An Idea I had involving Nazi robots during the African Campaign in 1943.

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The year was 1943. The place is Tunisia, on the African coast. My name is Stürm. I was an attempt by the German High Command to create a more loyal and efficient soldier. They were successful, but their funding was cut off, so only fifty of us were made. I was number 29. The only defector. I was the only one to turn his back on my governments ideals, to say that they were wrong, and those ideals were anything BUT right. I did the worst thing in their eyes; I made friends with the enemy. I took a chance on peace, and was right. Now, it is my turn to tell my story. It’s my chance to tell what made my time in this place, in this conflict mine. Because when the heat of Tunisia’s sun disguises the good from the bad, only the best can see through the

DESERT HAZE
By thebeast76
Inspired by works with greyhound1211
4/26/2009

I suppose should begin with an introduction to who I am. I am unit 29. A machine created by Nazi scientists to make the fighting of wars easier, to make better soldiers, faster soldiers; emotionless soldiers. They succeeded. However, before mass production could be initiated, the funding for the program was shut off by the High Command, so only fifty of us were ever completed. We were each shipped off, literally, to different parts of the Regime, some to the north, some to the east, some to the west, and a handful to the south. I was the only one to get sent to Tunisia.
I was put with a tank crew, the crew of the Elefant they had named ‘Gretel’, which was the sister tank to ‘Hansel’, another Elefant. I became fast friends with the crew of Gretel. They were a little skeptical of me, but after proving my skills, they treated me as a brother, as I did them.
There was Keim, the tanks commander, a street smart German Shepherd from Dusseldorf. Then there was Behm, the gunner. He was a small Dachshund from northern Berlin who could eat up a storm. Heinz, loader #1, was a skinny mutt from Nürburg with a love of books, and his brother, Hans, loader #2, who was only slightly less enthusiastic about literature. Schmesser, the driver, well, we all thought he had a lead foot. His driving made it seem like the other tanks were standing still. And finally, Paul, the radio operator. The only cat on our crew, an excellent communicator, he always made sure we stayed in contact with the commanders.
One day we were going along with our convoy of tanks. No one had much to do. Keim was resting his eyes on top of a makeshift seat of spent shells from our 88, Heinz was writing a letter to home, or doing as best he could in a bumpy tank compartment. Behm was playing a string game with Paul, and the duo of Heinz and Hans were both playing gin rummy. Schmesser was of course driving. I was on the outside of the tank, watching the desert float by, as if in a daze. I shifted my cap on my head a little before hearing some of the crew shifting around. Someone opened all the hatches for better ventilation, and Behm popped his head out.
“29, I’ve been thinking” He says to me.
“Oh? What of? Food??” I jest.
“Ah, you wish, sir,” He wags a finger at me with a grin.
“But I was thinking more about giving you a proper name, seeing as how you’re one of us.”
“A, a name?” The thought had never occurred that I didn’t have a name. The prospect sounded very appealing. “Exactly what did you have in mind, Behm?”
“Well, I was thinking, that since you look like a wolf, we could call you Wulf.”
To all my English readers, ‘wulf’ is ‘wolf’ in German. And it was true, I did look like a wolf, albeit, with a few differences, namely that I was a machine.
“Come now, Behm,” Schmesser says, still driving,
“He’s going to need more than that, if he’s going to be one of us.”
“And what exactly were you thinking of, Schmesser?” I inquire of him.
“Well, I’m not one for names, but I always thought that Stürm sounded pretty darn good.”
“Hmm, Stürm Wulf.” I let the name roll around in my head for a moment.
“Yes, I like that. Stürm Wulf. Thank you, Behm, Schmesser.” I nod at Behm.
“But wait,” Keim says, from beneath his cap.
“If he’s going to receive a new name, we all have to agree on it.”
“Sounds fair.” Behm says.
“Alright.” Schmesser adds.
“Okay, then, all in favor of calling 29 Stürm Wulf say ‘Aye’.” Keim bellows.
“Aye” Everyone says simultaneously.
It was official, I was no longer unit 29. I was Stürm Wulf, spotter for Afrika Korps Elefant #36 ‘Gretel’. It was the first time I felt like I belonged.