Poland, 1939

All across the borderlands, the undead armies of the Necromacht marched in unholy assault of Poland’s defenses.

Ghouls in gray uniforms, crackling with occult energy, armed with rifles forged from demon swords, and incapable of fear stormed the front.

Sentient Panzerkampfwagens rolled along, powered by the souls of the damned, bristling with lightning cannons and shielded with protective charms conjured from the darkest depths of Hell.

The sky was black with the Luftwaffe’s swarms of mechanical eagles. Armed with missiles, plasma casters, and canisters of poison gas, they struck with the merciless efficiency of killing machines.

Scattered in small squads over the entire length of the front were the MechaWaffen SS. Jump jets launched them skyward in black armor trimmed with silver, and brought their Totenkopf helmets down among pockets of Polish resistance.

And in the rear, orchestrating it all, was a dead man grafted into a 200ft tall tank that glowed with occult power:

MechaHitler.