He emptied the clip into the alpha. It howled again, but kept at him. Simmons grasped for the K-bar on the deck, fumbling for the knife. The alpha’s yellow eyes shone bright with hate. The last bit of its life seemed directed at annihilating Simmons — retribution for killing members of the pack.
The beast’s muzzle reeled about and snapped. As it closed in for the kill, Simmons found the leather handle of the K-bar. With a shout, he plunged it deep into the alpha. Right to the hilt.
The werewolf snarled, writhed in his arms. The warrior beast locked glances with Simmons. They stared into each other’s eyes. The proud wolf battled for its pack and the marine fought for his comrades. A somber moment between two enemies in combat.
As life slipped from the wolf’s eyes, it collapsed onto Simmons’ chest. For a moment Simmons felt sorry for the loss of a worthy adversary. He took a deep breath and tossed the creature aside. Lying on the deck, muscles weak, he took another deep breath. He sat up then scrambled back on his rear as the dead wolves began changing form.
Bones snapped. The bodies quivered and contorted. A crunching echoed through the building as the jaws and cheekbones diminished. Gas released from the corpses, fouling the air. Legs trembled as their haunches twisted and pulled straight. The tearing of flesh turned Simmons’ stomach as the claws retracted. Then the shaggy hair slowly receded, exposing human forms.
Dead men, naked, wounded and broken, lay sprawled upon the cold floor. The affliction had been indiscriminate. A tanned Palestinian lay not far from a dark-haired Frenchman with a long prominent nose. The well-muscled build of the alpha was covered in tattoos; the words inked in Slavic.
Howling broke the silence. Simmons pushed to his feet and peered out the window. Under the moonlight, the remaining pack circled the top of a distant heap of rubble.
Standing at the center, a man thrashed and clawed at the sky. Anderson. Almost Anderson. Huge clumps of hair protruded from the tears in Anderson’s cammos; his jaw and cheeks seemed… bigger. Ferocious.
Alone in the shadows, Simmons watched the proud wolves as intermittent light cascaded into the broken building. His heart raced.
With a trembling hand, he reached for the window and splayed his fingers against the glass, drawn to the moonlight and his howling pack.
The Fenrir Project
David W. Amendola
“Got a mission for you, Moses.”
Second Lieutenant Moses Cole raised a black eyebrow. “Thought we were going back to Germany, sir.”
“We are. But something’s come up,” said Captain Hogue, his company commander. “G2 heard rumors of diehard Nazis holed up near Teufelsdorf.” He turned to a map tacked to the wall of the command post and pointed to the location. “Probably nothing, but the brass wants it checked out anyway. That area always seems to be cloudy and foggy, so aerial reconnaissance is useless. Someone needs to reconnoiter on the ground.”
Cole rubbed his mustache with a brown finger as he studied the map. “Not familiar with that town. Don’t think there was any fighting there.”
“No, but don’t expect any help from the locals. It’s the home town of SS-Major Rudolf Krebs, a wanted war criminal.”
“We’ll take care of it, sir.”
“Special Agent Rosenthal from CIC will be going with you.” Hogue gestured at a spare, attentive white man standing quietly off to the side.
Like all members of the Army Counter Intelligence Corps, Rosenthal wore no rank on his uniform, just an officer’s U.S. collar insignia. Spectacles perched on a thin nose, and a smoldering cigarette dangled from pale lips. He did not offer to shake hands, but simply gave a curt nod.
CIC detachments gathered tactical intelligence during the war. Now they hunted for wanted Nazis and investigated illegal activities and possible Nazi resistance groups.
Hogue turned around. “Rumors also said they might have a Jagdpanther, so be careful. Any questions?”
Cole saluted. “No, sir.”
Private Lewis shifted uncomfortably in the assistant driver’s seat in the cramped front hull of the M4A3(76) Sherman medium tank. “What’s a Jagdpanther?” he asked.
“Means hunting panther in German,” said Cole over the intercom, standing behind and above in the open turret hatch. “Tank destroyer built on the chassis of the Panther tank. No turret so it can hold a bigger gun.”
“Yeah, same eighty-eight millimeter as the King Tiger,” said Corporal Kinkaid, the driver, seated to Lewis’ left. “Slices through these tin cans like butter.”
“Oh.” Lewis fell silent.
The five green Shermans emblazoned with white U.S. stars clanked and rumbled along the macadam road spouting blue-white exhaust as they wended through verdant hills sprinkled with blue and yellow flowers. Far in the distance towered white-capped mountains. They drove in march column at the prescribed seventeen miles per hour, thirty-five yards between each tank, with Cole’s machine in the lead. Trailing at the end were two Willys jeeps: one — prominently marked with the Red Cross — driven by two medics from the battalion medical detachment, the other driven by Rosenthal.
It was a bright spring day, but inside the tank it was noisy, smelly, and claustrophobic.
“How’d we get stuck with this job?” asked Technician Fifth Grade Robinson, the gunner.
“Y’all know why we got it,” said Private First Class Youngblood, the loader, sitting next to him in the turret basket.
The crew was black, as were all the enlisted men and most of the officers of the 761st Tank Battalion. During World War II, the U.S. Army kept black soldiers in segregated units. As usual there were doubts about their abilities, despite the fact they had fought honorably in every major war going back to the American Revolution. Every generation had to spill its blood to disprove the same old stereotypes. The 761st ‘Black Panthers’ had racked up an impressive record battling across Europe, finally halting when they met the Red Army in Austria.
The battalion, part of General Patton’s Third Army, was not permanently assigned to any particular division. An independent unit, it was attached to whoever needed armor support.
Now the war in Europe was over and the 761st, posted at the city of Steyr, was preparing to leave Austria and move to Germany for occupation duty.
The weather abruptly changed as the platoon neared Teufelsdorf. The clear blue sky clouded over and turned somber gray. The fresh breeze died. Mist veiled the landscape and it began drizzling. No flowers grew on the murky meadows; not even a bird song brightened the dismal atmosphere. The mist thickened as the road cut through an oak and beech grove.
“Can’t see shit,” said Kinkaid.
As the column emerged from the trees and rumbled around a curve the quiet was shattered by the scream and crash of a shell, followed by the deep boom of a cannon.
The urgent voice of Sergeant Waters, one of the other tank commanders, came over the transceiver mounted in the back of the turret. “Taking fire!”
Cole grabbed the microphone. “Get into town! We’re out in the open here!”
Kinkaid accelerated as quickly as the 450-horsepower engine could push the tank’s thirty-plus tons.
“Able Two Three is hit, sir,” said another tank commander, Staff Sergeant Brown, the platoon sergeant. “Crew’s bailing out.”
“Cover ‘em with smoke.”
The view from inside using slit periscopes was restricted, so Cole stayed in the open turret hatch, exposing himself so he could oversee everything. He had not earned a Silver Star and a battlefield commission by being timid.
Behind him Able Two Three — Sergeant Lindsey’s tank — sat smoking on the road. The other tanks laid down a screen around it with their 2-inch smoke mortars. Cole prayed Lindsey made it out. Wet ammunition stowage had lessened the Sherman’s infamous propensity for catching fire, but not eliminated it.