Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  Ralf emerged to find the runner still waiting patiently by the Panzer. The moon was setting in the west, suggesting dawn could not be far away, but the tank commander was still not amused at being roused from his slumber. "The Feldwebel sent you? Why does he need me at this bloody hour?"

  "I don't know. He did say there was some urgency in the matter."

  "Some urgency?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, in that case..." Ralf sat down on the front of his tank and extracted a pipe from one of his tunic pockets. "You got any tobacco?"

  "No, sorry. I don't smoke."

  "You will, soon enough." Ralf pressed his hands against the pockets of his uniform, but could not find the slim tin of tobacco he habitually carried. It must have fallen out inside the Panzer while he was dressing in the darkness. "So be it," he growled, replacing the pipe in his pocket and jumping down to the ground. "Let's go and get this over and done with, shall we?"

  "If you'll follow me."

  Ralf nodded, rolling his eyes in exasperation once the runner had looked away. The Hitlerjungen might be good at instilling disciple in future soldiers, but it was less successful at giving them a sense of humour. Ralf sauntered after the runner, deliberately taking his time over the short walk to see Erfurth.

  The Feldwebel bore a distinctly sour expression when Ralf finally arrived. "Vollmer! What the hell has taken so long? I sent that runner half an hour ago."

  "What did you want?" Ralf replied, ignoring the accusation.

  "I've been delegated to brief the division's tank commanders on our forthcoming movements. All the others have come and gone in the time it took you to get here. Don't think your insolence or slackness has gone unnoticed."

  "Heaven forbid," Ralf said, yawning. He glanced at a folding table on which maps of the local terrain had been spread, a complex series of arrows and notations indicating the positions of their forces and those of the enemy. "So, what's the schedule for today? More gentle drives through sunflower fields, or will be get to see some action for once?"

  Since bursting through the Soviet frontier positions, the 13th Panzer Division had met limited resistance. The sky overhead was almost devoid of enemy planes thanks to the mighty Luftwaffe and the Russian armour had also been seen off in furious fighting outside Lutsk. The Panzers had skirted north of Rovno and crossed the River Ustiye the previous day. By Ralf's reckoning, the division had covered at least two hundred kilometres in a week and a half, despite the absence of sealed roads.

  Erfurth gestured grandly at his diagrams. "We're expecting a more formidable foe today - the Red Army's 9th Mechanized Corps, made up of 20th and 35th Tank Divisions, along with the 131st Motorized Division."

  Ralf studied the maps carefully, his eyes following the contours and quirks of the surrounding topography. "What are their strengths, relative to ours?"

  "Unknown, but the Luftwaffe has agreed to start using their Stukas as tank busters, targeting the Soviet armour ranged against us."

  Klaus should enjoy that, Ralf thought. The light Russian tanks seen on the battlefield so far were no match for a Ju 87 diving at them out of the blue.

  "I want you to lead a Panzerkeil against the Bolshevik armour using the wedge formation to draw them into an attack," Erfurth continued. "The rest of the division will encircle the Russians, then we can crush them within the Kessel." He clenched his fist triumphantly, savouring a victory not yet won.

  "And what about my crew and the other tanks in my wedge?" Ralf asked.

  "Our Schwerpunkt is destroying the 9th Russian Mechanized Corps. Some sacrifices may have to be made in achieving that effort, but a commander of your... guile. should have no problems." Erfurth smiled broadly.

  Ralf bit his tongue, refusing to give voice to his feelings. He knew the role assigned him was verging on suicidal. This was the Feldwebel's revenge and now Ralf's crew were to suffer for his insubordinate streak. He would have to make amends with them somehow. "Anything else?"

  "Yes, there is, actually," Erfurth replied. "Some genius has decided our Rumanian allies need to be trained in the art of armoured warfare. As a result, a member of the Rumanian army has been assigned to our division, so he can learn from our tactics and expertise. I was asked to name the best tank commander in our ranks, so the Rumanian could be added to their crew. I put forward your name. God forbid I should be stuck with such a backward peasant in my Panzer."

  "Feldwebel, you know full well there's hardly enough room inside our tanks for the five crew. Now you want me to squeeze some outsider in as well?" Ralf said.

  "Exactly. You'll find him waiting when you get back to your tank."

  "What's his name?"

  "His name? I'm not sure," Erfurth admitted. He shuffled through his papers, eventually discovering the relevant notation. "Ah, here it is. Sergeant Valentin Gorgo, of the 1st Rumanian Mountain Troop."

  "Why would a mountain troop be training its men to drive Panzers?"

  "Vollmer, you have an unfortunate habit of questioning almost every order you receive," the Feldwebel said archly. "Perhaps today's tasks will make you understand the value of accepting orders from your superiors without question."

  Ralf strode away, resisting the urge to beat the smirk from Erfurth's pockmarked, officious face. By the time he reached the tank, the rest of the crew were gathered alongside it. Dawn was breaking over the horizon, threatening to deliver another scorching day. "Good. You're all up," Ralf said. He quickly outlined their orders to act as bait for a trap.

  "But that's selbstmörderisch," Willy protested. "Even if we survive the Russian onslaught, we'll be trapped in the Kessel with them."

  "Not if I can help it," Ralf replied, making eye contact with each member of his crew in the grey light of dawn. "I give you my word, none of us are going to die this day." Satisfied by their silence, he moved on to the second part of Erfurth's surprise. "We're apparently getting lumbered with a Rumanian observer in our tank, as well. I don't know how long we're expected to put up with him, but we'll have to watch our words from now on. For all we know he's a plant from the Feldwebel, gathering evidence against us." Ralf frowned. "He was supposed to be here by the time I got back, but I guess-"

  "He's already here," Gunther interrupted.

  Ralf could see no evidence to confirm this. "Where?"

  "Inside the tank," Helmut replied, shaking his head in disbelief. "Must be keen to make an early start. At least he's polite. He wouldn't get inside until he'd been invited."

  Ralf raised an eyebrow at this. He climbed into the hull and raised the driver's hatch to look inside. A solitary figure within scuttled to one side, avoiding the pale morning light that filtered in. "Is your name Gorgo? Valentin Gorgo?"

  "Yes," the Rumanian replied, his speech accented heavily. Thickset and mordant of expression, his only distinguishing feature was a bushy eyebrow that extended from one side of his face to the other, without a break above the nose.

  "Did you want to come out and have breakfast before we set off?"

  "I have... eaten. already," Gorgo said.

  "Have it your own way." Ralf sighed and slammed the hatch shut and jumping back beside the others. "Not exactly talkative, is he?"

  "Suits me," Willy announced. "I get enough chatter over my headset from Gunther and Helmut. I don't need another voice in my head."

  "Are you saying I talk too much?" Gunther protested cheerfully.

  "My mother-in-law talks too much," Willy replied. "You talk twice as much as her!"

  "Well, he's never one to do things by halves," Helmut chipped in.

  "Shut up, the lot of you," Ralf commanded. Once they were silent, he rested a hand on Martin's left shoulder. "I need you to talk with the other crews, find out which two are helping us bait the trap. If we're to get out of it alive, we'll all need to work together." The young loader nodded before scurrying away. Ralf regarded Helmut and Gunther. "You two have twenty minutes to make sure everything is working efficiently. I need the tank and everyone in it at their peak
."

  "Of course," Gunther replied.

  Helmut was already clambering on to the Panzer. "You check the tracks, road wheels, sprockets and barrel, I'll check inside. The trigger on my MG has been sticking, probably from the dust." As radio operator he was also charged with firing a ball-mounted 7.92mm machine gun set into the tank's hull where he sat. Dust from Russia's dirt roads had become a significant problem for all German vehicles, particularly the armoured ones. Everything that moved propelled a cloud of red powder into the air. Unless you were at the front of an armoured column, that meant driving all day through a permanent dust storm. The Panzerwarte did their best to ease the problems caused by these conditions, but individual tank crews were also responsible for keeping their vehicles on the road worthy.

  "What about me? What do I do?" Willy asked.

  "You and I are going to have breakfast," Ralf replied, wrapping an arm round the gunner's broad shoulders. "And talk some tactics."

  Hundreds of kilometres to the south, Hans and his unit were marching across Bessarabia as part of a long column of Landser. It felt as though they had been marching forever yet they were still some distance from the River Dnestr. Only once had they crossed its waters and breached the Stalin Line would the invasion of Russia truly have begun. All their efforts of the past ten days were merely a prelude to the real conflict still to come. Some men in the unit were already complaining about the monotony of their task as they marched mile after mile of dusty roads, with either side lined by fields of golden corn that nodded gently in the breeze. The first few hours after leaving the ruin that was Reni had been joyful. Now it was tedious as open mouths filled with dust, their irritating particles causing eyeballs to bleed.

  Hans looked over his shoulder as he marched. A red cloud was rising into the sky, as if some chemical had been set alight to torture the air. Such sights had baffled him at first, until an armoured column had roared past, scattering the infantry off the path. As the vehicles vanished out of view, the column left a crimson dust wake to darken the green hills. For the most part, Soviet counter-attacks or skirmishes were over by the time the Landser reached the scene of battle. These enemy feints were delaying tactics, Hans realised, designed to give themselves time to bolster their defences at the Stalin Line. That would be the real battle, the true test of strength.

  The voice of Sergeant Witte brought the men to a halt. The sun was directly overhead, roasting them in its heat. A small copse of trees one side of the road offered a little shelter, so they would rest there. Most of the men headed for the shade, content to shrug off their heavier equipment, but Hans and a few others were more interested in the evidence of a battle that had taken place on the other side of the road - the ground was pitted with shell-holes and retreating Red Army soldiers had dug a few trenches. But the big point of interest was the sight of a Soviet tank on its side amongst the corn.

  A mighty gash in its hull showed entrails of twisted steel, mute evidence of the recent conflict. Hoping to get a better look, Hans took off his new helmet. It had taken more than a week of trying on helmets from dead soldiers before he'd finally found one that fitted comfortably. Witte encouraged all his men to scavenge from their fallen comrades, explaining that the better the weapons and equipment they had, the better their chances of survival. Hans peered into the ruptured tank, but could see none of its dead crew. Straightening up again, he glanced round the field but could see no graves nearby.

  "Wherever possible, the Bolshevik troops take their dead with them," a voice said from nearby. Hans glanced across the tilted tank to see a man in an Italian officer's uniform using a pencil to take notes. "They always remove their papers and regimental badges too. Keeps the enemy guessing about what exactly is the size of the threat still to be faced." The newcomer walked round the tank, offering to shake Hans's hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you. My name's Giovanni Brunetti, I'm an Italian war correspondent. One of few on the Ostfront, as you Germans like to call it."

  "What are you doing here?" Hans asked.

  "I'm between rides, you might say. I depend upon the kindness of motorized divisions to get from place to place. It's a fitful existence, but not without compensations." Brunetti produced a bar of chocolate from a pocket, broke it in half and gave one end to Hans. "It's melted and reset several times, but should still taste all right. Never know when you'll see a solid meal, so I always carry a fistful of these. They're useful for getting people to talk, too."

  Hans could not help but smile at the Italian's disarming honesty. Brunetti was almost two metres tall, with a drooping black moustache that accentuated his dogged expression. A mass of unruly black hair swept back from his face, while his eyes were a comforting shade of hazel.

  "What did you want to know?" Hans replied.

  Brunetti smiled. "Tell me where you've been and what you've seen. I'm fascinated by this war. To my eyes the soldiers are more like engineers, tending a mighty machine, driving it forwards into battle. This is the new industrial age, fighting for the future of Europe." He pursed his lips. "Sorry. I've a tendency to wax lyrical whenever I get the chance, much to my editor's chagrin. I'll shut up and let you answer."

  So Hans talked, relating his experiences since leaving Reni. Brunetti nodded, sometimes taking notes, but most of all he listened. As Hans's words wound down, the Italian stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "There's something else, isn't there? Something you're not telling me."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "It's my job to know the difference between somebody telling the truth and somebody telling the whole truth."

  Hans grimaced. "It's not my place to talk about what happened in Reni. I don't know the full story, only my part in it and that wasn't much."

  "Nobody ever knows the full story, especially a war correspondent like me. I get told lies by officers and bravado by the men on the ground. The truth is somewhere in between. But then I've also heard it said that truth is the first casualty of war, so who knows?" Brunetti put his notebook and pencil away. "I've heard a little about what happened in Reni, but you're the first person I've met who was there. Tell me what you saw. I won't take any notes, I won't use your name. I'm trying to put the pieces together. Maybe you could help me see what size the puzzle is."

  Hans wanted to help the war correspondent but felt it would be a betrayal of sorts. "I'm sorry, I can't. To be honest, I still don't know what I witnessed."

  The Italian shrugged and smiled. "I understand. Well, it looks like your unit is ready to move on and you'd better rejoin them. I hope you enjoy the chocolate."

  Hans looked round and saw Witte assembling the others beside the dirt road. The German shouldered his equipment quickly and bid farewell to Brunetti. As he turned to go, the war correspondent made a final comment.

  "It's a shame we didn't get the chance to talk for longer, as I suspect your experience in Reni had something to do with a Rumanian officer called Constanta. Am I right?"

  Hans could not help being startled by the Italian's comment. He spun round to hiss at Brunetti. "How did you know that?"

  "I didn't," the Italian said. "I was guessing. But I've had my own encounters with the 1st Rumanian Mountain Troop and its enigmatic leader, so I know what a disquieting effect he has upon those he meets."

  "Vollmer. Get yourself over here," Witte bellowed from the dirt track.

  Brunetti stepped closer to Hans. "I'll find you tonight. We can talk further then. I have information that could save your life, private."

  Hans ran to catch up with the column of Landser as it marched away. He glanced back once to see the war correspondent walking around the ruptured Russian tank, examining its broken carcass. What did Brunetti know about the Rumanians? Did he share Witte's suspicions about them?

  Ralf was soon despairing of the new addition to his crew. Sergeant Gorgo had refused to leave the tank under any circumstances, saying he wanted to watch and observe the movements of every man inside. He even refused an offer to take Ralf's place in the comma
nder's seat, because the hatch was open. "We normally drive with all the hatches open, unless we know the enemy is nearby," Ralf told the Rumanian observer. "We'd die of heat exhaustion otherwise. It gets hotter than an oven inside this thing during summer."

  "I understand," Gorgo replied, choosing his words carefully. "But I have an... What do you call it? An allergy. Too much sunlight is not good for me."

  "Have it your own way," Ralf shrugged, exchanging a look with Martin. Gorgo had taken the loader's foldaway seat inside the Panzer, so the crew's youngest member was forced to remain standing in the cramped, space. "Helmut, any more intelligence reports on the Soviet positions?"

  The radio operator shook his head, attention focused on listening to incoming signals. "Nein. They are still-" He stopped, holding one finger aloft to indicate he was receiving a transmission. Helmut started to scribble notes furiously, then sent back a report before glancing over his shoulder at Ralf. "Our reconnaissance aircraft report the bulk of the Russian armour is a mile ahead, in the next valley. Dive-bombers should be approaching them now."

  As he finished speaking, a Schwarm of four Ju 87s appeared in the sky, escorted by a pair of Bf 109 fighters. Ralf watched them pass from his position in the cupola, leaning back against the rim of his escape hatch. He pushed the goggles away from his eyes, instead using his 6x30 binoculars to study the planes streaking across the azure sky. Ralf knew his brother could be one of the pilots inside the Stukas. Klaus was seven years his junior, having been born after the First World War. Ralf was born before that doomed conflict, but the Panzer commander felt closer to Klaus than to Hans. As the youngest Hans had grown up knowing little else besides Hitler's Germany and the escalation toward the war. There was eleven years between Ralf and Hans, but it felt more like a lifetime to Ralf.