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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Title: Among the Forgotten Victims: The Nurses of the Bulge
Author: Add author of the story here
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This is a fictional story and I know it was the 513th PIR that was part of Varsity, but I did not want to reference any real people or taint their memories. So I just switched some numbers around. The real 315th Infantry Regiment was disbanded on 1943 and it was never part of any airborne division.
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Among the Forgotten Victims: The Nurses of the Bulge
Gina sat at her desk, the early morning light from the window casting a soft glow across the pile of dusty, yellowed papers. She had been waiting for this moment for years, ever since her grandfather's last whispered words about the day that haunted his dreams. The box from the Pentagon had just arrived, the seal broken with a promise of secrets untold. Carefully, she picked up the first document, her heart racing with anticipation.
Her grandfather had fought in WW2 and something had happened during operation Varsity. The 315th Parachute Infantry Regiment had missed their drop zone and landed in a zone reserved for the British, one company ended up even five miles further east and liberated a camp they first thought was a POW camp. That is all that is known of what Dog Company did that day.
Her grandfather had been a Sergeant in that company, and his silence on the subject had always troubled Gina. He had talked about many adventures, but he never talked about that day, not even to her grandmother. A year or two before he passed away, she had joined him at a gathering of his old comrades from Dog company. They had shared stories and laughter, but what exactly happened after that daylight drop into Germany remained a mystery.
Her research has given her a complete view of the grandfather's company from when it formed and trained in the US, their training in England when Operation Market Garden was in full swing, and their first action during the Battle of the Bulge. Her grandfather had jumped into Normandy on D-Day with the 101st and fought in Normandy, but was shot and evacuated to England. He was reassigned to the 315th as they needed experienced NCOs. She has all the names, family backgrounds, but there was one big hole in her story and nobody now knows what happened then. All the members of her grandfather's regiment had passed away and she had not found any other living person that was able to talk about it. Now she had the unsealed records in front of her.
The first document she read was a dry, factual account of Operation Varsity, detailing the drop zones and troop movements, but it contained nothing new to her. The second document, a record from a young second lieutenant, Edward James Whitaker of 2nd Platoon, Dog company, 315th PIR, made her heart race. He described their landing, the chaos of finding themselves miles off target, and their encounter with a camp filled with SS officers. The vividness of his words painted a picture in her mind of the horrors they faced. Large chunks of the text are redacted, but one line stood out to her: "This is a sight I will never be able to forget."
The next document an undated German file. An order to setup a camp for officers only, the name of the camp was not mentioned, but it had been commanded by Brigadeführer Sebb Berger. The details of the construction and the purpose of the camp remained classified, but it was clear that something sinister was hidden beneath the innocuous description. Gina felt a cold shiver run down her spine as she read the list of officers who had been assigned to the camp. It struck her as strange that such a small camp would be placed under the command of a general.
Another record, this time from the perspective of a sergeant from 1st Platoon, Dog company, 315th PIR, caught Gina's eye. The name at the top was blacked out, a stark reminder of the secrecy that had surrounded this mission for so long. The sergeant recounted the fierce resistance they faced from the camp's inhabitants, despite being vastly outnumbered. The description of the enemy as only officers, down to the rank of Obersturmführer, was eerily similar to the second record. The document ended abruptly with the chilling observation that the SS officers had fought like cornered animals, with no thought of surrender or retreat.
She finds more records detailing the attack on and the liberation of the camp, but the details are scarce, the words heavily redacted as if someone had tried to erase the very existence of the place. The names of the SS officers are all she has to go on, but they don't tell her the story she desperately wants to uncover. The silence of her grandfather and his comrades feels heavier with each page she turns. The backgrounds of the German officers mentioned in the records were stained with war crimes, some of the worst the world had ever seen.
Then a file of an American army nurse caught Gina's attention. Lt. Helen T. Carter's name was written in neat, black ink at the top of the page. The attached photo showed a young woman with a determined look in her eyes, a stark contrast to the horrors she must have witnessed. Gina felt a personal connection to this stranger, as the record revealed that Lt. Carter had been taken prisoner during the Ardennes Offensive, when the field hospital, close to Bastogne, was overrun. Her fate was intertwined with the camp her grandfather had helped liberate. Most of her file is redacted, leaving only fragments of sentences not giving Gina a clear on her experience. The record ended with a note about Lt. Carter's death, which occurred under mysterious circumstances two years after the war ended. The word "tragically" was underlined, and the date "September 4th, 1947" was circled.
Gina goes online and starts looking, not a lot can be found on a Helen T. Carter. It is rather a common name, even in the military records of WW2. She finds a lot of Helen Carters, but none with a rank of Lieutenant and none that were stationed in Bastogne. Then she comes across an article from the San Francisco Chronicle, dated September 5th, 1947. The headline reads, "War Heroine Found Dead After Apparent Suicide Leap from Golden Gate Bridge." Her heart skips a beat as she reads the name of the victim: Helen C. The date of death matches the one in the redacted record she had found earlier. The article describes how a young woman, identified only as Helen C., had plummeted into the icy waters of San Francisco Bay the previous day. Witnesses had seen her standing on the bridge's edge, talking to someone before she leaped, and the Coast Guard had recovered her body shortly after.
Gina stands up in need of a strong cup of coffee, a picture starts to form in her mind, but she is to professional to let her emotions get the best of her. The documents are a puzzle, but she can feel the edges starting to connect. As she walks to the kitchen, her mind races with questions. What was the true purpose of the camp? What had her grandfather and his comrades found there? And why had Lt. Helen Carter been so important to mention?
The next document she reads is a file in German. Her high school language classes come back to her. This and an online translator, allow her to piece together the meaning of the words. The paperwork is medical, with a gist of the language that sends shivers down her spine. Words like "sterilisation" and "gonorrhoea" jump out at her, and she feels a sense of foreboding as she tries to translate the text. The record is signed by a Dr. Wilhelm Krüger, a name that doesn’t immediately means anything to her.
Determined to uncover the truth, Gina decides to take a break from the documents and conducts an online search for Dr. Krüger. The search results are limited, but she finds that he was a gynaecologist who practiced in Munich from 1931 until the beginning of the war. The realisation hits her hard: her grandfather's unit had liberated a camp in 1945, and now she's found a connection to a doctor who could have been involved in the atrocities she's reading about. The gravity of what she might discover weighs heavily on her.
A list of names, all women, each with a corresponding date, begin to unfold before her eyes. The first entry is dated 2nd October 1939, with the name Zofia Nowak. Gina's curiosity grows as she recognises the pattern, each line a new name, a new date, a new tragedy. The names are a tapestry of nationalities, a heartbreaking reminder of the war's reach across Europe. Dutch names like Aafke Van Houten and Belgian names like Marie Declerk are followed by French names like Jeanne Durand and Greek names like Elena Papadopoulou. The dates grow closer together as the war progressed, a stark visual representation of the lives claimed by the conflict. The last eight entries are American sounding names, a stark shift from the European ones that had come before. The second to last name on the list is the one she has become all too familiar with: Helen T. Carter. One thing is getting clear in Gina's mind, the camp they liberated was not a POW camp, it was something much worse, a camp filled with women. Oddly enough there don't seem to be any Russian names on there.
She flips to the next document. It is a letter, handwritten in English, on brittle, yellowed stationery. The ink is faded, but the careful penmanship is still legible. It was addressed to "Command HQ, Allied Forces, Intelligence Division," and signed by none other than Lt. Edward James Whitaker. Gina’s pulse quickened. The date at the top was April 4th, 1945.
“To whom it may concern,” the letter begins. “I write this not as a soldier, but as a man disturbed by what he has seen. The camp we encountered was not of a conventional nature. I implore command to investigate further, and to take all necessary steps to ensure the evidence is not buried. What we witnessed there defies all previous understanding of the enemy’s cruelty.” The rest of the text redacted, following with “I have reason to believe, that the women were prisoners not for what they had done, but for what others deemed ‘valuable’ for purposes that are too disturbing to detail. A woman, American by accent, was found alive and lucid, naked in a bed, one wrist shackled to the iron frame. Her name was Helen T. Carter, she had been an Army nurse. Her story was harrowing, and it’s one I fear will not be told if I don’t write it down." Then again redacted text.
She starts to piece together the grisly puzzle. The camp could have been a breeding ground for the SS elite, using these women as their personal broodmares, but the mention of sterilisation suggested something much more sinister. Maybe a kind of brothel for officers. It must have been a horror beyond words, and Gina feels a deep sense of responsibility to bring the truth to light, no matter how dark it was.
Gina leans back, stunned. Her suspicions are no longer shadows, they have begun to take form. She flips to the next file, a typed psychological assessment of Lt. Carter during her brief recovery in a military hospital in France. Her handwriting appeared in the margins, scribbled phrases like “don’t let them forget” and “not a POW” repeated over and over. The assessment noted symptoms of severe trauma, paranoia, and an “irrational” fear of government officials. It recommended long-term institutionalisation, and included a final, disturbing comment: “Subject continues to insist she was not a prisoner of war, just a body to ...”, again redacted.
For Gina, it is clear now, this must have been a rape camp. A place where the SS officers held women as their personal property, using them for their own twisted purposes. The thought made Gina's stomach churn. She couldn't imagine the horrors these women had gone through and the things her grandfather had seen that day.
Gina feels her hands tremble as she turns to the next page, which had been clipped to a photo with a rusted paperclip. It is, grainy and blurred, of a group of emaciated women in striped dresses. The background is indistinct, but the caption scribbled in pencil at the bottom read: "Liberation, March '45."
Apart from the fences and a sturdy stone building, there’s little to indicate it’s a prison camp. Yet the despair in the women's eyes, and the way they clung to each other, tell a different story. Gina studies each face carefully. Then, in the far left corner, she sees something that makes her stop. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing an airborne uniform. And though the photo is faded and his face partly turned away, she will recognise him anywhere, her grandfather.
He was looking at the women, not with fear, or revulsion, but something else. Grief, recognition, maybe, or guilt. She stares at the photo for a long time, trying to bridge the gap between the man who had bounced her on his knee and the soldier standing in a place soaked in unspeakable pain.
She opens a browser tab and types in “Brigadeführer Sebb Berger.” Not much comes up at first. An old tribunal summary states that charges had been dropped due to “insufficient surviving witnesses.” She finds an earlier released document, a heavily redacted CIA memo that labels him as “Rejected, Operation Paperclip, Irregular Candidate.” Then, buried on the third page of search results, she finds something that stops her cold.
A local history website from Bavaria, written in German, mentions a Sebb Berger, Bürgermeister, 1954 to 1972. She blinks. Reads it again. Mayor? She clicks through. A black-and-white photo loads slowly. Berger appears older, dressed in a conservative suit and tie, shaking hands with an American official in front of a pristine town hall. A small brass plaque on the wall behind them reads, “To Mayor Berger, for years of service and civic leadership.” The article praises him for his work in postwar reconstruction. There is no mention of the SS, no mention of war crimes, nothing about 1945. The past has been erased.
He wasn’t punished. He didn’t die in exile. He didn’t disappear in disgrace. He stayed, he rebuilt, and he thrived. Her stomach tightens. The man responsible for a hidden camp had lived out his life in peace, honoured as a public servant, walking openly among people who likely never knew who he truly was. She searches further into online municipal archives. His name appears again and again, connecting to school programs, housing developments, and holiday speeches. In one photo from 1966, he smiles and waves during a town parade. He looks like any other postwar official. But Gina knows better. She knows what lies beneath the surface. She scrolls until she finds an obituary dated June 1973. It calls him a visionary, a man of integrity, a cornerstone of the community. There is no mention of his wartime service. Just a clean, quiet narrative. The years between 1939 and 1945 are simply missing.
She pushes away from the desk, heart pounding. How many others like him had disappeared into clean suits and tidy villages? How many were never held accountable? And more importantly: who helped bury their past?
She flips through documents and stops at German medical record as faint line of handwriting catches her eye. The pencil is nearly erased by time, but still visible in the right light. It’s a set of numbers, coordinates maybe, and one sentence in shaky German: “Das zweite Lager war nie entdeckt.” The second camp was never found.
Gina stares at the words, heart thudding. Every file, every account, has pointed to a single camp, the one her grandfather helped liberate. But this note suggests another, one that remained hidden. If that’s true, then everything she knows is only half the story.
The hours pass by as she finds more documents, but no more information. Until near the bottom she finds a document , stamped "TOP SECRET - EYES ONLY". Most of the pages are blacked out, entire paragraphs reduced to thick, inked lines. But a few words remain, enough to raise alarms: “site relocated under Joint Intelligence directive” and “remaining personnel reassigned, foreign nationals classified as non-returnable”.
Her chest tightens. The phrasing is cold, clinical, but unmistakable. This wasn’t just a camp the Americans stumbled upon. At some point, someone in Allied intelligence made a decision to take over the site. Gina scans the margins for more. In the lower corner, nearly illegible, is a handwritten note: “Facility folded into postwar operations. No public record. Do not pursue.”
She sits frozen, the page trembling in her hands. If the second camp was absorbed into some secret program, then the victims of the first camp, like Helen Carter, were maybe never meant to be rescued, only repurposed. The silence around her grandfather’s story isn’t just about trauma. It’s about complicity. And now, she has proof that someone wanted it buried forever.
Gina pulls the box of discarded documents back onto the table, her fingers moving faster now, urgency rising. She had skimmed many of these early in her research, thinking they were unrelated or repetitive. But with this new context, every page feels suspect. Halfway through the stack, she finds a British field record, dated May 1945, describing the liberation of a small camp in northern Germany. The language is careful, understated, but the details stand out now: Test subjects appear to be Allied prisoners of war, largely of colonial origin. Symptoms consistent with chemical exposure, controlled malnourishment, and psychological manipulation.
Gina’s stomach turns. The record notes that no prisoners were recovered alive, only medical staff who claimed the site was for observation purposes only. A few pages later, she finds a U.S. intelligence summary referring to a Dr. W. Krüger, noting his transfer to a special project in the continental United States, involving human resilience and performance under battlefield stress. The name is familiar. It matches the signature on the German medical record she had already seen. And now she knows: he wasn’t punished, he was brought in, rewarded and protected.
Gina stares at the records, the pieces falling into place with cold clarity. The men of her grandfather’s unit hadn’t stayed silent just out of horror, they had likely been ordered to. They had seen something they were never meant to witness. Her grandfather hadn’t spoken because the truth wasn’t just unbearable, it was forbidden.
Gina pores over the documents for hours, the light outside fading into a dull grey. She forgets to eat, barely notices the untouched mug of coffee grown cold beside her. Page after page, she searches for something solid. A name, a location, a final truth that might give her closure. The silence in the room feels heavier with each paper she turns.
Near midnight, her fingers touch something thicker than the rest at the bottom of the box. A large envelope, unmarked except for a faint smudge in the corner, lies hidden beneath the stack. It is different from all the other documents she had handled. Inside is a collection of black-and-white photographs, enlarged prints bound together with a modern black clip. She pulls them out and begins flipping through. Most are just clearer versions of photos she has already seen. Faces she recognises. The same camp buildings. A little more detail, but nothing new.
Then one photograph clings to another. Behind it, a smaller envelope has been wedged between two prints. She opens it and finds a folded letter, handwritten in blue ink, along with a pile of scrap paper. Torn corners of old documents are covered in frantic notes, arrows, half-finished thoughts, and barely legible writing. She starts with the notes, eyes scanning the first piece. Within seconds, she feels her breath catch in her throat. What she is reading horrifies her.
The first: "They are not men. They are beasts in uniform. They take what they want and laugh when we bleed." The second: "Tell my mother I sang her lullaby when they took me. I did not cry that time." Each piece heartbreaking in its own way, but it’s the third that makes Gina’s blood run cold: "They do not see me as a person, only as a thing they use, they even use their guns to enter my private parts." The handwriting is small, almost childlike, and the ink smudges suggest it was written with trembling hands. The date on one note is September 1944.
Many pieces are in languages that Gina cannot read. One piece falls from between the folded paper. It's larger, written on what seems like tissue paper. Despite its delicacy, the text is surprisingly legible.
Gina's eyes scan the list of names, her heart sinking as she finds "Eleanore M. Jenkins" just above the entry for Helen T. Carter. The medical records she had read earlier flashed through her mind, the pain and suffering endured by the women at the hands of their captors. The realisation that these women had been dehumanised, reduced to just numbers and statistics, hit her like a punch to the gut. She quickly cross-references the name with another list and finds it marked as MIA, likely meaning she had not survived the horrors of the camp.Dear God, or whoever still listens,
Today I was lucky. I was sent to the main barracks. Again on the cold frame with the torn mattress. Again feel the steel on my wrist. One man following the other.
One of the senior men chose a new girl. One with golden hair and soft skin. She was led to the officers' quarters, to where the rooms have heat and carpets. They say the senior officers prefer beauty that still looks like it belongs to life.
We do not speak of what happens in those chambers. Only that they come back quieter. If they come back at all.
So yes, today I was lucky. Tomorrow, perhaps not.
Eleanore 1945
Then she carefully unfolds the larger piece of paper. Stamped in red: Censored - Not For Release
Gina checks her name on the list of camp inmates again, but she is not there. There is a smudge under Brenda H. Carter, something faint and almost erased. She leans in and sees what might have once read Jane W. Harris, but it is impossible to be sure. Flipping to the American military list, she scans quickly until she finds it. Harris, Jane W., Capt., Army Nurse Corps marked as MIA, presumed dead, January 12, 1945. Her hands go cold. The letter from Paris was dated months later. Gina stares at the two records, her heart pounding. “Oh my God,” she says under her breath, “They made her disappear.”American Military Hospital, Paris
June 7, 1945
Dear Thomas,
I do not know when this letter will reach you, or if it ever will. I have been told not to write about certain things, but you are my brother and I need you to know what happened. I need someone back home to carry the truth.
During the battle in December, our field hospital was overrun. The German troops came fast, without warning. The wounded were killed where they lay. The doctors too. There was no chance to flee. My team, nine nurses including myself, were captured and tied by the wrists. They loaded us into a truck. At dawn, an aircraft passed low overhead and opened fire. One of the guards was killed, along with Lt. Franklin. She was sitting right beside me. She was the lucky one.
They took us to a camp. I do not know its name, only that it was at the edge of a forest and too quiet. As soon as we arrived, they stripped us of our clothing and told us, in perfect English, that the war was over for us. An SS officer said we were now in service to the Fatherland. His exact words were that we would serve proudly, as proper women should, to honour their officers.
What happened after that is difficult to write, even to you. They raped us. Repeatedly. The younger ones were fast, careless, and laughing. The senior ones were cruel. They studied us like they were testing something. I spent two days in a general’s private quarters. He said nothing but raped me repeatedly. He only watched and inflicted pain when I refused to cry or give in. I think that made him angrier.
Now I am in Paris, recovering. They say I am safe. I am in a room by myself. I have seen only French nurses who cannot speak to me, and American doctors who speak too carefully, as if avoiding the truth will help me forget. I do not know where the others are. I hope they are alive.
I hope one day these men will be punished. I hope when I come home, people will believe us. We wore the uniform. We served with honour. I want you to remember that, in case no one else does.
Your sister,
Jane
Captain Jane W. Harris, U.S. Army Nurse Corps
Gina sits back in her chair, the documents and photographs spread around her like fragments of a truth no one was ever meant to find. She has a good idea now of what happened that day, what her grandfather’s unit saw, why they were ordered to stay silent, and why survivors like Captain Jane W. Harris and Lt. Helen T. Carter were erased from the official story. But all the evidence points to something even more disturbing. The second camp.
Its purpose remains unclear, but the clues suggest it was a place where medical experiments were carried out on women, those labeled undesirable. These were the ones who vanished from the first camp without explanation. No record of transfer. No grave. That second camp was never meant to be discovered. And now she realises the first camp likely wasn't either.
There were monsters who built the camp, who filled it with cruelty, who treated women as tools of pleasure instead of human beings. But there were also monsters on our side, the ones who buried it, who sealed the files, erased the names, and let the silence thicken around the truth. Gina had set out to understand her grandfather’s past. What she uncovered was something larger, something far more unsettling. The evil had not ended with the war. It had simply shifted into something else.
Gina looks down at her notebook. The title of her new book is clear: "Among the Forgotten Victims: The Nurses of the Bulge"
Beneath it, she adds one final line. Neither camp was meant to be found. But now the silence ends.
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