Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  He admired the Stukas as they screamed past, their characteristic gull-wing configuration and fixed undercarriages making them easy to identify from the ground. Do your job well today, Ralf urged. Our lives may depend upon you. He pulled his throat microphone closer, ensuring all the crew could hear his orders clearly. "Full speed ahead. I want to hit those Bolshevik bastards when our Stukas have finished with them, before the Soviet armour can regroup. Gunther, give me maximum acceleration. Helmut, pass the word to the rest of our Panzerkeil - we're to go in hard and fast. Willy and Martin, get ready. If we're going to pull this off, you both need to be at your best. Everybody understand?"

  The crew responded as one, reporting back in perfect unison. Ralf permitted himself a smile of satisfaction as the Panzer surged forward, two more tanks following behind to form an armoured wedge. The three tanks cut a swathe across a field of golden sunflowers, crushing the cheerful blooms beneath their relentless tracks. Ralf lowered himself fully into the commander's seat, closing the overhead hatch. He noticed Gorgo gripping the foldaway seat's edge, holding on grimly as the tank bounced and bounded across the uneven terrain.

  "You are not waiting until the Stukas have finished attacking the Russians?" he asked, confusion evident on his taciturn features. "Aren't you afraid they could hit you too?"

  Ralf smirked. "Gunther. Rule twenty of Panzer combat training."

  The driver laughed. "Make use of supporting artillery or dive-bomber attacks immediately. Do not wait until such attacks cease. They only have a suppressive, not destructive effect. It is better to risk friendly fire than rush into an actively anti-tank defence," he shouted, hands and feet working the tank's controls.

  Gorgo nodded. "But why rush into battle?"

  "Martin. Rule eight, if you please," Ralf requested.

  The loader tilted his head to face the Rumanian. "During an attack, move as fast as possible. You are much more likely to be hit at slow speed. There are only two speeds: slow for firing and full speed ahead."

  "Very good," Ralf said. "In essence, we will drive directly at the Russians, blowing the Godless communists to kingdom come as we pass and emerge on their far side victorious and unscathed. At least, that's the plan. The resulting confusion will allow other tanks from the division to encircle the Soviet armour and decimate those trapped within the Kessel."

  "Kessel?" Gorgo asked, uncomprehendingly.

  "A cauldron. A crucible you might call it."

  "I see," the Rumanian muttered. "A bold strategy."

  Ralf nodded. "Willy. Rule thirty for our observer's benefit."

  The gunner grinned, reciting the phrases like a child saying their catechism. "The Panzer division is the modern equivalent of the cavalry. Panzer officers must carry on the cavalry traditions and its aggressive spirit. Remember the motto of Marshal Blucher: 'Forwards and through - but sensibly'."

  Helmut interrupted the crew's refresher course in battle tactics. "We should be able to see the Soviet positions any second now."

  The Panzer crested the top of a hill and rolled quickly down the other side. Ralf peered through the glass blocks of his visor ports, taking in the carnage spread across the valley of green and gold. Strewn about the fields of corn were the gutted hulks of nearly a dozen Soviet tanks, several lying on their side. Blackened craters marked the positions where bombs dropped by the Stukas had missed their targets, creating a patchwork of holes in the battered crop. Russian soldiers stood in isolated groups, still watching the skies as the last of the Stukas departed the valley, the scream of the planes still echoing in the shocked atmosphere. Despite suffering heavy losses, half a dozen Soviet tanks remained operational, carving elliptical paths across the verdant cornfield. Another three Russian tanks were motionless on the brow of the opposite hill, as if waiting for orders.

  "Forward!" Ralf shouted, marvelling at the suicidal tactics of the Bolshevik tank crews. It's as if they want to be killed, he thought, unable to grasp such a pointless sacrifice. He reached forward and clapped a hand on Willy's broad back. "Target the three tanks up on that hill."

  The gunner spun the wheels around him, twisting the Panzer's turret sideways to take aim at the left tank of the three. The three vehicles had stopped in a line, one after another, like a stationary column. Disable the tank at the front and the other two would be stymied, their escape route blocked.

  With the Panzer now rolling down into the valley, Willy fought to bring the main gun up to bear on his target. "Ready!" he shouted at last.

  "Fire," Ralf snarled.

  The gun boomed in response, spitting out its spent casing a moment later. Martin was already loading the next shell into position, while Ralf peered through his vision ports at their target.

  A black tear appeared in the turret of the Russian tank and then its hatches exploded outwards, the shriek of metal audible a moment later. Amazingly, the Soviet tank began rolling forwards, as if someone was still alive inside and attempting an evasive manoeuvre.

  "Again. Hit it again," Ralf commanded.

  Another boom from the Panzer's main gun and the enemy vehicle flipped over sideways, smoke and flame belching from its tattered interior. The other two tanks in its formation were trying to move away from their fallen leader, but the suicidal choice of positions was to be their undoing.

  "Target the rear tank," Ralf said, but Willy had anticipated the order and was already traversing the turret sideways to his new target. Another shot and the third tank was history, wedging the middle vehicle in position between the blazing hulks of its travelling companions.

  "We seem to be attracting attention," Gunther called out. Ralf's gaze shifted to the cluster of Russian troops and tanks on the valley floor, getting ever closer as the Panzer barrelled down the hill towards them.

  "Dissuade them," Ralf replied. "All machine guns, open fire!" Helmut abandoned the radio to aim his MG34 at the Russian soldiers. Ralf twisted his head to glare at the Rumanian observer. "That means you too, Gorgo. No passengers in my Panzer."

  The sergeant nodded, grabbing hold of the turret's machine gun and fired a fusillade of bullets at the Soviet infantrymen, mowing them down as they fled through the corn. Martin maintained his cramped position, feeding the main gun with shells as Willy began targeting the Soviet armour still moving within the valley. Machine gun fire from one of the Russian tanks speckled the Panzer's exterior as it rolled toward the German vehicle.

  "Remember, the Bolsheviks often stop to fire their front cannon. If one of them even slows down, blow the bastards back to Moscow!" Ralf snarled. He watched one of the Russian armoured vehicles explode, the victim of concentrated fire from the other Panzers that had invaded the valley. "Keep going," Ralf said. "Forward and through, remember - forward and through."

  None of the others replied, as they were too intent on their individual tasks to say anything. The only voice audible within the tank was a cackle of laughter coming from Ralf's right. He pulled his eyes away from the vision port to look for the source; Gorgo was laughing manically to himself as he fired the turret machine gun, blazing away at the remaining Russians. God in heaven, he's enjoying this slaughter, Ralf realised. Imagine what this sadistic bastard would be like if given his own Panzer. The very thought chilled Ralf's blood.

  As the sun dipped over the horizon, Hans and his infantry unit sought shelter for the night in a village that had been abandoned by the Russian Army earlier that day. The Russians, who razed the handful of buildings as they retreated, left a blackened and charred mess for the Germans to occupy. Hans was eating tinned tomatoes and dry black bread when he heard an Italian voice asking for him by name. In the distance Hans could see Brunetti talking with Witte, the sergeant's face cold and resolute. Whatever stories the war correspondent was pursuing, he would get little help from Witte.

  Eventually, Brunetti saw Hans and strolled towards him, smiling. "We meet again, Private Vollmer. How went the day?"

  Hans shrugged. "Monotonous. Marching and dust. Marching and dust. The Russians
always retreating before us. It feels like this war still hasn't started."

  Brunetti laughed. "Don't worry, there'll be plenty for everyone." He nodded at the meagre rations. "Not much of a meal for a day's marching."

  "The goulash cannon was coming by another road, but they got stuck in mud caused by a passing shower. So, no hot meal tonight."

  The Italian grimaced. "These roads - red dust that stings your eyes when it's dry, mud that sticks like glue when there's one drop of rain in the air. One of the armoured columns I've travelled with calls it Buna."

  "That's a brand of synthetic rubber, back home." Hans abandoned his rations, sick of eating the same food for the third meal in succession. He moved closer to Brunetti, speaking conspiratorially with the war correspondent. "This morning, you were trying to tell me about Hauptmann Constanta and his Mountain Troop."

  "These are not things to be discussed in the open air at night."

  "There's an abandoned church at the other end of the village," Hans volunteered. "The Russians bombed it, but half the roof is still intact."

  "That will have to do," Brunetti replied. "Show me." The two men made their way through the few remaining farmhouses in the small settlement. The church was much as Hans had described, one corner remaining in one piece while the rest was a shattered ruin. There were no crosses or religious icons in the building, its religious architecture the sole remaining evidence of its original purpose.

  "I stood outside a place like this two days ago," the Italian said. "The sort of rustic chapel you see at any mountain crossroads. But there was no cross, no representation of Christ to be found. The building had been given a fresh coat of varnish, but all other trace of religion was missing, removed. An old peasant came up to the front doors and crossed himself, the same as any pilgrim in Rome." Brunetti mimicked the gesture, bringing three fingers up to his face. He touched them to his forehead, then moved them down to his chest, across to pause over his heart, then back across to touch his right breast. Finally, he raised the three fingers and kissed their tips, completing the ritual. "I asked him where God had gone. The old man told me the Bolsheviks wouldn't allow any icons or images of Christ in the church, and then he laughed." Brunetti smiled at the memory. "It was as if the peasant could not help but laugh at such impiety, as if banishing the sight of God would have any effect upon the feelings and beliefs inside these people, within their hearts and minds."

  "But what does this have to do with Constanta?" Hans asked.

  The war correspondent's face saddened. "I will come to that soon enough. Let a storyteller have his way." Brunetti sat on a length of fallen masonry. "The villagers told me that the communists had turned the church into a repository for sunflower seeds, waiting collection to have the oil extracted. As I watched, a group of old women appeared, carrying a silver crucifix. They told me it had been hidden from the Bolsheviks, wrapped in cloth and buried beneath one of their houses. The cross was being returned to its rightful home. As dusk fell, the villagers broke open the doors of the church and began shovelling all the seeds into sacks. That was when Hauptmann Constanta arrived, driven to the village in a truck by some surly Obergefreiter." When the Italian described the vehicle and its driver, Hans recognised them as Cringu and his covered truck.

  "To be honest, I don't know why Constanta had come to that place," Brunetti continued. "Perhaps it was chance or bad luck that brought him and his men there at that time. Perhaps they had heard tell about the church being reclaimed by the villagers. But their reaction when they saw the crucifix-"

  "How many men did Constanta have with him?" Hans interrupted.

  "At least half a dozen. They jumped out of the back of the truck, armed to the teeth. The Hauptmann never produced a weapon, but he did not seem to need one. The command in his voice, the authority with which he held himself... It was awe-inspiring, almost messianic, you might say. I imagine few men could resist him." Brunetti paused. "Where was I? Oh yes, the crucifix. Constanta saw it and cried out, as if someone was holding a knife to his throat. The reaction by his men was even more extreme, as if they feared for their lives. Constanta muttered something to one of his men in a language I didn't understand, Rumanian I guess. The soldier shot and killed the old woman carrying the cross, murdered her in cold blood. Some of the villagers screamed at Constanta in anger, saying the old woman had never hurt a soul. Others broke down in tears. A few said nothing, the shock was too much for them, I suppose."

  Hans could not stop himself from interrupting the war correspondent again. "Surely the ranking German officer in the village did not allow this to go unpunished?"

  "He did try to stop it," Brunetti replied. "His name was Oberleutnant Karl Eschenbach. I had been travelling with his unit for two days, hitching a ride from one battle zone to the next. One of the privates must have fetched Eschenbach, told him what happened. The Oberleutnant confronted Constanta in the village square, demanded to know what justification there could possibly be for slaying an old, unarmed woman. Constanta said he had evidence the settlement was a stronghold for partisan fighters. Being a Hauptmann, the Rumanian outranked the Oberleutnant, but that didn't stop Eschenbach. He threatened to radio a higher authority and check the veracity of Constanta's claims. Eschenbach left to find his signals man, but never came back. They found his body an hour later, pale and drained of blood, two puncture marks in the neck. Like the four Russian soldiers you encountered in Reni."

  "How did you know?"

  The Italian silenced Hans with a gesture. "People tell me things they wouldn't confess to their priest - they always have. It's a useful talent to have as a reporter. Must be something about my face," he said. "While Eschenbach was gone, Constanta ordered the villagers to rebury their silver crucifix or face the same fate as the old woman. Once it had been removed, the Hauptmann had the church burnt to the ground, then set his men to work torching all the other houses in the village. Constanta said an example had to be made of them, to ensure others nearby did not contemplate offering comfort or aid to partisan fighters. When Eschenbach's body was discovered by one of the Rumanians, Constanta announced that the atrocity was proof of a partisan presence nearby. I believe the German troops had been sceptical up until then, but when Eschenbach's body was paraded before them, well... That sealed the villagers' fate."

  "I'm surprised Constanta let you witness all of this," Hans commented.

  "I don't think he had registered my presence, not until one of the Germans pointed it out. I was pushed into the back of the Rumanians' truck and kept there until dawn. I couldn't see what happened, but I heard what was said, what was done to those villagers - the screaming, the terror. Most of them were over fifty, some as old as seventy. The women were forced to stand in the square all night, without food or water, while the men dug a mass grave. As dawn approached Constanta ordered the Germans to execute every villager. The Rumanians drove me away in their truck as the shooting started. Just before the sun came up, the truck stopped in the middle of an open plain and I was ordered out. Constanta pressed a pistol against my forehead and warned me against ever trying to report what I had seen. 'We have friends at the highest level in Berlin. They will not look kindly upon anyone who threatens the war effort along the Ostfront,' he said. Then Constanta got in the back of the truck with his men and was driven away."

  Hans thought about what Brunetti had said. It all sounded fantastical, beyond belief. But had he not witnessed things that defied rational explanation, heard stories that bore more resemblance to legend than reality? "I stopped that truck when it was being driven into Reni on the first day of fighting. When I looked in the back, it seemed to be carrying-"

  "Coffins?" the Italian asked.

  "Yes."

  Brunetti nodded. "When they threw me into the back of the truck, it was so dark I couldn't see what I was sitting on. I took the boxes to be caskets of some sort, for storing rifles or ammunition. It was only as the first light of day began filtering inside that I saw the coffins for what they were."
The war correspondent gave the sign of the cross and kissed his fingertips again, but this time it was no mere imitation. "At that moment I believed I was as good as dead. Why these creatures let me go, I still do not understand. But I have spent every second since gathering what information I can about their movements, gleaning what little I can about their activities. Knowledge is power. Even if I can never write about what I have seen and heard, I can still warn others."

  "You said you had information that could save my life," Hans prompted.

  "Yes. But first, tell me what you witnessed in Reni. Fill in the blanks for me."

  Reluctantly, Hans recalled his late night encounter with Constanta, the mist creatures that snatched the Russian insurgents out of thin air and the enlarged canine teeth that resembled fangs in the Hauptmann's mouth. "My sergeant, he suspects the 1st Rumanian Mountain Troop could be..." Hans's voice trailed away, unable to continue.

  "Don't be embarrassed," Brunetti urged. "I won't laugh if you say the word."

  "He suspects they could be vampyrs."

  The Italian nodded. "The undead, nightwalkers, servants of the twilight. They are a legend in my country too, a story told to send children to bed early, for fear of what might come for them in the dark. I never believed before coming to Bessarabia, but now... Now I find myself praying for the first time since I was a child." Brunetti stared at Hans. "Do you believe in God, Private Vollmer?"

  "I was brought up within the church."

  "Good, that will help. Do you carry a cross or religious icon?"

  Hans shook his head. His mother had tried to press one into his hands the day he left for the Landser, but he had refused it, saying he was a man now and had no need of such childish things. The hurtful expression on her face had haunted him as much as her tears at his departure. Now, more than ever, he wished he could turn back time and accept her heartfelt gift.