To Hell and Back

September 23, 1945
The Third Reich is failing. The success of the landings in Normandy and subsequent allied push through France to liberate the country in the west, combined with the Russian counterattack closing from the east, has left the German army fighting a losing war on two fronts, with their options growing smaller by the day. At this point, the top commanders of the German army will fund anyone claiming to have a “Wonder Weapon” to change the tide of war. The Führer himself employed dozens of the Reich’s top scientists in their “Occult Research Division” trying to create an army of God. Or Hell. Trouble was, they were succeeding. Dragons, Direwolves, things that once seemed straight out of a storybook quickly began appearing all over the battlefields, wreaking havoc among the unprepared soldiers.

September 13, 1944
150 Miles South of Paris
“Christ, sir, what in god’s name is that?!” Screamed a nearby private. Major David Cunningham was too horrified by what he was seeing to reply. Out of nowhere, a massive, feral-looking wolf had jumped into the battle as they pushed through some nameless French village. It had made its intentions clear when it charged straight into a squad of mean, tearing one of them to chunks as the others scrambled to safety. Finally, he shook himself back to his senses, creeping his way over to a nearby radioman. With barely a word, he snatched the receiver from the boy’s hands.
“This is Major Cunningham, We need backup! There’s some sort of giant… wolf… or dog or something! We need whatever you’ve got!” The radio crackled and hissed, and Cunningham prayed to whatever god was out there that someone had heard. Finally, a heavily southern-accented voice cut through the static.
“We read ya’ Major! We’ve got a pair of tank destroyers heading your way, they’ll be there in a couple minutes!” Cunningham cursed. They didn’t have minutes until that dog from hell turned his entire company into mincemeat. He wasn’t going to let it win without a fight, though. Gripping his rifle, he stood up to address the soldiers.
“Soldiers! Focus fire on that huge dog! If he thinks he’s just going to walk all over us, we’ll show him he’s got another thing coming!” The Major shouted over the cracks of gunfire to all who could hear, and was met with shouts of agreement from his men. He just had to hold out a few more minutes, that’s all he had to do. “Machine gunners, keep that thing suppressed!” He commanded over the roar of weapons explosions. He didn’t bother trying to hit the creature with his own weapon. Regular bullets were barely an annoyance to the beast. It was all they could do to keep the creature from moving around too much, to let the heavier artillery line up on it.
“God DAMN it, where the hell’s our support?”
“We’re comin’ up on ya’ right now, Sir,” The Major heard a distinctly Texan accent over the radio, followed by what he could only describe as a demented war cry. To him, the next few seconds seemed to occur in slow motion, as a massive hulk of metal burst through the rubble of a fallen wall and out onto the main street.
For a moment, there was near silence as everyone, even the beast turned to the new contender. Cunningham managed to identify his savior as a “Hellcat” Tank Destroyer.
He let out a small laugh, thinking of a joke as the ninety millimeter barrel aligned itself with the wolf-like monster.
“Hellhound,” He whispered, a manic grin plastered on his face, “Meet Hellcat.”
There was a flash of light, followed by the briefest of moments of silence before Cunningham was nearly bowled over by the thunderous roar of the tank’s gun
Barely half a second later, the canine monstrosity that had spread fear and death amongst the soldiers simply ceased to exist, the High-Explosive round having reduced the majority of its body to a thick paste.
“Christ almighty!” Cunningham could hear the tank’s crew chattering over the radio. “I reckon’ that was better than that time Johnny shot that watermelon with the fifty-cal!”
“Yeah, but this one was way bigger,” Another laughed.
“Wish we had a camera to film that,” crowed yet another voice, “I bet those journalists back at base’d pay a fortune for it!” As Cunningham stumbled, ears still ringing, towards the armored beast that had saved the lives of him and his men, he saw the words Buffalo Bill stenciled across the side of the turret in bright white block letters. Truly, they lived up to their namesake in sheer audacity, if nothing else.
“Major!” A head poked out of the top of the tank. “That you? Name’s William Sanderson, First Sergeant. Your boys all right?”
Cunningham looked up at the grinning man, a genuine stetson perched on his head.
“It’s me, Sergeant,” He confirmed, “Thanks for the timely save.”
“Not a problem, Sir. Want us to hang around?” The Sergeant pulled out a pair of binoculars, scanning ahead. “Things sounded pretty nasty out here.”
“That’d be a damn godsend,” Cunningham nodded, “You boys take point, and we’ll cover your ass, yeah?”
“Sounds like a plan!” The sergeant slid back into the bowels of the machine. “Why don’t you hop on while you’re at it? A commander ought to lead from the front, after all.”
Grabbing a rung on the side of the tank, Cunningham pulled himself onto the vehicle’s turret with a heave.
“Is that true, Sergeant?” He grinned, turning to face what remained of his men. They were battered, dirty, and beaten, but he saw a fire in their eyes. The death of that beast had heartened them; it was his job to lead them to victory.
“FIRST COMPANY,” He roared, “FORWARD!”