by David Bishop
Operation Vampyr
1941. The Russian front. The mighty armies of Nazi Germany rampage across Europe. The beleaguered allies enter what looks to be their darkest hour. Unbeknownst to them, the night is about to get a lot darker.
Young Hans is an idealistic soldier, joining the German army along with his two brothers for what he believes is the good of his country. What he sees on the front lines will change his life forever. When the troops are joined by Rumanian allies, led by the mysterious and sinister Lord Constanta, Hans is unsure of their true loyalties but cannot fault their fighting prowess. But why are the Rumanians never seen before nightfall? Why do the corpses of Russian soldiers that are found bear looks of absolute terror? What unholy bargains has the Fuhrer made in order to win this war?
FIENDS OF THE EASTERN FRONT
BY DAVID BISHOP
#1: OPERATION VAMPYR
#2: THE BLOOD RED ARMY
#3: TWILIGHT OF THE DEAD
#4: FIENDS OF THE RISING SUN
FIENDS OF THE EASTERN FRONT created by Gerry Finley-Day and Carlos Ezquerra
MORE ACTION FROM 2000 AD...
JUDGE DREDD
#1: DREDD VS DEATH
Gordon Rennie
#2: BAD MOON RISING
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#3: BLACK ATLANTIC
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#4: ECLIPSE
James Swallow
#5: KINGDOM OF THE BLIND
David Bishop
#6: THE FINAL CUT
Matthew Smith
#7: SWINE FEVER
Andrew Cartmel
#8: WHITEOUT
James Swallow
#9: PSYKOGEDDON
Dave Stone
JUDGE ANDERSON
#1: FEAR THE DARKNESS - Mitchel Scanlon
#2: RED SHADOWS - Mitchel Scanlon
#3: SINS OF THE FATHER - Mitchel Scanlon
THE ABC WARRIORS
#1: THE MEDUSA WAR - Pat Mills & Alan Mitchell
#2: RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINES - Mike Wild
SLÁINE
#1: SLÁINE THE EXILE - Steven Savile
#2: SLÁINE THE DEFILER - Steven Savile
DURHAM RED
#1: THE UNQUIET GRAVE - Peter J Evans
ROGUE TROOPER
#1: CRUCIBLE - Gordon Rennie
STRONTIUM DOG
#1: BAD TIMING - Rebecca Levene
To Jay, for his boundless enthusiasm
Historical note:
This novel is a work of fiction set during the Second World War's conflict between Germany and Russia. As far as possible the historical details are accurate, but the story takes liberties with reality for narrative effect.
A 2000 AD Publication
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All 2000 AD characters and logos © and TM Rebellion A/S. "Fiends of the Eastern Front" is a trademark in the United States and other jurisdictions. "2000 AD" is a registered trademark in certain jurisdictions. All rights reserved. Used under licence.
ISBN(.epub): 978-1-84997-044-0
ISBN(.mobi): 978-1-84997-085-3
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Excepting notable historical names, all the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Fiends of the Eastern Front:
Operation Vampyr
DAVID BISHOP
Directive no. 21 [Extract]
The German Armed Forces must be prepared, even before the conclusion of the war against England, to crush Russia in a rapid campaign, The army will have to employ all available formations to this end, with the reservation that occupied territories must be insured against surprise attacks. The air force will have to make available for this Eastern campaign, supporting forces of such strength the army will be able to bring land operations to a speedy conclusion and that Eastern Germany will be as little damaged as possible by enemy air attack. This build-up of a focal point in the east will be limited only by the need to protect from air attack the whole combat and arsenal area we control.
I. General Intention
The bulk of the Russian Army stationed in Western Russia will be destroyed by daring operations led by deeply penetrating armoured spearheads. Russian forces still capable of giving battle will be prevented from withdrawing into the depths of Russia. The effective operation of the Russian Air Force is to be prevented from the beginning of the attack by powerful blows.
II. Probable Allies and their Tasks
1. On the flanks of our operations we can count on the active support of Rumania and Finland in the war against Soviet Russia. The High Command of the Armed Forces will decide and lay down in due time the manner in which the forces of these two countries will be brought under German command.
2. It will be the task of Rumania to support the attack of the German southern flank, at least at the outset, with its best troops; to hold down the enemy where German forces are not engaged; and to provide auxiliary services in the rear areas.
Signed: ADOLF HITLER
The Führer and Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces
Führer Headquarters, 18th December 1940
Chapter One
JUNE 21ST, 1941
It was the stench of horse piss and rose oil that Private Hans Vollmer could not stomach. He had arrived in the Rumanian village of Galati three days earlier, marching into the shattered settlement with an infantry unit of young soldiers, most of them fresh from basic training. All were eager for their first taste of combat, eager to make the long weeks of drill back home in Germany count. Each man had been in the Hitlerjungen, the Hitler Youth, before joining the army - some had even been in the Jungvolk before that. None had seen more than nineteen summers, yet they had been training for war since puberty.
Like many of his brothers in arms, Hans had feared the war would be over before he could take part; such was the speed with which the Führer's glorious Blitzkrieg had rolled across Europe. He need not have worried, Hans told himself as he searched Galati for his quarry - the day of glory was mere hours away. He longed to get the stink of this place out of his nostrils, to replace it with cordite and conquest, the odours of a just war. But that would have to wait. For now he must find Sergeant Witte and deliver the message.
Hans quickened his pace as he strode along the western bank of the Prut River, proud to be seen in his uniform by the locals. His black leather jackboots gleamed in the sun, the heavily studded soles thudding into the dirt roadway. His grey tunic and trousers were just as immaculate, the five metal buttons neatly fastened down his chest. The leather waist belt was worn over the tunic, lined with six pouches for ammunition and fastened by a square alloy buckle embossed with an eagle, symbol of the Wehrmacht. So far, Hans's uniform bore only the basic insignia of an untried soldier, but he was certain these would soon be enhanced with medals reflecting his bravery and valour in the heat of battle.
If there was one thing holding him back, he decided, it was his grey steel helmet. The army issued the so-called "coal scuttle" to its men in five basic sizes, but Hans had an unusually large head, even as a child. God knows, his mother had complained often enough about the pain she suffered giving birth to him. The size of his skull was coming back to haunt him. He had been forced to
remove most of the thin leather lining to fit his head inside the helmet. The other men in his unit had rejoiced in rapping their knuckles against it, to see the pained reaction on Hans's face. He had been promised a larger helmet any day, but there was no sign of it. In the meantime, he was carrying his ill-fitting helmet under his arm, letting the gentle breeze ruffle through his short, blond hair.
The locals took little notice of Hans as he walked amongst them. He was one soldier among thousands thronging that side of the river. Galati rested not far from where the Prut met the Danube, but the river's surface was unbroken by tugs or fishing smacks these days. Anyone foolish enough to venture out into the waters was soon driven back by Russian sentries, firing from the opposite bank. There stood the Soviet town of Reni, blue smoke rising from its houses and black fumes belching from factories and foundries. A cloud of crows darkened the sky, cawing to each other in the afternoon sunshine. To Hans, they sounded melancholy, almost mournful. They shall not be crying for me tomorrow, he was certain of that.
In the distance he could see a bridge across the Prut, leading from Galati to Reni, a bridge none dared to cross. On the far side was an archway bearing the symbol of Bolshevism, the hammer and sickle. Beyond that is twenty-five years of tyranny and godlessness, Hans thought. Tomorrow, we rewrite their history. Tomorrow, the might of the Wehermacht will cross the Prut.
He would not regret leaving Galati. Larger than a village, it had been rent asunder by earthquakes the previous winter, collapsing many buildings. Some still lacked a roof or a wall, some entire facades. Gaping cracks offered those passing the chance to peer within, to catch glimpses of Turkish carpets and paper screens, people with jet-black hair and huge moustaches. How could anyone live like this, the soldier wondered? How could they tolerate the stench that pervaded everything? Dogs and boys chased each other along the streets, while men sat in cafes drinking coffee and shouting at women passing on the dirt pavements. Everyone knew what was coming, but this was a Saturday - a day to see and be seen, to share news of the week and talk of all the tomorrows to come. Sunday was a lifetime away, another world yet to be born.
Hans spotted his quarry arguing with a Greek barber, their negotiation a flurry of angry hand signals and different languages. "Sergeant! Sergeant Witte!" Hans called out. "The leutnant wants you back at camp," But his cry went unacknowledged by the sergeant, who was still trading words and gestures. The barrel-chested Greek should have been an intimidating figure with his powerful arms, bristling demeanour and enormous eyebrows. By comparison, Sergeant Josef Witte was an inch shorter, with a slight physique, that was more sinew than muscle. His shock of dirty blonde hair would have made a younger man look boyish, but the sergeant's face was gaunt, every one of his thirty-eight years visible in its lined contours. His blue eyes were colder than ice, embedded with flecks of grey.
Witte and the barber did not share a common language, but the soldier's steely determination was easy to understand in any tongue. The barber gave way as Hans approached and pressed something into the sergeant's hands before hurrying inside and slamming the door behind him. Witte pocketed the item, sunlight glinting briefly on its metal surface, before acknowledging Hans's presence.
"Yes, private?"
"Vollmer. Hans Vollmer."
Witte regarded him coolly. "I was asking what you want, not your name. I'll learn that if you survive long enough to make the effort worth my while."
Hans felt himself blushing and fought back his embarrassment. "The leutnant sent me to fetch you. Our orders have come through for tomorrow."
"That's better." The sergeant was already on the move, striding briskly back in the direction from which Hans had come. The private hurried after Witte, falling quickly into step beside him. They marched out of Galati, Hans fighting the urge to ask what had transpired with the barber. I do not need to know everything to be a good soldier, he told himself. I need only the courage of my heart and the strength of my beliefs. The rest is in God's hands.
Obergefreiter Ralf Vollmer was busy getting drunk. For three days he and his crew had been waiting, hungry for the order to climb inside their Panzer III tank and head east. The 13th Division was stationed south of Zamose, in an area that two years earlier had been part of Poland. Now the fields and forests were awash with German men and machines: mechanised transports, Panzer tanks and their support vehicles flattening every blade of grass, crushing the life from the land. "What a way to spend a Saturday," Ralf said, emptying the flask of Polish vodka in his hand and reached for another.
Since arriving, his crew had busied themselves with routine maintenance work, checking and rechecking every part and piece of their mighty vehicle. Cleaning out the gun barrel, removing any grit or trace of powder residue which might erode the quality of the bore. Lubricating the running gear to ensure their progress would be swift and sure along whatever passed for roads in Soviet territory. Testing and adjusting the tension of their tank's tracks to allow for whatever terrain the Russian steppe had in store. Most irritating for Ralf had been the everlasting arguments between his driver Gunther and the Panzerwarte, the tank mechanics. Gunther was the best driver in the division, but his attachment to their vehicle verged on the obsessive. He watched over the mechanics as they tweaked the engine like a doting father watches a midwife with his newborn son.
After seventy-two hours of waiting, watching and more waiting, Ralf's patience finally snapped. He purchased three flasks of vodka from the local merchants who were hanging round the division's fringes. The clear, odourless liquid inside each bottle tasted of fire and potatoes, scorching an acrid path to his stomach. Gunther had been too busy elsewhere to partake, while the other three crewmen promptly spat the vodka back out again. Little Martin unleashed a tirade of obscenities, using all the curse words he had learned since joining the crew a few weeks earlier. Their previous loader, Jürgen, had died in Greece, shot while taking a piss outside the tank in enemy territory.
Ralf sat on top of the Panzer, his legs hanging down inside the turret through one of its hatches. He could feel his head throbbing, no doubt from having drunk two flasks of vodka. He was vaguely aware of the sun scorching his bald pate, the relentless heat searing his features, but he did not care. "You know what I like best about this war?" he slurred to Big Willy below.
The mountainous gun-layer had been christened William Buchheim twenty-eight years earlier, but to the men of Ralf's tank he would always be Big Willy, thanks to the prodigious size of his "equipment". The burly redhead shrugged, peeling a long flake of dry skin from his sunburnt, heavily freckled forearms.
"Absolutely nothing," Ralf concluded.
"You can say that again," Helmut Richter agreed. The radio operator scratched one of his large, prominent ears before spitting on the grass.
"Alright, I will," Ralf chuckled, throwing the empty second flask over his shoulder. "Absolutely nothing. This war is best for absolutely nothing." A cry of pain from where the flask had landed got his attention. "Sorry," he shouted. "My mistake."
"Don't encourage him," Willy growled at Helmut. They were both sitting against the tank's road wheels, enjoying the shadow cast by the vehicle.
"Why not? He's right."
"Maybe, but we don't want him starting on the last flask, do we?"
"Too late," Ralf announced, cheerfully waving the final bottle in the air.
Willy cursed under his breath and stood up. "Why don't we save some for later, yes?"
"No," Ralf laughed. "Why would I want to do that?"
"Because riding in a tank with a hangover isn't much fun."
"How would you know?"
"Remember the morning we left Athens? You spent the previous night staying goodbye to those two sisters and their bathtub of homemade ouzo?"
"That was a good night," Ralf agreed.
"Yes, but how did you feel the next day?"
"I can't remember."
"Because you were too busy throwing up to know what day it was," Helmut replied as he darn
ed a tear in the black wool jacket of his uniform. Making repairs to the double-breasted garment was never easy, as dark thread vanished against the black material. He glanced up to see Willy looking away to one side, the prodigious man's broad shoulders and close-cropped hair cast in silhouette by the sun. "What's wrong?"
"I think we have a problem," Willy muttered. "Get up."
"Why?" Helmut asked.
"Because if you don't, I'll shove our radio so far up your arse you'll need a field surgeon's help to send a signal." Richter got hastily to his feet. Willy was a genial giant most of the time, but his anger was terrifying when roused. The twists in his nose were ample evidence of occasions when that had happened. The redhead turned his attention back to the commander.
"Ralf, now would be a good time to start sobering up." Willy said.
"It's never a good time to start sobering up," Ralf replied, awkwardly getting to his feet on the tank's turret. "How about a song instead? Something stirring and patriotic, like we used to sing over a stein back home. A real song, mind you, none of that Nazi rubbish my little brother always sings."