An illustrated story that will be available as a portfolio in late 2003. Here is a sneak preview.

January 6, 1945. Allied forces had been advancing across Nazi-occupied Europe for half a year. As one kilometer after another fell to the liberating armies, the German High Command unleashed upon the world the terror weapons that they named Vergeltungswaffe. The V1 and later the V2 would rain death and devastation upon England and secure their place in the annals of military history, while the mighty cannon called the V3 would mercifully never be completed. Never chronicled by history, however, was the awesome might of the V4, code-named Donnerhuf, which was deployed for the first time at the French village of Tillet during the German counteroffensive that would become known as the Battle of the Bulge.

January 9, 1945. Elements of the United States Army's 87th Infantry were ordered to take the village of Tillet and to drive the Germans from the surrounding woods. In a savage engagement reminiscent of the battle for Bastogne one month earlier, both armies dug themselves into the woods north of the town and exchanged withering fire. Unlike Bastogne, however, the German guns fell silent at dawn on the second day of the fighting. The First and Second Platoons were ordered to advance.

The first indication of the approaching doom was an unearthly growl like that of a tank engine, except that it came from somewhere above the treetops. From ahead came the crash of timbers and a rhythmic, earth-shaking pounding. Through the forest the men could see snow exploding upward in great plumes and thought at first that they were being shelled; but then they saw the shadow a massive, moving bulk. Trees fell before it, their trunks snapping off like twigs. The geysers of snow erupted nearer and nearer. The men at last could make out the shape of two enormous legs sweeping toward them.

By then, though, it was too late.

The Americans broke and ran but there was no escape. The V4 was upon them. Over their shoulder as they fled they caught spinning, jolting glimpses of two pillar-like legs, of a dark and towering figure bigger than the Statue of Liberty, of an impassive equine face gazing down at them past the swell of two mammoth breasts. The men scrambled for the safety of a Sherman tank that had been dispatched to support them, only to see it disappear before their eyes, covered entirely by a gigantic hoof that fell from the sky and squashed the tank like a clay model. There was nothing for the men to do then but scream and pray as the sky above them disappeared, replaced by the vast underside of another hoof that descended upon them with merciless intent. There was a brief sensation of being driven down into the snow, of unbearable pressure, and then cold silence.

"Erb�rmlich," Blitzkrieg muttered. Pathetic. These Americans were nothing more than frightened ants, just as frail and just as powerless. She listened to them shriek and gibber as she reached down and scooped a half-dozen of them into her hand. With a casual squeeze they were dead, and she dropped what was left of them onto the heads of their comrades as their retreat became a panicked rout. Twin blasts of steam burst from her nostrils as she snorted down at the fleeing horde. Killing them was far too easy. Their bullets bounced like raindrops off of her thick hide. Their flight was ludicrously slow, their tiny legs pattering more than thirty times for each of Blitzkrieg's ponderous strides. In their terror they had lost even the sense to scatter as she stepped on them. Six, eight, ten at a time fell cowering and squealing beneath her vast hoof to be crushed instantly into nothing.

To be continued...