Wolfsangel

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

The skies were black at three o’clock that afternoon.

The hammer rose and fell with methodical precision, the dull thuds echoing throughout the dead silence of the snow-covered terrain. The cries of the victim filled the air as first his wrists, then his ankles, were nailed to the frosty wooden cross. Blood spurted and pooled freely across the ground, spattering the clothing of his grinning torturers.

Once the victim was secured, the cross was raised between those of his fellow captives. They writhed and groaned as their body weight caused unbearable pain to their impaled joints, and their lungs compressed from the distortion of their torsos. The soldiers laughed and taunted them, admiring their fiendish handiwork. One of the soldiers had nailed a sign on the cross over the head of the newly crucified victim. Upon it was a crudely etched wolfsangel (*wolf’s hook), a medieval Germanic clan totem. It was the military symbol of the Kingdom (*Das Reich).

“What are we going to do?” one of the victims’ friends asked as they crouched behind a rock line in the distance.

“Carl is trying to circle them,” his comrade replied. “It’s our only chance.”

“Can you hear me?” the leader of the squad surrounding the crucifixion scene stepped forth, calling into the darkness. “I know you’re out there. You can put them out of their misery by coming out with your hands behind your head.”

Another man came forth with a can of petrol in his hand. He handed it to the leader, who raised it aloft.

 “It is too cold out here!” the man bellowed. “We need a fire to warm us up! Either you come out and we can leave together to a warmer place, or we’ll build a bonfire here!”

Carl Hanson heard the threats and moved as quickly as he dared. He was patrolling the area with two other fire teams when they came across a Red Army recon squad. They killed four of them in a crossfire but ran out of ammo in the ensuing shootout. Captain Ruess and his lieutenants were captured, stripped and beaten in the freezing Siberian temperatures. The Reds found lumber in the ruins of a nearby barn and created the monstrous spectacle on a nearby hill. Hanson had one grenade and four rounds left. He was sure it would be enough.

He crept up the side of a hill on his outstretched limbs like a giant spider, distributing his weight so as to avoid dislodging any rocks or debris. He had his rifle across his shoulders, his grenade in one hand and Mauser in the other. He crawled as far as he dared until his head was level with the ground upon which the torture took place. At once he was startled by a great burst of flames as the crucified soldiers were consumed by the ignited gasoline.

Carl sprung from his position, hurling his grenade into the midst of the soldiers. There was a great roar as the soldiers were scattered about, the crosses toppling atop them. Some reached for their weapons but Carl took them out with a shot to the head. His teammates rushed up the hill to his side, tending to their crucified comrades.

“Mongols,” Sgt. Beckmann snorted as he tore the woolen cap off the partially severed head on one of the Reds, swatting at the ponytail at the base of the shorn skull. “We’re seeing more and more of these devils.”

“They spent their time killing each other before the war,” Sgt. Garthaffner grimaced. “They would rape and kill the women in neighboring villages. The survivors’ own people would leave the bastard offspring out for the wolves.”

“Carl!” Sgt. Von Hoffman shouted. “Captain Ruess is still alive!”