by David Bishop
Before the third soldier disappeared, Hans thought he saw a figure form in the swirling mist. Then another Russian was gone, leaving a single man behind - the same soldier who had caught Hans. He spun round and round on the spot, searching for some clue to explain the disappearances. When he found none, the Russian tossed his rifle to one side and produced a knife, its blade glistening with blood. He launched himself at Hans, knocking him to the ground. The Russian pressed the edge of his blade against Hans's throat, snarling threats and questions, his eyes bulging, his breath rancid. Hans protested his innocence, tried to plead for his life, but the Russian was close to hysteria. He pulled back the knife, ready to plunge it into Hans's throat.
A blood-curdling cry sundered the air. Hans knew this was his chance. He grabbed hold of the Russian's right arm, twisting the hand that clutched the bloody blade. The Russian flailed at him uselessly, but Hans had the advantage and he wasn't giving way. Another savage twist and he felt something snap inside his captor's wrist - a popping sound clearly audible in the night. The Russian cried out and dropped the knife, his face showing his agony.
Hans smashed the base of his hand up into the Russian's face. Blood poured from his nose, spattering warm droplets across Hans's features, the coppery tang of gore filling his nostrils. Hans wrenched the Russian sideways, the two men rolling across the dusty ground, grappling desperately. Somehow the Russian got the upper hand, pinning Hans down once more. He punched a fist into the German's cheekbone, pain exploding in Hans's head.
The Russian grabbed hold of the discarded knife, a smile of triumph on his bloody features, but he stopped abruptly, his eyes peering down at his chest. Two wisps of mist were clamped across his torso, visibly tightening, as if they were clotting in thin air. Within moments, the mist was thick as a man's arm. Strangest of all, each section was forming shapes like human hands, fingers extending out from them. "Bojemoi!" the Russian gasped. His eyes locked with those of Hans, utter terror and bewilderment forming a bond between them.
Hans could feel time slowing around him, as it had done on the bridge. Behind the Russian he could see the sinister mist coalescing into a humanoid shape, with shoulders and a head. Most disturbing of all, he could make out the outlines of a face, complete with a wolfishly grinning mouthful of teeth.
Not teeth... They were fangs.
Then the Russian was gone, vanishing from view just like his comrades. Hans was left alone on the ground, panting for breath, every muscle and sinew in his body tensed and ready to fight for his life. A bitter, metallic taste filled his mouth, but he didn't know if it was down to his blood or the adrenalin pumping through his system. Falling to the ground, Hans groped in the darkness and found the knife the Russian had dropped. Crouching on one knee, the terrified German waited for the mist to claim him as well.
A howl of torment and pain ripped through the air, the cry of a slaughtered animal, but with an unmistakeably human voice. Then another sound replaced it: wet, slurping, like a hungry piglet suckling at the teat of its mother. Hans shuddered, profoundly disturbed for reasons he couldn't adequately explain. Whatever happened to the four Russians, they had been powerless to stop it. What hope could he have against this invisible enemy, this unseen terror?
Movement nearby caught Hans's attention. Tendrils of mist returned from the shadows, gathering in front of him, forming into individual shapes. Hans balanced the knife in his right hand, all too aware how feeble one blade would be against whatever had consumed the Russians. In the distance. he heard approaching footsteps.
"Over here," Hans called, praying whoever was approaching was one of his own. "I'm over here." He realised the footsteps were approaching from behind and turned to face them.
A lone man emerged from the darkness, walking out of the shadows as if taking a casual stroll in the night air. Tall and upright, with an aristocratic bearing, he wore the peaked cap of an officer. A voluminous black cloak with a high collar hung on his shoulders, a clasp fastening it across his chest. The dark, silk-lined fabric opened to reveal a tunic and jodhpurs similar to those worn by cavalry officers. A pistol was holstered on a black leather waist belt, but the new arrival did not appear to carry any other visible weaponry. He wore black leather gloves.
Hans looked at the officer's face and shuddered inwardly. The features were precise, almost haughty, with hooded eyes and a neatly trimmed black moustache. The lips had a cruel, sardonic smile about them and there were no wrinkles on the officer's face to betray his age. Hans thought the officer was austere, almost forbidding, until he smiled. The German's blood ran cold, his spirit chilled by the shameless hunger in the officer's expression. He looks at me the same way that I would a rare steak he thought.
"What have we here?" the newcomer sighed. His speech carried an accent unfamiliar to Hans, but the words were precisely spoken. It had a warm, sensuous quality, completely persuasive. Hans found himself wanting to stare deep into the officer's eyes, but tore his gaze away, focusing instead on the peaked cap. Its insignia badge was the same as the one Hans had seen the day before, on the truck driven by Cringu: a bat with wings outstretched, carrying a swastika in its talons, above a black triangle. Other markings on the officer's uniform clearly identified his rank.
"Hauptmann Constanta?" Hans asked.
The officer stopped, surprised and perplexed. "You know me?"
"We've never met, but I recognised the Rumanian Mountain Troop emblem on your cap. I met your orderly, Cringu, yesterday."
"Hmm," Constanta pondered to himself, lost in thought. His eyes moved to something behind Hans. When the German glanced over his shoulder, he saw four more men bearing the same insignia as their Rumanian leader, standing where the mist had formed into humanoid shapes. They were brushing a hand across each of their mouths. Hans couldn't be sure, but thought he glimpsed a smear of crimson being wiped away from each man's lips.
"What is your name?" Constanta asked, forcing Hans to turn back.
"Vollmer. Private Hans Vollmer."
"Your supposition is correct, Private Vollmer. I am Hauptmann Constanta, leader of the 1st Rumanian Mountain Troop. In my native Transylvania I bear the title Lord Constanta of Sighisoara, but such distinctions have little meaning on a battlefield." The officer stepped closer to Hans, motioning for the German to stand. "My men have been hunting a squad of Russian insurgents. Our intelligence report suggests they were to rendezvous at this location, before attacking the German unit nearby as its soldiers slept. What are you doing here after dark, alone and all but unarmed?"
Hans quickly retold all that had happened since venturing from his tent, concluding with the mysterious disappearance of the four Russians. "I don't know what took them," he said fearfully. "It was almost... supernatural."
To Hans's surprise, Constanta did not dismiss such a fanciful notion. "There are more things in heaven and earth than any of us can hope to understand," the officer replied. "I suggest you return to your tent, private. My men will find and deal with any remaining Russians. They shall not escape our wrath, shall they, men?" The other Rumanians growled in agreement.
Hans saluted Constanta, grateful for the opportunity to leave the Rumanians behind. There was something both mesmerising and repulsive about him, a charismatic charm masking something else, something almost sinister. Being in Constanta's presence disquieted Hans in a way he had never felt before, a feeling that defied easy description. Despite wanting to flee the five Rumanians, Hans found himself stopping to ask a question that had nagged him since first encountering Cringu. "Excuse me asking, Hauptmann, but why are you Rumanians fighting alongside us?"
Constanta smiled, showing a little of his gleaming white teeth. "We kill Rumania's enemies. In this war, that means Russians. You Germans have the same enemy, so we fight alongside you. It's a noble alliance that we are making."
Hans nodded, saluting once more before stumbling away, eager to put as much distance between himself and the Rumanians as possible. It was not Constanta's words that had distur
bed Hans, it was the flash of elongated, canine teeth inside the officer's mouth. They weren't teeth - they were fangs. Lord Constanta had a mouthful of fangs, the same as the mist creature that tore away the Russian intent on killing Hans. A coincidence, Hans told himself. It's a coincidence, nothing more. You've been through a terrifying ordeal. Don't let your mind play tricks upon you.
Twelve hours later, Hans was having a drink of water from his Feldflasche when the Held twins returned from patrolling the outskirts of Reni. The infantry unit would soon be leaving, but its men were still required to check the devastated settlement for Russian soldiers lingering among the ruins. The incident during the night had been a salutary lesson for all the Germans not to let their guard slip. As a result, all patrols had to be made up of at least two men, in an effort to prevent any reoccurrence.
Ulrich was ashen-faced when he came back from patrol, while his brother was muttering something under his breath. Hans saw their distress and approached the pair, asking aboutwhat had happened. Siegfried shook his head, refusing to discuss it, continuing his nonsensical ramblings. Hans realised the anxious soldier was reciting the Catholic Rosary, mumbling prayer after prayer, his hands trembling.
Hans let Siegfried stumble away, and then questioned the other brother. Ulrich was trying to roll a cigarette but his fingers were shaking too much. Hans took hold of the tobacco and paper and quickly produced a slender, tightly rolled cigarette.
Ulrich looked at him quizzically. "How did you...? You don't smoke."
Hans smiled. "I used to roll them for my grandfather, when his arthritis got too bad for him to do it himself. Do anything often enough, you get the knack." Hans passed across the cigarette, waiting for Ulrich to take a first, deep drag before asking again what the twins had witnessed.
"We were down by the river," Ulrich said, the quivering in his hands subsiding slowly. "Siegfried saw something floating in the water and called me over. But when I got there, I could see the shape was that of a corpse."
In the background Hans could hear Siegfried still reciting the Rosary, rocking back and forth. "Go on."
Ulrich frowned. "I waded out into the water and tipped the body over. Its skin was pale, whiter than fresh snow. The uniform was Russian, so I dragged it on to dry land. God, it was heavy. Waterlogged, I suppose."
"The Russian had drowned?"
"That's what I thought, at first. I was checking for a dog tag, see if I could find out what unit he was with. Instead I found two holes. Well, to be accurate, they weren't really holes. More like puncture marks, as if he'd been stabbed in the neck twice with the point of bayonet, then the blade was twisted round inside to make the wound bigger. I've never seen anything like it before." Ulrich sucked on the end of his cigarette, gratefully filling his lungs with smoke.
Hans frowned, trying to picture what the other soldier had described. "Why would anyone do that with their bayonet? It doesn't make sense. There are easier ways of killing."
Ulrich snorted derisively at Hans. "They didn't use a bayonet."
"They didn't? But you said-"
"I told you what the wounds looked like. I think somebody used their teeth to make those wounds."
"Their teeth? How can you be sure of that?"
Ulrich held up the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, keeping them about thirty millimetres apart. "This was the distance between the two wounds. Between them I could see four individual tooth marks on the skin, where somebody had bitten down on the Russian's neck." He finished his cigarette, crushing its still smouldering end in the dirt beneath his jackboot. "It was after noticing the tooth marks I realised how the communists had died."
"Communists? You found more than one body?"
The grimfaced private jerked a thumb at his trembling brother. "Siegfried did. Three more. All the same as the one I fished out of the Prut. Puncture wounds in the neck, teeth marks between each wound."
Hans was struggling to take in the implications of what Ulrich was saying. "Some kind of ritual, maybe? Perhaps the locals were taking revenge on the Russians for invading Bessarabia..." His voice trailed away, lacking any conviction in what he was suggesting.
Ulrich shook his head. "All four Russians were white as my mother's china plates back home. They had been drained of blood, Hans. Whatever attacked those poor bastards, it sucked the life right out of them." Ulrich stood up and shivered. "I'll tell you this for nothing. The sooner we get away from this accursed place, the better. I don't know what kind of monsters walk the night here, but I don't want to meet them." He went to his mumbling brother and gently ushered Siegfried away.
Hans hurried after them, stopping Ulrich momentarily. "Have you told anyone else what you saw, what you think happened?"
"The sergeant. Witte made us swear not to tell anyone else, but I couldn't keep it bottled up - not that." Ulrich gripped Han's arm, his fingers squeezing the skin like a vice. "You should have seen the fear in their eyes, Hans. Whatever did that to them, it wasn't human. Nothing human could have done that." The twins stumbled away, Siegfried still reciting his Rosary, Ulrich trying to soothe his brother.
Hans found Witte an hour later, standing beside a bonfire on the banks of the Prut. "I know what Ulrich and Siegfried found."
"I should have known those two couldn't keep their mouths shut for long."
"Don't blame them. Siegfried is too scared to say anything and I had to bully Ulrich into talking."
The sergeant gave him a sideways glance. "You'd make a good interrogator, Vollmer. Perhaps you should be enrolled in the SS, not the Landser."
Hans ignored the comment. "Where are the Russian bodies? I want to see them, to know if they are the same men I saw last night."
"They're gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
Witte nodded towards the flames. Hans looked closer at the mass of burning wood, realising slowly that there were other shapes within the scorching mass. Four corpses were secreted among the flames. The sergeant was tending a funeral pyre, not a bonfire. Hans took a step towards the blazed but its heat drove him back. "In God's name, why burn their bodies? That's evidence of a war crime and you've set it on fire."
"It's in God's name I'm burning them," Witte said coolly. He opened his hands to reveal the silver cross inside them. "It's one of the few ways to ensure this infection doesn't spread."
"Infection? What infection?"
"Don't make me say the word again, Vollmer."
Hans frowned. "Vampyr?"
The sergeant concealed the silver cross inside his tunic once more. "And it would be safer if you did not say that word out loud."
"This is ridiculous. Ulrich claims the Russians had been drained of blood, so you burn the bodies. Why?"
"If you believe the legends, whoever sucks the life from a human body gains the power to resurrect the corpse. Burning is supposed to prevent that from happening. We have enough real enemies to fight. I don't need our so-called allies creating new fiends for us to face."
"You're referring to Constanta and his mountain troops."
Witte scowled. "You've seen him?"
"He and four of his men arrived just after the Russians vanished."
"What a coincidence."
Hans shook his head. "Sergeant, I believe in the Führer and in his love for the Fatherland. He would never form an alliance with the sort of creatures you're talking about!"
"Lower your voice," Witte warned as a pair of soldiers passed. He resumed talking once the patrol was out of earshot. "You want to know what I believe in, Vollmer? I believe in my country, I believe in fighting for Germany and its people. I'm proud to have taken part in wars across Europe for the Fatherland, proud to be part of the Landser. The Luftwaffe and the Panzer crews may get all the glory, but we're the ones who do the real soldiering. I know most of the men under my command will die long before the fighting is over, but I don't plan on joining them in the grave. I'll do whatever it takes to survive this war. I'll do my duty too, but when this is over I'm going home
to my wife and little girl, Frieda. And nothing and nobody is going to stop me, be they from heaven, Earth or hell. Do you understand me, Vollmer?"
Hans blinked at the sergeant's outburst. He'd never seen Witte speak so passionately nor for so long on any subject. "I think so."
The sergeant sighed. "What I'm saying is that you shouldn't put so much blind faith in our glorious leader. Look with your own eyes if you want to see the truth." The heat from the funeral pyre was decreasing as the flames burnt down. "You should be preparing to move out. We march within the hour."
"Are the Rumanians coming with us?"
"No, thank God. Constanta and his men are being redeployed further north along the Ostfront. They'll be somebody else's problem after today."
Chapter Four
JULY 1ST, 1941
Ralf was sleeping inside his tank when someone shook him awake, interrupting a most enjoyable dream involving Marlene Dietrich, two nuns and a bottle of peach schnapps. He jolted awake, slamming his head against a corner of the hull. He cursed loud and long, waking Willy and Gunther, who were also sleeping inside.
"What is it? What's happening?" Gunther asked blearily.
"Good question," Ralf replied testily. Martin was peering in through the cupola hatchway, looking suitably contrite at having woken the crew.
"Erfurth's sent a runner to fetch you."
"What does that pig-eyed, chinless wonder want?"
Martin shrugged. "Your presence, right now. That's all the runner said."
Ralf muttered a few more curses under his breath while gathering his uniform, then clambered out of the tank. Many Panzer crews were in the habit of sleeping inside their vehicles at night, despite the cramped conditions. The tank was their home away from home, with most of the crew's belongings draped across the grey metal exterior. Steel helmets hung from hooks on the turret, crates of rations were stowed on the engine decking and fabricated racks held spare cans of fuel. The temperature inside was unbearably hot during the day, but the same interior provided some insulation from the cold at night.