Screaming Eagles

^EIGHTEEN BEHR

Behr’s men had run into little resistance. They’d engaged a force of men like themselves, speaking German, and dressed in German military garb. They’d fallen just as quickly as the Anglo-Americans. Then they’d run into a mass of hundreds of men to add to their army.

His mind was nearly empty now, with the exception of a need to kill. It was like a thirst he couldn’t slake. The taste of flesh had become something he desired above all else. Men had fallen beneath him, screaming in horror, only to rise moments later and join them. Now there was a force of men ahead of him, surrounding a number of small houses, and they gestured for Behr and his men to join them.

Behr broke into a run and tossed his remaining weapon, a Luger, to the side. He reached for his knife, only to realize that he’d lost it somewhere along the way.

Behind him, hundreds followed. Dozens with the same blood lust he now felt.

Behr closed on a man who pointed at a hill and shouted gibberish.

The soldier was a ranking officer; that much was clear from his insignia. He was with the SS and his uniform was immaculate, even in the snow and mud.

The mist still lay heavy over the town, obscuring the number of soldiers ahead.

He dove onto the man and rode him to the ground. His hands were claws, frozen, but still able to dig into flesh and gouge out eyes. Someone tried to pull him off the screaming officer, but they too were driven down by the men behind Behr.

An officer started shooting, but it was too late for him. Bullets punched into another, but that didn’t stop the man. Nothing stopped these men.

Howling with fury, Behr launched himself at a young soldier who clutched a rifle next to his hip. Behr made short work of him.

Then the rest of his men arrived, and the slaughter was on.