Date: Wed, 14 Jul 2004 22:14:07 -0400
From: Carl Mason <carl5de@netscape.net>
Subject: OUT OF THE RUBBLE - 1

Copyright 2004 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  Comments on the story are
appreciated and may be addressed to the author at carl5de@netscape.net.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between a young adult
male and young male teenagers.  Nevertheless, "Out of the Rubble" is
neither a strictly "suck and fuck" exercise nor is it a story that focuses
on the "love of adults for the young"...often without sex or with the mere
suggestion of sex.  If you are looking for these types of erotic fiction,
there are fine examples of each on Nifty.  Further, despite television,
those who are directly familiar with European problems, especially problems
in Germany, during later 1945 and the year 1946 are few in number and
decrease each and every year.  Hence, the first part, in particular, must
provide some of this background.  Expect a few suggestions of that which is
to come sexually, but be patient for a bit longer.  It's coming - and in a
format that may provide a few surprises.

However based on real events and places, "Out of the Rubble" is strictly
fictional.  Any resemblance to actual events, or locales, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.  Further, this is homoerotic
fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature,
adults.  If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in
power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would
create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally,
remember that maturity generally demands that anything other than safe sex
is sheer insanity!


                                                  Part l

"Oh, God, how would I feel if this were my hometown?"  Ashen-faced, the
young American stood on a hill overlooking the small German city of
Tieferwald am Main.  Destruction met his eyes at every turn.  Housing a
prewar population of about 85,000, the town was located southeast of
Frankfurt in the American Occupation Zone.  Now mid August in 1945, he had
fought his way across Europe since D-Day with great courage.  A
Distinguished Service Cross, two Purple Hearts, and a field promotion to
Captain when fighting with Patton in the Battle of the Bulge marked his
valor.  Perhaps the fact that Sam Peters was still alive was an even
greater reward.  His days at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire seemed so
very far away.  Fate...so strange!  He might have been sent to the Pacific,
or even back home, but no.  The newly organized United Relief Agencies
(URA) had intervened with the War Department in Washington.  In light of
his service record and academic preparation, his working knowledge of
German, the fact that he had no dependents, and his instinctive liking of
Germany (sans Nazis), the Army had allowed him to retain his rank and
military standing while accepting a primary appointment as the URA's
advance representative in Tieferwald.  After all, the peace had yet to be
won.  Given what he had seen of a ruined city and a population on the brink
of starvation and despair, that would take some doing.


Sadly, the handsome, athletic twenty-four year old climbed on his bike and
headed back towards the city.  (The rubble that still choked many streets
and roads often led to Sam's choosing the bicycle over his Jeep for local
transportation.)  A fair number of downtown buildings remained.  Though
many apartment buildings and other dwellings had been destroyed, those that
remained were only moderately damaged.  On the other hand, the industrial
districts and the homes of their workers on the far side of the River Main
had been pulverized.  To make matters more difficult, many who had fled the
town due to the bombing and the American advance, as well as other Germans
and a growing tide of refugees, mainly from the East, were flooding into
the area.  As yet, he had only seen a small trickle of returning German
servicemen.

Fortunately, "his town" remained relatively peaceful.  Thus far, the "Nazi
Guerilla" movement had been little felt in the Tieferwald area.  In fact,
relative order had been maintained since U.S. tanks rolled into the area
during the spring.  While the standard of living was very low, basic
nutritional needs were beginning to be met, the water supply had not been
compromised, and one civilian hospital remained open, albeit ill staffed
and equipped.  True, electricity was "on again, off again," for several
dams up river had been severely damaged. U.S. Army Engineers were helping
to knock down buildings that were in imminent danger of collapse.  The
women of Tieferwald were busy opening the streets, performing other basic
services, and keeping themselves and their children alive. Housing and food
remained major problems for Americans and Germans alike. The summer's
vegetable gardens had helped.  Perhaps due in part to the civilian focus on
simply surviving, there seemed to be only minor resentment of the
Americans.  The Denatzification effort among civilians had barely begun,
although it had been announced that the Nuremberg Trials would begin in
November.  All Europe was still catching its breath.

Waving to a few children and their mothers whose homes he had visited
during the past couple of weeks (and happily receiving quite a few waves in
return), he finally reached the city's main administrative building in the
center of town.  Two floors up, he entered his one-room office and slid
into the desk chair.  His wry grin seemed to say, "Well, it sure ain't
much, but it's all mine!"  Pausing for a moment, he greeted a secretary
from downstairs and signed for the afternoon mail.  Returning his gaze to
his "elegant" office, his eyes passed over the desk and two chairs, the old
typewriter, the phone, the lamp, and the damaged filing cabinet.  "Wow -
but I asked for it," he muttered.  In truth, his office was anything but
commensurate with his responsibilities.  For instance, his was the office
that would coordinate all American charitable relief to the people of
Tieferwald.  Even more sensitive politically, at least in real terms, he
was also charged with coordinating civilian relief efforts with those of
the One-Star (General Mark Clemens) who commanded the area's military
district (Too bad he didn't have access to as many chocolate bars and
cigarettes, he thought.)  As soon as they set up their Frankfurt and Munich
offices, URA promised him one or two secretaries and a second staff member.
Unfortunately, he'd been in Germany long enough to know that it would
happen when it happened!  For the time being, his instructions had been
quite explicit: "Show the flag" and "Stick your finger in the nearest dike
that's threatening to give way."  He'd been doing that since arriving in
Tieferwald some 15 days ago.  He'd talked long and frequently with the
military command and with the Army medical team that was stationed in the
city.  Freed from the "No Fraternization" policy, he had talked with locals
- older men such as the Buergermeister, women slaving in a variety of hard
occupations, and a host of children and younger teens.  For instance, the
German hospital staff had been ecstatic when he managed to scrounge a
fairly large supply of drugs and other supplies from the Army base in
Frankfurt.  Naturally, there were problems such as the time he accepted an
invitation to a German home (actually, a small decrepit apartment occupied
by three families!) and came away with a major infestation of body lice!
And he didn't do anything other than to sit in a few chairs and bounce a
few little ones on his lap!  Oh, well...  Thank all that's holy for the
Army medics - even if they did laugh their fuckin' heads off as they
deloused him!!  He grinned as he surmised that the word had come down the
grapevine that he was one of the "good guys."  One thing was for sure: The
spigots of cooperation would not be nearly as open had it not!

After completing his second report to URA and preparing it for Army mail,
he moved on to a meeting with German civilians.  Given long-range weather
forecasts plus food and housing problems, they were already concerned about
challenges they would face during their first peacetime winter since 1938.
Finally, he was able to reclaim his bike and head for home - a nicely
furnished private house about a mile (1.6 km) away that had been
commandeered by the Army.  (When his assistant arrived, he would also be
quartered there, but for now the house was his.)  Cutting across the corner
of what had been a large city park, he noted anew that most of the trees
were gone, their remnants undoubtedly carted away for firewood.  A few
flowers still bloomed amidst the weeds in ruined beds.  Nevertheless, it
was a daily relief, an oasis of sorts, in the midst of desolation.

Suddenly, almost out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape in the ruins
of a small stone structure - perhaps the setting for a statue in happier
times.  There sat a youngster propped up against the remnant of a column,
his face lowered onto his upraised knees, his shoulders shaking.  Maybe 16,
5'-7" or so (176 cm), something less than 150 lbs (68 kg), soft, very light
brown hair...  He seemed rather muscular which was quite rare for a DP
(displaced person) or a city kid.  His clothes were so thin and ragged as
barely to deserve the title of clothing.  One trouser leg, for instance,
was ripped a good two-thirds of the way up the leg from the cuff, revealing
a sparsely furred calf and a nearly hairless, beautifully muscled thigh.  A
farm boy?  That might also account for the teen's well developed shoulders
and upper arms.

In the rays of the late afternoon sun, the dark-haired young American knelt
close by and quietly asked, "Kann ich helfen, mein Freund?" [Can I help, my
friend?]


(To be continued)