Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  "Find one," Brunetti urged. "Constanta and his men cannot stand to look upon such objects, things of faith, possessions imbued by belief. In daylight you are safe from him too. It seems that nobody has ever seen them walking around in the hours between dawn and dusk."

  "What about Constanta's orderly, Cringu? He drives that truck full of coffins around in daylight."

  "He may be in league with them, but I believe he is not a true vampyr. He must be in their thrall, doing their dirty work when they cannot," the Italian speculated. "I do not know all the facts yet, I am still discovering more every day." The sound of movement outside the church startled him. "Who was that?"

  Sergeant Witte appeared in the shattered doorway. "I've been looking for you, Vollmer. You were due on sentry duty twenty minutes ago. Get to your post!"

  "Yes, sergeant," Hans responded. He nodded to Brunetti and went outside, pausing long enough to hear the two men talking.

  "I told you to stay away," Witte growled.

  "He deserves to know the truth. They all do, otherwise how can your men hope to protect themselves from those creatures?"

  "Those creatures are on our side in this war. While that remains the case, we have no need of protection. The Russians are the ones who should be scared of Constanta and his men, not us."

  "Your words are brave, sergeant, but your eyes tell another story," the war correspondent replied.

  Hans realised he had lingered too long and hurried away, his mind abuzz with all that Brunetti had told him. There was no doubt Witte also believed the Rumanians were evil, but he did not consider them a threat.

  I pray to God he is right, Hans thought bleakly.

  Chapter Five

  JULY 7TH, 1941

  As dusk approached, Klaus circled his Staffel's airfield, intrigued by the sight of three unfamiliar planes parked on the grass below. He called back to his gunner. "Am I imagining things, or is that a Kette of Hurricanes down there?" Klaus dipped one wing so Heinrich could get a better look at the single-seat fighters, turning the Stuka into a banking manoeuvre.

  The gunner peered down at the three aircraft. They had stubby, angular fuselages with large, rounded fins. Like Klaus, Heinrich had previously encountered Hurricanes to instantly recognise the robust fighter. "My God, you're right. I thought we'd seen enough of them over the English Channel. What the hell are they doing on the Ostfront?"

  Klaus shrugged. "Do you recognise their markings?"

  "They've all got RAF camouflage, but the engine cowling has been painted chrome yellow, the Axis recognition colour. There's a yellow band on rear fuselage too. Stripes of blue, yellow and red on the rear rudders - they look familiar. Must be some of our allies, come to join the fun."

  "Hardly any fun left to be had," Klaus commented. The Luftwaffe had effectively claimed dominion of the sky; destroying nearly two thousand Soviet planes on the first day of Operation Barbarossa. Most of their sorties since then had been mopping-up operations or acting as flying artillery for the Landser. The airfield was abuzz with rumours that half the Staffel would soon be sent south to protect the oil fields at Ploesti in Rumania. "Let's land and get a closer look."

  The second the Stuka's propeller stopped spinning, Klaus slid back the cockpit and jumped onto the plane's wing. A fuelling truck rolled towards the Ju 87. "Where's Satzinger?" Klaus called to the ground crew.

  One of them jerked a thumb across the airfield. "In his tent, talking to the new arrivals: three flyers from the Royal Rumanian Air Force."

  The pilot jumped down on to the grass, Heinrich following him. "Rumanian! That's where I've seen those rudder markings before," the gunner exclaimed. "They're a long way from home."

  "Perhaps they're not getting enough action with Army Group South," Klaus said, striding briskly towards the three Hurricanes.

  Heinrich followed, pointing at the cockpits. "That's odd," he said. "They're all black. How can they see out?"

  Klaus shared his puzzlement. "Some Ju 87s are having protective sun-blinds fitted as tropical equipment, but I've never seen black glass canopies before. What purpose can they serve?" The two men walked around the Hurricanes, enjoying the opportunity to study up close an aircraft they had previously met as an enemy in the sky. Four machine guns were mounted in each wing, far enough from the propeller to avoid the need for synchronisation.

  "Getting an eyeful, eh?" a stern voice asked. The two flyers turned to find Satzinger marching towards them, his face like thunder. "It's bad enough the brains in Berlin want to send half our planes south. Now the Royal Rumanian Air Force are sending us their cast-offs on some ludicrous exchange scheme!"

  "Why are they flying British planes?" Heinrich asked.

  "They bought them in thirty-nine, before the war began," the major replied.

  Klaus was more interested in the fate of his Staffel. "Is Berlin definitely dividing us up?"

  "It seems we've been too successful for our own good. So we're getting Rumania's finest to plug the gaps," the major snarled. "You want to know the best part? This lot specialise in flying night missions. In fact, our Axis friends are refusing to leave their tent until the sun goes down. Have you ever heard such nonsense in your life?" Klaus and Heinrich shook their heads. Satzinger handed across the documentation for their next sortie.

  "The Soviets are bringing up reinforcements by train, so we have to stop them before they can reach the frontline. Your target is a railway line, a hundred and fifty kilometres due east of here. I'm not expecting much aerial resistance, and if you can believe Berlin, we've already destroyed the entire Red Air Force. Anyway, you can have one of the Rumanians as fighter escort. See how they do." The major stomped away, still muttering under his breath.

  Heinrich smiled sardonically. "That went well."

  An hour later Klaus was taking off in his Ju 87, one of the Rumanian Hurricanes following him. The two Luftwaffe crew had been given the briefest of introductions to their escort, a thin-faced pilot called Cãpitan aviator Stefan Toma. While Klaus had restricted himself to polite small talk, Heinrich could not resist asking the Rumanian a question. "Your canopy, it's painted black. How can you fly like that?"

  "Is not painted," Toma said, his words heavily accented. "Is tinted glass."

  "Yes, but why?"

  The fighter pilot grinned wolfishly, flashing a mouthful of disconcertingly sharp teeth. "We can see out, but enemy cannot see in. It unnerves them." With that he left to prepare his aircraft for the night sortie.

  As the Stuka left the ground, Heinrich was still pondering their brief encounter with the new arrival. "Tell you what unnerved me: his teeth. My father's Alsatian didn't have fangs like that."

  "Let's concentrate on the mission and worry about Toma later, okay?" Klaus said, his tone making it clear this was a command, not a question.

  "Jawohl," Heinrich replied cheerfully. The Stuka levelled out from its ascent and headed east, the Rumanian Hurricane staying a discrete distance behind the Ju 87's left wing. Within thirty minutes the two planes were approaching their target, the railway line clearly visible in the moonlight, its tracks cutting a swathe through the countryside. Klaus signalled for the Rumanian to stay back as cover, then tipped over to port and began to accelerate downwards, pointing the plane's nose at the twin tracks below.

  As the Stuka screamed through the air Klaus heard a new noise, the sound of another plane nearby, then another, and another.

  "We've got company!" Heinrich shouted. "Three Ratas, closing in fast!" He opened fire with his machine gun, quickly firing off a drum of seventy-five rounds.

  Klaus knew better than to look back. He had seen enough of the Russian fighters to be aware of the threat they posed. All his attention had to be focused on the target, otherwise their payload would be wasted. "Nearly there," he said as the Stuka continued accelerating, the ground below rising up to fill the cockpit. "Nearly there..." Klaus pressed the release button on his central column, then broke away, climbing, climbing, all the while waiting for the fateful so
und of enemy fire shredding the metal skin of his plane. As the Stuka climbed, it shook violently as the concussion blast from his bombs detonated below.

  "Here they come," Heinrich warned, firing off another drum.

  "Another few seconds and we'll-" Klaus began. But his words were cut short by the sudden appearance of the Rumanian Hurricane flying directly at him, moments away from a mid-air collision. "God in heaven!" he screamed, yanking back his control stick, straining to get his Stuka out of the way.

  "What the-?" Heinrich exclaimed as the Hurricane flew mere metres below the slowly ascending Stuka, charging head-on at the Russian planes. Two of the Ratas twisted away in opposite directions, escaping the oncoming fighter, but the third was decimated by the Hurricane's machine guns as it flew past. The severely damaged Soviet plane plummeted to earth, trailing black smoke, its impact complimenting the damage already made by the Stuka's bombing run.

  "He's insane," Klaus gasped, glancing over his shoulder at the Rumanian's daredevil flying. "Toma must have a death wish!"

  "Then his wish will be fulfilled, unless we get back in there and help him out," Heinrich urged.

  "I'm on it." Klaus thrust the Ju 87 into a steep banking manoeuvre, pushing the aircraft to its limits and beyond in the hope of engaging the enemy planes. The two Ratas had recovered from their high-speed turn and were rounding on the Hurricane. Toma was good, Klaus grudgingly admitted, but he couldn't evade the Reds indefinitely. The Axis pilot twisted and twirled the British-built fighter, extracting every ounce of maneuverability from its sturdy frame and resolute engine. The Ratas were older and their fat radial engines were slower, but they were far more nimble. It was only a matter of time before the Russian pair got the better of the Hurricane.

  Klaus finished his turn and urged the Stuka forwards, eager to engage the enemy. He opened fire with both machine guns, the bullets tracing their forward trajectory through the sky, clipping one of the Rata's rear wings and fuselage. The wounded plane limped away, leaving its comrade to face the Hurricane alone. But Toma's plane was firmly in the other Russian's sight, unable to shake him loose. Klaus knew he could never turn the Ju 87 around in time to make a difference. The Rumanian's fate was in his own hands.

  The two Germans watched as the Rata opened fire, plumes of smoke escaping from the crippled Hurricane. Flames burst from the engine and the cockpit snapped open and something escaped, flapping up into the air. The Rumanian's plane fell into a terminal dive, plunging relentlessly towards the black and blue ground below, but the victorious Rata pilot had limited time to celebrate his kill. Klaus watched in amazement as the Soviet plane began to twitch in the air, violently jolting from side to side. "What the hell is he doing?" Hans sent the Stuka in a full power dive after the Rata, determined to finish off the Russian flyer.

  "It looks like he's fighting something," Heinrich said. "But what?"

  Suddenly the Rata twisted over into a barrel roll, plunging at full throttle towards the ground below. As it did, Klaus thought he saw something small and dark escape the cockpit and flap away. The Rata exploded furiously as it hit the ground, a cloud of orange flame mushrooming upwards from its point of impact. Klaus shook his head, unable to comprehend what had happened. There was no obvious reason for the Russian's demise, yet something had clearly intervened to tip the balance.

  "Let's head back to base," Heinrich suggested. "We've got two more bombing runs to finish tonight and then Satzinger will want a full report on what happened to our friend in the Hurricane."

  "That's not a conversation I'm looking forward to," Klaus commented, turning the Ju 87 back the west.

  It was almost dawn when the pair finished their night sorties. Klaus and Heinrich did not discuss what had happened over the Russian railway line with each other. Like many flyers, they did not enjoy dwelling on the loss of a fellow airman, knowing it could be their turn next. Instead, they waited until Satzinger was ready for their report before mentioning out loud the events of that first sortie.

  Klaus briefly outlined what had occurred, offering praise for the unconventional but fearless flying of Toma. "It's a shame he didn't make it back. He could have been a useful man to have on the wing."

  The major looked at the pair with a puzzled expression. "What do you mean, didn't make it back? Toma walked into my tent an hour ago, apologising for having lost his plane. Another of the Rumanian Hurricanes saw him on the ground, landed and brought him back."

  Klaus and Heinrich glanced at each other in disbelief. "He's alive?" Klaus spluttered. "B-but that's impossible! I saw his plane burst into flames before it hit at full speed. Nobody could have got out of that crash."

  "Toma said he parachuted clear. All the smoke from his burning engine probably masked his descent from you," Satzinger replied.

  "We watched the Hurricane all the way down. Nothing got out," Heinrich said.

  "Except for-" Klaus began, but stopped himself.

  The major raised an eyebrow. "Except for what, Vollmer?"

  Klaus shrugged. "Nothing. We must have been mistaken. Will there be anything else, tonight?"

  "No, that will be all. Dismissed," Satzinger said, his attention already focused on the next day's targets and troubles. Klaus saluted and left the major's tent, followed by a curious Heinrich.

  "Except for what, Klaus?"

  The pilot frowned. "Before the Hurricane went into its dive, the canopy opened and something escaped, flapping into the air. I saw it."

  "What? Documents, paperwork?"

  "It was brown," Klaus said.

  "Perhaps Toma keeps his documents in a leather folder."

  "I thought... I thought it had wings."

  That gave Heinrich pause. "Wings? Like a bird?"

  "Like a bat."

  "A bat." The gunner scratched his head, his face clouded by doubt. "You think a bat was flapping around the Hurricane's canopy before it crashed?"

  Klaus shrugged. "That's what it looked like. I saw the same thing again with the Rata just before it crashed. It was as if a bat had got into the cockpit and was, well, attacking the pilot. Then it flew away again."

  "You're saying a bat brought down the fighter?"

  "I know it sounds crazy, but how else do you explain the Rata suddenly flying into the ground for no apparent reason?"

  It was Heinrich's turn to shrug. "I don't know. I just consider myself lucky."

  "Maybe," Klaus said reluctantly. "But I didn't see any parachutes over that railway line. Did you?"

  "No, but-"

  "But nothing. Our Rumanian friend is lying. There's no way he could have escaped from that Hurricane as it went down. We'd have seen him get out."

  "Maybe. Or maybe the major is right," Heinrich ventured. "We were flying hell for leather up there, trying to stay alive. He might have made it out and we missed it in the heat of battle."

  Klaus shook his head but doubt clouded his face. "I don't get it."

  His gunner slapped Klaus on the back. "Come on, let's get something to eat. We're still alive to fly another day. That's all that matters now, right?"

  Chapter Six

  JULY 12ST, 1941

  In the three weeks since Operation Barbarossa began, Ralf and his Panzer crew had travelled hundreds of kilometres into enemy territory. They had punched through frontier positions, then overrun Soviet defensive lines time and time again. They had accounted for nearly two-dozen Russian tanks, dealing easily with elderly T-35s, T-26s and thin-skinned BTs. The 13th Panzer Division had skirted beneath the forbidding, calamitous swampland of the Pripyat Marshes while destroying all resistance the Bolsheviks set against them. Now, only twenty miles from the centre of Kiev and another famous victory, they were helplessly stuck.

  Two days before, Ralf had seen the Ukrainian capital's kremlin spires in the distance. The 14th Panzer Division had joined them yesterday and the 25th Motorized Division was due to arrive any day. But the daring Blitzkrieg was fast becoming a victim of its own success. Such was the speed of the Panzers' advance
that it was leaving infantry and artillery support behind in the accursed red dust. Supplies were running low, ammunition stocks were becoming increasingly scarce and a Soviet counter-attack could occur at any hour.

  All of this was incidental to Ralf and his crew, for their Panzer had a more urgent problem. The tank was stuck, wedged in the centre of a narrow village square on the outskirts of Kiev, along with two other Panzer IIIs. They had been lured into the courtyard not long after midday by a Russian armoured vehicle, apparently fleeing from their wrath. Feldwebel Erfurth had been leading the pursuit in the baking sun. He had ordered Ralf's tank and another to form a Panzerkeil behind him to hunt down the enemy.

  Ralf had tried to warn the impetuous Erfurth as they drove towards the village, all too aware of how narrow the streets of such settlements could be, but the Feldwebel would not listen. "I am in command of this strike, not you!" he snarled via the Panzers' shared radio frequency. "Follow me in, and that's a direct order." Rashly, Erfurth had charged his tank into the heart of the village and Ralf and the other Panzer were obliged to follow.

  A few moments later all three tanks were stuck, Erfurth's tracks hopelessly wedged against solid stonewalls on either side of the vehicle. He had tried traversing the tank's turret, sweeping its main gun from side to side so the long metal barrel slammed into the surrounding walls. Such actions weakened the structures of the bombed-out buildings that eventually collapsed, showering the narrow square with rubble and did nothing to free his Panzer. Ralf's Panzer was immediately behind Erfurth and had nowhere to go. Behind Ralf was the third tank, commanded by freckle-faced Obergefreiter Martin Fuchs.

  It was Fuchs who died first when he opened his hatch to see what was impeding their progress. Ralf was emerging from his own cupola when the sound of rifle fire cut through the air, rounds pinging against the armour of the trapped tanks. A cry of pain and Fuchs was dead, slumped backwards over the rim of his escape hatch, half of his head blown away, blood and brain matter splattered against the metalwork. One dead eye remained in its socket, staring lifelessly upwards at the sky.