Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  Hans studied the building's interior. It had been a tavern in the past, but was now a blackened, burnt out ruin.

  The sergeant pointed at a staircase on the far wall, leading upwards. "There."

  Hans nodded and followed Witte across the room, careful to follow his sergeant's footsteps. Basic training had at least taught him to avoid hidden booby traps by following the footsteps of the man in front. They advanced slowly up the stairs, sweeping their weapons from side to side, ready to open fire at the slightest sound or movement. On the first floor a doorway stood between them and the room facing the bridge.

  Witte was the first to examine the room. "They're all dead," he said, no hint of pride in his voice.

  Hans was joining the sergeant when he noticed a shadow fall across Witte's back. "Behind you!"

  The sergeant spun round, firing his machine pistol as he did so. Bullets shredded the body of the Russian who was creeping up on Witte, his bayonet falling to the floor. Witte stood his ground, glaring at the would-be assassin, the stench of blood and cordite thick in the air. Hans looked down at his rifle. He hadn't fired a shot, he realised, but he'd saved a life.

  The sergeant patted Hans on the shoulder. "Good work, Vollmer. Remember, in future, check every corner of a room as you enter, even if you believe all those inside are already dead. I should know better myself."

  Hans nodded. "You know my name."

  "What?"

  "Yesterday, you said you'd only bother learning my name if I survived long enough to make it worth your while."

  Witte smiled grimly. "I have to know all your names, whether I like it or not. How else would I know what name to write on the letters of condolence to your families?"

  Hans pointed at the Russian's corpse. "He fought to the death. He could have surrendered, but he didn't."

  "Remember that," the sergeant said. "You may be passionate about fighting for the Fatherland and our glorious Führer, but the Russians are just as committed to winning this war. If they all fight like him, then the communists are not the weak-willed, inferior foe our propagandists would have us believe." Witte went to the window and signalled an "all-clear" to the Held twins.

  "What about the charges on the bridge?" Hans asked as more German soldiers began crossing the Prut.

  The sergeant pointed at a nearby crater. A cluster of wires stopped at its edge, frayed ends visible amid the dirt and debris. "We got lucky," Witte said. "Our artillery must have severed the cables in the first wave of shelling. Otherwise we'd be dead by now." He moved away, ignoring the smoking corpses of the dead Russians smeared across the charred floor.

  Hans fought back the urge to vomit.

  Klaus's Schwarm had returned to base, been reloaded with bombs and sent straight back into the air. This time the mission was to bomb Russian fortifications along the River Bug. Once the Stukas had dropped their payload, they returned to base without seeing a single enemy plane in the air. Klaus reported this fact to Major Satzinger while waiting for his Ju 87 to be refuelled and rearmed for another sortie. "At this rate, we'll own the skies before nightfall," he said, bemused at how easy the day's activities had been.

  "Don't complain," Satzinger replied. "Would you rather be dead?"

  "No, but-" Klaus's reply was cut short by a cluster of explosions on the opposite side of the airfield. Five black mushrooms of smoke were rising from the ground. Above them half a dozen twin-engine bombers were turning in a wide circle.

  "Looks like you might get your wish yet!" Satzinger shouted, already running towards the radio tent. Before he could reach it, three German fighters sped over the base, only six metres above the ground as they passed. Luftwaffe ground crew paused from reloading the Ju 87s to cheer them on.

  Klaus shielded his eyes from the midday sun to watch the ongoing dogfight. As the nimble German planes approached the Russian bombers, thin threads of smoke shot forwards at the enemy aircraft. One of the bombers flashed silver, and then fell to the ground with its engines screaming. A second Soviet plane was engulfed by a red glare as it exploded, shedding its parts like autumn leaves. A third flipped over backwards, flames smearing the sky around it. The remaining Russian planes tumbled from the air in less than a minute, six columns of smoke on the horizon - the sole evidence of their doomed attack. Klaus cheered each triumph with his comrades, applauding the devastating accuracy of the fighters.

  Satzinger joined him, having been inside the radio tent to report to nearby Luftwaffe air bases. "I hear the same thing's happened all along the frontier. The Reds fly in, never shifting off course, making no attempt to evade our fighters or flak. Their losses must be frightful. It's like they've got a death wish." The major handed Klaus a new sheaf of maps and instructions. "Here's your next target."

  Klaus felt the smile slip from his features. This is not war, he thought bleakly. This is something else, something without honour or glory.

  By dusk, the Russian town of Reni had officially been liberated, with the few final pockets of resistance remaining stifled by roving infantry units. After his involvement in the early action, Hans had spent the rest of the day stationed close to the bridge crossing the Prut. Witte had put him and the Held twins in charge of guarding the Russian end. "You never know when our enemy might launch a counter-attack," the sergeant had insisted. "As we surge forwards, our flanks are exposed to any Russian units hidden among the rubble. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you."

  Hans and the twins had saluted, their fervour matched by relief at being spared frontline duty for the rest of the day. Watching seven of your comrades cut down before your eyes was a sobering experience. Yes, they had seized the bridge, but the cost was not insignificant. Hans had done his basic training with the dead men, suffered and sweated, drilled and practised with them. He might not have liked them all, but that sort of intense activity created a bond, an allegiance. Enemy bullets paid such bonds no heed. Death was death, nothing more and nothing less on the battlefield, Hans told himself. I must get used to the fact. One day it may come to claim me too.

  He saluted as another company of cavalry reached the Reni end of the bridge, its commanding officer stiff and upright on his horse. In a war where Panzers and planes had inflicted the most damage, Hans found the idea of cavalry units old fashioned, almost quaint. Of course, he had not yet faced enemy cavalry on the battlefield. No doubt that would change his opinion, he thought, especially if the Cossacks were the equal of their infamous reputation.

  His attention was brought back to the present by noise from a German truck on the bridge, stuck behind the cavalry horses. Hans edged along the bridge to the truck, careful to stay clear of the increasingly agitated animals.

  When he reached the vehicle, Hans noticed an unusual insignia on the driver's door - a bat with wings unfurled, its talons clutching a swastika. Beneath this was a black pyramid, like the peak of a mountain. The same insignia was also emblazoned on the khaki tarpaulin covering the truck's cargo tray. A surly soldier sat in the driver's seat, hammering a fist against the horn. "Move yourselves!" he shouted, leaning out of the window to berate the cavalry. "I must get through by nightfall, on orders from Hauptmann Constanta."

  "You'll have to be patient," Hans suggested. "The cavalry is going as fast as it can. The commotion you're creating is unsettling the horses, making matters worse, not better."

  The driver glared down at him. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

  Hans had run out of patience with this goon. "Papers," he demanded.

  The driver gave his truck's horn another battering.

  Hans aimed his rifle at the driver. "I said papers. Now."

  Grudgingly, the driver thrust a handful of documentation at Hans. "I am Obergefreiter Cringu - personal orderly to Hauptmann Constanta of the 1st Rumanian Mountain Troop. You would do well not to threaten me."

  "Where in Rumania was your unit formed?"

  "Sighisoara, in Transylvania."

  Witte's comments from the previous night flooded back into Hans's mind
, about a troop of mountain soldiers joining the infantry. Hans returned the driver's papers, his thoughts dwelling on what the sergeant had hinted about the Rumanians. The cavalry was beginning to move off the bridge into Reni. Cringu eased his vehicle forward slowly and once it had passed, Hans took the opportunity to open the tarpaulin covering and peer within. Inside were ten long boxes, stacked on top of each other in a pyramid formation. Handles were bolted to the end of each box. Each box was more like a casket, with slanted sides forming a hexagonal shape. No, not like a casket, Hans thought, a chill of fear travelling along his spine.

  The boxes resembled coffins.

  The truck halted abruptly, startling Hans. Hurriedly, he closed the tarpaulin as Cringu appeared beside him. "What are you doing back here?" the Rumanian demanded, his thick accent hard for Hans to understand.

  "What kind of equipment do you transport in such caskets?"

  "That is none of your concern," the Obergefreiter snarled while tying the tarpaulin down, concealing the caskets from prying eyes. Satisfied, he stepped closer to Hans, his foul breath invading the young soldier's nostrils. "The Hauptmann allows no one but me to touch his supplies. I am his most loyal servant. Unless you wish to join his service, you would do well to keep away." Cringu strode back to the driver's cabin and climbed inside. The cavalry had cleared the bridge and the truck sped away over the river crossing. As the vehicle passed the cavalry on the far side, Hans noticed several of the horses almost unseating their riders, such was the apprehension caused by the truck's presence. Maybe it's not the truck, Hans thought. Maybe it's what is inside the truck. No, that's ridiculous. There are no such things as vampyrs.

  Hans rejoined the Held twins on sentry duty at the Reni end of the bridge. "What was all that about?" Siegfried inquired.

  "Nothing," Hans replied, shaking his head. "Some Rumanian Obergefreiter throwing his weight around. You know how it is, give some nobody a rank and next thing you know they think they're the Führer." Siegfried laughed knowingly and even Hans smiled at his own humour. But he still felt an inward shudder as the setting sun dipped towards the horizon. Monsters that can only venture outside during night, Witte had said.

  Soon night would be upon them.

  Chapter Three

  JUNE 23RD, 1941

  It was a few minutes past midnight when Hans stumbled into a Soviet counter-attack. He had been sleeping soundly, when a fellow conscript woke him while returning from patrol. Hans cursed the bumbling fool, squinting to identify the culprit in the darkness. "God in heaven. Some of us are trying to sleep here," he said angrily.

  "Sorry, Hans. I missed my footing," Franz Kral said apologetically. He was the shortest man in the unit, a cheerful lad from Hamburg who had wanted to join the Kriegsmarine, the German Navy. Why? Because Hamburg has more canals than Venice, as Kral told anybody who asked about his thwarted ambition. Alas, wartime bureaucracy and an inability to swim led to him being stuck on dry land with the Landser, the infantry.

  "Go back to sleep," Franz urged.

  Hans did his best, but the discomfort of a full bladder soon proved too much for him. After ten minutes of failing to fall back to sleep, Hans pulled on his jackboots, shrugged on his tunic and went to find a latrine.

  Overhead, clouds crept across the night sky, black on dark blue. The scent of burning rubber and tobacco hung in the air, a reminder of the previous day's battles and the ubiquitous cigarettes smoked by most soldiers. Hans tried to find a sentry who could say where the latrines had been dug, but all the guards were conspicuous by their absence. They had better not let the sergeant catch them slacking off, otherwise their lives wouldn't be worth living, Hans thought with a smile.

  When he discovered the first bloody corpse, Hans realised Witte was the least of the sentry's problems. A dark red stain ran down the dead soldier's tunic from a deep wound to the throat. Hans crouched by the body, studying the victim's pallid face. Terror and pain had twisted the features, but Hans still recognised Private Fedder, another member of their unit. Fedder's rifle was not to be found, nor were the spare ammunition clips, but his bayonet was still unsheathed on his left hip. Hans found the dead man's identity disc - a perforated oval of zinc worn around the neck by a thin chain. He snapped off the bottom half. He would give it to Witte so that the Army Records Department could pass on the sad news to Fedder's next of kin. Hans pressed his fingers against the dead man's face to close the lifeless eyes. The corpse was still warm, suggesting Fedder had died soon after relieving Kral.

  That meant the enemy must be close, probably within a few hundred metres.

  The sergeant had been right yet again, Hans thought. Russians have hidden themselves in the remains of Reni, letting us move past them. Now they are using the cover of darkness to attack our flanks. Do I raise the alarm from here and risk being killed by the Russian insurgents, or try making it back to the others before calling out?

  The decision was taken away from him by the sound of a rifle bolt being slotted into position, ready to fire. Someone close by spoke to him in an unfamiliar language.

  "I don't understand what you're saying," Hans replied quietly. A Russian soldier stepped from the shadows, motioning with Fedder's rifle for the German to raise his hands. Hans did as directed, all too aware that the only weapon he could hope to use against the Russian was Fedder's sheathed bayonet. I'd be shot and killed long before I could reach for it, Hans concluded. The Russian looked down at the corpse and grinned, muttering something under his breath. His uniform was splashed with blood, no doubt from cutting Fedder's throat.

  Hans jerked his head towards the corpse. "You did that?"

  The Russian's grin broadened further.

  "And you're proud of it too, aren't you?" Hans grimaced, his hatred for the enemy growing stronger by the moment. He judged the distance from himself to the enemy soldier: three metres, maybe four.

  Can I make it to him before he shoots me, he thought? Perhaps. Not much to pin a life on, but it's all the hope I've got right now.

  He edged one leg backwards and crouched slightly, preparing to launch himself at the smirking Russian, but the other soldier was no fool. He saw Hans's movements and raised his rifle, aiming it squarely at the German's chest. The Russian said something towards the shadows and three of his comrades appeared from the darkness, all armed and ready to fire.

  Hans breathed slowly, forcing himself to relax. His opportunity to save himself has passed and his life was in the hands of the enemy - hands that were covered in German blood.

  I'm going to die in the dark and I still haven't fired my rifle in anger, Hans thought.

  He remembered the day he left his mother back home and how tearful she had been when he marched off to war, following in the footsteps of his older brothers. Hans knew she was proud at having all three of her sons fighting for the glorious Fatherland. He offered a silent prayer that the Russians killed him quickly and that he did not disgrace himself in death.

  But there was no killing blow. No mercy killing. To Hans's surprise, the first Russian lowered his rifle and began talking to the others. The four soldiers produced hand-rolled cigarettes from inside their uniforms and lit them, apparently unafraid of being discovered by other German sentries. They must have killed the other guards, Hans decided, chilled by this realisation. Studying the new arrivals, he noticed they also had fresh blood spattered on their tunics.

  "What are you waiting for?" he yelled. "Why don't you kill me, like you murdered the others? Go on, put me out of my misery!"

  The Russians looked at him uncomprehendingly, before shrugging and muttering to each other. They must be waiting for something or someone, Hans realised. He felt like a fool to be caught with his guard down. One of the first things he had been taught was to always carry a weapon, no matter the place, time or circumstances. Now he knew why, for all the good it would do him.

  The scent of the Russians' cigarettes hung in the air. He thought that their tobacco smelled harsher than German cigarettes. He smiled
at the absurdity of this observation, when death was only a few seconds away, waiting to claim him.

  I've nothing better to do with my time, he admitted. All I can do is wait to see what happens next, then something strange caught his eye.

  Tendrils of mist were creeping across the ground, snaking out of the darkness like growths on a vine, insinuating themselves around the four enemy soldiers' legs. It was not cigarette smoke creating a fug. If Hans had not known better, he would have thought that mist had a will of its own. But such things were impossible - mist was mist, nothing more. This must have come from the nearby rivers. He knew they were not far from the lagoons of both the Danube and the Prut.

  Suddenly, one of the Russians disappeared, vanishing from where he stood in a blur of movement. He gave a brief cry of surprise before he faded away. Hans was as shocked as his captors, uncertain of what had happened, bewildered by the speed of this startling occurrence. The three remaining Russians spun round, searching the shadows for their missing comrade, but there was no trace of him, merely a gap in the swirling mist where he had been standing.

  The soldier who had taken Hans by surprise reacted angrily to the German's smiling expression. He hurled abuse at Hans, gesticulating with his rifle. The words were incomprehensible, but their meaning was clear: what have you done with our comrade? Hans shrugged, doing his best to convey the fact he also had no idea what was going on. He noticed the creeping mist growing thicker round the ankles of another Russian, a swarthy soldier with a black, oily moustache worthy of Stalin himself. Hans was about to point this out, but events overtook all of them before he could.

  In a flash the soldier was gone, disappearing from sight as quickly as the first. The two remaining Russians jumped. It would have been comical to Hans, had his life not hung in the balance. The Russians jabbered at each other, tension etched into their faces. Having come to a decision, the pair stood back to back, rifles ready to fire at anything that came close to them. They had forgotten about Hans for the moment as he watched, fascinated, as the mist began to coalesce once more around the Russians' legs.