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This is a work of historical fiction, based around a picture I drew depicting Diebold "Moptop" Moppentrop saving the life of Spitzohr as an explanation for how he earned his Iron Cross (although it ends before the award is actually given, and, as you'll see, it's debatable whether he actually deserves it anyway). XD

This was originally split over three different stories, but I have combined them.

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Resplendent in his black uniform with the death's symbol of the Waffen-SS on his hat, Standartenführer Ikol Spitzohr observed the tide of battle through a pair of field glasses as he stood up in the back of his Horch staff car. They were close enough to the fighting that Spitzohr could feel the ground tremble with each explosion.

Recently placed in command of the Panzerfaust Skorpiongeschwader, the young, thin red squirrel enjoyed flaunting his new command, even though Sturmbannführer Belzig, his second in command, often advised him against it.

"Nonsense!" Spitzohr had argued. "Rommel joined his troops on the field of battle, why not myself?"

Belzig had wanted to remind his commanding officer that Erwin Rommel had command of an entire corps, whereas Panzerfaust Skorpiongeschwader consisted mostly of support vehicles despite its fearsome name, and its symbol; a scorpion in an acorn with the SS lightning bolts flanking it. Spitzohr and Belzig both wore this insignia on their arm patches.

The group was primarily ground troops with the requisite amount of trucks to move them, but it did have four armored vehicles; a single Tiger I, two Panthers and a halftrack. The Tiger was Spitzohr's pride and joy, commanded by his most capable tank crew chief. Few knew it, but Spitzohr had a deep and abiding, and certainly not platonic, love for tanks.

His current command had come about as a result of how well had handled interrogating the girl in Paris. The information she gave him led to the capture, imprisonment and death of several key resistance members. As a reward, he was allowed to get out of the office and onto the battlefield, and not the Russian Front, either. And when SS-Oberstgruppen-Führer Hauser told him he would have tanks, actual, honest to God tanks, at his disposal, the young Standartenführer had almost creamed his pants.

He licked his lips as he watched his tanks, and those of Hauptmann Braunschwieg, the idiotic Heer officer he and his men had been sent to assist, routing the Americans, whose ground forces consisted mostly of their ugly little green automobiles they called "Jeeps." There was no sign of the Americans' tanks. He followed the progress of the majestic Tigers and Panthers. Gorgeous. Amongst them were a couple of King Tigers, which, Spitzohr knew, belonged to Braunschwieg. Heer bastard. Braunschwieg got the newest model while Spitzohr was stuck with a single Tiger I. Not that he minded.

"Aren't they magnificent?" he asked aloud.

"Yes sir," said his driver.

Spitzohr ignored him. The fellow, a squirrel much younger than he, could have said nothing for all he cared. Holding the binoculars in one hand, Spitzohr let one black-gloved hand slide down and grope himself through his jodhpurs. The driver said nothing. Since they were the only ones up on the hill, Spitzohr was beginning to entertain the idea of unzipping his pants and pleasuring himself to the tide of battle, before a honking horn interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see Sturmbannführer Belzig driving up in a Kubelwagen.

"Herr Standartenführer!" he said. Stopping the car, he got out and walked around to the side of Spitzohr's Horch. "We have a problem."

"Not from where I'm sitting," Spitzohr said.

He chuckled but then his smile vanished when he witnessed the sudden appearance of several American tanks charging from the trees. The battle had been happening in a forest clearing, as these kinds of battles were wont to. When Braunschwieg's forces first engaged the Americans, Spitzohr had ordered his tanks to pursue the fleeing enemy troops into the woods. Tigers and Panthers were what were called "open country tanks," that being they did not perform well in closed spaces. Like forests. However the Americans had been either on foot or in their little Jeeps, and so Spitzohr sought to crush them swiftly, and sent his tanks after them. With little else to do, Braunschwieg followed suit.

He never in a million years thought it could be a trap. But now here were the American tanks, which had been lying in wait to ambush the German armor. Spitzohr lowered the binoculars and swallowed. What should he do? The American tanks outnumbered the German ones. And although a Tiger could blow a Sherman into scrap metal with one blow, the nimble little American tanks had ways of ganging up on the bigger, more powerful German ones to take them down. And from where Spitzohr was sitting, it looked like there were three Shermans for every one of his own tanks.

"Belzig," he said suddenly, "fall back into a defensive position at the bottom of the ridge."

"We're retreating, sir?" Belzig replied.

"No, fool!" Spitzohr snapped. "We're falling back into a defensive position! Now get to it! And whatever you do, don't let the Americans get behind our tanks or else they'll cut us off completely!"

Belzig jumped into the Kubelwagen and sped off to do was he was bid. Spitzohr was sitting back down in the car and in the middle of telling his drive to get them out of here when suddenly a small tank drove up over the far side of the ridge a few feet away from them. Spitzohr felt his blood run cold. It was a "Stuart," a tank smaller than the Sherman. The nimble American tanks could make it up steep hillsides, and now one of them had found him!

The driver didn't need to be told what to do. He immediately gunned the engine. However, to Spitzohr's dismay, he threw the Horch into reverse. The car flew backwards. The Stuart fired and the ground exploded in front of the car, taking off the bumper, headlights and grille, raining rock and dirt down on the Germans.

The Stuart opened fire again, this time with its machine gun. The windshield shattered and Spitzohr's driver died in a hail of bullets. Shrieking, Spitzohr himself ducked down in the backseat. The Horch's back tire struck a large rock jutting out of the earth near the incline overlooking the battlefield. It bounced and veered towards the edge, then over it went, careening wildly down the hillside, backwards. Spitzohr held on for dear life and prayed the Horch, a convertible, didn't overturn...

~*~

"Where the hell is Spitzohr?" was the question on Unterscharführer Moptop's lips.

"Fled!" replied Hauptmann Braunschwieg, a stuffy chipmunk. "Last time anyone saw him, he was telling Belzig for us to fall back!"

"Right, but where is he? Usually he's leading these retreats!" grumbled Moptop.

He was a squirrel bigger than most, with creamy dark brown fur with tank highlights. Tall without being gangly, athletic without being beefy, his face kind when he wanted it to be, fierce when it needed to be. "Moptop" wasn't his real name. He was born Diebold Moppentrop, although few people called him either Diebold or Moppentrop. His unique hairstyle, short on the sides and back, shaggy in the front, with the bangs covering his forehead almost entirely, had earned him the nickname "Moptop" when he was a boy, and it had stuck even through to his current position as commander of Standartenführer Spitzohr's prized Tiger.

Moptop knew that the reason had earned the position was due to his appearance. He knew, whereas most did not, that Spitzohr was a homosexual, and clearly his commanding officer fancied him, and rewarded him for his pleasing appearance by giving him command of his lead tank. Not that Moptop minded, and for two reasons. He was gay himself, although he had yet to inform anyone, even Spitzohr, of this. Being gay in the Third Reich wasn't something you went around advertising. In fact, Spitzohr had never confessed his sexuality to Moptop, but the young Unterscharführer knew anyway. He could read the red-furred officer like an open book.

The other reason Moptop didn't mind his placement was because it was one he'd always wanted. To command a tank was one thing. To command the lead tank, and a Tiger at that, was quite an honor. The death's head insignia on his uniform notwithstanding, Moptop had little use for the Nazi Party or its members and ideals. He was a soldier and he wanted to fight for his country and expand its territory. For him, this meant climbing into a tank and dominating the enemy on the battlefield, be they neighbors whose land Germany aimed to overrun, or invaders, like the Americans he was currently fighting.

He flinched as an explosion went off a few feet away, spraying him with dirt. He grumbled and yelled down to his gunner to take care of the problem. Most of the American tanks hadn't reached them yet, but one Stuart commander was feeling bold. Moptop's gunner rewarded the American crew's bravery by firing the Tiger's main cannon, blowing the Stuart into kindling.

With that taken care of, Moptop turned back to address Hauptmann Braunschwieg again, but before either of them could say anything, the Kubelwagen Braunschwieg was sitting in disintegrated in front of Moptop's eyes. Moptop shielded his eyes and reeled backwards from the blast, falling off the turret and onto the side, just above tread well. Regaining his senses he looked in the direction the blast came from; a Sherman had been behind the Stuart his gunner had destroyed, and it had rolled over the wreckage of its predecessor and was now blasting away at the retreating Germans.

Coming in behind the Sherman were a few Jeeps with mounted machine guns, spraying bullets everywhere. Sloppy tactics, but in this instance, at least, it seemed to be working. Moptop feared in his heart that numbers would win the day here, and that, for once, Spitzohr was wise to retreat.

"Damn," Moptop muttered, grabbing the edge of the turret, intending to haul himself back up and get inside.

He never got the chance. One of the crew, he never really got the chance to see who it was, poked their head out of the turret hatch to see where his commander had gone. Moptop saw him fleetingly but then he dropped back down again, dead from a round of gunfire that all but annihilated his head. Getting blood on his cheek, Moptop again fell against the tread well, sputtering. It must've been the gunner because the Tiger didn't return fire any more on the incoming Shermans. A few well-placed hits took out the cannon, rendering it moot anyway. Moptop would've caught a faceful of shrapneil, had he not jumped off the side. He landed on his feet, fell forwards, and rolled, coming to a stop amidst some bushes.

Nearby, Moptop saw Spitzohr's Panthers and the remainder of the German vehicles, including that idiot Braunschwieg's precious King Tiger, beginning to back up, some of them beginning to turn to run away. Slow going. Finally they managed and got themselves turned around. They began driving off as quickly as they could, the Shermans and Stuarts in pursuit.

Moptop for his part was unable to join them. There were too many Americans on foot. Seeking the shelter of the nearby trees, he jumped to his feet and bolted. He heard someone yelling something in English and then machine gun fire was kicking up the dirt behind him, a few bullets whizzing through the soft fur of his bushy tail, which made him yelp and run faster.

Through the forest he staggered, panting, before finally coming to rest behind a large tree. He struggled to catch his breath, groping hos his holster to make sure his Luger was still in it. Good. It was. Feeling suddenly hot, he loosened, then took his necktie off completely and undid the top few buttons of his shirt. Once he was certain he was ready, he turned and looked 'round the trunk. In the direction he'd run from, some American soldiers were clambering onto his stricken Tiger. His crew had apparently been killed in the blast that took out the Tiger's cannon. Damn Fireflies, he thought.

To his right he saw the soldiers who'd been chasing, three in all, him stomping around in the brush, searching for him, but they were headed in the opposite direction. He'd lost them. Slowly he hunkered down in a crouching position. He needed only to wait for the Americans to disperse, and then he could catch up to the retreating tank column on foot, by taking the long way around.

The soldiers on the Tiger hopped down one after the other and continued on foot in the direction the Shermans had gone. The three who'd been hunting him, meanwhile, disappeared around the side of a ridge further up the valley. After waiting a few more moments to scan the vicinity and make sure there were no further threats, Moptop turned and began trotting along the side of the steep ridge, intended to take the long way around by climbing up to the top.

Halfway to his destination, the lowest point of the ridge, he stopped short when he saw a Horch 901 staff car lying on its side at the base of the incline, the bodies of a soldier and none other than Standartenführer Ikol Spitzohr lying sprawled in the dirt beside it. Apparently, it had slid down the incline, hit the bottom on its side, and thrown the two Germans out to where they now lay.

Spitzohr was closest so Moptop checked his commanding officer first, feeling an unexpected amount of worry and sympathy for the young Standartenführer. He prayed he wasn't dead. He didn't quite know why, but he did. He sighed in relief as he found a pulse at Spitzohr's neck. Then he moved on to the soldier, who had apparently been the driver. The unfortunate soul's body was riddled with bloody bulletholes, but Moptop checked him anyway and was unsurprised when he got no pulse.

Moptop returned his attention to Spitzohr and gently shook the smaller squirrel. He got only a moan in response. The poor fool had been knocked completely senseless. No sense leaving a fallen comrade being, especially an officer, so, without a second thought, Moptop grabbed Spitzohr's limp arm and slung it over his shoulder. Taking him by the waist, he carried the red squirrel thus on the rest of his trip. It made climbing the hill more difficult, but, thankfully, Spitzohr didn't weigh very much.

Halfway up, Spitzohr came to, in a manner of speaking. He opened his eyes and moaned, blinking groggily. "What's going on...?" he mumbled.

"Relax, sir," Moptop said as they reached the crest of the hill. "Everything is under control."

The hilltop was like a miniature platteau almost. A flat expanse of dense forest. Only the edges of the hill provided a kind of "ring" of bare ground on which vehicles could reasonably drive. The tank tacks in the dirt told Moptop what had knocked Spitzohr's car off the side. There was no sign of the tank itself however. Either it was still up here, or it had gone back down to join in the pursuit of the retreating German forces. Either way, Moptop knew they weren't safe just yet. He set Spitzohr down so his commander could at least try and recover before they continued. Spitzohr didn't sit, really, he sprawled, panting, at Moptop's feet, and despite himself, the larger squirrel found himself admiring the smaller.

Spitzohr was in a state Moptop had never seen him. Wounded from battle, and, for the moment at least, totally helpless. Obvious his hat was long gone, left back at the crashed car. His jacket hung open, necktie loosened and crooked, shirt untucked. Moptop could see hints of Spitzohr's belly fur between the buttons. He knelt and gently shook him.

"Sir," he said softly.

"Mnh," was all he got in response.

Moptop frowned and shook him just a little harder. "Standartenführer, wake up!" he hissed.

At this, Spitzohr finally came around completely and sat up, blinking. Turning he found himself looking into Moptop's face, and the bigger squirrel smiled. "Moptop!" Spitzohr cried, elated and relieved. But then he cleared his throat. "Er, I mean, Unterscharführer! Glad to see a friendly face."

Moptop helped him stand. "If you don't my saying so, sir, you're lucky to ever see anything again."

"Fucking Stuart," Spitzohr muttered. "Scared poor Kleist spitless, and over the side we went. But not before the bastards got him with their machine guns. But enough of that. What's the situation, Unterscharführer?"

Moptop straightened a bit, to look more "soldierly." "Hauptmann Braunschwieg is dead. Our Tiger I crippled, but not beyond repair from what I saw. The Americans routed us and the main force is retreating along the forest roads."

Spitzohr sighed and rubbed his temples upon learning of the loss of the Tiger. To say nothing of Braunschwieg. Although in his worldview, a beautiful machine like a Tiger mattered more than just another incompetent Heer officer. He was glad Moptop was alive, though. He would've hated to have lost his best tank commander. And his best-looking. He looked down Moptop's body at his dirty uniform. Filthy, and worse, his tie was missing.

"Look at the state of your uniform!" he mumbled, trying vainly to brush some of the dirt and dust away from the formerly pristine black. Then he looked down at himself. "Look at the state of mine, for God's sake!"

Moptop sighed, both bemused and annoyed by Spitzohr insistence upon maintaining a polished and pristine look at all times. "Sir, if you'll forgive me, I believe we have more important things to do now than fret over our uniforms. Such as escaping?"

"Oh, uh, right you are, Unterscharführer," Spitzohr mumbled. "Which way is the rendevous point?" He started off in one direction, then stopped, tail flicking. He then headed the opposite way, and paused here, too. Moptop had to force himself not to smile. "Erm, where are we anyway?" Spitzohr finally asked.

"At the top of the ridge from which your car fell," Moptop said. "And the main column is in this direction, if you would care to follow me." He gestured.

Spitzohr nodded, wordlessly conceding that he had absolutely no idea of which way they should go, and seemingly satisfied with Moptop leading the way.

As they started off they heard a rumbling noise. The Stuart that had knocked Spitzohr's Horch off the hill had not gone down, it had merely been doing a circuit of the outermost point of the ridge, and now it was beginning to appear around a cluster of trees in the direction opposite from where they were going.

"If you would care to follow me a little bit faster," Moptop added, half-grinning.

The pair ran into the woods and ducked out of sight as they waited for the tank to go by. Thankfully, its crew hadn't seen them. Now it began going back down the side of the hill it had originally climbed up. Spitzohr sighed with relief, and then felt Moptop's hand on his shoulder. He nodded and, turning followed the other squirrel into the brush.

~*~

"Hey, General, over here!" called Private Bitterman.

Captain Lance Savage turned at the sound of his subordinate's voice. He was a big, meaty middle-aged St. Bernard with a steely gaze and a presence not unlike that of General George Patton, to the point where some of the men in his charge often jokingly called him "General," although never to his face.

The three had been in the heat of battle when Bitterman had spotted a squirrel tank crewman fleeing from the destroyed Tiger. Never one to let an enemy slip away, Savage had, along with Bitterman, opened fire at the retreating form. But the squirrel was a nimble bastard and made it to the trees. Savage almost left it at that, but the young terrier proved far more tenacious than his Captain gave him credit for. To the point of outright stupitidty, it seemed.

It had been Private Danny Bitterman who took off after the German, even though Savage had called him back. With a growl, Savage ran after his errant subordinate. It was only by the time they'd reached the trees that he'd noticed a third soldier had joined them, a young mixed breed mutt named Private Archibald "Archie" Kowalsky.

The German had given them the slip, though. Bitterman insisted he went "thattaway," as he put it, and nothing would disuade him from pursuing his prey, forcing Savage to accompany him just to keep the idiot from getting himself killed. Kowalsky just sort of tagged along, but hey, the more the merrier.

With Kowalsky at his heels, Savage turned and trotted over to where Bitterman stood alongside the wreck of a German staff car. There was one body, that of a soldier who had apparently been doing the driving. Adjusting his machine gun's shoulder strap, Savage stooped down to investigate.

"Looks like it rolled down the hill," said Kowalsky.

"Thanks for pointin' out the blatantly fuckin' obvious, Archie," grumbled Bitterman. "What I wanna know is, was this guy the only one in the car?" He indicated the dead German driver by kicking the body with his boot.

"Quit it," Kowalsky said, frowning. He was part Polish, and spoke a little bit of German. Although he didn't see natural born Germans as kinsmen at all, he still found Bitterman's frothing hatred of them a little disturbing.

"Why should I?" snapped Bitterman. "He's deader than Theodore Roosevelt, he ain't gonna complain!"

Savage, silent until now, finally piped up. "And that's exactly why you should shut the fuck up and quit kickin' something that doesn't matter anymore."

The fierceness in Captain Savage's voice wiped the smile right off of Bitterman's face. Savage stood. Bitterman groped his package and grunted. Savage ignored him. The terrier had been complaining all week about having "no tail," and it had taken every single ounce of Savage's authority to prevent the hyperactive leg-humper from raping the local women. The thought had cross Savage's mind, once or twice, but he'd always brushed it aside. He wasn't about to get himself executed for looting and raping over something as idiotic as blue balls.

"Looks like there was at least one other guy in this thing," Savage said, holding up a black SS officer's hat. "An officer by the look of 'im."

"Not just any officer," ventured Kowalsky.

He pointed at the flag attached to the car's fender, now draped over the hood. Although Savage was certain the symbol on the flag denoted the officer's position or importance, he had to confess it conveyed nothing to him. But from the way Kowalsky was talking, it seemed as though he and his men were on the verge of catching a very big fish. So he signalled for Bitterman to shut up, and allowed Kowalsky to continue.

Kowalsky went on, "That flag there, says this car belongs to a Standartenführer--that's an SS colonel--in command of the support troops for the guys were were just scraping knuckles with."

He let that sink in. Savage stroked his chin. It had been dumb for him to allow Bitterman to go off on a wild goose chase like this and get them separated from the main column. He should've just shot him. But he didn't, and now here they were. Not exactly lost, but left behind, and with every passing second farther away from their own forces in enemy territory. Although simply trying to catch up with the tanks was the wisest idea, Savage was envisioning Major Peterson giving them the biggest dressing down of their lives. But, Savage thought, what if they returned with something to show for it? Say, a captive SS colonel?

It was Bitterman who first voiced this thought. "So, are we gonna go catch this Kraut or what? Anything's better than standin' around here doin' nothin'."

Savage nodded, tossing the hat aside. "All right, we'll do it. A German colonel could be a very valuable prisoner. Think of the intel he could give us. Kowalsky, think you speak enough German to get the guy to cooperate?"

"Provided we find him, yes," said Kowalsky.

"Hot dog," said Bitterman, his grin returning. "Archie's up for it. Now we're on a roll!"

"Shut up, Private," Savage grumbled. "Let's get a move on. After a crash like this, the guy couldn't have gotten too far."

Motioning with his hand, he headed off, following the trail left by the German's boots, an eager Bitterman right behind him, Kowalsky a slow last.

~*~

The forest got deeper and darker the further in Spitzohr and Moptop went. Moptop was reminded vaguely of that American moving picture he had seen in color, shortly before the war, the one based on Baum's book. The dark woods he and his commanding officer were tromping through reminded him very much of the ones from that film, minus the yellow brick road.

Spitzohr was complaining nonstop. His feet hurt. His back ached. He wanted to walk slower. Sometimes he wanted to stop outright. This annoyed Moptop, who wondered if Standartenführer Spitzohr had ever actually seen any battlefield action before in his entire life prior to taking over the Panzerfaust Skorpiongeschwader. He doubted it.

The more he learned of Ikol Spitzohr, the more Moptop was growing to realize that he was one of those "desk generals." The high-bred, pompous upper-class officers who attained their rank through no real effort on their own part. It was rumored Spitzohr had an uncle in the SS ranks who pulled strings for him, but no one dared broach the subject, least of all Moptop.

At least, usually.

But the more Spitzohr whined, the more and more Moptop was sorely tempted to tell him to shut the hell up, and that his rank meant nothing in comparison with Moptop's own experience as a soldier.

The shadows grew long. The sun was beginning to set, Moptop noticed. The hillside was, to his dismay, turning into a small mountaintop ridge and it looked like they'd have a ways to walk before they got to the other side. And they were still taking the shortcut. He could only imagine what his fellow Panzer commanders were going through, having to take the long way around this increasingly larger mountain, all while being pursued by the Americans.

It would be dark soon, and Moptop, who already felt uncomfortable wandering around in the open without the protection of his Tiger, didn't like the idea of stumbling about in the woods at night, so he decided that they ought to stop and rest where they were until morning. So he found a small clearing of sorts into which he led the still-grousing Spitzohr, and stopped.

"We'll stop here for now," he said. "We'll pick up and continue tomorrow morning."

"What?" gawked Spitzohr. He watched as Moptop sat down against a tree trunk. "Preposterous! I'm just getting my second wind!"

"Be that as it may, sir, it's going to be very dark shortly, and if we try to stumble about in the woods when there's no light, we'll get lost," Moptop replied. He set a steely gaze upon Spitzohr. "Do you want to wander right into the hands of an American patrol?"

"I..." Spitzohr trailed off.

"That's what I thought," said Moptop. He settled in against the trunk and sighed, brushing his long bangs out of his eyes only for them to fall back into place.

Spitzohr shook his head but decided to heed the Unterscharführer's advice. He turned and slid down against his own tree trunk across from where the larger squirrel sat, and settled in.

It was then that he realized, somewhat dimly, that Moptop was the only one of his myriad of subordinates that Standartenführer Spitzohr ever actually listened to. Whether they were or weren't, Spitzohr regarded all of his fellow officers in the SS as naive at best and buffoons at worst. But somehow Moptop always earned his attention, if not his respect.

Why? There were plenty of other Panzer commanders just as competent as Unterscharführer Diebold Moppentrop. Some even moreso. So why this one particular fellow? The red squirrel found himself asking questions he didn't know the answers to. Or, he thought he knew, he just wasn't willing to entertain the truth just yet. Openly fawning over a tracked mobile cannon was one thing. Openly fawning over one of your subordinates was another.

"Thank you," he said, finally.

Moptop had been leaning his head back and closing his eyes when he heard. He sat up, blinking. "What?" he said.

"I said thank you. I owe you my life, I think."

Moptop smiled a bit at this unusual display of gratitude from Spitzohr. He might make a decent squirrel out of his Standartenführer just yet. "Don't mention it," was all he said. Best not to rub it in right now. But somewhere in the back of his head, Moptop was formulating an ingenius scheme to "entice" Standartenführer Spitzohr to come to bed with him one night, by reminding him of the day he rescued him from his crashed Horch. He idly licked his lips at the thought, but Spitzohr didn't notice.

The pair proceeded to sit in silence for a couple of hours, before their tummies started rumbling. Spitzohr rubbed his and looked down at it with a frown. Great, now he was hungry. And, having never lived off the land, he was once again going to have to be dependent upon Moptop.

"I'm hungry," he said, trying his best not to sound like a whiny child. He wasn't exactly successful.

Moptop stood and stretched, yawning. Although by now it was pretty dark out, the burly Panzer commander was certain he could forage for some food for them to eat easily enough in the forest, provided he didn't wander too far from the clearing.

Spitzohr started to rise also, but Moptop motioned for him to remain sitting. "I'll got see if I can scrounge up some nuts or something," he said. "In the meantime, sir, please stay here. I don't want to lose you. Erm, I mean, I don't want you getting lost. I'd hate to have to report back to Hauser and tell him you're dead."

He chuckled a bit and then turned and tromped off, disappearing into the darkness. Spitzohr watched him go, smiling. So, the Unterscharführer had a little slip of the tongue there, had he not? It seemed to Spitzohr that "Moptop" shared some of his more personal interests. Granted, he was making a mountain out of a mole hill. It could've been entirely accidental on the Unterscharführer's part. But alone out here in the wilderness in the middle of a war, it was fun to fantasize.

Spitzohr's fantasy came to a crashing halt a couple of seconds later, however, as he heard movement coming from the woods. And not from the direction Moptop had gone.

"Moppentrop?" he called out. No answer. "Is that you? Hello?"

Slowly, he stood, keeping one hand against the tree and idly wishing Moptop had left his Luger with him. His own weapon had been in the backseat of the Horch when it slid down the hill. Spitzohr silently cursed himself and swore he'd wear his holster from now on. If he made it out of this alive.

"Don't move," a gruff voice said in English. An American.

Spitzohr's hopes for survival plummetted and he was about to turn and run off when the speaker, a big St. Bernard in a US soldier's uniform, stepped into the clearing, pointing a machine gun at him. Behind him appeared two more soldiers, a mutt whose exact breed Spitzohr was unable to determine, and a grinning terrier. They were both armed as well, the terrier with another machine gun and the mutt with a bolt-action rifle.

"Get your hands up," the St. Bernard said, motioning with his weapon.

Spitzohr didn't speak a word of English, but the tone in the dog's voice plus the motion he made with the gun persuade the squirrel to lift his arms in surrender. Some things transceded the language barrier. He was being taken prisoner.

The terrier came over and seized him by the collar of his jacket, hauling him away from the tree. Spitzohr grunted and scowled at him, but the canine just scowled right back and tightened his grip. He was shoved and soon found himself on his knees, hands forcibly positioned behind his head.

He shuddered with fear. Gone were the thoughts of glory on the battlefield, the thoughts of the gorgeous weapons of destruction laying waste to the enemy. Now cold hard reality was setting in. He was captured and there wasn't anything he could do about it. If he tried to run, he was certain the Americans would shoot him. And he dared not call out to Moppentrop for help. This would only bring the Americans' attention to the fact there was another German nearby, and they would kill him as soon as he returned.

But what if Moptop returned without knowing about the Americans? Would they shoot him? Or take him prisoner as well?

The Americans chattered amongst themselves. "Well, we got 'im," said the mutt. "Let's take 'im with us back to HQ. If we hurry we can still catch up to the column."

"Are you nuts?" said the terrier. "It's stupid to wander around aimlessly in the dark. We'd get lost. Besides, I don't think this guy's gonna give us any trouble, are ya, sweetheart?"

Spitzohr was nudged by the barrel of the terrier's gun. The St. Bernard nodded.

"Bitterman's right," he said. "Best to lay low until first light. In the meantime, why don't you see if you can get to work on persuading our short friend here to cooperate with us?"

This last part was directed at the mutt, who nodded. He came 'round and crouched down in front of Spitzohr and began speaking to him in German. He introduced himself--Archibald Kowalsky, as if Spitzohr cared--asking him what seemed to be routine questions; his name, rank, whether he understood he was a prisoner. Things of that nature. This last question annoyed him.

"My name is Standartenführer Spitzohr," he hissed. "And of course I understand that I have been taken prisoner!"

Kowalsky blinked and smiled a bit at this outburst. He said to his comrades, in English, "He says his name is Colonel Spitzohr and yeah, he knows he's been captured."

The terrier, Bitterman, smirked and prodded Spitzohr with his gun again, coming 'round to stand beside his fellow soldier. "Gettin' smart with us, huh?" he said.

"Knock it off, Danny," Kowalsky said.

He continued with the interrogation, but it seemed as though he was having some difficulty with the language. It was clear to Spitzohr that Kowalsky only spoke a little German. Which was still more than he himself knew about English. Not that Spitzohr was paying too much attention to Kowalsky anyway. Instead he found himself constantly glancing up at Bitterman.

He smiled at Spitzohr, and it gave the squirrel chills, that smile. It was the smile of a killer. Spitzohr himself had a sadistic streak, one which had certainly earned him his place as one of the SS' best interrogators, but he had never intentionally, willfully killed anyone. He maimed and tortured, yes, but never killed. There were lines even he wasn't willing to cross. He'd be remembered as a torturer, certainly, but he wasn't going to be remembered as a murderer.

This fellow, though, this energetic, over-eager terrier named Bitterman, this was a killer. One look told Spitzohr that this American had killed before....both on and off the battlefield. He looked away from him and shuddered.

"I think he likes me," Bitterman said with a chuckle. He was already eyeing Spitzohr up and down. He liked what he saw.

"I don't think we're going to get very much out of him, at least not tonight," Kowalsky said, ignoring Bitterman. "Maybe once he's back at HQ and not so nervous, and we have a better interrogator..."

The St. Bernard nodded. He was the obvious leader, and Spitzohr knew enough about US military insignia to deduce that he was a captain. "All right, then," he said, and went and sat against the tree trunk Moppentrop had earlier, pulling his helmet down over his eyes. "Let's get some shut-eye. Bitterman, you're on lookout duty. Kowalsky, you're guarding our niew friend Colonel Spitzohr."

Kowalsky made Spitzohr sit back up against the tree he'd originally been leaning against, and stood there, keeping his rifle up, though not exactly aimed at the German. Of the three, he seemed to Spitzohr to be the most reasonable. That Bitterman fellow, meanwhile, looked positively enraged that he was stuck with sentry duty rather than guard duty, and stalked the perimeter of the clearing like a wild animal stalking 'round its cage in a zoo.

He was getting edgier. The last time he'd had sex was some piddily little town called Clairmont about a week ago. Since then, Captain Savage's men had joined up with a tank corps they came across and begun fighting their way through the French countryside. Bitterman grunted. He could feel his erection straining the front of his fatigues. In the States, in his hometown in Nevada, Danny Bitterman had earned a reputation as a "horndog" and a "leg-humper." He'd fuck anything with two legs, a tail and a skirt.

Thoughts of fucking another male had never entered into the equation until after they'd stormed the beach at Normandy. Like many of his fellow soldiers, he had assumed that beating the Germans would be easy. But the fight was instead one hard slog, back and forth. It was driving him crazy. He vented his frustration in battle by killing Krauts. He'd discovered since landing at Normandy that he found quite a rush in killing others, and a heated gunfight was as good an excuse as any. There was no shortage of enemy troops to slaughter.

What these was a severe shortage of, however, was dames. At least, ones he was allowed to lay his hands on. More than once he'd forced himself on a French peasant girl, and he very much looked forward to samply the German women once they reached Berlin. Due to his past experience in Nevada, he knew how to avoid getting caught.

But he hadn't seen any dames for an entire week, and the most action he'd got since then was from his left hand. A couple of times, he had persuaded one of his fellow soldiers to suck him off or let him fuck them if they were both desperate enough, and so he'd long come to the conclusion that male or female, if it would submit to him, he'd bang it senseless. This Colonel Spitzohr fellow looked mighty tasty, he thought, eyeing the German as he continued his patrol.

Why not? The guy was their prisoner. Theirs to do with as they pleased. And if the stories were true, the Krauts had done far worse to their own prisoners. His mind made up, Bitterman left his patrol and marched over to where the other three were. Kowalsky and the captured Kraut glanced over at him, whilst the Captain remained where he was, helmet over his eyes.

"Hey, Kowalsky, he's a pretty little thing, ain't he?" he asked.

Kowalsky blinked, uncertain of what Bitterman was getting at. "What do you mean?"

"I mean look at 'im! He's real petite, probably got a nice, smooth body under there if you look," Bitterman said, all but drooling.

"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggestiong?" the mutt said, eyebrows flying up.

"Why not? That Geneva thing says we can't torture 'em or kill 'em once we catch 'em, but last I heard, it didn't saying anything about sexin' 'em up!"

At this, Captain Savage lifted his helmet up off of his eyes with his thumb, but this went unnoticed by either his men or his prisoner. Spitzohr for his part just sat there, blinking, watching the terrier and the mutt yammering back and forth. Unable to understand anything they were saying, he was still observant enough to realize that the terrier wanted to do something with him or two him, and the mutt wasn't entirely keen on the idea. And somehow Spitzohr knew just what it was.

"But that's rape!" Kowalsky cried. "You're sick, man!"

"Hey, a soldier's gotta do what a soldier's gotta do," Bitterman said.

"What about the Captain?" Kowalsky said uneasily.

"The hell with him, if he wants to stop me, he can shoot me," Bitterman declared, smirking.

"That won't be necessary," a voice said behind them. They turned to see Captain Savage getting to his feet. He took off his jacket and let it fall to the ground. He walked over, leaving his machine gun propped against the tree. "If you want, to, Bitterman, you can go right ahead. I won't stop you."

This surprised even Bitterman, who never in a million years would've thought that levelheaded Captain Lance Savage would ever go for something as outrageous as this. Savage smiled at their stunned faces and decided to explain himself.

He told them how he, too, was very pent-up, how he missed the warm embrace of his wife back home in the States, and how, like Bitterman, he'd entertained thoughts of raping the local women, but his sense of duty always held him back.

"But now that somebody else is finally voicing it, I guess I may as well chime in," he concluded. He was already unbuckling his belt. "Besides, from what I've seen of these wimps, they may as well be girls."

"That's the spirit, General!" Bitterman said, grinning.

Spitzohr watched the Captain starting to undress and realized what they intended to do. Stammering in protest, he got up, but was pushed back down by the terrier. The mutt seized him by the collar of his jacket and held him. Sweat poured down his face in spite of the cool night air, which quickly became filled with the stink of musky male arousal.

Kowalsky swallowed, shocked, terrified, and, despite himself, interested at the same time. He watched as both Bitterman and the Captain began to leisurely strip nude right in front of him and the prisoner. He felt an erection growing in his pants and his face flushed red, ears lowering.

"Gettin' a stiffy, aren't you, son?" said Savage when he was naked. His large knotted penis bobbed stiffly in the cool air.

"Y--Yes sir," Kowalsky stammered, keeping his old on Spitzohr.

"No need to be ashamed, it's just guys here," Savage said, and smiled cruelly down at the German. "Isn't that, Colonel?"

~*~

Not far away, Moptop had finished his foraging. Despite what he'd thought earlier, he'd had to venture quite a ways away from the clearing in order to find enough nuts for both himself and Spitzohr to eat. Finding his way back was difficult, but not impossible. He was on his way back when he heard the voices. Voices speaking English.

Gently, he knelt and allowed the handfuls of nuts to softly fall to the forest floor. Then he unholstered his Luger and crept forwards, as quietly as he could. The voices got louder. One in particular was very loud and full of energy. Luckily the closer he got the less Moptop's chances of detection by sound became. Any small noises he made would be masked by the loud yammering of the Americans.

Holding the Luger in both hands, he pressed himself against a tree and slowly peered around it. He saw Spitzohr being hauled to his feet by two US soldiers. To his immense surprise, one of them, a yappy terrier, was stark naked and very aroused. The other one, a young mutt, still had his clothes on. Directing them was a third soldier, A St. Bernard who was equally as naked as the terrier. He wore only a helmet with a US captain's insignia.

"Okay, get his clothes off," the St. Bernard captain was saying. Moptop understood a little bit of English, having visited England as a child. "But for God's sake don't rip them up. He's going to need to put them back on for later."

His subordinates nodded and they began forcibly undressing Spitzohr. Jacket, shirt and tie first. Barechested, the red squirrel squirmed and fought against the two men holding him. He could not break free however. For all his bluster, Ikol Spitzohr was easily overpowered by two born-and-bred Americans. They shifted a bit, the mutt holding him under his arms while the terrier tugged his boots and socks off. The entire time, Spitzohr was whining for them to stop, but either they didn't understand German, or they didn't care.

Moptop found himself smiling just the tiniest bit. He was about to leap in and point his weapon at the unsuspecting would-be rapists when suddenly the over-eager terrier undid Spitzohr's belt and he and the mutt began tugging his jodhpurs down, revealing Spitzohr's underwear, a pair of plain white cotton briefs. They bulged with his arousal, and at this Moptop stopped, eyes widening. He'd never seen his commanding officer like this before.

"I think he likes it," said the Captain.

The terrier laughed and the mutt, the most nervous of the trio, managed a small smile. It was true. Spitzohr was erect in his briefs. What these men were doing to him was turning him on. The terrier laughed and grabbed Spitzohr's package, squeezing it, eliciting a deep groan from the squirrel. Then he slowly pulled the underwear down and off of Spitzohr's weakly kicking legs. The squirrel's erect penis now bobbed in the air for all to see.

"Give 'im here, Kowalsky," the terrier said.

Kowalsky, the mutt, frowned and shoved Spitzohr into the other soldier's waiting arms. The terrier embrace and forcibly kissed the German squirrel. Spitzohr struggled as his and the American's cocks rubbed together, but by this point his struggles were halfhearted. The terrier was giving him lots of tongue, too. Finally the kiss broke, and Spitzohr seemed to stand there dazed for a moment.

"On your knees," the terrier said.

"What?" Spitzohr said, in German of course.

"I said--Fuck!" the terrier grumbled. "Kowalsky, explain to him exactly what's going on and what's expected of 'im, wouldja?"

He started forcing the resistent squirrel to his knees as Kowalsky explained in German how they were going to have their way with him. His voice was quivering.

From his hiding place behind the tree, Moptop ogled his nude commanding officer as he kneeled, the terrier's cock sliding across his startled face. Then he started looking around the clearing. None of the soldiers still had their guns. The rifle and machine gun belonging to Kowalsky and the terrier were close enough for them to seize in a pinch, though. The Captain's weapon was out of his reach though, lying propped against the far tree.

Smirking, Moptop began formulating a plan. It would be easy enough to drop in and takes this fools by surprise. All he needed to to act quickly enough and he could cut down all three of them before they could even think about getting their weapons. He'd shoot Kowalsky first, as he was nearest. Then the terrier. Then a final bullet should take care of the St. Bernard as he turned and ran for his machine gun.

So, why wasn't he launching into action and shoot them already? He blinked, watching the scene unfolding. The terrier grabbed the fur on the back of Spitzohr's head and jerked it back, and proceeded to slide his throbbing penis into Spitzohr's mouth. Oh, that was why. Moptop holstered his Luger for now, and, undoing his belt buckle, fumbled with his zipper. This was too good to pass up.

He was going to watch. Yes, he thought as he found his zipper and slowly pulled it down, fishing his raging hard erection from within his trousers. He would watch his arrogant, cowardly commanding officer get raped by these Americans, and he would enjoy every second of it. Only then would he spring into action and rescue Spitzohr.

"Enjoy yourselves, boys," he whispered softly, to himself. "Having your way with him is going to be the last thing any of you ever do."

~*~

Tears filled Ikol Spitzohr's eyes as Bitterman gripped the fur on the back of his head, forcing his head back. He opened his mouth in pain and was rewarded by the fat head of the terrier's cock sliding along his lower lip. He closed his eyes as the thickness slid past his lips and into his mouth and he gently closed his lips along its length. If he was going to survive, he knew, he would have to do what the Americans wanted. But he would have his revenge, he thought as he felt Bitterman's dick starting to gag him. He would kill them all. And Bitterman would have the worst death.

Bitterman grunted and hunched his hips forwards, so that his erection filled the squirrel's mouth entirely, and he looked down, wide-eyed and grinning as the squirrel actually began to suck him off! This was an interesting turn of events!

"See, I told you he liked it!" he giggled. "Look at 'im, the little cocksucker."

"Indeed," said Savage, crossing his arms. "Either that or he's just cooperating with us in order to survive. Which is a very wise move. Not that it's going to help him very much I'm afraid."

There seemed to be a hint of regret in his voice. Kowalsky, who was still clothed, blinked and looked over at his captain.

"Sir?" he inquired.

Savage turned and looked at him. "Nothing. Nevermind. Hey, Kowalsky, how come you're still dressed? If you want a turn, you better hurry up and strip, 'cause I gotta tell you, that ass of his is looking mighty inticing. I might just take a long turn."

Kowalsky chewed his lower lip nervously. He thought about protesting, but he was so hard, and Savage was right. The squirrel's ass, with that big bushy tail, sure did look very inviting. He felt his breathing quicken, and hurriedly he began stripping, his clothing, gear and helmet falling to the sides. Soon the mutt was naked and positioning himself behind the squirrel.

He reached down and grabbed Spitzohr's waist, hauling them up. He and Bitterman had some difficult making it so that Spitzohr could accomodate them both, and Captain Savage had a good laugh at their clumsy lovemaking. Eventually they worked something out, though, with Spitzohr on his hands and knees, butt hiked up in the air. Bitterman knelt around his head, cock shoved in his mouth, while Kowalsky got down behind and pushed his cockhead against the German's puckered anus.

Spitzohr groaned around the terrier's cock as Kowalsky invaded his ass. It stung and he writhed in agony as he was violated, his cries silenced by Bitterman's "gag." He grabbed Bitterman's tights and tried to pull away, the pain in his ass making him rethink his decision to cooperate with the Americans, but the terrier grabbed his hair and held him firm.

Kowalsky meanwhile was in heaven, sinking deep into the prisoner's ass, which fit snug and warm around his cock. He'd never thought mounting another man could feel this amazing! He moaned and lolled his head back, earning chuckles from both Bitterman and Savage. Bitterman made a remark about him being a virgin, but he ignored it. He was no virgin. Just not the type to kiss and tell.

Lance Savage stood with his arms crossed watching his two subordinates having their way with the German officer. Kowalsky was still halfhearted even in his raping, whereas Bitterman was fucking Spitzohr's mouth so savagely that Savage was worried the terrier would knock his teeth out. Not that they needed to keep him in good condition, as Savage had decided that they wouldn't be taking Spitzohr back with them to HQ. Not after this.

Of the two, Bitterman actually came first, shooting his load into Spitzohr's mouth. Spitzohr swallowed as much as he could. The rest dribbled out around his lips. But Bitterman was far from sated. He took a brief break, panting, but never removed his cock from the squirrel's mouth. He remained hard. Weeks of blue balls ensured he'd be ready to go again very shortly.

Kowalsky came next, nutting deep in the German's ass with a low moan as he held tightly to the slim hips. He was done. Once was enough for him. Slowly he pulled his aching member free from Spitzohr and, wobbly, went over to where his clothing and gear had fallen and began dressing. As he felt the rush of sex leaving him and actually looked over at what was happening, he feel suddenly dirty.

Meanwhile, Savage smirked seeing it was his turn and walked around and got behind Spitzohr, grasping his hips. The big St. Bernard's cock fell heavily against Spitzohr's butt, and if he could have whipped his head around in surprised, Spitzohr would've.

He could already tell that the St. Bernard was twice as big as the mutt had been. He whimpered in distress around Bitterman's dick. This was apparently the terrier's cue to resume face-fucking him with extreme prejudice.

"Hurry up, you guys," Kowalsky said as he finished dressing.

"What the hell for?" snarled Bitterman. "I could go all night long with this baby."

"That's just it, we need to have him back to HQ soon so he can--"

"He's not going back to HQ," Savage said simply.

He looked down, eyeing Spitzohr's butt. Using thumb and forefinger he pulled open the squirrel's well-used tailhole, some of Kowalsky's cum leaking out. His thick canine cock in the other, Savage guided it into the spread passage, and Spitzohr cried out into Bitterman's pubic fur as the gigantic member filled him.

Kowalsky tried to ignored the new cries from the German. "Sir, what did you mean when you said we aren't taking him back to HQ?" he asked, inclining his head a bit.

Savage said nothing. He just pushed his dick further into the squirrel.

"Sir!" Kowalsky said, sternly.

Finally Savage turned and looked at him, after he'd hilted in Spitzohr. But it was Bitterman who spoke. "Get a clue, Archie," he said. "Soon as we get back, this Kraut is gonna tell the first German-speakin' guy he comes across about what we did to him, and then we're up against a firin' squad for rapin' a prisoner!"

Kowalsky started to sweat. "Well, yes, but, isn't killing him worse than r--r--r--" he seemed to have some difficulty even forming the word now. "Isn't killing him worse than raping him? Besides, who are they gonna believe? Us or him?"

"Fuck you, man!" Bitterman said, and started humping Spitzohr's face more fiercely.

"That's true," Savage said thoughtfully, "but it's a chance I just can't take." He grunted and began moving his hips, rocking himself against the thight squirrel ass. "When we do it, if you don't want to watch, you don't have to."

Kowalsky's breath was quickening as it sank in that no matter what, Captain Savage and Bitterman were killing the prisoner. He suddenly lunged for his rifle. Without missing a beat, Savage grabbed it and yanked it out of Kowalsky's reach. Kowalsky blinked and took a step back, wide-eyed.

Moptop had just cum harder than he ever had before, seed dribbling down his pants leg, when this new development demanded his sudden and complete attention. Hurriedly he tucked himself back into his pants and unholstered his Luger again, watching as the St. Bernard captain took away the mutt's rifle. He threw it away into the bushes on the opposite side of the clearing.

"Bitterman," said the St. Bernard.

"Yes sir," Bitterman the terrier said. He extracted himself from Spitzohr's mouth, and the squirrel's head hung down limply, and he burbled, cum dribbling from his lips. The terrier went straight for his machine gun and grabbed it.

"Hey, now, wait!" cried the mutt, back away.

"I'm sorry about this, Archie," Savage said.

Welp, thought Moptop, it was now or never, now that he knew they intended to kill Spitzohr when they were through with him. Gripping his pistol tightly, he jumped out of hiding.

Bitterman was grinning insanely as he aimed his machine gun at Kowalsky, who closed his eyes and prepared to die. And then suddenly a burly squirrel in a Panzer officer's uniform leap out from behind a tree about sex feet away. Savage and Kowalsky whipped their heads around. Kowalsky ushered a girlish scream because the big squirrel was practically right next to him.

The smile left Bitterman's face almost instantly and he swung the gun around to face this new threat. But Moptop was already aiming and he fired. The bullet struck the terrier in the forehead and he went rigid, crosseyed, and then fell over sideways to sprawl on his back. Savage gasped. Private Danny Bitterman was dead. What was he to do? He was helpless, dick buried in this German squirrel. He'd thrown Kowalsky's rifle away. He looked to the mutt, praying Kowalsky would forgive him for trying to kill him and help him.

Moptop frowned and turned, aiming at Kowalsky, the mutt. Kowalsky screamed and threw his hands up in a defensive gesture, asking for mercy. At this, Moptop felt a twinge of sympathy for him, and so when Kowalsky turned and ran off into the woods, effectively ceasing to be a threat, Moptop ignored him. Besides, he reasoned, the mutt had been against the killing. Only the ones who would've willingly murdered Spitzohr deserved to die. Like the St. Bernard.

Mustering what little he knew of English, Moptop said, "Pull out." He hoped the St. Bernard understood. He didn't want to kill the guy while he was still in Spitzohr's ass.

Gulping, Savage obeyed, his dick popping out of the squirrel with a blurping sound. Spitzohr fell forwards on the ground and couched, crawling away from his rapist. Savage held up his hands, as Kowalsky had, but what little mercy Moptop had for his commanding officer's rapists and would-be killers had been used up. He shot the St. Bernard twice. First in the chest, then, as he reeled from the blow, he shot him again in the head. Captain Lance Savage collapsed dead alongside Danny Bitterman like a sack of potatoes.

For a moment Moptop simply stood there pointing the Luger at thin air. Then he took a deep breath and lowered the weapon, returning it to its holster. Turning, he found Spitzohr lying face-down in the grass, shivering silently. He knelt beside the naked squirrel and gently put a hand on his shoulder. Spitzohr shuddered from the touch, making Moptop genuinely feel sorry for him. He felt an immense wave of guilt welling up inside him for having watched him getting violated, and gotten off to it, rather than helping him.

"Don't look at me," Spitzohr said muffledly, without looking up.

"But, sir--" Moptop began, concerned.

"I said don't look! Just go away! Just leave me alone!" Spitzohr shuddered and began to weep.

Moptop almost got up to leave, then decided against it. He wouldn't abandon his Standartenführer, even when ordered to. Especially not now. He put his hand on Spitzohr's shoulder again and this time, Spitzohr didn't command him to remove it. He just shuddered some more. Eventually, though, he turned on his side and looked up at Moptop with watery eyes, dried cum around his lips. Bending down, Moptop gently scooped the smaller squirrel up and held him close in a hug that was comforting without suggesting intimacy. Moptop wasn't sure he wanted to give away his own homosexuality to Spitzohr just yet.

Spitzohr felt like shoving the other squirrel away. He wanted to find the deepest, darkest hole in all of France and crawl into it and never come out again. But Moptop's embrace comforted him, and so he did not try to pull away. Instead he buried his face in Moptop's shoulder snuggled into him, as if he would melt into the larger officer. He didn't know what to say. "Thank you" would've seemed woefully inadequete. So, at a complete loss, he just clung to him and wept softly.

The Panzer commander sat there holding his shivering commanding officer, and sighed, idly wondering what he ought to do to make him feel better. Then suddenly Spitzohr lifted his head up and off of Moptop's shoulder and looked up at him, lower lip trembling. Tentatively, Moptop took Spitzohr's chin in one of his large but delicate hands. The red squirrel made no move to jerk away from this very intimate gesture. Simultaneously both moved their faces towards one another until their lips met.

Moptop found himself tasting the dried cum of the American terrier on Spitzohr's lips but didn't care. Spitzohr was calming down and that was all that mattered. To Spitzohr, Moptop's mouth tasted good and sweet, clean and refreshing after the filthy experience he'd just been put through. He kissed him hungrily, and started getting a little too eager, so Moptop gently stopped him and put a finger to his lips.

"Not now," he said softly. "Not here, not where they violated you. What you need right now is to sleep. Come on. Let's get you dressed."

He helped Spitzohr stand and get dressed, although Spitzohr left his jacket and tie off and his shirt untucked. He'd worry about those things later. For the moment he was about as clothed as he preferred to get under the circumstances. Then he and Moptop settled in for the night. Moptop sat against the tree trunk, Luger in his holster, the dead St. Bernard's machine gun at the ready should he need it, and he opened his arms to Spitzohr.

Spitzohr hesitated, ever so briefly, before climbing into Moptop's lap and nuzzling into his embrace. Moptop smiled and wrapped his arms around the skinny red-furred frame and held it close to himself protectively. Slowly, Spitzohr drifted off to sleep in that fashion. Moptop stayed up all night, cradling his sleeping commander in his arms, ever watchful for danger.

Tomorrow they would talk when Spitzohr awoke. They had much to say to one another. Idly, Moptop just wished it hadn't taken such a traumatic event as this to start bringing them together. But such was life during a war. They would be okay, though. Whetehr Germany won or lost the war, it didn't matter. Moptop and his Spitzohr would both be okay.

The End