RED HAZE: A Werewolf Story for the 21st Century

by Ian Redman

  “This is excellent news my Fuhrer.”

  “Indeed so! Are the grenadiers prepared?” There was hastiness in the Fuhrer’s voice. A feeling of exhilaration.

  “We have finished recruitment and training. All detachments are in place. We are ready to ignite Europe.”

  “THEN SO BE IT!” Oratz pulled his ear away from the phone. He had heard anger in his Fuhrer’s voice before, but never like this. “BRING PHASE THREE FORWARD, ISSUE THE BLOOD ORDER!”

  “Yes my Fuhrer!” The line closed as Wotan and Wiki gathered by Oratz’s side. “Well my friends,” he looked down at his canid companions, their furred heads tilted slightly sideways, as if trying to read their master’s mind, “…it is time. Let the pandemonium commence.” With steady, swift strides Wilhelm Oratz walked back up the large garden to the rear of his house, with Wotan and Wiki following, their tails wagging excitedly.

  10

  WOLVES AT THE DOOR

  Dateline: 24 March 1945 - 19.50 Hours

  Location: The outskirts of the City of Aachen, Germany

  “You got a light Davey?”

  “Yeah, sure Sarge.” Private Davey Boxton fumbled in the pocket of his regulation army greatcoat. Clumsily, he pulled out his faithful petrol lighter and flicked the lid up. It sparked and a small flame appeared.

  “Appreciate it!” Sergeant Ray Pamone lowered his face towards the lighter and lit his Players cigarette. He drew in an extensive lungful of smoke and once again stomped his booted feet on the ground. “These Brit cigarettes are pretty good.” The six men stood around him all agreed, including Private Boxton.

  “Shit, its cold tonight.” The stomping of feet continued. All the thirty men on sentry duty around the battered building centred behind them were cold. Bitterly so!

  “If you don’t mind me saying Sarge,” Corporal Tom Rimmetti didn’t look very happy, “stamping your cold feet on the ground isn’t exactly a good thing to do. There may still be Krauts around.”

  “Stow it Corporal, the Krauts are long gone, why do you think we’re here? The new Lord Mayor has a big day tomorrow. Shit! The lucky bastard’s probably drinking schnapps and getting ready for a good bunk up, even as I speak.”

  Corporal Rimmetti shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, you’re the boss, anyway, where’d you get the MP40?”

  The biting cold was momentarily forgotten as Sergeant Pamone smiled, “wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Sarcastic bastard thought Rimmetti. “Yeah, that’s why I’m asking,” he drawled, his New York Bronx accent clearly evident.

  Pulling the German Schmeisser machine pistol from his shoulder, the Sergeant let his cigarette dangle from his mouth, its hazy smoke wafting lazily in the still, frozen night air. “How did I get the MP40?” Pamone laughed, drew in another lungful of tar and nicotine and ran his hand over the cold metal of the German Sub Machine Gun. “I kicked a Kraut to death on the Siegfried line, that’s how I got it! Then I said, hey pal, give me your god damned Schmeisser. And do you know what…?” Pamone paused and coughed, the cigarette nearly falling from his mouth, “…he did give it to me, without any argument!” The men laughed. There was no love lost between the hard fighting infantrymen of the United States First Division’s 26th Infantry and the German army.

  “The Schmeisser’s great until you run out of ammo!” From the rear, Private Pete Henson’s voice interrupted.

  “Up your ass Henson! This Machine Pistol beats the Thompson hands down. It’s a fine piece of kit.” The Schmeisser was flung back across Pamone’s right shoulder. “If it’s one thing the Krauts are good at, it’s manufacturing weapons.” Quickly, Sergeant Pamone turned around to face his men, now standing in front of him. “Okay, look lively you jackasses, we’ve got a critical job to do tonight. The newly appointed Lord Mayor is important. The speech he has to give tomorrow to the people of this God forsaken city, is supposed to inspire hope. Huh, hope! What a joke.” Sergeant Pamone glanced around, the darkness surrounding the broken, shattered, rubble-laden city giving a slightly unsettling, claustrophobic effect. He shivered. “Okay, keep your guard up and get back to your positions. I’m going to walk around and check on the others.”

  “Sure thing Sarge.” The young, battle hardened soldiers accepted the night’s guard duty with ease. It was standard procedure and they knew Sergeant Pamone was right. The Lord Mayor was important. He was to show the people of Aachen the Nazis were gone, finished! The last remaining combatants of the Third Reich were now on their knees. There would be no more blood letting in this city, no more Gestapo, no more SS. The civilian population of Aachen needed to be given hope, a sign for the future, and the newly appointed Lord Mayor was just the man to give them that hope!

  “Hey, Boxton!”

  “Sarge.”

  “You can be in charge for an hour or so, that’s if you’re capable of course?”

  Private Boxton sniggered. Why not, he thought? Gripping his M1 Carbine firmly in both hands, he prepared for a cold night ahead.

  The three dark furred wolves moved stealthily through broken, shattered buildings and across filthy, inhospitable streets. Voices of people were heard clearly as their large, triangular ears twitched towards differing sounds, their eyesight, blood red and exceptionally keen, for they could see through the cold blackness, like no ordinary human being ever could.

  They were close! The scent was strong! The lead wolf stopped and looked around at the other two. All were overly large, muscular and powerful. The leader growled. A signal! Keep moving, stay together, strength in numbers, strength in the pack!

  Over there…American soldiers, standing by the rubble! Stay stealthy, well hidden! The collaborator was close. Silently advancing on all fours, their majestic, furred bodies low to the ground, the formidable, magnificent canids continued the hunt. Not long now thought the pack leader, not long at all!

  “How’s it goin’ guys?” Sergeant Pamone felt good. All his men, including the newcomers were his friends. Though that could be a problem in time of war, he preferred it that way. In general, all the troopers got on well together. They also fought well as a team. Their time on the Siegfried Line had shown him that.

  “All quiet on the western front hey Sarge?” Private Richard ‘Dick’ Kimenski smiled broadly.

  “You know something Kimenski? It’s a good job you never smile when we’re out on patrol.”

  Kimenski looked intrigued, “why’s that Sarge?”

  “At night time…your smile would give us away!” The six troopers on east wing sentry duty were in good humour. They did not feel threatened at all. The Germans had left the city and they were grateful to be away from the bloody fighting they had been immersed in, for what seemed to some of them…like a lifetime.

  “No problems here Sarge. We’re fine.” All agreed, except Kimenski.

  “Kimenski, what’s troubling you?” Sergeant Pamone knew his men well.

  “Hey…nothing Sarge, why?”

  “Don’t bullshit me boy! I know you too well, what’s up?” All seven men fell quiet as Dick Kimenski looked around at his colleagues. He felt slightly foolish. “Well…er…”

  “He’s frightened Sarge.” Private Joe Wall sniggered and gave a hefty slap on Dick’s back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “Our little Dickie here, heard wolves last night! Didn’t ya kid?” Wall spat a piece of chewing tobacco into the dirt.

  “Get lost Joe, you heard them as well.”

  “Big deal kid, they’re just wolves, probably picking flesh off corpses. They’re vermin!”

  “Joe’s right Dick.” Sergeant Pamone could see the young infantryman was concerned. “They’ve probably come in from the Ardennes and like Joe said, they’re just vermin.”

  “Yeah Dickie boy, so if you see a big bad wolf…” Wall gripped his M1 Carbine tightly, “…just pump its friggin’ ass full of lead!” The troops smiled and laughed. Another spoke. “Yeah, just like they did in Yellowstone!” Just for a minute or so the sentry duty was forgotten.

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry Sarge.” Dick looked down at the dirt, he felt embarrassed, “it’s just, well…I used to have nightmares about wolves, when I was a kid.”

  “No problem Dick, forget it…Dick…hey kid!” Sergeant Pamone glared at Richard Kimenski.

  “Oh God!”

  “What!” Now Pamone was concerned. The young boy was gazing directly behind him, down the main rubble laden street.

  “Oh God, wolves…WOLVES!”

  The pack leader spoke. A lower toned growl. Another signal. Take them, NOW! They ran like the wind…twenty metres, their panting growing heavier, their tongues licking thick saliva from their lips, ten metres…now, they were just seconds from their first kills.

  “JESUS H CHRIST! GRAB YOUR WEAPONS.”

  “OH GOD HELP US, MOM…MOOOOM!” Dick Kimenski was petrified with fear. His boyhood dreams were coming true.

  “LOOK AT THE SIZE OF ‘EM, OH SHIT…” Private Joe Wall became the wolves’ first target as all three animals leapt on him, his body being eviscerated with savage, snarling ferocity.

  “SHOOT THE DAMNED THINGS!”

  The wolves turned, their blood red eyes scanning their prey! Another growl from the leader! Split up! Take them singly! The other two knew the command!

  Dick Kimenski lost his life immediately, the largest wolf, the pack leader, leaping at his throat. Blood gushed like a fountain. They were all over the Americans, the soldiers screaming for help! Another went down, bitten in the face and groin. The large dogs showed no mercy to the American scum. Gunshots hit the third wolf, it yelped in pain.

  Sergeant Pamone aimed his MP40, “GET OFF MY MEN YOU BASTARD THINGS!” Pamone never used his newly acquired weapon, the third wolf jumping in anger at his face, its razor sharp canine teeth ripping into his skin and muscle tissue, tearing the prey’s flesh open like a peeled apple.

  “What the hell is going on over there?” Private Davy Boxton and his colleagues on the west sentry post heard gunshots and the stifling screams of men. So too did the other soldiers at different locations around the Lord Mayor’s quarters. “SHIT,” he yelled, “IT’S THE SARGE, C’MON MOVE IT!”

  “NO WAIT,” another trooper yelled, “IT COULD BE A DAMNED TRAP!”

  “I DON’T BLOODY WELL CARE, THOSE ARE OUR MEN SCREAMING, THE KRAUTS ARE BACK!” The soldiers were ‘weapons ready’. “JACKSON, STAY HERE AND CALL FOR BACKUP!” The five soldiers ran towards the sounds of chaotic mayhem now enveloping the night, the others around the battered building doing the same.

  Their friends were in dire trouble!

  “THIS IS ZEBRA OUTPOST! REPEAT ZEBRA OUTPOST, WE ARE UNDER ATTACK, WE NEED BACKUP, REPEAT WE NEED…” Jake Jackson halted in mid sentence, his eyes wide with fear. His colleagues were being torn apart!

  “ZEBRA OUTPOST,” the reply on Jake’s radio came quickly, “THIS IS PAPA THREE, COME IN ZEBRA OUTPOST, COME IN…”

  Not having time to reply, Jake grabbed his prized Thompson Sub Machine Gun. He rolled to the right as the second wolf hurtled towards him. He kicked out, smashing his heavy boot into its jaw. Again he kicked and kicked, “GET OFF ME YOU GODDAMNED BRUTE!” Savagely, the wolf bit into Jake’s ankle, slicing through his flesh and muscle tissue. He screamed in agony, the hideous bite crushing bone and tendon. Never had he felt such pain. Then he heard further firepower, coming from the left. His buddies!

  “HOLD ON JAKE, WE’LL TAKE IT, HOLD ON!” Six more soldiers were running over to him!

  “GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!” Without thinking, Jake launched the butt of his Thompson at the wolf’s jaw. A sickening crunch made him wince. The wolf yelped. “OH GOD, NO!” Jake’s colleagues, his friends, the other two wolves were attacking them! He smashed again with the butt of the Thompson. Snarling, his canid enemy retreated, circling its prey, scanning for weakness, its snout and teeth covered in bloodied human tissue.

  The men of the First Division’s 26th Infantry were being massacred.

  “COME IN ZEBRA OUTPOST,” the voice on the radio continued, the crackling of communication only adding to the din of battle, “DO YOU COPY? ZEBRA OUTPOST, COME IN!”

  Jake panted heavily, sweat soaking his uniform. He had to get to the radio, HE HAD TO! Growling, the wolf continued to circle its prey, showing no signs of fear. The thing’s rabid, thought Jake, but, there are three of them! All rabid? The troopers were being torn apart, their weapons making no difference! GOD HELP ME, he thought. LORD GOD, HELP ME! Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, Jake heard the telltale rattle of a fifty-calibre machine gun, spitting red-hot lead into the other two wolves.

  At last! Two Half Tracks, with backup!

  The snarling, blood hungry wolf veered to the right, its red eyes swiftly locating the others as it sped back to its pack mates. Sensing overpowering danger, the three wolves came together as one, their teeth snarling and gnashing, their tails raised vertically, their bloodied hackles, rigid with ferocious canine aggression.

  The Half Tracks pulled up, men jumped out. The wolves waited, as if sensing the soldier’s movements. They were ready…to strike again! The leader growled.

  “CIRCLE THE THINGS AND HIT ‘EM HARD.” Another Sergeant yelled instructions as Jake crawled across the cold, filthy ground, blood pumping from his ankle. He grabbed at the radio as the other soldiers surrounded the three animals. “KILL THE DAMNED THINGS!” the Sergeant shouted.

  Jake was about to radio in, when he started to wet himself, his eyes staring in naked fear. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing! “OH SWEET JESUS. OH GOD NO,” he screamed, “PLEASE, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” To Jake’s horror, the wolves began rising up onto their hind legs, roaring bloody defiance at the soldiers now fearfully backing away.

  “FIRE! FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRE!” In an instant, as the three beasts prepared to lunge at their prey, the whole team opened up with Thompsons, Garands and captured German weapons. But the rapid fire had no effect, the wolves diving at their antagonists, ripping them apart.

  The prey’s pitiful screams were hideous, brutal, soul destroying.

  Jake fumbled with the radio, he was crying. The wolves had bitten hard and deep into their prey, their teeth and claws like butchery machines slicing through raw meat. Within minutes, blood flowed in the mud, arms and legs joining torsos and heads in a god-forsaken river of gore and carnage.

  “Pleeeease, help me…” Jake whimpered into the handset, his hands shaking with fear.

  “ZEBRA OUTPOST, THIS IS LIEUTENANT BEVEN, BACKUP IS ON THE WAY, DO YOU COPY? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OVER THERE?”

  Jake covered his ears, trying to block out the cries of torment all around him.

  “Wolves…” he sobbed.

  “SAY AGAIN ZEBRA OUTPOST, SAY AGAIN.”

  The frightened young American trooper wanted desperately to tell the voice on the radio transmitter what was happening, but he had already noticed the large shadow moving into his line of sight. The wolf was back again, this time standing upright on its two hind legs, its vivid red eyes glaring down at its hapless prey. Without thinking, Jake screamed into the handset as the beast’s claws loomed closer. “WOLVES,” he yelled, “WEREWOLVES!”

  “SAY AGAIN ZEBRA OUTPOST, SAY AGAIN!” Lieutenant Bevan received no reply.

  The gore ridden wolf gripped Jake Jackson’s throat and hoisted him into the air, his neck beginning to crack under the severe strain and pressure of the hideous beast’s grip. He gasped for air, the pressure on his larynx increasing, his eyes bulging from his head. Then Jake’s body hurled like a rocket towards the front door of the building.

  To the creature itself, the prey was now a human battering ram!

  “SIR, YOU MUST COME WITH ME, NOW!” The newly appointed Lord Mayor of Aachen was speechless and white with fear as Lieutenant Bruce Rindley, of the 26th Infantry’s Military Police Detachment rushed into his office.

  “Lieutenant,” the Lord Mayor’s voice was quivering, his body shaking, “what is happening out there?”

  “THE NAZIS ARE BACK SIR! SOUNDS LIKE A SPECIALIST T
EAM, PROBABLY WAFFEN SS.”

  “Oh my God, they’ve come for me!”

  “WE’VE GOTTA MOVE FAST SIR, STAY WITH ME!” Hastily, Lieutenant Rindley motioned the Lord Mayor to follow him. As the two men joined up with four armed M.P.s in the house’s main hallway, they heard a heavy thump on the front door of the building. Rindley and his men froze in terror.

  The gunshots and screams outside…had ceased.

  “Jesus, they’re at the front door. Sergeant, whatever comes through that door, no matter what, just spray it with lead. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

  “YES SIR!”

  “QUICKLY SIR, TO THE REAR OF THE BUILDING, SERGEANT, YOU AND YOUR MEN FORM A DEFENSIVE BARRIER THROUGH THIS HALLWAY. I’LL GET THE MAYOR OUT FROM THE REAR.”

  “OKAY MEN, YOU HEARD THE LIEUTENANT, WEAPONS READY, PREPARE TO FIRE ON MY COMMAND!”

  Suddenly it happened again, more thumping on the front door, the six men grimacing in horror. Then they heard it, a loud, eerie scratching at the door, and growling…deep, resonant, growling.

  “What the hell is out there?” The Sergeant asked in a whisper, his stomach churning with fear.

  “I don’t know,” replied a trooper, his rifle shaking in his hands. It came again, further scratching, then…something heavy started to batter at the door, a man’s voice seemingly trying to scream as the thumping grew ever louder, the growling increasing in its hideous intensity. It was as if a man was being slammed against the front door, over and over again.

  “STAY WITH ME SIR, STAY WITH ME!”

  “PREPARE TO FIRE!”

  The door crashed in, with a dead soldier named Jake Jackson lying in the smashed entrance, his body a mass of sliced, lacerated flesh.

  “FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRE!”

  M1s and Thompsons opened up as Lieutenant Rindley began running to the rear of the building, the Lord Mayor closely following. There was howling at the door, yes howling! Wolves, wolves at the door! Oh sweet Jesus thought the Lieutenant, what the hell are we going to do? The rear door of the building was locked. In the middle of the long hallway Bruce Rindley fumbled for a set of keys. He could hear terrible screams and growls, but no further gunshots. There! Oh my God! Down the corridor, slowly moving toward them, now on all fours, two large wolves, covered in blood…his men’s blood, and their eyes, blood red. The lieutenant took aim through his Thompson’s iron sight, “I’M NOT GOING WITHOUT A FIGHT YOU BASTARDS! DO YOU HEAR ME! BASTAAAAAAARDS!”