Due to my self-admitted unreliability this is a one-shot story with the possibility for follow up short stories.

All characters based on actual people are completely fictional and should not be seen as representing real thoughts and opinions. Opinions of characters do not reflect the opinions of this author and are used to accentuate issues of the era.

Background

It's World War 2, Draconic aerial warfare has been outdated for forty years since the massive casualties sustained in the First World War with the addition of armed aircraft and AA guns. For the last 150 years however, breeders have been slowly decreasing the smallest size of dragons and attempting to make them more human-like, the breakthrough of the opposable thumb first occurring only 30 years ago. Since then the appearance of the newly dubbed Homo-Draconis is around 15% of the dragon population, this large ratio in so short a time due mostly to the massive casualties the dragon population suffered during WWI due to enemy aircraft and chemical warfare. Standing at an average of 7 ft. tall (6 ft. at the shoulder and 9 ft. tail to snout) with a wingspan of 8 ft., but only capable of flights lasting 2 hours and 30 minute flights carrying 300 lbs. Walking stamina rated only marginally higher than a human. Estimate lifespan based on size 120 years.

In recent years the Temerity Foundation, funded by the estates of civil rights leaders of the last 200 years, has pushed governments worldwide into desegregating the military, allowing whites, blacks, men, women and dragons to serve in the same military regiments. Several countries, including the United States, Britain, Italy and Germany only allow women to serve in the navy or the air force and Germany forbids dragons from serving in any military branch.

December 9, 1940: Sidi Barrani, Egypt

"Get your head down you bloody drake," came a yell from somewhere behind him. Larry slid himself further down the impromptu trench, barley deeper than the shell crater it had been a few hours earlier when they first came under fire and needed better cover. Sand slowly filling in the dry clay hole requiring them to re-dig it every hour or so. He ground his teeth at 'Drake', his squad mates had taken to calling him that as an insult, a sort of attempt at a racial slur that had become popular in recent years. The dull pit-pat of gunfire sending up tiny pillars of sand pulled him from his reverie and he adjusted his helmet, again, not quite fitting his gently sloping head as well as his human counterparts.

"Oi, Lare, there's a couple Eye-ties sticking their heads up one o'clock", yelled Benjamin. Larry flipped onto his stomach just high enough out of the trench to spot a couple Italian soldiers attempting to set up a machine gun. He exhaled slowly and lined up his shot, slowly curling his talon across the trigger of his Enfield rifle. Benjamin was the only soldier so far that Larry considered a friend, as the only colored soldier in the company the two of them had a lot in common, but this wasn't important right now. His gun made a loud crack as he fired and the Italian soldier on the right disappeared from sight through a mist of red.

Larry sank back into the trench and using his trimmed, but still sharp, claw he etched a line diagonally across the forestock of his rifle, his fifth kill today during his first combat action.

"You'd have twice as many kills today if you would have taken a Bren like the rest of the drakes", said Sergeant Scott Morris, "Bloody seven foot tall lizard's more suited to carry an LMG than a person." Larry glared at him across the trench hole, bastard, he thought to himself.

The ground started to rumble, trembling sand flowing down into the trench and into the boots of his fellow soldiers, his own clawed talons on his hind legs wriggling in the sand, a fine sensation, but not worth the hours of painful digging it would take to get the sand out from between them. The sand also crept down the back of his trousers, despite his effort that morning to belt them on as tight as possible to avoid this same situation. The rumbling grew more intense as several tanks from the 7th armored rolled past.

"Whelp, looks like it's now or never boys, lets show those Italian bastards what we're made of," said the sergeant, rising to his feet and screaming, "Charge!" The sound of the tanks cannons drowning out other screams of "Huzzah!" and "England" as dozens of heads popped out of trenches and craters and a great howling yell spread across the ranks as the company rose from their positions and charged the Italian position.

Larry half leapt half flew out of the sandy hole, hovering a few feet off the air to get his bearings. Quickly he landed, not wanting to present an obvious target, and crouched low to the ground using his tail to balance himself. He side stepped following the path of the nearest tank, using it to cover his back and with a loud crack, fired. "Damn," he muttered, sending a plume of sand up behind and to the left of his target. He slid the well-oiled bolt of his rifle back and forward in one smooth fluid motion and fired again.

One, he thought, reminding himself to mark this on his rifle later. "Faster damn it," yelled Sgt. Morris, "keep their bloody heads down and get over there quick as you can, all of you!" Larry snorted, not liking it when the sergeant made sense. Standing up he fired his rifle as quick as he could. He ran out of ammunition some 20 feet from the nearest Italian foxhole, another MG emplacement. The soldier next to him took a round to the leg and two in the chest and went down in a spray of blood. Forsaking a reload, his clawed talons not as dexterous as human fingers, Larry took a flying leap and landed in the trench among three surprised Italian soldiers. He grabbed the soldier manning the machine gun and tore out his throat from behind with his trimmed short but devastating claws.

"Misericordia, si prega di interrompere, ci arrendiamo", begged one soldier, and followed with heavily accented English, "Surrender, please".

Larry looked at his gore stained talons, shocked at his own brutality, and stammered, "Y-yes, yes of course" he threw the Italian's guns out of the foxhole and slowly and carefully reloaded his Enfield.

With a rush of dust and pebbles Sgt. Morris slid into the foxhole with him, "No need for that anymore drake, looks like the rest of the Italians are surrendering," the sergeant then saw the half decapitated corpse of the third Italian soldier lying across the bottom of the trench and spat, "Jesus Cooper, what the hell happened"

Larry just stared back at the sergeant thinking of what to say, but Morris interrupted his thoughts saying, "Hey, listen, it's your first action and its rough for everyone, just keep your head down the rest of the day and guard these prisoners. Then when we get camp set up tonight get yourself a nice strong cup of coffee." Larry was shocked almost as much by the sergeant's sudden lack of abrasiveness as his lack of not calling him 'drake' or 'lizard'.

xXx

The sound of tanks and artillery had died out hours ago, but Larry still couldn't sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about earlier, not the act of killing, he killed seven people today, humans kill each other, that didn't bother him. What was keeping him awake was the primal rage that surged through him as he nearly decapitated the Italian soldier. I am not a beast, I am not a monster, was all he could think. Eventually exhaustion overwhelmed shock and he drifted to sleep.

xXx

Lieutenant General Richard O'Connor paced before their platoon, stern-faced, but with a bit of a grin trying to force its way through the corners of his mouth. "I saw your company leading the charge yesterday", said the General, pausing momentarily, "that was a bloody event, and I'm told you were reduced in number down to a single platoon." The general paused again, as if mentally recalling casualty reports then continued, "The reason I'm here this morning is because I'd like to attach a few squads of infantry to the 7th armored division to deal with anti-tank infantry and act as scouts, and to do this I need sharp eyes and cool heads and I figured I'd come here for volunteers." The general paused here, shifting his view from one soldier to the next, finally setting on the mottled burgundy and brown dragon with the Enfield rifle.

"Sir, Private Laurence Cooper, I volunteer sir", said Larry low, barely above a whisper as he stepped forward with his eyes low staring at the ground.

"Private Benjamin Roberts, I volunteer sir", followed Benjamin taking a step forward.

"Sir, Sergeant Scott Morris, I volunteer. And may I add sir, that it may be faster asking who would not like to volunteer, sir." Added the sergeant followed by muffled chuckling from the ranks behind him.

Much to Larry's surprise, the general took this good-humoredly and said "very well, all who would like to volunteer, be back at this spot tomorrow morning, 0600 hours, dismissed." The general then turned around and walked away, a swarm of aides around him like gnats.