Coast of Maine, 1939
Levi Shaw applied a dollop of lens cleaner to the large multi-faceted lens of the lighthouse and began to polish the glass to an absolute sheen. As lighthouse keeper, it was a task he performed every morning at daybreak, making sure the smudges from the burning kerosene during the night were removed from the majestic aide to navigation.
As he worked his way around the southwest side of the lens, a glint of light shot across the glass enclosed tower in a strange, slow arc. Knowing it was not the sun reflecting off the lens, Levi scanned the sea expecting to sea a ship breaking the calm waves on their way into Penobscot Bay. Instead, he saw nothing but the open sea. He was about to return to his polishing work, when the light came again. Grabbing the spy glass which hung from a meager wooden peg, Levi began to scan the horizon for a ship.
It took a moment to locate the origin of the glimmer, for it did not emanate from the horizon, but much closer to the tiny thirty two acre island. In fact it was much, much closer.
“U-boat,” he said just above a whisper, for the shock was quite pronounced as he saw the reflected light penetrate off the glass lens of a periscope. “U-boat”, he said again, and this time quite louder, until he was repeating it at a holler, “U-boat, U-boat, U-boat!” running down the many granite steps to the base of the lighthouse.
From behind the periscope, Captain Bierstad could see the isolated lighthouse and the lighthouse keeper dutifully cleaning his lens. He could also see the reflection of the sun off his periscope and watch it arc across the lighthouse tower. With bated breath, he watched the keeper stare out to sea, hoping beyond all hope that his periscope would be lost in the emptiness of the sea. Just as the keeper concluded the reflected light was an anomaly, the undertow of a rouge wave shifted the vessel, and the rising sun again caught the reflection of his periscope.
“Emergency surface! Emergency surface!” the captain cried out as he watched the lighthouse keeper spy him with his spy glass and start for the base of the lighthouse. With a puff of air from its ballast tanks, the submarine rose to the surface in a turmoil of compressed air, turbulent seas and breaking waves. He was also barking orders to his men, strategically placed in the vestibule of the hatchway, and as soon as the vessel broke the plane of the sea, the hatchway was thrown open and two Nazi mariners clamored onto the deck with sniper rifles in hand.
Levi was running as hard as he could, trying to span the distance from the north lighthouse tower to the keeper’s house as quickly as possible yelling the entire time.
“Nazi U-boat, half mile out!” he screamed to his assistant. Horace was adjusting the setting on the fog horn when he turned to see what Levi was yelling about. He had just enough time to take his eyes off his task and look at the black hulled U-boat, its swastika emblem clearly painted along the side of the bridge as it surfaced a scant ways from shore. He had just enough time to take in two Nazi figures, stopping to squat on deck, take careful aim and then fire. Even before he heard the report, he saw Levi falter. He never saw him fall to the rocks, or hear the second report of sniper fire, or even hear his own scream as the second round land upon his own head, killing him instantly.
Mary Shaw heard the screams from her husband and ran to the front door with baby Emily in her arms. Like the assistant, she watched her husband fall to the rocks before she heard the gun fire. When it came, it rang out twice, loud and echoing across the empty expanse of the island. She turned just in time to see Horace slump against the fog horn as the lead bullet ripped through his temple.
As she turned and started for the safety of her home, a third shot echoed out, and then the scream of her baby as a glass jar directly in front of her shattered. She instinctively ducked down to the ground for safety, but it was already too late. The infant in her arms choked and vomited; her dark crimson blood mixing with her last meal of breast milk as it took its last breath. Mary cried out, or at least tried to, but no sound emerged, just a gurgling sound as the realization that the bullet had passed through her lung and into her baby began to sink in. As blood continued to pour out of her own gunshot wound, she began crawling inside her house.
“So this is what I have been studying for so long,” the historian stated to the U-boat’s captain as the small canvas and rubber raft drew up alongside the small island’s wooden wharf. “Matinicus Rock.”
“And now you may reveal the details of our mission, I trust?” asked the captain. “But there is nothing here my friend, just a lighthouse station and a small island. What could the Fuhrer possibly want from this God-forsaken place? Hell, there isn’t even a tree on this dismal island.”
“Ahhhh, my friend, and that is the beauty of this place. So small, so isolated, but not worthless,” he said rolling out a map. “I have been following the legend of George Walls for many years. He favored the New England coast you know?”
“I did not know that, Professor, but then again, I am a man of the seas.”
“True,” he said as the two followed behind two Nazi mariners providing escort as they walked up the rocky walkway to the lighthouse and light keeper’s home. He would have spoken more, but as he started to speak, the captain lifted up his hand to stop him, as the Nazi guardsman held up their machine guns at waist level and approached the mother draped over her dead child.
They poked at her with her rifles, and when she stirred they rolled her over quickly. A deep wound was pumping blood out of her and while she was not yet dead, her face was ashen and pleading for mercy. The captain pushed aside the two accompanying mariners and looked down upon the woman. For a second he paused, and then his next movement was quick. Pulling his Luger out of his side holster, he leveled the pistol and fired a single shot into her forehead, with another landed into her infant’s head as well.
“As you were saying, Professor?”
As the Nazi mariners pulled the dead carcass of the mother and child from off the front stoop, the captain and the historian swept the morning’s breakfast off the table to make way for the old yellowed and aged map.
“As I was saying, Captain, George Walls was a privateer for the United States who plied these waters during what the Americans called the War of Eighteen Twelve.”
“A pirate?”
“Yes a pirate, and a successful one at that. It is said that he plundered the British frigate HMS Fantome of hundreds of silver bars and hid the loot on some island off the coast of Maine.”
“And you believe we are on that island?”
Once again the historian was about to speak, but was cut off in mid-sentence when the two Nazi mariners approached them. With arms held out straight, with ring and middle finger splayed, they came for orders.
“Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler,” he replied back. “Disposed of into the sea, I assume?” he asked regarding the infant and woman. They nodded, and he continued. “Then search the island; report back if you find anything.” With a nod, they made an about face, leaving the two gentlemen to discuss the issue at hand in private.
“As I was saying, Captain, yes I believe this is the island, and so does der Fuhrer.”
“To finance our thousand year rein?”
“I’m purely motivated by the historical significance of finding the treasure, but yes, for the Fatherland’s thousand year reign as well,” he added with a grin.
“So tell me, what led you to this island?”
“The lighthouse— Its construction began the same month and year that the British frigate was plundered. It was only a hunch really, but it made sense. What better place to hide your loot then in the foundation of a fifty foot high beacon far out to sea?”
“As a sea captain, I can follow that reasoning.”
“I did some research on the construction of this lighthouse. The tower’s foundation was made of granite and rubble infill…”
“A perfect location for stolen loot, but surely der Fuhrer himself did not send one of his prized U-boats here on merely a hunch?”
“Certainty not! In my research I found an interesting fact that has escaped many historians. Some of the first masons to work on the lighthouse just disappeared and vanished off the face of the earth. It was presumed their ship was lost at sea on their way into port, but…”
“You think they met an ill fate.”
“It was at that fact that der Fuhrer showed the most interest.”
“Captain! Captain, come quick, we have found someone!” one of the sea men yelled towards the house. Bolting from their place at the keeper’s table, the historian and captain ran outside and down a rock strewn path towards the voice of his senior mariner. They stood posed for an assault on a small granite building smelling of kerosene, their guns drawn, waiting for the slightest bit of movement. “There is someone inside, but he won’t speak, or show himself.”
“So you flush him out,” the captain replied impatiently. With a flick of his lighter, he tore the corner off the professor’s map and lit the edge on fire. Just as quickly he slid the burning piece of paper underneath the bottom of the door and waited for the kerosene stored inside to explode. Instead, the door swung open on its wrought iron hinges and out stepped a delicate young woman.
She was wide-eyed and nervous, first looking at the two Nazi men with submachine guns pointed at her, and then at the sea captain who had the guts to slip a burning piece of paper underneath the door of a kerosene storehouse. She had snuffed this out but quickly realized just how futile her choice for a hideout was.
As Elizabeth stepped out of the cold and dark kerosene shed, she could not understand a word of their German language. But even on this remote island, she had heard about the invading German army in Europe and now knew first hand how evil they really were. She had watched her father be shot as he ran across to the house, and watched with horror as her mother and baby sister were executed. Now the four men looked down at her with just as much animosity. She expected at any moment for fire to come belching out of the machine guns of the two guardsmen, but instead their leader spoke.
“Tie here up… then…well…it has been a long time we have been at sea hasn’t it?” he said with a smirk. “Do as you please with her.”
“Captain,” the professor asked in shock, “You don’t mean to imply…”
“You question my orders?”
“Well, no, it’s just that …”
“What, that our two brothers here will be entertained while we search for your treasure in peace? There is a method to my madness, professor. Come; let’s search for that treasure, while they get the spoils of war.”
Elizabeth could see the two Nazi mariners were looking at her with something she could only consider being hungry eyes; eyeing her as no one else on this small island ever had before. She grew fearful as they approached her, even as they dropped their guns to the ground. Their sheer size and skilful training as warriors was enough to back her deeper into the kerosene shed, her eyes never leaving theirs as they approached with violence in mind.
It was only a few steps back before she collided clumsily with the stack of wooden kerosene barrels that held the fuel for the powerful lighthouse beacon. She shuttered as the rough wood touched the backs of her thighs, stopping all movements from the steadily advancing men.
Fear began to grow inside the young lady as an icy ball formed in the pit of her stomach, not unlike a gale that blew long and hard in November.
“Please, please don’t hurt me,” she begged as one of the soldiers drew close enough to stroke her face and hair. Being that close, Liz could see the man’s face and expressions and no longer saw a Nazi war machine that was incapable of pleasure or emotions. Just before Liz turned her head to stare at the cobblestone floor of the shed, she could see a tiny curl to his lip, a glimmer in his eye, and she knew it was the look of lust that her mother had once described.
“Please, I am saving myself for my future husband,” she pleaded, but the German soldiers could no more understand her strange language than she could theirs. Even if they could, they would have scoffed at her pathetic rebuttal.
The cold wind rushing off the northern Atlantic waters hit her for the first time, raising goose-bumps and causing her nipples to be come erect in the salt-kissed air. As they tented the front of her calico sundress, one of the closest soldier to her began to caress them, pinching and rolling the plump, soft mounds squishing underneath her dress.
“Please don’t,” she wailed as she started to cry from the shame of being so erotically touched by a fascist foreigner. As his hands continued to massage them, but with a firmer and firmer grip, Liz instinctively pushed them off her chest. His reaction was lightning-quick. He drew off and slapped her hard across the right cheek, sending her tumbling backwards over the wooden barrels. But as he did, he also gripped the front of her dress, and as her weight dropped her to the cobblestone floor, the dress’s light construction was no match. In a shower of buttons, the dress tore wide open, exposing Liz’s young body for the first time to these men.
Under the first German’s direction, one of the men tied her hands behind her back while the other began cutting lengths of crusty mooring line discarded on the ground. Liz froze in fear as that man approached her with menacing lengths of the rough manila rope. At first she was convinced that they were going to execute her by hanging, but when the man pulled aside her the crotch of her panties and inserted his finger into the hole between her legs, she knew what his intentions were.
She tried to kick her feet and flee from the onslaught of the two men, but Liz was easily held back upon the barrels, or at least was held back against the barrels, until the first German overturned one on its side and Liz was laid across it. Frantically, she struggled, shaking her head no and tried to scream through the stifling hand of her captures.
Her screaming and thrashing only caused her more hardship, as the lashings dug deeper and they pulled them tighter, expertly tying them to iron eyebolts wedged into the granite walls. Used to secure the barrels of kerosene when the waves crashed over the island during storms, they easily held Liz’s arms and legs in check. In fact, they held them out in a large X upon two overturned barrels like a yellow-finned tuna about to be filleted.
With her legs splayed so lewdly, the first German stood between them, caressing her. Only her pantilettes remained, and these he easily ripped from around her hips. In all of her nineteen years, Liz had never felt as exposed and helpless as at that moment. She tried to block out the assault upon her by closing her eyes, but fear of what was to come next overpowered her feeling of shame, and through half closed eyelids watched the man finger her loins.
With surprising gentleness, he traced his finger over her freshly exposed vagina and toyed at the delicate, pink lips of the teenager’s body, trying to get the young virgin to relax. When that failed to work, he began to probe her sex with increased roughness, pulling painfully on her tender neither-lips and spread them provocatively. Immediately, he became rougher, forcing two fingers into Liz’s virginity.
His penetration was a shock to the young woman and she tried to grip onto the bonds that enslaved her as he explored her vagina, but could not stop a whimper from erupting from her lips. Immediately, he pushed another finger into her, and then another and another, until all four fingers were touching her hymen. He marveled at the amazing twist of luck, and then pushed, watching her bolt straight up from the barrels in writhing pain.
He had wanted to wait, to take her virginity with his own shaft, but the glory of gloating, of showing his shipmate that he would indeed be her first, was too great and pressed deeper inside her blood-lubricated vagina. Then with another evil smile, he withdrew his bloody fingers, stood up, and began to unfasten the pants of his uniform.
The second German watched with jealousy as he knelt between her legs, and held his shaft at her bloodied cleft. Liz looked down only long enough to see the man’s tip settle onto her mound, then, without any preparation, the soldier began to force himself into her virginity. Liz felt as if he were splitting her open, like a lobster upon the plate, as he used his sheer weight to drive his shaft into the same hole his fingers had just retreated from.
She frantically looked around her for someone to help her out of her plight, but only the wind blew across the desolate island. From beyond the grave, she knew her father boiled, and her mother cried, but it was of little help now as she endured being the war prize of these two evil Germans.
Her awkward position on the wooden barrels allowed him easy access to her womanhood. This he took advantage of, driving his shaft into her with such force, that the barrels wooden surface pressed up against the young woman’s back and imprinted its grain upon her skin. With only an oblong barrel to cushion the blow of hard forceful thrusts, Liz was sure the Nazi pig was tearing her apart inside. She cried out from the invasion, feeling the man plunder within her as he pressed his ramrod up against her cervix relentlessly. Surely this is not the sweet lovemaking mother had described between a woman and her husband; the wonderful, pleasurable way to make children, she thought as another hard thrust sent her back roughly into the wooden cask below her.
At the thought of children, Liz suddenly became repulsed. Not until now had the thought of becoming pregnant hit her. Enduring this for the birth of a lover’s child was one thing. Enduring this, and nine months of pregnancy with a Nazi swine within her belly was another. She was sure it was inevitable. Already he must have penetrated as far into me as he could possibly go, she thought. She was sure she could feel his wiry genital hair intermingling with her own downy patch. As it did, Liz moaned and whimpered, tears streaming from her eyes at the thought of the pain, the shame, and the indignity of bearing his child.
It was the sight of his shaft withdrawing from her depths that drove the man over the edge. It had been years since he had taken a virgin, and then he had been much too young to understand the significance of the moment. Now he understood what was beneath him. An American virgin at that. An evil smirk ran across his face as he felt his seed begin to well up inside. An American virgin, ready to be taken, plundered and raped, just as der Fuhrer would do when he was finished with Europe. Victory was assured, and while the German reign would last for a thousand years, this reign, this rape, would last only a second longer, and yet, it was just as sweet, just as invigorating. And with those thoughts, he thrust himself into her once more and filled her virgin womb for the first time with the warm, sticky cum of a man. “The seed of a German warrior,” he thought as his shaft slowed its ejaculation to an ooze and dripped onto her stomach as he withdrew it with an audible pop.
Liz felt the Nazi’s cum burning deep within her even after he withdrew. It pooled and puddled within her womb, and then began to leak out, a trickle at a time, then in a gush as he pulled his heavy frame from off her young slender body and exchanged glances with his brother in arms.
As the sea captain and the professor pulled up the trap door of the lighthouse, and dropped into the basement below, they could hear the young woman’s screams. The captain only smirked at the smug feeling of allowing his enlisted men such a pleasure, while the professor was too concerned about his own adventure to worry about the torture of an American woman.
“X marks the spot, eh, Professor?” the captain quipped as he tossed the light of the kerosene lantern about the round and shallow room.
“Yes, but now we shall have to dig,” he said, grabbing the first of many small stones and moving it, hoping to feel a wooden box just underneath its surface. The sea captain began to do the same.
“Shall I have some of my men come ashore to help us dig?”
“I think the less people who know about this, the better, captain.”
“I could not agree more,” he said as his fingers felt the distinct feel of wood underneath the last rock he moved. Then he pointed and with the glee of a giddy school child, the professor rushed over and began to remove rocks quickly.
“I knew it. I knew it was here!” he exclaimed as the top of a wooden crate began to emerge in the yellowish lantern light. He clawed, dug and sank his fingers into the edge of the lid until he pried it up with the sound of splintering wood and nails being pulled through wood grain. Then he slowed, shoving his arm through a first-sized hole, fearing that ten years of research would escape him if silver bars did not reside in the crate.
The captain looked at the professor’s expressionless face as his arm slowly retracted, his muscles tense with something heavy. When his hand finally came into the light, the professor’s face showed glee at the dull gray tarnish of a silver bar.
“Captain, there are a dozen crates,” he laughed. But as he turned to look at the sea captain, his expression of joy changed to utter fear. The captain had drawn his pistol, and the professor was staring down the barrel a mere inch from his nose.
“But captain, I found the silver for der Fuhrer.”
“Dead men tell no tales,” the captain growled and pulled the trigger.
The professor had only enough time to start a scream before the bullet’s amazing effectiveness at such short range silenced him by blowing a cavity the size of a fist in what was once his face. As the older man’s body reeled backwards from the impact, the captain reached down to grab the silver bar and pry it out of his hand. It was still quivering, still twitching and clutching the bounty, but the captain had seen far too much death to be concerned with such a trivial thing. He then pushed the body aside and began remove the rest of the silver bars from their long-forgotten lair. As he did, he could hear the young woman’s screams echo off the rock foundation and knew his soldiers had been too preoccupied with their lust to have heard the gun shot.
“It’s all mine,” he said with a greedy sneer as the sound of the young woman reached his ears yet again, screaming frantically as she struggled to free an arm or a leg from her lashings.
No, not again!” she cried as variation of a no constantly spewed from her lips. It was desperation at best, for the two German soldiers could not understand a word the helpless woman was saying, and there certainly was no one else on the desolate island that could fend off the next assault. There in the kerosene shed, held spread eagle on the rough, oblong barrels with cordage, the trembling girl waited with trepidation to be raped again. Above her the, grinning German took his time shedding his clothing and enjoyed the sight of the teenager’s fear.
Opening his uniform, he exposed himself to the shaking, crying girl. This time she shut her eyes, no longer needing to see what was going to happen next, for she already knew and wept at the indignity. As she looked down upon the shaft that was twitching and stiff from many days at sea, the young man settled the blunt tip into the folds of her outer lips and then fell upon her, forcing his way into her, impaling her on his erection in one deft swoop.
Once he had penetrated inside her already slickened and violated womb, he supported himself upon the wooden casks, and concentrated all his weight behind his ruthless thrusts, pounding into the captive islander as she screamed and cried beneath him. In a moment, he could feel Liz part, even feel the warm seed of his comrade who had widened her with his own callous invasion. That widening, along with the taking of her virginity, slickened her vagina walls with blood as well, and he swooned in that knowledge, knowing he too was taking a virgin, but one slick enough to enjoy.
The second German soldier tried to lock eyes with the young woman who fiercely had them shut against the abuse and onslaught of the two Nazis raping her. When he could not look down upon her and see her pain-riddled eyes, he slapped her hard across the chin. This slap, this physical pain, brought her eyes fluttering out of their lids to stare at him so he could see her face as he emptied Nazi seed into the belly of an innocent American woman. Then he contemptuously kissed her on her trembling lips and rolled off her soiled nude body.
Elizabeth did not move for a full twenty minutes after her bonds had been removed. Every limb in her body ached from the abuse she had been subjected too. Her wrists, ankles, and nether region all were sore and chafed from the rubbings of the ropes and of the masculinity of the men as they stole her innocence again and again.
From the doorway of the kerosene shed, Liz could peer into the kitchen of her home, the lit candles giving her a perfect silhouette of the three men talking, reading a map and enjoying her father’s favorite rum.
The sight enraged her. She remembered again the brutal way her mother and sister had been murdered. She remembered watching her father fall lifelessly to the rocks, only to hear another shot that must have landed into Horace. Now the nasty Nazis had the audacity to sit in their home and relax peacefully. She could not do the same.
Formulating a plan, Liz pulled herself to her feet and stole across the darkened front yard to the lighthouse. Upon entering the granite tower, she pulled the heavy wooden door behind her closed and latched it from the inside with an iron bar. Next she ran up the granite stairs to the beacon of the lighthouse and stared for a second at the machinery that spun the white light that uniquely marked this beam as the Matinicus Rock Lighthouse.
She paused for a moment knowing that what she had to do next was necessary, but difficult. For years her father had toiled to keep the lens revolving for the safe passage of the many ships that passed by the lighthouse on their way into Penobscot Bay. Now she disabled it by smashing the brass worm gear mechanism with a rock. It stopped instantly, but not at some random location, but north-northwest, directly towards Little Burnt Island. It was the closest inhabited island, and she reasoned some mariner would see the disabled light and send help.
Next she removed her dress. It was a difficult action to take considering what she had endured only an hour or so before. Still she needed the clothing to darken the light for her only means of communication that could stretch across the vastness of the Gulf of Maine. Naked and slender in the air, Liz held the dress over the lens for a few seconds, then removed it, alternating between darkening the lens, and letting it shine in a series of Morse code letters. SOS…SOS…she displayed over and over again.
Then there came a loud cry and suddenly the night air was filled with the sounds of automatic gunfire. The Nazis had seen the rotating beacon of the lighthouse stop, and her clever way of making Morse code. In an instant, every conceivable window pane of the lighthouse was shattered by the spray of bullets. Twice, the two Nazi guardsmen reloaded, sending Liz down into the protection of the circular stairs.
She knew she was trapped. Already the captain was pounding on the door of the lighthouse. More gunfire erupted and then Liz watched the beacon being struck by bullets before finally faltering and extinguishing itself out. With its darkness came an uneasy feeling inside her. She thought of her mother and father and considered what her life would be like without them. She also thought of the Nazis and what their intensions would be with her again once the Nazis smashed through the door of the lighthouse and reached her. Already they were using an ax to start battering down the door.
Liz considered her options and then looked down by her bare feet. On the granite stair tread lay a long piece of broken glass. Knowing what she needed to do with it; Liz said a final prayer, placed the glass against her wrists and severed both of them all the way to the bone.
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