The air raid sirens were going off. I could tell. Even from the thousands of feet above, I could hear the wailing of the sirens call. And that was fine. Most of the people below us would be dead by morning anyway. The tell tale rumble of the US sky-boats shook the fuselage of the Junker we were in, signalling our commanding officer to greenlight our jump. In the dwindling light of evening we leaped from our Ju-88, nicknamed Hati, and plummeted towards the blooming flowers below.
Allied parachutes blew up below us as we rocketed towards the earth. I was first to impact. The American soldier attached to the parachute I hit screamed as he felt the pull of gravity. I snarled, teeth bared, shredding through the chute fabric and pulling on the strings to get closer. With a single swipe of my hip dagger, the soldier was dead. I detached myself from his corpse and spread my leathery-scaled wings wide and bellowed, soaring to the next target and the next.
By the time we hit the ground, our regiment had killed all but two of the paratroopers who had dropped into Nazi Germany. No one was spared. And no on knew why. But we did. We knew that the might of the Allied forces would always fall to the Paranormal Division of Nazi Germany.