, showering kisses on a child in her arms. . . . The child’s eyes had been gouged out, and a knife still protruded from his abdomen. The woman’s torn clothing and disheveled hair indicated that she had fought like a fury. Lost in her sorrow, she had not noticed the approaching stranger. He bent down to her and put her in mind that she had better not stay here. She was in danger of being shot herself.

“But that’s what I want!” she suddenly cried. “I don’t want to go on living without my little Peter!”

 In their sadistic ecstasy, people turned public mass murder into a folk festival. … Five young women had been tied to an advertising pillar, the rope wrapped about them several times. Their seven children had been packed into a gutter of sorts at their feet…. [A] Czech woman, perhaps 50 years of age, was pouring gasoline over the tied-up mothers. Others were spitting in their faces, slapping them and tearing whole fistfuls of hair. Then the oldest of them, laughing frenetically, lit a newspaper and ran around the pillar holding the burning paper to the gasoline-soaked victims. Like a flash, the pillar and the five others disappeared in flames several meters high…. The spectators had not noticed that one of the burning Germans had torn through the charring rope and thrown herself into the flames that licked up through the grating. With strength borne of a courage beyond death, she lifted out the grating and, lying on her stomach, tried to reach down into the tangle of blazing children. Lifeless, she lay in the flames.

In the meantime, the other four women, on fire from their feet to their hair, had slumped down as the common support of the rope was gone. That was the cue for their murderers to begin dancing around the pillar, cheering and rejoicing. The howling of the butchers grew even louder.

On Wenzels Square there was not one lamp-post without a German soldier strung up from it. The majority of them had been war-injured. . . . A crowd literally jumping for joy surrounded an arena-like clearing, in the center of which two men held a stark-naked young German woman. Each of her breasts had been pierced with a large safety-pin, from which Iron Crosses were hung. A rod bearing a swastika flag at one end had been stabbed through her navel…. A naked German lay motionless beside her trampled child. She had been beaten to death. A gaping head wound revealed her brain, oozing out.

Several men had been dragged down from a Wehrmacht truck. Their hands were tied, the other end of the rope fastened to the hitch beneath the back end of the truck…. A young Czech climbed into the driver’s seat. When the truck started, the spectators fell into a frenzy of hatred…. The five captives were pulled along by ropes some 60 feet long. As yet they could keep up with the truck. But the more the driver picked up speed, the more it became impossible for them to keep on their feet. One after the other fell, jerked forward, and was dragged along at ever-increasing speed. After but a few rounds, the Germans were mangled beyond recognition. One single lump of blood, flesh and dirt comprised the pitiful haul of this chariot of bestiality.

At the huge sports stadium, thousands of Germans were herded onto the field to provide amusement for a laughing, howling audience. “Before our very eyes . . . [they] were tortured to death in every conceivable way,” remembered Josefine Waimann. “Most deeply branded on my memory is the pregnant woman whose belly . . . uniformed Czechs slashed open, ripped out the fetus and then, howling with glee, stuffed a dachshund into the torn womb of the woman, who was screaming dreadfully…. The slaughter happening in the arena before our very eyes was like that in ancient Rome.”

The horror born at Prague soon spread to the rest of Czechoslovakia, particularly the Sudentland, where Germans had lived for over seven centuries.

“Take everything from the Germans,” demanded Czech president, Edvard Benes, “leave them only a handkerchief to sob into!”

“You may kill Germans, it’s no sin,” cried a priest to a village mob. At Bilna, wrote a chronicler . . .

men and women were rounded up in the market square, had to strip naked and were made to walk single-file while being beaten by the population with whips and canes. Then . . . the men had to crawl on all fours, like dogs, one behind the other, during which they were beaten until they lost control of their bowels; each had to lick the excrement off the one in front of him. This torture continued until many of them had been beaten to death. . . . What was done to the women there simply cannot be described, the sadistic monstrousness of it is simply too great for words.

“When I passed through Czechoslovakia after the collapse,” one German soldier recalled, “I saw severed human heads lining window sills, and in one butcher’s shop naked corpses were hanging from the meat hooks.”

When the fury had finally spent itself in Czechoslovakia, over 200,000 people had been butchered. Similar purges of German minorities occurred in Rumania, Hungary and Yugoslavia where men, women and children, by the hundreds of thousands, were massacred in cold blood. The slaughter throughout Europe was not confined to ethnic Germans alone. Following the Allied occupation of France, over 100,000 French citizens were murdered by their countrymen because of collaboration with the Germans or anti-communist activities. Similar, though smaller, and less bestial, reckonings took place in Belgium, Holland, Denmark, and Norway.


“It just wasn’t human,” an American GI said simply of the forced repatriation to the Soviet Union of millions of anti-Communist Russians and Ukrainians after the war.

Well aware that some grim details from “Operation Keelhaul” were bound to surface, Allied leaders were quick to squash rumors and reassure the public. “[T]he United States Government has taken a firm stand against any forced repatriation and will continue to maintain this position… ,” solemnly assuaged a spokesman for the War Department long after most of the Russian returnees had been slaughtered or enslaved in Stalin’s USSR. “There is no intention that any refugee be returned home against his will.”

To do otherwise, General Eisenhower later chimed, “would … violate the fundamental humanitarian principles we espoused.”

Even as he was soothing public concern over Russian repatriation, Eisenhower’s “humanitarian principles” were hard at work in the numerous American death camps.


“God, I hate the Germans,” the Supreme Allied Commander had written his wife in 1944. As Mrs. Eisenhower and anyone else close to the general knew, Dwight David Eisenhower’s loathing of all things German was nothing short of pathological.

DwightD.Eisenhower(LibraryofCongress)BESTGOODWith the final capitulation on May 8, the allied chief found himself in control of over five million ragged, weary, but living, enemy soldiers. “It is a pity we could not have killed more,” muttered the general, dissatisfied with the body-count of the greatest blood-bath in human history. And so, Eisenhower (right) settled for next best: If he could not kill armed Germans in war, he would kill disarmed Germans in peace. Because the Geneva Convention guaranteed POWs of signer nations the same food, shelter and medical attention as their captors, and because these laws were to be enforced by the International Red Cross, the American leader simply circumvented the treaty by creating his own category for prisoners. Under the general’s reclassification, German soldiers were no longer considered POWs, but DEFs— Disarmed Enemy Forces. With this sleight-of-hand, and in direct violation of the Geneva Convention, Eisenhower could now deal in secret with those in his power, free from the prying eyes of the outside world.

Even before war’s end, thousands of German POWs had died in American captivity from starvation, neglect or, in many cases, out-right murder. Wrote a survivor from one camp in April 1945:

Each group of ten was given the outdoor space of a medium-sized living room. We had to live like this for three months, no roof over our heads. Even the badly wounded only got a bundle of straw. And it rained on the Rhine for days. And we were always in the open. People died like flies. Then we got our first rations…. [W]e got one slice of bread for ten men. Each man got a tiny strip of that one slice. . . . And this went on for three long months. I only weighed 90 pounds. The dead were carried out every day. Then a voice would come over the loudspeaker: “German soldiers, eat slowly. You haven’t had anything to eat in a long time. When you get your rations today from the best fed army in the world, you’ll die if you don’t eat slowly.”

When two members of the US Army Medical Corp stumbled upon one of Eisenhower’s death camps, they were horrified by what they saw:

Huddled close together for warmth, behind the barbed wire was a most awesome sight—nearly 100,000 haggard, apathetic, dirty, gaunt, blank-staring men clad in dirty field gray uniforms, and standing ankle-deep in mud. . . . The German Division Commander reported that the men had not eaten for at least two days, and the provision of water was a major problem—yet only 200 yards away was the River Rhine running bank full.

With German surrender and the threat of retaliation against Allied POWs entirely erased, deaths in the American camps accelerated dramatically. While tens of thousands died of starvation and thirst, hundreds of thousands more perished from overcrowding and disease. Said sixteen-year-old Hugo Stehkamper:

I only had a sweater to protect me from the pouring rain and the cold. There just wasn’t any shelter to be had. You stood there, wet through and through, in fields that couldn’t be called fields anymore—they were ruined. You had to make an effort when you walked to even pull your shoes out of the mud. . . .

[I]ts incomprehensible to me how we could stand for many, many days without sitting, without lying down, just standing there, totally soaked. During the day we marched around, huddled together to try to warm each other a bit. At night we stood because we couldn’t walk and tried to keep awake by singing or humming songs. Again and again someone got so tired his knees got weak and he collapsed.

Added a starving comrade from a camp near Remagen:

The latrines were just logs flung over ditches next to the barbed wire fences. To sleep, all we could do was to dig out a hole in the ground with our hands, then cling together in the hole…. Because of illness, the men had to defecate on the ground. Soon, many of us were too weak to take off our trousers first. So our clothing was infected, and so was the mud where we had to walk and sit and lie down. There was no water at all at first, except the rain….

We had to walk along between the holes of the soft earth thrown up by the digging, so it was easy to fall into a hole, but hard to climb out. The rain was almost constant along that part of the Rhine that spring. More than half the days we had rain. More than half the days we had no food at all. On the rest, we got a little K ration. I could see from the package that they were giving us one tenth of the rations that they issued to their own men….I complained to the American camp commander that he was breaking the Geneva Convention, but he just said, “Forget the Convention. You haven’t any rights.”

Within a few days, some of the men who had gone healthy into the camps were dead. I saw our men dragging many dead bodies to the gate of the camp, where they were thrown loose on top of each other onto trucks, which took them away.

“The Americans were really shitty to us,” a survivor at another camp recalled. “All we had to eat was grass.”


 American Death Camp

At Hans Woltersdorf ’s prison, the inmates survived on a daily soup made of birdseed. NOT FIT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION, read the words on the sacks. At another camp, a weeping seventeen-year-old stood day-in, day-out beside the barbed wire fence. In the distance, the youth could just view his own village. One morning, inmates awoke to find the boy dead, his body strung up by guards and left dangling on the wires. When outraged prisoners cried “Murderers! Murderers!” the camp commander withheld their meager rations for three days. “For us who were already starving and could hardly move because of weakness . . . it meant death,” said one of the men.

“Civilians from nearby villages and towns were prevented at gun-point from passing food through the fence to prisoners,” revealed another German from his camp near Ludwigshafen.

There was no lack of food or shelter among the victorious Allies. Indeed, American supply depots were bursting at the seams. “More stocks than we can ever use,” one general announced. “[They] stretch as far as [the] eye can see.” Instead of allowing even a trickle of this bounty to reach the compounds, the starvation diet was further reduced.

“Outside the camp the Americans were burning food which they could not eat themselves,” said a starving Werner Laska from his prison.

Horrified by the silent, secret massacre, the international Red Cross—which had over 100,000 tons of food stored in Switzerland—tried to intercede. When two trains loaded with supplies reached the camps, however, they were turned back by American officers.

“These Nazis are getting a dose of their own medicine,” a prison commandant reported proudly to one of Eisenhower’s “political” advisors.

“German soldiers were not common law convicts,” protested a Red Cross official, “they were drafted to fight in a national army on patriotic grounds and could not refuse military service any more than the Americans could.”

Like this individual, many others found no justification whatsoever in the massacre of helpless prisoners, especially since the German government had lived up to the Geneva Convention, as one American put it, “to a tee.”

“I have come up against few instances where Germans have not treated prisoners according to the rules, and respected the Red Cross,” wrote war correspondent Allan Wood of the London Express.

“The Germans even in their greatest moments of despair obeyed the Convention in most respects,” a US officer added. “True it is that there were front line atrocities—passions run high up there—but they were incidents, not practices; and maladministration of their American prison camps was very uncommon.”

Nevertheless, despite the Red Cross report that ninety-nine percent of American prisoners of war in Germany had survived and were on their way home, Eisenhower’s murderous program continued apace. One officer who refused to have a hand in the crime and who began releasing large numbers of prisoners soon after they were disarmed was George Patton. Explained the general:

I emphasized [to the troops] the necessity for the proper treatment of prisoners of war, both as to their lives and property. My usual statement was . . . “Kill all the Germans you can but do not put them up against a wall and kill them. Do your killing while they are still fighting. After a man has surrendered, he should be treated exactly in accordance with the Rules of Land Warfare, and just as you would hope to be treated if you were foolish enough to surrender. Americans do not kick people in the teeth after they are down.”

Although other upright generals such as Omar Bradley and J. C. H. Lee issued orders to release POWs, Eisenhower quickly overruled them. Mercifully, for the two million Germans under British control, Bernard Montgomery refused to participate in the massacre. Indeed, soon after war’s end, the field marshal released and sent home most of his prisoners.

After being shuttled from one enclosure to the next, Corporal Helmut Liebich had seen for himself all the horrors the American death camps had to give. At one compound, amused guards formed lines and beat starving prisoners with clubs and sticks as they ran the gauntlet for their paltry rations. At another camp of 5,200 men, Liebich watched as ten to thirty bodies were hauled away every day. At yet another prison, there were “35 days of starvation and 15 days of no food at all,” and what little the wretched inmates did receive was rotten. Finally, in June 1945, Liebich’s camp at Rheinberg passed to British control. Immediately, survivors were given food and shelter and for those like Liebich—who now weighed 97 pounds and was dying of dysentery—swift medical attention was provided.

“It was wonderful to be under a roof in a real bed,” the corporal reminisced. “We were treated like human beings again. The Tommies treated us like comrades.”

Before the British could take complete control of the camp, however, Liebich noted that American bulldozers leveled one section of the compound where skeletal—but breathing—men still lay in their holes.

If possible, Germans in French hands suffered even more than those held by Americans. When France requested slaves as part of its war booty, Eisenhower transferred over 600,000 Germans east.

“Gee! I hope we don’t ever lose a war,” muttered one GI as he stared at the broken, starving wrecks being selected for slavery.

“When we marched through Namur in a column seven abreast, there was also a Catholic procession going through the street,” remembered one slave as he moved through Belgium. “When the people saw the POWs, the procession dissolved, and they threw rocks and horse shit at us. From Namur, we went by train in open railroad cars. At one point we went under a bridge, and railroad ties were thrown from it into the cars filled with POWs, causing several deaths. Later we went under another overpass, and women lifted their skirts and relieved themselves on us.”

Once in France, the assaults intensified. “[W]e were cursed, spat upon and even physically attacked by the French population, especially the women,” Hans von der Heide wrote. “I bitterly recalled scenes from the spring of 1943, when we marched American POWs through the streets of Paris. They were threatened and insulted no differently by the French mob.”

Like the Americans, the French starved their prisoners. Unlike the Americans, the French drained the last ounce of labor from their victims before they dropped dead. “I have seen them beaten with rifle butts and kicked with feet in the streets of the town because they broke down of overwork,” remarked a witness from Langres. “Two or three of them die of exhaustion every week.”

“In another camp,” a horrified viewer added, “prisoners receive only one meal a day but are expected to continue working. Elsewhere so many have died recently that the cemetery space was exhausted and another had to be built.”

Revealed the French journal, Figaro: “In certain camps for German prisoners of war … living skeletons may be seen . . . and deaths from undernourishment are numerous. We learn that prisoners have been savagely and systematically beaten and that some have been employed in removing mines without protection equipment so that they have been condemned to die sooner or later.”

“Twenty-five percent of the men in [our] camp died in one month,” echoed a slave from Buglose.

The enslavement of German soldiers was not limited to France. Although fed and treated infinitely better, several hundred thousand POWs in Great Britain were transformed into virtual slaves. Wrote historian Ralph Franklin Keeling at the time:

The British Government nets over $250,000,000 annually from its slaves. The Government, which frankly calls itself the “owner” of the prisoners, hires the men out to any employer needing men, charging the going rates of pay for such work—usually $15 to $20 per week. It pays the slaves from 10 cents to 20 cents a day … plus such “amenities” as slaves customarily received in the former days of slavery in the form of clothing, food, and shelter.

When prisoners were put to work raising projects for Britain’s grand “Victory in Europe” celebration, one English foreman felt compelled to quip: “I guess the Jerries are preparing to celebrate their own down-fall. It does seem as though that is laying it on a bit thick.”

In vain did the International Red Cross protest:

The United States, Britain, and France … are violating International Red Cross agreements they solemnly signed in 1929. Investigation at Geneva headquarters today disclosed that the transfer of German war prisoners captured by the American army to French and British authorities for forced labor is nowhere permitted in the statues of the International Red Cross, which is the highest authority on the subject in the world.


Meanwhile, those Germans not consigned to bondage continued to perish in American prisons. Landsers who did not succumb to hunger or disease often died of thirst, even though streams sometimes ran just a few feet from the camps. “[T]he lack of water was the worst thing of all,” remembered George Weiss of his enclosure where the Rhine flowed just beyond the barbed wire. “For three and a half days we had no water at all. We would drink our own urine. It tasted terrible, but what could we do? Some men got down on the ground and licked the ground to get some moisture. I was so weak I was already on my knees.”

“[O]thers,” observed American guard, Martin Brech, “tried to escape in a demented or suicidal fashion, running through open fields in broad daylight towards the Rhine to quench their thirst. They were mowed down.”

As if their plight were not already hideous enough, prisoners occasionally became the targets of drunken and sadistic guards who sprayed the camps with machine-gun fire for sport. “I think . . ,” Private Brech continued, “[that] soldiers not exposed to combat were trying to prove how tough they were by taking it out on the prisoners and civilians.”

I encountered a captain on a hill above the Rhine shooting down at a group of German civilian women with his .45 caliber pistol. When I asked, “Why?” he mumbled, “Target practice,” and fired until his pistol was empty…. This is when I realized I was dealing with cold-blooded killers filled with moralistic hatred.

While continuing to deny the Red Cross and other relief agencies access to the camps, Eisenhower stressed among his lieutenants the need for secrecy. “Ike made the sensational statement that … now that hostilities were over, the important thing was to stay in with world public opinion—apparently whether it was right or wrong . . . ,” recorded George Patton. “After lunch [he] talked to us very confidentially on the necessity for solidarity in the event that any of us are called before a Congressional Committee.”

To prevent the gruesome details from reaching the outside world— and sidetrack those that did—counter-rumors were circulated stating that, far from mistreating and murdering prisoners, US camp commanders were actually turning back released Germans who tried to slip back in for food and shelter.

Ultimately, at least 800,000 German prisoners died in the American and French death camps. “Quite probably,” one expert later wrote, the figure of one million is closer to the mark. And thus, in “peace,” did ten times the number of Landsers die than were killed on the whole Western Front during the whole of the war.


Unlike their democratic counterparts, the Soviet Union made little effort to hide from the world the fate of German prisoners in its hands. Toiling by the hundreds of thousands in the forests and mines of Siberia, the captives were slaves pure and simple and no attempt was made to disguise the fact. For the enslaved Germans, male and female, the odds of surviving the Soviet gulags were even worse than escaping the American or French death camps and a trip to Siberia was tantamount to a death sentence. What little food the slaves received was intended merely to maintain their strength so that the last drop of energy could be drained from them.

And so, with the once mighty Wehrmacht now disarmed and enslaved, and with their leaders either dead or awaiting trial for so-called “war crimes,” the old men, women and children who remained in the dismembered Reich found themselves utterly at the mercy of the victors. Unfortunately for these survivors, never in the history of the world was mercy in shorter supply.


Soon after the Allied victory in Europe, the purge of Nazi Party members from government, business, industry, science, education, and all other walks of German life commenced. While a surprising number of Nazis were allowed—even compelled—to man their posts temporarily to enable a smooth transition, all party members, high and low, were sooner or later excised from German daily life. In theory, “de-Nazification” was a simple transplanting of Nazi officials with those of democratic, socialist or communist underpinnings. In practice, the purge became little more than a cloak for an orgy of rape, torture and death.



Because their knowledge of the language and culture was superb, most of the intelligence officers accompanying US and British forces into the Reich were Jewish refugees who had fled Nazi persecution in the late 1930s. Although their American and English “aides” were hardly better, the fact that many of these “39ers” became interrogators, examiners and screeners, with old scores to settle, insured that Nazis— or any German, for that matter—would be shown no mercy.

One man opposed to the vengeance-minded program was George Patton. “Evidently the virus started by Morgenthau and [Bernard] Baruch of a Semitic revenge against all Germans is still working … ,” wrote the general in private. “I am frankly opposed to this war-criminal stuff. It is not cricket and it is Semitic….I can’t see how Americans can sink so low.”

Soon after occupation, all adult Germans were compelled to register at the nearest Allied headquarters and complete a lengthy questionnaire on their past activities. While many nervous citizens were detained then and there, most returned home, convinced that at long last the terrible ordeal was over. For millions, however, the trial had but begun.

“Then it started,” remembered Anna Fest, a woman who had registered with the Americans six weeks earlier.

Such a feeling of helplessness, when three or four heavily armed military police stand in front of you. You just panic. I cried terribly. My mother was completely beside herself and said, “You can’t do this. She registered just as she was supposed to.” Then she said, “If only you’d gone somewhere else and had hidden.” But I consider that senseless, because I did not feel guilty. . . . That was the way it went with everyone, with no reason given.

Few German adults, Nazi or not, escaped the dreaded knock on the door. Far from being dangerous fascists, Freddy and Lali Horstmann were actually well-known anti-Nazis. Records Lali from the Russian Zone:

I am sorry to bother you,” he began, “but I am simply carrying out my orders. Until when did you work for the Foreign Office?”

Till 1933,” my husband answered.

Then you need fear nothing,” Androff said…. “We accuse you of nothing, but we want you to accompany us to the headquarters of the NKVD, the secret police, so that we can take down what you said in a protocol, and ask you a few questions about the working of the Foreign Office… .”

We were stunned for a moment; then I started forward, asking if I could come along with them. “Impossible,” the interpreter smiled. My heart raced. Would Freddy answer satisfactorily? Could he stand the excitement? What sort of accommodation would they give him?

“Dont worry, your husband has nothing to fear,” Androff continued. “He will have a heated room. Give him a blanket for the night, but quickly, we must leave. .. .”

There was a feeling of sharp tension, putting the soldier on his guard, as though he were expecting an attack from one of us. I took first the soldier, then the interpreter, by their hands and begged them to be kind to Freddy, repeating myself in the bustle and scraping of feet that drowned my words. There was a banging of doors. A cold wind blew in. I felt Freddy kiss me. I never saw him again.

“[W]e were wakened by the sound of tires screeching, engines stopping abruptly, orders yelled, general din, and a hammering on the window shutters. Then the intruders broke through the door, and we saw Americans with rifles who stood in front of our bed and shone lights at us. None of them spoke German, but their gestures said: ‘Get dressed, come with us immediately.’ This was my fourth arrest.”

a_riefenstahlSo wrote Leni Riefenstahl (left), a talented young woman who was perhaps the world’s greatest film-maker. Because her epic documentaries— Triumph of the Will and Olympia—seemed paeans to not only Germany, but National Socialism, and because of her close relationship with an admiring Adolf Hitler, Leni was of more than passing interest to the Allies. Though false, rumors also hinted that the attractive, sometimes-actress was also a “mistress of the devil”—that she and Hitler were lovers.

“Neither my husband nor my mother nor any of my three assistants had ever joined the Nazi Party, nor had any of us been politically active,” said the confused young woman. “No charges had ever been filed against us, yet we were at the mercy of the [Allies] and had no legal protection of any kind.”

Soon after Leni’s fourth arrest, came a fifth.

The jeep raced along the autobahns until, a few hours later …I was brought to the Salzburg Prison; there an elderly prison matron rudely pushed me into the cell, kicking me so hard that I fell to the ground; then the door was locked. There were two other women in the dark, barren room, and one of them, on her knees, slid about the floor, jabbering confusedly; then she began to scream, her limbs writhing hysterically. She seemed to have lost her mind. The other woman crouched on her bunk, weeping to herself.

As Leni and others quickly discovered, the “softening up” process began soon after arrival at an Allied prison. When Ernst von Salomon, his Jewish girl friend and fellow prisoners reached an American holding pen near Munich, the men were promptly led into a room and brutally beaten by military police. With his teeth knocked out and blood spurting from his mouth, von Salomon moaned to a gum-chewing officer, “You are no gentlemen.” The remark brought only a roar of laughter from the attackers. “No, no, no!” the GIs grinned. “We are Mississippi boys!” In another room, military policemen raped the women at will while leering soldiers watched from windows.

After such savage treatment, the feelings of despair only intensified once the captives were crammed into cells.

“The people had been standing there for three days, waiting to be interrogated,” remembered a German physician ordered to treat prisoners in the Soviet Zone. “At the sight of us a pandemonium broke out which left me helpless…. As far as I could gather, the usual senseless questions were being reiterated: Why were they there, and for how long? They had no water and hardly anything to eat. They wanted to be let out more often than once a day…. A great many of them have dysentery so badly that they can no longer get up.”

“Young Poles made fun of us,” said a woman from her cell in the same zone. “[They] threw bricks through the windows, paperbags with sand, and skins of hares filled with excrement. We did not dare to move or offer resistance, but huddled together in the farthest corner, in order not to be hit, which could not always be avoided. . . . [W]e were never free from torments.”

“For hours on end I rolled about on my bed, trying to forget my surroundings,” recalled Leni Riefenstahl, “but it was impossible.”

The mentally disturbed woman kept screaming—all through the night; but even worse were the yells and shrieks of men from the courtyard, men who were being beaten, screaming like animals. I subsequently found out that a company of SS men was being interrogated.

They came for me the next morning, and I was taken to a padded cell where I had to strip naked, and a woman examined every square inch of my body. Then I had to get dressed and go down to the courtyard, where many men were standing, apparently prisoners, and I was the only woman. We had to line up before an American guard who spoke German. The prisoners stood to attention, so I tried to do the same, and then an American came who spoke fluent German. He pushed a few people together, then halted at the first in our line.

Were you in the Party?”

The prisoner hesitated for a moment, then said: Yes.”     He was slugged in the face and spat blood.

The American went on to the next in line. 

Were you in the Party?”

The man hesitated.

“Yes or no?”


And he too got punched so hard in the face that the blood ran out of his mouth. However, like the first man, he didn’t dare resist. They didn’t even instinctively raise their hands to protect themselves. They did nothing. They put up with the blows like dogs.

The next man was asked: “Were you in the Party?”



No, he yelled, so no punch. From then on nobody admitted that he had been in the Party and I was not even asked.

As the above case illustrated, there often was no rhyme or reason to the examinations; all seemed designed to force from the victim what the inquisitor wanted to hear, whether true or false. Additionally, most such “interrogations” were structured to inflict as much pain and suffering as possible. Explained one prisoner:

The purpose of these interrogations is not to worm out of the people what they knew—which would be uninteresting anyway—but to extort from them special statements. The methods resorted to are extremely primitive; people are beaten up until they confess to having been members of the Nazi Party…. The authorities simply assume that, basically, everybody has belonged to the Party. Many people die during and after these interrogations, while others, who admit at once their party membership, are treated more leniently.

“A young commissar, who was a great hater of the Germans, cross-examined me… ,” said Gertrude Schulz. “When he put the question: ‘Frauenwerk [Women’s Labor Service]?’ I answered in the negative. Thereupon he became so enraged, that he beat me with a stick, until I was black and blue. I received about 15 blows … on my left upper arm, on my back and on my thigh. I collapsed and, as in the case of the first cross-examination, I had to sign the questionnaire.”


American Torture Pen

“Both officers who took our testimony were former German Jews,” reminisced a member of the women’s SS, Anna Fest. While vicious dogs snarled nearby, one of the officers screamed questions and accusations at Anna. If the answers were not those desired, “he kicked me in the back and the other hit me.”

They kept saying we must have been armed, have had pistols or so. But we had no weapons, none of us….I had no pistol. I couldn’t say, just so they’d leave me in peace, yes, we had pistols. The same thing would happen to the next person to testify…. [T]he terrible thing was, the German men had to watch. That was a horrible, horrible experience…. That must have been terrible for them. When I went outside, several of them stood there with tears running down their cheeks. What could they have done? They could do nothing.

Not surprisingly, with beatings, rape, torture, and death facing them, few victims failed to “confess” and most gladly inked their name to any scrap of paper shown them. Some, like Anna, tried to resist. Such recalcitrance was almost always of short duration, however. Generally, after enduring blackened eyes, broken bones, electric shock to breasts—or, in the case of men, smashed testicles—only those who died during torture failed to sign confessions.

Alone, surrounded by sadistic hate, utterly bereft of law, many victims understandably escaped by taking their own lives. Like tiny islands in a vast sea of evil, however, miracles did occur. As he limped painfully back to his prison cell, one Wehrmacht officer reflected on the insults, beatings, and tortures he had endured and contemplated suicide.

I could not see properly in the semi-darkness and missed my open cell door. A kick in the back and I was sprawling on the floor. As I raised myself I said to myself I could not, should not accept this humiliation. I sat on my bunk. I had hidden a razor blade that would serve to open my veins. Then I looked at the New Testament and found these words in the Gospel of St. John: “Without me ye can do nothing.”

Yes. You can mangle this poor body—I looked down at the running sores on my legs—but myself, my honor, God’s image that is in me, you cannot touch. This body is only a shell, not my real self. Without Him, without the Lord, my Lord, ye can do nothing. New strength seemed to rise in me.

I was pondering over what seemed to me a miracle when the heavy lock turned in the cell door. A very young American soldier came in, put his finger to his lips to warn me not to speak. “I saw it,” he said. “Here are baked potatoes.” He pulled the potatoes out of his pocket and gave them to me, and then went out, locking the door behind him.


Horrific as de-Nazification was in the British, French and, especially the American Zone, it was nothing compared to what took place in Poland, behind Soviet lines. In hundreds of concentration camps sponsored by an apparatus called the “Office of State Security,” thousands of Germans—male and female, old and young, high and low, Nazi and non–Nazi, SS, Wehrmacht, Volkssturm, Hitler Youth, all—were rounded up and imprisoned. Staffed and run by Jews, with help from Poles, Czechs, Russians, and other concentration camp survivors, the prisons were little better than torture chambers where dying was a thing to be prolonged, not hastened. While those with blond hair, blue eyes and handsome features were first to go, anyone who spoke German would do.

Moments after arrival, prisoners were made horrifyingly aware of their fate. John Sack, himself a Jew, reports on one camp run by twenty-six-year-old Shlomo Morel:

ShomoMorel(PublicDomain)BEST“I was at Auschwitz,” Shlomo (left) proclaimed, lying to the Germans but, even more, to himself, psyching himself like a fighter the night of the championship, filling himself with hate for the Germans around him. “I was at Auschwitz for six long years, and I swore that if I got out, I’d pay all you Nazis back.” His eyes sent spears, but the “Nazis” sent him a look of simple bewilderment…. “Now sing the Horst Wessel Song!” No one did, and Shlomo, who carried a hard rubber club, hit it against a bed like some judge’s gavel. “Sing it, I say!”

The flags held high …,” some Germans began.     

“Everyone!” Shlomo said.

The ranks closed tight….”

“I said everyone!”


Shlomo cried to the blondest, bluest-eyed person there. “I said sing!” He swung his rubber club at the man’s golden head and hit it. The man staggered back.

Our comrades, killed by the Reds and Reactionaries….”

Sonofabitch!” Shlomo cried, enraged that the man was defying him by not singing but staggering back. He hit him again, saying, “Sing!”

Are marching in spirit with us….”    


Clear the street for the Brown Battalions….”

Still louder!” cried Shlomo, hitting another shouting man.

“Millions of hopeful people….”    

“Nazi pigs!”

 “Are looking to the swastika… .”

Schweine!Shlomo cried. He threw down his rubber club, grabbed a wooden stool, and, a leg in his fist, started beating a German’s head. Without thinking, the man raised his arms, and Shlomo, enraged that the man would try to evade his just punishment, cried, “Sonofawhore!” and slammed the stool against the man’s chest. The man dropped his arms, and Shlomo started hitting his now undefended head when snap! the leg of the stool split off, and, cursing the German birchwood, he grabbed another stool and hit the German with that. No one was singing now, but Shlomo, shouting, didn’t notice. The other guards called out, “Blond!” “Black!” “Short!” “Tall!” and as each of these terrified people came up, they wielded their clubs upon him. The brawl went on till eleven o’clock, when the sweat-drenched invaders cried, “Pigs! We will fix you up!” and left the Germans alone.

Some were quite fixed…. Shlomo and his subordinates had killed them.

The next night it was more of the same . . . and the next night and the next and the next. Those who survived the “welcoming committees” at this and other camps were flung back into their pens.

“I was put with 30 women into a cell, which was intended to accommodate one person,” Gerlinde Winkler recalled. “The narrow space, into which we were rammed, was unbearable and our legs were all entangled together. . . . The women, ill with dysentery, were only allowed to go out once a day, in order to relieve themselves. A bucket without a cover was pushed into the cell with the remark: ‘Here you have one, you German sows.’  The stink was insupportable, and we were not allowed to open the little window.”

“The air in the cells became dense, the smell of the excrement filled it, the heat was like in Calcutta, and the flies made the ceiling black,” wrote John Sack. “I’m choking, the Germans thought, and one even took the community razor blade and, in despair, cut his throat open with it.”

When the wretched inmates were at last pried from their hellish tombs, it was only for interrogation. Sack continues:

As many as eight interrogators, almost all Jews, stood around any one German saying, “Were you in the Nazi Party?” Sometimes a German said, “Yes,” and the boys shouted, “Du schwein! You pig!” and beat him and broke his arm, perhaps, before sending him to his cell. . . . But usually a German said, “No,” and the boys … told him, “You’re lying. You were a Nazi.”

“No, I never was.”

Youre lying! We know about you!”

“No, I really wasn’t—”

“Du lugst! You’re lying!” they cried, hitting the obstinate man. “You better admit it! Or you’ll get a longer sentence! Now! Were you in the Nazi Party?”

No! the German often said, and the boys had to beat him and beat him until he was really crying, “I was a Nazi! Yes!”

But sometimes a German wouldn’t confess. One such hard case was a fifty-year-old….

Were you in the Party?”

“No, I wasn’t in it.”

“How many people work for you?”

“In the high season, thirty-five.”

“You must have been in the Party,” the boy deduced.

He asked for the German’s wallet, where he found a fishing license with the stamp of the German Anglers Association. Studying it, he told the German, “It’s stamped by the Party.”

Its not,” said the German.

Hed lost his left arm in World War I and was using his right arm to gesture with, and, to the boy, he may have seemed to be Heiling Hitler. The boy became violent. He grabbed the man’s collar, hit the man’s head against the wall, hit it against it ten times more, threw the man’s body onto the floor, and, in his boots, jumped on the man’s cringing chest as though jumping rope. A half dozen other interrogators, almost all Jews, pushed the man onto a couch, pulled off his trousers, and hit him with hard rubber clubs and hard rubber hoses full of stones. The sweat started running down the Jews’ arms, and the blood down the man’s naked legs.

Warst du in der Partei?”


“Warst du in der Partei?”

“Nein!” the German screamed—screamed, till the boys had to go to Shlomo’s kitchen for a wooden spoon and to use it to cram some rags in the German’s mouth. Then they resumed beating him. . . . The more the man contradicted them, the more they hated him for it.

After undergoing similar sessions on a regular basis, the victim was brought back for the eighth time.

By now, the man was half unconscious due to his many concussions, and he wasn’t thinking clearly. The boys worked on him with rubber and oak-wood clubs and said, “Do you still say you weren’t in the Party?”

“No! I didn’t say I wasn’t in the Party!”

You didnt?”

“No!” said the punch drunk man. “I never said it!”

You were in the Party?”


The boys stopped beating him. They practically sighed, as if their ordeal were over now. They lit up cigarettes….

Scram,one said to the German. The man stood up, and he had his hand on the doorknob when one of the boys impulsively hit the back of his head, and he fell to the floor, unconscious.  

Aufstehen, du Deutsches schwein. Stand up, you German pig,” the boys said, kicking him till he stood up and collapsed again. Two boys carried him to his cell and dropped him in a corner….

Of course, the boys would beat up the Germans for “Yes”es as well as “No”s. In Glatz, the Jewish commandant asked a German policeman, “Were you in the Party?”

Of course! I was obliged to be!”

“Lie down, the commandant said, and six weeks later the boys were still whipping the German’s feet.

Some torture sessions lacked even the pretense of an examination. Remembered Eva Reimann:

My cell door opened. The guard, who, because of the foul smell, held a handkerchief to his nose, cried, “Reimann Eva! Come!” I was led to a first-floor room.

He shouted at me, “Take off your shoes!” I took them off.  “Lie down!” I lay down. He took a thick bamboo stick, and he beat the soles of my feet. I screamed, since the pain was very great. . . . The stick whistled down on me. A blow on my mouth tore my lower lip, and my teeth started bleeding violently. He beat my feet again. The pain was unbearable….

The door opened suddenly, and, smiling obligingly, a cigarette in his mouth, in came the chief of the Office, named Sternnagel. In faultless German he asked me, “What’s wrong here? Why do you let yourself be beaten? You just have to sign this document. Or should we jam your fingers in the door, until the bones are broad. . . ?

A man picked me up by the ankles, raised me eight inches above the floor, and let me fall. My hands were tied, and my head hit hard. . . . I lay in a bloody puddle. Someone cried, “Stand up!” I tried to, and, with unspeakable pain, I succeeded. A man with a pistol came, held it to my left temple, and said, “Will you now confess?” I told him, “Please shoot me.” Yes, I hoped to be freed from all his tortures. I begged him, “Please pull the trigger.”

After barely surviving his “interrogation,” one fourteen-year-old was taken to the camp infirmary. “My body was green, but my legs were fire red,” the boy said. “My wounds were bound with toilet paper, and I had to change the toilet paper every day. I was in the perfect place to watch what went on…. All the patients were beaten people, and they died everywhere: at their beds, in the washroom, on the toilet. At night, I had to step over the dead as if that were normal to do.”

When the supply of victims ran low, it was a simple matter to find more. John Sack:

One day, a German in pitch-black pants, the SS’s color, showed up in Lola’s prison. He’d been spotted near the city square by a Pole who’d said, “Fascist! You’re wearing black!” At that, the German had bolted off, but the Pole chased him a mile to the Church of Saints Peter and Paul, tackled him by a gold mosaic, hit him, kicked him, and took him to Lola’s prison. Some guards, all girls, then seized the incriminating evidence: the man’s black pants, pulling them off so aggressively that one of the tendons tore. The man screamed, but the girls said, “Shut up!” and they didn’t recognize that the pants were part of a boy scout uniform. The “man” was fourteen years old.

The girls decided to torture him [with]. . . . fire. They held down the German boy, put out their cigarettes on him, and, using gasoline, set his curly black hair afire.

At the larger prison camps, Germans died by the hundreds daily.

You pigs!” the commandant then cried, and he beat the Germans with their stools, often killing them. At dawn many days, a Jewish guard cried, “Eins! Zwei! Drei! Vier!” and marched the Germans into the woods outside their camp. “Halt! Get your shovels! Dig!” the guard cried, and, when the Germans had dug a big grave, he put a picture of Hitler in. “Now cry!” the guard said. “And sing All the Dogs Are Barking!” and all the Germans moaned,

All the dogs are barking,

All the dogs are barking,

Just the little hot-dogs,

Arent barking at all.

The guard then cried, “Get undressed!” and, when the Germans were naked, he beat them, poured liquid manure on them, or, catching a toad, shoved the fat thing down a German’s throat, the German soon dying.

Utterly unhinged by years of persecution, by the loss of homes and loved ones, for the camp operators, no torture, no sadism, no bestiality, seemed too monstrous to inflict on those now in their power. Some Germans were forced to crawl on all fours and eat their own excrement as well as that of others. Many were drowned in open latrines. Hundreds were herded into buildings and burned to death or sealed in caskets and buried alive.

Near Lamsdorf, German women were forced to disinter bodies from a Polish burial site. According to John Sack:

The women did, and they started to suffer nausea as the bodies, black as the stuff in a gutter, appeared. The faces were rotten, the flesh was glue, but the guards—who had often seemed psychopathic, making a German woman drink urine, drink blood, and eat a man’s excrement, inserting an oily five-mark bill in a woman’s vagina, putting a match to it—shouted at the women . . . “Lie down with them!” The women did, and the guards shouted, “Hug them!” “Kiss them!” “Make love with them!” and, with their rifles, pushed on the backs of the women’s heads until their eyes, noses and mouths were deep in the Polish faces’ slime. The women who clamped their lips couldn’t scream, and the women who screamed had to taste something vile. Spitting, retching, the women at last stood up, the wet tendrils still on their chins, fingers, clothes, the wet seeping into the fibers, the stink like a mist around them as they marched back to Lamsdorf. There were no showers there, and the corpses had all had typhus, apparently, and sixty-four women . . . died.

Not surprisingly, the mortality rate at the concentration camps was staggering and relatively few survived. At one prison of eight thousand, a mere 1,500 lived to reach home. And of those “lucky” individuals who did leave with their lives, few could any longer be called human.

When a smattering of accounts began to leak from Poland of the unspeakable crimes being committed, many in the West were stunned. “One would expect that after the horrors in Nazi concentration camps, nothing like that could ever happen again,” muttered one US senator, who then reported on beatings, torture and “brains splashed on the ceiling.”

“Is this what our soldiers died for?” echoed a Briton in the House of Commons.

Added Winston Churchill: “Enormous numbers [of Germans] are utterly unaccounted for. It is not impossible that tragedy on a prodigious scale is unfolding itself behind the Iron Curtain.”

While Churchill and others in the West were expressing shock and surprise over the sadistic slaughter taking place in the Soviet Zone, precious little was said about the “tragedy on a prodigious scale” that was transpiring in their own backyard.


Among the millions imprisoned by the Allies were thousands of Germans accused of having a direct or indirect hand in war crimes. Because the victorious powers demanded swift and severe punishment, Allied prosecutors were urged to get the most damning indictments in as little time as possible. Unfortunately for the accused, their captors seemed determined to inflict as much pain as possible in the process.

“[W]e were thrown into small cells stark naked,” Hans Schmidt later wrote. “The cells in which three or four persons were incarcerated were six and a half by ten feet in size and had no windows or ventilation.”

When we went to the lavatory we had to run through a lane of Americans who struck us with straps, brooms, cudgels, buckets, belts, and pistol holders to make us fall down. Our head, eyes, body, belly, and genitals were violently injured. A man stood inside the lavatory to beat us and spit on us. We returned to our cells through the same ordeal. The temperature in the cells was 140 Fahrenheit or more. During the first three days we were given only one cup of water and a small slice of bread. During the first days we perspired all the time, then perspiration stopped. We were kept standing chained back to back for hours. We suffered terribly from thirst, blood stagnation and mortification of the hands. From time to time water was poured on the almost red-hot radiators, filling the cells with steam, so that we could hardly breathe. During all this time the cells were in darkness, except when the American soldiers entered and switched on electric bulbs … which forced us to close our eyes.

Our thirst became more and more cruel, so that our lips cracked, our tongues were stiff, and we eventually became apathetic, or raved, or collapsed.

After enduring this torture for several days, we were given a small blanket to cover our nakedness, and driven to the courtyard outside. The uneven soil was covered with pebbles and slag and we were again beaten and finally driven back on our smashed and bleeding feet. While out of breath, burning cigarettes were pushed into our mouths, and each of us was forced to eat three or four of them. Meanwhile the American soldiers continued to hit us on eyes, head, and ears. Back in our cells we were pushed against burning radiators, so that our skin was blistered.

For thirteen days and nights we received the same treatment, tortured by heat and thirst. When we begged for water, our guards mocked us. When we fainted we were revived by being drenched with cold water. There was dirt everywhere and we were never allowed to wash, our inflamed eyes gave us terrible pain, we fainted continuously.

Every twenty minutes or so our cell doors were opened and the soldiers insulted and hit us. Whenever the doors were opened we had to stand still with our backs to the door. Two plates of food, spiced with salt, pepper, and mustard to make us thirstier, were given us daily. We ate in the dark on the floor. The thirst was the most terrible of all our tortures and we could not sleep.

In this condition I was brought to trial.

During the Nazi war crimes trials and hearings, almost any method that would obtain a “confession” was employed. Eager to implicate high-ranking German officers in the Malmedy Massacre, American investigator Harry Thon ordered Wehrmacht sergeant Willi Schafer to write out an incriminating affidavit:

Next morning Mr. Thon appeared in my cell, read my report, tore it up, swore at me and hit me. After threatening to have me killed unless I wrote what he wanted, he left. A few minutes later the door of my cell opened, a black hood encrusted with blood, was put over my head and face and I was led to another room. In view of Mr. Thon’s threat the black cap had a crushing effect on my spirits…. Four men of my company … accused me, although later they admitted to having borne false testimony. Nevertheless I still refused to incriminate myself. Thereupon Mr. Thon said that if I continued to refuse this would be taken as proof of my Nazi imagestyopinions, and . . . my death was certain. He said I would have no chance against four witnesses, and advised me for my own good to make a statement after which I would be set free. . . . I still refused. I told Mr. Thon that although my memory was good, I was unable to recall any of the occurrences he wished me to write about and which to the best of my knowledge had never occurred.

Mr. Thon left but returned in a little while with Lieutenant [William] Perl (above) who abused me, and told Mr. Thon that, should I not write what was required within half an hour, I should be left to my fate. Lieutenant Perl made it clear to me that I had the alternative of writing and going free or not writing and dying. I decided for life.

Another Landser unable to resist the pressure was Joachim Hoffman:

[W]hen taken for a hearing a black hood was placed over my head. The guards who took me to my hearing often struck or kicked me. I was twice thrown down the stairs and was hurt so much that blood ran out of my mouth and nose. At the hearing, when I told the officers about the ill treatment I had suffered, they only laughed. I was beaten and the black cap pulled over my face whenever I could not answer the questions put to me, or gave answers not pleasing to the officers….I was beaten and several times kicked in the genitals.

Understandably, after several such sessions, even the strongest submitted and signed papers incriminating themselves and others.

“If you confess you will go free,” nineteen-year-old Siegfried Jaenckel was told. “[Y]ou need only to say you had an order from your superiors. But if you won’t speak you will be hung.”

Despite the mental and physical abuse, young Jaenckel held out as long as he could: “I was beaten and I heard the cries of the men being tortured in adjoining cells, and whenever I was taken for a hearing I trembled with fear…. Subjected to such duress I eventually gave in, and signed the long statement dictated to me.”

Far from being isolated or extreme cases, such methods of extorting confessions were the rule rather than the exception. Wrote author Freda Utley, who learned of the horror after speaking with American jurist Edward van Roden:

Beatings and brutal kickings; knocking-out of teeth and breaking of jaws; mock trials; solitary confinement; torture with burning splinters; the use of investigators pretending to be priests; starvation; and promises of acquittal. . . . Judge van Roden said: “All but two of the Germans in the 139 cases we investigated had been kicked in the testicles beyond repair. This was standard operating procedure with our American investigators.” He told of one German who had had lighted matchsticks forced under his fingernails by the American investigators to extort a confession, and had appeared at his trial with his fingers still bandaged from the atrocity.

In addition to testimony given under torture, those who might have spoken in defense of the accused were prevented. Moreover, hired “witnesses” were paid by the Americans to parrot the prosecution’s charges.

When criticism such as Utley’s and van Roden’s surfaced, and even as victims were being hung by the hundreds, those responsible defended their methods.

“We couldn’t have made those birds talk otherwise…,” laughed one Jewish “interrogator,” Colonel A. H. Rosenfeld. “It was a trick, and it worked like a charm.”

Dim, Dum, Dummer

motorcycle-concepts-13I am really beginning to believe that those who can’t make it elsewhere in America move to Florida—better to be warm and poor than be cold and poor.  And I am also really beginning to believe that those who can’t make it elsewhere in Florida move to nearby Englewood, North Port or Port Charlotte.  Every day, it seems, the demographics here just get dim and dimmer and dum and dummer.

Magic Motorcycles—Up north, any time of the year, a motorcycle fatality is a fairly rare event.  Up there, a biker getting killed usually has something to do with someone younger than 60 who has either flash-fried his brain with a mountain of meth or he has flood his blood with a river of rot-gut. Down here?

Down here a motorcycle is just another way of moving old lard from Point A to Point B since every other vehicle on our roads is either a Harley transporting a tattooed tub of guts or a Harley lugging a gray beard geezer, or—as is more commonly the case—a Harley toting both a tattooed tub of guts and a gray beard geezer, all in one ugly package.

One afternoon, Roy Crankshaft was over in Port Charlotte, enjoying his magic motorcycle and the great “winter” weather only the Sunshine State can deliver.  Up ahead, a young man in his car pulled out from a stop sign.  Of course, the teen didn’t see Roy.  Nope, the teen didn’t see Roy and Roy didn’t see the teen . . . until it was way too late, that is.  Roy is now 82 forever—say what?—Roy is now 82-years-old forever.

Back in 2008, back when he was a wild and reckless lad of 77, Crankshaft was out on another magic motorcycle when he saw a hit and run car accident occur right in front of him. Roy didn’t even have to think to think.  Gunning the throttle, the outraged biker chased down, cornered and put a rear naked choke on the culprit until the blue lights arrived just in time to save the teen’s oxygen-starved blue head from turning black.   Fittingly for Florida, the hit-and-runner had just crashed into and crushed the life from some 80-something geezer in a golf cart.  Not making a word of this up folks, I swear (altho we have a ton of motorcycle fatalities down here, bike bang-ups have a long way to go before they rival canals and golf carts as leading causes of death among Florida fossils).

“Magic” motorcycles?  Because they are invisible.  Sorry to lose old Roy like that, but even if the kid wasn’t texting or yakking on his cell or packing a blunt or whatever, no way would he have ever seen someone on a two-wheeled vehicle.  Hell, take it from me, no one ever sees a magic bike, motorized or not.


Speaking of Booming Business–Judging by our dead-tree media one might assume that the so-called Jewish Holocaust had occurred just yesterday, rather than over 70 years ago.  Seems a day seldom passes that we are not reminded how much the Jews have suffered in the past, poor dears.  No less than 50 or 60 major features in yesterday’s paper alone.  Seems lead stories of scores of peasants dying in an earthquake somewhere, or hundreds drowning in a ferry-sinking somewhere, or a thousand Bangladeshis being trampled to death by a single rampaging elephant somewhere, seems trivial stories like these are never much competition for the ever-vigilant ghouls in the Holocaust Guilt-As-Profit Industry; such mere trifles, such mere major disasters around the globe never interfere with Jews cranking out more sympathy simply to wring more bucks from whatever company or nation they are shaking down this week.  Sorry.  Anyone who creates a trillion dollar industry by beating us over the head with guilt and anyone who starts all sort of murderous mischief in the Middle East and then reminds us how justified they are in grabbing land and murdering whoever they don’t like is never going to wring any guilt, pity or money from this ‘un.  Also, I have noticed over the years that whenever the Industry really dials up the Holocaust dog & pony show that’s when they commit some really special crime somewhere in the world and use the same sympathy shtick as a smoke screen.  Get ready.


Teen Geezers—Meanwhile, two young bucks, both in their sixties, got into a spat a while back up on a bridge near Sarasota.  Seems one objected to where the other was parking his car; seems he had his favorite fishing spot staked out and the car was interfering; seems both were drunk as skunks in a trunk full of junk.

Any who, these otherwise respectable pillars of their community exchanged words, then exchanged blows, then exchanged ice picks and knife blades. 

Old people are absolutely our worst drunks, especially the men.  Once these old idiots get a snoot full of something they are 17-year-old “hot-rodders” all over again, back in the 1950’s, back with Bill Haley and the Comets, back wearing black shoes and white socks, back combing greasy duck-tail haircuts, back rolling a pack of Luckies up in their shirt sleeves, back ready to rock, roll, rumble, and remember.

Since I have reported on so many goofy geezer fights in the past down here, perhaps it is fit to note my “old fool/young fool” paradigm (I hate using such voguish words and faddish phrases as paradigm, but there it is anyway, dammit), viz., to be a bad old drunk one must first be a bad young drunk.   Whatever, if one wants to see some rich sights, then one need just pop in to any Florida VFW, Elks club or random gin joint at dark noon thirty and one will see more arguments, spats and silly hissy fits than at an old ladies church Christmas committee.


Odd—After watching “To Catch a Predator” reruns last night, I was just flirting with the notion of reporting on the lack of local news from the kiddie porn world this past week and how there were zero internet sex stings and how this, in and of itself, is such MAJOR NEWS here in southern Florida.  But alas, the pervs, just in the tick of nime, rode to the rescue.

Over in–where else?—North Port recently a 39-year-old man was hauled away for stashing kiddie porn on his PC.  The miscreant worked at—where else?—a local grade school.

Meanwhile, up near Tampa, a sweep also netted a rich haul of pervs. Eight over-sexed and under-smart wretches classified for convenience sake as “adults” showed up at the sting house hoping to meet little kids for sex.  Instead of sex with tots, however, every steaming dog pile was caught, cuffed and is now safely in jail, just a jerkin’ his gherkin to his depraved heart’s content.

Down here among the seniles and savages, it seems the well is never dry when it comes to sex-crazed degenerates who dream of kids to fiddle like some of us dream of a Jew-free America and a wall on the Rio Grande.  The kiddie porn industry is, unfortunately, always bullish down here and business is always booming.