SNAFU: Wolves at the Door: An Anthology of Military Horror

by James A. Moore

  Although the nearest dwelling was now only about a hundred and fifty yards away, the distance seemed vast. Simmons pushed on; striving to save himself and Grimes from Anderson’s fate.

  * * *

  Inside a vacant building, he placed Grimes on the deck, and found an iron bar to brace the door shut. Simmons scanned the room; the place was vulnerable. Numerous broken windows and a bombed-out roof provided access. The place was anything but secure.

  Maybe the fighting had whittled down the size of the pack and worn away its resolve, but the injured wolf could easily track them to their refuge. He had to prepare against an attack.

  Simmons found a corner walled in by a concrete block and moved Grimes into the niche. Dragging an old iron engine block, discarded filing cabinets and a table, he fortified the marine’s position then sat with his back against the wall, his M-16 held tight, a new clip in the receiver. A stack of fully loaded magazines rested on the deck beside him.

  The pistol lay ready as well. If they could hold out until daylight, they’d get through this. Moonlight shone through broken windows in the upper stories, cascading through bombed-out flooring that opened for three levels. If the wolves came that way, they’d be exposed, but a shot would be difficult. The creatures held the advantage.

  Simmons thumbed his wedding band, thinking about his young wife. Marion. Their wedding had been back home in Vermont, outside on warm spring day. A full contingency of marines assembled along the aisle with crossed swords. He kept thoughts of Marion close as he hunkered inside the building for close to an hour. He hoped the worse was behind them.

  A wolf howled from the ruins outside. Sounds like it’s summoning the others. Simmons feared a conflict. The wolves could easily access the building. He wanted to engage the enemy, close-with and destroy, but the creatures seemed impervious to their weapons. They seemed to be more than mere wolves. What were they doing here in Beirut? And what could they actually do to him? Waiting in the ruins for an almost certain demise, Simmons preferred the engagement of the earlier firefight.

  Sitting in the shadows, his mind raced with dreadful thoughts. He’d witnessed wolves take fire and keep coming. They’d ruthlessly torn apart his comrades. The fight would be futile. These creatures weren’t ordinary animals. Some small part of him merely wanted to give up; but there wasn’t any other place to flee, and going outside again would mean certain death. We are marines, dammit! Have to protect Grimes. Simmons scanned the dilapidated dwelling; the lower floor had been a machine shop or garage. He was hunkered down in the old office, but the engine told of its utility. Taking stock, he found what was needed to pull the plan together. He would fight; he would have vengeance.

  It was that part of him that began devising a plan.

  * * *

  Simmons reached for the K-bar strapped upside down to the shoulder of his flak vest. He withdrew the fighting knife then removed the clip from his Colt .45, 1911. He popped two rounds from the magazine then whittled the bullets down meticulously to fashion an effective weapon, Marion once again in this thoughts – he would make it home to her.

  Reaching into the breast pocket of his utilities, he pulled out a cigar and his Zippo. The chrome lighter had been a gift from Marion; the Marine Corps emblem embossed on the front.

  He bit off the end of the cigar and lit the damn thing. If this was going to be his reckoning, then Simmons was going out on his own terms, like a man, a marine. Puffing the stogie, he prepared himself mentally for the showdown.

  The alpha wolf was the linchpin for the entire pack. Wounded and weary from battle, most of them would scamper if he could take their leader down.

  He sipped from his canteen cup; thinking about his wife again… Simmons glanced at his wedding ring then removed the sterling-silver band. Perusing the ring, it was a reminder that Marion would be waiting for him whenever he returned from a deployment, whether walking the flight deck or in a pine box.

  He wheeled an acetylene torch over to the iron engine block, praying the damn thing still worked. He quickly checked Grimes; the man was still out. Simmons breathed a sigh of relief when the torch lit, then heated the empty basin of a combustion chamber. Once the iron was hot, he kissed the silver ring then dropped it into the chamber with a metallic clang. The torch heated the iron quickly, but the ring sat there unchanged. Fuck! Just as Simmons began to doubt whether the plan would work, the unmistakable thud of a large four-legged creature landed on remnants of the top floor.

  Moments later, two other sets of paws padded around the vestiges of the third floor. They must have crossed from an adjacent rooftop. Two sets of glowing yellow eyes peered through the aperture of the bombed-out flooring.

  The wolves circled their perch, staring down, stalking their prey. The alpha was leading two others.

  Simmons glanced down into the engine chamber; the ring was now liquid silver. He turned off the blow torch, and reached slowly for a .45 caliber round. No need to alert the things. Dipping the bullet into the silver, he quickly coated the tip then retracted it from the chamber and dipped it into the canteen cup, sizzling.

  There was a thump onto the second floor. Their treading grew more frenzied. An attack was imminent.

  He hastily dipped the other round into the silver then cooled it off. A small amount of the liquid remained in the combustion chamber. Simmons grabbed his K-bar and coated the tip. As he worked the silver over the blade, the wolves descended to his level.

  All three beasts trotted back and forth just beyond his makeshift barricade. They began to growl and snap. Long white fangs reflected in the scattered moonlight. A couple of the beasts shook their heads, whipping saliva about.

  Simmons trembled, breathing deeply – these weren’t ordinary creatures. Dread of losing the battle with the wolves morphed from utter fear to a momentary paralysis. But the thought of failure, even death wasn’t as daunting as not pressing forward. Giving in wasn’t the Marine Corps way. Like all young marines, he was indoctrinated in the heroics of marines pushing forward against insurmountable odds: the Chosen Reservoir, Tarawa and Iwo Jima. He shook off fear and doubt. Simmons began to feel numb to the thought of death, as the hard mettle of his months on the island solidified. He was a marine. Ooh-rah!

  Simmons loaded the magazine with the silver bullets. He placed them halfway down the clip, allowing him to fire a couple of shots before and after releasing the deadly rounds. Lull the bastards into a false sense of security

  A wolf edged its way toward the barricade like a scout searching for the weakness in a fortress.

  The alpha remained in the background. Simmons couldn’t dispense with the silver ammunition on the lower-echelon beasts before getting a crack at the leader. Another wolf limped slowly forward.

  Simmons raised the M-16 and thumbed the selector switch to semi-automatic. He shouldered the rifle, held his breath and eased the trigger. The rifle fired a volley, striking the lame creature in the right front shoulder. It scampered like a dog being struck with a newspaper. Although the shot struck home, it didn’t have a lasting effect.

  The two wolves cowered slightly at the sound of the rifle blast.

  PVT Grimes flinched at the sound of the M-16 firing, his breathing heavy. The man was still alive, and Simmons intended to keep it that way.

  The wolf checking the perimeter lifted its nose over a filing cabinet.

  Simmons aimed and fired two rounds in rapid succession. It ducked below the barricade and whimpered. The creature was sniffing out signs of weakness, allowing a sense of confidence to grow. The alpha howled, loud and ferocious in the confined space, and the other two wolves turned and rushed the barricade, jumping over the table and filing cabinet. Simmons let loose with the pistol shooting three rounds at the lead wolf. It dropped in its tracks, but the other kept coming.

  Simmons took up the rifle and flipped the M-16 to full-automatic and emptied the clip into the advancing beast. It squealed but continued its charge.

  The wolf lunged at his throat. Si
mmons held up an arm to ward off the ravaging beast but it knocked his arm aside. He grabbed it tightly with both hands by the scruff of the neck, struggling to lock his elbows and keep the wolf at bay. Spittle and phlegm splattered Simmons’ face as the beast thrashed and tore at his flak vest.

  Simmons wrestled with the wolf as it flailed and shred his utilities. Can’t let this thing bite me. He feared death less than the alternative. In his gut, he knew what they really were.

  Everything slowed. Simmons felt the heat of the werewolf’s breath on his face. He locked his elbows, holding the beast back by its neck. Saliva dripped from its elongated fangs. Numbness from shock began to set in. Pressed into the concrete floor, there wasn’t any place else to go.

  He expected the wolf to lunge at his throat, finish him off, but it paused for a moment. It’s making way for the alpha.

  Peering beyond the bloodied, matted coat of the wolf bestride him, the alpha approached.

  Do or die. Simmons unsheathed the K-bar and plunged it into the beast standing over him. It howled. Simmons instinctively retracted the fighting knife, pushing the beast aside. He dropped the K-bar on the deck and drew his pistol.

  The alpha leapt.

  Descending, the wolf bared its fangs, extended its claws.

  Ready for the kill.

  Simmons fired the .45 into the wolf’s chest. A jolting yelp of pain resounded like a shriek within the room, but pain seemed to drive it. The alpha landed on Simmons biting at his throat. Its claws cleaved into Simmons’ arms and legs.

  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 fl
owers 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.