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When the plane landed there was a car awaiting Ikol. Nothing fancy, just a Kubelwagen. Behind the wheel was Untersturmführer Plessel, a youngish squirrel officer with already-thinning blonde hair. A jovial sort of fellow, although at the moment Ikol didn't need any levity. To his credit, the young Untersturmführer could read his superior easily and knew that Spitzohr was in a foul mood. Thus the car ride proceeded in silence. As was his habit, Spitzohr drove while Plessel rode shotgun.

Although he wanted more than anything to return home, he knew that Belzig would wish to see him immediately. Ultimately though he decided to make up an excuse and see him tomorrow. Right now what was needed most for Ikol's sanity was rest and relaxation. He turned onto the road leading to the Parisian townhouse he had occupied for the duration of the Skorpiongeschwader's stay in Paris. Plessel noted this change of direction but said nothing for the moment.

Ikol stopped the car outside of the house, and got out, but left the motor running. "Tell Standartenführer Belzig I've taken ill," he instructed Plessel. "Tell him I'll see him tomorrow."

"I, uh, yes sir," Plessel replied, looking uncertain. He slid over into the driver's seat and watched as Spitzohr took the briefcase from the backseat. "Um, shouldn't I take those to headquarters for you?"

"No need," Ikol replied firmly. "I'll deliver them to the Standartenführer myself in the morning. Now, off with you." He patted the fender.

With a sigh, Plessel turned and drove away. Ikol stood for a moment, watching the Kubelwagen round a corner and disappear. He knew that once Plessel told Belzig of his decision to come home, the Standartenführer was going to be hopping mad. Trotting up the front steps, Spitzohr imagined the Gestapo coming to pay him a visit with orders to arrest him. Perhaps Belzig would even swing by in person. Not that Ikol much cared about this by this point. If he was to be black-bagged by the Gestapo he at least wanted a shower and something to eat, one last time.

But the Gestapo never came. There was never so much as a phone call. He himself did place one telephone call himself, to his beloved Moptop. He wanted him to come home. After hanging up, Ikol went into his private study where he set the accursed briefcase on his desk. He then flung his hat on top of it. Staring at the hat, he seemed to notice, for the first time, the Totenkopf. He'd seen it thousands of times since the war began, but this was the first time that grinning silver skull honestly made him shiver.

Since he was alone, he took off his clothes right then. Carefully he hung his undecorated uniform up and, in his underwear, went upstairs. Just off the spacious master bedroom there was an even larger and more ornate bathroom. Typical French architecture. Ikol enjoyed a long, hot shower, during which time he thought of Moptop.

Diebold Moppentrop, nicknamed "Moptop" due to his distinctive hairstyle, was the Skorpiongeschwader's most decorated tank commander, having won the Iron Cross for heroism in battle; namely, saving Ikol both from a crashed car and later from being captured and killed by Americans. Amongst other things. His brief stint as a captive had seen Spitzohr forced to endure the humiliation of rape at the hands of enemy soldiers, something which had shaken him to the very core of his being and humbled him. It was for this reason he had passively submitted when Oberstgruppen-Führer Hauser demoted him at the same time he rewarded Moptop and promoted that bastard Belzig.

Moptop had understood. Not only had he saved Spitzohr's life, he'd saved his mind. If the larger squirrel hadn't been there to tenderly hold him after his ordeal at the hands of the Americans, Ikol was certain he would've gone mad. But being in his subordinate's strong arms had reassured and calmed Ikol.

Not much had changed since then. In addition to winning the Iron Cross, Moptop was also promoted to the rank of Sturmbannführer. Now, he was Spitzohr's superior and commanded several tanks instead of only one. But their personal relationship never changed. They met secretly on numerous occasions to experience one another. Always there existed the danger of being caught, but although this had always made Ikol nervous, Moptop never seemed bothered by it.

After his shower, Ikol dressed. Night was already starting to fall outside. In his casual attire of a v-neck sweater, black dress slacks and a bowtie, which was slightly askew due to his carelessness in dressing, Ikol went downstairs to find Moptop already waiting for him. Unlike the red squirrel, the much larger brown one was still in his uniform. He had come straight to the house after leaving duty.

"Ikol," he said, and embraced Spitzohr, gently kissing the other squirrel's forehead. Ikol responded by snuggling into Moptop's broad chest. "I've missed you. It's been weeks since we've had time alone like this. Let's hope it'll be a night to remember."

"I hope so, too," Spitzohr replied, quietly. "Because it may be our last."

He slowly pulled away from Moptop and went into the sitting room. Moptop, puzzled and worried, followed, removing and setting aside his hat. He could tell something was wrong with his beloved former commander. Even leaving aside the red squirrel's slightly detached, anxious air and sluggish mannerisms, little things like the crooked bowtie were significant. A dutiful lover recognized these things. And Moptop knew Spitzohr well enough to know that he always kept his bowties straight as a ruler.

"Have we...been discovered?" Moptop asked softly as they sat on the sofa together.

"No," replied Ikol.

"Thank God," the other squirrel said with a sigh and a hand upon his chest. "For a moment, I thought as if..." Here, he trailed off, frowning. "But something is eating at you? What is it? What's wrong?"

Gently, he smoothed his fingers over Spitzohr's short, red headfur. At so direct a question, and after holding his true feelings in ever since he left Spriggenfeld, Ikol became emotional. It started with a trembling lower lip, tears welling up in his eyes, and, within seconds, the shorter officer was sobbing softly, as he had the night Moptop had saved him.

"Belzig," he said, choking back tears as Moptop tightly but tenderly held his hands. "He...he sent me on an errand to Spriggenfeld..."

Moptop then listened with growing distaste as Ikol's story unfolded. He told Moptop of what he had witnessed at the camp, what he had sought to avoid witnessing since the war began. And, worse, what Shreck had forced him at gunpoint to do. And Moptop had held him gently, and kissed him, soothing him.

"What do you intend to do about it?" Moptop inquired. Then, thinking better, he added, "What can you do?"

"I have an idea," Ikol said. "But not now. Later."

Ikol began kissing Moptop's chest and neck. His way of telling his lover he wanted to couple with him where they lay. It seemed a little selfish to think of sex when he felt so guilty about murdering a Jewish mouse, but Ikol needed to think straight, and he couldn't when he was stressed out. Sex with Moptop helped him relax. And so with the other squirrel's help he pulled off his sweater and unbuckled his belt, wriggling free of his slacks and underwear. His throbbing squirrel cock already stood erect, rubbing along Moptop's thigh, leaving a trail of pre on the black fabric of his pants.

Moptop stood. First he went and drew the shades in the windows so no one would see them. Then he returned to Ikol's side and undressed himself, gradually revealing his athletic form to his redheaded lover as bit by bit his uniform was stripped away. In his underwear he carefully folded the uniform with its medals and set it gingerly on the table nearby.

His bushy tail twitching, Moptop came to Ikol. Ordinarily he would've leapt upon the smaller squirrel like a predator pouncing its prey. Spitzohr utterly adored rough sex play, he had learned. But when he was in a bad mood, the former Standartenführer preferred more gentle, intimate lovemaking. Thus, Moptop gently slid onto the couch and crawled atop Ikol, pushing the red squirrel down onto the cushions with his weight. Their lips met, and the two rodents kissed long and sweet, Moptop in his tightfitting briefs, Ikol in his loose shirt and crooked bowtie.

Their half-naked bodies writhed sensually on the sofa, Moptop always taking the lead, guiding his lover. Ikol let him. For all his desire to dominate his surroundings in his day-to-day military life, Spitzohr submitted to other men in matters of love. He wrapped his legs around Moptop's waist and hugged his neck, his kisses growing hungrier, more urgent as time went by. His erection slid insistently along the brown squirrel's stomach, sliming his tan bellyfur.

Finally Moptop pulled back, breathing deeply, and say up on his knees. Spitzohr leaned up and grabbed his lover's briefs and pulled them down, allowing Moptop's thickness to spill forth, dripping with the bigger squirrel's need for the smaller. Slowly, Ikol took Moptop into his mouth, straining a bit as he stretched his comparatively small maw over the thick cock. Moptop arched his back gracefully and moaned, soft slurping sounds music to his ears.

But this oral pleasure was merely the lead-up. Once the cock was sufficiently slick with Spitzohr's saliva, Moptop made him back off, spittle dribbling from Spitzohr's slack lips as the sweaty redhead lay back, panting, shirt clinging to his thin chest, bowtie fully unclasped and hanging loosely around his neck. Moptop slowly stroked his aching member as he beheld his lover, fancying Ikol Spitzohr the most beautiful man on the planet.

He made a circular motion with his free hand and, nodding, Ikol got up off of the sofa, as did Moptop. Whilst the brown squirrel fully removed his briefs and kicked them aside, the red one bent over forwards, facing away from Moptop, leaning over the couch, fluffy tail raised high, exposing his pert bottom. He groaned as he felt Moptop's weight upon him, the bigger squirrel's spit-slickened member entering his body with a wet schlurp. Large but gentle hands laid upon his shoulders and he gripped the back of the sofa as Moptop began thrusting.

Spitzohr's thin body bucked at Moptop's powerful thrusts, and once more Moptop's weight forced Ikol down onto the couch and pushed him deep into the cushions. The red squirrel's throbbing maleness slid between them, and he shuddered as each thrust from Moptop atop him caused his cock to "fuck" the cushions. Thus, Ikol made love to his own sofa even as Moptop made love to him.

It wasn't long before he felt his lover climax within him, Moptop throwing his head back, trademark shaggy hair flying in all directions as he arched his back and pushed forward into Ikol's ass as deep as could, emptying his liquid love deep inside of the smaller squirrel. This prompted Ikol to explode as well, body locking up and shuddering. His own climax already ebbed, Moptop's strong arms encircled Spitzohr's narrow frame and held him tightly and adoringly as the squirrel beneath him spurted his essence into the crevice between the cushions.

The brown squirrel extracted himself from the red one's ass with a wet pop, and Ikol clenched his anus tightly, intent upon keeping Moptop's gift inside of himself. Spitzohr's head flumped weakly against the armrest, and he grunted as Moptop lay down atop him fully, snuggling gently against him in the afterglow.

As was their habit, the pair lay this way in silence for some time. Long enough for their cocks to soften and for Spitzohr to actually begin drifting to sleep before he felt Moptop gently shaking him. He stretched and sat up, finding Moptop seated nude beside him, watching him expectantly.

"Now that we've got that out of our systems," said Moptop, "what say you tell me precisely what's cooking in that scheming little mind of yours...?"

Ikol took a deep breath. "I had been thinking about..." He trailed off, becoming a little more nervous and leery of getting into trouble now that his anger had been quelled by a relaxing romp with his boyfriend. But he had to be honest with Moptop. "I'd thought of...killing Belzig," he said finally, in a whisper.

"You know you can't do that," said Moptop. "At least...you can't do that and get away with it. Don't ask me to endure the sight of the Gestapo dragging you away, or worse, gunning you down on the spot."

Spitzohr nodded. "I know, I know," he said. "That's why I've thought better of it. Tomorrow I'm going to go in as usual...and everything will return to normal, whether that bastard likes it or not. I'm not going to let this defeat me."

Moptop smiled and took his lover's loosened bowtie and reclasped it for him, carefully adjusting it until it was straight. Then he kissed him on the lips. "Good. Now, come on, I think we could both use a bath, unless we want to report for duty tomorrow stinking of sex."

~*~

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. As Ikol anticipated they would, they rendered a bath moot by making love in it, necessitating a second bathing. Then they fell asleep together in Ikol's bed. When Spitzohr awoke in the morning, Moptop was gone and so was his uniform. Not unusual. Moptop typically left to report for duty before his lover awoke.

After a short breakfast, Ikol dressed himself in his uniform and grabbed the briefcase from the office. On the way out he put on his hat and trotted down the front steps to where Untersturmführer Plessel sat waiting in the Kubelwagen. Noticing Ikol walking around to the driver's side, Plessel sighed and got into the passenger seat.

"You ought to know by now I prefer to drive myself," Ikol said, as they drove down the street.

"Yes sir," Plessel replied with a mixture of annoyance and nervousness.

Spitzohr drove them to the Parisian headquarters and slowly pulled up to the front of the building. He sat for a moment, trying to think of what he ought to do. How should he behave in front of Belzig? If he acted openly displeased he knew Belzig would only enjoy his torment and rub it in his face. But if he acted as if nothing was wrong, Belzig would be disappointed. And angry.

Ikol was still musing over how to handle the situation as he got out of the car and went inside. Plessel stayed with the Kubelwagen. He was shown into Belzig's office. The larger squirrel was again seated at his desk. Ikol wondered if he ever left it.

As he approached, he saluted. "Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler," Belzig replied with a small smile, and stood. He studied Spitzohr for a moment. Although Ikol had done his best to compose himself following Spriggenfeld, he knew he still looked a little green around the gills. And certainly Standartenführer Belzig could read him as easily as Plessel could. "Well, Hauptsturmführer, how was your visit?" he asked cordially.

"Pleasant," was Ikol's response. He noticed Belzig's smile fade slightly. Intent on changing the subject, he put the briefcase containing the work detail requisition forms onto the desk and all but shoved it towards Belzig. "Standartenführer Shreck has signed them. The work detail is yours. If I may ask, sir, what is the work detail for?"

Belzig opened the briefcase and, putting on a pair of glasses, began looking them over. "Why?" he asked without looking up.

Spitzohr struggled to come with a good excuse. He decided to test the waters with a little insubordination. "Because I have this sinking feeling you're going to ask me to supervise that, too."

This made Belzig glance up, and for a moment Ikol detected rage in his eyes but then he smiled. "Nonsense," he said. "Plessel can do it. You, on the other hand, can be so kind as to give these to my secretary." He slid the documents back into the briefcase and held it out for Spitzohr.

Ikol scowled, feeling his hatred for Belzig welling up again. It would be so easy to just whip his sidearm out and shoot the bastard dead. Belzig's own Luger was in its holster hanging on the coatrack behind Spitzohr, by the door. But one shot would bring everyone running. So he heeded Moptop's advice and did no such thing. Despite this he noticed that Belzig was looking at his holster and then his own, as though he was contemplating whether Spitzohr would in fact try to shoot him. But when Ikol did nothing except snatch the briefcase away, Belzig's insufferable smirk returned.

Ikol turned and left. He was two feet from the door when he heard a long, loud, undulating wail. An air raid siren. He whirled around, as did Belzig. They both ran to the window. Belzig's office overlooked the courtyard of the building and as they watched a small squadron of British fighter planes flew towards them, strafing the ground with machine gun fire and bombs. Several buildings and vehicles exploded. Numerous personnel, including Plessel, could be seen darting this way and that for cover.

Two planes in particular seemed intent upon the headquarters itself. They dove straight at it, growing larger and larger in the window. Belzig, shouting, stepped back and bumped against his desk as the first dropped its payload. It missed its mark, exploding part of the courtyard, and then flew overheard, rattling the window. Ikol turned and ran for the door, Belzig right behind him. Belzig's assistant appeared in the door wide-eyed, then, seeing the two officer's racing towards him and the second plane diving towards the window, he gave a cry and ran off down the hall.

The second plane's bomb found its mark. Sort of. It hit close to the building itself. The glass in the window shattered. Belzig's desk flipped up as the wall exploded inwards sending chunks of plaster raining around them. Ikol threw himself forward through the open door and hit the hardwood floor, the briefcase flying from his hand and skidding off down the hall.

As the dust settled and the sound of the plane's engine receded, he turned and sat up, looking back the way he had come. Belzig survived as well. He sat up, groggy. Where the far wall of Belzig's office once was there was a gaping, ragged hole, through which Spitzohr could see the destroyed courtyard, various vehicles including his Kubelwagen overturned and/or burning. Soldiers ran madly about trying to control the fires.

Suddenly the overturned Kubelwagen's gas tank ignited and it exploded. In that instant, Spitzohe got an idea, and, drawing his Luger, pointed at Belzig.

"Belzig!" he said.

Belzig turned and went wide-eyed as he saw the red squirrel aiming a gun at him. He started to open his mouth to call for help before Spitzohr fired. The bullet penetrated the larger squirrel's skull and killed him instantly. Belzig shuddered once and then flopped to the floor and lay still. Slowly standing, Spitzohr holstered the Luger, glancing around. No one in sight. No one in the courtyard had noticed. Even so, the obvious bullethole in Belzig's head would definitely confirm he'd been shot and not died in an explosion. And Belzig's assistant would also confirm that Ikol had been the last person in the room with Belzig at the time.

What should he do? Kill the assistant, too? No. He needed only to act quickly enough, and he could eliminate the existence of the wound. He went to where he grabbed a small marble bust of Adolf Hitler, which had previously sat on Belzig's desk. Using this he clubbed Belzig's corpse over the head with all of his might until the cranium cracked like an egg and collapsed inwards, blood matting Belzig's short, close-cropped hair. With Belzig's head smashed in like this, the bullet hole was almost invisible. An autopsy would still reveal death by gunshot and probably also discover the bullet itself, but with such a gory head wound, no one would doubt Spitzohr's story: that Standartenführer Belzig had died as a result of head trauma from when the wall exploded.

Panting, Ikol tossed the bust aside. It hit the wall and clunked onto the floor. Suddenly, he felt queasy, and, exiting the office, lurched down the hallway. A few soldiers came running and inquired about the Standartenführer. Ikol told them where he was, and that he was dead, and didn't need to act horrified to convince them. As they went in to look for themselves, Spitzohr staggered to a chair and collapsed into it, fighting the urge to vomit again. Thank God he'd had a light breakfast.

"Sorry, Moptop," he whispered softly.

He sighed. He was certain Moptop would understand. Belzig the bully was dead and he was free. His own final fate was still in question. Would he survive the war? Would Moptop? Spitzohr didn't know. But whatever happened at least he would be secure in the knowledge that he was freed from Belzig's power now forever.

The End