SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

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.

As another shell screeched overhead he tried to glimpse a red muzzle flash or green tracer trail so he could pinpoint the enemy position. He saw nothing.

They barreled into Teufelsdorf, engine bellowing, tracks clattering on the cobblestones. Civilians glared at the Americans and sullenly withdrew into their homes and shops, banging doors and shutters shut.

The narrow, crooked streets — now deserted — intersected at a square. Cole halted behind an inn. Like most of the buildings, it was a solid structure of white, plastered stone and brick with a red tile roof. Teufelsdorf had been of no importance during the war so it had survived unscathed. Cole wrinkled his nose at the familiar manure smell of a farm town.

He felt the tanker’s unease of close terrain where his machine was vulnerable to hidden foes armed with panzerfausts — German shoulder-fired anti-tank rockets. He watched as the other three Shermans and both jeeps entered the square and spread out, seeking cover behind nearby shops. Finally Lindsey and his crew straggled in on foot, one clutching a wounded arm, another limping heavily. All five had escaped. He beckoned to Lindsey.

“Sounded like an eighty-eight,” said Cole. “Where’d it come from?”

Lindsey stared at him with a dazed expression, blood trickling from his nose and ears. The concussion of the shell had stunned him. His gunner answered for him.

“North, sir. We got hit in the right side as we rounded the bend. Shell tore right through us and knocked out the engine.”

“Guess the rumors were true.”

“No way he could see us, sir.”

Cole pondered the matter. “Heard a report about a new gun sight the Krauts invented to see at night. Uses infrared light. They equipped a few Panthers with it and there were rumors they also put it on some Jagdpanthers.”

The shaken crew limped over to the curb so the medics could administer first aid.

Cole got on the radio to the rest of the platoon. Interference forced him to raise his voice. “Anybody see anything? Over. Over!” He finally received a crackling series of negative replies.

Cole stood in the hatch and looked around. Oddly, the village lacked a church, normally a ubiquitous feature even in the smallest European hamlet. At two stories, the inn was the tallest building. He clambered out and got onto the roof. From here he scanned the area with binoculars. Nothing. The fog was just too dense.

Returning to his tank, he tried contacting Captain Hogue, but the company and battalion command channels were drowned out by torrents of static. Youngblood adjusted dials and double-checked the equipment, but was unable to clear it up.

“Where’s this interference coming from?” asked Cole.

“Don’t know, sir. Maybe we’re being jammed.”

He was still able to talk on the platoon channel so he called, “All TCs come to my tank.”

He jumped to the ground as the other tank commanders clustered around. Digging a cigar from a pocket of his olive drab overalls, he chewed on it thoughtfully as he unfolded a map and spread it out on the engine deck.

“Radio net’s jammed so we can’t reach anybody,” he said. “Krauts know we’re here and if we sit here they’ll move to another position and start picking us off — or use the fog to slip away.”

“So we’re on our own,” said Waters.

“Looks that way.”

This prompted head-shaking and muttered profanity from the others.

“No use complaining about it. Let’s just get the job done. They’re somewhere on this ridge.” Cole tapped the map. “Hill 207. We know it’s an eighty-eight so we’ll have to assume it’s a Jagdpanther. They may have night-vision sights.”

“So if we try to move they’ll nail us,” said Sergeant Jackson.

“Well, if we all move at the same time and go at full speed in different directions they’ll have multiple targets to deal with. And we’ll fire smoke as we go.”

“If they can see through fog, won’t they see us anyway?”

“WP burns hot so maybe it’ll blind them. And the fumes could make them bail out.”

The others exchanged skeptical looks. Brown voiced the others’ concerns when he said, “Sir, if it really is a Jagdpanther its armor’s thicker than ours and sloped. Our shells will just bounce off.”

“We’ll charge the ridge from both ends and outflank it. It doesn’t have a turret so they can only swing their gun back and forth so far. Beyond that they have to turn the whole vehicle around to aim. If we knock off a track they’ll be stuck and then we can circle around and hit them from the side or rear where the armor’s thinner. Lindsey’s crew will stay here in town. So will the medics and the CIC guy until we have the hills secured.” Cole folded up the map. “Any questions?” He raked dark eyes over resigned faces. “We roll in five minutes.”

Everyone returned to brief their crews, then ‘buttoned-up’ — closed hatches — and put steel helmet shells over their fiberboard tanker helmets. Loaders pulled shells off ready racks. The 761st had the Sherman with the 76-millimeter gun, inadequate against the heavy armor of late-war German tanks like the Panther and Tiger. It had to get close to penetrate and the fearsome panzers had long high-velocity guns capable of destroying it before it could get within effective range. It did have a hydraulic traverse and gyrostabilizer, allowing the crew to rotate the turret quicker and even fire with some accuracy while moving, but that did little good if they were out of range. High-velocity armor-piercing rounds had greater penetration, but HVAP was scarce and the platoon only carried standard APC.

Cole’s bass voice boomed over the radio. “Move out!”

The platoon burst from Teufelsdorf, the two tanks under Cole and Jackson heading northeast and the two under Brown and Waters going northwest, all charging full speed across fallow farm fields, smashing through hedges and fences. Their cannons hurled a salvo of phosphorous shells up into the heights above and white pillars of smoke immediately rose.

Cole stood in the turret, unlit cigar still clenched between his teeth. A loud clang deafened him as he felt the hot rush of a passing shell. It had grazed the top of the turret, barely missing him and tearing off the 50-caliber anti-aircraft machine gun. He hissed profanity. Despite the fog and smoke, the enemy could still see them.

Kinkaid shifted into high gear and worked the steering levers, trying to zigzag and make the tank as difficult a target as possible. A second shell gouged a crater in the earth just behind them, throwing up a geyser of dirt and smoke.

Finally they reached the foot of Hill 207 and drove into the protection of a draw. Kinkaid downshifted and followed by Jackson’s tank they slowly crawled uphill.

The mist thinned somewhat as they ascended, but this was countered by dark, melancholy stands of pine and fir covering the slopes. At the top of the draw they halted. The forest was dense and the only way through was a dirt trail snaking along the crest. Brown and Waters radioed that they had reached the other end of the ridge unscathed. Cole ordered them to stay put for the moment. Cannons were reloaded with armor-piercing shells.

“Got a bad feeling about this, sir,” said Kinkaid.

Cole grunted agreement. “For sure he turned around and is aiming right down that trail, just waiting for us. Youngblood, grab your grease gun and come with me.”

They climbed out, Youngblood holding an M3 submachine gun. He paused to snap in a 30-round magazine, pull back the bolt, and flip open the dust cover. Then the two crept through the wet brush alongside the trail, silently cursing the bramble thorns tugging at them. Water dripping from the needled branches pattered on their helmets. The trees stood like ghostly sentinels in the murk, silent and watchful.

Youngblood pointed. Brush had been crushed and earth churned up by the passage of a heavy vehicle, bigger than a Sherman, with wide tracks. Cole nodded. They continued on.

Cole abruptly froze, listening intently. Up ahead he heard the low, throbbing growl of a powerful engine, like the breath of a monstrous, mechanical beast.

The stillness was shattered by a stuttering roar he recognized as an MG34, a machine gun commonly used on German armored vehicles. 7.92 millimeter bullets slashed through the foliage, punching through tree trunks, clipping off branches, and sending splinters flying like shrapnel asthe pair flung themselves into a muddy depression and hugged the ground. They hastily squirmed behind a fallen pine as a second burst whipped overhead.

“No tracers,” hissed Youngblood. “Can’t see where he is.”

“We know which way he’s pointing and that’s enough. Let’s go!” Keeping the windfall between them and the enemy, they crawled back down the trail until they were far enough to safely get to their feet and run the rest of the way back to their tank.

Cole jumped inside and grabbed the microphone. “Able Two Two and Two Five, move in! He’s pointing away from y’all!”

“Wilco!” Soon Cole heard roaring engines and crashing guns.

Brown’s triumphant voice came over the radio. “He’s tracked! Got the son of a bitch as he tried turning back toward us. His gun’s stuck pointing away from all of us now!”

“Step on it, Kinkaid!” said Cole. “Able Two Four, follow me!”

The Sherman swung down the trail, followed by Jackson’s tank. Cole discerned a vague, menacing bulk ahead. It was the sleek casemate of a Jagdpanther, armored skirts protecting its interleaved road wheels, the long barrel of an 88-millimeter jutting from its angled front armor. Painted in splotches of green, brown, and tan, evergreen branches further camouflaged it. The left drive sprocket had been hit, blowing off the track and immobilizing the 45-ton vehicle.

Cole ordered Kinkaid to veer off the trail to provide a clear field of fire for Jackson. Both Shermans lurched to a halt; gunners lined up sights and stomped firing pedals. The tanks rocked from the recoil. Shells punched through the Jagdpanther’s flank, ripping deep into its metal insides. The others mercilessly pounded it from the opposite side. Black smoke poured from grilles; orange flames licked out. A series of sharp explosions blew it open as ammunition overheated and exploded. The Jagdpanther sat there gutted, reduced to a burning wreck.

The tanks trained their machine guns on it to shoot down the crew as they tried to escape. Fog and drifting smoke made it difficult to see. At length the fire died down.

“Didn’t see anyone,” said Kinkaid. “Reckon they’re all dead,”

“Check to make sure,” said Cole.

The crew dismounted, fingers on submachine gun triggers as they warily approached. The reek of cordite and burning rubber and oil hung thick in the air. As they got closer they could see the Jagdpanther’s top and rear hatches were open.

Cole, holding a grenade, peeked inside through a shell hole, bracing himself for the sickening sight and stench of human beings torn apart or burned alive. The compartment was roomy compared to a Sherman — and the five seats surrounding the gun breech were empty.

“They’re gone!” he said.

“Must’ve bailed out just before it blew up,” said Youngblood.

One of the medics drove up in his jeep, followed by Rosenthal in his.

Cole scowled and stepped back as he stared at the wreck, arms akimbo. “There’s no infrared apparatus. How the hell could they see us?” He looked inside again and saw charred remnants of uniforms, socks, field caps, boots, even underwear. “They left their uniforms behind.”

“So what the hell are they wearing?” asked Robinson.

“Don’t know. Left their guns behind too. I can see a Schmeisser and four pistols, They had to bail out so fast they didn’t have a chance to grab them,Good, that means they’re unarmed. And there’s no sign of any other Germans so those five are it.” Cole turned to face the others. “All right, let’s track them down. Jackson, bring your crew with me. Waters, Brown, stay here.”

The two crews fanned out into the forest. Those left with the tanks relaxed a bit, slinging weapons over their shoulders. The Shermans were parked in a circle, facing outwards.

Rosenthal lit a cigarette and circled the Jagdpanther. It bore the black-and-white German cross on the sides, the white tactical number 101 on the sides and rear, and the white tactical symbol for a tank destroyer unit on the glacis plate. Next to it was a yellow wolf’s hook, a heraldic symbol he recognized as the unit insignia of the 2nd SS Panzer Division.

The wreck was still smoldering, so he fetched a fire extinguisher from his jeep and put out the remaining flames. Then he gingerly climbed onto the hot, mangled engine deck and swung inside, eyes watering in the smoke. He examined scorched seats and hatchways minutely with a magnifying glass, picking off samples he placed in an envelope.

He inspected the burned uniforms. Tank destroyers were considered artillery in the German Army, so their crews wore panzer uniforms of field gray instead of black. The jackets bore the collar runes and sleeve eagle of the Waffen-SS, but no unit cuff title. For security reasons SS soldiers had been ordered to remove these. A General Assault Badge was pinned on the left breast indicating combat experience. These were veterans. He searched for paybooks, wallets, or letters, finding nothing.

Climbing out, he studied the muddy ground nearby, kneeling to take a closer look.

Finally he returned to his jeep. He drew his Colt M1911 automatic from its shoulder holster, ejected the magazine, and loaded one of the special magazines he had brought with him. Then he picked up a Thompson M1 submachine gun and swapped its magazine too. He cocked both weapons.

Brown looked at him, curiosity written on his face. “What’s up?”

Rosenthal flicked away his cigarette. “I don’t think these are normal Germans. I have to find the lieutenant — and I’d suggest getting back in your tanks.” He hurried off into the woods.

At length he found Lewis, who directed him to Cole.

“Sir, pull your men back,” said Rosenthal.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

They were interrupted by the harsh chatter of automatic fire, followed by yells. It came from back where the tanks were. The two crews dashed back up the slope.

Near the top they stumbled over Waters. His throat had been ripped out.

As the tanks came into uncertain view Rosenthal spotted a dark, shaggy figure on top of Brown, trying to wrench away the man’s M3. Rosenthal saw Brown hold down the trigger and pour 45-caliber slugs into the belly of his attacker — with seemingly no effect.

Rosenthal whipped up his Thompson and squeezed off a burst. This time the figure let out a shrill howl and toppled over. A twig snapped; he ducked behind a Sherman as bullets ricocheted off the steel. Rosenthal leaned out and fired back, blindly spraying the tangled vegetation. He was rewarded with a yelp of pain and heard brush crash as someone ran away. Then silence.

They searched the area for more lurking foes, but there was no sign of anyone.

Rosenthal and Cole ran over to Brown. Dark blood spilled from a severed jugular vein. There was nothing they could do as Brown gave a final gasp and slumped lifeless in Cole’s arms.

Corpses were strewn all over the bivouac. They had literally been torn apart — dismembered, disemboweled, or decapitated. Heads and limbs and entrails lay scattered on ground that was red and soaked with blood.

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.

Four feral figures jumped down from the branches above. Each was black and furry like a wolf, but lacking a tail, and moved on two legs. Clawed hands gripped captured submachine guns. They dropped onto the backs of the tanks.

Kinkaid floored the accelerator; one of the creatures fell off the Sherman as it surged ahead. Then Kinkaid abruptly stopped, shifted into reverse, and backed up hard. The unexpected movement caught the beast by surprise and Kinkaid heard an agonized howl as the tracks rolled over him.

A second flung open the turret hatch. A snarling, shaggy head with a black canine snout, slavering yellow fangs, and glowing red eyes thrust inside. Cole grabbed the gaping jaws, struggling to keep from being bitten. He gagged on the brute’s hot, foul breath. Rosenthal snatched out his Colt. He quickly fired three times, the shots deafening inside the tank. Warm blood spattered Cole’s face and the monstrosity fell back out.

He reached up to close the hatch and saw that Jackson’s tank had abruptly stopped, the hatches open. Screams and a flurry of shots came from inside. Then silence.

Cole got on the radio. “Able Two Four, come in. Jackson. Jackson! Over!”

No reply. His blood froze as the turret began rotating towards him.

Cole issued terse orders. Youngblood swung the breech open and replaced the high explosive shell with armor-piercing; Robinson stomped the firing pedal. The cannon boomed. The turret of Jackson’s tank stopped, jammed in place by a damaged traverse. Unless the whole vehicle moved around it could not fire at them. Robinson’s second round blew off a track and immobilized it. Cole stood in the cupola, submachine gun ready.

A werewolf scrambled out the turret hatch. Cole peppered the creature with silver slugs and watched coldly as it tumbled to the ground, twitching. Cole waited for the last werewolf to emerge, but no one appeared.

“C’mon, Rosenthal, let’s make sure the bastards are dead.”

They climbed out. Thunder crashed; rain hissed down in sheets, soaking them to the skin.

The werewolf which had tried to get into Cole’s tank was found stone dead; the carcass had turned back into human form again.

The one Kinkaid had run over was still alive and in the guise of a wolf, dragging crushed legs as it crawled towards a dropped submachine gun. Already the bleeding had stopped; mangled bones and muscles were knitting back together at an astonishing rate.

Cole kicked the weapon away before the werewolf could reach it.

It glared up at Cole, fangs bared in a defiant snarl. “Heil Hitler,” it growled — and lunged for him.

Cole shot it, and the beast collapsed at his feet. Cole’s M3 was empty now, so Rosenthal handed him the Thompson and drew his pistol.

The pair cautiously moved up to Jackson’s tank, smelling death and cordite. Blood was splattered all over the white walls inside. Jackson and his crew had been ripped apart by the two werewolves before they commandeered the Sherman and tried to use it against Cole. The second werewolf was gone: the floor escape hatch lay open.

Rosenthal cautiously circled the tank and pointed. Wolf tracks led away. They followed.

As they passed an outcropping of mossy boulders the werewolf charged out of the gloom and smashed Cole across the head with a clawed hand, knocking his helmet off. Stunned, Cole reeled back, slipped on the sodden grass, and fell. His wet hands lost their grip on the Thompson and it skittered down a gully out of reach.

Wheeling, the beast pounced on Rosenthal, throwing him down and dashing the pistol from his hand. Broken spectacles fell off. The monster dove for his throat; he tried to block it and cried out as jaws clamped like a vise on his forearm. They grappled.

Rosenthal frantically fumbled for anything he could use as a weapon. Desperate fingers found the mechanical pencil. He stabbed the werewolf in the eye as hard as he could.

The creature howled and recoiled. It tried yanking the pencil out, but let go sharply as if just touching the pencil burned. It staggered a few steps before its knees buckled and it fell headlong.

Cole came to. He gaped at the dead werewolf and gave Rosenthal a questioning look.

“Sterling silver,” said Rosenthal.

They watched the matted fur fade away. Claws, triangular ears, and the canine snout retracted, muscles shrank to normal proportions, and the carcass slowly became human again.

Rosenthal stared numbly at the bite marks on his trembling arm. He felt dizzy and nauseous. He looked at Cole. “You know what to do.”

Cole nodded grimly and got to his feet. He picked up the Colt and made sure a round was in the chamber. Then he aimed at Rosenthal and pulled the trigger.