NEVER AN END TO WAR

Major Richard Blaine and General George S Patton fight together against hopeless odds.

NEVER AN END TO WAR

“Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.”

– George S. Patton

 

Helen murmured with disturbing urgency within my mind:

‘The Nephilim are herding the SS troops onto all four sides of the village. The soldiers are nigh unto madness with the fear of these flying mountains of fangs and talons.’

I heard her gather what courage she had for a suicidal charge, but I mind-urged,

‘Hold. They wish to send Hell our way? I will return the favor in spades. Can you send me that real-time image to me mentally?’

‘Yes.’

That was Helen for you – no nonsense when the chips were down.

With the speed of angelic thought, I saw within my mind our own swiftly approaching destruction.

Rifle-bristling, panicked Nazi soldiers rolled and undulated under the sun like water in a tidal wave of death.

I focused on the swarm closest to the village as Patton growled, “You’re glowing brighter. What is happening?”

“This,” I said, looping an arm around his waist and willed us to the blackened, cracked church steeple.

If anything, this teleporting hurt worse than the first one.

Patton cried out, “Damn you, Blaine! Next time give me some warning.”

He suddenly noticed the charging SS troops. 

As the tearing winds snatched his words to the English channel, I still managed to hear him roar, “Double damn you, Blaine! We’re about to be overrun!”

“No, General, they are about to learn that when you let yourself be herded by Hell, you run smack into it. Reach into my backpack and pull out the first weapon you feel.”

“What’s going on?”

I laughed, “Man can embody the truth, but he cannot know it.”

“You only think you are smart, Blaine.”

It was my turn to be silent while a small family of moments crossed my path, single file, from the right, sticking their tongues out at me.

They were the moments of all the times in New Orleans I had thought myself clever, and it turned out I had been quite the opposite.

I felt a tug at my back when Patton ripped open my pack and pulled the weapon Sister Ameal had mentioned earlier.

“What in blazes is this thing, and how did it fit into your backpack?”

“A thermobaric weapon made by the Russia of the future.”

“What? From where?”

“The Russians call it Solntsepyokm, Blazing Sun. It can instantly turn several city blocks into smoldering rubble with a single shot. Shove the cannister into the tube, step back, and observe.”

I felt the push of the bomb in the tube. I fixed the sight on the onrushing Nazi soldiers. I fired.

The rocket pushed back on my shoulder, but I, like Rachel, was much stronger than a normal man.

I watched a high-temperature fireball explode yards wide, causing a powerful pressure drop that sucked in oxygen all around it and created a prolonged vacuum effect.

The charging soldiers on either side of the enormous fireball were blown off their smoldering boots to lie twitching … and all too certainly dead.

“My God!” cried Patton. “This thing could end the war!”

“Shove another missile in the cannister. Quick! I want to nail that Nephilim before it can get over its shock. Now!”

I’ll give Patton this. He reacted quicker than I would have given him credit for. My body rocked as he shoved the missile in.

I took aim on the chest of the hovering Nephilim as two more of its brothers flew beside him. I fired.

The missile seemed to fly in slow motion, then picked up speed as if eager to kill. Leave it to the Russians to create a bloodthirsty weapon.

The blood of the Nephilim must have been combustible, for the billowing fireball seemed to spread for a full mile in the sky, cinderizing the two of its brothers on either side.

Patton and I staggered back from the force of the blast wave of superheated air.

The rest of the SS troops screamed at the sight and ran frantically towards the horizon, hurling their rifles away in fright. They reminded me of toy soldiers overwound.

“I can’t blame those bastards. Hell, I want to run myself.”

“We are running … to the opposite of side of Oradour-sur-Glan.

I no sooner said it than we were there on the leaning structure which was the tallest, if not the most stable, of the surrounding buildings.

Patton was again on his knees, puking his guts out. I kept on my wobbly feet as that Tunnel has toughened me in more ways than one …

And, truth to tell, sheer pride kept me on my feet in front of the arrogant man.

“Retch on your own time, General. We’ve got to get these boys before they catch on.”

“God, I hate you, Blaine. But I hate these Nazis who started all this goddamned son-of-a-bitchery more.”

He staggered to his riding boots unsteadily, but he dug determinedly in my pack to wrench out another missile.

“How deep is this thing, anyway?”

“Ever hear of a cornucopia?”

“Yes, Blaine. West Point taught us classical mythology. Got one of Zeus’ lightning bolts in here?”

“What do you think we have been hurling at them?”

“Fair point.”

He shoved another missile in and patted the top of my Spartan helmet. “Fire in the hole!”

It was then that I noticed that there were four Nephilim right at the heels of the racing SS troops. They looked more to be fleeing those hybrids than charging us.

The impression was doubled when I noticed the red-rimmed fangs, talons, and tentacles of the flying hybrids.

I aimed at the Nephilim in the center and fired. I didn’t wait for the shock blast and firestorm.

I yelled, “Patton! Quick! Another one!”

Another dig in my pack, another rocking forward as a missile was shoved into my weapon, another pat on top of my Spartan helmet.

“Fire in the hole!”

I fired at the center of the onrushing Nazi horde.

It was as if Hell billowed up from the depths in a rising cloud of madness.

Those SS troops not incinerated by the spreading hell cloud threw down their weapons and ran for all they were worth towards the setting sun.

My face felt raw from the heat of all those billowing clouds of fiery death.

I looked up into the inflamed bruised flesh of the sky. Patton blew out a low whistle.

Not a trace of any of the four Nephilim remained.

I guess their blood was flammable after all. Judging from where their fathers came, it should not have been a surprise.

In my mind came Helen’s frantic cry. ‘Richard! We need you!’