The only survivor was Brown’s driver, Jones, who stood dazed, holding a bleeding arm. Kinkaid opened a first aid kit, dusted the wound with sulfa powder, and began bandaging it.
“What the hell happened here, Jonesy?” he asked.
“It bit me.”
“What bit you?”
“I don’t know.” Jones swayed and slumped against the tree. He was sweating profusely and breathing heavily. “I don’t feel so good.”
“You’re gonna be all right, man, just hang in there.”
Rosenthal examined the enemy he had killed. The dark shaggy figure was actually a blond white man riddled with dozens of gunshot wounds. He was totally nude. Rosenthal lifted the body’s left arm, revealing a black letter tattooed on the underside.
“SS blood group tattoo,” said Cole.
Hanging from a cord around the dead German’s neck was an identity disc, the Wehrmacht equivalent of dog tags. Made of zinc alloy, it was stamped with the wearer’s replacement unit, personnel number, and blood type. Rosenthal opened a notebook, compared the information with a list, and grunted confirmation. He scribbled a few notes with a metal mechanical pencil he drew from his pocket.
“Why’s he buck naked?” asked Cole.
Behind them a clamor rose. Jones writhed on the ground, gripped by violent convulsions. Kinkaid and two crewmen struggled to restrain him. With a shout he hurled them back and sprang to his feet. His eyes were wild and distended, saliva dripping from his gaping mouth, his face contorted. His overalls began bursting at the seams as his body bulged with pulsing muscles. Horrified, the others recoiled.
Rosenthal switched his Thompson to semi-automatic and stepped forward. Without a word he raised it and shot Jones once in the forehead.
“What the hell you do that for?” asked Jackson, snatching the Thompson away. His crew seized the CIC agent, jamming their gun muzzles against him.
“I had no choice,” said Rosenthal calmly. “He was turning into one of them.”
“One of them what?”
“Werewolves.”
Jackson stared at him in stunned disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
Angry protests came from the others. “You’re saying that dead Kraut’s a werewolf?” said Jackson. “Bullshit!”
“Look around. You’ll find wolf tracks all over the place.”
“Yeah, it’s a forest.”
Rosenthal shrugged free of the tankers holding him. “The last wolves in this part of Austria were killed almost a century ago. I found wolf hair in the Jagdpanther. The dead man’s dog tags match a list I have. And look what happened to your buddies. How could unarmed men tear them to pieces? Why were your guns useless?”
“You were able to kill him,” said Cole, pacing around looking at the carnage.
“My guns are loaded with silver bullets. They’re severely allergic to silver. It sends them into anaphylactic shock.”
“Why isn’t he a wolf now? And why’s he naked?”
“When they die they revert back to human form. They have to undress before shape-shifting or the transformation tears apart their clothes. That’s what was happening to Jones. If their saliva gets in your bloodstream you get infected. He’d have tried to kill us.” Rosenthal sighed with exasperation. “We’ve got to get out of here. They didn’t capture our tanks, but they’ll try again. We have to get clear of this radio interference and call for reinforcements.”
“Goddammit, I ain’t running away,” said Jackson. “I want payback.” A vengeful chorus of agreement echoed from the others.
Cole stopped pacing. “You got more of those silver bullets?” he asked Rosenthal.
“About a hundred rounds.”
“That’s not enough — and they’ve got some of our guns now.” He turned to the others. “We’re pulling out. We’ll pick up Lindsey on the way.”
The tankers reluctantly obeyed. The dog tags of the dead were collected; there was no time to bury them. Waters’ and Brown’s tanks and both jeeps would have to be abandoned so their engines, radios, and armament were disabled. Small arms and ammunition were retrieved. Rosenthal brought two boxes of .45 ACP from his jeep and passed them out so each crew could load at least one magazine with silver bullets.
“Only use them at close range,” he said. “Silver bullets don’t shoot straight.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Wind moaned like a lost soul and rain drummed on the tanks as the survivors drove back down Hill 207 towards Teufelsdorf.
Cole tried radioing Hogue again, but the channels still had too much interference. “Dammit. Who’s jamming us? I still can’t get through.”
“I don’t think that’s jamming,” said Rosenthal, who was riding in the tank with him. “Atmospheric conditions aren’t normal around here. Lots of creepy rumors about the locals — stories of devil worship and so forth. Teufelsdorf means Devils Town in German. People from neighboring villages shun this place.”
Cole hung up the microphone. “You know a helluva lot more than you’ve been letting on about. Start talking. Where did these werewolves come from?”
“Remember that SS-Major your captain told you about? Rudolf Krebs, the one wanted for war crimes?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Krebs is Austrian, but received doctorates in anthropology and medicine from the University of Munich. He became a research assistant at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin. He was obsessed with medieval alchemy, and while a student had been a member of the Thule Society, the occult group that founded the Nazi Party. Joined the Party and the SS and volunteered as a doctor at Mauthausen concentration camp, where he conducted experiments on prisoners. His work came to the attention of Heinrich Himmler, who expanded it into a secret program called the Fenrir Project, named after the giant wolf of Norse mythology. Krebs was appointed project director. He destroyed his records before fleeing at end of the war, but his reports to Himmler were found in captured SS archives.” Rosenthal shifted in his seat, trying in vain to get comfortable.
“Krebs’ study of medieval manuscripts uncovered a potion for lycanthropy,” said Rosenthal. “Prisoners he first tested it on developed horrific deformities and died. But he eventually perfected the formula for a serum that alters the genetic makeup. When injected into a select group of SS volunteers, the test subjects gained the ability to transform at will into a hybrid wolf-man with increased strength and enhanced senses. In either form they have incredible regenerative powers, recovering from injuries in minutes or hours. Werewolves are true supermen, almost unstoppable soldiers.”
Cole looked stupefied, shaking his head.
Rosenthal continued. “To test their combat effectiveness, they were formed into a heavy tank destroyer platoon assigned to the 2nd SS Panzer Division. They fought ferociously at Budapest and Vienna, but were too few to make any difference and were practically annihilated — even their regenerative powers were no match for heavy Russian guns. During the German retreat problems started with the survivors.”
“What happened?” asked Cole.
“They became increasingly violent and uncontrollable — apparently a side effect of the serum. Military police who tried to restore order were mauled. The werewolves deserted.”
Cole had their cannon reloaded with high explosive, ammunition used against fortifications, infantry, and unarmored vehicles. Unfortunately the 76-millimeter HE shells only had half the explosive of the old 75-millimeter used by earlier Shermans, making them less effective.
“Lead might not kill the bastards,” said Cole, “but it’ll be damn hard to regenerate if they’re blown to bits.”
They reached the bottom of the ridge and the trees started thinning out. Lightning flashed.