May 2, 1945
The rain had been drizzling for over an hour, doing its level-best to scrub the forest clean but doing little to wash away the stench of Nazis. Master Sergeant Robert Hackett lay uphill and downwind of the camp, sandwiched between two waterproof tarps. After two world wars, Hackett had found that every army had its own unique smell to it. The Nazis stunk of metal, murder and fermentation. Tonight, though, they had a troubling new element to their smell. Down there, they smelled like more of their kind. And that could not be allowed.
"You’re out of uniform," came a resonating voice behind him.
"I was waiting for you to show up," he said. "You have any idea how much I hate the smell of wet dog?"
"The other Dogs of War are in position. It’s time to change. And hurry up. I won't let my son wait in there a moment longer."
Robert Hackett shed his clothing and stored them in a duffel bag, and then willed his body to explode into the form of a mottled-gold werewo