Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  "Sniper! Everyone down!" Ralf cried, dropping back into his tank, pulling the hatch shut after him. "Scheisse. It's a trap. It's a bloody trap!"

  "What do we do?" Gorgo asked, clasping his Feldflasche. In the eleven days he had been with the Panzer, none of the crew had seen him eat a meal. He sometimes slipped away from them during the night, returning a few hours later with a broad smirk on his face, but the Rumanian sergeant never appeared to be hungry. He sipped frequently from his water bottle, never letting it out of his sight. The crew had started a sweepstake to see who could guess what was inside the Feldflasche, such was their curiosity about it. First prize was well past a hundred cigarettes, with vodka or ouzo the most common guesses. All the crew needed was a chance to see who had guessed correctly. Gorgo's time in the Panzer was ending tomorrow, so they were running out of opportunities to learn of the truth.

  "We keep our heads down, " Ralf said tersely. "Their rifles are no match for our armour. Helmut, call Fuchs's men. Tell them not to move his body. They'll only get themselves shot, too."

  The radio operator nodded, his hands urgently working the machine at his side.

  Ralf twisted round to look through the vision ports at the rear of his cupola; his warning was not being heeded. He could see Fuchs's loader and gunner struggling with the dead weight of their commander, trying to pull the corpse down into the safety of the tank's interior. "No, you bloody fools," Ralf screamed. "He's already dead, leave him!"

  Another crack of sniper fire and both men were hit. The loader's head exploded into a crimson mist, his headless body spraying an arterial fountain into the air, while the gunner was shot in the hand, losing three fingers. Screaming, he fell back into the Panzer. The sound of running feet became audible, scurrying towards the three tanks. Ralf watched in horror as a Russian soldier sprinted past and lobbed a hand grenade into the open hatch of the rear Panzer. Screams echoed within the tank, followed by a deafening roar of an explosion inside the confined interior. Black smoke belched from the tank and then roaring flames took hold. It did not take long for the sickening odour of burning human flesh to drift into Ralf's Panzer.

  "Fuchs's men have had it," the commander said numbly, shaking his head. "That means we're stuck here until reinforcements arrive. Our idiot of a Feldwebel is wedged fast, so we can't go forward, and now we can't go backwards. As long as we sit tight, we should be okay."

  "Unless the Russians start an artillery bombardment," Gunther pointed out.

  "The glass is always half empty with you, isn't it?" Willy asked angrily.

  "I was only saying what we were all thinking," the driver protested weakly.

  "Stow it, all of you," Ralf shouted, silencing them. "Helmut, call our glorious leader and see if Erfurth's got any brilliant plans to get us out of this."

  The radio operator nodded, transmitting the message. A few seconds later he scribbled down a reply and handed it to Ralf. The commander read it, then crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. "He suggests we stay put. What a genius. Now, why didn't we think of that?"

  Three hours later the temperature within the Panzer was unbearable, together with the thick stench of body odour and fear. All five crewmen had stripped off their tops, sweat soaking the waistbands of their trousers. Only Gorgo remained fully dressed, apparently unaffected by the sweltering heat. He sipped at his Feldflasche and waited patiently, listening as the others bickered. It was Martin who finally engaged the Rumanian in conversation, the young loader squatting in a cramped corner.

  "Don't you ever sweat?"

  Gorgo shook his head.

  "Not at all?"

  "No." The observer took another sip from his water bottle.

  Martin sighed and gave up, but Gunther was not so shy. "Why don't you tell us what's inside that flask? We see you drinking out of it every day, but you never offer us a taste. Maybe we'd like to try some."

  "You would not enjoy it," Gorgo replied. "It is drink favoured by many in the province where I live, but few outsiders like the taste."

  "What province do you come from?"

  The Rumanian smiled thinly. "Transylvania."

  Gunther laughed at his mention of the myth-shrouded region. "Most of this crew have got drunk on everything from the finest schnapps to the roughest ouzo, so I'm guessing we can handle whatever you Transylvanians drink."

  "I think not."

  "Why? What are you drinking? Blood?" Gunther asked, the others laughing at his jest. But Gorgo did not join their good humour.

  "What is it?" the driver asked wearily.

  "Listen." The radio operator peeled off his headphones, eyes squinting as he concentrated on noises from outside the Panzer's hull.

  Ralf leaned to one side, pressing his ear against the warm metal of the tank's cupola. "I don't hear any-" he began, but an almighty detonation drowned the rest of his words. Another explosion followed, closer than the first, then another. All three came from behind the Panzer, beyond Fuchs's disabled vehicle, but the shells were landing closer.

  "Artillery," Willy whispered tensely.

  "Ours or theirs?" Martin asked.

  "Theirs," the others replied, speaking as one. The four men had been in enough battles to know the sound of German artillery better than the voices of their sweethearts back home.

  "It's a creeping barrage," Ralf decided. "Grab what you need and get out!" The others were already scrambling to collect their Luger pistols and tunics, all except for Gorgo. He remained in his seat, as always clutching his Feldflasche. Ralf noticed the Rumanian's inactivity and pointed at a MP 38/40 machine pistol held in a bracket on the turret wall. "Gorgo, unclip that and bring it with you. The Russians might still have snipers nearby, lying in wait for us."

  "I'm not leaving the tank," Gorgo replied. The others stopped, staring in amazement at the Rumanian sergeant. Another wave of nearby explosions shook the twenty-ton vehicle, stark evidence of how close the shelling was getting.

  "Are you insane?" Willy demanded. "Can't you hear that artillery? The Russians are finding their range. It's only a matter of minutes before they start scoring direct hits. We're sitting ducks out here!"

  "I will not leave the Panzer," Gorgo maintained.

  "If this thing takes a direct hit from the best the Bolsheviks have to offer, we'll struggle to find any pieces of you to send home," Gunther said.

  "I am not leaving."

  "Fine," Ralf snapped. "Stay here, take your chances. We're pulling out." He drew his Luger from its holster, checking that the eight round magazine was fully loaded before clicking off the manual safety on the left side of the slide. Satisfied, he glanced round the faces of his crew. "Once the hatches are open, we're liable to attract sniper fire. Keep low and keep apart. No point making ourselves into a single, easy target."

  "Rule twelve," Gunther said wryly. "Keep a good distance between vehicles. This divides the enemy's fire. Avoid narrow gaps between vehicles at all costs."

  "What about our helmets?" Martin asked nervously. Like most Panzer crews they had been issued with standard army steel helmets, but these were habitually hung from hooks on the tank's exterior to save on space inside. That need was even more pressing with the unwanted addition of Gorgo to their number.

  "Grab them if you get the chance. Otherwise, keep your head down and try not to get killed," Ralf said. "Everybody ready?"

  The others nodded.

  "Let's go!"

  Hatches were flung open and the five men scrambled out of the Panzer, throwing themselves off its metal hull and on to the dirt of the courtyard. Ralf was the last out, pushing Martin through the hatchway on the cupola before clambering free. He reached for a nearby helmet but decided betterof it when a bullet pinged off its grey steel.

  "Sniper! Move it!" he yelled, propelling the youth off the turret to the ground.

  Ralf jumped next, his body somersaulting into a forward roll as he hit the dirt - he was then up and running, dragging Martin along beside him to the nearest piece of cover. The pair dived thr
ough a burnt out doorway and into darkness as more sniper fire kicked up earth and perforated the ground behind them. Ralf flung himself back against the wall, still gripping his Luger firmly, waiting for the sound of Russian soldiers. But none came. Instead, the artillery fire was getting closer, shells landing just outside the village.

  Ralf smiled at Martin. "You all right?"

  The loader nodded.

  "Your first time getting shot at outside the tank?"

  Another, nervous nod.

  Ralf smiled. "Throw up if you want. I did the first time. Scared the the hell out of me."

  Martin nodded once more and retched his lunch on to the ground, while Ralf studied their surroundings. They had found refuge in what must have been the local Univermag, a co-operative store with branches in almost every Soviet-controlled village. It had been looted, either by the villagers before they fled the fighting, or by Russian troops as they retreated through this area. The floor was strewn with cartridge paper, cardboard boxes, broken crockery and packing-straw. Nothing of value remained, the store having been hit by an incendiary bomb in the last twenty-four hours. The smell of burning and despair still hung in the air, pungent and unforgiving. Ralf shook his head sadly. Why the Bolsheviks felt obliged to destroy everything in their path was beyond him. If they ever hoped to prevail in this conflict, would it not be easier to leave something standing for the survivors? But generals and politicians thousands of kilometres away make such decisions from the front, not the likes of me, he thought bleakly.

  "Ralf, are you in there?" a familiar voice whispered from nearby.

  "Gunther?"

  "Just coming." Seconds later, the driver sprinted into the store, his path traced by a line of sniper's bullets. Once he was safely inside and away from the line of fire, Gunther brushed himself down. Unlike the others he had managed to grab a helmet while fleeing the Panzer, but his pistol was conspicuous by its absence. Ralf pointed at the empty holster. "Sorry. Must have dropped it in the rush to get out."

  Ralf rolled his eyes. For a soldier in the mighty Wehrmacht, Gunther had a peculiar dislike of handling guns. That didn't stop him from driving what was effectively a big gun on wheels, but rare was the occasion when Gunther laid hands on any other sort of weapon. "Where are the others?"

  "Gorgo was as good as his word. He's still skulking in the Panzer. I can't decide if he's brave or obstinate. Erfurth and his crew haven't budged either. Willy and Helmut are pinned down behind some masonry in the courtyard."

  Ralf peered at the narrow square outside. An earlier explosion had dislodged a hefty piece of stonework, dumping it in the centre of the village courtyard. They had been forced to drive around the masonry as they entered the square, a factor that contributed to the Feldwebel's Panzer becoming wedged between two walls. Ralf could see the rest of his crew pressing themselves into the stonework, trying to stay out of sight. They were safe for the moment, but if the Russian snipers shifted to fresh firing positions, the pair would be easy targets. At least the artillery barrage had ceased firing.

  "The Soviets must be talking to their snipers, asking for better bearings. It won't be long before the shelling resumes," Ralf said. "We need to get Willy and Helmut to safety."

  "How many snipers did you count?" Gunther asked, edging nearer Ralf.

  "Two, at the most. Probably partisans, left behind to help close the trap." The commander glanced around the Univermag's floor. "Martin, slide that plate over to me." The loader finished wiping flecks of vomit from his lips and then shoved a miraculously unbroken plate across the floor. Ralf snatched it up and flung the circle of crockery out into the courtyard. He smiling grimly as the plate shattered over Willy's head, blown apart by sniper fire.

  The gunner swore loudly at the sky. "Now what, you Bolshevik bastards? Run out of bullets, so you're throwing crockery at us, is that it?"

  "Over here, you dolt," Ralf said.

  "Oh. It's you," Willy said, a smile spreading across his dusty features. "How did you get over there?"

  "We ran."

  "And how do you suggest we join you?"

  "You run."

  "What about the snipers?" Helmut called from beside Willy.

  "They'll be the least of your problems in a minute," Ralf replied. "Listen."

  A faint whistling hung in the air, getting louder by the second. Helmut cursed and started running towards them, dragging Willy along behind him. The Russian snipers opened fire, bullets flaying the air around the fleeing duo. Then the fallen masonry where Willy and Helmut had previously been hiding exploded, ripped apart by a direct hit from the Soviet artillery. The concussion blast lifted the pair off the ground and hurled them towards the Univermag's doorway. In the resulting confusion of smoke and sound, Ralf and Gunther were able to pull the fallen pair inside. Helmut was out cold, while Willy staggered dizzily about, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge water from his ear.

  "What happened?" he asked blearily.

  "Worry about that later," Ralf said. "Sit down and rest for now."

  Martin helped the gunner find an empty corner, while Gunther tended to Helmut. Outside, the shelling continued, each explosion tearing a fresh hole in the crumbling, devastated village. The final shell of the barrage hit Fuchs's tank. The Panzer flipped over backwards and crushed a wall behind it. Once the smoke had cleared, Ralf could see a clear path for his tank to escape, thanks to the Soviet artillery. The only problem was reclaiming their Panzer without being shredded by the snipers.

  Gunther joined him by the doorway. "You'll never make it," he said, his eyes following the direction of Ralf's gaze. "Not if those snipers are still waiting."

  "The shelling might have eliminated them."

  "We're not that lucky."

  "You think?" Ralf asked. "One direct hit on this building, we'd all be dead."

  "Good point," Gunther conceded. "Why has Erfurth stayed in his tank?"

  "There are two possible reasons. No, three, I've thought of another. First, the hatches could well be jammed shut, weighted down with rubble from the buildings he collapsed either side of his Panzer. Alternatively, he figures it is safer inside the tank than running the gauntlet of sniper fire."

  "He could be right about that," Gunther said. "And the third reason?"

  "Erfurth and his men are already dead. We simply didn't see their demise."

  "That's a cheerful thought."

  The shelling resumed, more Soviet shells raining down on the village from further east. Dust fell on the Panzer crew from the ceiling of their refuge, but none of the shells found their target.

  Once the cacophony of destruction had eased again, Gunther nudged his commander. "What do you think Gorgo is doing inside our tank?"

  "The same thing as us," Ralf replied. "Waiting."

  The temperature within the Univermag began to plummet as the sun dropped below the horizon. Ralf and his crew had spent the intervening hours watching, searching the buildings surrounding the village square for any sign of the snipers. But there had been no movement in the battered structures or from the two tanks parked in the courtyard. Overhead the sky faded slowly from the faintest of blues to a deeper shade of azure, then indigo. Finally, darkness ate at the heavens, black spreading across the firmament like a stain.

  Helmut had recovered from his close encounter with the Russian shelling. Of the five crewmen he had the best hearing, so he had been trained as a Funker, a radio operator. He was using those superior aural abilities to listen for movement within the village, his head cocked to one side. "There's something close by," he whispered. "Scrabbling claws or nails. Something sucking on the air, sniffing the breeze."

  "Probably vermin," Willy grumbled. "No doubt this place is crawling with rats."

  "Good," Gunther commented. "Where there's rats, there's food."

  "You want to eat the rats?" Martin asked, his face aghast at the thought. "I mean, I'm hungry too, but eating rats..."

  "No," Gunther replied. "I meant there must be food nearby, food th
at the rats are feeding on."

  "Oh."

  "Of course, a well cooked rat has its merits."

  "Quiet, the lot of you," Ralf said. He was standing beside Helmut, trying to hear what the radio operator could. "Where's the sound coming from?"

  "I'm not certain," Helmut whispered. "But I think it's inside our tank."

  "Perfect," Willy protested. "Now we've got vermin in the Panzer."

  "Besides Gorgo, you mean?"

  "I said be quiet," Ralf snapped. Once the others were silent, he went to the doorway and stared across the village square at his armoured vehicle. The tank's commander was not hearing what Helmut had, but he could see something happening inside the Panzer. Thin wisps of mist were curling out from within the vehicle, escaping slowly from the vents and hatchways. A thin stream of mist was even falling from the end of the main gun, collecting on the surface of the courtyard.

  To Ralf's amazement, the wisps coalesced gradually, blending together into a translucent haze above the ground. The tank commander gestured for the others to join him in the shadow of the doorway. "Watch that mist," he whispered, pointing towards the vapour. "Tell me I'm not seeing things."

  The others looked where he was pointing. After a few moments the mist floated away from the tanks, as if a zephyr had blown through it. "What are we looking for?" Gunther asked quietly.

  "I'm not sure," Ralf admitted. He explained what he had seen, feeling ever more foolish as he tried to describe the phenomenon.

  "Perhaps Gorgo is having a sly cigarette inside the tank?" Willy suggested.

  "I've never seen him smoke," Ralf countered.

  "Now the sun has gone down, maybe the heat from inside the Panzer is seeping out, escaping as a haze," Gunther offered.

  "Have you ever seen that before, in all our time in tanks?"

  "No," the driver admitted.

  "I can't explain it either," Ralf said. "But that mist moved as if it had a purpose, as if it was being controlled. I know that sounds crazy, but that's what it-"