SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

“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.