Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  Close radiator flap - check. Turn off supercharger - check. Tip over to port - done. Set angle of dive to seventy degrees. His eyes flicked to the instrument panel of his plane, confirming that everything was as expected. In truth, he didn't need to look, the attainment of this angle was achieved purely by instinct, but the urge to check was involuntarily. Now, to accelerate: two hundred and twenty miles per hour, then two hundred and fifty. The altimeter was dancing before his eyes, such was the vibration of the plane as it raced ever faster toward the swelling target below. More power and the Stuka was plummeting to earth at three hundred miles per hour. Klaus applied the air brakes, a slatted length of metal beneath each wing folding forward. The siren on the undercarriage emitted its characteristic scream that so unnerved enemy troops and civilians on the ground.

  Down and down the plane dived, the airfield growing so large it seemed to fill the cockpit's rectangular front window. Klaus could hardly believe his eyes. Row after row of Russian reconnaissance planes, bombers and fighters were lined up on the ground, as if on parade. Their numbers were astonishing, but even more astounding was the fact that none had been scrambled to repel the German attack. For a moment, Klaus wondered if the planes were dummies, an elaborate hoax to catch the Luftwaffe off guard. He brushed the idea aside and closed a finger over the release button on his central column.

  At three thousand and fifty feet he pressed the button, feeling a shudder run through the plane as its payload released. A moment later Klaus broke away in a climbing turn, taking evasive action against any enemy flak as all his training taught him to do. But no anti-aircraft fire was firing from below and no fighters were hungrily pursuing the Stuka as it pulled sharply away. Satisfied with his manoeuvre, Klaus looked back at the target as a rain of four-pound fragmentation bombs - nicknamed Devil's Eggs - blew rows of Soviet aircraft apart. Each direct hit on a parked plane was devastatingly effective, a plume of black smoke rising from the point of impact.

  Klaus watched proudly as the rest of his Schwarm completed its first bombing run, each Stuka laying claim to several Russian aircraft. "Satzinger was right," the pilot murmured to himself. "Like shooting fish in a barrel."

  "Sorry Klaus, were you talking to me?" Heinrich asked.

  "Just thinking out loud. Let's get back to base." Klaus called the other Stukas into formation and they headed back to refill their bomb magazines. It was going to be a long, long day in the sky.

  On the ground the 13th Panzer Division was encountering some resistance, but nothing to trouble the armoured spearhead. A barrage of artillery before dawn had softened the Soviet defences along the front line, creating confusion and fear among the enemy. The infantry were then thrown into battle, overrunning Russian border positions to seize bridges and river crossings. The Panzers came next, punching a hole in the places where reconnaissance suggested the Russian defences were strongest. Once these were penetrated, the tanks were charged with striking deep behind the old frontier. As the Panzers advanced more armoured vehicles could follow, with the cavalry and infantry following behind. This was the Blitzkrieg that had swept across Western Europe. This was the fabled lightning war in action - swift, brutal and merciless.

  Inside Ralf's Panzer III, it was Willy who took the crew's first shot of the new campaign, opening fire with the tank's fifty millimetre main gun. A Russian machine gun nest targeted the Panzer as it rolled towards the Soviet defensive position. The rounds pinged uselessly against the tank's armour like stones from a slingshot, but the noise was loud enough to irritate Ralf. All of his crew were wearing headphones with radio microphones so they could communicate above the din from the tank's engines and weaponry. "God in heaven," Ralf snapped, adding a few saltier curses. "Don't those Bolshevik bastards know I've got a hangover?"

  "Perhaps we should stop and tell them," Gunther suggested cheerfully from the driver's seat. His hands deftly controlled the tank's forward momentum with twin steering levers and a gear lever, while his feet danced between the three pedals for accelerator, brake and clutch. Gunther's eyes remained fixed on the visor in the tank's front left armour plating, peering through thick, shellproof glass.

  "I've got a better idea," Ralf scowled. "Willy, let's give them a hangover of their own."

  "My pleasure," the gunner replied. He pressed his eye against the gun sight, while his hands spun a wheel to traverse the turret towards the machine gun nest. Another wheel was twisted to lower the gun's elevation, bringing it to bear on the target. "Martin, get ready."

  The young loader was crouched beside Willy, the next shell already out of its storage bin and cradled in his arms, waiting to be slotted into the breech. "Ready."

  "Good. Commander?"

  Ralf peered through one of the vision ports in his cupola, its green glass casting an emerald hue over what he was seeing. He reached forward and slapped the gunner on the back. "Fire!" Willy pushed down a foot pedal, triggering the main gun's electronic firing mechanism. The Panzer's momentum was fleetingly slowed by recoil before it leapt forwards. The spent shell jumped from the breech into a waiting bag, while fumes from the gun were sucked away by an overhead fan in the turret roof. Martin was already reloading the mighty weapon, while Willy watched the effects of his shot. The machine gun emplacement exploded, an orange ball of flame mushrooming up into the sky, accompanied by black smoke, shrapnel and numerous Russian body parts. There may have been screaming, but nobody heard it.

  Ralf smiled grimly. "Good shot. Helmut, any word of significant resistance ahead?"

  The radio operator was sat on Gunther's right at the front of the tank, his attention focused on the Panzer's short wave FuG5 receiver and transmitter. "Nothing of consequence. It's as if they weren't expecting us."

  "Did you forget to send out invitations?" Gunther jested.

  "Just my luck," Ralf growled. "The worst hangover of my life and these godforsaken Bolsheviks haven't the good grace to hurry up and kill me." After checking they were past the Russian's front line defences, Ralf opened the hatch in the cupola, enjoying the rush of cool air.

  The morning was still young, but the Panzer's interior would become unbearably hot long before the sun reached its zenith. Ralf pushed his head and shoulders out through the circular hatch, resting his arms on top of the cupola.

  Ahead were the frontrunners of the armoured spearhead, Feldwebel Erfurth no doubt helping to lead the charge. Each vehicle was creating a cloud of red dust, mingling with the fumes from their exhaust. Behind Ralf's tank were more Panzers, then a succession of black smoke plumes darkening the sky, ample evidence of their path to this point. The commander sighed heavily. "Let's hope we hit some real roads soon," he said. "Otherwise this dust is going to play havoc with our engines."

  Hans crouched beside Sergeant Witte as they waited for the signal to advance. Ahead stretched the bridge across the River Prut, leading from Galati to Reni where the enemy troops were stationed. Beyond was the land known as Bessarabia, an area of Rumania claimed by the Russians. The infantry's first task was to liberate Bessarabia, before surging onwards to the Dnestr River. That was where the Soviet defences were strongest, the eastern bank guarded by a formidable set of defences known as the Stalin Line.

  Galati's streets were deserted, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the previous afternoon. This early on a Sunday morning, they would have been empty, Hans reasoned, but the silence around the bridge was unnerving. "Anyone who could leave got out last night," Witte whispered.

  The private started, not realising his thinking was so transparent. "How did you know?"

  "You haven't learned to keep your feelings off your face. You want to survive today, you better start, boy." The sergeant consulted his watch. "Our artillery should be opening fire about." Mechanical thunder filled the air behind the soldiers, a terrifying cacophony that rebounded along the narrow streets of Galati. "Now." The barrage continued for nine minutes, the German gunners finding their range swiftly.

  Reni's triumphal arch with its hammer a
nd sickle emblem was the first to fall, taking several direct hits before crumbling in a cloud of dust and debris. More shells rained down upon the Russian positions, pulverising most structures within a hundred metres of the bridge. The crossing itself remained untouched. Through it all, Hans had kept both hands clamped over his ears, his helmet resting on the ground in front of him. Even after the guns stopped, their mighty roar lingered in Hans's mind, as if the explosive concussions were still echoing within his thoughts.

  Witte pointed at the bridge. "See those wires?"

  Hans peered to where the sergeant was pointing. A cluster of thin black cables led away from the bridge, back towards the nearest building in Galati. "We're going to blow it up?" Hans asked, confused.

  "A safety measure, in case the Russians attacked first. I saw the Rumanian engineers laying them last night. The Reds will have done the same thing on their side. Hopefully our artillery has taken out the man with the detonator."

  Hans swallowed hard. "And if it hasn't?"

  "Then you'll get to experience 'death or glory' any minute now." Witte rapped his knuckles on the private's discarded helmet. "Put this back on. Take it off again today and I'll have you on report."

  "Yes, sergeant." Hans wedged his helmet on his head, fastening the black leather strap beneath his chin.

  A low whistle was blown nearby. Witte smiled grimly. "Time to go." He rose to his feet and ran, crouching low to the ground. Hans found himself running in the sergeant's shadow. He clutched his rifle in both hands, one finger resting on the trigger, ready to fire. From numerous positions, dozens more German soldiers were running towards bridge. All had the same intense look of fear and determination in their eyes. Witte reached the river crossing and pressed into its metalwork, waiting for the others to join him. He signalled silently for the first ten men to follow him on to the bridge, motioning at the rest to hold position.

  Hans found himself among the ten men. A strange thumping noise crowded his brain, battering at his hearing. He glanced round quickly for the source and realised it was his own heart beating, the blood in his ears throbbing, his every sense heightened. All the activity around him was fading away, becoming distant as if he alone was standing on the bridge. The others were like wraiths, blurred shadows at the edges of his vision. All he could see was the far end of the river crossing, inviting and calling him forwards.

  "Breathe," the sergeant said gruffly at Hans, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Your heart will be racing, you need the extra oxygen."

  Hans nodded and took two deep breaths. The pressure gripping his chest relaxed, pressure he hadn't even been aware of before Witte spoke.

  "Let's go," the sergeant whispered, creeping forwards, hugging the left side of the bridge.

  A dark-haired conscript fell into step behind Witte. What was his name, Hans wondered? Hammel? Hagemeister? Yes, it was Hagemeister. Fritz Hagemeister. Buck-toothed, with pimples and bad breath - he would never feature on a recruiting poster. Hans was next to step forwards, followed by a surly individual called Groth. Nobody knew Groth's surname, only that he had a foul temperament and a short fuse. The other seven followed along behind, all holding their weapons like loved ones, wide eyes studying every battered building and broken window on the Russian side of the Prut, waiting for the first shot, hoping against hope not to be its target.

  They were halfway across the bridge when Witte dropped to a crouch, signalling for the others to do the same. Hans pressed his legs together, wishing he had been able to take a piss before the artillery began its barrage. He had stood in an alleyway for five minutes, feeling like a fool, waiting for something to happen. Having Hagemeister beside him hadn't helped, merrily whistling the "Horst Wessel Song" while spraying the walls with his urine - so much so, that Hans had done up his flies and gone back to waiting with the others. Now his bladder was crying out for the chance to empty itself, threatening to darken the front of his trousers.

  Hans grimaced and gave Hagemeister on his left a nudge. "How do you do that?" he whispered. "How can you take a piss while somebody else is watching?"

  Hagemeister didn't reply, so Hans gave him another nudge. The long-limbed private pitched forwards face-first on to the bridge, a neat puncture hole visible in the back of his helmet. Blood pooled beneath the dead body. "Scheisse," Hans gasped.

  Witte glanced back, took in the corpse and grabbed Hans by the collar. "Snipers! Move it!" The sergeant had sprinted along the bridge towards Reni, dragging Hans behind him. The others were hard on their heels, all searching the buildings ahead to see where the shot that killed Hagemeister had originated from. As they neared the end of the bridge, Hans saw a fistful of wires skirting the edge of the structure. He ran faster, his jackboots stomping along the dusty surface, mindful of what Witte had said. As they neared the Russian side of the river, bullets began spitting into the ground ahead, defying them to come any closer. Witte skidded to a halt and dived out of the way as more bullets thudded in a straight line towards him.

  Hans was overcome by the strangest of sensations. Moments before, everything had been a juddering, jerky blur of movement. Time was slowing down around him, seconds extending languidly. His senses perceived everything around him, as if seconds were minutes. The sergeant was diving to one side, shouting at his men to take cover. The enemy rounds stabbed into the ground, one after another, each impact throwing up a puff of dirt, each impact getting closer to Hans as he ran forwards. In the distance he could see clouds of smoke from the Russian position in a first floor window.

  Something flashed past Hans left ear and a scream confirmed that another of his brothers in arms had been hit. Hans could not help looking back to see who it was, and as he did so, he tripped over, let go of his rifle and fell to the ground like a rag doll.

  Hans landed on top of his rifle, its length smacking into his solar plexus, driving the air from his body. He slid forward another metre, then rolled to one side, the line of bullets passing beside him. As Hans rolled over, he saw Groth take seven bullets in three seconds, the private's body twisting. Several more men went down screaming, fingers clawing at wounds, some with lifeless eyes as they fell to the ground, their bodies peppered with bullets.

  Only two were unhurt, twins from Dresden, Ulrich and Siegfried Held. They had been at the rear, giving them enough time to avoid the Russian gunfire. The pair flung themselves in the same direction as Witte, clinging together for comfort. The sergeant was surveying the way forward, searching the battered buildings. "Vollmer. Did you see where that came from?"

  Hans pointed at the upper floor of a two-storey building close to the ruined archway, forty metres away. "I saw smoke in that window," he gasped, fighting to regain his breath.

  "Good," Witte said. While the privates had all been armed with rifles, the sergeant was carrying a MP 38 machine pistol. He fired a burst at the window Hans had indicated, emptying a thirty-two round magazine in a little over ten seconds. While the sergeant was reloading, he ordered Hans to throw a Stielhandgranate - a stick grenade - short of the enemy position.

  "Why?"

  "The chances of you getting it through that window from here aren't great. But throw it halfway and the explosion should throw up enough dust to distract our Russian friends and give us time to get off this bridge before they detonate."

  "Can't we defuse the charges?"

  "They'll have booby-trapped them. I would have." Witte slapped the a magazine into the base of his machine pistol. "Ready?"

  Hans pulled a stick grenade from his waist belt. He gripped its wooden shaft in his left hand, while unscrewing the alloy cap at its base. A looped cord and blue bead fell into Han's right hand. Using his elbows to push himself up into a seated position, Hans pulled on the cord, activating the fuse. He counted to two and then threw the grenade halfway towards the Russian position. A cloud of dust and debris billowed up from the explosion, creating a smokescreen between the Germans and their enemy.

  Witte was already up and sprinting towards the shattere
d arch with Hans scrambling after him. The private could hear Ulrich and Siegfried close behind, their breath coming in short gasps like his own. As the noise from the explosion died away, the Russians resumed their machine gun fire, bullets zipping through the cloudy air. Hans felt something ping off the side of his helmet but he kept running, trying not to think, letting training guide his actions. He reached the shattered stone columns of the archway, surprised to still be alive. The twins dove to the ground beside him, smiling at each other. So far, so good.

  "Now you can try for the window," Witte ordered.

  Hans nodded, extracting another stick grenade from his waist belt. Siegfried and Ulrich did the same, nodding when they were ready. The trio tugged on the cords, then tossed their grenades at the nearby window. One bounced off the shattered frame, but the other two flew inside. Someone had time to utter a Russian curse before the grenades exploded, screams accompanying the detonations.

  The sergeant peered round the rubble of the ruined arch, studying the blackened building. "We should make sure there are no more surprises," he decided, pointing at Hans. "Vollmer, you're with me. You two stay here and keep under cover, understand?" The twins nodded. Witte signalled for the men back on the Rumanian edge of the bridge to hold position for now. Satisfied his order had been received, the sergeant stood, motioning for Hans to do the same. "On the count of three... One... Two... Three!"

  The two men ran out from behind the broken archway and sprinted towards the building where the Russians had been. They paused on either side of its shattered doorway, Witte signalling he would go in first. Hans nodded, still fighting to control his breathing, as the sergeant ducked into the dark interior. Hans waited a second and then followed him in. He stopped in the doorway to let his eyes adjust, but a hand yanked him further inside.

  "Stay in the light and you make yourself an easier target," Witte said. "Didn't they teach you anything in basic training?"